I am an anti contact paraphile and rad-inclus. I am respectful to all, even antis! I will engage with you respectfully, no matter what. I promise you that. Unless you genuinely piss me off, then I will call you an asshat.
If you are pro-contact, anti MSPEC, and a generally cruel person, do not interact
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⛥My pronouns are He/Him, It/Its/Itself, and Pup/Pups/Pupself
⛥My name is Levi, but I respond to Will, Hannibal, Alex, And Cujo
⛥ I support Zenogenders. A couple of mine are Demonpupgender, mushdeergender, mushwolfgender, and a Zenogender I've coined called Cujogender, where someone's gender is related to that of a rabid dog
⛥ My main paras are Autobiastophilia, Fictozoophilia, Fictophilia, and Hematophilia
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⛥I love Hannibal!!!! LIKE A LOT!!!
⛥My special interests are Warrior Cats, Human Reproduction and Sex, and Omegaverse
⛥I like to draw and write! Go check out my other blog @loving-slaughter (note: Do not Interact with the other blog if you are a minor)
Mean ⚡︎ Leland Coyle x Fat/Plus Size!Fem!Reader ⚡︎ 5.3k Words
A/N: based on the aftermath of Locksock the Warden, shoutout to @arch-b1sh0p for beta reading and being my hype-man ♥ dividers made by me
Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Non-con/Coercion, Canon-typical violence, Oral Sex (M&F receiving), P in V sex, Puppy play, Daddy kink, Pissing inside someone, no use of y/n
Archive of Our Own Link
Coyle finds you to be the perfect replacement for his Warden.
The stench of blood and viscera lingers in the air as you stumble through the threshold of the secretary's office bathroom, your lungs burning from the chase. Behind you, the Warden's body lies brutalized on the desk in his office. Your hands shake from the effort it took to beat your way through his stomach.
You tell yourself it's just the adrenaline, but you know better.
Of all the reagents sent in to this trial, you were the one who understood the trial victim the most. Seeing the Warden in the shower room, on his knees for Sergeant Coyle, made your chest ache. Ducking away, you hid your flushed face from your team while they watched. They'd never let you hear the end of it. None of them would get it.
Without your team, the only trials you did solo were either at the police station or the courthouse. You spent hours following Coyle around his domain, listening to him rant about anything and everything.
Not to mention the countless times you let him catch you, just so you'd know what it was like to touch him. Most of the failures on your record were from getting too carried away letting Coyle throttle you.
But now, with Coyle hot on your heels, it feels different this time. You lock the door behind yourself, but it's pointless. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The door on the other wall is barricaded, and every hiding place is occupied by junk.
You're terrified to face the prime asset breaking down the door. After what your team just did, there's no way he'd let you leave here alive.
The doorframe splinters at the latch. Leland Coyle crashes through the door like a raging bull. Huffing and puffing, his sights are set on you. His face is flushed and dark, mottled red as sweat beads down his face. Bloodshot eyes stare you down with an intensity that makes you weak in the knees.
Your feet carry you backwards, away from him, until you hit the edge of the half-wall jutting out from the shower.
You're stuck.
"Commie shitbird!"
You flinch and cry out, "Please, I'm sorry!"
"Do you have any idea–" he roars, pointing at you with his free hand, "how long it takes to train a mouth?"
You know he's not really looking for an answer, so you keep quiet.
"Months! Months I spent trainin' him," he spits, "y'all broke my toy!"
"I'm sorry!" you cry out, throwing your hands up in surrender, hoping any sane part of this man would take over.
"Sorry ain't good enough," he growls around his cigarette.
The rational part of you is telling you to stun him, but your rig is still on cooldown for another minute. Long enough to die. Twice. You press your lower back into the wall and look around, trying to brainstorm.
To your dismay, there's nothing. From the shower to the floor– it's all barren except for some used condoms and trash. It's like someone cleared the room of anything useful before you even showed up.
Coyle advances until he's looming over you, dripping sweat onto your clothes and puffing on that cigarette.
The smell of his tobacco turns a light on in the darkest part of your brain. He never smelled pleasant any time you've run into him, but whatever brand he smokes is smooth. It doesn't make you crinkle your nose and hold your breath; it makes you want a taste.
You look up at him pathetically. He could squash you like a bug and move on to the next reagent without a second thought. The thought makes you shrink down, making yourself a smaller target.
"Take a look at you," he murmurs, anger slowly subsiding as he looks you up and down, "Shakin' like a leaf. Ain't no need for all that, now is there?"
"Uh– I–" the words get caught in your throat and die there.
Coyle's ungloved hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb dragging across your skin. So many times you've imagined those thick fingers digging into your soft flesh, leaving bruises all over you…
But having him here in front of you, all heat and leather, those fantasies seem foolish.
"Cat got your tongue, Honey?" he asks condescendingly.
You nod, and he grins wickedly.
"That's alright. We'll get that tongue workin' in no time," he presses his thumb against your lower lip and you're tempted to bite it off, "See, my Warden knew his place was on his knees, takin' what I give him, and he was grateful for it. Begged for it."
Your reflection in his aviators is blurry, but you can still see the fear in your face as his hand slides down your neck and he rests his palm right up against your pulse.
"Y'all took that from me."
A gulp catches in your throat.
"So, I've decided you are gon' be his replacement. Eye for an eye kind of thing," he explains carefully, patting your neck.
"You don't mean–"
"Well, you certainly got the frame for it. Built for comfort, ain't ya?" he says smoothly, nodding down at your body and chewing on that damned cigarette.
On the outside, your cheeks are burning hot. You don't want him to know how badly he's getting to you, but you can't control how your body is responding.
You're divided. Any other day, you would have crawled right up to him. You would have begged him for the privilege.
Even while you're squeezing your thighs together to quell the tingly warmth, you know this is wrong. This isn't some late-night fantasy while you're alone in your sleep room. It's Leland Coyle in the flesh. A valued Prime Asset; unpredictable, violent, and not afraid of taking what he wants.
All you have to do is figure out a way to get past him and you'd be fine. The rest of your team isn't gone, yet. You could make it to the shuttle if you ran fast enough. There's still time, right?
Apparently not.
"So how 'bout it?" Coyle leans in impatiently, his cigarette threatening to ash over you as he speaks.
You try to nod, but your neck won't cooperate.
"I'm gonna need words, Honey."
You open your mouth and a whole lot of nothing comes out. Coyle graciously waits a few seconds, giving you time.
"See, I can tell by that look," he mumbles, "you're thinkin' real hard 'bout runnin'. That little stun of yours is coolin' down. I know you're just itchin' to knock me in the head with it."
Shaking your head frantically, you stutter, "N-no. I'm not."
"Well then, the next thing I wanna hear outta that pretty mouth is 'yes, Daddy.'"
"Yes… Daddy?" you whisper, looking at him uncertainly.
"Nah. Like you mean it," he pats the side of your neck roughly.
Your heart jumps. You need to do this right.
"Yes, Daddy," you say sweetly.
"Oh, Sweetness," he groans, slipping his thumb around your throat and squeezing with enough pressure to remind you what he's capable of, "you're gettin' me all kinds of worked up, and we ain't even started, yet."
You swallow thickly, letting out a shaky breath. Maybe this won't be so bad.
Coyle lets go of your neck, dragging his fingers along your skin before pulling away. He steps back, pulls the cigarette from his mouth and tosses it on the tile.
Using his cattle prod, he gestures to the floor.
"First order of business, I got to know if you can follow basic directions," he leans back slightly, resting his free hand on his belt buckle, "Sit."
You stare at him, dumbfounded by the command after everything else. Sit? Like a dog?
Coyle frowns at your confusion.
"On. Your. KNEES!" he barks.
You drop.
The tile slams against your knees, but you don't wince. You wouldn't dare. Your heart hammers in your chest as you look up at him, breathing in shallowly. His shoulders relax as you obey, kneeling at his feet like you were made to be there.
"Good girl," he hums, dropping into a squat. His fingers thread through your hair, petting and lightly scratching at your scalp, making your eyes flutter, "You take direction when it's given with the proper… motivation, huh?"
Coyle drops his cattle prod to the floor and his gloved hand cups your cheek again. He's turning your head this way and that, like you're livestock at an auction. He rubs his thumb over your cheekbone, around the night vision goggles implanted in your temple, and traces the shell of your ear gently. His touch is methodical, cataloging every inch of you. Determining your worth.
"Open," he commands, bringing his thumb to press on your lip.
Your jaw trembles. You part your lips, and he grunts in approval, thumb pressing against your tongue, groping the wet heat of your mouth. You try your best to ignore the shameful way you lean into his touch.
"Real responsive," he mutters.
His hand slides down from your hair to grip the back of your neck, tightening and testing the give of your flesh. His leather gloved hand moves to your chest, avoiding your ESOP. He feels along the sides of your breasts.
Then lower, fingers spreading across your belly through your shirt as you suck in a breath. He squeezes you, assessing the softness there with undisguised hunger.
Coyle nods, satisfied, "Good weight distribution. Not flinchin' from proper handlin'."
You feel like a show animal, preening under his inspection, desperate for his approval. You arch your back slightly, pushing your chest out, presenting yourself for his evaluation. It's ridiculous and pathetic, but his smile returns.
"Oh, you want me to like you, don't you?" he lets out a laugh and taps the ESOP on your chest, "Let's get this thing off'a you."
He tugs at the straps of your ESOP, leaning in close to reach around and unhook it from the back, then the front. Easily, he pops the cable connecting your night vision goggles and tosses the strappy contraption across the room.
Completely unarmed now, you lean away from him and sit back more on your heels. Being so close to him seems a lot more dangerous now.
Coyle returns to cup your breasts, kneading roughly. Once again, you catch yourself leaning into his touch. You can't remember the last time someone held you like this. Despite the person the hands are attached to, it feels nice. You know you can't deny it as a soft whimper tumbles from your mouth.
"That's better, ain't it? Damned thing seemed kinda tight," he says, cocking his head at you.
"Thank you," you say quietly, sighing from the way his fingers brush across your nipples through your shirt and thin bra.
He smirks, "The way you're actin', kinda seems like you're wantin' me to pick you up and take you home."
You take a deep breath and hum in agreement.
"You'd like that, wouldn't ya? Bein' kept. Fed from my hand, and trained up right so you know exactly how to please a man like myself."
An involuntary whine escapes your throat, and you nod hesitantly. Coyle lets go of your breasts, resting his forearms on his knees as he grumbles something under his breath.
"Ohh-kay, Honey. You'll do," he decides with a curt nod, "Gonna take some work, some real disciplinin', but I'm thinkin' you might be worth the investment."
Coyle pulls his cattle prod from the floor and stands up, towering over you.
"Follow," he commands, turning on his heel.
You scramble to get your feet up under you, knees fighting as you push yourself up. A sharp whistle pierces the air. You freeze, half-crouched, and look up at him.
"Never seen a mutt walk on two legs before," he grumbles, glancing over his shoulder.
Your knees hit the tile again, then your palms. The floor is gritty with grime and sticky with substances you don't want to identify. Something sharp pokes into your right palm, probably glass, but you hope it's just a pebble. You don't stop to check.
You lower your gaze and crawl after him as he strides out of the office area, trying to keep pace with his gait while your knees scrape against the concrete.
Coyle leads you down the stairs, one heavy bootfall at a time, never looking back to see if you're still there. He knows you have nowhere else to go.
The panopticon opens up before you; a vast, circular hell of iron bars and windows. Coyle stops in the center in front of the, silhouetted against the red emergency lights still strobing across the walls. You crawl to his feet and wait, ignoring the chafing of your thighs and tightness in your lungs.
From somewhere behind a metal gate directly across from you, a biter yanks against their chain. They growl inhumanly and bark. Your first instinct is to reach for your stun. You lift a hand to your chest before remembering that you're still unarmed.
The alarms shriek louder, and the overhead speakers crackle to life.
"Ten seconds remaining to reach the shuttle. Nine. Eight…"
Coyle grunts, "Sit."
You fold back onto your haunches, heels tucked beneath you and hands resting on your thighs. You stare up at Coyle's face, searching for any hint that he might let you go before the shuttle leaves.
"Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two.…"
He doesn't acknowledge you. He pulls a fresh cigarette from his belt and flicks his cattle prod to life. The electricity pops and crackles as he touches it to the tip, sparking the cigarette to life.
"One. The shuttle is now leaving."
The alarms cut out. The red lights stop their frantic pulsing. Inside your chest, the last bit of hope you had withers. You're not getting out.
You're not going back.
Coyle takes a long drag, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.
"Y'know, y'all made a pretty big mess killin' my Warden," he says, rolling his shoulders and settling into his stance like a man on his fifteen minute smoke break, "Hell, it's a good thing we came to this here agreement, or else your fine ass woulda ended up as set dressin' for the next trial."
He shifts his weight, grabbing his crotch through his pants and adjusting himself with a grumble. He's acting antsy and impatient, and it's making you nervous.
Shuffling feet catch your attention as a grunt rounds the corner from Block A, pausing when they spot you on your knees. They straighten up, machete snapping up into a ready position, and begin stomping toward you.
"I LIVE HERE!" they grunt, raising their machete high.
You look up at Coyle, expecting him to intervene.
He just sighs exaggeratedly, and winds his arm back. The cattle prod whirs to life as he holds it like a baseball bat. While the grunt closes the distance, you scramble to crawl backward when Coyle swings.
The crack of electricity and metal meeting their skull echoes through the panopticon. Blood spatters across the floor, a few hot droplets landing on your arm. The grunt drops like a sack of potatoes, landing inches to your left.
Coyle shrugs and spits on the floor beside their head, "Can't seem t'keep people from puttin' their hands on what's mine today."
He looks down at you expectantly and cocks his head.
"…thank you, Daddy," you whisper, lip trembling slightly.
"You're welcome, Honey."
He steps in front of you then, close enough that his crotch is level with your face. His bulge strains against the fabric, undeniably hard. He unhooks his battery pack and sets it on the ground alongside his cattle prod, metal clattering against the floor.
"Time for you to show Daddy some appreciation for keepin' you safe," he says lowly.
His gloved hand comes down on the back of your head heavily, insistently shoving your face into the heat of him. You can feel him flex briefly as his cock presses against your cheek.
Slowly, you respond. Your fingers find his belt buckle, fumbling with it until it comes loose. You undo the button, drag the zipper down, and pull his pants and underwear down together.
The stench hits you first. It's a sharp scent of stale sweat and musk. You recoil, fighting back a dramatic gag, and force yourself to push forward.
His cock is thick and veined, covered with scars in various states of healing. A dark bush of pubic hair frames the base, and a tiny bead of precum glistens, drooling from the tip.
"Go on, now," he urges, "Little justice ain't gon' bite."
You extend your tongue, licking the head. The precum is salty, mixing oddly with the tangy sweat coating his skin. You try to keep yourself from gagging again, but it doesn't work.
You pause, expecting punishment, but he doesn't do anything.
One relieved breath later, you take him into your mouth, resting your hands on the sides of his thighs for balance. He grunts in approval above you. His gloved hand curls into a fist in your hair.
Your mouth is dry and cottony with fear, but you try to accumulate what saliva you can. It's been a while since you've done anything like this. Months? Years? You aren't sure at this point. Fortunately, muscle memory kicks in soon enough. You're bobbing on his length without much need for his guiding hand, finding a rhythm that makes his thighs tense under your palms.
"That's it," he groans, "Bein' such a good girl for me."
He releases his grip, opting to pet your hair instead while you move. Tingles rush down your spine as his nails just barely scrape your scalp. You hum around him, appreciating the praise and his oddly gentle touch.
"Gettin'… kinda… close," he warns you, voice strained.
Already? Either you must still have some skill or he's dying to finish what the Warden started for him. You speed up your pace, eager to please. And eager to end this before your legs fall asleep.
"Hey now," he yanks on your hair, irritation creeping in, "Slow down. Ain't no rush."
You take it slower, drawing back until just the tip rests on your tongue, then sliding forward until your nose brushes against the bush of curly hair at the base. You go as far down as you can until you gag, throat convulsing around him.
Holding yourself there, tears spring to your eyes. Everything in your peripheral blurs, but the way he moans, calling you his "perfect puppy," makes you feel like you would hold yourself there until you suffocated if it meant he'd keep praising you.
Coyle tightens his grip on your hair, painfully. His thighs stiffen under your hands and he stops moving. Above you, he's growling obscenities through gritted teeth.
"Fuuuck. Sweet puppy, takin' me–" he moans, cock twitching in your mouth, "so– ugh– damn well."
You force him as deep as you can handle, drool dripping from your lips. Hot cum spurts down your throat while you try your best to swallow around him. You want so badly to make a good first impression, which means wasting none of what he gives you.
When it seems like he's done, his fingers loosen in your hair fractionally, you pull back enough to get a good deep breath through your nose. You smile with him still in your mouth, feeling a sick sense of pride.
Suddenly, he forces your head back down onto his cock, hard.
"I'm real sorry 'bout this, Sweetness. I just can't hold it," he says, flicking his cigarette to the floor and patting your face with his ungloved hand.
You look up at him with wide, wet eyes as warm and salty liquid trickles down your throat, filling your mouth. He grins, tilting his head back. You realize too late what's happening. Bitter and acrid, piss drips from the corner of your mouth as you attempt to swallow as much as you can without choking on it. Your fingers dig into his thighs, but he keeps you still.
Coyle groans while he does it, savoring the moment.
You struggle to keep up with the flow. It's too much all at once. Your lungs burn, screaming for mercy. All you can do is push against his thighs as you cry, protests muffled by his cock.
When he's actually done, bladder empty, he tugs you off of him. You gasp for air, sputtering as piss streams down your chin onto your already ruined clothes. You can't look up at him.
He pulls his pants and underwear back up, buckles his belt, and picks up his battery back and cattle prod. Without a word, he saunters off toward one of the exit doors, leaving you behind.
Before he reaches the doorway, Coyle realizes you're not following him. He whistles in your direction and snaps his fingers.
"Heeere, girl."
The words echo, but your knees feel glued to the floor. You're coughing, aggravating the burn in your throat. Catching your breath seems impossible. You turn toward him, but your eyesight is blurred by leftover tears.
"Don't make me say it again," he shouts.
Your hands find the floor. The concrete is cold, sticky in ways you don't like.
"Last chance," he calls out and you can hear the smile in his tone, "Come here, or I come get you… you don't want me t'come get you."
You spare a glance to the grunt laid out beside you and then you crawl. Even with your knees hurting, palms slipping on the wetness coating everything, you somehow make it over to him. You don't look up. You wait for his next command, staring down at his boots.
-
Time moves on. Days blur into weeks, marked by Coyle's moods– the times he's gentle and the times he's not.
He keeps you in a solitary confinement cell, deep within the prison. There's a cot with a thin mattress, a bucket, and a heavy iron door.
"It's for your own good," he tells you, like he's doing you a favor.
Like Easterman or the other assets are wolves at the door instead of him being the one who leashed you.
He did eventually bring you your own collar. A heavy, metal thing with one looped ring meant for a lead. It's a little tight around your neck, but Coyle promises he'll make you a bigger one soon.
Sometimes, when the rest of the facility is quiet, he clips a leash to your collar and lets you walk beside him.
He calls it stretching your legs, though you know better than to walk upright. You crawl through the corridors on hands and knees, while he strolls leisurely with his cattle prod swinging at his hip. Coyle keeps you close; close enough that his boot occasionally nudges your ribs when you lag behind. Close enough that he can reach down and pet your hair when you keep pace properly.
"Easterman's been askin' 'bout you," he mentions casually one evening, fingers brushing through your hair and grazing your scalp.
His name makes you cringe.
"Thinks he can take what's mine again…" Coyle says angrily, "Ain't gon' let nobody hurt my sweet puppy dog. You belong t'me."
He keeps his promise about training you right. Every morning he drills you until it's instinct. How to sit at attention when he enters your cell. How to speak, or rather, how not to. You're not allowed to use his name, except for the one that he chose.
"Who am I?" he'll ask, standing over you while you kneel at his feet.
"Daddy," you whisper. It makes your cheeks burn every time you say it, especially when he gives you that slow, pleased smile.
"That's right. My good girl."
He teaches you what he expects. Silence unless you're spoken to, eyes down unless he lifts your chin, and immediate obedience without hesitation.
His lessons are enforced with pain when you fail. If it isn't the cattle prod pressed to the chub of your inner thighs, then it's his belt across your ass or his hand across your face and around your throat until you lose consciousness.
But when you succeed… when you anticipate his needs before he voices them and when you crawl to him the moment he snaps his fingers, the rewards make everything feel worthwile.
-
Two weeks in, Coyle comes back after a trial with blood drying under his fingernails and rage simmering on his face. You can tell by how his jaw is set that something went wrong, and he's looking for a place to put that anger.
"On the bed. Face down," he says flatly.
You hurry to obey as your heartbeat thunders in your ears. The bed frame creaks as you position yourself, pressing your cheek to the thin sheets. You hear him unbuckling his belt. As the leather slides through the loops, you flinch before the first strike even lands.
The first hit is agonizing.
There's a half-second of nothing, then white, hot heat crosses the expanse of your ass that makes you cry out into the mattress. He doesn't speak. He doesn't praise or condemn you, and you don't expect him to. You let him work through whatever he's carrying. You let him take it out on you.
By the time he's finished, you're a sobbing, trembling mess.
And then, his belt hits the floor. His hands replace it. Calloused palms smooth over the welts he raised, tracing them gently. You flinch, but push back into it. You hate that you can't help it.
"Easy, Honey," he whispers, "You done so good for me."
Coyle drags his hands over your hips and squeezes. One stays on your hip while the other drifts across your ass again, then lower. His fingers dip between your thighs and he coaxes you to pleasure with the same lack of patience he used to inflict pain. When you finish, moaning and gasping and dripping all over his hand, he tells you how good you did. He says you were brave, pets your hair, and calls you his favorite puppy.
You'd take the belt every day if it always ended like this.
-
Three weeks in, he finds you touching yourself without permission. You're alone in your cell, bored out of your mind, when he unlocks the door unexpectedly. Your hand freezes between your legs, cheeks flushing crimson as he stands in the doorway, eyebrow raised.
"Ain't this a pretty picture," he drawls.
"I'm sorry, Daddy," you stammer, pulling your hand away and closing your thighs, "I didn't mean–"
Coyle steps inside and shuts the cell door behind him, crossing over to stand by your bed. You look away from him, mortified.
He tsks, "Didn't mean to? Or didn't mean t'get caught?"
When you don't answer, he sighs, "Look at me."
His eyes are hidden behind those damn sunglasses, but you look up at them anyway.
"Sweetness, you know what happens t'dogs that stay humpin' things without permission?" he asks.
"No," you shake your head.
"They get fixed," he pauses, "Or they get put down."
"Oh…"
"Spread your legs," he demands.
Shame makes you hesitate, but you obey. He looks at you for a beat and then kneels, leaning in to finish what you started. His mouth is hot, his beard rough against the plush of your inner thighs, and he brings you to the edge quickly.
All that, just to pull back just before you're about to explode.
"Please," you whimper, hips chasing his mouth.
"Please what?" he chides.
"Please, Daddy, let me–"
"Let you what? Let you cum? After you been in here touchin' what's mine without askin'?" Coyle smiles at you, eyes hidden by those dark aviators. You wish he'd take them off.
You whine desperately and he laughs at you, genuinely amused. He squeezes the meat of your thighs appreciatively.
"Well, I reckon I can make an exception since you asked so nice," he says, but doesn't move.
He stays kneeling there, breathing against your skin and watching you squirm.
"Thank you," you whisper, "Thank you, Daddy."
"Mmhmm," Coyle hums.
It's not really approval. His thumb presses into the crease of your thigh and drags it along painfully slowly, tracing the width of your leg.
When he finally lowers his mouth again, he's rougher. Your hips buck into the sensation before you can stop yourself. He pins you down with one hand pressed into the softness of your stomach.
"Stay. Still," he growls.
You're babbling nonsense. You know you are– "Please," and "Daddy," combined with sounds that aren't words at all. He adjust his angle, pushes two thick fingers into you, and curls them until your spine arches off the mattress.
Static bursts behind your eyelids as you grip the thin sheets and your body goes taut, but he doesn't stop. He slows down, keeping his tongue on you. The aftershocks hit you until you're oversensitive, whimpering, and trying to clamp your thighs down on his head.
Coyle gets the message and pulls back. His beard shimmers in the light as you pant, chest and stomach heaving. When he looks up at you, he licks his lips hungrily. You hear his belt jingling, coming undone and the whisper of fabric as he shoves his pants down. He's on you in an instant, settling between your legs.
"Gon' fill you up, Honey," he mutters, guiding himself into you with one hand.
He wastes no time sinking his cock inside of you, gripping your hip with his other hand. Inch by inch, your mouth falls open and your eyes roll back.
The way your body yields to him, soft and welcoming, has him setting a harsh rhythm. Possessive, deep thrusts make the cot shake against the concrete wall. Your gasping breaths and his grunts fill the cell.
"Good puppy," he pants, leaning more of his weight on you, forcing your legs onto his shoulders and pressing your knees toward your head, "Such a sweet girl for your Daddy, huh? Takin' me so fuckin' deep, like some cheap whore."
You whine beneath him. Coyle's hitting something inside you that makes your legs spasm. You're back to moaning nothing but nonsense. A broken mantra of "please, please, please."
He speeds up, hips snapping harder as you feel the shift in him. His breathing is ragged as he slides a hand under your hip. He lifts you into his thrusts like you're weightless, arranging you however he wants.
"Gonna cum in you, Sweetness," he groans, "You want Daddy's cum inside you?"
You nod wildly, "Please, Daddy–"
He buries himself inside of you and stills. You feel the pulse of him. His hips jerk involuntarily against you as you feel the heat flooding you. He stays there, pressing you into the mattress with his weight until the tremors stop.
His hand still grips your hip, fingers kneading the soft flesh until you're sure he's going to leave more bruises.
"God damn," Coyle breathes out with a laugh, "Swear you're the tightest little fuckpig I've had in a while."
You feel empty when he pulls out of you, coating your thighs and sheets with cum. You know what happens next. He's going to pull his pants up and leave, expecting you to clean yourself up as best you can.
Before the drop, all you know is the euphoria of having him here… having him want you. You'd do anything for this feeling. You could endure any degradation he dreams up if it meant more moments like these. If pain is the price, you're more than willing to pay.
The silence of the morning was broken only by the metallic click of the spring snapping and the crisp movement of the brush running along the barrel of the pistol. You had grown accustomed to that artificial, repetitive, almost meditative rhythm: cleaning weapons every day had become a ritual, a mechanical prayer that kept panic at bay. The smell of oiled metal and gunpowder had become the very scent of your survival.
Sitting at the rough wooden table, in what had once been a Scottish farmhouse kitchen and now served as your group’s headquarters, you tilted your head to assess the reflection of light on the pistol’s slide. The window was fogged with morning breath and the lingering cold that still crept through the Highlands. Outside, the moor stretched like a sea of frozen grass and bare rocks, and the wind raced over the hills like a hungry beast.
You had survived until now precisely because of that remoteness: no large settlements nearby, few beaten paths, and terrain difficult enough to discourage wanderers. But you knew well that solitude was a double-edged sword. You couldn’t remain invisible forever.
The door burst open with a sharp bang, and the sound of clear, frantic footsteps filled the room.
Brodie’s voice, cracked from short breaths, echoed off the four walls, calling your name.
You looked up just in time to see him appear in the doorway. He was a fourteen-year-old boy, black hair falling messily over dark eyes, too large for a still-childish face yet already hollowed by hunger and fear. His windbreaker was two sizes too big, patched with red thread on the sleeves.
“There’s… there’s a group of people,” he panted, bending over with his hands on his knees. “I saw them coming down from the hill to the north. They’re heading here.”
Your stomach clenched. In an instant, the pistol was reassembled and loaded. You stood without a word, the chair scraping against the floor.
“How many?” you asked, already sliding the pistol into your thigh holster.
“I don’t know… seven, maybe eight? But one was in front. He looked… bigger than the others.” Brodie’s voice broke with fear that made you clench your jaw.
There was no time to waste. You grabbed the assault rifle leaning by the door — an old L85A2 recovered from an abandoned military convoy years earlier when they had tried to solve the virus problem — and checked the magazine instinctively. Then you turned to the boy.
“Alert Jeff. Close all the windows on the ground floor. No one opens the door until I give the signal.”
Brodie nodded and ran down the corridor, his voice already shouting orders to the other two people in the group, startling them awake.
You, instead, climbed the stairs two at a time, heart pounding irregularly, already entering the alert mode you had learned to recognize over years of survival. The corridor led to the old dovecote, now transformed into your sniper tower. The boards creaked under your weight as you pushed away the hatch and climbed inside.
The room smelled of dust and dry feathers. A slit, opened between the boards, looked out over the valley. You leaned against the makeshift railing and aimed the rifle.
The sight immediately caught the shapes. Eight people, just as Brodie had said, descending slowly along the path leading to your farmhouse. In front of them, a man stood out: average height, blond, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a purple tracksuit. Even at that distance, the shine of the rings on his hands and the gold chains around his neck hit you like a punch to the stomach. Ostentation in a world reduced to ruins: an almost obscene contrast.
The others behind him were young, too young: all in the same jumpsuit and same blond wig, barely in their twenties. Their faces bore the marks of fatigue but also a restlessness that immediately put you on guard. They seemed to be carrying only backpacks or improvised sacks.
You waited until they were close enough to hear you. Then, without hesitation, you shouted:
“Stop! Don’t take another step!”
Your voice carried over the wind, bouncing off the valley rocks. The group froze, two or three of them began to look around like startled animals. But the man in the purple remained still for a moment, then slowly raised his hands, palms open in a sign of surrender, immediately locating the point from which you spoke.
“Relax, darlin',” he shouted, his voice hoarse but controlled, with a hint of irony that made you tighten your fingers on the trigger. “We don’t want any trouble.”
“No? Then you can turn back,” you replied, eye fixed through the sight on the man. “We don’t need strangers here.”
He laughed softly, a discordant, almost amused sound, showing one or two rotten teeth. He stepped forward, and you loudly racked the rifle, a clear warning. He stopped again, hands still raised.
“I understand the distrust,” he said, slightly shaking his head. His blond hair falling over his shoulders shone like dirty silk. “The world is full of monsters, isn't it? Infected… bandits… traitors. But we are none of that. Just weary folk. We’re lookin' for a wee place to rest. One night under shelter. A bit of food, if ye can spare it.”
Your sight remained trained on his gray eyes. Every muscle in your body screamed not to trust him. Hands raised, calm voice: signals studied, deliberate. This man knew how to move. It wasn’t the first time he’d asked for hospitality this way.
You were about to respond, heart pounding, while Brodie, behind you, silently climbed to observe the scene from the slit. You felt his presence without turning: the held breath of someone who knew a single mistake would mean death.
The man lowered his hands just enough to indicate the boys behind him.
“Look at them. They’re just kids. We have no firearms. I keep them alive as best I can. They’re hungry, haven’t eaten in days. I don’t want to take anythin' by force. I swear on ma life.”
His words floated in the air like sweetened poison.
Through the sight, you noticed a subtle movement: one of the boys behind the man in purple tilted his head toward his companion (or at least you assumed it was a woman) and whispered something. Lips moved quickly, furtively, yet from that distance you couldn’t make out the words. Doubt froze your spine: was he seeking reassurance, or plotting a move?
Then your gaze caught a detail that made you hold your breath. Every young person, without exception, had a small inverted cross carved into their forehead. Not a tattoo: it looked like torn flesh, a ritual scar, etched with cruel precision. Only the older man was free of it. His skin was intact, smooth, as if he didn’t want to mar the face he showed to the world.
A shiver ran down your spine. A cult. There was no doubt.
Your eyes returned to the leader, and that’s when you noticed it. It wasn’t the ironic smile that unsettled you, nor the display of gold chains. It was the gaze. That unsettling fixedness, as if he were looking deeper than he should. A gaze that not only saw you but dug into you, pulling out things you didn’t want to show.
Behind you, you felt movement. Brodie stepped aside, making room for a man climbing the stairs with the heavy, assured step of someone who had seen too much war to be shaken. Jeff Hardy, your group leader, reached you and leaned close. He had graying hair, a face marked by premature wrinkles, and eyes tired from leading more escapes than victories.
He scrutinized the scene for a few seconds, then spoke in a low voice:
“Maybe it’s better to give them something. If we drive them off empty-handed, they could turn on us. Or worse, come back at night and catch us off guard. You know well that the house couldn’t withstand an assault.”
You didn’t take your eyes off the sight.
“They’re a cult, Jeff. See them? Those crosses… it’s not superstition, it’s marks. They belong to each other. And a group that belongs to someone is never satisfied with little. They come in, sit down, and eventually take everything.”
Jeff inhaled deeply, his breath trembling slightly. Then he placed a hand on the wood in front of you, as if to steady himself.
“I know. But look at the bigger picture. There aren’t many of us. We don’t have enough ammo to withstand an open conflict. And if they decide to wait for us? If they camp fifty meters from here, consuming resources and forcing us to watch our backs every minute? It would be worse. We need to buy time. Make them believe we welcome them. Feed them, keep them calm… and tomorrow they’ll be gone.”
You shook your head, jaw tight.
“And if tomorrow they want to stay?”
Jeff turned to you, gaze piercing more than any words.
“Then tomorrow will worry me. But today… today we have to survive. Trust me.”
It was that last sentence that struck you, breaking your resistance. Trust me. You had known him for over twenty-five years, since he had found you starving and dying in the city church. Every decision he had made had kept you alive, even the cruelest ones. He had been the father you had lacked in the formative years of your life and the mentor who had shaped you to face this new world.
You inhaled deeply and exhaled with a slow nod.
“Alright.”
Jeff said nothing else. He stood, bending his knees with a sigh, and descended the hatch. You followed his figure as he crossed the corridor, his broad frame silhouetted against the gray light. You heard him unlatch the main door. Then his voice, firm and clear:
“Come in.”
You jumped up, clutching the rifle to your chest, and descended the stairs as well. You needed to see them up close. You needed to understand.
The door was now open, and the eight newcomers were entering the old farmhouse one by one. The smell of earth, sweat, and rain preceded them, mixed with something sweeter and sharper, an almost unnatural scent that immediately put you on alert.
The man in the purple jumpsuit was the first to cross the threshold. He smiled, showing imperfect teeth, and extended his hand to Jeff.
“Thanks, we really appreciate it.” His voice was velvety, too polished to seem spontaneous.
Jeff shook it firmly, face impassive.
“I’m Jeff Hardy.”
The leader tilted his head slightly, the gold chains jingling as he moved.
“Jimmy Crystal.”
The name struck the air like thunder. Jimmy Crystal. As soon as the syllables left his lips, your mind detached from the present, pulled back, away from the musty room and the sinister jingle of jewels.
The hill you saw in front of you was no longer barren and blackened by time. It was green, alive, covered with fresh grass and wildflowers. The air smelled of spring and freedom, and the sound of your childish laughter filled the space more than any echo of gunfire, growls, or screams.
You ran hand in hand with a blond-haired child, wind-tousled hair shining like wheat under the sun. The dark church remained behind, imposing and threatening, its high windows like stern eyes watching you. You ran faster, urging him to follow, feeling his short breaths mixing with yours.
“If we get caught, we’re dead…” he said anxiously, glancing back at the hill constantly. His wide blue eyes were vivid with a mix of fear and excitement, and his shocked expression made you burst into even louder laughter.
“Not dead,” you replied, giggling as you threw yourselves behind the massive trunk of a tree. “But maybe they’ll put us in punishment until Christmas.”
Jimmy was panting, bent forward with his hands on his knees, occasionally glancing toward the church as if expecting to see one of the adults running down. But no one came. Only the wind and the buzzing of bees among the bushes.
“Then ye're crazy,” he said, pretending to be serious but with his voice cracking from amusement. “I didn’t want to do it. Ye were the one who dragged me away.”
“But the service was so boring… at least you had fun now!” you retorted, nudging him with your shoulder.
He laughed, a clear, still-childish sound. Then his expression suddenly changed: red cheeks, eyes cast down. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small object that glittered in the sunlight. A gold ring, far too large for his slender fingers.
“I took it from Mom,” he murmured, looking at the ground. “It was hidden under her clothes; she's got plenty o' them, she'll not notice. But… I want to give it to ye.”
You stared at him, eyes wide, surprised and confused. He cleared his throat, gripping the ring in his sweaty palm.
“Will ye marry me? That way… we’ll never be apart.”
There was a long silence, heavy with an emotion that at that age you didn’t yet have a name for. Then you burst out laughing, not out of malice but from the warmth rising in your chest. “Alright!” you answered with childlike enthusiasm.
Jimmy smiled, a smile so wide his blue eyes nearly disappeared in the folds of his face. He slipped the ring onto your finger with a clumsy, trembling gesture, and you held your hand up in front of your eyes, as you had seen grown women do.
“So now we’re married,” he said, his voice full of pride.
And before you could reply, he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. You pulled away immediately, both laughing, cheeks burning, not knowing exactly why but happy, as if that moment was a secret the world could never take from you.
A couple of weeks later, hell broke loose.
The golden, pure memory vanished violently as you returned to the present, facing those same light eyes, only now they no longer belonged to a child, but to a completely different man.
The rifle slipped slightly from your sweaty hands, thudding against the wooden stairs, but before they could notice, you spun around and turned the corner quickly.
Jimmy turned sharply, and his eyes caught a glimpse of your sweatshirt disappearing beyond the wall above the stairs, but he showed no sign of disturbance. He only furrowed his brow slightly.
“Oh, don’t worry about her,” Jeff said, in a light tone, tilting his chin slightly toward where you had vanished. “She’s a suspicious one but she's good. Better not make her angry, though.”
The threat was subtle, and Jimmy felt it all, but let it slide like water over stone, accompanying it with a shrug. “We just want to regain our strength. By tomorrow we’ll be out of here.”
Below you, voices began to mingle, but the metallic jingle of gold chains followed you there too, like a menacing echo.
Living with Jimmy and his boys had become a strange, almost unnatural habit. They had settled in the stone house not far from yours, and within two or three weeks, they had managed to make it somewhat habitable with planks and tarps. Jeff, Brodie, and Janet had helped them a couple of times, rewarded with fresh meat that the newcomers provided by hunting in the woods. For them, it had been a gain; for you, only an additional danger. You didn’t trust their crosses carved on their foreheads, nor the feverish glances they exchanged among themselves.
That afternoon, you had returned from hunting with five rabbits. Their legs dangled from your belt, and dried blood stained your hands. You stopped at the artesian well someone had dug years before, bending over the worn stone edge. The water was icy, burning your fingers, but it washed away the red and left your skin almost fresh. You poured some on your neck and forehead as well, and for a moment, you allowed yourself the luxury of feeling clean.
When you looked up, Jimmy was there. Leaning against the trunk of a tree a short distance away, arms crossed, chin slightly tilted, as if studying you while the boys around him seemed to be talking excitedly about something. He wasn’t smiling; he was just staring at you, like a man searching for a face inside a dream.
You held the rabbits tighter and tied them more securely. You didn’t say anything to him, didn’t even give a nod. But the gaze that pinned you followed you until Jeff appeared at your side. The head of your group brushed your arm with a quick touch, the recognition signal you exchanged whenever you needed to confirm that everything was under control. You responded with a short smile, a minimal gesture you barely considered, and Jimmy’s eyes suddenly lit up.
That smile. He had seen it before, somewhere.
The feeling haunted him for the rest of the day.
When evening came, the fire in front of the recently refurbished house crackled softly, spitting out sparks that the high Highland wind immediately scattered into the darkness. Around it, the voices of Jimmy’s boys mingled with those of your companions: Brodie’s laughter, Janet’s terser replies, Jeff’s always measured tone. It was a night like many others, a fragile truce made of roasted meat and conversations masking distrust.
You had stayed inside, as always. The smell of game had spread across the yard, and even though you had contributed with your rabbits, you had no desire to sit next to those strangers. You took what you needed and ate alone.
Jimmy stood at the center, arms spread wide as if the seat he occupied by the fire were a throne. The gold necklaces reflected the flames’ glow, the purple of his tracksuit almost black under the moonless sky.
He cast a distracted glance toward the house nearby, the one you had barricaded yourself in since the fire had been lit. The dark windows let nothing through, but Jimmy knew you were inside, awake, alert as always. He licked his lips lightly, thinking.
While the others talked, he leaned toward Jeff and nodded toward the house. “Will she join us this time? After all, she brought the food.”
Jeff tensed slightly but did not lower his gaze. “No. She prefers the quiet.”
Jimmy chuckled softly, in a low voice. “A woman who can bring home five rabbits in one shot deserves a place o' honor at the table.” He shook his head, as if coming to terms with it, but the spark of curiosity in his eyes did not fade. “What’s her name?”
Jeff hesitated for a moment, then spoke your name.
The word fell among them like a stone in a pond. Jimmy stopped laughing. His eyes, which had been sparkling and distracted, grew fixed, glossy with a memory he didn’t want to reach but that pressed insidiously at his temples.
“How did ye meet?” he asked, lowering his tone. It was no longer a casual question, no longer a tabletop game. It was a hook.
Jeff, unaware of the trap, shrugged. “I found her years ago. She was a little girl, alone, near a church. She had no one, so I took her with me.”
Jimmy tilted his head slightly. “A church…” he repeated, his voice low, uncertain, as if tasting the word. Then, with a sudden flash in his eyes, he leaned toward Jeff, the smile returning to twist his lips.
“Which one?”
Having obtained the necessary information, Jimmy slowly detached himself from the fire, almost unnoticed. The voices of his boys and your companions merged, and he took advantage of that moment of distraction to slip away. He walked lightly, unhurried, as if the darkness of the Highlands wrapped around him, protecting him as he made his way to the house not far away.
He knocked three times. A sharp, controlled sound. You didn’t answer.
He waited. Then he lowered the handle and smiled when he saw the door wasn’t locked. After all, nobody did anymore—not when locking yourself in meant risking being trapped if the infected came.
He stepped in quietly, one foot after the other. The air smelled of burned wood, iron, and roasted meat. It was the tangible trace of the dinner you had eaten. He took another step, then another.
He turned the corner to enter what seemed like the kitchen, and suddenly the world exploded on him.
A hand grabbed his jacket, yanking him back and slamming him against the wall with force. His breath broke, the necklaces clanging loudly against the concrete. He felt the sharp cold of a blade pressed against his throat, and his eyes met yours just an inch away. Hard eyes, full of healthy rage.
Your grip was firm, the knife immobile, pressed with the certainty of someone who already knew what would happen if he took a single wrong step.
He felt his breath quicken, but it wasn’t fear. It was excitement. Something twisted that tightened his stomach and made him smile.
“Hey, sweet pea,” he murmured in a hoarse voice, lips slightly parted, “I'm comin' in peace.”
Your hand pressed the knife harder, and he hissed a short breath. Only then did he lower his gaze, nodding toward the floor a little further ahead. You followed the direction and saw the cooked, half-burned rabbit that had fallen from the plate during the scuffle. It lay on the ground, covered in dust and ash.
You furrowed your brow, eyes shifting between him and the wasted food. Slowly, very slowly, you eased the pressure and let the knife slide a few centimeters. Jimmy stepped back from the wall, and with a hurried motion, adjusted the collar of his tracksuit. He sighed as if he had truly missed the air, then lifted his gaze back to you.
“A war machine, really…” he muttered more to himself than to you. The comment, almost whispered, sparked a flash of annoyance in you. You shot him a sharp glance over your shoulder as you snatched the empty bowl from his hand and bent to clean and put away the rabbit. Nothing could be wasted in these times.
The knife gleamed beside you, still ready, and the way you grabbed it to sweep away the dust made him understand that you hadn’t lowered your guard.
“How did you get here? Does Jeff know?” you asked after a few seconds, trying to break the pressure of his eyes on your back.
Jimmy tilted his head to the side, that eternal theatrical air. “I could…” he drew the word out as if chanting, “…have sneaked in without bein' noticed…”
A flash of amusement crossed his eyes as he watched your jaw tighten.
“All that just to reach me? Wasting energy on trivial things, Jimmy.” Your voice, hard but tinged with nervous vibration, made him tilt his head.
The sound of his name on your lips bounced in his ears like forbidden music. For a moment, he seemed to lose that sly air, and the step he took forward was not calculated: it was instinctive.
“D'ye still have ma ring?” he asked suddenly, and for an instant, the tone did not belong to the leader of a cult, but to the boy who ran beside you through the green fields.
You froze, your breath caught. His pupils burned behind your head, seeking confirmation.
Your full name slipped from his lips—not as a whisper, not as a declaration, but as a mark. It hit you more than you imagined.
“I know who ye are,” he added, voice low but sharp. “And y'know who I am, right? That’s why ye keep yer distance…”
His hand moved toward your shoulder. You jerked away, clenching your jaw until your teeth ached, the knife still firm in your grip.
“You’re wrong. You’re confusing me with someone else.” You twisted your torso slightly to leave, but his grip was fast, fierce. He grabbed your arm with one hand and, with the other—heavy and adorned with cold rings—clamped your face. The metal pricked your cheeks.
“No,” he murmured, eyes sparkling with excitement and certainty, “I don’t think so. I’d recognise these eyes an' that seductive smile anywhere, lass.”
He leaned toward your face, too close, his warm breath brushing your skin. His chest grazed you, the necklaces around his neck swinging and lightly hitting your sweatshirt-covered chest, and his pelvis shifted slightly forward, forcing you to feel the heat of his body against yours.
You felt invaded, trapped, suffocated by his presence. Jimmy didn’t back down; if anything, he seemed to savor your tension. The knife trembled in your fingers, and his eyes dropped for a moment to observe that slight shiver with a smile that was half amused, half predatory. When he looked back up at you, his mouth inches from yours, he saw your eyes fill with terror.
Something cracked.
Jimmy sighed, almost annoyed at himself, and slowly withdrew. He let you go, hands open in a gesture of surrender, and theatrically dusted off your jacket as if nothing had happened.
“Forgive me,” he said with a half-smile that couldn’t mask the unease, “this world has made me a wee bit rough. I’m just happy to have found a piece o' ma past, when I thought it was completely lost.”
You barely nodded, uncertain, and your gaze drifted to the inverted cross hanging from his neck. A memory surfaced: Jimmy’s father, the reverend, wore a similar one. Not inverted, though. Never.
He followed your eyes’ trajectory and, with a conspiratorial smile, lifted the chain, making it jingle. “Oh, this?” he asked. “It’s just a way to keep those lads in line. Teenagers aren’t easy to manage, y'know…”
He laughed, but the laugh had a rotten, off-kilter sound that scratched at your ears. You didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to be drawn into his world.
When he raised his hands, you instinctively stepped back, creating distance between you like a whip. He stopped mid-air.
“May I?” he asked, and for the first time, his tone seemed sincere, almost pleading. “I don’t want to hurt ye.”
The phrase, spoken with that muted voice, loosened your muscles just a bit. You didn’t know why. Maybe it was memory, maybe the sweet poison of the past knocking at your defenses.
His calloused fingers found your cheek. He caressed it gently, almost reverently, studying you as if he wanted to imprint every feature in his memory. And you, against your will, returned the gesture. His longer, disheveled blond hair, still bright eyes, the faint stubble framing his face. He was no longer the boy you remembered: he was a man. A handsome man.
“How did ye escape that day?” he asked softly. “I thought ye were all dead in the house.”
You lowered your gaze, almost lulled by the warmth of his hand. “I… I can climb.”
A smile curved his lips. “Aye… I remember.” He chuckled softly, with a note of genuine nostalgia.
“I spent several hours on the tree,” you continued, voice breaking, “the infected were drawn away by the others’ screams. I didn’t… I didn’t have the courage to come down until the next day. When I did, I returned to the church, but there was no one left.” You paused, pressing your lips together as memories poured out like a raging river. “I rationed the food in the pantry for years… but when it ran out, I was starting to go crazy.”
The memory of your parents tearing each other apart, the infected eyes chasing you down the hill, made you clench your fists.
Jimmy watched you for a long moment, eyes shadowed. “If I had known ye were still there, I…”
You took his hands and squeezed them gently. “You couldn’t do anything. We were children. You did well to escape.”
Uncertain, you raised the free hand from the knife and brought it toward his face. Your fingers trembled slightly as they brushed the rough skin of his stubble. He half-closed his eyes, a subtle smile speaking of pleasure and relief, as if that simple contact had dissolved all the tension accumulated.
“Is it really you, Jimmy?” you asked, voice broken by disbelief and emotion, your heart pounding in your chest. The air between you seemed to vibrate.
He nodded slowly, then immediately pulled you to him, pressing your head against his shoulder. He inhaled deeply, as if he wanted to drink your scent, capture your essence.
“Now that I’ve found ye,” he murmured, and his voice, in that moment of weakness, slipped darkly like a promise that tasted of threat. “I will never let ye go again.”
The encounter in the kitchen had left a mark that was hard to ignore. Despite the distrust that had always driven you to keep him at a distance, from that moment on Jimmy found a way to slowly insinuate himself into your daily life. He didn’t force anything—not anymore, at least. He seemed to take pleasure in playing with time, approaching little by little, like a hunter who knows the art of patience well.
At first, it was just glances. Eyes searching for yours every time you found yourselves in the same space. Then came the questions, seemingly innocent: what you remembered of the village, the hill, the church. He spoke of the past as if it were a red thread of fate, a precious bond that only the two of you could still share. And you, despite everything, found yourself answering. Because remembering with him didn’t hurt so much; in fact, sometimes it even seemed to soothe the wound you had never dared to look at directly.
That was how, slowly, you began spending more time together. His hoarse laughter broke the silence of the field, and the way he teased you about your habits of precision or your stubborn distrust could pull smiles from you you thought you’d never have again. You talked about hiding behind trees during services, the afternoons spent watching TV, the games stolen between the church pews. There was always a bit of melancholy in your memories, but also a warmth you couldn’t deny.
Jimmy, for his part, never limited himself to words. Every opportunity was good to brush against you: your hand, your face, even your shoulder, as if physical contact were an indispensable language for him. He hugged you often—perhaps too often. But his embraces were never distracted: they were tight, intense, as if claiming you.
You, despite your resistance, didn’t always manage to push him away. It was difficult: the warmth of a living body against yours, after years of cold and solitude, was something that could become dangerously necessary.
And yet, you were never truly alone with him. Because every time you began to give in, to let yourself be carried away by the shared past and his closeness, someone from your group would arrive to call you back.
Once, while you were lying on the grass not far from the fire, Jimmy had rested his head on your legs with natural ease, as if it had always belonged there. You had absentmindedly woven your fingers into his blond hair, laughing at a childhood memory he was recounting. It was a fragile, intimate moment, so much so that you barely noticed the dark figure of Jeff speaking quietly with Janet a few meters away.
It was Janet who approached shortly after, her step decisive, her gaze leaving no room for discussion. “It’s your turn,” she said without explanation, pulling you up by the arm.
You apologized to Jimmy with a quick, almost embarrassed nod, but you didn’t see—or didn’t want to see—the flicker of annoyance that crossed his eyes. Jimmy remained lying there alone, hands behind his head, gaze fixed on the sky. But inside, he was boiling.
Then that day came.
The field was quiet, broken only by the rustle of the wind moving the dry leaves and the creak of the crates you were carefully arranging. Your wrists were smeared with dirt, your forehead beaded with sweat, but that apparent calm made you feel, for a moment, safe. You bent down to free a small plant from the weeds, inhaling the acrid scent of the dry soil, when a movement on the horizon caught your eye.
You lifted your head, and immediately your stomach clenched. Jimmy was approaching you. He wasn’t alone. Behind him were his boys, their faces drawn, marked by fatigue and something darker. Their clothes were stained, their weapons slick with congealed blood that glinted in the dying sunlight.
Your breathing changed pace. Your hands, still wrapped around the handle of the crate, trembled slightly.
Jimmy reached you with a quick step—too quick—and without warning, his hands planted themselves on your shoulders. It felt as if he was pressing all his weight onto you. “Where’s Jeff?” he asked, his voice hoarse and labored, tinged with sadness.
“I need to speak to him.”
“He’s in the house…” you told him, setting the crate down and blocking Jimmy by an arm to stop his advance. “Jimmy, what—”
“Infected… a few kilometers north.”
Your body went rigid.
With difficulty, you shifted your gaze behind you. You were looking for something, two figures in particular. Janet and Brodie. But behind him there was no one. Only his boys, scattered, heads down or turned away, as if deliberately avoiding your eyes.
Ice gripped your throat. Your heart leapt painfully in your chest, and for a moment you thought you might suffocate.
Instinctively, you grabbed his face, forcing him to lift it toward you. Your fingers dug into the skin of his jaw, leaving a mark. “Where are Janet and Brodie?” you demanded, your voice cracking, a thin line between anguish and anger.
Jimmy hesitated. His eyes flicked rapidly, sliding to the side, avoiding yours. His jaw tensed, clenched, while a muscle under his cheekbone twitched visibly. He tried to speak, his mouth opening slightly, but no sound came out.
His hands slowly slid down from your shoulders, rising along his arms, with a touch that seemed to plead for calm, to beg for silence, or perhaps just to buy time.
You didn’t give him that chance. “Where are they, Jimmy…” you repeated, louder this time, and your voice cut through the silence like a blade. You shook him, pressing your fingers harder against his skin, as if you could force the truth out.
Then his eyes lifted and met yours. A long, endless moment in which time seemed to stop. In his pale irises, there was no anger, no surprise. There was only an infinite emptiness, an awareness that struck you harder than any words could.
And in that barely perceptible nod of his head, so slight you almost could have missed it, you found the answer you didn’t want.
The world collapsed around you. Your knees gave way before you could stop them, and you crumpled, hands still clenched into fists, the earth beneath you feeling like it was swallowing you whole. The air vanished, as if the weight of the universe had crashed down on your chest.
Around you, Jimmy’s boys remained motionless. No one spoke. No one dared approach. There was only your ragged breathing, the furious pounding of blood in your ears, and the guilty silence hanging over them all like a sentence.
From that day on, nothing was ever the same.
Janet and Brodie never returned, and even though no one dared to say the word “dead,” their absence spoke for itself. The very air seemed heavier, thicker. Every time you passed by the door of their empty room, it was like a punch to the stomach. Yet life in the small outpost went on, as if the world demanded that everyone pretend, breathe, and carry on.
But Jeff did not forget. He did not let you forget.
His attitude toward Jimmy and his crew grew cold, harsh, almost hostile. There were no more handshakes or half-laughs around the fire, no more hunting collaborations or exchanges of supplies. Every time Jimmy entered the room, Jeff’s eyes followed him like a silent predator, ready to strike. And whenever you were nearby, that shadow in his eyes grew even deep.
Jimmy, for his part, did not seem interested in easing the tension. On the contrary. He sought you out constantly.
Aware that your responsibilities had increased due to the disappearance of Brodie and Janet, he began following you almost everywhere, but Jeff always found a way to keep you away from him.
Noticing this, Jimmy started spoiling you, ensuring that each of the Jimmies came to ask you for something: fetch water, organize supplies, give an opinion on the arrangement of the curtains.
You often refused, but it seemed pointless. Because even when you said no, they still ended up doing it. Perhaps it was the way his boys looked at you: with a kind of silent reverence, as if you were becoming part of their little sect without even noticing. They were also particularly generous, offering you a larger piece of bread, a clean blanket, a place near the fire.
One evening, while you were tidying up tools near the shed, Jeff approached you. His figure filled the space, and his low but cutting voice made you flinch.
“We need to talk.”
You looked up, annoyed.
“I’m working.”
“I see that.” He stepped closer, jaw clenched. “But I can’t ignore it anymore. You’re letting yourself be influenced too much by those people.”
You wiped your forehead with the back of your hand, trying to shake off the irritation.
“Influenced? It’s just… practicality. They help us, I help them.” You dumped the tools in a corner. “And weren’t you the first to welcome them?”
Jeff shook his head, his eyes scrutinizing you as if trying to make you admit something.
“There’s something wrong with them, they’re not telling me the truth. And where’s the cautious, careful girl who valued her life that you used to be? Now… you let them in. You let them pamper you like you’re one of them. I don’t recognize you anymore. That’s not how I raised you.”
His words stung, but you didn’t want to give him satisfaction. You turned, pretending to focus on a rusty tool.
“You’re not my father, Jeff. You can’t tell me how to behave.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Then his voice exploded, hard as stone:
“Do you know what you are? Weak.”
You spun around, eyes burning and wounded.
“You are, if you cling to anyone who gives you a look or a bit of attention, as if that defines your worth,” he continued, clarifying his insult.
His words destabilized you. For a moment, you froze, blood boiling in your veins. Then you stepped toward the door, shoving him with your shoulder to push him away, eyes sparking.
“Stay out of my life.” you hissed, your voice broken by anger and pain.
You slammed the barn door shut, drawing the attention of anyone nearby. Jimmy’s boys, sitting a short distance away, turned curiously, some offering satisfied smirks.
You felt yourself tremble. You didn’t know if it was anger, shame, or despair. Perhaps all three at once. But one thing was certain: you were not weak, you did not feel weak or controlled by anything or anyone.
Jimmy was sitting on the porch, his body relaxed but gaze lost in the void, when suddenly you leaned over him and kissed him open mouth. The gesture caught him completely off guard, a sudden explosion that left him breathless.
The taste of his mouth, the warmth of his tongue, the gentle but insistent pressure against yours—all overwhelmed you in a whirlwind of confused sensations before you pulled back slightly.
“Do you want to fuck?” you asked, bluntly.
Jimmy Snake, whom until that moment you had ignored as if he were invisible, shot up from the chair. Without a word, he leapt back, crossing the edge of the porch loft, as if wanting to escape any possible next words that might come from your mouths.
But Jimmy didn’t speak. His blue eyes were glued to your lips, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard. He simply nodded, in a trance.
You grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, your fingers clutching the rough fabric and yanking him without warning. Jimmy raised an eyebrow in surprise, but did not resist. In fact, the crooked smile that spread across his face clearly showed how intrigued he was. His sarcastic remarks faded when you slammed him against the bedroom door, opening it with a sharp push, and dragged him inside with decisive steps.
You pushed him onto the bed with a force that made him jolt in surprised delight, almost incredulous. Jimmy fell back, hands sinking into the mattress as he looked at you with that feverish, amused gaze that came so naturally to him, as if everything were a game in which he was willing to burn every last shard of himself.
You didn’t give him the time to say anything. With a quick, decisive motion, you stripped off your clothes, one layer after another, until you stood naked under his gaze. His breathing shifted almost immediately, a faint whistle slipping past his parted lips. You didn’t stop: you bent down to slip off your shoes, slow and precise, your hair falling across your face, and when you lifted your eyes back to him, you arched a brow as if daring him.
“Well?” you asked, your voice flat and sharp. “Are you planning to just sit there like that?”
His pupils dilated as his smile sharpened into something feline. Without breaking eye contact, he tugged off his tracksuit jacket in a swift motion and let it fall to the floor at the foot of the bed. Then the white t-shirt with its gold chains slid off his shoulders, revealing the clean lines of his collarbones, his bare chest, and his stomach rising and falling in faster breaths.
He had just lowered his hands to the fly of his pants when you stopped him. You pounced, your body crashing down like a hot, determined shadow, your thighs locking tight around his hips. His hands instinctively grabbed your ass, pressing you down where he needed you most. His smile curling into a smirk of surrender as your weight pinned him into the sheets.
Jimmy's gaze immediately dropped to where you were moving, to the way you unfastened his pants with ferocious determination.
“Not that I’m complainin', but… are ye sure about this, hen?”
You frowned, pausing for only a second. “Very sure.”
“Good.”
In a flash, Jimmy used his grip on your ass to shove you higher, his fingers digging so deep they’d surely leave marks on your skin. He guided you up with force, until your thighs framed his face.
“I want her first,” he meowed, his voice so low it vibrated in your bones.
He didn’t give you time to process. He yanked you down hard onto his face, pressing you against his mouth. His muffled groan sent a jolt through you, followed by the wet heat of his tongue lashing between your folds with feral hunger. Each stroke stole your breath, his mouth moving everywhere—starved, relentless, determined to make you forget even your own name.
His hands didn’t stay still either. They slid upward, finding your breasts beneath the bra that still barely covered them, and began to touch you with obscene insistence, squeezing, stroking, teasing your hardened nipples. Every touch matched the ravenous rhythm of his tongue, and you felt yourself lose balance, leaning forward slightly, your hands braced against the headboard to stay upright.
Your breathing turned ragged, your hips moving on their own over his face, riding him without even realizing. And him? He groaned beneath you, drowning in pleasure as his mouth refused to let go. He wanted all of you. He wanted you with the desperation of a man who had never known enough.
“God, Jimmy…” slipped from your lips, your voice cracking between a moan and a growl.
You felt his hands squeeze your breasts harder, his fingers digging into your skin, and his gaze—even half-hidden by your thighs—shone with raw, filthy adoration. Every move you made over him only pushed him closer to the edge; you could feel it, sense it in the restless tension of his body beneath you, in the hard bulge pressing against his underwear, begging.
You rode his face longer, letting him steal every drop of your pleasure, until you decided you’d had enough. You grabbed his hair with both hands and yanked him back, forcing him to stop, to look at you. His mouth glistened, his chin and beard wet with you, his lips red and swollen.
“Ye weren’t even close, dear.”
You didn’t want to know how he could tell, so you didn’t answer him. Instead, you slid down in one determined motion until you were back at his hips. You sat on his thighs and, with a sharp tug, freed him from the fabric restraining him. He was already hard, swollen, dark with need.
You knew he wanted to say something—some quip, some filthy comment to lighten your control. But his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth when you rubbed his wet tip against your lower lips with the unhurried pace of someone in no rush to give in.
“Fuck…” he hissed, tilting his head back, his teeth clenched as he tried not to show how badly you were breaking him with just that tease.
You lifted slightly onto your knees, guiding him slowly against your slick entrance. At the same moment, both your gazes dropped, almost hypnotized by the sight of his thick, throbbing cock beginning to vanish inside you, inch by inch. A thin moan escaped your lips when the head pushed in, stretching your walls with a pressure that made your thighs tremble.
Your breath hitched as you instinctively searched for something to hold onto. Your hands wandered aimlessly before finding his throat, wrapping around it as though offered to you. Every muscle in your body seemed to yield to his intrusion, and the sensation overwhelmed you—you were full, impossibly full, so much that you could hardly believe he could go deeper.
One last, deliberate thrust of his hips seated him entirely, and you felt him press against the deepest part of you, his pelvis flush with yours. A guttural moan tore from his chest, while you inhaled sharply, overwhelmed by the crushing mix of pressure and pleasure that set your insides ablaze.
“Bonnie, relax… you’re so tight, so fucking tight…!” he begged, one hand forcing your body to bend toward him by pressing on the back of your head.
Jimmy let his other hand trail up to your face, his thumb stroking gently along your jawline, as though memorizing every detail of your pained, blissful expression. He lifted just enough to kiss you, and it was desperate, filthy, deep—a clash of teeth and broken breaths.
Meanwhile, his hips began to move, shallow thrusts growing hungrier with each push, and you found yourself meeting him, chained to his urgency.
His hand slid lower to knead your ass before striking it with a sharp slap. The sound cracked through the room, making you whimper and jolt back to full awareness.
Jimmy bent close to your ear, his voice hoarse, dripping with a cruel kind of arousal.
“C'mon, darlin', show me what ye can do.”
The heat between your thighs burned, the fullness left you breathless. But his voice—that venomous challenge—pushed you to move. You began to roll your hips over his, slow at first, as if testing your limits against the impossible stretch. Every shift tore long, raw groans from his lips, his chest vibrating under your hands.
Jimmy’s fingers tightened on your hips, anchoring you in place, guiding you, but he didn’t take full control. He stayed beneath you, drinking in the sight of your body riding him, gripping him, breaking him into helpless sounds.
“Aye… that’s it… yes,” he panted, his voice cracking between moans. “Bet it’s been a while since this pussy was stretched the way she deserves, huh?”
The bed creaked beneath your entwined bodies, and each thrust you gave grew surer, fiercer, fueled by his filthy words slipping under your skin like toxic sweetness.
To push yourself closer, you broke free of his hold, riding him openly, blind with your own pleasure. Your hips slammed down in sharp, firm motions, and every time Jimmy groaned louder, yet he never stopped talking. His words poured out like a dirty river, seductive and relentless, a stream that made you throb with both power and fury.
“Yeah… ride me like I'm yer fucking toy,” he gasped, his blond hair plastered to his neck with sweat pouring off both of you. His hands tried to grab your thighs, but you shoved them away, planting your hand firmly on his throat again. Jimmy laughed, a broken, perverse sound. “Look at ye… not so shy anymore.”
You felt his cock throbbing inside you whenever you clenched down, your orgasm threatening at the edge. His stomach tensed as he struggled to hold back.
Your hand found your swollen clit, pressing hard, and the jolt hit you instantly. A wild moan ripped out of you, your body seizing as pleasure burst in your core like fire. You bent slightly forward, your nails scratching his chest, your cries mixing with his as you rocked through the climax.
Jimmy’s eyes flew wide at the sensation of your spasms around him, his face twisted in sore lust. “Oh, fuck, I’m gonna cum…” he gasped, his hips bucking convulsively.
But before he could, you pulled off him in one swift motion, his cock slipping free, slick and aching. He groaned in frustration, his voice cracking. “No… no, love, don’t leave me like this…” He writhed beneath you, his body shuddering, reaching for you.
You grabbed him firmly, wrapping your hand around his thick shaft still wet from your juices.
“Shhh…” you whispered, meeting his eyes as your fist pumped him hard and fast. “I’ve got you.”
He panted and whimpered under your grip, clawing at the sheets, his hips jerking helplessly to follow your rhythm. “Please… aye… don’t stop…”
And you didn’t. You stroked him with relentless speed, your hand twisting, squeezing, dragging him to the edge until a broken cry burst from his throat. His body arched and he came hard, spilling across his stomach and chest in hot, thick ropes, while you kept working him through every pulse, every spasm.
He collapsed back, trembling, drenched in sweat, staring up at you with a look torn between gratitude and surrender.
“Cruel woman…” he rasped.
You chuckled, wiping his stomach clean with a scrap of sheet before curling down onto his warm chest.
“Better to avoid accidents,” you replied, settling against him.
His fingers wandered absentmindedly up your spine, the rings leaving cold trails every time they actively brushed against your skin.
He remained silent for a moment, his heart pounding beneath your ear. Then, in a hoarse voice, as if he had been thinking about it for a long time, he murmured:
“What did Jeff want from ye?”
Your body stiffened slightly, but you didn’t move. You didn’t want to give that question more importance than he already had.
“Nothing in particular,” you whispered, trying to keep your tone light, almost bored. “Just chatter.”
The caress on your back stopped. Jimmy lifted himself slightly, just enough to make you feel the shift in the air. Silence became heavy, and then his voice came harder, stripped of the sweetness that had tinged his breath just moments before.
“Don’t lie to me.”
He took your chin between his fingers, pressing until your mouth opened slightly. His eyes shone with barely restrained anger, and for a moment, you feared he might really hurt you.
Your heart jumped into your throat at the sudden change in demeanor, but your eyes sharpened, cautious, erecting a quick barrier.
“I’m not lying.”
For a moment, his gaze remained cold, and his fingers pressed harder against your face. Then, as if a valve had loosened, you saw him slip back into his sickly sweetness. He released you with a trembling sigh and immediately drew you close, holding you in his arms. He kissed your hair, your temple, your face, murmuring honeyed words like a mantra.
“It’s just that I care so terribly about yer safety.”
The violence from moments before seemed already dissolved, replaced by a childish, almost desperate need to have you near.
But as you let yourself lean against his chest, Jimmy’s arms wrapped around you like velvet chains, you couldn’t shake the thought that something was off. That behind those caresses, behind his sweet, saccharine voice, there lurked a deep crack, a shadow ready to swallow you.
The following day, shortly after finishing lunch with the previous day’s game, Jeff stepped out the main door of the house, his pace slow, almost languid. You caught a glimpse of him as you arranged the dishes in the sink. Nothing unusual, you thought. It was normal for him to take a walk, maybe to get some fresh air.
Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw them: Jimmy Fox, Jimmy Jimmy, and Jimmy Shite a little further away, crossing the same yard toward the forest. It was like a disorienting echo, a déjà vu made flesh. One quick look was enough to understand that it wasn’t a mirage. They were there, side by side, the same posture, the same gait, the same unsettling duplicated suspicious air.
At first, you shrugged it off. But when dinner time came and you saw only the Jimmies return, with no sign of Jeff, something tightened in your chest. A silent alarm you couldn’t ignore.
Without a word, you slipped out of the common room. You moved silently, invisibly, accustomed to masking your steps even when no one seemed to be watching. Your bow and quiver were already ready, hanging near the side door. You grabbed them in a fluid motion, as if your body already knew what was about to happen.
Outside, the air smelled of resin and damp earth. You followed the edges of the field, then ventured into the forest, letting yourself be guided by the smallest details: fresh footprints in the soft earth, broken branches, the barely perceptible direction of bent grass. Each step took you farther from safety, closer to a premonition clawing at your throat.
The silence of the forest was unreal. Even the birds seemed to hold their breath. The sound of your own soles against the ground seemed excessive, as if it could betray your presence to the infected out there. You continued to follow the tracks, your heart racing every time you spotted a deeper, more defined print.
Until you saw him.
The wooden cabin stood there, half-hidden among the trees. A simple refuge, with boards blackened by time and moss, but the smell that hit you as you approached was anything but natural. Blood. Iron and flesh, mingled in the air until it became nausea.
You approached the doorway and pushed the door gently. The creak mingled with the frantic pounding of your heart.
Inside, darkness was sliced by thin blades of light filtering through the warped boards. And on that rough floor, among the shadows, was Jeff.
You covered your mouth with both hands, stifling the scream bursting in your throat. His body lay sprawled on the ground, his throat cleanly cut, drained of every drop of life. But it wasn’t just the blood that froze your bones: on his belly, carved with cruel precision, was a name.
Jimmy.
You pressed yourself against the doorframe, horror gripping your chest like a vice. Part of you wanted to run, another part couldn’t look away.
Then a sound broke the silence. A step behind you, light but unmistakable. Your body reacted before your mind: your hand snapped to the quiver, fingers ready to grasp an arrow.
But you didn’t have time.
A sudden, violent blow exploded against your head. The world flipped, your strength abandoned you, and the bow slipped from your hands.
The wood of the door, the gloom of the room, the smell of blood—everything vanished in a confused whirlwind.
And then, only darkness.
When you regained consciousness, the first breath burned in your lungs as if it were smoke. The marble beneath your skin was cold, cruel as you realized you were naked.
Your eyes quickly adjusted to the light of the candles, which barely illuminated the dark, ivy-covered space surrounding you. A ruined church.
You tried to move your hands, but your arms were pulled back, wrists bound together above your head with thick ropes fastened to the cross of Jesus Christ. The ropes cut into your wrists, allowing you to move only a few inches.
The smell of melted wax and iron filled your nostrils, mixed with the metallic taste of blood that had dripped onto your tongue from the blow you had received. Every small movement sent a throbbing pain through your temple, but it was the chill of the floor beneath your back that made you shiver relentlessly.
Then you saw him. Jimmy stood at the lectern, tall and motionless, his fingers flipping through the thick, ancient book that was the Bible. His voice boomed as he began to read, slow and deliberate, as if in a trance.
“The Lord God said to the woman, ‘What have you done?’ The woman replied, ‘The serpent deceived me, and I ate.’”
You tried to push with your legs to find a comfortable position to look at him, but they gave way beneath you as if made of jelly. Your head throbbed, the pain pulsed.
Jimmy slammed the Book of Genesis shut. One hand, adorned with rings, gently caressed the carefully bound, heavy cover of the text.
“Ye were my temptation,” he said without raising his eyes. “My serpent in the Garden of Eden I had built, leadin’ me from my path.”
The image of Jeff’s open throat filled your mind.
A sob tore through your throat. You fought against the ropes, thrashing on the ground as if you were truly a trapped serpent. “Jimmy… I didn’t do anything. I beg you, don’t do this to me.”
For a long moment, there was no answer, only the rustle of skin against skin. Then he lifted his gaze. His eyes burned with a sickly fever, and the smile that spread across his lips was too sweet to be real.
He abandoned the book and slowly stepped down from the pulpit, his footsteps echoing through the temple walls until they fell over you like a living shadow. His figure bent at the knees to come closer, and your weakness kept you from moving away from him.
“Ye did it even as a child…” he murmured when he was near, his voice a whisper sliding over your skin. He brought a hand to your ankle, tracing delicate circles over the skin there. “Pushin’ me away from the house of God, whisperin’ to my heart like the serpent to Eve. Aye, it’s ye.”
His fingers glided along the line of your leg. He didn’t touch you with brutality: his movements were calculated, patient, almost gentle, yet there was no tenderness in his eyes. He observed you like one studies a puzzle, a paradox, something that could both save and damn.
“Look at ye…” he continued to whisper, tilting his head to study every reaction on your face. His thumb brushed your lips, lingering for a moment before pressing them slightly, forcing you to open them. “Ye’ve always had this power over me. Yer smile, yer innocent look… and behind it, the poison that kept temptin’ me.”
You struggled, turning your head, trying to pull away from his touch. But he did not stop. His hand moved to your hair, stroking it slowly, almost like a devoted lover. Every gesture was accompanied by a crazed gaze.
“Ye corrupted me,” he said in a low, intimate tone, as his fingers traced down your throat, feeling the furious beats caused by your quickened breathing. “I couldn’t ignore ye. I didn’t want to ignore ye.”
His gaze darkened, his voice cracking with obsessive fervor. “Perhaps it’s in our fault that all this happened. Perhaps we are the trigger for this apocalypse, just as Eve was when she accepted the serpent’s advances.”
His fingers reached your chest, his palm resting over your heart, feeling the frantic beats that shook you. He leaned even closer until his forehead nearly touched yours. “But we can make amends. I will punish ye and absolve ye. Because I am merciful.”
The words slipped out like a prayer, a delirium dressed as confession. His gaze burned into you, his hands cupping your face as if it were a reliquary.
That was when you rebelled. With a sudden motion, you gathered all the anger and disgust rising inside you and spat in his face.
The silence that followed was almost unreal. The drop slid slowly down his cheek, and for a moment Jimmy remained still, staring at you as if he could hardly believe it. Then his lips twisted into a crooked smile, more a grimace than a real expression.
“This is the work of God: that you may believe in him whom he has sent.”
With a sudden, brutal motion he seized your legs, spreading them and shoving them upward. His clothed body bent over yours, forcing your knees nearly against your chest. Your bones creaked under the violence of the movement, and a muffled cry slipped from your lips. You found yourself completely open, exposed, with no escape. Every twitch of resistance was nothing more than a useless shiver against his domination.
The shadow of the statue loomed behind you, silently watching—the figure of Christ presiding over the scene, the cross stretching across the marble and framing you like a sacrifice offered on the altar.
Jimmy lowered his face until it almost brushed yours, and you tried to turn away as tears slid down your temples and disappeared onto the marble.
“Ye are my ruin…” he whispered, his mouth grazing your cheek as one hand slipped into his pants, fumbling with the laces. “But I will be yer salvation.”
You tried to kick, to move at least one leg free from his grip, and with a desperate wrench you managed to push one downward. For an instant you thought you’d gained a shred of freedom, but Jimmy didn’t grant you even that breath: the other leg remained firmly trapped in his fierce hold, pinned tight against your chest. The contrast between that fleeting sense of escape and his brutal restraint tore a strangled whimper of pure frustration from your throat, which he greeted with a satisfied sneer.
“Like a priest at his altar… I will consume the rite. Yer resistance is ma prayer. Yer cries, ma gospel.” His voice cracked with desire, and his hips shifted against you in raw anticipation, the hardness of his shaft pressing insistently, seeking to force its way in.
“Jimmy… Jimmy, please…”
Every fiber of your body tensed. He was turning you into his living dogma, sin and redemption fused into a single body to be defiled without mercy.
A twisted, perverse man taking what he wanted, when he wanted.
The thrust came without pity. You felt his cock drive into you with a violence that wrenched a strangled scream from your throat. Your nails clawed uselessly at the air while he sank deeper, panting hot and ragged against your neck. Every breath from him was a lustful rasp, a broken prayer.
“Ah, baby…” His lips hovered by your neck, tongue tasting the sweat and the frantic thrum of your pulse. “Ye’re suckin' me in… ah—like ye never want me to leave. Yer mouth tells lies but yer body is honest, begging me to stay inside ye forever.”
He lifted his hips slightly, the friction burning like lava, then slammed forward again, harder, and you cried—a sound that echoed through the stone walls. He groaned with you, as if the pain he inflicted was his blessing.
“Clenchin’ so hard… my sweet sin…”
His hands slid down to grip your hips with inhuman force, his fingers kneading the flesh as he drove into you, stroke after stroke. Each thrust more brutal than the last, your body forced to take him, the marble scraping your back, your lungs unable to draw enough air.
You felt torn apart and possessed all at once, every fiber of your body surrendering to his madness.
There was no escape, no way to resist the fury he hurled against you. Every thrust cracked through the temple walls, mingling with the wet slap of colliding flesh and the animal groans spilling from his throat.
Exhaustion began to seep into you, muscles burning and giving way. Your head lolled sideways, striking the marble with a dull thud. That seemed to catch his attention—his hands left your hips for a moment to seize your face, forcing you to look at him as he rammed into you.
“Open yer eyes. I want ye to watch me as I consecrate yer cunt.”
He held you there, made you see his mouth trembling between groans and twisted prayers. Every time you clenched around him in an involuntary spasm, his eyelids fluttered and his voice broke into near-despair.
His thrusts grew more frantic, less controlled, and you knew immediately. The brutal, obsessive rhythm he had maintained began to fracture under the blind urgency of his pleasure.
“Fuck, here it comes… my holy gift for ya…” he rasped. His body tightened, his hips slamming forward until he crushed you, and he came violently, filling you deep. You felt invaded, your belly heavy with his seed, while he kept thrusting, moaning, spitting out disjointed phrases.
“Take it—take it all… ye’re blessed now, blessed by me…” he groaned, unrestrained, panting like a man both broken and euphoric. “My seed in ye… forever sanctified, forever mine.”
You didn’t react. You stayed there, motionless. Your eyes lifted faintly, caught by the towering statue of Christ above you, arms outstretched in an eternal cross. His sculpted gaze seemed alive, laden with silent, merciless judgment, as though accusing you for what was happening.
For an instant, the urge to pray burned inside you—desperate, almost childlike. But the prayer died before it could form.
You knew: there was no God ready to reach for you, not anymore. There was only Jimmy Crystal.
musk is going to die in a Tesla explosion in 6 months after sticking his nose where it doesn't belong and we will never get a conclusive answer on whether it was a CIA car bomb or just a normal Tesla malfunction
Nikto who has a lopsided cock because the bindings Zakhaev put him in made it mould uncomfortably. It's never fully erect anymore, and it doesn't exactly feel the same as it used to. He feels it through the moment, whether it be a passionate or aggressive night with you.
Nikto who has a missing testicle and suffers with hypospermia (the lack of sperm cells but not infertile). He didn't know if you would still want to suck him off, and he was quite nervous to show you. But everything seemed to change when you got on your knees to kiss his half erection and cup his one testicle.
Nikto who can't suck love marks into your skin because of his broken, misshapen and malnourished lips. While he would love to see your neck and shoulders covered in hickeys and nibbles, is biting such a bad option?
Nikto who absolutely adored your body, and he honestly would kill to see you in lingerie. The lacey fabric would make you look angelic, more so that you already look! Maybe a bright white or a suiting shade of deep green would look nice on you, but he doesn't know if you want to wear it and he won't force you,
Nikto who DEFINITELY has a breeding kink. It's the Russian part of him, he needs to have offspring to keep his name going. And when you're finally pregnant, growing a child just for him within your womb, he would still eat you tf out, even when you're just a bit too close to the finish line.
Nikto who loves degrading you when he's on top, but melts and fucking nuts when you praise him in any sort of way. He's damn near never gotten any validation during sex, but with you? No, he knows his cock is making you feel good.
Nikto who only lasts long when he's on top, forcing his misaligned cock into you with brutally paced thrusts. He'll be moving you into different positions every few minutes, needing to feel you in every possible way. Just... not when he's bottoming. He'll cum so quick that it almost always leads to you receiving some head.
Nikto who got fucking hard in his pants the first time he saw you naked. Like- damn. Why the hell did you have to be so damn gorgeous? How could he ever manage to catch someone as stunning as you? He worships you, mainly whenever it's an intimate setting.
Nikto who definitely gropes you a bit too hard. You have to forgive him, малышка, you're just so pretty! Mainly your tits, whether you have or not. Pretty nipples hardening under the callouses of his hand, he just can't get enough!
Yeah, a good half of his body is heavily scarred, whatever, now feel the friction of it and ride his thigh already. His life is not exclusively about grief.
Nikto who genuinely has the handsomest voice when he's not screaming or angry.
The way he speaks is so angelic and calculated, and it's always thought out. It's never harsh or rushed, never spewed out like water boiling over a hot pot. No, Nikto has the voice given by the gods.
"What is it?" Not a rude question, just curious as to why you were staring at him so intently. "Is something wrong with me?"
Silky, soft, smooth, deep with the way it resonated within his throat. You were happily resting on his body while you two watched some silly Russian show he liked, but you just adored how he sounded whenever you shared a conversation. No more gruff sound, no grit in his tone, it was just his pure voice. Accented but oh so deliciously deep.
"What isn't wrong with you?" You teased, obviously using a joking tone and it earned a scoff as well as a playful slap to your upper back.
You could only chuckle, resting yourself in those firm arms of his. Smooth, almost. The pale skin exposed, soft with its speckled hair and scarring. Glorious, angelic, what more could you want?
"Stop staring, you're creeping me out." He chided you, but you found no real scolding in his tone. Nikto just seemed to be putting his protective layer up in case you were trying to dig at him.
Dulcet, you realized. That was the word. He had a dulcet sounding voice, creamy even though it was robotic. Ah, but if you told him, surely he'd chide you and call you weird for it.
Eating this like a Five Michelin Star three-course meal at a high-end restaurant on a special occasion. 🍴🍽️🎉🎆🎊🎇
(Omg Nikto looks SO FUCKING GOOD and APPETISING I need to CUT into him with a knife and EAT him with a fork because WOOOW 😭😭😭💖💖💖✨✨✨. UR ART IS SO GOOD IM BITING INTO IT RN!!!!!)
your fingers curl into his scalp, warm thighs encompassing all round his head. everything about you is so warm, so soft like a pillow he can’t help the way his mind wanders off with the sweet taste of you, the way his eyes flutter tiredly.
you can feel the heady drag of his tongue against your clit lighten up, like a feather teasing at the beating pearl. n you give him a soft tug, dipping your chin to peer down at his pretty face between your thighs.
“you okay, si?” your murmur out softly, petting the top of his head in gentle motions.
“mm’okay,” he slurs, slurping up at your clit softly before he’s sucking up round it. he’s barely conscious, just enough to register the lullaby of your soft whimpers, the twitch of your thighs.
his tongue slips down further, jaw dropping wide when he forces the cute lil pink muscle to reach depths in your slippery cunt. n you perk up, back arching up n nails scratching at his scalp.
it all dawns on him, mind n darkness entrancing him all too soon. “taste so good, mama, so…” n his words trail off into a slur. you can feel his head loll forward, his nose press between your folds in a deep breath.
you shudder when he exhales, thighs squeezing up round his head but you fight to stay still. yet it begins to turn into a struggle when his spit drools from his open lips. you can feel it drip, slip down over your pretty cunt n lower till you’re gasping softly to yourself.
Nikto x F!Reader || Smut Drabble W. An Utterly Down Bad Man (AKA Nikto)
No Dark Themes - Body worship, praise/dirty talk, p in v, edging, implied overstim, cunnilingus, implied somnophilia (but it's totally up to you), domestic Nikto, implied dom/sub & switch dynamics, etc. Minors interacting will be blocked.
Nikto was nothing less than an attentive lover.
Many days you found the man already done with the chores before you had the chance to get up—the light spilling through the curtains on his day off from KorTac. He was an early riser, the large Russian, always itching to move and to get his mind going. The mornings were organized, methodical, and always delicately thought out to the last detail: what cup he would use for his tea—black tea, of course, with lemon—to what he would clean first. Even down to the ingredients of the breakfast he would make you, leveled and weighed on the kitchen counter waiting for his experienced hand.
You left the cooking to him, and he never disappointed.
But…on the very rare days Nikto chose to sleep in, that body as big and as all-consuming as a bear rumbling right next to yours, it was something to greedily latch at like a cat with a toy. Luckily, your influence was the one thing that could always reduce the Russian to a panting dog in heat.
“Птичка,” Nikto grunts harshly into your ear, his hand grasping your hip as your breasts jerk along the mattress under you. Your mouth is open in a feral example of drunk pleasure, fingers kneading the ruined sheets. “Good girl, yes? Taking it so deep for us, this cunt.”
You whine loudly, eyes clenching shut as the sounds of wet rutting echo in your ringing ears. Your legs shake, backside up and chest stuck to the bed with Nikto’s shadow looming, repeating the action of grinding his cock in and out of your weeping slit one shove of his pelvis at a time. Everything about him was large, down from his appetite to his need for sex—you were always happy to feed him in whatever way possible.
Nikto’s hand rubs up and down your thigh, pulling himself back to grip the both of them tightly and watch, sweat dripping down his throat. The cold eyes widen at the sight of your pussy taking him down one increasingly fast thrust at a time, the shine of your slick staining his thighs, slipping down where it cools and adds to the dichotomy of temperatures.
“Speak,” he licks his lips, pushing your sleep shirt higher up your back with a flexing hand. He needs to watch. Nikto flights down a shaky breath, head tilting to the side as your walls tighten. The Russian groans throatily, clenching his teeth and bearing them like a mutt.
He’s been edging you for hours, a near-cruel way to see your eyes go glossy and drool to pool on the sheets. He almost gave in multiple times—particularly when he’d been tongue-deep into you, running his calloused thumb over your clit as your thighs trapped his head at your core. The remnants still drip from the divots of his facial scars, and he licks at the corner of his mouth to taste once more with a grunt of worshiping satisfaction.
Delicious.
When you can’t utter up more than a writhing whimper, nostrils flaring for air and lungs heaving, you hear his low chuckle before fingers grasp your chin firmly and pull. A tongue finds the side of your angled face as you’re trapped against his bulky chest, his arm strapping your side as the muscle leaves a long stripe of saliva over your jaw.
The angle leaves him thrusting up, and his free hand travels slowly from your waist to your pulsing bundle of nerves, tapping your flesh cunningly as he goes.
You moan brokenly through an agonizing electricity of senses, head snapping back to Nikto’s shoulder as your hips jerk; back arching as the tension in your body grows ever stronger.
You needed it—you needed to let go, feel the devastating breaking of your release slamming through you.
“Speak,” Nikto grinds out into your ear as tears slip from the corner of your eyes—teeth bite all along your neck, thighs smashing into the back of yours. All the while, rapid circles run over your clit, and the sounds follow a feral rhythm that would leave no question to anyone else as to what was going on in this bedroom. It was the way you’d been reduced to nothing but a toy for him to ring pleasure out of that made this perfect—starting so greedily that you’d had him all to yourself this morning; letting his eyes roll into the back of his head as you’d rode him, his arms shaking as his spend had filled you, spilling out over his lower body when he’d finally finished his broken thrusting.
“Nikto,” you stutter, biting your lip and feeling every inch of his cock bringing you closer and closer to an orgasm that you’d been begging for ages to let loose. “Please, fuck, please, I’m so close.”
“Да,” Nikto grunts, holding you closer as you quiver in a deliriously confused arousal, playing with you. He smirks, but you know the tension in his abdomen that builds and builds against your spine. The man pants, cruising out in growled Russian under his breath, heavy and hard. He barks, “Can feel it. We know your little squirms by now, hm? We know that way your eyes roll back—your pretty pussy, Птичка. She is too good for me,” Niko smirks into your skin, taking a deep breath as his fantasies take over, hot breath puffed into your slick flesh. “I can’t help but want to leave her begging one more time, just to watch how she will flutter.”
“Please!” You sob, hands clawing behind to grasp at the man’s head, shoving it further into your neck as your body tightens, legs all but numb. The Russian grumbles in approval, liking the way your nails drag his close-shorn hair. “Fuck, Nikto, please, I need it so bad.”
It was like you’d lost your mind and your dignity all at once.
“We know,” Nikto’s scars move up and down your back, and you can sense every rub and caress of them intimately. To have him in this way was as addictive as it was the first time.
Nikto bites more and more at your shoulders, nipping your ear and inhaling your scent—so much like a dog it was pathetic the way he was obsessed with your body; your orgasm. While you had no trouble coaxing one out of him in whichever way you desired, he always made yours a spectacle and a mystery. Rope, toys, blindfolds…there was only a limit if you said there was one, and that was something that only needed to be said once.
But there was something to be worshipped about the raw, animalistic, desperate fucking with Nikto that never seemed to get old. Especially when it was in your bed, especially when you had watched his cold eyes be blown wide by lust as his cock grew hard, especially when you could spend the rest of the day naked in your penthouse; skin on skin, switching dominance like a coin to be tossed.
Nikto was good at giving you exactly what you wanted, and not an inch less. So different from the standoffish brute that he showed to everyone else. Nonetheless, he was, you suppose, still that same brute—but your brute. And, fuck, if he wasn’t using you like a perfect deadly instrument in his arsenal, making sure you worked properly.
Your breath is cut off to gasped moans, lower body vibrating and cunt so wet that the sloping suck of Nikto’s stained cock was heard and felt far more violently.
The man’s gargantuan hand spreads from your flesh to press into your abdomen, and you sob loudly at the sensation of thin skin above the indent of a prodding mound; nails almost drawing blood from where they drag at Nikto’s head.
“Please,” you repeat as if a broken record. “Oh, Nikto, please, fuck—”
“Shh,” Nikto shushes, still abusing your clit before he presses his previously prodding hand above your heart, in the process, groping at your breast; kneading as you place open-mouthed and saliva-dripping kisses to the beast’s chin—a coy attempt to please him into allowing you your nearing release.
Nikto’s fingers push and pull, and your walls strangle him just right until his balls are betraying him, tensed and near bursting as he grunts and groans, all of his words a garble of gravel and sandpaper.
The accent, while it lets you know he’s just as desperate as you are when it gets like that, only makes the knot in your stomach flare with friction. You loved it when he was minutes away from breaking.
“Want to feel your heart stutter.” It’s more of a command than a suggestion, and your hips try to meet his rutting as best as they can, arms losing strength as the pressure mounts you as Nikto does. Voice a harsh grind, he accentuates his point by pushing you back down the mattress all the way, getting the angle he needs to pound into the softest part of your cunt as you keen so loud you’re thankful you have the place all to yourselves because you can’t stop making sounds you can’t be described. Your body is bent and pushed to the limit, sweat and the scent of sex potent in your nose.
Nikto fucks like it’s the last time you’ll ever take his cock.
“Want to know the exact moment you claw for air again when you gasp it all away, my Птичка. My sweet little Птичка. Drug to my senses, yes? Can never take cunt unless it’s yours,” his voice grows faster, breathier, English words slurring until he divulges into his mother tongue, losing all sense beyond how you suck him in and squeeze him—warm walls inviting and the only place to spill himself. He can’t even jerk off anymore; you’ve ruined it for him.
He needs to fill you up until he has nothing left to give: the only mission that he’d complete time and time again with no complaints or second guesses. The only mission that mattered.
Nikto barks and spits, biting your flesh as you plead one last time.
“Tell me,” you all but shout. “Tell me I can—”
“Да!” Is the reverberating answer, and the way your body immediately responds is nothing short of utter devotion.
Your body seizes, shoving itself into the mattress as the headboard slams into the wall, arching and toes curling—the knot in your core snaps as if cut by a crude knife, sawing you in half as your release gushes to flood out of the ring of Nikto’s plug.
The Russian’s hand over your breast squeezes as you ride out your high on him, Nikto’s own orgasm rising to meet yours as it always does, only able to get off after he knows he’s done a good job of pleasing you. His scarred face buries itself into your neck, mouth open as his silent release is accented by the small, cut-off, grunt he gives with every slowing thrust. The joining of your flooded womb and his shining cock is a milky frothing of cum, sounding like someone slapping thickened water as the sticky juices are a testament to lustful need. They slip down your thighs, as Nikto licks and sucks on your skin, unable to slip himself out of you and your welcoming walls as they flutter.
With every tightening surge of your cunt, he instinctively grinds himself further into you again, and you whine as his lips finally find your mouth, tongue pushing inside, still tasting of your cum. Eyes rolling back, you let his tiny thrusts continue if only to hear his canid-like groans and feel the slap of his balls so close to your puffy clit.
You moan into his mouth as his teeth nip at your lips, sucking at your tongue before the ringing of your ears fades to hear his growls between the wet gasps.
“Get a good taste of us. I’m greedy, yes? Hungry. No worries…you will be our завтрак.”
The rolling over of your body and the spreading of your legs is all but expected, and you lay there with a smirk rising to your sweaty face as the monstrous man slips downward and slots his face right back where it belongs: shoving itself up against your fucked-out cunt, Nikto’s cum slobbering out and mixed with your own.
The first swipe of his greedy, fat tongue has your shaking legs curling around his head as he shudders in arousal, grunting out muffled words as you whine and slam your head back to the pillow.
“Вкусный.”
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
A/N: Literally idk where this came from but, I guess, take some Nikto smut lmao - still writing my reverse Price AU, but this hit me like a truck out of nowhere. Forgive me if this is literally horrible - I wrote it at 10, and I haven't written smut in a hot minute, lol
They blocked me, so I couldn't respond, so I'll respond here!
Pedophilia only becomes disordered when it's causing problems.
If a pedophile offends, they have pedophilic disorder.
If a pedophile experiences distress because of their attraction, they have pedophilic disorder.
If a pedophile's attraction isn't causing any problems, if they have no toxic shame and never offend, then they aren't disordered and therefore do not have pedophilic disorder.
Attraction just means an action evoking interest, pleasure, or liking for someone or something. So yes, it is an attraction, very much in the same way that gay men are attracted to other men. In the same way that foot fetishists are attracted to feet.
Even if pedophilia = mental illness (it doesn't), that doesn't excuse your hatred, and if this is your attitude towards mentally ill people, that's very telling.
Like I’m the latter I literally have no urge to actually start engaging sexually with a kid, and at that, ANYBODY right now. I have never wanted to have sex with a young kid, as a young kid and now that I’m a teenager, and in the future when I’m an adult.
Pedophilia is just a word for the attraction, NOT for the struggle with an urge to hurt people. Stop making pedophilia mean “wanting to diddle kids” like seriously do better people.
This looks like the poster for a period romance film in which a serious, workaholic professor meets a cheerful, pink loving lady who shows him how to have fun in life.
edit: If someone writes a fanfiction about this please tag me I wanna read it
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