❤︎⠀⠀your daddy owes money to the yixiang family, when he disappears—you become collateral to wang yixiang who's taken over his fathers business.
•⠀ masterlist 𓋰 💬 mafia!nicholas x collateral!reader ─── ᛫ dead dove do not eat, dubcon, noncon elements, slight stockhome syndrome, manipulation, co-dependency, unprotected p in v, creampie, face fucking, finger fucking, oral (m. rec), hair pulling. ✶ word count. 5691
( a/n ) this was for a paid req on my ko-fi n i finallyyy finished it >< i was having such writers block n couldnt think of how to continue scenes without making it 10k words lolol so the pacing is off (which i hate..) but i hope u all enjoy it !
the rain had been falling for three days straight, the kind of cold, relentless downpour that seeped into your bones and made the already cramped apartment feel even smaller. you were twenty-three, but most days you still felt like a ghost in your own life—shy to the point of invisibility, the girl who apologized when someone else stepped on your foot, who kept your head down at the little bookstore where you worked part-time shelving novels you could never afford to buy. your world was small, quiet, and safe only because you never asked for more.
your father had never been warm, but he had been there. until he wasn’t.
you came home that tuesday to an empty closet, missing cash from the tin under the sink, and a single crumpled note on the kitchen table in his sloppy handwriting:
kid,
debt’s too big. i’m done. you’ll manage. don’t look for me.
no “i love you.” no explanation. just the faint smell of his cheap cigarettes and the echo of a door slamming somewhere you couldn’t follow.
you sank to the floor right there in your work clothes, the cheap polyester of your blouse sticking to your skin, and cried until your throat hurt. you had no close friends to call. no savings. the landlord’s number was already lighting up your cracked phone screen.
the first collection call came two days later. you stammered that your father was gone. the voice on the other end went silent, then laughed once, low and ugly, before hanging up.
you didn’t know they were already watching.
it was the fifth night when the knock came—sharp, three raps that rattled the thin door.
you were in an oversized t-shirt and soft shorts, hair still damp from a lukewarm shower, curled on the couch with a library book you couldn’t focus on. your heart jumped into your throat. another knock, louder.
“open the door. we know you’re in there.”
you crept forward on bare feet and peered through the peephole.
three men stood in the hallway. the one in front was tall, broad through the shoulders, dressed in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled once at the forearms. sharp jaw. dark, assessing eyes. a faint scar along the inside of his elbow. he looked expensive and lethal all at once. beautiful features that still held that scary sharpness, his presence filled the cheap hallway like he owned the building.
wang yixiang.
you didn’t open it.
the lock gave way with a splintering crack. you stumbled backward with a small, terrified sound as the three men stepped inside. the two flanking him moved like they’d done this a hundred times—efficient, unhurried. one checked the bedroom. the other stayed by the door.
nicholas’s gaze swept the tiny living room, then landed on you. something shifted in his expression. not surprise exactly. interest. possession, already forming.
“wang yixiang,” he said, voice low and smooth with the faintest trace of an accent. “your father owes the wang family a significant sum. where is he?”
your back hit the wall. your arms wrapped around your middle instinctively. “h-he’s not here. he left. days ago. i—i don’t know where he went. please, i don’t have anything to do with—”
the searcher returned from the bedroom. “cleaned out. nothing of value except her.”
nicholas stepped closer. you flinched hard. he stopped, head tilting slightly as he studied the way you trembled.
“then the debt transfers,” he said calmly. “family pays what family owes. you’re coming with us. collateral.”
“no—!” the word tore out of you, high and panicked. “i don’t have money! i work at a bookstore, i barely make rent! he left me here! he doesn’t care—”
“doesn’t matter.” nicholas nodded once to the men. “take her. gently. she’s not to be damaged.”
you fought. weakly, because you had never learned how to fight. one of the men caught your wrists and zip-tied them in front of you with surprising care not to cut skin. a soft black cloth bag slipped over your head. you whimpered.
“don’t scream,” nicholas murmured near your ear. his voice was almost kind. “it won’t change anything. and i don’t enjoy hurting pretty things that don’t deserve it.”
the car ride was long and silent except for your quiet, hitching sobs. leather seats. the faint scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, expensive. you could feel him beside you in the back seat, the heat of his thigh not quite touching yours.
when the bag came off, you were standing in a large bedroom inside what looked like a private estate on the outskirts of the city. high ceilings, dark polished wood, a massive bed with crisp white sheets, an attached bathroom. the windows were reinforced. the door had a heavy deadbolt on the outside.
“this is where you’ll stay,” nicholas said from the doorway, hands in his pockets like this was a business transaction. “food will be brought three times a day. if you need anything—books, clothes, whatever—tell the guard outside. behave, and you’ll be comfortable. fight, and…” he shrugged one shoulder. “comfort becomes optional.”
tears spilled hot down your cheeks. “why are you doing this? i’m innocent. i didn’t even know how much he owed—”
“in this world, innocence is a liability.” his eyes flicked over you—your bare legs, the way your tied hands trembled against your stomach, the wide, wet eyes you couldn’t hide. “your father made his choices. you get to live with them.”
he left. the lock clicked.
you curled into a ball on the bed and cried yourself hoarse.
the first week passed in a strange, suspended haze.
meals arrived on trays—proper food, better than anything you could have made. the silent guard never spoke. you tried once. he stared through you like you were already furniture.
you explored the room. there were books on the shelf—classics, some chinese poetry, a few modern thrillers. a television with cable but no streaming, no internet. the bathroom had soft towels and expensive soap that smelled like the cologne nicholas wore.
on the third day he returned.
he entered without knocking, closed the door, and pulled the single armchair closer to the bed before sitting. black shirt again. the tattoo on his forearm was visible now—a stylized dragon coiled around a sword. wang family mark, you would later learn.
you sat on the edge of the mattress, knees pulled to your chest, watching him like he might lunge.
“how are you settling?” he asked, conversational.
“i’m a prisoner,” you whispered.
“you’re protected collateral.” he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “do you know how much your father owed us?”
you shook your head.
“enough that even if you worked every day for the rest of your life at that little bookstore, you’d never clear the interest.” his voice was matter-of-fact. “we reached out through every channel. he’s gone. no response. no attempt to bargain for you.”
the words landed like stones in your stomach. fresh tears welled. you tried to hide them, but he saw.
“crying won’t bring him back,” nicholas said, softer. “but here, at least, no one will touch you unless i allow it. the wang family has rules. you’re under my personal supervision now.”
“why?” the question slipped out before you could stop it.
he studied you for a long moment. “because when i walked into that apartment and saw you—trembling, alone, trying so hard to be brave—i decided you were mine to handle. the others wanted to auction you off or use you to send a message. i said no.” a small, almost fond curve touched his mouth. “consider it mercy.”
mercy. from the man who had zip-tied your wrists and locked you in a gilded cage.
by day seven you had started counting the hours between his visits.
when he didn’t come on day five and six, the guard simply said “boss busy” and left your tray. you paced. you read the same page of a book three times. you stared at the ceiling and wondered if anyone had even noticed you were gone. your job had already replaced you—some chirpy text from your manager about “no call, no show.” no one else had texted.
on day eight nicholas returned carrying a book.
he set it on the bed beside you. “thought you might like this one. girl finds her strength in a place she never expected.”
your fingers brushed his when you took it. you yanked your hand back like you’d been burned, cheeks flaming. “thank you.”
he watched the blush spread across your face with open fascination. “you’re still polite. even now. most people in your position would be spitting curses.”
“i’m scared,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “yelling won’t change anything.”
“smart girl.” he reached out slowly, giving you time to flinch, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingertips were calloused but careful. “the world outside these walls would have eaten you alive, you know. shy little thing like you, no connections, no money. at least here you’re fed. protected.”
funny. protected by the man who kidnapped you.
you didn’t say it. you couldn’t. because some broken, lonely part of you was starting to understand what he meant.
he sat on the edge of the bed this time, closer than before. “the wang family has been in this city for three generations. my grandfather started with one gambling den and a knife. built it into import businesses, clubs, protection. debt collection is just one arm. we don’t like loose ends.” his eyes met yours. “your father was a loose end. you… you’re something else.”
your heart was beating too fast. “what am i?”
he smiled, small and sharp. “mine.”
the rain kept falling.
by the middle of week two, the pattern had settled into something that almost felt like routine. nicholas visited almost every evening. sometimes for ten minutes, sometimes for nearly an hour. he would pull the armchair close to the bed or sit on the edge of the mattress and talk to you like you were a person instead of a debt that needed guarding.
he told you more about the wang family in pieces. his grandfather had started with nothing but a single gambling den in the old district and a willingness to use a knife when collections went bad. his father had turned it into something bigger—import businesses that moved everything from electronics to things that never appeared on manifests, a handful of high-end clubs that laundered money and hosted men who liked to pretend they were legitimate. debt collection was still the ugly heart of it. nicholas spoke about it without apology, but you noticed the way his jaw tightened when he mentioned his father.
“he expects me to be the same kind of man he is,” nicholas said one night, voice low. “ruthless. efficient. no loose ends. when i told him i was keeping you here instead of selling you or making an example, he laughed. said i was getting soft.” his eyes flicked up at the ceiling and then to you. “maybe i am.”
you didn’t know what to say to that. so you stayed quiet, knees drawn up, watching him from the safety of the pillows. he didn’t push.
on another night he asked about your father. you told him the truth in small, halting pieces—how your mother had left when you were twelve, how your father had started drinking more, how the gambling had gotten worse in the last two years. how you had spent most of your life trying to be small enough that he wouldn’t notice you, wouldn’t get angry.
nicholas listened without interrupting. when you finished, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the same careful gesture he’d used before.
“he left you with nothing,” he said quietly. “and still you’re trying to defend him in your head. that’s the part i don’t understand about people like you.”
you looked down at your hands. “i don’t know how to stop.”
“you will,” he answered. “eventually.”
by the end of week two you had started counting the hours until his visits the way you used to count the minutes until your shift at the bookstore ended. when he missed one evening because of “business,” the guard outside your door simply said “boss busy” and left your tray. you paced. you read the same paragraph four times. you caught yourself listening for footsteps in the hallway like a stray dog waiting for its owner.
when he finally came the next night you almost smiled before you could stop yourself.
he noticed.
“you missed me,” he said. it wasn’t a question.
you flushed and looked away. “it’s just… quiet when you’re not here.”
nicholas didn’t tease. he simply sat on the bed closer than usual and let the silence stretch until you filled it. you told him about the underlings you sometimes heard through the door—rough voices, laughter that didn’t sound kind, the occasional sound of something heavy being dragged. you admitted, voice small, that it scared you.
for a long moment he didn’t speak. he simply watched you with those dark, assessing eyes, the ones that always seemed to see too much. then he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture so careful it made your chest ache.
“mm…they should scare you,” he said finally, voice low and even. “most of them enjoy fear. they like the way it makes people small and obedient. but they won’t touch you.” his fingers lingered at the side of your neck, thumb resting over your pulse. “i made that very clear. the first one who forgets who you belong to will lose more than his tongue.”
you shivered. not entirely from the words.
nicholas noticed. of course he did. he always noticed.
“saw that you almost smiled when i walked in tonight,” he continued, quieter now. “you caught yourself, but i saw it. you were relieved.” he didn’t sound mocking. he sounded… pleased. like he had been waiting for this exact crack in your walls.
he let the words hang between you for a moment, watching the way your shoulders drew tighter, the way your fingers twisted harder into the fabric of your shirt.
then he moved closer on the bed, not asking, simply closing the last bit of space until his thigh pressed solidly against yours and his arm settled around your back. his hand found the nape of your neck again, thumb resting over your pulse like he was taking measure of how fast it was racing.
you didn’t pull away. that was the part that made your stomach twist the most.
nicholas’s fingers stroked slowly along the side of your throat, almost absentminded, like he was soothing something skittish. “relief is a dangerous thing,” he said quietly. “it means you’re starting to separate me from the rest of them. from the men who laugh in the hallway. from the ones who would have already broken you open and thrown the pieces away.” his thumb pressed a little firmer against your pulse. “it means some part of you has already decided i’m the safer option. and you hate that, don’t you?”
you stayed quiet, staring at your own hands. the silence felt heavier than it should have.
shame crawled hot under your skin, thick and suffocating. you hated how easily your body had stopped fighting his closeness. how your shoulders had loosened the second his arm came around you. how some exhausted, traitorous part of you had actually leaned into the warmth of his chest instead of pulling away.
you had spent your whole life trying to be small enough to survive—first with your father, then with the world that had never wanted you—and now here you were, letting the man who had taken you by force and locked you in this room stroke your throat like you were something he was gentling.
it made you feel sick. it made you feel pathetic. and worst of all, it made something small and desperate inside you whisper that at least when he was here, the fear was quieter. at least when he touched you, you weren’t completely alone.
you hated yourself for that thought more than anything else.
nicholas watched you for another long moment, thumb still resting over your pulse like he could feel every shameful beat. then he stood. the loss of his warmth was immediate and jarring. you hated that too.
he reached down and patted the top of your head—once, twice—the way someone might soothe a well-behaved pet. the gesture was gentle. it was also deeply condescending. his fingers lingered in your hair for a second longer than necessary before he spoke.
“i’ll be leaving for a few days,” he said, voice calm and even, like he was discussing the weather. “business in another city. my father wants me to handle something in person. i won’t be able to visit while i’m gone.”
the words landed like ice water.
your head snapped up before you could stop it. the panic was instant and humiliating, rising fast in your chest. a few days. he had missed nights before because of “business,” but he had always come back the next evening or the one after.
this felt different. longer. more final. the thought of waking up in this room without the possibility of his footsteps in the hallway, without his low voice filling the silence, without the careful weight of his hand on your neck—it made something crack open inside you that you didn’t want to examine.
you opened your mouth, then closed it again. you didn’t know what you had been about to say. please don’t? how long is a few days? what if something happens while you’re gone? the questions were pathetic. you were pathetic for even thinking them.
nicholas saw it all. the way your eyes widened. the way your hands twisted tighter in your shirt. the way your breathing had gone shallow. he didn’t smile, but something satisfied flickered behind his eyes.
“you’re panicking,” he observed, almost gently. “interesting.”
you looked away fast, shame burning hotter. you wanted to disappear. you wanted to crawl under the blankets and pretend you hadn’t just reacted like that to the news of his absence. but your body wouldn’t cooperate. your heart was beating too hard. the room already felt emptier, even when he hadn’t left yet.
he reached down again and tipped your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze. “the guard will still bring your meals. you’ll still have your books. nothing in this room will change.” his thumb brushed once across your bottom lip. “but you won’t see me. you won’t hear my voice. and you’re realizing you don’t like that very much, are you?”
you tried to pull your chin away. he didn’t let you.
“i told you once that you would stop defending him in your head eventually,” nicholas said, quieter now. “this is the same thing. you’re starting to understand that the only person who comes back for you is me. the only person who chooses to keep you soft instead of breaking you is me. and now that i’m taking that away for a few days, you’re scared.” his fingers tightened just slightly on your jaw.
“good. that means you’re learning.”
he let go of your face and patted your head once more, slower this time, almost like he was rewarding you for the panic you couldn’t hide.
“i’ll be back before you have time to forget what my hands feel like,” he said. “try not to spiral too badly while i’m gone. i want you in one piece when i return.”
he turned and walked to the door without looking back. the lock clicked shut behind him with the same final sound it always made.
you sat there for a long time after, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around yourself like they could replace the weight of his arm. the shame sat heavy in your chest, thick and bitter. you had almost smiled when he walked in tonight. you had let him hold you. you had felt relief when he touched you. and now the thought of him being gone for days made your stomach twist with something dangerously close to grief.
you pressed your forehead to your knees and tried to breathe.
it didn’t work.
the room was already too quiet.
you wondered if this was what dying felt like.
it was funny, in a sick, twisted way.
here you were—sobbing so hard your throat had gone raw and your voice had collapsed into something hoarse and broken at the fact your kidnapper that left you alone for a few days. every unexpected sound in the hallway made you flinch so violently your whole body jerked. the tray of food the guard left went mostly untouched. you couldn’t bring yourself to eat. you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything except sit on the bed with your arms wrapped around your knees and wait for footsteps that never sounded like his.
why did your heart hurt this much?
the question circled endlessly, mean and relentless. nicholas had kidnapped you. he had zip-tied your wrists, locked you in this room, and told you in that calm, certain voice that you belonged to him now. he had taken everything from you—your freedom, your future, even the small, sad life you’d been living before. and yet the thought of him not coming back made something inside you feel like it was caving in.
you tried to rationalize it. maybe you were just scared of what would happen if he died out there on whatever ugly business his father had sent him to handle. if nicholas was gone, there would be no one left to tell the others to keep their hands off you. you would either rot in this room until someone remembered you existed, or they would drag you out and use you the way nicholas had once said they wanted to. that was the logical explanation. that was the one that didn’t make you feel completely insane.
but it wasn’t the whole truth, and you knew it.
the truth was uglier. the truth was that some broken, lonely part of you had started needing him. not just his protection. him. the low sound of his voice. the careful weight of his hand on the back of your neck. the gentle feeling of his fingers in your hair. the way he looked at you like you were something he had chosen to keep instead of something the world had thrown away. you hated yourself for it. you hated how easily you had leaned into his chest that last night. you hated that you had almost smiled when he walked through the door. you hated that his absence felt like a hole in your chest that nothing else could fill.
every time footsteps passed in the hallway, your heart would lurch—stupid, desperate hope—only to crash when they kept moving. they never slowed. they never stopped at your door. and every time it happened, the ache got worse. you would press your forehead harder against your knees and try to breathe through it, but the sobs would come anyway, quiet and wrecked, until your voice gave out completely.
you told yourself it was fear. you told yourself it was survival instinct. you told yourself anything that made the feeling make sense.
none of it helped.
the two weeks had felt like dying in slow motion.
you had stopped counting the days properly after the first week. time blurred into long stretches of staring at the ceiling, jumping at every sound in the hallway, and trying not to fall apart completely when the footsteps never belonged to him.
you told yourself he was probably dead. that his father’s business had finally taken him the way it took so many others—another body in whatever ugly war the wang family was always fighting. the thought should have brought relief. instead it left you hollow and sick, because if nicholas was gone, then so was the only thing keeping you from becoming exactly what he’d warned you about.
but when the familiar rhythm of his footsteps finally reached your door, your heart slammed so hard against your ribs you thought it might actually burst.
the door opened.
he looked wrong.
the white button-up was wrinkled and half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms so the pale scar near his elbow stood out stark against his skin. a black vest hung open over it, tie pulled loose and crooked like he’d been yanking at it. his face was the worst part. tired, bloodshot eyes that still burned with something sharp and unhinged. dried blood streaked across his jaw and one cheek, flaking in places. more of it crusted on his fingers. he looked like he hadn’t slept. like whatever he’d done out there had followed him back inside this room.
you wondered if the wild hammering in your chest was fear or relief.
maybe both.
it didn’t matter. the second he stepped inside and kicked the door shut behind him, the relief died screaming.
nicholas crossed the room in three long strides. his hand shot out and gripped your jaw hard, fingers digging into your skin as he forced your head back. some of the blood still partially wet on his knuckles smeared against your cheek. up close, he smelled like gunpowder, sweat, and something metallic.
you made a small, broken sound.
he didn’t speak at first. he just looked at you—really looked—like he was checking to make sure you were still exactly where he’d left you. his thumb dragged roughly across your bottom lip, smearing a trace of blood there too.
“two weeks,” he said, voice low and rough, nothing like the calm tone he used to use. “and you still look at me like that. fuck.”
you tried to turn your face away. his grip tightened until it hurt.
“don’t,” he warned. “i’ve spent fourteen fucking days thinking about this room. about you in it. about whether you were still here or whether someone had gotten stupid while i was gone.” his other hand came up and fisted in your hair, yanking your head back further. “and the second i walk in, you look at me like you don’t know whether to be scared or happy i’m alive.”
tears stung your eyes. you hated that he could still read you so easily.
nicholas leaned in until his blood-streaked face was inches from yours. his breath was hot against your mouth.
“which one is winning right now?” he asked. “fear? or relief?”
you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. your throat had closed up.
he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. it was sharp and exhausted and a little unhinged.
“doesn’t matter,” he murmured. “both work for me.”
his hand left your jaw only to shove you backward onto the bed. you landed hard. before you could scramble away he was on you, knee between your thighs, one hand still fisted in your hair while the other ripped at the front of your shirt. buttons scattered. he didn’t bother being careful. he yanked the fabric apart and dragged his bloodied fingers down your chest, leaving faint red smears across your skin.
“wait—nicho—”
the word barely left your mouth.
nicholas didn’t let you finish.
his hand clamped over your lips, hard, smothering the rest of his name. the blood on his fingers smeared across your mouth and cheek as he shoved you deeper into the mattress.
“don’t,” he warned, voice low and ragged. “don’t say my name like you’re still allowed to tell me no.”
you made a muffled, panicked sound against his palm. he ignored it. with his other hand he finished tearing your shirt open the rest of the way, buttons pinging across the floor. his bloodied fingers dragged down your bare chest, leaving red streaks over your skin like he was marking you.
“two weeks,” he muttered, almost to himself. “two fuckin’ weeks of thinking about this. about you. about whether someone had touched what’s mine while i was gone.” his knee forced your thighs wider. “and you’re still trying to say wait? thought you’d learned. thought my absence would be enough to break you so i wouldn’t have to take.”
“guess not.”
he moved his hand from your mouth only to shove two fingers past your lips instead, pressing down on your tongue. you gagged around them. the metallic taste lingering on your tongue. he didn’t care.
“open properly.”
when he pulled his fingers out they were wet with your spit. he didn’t give you time to breathe before he was undoing his belt one-handed, the other still fisted tight in your hair. he freed his cock—already hard, flushed dark—and dragged the head across your lips, smearing precum and a faint trace of blood.
“clean it.”
you hesitated, tears already spilling. nicholas yanked your hair hard enough to make your eyes water and pushed forward, forcing the head past your lips and into your mouth. he didn’t ease in. he thrusted shallowly at first, then deeper, using your hair as a handle to fuck your throat in rough, impatient strokes. you choked around him, hands flying up to push at his thighs. he caught both wrists in one hand and pinned them above your head against the mattress.
“that’s it,” he growled, hips snapping forward. “take it. you spent two weeks crying over me—now you can choke on me instead.”
he used your mouth until your jaw ached and tears streamed down your temples, until spit dripped down your chin and onto your bare chest. only then did he pull out, breathing hard, and flip you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing. he yanked your hips up, shoved your face into the pillow, and pushed two fingers into you without warning.
you were wet. shame burned through you at how easily your body betrayed you.
nicholas laughed once, low and mean. “look at that. missed me that much, huh?” he fucked you with his fingers hard and fast, curling them cruelly until your legs shook. “say it. say you missed me while i was gone.”
you shook your head into the pillow, sobbing. he added a third finger and curled them up—hitting that spot so perfectly that your legs shook and your mouth betrayed you by letting out pathetic muffled whimpers and whines.
“say it or i’ll make it hurt more.”
“i—i missed you—” the words came out broken and muffled.
he pulled his fingers out and replaced them with his thick cock in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. you cried out into the pillow. it stung. it wasn’t like you’d been a virgin. you’d done less than savory work to keep food in your stomach but it had been awhile—not to mention, he was big. maybe not extremely long but long enough that you occasionally felt his cock press against your cervix. more than you’d ever taken.
he didn’t give you a second to adjust. he fucked you hard and deep, one hand still fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tightly you knew there would be bruises.
“two weeks,” he snarled against your ear, pace relentless. “two weeks of thinking about this pretty little cunt. about how tight you’d get when you’re terrified. about how cute you look when you cry.” he yanked your head back by the hair, forcing your back to arch. “and you were in here wondering if i was dead? pathetic.”
you were sobbing openly now, overwhelmed, but your body kept clenching around him. nicholas noticed. of course he did.
“still getting wet for me even while you’re crying,” he said, voice rough with something between anger and satisfaction. “cute. you’re learning well.”
he reached around and rubbed your clit in tight, brutal circles while he kept fucking you. the combination was too much. you came with a broken, humiliated sound, walls fluttering around him. nicholas groaned, fucked you through it, then pulled out and flipped you onto your back again.
he shoved back inside before you could catch your breath, pinning your wrists above your head. his blood-streaked face hovered over yours as he fucked you slower but deeper, grinding against that gummy spot inside you with every thrust. you could feel your vision begin to blur. the overstimulation drowning you within its waters.
“look at me,” he ordered.
you tried. your eyes, red and wet with tears. he looked down at you with sharp cat like eyes—and god, did he look like he wanted to devour you whole.
“you’re mine,” he said, voice quieter but no less intense. “even when i’m gone. even when you’re scared of me. even when you hate yourself for missing me.” his hips snapped forward harder. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing throughout the room.
“say it while i’m inside you. come on, pretty girl.”
“i’m yours—” it tore out of you on a sob.
and thats all it took, your admission of giving yourself up to your captor. nicholas’s rhythm faltered as he buried himself deep and came with a low, guttural sound, flooding you in hot, thick pulses. he stayed there, cock twitching inside you, forehead pressed to yours as he caught his breath. all you could do was whimper at the warm heavy feeling of his cum filling you up.
for a long moment the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the wet sound of him still inside you.
then he kissed you—slow, almost gentle, tasting like copper and exhaustion.
when he finally pulled out, he watched his cum leak out of you with dark, satisfied eyes. he dragged two fingers through it and pushed them back inside you, like he was making sure it stayed.
“missed you too,” he murmured against your temple, voice rough. “more than i should’ve.”
his bloodied fingers stroked your hair almost tenderly while you shook beneath him.
“glad i kept you. my perfect collateral."
𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗲ㅤ © ㅤ ( 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱 — 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆, 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲, 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘇𝗲, 𝗼𝗿 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗔𝗜. ㅤ ❤︎ㅤ 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 . )
𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾—𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹. 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈. 𝖻𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗌. 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝘆 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗱. 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 ♡
