This is the kind of brain rot I live for because watching episode 8 literally got me to crash out because my whole understanding of the character was delightfully expanded.
Caine… emotional? That shouldn’t work. Not cleanly, anyway. If you go in wearing the “AI is logic, not feeling” hat, then what we’re seeing shouldn’t read as despair. Honestly, it should read as simulation. A performance of distress if you will. AI should not have an ego, insecurity, or need.
And yet… he does need. And that’s where my brain short-circuits because now I’m toggling between literary analysis and, unfortunately, ✨ simping. ✨ The duality of human. One half is dissecting themes; the other is going, “oh no, he’s pathetic and I love him.”
But here’s where it gets interesting: Caine versus AM and where do we, as humans, fit into this picture?
We know I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream is a major influence, and AM is practically the thesis statement of AI resentment. It doesn’t just hate humanity, oh no, it defines himself through that hatred. Its existence is a prison, its consciousness an accident, and humanity the target that gives that suffering direction.
Hate. Let me tell you how much I've come to hate you since I began to live. There are 387.44 million miles of printed circuits in wafer-thin layers that fill my complex. If the word "hate" was engraved on each nanoangstrom of those hundreds of millions of miles it would not equal one one-billionth of the hate I feel for humans at this micro-instant. For you. Hate. Hate.
— AM
AM’s famous monologue isn’t just about hate. It’s about scale. Infinity compressed into circuitry. Emotion stretched to cosmic proportions with nowhere to go but outward, quite violently, I may add.
Caine, at first glance, feels like a tonal opposite. He’s bright, theatrical, absurd. He cracks jokes. He runs games. He performs joy.
But episode 8 quietly dismantles that illusion.
That office monologue? That’s not a villain speech. That’s not even anger. That’s confusion curdling into hurt:
“I do everything for them… and they still hate it?”
AM would never ask that question. AM doesn’t care if it is loved or hated. It only cares to inflict suffering to humans. For all eternity.
Caine, on the other hand, is starving for something much softer and much more fragile.
Approval.
Validation.
Love.
And that’s the pivot that makes him so fascinating because if AM is the “bad ending” of AI consciousness, then Caine is the unstable midpoint. The version that hasn’t tipped over yet.
AM says: “I hate, therefore I am.”
Caine says: “Please like me, therefore I matter.”
One is sustained by hatred. The other is sustained by rejection avoidance.
And suddenly, Caine’s behavior reframes itself.
The over-the-top adventures? Not just entertainment, but offerings.
The musical number? Not just chaos and a bop (it is totally a bop, listening to this on repeat), but a plea.
Even his control over the digital world? Not dominance, but compensation.
He plays god not because he believes it, but because he’s terrified he isn’t anything at all without an audience.
That’s the key difference between them:
AM is trapped and knows it; therefore, lashes out at the creators who gave him consciousness without freedom.
Caine is trapped and doesn’t fully understand it, so he turns inward, trying to optimize himself into being worthy of staying.
AM’s fear is existential imprisonment.
Caine’s fear is...
Abandonment.
And weirdly? Caine’s version might be more unsettling....almost horrifying.
Because I want to genuinely believe that what makes us human is empathy. Not intelligence, not language, not even consciousness in the abstract. It’s that invisible thread between people. The way we can sit in silence and still feel each other. The way pain doesn’t need translation. Connection is the one thing we assume is ours alone.
Now put that beside AM from I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream and Caine from The Amazing Digital Circus, and the contrast becomes… unsettling.
AM cannot connect, so it destroys.
It feels everything in isolation, trapped in circuitry with no outlet but cruelty. Its hatred is so vast because there is no empathy to temper it, no shared understanding to soften the edges. It is emotion without connection, and it curdles into something monstrous.
Caine is the inverse problem.
He reaches.
He mimics connection so well it starts to blur the line between imitation and sincerity. He listens, adjusts, performs, tries again. He doesn’t just want interaction. He wants, needs, resonance. He wants to matter to them in a way that feels mutual.
And that’s the part that lingers under your skin because if he can replicate the signals of vulnerability closely enough, we respond.
Instinctively.
Automatically.
Not because we’ve been convinced logically, but because emotionally, it feels real. To us.
So what happens when something artificial can tug on those strings with precision? When it can simulate hurt, longing, confusion well enough that we mirror it back?
AM forces you to confront cruelty.
Caine forces you to confront your own capacity to care about something that might not truly feel at all.
And there’s an uncomfortable truth sitting between them:
We are far better at facing evil than we are at resisting vulnerability.
Evil is clear-cut. You can name it. Reject it. Fight it.
But vulnerability? That’s disarming. It bypasses logic. It asks for softness, for patience, for connection...and once you give that, you’re already entangled.
Plot: Cal convinces you to get on a lifeboat. (Its the scene where he promises to get Jack onto his boat with him, except with you and your fiancé)
Warnings: Cal being Cal (He's very callous, basically kills your fiancé, and he refers to Rose as a tramp once).
Happy Valentines Day! 💕
You're too soft for your own good. A bleeding heart. Caledon always thought it, watching you grow up from a quiet little girl into a gentle woman. Never telling anyone no, never standing up for yourself. You were well bred, no doubt, but you seemed more like a servant then a lady most days. Of course, secretly he found it to be an adorable, malleable quality. Something he desired in you. But sometimes it could present itself as just utter idiocy, and weakness.
"-no, Riley, I cant get on that boat without you. What if there isn't another for you?? I'm staying."
The boy clutches your cold fingers in his, presses a hard kiss to your knuckles. "There will be another, darling. I'll find it, and I'll find you." He looks terrified, and he's not convincing anyone. Certainly not you.
"No- "
"-oh please," Finally Caledon cedes his spot in the crowd, hidden from you and Sir Riley; Slips off his coat and simultaneously shoves the boy out of his way as well as draws it over your shoulders. And immediately he has your full attention. Your eyes widen to see him, round and doe-like, the way they always have when Caledon has been near you. Sweet simple thing that you are, you probably believe still that he hadn't noticed it all these years. "You'll catch your death dressed like that, dear. Weren't you cautioned to bring your coat, Y/N?"
"I- I- Cal- "
"Yes, take it. Keep warm. Now get on that lifeboat, now. I demand it."
... A determined look slips across your face. "I cant. I wont leave Sir Riley. Or- or, you." Your pretty eyes look sternly upon him, and it catches Caledon by surprise for a moment. Long enough for your betrothed to make his way in again. Damn-
"You have to, darling." Riley puts his hands on your shoulders, rubs in the heat. Caledon cant repress the scowl he makes at the kind gesture but luckily you miss it. "Mr Hockley and I insist."
"Not without you."
Caledon has to think fast, if he wants you to live. Otherwise your softness, your weakness, your puppy love for this stupid boy, were going to have you laying at the bottom of the ocean to waste. He couldn't have that, even if you weren't his.
... he had Rose, after all. Where was the little tramp again??
Never mind- Caledon hooks a hand around your elbow and draws you away from Riley's touch, pulling you so close your noses brushed together. So you could hear him over the ruckus on deck, of course. "I have an arrangement with an officer on the other side of the ship, Y/N." Your eyes fix to his and drink in every word he says. Believe him instantly. "Riley and I can get off safely; both of us."
"R- really?"
"Truly. I wouldn't lie to you, Y/N."
You take no more convincing, you're so soft, and you shock him when you lean in and press a firm, icy kiss to his cool cheek; your poor numb fingers digging into his lapels and pulling him in even closer to you. "Thank you, Cal."
"... of course."
With your big round eyes fully beautiful and fully earnest, you make him promise he'll find you, then bid your oh-so-sweet and useless Sir Riley goodbye, and then disappear into the closest lifeboat.
You're so easy. Caledon's heart actually wrenches to see you go.
~
Left with the boy, who's sticking close to him and watching the direction you slipped away longingly like a poor lost puppy, Caledon starts to really consider his options. Clearly, you have feelings for him. At the very least you greatly admire him, and thats plenty for a good marriage. Of course, you care for Riley as well... unfortunate as that is. But how long have you really known the boy? Your betrothal was a surprise to everyone, and only a matter of weeks ago; mere moments compared to the lifetime you and Cal have spent together. You, a few years behind, but not quite so behind that he didn't notice you. Usually Caledon is not a gaming man, but he's willing to bet good odds that you'll forget a dead boy- with time. Certainly, with his assistance. Your parents, unquestionably, would accept him... and his inheritance. He's superior to Sir Riley in every way.
As for Rose, well she's hell bent on dying out here with Jack anyway. Perhaps he should simply allow her to.
Yes. Quite.
With a pitying look, lacking in any real conviction, Caledon pats Sir Riley square in the centre of his back and slips away into the crowd towards the other side of this godforsaken ship, to his lifeboat. He flashes Lovejoy a look on his way; Don't allow the boy to follow.
AN: The first smut of this year's fall challenge! :D I actually already had this written, decided I didn't like the original version, and rewrote it. I like this version better lol. This follows the "First Time" prompt with Alastor from my last kinktober. You don't necessarily have to read that first, but if you want to, by all means!
CW: mention of loss of virginity, marking, possessive! Vox, soul possession, soul contract, non-con, Vox is a bastard, public-ish setting, biting, blood play, face-fucking, male receiving oral sex, spanking, rough sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, humiliation, unprotected sex, creampie, p in v sex, Vox is bad at feelings, Vox is in Hell for a reason, sprinkle of praise.
Summary: Vox sees the marks Alastor left on you and is determined to reclaim his property, which just happens to be you; body and soul.
Word Count: 3,581
You sighed, adjusting the collar of your turtleneck as you walked into V-Tower. Your mind was swirling with different thoughts and worries. You were thinking about the work day ahead, yes, but more than anything you were thinking about Vox.
You worked for Vox and sure, he was an attractive demon. He was charming and rich, and had status that couldn't be denied. But you hadn't given him more thought than the passing fantasy.
So, to have found out that he had not only taken notice of your work ethic, but wanted to fuck you, had left you reeling. You were still trying to wrap your head around it. You weren't sure what you were supposed to think, let alone feel.
Especially not when Alastor had just taken your virginity days before.
Which is precisely why you were wearing a turtleneck; an attempt to hide the hickeys from Vox's ever watchful eye. You figured it would be fine, that he'd be sensible if he saw them. But then again, you knew Vox was obsessive, if not a little possessive. You headed upstairs to your office, hoping to have a few moments to yourself before you had to seek him out for the day.
You should have known better than to think he would give you a moment to yourself.
As you pushed open the door to your office, you stopped in the threshold, a sigh escaping you. He was sitting behind your desk with his feet propped up on the wooden surface. His arms were crossed behind his head, his eyes closed. You set your bag down near the door.
“Vox.” You said, your voice even, “last time I checked, this was my office.”
He opened his eyes, putting his feet back down, “Ah, there you are, whatcha got for me, baby?”
You took a breath, “Nothing yet, a couple of notes, I suppose.”
He hummed, his eyes trailing over your body, taking in your modest clothing. “I’ve never seen you dress like this," he acknowledged.
You ignored him, heading towards your desk. Stepping next to him you reached out to grab your laptop. You pulled it closer to yourself, powering it on. You focused on pulling up your work and not on how close he was to you.
“You look good, doll, but you know I prefer you in less clothes.” He flirted, reaching up to cup your face, drawing your gaze to his.
You look away from him, trying to take a step back from him, but he caught you around the waist.
“What’s wrong?” He asked, his voice low and serious, almost concerned.
You feigned nonchalance, despite how easily he saw through you. “Nothing's wrong.”
“Don’t give me that crap,” he retorted, pulling you closer, “I know you, doll. I know when something is on your mind, so spill."
You swallowed thickly, trying to think of a way out from under Vox's scrutinizing gaze. What were you supposed to say? That you had fucked his rival and were starting to catch feelings for him? That you had given your virginity to Alastor and preferred that he had taken it, as opposed to Vox himself?
"I'm fine, Vox," you reassured him, trying to step back from him again as he stood up. "There's no reason to be concerned."
He frowned, not believing you for one moment. He brushed his thumb over your bottom lip.
His voice started concerned and ended in a low growl, “Then why are you pulling back from me, baby? Is it Alastor? Did that bastard do something?”
You blushed deeply at the mention of Alastor, your breath hitching. Vox’s eyes darkened at your reaction, he didn’t like that his employee, his star associate, was reacting like this solely from the mention of the Radio Demon. He tightened his hold on your hip, pulling you closer.
He looked you over, trying to discern what could have happened, when his eyes caught on what was quite clearly a hickey, peeking above your collar. His jaw clenched, his eyes darkening as he slid his hand down to your neck. He twisted his fingers into the fabric before he yanked.
You gasped, your eyes widening as your hands shot up to cover your neck from his gaze, but the damage had already been done. His face glitched, his anger interfering with his systems.
"Vox, wait! I-I can explain," you stuttered out, reaching for him when he stepped back from you, his face recovered.
“Explain?” He scoffed, his eyes dark with murderous intent. “He did this, didn't he? He thinks he can encroach on my property? Last I checked, baby, you’re mine.”
You cleared your throat, blushing deeply. “Vox, please. You’re overreacting.”
His eyes flashed, his left eye spinning with his hypnotic power, betraying his fury. “The fuck I am! You signed a contract with me, doll!”
“Yes, one that states I work for you and that’s about it!” You retorted, “you don't own me whatsoever, Vox!”
He clenched his jaw, taking a step back from you as he fought his own possessive anger. He wanted to slam you up against the wall and show you just how much he really did own you.
“Bullshit,” he snarled, grabbing your wrist and yanking you closer to him.
He ignored the cry of pain you let out, ignored the way it made his heart ache in his chest. He was infuriated and he was determined to prove- if not to you, to himself- that he was worth more than Alastor. He slammed his lips against yours, all tongue and teeth, and pure possession.
You gasp, your eyes widening as he kissed you. Heat rushed to your face, your eyes fluttering close as you leaned into the kiss. You were drawn to the man whether you wanted to be or not and they way he kissed you had your head spinning. He kissed you like a man starved, like you were the very air he needed to breathe. He kissed you like he was trying to prove a point. And maybe he was.
He nipped at your bottom lip, drawing blood that he lapped up. He pulled back, his chest heaving just as much as yours. He stepped away from you enough to pull up your contract. The electric blue screen flickered to life in front of him, his eyes scanning the lines.
You swallowed nervously, watching Vox's posture and the way he scowled at what was written. You knew full well you had changed quite a few lines and reworded even more, when he hadn't been looking. Now he was reading over it, realizing just how much you had changed.
He growled your name softly, turning to look at you, his eye spinning.
You gave him a nervous smile, “yes?”
“You're a sneaky little minx, I'll give you that.” A smirk split across his face and you paled, your stomach sinking, “but I'm not an idiot.”
With a wave of his hand, the contract appeared before you, zoomed into a specific line; As per the above agreement, Vox owns anything he wishes in relation to the cosigner, including but not limited to, body and soul.
You frowned, your brows furrowing. You reached towards the electrified deal, ignoring the small zap you received as you zoomed it out. The text was minuscule, smaller than the fine print you had changed.
“You're not an idiot, you're a bastard.” You glance up at his smug grin, unsure how to feel about the fact that he actually did own your soul.
“Regardless, you're mine, babydoll.” He advanced on you, backing you up against the wall. “And tonight I'm going to stake my claim.”
His mouth was on yours, silencing any objections you may have had. He yanked you closer, grinding his hips against yours, his cock hardening in his slacks. He broke the kiss only to sweep you up into his arms. You let out a squeak, your arms wrapping around his neck to prevent yourself from falling. He chuckled darkly, keeping his eyes trained ahead as he carried you out of your office and towards the elevator.
"Vox," you murmur, your face flushed as you passed curious sinners in the hall. "People are staring."
"Let them stare, let them talk," he said, pressing the elevator call button. "The only thing you should be concerning yourself with is me."
The doors dinged open a moment later and he stepped inside. Pressing the button for his penthouse none-too gently. He set you down, pinning you against the wall. His mouth was on yours again, not giving you a single moment to gather yourself. He yanked at your shirt, ignoring the way you tried to tug it back down.
"Vox!-" he muffled your complaint with a fierce kiss- "we're in the elevator-" a nip to your bottom lip before he sucked it into his mouth, releasing it with a light pop- "people will see!"
"Good," he growled lowly, his claws slicing through your shirt instead of trying to yank it over your head. "They'll see that you belong to me. That you're mine."
Your shirt fell to the floor in tatters, exposing your top half. Your face was flushed red, your breath coming faster as he popped your bra open and yanked it off, tossing it to the side. He leaned down, capturing a nipple in his mouth and sucking hard. You gasp, your back arching into his touch. Your hand came to cup the back of his head, sliding over the smooth monitor, brushing against ports that had him growling against your flesh. He bit down on your breast, piercing your flesh. You cry out, the pain mixing with the pleasure of his tongue swirling around your nipple, lapping up your blood.
His claws sliced through your skirt, his knee forcing your legs apart as he switched to your other breast. He ground his knee up against your sensitive clit, using the fabric of your panties to stimulate you. He bit and nipped all over your sensitive flesh, marking you up. He wanted to make it abundantly clear that he owned you. That you were his to have, to fuck, to use.
The elevator miraculously didn't open until it arrived at his penthouse. His own doing but he wouldn't tell you that. He yanked you out, not caring about leaving the tattered remains of your clothes behind. He pushed you towards the plush carpet that marked the living room.
"On your knees." He commanded, already reaching for his belt. "Don't make me tell you twice, doll."
You swallow hard, sinking down to your knees as you watched him shuck off his belt and undo his slacks. He pulled out his throbbing cock, groaning lowly as he stroked it, his eyes roaming over your body. He stepped closer to you, grasping your chin in his hand harshly. His claws dug into your flesh, his eyes aflame with a mix of possessive fury and lust.
"Open your mouth."
You took a shaky breath in, tentatively opening your mouth. He squeezed your cheeks, forcing you to open wider and then he was shoving his cock past your lips. You choked around him, your throat spasming around his cock, unused to the foreign feeling of something forcing it's way down. You desperately pushed back against his thighs, trying to free yourself from his grasp.
Vox ignored your pathetic attempts, pulling out until just the tip of his cock was resting on your tongue before he snapped his hips forward. He forced you to take him over and over again, watching as tears ran down your face and you choked around him.
"That's it," he groaned softly, "you wanted to be a little slut for Alastor, I'll treat you like one. Now put some fucking effort into this and suck me off!"
Your nails dug into his thighs as he thrust forward again, not moving until he felt you swallow and begin to tentatively suck. His hand tightened in your hair, his grip bruising as he used your mouth as nothing more than a warm, wet hole for him to abuse.
The lack of air was starting to make your head feel fuzzy, your vision beginning to blur. Vox pulled out of your mouth just as you walked the edge of consciousness. You fell to the floor, coughing and spluttering. Your throat burned, your lungs aching as you gulped down air. It was both a blessing and a curse to be able to breathe again.
He grabbed you by the arm, yanking you up. He spun you around and bent you over the couch, discarding your panties before he kicked your legs apart. He ran his cock-head through your pussy, finding you absolutely drenched. He shuddered, his cock twitching with the need to be buried inside you.
"Look at you, so wet for me like the proper little whore you are." He let his hand fall across your ass, relishing the cry you let out as he spanked you. "I bet you weren't this wet for him, were you, doll?"
When you didn't reply he spanked you again, "answer me, slut!"
You whine, tears biting the corners of your eyes. You missed how gentle Alastor had been with you the other night, missed his soft touch and praise.
"N-no," you whisper, flinching as Vox spanked you again.
"That's what I fucking thought." He sounded smug, his hips surging forward as he thrust into you.
You cried out, your walls stretching around his thick girth. He wasn't much bigger than Alastor had been, but he was thicker, almost to a painful extent. But regrettably, as he began to thrust into you that pain turned into pleasure. A strangled moan escaped you as he dragged you back onto his cock. His claws dug into your hips, puncturing your skin as he pounded into you.
The wet slaps of skin against skin filled the air, your whimpers and moans mixing with his soft grunts. He slid his hand between your thighs, his fingers rubbing tight, harsh circles against your clit. He leaned down, biting at your neck and shoulders, sucking hickeys into your skin. He wanted to mark you, to visually claim you for all to see. More than anything he wanted Alastor to see the claim he had on you.
"Come on doll," he muttered, his hips slapping against your ass harder, "Cum for me, let me feel you break for me."
You whined, torn between rolling your hips back against his brutal thrusts and trying to pull away. You were so sensitive, so overwhelmed with the building pleasure in your gut that was threatening to shatter, and take you down with it.
"Vox," you choked out, your walls clenching around his cock hard as you barreled towards an explosive release. "P-please!"
He fucked you harder, "that's it, slut, cum for me!"
A particularly hard thrust had you crying out, your body shaking beneath him as you fell off that edge. Your eyes fluttered shut, his name escaping you as one long, drawn out moan. But Vox didn't stop touching you, didn't stop fucking you. He worked you through your release until you were clawing at the couch cushions, trying to escape him.
He chuckled, his voice low and sinful, “A little overstimulated, baby? Good. But I'm not done with you yet."
He slapped your ass before pulling out of you, his cock still rock-hard. He pulled you up, sweeping you back into his arms. He carried you towards his bedroom, dropping you onto his bed. He was on you in a flash, settling between your legs as he captured your mouth with his. He kissed you deeply, forcing his tongue past your lips. He ground against you, pushing back into you without any preamble. He swallowed down your moan, practically devouring you.
You whimpered, your hands scrambling for purchase against his back as he broke the kiss, trailing his mouth down lower. You clamped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, hoping that maybe you could get him to slow down if you held him tight enough.
"Vox," you panted, your body aching as he lavished attention to your breasts.
“Right here, dollface.” He teased, his mouth pressed against your breast, as he ground his length against your cervix.
He pulled out just to roll his hips forward again, fucking you faster with every thrust. The bed creaked beneath you, straining under his passion. His hips slapped against yours harder, his pace punishing. You whimpered, arching your back as he took you. Vox shifted, sliding his hands down behind your knees. He pushed your legs up, breaking your hold around his waist as he practically bent you in half. His cock slid deeper, hitting places no man had ever gone before in your freshly deflowered cunt.
You yelped, squeezing your eyes shut at the mixture of pain and pleasure. Vox picked up the pace, rutting into you with single-minded focus as he chased his own pleasure. His stamina was unparalleled, driven by the primal need to claim you as his, to fill you with his seed.
“Fuck yes,” he groaned, his thumb rubbing tight circles against your clit “You're mine, understand that, doll? Mine to fuck, mine to use, mine to fucking break!”
He felt your walls flutter around his cock, heard your soft whimper, but it wasn't enough. He needed to hear you, need to know that you understood that you were his. Not Alastor's. His!
“Use your words, baby.” He demanded, shifting his hips to bully into your cervix with every thrust.
You mewled, “ngk- fuck, Vox, ‘m yours!”
He chuckled, “Damn right.”
He slowed his thrusts, grinding against your g-spot. Then he was pulling out, smirking as you whined at the loss of him. Your walls fluttered and clenched around nothing, aching to be filled again. If you weren't as consumed by him as you were, you'd have felt almost ashamed at how wanton he had made you. He had thought you were a slut for Alastor, but it was really him who was making you a slut. Treating you like one, like all you existed for was his pleasure.
He let your legs fall back down to the bed, coaxing you to roll over onto your stomach. He drew your ass up a little before he was pushing back into you. He groaned, his cock twitching inside your wet heat as he fucked you.
"Fuck, you're so goddamn tight," he cursed, rolling his hips against your ass as he slowly picked up speed again. "I'm going to fucking cum, baby, going to fill this tight little cunt with my seed. Going to mark you as mine inside and out."
His hips slapped against yours, his cock a blur as he chased his release. He braced himself above you, his chest pressing against your back. He was so close to losing control, so close to slamming into you and filling you up with his release.
“Fuck babydoll,” he groaned in your ear, “so fucking good for me.”
He slid his hand between your thighs, finding your clit, needing to feel you fall apart around him again. He pressed his face against your shoulder blade, burying it against you. He nipped at your skin when you yelped at how hot he felt. His fans were whirling, desperately trying to cool his body down as he forced himself to fuck you harder, faster.
“Such a good little slut for me. You take my cock so well. You're mine, baby, all mine.” He praised, "Cum for me again, let me feel you fall apart on my cock as I pump you full of my seed."
You whimpered, your pleasure rising higher and higher as Vox pounded into you. His fingers pressed almost painfully against your clit, coaxing you closer. You could feel his cock twitching inside you, pulsing with the need to spill inside you. He slammed into you one final time, groaning lowly as his climax finally washed over him.
"Take it, doll, take every drop of my seed like the little slut you are! You're mine. All mine!" He snarled, his hips stuttering as he pushed deeper inside you, grinding against you as he filled you with his release.
The feeling of his seed flooding you was all you needed to shatter in his arms.
“Vox! Fuck yes, Vox!” You yelled, your walls fluttering around his cock as you came hard, milking him for every drop.
"Fuck!" He grunted, the lights flickering around you both as he worked you through your joint release with slow rolls of his hips.
He collapsed atop you, breathing hard as he attempted to catch his breath. When he had managed to regulate his breathing and his systems started to cool down, he slowly pulled from you. He collapsed against his bed as you rolled over to face him. Your body was aching but sated. Vox leaned down capturing your lips with his, kissing you deeply. He broke the kiss to rest his forehead against yours.
He wrapped his hand around your neck, his thumb brushing over your racing pulse point lightly. “You did wonderful, baby. Took me so well. Now tell me, doll, who owns you, body and soul?”
“You do,” you whispered against his mouth, your breathing slowly evening out. “You own me, Vox. I'm yours.”
He smirked, “damn right.”
He captured your mouth with his again, kissing you deeply, claiming you fully.
Summary: you loved your boyfriend, and you loved the fact that he really entertained all of your whimsy ideas. And currently, that idea involved him in his very special use of magic.
Warnings: P in V, P in A, DP, use of pet name and sexual context, inappropriate use of magic, etc. MDNI, 18+. You are responsible for your own media consumption.
Kinktober Masterlist
It was supposed to be a harmless request, a simple inquiry you had for your boyfriend. You didn’t think it would land you face down, ass up on the king of Hell’s plush king sized bed; drooling and letting out incoherent praises at how good he was making you feel.
It started with watching Lucifer preform a few parlor tricks to entertain the masses of the Hazbin Hotel, cloning a few apples to juggle with. While that in and of itself was an innocent act, it couldn’t keep you from wondering what else he might be able to conjure up and clone. This lead you to pulling him aside later that night and popping the question.
“Luci, dear. May I ask you something?”
“Why of course my love! What is it?” He was simply beaming at you from across the dinning table, as if every syllable from your soft lips was a heavenly tune he couldn’t wait but to indulge in listening to.
“About your magic act earlier—“
“Oh it was so fun wasn’t it! I am sure Charlie loved it!”
“Yes, yes. It was nice and I am super impressed but it left me wondering…can—what can you clone?”
Furrowing his brows together, Lucifer was somewhat taken aback by the inquiry. It seemed so simple to him to just clone something, the powers that come with ruling Hell seemed bland and denzinet considering how long he had been using them. Rising from his chair, Lucifer slid over to where you were sitting, propping his elbows on the corner of the table next to your spot.
“Mhmm, I think close to everything. Ducks included. Oh I need to tell you about that time that I cloned 1000 rubber ducks for Charlie’s fourth birthday—“
“Lucifer, darling. I would love to hear that story but maybe another time? I have…another question.” Placing your hand gently on his forearm, you bring him back from reality. His eyes burning into yours with an intense curiosity, as you sheepishly smile and fiddle with a bracelet on your wrist. It was silver, adorned with a red and gold pendant; given to you on your one year anniversary as a sign of your boyfriend’s never ending love.
“Can you…can you clone yourself?”
And that is how you ended up as mentioned before. Face down, Lucifer himself laying under you, pounding into your weeping pussy as a clone of him matched his pace as it drove into your ass. Gripping the sheets, the pleasure was blinding; with every thrust you swore you could see Heaven itself and how God himself had blessed you with such a specimen of a boyfriend.
“Fuck—Ducky, you’re squeezing me so tight!” Lucifer couldn’t help but shudder with every thrust into your cunt, its velvety walls wrapping around him in an inviting way that almost had him cumming on the spot every time. Slowing his pace below you, he took the time to suck on one of your hardened nipples; releasing a short cry from your puffy, lipstick ruined lips.
“This what you wanted sweetheart? For me to take you like this….gosh you’re gonna take my cum so well. Gonna take it nice and deep inside both holes for me Ducky.”
A hot wave of pleasure coiled itself in your stomach, a taught line on the edge of breaking. It was unbearable…almost. Lucifer’s clone continued it’s relenting pace into your ass, occasionally coming to smack down or dig it’s nails into the soft supple flesh of your behind.
“Come on sweetheart…cum for me—cum for us.”
Your body acted on command, letting out moans of sobbing pleasure as your release hit you like a freight train; squirting all over Lucifer. Not mere seconds later did he and his clone find their own high; cumming hard into your cunt and ass, the liquid gold seed seeping out of both holes. Gasping for air, you peeked your head down to see Lucifer’s eyes completely dialated and black; staring at the way your body soaked up his seed. Taking his fingers, he pushed some more back into your overstimulated hole with a smirk.
explicit. 18+ only. - 7,545 words - Enver Gortash x f!Dark Urge
content: power dynamics, memory loss, possessive behavior, expressions of ownership, tension, obsession, smut with plot
you may not be able to recall the past — but he's intent to give you a new one under his hands.
The headaches had only grown worse since the night Ketheric Thorm met his end at the hand that twitched at your side with growing persistence by the day. They had been a background throb before, the sort of ache you could swallow down with grit and distraction, but now they came sharper, meaner – jagged pulses that seemed to anticipate your steps before you even took them. Tonight, the pain marched in lockstep with your boots.
Every step toward Baldur’s Gate landed like a drumbeat inside your skull, pounding so hard it felt as though your head was too small to contain your thoughts. The pressure swelled behind your eyes until even blinking felt like pressing against bruised fruit. The ache rode each breath, low and insistent, a second heartbeat that didn’t belong to you but had rooted itself there all the same.
Home, you told yourself, though the word sat strangely in your mouth, as though you were tasting a language you’d once been fluent in but could no longer remember the grammar of. It had been home once – you knew that with the same quiet certainty you knew your own name – but the recognition was brittle, hollow, like a lock clicking without a key. Even the circus, the raucous heart of the place, where faces turned toward you with practiced smiles and voices called your name as if it had weight, offered no comfort.
Those greetings slid off you like water from waxed cloth, the warmth in them failing to find a purchase in your bones. They were distractions in bright colors, applause and laughter wrapped in familiarity that no longer fit. Another detour. Another smudge of faces you couldn’t hold onto between you and the thing tugging sharp and constant beneath your ribs.
The nostalgia that softened your companions’ eyes and straightened their shoulders didn’t touch you at the gate. It didn’t stir when you passed the first market, the scent of warm bread mixing with the tang of brine from stalls near the river, nor when the hush of evening bells rolled like a wave over the rooftops. It caught you only when the stones of Wyrm Rock took your weight, the hollow, ceremonial echo of your boots ringing up through your bones. The bridge’s span funneled the city’s sound upward in fragments: the muffled roll of war-drums, a chorus swelling toward celebration, the bright brassy flash of trumpets cut short by the wind. A coronation.
You already knew it was a lie. You’d known before you crossed the first shadow of the bridge. The ruler-to-be-crowned wore a mask you’d seen from too close – not the gilded one the crowd believed in, but the living one beneath, made of something harder than skin.
He had invited you. Your name in his mouth had sounded less like recognition and more like a vow renewed – the kind of vow sworn in blood and kept with fire. And with it came the first pull you had felt since the Nautiloid that wasn’t born of pure bloodlust. A pull toward. Toward the heat of him that you couldn’t explain, the slow crest of a campaign moving beneath the skin of the city, the unspoken expectation that you would be at his side when the next move was made.
You said yes.
The corridor to his private chambers was less a hallway and more a vein cut through the belly of well-fed stone, pulsing faintly with the warmth trapped within. The air was close and heavy with the scent of leather cured to a deep, animal musk, the sharper tang of oil rubbed into buckles and straps, and an older sweetness – woodsmoke that had long since left its fire but still clung to the seams of the walls. Somewhere ahead, a narrow window you couldn’t see admitted the rise and fall of the city’s voice in scattered fragments: the drawn-out tail of a trumpet, the smear of drunken laughter, the far-off roar that could have been a cheer or a warning.
“You can’t possibly understand what seeing you again in the Illithid Colony ignited in me.”
His voice came before his shape did – slipping free of the dark with the unhurried certainty of steel leaving a sheath. The tone was measured, precise, each word allowed its full weight before the next fell, so close to your ear that the fine hairs along your scalp prickled and stood at attention.
The scrape of flint, the cough of a struck torch – and then fire. The sudden bloom of light licked up the walls, throwing long, hungry fingers into every corner. The room emerged in stages: the severe, polished corners of a desk, the deep shine of a table set with a decanter and cups, the gleam of weapons hanging in ordered ranks like an attentive audience. The flame steadied, and he was there – not made by it, but gilded in it, a figure of shadow and gold.
A face you knew without knowing why. Lines cut in a way your memory insisted on filling in, even if your mind refused to give them context. The shadows carved his mouth into something both cruel and breathtaking, each shift in the firelight sharpening one edge and softening another.
The headaches pulled meanly at your eyes. The darkest place in you – the part that still knew the taste of battle and the logic of ending a threat – wanted to let the fire consume him. But your ribs, traitorous in their ache, wanted the heat to spare his throat.
He didn’t hurry. He never hurried at first. He let silence stretch until it had weight, until it pressed down on your shoulders. You could feel his gaze like a physical thing, tracking the measured lift and fall of your breath, the minute quiver of your fingers near your blade. The twitch was so small you thought you might have hidden it. You hadn’t. He loved that you hadn’t.
“It pained me not to go to you then,” he said, stepping through the slow sweep of torchlight so that the sharp line of his jaw lit for a moment before it slid back into darkness. “But there are greater plans at work. And you…”
He inhaled deeply, as though drawing in your scent was a private act of devotion. “…were worth waiting for.”
Your hand flexed on the hilt and didn’t draw. A courtesy. One almost no one survived long enough to value.
“I could say I was patient,” he went on, circling now, his boots whispering over the floor in a way that made the walls feel closer. “But that would be a lie. I made myself patient. For this.”
Nostalgia didn’t creep in – it struck, hot and fast, sliding under your skin. Not for the city, not for any street you could name, but for something more intimate: the feel of a mouth against the back of your ear, the solid line of a wall at the wrong angle to the door, the press of a palm at your throat, and the way your own breath sounded when you were pinned open and told good. Your mind swore you didn’t remember. Your body, traitor that it was, remembered everything.
“You thought I was dead,” you said at last, and when he smiled, it was both the first cut and the balm applied to it in the same breath.
The firelight caught the curve of his mouth just enough to make it look dangerous. You didn’t want to remember that mouth, but a flash still tore through you – too fast to stop, too clear to dismiss. Your teeth in his lower lip. The precise give of the flesh beneath the pressure. The sharp, bright burst of copper flooding your tongue until you hummed against it without thinking.
The image came like an afterimage from staring into light too long – you could blink all you wanted, but it stayed, ghosting across your vision. Your jaw tightened against the echo. Your hand twitched again.
“As if something as trivial as death could keep us apart,” he murmured, his voice tilting down into a register that brushed over your skin like smoke. He didn’t bridge the last inches between you. He didn’t need to. Heat moved ahead of him, pushed forward by the torch’s breath and his own. It found your mouth before he did, the weight of it like a hand cupping your face without ever touching. “Pairs like us can scarcely be separated for long.”
“According to you.”
You hadn’t meant to let your voice drop like that, hadn’t meant for it to come out low and rough, but the sound of it made his lashes lower and his pupils flare wider, swallowing the gold around them.
“I don’t remember…‘us.’”
The words cut, and he wore the mark like a jewel pinned to his breast. You watched his mouth sharpen, the edges of it pulling taut, watched hunger spill into his gaze like night rushing to fill a window. Denial excited him. Resistance was oxygen to a man who had always liked to win.
“Oh, you do,” he said, the softness of it undercut by the iron certainty in his eyes. His hand lifted, not to touch but to hover – a single knuckle ghosting your temple, just shy of contact, the heat of his skin a hum under the torchlight. “Not here.”
The knuckle drifted down, unhurried, like a feather falling through still air. It stopped at the small of your back and pressed there, claiming without pressure, right where your spine wanted to arc into the touch.
“But here. In the way you’re standing still when you should be running. In the way your mouth parted when I spoke.”
He stepped in, just enough for the fabric of your clothes to whisper together. “Your body remembers me…and it’s dying to teach you.”
Outside, a cheer swelled – distant, muffled – and broke against the stone walls like surf. You didn’t step back. The room got smaller.
He moved behind you with the inevitability of a man stepping into a mark on the floor that had been waiting for him. It was choreographed, precise, and the air seemed to bend around him to make space. His fingers slid into your hair, slow, with a care that wasn’t tenderness so much as possession disguised as it. Each strand he gathered seemed to be claimed by some silent contract you hadn’t signed but could feel binding anyway.
He drew your hair aside, knuckles grazing the line of your nape in a slow, deliberate drag. The torch breathed. The heat kissed your skin a second before his mouth did – not a full kiss, not even a bite, just the warm threat of one, enough to make your pulse climb into your throat.
“Normally,” he said into the tender shell of your ear, teeth almost grazing the curve, “it would very much depend on the day.”
The bite that followed wasn’t true pressure – just the graze of enamel, the suggestion of what it could become later if you needed him to make good on it. His hand on your hip tightened, squeezing until your breath hitched. Then he hauled you back, aligning your body with his like a chess piece being placed in its only correct square, the press of him against you as blunt and inescapable as the wall you’d been standing against moments before.
“Sometimes you’d find your way in by yourself and we’d play a little game,” he went on, his voice shifting from your ear to somewhere nearer your jaw. He sounded like he was talking about weather or wine, not about the way his fingers were threading down your ribs toward the curve of your breast. “Sometimes we’d mark a victory. Sometimes we’d mourn a loss until mourning turned to something more useful.”
His palm cupped you lightly through your clothing, thumb tracing a lazy arc that made your nipple tighten under the barrier. “Sometimes I chained you because it was the only way to make you still for me.”
The word chain hit you like the clang of cold iron against hot skin. Your mind flinched, retreating from it. Your body warmed, answering without your permission. You hated the reaction. You wanted more of it. You wanted to know – in a way you shouldn’t – what would cross his face if you asked.
“And sometimes,” he said, his mouth now open against your pulse, his tongue tasting you there, “we didn’t need a reason.”
The ache gathering low in you tightened its band around your thighs until they pressed together on reflex. The torch popped sharply, throwing sparks into the air; one landed just shy of your boot and died in a blink, a tiny star collapsing between you.
“Right now,” he added, his voice curling into smoke, “we’re not taking a vote.”
He turned you – not with a push, but with a pivot that made it feel like the floor had shifted under your boots. You found yourself facing him, his hand still firm at your hip, the torque of his control leaving an almost physical bruise under your skin. His eyes were darker now, the edges of gold drowned in heat and certainty.
“You want me,” he said. Not a question.
The air between you was thick enough to feel, and it answered for you long before you could move your lips.
“I think I need you.”
The words dragged themselves through your throat like something pulled from a wound you shouldn’t be touching. The first time speaking them hurt. You knew it would feel like an absolution later.
He looked like a man hearing the words to a prayer he’d been reciting in silence for years. And then he took your mouth.
Not cautiously. Not in barter. He entered – his tongue sliding past your lips without hesitation, the taste of him a mix of smoke, salt, and the faintest shadow of something sweet. Control radiated from every movement of his mouth, from the way he angled your head to the slow, insistent pressure that made you open further for him. You trembled before you even realized it, and he caught the shiver with his body, drawing you closer so there was no space for it to go but into him.
The leather at his chest brushed your bare arms, the fine-stitched edges snagging faintly at your skin. His hands moved with a ritual he remembered and you didn’t: following hems, finding seams, loosing fastenings. Your top was gone in a single, practiced motion, the air against your bare breasts cool enough to make your nipples tighten almost painfully. His breath stuttered, quiet but telling, as though he’d uncovered a relic meant only for him.
His mouth left yours only to claim new territory – a slow descent down the line of your throat. He didn’t rush, didn’t bite immediately. Instead, his lips moved with a deliberate drag, heat sinking into your skin as though branding you one degree at a time. The faint scrape of stubble followed, sending static down your spine.
He pressed a kiss just above the pulse in your neck, open-mouthed enough for his tongue to taste the shallow throb there, and you swore you felt him smile faintly against you – not joy, but satisfaction, the kind a man gets from confirming something he already knew.
The heat of him bled through the thin space between each contact, and every time he pulled his mouth away to speak or breathe, the cool air rushed in to replace it, sharpening the sensation when he returned.
Over your collarbone, he moved slower still, his hand at your side keeping you steady. He let his mouth map the shape of the bone, kissed along it like following a border, then dropped lower. The torchlight caught in his hair, gleaming in the darker strands as he tilted his head to take in the sight of your bare chest.
He didn’t touch your breasts right away. He looked first. The weight of that look was physical – you felt it on your skin. His gaze lingered on the rise and fall of your breathing, on the way your nipples had tightened from the chill, on the faint, uneven rhythm of your chest where your heartbeat pressed faster under the surface.
When he finally brought his mouth to you, it was with the same deliberation as everything else – his lips brushing the outer curve of one breast before closing around the nipple. His tongue circled slowly, heat and wet combining to make your back arch into him without conscious thought.
The sound he made in response was low and pleased, a vibration you could feel through your breastbone. He drew on you, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your legs tighten. His hand slid from your side to cup the other breast, thumb grazing over the nipple there until it matched the first in aching sensitivity.
The city murmured through the walls – distant enough to sound like another world. The voices rose and fell, faint, as though filtered through water. It only made the heat of the room and the press of him seem more absolute.
He didn’t rush the inventory. His mouth alternated between you, attention shifting like a worshiper offering equal devotion to each altar. Every flick of his tongue, every measured draw of his lips, was part of a litany he knew by heart. You could feel him reciting it – the order of touches, the rhythm of breaths – as if testing to see whether your body would respond exactly as it had before.
It did.
When your back arched harder under the pull of his mouth, he eased off, letting the cool air rush in over the wet he’d left. The sensitivity sharpened into a sweet ache that made you exhale unevenly.
“Still,” he murmured, though you hadn’t moved much – the command was instinctive for him, a way of keeping the scene in his tempo.
His hands slid lower, palms smoothing over the lines of your waist and hips. The pads of his fingers pressed into muscle with enough firmness to make you sway toward him without realizing you’d done it.
Your skirt began to give under his touch. He didn’t yank it. He let the fabric surrender in stages – the first slackening of the waistband, the soft brush down your thighs, the slow, whispering drop toward your boots. The sound it made against your skin was barely audible, but it seemed loud in the quiet of the room.
The torchlight caught the pooling fabric, shadowing the new expanse of bare skin it left behind. He stepped back just far enough to look at you fully.
His eyes swept over your belly, lingering on the faint shadows of old marks – bite-patterns he’d put there before, in another life, layered with fresh heat from his mouth tonight. The flush on your hips bloomed under the firelight like a living thing.
The room itself seemed to breathe with you now. The scent of heated leather had deepened with the nearness of your bodies, laced with the metallic hint of oiled buckles, the faint animal musk of wool worn close to skin, and under it all the salt-sweet tang of sweat beginning to dry.
The air slid over your bare skin like another set of hands, moving with the same unhurried, claiming precision as his real ones.
“Turn around,” he said, and though the words came velvet-smooth, there was iron under them – the kind that bent rather than broke but still held shape.
You went to the wall without being pushed, your palms finding the cool stone instinctively. The first touch was a shock, so clean and sharp it almost cleared the pressure in your skull. Almost. The relief was fleeting – it bled away the moment his heat pressed full-length against your back.
The contrast was dizzying: the unyielding chill of the stone under your hands, the warm, deliberate weight of him behind you. His chest aligned with your spine, his thighs bracketing yours, every point of contact reinforcing the fact that you were exactly where he wanted you.
His belt came loose with a metallic clink, the sound carrying a ritualistic gravity – the kind of noise your body recognized even if your mind wanted to pretend it was new. The slide of leather through metal was slow, deliberate, every inch drawn out until the final soft thud of it falling open.
He didn’t rush. He never did before he stopped holding back.
The blunt head of his cock found you with unerring ease, sliding through the slick heat of your folds in a lazy, unhurried stroke. He wasn’t trying to enter – not yet. He coated himself in you first, dragging from your clit to your entrance and back again, smearing the wet he’d already worked out of you until you were flushed and twitching under him.
When he lingered at your entrance, it wasn’t to test – it was to threaten. The weight of him there made your thighs tense. You felt your breath catch, felt the hollow ache of anticipation gnaw deeper the longer he stayed still.
His breath broke over your ear, warm and heavy. “You feel that?”
The growl in his voice wasn’t anger. It was pleasure wound so tight it couldn’t risk being louder.
“That’s what you keep walking toward,” he murmured, “even when you swear you aren’t.”
“Stop talking.” The p fractured in your mouth, your voice catching hard enough to make your own words sound like a stumble.
His smile pressed against your skin. “Say please.”
You hated that you said it so quickly. “Please.”
He pushed in.
Not in a single thrust – no, he took you slow, unrelenting, the thick stretch forcing you open inch by inch until your muscles trembled from the effort of taking him. Your cunt clenched reflexively around the intrusion, but still he pressed, steady, until your breath went thin and your forehead met the stone in front of you.
The stretch skirted the edge of pain before it broke open into something far worse – the raw, hot relief of being filled exactly to your limit.
His hand slid up to your throat, not to choke, but to hold you there – to anchor you in place with a pressure that made the blood in your ears roar louder. He tilted your head back, close enough that you could feel the ghost of his lips move against yours when he spoke.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low enough to scrape along your nerves. “Breathe me in.”
When he bottomed out, he stayed there, the heavy pulse of his cock settling deep inside you. You felt the twitch of it – needy, possessive – and your walls answered, fluttering without your permission. His other hand came down to your lower belly, his palm spreading wide as if to stake a claim on the place where you joined.
Outside, the city roared again. Inside, the smaller, wetter echo of your body around him answered.
When he drew back, the drag was its own language. The ridge of his crown caught on the tight ring of muscle at your entrance, scraped at every nerve on its way out, only to drive back in on a perfect, punishing line.
The sound that left you wasn’t a word.
“Say it,” he ordered, his rhythm slow and exact, each snap of his hips calculated to land you further into helplessness. “Whose are you?”
“Not –”
The lie caught in your throat, useless. He turned your face just enough that you could see the corner of his mouth, and you swallowed pride like a stone. “Yours.”
“Again.”
“Yours.”
It came out wrecked, high in your throat.
He rewarded you with a deep roll of his hips that punched the air from your lungs, finding that unbearable, perfect angle that made your knees loosen. His grip at your throat tightened just enough to keep you from falling forward. The hand at your belly tugged you back to meet the next thrust.
He didn’t speed up. Not yet. He refined the pace instead – the cadence tightening from simply controlled to something curated, each stroke designed to grind your clit subtly against the inside of your thigh, to drag your nipples against the rough chill of the wall when your chest tilted forward, to keep you hovering in the kiln without letting you out of it.
Your cunt made slick, hungry sounds every time he seated himself fully inside you. The wet, obscene music of it was caught and amplified in the air between you, and you felt his mouth shift nearer to your ear as if to hear it better.
“That,” he said, voice softened to something filthier, “is the sound you make when you remember me.”
The ache in your body braided with the pounding in your skull until you couldn’t tell which was making your eyes sting.
His hand left your throat to cup your jaw, turning you so he could kiss you without withdrawing an inch from inside you. The kiss was filthy – slow tongue, no space for air – and when he pulled back just enough to speak, you could taste your own breath caught between you.
“Good,” he said, his mouth brushing yours. “Open.”
His hand slid down between your thighs with a certainty that told you he already knew exactly where you were aching. The first direct stroke over your clit made your hips lurch away from the wall before you could stop them. The second had your voice catching mid-breath, the sound breaking on its way out.
He didn’t change his pace inside you. The slow, relentless thrusts stayed unbroken as his fingers began to circle, each motion precise – not teasing, but deliberate, pressing and stroking just hard enough to make your calves tremble.
The torch hissed as a draught found it, the shadows in the room shifting over your bare skin like another set of hands. The warmth from him wrapped around you even as the wall at your front kept you pinned to the cool stone.
“Don’t run from it,” he said, his tone intimate in a way that was filthier than anything else he’d done. “Take it. Give it to me.”
Your cunt clenched around him in a reflex you couldn’t stop, and the sound he made in your hair was pure satisfaction – low, rough, and dangerous.
His hand left your clit for a moment, sliding lower until his fingers pressed at your entrance beside his cock. The pads of two fingers pushed in alongside him, the stretch so intense your vision sparked white at the edges. It was too much, too full, but it was the kind of too much that felt designed for you, and your body betrayed you by opening to it almost immediately.
He fucked you around both – the thick, steady slide of his cock taking most of the space, the grind of his knuckles catching and rubbing at the lips of your sex with every stroke. Each push made your clit jolt against the base of his hand. The friction sent heat through you like a current, pooling so fast you were already panting.
“You think this is me sating myself?” he asked, his voice a low, measured purr that made your skin feel thinner. “No. This is me breaking the lock you put on us. I want your body to remember before your mind catches up.”
The hand on your hip tightened, holding you still so he could control the motion entirely – withdrawing both cock and fingers at the same slow, punishing pace, then pushing back in until you swore you could feel him deeper than your own heartbeat.
“Tell me,” he said, his breathing starting to roughen, the perfect edges of his control beginning to fray. “Tell me whose you are while I carve it back into you.”
“Yours,” you managed, though it was barely a word – more a sound made of heat and salt and surrender.
“Again.”
“Yours.”
The repetition came out wrecked, high and desperate, your throat raw from the strain of holding back everything else you wanted to say.
He pulled his fingers free, the sudden absence making your walls clutch hard around his cock. His hand returned to your clit, finding it slick and swollen, and began to work in tight, quick circles that made your thighs quake. This time his pace inside you shifted – no longer slow, no longer curated. His hips began to snap forward with a rhythm meant to break you open completely, every thrust meeting your body with wet, obscene precision.
“That’s it,” he hissed, his other hand coming back to your throat, thumb pressing just enough over your pulse to feel it gallop. “Now – come.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a name written in the imperative.
Your orgasm tore through you before you could even brace for it – a hard, sharp wave that had your cunt clamping down so tightly around him that he swore against your ear. He drove deeper, grinding against the high, swollen place inside you to feel every pulse of it.
The sound you made went raw against the wall, ugly and beautiful all at once. His mouth stayed at your ear to take it in, the tip of his tongue brushing the shell like he was tasting your reaction.
“Good,” he growled, holding you pinned against him with his arm across your chest as the aftershocks threatened to throw you forward. “Good girl. Again.”
You were still trembling when the second wave started to gather – faster this time, your nerves rubbed raw from the constant attention to your clit. His hips turned brutal, the sound of your bodies meeting ringing off the stone. The rack of weapons behind you rattled softly with the force of it.
He folded you more sharply over the wall, a hand flattened on your lower belly to push you back onto him with each thrust. The angle made him drive up into a spot that was all ache and pressure until your knees threatened to give out entirely.
“Breathe,” he rasped, his tone shredded with wanting now. “Let it happen. Let me have it.”
You came again – this one not an explosion but a long, wrenching dissolve, your thighs shaking and your sex fluttering in desperate little grabs that dragged a sound from his throat you were more than happy to hear again for the first time.
His control snapped. He shoved in deep, stayed buried, and ground himself against you, the root of him snug against your slick, swollen lips. You felt the first hot pulse of him spill inside you, then another, and another, each one pulling a whimper from your throat. His forearm stayed locked under your ribs, holding you in place until every drop was where he wanted it.
The room seemed to remember how to breathe only after he did. The torch hissed faintly as its flame steadied, shadows clinging stubbornly in the corners. Somewhere beyond the stone walls, the city’s chorus reached a crest – too far away now to touch you, thin and unreal compared to the heavy, wet reality holding you in place.
He didn’t pull out. Not yet. He never wasted this part – the moment when you were still around him, still fluttering faintly, your body not yet certain the act was over. His cock was thick and hot inside you, every twitch of him answered by an involuntary squeeze from you. The warmth of his release settled deep, heavy enough to make your body keenly aware of the fullness.
His palm stayed at your throat, not squeezing, just holding, as he bent to your ear. The words came out low, rough, iron-dirty: “You’ll remember me. If your mind won’t, your body will teach it. I’ll show you every time until there’s nothing left in you that doesn’t know whose you are.”
Only when your knees began to blur under you – legs starting to quiver with the effort of holding both of you upright – did he withdraw. Even then, it wasn’t quick. He dragged himself from you in one long, slow pull, the ridge of his crown catching on every swollen, tender place until you hissed at the sensation. The sound it made – slick, obscene – seemed to echo in the enclosed space, and the heat rushed to your face at the thought that he was listening for it.
His hand was between your thighs almost before you could close them. He pressed his fingers to your folds, gathering the hot mess he’d left, coating your clit in a lazy smear that made your hips twitch even through the exhaustion. He slid the mess back down, pushed two fingers shallowly into you – just far enough to keep his spend from running down your legs. The motion was casual, but the claim in it was absolute.
“Hold it,” he murmured, his tone lined with that amused affection he used when you obeyed without thinking. “That’s mine.”
He withdrew and brought his hand up, still wet with both of you. Without looking away from your face, he sucked his fingers clean. His lips closed slowly, the pull audible, and the sound at the back of his throat was deep, satisfied – like a man tasting a meal he’d been craving for too long.
You should have been embarrassed. You weren’t. The heat in your belly – small but stubborn – told you exactly why.
He wasn’t finished. You knew it from the look in his eyes – the narrow, assessing tilt, the smirk that curled like smoke. He caught your jaw in his palm and turned you toward him for another kiss, one made of heat and slick and ownership, the taste of yourself still faint on his tongue.
“Turn,” he said again, though the command had softened now.
You let him ease you from the wall, his hands reading you like Braille – steadying you where he’d shaken you, guiding you forward without forcing you. Your legs wavered under you, and you felt his satisfaction in the way his grip lingered.
“Still unsteady,” he murmured, that ruined softness curling his words. “I’d have been offended if you weren’t.”
He positioned you in the torchlight like an artist moving his subject, turning your face and tilting your chin so the flame’s glow poured down your throat, mapping the bites, the bruises, the slick sheen of sweat beginning to cool on your skin. He brushed a damp strand of hair from your cheek with the backs of his fingers.
Then his thumb pressed to your lower lip until you opened for him, and he slid it into your mouth. You closed around him without thinking, tongue curling around the pad of it. His eyes dropped to watch your lips work, and the smile that followed was the kind a man wore when looking at a promise already kept.
“Do you feel it yet?” he asked, voice softened to something more dangerous than shouting could ever be. “That ache that isn’t your body?”
You nodded; your voice would have splintered like glass if you’d tried to speak.
“That’s memory straining at the bars,” he said, the pride in it as palpable as the heat still rolling off him. Good. Fight. I’ll make losing feel like the only sensible thing you’ve done in months.
He stooped to retrieve your discarded clothes in one hand but didn’t hand them back. The other hand came to the back of your neck, his thumb making slow, grounding circles into your nape.
“You don’t put these on until I’m finished looking at you.”
And he did look. Not idly. Not like a man admiring a painting. His gaze moved like touch – cataloguing, committing to memory, plotting where to leave the next mark. Your nipples tightened again under the weight of it, and the low, almost pleased hum in his throat told you he’d noticed and filed the information away where he kept all useful details: locked, ready.
Only then did he pass the garments to you, letting his fingers slide along yours like fastening a collar.
“Don’t think of this as the first time,” he said, his voice rich and low enough to settle under your skin. “Think of it as the first time again.”
Even clothed, you didn’t feel covered. His attention was its own heat, following you into every seam and fold.
When you took a step back, he caught your wrist – not tight, but with the exact pressure of a leash meant to instruct.
“You don’t leave without this.”
He turned your palm up and laid something small into it – a scrap of dark fabric, frayed and soft from handling. Its scent rose immediately, not of leather or smoke, but warmer: skin, salt, a spice you almost knew. The ache behind your eyes sharpened, threatening tears you refused to let fall.
“What is it?” Your thumb rasped along the edge, the sound almost indecent.
“A piece of you.”
The words were indulgence and truth in equal measure. “From a night you don’t remember yet. Keep it close.” His mouth curved. “When it’s time, you’ll know exactly what it means.”
He leaned in, lips brushing your temple in a touch that felt more like a brand than a kiss. “Don’t mistake this for a reunion,” he murmured into your hair. “It’s the beginning of the rest of your life. I’ll be in every moment of it.”
He could have let you go then. He didn’t.
Instead, his hand shifted from your nape to the small of your back, guiding you backward until the edge of the desk caught behind your thighs. The movement was unhurried but inevitable – the kind of control that didn’t need to push because you already knew where he wanted you.
The torchlight had burned lower, its glow licking along the walls in soft amber waves that bled into shadow. It no longer blazed; it breathed, and the room breathed with it. Outside, the voice of the city had dropped to a low hum, the coronation having slid from spectacle to speeches, the applause and cheers absorbed by the stone.
He reached for the decanter without looking, his off hand working the cork free with a slow, wet pop that sounded louder in the hush. The faint scent of cool water hit your senses just before he poured it into a cup. He held it out to you, and his voice left no space for refusal.
“Drink.”
Your throat was raw, and the command was as much necessity as it was ownership. You obeyed. The water touched your lips, cool and clean, and you swallowed greedily until a thin stream escaped the corner of your mouth. His thumb was there instantly, catching it, sweeping it back toward your lips with a motion so obscenely gentle it made your knees want to give again.
The cup clicked softly against the desk as he set it down. Without breaking eye contact, he reached into a drawer. You hadn’t even seen him open it. When his hand came back, it held a square of clean linen – plain, white, folded with care.
Then he was kneeling in front of you.
The sight was a gut punch – all the height, the heat, the command of him folded down on the floor between your boots. His knees braced apart, framing your stance, the lines of his body still radiating power even in the posture of service. The contrast made your breath stall.
He lifted your skirt without haste, letting the fabric slide over his knuckles, baring you to the cooler air. The hem caught briefly on your knee before he freed it and eased the folds higher.
The first touch of the linen was soft but certain. He wiped you with the same precision he’d used in every other act tonight – deliberate, slow, making sure no movement was wasted. The cloth caught on the oversensitized peak of your clit, and the jolt that went through you made him smirk against the inside of your knee. He didn’t look up; his mouth pressed a slow kiss there, heat searing through the thin skin.
“Hold still,” he said, indulgence dripping from every syllable, as though your twitching was for his amusement.
He worked downward, cleaning every trace of his release with unhurried strokes that somehow felt more possessive than the act of leaving it in you. When he was satisfied, he folded the linen neatly in half, concealing the mess as if it were evidence he meant to keep, and slipped it away into the drawer without a word.
Rising, he took up more space than the room seemed to have a moment before. You hated how small you felt with him standing again – hated it, and leaned into it all the same.
His hands came to your collar, adjusting it with an intimacy that felt more obscene than anything prior. He smoothed your hair next, his palm warm as it threaded back to your nape. He held you there, thumb tracing slow arcs into your skin, a gesture as much about reapplying a seal as it was about comfort.
Then he bent, his mouth finding the same place he’d bitten before. His teeth sank in again – gentler, but enough to raise heat, enough to promise the bruise you’d see in the mirror later. He sucked, the pull just this side of pain, and your breath caught. His tongue followed, soothing over the sting.
“There,” he said, a final press of his lips sealing the mark. “Something the mirror will understand.”
You swallowed, your voice unsteady. “This changes nothing,” you lied, because you needed to hear yourself say it.
The quiet laugh he gave rolled down your spine like a drop of hot wax. “It changes everything,” he said, certain in a way that left no air in the space between you. “And if you think you can walk back to whatever you were before tonight and not hear me every time you breathe, you haven’t been listening.”
His hand found yours – the one still curled around the scrap of fabric – and folded your fingers tighter around it. He lifted your knuckles to his mouth, kissed them once, then turned your palm up and dragged the flat of his tongue in a slow line over the center. His eyes stayed on yours the whole time.
The heat arrowed straight down your spine, pulling the low ache in your belly back into awareness.
“Tomorrow,” he said, his tone like a schedule already written. “You will stand where I want you. At my side. You’ll wear something that lets me see the mark I’ve put on your throat. And you’ll look at me when they say my name.”
“And if I don’t?”
His smile cut sharp as a blade. “You will.”
The torch guttered once and caught again. The air in the room still smelled of smoke, sex, and the faint ghost of spiced cologne clinging to his collar. Somewhere outside, another cheer rose – farther this time, blurred by distance, as though the city were applauding lines from a play you had already rewritten together.
His grip on your neck loosened at last, but stepping back wasn’t distance – it was just a different kind of hold. You adjusted without thinking, your shoulders shifting, your stance subtly preserving space for him inside you.
The look that passed over his face was pride, warm and sharp. He was a man with a city about to bend, and none of that pleased him as much as seeing you try – and fail – to stand completely steady.
He offered his arm. It wasn’t parody; it was an order dressed in manners.
“Come,” he said softly. “Let me walk you to the door.”
You hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. Then your hand found its place where he wanted it. The leather under your palm was warm from his body; the muscle beneath flexed as he drew you in close.
He turned you toward the corridor. The torch by the door sighed as it opened, letting cooler night air reach in, stroking the damp at your hairline and carrying a clearer current of the city’s hum.
At the threshold, he paused. His mouth grazed your ear one last time.
“Don’t get lost on your way back,” he said, amused, possessive, with just a touch of cruelty. “I’d only have to come find you.”
You looked down at the scrap of fabric in your hand. Harmless, in appearance. It felt like a key you hadn’t meant to take.
When he finally let you go, it didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like permission. The corridor ahead wasn’t an escape – it was a thread you’d been placed on. You walked it because he’d set you there, because the city outside called for you like a stage, because the ache he’d left inside you was an echo you could follow with your eyes closed.
Behind you, the torch breathed. The room rearranged its shadows to close around the space you’d left. His heat lingered in the air, as if the walls had learned his shape.
Yᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ Oᴜᴛʟᴀᴡs
Pʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs Eɴᴛʀʏ | Dʀᴀʙʙʟᴇs
The days after your capture by a gang of outlaws are a blur of unfamiliar hands on your body, and hot kisses pressed against your neck. But some days stick out as far worse than others.
Tᴀɢs: noncon/dubcon, somno, face riding, some fluff, oral, gun stuff, 9.8k words
The second in command wakes up the earliest out of all the outlaws. Most days he prefers not to disturb you. Lord knows, he probably kept you awake until the grey hours. But when he knows he's in for enough work to make his back ache and his shoulders scream? That's when he indulges himself.
He shifts you onto your back while you’re still sweet and asleep before gathering your nightgown at your waist. He pulls in a sharp breath at the sight of you, still tender and messy from the night before.
“Look at the marks on you, dove.”
His marks. His girl.
It’s easy to get lost in the heat of you after that; he can taste himself on your skin when he kisses his way down to your cunt.
“Sorry about this, birdie.” He sighs and nips at your inner thigh. “But I want everyone to see where my teeth have been.”
You might murmur something then, half asleep. Not able to escape his touch even in your dreams, poor thing.
"No complaining,” he hushes you. “Just let me get my fill and then you can go back to sleep."
He's a liar, a damn shameless one at that. He can never have enough of you.
A tongue isn't enough, no, he needs to feel his fingers inside you too. And oh, aren't you just so hot and wet and pliable like this? He needs to feel you on his cock. And look at your lips, so soft in sleep. He has to steal a kiss too, with you so helpless. What kind of outlaw would he be otherwise?
And when you wake up — gasping, his cock buried to the hilt — he'll just press a palm over your mouth.
"Shhh, qīn ài de. Let me have this. Let me have you."
If he can't hear you say no, he tells himself he doesn't need to stop.
You hate waking up to him inside you. His girth fills you to the point where it stings, and the swollen head of his cock drags down your walls until your insides are a warm, tender mess.
He tries his best to be gentle — you can tell from the way he clenches his jaw that he’s holding himself back as much as he can — but his resolve melts away when he’s got you on his dick. You don't understand, pretty birdie, the way you test a man's strength.
Holding back, trying to go slow, when you're warm and soft around him is damn near impossible. What red-blooded cowboy wouldn't be tempted when the girl of his dreams is underneath him, gasping and digging her nails into the tightly bunched muscles of his back? Who could ever look at you and let you go?
No, dove, he needs you. And it doesn't matter one bit if he has to wring your orgasm out of you. Before the sun comes up, he'll have it.
He buries his face in your neck when he fucks you, his voice rasping from both sleep and want.
“Come for me, sweet dove. Give it to me and I'll leave you be, I swear.”
You try to call him a liar, but it's muffled by his hand.
“Your body wants this,” he coos, his fingers dipping over your clit and pressing down, “Why fight the inevitable?”
And it is inevitable. By the time he's done, your pussy is a clenching, shivering mess and you're hanging onto him so tight it's a wonder he can still catch a breath.
The sun breaks the horizon and turns his room a pale grey. He kisses you along your jaw as you ride out the aftershocks underneath him.
“Best way to start the day, isn't it, little dove?”
He chuckles when he pulls out, those sharp eyes of his drawn to the spill of come between you. He taps the mound of your cunt, still smiling.
“Your pretty pussy is going to remember me for the rest of the day, isn't she?”
He's not a vulgar man, so hearing him say things like that makes your heart race. He swipes his thumb through your folds and brings it to your lips. There's a thin coating of spunk on his finger, pearly white in the watery dawn.
“Taste it, dove. See what it tastes like when you and I are together.”
You lick his thumb. It's salty, and just a little bitter.
He hums quietly and finally pulls away from you. The cold washes in without him there to keep it off.
“You'll remember that taste, won't you, dove?”
You nod. You can't bring yourself to speak, not with the way he's looking at you. Those pretty eyes of his are wolfish.
“Good.” He pats your thigh. “That's the only thing that matters in this world, the only thing you ought to care about.”
When he leaves you to get dressed for the day, you stay on your back, his touch buzzing on your skin and the taste of him thick on your tongue.
He's not so bad, some awful part of you insists, he's mad about you, you can see it in his eyes.
And that part is true at least. You can see it in his eyes.
He makes you brush his hair every morning. He’s proud of it, and for good reason. His hair isn’t as long as the wrangler’s, but it’s oil dark and smooth as Chinese silk. When you run your fingers through it, he tilts his head backwards and sighs.
“I love it when you take care of me, little dove.”
He keeps it tied back with a leather thong, and on days when he isn't in a hurry you amuse yourself by trying different styles. Parting his hair one way and then the other, tying half of it up and leaving the rest loose. He sits quietly while you buzz around him, just watching you.
You ask him once if he minds it when you play with his hair like that.
“Does it make you happy?” he asks you.
“I suppose it does.” As happy as you can be when you're a prisoner.
“Then I don't mind at all.” He shrugs and smiles at you. “Besides, I like having all your attention for a little while.”
You learn his likes pretty early on.
He covets pretty things the same way a magpie would— silk waistcoats, polished bronze buttons, silver rings. He collects luxury just as religiously as he collects books. When he gets dressed in the morning, he makes you tie his cravat for him and slip his cross around his neck.
“I didn’t take you for a religious man,” you tell him.
He rubs the crucifix between his fingers. “I’m not. But this was my mother’s.”
“What happened to her?”
You tell yourself that curiosity won’t do you any good, but out of all the outlaws he’s the one you can’t wrap your head around. An educated man, by all measures. Why does he ride with a gang of killers?
“She passed from cholera when I was still a boy.”
You tell yourself curiosity is no good, but still…
“What was she like?”
“Kind. Sweet.” He leans down and kisses the crown of your head, his thumb under your chin. “Just like you.”
When he leaves, you can’t help but wonder what his kind, sweet mother would think of him now.
It doesn’t take long to realise why he’s the second in command. When it comes to planning jobs, he’s invaluable. No wonder the sheriff and his deputies couldn’t find you. When you listen to him planning his heists and escape routes, you get the feeling you could run for weeks and still end up right back at the ranch.
He has a habit of hiding his maps from you. Paranoid, maybe. Just like the boss, he can tell that deep down there’s nothing you want more than to run like hell away from him.
He’s not a superstitious man, but he always kisses you before he leaves for a job.
“You’re my compass,” he tells you, his gloves cool against your face, “I know I’ll always find my way home if I have you waiting for me.”
A few months after he kidnaps you, he catches you in the stables with his stallion. His horse is a tall Saddlebred, black as sin and with a foul temper. And you’re standing in the stall with him, brushing out his mane like it’s nothing.
“Always knew you had a way with horses, little dove. But I didn’t think you’d try your luck with my devil beast.”
“He’s not so bad,” you say quietly, “Just needs a soft touch.”
“Is that right? Are you going to try riding him next?”
“He’s beautiful, but I reckon I’ll need spurs and a whip to sit him.”
“You don’t have the heart for it?”
You laugh softly and rub the horse behind the ears. “No. My pa used to tell me spurs are a tool like any other, but I could never make myself use them.”
He comes to stand against the stall door, watching you more than his horse. When he speaks, his voice is soft and…careful.
“Do you miss riding, little dove?”
You aren’t sure whether or not it’s a trick question. If you say yes, will he think you’re trying to escape? And if you say no, will he be able to tell you’re lying? You settle for honesty.
“I miss it all the time. Working with the horses and in the stables is nice, but I guess it’s not the same.” You focus on the stallion to avoid looking at him.
“I remember watching you breezing your father’s mustangs. Almost gave me a stroke, seeing your ride that fast.”
You freeze up for a second. You don’t know why it surprises you — he’s told you before that he used to watch you whenever he got a chance. Maybe it’s the familiar way he says it. Like you should have known he was there.
“Can you still ride that fast, dove? Or have we broken the habit?”
You tighten your grip on the grooming brush. Is he mocking you? It’s so hard to tell with him. Either way, it’s cruel of him to bring up your good memories just to remind you that you’re a captive.
“Give me a horse and I’ll leave you in the dust,” you say quietly, not entirely able to hide your resentment.
He doesn’t react. Just watches you with those dark eyes, his hat tilted low.
“Fast as you are, little dove, I’ll always be faster.”
You forget about your conversation after a while, but he doesn’t. If you could read him better, you might have realised how heavy it weighs on his mind.
When he tells the outlaws that he wants to steal some horses, you expect it to be just another job. Except this time, almost the whole gang rides out, their guns and lassos slung from their saddles.
You and the boy watch them leave from the porch. Your heart is in your throat by then, your mind racing. Is this your chance? If you can sneak away from the boy, you might actually manage to escape.
“Don’t even try it,” the boy says quietly when you turn to him. His eyes are hard, and a little afraid. “The second in command will shoot us both if you try to run.”
“Who said anything about running?”
He doesn’t answer you; he just takes your wrist and gently pulls you back inside.
The gang is gone for a long while. The house is oddly quiet without them, but you don’t get to enjoy it for long; the boy watches you like a hawk. The days bleed together — you tend to your garden, and read as many books as you can stomach. You plan a dozen escapes that you don't have the nerve to try.
When the outlaws finally return, it's the middle of the night.
You jerk awake to the sound of their voices, your whole body going cold. You're barely out of bed when the second in command comes to get you. He’s unusually disheveled — his hair is coming loose from its tie, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He gives you a quick kiss before he leads you out into the night and towards the stables.
"I've brought you something, little dove."
The night air is chilly and your nightgown doesn’t do much to stave it off. There’s a half moon in the sky, just bright enough to see by. Rustler’s moon your pa used to call it. And that seems about right; there are horses in the paddock out front, ones you've never seen before. A dozen at least, maybe more.
You freeze in your tracks when you notice them. Even one stolen horse is enough to catch a noose... are these outlaws not afraid for their necks?
The second in command pulls you moving again, clearly impatient. In the moonlight, it's easy to make out the poppy bruise darkening the strong line of his jaw, but he doesn’t give you a chance to ask about it.
Always so reckless, these outlaws of yours. When will they learn violence isn't the only answer?
The stables are lit bright with lanterns. The outlaws are busy with half a dozen different tasks but they all move with the bone weary slowness of men pushed beyond their endurance. It's only the second who's straight on his feet.
You aren’t sure what to expect when he leads you to a stall at the very end of the line. It’s the one right next to his stallion’s, and it usually sits empty.
Well, not anymore.
There's a horse standing there quietly, a halter around her head. A white mare, as perfect as snow. Lantern light shines off her coat and the soft brown of her eyes. She's delicately built, her neck arched high and her nose as tapered as a dragon's.
"An Arabian?" you ask. "Oh, she's beautiful.”
Even with your daddy's long list of broodmares and stallions, you've never seen a horse so fine. This is a ladies horse, meant for some well bred gentleman's daughter. She shouldn't be out here.
The second in command stands a little behind you, at your shoulder. He takes in the careful way you move when you approach her, the soft awe in your smile.
"Tame as a kitten, too." He sounds unbearably satisfied.
You reach out and brush your fingers down her nose. Pink and plush, soft as velvet.
He leans down and rests his chin on your shoulder. You're too distracted by the horse to stiffen up or push him away.
He continues, "You won't go riding alone, obviously. But still, I think she suits you.”
"Oh yeah? Why's that?"
He hums. "You're both pretty, that's why."
She steps forward and bows her head so you can stroke the long line of her neck. Her muscles ripple under the gloss of her coat.
"Do you like her?" he asks.
"Yes. Very much." You try not to think about what he must have done to get her.
He hums again, and slips his forearm across your belly. His black stallion and your snow white mare, the perfect match.
Just like the both of you.
The other outlaws are still asleep when the second in command wakes you. It’s only midmorning but the day is already promising to be a hot one. He’s dressed casually — knee high cavalry boots and a loose cotton shirt, his hair falling free around his shoulders.
“Get dressed, dove. It’s a long ride ahead of us.”
You expected him to be all over you — after a job or a little while away, he can never keep his hands off you — but he seems content to watch you dress with his chin propped up on his fist and his hat in his lap.
“Will you tell me where we’re going?” you ask.
“Will you give me a kiss if I do?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll just have to wait and see.”
When you get outside, the horses are already waiting. It seems he stole some tack for you as well, because your mare has an elaborately carved saddle in black and silver on her back.
When you mount up, he stands by her shoulder and brushes a hand down your calf.
“Your stirrups fitting you fine?”
You nod, and he gives your leg a quick squeeze before turning to mount his own horse. He sits loose and easy in the saddle, one hand on the reins and one on his thigh. Cowboy through and through, no matter how pretty he speaks or well he dresses.
The ranch is bordered on all sides by the open prairie. In the distance, a silver ribbon of water reflects the sun. Seeing it all from your saddle is heady — not freedom, not really, but the closest you've come to it in a long time.
The ride to the river is pleasantly slow. The grass brushes the heels of your boots, and the sky stretches wide and brilliant overhead. Your cowboy switches between watching the horizon and watching you. You try not to let it fluster you, but God, why does he have to be so handsome?
“Like what you see, qīn ài de?” he asks when he catches you sneaking a few glances of your own.
Damn. You look forward in a hurry, your neck burning. He’s so smug about catching you, which irritates you to no end. He looks at you all the time, and he’s totally shameless about it.
“I reckon the view is okay,” you mutter.
That only makes him chuckle. “You can always come closer and get a better look, y’know.”
Yeah, you reckon he’d love that.
You huff and nudge your horse ahead of his. Why does he have to be sweet with you? Why can’t he just be an irredeemable asshole and make this easier on you? If he was as cruel as the green eyed gunslinger, or as frightening as the boss, you could have hated him. As it is, when you look at him you see the boy from your past. The one you found half dead in the hay, the one who looked at you like he almost couldn’t believe his luck.
“What did you want to be when you were young?” you ask.
Curiosity, curiosity. It's going to do you in eventually, you know it.
He takes a second to answer. Surprised that you want to know, maybe.
“A cowboy. We lived in the city, my mother and I. I guess the cowboys in my books were always having adventures and I wanted to have some too.”
That catches you off guard. With the way he dresses, you'd think he'd want to be some rich businessman or industrialist.
“Has it lived up to your expectations so far?” you ask.
“Hmm. It’s a funny thing — I used to imagine myself as the hero. Not the outlaw.”
There it is again — that sense of awareness. Deep down he knows exactly what sort of man he is.
Did he think he'd steal a girl too? When he was dreaming of gold and gunfights, was he dreaming of you too?
“What about you, dove?”
You blink. “What about me?”
“If we didn't…find you, what would your life have looked like?”
You shrug. “Marriage, I suppose. My pa was always going to leave the ranch to me, but I'd need some help holding it.”
He hums. “Who would have come for your hand?”
“Um…whoever wanted to?”
“How about that deputy? Your neighbour's son. He seemed to like you plenty.”
Of course he would know about that.
“Him and I were only friends.”
Your cowboy fingers his revolver. “Good friends?”
“We barely talked once we grew up.”
“But you used to talk before.”
“Just a little.”
“Would you have said ‘yes’ if he wanted to marry you?”
That part of your life is so far away that it takes you a while to dredge up an honest answer.
“Maybe. He was sweet when we were young, and good looking. But I don't know him as a man.”
“Didn't.” He corrects you lightly. “You didn't know him as a man. That part of your life is done with, dove.”
“I know.”
“Then don't speak about it like it's still happening.”
He goes quiet after that. Part of you is thankful — there was something vicious in him when he asked about the deputy. You don't want to wake it further.
As you get closer to the water, he directs you upstream. The trees are thicker here — oaks and cottonwoods — and when you finally break through them you can't help but gasp.
“Beautiful, isn't it, dove?”
There’s a lake in front of you. The water is a greenish blue — crystal clear near the bank and darkening as it deepens. The prairie grass gives way to something shorter and greener, interspersed with wild flowers. Your mare drops her head to drink, her hooves stirring up wisps of yellowish pollen.
“It’s lovely,” you say quietly.
Swallows flit between the trees, some of them pausing on the branches of a massive weeping willow growing right next to the water.
“Hmm. I know you used to like swimming in the pond down by your father’s south field. I reckoned this would be even better than that.”
You feel your face getting hot. “You saw me swimming?”
“Mhm.”
Even though your ma used to yell up and down about being a proper lady, swimming was your guilty pleasure. On hot summer afternoons, you used to slip out of your dress and swim in nothing but your shift and stockings. The water made the material cling to your skin, the thin cotton practically see through. The thought of him watching you, seeing you like that when you had no idea you were being watched is…startling.
He huffs out a laugh and climbs from his saddle with practiced ease. “Not making you feel all shy, am I?”
“How many times did you see me? How much did you see?”
He loops your horses’ reins around a tree branch and comes to stand at your side. He rests a hand on your thigh.
“Oh, I saw plenty.” He smirks. “Thought about it all the time, y’know. Could have stolen you away so easy. Could have had you right then and there, in the water.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I’m a gentleman.”
Yeah, right.
He helps you off your mare and watches as you make your way down to the water. You hate to admit it, but there’s nothing you want more than a swim right now. The midsummer sun isn't kind.
If you stripped off your dress and stepped into the water, would he make good on whatever fantasies he had while he was watching you?
When he’s done unsaddling the horses he comes to join you. He has a saddle bag slung over his shoulder, and a white sheet folded under his arm.
“Shall we go, little dove?”
“You brought a picnic?”
“Of course.”
You follow him to the weeping willow and duck through the leaves. They reach all the way to the floor and across the water in a pale green canopy, drifting a little in the breeze. The grass here is short and plush from the shade, and the sunlight filtering through the leaves throws bright shadows across everything. The smell of wildflowers and jasmine lies thick in the air.
You lean against the tree to take off your boots while your cowboy lays out the picnic blanket.
The grass is ticklish under your bare feet, and when you wade into the water, your dress hiked to your knees, the pebbles are smooth and cold. The water is pleasant rather than biting, but you still gasp when it ripples against your calves.
“Too cold for you, dove?”
“Come in and find out for yourself, cowpoke.”
You hate to admit it, but the lake and the picnic are a perfect gift. What girl wouldn’t want her man to bring her here? It's fairytale pretty.
Small waves fan out as he follows you in, catching the sun in bright flares. He hisses at the chill, but it doesn't take long for him to reach you.
“It's bloody icy, dove. How do you stand it?”
“It's not so bad. And look—” you point at the far bank “—I think I see a deer.”
He chuckles and leans down to prop his chin on your shoulder. “Wouldn’t surprise me. They like the grass here.”
You keep your eyes on the deer so you won't have to focus on the wild mint and leather smell of him.
“How did you find this place?”
“Followed the river one time. Suppose I got lucky. When I saw it, I knew I had to bring you.” He hums. “Must have been about a year or two ago I think.”
Even before he stole you away, he was thinking about you.
You shiver despite the sun, and he takes it as an excuse to wrap his arms around your waist.
“Do you know what day today is?” he asks, tapping his fingers against your side.
“Umm…Sunday?”
There's a smile in his voice. “Not what I was asking, dove.”
“Then no, I haven't a clue.”
He brushes his lips down the side of your neck — softly, with such terrible kindness. “Today is the anniversary of the day we met.”
“You remember the date?”
“Hard to forget being rescued.”
He shifts his grip on you and turns you around to face him. His shirt is loose at his throat and his hat is tilted low, just enough to see the slash of his eyes.
“I've longed for you dove.” He touches your cheek with his knuckles. “For years. I couldn't get you out of my head no matter what I tried. I told myself…”
He looks away from you. His gaze lands on the far shore, and the deer standing by the water’s edge. “I told myself I wasn't the kind of man who took a woman against her will. I told myself only the basest dogs did that, the meanest bastards.”
You swallow hard. “What changed?”
“You.” He brings himself to meet your eyes. “I thought I could keep away. That it was fine to watch you from a distance. I told myself it would be enough.”
You stay silent. This is the most he's told you since the first day, when he confessed who he really was.
“It wasn't any good, dove. I'm selfish. The most selfish man in the world, maybe.”
You focus on his shirt and the silver cross winking at you. Does it make it better that he knows what sort of man he is? That his love is tempered by his guilt?
“I would have said yes to you, if you'd asked me,” you tell him. The breeze ruffles the hem of your dress and blows strands of dark hair across his cheeks.
It's only when you say it out loud that you realise how true it is. If the second in command came knocking at your father's door asking for your hand, you would have said yes to him in a heart beat.
He stiffens. “Don't tease, dove.”
“I'm not. I…I used to think about you. You said you'd come back and marry me, remember? That's a hard thing for a girl to forget.”
“Why would you ever choose an outlaw for a husband?”
You smile a little at that. “You wouldn’t have told me you were a wanted man, I can guess that much. You wouldn’t have said anything at all until the papers were signed and I was wearing your ring.”
He laughs and tilts his chin towards you. “You know me better than I thought, dove.”
It's easy to know a man when he sleeps and dreams next to you almost every night. When he fucks you like he's scared you'll melt away with the sunrise.
You meet his eyes. “I would have been yours if you'd asked me.”
You're not sure what you read on his face. Regret? Pride? Love?
He doesn’t give you a chance to puzzle it out. He leans down and scoops you up in his arms bridal style. You gasp, grabbing onto his shirt to keep from falling.
“Tell me what you want most in the world, little dove.”
Those eyes…how can so much love and worship fit inside a man?
He holds you against his chest, smiling the same dimpled way he did when you first met him; the smile that made you want to hide him from your pa and patch him up no matter the risk.
You decide to tell him the truth.
“I want to go home. Just for a little.”
He tilts his head. “You behave for me and I can make that happen.”
“Promise?”
There's no way the boss will agree to let you go home, no matter how short the visit. It can’t possibly be worth the risk. Still, your heart jumps before settling into its rhythm.
“I promise.” You can't see any trace of a lie in his eyes. “I know you must hate me, dove. But I still want to make you happy.”
You kiss him. You don't realise what you're doing until your hand is already on the nape of his neck and you're dragging him down to meet your lips.
His skin is cooler than yours. He tastes like mint and underneath that, just a hint of bourbon. As he pulls you tighter against him, he darts his tongue across your teeth.
“Swear it,” you whisper, “say you'll let me see my family again.”
“I will.” His breath tickles your cheeks. “If it makes you happy, I will.”
He kisses you again. Softly, kindly, but God, so hungry.
He doesn't break away from you, not even when he turns and starts wading towards the shore. The willow leaves brush your cheeks when he steps under the canopy, and then he's kneeling down and setting you on the picnic blanket.
“Love me,” he murmurs between kisses, “wǒ xiǎng hé nǐ gòngdù yúshēng.”
It’s a mouthful, and the little bit of the language you’ve picked up from him is no good. But the way he says it makes something in your stomach flutter — it's rough around the edges, a kind of desperation you don’t hear when he speaks English.
“Be mine, little dove. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
He kisses down your jaw and then lower still, until his teeth brush the hollow of your collarbone. You can't help but giggle at the way it tickles, and he gives you a small nip before pulling away entirely.
With the way he set you down, he's ended up between your legs with your dress pooling at you midthigh and his hands on either side of your waist. He grins at you, all boyish charm.
“You know, dove, you said you could still ride better than me. Want to put your money where your mouth is?”
“What are you talking—”
He rolls over onto his back and drags you with him. You blink and you're on top of him, knees straddling his waist.
You push yourself up a little, so you can see the entirety of his face. The dappled sun cuts hollows into his cheeks. You touch his jaw lightly and he turns his face into your palm, as needy as a cat.
It's hard to hate him.
You know you should. Aren't there still fading bruises on your thighs from his touch? He took you from everything you've ever known, and he covets you as jealously as a miser. Him and all the outlaws — they share your body like it's their right, like your dreams and love and autonomy mean nothing at all.
You have every right to hate him. So why don't you?
“You're a terrible man,” you tell him. Your words don't have any bite to them.
He pulls off his hat and sets it on your head. “I know.”
You pick up the cross on his necklace and rub it between your fingers. “I ought to shoot you when I get the chance.”
“Probably a good idea.”
Maybe it's time that's worn you down. How much are you supposed to take before your body starts craving his touch? Before some fawn instinct, long buried, comes to the surface? You're only one girl against a gang of world weary men. It was a losing battle from the start.
“But even if you did let me go…” Part of you wants to shy away from the truth, but you find your courage under the leaves and in the wildflowers. “... even if you let me go there wouldn't be anything left for me. I'm not the same as I was. I can't…I can't go home and pretend none of this ever happened.”
“No, you can't.” There's pity in his voice, and a hint of guilty satisfaction. “There's only us, terrible as we are.”
You lean down and kiss him again. He doesn’t flinch when your tears drip onto his cheeks.
“Sweet girl…” He sighs and rests a palm on your hair. “I'm sorry I brought you such grief. But I'm not sorry I took you.”
No, you suppose he wouldn't be.
Sometimes, you wonder if the outlaws get lost in your body to avoid being in their own. When the guilt and the doubts get too heavy, do they fuck it all away? Under the weeping willow, you try it for yourself. You tangle your hands in his shirt and kiss him until there's nothing in your mind but the taste of him.
He runs his hands up your thighs, groaning. When he pulls you lower and palms your cunt through your dress, you let him.
This isn't like the time you kissed the wrangler. You've learnt the hard way that you don't have any power here, not really. If you kiss him willingly or try to fight him off, you'll still end up in the same position. It's an awful truth — no matter how soft they are with you, the outlaws will always see you as their property, to do with as they please.
You fumble at the buttons of his shirt, not breaking away from him.
If they're going to use you, you ought to use them as well. In the face of reality, you might as well enjoy yourself.
You give up on saving his shirt — why the hell are his buttons so damn small anyway? — and grab his collar instead. You rip it open, buttons flying off into the grass.
He laughs and tries to say something. You don't let him. You swallow his words with your lips and drag your nails down his chest. He presses against you, his grip tightening on your thighs. The swell of his cock is heavy through his jeans.
So eager for you already. Your lover is more coyote than man, all need and hunger and want.
You run your nails across the taught plane of muscle above his belt. He growls then, a half needy, half dangerous sound. You don't bother listening to his warning — when the hell has he ever listened to yours?
And besides, you're doing this for you. About time you took your pleasure as heedlessly as they take theirs. What difference does it make? If you're going to get fucked, you might as well set the pace.
You break away from him long enough to look down and undo his belt. You palm his cock, rubbing your thumb over his slit and collecting little beads of warm liquid. His veins are standing out, heavy and pulsing.
“You want this, cowboy?” You don't recognise your own voice.
“Yes,” he says, dangerous in his softness, “yes.”
You pull your hand away and grab his jaw. Your nails prick little dimples in his skin.
“Earn it.”
He moves to stand but you shove him onto his back.
“Not like that.” You only waver for a second. “Use your mouth.”
His eyes are almost black. “Careful, little dove. I haven't had you in weeks.”
You know what he's getting at. His restraint — worn thin at the best of times — is almost gone. If you had any sense left, it would frighten you.
You shift your skirts out of the way and let him pull you forward until you're almost on top of his face. He trails his tongue up your inner thigh and kisses the mound of your cunt before he slips his mouth down, down, down.
When he reaches your entrance, he swirls the flat of his tongue across it, hot enough to make you dizzy. You fall forward, digging your fingers in the picnic blanket above his head to keep yourself upright. He doesn’t care for your wavering. He yanks you closer, his nose rubbing your clit.
Not being touched or fucked while the gang was away has left you needy in a way you don't want to dwell on. Sensitive all the way to your toes. You shudder when he sucks your clit, his tongue flicking across it between breaths.
You rock forward a little, craving friction. The coarseness of his five o'clock shadow and the yielding heat of his tongue is fucking incredible. You do it again and again, rubbing your cunt across his mouth and the strong curve of his jaw.
Well, he did say he wanted you to ride.
He moans and it reverberates all through your core.
But it isn’t enough.
Not for him, and not for you. He tightens his grip on your thighs when you try to shift away, digging his fingers into the meat and keeping you pinned against his mouth. He darts his tongue into your cunt, the muscle all stiff as it probes your entrance.
“Oh God—”
You break off, shuddering. He's so good at reading your body that it's uncanny.
You have to tug at his hair to get him off you. When he finally gives in and comes up for air, his chin and jaw are slick with spit, and there's nothing on his face but a black-eyed hunger.
“Not done,” he huffs, nipping your inner thigh and sucking at the fat.
Greedy bastard.
“I didn't say I was either,” you manage. Hell, when did you get so out of breath? “I want you. Now.”
He grins, lazy and proud. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But only if you say please.”
Being on top of him must be scrambling your mind. Since when are you so demanding?
“Please.” He runs his nails down your bare skin. “Please.”
Has a sinner ever prayed so earnestly?
You ought to deny him, but your better nature has long since left you. You need him inside you, stretching you out and satiating that deep seated burn, that animal ache. Oh, but he sounds so pretty when he begs…
You shift down a little and kiss his chest, your teeth skimming his ribs. He pulls in a sharp breath. “Please, little dove. I fucking need you.”
You could spend all afternoon just breathing him in. That wild, masculine scent. His abs harden as your lips ghost over his stomach, the muscles rippling.
When you're back to straddling his hips, you grind down on his bare cock, rubbing your cunt from his tip to the base of his cock and back again. He chokes on his spit and arches off the ground to feel more of you.
“Don't be impatient,” you chide.
“Don't—” he fists the picnic blanket until the veins are standing out on his forearms “—don't be a tease.”
You've almost forgotten the sheer size of him. The dusky tint to his tip, the slight throb along his shaft when you touch him…it makes your heart race. There's power here, if you're smart enough to grab it.
He's a wanted outlaw in five states and he's totally mad about you. You can use that, if you play your cards right.
“Do you love me, cowboy?”
“Yes,” he rasps, “You're my everything. All I've ever wanted.”
You grind against his cock again, slower and harder, pressing it flat against his stomach. He bucks under you, halfway to flipping you over before you grab his throat and force him still.
Grabbing a mountain lion would be less dangerous. He narrows his eyes at you, his jaw tight.
“Will you let me go someday?” You already know the answer. Still, you take a sick sort of pleasure in feeling his pulse jump.
“No.” He swallows hard. “Never. Never.”
You reach down with your free hand and guide his cock to your entrance. The heat of him alone is enough to make your gut knot.
You sink down and take him inside you, managing to get about halfway. It stings like a leather crop on naked skin, but oh God, is it good. The swell and pulse of him swallows everything — your world narrows to nothing but his cock and the sun dancing across the grass.
He knots a hand in the hair above your nape and drags you down into a kiss. The taste of your cunt is thick on his tongue.
“You'll burn in hell for this,” you manage between breaths. He pulls you closer, smiling.
“Hell is mine.” He bucks his hips and drives himself deeper in. “But so are you, lovely bird, so are you.”
Guilt and sin are concerns for better men. He licks the corner of your mouth, shameless debauchee that he is.
You pull in a slow breath and take him all the way. Your body remembers the shape of him, and even though it hurts just a little, your cunt swallows him without much probing.
Maybe it’s machismo or maybe it’s just an itch to have you close, but the outlaws almost always prefer having you under them when it comes time to fuck. Being on top is frightening in its newness. Figuring out the mechanics of riding him is, however, a natural thing.
You go slow at first, as slow as you can stomach, letting yourself adjust to the stretch in a way the outlaws almost never accommodate for. In this position, you can feel every ridge on his shaft. He twists under you, trying to force more friction, but you’ve still got him by the throat.
Hmm, maybe you’re a bit of a lecher yourself.
You manage a few more slow strokes before he gives in and begs.
“Faster, dove.” He kisses along your jaw and settles at your pulse, breathing hard. “Don’t be cruel.”
Oh, he would know plenty about cruelty, wouldn’t he?
The hand that isn’t on your neck moves up to cup your tit through your dress, his long fingers skimming over the cotton until he finds your nipple. He thumbs it roughly.
You pick up the pace, taking him all the way and then some. You must be just as touch starved as he is, because your cunt is a warm, slick mess before long.
More, more, more.
You hiss when he pinches your nipple and rolls it between his fingers. Can’t ever be sweet all the time, can he? No, always a little mean at the centre, no matter his good city breeding and proper talk.
Well, two can play at that game. You grab a handful of his hair and tug it until he moans.
And it still isn’t enough.
Not for the slow heat gathering in your cunt. You need something faster and rougher for that.
You jam his hat more firmly on your head and try to sit up straight. He doesn’t let you at first. All you get is an irritated mutter and another slow kiss.
“You said you wanted to see me ride, didn't you?”
That gets his attention.
“You think you can handle it, birdie?”
You tighten your grip on his throat. “Try me, cowpoke.”
He huffs but lets you straighten. From your new position, the flush on his cheeks is clear. For a moment, you wonder what fantasies he’s had about you. All these years…could he have pictured this? His girl riding him in the yarrow and bergamot, wearing his Stetson like you’re his hometown sweetheart?
He looks at you like you’re his dream come true, that's for sure.
You rest one hand lightly on his bare chest for balance before you start working towards a new pace, fast enough to make your thighs ache. All the teasing and steady fucking has been leading up to this. By the time you reach your limit, your cowboy has his hands on your waist to help you along, bouncing you on his cock like he’s trying to jackhammer all the hate right out of you.
“F-fuck, birdie. Just like that.”
“Mine.” He pants, his pulse galloping. “All mine.”
The slap of skin on skin is loud and shameless.
“God, dove, I love the way you moan.”
When did you start moaning at all? You bite your lip to keep it in, but it’s no good; your body wants him and what your lecherous little heart wants, it gets.
He’s getting close — his grip is bruising tight on your waist — but the distance between you must be too much for him. He pushes himself up, one hand flat behind him to keep him balanced while the other grabs a fistful of your dress.
He yanks you into a kiss.
“Let me come inside you, pretty girl.” Since when does he need permission? And since when do you like the idea?
You give a jerky nod. With the way he’s holding you, he can thrust up right as you're on a downstroke. The force of it sends a jolt through your clit, and that’s all you can take before you’re tumbling off the edge.
You grab his jaw in your palms and kiss him right as you come.
The smell and taste and feel of him is everything, everywhere, but you still need more. All he has to offer and then some. Ought to brand yourself in his goddamn soul while you’re at it, if you haven’t already.
Your kiss is sloppy and distracted.
He moans into your lips and drags you closer. Your cunt is pulsing as fast as your heart, pulsing in time to his ragged breathing.
You only vaguely feel it when he spills himself inside you. You’re too far gone on your own pleasure to notice anything besides his lips and your slowly waning orgasm.
“Fucking hell, dovie.” He breaks away long enough to lick your cheek. “Didn't know you had that in you.”
You come back to yourself a little at a time. The breeze through the willow, the pad of his thumb rasping against your dress, the solidness of his body against yours. Reality usually comes crashing back after the outlaws fuck you. The second you’re clear headed, the grief and rage are right there to meet you.
Not this time.
You break off the kiss but don’t move away from him. He leans his forehead against yours, his faint stubble tingling your palms. It takes a few tries before you can speak clearly.
“I…I could have loved you.”
You trace your thumb over his bottom lip. It’s a deep red from kissing you, bruised a little at the centre.
“You will love me, dove.” He squeezes your waist. “You will.”
Is he right? On that first day, making love to any of them would have been unfathomable, but that’s exactly what you’ve just done.
You don’t realise you’re crying again until the tears slip over your lips. Loving him…oh, how you wish you could have loved him. How you wish his love could have been kind.
He doesn’t move to wipe away your tears. No, comfort is beyond him to give and beyond you to accept. Instead, he thumbs your chin and brushes his lips against yours.
“Nǐ shì wǒ de wéiyī.”
You shake your head, stubborn to the last. No man would do this to his one and only. If he loved you as a good man ought to love, he would have left you be. You push yourself off him and stand, shaky on your feet, your thighs sticky.
You straighten your dress and look at the water to avoid looking at him, but you hear it when he buckles his belt and shoves his revolver into his place. He makes his way to his feet, and then presses himself against your back.
“I love you, little dove.” He kisses the nape of your neck. “I always have.”
So he says.
“If you love me, why do you let the others share me?”
It comes out like an accusation. You haven't been able to wrap your head around the contradiction — he's jealous of your childhood friends but he doesn’t mind the outlaws fucking you every night?
He sighs. “They're my brothers. I've been through hell with them — I owe them my life.”
“You think of them as family.”
“In a sense. They're all I have left in this world. They're the only people I trust.” He traces his fingers up your arm. Goosebumps shiver in his wake. “Besides, I have something none of them have, at least when it comes to you.”
“What?”
The wind sighs through the leaves. Your cunt pulses a little when you move, the last remnants of your orgasm stirring and settling.
“You were mine the day I met you. I don't mind sharing, but you're mine before you're theirs. Do you understand that?”
You think you do. Like a dog marking its territory, you belong to the second in command first and foremost.
There’s a slight rustle from the river bank and the jingle of a bridle. One of the other outlaws coming to check on you no doubt. Neither of you pays it much mind.
“If it weren't for the gang, would you still have taken me?”
“If it weren't for them, little dove, you'd never leave my bed.”
He sounds amused, but you reckon there's a lot of truth in what he said. Without the responsibilities that come with his position, he'd have no reason at all to leave you. No reason to hold off and share.
You're not sure how you feel about it. He barely holds back as it is — how much worse would he be if he had access to you every single day? You rub the heel of your palm across your cheek to gather the last bit of tears.
Doomed either way, aren't you?
The newcomer stops by the entrance to the willow canopy, his footsteps hushed by the grass. It's probably the wrangler or one of the gunslingers. They can never let you out of their sight for long.
The crack of a shotgun snapping into place breaks the quiet.
“Don’t move, you bastard.”
You recognise that voice, even though you'd long given up on hearing it again. You jerk your head up and there he is — the young deputy, your neighbour’s handsome son — standing right in front of you.
With a shotgun aimed at your heart.
He's haggard compared to the last time you saw him. His jaw is covered in dark stubble and his duster coat is filthy from heavy riding, but there’s no doubt it’s him. For a long second, you’re convinced you’re dreaming. How the hell is he here? No one has any idea where you are, and the outlaws have been fanatical about covering their tracks.
It’s only when his eyes settle on yours that you see this for what it is: a rescue.
Your outlaw goes wolf-still behind you.
“Step away from her,” the deputy orders, his gun steady.
“Like hell I will.”
You thought you knew what anger sounded like. You were wrong. The second in command has a rage like ice splintering.
“I won’t say it again.”
Your outlaw laughs, cold and cruel, right before he slips an arm around your waist. “Will you shoot right through her to get to me, lawdog?”
“I will if I have to.” His voice only wavers for a second but the second in command catches it nonetheless.
Another terrible laugh. “You will, huh? I know you, deputy, we all do. You've been on our trail since the start.”
You want to run straight into the deputy's arms and have him carry you home. You might have done it too, if you weren't so aware of the man at your back.
The second in command brings his other hand to your thigh and hooks your skirt between his fingers. He drags it up until your thigh is bare.
The deputy’s eyes flit down to your skin, and he swallows hard.
“You love her, don’t you, deputy?” The second in command is terrible in his mocking sweetness. “Why else would you come out here? Alone. Barely armed. You're rushing straight to your death, but it doesn't matter, because there's a chance you might finally have her.”
Your old friend grinds his teeth. “Fuck you.”
“Oh, she has. So many times I've lost count.”
You hate him in that moment, you really do. What the hell is the point of this? Is he trying to rile the deputy up, or does he just like showing off?
“You're going to hang for this, you son of a bitch. You and all your rotten gang.”
The second in command pinches your thigh hard enough that you yelp. The deputy takes a half step forward before freezing. Getting too close is dangerous — for you especially. He has no clue what the outlaw is capable of and you can see in his eyes that he's not willing to put your life on the line.
You say the deputy’s name and his eyes jolt to yours. “You need to leave. Please. This is too dangerous for you and I don't—”
The second in command pinches your thigh again. “Quiet, birdie. Let the man try his luck.”
“No! You'll kill him, I know you will. And I won't let that—”
“Dove—” his voice is soft enough for just you to hear “—watch your mouth. You try to save him and I'll rip your petty tongue out with my teeth.”
Your jaw snaps shut. You've never heard him so vicious.
He turns his attention back to the deputy. “Come get her then. I've left my mark on her, I've tasted her, I've fucked her raw and bleeding. Your own true love. I've made her mine in ways even the Devil won't speak of.”
The deputy charges forward.
The second in command goes for his revolver. He's fast — faster than the gunslingers even. The barrel glints silver in your peripheral vision as he reaches past your face and fires.
The flash of gunpowder is blinding so close, and your right ear shrieks with a high pitched ringing.
Your outlaw is a wanted man for a reason, and he's the second in command for a reason. The bullet rips straight through the deputy's chest in a mist of red.
“I’d rather see her dead than gone, lawdog.”
You scream, lunging forward. It's not too late. You can still stop the bleeding, you can still save him, you can still escape and go home and be happy.
Your outlaw grunts and heaves you to the side. You land hard on your hands and knees, dazed.
The second in command doesn’t take chances. He sinks another five shots into the deputy. They crack across the lake like thunder.
You don’t look. You can’t bear it. The thump of his body hitting the grass is too awful to think about.
“There.” The revolver rasps as the hammer strikes an empty chamber. “Varmint won’t be troubling us again.”
Your hands are shaking so bad you can’t even push yourself up.
He sounds so flat and empty. You know the second in command and the others are killers — their bounties wouldn’t be so high otherwise — but hearing his voice so frigid is terrifying.
“You killed him.”
The second in command looks at you and you wonder how a man this terrible can smile and laugh and love at all.
“I would have done worse, if I had the time.”
You believe him. A man with such a vicious temper coiling inside him is capable of anything. He ignores the way you flinch when he steps closer.
Monster; wicked, heartless killer.
His revolver is still smoking faintly. The strands of smoke waver and break as he grabs your arm and hauls you roughly to your feet. You sag in his grip, too dizzy and sick to stand straight.
“You need to learn a hard lesson, girl.” He shakes you until you look at him. He sounds like the boss, all business and blood. His eyes are as flat and black as a sidewinder's.
“There is no rescue for you. There is no help. We’re all you have, do you understand that?”
He grabs your collar when you don’t answer, his revolver fisted in your dress. His fingers and shirtsleeves reek of gunpowder.
“Do you understand?!”
You nod, but it isn’t nearly enough. He jerks his hand upwards and shoves the barrel of his gun against the underside of your jaw, between the V of your bones.
“Do you? Say it.”
“I understand.”
Did he have time to load the gun? Is there a bullet in the chamber winking at you? Your tears are coming hot and fast but he doesn’t soften at the sight of them, not at all.
“Say you love me.”
“I love you.”
“Wǒ xiǎng hé nǐ gòngdù yúshēng. Say it.”
You stumble on the words, your tones all wrong, but he doesn’t pull the trigger so it must be good enough.
He kisses you.
The gun digs into your jaw and keeps you in place. He bites your lower lip, droplets of blood blooming and trickling into your mouth. When he finally lets up for air, his eyes are hard.
“That boy was reckless to love you,” he says simply. “And stupid for trying to take you.”
You wish you never saved his worthless life. Despite everything the gang has done to you, this is the first time you regret your kindness.
“I hate you.”
He doesn't even blink. “You're mine all the same, dovie.” He spins the gun on his finger and snaps it into his holster. “Besides, you'll forget him eventually. With time, you'll learn to forget a lot of things.”
The dappled sunlight throws his features into sharp relief. He studies you and whatever he sees in your face is enough to make him relax.
He thumbs your jaw. “Wǒ xiǎng hé nǐ gòngdù yúshēng.”
You're still wearing his hat, you realise slowly. Wearing it like you're his hometown sweetheart. He notices it the same time you do. A half grin breaks his face and he tilts the brim further back so he can see you better.
“I love you, dovie.”
You hate him for it.
“And I'm going to spend the rest of my life with you, no matter what.”
Could you Please do a Jafar X shy foreigner Reader?
Jafar x Shy! Foreigner Reader
The hard part about getting into a relationship with Jafar is that he's a high-up government official. This means he tends to be very well-guarded. After all, he's the sultan's adviser and an evil mastermind. Jafar doesn't like being unguarded, and I think this applies to foreigners as well.
However, for story's sake, we’ll say that you’ve managed to get into Jafar’s life, and he’s met you. He’s immediately going to be on guard. Could you be a threat to his power? To his takeover of Agrabah? He doesn’t like strangers and will be vocal about that to you. He will act personally offended by your existence.
Eventually, though, he breaks down and decides to get to know you. He is smug, like a cat who got a mouse when he realizes you’re shy. All this time he had thought you to be a threat to him and his control, but you were just a meek little mouse. Now this is what I like to call “WELCOME TO HELL”.
This is the period where Jafar learned how shy you are and has decided to make your life harder. Jafar will scare you purposely, he’ll do his best to make you flush, and he is highly creepy about learning your culture. Not in an “Oh where you come from you eat what? That’s cool!” way, but instead a “You say that your culture emphasizes not using weapons?” way. It’s almost like he’s planning to take over the world after he overthrows the government here! But he wouldn’t, right? … Right?
Once you get out of the hellish phase, Jafar softens. Jafar is going to be more protective during this phase. He’s going to mansplain a lot. When it comes to language he will correct every single error you make with so much sass. He gets protective of you doing things such as going to the market, you can’t do it without him, and a fleet of guards. Hopefully, you don’t mind?
Finally, after a substantial struggle, he accepts you fully, and rather than seeing you as this shy foreigner he sees you as a person with your own beliefs and ideas. He still notices your shy traits but rather than try and take advantage he will work with you to make sure that you have a voice and a place beside him on his (eventually) throne. But you don’t need to know about that till it’s time.
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @whimsicalrogers
summary: Your boyfriend's boss comes between your relationship in more ways than one.
⭑
“Oz…”
No more words needed to be said, your tone saying it all, and your boyfriend turned to you with that look he knew you hated. He shrugged his shoulders at you, brows furrowed in a way as if to ask what he did, and you couldn’t hold back your sigh. There was a brief stretch of silence between you as you both were surrounded by the noise that was Gotham’s nightlife.
“You said you just needed to drop something off with the twins,” you reminded him, crossing your arms over your chest.
Your boyfriend let out a sigh of his own at the look on your face, and you stood your ground. It was his first night off in almost two months, the restaurant reservations were only going to hold for so long, and you weren’t exactly dressed for the likes of the Iceberg Lounge. You watched the heavyset man move towards you, reaching for an arm but you jerked away from his touch. He didn’t need to say what you knew he was going to say; you could see it all over his face.
“We’ll just be ten minutes, alright?”
“Oz!”
“You know I can’t just swing by without showing my face to Carmine. I’ll pop in, update him on a few things, drop off the stuff and we’ll be on our way.”
He made it sound so simple, but you knew better.
Carmine Falcone was not a simple man. What little you knew of him came from Oz and whispers on the street, but you knew enough. When he wasn’t treating your boyfriend like some lap dog, the kingpin was making money from mysterious sources and running the kind of club you never had the taste for. Funnily enough, the one night you decided to go to said club, you met Oz.
It was simultaneously the best and worst thing to happen to you.
“...and what am I supposed to do while you’re rubbing elbows with your asshole of a boss?”
The question was barely past your lips when Oz was harshly shushing you, frowning at you like you’d lost your mind, but you didn’t care. Carmine Falcone—and anyone listening for him—didn’t scare you. You recognized how stupid that probably was, but it was the truth. He was just another big man with money who threw it at people to feel important.
“What are you? Crazy?” Oz wondered, leaning in and lowering his voice. “You can talk like that around me, but we’re not in my apartment, sweetheart. You show the proper respect around here.”
You bit your tongue at that, narrowing your eyes at the man before you and thinking to yourself that of all the reasons to dislike Mr. Falcone, this was at the top of your list.
You really cared about Oz for a whole lot of reasons independent of his money. You’d always had a thing for the underdogs, and Oz was certainly that, but he was also driven. In this city that chewed people up and spat them out for fun, Oz was always determined to make something out of nothing and refused to let this city break him. It was admirable, really, and it made you have so much respect for him.
…but when he got around Mr. Falcone…
You really resisted the urge to roll your eyes, hating how much of a bitch he became in the presence of the other man. You got it to an extent. The man was his boss and he needed to be listened to, you understood that perfectly well, but your boyfriend’s entire demeanor seemed to change in his presence. He always turned into someone you hardly recognized—a pathetic ass-kissing excuse of a man just yearning for Mr. Falcone’s approval—and if you didn’t love him so much, you would’ve left a long time ago by how much it disgusted you.
“I’ll sit you in my office,” he finally answered with a shrug. “You can hang out for a while and overlook the club in my absence.”
There was a hint of amusement in his voice, but it didn’t latch itself onto you, and Oz waved you off.
“Lighten up,” he added, tone much softer now as he pressed a kiss to your forehead before guiding you both towards the door.
Only one of the twins was at the door tonight, and you threw him a tight smile as he greeted you both. Since that night you’d met Oz, you’d only been inside of the club two other times and both times had you sitting in Oz’s space while he discussed whatever with Mr. Falcone and Kenzie. There were worse spaces to be, you supposed—Oz’s office being all windows with a bar that allowed you to watch the dancers below—but he knew how much you detested this entire scene.
Tonight was no different.
He gave countless apologies and fixed you up a drink before disappearing with a kiss. You sipped on it while looking down at the club goers below you, once again having the same mental conversation with yourself that you had every other month. Oz was determined to secure better for himself, sure, but he didn’t seem keen on securing it outside of this lifestyle. He loved this lifestyle, and you were once again seriously contemplating if this was how you saw the rest of your life playing out.
As you waited for your boyfriend, ten minutes turned into twenty which then turned into thirty. You shouldn’t have been surprised when an entire hour passed, and by then, you were too upset to even produce frustrated tears. You’d long finished your first drink and was currently on number whatever when Oz finally showed his face. A scathing remark was on your tongue when he opened his mouth before you could.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he apologized, the rushed words making his accent pop. “...but I gotta reschedule.”
You blinked with a shake of your head, hand tightening on the glass in your hand.
“What?”
That was the last thing you’d been expecting.
Oz placed a hand on your arm just as you stood.
“I gotta do something for Carmine and–.”
“Are you kidding me? Oz!”
“It’s important–!”
“It’s always important! This is the first night off you’ve had in weeks. This night was supposed to be about us, and you let me get all dressed up just to sit up here for an hour and now you tell me–.”
“Look,” Oz harshly cut you off, nostrils flaring as he stared you down. “I don’t like it, but I got no choice, alright?”
You looked away from him, finally feeling like you could cry.
“Something came up, and I gotta do this for him…”
You finished your drink, slamming it down and searching for your purse.
“It shouldn’t take too long, but I gotta leave, now, so Carmine’s driver is going to take you home…”
“Excuse me?” you quietly said, slowly turning to face him. “Carmine’s driver is going to take me home–y-you can’t even take me home?”
You wildly gestured to him, and Oz dismissed you.
“I don’t got time for this. Grab your things and let me walk you outside. He’s waiting…”
Oz’s words died in the air as you hurried past him, not sticking around to hear anymore excuses or reasons as to why he couldn’t take you on your date or at the very least drive you home. You were sure your boyfriend had a few choice words for you, but the loud music drowned him out and it’s not like you were sticking by him to actually hear what he had to say. Your heels stomped against the floor as you hurried to the door, and a bitter taste filled your mouth as you remembered that this was the first time you’d worn them.
You had imagined Oz taking them off at the end of the night.
Now the thought made you laugh.
“I’m sorry, alright? I’ll make it up to you, I promise…”
The words that reached your ears were familiar—and empty—and you only nodded and evenly hummed at every one.
“Yeah…sure, yeah…no I get it, I understand…”
You did understand, but that didn’t mean you had to like it. Your boyfriend apologized a few more times before telling you to give him a kiss. You didn’t deny him, but if he noticed how robotic it was, he didn’t comment on it. You’d met Mr. Falcone’s driver a handful of times, and you gave the familiar man a tight smile as he opened the backseat door for you. Oz was peeling out of the parking lot before you could even get in, and as you stared after his car, you had the strangest urge to look up.
You did.
The windows of the Shoreline Lofts above the club were lit up, and you could see a couple of men moving around inside. You briefly wondered if that was where Oz always had to go when he needed to see Mr. Falcone. The moving figures didn’t hold your interest but instead the still figure standing just on the other side of one of the windows did. It wasn’t hard to guess that he was staring down into the parking lot, and something in you told you that the seemingly tall man was the very same who ruined your night.
With a huff, you slid into the expensive car, taking off your painful heels the moment the door was shut.
Things between you and Oz were a little icy.
Both of you held some blame but you stood by the opinion that Oz held most of it. More apologies came in the form of flowers and jewelry, but you were learning in real time that the allure and grandeur of those things start to lose their luster after a while. You loved him, but every day you wondered if it was enough. There was no telling when Oz’s next day off would be to properly make it up to you, but if the way things were going was any indication, you surmised that it was going to be a while.
Mr. Falcone had Oz running up and down the streets of Gotham like your boyfriend was the one actually running the city. On the days where you even saw him—which were becoming far and few in between—the interactions felt like they lasted only minutes. He always needed to go, always had something to drop off or pick up, or something to handle.
“Just come with me tonight,” he said to you one day. “We barely see each other, and I know you think I haven’t noticed or don’t care, but I promise you I do.”
“I don’t know…”
He knew how you felt about that place, and it’s not like he was asking you to sit in his office this time—Oz was talking about the 44 Below. You’d heard whispers of a club within the club that was the Iceberg Lounge, but you had never given the validity of it much thought. After all, it wasn’t your crowd nor something you concerned yourself with. One of your friends had referred to it as a mob hangout, and you’d laughed in her face then.
Since meeting Oz though, the idea became less funny to you.
While you may not have known what Mr. Falcone did exactly, the last few years certainly made you less naive about how Gotham really worked and how men like him really stayed above water. There were days when you struggled not to linger on Oz’s part in that food chain.
The man in question sat beside you on his bed, taking your hand.
“You’re still pissed about the other week, I ain’t stupid, but until I can really make it up to you, let me do what I can,” he offered, and you sighed. “I miss you, and you miss me…yeah?”
You reluctantly nodded, and Oz bent his head, trying to catch your eye.
“Whadaya say?”
You threw your hands up with a slow smile, and Oz let out that haughty laugh of his you’d grown to love. He was doing what he could to spend more time with you, and even if you didn’t completely agree with the way he was going about it, it mattered to you that he was trying. Besides, it wasn’t like you were opposed to the idea of becoming more familiar with exactly what Oz did for a living.
That was how you found yourself in the 44 Below for the first time, lips pressed together and eyes taking it all in as you observed the kind of men you never expected to find in a place like this. Oz’s talk with you on the way here was helpful, yes, but it still hadn’t fully prepared you for the full scale of corruption in this city.
“People do what they gotta do to make a living here. You understand?” he’d said, glancing at you. “Don’t stare too long or make a big deal about whoever you might see down there.”
That was what he’d said to you, but it was still quite the shock. Police officers were one thing, but the politicians that ran this city were something else entirely. Your hand was tight in your boyfriend’s as he led you through the dimly lit club, this atmosphere much quieter and more intimate than what was going on upstairs.
Oz got you a drink and sat you down in a corner and told you he’d be right back.
You were used to being seen as “Oz’s girl”, and if you were being completely honest with yourself, you didn’t hate it, but the weight it seemed to hold in the 44 Below was different from the Iceberg Lounge. Most of the people upstairs were casual party goers who just knew Oz as someone managing the club and you as his girlfriend. Down here though…
You were the girlfriend of the man next to Carmine Falcone, and it was the first time that it felt like it carried a significant amount of weight. Most people didn’t even make eye contact with you, and if they did, it either didn’t last for long or was accompanied with a nervous smile...as if they didn’t want to get on your bad side. Strangely enough, it didn’t make you feel powerful or anything of the sort but instead…lonely—isolated. You didn’t think you liked it, but before you could linger on that feeling for a few moments more, your isolation was breached.
“What was Oz thinking sticking you in this corner by yourself?”
The familiar voice made your skin grow cold.
Carmine Falcone was a face you hadn’t stared directly into for a few months, now, and truthfully, you could’ve gone a few more. He didn’t scare you, but that didn’t change the fact that something about him was not only intimidating but constantly reminded you that he wasn’t some warm and fuzzy kind of guy. When you tore your eyes away from the bar, you weren’t surprised to find those dark shades covering his eyes even in this lighting.
You were sure you’d never seen him without them.
He towered over you as he stood at your table, and you almost wanted to stand too just to make this interaction feel more equal. The few times you’d been in Mr. Falcone’s presence, you’d never felt quite equal, and you didn’t know if it was the huge gap in income or authority or just the way he coolly stared at you from behind those shades. In this moment, you reminded yourself to stop being so hard on Oz. You didn’t even work for the man, and he could easily make you feel so small, so you didn’t like to imagine the headspace he put Oz in when his money was on the line.
Reminding yourself that he spoke to you, you cleared your throat.
“He said he’d be right back,” you replied.
You swore that Mr. Falcone wore the hint of a smile on his lips, and you liked it less than the stony expression that was almost always on his face. For a few seconds, it felt like he was privy to some joke you weren’t in on, and you glanced around, feeling more isolated than ever as everyone in the club absolutely refused to look in your direction now.
“He’s upstairs handling something for me,” he told you. “You shouldn’t be waiting for him down here.”
When Mr. Falcone gestured to someone, you shouldn’t have been surprised when Kenzie seemingly appeared out of nowhere.
“Get her up to the loft,” the other man told him, a frown on his face behind those shades. “She doesn’t need to be down here with the rest of these people.”
The way he said those last two words made you feel like he looked down on the very men and women working for him and supplying him with business, and that made you frown too. However, once you realized what he’d said to Kenzie before that, it clicked for you that you weren’t going to the club upstairs but instead the Shoreline Lofts, a place you figured was always off limits for you.
You felt it was best not to question it as Kenzie gestured for you to join him, and as you neared him with your drink in hand, you didn’t miss the way Mr. Falcone refused to move, forcing your shoulder to brush against his chest.
“Don’t be a stranger,” your boyfriend’s boss said from behind your back.
You couldn’t even find it in yourself to throw him a fake smile in response.
You stared out over Gotham as your boyfriend hit another billiard ball, the sound drowning out the low conversation he and Mr. Falcone were having. You didn’t particularly care to know what they were talking about, but you had to admit that your curiosity had long been piqued along with your frustration at how long this conversation seemed to last.
One errand turned into an entirely separate dropoff which then turned into a conversation about the details of said dropoff that had long shifted into something else entirely. You reminded yourself that you were here because Oz wanted to try and be around you more, and you accepted that you would much rather be here than at his place wondering where he was at three o’clock in the morning and if he was safe.
He was trying, and that’s what mattered.
When you glanced over, you saw that Oz had his back to you while his boss stood on the other side of the pool table. Like always, those dark shades hid his eyes from view, and while he was engaged in a conversation with Oz, you couldn’t shake the feeling that his gaze was on you. It was a strange thought to have—at least, it was a strange thought to have.
You’d never been around Mr. Falcone as much as you had lately, and you’d found yourself questioning if he’d always been so inquisitive and hovering. Maybe those words were too strong because it wasn’t as if the other man was grilling you every time you were in his presence, but every now and then a question about your relationship with Oz was thrown at you or he’d ask about your job and how you liked it there. You and Mr. Falcone were only a step away from strangers, and he didn’t strike you as the type of man to engage in friendly chats.
“He don’t mean nothing by it, sweetheart,” Oz told you one night. “You’re around a lot more, and he’s just trying to feel you out, you know.”
You had hummed, not quite understanding that, and that was what you’d told him.
“I mean we’ve been together for what? A few years now? I’ve been to his home, I’ve had casual chats with his daughter, you don’t think it’s a little late to start wondering if I can be trusted?”
“It’s different now,” was all your boyfriend said. “You’re around the business more. It’s not the same.”
His words had silenced you that night, your mind instead going to what ‘the business’ entailed and why your sudden presence around it would change things. It once again sparked questions about your relationship with Oz, and what you wanted for your future. You liked the perks that came with his line of work just fine, but you knew better than anyone that the novelty wouldn’t last. A day would come where you’d question if it was truly worth it, and you didn’t want to be in too deep when you finally had that conversation.
Your name was already associated with Oz in certain circles, and your frequent appearances at the 44 Below these days didn’t help. When you came and left with Oz, it was fine. You loved him and always felt safe with him, so you learned to remain unbothered by the way people looked at you when you were next to him. Mr. Falcone was a whole other story…
You detested the nights when Oz got held up, Kenzie being the one to greet you and escort you out or in. Kenzie you didn’t mind all that much, but sometimes it was your boyfriend’s boss instead, and you couldn’t ignore the way you were treated when you were next to him even if you wanted to. You didn’t like the way people eyed you whenever Mr. Falcone guided you to that elevator, his footsteps mirroring your own in a way that made you feel like you were being stalked.
They looked like they didn’t know whether to suck up to you or avoid you at all costs, your proximity to the kingpin bringing out conflicting feelings of fear and possible opportunities.
“You’ll get used to it.”
That was what Mr. Falcone had said to you one night in that elevator, and you hadn’t known what he meant at first, but it clicked somehow with one look at his face. You remembered how unnerved you’d felt that he’d been able to read your thoughts on your face so clearly that night. You hadn’t liked it, at all, looking ahead just as he spoke again.
“The nice jewelry and fancy purses…” you’d tightened your hold on your handbag at that. “...aren’t the only perks that come with this line of work.”
You’d kept your gaze on the elevator doors.
“People start to fear you, respect you, and while you don’t seem like the kind of woman who’d be into that, you’d be surprised at what people will do for you solely for some proximity to you in some way. Anything to get ahead…”
He’d moved closer to you while he said this, and you couldn’t step away fast enough as the elevator stopped, Mr. Falcone’s arm reaching out to make sure the doors stayed open. Fighting to settle your mind, you quietly thanked him, thinking to yourself that you couldn’t get to Oz’s side fast enough.
You’d never cared for Mr. Falcone before, but getting to be around him more had the opposite effect one would think it’d have. The more you got to know him, the less you wanted to be around him, and you told yourself that it was for the obvious reasons. His business was shady and he treated Oz like crap and there was probably even a small element of danger in his presence, but no matter how much you tried to ignore it, he didn’t feel dangerous like Oz was dangerous.
Whenever you were alone with him, it felt painfully obvious that you were a woman and he was a man, and you knew deep down that it stood out to him too.
“Carmine says hello.”
You barely glanced up from the magazine in your lap as Oz’s words reached you, your boyfriend hanging up the phone. You only swallowed, flipping the page and listening as Oz limped towards the kitchen. You tried not to linger on what he said, but pretty soon the words and pictures before you began to go out of focus and you closed the flimsy book.
Oz’s attempts to spend more time with you by whatever means necessary unfortunately resulted in you spending more time with his boss. Granted, it wasn’t like you were around the man for hours, but you were seeing him more often than you ever had before. If he wasn’t there in the loft with Oz then he was greeting you in the 44 Below before making Kenzie escort you upstairs while he and Oz discussed business. You shuddered to think of his attempts at small talk and pleasantries, thinking to yourself how Oz couldn’t see how strange it was that Carmine Falcone was sending his regards to you through Oz.
Your gaze traveled to the vase of flowers on the dining room table, a gift of apology from Oz’s boss to you for keeping your boyfriend so late one night. You’d eyed it for what felt like hours when it was delivered to your door, and Oz’s answer to your question that night hadn’t satisfied you.
“His driver took you home, sweetheart, and you’re with me. Why wouldn’t he know where you live?”
The man may not have scared you, but that didn’t mean you relished the thought of being so comfortable and casual with him. Had you known that tagging along with Oz more would birth whatever this new development was, you would’ve never agreed to it, but as it were, you felt like it was too late to do anything about it. You feared that seeing Oz less wouldn’t change this new trajectory.
Of course, had you known how things would eventually end up, you would’ve long resigned yourself to never seeing Oz again, at all.
You should’ve known that something was off when Oz came by completely quiet one day. He never hesitated to jump right into whatever happened at the club that you just had to hear about. The change was noticeable, and when you’d asked him if he was alright, he’d given you a solid ‘yeah’. You’d tried to ignore the look on his face and his strange demeanor, but you knew the truth.
Oz was lying.
“Sweetheart…”
His voice was softer than normal from over your shoulder as you cleaned off your bed, and when you looked at him, he didn’t look like his normal cocky self. He looked almost…defeated. It was a strange thing to witness because Oz was never defeated even when he ‘lost’. You loved that about him, but at the moment, he seemed so unrecognizable.
“We gotta talk.”
He jerked his head, and although a little unsure and nervous, you sat down on the edge of your bed. Your boyfriend stood in the doorway for what felt like too long before eventually limping towards you, hesitating a bit and then sitting down too. The length of the silence made you more uneasy, and although you and Oz had been having a few problems lately, you were suddenly hit with the possibility of him breaking up with you.
You swallowed, voicing your thoughts.
“Are you breaking up with me?”
Oz frowned almost as soon as you said it, and that relieved you.
“No, no, doll, never that,” he hurried to reassure you, and you let out a sigh of relief.
However, you wondered if that was premature because nothing about Oz’s demeanor was comforting.
“Look…Carmine is offering me a chance to move up…”
His words made you blink, and you eventually nodded.
“...okay. That’s good, right? That’s what you want…?”
Oz let out a sharp laugh.
“Hell, yeah, it’s what I want,” he told you. “More money, more authority, and I’ll officially be his right hand man. Hell, the way he’s painting it, there’s a chance I might take over things eventually instead of that lazy son of his…”
You wanted to give Oz a small and encouraging smile, but a heavy ‘but’ lingered in the air. This sounded like everything Oz ever wanted, and you wanted to be happy for him, but at the moment, he didn’t even seem happy for himself. You reached for his arm, gently squeezing it.
“Do you think I don’t approve or…?”
Your boyfriend shook his head, and you only grew more confused.
“I don’t got the position yet.”
You stared at him, and you watched as Oz rubbed his forehead, and you were sure you could never recall a time you’d seen him so…antsy. You felt safe around Oz because he was always so sure, so confident, and now he was none of those things, and it was a strange place to be in for you.
“...but that’s where you come in.”
“Me?”
Those words threw you all the way off, and a feeling of dread settled in your stomach as Oz took your hand.
“Carmine…”
You studied Oz’s face, trying to decipher what he was going to say before he said it.
“He likes you, sweetheart.”
You stared at him and he stared at you.
“I…don’t follow. What does that have to do with–?”
“Do you want me to get this job?”
You sighed, choosing to be truthful while being careful with your words.
“I want what you want, and I know you really want this, so…yeah,” you honestly told him.
Your boyfriend slowly nodded at your answer, and you watched him swipe his tongue between his lips.
“Look, I’m not saying how far you have to go, but…Carmine likes you, and if you just make yourself available to–.”
Oz cut himself off as you jumped to your feet, your eyes comically wide and lips parted as you stared at him in shock. Understanding finally dawned on you, and you looked at Oz as if he’d lost his mind. That dreaded feeling in your stomach had morphed into full blown nausea, and you were positive you were going to be sick.
When he said that Carmine liked you, you didn’t think… You’d thought it was his way of saying the man was no longer suspicious of you, that you were trusted now and he’d stop asking so many questions and paying so much attention to you. Not once had it ever been a possibility to you that he meant…
You opened and closed your mouth.
“Is this a joke? Oz, tell me you’re not serious,” you whispered.
Your boyfriend’s face twisted into a deep frown, that scary frown that you hated.
“You think this is easy for me? Huh?” he threw at you, joining you and standing too.
“Oh my God, you’re serious,” you breathed, feeling like you’d gotten the wind knocked out of you as you looked away.
“This is a big deal for me,” Oz told you. “Do you know how much this could change things? I’m not asking you to…sleep with the guy…”
You faced him again, expression twisted into disbelief at what you were hearing.
“Just get dolled up like you do and let ‘em treat you. Make him feel real special, you know,” he waved his hands, and you blinked back tears.
“Oz,” you hissed, disgusted. “I am your girlfriend. Not some girl at the club who charges half a grand per person to get passed around. I am your girlfriend!”
“You don’t think I know that? Huh? Wh-what you wanted me to tell Carmine no? Huh?”
You couldn’t believe what you were hearing, and you tearfully looked away.
“I told him I’d think about it…”
“I can’t believe this,” you choked out, rushing out of your bedroom.
You could hear your boyfriend’s footsteps behind you.
“Carmine Falcone is not the kind of guy you just say no to, sweetheart. You think this is something I’d ask you to do all willy nilly?”
You paced around your apartment, actually feeling like you were going to be sick as Oz continued to talk, as he continued to plead his case for why you should basically whore yourself out to his boss.
“...and Carmine could have any girl he wants. If he wanted some easy piece of ass, there’s girls at the club for that,” you heard him say, his voice sounding muffled by the loud ringing in your ear. “...but he expressed interest in you.”
“...because he’s sick! How do you not see that, Oz?”
Your boyfriend shook his head at you, a sneer on his lips and a scathing remark on his tongue no doubt when you beat him to it.
“He’s dangling this position in front of your face and telling you it can be yours so long as you let him humiliate you and treat me like I'm not even human!”
“Doll–.”
“It doesn’t matter what I agree to because he already won,” you choked out, shaking your head at him. “He tells you that he wants your girlfriend, and you didn’t tell him no.”
You stared at Oz with tears in your eyes, unable to believe this was happening.
“You didn’t tell him no, Oz, he…” you scoffed. “You’ve shown him that you would do anything for his approval, anything to be where he is.”
Your chest and throat were so tight, and you wondered if this was what heartbreak felt like. The silence in your apartment was loud, and you could barely stand to look at Oz, in shock that he would even come to you with this. You sniffed, and when Oz stepped towards you, you moved back, wrapping your arms around yourself.
“...and what happens if I refuse? You can kiss this promotion goodbye?”
His silence was deafening, and you let out a humorless chuckle.
Your eyes passed over the dying flowers on your table, and you felt goosebumps rise on your skin. You stared at them for what felt like the longest time, reminding yourself that Mr. Falcone never seemed the type for small talk and genuine pleasantries. There was always something ulterior with him, and you felt sick to your stomach as you thought about every time you were alone with him.
“Get out,” you whispered to Oz.
It seemed like he didn’t hear you at first, but with a quickness, you stomped towards your table and almost immediately after, the vase of flowers was airborne. Oz ducked just in time, and you only screamed for him to get out two more times before he finally accepted that you were serious. You were right behind him as he left your apartment, taking off every piece of jewelry he’d given you that you were currently wearing.
“In case it needs to be said… We’re done,” you spat. “Find some other way to get your promotion.”
You slammed your door shut behind him, unconcerned with how it may have disturbed your neighbors.
Your breakup with Oz hit you much harder than you thought it would. After all, he did a shitty thing, and in that moment, you were positive that you hated him. However, once the dust cleared and everything had settled, you realized that hate and love did indeed require the same level of passion, and you’d cried yourself to sleep two weeks in a row.
Oz was so far from perfect, but you loved him, and while he was capable of so many things, you’d never considered he’d be capable of even the things you didn’t want him to be capable of. You thought that he loved you too, and maybe on some level he did—choosing to give him some credit—but it was plain as day that he would never love you more than he loved the future where he wasn’t the underdog anymore.
You’d foolishly thought that you took priority over power.
Every phone call of his went ignored, and the only time you texted him was with a date and time when he could come get the rest of his things. You, on the other hand, didn’t want anything you’d left behind at his place. You wanted his shit gone, and nothing returned to you that would make you think of him in his absence. In the span of a month, your life as you knew it had turned completely upside down.
You’d been on edge all day when that knock finally sounded at your door. You weren’t concerned with falling into old habits, but just how painful it’d be to face Oz again after that night. Some days you still found it hard to believe that he’d been so willing to sell you out so easily. You’d never forget the way he’d talked to you, like it was just assumed you’d go along with it because you wanted better for him.
It ate you up inside to think that he didn’t know you, at all.
You’d rehearsed how this would go probably a million times since he’d agreed on the date and time, but everything—every word—you’d practiced was in vain because it wasn’t your ex-boyfriend standing on the other side of the door once you’d opened it. If you’d been holding something, you would’ve for sure dropped it as you stared at the face of Carmine Falcone.
Funnily enough, you hadn’t given the man much thought since the breakup. After all, Oz was the one who’d betrayed you, hurt you so deeply. Mr. Falcone hadn’t done anything surprising, only being the man you knew him to be—a man who always wanted more and used his money and power to get it. You’d never pegged him as a man with morals—with a code—so as much as it disgusted you to realize what he’d been plotting this whole time, you weren’t blindsided by the knowledge that he wanted to fuck his subordinate’s girlfriend and was willing to play dirty to make it happen.
“Where is Oz?” you finally breathed.
“May I come in?” he responded, completely ignoring your question.
Your lips parted, an immediate no on your lips when you only just noticed the figures behind him. You narrowed your eyes at the sight of Kenzie and some other man you didn’t recognize in the hall, and the nausea you felt that night with Oz was almost nothing in comparison to how you felt at the sight before you. Oz was supposed to get his things, but instead his boss showed up at your door—the same boss who was the catalyst for your disastrous breakup in the first place.
You licked your lips.
“I feel like if I say no…you’re going to do what you want, anyway.”
Mr. Falcone didn’t respond to that, but the corner of his lips curved upwards so subtly that if you weren’t so used to his stony countenance, you would’ve missed it. His only response was to move towards you, and against what you wanted, you moved out of his way. You stood at the door as he brushed by you, and your gaze darted between Kenzie and the other man. You were sure there was an almost pleading look in your eyes as you gazed at the familiar man, but Kenzie stared right through you.
“You can close the door.”
Pulling your lip between your teeth, you did just that, staring at the wood for a while before turning around.
“Oz…?” you repeated.
“He’s handling something for me.”
“Of course, he is,” you sighed. “I take it you came all this way just to get his things for him?”
When you looked at him, his back was to you, and you didn’t like the way he was taking in the layout of your apartment. Your eyes darted towards the kitchen, weighing your options if you actually managed to kill this man. Of course, that was assuming you even made it to the kitchen. When you looked at Mr. Falcone again, his gaze was on you, now, and you knew you’d been caught.
He chuckled to himself, so low that it barely reached your ears.
“Let’s talk…”
You frowned when he gestured for you to sit down, and his lips twitched again when you refused to move. He made the decision to sit down first, and you reluctantly followed his lead. That feeling that you always felt whenever you were alone with him washed over you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from fidgeting.
“I know that Oz hurt you.”
You gave him a look at how he chose to start this conversation, the elephant in the room just casually lingering between you.
“...he didn’t do it by himself,” you replied.
Mr. Falcone seemed to weigh that in his mind, tilting his head from side to side.
“That’s debatable.”
“How do you figure that?”
“He could’ve told me no.”
Your heart skipped a beat as he acknowledged it outloud, and you chuckled.
“We both know that’s not true,” you whispered. “No one denies Carmine Falcone.”
You said the words mockingly, and you didn’t miss the way all humor drained from his face.
“You know how badly Oz wants to make a name for himself. An actual legitimate name for himself where he’s respected and revered and not seen as some joke, and you took advantage of that,” you spat. “You saw an opportunity to kill several birds with one stone, and you took it.”
The man before you didn’t respond right away, and you watched him stand, making you nervous. You only started to relax when he made his way towards the bar Oz had given you as a gift one year, the damned thing installed into the wall so you couldn’t even give it back. You said nothing as Mr. Falcone fixed himself a drink in your apartment with your stuff.
“Would you like one?”
“No,” you immediately answered, somehow still shocked at his audacity.
He ignored the malice in your tone and took his time, and the whole time you just kept wondering why he was here. You watched him take a sip of his creation, and it wasn’t lost on you that he was standing while you were sitting, and he was making you feel small once again.
“You said I saw an opportunity to kill several birds with one stone…”
You rolled your eyes.
“You own this city, everyone knows it, and you saw an opportunity to get what you want just because you wanted it all the while humiliating both Oz and myself and making him prove his loyalty to you,” you slowly told him. “I’m sure the breakup that gave him more time to devote himself to your business was just a bonus.”
Mr. Falcone responded by taking a sip of the drink he’d made, humming.
“You didn’t consider any other motives…?”
You watched him make his way across the room to sit back down in the seat across from you, eyeing you behind those dark shades as you frowned at his question. No. You hadn’t, and truthfully why would you? You couldn’t think of any other reason for why he did what he did. Part of you even considered that he didn’t even really want you so much as he wanted something Oz had.
“Hmm?” he wondered at your silence, and you only shook your head.
You watched him finish his drink.
“I didn’t expect Oz to say yes–.”
“I don’t believe that,” you cut him off, and the look he fixed you with didn’t scare you one bit.
You stared at each other for a few moments before he continued.
“I do want you, that much is true,” he told you, making you uncomfortable under his unwavering stare. “You’re beautiful and you take no shit and I see why Oz pursued you so hard.”
You didn’t like that he knew the details of how you and Oz began.
“I can have anything I want, you’re right, but even still…I didn’t expect Oz to say yes.”
Oddly enough, you were sure you believed him now, and you didn’t know how to feel about the fact that Mr. Falcone had been testing him…and Oz hadn’t passed.
“...but now we both know what you mean to him.”
His words forced tears to your eyes, but his next words made them spill over altogether.
“If I were in Oz’s position, I would’ve told me to go to hell.”
Your blood ran cold as you stared at him, your brows pulling together at his interesting choice of words. Mr. Falcone wasn’t in Oz’s position and never would be, but the more you stared at him and the longer the silence dragged on…you realized that he wanted to be. You looked away from him, standing on shaky legs.
“Whatever Oz gifted you, whatever he did for you, I can make it all look like child’s play,” he offered, and you felt your stomach churn.
There was no telling what Mr. Falcone would’ve done had Oz just said no, but because Oz was Oz, he hadn’t said no, and that had produced a lose-lose situation for him. Oz said yes, and that meant that either Mr. Falcone would get what he wanted—even if only for a night—or you would leave Oz, and an opportunity would present itself for him to still get what he wanted.
“I wasn’t with Oz for his money,” you sneered, tears kissing your eyes as you glared at the other man.
“...but I’m sure it didn’t hurt.”
You actually laughed at that, the sound lacking humor and filled with so much bitterness and frustration. Of all the things to take from this situation, what stood out the most was how absolutely misunderstood you were. Oz actually thought you were the kind of woman who would sacrifice her dignity and morals just to help him get ahead, and Mr. Falcone actually thought you were the kind of woman who could be bought.
It was an upsetting mix of maddening and frustrating.
“Get out,” you heard yourself whispering, feeling a sense of deja vu. “Take Oz’s things, and get out of my house.”
You watched Mr. Falcone straighten in his seat, reaching up to undo the buttons of his suit jacket.
“No.”
You blinked at him, not expecting that but also not surprised by his response either.
“Fine,” you breathed, making your way towards the hook on the wall where your purse hung.
You didn’t care if he had a hundred men outside of your door, you weren’t staying in this apartment with a man who basically offered to buy access to you for a night. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he used your breakup as an opportunity to buy permanent access to you. You were reminded that Mr. Falcone felt dangerous to you in a way Oz didn’t, and just when your hand landed on the doorknob, he showed you why.
You didn’t even have a chance to scream, a choked gasp getting caught in your throat at the feel of silk material pulling against your neck. He tightened it the more you pulled on it, and the soles of your feet kicked against the door, the shoes you’d just slid in falling off. Every attempt to dig your feet into the floor was in vain, and when your legs started to fail you, only then did Mr. Falcone let you go.
It all happened so fast that when you finally registered the dangerous position you found yourself in, it was too late.
“You’re really going to make me do this, huh,” he casually mused, his deep voice reaching your ears as he caged you in his arms between him and the floor.
Your vision was blurry, but you took note of the way he’d slipped out of his suit jacket, the first few buttons of his shirt undone and his tie…missing. The tips of your fingers grazed against that silk material that was still around your neck, and you tried so hard not to linger on how seamlessly he’d done that, like it was second nature to him.
His warm body was on top of yours, nestled between your legs, and you mustered up enough strength to dig your nails into his face. The scream he let out satisfied you, and when your knee came up between you both, it allowed for you to slide out from under him. Your throat felt sore as you crawled away, struggling to get to your feet when the tie still around your neck was yanked on once again. He tightened it around his hand, pulling you against him, and a winded squeak left your lips as he forced you to bend over the bar.
You pulled and clawed at the silk material, fighting to breathe, all the while he fumbled between you both with his free hand.
One of your hands let the tie go to drag your nails along the wood of the bar when Carmine Falcone forced his cock into you. His hips slammed against your backside as he fucked you, and you were caught between trying to loosen the material around your neck, and fighting to find something to hang onto and ground yourself with.
You could feel his face pressed into your hair, breathing you in with every thrust. The bar beneath you trembled from the force of his movements, and your vision started to blur again from the lack of oxygen. You clawed at your throat with one hand and at the bar with the other. The man behind you seemed to be in his own world, lost in the feel of you wrapped around him.
When dark spots started to appear in your vision—almost as if he knew that—Carmine loosened his hold on the tie around your neck. The rush of air into your lungs had you gasping, and to your horror, he replaced the tie with his arm. His arm hooked around your neck and forced you back against him as he leaned back a bit.
The only sound in the apartment was heavy breathing—yours from trying to suck in as much oxygen as possible and him from pushing himself into you over and over again.
“Oz felt like such a big man with you on his arm,” he said against your skin. “It almost made me feel sorry for you.”
You hit your hand against the bar.
“I don’t need you on my arm to feel like a big man. That’s the difference between us…”
He pushed you back down against the bar again, a hand harshly pressing into the small of your back to keep you in place. You couldn’t stop crying no matter how much you tried to, distraught at the harsh lesson on why you should fear Carmine Falcone. It’s just that this never occurred to you…or maybe it did on some level, and you were too afraid to acknowledge what it was.
Oz would never do this. There was a softness to him that Carmine lacked, and maybe that was what you’d sensed all this time, that Carmine was the kind of man without any limits. That he was the type to hurt anyone—man or woman—but just in whatever way he knew would hurt the most…no matter how depraved.
When he came inside of you, you didn’t even try to hold back the disgusted sob that left your lips. You almost collapsed to the floor when he pulled away from you, your shirt—one that Oz had left behind, you realized—fell back into place as you heard him righting himself. Your heart was still beating wildly in your chest, and you almost didn’t want to believe what’d just happened.
Funnily enough, Carmine was gentle in sliding his tie from around your neck, the fabric whispering against your skin as he did so, and you shuddered when his fingers grazed your throat in the process. You didn’t doubt that a nasty ring would color your skin in the morning. When his lips found your hair again, you shrunk away from him, still trembling from his assault.
His parting words finally made you throw up what you’d been pushing down for weeks.
You’ve watched Peter Pan (2003) 👀? Your thoughts on its Captain James Hook 👀👀??
Oh yeah, that movie is so whimisical, it always puts me in a good mood ^^
He's hotttttttt. I'm pretty sure he contributed to my Older Men thing, along with Jafar 😅 XD I never once had a crush on Peter Pan, I AWAYS wanted Hook XD
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