dette | jimmy crystal x fem!reader
🕊️ jimmy crystal x you (fem!reader) 🕊️ nsfw 18+ 🕊️ dead dove: do not eat (rape/non-con elements) 🕊️ contents: finger fucking, overstimulation, p in v sex, unprotected sex, painful sex, creampie, large cock, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, fucked stupid/mind break, dirty talk, partially clothed sex, bound sex, forced voyeurism/exhibitionism, jimmy being mean 🕊️ 11.3k+ words 🕊️ read on ao3: link 🕊️ part ii: link
🕊️ summary: Your boyfriend owes a debt. When he fails to pay up, you become the price.
🕊️ a/n: Hello, everyone, this is my first fic on here and I hope that whomever chooses to read this enjoys it! I got this plot bunny after reading @scannainscanrula's incredible dealer!Jimmy fics (found here!). This is not meant to be in the same verse but I think the influences are clear enough (Jimmy is a sleazy criminal and the setting is a modern, non-apocalyptic AU.) On account of this being an AU I've taken some liberties with the Jimmy Cult's appearances. Also, I'm really not familiar with Scots English/Scottish dialects and am mostly going off of what I've seen in other fics and cursory Google searches so please forgive me if anything looks off!
Anyway, that's enough yapping out of me. Hope you enjoy!
You sleep through the break-in itself, something that, ironically, keeps you up at night in the following weeks.
You’d had a long day out with your friends—Celeste's wedding is on the horizon, and she was determined to find a dress before the day’s end. Your group spent the day in and out of every wedding boutique in your city, and when those options were exhausted Celeste set her sights on the next city over. You swear every fabric that'd ever been woven graced her skin in a thousand different amalgamations, and yet none of it lived up to her standards. By the time she was done wearing on the patience of both yourself and the employees of the final boutique the Sun was beginning to sink in the sky. Dressless and exhausted, yet still buzzing with bridal exuberance, she insisted on enjoying dinner at a brewery you rarely got the chance to visit otherwise.
By the time your group finished eating, said your extended goodbyes (first in the lobby of the restaurant after taking care of your bill, then again outside the front entrance, and then a third and final time at your cars), took the drive back home, caught a shower, and fell into bed—well, it was well after midnight. You barely even got to wish your boyfriend a goodnight, who was still in his office hunched over his laptop when you arrived home, brow tight with stress so acute it almost looked like panic.
You wake on your stomach, alert and abrupt. It’s pitch black, clearly too early for you to be anything but asleep. Your bladder is empty and your throat isn’t dry, so you can’t pinpoint why it is you’ve woken up in the first place. You reach for your phone next to your pillow and click it on, flinching at the bright light: 4:07 AM. You frown at your boyfriend's side of the bed, still cold and empty. Maybe that’s why you’re awake—he should be here by now. You drop your phone back on the bed carelessly, debating whether you should look for him or let the warm, soft comfort of your bedding pull you back under.
The sudden creak of the floorboards behind you quickly brushes away the remaining cobwebs in your mind. You tense before you can help yourself, eyes wide in the darkness, breath held. David? you want to call out, but you feel foolish at the thought. Why would he be lurking behind you at 4:00 AM? You listen hard, barely daring to breathe, but there's nothing—just the ever-present hum of the house itself, the faint song of crickets outside your window, and your own slow release of breath. You tell yourself that you’re overthinking it: it doesn’t matter that you’ve never heard a noise quite like that in your thirteen months in this house, you’re still overthinking it. It was nothing—an animal stepping on a branch outside, or the house settling, or—
Your thoughts are cut brutally short when a hand clamps over your mouth, a heavy weight quickly bearing down on your back. Your scream is swiftly silenced, your attacker taking advantage of your parted lips and shoving a thick piece of cloth deep into your mouth. You buck, thrash, and jerk, but your attacker is stronger than you—they remain calm and silent as they sink all their weight onto you, clasping your forearms in a punishing grip and painfully twisting them behind your back. When their knees squeeze tight as a vise around your ribcage you get the message and go limp, heart thudding so hard you can feel it in your stomach.
"Thatta girl," they say, voice low, "Dinnae struggle and this’ll go quick."
They press a knee to the small of your back, ignoring your whine of discomfort, and make quick work of tying together your wrists. You kick your feet back against them, more out of a stubborn refusal to go down easy than the belief it’ll do anything, and find yourself regretting it when your attacker snatches your right ankle and pulls, extending your leg further backward than your flexibility allowed. You yelp high and pained through your cloth gag and they relax their hold.
"Fuckin’ idiot," they chide you, a faint thread of annoyance clouding their voice, "I said dinnae struggle."
You feel them shift atop you, turning so that they’re facing your legs, and they bind together your ankles while you moan in protest. Their weight leaves your back, but you barely have a second to feel relief at its absence before you’re being turned around and forced up, their hands painfully tight around your arms as they guide you to your feet.
"C’mon," they say, slinging an arm around your waist to help you balance on your bound feet, "He’s been waiting long enough."
He? The words disturb you, but you can hardly question them gagged as you are. You flinch at the sudden light as you’re half-dragged out of your bedroom into the hallway, and you finally get a good look at your attacker: a pale face looks back at you, topped with a dark buzzcut. They’re dressed insultingly casually to say they’ve just broken into your home and hogtied you in your own bed, wearing a simple orange and navy blue tracksuit and matching sneakers. They're pierced nearly to excess: they sport snakebites on their bottom lip and multiple barbells through each eyebrow, the helix of their ears completely covered in studs, and their lobes stretched by large gauges.
And then there's what marks their forehead: an inverted cross, inked in a startlingly solid black. It begins right above the bridge of their nose and stretches mid-way up their forehead, the arms of the cross connecting their eyebrows. The lines of it are so thin you could almost call it delicate—but the boldness of its ink and the intentional raggedness of its borders spoke to a different story.
Your attacker sneers at your gobsmacked stare and shoves you forward—you would have fallen flat on your face if they weren’t already half-carrying you. They guide you to the sitting room, and your throat dries in trepidation as the light spilling into the hallway brightens—nothing good waits for you beyond this doorway. You hear a voice coming from the room, words indecipherable but sickeningly sweet tone clear. It’s not David's voice. It’s not anyone you’ve ever heard before.
You’re pushed through the entryway, and like a magnet your eyes find your boyfriend's. The relief you feel at the sight of him is immediately crested by a wave of horror at the state of him: face swollen and discolored with bruising, clothes splattered in blood, arms and legs bound tightly to the chair he’s forced to sit in. His eyes bug at the sight of you and he jerks against his bindings.
"No. The hell is she out here for? She’s got nothing to do with this."
"Aye, she does," says a satisfied voice, the voice, the one you heard from the hallway.
Your horror had narrowed your brain’s input to the eye of a needle, you realize. As if that voice were a flood light illuminating the world around you, you suddenly become aware of the three men in the room who aren't your boyfriend.
Two stand sentinel on either side of him. The man to his right is tall, with a sharp, severe face and swept back blonde hair. Like your attacker he wears a tracksuit, navy blue patterned with flashes of royal blue. His coordinating royal blue driving gloves are stained wine red at the knuckles. The man to your boyfriend's left is shorter, with an impish face and messy undercut. He, too, wears a tracksuit, navy blue and dark red. His hands are bare but not empty: he’s peeling an apple—your apple, taken straight from the bowl you sat on the kitchen island just yesterday morning—with a red-handled switchblade. They both sport an inverted cross high on their brow, ink-black and permanent.
A third man stands apart from them. He stands not in the center of the room, not really, and yet—he does. The very axis of the room has tilted in his favor, his person the crux on which everyone’s attention hangs—including your own, before you can help it.
He’s blonde, though blonde doesn’t seem an adequate enough word. He’s golden, his long hair glowing even under the artificial light of the chandelier, the lower half of his face gilded with stubble. Gold glints at his fingers, each digit stacked with bright, gaudy rings. His neck is weighed down with it, at least half a dozen gold chains layered over his chest: the most prominent of them hangs lower than the rest, a large, inverse cross dangling from it. You check his forehead—bare. So either the leader of this little gang, or uninitiated. You can guess which.
The man turns as your attacker corrals you through the entryway, a wide smile splitting his face. A single gold incisor flashes at you.
"Jonesy!" he crows, spreading his arms wide, "I see ye’ve brought our guest of honor!"
"Yup," your abductor—Jonesy—replies, popping their p obnoxiously but otherwise sounding disturbingly bored. They're a second skin behind you, hands firm on your upper arms, and you get the sinking feeling that you aren’t about to be introduced to this man so much as presented.
He makes his way over to you leisurely, eerie blue eyes never once leaving your face. He doesn’t stop until he’s close enough that the fabric of his clothing—another tracksuit, his deep purple and a finer make than his underlings—brushes against the thin satin of your cami. You jerk away from him, fear instinctive, but Jonesy may as well be a brick wall at your back—you get nowhere, and the man grins at your squirming.
"Miss," he greets, tipping his head at you as if he were a gentleman and not a thug who’s invaded your home. You can’t speak, gagged as you are, so you respond with your eyes, glaring at him furiously even as you try not to cower where you stand.
"I’m so happy ye could join us tonight," he continues, as jolly as if you were old friends, "I’d apologize for the spontaneity of our meeting but, well, y’see," his smile goes flatter, his eyes several degrees cooler, "Yer boyfriend owes me quite a bit of money, and he can’t seem to figure out where it’s gone poof to." He spreads his fingers at the word "poof", wiggling them in the air. “So I thought I’d bring ye out here to help jog yer old man’s memory."
You stare at David, the words not even sounding real. He owes this man money? Who even is this man?
The man tilts his head, drinking in your disbelieving expression with thoughtful eyes. "Oh. Didn’t know, did ye? Hm? The kind of business yer man gets up to?"
You glare at him, still furious but less sure of the righteousness of it. He laughs at you and snaps his fingers.
"Right. Put ‘er over here, Jonesy."
Jonesy manhandles you over to the low sofa, dropping you down with little care. This sofa is your favorite fixture of the sitting room—a tufted tuxedo with matching bolster pillows, upholstered in a rich, emerald green velvet. It always seemed so elegant to you, but now feels akin to a padded cell: with your wrists and ankles bound as they are you find yourself sinking helplessly into the soft cushions, unable to move.
You're mere feet from your boyfriend now, who stares at you with wide, panicked eyes.
"Hey, man," he begins, stumbling over his words, “This is—this is fucked up, she’s got nothing—look, I’ll get you your money! I just need—just give me two days!"
"Two days?" the golden-haired man parrots. He inches closer, and dread fills you at his proximity.
"Yeah," David swallows, nodding. You've never seen him look so much like a rabbit in a snare. "I—I'll get it, I swear, two days, fourty-eight hours. Just don't—you don't need to hurt her. I'll do it."
"Ye'll do it?" the man parrots again, this time mocking, a sneer curling his upper lip. He walks forward until he's right before David's bound form, looking down at him with ireful eyes.
David cringes, breath shuddering. "I—,"
"Y'see, Davey, two days willnae work," the man interrupts him, "Two days willnae work because ye were supposed to have this money to me FUCKING YESTERDAY!"
You and your boyfriend both flinch at his sudden volume, the man bending forward to scream right in David’s face. He steps away as abruptly as he’d exploded, face flushed with anger, ringed fingers raking through his golden hair in agitation. His breathing is heavy, and you half-expect him to lay hands on your boyfriend.
He doesn’t. Doesn’t have to, you soon see. He calms himself, taking in a deep breath, the color of his face returning to normal. Then he snaps his fingers.
"Shite."
You don’t even have time to be confused by the abrupt swear—almost faster than your brain can process the man on David's right, the gloved one, is grabbing a fistful of David's hair, yanking his head back at a sharp angle. His other fist swings up, and then down, cracking right in the middle of David's face with a sickening crunch.
You scream beneath your gag, first at that terrible sound, and then at the blood—thick, bright rivulets of it, streaming from David's nose to cover his lips, his chin, his already-soiled shirt.
The gloved man releases David and steps as neatly back into place as if he’d never moved at all. He doesn’t react to your screams, doesn't even look at you.
But the golden-haired man does.
He steps towards you, and you flinch away harshly. He shushes you, approach almost gentle, as if unwilling to spook a frightened animal. As if you could go anywhere anyway.
"Poor hen," he murmurs, crouching in front of you, "I've been rude, havnae I?" He reaches forward, brushes the back of his fingers softly against your cheekbone, dragging them up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. He doesn't blink once as he stares into your face. You shudder beneath his touch and he smiles. He stands up, placing a hand flat over his chest.
"Name's Jimmy," he says with a winning smile. He jerks a thumb behind him. "The grim piece of shite's Jimmy Shite and the hungry piece of shite's Jimmy Fox. And, well, ye've met Jimmy Jones, havnae ye?" Jimmy Jones, Jonesy, whatever their name is, waves loftily from where they've settled on the floor: back against the wall, ankles crossed, head tipped back in shallow rest. They look almost as bored as Jimmy Fox, who's cut the apple—your apple—into neat slices and is feeding them into his mouth off the tip of his switchblade. Jimmy Shite stares off into space, not looking bored so much as, well, grim.
"Ye'll meet the others soon," Jimmy—just Jimmy, you suppose—adds, and your stomach drops. What others? Were there more people in your house?
Jimmy snaps his fingers, and his goons look at him with such synchronized immediacy that you would find it funny in any other situation. "Fox, Jones," he says, "Fuck off, eh? Yer work here is done."
"Yup," Jones pops their p again, pushing themselves to their feet as if they can’t get away fast enough, and Fox laughs under his breath, twirling his switchblade around his fingers as he trails after them. Neither of them argue, or hesitate, or question the order—they leave like the only thing tethering them to the room in the first place was the absence of those words, and you wonder what it is about this Jimmy that makes a group of dangerous young thugs take his name, and tattoo his necklace on their foreheads, and move at the sound of his voice the way a marionette moves on strings.
Jimmy settles next to you on the couch, and you can do nothing as your body tips into his side, the cushions dipping under his weight. He wraps a steadying arm around you, pulling you flush against his side. You make the mistake of looking up and become little more than prey caught in his gaze: his eyes are too-steady, too-bright, too-blue. Dilated.
You look away, breath shuddering.
"Bonnie thing ye have here," he says to David, breath gusting warm against your neck. There's a hunger in his voice that makes you feel faint. "Ye better hope for her sake that my girls find something valuable enough in this shithole to cover yer debt."
David can only groan, still disoriented from having his nose so brutally broken—not that Jimmy pays him any mind. No, Jimmy's attention is solely on you, his hands shameless on your body: he circles his thumb at the dip of your waist, slides his hand down to fit at the curve of your hip. Reaches lower still, past the satin of your shorts, to squeeze greedily at your bare thigh. He hums, voice rough, eyes intent on the way your soft flesh fills the spaces between his fingers. His other hand reaches up, brushing gently at the curve of your breast beneath your satin top, thumb flicking over your nipple. You flinch away from him, startled—not only by his touch, but by the bolt of sensation it zaps through your body. He tuts at you, pulling you back against him.
"There, there, hen," he soothes, "Ye've got nothing to fear from me. Not yet. And look—if it ain't Jimmy Ink and Jimmima, come to save the day!"
And like that he's gone, rising from the sofa so abruptly that you fall onto your side in the space he occupied, his absence both relieving and disorienting. You blink after him, confused, and are greeted by the sight of two more strangers in your sitting room—both young women, both wearing tracksuits, both with inverted crosses inked on their foreheads. You look over at David, who eyes the women with renewed awareness. He looks, to your dismay, frightened. He catches you staring at him and can barely hold your gaze for a second before looking away.
"Jimmy Ink," you hear Jimmy say, and your eyes dart back towards him. The woman he's greeting is a study in red: her tracksuit is a bright red, as are her shoes, as is the knapsack she has slung over one shoulder—but also her eyes, bloodshot with exhaustion, and her hair, bright curls tamed into an efficient bun. "Whaddya got, then?"
The woman—Jimmy Ink—slings the knapsack from over her shoulder, dropping it to the ground carelessly. It lands with a shockingly heavy thud.
"Check it," she says, opening the top and pulling out...a book? Next to you, David makes an odd, pained sound.
It doesn't take you long to recognize the book—it's one of many, a single volume in a series of encyclopedias that David keeps in his office, displayed proudly on the book shelf above his desk. It's an old, beautifully designed set with sprayed edges and gold leaf detailing, but not one you've ever paid much mind to. Jimmy watches as his subordinate pulls out one, two, three of the thick volumes, his ever-present smile fading.
"Ye found...books?" he questions, sounding as unsure as you feel.
"Vintage Britannica."
"I see," Jimmy says slowly, something stormy clouding his features, his voice gone mean with impatience, "And is this...Vintage Britannica worth a lot of money, then?"
Jimmy Ink smiles, thin and acerbic, and you wonder if she's not enjoying his frustration. "Not as much as this."
She tips one of the books so that its pages face the floor, and you watch gobsmacked as dozens of tightly rolled bundlesof cash come tumbling out. They're thick, bound with bright rubber bands, looking like something straight out of a crime series. She tosses the book to the side without care—it lands on its spine, pages spread, and you see how the insides of it have been gutted, roughly two inches of the page borders left behind to give the illusion of a complete book.
Ink empties the other two books of their hidden wares, then squats to spread the top of her knapsack wide, revealing it filled nearly to the brim with more rubber-banded rolls of cash. "Already emptied out all the rest. He had them all over the place.”
Jimmy's sharkish smile is back, his single gold tooth glinting bright against a backdrop of eggshell white. "Good job, Inky. Verygood job." He turns his smile onto David, who's gone pale, sweat beading on his brow. "How much is that? And dinnae lie, lad—we'll count it all later."
You hear David swallow. "Forty-thousand."
Your eyes bulge at the number—forty-thousand? In cash? Just laying around your house? You want to ask him a thousand questions, the when and why and where, but even if you could you doubt you would get anywhere: David still refuses to look at you, eyes bouncing between Jimmy and the wall and the floor and his own bloodied pajama pants—anywhere but you.
Jimmy kisses his teeth, not as impressed. "Still not enough. Shame." He looks towards the second woman, who's been patiently awaiting his acknowledgement. "Let's see if Jimmima can save you, hm?"
The second woman—Jimmima, is he fucking serious?—as good as bounces forward, rocking back and forth on her heels like a child at show-and-tell, a shockingly sweet smile on her face. She's all-blue in contrast to Jimmy Ink's all-red—blue tracksuit, blue nails, blue eyes, blue cat ears of all things, tucked into white-blonde hair braided into a single plait. She spreads her arms before Jimmy, presenting rows upon rows of gold and silver jewelry—some of it you recognize as David's, some your own. Most of it you've never seen in your life.
"Solid gold?" Jimmy asks.
"Nothing less than 18k," Jimmima says, "Most of the silver is fine." She wrinkles her nose and adds, "Some of it is sterling."
Jimmy takes something dangling loose from her wrist—David's favorite watch. He throws a smirk over his shoulder at your boyfriend. "Cartier, eh? Not bad, for a cheaper series. Ye've got good taste. Or is it yer lady keeping you stylish?"
"Don't talk about my lady," David spits, and you're surprised at the venom in his voice, especially after the way he's been avoiding your eye.
Jimmy freezes. Laughs. Hooks the watch carefully back over Jimmima's wrist. "Shite."
You flinch as Jimmy Shite’s gloved fist cracks against David's cheek with dispassionate brutality. David's head snaps to the side with violent force, a dark bruise immediately beginning to disfigure his face, and you groan in distress beneath your gag.
"I can say whatever I want about yer woman," Jimmy says, voice flat, all his faux charm and cheeriness gone, "I can do whatever I want to her, too. Remember that."
He turns back to Jimmima. "Anything else?"
"Just this." Jimmima digs in her pocket and pulls out a small velvet box. Jimmy takes it from her, and you watch with detached incredulity as he opens it to reveal a diamond-studded, gold ring. Jimmy whistles, turning to proffer it towards the two of you mockingly.
"Engagement ring, eh? Cute. Though I hate to run the surprise." On the contrary, he looks quite pleased that you’ve found out this way. "What kind of gold?"
David says nothing, jaw tight and trembling. Jimmy glances up at Shite, who takes a fistful of David's hair, jerking his head back roughly.
"18 Karats," David says through gritted teeth.
"And the diamond...what's that, eh? Four, five carats?"
"Five," David spits. Jimmy laughs, low and mocking, and snaps the box closed, dropping it back into Jimmima's outstretched hand.
"Fancy lad. Take care of yer woman good." His grin drops. "But yer still short."
He walks over to David, crouching down so that he's level with his bloodied, battered face. "I'll give ye one more chance: where's my money?"
David's responding silence twists your stomach into knots. He finally meets your eyes, looking past the golden fall of Jimmy's hair. You wish you could name the hollow, regretful look in his eye. You feel tears sting the back of your eyes, already knowing what's coming.
"I don't—I don't have it."
For a long, dreadful moment Jimmy is silent. You observe his profile from where you lay: watch the way his lips twitch before flattening into a tight line, the way his prominent nostrils flare even further in rage. He stands abruptly, turning towards his girls.
"Get back to the car. Ye did good, lassies."
"Thank you, Sir," they say in unison, Jimmy Ink blandly, Jimmima emphatically. They head out with their loot, Ink not sparing you a glance, though Jimmima turns to wave at you with out-of-place geniality. Jimmy Ink reaches over and grabs her by the sleeve without even looking, pulling her faster out of the room.
"And ye, Shite," Jimmy adds. Jimmy Shite leaves without a word, though he eyes you with naked curiosity as he passes by—the most emotion he's shown this entire time.
Which leaves just you, David, and Jimmy.
Jimmy circles around the back of David's chair, uncharacteristically silent. He brushes the back of his ringed knuckles across your boyfriend's swollen face and David flinches harshly, expecting pain. Jimmy laughs meanly. He circles back to David's front and tilts his head up, touch gentle. David looks up at him with swollen eyes.
"I thought ye'd be smarter than this," Jimmy says, "What were ye thinkin', eh? That ye'd just get a freebie from me?" Jimmy drops his hand and David slumps bonelessly.
"Yer lucky we found what we did," he continues, “Whoever that cash was meant for will hurt ye for losing it, but not as bad as I would have. That gold and silver's almost got you level. But ye still owe me."
David tries to speak, his words slurring. He pauses, spits out a thick glob of blood and saliva, and tries again, voice weak with pain and exhaustion. "I swear I'll get it to you, man, just...just give me some time, I—,"
"Oh, no, no, no, lad," Jimmy cuts him off, waving his hands as if in dismissal, "Ye don't need to worry about that. I’ve got everything I need right here."
You and David both look up, taken aback by his words and abrupt change in tone. Jimmy is smiling at David, a genuine smile that makes your skin crawl. He moves behind David and lifts his chair clean off the ground with shocking strength. He brings him forward, depositing him so that he's barely a foot away from the couch—you could reach out and touch him, if only you weren't bound.
Jimmy steps back, rolling his shoulders and neck, cracking his knuckles against his palms, looking for all the world like he's preparing for a fight. He smiles at you, gold flashing.
"Alright, hen. Let's get yer man’s debt settled, eh?"
You stare dumbly at him as he approaches, his words bouncing frantically between your ears but refusing to sink into your brain. It’s not until he lays his hands on you that you snap out of it, jerking wildly in an attempt to dislodge him—it’s a futile attempt, the rope around your wrists and ankles combined with the give of the couch effectively paralyzing you. His rings sting against your skin, the metal shockingly cold, and he handles your body with little care. Your stomach drops at the way he arranges you—face down, ass up, your knees and upper body sunk deep into the soft cushions, wrists still bound tight behind your back. You flinch at the gust of cool air that brushes against your stomach and breasts, gravity and the new position working together to humiliate you further as your satin cami falls forward, exposing you. You feel like a hog on a spit.
David stares at you with a horror that matches your own. You close your eyes, unable to bear his dark, wild eyes, but they snap back open at the feel of something cold and hard brushing against your face. You're terrified to be met with the sight of a gun, an aborted squeal escaping from behind your gag. Jimmy shushes you, eyes no different from the gunmetal—cold and steely and burrowing into your skin.
"Now, lass," he says, "I’m gonna untie yer ankles. But I want ye to remember what I have here. Dinnae do anything stupid. Nod if ye understand."
You nod, the presence of the gun at the base of your skull ensuring swift obedience. You feel Jimmy's hands work at your ankles, and it isn't long before the rope is loosening, and then gone entirely. Jimmy rubs circles on your ankle with his thumb, almost soothing, then slides his hand up your calf.
"Good lass," he praises. The pressure of the gun disappears, and you hear a clatter as it's sat on the console table against the back of the sofa. Then Jimmy wraps his hands around your thighs, right above your knees, and spreads your legs as far as the width of the sofa will allow. He settles between them, so close you can feel the warmth of his body emanating against the backs of your thighs.
"What—what the fuck are you doing?" David stutters, furious.
"I told ye what would happen if ye tried to fuck me," Jimmy says. You jolt in surprise as he touches you without preamble, fingers dragging long, slow strokes over the slit of your pussy. Even through your satin shorts and lace panties you can feel him in detail, his thick fingers sinking between your soft labia, the tips of them brushing teasingly against your clit. "D’ye remember what I said?"
David swallows. "You said you’d fuck me harder. But—but—," David shakes his head, helpless, "This ain’t right, man, she’s—,"
"Think of this as mercy, lad. Yer lucky ye’ve got sucha bonnie thing here to help settle yer debt. Be honest—would ye really rather I kill you than fuck this pussy?"
David doesn’t respond—or maybe you just don’t hear him, the roar in your head drowning out everything else as the reality of your situation comes crashing down. Fuck you? Fuck you. He's going to fuck you—no, he's going to rape you, take your body the same way he’s taken everything else of value in your home—with violence, because he can, because nobody is going to stop him. Because it's that or David is short on his debt and dies.
Your thoughts halt abruptly when Jimmy’s thumb reattaches to your clit—he first bears down, pressure firm and steady, then eases up, his thumb brushing over your clit in teasing, feather-light circles. He goes back and forth like this—heady, lingering pressure followed by playful, electrifying flicks. You whine with pleasure despite yourself, your clit growing erect under his touch. You try to jerk your hips away from him and succeed only in further rutting against his hand, bolts of pleasure branching from your cunt deep into your belly. You hear Jimmy laugh at you, low and breathy.
"How responsive ye are, hen. Ye’ll make this easier than I expected."
Shame and embarrassment crash over you, but the feelings are quickly replaced with alarm as Jimmy yanks your shorts down unceremoniously, letting them pool around your knees. He moans at what he sees, deep and primal, and heat floods your face from sheer mortification. You know how you must look from his point of view: bound and spread, back arched like a bitch in heat, plush ass spilling out of your cheeky-cut lace panties.
And wet.
You can feel your own warm slick dripping out of you, soaking into your panties. The thin fabric clings to the outline of your needy pussy, the folds of your labia as perfectly displayed as if you were nude. You've always been sensitive to touch, quick to arousal at even the slightest stimulation. You thought you were lucky to have a body so primed for pleasure, but now? It feels nothing short of cruel.
Jimmy hisses, shifting behind you, and for the first time you risk looking back at him. You regret it immediately—he's squeezing at his cock through the fabric of his trackies, brazen and indulgent. He's thick, based on the breadth of his fingers around it. Long, based on how close to his waistband he squeezes. You look away, anxiety curling in your gut.
"So wet for me already," Jimmy says, "I know I'm good with me fingers but that—that's something else. Yer old man dinnae treat ye well, I can see that now. But dinnae worry, hen—I'll show 'im how to fuck you right."
"Fuck you," David erupts. He bucks in his chair, face contorted in rage. "Fuck you, you cunt, you'd be nothing without your fucking cult, that's why you need me tied to this fucking ch—,"
You hear Jimmy sigh, soft and annoyed, and his warmth disappears from behind you. That's all the warning you get before the sound of a gunshot cracks through the room, sudden and impossibly loud. You scream, more in shock than anything, and your eyes immediately search for David.
He's fine—wild-eyed and clench-jawed, shoulders so tense you're afraid he might crack under his own pressure, but untouched. His head and shoulders are dusted with white, and you realize that Jimmy shot at the ceiling above him.
"Shut the fuck up," Jimmy reprimands, voice blasé, "or the next one goes in yer chest, and I fuck her anyway. Dinnae be stupid, lad."
You hear the clatter of the gun on the table, and then Jimmy is settling back behind you, the velour of his tracksuit soft on your skin. His hands land on your thighs, then slowly slide upwards to squeeze shameless handfuls of your ass. He hooks his fingers through your panties and pulls them down to join your shorts around your knees. He hums deep in his throat, voice thick, and you wince as his large hands spread the cheeks of your ass wide, exposing the parts of you he wants to see most—your clenching, wet pussy and shy, tight asshole. You turn your face into the cushion beneath you, humiliated beyond your wildest imagination.
"Perfect," Jimmy breathes. He spits right over your asshole, wet and messy, and your gag does little to muffle the embarrassing noise you let out. He rubs a finger over your hole, pressing his saliva deeper into you, pressure just hard enough to tease a breach. You tense, anxious even as your pussy throbs at the new and strange sensations.
"Relax, lassie," he says, "Yer boy dinnae touch ye here, do he? Shame. I won't either, then—not tonight. Ye wouldn't be ready for that." His finger leaves your virgin hole, and you tremble in the wake of his touch, though whether it's from relief or residual anticipation you can't say.
You feel him brush against your wet slit, trading one hole for the other. His fingers dip between your labia, dragging up and down the length of your pussy, pausing to circle teasingly around your clit at every pass. Your head is spinning—not only from his skilled touch, but from the unexpected sensations of his stacked rings. The cool, hard bands slide smoothly between your labia, their ridges and sharp edges providing a shockingly pleasurable contrast. The edges of the highest rings catch against your clit and you moan, high and shaky.
His hand is coated in your wetness now—you can feel it in the ease with which his fingers slide against you, and you can hear it: that loud, pussy-slick suck of where your bodies meet. You can't help but respond to him now, hips jerking sharply against his fingers, your gag barely muffling the moans you’re unable to stifle.
There's no warning before he breaches you, a single finger sliding knuckle-deep into your pussy. The digit is thick enough on its own to stretch you pleasantly, but it’s the addition of his rings that have you moaning like a whore, sudden and loud, your pussy clenching around him. The added girth of the rings, the strange coolness of their metal inside you, the way their textured edges rib at your walls—it's unlike anything you've ever felt before. Jimmy huffs a laugh, breath ragged with desire.
"Good girl," he pants, "Show me how good it feels."
He twists his finger slowly, his rings catching deliciously at your clenching walls. You whine, hips stuttering against him, demanding more. He gives it, pulling out one finger and giving two back. He sinks into you deliberately slowly, letting you really feel it—every gemstone, every ridge, every bump and angle. His fingers bottom out to the second knuckle, then retract with a filthy, wet twist. He settles into a rhythm, fucking you with his fingers and twisting with every backward pull, his rings scraping your insides raw. You get lost in a plethora of sensation, rolling your hips back before you even realize what you’re doing, riding his fingers. Wet and honeyed sounds fill the room.
You never knew a single hand could offer you so much.
"Knew ye would have a honeypot on ye," Jimmy says. You come back down to earth, remembering who that hand belongs to. "Soon as ye came through that door, knew ye were too sweet for this weak fucker 'ere. How much did ye know about yer man's double life? Not much, I reckon. Bet ye thought he was big fish, eh? A big man, feared on the streets?" Jimmy chuckles, mocking. "He's just the chum, lass. But I reckon ye can see that now."
You realize with great shame that Jimmy is right: you don’t know what David gets up to, not really, because you don’t want to know. You know that it’s under the table at best, illegal and dangerous at worst. You also know that David makes enough money to buy you gold jewelry, and designer dresses, and a gorgeous home. You had no interest in hearing about the real-life horrors that came with such a man if it meant challenging your own comfort. And in truth, though you were loath to admit it even to yourself, there was a part of you that enjoyed being wanted by such a man—wealthy and powerful, maybe even dangerous.
And now here you were: tied up and gagged in your own home, stuck on the fingers of a man who really was dangerous.
Your pussy clenches hard around Jimmy's fingers, and you tell yourself it's because of those rings. He laughs at you, pushes in deep, laughs again when you clench helplessly around him, over and over, wet pussy drooling all over his fingers and dripping down his palm.
"A honeypot," he repeats. Fingers still deep in your cunt he reaches beneath you with his free hand, rubbing hard at your clit in time with the pitiful jerks of your hips. You seize around him, screaming beneath your gag, coming so hard around his fingers that it almost hurts.
Jimmy's fingers slip out of your sopping cunt, and you slump onto your side, boneless. You feel him wipe his wet fingers off on the back of your thigh, and somehow this is the most dehumanizing thing you've endured so far.
You flinch in surprise when Jimmy's fingers ghost over your bottom lip, parted wide around the cloth gag. He pulls the gag out with shocking gentleness and tosses the soaked fabric to the floor. You breathe in deep through your mouth, relieved at the extra oxygen, flexing your aching jaw. Jimmy makes a lustful noise, the sound coming from deep in his throat, and you freeze. His glacial eyes are fixed on your lips.
"Perfect mouth," he murmurs, "Knew ye'd have one, sweet thing."
You've never felt more self-conscious than right now, with those eyes on your face. You turn away, though there's only so much you can hide like this. He tuts at you, the back of his fingers brushing against your cheekbone.
"Dinnae hide from me, sweet girl. Look at me. Dinnae make me say it again."
You look, vision blurry with tears—and your eyes land over his shoulder, right on David. Your stomach bottoms out: you'd forgotten all about your boyfriend, even as you came on another man's fingers right in front of him. You break down crying, the shame almost too much to bear.
"David," you gasp, "David, I—I'm so sorry, I swear, I didn't—I didn't want—,"
"It's okay." David cuts you off. He doesn't say anything else. Won't look at you. His eyes stare at the far wall, wet and dark and empty. You slump further into the sofa, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"D'aw," Jimmy's voice is cloyingly sweet, mocking and amused, "Aren't ye two just tragic? Me old dead heart cannae take it."
He shifts back behind you and wraps his hands around your hips, hauling you into your former position without any care for your tears. You cry harder at the reminder that this payment isn't over.
"Please," you beg, "Please don—," you yelp, cut off as a hard smack lands across your ass.
"Stop yappin' or I'll put that gag back in." Jimmy's voice is flat, devoid of emotion in a way that tells you he means it. You bite your lip and fall silent, though quiet sobs still shake your shoulders.
You hear rustling and look despite yourself: Jimmy is shoving his tracksuit bottoms down his thighs, allowing his swollen cock to spring free. It's even larger than you feared, long and thick, red and angry. Everything about it seems exaggerated to your fearful eye: the size, the leaking tip, the engorged vein running along the shaft, the thick thatch of (golden, of course) pubic hair at its base, the heavy sack nestled beneath it.
You can't take it. There's no way. You open your mouth, plead on the tip of your tongue, and remember Jimmy's threat just in time. You look away, tears stinging your eyes, body trembling in fear.
Jimmy laughs, soft and breathy, almost genuine. "Dinnae be so scared, honey. Tremblin' and shakin' like ye weren't loving it just a minute ago. Ye'll love this, too. I promise."
One of Jimmy's hands lands on your ass, spreading you open, and you feel the thick, hot head of his cock rub along your slit, parting your labia. He presses shallowly against your entrance, dipping just deep enough to tease, then drags himself down until his cockhead is kissing at your clit. You flinch away, clit still oversensitive from your climax, but Jimmy grips tightly at your hip, dragging you back into place.
One hand firm on your hip, the other guiding his cock, he slides back and forth between your folds, over and over, alternating between pressing his head against your slick opening and bumping it against your hard clit. You cry from the mixture of pain and pleasure, your swollen and overstimulated clit sending confused signals through your body. Jimmy presses a little harder every time he passes over your clenching hole, dipping in just a little deeper—but never deep enough to breach. Finally, you whine in frustration, your hips bucking back as he teases against your hole once again—you feel so empty, desperate for something to stuff you full to bursting.
Your desperation is what he was waiting on, it seems: his hold on your hip tightens, and this time when he passes his cock over your entrance he pushes. The head pops in with a delicious stretch: you moan before you can help yourself, shamefully loud and wanton. You flutter wildly around him, your pussy desperately trying to draw him in deeper yet. Jimmy moans and obliges, sinking in another inch, then two, before coming to a stop. You're less than a slut beneath him, cunt a dripping and clenching mess, needy and loud with no regard to the man tied to a chair barely a foot away—but even still you're too tight for him, the hot grip of your cunt almost painful. You feel it, too, the way the burn of his entrance threads your pleasure with pain. You're split even wider than you expected, if possible—wider than you've ever been split before.
Jimmy laughs, breathless and dazed. "Damn. Yer boy over there never fill you up like this, did he?"
You don't answer. You don't look at David, either, and for the first time the reminder of your boyfriend's silent, defeated presence does nothing to curb the pleasure electrifying your body. You buck against Jimmy, demanding, biting hard at your bottom lip in a poor attempt to stifle your desperate noises. Jimmy pats at your thigh, condescending.
"Dinnae worry, lass," he says, fingers finding your hard clit, rubbing slow, steady circles over it, "I’ll help ye through it—we’re in this together, ain’t we?"
You cry out, your clit over-sensitive and hurting so good. His free hand squeezes tight at your ass, blunt fingernails and stacked rings nipping sharply at your soft skin. You moan loudly, hips rolling back, chasing after the dual sensations: they combine in a way that goes straight to your pussy, your hole gushing slick around the tight seal of his cock, clenching desperately around him as he sinks in another inch. He makes a smug, satisfied sound.
He works at you like that for a while, one hand on your clit, the other at your ass, pain and pleasure opening you up to take him deeper, inch by inch, until he finally—finally—bottoms out. Jimmy moans, long and deep, leaning over you to rest his head against your back. You can feel the fine tremors running through his hands and thighs: a dangerous man made fragile by your body.
"Jesusfuckinheaveninhell," he breathes, nearly incomprehensible. He pants against you for a moment, regaining his composure.
His bliss is your discomfort: you’ve never had something so deep inside you, deep enough that you swear you can feel it in your chest, your guts and organs and beating heart pushed aside to make room for nothing but Jimmy. You jerk, panicking.
"I can’t—I can’t breathe." You wriggle underneath him, stuck and helpless. "Please, I can’t breathe."
Jimmy sits up, and you instantly feel less suffocated—but he’s still inside you, a sword through stone, deeper than should be possible. You've bitten off more than you can chew. You try to jerk away, to pull off, but your panic has tightened you back up and all you manage to do is make him tug at your insides, painful and unyielding.
Jimmy shushes you, his hands rubbing soothingly at your sides. "There, there, hen. Calm down. And we were doing so well. Ye can breathe. Do it with me, now, with my hands. Breathe in." He slides his hands up your sides until they curl high over your rib cage, just beneath your hanging breasts. You breathe in, breath stuttering.
"Now breathe out," he orders, sliding his hands back down until they rest above your hips. You breathe out.
He repeats these motions, your breath following the slow drag of his hands, until you relax—still overfull, still with a cock in your chest, but no longer making things worse for yourself. Jimmy huffs a laugh, thumbs rubbing soothingly over your hips.
"Poor honeypot. Yer boy there ain’t never fill ye up like this, did he? Bet it feels like it’s knockin' between yer lungs. But that’s just in yer head, pretty girl. Ye can breathe. Can’t ye?"
You nod, then gasp as his blunt nails dig into your hips.
"What did I take that gag off for, eh? Out loud. Ye can breathe, can’t ye?"
"Y—yes."
"Good."
He reaches underneath you, pinches lightly at your clit. You yelp, hips bucking.
"Stupid bitch," he chides, voice almost fond, "Ye’ve ruined all our progress, havnae ye?"
You shake your head, barely understanding what he's asking. His nails dig painfully into your hips again, and you groan.
"What did I say? Answer me when I ask ye a question. Have ye undone all our progress with yer little episode?"
"N—no," you whimper.
"No?" He leans back, spreading your asscheeks wide. "This little pussy here is still wet for me, then? I can fuck her any way I want to, right now?"
You moan, clenching at his words. You understand now: your progress—the slow, arduous process that was getting you wet and open enough to take him to the hilt. You clamp your mouth shut, fearful. Jimmy laughs and his fingers brush lightly over your clit before working at it in earnest, in the way that’s been working so well for you so far—your reaction is instant and embarrassingly predictable, a moan of sheer pleasure ripping out of you. Jimmy leans over you as he works your aching clit, body warm against your back, voice gritty in your ear.
"Sweet lass. Tightest cunt I’ve ever had, it’s a shame ye’ve been wasting away here all this time. No other cock will do once I’ve fucked ye proper, ye hear me? Feels like too much now but once I’ve got you sliding up and down this cock ye’ll see ye were made for it. Cannae breathe now but once I’ve got it in your throat ye’ll realize ye don’t need air more than ye need me. I’ll fill ye up every which way, honey—I’ll fuck this cunt, then that sweet mouth, then yer little asshole here. Ye want it, don’ ya? Don’ ya?"
He spits this filth at you as he works you into a frenzy. You don’t answer—can’t answer, your mind too fogged with pleasure, mouth hanging open, drool pooling over your chin. You couldn’t form a coherent sentence now if your life depended on it. Jimmy hooks two fingers over your bottom lip, forcing your mouth wider.
"Ye’ve got the brains fucked out of ye and I havnae even fucked ye yet. I know ye can do it, lassie. Answer me. Ye want me to fuck ye, don’ ya?"
You moan, mouth closing around his fingers, sucking on them mindlessly. Your pussy is aching, pulsing hot around his cock, your clit harder than it’s ever been as he grinds against it, hard and slow. He rolls his hips and your eyes roll to the back of your skull.
"Don’ ya?"
"Yes," you breathe, barely more than a sigh.
"What’s that? Ye want me?"
"Yes," you repeat, louder, voice shaky.
"Ye want me to fuck ye?"
"Yes."
"Want me to fuck this sweet cunt?"
"Yes!"
"Fuck ye better than yer man ever did, fuck ye full of my cum?"
"Yes! Yes, yes, yes—,"
"Good bitch."
Jimmy pinches at your clit, hard, and you come harder than you’ve ever come in your life: you clench around Jimmy’s cock and gush, fluid squirting from your pussy, drenching Jimmy’s velour tracksuit and the couch beneath you. You scream with it, though you can barely hear yourself through the cotton in your head. You slump, boneless, the lower half of your body held up only by Jimmy’s hands on your hips and his hard cock, which still penetrates through you like a steel beam. You come down from your climax slowly, a panting, twitchy, wet mess.
Your eyes land on David. His gaze isn’t avoiding you this time—he stares dead at you with dark, unreadable eyes. Shame and embarrassment crash over you like a wave.
"David, please—,"
You don’t finish the words—can’t because suddenly you’re overwhelmed with the hot drag of Jimmy’s cock pulling out of you, then slamming back in. It knocks the breath out of you, and you can do nothing more than brace yourself as he sets a hard, fast pace, each thrust in punching the breath out of your lungs. His head presses against your spine, a deep moan reverberating through him.
Your climaxes have done you good: you take him without too much pain or resistance despite his size, the repetitive drag of him along your walls sending faint sparks of pleasure through your body. You’re well lubricated, too, the sloppy wet sounds of him plowing your pussy loud and obscene. You, for the countless time since Jimmy first touched you, forget about David's presence.
Jimmy does, too. His hands flex at your hips, breath coming in hot, damp puffs against your back. For the first time he is not mocking, or goading, or taunting: he only pants and moans, his voice taking on a high, desperate edge as his hips stutter rapidly against you.
You hate the heat that curls in your belly at his erotic noises—hate that you’re still wet and yielding for him—hate that your body somehow still wants more.
Jimmy slows, lifting from your back. His hand tangles in your hair, clunky rings catching painfully at the strands—though truthfully your body doesn’t seem to know the difference between pain and pleasure anymore, the sensation going straight to your battered cunt. Jimmy uses his grip to turn your head, right towards David.
"Does he fuck ye like this, honey?" Jimmy asks, stroke changing deliberately—he pulls out of you with a long, slow drag, then rolls his hips forward, fucking back into you at an angle that has your toes curling, pathetic mewls spilling out of your mouth. It feels good—different from the pleasure of your clit, but no less efficient at scrambling your brains.
He tugs at your hair, impatient. "What was that?"
"No," you slur, the cruelty of the question barely registering—you’re no longer looking at David, anyway, eyes firmly in the back of your skull. Little more exists to your overstimulated brain than Jimmy—Jimmy’s cock filling you up, Jimmy’s hand tight in your hair, Jimmy’s voice in your ear.
Jimmy tsks and releases your hair, placing his hands on your hips and rolling them back to meet the thrusts of his cock. You moan and clench around him, wanting more and no longer of a mind to be ashamed of it.
"Shame, lass," Jimmy pants, "I know ye love it. I can—aah—feel it."
With no warning Jimmy spreads the globes of your ass, exposing and spitting right over your asshole. It doesn’t humiliate you the way it did the first time—now you moan like a whore, shuddering in arousal. You roll your hips back against him, pussy clenching, wishing in your fucked-out haze that he’d fuck your ass, too. You’ve never even had it there but you want it now, want it from him.
"That’s it, honey. Oh ye love it, don’ ye? Love me inside of ye, love me fucking ye like this. Say it."
You moan, swallowing the drool that’s collected in your parted mouth again, beyond words. Jimmy grips tight at the hair at the base of your skull and yanks.
"Say it."
You moan louder, toes curling, brain fuzzy. "Iloveit," you slur.
His hand twists painfully in your hair. "What?"
"I love it!"
Jimmy laughs meanly and lets you go. Your head drops, a marionette with its strings cut. "Good," he says, and then he’s pushing into you to the hilt, stilling once his hips are flush against your ass. You whine, not in discomfort, not anymore, but in protest.
"Needy bitch," he says, that almost-fondness from before back in his voice.
You feel his fingers at your wrists, tugging and unlacing, and it takes your brain a few seconds to catch up as the ropes around your wrists fall limply to the side. He’s unbound you completely now.
You lower your arms slowly, shoulders aching fiercely from the position they were held in, and cross them underneath you, resting your head against your forearms. You sag in relief, neck no longer strained from supporting your upper body against the cushions.
David calls your name, sharp but aborted, as if he didn’t really mean to say it at all.
You look at him. There’s more emotion on his face now than last time, his brows knitted and mouth parted. He looks almost pleading as he calls you again, voice unsure.
"Baby, I—I—," his mouth hangs open as he searches for words, "I’m sorry. I love you."
The words come to you muted, as if spoken through a wall. You can’t decide what his apology means to you, if it means anything at all. It certainly doesn’t mean now what it would have an hour ago.
You don’t say I love you back.
Instead—hating yourself, feeling the most cowardly you’ve ever felt—you turn away, using your newfound mobility to prop yourself up on your arms and hide your face in the back of the couch. You brace yourself against your arms, shift on your knees, and use this leverage to throw your hips back against Jimmy, once but firmly.
Jimmy laughs raucously. Laughs so hard he has to brace himself over you, his entire body shaking with it, hips twitching involuntarily. You sigh, even these crumbs filling you with pleasure.
"Tragic lovers, indeed," Jimmy wheezes, "Guess she’s made her choice, hinna she?"
You hate him. You wish he would shut up and fuck you.
Eventually he does, recovering from his laughing fit and reaching to squeeze lewdly at your ass, kneading the soft flesh leisurely. "Such a good bitch," he purrs, "Got this sweet honeypot all sticky on my cock. Yer mine now, honey. Now give me one more."
He grips you tight by the hips and rolls his own back, drawing out his thick cock slowly before slamming back in, deep and merciless. He sets a brutal pace, lifting your hips to fuck you how he wants. Your pussy is almost use to him by now, sucking him in with glee and clenching tight when he pulls out, reluctant to let him go. The sloppy, suckling sound of his cock drilling into you fills the room with filth—the only other noise is Jimmy himself, moaning and panting, loud and frantic.
His pace goes erratic, hips stuttering as he nears his peak. He moans deep in his throat.
"Come on, honey," he pants, "One more, I said. Come around my cock and I’ll fill ye up proper. Come on, c’mon, cmon—,"
You moan—you’re so close and you haven’t even touched your clit, Jimmy’s thick cock awakening nerves in your pussy you didn’t even know you had.
Suddenly, Jimmy gathers a fistful of your hair and twists, your hair tangling painfully in his grasp as he pulls your head back. You cry out, the sharp sting of your scalp sending you over the edge, pain the same thing as ecstasy. You clench hard, creaming all over Jimmy’s cock, and he follows right behind you, collapsing over you and moaning desperately.
Jimmy comes: it’s obvious from the sound he makes, a drawn-out moan spilling from his mouth like lava out the lip of a volcano—hot and molten, long and roiling.
But more than that you can feel it: his massive cock jerks inside of you, over and over, shooting wet heat deep in your belly. You marvel at it—you’ve never actually felt David come inside you before, and he’s done it hundreds of times. It goes on for ages, the hard twitches softening and spreading out until they cease completely.
Jimmy doesn’t move for a while, panting heavily against your skin, golden stubble scratching at your back. Eventually he sits up and pulls out, cock still large enough even in its softened state that the drag of him feels endless. You wince as he exits you—you feel your cunt gape, squeezing around open air, and a stream of hot cum dribbles out of you. It coats your swollen folds and abused clit, leaking down to drip onto the already-soaked sofa. You collapse onto your side, sore and exhausted.
Jimmy slouches against the arm of the couch, running a hand through his hair, golden locks sweaty and bedraggled. He pants as if he's just completed a marathon. Your eyes drift down his body despite yourself: his trackies are still shoved down the lean muscle of his thighs, and his cock hangs limp and shiny with your fluids. There's a large dark patch on his pants and the bottom edge of his jacket from your earlier wave of release. Jimmy doesn't miss your gaze.
"Still ain't had enough of it, have ye, honeypot?"
You look away, jaw trembling. Jimmy chuckles. "Dinnae worry, hen. Ye'll get more where that came from."
He tugs his trackies back over his hips and slips off the sofa, yawning and stretching exaggeratedly, his back and shoulders popping loudly. He reaches over the back of the sofa for his gun, and you're too tired to even feel fear at the sight of it. Jimmy turns to David, bound and silent.
"Howzat for a debt settled? I'd say we're even."
David doesn't look at Jimmy—doesn't look at you, either, his gaze firmly fixed on the floor in front of him. You've never seen him look so angry.
"You've made your point," David says, voice flat.
"Ay, I'd say yer woman made it for me."
"She's not my woman," David spits, and it’s now that you realize his anger isn't directed at Jimmy—it's directed at you. You flinch at his words, shame rearing its head, too little and too late. You realize that hot, silent tears are tracking down your face, wetting the hair at your temple. Jimmy grins, razor sharp.
"I'm glad ye understand—she's mine now. The last piece of settlement on yer debt. Be grateful—normally I ask for late settlements in blood."
Jimmy makes to turn away, then swings back around at the last second, gun tapping against his temple as if in thought.
"Let me ask ye—she always that tight?"
David looks away, empty-eyed. Jimmy taps his gun against David's temple. "Asked ye a question. Yer—apologies, my—little honeypot always feel like heaven?"
"Best I ever had," David says, emotionless. His eyes don't once lift from the floor.
"And she always come like that, eh? Squirt all over ye?"
This gets a reaction out of David, a muscle in his jaw jumping. He looks up at Jimmy, then back to the floor. Jimmy clicks the safety of his gun off, encouraging.
"I—I haven't...she's never..."
David trails off, chest rising rapidly as his breath quickens. Jimmy steps back, blue eyes wide with wicked glee.
"Och!I see. No wonder she was gaggin' for it."
Jimmy turns away from David, done with him, and walks to where you lay on the sofa. Your eyes track him silently—you haven't moved an inch since you collapsed. He kneels next to your head and settles the full force of his blue eyes on you: you forgot how exposed you felt beneath his gaze, your chest flayed open and ribs bared. But you don't look away. Not this time. The corner of Jimmy's lips lift into a half-smile.
"Can ye walk, honey?"
Your brows furrow at the question, your mind moving slowly. You try to move your legs and immediately cry out, a hot pain flaring that begins at your core and spreads throughout the rest of your body.
"No."
Jimmy's smile is sickening. He likes that he's hobbled you.
"Pull yer shorts up, then. I'll have to carry ye."
You push yourself up, slow and shaky, groaning in pain: everything hurts, especially your abused pussy. You wince as more of Jimmy's cum slides out of you, pooling between your legs on the ruined couch. You pull your panties and shorts up with trembling hands, cringing at the wet way they cling to you. Jimmy has crossed the room at this point, bending down to pick up something off the floor: David's robe, torn at one shoulder and stained with blood. He walks back over and throws it over your shoulders, guiding your arms through the holes. You're surprised at this gesture, which almost feels like kindness. Jimmy smiles down at you as you belt the robe closed.
"Very good. Cannae have those maggots outside seeing my honeypot still drippin'."
He bends over and hooks one arm under your knees, the other wrapping around your shoulders. He lifts you with that same shocking strength from earlier. Once he has you firm against his chest he brings his mouth to your ear, stubble scratching roughly against your cheek but lips soft where they brush against your skin.
"Yer real quiet, honey," he murmurs, voice too smug to be called gentle, "So I'll say it again to make sure ye heard: yer mine now. But dinnae worry—I take good care of what's mine."
You say nothing—but you sink into the warm, soft velour of his jacket. This must be good enough, for he brushes his lips against your temple—not quite a kiss—and swings around, walking you out of the house.
"Goodnight, ye piece of shite," he calls over his shoulder, "If I see ye again I'll kill ye."
The nighttime air is cold against your bare feet, the rest of your body shielded by David's thick robe. A black SUV with pitch-black windows sits on the edge of the property, nearly indecipherable in the dark. As Jimmy approaches someone slips out of the driver's side: a young man in a black and white tracksuit. He opens the passenger door for Jimmy, and you take in his appearance: shoulder-length black hair, black-painted lips, apathetic black eyes.
A black inverted cross, inked neatly on the middle of his forehead.
"Sir," he says simply, nodding his head curtly.
"Snakey," Jimmy greets, and you can hear the ever-present humor in his voice, "Thank ye much."
Jimmy deposits you onto the front seats—modified to comfortably fit three—and slides in after you. The young man closes the door behind you, and Jimmy positions you so that you're laid against his chest, his arms wrapped possessively around you. You glance into the backseat and are met by the faces of the people who invaded your home—Jones, Fox and Shite, Ink and Jimmima. They stare at you and Jimmy with expressions frozen in various stages of disbelief. The young man in black and white slips back into the driver's seat and cranks the car, which hums to life with a smooth, silent purr.
"Let's go home, Snake," Jimmy says, not offering any explanation to his cult.
"Yes, Sir."
Snake doesn't spare you a glance, expression cool as he puts the vehicle in drive. You notice a second tattoo wrapped around his neck: a black snake with white fangs spread over the knot of his Adam's apple. He doesn't turn on the headlights as he peels off into the night, the group's departure from the house as unnoticed as their arrival.
Jimmy's fingers are a cage around you, his thumb rubbing absentminded circles on your arm through the fabric of the robe. You allow yourself to sink into him, half-between sleep and fuzzy consciousness. You allow yourself to enjoy the warmth of his body, and the softness of the velour against your cheek. You don't allow yourself to think of who he is, or what he's done to you, or what he might do yet. Of what you've done.
Soon enough, you're lured into sleep by the gentle rock of the SUV as it speeds down the road ahead.
The road to home.