debt collection.
rye gerhardt x reader
you still owe the gerhardts money, but rye says you can work something out or: dumbass (rye) makes another dumbass (you) blow him to erase a debt.
warnings, tags: nsfw, dubcon, coercion, power imbalance, manipulation, extortion, oral, deep throat, gagging, spit, AWKWARDNESS
word count: 3.6 k
a/n: if you haven't watched fargo yet dw, no spoilers, and everything in this is pretty self explanatory so you don’t need to watch to understand what’s going on ig:) give this a read if you love kieran or roman roy, roman and rye are kiiind of similar lol
i watched season 2 of fargo for kieran culkin so i had to write something for him. most fun i had writing in a long time. i might write a second part.
ao3 - hemlockspit
the diner’s dead. you’ve wiped the counter three times, all the tables twice, refilled the napkin holders, turned the radio down, scrubbed the coffee machine and checked it later to see if you missed a spot. you won’t listen to your coworker complaining tomorrow morning again. she always finds something wrong with the closing shift.
‘there was a grease stain on the table.’
‘did you even scrub the counter? it was all filthy.’
‘you forgot to refill the coffee grounds.’
and yeah, maybe she was right sometimes, but the way she always says it, all judgmental and like she’s better than you, makes you grit your teeth and ball up your fists until your knuckles are white. coworkers, right?
everything smells of disinfectant and old oil and the smell clings to your uniform and your hair. your hands are sore, your shoulders ache, and the turned down radio slips into static again, it always does in the later hours, like it’s telling you to fuck off home already. it’s late enough that the neon lights outside bleed through the windows in pink and blue streaks, so late that you move slow, like you’re underwater and it takes all your willpower to even take a step.
the bell on the door rings, a sharp sound, wrong at this hour, wrong with the ‘closed’ sign you’re sure you turned. you should have locked the doors but you were so focused on leaving the place spotless you forgot.
you straighten in place, getting ready to tell the guy that always shows up after closing hour that there’s no coffee left, like last time, but when you turn you pause.
the guy that came in is not what you expected. he’s not big, kind of short actually. he’s slim, twitchy, shoulders hunched in a brown leather jacket, white button up and a chocolate colored turtleneck underneath, loose at the throat like he tugs on it too often. his soft hair curls where it’s damp from the drizzle outside and there’s a thin mustache on his upper lip, like he knows he can’t grow a real, proper one but decided to commit anyway. if you’d squint you’d notice the remnants of a white powder on his stache, like he had to have a bump before coming here.
he looks like a porn star, and not a good one, like the one from a movie no one wants to watch more than once. without the facial hair he’d be attractive, well… he still is, if you’re into the whole slimy look, which you kind of are.
“sorry, we’re closed,” you glance towards the sign at the door, even point to it to make it clearer for him. “since ten.”
he doesn’t leave, just nods and steps further in. “yeah. no, i know. i’m not here to… although-” he glances toward the menu boards on the wall behind you. “you got blueberry? never mind,” he shakes his head at himself, recalibrating after realizing he keeps making himself look less and less serious, first the twitchy demeanor, the fact that he’s high, his stupid question about the pie. “i mean, i ain’t lookin’ for food.”
then why the fuck is he here?
he steps in farther again, boots making sound on the tile, hands in his coat pockets, like the place belongs to him. he looks around like he’s trying to remember the layout of the diner. you can feel his eyes stick to you longer than needed, maybe he’s trying to place your face, maybe you passed each other on the street before, who knows?
“you’re-you work here. yeah?” he shifts his weight. “you’re the one that owes us.”
the way he says us sits wrong in your stomach. you already know what’s coming.
“i’m with the gerhardts,” he adds. “i’m rye. rye gerhardt.”
you don’t say anything. he seems fine filling the silence on his own, probably even prefers it, makes him feel big, important, more than he really is.
“dodd sent me. said it wasn’t much, but it’s been… what, three weeks? four?” he scratches the back of his head. “didn’t wanna send somebody scary. not yet. so. lucky you.”
you’re an idiot, for owing the gerhardts, for even borrowing money from them. you know how they are, they don’t let shit slide. dodd is the worst, you’ve heard about him, how violent he is, cruel. his brother, bear, is better but not by much. you’ve never met or heard about rye, until now. he seems young, maybe early thirties, maybe younger, definitely the runt of the family. but maybe he’s right about you being lucky, you hope he is.
you start with the excuses, frantic as you realize the severity of the situation, the classic i can pay, i’m working on it, i just need more time
“time’s funny,” he replies, frowns, not sure where that was going, like it just slipped out of his mouth without thinking. “i mean-time’s money. that’s the saying,” he corrects himself, nodding at his own words, reassuring himself he sounds serious again, assertive. “you got any of it now?”
you shake your head and he laughs? all giddy for some reason and too loud in the empty diner. you hate how your stomach drops at that. not in a butterflies way, fuck no, not butterflies, more like roaches crawling around in your body. that kind of panic where you freeze, your limbs lock, breath hitches.
“i don’t have anything tonight,” you say, because you have to say something.
“didn’t think so,” he hums, still grinning to himself slightly.
there’s a heavy silence after that. just long enough for him to look at you again, really look, and for something in his posture to change. a little more searching now, focused. a little less twitchy. he notices the way you fidget nervously, the tired bags under your eyes, the unsure downturned curve of your mouth.
“i’ll have it,” you murmur, hands twisting in the hem of your apron. “i just-i need a couple days, sir.”
his eyes widen at the ‘sir’, just a tiny bit and his grin spreads, eyes glinting. a second passes, then two, three, and then another laugh escapes him, almost disbelieving. you called him ‘sir’, like he’s really in control, like he’s on the same level as his brothers dodd and bear, like he’s not just a giant gerhardt screw up but a big shot. someone powerful, someone to be scared of, someone deserving of respect even.
he steps in a little, not crowding but not far from it, close enough you smell the cigarette smoke and the faint trace of cologne from his jacket over the bleach stink in the diner after your thorough cleaning.
“we could work somethin’ out,” he offers, watching your face from beneath his lashes as he says it, mouth corners still up as his eyes trace your features, your mouth mostly. “could be that you keep bein’ sweet and i tell dodd it’s handled, paid in full,” his tongue swipes the inside of his cheek.
“i’m not askin’ for much, just thinkin’ out loud. feels like a good opportunity, is all,” he shrugs. “you let me have somethin’, doesn’t gotta be cash, y’know? doesn’t always gotta be cash.”
he looks at your mouth again, and this time you know exactly what he means. there’s a pause, he lets it sit, lets you sit in it.
“i’ll make it real easy,” he says, almost coaxing now. “real quick.”
you don’t reply, you just stand there, palms clammy, eyes wide.
“i… really?” you finally ask, it comes out quiet and creaky. even just the thought is horrible and it makes your tummy ache and your throat dry but what are the other options? waiting for bear to show up instead of rye and demand the money you don’t have? or worse, waiting for dodd to show? you’d probably end up with busted kneecaps or worse, and more realistically, dead. “o-okay,” you nod. “i don’t want to cause any more trouble to your family.”
his mouth twists, not into a smirk, it’s too crooked for that, too wrong, half unsure and disbelieving, like he can’t believe you really agreed to that, half smug like part of him was counting on it and he didn’t rehearse for any other version of this exchange.
“shit,” he mutters under his breath. “okay.”
his gaze dips down to your shoes on the tile you still haven’t mopped, and climbs up, to your knees, your apron, the slope of your chest, and back to your flushed, embarrassed face.
“could start with your knees,” he says, voice cracking slightly. he coughs to cover it up.
“my knees?” you echo. you heard him okay, you know what he said but you still need the confirmation, need him to repeat it to be sure this isn’t some fever dream. or a nightmare. you’re not sure which yet.
“yeah,” he nods, too quick, almost defensive. “i mean, you agreed,” he gestures down at the floor in front of him, impatient. he clears his throat, sniffs and tries to regain whatever control and confidence he thought he had just moments before. “on your knees, that’s… that’s usually where that starts,” he shrugs, all casual, acting like he did this before with someone else. if you weren’t so nervous yourself you would have noticed the awkwardness around him, the embarrassment at his lack of eloquence. but you don’t.
“i’m not asking you to solve a riddle. you want me to tell ‘em you paid, this is… this is how you convince me,” there’s a sliver of irritation in his voice now, at you for taking so long, for the questions you have, but also at himself for how exposed he feels even though he tries to not let it show, at how badly he wants, no needs, this to go how he imagined.
his eyes stay on your face, watching closely, like if you hesitate too long he might snap just for being left there, standing in front of you, feeling stupid and small like he always does in front of his family.
you swallow before speaking again, one last question. “and… if i do that…. then the debt will be paid?”
he exhales in relief and triumph. he knows this question was the last before you finally cave. he nods, quick, like if he waits too long you might start doubting him.
“yeah, yeah, course,” he says fast. “i’ll take care of it,” the words come smooth out of his mouth, way smoother than he has any right to be. he doesn’t really have any privilege or trust to just… get rid of a debt, no matter how small, but you don’t know that. and he stands by his words, it’s not like he can back out now, not when you’re so close to finally doing what he asked of you.
he sniffs, tugs at his jacket, fixing something where there’s nothing to fix just to reassert himself, still twitchy and small and overeager but he plays the confident role well, especially when his audience, you, is way more stressed than he is.
“c’mon, then,” he says, nodding at the floor at his feet.
you finally move forward, closing the last steps of distance between you and sink down in front of his boots, slow and careful, knees meeting the cold tile.
he looks down at you like his brain is still catching up with the fact that you really listened to him. his hands hover at his sides, fingers flexing and curling and uncurling again. his jaw tightens and the thin mustache above his lip twitches with how he tries to suppress another grin. his eyes are wide and they have a greedy little glint to them, like he finally succeeded at something, something just his, not his brothers’ or his family’s.
“alright,” he exhales as he shifts his feet apart. “you… you do good, you make me happy? i walk outta here and this whole thing’s handled. deal?”
“y-yeah, deal.”
rye grins. that’s all he needed to hear.
his hand finally moves, slides down to the buckle of his belt. his fingers fumble for a moment and he curses under his breath, irritated at how shaky they are. the belt comes undone with a metal clink, then the zipper. every sound feels too loud in the silence around you both.
he shoves down the waistband of his jeans and boxers, just enough to pull himself out, cock already half hard, flushed at the tip, heavy in his palm. he gives it one slow tug, like he’s showing it to you.
you’re all red now, ashamed and embarrassed. this is… demeaning and pathetic but it could be worse, right? he could have hurt you, threatened your family or… he could have been ugly, but he’s not, even with the ratty mustache.
you look up at him, swallowing a lump in your throat, and he’s still watching you with those hazel eyes, hair tussled from brushing his fingers through it when you weren’t watching him, his grin twitching, like he tries to keep it on his face still even when he’d rather probably just suck in a breath.
you finally raise your trembling hand and touch him. the second your fingers make contact, then curl around his cock, his shoulders tense.
“shit,” he mutters, almost inaudible. he exhales through his nose, his hand lifts, hovers for a second, like he wants to grab you but then falls to his side again, maybe he’s giving you a moment to start on your own.
you pause, then try. your grip is unsure, your hand slides up and down his length in a hesitant stroke.
he jolts the moment your hand starts to move, bare skin against bare skin, dry and clumsy with nerves. he grunts, sucks in a breath sharply. “shit-okay, ow, okay-wait-” his hand slaps awkwardly down onto your shoulder, just to make you pause for a second and you let go immediately.
“jesus, you’re-you’re really nervous, huh?” his jaw clenches as he watches you all flustered, now flush too. “okay, alright, hang on, god,” his hand moves from your shoulder to drag down his face instead, his palm presses to his eyes for a second.
then he shifts and without ceremony spits into his palm and wraps his fingers around himself again, slicking the spit over his dick in a few lazy, practiced strokes.
“see? nothin’ to it,” he says, trying to steer to moment away from the awkward territory, fails immediately with his next words. “just gotta… lube the engine, or whatever,” he laughs at his own joke, too loud, and winces.
his hand falls back to his side and he meets your eyes again. “you, uhm, wanna try again?”
you give a small nod and wrap your hand around him again, slick now, and the first drag is smoother, thank god. rye just lets out this shaky, relieved exhale and his hips twitch. “yeah,” he nods. “y-yeah, that’s-yeah, okay,” he stammers, still trying to seem like he’s in charge of everything, like he’s not crumbling under your touch, like he’s not hypnotized by your wide eyes and flushed cheeks and the way you’re still trying for him. well, it’s for the debt to be repaid but let him dream.
the second you find a rhythm, nervous and shaky but still going, something in him changes, maybe he finally forgets about his brothers, the pressure of being the disappointment of the family, or maybe he’s just too turned on to focus on anything else but you.
his hips twitch forward again, he grunts through clenched teeth and his hand moves so his finger can brush your lip.
“you gonna open up for me? be real fuckin’ nice if you did, real generous,” he murmurs. he’s breathing heavily, like he’s in a middle of a fucking marathon. his thumb taps against your mouth. “c’mon, baby,” he coaxes before he swallows hard, he doesn’t look cool or calm, just… needy, desperate for something more than just your hand.
that makes you pause, i mean, sure, you expected this the moment he told you to get on your knees, you’re not surprised, but right now, in the moment, when you’re supposed to actually do it, it becomes too real.
you hear in your head his previous ‘you want me to tell ‘em you paid, this is… this is how you convince me’ and again and again so…
you blink up at him as your mouth parts.
“yeah?” his voice a half groan and a half laugh. his hand moves from your jaw to tightly curl in your hair instead. “that’s what i thought.”
he steps closer and guides himself into your open mouth. the head of his cock brushes your lower lip and you can feel how hard he is, how flushed, how he trembles just slightly as he holds it there. sure, you could see that before but feeling it, against your lip, is something different.
“c’mon, be good f’me.”
your eyes close for a moment, strange mix of embarrassment and desire coil in you, you shouldn’t be into this, right? you’re literally giving him head instead of paying his family the debt you owe but also… fuck, he’s attractive! you’ve always been into weird, questionable (and probably deeply insecure) guys, well, your best friend described your first boyfriend-no, okay, we’re not getting into that.
your head dips as you suck his head into your mouth and his fingers tangled in the roots of your hair tighten, almost painful.
“fuck-fucking-yeah,” he gasps, stopping himself from rutting into your mouth. “that’s-jesus-that’s it.”
he groans, his head tips back as you take him deeper, and his free hand joins his other one in your hair. his breath comes faster and small high and nasal sounds leave his lips and he’s rocking shallowly into your mouth now.
rye watches you move, still careful, and for a second he lets you set the pace, lets you try, but when you glance up at him, mouth full, and you twirl your tongue around him, maybe to make this end sooner or just to please him, to make him happy, he decides he’s done letting you control the situation.
his hands in your hair suddenly tighten even more and he jerks your head just enough to make you gag around him. he hisses between his teeth like that sound turns him on even more, or maybe it’s just the power and control in it. he thrusts forward, so deep your nose hits the hair at his pelvis and makes you choke a little and gag again.
“fuck, y-yeah,” he pants, watching your face, your eyes that start to well up with tears at the gags.
the next thrust is rougher, greedier, enough to make your throat flex around his cock and spit pool at the corners of your lips. your hands move to the denim at his thighs, just to hold on to something, to dig your nails into the rough fabric.
you’re trying to keep up, really, your mouth is stretched wide, eyes watering, and the spit is already slipping past your lips to your chin and down his shaft to his balls. and rye fucking loves it, not because it’s perfect, it’s probably not with how messy and clumsy it is, but because you’re on your knees in front of him, crying and choking on him, trying to sneak little desperate breaths every time he’s not pressed all the way to the back of your throat and still letting him do this. it’s the most powerful and in control he’s felt in years.
there’s no rhythm to his movements anymore, he keeps rocking forward, moving your head by your hair on his cock, his knees wobble.
“i’m gonna-fuck-gonna-” he whimpers before he jerks, full body, his hands tug on your hair, fingers twisted so forcefully it aches and he hunches over you with a gasp, hips bucking forward in a final stutter. your nose is crushed against his unshaved skin, your throat full and he comes and fills your mouth.
he stays buried like that for a moment but eventually he pulls back. a string of spit clings between your lips and his cock for a second before it snaps.
he staggers back a step to catch himself on the edge of a counter as you swallow and try to catch your breath.
he shifts on his feet, cock half soft and then finally zips himself up again.
“…holy shit,” he drags a hand down his face and lets out a disbelieving laugh. “okay, okay, so… i’ll tell them… something, keep dodd off your back for a bit,” he clears his throat.
you freeze, what the fuck does he mean by ‘a bit’?
“a bit?” you repeat, raspy, and rye’s face twitches, like your question, or his slip up, cuts through his stupid power drunk haze. he looks a way for a moment, scratches behind his ear as he thinks what to say.
“i mean…look, i’m not dodd, or my dad, or bear, it’s not like they let me forgive a debt,” he shrugs, voice low, less brave and sure now. “i’ll-i’ll stall it, okay? you just bought yourself a week, two, maybe,” he adds, like a fucking week could help you. “hey, maybe they’ll send me again,” he grins, like he’s already excited at the idea. fucking idiot.
you’re still on your scuffed knees, all teary and snotty, spit drying on your face, when his boots squeak on the floor as he moves to the doors out. “a week, yeah? you’re welcome,” he repeats again before opening the door. the bell jingles and he steps out into the dark.
what the fuck?
