JACK ABBOT // MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH // DENNIS WHITAKER
A GENTLEMAN’S AFFAIR
⤷ //. content: 1830’s Regency Romance, Forbidden Love . //
SYNOPSIS → Married to a woman who was a decade his junior, Mr. Jack Abbot had no real interest in his wife other than for her generous dowry. Their life here in Yorkshire was amicable, in the very least, but not at all a delight—but despite whatever misgivings he may have, the man was determined to make do and be civil. Especially when his wife was from a wealthier station than he.
But when an affair with his land steward, Mr. Robinavitch, makes him yearn for more in his current life—Mr. Abbot begins to wonder if there is more he could do or be than what is at present. And so, reinvigorated and in need of proper stimulation, he decides to travel for London’s West End—where the wealthiest and influential tends to gather—and there, at a most curious gathering, did he meet a daughter of a wealthy noble. A sheltered, innocent young thing, that earned his immediate interest.
EXPECTED CONTENT → themes of infidelity, language that is congruent with the century, questionable romances and scandalous behavior for the time.
WARNINGS → potential period inaccuracies, difference in ages, immoral and sexual conduct, perverted behavior and predatory practices.
AUTHOR’S NOTE → We will be meeting the reader in the next chapter as the prologue is meant to establish the relationship between the three men.
PROLOGUE !
Roughened hands were soon pressed into skin. Callouses of both old and new now grating into the linen of his sleeve.
“Tempting me again are you, Michael?” Mr. Abbot teased, his own hands—much more cleaner than the steward’s—now undoing the knot to his cravat.
In front of him—with his back now resting onto the wooden wall of the stable—was Michael, watching with that same knowing smirk. A brow arching from his weathered features as his deft hands soon reached for the underside of his vest, brushing the sensitive skin which then made the other man breathe.
“Seems only fair to have my fill when you’re leaving me here for London.” The steward replied, crooking his neck just so as if to beckon the other man to bite onto the dangling lure that was Michael’s seductive wit.
Mr. Abbot then laughed—a hint of both want and brevity apparent in the sound—as he sneaked a knee in between Michael’s waiting legs.
“Is that so? Was I not sufficient enough from earlier this morning?” The man cooed from the underside of Michael’s ear, his own hand now dipping lower to where the steward needed him most.
“More than sufficient, Mr. Abbot.” Michael then breathed, head lulling backwards as it soon met the wooden wall, allowing the other man full freedom to his entire; willing body.
“Just greedy then, are we?” A smirk then tugged at the corner of his mouth, watching as his steward bucked forward in reply.
Slowly, almost tauntingly, the other man then surged forward, chest soon pressing into chest as he murmured into the man’s ear—the stubble on his chin now grazing skin,
“Want to make sure you stop eyeing the new groom.”
Dressed fully in his new livery, Dennis was the first to awake in the entire estate, venturing then into the dusk-sullen stables to ensure that the horses were well fed and rested. Traveling southwards was an experience wholly unknown to him, being that he was born here in Yorkshire and has stayed ever since. But as he prepared the horses and the carriage, he soon found the most curious thing.
There, nestled into the hay, just out of sight, was a pocket watch—golden, expensive—much like the one his new master liked to keep on his person.
Blinking, Dennis then took the item into hand, examining the watch for a moment before carefully pocketing it into his vest. For safe keeping, so he tells himself—and hopefully, when he presents it later to the man, that Mr. Abbot will not think him a thief for having it on hand.
Soon, the carriage was cleaned of mud and gravel, horses well sated and seats now dusted. Most of his chores here were sometimes doubled as the coachman would rather delegate than do what was expected—making he, the groom, do more than he would like.
But Dennis was not one to whine or argue. Not when he was still being paid rather handsomely for his work here compared to when he was still a herder back home.
And so, when he was told that Mr. Abbot was about the grounds, he then went and looked for the man, later finding him somewhere in the outer gardens near the end of the estate.
The man was dressed in his newest ensemble—a dark waistcoat that matched his charcoal breeches—making the already handsome man more so in the languid sunlight.
But as the young man was about to gather the courage and speak, he then heard a voice from ahead announce their presence.
“Mr. Abbot, what is the-” Mr. Robinavitch approached—his voice softened into a familiar tone, one that intrigued Dennis—only to be curtly interrupted by the gentleman,
“—my watch, have you seen it?” Mr. Abbot said, looking about the grounds for a moment—but not once noticing the hedge where Dennis had hidden behind.
“N-No? I, no—I have not. Why?” The steward replied, though as Dennis peered over the hedge once more, he caught a glimpse of something.
Their distance. Or rather, the lack there of—how the two men were now standing but a mere foot or so less away from the other. So close that Dennis was sure that their breaths were mingling in the spring air.
That was then he saw how their gazes met—a flicker that conveyed more than simple words—a flicker of a connection that transcended the realm of their professional understanding.
The sort of gaze, he imagined, a man would have when looking to a woman he loved and fancied.
Confused, Dennis blinked.
—but Mr. Abbot was a married man, he thought—and ultimately, such a relationship would surely be scandalous if discovered, let alone be sinful if true.
Shaking his head, Dennis then dismissed the notion.
To think that both his new master and boss were… engaged in such horrid proclivities was as much of a sin as the literal act itself.
It was unnatural. Illegal and punishable by death.
But that was the thought that lingered before it was quickly dispelled as he watched the two men kiss. Quick, tarrying, and utterly wanton—as if the kiss itself was a silent promise for more if the opportunity were to arise.
Dennis must have stared like some dumbfounded, newborn foal. Mouth agape and pulse on a steady rise.
He has never… seen such a thing before, let alone thought it possible to happen. It was unnatural—he repeated to himself—immoral.
And yet, a blush started to color his pale and freckled cheeks as he now wondered what it was like to kiss and be kissed by another man.
But before he could ponder such a sensation further, his foot slipped from under him and—
SNAP!
—and at that sharp sound of a twig breaking underfoot, the two men turned towards the source—to him. Emotions now ranging from confusion, to bewilderment, and to anger as it all flashed across their eyes.
A voice in his mind said to run, to flee—but before he could even turn on his heels and sprint for the hills—he then heard the steward from ahead beckon him with his name.
“Dennis. Come here.” And when the groom hardly even moved, that once softened tone turned to steel, “Now, boy. I need to know what you saw.”
With the sun now high into the sky, the afternoon proved to be a most pleasant but quiet delight. The weather itself being surprisingly agreeable and somehow unlike the summer’s more spirited disposition.
Seated in front of the gentleman was none other than his steward—his company on this trip being a purely spontaneous decision.
“He says he won’t tell.”
Michael assured once more, and like before, Mr. Abbot but only nodded in response.
In his mind, Mr. Abbot knew well that the boy wouldn’t say much, let alone say anything at all. Dennis was not the kind of man to blabber on or spin some tale in hopes of profit or attention. The young man, in his opinion, was a kind soul with an even kinder conscience.
“Did you see how he looked at us?” He said after some time—a small, almost lackadaisical smile now appearing on his lips—seemingly unbothered by the fact that he and his lover had been discovered. A secret that could very well spell their demise if the groom decides to tell another soul.
“Surprised, yes. But he was not at all… disgusted.”
At that remark, Michael then huffed a breathy sort of laugh, shaking his worried head in return.
Because somehow, he was the least bit surprised.
He saw how Mr. Abbot would look at the young man, how he would take his time in asking about his day or how he was settling into the estate.
And if he was the kind of man to be taken by his jealousy, Michael would surmise that the gentleman was most swayed by the groom’s innocent face—that pure, almost pitiful expression that was made from the shade and shape of those beautifully blue, doe-like eyes. But he too, at some degree, was enthralled with the young man, not at all blind to his certain kind of charm—but, unlike him, Mr. Abbot seems to be taken more so by the groom’s sheepish allure.
But he was not jealous creature, just simply observant. And it was quite obvious—if not blatant—how, each time the young man would bend over, that the man would stare at that pert little ass.
Rubbing at the stubble on his chin, he then looked at the man with a curious light in his eyes,
“Yes, but can he be trusted?” Michael questioned, looking over his shoulder to where a glass pane was situated within the carriage’s paneling—where, on the other side—was the said groom. Sitting with his back turned to the two and looking out into the country.
But, as the question was then posed, the gentleman simply shook his head and said,
“I don’t think the boy would speak, Michael.” Mr. Abbot replied, a knowing glint caught in between his eyes, “That blush from earlier… well, I don’t think it was one born from embarrassment or from being thoroughly scandalized.”
He allowed the steward to think for a moment, to remember that very moment when the two of them found the young man staring at them like some bewildered, poor deer.
“He just needs some time.” He said, “And perhaps, even some proper guidance.”
And with that not-so-subtle implication, the two men looked to each other with a quiet sort of understanding. Watching as the carriage now pulled into another posting inn, with the coachman soon fetching a new pair of horses to be switched with the current.
With the vehicle now stopped, the two men could hear the groom hop off from the box and open the door—those blue eyes greeting them for a moment before being respectfully lowered. A noticeable blush now dawning on his once pale cheeks.
“Is there anything you’d like me to do while we wait, Mr. Abbot?” Dennis asked meekly—as per his usual, mousy charm—head still lowered in deference as he waited for the two men to exit the carriage.
The gentleman then looked to the groom, smiling a little when he found that same bashful expression,
“No. Thank you, Dennis.”
And with an intentional hand, so slow and assured, Mr. Abbot reached out and adjusted the young man’s livery—just the first button, as if it had come undone on accident—before finding his watch stuffed into the groom’s vest pocket.
At that discovery, Dennis then sputtered out an incoherent sentence or two—the blush on his face now spreading to the tips of his ears.
“I-I can, I-I can explain, s-sir!” The groom exclaimed, only to be silenced with a finger now pressed to his lips. Sending the poor groom into a proper tailspin as he looked to his master.
“Keep it, Dennis. I can always buy myself a new one.” Mr. Abbot answered, still smiling at the young man, “Something to remind you of me.”
But as the groom was about to spew on with his nonsensical apologies, to tell his master that he had found it in the stables and that he was meaning to tell him—the steward interjected with a grounding tone.
“We’ll be back. Keep an eye on the carriage.” Michael said, following behind Mr. Abbot into the entrance of the inn, “And be sure to behave this time.”
thinking of making this a series! but since i have a life outside and cannot possibly update weekly, i was thinking of creating a taglist for anyone interested so you could be notified when a chapter has been released!
inspiration was taken from @comingaback’s post, though i have taken a few artistic liberties.
i’d also like to thank @popecodysgirl for encouraging me in writing this! i could only hope that i will do it justice.
can you write a fic about Victor "treating" a patient for hypersexuality but instead he just cracks them 💯💯💯🤫🤫
Admission
T/W:Age Gap, cheating, injections, injections on clot, dead body, divorce, power imbalance a bit of deaddove, female reader
A/N: hi yall imma try to finish my request for now with a little bit of sugar taking a back seat rn. Thanks to everyone who sent me requests, likes comment and reblogged my writings 🥺 ILY ❤️❤️
The heavy oak door of Dr. Victor Gideon's office swung open with a soft, pneumatic hiss, admitting a man whose face was a mask of weary frustration. He was tall, but not imposingly so, with graying temples and eyes that held the defeated look of someone who had been fighting a losing battle for far too long. Behind him, you followed hesitantly, your hands twisting in the fabric of your simple cotton dress.
"Dr. Gideon?" the man your husband, David began, his voice rough. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice."
Victor Gideon rose from behind his imposing mahogany desk. The man was a mountain of flesh and bone, easily eight feet tall, with broad shoulders that seemed to stretch the limits of his pristine white lab coat. His face was severe, with sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and piercing yellow eyes that seemed to look right through you. There was an unnatural stillness to him, a predator's patience that made the hairs on your arms stand up.
"Mr. (Y/L/N)," Gideon's voice was a low baritone, smooth as polished stone. "Please, have a seat." His gaze then shifted to you, and for a moment, you felt utterly exposed, as if he could see every desperate, shameful thought racing through your mind. "And Mrs. (Y/L/N). Welcome to Rhodes Hill."
David sank into one of the leather chairs opposite the desk, but you remained standing, your body humming with a nervous energy that had become your constant companion. Your eyes darted around the room, taking in the medical diplomas on the walls, the neat stacks of journals, and the window that looked out onto the manicured grounds of the facility. But mostly, you were aware of Dr. Gideon, of the sheer physical presence of him, the way his lab coat strained against his massive frame.
"Please," Gideon gestured to the empty chair beside your husband. "Sit."
You complied, the cool leather sending a shiver through you as you settled into it. You crossed your legs, then uncrossed them, then crossed them again. Your hands rested in your lap, fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against your thighs. You could feel the familiar heat building in your core, the insistent throb of arousal that had nothing to do with your current situation and everything to do with the way Dr. Gideon's eyes lingered on you.
David sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "As I explained on the phone, my wife... she needs help. Desperately."
Gideon leaned back in his chair, his steepled fingers resting against his chin. "Your message was somewhat vague, Mr. (Y/L/N). You mentioned... behavioral issues?"
"Behavioral issues?" David let out a bitter laugh. "That's one way to put it. She's insatiable, Doctor. It's... it's ruined our marriage. It's ruining her life."
You flinched at his words, shame burning hot in your cheeks. "David, please..."
"No," he turned to you, his expression pained. "No more, (Y/N). We're here because this has to stop. The constant... need. The affairs, the strangers, the... God, the things I've walked in on." He shook his head, turning back to Gideon. "She can't control herself. She'll have sex with anyone, anywhere, anytime. She's lost three jobs because of it. She's alienated her friends. Her family won't even speak to her anymore."
Gideon's gaze was intense, analytical. "And you, Mrs. (Y/L/N)? How do you perceive your behavior?"
You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "I... I can't help it," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "It's like... like a hunger. A thirst that can never be quenched. I try to fight it, I really do, but it's always there, this... this need. And when I give in to it, for a little while, it's quiet. But then it comes back stronger than before."
Your eyes met Gideon's, and you felt another jolt of arousal at the cool, assessing way he looked at you. There was something about his height, his sheer size, that called to a primal part of you. You imagined him looming over you, his large hands pinning you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress...
You squeezed your thighs together, the pressure doing little to alleviate the growing ache between them.
"Compulsive Sexual Behavior Disorder," Gideon said, his tone clinical. "A challenging diagnosis, but not without treatment options. Rhodes Hill has pioneered several therapeutic approaches that have shown promising results."
David's shoulders slumped in relief. "So you can help her?"
"With time and commitment, yes," Gideon replied, his eyes still fixed on you. "It will require intensive therapy, both individual and group. We'll need to explore the root causes of her behavior, develop coping mechanisms for the urges, and work on rebuilding healthy interpersonal relationships."
"Whatever it takes," David said firmly. "How long will she need to stay here?"
"That depends on her progress," Gideon said smoothly. "Typically, we recommend a minimum of three months for initial intensive treatment. After that, we can reassess and determine if continued residential care is necessary, or if she can transition to an outpatient program."
Three months. The thought both terrified and thrilled you. Three months without the constant temptation of the outside world, but also three months in this place, under the care of this man...
"I'll do it," you said, surprising both David and yourself with the firmness in your voice.
David looked at you, his expression softening slightly. "Are you sure, honey?"
You nodded, tearing your eyes away from Gideon to look at your husband. "I have to. This is... this is ruining everything. I want to get better."
David reached across the space between your chairs and took your hand. "I know you do. And I'll be here to support you. I'll visit every weekend."
Gideon watched this exchange with an unreadable expression. "Excellent. Then let's proceed with the admission paperwork. Mrs. (Y/L/N), if you'll come with me, we can get started on your intake assessment while your husband handles the administrative details."
The thought of being alone with Dr. Gideon sent a fresh wave of arousal through you. You stood, your legs feeling unsteady, and followed him out of the office and down a sterile, white corridor. His long strides forced you to hurry to keep up, and you found yourself mesmerized by the way his lab coat swayed around his powerful legs.
He led you into a small examination room, the clinical atmosphere doing little to dampen your excitement. "Please, have a seat," he gestured to the examination table, the paper crinkling as you settled onto its edge.
He stood before you, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. He was even more imposing up close, his massive frame casting you in shadow. You had to crane your neck to look up at him, and the position sent a thrill through you.
"Now," he began, his voice low and intimate. "Let's discuss your... condition. In detail."
For the next hour, you poured out your darkest secrets, your most shameful desires. You told him about the constant, intrusive thoughts, the way your body seemed to betray you at every turn, the risks you'd taken, the lines you'd crossed. Through it all, he listened, his expression unreadable, his piercing yellow eyes never leaving yours.
"And these urges," he said when you had finished, his voice still maddeningly calm. "How would you describe them, physically?"
You hesitated, embarrassed by the question, but something in his gaze compelled you to answer. "It's like... like a fire. Low and simmering most of the time, but always there. And then something... someone... will throw fuel on it, and it just explodes. I get hot, and shaky, and... wet. And all I can think about is... is satisfying the need. Nothing else matters."
"Interesting," he murmured, stepping closer. He was so close now that you could feel the fabric of his lab coat brushing against your knees. "And what, specifically, tends to 'throw fuel on the fire'?"
You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. "Confidence. Control. Strength. When someone... when a man... knows what he wants and isn't afraid to take it." Your eyes drifted over his massive form, the broad chest, the powerful arms. "Size. Physical presence."
A slow smile spread across his face, and it was the first genuine emotion you'd seen from him. It was a predatory smile, all sharp teeth and dark promise. "I see."
He raised a hand and you flinched, expecting a blow, but instead, his fingers gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek. His touch was electric, and you gasped, your body arching involuntarily toward him.
"Such a responsive subject," he murmured, his fingers lingering against your skin. "This will be... illuminating."
His other hand came up to cup your chin, his thumb stroking your jawline. "You're a beautiful woman, (Y/N). It's a shame that such beauty is tormented by such... uncontrollable urges."
"Please," you whispered, your voice trembling with need. "Please..."
"Please what?" he asked, his voice a low growl that vibrated through you. "Please help you? Or please... touch you?"
"Both," you breathed, your eyes fluttering closed as his thumb brushed against your lower lip. "God, both."
He chuckled, a dark, rumbling sound. "We have our work cut out for us, don't we? But don't worry, my dear. I am nothing if not thorough. We will explore every facet of your condition. We will delve deep into your psyche. We will leave no stone unturned."
His hand moved from your chin to the side of your neck, his long fingers wrapping around it, not squeezing, just holding you in place. The possessive gesture sent a jolt of pure lust through you, and you moaned softly.
"Yes," he murmured, his face close to yours now. "You'll do nicely."
His words were confusing, but you were too lost in the haze of arousal to question them. You leaned in, desperate for his kiss, but he pulled back at the last moment, leaving you panting and wanting.
"Tsk, tsk," he chided, releasing you. "Such impulsive behavior. We'll have to work on that. The first step in treatment is acknowledging your lack of control."
He stepped back, adjusting his lab coat as if nothing had happened. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to check on your husband's progress with the paperwork. A nurse will be in shortly to show you to your room. Get settled in. Dinner is at six. Therapy begins tomorrow at nine."
With that, he turned and left the room, leaving you shaken and more aroused than you had ever been in your life. You slid off the examination table, your legs trembling, and pressed your forehead against the cool wall, trying to regain some semblance of control.
But as you stood there, you knew, with a certainty that terrified and thrilled you in equal measure, that Rhodes Hill was not going to be the cure you had hoped for. It was going to be something else entirely. Something darker, more dangerous, and infinitely more exciting.
In his office, Victor Gideon sat back at his desk, a rare smile playing on his lips. He picked up a framed photograph from his desk, a portrait of a stern-looking man with cold, calculating eyes.
Oswell E. Spencer. His master. His mentor. The man whose vision for a new world, a world perfected and cleansed by the Progenitor virus, was the only thing that mattered.
Gideon's work at Rhodes Hill was not just about treating the mentally ill. It was about advancing Spencer's vision, about finding new and interesting subjects for his research. And (Y/N) (Y/L/N)... she was a prize. A woman with such a powerful, uncontrollable libido, so responsive to stimulus, so desperate for control...
She would be the perfect vessel. A way to relieve the stresses of his work, a warm body to lose himself in when the pressure became too much. And when he was done with her, when he had used her in every way he could imagine, she would make an excellent test subject for his latest strain of the T-virus.
He traced the outline of Spencer's face in the photograph, his expression hardening with determination. "Soon, Master," he murmured. "Soon, your vision will be realized. And I will be there, at your side, to usher in the new world."
He set the photograph down and turned his attention to the file on his desk, the one with (Y/N)'s name on it. He opened it, his eyes scanning the information, but his mind was already working, already planning, already imagining all the ways he would break her, use her, and remake her in his image.
The treatment would begin tomorrow. And it would be a masterpiece of manipulation and control.
The sterile white walls of your new room felt like they were closing in on you. You'd spent a restless night, the thin hospital blanket doing little to ward off the chill, both physical and emotional. Every creak of the old building, every distant footstep in the corridor, had your heart racing and your body humming with that familiar, unwelcome anticipation. Sleep was a distant country you couldn't seem to visit.
A sharp rap on the door jolted you upright. "Mrs. (Y/L/N)? It's time for your session with Dr. Gideon."
The voice belonged to a stern-faced nurse who didn't wait for a reply before opening the door. You were dressed in the simple grey scrubs they'd provided, the fabric rough against your skin. You followed her down the same corridor you'd walked with Gideon yesterday, your stomach twisting in knots.
This time, he wasn't in his office. The nurse led you to a different room, one that was both office and therapy space. It was cozier than his office, with plush armchairs and soft lighting, but the windows were barred, and the door was solid steel with a formidable-looking lock. A reminder that this was a prison, no matter how comfortable the furnishings.
Dr. Gideon was already there, standing by the window, looking out at the grey morning sky. He turned as you entered, and his eyes immediately locked onto yours. The intensity in his gaze made your breath catch, and you felt that now-familiar heat begin to pool in your belly.
"Thank you, Nurse," he said, his voice smooth. "That will be all. Please ensure we are not disturbed."
The nurse nodded and left, the heavy click of the lock echoing in the sudden silence. You were alone with him. Truly alone.
"Good morning, (Y/N)," he said, gesturing to one of the armchairs. "Did you sleep well?"
You sank into the chair, shaking your head. "Not really."
"Unsurprising," he murmured, taking the seat opposite you. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, bringing his large frame closer to yours. "The first night in a new environment is often difficult. Especially for someone with your... heightened sensitivities."
The way he said "heightened sensitivities" sent a shiver down your spine. It sounded so much more... intriguing than "disorder."
"Let's begin, shall we?" he continued. "Yesterday, you were very open with me about your urges. Today, I want you to show me."
You blinked, confused. "Show you? I... I don't understand."
"I want you to close your eyes," he instructed, his voice dropping to a low, hypnotic tone. "And I want you to bring up the feeling. The hunger, as you called it. Let it build. I want to observe it. To understand its nature from the inside out."
This was wrong. This was the opposite of therapy. But his eyes held you captive, and a dark, curious part of you wanted to see where this would lead. You closed your eyes, taking a shaky breath.
"Good," he murmured. "Now, remember. A time when the urge was overwhelming. A time when you gave in to it completely. Picture the scene. The person. The setting."
Your mind, ever eager to betray you, immediately supplied an image. Not of one of your countless faceless encounters, but of him. Of Dr. Gideon, looming over you in the examination room, his large hand wrapped around your throat.
A soft gasp escaped your lips. Your breathing quickened, and you could feel the heat spreading through your body, the familiar ache beginning to throb between your legs.
"Interesting," he said, his voice closer now. You could feel the shift in the air as he moved. "Your heart rate has increased by twenty beats per minute. Your pupils are dilated. You're flushing. What are you thinking about, (Y/N)? Be honest."
"You," you whispered, the word torn from you. "The examination room. Yesterday."
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. "Fascinating. So quickly. I am a trigger for you."
He was right behind you now. You could feel the warmth of his body radiating against your back. You tensed, every nerve ending screaming in anticipation.
"Don't fight it," he commanded softly. "Let it happen. Let the feeling take over. Tell me what it's doing to you."
"It's... it's like a fire," you breathed, your hands clenching into fists in your lap. "It's burning. I feel... empty. And full. All at once. I need..."
"What do you need?" he prompted, his voice right next to your ear.
You moaned softly, unable to form the words. You needed him. You needed his hands on you, his weight pinning you down, his body filling the aching emptiness inside you. It was a shameful, desperate need, and it was overwhelming you.
"Tell me," he insisted, his breath hot against your neck. "Use your words."
"I need... to be touched," you finally managed to gasp out. "I need... to be taken. I need to be... used."
There was a long moment of silence, and you feared you had gone too far, said too much. Then you felt his hands on your shoulders, large and warm through the thin fabric of your scrubs. His grip was firm, possessive.
"An honest admission," he murmured, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your neck. "The first step toward control is understanding the nature of the impulse. And yours, my dear, is a desire to be controlled. To be dominated. To be so thoroughly claimed by another that your own consciousness, your own will, ceases to matter."
His words were a revelation, striking a chord of truth you had never dared to admit to yourself. All your life, you had been seeking not just pleasure, but escape. An escape from yourself, from the relentless demands of your own body and mind.
His hands slid down your arms, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He took your hands in his, his long fingers easily encircling your wrists. He pulled your arms behind the chair, and you heard the soft click of a lock.
Your eyes flew open in alarm. Your wrists were secured behind the back of the armchair. You were trapped.
"Dr. Gideon!" you exclaimed, struggling against the restraints. They were soft, padded leather, but they were secure.
"Relax, (Y/N)," he said, his voice calm and even as he moved around to stand in front of you. "This is a therapeutic exercise. In order to understand your impulse, we must explore it in a controlled environment. You wanted to be dominated. To be used. I am giving you what you desire."
He knelt in front of you, his massive frame still towering over you even in this position. He looked into your wide, frightened eyes, and a slow, predatory smile spread across his face.
"Look at you," he murmured, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "The fear is warring with the arousal, isn't it? Your heart is pounding, your breath is coming in ragged gasps. But your pupils are still dilated, and I can see the pulse beating in your throat. You're terrified, and you're more turned on than you've ever been in your life."
He was right. The fear was sharp and cold, but beneath it, the fire of your arousal burned brighter than ever. Helplessness, you discovered, was the ultimate aphrodisiac.
"Please," you whispered, not knowing what you were begging for. Release? Or more?
His smile widened. "Please what? Please stop? Or please continue?"
You didn't answer, couldn't answer. Your body was a mass of conflicting sensations, your mind a whirlwind of shame and desire.
His thumb stroked your lower lip, his touch maddeningly gentle. "Such a dilemma. But the answer is quite simple, really. You are here to be treated. To be cured. And I am the one who will cure you. My methods may be... unorthodox, but they are effective. To conquer an enemy, one must first understand it. To tame a wild beast, one must first meet it on its own terms."
His other hand moved to your thigh, and you jumped at the contact. His touch was firm, possessive, and it sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.
"Your body is a battlefield, (Y/N)," he continued, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur as his hand began to slowly, deliberately, stroke your thigh. "Your mind is the commander, but it has lost control of its troops. They run rampant, seeking their own pleasure, their own release, with no regard for strategy or consequence. What you need is a stronger commander. One who can restore order. One who can discipline the troops and teach them to obey."
His hand moved higher, his fingers brushing against the heat between your legs. You cried out, your hips arching involuntarily toward his touch.
"Ah, yes," he murmured, his fingers tracing the seam of your scrubs. "The rebel leader. The source of all the chaos. We will need to pay special attention to this one. We will need to break it, to tame it, to make it submit to the will of its new master."
He leaned in closer, his face just inches from yours. "Do you understand what I'm saying, (Y/N)? Do you understand what your treatment will entail?"
You looked into his cold, yellow eyes, and you saw the truth. This wasn't about curing you. This was about owning you. About breaking you down and remaking you in his image. About using your compulsive sexuality as a tool for his own satisfaction.
And the terrifying part, the part that made your blood run cold and your body burn with desire, was that a part of you wanted it. Wanted to be claimed, to be controlled, to be used by this man. Wanted to be the vessel for his stress, the outlet for his dark desires.
"Yes," you whispered, the word a surrender. "I understand."
"Excellent," he said, his smile triumphant. "Then let us begin."
And as his fingers finally found their target, as he began to explore the most sensitive part of you with a clinical precision that was somehow more arousing than any clumsy caress, you knew with a sick certainty that you had just made a deal with the devil. And you had a feeling that the price of your "cure" would be your soul.
The session lasted for an hour, though it felt both like an eternity and a mere moment. He brought you to the brink of release again and again, only to pull back at the last second, leaving you gasping and desperate. By the time he finally unlocked the restraints and helped you to your feet, you were a trembling, sweaty mess, your body humming with unfulfilled need.
"You did well today," he said, his tone once again clinical and detached, as if he hadn't just been systematically torturing you for the past hour. "We've made significant progress in identifying the nature of your impulses. We'll continue with this form of exposure therapy tomorrow."
You could only nod, your throat too tight to speak. You stumbled out of the room, your legs feeling like jelly, and made your way back to your room, the echo of his dark promise following you every step of the way.
Back in the sterile solitude of your room, you collapsed onto the bed, your body still thrumming with a desperate, unsatisfied arousal. You were trapped. You were being used. And you had never been more terrified, or more excited, in your entire life.
————-
The clock on the wall of your room seemed to mock you, its glowing red digits changing with agonizing slowness. 1:17 AM. 1:18 AM. 1:19 AM. Sleep was a distant shore, and you were adrift in a turbulent sea of unspent arousal. The session with Dr. Gideon had left you raw, a nerve exposed and humming. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw his piercing yellow gaze, felt the ghost of his touch on your skin, the memory of his clinical, maddening exploration sending fresh waves of heat through your body.
You tossed and turned, the thin sheets tangled around your sweaty limbs. The ache between your legs was a constant, throbbing presence, a dull, insistent pain that sharpened with every memory of his hands. You tried to focus on something, anything else your husband David, the life you'd left behind, the hope of a cure but it was useless. Dr. Gideon had gotten under your skin, into your head. He had become the center of your universe, the sun around which your desperate, needy planet orbited.
With a frustrated groan, you threw back the covers and swung your legs over the side of the bed. You couldn't take it anymore. The silence of the facility was unnerving, but it also offered an opportunity. The corridors would be empty. The staff would be minimal.
You slipped out of your room, your bare feet silent on the cold linoleum floor. The hallway was bathed in the dim glow of emergency lighting, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like specters on the walls. You moved like a ghost yourself, a creature of pure instinct and need, your body leading the way while your mind, fogged with lust, followed passively.
You knew where you were going. There was never any doubt.
His office. The heart of his domain.
The door was, as expected, locked. But you were a woman driven by desperation, and desperation made you resourceful. You jiggled the handle, then pressed your ear to the cool wood, listening for any sign of movement inside. Nothing. You tried again, this time putting your weight into it, and to your surprise, you heard a soft click. The lock hadn't fully engaged.
Your heart pounded in your chest, a frantic drumbeat of fear and exhilaration. You pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, closing it softly behind you.
The office was exactly as you remembered it, but in the darkness, it seemed more imposing, more intimate. The large mahogany desk was a dark silhouette against the moonlight filtering through the large window. The scent of him old books, antiseptic, and something else, something uniquely him, dark and masculine filled the air, and you inhaled deeply, the scent alone enough to make you dizzy with want.
He was there.
He wasn't at his desk. He was standing by the window, his back to you, looking out at the moon-drenched grounds. He wasn't in his lab coat, but in a simple black shirt and trousers that did little to hide the powerful lines of his body. He seemed larger, more dangerous in the dim light.
"You shouldn't be here."
His voice was a low rumble, startling you. He hadn't turned around, hadn't even moved, but he had known you were there all along.
"I... I couldn't sleep," you stammered, your voice barely a whisper.
He turned slowly, and the moonlight caught his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the cold, predatory gleam in his eyes. "Insomnia is a common side effect of intensive therapy. The mind, when confronted with uncomfortable truths, often seeks distraction."
"It's not just that," you said, taking a hesitant step forward. "I'm... I'm turned on. I can't turn it off. The session today... it made it worse."
A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. "As I anticipated. The exposure therapy is designed to intensify the impulse before we begin to deconstruct it. We must first strengthen the beast before we can learn how to cage it."
"The beast is out of its cage, Doctor," you breathed, moving closer still, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. "I'm... I'm in pain. This ache... it's unbearable."
You were standing directly in front of him now, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and pleading.
"My husband," you whispered, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "David... he hasn't touched me in months. Not since this... this thing... got really bad. He looks at me with disgust, not desire. I'm... I'm deprived, Doctor. I'm so empty."
You reached out, your trembling hand resting on his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. "Please," you begged, your voice cracking with the force of your need. "You're a doctor. You're supposed to help with pain. Help me. Please."
He looked down at your hand on his chest, then back at your face, his expression unreadable. "Help you how, (Y/N)? What is it you're asking for?"
You took a deep breath, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "I'm asking you to fuck me. Please. I need it. I need you to fill me, to take the ache away. Or... or let me help you. Let me give you a blow job. I'll be good, I swear. I'll do whatever you want. Just please, Doctor... please make it stop."
The silence that followed was deafening. You could hear your own ragged breathing, the frantic pounding of your own heart. You had laid yourself bare, offered him the most vulnerable, shameful part of yourself, and now you waited for his judgment.
He didn't push you away. He didn't recoil in disgust. He simply watched you, his eyes dark and calculating, as if weighing the pros and cons of your proposition.
"You're a very desperate woman, aren't you?" he finally said, his voice a low, dangerous purr.
You nodded, tears of shame and frustration welling in your eyes. "Yes."
"And you believe that sexual release will alleviate your suffering?"
"It always does," you confessed. "For a little while, anyway."
He reached up and took your hand from his chest, his long fingers wrapping around yours. His grip was firm, almost painful. "And what of the therapeutic process? What of the control we are trying to build? To give in to the impulse now, to seek relief in the very behavior that brought you here... that would be a step backward, wouldn't it?"
"I don't care!" you cried, your desperation overriding all reason. "I can't live like this! This constant, burning need... it's driving me insane! I'd rather be a sinner who gets a moment of peace than a saint who's burning alive from the inside out."
He chuckled, a dark, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest and into your hand. "Such passion. Such a complete and utter lack of self-control. You are, indeed, the perfect subject."
He pulled you closer, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. He tilted your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.
"You want to be my vessel, (Y/N)?" he murmured, his face just inches from yours. "You want to be the thing I use to relieve my stress? The body I lose myself in when the pressure of my work becomes too much?"
"Yes," you breathed, the word a surrender. "Yes. Anything."
"Then you will have your wish," he said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "But you will have it on my terms. You will not be a partner in this. You will not be an equal. You will be an instrument. A tool for my pleasure. A receptacle for my frustrations. Do you understand?"
"Yes," you whispered, your body trembling with anticipation.
"Good," he said, and then his lips were on yours.
It wasn't a kiss of passion or romance. It was a kiss of possession. A claiming. His lips were hard and demanding, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, dominating yours completely. It was a violation, and it was the most erotic thing you had ever experienced.
When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, your lips swollen and bruised. He looked down at you, his eyes burning with a dark fire you had never seen before.
"On your knees," he commanded.
You didn't hesitate. You sank to the floor on the plush rug, your eyes never leaving his. You watched, mesmerized, as he unbuckled his belt, the sound of the leather sliding through the loops loud in the quiet room. He unzipped his trousers, and his erection sprang free, large and imposing and perfect.
You looked up at him, a silent question in your eyes, and he nodded, giving you the permission you didn't need but desperately wanted.
You leaned forward and took him in your mouth, and the world fell away. There was only the taste of him, the feel of him, the sound of his low groan as you began to move. You had given blow jobs before, but this was different. This wasn't about pleasure or connection. This was about service. This was about worship. This was about fulfilling your purpose as his vessel.
You lost yourself in the act, in the rhythm of it, in the feeling of his hands in your hair, guiding you, controlling you. You were no longer (Y/N), the woman with the disorder. You were his. Completely. Utterly. And in that moment, the ache, the burning need, the constant, tormenting hunger... it began to fade, replaced by a profound sense of peace, of rightness.
This was where you were meant to be. On your knees before your master. And as you felt his body tense, as you heard his sharp intake of breath, you knew that you had finally found the cure you had been so desperately seeking.
——————-
The world came back into focus slowly, a hazy, sated blur. You were still on your knees, the plush fibers of the rug indenting your skin. Your jaw ached, a dull, throbbing reminder of your service, and the taste of him, salty and bitter and utterly divine, coated your tongue and throat. You swallowed, the action an instinctive act of possession, as if you could absorb him, make him a permanent part of you.
Dr. Gideon stood over you, a colossal god in the dim light. He hadn't moved. He was simply watching you, his breathing even, his expression one of detached, clinical observation. There was no tenderness in his gaze, no afterglow of shared passion. There was only the cool, assessing look of a scientist examining a successful experiment.
A tremor ran through you, a mix of lingering pleasure and a dawning, chilling realization. The ache was gone. The desperate, burning hunger that had ruled your life was extinguished, replaced by a profound, terrifying emptiness. You had been used, thoroughly and completely, and in that usage, you had found a twisted form of peace.
"Look at you," he said, his voice a low, dispassionate rumble. He reached down, his large hand cupping your chin, forcing your head up. His thumb swiped across your lower lip, collecting a smear of his seed that had escaped your mouth. He brought it to his own lips, tasting it with a thoughtful expression. "A perfect receptacle. No thought, no will, just a vessel waiting to be filled."
He released your chin, and you remained kneeling, your body still, your eyes fixed on him. You were waiting for his command. His next instruction.
"Stand up," he ordered.
You obeyed, your muscles protesting as you rose to your feet. You felt unsteady, weak, but also strangely powerful. You had done what he asked. You had been a good instrument.
He took a step back, his eyes sweeping over you, stripping you bare with his gaze. "Take those off," he said, gesturing to your grey scrubs. "They're an insult. A lie. You're not a patient. You're not a person. You're a thing. My thing."
Your fingers fumbled with the drawstring of your pants, your hands shaking with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. You let the loose fabric pool around your ankles and stepped out of them. Then you pulled the scratchy top over your head, dropping it to the floor. You stood before him, naked and vulnerable, your body bathed in the cold moonlight.
He circled you slowly, like a predator inspecting its kill. He stopped behind you, and you felt his presence, a wall of heat and power at your back. You tensed, waiting, wanting.
"Bend over," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Put your hands on the desk."
You stumbled forward, your hands slapping against the polished wood of his desk. The surface was cold, a stark contrast to the heat blooming in your core. You bent at the waist, presenting yourself to him, your body an offering.
His hand came down on your ass, a sharp, stinging slap that made you cry out. It wasn't a playful spank; it was a blow, a mark of ownership.
"Silence," he snapped. "You don't make a sound unless I tell you to. You're not a person. You don't get to have reactions."
You bit your lip, stifling the moan that threatened to escape. He struck you again, harder this time, and then again, a rhythmic, punishing cadence that left your skin burning and your mind reeling. The pain was sharp, intense, but it was also grounding. It was a reminder of your place. A confirmation of your purpose.
"You like this, don't you?" he murmured, his voice a dark caress against your ear. He grabbed a handful of your hair, yanking your head back. "You like being treated like the filthy little animal you are. Say it."
"I... I like it," you gasped, the words torn from you.
"Like what?" he demanded, his grip tightening.
"Being treated like... like a filthy animal," you choked out, the shame of the words mingling with a dark, thrilling pleasure.
"Good," he said, releasing your hair. He spread your cheeks with his rough hands, exposing you completely. "Then you'll love this."
You felt the wet, obscene heat of his tongue against your most forbidden place, and you screamed, a raw, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated shock. It was dirty, disgusting, depraved, and it was the most intimate, violating thing anyone had ever done to you. He licked you with a slow, deliberate thoroughness, his tongue exploring every crease, every fold, claiming every part of you as his own.
Your mind shattered. The world dissolved into a haze of sensation. The feel of his tongue, the sound of his low growls of approval, the musky, primal scent of your own arousal mixed with his. You were no longer in control. You were no longer even present. You were just a body, a collection of nerve endings, existing solely for his pleasure.
He straightened up, and you felt the blunt, thick head of his cock press against your entrance. He didn't prepare you, didn't ease his way in. He drove into you in one brutal, punishing thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
The pain was blinding. A white-hot, searing agony that stole your breath and made your vision swim. You were split open, ruined, and the sensation was so overwhelming, so complete, that it broke something inside you. A dam burst, and a wave of pure, unadulterated lust washed over you, drowning out everything else.
He began to move, his strokes hard and deep and unforgiving. He fucked you with a brutal, animalistic intensity, his hips slapping against your bruised ass, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you knew you'd have fingerprints in the morning. He wasn't making love to you. He wasn't even having sex with you. He was using you. He was fucking his frustrations into you, his anger, his stress, his ambition. He was using you as a vessel for his darkness, and you were taking it all, begging for more with every thrust of his hips.
"Look at you," he grunted, his voice ragged with exertion. "Taking it. Taking all of it. You were made for this, weren't you? Made to be a hole for me to fuck."
You could only moan in response, your body arching back to meet his, a silent plea for more.
He reached around, his fingers finding your clit, and he began to rub it in rough, merciless circles. The stimulation was too much, too intense, and you felt your orgasm building, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatened to consume you whole.
"Don't you dare come," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "This isn't for you. This is for me. Your pleasure is irrelevant. Your only purpose is to take what I give you."
The command was a cruel twist of the knife, a denial of the one thing you craved. You fought against the rising tide of your orgasm, your body trembling with the effort of holding back, of denying your own release in service of his.
He could feel your struggle, your desperate attempt to obey, and it seemed to spur him on. He fucked you harder, faster, his fingers working your clit with a merciless precision that was designed to break you.
"Please," you begged, the word a desperate, ragged sob. "Please, Doctor..."
"Please what?" he snarled, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin of your shoulder. "Please stop? Or please let you come?"
"Please let me come," you cried, tears of desperation streaming down your face. "Please, I need it. I need to come for you."
He let out a dark, triumphant laugh. "Then come," he commanded. "Come for me, you filthy little slut. Show me how much you love being my depraved little whore."
The words, the permission, the brutal honesty of it all, was your undoing. Your orgasm crashed over you, a blinding, deafening wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. Your body convulsed, your muscles clenching around him as you screamed your release into the silent office.
He followed you over the edge, his own orgasm a violent, explosive eruption. He buried himself deep inside you, his body shuddering as he emptied himself into you, marking you as his, claiming you from the inside out.
He stayed inside you for a long moment, his weight pressing you into the desk, his breath hot and heavy against your neck. Then, he pulled out, leaving you feeling empty and used and utterly, completely satisfied.
He straightened up, adjusting his clothes with an air of cool indifference. You remained bent over the desk, your body trembling, your mind a blissful, blank slate.
"Get dressed," he said, his voice once again clinical and detached. "And get back to your room. If anyone asks, you were sleepwalking. Do you understand?"
You pushed yourself up, your body aching in a way that was both painful and deeply satisfying. You looked at him, at the man who had just broken you and remade you in his image, and you felt a surge of something that was dangerously close to love.
"Yes, Doctor," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "I understand."
You dressed quickly, your movements clumsy. As you reached the door, his voice stopped you.
"(Y/N)."
You turned, your heart leaping into your throat.
"This is our secret," he said, his eyes locking onto yours. "What happens between us in the dark of night stays between us. In the light of day, I am your doctor, and you are my patient. Nothing more. Do you understand?"
You understood. You understood perfectly. You were living two lives. The patient by day, the whore by night. And you had a feeling that the night life was the one that would ultimately consume you.
———
The walk back to your room was a journey through a fractured reality. The sterile, white corridors of Rhodes Hill, once symbols of sterile hope, now seemed like the set of a play you were no longer a part of. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a cold, clinical glow on the scuffed linoleum floor. Every shadow seemed to hold a secret, every corner a potential hiding place for the ghosts of what had just transpired.
You moved like a phantom, your body a map of contrasting sensations. The deep, satisfying ache between your legs was a constant, throbbing reminder of his possession. The sharp sting on your buttocks, the tender bruise on your shoulder where his teeth had marked you, the rawness of your throat all were badges of honor, proof that you had been chosen, used. You felt filthy, depraved, and more alive than you had ever been.
Back in the sterile solitude of your room, you locked the door and leaned against it, your body trembling. You caught your reflection in the small, polished steel mirror on the wall. The woman staring back at you was a stranger. Her eyes were wide and glassy, a mixture of shock and a dawning, terrifying euphoria. Her lips were swollen, her hair a tangled mess. She looked like she had been thoroughly, completely fucked. And she looked happy.
A wave of nausea hit you, followed by a surge of shame so intense it almost brought you to your knees. What had you done? What had you become? You had begged a man, your doctor, to use you in the most debasing ways imaginable. And you had loved every moment of it. You had reveled in your own degradation.
You stumbled into the small, adjoining bathroom and turned on the shower, cranking the water as hot as you could stand it. You stepped under the scalding spray, the heat a welcome punishment. You scrubbed your body until your skin was raw and red, trying to wash away the evidence of your sin, the scent of him that still clung to you like a second skin. But it was no use. The feeling of him was inside you now, a part of you, imprinted on your soul.
You finally emerged from the shower, your skin pink and tender. You dried yourself roughly, the rough towel another form of self-flagellation. You climbed into the narrow, uncomfortable bed, your body exhausted, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Sleep, when it finally came, was deep and dreamless, a black, empty void.
The next morning, the harsh buzz of the intercom roused you from your stupor. "Mrs. (Y/L/N), it's 7:00 AM. Breakfast is being served in the communal dining hall. Group therapy is at 9:00 AM with Dr. Gideon."
Dr. Gideon.
The name sent a jolt through you, a fresh wave of arousal warring with the lingering shame. You dressed mechanically, pulling on the scratchy grey scrubs that now felt like a costume. You were playing a role. The patient. The sick woman in need of a cure.
The dining hall was a large, sterile room filled with round tables and uncomfortable-looking chairs. The other patients were a motley collection of lost souls, their faces etched with varying degrees of despair, anxiety, and resignation. You took a tray of bland, tasteless food scrambled eggs, toast, a glass of orange juice and found an empty table in the corner.
You picked at your food, your appetite gone. You were acutely aware of every sound, every movement, your senses heightened, searching for him. And then you saw him.
He was standing by the entrance, talking to a nurse. He was in his pristine white lab coat, his expression one of professional calm. He looked every bit the respected doctor, the brilliant researcher. There was no hint of the predator, the dominant master who had fucked you into oblivion on his desk just a few hours ago.
As if sensing your gaze, he looked up, his eyes finding yours instantly. The connection was electric, a tangible current that arced across the room. His expression didn't change, but you saw it. A flicker of something in the depths of his yellow eyes. A secret. A promise. A claim.
He gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod, then turned his attention back to the nurse, dismissing you as if you were nothing. And in that moment of dismissal, you felt a thrill so potent it made you dizzy. The dynamic was already established. He was the god, and you were his worshipper, relegated to the shadows in the light of day.
Group therapy was a special kind of hell. It was held in a large, circular room with uncomfortable chairs arranged in a circle. Dr. Gideon sat at the head of the circle, a picture of serene authority. You took a seat as far away from him as you could, your heart pounding in your chest.
The session was a masterclass in psychological manipulation. He guided the discussion with a calm, reassuring voice, probing, prodding, encouraging the other patients to expose their deepest fears and insecurities. He was compassionate, insightful, and utterly in control. He was the perfect doctor.
And then he turned his attention to you.
"(Y/N)," he said, his voice even and professional. "You were very quiet yesterday. How are you feeling today?"
All eyes were on you. You felt your cheeks flush, your mouth suddenly dry. "I... I'm okay," you managed to say, your voice barely a whisper.
"Just okay?" he pressed, his gaze intense but unreadable. "After our intensive session yesterday, I would have expected you to be feeling... a range of emotions. Perhaps some discomfort? Some confusion?"
You knew what he was doing. He was testing you. Playing with you in front of everyone.
"There was some... discomfort," you admitted, your eyes fixed on your hands in your lap. "But... also some clarity."
"Clarity," he repeated, a thoughtful expression on his face. "That's very interesting. Can you elaborate on that?"
You took a shaky breath, choosing your words carefully. "For the first time... I feel like I understand the nature of my... impulses. That they're not just about pleasure. They're about... control. And the lack thereof."
"A very insightful observation," he said, a note of approval in his voice. "You see, class? (Y/N) is already making tremendous progress. She's beginning to deconstruct the underlying psychological framework of her disorder. This is the first step toward true healing."
He was praising you, but it felt like a punishment. He was holding you up as an example, a model patient, while all you could think about was the feeling of his hands on your body, the taste of him in your mouth, the sound of his voice calling you a filthy little whore.
The rest of the session was a blur. You answered his questions when prompted, your responses short and careful. You played your part, the good patient making progress. But underneath the facade, you were a seething mass of need and anticipation. You couldn't wait for the night. You couldn't wait to be alone with him again.
When the session was finally over, you practically fled the room, your body humming with a nervous energy. You needed to be alone. You needed to process what had happened, to prepare yourself for what was to come.
As you reached the door of your room, you felt a presence behind you. You turned, your heart leaping into your throat, but it was only the nurse from the first day.
"Dr. Gideon requested that I give this to you," she said, holding out a small, white paper cup. "It's a mild sedative. To help you sleep. He said you seemed... agitated today."
You took the cup, your fingers brushing against hers. Inside were two small, white pills. You looked at them, then back at the nurse, a question in your eyes.
"He said it's important that you get a good night's rest," she said, her expression unreadable. "Tomorrow is a big day. He has a very... special session planned for you."
You knew what the pills were. They weren't sedatives. They were a test. A reminder of his control. He was drugging you, not to help you sleep, but to ensure your compliance.
You took the pills from the cup, a small, obedient smile playing on your lips. "Thank you," you said, your voice sweet and docile. "I'll be sure to take them."
The nurse nodded and walked away, leaving you alone in the hallway, the two small pills clutched in your hand. You looked down at them, then back in the direction of Dr. Gideon's office, a slow, knowing smile spreading across your face.
You wouldn't take the pills, of course. You wouldn't need them. You had a feeling that tonight, you would sleep like a baby. And tomorrow, you would be ready for whatever "special session" he had in store.
The game was afoot. And you were no longer just a player. You were an eager, willing participant.
The day stretched before you, an endless expanse of meaningless activity designed to pacify the herd. Art therapy, where you were supposed to express your inner turmoil with finger paints and clay. You painted a canvas black, a void, and felt nothing. Lunch, where you pushed bland, nutritionally-balanced food around your plate, your appetite a distant memory. A mandatory "mindfulness" session in the garden, where you were supposed to connect with nature and find your center. You could only feel the phantom imprint of his hands on your skin, the memory of his voice a low, possessive hum beneath the chirping of birds.
Through it all, you felt the pills in your pocket. Two small, white discs of his control. You hadn't taken them. You wouldn't. But you carried them like a talisman, a reminder of the game you were playing, the role you were inhabiting.
Finally, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, eerie shadows across the grounds, a nurse approached you. "Dr. Gideon is ready for you, Mrs. (Y/L/N). He's asked that you meet him in the west wing research annex."
Your heart gave a painful lurch. The research annex. You had heard whispers about it from other patients, vague rumors of the "real work" that went on at Rhodes Hill, the work that happened behind locked doors, far from the prying eyes of the general public and regulatory bodies.
The nurse led you not to the familiar corridors of the main building, but down a flight of stairs and through a heavy, steel-reinforced door. The air changed here, growing colder, carrying the sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic and something else, something vaguely chemical and unsettling.
The west wing was a different world. The walls were not the comforting, muted beige of the patient areas, but a stark, clinical white, punctuated by the cold gleam of stainless steel. The lighting was harsh and unforgiving, illuminating every flaw. There were no windows, no art, no softness. This was a place of function, not comfort. A place of science.
The nurse stopped outside a door marked "Dr. V. Gideon - Progenitor Studies." She gave you a perfunctory nod and retreated, her footsteps echoing down the long, empty corridor.
You were alone. You raised a hand to knock, but the door swung open before your knuckles could make contact.
He was there. And he was not the doctor from the group therapy room. He was not the master from the dimly lit office. He was something else entirely. He wore a black biohazard suit, the material clinging to his massive frame, a stark, intimidating silhouette. His face was partially obscured by a clear respirator, but his eyes, those piercing, predatory yellow eyes, were visible, and they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your blood run cold.
"Come in," his voice was distorted by the respirator, a low, mechanical rumble. "And close the door behind you."
You complied, your movements stiff and robotic. The room was a laboratory, a high-tech nightmare of gleaming chrome, humming machinery, and glowing computer monitors. In the center of the room, under a harsh spotlight, was a stainless steel table. It wasn't a desk. It wasn't an examination table. It was a slab. An altar.
He watched you, his head tilted, his gaze analytical. "You didn't take the pills," he stated. It wasn't a question.
"No, Doctor," you replied, your voice small in the cavernous room.
"Why not?"
"Because... I didn't need them," you said, finding a sliver of courage. "Because I knew that if you wanted me to sleep, I would sleep."
A slow smile spread across his face, visible even through the mask. "Excellent," he purred. "You're learning. You're beginning to understand the nature of our relationship. It's not about what you want. It's about what I will.
He crossed the room, his movements fluid and powerful despite the bulky suit. He stopped in front of you, so close that you could feel the cold radiating from the suit's exterior.
"Tonight's session is different," he continued, his voice a low, hypnotic drone. "Tonight, we move beyond the simple physical expression of your impulses. Tonight, we begin to explore the true nature of your utility. Your purpose as a vessel."
He reached out and unzipped the front of your scrubs, his gloved fingers cold and impersonal against your skin. He pushed the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a heap at your feet. You stood naked before him, shivering, not from cold, but from a potent mixture of fear and anticipation.
"Look around you," he commanded, gesturing to the humming machines, the glowing vials of liquid in shades of emerald and cobalt. "This is my work. This is the future. The work of my master, Oswell E. Spencer. A world perfected, cleansed, reborn."
He moved behind you, his gloved hands resting on your shoulders, his touch firm and possessive. "It is stressful work. Demanding. The weight of it... it is a heavy burden to carry alone. I require an outlet. A way to... decompress. A place to store the frustrations, the anxieties, the sheer, overwhelming pressure of it all."
He leaned in, his masked face close to yours. "That is what you are. You are my storage unit. My pressure valve. A warm, biological container for the psychological toxins of my work."
He led you toward the stainless steel table, his hand on the small of your back, guiding you. "Get up," he ordered.
You hoisted yourself onto the cold, unforgiving metal, the chill seeping into your bones. You lay back, the surface hard and unyielding beneath you. You were exposed, vulnerable, a specimen on a slide.
He moved to a nearby cart, his back to you. You watched as he selected a syringe and a small vial of a shimmering, pale green liquid. He filled the syringe with practiced, economical movements, his efficiency terrifying.
"What... what is that?" you asked, your voice trembling.
He turned, the syringe held aloft. "This? This is a little... incentive. A specialized strain of the T-virus. Not the full transformative agent. This is a sub-dermal stimulant. It enhances nerve sensitivity, heightens emotional response, and... encourages compliance. It won't turn you into a mindless monster. It will just make you a more... receptive vessel."
He was at your side in an instant, his gloved hand gripping your arm, his fingers digging into your flesh. You felt the sharp, cold prick of the needle, and then a strange, spreading warmth began to radiate from the injection site.
"There," he said, discarding the empty syringe in a nearby sharps container. "Now we can begin."
The effect was immediate. A wave of intense, almost painful sensitivity washed over you. The air moving against your skin was a caress. The low hum of the machinery was a physical vibration that resonated deep in your bones. And the sight of him, looming over you, his massive frame encased in the intimidating black suit, was enough to make you moan, a low, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated need.
"Please," you begged, your body arching off the cold table. "Please, Doctor..."
"Please what?" he demanded, his voice a distorted growl. "What do you want from me?"
"I want... I want you to use me," you cried, the words torn from you by the chemical fire burning in your veins. "I want to be your vessel. I want you to put all your stress, all your frustration, inside me. Please..."
He chuckled, a dark, mechanized sound. "As you wish."
He unzipped the front of his suit, and his cock sprang free, thick and hard and intimidating. He didn't bother with foreplay. He didn't waste time with preparation. He grabbed your legs, pushing them back, opening you to him, and then he drove into you, one brutal, deep thrust that forced the air from your lungs.
The sensation was overwhelming. The combination of the virus's effects and the sheer, brutal force of his possession was a sensory overload. You felt every inch of him, every vein, every ridge, as he moved inside you with a punishing, rhythmic cadence. The cold metal of the table against your back, the rough texture of his gloves on your skin, the low hum of the laboratory equipment, the distorted sound of his grunts it all merged into a symphony of depraved ecstasy.
"You see?" he grunted, his hips slamming into yours. "This is what you're for. This is your purpose. To take it. To absorb it. To be the thing I fuck when the world becomes too much."
He reached down, his gloved thumb finding your clit, and began to rub it in rough, merciless circles. The stimulation was excruciating, a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You were teetering on the edge of a precipice, a mind-shattering orgasm just out of reach.
"Look at me," he commanded.
You forced your eyes open, your vision blurry with tears of pleasure and pain. You looked up at him, at the masked, inhuman figure who was claiming you, body and soul.
"This is my master's work," he snarled, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more forceful. "This is the burden I carry. And you... you are the place I put it. You are the filth I fuck to stay clean. Do you understand?"
"Yes," you screamed, your body convulsing. "Yes, I understand!"
"Then come for me," he roared, his voice a distorted boom that echoed through the laboratory. "Come for your master!"
The command shattered what was left of your control. Your orgasm ripped through you, a violent, explosive release that left you shaking and sobbing on the cold steel table. He followed you over the edge, his own release a hot, flood of possession, a final, brutal claiming of your body and soul.
He stayed inside you for a long moment, his body still, his breath ragged behind the mask. Then, he pulled out, leaving you feeling empty, used, and utterly, completely his.
He zipped up his suit, his movements once again efficient and impersonal. He looked down at you, a discarded, satiated thing, and there was no emotion in his gaze. No satisfaction, no remorse, no affection. There was only the cool, detached look of a scientist who had just completed a successful experiment.
"Get dressed," he said, his voice once again the low, mechanical rumble of the doctor. "And get back to your room. You have a busy day tomorrow. We have a lot of work to do."
You slid off the table, your legs trembling, your body aching. You dressed slowly, your movements clumsy. As you reached the door, his voice stopped you.
"And (Y/N)."
You turned, your heart leaping into your throat.
"Don't forget who you are," he said, his eyes burning into yours from behind the mask. "You're not a person. You're not a patient. You're my property. My laboratory. My vessel."
You nodded, a small, obedient gesture of submission. "Yes, Doctor."
You walked out of the laboratory, the heavy steel door clicking shut behind you, sealing him in his world of science and ambition, and you out in yours, a world forever changed by the corrupting touch of his genius.
Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours since you had become his vessel.
The world had shrunk to the size of Rhodes Hill. The days bled into one another, a monotonous cycle of therapy sessions, tasteless meals, and the gnawing, ever-present anticipation of the night. The night belonged to him. The day was a waiting game.
Your body was a roadmap of his possession. Faint bruises on your hips, the shape of his fingers. A small, silvery scar on your shoulder where he had gotten too rough, too lost in the "decompression." You cherished these marks. They were proof. Proof that you were his. Proof that you were serving your purpose.
The virus he had injected you with had changed you. It hadn't turned you into a monster, not in the way you had feared. It had done something far more profound. It had rewired you. The constant, chaotic hum of your hypersexuality, the desperate, needy hunger that had driven you to strangers and risks, was gone. In its place was a new kind of need. A focused, singular, all-consuming ache for one man. One god. Dr. Victor Gideon.
He had cured you. And in doing so, he had broken you.
You were sitting in the sterile visiting room, a space designed to offer a false sense of normalcy with its comfortable chairs and fake plants. But the barred windows and the ever-watchful eye of the orderly in the corner were a constant reminder of the truth. You were an inmate.
The door opened, and he walked in.
David.
Your husband.
He looked smaller than you remembered, his shoulders slumped, his face etched with a weariness that seemed to have deepened in the weeks you'd been apart. He was holding a bouquet of colorful, cheerful flowers daisies and carnations a gesture so hopelessly normal, so out of place in the cold, clinical reality of your new life, that it almost made you laugh.
"Hey, honey," he said, his voice soft, tentative. He approached you as if you were a frightened animal. "I brought you these."
He held out the flowers, and you took them, the plastic wrapping crinkling in your hand. They were pretty. They smelled nice. They meant nothing.
"Thank you," you said, your voice flat, distant. "They're... nice."
He sat down in the chair opposite you, his eyes searching yours. "How are you? Really? The nurses say you're doing well. Participating in therapy."
"I am," you lied, your mind already drifting, wandering down the familiar path to him. "The therapy is... helpful."
David nodded, a flicker of relief in his eyes. "That's great. That's really great. I've been so worried."
He started talking then, filling the silence with the mundane details of his life. The leaky faucet in the kitchen, the annoying new guy at work, the price of gas. You nodded, you hummed, you made the appropriate noises, but you weren't really listening. Your mind was elsewhere.
You were thinking about last night. About the laboratory. About the way he had tied you to the stainless steel table with leather restraints, your limbs spread eagle, completely at his mercy. You were thinking about the way he had used a new instrument on you, a sleek, silver device that hummed and vibrated, sending jolts of liquid fire through your veins until you were a sobbing, begging mess. You were thinking about the way he had whispered in your ear, his voice a low, possessive growl, "You see? This is what you were made for. This is the only thing you're good for."
"...and so I told the manager, if you're not going to fix it, I'm not paying the rent," David was saying, his voice a distant drone. "Can you believe that?"
"Wow," you murmured, your eyes unfocused. "That's... crazy."
Your mind flashed to an image of Gideon's face, the way his eyes burned with cold fire when he was on the verge of release, the way his lips would curl into a snarl of pure, unadulterated possession. No one had ever looked at you like that. No one had ever wanted you like that. Not just your body, but your submission, your degradation, your very soul.
"...so we're all going out for drinks on Friday to celebrate," David continued, oblivious. "You'd like Sarah. She's new in accounting. Really sweet."
"That's nice," you said, your fingers stroking the petals of a daisy. You were thinking about Gideon's hands, his long, powerful fingers, the way they could be so gentle, so clinical, when he was administering the virus, and so rough, so brutal, when he was claiming you. He understood you. He understood the darkness inside you, the depraved, needy part of you that you had always tried to hide. He didn't just tolerate it; he reveled in it. He fed it. He was the only one who could keep up with the hurricane of your need, the only one strong enough to ride the storm with you and not be swept away.
David reached across the space between you and took your hand. His touch was warm, familiar, and utterly wrong. It felt like a stranger's touch. It was weak. It was gentle. It wasn't him.
"I miss you, (Y/N)," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "So much. I can't wait until you're well enough to come home. We can start over. We can be a real family again."
The words should have filled you with hope. They should have made you happy. Instead, they filled you with a cold, profound sense of dread. Home? Start over? The thought of leaving Rhodes Hill, of leaving him, was unbearable. This wasn't a prison. It was a sanctuary. A twisted, depraved sanctuary, but a sanctuary nonetheless.
"I miss you too," you lied, pulling your hand away.
David's face fell, a flicker of hurt in his eyes. "What's wrong? Are you okay? You seem... distant."
"I'm just tired," you said, the excuse flimsy, pathetic. "The therapy is... draining."
He nodded, accepting the lie. "Of course. It's a lot to deal with. I just... I want you to know that I'm here for you. I'm not giving up on us. I love you."
The words, "I love you," hung in the air between you, a foreign language you no longer understood. Love? What was love? A gentle touch? A kind word? A bouquet of flowers? That wasn't love. That was a pale, pathetic imitation. Love was a bruising grip on your hips. Love was a punishing, soul-shattering fuck on a cold steel table. Love was the possessive fire in a predator's eyes as he claimed you as his own. Love was Dr. Victor Gideon.
You looked at David, at the kind, decent man who had been your whole world, and you felt nothing. No pity, no affection, no guilt. Only a vast, empty chasm where your love for him used to be. He was a relic from a past life, a ghost haunting the edges of your new reality.
"I think... I think I need to lie down," you said, standing up abruptly. "I'm not feeling well."
"Oh," he said, scrambling to his feet. "Okay. Of course. Do you want me to walk you back to your room?"
"No," you said, a little too quickly. "I can manage. The orderly will... help."
You turned and walked away without a backward glance, leaving him standing there, a forgotten man holding a bouquet of meaningless flowers. As you walked down the corridor, you could feel his eyes on your back, but you didn't turn. You didn't hesitate.
You were going back to your room. To wait. To prepare.
Because tonight was Friday. And on Friday nights, Dr. Gideon didn't just use you to relieve his stress. On Friday nights, he experimented. And you, his willing, eager vessel, couldn't wait to see what depraved new horrors he had in store.
The wait was exquisite agony. You spent the hours leading up to your "session" in a state of heightened, feverish anticipation. You showered, not to cleanse, but to prepare. You scrubbed your body until it was pink and sensitive, wanting every nerve ending to be alive, ready for his touch. You didn't bother with the scrubs. You knew he would have something else for you to wear, or nothing at all. The thought sent a thrill through you.
At precisely 9:00 PM, there was a sharp rap on your door. It wasn't a nurse. It was him. He opened the door and stepped inside, closing it softly behind him. He was in his black biohazard suit again, the respirator obscuring his face, making him an imposing, inhuman figure. But in his hand, he wasn't holding a syringe. He was holding a thick, black leather collar, with a heavy, silver ring attached to the front.
"Tonight's experiment is about obedience," he said, his voice the low, mechanical rumble that you had come to crave. "And trust. You will trust me to take you to the very edge of your sanity, to push you beyond your limits, and you will obey me without question. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Doctor," you whispered, your body already trembling with need.
"On your knees," he commanded.
You dropped to the floor instantly, your head bowed, your eyes fixed on his black, booted feet. He moved behind you, and you felt the cool, smooth leather of the collar as he fastened it around your neck. It was snug, a constant, possessive pressure against your throat. He attached a thin, metal leash to the ring, the chain clinking softly, a sound that made your heart pound in your chest.
"Good," he said, giving the leash a sharp tug. "Heel."
You crawled behind him, your hands and knees cold on the linoleum floor. The degradation was intoxicating. You were not a person. You were an animal. His pet. He led you out of your room and down the deserted corridors, the leash a constant, tangible reminder of your submission. You passed a security camera, and you knew someone was watching, seeing you like this, and the thought made you burn with a dark, thrilling shame.
He didn't take you to the laboratory. He took you to the morgue.
The room was cold, the air thick with the chemical scent of formaldehyde and decay. It was a place of death, of finality. In the center of the room, under a harsh, industrial light, was a gurney, its stainless steel surface gleaming. But it wasn't empty. On it was a body, covered by a crisp, white sheet.
"Up," he commanded, pointing to the gurney next to the covered corpse.
You hesitated, a flicker of fear cutting through your arousal. The morgue was different. This was too much. This was crossing a line
He sensed your hesitation. He gave the leash a brutal tug, pulling you off your feet and choking you slightly. "Did I stutter?" he snarled, his voice a low, menacing growl. "Get on the fucking table."
The fear was quickly replaced by a surge of dark, submissive excitement. He was right. This was what you were for. To be pushed. To be broken. You scrambled onto the gurney, the cold metal seeping into your bones. You lay on your back, your body tense with anticipation.
He secured your wrists and ankles with thick, leather restraints, pulling them tight until you were spread-eagled and completely immobile. He moved to the covered corpse and, with a dramatic flourish, pulled back the sheet.
It was a woman. Young. Blonde. Beautiful. And she was dead. Her skin was pale and waxy, her eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
"You see this?" he said, gesturing to the body. "This is the end result of failure. Of weakness. My master's vision is not for the faint of heart. It requires sacrifice. It requires strength. This one... she wasn't strong enough."
He turned his attention back to you, his eyes burning from behind the mask. "But you... you are strong. You are a survivor. You are the perfect vessel. Tonight, we are going to celebrate your strength. We are going to affirm your life by immersing you in the presence of death."
He moved to a nearby cart and selected a scalpel. The gleam of the steel under the harsh light was terrifying and mesmerizing. He held it up, his gaze fixed on you.
"Don't worry," he purred. "I'm not going to hurt you. Not permanently. This is just... a little art. A little reminder of the fine line between pleasure and pain. Between life and death."
He leaned over you, the scalpel poised above your chest. You held your breath, your heart hammering against your ribs. He brought the blade down, not pressing hard enough to cut, but hard enough to leave a faint, red line on your skin. He began to draw, a slow, deliberate pattern on your flesh, a twisted, intricate design that was both beautiful and horrifying. The sensation was exquisite, a sharp, stinging pleasure that made you gasp and arch against your restraints.
"You like that, don't you?" he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic drone. "You like the feel of the steel on your skin. You like the danger. The knowledge that with one slip, one wrong move, I could end you."
"Yes," you breathed, your eyes closed, lost in the sensation. "God, yes."
He continued his work, his movements precise, artistic. He covered your torso, your thighs, your arms with his bloody masterpiece, a testament to his control, your submission. When he was finished, he put down the scalpel and admired his handiwork.
"Beautiful," he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. "A canvas of flesh and blood."
He then produced a syringe, filled with the same shimmering, pale green liquid from before. But this time, he didn't inject it into your arm. He injected it directly into your clit.
The sensation was blinding. A white-hot, explosive fire that shot through your body like lightning. You screamed, a raw, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated agony and ecstasy. Your body convulsed, your muscles straining against the restraints, as the virus flooded your most sensitive nerve endings, amplifying them a thousandfold.
He unzipped his suit, his cock springing free, thick and hard and angry. He didn't wait for you to recover. He climbed onto the gurney, his heavy weight pinning you down, and he drove into you, one brutal, deep thrust that forced the air from your lungs.
The combination of the virus, the pain, the presence of the dead body next to you, and the sheer, brutal force of his possession was a sensory overload of epic proportions. You were no longer in your body. You were a disembodied spirit, floating in a sea of depraved sensation, a witness to your own violation.
He fucked you with a savage, animalistic intensity, his hips slamming into yours, his hands gripping your thighs so tightly you knew you'd have bruises. He was a force of nature, a god of destruction and creation, and you were the altar on which he was worshiping
"Look at her," he grunted, his head nodding toward the corpse. "Look at what failure looks like. And then look at you. Alive. Warm. Taking my cock like the good little whore you are. This is what you were made for. This is your purpose."
He reached up and grabbed your face, his fingers digging into your cheeks. "Tell me," he snarled, his voice a distorted roar. "Tell me what you are."
"I'm your whore," you screamed, your body convulsing with a pleasure so intense it was painful. "I'm your vessel. I'm your property!"
"Damn right you are," he roared, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more forceful. "And you will never forget it. You will never want anything else. You will never be satisfied by anyone else. You are mine. Now and forever."
He reached down and grabbed the scalpel again, the blade still slick with your blood. He pressed it against your throat, the sharp point a constant, terrifying threat.
"Come for me," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Come for me now, or I swear to God, I'll bleed you out on this table."
The threat was the final push. Your orgasm ripped through you, a violent, explosive release that was both a birth and a death. You screamed his name, a raw, primal sound of pure, unadulterated devotion, as your body convulsed and shuddered, a vessel overflowing with his power, his possession, his depravity.
He followed you over the edge, his own release a hot, flood of life, a final, brutal claiming of your body and soul. He collapsed on top of you, his body heavy, his breathing ragged, the scalpel still pressed against your throat.
For a long moment, you both lay there, in the silent, cold room, surrounded by death, basking in the afterglow of your shared transgression. You were a mess of blood and sweat and cum, a masterpiece of filth and depravity, and you had never felt more beautiful, more complete, more alive.
He finally pushed himself up, his movements slow, deliberate. He looked down at you, at the bloody canvas of your body, at the tear-streaked, ecstatic look on your face, and a slow, triumphant smile spread across his face, visible even through the mask.
"Perfect," he murmured, his voice a low, satisfied purr. "Absolutely perfect."
He cleaned himself up, his movements efficient and impersonal, as if he had just completed a routine surgical procedure. He released your restraints, and you slowly sat up, your body aching, your mind a blissful, blank slate.
"Get dressed," he said, tossing your scrubs at you. "And get back to your room. You've got a busy day tomorrow. We're going to do it all over again."
You dressed slowly, your movements clumsy. As you reached the door, his voice stopped you.
"And (Y/N)."
You turned, your heart leaping into your throat.
"Don't ever forget this feeling," he said, his eyes burning into yours. "This is what it means to be truly alive. This is what it means to be mine."
You nodded, a small, obedient gesture of submission. "I won't, Doctor. I'll never forget."
You walked out of the morgue, the heavy steel door clicking shut behind you, sealing the dead and the damned in their cold, dark tomb. You walked back to your room, the leash gone, but the collar still around your neck, a constant, possessive reminder of your place.
You were his. You were his vessel, his whore, his masterpiece. And you had never been more happy, more fulfilled, more depravedly, utterly, and completely his.
————
The laboratory was silent now, save for the low, steady hum of the ventilation system and the quiet scratching of his pen on paper. The harsh, industrial lights had been dimmed, casting the room in a soft, intimate glow. You were on his lap, naked, your body curled against his massive frame. His lab coat was a rough, familiar texture against your bare skin, and the warmth of his body seeped into you, a comforting, possessive heat.
The session had been... educational. He had been in a particularly inventive mood, testing your limits with a series of psychological and physical stressors that had left you shattered and reassembled, a new, more pliable version of yourself. Now, in the quiet aftermath, you were basking in the simple, profound pleasure of his presence. You were his armrest, his footstool, his living, breathing ornament. And it was bliss.
He was working, his attention completely absorbed by the stack of files on the desk before him. His free hand rested on your hip, a casual, proprietary gesture that sent a constant, low-level thrum of arousal through you. You watched his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the intense focus in his yellow eyes as he scanned the documents, making occasional notes in a precise, elegant script. He was a god in his element, a master of his domain, and you were his devoted acolyte.
The thought of David, of your old life, drifted into your mind like a ghost from a forgotten dream. It had been a few days since his visit, and the memory had already begun to fade, losing its sharp edges, becoming a story you had once heard about someone else. The flowers he had brought were long dead, their brittle petals scattered in the trash can of your room, a sad, shriveled reminder of a world you no longer belonged to.
You shifted slightly on his lap, the movement drawing his attention. He didn't look at you, but his hand tightened on your hip, a silent, possessive warning. You stilled, content to be a part of his stillness.
But the thought of David wouldn't leave you. It wasn't a memory of love or loss, but of... finality. Of closing a door. Of severing the last, tenuous thread that connected you to the person you used to be.
"Doctor?" you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet room.
He grunted in response, his eyes still fixed on his work.
"I was thinking..." you began, hesitantly. "About my husband."
The scratching of his pen stopped. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with unspoken questions. He still didn't look at you, but you could feel the shift in his attention, the way his focus had narrowed, zeroing in on you.
"I think..." you continued, your voice gaining a sliver of confidence. "I think I want to divorce him."
He slowly, deliberately, set his pen down. He turned his head, and his eyes, those piercing, predatory yellow eyes, locked onto yours. A slow, triumphant smirk spread across his face. It wasn't a smile of happiness or encouragement. It was the smirk of a conqueror who has just watched his enemy surrender without a fight.
"Is that so?" he purred, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He reached up and cupped your chin, his thumb stroking your jawline. "And what brought about this sudden change of heart?"
"You," you said, the word a simple, undeniable truth. "Before... I was sick. I was broken. I thought I needed him to fix me. But you... you didn't try to fix me. You... completed me. You gave me a purpose. You're the only one who understands. The only one who can handle me."
His smirk widened. "I don't handle you, my dear (Y/N). I own you. There's a difference."
"I know," you breathed, your heart pounding in your chest. "And I wouldn't have it any other way. He... he could never be what you are. He could never give me what I need. He's a part of a world that doesn't exist for me anymore."
"Then you should absolutely do it," he said, his tone encouraging, but his eyes were cold, calculating. "You should divorce him. Sever all ties. Burn that bridge to the ground. It's an unnecessary distraction. A relic of a life you've outgrown."
He released your chin and leaned back in his chair, his hand still resting possessively on your hip. "Think of it as the final step in your treatment. A symbolic act of liberation. You're not just freeing yourself from a failed marriage. You're freeing yourself from the weakness, the sentimentality, the pathetic need for normalcy that defined your old self. You're killing (Y/N) the wife, the patient, the broken woman, so that you can be reborn as... well, as what you are now. My property."
The way he said it, so cold, so clinical, sent a thrill of pure, unadulterated ecstasy through you. He was right. It wasn't about ending a marriage. It was about ending a life. The life of a person you no longer recognized.
"How would I do it?" you asked, your voice small, eager for his guidance. "I'm in here. I can't exactly call a lawyer."
"Leave the logistics to me," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "I have resources. I can have the papers drawn up and sent to the facility. You'll sign them. I'll handle the rest. It will be clean. It will be final. All you have to do is give the word."
"Then I give the word," you said, without a moment's hesitation. "Do it."
"Excellent," he purred, his eyes gleaming with a dark, triumphant fire. "A wise decision. You're becoming more and more... useful. More and more perfect."
He picked up his pen again, his attention already drifting back to his work, as if the monumental decision you had just made was no more significant than choosing what to have for dinner.
"Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, his tone dismissive. "I have work to do. Master vision waits for no one. And you," he gave your hip a firm, possessive squeeze, "are a distraction. A welcome one, but a distraction nonetheless."
You settled back against him, content to be his distraction, his ornament, his thing. The decision was made. The last tie to your old life was about to be severed. And as you sat there, naked and docile on his lap, you felt a profound sense of peace, of rightness. You were home. You were where you were meant to be. You were his. And you had never been more happy, more fulfilled, more depravedly, utterly, and completely his.
"Get up on the desk. It's time for your reward."
His words were a key, unlocking the last of your resistance, the final vestige of the person you used to be. You rose from your knees, your movements fluid and graceful, a supplicant answering her god's call. You climbed onto the polished mahogany, the cool wood a welcome shock against your heated skin. You lay back, spreading yourself for him, an offering on the altar of his ambition.
He stood and removed his lab coat, draping it carefully over the back of his chair. Then his shirt, revealing the sculpted, powerful landscape of his chest, the pale skin a stark contrast to the dark, dangerous energy that radiated from him. He was magnificent. A perfect, terrifying specimen of a man.
He joined you on the desk, his weight making the solid wood groan in protest. He loomed over you, his yellow eyes burning with an intensity that made your soul ache. He lowered his head, and his lips met yours.
This was different. This wasn't the brutal, punishing kiss of possession. This was something else. It was slow, deep, and impossibly tender. His tongue explored your mouth with a gentle, thoroughness that was more devastating than any force. He kissed you like a lover, like a man who cherished you, and the false passion of it was a poison sweeter than any drug.
You melted into it, your arms wrapping around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. You poured every ounce of your sick, obsessive love into that kiss, trying to fuse with him, to crawl inside his skin and live there forever. You wanted to consume him, to be consumed by him, until there was nothing left of either of you but the shared, ecstatic moment.
He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "You did perfectly today," he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic caress. "You were strong. Ruthless. Beautiful. You're everything I knew you could be."
His words were honey, laced with arsenic, and you drank them eagerly. "I did it for you," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. "Everything is for you."
"I know," he said, his hand tracing the line of your jaw, his touch impossibly gentle. "And I will take care of you. Always. You'll never want for anything again. You'll never have to feel that chaotic, desperate hunger you used to feel. You'll only have this. Us. This perfect, controlled need."
He began to move down your body, his lips leaving a trail of fire on your skin. He kissed your throat, your collarbone, the sensitive skin between your breasts. He was worshiping you, adoring you, and the lie of it was so exquisite, so complete, that you wept with the sheer, overwhelming beauty of it.
He took one of your nipples into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak, his teeth grazing it with just enough pressure to make you gasp. He lavished the same attention on its twin, until you were arching your back, a silent, desperate plea for more.
He continued his downward journey, his lips exploring the soft skin of your stomach, the curve of your hips, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He was mapping your body, claiming every inch of it with his touch, his mouth, his false, adoring worship.
And then he was there, his hot breath against your most sensitive flesh. He looked up at you, his eyes burning with a passion so convincing it felt real, and he smiled. A genuine, warm, loving smile that shattered what was left of your heart.
"I could spend the rest of my life right here," he whispered, and then his tongue was on you.
He didn't devour you. He didn't punish you. He made love to you with his mouth, his movements slow, deliberate, and impossibly tender. He explored every fold, every crease, with a patient, thoroughness that brought you to the brink of orgasm again and again, only to back off, leaving you trembling and begging for release.
"Please," you sobbed, your hands fisting in his hair. "Please, Dr. Gideon... I need to come. I need to come for you."
He looked up at you, his face glistening with your essence, his expression one of pure, adoring love. "Not yet," he murmured. "Not until you're ready. Not until you're completely mine."
He rose over you, positioning himself at your entrance. He looked down at you, his eyes burning with a fire that seemed to consume you whole. He entered you slowly, inch by inch, his gaze locked on yours, a silent, intimate connection that was more devastating than any violation.
He began to move, his strokes slow, deep, and rhythmic. There was no brutality here. No punishment. Only a slow, sensual dance, a shared, ecstatic rhythm that built and built, a wave of pleasure so immense it threatened to drown you.
He kissed you again, his tongue tangling with yours, his body moving in and out of yours in a perfect, synchronized rhythm. You were lost in him, lost in the lie, lost in the moment. You were no longer (Y/N), the depraved whore. You were his goddess, his queen, his one true love.
"I love you," you sobbed against his lips, the words a desperate, broken prayer. "God, I love you so much."
"I love you too," he whispered, his voice a perfect, convincing lie. "More than you'll ever know."
The words were your undoing. Your orgasm crashed over you, a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy that washed away everything your past, your pain, your identity leaving only the blissful, all-consuming feeling of being loved by him.
He followed you over the edge, his own release a hot, flood of possession, a final, sealing of the pact. He collapsed on top of you, his body a heavy, comforting weight, his heart beating a steady, reassuring rhythm against your chest.
You lay there for a long time, wrapped in his arms, your body humming with a contentment so profound it was almost painful. You were home. You were safe. You were loved.
After a while, he stirred, propping himself up on his elbow to look down at you. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch infinitely tender.
"You need to get dressed," he said, his voice soft, but with an underlying note of finality. "The orderly will be coming to take you back to your room soon."
A flicker of disappointment went through you, but you pushed it away. He was right. This beautiful, perfect moment had to end. But there would be others. You had the rest of your life.
You sat up, your body aching in a way that was both painful and deeply satisfying. He watched you dress, his gaze possessive, appreciative. When you were fully clothed, he stood up and pulled you into his arms, holding you close.
"You're mine now," he murmured, his lips against your hair. "Completely. Utterly. Forever."
"Forever," you whispered, your heart overflowing with a love so fierce, so all-consuming, it felt like a sickness.
He released you and walked over to his desk, picking up a thick, leather-bound journal and a pen. He sat down, opening it to a fresh page, his attention already absorbed by his work.
You watched him for a moment, a serene, loving smile on your face. This was your life now. The days were a waiting game, a quiet, contented existence of art therapy and group sessions, all of which now seemed like a pleasant, meaningless dream. The nights were yours. His. A world of depraved, passionate worship that you wouldn't trade for anything.
You turned and walked to the door, your heart light, your soul at peace. You had found your purpose. You had found your god. You had found yourself in the complete and utter surrender of your will to his.
As you reached for the doorknob, he spoke without looking up from his journal.
"Subject (Y/N) has reached terminal stage of psychological conditioning," he murmured, his voice a low, clinical monotone. "Emotional attachment to primary administrator is absolute. Former identity has been successfully eradicated. Subject is now a fully compliant and reusable asset for ongoing research and stress alleviation. Ready for Phase Two."
The words washed over you, a meaningless string of technical jargon. You didn't understand them, and you didn't care. All you heard was the sound of his voice, the voice of the man you loved, the man who had saved you, the man who owned you, body and soul.
You opened the door and stepped out into the brightly lit corridor, a faint, blissful smile on your face. You were free. You were cured. You were his. And you had never been more happy, more fulfilled, more depravedly, utterly, and completely his.
𝜗୧ ⁺ | PARING : moms bf!clark x innocent!fem!reader◞ WARNINGS : age gap, female anatomy and pronouns, clark's a pervert in "disguise", talks of masturbation, allusions to sex/sexual content, sexual tension, ooc!clark (he's pretty nice...kinda), r has a little crush, dad coded!clark◞ EVERYONE IS 18+ ◞ PROOFREAD◞ WC: 1.0K
MORE UNDER THE CUT | 18+ MINORS DNI </3
you couldn’t get a lick of sleep. turning and tossing in bed had your limbs exhausted, but your brain was free of it. wide awake. the annoyingly loud ambient noise only made it all worse. it was like someone dialed up the sounds to take more hours of your rest. there was cars rushing down the street and train horns blaring just as you got a semblance of a tired mind. your mother was snoring up a storm in the next room. you didn’t know how her boyfriend could put up with it during the nights he stayed over.
with a deep sigh, you toss the blanket off of you, letting the heavy cloth come to the ground with a light thump. you roll out of bed and rub whatever tiredness you have from your eyes and head down to the kitchen to get a glass of water. water has never helped you sleep, but it's worth a try. maybe it will help you wash away whatever is keeping you from the threshold of sleep.
lazily, you walk down the hallway, but your steps come to a stop when you hear noise from the kitchen. you peek into the kitchen. there stands clark, your mom's boyfriend, doing the same thing you came to do. before you can make yourself known, he already notices you. he whips his head towards your direction with a slight furrow in his brow, but it softens when he gets a good look at you.
"what're you doing up? it's 2 am," he gestures towards the digital clock on the stove, a frown twisting on his forehead. "i-i'm just doing the same thing you’re doing: water," you point to the glass, heart already fluttering in your chest. that usually happens when you’re around him.
"can't sleep?” he asks, pulling another glass out of the cabinet; you assume it’s for you. "yeah, it's like everything is…louder.” you trudge to where he’s standing, only a small gap between the two of you, arms scarcely apart. "mm. i understand. just need to do something to tire yourself out,” he suggests, lightly brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. his touch leaves tingles blooming under your skin when he pulls away. clark walks over to the sink, leaving you with a racing heart; you swallow harshly at the contact. for a moment you almost fall into a lustful daze, but you snap yourself out of it, cursing the desires in your mind.
you shove down the forbidden feeling stirring in your stomach and pad behind him, still lingering on what he said. "tire myself out? how?" he looks back at you and a small smile twitches on his lips, making your brows knit together at his amusement. what was so funny? clark returns his attention to your glasses of water, filling them both up. "i don’t know. maybe, read a book or…jump jacks. there’s one thing i used to do when i couldn’t sleep but—no…i shouldn’t tell you that.” immediately, your curiosity riles up. "why? what is it?” you ask, looking up at him with wide, intrigued eyes, hungry for information. “it’s nothing. i’ll probably gross you out anyway." the light ticking of the living room clock heightens your overwhelmed nerves. you try to soothe your nerves by pinching the hem of your sleeves, but to no avail, you're still jittery.
"i-i won’t get grossed out, i promise," you assure softly, taking a step by his side and involuntarily leaning into him. you didn’t realize you were doing it. "you're sure?”
"yes. i'm sure.”
he sighs deeply, letting out a deep chuckle like he couldn’t believe what he was about to do. clark sets the glasses on the counter and settles his gaze on your face, heavy eyes running down your body for a moment.
"before… i met your mom, i used to… touch myself when i couldn’t fall asleep. funny enough, it helped most of the time.” he huffs out a humorless laugh, picking up his glass and handing yours—you squeeze your thighs together when his fingers brush your hand. "i-it did?” you ask, each word beaming with innocence. "mhm. not to be weird about it, but you could try that out, baby."
your legs buzz at the pet name, one he often used with a string of others that turned your mind into putty. then a twinge of embarrassment sparks in your chest. you've never…touched yourself. you've never done anything to be honest, and you confess that to him. "i…i haven’t done that…yet." you admit lowly, eyes dropping the contact and looking into the clear glass in your hands. "y-you haven’t? really?"
"no… i just felt awkward when i tried to do it. like i never knew what i was doing and… i never tried it again," you say, words wobbling with anxiety.
you don’t even know why you’re telling clark your sexual secrets—he’s your mom’s boyfriend, but something inside you urged you on. again, he lets out another sigh, "drink some of the water…” he orders softly, taking a step closer and nudging your glass. "o-okay." you bring the cup to your lips with shaking hands, tilting your head back slowly and gulping down the lukewarm water. some of it dribbles down the corner of your lips, but you ignore it. you can’t properly focus on drinking when he’s staring you down the way he is.
eyes glazed over with desire, tongue darting out to swipe his bottom lip. you drink half of it, exhaling deeply when you put the cup down. the gap between you begins to dissolve when he takes another step closer. he takes your face into his big hand, thumbing off the water that spilled out of your mouth. “come over here with me, honey." he whispers, nodding to the plush living room sofa, and the implication weakens your knees. "i need to show you something. it’ll help you…sleep."
WARNINGS: PART TWO OF “Cold, Hard, Liquor” READ THAT FIRST! Same warnings apply to the last chapter, this one clark is more crazed then previously. He’s pretty much crazy. This chapter takes place BEFORE bobby and Kat go down there. So this is during the phase where he’s charting it down there. (I recommend personally to listen to Put me in a movie by lana del ray or Blue jeans while reading this bc omg while im writing this it changes my perspective like crazy). Use of “good girl” language, BUT it’s in a way where he see’s her like a thing to control, not a sexual trope. Also implications of a Cannibalistic-ish clark. This chapter includes biting, finger fucking (orally 🤤) aswell as like ground — sex. (is that a thing? idfk but you two fuck on the floor so 👩💻)
The warehouse didn't feel like a store anymore. It felt like a trap. Ever since Tuesday morning, when Clark had pressed that sudden, frantic kiss against your lips before vanishing into the deepest rows of the furniture showroom, you couldn't focus. Bobby and Kat were upstairs in the breakroom, laughing over the quiet hum of the registers, completely oblivious.
But you were hyper-aware of the silence bleeding up from the basement.When closing time arrived, you didn't leave. Instead, your feet dragged you down the creaking wooden stairs into the darkness below. Scattered across the expo board were crazy, handwritten blueprints, charcoal lines, and fragmented maps that made absolutely no geometric sense. But it wasn't the paperwork that caught your eye — It was the wall behind it.
Your fingers trembled as you stepped closer. Driven by a dizzying mix of anxiety and infatuated curiosity, you reached out. The second your palms pressed against the cold drywall, the solid universe gave way. There was no crash, no resistance; it felt as though your very atoms allowed you through, slipping through a tear in reality.
The transition was instantaneous and horrifying. The cool, damp scent of the basement was replaced by the stale, suffocating smell of moist carpet and aging wallpaper. The overhead lights hummed — a constant, maddening buzz that vibrated straight against your skull.
“Hello?”
You questioned, but no response. You wandered aimlessly for a moment, allowing yourself to explore a little. The slight hum of the white lights beamed down on you. That was until you spotted something — no, someone. A man.
“Clark?”
You took a slow, hesitant step forward, your shoes making a faint, wet squeak against the carpet. It was clark. But- it wasn’t. It looked like your boss, and sounded like your boss; but it wasn’t him. This Clark seemed too far gone for that. Clark’s shoulders locked. The pen stopped scraping against the wall. When he slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder, his eyes were wide, bloodshot, and completely wild. But the moment his gaze tracked over your frame . . .
A ragged, breathless laugh tore from his throat. . He scrambled to his feet, his heavy, uncoordinated boots eating up the distance between you in seconds. Before you could even blink, his large, grime smeared hands slammed onto your waist. He yanked you forward, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his entire frame shaking with a terrifying, euphoric relief.
“You came..”
he whispered, his voice a gravelly, broken rumble that vibrated straight against your collarbone
“You actually came down here.”
He suddenly let go of your shoulder, spinning you around so your back slammed hard against his chest. His thick arm wrapped securely around your waist, his blunt fingers digging bruisingly deep into your hip to anchor you as he pointed his blueprint pen toward the ceiling.
"Look at the columns, kiddo. Look at how they meet the acoustic tiles. It makes absolutely no structural sense. It flouts every single law of physics and design I was ever taught in school."
A breathless, unhinged laugh tore from his throat, his chest vibrating violently against your spine.
"My architect firm... my ex-wife... they all said my designs were too messy. They said I was unguided. Mary sits in her little office and tells me I’m trapped in the past— Well fuck mary. Fuck her. Really.”
He leaned down, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. His breath was hot and smelled sharply of dry drywall dust and the heavy, copper tang of his own exhaustion.
"But this place... it’s just like me. It’s a masterpiece of mistakes. And it’s infinite. It’s the only place that doesn’t demand I change."
You shivered, your hands instinctively clutching the sleeves of his heavy wool jacket, your fingers sinking into the fabric rather than pushing him away. The endless, maddening hum of the fluorescent lights was making your head spin, and the absolute blankness of the yellow walls felt like a weight crushing your chest.
Gathering every ounce of nerve left in your frame, you forced your chin up, your voice trembling but desperate as you tried to anchor him back to the world above.
"Let's do this upstairs, Clark. Please. Upstairs where we know what's going on... where it's not completely uncharted— Where we’re safe! Who knows what’s down here . . Clark. Please.”
Clark went entirely rigid.The manic warmth in his posture vanished in an instant, replaced by a freezing, volatile stillness. He spun you around by your shoulders with a sudden, rough jerk, his large hands pinning you flat against the damp wallpaper so hard the back of your head clicked against the drywall. His grey-smeared face lowered until his blown, unblinking pupils were inches from yours.
"No,"
he snapped, his voice a dangerous, razor-sharp whisper that completely cut the breath from your lungs.
"We are not going back up there. Up there, everyone looks at me like I'm a disease. Up there, I have to look at the empty house she left me. I am the boss down here. Nobody is watching us. Nobody can see what a total fucking wreck I am down here."
The raw, aggressive venom in his delivery crushed your brief spark of confidence instantly. Your shoulders slumped under his palms, your eyelids fluttering shut in total, silent compliance. You didn't argue. You didn't try to pull away from his harsh grip. You just let out a small, defeated whimper and let your body go completely soft against the wall, accepting whatever he was about to do to you.
. . . seeing how easily you allowed him to dictate reality . . instantly bled the anger out of him, leaving behind a dark, desperate hunger. He cupped your jaw, his rough, dirty thumb forcing its way past your lips to press heavily against your tongue. He didn't look at you like a man looking at a lover; his gaze tracked the pulse jumping frantically in your throat, his jaw working as if he were salivating.
"There are no rules here, kiddo. No clocks. No ex-wives. No judgments. Just miles and miles of space for us. I feel like I could spend eternity down here just... draining it."
He breathed, a low, gravelly rasp. He leaned down, burying his face into the side of your neck. He didn't kiss you. Instead, his blunt teeth nipped sharply at the soft skin over your artery, testing the pressure, his lips parting to scrape against your skin until you let out another sharp, involuntary whimper.
Upstairs, the mere thought of touching you made him want to vomit with self-disgust. But down here, in the infinite, silent void, that shame was completely muted. He drank your compliance in, his hands sliding down to roughly bunch up the fabric of your skirt, his clumsy, desperate fingers tearing at your clothes as his broad frame completely blocked out the light.
He caught your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to leave a deep, stinging dent, tasting the salt of your sweat like a starving man finding water in a desert.
"You're so quiet,"
he muttered against your now bleeding lip, his chest heaving as he drove himself into you, entirely consumed by the monstrous, comforting illusion of his own absolute control.
". . . you don’t argue, at all. Fuck, She could take a page out of your fuckin’ book. Just stay like that. a-and. . . Don't look away from me.”
His thumb presses harder against the base of your tongue, for a moment he just allowed it to sit there. That was until Clark decided to swirl his finger around in a clockwise motion, mixing your salvia around in your own mouth. For a moment you let him before you actually decided to do something about it.
You softly bit down on the base of his thumb, and sucked on his finger lightly. Pulling his thumb into the back of your throat. You gagged; of course.
You bobbed your head back and forth for a moment, Swirling your tongue around his finger and sucking in it every couple of beats. He seemed mesmerized by your presence, his gaze stiff and unmoving with his Jaw slightly agape.
You slipped his finger out of your mouth, the remaining saliva that he had on his thumb coating your lips. He stared.
His heavy hand traveled downward, his blunt fingers bunching the fabric of your skirt up past your hips with an unpolished, breathless urgency that made your knees completely go weak.You let out a sharp, involuntary whimper, your hands clutching the shoulders of his wrinkled shirt just to keep your balance.He didn't look at you like a man looking at a woman he loved; his dark eyes were wide and completely wild as he tracked the frantic, terrified pulse jumping in your throat.
He was breathing heavily, his broad frame vibrating with a sudden, suffocating need to consume your space entirely. He didn't want any distance between you anymore.With a sudden, heavy lurch, his arms wrapped violently around your waist. Instead of pushing you away, he let his own knees buckle, sliding his heavy back straight down the damp wallpaper until his boots planted firmly on the cold carpet. He dragged your body down with him, effortlessly pulling you right into his lap.
The shift was sudden and overwhelming. You found yourself straddling his thick thighs, your knees pinning him to the wall on either side of his hips as his broad upper body loomed directly over you. The damp, spongy carpet gave way under his weight, but Clark didn't care. He instantly planted one large, solid hand at the small of your back, locking you flush against his chest so tightly it knocked the remaining air straight from your lungs.It was a messy, heavy scramble, but the absolute lack of space between your bodies only seemed to lock his focus entirely onto you.
He tightly framed your face with his other hand, his rough thumb pressing hard into your cheek to force your head back, his face hovering inches above yours. His breath was hot and smelled of dry dust against your lips as his fingers fumbled frantically with his own clothes beneath you.
"Tell me this is right. . . tell me i’m right.”
“It’s right- you’re right. You’re so right.”
You huff out, your eyes fluttering slightly as you swallow. You bite your lip and swallow slightly.
you straddle his clothed cock. His eyes fixed carefully on you, watching your every move with intense precision. He felt himself getting hotter, the heat pooling in stomach.
His cock is already beginning to swell in the tight confines of his boxers, you could see it clearly.
Your eyes fixed in the bulge that protruded from his pants. You let out a light whine, carefully plopping yourself down, He hadnt bothered taking off that familiar silver belt..not yet.
You began rocking your hips, your movements were slow and precise. his clothed cock just dealt the perfect amount of pressure against your clit and it felt too good to stop. the knot in your stomach only grew from arousal or excitement you're not sure but you knew you couldn't stop moving your hips. He leaned his head back, his adams apple bobbing as he let out a light moan.
His hands moved, placing themselves against your hips, he was guiding you.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
It was a rhythmic motion, it reminded you of the buzzing white lights that were ringing in your ear as you walked through the sickeningly yellow halls.
You saw him now tugging on the familiar silver belt, yanking it open and tossing it this time; but instead he didn’t move you like a doll. He let you do it. You pulled down your pants, and they pooled around your legs as they usually did.
You positioned yourself over his erect cock, precum dripping slightly out of it. You let out a careful sigh as you moved yourself down the tip of his throbbing dick. You coated it with the slick of your pussy before deciding to plop down on it carefully. You both let out an exasperated sigh at that.
“Fuuuckkk..”
You whined out carefully. But clark didn’t seem to pleased. Clark went entirely rigid. The manic warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, deeply offended sharpness.
His hand instantly moved to your jaw, his grip tightening with a bruising, punitive force that pinched your cheeks together, effectively cutting off your breath. He leaned down until his lips were brushing yours, his tone dropping into a low, lecturing rumble that made your blood run cold.
“Don't speak like that,"
he hissed, his voice clipping each syllable with a tight, rigid authority.
"That is an ugly word. You don't use that kind of language with me. You're a clean girl. You're my good girl. Don't ruin your mouth."
He breathed, his gaze tracking the frantic, terrified pulse jumping in your throat. He didn't say it to be playful, and he didn't say it to tease you. He said it with a heavy, punitive authority that made your blood run completely cold. He wanted your body entirely soft and compliant beneath him, but he wanted your mind to stay a perfect, innocent illusion that didn't threaten his pride — Hypocrite. You thought to yourself, you were quiet but you weren’t stupid. But your mind was hazy, everything felt hot and overwhelming to your senses. . and so, you didn’t speak.
“Now stay quiet,"
he muttered, his thumb pressing heavily onto your tongue to hold your mouth open as his hips shifted with a sudden, punishing lurch to force your compliance back into place.
"Just stay quiet like that and let me have this."
Your body bounced up and down his dick, his hips lifting up and down carefully as you stay silent, lightly choking a little on his thumb. His pace quickened.
“Just stay here, j-just stay here with me, tell me- tell me that you want to stay here”
He muttered against your skin as he felt you start to tighten around him again. You didn’t respond, just bouncing up and down aimlessly. He didn’t seemed bothered by that at all.
His fingers returned to your clit, rubbing until you shattered, cumming slightly against his throbbing cock.
And just like that, with a deep groan, Clark buried himself to the brim and came hard, filling you up with hot pulses of cum. He kept pumping through it, pushing his load deeper, marking your insides.
He stayed still for a moment, panting, hot breath against your neck, still half hard and completely enamored by the way your body twitched when he started moving again. Lazily fucking his cum deeper while you whimpered from how sensitive it all was.
"Shh," he murmured against your throat. His hand sliding up to cradle your chin.
You just sobbed softly.
For a while, neither of you moved.
That was until, Your boss spoke again.
"We have our loops, kiddo,"
he whispered against your collarbone, his gravelly voice thick and breaking as his heavy chest heaved violently against yours.
"Our habits. Behaviors that keep us walking in circles. This place. . . it's the neural pathway of least resistance. It's the only path that keeps me safe. I'm going to lock the threshold upstairs tonight, cover it up; i’ll figure out how. You're going to stay in this circle with me forever."
Hearing those words . . the sheer, naked reality of his madness . . . sent a violent jolt of pure ice straight down your spine. The cozy, safe illusion of your crush shattered instantly into a million pieces. He wasn't just a lonely, hurting man who needed comfort; he was entirely, utterly insane. He didn't even see you as a person. You were just a fixture he wanted to trap inside his repeating nightmare.
Your hands trembled violently against the wet fibers of the carpet, and for the first time since you had met him, your own quiet nature collapsed under pure survival instinct. You needed him to stop. You needed to break his frantic focus before the yellow walls swallowed you whole.
"Cla- sir, wait, please stop,"
you gasped, your voice cracking as your palms decidedly pressed flat against his chest, pushing against his wrinkled work shirt with a sudden, desperate strength, it looked almost pleading.
Clark went entirely rigid. The manic warmth in his posture vanished in an instant, replaced by a freezing, volatile stillness. He didn't like the interruption. He didn't like the friction. But before he could snap at you, you started firing out the questions, your words tumbling over each other in a panicked rush.
"Do we... do we even age down here? Sir, how far have you actually gotten? Do you even know if it's safe?"
Your chest heaved, tears finally spilling over your eyelashes as you looked around the endless yellow maze, the sheer impossibility of it breaking something open inside you. He wasn't your boss down here. He was just a man. A terrified, spiraling man.
"What caused me to pass through a literal wall, Clark? Where the fuck even are we?"
The shift in his name hit him like a physical blow. The proud, manic grin vanished from his face, replaced by a tight, fracturing panic. He didn't have the answers. Being forced to admit he was entirely clueless in a realm of impossible geometry wounded his fragile ego instantly. He let out a sharp, mocking laugh to hide his own terror, his fingers digging into your waist.
"It doesn't matter where we are,"
he hissed, his voice dropping into a ragged, defensive whisper as he tried to claw back his crumbling authority.
"We don't need to know how the walls work. It's a threshold. It's. . . it's a structural anomaly. Why are you doing this right now? Why are you asking me things that don't matter? You're just trying to ruin this. You're trying to judge me, just like Mary, just like-“
"I'm not judging you!"
you sobbed, your voice echoing pathetically down the infinite corridor.
"I'm terrified, Clark! Look at this place! It's rotting!"
"It is perfect!"
Clark roared, his unhinged voice bouncing off the sickly wallpaper as his hands gripped your hips, violently lifting and driving you down onto him in a desperate, unpolished rhythm. He was entirely consumed by the monstrous, comforting illusion that he was finally, truly in control.
"It's perfect because it's ours! Just stay quiet! Just... stop talking and listen to me!"
His mouth crashed back down onto yours . . his lips were frantic, and entirely devoid of the doting warmth you had craved for months. He bit into your bottom lip, dragging his teeth against the skin with a desperate, clawing hunger as he forced his pace against you.
And right there, straddling his lap against the damp yellow wall, the lightning bolt struck.
With his mouth crushing yours, the cold, sickening clarity hit your brain. You weren't his therapist. You weren't his doctor, or his wife, or his savior. He didn't tell you his secrets, and he didn't share his burdens.
All you knew . . the absolute naked truth of it was. . that he wasn’t your boss down here, Just a man. And now — he was entirely fucking insane.
The infatuation died instantly, leaving behind a hollow, frozen cavity in your chest. Watching him unravel, watching him scream at the yellow walls to protect his own pathetic delusions, the wool was finally pulled from your eyes. You finally understood why his house was empty. You finally understood the cold secret of his life.
This is why everyone leaves him.
You thought to yourself, your body going completely rigid, refusing to melt under his touch as his frantic hands guided your weight.
As much as I adored him... as much as I wanted him to look at me, I can't do it. I need to leave. I need to get out of this store, just like his wife did. Just like everyone else has.
A tear slid down your temple, soaking into his shoulder.
Because I'm not the problem. It's not the store, and it's not the walls. It's him. He drives them all away.
When the frantic, heavy rhythm finally fractured into a heavy silence, the crushing weight of reality didn't return. The kissing stopped. There was only the maddening, eternal bzzzz of the overhead tiles.
Clark didn't immediately pull away. Instead, he collapsed heavily against you, his face buried deep in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he held you tightly against his chest on the floor. Down here, the suffocating self-disgust that usually poisoned his mind after touching you was completely gone. There were no judgments in this endless maze. No ex-wives, no Mary, no prying eyes.
"I love you, kiddo,"
he whispered against your skin, his gravelly voice thick and breaking. It was the first time he had ever said the words, and they sounded like a desperate plea to keep you from vanishing. His rough fingers carefully brushed a stray tear from your cheek.
"I love how quiet you are for me. I love that you don't look at me like I'm broken. We're going to build a life down here, you and me. I can be a real man for you in this place. I don't ever have to change."
He muttered, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder. The raw, vulnerable adoration behind his words was undeniable, but to you, it felt like a death sentence. He didn't rush you out of the room. He just wrapped his arms around you, shielding your shivering frame with his broad body until the rhythmic, hypnotic humming of the fluorescent lights slowly made your eyelids heavy. Exhaustion and terror finally overtook you, and you drifted into a dark, senseless sleep wrapped in his arms.
—-
You woke up with a violent, gasping jolt.
The maddening buzz of the lights was gone. The smell of rotting, moist wallpaper had vanished.
You sat up quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked around the space. You were sitting on the edge of the display bed in the front showroom. The cold morning light was cutting through the high warehouse windows, and the quiet, ordinary sounds of the street outside echoed softly through the glass.
You looked down at your clothes. They were perfectly dry, no stains. Your backpack was sitting right next to you on the mattress, untouched.
For a single, desperate second, you tried to tell yourself it was just a nightmare. You tried to convince yourself that your mind had just played a cruel, vivid trick on you because of your intense, foolish crush on your boss, that he was a madman.
Then, you licked your lips. The distinct, metallic sting of a deep, tiny cut on your bottom lip burned against your tongue. You reached up, your trembling fingers tracing the exact spot where his blunt teeth had bitten down in the dark.
It was real. The yellow walls, the unhinged blueprints, the bruising grip on your hips, and the terrifying, manic declaration of his love . . it had all actually happened.
A cold, heavy wave of pure dread washed over you, freezing you to the mattress. You looked toward the stairs leading down to the basement, and you knew you couldn't do it anymore.
You couldn't accept the Yellow walls.
You couldn't accept the endless, rotting maze waiting just beneath the floorboards, whatever they were.
And as much as your chest ached with the lingering memory of his touch, you knew you couldn't accept Clark, either. He was slipping into a different kind of darkness, a deep, monstrous obsession that would eventually swallow him whole . . . and if you stayed, he would drag you down into the void right along with him.
With shaking hands, you grabbed your backpack and threw the straps over your shoulders. You didn't wait for five o'clock. You didn't wait for him to come up the stairs undoing his tie and you didn’t wait for the familiar smell of liquor against his lips.
Cold, Hard, Liquour.
You walked straight out the front doors of the showroom, stepping out into the crisp, ordinary reality of the morning air, and you never looked back.
Ok I got this done as fast as i physically could 😭😭 it took me days to write the first one but I couldn’t help finishing this one in like a day, this was soo fun to write!!!! I’ve been getting a lotta support from a whole bunch of people and i couldn’t be more greatful, it makes me feel so good bc i’ve been writing since i was like 11, im a couple years older now lol but it feels so good to have a fic of mine get traction. Anyway, thank you for reading!!!!!!
PART THREE: https://www.tumblr.com/sweetbabyhazel/819318859863670784/charades
YOU GUYSSSS CLARK X READER BACKROOMS FANFIC RAHHHH I LOVE THE BACKROOMS AND ALSO CLARK IS 😋🤭🫣. To be honest with you this started as something and then turned into something else. Lowk based on real events (partially) so reader is more of a shy introvert. That's who I like to write for, so I don't want to hear it. No physical descriptions for Reader are used and Reader is not gendered.
CW: Boss/Employee Dynamic, Age Gap (reader is 21, Clark is in his 40s), Alcohol consumption, Clark is still married but separated, No Smut but there are a few suggestive lines, Loneliness, Fluff turned Light Horror, Clark is a little bit dad coded bc i am the one writing this but I really tried to control the urges, I promise 😭
2.5k Words
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[Clark Masterlist]
A03
It had been pretty clear since the first few months of working your new job that you were Clark's favourite employee. Without a doubt. He'd always send you on break first, letting you use his office for half an hour since there was no proper breakroom. During days that he was on the product floor you'd catch him lingering whenever you were speaking to customers. At first you thought he was simply monitoring your sales pitch, but when an older woman started getting aggressive about the price of a dining set ($350.00, marked down from $599. 99) he smoothly stepped in and handled it.
When business started to dwindle and expenses got tighter, the lay offs came and went. Most of the already diminutive staff got their notice from Clark, only keeping on You, Kat, and Bobby. The latter two refused to work weekends — something expected of collage students their age. You must have been the same year as they were, but for some reason you didn't seem to mind working a weekend shift. It got him curious.
Shouldn't you have better things to do? He often wondered to himself, watching you study your meticulously kept notes behind the front counter when it was slow (when wasn't it?). Deep down he got the feeling that you might have been just as lonley as he was, but he hoped that wasn't the case. Not for you.
"Don't tell me someone like you would rather be stuck behind a desk on a Saturday." He frowned in mock displeasure. "You gotta get out more. Live a little. You don't want to end up like me, now, do you?"
And you would just giggle and shrug, saying how you didn't see the issue. You'd tell Clark that you thought he was a perfectly nice guy and there was nothing wrong with preferring some peace and quiet. That you were more of a homebody anyways. He didn't believe that for a second, though. It was the same excuse that he used to give out and sometimes still did, when someone bothered ask.
They rarely did anymore.
He was well aware that the world tended to pass people like you by, so he made sure to check up on you without making it too obvious. But when he found out you didn't have any plans for your 21st birthday? He wouldn't let that slide. He couldn't.
"Hear your birthdays coming up." He raps his knuckles on a lovely side table (walnut brown, only $99.98 for the set), sauntering up to you.
"It is." You smile, straightening up a living room display.
"You going out? Any crazy plans I should be worried about? Terrorizing the town?" He teases, knowing damn well you're probably going to spend it at home.
"Something like that." You shake your head, scoffing. He knows full well you're intent on spending the day alone. Like last year. Like him.
"No bar? Really? Most people jump at the opportunity to get their first legal taste. What's your drink of choice, anyway? You into beer? Tequila?" He tilts his head, assessing before he claps and points at you with a triumphant finger. "I know. You like a good cocktail, don't you."
"Maybe." You say, straightening one of the display pillows on the sofa (Continental, $600.00). "I wouldn't really know, I've never tried anything before. You're not supposed to drink until you're twenty one, you know." You give him a rather pointed look.
"Everybody does, though." He sits down on the pattered sofa, clasping his hands between spread knees. "I did. Kat and Bobby did. I'm sure you didn't, though. Too much of a rule follower, huh? Hey — let me buy you your first drink, then. If you haven't already got plans."
You laugh as if you think he's joking, sobering when he doesn't join you.
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. Why not? Unless I've overstepped. In which case I thoroughly apolagise and—"
"No." You cut him off softly. "No, you didn't overstep. Um... yeah." A small smile hides in the corners of your lip. "That would be nice. Thank you."
.
The bar Clark takes you to is respectable. It was his usual spot, just off the main road and not too seedy. He pulled out a small, wrapped gift and handed it to you when you were settled next to him on the high stool.
"Happy Birthday." He murmurs over the old country music twanging through the speakers. "Got you something."
"You didn't have to!" You exclaim, accepting the present as if it were far more valuable than the retail price he'd purchased it for.
"Go on. See what it is." He sits back as you carefully tear away the paper, watching your eyes light up when you see the latest CD you'd been wanting.
"Oh my god, Clark! How did you know!?"
"Heard you talking with Kat the other day. Did I get it right?"
"Yeah, this is so thoughtful." Your thumb runs over the tracklist on the back of the plastic case. "Thank you so much."
"You're welcome." Pride warms his chest at being able to make you smile so genuinely. He didn't have much to feel fuzzy about recently, but somehow you always managed to bring a little bit of sunshine to his life through the seperation.
"How is it?" He grins as you take your first sip of beer. He watches you mull it over, the dull, fermented bubbles sliding down your throat and he can tell you don't like it before you can.
"It's... fine." Your nose wrinkles.
"Here, we can trade." He switches the glasses between you so that you can try a different brew. "This one's darker, maybe you'll like it better."
Another sip. Another wrinkle of your nose.
"Yeah." You say uncertainly, licking your lips. "It's good."
"You don't have to lie to me." He chuckles fondly, taking back the drink. "Beer's not for you, noted. You got a sweet tooth, right?"
"I do." You nod, but he already knew that.
Sometimes he'd bring some of those grocery store cookies he knows you like to work — the soft ones. The ones that were so full of sugar that his wife insisted would give him diabetes. It was cute to watch your eyes widen every damn time he offered you one, as if you were intruding just by being in the same room as them. As if the only reason he bought them wasn't for you.
"Gotta get some shots in you, then. A Burt Reynolds. Lemon Drop. Jelly Donut. You'll love em, trust me."
And you did.
Love them.
Trust him.
By midnight you were buzzed. By 1 am you were happy just to be there, seeming more relaxed than he'd ever seen you. By 2 you were getting dozy and he figured it was time to get you home.
"Must be past your bedtime, huh?" He ribs as he collects all your belongings, making sure you've got your coat on properly before paying the tab and guiding you out of the pub. It was getting rowdy now. It was that part of the night when fights started to break out amongst patrons and security would be earning their salary. You didn't need to see all that.
"C'mon." He positions himself between you and a particularly drunk, slobbering buffoon of a man near the bar on your way out. He knocks into Clark instead when he sways, him being the physical barrier between the man and you. You'd've be crushed otherwise. "Let's get you to bed."
"Mm, thank you, Clark." You wobble out on the sidewalk, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. "I'had such a'nice time."
"Yeah? I'm glad to hear that, sweetheart."
The two of you catch a cab and once he's got you settled in the backseat with him, he realizes that he doesn't know your address. You're a little too borderline drunk to relay it to him with any coherence, which provides a bit of a conundrum when the driver asks:
"Where to?"
It's not like he can take you back to his place, exactly. Not with his wife who already seems to hate him enough as it is, and not when she's on the verge of serving him divorce papers already. The next best option (and really the only one) is to let you stay over where he's slept every night since his marriage began unraveling in earnest.
"Cap'n Clark's Ottoman Empire."
The parking lot of some gone-under furniture store is an odd place to deliver a grown man and someone half his age at nearly 3 in the morning, but the taxi driver isn't paid to ask.
You're stumbling a little and singing to yourself when you try to get out of the cab, only to slip right back on the seat with an uncoordinated yelp.
"'M stuck." You scrabble, legs flailing and arms grabbing at the passanger headrest.
"I can see that." Clark shakes his head and suppresses a laugh, taking your hand and helping you upright. "I got you."
"Why 're we'at work?" Your words are slurred, slouching against his side while he fishes for his keys to the front door. The taxi peels out of the lot and drives on down the street. Slowly, as if the cabbie was curious to see where you'd go.
"Because you need somewhere to sleep and I don't know where you live."
"I don't know where you live." You mumble. "You prob'bly live 'n the back now. 'N the back rooms." A new fit of laughter comes over you so hard that you need to squat down.
He wasn't sure what was so funny about living in a retail store. Pathetic? Absolutely. But funny? He didn't think so. How did you know, anyway? He purposefully handled the closing shifts himself so that none of you would find out that both his home and career lives were collapsing. Hopefully it was just the mindless rambling of someone who'd had one too many drinks and you weren't truly aware of the accuracy to your statement.
You're pretty much asleep on your feet by the time he's ushered you inside, found the light switches, and then locked up again.
"Maybe I should've gone easy on you for your first time." He says to himself, guiding you towards the mattress department. He feels you tense underneath his palm, realizing in hindsight what he'd said. "I meant, having you stick to just one shot." He clears his throat. "One drink."
"But I liked them... all." You defend.
"That's for sure." He steadies you with his warm hands on your shoulders and you try to lean back against him. "Go on then. Choose a mattress, any mattress."
"T' sleep on?" You blink slowly.
"Yeah, to sleep on. What else are you going to be doing on it?"
"Not sleeping." You muffle a snort. That little comment raises his eyes to the ceiling, fixing on the sign that promises MORE DOWN STAIRS and he has to pray to keep his mind from wandering to what 'not sleeping' with you could entail. "A mattress for me?"
"Yup." He has to clear his throat again. "Yes. We'll sleep in the same room, but not on the same bed." He assures you, but perhaps it's more himself that he's needing to placate.
"Like a sleepover." You cackle at the absurdity of someone as old as him engaging in slumber parties.
"It's not a sleepover." He rolls his eyes, pulling back the duvet to his usual bed (a twin mattress and solid softwood frame, marked down to $459.99). "It's a... a... hm. Okay," He relents, "It's a sleepover.
You settled quickly after that. All it took once getting you into bed was to turn on a late night weather channel to a low volume and you fell right to sleep. The soft, even rhythm of your breaths just a few feet away were a soothing balm to Clark's fraying nerves these last few months. He found it all too easy to close his eyes in the dim of the store and soon, he was out too.
.
"–could be headed for the San José area in what experts are calling an Asynchronous Flurry. Heavy rains and even snow are in the upcoming forecast despite temptures having been up to seventy one degrees Fahrenheit or twenty two degrees Celsius this past week." The television set clicks on at exactly 4:44 in the morning, startling the two of you awake.
"Clark?" You whisper, his name thick with sleep.
"Mm?" He grunts, cracking open an eye.
"TV."
"I hear it."
"Turn it off." You grumble, pulling the sheets over your head.
"I thought you turned it on." His eyebrows crease together. He hadn't touched the thing and the remote was gone from the dresser displayed between your two beds.
"No. Just turn it off." You flop a pillow over your head. "Wanna sleep."
"Okay, okay." He rushes out of bed to power off the staticky screen. "There."
You mumble a half cognisant 'thanks' as he settles back on his mattress. Before he can close his eyes again, however, the lights come on. Every single overhead flourecent hums to life, the floor lamps and side lights all surging brighter than he thought was possible.
"Clark?" You say again, alarmed this time as you unearth from the colour blocked duvet. "What's happening?"
"Huh? Oh. Nothin'" He says slowly, scanning the furniture shop for anything that looked out of place. But there's nothing astray. Not a single thing. Everything looked proper. "The lights just act up sometimes."
The bulbs flicker out of sync and in a strange, staccato pattern before plunging the warehouse store into darkness — save for a single lamp downstairs. The glow is menacing. You found the basement to be eerie at the best of times, but the ominous light made it seem even more... wrong.
"What's going on?"
"Wiring issues." He tells you, unconvinced of the explanation himself. "The building's old."
As if on cue, the lamp downstairs blinks out and your breath catches in your throat.
"I'm scared." You admit, and the shakey whisper tugs at his protective instincts for you.
"Don't be scared." He says warmly, feeling his way over to your bed. "I'm right here. Nothing's gonna get you without going through me first. That's just how it goes." The mattress dips under his weight when he sits and his hand finds yours under the covers.
"Are you sure it's just the wiring?"
"A hundred percent." He soothes. "Scoot over. The heating might have gone too, and it can get chilly at night without it.
Clark remains above the blankets all night but that doesn't stop you from cuddling up to him. He wakes with you tucked under his chin, an arm of his slung over your waist and your breath tickling his neck. It was a casual intimacy he thought he might like to get used to again. A warm body. The silent companionship. He hadn't realized just how long it had been since he'd felt like this with someone, or of how much he'd wanted it again.
When you sighed and inched impossibly closer he tightened his hold and let his lips brush along your hairline.
"Just sleep." He murmurs, barely a whisper. "Just a little bit longer."
Temptation:Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader (P*rnstar AU) - NSFWish
AN: The porn landscape in 1998 was mainly magazines/VHS/DVDs/CD Roms. Websites were bludgeoning things where you had to physically call up on the phone and give your credit card details to a person in order to subscribe. You were then given a code to have access to an array of pictures and the ability to download movies – these were often low quality so people would order CD Roms. Fan clubs were managed by production companies/management teams to retain fanbases and provided exclusive content/merch like glossy signed images of the porn star through the mail, along with merch catalogues, etc. This fic is reflective of that time.
Summary: Robby struggles to balance boundaries with desire after he hears you getting off in the shower.
Companion Piece To:
The Casting Couch - Your first foray into porn starts on a casting couch with Michael “Robby” Robinavitch behind the camera.
The Photo Lab - Jack and Robby review the photographs from your audition on the casting couch.
The Screen Test (NSFW) - You and Jack set the screen test on fire during your first video together.
You’ve left your gym bag.
Robby finds it resting against shelves that stocks the towels and the baby wipes after him and Jesse hoof Dana’s velvet sofa back to the reception area of the studio. He stares at the white and green Nike bag containing your spare set of clothes before glancing at the bathroom door where Jack has graciously let you take the first shower. He’s currently reviewing the footage Robby shot during that scene, something he’s very interested in to Robby’s surprise. He’s usually a ‘wrap it’ and move on to the next shoot kind of guy.
Jesse’s already been sequestered to this next assignment. Dana’s on location, filming a bathroom scene with Garcia and Walsh, and needs his skill set. They have no idea why, but their viewers really love the whole lesbian in the bathtub trope, the more bubbles the better.
He picks up the bag and approaches the bathroom door. You’ve been in there a few minutes by now so he’s hoping you’re finishing up. He raps his knuckles on the door, a loud one, two that has Jack’s head popping up from behind the camera like a meerkat. “Honey, you’ve left your bag-”
You call out his name through the thin wood. You mustn’t have gotten in yet, he turns the handle, pushing the door open and to his surprise steam bellows out. The showers running, he can hear the patter of water against the tiles.
His name sounds again like a siren’s song. The showers in this place, they can take a minute to reach an ambient temperature. He pokes his head through expecting to see you in front of the vanity. Instead, he’s treated to your naked silhouette in the fogged-up glass of the cubical. Your back is against the wall, the blurred shape of your hand between your legs, while the other kneads your breast.
This happens sometimes after a shoot if one of the performer’s didn’t climax, the build-up it can lead to taking matters into your own hands…
“Robby.” His name rolls off your lips, your voice desperate, closer to the edge than you ever were with Jack.
His cock springs to attention, thrusting itself against the inside of his combats, electricity spiking underneath his skin. He stares down at the tent in his pants, surprised by its sudden interest. It’s the second time he’d popped a woody over you. He’d made sure to jack off before the screen test just in case it happened again but it’s still there, big, bold and craving every inch of your bareness.
Christ, he hasn’t felt like this in a long time, not since before all that shit that happened with Driscoll.
That memory, it’s like cold water dousing his entire body, reminding him of how boundaries can be blurred, how temptation can be entirely one sided. He pulls away, setting your gym bag just inside the bathroom before closing the door.
“You alright?” Jack asks. His body is angled away from the camera, his eyes on Robby. The movie you’ve just made plays in the background, your gorgeous tits on display as you play with them, almost a mirror of what’s going on in the bathroom. “Oh, is she…”
Robby nods his head at the insinuation. “I walked in because she was saying my name.”
“I knew she had a thing for you.” Jack’s hands grasp his hips, his tongue clicking as he jerks his chin back to the movie. “The way she looked at that camera at the end…Are you going to-”
Robby cuts him off with a shake of his head.
“I’m her boss.” His arms cross over his chest, affirming his stance on the situation. “Everything we do here is based on ethics, that’s why we set up our own studio in the first place. She should be able feel safe here.”
Jack, more than anyone else on this earth understands exactly why Robby has to maintain that professional boundary, he was the first one Robby told about the assault, the one who found him after he tried to slit his own wrists.
“Why don’t you take a break?” Jack suggests, picking up the camera from the tripod and handing it to Robby. “You can grab a coffee, get started on editing the footage. I’ll close down the set, finish up here.”
“You’re sure?” Robby asks him, cradling the camera to his chest. He’s usually the one that resets the room after a scene, that does the checks to make sure everything’s ready for the next shoot.
“Yeah, don’t worry.” Jack says as the shower turns off and the sound of you humming Destiny’s Child drifts through the bathroom door. “I’ll take care of everything.”
Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here! Or be a sweetheart and drop me comment or reblog.
summary. After Jack treats you at the emergency department, he learns that you're a camgirl — a very popular camgirl with a public SFW account. Curiosity has him subscribing and he finds himself falling into a very addicting trap of you.
word count. 16.5k (this got away from me)
content warnings. nsfw content, excessive use of 'bunny', medical inaccuracies (of literally almost everything, big shout out to healthline and mayoclinic for iud info), mentions of vaginal bleeding and pain, easter eggs/cameos of other readers from a previous robby fic (👀)
notes. so this was the most absolute fun to write !! i've got a few easter-eggs in here (including other readers from a previous robby fic (👀) and some of my lovely mutuals mentioned) so i hope you like it, my inbox is open for more blurb requests or ideas you have for the dolls-verse! photos above are from pinterest and @deathreverse made the amazing website mock up i included below! (thankyouthankyouiloveyourmassivebrain)
As someone who's made a living off of exposing every inch of your body to the world, you feel horribly exposed sitting on an exam table in just a hospital gown that you had changed into from the cliche trench coat and lacy negligee you had on earlier.
Despite the late hour, the waiting room had been packed and any glance your way felt like something intrusive and prodding. You had been fully ready to wait the whole night before you could be seen but after your vitals had been taken and triaged, the doctor had pushed you to the front of the line and into the next available room.
So here you sit, the paper beneath you crinkling every time you squirm and try to find a far more comfortable position before giving in entirely and leaning over to your side. You support yourself with your elbow and try to ignore the prodding pain in your backside.
"Good evening, I'm Dr. Abbot, what seems to be the problem?"
Your stomach drops; just your luck that the doctor assigned to help you fish out your newest toy is panty-dropping handsome. A silver fox through and through, he looks downright delectable with those large freckled arms that seem to be bursting through those black scrubs. If it had been any other day, you might've turned on the charm, flirt your way to a dinner date or more.
But it's 1:37 AM, you have a fuzzy, bunnytail plug stuck inside you and you're desperate to just get home without your asshole gaping.
"Um." You glance at the iPad in his hand, hoping that whoever saw you first recorded it in your chart so you wouldn't have to repeat yourself. But the handsome doctor is waiting patiently. "I have something… stuck inside me."
"Ah. I'll see what I can do. Roll over for me, sweetheart."
The night shift always brings on the weirdest cases that after all his years of working, nothing could phase him at this point. Seeing you, looking so uncomfortable and startled on the exam table, ranks so low on said weird cases that he misses the note Crus had left on your chart and went right in on the usual greeting.
"… what seems to be the problem—?"
Butt plug lodged in anus, patient reports mild pain and heavy discomfort.
Jack rereads the sentence a few times before he looks up at you. Pretty albeit shy, your cheeks flushed and your gaze seemingly land anywhere but him. When you listen and roll over onto your stomach, he swallows the instinctive 'good girl' that threatens to spill from his lips.
He tugs on a fresh pair of gloves, strengthening his spine and fortifying the usual mask of professionalism he wears. You're laid out on your stomach now, the blankets of the exam table tugged down to right below your ass. Before he could ask you to lift your hips, you do so on your own, knees spread apart.
Face down, ass up.
He swallows thickly as he gently nudges the seam of the hospital gown apart at your spine. What greets him has heat boiling in his gut: a fuzzy pink, bunny cottontail buttplug nestled right in between your asscheeks.
"Alright, I'm gonna touch you back here, see how deep it's in there before we try extraction," he murmurs. You whimper when he gives an experimental but gentle tug. "Is there any stinging sensation?"
"Nuh-uh," you mumble into the pillow.
Jack swallows again as the cottontail plug gives beneath his grip, his other hand pushing your left asscheek aside. "Let me know if I pull too hard, alright?"
You nod and he sees the way your moves against the pillow.
"Words, please."
Your thighs clench as you fight off the simmering heat that your frustratingly hot doctor starts with those two simple words. "Yes, I will." An honorific sits behind your teeth (daddy? sir? whichever, it seems to fit him regardless of what you use) but you swallow it down.
Meanwhile, Jack tries to ignore the tell-tale sheen between your thighs, keeps his gloved hands where they need to be. His mind races through horrific, bloody accidents of the week prior to keep his other head from wandering. "Good," he mutters.
Silence falls between you two as Jack gently adds medical-grade lubricant, apologizing at the cool temperature of it against your heated skin. After a few rotations of the plug, you clamp your teeth around the hospital gown to stifle any wayward moans.
"Mm—" You whimper anyways and Jack stills. "I'm okay—! Just, uh— is it almost out?"
Jack clears his throat; he's grateful you can't see him or the creeping blush up his neck. "Almost. I gotta take it slow to avoid any possible injuries."
The thought makes you lightheaded but you ground yourself back into reality before your mind can start jumping to worst case scenarios. "That makes sense."
He twists the plug and a flare of arousal blooms in your core, more pleasure than pain now. "So," he clears his throat again, an attempt at normalcy. "What do you do for work?" He mentally pats himself on the back at the inane question, hoping it'll be enough to distract you as he attempts at another tug.
You squeak anyways as your ring of muscles expand at the widest part of the plug. Jack adds more lubricant. "This," you manage to say.
Jack's dick gives a willfull throb but he forces it down with the degloving case from the night before. "O-Oh?"
"I… stream? I'm an adult streamer, oh fuck—!"
Your ass is gaping slightly as Jack inadvertently tugs the whole plug out with little warning, an involuntary reaction from your reveal. "Shit— sorry, sweetheart. Don't move—"
The silicone toy hits the metal tray beside you in a dull thud, the fluffy end of it peeking above the lip of the tray, while you feel his gloved digits gently probe around the ring. "Just making sure there aren't any abrasions, any cuts or irritation before we finish up here." He sees your head nod against the pillows so he continues on with his examination.
Your ass is firm beneath his touch. Pilates, maybe. Or strength training. His jaw clenches as he forces his mind to the present again, resumes the exam before carefully covering you up with the hospital gown again. "You're all good, sweetheart, you can turn onto your back now."
A part of him feels a sick sense of satisfaction at the way you squirm from the easy use of petnames. He's always been a natural flirt, that roguish charm that calms patients enough for him to diagnose, but it's a touch more fun when it works on someone as pretty as you.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."
But the gentle cadence of your voice cuts through him and shame trickles in like molasses. When did he turn out to be such a perv? Maybe the night shift is getting to him. He clears his throat, assuming his professional stance, but your smile turns wicked and there's something mischievous in your gaze that he can't quite place.
"Really, I can't thank you enough," you say as you carefully roll over to settle in an upright position. "But, um… is it possible if I can keep the toy?"
He lets out a little laugh and nods. With his hands still gloved, he retrieves a plastic bag from one of the cabinets and places the toy in before handing it to you. "'course you can. Just make sure you prep yourself better next time."
Jack nearly winces at the crass statement but you reward him with a bemused giggle. "Don't worry, I learned my lesson. It's a good thing I'm testing it out first before a stream. It'd be so embarrassing if I got it stuck inside me while I was live," you share and he tries not to look too eager as you share more about your unorthodox occupation.
"Do you… do that often?" The question falls flat and he makes up for it with an embarrassed chuckle, discarding his gloves in the nearby waste basket. "Jesus, tell me if I'm overstepping here."
You laugh again and Jack's positive he isn't as funny as you make him to be but he'd gladly make a fool of himself if he got to hear that sound again. "You're fine. Trust me, I've heard worse."
"What if I want to be the best you've heard?"
Your brow rises up in mild surprise. "Was that a line, Dr. Abbot?"
"Maybe."
"It's not very good."
"It's also 2 AM, sweetheart."
You cross your arms, tilt yout head to the side and it feels like he's being taken apart. "Do you make it a habit to flirt with your patients?"
"Just the pretty ones— oh, yikes. Yeah, that one was bad," he concedes with a light laugh. "I may be a flirt, but you're trouble. Now… think you can behave while I go grab your discharge papers?"
Your smile is saccharine sweet. "Of course."
He chuckles and shakes his head, nudging the door open with his hip before he exits. The rest of the evening goes by routinely: you sign off on a few papers before changing back into your clothes. Dr. Abbot is nowhere to be seen until you're walking towards the exit, your gait a tad bit crooked, and he's leaning against the counter by the nurses' station.
"Thanks again, doctor."
The wink you give him nearly stops his heart, your easy demeanor returning now that you aren't battling the embarrassment of having a butt plug stuck inside you. When the door shuts behind you and the chaos of the emergency department resumes around him, Crus Henderson cackles behind his chart.
"What?" Jack frowns.
The smile Henderson gives him is downright sinister. "You're not slick, old man."
"It's fine." Shen materializes beside him with an obnoxiously loud slurp of his perpetually full iced coffee. "Technically, she isn't your patient anymore. And Crus and I won't tell."
"There's nothing to tell—!"
The two share knowing grins before walking off. "Sure, Abbot. Sure. Wait 'til you're off to look her up though."
Jack splutters. "I'm not going to look her up—"
In the quiet of his bedroom, Jack looks you up.
The sun's already filtering through his window blinds and it feels like some social transgression to be searching up porn during the day. But he's showered and clean with his prosthetic off, tucked under his covers and leaned against his headboard. The cursor's blinking up at him, taunting him. He doesn't even know where to begin but he's got your full name, wonders if it's enough to even catch a trace of you on social media.
He types your name in anyway on instagram and his breath leaves him in a rush when your profile sits at the top of the search results. Your profile pic is innocent enough, smiling brightly, but upon further inspection, your shoulders and collarbone is exposed right where the photo is cut off; an implication that you've got nothing on below the edge of your profile. Once he manages to tear his gaze away, his eyes snag onto the amount of followers you have. Four million. An impressed whistle escapes him as he starts to scroll.
Your photos are still pretty tame, nothing more risque than a bikini shot of you at the beach. To anyone that isn't regularly watching adult streamers, you look like any other influencer of the modern age. Wholesome photos of you are attached as well, displaying your interests and hobbies that has Jack falling deeper and deeper into your orbit.
It's nearly noon when he realized he may have spent the previous hours just looking up your social media sites. One thing that did stick out like a sore thumb (aside from your jaw-dropping photos) had been the lack of use of your real name. He understands the reasoning, knows its for safety especially with the kind of career you're in, but the affectionate nickname you use for yourself and what your subscribers use has a lick of jealousy flaring in his chest.
Dollface. Doll. Dolly.
He scrolls back up before the little monster in his chest grows and a nondescript url catches his eye, the hyperlink sitting pretty beneath your bio. Before he could secondguess himself, he taps it and his phone brings him out of instagram and into his browser app where your website loads on his screen.
While Jack isn't some tech-savvy genius, he's confident enough to say that your page must've been done by a professional. Summer pastels greet him, a variation of your profile pic on instagram (more skin, more sultry—) sitting on the top left of the screen with 'DOLL'S CORNER' splashed on the top of the page and a drop down menu that he decides to explore later.
It's arranged like some sort of blog, your most recent status marked as eight hours ago where you're complaining about some ache. He bites back a smirk before he scrolls down your older posts. There's many videos, ranging from 'get ready with me!'s and 'shopping hauls' with pretty thumbnails, but the one that steals his attention are the ones that are grayed out — almost pixelated with a pink heart-lock graphic in the center.
[ UPGRADE YOUR TIER LEVEL TO ACCESS THIS VIDEO! ♡ ]
His thumb hovers over the lock-graphic before he gives in.
The screen loads and he's taken to a new page, marked by different tiers and different price points.
BESTIES — free! access includes:
- get ready with me
- weekly vlogs
- shopping hauls
SWEETHEARTS — weekly subscription. ($)
- everything besties has to offer!
- short-form lewd content
- locked photos from the vault
- audios
LOVERS — monthly subscription. ($$$)
- everything sweethearts and besties has to offer!
- midnight live-streams
- personalized short-form videos
- personalized audios
Jack blinks twice. He continues to scroll before he catches a three-day free trial for all the paid tiers. He bypasses it and taps a single month purchase for access to the LOVERS' vault (after creating a profile and naming it simply with his initials). His dick stirs in his pajamas as the screen loads before it confirms his payment.
All the grayed-out videos are unlocked but rather than an aesthetic thumbnail with pretty collages like your free content, they're blurred out images of you within the video — enough to imply exactly what's going on in each one.
He scrolls on to see another video of you trying on outfits, specifically lingerie. Figuring this is as close as it'll get to dipping his toes in the metaphorical pond of your NSFW content for now, he hits play.
The video starts off with your pretty face adjusting the camera before you settle back on a white rug, surrounded by opened boxes. You greet the camera and it feels like a blow to the gut to see you in your element. If he thought you were pretty in the emergency room, under the garish lighting of the bright fluorescents, you're a goddamn bombshell with perfect makeup and flattering lighting.
As you address the camera, he begins to wonder how exactly you could be an adult streamer when you have content like this until you bring out the haul for the video. White ivory boxes detailed with cream ribbons, baby pink boxes wrapped nicely with ebony lace and tulle. He catches a name on one of the boxes: La Perla.
Jack shifts in his seat, bats away the creeping guilt of watching a young woman try on lingerie, but the charge was confirmed on his card already; it's too late for regret.
(He fears there isn't any regret in the first place.)
Fortunately for his heart (or unfortunately for his twitching cock), you had edited the videos to cut through the actual process of changing into them and rather just show off the full sets.
You didn't seem to have a preference for color, each piece ranging from a monochromatic black to butter yellow lace. Either way, you look gorgeous in all of them and Jack isn't ashamed to admit he's about to blow in his boxers, untouched, at just the sight of you in lingerie.
When the video ends, he replays it but makes it a point to keep his hands out of his pants for now. Instead, he drops a like and a simple comment:
@.swatdoc. — You're magnificent.
Confident in the anonymity of his profile, he puts his phone away to finally catch up on sleep.
Across the city, your phone buzzes with a new notification as you have breakfast on your island counter. Despite the waves of engagement you get on your content, you still keep the notifications on and the newest one brings forth a flutter in your stomach. Compliments are a nickel apiece when it comes to your career but the simplicity of this one and the lack of crudeness that follows steals your attention.
You take a bite of your food as you tap the notif, bringing on the new account profile. While most are kept blank, this man has a profile pic of his back facing a gorgeous sunset. Despite the fact his face is unseen, you recognize those salt and pepper curls.
In the following days, Jack begins to make it a habit to check on your daily statuses. You don't post daily on instagram but you post stories and he enjoys your little activities, likes how everyone seems to be so kind to you. It makes him wonder if your followers are aware of your evening activities, of your content tucked safely away behind a paywall.
Even in the comments section in both the SFW and NSFW side of your content, he realizes you've amassed a loyal following comprised of women that it nearly hides the lewd and desperate remarks from your male subscribers.
@deathreverse : that top is gorggggg!!! ♡
@pearlessance : your makeup is stunning, drop a routine next babes!!
@enam3l: absolutely obsessed w you!! ♡
@mariasont: that shade of pink suits you BEAUTIFULLY
In your last NSFW video, it's you in bed, a thin blanket draped loosely along your frame. There isn't an intro like your lingerie haul, just getting right into it as if the viewer catches you in the middle of the act: your hand sliding beneath the fabric, the camera shaking slightly as you rearrange your position to lay back against the mountain of pillows.
Jack's mimicking the position on his day off, his own back cushioned against his headboard as he watches in rapt attention. His readers are sliding off his nose but he adjusts them as he hits the volume increase button twice. He wants to hear you, addicted to the way you sound so sweet whimpering around your fingers.
Obsessed with the way your moans can sound so goddamn endearing.
He doesn't let the video play on, his hand still sitting obediently above the waist band of his sweatpants as he tries to catch his breath. He scrolls onward instead, stops at a tamer video of you shopping at a boutique.
@.swatdoc. — Gorgeous as always, bunny.
The cursor blinks as he secondguesses the petname. No one's called you anything other than 'doll' or 'dolly' or some iteration of baby or babe. Bunny's innocuous enough, Jack decides, and taps 'comment'. It'll be an inside joke for himself, for the evening you may as well tipped his world upside down when you'd come into the pitt for a stuck bunny buttplug. You get thousands of comments a day, the likelihood of you recognizing him is abysmally low.
The little pep talk he gives himself soothe the minor anxiety spike as he continues to scroll on, amusing himself with the way your bright personality seems to shine through even with the nasty videos that has his cock twitching to life.
He distracts himself with the comments section instead of exiting the video.
@.deathreverse — jesuuus christ, ur so fucking hot
@.deathreverse — let me rip that gorgeous top off you plsplspls
@.pearlessance — let me make your moans my ringtone and i'll never miss a call
The women commenting are far more entertaining to read through, the creativity of it all always taking him aback, despite the usual stab of jealousy. At this point, his parasocial streak of possessiveness is something he's learned to ignore, to let sit beneath a layer of faux indifference.
He's just a fan now among millions, he'll bask in the anonymity your popularity affords him.
You might be obsessed with your most latest subscriber. A Mr. Swatdoc with the silver curls.
Realistically, it may be the hot doctor that had seen you through the most mortifying ordeal of taking out a buttplug at two in the morning but the profile pic doesn't give you much and his profile is blank aside from his chosen screen name (swatdoc) and his age (48).
Regardless, your heart does a funny little twist whenever he appears in your notifications (only on your SFW posts, interestingly enough) whether it's a like or an extra tip but your stomach drops when his newest comment adds a new petname.
Bunny.
You sit up in bed when the notification comes through. Gorgeous as always, bunny. The fucking bunny, cotton-tail buttplug. The same one that Dr. Abbot had all but talked you through it as he gently removed it from your asshole. You glance up to see the damned toy sitting on your dresser right across from your bed, mocking you.
The bed dips beneath as you shift your weight, rolling around in bed as you reread that goddamn nickname over and over again. Bunny.
As your eyes bore into your screen, your phone buzzes.
[@.swatdoc liked your vlog!]
[@.swatdoc commented: Can't get enough of you, bunny.]
A sudden wave of confidence (or perhaps impulsiveness) washes through you and you tap his comment. And in quick succession, you like his comment and tap on his profile. Then his inbox. And finally:
doll : doctor abbot???
Jack drops his phone like it burned him. He sits up, nearly kicks off his blankets in his chaos as his heart falls right out of his ass. He didn't even know there was a messaging system on your website but there it is, that red notification bubble on the top right. He taps it and there's the chatbox.
He contemplates on lying, on playing dumb but he respects you far too much to lie to you. A heavy sigh escapes him as he resettles back into his bed and his cock sheepishly sits limp against his inner thigh.
swatdoc : How did you know it was me?
doll : i'd recognize those silver curls anywhere ♡
Huh. The little heart emoticon blinks up at him, maybe even glows. His cock gives a hopeful twitch.
swatdoc : Let me get this right. You aren't weirded out by me finding your website?
doll : you pulled my buttplug out of my ass, doctor. i think we're even.
swatdoc : Sounds fair.
doll : i do want to ask, strictly as a survey yknow, just to make sure i'm reaching subscriber satisfaction expectations. but is my nsfw stuff not hot enough?
swatdoc : I don't know how to answer that.
doll : you aren't liking any of my nsfw videos…….. am i not your type?
He can imagine it, that wry little grin when you tease the camera, makes him want to fuck it out of you—
swatdoc : Just trying to be respectful. Or as respectful as I can be given the circumstances, sweetheart.
doll : i think you're super respectful, i see the tips you've been leaving….. thank you btw ♡
swatdoc : You're welcome, bunny.
doll liked your message!
The activity light near your name goes off and he figures you might've logged off. His thumb drags up the screen to exit the page, sets his phone down and attempt at sleeping. But in the midst of his dark bedroom, there's a stirring in his gut that he can't seem to shake. An itch he needs scratching.
Time fluctuates, slips through his fingers as he finds himself on a popular porn website, the light of his phone illuminating his hazel eyes. He scrolls and scrolls past countless videos, the thumbnails made to entice anyone in his position, and yet frustration starts to grow larger than the lust that's been simmering beneath his heated skin.
None of the actresses look like you.
The thought floors him and he pauses when he finds a woman with a similar body type as you, wears her hair the same way you do. Her moans are a bit too pitchy but he punches the volume down and when his hand slides beneath his sweatpants, he doesn't feel guilt. And when he cums, it's your name spilling from his lips.
"You seeing anyone?"
Jack doesn't look up from the iPad as Robby settles in beside him, ready to take over for day shift as night shift starts to filter out. "What are you talking about?"
"Y'know. Dating? Getting out there? 'cuz Peaches has someone—"
"Not interested, brother, but I thank you for your service." Jack smiles but it's forced, halfway towards a grimace, and places the iPad down with a little too much force. He stomps off to the locker room. Robby and Dana watch his retreating back before they share a look.
"What's his problem?" Dana mutters, her glasses sitting low on the slope of her nose.
Robby chuckles and shakes his head. "No idea."
The truth is— Jack does have a problem. That problem is you.
He thought he'd been good, kept his hands to himself when he gets to his usual routine of stalking your website, and lets his fantasies run wild when he switches over to another porn site to find an actress that looks like you.
But then you had kept texting him, messaging him on your website that the line he's drawn between staying respectful and admiring you from afar against his baseless desire of wanting to fuck you 'til you cry is starting to blur. Of course you have no idea of this line, no clue of the existence of the boundaries Jack's made for himself.
You have no idea that Jack wants more than a physical interaction with you and he has no idea how to ask you out without coming off like a complete pervert.
doll: dr abbot??
swatdoc: You know you can call me Jack, sweetheart.
doll: take me out first then i'll feel comfortable enough to call you whatever you want.
Jack nearly shortcircuits at your reply and he fights the urge to hide his phone, shove it in his pocket to deal with later. It'd just look too suspicious and with Shen's eyes on him, he knows he'd blab straight to Lena who'd definitely gossip with Dana. While Dana's known to keep a secret, anything involving him and a potential partner is a surefire way for her to tell Robby.
swatdoc: You mean it, bunny?
doll: spending time with you? of course ♡
Jack chuckles and swipes his palm across his stubbly mouth, absolutely incredulous at your gumption.
swatdoc: I meant a date. Not just one night. This old man isn't built for casual.
doll: okay old man. take me out to dinner then ♡ it'd give me a chance to redo the first impression you have of me
swatdoc: I think it was a perfect first impression, bunny.
doll: you saw my ass, of course you thought so!!!
swatdoc: I was actually enamored by your charming personality. Your ass was a bonus.
doll: … flirt. you're smooth dr abbot.
doll: so when's our date?
swatdoc: My next day off is in a couple days. How's saturday night looking for you?
doll: i'm free !!! gonna come pick me up?
swatdoc: If you're comfortable with it, I'd love to. So, saturday at 7?
doll: i trust you ♡ and yes, i'll see you then.
He gets a text from you the following day (you'd admitted filching his number from the profile he's made on your website) and after a brief facetime call to prove your identity, he receives your address with a playful tag of: don't be late, dr. abbot.
Saturday's only a couple days away and yet he's fidgeting. He's got a night shift to get his mind off things but even Lena can see he's distracted. While he managed to wave away his colleagues' concerns, he wonders if he's the only one this anxious or nervous for the date.
A wave of notifications flood your phone despite the simple status update but you couldn't care less— not when you've got every possible combination of a date outfit laid out on your bed and nothing looks good. You have time, of course, there's nothing stopping you from going out shopping but the extra options might just exacerbate your indecision.
A pitiful whine escapes you as the paralysis of all your options land you flat on your back atop your mattress, clothing wrinkles be damned.
Whether or not the both of you are ready, Saturday evening arrives quickly.
The only information Jack had given you about the date aside from taking you out for a nice, classic dinner was to 'look nice'. As charming and handsome as he is, you resent the fact that he's like every other man his age: allergic to details. Somehow you manage to put on something simple but flattering, a black cocktail dress with a hemline that skims above your knee and a sweetheart neckline that teases your cleavage along with a bold, red pair of stilettos. Pairing it with a matching clutch, you deem yourself ready after a final swipe of lip gloss across your pouty lips.
"Here we go…" you murmur to yourself. Just as you dab at your lower lip with the pad of your ring finger, your doorbell rings. Seven on the dot.
Your heels click against the floor as you open your door to be greeted with Jack in slacks and a navy blue button down… as well as a bouquet of your favorite flowers. You gasp first, greetings momentarily forgotten in favor of taking the offered bouquet for a sweet sniff. Jack's compliments die on his tongue when he truly sees you, nose buried in the petals.
"How'd you know these were my favorite?" You ask as you step back, head tipping to wordlessly invite him in as you seek out a vase.
"I watched your vlogs," he shrugs with a shameless little smile. "I picked up a few details."
Maybe he shouldn't be as stunned as he is now — he's seen you in various states of dressed and undressed at this point — but you've truly left him speechless when you had opened the door, wearing that little black dress that hugs your body perfectly.
He's grateful that you notice the flowers first, cooing and gasping at the curated arrangement rather than noticing his thunderstruck stupor. It gives him a moment to clear his throat, admire the way you smile at the bouquet.
"You look divine," he murmurs as he follows you inside, watches you putter around your open space kitchen to place the flowers in water. And maybe it's his ego that's got him this taken by you; knowing that perhaps only he alone gets to see this side of you, bashful and charming. When you blush at his compliment, he feels like the king of the world.
"You don't look so bad yourself," you tease with a playful wink, taking his offered hand as he leads you out the door.
Jack's a gentleman when he helps you into his car, glancing aside momentarily when your dress rides up upon seating. He's a gentleman when you make it to the fine-dining restaurant ("Heard the new executive chef just received two Michelin stars!" you share excitedly), opening doors for you and keeping a respecful hand at the small of your back. He pulls your chair out for you, too. Perhaps the bar is in hell but you're undoubtedly impressed and giddy, basking in his undivided attention as you wear your heart on your sleeve for the rest of the evening.
"… and they all looked at it like it was something alien. It was a fax machine—!" Jack laughs, regaling you with the infamous July 4 analog nightmare from hell at the pitt. Dessert is lain between you two, half-eaten and momentarily forgotten as the two of you had been lost in conversation. He'd been worried that he might gross you out or bore you with his job as an ER physician but you had asked and prodded for more gory details, nose scrunching adorably when he explained what a degloving was.
"Okay, fax machines are basically obsolete," you counter with a giggle, lips parting as he feeds you a bite of cake. He waits patiently for you to chew before you continue on. "No one uses them anymore!"
Jack shakes his head in mock disappointment before you return the favor and feed him a bite from your own fork. "Sweetheart, these are vital skills!" Something warm flutters in his chest when you reach up to absentmindedly wipe away a bit of frosting from the corner of his lips, your painted nail skimming across his skin with the movement.
"How about this, I'll call you on the off chance I'll ever need to use a fax machine," you say dryly. A chuckle escapes Jack, low and grumbly that it has your thighs clenching together beneath the table.
"Sure. Or call me whenever, I'll always answer."
The ease of his flirting never fails to make you flustered and Jack capitalizes on it whenever he gets the chance. Like clockwork, you giggle and glance aside, a pretty blush on your cheeks as you look anywhere but his eyes. It's a wonderful side of you that he's steadily growing obsessed with. Yes, your online persona in your SFW space is charming and enchanting while you're essentially a succubus — sex incarnate — when the sun drops low.
But this is you, unabashedly you, and Jack can't get enough of it. He wants more than what you probably expect from him, a warm body to occupy his bed (judging from the stories you've shared about past experiences), and he's ready to go above and beyond to prove to you that he's willing to do whatever it takes so that he could call all of you his.
"Hey, how are we doing? Dessert's good?" The head-of-house manager of the restaurant cuts in seamlessly; he seems to have a good sense of when to enter a conversation.
You smile brightly and Jack nods. "It's delicious, thank you. Every dish has been fantastic," you gush.
"Wonderful, that's what I like to hear," the manager crows before he straightens out his tie. "You two are a beautiful couple. Are we celebrating an anniversary?"
Now it's Jack's turn to get bashful. "Uh, no, a first date, actually."
The manager looks taken aback but he bounces back with a low chuckle, two hands on his chest in subtle apology. "If it helps, the chemistry you two have is undeniable. Truly. But anyways, I came by to ask if you two would like to join us in the garden party out back or maybe a nice little kitchen tour?"
Your eyes shimmer with excitement and Jack gives a yes, offering his hand for you to take. The manager smiles and claps once. "Perfect, let me take you to where the magic happens."
After meeting the famed head chefs and even sampling a few of the desserts at the pastry station, you're positively glowing as the two of you step out to where a small get together of other guests mingle by picnic tables. A few guys that may be the line cooks are handing out beer and soda, giving off a more relaxed vibe than the one inside. It's pleasant and when you feel a chill, Jack's draping his jacket along your shoulders without a word.
"Thanks," you hum, eyes fluttering as you take in his warm and musky cologne that seeps in from the collar. He chuckles and places a hand on the bottom of your spine.
"Of course," he murmurs then tips his head to wear the drinks are being passed around. "Did you want any—?"
"No, I think I'm stuffed. Did you…?"
Jack shakes his head and the nerves from before the date nearly come back in full force. You aren't naive, you know what kind of expectations your job gives people whenever you go on dates. While Jack's been a gentleman the entire evening, you can't deny the fact that him being a subscriber to your NSFW content does skew the way he must see you.
The drive back to your place is quiet and calm, your hand folded delicately in his as he drives. He walks you to your door but much to your surprise, he doesn't step past the threshold.
"I had an amazing time," he says first, his lined eyes crinkling as he gives you a warm smile. "I'd really like to see you again."
You nod, leaning against your doorway as you realize his hand has found yours again. Your joined fingers sway slightly. "Me too. I… I really liked tonight."
He smiles wider as if you've erased any doubts he's had. "Good. I'll, um. I'll let you get some rest. I'll call you when I get my next day off, alright?"
"Yeah, sounds good."
"Great." And with a smooth and unhurried motion, he leans in for a kiss to your cheek, chaste and sweet. "By the way, I want you to know I'm all in. I'm not trying to waste your time or make you think I'm here for the physical aspect. I like you, sweetheart. Truly."
And with a final pinch of your chin, he steps away and bids you good night before walking off. Later that night, you realize you haven't stopped smiling until you climb into bed, alone but completely content.
When morning comes, Jack sends you a good morning text before he cleans up around the house, settle in before his shift later that evening. He doesn't check his phone 'til noon and when he does, he sees a text back from you and a notification from your website.
[Doll just posted a video!] — 3 hours ago.
His stomach drops. While he truly has no issue with you continuing your camgirl career, something twists inside him at the thought of you getting off the night before without him. Is it that feeling of missing out or is it the fact that he hadn't been there to fulfill that need of yours?
Regardless, his heart is pounding when he taps the notification. The video loads and a breath of relief leaves him in a rush.
[New video!] Get un-ready with me! — Skincare Routine.
He chuckles and leans against the kitchen counter, turns his phone sideways to see you fill his screen in the same dress from the night before. You must be in your bathroom, he notes, as you relay your steps carefully to your audience.
"I know everyone will be asking but I just came back from a wonderful dinner. Food was absolutely divine, I'm already considering going back soon. But…" A bashful smile curls onto your lips and Jack's beaming. "The company was even better. Anyways— moving onto the foam cleanser…"
Your routine ends after you apply your serums and creams, signing off on the camera. The comments section pop up immediately.
@.mariasont — your skin looks so good but you look GLOWINGGG
@.pearlessance — were you on a date?? that dress is fantastic!!
Jack chuckles when he sees that you've dropped a like on that commenter about a date but nothing more. Fan the rumors without confirming anything, looks like you're a tease in more ways than one.
Unable to help himself, he scrolls down his contacts and taps yours. The phone rings once, twice, then—
"Jack?"
"Hey, sweetheart. Is this a bad time?"
You sound a tad bit out of breath but you reassure him nonetheless. "No, no, you're fine. What's up?"
"Well, I—" He interrupts himself with a shy laugh. "I don't know if it's too soon but I'd like to take you out again. My next day off is next week on Friday."
"Oh!" You sound positively pleased and Jack can picture you biting your lower lip to hide that smile he's obsessed with. "Yeah, I can make that happen. Are we doing dinner?"
"No, I was thinking of visiting the aquarium this time around."
"The aquarium…"
He bites back a grin, can picture the excitement simmering beneath the slight trepidation of your words. "That's right. Unless there's something else—"
"No, it's perfect!" You cut in with a little giggle. "Jack, did you watch all my vlogs?"
"Of course I did. And it truly can't be that much of a hardship to learn how much you love the place when you've got vlogs of you there nearly every month," he teases. "But if it's something you like to do on your own—"
"No, no, it's fine, Jack, I'd love to." He can hear the way your voice softens. "I can't wait."
"Alright, it's a date. I'll see you next Friday, sweetheart."
Friday doesn't come fast enough this time around. You've got an outfit bought and ready to go, a simple skirt with a blouse that you might've picked to match his eyes. Jack's on time yet again, two PM on the dot, and while he still keeps his hands to himself, he basks in the way your hand constantly seeks out the crook of his elbow.
You regale him with fish facts throughout each wing of the aquarium and he watches with besotted eyes when you basically glow at the sight of the jellyfish. Conversation ebbs and flows and he's pressing soft kisses into your hair like he can't quite help himself.
By the time you've both made it back to his car, he helps you in while placing the massive jellyfish plushy he bought you at the gift shop onto your lap. It's silly and absolutely wholesome.
It's made you undeniably horny for him.
You appreciate it though, you see how he's gone above and beyond to show you that he wants a relationship out of this. He doesn't expect you to be 'easier' because of your job as a camgirl nor does he think he's entitled to anything more than a kiss on the cheek because of what you show online.
And it's making you want him so bad that you feel like the pervert in this situation.
At your doorway, he's got a hand on your waist this time and your arms are draped loosely around his neck while still holding onto the jellyfish plush that's dangling behind his back.
"Today was lots of fun," you say first, nearly chest to chest with him. He nods, feeling the way you shiver when his thumb rubs circles against your hip bones. Above the fabric of your shirt.
"It was," he agrees as he basks in the sweet scent of your perfume. This close, you're practically intoxicating. "I enjoyed the little fish facts too, didn't know my date was a lovely encyclopedia—"
Your eyes roll playfully at the teasing jab, exaggerating your movements as you unwind your arms to step out of his embrace. "If you hate me, just say so—"
"Now hold on, I never said it was a bad thing," he chuckles and you let out a quiet squeal when his grip tightens, pulling you back into his arms. "Thought it was cute."
"Sure you do," you tease back and you realize he's pulled you even closer now. His voice is a rumble, low and gravelly as the distance between your lips is beginning to diminish.
"I do." He murmurs, his nose brushing against yours. "This okay?"
You nod, throat bobbing. "More than okay," you whisper.
His gaze drops from your eyes, back to your lips, before they close the distance. Your heart thunders in your chest as your arms tighten around his neck to pull him lower. He goes easily, smiling against your lips. He doesn't deepen it, though, just steals a handful of more feather-light kisses that elicits a string of giggles from you, your foot popping up and your back bending slightly backwards as he dips you and showers you in affection.
Eventually, he reluctantly pulls away but not without giving you one more kiss. "Have a good rest of your evening, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Make sure you lock the door behind you, yeah?"
You nod, sighing dramatically as you lean against the back of your door as he steps out to the hallway. "I will. Can I see you again soon, Jack?"
His poor little heart thunders wildly at your adorable expression, half-pleading and half-fond. "Of course, princess. Maybe we can do something like this again, maybe a museum or that fair?"
You perk up with a nod. "That sounds like fun."
"Good. I'll see you soon, darling."
You sigh dreamily and blow him a kiss before shutting the door. You lean against the paneling and groan into your hands.
In the silence of your apartment, you wail— "Why won't he fuck me?!"
The time between your last date to the aquarium to your next one at the museum, you and Jack continue to text. Whether it's you giving him advice for a dish he's making or asking his opinion on which top would look well for a brunch you're attending with your girlfriends, the conversations never slow nor do they ever bore.
And in between those texts, Jack is happily gorging himself on your content while only getting off on actresses that hold resemblance to you. It's twisted and he knows it's wrong but he pictures your face in the shower sometimes, thinks of the way your teeth sink in your plush lower lip as his hand tugs at his cock.
You, however, hold no qualms as you drive the dildo deep in your cunt on late evenings, whimpering for the camera you've got set up. You always make it a habit to just plead, whine and beg more than you might naturally would with a partner, but when Jack's on your mind, you have nothing to exaggerate; you just get way more vocal as you think of his strong hands on your waist. The way he had commanded that kiss without being overbearing.
That kiss alone had wrung out three orgasms from you without the camera on.
Maybe it should've been enough to tide you over but as you start your usual midnight livestream the evening before your next date with Jack, a new title spills past your lips in the throes of your first climax. It shouldn't be a surprise at how easily the name comes to you, especially with how natural it seemed for Jack to take care of you—
"'m cumming, daddy—!"
The pings on your laptop nearby that you use for monitoring the chats go wild, the bell ringing that signified the amount of tips that just flooded your inbox from the title alone. You slump over as you catch your breath from where you've been riding your suction dildo, whining softly to yourself as the toy slides out of you. Your inner thighs are quivering as you lift your gaze to the laptop screen.
"Thanks for stopping by," you croon to the camera before shutting off the stream.
Across the city, Jack palms at his bulge, mouth slightly agape as he tries not to cum in his sweatpants like a teenager. "Fuck."
"I didn't really take you to be a museum kind of guy."
"I'm not. Not really… My friend's fiancée recommended it to us, thought we might like the new exhibit," Jack shrugs as he keeps you near with a hand around your waist. The new exhibit had garnered a sizable crowd and the last thing he wants is to lose you. Especially since you seem preoccupied with the information pamplet, both hands holding it open to read while relying heavily on Jack's firm hand. He likes it, the thought of you trusting him so readily.
You hum in acknowledgment before peering above the page. "The map says the new Caravaggio exhibit is that way… I think." Jack chuckles and peers over your shoulder, both of his hands firmly on your waist. You hold the pamphlet up higher for him.
"You aren't wrong," he muses as he reads over the map. You swallow nervously, you can feel the heat of his body seep against your backless top, the way his voice gets all low and gravelly when he's talking just to you. "It's past the abstract wing. Can you fold that up for me, sweetheart? I wouldn't want you to trip over your feet if you can't see where you're going."
You nod instinctively. "Yes—" You swallow back that title that sits at the back of your throat whenever Jack gets so… passively dominant. "Yeah, of course."
He chuckles and lets his arm fall along your lower back, a hand at the dip of your waist as he leads you towards the exhibit. The entire time as you two parade around the wing, Jack keeps you close. It sparks a light in your core, your inner thighs clenching with need when he unwittingly turns on your desire to be taken care of. But he seems so unbothered by it, humming to himself as his thumb slips beneath your blouse to rub your skin while he reads the information beside the painting.
The two of you are admiring Caravaggio's Narcissus when something comes to mind. "Why'd you call me 'bunny'? In my comments?"
He glances down at you, taken aback by the sudden question. "I… thought it'd be nice to have a nickname of my own for you. It reminded me of our first meeting."
A fond smile curls upon your lips. "Why haven't you called me that since we started dating?"
Something fond crosses over Jack's face, leaves as quickly as it came. His hand squeezes your side. "I didn't think it was appropriate. Thought it might make you uncomfortable if I called you that in public."
"I liked it. Like it. I still do," you trip over your words with a flustered smile. "It's like our own little inside thing. Um—no pun intended."
Jack chuckles and that wide smile he gives you has you pushing against your toes to press your lips to his. He hums fondly, nips at your lower lip. "Alright, I'll keep that in mind, bunny."
You kiss him again.
For the next couple of months, you start to see Jack regularly. Dinner dates (whether it's at the first restaurant he's taken you to or he cooks for you at his place) or movie nights, or even him just coming over to unwind after a long shift. Your posting schedule doesn't shift, only rearranges itself to make room for Jack.
A month in, you'd sat him down and tentatively but firmly told him that you wouldn't be stopping just because of your dates. Jack had accepted it without question, took it as if it was what he expected in the first place.
So you continue your usual schedule. Vlogs and short-form content for your SFW socials and full streams for your NSFW audience. Suggestive photos to tide your subscribers over 'til the next full video.
Jack, on the other hand, looks positively giddy with himself. Sure, he's cumming in his fist nearly every night but he's determined to make sure you know that he wants more with you. Fuck. He sounds like a broken record but he's obsessed; the last thing he wants is his dick to ruin this for his heart.
But his good mood is translated into his night shifts, cracking jokes even with angry patients. It has Shen watching over in confused concern, always taking a double-take when he has the chance. Parker and Crus decide that it's just Jack going through a new wave, a new fixation that's probably tiding him over.
Or a girl— but that's Robby's problem to mull over, not theirs.
They get their chance when Jack's scheduled for a double (something he makes up to you with another extravagant VIP dinner the day before), dropping a hint to their chief that their night-shift attending's been weird all week.
The ambulance bay doors slide open in a 'whoosh' for Dr. Robinavitch, passing by Javadi who's talking to Trinity about making mutuals with some big-shot on her Tiktok and Dennis catching up with Perlah about his weekend, to get to Jack in the locker room.
"So. Shen's said you've been weird."
Jack chuckles lightly, throws his stethescope around his neck, and shuts his locker. "I'm seeing someone."
"What, didn't think I'd admit it so quickly?" Jack grins and pats his shoulder as he steps around his friend.
"No, not really." Robby follows him out, tugging on both ends of his stethoscope. "I'm happy for you. What's her name?"
"Nah, that's all you're getting out of me, Robinavitch."
The sun's setting as Jack turns the page on the novel he's been reading to you. You're sitting between his legs and your back against his warm chest, stretching out on the gingham blanket you've brought as the two of you find cover beneath the large tree.
Today's date had been completely spontaneous. When his schedule had been unwittingly cleared up, he had driven straight to you to take you out for a late lunch picnic at the small fair that's set up for the weekend. With the sandwiches finished off and you'd run off to buy cotton candy for the both of you to share, Jack had fished out a novel in his back seat to pass the time and enjoy the nice weather.
His hand is absentmindedly rubbing your exposed thigh, the skirt of your sundress riding up just enough for him to explore the smooth skin. His cheek is pressed against the top of your hair while you absentmindedly trace shapes atop his jean-clad thighs.
"Feelin' restless, bunny?"
"Hm?" Jack's question draws you out of your stupor, so content in his arms that it takes him a few attempts to get your attention. "No, just… really cozy."
"Yeah?" He presses a line of kisses down your jaw and neck, eliciting a soft squeal from you. Jack would've continued showering you in kisses but he grunts, reluctantly pulling away to rub at his aching prosthesis.
You frown. He's mentioned losing a limb before, knows that he wears a prosthetic leg, but you've never seen him this uncomfortable. "Jack, we could head home if it's hurting—"
"I'm fine—"
"Jack." He pauses and turns his attention to you, your brows furrowed and your lips in a line. "Come on, we can just take it easy at your place. You said you're more comfortable in your crutches, right?"
"Yeah." You can see when he finally gives in, his shoulders rounding out as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Yeah, alright. Let's go."
Once the both of you get to your feet, you hold out your hand. "Gimme the keys, I'll drive to give your leg a break."
"I don't think so."
"Jack."
"Bunny."
It takes a second but he concedes there too, pulling you in by the shoulders for a swift kiss to your lips. "You're lucky you're cute, sweetheart."
Jack's place is almost as familiar as yours now. He watches you saunter around his place, dropping his keys into the dish bowl on the table by the door, place your things on the loveseat before rummaging through his fridge for a beer.
When you reach him where he's seated on his couch, prosthesis set aside to hand him a beer, he gently tugs you onto his lap before popping the tab open for your can first. "Thanks," you hum, taking a sip while he opens his. His arm is strong around your waist and the easy strength he holds for you, the possessive touch he's got whenever you're near... it sparks a flicker of heat inside you and as you turn, straddling his lap to kiss along his jaw. His scruff is rough against your glossy lips but it only has you mewling.
"Bunny…" he groans as his large hand splays along the expanse of your back, supporting your weight while you tip back just enough for him to place his beer behind you on the coffee table. His eyes flutter shut, basking in your sweet kisses, as temptation guides his hand lower to cup your perky ass. It's your moan, drawn out and desperate, that pulls him out of the heat that's settling thick in his head. Reluctantly, his hands rise back up and an indignant whine spills from your throat—
"Jack, why won't you fuck me?"
He nearly chokes on his spit at your question and when he looks up, you look adorably put out, lower lip jutting out. Your gaze is glassy, lips kiss-swollen. His thumb comes up, presses against your mouth to drag down your lip slowly. "Bunny, why do you think I won't fuck you?"
"You— you've only ever kissed me. You've only liked my non-sexual content. You—"
"Baby," he shushes you gently, releases your lip to cradle your jaw. "It's not that I'm uninterested in you. Trust me— I am. I just didn't want you to think this was all some ploy to just get you in bed with me."
Another whine rises up within you. "But it's been months, Jack."
"Sweetheart, I wanted to make sure you know I was serious. It wasn't just for you, but for me, too. Had to make it known to you that I'm here for the long haul," he murmurs and when you nod in understanding, his lips find yours for a kiss that's got you clenching your thighs. Your back arches back when he leans further in, lips parting to let his tongue probe against yours.
"Gonna… mm— fuck me now?" You pant against his mouth, lashes kissing the tops of your cheeks when his lips drag down your neck to mark your collarbone with marks.
His chuckle is raspy against your skin. "I'm gonna make love to you, bunny. Come on—"
"Why not here?" You whimper, giving your hips a slow roll against his. You can feel his bulge, stiff through his jeans, against your panties.
"I'm not having you on my couch, darling. Not for our first time. We can defile the rest of my house later."
You giggle as you reluctantly get to your feet, knees nearly knocking together while Jack goes for his crutches. "Do you promise?"
"I promise," he chuckles, following you into his bedroom. His mouth goes dry, easy dominance deflating momentarily when he watches you crawl onto the center of his bed, your sundress hemline rucked up to reveal the pretty white lace panties you've got on beneath. His eyes follow the fabric, disappearing in between your ass cheeks, before they flit back up when you turn and lean against his headboard.
You're in your doll mindset now, your hands dancing across your body to give him a show. But while your videos are choreographed, almost clinical to a certain degree to entertain an audience, Jack sees the way your hand trembles just before you drag the neckline of your dress down, tempting him to just rip the fabric off you.
But he's a patient man, understands that this is just as much for you as it is for him. He can see the way your arousal heightens with each teasing touch. "Take it off for me, bunny, just for me."
He must've said the right thing because a broken moan spills from your lips, nodding as you cross your arms and drag the hem of your dress up to reveal a matching bralette to your panties. The bed dips beneath his weight when he joins you, settling down onto the mattress just as you toss a leg over to straddle his waist again.
"Ah, shit," he hisses when he glances down, sees the way the fabric of your panties are nearly translucent with your slick. His hand creeps down to rub your swollen clit through the damp fabric, tilting his head back up to watch your reaction. He doesn't shut his eyes when your open mouth drags along his cheek, a poor approximation of a kiss as you shut your eyes to savor the way his fingers deftly tug the panties aside to dip within your folds. A pathetic moan escapes you. "This all for me, bunny?"
"Mhm, yes—"
"She's drippin' just for me, fuck," he chuckles as his middle finger teases your entrance, enamored by the way your hips rock clumsily against your palm. "Mm, look at that."
It's filthy, the way Jack leans back against the headboard with his head ducked down to watch your cunt practically suck in his fingers, his other hand keeping your panties tugged aside for his viewing. "Please, I wanna feel you," you beg, voice hitching high in a way he's never heard before.
"You sound so sweet for me, bunny," he murmurs as he redraws his fingers from you, tasting you with a voracity that makes you even wetter. "You've been so good for me, pretty girl, don't worry… I'll give you what you want."
And while Jack sounds so benevolent, your lips finding his in a grateful kiss before you're scrambling off to lay on your back under his guidance while he undresses next, it's all a facade to conceal the way he's barely able to hold it together now that he's got you: heart, soul, and now body.
He settles on top of you, lips finding your shoulder for a brief moment of sweet affection despite the filth that's fallen from his lips from earlier, and makes a home between your thighs. You might've teased him for picking missionary as your first time, giggle at how insistent he is on keeping things old fashioned despite your unorthodox relationship, but then the tip of his cock prods against your entrance, mouth dropping slightly as your head falls back against the pillows— he's huge.
"Ngh— Jack…" you whimper as the stretch leans more towards pain than pleasure at first, eyes shut as you feel Jack's lips skim across the side of your neck. "S'too big…"
His chest rumbling, he chuckles in your ear, nips at your jugular. "Don't worry, bunny. I can make it fit."
Lust and adoration intertwine in your core as he pushes deeper, your walls adjusting for his girth while your nails dig into his freckled shoulders. After what feels like an eternity, Jack's fully sheathed in you, pressing kisses along your brow and temple.
"So fuckin' tight—" he grunts, attempting a shallow thrust that has you two moaning in unison. "You ready for me, bunny? Gonna start movin'."
You feel absolutely full, can feel Jack in your gut, but you nod, legs hooking around his waist. "Ready," you manage to say, releasing one shoulder to cradle his jaw for a searing kiss. He pulls out and thrusts in without hesitation, his lips parting for his tongue to taste yours. The two of you make out like teenagers, sloppy and uncoordinated, while his cock drives into you slowly, your body shifting higher up the bed until his hand comes up to cradle the top of your head before it hits the headboard.
He swallows your moans with a grunt of his own, tasting your desperation with each rock of his hips. But when his lungs start to burn for oxygen, he reluctantly pulls back only to be rewarded with your vocal cries for more. He's heard your noises before, almost four million people have, but he's never witnessed you like this, so gorgeously needy on his cock, your moans more like broken whimpers and hiccups interlaced with his name. So unbelievably vulnerable, laid out just for him.
It has him driving his cock even deeper into you, eager to hear the way your mouth sounds around his name whenever he hits that specific spot.
"No, no, no— don't get shy on me now, bunny," he coos, dropping a hand to cup your cheek to guide your eyes on him. "You sound so sweet for me, let me hear you…"
His words elicit another gasp of his name as one particular thrust has you seeing stars, the coil in your core tightening as his hand comes down to rub your clit in time with each rock of his hips. He can feel his own climax but he keeps it at bay, laser focused on your own pleasure.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck… Jack—!" You wail as the coil snaps, his cock buried to the hilt before he fucks you slow and deep to carry you through your climax. With you taken care of, he chases after his pleasure next, hips snapping against yours in a brutal pace that has your toes curling in sweet ecstasy.
His forehead drops to rest on yours, breaths mingling while his own moans pitch into a needier grunt, veering into whimpers while he talks you through it. "Feels so fuckin' good, bunny… s'like your pretty cunt was made just for me… oh fuck— she's just sucking me in," he pants.
The string of dirty talk kickstarts something inside you and you feel that familiar tightness in your core, hiccuping moans bubbling past your kiss-swollen lips as he drives his cock deeper. "Jack— 'm… hah— gonna cum—!"
"Yeah?" He huffs, a cocky half-grin in his lips as he drags his scruffy jaw along your cheek. "Gonna give me another, bunny? Come on… gimme one more," he coos while his pace starts to falter, losing its steady rhythm as he gets closer and closer to his own edge.
When you cum for the second time, he's quick to follow right after, your convulsing walls eliciting his own release right into your waiting cunt. A part of him panics — he didn't wear a condom nor did you say anything about being on any kind of contraceptive — but he feels your heels dig into his lower spine to keep him from moving. The concern still sits at the back of his mind but he lets himself get lost in the sensation of finishing inside you, his thrusts slowing to a halt before carefully laying on you.
"Holy shit," you breathe out, a blissful smile on your lips with your eyes fluttering shut. When Jack pulls out, you offer a slight wince but curl onto his chest as he rolls over onto his back. Your head nestles onto his pec, his arm winding around your bare shoulders. When you turn your head to kiss his freckled collarbone, he chuckles and squeezes you gently.
Jack hums wordlessly. Basking in the moment, he lets himself sink into the warmth of you beside him. There really isn't any need to talk for now and the both of you would've been content to let the moment settle in…
Had it not been for your growling stomach.
His laughter cuts through your embarrased whine, rolling over to hide your face into his chest completely. "Don't laugh—" you pout but he just jostles you gently, gets you to look up at him where he can kiss your nose.
"Stay here, I'll clean you up first," he promises and rolls out of bed. Grabbing his crutches, he heads over to his attached bathroom for a warm, dampened towelette. He cleans you between the thighs, gentle and careful as he drops a kiss to your knee. "About earlier—"
"I'm clean," you interject. "I don't have any partners and I'm on the pill."
He nods, relieved as he tosses the towelette into his laundry basket. "I'm clean, too. I haven't… not since my late wife."
Your smile is heartachingly tender. He's spoken about his late wife before, wears the ring on a chain close to his heart, and how he and his therapist have decided that he's in the right place to move on.
"We can both get tested if you want," you offer. "I don't want anyone else but you."
It's an invitation to a conversation he's been waiting on for a month now and he dives right in. The bed dips as he sits at the edge, a warm and calloused hand on your thigh. "I only want you, bunny. That's not ever gonna change." He cups your jaw, warm and possessive in a way that'll never fail to light a fire in your heart. "Can I be yours, sweetheart?"
You nod with a giggle bursting past your lips. "Yes—! Of course, yes," you swoon with your arms around his neck, his hand releasing your jaw in favor to hug you 'round the waist.
"Yeah?" His pretty crows' feet deepen when he smiles at you, chuckling when you nod again with an eager bob of your head as you gently scratch at his scruffy jaw. "Gonna go steady with me, bunny?"
A laugh escapes you, nose scrunching up at his dated language. "Always and forever, old man."
Although the months you've spent with Jack before the both of you made it official had you feeling like cloud nine, the next following weeks could only be properly labeled as the honeymoon phase now that you're officially his girlfriend. With Jack's night shift schedule and your unorthodox posting timelines, the two of you manage to make it work.
Speaking of work, you had been adamant that because he's your boyfriend, you had no plans on stopping the camgirl site and told him so the morning after. Jack had blinked and nodded as if it'd been something he had already expected. His only caveat was that you'd at least make your new relationship status public knowledge to your subscribers whether it's as simple as a status post on your website. You went above and beyond by posting a selfie with Jack's arm around your neck, his bicep smushing your cheeks while you grinned dopily at the camera.
While your followers had fawned over your new man, occasionally posting faceless boyfriend pics of Jack, you made sure to keep his identity secret as your highest priority whenever he'd make some sort of cameo in your SFW videos.
"Babe, you gotta stop jumping in the frame, I'll have to edit you out—!" You laugh in your most current video, holding out the camera high and up just enough to capture your hand crooked around Jack's arm as the two of you walk the aisles of the farmer's market.
He chuckles and dutifully stops ducking his head. "Just move the camera when I kiss your cheek, bunny. And even if my face shows, I thought you could just slap on an emoji or something on my face when your assistant edits them."
The camera captures the way you look up, a playfully deadpan expression on your features. "You wanna put more work on Francine?"
"You're right, I'll behave."
The clip ends there and the views skyrocket, nearly matching your most infamous videos on your NSFW side. It's gotten so popular that Victoria's talking about it during work hours, in awe of the fact that she's mutuals with you despite the fact that she's gone viral on Tiktok herself.
For once the pitt has a handle on chairs and triage, allowing Victoria to show Dennis her newest editing style, inspired by Doll's Corner. He perks up, recognizes the voice through the walls of the apartment he shares with Trinity.
"Oh, I think Santos is also subscribed to her," he grins.
Victoria frowns. "Subscribed…? Her website's free, Dennis."
Trinity walks past before circling back. "What's free?"
"Oh, um— Doll's corner." Victoria holds out her phone, displaying your instagram profile. "She has her own website but Dennis mentioned that you're subscribed to her…?"
"She avoids her SFW content, probably because it'd feed the parasocialism since Doll seems to be exactly her type," he grins, always eager to have something over his lovable but prickly roommate.
"She's not my type, she's just hot—"
"Hold on, what do you mean SFW content? Isn't all her stuff SFW…?" Victoria cuts in, eyes wide as she scrolls up and down the webpage. Trinity snatches the phone and taps the top right menu button of the page, scrolls towards the 'PRICING' tab before offering the phone back.
Dennis interrupts. "She doesn't really advertise her adult content, it's more of a… if-you-know-you-know situation. You're cool with that, right?"
Victoria swallows, goes through the 'free' content of your camgirl side while her mind races with the blurred and suggestive content, before nodding with a wide-eyed grin. "'Course I'm cool with it. Just— I didn't expect it. Yeah, I'm cool. Dennis, are you subscribed—?"
"No, no—" Dennis startles with a flustered laugh. "It's not really my thing, but I know Dr. Ellis had found her account too. She's popular."
The youngest MS4 merely nods and wanders off, looking very scandalized. Dennis and Trinity watch her go before shrugging, unaware that the true reason why Victoria's so shocked is that she had suspected Doll's newest boyfriend might be Dr. Jack Abbot.
Your SFW content views continue to skyrocket (especially the shortform video where you had Jack flex his bicep for the camera before placing a piece of dessert on top, eating right off his freckled arm before he's pulling you out of frame for a kiss).
There's already been a few questions asking if your boyfriend (lovingly dubbed as Mr. Doll by your subscribers) would ever participate in your content. You haven't gotten around to answering them, leaving them untouched as you post your usual photos and videos for your loyal subscribers.
The truth is, you aren't even sure how to bring up the topic to Jack nor would you know how to figure out the logistics of including your boyfriend without jeopardizing his identity. But the problem is solved a week later where you're in your bedroom, filming a toy haul with a new PR package from a sex toy company.
You're in the throes of your orgasm, nothing on but a bunny tail plug nestled in your ass while you ride a massive silicone pink dildo with some device that literally creampies you. You've got your back to the camera, the cute plug front and center, when your knees drop and you bottom out on the toy with a final moan.
You'd been so lost in your 'review' that you didn't realize Jack had come by early, leaning against the doorway with a dark little grin that you've come to associate with 'playtime'.
"Havin' fun, bunny?" he asks, the camera picking up on his voice sounding like velvet over gravel.
Your giggle is breathy and sweet. The camera captures the way your neck arches, looking over your shoulder to meet Jack's eyes who stays firmly out of the shot. "Mhm, I am."
"Did that thing… finish in you?" When you give him another resounding giggle and nod, he shakes his head with a fond chuckle. "I'll give you five minutes to catch your breath before it's my turn, sweetheart."
When you'd given the video to Francine, your assistant, to edit, she had sent over the last clip where Jack had come in and asked if you wanted it out. Deciding that it seems safe enough to keep since he's not even within the frame and that people have heard his voice before, you told Francine to keep it in.
Later that night, you receive an tsunami of positive comments, most of them fawning over the way Mr. Doll seems to adore you even while making content for the rest of your depraved audience.
@.pearlessance: holy shit HIS VOICE???
@.deathreverse: i bet he talks you through it omfg
@.mariasont: i just KNOW your man is fine
@.enam3l: give us one audio file of him cumming PLEASE
You're wrapped up in Jack's arms later that evening, your back settled against his chest as you read over the comments with him. He's got his strong arms around your middle, lazy kisses pressed to your bare shoulder as the cold edge of his readers bump along your jaw.
"You're stealing my fans, Jack."
"No, they like the way I make you flustered, bunny. There's a difference."
"Maybe," you hum as you swap apps to your instagram, scrolling mindlessly before you pause. "Jack?"
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"Would you… want to be in my cam videos? Just as your voice," you clarify with a shy smile. The curve of his smile is pressed against your neck.
"I'd be honored," he croons. "Maybe you could play with yourself for the camera, let me talk you through your orgasms."
Your cheeks burn, thighs clenching as you rub them together. "Mhm."
"Use your words, bunny."
"I'd like that a lot, sir."
That had been a new revelation. You've called Jack 'daddy' jokingly outside of the bedroom before, just something to steal his attention whenever you're particularly needy (whether it's for something sexual or not). And while he liked it, judging by the fond and flustered grin on his lips, he had sat you down and told you what title actually does it for him.
Sir.
It never did anything for you, thought it might've been too simple or even too formal to ever be used in bed, but it fits Jack perfectly. An older man with his experience and status along with a natural inclination to dominance doesn't need something as desperate as 'daddy' to insert control in the bedroom.
"Good girl," he rasps and takes your chin to turn your head, planting a heated kiss onto your lips. "How about we pick a day for it, hm? Put it on your calendar."
When you nod again, he chuckles and nips at your lower lip. "Can we do it now?"
Despite your eagerness, you and Jack had decided on a Sunday evening the following week, opting for a pre-recorded video rather than a live show.
Like always, you've got your tripod set up at the foot of your bed with you front and center. You have mood lighting set up, nothing too garish and bright and classically 'porno' but rather something warm to get you comfortable. The only difference is Jack seated behind the camera, manspreading like it's his fucking job in those grey sweats you've moaned about a week ago.
"You ready, baby?" Jack's voice is caramel sweet but you know it'll dip lower when he hits the record button. When you give a nod, he reaches up to press the button.
The red light blinks at you but Jack clears his throat. "Eyes on me, bunny."
Your gaze is magnetized to your boyfriend's, feeling deliciously exposed with the way his eyes drink you in. Tonight, you've got on a lingerie set he had bought just for you: a babydoll pink bralette with a matching thong and garters. In the hollow of your neck is a delicate, cursive 'j' on a chain.
"You look gorgeous, sit up for me, sweetheart. Let the camera see your new outfit," he drawls lazily and your eyes drop down to his large hand, gripping his bulge through the sweats.
The camera captures the way you look behind it, your gaze unfocused and your cheeks flustered, but you never disobey sir's words as you sit up on your knees. Your hands dance along the lacy straps, brushing across the sheer panels that hold up your tits. Jack's attention is fixed on you, his teeth digging into his lower lip as he strokes himself through his sweatpants.
"That's it, bunny. Play with those pretty titties for the camera," Jack murmurs.
He continues to take the lead and it's almost alarming at how good he is, how easy it is for you to completely forget you're still filming. He eventually has you propped up against your mountain of pillows, knees bent and thighs spread out.
"Add another finger for me, bunny."
You've already got two in, your middle and your ring finger, while your other hand is groping at your exposed tit. "Sir, I can't—"
"Sure you can, pretty girl. You've taken my cock, haven't you?" Jack chuckles meanly, his hand tugging at his cock now. Your eyes are locked on his length and he capitalizes on it, rubbing his thumb across his tip.
"Yes, but—"
"Come on, bunny, one more. You can do it."
The camera captures the way you whimper, gasping around nothing when you add your index finger into your sopping cunt. Even the lighting catches the shine of your slick against your inner thighs; Jack's got you edging yourself and you're ready to beg.
The stretch burns in the best way, not in the same breadth as Jack's cock, but enough that it has you plunging your fingers so fast that it sounds lewd against the camera.
"Can I cum, sir, please—" You choke out, hand beginning to cramp from the speed and angle you have that Jack notices it immediately. If you've been a bit less preoccupied with your own impending orgasm, you would've noticed that your boyfriend had been staving off his own climax, gripping the base of his length until he's finally given you permission.
Behind the camera, he continues to talk you through it but his voice isn't as measured, it's strained and a tad bit pitchy — his tell-tale sign that he's about to cum soon.
"Cum for me, bunny, let me see you make a mess on yourself," he coaxes and once you take the final fall, he's quick to follow, white ropes of his release painting his thighs and the floor beneath. "So fuckin' hot, Jesus Christ—"
Your cramping hand drops from between your legs as you slump against the pillows completely, legs splayed out for the camera to watch the way your clit throbs from the overstimulation. Jack tucks himself back in and takes the camera, detaches it from the tripod mount to approach your bedside.
"Let's see the mess you made, gorgeous," he murmurs, his voice wrecked as he props a knee up to hover above your overstimulated frame. You giggle up at the camera, taking his free hand (the same one that had been wrapped around his cock moments ago) and gently lick the traces of his release clean off his fingers. He curses under his breath before he affectionately pinches your chin. It elicits a soft laugh from you and the look you give him beyond the camera does something to his chest, a word that tastes something sticky sweet (and maybe starts with the letter 'L'), that he suddenly wishes this part is just for him.
But he moves lower, the camera panning down to where your panties are tugged loosely aside where your puffy, slick cunt is on display. It's lewd and nasty, the way his free hand strokes through your folds before he's bringing up his fingers for a taste. The satisfactory moan he lets out sends a thrill up your spine.
His hand travels to the swell of your thigh, to your hip where he tugs your panties off. The camera jostles as he shoves the soiled, lacy fabric into the back pocket of his pants, before he pulls away.
"I think your fans earned enough of you. Say goodbye, bunny, it's my turn for a taste."
The last thing the camera sees is a wave of your hand before it's set aside roughly, filming your ceiling and capturing the way your giggle melts into a breathy moan before the video and audio cuts.
—
"So when are we meeting the lucky lady?"
The sun sits high as Jack lounges on the roof on a chair that he's brought up a few months back. Robby had brought his own chair a week later, pleased to see his best friend behind the railing this time. The two are relaxing, stealing a few moments of solitude before handoffs are completed.
"Not yet," Jack grunts as he takes a sip of the pressed juice you've packed for him. You've been given a massive PR package of some health brand and he'd been willing to take half of the crate off your hands. "Soon."
Robby gives him a sidelong glance. "Are you ashamed of her or somethin'?"
"No. No, definitely not. I just want to keep her to myself a bit longer before you and Peaches poach her off me." Jack chuckles. "Relax, brother. I'll bring her around soon."
"Alright, I'm holding you to that," Robby chortles before he gets to his feet, back cracking while he stretches. "Go home, Abbot."
Before, Jack would've kneedled, maybe dragged his feet a bit longer to keep from returning to an empty house. He's always craved company, even moreso at the passing of his late wife. But this time, he grabs his backpack and rucks it over his shoulder, offering a casual wave of his hand.
"Ain't gotta tell me twice. I got a pretty girl waiting for me at home."
—
Later that evening, Victoria Javadi's sitting outside on the benches with the rest of day shift, drinking a beer she hopes would taste better after every sip. After turning twenty one, she still didn't see the appeal of drinking beer but after her sneaking suspicion that her night shift attending might be dating the influencer she's admired for so long, she realizes she might need it.
Her thumb punches the 'low' volume button on the side of her phone as she pulls up your tiktok account. Your account has only grown since you've started including your mystery man; the tiktok trends that center around playful pranks or cute videos snipped from longer vlogs with your partner are the ones that hit a million views first.
She takes a deep breath and taps your most recent one, a clip that looks like it had been cut from your last get-ready-with-me vlog, judging by the outfit you have on. You greet the camera as usual, holding out two different purses before leaning this way and that to get all angles of your outfit. Your attention is stolen, however, when the voice of 'Mr. Doll' cuts in from behind the camera.
"You ready, sweetheart?"
You pout, your gaze looking beyond the camera. "I don't know which bag to bring."
"What do you need a bag for?"
"My lip gloss…" you reply sheepishly and a throaty chuckle from Mr. Doll follows, soft and fond.
"The second one, bunny. Come on, let's go."
The video loops and Victoria lets it play before her thumb rewinds the video back herself, listening to that voice before her gasp gets caught in her throat.
Mr. Doll is Jack Abbot.
—
In another apartment across the city, Trinity takes advantage of the empty home and hunkers down in bed. It's a guilty pleasure, she knows, but with the stress of residency along with Garcia's emotional unavailability, she figures a bit of her wage going to one of the most hottest camgirls couldn't be the worst vice in the world.
She scrolls through the paid content of yours with a soft sigh, sinking deeper into her mattress before opting for one of the newer POV content. It's a new series you've started, something that kicked up in popularity from a couple weeks ago when your partner had taken the camera to film you himself after he talked you through your orgasm.
Trinity hasn't had the chance to check it out herself, a bit hesitant considering the POV shots may ick her out if she actually sees a penis when she's been thinking of inserting herself as the viewer on top of you. But curiosity kicks in as she plays the most recent one, heat simmering low in her core as it starts out with you undressing as always, straddling your partner this time as he films you from below.
"I can feel you—" you gasp, your hands braced on the stomach beneath you as it pushes your tits together. Your hips roll, sinfully smooth while the strap of your sheer tanktop drops off one shoulder. It keeps falling, revealing a single breast, but you pay it no mind, too busy dry-humping the body beneath you.
"You're soaked for me, bunny… am I gonna feel you through my boxers?" The man grunts and something tugs at the back of Trinity's mind, a sick sense of deja vu or familiarity. She ignores it, eyes straining to try and focus only on you.
You giggle. "Maybe… can't help it, daddy gets me so wet—" You pause, eyes wide at your little slip.
"'Daddy'?" The familiar male voice repeats and the camera catches the man's hands travel up, sliding between the valley of your breasts to curl around your throat possessively. A ditzy grin spreads across your lips, eyes nearly rolling back as you lean your neck forwards into his palm.. "Is that my name now, bunny? Want me to be your daddy?"
The video plays on but Trinity couldn't focus, not when horror sets in alongside disgust and mortification when her brain finally places where she's heard that voice before. Once it clicks, she gags and pauses the video, tosses her phone across the room as full-body shudders wrack her whole frame.
When Dennis comes home late, it's to find Trinity on the couch, spacing out with a security blanket swaddling her prone frame. Panic sets in and he rushes forward, his fist rubbing her chest out of habit tp see if there's any response to pain—
"Ow, fuckin' quit it—!" Trinity snaps, smacking his hand away as she glares up at him.
He lets out a sigh of relief before crossing his arms. "What the hell happened to you? Was it Garcia—"
"No." A haunted look passes over his roommate's eyes. "Worse. I think I found Dr. Abbot's girlfriend."
—
With your six-month-iversary fast approaching, you and Jack are running out of excuses to keep putting off the inevitable 'meeting of the friends' ceremony. Your own friends are eager to meet the older man that's been starring in most of your content and Robby's starting to threaten break-ins and impromptu dinners if he doesn't get to meet the woman that's made his best friend so happy.
It isn't that you're scared Jack's friends and colleagues won't like you or that he's ashamed of you— it's just the fact that the two of you are becoming grossly codependent, refusing to let the other one out of each other's sight for too long. Inviting friends into your circle would only lessen the amount of time you two have for each other and the two of you would much rather prefer extending your honeymoon period first.
Unfortunately, the decision is taken out of yours and Jack's hands when you wake in the morning to an abnormal amount of bleeding. Your period's supposed to start soon but with the sudden heavy flow and the sharp pain in your abdominal, fear licks up your spine.
Something isn't right.
You carefully bring yourself out of Jack's bed, whimpering at the massive stain you've left, before hobbling over to your phone. What awful timing— your actual doctor boyfriend isn't in to check you out himself but rather he's stuck at the ER working a double.
With the amount of time you've spent with Jack, he's ingrained it into you to always listen to your body, to get help rather than attempting to self-diagnose or to undermine your pain level, so you call 9-1-1 with a shaky voice.
When the operator confirms that an ambulance is on the way, you remember to add one final thing: "Can you take me to PTMC, please?"
—
"Female, mid to late 20s, heavy vaginal bleeding and sharp abdominal pain. Reports of nausea and vomiting with a fever of 102 degrees," the EMT barks out, pushing your gurney through the ambulance bay as the cacophany of the emergency department greets you. When the ambulance had arrived at Jack's place, you'd been barely able to stand upright, chills racking your frame.
Your mind is fuzzy, the fluorescent lights above you spinning like soup while you're pushed into an available room. A couple of nurses trail after a doctor, a penlight flashing in your eyes as said doctor introduces herself.
"Hi, I'm Dr. King, are you taking any kind of birth control or—"
"My IUD," you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as you try to fight through the pain that seems to steadily increase with each passing moment. "Is it—I heard it can be displaced?"
Fast paced conversation erupts around you, swapping differentials and possible diagnoses before scissors are cutting through your pajamas to reveal your bloody panties. A hand presses against your upper abdomen, a gentle palpating movement that tears out a cry of pain from you.
"Order a CT," a doctor barks. "Can't do much until we see what's going on in there."
Dr. King nods and promises to take care of you after you've been pushed some painkillers to tide you over until it's your turn. As you get wheeled off, she notices a delicate cursive 'j' tattooed right above your hip bone.
—
After some time, you're dressed in a hospital gown, waiting for your CT results as the painkillers they've given you keep the pain at bay for the meantime. Your phone sits in your lap, screen on to your text thread with Jack. You know he's somewhere in the department, most likely saving lives, but your texts are unread and it's gnawing at the pit of your stomach.
"Hi," a voice calls out and it's a sweet looking young man, around your age as he rubs in the hand sanitizer. "I'm Dr. Whitaker. We have your CT results and it looks like a displaced IUD. Did anything happen recently or…?"
Your cheeks burn bright red. "Um. Rough sex, I guess?"
Dr. Whitaker's face colors red as well. "Oh—! Um, well, yeah. That'll do it. The CT scans revealed some slight perforation in your uterine lining so we'll go ahead and get that out for you, it'd be a minor procedure so you'll be up and walking in just a few hours."
"Great, thank you," you sigh in quiet relief but as you ponder something, Whitaker sticks around, like he knows you've got a request. "Um, is there a Dr. Abbot in?"
He nods. "Yeah, he's one of my attendings. Has he treated you before?"
"No, actually—"
"Bunny—?!" The curtains slide open and Jack rushes in, concern choking up his syllables when he sees you looking slightly gaunt and exhausted in a hospital gown. Dennis' eyes widen as he steps aside; he's never seen his attending look so disheveled and unkempt. "What happened?"
"Jack, I'm fine, it was my IUD," you explain, looking up while he checks over your vitals. "It… got displaced. I wonder whose fault is that." Your dry tone has Jack looking sheepish and Whitaker looking everywhere but the both of you. It's already taken all of his professionalism to keep from reacting when he recognized you as Trinity's past obsession. She still wouldn't say why she unsubscribed until he realizes the secret boyfriend is Dr. Abbot.
"Sorry, sweetheart," Jack murmurs into your hair as he kisses your forehead. "I'll make sure they'll bump you forward so you can get out of here faster."
You nod and your lower lip juts out, slipping into that sweet mindset that Jack can't get enough of; cotton candy delicate and adorably delectable. "Promise?"
"Yeah, I promise, bunny." His voice takes on that gravelly tone that you've become obsessed with and when you tip your head up, he closes the distance and kisses you briefly.
At that moment, the curtain slides open again. "Whoa— sorry for interrupting, folks." You pull away, fiery cheeks on display, to see another taller doctor enter. "Dr. Whitaker, can you go help Dr. Santos in Central 13? I'm Dr. Robinavitch, you can call me Dr. Robby. You must be the infamous 'Bunny'."
Jack groans and playfully hides his face into the top of your hair as the name registers as your boyfriend's best friend. You smile prettily and offer your hand to shake when Dr. Robby approaches, giving your name instead. The man seems nice but only Jack has the privilege of calling you 'bunny'. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Robby."
"Just Robby," he insists before he flips through your chart. "Looks like you're up next for the laparascopy. Do I wanna know what happened?"
Your blush deepens. "No, not really. This is an awful first impression."
Robby chuckles, scratches the back of his head. "It's not so bad, all things considered. But now that I finally have both of you here, what do you say to dinner with my partner and I? She's been eager to meet you."
You give Jack a sidelong glance. "Who else did you tell about me?"
"Nearly everyone," Robby cuts in while Jack gives a shrug.
"I didn't give details. I just liked talking about you, sweetheart. That so bad?"
A pleased smile curves upon your lips. "Not at all. I love how obsessed you are with me," you tease. Your boyfriend's eyes roll before patting his friend's chest.
"Alright, come on. Let's get her rolled into the OR so I can take my girl home."
—
As promised, recovery goes by swiftly and a new IUD is put in place. Discharge is expedited when you're dating one of the attendings and soon, Jack's coming into your room with a fresh set of clothes from his locker.
"I liked those panties," you huff as you step into Jack's black sweatpants, leaning against the bed as he kneels down to roll the legs up for you.
When he stands to full height, he helps you into the faded 'ARMY' sweater. "I'll buy you more, bunny." He tugs you in by the waist to steal a few more kisses. "Just glad you're okay. You almost gave me a heart attack when I saw your name on the board."
"Sorry," you pout as Jack sweeps a thumb across your cheekbone. "I tried texting but I—"
"No, baby, you're fine." He hushes you with another soft kiss. "It's good you came in when you did. Come on, I'll take you home."
His arm is thrown around your shoulder as he guides you out through the ambulance bay. The both of you are lost in your own little world, exchanging soft laughter and playful kisses, that you don't see the haunted look in Santos' eyes as she scurries out of the way or Javadi watching in the way someone can't look away from a car crash.
When the ambulance doors shut, Dana leans over the counter to address Robby.
"That the girlfriend?"
"Sure is."
An amused grin curls onto the nurse's lips. "I think I remember her. I see where the nickname 'bunny' comes from."
"What's it mean?"
"I'm not saying a damn thing, Robinavitch."
thank you so much for reading! likes / reblogs / comments are highly appreciated! if you guys want to see more of bunny!reader in this dolly-verse, my inbox is open for blurb requests and ideas! ♡
pairing: rabbot x illegal boxer!med student!reader
summary: you’re the typical broke med student, willing to do anything it takes to survive. Much to your dismay, abbot and robby are more than willing to find out exactly what you've been doing to survive.
wc: 1.4k
content warning: age gap (reader early 20s, jack/robby late 40’s/50’s) medical inaccuracies, mentions of abuse and self harm, half proofread, kinda angsty
──────────────────────
Get up. You have to eat. You can’t go another day going off the taste of blood and excess adrenaline. You’re going to crash, you’re going to die. Get. Up.
Blood drips from your head onto the red-stained concrete. You can barely see out of your right eye, but you get up anyway. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, fighting to break out. There's a warm sensation flowing through your body; it's so comforting you almost fall into it like a cat in warm laundry. You stand; foreign blood drips down, and the cheers of the crowd are muffled in your ears.
──────────────────────
It’s almost time to go, to go rest and take a bath or drown yourself in red wine. Yet here you are, standing on cold linoleum floors and basking in fluorescent lights, so far away from home. Not that you were going home anyway; you had plans after work.
“Long shift, huh?” McKay chuckles at the way you try to stifle a second yawn.
“Yeah, something like that.” You crack your neck and close your eyes pushing the noise in the background further away until you feel a tap on your shoulder.
“Hey,” To your surprise it’s Santos. “A couple of us are going out tonight; you wanna come?” You can’t read her. You never could.
“I’m sorry, I’ve got other plans tonight. Maybe next time.” You politely decline, for the millionth time. She nods with tight lips and walks away. You turn around and hear from a distance,
“I told you she was gonna say no.”
“It’s worth asking anyway; I mean we see each other 12 hours a day.” Whitaker's lame attempt at trying to slap away Santos’ cynical attitude.
“How ‘bout instead of gossiping about your peers, you go save some lives?” Robby surprises them with a firm shoulder shake, letting them scatter. He stares at you with his arms crossed. You weren’t exactly the most open person for someone so bubbly and bright. He knows you’re always busy and even more private than he is. You’re incredibly kind and soft-spoken, especially with children and seniors. He also knows that you like to hide bruises.
He first noticed when you reached for something overhead in the supply closet, revealing a small bruise on your side. He figures that you had an extra fun night out with a boyfriend or a one-night stand. Odd place for a hickey, but who is he to judge? Another time he noticed the very edge of a purple bruise on your shoulder when your scrub top shifted. It’s only when you started wearing turtlenecks every day that he started to worry. He’s been meaning to talk to you about it, but every time he gets the chance to, another trauma comes in, or someone is trying to get his attention. Fortunately for Robby, someone else took notice.
──────────────────────
Jack catches on to your secrecy quickly. He notices the way you pull down your sleeves every second your hands aren’t busy, how you wince slightly when someone bumps into you accidentally, how quickly you tense up and shut down the idea of hanging out with anyone outside of work. His mind goes to the darkest spot: someone's hurting you, and you aren’t speaking up about it. Worst of all, he can’t help you; even worse, he can’t even come near you or speak to you for more than a minute. If he tried to talk to you about anything but procedure, you would politely brush him off. Despite your softness, you’re strictly business. No distractions, only patients. Unfortunately for your secret, this attitude of yours only makes him want you more. He wants to be let in all the walls you put up, to explore the inner workings of your mind and learn all your favorite things.
Your last two hours are up, and you’re beelining for the door. That is, until a firm chest stops you mid-step.
“And where do you think you’re going, little miss?” You look up and discover two pale eyes looking at you.
“Um, home?” You answer with a confused look that makes his heart skip a beat.
“Okay, well, I think there are some things we need to talk about.” He lowers his voice, “With Robby.” He looks at Robby from across the room, motioning him to come over.
You panic, trying your best to hide it. “Can this wait until tomorrow? I really have to get home.”
“I don’t think it can, sweetheart. Come on.” He ushers you into an open room, gaining looks from the nurses and other staff. He draws the curtain closed as Robby walks into the room, clicking the door shut behind him.
Your cheeks are heating up uncontrollably; it’s only your luck that gets you into a private room with two attendings you happen to be very attracted to.
Robby sighs deeply, unprepared to have this conversation. “I think it’s best if we cut to the chase. Jack and I noticed your bruises. It’s my duty as Chief to make sure that my staff is safe and okay to work.” He looks down at you with his hands in his jacket pockets. “Are you safe, and is there anything I need to know about that could be hindering your ability to work?”
“I’m sorry-” You shake your head,” What is this? What’s going on?” Your eyes can’t choose who to look at.
Abbot repeats Robby’s question, “Are you safe and okay to work? Should be a simple yes or no.”
“Yes, I am safe and okay to work.” You answer begrudgingly, “Can I go home now?” You start to get a little irritated, breaking your soft demeanor for once. You go for the door but a large hand stops you, you internally curse yourself for wincing.
Robby scratches his beard, “You see, kid, I don’t think you are. I think you’re hiding something under your scrubs that you don’t want us to see.”
“Dr. Robby,” You say with a firm voice, “That is highly inappropriate.”
“If inappropriate is what it takes to find out why you just flinched then I will be inappropriate.” He raises his voice, just enough to get his point across. “If something is going on that might cause liability issues then I would like to know about it.”
“No, nothing is going on. I’m fine.” You insist.
“I kind of have to question that when you’re limping when you think no one's looking or when I see you taking 11 blades from the suture cart.” He looks at you with hard eyes. You start to sweat under his gaze.
“Be straight with me kid, are you self-harming?” Abbot asks.
Your eyes go wide, and a scoff leaves your mouth without thinking. “You think I’m self-harming? Besides that, you think I’m a potential liability?” He looks away from you. “No, Dr. Abbot and Dr. Robby, I am not self-mutilating with hospital supplies. And I would appreciate it if-”
“Lift up your sleeve.” Jack interjects.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, lift up your sleeve or I will do it for you.”
“No, I won’t do that-”
“I guess I’m doing it for you.” He comes towards you, placing a firm grip on your wrist while scrunching your sleeve to the crook of your elbow. He inspects it, “Active defensive wounds on the posterior.”
“How’d you get that?” Robby asks in a hushed tone.
“It’s nothing.” You yank your arm back, shoving the sleeve back.
“Nothing? Sweetheart you have multiple bruises at different healing stages on your arm. That ain’t nothing.”
Your heart is pressing up against your throat, threatening to jump out. “I promise, I’m fine. Will you let this go, please?” You plead. It’s the only thing you have left to try and get out.
“If someone is hurting you then we can help, you just have to be honest.” Robby puts a comforting hand on your back.
“Nobody is hurting me, and I’m not doing whatever you think I am to myself. I’m sorry for stealing hospital supplies, it won’t happen again. Just, please Robby, I want to go home.” You look down at your shoes feeling smaller than ever.
The two men exchange looks before finally letting you go home.
“Don’t think this is over.” Robby calls out to your back.
──────────────────────
“That went incredibly well.” Jack remarks sarcastically.
“Yup. So well.” Robby drags his hands across his face.
“I still think she’s hiding something.”
“Yeah man, you think?” Robby scoffs, “Sorry, sorry, I just- shit.” He sighs, “Can’t even fucking get close enough to ask her anything.”
“I’ll find out.”
Michael laughs, Jack doesn't.
“What, are you gonna stalk her?”
“No, put her on night shift. It’s quieter, more opportunities to get her to open up.”
titus danforth x female reader, hardcore gaslighting, feminine reader, cw: fauxcest, cw: kidnapping, titus very obviously has no issues hitting women, cw: violence, miiiiiiiiiiindbreak, dead dove, ursula is dead and titus holds the seat of power
well, you weren’t kidnapped, per se, as titus so often likes to tell himself. au contraire, you walked into the danforth resort of your own free will and volition. titus loves to muse that if your biological “father” was any father at all, he would’ve kept you locked in the house. you don’t do well with freedom, he says.
it was shortly after your birthday. freshly legal! you and your friend decided to take a short trip. you were drinking at the hotel bar when titus came upon you. sitting in that little pink and white lace dress, clearly not of legal age to drink. titus wanted to wring the neck of the bartender serving you. in truth, he wanted to wring your neck as well. silly little girl, inebriating herself. it was there that he’d overheard you and your friend making plans for the night. you’d go to sleep at around 10, tired from the flight in. at about the same time, your friend would head out to explore the nightlife. she told you she’d be back at around 3 am.
he knew what he had to do. ursula probably would’ve told him that this was a patently idiotic idea. she probably would’ve called him a pathetic loser, can’t find a woman he likes with all the money in the world at his disposal, has to capture a barely legal teenager out of her bed at night. but ursula is… gone for that very reason. she thought she could control titus. he had to show her he wasn’t a man who could be controlled. you’d get that soon enough.
so, he stole into your room at 11 pm. as he loomed over your bed, you stirred. he’ll always remember how your eyes widened in terror as he stared down at you. you tried to scream, tried to bite, but he had a cloth pressed firmly over your mouth. making you sleepier, and sleepier, and sleepier. “shhh, baby,” he said long after you had stopped struggling.
he carried you like that, down the hall, down the elevator. placed you on the golf cart and drove you to the lodge. he didn’t much care for discretion these days. with mr. le bail smiling down on him, there’s not much titus couldn’t get away with. in fact, there’s nothing that titus couldn’t get away with.
none of the staff, certainly not pernilla, commented on your arrival. they had no interest in disappearing. pernilla seems to enjoy these things. you would grow to actively dislike pernilla.
he laid you down in the bed in one of the many rooms in the lodge. he made you hot chocolate. he set a syringe of ativan on the nightstand, anticipating a struggle. he didn’t want to puncture you much. your skin was so unmarked, it would look out of place.
by 1:30 am, you started to stir. titus snuffed out his cigar and approached the bed. you shot straight up and he petted your hair. you immediately started crying. “where am i..?” he just shushed you. “please, let me go, i swear i won’t tell the cops.” oh, you sweet summer child, the police wouldn’t do anything.
“relax, sweetheart. did you have a bad dream again? what’s going on, honey?”
he looked genuinely concerned. so familiar with you. to the point where you thought that maybe you were dosed at the bar and are having some strange trip. he petted your hair again. “honey, you’re scaring dad. let’s get you bathed…”
your eyes widened again. dad? no, you have a dad, distant as he may be. and this man isn’t him.
titus clicked his tongue. “oh, sweetheart, my bunny, you’re all out of sorts, aren’t you? ‘s been happening on and off since you were in that dreadful accident. you do remember that, don’t you?”
you weren’t tied up. why wouldn’t a kidnapper tie you up? you jerked, kicking titus in the chest. in the balls. in the face. wherever your feet could reach. they were pinned down immediately. he looked at you with so much sympathy. “my poor girl. shhhhh. daddy’s gonna give you your anxiety medicine. it’s been really hard for you, i know.” he picked up the syringe, tapped the needle, and pressed it into your upper arm. you screamed. he mumbled “close your eyes, kid. i know. you never like this part. this’ll take care of those yucky feelings.”
when you woke up again, around eight hours later, the room you were in was either completely redecorated or a different room all together. your vision swam. you pushed yourself up and saw that it was decorated entirely in lace, a few stuffed bunnies around you, mocking your plight. your voice came out garbled, but as loud as you could muster. “help! somebody help me!”
titus came back into the room. he looked exasperated. and when you got the courage to scream “where am i?” he looked pained. he forced tears to well in his eyes. he thought of ursula, always treating him like a child. well, fuck ursula. you’re his now. and you’re going to obey him. and he’d treat you like a child, not the other way around.
he rubbed a hand over his greying, stubbled jaw. you were so confused. so frightened. “can you tell me what you remember, hon?” he looked like he genuinely cared, though you could’ve sworn you saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes. he was actively steeling himself against laughing. not that you knew that. “i— i was sleeping in my bed. in the hotel—” he cut in “baby, what hotel. you know i’d never let my sweet girl stay in a hotel by herself.” you glared at him “and then you were standing over me. and i screamed. and i woke up here. and you injected me with some— some fucking thing. and i woke up here.”
there was a sharp crack against your thigh. tears welled immediately in your eyes. “i’m sorry, baby. you know how dad feels about you swearing. oh, i know, you’ve had such a hard night, but we do gotta keep some manners. ‘s just so fucking crass. but i know you’ve been having a hard time lately. that’s why i’m going easy on you.”
you tried to bite him. “you’re not my fucking father.” he laughed. just laughed. “‘m sorry, honey. i know you’ve been all out of sorts but— god. of course you’re my daughter. raised you by myself, since your mommy died in childbirth. don’t you remember all the pony rides? the parks? any of it? the fucking diapers i changed? the way you cried on the first day of school every year?”
he produced 10 printed photos. all clearly of you as a child. thank mr. le bail for the satanic little favors he bestowed upon titus. you were addled from the after effects of both the chloroform and ativan. you mumbled. “what happened? why can’t i remember any of these?” titus sighed and kissed your forehead. “you hit your head while driving a year ago. it’s why i don’t let you drive anymore. the doctors said the accident severely diminished your capacity for independence—” your eyes started to well again. was this really your father? he had all these photos. and you looked so happy in all of them. “no, don’t cry, baby. dad loves taking care of you. you know that.”
he pulled up an old video of what appeared to be him and you on your fifteenth birthday. you were sitting on his lap, hugging him, the biggest grin on your face. the you that you did not remember said “thank you, daddy!”
thoroughly broken, you whimpered “but i feel really strange… like something awful happened to me.” titus nodded and gave a pout. “i bet you do, angel. i bet dad’s sweet girl feels so bad. but you’ve always had anxiety. that’s why i give you your medicine every morning. but you’ve had a fever for the past two days and i’ve been so focused on getting cold medicine in you that i forgot your other medication.” he gripped your face, smushing your cheeks together. “but that’s dad’s fault. not yours. you get that? i’m the one who was supposed to take care of that. don’t even think of blaming yourself.”
titus picked you up. you tried to bite him again, but it was weak with the confusion of the situation. he was clearly your dad, right?
he positioned you on his lap and pushed your legs apart. you were in a thin cotton nightgown now, with no panties in sight. he inched his hand up your thigh. you curled into him “‘m sorry, dad.” he shushed you. “nothing to be sorry for. we’re just gonna get you taken care of.” a thick finger circled your clit, it did not push in, nor did it attempt to bring you to completion, it simply toyed with you. titus pressed a kiss to your cheek. “‘s okay if you lost all your memory. daddy’ll make you remember, won’t he?”
you lifted your head from his shoulder, tears still welling, and he quickly kept himself from smiling. you looked into his cold hazel eyes. “yes, dad.”
getting dad!robby all worked up when you come home from college.
or robby gets caught being a nasty pervert (hurt kinda, no comfort but he does jerk off so that's something)
the sweet, innocent girl who went off to college in september is not the same girl who came back for the holidays, robby’s sure of this. when you went away you were all soft smiles, warm hugs and big jumpers. the girl who came back is all eye rolls, bratty huffs and tiny little skirts.
robby loves his daughter more than anything in the world, you’d always been daddy’s girl growing up, always dutifully doing everything he asked without complaint, never talked back, never questioned him.
and he still loves you, but god, were you making it difficult. the two of you had never fought a day in your lives until you came back from college, now it seems there’s an argument everyday, usually about what you’re wearing. robby didn’t appreciate the way you’d walk around the house in tiny pajama shorts and practically sheer tank tops…well, he did, though not in the way he’s supposed to.
that’s what killed him the most. it wasn’t that you were wearing that stuff, you’re a grown woman, you should be able to wear what you want in your own home, it was how it affected him that got his stomach twisting with something really sick.
the first time it happened he wanted to kill himself, when he felt that familiar stirring in his pants. he tried to tell himself that this was his daughter he was looking at, he should not be having this reaction but it was no use, the way your perky ass peeked out of the bottom of your shorts and the way your nipples poked through your thin top in the winter air had already gotten to him. he was fucked.
it had become an every day occurrence now, you’d come downstairs wearing the same tiny pajama’s, he’d get hard and to his shame, the only thing he could do to relieve himself was to excuse himself to his room and jerk off. definitely not thinking about you and those damn shorts. he definitely didn’t imagine how if you bent over in them he’d probably be able to see your pussy…and he definitely didn’t imagine what you’re pussy might feel like. how soft it would be, how wet he could make you, how tight you’d feel around his cock. certainly not that.
and afterwards he’d sit in his shame, with his fresh load still dripping down his knuckles, thinking about what a terrible father he is and how he’s truly an evil man.
this had to stop, he had to say something. he couldn’t keep going on this way, he wouldn’t make it the length of your stay if he kept it up like this. he just had to do something about it.
you’re coming downstairs for your breakfast like you usually do, wearing your tempting little outfit. robby’s already sat on the couch, sat straight upright, trying to keep himself together for the duration of your conversation. so locked in on not getting hard that he looks like he’s in pain.
“hey, sweetheart. a word?” he asks when you hit the bottom step, you stop in your tracks and turn to him, of course rolling your eyes at him.
“i guess, what’s up, dad?” you drag your feet over to the couch, stopping in front of him, he’s eye level with your tits. look away, michael. look away.
he swallows thickly, “sit down, honey” his voice is shaky as he motions for you to sit beside him on the couch. you don’t though, you park yourself on the coffee table in front of him, sitting with your legs crossed causing your tiny shorts to shift slightly and expose delicate flesh of your pussy to him. fuck, he shouldn’t of looked but he did.
he feels that familiar twitch in his cock and tries hard to will it away, but it just won’t shift. fuck. he doesn’t say anything for a moment or two, so focused on trying to stop his erection, you’re getting impatient. “can we make this quick, dad? i’m starving.”
“i uh-yeah, sure, honey.” he swallows again. fuck, it’s not going away. “so uhm, i just wanted to say that..um, fuck..there’s no way to tell you this without sounding like a complete cunt but…” why did he say cunt, now he’s thinking about yours again. “but..um- i think maybe you should dress a little more appropriately when you’re here, sweetheart.” he closes his eyes and winces as the words come out of his mouth. god, this was a terrible idea.
you don’t say anything for a beat, taken aback by your dad’s request. when robby finally opens his eyes you’re scowling at him, if looks could kill he’d be dead. fuck, how he wishes he was. “oh, you do? do you? and why would i need to dress ‘more appropriately’ at home? and actually, how is what i’m wearing inappropriate to wear in front of my own father?”
robby’s cursing himself now, why did he have to say anything? why couldn’t he of just sucked it up and dealt with it for a few more weeks? in fact, why couldn’t he just be a normal father and not think of his daughter in that way? now he’s started a whole conversation he doesn’t know how to have.
“because i uh- i’m your dad, and i say so?” it was more of a question than a statement, and you’re absolutely not convinced.
“yeah, i’m an adult now, that’s not going to cut it. why is it a problem to wear this around you?” you uncross your legs, planting both feet on the floor with your thighs parted. robby’s gaze flickers to your pussy again, which is somehow even more exposed than before. and to robby’s chagrin you catch his gaze. fuck. fuck. fuck.
the lightbulb clicks above your head and your eyes widen at the realisation and they become even wider when you look down and catch the strained outline of his cock pressed against the fabric of his pants.
“oh. my. god. are you kidding me, dad!? you’re joking, this has to be a joke, right?” your voice is dripping with something that’s a mix of anger and disgust, with a dash of disappointment for good measure. your legs are now tightly crossed.
robby doesn’t know what to do or what to say, there’s nothing he can say to fix this mess, to make it okay. “i-i…fuck, i’m sorry, sweetheart. i’m so so sorry.” he’s scrambling to grab a pillow to cover himself up, shame bubbles in his stomach like acid.
no one says anything for a few minutes, an uncomfortable awkward silence falls over the room, you’re the first to break it. “no, i’m sorry. i’m sorry i didn’t realise my dad was a fucking pervert, i’ll make an effort to cover up in the future. don’t worry you’ll never have to see my skin again. sicko.” your words hit robby like a truck, ‘fucking pervert’, yeah, that about sums him up nicely.
you’re already up the stairs before he can think of anything to say, your bedroom door closes with a loud slam and silence falls on the room again.
fucking pervert.
pervert.
he plays the word over and over again in his head, the way you spat it with such disgust and venom. and he replays it still as he pulls his cock out of his pants and wraps a shaking hand around it with that glimpse he got of your pretty little pussy burned on the front of his brain. pervert. pervert. pervert. tears prick at his eyes as he strokes himself, how did this happen? why is he doing this? why can’t he stop?
because michael robinavitch, you are a pervert.
yeah, this is nawtt proofread. also this is my first dad!robby smut so i hope u liked it hehehe.
a phil brooks x f!reader series
summary: you are the newest female superstar on the Raw roster. cm punk is the grizzled veteran who has been around the block a time or two. everybody knows you don’t bother cm punk out of fear of his short temper — so what are you supposed to do when cm punk bothers you?
warnings: 18+, MDNI. pining, protective!punk, possessive!punk, mentor!punk, toxic!punk, fluff, friends to lovers, slight! agegap, workplace drama, longing, slow burn, these two bicker like an old married couple & I love it, mentions of addiction, alcohol, mature themes, cm punk, f!reader, paul heyman, roman reigns, hhh, tko vs. wwe, many many others, smut possible in future chapters warnings per chapter.
part one.
part two.
part three.
part four.
part five.
part six.
part seven.
part eight.
part nine.
part ten.
part eleven.
part twelve.
part thirteen.
part fourteen.
part fifteen.
part sixteen.
part seventeen.
Could you possibly do an adult Robby with a younger fem and he gets jealous because she’s getting hit on or something?
warnings: dad!robby x college!fem!reader, fauxcest/realcest (choose your own adventure), bratting, 18+ mdni
robby practically slammed the front door behind him as he ushered you inside. he has been stewing in his anger ever since the waiter at the restaurant he took you to started to hit on you. so brazenly too, as if it wasn’t clear he was your dad. how disrespectful is that?!
the worst part was, you did nothing to shut it down. you giggled and fluttered your lids and gave him a coy smile while your dad watched helplessly from his cuck chair across the table. he knew that you turned the heads of guys at school, but at least he didnt have to see it. now that you were home for the summer, he was forced to confront that his little girl isn’t so little anymore.
at the sound of the slamming door, you turned around and raised an eyebrow at him.
“what’s wrong?”
“nothin’” he grumbled. what else was he supposed to say? that he was jealous that the waiter thought his daughter was attractive?
“uhhuh,” you said, unconvinced. “does this have anything to do with the lack of tip you left tonight?”
he glared at you, ready to refute, but based on your knowing look, it would be no use.
“i didn’t like how he was looking at you.”
“how did he look at me?” you asked.
“like…”
“like he thought i was pretty?”
“like he wanted you.”
you stepped towards robby, into his space, and put your hands on his chest. he covered the back of your hands with his large palms.
“is it a problem for a boy to want me, dad?”
his nostrils flared at your bratty tone. he put more pressure on your hands.
“yeah, baby, it is. stupid fuckin’ kid had no idea what a daddy’s girl you are. and you’re delusional if you think a waiter at a diner could give you want you need.” his words would be mean if they didn’t light such a fire in your belly.
“what if i want to try something new?”
robby chuckled humorlessly. “and hear how disappointed you are that he couldn’t satisfy you? no way in hell.”
“i can make my own decisions, daddy,” you whisper, barely biting back your mischievous smirk.
“baby thinks she’s all grown up, huh? fine then,” he lets your hands go and steps back, putting space between you.
“go fuck some little boys then, see how that goes for you.”
robby turns on his heel and walks away, smirking as he imagines your little heart broken pout. he’ll go sit in the bedroom and pretend to read his book while he waits for you to come sulking in to apologize for being a brat. you two play this game all the time, but he knows you’ll never truly be done being his little girl.
Series Summary: It’s definitely not conventional for two alphas to spend their lives together, but Jack and Robby have never been particularly conventional in the first place. They don’t need an omega – but, fuck, do they want you.
Chapter Summary: Long-married alphas Jack and Robby have accepted their strange but comfortable life together -- until you come into the ED with a scent that makes them wonder if fate may have something else in mind.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!jack, alpha!robby, omega!reader, first meeting, jack and robby's love story uwu
Content Warning: child in the emergency room (fever, not ultimately serious)
Author’s Note: let’s all collaboratively agree not to project the way i write omegaverse in this one onto the regular human spectrum of sexuality okay? because EYE like it
Word Count: 3.3k
They’d gotten together before they presented. Both late bloomers. Very late. Med school. Assumed to be betas because, well, they were twenty-one and that was more than a little late to be anything else. Robby, bitingly sarcastic, rakishly and boyishly handsome, too cocky for his own good as he flirted with anything with a pulse. Jack, a squirrely redhead fresh off a tour in Kuwait with darkness in his eyes and an amputation that needed six more weeks before he could be fitted for his prosthesis. An unlikely pair connected by one thing: Being not quite enough. Not quite at the top of their class. Not quite harsh enough to attract omegas or soft enough to attract alpha. Just enough for each other.
Morning workouts where Robby pretended he wanted to get fit as an excuse to come to Jack’s physical therapy sessions, encouraging him and watching him with barely controlled lust as he fought his way out of the wheelchair and onto his prosthetic, going from wobbly to sure over weeks and weeks of hard work. Midday lunches where they could complain about professors who lived behind the times and other students who just plain sucked. Study sessions where they savored shortbread cookies from the cafe attached to the library, those shared moments of late-night sweetness enough to fuel them through days of harsh salt and sour.
So they bonded – not in the traditional sense of the word with bites and pheromones, but something else. Something that went deep. Deep enough that when they were both hit by their first rut, they collided into each other full force. Lips that broke against teeth, sweat that mingled as they lost themselves, knots that rubbed against each other as they tangled up in Jack’s army-issue sheets. After that first rut together, they locked eyes – hazel and brown, a sunlit creek – and knew. It would be a hard road for them in a society where two alphas together was well outside the norm, but this was it. This was lust and love and laughter and light and everything all merged into one relationship.
They decided to figure it out together.
Wedding bands and attending positions and fifteen years of figuring it out later, there’s only one thing missing: A family of their own. Every alpha has that deep urge at the base of their gut to have pups – to breed, yes, but also to raise children, to grow with them, to be a parent. That was the one thing they couldn’t give each other. There are plenty of options these days for non-A/O couples, of course, but none of them felt like a fit for Jack and Robby.
They could only agree on one option: If the right omega came along, someone they could both spend their lives with, they’d have pups of their own. If it happened, it happened. They could be happy and fulfilled without it, but the option was open.
There’s been a handful of omegas over the years, but never anything serious. Friends they helped out during heats, brief flings, one boyfriend of a couple months. In the last five years, though, it’s just been the two of them. Nowadays, creeping into their forties together, they’re pretty damn sure that dream is no longer possible. Countless friends who understand them most have told them to wait, it’s fate, that biology wants alphas to find omegas. But, really, no matter how much they nod along or laugh it off, they’ve made peace with their simple life together, refusing to admit that there’s still a tiny spark at the backs of their minds every once in a while. That want. That ache.
Jack can smell you from the hub.
Through the clear semi-perforated patch over his nostrils that usually keeps omega pheromones off his mind.
His chin snaps up as you sit down at regular triage. As a nurse does your intake, you cradle a pup who can’t be more than two wailing in your arms. Your eyes are as red-rimmed as his, clearly affected deeply by him being so upset. You soothe the poor baby with gentle bouncing and intentionally flaring that scent of yours. Jack’s body moves before his brain catches up, taking long strides until he’s next to the nurse receptionist, hand on her shoulder, mouth already opening to say, “I’ll take them back and handle everything now. Thank you.”
It takes him by surprise as much as the nurse, who gives him a curious, amused sort of glance. Sure, theoretically, he’s more than welcome to take a patient back in whatever order he wants as an attending. But she can see right through any real reasoning. The stern and sarcastic Dr. Abbot fawning tenderly because of a crying pup and a sniffling omega? It’s…endearing, if strange.
After more than a decade in emergency medicine, he’s very rarely affected by the presence of omegas in distress. He even chuckles when his younger, less experienced coworkers trip over themselves to focus on anything when a sweet, soft thing like you needs immediate help. But now here he is, hand on your lower back as you introduce yourself and the toddler to him, taking sturdy steps across the ED like he’s trying to shield you from any other doctors who might poach your presence.
Guiding you into the closest open room equipped with pediatric supplies, Jack moves like he’s your marionette. As he gets the room and chart ready, his every motion is an unconscious response to you, his body instinctively trying to comfort and assure and take control the way an alpha should. It’s all instinct buried in medicine. While he tries to keep his head on straight, Jack sits on his stool opposite you and the toddler on the hospital bed and gently says, “Tell me all about what’s going on.”
You offer up a small smile and explain as you fuss over the toddler’s messy hair and tear-streaked cheeks and rumpled pajamas, “Benny’s felt yucky all day – really sleepy and fussy, not wanting to eat, running kinda warm – but we had it under control until a few hours ago. Sips of clear fluids, nice cooling bath, resting with some Bluey.” Your eyes go misty again as you look up from Ben and find Jack’s gaze resting tenderly on you. With your lower lip wobbling and your voice thick with tears, you tell him, “But then his fever just kept climbing up starting after dinner. I didn’t feel good about going to sleep not knowing if it would break or not, so we’ve been up for hours. Now he doesn’t want to drink anything and- and he’s never upset and clingy like this; he’s so curious and polite and-” You fall into tears again. “Sorry, I just- I just-”
Jack can’t stand seeing you upset. It hurts as much as any real heartbreak. And he’s never even met you before. He can’t help wondering what it would be like if he took the scent blocking patch off his nose and let himself inhale the fullness of you. Clearly your pheromones are strong enough to be a problem for him without even knowing that.
Swallowing hard, Jack scoots closer and takes your free hand in his. It’s not professional, but you don’t mind. You lean into the touch, clutching his hand close, taking his strength to be your own. Jack squeezes your hand and assures, “It’s alright; you did the right thing bringing him in. We’ll get this figured out in no time. Is it okay if I pick him up and do my exam now?”
With a reluctant nod, you help Jack move Ben onto the exam bed, where he looks so small and so hurt that your tears keep falling despite how often you wipe them away. Ben’s immediately reaching for you, trying to get to your side, and you look to Jack with the most innocent, pained eyes. He touches his stethoscope to Ben’s chest and tells you, “You can stay over here; don’t worry. Are you his mom?”
“Oh, no, not anyone’s mom,” you reply softly, always taken aback by the question no matter how many times it’s asked. Stroking Ben’s wispy hair like he’s your own, you go on, “I’m his nanny. Shoot, his au pair. His mom gets so mad when I forget to call myself that. Anyway, yeah, um, I just take care of him when they’re away, which is a lot of the time.”
He commits that to memory, hating himself for being relieved to know that you don’t already have a mate and pups of your own. It’s a strange swirling feeling in his stomach. Something similar to what he feels when he’s alone with Robby after a fresh batch of students has moved on – a yearning, quiet, needy thing. He swallows hard, swipes a forehead thermometer over Ben’s skin, and tuts, “103.8. That’s no good, little man.” Subtly dropping his hand, he pages for a nurse and tells you, “We’re going to go ahead and start IV fluids since he hasn’t been drinking enough and add some fever reducers to try to get his temperature down so he’s more comfortable. Once he settles some, he’s due for a whole bunch of fun tests. We’re gonna have to admit him tonight to make sure that fever breaks and he can sleep here under observation.”
Ben’s eyes slam up to yours, understanding as much as his tiny brain can as he latches onto ‘sleep here.’ Trying to snuggle closer to you while you fight to keep him on the exam bed, he wriggles and worries fearfully, “Nini stay?”
“He can’t say ‘nanny’ yet,” you tell Jack with the softest smile. You gently run your fingers through Ben’s hair, the gesture clearly to calm you both, and ask Jack, “That’s okay, right? If I stay in the room with him? His parents are in Europe until next week.”
Glancing at your chart to make sure all your paperwork is in order, he replies, “Of course. I’ll have them bring up a cot so you don’t have to deal with the loveseat. They’re awful.”
“That’s sweet; thank you. I know it’s not your job to deal with stuff like that.”
“Don’t worry about it.” As a resident pushes an IV and takes cultures, Ben finally starts to quiet and soften as the fluids hit his system, his sleepiness beginning to take over. Jack tells you sternly, his eyes paternal and warm, “I want you to be extra diligent about keeping yourself healthy the next couple days. Can’t have a lovely thing like you coming down with whatever the little guy has.” Your eyes widen in response to the way the compliment slips from his tongue so earnestly and simply. His face blanches and his neck goes blotchy. Quickly, he stammers out, “Oh, god. I’m so sorry; I have no idea why I just said that. I mean, you are lovely, of course, but-”
“It’s alright, Dr. Abbot,” you giggle, happy to smile for the first time since you’ve been at the hospital. You give Jack a playful nudge and add, “I don’t mind being called lovely by a silver fox such as yourself.”
As his cheeks tinge bright pink, Jack nods courteously, grateful that you’ve given him an out. “Thank you. That’s, ah, that’s very nice of you.”
You snicker and shake your head. “Please; I’m sure patients hit on you all the time.”
The junior doctor who’s tending to Ben snorts, “You have no idea.” Her mischievous eyes flick up to yours with a conspiratorial sort of energy. “Usually it doesn’t fluster him so much.”
Abbot releases a harsh breath and bites back, “Ellis, please.”
“I’m just saying,” she teases lightly, making big amused faces to amuse Ben while drawing his blood and praising him for being brave, “the big bad night shift attending doesn’t usually take care of sweet toddlers with fevers himself.”
Abbot hisses, “Parker.”
She just chuckles to herself and stands up with her collection of swabs and vials. Practically skipping past with amusement, she leans in close to him and teases, “We can smell it on you, gramps.”
You let out a squeak, something like a laugh, and avert your eyes. You hadn’t mentioned it because you’re unendingly polite and would rather die than embarrass a doctor, but, yes, Dr. Abbot is scenting all over you like a teenager with a crush, all raspberry and brunch. It’s not necessarily uncommon for an alpha to stink up a room when they’re with a particularly cute omega, but for an older professional it’s a bit juvenile, maybe. Like laughing a little too loud at every joke or staring at someone’s lips while they talk.
To Jack, though, the realization is like being shoved in the chest. As Dr. Ellis takes a reluctant-but-too-sleepy-to-protest Ben off for some imaging, Jack puts his hand over his face and groans, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. For the compliment and then for this and- God. I haven’t- I’m not even- I’m sorry. That’s the point. Sincerely.”
After biting your lip so adorably it makes Jack’s stomach turn, you sheepishly admit, “It’s really alright, doctor. I’m probably a little too close to my heat to be running around in public; I’m sure it’s affecting you more than it normally would. Don’t worry about it.”
Jack’s brows furrow. You’re affecting him that strongly when he has his nostrils covered and he’s nowhere near being in rut? That’s ridiculous. He must be, like, sick, surely. Or you’re some super omega with magic seduction hormone powers.
Or, worse than it all, you’re something special.
His mind races a bit as he turns away from you, reaches up, and carefully peels off the scent-blocking patch over his nose.
And it’s you.
Shift change can’t come soon enough. Jack’s thrumming his fingers against countertops, clicking his pen enough to make Dana snatch it from his hand, and checking on you and Ben so often it could probably count as an addiction. He tries to be subtle about it but fails miserably, not even realizing how pathetic he’s being until Ellis makes fun of him for it – over and over, at that.
Finally, though, fucking finally, his husband slinks through the doors with his sunglasses on and his earbuds still blasting. He walked to work, which means he woke up early, couldn’t get back to sleep, and stayed antsy until he could justify leaving early. The moment he can smell Jack, his face softens, the morning’s anxiety easing because he knows Jack will have already done everything he can to set the day shift up for success.
This morning, though, Jack walks up to Robby with hurried, serious steps unlike the exhausted, unsteady ones he’s usually met with. He doesn’t skip tilting his chin up to meet Robby’s quick kiss – he never misses that – but he does drop his voice low right away to say, “You need to come with me.”
As he meets Jack’s eager pace, Robby hustles up, catches Jack by his lower back, and chuckles against his ear, “Shit, where’s the fire?”
But Jack doesn’t answer, too possessed with leading Robby up to the pediatric room where you and Ben are still both sleeping. The heavy blinds keep out the early morning light and Jack’s hand hesitates on the door handle. You look so peaceful with your lips gently parted, curled up, totally calm now that Ben’s fever’s come down and the antibiotics are working their magic. During morning rounds, he’s the first doctor to punch the lights on and wake a patient to keep the hospital going and free up beds.
But you?
He hates the idea of waking you.
With a shaky breath, Jack meets his own husband’s eyes, tells him all about last night, that moment really just a few hours ago now, and then says, “It’s time for his morning workup. You’ll understand if- I need you to- I don’t even know how to explain myself right now. Just come in here with me, okay? You’ll know. I’m sure you’ll know.”
Tentative, soft, he nods. “Alright, of course. No problem.” Early in a relationship, this kind of intense behavior would be met with suspicion, concern, confusion. But now, with more than a decade of expertise in the strange field of Jack Abbot, Robby knows better than to do anything but what he asks without question. He tucks one of Jack’s too-grown-in curls behind his ear and prods quietly, “Just give me a quick heads up on what I’m in on, though, would you? Because, from here, it looks like a pedes case getting ready for discharge.”
Jack cracks a stupid sort of smile. “I know I’m being nuts, alright? But just take a deep breath when we’re through the door, okay? Because I think she’s- I think she’s supposed to be ours, Michael. I’ve never felt anything like it – and I need you to feel it too.”
Robby tilts his head to the side, any thoughts rushed away. Ours. Conceptually, he knows what Jack means. They’ve discussed it before. But Jack’s never looked so goddamn serious about it. Like there’s not a single question in his mind. If you’re not theirs, then you must at least be his. That makes Robby’s heart rate spike a bit, but he decides not to entertain the thought. He decides, as he has ten thousand times, to trust Jack with the fragile stitched-up thing of his heart.
As Jack pushes open the door and carefully slides the dimmer lights on, you stir to consciousness and so does Ben. When you realize the two of you have actually managed to sleep soundly after such an awful evening, your scent flares happily.
Robby’s world shifts just like Jack’s had.
His breath catches in his throat when you smile at him.
Shortbread.
Butter and vanilla and sugar.
Flooding from your skin, so thick and delicious it makes their heads spin.
Jack and Robby’s scents have always fought one another. Robby – black coffee, no cream, roasted so dark it’s past bitter. Jack – raspberry, bright, effervescent, tongue-coating sour. They don’t make sense together. Every kiss a clash. But with your scent mingled in, something gentle that matches them each individually and meets in the middle, it all blends into something that clicks into place. It’s not just Robby’s rough winter night and Jack’s bright spring sunrise. It’s a summer evening that lingers on and on, warm, ripe, rich. Fireflies in cupped palms and laughter on whiskey tongues and homemade thumbprint cookies dipped in swirling hazelnut heat until they’re perfectly soft. A complicated mouthful finally balanced.
Immediately after they leave the treatment room, Robby drags Jack down a hall and corners him against a wall with a borderline heaving chest. Voice raspy and needy, he presses his forehead to his husband’s and checks, “You feel this- this crazy? Like nothing makes sense anymore?”
Jack swallows hard and tries to focus on the rough scent from Robby’s neck. Usually it calms him, but his head is still spinning from the way your presence mixed with theirs into something so much more simple and true. He reaches up and twines his fingers in the short hair at the back of Robby’s neck and replies slowly, “Yeah. Yeah, of course I do. Fuck. What are we supposed to do? Should we-”
“We shouldn’t,” Jack agrees as he nods like he means it. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he sees you in the hall, away from Ben’s inquisitive eyes, questioning a nurse with serious concerned eyes. He melts all over again. Looking back at Robby, he sighs, accepting it, “But what if we did anyway?”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund
The predicament you found yourself in was utterly unfathomable. Death was yet to come for you, perhaps it was because you had a lot to offer the clown; he in turn reciprocated. Perhaps he thought you were amusing, for now.
Your morals must be twisted because one thing was for certain: There was no denying the unshakeable, terrifying tension building between the two of you.
12,400 words
Slow burn
Rough sex (obviously!!)
Art being a fucking dom
The predicament you found yourself in was utterly unfathomable. In fact, thinking back through foggy thoughts, you couldn't really trace back to where this started.
You supposed fate aligned correctly for you. Logically speaking, you had a lot to offer the clown, and he in turn reciprocated favours.
Living within the vast forest adjacent to miles county, not many people ventured into the thick greenery. You had resided here for some time, at first with your father and then on your own once he passed.
You're grateful for the fact that your father had such a lively business. If not for that, you doubt you'd ever be able to live so well and comfortably all alone on the outskirts of the county.
You lived in an old cottage with ample firewood to stay warm and luscious land that stretched afar. A lot of it you used to keep animals.
You were accustomed to fattening the pigs up through spring while they birthed their young and slaughtering them in the winter for food supply. It was just another day at work for you; not that you had to work. You could live amiably without any need of strenuous hard work like farming, but you enjoyed it.
It was more of a passionate hobby than a job.
You travelled into town for any necessities you may need in your fathers old truck, but largely remained to yourself and a chunk of the townspeople knew that.
Some called you crazy for living in nature while that killer was on the loose, but you moving into town didn't necessarily change your chances of survival.
Thus you stayed put.
It wasn't until one clear night just after Halloween did you hear a disgusting squeal coming from one of your pigs. It was the sound of a slow death, and it startled you enough to grab your late fathers shotgun and storm outside courageously to see just what the hell was stealing your livestock.
You expected an animal. What you found instead shocked you.
A man, tall and lumbering and clad in a monochromatic clown costume kneeled hunched over one of your pigs, it's body twitching and steaming as it's hot innards met the chill of the outside air.
You heard the wet sound of his hands delving into the pigs guts and gripping a handful before bringing the meat to his lips.
This stranger was eating your livestock. Devouring them like an animal, raw and uncooked and grotesquely bloody.
You remained frozen, shotgun pointed, glancing at the black bag that lay beside him full of various menacing tools stained crimson.
If your father taught you one thing, it's that you should treat people with kindness, especially the strange ones.
The weirdos are the most dangerous, and living out here all alone meant that if one ever wandered into your land, it was probably best to treat them as a guest and act amicably, if only for your own safety.
Steeling your nerves, you cocked your head at the man, seeing the gap appear in the pigs abdomen as it's organs were devoured.
"Might want to cook that, stranger." You spoke gently, shotgun lowered to the floor.
The freakish clown paused, fingers laced in guts, head turning slowly and deliberately to the side.
"Tastes better that way, personally. Cooked, I mean." You shifted nervously from foot to foot, the chill of the autumn air getting through your pyjamas.
Maybe coming out here in nothing but some bottoms and a vest wasn't such a good idea.
The mans side profile was lanky even while crouched. His face held extremely prominent features, and you began to wonder if they were prosthetic or not.
You dared to step directly behind the stranger, his blood shot eye staring at you from the corner, pig entrails held frozen. They were cold now.
"Come with me. I can cook that right up for you, throw a few herbs and spices in and make that a great dish."
The clown let the guts slip through his fingers, gloves tainted red, and stood to his feet slowly. Your breath froze in your throat at the way his height seemed to grow and grow as he extended fully, back straight and rigid, and turned around almost menacingly to stare down at you with a dirty grimace.
Apart from the bizarre clown face paint, he appeared incredibly beat up. His one eye was completely red, and you wondered if it was simply shut from injury or if it had been gouged out. It was hard to tell with the amount of blood covering it.
He had a few large gashes littering his body in various places too. His clown costume was ripped terribly.
You both stood silently, your body shivering lightly at the blustery wind and your hair tousling gently. The clown remained unperturbed to the elements.
His good eye was narrowed into a glare, face contorting in an ugly fashion, eyeing your bare feet, your lowered shotgun, up to your bare shoulders and then finally back to your face.
An ominous smirk began to stretch across the strangers visage. It was actually rather unsettling, even without the pigs blood covering him. Merely the smirk alone set your nerves on edge.
You cocked your hip, hand resting on it comfortably as you stared up at him. "So, what do you say? It's a cold night, and you're looking a little worse for wear. Come on in, I'll help you out." Your words were true, and you think the stranger sensed that, but he seemed keenly aware of the way your voice shook.
You don't know how you knew that. Maybe it was the way his lifeless eyes shined dimly at the way it shook. Eventually, the clown nodded slowly, wordless.
You offered him a smile and a nod of finality. "Great. Follow me, if you would." You dared to turn away from this maniac, though you supposed if he wanted to kill you he could easily do that while you were looking at him; He was huge.
Not in the muscular sense, but in height he was at least a head and a half taller than you. Incredibly lanky and thin but from the way he was devouring that pig, he definitely had strength.
Walking a few steps, you paused suddenly and spun around, your silent guest directly behind you. It startled you but you tried not to let it show. "Mind grabbing the rest of the pig? Wouldn't want it going to waste. I'd do it myself, but you know how a lady gets.", you chuckled breathily; it was hard to speak when his void eyes were staring at you, smirk still somehow present and frozen on his face.
"--Don't want to dirty these pyjamas, they're my favourite. And, pardon me for saying but you're already dirty, and you'd no doubt be able to pick it up with ease, so..", you finished lamely, smiling as genuinely as you could.
It felt forced that time. He was starting to unnerve you.
Finally, the clowns expression fell into one of light thought, doing a visual sweep of your stature. It embarrassed you slightly, maybe he was judging your pyjamas. They were simple, but your favourite. Or maybe he silently agreed that yes, he could easily pick the animal up compared to you.
Dead weight was heavy, after all. And he was a big guy, in a sense.
The clown grinned this time, large and sharp, showcasing bloodied teeth, before nodding vigorously. Clapping excitedly, he hunched down to gather up the pig remains and nodded at you, as though to say 'lead the way'.
Smiling in return, you turned and led him to your home.
As soon as your back faced him, your expression morphed into one of doubt and anxiety.
That was some time ago. It was mid winter now, and Art - the odd clown that had spelled his name to you in blood on your window - was no where to be seen.
You hadn't seen him for two weeks, he often appeared when he wanted and left for days on end too.
You had both settled into an accord of sorts.
The clown was a maniac, yes, and had often tricked and teased and terrified you with knives and hammers, pretending to finally put an end to you only to stop millimeters from your face, laughing silently and slapping his knee dramatically.
You screamed each time, gripping your chest in terror but forcing a breathy laugh to escape you, shaking your head. "Got me again, Art. When will I ever learn?" You tutted, voice shaking and body trembling.
You knew it was only a matter of time before he killed you, surely. So, you did things to keep him happy.
Like offering your old, worn out barn as his work place to fix up his weapons or create new traps. It was dingy and damp, but Art didn't even mind. His mouth opened into a perfect 'o' shape, eyebrows high in surprise, pointing to himself and then to the barn.
"Yes," you had confirmed to him, "the barn is yours. Do what you like with it, I.." you had paused. Art sensed something was left out and cocked his head at you with a menacing smile, hand under his chin as though he was ready to listen to you spill a secret.
"I'm going to be honest with you, Art. Im happy to give you the barn, you do what you want in there and I won't ask questions, but in return I was wondering if now and again, when you're free to of course, if you could help me around the place?", you asked softly, sweetly, your round eyes staring up at him so innocently he often wondered if he should pinch your cheeks until the flesh tears off or flail you.
Maybe not yet. He liked having you around for now. You were sweet and entertaining, and cooked good meals.
Art tilted his head left and right in deep thought, eyes rolling up to the sky as though truly debating with himself, before his large hands suddenly slammed down onto your shoulders heavily, causing you to gasp aloud, eyes wide.
Art began to silently laugh, lifting a finger and thumb to roughly tug at your cheek, before nodding excitedly.
You sighed in relief. Well, you couldn't very well ask him to spare your life as a favour, so you supposed asking him to help you with chores was your only option.
In a way, you think he was amused by how ballsy you were. He was terrifying, after all.
Thinking back to the present day, you hadnt seen him for two weeks, which meant he was either out on a killing spree or recuperating after a nasty fight.
You've since gathered that this man, this thing, isn't really human. He eats because he enjoys it, but you've seen him go weeks without food. This thing you've allowed into your home was demonic, and its sick how fond of him youre growing.
Sighing, you felt fatigue catching up with you as you had spent the last few hours tending to the fields, animals, and other chores such as gathering wood and cutting them into pieces.
Mindlessly lost in thought, you bent down to pick up a log, putting it into place and heaving the axe up ready to cut it. Your arms were shaking; how long ago did you eat? Well, it was around 4pm now, and you've been busy since around 7am, so it's been far too long, and you were ridiculously sweaty even in the mild winters day.
You lifted the axe, elbows suffering and shaking, before huffing loudly and dropping it back down. You really needed a break but you also really needed to start getting this wood ready for the cold winter nights.
Determination taking over your features, you lifted it again, fatigue overwhelming you but to hell with it because you had things to do before nightfall. Inhaling deeply, you lifted it high, stumbling forward as you let the axe split the wood sloppily; it was very off mark, and if your father was here right now he'd make you do it again.
The axe embedded itself into the surface below, and with both hands you gripped the handle to try and wrench it out but to no avail.
Huffing agitatedly, you gritted your teeth and tried again.
The sound of a honk startled you, your entire body jumping and a yelp escaping your throat as you spund around with a hand held to your chest.
"Art!", your tone held accusation but you still laughed. "How long have you been standing there? Please dont tell me you witnessed my horrible attempt at cutting wood.."
Art shrugged, picking up the pathetic attempt at cutting the log in half and scrutinizing it. He shook his head and closed his eyes as though disappointed.
You flushed in embarrassment. "Yeah, that really was a sorry attempt..", you turned back to the axe, gripping it and tugging. It didn't budge.
Suddenly, a pale, gloved hand gripped the handle and ripped it out with ease. You blinked at him in shock, watching at how he slyly looked down at the axe in his hands and then at you, rolling his eyes as though to say 'have I got to do everything around here?'
For a speechless clown, he was sassy. And terrifying.
You smiled tiredly. "Thanks. I'm so hungry and sweaty and gross and ugh--", you shook your head, "ignore me. Are you hungry? I'll go and--"
Fingertips touched your lips to silence you, and then a finger shot into the air, telling you to wait. The clown eagerly knelt down to rummage through his bag of..mysteries.
He excitedly rubbed his hands together as he found what he was looking for, and delved in to grab it tightly.
The clown spun around to face you, item hidden in box, and closed his eyes dramatically, then stared at you pointedly.
"Oh, um..Close my eyes?", the clown nodded happily at you being able to understand.
Your pulse increased, fear gripping you. You wouldn't refuse him. Closing your eyes slowly, you held your hands out. "I-I trust you, Art. No funny games, okay? Please.", you pouted.
Art cocked his head at your pouting lips and shaking hands. He had that unexplainable urge to squeeze you tightly and also cut your lips off with a scissors. You were adorable, he'd admit that. He wondered if a day would ever come where you'd flutter your cute eyelashes at him and he'd grab a knife and burst your dazzling blue orbs.
Maybe one day, but not today.
It was only on rare occasion that you'd catch the sadistic killer of miles county choosing to not act with violence.
You were the only rare occasion.
Pushing those tempting thoughts away, Art held the box excitedly and tip toed over to you dramatically. He was eager for you to see his gift.
Firm hands gripped your own as a box was dropped into it, only a small box.
You smiled uncertainly, eyes closed, and felt the box with your hands. Art poked at your eyelids gently for you to open them.
The box was black. Tattered. You lifted the lid slowly.
A multitude of emotions filled you. You didn't know which ones to show. Art watched eagerly, excitedly, though you could still see the sharpness of his eyes.
The box was filled to the brim with Beatles. They were squirming and hurrying over one another in an ugly display, some spilling out onto your arms before falling on the floor. Luckily, you weren't terrified of insects.
Looking at Art, he began mimicking holding an imaginary box and shaking it hard, then pointed at you.
You shook the box hard, the Beatles scattering everywhere, and gazed into the box.
Your blood ran cold.
A decapitated fox head stared at you, eyeless and bloodied with its tongue cut out and shoved into one of its eye sockets. Beatles crawled throughout its skull.
"A..Fox."
Art nodded aggressively, pointing animatedly at your chickens cooing in their pen, then at the fox, then at himself.
"Oh! You killed the fox that has been hunting my hens?"
Art clapped silently and his eyes dazzled as though screaming 'bingo! Finally!', then pointing and laughing at your pale expression and wide eyes. His gruesome smile was held wide, cutting sharp, as he buckled over in silent laughter.
Your mouth quirked upwards in amusement. Well, he was certainly keeping his end of the bargain. The fox was a pest, after all, even if his method of killing was a little..unorthodox. Not that you'd ever complain.
You couldn't help but giggle at this absurd man. "Thank you, Art. I appreciate that. Now with my hens remaining alive and well, I can make you some more of those pancakes you like once they lay their eggs."
Arts mouth opened in surprise, eyebrows raised high. He tipped his hat in a gentlemanly fashion, nodding at you as though to say it's a job well done. You agreed that it was.
Putting the box down, you gripped the axe once more, ready to return it to the shed. "Well, I'm going to have a quick shower, then how about I make us some supper?"
Art wiggled his eyebrows at you suggestively, and heat lightly warmed your cheeks. Before you could reply, the axe was ripped from your hands and Art had already gotten to work with cutting some more wood. He did it flawlessly.
He shooed you away dramatically, wiggling his eyebrows one more time before chopping through the wood efficiently.
Conflicted in how easily he embarrassed you, you made your way tiredly to the bathroom. You really needed that shower.
You let the hot water wash away the stress of the day, eyes closed as you nourished an apple smelling conditioner through your hair.
You sighed, feeling ten times better already, muscles sore from the strenuous chores you barely managed to finish today.
Standing in the warm confinement of water and steam, you began to wonder if Art was still cutting wood. This led to thoughts about how bizarre it was having a murderer in your residence while you showered vulnerably. He didn't appear to want to kill you yet, and you wanted to keep it that way.
Wrapping a towel around your hair and body, you stared at your tired complexion in the mirror and frowned.
You really shouldn't be so comfortable with his ominous presence, but..
There was something quirky and charming about him, you guessed.
You soon froze at the sound of an alarm blaring.
You ran to the bathroom door, tearing it open. What was--
Was that your fire alarm blaring? But why? You had meat in your slow cooker, yes, but--
Panic surged through you as you darted out of your bathroom and bolted down the stairs. You didn't know how or why but you prayed that your kitchen was in tact.
Barreling through your living room and into the kitchen, you scrutinized the area, seeing no smoke, no fire, nothing.
Eyes wide, you ran to the slow cooker and switched it off. There wasn't even any smoke coming from it, how had your alarm gone off? Bending to check in your oven, you confirmed what you already knew - there was nothing in there.
Standing straight, hands on your hips in annoyance at that blaring alarm, you sighed aloud. Your towel remained upon your head, however loose hair had managed to escape and fall upon your shoulders from your erratic movements.
Glancing around desperately, Art was no where to be found. With his height, he could probably reach the alarm on your ceiling and deactivate it. You spent no time waiting for his possible arrival and grabbed a chair.
Lugging it over to the centre of the room, you gripped the top of it and shakily stood tall upon the chair. Reaching up high, you fiddled with the alarm, attempting to get a good grip to be able to remove it.
You huffed, making a sound of aggravation as your towel somehow remained firm around your figure, even if it was short. The water from the shower was cold on your body now and it only seemed to worsen your mood.
Finally managing to rip the damn thing from the ceiling, you removed the batteries and tossed it to the floor with a scowl. Stupid faulty alarm.
In a less than desirable mood, your hand gripped the chair to steady yourself. Before you could even put a foot on the floor, a honk sounded so close to you it had you yelping; you hadn't even sensed him let alone heard him.
Wide eyed, you stared down at the clown. His shoulder was practically brushing your outer thigh as you stood high. "Oh, Art, I didn't see you--"
A hand being thrust out to you interrupted you. He was offering his large hand to you, and although uncertain, you couldn't deny that he had a peculiar charm. Smiling, you gripped his hand with your own to steady yourself, lifting one leg to put on the floor.
Except you never did. You barely caught the malicious grin the clown gave you, eyes narrowed into slits and teeth bared as he lifted one foot backwards and kicked the chair out from under you.
The leg of the chair shattered from the force, splintering and bending as you began to topple to the floor. You screamed, eyes squeezed shut.
You thought you had whiplash at the way your hand was wrenched painfully towards his body, your figure pressed up against his as your head butted into his chest.
He had an arm around your waist, suspending your weight in the air against his body with no difficulty.
The clown remained frozen, grin still as wide and terrifying. Your feet barely brushed the floor. "Art!", you screeched, body shaking from adrenaline, hair towel fallen to the floor.
The clowns eyes snapped to yours disturbingly. Before you could berate him further, you were tossed upwards until dexterous hands rested at your shoulders and below your knees. He was holding you bridal style and it terrified you.
You cried out in shock, gripping his clown suit between white knuckles, bath towel beginning to slip ever so slightly. You felt a mixture of terror and embarrassment at being in the brutal arms of the county killer.
And the terror only increased tenfold as the clown removed his grip from supporting your shoulders for mere seconds, your body heading straight for the floor, before securing his arms around you again before you could make impact, shoulders moving in silent laughter.
You truly screamed that time, legs kicking out and arms wrapping around his neck instinctively. Your eyes squeezed shut, towel slipping even more; it mortified you.
"Oh my goodness, Art, you terrified me! And I bet it was you that set off my alarm?", you accused in a high pitched, shaky tone, grasping him incredibly tight as you felt his fingers teasingly loosen just to scare you.
Art nodded vigorously, proud and excited that he had been caught, and snapped his head down at you. His grin of sinister glee slowly morphed into a knowing, filthy smirk.
You blinked up at him vulnerably, wide and glassy eyed, rigid in his arms, before realising that oh my God, you were in a towel this entire time, a short towel that surely moved during the commotion--
He must have noticed the sudden panic in your eyes, for his lecherous smirk stretched terrifyingly, eyes narrowed.
Surprisingly pervertedly, Art glanced down at your body swiftly. Once, twice. An indication that you should probably take a look. His eyebrows wiggled, and without needing to look, your cheeks reddened, lips parted in shock.
Head snapping down at yourself, a flush spread from your neck to your cheeks. The towel had dropped so low your breasts were threatening to spill out obscenely. It didn't help that you were of ample size.
And although everything else vital was covered, the way your upper thigh was exposed had you squirming desperately to try and make some distance.
"Ah!", you cried, "my towel! Put me down!" You demanded helplessly, overcome by embarrassment as Art snickered silently at your need to protect your intimates.
Art dropped the arm holding your legs, letting them crash upon the floor painfully. The sudden downward motion had you squealing, gripping him hard. You were grateful that he supported your upper body, you supposed.
The way your body dropped had your towel falling fully for a split second before you ripped it back up to cover your modesty.
You tore yourself away from him - he let you - and stared at him with wide eyes, chest panting in fear and fluttering peculiarly.
Your hands shook as you gripped your towel, knees knocking together, withering under the intense stare of the clown as he foregone his usual dramatic, knee slapping laugh and instead almost seemed to chuckle in amusement, brows as low as they could go, head tilting in fascination at your half naked state.
He expected anger, frustration, undeniable fear at his actions towards you. What intrigued him was the way your round cheeks flared crimson and how your eyes, usually relatively confident when regarding him, fluttered everywhere but him.
Yes, he decided, head tilting left and right slowly, deciphering. You seemed incredibly flustered.
He felt lust, often. For blood, violence, but rarely sexually. Pain was sweeter than pleasure, he thought, but regarding you now, languidly staring at you from head to toe, an idea struck his mind...
An idea you couldn't decipher, but the way his eyes lit up and his eyebrows rose pleasantly sent heat flaring through you.
You didn't allow it to consume you any further as you darted up the stairs and into your room.
On the way past him, you saw his shoulders moving in a silent, mean laughter.
That had been two days ago. Since then, you continued on as normal..
Or as normal as can be.
Art remained busy in the old barn, the sounds of hammering and God knows what else permeating the quiet air at all hours of the day, and oftentimes there would be silence; He had left.
It had been a full day and a half since you last took sight of him. It was unusual how domesticated you felt, preparing enough food for two with a little extra leftover, keeping only the dark towels in the bathroom from when he no doubt came strolling in covered in blood and took a shower.
You came to notice he was meticulously clean about things he deemed worthy, such as his clown suit and himself. He loved to bathe in his victims blood, yes, but after a fun days work, you often found him spotless. Well, apart from his teeth. Bizarrely, he didn't utterly stink, and you come to the conclusion that he chose his terrifying mouth to look that way on purpose.
That was good. You appreciated that even if he didn't necessarily do it for you.
The only thing you had gently persuaded him on was allowing you to at least dry his clown suit before putting it on. With a roll of his eyes, he allowed it.
There were very few things he allowed genuinely, and you seemed to believe he had grown accustomed to your gentle naggings of 'Art, please don't touch that with blood on your hands', or 'There was no need to trail bloody footprints all over my kitchen'
You never demanded. That probably helped. Of course he had days where he'd grin mischievously and smear blood across your mirrors and door handles, knowing you'd have to touch it and clean it.
You could live with that. Thankfully, after a night of killing, he was reasonably tame, eating whatever food you kept in your cupboards with a calm expression.
That wasn't to say that he wasn't unpredictable. He could snap on times and come at you with a knife, chasing you around the kitchen as you screeched and whined for him to stop, all the while watching him laugh with glee.
And on real scary nights when he seemed bored, well..
Anything could happen then. Even still, Art remained tame as of yet in comparison to the things he is capable of. He clearly saw a need in you, and repaid your generous cooking, cleaning and fixing up his costume for him with keeping you alive and leaving you mostly unharmed.
A cut here or there, yeah, and definitely a bruise but you were alive and well.
The only real affect he had on you was terror, he did enjoy popping up randomly in the dark when you had got up for a glass of water, hand roughly pushed over your mouth as your screams muffled into his hand before realising who had caught you.
Or the times you'd check on him in the old barn, just to see if he was around for dinner, calling his name out. Venturing in, you'd freeze as the door shut behind you, darkness enveloping the entire area, only for the sound of a flame thrower igniting near you making you scream and cover your mouth in terror.
Each time you'd ramble something like 'Art, stop it! I-Im making beef for dinner and I just wanted to check that you wanted some!'
The clown would tug on your cheeks with both hands, patting your head as though to say 'how adorable are you?' before pushing you surprisingly gently towards the door and shooing you away.
You'd run back to the house with your chest beating so loudly you could hear it in your ears.
Presently, you were wearing a cute brown dress, tights covering your legs as you cleaned around the place. Loving the winter, you brought out your cosy candles and fairy lights, loving the gentle glow as the nights grew longer and the sun faded earlier. It wasn't quite time to decorate for Christmas yet, so this will do.
In fact, having a little break from the clown had allowed you to really tidy everything up, get your chores done, see to the animals and bake some brownies in the oven.
All in all you felt refreshed and well, truly in your element. It allowed you to push.. peculiar thoughts of Art from your mind.
Time carried on, and the brownies were cooling on the baking tray as you sat comfortably on your settee, a white blanket decorated in pumpkins covering you. You loved Halloween, too.
Dropping off to sleep, your mind felt at peace until a muffled sound was heard from outside. Lifting your head, you didn't react as you awaited Art to barge in at any moment, only..nothing.
Sitting up, you waited silently, hearing that muffling once again.
You frowned. Art was a master of silence, if he didn't want you to even hear the rustling of his bag, you wouldn't.
So why did you hear leaves crunching loudly, and..
Oh.
That wasn't Art.
You could hear voices mumbling now, close to your window, though unintelligible. You wondered who it could be. You had no known close relatives, and no friends, really.
Not close enough to appear unannounced on a late Friday evening, anyway.
Living in the middle of no where, you learned to be cautious of such sounds. You had no neighbours, and hardly anyone ever passed your cottage. Those that did tended to knock politely, not skirt around your perimeter sneakily.
Aside from Art; he's different.
Standing swiftly, you opened a drawer, gripping a handgun. You could never be too careful out here all alone, and you doubted it would go down easy if you stood with your shotgun aimed at them.
Handgun it is. Hiding it furtively, you stepped outside with confidence.
The sight of two men dressed head to toe in black greeted you, peeking through your curtains.
"Can I help you?", you began politely, causing them to bolt upright and spin around to face you. You couldn't see their faces.
They weren't amicable strangers, that was for certain.
"That truck yours?", the tallest indicated with a nod of his head.
"It is."
"You, uh..you live alone?"
You smiled.
"I do."
The two men sprung into action. "You do, do you? Be a good girl and chuck me the keys."
"Why would I ever do that?" You remained calm, pulse elevating, adrenaline begining to grow.
"Why?", the other repeated with a scoff, and swiftly pulled a knife out from his pocket, "because I want to see your round ass walk away like a good bitch, so go grab those fucking keys before I cut your face off."
Talk about overboard.
Nodding politely, you backstepped. "I understand. I don't want any trouble, give me one moment, please."
You backstepped further into your house, keeping the door open.
As you did, you heard one of the men hiss 'im not a fucking murderer, let's just get the truck and fucking go!'
You had a few options here.
You could run, hide, call the police.
You shook your head and steeled your nerves. Hell no. This was your damn property.
The two men looked around cautiously, impatient. "Where the fuck is she? We should've gone in with her."
"She's terrified, bitch probably can't find the keys."
They heard the sound of a gun cocking. Loudly.
Turning back to the door, you supposed they never thought to see a shotgun aiming directly at them. You could see their eyes widen behind a black robber mask.
"Woah, hey, keep the fucking keys--", one began, hands in the air, knife dropped to the floor.
You remember holding this very shotgun the night you met Art. You smartly lowered it, knowing true evil and terror when you saw it.
But these two? They had nothing on Art. Just average men, trying hard to terrify a woman. A nasty smirk broke out on your face, one of anger and satisfaction.
"I'll tell you what's going to happen. You're going to get the fuck off my property before I blow a hole in your chest. How's that sound?"
The scared one nodded vigorously, hands jittering as he backstepped, ready to bolt. The other, however..
"You wouldn't do that. You don't have it in you.", the other tried calling your bluff, taking a leap forward. It started you, but you remained strong.
"Wouldn't I? Out here in the middle of no where, who'd ever come looking for you?"
The man shrugged. "You might be right, but whose going to look for you?"
Before you could respond a hand grabbed from behind, reaching out and gripping the barrel of your shotgun and forcing it to the sky.
You instinctively pulled the trigger, sound blasting through the forest loudly causing birds to flutter away.
How the hell did he get in the house?
The assailant was stronger than you, tearing the weapon to the floor before gripping you by the hair roughly.
You grunted in pain, hands frantically searching for the handgun on your person as the man at the bottom of your steps began coming at you too.
You managed to shoot him in the thigh, hearing him cry out and collapse.
The scared one took off in a sprint, never turning back.
The aggressive one currently ripping strands of hair from the root wrestled you to the floor after shooting his friend, boot pressing firmly on the hand that held the gun and kicking it away.
He got on top of you and held you down as you struggled and fought against his hold, head reeling to the side as he back handed you, hard.
Furniture and anything close by moved and was tossed over as you fought back, unwilling to let him pin your hands to the floor, punching a fist into his groin to get him to crumple slightly so you could lug him off with all your might.
You scrambled to your feet and made a dash to the door, barely getting halfway before a strong body wrestled you back to the floor, your hands aching from the wall as he ripped your dress from the back to keep a hold on you.
You continued scrambling ahead, reaching out for anything, hands gripping the large sewing needle you had lost some time ago and turning to stab it into his cheek.
The man hissed, face turned into an ugly snarl as he staggered back in pain, holding the wound.
You up and ran, panting and panicking as you frantically made it outside.
The man didn't let up, he ruthlessly grabbed your hair causing you to cry out and slapped you so hard across the face you saw stars.
Blood dripped from your mouth as you stumbled back, held upright by the man's grip on you.
He grabbed your cheeks hard, squeezing the blood from your mouth, snarling. "Pretty thing, I'm going to put you in your fucking place--"
You cried out a sharp 'no!', kicking him between the legs and pushing him away.
You both fought tooth and nail for a while, you managing to run a short distance before being dragged back and hit even harder in the face.
This time you gasped helplessly for breath, blood spurting out of your nose and down your mouth.
What scared you the most was a hand gripping your thighs and trying to spread them.
"I'm going to fuck you before I kill you, bitch. And it's going to hurt." The man seethed the ugly promise, tearing your dress up high and grabbing your tights to rip a hole in then.
You cried out, kicking him in the jaw but to no avail. Without any weapons you had no chance in winning against his strength.
You saw an opening as he stumbled back at your kick and bolted it as fast as you could towards the trees. You knew this land well, so you knew where to hide.
Frightful and shaking, tears littered your cheeks as you heard the sound of the man getting to his feet to chase after you.
You gasped painfully, unable to breathe, and all but screamed bloody murder as you ran directly into a chest.
An arm wrapped around your struggling body, a hand smothering your scream as you fought and cried out desperately against another assailant. This one was like a brick wall, unmovable to your attempted attacks, even if he himself wasn't attacking you.
Two hands gripped your shoulders and shook you hard, causing you to look up at his face in terror only to pause, wide eyed.
That familiar, monochromatic clown tilted his head down at you in a thoughtful frown, mild confusion pooling in his irises as he studied you from head to toe, moving a gloved finger to wipe at the blood trickling down your chin.
"Art!", you cried, chest heaving up and down, "Theres--These men--attacked me and--and tried to-to--"
You could barely get your words out, watching as Art cocked a surprised eyebrow up and attempted to decipher your rambled sentences.
He didn't really need to. Upon further inspection, he could see the bruising of your face, the very blatant tear of your tights which showed a lot of skin, and how your dress had been ripped.
He knew something was off when he heard the sound of gunshots. He knew you had guns, but for you to use one meant something was amiss. Something compelled him to come and look, dropping the dead body he had been mutilating in the woods, eager and..somewhat impatient, to get to you.
That was a foreign feeling, and now having actually studied your shaking hands that gripped his costume and the amount of blood that covered your face as tears dribbled down fatly, staring up at him in utter relief, he was unused to such an expression, and truly didnt mind it coming from you.
Gazing outwards at the forest, an intense ire began to build in him. You weren't going to die today, he doubted you ever would because you were his, and only his.
Having finally made a decision, Art grinned cruelly, fingers eager and twitching excitedly to meet this so called attacker.
Letting his arms drop from you, he took a step forward to make his way to the house, stopping as you gripped his arm in fear.
"W-wait, please don't leave me--"
Art held up a hand calmly, shushing you, and went through his black bag, retrieving a hammer. He patted your head, as though telling you not to worry, and made his way towards your home. He walked excitedly with a bounce in his step.
You knew what that meant.
You were so happy to see him, as fucked up as that is, but he clearly made the decision to protect you. You felt relief and fondness, sitting against a tree with your knees up to your chest, waiting.
You wanted them dead, truth be told, but may God have mercy on them for what Art is about to do..
You remembered hearing gut wrenching screams and splatters of vomit as various tools were used to maim the trespassers.
You remember your body moving on auto pilot as you entered your home, Art briefly stopping his flaying of the man who threatened assault on you, to lift a hand and wave at you, fingers dancing playfully.
You waved back slowly, trudging up the steps and into your home where your living room was a mess from the commotion. There were patches of your blood on the floor, a lamp upturned and glass shattered messily.
Body and mind exhausted, you laid down on the settee and fell asleep dreamlessly. You didn't even awaken to the sounds of a chainsaw and guttural screaming.
You don't know how long you slept for. You were in and out of consciousness for a while, waking up to your ribs aching from the attack, or your lips burning from being split, the blood drying on them and irritating them.
You were still a mess, hair dishevelled and face bruised, dried blood flaking off your face and your clothes in almost tatters.
Your face was still puffy from crying, eyes opening slowly and slightly bloodshot. Moaning weakly, you stretched your legs out and hissed as your ripped tights dug into a deep cut in your thigh.
The TV was on. You barely registered the comforting hum of some early Christmas film that was on, volume low and tranquil.
Slowly standing, you made your way to the kitchen. Your chest fluttered at the sight of Art, sitting calmly at the table with a plate of sweet treats you had in the cupboards, including biscuits and cake, and what looked to be a cup of hot chocolate.
He was eating them very civilised, too. You were proud of that. It wasn't like he needed to eat, at least you thought, but he really did enjoy sweet food. Same as you.
Clad in a surprisingly clean clown suit, he waved at you, his hands stained red. He must have cleaned himself up for the most part, and..looking around, you sighted a mop bucket, so he must've really made a mess and cleaned up after him.
That was oddly..sweet. It made you smile.
"I must have been asleep a while." You gathered aloud, taking a seat at the table across from him.
The clown shrugged, held up a hand with 4 fingers. So you slept for about 4 hours then.
You rubbed your eyes, exhausted. The clown tilted his head at you slowly, frowning softly in thought with a finger to his chin.
"Yeah, I'm a mess. I can't believe those guys." You huffed, glaring down at yourself. Your anger spiked at the sight of your attire.
"He ruined my favourite fucking dress!" You exclaimed, arms folding frustratedly. You were a mixture of huffs and mutters as the clown cocked a calm eyebrow - how had you both switched places? - and listened to you curse and swear which he had never heard before.
It made him chuckle silently, head in hand as he watched you. Feeling eyes on you, your frown softened. "Im sorry, I'm not myself. I thought I had it all under control when I saw the two of them."
Your gaze dropped lower to the floor, reminiscing. "I didn't really notice the third. I have no idea how he got in." You almost whispered defeatedly, eyes misted and glassy as you remembered the way that man treated you and touched you.
You suddenly felt incredibly dirty. What if you hadn't managed to outrun him? He was about to violate you. And what if Art had never showed up? He'd--
Your thoughts draw to a pause as Art taps your hand gently, points to himself and does a stabbing motion, then points outside.
It made your lips quirk. "Their dead?"
Art nodded excitedly, grinning wide as his fingers tickle your hand. You begin to giggle, and grip onto his hand. "I'm glad you turned up. I mean, I managed to fight him off barely, but imagine if..."
You froze, eyes staring at your intertwined hands, and shook your head. "Assholes."
Art suddenly lit up like a lightbulb, face making one of surprise as he held a hand up to wait. Comically running out of the room, you awaited his return as he came near you with one of the robbers mask. Something was wrapped inside it.
Art got down on one knee and presented it to you with arms outstretched, wiggling his eyebrows, and you giggled again. Gripping the fabric, you found it soaked with blood. Opening it, a human heart stared back at you. It was relatively fresh.
You blinked slowly, not at all feeling usual feelings of repulsion and fear. Instead you felt..warm. The symbolic meaning of presenting you with the heart of your attacker wasn't lost on you, and as fucked up as it was, you blushed faintly.
"I.."
You smiled incredibly gently, Art thought. It made him happy to see your face finally light up after those filthy, rotten humans dared to touch what was his.
"I'm incredibly grateful for that. Thank you, Art. Who'd have thought you'd make such a great protector?" You winked playfully, laughing when he returned it dramatically with a nod.
"Oh! I almost forgot!", you rose and grabbed a nearby dish. "I made brownies!", you pouted at the fact that they weren't warm and delicious anymore, and Art thought that if you kept acting so cute he'd have to hurt you. In a good way, of course. He was still confused about that.
Art revealed one of his rare smiles, lacking it's usual slyness or sinisterness, and grabbed a brownie delightedly. It made you beam.
There you both sat, his hands bloodied and your face bruised with a heart sitting between you both as you shared the brownies.
There was an undeniable connection, and as you cuddled up in your blankets after a fresh shower, staring up at the ceiling, you thought about that.
The dynamic had shifted. Art could still be sly and mean in his ways of scaring you, but he certainly toned it down. He seemed to want to hear your laughter more, launching tickle attacks on you until you were a squealing mess on the settee, wriggling and fighting against his grip as tears of laughter wet your cheeks.
"Please!", you squealed, "no more! You win!", you'd shriek, body contorting until his fingers finally stopped and he stared down at you smugly.
For a moment, you both stared in silence, you catching your breath and him observant as ever.
With a burst of excited energy, you fled his slack grip and bolted to the other side of the living room, jumping in your spot. "Just kidding! I got away so I won!" You giggled ecstatically, watching as the clown slowly stood to his tall height.
Your laughter died down, nervous excitement replacing it. He held a glint in his eye that could only mean trouble. Art tilted his head dramatically, finger to his lips as though saying 'Oh, you've won, have you?'
You shook your head in panic, hands held up in surrender. "i-i didn't mean that! Honestly!"
Art mimiced your panicked face, holding his hands up in surrender as he jumped towards you. You jolted, stumbling back as an uncertain laughter bubbled up.
"Believe me, I know I could never outrun you..", you glanced towards the kitchen door, plotting.
Art lifted a hand to his chin, silently humming in thought, before holding up a hand with fingers spread wide.
He dropped a finger, holding up 4.
Then 3.
2.
"Wait--wait why are you counting?!"
1.
Art froze, grin held wide as he remained unmoving. You shifted nervously, about to say something before Art suddenly came to life again and darted towards you.
You screamed and bolted away, running instead to the stairs that were closer and hoping to make it to your room.
You did, and as you ran through it and turned to slam the door shut, Art was already in the doorway and wrapping his arms around you as you shrieked and cried out apologies for challenging him.
Art showed you no mercy, throwing you to the bed and holding you down with ease as he assaulted your ribs again with his fingers.
He laughed silently at your torture, gleeful and delighted at your non stop screaming and laughing.
"Art! Wait! I can't take it anymore!--" you wheezed, grabbing his wrists and pushing as hard as you could.
He didn't even budge. He was like a stone wall. Art paused, cocking his head down at your futile efforts and back up to your terrified face.
You froze, realising that you just challenged him again.
With a flash of black and white, Art jumped atop you, straddling your hips as he held your wrists down with one of his hands, watching you squirm and whine.
He chuckled evilly, silently, eyebrows low and grin spreading wide.
But there was that same look from the other day again. Peering down at you, he watched you analyse the position you were in, eyes fluttering up to his face in shock as a flush tainted your pretty skin.
Art knew that look. He was very meticulous when it came to the human body and the emotions it can feel.
You were panting, chest fluttering and warmth radiating off of you as Art smirked down at you knowingly. He raised his eyebrows, hand to mouth in shock as though to say 'Are those dirty thoughts in your head?'
Although silent, it was as though you knew that he knew what you were thinking. You felt dazed, so red and undeniably enjoying the vision of him above you, holding you down.
There was no denying the guilty thoughts you had had of him in the privacy of your bedroom at night, faceless men turning into monochromatic, super natural clowns each time you reached your peak.
You felt vile at first. But after his protection against those men the other day, your feelings definitely shifted, and since then you couldn't stop your thoughts from trailing to him..
The sexual ones, too. The private ones where you thought about pale, strong hands holding your head down against the bed as you were taken from behind.
The ones where your head was wrenched back by an iron fist in your hair, too euphoric to the point that you could only babble words.
You knew he could take you there. And his incessant flirting in real life, where he'd wiggle his eyebrows at you if you passed in a towel or if you bent over, or where he'd stand teasingly in your way of a doorway, forcing you to squeeze past him as he smirks and winks. Those things made the thoughts all the stronger, and at times you wondered if he knew what you were going to do once you got back to your room.
Sometimes, the way he smirked and waved at you with a wiggle of his fingertips just after you finished getting yourself off made you wonder. He must've known, this freakish demonic man.
The memories brought heat spreading down to your neck, your tongue tied as you struggled to break the tension. You struggled to get a word out, eyes fluttering in nervous anticipation. It was hard not to romanticise this charming clown.
"I--"
The clown leaned down close, void eyes staring into yours that were so full of emotion, raw and naked. His strong hand that was capable of such violence began tracing your jawline delicately, as though you were porcelain.
You inhaled shakily, feeling the digits drop to your neck, pressing against your fluttering, rapid pulse.
From anyone else, that would feel uncomfortable. But Art doing that felt so suffocatingly intimate you didn't know how to react, eyebrows drawn together in mild confusion at your feelings.
The way Art smirked made you realise he knew exactly what he was doing. Lifting his hand to his mouth, he gripped the glove with his teeth and tugged it off, freeing his pale, veiny hand and bringing it to your cheek, thumb tenderly rubbing the area.
You felt like your head was going to burst from how red you were. You think its because the utter shock at having Art act in a way that wholly juxtaposes him and touch you delicately made you feel so exquisitely special that you didn't know how to register it.
How can a mere innocent touch melt you so much?
His fingers traced the lines and curves of your face in fascination. There was no doubt a morbidity to his thoughts, but there was also mild, genuine adoration in his lifeless eyes.
Your pulse quickened, butterflies dancing in your belly at the thumb that now traced your plush lips. Body reacting faster than your thoughts, your tongue wet the tip of his thumb.
A glint began to shine in his eyes, ferocious and wanting. He tilted his head down at you, unsmiling but not in a scary way; he appeared quite tranquil, and something else.
His thumb dipped into your mouth slightly, experimentally, and he was pleased at the way you wholly accepted him in, swirling your tongue intimately around his digit.
Your eyelids drooped, overcome by this display of raw connection, your lips glistening as he slowly retrieved his thumb, giving your lips one final stroke before gliding his hand down your neck again, tickling the skin with gentle fingertips before moving down to your collarbone.
You held your breath, biting your lip as the usually menacing clown above you glided further down, and down, until his hand brushed the outline of your breast, barely skimming across your nipple.
You inhaled sharply, how were you this sensitive? You could feel heat pooling between your thighs already.
Art tilted his head, examining the large, soft globes that hid beneath your clothes. Eyes flickering up at you, Art smirked before gripping the front of your shirt and tearing it open with ease.
You gasped aloud, eyes wide and mouth agape as your breasts bounced free, nipples hard and begging for attention.
You flushed so deeply red that your face began resonating heat. You were so embarrassed at being half naked in front of him, and you didn't know why. Maybe it was because of the teasing way he winked appreciatively, removing the other glove from his hand swiftly before grazing your breasts barely, hands gripping handfuls of them boldly soon after.
His thumbs skimmed over your pebbled nipples, watching your head loll back against the pillow as you inhaled and exhaled shakily. Bolts of arousal were shooting to the junction of your thighs every time his calloused thumbs teased your perk nipples.
Art was entranced by your visible display of arousal, so sensitive and so wanting; he had never felt this way about a person. Even he knew he was being unnaturally kind, inducing you with pleasure that was sure to have you tingling.
Art never did things unless he wanted to. He didn't want to hurt you. No, his dominance and roughness that he could just tell you craved would come later. For now, he wanted you wet and yearning.
He was proficient in knowing how to hurt the human body, which means he's acutely aware of how to pleasure it; that simply came hand in hand.
And, glancing down at you, having been brought from his thoughts by your breathy exhale, he could tell that what he was doing was incredibly pleasurable. You squirmed, legs widening and relaxing unconsciously below him, your pretty green skirt riding up your thighs.
"Art-", you whined in a whisper, nerve endings alight and tingling, begging to be touched.
Art flashed a smile, head tilting once more as though wondering what to do with you. He could leave you here, undeniably wet and sticky and yearning, begging sweetly, or he could indulge, nudge your pretty thighs apart and fuck you like you've wanted him to for a while now.
You didn't hide it well, especially after touching yourself mere minutes before seeing him, pupils blown wide, hair tousled and sweaty, legs lightly shaking. You should probably stop leaving your wet, soft underwear on your bedroom floor too. That's a big give away, if you didn't already know.
The sarcastic thought had him grinning, and after moving his head back and forth in thought, weighing out his options, he flicked his thumbs over your nipples a few more times, watching you react immediately and arch your back towards his hands.
"Ah-", you gasped, shuddering, gnawing at your lip with hooded eyes.
Art rolled his eyes up at the ceiling, then shrugged lightly to himself. He wasn't necessarily a sexual creature, but he was still in the body of a man. Tweaking your nipples teasingly, Art nodded.
He wanted to fuck you, hard.
But he wanted to tease you first.
Arts eyes dropped to the way your legs had spread for him, dark underwear on display from the way your skirt had ridden up your thighs.
Trailing a hand down your waist and to your hips, Art studied you as his hand moved lower, teasing your inner thighs, pinching the fatty flesh there before pressing two fingers against your apex.
You reacted immediately, shuddering a breath in and out as your legs spread fully, bent at the knee.
Pale fingers traced your soft, wet lips through your underwear, tickling from where your hole would be and up towards your pulsating clit, circling the bud with light pressure.
You moaned quietly, legs squirming slightly as you yearned for a direct touch, his teasing becoming relentless. Your hands balled into fists as white hot tingling sensations barreled through your stomach and your clit, demanding to be touched but to no avail.
Art knew this, and pressed two fingers firmly against your clit, circling.
"Oh--yes--", you whined, looking fucked out with your head lolled back when Art had barely done anything. He wondered how you'd react to the plans he had for you later if this is how you were after a few strokes.
His teasing continued, trailing down to your hole and dipping in slightly, soaking your underwear, before running his finger to the edge of the useless garment and hooking two fingers in, tearing it apart.
This time, Art used both hands to grip your thighs, spreading them far. He studied your pink, exposed slit with incredible interest. The mess of wetness was excessive, coating the length of your sex, your inner thighs and gliding down to your tight rim.
You squirmed in his hands at his staring, to which he tightened his grip, making you shudder.
"Art..", you whined
His eyes snapped up to yours expectantly.
"Please, I--", you gasped at his fingers tracing maddeningly around your labia, refusing to touch you directly. "Please touch me. Please, I--..I need it so bad.", tears filled your eyes with frustration, "so fucking bad, you have no idea.."
But Art did know. He's always known, and just to prove his point he searched for something in his pockets, retreaving it and dangling it in front of your face.
You froze. It was your used underwear from yesterday, when you masturbated before a shower, throwing the garment to the floor. You thought you had imagined throwing it to the floor, because upon coming back to the bedroom, it was gone.
You looked mortified, hands covering your face. "You've known all along?" You whined, unable to face his grin. You felt humiliation creep up your chest at being caught red handed, biting your lip hard to ground yourself. Pathetic tears threatened to fall in frustration.
You gasped as two hands gripped your own and pinned them above your head, using one to keep them there while the other hand wagged it's finger back and fore, Art shaking his head and tutting silently.
You were forced to face his smug, teasing stare, your own face pouting. Art lifted two fingers, wiggled them, before bringing them to your lips.
You accepted, swirling your tongue around them, before they were retrieved swiftly. Wiggling them again, Art made a show of demonstrating just what he was about to do to you to bring that smile back.
Winking in a way that had you melting in a puddle of embarrassment, Art pressed two fingers to your wet entrance, grinning before gliding them into your wanton hole.
Your reaction was instantaneous, a keening 'oh!' torn from your throat, back arching as you squirmed beneath the hand that pinned you down.
Art began to thrust his fingers deeply, pulling out to the tip before delving back in, watching you writhe and gasp. You were desperate for more, hips lifting higher.
Art pulled his fingers out of you, showing the wet lubrication that coated them, scissoring them apart to watch the way it attached his fingers with stringy gooeyness.
You released a frustrated whine this time, fighting beneath his one hand. "No, no don't pull them out, please--" you pouted pathetically, desperately.
Art wanted to torment you more, but his desire to see you screaming in pleasure outweighed that at the moment. He wanted to break you.
Shrugging innocently as though to say 'well, you asked for it', Arts two fingers sunk into you to the knuckle, pumping in and out firmly and roughly, curling rhythmically against that spongy area he knew would have you seeing stars.
"Oh--Oh!", you cried, hips tilted up into his assault, the lewd sound of your wet hole permeating the air as his fingers went in and out, in and out, restlessly and roughly, giving you exactly what you wanted.
Art smirked darkly, increasing the pace rapidly, so fast he had to hold your kicking legs down as he brought you too much pleasure, too much torment in the sweetest way he could give.
You cried out loudly now, unable to hold your voice back, body convulsing lightly as your peak approached.
"A-Art, Oh, Ohh--" you moaned, panting and thrashing back and fore as his fingers forced an orgasm out of you, intense and sudden, squirting down his wrist and soaking your bed.
You gasped for air, legs falling slack as your mind felt like it was floating.
You didn't have any time to think as Art gripped your hips tightly, flipping you over effortlessly and pulling your ass into the air. He smoothed the skin gently, before giving it a slap, watching you jolt.
You were soaked, legs quivering as you braced yourself. Your knees knocked together, staring back at him desperately.
You had dreamed of this for some time, you thought, gnawing at your lip anxiously. Judging by the sudden, bare feel of his hard cock against your folds, you knew you were in for a ride; he felt huge.
He was definitely thick, but even more than that is that he was incredible in length. He wasn't an ordinary man, so you shouldn't be surprised, but a tingle of fear and excitement gnaws through you all the same.
"W-will that fit?", you whispered in awe, salivating, and Art merely shrugged, wiggling his eyebrows as though to say 'ill make it fit', before putting a hand on your head and pushing your face into the bed.
You felt arousal course through you at his actions, being pinned down and bared for him to use. You pushed your round ass into him as much as you could, desperate and whorish, feeling his body judder with silent laughter.
He teased you at first, pushing the tip in, then retrieving, only to push just a little bit more in, and then retrieving again.
You huffed, unable to hide your frustration, but choked on it as Art slowly pulled out, then slid all the way in to the hilt.
You cried out loudly, hands balled into fists in your blanket, head pushed into the bed hard as Art gave you no time to adjust and began fucking you.
Your insides were on fire, pain and pleasure at his large intrusion mixing together, pulling moan after moan out of you. You could barely breathe, struggling to say his name as Art now gripped both of your hips and bred you.
A hand was lifted from you before coming down hard on your jiggling flesh, one stroke after another, getting harder and harder until you were writhing and whining.
He didn't stop, testing just how far he could go, switching to the other cheek when he felt your screams were getting particularly painful.
The stinging was unbearable, but it made you so wet, so pliant for him to absolutely manhandle you into the bed, gripping a fistful of your hair before he ravaged you just the way you wanted.
You were already a babbling mess, cock drunk when Art had hardly done anything. He rolled his eyes at you, though he was definitely amused at the unintelligible song you sang for him, something about his large cock and something else about breeding you.
You filthy girl.
Arts hand tangled rougher into your locks, before he gripped it hard and wrenched your head back, spine arching.
Your whines increased, becoming incredibly high pitch and feminine for him as he forced your head back.
Your neck was burning, but you loved this feeling, having a firm hand tug your hair back and an incredible, curved dick hit your insides just right.
The way he fucked you hard made you want to pretend to be bratty in the future, just so he could put you in your place. In fact, maybe one day when you're feeling particularly moody or low, you could get him to fuck it out of you, sweeten you up. The thought of being forced to take him deep as he fucked the brattiness out of you had you sopping, thighs drenched and shaking and barely standing.
"Ahh--Art, it feels so-", you moaned brokenly, thighs collapsing as the demon above you took to forcing your face back into the bed, other hand forcing your wrists above your head.
Having your thighs together now made his cock feel utterly massive, forcing the air out of you as he glided in between your plush cheeks, invading your sodden hole.
It made you feral.
"Oh my God oh my God--", you cried weakly, sobbing. Tears rolled down your cheeks in over stimulation, and Art leaned his body over yours, pushing you into the bed as he used one hand to smother your mouth, hooking his fingers into it.
You babbled, sucking his fingers desperately as you drooled down his wrist and your chin.
His fingers stuffed your mouth, thick length now ramming into you harder. You could barely hold your head up anymore, resting weakly against his wrist as you cried and whimpered, mascara blackening your eyes and cheeks messily.
Suddenly your hips were gripped and your body was forced onto it's back. You whined at the loss of him inside you, legs wrapping obscenely around his trim waist, needing more.
"Fuck me, please fuck me-", you breathed, head lolling back as fat tears burned your eyes, soaking your cheeks. Your lips were formed into a frustrated pout, fists clenched as though you were about to have a tantrum unless his dick resumed fucking you.
Art grinned truly maniacally down at you, gleeful and amused at your cries. It was a stunning sight, seeing your usual reserved self acting like such a slut.
He pouted right back at you, holding two fists up to his eyes and rotating them back and forth to impersonate dramatic crying. He was mocking you cruelly, laughing at your fucked out expression.
Forcing his fingers into your mouth again, Art pushed them down your throat, watching your eyes widen as you gagged and choked. Saliva pooled in your mouth excessively, and he scooped it out with both fingers to smear it messily over your cheeks and down your chin, laughing silently and pointing.
"No, please stop mocking me..", you whimpered quietly, lips wobbling as you pleaded at him with your big eyes. Your hips bucked desperately, thighs sticky and warm.
Art dropped his grin and rolled his eyes at your antics. You really wanted him to fuck you? Sure.
A malicious glint lit up his eyes, tenderly wiping the black tears staining your cheeks from your makeup.
Before you could blink, a strong hand was wrapped around your throat roughly, and a moment later his hot cock was pummeling into you mercilessly.
You couldn't even scream, sounds trapped in your throat and escaping in high pitched exhales, your head falling back against the bed as he strangled you.
It terrified you, but as your breathing became less and your head became clouded, a sudden, indescribable pleasure ripped through you so powerfully your eyes rolled back into your head, drool openly gliding down your cheek.
Your body felt weak and unresponsive, unable to even grip at his wrists for some reprieve, but the pleasure..
The fucking pleasure was mind numbing.
Your eyes drooped, face turning almost purple as he fucked you so deep you felt sick.
You couldn't gasp anymore, weak breaths barely getting past the brutal grip on your throat.
You were delirious now, feeling in a dream like state, ecstasy exploding behind your eyes and lighting your nerves on such a burning fire. You felt like your soul was ripped out of your mortal shell, experiencing the biggest high of your entire life.
Art cackled madly, silently, a sick adoration twisting in his eyes at the way your consciousness began to slip. He held your neck dangerously tight, tighter than he planned but judging by the way your hot, wet pussy gripped at him, he knew you loved it.
The sounds of your joining bodies was obscene and lewd, squelching and loud as his cock forced your lubrication out of your body.
Art gritted his teeth at the morbidly stunning view of you drooling excessive saliva, tears soaking his hands and mascara clumping your eyelashes, your eyes now bloodshot and heavy.
They rolled back, and soon you become quiet.
Bringing you to the very edge, Art removed your hand and allowed air to enter your lungs.
You gasped painfully, choking and sobbing as you were given no time to inhale greedily, instead getting ravaged inhumanly fast.
You couldn't lift your head, eyes blinking dazedly up at Art, who lifted a hand to wave at you mockingly.
You tried to speak but couldn't, mouth held open in permanent ecstasy. Your hips snapped upright as fingers roughly rubbed at your engorged clitoris, abusing the greedy nub.
A cry tore from your raw throat, head thrashing side to side and legs shaking violently as your orgasm rendered you incoherent.
You screamed out, squirting almost violently down your quivering thighs and over Arts rigid, brutal cock.
You sobbed, face screwing up pathetically as genuine, uncontrollable cries wracked your form. You could barely intake breath, body and nerves unable to handle the level of soul wrenching pleasure and borderline pain that was inflicted upon you.
Art gripped your shaking thighs and lifted them above his shoulders, face devoid of his usual smirk and instead scowling down at you with smouldering eyes. He fucked you harder, faster, animalistic before his hips stuttered once, twice, and a hot, thick load of cum filled your gaping pussy.
The amount was unnatural, not human, but your body lapped it up all the same as your insides convulsed and quivered. You moaned weakly, keening in a higher pitch as your lips wobbled and your eyes remained misted and delirious.
You didn't even feel Art pull out, stuck in a dream like state as aftershocks lit your body up. Your legs were dropped from his shoulders, falling unceremoniously to the bed, wide open.
You babbled incoherently, arm covering your face. Art stared down at you serenely, gazing from your dick dumb espression to the mess of cum coating your thighs, globs of it dripping down to your asshole. Your hole gaped and twitched, greedily gulping up all that it could take, thoroughly fucked and bred.
You felt two fingers scooping up the mess and pushing it filthily back into your pussy.
You whined, dropping the arm from your eyes to finally look at the demonic clown that had surely taken grip of your soul and tore it out.
Art smirked down at you, winking playfully. He revelled in the mess he made of you.
"Art that was--I--Mmm--", you moaned, responding to the gentle caress of your clit with his fingers. You were so wet and full of cum, biting your lip.
You didn't move as you felt his form pull away from you. You were so out of it you felt drunk.
You didn't feel him tucking you into bed, only remembered being beneath the blankets as he tilted his head down at you contemplatively.
He felt something foreign, that was for certain. He felt a possessive adoration over you, wanting to break you into a crying, sobbing mess, strangle you until you stood on the precipice of death like earlier, but also..
Watching you now, eyes drooping as you gripped his hand softly, tiredly, he made the final decision that he wanted more tender moments like this.
