First Encounters
Clint Flood x Black!SexWorker!Reader
E // MDNI // WC: 1k // smut, p in v, transactional sex // masterlist //
AN:// Saw Freaky Tales recently and it led me to picking up my Pedro Pascal hat and putting it back on. Can you believe this used to be a Pedro Pascal and Oscar Isaac Blog that eventually only talked about Jake Johnson before becoming what it is now? What a world
You rubbed at your shoulder.
You session with your last client was more intense than usual. There was usually a role play element involving ninjas? Samurai? You don't actually know the difference, but in the moment you can. He pays well enough.
You grabbed a warm towel. Cleaning yourself off and getting ready to close for the night.
You don't actually have to work as hard as the other Hell, these days you only ever have one client. He wealthy enough to buy your exclusivity.
The phone wrong and you frowned.
"Hello."
"You have one more client. Don't leave yet."
"One more?" You questioned.
"He paid and he came referee to you by your previous He's on his way" Your boss hung up without another word.
Stran—
"Hi." You jumped, noticing the man in your room. He held his hand up in a small wave.
"You're early." You grinned, making sure not too look too rude or upset— or confused by the whole situation.
"They told me they'd squeeze me in. I didn't know it would be such a last minuet thing," he started a casual conversation, stuffing his hands into his black leather jacket.
You could tell right away.
Widow.
They had a look about them. Didn't matter if they took off the ring, how much they tried to be normal or happy about the thing or persevere despite it all. They can't hide that shadow of grief behind their eyes. They don't know how it clouds over there entire being.
Most people probably wouldn't notice, but you picked up the skill throughout your illustrious side hustle.
"Don't tell anyone what you've seen." You pop back into the bathroom and run warm water, finishing the process of cleaning yourself before another client. "Before we get to it that is. This isn't the part people are supposed to see — ruins the magic of the whole thing." You continued conversationally, matching his tone.
Without looking ,you can tell he noticed. You can feel his eyes sweeping over the lacy baby blue number you wore. That he was admiring your body underneath the delicate fabric over your breast, the matching garter over your thighs connected to the bottomless panties of the same color.
"Was the blue Sleepy's idea? That what he into." The man waved a finger towards you circling it to emphasize his point.
You hid your disapproval of mentions other clients, but with the type of money he paid to get in here, most rules were out the window.
"He prefers me in shades of blue and yellow," you skeptically raise a brow, "he also pays for them, so I don't mind."
"That what your into?" he tilts his head. "men buying you things you want?"
"What do you want? What do you want to do?" you clarify, abruptly changing the subject. "What do you want from me?"
"Just trying to make conversation." He holds his hands up by his head and slowly makes his way over to you.
"Right." You were done talking.
You move his jacket off his broad shoulders. He didn't smell too bad, cigarettes and a cologne laced with scents of rum? something sweet and boozy, woody with hints of oud.
For a seemingly unassuming man, everything about him was bold and loud. His thickly gelled back curls and striking leather jacket. A shadow of a scar on his face, made you suspicions more fact than assumptions.
"I suppose the time for talk is over." He says lowly, his words dance across your eyelashes.
He brings a hand to your face, slowly tracing your features with a thumb. It hovers over your lip. His brown eyes haze darkly into something unreadable, the soft gentile and awkward widow vanished before you, making you acutely aware that his hand swallowed more than half your face.
Gently he pushes at your cheek, signaling you to move the the bed.
He doesn't stop there, pushing you down into the mattress, burying your face in the sheets while he hiked your ass up in the air. He keeps a hand shoved into your shoulder blades, refusing you room for reprieve.
Wasting no time, he plays with your pussy.
"I can still feel his cum inside you." He hums in a low almost cruel voice, setting a harsh pace with is fingers. They were big and thick, impossibly filling you up and stretching you out.
Your pussy gushes around them.
Floyd had already worn you out. You were already aching from how he previously pounded into you, but what you assumed would be an easy pump and done has deteriorated all together as you cum around his fingers with a cry.
He shushes you, ignoring the tears that ebb your vision.
He slowly slides his dick into you, somehow stretching you out even further, each vein pulses threateningly along your walls.
He lays snugly on top of you in unison, smothering you with his back. His jeans scratch your thighs and his flannel shuffles uncomfortably against your skin.
" . . .been so long since I felt this good." He hums into your ear, burying his face into your neck as he sinks fully into you, his hips smacking against your ass.
He languidly lifts his hips until only the tip is inside of you before slamming them back down. He sets a pace slower than before, but it is equally as unforgiving. He ruts into you repeatedly, wrapping an arm around your throat with one hand as he hold your head down with the other, firmly locking you in place.
His moans are hot against your neck.
You whimper into the crook of his arm, unable to anything but take it.
His dick twitches hard inside you after one particular thrust. Before you can tell him not to cum inside you, he's already pulling out, lifting his hips higher than before and letting his dick rest on top of you. Thick hot ropes of his cum spills out of him, dripping all over your ass and lower back.
"Fuck." He climbs off of you, panting as he catches his breath. "We should do this again sometime." He says conversationally as he buckled is pants.
The sound of his jacket rustling against him muffles in your ears.
"Hate to hit and run," he says in the somewhat deadpan awkward tone he walked in with, "er. . . uhmhh," he draws out, "dine and dash?"
"You can just leave." you say pointedly your voice horse, "You paid upfront before you got here."
"Right." He says.
With one final nod, he walks out the door.
.
.
.
.
@megamindsecretlair @nerdieforpedro @nathanbatemanfucker @notapradagurl7
Forgive me if i didn't tag you. It's been so long since I've written for Pedro idk who I'm mutuals with or anyone else following me that would like to be tagged
