hey! was just wondering how loser/nervous KĂśnig would be with a quiet reader?
imo, I think he would double down on his efforts, practically bullying his cock into your cervix because he believes he isnât doing well enough for you, when in reality, you feel amazing (and in pain but who doesnât love that) but your body literally only produces pants and heavy breathing.
itâs even worse since hes much more vocal, so he feels bad, since it seems like heâs the only one enjoying it. this also leads to him overstimulating himself by still fucking you into the mattress, floor, whatever, even after he came because he wants you to enjoy it too (in his eyes thats audibly showing that). this often leads to you being overstimulated too, since youâve been cumming but he couldnât tell since 1. heâs inexperienced and has only been with you 2. you always feel tight since his cock is WAY too big to not feel like your cunt is being stretched apart
also apologises a lot, especially when he cums, because hes still in that mindset that you arenât enjoying it enough
scared to ask this publicly, but Iâll leave a name!
- Ecto
ough this is so good omg??? iâd like to put these two together, i hope i made these ideas justice <3
loser! kĂśnig whose first partner is you, sweet reader but quiet, timid, at least when in sexual situations
the first time the two of you sleep together, kĂśnig doesnât know where to put his hands, heâs unsure of what youâd like so you help him, taking his big rough hands and bringing them to the sensitive spots of your body, gently and softly guiding him to where to touch you
when he gets his cock into you (after a nice fingering session where you had to work through your pleasure to instruct him) you stop speaking and making noise altogether, his cock feeling bigger in you than when you saw it, the size of it bullying your walls to open and let him in, and your brows are furrowed in pleasure, mouth open but silent
the only noise when kĂśnig starts moving? flesh hitting flesh and his loud moans, heâs whining about how good you feel, how tight and wet you are, schatz
every thrust in has the tip of his dick hitting your cervix, and every time that happens it punches air out of you, the way his cock feels like it reaches your throat has you laying there with almost no air intake
and since heâs a loser, the only sex heâs ever experienced has been by watching porn, so he thinks that when itâs good, his partner should be moaning loudly, so why arenât you? is he doing it wrong? do you need him to go harder?
and heâs begging you, bombarding you with questions about how to be better, how he can make you feel good! why arenât you making noises?!
his hips start listening into you, his hands tightly holding your hips and you canât think, his cock hitting your cervix and spreading you apart and itâs all so good you canât speak, and you tried!
your limbs feel gooey, muscles limp as he just fucks into you, he saw a porn where the man pushed his partnerâs thighs against their chest, knees to their ears, so he does that, trying desperately to get any noise out of you
you end up being bent in half, legs over his shoulders as he presses into you, and his eyes are watering because why arenât you saying anything liebling!
you canât speak, you came twice and the third orgasm is getting closer, his cock hitting every right spot but heâs so fucking desperate and pathetic that he didnât understand, you feel as tight as before but did you cum?
first time he cums because you feel so perfect heâs apologizing so much, saying heâs sorry he came so fast, that thats not what he wanted to do but you felt so good! heâll make it up to you, he promises
he ends up fucking you through 8 orgasms, fucking himself through 4 and heâs crying by the end of it, dick sensitive and red, tip still punching your cervix, your brain is completely melted, eyes hazy and you think you fainted once? youâre covered in sweat and cum and his tears in the end
and he still thinks he didnât do good enough, so youâll let him try again, wonât you?
When Halsin kneels in front you you to lick at your pussy for the first time, itâs because he is truly overtaken by the sight of you that he doesnât feel steady of his feet. Your size and his are no comparisonâ Halsin towers over you with the stature of a godâ but heâs lost all composure and falls to his knees to worship at the honeypot between your legs.
Itâs been a long time coming, and the ache of seeing you each day but willing himself not to make a move until his work in the shadowlands is completeâ the aching need for you has been almost too much to bare.
When he helps you out of your clothes and sees your naked form for the first time, he knows that every gnawing second apart from you was well worth it. He licks your pussy like a man with no table manners, like an animal with no training, like a bear whoâs clawed down a beehive dripping with honey.
Halsinâs tongue is thick and sharp as a drawn blade. He nips at you with his teeth, growl reverberating from the hollow of his chest to rattle against your twitching clit. His hands hold your legs spread, thumbs on each side of your perfect hole to keep you open. It feels like Halsin is trying to crawl inside you tongue first, warm, dexterous muscle lashing at your sweetest, wettest parts. He doesnât let up until youâve cum against his mouth at least a few times, allowing himself a bit of selfishness.
The first one was for him, the second one was tooâ the third one was just to see how far he could push your body into the lapping flames of pleasure. Heâs completely pussy-drunk by the time youâve cum against his mouth again, barely registering the angry-red lines your nails have dug into his back or the begging pull against his hair. Halsin makes you cum so many times with his greedy tongue, he only comes up for air when he notices youâve gone completely slack in his hands.
You beg him to fuck you, to give you a reprieve from his gilded tongue, and Halsin is more than willing to oblige. After he licks just one more orgasm into your shaking little body.
coworker!simon riley who barely speaks to anyone but always seems to notice you. he leaves a black coffee on your desk every morning with no note, no eye contact, just a low grunt when you thank him. everyone thinks heâs cold. youâre starting to think heâs watching you more than he should.
coworker!simon riley who fixes your computer when it crashes during a deadline, sleeves rolled up, veins in his forearms flexing while he types. heâs so close you can smell his cologne mixed with gun oil. when you try to make small talk he just mutters âyouâre not as useless as the rest of them.â
fwb!simon riley who corners you in the supply closet the second the floor clears for lunch. he yanks your skirt up, drops to his knees and eats you out like heâs starving â thick fingers curling deep while his tongue works your clit until your legs shake. then he spins you around, pulls his mask down just enough and fucks you hard against the shelves, one hand over your mouth so no one hears you moan.
coworker!simon riley who glares at the flirty account manager when he lingers too long at your desk. says nothing, but his jaw ticks under the mask. later that same day he texts you one word: âoffice?â and you already know whatâs coming.
fwb!simon riley who fucks you bent over your own desk after everyoneâs gone home. papers scattered everywhere, your computer still on, his thick cock stretching you open while he growls low in your ear, âbeen thinking about this tight cunt all fucking day, sweetheart.â he keeps one gloved hand over your mouth the whole time so the security cameras donât catch your sounds.
coworker!simon riley who walks you to your car in the parking garage every night âbecause itâs on his way.â his hand brushes the small of your back when no oneâs looking. you both pretend it means nothing.
fwb!simon riley who has you riding him in the driverâs seat of his truck in the underground garage, windows completely fogged up. he grips your hips hard enough to bruise, guiding you up and down his cock while whispering filthy praise in that rough manchester accent, âthatâs it⌠bounce on it just like that, filthy girl. take every inch.â
coworker!simon riley who still acts completely normal around the rest of the team â silent, brooding, professional. but the second the last person leaves, his eyes go dark and heâs already looking for the nearest locked door.
fwb!simon riley who fucks you slow and deep on the break room couch at 2am during a storm. emergency lights only. heâs got your legs over his shoulders, mask pulled down so you can see the scars and stubble while he stares straight into your eyes the entire time. he doesnât pull out when he finishes â just stays buried inside you, breathing heavy against your neck like he never wants to leave.
coworker!simon riley who leaves hickeys on your inner thighs that you have to hide under your work pants the next morning. he catches you adjusting your clothes and the corner of his mouth twitches under the mask like he knows exactly what he did.
fwb!simon riley who sends you a text at 11pm during another overtime shift: âelevator. now.â when the doors close heâs on you instantly â pinning you against the wall, fingers inside you before you can even speak, growling âcanât fucking wait anymore.â
preview: on a fun and spooky night out, your friends convince you to go to a haunted house. little do you know what horrors await inside.
âł content warnings: this fic contains explicit sexual content including dubious consent, mask kink, degradation, semi-public sex, creampie, fear play, and unprotected sex.
the waiver was practically a novel and some more. majority of it was all fine print and warnings in bold letters. physical contact. extreme terror. you may be touched, restrained, separated from your group. but somehow the nda was even more terrifying. under no circumstances must you disclose what you experience in this haunted house. violation of this agreement will be met with legal repercussions.
you signed it with a shaky hand, wondering what the fuck you've gotten yourself into. it was too late to turn back now, you were already here so might as well just go through with it.
you don't know how your friends even talked you into doing this with them. they were all giddy and excited about it. you, on the other hand, looked as if you were ready to projectile vomit your dinner. maybe it wasn't such a good idea to do this after eating.
after all, this wasn't your average haunted house; this was the real deal, an abandoned warehouse. people travelled miles to experience this place. it was ranked the number one haunted house in the states.Â
you entered with your group of friends. you were instantly met with strobe lights, artificial fog that smelled of smoke. screams echoed in the halls layered with the the eerie music blarng so loud that you could barely hear your own heartbeat.
you got separated from your friends in the blink of an eye. a door slammed shut between you. your heart hammered against your ribs as you stumbled forward all alone.
this room was different. no special effects or over the top fog. if anything it was scarily quiet. just a single light bulb swinging from a wire. it was a concrete cell that looked grimy. and in the center of the cell stood a lone and hulking figure.Â
he was dressed as a prisoner, but not like any you'd ever seen. the top half of his faded and stained orange jumpsuit was undone, the sleeves knotted tightly around his waist, leaving his chest and torso completely bare.Â
his skin was pale and slick in the grim light, a canvas of scars and hard, defined muscle stretched over a lean frame. he wore a skull mask with only his dark eyes visible through the holes.Â
you tried to remember the script, the safe word they'd given you. it felt like cotton in your mouth. your brain had gone completely blank. the loom of threat had your body kicking into fight or flight mode immediately.Â
he staggered towards you with an eerily creepy walk that had you taking a step back. and before you knew it, he was on you. a large, calloused hand clamped over your mouth, stifling your gasp. the scent of him filled your senses. for someone covered in blood and smoke from the room effects, he smelled really fucking good.
"lost, little lamb?" he murmured, his voice a low, distorted rumble against your ear, slightly muffled by the mask. his breath was warm. "you shouldn't have wandered in here."
this was part of the act. it had to be. you squirmed, a pathetic little struggle that only made his arm around your waist tighten, pulling your back flush against his bare chest. you could feel the hard planes of his stomach and something else. something thick and already hardening against the seam of your jeans.
"wh-what are you doing?" you stammered, your voice a muffled whisper against his palm. his breath hot against the skin of your neck. "giving you the full experience."
your belly coiled with a slick and hot fear that was very much real. this wasn't in the waiver. this wasn't part of the show. he looked horrifying, a raw, feral thing that had just stepped out of a nightmare, and you knew you should be screaming, fighting, running. but a treacherous, shameful heat was pooling low in your stomach.Â
he spun you around, his hand still over your mouth. his eyes scanned your face. the wide, frightened eyes, the rapid pulse fluttering in your throat. you could almost hear the wicked smile curving his lips beneath the skull print.
"gonna be quiet for me, love?" he asked, his tone was calm.
you managed a jerky nod, your mind screaming that you were a fool, that this was wrong, that you should be repulsed. but your body, your traitorous body, was thrumming with a terrifying excitement.
he removed his hand, but only to slide it down your neck, over your collarbone, cupping your breast through your shirt. his thumb brushed over your nipple and you jolted. an unwelcome bolt of pleasure shooting straight to your core. you were terrified. you were wet. disgustingly, undeniably wet.
"see?" he whispered, leaning in so the rough fabric of his mask brushed your temple. "you like being scared. your body's telling me the truth."
he backed you into the cold concrete wall, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. his knee nudged your legs apart and you let him. his mouth found yours through the mask. you felt the pressure of his lips and you opened for him. if you didn't already look disgustingly depraved, you did now as you licked his lips through the thin fabric of his mask.Â
his hands were everywhere. ripping at the button of your jeans, yanking them down your thighs along with your panties. the cold air hit your bare skin, followed by the scorching heat of his palm. he cupped you, his fingers sliding through your slickness with a grunt of approval.
"fucking soaked for me," he growled into your mouth, the words vibrating through the fabric. "knew you were a desperate little thing the second you walked in."
you were. god, you were. your mind was filled with shame and protest, but your body was arching into his touch, your hips jerking, begging for more. you knew you shouldn't be turned on, but the evidence was slick between your thighs.Â
he freed himself from his jumpsuit. you didn't see, you only felt the thick, heavy head of his cock pressing against your entrance. he was huge, stretching you unbearably as he pushed in with one relentless, solid thrust.
you cried out, the sound swallowed by the muffled screams from the next room. your nails dug into the hard muscle of his bare shoulders as he filled you completely.Â
he didn't wait for you to adjust. each thrust slamming you into the wall. his hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, holding you in place as he fucked into you deep and hard.
"take it," he commanded, his breath hot on your neck through the mask. "take all of it. you came in here for a thrill, didn't you? this what you wanted?"
you couldn't speak, could only moan, a broken, sobbing sound that seemed to spur him on. one of his hands slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your throbbing clit, rubbing frantic circles.Â
it was all too much. your vision whited out as you came with a choked scream, your body clamping down around his, milking him as you convulsed, the pleasure so intense.
he buried himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, his own release hot and pulsing inside you. he stayed there for a long moment, his forehead dropped to your shoulder, his body shuddering against yours.
the room was silent except for both of your ragged breaths. slowly, he pulled out. he tucked himself away, fastened his jumpsuit. you slumped against the wall, legs trembling, struggling to pull your own clothes up. they were damp and sticky.
he reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch surprisingly gentle now. his eyes met yours through the mask, and the boredom was gone, replaced by satisfaction. with his thumb, he wiped a tear from your cheek you didn't even know had fallen.
"the exit's through there," he said, his voice low as he nodded towards a door you hadn't noticed. he turned, melting back into the shadows of the cell as if he'd never been there at all.
you stumbled toward the door he'd indicated, your body sore, your mind racing. you pushed it open, and the bright lights of the exit blinded you. your friends were there, chattering excitedly about their own scares.
"oh my god, what happened to you?" one of them asked, looking at your flushed face and wild eyes. you just shook your head, your fingers tightening at your sides.
"nothing," you whispered, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. "just a really good haunted house."
you just stood there, numb, as your friends compared jump scares and fake blood. you tried to smile, to nod along, but your mind was a thousand miles away, trapped in that cell a couple feet away.
"dude, you look like you saw a ghost for real," one of your friends laughed, slapping you on the back causing you to flinch.
"i'm fine," you mumbled, the words feeling thick and foreign. "just...need a minute."
you could still smell him on you. you could still feel the ache between your legs. you could still feel his remains slicking your inner thighs. it took everything in you to not squirm. you closed your eyes, trying to steady your breathing.
you looked over at you friend whos face was lit by her phone screen. she was frowning, her thumb scrolling frantically. "hey, guys?" she said, her voice cutting through loud chatter outside. we all turned to her. she held up her phone, her face pale. "holy fucking shit, there's an inmate on the loose."
your blood ran cold as your world tilted. this has to be a joke. right?
"what?" you asked, snatching the phone. "from where?"
"the state penitentiary," she whispered, her eyes wide with genuine fear. "ten miles from here. they said he's violent. escaped during a transfer."
your read from the screen. "armed and extremely dangerous. last seen wearing... a torn orange jumpsuit and skull mask."
synopsis: You're a sweet recluse who allows her home to be Jason's safe house. What happens when he starts to get too close to her?
masterlist
The screen door creaks open late one evening. Jason Todd steps inside your little kitchen like it's a habit, almost as though he's lived here all his life. In truth, you'd only known Jason for about two months now since he came stumbling to your doorstep one stormy evening. Things seemed to pass in a blur since then.
Jason's shoulders are tense beneath the fabric of his jacket, bruised from the constant fights he participates in. His jaw is sore and his knuckles are split from punching again. He's already in one of his moods.
He kicks off his boots by the door without looking, the way he always does, listening to the familiar sound of dirty soles thunking against the wood floor. Then, he heads straight to the sink like he's on autopilot, having memorized the layout of your house like it's his own. He doesn't even need to look down to where the fluffy hand towels are as he dries his hands.
There's a plate of dinner waiting on the table that's still hot and steaming, and you're standing near the counter, looking at him like he didn't just come home covered in bruises and blood. You're smiling in the cutesy, innocent way you always do. The way that boils Jason's blood in both a bad, and really good way.
"Hi, Jay," you say, your voice smooth like honey as you look up at him with big, sparkly eyes, like he's just your husband coming home late from work.
Jason swears under his breath and marches through the kitchen, hovering around you for a moment, before muttering a gruff "Hello." in return, slumping down into his usual seat at the dinner table, looking down at tonight's meal.
The plate's got roast chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, and a pile of vegetables on the side. It's very balanced. It looks like food you'd see in a magazine with a recipe underneath. You cooked. Again. Like you do every night.
"Thought you might be hungry," you say, cheeks all pink from the stove's heat, or maybe just from looking at him. You get so bashful when he stares. "You want me to get you a knife or anything else?"
"No. S' fine." he grumbles, picking up a fork to start stabbing at his vegetables. You nod, still smiling all cute as you take out a jug of lemonade for him and pour him a class without asking, setting it down beside his plate, right before leaning down to press the softest, most innocent kiss to his cheek. Right near the cut on his jaw, his sweet spot. "Glad you're home safe."
Jason goes still at the feeling, a little grunt leaving him involuntarily. The second your lips brush over him, it's as though every muscle in his body tenses. His eyes flick to you, but you're already walking away, humming to yourself like you didn't screw him over with that little gesture.
What the hell are you doing, letting a guy like him into your house? Letting him sleep in the extra bedroom you cleaned just for him and eat off your table without asking for compensation? What kind of sweet, naive girl lets a man with knives and guns in his duffel bag and scars up his back and shoulders stay in her house like he's not dangerous?
"You shouldn't do that," he grumbles as you have your back turned to him, a deep scowl on his face. You blink, turning back toward him, confusion soft in your eyes. "Do what?"
"You know what I mean. The kissin'. The..." his voice gets tight, jaw ticking, "...the 'Jay' with your little giggle. Don't."
"Don't act like we're friends?' you ask, so innocently, head tilted in a way that makes him want to pounce on you. "We are friends."
Jason clenches his jaw. His fingers curl around the fork, knuckles white. "You should be more wary, is all" he mutters, frowning as you respond with a little huff and a playful eye roll, going over to check on the pies you made for dessert that are cooling on a rack.
He stares at the curves of your body, gaze panning from your hips, down to your thighs, and back up to your ass, plump in the cute little nightgown you're wearing, with the hem riding up your thighs enough to show your panties if you bent over. He can't take his eyes off of you, not for a second. He's looking at you to figure out how someone like you could possibly be real, let alone a part of his life. You feed him. You made him a safe house with gingham curtains and a soft bed and dinner waiting on the table every night without fail.
He's coiled so tight it feels like his skin doesn't fit right, seeing you flutter around the kitchen like everything's fine, apron tied snugly around your waist. You turn and meet his gaze again as he continues.
"Why aren't you scared of me?" Jason mutters all gruff, pushing back his chair and standing. His eyes are all dark and stormy. "You let a guy like me in your house. You give me food, a bed, clothes. You let me walk around your kitchen like I belong here." He steps forward slowly. "You don't even lock your fucking door."
Your throat bobs as you swallow, but your expression doesn't change. That soft, quiet sweetness still on your face like you've never even heard a threat before.
"I don't have to lock it because the only person who comes around here is you, and I know you."
Jason's frown deepens, and he crowds your space, hissing at you coldly. "You don't know shit about me." He stares down at you, jaw clenched, breathing through his nose. He keeps coming closer and closer to you, all while you don't even realize what you're doing to him, standing there in your cozy little kitchen, smelling like a dessert.
His body pushes you back into the counter, his jaw is clenched and lips twisted in a snarl. You open your mouth, but he cuts you off, his voice rising. "You let me in here. You open your house up to someone like me and think I'm not gonna hurt you? You think I'm just gonna be your lil' prince charming?"
He shoves his hand against the counter beside you, trapping you in place. His face is inches from yours, but this time, you don't see the same tired, frustrated guy you've been taking care of. This time, all you see is the threat, the dangerous man who doesn't think you should have trusted him at all.
"I could strangle you, you know," he says all soft. His hand shoots out, quick and brutal, grabbing your neck just below your chin. "You think I wouldn't do it? You think I wouldn't snap your neck like a twig if I wanted to?"
Your pulse spikes. His grip isn't tight enough to suffocate you, just enough to make your heart pound harder. "Or what if I wanted to cut you?" His thumb presses into the side of your neck. he's learned you can make someone pass out if you push there hard and long enough. wouldn't take long if he did it to you, though. another reminder of how fragile you really are. "What if I wanted to steal everything in your house and leave you with nothing?"
You look up at him, whimpering softly at the feeling of his huge hand wrapping around your throat. Your smaller one grabs at his wrist, staring up at him with big, glassy eyes. "J-jason..."
"What if I wanted to tear off one of those flimsy lil' dresses you wear around me and fuck you?" He lets out a low mumble, tipping your head up and rubbing his thumb over your lower lip. "You think they're cute, huh? You think I don't notice the way you dress like 'm not gonna want to tear you apart?"
Your breath hitches, and for a second, you can't find your words. He's crowding you now, pinning you to the counter so you have no way out. His thumb pushes harder on your lower lip.
You stare at him, your face flushed. Your chest is rising fast now, like you're trying to keep calm, like your body's betraying you even if your voice hasn't cracked yet. You're not saying anything, but your fear's loud enough without words.
Jason's still holding onto your throat, the heel of his hand digging into your pressure point while his thumb smushes against your soft lips. His chest heaves with each breath, his face twisted up even though deep down, he's thoroughly enjoying himself. He relishes in the slight tremble your body gives and the way you look up at him like you're starting to realize he's not savable.
He leans down to your level. "You scared now, sweetheart?" he mutters. You try to speak, but it catches in your throat. He can feel it under his hand, that flutter in your pulse. "Yeah," he breathes. "That's what I thought."
He tilts his head, leaning down to slot his mouth over your cheek, mocking the little kisses you always give him when he's home. He moans against your skin, starting to press sloppy kisses down to your jaw. He's done holding back, finally indulging in the terrible, heinous thoughts he's had about you since you let him into your home.
His hands roam under your dress, hiking it up to squeeze the plush globes of your ass, all while you moan softly, eyes fluttering shut.
He kisses up the side of your throat and up to your ear, huffing low so you hear every bit of how hot he is for you. "Lemme show you what bad men do to pretty girls who play house with 'em."
his hands move again. they don't stay in place for long. he's very unpredictable. one moves back to grip on your throat, while the other hand drags up the back of your thigh, slipping beneath the hem of your nightgown until his rough fingers find bare skin. his breathing is ragged now, lips pressed to the curve of your neck like he's trying to inhale you.
"You smell s'sweet," he growls, nose brushing the soft skin beneath your jaw. "Always smell so fuckin' sweet."
He's spreading you apart before your brain can comprehend it, lifting you up with his free hand to guide you up onto the counter, manhandling you like you weigh nothing. Slotting his body between your legs, he looks down at your pretty cotton panties. Just as adorable as you, all lacy and pastel like you didn't have a clue what they'd do to him.
Jason huffs a breath through his nose, low and unsteady, staring at the soaked little patch in the middle. "Fuck," he mutters, dragging his thumb over the wet spot slowly and teasingly. "Look at this. You want me like this." His hand grips your thigh to keep you open, his gaze locked on your panties as he takes two fingers and pushes them up against your panties so he can trace your plump little pussy through the fabric, firm enough to make you twitch.
You jolt, grabbing onto his shoulder while your tummy flips. "Mmh... i-its good... b-but 'm sensitive..." you warn softly, trying to fight against his grip ever so slightly, but he keeps you spread for him with his firm hand. Your breath catches when he starts tugging your panties to the side, baring the warm air of the kitchen onto your even warmer hole.
His hand grips your hip, anchoring you in place while he teases your entrance with the pads of his fingers, just barely pressing in. You let out a strangled little sound, back arching as he slowly presses a finger inside you with a low groan. Your body clenches around him and it makes him twitch, a guttural sound leaving his chest. "Fuck, you're tight," he mutters, nose nuzzling yours. "So fuckin' warm. This pussy's been waiting for me, hasn't she?" You nod helplessly, eyes wide, lips parted as he pumps his finger inside you slow and filthy. He watches you fall apart for him, cheeks flushed and pretty little moans leaving your mouth with every curl of his finger.
His thick digit curls just right inside you, slow and deep, while his thumb rubs circles around your clit, not too quick, just firm and steady like he's testing how fast he can get you to fall apart. You whimper again, your hips rolling into his hand without thinking.
He watches the little faces you make while you're in heat like this, as well as the way your body reacts to his touch. His eyes are locked on the place where his finger disappears inside you with that delicious squelch, and once you're relaxed, he slides in a second to fill you up even more. You jerk, nightgown bunching up more at your waist as he shoves his fingers deep inside you, wanting to see how tight you can squeeze around them.
"Damn," he mumbles, "You're squeezin' the fuck outta me." His free hand grabs your thigh harder when you flinch back, nails digging just a little into your flesh to keep you still and wide open for him. He leans in, breathing heavy against your cheek as he grinds the heel of his palm against your clit while his fingers keep stroking inside you, that slow, steady rhythm that's driving you crazy because it's just enough to have you trembling, but not enough to tip you over.
You whine out a soft "Jay," all desperate and teary eyed, your grip on his shoulders tightening as your legs start to shake. You don't even realize you're grinding down onto his hand until he growls, "Yeah⌠that's it. Use your words. You need it that bad, don't you?"
He keeps his face close to yours, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes, watching how dazed you look already, lips all swollen and wet from how much you've been panting. "Feels 's good! M-more..." You whine, your body starting to move on its own, hips rolling into his hand, trying to chase the pressure that's curling in your gut.
Jason doesn't let up. He just keeps fucking you with his fingers, deep and slow, his thumb pressed firm to your clit, working you in tight little circles until your legs are twitching and your mouth is open like you're gasping for air.
"You're already gonna cum, huh?" he murmurs, voice low and thick. "Already cryin' on my fingers like a needy little thing." You nod, head falling back against the cabinet behind you, your breath coming in short, desperate little bursts. " 'M gonna...Jay, I...I'm gonna..."
"Come, then," he orders, eyes locked on yours. "Cum on my fingers like a good girl. Show me how sweet this fuckin' pussy is."
You shatter around him body locking up tight before it all melts down at once, your orgasm crashing over you so hard you can't even stay upright without holding onto him. Your whole body trembles and he watches it all, jaw clenched, eyes dark and blown wide with how fucked he is for you.
He keeps his fingers inside you even after, not pulling out until you're twitching too much to take it, and even then, he pulls back slow, glancing down at the mess he made of you. He brings his fingers to his mouth without even thinking, licking them clean while he keeps his eyes on your face.
Then he leans in, mumbling in your ear. "You made a mess on my hand,"
Jason's gaze drops down to the tent in his jeans, thick and straining against the zipper, and he lets out a breath that sounds more like a growl.
"Take my cock out," he says roughly, eyes never leaving yours. Your fingers tremble a little as they reach for his belt, heart hammering in your chest while you work it loose, the clink of the buckle loud in the quiet kitchen. Jason's eyes are burning into your face the whole time, watching the way you fumble a little, the way your lips part and your breathing gets uneven while you tug his belt free, then pop open the button on his jeans.
You slide the zipper down slow, hands shaking just the tiniest bit, but you don't stop.
He helps you just enough to shove his jeans down his hips, groaning softly when you reach into his briefs and wrap your fingers around him. He's thick and hot and already leaking against your palm, and the second you touch him, his whole body stiffens.
"Jesus," he mumbles, chest rising and falling hard. You glance up at him through your lashes, a little dazed and shy, but your hand stays wrapped around him as you stroke him once, then twice, making his head fall forward, forehead bumping into yours while he groans.
He looks into your eyes, his voice all rough and shaking with how close he is to snapping. "You're gonna do it, alright? Not me." he says, jaw clenched. "You're gonna show me how dirty you are, and take me in your hand, and you're gonna line me up with that sweet little pussy like this was your fuckin' idea."
You nod even though you're buzzing and feel your body burning, and he watches you slowly wrap your hand snugly around his cock, his face close to yours as you guide him between your legs.
"Yeah," he mumbles, watching your face. "Just like that." You whimper when the head of his cock bumps against your entrance, slick and warm, and Jason moans low in his throat at the feel of you, the head of him just barely pushing inside.
Your fingers tremble as you line the head of him up with your entrance, glancing up at him as you press him against your folds. "It's so hard," you whisper, all breathless. "Your cock..."
"I know," He responds, watching you continue to guide him, soaked folds parting around the flushed head, barely nudging it in just enough for both of you to feel that first slide. " 's... fuck... c-cause I want you s'bad." He hunches over you a little, mouth hanging open as you finally line him up just right. His tip catches on your soaked entrance and he groans deeply, forehead pressing to yours again like he's trying to stay tethered to something.
He pants, grinding the head against you, not pushing in all the way yet, smearing your wetness all over the flared head of his cock while your thighs twitch around his hips. You make a tiny noise, all high and breathy, and he grins against your cheek. His nose brushes your temple while he shifts his hips just enough for his tip to nudge inside, slow and heavy. "Fuck... there we go, sweetness. 'S suckin me in now."
He grabs your thigh with his free hand, pushing it up until your knee's hooked over his forearm, giving him more room, more access, more of you. He doesn't push all the way in yet, just slides in a few inches, slow and aching, just enough to make your mouth drop open and your nails bite into his shoulders.
"Keep lookin' at me," he hisses. "Don't you dare look away. You let me in, shit... now you're gonna watch what I do to you."
Your eyes flutter open again, all teary and glassy and overwhelmed, and he groans and thrusts in deeper, hips jerking forward like he can't help it anymore, burying himself with a low, breathless curse. Both hands grab your thighs to hold you wide open while his cock sinks alllll the way inside, thick and throbbing inside you.
He sinks in all the way, slow but deliberate, forcing your body to stretch and take every thick inch, and the second he bottoms out, he stays there, buried deep inside you, breathing hard through his nose like he's trying to stay composed, but he's not even close. His hands grip your thighs so tight it makes your skin dimple, holding you still like he's afraid you'll run, like he knows you're not ready for how far he's about to take this.
"Fuck, it's good," he mutters, voice wrecked as he stares down at where you're joined. "Look at that. Fuckin' swallowed me whole, didn't you?" He gives a rough roll of his hips, just enough to make you jerk and gasp under him. "Tight little pussy- already squeezin' like she wants to keep me."
Your head tips back as a choked little moan slips out, your hands clinging to his shoulders now, nails dragging across his back without thinking. He groans, fucking into you harder now, faster. Your body jerks with the impact of his rough thrust, and he moans, loud and low against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin before he bites down like an animal.
He keeps fucking into you with rapid, punishing thrusts, his body bracketed over yours, your legs forced wide apart so he can get deeper. You moan loudly, not bothering to hold back on being responsive. You're slicing into his back with your nails, mewling and panting his name harshly.
He growls at the pleasure pain you give him, rutting into you harder, like the sound of his name like that flipped some switch in him. "Say it again," he pants. "Say my fuckin' name."
You do, a little louder this time, all breathless and shaking. "Jason, mmh! please!"
"Fuck," he bites, his whole body shuddering as he pounds into you now, hips snapping forward again and again. "You're gonna let me ruin you, huh? That what you want, sweet girl? Gonna let me fuck the good right outta you?" You nod, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, not even sure if it's from how good it feels or how deep he's inside you, but it makes him groan, deep and ragged, like he's never seen anything more perfect.
His voice is nothing but a harsh whisper now. "I ever catch you lettin' another man in this house, I swear to god-"
You cut him off with a soft little moan, too blissed out to process the threat, and Jason grunts, cock pulsing inside of you as he scrapes against your gummy inner walls. You let out a loud, high whine, clenching tight around him, and he curses under his breath, leaning forward to kiss you rough and messy, dragging his tongue across your bottom lip.
The taste of you is too much for him, and he groans loudly, grabbing onto the back of your head so he can fully suck your tongue into his mouth and buck into you faster, like a dog in a rut. "Gonna cum f'you, sweetness." He grunts, tearing out of you suddenly.
You whine at the loss of the full feeling inside your belly. and he grabs onto your plush thighs again, squeezing his throbbing, flushed cock and pumping it a few times before splurting all over your pussy. You pant, heart pounding in your chest.
He cums load after load on you, before dropping onto his knees and stuffing his face into your cunt, needing you to cum for him too. He doesn't want to wait for your sensitivity or that coil to fade away, and so he thrusts his tongue deep inside your sopping hole, eating out your cunt like it's the only dessert he needs.
You scream, ecstasy washing over you so suddenly that you can't even warn him when you cum into his hot mouth, watching him eagerly drink it all up and tongue fucking you through your orgasm.
He groans at your taste once again, unable to get over how sweet you taste. He stands and scoops some of the cum off his thighs and pushes his fingers lightly to your mouth. "Open f'me, sweetness." He mutters, watching you oblige with a dazed look in your eyes. He feels his cock twitch to life once more at the sight of you tasting him and looking into his eyes like he's just ruined you, which he has. Your hair is a mess and your lips are swollen, and your lower half is soaked with his cum.
Don't get it wrong, he's a complete amateur when it comes to sex. The first time you two fucked, he cried. So this little discovery, it was an accident, truly. He didn't mean to get carried away but you were squeezing him so good, and the pretty sounds you were making had his knees giving out.
At first, he had you face down, feeding you those deep strokes, the kind that leaves you breathless. But then he began to move, pushing at the curves of your hips, then your spine, forcing you down until your tummy presses against the soft sheets. And he can't help it, naturally wherever you go, he follows. So he lays himself right on top of you, he's so big too. Big thighs cage around your ass, grinding real deep and slow. Itâs downright sinful. Jason Peter Todd in all his 6'1 glory, smothering you against the mattress and it's like something inside him clicks. His mind wonât shut the hell up because suddenly, youâve gone all soft and pliant, and heâs whispering real filthy, âjust needed some good dick, huh?â
His mind is so fucked out, he hasnât realized how good heâs been fucking you until he registers your squirming and soft whining beneath him. Sometimes he forgets how big he is, all of him. Because in this position, he basically kisses your cervix. Heâs taking his time, itâs torturous, the slow drag of his hips, and the way he bullies his way back in- pushing up against that sweet spot that makes you cream.
Heâs got his lips pressed against your ear, cooing and shushing you so sweetly when you say you canât take anymore. One hand pushing past your hips to pet at your sensitive clit, and you paw at his wrist- a weak attempt at pushing him away. Itâs too much, heâs too big and heâs talking so fucking nasty in your ear you just canât take it.
But every time you try to shut your legs in protest, his thighs flex and his ankles lock around yours, easily pushing them back open. Wordlessly saying, âtake it, take it, take itâ.
And after fucking you through your third orgasm, this man has the audacity to blush. Shoving his face into your neck but at some point, his mind gets all hazy. He latches his canines onto your throat and you cum. Still fucking you through the mattress, he works you up to your fourth. And when you finally come down, you sob out a half-hearted âmeanâ, but he doesnât budge- just hushes you with a sickly sweet âdid so good, babyâ.
take one look at you, youâre heavenâs incarnate; what is this spell, baby, please show some mercy.
or; after a long, grueling patrol, jason comes home to your sleeping figure laid temptingly on display for him. [3.1k]
jason todd x f!reader; SMUTâźď¸ CW: soft sexđsomnophilia/free use(prev. consent implied), thighjob, unprotected p in v, cockwarming. + a lil biting; needy touch starved jasonđđ but then fluffy; based on ask!!; can you tell i'm ovulating.
Itâs almost dawn when Jason climbs in through the window of your shared bedroom, tossing his gear bag on the ground and landing after it with barely a sound. His limbs are heavy and bone-tired from the last five hours spent beating up criminals on the street, and he wants nothing more than to plant face-first into bed and pass out for the next twelve hours. The ceiling fan whirs on the highest setting in your bedroom, and the cool current is a welcome change from the dry summer heat outside. He runs a hand through his hair, still damp from the haphazard shower he took at the safe house where he peeled off his suit and stashed it away in his bag.
He slides the window shut as his eyes adjust to the darkness, making sure to draw the blinds to keep the sunrise from disturbing his sleep. And then he sees it.
Right there, on display like an oil painting in a museum, blankets pushed aside, your naked form lies draped across the bed like a marble sculpture in a museum. Youâre lying on your side with your back to him, which only accentuates the dip of your waist before it rounds into the curve of your waist, like the perfect handle for him to grab onto and squeeze until you make that high-pitched gasping sound you always do when he grips you with the promise of purple and red stains the next morning. His gaze traces down your body leaving a burning trail in its wake until he lands on the plump lips of your perfect cunt that peek through your thighs.
His heart speeds up in his chest, a burst of adrenaline and anticipation coursing through him. He dares to take a step closer, though he knows that the closer he gets, the less control heâll have. What was the agreement? Rightâ wearing pajama bottoms meant you didnât want to be disturbed, but anything else was fair game. He can count on one hand the number of times he has felt compelled to do thisâ he much prefers you awake so he can hear the sound of your pleading moans begging for more, feel your nails sinking into his skin and clawing down his back when your release is too intense to bear. But tonight, after the debilitating patrol he just endured, after you so kindly put your perfect body on display for him, he needs this releaseâ needs you.
Jason takes off his shirt and tosses it on the foot of the bed, with the rest of his clothing quick to follow. The clink of his belt buckle, the ceiling fan static; all are drowned out by the roaring blood rushing from his head and straight to his dick. He feels desperateâpathetic, even, with how much his body trembles as he gingerly crawls onto the mattress, careful not to jostle you around and wake you. He kneels over you and rests a hand on your hip. The feel of your warm, soft skin punches out a shaky breath from him, and he drags it down your figure, following your bodyâs dips and valleys down to your thigh. He gently grips the skin tighter, groaning lowly at the feeling of your soft body moulding to his touch. His fingers trail back up, tracing the slit of your pussy with his middle finger. You hum lazily in your sleep. He slips his finger between your lips and runs it up and down, circling your entrance and stopping just before he reaches your clit. He leans down and brushes feather-light kisses up your arm, inhaling your scent and savoring the warmth and growing wetness.
âMy pretty girl,â he whispers into your shoulder.
His dick is fully hard now, but he canât bring himself to stop. He loves this feeling, loves you and the heat of your body, enough to get lost in it for hours. A sigh escapes your sleepy lips when he circles your slick entrance again, and your hips move forward. His finger slips out of you, covered in your essence. Jason pants, already breathless as he spits in his hand and strokes his cock with a mixture of his saliva and you. He gives himself a few pumps and presses his tip to the juncture of your thighs.
He pushes it in, biting back a groan at the feeling of your soft thighs encasing him. He fucks himself between them, captivated by the sight of it slowly slipping in and out. His hand jumps from your hip to the bed, and he fists the sheets between his fingers, clenching his jaw so hard it might pop. Though he keeps his thrusts slow, your silken skin feels so good around his dick, and he can feel pearls of precum dribbling from his tip, which his strokes smear against the inside of your thighs, painting you with him. His length is sliding against your pussy, gathering more of your slick. He pulls himself out far enough for his head to drag against your folds, and you moan softly in your sleep. Jason peeks at your face; your brows are drawn tightly together, teeth pressed a fraction of an inch into your bottom lip as your hips start moving back and forth of their own volition.Â
You want more, and heâll gladly give it to you. But he knows that if he gives in too quickly, he wonât last more than a minute before heâs spilling inside you, and he needs this to last. The visual itself in his mindâfinding his release in your warm pussy, pumping his hot come inside you and watching it leak out of you and all over your thighs, dripping onto the bed and ruining the sheetsâheâs throbbing between your legs. He needs to pull away from you completely so that the image alone doesnât make this end before it has even started.
He lets out a pained whimper, leaning back into a kneel with his hands fisted so hard into the sheets that theyâve turned a stark white. His breathing is labored, and his cock aches from the deprivation of you. His entire body is clenched so tight it hurts, bringing tears to his eyes.
But then, you move. The loss of him, hard and heavy, and rubbing against your lips, makes you whine. You turn over in your sleep, pressing your thighs together tightly to abate your need, and your back hits the bed, baring to him your full face, your tits your stomach. Jason curses under his breath when your knee falls open and reveals your wet, leaking pussy practically begging for him to fill it with his cock
He canât stop staring at you, though. You are so beautiful, he thinks. And youâre all mine. And Iâm all yours.Â
Jason adjusts himself so that heâs kneeling over you, caging you between his legs. One hand finds the bed right beside your head to hold him up, and the other comes to cup your face. His thumb lightly traces your cheek, and he lowers himself to brush his lips against your forehead, then moves lower to your lips, and then continues, blazing a trail down your throat with his mouth, his hand following suit.
He kisses down to your breast, all around your nipple, before finally using the flat of his tongue to press into it and mimic a similar sensation on the other with his thumb. He keeps his touches feather-light, enjoying the way your body unconsciously responds: the faint moans that get stuck in your throat, the sharp breaths that escape from your lips. Your body twitches when he takes it into his mouth and sucks, and your back arches slightly off the bed, but he releases you before you can get too worked up.
His cock is heavy and aching, and his whole body feels hot with an urgent need to be inside you. He takes it in his hand and pushes the tip between your lips. He slides it down to your entrance to feel your wetness before dragging it back up and pressing his head to your clit. Your hips jump at the sensation, and it only pushes him harder against you. A groan escapes him at the same time as a breathy whine blows through your lips.
âI know, baby,â Jason mutters quietly. â'M gonna take care of you.â
When he slides into you the first inch, his entire body shudders. Your sleeping figure twitches as he withdraws to his tip, then thrusts in further. Slowly, he continues, pulling out and pushing back in a little further until his hips are flush against yours. Heâs holding himself up on two trembling arms with raggedy breathing, and youâre sleepily, mindlessly grinding against him.
He whispers your name into the darkness, and his voice is so soft, so enamored with every part of you. With the way your hair spills perfectly over your shoulders, your fluttering eyelashes, and velvety lips that are drawn into a pout as you search for a pleasure only he can give you. Your body, your nipples that have hardened to stiff points against the night air, the fading teeth marks on your shoulders, the red and purple love bites scattered over your hips. Enamored by how much you love him, enough to not only give your body to him like this, but also to trust him with it. He remembers the first time you were in his bed, when he was so nervous about messing this up, about losing control and scaring you away. And how you cradled his face in your hands and kissed him all over, whispered those four words against his lips, and he knew he was forever gone for youâ
I trust you, Jason.
Then, he starts to fuck youâ really fuck you, with slow, deep strokes that send shockwaves through his entire body. He pushes your legs out a little wider so he can fuck you even deeper and angles himself just so, in the way that always makes you throw your head back and squeeze him until he sees spotsâ and thatâs exactly what you do. You clamp down on him hard, and he whimpers brokenly, dropping his head to rest next to yours. Your breathing is much heavier now, tiny whines escaping from your throat with each breath.
What started as long, hard strokes has turned to shallow, messy rutting, with Jason reduced to simply grinding his hips against yours. He buries his face into your pillow to muffle the embarrassingly desperate moan that comes from you gripping him so tightly. Itâs so good, but he needs more. He speeds up the movement of his hips, keening into the pillow because heâs so needy it hurts, but it still isnât enough.
But he can feel the pattern of your breathing change, feel your heart rate increase, and he knows that youâre both on your way there. He pushes himself up on one hand to hover over you, and lets the other hand slide under your lower back and lift it by a few inches. He drags his cock out, all the way to the tip, and thrusts it hard back into you. Your head falls back with a sharp gasp. He does it again, and your legs tremble, eyelids fluttering as you begin to stir. He keeps going, both of you close to coming and moaning through your half-asleep pleasure.
Your legs are practically quaking now, and your back arches of its own volition as your cunt leaves a creamy white ring around the base of his cock. Jasonâs hand slides around to your front and his thumb rubs circles over your clit. All it takes is one more thrust and your eyes flutter open, hands fisting into the sheets and mouth falling agape with a silent scream.
âJason,â you gasp, followed by a loud, broken moan as you come. Your walls clench and contract, and his forehead drops to your shoulder with a choked gasp as he follows right behind you. Your cunt spasms around him and he finishes inside you with hot, sharp bursts of come.
âOh, fuck,â he groans. He rides out his orgasm with wet, sloppy thrusts, and you keep grinding against him throughout yours; all the while his pressure remains even and firm on your sensitive clit.Â
âBaby,â you whine. Youâre stuffed so full of him, you can feel him in your bones. But heâs still coming; it leaks out of you and drips down your thighs, around his balls, onto the sheets.
He moans into your neck as the spurts of come begin to die down, and his thrusts slow. Youâre out of breath, breathing heavily into his hair when itâs over and still trembling from aftershocks. Your hands release the sheets and slide up to wrap around him. He does the same with your waist, holding you so tight, as if youâll disappear if he loosens his grip. One of your hands finds his hair, and you scratch at his scalp.
âI thought I was having a very vivid, very good dream about you,â you joke quietly, still panting.
Jason chuckles into your neck. His breathing is rapid, and your hearts beat frantically against each other.
âI missed you,â he breathes, so quietly that you wouldnât have heard it if his lips werenât moving right against your skin.
âYou have a nice way of showing it,â you mumble back, tired but still feeling giggly and fucked out.
You use your grip on his hair to pull his head up to yours. His eyes are shiny, gazing at you like youâre a sight to behold. You guide him to your lips, capturing him in a kiss so sweet his body feels like warm honey is seeping through it.Â
He keeps kissing you as he turns to lie on his side next to you. He hugs you tight, pressing your back against his chest. He cradles your jaw, and you make a soft sound when his dick brushes against that spot inside you.
âI love you,â you whisper into his mouth, but it gets lost in a sigh when he sucks on your bottom lip.
Youâre in love with the taste of him, the feel of him pressed against you, inside you. So you hold him tight, not letting him leave you, staying intertwined, living on stolen breaths and drunk on the afterglow.
He breaks the kiss to pull the blanket over your damp, sticky bodies.Â
âCan never get enough of you,â Jason says into your hair, sounding utterly wrecked.
Your hands settle over his, drawing shapes on the arms wrapped around your torso. âYouâll always have me,â you say softly.
And when you wake again a couple hours later, worked back to the brink with his hands on your hips and him groaning whispers of praise and declarations of love into your hair as he fucks you again, this time from behind, your hand reaches up behind you to thread through his hair and push your lips to his. You moan into his mouth when his thick cock fills all the space you give him, dragging along all the right spots.
âBaby,â he whispers, mouthing along your jaw and down your neck, across your shoulder.
You sigh dreamily when he nips at your ear.
âFeels good?â He asks.
âFaster,â you moan, tipping your head back to fall on his shoulder.
He tightens his grip on your hips and fucks you faster. The sound of his skin slapping against yours rings in your ears.
ââS that better, baby?â Jason croons, and you can only moan in response.
He grins into your hair and wraps one arm around your waist to keep his grip on you, while the other slips between your legs to rub your clit. He does it hard and fast, and pain melds with pleasure in the short moment it takes for you to break once more. You shudder around him, quieter and more relaxed than the first time, but your body is set alight all the same. You roll onto your stomach, pulling him along with you, deaf to his confused protests. Your mind is tunneled on feeling, gone completely blank except for the feverish desire to have him harder, deeper, more.
He gets the message and follows you. Your salacious noises are buried in the pillows and your back arches, pushing your ass against him as he pumps into you through his own strenuous moans. His weight is heavy on top of you, but it only feeds into your desperation to be surrounded by him.
âSoâughâso good, baby,â Jason slurs into your skin, his voice rough and guttural from where sleepiness meets euphoria.
The chain hanging from his neck taps against your back with each of his thrusts before following the length of your spine when he kisses his way down each vertebra. You feel the cool metal scraping back up when he licks his way back to your neck, tasting the sweat that beads along the column.
His palm slides up your side to grab a handful of your breast, which he squeezes and kneads with a searing grip.
âGettinââ fuck.â He buries his face in your shoulder, letting his words turn to unintelligible whines.
âJay,â you whimper. âIâmâI needââ
âMe too,â he groans. âT-touch that pretty clit for me, honey.â
You reach between your legs to find the swollen, sensitive bud of nerves. Your cunt flutters and drips your arousal around him. His cock makes a wet, squelching sound as he fucks you harder. His rutting gets more erratic until he sinks his teeth into your shoulder and comes again with a final slam of his hips. The pressure in your core builds and builds, and it reaches its crescendo when you feel the sting of the bite and his warmth spilling inside you. You arch into him with a loud cry and come all over his cock, just in time for your body to give out and collapse on the sheets. Jason goes down with you, going limp atop your back. The weight is welcome and grounding.
The two of you lie there for some time, enjoying each otherâs heaving breaths that fill the silence as you float back into your bodies. You must drift off again, because the rest of the early morning is hazy and you only recall brief flashes of sensation; sticky come from now and before spilling out of you when Jason lifts himself up, something warm and damp running over your thighs and your center.
And when a warm weight settles in at your side, and your forehead is ghosted with a kiss, whispered into your skin is something that sounds like thank you.
is it unrealistic that reader stays asleep through all thatđtbh idc i like that she stays asleep until right before her orgasm i think it's hot. and anyway why am i worried about a fanfiction about a superhero vigilante who was resurrected from the dead by a magical immortality pool being realistic! get a grip girl!
anyway. this was fun to write because i just like the idea of obsession + devotion + complete trust w someone & writing that manifestation in somno. idk. i rlly put my hole heart and soul and julussy into this lmfao
imagine your ex-boyfriend being so annoying, spamming your phone, and randomly showing up at your apartment, begging you to give him yet another chance.
at first, you felt pity for the guy.
even thought of letting him in a couple of times.
you didn't, but the guilt that gnawed at your throat nearly became too much to bare.
your hand drifted eerily close to the handle as you heard his pleas through your door.
the only thing that made you come back to reality was the pounding of a broom stick on the floor beneath, shouting for the man to shut the fuck up.
that was some days ago, but now, instead of feeling pity or guilt, youâre starting to feel just plain creeped out.
scared he might act on impulse and break into your apartment in the depths of the night.
you're sleeping has taken a plummet, even with a knife by your bed, nothing seems to coax you into relaxation.
that is, until you have the brilliant idea to go next door to your tall, scary, military neighbor, who goes by simon.
you don't know his last name; hell you barely knew his first.
the only reason you knew it was because you heard some girl he brought home moan it through your thin connecting walls.
you felt guilty as you pulled out your small vibrator, goading your sweet release as you heard him groan and curse with every harsh thrust.
even the guilt that swirled in your stomach couldnât take away the guttural effects he was having on your body, even from so far away.
you ducked your head, avoiding his gaze from then on, until one day, while having trouble unlocking your apartment door, he trudged to your door after examining you for a moment, gently scooting you away and fixing it right before your eyes.
you claimed he was a magician.
he chuckled, deep and gruff, before his name fell off his tongue in greeting, making your thighs clench together.
you hurriedly introduced yourself, before rushing into your apartment, shutting the door behind you, and sinking onto the ground with a deep sigh and hot skin.
pathetic, really.
but, he didn't mind.
he thought you were cuteâodd but cuteâand you brought him cookies the next day as a thank you, so how could he think ill of you?
so if anyone could help you, it was simon.
âhey, neighbor,â you greet him when he opens the door. he is wearing a simple black long sleeve shirt and dark cargo pants.
he nods towards you. âhello.â
you smile brightly at him, somewhat forgetting your dilemma.
he tilts his head to the side, quipping a brow. âany particular reason youâre here?â he asks, voice rough as always.
you rock on your heels, fidgeting with your fingers. âi need your help.â
he leans against the doorframe. âgo on.â
âiâm sure youâve heard that guy that comes around,â you start, watching his squinted eyes.
âwho hasnât? that bastard is always here,â he says gruffly.
âheâs my ex,â you admit, cringing.
simon stiffens, eyes opening wider slightly.
âheâs, uh⌠become an issue. he wonât leave me alone, and iâm scared heâs going to break into my apartment while iâm sleeping,â you say, shaking your head, the tension in your voice evident.
âheâs not going to do that,â he shrugs.
your eyes widen at his dismissal, feeling slightly hurt. âhow do you know?â
he turns to grab a backpack off a hook beside him. âbecause iâll be there. wonât let him through the door,â he casually mutters as he steps out of his apartment, closing it behind him.
you feel a flutter in your stomach at his taking on the role of your protector so quicklyâno enticement necessary.
âi really appreciate it, simon.â your voice is full of gratitude.
âdonât mention it, sweetheart,â he shakes his head, heading towards your door. âkey?â he asks, reaching for your painted key hanging around your neck.
you hurriedly lean forward, mind completely fogging at the endearment.
his lip quips as he tugs the key up and over your head to unlock the door.
once he unlocks the door, he pushes the door wide open, stepping aside for you to go in first.
âand they say chivalry is dead,â you canât help but joke as you slip in, a teasing glint in your eye.
he matches your humorous smile with one of his own. âdo they? hadnât heard that,â he murmurs, closing the door as he steps in.
you spin your head away from his gaze, opting to stare at a lonesome flower pot with a dumb grin on your face.
the next two hours are spent lazing until you find yourself on the cushion right next to simon on the couch as he occasionally glanced at the door, while you picked and prodded at reality show stars on the television screen.
But you and simon both stiffen when you hear the familiar hard knock on the front door, followed by a strained male voice pleading.
you look at simon who's already stalking over to the door; you uncross your legs and walk behind him.
with annoyance, simon pulls open the door, and you see your exâs face whiten and his body sag at the sight. âcan we help you?â simon gruffs, cocking a brow at his pathetic demeanor.
your ex stammers, stumbling over his words as he looks between you and simon. âwho the fuck are you?â your ex demands, though not daring to try and overpower simon because simon easily has fifty pounds and eight inches over him.
simon crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging bigger as he does so. âyou should lose this address,â he urges, voice so gruff and commanding it sends shivers down your spine. âi donât take too kindly to guys stalking my girlfriend,â he says with an ease that makes you lick your drying lips.
âgirlfriend?â your ex chokes out, unable to comprehend what he is hearing.
âthatâs what i said, isnât it?â simon almost sounds disinterested.
your exâs eyes wander to you. âyou're dating this guy?â he almost sounds hurt.
you shift under his gaze, feeling awkward.
âdon't talk to her. talk to me,â simon interjected, feeling your unease.
âyou canâtâyou arenât dating,â your ex begins, narrowing his eyes. âyouâre just doing this to make me jealous, arenât you?â there is venom behind his words that pisses simon off.
simonâs lips flatline, and just as you go to speak, simon turns his head, hand coming to cup your jaw to kiss you deeply, possessively.
your ex releases a short breath as the sight.
simonâs tongue moves across to skim your teeth, making you whine into his mouth, as his fingers tangle in your hair for deeper contact.
you release a shallow whimper of protest as simon pulls back, enjoying the sight of your ex so shell-shocked.
simon tilts his head forward, looking into his eyes intently. âthis is my girl, and if i find out youâve been botherinâ her, iâll make you a dead man. you hear me?â his voice is so lethal it makes you squirm, but in a completely different way than your ex.
your exâs eyes look like saucers as he nods his head fervently.
âgood choice. now leave,â simon instructs.
without another word, your ex spins on his heels, looking like a hurt lamb as he leaves the complex.
simon lets out a dry laugh as he shuts the door behind him.
âthank you,â you murmur.
he gives you a brief smile, gesturing for you to sit back on the couch. you both go back to lazing around, now watching some cooking show you put on.
later that night, he insisted on setting up shop in your living room for the night⌠or just the next two!
itâs really not a big deal.
he just wouldnât be able to continue on if something happened to his cute neighbor!
thatâs all.
youâre so sweet and still shaken up by the interaction that you let him stay the night.
âŚand the next one.
âŚand the one after that.
youâre starting to think he never really counted on staying just one night.
you donât say anything, but after the second week passes and simon is still around, you find yourself reeling as you start to see his socks and shirts tucked nicely in your drawers.
his coffee mug now kisses yours in the cabinet, and some magnets of the countries heâs visited cling to the fridge.
there isnât a crevice in your apartment that simon hasnât explored, or left a piece of himself in.
you should have known better than to invite simon into the same place he had fantasized about for the past six months.
the very place where he listened to your sweet moans, so loud, so tempting.
every. single. night.
he kicked his friends out of his place every time he heard your vibrator start up, so that they couldnât listen to your breathy whines and so he could sneak away to his room, where your thin walls meet, to tug away at his cock imagining it was you stroking him until he came all over his hand and sheets.
such a sweet girl, you are.
letting a dog into your home to roam free, unaware of the way he watched you with a slobbering tongue and a primal hunger.
It's late and youâre curled up on Simonâs couch as the movie you were just watching comes to an end. Riley lays snoozing at your feet, one of her paws twitching in a dream. You're nestled into Simonâs side beneath a worn but warm throw blanket. When you shift beside him, suddenly overcome by sleep, you let out a soft, high-pitched hum. A tiny release that escapes you as you move, a little sound of contentment.
Simonâs body freezes immediately.
You don't notice it at first, with your eyes still half on the screen, half lost in the sleepy afterglow of the movie. But he does. Every nerve in him reacts to that sound like someone flipped a switch inside him. He is rock hard in an instant.
His jaw clenches and his heart starts to race.
You tilt your head toward him, catching the sudden tension in his body. âWhat?â you ask gently, with curious eyes.
He blinks at you like he's trying to rejoin reality. âDo that again.â
âDo what?â you ask, genuinely confused.
âThat sound,â he says, shifting slightly away from you, like he needs space to get a grip on himself. âThe little sigh. Just⌠do it again.â
You narrow your eyes, now smiling, but still confused. âWhat sound, Simon?â
âYou know what sound," he says and his energy changes. His voice is low, almost a growl, but playful. "C'mere."
"You're hearing things."
"Am I now?"
You sense the shift in his energy and move slowly toward the edge of the couch. âI didn't do anything!â you giggle.
His eyes flash and there is something hungry behind them. Without warning, he shoots up and you shriek with laughter, jumping up from the couch as Riley blinks awake and watches the sudden chaos unfold. You dart toward the hallway, still giggling.
âSimon!â you squeal, laughing breathlessly as you dodge away from him into the kitchen. He's already chasing you. "What's gotten into you?"
âDo you think you can get away with that?â
âI donât even know what sound you mean!â
He catches up in three long steps, grabbing you gently but firmly around the waist and lifting you clean off the ground. You laugh even harder now and it echoes through his flat like sunshine. Both of you are breathless, both smiling like idiots.
âYouâre insane,â you laugh, as he presses his face into your stomach, âput me down!â
âYou have no idea what that did to me.â
You twist in his hold, cheeks flushed and your arms come up to wrap around his shoulders as your giggles soften. âYouâre being ridiculous."
âLetâs see if you can make more of those,â he murmurs, already carrying you back to the couch.
nsfw. 40s kĂśnig. come eating. pussy slapping. voyeurism. manhandling. degradation. squirting. sex work.
you never planned on doing porn.
you don't think anyone does, really. you had a whole different life mapped outâ degree, stable job, retirement.
but college was bleeding you dry. bills stacked faster than you could pay them, textbooks cost more than your monthly groceries, and your financial aid office had the efficiency of a broken vending machine. part-time jobs barely kept the lights on. dinner was whatever was cheap and lasted the longest.
you worked, studied, scraped by, but it felt more like drowning in slow motion.
camming started as an experiment. a shot in the dark born from desperation.
you bought a cheap ring light from amazon, found a secondhand webcam on facebook marketplace, and set up your little filming space in the corner of your apartment. it was nothing fancy. the lighting was bad, the camera wasnât great, and instead of a tripod you had a stack of books.
but it worked.
you slipped into the only matching lingerie set you ownedâ soft pink lace, delicate ribbons, tiny bows stitched in all the right places. sheer enough to tease, but still leaving just enough to the imagination. the bra straps slipped down your shoulders as you posed in front of the mirror, lips parted, fingers playing with the waistband of your panties.
picking the best ones, you captioned them with something playful then posted them to onlyfans, shut your laptop, and forgot about it. you werenât expecting much. maybe a few subscribers, a little extra cash, nothing major.
then, your account blew up.
someone with a bit of reach had apparently found your photos and posted them to a a ddlg subreddit, and suddenly you were everywhere.
at first, you didnât notice. but when you woke up to hundreds of new notifications, dms, and tips flooding in overnight, you started digging.
thatâs when you saw it. a post on reddit. thousands of upvotes. hundreds of comments dissecting your photos in excruciating detail.
[r/ddlg] found this new onlyfans girl and i'm losing my mind. sheâs so soft. look at her. look at her.
đş14.3k upvotes đŹ 793 comment
u/daddysfavorite456: this is the most perfect little babygirl iâve ever seen wtf
đş6.2k
u/sirspanksalot: the way sheâs tugging her panties down just a little⌠i need a moment
đş4.9k
u/subsugarplum: her little pout in the third pic is actually ruining my life
đş3.3k
u/softdom_daddy: how do we make sure she never pays for anything again in her life?
đş7.1k
your breath caught in your throat as you scrolled. every detail of your photos was being analyzed. obsessed over.
the way you tilted your head just slightly, eyes wide and doe-like. the way your fingers curled in the hem of your panties, like you were hesitating. like you needed permission. the little pout in the last photo, lower lip caught between your teeth, the faintest furrow in your brows.
suddenly, your subscriber count was doubling by the hour.
new subscribers flooded in overnight. your follower count jumped by thousands. dms piled up, requests, tips, compliments, outright begging.
"you're perfect. please let me take care of you." ($20 tip)
"youâre the softest little thing iâve ever seen." ($50 tip)
"tell me you do custom videos. iâll pay whatever." ($100 tip)
the sudden influx of attention was overwhelming. you barely had time to process it before people were demanding more.
demand skyrocketed. they were practically clawing at your metaphorical door, begging for more content, more varietyâ more, more, more.
for now, solo work was fine. it was safe. comfortable. easy to control. but you knew it wouldnât be enough forever. you saw it in the comments, in the messages, in the ever-growing list of requests. they wanted more than just you and a camera. they wanted another presence. another body in the frame.
you debated your options. a studio would be the safest bet. you had the budget nowâ painstakingly built, every small tip, every renewal adding up until you finally had enough that you didn't need to comprise comfort.
but finding the right studio was another thing entirely.
you didnât want the overproduced, garish lights and cheap theatrics of mainstream porn. you wanted subtlety. intimacy. something with taste. good lighting, soft edits, angles that captured the feeling rather than just the act.
something that matched the persona you had so carefully built.
you thought about it for weeks before finally bringing it up to valeria, a girl you often had collabs with.
she tilted her head when you mentioned it. "professional production..? you know there are a lot of seedy guys out there."
you nodded, worrying your lip between your teeth. youâd done enough research to know that most so-called "professional" setups were just glorified scams, with sleazy directors who treated performers like props.
valeria watched you for a second, then clicked her tongue. "but, if you ever actually follow through, i know a guy. a lot of the girls have worked with him before. big name in the business. respects his actors. good guy." she pulled out her phone. "iâll send you his portfolio. put in a good word."
you meet kĂśnig a few weeks later, after countless back-and-forth emails, late-night calls hammering out details, discussions about setups, plot points, pricing. every conversation had been strictly professional so far and you appreciated the distinct lack of attempts to try and get in your pants.
you donât expect to spot him the moment you step into the airbnb you rented for the shoot, but there he is, standing head and shoulders above the rest of the crew. and the first thing that strikes you isnât his height (though jesus, heâs massive). itâs how out of place he looks.
he doesnât carry himself like someone in the industry. doesnât exude that easy sleaze, that over-familiar smirk youâve come to expect from men in this business. no tight black tee straining over biceps, no carefully curated air of supremacy with just a hint of nicotine.
instead, he looks like someoneâs dad who got lost on his way to a hardware store and somehow ended up in the adult industry instead.
his glasses are perched high on the bridge of his nose, pushed up with the absentminded shove of a knuckle. his sweaterâ soft, thick, comfortableâ hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up to reveal thick forearms dusted with silver hair. heâs dressed like he should be standing at a backyard grill, not directing an erotic film.
heâs older than you expected. forty, according to his portfolio, and he wears it well. silver threading through black, crowâs feet at the corners of sharp, washed-out blue eyes. his nose is crookedâ like it had been broken once and never quite set rightâ makes his face look lived-in, a little rough around the edges. his stubble is light, a soft dusting of salt and pepper.
he looks warm.
heâs talking to someone. one of the crew, maybe, head dipped slightly, listening intently. but even hunched, even relaxed, his sheer size makes him loom.
and then the door clicks shut behind you, and he hears it. kĂśnig's head lifts, pale blue eyes settling on you in an instant.
he excuses himself with a quiet murmur. hands tucked into the front pocket of his pants, broad shoulders rolling slightly like heâs trying to make himself smaller, less imposing.
it doesnât work.
âgood to finally meet you,â he says, accent curling soft in his words.
oh, you think. you hadnât expected that, either.
his voice is deep, just shy of being harsh. it's a far cry from the sharp tone youâd imagined after hearing him speak over the phone. thereâs something smoother about it in person, a warmth undercutting the rough edges.
you shift the tray of coffee in your hands, balancing it carefully before setting it down on the small folding table near the entrance.
âbrought coffee for everyone,â you say, wringing your hands because you refuse to brush them off on your dress.
he glances down at the cups, and for a second you think you see something soften in his expression.
âthoughtful,â he murmurs, and though his face remains unreadable, you can hear the approval in his voice.
you exhale, trying to shake off the nervous energy thrumming in your chest, and clear your throat. âfigured caffeine would help. donât wanna be the reason your crew collapses mid-shoot.â
kĂśnig huffs something close to a chuckle, tipping his head toward the set-up behind him. âtheyâve worked under worse conditions.â
youâre not sure what that means, but before you can ask, he gestures for you to follow him further into the space.
the next few minutes are easy. professional. you go over the shot list, the angles heâs planning, how he likes to workâ efficient and minimal retakes unless absolutely necessary. he asks about your preferences, what you donât want, what you do.
itâsâŚcomfortable. smoother than you expected. heâs patient, but direct. no wasted words, no unnecessary small talk, just the work. you like that.
and then your phone rings.
you pull it from your pocket without thinking, glancing at the name on the screen. simon riley. your co-star. you press accept, bringing the phone to your ear.
âhey, you on your way?â you ask, already stepping away from kĂśnig, mind half on the conversation youâd just been having.
but simon doesnât answer right away. thereâs a beat of silence. âcanât make it.â
your stomach drops. you stop short, pulse spiking. âwhat?â
âsomethinâ came up. wonât be able to get there.â
you glance at kĂśnig, breath stalling in your throat. this cannot be happening.
âsimon, i canât reschedule,â you hiss, stepping further away, out of earshot. âi already paid for the location, the crewâs already here-â
ânothinâ i can do, sweetheart,â he interrupts, not unkind. ââm sorry.â
but sorry doesnât fix this. sorry doesnât change the fact that if you donât shoot today, youâre out thousands. your grip tightens around your phone. âsimon, please-â
the line clicks.
heâs gone.
panic creeps up your spine, cold sweat starting to form on your palms. you canât not shoot today. you canât afford it. the budgetâs already stretched thin, and a reschedule isnât just inconvenientâ itâs impossible.
you drag a hand to wipe the sweat on your forehead.
kĂśnigâs eyes are on you and you can feel the heat of his gaze. when you turn, he asks, âproblem?â
you open your mouth, hesitate. because what the fuck are you supposed to say? every option you can think of results in you losing a few hundred dollars at the minimum.
you figure the truth is the best option you've got. âsimon's out.â
kĂśnig watches as your fingers tighten around your phone, knuckles turning white. you press your lips together, trembling just slightly before biting down.
he tilts his head, slow. "know anyone that can sub in?"
you shake your head immediately, too fast, too frantic. a sharp inhale makes your shoulders rise, lashes fluttering against the unshed tears that suddenly gloss your eyes.
fuck.
youâre going to cry.
kĂśnig shouldnât be looking this closely.
shouldnât be cataloging every shift of your body. shouldnât be tracking how your throat works as you swallow, how the delicate line of your jaw tenses under pressure.
itâs detail that shouldnât register. detail that has no purpose. no place. no right to send his thoughts careening somewhere they have no business going.
but there they go anyway.
because he's been watching you.
not in a way that's creepyâ kĂśnig tells himself that, over and over. he was just a professional doing his research, getting a feel for his clients. itâs good business practice, staying informed, making sure he knows who heâs working with, what they bring to the table.
and if that research led him to your socials, to hours of footage in soft, honeyed lighting, to endless clips of you sprawled out on pristine white sheets as you mewled into the cameraâ well. that was just part of the job, wasnât it?
but the truth, the thing he never says out loud, not even to himself is that heâs spent far too many nights with his phone in one hand and his cock in the other, watching you through the screen.
watching you in those tiny lingerie sets. pink and white lace, frilly little bows, the kind of girlish softness that makes his teeth ache.
kĂśnig's watched every fucking video. every stream. every post. hours spent with his laptop open, pants shoved down around his hips, hand working his cock as you bat your lashes and moan so sweetly it makes his head spin.
âam i a good girl?â you breathe into the mic, like youâre talking right to him. like you know.
and god, does he know you.
heâs studied you. learned you. mapped out every twitch, every tell, every fleeting flicker of pleasure that crosses your pretty face. the way your brows pinch together when youâre getting desperate. the way your lips part right before you come, glossy and swollen, tongue darting out to wet them like you want something in your mouth, like youâre inviting someone to grab you by the jaw and fuck your throat until you canât think.
heâs seen how your thighs start to tremble when you edge yourself too long. how your back arches off the sheets when you finally let go, hips rolling into your own hand, breath catching in your throat as you fall apart in a mess of shuddery gasps.
kĂśnig has jerked off to all of it.
not just once. not just twice.
so many times heâs lost count.
sometimes slow, drawing it out to hear that little whimper you make at the endâ the one that sounds like youâve been fucked dumb.
sometimes rough. desperate. chasing his own release with one hand fisted in the sheets and the other pumping his cock.
it drives him fucking crazy.
itâs worse up close. worse when you shift on your feet, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, trying to hold yourself together.
stop.
he clenches his fists. drags in a breath through his nose. he is not some fucking rookie. not some kid who canât keep his head straight.
but then you make a sound that crawls under his skin and sinks deep. and suddenly his thoughts are careening somewhere they shouldnât goâ
places where that breathy little sound is choked out against his palm. where those fingers twisting at your sleeves are scrabbling at his belt instead, pulling, fumbling, desperate.
his cock twitches.
jesus christ.
itâs perverse. itâs wrong. twenty years between you. he shouldn't even be thinking about you like this. but then he thinks about how small your hands would look trying to wrap around his cock. how easily he could press you up against the nearest wall, let you feel how bad he wants you, let you know exactly what you do to himâ
and yeah.
heâs fucked.
his grip tightens on the coffee cup, knuckles white, cardboard crumpling in his palm.
"we can reschedule." itâs the logical thing to say. the right thing.
but you stiffen immediately, shaking your head almost violently, like the mere suggestion hurts.
"i canât." your voice wobbles. "i donât have the budget for it. the airbnb, the crew- if we donât shoot today, itâs done. i lose it."
he can hear the distraught in your voice, the panic creeping in, rising in your throat. and kĂśnigâ kĂśnig has never been good at ignoring that kind of thing.
his jaw tightens. his fingers flex. his pulse pounds in his ears. and before he can think better of itâ
"i can do it."
your head jerks up, eyes locking onto his. wide. startled.
"what?"
kĂśnig lifts a broad shoulder, deceptively casual, ignoring how his pulse is hammering in his throat. acting as if he didnât just offer himself up like it was nothing.
"i can do it," he repeats. "you need a scene partner."
he pauses, just long enough to make sure youâre really listening before he adds, pointed: "iâve done worse for less."
itâs true too. kĂśnig had started shooting for money, not for passion, not for art. there were years where he took any job that paid, no matter how grimy, no matter how degrading. no dignity in it, no careful framing, no thoughtful direction. just harsh lighting, rough hands, the sound of too many bodies shifting in too little space.
itâs not like that anymore.
now, he works for himself. he makes art, in his own way. he only takes projects that meet his standards, only shoots what he knows will look good.
kĂśnig lets out a short, amused breath, tilting his head. "wouldnât offer if i wasnât."
your gaze flickers down to his mouth, just for a second, before snapping back up.
he notices. of course he fucking notices.
you hesitate, worrying your lip between your teeth, and he wantsâ god, he wants.
he lifts his coffee, takes a slow sip. watches you.
"think it through," he says, letting the accent curl around the words. "do you trust me?"
you stare at him, breath coming in short, uneven pulls. your fingers tighten around your phone.
and then, even though you probably shouldn't, you nod.
this is insane, is all you can think as your hands smooth down the dress, fingertips catching on the fabricâs delicate weave. it sways when you move, hem teasing the tops of your thighs.
the crew picked it because it feels normal, something someoneâs wife might wear on a lazy sunday, waiting for her husband to walk through the door. not lingerie, not tight or short or scandalous. innocent.
somehow, that makes it worse.
the set sprawls before you, carefully crafted to mimic home. the couch sits comfortably wornâ or at least looks like it, upholstery creased just enough to suggest years of use. a blanket lies draped over the back, fringes brushed out to seem effortless.
the coffee table holds small artifacts of a life: a half-empty mug with a faint lipstick stain, a book splayed open, pages curled, a pair of keys glinting under the warm overhead glow. off to the side, a framed photo perches, two strangers caught in mid-laugh, frozen happiness youâre supposed to claim as yours.
the lighting bathes it all in amber. soft, forgiving. like sunset spilling through a window that doesnât exist. everything is designed to feel. to pull the viewer into a scene that isnât real but wants to be. warmth. comfort. longing.
your pulse trips. nerves coil tight under your. stepping out, you inhaleâ
and there he is.
kĂśnig stands beside the couch, posture loose, almost as if heâs holding himself back from something. the uniform strains against him, fabric pulled taut across broad shoulders and the solid line of his chest. itâs glaringly obvious that it wasnât tailored for a man like himâ you doubt anything ever isâ but he wears it like it belongs to him anyway. the belt grips a tapered waist, dog tags resting cold against his sternum. they glint when he shifts, catching the warmth of the lights.
heâs big. that part you knew. everyone knows. but thereâs something about seeing him like this, the bulk of him filling the space, boots planted, arms crossed, sleeves clinging to thick forearms, that makes your breath catch in your throat.
he looks like he could hold the world in his hands. break it if he wanted.
then he lifts his head. and his gaze finds you.
it hits like a physical weight, gravity pulling you closer.
his eyes track the line of your body. starting from your face, drifting down, and back up again. for a moment you assume heâs taking inventory, cataloguing details you didnât know you were offering.
your skin prickles under the attention. heat pooling low, spreading outwards.
kĂśnigâs jaw shifts. a muscle ticks. his fingers flex where they rest against his bicep, knuckles pale for half a second before he eases them loose.
you swallow. "do i look okay?"
silence stretches. then: "you look perfect."
his voice sounds like it's been scraped raw from something you canât name. and you know you shouldnât take his words to heart. shouldnât make something out of nothing. he was just being politeâ
but god, he doesnât stop looking.
you breathe out. "are we ready?"
that seems to snap him out. kĂśnig exhales, nostrils flaring. âyeah," he says, looking away.. "weâre ready."
you nod and he turns, clapping his hands together.
"quiet on set!" his voice cuts through the chatter. "lights- ready? camera?"
a muffled ârolling!â comes from behind the equipment.
he glances back, stepping into place. "sound?"
"speed!"
he nods, shoulders shifting under the snug uniform. "all right. action on me. three... two..."
his gaze flickers forward, locks onto you. his hand lifts, a silent âready?â
you nod.
"action!"
the front door creaks open.
you see him firstâ broad shoulders filling the doorway, boots heavy against the worn rug you picked out last fall. his bag drops with a dull thump, keys jangling, and for a beat, you just stand there, watching.
it doesn't feel real. something out of a dream. your husband looks older somehow. tired. lines carved a little deeper around his eyes, hair at his temples brushed with more gray than before.
it's longer now too, the ends curling where sweat and travel have left it mussed.
then his gaze lifts, blue catching yours. and thatâs all it takes.
you move.
your feet carry you faster than you realize, dress fluttering against your legs as you throw yourself into him.
kĂśnig catches you with a small grunt, part effort, part relief, hardly moving from his spot. strong arms close around you as he lifts you off the floor with an ease that's almost unfair.
his hand finds the back of your thigh, fingers splayed wide. "easy, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice rough from disuse, deepened by exhaustion and age. thereâs an edge to it, earned from years of barking orders and nicotine abuse. "still getting old, you know."
you huff a breath thatâs almost a laugh. "youâre not that old."
"hm." kĂśnig presses his face into your hair. "tell that to my back."
your chest tightens. god, you missed him. missed the way he smellsâ soap, leather, that faint trace of cologne youâd tucked into his bag months ago, almost worn off, but still miraculously there. you press your nose to his neck, breathing him in, and whisper, "missed you."
"missed you more." when he pulls back, his gaze traces every line of your face, eyes crinkling at the corners. "lemme take a good look at you, baby."
heat blooms in your cheeks, but you let him. thereâs something reverent about his gaze when you meet his eyes.
then, he kisses you.
and fuck.
itâs messy. warm. his mouth is rough against yours, stubble scraping your skin, tasting like coffee burned down to the dregs.
"god," you breathe, voice catching on a gasp. "i love you."
kĂśnig chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours. "love you too," he murmurs, using that voice he saves for early mornings when youâre tucked against him, trading lazy kisses and whispered secrets.
his hands slide down to your hips, pulling you close. the world tilts, narrows, until thereâs nothing but him. his body, his breath, the scratch of his stubble when he tilts his head, brushing his nose against yours.
then his fingers slip under your dress. his breath hitches the moment he finds you bare, his touch grazing soft folds, sticky and warm with slick.
"no panties?" his voice dips somewhere between a laugh and a growl.
heat blooms in your stomach. you bite your lip, shrugging. "figured you'd appreciate it."
his gaze darkens, blue eclipsed by black. "oh, do i."
kĂśnigâs fingers slide between your folds, dragging through the slick mess youâve already made. you flinch at the contact, hips twitching toward him before you can catch yourself.
he pushes it in, slow. the stretch punches a gasp out of you, walls fluttering around the intrusion. he pauses, ignores your whine, brows drawing together, finger knuckle-deep. "did you get tighter?"
his voice is soft, almost like heâs talking more to himself than you, words slipping out under his breath.
his finger curls, pressing snug against your walls, testing just how much resistance it meets.
you whimper, thighs twitching, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket. "m-maybe if you fucked me more, i wouldnât be."
the words tumble out before you can think to stop them. your pulse skips as you process what you just said. heat floods your face.
kĂśnigâs head tilts. his eyes flick up, narrowing, â not angry, not exactlyâ but his stare steals the breath from your lungs all the same. your lips part, trying to fumble out an apology stuck at the back of your throat whenâ
slap.
he pulls his finger free and smacks your pussy.
you squeak, body jerking as the sting blooms quick and hot between your legs, warmth spreading through your skin, rushing up your spine. youâre caught between shock and the low, simmering heat that pools in your belly.
"careful," kĂśnig warns although his tone is deceptively light. his fingers tap against your clit in soft, featherlight pulses of teasing pressure that makes your thighs jump. "keep that attitude and iâll slap this pretty little thing five times. make you count every single one. sâthat what you want?"
your cunt clenches, slick dribbling down to coat his knuckles. he feels it, of course he does. feels how your body betrays you, responding before your mind can catch up.
chest heaving, you shake your head, breath shivering out of you. "no-"
"no?" he echoes a soft mockery, fingers dragging through the mess between your thighs, spreading it just to hear the wet sound it makes echo in the space between you. "then behave, sweetheart. donât make me teach you."
your heart pounds, breath coming in little gasps as you offer him a jerky nod. kĂśnig only watches with lazy half-lidded eyes.
"now," he murmurs, finger filling you again. "gonna ask one more time. have you gotten tighter..." his thumb brushes your clit, just enough to make you twitch, "...or have i just left you empty for too long?"
heat surges through you. your hands clutch at his jacket, grounding yourself in the weight of him. your face burns.
"you were gone for so long," you whisper, voice small, shame curling in your stomach.
he sighs. something in his gaze softens, guilt threading through his voice. "i know, baby." his forehead presses against yours. âmissed you too."
you sniffle, nuzzling into his shoulder. "y-you canât go away that long again..." the words tremble, cracking at the edges.
he kisses your temple, breath warm against your skin. "i wonât," he lies, gentle. "let me stretch you out, yeah?"
kĂśnig guides you further into your home, coaxing you down on the couch. kĂśnig kneels between your legs, broad hands spreading you open and drinking in the sight of you laid out before him.
"look at you," he murmurs, thumb dragging through your folds, gathering your slick up to rub slow circles against your clit. "so wet for me already. miss having me inside, huh?"
your fingers clutch at the cushions as he begins to fill you, head tipping back. "yes-"
"you gotta watch, pretty," kĂśnig interrupts, fingers tilting your chin back down.
your gaze drops, breath catching when you see itâ his thick fingers buried deep inside you, slick dribbling down his knuckles. the gold band around his finger shines beneath the mess youâve made, drenched, the sight obscene and somehow more intimate than youâre prepared for. your walls flutter around him, clenching down like your bodyâs desperate to keep him there.
"look at that.â he grind. "look at your cute little cunny... makinâ a mess all over me."
your cheeks burn. you squirm, trying to close your thighs, but his other hand tightens on your hip, keeping you spread. "no hiding," he says. "told you to watch."
so you do.
you watch the slow drag of his fingers pulling out, coated in slick that strings between you. your cunt clenches around nothing, throbbing, and you let out a soft, desperate whimper. kĂśnig hums, pleased, pressing back in. "look how well you take me," he says, dragging against that spot inside that makes your vision blur.
you whimper, head spinning, hips grinding down onto his hand. "feels so good-"
"yeah?" he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "gonna let me in now, sweetheart? let me fill you up nice and slow?"
you nod, frantic, words lost to the heat coiling low in your stomach. kĂśnig smiles, pulling his fingers free. you whine at the loss.
"shh," he soothes, wiping his slick-covered fingers against the head of his cock, spreading you over himself. "gonna take care of you. just lay back and be good for me, yeah?"
his hands grip your thighs, pressing them up toward your chest, folding you beneath him. your skin burns under the pressure, nerves sparking with every shift of his weight. the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance. heâs patient, achingly soâ dragging it along your folds, gathering your slick, smearing it along his length until youâre soaked enough that he doesnât have to rip you open.
kĂśnigâs gaze drops to where youâre spread open for him. "ready?"
you nod, breath catching in your throat, but itâs barely a sound, barely a thought when he starts to press in. he breaches you, the thick crown of his cock pushing past your entrance. your cunt clenches on instinct, trying to force him out, but kĂśnig presses on.
every inch feels like fire licking up your spine, burning through every nerve until youâre nothing but sensation.
"gonna fill you up, sweetheart.â his voice is a low rumble that vibrates through your bones. "stretch you out every day iâm home-" he drives forward another inch, making your back arch, "-âtil this pretty cunt just opens up for me."
you canât speak. canât think. everything narrows down to the drag of him inside you, veins and ridges catching on the soft walls of your cunt. your mind spins, vision blurring as your hips jerk, instinctively trying to escape the overwhelming fullness. his fingers bite into your thighs, holding you in place.
"uh-uh," he murmurs, dark amusement curling at the edges of his words. "donât run, baby. you wanted this."
he braces himself, broad shoulders tense above you as he tries to sink deeper. but even with how wet you are, how pliant youâve gone beneath him, your body refuses to give. his hips stutter, pushing, pushingâ yet still, thereâs that impossible last inches he canât force past.
âp-please- need it, need you-â the words spill out as he pauses, pulling back an inch.
"i know, baby, i know," he pants, forehead pressing to yours, sweat slick between you, before rolling his hips back in, trying his damn best to bottom out, but your cunt clenches stubbornly. frustration twists across his face, the sight of you writhing beneath him, cunt stretched wide and still too tight to take him fullyâ it drives him insane.
"gonna have to fix that," he murmurs, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.
you nod, dazed, tears slipping down your temples as you sob out a choked, "yes- yes, please-"
"shh," kĂśnig soothes, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. "youâre doinâ so good, baby. takinâ me so well. just need to open you up a little more, yeah?"
kĂśnig adjusts his grip, hands sliding beneath your knees, lifting you with ease. before you can even register the shift, heâs pulling you up against his chest, arms hooking beneath your legs, locking you back in a full nelson.
your breath stutters, eyes going wide as your body is left entirely at his mercy, weightless in his grip, spread open around him.
kĂśnigâs lips graze your ear. "gonna let gravity help us, yeah? lil bit of science. letâs see if this pretty little cunt can take all of me now."
your toes curl, breath hitching as he angles his hips, smearing your slick between you.
then he lets gravity do most of the work.
your breath leaves you in a shattered moan as your body sinks down, forced open as he drops you down on his cock. your walls flutter, clenching around him, stretched impossibly wide, struggling to take him, but he doesnât stop, doesnât let you squirm away.
"thatâs it," kĂśnig groans, arms flexing as he holds you still, keeps you spread. "so fuckinâ good for me, baby. lettinâ me stretch you open- gonna make you take it all."
you whimper, drool slipping from the corner of your lips, eyes rolling back as the last stubborn inch finally, finally sinks in, his cock seated fully inside you for the first time.
"fuck," kĂśnig grits out. "thatâs my girl. knew you could take it, baby. knew you just needed a little help."
kĂśnig doesnât give you much of a chance to adjust. the moment he thinks you're ready, his arms tighten, muscles flexing as he hauls you up before slamming you back down.
you jolt, cunt forced to stretch and squeeze around him with every thrust. his strength controls everythingâ the pace, the depth, the way you bounce like a ragdoll, helpless to slow him down. heâs slamming himself inside, spearing you open over and over, forcing you to stretch wider than you ever have.
you canât keep up. your limbs go slack, muscles useless, brain short-circuiting. your vision blurs, eyes rolling back, drool slipping from the corner of your lips as your mouth falls open in a silent scream.
kĂśnig chuckles, pleased, watching the way youâve gone completely limp in his arms. "gonna stretch you out like this every single day. keep you full, fuck you dumb, make sure this little cunt remembers who it belongs to."
your body convulses, wracked with sensation too intense to hold in. kĂśnig keeps moving, fucking you onto his cock like heâs trying to break you in, to shape your cunt to his cock.
"n-no-" your voice barely comes out. a sob caught in your throat as your fingers claw weakly at his forearms. your legs shake, eyes welling up, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. "g-gonna pee," you whimper, body locking up.
"no, baby." he drags you down harder, grinding the thick head of his cock against that perfect spot inside you. "youâre gonna cum. gonna make a mess all over me, aren't you?"
your sob turns into a choked wail as you gush, squirting hard, the release almost violent, soaking kĂśnig's thighs, dripping down to form a puddle on the floor beneath you.
kĂśnig watches you fall apart with hooded eyes, holding you up as your body jerks and trembles in his arms. "good girl," he praises, sounding utterly enthralled by the mess youâve made. "fuckinâ knew youâd soak me- knew you were just a little messy thing."
you slump against him, muscles useless. the aftershocks have you so dazed that you barely register the shift before youâre being turned, pressed down against the floor, cheek squished against the slick puddle you just made.
"kĂśnig-" you whimper, trying to lift yourself, but his broad hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, keeping you open.
he ignores you, fingers digging into your hips, adjusting your position, spreading you wider. he lines himself up and pushes in, stuffing you to the brim in one deep thrust. your fingers claw at the wet floor beneath you, the slick sound of him sinking into you obscene in the quiet.
"good fuckinâ girl," he drags his cock out before slamming back in, his thighs slapping against your ass. "just let me use you, yeah? just take it like my perfect little cumdump."
you sob into the mess beneath you. kĂśnig presses your face harder against it, his broad palm splayed between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned.
"lick it up," he orders, tone smooth, assured, the kind of voice that expects obedience.
your whole body burns, but the heat between your legs is hotter. kĂśnig feels the way you clench around him at the command, the way your body betrays you before your lips can even form a protest.
"kĂś-â
âdonât make me say it twice, sweetheart," he warns, hips pulling back, dragging his cock out until only the tip stretches you open.
"whatâs the matter?" he mocks. "you were so eager to make this mess- now youâre going shy?"
your breath shudders out in a small whimper before you obey, lowering your head, tongue flicking out, just barely grazing the puddle beneath you.
kĂśnig clicks his tongue. "thatâs not licking, thatâs teasing."
his hips snap forward, knocking you further into the mess, forcing your mouth against it. your lips part with a gasp, and kĂśnig watches, eyes dark and hungry, as you taste yourself properly for the first time.
"there we go," he hums, smug satisfaction. "now clean up every drop."
your cheeks burn as you press your tongue flat to the floor, licking a slow, tentative stripe through the mess. the taste floods your mouth and your stomach twistsâ but the weight of kĂśnigâs cock inside you, the way he keeps you full and stretched and pinned beneath him, sends another rush of slick dripping down your thighs.
he notices. of course he notices.
"oh, sweetheart," he breathes. "you like this, donât you?"
your body betrays you again, a little shiver running down your spine, your cunt fluttering around him.
"mm, you do." he chuckles, dragging his fingers through your hair, tightening his grip. "filthy little thing. youâre gettinâ off on this."
you squeeze your eyes shut, shame crawling up your throat.
"kĂśnig-"
"uh-uh," he interrupts, grip tightening, making you whimper. "keep licking, schatz. donât stop âtil itâs gone."
your tongue flicks out again, lapping up another mouthful, swallowing it down even as heat prickles behind your eyes.
kĂśnig groans at the sight, his free hand stroking down your spine, over the curve of your ass. "thatâs it, baby," he breathes. "such a good little slut for me."
you whimper, thighs squeezing together, hips rocking subtly against him, desperate for friction, for anything.
he notices that, too. "oh, you poor thing," he coos, all false sympathy, fingers stroking your cheek where itâs damp with tears. "sâthis gettinâ you all worked up?"
kĂśnig pulls back just a little, dragging his length through your overstretched walls. "you gonna come just from this?" he asks, rolling his hips. your body tenses, toes curling. "from licking your mess off the floor like a good little bitch?"
your face burns, whole body trembling. too full, too overwhelmed, too muchâ and yet, you nod, a choked little sob escaping your lips.
his pace stutters, burying himself to the hilt with a ragged groan, holding you still as he spills inside, his cock twitching, pumping thick ropes of cum into your swollen cunt. "fuck," he pants, chest heaving, his weight bearing down on you. "so good, baby. took me so fuckinâ well."
his cum is hot inside you, sticky, leaking, seeping out around his cock as he slowly pulls back, watching his spend start to slip from your overstretched hole. kĂśnig hums, almost thoughtful. he presses a broad palm against your pussy, scooping it up, pushing it back in with two thick fingers, shoving his spend as deep as itâll go. "keep it in,â he says almost absentmindedly. he lifts his hand after a moment, tilting his head as he examines the way it drips from his fingers.
his free hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up. your lips part before he even has to tell you. "clean it up," he slides his ring finger past your lips.
your lashes flutter, heat prickling up your spine as you close your lips around him, sucking gently, swirling your tongue over the ridges of his finger, tasting yourself, tasting him.
kĂśnig groans, thumb stroking over your cheek, watching your lips stretch around the digit, tongue flicking against the band wrapped around his finger.
"good girl," he breathes, eyes hooded, cock twitching against your slick folds, already stirring again, already wanting more.
he presses his finger deeper, until it nudges against the back of your throat, until your breath stutters and your eyes go hazy, wet.
"so pretty like this.â his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing slow circles over your swollen clit. "gonna keep you like this forever, wife. nice and full."
he pulls his finger from your mouth with a soft pop, watching the way your tongue flicks out after it, lips wet, eyes dazed. "gonna make you a mommy.â he grins. âfill you up every night until it takes.â
(10k wc) ⌠summary: demanding, old, hostileâ just a few of the warnings the man at the local shelter gave you before opening its cage. but it doesnât matter. so long as he can protect you, all else can be forgiven. yet heâs more wolf than dog. more⌠man than wolf.
⌠content hybrid! sylus, nsfw/smut, hints of violence (not between mc/sylus), tension, kind of enemies to lovers-? he warms up to mc, knotting & adjusting to it, feral behavior, cunnilingus, slight somnophilia (not detailed), hinted age gap (all parties are 18+), possessive behavior, size difference,
⌠sidenote as by popular demand we have the latest installment of the lads hybrid collection đââď¸ i apologize in advance bc even as a wolf-man creature i made sylus older, because yall already know i love me a good olâ fashioned dilf. dont ask me what bro is in dog years just know heâs scruffy! anyways do enjoy this lil thing while u wait for the caleb fic which i am busting my ass for :] đ ALSO sorry. heâs not feline this time⌠>_< this is def not my fav piece but i hope some of the girlies will like this one :] i did work hard on it itâs quite long. i gave it plot but tbh the smut is straight up filthy đ ig all we have left to do is hybrid rafayel! but that boyâs gonna have to wait lol :,) i do hav an idea for him tho ;D
With every step, it feels as if the walls of your apartment are closing in on you.
By your feet, at the front door you hardly have the coordination to close- blundering with the lock- lay a bouquet. Scattered. Flowers strew themselves across your hall as you kick the clasped bunch with the tip of your heel and glide from room to room, warily ducking into each one with your hand braced in front of your body, ready to beat and thrash and fight for your life.
In your other hand- a note. Crumpled, now. Shaking between your fingers.
You donât think heâs gotten inside again- it seems the new home security measures you installed have thrown a wrench in his plans- for the moment, at least (although your spare key is still missing)- but youâre not wholly convinced youâre safe, either.
And to be clear, itâs better to be that than sorry: Youâll check each and every cranny of your little flat if it means reclaiming your peace of mind.
Your life is a different story though, as of late; threatened yet not something quite as simple to take back. Living with bated breath is no way to exist- neither with the perpetual looks thrown over your shoulder on the short trek back from the bus, the seemingly harmless creaks at night hurling you whole feet from your bed.
Because of that fear, you can hardly even bear to look down at the tiny paper in your hand to read it.
I loved that outfit on you yesterday babe. Can you blame me for taking a little from your wardrobe? âĄ
Strangely, though, your drawer is just as you left it when you slide it from its framework almost fast enough to pop its screws, fearing the worst.
Clothes- your tee shirts, blouses for work and lacy bras, pencil skirts- fling across your bed, yet nothing is⌠amiss.
That outfit from yesterday.
With a gasp, you twist around to look at your hamper, and-
Sure enough, the lid is open.
âŚ
â-get a few new ones a week. Gets hard to keep up with âem all. All the personalities and quirks- a lot of them wonât even eat their kibble unless you look the other way.â
The cold brick walls and all the sounds bouncing off them (grunts, woofs, and nails against tile) become humdrum as the worker, waving a hand as he talks- rants, really- leads you through the pound.
The fluorescence lighting the place flares, whirs overhead. Everything about the setting is harsh. Obviously, youâre in no danger- but as you trail alongside him, you feel a sense of foreboding in your gut all the same. Like youâre walking into a dungeon.
The colorless walls swallowing up most of your vision make that silly threat seem an ounce realer.
You swallow, head on a swivel- yet not for fear, but sympathy as you pass an assortment of fenced-off pets. Some track you with a snarl. Some with eyes that plead. Still, they all share the undeniable tinge of distrust.
What an awful place, you think to yourself.
âŚBut coming here had a purpose.
Your heels clip against the scratched floor and echo in rounds, a certain emptiness existing around you that seems misaligned with all the noise and sights.
Dogs in their cagesâ some upfront, teething at the metal, others: cowed to their corners, lying on thin blankets not quite as worse for wear.
To sum it up- creatures sapped of will. Defeated in life.
A distinct sorrow weighs in your chest, even as the employee happily drones on, a half-eaten tuna sandwich in one hand (the other: gesturing emphatically), hardly paying you any attention. To be fair, youâre giving him very little as well.
â-I mean, some donât even eat at all. Picky things.â
Picky? You question quietly. Or without hunger? Their appetite for cheap, bagged kibble robbed right along with their appetite for life.
Your nails dent into your palm as you clench it.
Itâs hard to get a word in edgewise as the man chatters away, but you manage to pile down your need to be polite for long enough to get in a:
Hey, excuse me, I asked what kind of dog youâd recommend for protâ
Clack, clack⌠Clack.
You come to a pause, dead-center in the walkway. The dull rhythm of his shoes remains where yours doesnât.
âHeh. We got one a couple of months back who thinks this place is his own damn gourmet restaur-â
When he notices youâre not arm-to-arm, he, too, stops.
âMaâam?â He turns.
âThat one,â you breathe, just vaguely registering as the worker sidles up to you and glances at the cage you approach. The glint in your eye wins his interest.
For once since you entered the building, he shuts his mouth.
When he looks at âthat oneâ in questionâ a silver shock of fur, immersed in a shadow against the far wallâ his eyes almost bulge from his skull.
A sharp laugh.
âAh, little lady. Donât wanna bite off more than you can chew, now. See-â
As he falls back into drivel (albeit, you lend an ear, curious now), you eye the pooch.
He looks a little wilder than the rest, a little more weathered, tucked to the corner of his cage but not quite âcoweringâ- no, heâs a touch too big and threatening for it to seem that way. More like⌠brooding.
âŚYet you wonder all the same if thatâs what he feels, too. Scared like most if not all of the others.
Your chest stirs again with that wisp of sadness.
If you could, youâd clip their collars to a leash and walk them all home, cramming them into your apartment with no thought and all heart. For reasons- countless reasons (having to do with your tiny home and even tinier wallet)- thatâs not possible.
In a place as cold and unfortunate as this, heâd have every reason to be frightened, you think, but when your eyes soften with pity at him, his own narrow.
Thoughtfully, you blink.
As the worker rattles off his minor crimes around the playpen- and the hole he eats through their budget, what with his size- you canât help but marvel at him.
Concerningly massive. With thick, silvery fur matted in certain areas, patchy with scars in others, and eyes that glow an unnatural shade of red- you can wholeheartedly say youâve never seen the breed before. Less dog-like and more wolfish.
It warrants a raise of the brow, just what heâs doing here. Did he have an owner before? Was he abandoned by them? Or⌠was he just pulled from the street?
And if so, how many elephant-sized tranquilizer darts did it take to haul him here?
âSo,â he says, stuffing his hand in his pockets, âHonestly, Maâam, heâs probably not what youâre lookinâ for.â Giving your clacking heels and airy sundress a once-over, he sighs.
âWe do have a Samoyed though- he was brought in just yesterday. Super playful. Great personality. Domesticated. He definitely wonât be here for long. Uh⌠this one here, though,â he snickers. âHeâs unpredictable at the best of times. Growls when ya feed him- then growls some more âcause heâs still hungry... tsk,â he glances down at his hand, then. Evidently, thereâs no mark there, but you think heâs imagining one that couldâve been.
âHeâs on the older side, too. Canât teach him any new tricks. And⌠big, as you can see. With his temperament, heâd probably tear a hole in your apartment. You, uh, you got an apartment, you said-?â
Right now, you should be thankful for all his advice- at the very least, relieved his chatter has become more meaningful, relaying all the poochâs unruly habits. Yet you tune it all out, slightly cocking your head at the beast dog- a movement that, if youâre not imagining things, his scruffy one mirrors.
âHeâsâŚâ
âYep. Like I said-â
âPerfect,â you breathe, falling to a crouch.
The man beside you coughs on his own spit. âWhat-? Uh, little lady, I seriously donât thinkâ hey, watch the hands! Donât stick âem through!â
â-How much?â
You manage to pry your gaze from the ominous thing tucked a number of feet into his prison, cloaked and out of the light, to look up at the man. For all of the warnings and, really, defamation made against the animalâ to his defense, he doesnât lunge. Bark. Claw at the bars or slip his snout through to bite the harmless hand you extend in the space there.
No. With a lift of his whiskers, he watches.
Tuna-sandwich blinks. Eyes widening to twice their original size before he scrubs the lower half of his face.
Eventually, he shrugs. Takes a moment to process it.
As he does, you await the price with a hand already dipping inside your purse. I mean, you hope not to spend a small fortune during this outing- but itâs also an investment worth your while. Thereâs no saying when your stalker will show his face again. If tomorrow heâll be waiting under your bed or in your closet for your return- hell, right now, the hackles on your neck are raised as if he could be lurking still.
A word relieves you of worries for naught.
âNothing.â
âŚWait- No, that canât be right. Nothing? The- your future good boy is worth nothing?
âE-Excuse me?â
He sighs, exasperated. âYouâd be doing us a favor,â is all he gives as an explanation. âYou can have him for free.â
Dumbfounded, snapping your head back to the cage, youâre met with two crimson eyes that look almost hellish as they catch in the shifting fluorescence- and a pass of surprise on its face that appears almost⌠human.
âBut, are you-â
âHaaaaah. Maybe itâs for the better. Youâre like his savior, you know,â he comments, sparing a rather indifferent glance to the animal, âhe oughta be thankful for you coming in here.â
And there, fucking again- like a blade wedged between your ribs and twistingâ
âToo much longer and we wouldâa had to put him down.â
A squeeze of your heart.
Jaw fluttering shut, that morsel of information wipes the entirety of your hesitance out. Belatedly, you nod, perching your bag above your hip once more, a sense of determination smoothing out your features.
âWhen can we get him out of this cage?â
You ask without looking his way.
The sound of keys jingling on a ring has the silver-furred creature perking his left ear ever so slightly- a movement you track with curiosity as the beastâs chest swells in. Itâs like he understands. Maybe he does. Maybe heâs seen countless people just like you filter in and out, pass him by, and ultimately land on a different pet to jailbreak take home.
âI can get you sorted right now,â he quips, helpful, âJust⌠You might wanna back up.â
Weirdly enough- and despite knowing you really should be cautious with a veritable beast from the local shelter, scarred to no end and skulking- all the tiptoeing around him is endearing in its own right.
Heâs a good boy, youâre sure of it. Misunderstood, probably, like the rest of the poor, trembling things hereâ just in need of a nice, loving home and maybe a scritch or two behind the ear. And youâre positive, if nothing else, heâll do plenty a good job at keeping your stalker at bay.
It takes a handful of minutes to loop the rope (not leash: rope) around his neck- yet the worker treats it as a pleasant surprise, muttering something about how heâs just a whit more cooperative today.
âThank you,â you chime a bit breathlessly. Sure, your main goal in coming here was to find a suitable guard dog, but you canât deny the excitement that flutters within as the gate closes to a now-empty cage, your new pet springing free.
Anticipation thrums in your chest as you eagerly accept the rope from him- âcareful,â a snigger- andâ
The ground beneath you all but gives way.
âOh, sir- one more thing! Whatâs his name!â
He stops for a moment to turn halfway over his shoulder. Long, overgrown nails skittering across the floor as the leash tugs harshly and youâre rapidly propelled out the front door, into sunlight.
However, you do catch him shrugging.
âNo clue.â
âŚ
A number of days pass. Those days drag by with an eagerness to get to know each other that seems only one-sided- and a caution on his end that borders uncanniness.
You buy him a fluffy dog bed (the biggest you could find; heâs bigger still). Quality food, not the rubbish they fed him at the pound. And you give him your patience; small, gentle smiles that youâre not entirely sure an animal can understandâ but when you offer out your hand for him to smell, a sign that you mean no harm, he growls and retreats to his corner. He chooses one part of your tiny apartment to hunker down in and outright glares when you get too close.
This is your house.
This⌠was your house. Maybe youâve bitten off more than you can chew. As a week moves on, you concede to your bedroom or the sofa and watch him with resignation as he watches you back- and contemplate if you made the right choice.
Does he seriously hate you that bad? How can you make him understand that you donât harbor any bad intentions for him-? I mean, arenât animals supposed to have that preternatural kind of instinct anyway? to spot malice?
What is he spotting in you?
Curled up on the couch, you hang your hand off the arm and release the new brush youâd bought days ago. Itâs seeming more and more like a useless purchase, yet after countless attempts to bathe and brush him- all for naught- itâs only now starting to settle.
Work was long. That one coworker was grating on your nerves more than usual and you couldâve sworn you heard a second pair of footfalls trailing yours after the bus back- but you can only look over your shoulder so many times without attracting the attention of people who start to wonder if youâre batshit crazy.
But you're not crazy. That- That psychopath is, and his countless notes and uninvited visits to your apartment while youâre gone are all proofs of that.
But thatâs changed, now. If your dog hates you, heâll hate an intruder even more.
You sigh, holding your head in your hands as you lean forward. Like a flower wilted, folded in on itself, too heavy with its withering to support its own weight. You rub your temples when you grudgingly glance up to the wolf-sized beast sulking in the corner.
He stares, of course; buttery light twinkling in imposing, ruby eyes in a way that almost makes him seem tame. Mellow.
Not quite.
Still, you canât bring yourself to dislike him, or regret taking him off the poundâs handsâ for all his stubbornness, the hostility he barely conceals, you know all too well that fear manifests itself in strange ways. Like when you almost snarled at your deskmate today for leaning over your shoulder again to review your work- the proximity too startling to handle. Youâre irate. On alert. Scared. And itâs making you do unreasonable things as a way to calcify your soft skin into a protective shell. You start to think that you must be hard: the climate calls for it.
The mutt that broods behind your armchair is the picture of ominous- big and bad and threatening long before his lip even curls in warning. Everything about him screams see, look at my scars- my sharp teeth and nails. Donât touch me. Donât hurt me.
Your heart stirs.
Tiredly, you offer a small smile. âYou are perfect, you know,â folding your leg over the other as you pat the open space of the couch beside you. It can fit four to six people if they cram together, but you know heâd take up the three cushions beside you if he sprawled out entirely.
He regards you with a microscopic flick of his ears. âEven if you donât like me, that doesnât change what I think about you. If you just let me give you a bath⌠Iâll let you sit on the couch, deal? Iâm sure itâll be comfier than what you got now,â you offer, gesturing harmlessly to the dog bed that lays unused by the tableâ for this reason or that, perhaps just as a way to show you heâs completely rejecting you, heâs avoided it.
Yes, heâs just a tatterdamelion, forgotten animal, operating out of instinct and whatever feels right.
Yes, you still had to mask your hurt over it.
You sigh. âI mean, I havenât even thought of a name for you yet. And Iâm sorry, I justâŚâ Trailing off, you give your head a small shake and stand to your feet. In your mind, with no small amount of discontent, you realize youâve reached a watershed hereâ one that separates your old, normal life from a sense of great uncertainty that rests on the horizon.
And youâre terribly concerned. And tired. But God forbid you start venting to a dog about it.
âNevermind. Goodnight, boy,â you wave your doubts off dismissively, deliberately leaving the lamplight on lest he get scared in the dark. Sometimes, you think you see eyes staring back in it, too, so you put no judgement on him.
Pattering with heavy, sock-clad feet down the hall, âSleep tight. Just tell me if you hear anything at the door-â
A labored sigh.
Nails clacking behind youâ and for one awful second you fear the worst: Youâve turned your back to a beast.
Your breath hitches with the realization, yet as you swiftly spin around- half prepared to bolt or at the very least shield your head with your vulnerable, just as fleshy arms- youâre mistaken.
There, he stands, as a massive silhouette against the living room light angling into the narrow, dim hall. Heâs like a bull in a china shop- monstrous, sharp claws etching lines into the lacquer of the maple wood floor, his tail sending fur gusting behind him as it falls. You become clear of two things, then:
One) you must sweep, and soon. And two)
Heâs tilting his head- in an uncannily shrewd way- towards the ajar bathroom door beside you, and as he noses it open and stares at you, itâs with expectance.
Oh, and then threeâ
When you donât respond right away, he steps around you and impatiently nudges you in- headstrong as ever- through the bathroom door with a throaty huff.
âŚ
He smells of strawberry shortcake. Vastly sweeter than what he really is, you think with a wry but endeared smile, when you extend a slow, ever-cautious hand to pet.
To your surprise, he lets you.
Call it a truce between you both. A comfier place for him to crash at for a little more peace of mind on your end.
With all the dirt and dried muck lathered out from his coat (it took an hour or so, and patience- as he flung water and stubbornly tried to readjust in the small tub- lots of it), youâre given the chance to finally see the beauty of his breed.
Chalky white fur, soft as the cashmere sweater stowed in your closet on standby for the chilly autumn weeks ahead. His hair is long, perhaps overdue for a trim- not that youâre deluded enough to believe heâd allow a groomer anywhere near him- and easily covers most of the scarring underneath.
Convincing him it was safe to let you clip his nails was an even harder task than getting him in the bath- but he⌠cooperated. In a looser sense of the word.
None of your limbs are missing. Thatâs a small miracle in itself. Youâre thankful for the little breakthroughs with your new pet, even if it feels like youâre walking uphill all the while.
He hops up on the sofa beside you. True to your word, you allow it, the springs dipping beneath you both as he settles.
If the couch fell through the floor and onto the one below in a mist of crumbled drywall, youâd have no right to be surprised. None at all.
Trying not to show a fraction of your joy as he sets his head on your lap lest that deter him, you bite back a grin and rest a hand on his back. You avoid needless contact with his head- you get the feeling thatâs a iffier place for him. Youâd respect it, of course. Your show of patience has been nothing less than outstanding in the past week. Now that youâre finally making headway with him (and yesâ his letting you bathe and sit with him is headway), youâre encouraged.
BesidesâŚ
Unpredictable. The forbidding advice of the shelter employee rings in your head.
Ahem.
Itâs late.
Tomorrow, youâve another long day of work and second-guessing your surroundings and the people in them. Whether or not youâll be attacked in your own home by your persistent ex-boyfriend who couldnât stop meddling with your life even if it meant saving his own.
The doubt, momentarily, is pushed to the back burner.
You smooth your hands through his velvety fur. A strange layer of peace drapes itself over you, warming your chest like a fleece as his back rises and falls, your quiet breaths punctuating his own heaving ones.
âYouâre a good boy, you know,â you murmur contentedly as you lay your head back and drift off. A crimson set of eyes regards you carefully, peering up through fine, snowy lashes.
From the barrel of his chest, he lets out a deep rumble like he understands. You know he doesnât.
Half awake, you weave your fingers along him, âYou are. You are a good boy,â as if itâs come as an epiphany to you- made realer as itâs spoken.
Before you let sleep take you entirely, you murmur with a ghost of a grin, teasing despite knowing itâs ridiculous because your words arenât coherent to him- just a swooning, soft sound to bitten earsâ
âHey⌠I could tell you didnât really like Cookie, or Sweetie, or Dragonfruit, but⌠what aboutâŚâ
A moment passes. Barely, you register his snout lifting from your thigh.
âSylus.â
Before dozing off, youâre fairly certain- for his sake- youâd left the lamp on that night.
âŚBut when you wake the next morning to your alarm blaring in the room over, all that lights the living space is the sun streaming through the blinds.
âŚ
You blink and autumn is in full throttle.
You blink and youâre trading your thin sleep shorts out for pajama pants and slippers- layering your work blouses with wooly cardigans.
Days leap over one another like cards of a rolodexâ yours, on your cubicle desk: filled with doodles of the unruly pooch waiting at home for you. Idling over him is all that you can do to ease your mind as anxiety gnaws through.
You worry for him when heâs home alone. Not because you heed the warnings you were once given- âheâll tear a hole in your wallsâ- but because you care for him, and with that brings the inexplicable want to see him as soon as possible.
Of course, he canât speak, but he shows in his own way that he misses you too when youâre gone.
Once your shift ends, you do as you did the day before. You quickly take the jacket off your wheely chair and gather your things, waving to the select few coworkers who donât make you want to rip your hair from the root.
Perhaps if youâre quick enough, youâll even make it off the bus, to your complex, before the sun sets. You appreciate fall for its colors. Not for the darkness it brings far too early to be comfortable with.
Every alley appears with teeth, in those eerily quiet moments when you make the short trek back home. Cars purr beside you on the congested roads, and despite cursing traffic on the ride to your stop, youâre grateful for it now.
At least more people are out; potential buffers to stave off your crazy ex from putting his hands on youâŚ
Potential witnesses if he does.
Damnit. Damnit damnit damnit. Every evening you canât help but wish you could just- take Sylus with you to work. But for so many reasons thatâs just not possible.
Stuffing your hands in your pockets, you breathe out a fine mist and pick up the pace.
You canât escape dusk from falling- but you can take advantage of the early moments of it right before night comes swinging.
You nervously glance up to the sky, a fiery swatch of orange sat under starry blue, and tell yourself itâs fine.
âŚItâs fine- and yet you swear on all things holy you can hear boots pacing behind yoursâ
A gasp. You turn around and get ready to rip your pepper pray from the scabbard that is your pocket- for naught. Emptiness greets you. Sneering and quiet. In the distance, deeper into the city, a car honks. Where you are now though, youâre more or less alone.
You wet your lip where itâs dented from biting. You turn around, and press back on.
Itâs okay. Youâre almost home. Just a bit further. Within ten minutes youâll be crooning to your âpuppyâ and itching behind his ear while he rigidly thumps his tail, closing his eyes indifferently as if he wasnât hurrying to the door as soon as he heard the lock.
Yes, thatâs right. In ten minutes- on the dot (you know because youâre toying with your watch to calm yourself)- youâll be slipping off your jacket and refilling his water bowl, tossing him scraps as you prepare a nice steak dinner in celebration of your weekend commencing. The fancy wine youâll pair with it is to help wash it all down and pretend youâre financially better off than you are. Not to help your nerves.
âŚEven Sylus, the creature who doesnât understand you even if sometimes it seems he unexplainably does, would be hard-pressed to believe such a feeble lie.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Your heels. A dull, monotonous rhythm against pavement, one you relish now because it fills the crisp, silent air.
Then-
Tap tap tap.
Your heels- âHey baby, wait up- where ya going?â- with the sound of another and the bone-chilling revelation that every suspicion you had was groundedâ
You donât even turn around. You donât reason with, stick up the bird to, or even hastily shout a fuck off, creep, over your shoulder because youâre not sure you have the luxury to.
By the sounds of it, heâs already close.
âOh no you donât. Come on, baby, just let me fuckinâ talk to you!â
-Closer and gaining still.
Fear rattles through you. It goes from zero to one hundred in a breath- yet how to breathe becomes a distant memory as your lungs still. The pulse in your throat drums, and suddenly your cardigan isnât enough to save you from the ice eating you from the inside out- a cold sweat already forming at your nape.
Youâre in such a panic you even forget about the spray in your pocket- the assortment of makeshift blades (keys, pens that grow knives when you click them) tucked in your purse. You have a small arsenal in there. Yet your mind spins.
âStop-! I havenât even been able to visit you lately because of that fucking asshole- since when youâd get a new boyfriend, baby? Do you really not care about me anymore? I just wanna talk!â
No. No no no- and new boyfriend? What-? All thought is dashed from your brain, his hollers becoming static. No, just ignore him, it doesnât matter what nonsense he spouts to try and get you back- you wonât so much as glance behind you. After all heâs done to hurt and twist and outright disgrace you and your home, you donât think he deserves it.
You break into a sprint. The concrete path pushes beneath you. You feel like youâre running in a dream, youâre so terrified- but you do run. You run like hell. You run like a girl.
You fiddle for the key in your purse, shaking as the door opens and you slam it behind you. His hand almost gets stuck in it, the knob jiggling loudly just a millisecond after you lock it.
As the reality of what couldâve been settles, youâre horrified. Cold in the face.
Sylus is there, leaping over to reach you. You wonder if the fury you catch in his wide ruby eyes is your imagination or reality; if he has the inexplicable knowing- based on your frazzled state or the noise- that something is terribly wrong.
âSylus-â
You breathe with relief, but you donât linger. You skitter past to the kitchen for a weapon- a real, proper one. A snarl rips from his throat as you leave him behind you, shouts sounding in the hallway behind your door. He barks at it. Ferocious and lupine. Surely not the make of a dog, of a pet meant for four walls and a roofâ no, itâs a separate beast entirely.
Hostile, unpredictable, growly- dangerous. Oh, youâve no choice but to hope all the labels on his package are true. That heâll rip your ex-boyfriend a new one if he finds a way in.
Hyperventilating, limbs like jelly, you stagger over. In the short span of time it takes you to turn out the kitchen and down the corridor, you contemplate either opening the door and saying go boy, goâ or simply staying back to âdefend.â
You turn the corner and blanche.
Someoneâs in your house- not the creeping, painfully familiar face, however, no- and heâs naked.
And then, everything youâd been working so hard to build with your froward pet over the months, the foundation of trust and patience, the hard-earned truce made between you both⌠As red eyes flash at you in warning, a hand taking the shaking knife from your own before he opens the doorâ it all shifts.
The bottom falls through.
The man opens the door, and perhaps you should be thankful that he takes the squabble outside because youâre sure that the blood spraying from your ex-boyfriendâs nose as it breaks would be impossible to scrub from your walls.
âŚ
âRelax,â he grouses with a tsk, âIâm not gonna bite.â
With split knuckles, a long leg crossed over the other where he sits on your couch, canines just a little too sharp as they catch in the lamplight- thatâs hard to believe.
The blade heâd taken from your hands lies on the cushion beside him, and while you donât make a grab for it, you think he sees the way you eye it- and the knife block in the kitchen- as you clench your fist to keep yourself from fainting while you gawk.
âY-Youâre not my dog.â
One of his brows lifts with amusement- or challenge, perhaps- as you deny the truth laid out before you. Itâs impossible. Of course itâs impossible. He-
That canât be Sylus.
For a moment you believe heâll agree. Nod his head and say, no, Iâm not your dog- Iâm a person; because thatâs certainly how he looks. But he doesnât.
âI simply changed forms,â he explains. âNot who I am to you.â
With nothing else to say- no real rebuttal- you can only flounder. âN-No. Youâre not Sylus.â
That pulls a soft huff from him, âOh, kitten,â he grins a tenuous grin, âIâm wounded. And here I thought your kindness had no takebacks. You gave me that name, didnât you? Sylus.â He sighs, a heavy, affected sound- like this is no more than a theater play to him as he adjusts on your sofa.
âI guess Iâll just have to settle for something else, then⌠Is Dragonfruit still up for grabs?â
D-Dragonfruit? How does heâŚ
The way he looks at you then, with a lift of his chin as he angles his brow in provocation, a smirk only touching half his mouth- makes you freeze. The little hairs on your nape rise.
âŚYet heâs just as scarred as your pet, with the silver hair and the gemstone eyesâ massive, over six foot tall and muscular- and the air about him is⌠familiar. Too much to be comfortable with.
âY-Youâre not-â
Before you can splutter out another denial, he sighs and drops the bravado. He spares the weapon beside him a dismissive glance, stretching one arm across the back of the couch.
âLook, if you donât believe me, thatâs your choice. I wonât try to convince you,â he states, âIâll just let my actions speak for themselves in the course of the next few days.â
âŚWhat? The next few days? Does he plan to stay? What- no. No no no! This mysterious, albeit helpful stranger (helpful in the way that he shook your persistent ex from your doorstep- through violent means, of course) canât seriously think youâll just let him crash at your place after feeding you such a ridiculous lie. Heâs not your dog. Heâs- heâs not some werewolf that can shapeshift on a whim- those only exist in fairytales and teenage romance novels.
Not in your tiny apartment.
âN-No. You- youâre crazy. You have to leave. You have to! Iâll- Iâll call the cops!â
Not-Sylus seems unfazed. Perhaps even a little offended at your bluffing: the vehemence is there. But the certainty is not.
Sure, the department wasnât having your stalker drama- but an intrusion youâre actually witnessing like this canât be easily ignored. If your crappy ex ends up snitching (you doubt it, what with his involvement)- all the more evidence, right?
He all but rolls his eyes, saying like itâs obvious, perhaps even with a mite of amusement, âIâm on your side, kitten. Donât get allâŚâ he looks you up and down, and you hate the flutter of your heart thatâs more than just fearfulâ itâs self-conscious. âHissy now.â
You punch out a scoff of disbelief. âYouâre some stranger in my house! Look- I appreciate what you did, okay? I really do,â you start. You have to pause in between to take a breath because God knows you mean the words you say- youâre just inwardly afraid that the fix was only quick, not permanent, and with the sudden disappearance of your dog? Good luck protecting yourself now. Fuck, you donât even know where he went- maybe he booked it out through the door when you were too distracted by the chaos to notice.
But then⌠why the hell would he leave? He- Heâs never done that until now!
You rub your face and stare at him. The fear lends itself to a distant echo the more you realize youâre no longer in immediate danger. The guy is an unwelcome (and flashy, literally) intruder, yes, one your pooch would waste no time in maiming, but heâs not an active threat... You just have to figure out how to get him to leave.
âBut my dog is a dog. Not a human. Not⌠you.â That you even have to say it out loud is ridiculous.
Even if, the longer you stare, the more you begin to believe it.
The scarred skin, the unmistakable, red eyes, and the somewhat bitten ears- his body weathered from what you suspect to be years of tussling in underground fights (evidently: winning them, not without the cost though)âŚ
And that arrogant little air he carries with him, the one that first endeared you so.
Sylus, it all says.
But no. No- this is insane. Months of being stalked and living like a bug under a microscope have made you worse for wear. Impaired your judgment.
He draws you back to the present with his rumbling voice. âYour dog is more than just some animal,â he huffs. âDonât tell me after all youâve experienced with the stalker that youâre⌠frightened of this side of me? Really? Of all things?â His chuckle is as rich as it is short as he shakes his head.
Frightened? No⌠that becomes a more distant word. Youâre more so stunned than anything else right now as the pieces start to fall in alignment with each other.
âWell, how about this,â he offers at your silence, waving his hand. âLet the week pass. By the end of it, you can decide for yourself if Iâm real or truly just a figment of your imagination, sweetheart⌠YouâŚâ he lowers his gaze, then. Uncertain, almost.
âYou can even decide if you want me to stay.â
He rubs nothing between his fingers, glancing up again with a pointed brow. âDeal?â
And if you say no? If, on the off chance youâre wrong and you kick him right back to the curb- to a sorry life of abandonment and bloody illegal brawls and God knows what else?
Your mouth wavers. âI- I donât believe it.â
You do believe it. But itâs crazy.
He almost snorts. âYouâd better start. But with that pest taken care of now⌠I think youâll catch on quite fast,â he grins. âIâm here for you, kitten. Isnât that what you wanted me for? Protection? Donât tell me once I serve my use youâll throw me out?â He laughs. But then he sighs right after, pursing his lips and looking down to his lap where he makes no effort to adjust the thin blanket that covers his nakedness as it nearly slips.
Headstrong. Cocksure. Bored with his surroundings in a way only mature folk really tend to be. The sage advice of that employee flashes in your mindâ âheâs on the older side, so naturally heâs a bit grumpy, snippyâ; really, you shouldnât gasp at his temperament but with your current situation itâs a little hard not to when he clips out-
âSo? Do we have a deal or not?â
And, well, whatâs the harm in giving him your couch for one night?
Or several.
âŚ
A wintry chill pricks up your neck. Along your arms. Down your limbs where they bundle beneath the covers- to the tips of your toes as you respond with a shiver.
It rattles you in tandem with pleasure.
Upon waking, a few things blitz through your mind too fast to catch. For one, youâve woken before your alarm- meaning youâll be miserable in the minutes or hours of consciousness before it actually does go off. Secondly, the bed feels heavier.
âŚAs do your bones.
Thirdâ Sylus is not on the couch like heâs been for the past few months. Heâs with you, in the comfort of your own bed, and as the wooly blanket slips down your upper half- leaving you to the cold air- it reveals to you a head between your thighs.
Pried open. One held up for a soft kiss while the other is pinned downâ both wet. Sticky with- with you.
You gasp. âSylus-â
Youâve no time to even rub the sleep from your eyes, big weathered hands anchoring you in place, because he lifts his head from his plate for a millisecond when you try to stop him and does something he hasnât for months.
He snarls.
âQuiet. Iâm eating.â
Protective. Territorial. That isnât your pussy he eats from, lapping fervently at it as if it wasnât just a number of hours ago you were hand-feeding him steak cubes from the cutting trayâ no, itâs his.
He blocks your hand from interfering when it slips beneath the cover. So when that doesnât work, you attempt to clamp your legs shut (quavering, you realize, on either side of his lupine face). All your efforts- bogged by sleep and the simple fact that he was leagues stronger- are for naught.
âGood tryâ, his eyes seem to tease, though, glittering devilishly at you as his tongue flicks your clit. And then, when you hesitantly lie back and rest a hand in his hair- âthatâs it, kitten.â
âGood girl,â he practically purrs.
Heâs got a big appetite. Youâve known that.
Not as much as you do right now.
âSylus, wait wait wait,â you moan. Life has thrown so much your way, especially in the past year or so, but you never went belly-up for it. You fought and resisted and squared up.
But right now, half of you almost wants to take him lying down- let him take his fill of you and then pin you down to take some more. Let him have his way with you, whatever that may entail.
But you- You have work tomorrow, and- and responsibilitiesâ
âHush,â he goes, voice muffled, having some preternatural ability to tell just what youâre thinking. He drifts a hand up your belly to splay over the valley of your breast. Your heart thumps beneath his callous palm like a metronome. Like a ticking clock, counting down the seconds or hours before you need to get up and get ready. Start a day in which you leave home, leave Sylus, and spend the rest of it longing to get back.
âJust take the day off.â
Grudgingly, you lie your head back. Itâs⌠not a great idea, but as your rationale clouds, it seems like your best one.
âO-Okay.â
As a hot, long tongue stripes up your pussy and then his other hand, the one he used to comfort you in his own weird way, slinks downward again- the ceiling becomes too boring to bear.
So you glance down.
Heâs handsome as all get out. Really, a couple months ago when he first appeared to you as a human, that was all you could think as days passed and you became grossly aware that you were sharing a confined space with a man. That you had been all alongâ and your prancing around the apartment half-naked was just one of the countless spectacles heâd seen.
He never pounced, though. Never lunged. Never bit you like a dog or hurt you like a man, even when every bit of his crude exterior screamed hazardous. He was a good boy. And you donât care what form he takes; he took you as you are, didnât he? When you were scared of your own shadow and a little snippy because of it. He let you hold the leash to his heart and snarled at anything that came too close- protected you against your piece of crap ex without prompting. Turned your fear into a mellow thing.
Warmth prods at your heart. Loosens your legs up where they clench around his head.
That day at the pound turns in your memory like a spindle.
You couldâve lost him. He- He couldâve been gone forever hadnât you showed.
âŚBut you did show. For the shitty time youâd been having, Sylus was your one silver lining. You were there for each other as a shoulder to lean on and a hand to hold.
Your fingers tug gently on his scalp. Fruity shampoo breathes out from the blanket when you flip it over his head to allow him better access. Nerves eat you from the inside out. Youâve seen the looks, the hungering glances and felt the fingertips that linger in seemingly innocent touches:
Finally experiencing the culmination of his quiet longing is a whole different game, though.
Slurps ring out from your thighs. Your sighing, candied words- spoken in that ridiculous tone reserved only for him- make his ears perk atop his head.
âGood boy,â you breathe. âY-Youâre perfect.â
He rewards your obedience with a finger, thick and delightful. You gasp and arch your back into his hands- or, his one hand- a throaty moan rippling from his open mouth. The several little muscles in his face go lax when you coyly guide him deeper into your cunt and he melts.
âYou taste delicious,â he whispers. âSweet girl. I can-â a deep, shivering inhale. Not from you- from him. âI can smell how much you want itâŚ. Youâre soaked.â
You mewl his name and almost reach full relaxation âtil you glance back down and, with the covers off, spot where his other hand disappears. Heâs naked- not in the boxer briefs and sweatpants youâd bid him goodnight in- and holds his fat, upright cock in his hand.
And his hand is big. Can dwarf every part of you with its hold.
His cock is somehow bigger.
Your heart leaps from your chest as he eyes you. Heâs daunting. Every bit intimidating and then some- especially as you realize he wonât be just content with kitten licking your pussy, delicious as it is, and ending the intimate moment right afterward.
Dogs will always take the bowl if you slide them one: and then look to you later for seconds.
Point is- heâs insatiable.
You shiver as raunchy images flash in your brainâ rough fingers pinning back your thighs as he rams inside you, setting a relentless pace as he bites and sucks and claims.
In your imagination, he doesnât pull out when he comes.
âŚWhat really takes your breath is the engorged knot at the base of him, though, flushed an impatient red. Fattening by the second.
Cum- not pre- dribbles from the tip. For how long heâs been at this, you donât know.
âSylus-!â You mean to shriek it, but you can only manage a whispering scream. âWait, wait, wait! what do you have in your hand-!â
A grin plays at his lips. Crooked, recalcitrant.
Challenging.
Heâs hardly lucid, what with the delicious heat emanating from the slick lips he stuffs a second finger in, to acknowledge your question, so itâs surprising when he pulls back a centimeter to make an answer. Lust grips him tightâ the need to fuck and take and mountâ but that concerned, cute little bump in your brow is one he wants to smooth.
Itâs the least he can do.
âTake a guess,â he sussurates, licking slowly up your inner thigh. Torturing you. âItâll be in yours soon though, kitten, so get ready.â
Your eyes bulge from your skull.
His response: a low chuckle paired with a moan.
From that point on, even as he suckles expertly at your puffy clit, working you to a sniveling mess as you scream on his fingers, youâre focused entirely on what heâs doing below the blanket. He palms at himself- itâs all he can do to relieve the ache as he wrestles with his fraying self-control- massaging his balls and knot as they throb.
When he withdraws his digits from you, eyes drooping at the cream coating his knuckles before fluttering back at the taste of itâ you lie back down and gulp.
Taking work off today is a good idea. You can already think of a few excuses. Not being able to walk properly is one of them. Being unable to get out of bed⌠Feeling so sore and feverish after heâs fucked you into pyrexia that you canât even move an inch without being reminded of it.
He straightens. The cover slips off him entirely and heâs tall. Hulking. Painting you in his shadow- but the moonlight brings out the sheer hunger on his face, and you alight with warmth all over again.
You hope heâs primed you. You pray heâs done good to prepare you for whatâs to come. Because oh, itâs coming. You know that.
âNow,â he heaves, dragging your legs either side of him as he kneels. You can tell heâs not well off, trying to muster a cocksure grin but failing as he perspires at the temple. âTo the good part.â
You frown at that, almost- a pang of hurt weaving through the haze of desire and the smell of your musk on his fingers as he licks them clean again, ever thorough. He notes the flicker of your brow with a thoughtful pause and then a sigh, shaking his head as he grabs your jaw and angles his front down.
He chuckles, and you experience a singular flash of softness when he goes, âOh, so sensitive⌠Donât pout. I thoroughly enjoyed the opening too, kitten.â
Youâre shaking. Insides molten with the pure want for him to just- to just do something already. Thereâs no opportunity to come down from your high because you feel his cock bob against your tummy as he sets himself up, and you burn anew.
Oh, you love him. You really do. Heâs endearing in all the places he shouldnât be. Heâs charming and strong and willing to fight for you. So you donât care if heâs a little old and slow on the uptake when it comes to new tricks- territorial and intimidating. Heâs yours.
Eyes half open, you lift your hands to trail from his pecs to his firm, scarred belly. With a hiss, he trembles. Catches your wrists and tuts at you a second later, saying, âItâs better to keep those at your side. Once you get me going, I wonât be easy to stop.â
And youâd be half tempted to tease him some more, you know, but fuck if he isnât massive. And fuck if you arenât a little scared for it.
So you clutch the sheets as he drives himself inside with a grunt, and settle below him. You trust heâll take care of you.
The entrance is, at first, surprisingly smooth, what with the natural lube youâve provided for him. You let him lift your ass and bend you into a bow-shaped thing so he can hit deeper- and thatâs when thereâs some turbulence.
Your fingers curl into the cotton fabric. You brace and wait for the sting to subside. When you realize your eyes are clamped shut, though, you open them to see his expression and pall at the sight of him.
Heâs gorgeous. Even when he looks like heâs ready to sneeze- brow scrunched and jaw slack as he dragoons himself inside, tormentingly slow- heâs nothing less than charming through your lens. But youâre thankful for the time he gives you to adjust because you need it.
Frankly, if he intends to put his knot insideâ and he fucking wonât, thereâs just no wayâ the walls of your pussy need the patience on his end.
For several seconds, Sylus does not breathe. Youâre sizzling hot; when he eventually bottoms out, he canât tell where he starts and you end- all he knows is that itâs gooey and warm and so fucking tight his balls throb. He deliquesces between your thighs. You welcome him, your body like a landing pad.
He supposes, right then, youâve always been very hospitable.
Sylus curses. âNgh, youâre tight... Loosen up,â he presses his forehead to yours and hisses out through his teeth. His eyes glitter like rhodolite in the dark. Reverent hands run down your side and clasp your hip. With your slick still coating his lips- tangy sweet, you find, as he presses them to yours- you realize heâs worshipful. The moonlight pouring in the blinds makes his silhouette glow a true blue.
âYouâre perfect,â he murmurs, swiping over your bottom lip with his tongue. âSweet, and soft. And a very good girl. Iâve got your back. You know that, donât you?â Then, he draws his hips back andâ
Your little bed judders. But the squeak that sounds out is yours as he ruts back inside and your labia brushes with his knot.
He wonât put it inside. He wonât. Youâre sure of it. Mutts only do that when theyâre mating. Mutts only do that. Sylus is- is so much more than that, andâŚ.
âMmm,â an uncontrollable moan escapes you as he begins to move, like really move, and your eyes roll.
With some difficulty, he continues. âYouâre naive. Plucking something like me from its cage. But I admire your bravery, kitten, soâ f- uckâ let me just show you, hm? How far my loyalty goes?â
Void of words, you nod.
The reindeer-patterned bedsheets arenât enough. Your hands leave them in favor of Sylus, grasping around his back so tight your fingertips can make out the raised scars there. Planes of muscle flexing with divots with every thrust forward.
Offhandedly, he hits that sweet spot inside you. Your nails dig in by accident, and you say his name, stringing out the syllables in a delightful, dizzying mewl.
The floodgates- they burst open. Something in him gives.
He rams forward, abandoning his restraint altogether as his furry, salt-and-peppered tail whacks the mattress beneath you. That fat swell below his cock teases at your sweltering hole with every pump inside, and Sylus burrows his nose into your sweaty neck to whimper.
Youâve never heard such a noise escape him before. Huffs, grumbles, long, exaggerated sighs he makes whenever he finds a nice spot to lay down (usually on you), as if he pays the rent around hereâ but never that.
He whines, words strained, âThink you can take my knot? Hah⌠Nod your head for me, kitten- because I donât think that I can stop it. I canât wait any longer. I need you toâŚâ he shudders, âtake it.â
One moment youâre nervously glancing down to monitor him- and the next heâs nudging your head back with his nose before crashing his lips to yours. Your eyes widen when he flips you over, presses his chest to your back, and thrusts inside with vigor.
With the new angle, you stretch around him with a mewl, but every bone in your body locks when his hips slam flush to your ass andâ
His knot pops inside with a gasp.
Throwing your hands to the strong ones he latches around your midriff, you wail. He clings to you like a limpet, his thighs trembling behind yours as he moans endlessly in your ear. Pointed teeth graze at the nape of your neck. He doesnât bite- but amidst the warp of pain and a pleasure so intense it gives you vertigo, you distantly realize that he probably wants to.
He holds himself off. Breath hitching as his pelvis claps into you. Euphoria rolls across him, shocks him like a static bolt, every fiber of his being awash with it as his jaw falls open and he succumbs to you.
When he comes, itâs so hard his ears ring.
The walls of your pussy become less hospitable, then, clenching around him so tight as you both cum that for a moment, he canât even say a word to ease you. He aches inside you- you can feel it. The girth of him twitching as your heat swallows him up with a spasm. His knot takes all thought from your brain. Stuffed inside your poor hole, tumid and veiny.
You feel him coalesce with you, too. Eagerly rutting his seed inside (ensuring it sticks, you realize when he drops a finger to your folds, checking for leakage), releasing rope after rope of hot cum as you go limp and take it.
You offer up a choked mewl when he kisses at your spine, brushing your hair aside just to access your neck where he licks and sucks. You trust Sylus not to get carried away with a bite if he did, to lose out to what heâs been taught.
Evidently, he doesnât trust himself.
Your fingers dig into his thick, scarred forearm and he sighs behind you- a long, feeble sound. Heâs barely able to keep himself draped over you- let alone support your own position beneath him, what with the soup youâve made of his brain- but he manages.
Silence sprawls out as you attempt to steady your breaths. All that comes in between it is the occasional, wet squelch and the gusting inhales he takes at the column of your neck.
âIt⌠hurts. So goodâŚâ he hisses after several beats. Only marginally brought back to reality, you flutter your eyes open and offer a yip back. âYouâre doing so well, though⌠Just-â He twitches inside you, then, throbbing like a second pulse point, his cock undulating in your walls, greedily taking up all the space.
âFuck. Stay still, sweet girl,â he grunts, harebrained. His eyes crinkle and close. âI want it all inside. Donât wanna see so much as a drop escape that perfect, tight pussy. Hah- you hear me?â
âY-Yes,â you quiver back. Speaking is too difficult, you realize a second later, shoving your open mouth into the pillow as you pant for air.
Yet, you canât help but ask with a slur, âSylus- when- when will it be over?â
He moans, right in your ear. Goosebumps run up your naked body- all that clothes you.
âItâs too big,â you cry.
âNo,â he quips. âItâs just right.â
As if on cue, your cunt gives another squeeze around him, milking him for all heâs worth. In response, he bows his forehead into the crook your shoulder and jaw make to bury a whine, and your mind spins when you register his balls, hanging fat against your ass, lurching. And oh, youâre spilling, you can feel it, beginning to ooze profusely from your puffy lips even as he keeps it plugged; really, even if Sylus wanted to separate from you (he doesnât), he couldnât.
Thereâs nothing in him that wants the distance. The idea of self-autonomy. The idea of independence. No- heâs all yours.
âWeâll wait it out,â he breathes. Coasting a hand along your belly in an effort to placate you. He knows it canât be easy for you. But the worldâ that stupid, irksome ex-boyfriend of yoursâ needs to understand where your heart belongs. Thereâs no better way to show that than to demonstrate it first with the body.
And youâ
(Bitten by his branding kiss, supple skin covered with the divots of his teeth, your belly full of his veritable seed-)
Well. Nobody should look at you, he decides in his spirit right then, and come to any other conclusion but the one that youâre his.
Unmistakably, irrevocably, his.
âItâll subside soon enough,â he soothes with a peck to your throat, a surprisingly chaste move. He loops his arms around your waist again and carefully- mindful not to exacerbate the heady ache- maneuvers on his side, pulling your back to his front. He whispers at your ear, âSo long as you donât move or stir me up, weâll be fine.â
Yet, a set of canines brush at your jugular, and again- thereâs that inkling, this time in better clarity, that passes your conscience. You know he wants to bite. To mark. To claim. You know it and have the vague idea of all it entails, yet he⌠wonât.
With a frown, cursing as you turn ever so slightly and his fat knot shifts inside you, you hazily meet his eyes.
His are practically glowing, laying heavy on you. Charting across your face the moment they make contact, observing every brief flicker of your expression to try and assign a feelingâ happiness, he hopes, contentednessâ to it. His lashes totter and you burn with shame when a lewd suck rings between your legs, his cock wet all the way down to the slight plush of his abdomen.
You donât mean to pout, âwhy wonât you-â
âNot yet, Kitten,â he scolds. Trying to swallow down a pit of self-consciousness in your throat, you murmur, âWhat, do you not want me?â Sylus huffs as if offended. His eyes drag from your lips to your searching eyes.
âReally, kitten? âŚWhat, should I give you an equally stupid answer?â
Oh, youâd tug his tail if you had the luxury of moving right now-
âOf course I want you. Canât you tell?â He sighs, then, burrowing his nose into your neck almost to hide. His ears droop along his head, donning a relaxed look.
âSo. Did you like it..?â
âY-YeahâŚâ you murmur, carefully looping a hand back to stroke behind his fuzzy ears. âBut, I just⌠I thought youâd really do it, I thought youâd really tie us together-â
He chuckles richly. âWeâre already tied together, kitten,â peppering another kiss below your jaw, licking appreciatively at the sweat that clings to soft skin. âIâve belonged to you for some time now, havenât I?â
Your heart skips a beat when you realize heâs right.
âI- I guess so. Yeah.â
âSo no more whining,â he lifts his chin to sample your lips, this time- his knot still throbbing white-hot and insistently inside you (albeit the ache is lessening)- eyes lidded as he conveys his affections.
âIâll do it when weâre both ready. WhenâŚâ He pauses to swallow.
In that short frame of time before he next speaks, youâre drawn to all his scarring. The faded ligature marks around his neck, the seemingly permanent gnashes along his body (which was a touch too lean before you familiarized him with good food). The nip taken from one of the ears sat atop his silvery, mussed locks. In that moment, you donât see the misshapen, loveless thing he was beaten intoâ but rather the softness he worked to regain for you.
âWhen I know itâs manageable.â
If he feels unsure of himself- whether he can remain⌠civil, for lack of a better word, amidst the fervent haze that a mark would bring aboutâ then you suppose you could wait for a bit longer.
âOkay,â you murmur with a faint, understanding smile, caressing one half of his face dotingly. You tilt your head slightly to plant a firm, benevolent kiss to the corner of his mouth.
âBut youâll always be a good boy to me, okay? I trust you. I told you before- youâre perfect-â Rather roughly, he noses your head back into the pillow, readjusting his iron hold around you as he grumbles into your hair.
ââŚHush. Now close your eyes and go back to bed. Iâll tell you when itâs ready to pull out.â
He needs the feeling of your soul boring into his own to feel like heâs doing something right.
He needs those pretty eyes â all glossy and dilated â to be locked in on his every movement. To watch his tongue trail from one thigh to the other, like a kitten watching and waiting to pounce on a laser pointer.
He needs to see you fall apart because of his doing, his movements, his body, his mouth. He wants to see you lose yourself to him because of how good he makes you feel.
To see fat globs of tears leak down your heated cheeks, pretty chest heaving as you whimper and whine out his name â a mix of something that sounds like âso embarrassing!â and âsâtoo much!â When he stops his movements because you break that needed eye contact.
Heâll make sure you not only feel, but see every ounce of love he has for you. How deeply he desires you, craves your touch, longs for the sweet sound of your voice.
âOne more, kitten, you can give me one more.â
Youâre sweaty, panting like a dog, thighs trembling with the need to snap them shut but his blissed out face is anchored between the plush of your thighs.
âSy-canât! I canât!â
Because youâre positive your body will lose all function if he makes you cum one more time â especially since you know that the âone moreâ is not really just one more.
Never with Sylus, heâs too greedy, too proud of it, and way too insatiable to ever really be done with you.
caleb had been so ruthless â tongue dragging through your folds at an eye-rolling pace. eating your cunt like it was the only thing keeping him alive. like he was starving.
he always gets like this when heâs between your legs. he just canât get enough of you, like youâre tasting better each time. holding onto your waist tight, slightly pulling you closer, almost like heâs afraid youâll slip away from his grasp. but you werenât going anywhere.
because, god, he was so good, so skilful with his tongue, occasionally prodding at your entrance, then going back to rub circles over your clit. a feeling that had your back arching. drawing you closer and closer to the edge as he watches you squirm beneath him, burning a hole into you with his inviting gaze.
your jaw relaxes, lips parting as soft moans slip out â sounding like music to calebâs ears. a hand reaches out to grab a fist of his hair, pushing his face deeper into your core, as if that was possible. he was already buried deep enough, breathing in your scent as he makes out with your pussy.
the room fills with the sounds of your whines, his groans, along with the wet sounds of his tongue working through your aching core, and it all causes warm blood to rush south. his clothed bulge rubbing against his bed sheets. sending small vibrations onto your swollen clit as he moans into you.
âc-caleb⌠âm close.â
your hips jerk up against his mouth, which was covered in your slick, desperate to feel more of him, that familiar pressure building inside you. his big hands pin you down, holding you still, forcing you to feel every teasing flick of his tongue.
your breathing quickens. youâre blabbering incoherent sentences, barely understanding your own words as your mind goes numb. tightening your thighs around calebâs head, right as you feel yourself start to break.
âthatâs it, baby, cum for me. cum on my face.â
he mumbles into your core, his movements never faltering. then, as if heâs just flicked a switch, you come undone with a long, sinful whine. your body jerks forward while your eyes screw shut. a free hand claws at the soft sheets beneath you. his pace slowly declining.
youâre soaked â your arousal coating his lips, dripping down his chin. and heâs not stopping. not stopping until heâs licked you clean. not until heâs savoured every last drop.
a/n - idk if this ends abruptly. i kinda gave up lmao đ¤
john price never expected much from retirement. peace and quiet, maybe a drink at the bar in the evening, and the occasional fishing trip to keep his hands busy. but what he didnât expect was you.
he first saw you at the local cafĂŠ, where youâd waltz in wearing little sundresses, always with a book in your hands, always smiling at the staff. a sweet little thingâtoo young for him, too pretty, too full of life. but you had a habit of looking at him, big eyes lingering a little too long, lips curling when you caught him staring back.
it didnât take long after that.
one drink turned into two, turned into his hand resting on your thigh, turned into him murmuring in your ear, low and roughââletâs get out of here, love.â
you barely made it through the door of his place before he had you against the wall. his hands were big, rough from years of work, gripping your hips like he was holding himself back from something deeper, something darker. but when you whined, arching up against him, his restraint snapped.
price fucked you like he had something to prove.
like he needed you to feel him, needed you ruined and wrecked and too dumb to think of anything but him. he had you on your hands and knees, dragging out those sweet, needy sounds from your throat until you werenât sure if you were moaning and mewling.
âyou take it so well,â he grunted, palming your ass, watching the way you trembled under him. âlittle thing like you, stretched around my cockââ
your nails scraped the sheets as you whined, pushing back into him. âpâpriceââ
his hand tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp. "john, love. sâjohn to you now.â
and fuck, you liked that. you liked the way it sounded, the way it felt, warm and thick on your tongue as you gasped it over and over, sobbing it into the pillow when he pressed down on your back and fucked you deep.
when it was over, you shouldâve left. shouldâve gathered yourself, slipped out before he could say anything, made this nothing more than a memory.
but when he moved to get up, you made a soft, breathy noise and curled around him, clinging like he might disappear if you let go
"where you goinâ?" you mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
john exhaled through his nose, looking down at you. his hand hesitated before settling on your hip, big and warm.
"nowhere, love," he murmured, giving you just enough to keep you holding on.
It was a joke. A letter to a criminalâUK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because itâs not like heâd ever get out, right?
â 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .á | [ AO3 ]
18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]
Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?
 Itâs almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. Itâs a massive store, but youâve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customersâ overwhelming stupidity.Â
You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. Itâd be laughable if it wasnât so damn frustrating. You canât even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but itâs there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isnât any prettier, but itâs a kind of mindless ritual thatâs grown familiar over timeâ20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But youâre too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things youâve had to swallow throughout the day.
The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but itâs long enough for your legs to remind you that youâve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony.Â
After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. Itâs tucked just outside Bromley, and itâs small, not much at all, but itâs enough. Itâs the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place.Â
This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought youâd left behind when you took the leap and moved out.
After college, you made it a point to leave your parentsâ house. You couldnât stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didnât need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didnât get it.Â
Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape youâd craved, the independence you had always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.
In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. Youâd write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, youâd get a letter back. The responses were always the sameâsurprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.
But now, when youâre standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it.Â
Youâre having a⌠Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you canât pronounce. Theyâre thriving, but youâre stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like itâs paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.
You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like theyâre beyond you in all shapes and forms.
Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesnât mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.
Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but youâd rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You donât need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug âI told you soâ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep youâre sinking, youâll claw your way up alone. Itâs not pride, itâs survival. Youâve always done it yourself, itâs just easier that way.Â
And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? Youâre a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasnât humiliating enough, youâre also trailing behind in the one thing thatâs supposed to have happened already.
Youâve had chancesâplenty of chancesâbut every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.
Not that youâre a prude. Youâve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guyâs screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point youâd imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and âalmosts,â it was something. Proof you werenât completely out of your depth.
Not that it really mattered.
You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm thatâs come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.
You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at youâan automated bill reminder, a news alert youâll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. Thatâs it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.
With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No oneâs waiting for you to reply anyway. Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it wonât add much to your day, but itâll at least fill the space with noise.
The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you donât have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.
A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchorâs voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.
Itâs the kind of name youâd expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.
And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TVâtowering, masked,âhits you in a way you hadnât anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you canât fight the way he unsettles you.
Heâs been arrested. The news anchorâs voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghostâa ghost no longerâis now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast Londonâs most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.
You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. Thereâs a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if heâs in the very room youâre sitting in. The news anchorâs voice drones on, but youâre already lost in thought.
You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other peopleâpetty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didnât have to be war heroes.Â
As long as they didnât kill anyoneâor anything.Â
So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.
You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness.Â
You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screenâbroad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention. The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure
His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman qualityâlike a wraith lurking in the dark.Â
Heâs swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sightâan omen in the periphery, waiting.
Itâs strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would.Â
His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. Youâre not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you canât look away. Something about himâhis sheer presence, even through a screenâsnags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God youâre so lonely.
Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.
Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed thatâs what made him a terrorist-level threat.
Then you stumble upon another factâand you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isnât even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.
That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disruptedâa ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isnât just last nightâs leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.
For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letterâ
âNo. What the fuck? Thatâs insane. Heâs killed people, and you want to send him a letter?Â
âŚ
You decide to send him a letter.Â
Itâs not like youâre his number one fanâor a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, heâs probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.
Itâs just a letter. Youâre not looking for anything in return. Youâll write to him, then move on, because why not? Itâs not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, itâs just... kindness.Â
Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you donât care to nameâexcitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.
Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.
You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackleâthin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.
You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement.Â
For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him?Â
You reason with yourself that if heâs unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesnât matter. You donât expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun youâve had in years.
You press the pen to the paper.Â
âDear Big Bad Ghost,âÂ
A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know youâre doing something absolutely stupid. But really, whatâs the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.
Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. Andâbecause thereâs no point in pretending otherwiseâyou admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, becauseâletâs be honestâyou wouldnât be doing something this rash if he wasnât (you make sure to write that, too).
You just keep going. You tell him youâre 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. Youâre sure youâve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he wonât care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.
You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, theyâd have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast heâd get whiplashâbut lucky for him, heâs dealing with the UKâs legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.
Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a âgood timeâ. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though youâre quick to add that, realistically, youâre sure heâll be locked up for life.
Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe heâll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.
You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. Itâs ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.
But stillâŚ
 You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.
Next thing you know, youâre sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.
You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.
And then you let it go. Itâs chilling how easy it is.Â
The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. Youâve long since moved on from the letter. Youâve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesnât give you much room to dwell on dumb things like thatânot when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.
Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like youâd been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.
Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within armâs reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.
By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. Thereâs no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, itâs not the same takeout from two weeks ago.Â
You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporterâs voice cuts in, crisp and professional.
At first, youâre barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But thenâ
BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH â GHOST AT LARGE
The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.
The news anchor doesnât miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:
âAuthorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmatesâincluding âGhostâ, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.â
Your stomach tightens.
Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.
For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you havenât been stabbed or kidnapped yet.Â
After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds youâre sure heâs gotten. Youâre not special. Youâre not even remotely relevant in this situation.
Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogameâthick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.
Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter toâthat more closely resembled a dating profileâ has vanished into thin air.
You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, youâre sure your life couldnât get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.
The studio audience laughs on cue.
You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine.Â
It doesnât.Â
When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot.Â
By the time youâve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself itâs fine. Youâre fine. Itâs just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.
You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.
You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.
After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadnât even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.
Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.
You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it.Â
Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.
You donât bother wrapping the towel around yourself. Thereâs no point. Itâs just you hereâalways, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasnât the case, thereâs no reason to pretend otherwise.
Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.
You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all.Â
Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its jobâbut the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.
The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.
You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.
You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.
But as you straighten, the air feels different.
Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating.Â
Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.
Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.
And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so youâre forced to swallow.
Youâre still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the showerâs heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.
But youâre not looking at yourself anymore.
Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.
Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you, arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.
Youâre frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you.Â
Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. Thatâs what you felt earlierâthe sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didnât feel it moments ago is beyond you.
Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.
You canât help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like itâs time for Sunday dinner. But itâs impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.
Your eyes flick back to him.
He hasnât moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with hisâan accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.
You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterfliesâyouâre sureâbut they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.
He doesnât blink. Doesnât even breathe.
Just silenâ
âShouldnâtâve given a dog a bone, Girl.â
Oh.
Oh.
Shit.
You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like itâs too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just thatâitâs as though itâs been wrung dry like youâve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.
Could be fight, could be flightâor could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You donât know where it comes from, only that itâs there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirrorâs reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline.Â
You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.
He fills the roomâdominates itâfar more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.
Heâs dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.
It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.
A sick part of you wishes he didnât.
Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark inkâtwisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava youâve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.
His eyesâdark brown, nearly blackâburn as they lock onto you. Thereâs an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. Heâs memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.
Which, right now, is essentially all of it.
Itâs suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like youâre drowning, and heâs the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.
And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before heâs not sitting anymore.
Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesnât rush. No, thereâs no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.
All that âcourageâ drained. You never thought youâd be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didnât hear him come in.
Youâre backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you canât look away. You donât even know if you want to. Thereâs a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure.Â
Itâs addicting.
Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain thatâs turned on by this.
âQuiet little thing.â His voice is low, gravelly like itâs been rubbed raw, but thereâs a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. âGlad youâre not a screamer.â
He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesnât miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though itâs hard to tell.
âIâm not gonna bite, Girl,â he tuts, âunless yâwant me to.â
The way he says itâso carnivorouslyâsends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees.Â
âYâsent me a letter,â he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like heâs checking out a new appliance.
 âTellinâ me all about your boring little life,â He steps even closer, âAnd that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me tâmake it mine.â
You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like heâs enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.
âYâwant me tâmake it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a âBig Badâ man your address?â
You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but itâs futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonelyâthat desperate?
âCan yâimagine how hard I came,â he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, âHow I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?â
Yeah. You were that desperate.Â
You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. âIâ I didnât think youâdââ
He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words âWhat? Didnât think Iâd show?â he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if heâs savoring the mockery in them. âYou invited me here. Itâd be rude to reject such a generous offer.â
You bite back a scoff. As if heâs so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while youâre naked. Talk about audacity.
âGo fuck yourself.âÂ
âI have,â he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. âWonât be as good as her.â
Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a momentâs notice.
You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug.Â
He smells like soap and something musky and everything youâd expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didnât know you were addicted to. You canât help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.
âYâfeel that, sweetheart?â he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants. âEver felt a cock that big before?â
âPlease,â you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. âJust... don't.â
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. âDon't what, sweetheart?â he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. âDon't touch you? Don't remind you of what yâare?â
He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. âIâŚâ you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes.Â
âVirgin,â he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, âYâterrified. It's written all over your face, babyâ He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, âCurious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.â
You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. âNo,â you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.
He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like youâre testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as theyâll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat.Â
âDonât fuckinâ lie to me, sweetheart,â You donât know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until youâre leaning against the mirror, until thereâs nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
âI can smell your cunt.â He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, âSheâs droolinâ fâme, ainât she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?â
Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you canât help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but youâve never been this wet before. âI... I don't know,â you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.
âDon't know? Please,â he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. âAwh. Look at that,â he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. âShe's leakinâ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs.Â
He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.
Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.
âWhininâ already?â he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. âLike a bitch in heat.â Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, pleaseâs from you.Â
âBeg for it,â he commands, âBeg to come on mâtongue, baby.âÂ
âYes,â you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. âPlease,â you beg, your voice thick with need. âPlease, Iâ âmââ
He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. âTell me,â he hisses. âTell me yâwant to come for me.â
âI... I want to,â you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. âI wanna come for you, Ghostâ Pleaseâ.â
âGood fuckinâ whore,â he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. âCome, let me taste this slutty fuckinâ pussy.â
A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans. Â
He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. âFuck,â he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. âLove you virgins. Come so easily.â
Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeksâa traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didnât think it would affect you like this, didnât think youâd feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.
Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. âStop staring,â you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weakâlike a plea rather than a command.
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. âStop what? Admiring my handiwork?â He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering. âDon't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Couldâve ruined this pretty fuckinâ mouth instead.â
You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what youâve been wanting, what youâve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. âJust... fuck me, PleaseâŚ?â you hum, unsure..
He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. âEager, are we?â He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. âDon't worry. Got more in store for you.â
He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.
He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you canât even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him.Â
Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.Â
"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. Itâs rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.
No underwear. A Right dog, he is.Â
Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick heâd be willing to let you swallow.
âWhatâd yâwant?â
You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.
How could he even fit inside of you?
You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.
He tuts, âNoddinâ ainât enough, sweets,â he growled. âYouâre a big girl, ainât you?
âIâŚâ you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. âI wantâŚâ
âSay it,â he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. âSay yâwant this cock.â
âI... I want your cock,â you whisper, the words barely audible. Youâre too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.
âLouder,â he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. âCan't hear you.â
âI want your cock,â you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.
âLouder, yâfuckinâ slagââ
âI want your fucking cock!â you shout, the words echoing through the room.
He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. âGeez, all yâhad to do was ask.âÂ
You could slap him.Â
He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.
âSo fuckinâ sensitive,â he groans, âSo wet fâme, too, Christ.â
He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.
âGonna split this cunny in half, girl,â he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and youâre reeling, choking on your own gasps, âgonna feel me in yâfuckinâ throat.â
He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.
âJesus baby, so tight,â he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. âSo fucking tight.â
You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. âFuck me,â you rasp, âPlease, Ghost, fuck me.â Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him.Â
He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. âCock-drunk already, are we?â he taunts, âFuckinâ whore,â He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldnât even reach with your own fingers.
He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.
âFuck me harder, I need youâ pleaseââ You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.
 âGhost,â you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you couldâve possibly missed out on this for so long.Â
He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. âStop fuckinâ callinâ me that,â he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. Youâre too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.
âCall me Simon when I fuck you,â he rasps against your lips,
âSay it.â
âSâSimâon,â you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. âSâsimon, pâpleâaseâŚâ
âPlease what?â he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, âPlease fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?â
âYes, yes, yes,â you wail, your body writhing beneath him. âPlease, Simonâ Fuck!â
âAtta fuckinâ girl,â he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder, caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.
âSqueezinâ me so tight,â he rasps, âSo fucking tight.â he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. âFeel me? Feel how deep I am inside oâ you?â
You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, âYes,â you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. âToo much... it's so much, Siââ
Youâre on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all heâs worth. His hips stutter and he knows heâs done for. âFuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,â
At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isnât much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure.Â
Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you.Â
The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to âCream this fuckinâ cock,â as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own.Â
A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.
 âOh-,â he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. âFuck! Fuckâ Shit, just like that, girl.â His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.
Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment.Â
âBroken little bird arenât you?â he drawls..Â
You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you donât think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried.Â
Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house.Â
He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. âDon't look so glum, sweetheart,â he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. âYou did well,â
âfor a first-timer.â
A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. âShut up,â you mutter, your voice hoarse.
He lets out a low, husky chuckle. âOh, usinâ fightinâ words now, are we?â His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. âFunny, didnât see you puttinâ up much of a fight five minutes agââ
You donât let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.
âOh, weâre throwinâ shit now?â He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. âLittle minxââ
The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.
His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. âYou expectinâ anyone?â
You shake your head. âNo.â
His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. Heâs a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.
âIâll get it,â you hum, already moving.
He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but thereâs no time to fix it.
You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.
Two cops.
Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. âEvening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but weâre making the rounds,â one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. âYou seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?â
Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.
âNo, nothing,â you say, keeping your voice light, casual. âWhy?â
The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. â Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.â His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. âFigured weâd check in, see if anyoneâs seen him.â
You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. âHavenât seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.â
They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.
âAll right. Just be careful, maâam. Lock your doors.â
âWill do,â you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.
You shut the door.
Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.
âSimonââ you call, nudging the door open.
The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of himâsex, sweat, something else thatâs so distinctly him.
(1.8k) âËâš đđ§¸â§âË nsfw [18+] includes: fem!reader, jealous!caleb, questionable morals, cheating (not on caleb it's just a shitty bf), hole inspections, virginity kink if you squint, dirty talk real filthy, side eyeing yandere caleb for the mention of broken fingers and kneecaps, fingering, pet names (I'll die by the hill of pips)
caleb who is selfish.
he wants you all to himself, and he doesnât care what it takes or how bad of a person that makes him. heâll do anything to have you. caleb will stoop to whatever depths, so when you start going on dates with this new guy, he wishes he was conflicted but heâs not.
heâs never tried to be a good guy, not when it comes to you. fair? sure, he thinks heâs quite fair. just? yeah, he has morals like anyone else, but when it comes to you? all bets are off and he will play dirty. thereâs simply no other way to play when the stakes are this high and you.
caleb who has been climbing into bed with you almost every night for years.
surely thatâs not meant to stop now, right? that just seems cruel and even more selfish than what heâs got going on because caleb canât sleep if heâs not next to you, and you tell him the same thing, so why do you need to go on dates with this guy? whatâs the point? you still kiss caleb goodnight, sometimes missing his cheek and sometimes itâs closer to the corner of his mouth. you still curl up with him on the couch and wear his sweaters around the house, something he watched carefully to see a change in, but things between you and him are the same, so surely you're not about to take all of that from him now? all because of some guy you met at work?
yet, said guy wonât leave, and caleb does not like it. he deals, he manages, but he does not like sharing because, once again, he is selfish.
caleb who meets the guy for the first time and instantly hates him. not even because heâs taking you out, itâs because heâs spineless. a boy that couldnât even look him in the eyes to shake hands. a boyâplain and simple. caleb canât help but feel bad for the guy, really, considering heâs taking you on a date, but youâll come home to caleb at the end of the night and curl up with caleb in bed.
caleb is not above any of this because this guy is fleeting, he has to be. he doesnât know you, he doesnât know what you like or want or need. not the way caleb does.
caleb who is waiting up for you when you come home.
itâs been a few months of dates with this guy, but caleb still gets his corner of the mouth kiss every other night, and last night he fell asleep to the feeling of your soft thigh thrown over his middle, so it should be fine, right? instead you come home in tears, and his first instinct is to break the manâs hands. he needs to start with the fingers, then maybe his wrists.
âpips, whatâs wrong?â
youâre adamant itâs nothing. that nothing happened and youâre overreacting and caleb thinks sure, you can overreact sometimes but everyone can and thatâs what heâs here for: to understand and react accordingly as well. but he cannot do that, caleb cannot protect you, if you do not tell him whatâs wrong. sitting in his lap on the couch, face buried in his neck, he canât understand what youâre mumbling. it comes out like something is wrong with me, which surely cannot be the case. caleb must have heard wrong.Â
âsomething is wrong with you?â you nod. ânothing is wrong with you, sweetheart. why are you saying that?â caleb takes a deep breath. âyou gotta tell me whatâs happening or i canât help.â
by the time caleb listens to the half-mumbled words you manage to get out around an errant sniffles, heâs already decided hands, wrist, and kneecaps will need to be broken to atone for this because that guy has some nerve insinuating thereâs a single thing wrong with you. just because you didnât want to kiss him? or, you tell caleb that you were fine kissing him, but when he tried to take things further, thatâs when there were issues.
honestly, it takes everything in caleb not to scoff. the guy's more of a coward than he had initially gauged if he thought he a) deserved more than a kiss, first of all, and b) something is wrong with you because when he shoved his hand down your pants you weren't wet.
the guy doesn't exactly sound like a romeo.
âi donât trust him,â caleb says plainly. âi never did. you deserve better, and i should have never let you walk out of that door.â you only sniffle and caleb tampers down his anger and tries again. âiâm so sorry, sweetheart. thereâs nothing wrong with you, you know that?â nothing again, and caleb sighs. finally, âdo you trust me?â
you nod, arms tightening around his neck.
âhe touched you here?â caleb asks. his hand skates around your hip. you squirm in his lap but give him a small yes when his fingers dip between your thighs. âjust touched orâŚâ
nothing else, youâre adamant and caleb trusts you explicitly, but his blood is boiling hot and he justâŚhe needs to be sure. caleb sits up, and you hmph, but he shushes you. he needs you to know thereâs not a thing wrong with you, that this isnât a you issue. he smooths his hand over the hem of your dress that rides up the back of your thighs when he moves, draping you over his lap this time, ass up.
âwere you going to fuck him?â caleb gets a gut wrenching maybe in response as he marvels at the silky smooth expanse of the back of your legs. so, so pretty. âwhy?â he unfairly demands. âyou liked him that much?â
you shake your head, breathing heavy against his thighs. âno, just wanted to knowâŚwhat it felt like.â
âthatâs what iâm here for, pips.â he says, waiting for you to stop him, but you donât. you gasp as he rucks up your dress, letting it pool around your waist. he groans at the sight of bright red panties, the curve of your ass settled pretty over his lap about to be his undoing. âyou know that right? tell me you know that.â he pleads. "can i touch you?"
"please."
caleb wastes no time. he thumbs at your hole, over the red lace that's wet under his touch. âyou ever fuck yourself, sweetheart?â
you whine his name in embarrassment, but eventually nod. he groans, imagining you in bed or the shower with your fingers buried to the knuckle in your cunt. maybe while he's in the other room, or maybe in the shower right before you crawl into bed with him.
âgood girl,â he mumbles and feels you relax more. âbut what's all this about?â caleb pulls his thumb back, and pops it in his mouth. he groans. âthought he was adamant something was wrong and this pussy doesnât get wet.â caleb tsks but sighs in relief when he realizes they guy really didn't get this far. âdoesnât seem a problem to me, so, then what is it? tell me the difference here, pips.â
he hears you stammer out "yâyou, caleb," and feels satisfaction like a bat to the back of the head, making him dizzy. concussing him. caleb's fingers trace over edges of lace and soft skin. âso pretty, baby. will you sit still while i take a look?â
âwhy?â
ânothing is wrong, sweetheart. i just want to make sure he didn't hurt this pretty hole.â
he feels you shiver, and caleb can't help but grin.
that guy didn't stand a chance.
he slowly drags your underwear down, discarding them in his pocket for safe keeping. what greets him when he looks back is the prettiest pussy heâs ever seen, actually. itâs jaw-dropping, and wet. so clearly wet from the way it looks, sticky and peeking out between plush thighs over his lap.
âmy heart, pips, i cant take it.â caleb says as he grips your hips, then your ass. watching your skin bloom pink as he spreads you open to see more. âhold still. i know you know that you can ask anything of me, so if this hole is needy, you come to me now, understood?â
"you need someone to take care of you, not someone that's going to shove his hands down your pants and expect anything, got it?"
he spreads your pussy open, watching as it twitches under his touch and when he presses a finger against your hole, it gives easily. "tight and greedy," he tsks.
caleb cannot help but tease. your pussy is perfect and untouched. he plays with it, watching you respond. watching as you jump when he pushes just the tip of two fingers in. pink and so sweet, caleb's mouth waters. "she's so pretty, sweetheart. i do think we're gonna have an issue though. i dunno if i can fit into a tiny hole like this." he hooks his finger and uses it to stretch you open and you moan his name. "don't get fussy. we'll figure it out, pips."
he watches as you whimper and moan, working yourself into a near fit over the prodding of his fingers. the way he spreads you open, leaning close and letting his breath ghost over your twitching hole. watching for your reactions and never giving you enough.
âdoesn't even seem like i need to train this little hole to only get wet for me, hm? seems sheâs already taken care of that herself."
"you're so soft, sweetheart.â
"can i make you come? looks like you need it." he kisses the back of your head, and then your shoulder. mumbling, "promise I'll take such good care of you. how could i not? i've got the sweetest thing in my lap right now, all wet and whining...mhm, you are whining, pips, but that's okay. just let me..."
after readjusting your hips, you easily take two of his fingers, all the way to the knuckle and instead of imginging you doing this to yourself, caleb watches as his own fingers disappear into your cunt. you're a needy thing, too, and he groans. imagining you struggling to take his cock but you would because you're, "so good, baby. so good for me, just like that. does that feel good?"
watching as your thighs fall further apart, as you start to cry for him. for more. for him to kiss you, and caleb does. of course he does. he pulls his fingers out, picking you up and tossing you over his shoulder as he heads for his bed.
"think i'm gonna fuck you, pips," caleb mumbles, bringing a hand down on your ass. you scold him, still limp-legged and breathing heavy. head heavy in the clouds. caleb grins and tosses you onto the bed. "you want that? then we'll have another look at that hole."
