𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕋𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕓𝕝𝕖
𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐨 (𝐎𝐂) 𝐱 𝐁𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐦 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
RiE: SSS | Chapter 1 Smut Excerpt
This is the first part of a oneshot collection of smut scene suggestions people sent me. Cross-posted on AO3: Link
TAGS: NSFW Oneshot, Porn With Plot, Explicit Overdetailed M/M Smut, Bottom M!Reader, No Use of Y/N, 2nd Person Pov, No race or physical descriptions of reader ever mentioned, Established Relationship, Wrestling/Play Fighting, Light Bondage with belt, Making Out, Blowjobs, Rimming, Spit as lube, Fingering, Anal Sex, Phone sex (sort of?), Reader being recorded on call, Creampie, Overstimulation, Multiple rounds implied so get yourself a wheelchair because it's Rigo, Realistic sex cause I know what I'm doing
SYNOPSIS: You're a street racer. After almost getting attacked in your last race, Rigo decided to teach you how to fight. Tension has been building between you for weeks, and you're getting sick of his constant teasing and snarky comments. You got rage-baited so hard that it led to you lunge at him, and it turned into roughhousing and sex. Also, Nico (who you also have a sexual relationship with) calls you in the middle of it, and Rigo makes you answer the call while he fucks you.
A/N: Every new smut I write gets more and more freaky than the last one because of all the suggestions. And I'm happy to deliver the kind of quality we all crave. How many kink suggestions did I fit in this oneshot? YES!!!
Word count: 10,745
“You need to learn how to fight.”
The words struck with the same blunt force as the memory they dragged back to the surface.
A few nights ago, after crossing the finish line ahead of a driver who had spent the entire race trying to shove your rear bumper into guardrails, the victory hadn’t even had time to settle in before everything nearly went sideways.
You had been too distracted accepting handshakes and answering congratulations from your crew to notice the loser weaving through the crowd with murder written across his face. You turned just in time to catch the attacker raising a fist behind your head the moment someone warned you, but the man was already close enough that you could see the tendons stretching across his forearm.
Your eyes widen, you’re not fast enough to dodge it.
Right before the punch could land, Rigo, who was nearby, reacted faster. His right hook slammed into the man’s jaw with a crack that turned heads across the lot. The impact twisted the guy sideways before he collapsed onto the asphalt, unconscious before he even hit the ground. Gasps rippled through the spectators and you stood frozen, pulse hammering against your ribs as the realization dawns over you.
If Rigo had been one second later, you would’ve been the one lying on the ground. You instinctively reached for the back of your head, imagining where that punch would’ve landed, while Rigo merely flexed his fingers, looked down at the unconscious racer, and muttered something about so many sore losers these days.
Which is exactly why you now find yourself standing in the middle of a hybrid gym with a room dedicated to training boxing instead of behind the steering wheel of a car.
Earlier this afternoon, Rigo showed up at your apartment completely unannounced, pounding on your front door with persistence that suggested he would’ve happily kicked it open if you hadn’t answered within the next thirty seconds.
The moment you cracked the door, he took one look at you lounging around and being lazy, then he said, “Get dressed. You’re coming with me to the gym.”
Naturally, you asked why. He only answered with, “Because I said so.”
You spent the next few minutes trying to convince him that whatever he had planned could surely wait another day. Gyms had never really appealed to you since you’re already happy with your own body. Unfortunately for you, Rigo had anticipated the argument. With an annoyingly smug grin, he jerked a thumb toward the parking lot outside.
Parked beneath the afternoon sun was his blacked-out 2017 Dodge Viper ACR and not the Shelby GT500 he usually used.
That was all it took.
Five minutes later, you were locking your apartment door behind you, silently pretending you hadn’t folded so easily just because he dangled one of your favorite cars in front of you like bait.
Now, you’re standing inside the gym, the rhythmic sound of gloves striking punching bags echoes from every corner. People are focusing on their own workouts while others spar behind thick ropes under the watchful eye of a coach barking corrections.
You were beginning to suspect the Viper had been nothing more than a very effective bribe you fell for.
In front of you hangs a heavy bag that sways ever so slightly, untouched and waiting. You stare at it with all the confidence of someone who has no idea where to even begin. On the side, Rigo leans against a support column with his tattooed arms folded over his chest, looking far too amused by the situation.
“What happens if it was a sprint race and the finish line’s on the other side of the city?” he asks, pushing himself off the column. “And I ain’t there to save your ass, huh?”
He stopped beside the bag and gave it a casual shove, sending it swinging slightly toward you before it drifted back again.
“You spend every damn night drivin’ machines at deadly speeds, but put you in front of one pissed-off idiot and suddenly your survival depends on whether I’m nearby."
His eyes travel from your sneakers to your gym clothes and to your face, looking you over with the same expression a mechanic wears after discovering someone filled their engine with cooking oil.
You stare at the punching bag for another second before glancing back at him.
“Then you should wait for me at the finish line,” your shoulders lifting into an innocent shrug. “Make yourself more useful,” you say while grinning. “And be my bodyguard again just like last time.”
Rigo doesn’t dignify the joke with a response, he looks at you as if he’s thinking whether you’re really worth the trouble. He then walks behind the bag while you look at him curiously, one eyebrow raised.
Without warning, he plants both hands against the heavy bag and pushes it toward you. The thing swings like a pendulum.
Thud.
It slams squarely into your torso. The impact knocks the air from your lungs and sends you staggering back two clumsy steps before you catch yourself. “Ow! You asshole!!”
Rigo ignores the complaint with a smirk, simply watching the heavy bag swing back and forth between the two of you before folding his arms across his chest.
“Zero awareness, this is exactly what I’m talking about,” he says.
“You know, a real street fight doesn’t look like a boxing match. Nobody squares up for several rounds, throwing perfect combinations.” He looks at you while explaining, “Somebody talks shit, both of them get in the other’s face, then somebody throws the first punch. After that, the whole thing’s over in seconds.”
He gestures toward the open gym around you, where gloves continuously hammer against heavy bags.
“One clean shot lands, somebody stumbles, people rush in to separate them, and everybody goes home telling a different version of what happened. That’s reality.” He’s clearly speaking from experience.
They already told you back then that fights after races are pretty common, you’ve seen it once, but that one night was the first time you experienced it happen to yourself.
“So forget all that movie crap where you’re expected to stand there tradin’ punches until one guy gives some dramatic speech.”
“You ain’t trying to win, you’re trying to make sure the first punch doesn’t connect with your face.” His tone remains matter-of-fact, like an instructor.
“If someone looks like they wanna fight after you win, never turn your back on them. Doesn’t matter if you’re tryna leave. Doesn’t matter if they’re yelling. Face them until you’ve got enough distance that they can’t run up and hit you.”
You look up at him while he explains, not even in the mood to talk back or make a joke about it after that particular night.
He pokes you on the chest with one finger, “And if they force you into throwin’ one punch... make it count.”
“‘Cause one good punch is usually enough to create a pause, then everyone nearby starts pullin’ you both away from each other and yellin’ to stop. That’s your cue to leave, don’t stick around tryna explain your side.”
His words ingrain themselves in your mind. Somewhere across the room, you hear a speed bag rattle in rapid succession while a trainer barks instructions.
Rigo gives the heavy bag a small tap with his knuckles before stepping aside.
“Alright.” He jerks his head toward it. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
You roll your shoulders to loosen the tension. You’ve driven one thousand horsepower sportscars, threaded through traffic at two hundred miles per hour, and drifted around corners with inches to spare. But somehow, standing in front of a punching bag feels more difficult, you’re definitely out of your element.
He didn’t even make you wear a protective hand wrap to cushion your knuckles. Whatever, you’ll show him that you’re not a wimp.
You step one foot back, plant your feet as you saw others do, curl your fingers into a fist, draw your arm back, and throw everything you have into the center of the bag.
Thud. The impact makes a satisfying sound.
A dull ache blooms across your knuckles. You try very hard not to shake your hand in pain and appear like a weakling, so you flex your fingers instead and keep your face neutral.
But the bag barely moves. It sways a couple of inches before lazily swaying back toward you as if nothing significant had happened.
Rigo stares at the bag for a moment, and then at you while you stare back at him.
His fist comes up to his mouth, shoulders trembling ever so slightly as he tries, and fails, to keep a straight face.
“...That,” he says after a long pause, “was adorable. You can almost make a kid cry.” The laugh finally escapes him.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Oh, fuck you!” You flip him off, pushing your middle finger near his face. “It was a decent attempt!”
Rigo wipes the grin from his face with a sigh before stepping closer.
“No.” He shakes his head. “You’re only using your arm to punch.” He steps beside the bag, planting one foot slightly ahead of the other. His fist rises to his cheek.
“First, you stay balanced.” He demonstrates the stance naturally, knees bent just enough that he looks rooted to the floor.
“When you punch, don’t think about your hand.” His rear heel lifts a fraction. “Drive off your back foot before pulling your arm back.” The subtle movement rolls through the rest of his body.
“Your hips turn first.” His waist rotates. “Your shoulder follows.” The shoulder snaps forward a split second later.
“And your arm...” he draws his fist forward in slow motion just so you can understand better. “...just comes along for the ride.” He pauses halfway through the movement and glances at you.
“If your fist gets there before everything else,” He taps his own bicep, “you wasted half your weight.”
“You don’t even need big muscles. All you need is timing. The moment your heel turns,” He pivots his foot against the floor. “Your hips should follow and so on.” His waist turns again. “Your fist should be the last thing to arrive.”
Rigo runs a hand through his blond hair before he resets his stance. “And don’t fuckin’ project that you’re about to punch ‘em. The whole move should be done in one second.”
He glances at you, and something shifts behind his eyes, the grin spreading across his face is unhinged.
“Just like this.”
One foot plants behind him. Then he turns, his foot twists against the rubber floor, his hips follow, his shoulder whips through, and his arm swings forward.
BOOM!
The punch hits the bag so hard it lurches backward violently that you think the bag might even snap in half, chains snapping tight overhead before the entire thing sails away from him in one wide arc.
Several heads turn from nearby, yet your wide eyes remain fixed on the heavy bag as it swings back to him before he stops it halfway. Your gaze drift toward him, your mouth parts ever so slightly. “Holy shit...”
Thank God he’s on your side.
Rigo notices the look on your face and grins unsettlingly, “Imagining you’re punching somebody you hate helps.”
“...Should I be worried there’s someone specific you’re thinking about?”
“Nah.” He shrugs with a crooked smile. “I’ve got a very long list.”
He jerks his head toward the bag. “Again.”
You step into position, replaying every movement you just watched. You try to mirror his stance as closely as you can, planting your feet where you think they should be before drawing your fist back.
“Close.” Rigo steps closer. He nudges your front shoe a few inches outward with the side of his own.
His hands settle around your waist. He turns your hips slightly, grip firm and warm even through the fabric of your shirt. “A little farther.” His thumb presses lightly against your side as he adjusts your stance.
“There.” His hand slides away from your waist and settles against the middle of your back. The broad pressure between your shoulder blades sends an unexpected warmth creeping up the back of your neck.
His other hand finds your elbow. He lifts it slightly. “This drops every time you tense up.”
You’re hyperaware of his touch in ways you shouldn’t be at this moment. So why does your brain suddenly seem far more interested in how close he’s standing than the punching technique?
His fingers linger only long enough to guide the angle before moving to your wrist. He wraps his hand around it, rotating your fist until your knuckles line up properly. “Don’t clench your fist so hard.”
“Your punch should land like this,” he makes one final adjustment. He’s so close you catch the scent of whatever cologne he’s wearing and feel how warm his body is next to you, it’s distracting.
“Stop thinkin’ about some bullshit,” his voice comes from just beside your ear, you can see his smirk in the corner of your eyes. Heat creeps into your face, and you open your mouth to respond, but he stops you before you can say a word.
“Now punch the damn bag.” He pats your shoulder before finally stepping away.
This time, you don’t overthink it. You exhale and drive your fist towards the bag the same way he did.
Thud. The impact reverberates through your arm. The bag swings much farther than before, the chains rattling slightly overhead as it arcs away. Still nowhere near Rigo’s, but undeniably better than your first attempt. You flex your hand, your knuckles sting a bit.
Rigo watches the bag complete its arc before giving a slow nod. “That was better.” His eyes flick toward you. “Now, you might actually make a teenager cry.”
You tried the technique again and again, getting better each time despite the growing pain in your knuckles and how you’re growing tired of doing it. You trained for a while until Rigo was finally satisfied that you could at least throw a proper punch without looking like you’re trying to swat a mosquito.
He claps you on the shoulder hard enough to jostle you forward. “There,” he says with a nod of approval. “Now go and work on yourself since we’re here already.”
You blink and wipe the sweat on your forehead. “I thought we were done.”
“You’re done learning how to punch.” He jerks a thumb toward the door where rows of machines line the other side of the gym. “But you’re still built like a strong breeze could knock you over.”
“That’s not true and you know it!” Heat creeps up your face again, you’re not that fragile just because you’re not as buff as him.
He’s already walking away to the glass doors and ignoring your protest. “We’ve got an hour. I’m sure you can handle yourself in that time.”
“What am I supposed to do for an hour?” You ask while following him out to the other side of the gym.
“Anything.” He looks back over one shoulder. “Preferably somethin’ where you don’t embarrass yourself.”
With that, you settle for the treadmill, not because you particularly enjoy running, but because it gives you a perfectly unobstructed view of Rigo.
He moves through the gym with the casual confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. There isn’t an ounce of hesitation in the way he loads plates onto a barbell or adjusts the seat of a machine. He makes it look trivial and effortless.
The compression shirt he’s wearing hugs every curve and crease of his abdomen and doesn’t do much to hide the results of years spent wrenching on engines and getting into more fights than any sane person should admit to.
Every pull against the cables tightens the muscles across his shoulders, lines shifting beneath pale skin, and his full sleeve tattoos shift along with every movement. His forearms flex with every repetition, thick cords running beneath the surface.
You bite your lip, you always knew he was strong, but he handles weight as easily as the way you handle a steering wheel. You won’t even lie, you wish he just decided to work out shirtless, because what an eye candy he is. Perfectly natural build you see in fitness magazines that doesn’t look too bulky like those steroid-induced bodybuilders.
Your eyes wander despite yourself. Broad shoulders, toned abs, narrow waist. Well-defined biceps that looked more than capable of picking up an engine block...or effortlessly tossing you across the room if he ever felt inclined.
A ridiculous thought. One your brain absolutely refuses to let go of.
Not that today’s lesson left much room for debate. You realize the treadmill is still moving beneath your feet only when it lets out an impatient beep.
Right, cardio.
You increase the speed and try to focus on exercising for about a minute before your attention wanders right back to Rigo, who has long since moved on to dumbbells, veins standing out across his forearms as he finishes another set with an expression so unfairly relaxed.
You stare a little too long.
Pretend to stretch, walk for another minute.
Then somehow find yourself looking again. The fuck is wrong with you today?
And every time he glances your way, you avoid his gaze and pretend to be working out properly like a game.
An hour passes like that, or more accurately, Rigo works out for an hour while you occasionally remember that you’re supposed to be exercising. Eventually, he racks the last of his weights and wipes the back of his neck with a towel before looking in your direction.
His eyes narrow. “You’ve been on that treadmill for the entire fuckin’ hour just speed walking.”
“Yes,” you admit, “It’s good for blood circulation.”
“I don’t think you’ve even broken a sweat,” he says while looking you up and down like you don’t know what to do when left alone.
“I perspired emotionally.” You quip just to annoy him, finally turning off the machine.
Rigo lets out a long sigh that sounds like he’s reconsidering every life decision that led him here. “The only exercise you’ve gotten today is moving your eyeballs.”
You can’t even argue because he’s right, but you think that short boxing training was a good enough exercise since your hands still hurt slightly.
“C’mon,” He hooks the towel over one shoulder and starts toward the locker rooms. “If I don’t end this session now, you’re going to invent new ways to avoid actually working out."
You grin to yourself and fall into step behind him. “It was a great session.”
The locker room is colder than the gym floor. The muffled sound of the shower sprays echoes from the tiled walls as you both move toward the changing area.
Rigo is already pulling his shirt over his head when you open your locker, his bare torso now in full view. He tosses the shirt into his bag, not bothering to fold it, and stretches his arms above his head. The movement makes his muscles shift in ways that demand your full attention.
He notices you watching and catches your eye, and his smirk widens. He’s got his own game, because you recognize the way he holds himself, the casual flex of his shoulders, the way his muscles shift, while pretending he doesn’t realize how good he looks.
But you do.
He knows it too.
You force yourself to look away first, busying yourself with peeling off your own shirt, letting the fabric drop to the bench beside you. You can feel the air shift, charged like before a race.
“Enjoying the view?” he asks, not even trying to sound innocent as he walks nearer.
You scoff. “I’ve seen better.” You roll your eyes but don’t look away this time.
“You’ve been starin’ for the entire hour, you ain’t even hidin’ it.” His eyes narrow at you when you shrug.
“Naahhh, I was lookin at the guy behind you,” you lie smoothly.
You should be used to this by now, the way he teases, the way you both let it drag out until it builds into something more than banter. Your heartbeat stutters when his gaze travels the line of your body downward, making it clear he’s taking his time.
Rigo steps even closer. The locker room isn’t crowded, but it isn’t empty either, and it makes you nervous how exposed you feel when he’s standing inches from you. Your pulse beats faster, you’re close enough now that you can smell the musk of exertion and the sweat clinging to his skin.
“Really? ‘Cause right now...” He leans close to your ear and whispers something only meant for you. “You look like you want me to pin you right here and show everyone how much of a slut you are for my cock,” his breath is hot against your skin, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.
The words send a shiver down your back, your breath hitches, and your skin prickles with the heat of his bare skin so close to yours. Your heart pounds against your ribs, blood rushing to your face.
“Admit it,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing as he watches your reaction. “You’re imagining it right now, me bending you over one of these benches, everyone in the gym seeing how much you love it when I fuck you.”
Your throat feels dry as you meet his gaze. You swallow hard, feeling the awareness of his presence in every nerve ending. It takes a lot of your self-control not to grab him, pull him against you, and show him just how much you like the game he’s playing.
But before you can move or utter a response, he steps back and chuckles cruelly. He grabs a towel, some body wash, and walks away as if that entire interaction was nothing, as if he didn’t just emotionally ruin you that you can’t even think straight.
He walks to the showers, without another word, and you hear the water running down the hall, the faint sound pattering against the tiles.
It’s infuriating, he knows exactly what he’s done to you, exactly how much power he holds over the situation from the way he moves with that cocky attitude, that smirk still plastered on his lips. Leaving you standing there flustered and speechless like an idiot.
“...Asshole,” you mutter under your breath, though there isn’t nearly as much conviction behind it as you’d like. You snatch your towel from the locker with far more force than necessary, grab shampoo from your gym bag, then march after him with every intention of acting completely unaffected even though you already failed the moment he left you.
The shower area is already filled with the hiss of running water and the scent of soap drifting through the humid air. Steam drifts through the air, softening the harsh white lights overhead.
You pick the first empty shower stall you see, hook your towel over the divider, and twist the faucet.
Ice-cold water crashes over your head, cascading over your heated skin. You suck in a sharp breath and force yourself to endure it. The chill races across your skin, sending a shiver down your limbs, because maybe freezing water will rinse away the embarrassing replay your brain insists on looping.
Unfortunately for you, it doesn’t. Because every second your thoughts wander, they circle right back to Rigo.
That stupid smile, that annoying attitude. Now your own imagination is doing most of the damage, you don’t even want to acknowledge how turned on you are or how the lower part of your body has stirred a bit when he said it.
You scrub a hand through your wet hair in frustration, determined to wash away both the sweat and your rapidly deteriorating composure.
Why did he have to say it like that?
He says something outrageous, watches you short-circuit for half a second, then strolls away like nothing happened, leaving you to deal with the aftermath. At the same time, he’s probably already forgotten about it. Fucking jerk.
You stayed under the cold water longer than necessary, until your thoughts have settled enough that you feel like yourself again and your body no longer feels like it’s on fire. You shut the faucet and dry off before heading back into the locker room.
Rigo is already there, his blond hair still damp but he’s fully dressed, one foot propped against the bench as he ties the laces of his shoes. He glances up when you walk in.
You don’t acknowledge him, but you do wish that you had brought clothes so you could get dressed in the shower stall instead of in front of him.
But it’s too late now, and you force yourself not to care as you set your things down. You act like you don’t even notice him looking at you, but you’re acutely aware of his gaze sweeping over your damp skin. He’s watching, just like you did when he worked out.
Oh, how the roles got reversed.
“You look flustered, man,” he says, his smirk making it clear he already knows exactly why you’re in this state. He leans forward, exuding confidence as he keeps provoking you. “Thinking about something?”
Turning your back to him, you don’t bother to respond. The towel on your waist is the only thing hiding your modesty, and with exaggerated focus, you begin getting dressed, giving every zipper, button, and shoelace far more attention than they realistically require.
You can practically feel his eyes on you, but you refuse to look back. The silence stretches just long enough to become suspicious, until you hear him chuckle, amused by your silent treatment.
You grit your teeth and don’t react because if you do, he wins.
A few minutes later, you’re both walking out of the locker room together towards outside, neither of you says a word, which is probably for the best.
The sun just barely set, and the cool early evening greets you the moment the two of you step out of the gym. The parking lot is quieter at this time, leaving only a scattering of cars beneath the glow of the streetlights.
You trail a few steps behind him in comfortable silence. You’re still trying to forget the stupid thing he said before disappearing into the showers.
The familiar silhouette of the Viper comes into view at the end of the row, its long hood catching the last traces of daylight, built with very little regard for subtlety. You’re not even thrilled to see it anymore, because no matter how many times you beg, Rigo still won’t let you drive it.
Maybe if you get on your knees, he would. But that’s a topic for another day.
Rigo places both of your bags in the trunk while you walk around to the passenger side with an exaggerated sigh, opening the door without a word before sinking into the low bucket seat.
Rigo settles into the driver’s seat beside you, starting the car. The massive V10 erupts to life, causing the entire cabin to vibrate beneath you as the engine idles, each pulse reverberating through the seats and up your spine.
Normally, you’d be grinning in excitement by now, instead, you stare out the windshield with your arms folded, making a very wilful effort to ignore the man sitting beside you.
Rigo lets the silence linger for a few seconds as he eases the shifter into gear.
“You know...” He glances sideways, fighting the beginning of a smile. “If you hadn’t spent the last hour pretending to exercise and actually put some work in...I probably would’ve let you drive this baby home.”
Your head abruptly turns to him, eyes narrowed. “Are you serious?”
He shrugs, eyes already back on the road as the Viper rolls toward the parking lot exit. “You heard me.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” A frustrated groan escapes you before you can stop it, running a hand through your hair.
“You should’ve said that from the beginning!” You throw your head back against the seat. “I would’ve actually worked out!”
Rigo’s laughter fills the car, rich and unrestrained.
“What are you? A kid that needs to be bribed before he’ll do anything productive?” He laughs again, easing the car onto the main road with ease.
“I prefer the term properly motivated,” you retort, crossing your arms again.
“You were supposed to work out ‘cause it’s good for you,” he points out. The speed picks up as he weaves through slower cars, traffic is light enough that the Viper never has to strain.
“And I would’ve if this car was involved,” you say while watching the tachometer glow red with the Viper logo as it redlines before Rigo shifts gears. Fucking cool feature.
“I swear,” he gives you another sideways glance for half a second before returning his focus on the road. “...Your priorities are messed up, man.”
The deep rumble of the ten-cylinder engine vibrates with an easy rhythm as the city drifts past outside the windows, storefront lights reflecting across the long hood.
You rest an elbow against the door, watching Rigo work the wheel. One hand resting loosely at the top of the steering wheel, the other occasionally dropping to the shifter with precise movements.
He’s not as refined as Nico, but he’s clearly a good driver, considering he’s never crashed any of his deathtrap cars with zero safety features.
You stare at him for a long moment before shaking your head. “I hope some jealous loser keys your car.”
“You mean someone like you?” He laughs obnoxiously, you walked right into that one.
Soon enough, the familiar streets of your neighborhood replace the wider roads of the city, the Viper’s exhaust echoing between apartment buildings as Rigo eases off the throttle. A minute later, he swings into the parking lot of your apartment complex. The engine settles into its deep idle, still loud enough to earn a few curious glances from people walking past.
The Viper rolls to a stop beside your GR86. The contrast makes you smile despite yourself.
The Toyota sits there exactly where you’d left it, cute and understated beneath the parking lot lights, while the Viper beside it looks like it’s perpetually daring someone to race it.
Rigo kills the engine, and you unbuckle first. The passenger door swings open, and you climb out carefully so you don’t burn your leg on the side exhaust. Cold evening air brushes across your face as you stretch your shoulders, grateful to finally be home.
Behind you, Rigo reaches into the trunk, grabs your gym bag before walking to you. He offers it toward you. “Here.”
You take the strap from his hand without meeting his eyes. “Thanks.” The words come out automatically. But you don’t give him a chance to respond as you turn on your heel and start walking toward the building entrance.
“So...” Rigo calls after you. His footsteps follow at a leisurely pace. “You’re not even gonna invite me in?”
You don’t bother looking back. “No.” You shift the gym bag higher onto your shoulder as you push through the front entrance. “I’m sick of looking at your stupid face.”
The stairwell amplifies the sound of his laugh while his footsteps continue climbing after yours anyway.
“Right,” His smug voice carries up the stairwell. “Like you didn’t spend an entire hour at the gym drooling over me.”
You glance over your shoulder just long enough to shoot him a glare.
He’s unfazed. “Just admit that you love looking at my stupid face.”
You roll your eyes and turn away again. He climbs the next few steps until he’s right behind you, wearing that infuriating grin that always seems to appear whenever he knows he’s getting under your skin.
“You know,” he teases thoughtfully, “most people usually try to be subtle.”
“Shut the fuck up already.” You say when you reach your floor, fishing out your keys from your pocket.
The lock clicks open and you step inside, he follows you in.
“I don’t actually remember saying you could come in.” You say with an exhausted sigh that carries no real irritation, you let the apartment door swing shut behind him.
He slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans and strolls farther into your apartment as though he’d lived there for years. The corner of his mouth curls into his signature smirk.
“I figured you’d be sad if I left.” His shoulders lift in an easy shrug. “You’re way too attached to my stupid face to let me walk out the door that easily.”
A dry laugh escapes you, and you start walking toward your bedroom, shaking your head as though the conversation has already exhausted you.
“I’ve actually been looking forward to the moment you finally leave ever since you tried to knock me over with that punching bag.”
Behind you, you hear him following without hesitation.
“See?” he says, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “You remember every little thing I do.”
You glance over your shoulder just long enough to send him an unimpressed look. “I remember traumatic experiences.”
“Same shit.” Rigo chuckles to himself. For someone who spends most of his time making fun of people, he doesn’t seem to mind whenever you’re the one insulting him. If anything, it only encourages him to make worse comebacks.
“Can’t a guy just come over and hang out with his favorite person?”
“I thought your favorite person was Nico,” you reply without looking back, opening the door to your bedroom.
You drop your gym bag beside the dresser while he glances around the room for all of half a second before making a beeline for your bed.
“I can have you both.” The mattress sinks beneath his weight as he sits down, looking too comfortable for someone who was never invited in the first place.
“Such greed.” You stare at him with a flat look. “I seriously don’t know how Nico tolerates you for years.”
“He loves me,” he says proudly before eying you slyly. “And so do you, because clearly seeing me makes you happy.”
You let out groan, rubbing both hands over your face. The action is more about hiding your slightly embarrassed expression than conveying real frustration. “Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself?”
“No,” his reply comes automatically.
“Whatever,” you say, turning around and pulling your belongings out of the bag and putting them back to their place.
Rigo shifts farther onto the bed before stretching both arms behind his head, looking entirely at ease as he watches you from across the room.
“I just figured that if I didn't follow you, you’d just spend all night jerkin’ off while thinkin’ about me.”
You immediately freeze after hearing that, your face burning red hot, and you turn to face him to see a wicked grin on his lips, obviously delighted by your reaction.
Something inside you finally snaps. “You know what? I’ve had enough!”
You cross the room in three quick strides.
Rigo barely has time to register the determined look on your face before you launch yourself at him.
“What the fu—”
The rest disappears into surprised laughter as you crash into his chest, sending both of you bouncing against the mattress with you on top of him. The sheets crumple beneath both of you.
You shove him down by the shoulders, or at least try to. His arms shoot up instinctively to stop you. You growl, pressing down with all your weight to try and get his arms pinned beneath you. You’re honestly half tempted to punch him for real just as he taught you.
“Oh shit, you actually came for blood.” He laughs, restraining your wrists easily despite your frantic attempts to pin him. His fingers tighten just enough to hold you in place without hurting.
You feel the heat of his body, the way his muscles shift under your thighs as you straddle his hips. He’s stronger than you, but he’s holding back, holding you just enough to make you think you have a chance. Your breathing is ragged, your heart pounding from both exertion and the thrill of this.
Seizing an opening, he manages to get you off of him and push you face down on the mattress. He puts you in a loose headlock, and you grit your teeth as his arm presses against your throat, but not tight enough to choke. “If you wanted to be this close to me, you could’ve just asked nicely,” he teases from behind you.
He pins you down, and you struggle to get him off, but really all you achieve is unintentionally grinding your ass against his crotch. Your face burns hot when you realize what you just did.
Rigo chuckles lowly against your ear, the sound vibrating through your back. “Shit, you're just making this worse for you,” he mutters, his hips shifting slightly to press himself more firmly against you. His voice is gravelly, full of desire, and his grip tightens just a little. His smirk doesn’t waver even as you struggle against his grip.
“Is this what you wanted? To feel how much you’re affecting me? Because you have no idea what you’re playing with here,” he whispers, voice laced with arousal. He nips on your earlobe, his teeth scraping against the skin.
“Shut up!” You exclaim before you bite his arm in a desperate attempt to gain control.
Rigo jerks with a startled grunt, your bite wasn’t hard enough to break skin, and he laughs, a dark, rough sound. “Ooooh, now you’re really playing with fire,” his breath is hot against your skin. He rolls you onto your back and straddles you effortlessly. His weight pins you down, and your hands are caught again. He grips both of your wrists in one hand and pulls them above your head.
“Get off!” You gasp, still trying to wrestle free. “You’re so annoying!”
You thrash beneath him, but it’s only making the situation worse. His grip on your wrists tightens, and he’s free hand pushes your abdomen flat, trying to keep you still. You bare your teeth at him, arching up and bucking your hips to try and get him off you.
“You’re acting like a feral animal. It’s fuckin’ cute,” he says, clearly entertained. He shifts his weight slightly, enough to let you feel the solid press of his thighs against your hips.
His hand comes up the side of your face, caressing your cheek. As if proving him right, you turn your head and lightly bite his palm.
He chuckles, doesn’t even move his hand away, feeling your teeth sink into his skin while you glare at him. His dark eyes glint with something primal, a hunger that’s been building between you.
“Feral and naughty,” he says, tone lowered and raspy. His grip on your wrists never loosens, his hips shift slightly, purposely grinding down against yours. You can feel him through the layers of clothing, and it sends a traitorous pulse of heat straight through your core.
“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he mutters, tone full of lust.
He removes his hand from your face and unbuckles his belt while still restraining your wrists with the other. You look at him quizzically when he pulls it entirely off the belt loops, and you realize his plan when he wraps it around your wrist. You two have fucked multiple times already, but not like this.
“W-Wait! I was just messing with you,” you’re suddenly unsure, not because you don’t want this but because of the weeks of tension building between you and for what you just did, you’re pretty sure he won’t hold back from breaking you.
His belt wraps tight around your wrists, holding them firm but not painful. He works swiftly, threading it through the headboard with a few expert tugs. His smirk widens as he watches you squirm. Your face burns hot, pulse racing under the restraints, you’re completely under his mercy now, unable to do anything with both hands bound to the wooden slats above your head.
“Too late for that,” he says while taking his shirt off. You sense the hunger in his voice, you can feel his breath hot against your neck as he leans down, leaving kisses along your jaw. The pressure of his body against yours is almost suffocating, his weight pressing you deeper into the mattress.
His hands drift down your arms, and he moves lower to your clothed abdomen, one hand sneaking under your shirt, tracing your skin and making you shiver. While the other toys with the button of your jeans, fingers teasing the skin over your waistband.
Rigo’s mouth finds yours with a possessiveness that steals your breath. The kiss feels like he’s trying to devour you, hungry, claiming, teeth nipping at your bottom lip before his tongue slides against yours. You tilt your head back to give him better access.
You want to touch him, run your fingers through his hair and pull him closer. Your body arches up instinctively, seeking more contact even as your hands tug uselessly against the belt binding them. But you can’t deny the appeal of surrendering full control to him, being this helpless under him is turning you on more than you thought it would. Especially when he cups you through your pants, already stiff and aching, seeking relief and friction. Your body responding eagerly despite the layers still separating you, grinding your hips against his.
His lips move lower to your neck, your shirt gets pushed up just enough to expose the full expanse of your upper body to his gaze. With your arms tied, all you can do is writhe beneath him as his fingers tease your chest, tugging lightly on one sensitive nipple.
Your breathing is shallow, your entire body buzzing with awareness as he leans down and licks a slow stripe up the center of your chest. His hot breath ghosts across your flesh, and his smirk returns as he watches the goosebumps erupt across your skin.
“Rigo—ahh!” Whatever you were going to say is cut off by an audible gasp when his mouth closes around your other nipple, your back arches on instinct when his teeth graze your sensitive skin. His tongue soothes the bite before he moves lower, kissing a path down your abdomen.
He positions himself between your legs. Your body trembles, muscles coiling with anticipation as his mouth trails lower, leaving marks and bruises along the way. The rasp of his stubble against your skin sends shivers coursing through you, your hips lifting slightly off the mattress in a feverish attempt to seek friction. He smiles against your skin as he pops the button and pulls your pants off, followed by your underwear. You’re already fully hard and aching for his touch.
You gasp when he lifts your hips and places your thighs over his shoulders, exposing you in the most embarrassing way. You strain in this position, his breath feels hot against the most sensitive parts of you. His lips brush lightly over your inner thigh, and you can’t stop yourself from shifting restlessly when he keeps teasing.
“Fuck—ah!” You jolt when his teeth sink into the soft flesh of your inner thigh before soothing the bite with a slow drag of his tongue. He nips at your tender skin, leaving love bites all over your thighs. Your hips jerk involuntarily, and you let out a choked whimper when he licks higher, closer to where you ache most.
His mouth is so close, hovering just outside of reach, teasing with the heat of his breath. But he doesn’t actually make contact where you need them. His hands grip your thighs to keep them from squirming.
“Please,” you breathe out, desperately. “S-Stop fucking around and...” Your words die in your throat as his tongue flicks out, licking a hot stripe up your shaft from base to tip, tracing the vein along the underside. He teases the sensitive head with the flat of his tongue, circling and swirling, his eyes locked on yours to gauge your reactions.
But that moment is short-lived, and you whimper when his mouth leaves you.
Your hips jerk upward, seeking more contact, but his firm grip on your thighs holds you in place. He looks down on you as he licks his lips, enjoying how flustered and desperate you are. His dark eyes burn with intensity as he blows a light stream of cool air over your heated skin, the contrast making you twitch.
You hate how easily he reduced you into a trembling mess. You’re already breathing hard, your chest rising and falling fast. Every muscle in your body is taut with need, your cock pulsing with the need for more, and precum is already beading on your tip.
Rigo’s smile widens as he watches you squirm beneath him, your bound wrists tugging uselessly at the belt securing them to the headboard. His rough hands slide up your thighs, thumbs tracing circles on your hipbones as he lowers himself between your spread legs.
“You love this, don’t you?” his hot breath ghosting over your groin. “Being all tied up, and powerless.” His tongue flicks out, dragging against your taint to your ass. Your hips buck involuntarily, a desperate moan escaping your lips.
“Fuck yesss!” You don’t even care if you’re throwing your dignity away, you just want him to touch you more, want him to fuck you till your body can’t handle it anymore.
“Mhm,” he hums against your skin, vibrating right where you’re most sensitive. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you down as he licks your hole, teasingly circling without applying the pressure you desperately want.
“Please...” You breathe out the plea pathetically, spreading your legs wider as an invitation.
His tongue feels impossibly hot against your rim as he licks long and slow, drawing out the agonizingly slow buildup. You can’t stop yourself from rutting against the air, your back arching as he finally presses his tongue more firmly into you. He hums deep in his throat, vibrating against your skin.
He presses his tongue inside again, reaching as far as he can to make your toes curl. The restraint bites into your wrists as you tug uselessly against it. He’s got you exactly where he wants you, helplessly spread wide and completely under mercy.
He presses a finger into you to open you up more, stretching you as he laps at your rim. Your body tenses and then relaxes, your muscles giving way to the intrusion just as he adds another. He curls his fingers inside you, probing and scissoring to hit that spot that makes your vision blur.
“Nggh,” your back arches when he finds your prostate. He smirks against your skin, maintaining eye contact with you as he adds a third finger, stretching you wider.
Your breath hitches, the burn and pleasure mingling together in your core. His fingers move in and out of you with expert precision, twisting and curling to hit that sweet spot. Each thrust of his hand makes you shudder, you’re leaking precum onto your stomach.
He lowers his head again, his hot tongue tracing circles around your rim while his fingers continue to pump in and out of you. The sensations are torturous, making your hips buck uncontrollably.
And when he licks up your taint and over your sac, you throw your head back, eyes fluttering close. “F-Fuck,” you pant, your voice raw. “I-I can’t take it anymore, please... gonna—!!”
Your words cut off as his mouth engulfs your length. The wet heat of his mouth around your girth, combined with the movement of his fingers overwhelming. His tongue presses against the underside as he sucks. His free hand moves to your balls, rolling them gently while his other hand works inside you.
“Shit—aahh! Rigo!!” You cry out as he bobs his head, taking you deep. His fingers twist inside you, hitting your prostate again and again while his mouth moves up and down around your flesh. You can feel him humming against you, vibrating the pleasure straight to your core.
The coil in your gut snaps, and with a choked cry, you come undone. Your body convulsing as the intense pleasure overwhelms you. You cum hard, throbbing in his mouth as he sucks you harder, his tongue swirling around the sensitive head while his fingers relentlessly work your prostate.
Rigo swallows, drinking down your cum. His fingers keep moving inside you, milking every last bit of pleasure from your body. Your thighs quiver uncontrollably, your back arching off the mattress as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes through you.
He pulls away, removing his fingers slowly from you as he lowers your pelvis. You’re still panting hard when he moves up your body to kiss you. Making you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Mmmh,” you moan into the kiss, your body still quivering from the intensity of your orgasm. His tongue sweeps against yours, and you taste the slightly salty and bitter tang of your spent.
When he breaks the kiss, a mixture of spit and your cum dribbles from one corner of your mouth. His eyes gleam with satisfaction as he looks down at you, your body still trembling and still tied up beneath him.
“You’re so damn hot like this,” he murmurs, his rough fingers tracing your jaw. “But we’re just getting started, baby.”
He moves up, his knees on either side of your head as he finally pulls his pants down just enough to free himself. This whole time he was focusing on you, and now it’s your turn to pleasure him.
He lowers his hips, his thick cock hovering just above your face, fully hard and glistening at the tip. His grip on your jaw is firm, fingers digging into your skin as he guides himself to your lips. You part them instinctively, the musk of his arousal fills your senses as he pushes forward, his shaft sliding past your lips and filling your mouth.
One of his hands grips the headboard near your bound wrists, the veins in his arms standing out as he braces himself above you. He lets out a low groan, his hips rolling as he fucks your face with slow thrusts as you eagerly suck. Your shirt is still crumpled over your chest, unable to be taken off since your hands are tied.
He watches you intently as you take him, his other hand combing through your hair before fisting at the roots. There’s no hesitation in how he uses your mouth, his thick girth pushing past your throat, forcing you to swallow around him. Spit dribbles from your lips and down your chin as he sets a steady pace, rolling his hips to sink deeper.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he growls, his grip tightening in your hair. “Take it, show me how much you love this.”
“Mmph!” Your muffled moans vibrate against his shaft as he fucks your mouth with increasing intensity. His breathing grows heavier, his muscles tensing as he moves above you. He pushes the entire length all the way and holds it there for a few seconds while you look up at him with teary eyes.
Then Rigo pulls it out of your lips completely. You gasp as he pulls back, your chest heaving as you suck in air. His cock twitches above you, still rock hard and glistening with your spit. His eyes darken as he watches you recover, enjoyment visible in his expression.
“Good boy,” he praises you for once, stroking himself lazily with one hand. He moves back down again, his dark eyes burn into yours as he kneels between your legs.
You’ve barely recovered from his previous ministrations, but you willingly spread your thighs for him anyway. He grips your hips, tilting your pelvis up slightly, the head already nudging at your entrance. Then he pushes inside slowly.
“Aahhh,” you moan at the stretch, even after all this time, it’s always an adjustment to take him, your internal muscles yielding to accommodate him.
He watches the way your hole easily accepts him, his jaw set, pupils dilated, tracking every flicker of pleasure and pain across your face. His grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging into your skin there as he slides in another inch. You whimper at the pressure, your breath hitching when he finally bottoms out, his pelvis resting flush against yours.
“Fuck...” he gasps. His thumb strokes absently along the curve of your hip bone, grounding both of you as he catches his breath and gives you time to adjust. “Always so tight for me.”
You’re already half-hard again, your body still thrumming from the intensity of your last orgasm. He teases you by dragging his thumb over the tip, smearing the precum around the head. His thumb presses into the sensitive slit, drawing another desperate sound from you. “I love how your body reacts to me.”
With a slow roll of his hips, he starts moving, savoring every second of the way your internal muscles clench around him. Your cock twitches, already leaking again as he pulls almost all the way out before thrusting back in deep.
“Guh-ahh!!” Your back arches, your tied hands straining against the headboard as pleasure shoots through you. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. He chuckles, dark and pleased by the reaction, and does it again harder. His pace builds up, thrusts becoming shallower as he moves faster.
Sweat beads along his temples as he moves with increasing urgency. He’s no longer holding back, the force of his movements making your body jolt each time as he pounds into you. Your entire body trembles, your vision blurring at the edges as he hits that spot repeatedly.
“Fuck...Ahh...Nggh...” your moans fill the room, mixed with slap of his skin against yours and his ragged breathing. His teeth sink into the side of your neck, holding your hips in place as he fucks you harder, faster.
Your wrists strain against the restraints as pleasure and pain blend into something overwhelming. He feels so good, veins dragging across your most sensitive spot on every punishing thrust. Your cock leaks steadily against your stomach as you struggle to breathe through the intensity.
“That’s it,” he groans next to your ear, “take it like a good boy.” His rhythm is now relentless, hips snapping forward with perfect control as he watches your eyes roll back. You feel so good to him, your internal muscles rhythmically squeezing him tight as if your body is craving his cum.
Suddenly, your phone rings from the pocket of your discarded pants, startling both of you.
Rigo’s rhythm falters, annoyed as he slows down to a stop and reaches for your smartphone at the edge of your bed without pulling out of you.
He was about to turn it off, but then he sees the caller ID showing Nico’s name. He grins with malicious intent as an idea enters his mind and puts the phone near your face.
“Answer it,” he commands, his voice still rough with arousal and exertion.
Your eyes widen, breath still ragged. “W-What?? No, I—!?”
Too late, Rigo presses accept, while keeping his cock buried deep inside you, ensuring you’re completely vulnerable during the call.
“Hello...” You try your best to keep your voice steady while glaring at Rigo. You’d grab him and turn the phone off if you could. His smirk widens as he watches the way your body tenses beneath him. He doesn’t move an inch, keeping you stuffed full as you try to focus on the call.
Nico’s voice comes through the speaker, “Are you busy?” His tone is casual, and you hear the faint sound of an engine idling in the background. “Need you to drive tonight. I got a new car, want you to do a test run against me.”
You force yourself to respond, trying to sound natural despite how you’re feeling. Your bound wrists make escape impossible, but you’re glad it’s Nico calling and not Vera.
“I...uh...I can’t tonight, m-maybe tomorrow?” Your words come out in a rush as Rigo’s hand wraps around your cock, rubbing the tip with his thumb as he watches you struggle to maintain composure. You twitch in his grip and you bite your lip, trying to keep your noises down.
Nico’s voice is incredulous. “Is something wrong? You sound...off.” He pauses, sounding a bit concerned. “Are you sick or something?”
“I’m—” You start to speak, but Rigo chooses that moment to thrust sharply, stealing the words with a choked gasp. His grin is downright vicious as he pulls out just enough to give you a second to breathe before slamming back in, drawing another pained-sounding moan from your throat. “Nnggh!”
Silence stretches, punctuated only by the wet sounds of Rigo moving inside you. He sets a slow, deep pace while stroking you. He looks up, meeting your panicked gaze with dark eyes bright with mischief, and it’s already obvious to Nico what’s happening.
“He’s a bit busy right now, man.” Rigo drawls directly into the phone. “And I don’t think he can make it tomorrow either.”
“I see,” you hear Nico chuckle, entertained. “I should’ve known you’re behind this.”
You struggle to form words, and you can’t even stop the noises escaping your lips, you’ve never felt this humiliated. Embarrassment and arousal intertwine as you realize Nico has caught on.
Rigo continues his torturous pace, making each thrust harder than the last just to watch you squirm. His grip tightens, stroking you in time with his thrusts.
“He’s takin’ it so good,” Rigo says, not even hiding the obvious lust in his voice. “You wanna watch while I make him cum?”
Your whole body tenses at the filthy words, at the feel of him moving inside you and at the unbearable pressure of his fingers teasing your length. You can’t even find the words to utter some protest, and all you manage is a broken moan.
Nico doesn’t immediately respond. You can hear him take a breath, a subtle noise of amusement.
Rigo must have put the phone on speaker, that means Nico can hear every wet slap of skin on skin, every noise you can’t hold back.
“Is that so?” Nico finally says. “...Well, if he doesn’t mind.”
Rigo grins down at you, eyes dark with satisfaction as he turns on the camera and aims it to capture your exposed body, which reveals every lewd detail.
Nico can see every bruise and bite mark on your sweat-slicked skin. Rigo angles the phone to capture his thick cock disappearing into your ass like a first-person perspective porno, your flustered face twisted in deprived pleasure. Your body clenching around him on instinct.
“...Can you see everything?” Rigo asks, a bit out of breath as well. “He’s lookin’ real pretty right now, right? All spread open and helpless.” He thrusts deeper, making you gasp, and points the camera at your face and bound wrists.
He turns the camera at himself for a moment, showing the bite mark on his forearm. “The little shit bit me too.” He chuckles, “Had to restrain him for acting out.”
The camera pans to every angle of your debauched state. Nico’s breathing becomes audible through the speaker, a slight hitch that betrays his interest. He remains silent on the other end of the call, watching and listening to every sound you make, every wet slap of skin, every broken moan. Giving him an unforgettable show.
Rigo’s pace speeds up, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room as he slams into you. His breath comes out in sharp gasps, mingling with the occasional grunt of exertion. Your body jerks from the force of his thrusts. Every thrust drags over your prostate, forcing broken sounds from your throat.
You’re beyond words now, beyond coherent thought, with your gaze blank and staring at nothing. Drool slides from the corners of your open mouth where lewd moans escape unrestrained. Your hips jerk involuntarily, your legs pulling his waist closer as Rigo shifts his angle, pressing just right against your prostate. Your body clenching around him tight, you’re so close, and your entire body is shivering uncontrollably.
He focuses on fucking you now, and his grip on your phone loosens a bit. Each movement calculated to wring pleasure from your body. His length drags across that spot inside you each time that it makes your toes curl, his grip on you is firm enough to border on painful. His thumb still circles your tip, smearing the leaking precum around in teasing circles. Your vision blurs at the edges as he picks up speed, driving into you harder.
Rigo keeps fucking you until you reach your limit once again. Your body convulses, the orgasm hits hard, tearing through your body like a current. Your back arches, muscles locking, every nerve ending going haywire as cum erupts from your cock, spilling onto your own stomach and over his hand. His grip tightens, stroking you roughly, milking every last pulse of your release from you, and he continues fucking you through it while the camera captures everything.
Nico says something on the other end of the call, something about how loud you got, but the words dissolve into the haze of agonizing pleasure. Rigo says something that doesn’t register in your brain as well, his gaze locked on you, pupils dilated.
His own movements become frantic, more urgent, and he drops your phone to the side, but you’re pretty sure the call is still ongoing.
With both hands on your hips, he fuckes you harder, chasing his own high. You whimper pathetically, your muscles remain taut, oversensitive from the aftershocks of your climax. Broken, incoherent whines leave your lips since each thrust becomes too much to bear for your hypersensitive walls.
When Rigo finally reaches his limit. A guttural groan tears from his throat as his cock swells, throbbing inside you before thick ropes of cum coat your walls as he keeps thrusting through his orgasm. His grip on your hips becomes painful, fingertips digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks as he claims you so thoroughly. When he finally stills, he stays buried inside you, breath ragged, sweat glistening across his muscles.
He looks down at you with heavy-lidded satisfaction, still holding onto you and relishing the moment as he leans over you. His slick skin sticks to yours as he kisses you again.
And knowing him, this is only the first round.
A soft breeze rolls through the parking lot, carrying with it the remnants of exhaust fumes from the Lexus LFA that Nico is leaning against.
One hand in his pocket while the other lazily scrolls through the graphic photos you just sent on his phone.
Or more accurately, the photos Rigo sent using your phone.
His thumb swipes, pausing here and there as he studies the images that captured the way your body twists under Rigo, the dark tint spreading across your chest to your face, the bruises that littered all over your skin, your own cum splattered on your abdomen, and the way your bound wrists strain against the belt used as makeshift handcuffs.
Nico chuckles darkly, saving the photos. “Now this is interesting,” he mumbles to himself, watching the play of emotions across your face, pleasure and desperation. You’re an absolute wreck, and truth be told, he enjoyed watching you unravel more than he lets on.
Rigo is definitely right that you won’t even make it tomorrow.
Nico isn’t even envious that he didn’t get to see that in person, he’s already had his turn on you several times after all. His thumb pauses over your contact for a moment before he pockets the phone and looks over at the car resting beside him.
The LFA worth half a million gleams beneath the streetlight. Even parked, it carries a presence unlike anything else.
One of your favorite cars.
A shame, he would’ve let you drive it tonight against him. The thought lingers for only a second before a small smile returns to his face.
Maybe next time.
© TotallynotXai 2026