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banner cred: @scannainscanrula
enter at your own risk 🖤
hi, i’m rosie—this is primarily a jack o’connell, spike fearn, & shawn hatosy blog, though i will absolutely branch out if/when another man starts ruining my life
requests are always open, but there’s no guarantee they’ll be written—i just follow whatever has me in a chokehold at the moment
this masterlist is organized alphabetically by character name below the cut
c = complete
happy reading 🖤
we know it's you, kyle budwell. no need to be shy.
hiii, love your works !! wanted to propose a small idea for future plans, how do you think different jack o’connell’s characters would react to seeing their gf/wife in their clothes ? would love to read about lion, patrick, and kyle, but feel free to choose whoever you want :D
i'm about to break your bed and back for thisssss....
Walter 'Lion' Kaminski ⎯ when you wear his jacket...
Shuddering as you step out of the motel hot tub, you wrap your arms around yourself, speed walking on your tippy-toes to the lounge chair. It was half past midnight and freezing, but the steaming waters of the hot tub had done wonders for both of you. Squeezing out some water from your hair, you grab the first piece of clothing you see, slipping on the faded Nike jacket. Some of the water on your skin seeps into it, your legs trembling from the sudden jump from the hot tub to the cold air outside. Grabbing a crappy little pool towel, you rub your legs with it, a weak attempt to dry off quicker and get warm faster. The low humming of the hot tub buzzing in the background.
“Oh, fuck me. It’s cold.” Lion curses, a low laugh escaping his lips as he hops out of the hot tub.
“Told you!” You chuckle, a shudder violently running through your body. “Should’ve hopped in when it was still light out, avoid the fuck..fucking cold!”
“Yeah, well blame Stan." He snorts, "Hand me a towel, please.”
Grabbing another towel off the lounge chair, you glance over your shoulder, wet strands of hair sticking to your neck. The tip of your nose and ears felt tingling, the kind of tingling it got whenever it was too cold out. Letting out an involuntary noise as another shudder rocks your body, you hold the towel out for him, the puddle you were standing in now suddenly cold. Snorting at your shuddering, he wraps the towel around his hips, shaking his head to ring out some water from his hair. The only sign of him being cold was the goosebumps on his bare chest.
“Worth it?” He chuckles, rubbing his hands up and down your arms to try to warm you back up.
“Totally.” You nod, teeth chattering together.
“This..” He raises a brow, voice dropping as he fiddles with the zipper. “Is this my jacket?”
“Is it?” You question, glancing down to look at what you were wearing.
Sure enough, it was his jacket. Flushing a bright pink at the realization, a small feeling of mortification bubbles in your gut for not being more careful. You hadn’t meant to steal it, not really. It was just an instinctive thing. Softly brushing his fingers away from the zipper, you go to shrug it off, the fabric slipping halfway down your shoulder before he stops it. His fingers brushing against the bare skin of your shoulder, dangerously close to the thin strap of your bathing suit top.
“I can take it off if you want⎯”
“Nah, fucking freezing out, keep it.” He shakes his head, "Don't need you getting sick. Stan would have a bitch fit if he had to take you to urgent care.”
“Says the guy in only a towel.” You scoff, poking at his bare chest.
“Got me there..” He chuckles, glancing down at your finger on his chest before back up to your face. “Guess, we should go back to the room..?”
“Yeah, yeah, I guess so.” You nod, hesitantly pulling your finger away from his chest. “Ugh, I call dips on the shower first, if that’s okay with you?”
“Yeah, just..” He pauses, tucking back a wet strand of hair from your face without thinking. “Leave me some hot water, okay? Kinda would be nice to take a real shower for once.”
“I will.”
Kyle Budwell ⎯ when you wear his boxers...
Rolling out of bed with a low cranky grumble, Kyle lets out a soft huff through his nose, the sunlight peeking in through the blinds only worsening his mood. He had been working overtime for a week straight, shoving in as many delivery orders and hours as legally possible. Now, his body was reminding him just how fucking stupid that was of him to do. His head throbbed and his lower back felt like it had gotten gangbanged by sledge hammers. He should just go back to sleep. He should. But, your side of the bed was cold. Icy cold, like you had been up for hours now.
Scratching at his back with his hand, he drags himself to the kitchen, the faint smell of coffee and promise of you being there with it drawing him in. Tripping a shoe left in the hall, he catches himself on the doorway, his lips curling further down into a cranky scowl. Kicking the shoe away in anger, he opens his mouth to curse whoever had left it, when he pauses at the sight of you. Sleep tousled hair. Plaid boxers⎯his pair of plaid boxers. Oversized t-shirt. Sunlight gives you an angelic glow. Glancing back down to the pair of boxers you were wearing, he stares, his foggy mind not really sure how to process it just yet.
“Are those..?” He lazily motions to the boxers, his voice cutting the silence short.
“Mm-hm, I needed something to put on. Didn't wanna flash the neighbors.” You raise a brow, “Problem?”
“Nah..”
“Good.” You nod in approval, slowly turning your heels to look at him.
Looking him up and down slowly, you click your tongue in disapproval, lingering on the deep bags underneath his eyes. He looked like shit. It was a surprise that he was even able to stand upright and talk. Pushing yourself off the countertop, he blinks a few times to clear his vision, puffy eyes barely wide enough to see. Cupping his face in your hand, you click your tongue again in disapproval, thumb rubbing over his morning stubble. He really should be back in bed, drooling into his pillow and not questioning your choice of clothing this morning.
“Fuck me, you look like shit, Kyle.” You scold, “You're eyes are all puffy, like you’ve been crying. I told you working overtime all week was gonna fuck you up.”
“Thanks.” He huffs, rolling his eyes.
“Go back to bed, Kyle. You need it.” You order, nodding towards the bedroom.
“But, you're not there.” He mumbles, a softness spreading on his face.
“I’ll be there in a minute, I just need the coffee to finish brewing.” You dismiss, stroking his bottom lip with your thumb. “Go on, I’ll be there soon, okay?”
Patrick Sumner ⎯ when you wear his nightshirt...
Struggling to keep your eyes open, you let out a soft hum as Patrick pats your legs dry with a towel, calloused fingers brushing against you soothingly before disappearing just as quickly as it had started. Exhaustion nipped away at you, the final trimester of your pregnancy weighing heavily on your shoulders. None of your clothing fit anymore, nor did your shoes. It felt like everything had swollen up as the baby grew. You had taken to lounging around the house in the thinnest shift that you owned. The hem no longer reached the floor, but now reached just above your knees from how swollen your belly had become. The hot baths were the only thing that could bring you comfort.
Pressing a gentle kiss on your brow, you slowly peel your eyes open, shoulders sagging softly at the sight of him. Brows furrowed together, a lingering concern glimmering in his eyes that seemingly always asked nowadays, “Are you well?”. Rubbing his thumb over your bottom lip, he doesn’t speak, eyes flickering over every part of you that he could see. Lingering on the brutal and jagged stretchmarks on your belly, he hesitates for a moment, hand slowly sliding down from your lips. Down the damp column of your throat, then to your milk swollen breasts before finally stopping on your belly. Rubbing soothing circles over the stretched skin, he chews on his bottom lip, just as he usually did whenever he was overthinking something.
“Hm?”
“Still haven’t washed your shift.” He states, “Still soaked in the bin with my work trousers.”
“Ugh, I forgot I had done that this morning.” You drag a hand down your face, your mood souring at the realization. “Let me go finish washing them⎯”
“Shhh, shhh, none of that.” He softly hushes, “Wear mine tonight.”
“But, you’ll be cold tonight.” You protest, not wanting him to suffer because of your forgetfulness.
“I’ve been far more cold before.” He argues, a subtle jab at his days on the Volunteer.
Frowning at the mention of his previous employment, you shake your head in protest, not wanting to take his nightshirt even more now. He had written at the time to you of the cold, how brutal it was. How under prepared he was for it. How he had been lucky to not get frostbite. Now, whilst you both were in the Artic, it was still cold. He’d freeze without his nightshirt. Opening your mouth up to protest, he lifts your arms up firmly, already slipping the nightshirt on before a word could roll off your tongue. Gently tugging it down little by little, he fixes the long sleeves so they fit, fingers steady and rehearsed. The thick linen fits you snuggly, better than your shift really.
“Patrick..” You start, but he cuts you off.
“Both of you need to keep warm tonight.” He argues, shaking his head softly.
“Patrick.” You shoot him a look, displeased at his attempt to use the pregnancy against you.
“Doctor’s orders.” He offers a light smile, a weak attempt to silence your worries.
------
Writing because it's my job
Writing because I should be productive
Writing because I have deadlines ✅Writing fanfics about characters that took over my brain
manchild
kyle budwell x mob boss!reader wc: 1.8k warnings: sub!kyle, heel kink/stepping on, degradation kink, oral sex (f receiving)
Kyle's deep in debt with loans from you. You need to make an example.
Kyle is fucked. Truly, deeply, royally, cosmically fucked. He shoves his things into a backpack, glancing back at the door as sweat drips from his hairline.
⤷ ゛ Kyle Budwell!Femreader ˎˊ˗
Part 2 in progress
⤷ Summary ˎˊ˗ After a single on-air stock tip destroys what’s left of his life, desperate delivery driver Kyle Budwell storms your studio with a gun. He wants five minutes alone with the woman he’s been obsessed with for months. What starts as terror and tears quickly spirals into something far more dangerous: raw, messy, desperate sex on your office desk while he lives out every filthy fantasy he’s had about you. You tell yourself you’re only doing it to survive… but the truth is you’re soaked, moaning his name, and secretly loving every second of the man who just took you hostage.
⤷ Warnings (18+ ONLY) ˎˊ˗ Dubcon / dubcon-to-mutual, Hostage situation, self-loathing, Rough desk sex, hair pulling, spanking, size kink, creampie, Emotional whiplash, crying during/after sex, stockholm syndrome
⤷ Word count ˎˊ˗ 6k
⤷ A/N ˎˊ˗ I watched Money Monster the other night and absolutely loved it! Jack O’Connell did amazing in the movie! I will say there isn’t many fanfics or one shots with Kyle and I’m kinda shocked so I had to add to the fandom ! Jack did so good acting stressed he looked so adorable ☺️ plus I Like the “he cry’s during sex” part not really I thought it was mean to my husband like girl he is smart leave my man alone and quiet yelling at him! But anyways I hope you enjoy this one shot and encourages more Money Monster fics.
Ps. Let me know if you want part 2
The red “ON AIR” light blinks out with a soft click.
You lean back in the host chair, rolling your shoulders slowly, feeling the familiar ache settle into the space between your shoulder blades — the price of two hours of perfect posture. Around you, the crew launches into the nightly teardown with the practiced efficiency of people who’ve done this a thousand times. Scripts rustle. Monitors go dark one by one, their pale glow winking out like tired eyes. Someone wheels the teleprompter back toward the equipment bay, and the studio begins its quiet transformation from curated television reality back into what it actually is: a cold room full of cables and light rigs and the faint smell of dry-erase markers.
The usual post-show chatter swells to fill the space. “Great segment on the rate hike,” someone calls from across the floor, and you lift two fingers in acknowledgment without fully turning around. You’ve learned that particular gesture over the years — just enough to be gracious, not enough to invite a ten-minute conversation about monetary policy at eleven o’clock on a Friday night.
The makeup artist, Diane, appears at your elbow with a pack of wipes, the way she always does. “Good show,” she says simply, and you believe her because Diane never says it when she doesn’t mean it. You thank her, pulling the wipes across your cheekbones, watching the foundation come away in pale streaks. Underneath, you feel like yourself again — or whatever version of yourself exists outside the broadcast. You’re still not entirely sure those are the same person.
You flash your signature half-smile to no one in particular as people filter toward the exits — the smile that the media critics have variously described as assured, knowing, and, once memorably, carnivorous. You’ve never minded that last one. You murmur goodnights as the studio empties, jacket on, heels clicking against the polished concrete floor, cutting a straight line toward your small corner office off the main floor. The one with the glass wall overlooking the empty set. The one where the plaques are hung at a very deliberate, very specific height. You’ve never admitted to anyone that you measured.
The door shuts behind you with a quiet snick.
The building feels cavernous now, the way it only does after ten on weeknights and all weekend long — a cathedral to news that has nothing left to broadcast. Most of the night crew has already cleared out for the weekend, leaving behind only the skeleton staff and the low ambient hum of servers keeping the network’s digital feeds alive. Through the glass wall, the set sits in half-darkness, the anchor desk lit by a single work light left on by mistake, or maybe by habit. It looks strange unoccupied, like a stage between productions, stripped of all the invisible architecture that makes it feel like the center of the world for exactly sixty minutes every evening.
You drop into the chair at your desk and kick off your heels. They land under the credenza with two dull, satisfying thunks. You pull your laptop toward you and start scrolling through the overnight notes — the wire updates, the flagged stories, the preliminary rundown for Monday’s broadcast that your producer left with three different color-coded priority levels. Anything, really, to keep the adrenaline from the show from crashing too hard, too fast. You know from experience that if you stop moving too soon, the silence will arrive like a physical thing, pressing in from the edges of the room, and you’ll spend the cab ride home feeling hollowed out in a way that’s difficult to explain to people who don’t do this for a living.
So you read. You scroll. The city hums twenty-two floors below, indifferent and enormous, carrying on its business without the benefit of your analysis.
A sharp bang echoes from the studio floor — the heavy metal door to the loading dock slamming open.
You glance up through the glass wall just in time to see him stride in.
He’s in a delivery uniform: gray jacket, scuffed boots, a lanyard swinging against his chest with each unsteady step. Young — younger than you first clocked, maybe mid-twenties — and wiry in the way of someone who’s been running on bad coffee and worse luck for too long. His shoulders are hunched like the weight of the whole city is sitting on them, like they’ve been that way so long the posture has become permanent. You’ve seen him around before — the overnight guy who drops off scripts and handles coffee runs for the late crew — but only in passing, never long enough to catch his name or register anything beyond the gray jacket and the lanyard and the squeak of the cart wheels fading down the hallway. Never long enough to notice the storm in his eyes.
Tonight that storm is raging.
“Everybody out.” His voice is low and raw, a thick New York accent cutting through the studio quiet like a blade drawn slow across glass. “Now. Go home. I ain’t here for you. Just… leave.”
A couple of the skeleton crew freeze mid-step. One of the techs starts to argue — something about security, about protocol — and the guy lifts his right hand.
A gun. Not waving it, not pointing it at anyone in particular, but it’s there, matte black and unmistakable under the work lights. Strapped across the front of his jacket is a bulky black vest, wires taped haphazardly in uneven rows, lumps of something dense packed underneath. It has the look of something assembled in the dark, under pressure — an amateur job that screams desperation more than expertise. But you learned a long time ago that amateur doesn’t mean safe. Sometimes it means the opposite.
“I said out,” he repeats, quieter, almost pleading. His gaze sweeps the room and then snags on the glass wall of your office, on you standing motionless behind your desk with your laptop still open and your heart now somewhere in the vicinity of your throat. “I need her. The host. Alone. Five minutes. Nobody gets hurt if you just walk away right now.”
They scatter. Footsteps echo in rapid, overlapping rhythms, doors hiss shut in sequence, and then the studio is empty in a way it has never quite been in all the years you’ve worked here. The emergency lights click on automatically, bathing everything in that flat, anemic glow. Somewhere twenty-two floors below, a siren wails and fades to nothing. The guy watches the last of them go, chest heaving, one hand braced against the back of the anchor desk, and for just a moment he looks less like a threat and more like someone who has been holding their breath for a very long time and has finally, irreversibly, exhaled.
Then he turns and walks straight for your office door.
He doesn’t knock.
The door swings open and he steps inside, filling the frame for a moment before letting it fall shut behind him with a soft, definitive click that somehow feels louder than anything that’s come before it. Under the office fluorescents he’s a wreck — sweat tracking down his temple, hair pushed up at odd angles, eyes red-rimmed and too bright in the way that isn’t alertness but is something closer to the very end of a very long road. The gun hangs loose at his side. The vest looks even more improvised up close: lumps of clay or something approximating it, cheap wires that don’t quite connect to anything, duct tape already peeling at the corners. It might be real. It might be theater. You have no way to know, and that uncertainty is its own particular species of fear.
But what holds your attention is his face. The fury, yes — but underneath the fury, and threaded through it so completely the two can’t be separated, something that looks a great deal like grief.
“You,” he says, and his voice cracks clean down the middle on that single syllable. He crosses to the edge of your desk and stops there, close enough that you can see the pulse jumping in his jaw. “‘Safer than a savings account.’ That’s what you called it. On air. ‘The stock tip of the goddamn millennium.’”
Something cold moves through you. Because you did say that. You remember the segment clearly now — the graphic designer’s little golden arrow, the analyst in the expensive suit who made it all sound airtight, the phrase landing well in the moment, under the lights, with thirty seconds left on the clock. You remember thinking it was a little breathless and saying it anyway.
“I put everything I had left into that after Ma died.” His free hand fists at his side, knuckles going white. “Cancer ate the house first. Bills ate the rest. That account was all I had. That was supposed to be my way to breathe for the first time in two years.” His jaw tightens. “And it cratered. Sixty percent in four days. I lost it all. Because of you.”
The siren below has gone completely silent. The building hums.
“But then there’s…” He stops. His gaze moves — dragging over you, slow and involuntary and ashamed of itself, the way a man looks when he’s furious at himself for looking. It catches on the open collar of your blouse where you’d loosened it after the broadcast, the way your skirt has ridden up slightly against the chair, the bare feet tucked under the desk where your heels lie abandoned under the credenza. Something shifts in his expression. The fury doesn’t leave, but something else crowds in alongside it, and the combination is raw in a way that the gun never quite was. “This. You.”
He exhales through his teeth.
“You stand up there every single night lookin’ like that. Talkin’ like you actually see guys like me — like you’re talkin’ to me specifically, right through the camera. I been watching you for months. Droppin’ off packages, lingerin’ in the hallway longer than I had to just to hear your voice when the cameras cut. You never noticed. Why would you? I’m nobody. I’m the delivery kid. I’m the guy you sign for without lookin’ up.” His voice has gone lower, rougher, stripped of whatever rehearsed quality it had when he walked in. “But God, you’re so goddamn beautiful it makes me stupid. Even now. Even standin’ here hatin’ you for what you said — hatin’ myself for bein’ here — I can’t stop. I can’t make it stop.”
The gun clatters onto the small couch by the door. The sound of it landing is almost casual, almost mundane — a set of keys dropped at the end of a long day.
He reaches up and yanks at the vest straps like they’re choking him, fingers working the buckles with clumsy urgency, and then it’s off, dropped on the floor beside the couch with a dull, anticlimactic thud. He stands there without it, breathing hard, looking suddenly smaller — just a young man in a gray delivery jacket and scuffed boots, in an office that isn’t his, having just done something he can’t undo.
His eyes never leave your face.
The silence that follows is enormous. You can hear the server hum from the hallway. You can hear him breathing. You can hear your own pulse, steady and loud, and the part of your brain that has been broadcasting live television for eleven years is already running the calculus — threat assessment, exit geometry, the four feet of mahogany between you, the phone face-down on the desk two feet to your left. But underneath all of that, something quieter and more complicated is running too, because you are looking at him — really looking, perhaps for the first time since the night began — and what you see isn’t simple.
You open your mouth.
“What’s your name?” The question slips out before you can stop it, soft and shaky.
He blinks, clearly caught off guard. His throat works as he swallows hard. “Kyle,” he answers, voice rough and low. “Kyle Budwell.”
Something shifts in the air between you at the sound of his name. It makes him feel more real. More human. Less like a masked threat and more like a broken man standing in front of you.
You swallow. “Kyle… I… I have money,” you manage, voice thinner than you want it to be, the fear making it shake just enough to betray you. Your hand fumbles toward the drawer where you keep the small cash envelope for tips and incidentals. “There’s… there’s almost two thousand in cash right here. Take it. Take all of it. My cards too, if you want. Just… please. Whatever you need to fix this, it’s yours. I can wire more tomorrow. Just don’t—”
He cuts you off with a short, jagged laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Money?” The word comes out bitter, almost disgusted. His eyes — still wild, still red-rimmed — drag over you again, slower this time, lingering on the rise and fall of your chest, the bare skin at your throat, the way your fingers tremble around the drawer handle. “You think this is about money? I just lost every fuckin’ cent I had because of what you said on air. You think two grand’s gonna fix that? Or the cancer bills? Or the eviction notice taped to my door this morning?”
He takes a half-step closer, boots scuffing the carpet. The desk feels smaller now, the air thicker. Your heart slams against your ribs so hard you wonder if he can hear it.
“No,” he says, voice dropping low and rough, that thick New York accent wrapping around every word like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “I don’t want your money. I don’t want anything you can buy. I want you.”
The confession lands like a live wire between you. His hands flex at his sides, empty and trembling. Before you can speak, he rounds the desk in two strides, closing the distance so fast your back hits the edge of the credenza. One calloused hand clamps around your wrist — not bruising, but firm enough to pin it to your side — while the other fists in the front of your blouse, yanking you forward until your bodies collide.
The collision knocks the breath from your lungs. His body is solid heat against yours—sweat-damp jacket, the faint metallic tang of fear and cheap soap, his heart hammering against your chest. For one frozen second you’re pressed together, and your brain screams at you to fight.
You shove hard against his chest with both hands, palms flat, trying to create space. “No—stop—” The words come out shaky, terrified. Your heart is a wild animal in your throat. This is insane. He had a gun. A vest. He could still be dangerous. You should scream. You should claw for the phone on the desk. Your fingers scrabble against his jacket instead, pushing, pushing—
But he doesn’t let go. His grip on your wrist stays firm but not cruel, and when you shove again his breath stutters like it hurts him.
“Fuck— I know, I know,” he rasps, voice cracking with self-loathing even as his other hand fists tighter in your blouse. “I should stop. I should fucking leave you alone. You’re scared, you’re right to be scared—” His forehead drops to yours, eyes squeezed shut, breathing ragged. “But God, I’ve wanted you for so long. Just… just you. Not like this. Not like this.”
You’re just as confused as he is. Fear coils tight in your stomach, cold and sharp, but underneath it something hotter and more treacherous is unfurling. Your body is reacting—nipples tightening, heat pooling low—while your mind reels in panic. This man just held you hostage. And yet your hands, traitors that they are, stop pushing. One slides up his chest, fingers curling into the worn fabric of his gray delivery jacket, pulling him closer before your brain can catch up and scream at you again.
He tastes like coffee and desperation when his mouth crashes into yours. A low, broken sound rips out of him the second your tongue meets his—like relief and shame all at once. His grip on your wrist tightens for a heartbeat, then gentles, thumb stroking over your racing pulse in a trembling apology he can’t put into words. He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re air, messy and hungry and edged with guilt.
You whimper against his lips—half fear, half something you don’t want to name—and he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours again, panting.
“Fuck—fuck me,” he snarls at himself, voice cracking with pure self-loathing. “I’m such a pathetic piece of shit. I came in here with a fucking gun like some deranged asshole and now I can’t even stop touching you. I should be rotting in a cell, not—” His fingers dig into your hip, pulling you tighter against his erection. “Goddamn it, I’ve dreamed about this for months. Every fucking night you’re on that screen looking like sin and success and I’m just some worthless delivery rat jerking off in my shitty apartment thinking about you. I hate myself for this. I fucking hate it. But I don’t want to stop… I don’t think I can.”
He’s shaking. Breathing like he just ran ten blocks. Tears of rage and shame are already gathering in his eyes as he presses his face into your neck, mouth open against your skin, hips still rocking helplessly against you.
You’re shaking too, the adrenaline and fear and something far more confusing making your whole body tremble against his. His hot tears spill over and slide down your neck, wet and warm, soaking into your collarbone. Instinct takes over before your brain can catch up — your hand lifts and gently pats the back of his head, fingers threading through his messy hair like you’re soothing a scared animal instead of the man who just stormed in with a gun.
His arms wrap tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he dry-humps you like a desperate dog — frantic little thrusts of his hips, the hard line of his cock grinding against your thigh through his work pants. A broken, humiliated groan vibrates against your throat.
u’re shaking too, the wet heat of his tears sliding down your neck and collarbone. Your hand moves without thinking — gentle, instinctive — patting the back of his head, fingers slowly threading through his messy hair. “It’s okay… breathe,” you whisper, voice soft and unsteady in the quiet office.
Kyle stills against you. Then he lifts his head, slow and shaky, until his tear-filled eyes meet yours. The raw vulnerability in them hits you like a shock — red-rimmed, desperate, shining with unshed tears. For a heartbeat he just stares, breathing hard.
Then he kisses you.
It’s deep and hungry, his mouth claiming yours with a low, guttural sound that vibrates through your chest. At the same time, his hand slips under the hem of your blouse, rough calloused palm gliding up your stomach. His fingers tremble slightly as they find your breast, cupping the soft weight through your bra before pushing the lace aside. He palms you fully then — warm, possessive, thumb dragging slow and deliberate over your nipple until it pebbles tight under his touch.
A moan slips out of you before you can stop it — soft, breathy, shocked. You don’t know why it’s happening. He has you hostage. He stormed in armed and broken. Yet your body is lighting up under his hand, a confusing rush of fear and sharp excitement twisting low in your belly.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to rasp against your lips, voice hoarse and trembling, “I’ve dreamed of this… every fucking night watching you on that screen. Dreamed of touching you like this.”
Before you can process the words, his hands slide down to your waist. In one smooth, surprisingly strong motion, he lifts you and sets you on the edge of your desk. Your skirt rides up your thighs as he steps between your legs, crowding close. The cool wood of the desk presses against the backs of your thighs, a stark contrast to the heat of his body.
Kyle leans in immediately, mouth latching onto your breast. His lips are warm and wet from tears as he kisses the soft curve, then sucks your nipple into his mouth with a deep, hungry pull. His tongue swirls around the tight peak while his other hand kneads your other breast. You gasp, back arching sharply, one hand still gently stroking his hair like you’re comforting him even now.
This is just to keep him calm… just survival…
But your body doesn’t believe the lie. Another moan slips out as he sucks harder, teeth grazing lightly.
His free hand trails down your side, slipping under the hem of your skirt. Rough fingers glide up your inner thigh until they reach the edge of your panties. He pauses there for a second, breathing hard against your breast… then his fingertips press forward, stroking along the soaked fabric.
He freezes.
A shaky exhale leaves him as he pulls back just enough to look down, eyes dark and wide. His fingers rub slowly over your panties again, feeling exactly how drenched you are. The cotton is slick, clinging to your folds, and the evidence of your arousal is undeniable.
His fingers keep stroking you through the fabric, slow and exploratory, pressing lightly against your clit. “Fuck… you’re soaked for me.”
Your face burns with shame and excitement. You’re still telling yourself you’re only letting this happen for safety — that you’re playing along to keep the situation from turning dangerous again. But the truth pulses hot between your legs: you’re secretly loving this. The way his mouth is back on your breast, sucking and licking with desperate reverence. The way his fingers are teasing you through your ruined panties. The way his tears still fall onto your skin as he touches you like you’re something sacred.
Suddenly Kyle pulls his hand away. He lifts his head, eyes dark and intense, the tears slowing as something shifts in him — hunger winning out completely. No more words. No more apologies.
He spins you around on the desk with strong hands, bending you forward until your breasts press against the cool wood. Your skirt is shoved up to your waist. He yanks your soaked panties down to your knees and kicks your legs wider.
Then he’s done teasing.
He frees his cock from his boxers and rubs the thick head slowly up and down your dripping folds, coating himself in your slick. You feel just how big he is — heavy, hot, and intimidating — and your breath catches. God, he’s huge… The thought makes your stomach tighten with nervous excitement.
Kyle pushes in slowly, inch by inch, savoring every second. A long, broken groan leaves him as your walls stretch around his thickness. You gasp sharply, fingers scrabbling against the desk. He feels enormous — the slow drag of him filling you is overwhelming, almost too much, every ridge and vein dragging against your sensitive walls as he sinks deeper and deeper until his hips are flush against your ass.
“Fuck… so tight,” he breathes, voice thick with awe. He stays buried to the hilt for a long moment, letting you feel every inch of him, rocking gently so you can adjust to his size. The slow, deliberate drag of his cock inside you is maddening — deep and full and perfect. You’re panting, overwhelmed by how completely he stretches you.
Then his hand slides into your hair. He gathers a thick fistful and tugs, lifting your upper body off the desk until your back arches sharply against his chest. The new angle makes him feel even bigger, even deeper.
He starts moving — still slow at first, but now with purpose, rolling his hips in long, dragging strokes that pull almost all the way out before sliding back in deep. Each thrust makes you moan helplessly.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” he rasps against your ear, voice rough with lust as he picks up speed. “Dreamed of fucking you just like this… holding you like this…” His grip tightens in your hair, pulling a little harder as his thrusts grow rougher, faster. The wet slap of skin on skin gets louder, sharper. He’s fully living his fantasy now — no more tears, just pure, hungry dominance mixed with reverent wonder.
He fucks you harder, pounding deep and relentless while keeping that firm fist in your hair, holding you arched and open for him. His other hand grips your hip, pulling you back onto his cock with every powerful snap of his hips. The desk creaks beneath you. Your moans turn into broken cries as pleasure coils tighter and tighter.
“Come on, baby,” he growls, lips brushing your ear. “Let me feel you come around me.”
You can’t help it — one of your legs lifts, knee bending as you plant your foot on the edge of the desk, opening yourself even wider for him. The new position lets him sink impossibly deeper. Kyle groans loudly at the feeling, his grip in your hair tightening.
“Fuck, yes… just like that,” he growls.
He smacks your ass hard, the sharp crack of his palm echoing through the office. The sting blooms hot across your skin, making you clench around him. He does it again, harder, then rubs the heated flesh as he starts fucking you faster — deeper, rougher thrusts that slam into you with wet, filthy sounds.
The desk creaks beneath you. Your moans turn louder, more desperate. Kyle keeps that fist in your hair, holding you arched and helpless while he pounds into you, his other hand alternating between gripping your hip and smacking your ass again and again. The mix of pleasure and sharp little stings is dizzying.
“Been dreaming about bending you over this fancy fucking desk for months,” he pants, hips snapping harder. “Watching you on TV in those tight skirts… imagining exactly how you’d feel wrapped around my cock. You’re even better than I imagined. So fucking wet. So fucking perfect.”
Every thrust hits deep, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you. Your leg on the desk shakes. The sting on your ass only makes everything feel more intense. You’re pushing back to meet him now, completely lost in the overwhelming pleasure, fear long forgotten under waves of secret, shameful ecstasy.
Kyle reaches around and finds your clit again, rubbing tight, relentless circles while he fucks you harder. “Come on, baby,” he growls against your neck, teeth grazing your skin.
The command, the brutal pace, the sharp tug on your hair, the burning sting on your ass, and the overwhelming fullness of his thick cock — it all crashes over you at once. You come hard with a loud, shaking cry, walls pulsing and fluttering violently around his length, soaking his cock and your thighs as pleasure rips through you in powerful, endless waves.
Kyle groans deeply at the feeling of you coming around him, but he doesn’t stop. He fucks you through every spasm, drawing it out until your legs are shaking.
Then he pulls out slowly, his cock glistening with your release. Before you can catch your breath, he turns you around to face him and lifts you effortlessly onto the desk again, spreading your legs wide. He steps between them, hooks one of your knees over his arm, and pushes back inside you in one smooth, deep thrust.
This new position lets you see his face — flushed, eyes dark with lust and wonder, no tears left, just pure dreamlike hunger. He fucks you like this now, slower again at first but deep and grinding, watching your face with every thrust. His hands roam — one cupping your breast, pinching your nipple, the other gripping your ass as he pulls you onto his cock.
You’re still coming down from your first orgasm, but the new angle and the way he’s looking at you like you’re his entire world has fresh pleasure building fast. Your hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in as he drives into you again and again, living every second of the fantasy he’s dreamed about for months.
Kyle holds you there on the edge of your desk, one of your knees hooked high over his arm, spreading you wide open for him. The new position lets him look straight into your eyes as he sinks back inside you — slow and deliberate again, inch by thick inch, until he’s buried to the hilt. You gasp at the fullness, your walls still fluttering from your first orgasm. He feels even bigger like this, stretching you so completely that every tiny shift of his hips drags against every sensitive spot inside you.
“Jesus Christ…” he breathes, voice low and reverent, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re squeezing me so fucking tight. Look at you… taking all of me like this.” His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with lust and pure awe, like he’s living inside the best dream he’s ever had and never wants to wake up.
He starts moving — long, deep, rolling thrusts that grind against your clit with every stroke. The wet, filthy sound of your soaked pussy taking his thick cock echoes obscenely in the quiet glass-walled office. Your other leg wraps around his waist instinctively, heel digging into his lower back as you pull him deeper. Kyle groans at the feeling, his free hand sliding up your body to cup your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers while he fucks you.
You can’t stop the moans spilling from your lips. This is insane, your mind screams even as pleasure floods you. He had a gun. He’s dangerous. You’re letting the man who held you hostage fuck you on your own desk. But the fear only sharpens everything — making every thrust feel more intense, every brush of his skin against yours electric. Secretly, shamefully, you’re loving it. The way he’s looking at you like you’re the center of his universe. The way his massive cock fills you so perfectly. The way he’s living out every filthy fantasy he’s had about you for months.
Kyle kisses you deeply, tongue sliding against yours in time with his thrusts. His hips pick up speed, snapping harder, the desk creaking rhythmically beneath you. Skin slaps against skin. Your breasts bounce with every powerful stroke. He breaks the kiss to look down between your bodies, watching his thick cock disappear inside your glistening pussy again and again.
“Fuck, look how wet you are,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You’re dripping down my balls, baby. Been dreaming about this pussy for so long… and it’s even better than I imagined. So hot. So fucking tight.”
He adjusts his grip, hooking your other leg over his arm too, nearly folding you in half on the desk. The new angle lets him drive even deeper, the head of his cock dragging right against that spongy spot inside you with every thrust. You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure spikes higher.
Kyle’s pace turns relentless — hard, fast, possessive strokes that make your entire body jolt. Sweat beads on his forehead and drips onto your chest. His hand slides down to rub your clit in tight, messy circles, never breaking rhythm. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Your moans turn into desperate, broken cries.
“That’s it,” he growls, eyes locked on your face like he doesn’t want to miss a single second. “Let me hear you. Been dreaming about making you moan like this for me. Come on, baby — come on my cock again. I want to feel you fall apart while I’m buried inside you.”
The words, the relentless pounding, the perfect pressure on your clit, the way he’s holding you open and fucking you like he owns you — it’s too much. Your second orgasm crashes over you even harder than the first. Your back arches, walls clamping down around his thick length in powerful, rhythmic spasms. You cry out his name, thighs shaking violently as pleasure rips through every nerve in your body. Your pussy gushes around him, soaking his cock and the desk beneath you.
Kyle groans loudly at the feeling, but he doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through every wave, drawing it out until you’re trembling and oversensitive, whimpering with every thrust.
Only then does he let himself go.
He buries his face in your neck, hips stuttering as he slams into you a few final, brutal times. With a deep, guttural moan, he comes hard — cock pulsing thickly inside you as he spills rope after rope of hot cum deep in your pussy. His hips grind against you like he’s trying to push every drop as far inside as possible, arms wrapped tight around your body, holding you flush against him while he rides out the long, shuddering orgasm.
For a long minute afterward, the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the low hum of the building. Kyle stays buried deep inside you, still holding both your legs open, his cock twitching with aftershocks. He kisses your neck, your jaw, your lips — slow, reverent kisses now, like he’s savoring every second of the fantasy finally come true.
“God… I can’t believe you let me have this,” he whispers against your mouth, voice soft with wonder. “You’re perfect. Even better than every single night I spent thinking about you.”
He finally eases your legs down gently, but doesn’t pull out yet. Instead he wraps his arms around you fully, holding you close against his chest while you’re still sitting on the edge of the desk, his cock warm and softening inside you. One hand strokes slowly up and down your back, the other gently brushing damp hair from your face.
He looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the entire world.
Then suddenly everything changes.
Kyle pulls out of you with a wet sound, his cock still half-hard and glistening. He steps back, breathing ragged, and quickly tucks himself away, yanking his boxers and work pants up with sharp, efficient movements. The dreamy, awed look on his face hardens into something sharper — alert, urgent.
“Get dressed,” he says, voice low and tense as he grabs your blouse from the floor and shoves it toward you. “Now. We have to leave.”
You blink, still dazed, legs shaky, his cum slowly leaking down your thighs. “What…?”
He doesn’t explain. He just bends down, snatches your panties off the floor, and presses them into your hands. His eyes flick toward the glass wall overlooking the dark studio, then back to you.
“We have to leave right now.”
Money Monster (2016)
Money Monster (2016) - starring Jack O'Connell as Kyle Budwell
(All screencaps taken by SCRPrints)
