Omfg I LOVE tea so much and it’s great that there’s a variety to choose from. If I want something caffeinated I’d go for a black tea, but right now my favorite tea has been jasmine. The aroma is really pleasant and the taste is quite nice. I don’t really drink herbal teas all hrs often unless I’m coming in with something or if I want something completely caffeine’s free. I will say that I do have a preference for loose leaf over tea bags because I just think loose leaf tastes better. But I understand that tea bags are more convenient. And like you can drink on its own or you can always add stuff to it to your liking, which is totally cool, but I prefer just drinking it without anything in it. Sometimes I’ll add honey. But I think tea is really great.
I have to be careful whenever I read a DCA fic (in the middle of rereading solar lunacy) because I just get filled with this mysterious sense of motivation and desire to draw/write.
I don’t know what it is it’s just something about them hmmmhmhmhm
cw: violence, injuries, gore imagery, blood, non-major character death, sexual assault & attempted rape (not by nikto), hints at nikto being SA'd in the past, aftermath of torture, arguing bc nikto has 0 control of his feelings, grinding, pleasure dom!nikto, lil bit of praise, begging, he has nipple piercings and his dick is pierced (prince albert and lorum), fingering, THICK cock!nikto, cunnilingus, handjob, blowjob, cum eating, use of russian, choking, sex as a coping mechanism, pussyjob, wet&messy, squirting, overstimulation, 'little one' as a petname, multiple orgasms, dehumanization of nikto by nikto (he calls himself a mutt and doesn't think of himself as human)
TRIGGER WARNING: graphic depictions of sexual assault, non-consensual voyeurism, gore, violence, and murder -- SA is not perpetrated by nikto! it is uncomfortable, you will feel uncomfortable. if you cannot handle it, then i recommend you skip past the scene or this fic altogether!
note. nikto's lore has been changed. his facial injuries were acquired in the events of the story rather than prior as his canon lore states. this story takes place in the united states.
note2. super massive thank you to @dmitriene for the help with russian through this fic!!! ur help rlly meant a lot and i appreciate you taking the time to help me!!!!
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You know he’s dangerous, he’s told you as much. Yet you still trust him. He feels like an undeserving mutt that’s been tasked with guarding the beautiful, vulnerable you.
or.
Held in seclusion for the first entire month of the apocalypse, Nikto is forced to deal with you, an irritatingly sweet civilian, trying your best to survive with whatever means you have.
His memory was fractured and splintered, only bits and pieces of things his subconscious deemed as important flitting to the front of his mind when he recalled them.
He doesn’t remember who took him nor does he remember how long he had been there.
But he remembers the day you wandered in, the light from outside nearly burning his skin from the amount of time he had been away from it. You had finally made it quiet, silencing the mind-numbing groaning and banging outside of the desolate, concrete room that he was trapped within. If not for you, his death would have been inevitable.
He’s chained to the wall with his arms folded behind his back, much too weak by now to try and work himself free. He doesn’t know how long he’s been locked away, tortured beyond comprehension – but you stand in the doorway, blindingly bright halo of sunlight beaming around you.
You’re like an angel of mercy, arrived to save him from the sick damnation he had been in. He has to look away at the sight of you. Unworthy of looking upon something so beautiful.
He wasn’t in his right mind, purely in a state of base survival. He remembers the way you had gasped, a sound of utter horror when you laid eyes on him. He must have been a sight, all bruises and mangled skin with dried blood flaking off of his skin at every minute gust of air from the open doorway.
“Oh my gosh,” you whisper, dropping a knife as you run over to him.
Idiot, he briefly thinks, only a fool drops their weapon.
You squat before him, hand reaching out towards him. You must think he’s dead or unconscious with the way he’s hunched over, head hanging low with only the chains connected to the wall keeping him upright. His captors had kept him in this position since day one, making it impossible for him to relax or get any restful sleep outside of pure unconsciousness. His knees hurt so fucking bad but it’s something he has been forced to grow accustomed too – adaptation his only chance of survival.
You reach forward, his senses on high alert with every little twitch your body makes. He can see the movement out of his periphery even as he stares at your dirty, worn boots. Your fingertips barely graze his shoulder, a ghost of a touch but it has him reacting like a rabid dog.
You throw yourself back with a gasp of horror when he lunges at you, chains clanging deafeningly as they snap taut behind him to stop him from going any further. He stares at you, uncaring that the sunlight makes his eyes burn.
You look horrified, reaching for your weapon, a machete that trembles in your hands as you swing the tip to point towards him defensively. You look petrified but there's an emotion in your eyes that he understands in the recesses of his broken mind as sadness.
“Fuck, you’re dead,” you whisper and he bares his teeth, “I’m too late.”
You sound devastated over this revelation and he can’t fathom in his mind what it is you mean. He’s clearly not dead, corpses don’t move and attack. But maybe he is dead and this is hell. He doesn’t really know anymore, he realizes.
The endless days of torture and confinement had rendered his brain broken beyond repair. He can’t make heads or tales of any of his thoughts. Logically, he knows he’s a living, breathing person but he feels fragmented.. He’s confused and muddled mentally.
He watches, breathing heavily through his gritted teeth. He hasn’t been able to breathe through his nose in far too long – it’s been broken and set incorrectly but his nostrils are also clogged with dried blood. He’s sure his entire face and body is fucked up but not being able to breath through his nose has been one of the most difficult things to deal with.
You raise your blade, ready to strike. You could easily bring it down, cut right into the meat at the back of his neck, sever his spinal cord. You could kill him in seconds. He’s weak and helpless right now, the only thing keeping him going is stubborn determination to live that is instilled in all humans. But he’s not a human, he’s something else entirely now. Broken beyond repair, unable to recognize his own humanity in the face of others’ lacking.
But you stop. You sigh, a sympathetic sound that makes him bristle, and lower your machete.
He’s confused. What is this mind game? Pretend lenience? He feels anger swirl in his chest cavity. He doesn’t need your pity, he doesn’t need your mercy. You should be putting him down like the rabid dog he is so he can die as he deserves.
You turn your back to him and go to leave. Beyond his own comprehension, he finds himself hating that. You shouldn’t be walking away from him.
So he speaks. For the first time since his captors had brought him here. All he had said to them were some strong curse words in Russian that he earned him his broken nose.
“We will not tell you anything,” he hisses, voice feeling like sandpaper in his throat as it comes out.
You freeze in the doorway, looking over your shoulder at him with wide, horrified eyes. It seems like you stare at him for years. You drop your blade again and the loud sound makes him snarl in irritation.
“Y-You’re…alive?” you whisper, turning to face him completely with a look of wonder on your face, “Oh my gosh, you’re alive.”
You rush over to him, dropping harshly onto your knees with a resounding crack. He glares at you, eyes burning from the way he refuses to blink. Your hands are trembling as you place them on his shoulders to steady yourself. He curses, practically snapping his jaws at you like a rabid dog. You jump, throwing your hands up in surrender.
“I-I’m gonna get you out, okay? Y-You just have to let me help.”
“Your tricks will not work on us,” he seethes, clenching his hands into fists against his back.
“I-I’m not tricking anyone,” you respond defensively.
You toss your backpack off and unzip it. He watches you root through it before pulling out a little black bag. You glance at him for a moment before you place it down next to you. Reaching back in, you hold up a silver thermos for him to see.
You unscrew the top and hold it out to him. He can hear liquid slosh inside at the movement before you say, “Water.”
He clenches his jaw, teeth creaking in his skull as he does despite the way his brain is overcome with desire for the water. You deflate under his glare before you seem to understand. You tip it back and take a drink, making a show of swallowing it for him – proving to him that it’s safe.
When you hold it out to him this time, he opens his mouth. You positively beam, tipping the thermos against his mouth. The water flows into his mouth and he suppresses a groan of pure euphoria at the relief it brings. You hold it there for him, letting him take a few deep gulps before you pull it away.
The water drips down his chin and he chases the drops with his tongue while glaring at you. You give him an apologetic shrug, “You haven’t had water in a while, I’m sure. If you drink too much you might get sick. You can have some more if you let me unlock your chains.”
He follows your hands as you lift up the bag you had pulled out, unzipping it to show him the lockpicks inside, “Deal?”
Although he’s still skeptical, he nods his head. You scoot to the side, leaning down so you can get access to the heavy metal shackles around his wrists. He tries to hide the wince of pure discomfort when your fingers touch his skin. His neck aches when he tries to get a look at you, no doubt some kind of injury that hadn’t made itself present until now.
You’re out of his view for far too long, messing with his cuffs. But after a long moment, they come free and his arms fall from the small of his back. The chains no longer keep him upright and he topples forward. You gasp, wrapping an arm around his middle to save him from hitting the ground. You grunt with the effort of catching him and carefully maneuver to lean him back against the wall.
“Here,” you offer the thermos to him just as you promised.
He takes it, shocked at the effort it takes to use his arms. He swallows a few deep gulps before your hands come back to swipe it out of his weakened grip. He slumps against the wall, relishing in the feeling of the water soothing the dry burn in his throat. Looking around the ramshackled, windowless building, he eyes the still open doorway and briefly considers making a run for it but his legs are still trembling from finally being freed from the kneeling position. Besides, he doesn't even know what country he’s in right now. Running in this state would only be a death sentence. His best bet is to stick with you for now – despite the fact he doesn’t trust you as far as he can throw you.
“Who sent you?” he asks suddenly, watching you pack up your bag – leaving the thermos out but out of his reach so he can’t guzzle more.
You look confused, zipping your backpack, “What do you mean?”
“Someone must have sent you,” he explains, flexing his hands on his lap to ease the aching pain in the knuckles of his joints, “So who was it?”
“Nobody sent me,” you explain with a shake of your head, “I was passing by and figured someone was trapped in here with all those shitheads outside.”
Nikto’s frown only deepens. You had dispatched guards outside? You don’t appear to be military or trained in any capacity. His suspicion spikes – something isn’t right. He wants to question you more, wants to know what you’re talking about but you stand up, situating your backpack on your shoulders before offering your hand.
“I have a camp set up nearby. You can rest up there,” you explain with a smile.
He looks at your hand before he looks away, choosing to force himself to his feet using the wall as leverage. You don’t seem perturbed in the slightest, if anything you seem to understand, and instead turn your back to him to find the machete you had dropped earlier.
He stares at your back, vulnerable and unaware. You’re an idiot for turning your back on him, he could end your life in a split second – he’s dangerous. Images of your blood spilling flash into his mind before you turn around and offer him the thermos of water again.
He takes it and follows you out, sipping it now that his thirst isn’t as ravenous as before.
When he steps into the light, it feels like the sun instantly burns his skin. He looks down at his pale skin, eyes following the various cuts and bruises that linger all over his arms. He realizes at that moment he doesn’t know how much damage has been done to his body during his time in confinement.
He needs to recuperate badly. He needs to see the extent of his injuries and get his strength back. For the time being, you’re his only hope to be able to do that.
If he’s correct and you’re not trained in any way, he can easily overpower you and kill you even in this state.
He decides that he has no choice – he’ll go with you.
He takes a look around him at that moment – and realizes something strange.
You watch him stalk over to one of the many corpses that litters the ground. He roughly grabs one and turns over, frowning deeply at what he sees.
It looks like a person but…it looks completely rotted.. He’s sure if he could smell anything, he would be overcome by the scent of decomposition. These bodies are not dressed like the military. No tactical vests or protective gear. They’re all wearing regular clothes, jeans, dresses, t-shirts. There’s even a few in just their undergarments.
He suddenly finds it hard to breathe. His head aches. He reaches up and grips his skull with both hands, gritting his teeth against the throb in his temples.
“Hey…are you okay..?” You ask sweetly, approaching him carefully – as if trying not to startle a frightened dog on the verge of attack.
It doesn’t work. His hand wraps around your throat and you squeal in shock when you’re harshly slammed up against the side of the building. Your head cracks painfully against it, bouncing off of the wooden beam. You whimper in pain, scrambling to grab a hold of him. Your thermos falls from his hands, hitting the ground and rolling a few feet away. He easily knees your hand, making your machete fall out of reach as well, leaving you defenseless.
“Wh-What are you doing?!” you cry, tears immediately filling your eyes.
He feels a strange pang in his chest at the sight but he ignores it, “What is the meaning of this?”
“What?” you whisper, choking and straining from his grip on your neck.
“What is the meaning of this?!” he repeats, loud enough that you flinch. Your eyes dart around behind him in a panic, searching for something.
“I-I don’t understand!” you cry in a panic, tears trickling down your cheeks. You’re scared. You should be, he thinks smugly.
“Who are these people?” he spits, almost nose to nose with you from the way he leans in close.
You look utterly confused now, looking around as much as you can, “H-How am I supposed to know?”
“You killed them!” he snarls, growing more agitated by the second.
You shake your head, “I-I don’t-! Don’t you know what’s going on?!”
“What are you talking about?” he lowers his voice, grip still painful on your throat.
You struggle to take a few breaths, “Th-The outbreak? The…The sickness. I-It all happened a month ago!”
“What sickness?” he presses, although he releases the pressure on your throat just a bit, “Biological warfare?”
You shake your head, coughing a bit. “N-No one knows. I-It started out as a really bad flu. But then people started…acting weird,” he finally lets you go but doesn’t step away, ready to pin you again at a moment's notice while you rub your sore neck.
“Weird how?” he presses, frowning at how long it’s taking you to recover and talk. He has no patience, he wants answers.
You shrug and shake your head, brows furrowed like you’re recalling bad memories, “They started to go…crazy. Like, rabid animals or something,” the way he looks at you tells you that he wants more information, “Um…th-the first few people infected started to…like…bite other people. A-And then those people got sick too.”
“It’s airborne?” he asks, finally stepping away from you enough for you to relax.
You nod, “There’s an airborne strand. Most people are immune to it, they said. The ones who weren’t…”
“Infected others through saliva,” he nodded in understanding. He bent down and grabbed the thermos that had rolled away, giving you the chance to scramble and grab your machete, “Where are we?”
You hum, gripping your blade tighter, “About an hour or two outside of Atlanta.”
He frowns, “I am in the United States?”
You nod slowly, glancing at the rundown building you were in front of, “You didn’t even know what country you were in? What were you even doing in there? How long were you in there for?”
He sneers at your onslaught of questions, “None of your concern.”
This makes you frown, “Well, considering I just saved your life…”
“You saved nobody,” he snaps, unscrewing the lid to your thermos. He drinks the last bit of water inside, turning it upside down to show you it’s empty before looking at you expectantly.
You sigh, motioning him to follow you, “My camp is this way. Let’s go before it gets dark.”
He grunts and follows you away from the wooden building and into the forest. Branches and leaves snap and break under your footsteps. It irritates him – you have no sense of stealth at all. But he bites his tongue, not wanting to deal with you getting irritated with him. He needs you and your resources, after all.
Your camp is just that – a sizable tent with a campfire in the middle. You have some coolers and other items of survival lying about.
“It’s not much,” you shrug, “I only just got out of the city a few days ago. I was staking out that little shack you were in when I realized you were surrounded by those things,” He grunts, simply standing there as you take a seat on one of the coolers and begin to make a fire, “You can wash up. There’s a creek not far from here. I’ll get the fire set up and get some food cooking for you.”
He doesn’t bother responding, turning on his heel in the direction you had indicated.
The creek isn’t anything special, he notes. It’s quiet and he can still hear the sound of you bustling about your camp. You really need to work on being more quiet, he thinks. It irritates him in a way he doesn’t understand.
He’s distracted from his thoughts by something strange – a reflection. A face. In the water.
His face.
Torn and mangled beyond recognition.
One side of his mouth had been sliced up towards his ear. There was also a long cut that went clear across his face, over his nose, and over his eye. They weren’t bleeding anymore but he could probably afford to stitch them up at the very least. His eyes were red, the blood vessels in his sclera having busted from the brutal beatings he had taken. His nose was crooked and bruised with blood still dried underneath it.
He feels his stomach turn dangerously, making him pull his gaze away. He cups his hands in the water, splashing it on his face. He viciously scrubs the raw skin, uncaring about the pain it causes or the fact the water isn’t sterile at all.
He washes his face thoroughly, even cleans out his nose so he can breathe. When he realizes one side remains clogged because of the way his nose was broken, he resigns himself to snapping it back with all the strength he can muster.
The pain makes tears reflexively spring to his eyes but they’re gone in an instant and he can breathe like normal once more.
He’s so caught up in cleaning himself up he fails to notice the person creeping up behind him until a twig snaps and there’s a sharp thunk.
You stand there, machete gripped in your hand, looming above one of the infected lying motionless on the ground. You lower your blade quickly when you realize he’s staring at you.
“Sorry…” you whisper, pulling a hunting knife out of your belt to hand to him, “I forgot to give you a weapon before you left,” You nudge the corpse with your foot, “They can be surprisingly quiet and sneak up on you.”
“You could learn a few things from them,” he quips, making your brows shoot up in surprise before you give him an embarrassed smile.
“I was in the city before this,” you explain, “I haven't gotten used to navigating the wilderness.”
He takes the knife, easily maneuvering it into his hold before he stands. His knees crack with the movement but he doesn’t pay it any mind. You take that as his cue and lead him back to the camp where the fire is going.
You open one of the coolers, pulling out another thermos, handing it to him.
“More water,” you explain, “There’s some cans of food in the other cooler over there. You can heat some up using the pot. I’m going to wash up as well.”
He doesn’t offer you a response, simply watching you bustle about. You grab a towel, some fresh clothes from inside the tent, and your machete before making your way through the trees towards the creek.
Once you’re out of sight, he does as you offered, sipping the water and heating up a can of pork and beans that you had stored away. It was your only can but he figures you won’t really mind. Not that he would care if you did.
When you return, you’re freshly washed and smiling. It irks him, you seem so chipper and happy despite the situation you’re in. You’re the polar opposite of him in all aspects.
“I want you to tell me more,” he says suddenly as you’re digging through the cooler to find something of your own.
You look quizzically at him, “About what?”
“Everything,” he says shortly.
You stare blankly at him as you open the can and pour it into the pot – not caring that the sauce from his own food is still inside. He sighs, “About the sick people.”
You make a noise of understanding, looking up at the darkening sky, “They’re not really people anymore. Once they get really sick…they die. The fever usually kills them if the bites aren’t lethal. And then once they’re dead, they…come back to life,” you pause, stirring your food, “Only they’re not right. They’re mindless. All they want is to eat the flesh of the living. It’s a cycle. You get bit, you die, you turn, you bite someone, they die, they turn, they bite someone…on and on.”
“So they are not sick,” he says, “But walking corpses.”
You nod, “I used to feel bad killing them. They used to be people, you know? But I watched too many people back in Atlanta die trying to be pacifistic.”
“Why did you leave the city?” he asks, “Surely there are safe zones, no?”
You shake your head, “Not anymore. They tried back when the outbreak started. But it didn’t work. I don’t know of any place that’s safe anymore. The city is hell, too many of them roaming around, it’s impossible to be safe. I had to get out of the city where the undead population was lower but…” you sigh, taking the pot off the fire as it begins to boil, “They’re coming out of the city now, making their way here to the outskirts.”
“What-” he begins to ask you another question but you cut him off.
“Hey, you asked me a question. Now I want to ask you one!” you smile jovially at him as he glares.
“Go ahead,” he hums, crossing his arms over his chest. There’s an ache in his bones at the movement but he ignores it.
He’s afraid you’re going to ask him something he can’t answer. He doesn’t want you to ask him what he was doing locked away in that building like a mutt up for euthanasia. But he prepares himself for whatever invasion question he’s going to have to shoot down.
“What’s your name?” you ask, much to his relief.
He sighs, “You can call me Nikto.”
“Alright, Nikto,” you positively beam and he has half a mind to look away before you blind him.
“What is your plan now that you are out of the city?” he finds himself asking, though he’s not really sure why. He shouldn’t really care what you’re planning but he finds himself…curious. He wants to make sure you’re going to be safe.
You saved his life, he decides. He’s indebted to you so he should at least make sure you’ve got a good game plan for when he inevitably leaves you. It’s clear you’re completely untrained, he can offer you good advice as payment for your freeing him before you part ways for good.
The idea makes him frown and he pushes it to the back of his mind.
You hum thoughtfully, finally beginning to eat your food in big spoonfuls, “I think staying away from the cities is the best choice. I need to find some better shelter, this tent set up isn’t going to hold up in the long run. I just have to figure out where to go.”
“You should decide soon,” Nikto says, “Winter will be coming.”
You nod, swallowing a bite of your food, “I’m not really sure what I’m going to do. I can’t say I have the best survival tactics.”
Nikto laughs through his nose, “No, you do not.”
Your jaw drops before you bark out a laugh, “Hey! That’s not nice, I’m trying my best! Anyway, what are your plans?”
That makes him pause.
What are his plans?
He thinks for a moment, “I’ll find the people responsible for this,” he gestures to his injured face.
You make a sympathetic sound, placing the now empty pot of food down, “That’s understandable. Do you at least have an idea of where to start?”
“I can head to base and find out what I need,” he explains.
Your brows raise, “Base? Like a military base? Are you in the military?”
“Mercenary,” he quips, making it clear he’s not going to be offering you anything more on the subject.
You hum, “Well,” you stand, stretching your arms over your head, “We best get some sleep. You’re welcome in the tent with me.”
“I’lll keep watch,” he says, knowing damn well he’s not going to be getting any sleep.
You seem to understand, “Alright, goodnight, Nikto.”
“Do you have medical supplies?” he asks, stopping you before you can dip into the open tent flaps.
You pause, thinking, “Not many. They’re kind of hard to come by. Hang on.”
You can feel his eyes on you as you crawl into the tent. You hunt around in the darkness for a familiar, metal box that you keep stored safely near your sleeping bag. When you crawl back out of the tent, you offer it to him.
“This is all I have. There’s some pain killers, gauze, and just really anything I could scavenge before I left Atlanta.”
He takes, flipping it open to assess the items inside before he grunts.
You take that as a sound of acceptance and smile again, “Goodnight.”
You think you hear him mutter it in return as you zip the tent closed. As you crawl into the sleeping bag, snuggling down, you realize you feel safer than you have in a long time with another person keeping watch while you’re completely vulnerable.
You wake up like clockwork to the first beams of sunlight trickling into your tent. You sit up, stretching with a quiet groan. Not long ago, you would wake up with sore muscles and painful stiffness. But you’ve finally grown accustomed to sleeping like this.
When you crawl out of the tent, Nikto is sitting where you left him last night, staring off into space. But his blue eyes quickly cut over to you, analyzing you.
“Did you sleep?” you ask curiously as you get to your feet.
“да,” he mutters but you’re not sure you actually believe him.
You suddenly realize that he’s stitched up the wounds in his face. The skin along them is red and inflamed but he doesn’t seem to register the pain at all even with the movement as he eats a pot of food.
“Do you have a scarf?” he asks, at the feeling of your eyes on his disfigured face.
“For?” you dumbly ask.
He merely stares at you, cold and blank as if he can insert his thoughts directly into your mind. When you don’t immediately get it, he sighs and gestures to his face and a look of realization takes over your expression.
You get up and disappear into the tent again. He can hear you rustling about and he frowns once again at the amount of noise you make.
You come back out with something clutched against your chest.
“I don’t have a scarf,” you say, “But I did grab this at a…one of those military stores, you know the ones.”
He raises a brow at the embarrassed look on your face. You offer the object to him and he quickly realizes what it is – a mask with a hard mask for the top of his face and a cloth that stretches from the bridge of his nose down his neck. He hums appreciatively, eagerly moving to put it on.
“Wait!” you cry, forcing him to pause.
You grab the metal box of medical supplies he had discarded beside him. He watches you tug out a roll of gauze, unwrapping it before gesturing towards him as if asking for permission.
He stares at you for a moment, unblinkingly as he weighs his option before ultimately nodding his consent. You straighten your back and lean forward, carefully beginning to wrap the gauze around his freshly stitched wounds.
“This way,” you murmur, your breath fanning across his skin from how close you are, “The mask won't irritate your wounds too much and they can heal faster.”
He grunts, though he doesn’t really care. He sits completely still as you wrap him up before stepping back to let him slip the mask on. It fits him like a glove and he feels the tension in his shoulders fade the moment he’s hidden behind the mask.
You beam at him, the happy little look on your face that you always seem to wear. He wonders how the hell you’re always so chipper given the state of your life right now.
He’s not quite sure what compels him to stick around long past the worst of his injuries have healed. Every time he even so much as thinks of leaving, he can’t bring himself to move a single inch out of the camp.
He thinks about leaving you here undefended, unprotected. You’ve only really survived this long by being smart – not by being skilled. Plus, you’re so trusting and nice. Hell, you invited him right into your home; a disfigured monster that doesn’t even know who he really is anymore. And you happily co-exist with him without even thinking twice about it. You know he’s dangerous, he’s told you as much. Yet you still trust him.
He feels like an undeserving mutt that’s been tasked with guarding the beautiful, vulnerable you.
So he stays. He remains there, guarding you and the camp every single night – only sleeping in short increments that always seem to be disturbed by something moving in the darkness of the woods.
He stays even as days and weeks pass by and the warm early-fall weather begins to get a little more bitter. He stays even when he becomes more restless and antsy from being in one place for far too long. He’s been trained to always keep moving, never stay in one place for too long or else you become a bigger target to any nearby enemies.
The number of the undead has increased over the days that pass. At first it was one or two creeping up too close to your camp but before he knew it, he would kill a dozen throughout the night and wake up to a pile of them nearby.
“It’s getting dangerous,” he states one evening as you boil some of the creek water while he cleans the hunting knife you had given him weeks ago.
You hum thoughtfully, “I’ve noticed it too. More of them are migrating from the city looking for living people.”
“It won’t be safe to camp here for much longer,” he states bluntly, holding his knife up to the firelight to make sure it’s clean.
“Do you think we should move?” you ask.
His face twitches as the mention of ‘we’. He knows he should cut off any expectations of you sticking with him. You shouldn’t be with him any longer, he never planned to actually stay by your side.
But there’s that nagging in his head again, past the whirring noise that never ceases – telling him that a good mutt stays.
“Yes,” he finds himself answering despite himself.
You beam, nodding your head, “Alright, Nikto. I trust your judgment.”
His fist clenched around his knife at those words. You’re such a fool, you have been since the moment he met you when you dropped your weapon to the floor to rescue him. Your trust in him makes him sick to his stomach. But he also finds himself practically preening under those words, rolling them around in his brain over and over again – you trust him, a rabid street dog like him. He doesn’t ever want to betray your trust in him.
True to his word, the two of you are packed up and on the move the very next day. He had been up the entire night, killing whatever wandered out of the surrounding woods while you slept away peacefully.
A guard dog, that’s all he was. That’s all he was good for.
He carries the heaviest of the packs with ease. He had spent his recovery gaining his strength back to where it was before he had been held captive. He needed to be in tip-top shape if he wanted to be able to keep you both alive.
It allows you to easily keep up with his wide strides. You have your machete gripped in your hand, but it’s utterly useless to you – with Nikto’s sharp senses, he dispatches any threats before you can even register that they’re near you.
Something nagging in the back of his mind has him asking, “Why were you alone for so long?”
You hum, “I was with a group of survivors for a while,” you explain, sounding a little out of breath as you follow him over the rough terrain, “But there was a lot of fighting amongst everyone. Things started to get dangerous, you know?”
“Humans can be stupid,” Nikto scoffs, not quite understanding the simmering rage beneath his skin at the mention of you being in danger. He’s glad you got yourself out of the situation and found your way into his protection.
Nikto jumps down off of some tall rocks, turning to hold his hands out to you. Without hesitation, you jump down, landing right into his arms. He grunts at the impact and easily steadies you on your feet, trying to ignore how it feels just right having you nestled in his arms. He waves you to walk ahead of him, stalking close behind you as you both emerge from the forest and onto a highway.
“We can scavenge here,” he says, looking around at all the cars frozen in time, packed to the brim with forgotten items.
“Oh, good idea!” you chirp, “What are we looking for?”
“You look for food and medical supplies,” he says, “I will find weapons.”
“Alright,” you hum, setting off to the left, tugging at some car doors to see which are open.
He watches you work for a moment before setting off to do his own task.
A few hours pass by before he’s calling you back to him with a swift whistle and a wave of his hand. He watches you unload the backpack you had stuffed to the brim full of canned goods and some bottles of pain killers and other prescriptions.
He picks up a couple bottles, reading the faded labels before grunting and putting them down. He presents you with his own bag – it was hard to come by any true weapons but he managed to find things that worked regardless.
“Oh wow,” you muse in wonder, “That’s great, Nikto! We’ll be set for a while, won’t we?”
He practically preens under your praise, though it doesn’t show in his eyes. He remains coldly staring at you as he zips the bag up and places it on his back where it belongs.
“Let’s move,” he orders, turning his back to you, keeping an ear out so he can make sure your footsteps are close behind him.
You’ve made it a considerable distance from where you previous camp was by the time the sun sets. By some miracle, the two of you managed to find a quaint little cabin nearby a small town yet safe enough from civilization that it felt safe. It was even near a stream that would be incredibly helpful given the fact the plumbing no longer worked anywhere.
“Stay here,” he orders as he carefully opens the door, “Kill anyone or anything that walks up.”
He watches you frown, shifting uncomfortably on your feet at his words. He pauses in the open doorway, knife clutched in his fist as he waits for your response. But you avoid his gaze, making him groan in annoyance.
“Understand?”
You sigh, shoulders slumping as you hold up your machete, “I understand, Nikto.”
He huffs and moves inside, though he doesn’t believe you. He keeps an ear out for any signs of distress from you outside while he makes his way through the house. With practiced ease, he clears every room, killing two undead that are locked away in a bathroom before deeming the house safe.
“You,” he mutters when he walks back outside. You nearly jump out of your skin, whirling around to stare wide-eyed at him through the darkness, “Inside.”
“Is it safe?” you ask, hopping up the porch steps.
“да,” he mutters, dropping his backpack in the middle of the living room.
You copy him, discarding your backpack, rolling your shoulders with a sigh to ease the ache in them. He watches you, sitting on the couch as you look around, eyeing the one singular cough that he currently occupies.
“Where are we sleeping? The bedroom?” you ask him.
He huffs through his nose, “Here.”
“But there’s only…”
“One couch,” he finishes, standing up, “It’s yours.”
Your brows shoot up, “But where will you…”
He holds his hand up for you to stop, “I will take watch.”
You make a noise of discontent, “You’ve taken watch every single night, Nikto. You need some rest.”
“I’m fine,” he quips, “I don’t need much sleep.”
“Nonsense,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest, “Why don’t you at least lay down with me and relax for a while?”
“Someone needs to keep watch,” he argues, glare deepening when you clearly don’t back down.
“A few minutes won’t kill you,” you huff, reaching out.
Your hand wraps around his forearm, tugging him towards where you slowly begin to sink down on the floor. You figure getting him to rest on the couch with you will be a fruitless effort, so the floor it is. With the carpet, it’s better than the hard ground you’ve been sleeping on for weeks anyway. He goes willingly, not taking his suspicious gaze off of you for even a second. He watches as you lay on your back, using your backpack as a pillow.
He grunts and follows your lead, even though he’s itching to get up and keep watch. Both of you know he's not actually going to sleep, but he still allows you to feel the victory of having ‘won’ by making him lay down.
He is nothing if not a loyal dog to you now, he realizes. And he’s okay with that, he decides.
He watches as you fall asleep, lashes brushing your cheeks with the moon casting shadows along your skin. You look so sweet and peaceful, relaxed as you know, even in your sleep, that you’re safe with him there.
He reaches over, fingertips almost brushing your skin before he sees the healing scars along his digits. He pulls back before he can actually touch you.
A mangey thing like him has no right to touch ethereal porcelain like you.
When you wake up, the sun is beaming in through the windows of the little house you sought shelter in. You have to squint your eyes from the blinding light, taking a look around the dusty room to see if you can find a familiar form - but he's nowhere to be found.
You sit up, stretching your arms above your head before clumsily getting to your feet. You stumble around blindly for a moment, checking each room before making your way to the front door.
When you open the door, you're greeted by unfamiliar sounds from just out of view. You follow it, hopping down the stairs to round the side of the house where you find Nikto.
He's got a large piece of wood that he's steadily whittling into a spike. Beside him are several other similar spiked wood pieces on the ground.
“What are you doing?” you ask, approaching him as you eye his work curiously.
“This place is vulnerable,” he mutters, grunting as his knife gets caught on a hard piece of wood.
“So…?” you mutter, squatting down beside him.
He sighs like you're stupid but you ignore it, used to his awful attitude by now, “I am making traps.”
“Oh,” you hum, “Like a spike trap? That they'll walk into?”
He paused, unspoken surprise shining in his pretty blue eyes, “You know?”
You smile, “Back in the city, the group I was with tried to make some. They weren't very good, the zombies just kind of…knocked them over.”
He snorts, not quite a laugh but it makes you beam regardless, “These won't fail.”
“Ohh,” you giggle, “Mr. Confident are we?”
“Of course,” he mutters, resuming his work, “I know what I’m doing.”
“I was thinking,” you say, making him pause for a brief second to look at you before resuming again, “We could probably head into town and find some useful stuff. I’m sure a guy like you really knows what will be helpful that regular civilians won't.”
He grunts, “We’ll go. Later.”
You grin, excitedly nodding your head, “Do you think we'll stay here for a while?”
“Winter is coming,” he says, “We should stay.”
“Sounds good,” you agree easily.
Nikto had proved himself time and time again to be knowledgeable and trustworthy. You stare up at him, grateful that he decided that you were someone he was willing to stick by and help. He could have bolted and left you behind the second he had the chance, abandoning the dead weight that you were. If only you knew how close he was to doing just that.
You rest your chin on your knees, silently watching as Nikto finishes up the spikes. He uses some paracord from his backpack to construct them, hitting and kicking them to test their stability.
He bustles about, scoping out the most advantageous positions to place them. Once he has them set and secure, he stands back to admire his work before giving a firm nod to himself.
“We’ll go,” he says, heading back inside before coming back in a split second with both of your empty backpacks.
“To town?” you ask, catching the bag when he tosses it at you, “Now?”
“There’s still much daylight left,” he says, setting off in the direction of the town.
You stumble to follow after him, jogging to keep up with wide, swift steps.
Your little house isn’t very far from town – settled down an old side road, it’s just a few miles to hike to reach the first signs of what once was civilization. Now, it’s all but silent. The buildings show signs of weather from not being used or maintained. Windows are broken, doors are splintered, and ivy crawls along the walls of many of them. When you pass by some buildings, you can hear banging of the undead inside where they’ve undoubtedly been locked in since the start of the outbreak.
You follow closely behind him, careful not to lose him as he turns and rounds corners. He’s quick and nimble on his feet, barely making any sound as he moves. You’re struggling to catch your breath when he stops and yanks a door open – the back door to a hardware store.
He holds it open for you, motioning you inside urgently.
You step in, silent as you can as he closes the door behind the both of you. He stands still, listening closely for any sounds within the building before he nudges you forward with a hand on your back.
You stumble, barely catching your footing as you walk into the store.
The aisles are primarily bare, having been picked clean by looters before you. But Nikto still eyes random items and plucks them off the shelves to stow in his backpack.
Across the store, you spot a door. You peek in through the smudged window, excitedly turning to look at Nikto.
“Hey, there’s a storeroom back here,” you whisper, catching his attention, “it looks like it’s got a bunch of stuff back there!”
As he approaches, you try the doorknob, clicking your tongue when you realize it’s locked. You toss your own backpack off, rifling through the pockets to pull out your trusty lockpicks. He stands back, letting you work to unlock the padlock that keeps the door shut. It was clear people had previously tried to break it open, dents and marks marr the metal surface.
It takes only a few moments for the lock to click open. You gasp excitedly, turning to look over your shoulder to see Nikto watching you with his arms crossed over his chest.
You pull the padlock out of place and drop it to the floor before flipping the metal plate open. Nikto’s hard hand grabs your arm, pulling you backwards behind him before he nudges the door open with his boot.
It slowly creaks open and he peers inside, knife clutched tightly in his hand.
“You did good,” Nikto finds himself muttering as he looks at the fully stocked shelves – all sorts of equipment and supplies lie there for the taking.
Your cheeks burn at his praise, heart stuttering in your chest. He’s never praised you before and you practically glow with how happy those words make you feel – you’ve finally actually helped him out!
“Give me your bag,” he orders, holding his hand out.
You pass it to him, watching him stuff some random items into it before he hastily zips it up and hands it back. You grunt at the new weight but slide your arms through the loops and situate it on your back regardless.
He fills his backpack up much more but he doesn’t even make a sound as he puts it on.
“Lock it back up,” he orders as you two step out, “We’ll return to get more.”
You nod and situate the padlock back into place, tugging it for good measure before you turn. Nikto is already heading out the way you came and you race to catch up to him.
He’s out of sight by the time you reach outside. Looking around, you round a corner, wandering just a little further before you realize that he’s not actually here.
“Shit,” you whisper, turning on your heel to go back the way you came.
“Well, hey there,” an unfamiliar voice has you stopping in your footsteps, “You lost?”
You turn to see a group of three men, leaning against the side of a building a little ways ahead of you. You feel your heart plummet into your stomach as you look around, hoping to see the familiar, broad form of Nikto.
But there was no sign of him so you turned to look nervously at the strangers, “Not lost.”
“You look lost,” one of them says, “You all by yourself, sweetheart?”
“Um, no,” you mutter, heart racing anxiously in your chest, “I’m traveling with someone.”
They all make varying noises in acknowledgement, “You need somewhere to stay?”
“Uhh,” you clear your throat, shifting on your feet to fight the urge to run.
“We have a camp not far from here,” the one who seems to be the leader says, “The name’s Max, this is Connor and Alan. What’s yours?”
You stutter out your name, smiling nervously as you watch them approach you, abandoning the building they were leaning casually against.
“That’s a real nice name,” Alan mutters, eyes traveling up and down your form, “So what do you say about coming to our camp? Your friend can come along too. We’ve got food and shelter and everything you could need.”
“Oh! Well,” you clear your throat, trying to summon up a polite smile, “That sounds really nice, it does!”
“So you’ll come?” Connor asks, sounding almost too excited.
“I-I’ll have to ask…my…the person I’m traveling with..b-but I think it sounds like a nice idea…” you agree, placating them as you’re searching for any way out of the situation you’re in.
“We will decline,” a familiar, accented voice sends a wave of relief through you.
Nikto comes into view, stepping in front of you, blocking your body from view of the three onlookers who look much less confident than they did a second ago.
“This one stays with me,” Nikto says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Shit,” Alan huffs, “You didn’t say the person you were traveling with was some…” he sputters for a moment, “Creepy ass prick.”
Your brows shoot up at their sudden hostility. You wouldn’t say Nikto is creepy. Sure, he had the socialization skills of a sea cucumber…but he wasn’t a bad guy.
Not like these men.
“We reject your invitation,” Nikto says, a commanding tone that has even your spine stiffening.
You’ve never heard his voice so chilling. He didn’t sound exactly warm and sweet when he spoke to you, but this was unlike any tone you’ve ever heard him use. If you were on the opposite team, you’d be pissing your pants.
“Yeah, we don’t want you anyway,” Max spits.
You peer around Nikto, catching sight of the ugly, nauseating glares the other ones are sending your way. Fear prickles to the forefront of your mind, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. You wrap your arms around Nikto’s arm. He stiffens at the contact, cold eyes cutting to glare at you.
“Let’s just go, okay?” you whisper, tugging him in the opposite direction.
He stares at you for a moment before turning to glare at the three men. Nikto eventually gives in at your incessant tugging, letting you pull him away.
Once you’re both out of sight, he shakes your grip off and storms off in another direction. You hurry to catch up to him, tossing a look over your shoulder to make sure you don’t see three forms following you. All is clear and you practically sprint to follow after Nikto.
He doesn’t say a word the entire trek back to the house.
“Nikto!” you cry as loudly as you can without attracting undead attention as he storms up the porch and throws the door open, “Nikto, stop!”
He whirls around at that, practically looming over you with the way his glare makes you feel so small and insignificant. He’s intimidating on the best of days but when he’s trying to scare you, it’s much worse.
“You were going to go with them,” he snaps, making you frown.
“No! I-I wasn't–!”
“You lie?” he hisses, staring unblinkingly at you, “We heard you.”
You deflate at that. In the amount of time you’ve known him, you’ve picked up on how he expresses himself. He only begins to refer to himself in third person when he’s struggling to get a handle on his overwhelming emotions, which isn’t often. Usually, it’s when he has a nightmare during the few times he manages to actually sleep.
“I wasn’t really going to go, Nikto,” you try to quell him.
“Do not lie to us!” he shouts, making you jump. The sight makes his heart squeeze but he’s too wound up to stop now, “You should have gone with them. Then we would be rid of you.”
He wants so badly to stop the vitriol from spilling from his lips but he can’t. He watches you curl in yourself, shoulders deflating as the little light in your eyes dims. He feels like a monster in that moment, snuffing out your light – the brightness that he’s come to worship.
You sniffle a little, “You don’t mean that.”
He barks out a harsh, cold laugh that draws your eyes to the floor. The sight is pitiful and sad. He doesn’t mean that, he knows it. But he can’t stop himself, “Of course it is. You think we like this?” He motions vaguely to you, “You hold us back. You can’t even do the most basic tasks of survival. You’re an idiot. We would be happy for them to take you off our hands.”
Your bottom lip quivers as the tears fill your eyes. He can see them, big, fat droplets that hover on your tear line as he tears you down, “I-I didn’t want to go with them. I just…thought that sayin’ no would make them mad…”
He snorts, shaking his head as he storms past you. His shoulder knocks into yours, making you stumble to the side before the front door slams, leaving you inside by yourself.
You drop your backpack on the ground and take a moment to cry into your hands, releasing all the negative emotions that are building. It helps you feel a little better in the moment but any time you think about his words, the tears well up all over again.
Nikto doesn’t come back inside, even as the sun dips below the horizon and the house is cast into utter darkness. You don’t have an appetite to eat so you hunker down onto the couch, hugging one of the throw pillows to your chest as you force yourself to fall asleep.
You don’t see much of Nikto the following days. Whenever you do, he doesn’t speak a single word to you. He ignores your existence and that only rubs salt in your wounds. You’re not brave enough to try and talk to him in fear of the flat out rejection you would receive. You think being ignored is better than hearing that he doesn’t want anything to do with you anymore.
One morning, you step outside to see him hauling zombies off the spike traps he set. The sight makes you frown. There’s a lot more than usual in the pile he has of the ones he already removed with many still stuck to the traps.
As usual, he doesn’t even look at you as you watch him work. He has to stab a few though the skull to get them to die, grunting with the effort. You try to ignore the ache in your chest when he breezes by you to go inside. He’s completely silent, unsettlingly so – even his footsteps are quiet.
That only makes your cheeks flush – he really was better than you, even at something like walking stealthily. Given his years of training, it makes sense. But the glaring difference is still embarrassing now that he’s brought it up.
Nikto appears again with his backpack, emptied out. He doesn’t say anything as he stalks off in the direction of town, leaving you standing on the porch, watching him vanish into the distance. You sigh to yourself and head back inside, resigning yourself to opening a can of food and simply waiting for him to return.
But the time ticks by, minutes turning to hours. You organize the supplies you have to pass the time – the medical supplies, the food, the weapons, the tools. All placed into their own respective piles and containers.
“Need more bandages,” you mumble to yourself as you sort through what you have. You have tons of painkillers and prescription medications but not a ton of supplies to actually help with wounds that either of you may get.
For all the heavy lifting Nikto does between the two of you, he certainly doesn’t get hurt as much. Before you met him, you absolutely had your fair share of injuries but not anymore. Nikto picks up more than enough slack for you to get by comfortably.
You sigh, deflating – maybe you really were useless. You shake your head of those negative thoughts despite the way they cause tears to sting your eyes. You were good at your own stuff, you had a good eye for finding hidden supplies, you could lockpick just about anything, and you were good with killing zombies when you needed to. Sure, you were clumsier than Nikto, but the dude had military training! So that was an unfair comparison to begin with.
By the time Nikto returns, it's dark and cold. The temperature dipped significantly, leaving you wholly unprepared. You knew winter was on the way with the way the air outside became crisper and drier, but this cold weather was completely unexpected this early. Your clothes weren’t meant for it so all you have is your sleeping bag that you pull out from the corner where you had stowed it.
The door creaks open and you shoot up from your sleeping bag in alarm. Nikto emerges into the living room, walking backwards towards you.
“Nikto..?” you whisper, anxiety welling in your stomach from his unusual behavior.
“I saw a horde of them,” he says, the first thing he’s said to you since your fight, “At least 100 of them, heading this way.”
“What?” you gasp, watching him place the now heavy backpack down. A successful looting in the town, it seems, “What do we do?”
“Nothing,” he mutters, scanning the room, “we will just stay put until they pass.”
You watch as he shoves the couch with a grunt of effort, moving it so the back is facing the entryway, serving as a blockade. He walks over to the backpack, hastily unzipping it before pulling out a gun.
You gasp, “Where’d you get that?”
“Gun store at the edge of town,” He mutters, pulling the gun back to peer inside before he perches himself on the couch, legs spread to take up as much room as he can.
“If you use that, it’ll attract more,” you mutter, eyeing the weapon clutched in his hand.
“Will only be used in an emergency,” he explains calmly, “If they come in, I will shoot and you will escape.”
You frown, “But…”
“No arguing,” he snaps, shutting down your protests immediately, “Go to bed.”
You lay back down, tucking the sleeping back up to your chin. You can hear the incessant sound of Nikto fidgeting. His knee bounces up and down, his boot tapping against the floor rhythmically. You roll over and close your eyes, letting the sound lull you to sleep.
You wake up to a loud bang and the shock of cold. You sit up, catching sight of Nikto still sitting on the couch. He brings his hand up, pressing a single finger to his lips to signal you to be quiet.
You listen closely, realizing you can hear bangs from all around the house along with the growing sound of groaning.
You just barely manage to stifle a gasp when you see a group of zombies stumble past the window. Your eyes are wide, not sure if you’re trembling from the cold or from fear. The groaning gets louder and louder and you find yourself clasping your hands over your ears, trying to drown it out as panic seizes in your chest, making it hard to breathe.
You close your eyes, curling up on your side in a little ball, trying to keep the tears at bay as they fill your eyes.
You feel hands on you suddenly, all at once and you nearly cry out in fear but a firm hand plants itself over your mouth.
“Shh,” Nikto whispers, having gotten onto the ground with you at the sight of your terror, “You’re safe.”
You whimper, turning to curl into him. He stiffens at the feeling of you wrapping yourself around him but doesn’t budge, letting you cling to him as you cry softly to yourself.
Nikto’s own arms wind securely around you, cupping the back of your head to hold your face against his chest. You’re shivering so he pulls the sleeping bag over the both of you, making sure you’re snug and cozy as he keeps an eye and ear out for anything strange happening with the horde.
You somehow manage to fall asleep through it all, feeling safe and secure wrapped up tight against the Russian’s chest.
When you wake up, it’s just you in the sleeping bag. You sit up straight, looking around the room. The couch has been moved back to its original spot and Nikto is nowhere to be seen.
You wander outside to find Nikto sitting on the porch, scarfing down a can of food that no longer has a label. He pauses when you walk out but doesn’t turn to look at you – it stings a little, considering how he held you last night. He could at least afford to acknowledge you.
He places the can down, situating his mask back on his face before standing.
“Do you um…think the horde moved on?” you find yourself asking, desperate to start any kind of conversation with him.
He doesn’t show any acknowledgement to your words for a moment, instead focusing on fixing up the traps that had been knocked over when the horde wandered through last night. You stand there, awkwardly shifting on your feet as a million thoughts race through your head.
Of course he was still pissed at you, a little cuddling to keep you from getting you both killed last night doesn’t mean shit. You shouldn’t let it get to your head, Nikto only did what he did so you’d just shut the fuck up. As always, you were the liability and he had to stretch himself thin to make sure you didn’t fuck up. He pushed past his own boundaries – ones you knew he had, he hates being touched, just to keep you from panicking anymore than you already were. And you had cuddled into him, knowing he had those boundaries so he’s probably even more pissed at you than he was before.
You stifle a sigh and go to roam back inside, a hypothetical tail tucked between your legs.
But he suddenly says, “It should be safe. Most likely some stragglers to keep an eye out for. I’ll go into town and finish looting what I can find.”
“Oh,” you mutter, reaching down to nervously clutch the hem of your shirt, thumbing at some stray threads, “You don’t want me to come?”
“No,” he grunts, hauling a dead zombie off of the spikes to the ground, “Like I said, there will be stragglers. You will stay behind and make sure the house stays safe.”
“Oh uh, alright,” you offer him a wobbly smile.
Of course he doesn’t want you to go with him, you lament. He’d already made his feelings about you clear. In fact, once this horde is fully in the rearview mirror, he’s probably going to take off and go survive by himself, without having to worry about you tagging along.
That thought sends a dreadful wave of sadness through you, like a bucket of ice water. You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, watching as Nikto carries on with his work.
“Um…Nikto?” you find yourself asking, voice wobblier than you intended it to come out.
The sound has him straightening immediately, turning to look over his shoulder at you. Brilliant blue eyes burn holes into you as he stares, assessing you sagging shoulders and tear-filled eyes. An ache grips his chest, squeezing his heart at the sight of you.
“You’re not…going to leave, are you?” you ask timidly, “I mean, like…forever? I-I know you said you were tired of having to look after me and…”
You trail off as you watch him stalk up to you. His boots slam heavily on the steps, making the wood beneath your feet vibrate. He stands in front of you in record time, cinching an arch around your waist to pull you against him.
You gasp, your chest pressed firmly against his. He reaches up, tugging the soft cloth part of his mask down, letting it rest around his neck. You take a moment to admire him, the scars marring his skin that disappear underneath the hard upper part of the mask.
He leans in slowly, giving you an opportunity to stop him. You should stop him. A loathsome dog like him has no right to be this close and intimate with someone serene and sweet like you. You’re beautiful and ethereal, he’s like a moth attracted to your light.
He can’t help himself from dipping down, slotting his scarred lips right over yours. You sigh contentedly, delicate hands that he’s worked so hard to keep clean and soft pressing up against his firm chest. He reaches for one, wrapping his fingers gently around your hand, thumbing over your knuckles as he lets you kiss him until you pull back.
Your eyes are lidded and you’re practically panting but you lean back up, winding your arms around his neck to pull him closer.
He follows your lead, merely watching as you reach back with one hand to open the door. You tug him in with you, leading him over to the couch.
He sits down, sitting like the obedient dog he is as he waits for his master to make their next move. He sits back, legs spread as you stand between his knees.
“You’re not mad at me anymore, I take it?” you ask, tone teasing but you both know you’re asking seriously.
He grunts, looking off to the side, “I wasn’t– I was just…” he grunts in annoyance at his inability to formulate his thought, “I didn’t…want you to leave.”
Your eyes widen at those words before you throw yourself into his lap. He grunts, hands coming up to wrap around your hips, steading you as you hug him close. He hears you sniffling against his neck and frowns.
There he goes again, making you cry. He fists your shirt in his hands, acting like he doesn’t feel them trembling from having you so close to him. You pretend you can’t feel it either.
This is the closest you’ve ever managed to get to him, the furthest past his walls that you’ve gotten. You understand, his lashing out was because he was scared. You don’t want to say anything that will make him sink away from your grasp again.
You do the only thing you can think of, at that moment. You kiss him again.
His head leans against the back of the couch, letting you kiss him over and over again. Your soft hands come up and touch his scarred cheeks, holding him there so you can work your lips against his until the both of you are panting and desperate for air.
As you sit on his lap, pecking his lips as you both catch your breath, you feel something beneath you. Hard and hot, pressing between your legs in a way that sends heat flushing through your entire body. Goosebumps rise along your skin as you look at him. He seems to realize it too – he’s hard. His blue eyes flicker away from you and his hands grip your waist, ready to hoist you off of his lap and onto the couch.
You should be far away from him now – there’s no reason for someone precious like you to sully yourself anymore than you already have by letting him close to you like this.
But you cling to him, arms wrapped tightly around his neck so he can’t move you.
“Nikto…” you breathe, swallowing around the nervous lump in your throat, “I really want…”
He pauses. You want? You want. He’s ready to give you the world if you so desire it. Even though he feels unworthy, undeserving to be near you, he’ll do anything you want in this moment. He’ll let you use him, take everything you need from him without ever thinking of taking anything in return.
You’re his savior, the little light he’s drawn too and can’t look away from. He wants to be worthy, deserving of your caring touch and sweet kisses. Even though he’s nothing but a mangy mutt, you think of him as nothing but yours.
“You can have,” he finally breathes, shocked by how thick his own voice sounds.
You lean back, secure in the fact he’s not going to try to run away now. His hands fall from your waist, flopping to the couch beside him. He can do nothing but look up at you in pure admiration as you slowly lift your t-shirt up.
He watches every inch of skin revealed to him. You tug the item of clothing up over your head and drop it to the floor, leaving you in a bra. It’s not the cutest thing ever, before the apocalypse you’d probably be wearing a pretty, lacey number. But now, it’s just a sports bra that’s becoming a little threadbare from the fact it’s the only one you own.
Nikto doesn’t seem to mind, judging by the way he can’t take his eyes off of you for even a second. He watches you tug the hem of the bra up and over your breasts before it meets the floor as well.
It feels like all the air evaporates from his lungs at the sight. They’re pretty, soft looking with nipples that harden in the cool air of the empty house. His cock fattens against his thigh, twitching at the sight of them.
He’s so lost in admiring you that he doesn’t notice the way you self-consciously shift in his lap.
“N-Nikto..?” you whimper, his eyes snapping from your chest to your face.
A frown tugs at his lips at the bashful look on your face. As if his body acts on auto-pilot, he lifts his hands from where they sat uselessly at his sides, bringing them up your body to cup your breasts in his hands.
You jolt at the touch, sighing happily at the feeling of him touching you. His hands are rough and callused, but it feels so good when his thumbs brush over your nipples. You arch your back, pressing your chest firmly into his hands, encouraging him to touch you more. He squeezes and massages your tits, weighing them in his palms appreciatively before moving to play with your nipples.
You sit there, leaking into your panties as you watch his scarred hands pinch and roll the little buds between his fingers. A little whine is pulled from your lips when he pinches a little harder than intended, softly brushing his fingers over them to soothe the pain as a silent apology.
Your cheeks feel hot, flushed from watching him play with your body. He hasn’t said anything, but those pretty, blue eyes haven't moved a single centimeter off of you. You feel like the center of his universe with the way he revels in the sight of you.
You want to show him more, you want to see that look of heady admiration on his face as he sees the rest of your body. The way he looks makes you feel like the prettiest person he’s ever laid eyes on, makes you burst with confidence.
Though you don’t know it, to him you are. He’s never seen someone so beautiful, so breath-takingly gorgeous that it makes his head swim.
Your hands suddenly drift forward, sliding underneath the black long-sleeve compression shirt he was wearing. He ignores the anxiety that makes his heart flutter as you begin to pull it further up his chest. He lifts his arms, letting you tug it over his head before you toss it to the floor to join your own shirt.
You lean back, hands sliding down the firm planes of his pecs, pausing to admire the little metal bars that go through both of his nipples. He’s well-built – not like he spends all day at the gym training. But built for strength, firm but soft at the same time. There’s scars all over his body, countless little ones and big ones. You wonder what he’s been through in his life to leave his body so marred.
Tattoos coil up both of his arms, some of the scars bisecting the ink and disturbing the images there. You knew he had tattoos, but he kept most of his skin covered even when it was blisteringly hot and he was doing work outside. You never understood how he withstood it.
He suddenly feels exposed, vulnerable in a way that makes his skin crawl. He reaches up and tugs the cloth of his mask back over the bottom half of his face, clipping it to the metal of the upper half. You don’t comment on it, instead continue to admire the upper half of his body.
You can feel his cock kick beneath you and you stifle a moan. You clench around nothing, dribbling messily into your panties. You suddenly want them off, you want to feel him – you want to show him your body.
He watches you move, sitting up on your knees. You wobble slightly and he rushes to grab your hips to stabilize you. You reach down and hastily unbutton your jeans, shoving them haphazardly down your thighs. Your panties go along with them and Nikto fucking groans at the sight of your drippy little pussy revealed to him.
You struggle for a moment more before the pants and panties are finally discarded on the floor. You lean back on his lap, watching as his eyes follow every single contour of your body. You feel like you’re under a microscope, the way he takes in every detail of you.
His mouth is bone dry at the sight. Your soft, plush little cunt that’s shiny with a slick coating of your arousal. It’s dripped down your thighs and already seeps into his pants, leaving dark, wet spots on the fabric.
He moves from gripping your hips to your thighs. You gasp as he easily arranges you on his lap, planting your feet on the couch with your legs completely spread. Your folds split apart at that, revealing the creamy little hole that clenches pathetically around nothing.
He slides up your thighs, unperturbed by the slick mess that greets his digits on your thighs. There’s a lewd, sticky sound as he pulls one of your labia to the side, spreading you open even more for his greedy gaze.
You clit twitches in time to the way you clench around nothing. A groan slips past his lips involuntarily at the sight.
“Симпатичная (pretty),” he utters, mostly to himself at the breathtaking sight.
His index and middle finger slide between your folds, trapping the bud between them with a mean pinch. A cry is ripped from your throat, thighs twitching from the pleasure. Your pussy is gooey and soft beneath his fingers and he can’t take his eyes off the sight in front of him.
He switches to his thumb, pressing the pad of it against your clit. You make the sweetest sounds as he plays with it, back arching as you sigh and coo softly at him. Your eyes are wide, staring at his masked face as he makes you feel good.
“Ah, please, Nikto,” you pant, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth as you talk, “Please, please, please.”
“Please what, little one?” he pants, sounding just as broken as you.
You reach down clumsily, grabbing his wrist to redirect him to your entrance. He clenches his jaw to keep any embarrassing sounds from slipping out as he prods you little hole with his fingers.
“Yes, yes,” you pant mindlessly to yourself as you ease your hips forward, swallowing the length of his middle finger to the final knuckle.
You cry out at the feeling of having his digit inside you, clenching snugly around just the one. His brows furrow at the hot, tight feeling of you squeezing around him. It doesn’t take long for him to work a second one right alongside it.
You’re inconsolable, trembling and twitching in his lap as you stare between your legs at the sight of his fingers stuffed inside you. You rock your hips against his hand, urging him to move them.
He slides them out to the tips before sinking them back inside you with a resounding squish. Your cheeks burn from the lewd sounds, proving just how wet you are for him.
You’re so wet and pliant for him, soft walls eagerly stretching for him when he scissors his fingers apart. Your pretty cunt drools down his wrist and he feels his mouth fill with saliva. He knows you’d taste so sweet, like the most heavenly ambrosia. A mutt like him has no right to crave the taste of something so coveted. But he wants it. And you, you might be kind enough to give him that taste – but the thought of taking off his mask now makes him uneasy. He’s not used to being vulnerable like this, he hasn’t been like this with anyone since before…a shiver goes down his spine, nausea curling in the pit of his stomach as memories flash before him.
But he’s quickly brought out of it by your sweet little moan of his name. He looks up and finds your head tossed back, neck exposed in a way that’s just asking for him to kiss and bite.
“A-Another,” you suddenly pant, looking at him with dazed, lidded eyes.
“You can handle it?” he asks, raising a brow.
You nod, reaching between you to cup his covered cock. He groans at the feeling of your hand touching him, even through his pants, “I’ll take this, so I can take three.”
He grits his teeth and bites back a moan at that. You’re a devious little minx, all big, wet eyes and drippy pussy but a silver tongue that urges him to do anything in his power to please you.
He brings his index finger into the mix, carefully sinking all three digits in together. You whimper at the stretch but you’re so wet and pliant that you easily adjust. Rocking your hips, you gasp when he curls them to nudge that sweet little spot right inside.
You lean forward, wrapping your arms around his neck. With your head resting on his shoulder, he can hear the softest croons that fall from your lips. You’re so close, smell so nicely of the simple bar soap the both of you use. He wonders what you would have smelled like before the world went to shit, did you use floral scents? Maybe you were a fruit scent kind of person.
He moves his other hand forward, thumb inching towards your clit but you reach down and grasp his wrist.
Your face still buried in his neck, you shamelessly whisper, “W-Wanna cum on your cock, Nikto.”
He moans, deep and soft. The sound has you clenching around his fingers and his cock twitches in response.
As he continues to eagerly work you open on his fingers, neither of you makes a move to touch the little bud again. Instead, your own hands get busy with undoing his pants.
“Fuck, Nikto…” you whimper when you pull his length free from the confines of his tac pants, “Piercings?”
You wrap your hand around him, eyeing the two sets of piercings he has on his cock. The first, on the head, pierces through the bottom of the glans and comes out of the tip – Prince Albert, your brain helpfully supplies. But there’s another on the underside where the base meets the plushness of his balls, a bar that sits horizontally.
Nikto appears unperturbed by your curiosity, too busy watching how your fingers are unable to wrap around the girth of him. He’s not the longest out there but fuck if his cock isn’t fat. He’s going to stretch your tender little cunt wide open and have you creaming before you know it.
He twitches in your grasp just thinking about it. The feeling has your attention pulled away from the piercings in favor of slowly stroking him. A bead of precum drools from the tip, glistening alongside the metal there.
“You’re big,” you breathe, mesmerized as you jerk his cock in your soft hands.
“да,” he mutters, grunting when you squeeze him just right.
His cock leaks even more, dribbling down the sides of his length only to be caught by your hand. You use it to make the slide of your hand smoother and before long he’s as slicked up as you are.
His fingers no longer move where they’re buried inside you, too preoccupied by the feeling of you stroking his cock. The sounds are slick and lewd, his precum making everything messy.
“C-Can I? Nikto? Please?” you babble mindlessly.
“What?” he asks, his own brain struggling to catch up with you.
“I wanna sit on it, please?” you beg, rocking your hips against his hand even though his fingers are completely still inside you.
He pulls his fingers from inside you, replacing your hold on his cock with his own. You situate yourself back on your knees and place your hands on his shoulders. He holds himself still as you align your sticky cunt up with his tip.
Both of you fall silent as you sink down. You reach halfway, the thickest part of him before a meek cry bubbles past your lips.
“F-Fuck!” you squeal, rocking your hips to work yourself further down.
“Does it hurt?” he finds himself asking, as if the furrow in your brow wasn’t enough of a tell.
“Uh-huh,” you whimper but don’t stop, continuing to force yourself lower and lower.
Nikto groans when you suddenly and finally bottom out. Every incomprehensibly thick inch of his cock is stuffed inside your creamy, drooling cunt. Tears line your eyes from the burn but you make to start bouncing before you’ve even adjusted.
Nikto’s reflexes finally catch up to him and he quickly clamps his big hands around your waist, pinning you in place on his lap.
“Nikto!” you wail petulantly,
“Wait,” he commands, sharply glaring when you whine and continue to try and bounce.
He keeps his grip on your hips, instead forcing you to rock back and forth. The tension melts from your shoulders as you moan in pure euphoria.
“Fuck, Nikto!” you wail, jaw dropping open as he continues to work you like that, grinding your messy cunt over his cock.
“Just like this,” he pants, grunting at the feeling of his cock stirring within your plush walls.
“B-But,” you gasp when your clit catches on his pelvic bone just right, “Th-This doesn’t feel good for y-you.”
“Don’t be stupid,” he groans, “Ты ощущаешься словно рай. (you feel like heaven)”
You lean back, palms flat against his knees, taking over the movements. Nikto reaches up, cupping your bouncing breasts as you needily hump his cock like you’re in heat. You’re creaming a mess around the base of him, slick, sticky sounds the only other sound between your moans.
“Oh fuck!” you wail, entire body trembling as your head hangs back between your shoulders, “Oh, please, Nikto! Please make me cum. I’m gonna cum, please, please, please!”
“Блять! (fuck)” he snarls, sliding his hand down to find your clit.
You’re so noisy, noisier than he ever anticipated. He expected you to be a shy, timid little thing. But here you are, begging. You’re absolutely gagging for it. You’re trembling and teary eyed as you wail for pleasure that only he can give you in this moment. Fuck, it makes his cock ache from where it’s stuffed inside your messy little cunt.
His thumb presses against the bud and your entire body twitches as you cum. The sight is spectacular – the embodiment of everything good to him, writhing and cumming all over his cock just like you deserve.
You clench around him, creaming messily all around the base of him. You squeal and wail out your pleasure, using his cock to ride out the wave of pleasure. You hump back and forth on him, using him just to cum on – like a toy. He’d proudly be a toy for you just to witness the beautiful sight of you in the throes of orgasms like this till the end of time.
“Please fuck me, Nikto, please!” Your ceaseless begging snaps his control like a thread.
Before you know it, your entire world is flipped. Your back meets the couch and a firm hand wraps around your throat, pinning you there. Nikto’s form looms over you, with one knee on the couch and his other foot on the floor, like an overwhelming presence.
He pulls his hips back and fucks his cock into you with a harsh slap of his skin against yours. You cry out, clawing at the arm that pins you down. He pays the pain no mind, too addicted to the squelching of your wet little cunt as you take every inch over and over again.
Moans are punched out of you by the sheet force of his thrusts. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, body twitching from overstimulation. You’ve just cum and he’s fucking you like an animal, pinning you helplessly down as you can do nothing but take everything he gives you.
He fucks you right into another orgasm, not even needing to touch your clit. You’ve never cum like that before, always needing a little touch on the little bud. But Nikto is just full of surprises, his cock more than enough to send you over the edge. Tears dribble down your cheeks while your cum drips down his balls. There’s a milky ring around the base of him that he can see every time he pulls back, a clear sign of the fact that it was his cock you came all over. He doesn’t slow down for even a second, even when you begin to sob and thrash beneath him.
He leans down, moving his grip from your throat to the couch, caging you underneath his body. He’s heavy, pinning you down easily beneath him. You're unable to do anything but take it – take everything you begged for. Your feet kick uselessly against him, trying to run from his cock but unable to get anywhere. He hits that tender little spot deep inside you that you’ve never been able to reach on your own and it sends shockwaves down your spine. Your nails claw at his back, tearing at his skin and leaving marks that he’d proudly wear for a lifetime.
“Tell me to stop, little one,” he pants in your ear, “Tell me to stop.”
He’s giving you an out, you realize. Giving you a chance to escape before he breaks you beyond belief. But you don’t want that – you can’t imagine being deprived of this pleasure.
“N-No!” you squeal, drooling from the sheer mind-blowing pleasure, “D-Don’t stop! Please, please, please! I-I’m gonna cum again! F-Fuck, Nikto!”
He fucks it out of you just like that, pinning your twitching, trembling body underneath his oppressive weight, leaving you unable to do anything but take it. You moan, sobs tearing from your chest as the orgasm is torn from your sensitive little cunt. It’s too much, it’s impossible to even breathe from how your body feels like a live wire.
Nikto growls against your neck, heavy balls slapping against your ass from how deep he fucks himself into you. You’re still squeezing and spasming around him, clenching with every wave that wracks through your body. You haven’t been able to fully come down from the orgasm, twitching and gasping against his shoulder as he fucks you well past overstimulation.
You’re delirious, whimpering and crying against him as he finally cums. He gasps your name – hoarse and thick with pleasure as he fills you up. His cum is thick and hot, oozing past the seal of your walls around him, dripping onto the couch as he uses you to work through his well deserved high.
He collapses against you, the hard part of his mask digging into your skin but you can’t be bothered to care. All you care is that Nikto is surrounding you – his sweat dripping onto your body as his cum drips out of your cunt.
His softened cock slips out, allowing a gush to follow in its wake. But you don’t even notice. You wrap your arms around Nikto and let your eyes drift close, content to feel safe and protected underneath him. He’s like a guard dog, keeping his most precious possession hidden away. And you’re content like that, snuggling into him and falling into a blissful sleep.
By the time the two of you wake up, the sun has dipped low enough to cast orange and reds across the sky. The temperature is steadily dropping but you feel incredibly warm and cozy wrapped up tight in Nikto’s embrace.
He slid off of you sometime after you fell asleep, choosing to lay beside you instead of on top of you. You're still tucked between him and the back of the couch, comfy and happy.
“Nikto..?” you ask, keeping your voice low to not interrupt the serene atmosphere. You know he’s awake because the man barely sleeps.
“What is it?” he asks, not opening his eyes.
“I just wanted to know…” you shuffle closer to his chest, “When I found you…what were you doing in there? All chained up?”
He grunts at the memory, brows furrowing beneath his mask, “I don't recall much. I was being held for interrogation.”
“Don’t they usually do that kind of thing in like…a prison? Or a military base?” you ask, reaching up to mindlessly pet the fabric of his mask, “I always imagine that kind of situation in a room in a police station or something.”
He grunts, “It can happen anywhere the enemy has a safe house.”
“I see…” you murmur, “What did they want?”
“Information,” he responds easily, “They're always after intelligence.”
“You didn't give anything up?” you ask, “Even after they hurt you?”
He twitches at the mention of his injuries, “I would be no good to them dead. I gave up nothing.”
You make a sound, nuzzling into his chest, “What's interrogation like that like? Were you scared?”
He grunts, “Not scared. Angry. Animals like that do anything they can to extract information,” you shift to look into his eyes, noticing the thinly veiled anger in them, “Anything.”
The frown of understanding crosses your face and you go to sit up but he pulls you back down, tucking you into his chest. He doesn't want you looking closely at him after admitting that. He doesn't think he can stomach that sadness - the sympathy that will be on your face. He doesn't deserve your kindness, he doesn't want your pity.
“I'm sorry, Nikto…” you supply softly, kissing his bare chest.
He sighs, closing his eyes again, trying to ignore the visceral images of strange hands pawing at his body and pulling at his clothes. Nausea turns in his stomach but he simply pulls you closer to him.
The next morning, he wakes up before you and decides to wash up in the bathroom. Although the water doesn't work, it's not much work for him to lug a few jugs of water from the nearby stream and bring them back for the two of you to use to wash off.
The water stings on his back and he takes a moment to look in the mirror, seeing red lines marring the skin. He huffs, laughing through his nose, picking up his mask to slide it back on but he stops short.
An idea pops into his head as he thinks about you - about your pretty, perfect body. He thinks about how wet you were, the way you dripped and gushed for him over and over again. His mouth waters at the memory.
He slips out of the bathroom, finding you laying on the couch. He had tucked the sleeping bag over you so you wouldn't get cold but you've pushed it down your body in the time he went to wash up.
Your bare breasts peek out, nipples hard. He slips the sleeping bag down, letting it fall to the floor. You're completely naked, one leg bent up leaving your legs in a 4 position.
He can still see a mess between your folds - a slick concoction of yours and his cum. He slides onto the couch, carefully cupping beneath your knees to spread you open.
You hum, eyes fluttering open. Your gaze falling to Nikto between your legs, face bare and inching ever closer to your cunt. You look so cute and sweet, whimpering sleepily as you lay there vulnerable for him.
Despite the fact that his face is completely uncovered for the first time in months, he doesn’t feel the need to crawl out of his skin and hide away. The way you look at him, dazed and sluggish, makes his cock chub up. So sweet. So precious.
He places one of your legs over his shoulder, pinning the other down against the couch. Your breath hitches as he inches closer, scarred lips pressing against the skin of your knee, inner thigh, your pubic bone before he stops. Blue eyes linger on your face, watching the furrow in your brows and the anticipation of the pleasure his mouth will bring you.
He dips down, tongue falling from his mouth. He slides the muscle between your folds, a moan ripping from him as he tastes the concoction of your cum and his mixed together. You whine, head tipping back against the couch, quickly losing yourself to the pleasure.
Your back arches, reaching down to card your fingers into his hair. The black strands are surprisingly soft and you can’t resist tugging them. He easily goes where you direct, slotting his lips right over your clit when you nudge him towards the little bud.
“N-Nikto!” you squeal, kicking against his back as he suckles on it, lashing his tongue over and over back and forth until you’re twitching and trembling from the overwhelming pleasure.
He pulls back, dipping back down to prod at your hole. You’re panting, tossing your head side to side as he slowly sinks his tongue into you.
You’re wet and gooey inside, the bitter tang of his cum mixes with the sweetness of yours. You open up easily around his tongue, pliant and soft as you croon and coo at him.
“I-It feels good, Nikto,” you pant, voice thick with pleasure, “M-Make me cum, please?”
You ask so sweetly, so politely. He can’t deny you of the pleasure you so deserve – not that he has the right to deny you any pleasure. If there’s anyone more deserving of using him, it’s you. He’d gladly be a toy just for you to pursue pleasure from over and over.
His tongue slides free from the grip of your cunt, slipping between your slippery folds up to the hard bud of your clit. Precum fucking drools down his thigh, painfully hard cock dripping over the sounds you’re making. Your clit throbs on his tongue, you’re so close that you’re near tears.
You tug at his hair, a pang of pain going through him but he doesn’t dare stop you. He’s all yours – hurt him as you please, it will be his honor.
“F-Fuck!” you squeal, thrashing against the couch as you finally cum.
He moans against you, wrapping your twitchy clit between his lips. He sucks on it, lidded eyes watching as you tremble through the throes of your orgasm. You pant and cry, chest heaving in deep breaths as you gasp out his name over and over again.
Before long, you’re whimpering and pushing him away. He easily moves, letting you push his head away from your sensitive pussy. Your slit is covered in a sheen of your cum, the white of his cum is long gone – he had swallowed every drop he could taste.
You sit up quickly, shoving against his chest. He grunts, falling back against the couch. You drop to the floor, knees hitting the carpet before you’re fumbling with the button of his pants.
He grunts, helping you open them. You don’t even wait a single second to reach in to pull out his hard cock.
“Gosh, Nikto,” you pant, “You’re so big. Can’t believe I fit you last night.”
You giggle, almost delirious as you nuzzle his length. He sighs, softly brushing your cheek with his fingers. You kiss up and down it, practically worshiping him with your lips. You kitten lick the tip, whimpering at the salty tang of his precum on your tongue.
“Ты очень хорошо справилась (you took it very well),” he mutters, making you pause.
You look confused, “What?”
“Nothing,” he responds, redirecting your attention back to his cock by meanly slapping the head against your lips.
You whimper, seemingly forgetting all about it as you take the head of his cock into your mouth. It feels strange with the piercing there but you quickly get used to it. You can’t take much of him and your technique is sloppy. It’s clear you don’t have a ton of experience sucking cock.
“Have you done this before?”he finds himself asking.
You look up at him through your lashes before you pop off of him. You look sheepish, shyly shrugging your shoulders, “Not really.”
He grunts, acting like that admission doesn’t make his heart hammer in his chest. His expression betrays nothing as he once again directs you back down.
“Slowly,” he commands, voice even and collected.
You open your mouth, letting him slide along your tongue until he reaches the back of your mouth. You cough when he tries to nudge past it, quickly trying to pull your head back but he stops you with a firm hand on the back of your neck.
“Careful,” he warns, “Relax your throat, little one. Let me in.”
You whimper, looking up at him with teary eyes but you don’t fight him when he pushes your head further and further down. He hisses when you gag, choking around him until tears come to your eyes.
He holds you there, not pushing any further, just relishing in the feeling of your hot, tight throat spasming around him. After a moment, he lets you up.
You cough, sputtering and wheezing. Leaning forward, he runs a thumb beneath your eyes to wipe away the tears that trickle down.
“Too much?” he mutters, watching you collect yourself.
You shake your head, “I like it.”
He laughs through his nose and leans back again. It’s an invitation to do as you please with him. You wrap your hand around his base, leaning forward to take him back into your mouth once more. You don’t take him as deep as he had made you, stroking whatever didn’t fit with your hand. Your spit made for good lubrication, aiding in the slick slide.
Your tongue was soft and hot against his tip. Whenever you play with the piercing there, his thighs twitch involuntarily. His head falls back against the couch, eyes rolling up into his skull when you noisily slurp against him.
You pop your mouth off of him, stroking his cock while kissing down the length of him.
“Блять (fuck),” he groans, unable to take his eyes off of you as you kiss down to his balls.
You slurp one of them into your mouth, humming when his back involuntarily arches at the feeling. He grits his teeth, glaring at you at the mischievous look in your eyes.
You pop off of his balls, licking your lips, “Sensitive, Nikto?”
“Тише (quiet),” he spits, tugging you towards his cock once again.
You take the head into your mouth, swirling your tongue and sucking until your jaw begins to ache as you stroke the rest of him at the same time. Nikto moans, gritting his teeth as his body trembles. His balls tighten and he flinches when your soft hand cups them.
It quickly creeps up on him, his cock twitching and his balls drawing up. And then all at once, he’s spilling into your mouth with a guttural groan. You whimper at the heady taste on your tongue, eagerly swallowing down every single drop. When you pull back, you stick out your tongue, proudly showing him that you took it all.
Nikto groans, leaning down to slip his tongue into your mouth. You sigh into the sloppy kiss, lashes fluttering as you lose yourself in him once more. He decides he loves the taste of his cum mixed with you.
He fears he’s more enamored with you than he thought. He’s a loyal mutt, after all.
By the time the afternoon rolled around, the sun was obscured by looming dark clouds. You stood on the porch with Nikto, frowning at the sight.
“It looks like it’ll storm,” you mutter, wrapping your arms around yourself as a chill blows through you.
He nods, staring ruefully at the sky, “I’ll return soon.”
“Do you have to go?” you frown, “How about I come with you? I don’t like you being alone out there with this weather.”
Nikto shakes his head, placing a gentle, gloved hand on top of your head, “You would only slow me down.”
You deflate, looking down at your feet with a frown etched across your face. He regrets the words as soon as they come out, “Прости (sorry), you should stay. It’s safer.”
You sigh and nod your head, “Alright, I’ll just clean up.”
“I won’t be long,” he assures, stepping off of the porch.
“Okay,” you try to smile but it doesn’t reach your eyes. He wants to stay to make you happy but he knows you both need the supplies before anyone else takes them.
Nikto casts you one last glance before he turns and stalks off down the road towards town. You watch until he is well out of view before you slip back inside, quietly closing the door.
You slip into the bathroom, strip yourself of your clothes and step into the bathtub with a sigh. You use the jugs of water to carefully wash your body. The water is quite cold but it does the job. You definitely miss the luxury of a nice, hot shower with good water pressure. You scrub your skin, using the bar of soap you have on hand. You’re shivering by the time you finish, wrapping a towel around your body but it does nothing to actually keep the cold out.
You creep out of the bathroom, hissing at the cold air as you make your way over to your backpack. You unzip it, shuffling around inside to pull out some clothes.
You manage to slip on the oversized sweatshirt , despite your shivering, that Nikto had managed to grab you on his last trip. The fact he thought to get you some warm clothes despite the fact you were both fighting at the time warms your heart.
trigger warning.
You’re about to slip some panties on when you hear the front door creak open. You perk up, hopping to your feet to go greet him at the door.
“Nikto, you’re back-” you stop short when you see three unfamiliar forms standing in the doorway.
Nikto wouldn’t have brought anyone to the house under any circumstances. Panic grips your heart and you stumble backwards.
“Ah, there you are,” a familiar voice murmurs, stepping forward further into your house, “We knew that freak bastard had you hidden somewhere around here.”
“G-Get the hell out of here,” you hiss, feeling uncomfortably exposed with just a long shirt covering you, “N-Nikto will be back any minute.”
Max scoffs, “Naw, we saw him head into town. He ain’t gonna be back for a while.”
“He’s a fucking idiot,” Alan coos sickly, “Leaving a sweet little thing like you all alone.”
You don’t even realize you’re trembling. Fight or flight kicks in and you attempt to bolt past them. You know the chances of getting by them are miniscule at best but it’s all you can think of – there’s no other exit besides windows and neither you nor Nikto had even tried to open them. All you know is that if you get cornered, you’re as good as dead – escape is your best option.
The three still have the front door open and if you can just get outside, you’ll feel much better and can get your bearings to defend yourself.
But when you attempt to bolt past them, all three of them move. You cry out when you feel arms wrap around your middle, hoisting you up and away from the door. You watch as Max kicks the door closed, closing off your one escape.
You struggle and kick, making it difficult for them to hold onto you as they drag you back to where you came from. You tumble onto the ground, grunting at the impact as they loom over you, making your skin crawl.
You dive for your machete, hand wrapping around the hilt of the weapon, ready to swing it right down onto whoever is nearest to you but a heavy boot stomps down on your hand. You cry out, pain radiating down your entire arm under the immense weight of the man. He takes the opportunity to kick the machete, kicking your hand along with it until the blade flies across the room and out of your reach.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Max whistles, “You wearin’ this just for us?”
You realize in the struggle, the shirt you were wearing had ridden up, exposing you completely to them. You shove the shirt down, heart hammering in your ears as they leer at you.
“What do you think, Alan?” Max claps his hand on his buddy’s shoulder, “I know you had a little crush at first sight on this pretty thing.”
Alan licks his lips and grins, eyeing you up and down, “Yeah, I sure did. Was real disappointed when you didn’t wanna come with us, sweetheart.”
“All yours, buddy,” Max chortles.
As if sealing your fate, lightning flashes outside followed by a deafening strike of the thunder that nearly makes you jump out of your skin. Alan takes that moment to pounce. You cry out when he presses himself on top of you.
You briefly think back to what it felt like to have Nikto on top of you. The sensation was completely different – right now you feel your skin crawling like millions of little bugs are writhing underneath. You want to get away, you’re scared and this strange man’s touch is nauseating.
Tears fill your eyes as the man pushes your shirt up, slotting himself between your thighs despite the way you fight to keep him out. You sob, pushing at his chest, trying to slide out from underneath him. But he gathers your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head.
Another one comes around, Connor your brain sluggishly supplies. He reaches down and tugs the hem of your shirt up until your breasts are bare to them.
“Fuck, look at that,” Connor croons, making you squirm in humiliation.
Alan laughs, pressing himself firmer between your legs. The rough drag of his jeans on your folds burns and you can’t control the sob that tears from your chest when you feel the hard press of his erection. Fear is like ice water through your veins, knowing what they’re going to do to you making you tremble uncontrollably.
“We saw you,” Alan hums, cupping your chest in his bare hands, squeezing your breasts hard enough to make you wince, “You and that creepy fucker, this morning.”
Your bottom lip trembles as you stare up at him, tears dripping down your temples, wetting your hair. You know what he’s referring to, they had watched you and Nikto on the couch.
“No wonder he wears that mask,” Max laughs from somewhere else. Your eyes darted around to look for him, finding him squatting down by the entryway hall, rooting through the supplies you had organized on the floor, “Ugly bastard like him. Can’t believe he gets to fuck someone like you.”
“D-Don’t talk about him like that,” you snap, uselessly kicking against the man on top of you.
“Aw, don’t like us talkin’ about that fucked up face of your boyfriends?” Connor sneers from beside you.
Alan’s free hand, the one not holding your wrists, goes down to his pants. He tugs at the button of his jeans, easily undoing them. He’s hard and leaking when he pulls himself out and you feel nausea crawl up the back of your throat.
“Lucky find,” Max mutters from behind you.
“Got anything good?” Connor asks his companion, rough hands coming up to cup your breasts as Alan’s cock slides against your folds.
“Yeah, these two have got practically everything,” Max mutters. You can see him stuffing things into his bag from your periphery, “Probably that freak’s doing, ain’t that right, sweetheart?”
You sniffle, your mind automatically drifting to thoughts of Nikto. You wish he had never left, you wish he were here right now. You’ve never wanted his presence more than in this moment, you’d give anything to have him with you. Thunder rattles the windows and you find yourself hoping that he’s at least out of the storm and safe.
Your hips jump, jerking away from the sudden painful prod of an unwelcome cock. Alan growls in annoyance, pressing more firmly against you to keep you from moving.
“Sit still,” he snaps, “It’ll go a lot better for you if you just behave.”
“No,” you pathetically whimper, still squirming every time you feel the heat of his tip pressing against you.
“You’re really pissing me off,” he snarls, pressing his hips forward, only for him to miss, slipping upwards through your folds instead. It’s a dry burn that makes you wince, “Fuck!”
“Givin’ you some trouble there, Alan?” Max teases, laughing.
Alan’s ears turn red under his humiliation, “Hold them down!”
Connor snickers but abandons his groping of your breasts in favor of taking over Alan’s hold on your wrist. Alan pins your hips to the floor with an arm slung over your lower stomach.
You squirm, sobbing in despair when you realize that you’re not going to be able to get away now. His grip is firm, preventing you from moving a single inch, even as you kick and attempt to knee the man off of you. He’s unperturbed, flashing your tear soaked face a sinister smile before he begins to try and press his way inside you again.
Thunder roars overhead, muffling the scream that tears from you, “No,” you barely hear yourself wailing, tears falling endlessly down your cheeks, “Stop, please! Please!”
Your pleading falls on deaf ears and you really, truly think that this is it. You feel the burn as he begins to press inside you, you’re dry and unprepared for anything but he doesn’t care.
But before anything else can happen, there’s a strange sound from behind you. You open your eyes, not realizing you had closed them.
You look over, blinking away your tears to see Max, slumped over on the floor. There’s a pool of blood soaking into the carpet around him. Beside him is Nikto, knife clutched in his hand, trembling as it drips blood. Relief floods through you at the sight of him, sending more tears rushing down your burning cheeks.
Connor releases his hold on you, going for his weapon strapped to his hip but a knife soars through the air. There’s a solid, wet thunk as a knife is thrown, plunging into the center of his chest.
He gasps, a wet sound as he reaches for the knife stuck in his chest. He doesn’t pull it out, merely touches the weapon before he looks at Nikto and then Alan. Blood drips from his lips as he falls back onto his ass, trembling and breathing raspily.
“Скотина (brute/animal),” Nikto snarls, standing to his full height. His eyes flash, displaying absolute rage within the vibrant blues, “Я тебя убью (I’m going to kill you).”
Alan finally throws himself off you, horror plastered all over his face. Finally free from his nauseatingly oppressive weight, you slam your thighs closed and yank your shirt back down, trying to preserve any bit of modesty you possibly can. You scramble backwards, tucking yourself into the corner, arms wrapped around yourself as you watch.
Another knife flies through the air – this time sinking itself right into Connor’s eye. He makes a strange, croaking sound, jaw dropped before he slumps motionless onto the floor. His one eye, staring blankly in front of him, unseeing now.
Alan, seemingly realizing that he’s all that’s left, panics. He makes a mad dash for you, where you’ve tucked yourself away to protect yourself. He crawls on all fours, advancing upon you as fast as he can in his fear.
The sight of him coming closer makes a fearful cry tear from your throat, trying to push yourself further back into the corner the closer he gets.
Something hot and wet splatters all over you and you whimper, barely taking in the sight in front of you.
Alan sits above you, wide eyes bugging out of his head as he stares into nothing. Blood dribbles out of his open mouth and you notice the tip of a knife poking out of the front of his throat. His entire body jerks when the knife is ripped out, leaving a gushing, gaping wound. He tries to make a sound, but only wet gurgling comes out.
His limp body is yanked backwards, hitting the floor with a loud thunk.
Nikto’s masked face is in front of you at that moment and you don’t waste a second throwing yourself into his arms. He grunts at the impact but quickly wraps his arms around you tightly.
“Nikto,” you sob, voice coming out choked and thick as you try to relay everything to him as best you can, “Th-They just came in. I didn’t know what to do, so I tried to r-run. They-He tried to-!”
“Hush,” he coos into your ear, cupping the back of your head to tuck you into the crook of his shoulder, “You are safe.”
You stay there like that with him until your breathing calms down. You slump against him, suddenly exhausted. Nikto doesn’t let go until he can feel that your heart has stopped racing. He shifts, starting to pull away from you and you quickly latch onto him with all your strength despite the way your muscles scream in protest.
“No,” you pathetically cry, “Don’t go.”
“Я тебя не брошу (I will not leave you),” he mutters and slips from your grasp despite the way you cry for him, “We will clean up.”
He holds out his hand for you and you take it, letting him pull you up to your feet. Your knees tremble but he doesn’t let you go until you’re steady. He looks at your face, reaching up to wipe at the blood splatters that mar your skin.
He clicks his tongue, turning to lift up Alan’s corpse. He hauls it over his shoulder and makes his way to the front door. You hurry to follow after him, holding the hem of your shirt down to keep you covered.
He tosses the body off the side of the porch, spitting on it for good measure before he turns to go back inside. You follow closely behind him every step of the way.
end trigger warning.
“You are like a little duck,” he mumbles, turning to face you after he’s done dumping Connor’s body off the side as well. He reaches up, softly stroking your cheek – a little bit of affection that makes your eyes water.
You can tell he’s trying his best to keep your spirits up, despite how clumsy he comes across. You know Nikto isn’t good with people or emotions so the fact that he’s trying to cheer you up means the world to you.
Once the final body is out, Nikto closes and locks the door with a quick flip of the deadbolt. You look down at your feet in shame – you hadn’t locked it earlier and they had walked right in.
Nikto turns you around with a firm hand on your shoulder, gently nudging you towards the bathroom.
“Wash the blood off,” he orders you, “I will be waiting.”
You want to argue, want to beg him to come into the bathroom with you but you can’t find the words. You don’t want to burden him anymore than you already are so you nod your head and duck into the bathroom, closing the door behind you.
The thunder is fading into the distance but the downpour continues. With the sun sinking lower and lower by the minute, any light you have to wash the mess off of your skin is fading.
You quickly use the leftover water to wash the blood off of your face and neck. You follow the blood speckles beneath the collar of your shirt before you lift the offending fabric up to see your breasts and stomach are also splattered with the red droplets that managed to drip down. You scrub the blood off, using all the water you need until there’s no more signs of it.
When you finally calm yourself, heart racing, you drop the shirt to cover your body once again. You step out of the bathroom, closing the door behind you as you wander into the living area. Nikto is sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the black, crooked TV screen on the wall.
“Nikto?” you call, pulling him out of whatever stupor he seems to be in. Blue eyes fall to you as you wander over to him, “I cleaned up.”
He grunts in acknowledgement, “I can see that.”
“There’s some blood on my shirt,” you mumble, tugging at the collar, “But I don’t have another one.”
He stands at that, stalking over to his bag that has been tossed haphazardly into the middle of the floor. He yanks it open, fighting with the zipper for a moment before he pulls out a sweater and tosses it to you.
You catch it with ease, though the sleeves end up smacking you in the face. You pet the soft fabric and hum contentedly. Nikto watches as you eagerly tear the top you’re wearing off, exposing your bare body to him once again before slipping beneath his sweater. The size is much bigger than the one you had before, the collar slipping off of one of your shoulders. You collapse onto the couch, curling in on yourself as you watch Nikto collect his own clothes for the night.
He strips off his shirt, quickly replacing it with a simple t-shirt before he changes his pants as well. The ones he puts on aren’t his usual choice – they’re sweatpants. Usually Nikto wears tac pants, the kind with a dozen pockets for him to store weapons and supplies. He looks so casual and cozy like this.
“Will you lay with me, Nikto?” you find yourself asking, making him look up from where he was looking into his bag.
“да,” he toes his boots off and scoots you closer to the back of the couch so he can lay on the edge.
The both of you shift until you’re comfortable. You rest your head on his chest, knee tossed over his waist, allowing you to get as close to him as possible. He remains still beneath you, eyes open, peering into the darkness of the room, listening for anything outside.
You relax completely against him as you drift off to sleep. He takes that moment to wrap his arms around you, hugging you as close to him as he can without disturbing your slumber.
He can’t relax, the entire night has him reeling, though he’ll never let you see that. He had come in, the first thing he heard were the voices of men, sending the hair on the back of his neck standing up. Then he had heard your voice, your desperately, tearful sobs begging for your assailants to stop.
When he had come in, he made eye contact with that first man, sinking his knife right into his skull before he could make a sound.
His eyes had found you, pinned underneath the form of another man, shirt pushed all the way up and pinned completely. You were practically naked and he could see clear as day what that man was trying to do. The fear and turmoil painted on your face as you looked at him, the relief in your eyes when you had seen him – it spurred him into action.
Despite the fact that you were safe and avoided any physical harm did little to quell his mind. The fact you had been through such an ordeal, been subjected to the same horrors he himself knew all too well made a pit form in his stomach. He would do anything to turn back time, he would tell himself to stay put – he wouldn’t have taken that needless trip into town to gather the last of the loot he had left behind.
He’s not sure how much time passes but he dozes off. Only for his eyes to shoot open when you whimper softly beside him. He looks down, the dim, early morning light allowing him to see the furrow in your brow. Your body is tense, occasionally twitching as you dream. It’s clear it’s not a good dream, He has a feeling what it is you’re dreaming about.
He silently holds you close, letting you thrash against him until you gasp awake. Sweat beads at your forehead as you frantically look around.
“You’re safe,” he whispers, keeping his voice as soft as he can without spooking you.
You swallow thickly around the lump of your throat and look up at him. There are tears lining your lash line and your breathing is a little choppy.
“Nikto,” you whimper, clutching desperately at him.
“Talk to me,” he mumbles, cupping the back of your head to force you to look at him.
“I-I…” you sniffle, bottom lip quivering with the onslaught of your tears, “What if you didn’t come in time?”
He softens at that, “Don’t think of that.”
“But, I-I can’t stop thinking about it,” you whimper, burying your face in his chest, “I was scared.”
“I know,” he coos, resting his chin on top of your head while you cry, “It will not happen again. Я не сведу с тебя взгляда (I won’t take my eyes off of you).”
“I don’t want to think about them,” you sit up, all at once tossing your leg over his hips. He steadies you with two hands on your waist, “Help me forget, Nikto.”
“If you’re sure” he mumbles, not fighting it when you hastily shove the hem of his shirt up.
You slide your hands across his chest, pausing at the piercings in his nipples. You touch them softly, making him twitch at the feeling.
“Did they hurt?” you ask, sounding a little stuffy from crying.
“Нет,” he responds.
You smile, “I guess something like that wouldn’t hurt you, huh? It’s almost like you’re invincible, Nikto.”
“I’m not,” he responds, softly running his hands down your thighs, caressing the smooth skin there.
“It seems like it,” you murmur, “You can do anything.”
He frowns, blue eyes looking off in the distance, “Но я не смог тебя защитить.”
“What?” you ask, leaning more of your weight against his chest.
He reaches up, softly petting your hand, looking a little uncomfortable as he mulls something over in his head, “I couldn’t protect you.”
Your eyes widen a little bit at that. You’re used to Nikto muttering things in Russian but he’s never translated himself for you before. For something so vulnerable to fall from his lips has tears springing to your eyes once again.
“It wasn’t your fault,” you assure him, “I-I was stupid and let my guard down.”
“No,” he hisses, making you stop, “You are my responsibility. Your safety is my biggest concern.”
He reaches up, thumbing away the tears under your eye. You sniffle and nuzzle into his touch.
“Can I kiss you, Nikto?” you find yourself asking.
He doesn’t offer a response, instead he reaches up to tug the cloth of his gaiter mask down to reveal the lower half of his face. Cupping the back of your neck, he tugs you towards him. You whimper when your lips meet his, quickling losing yourself in the kiss.
Your lips move against his fluidly and he eagerly kisses you back. Your hips shift, subtly grinding down and he eagerly grabs your hips. He urges on your movements, encouraging you to rock back and forth against him.
This is what you needed. You needed to wipe your mind of the awful feelings stirring inside you. You needed to replace their foul, wretched touch with his touch. You wanted to replace everything with Nikto.
His sweatpants are soft, they feel nice against your pussy – your juices slowly soaking the fabric as you grow wetter. He doesn’t seem to care in the slightest, his cock only getting harder and harder beneath you. You barely break the kiss to reach between the two of you, reaching past the hem of his sweats to grip his cock. He grunts against your lips when you pull him out, sitting your cunt right on top of him. He slips right between your folds, letting you rub your clit right along the underside of his length.
You whimper, sitting up, breaking the kiss in the process. You lift the hem of your shirt up, cupping your own breasts, pinching at your nipples as you hump your clit against his cock.
He groans at the display, reaching up to tear the shirt over your head – granting him a fully unimpeded view of your beautiful body.
“Пиздец (fuck),” he grunts at the sight of you.
He looks between your bodies, watching you work your cunt along him, spreading creamy arousal across his skin. He can see when the head pops out from between your folds, the stimulation of the piercing catching your clit makes your body twitch every time.
It’s cute. Your reactions are cute, the way you wear everything you’re feeling right on your face.
You get wetter and wetter with every roll of your hips until there are sticky strings of slick that connect your skin to his. It’s messy, the way you coat him in it. He absolutely adores it.
“Oh my– Nikto,” you whimper, “C-Can I cum?”
He groans at the sweet way you ask him for permission. Despite the fact you’re in control, rutting your hips, humping his cock like you need it to breathe, you’re asking him if you can cum. He’d be a monster to deny you such pleasure, he’d never dream of it. A mutt like him has no right to deny someone like you, after all.
“Cum,” he orders, watching the way your eyes widen at his command.
You work your hips over him a few more times, swift, fluid rolls of your hips as you pinch and roll your nipples. He can see the moment your orgasm washes over you. You abandon playing with your nipples, planting your hands on his chest, shakily humping his cock as your entire body twitches.
He can feel the rhythmic clenching of your cunt and your throbbing clit as you cum. You whimper and gasp, hanging your head between your shoulders, watching yourself cream all over his length until you fall still, trembling in place.
“F-Fuck,” you gasp, barely a whisper, “So good.”
He chuckles quietly at the dazed look on your face when you look at him again. You look ruined, after a little orgasm from humping his cock like a toy. You slowly stop panting and look at him, still as hungry for him as you were before your orgasm.
“Nikto?” you ask softly. He hums in response, “Will you sit up?”
Without hesitation, he does as you ask. He scoots the two of you back so he’s leaning against the arm rest, legs stretched out behind you while you remain seated in his lap. His shirt falls down his chest, covering his pierced nipples once again but you don’t mind, too preoccupied by the sight of his glistening cock.
He wraps his hand around it, tugging himself a few times to ease the ache from how hard he is. You watch with wide eyes as he strokes himself, slick, wet sounds coming from the movements. The veins in his hand bulge with every squeeze when he pauses to work little drops of precum out. Your cum makes for incredible lube and it makes his head spin – the fact that you came all over him like that.
“Nikto,” you coo softly, longing thick in your voice.
“Take what you want,” he mumbles without hesitation, moving both hands to grip your hips.
You bite your lip, using his shoulders to stabilize yourself as you reach between your legs to grip the base of his cock. You both sigh in unison when you direct his tip to your entrance, slowly and carefully sinking down.
“F-Fuck…” you whimper, nails biting into skin, “Y-You’re so thick.”
He grunts when you stop, impaled only halfway on him but unable to sink any further. He watches you struggle for a second, admiring the furrow in your brow and the way you tremble every time you try to sink lower.
“H-Help,” you whimper, “Nikto, please!”
His hand creeps between your legs, thumb pressing against the hard bud of your clit. You squeal, tossing your head back when you finally sink all the way to the hilt as you clench around him desperately. He grunts at the feeling of being enveloped in that hot, tight heat. You squeeze him so tightly, soaking him in your cum that you so beautifully worked out of yourself just moments before.
He holds your hips, supporting you as you start to ride him. You’re clumsy and uncoordinated, panting with just a few little bounces. He doesn’t blame you, being tired, after the night you had.
“Hold on,” he orders you, forcing you to stop.
You do as you’re told, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He flips the two of you over, your back hitting the mattress. He lets you cling to him, knees knocking into his ribs as he ruts his hips against you. You gasp, whining into his ear at the pleasure that shoots through you.
His balls are heavy, slapping audibly against you underneath the wet squelching of your pussy. You sound so sweet, moaning in his ear from how well he fucks you.
He’s not rough for once in his life, treating you tenderly and delicately, holding you close to his chest while he uses his cock to wring every bit of pleasure out of your pliant body. You cling to him like a lifeline, twitching and trembling underneath him as you’re forced to take every inch of him.
“S-So good,” you babble, “Nikto! Please, fuck, you’re so good!”
He grunts, doubling his efforts at the sound of your praise. He changes the angle of his hips slightly and your reaction is immediate. You cry out and he grunts, cupping the back of your head to muffle your cries in his neck. As much as he’d love if you could be as loud as you could, the undead outside could hear at any moment.
“Th-There, fuck, there, Nikto!” you mumble, slurred in your pleasure.
He huffs, keeping you tucked completely against him, pressing your body against the couch as he fucks into that spot. The sensation of his piercing grinding against the sensitive insides of your pussy is enough to get you twitching, walls clenching sporadically around him. You’re getting closer, little gasps and whimpers the only thing you can manage to get out as you focus solely on the mounting pleasure. It’s tight in your tummy, winding and winding until it will only take a split second for it to snap.
Nikto grinds his hips just right, the messy curls at the base of his cock nestling against your clit is all it takes for you to unravel. You squeal into his neck, eyes rolling back into your head as you thrash beneath him. He doesn’t thrust, instead continues to grind against you, squishing your tender little clit against his pelvic bones as you cry and wail. Your walls clench and squeeze around him while he stays there, simply letting his cock stir inside you to let you ride it out.
Suddenly, there’s a wet gush, soaking his pants, shirt, and the couch beneath you, “‘M sorry, sorry, Nikto, f-fuck! ‘M sorry.”
He shushes you, leaning back to rearrange your legs, pinning your knees to your chest. You’re still babbling apologies, embarrassed tears in your eyes – it’s sweet, you feel bad for making such a mess on him. He doesn’t care in the slightest, shouldn’t you know that by now?
“Quiet,” he mutters when you cry out from the change in angle.
You slap your hand over your mouth, tears trickling down your temples as you stare wide-eyed at him. You feel so good, it’s written all over your face. Your lashes flutter, threatening to close but you don’t want to take your gaze off of him. The sight is too good.
His strong fingers dimple the skin of your thighs and his intense, blue eyes burn from behind his mask. The tattoos filling up the skin of both his arms flex with every movement he makes and his shirt is splattered with remnants of your cum. The mere sight of him makes you clench around him, creaming messily just for him.
“Touch yourself,” he commands, not sounding even the slightest bit out of sorts. Unlike you, babbling and crying from a couple little orgasms on his cock.
You sniffle, soft and teary as you do as he tells you. You reach between your thighs, trembling fingers finding your split folds, your hard little clit peeking out to greet your touch. You twitch violently at the feeling, eyes rolling back in your head as you stroke the pulsing bud.
You whine, “F-Feels better when you do it, Nikto.”
He groans through his teeth. You’re so precious.
He can’t resist such a sweet complaint. He abandons his hold on one of your thighs in favor of replacing your touch on your clit. It’s hard and throbbing under his thumb, slippery when he rolls the pad of his digit up and down on it. You whine and cry, muffled by your hand because you’re still following his order to be quiet. You’re so good for him. You still stare wide-eyed at him, chest heaving as you desperately gasp for air.
“Oh, I’m gonna cum. You’re gonna make me cum,” you babble, wrapping your now free hand around the back of your knee that he no longer holds. You pull yourself even wider for him and he changes to circling your clit as a reward.
Your back bows off of the couch, pretty tits bouncing with the movement, nipples perked and hard.
“Ты такая молодец (you’re doing so good),” he mutters as you cum, squirting all over him again.
It drips off of his skin, makes his balls ache. You babble your sweet apologies again, both hands covering your face in embarrassment. He sighs, leaning down, cupping the back of your head to tuck you against him. He shushes you, grunting when you squeeze down around him just right.
You’re soaked, dripping and creamy wet with strings of slick connecting the two of you. It’s hot and messy, lewd squelching coming from your tight little cunt as he works towards his own end.
You’re whining and writhing in overstimulation now so he gives you a few more, deep thrusts before he pulls out. You watch, lidded eyes watching as he wraps his hand around his messy cum-covered cock.
With a heavy groan, cum spurts from his tip. It splatters over your slick folds, mixing with the slippery film that covers you from the orgasms he worked out of you. He can’t resist tapping the head of his cock right against the swollen bud of your clit, the stimulation making your hips jump and whine rip from your chest.
You finally relax, sinking into the cushions while he leans off the side of the couch to pick up the sweatshirt that was discarded. You sluggishly lift your arms and let him slip it over, not caring for the mess slathered between your thighs. You can deal with that later.
He settles in next to you, letting you snuggle in close. His mind is plagued with the idea of his mark being on you all through the night. Right between your legs, where his cum belongs. With you tucked snugly against him where you belong.
The next few days are strange – you cling to Nikto’s side desperately, barely letting him out of your sight. He understands, naturally but he doesn’t want you to remain in a place that brings you panic. There’s bloodstains on the carpet that he catches you staring at from time to time, eyes wide and unseeing as memories flash in your head. He’s been there far too many times to let you wallow in it.
“We should head out,” he murmurs one afternoon over lunch, “Find a new place.”
You look up from where you were staring dully into your can of soup. Your gaze brightens at his words and he knows it was the right call, “Really? Where?”
He hums, “Found a map in town. There’s a…survivor colony marked. We should head there.”
That bright look fades off of your face and he suddenly wants to take it all bad to see you happy again, “Why would we go to a survivor colony?”
“Would be good for you, no?” he asks, raising a brow under his mask.
You grumble and shake your head, placing your can down to scoot closer to him, “You don’t like people, Nikto.”
“You do,” he argues, watching you place your can down.
You wrap your arms around his middle, nuzzling your head against his shoulder, “I like you. As long as I have you, I don’t need anyone else.”
He has to look away under the intensity of your gaze. You look at him like he’s special, like he’s important. Even though he’s just a mutt, you’ve granted him the incredible honor of getting to stick by your side.
He’s a brute, he’s unruly, unsightly. He’ll never say it out loud – never be able to say it, but as long as he has you, he’ll be okay too.
A mutt and its owner, as it should be.
do not repost on third party websites such as wattpad, use for ai, or modify. reblogs OK!
i genuinely encourage non black people to engage with this, who might be worried they can't because of the word "nigga" because they feel like it's overstepping. the only way it would be overstepping is saying it to me when ur not black, but please don't be afraid to engage with black art.
i kinda get annoyed when non black people police other non blacks on how to engage with black culture because it creates a problem where non black people avoid us all together which can be extremely isolating and create even MORE tension and overall being uneducated.
afab!reader, no prns, praise, edging, wet&messy, könig using ur clit as a fidget toy <3
könig, a trained lethal soldier, who suffers from anxiety. you would never know if you didn't know what you were looking for.
his biggest tell, for you, is the way he fidgets. with you.
you're like his own personal little fidget toy. his hands are always on you, kneading and squeezing your skin. most times you don't mind, you rather like having him touching you — your thighs, your waist, your butt, wherever he can get his hands honestly.
but sometimes...his hands wander. it's mindless, truly.
his eyes fixated on the tv playing some random show he decided he wanted to watch. but you couldn't pay attention, not when one big hand was shoved up your shirt groping your breasts and the other was haphazardly stuffed into your sleep shorts and under your panties.
he's toying with you so mindlessly, callused fingers sliding over your clit that has grown increasingly slippery with how wet you've become. occasionally he dips down to prod at your slick entrance.
his movements have no rhyme or reason. he's not even moving very fast. just sloppy back and forth flicks and occasionally he simply taps his fingers against the little bud that has grown so sensitive from his playing. sometimes, when something interesting happens on tv, he stops completely until the desire the fidget returns to him.
you're sitting with your back against his chest, situated between his spread legs sprawled cozily on the couch. he can't see the heated, dazed look on your face from the come-and-go pleasure he inadvertently gives you. he's edging you without even realizing it, full attention still focused on the damn tv. he isn't even hard.
that thought alone is enough to make you clench around nothing. he's really just playing with you like a little toy and that thought is so hot to you. it makes you cheeks burn in embarrassment as you continue to leak into your panties.
if you listen close you can hear with wet clicking noise that comes with his movements. your eyes roll back in your head as that sound alone has your back arching but you quickly settle yourself down, not wanting to tear his attention from the tv — he so rarely had time to settle down and just enjoy tv, you didn't want to disturb him.
the episode he's watching ends and you cast a hopeful glance up at him but he's waiting for the next episode to start and it makes you whine against your own wishes. but your clit is so hard and twitchy from being edged that it's actually hurting and you're so wet now that your panties are uncomfortably sticky.
it's your whine that gets his attention, pretty blue eyes flicking down to your face where he finally sees the desperate way you're looking at him, teary eyes and swollen lips from biting them to keep quiet. you can see in his eyes when he registers how soaked you've gotten his fingers and he has the audacity to look sheepish.
"ah, my sweet..." he whispers, ears tinged pink, "i-i'm sorry, i did not realize..."
he moves to pull his hand out of your panties and you whine again, grabbing his wrist with both hands to stuff him back down. your nails bite into his skin and he stops trying to pull away, instead pushing his hand back down and it's then that he fully resisters how wet you are.
"don't stop, please...i-i've been so close..." you pitifully beg and he takes pity on you. how precious of you, he thinks.
"i'm sorry, my love," he coos, fingers starting to work once again — properly this time with quick little circles on your clit, "i'll make you cum for being so good for me."
you can't even formulate words, instead nodding and spreading your legs even further apart, your feet on either side of his legs. he hums softly in your ear, chin hooked over your shoulder as he watches his hand move under the fabric of your shorts.
he spreads your sticky folds apart and begins to swirl messily around your clit, occasionally lightly tapping against the bud just to watch the cute way your thighs twitch at the feeling. you reach back and clutch his t-shirt in your fists to ground you. his cock throbs, churning up quickly, at the loud, wet noise of him playing with your cunt.
it doesn't take long at all before your stiffening against him and twitching in his lap as you cum with a cute little gasp of his name. he moans softly in your ear as he feels your clit throb under the pads of his fingers. you let out the loveliest moans that has his cock hardening fully against his thigh.
when you slacken against his body, aftershocks making you twitch periodically as you pant, he's tempted to stop but the fact you had sat there so sweetly and let him practically torture you while he watched his show made him want to make it up to you.
he sees the excitement in your eyes when his fingers dip lower and begin to press into you and he can't believe just how sweet you are. your so sticky and wet with the amount of cum he worked out of you with such ease.
"let me really make it up to you, my little one..."
Summary: Reader is tasked with feeding enemy prisoner Octo!Konig
“Just don’t step over the tape, don’t talk to it, and try not to spend too much time in there. Oh, and don’t forget the bucket.” AO3
Inspired by this fanart by @numelu that I have not been able to stop thinking about since I laid my sinful little eyes on it.
Word Count: 25.7k
Warnings: 18+, NSFW, porn with plot, tentacles, restraints, bondage, orgasm torture, tentacle fucking, light anal, light spanking, dw he uses all of his tentacles, corked like you got the suds, dom!konig, hood stays on, choking, injury, holy trinity of fluff angst and smut, no use of y/n, story and smut kinda read like two different stories, that’s my bad, i’ve never seen the shape of water but i’m assuming this is the exact plot, reader gender is obscured but afab during the sex bits for sure, women in stem
Biowarefare has made incredible strides in the last few decades, unbeknownst to the public. Experimental creatures of nightmarish horrors engineered to inflict both psychological and physical damage to enemies live in the darker shadows of war. You’d been sworn to secrecy, but remain haunted by these creatures. You’d rather not get close to them - you were just a biologist. A consultant really, meant to answer questions about organic matter and DNA. You were to assist in the designing process, but this was not a part of the job description.
“It still needs to eat in the meantime,” Your supervisor had delivered around a cheeky smile, as if he was telling a joke. Your face, however, had not shown amusement.
“Just don’t step over the tape, don’t talk to it, and try not to spend too much time in there. Oh, and don’t forget the bucket.”
With only two hours to prepare yourself before dinnertime, you weren’t able to accomplish much work. Nerves escape through bouncing legs and fidgeting fingers.
The fridge smelled putrid. A cesspool of meats and seafood, all untreated and unprocessed, some on the brink of expiration, others completely rotten. You try not to breathe as you remove the top of a crate of fish, your fingers surviving any splinters and unpleasant scents with the protection of thick rubber gloves. The mackerel are large, four to five pounds, you’d guess, just shorter than the length of your arm. You grab two, placing them in the large yellow bucket your supervisor reminded you about. Seawater and fish guts drip from your rubber gloves as you step through the empty sterile hallways.
The involuntary shake of your hands causes the handle of the bucket to rattle against the plastic as you step up to the creature’s holding cell. In front of the large metal door you take a moment to steady yourself with a few deep breaths, but the stench of dead mackerel does little to ease your nerves.
You reach to the lanyard around your neck that secured your badge, trembling fingers hesitant to place it against the reader. The usually stagnant red light flicks green, and a grating alarm sounds followed by the sturdy clunk of the lock. You’re forced to use both hands, setting the bucket down before you grip the heavy metal door. You’re lean your entire weight against it, teeth grit as your heels dig into the tile. Your foot holds the door in place as you reach for the bucket. Once in the containment unit, the big metal door slams closed behind you with a mechanical clunk. The alarm buzzes again, making you flinch, shifting hesitantly in your spot by the door as you take in the sight before you.
It’s huge, bigger than any man you’ve ever seen. It looked like a man. Seven feet tall, you think. Muscles engineered for the purpose of destroying, the purpose of killing. Its arms are bent at the elbows and positioned behind its head, restrained by ropes. The restraints looped thoroughly around massive biceps and forearms, secured to the walls on either of his sides. Another rope had suspended from a mount on the ceiling, securing his wrists in place.
Glowing eyes stare menacingly at you from under a hood that cover its face. The black hood spilled from under a tactical helmet and down his chest, hem brushing up against exposed collarbones.
Slick black tentacles protrude from underneath the hood that hangs over its face, each slithering and curling in their own direction.
Eight larger tentacles resembled that of an octopus. As thick as tree trunks at the bases and gradually thinning towards the ends, four on each side of his spine and spread from its back like wings. Each one moves independently, spread and primed as they writhe in the air.
Mesmerized by the creature before you, you find yourself frozen under its gaze. Taking in such a miraculous sight. Sure, you assist in the design, but you’ve never seen one in person before. Pondering its capabilities, knowing full well without the restraints in place you wouldn’t stand a chance against such a well engineered design. Wondering what horror the hood hides, something so awful it had to be covered. Or perhaps the creature was designed that way, the hood itself intended to further off put its victims.
When you finally break eye contact with it, your eyes find the floor. A red line of tape separates you from the creature, signifying its reach within the cell. Its got a large radius, you’re surprised by how much distance he’s capable of covering even while restrained in place.
You swallow hesitantly, taking a couple steps closer, still leaving a healthy distance between you and the glossy red tape.
“Fresh meat?” It asks, in a harsh and gravely voice that sends a chill up your spine. You weren’t sure if he had been referring to you or the fish.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you.” Your voice is broken and hesitant as you eye the tentacles writhing and twisting alluringly in the air.
You carefully get down on one knee and set the bucket on the ground, your hands shaking. With a calculated push you slide the bucket across the concrete floor and into the creature’s reach. The bucket slides over the boundary a few feet before it skids and tips over, rolling in a semi circle on its side as the fish spill out of the rim one after another.
The creature laughs, a loud and wicked laugh that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Your expression is seeped in worry as you stand, watching it eye the mess before it, cruel laugh still echoing in your ears.
“The new ones always forget the bucket.” It says, low and sinful with eyes half-lidded in menace. It coils a larger tentacle around the middle of the container and whips it back in your direction without warning.
You let out a yelp and dive to the floor, just barely missing the bucket that crashed into the cell door behind you. It bounces back, pieces of the plastic rim snapping off and scattering to the ground.
You scramble for the container, your other hand desperately clawing for your badge before slamming it against the receiver and exiting the cell in a panicked scramble.
The creature’s depraved laugh could be heard up until the door slammed shut behind you, the lock securing into place with the grating alarm. Your breaths are shallow, fishy rubber gloves pressed to your beating heart as you quickly distance yourself from the cell.
———————————————————
You had tried to convince your supervisor to give the task to someone else, anyone else, but to no avail.
“It’s your fault for forgetting the bucket!”
You mocked your supervisor’s inflection once out of earshot before burying your face into your palms with a groan.
You thought about putting in your two weeks. No! No two weeks. You’ll just leave and never look back.
You remember that the government doesn’t look very kindly upon disgruntled ex-employees holding classified information, and opt to run a hand through your hair with a huff instead.
You’ll be quick today, in and out, and then it’s done. Once a day for thirty seconds, until they find a replacement. That’s not so bad.
The second time was easier. You knew what to expect, and the spite against your supervisor, against the creature, only fueled your confidence. Features stone cold as you open the door, the grating alarm having stirred the creature. You step into the room assuredly, returning the creature’s harsh stare with one of your own.
You close more of the gap between you and the tape this time, holding the handle of the bucket with one hand and securing the bottom with your other. You wind it up behind you before using your arms to propel it forward with a huff, grip still steady on the bucket as the fish fly. The creature’s eyes follow the trajectory of the fish until they land at its feet. You had wasted no time turning on your heels and leaving, bucket still in hand.
“Someone learned their lesson.” You hear, and you grit your teeth as you let the door slam harshly behind you.
The creature left a lasting impression in your memory. Its taunts echo in your mind, and you can tell he was designed to get under the victim’s skin. To haunt them, inflicting emotional warfare in addition to physical, torturing them without even being in the same room as them.
You dreamt of it last night. You wondered if that was something that it had done to you. If he had the ability to inflict nightmares, or if he was just intimidating enough to let your subconscious run wild after only a few seconds of exposure.
In the dream, you had been caught in a sea of black tentacles, suffocating you as they wrapped around your mouth, robbing you of air while restraining your limbs from fighting back. The tentacles had wriggled until they transformed into the shape of the creature’s hood, glowing eyes staring tauntingly, but your dream had equipped him with a horrific mouth that laid over its hood, filled with sharp carnivorous teeth spread into a sickening smile. With his wicked laugh, blood spilled from the gaps of his endless rows of teeth.
You had woke up covered in sweat, gasping for air as you kicked free from the hold of your blankets.
The dream had stuck with you, the residual unease not allowing you to fall back asleep. You decided to start research on the creature although you weren’t instructed to - your way of controlling the fear of the unknown by making it known.
Detailed sketches and logs of your encounters with him quickly buried your work assignments. You were recording every detail from the number of visual abdominal muscles to his bluff behavior when encountering a threat, branching its tentacles out just like animals to in the wild do to appear bigger.
You couldn’t help the way your eyes lingered on it during feedings. To gather data, you told yourself, to understand the creature’s physiology. You’re a biologist, after all. Research is the foundation of your beliefs.
You had been able to refrain from speaking with it, even if he was rather chatty. Arrogant, he loved to push your buttons.
You didn’t let him get to you, at least as far as he was concerned. You never let your irritation show when under his watchful gaze, but grit your teeth once you turned your back.
It’s about a week and a half into your new duty when he finally makes you falter.
“You’re starving me, you know.”
Your stride stills, not yet turning towards him as your hand grips your badge. You consider his words, shed of his usually cocky tone.
He could be lying, who knows what his true intentions actually are. On the other hand, you’ve only been feeding him what you’ve been tasked to.
You slowly turn towards him, your eyes squinted as you stare at him. You’re trying to deduce his weight, but it’s hard since you’re not used to estimating in terms of seven foot creatures with tentacles. He looks like he’s made of pure muscle, and those tentacles look heavy. 300 pounds? 400? You’re trying to decide if you should be feeding him in terms of his body weight percentage in regards to a human, an octopus, or a monster.
You should have kept walking, you think. He has your attention now, and not only that, you’ve revealed from hesitation alone that you possess a moral standard to uphold a basic level of decency for a prisoner of war. Now he knows you’re soft.
He can tell you’re trying to figure out if he’s deceiving you.
“If I had food to spare, I’d have used it as a weapon by now.” His low voice drips off arrogance again, and a tentacle reaches down to grab a mackerel, curling as he brings it to the appendages pouring from beneath his hood. You watch carefully as the fish disappears, and wonder if your dream was accurate about the mouth he hides under his hood.
You take a deep breath and turn from him, gripping your badge tighter and exiting the cell as you latch the door shut with a loud clunk.
The next time you’re in that awful fridge that reeks of postmortem and cheap seafood, you add two extra mackerel into the yellow bucket with the jagged broken edges.
When he counts the fish that land at his feet during your next feeding, his tone is still gruff, but softer, “Thank you.”
He leaves it without a witty remark. He caught you off guard again, shown by the slowing in your steps. You didn’t turn back to him this time, but you wanted to believe that he was genuinely appreciative of your kindness. Even if it was just enough not to make an attempt to get under your skin this time.
Your dreams have only become more vivid. You can hear the clunk of the lock on the heavy metal door, the alarm that blares identical to reality. You’ll be having a typical day at work, fully immersed in dry research and black tentacles will emerge from every entrance, every crevice. Holding you still and swallowing you up.
It’s getting difficult to differentiate the events in the dreams to those in real life. It takes hours to reorient yourself enough to fall back asleep.
Circles develop around your eyes from the lack of rest. Your productivity had come to a halt, your thoughts and research now surrounding the creature you feed.
He refrains from making comments at you, now that you’re feeding him enough. The next few visits he doesn’t say anything, the two of you sharing the silence. You’re not sure, but you think you have come to an understanding. You feed him a little extra, and in return he doesn’t say anything about the long stares. Not even a snide remark as you leave.
“What are you?” You finally ask during a feeding, curiously eyeing the tentacles delivering a fish to his obscured mouth.
He takes a moment to consider it, or maybe he takes a moment to swallow the mackerel.
“I am what I am, same as you.”
You look down, a little ashamed at your question. Maybe you have been too judgmental. He’s displayed his intelligence from the start, he’s obviously much more than just an it or a creature.
He was just a being who never asked to be created, same as you. His potential locked away in enemy care, his conscious trapped between these four walls, restricted from moving.
“I’m sorry.” You say, standing tall with your brows pinched and eyes looking up to meet his intimidating gaze.
“For what?” He asks after considering it for a moment, voice holding a slight edge.
“That you’re here.”
You pause before continuing, “That you were made for what you were made for. That you never got a chance to just be.”
His eyes watch you carefully, narrowing underneath his hood. A tentacle curls in your direction while your eyes are trained carefully on him, and you can’t help the shake of your hands as you get a closer look at his slick tentacle.
“I’m sorry you’re here too.” He says, and you’re not sure how to take it. You nod your head anyway, giving him the benefit of the doubt.
“Me too.” Your voice is strained with remorse, as if you’re personally responsible for holding him hostage. “I’m not like them.” You say, desperate for him to believe you, “I’m just a biologist, I’m meant to answer questions about DNA and nature. I didn’t- it just got out of hand.”
He studies you carefully, his muscles tensing underneath his restraints. “But you help them.” He says, dangerously and definitive.
“No! I- well, yes.” You take a deep breath, closing your eyes as you did, “This is just a job.”
You look back to him. Could you even say it’s just a job anymore? When you’re assisting and encouraging the creation of beings like him? Forced into this world without regard of their wants, made for a purpose to kill and destroy and equipped with consciousness, without given the chance to discover themselves. Destined to a fate of being slain, captured, terrorized, experimented on, or worse.
You close your eyes again, “No, I didn’t mean-“ Your moral compass is spinning now, and you don’t feel capable enough to articulate your feelings on the matter. So instead you just look at him, eyes begging for him to give you a little grace.
He takes a deep breath and you can’t help but watch his chest rise and fall, tentacles wriggling idly behind him. He doesn’t speak, just studies you, those intense eyes boring into you.
“Do you have a name?” You ask gently.
The tentacles on his back curl, his menacing frame shrinking a bit.
He hesitates before speaking.
“Konig.”
“Konig,” You repeat. You give him your name before asking, “Do you need anything?”
He looks down his hood at you, tentacles itching with curiosity. “Water.”
You give a slow nod and gesture to the cell door behind you, “Yeah, I can, yeah.”
You go through the process of opening his cell door, sneaking the bucket into the nearest bathroom and filling it as high as you can with water, but it’s awkward with the sink’s base in the way. The bucket is a lot heavier when it’s filled and you have to waddle on your way back.
Back in the cell, water sloshes out of the bucket as you use your body to hold open the heavy cell door. You hover the bucket a few inches from the ground, the handle straining under the weight as you waddle it up just before the red tape and set it down. You look at him, slightly out of breath with your hands on your hips.
“Now - you can have this, but-“ You take a hand off your hip to point at him, pausing to take a tired breath, “You have to promise me you won’t throw it at me.”
His tentacles curl again, his hood tilting down. “I promise.”
You look hesitantly down at the red tape, kneeling behind the bucket and using your weight to slide it across the floor and over the boundary. He watches you carefully, studying the way your body moved as you kneel before him. As you work for him.
Once the bucket is over the barrier you stand and hesitantly take a step back, bracing yourself in case he launches this one at your head.
Instead he wraps a large tentacle around the jagged edge of the bucket, dragging it closer in order to get a better grip. You watch as two appendages work to bring it to his feet with ease. He takes turns eagerly soaking his tentacles in the water.
You’re not sure if he’s cleaning, drinking, or moisturizing, but you don’t ask. You watch as his tentacles smoothly work, picking up what remains in the bucket and dumping it over himself, letting it drip over his front and staining his pants a shade darker. He heaves a sigh of relief, his eyes closing and his glistening muscles relaxing against the restraints.
“Thank you.” He says, low and quiet. A tentacle grips the empty bucket and extends to its full reach, placing it carefully at the boundary.
After his tentacle retracts you reach for the jagged rim, scraping the bottom of the bucket along the concrete as you pull it back into the safe zone with two fingers. “Thank you.” You give a weak smile and gesture to the empty container in your hands. “I can keep bringing you water, if you continue to refrain from throwing?”
He nods, voice bordering on patronizing as his tentacles curl, “I promise.”
When you return the next day, you’ve got a new bucket and a small hose curled up and hanging off your shoulder.
You figured if he was being held prisoner, he at least deserved a full bucket of water and one that didn’t reek of dead mackerel. Konig watched as your struggle to manage to drag in both buckets while holding the heavy door open. When the door closes behind you with its noisy thud and grating alarm, you toss the fish over first, doubling back to haul the water closer. After getting it near the tape, you have to use your back and dig the heels of your feet against the concrete to slide it the rest of the way across the tape. The water sloshes onto your hair and down the back of your shirt as the bucket slides out from under your weight. You nearly fall back into his radius, but catch yourself with a nervous laugh.
You turn to get a glimpse of his tentacle as it pulls the water bucket closer. From here you get a peek at the suckers on his tentacles, each working independently as it grips around the rim and drags the bucket closer with ease. Just one of his larger appendages was stronger than your whole body. It gave you an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, but you continued to sit on the ground inches from the boundary, your legs crossed as you watch him eat and bathe.
“Thank you.” He says, and you’re unable to decipher his tone over his harsh voice.
“It’s uh, it’s no problem.” You’re memorized by the way his tentacles move, each working independently. It’s a lot of multi-tasking, you think, but it looks like it’s second nature for him, as natural to you as walking and talking at the same time.
“I’m sorry.” He says, in between bites.
“For what?” You ask, head tilting to the side.
“For throwing the bucket at you.” He keeps his gaze to his meal, “Your first day.”
You’re caught off guard by his apology. You hadn’t expected to see self-reflection and regret from him.
You shrug, “I get it. I mean, imprisoned by enemies of war? Restrained against your will? I think everyone has a right to be a little feisty in that situation.” You give another weak smile, fingers absentmindedly picking at a loose thread on your lab coat.
He huffs, wrapping around another mackerel and letting it disappear under his hood.
He lets the silence sit, but the biologist in you can’t help but analyze his diet, “You gettin’ tired of eating the same thing everyday?”
A tentacle reaches up to pick a fish bone from his teeth before flicking it casually to the floor. He considers your question carefully, a habit of his you’ve already logged.
“I’m tired of everything,” he says, and the exhaustion in his voice makes you look to the floor in shame.
Your arm crosses over your chest, thumb anxiously running over your opposing bicep, “How long have you been here?”
“I’ve lost count.” He says.
You wonder if he actually wants to be in conversation with you, or if any stimulation is a better alternative to staring at these four walls, alone with nothing but his own thoughts.
You take another deep breath, accustomed to the overwhelming smell of fish by now.
You’re not sure what to say to him. No words could offer someone in his situation comfort. Instead you watch as he finishes his meal and simultaneously bathes his appendages. It’s oddly alluring, how he moves. You wonder just how many things he’s capable of doing at once. Such a being must be very efficient.
He doesn’t seem to mind your company or curious stares. If he does, he certainly doesn’t voice them. You think he must be used to staring by now, and you wonder if you’re no better than the rest.
When you return the next day, you’ve brought a door jam. You’ve got too many things in your arms to carry in to be able to manage the door all at once. Konig watches from his restrained position as your cluttered silhouette stumbled into the cell. You set the buckets down with a thud, letting the extra bags roll off your shoulders. You have to huff, the trek down the hall weighed down supplies stealing your breath from you. Once you’ve removed the door jammer, silencing the annoying alarm and leaving you both with privacy, you return to his meal.
“I brought you some stuff.” You say as you shake the food bucket before tossing the contents in his direction. Various seafoods you could scrounge up in the fridge scatter to the floor. Shrimp, clams, oysters, a few different species of fish. Whatever seafood hadn’t turned rotten in the walk-in fridge.
His tentacles wriggle and reach out, suckers gripping to the food before him as he brings it to his mouth.
You’re not sure, but by the way his tentacles are wiggling you think you’ve won at least a few brownie points.
You turn from him to walk the bucket of water to the boundary, letting it dangle between your legs in an awkward waddle.
“I brought something else, too.” You say with a hint of hesitance, straining a bit as you set the bucket on the concrete.
His tentacles curl in… anticipation? Curiosity? Hatred? You’re not sure, but you’ve been trying to piece together his body language back in your lab for quite some time.
He doesn’t say anything, so once you’ve got the water bucket over the boundary, you cross back to the discarded bag and rummage through it.
You reveal a small black box, setting your bag down as you extend the antennae.
“A radio.” You say with a sheepish smile. He doesn’t say anything and you look to your gift with uncertainty, “I just thought - well y’know, I wouldn’t want to be trapped with my own thoughts. Everyone deserves some sort of distraction, yeah?” You say, kneeling on the floor as you set the it into his radius.
His glowing eyes stare down the present, and you’re not sure what he’s thinking. “Not a music guy?” You ask tentatively, a hand finding the back of your neck.
A tentacle slowly extends in your direction, carefully wrapping the radio in its grip. He brings it to his face, examining it with his glowing eyes. He sets it down carefully, and while he doesn’t say anything, you’ll take it as a win that he didn’t immediately fling it into the wall, shattering it to a thousand pieces.
You stare down at the floor for awhile, the only sound filling the room is his slick tentacles tending to his meal and bath, clam shells clattering to the ground as he quickly works the meat from them.
“Thank you.” He says, in between bites. It comes out low and vulnerable, as if the words were foreign to him, or possibly held down by the weight of things unsaid. Maybe it’s because he’s having to be kind to a captor, forced to be cordial to someone holding him prisoner here - and for what? Meeting his basic nutritional requirements?
He could be playing the long con, hiding his deep hatred for you so he can lure you into trusting him. You’ll end up like the ones before you, destined to the fate of a sudden and unfortunate accident.
Your stomach turns at your predicament. You could be educating the future about the miracle that is the powerhouse of the cell, but no, you just had to take the government research job, flashy paycheck and hopes of changing the world.
He tenses for a moment, tentacles stilling except for one that loops up underneath his hood, picking something from his teeth. He holds it in front of his eyes to get a better look at his find.
His gaze flicks to you, another undecipherable stare that sends a chill up your spine. You watch with bated breath as his gaze returns to the item in his grip, tentacle moving in your direction before carefully placing it at the boundary. You watch as his appendage curls like a snake to gently nudge it in your direction. Like a marble it rolls to you, over the red tape and bouncing off your shoe. Shaking hands stop its slowing roll before you pick it up between your fingers.
A pearl, from one of the oysters you’d given him. It’s uneven, not a perfect sphere, but its texture is still smooth in your fingers. You wipe the spit and oyster remains on your lab coat before letting the pearl rest in your palm, tilting it in the light to get a better look at it. It’s a purplish gray, iridescent colors shifting as you move it.
“How neat.” You say, tone that of an interested biologist, “Poor guy must of had a splinter.”
Once you get a good look at it, you set the small treasure back across the tape to return it to him, but he stops you.
“For you.” He says, definitively enough that you can’t argue.
You lips part as you look to him, stunned and wide-eyed at his gesture.
Maybe he hadn’t hated you.
You wrap your hands carefully around the pearl, bringing it close to your chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice breathy in awe.
You unwrap your hand to study it carefully in your hands, your little pearl. Cradling it as if it’s a fragile being if it’s own, not a resilient clump of calcium carbonate that survived both a life in an oyster at the bottom of the ocean and engineered predator teeth capable of cleaning the meat off a skeleton in seconds.
He watches you study your gift, the same way you had studied him with eyes wide in amazement and curiously. You don’t see his muscles relax against his restraints. He continues to eat, slowing his pace as his stare stays on you.
You hadn’t exchanged any other words during that interaction, but you think the silence that encompassed the cell was comfortable. At least on your end, you’re not sure about Konig.
He passes the empty water bucket back you, and before you gather all of your things, you tuck your precious pearl away in a pocket of your lab coat.
Back in the lab, you rolled the pearl in your fingers, wondering if Konig’s gesture had meant the same to you as it had to him.
Humans regard pearls as highly as a precious gem, but maybe to him it was no different than discarding trash, just as he had flung the fish bones that got stuck in his teeth. He may have even been demonstrating his annoyance with you.
How dare you not clean his oysters before you serve him, do you want him to choke?
Does he know the rarity of a pearl? How we string them into necklaces? Adorn ourselves with them to elevate our look? How we gift them to our loved ones?
There was so much you didn’t know about him. His mystique kept you up at night and your mind wondered with the possibilities. You were a researcher at heart, aching to get an understanding of him from the inside out. Endless analyses filled your days and black tentacles swarmed your dreams. In the hours between night and dusk you considered your own morality. You’d never met one of the biowarfare creations up close before. You didn’t realize they were capable of sentient thought. That they are truly beings of their own freewill instead of a programmed organic weapon.
You think you’ve already crossed too far over the line, that there was nothing you could do to make it right.
The next time you visit Konig, the sound of the radio floods the cell between the calls of the grating alarm. Once the door secures behind you, you can make out a talk show. The news or perhaps something educational, judging by the dry voices and even tones you hear before he turns the dial off with a tentacle, his glowing eyes giving you his full attention. You don’t say anything, but it does make your chest fill with a slight warmth to know he’s using your gift.
“I took a trip to the dock this morning,” You start as you drag the bucket of seafood to the tape, “I don’t think I’ll be able to get the smell out of my car, but it’s crab season, so, I got some. Got a tuna, too. Oh, and scallops, you eat those?”
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes narrow and his tentacles twitch and curl behind him.
“Lobster was a bit steep, but I can keep my eye out.” You say, setting the entire bucket just over the boundary. He had earned his trust with the bucket, and it was too demeaning to force him to eat his food off the filthy concrete floors.
His eager tentacles pull the bucket to his feet, digging into it to uncover your gifts. He wastes no time getting them underneath his hood, you can see his arms tense and steady beneath his restraints as his teeth sink into his meal.
You slide him the bucket of water and then stand back to observe as his slick tentacles take it from you. Simultaneously he’s able to clean multiple crabs at once, expertly working the meat out of its complex exoskeleton and leaving nothing but shell. Much faster than you’ve ever seen any octopus feed.
You think briefly to the feeders before you, wondering if their sudden and unfortunate accidents were just Konig cleaning the meat off a skeleton. You wonder if he was designed to feast on his enemies, if his diet had held space for human.
Another meal.
You look down to the space between you and the red tape. Three paces away. You casually make it four, just for good measure.
“Thank you.” He says, and it’s slowly becoming your language. The words thank you uttered a thousand different ways, each with a different meaning, weight, and inflection, neither of you fluent or able to decipher the other.
You don’t feel comfortable prodding, instead you steady your feet and watch him mesmerizingly tear apart his meal, body restrained but tentacles still fully dexterous. You wondered if he minds you watching him eat, or if he felt like a zoo animal under your watch. Your hand creeps into your pocket to nervously play with the pearl, fingers running over the smooth surface.
After he clears a few more crabs, he looks up from his meal to eye you carefully. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes, how disheveled you look.
“Tired?” He asks.
One hand stays with the pearl while the other rubs the back of your neck. “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep last night, uh, so I went to the docks early this morning.”
He flicks another shell into his pile, studying you carefully. After a few moments his tentacles outstretch welcomely, some resting against the concrete floor, “You can rest here.”
You tense under his stare, your eyes shifting hesitantly to his tentacles. “Oh, no - I just have a lot of work to do.” You eye his core for a moment before returning to his gaze, “I can sit for a little, though.”
He gives a pleased hum as you do, eyes narrowing as he watches you prop yourself against a wall on his side, leaving about three feet between you and the red tape. His gaze turns back to the seafood as he works. You observe him, resting your head against the cool concrete and staring down your nose. You can’t help but close your heavily eyelids, listening to the sound of shells snapping and being tossed to the floor.
Your fingers continue to smooth over the pearl in your pocket. It became a habit of yours, fingers finding the pearl absentmindedly, rolling it between your touch to soothe yourself.
You’re thinking about all the things you want to ask him. About his physiology, his full capabilities. About how he feels, what thoughts and emotions exist in a brain engineered for warfare. About his opinion of you, if he’s disgusted with you or if he understands that you’re both just products of a horrific environment.
Is he capable of empathy?
You couldn’t ask. Your relationship seemed so fragile and delicate as it was, so you both opt for silence.
You’re not sure how much time has passed when you open your eyes again, but he’s done his feeding and bathing, both buckets emptied and placed at the boundary in the center of the room. He’d tidied his cell, the floor cleared and the food bucket now holding his cleaned crabs, various shells, and fish bones.
His tentacles stir when your eyes meet his, and you take a sharp inhale as you rouse. You touch a hand to your heart, the other feeling for the pearl through your pocket. Your eyes find the red tape, and you’re still in your spot, propped up on the wall three feet from the boundary.
“Did I fall asleep?” You say, touching your forehead. If you had, you don’t remember having a nightmare.
His hood tilts up and he shrugs.
“How long’s it been?”
After a moment he shrugs again, tentacles working in rhythm to his movements.
Right, he wouldn’t know. You give a small nervous laugh at your foolish question, leaning forward and resting your arms on your knees.
“I should probably get going.” You say, but you don’t move from your spot, and he doesn’t wish you goodbye.
You stare at the floor on your side of the red tape. You can see his larger tentacles wriggling in the corner of your eyes, along with the glow of his stare.
Your back ached from sitting on concrete for an extended period. It made you wonder how sore Konig was, his arms having been restrained to their position bent behind his head for ages, forced into a standing position every hour of the day.
“I’ve made a huge mistake.” You say with a laugh, one in disbelief of yourself. You lay your palm flat on your forehead again. “I don’t know how it got this far, really.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing at you. He doesn’t say anything, and you continue.
“I’m just in too deep, right?” You huff, throwing your hand back down to your thigh. “I’m all torn up about this. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I’m just thinking about this nightmare of a job I’ve got myself in. You get so caught up in the paperwork and day-to-day, you forget what the end result is. I didn’t realize you were so sentient.” You give another nervous laugh, exasperated.
“Now I don’t know what to do.” A hand moves to your pocket and pulls out your pearl, holding it tightly in a closed palm by your side. “I’d try to make it right, but I don’t know how, okay? I really don’t know what the right thing to do is. I don’t know if there is a right thing to do, I think that ship has sailed.”
The right thing would have been never getting involved in this line of work, to never have learned of or aided in the creation of beings like him in the first place. But you’re both here, together, and there’s no way out.
You gnaw on your lip, looking to the ground. His eyes don’t leave you. Silence drapes over the cell as your words echo through both of you.
After the long pause he speaks, harsh voice layered with a hint of optimism, and his tentacles twitch and curl with his words.
“It’s not too late.”
You’re not able to meet his gaze, so you solemnly shake your head at the floor. You already know what he’s suggesting.
“You understand why I can’t do that, right?” You ask, soft and defeated.
He tenses under his restraints. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t push. You hope that means he understands. That he understands the risks he’s asking you to take. The threat of your employers, the threat of him, fully realized and unrestrained. That you wouldn’t stand a chance against a powerful being like him. That no matter how many gifts and thank yous are exchanged, your actions will always layered with a high probability of deceit. That trust is inherently not possible in a relationship between a prisoner and the keeper. Between a being made for killing and the target he’s designed to kill.
The silence falls over you both again.
When you finally stand to retrieve the buckets, his gaze follows you.
“Perhaps in another life, we’ll get it right.”
Your shoulders tense at his words, your pace slowing. You don’t meet his eyes as you leave to discard his scraps, the harsh alarm and clunk of the door concealing your exhausted sigh.
The next few visits, you wordlessly hand over his meals and water before sitting on your spot against the wall, resting as you wait for him to return the buckets. It feels so nice to close your eyes, and it’s hard for him to haunt your thoughts when you know exactly what he’s doing. Your subconscious has a difficult time running wild when presented face to face with reality. It’s the best rest you’ve gotten in weeks, even if the concrete hurts your back and leaves your neck stiff. You feel oddly comforted being in the presence of the only other being who understands your struggle, even if he was the heart of your conflict.
Konig doesn’t seem to mind when you doze off, at least he doesn’t complain. He may just not want to bite the hand that feeds him anything other than mackerel on the brink of decomposition. Sometimes you’re out for a few minutes, sometimes hours, not waking up until well into the evening, long after you should have left the building.
He never disturbs you, letting you rest as long as you need. Listening to the light snores you make, his gaze fixed on the rise and fall of your chest.
He can tell you’re still afraid of him, when the first thing you do as you stir is search with wide eyes for the red tape to ensure you’re still safely outside his radius. You always relax when you meet his stare, though, watching his tentacles curl as you rouse.
You always run your hand over your left coat pocket, usually at the same time you’re searching for the red tape in a panic.
He wonders if you’ve brought something to defend yourself if things go wrong for you. If your hand reaches for the outline of a weapon in your pocket, some feeble defense to soothe your fears of him.
You usually offer an embarrassed laugh or coy smile as you adjust, usually while rubbing out a knot on your back.
Sometimes, especially if you haven’t gotten a lick of sleep the night prior, you’ll readjust from your spot against the wall to the floor, curling up on the concrete and positioning your arm underneath you as a pillow. You’ll rub the sleep from your eyes when you wake, propping yourself up on your elbow to look for a watch that doesn’t exist.
Little words are exchanged. What words could be shared to offer either of you comfort? Anything he says could just be a ploy to gain your trust. Anything you say does little to aid his position as prisoner.
There’s one visit, when you stir, where your back is fully flush to the concrete and you get a view of the ceiling of his cell. Your eyes widen, always with a sharp inhale, as you turn over and prop yourself up to search for the red tape. It takes you too long to find it, having to press your chin to your chest to get it in your view.
You had rolled over in your sleep, bust having crossed over the boundary, forearms propping yourself up in Konig’s radius.
You freeze, eyes wide as you look to him, wondering if he was aware of the easy prey ready for the taking.
He stares at you, tentacles still wriggling, but not outstretched. He keeps them pulled close to him, unlike his usual intimidating posture.
You’re still frozen in your spot, eyes wide and locked onto him as you process.
He could have easily wrapped a tentacle around your neck and ended your life before you had even woken up. Or worse, he could have restrained you, tortured you, and held you hostage as a mean to earn his freedom.
But he didn’t.
He’d left you undisturbed while you rested, as he always does.
Your heartbeat has made its way to your ears, muffling the sounds of hitched breaths escaping your parted lips. You two haven’t broken eye contact as you lay paralyzed on the floor.
He had spared your life, that was clear to you. He had resisted the urge to effortlessly snap your neck or get revenge on you for assisting in holding him prisoner.
You slowly sit up, locked on to his gaze.
Another trick to gain for your trust, you wonder. Spare your life now and stab you in the back later.
You slowly scoot outside his radius, not turning your back on him as you hesitantly stand and clear your throat.
Once you’re outside of his reach, you feel for the pearl through your pocket, but you can’t find the telling bump through the fabric of your lab coat. You reach into your pocket, finally taking your eyes off Konig’s glowing stare. Your fingers come up empty and you look to the floor where you had fallen asleep, and your eyes find it a few paces from the boundary.
When Konig sees what you had been hiding in your pocket all this time, and your hesitance to step back over the red tape, a tentacle carefully reaches to pick up your pearl. Instead of nudging the pearl back over to the tape and letting it roll to you as he did the first time, he flips his tentacles over so it’s sucker-up, unfurling it to his maximum length to present the pearl to you at waist height.
You can’t help the way your brows retract and your mouth parts as you study his slick appendage. You’ve never gotten this close of a look at his tentacles before. Each sucker wriggles independently, just as his tentacles did. You wonder if it’s autonomous to him, or if he has control over each one. Your shoes scrape the concrete as you shuffle nervously to the boundary, toes pressed up on the red tape to take the pearl from him. He could easily wrap his appendage around your wrist and pull you fully into his reach, just as he does with the buckets. Your fingers tremble as you reach for your possession, the involuntary shaking causes you to brush against his tentacle, leaving behind a clear slick on both you and your pearl.
His appendage retracts once you’ve taken it from him. A heat creeps up your cheeks, embarrassed that you’ve been caught hanging onto his gift like this. Carrying it around with you and visibly worried when you lose it.
If he had been simply discarding his trash instead of giving you a gift, unaware of the value of such an item, he probably thinks it’s strange of you to continue carrying it around.
He doesn’t voice his thoughts if he has any, just watched quietly as you tuck the pearl back into your pocket, smoothing over it once it’s secured.
“Thank you.” You say sheepishly, your eyes still wide as you digest his actions and lack there of. You’re not sure if you’re thanking him for returning your belonging or for refraining from killing you.
You have trouble making eye contact with him, eyes glued to the floor.
You’re thinking that maybe there might be some trust between you two after all. You’re thinking about the new details you noticed on his tentacles from your close view that you’ll surely record later. About gifts and thank yous and curious states and defined muscles engineered to kill. About how you can only get rest when you sleep under his watch. About what’s hidden under that hood. About how he didn’t kill you when given the opportunity like you had suspected he would.
You think about what he’s thinking.
Then you look to the buckets, still at his feet and not emptied and placed back at the boundary like your usual routine follows. Your brows furrow as you meet his glowing eyes.
Your chest rises and falls as you study him.
“I should probably get going.” You say, nodding to the buckets in an attempt to get him to pass them back over to you.
His tentacles curl and writhe at your statement, and his head tilts upwards. He lets your words hang in the air before he responds.
“Not finished.” He says evenly.
Your brow quirks at the unusual occurrence. It’s not like him to leave a meal unfinished, to stray from the routine.
You give him the benefit of the doubt, choosing to remain optimistic about your new step in trust, “I’ll come by for it later, then.”
You turn on your feet to leave, hands reaching for the lanyard of your badge like muscle memory. You swipe for it a few times, fingers coming up empty. Your chin meets sternum as you look down to confirm its absence, patting pockets and swiveling on your feet to look to the floor where you had lost your pearl.
You don’t see it, so you eye Konig, stare narrowed.
Time slowed as a tentacle, previously obscured behind his back, unfurls and stretches far above his head. The end of his appendage loops around your lanyard, light reflecting off the lamination of your ID as it rotates in the air. He dangles it above you both tauntingly.
Your gaze switches between Konig’s stare and the badge. It feels as if the air has been sucked out of the room. You don’t want to believe it - you’re in denial waiting for him to pass it back to you just as he did the pearl. He doesn’t, keeping your badge far on his side of the boundary a few feet above his head, playing keep-away with your freedom.
You shift in your spot and swallow.
“Yeah?” You ask, voice breathy but with an edge. You need him to verbally confirm he was stabbing you in the back, hoping he says anything to clear up the misunderstanding.
The tentacle holding the badge shakes, and the rest of his appendages outstretch, just as he had when you approached his cell the first time.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” He says definitively, a few of his tentacles curling inwards with his words.
You rub your lips together and nod your head, digesting your predicament. He must have worked the badge off your neck when you rolled into his reach, delicately enough not to wake you.
You’re not scared, surprisingly, not afraid that you’re locked in here with him, most likely on a path to a sudden and unfortunate accident.
You’re more shocked at his betrayal, though you understand you probably shouldn’t have been. You’d been predicting this outcome from the beginning, that he was just hedging his bets and getting on your good side until you let your guard down. It appears your heart still bleeds regardless of your logical analysis, and you can’t help the lump that forms in your throat. You really had wanted to believe you two had an unspoken friendship, that regardless of the circumstances, you had his trust. You felt naive that some part of you had fallen for it. That you had invested enough of yourself to him to be hurt by his betrayal.
Your face burns as tears well in your eyes. You shift in your spot, sure the pain is obvious on your features.
“Don’t do that.” He pleads, tone a lot softer than his words. A few empty tentacles reach in your direction to offer comfort.
You don’t take it, your hand covering your mouth as you screw your eyes shut, tears escaping down your cheeks. You sink to your knees in defeat, almost perfectly between the middle of the cell door and your side of the red tape. All of the worry and ache and exhaustion you’ve experienced in the last few weeks involuntarily floods out of you in broken sobs.
Konig’s tentacles writhe as he watches you cry.
After a few moments, you sniff, wiping snot and tears from your nose with your coat sleeve, “Just give it back, please.” You plead at a whisper, stare desperate, “We can pretend this never happened, it can go back to how it was before.” You look up at him, face red and eyes brimmed with tears, “Please.”
It takes him a moment to consider your proposition. He lowered the tentacle holding your badge, but keeps it close to him. His words come out strained.
“You understand why I can’t do that, right?”
A loud sob escapes you at having your words thrown back at you. Without much other choice, you bury your face into your knees.
You cry for the better part of an hour, muffling your sobs into your thighs, curled up in a ball on the concrete.
When you’ve finally regained some composure, you wipe your face for the final time with a sniff.
When you speak again, your voice is forceful but nasally from the congestion of crying. Your head cocks back and you put your palm flush to the concrete, leaning back almost casually to support yourself.
“So what’s the plan?”
He tilts his head at you, and you don’t wait for him to answer before you continue.
“I don’t get the badge until I let you out, right? We both wait, you waiting for me to give in to starvation, and me waiting for someone to come to my rescue before it gets to that point - is that it?” It’s obvious you’re angry with him, words dripping with malice.
He huffs, muscles tensing against his restraints. His eyes narrow at you, tentacles outstretching to fill the space of his cell. You’ve grown accustomed to his bluffing behavioral response and it does little to intimidate you now.
“It doesn’t have to be this way.” He says, appendages curling inwards. “We can work together.”
You give your own huff, breaking eye contact with him. “It’s a little late for that.”
“I tried.” He said firmly, “I tried to do it the right way.”
You think back to your rebuff of his first proposal and groan.
“What choice did I have?” He asks, leaning against his restraints, ropes digging into his arms as the badge lowered to his side, “You wouldn’t have done the same if you were me?”
Your lips purse as you mull it over. Your eyes are still locked on to the floor and another frustrated groan leaves you. You didn’t want to put yourself in his shoes, you just wanted to be mad.
You do what you can to be spiteful with your limited resources, lying to the floor with your back facing him. Your arm is propped under you and your legs curled up. You stare at the cell door, brows pinched as you fume.
Rationally, you know you won’t last long. That you just cried all the hydration out of your body and haven’t been feeding yourself well in the past few weeks, including today. Meanwhile Konig’s been consistently eating full meals with your help and kept his buckets of food and water unemptied and close for him to ration over the coming days. You’re not in the best shape mentally, either, compared to Konig who has absolutely nothing to lose in his position. Even if soldiers bust down the cell door and filled him with lead, would it really be a worse fate than locked and bound in these four concrete walls?
Regardless of your long lists of disadvantages, you’re too upset with him to even consider giving into his demands at the moment.
You stew for hours.
You’ll occasionally adjust in your spot, sitting up to stretch the ache in your muscles before switching to lay on your other side, never facing Konig or even so much as sneaking a glance in his direction. You’re too upset with him to look at him.
Your mind is swirling, thoughts interject thoughts, throwing you new details to fuss over. You’re angry that he stole from you, that he took advantage of your vulnerability, the restlessness he was responsible for. You’re angry that he trapped you in here, imprisoned you even though he knows how awful it feels to be a prisoner. You’re angry that he can stomach sitting back and watching you starve and dehydrate yourself out of spite. You’re angry that he had plotted against you, made you out to be the fool, even if you’d suspected he had been doing so this whole time.
Mostly you’re just upset that you got your hopes up.
Instead of thank yous, your new shared language becomes silence.
You wonder if he can tell the difference. Between the solemn silence, the seething silence, the desolate silence. The thoughtless silences that come after running your mind in circles enough to physically exhaust yourself. The silence that falls on you when you finally shut your eyes, slipping into the comforting arms of unconsciousness.
You wake with a sharp inhale, desperately searching for your precious red tape. It takes you a moment, when you stir, to remember the events of yesterday. Or today, you’re not sure how long you were asleep and you have no way to tell the time.
You had already locked eyes with Konig. His tentacles wriggled and stretched when you looked at him for the first time since his betrayal, but when you see your damned badge on his side of the boundary it comes flooding back to you. An audible groan leaves you as you roll back over to face the wall.
You try to fall back asleep, desperate to escape from reality, but the dryness in your mouth is impossible to ignore.
Your mouth is begging for moisture and your joints are stiff. A dehydration headache had settled behind your eyebrows.
You need water.
You have two options.
Beg Konig to share his water bucket, or let Konig free and you’re free to get your own.
You decide you’ll just rot on the floor, instead.
You close your eyes and try to ignore the sandpaper feeling in your mouth enough to lull yourself back to sleep. You’re mulling over your options for water, and a detail you can’t believe you’d missed makes you sit up to look at Konig for the first time intentionally. Your head had swiveled around quickly, brows lowered in offense, “How do you expect me to get you out of here without giving me my badge back?”
He lets your question hang as his glowing eyes meet yours. His stare is intense, but yours doesn’t falter.
“I asked you a question, Konig. I don’t have anything to free you with. I know you don’t have anything to free yourself with.”
Your words are sharp and dangerous.
“So what’s the plan? You’ll have to give me my badge back to get something to cut you free.”
He looks to the pocket that held your pearl. His plan had one flaw - that he had not accounted for the outline in your pocket you’d reached for whenever you stirred being anything other than a weapon. He was sure you had brought something to defend yourself with if he had attacked you. Something that you could use to cut his restraints once you gave in to your starvation. He miscalculated the amount of trust you’d placed in him and it should have become obvious to him the moment you had looked to the pearl after finding your pockets empty.
He eyes the mounts that hold his restraints, two on the floor to his left and right and one in the ceiling directly above his head, all out of his reach.
“You’ll untie it at the base.” He says definitively.
Your teeth grit as you look to the ceiling, “How do you expect me to get-“ You cut yourself off when you realize what he’s suggesting, “No! No.”
His head tilts down but his stare says on you.
“No. Too far.”
A few of his tentacles curl, “I don’t want to watch you starve.”
“Then give me my badge back, Konig!”
His body tenses at the way you say his name. Coated in wrath and following a harsh demand. Your aggressive volume and fists clenching by your sides trigger his bluff behavior, tentacles stretching to fill the space of his cell.
He says nothing, and your eyes dart around his features before you let out a huff, turning away from him again.
You regretted saying anything to him. You’d wished you’d just swallowed your realization a little longer to mull it over before your compulsive outburst.
You hadn’t had a chance to consider that he would offer to give you a lift. You had been so focused on avoiding his reach that the thought of him wrapping around you and lifting you up in a tentacle was foreign to you. You’re not sure you would have thought of it even if you had taken time to consider it. The idea of getting close to him once he was cut free from his restraints was nerve wracking enough, let alone trusting him enough to hold you steady a story in the air as you free him.
You manage to sit with your spite and dehydration for a few more hours, even sneaking in short nap before you break.
You sit up slowly, head pounding as you prop yourself up with a palm flush to the concrete. You look at him, eyes pleading.
“Konig,” You say, so much softer than the last time you said his name, “I need water.”
His tentacles twitch, but he says nothing, glowing eyes staring you down.
“Please, Konig.” You say, voice broken.
He doesn’t respond, and you can’t help but sob, no tears escaping your dry tear ducts.
Your voice raises in desperation.
“Konig, don’t do this to me!”
He closes his eyes, the glow of his stare disappearing behind black eyelids. A tentacle reaches down to turn on his radio, and he dials the volume up to drown out your pleads.
A heartbroken expression spreads on your features. How could he do this to you? How could he put you in this position, after everything?
Your eye catches the water bucket by his side.
He doesn’t want to give it to you?
He thinks he can make you beg and plead for your lifeblood?
Fine.
You’ll just get the damn water yourself.
Your brows pinch as you check on Konig, who still has his eyes closed to rid the visual of your crying.
Your palms have already sprung yourself forward before your feet catch up to you, having to straighten your upper half as your shoes scrambled for concrete. After light fumbling you quickly pass over the red tape, beelining for the water bucket. You’re running so fast you overshoot, having to extend your leg to skid the sole of your shoe on the floor to slow yourself. Your body lowers to the ground with your extended leg as fingers wrap around the handle of the bucket. You’d looked to Konig, whose glowing eyes had snapped open and darted straight to you at the sound of your shoe skidding and plastic scraping against the concrete as you struggled with the bucket.
You catch a glimpse of his tentacles writhing furiously before starting your dash back to safety. You’re reminded of the heavy weight of the water bucket, stumbling over yourself as you struggle to manage both its heft and your panic at the same time. You’re inches from safety when a tentacle shoots out and loops around your ankle, pulling your leg out from under you when you go to take your final leap over the red tape. Your palms extend to brace the concrete, and while you manage to narrowly avoid hitting your head, you hear an internal rip that makes your stomach turn and a blinding hot pain bracelets around your wrist, stunning you. The bucket had crashed to the ground on its side, water spilling to the floor and soaking your clothes.
“No!” You grit, but you don’t have time to think about the water or your wrist because Konig starts to drag you backwards through the puddle and into the air with the tentacle wrapped firmly around your ankle.
A gasp escapes you and fingers desperately scratch at wet concrete until you’re fully airborne, hanging upside down and clawing for the ground.
You curl up in an attempt to rip his firm grip off your ankle, but your core isn’t strong enough to reach, so you end up just wriggling in his grasp like a fish out of water.
Another meal.
You hear the radio turn off, and your eyes find the ground, partially curtained by the tail of your lab coat. Your soaked shirt has slipped down, revealing your core. Water drips from your soaked clothes and splash onto the concrete. You can tell the ground is a long fall away and when you give up reaching for your ankle, your hands stretch out towards the ground and preemptively brace your fall, injured wrist pulsing as you follow your instincts. Involuntarily squeals are leaving your parted lips as he stills, dangling you so your body is above both of your heads and you’re eye to eye with him as you hang.
You look at him with fear swelling in your eyes. You’ve never seen him up close before like this, even if upside down. You’re inches from the hood that covers his face, glowing eyes reflecting off yours. You still, free limbs falling in line with gravity as you stare into his narrowed gaze with wide eyes. Your headache is severely exacerbated by hanging upside down, feeling your own pulse in your head as the blood drains to it.
When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous, and he gives you a slight shake with his tentacle for emphasis.
“I think it’s time for you to let me out.”
His growled yet arrogant words send a chill up your spine. Reminded you the being you’ve come to feel so much for was still a monster.
He’s left no room for argument. He’s given you plenty of chances to let you make the choice yourself, and yet you resisted. You had opted for the hard way, and you had left him no choice.
Release him, or suffer a sudden and unfortunate accident.
“Okay! Okay!” You squeak out with a slight flail, hoping it pleases him enough to prevent him from slamming you as hard as he can into the concrete.
You still again, slowly holding your hands up, palms showing. You calmly let out one more, “Okay.”
His head tilts backwards slightly, silently keeping your stare.
“Can I at least be upside-right? Please?” You squeak out, heart racing intensely enough you can hear it in your ears.
He lets you dangle for a few more moments before a tentacle curls around your waist. Instead of using the end of his tentacle like the one around your ankle, he had secured around your bare waist with the middle part of another appendage, the thicker grip giving him a sturdier hold on you. You think this must what it be like to be in the hold of a boa constrictor, trapping you and reminding you of its strength but not yet squeezing the breath from you.
He slowly flips you upside right, but keeps your flushed face inches from his. Your feet are only a few feet from the floor now, but you don’t bother trying to remove the tentacle on your waist. You’re well aware of his strength and you can feel his grip threatening to tighten around you. You won’t stand a chance against even one of his appendages, let alone all the others at attention behind him.
He takes his time looking you over, watching your eyes flick nervously between him, the tentacle firmly coiled around your waist, and the floor beneath you. Your mouth was stretched in fear and unease, breath hitched. You weren’t flailing anymore, but your feet did still mindlessly search for foundation and your hands had gripped on to his slick tentacle in an attempt to steady yourself.
He gives a huff before moving you through the air again. He goes slow, extending you out to the wall to his right. He has to pass you off to the end of another tentacle in order to use his full reach. You can’t help but feel felt up as he wraps and curls around you to keep you steady in the air.
He has to lay you almost diagonally with your head tilted towards the floor to get you close enough to the mount that tied off his binds. He uses some extra appendages to secure around your lower thighs and hips.
You let out a few breathy expletives as he adjusts you, grabbing and moving you against your will through the air.
You had to reach your arms out in a full extend, and even then the cool metal of the mount is just barely grazing your fingertips.
You wriggle in his grip, swiping at the post, grunting as you do so. He does his best to use the very end of his appendages to hold you in order to get you closer.
“Got it.” You say breathily as your hand grabs the mount. You give a light huff as you try and pull yourself closer, but Konig is extended his full range and instead you yank against his tentacles.
The knot of his ropes are tight around the loops of the metal post. You’re not sure if you’ll even be able to untie them with just your fingernails, but you don’t think Konig will accept an excuse.
He’s not hurting you, but his grip is definitively still tight, putting an uncomfortable pressure on your ribs. Had your clothes not already been soaked with water he would have left stains on your lab coat from the slick of his tentacles.
Your hands shake violently as you fuss with the knot. You’re forced to stretch, already sore muscles aching as you overextend them. Involuntary grunts escape through your gritted teeth as you dig at the knot, feet kicking as if you’re trying to swim closer to it. You try for minutes, but the knot is way too tight for you to even get a fingernail into. It doesn’t help that you’re being suspended, squished, and held at an angle, and your hands are soaked with water and Konig’s slick. You think your wrist is most definitely sprained, possibly broken, judging by the sharp decline in dexterity and searing pain that’s impossible to ignore as you fidget with the ropes.
The panic bubbles quickly, fingers scratching desperately at all of the loops of rope. You’re pleading under your breath for one of them to loosen, loosen just enough you can slip a finger in - but it doesn’t budge. One of your nails snap as you force it against a crease in the taught knot.
You’re guessing every time Konig has ever pulled against or leaned on the restraints it only forced the knot tighter, and with how long he’s been in this cell the rope has fused together with friction and time.
The panic isn’t on your side, causing you to thrash at the ropes and undo whatever insignificant progress you had made. Your whines would be matched with tears of irritation and fear if you had any water left in you.
“Konig?” You sob, “I can’t do it! I’m trying, really - the knot’s too tight!” You give the knot another frustrated claw with your broken nail, “I need a knife, scissors, something!”
You sigh and go limp, arms and top half dangling as his tentacles support you.
“Just kill me,” You whisper through your dry throat, eyes screwed shut and voice cracking.
You pause, and when you speak again your voice is quiet in defeat, but still holds an edge of malice, “Just do it and get it over with, hopefully the next feeder will be smart enough to bring a weapon.”
You’re still facing the wall, but you can feel his tentacles tense around your middle and lower limbs.
You both still, aside from the involuntarily and uneven heaving of your chest as you sob and wait for death.
All the appendages wrapped around you pull you closer to him. Two additional tentacles move to coil around your upper arms, and he tilts you so you’re upright instead of diagonal. You stay limp, feet and sprained wrist dangling. You let him move your body like a marionette, with your head tilted all the way forward and hair obscuring parts of your face.
He stops when you’re right in front of him again, you would be eye to eye if your chin hadn’t been pressed to your chest, feet only a few feet from the ground.
He holds you steady.
Considering how he wants to kill you, probably. Drag it out a little perhaps? Get a little torture in before he does it maybe?
Maybe your kindness will have not been for nothing, maybe he’s thinking about all the food and gifts and thank yous and he’ll repay you by making it quick. One swift snap of the neck or extra hard hit to the concrete, maybe.
He doesn’t do either.
He slowly lowers you to the ground. When your feet touch the floor and they don’t move to support your weight, he lifts you up an inch and comes in a second time at an angle, gently lying you on the ground so you’re flush with the concrete. His tentacles gently release from you and retract to his sides. Your badge gets placed gently on your stomach, and then all of his tentacles are off of you.
You don’t rush for the badge or the exit. You had already given up, and you weren’t about to give up on giving up, too. Your ass backwards way of maintaining some scrap of dignity.
You continue to lay limp on the floor, ignoring the badge he’d returned to you and keeping your eyes closed, tearlessly crying.
You’re not sure how long you lay on the floor, waiting for him to change his mind and kill you.
You think maybe he wants a challenge, maybe he likes a hunt. Or maybe he just wants to look you in the eyes while he does it.
So once your sobs subside you slowly sit up, your red and puffy eyes staring into his glowing eyes. His whole body is tensed, but he keeps all of his appendages close to him as they curl and twist alluringly.
You’re slouched as you stand, arms hung in front of you before you shift sloppily on your shoes, badge hitting the floor as it falls from your stomach.
You cock your head back to look at him and lick your chapped lips before giving a broken hum. You hold your arms out on either of your sides, as if inviting him to a fight, but you’re weak from dehydration, starvation, and your injury, so your movements are slowed.
You don’t speak, but your face reads Come on, kill me! What are you waiting for?!
He just stares at you, a look you’re unable to decipher from under his hood. His tentacles are writhing, but he keeps them close to his body, even if your stance is aggressive.
You let out a huff and roll your eyes, breaking the stare off. You walk over to his food bucket and empty out its contents onto the floor before stepping over to water bucket, shoes splashing in the puddle it sat in. You stack both buckets so you can carry them with one hand, before doubling back and swiping your badge off the floor with your broken nail, not so much as looking at Konig before you exit the cell.
Your first stop is to the bathroom, where you shed your lab coat, its thick fabric still wet.
You bend your aching muscles to awkwardly crane your head underneath the faucet, gulping down the streaming water. The sweet, precious water. Bathroom sink tap water has never tasted so good.
You’re drinking so fast you don’t even stop for breath. When you pull away, chin dripping and face puffy, you’re gasping for air. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror behind the sink you had drank from.
Your hair was disheveled from being dragged and hung in the air, face puffy and swollen from crying, and skin showing your dehydration. Clothes soaked from the water bucket and Konig’s slick, face still dripping as you breathe deep.
You take a few more sips from the sink for good measure before turning the faucet off with force. You drape your coat over your injured arm and grab the buckets with the other before you march out of the bathroom and straight to your supervisor’s office.
Oh, the speech you were going to give him was going to be therapeutic. You are planning on letting him have it, telling him to post your position because you’re done, and then you’re going to tell him where he can shove his buckets.
You open his door hard enough the doorknob slams into the wall and bounces back with a shake, but his office is empty, and you let out another groan at the discovery through gritted teeth.
You go back to the lab, gather your things and leave, regardless of the time. You’re caught off guard when you get to the nearest window and see the dark sky. Nighttime.
You cry the entire ride home, not yet ready to process the events but stuck with an overwhelming feeling of dread and exhaustion in the pit of your stomach.
Your wrist was red and swollen and the movements of your steering wheel turned the pain to a cruel pulsing throb.
Once back in your home, you think about a list of things to do to take care of yourself, but opt for wrapping your wrist and popping a few over-the-counter pain relief pills while finishing a bottle of water at the same time. You crawl into bed and pass out without even getting under the covers.
—————————————————————-
You hadn’t set an alarm, so you wake to a tentacle-ridden nightmare with a sharp gasp. You jolt to a sit, wincing when you feel the searing hot pain that bracelets around the sprained wrist you’d used to support yourself.
You get your weight off of it, holding your wrapped arm in front of your face. It triggers the memories of Konig tripping you and your wrist hitting the concrete. Of him dragging you across the concrete floor by your ankle. Holding you prisoner. Starving you. Making you cry. Betraying you.
Threatening your life and then sparing it.
Had it all just been another one of his bluffs? Had he known from the beginning he wouldn’t be able to follow through with his plan, or did he change his mind about killing you once you’d pathetically given up, going limp in his tentacles?
When had he changed his mind?
Somewhere between the first day when he threw that bucket at your head and the moment he’d laid your limp body down on the ground he had changed his mind about killing you, that you knew.
He wasn’t just a mindless programmed weapon, he was capable of some amount mercy. Control.
Unless he knew that if he had killed you, he wouldn’t have been able to get his varied meals and water buckets. Maybe he had kept you alive as just another means to an end.
But he had kept you alive, that was understood.
You close your eyes, falling back onto your mattress. You’d been thinking about Konig non-stop these past few weeks. Obsessing, even. It was exhausting, him and you and both of your mortalities and the constant threat haunting you in and out of your dreams.
You decided you weren’t going to think about him now, that for the sake of your own sanity you needed to focus on yourself.
You treat yourself to a full breakfast for the first time in awhile, topping it off with more pain reliever and water. A long shower eases your aching muscles, but the one-handedness makes it awkward to bathe yourself.
You put on loungewear after you towel off and reapply your wrist wrap, in need of the extra comfort. You leave your dirty lab coat at home before you head back to the office, still in your lounge clothes. You won’t be there long, you decide. You’re going to tell your supervisor what happened, chew him out a little bit, and then let him know he’ll need someone to feed Konig while you take time off to heal and process.
You stop by the lab to pick up your buckets before heading straight to your supervisors office.
You open his office door without knocking and when his eyes meet yours his brows furrow as he gives your clothes a scan.
“I’m going to need some time off,” You say firmly, gesturing to your wrapped arm.
“What happened?” He says, brow quirking.
You laugh, “What happened? What happened?” You use your uninjured hand to shove the buckets to the ground forcefully, your tone dangerous, “Is that I accepted this shitty job offer in the first place. What were you thinking?”
He’s sweating now, eyes wide with shock as you raise your voice to him.
You continue, “You saddled me with feeding him. You gambled with my life.” Your tone goes from angry to quiet and stern, “He almost killed me.” Your gaze flicks to between each of his nervous eyes.
He sputters, “What- What do you mean? What happened?”
“He stole my badge and trapped me in that cell with him! He starved me! NONE of you came for me, NONE of you checked on me.” Your animated tone lowers to one of cold malice, “You saddled me with a deadly job and then left me to die. Not a single reinforcement.”
“How did he steal your badge?” He asks, face stretched in confusion.
You hesitate, “I-“ You cut yourself off. You can’t tell him you fell asleep in there. Because then you’d have to tell him about how you had fallen asleep waiting for him to empty his bucket. The bucket he wasn’t supposed to have. The loitering you were instructed not to do. The conversations you were forbidden from having. The unauthorized tape crossing.
“It doesn’t matter! I’m-“ You’re frazzled now, face reddening, “I’m leaving! Just make sure someone feeds him!” You fumble for the doorknob, leaving him with a bewildered expression and two colorful buckets.
“Are you quitting?!” He yells out after you’re already down the hall.
“Yes! No! I mean - maybe! I’ll let you know!”
You take three days off to take it easy, catch up on sleep, and ice your injuries. It’s been awhile since you’ve been able to relax, just getting lost in a mindless TV show and forgetting your worries for awhile. You didn’t want to think about Konig, it was too painful, but your thoughts kept leading you to him and you had to often remind yourself that you were supposed to be taking a break from him.
After three days, you’ve managed to steady yourself enough to get back to your research. The work had piled up during your stint as a feeder and you thought your normal work would be a good distraction.
The first time your supervisor catches a glimpse of you, he does a double take through the circular glass pane of the lab’s swinging doors before he enters.
He says your name, surprised but still cheerful, “It’s good to see you! Lab coat and all.” He lowers his voice, “I, uh, I didn’t think you’d be back.”
You don’t say anything, attention still to your work.
He clears his throat before continuing, “How’s your wrist?”
“Still sprained,” You say dryly, still not turning to him.
He sputters a bit, “Hope you feel better soon, uh.” He clears his throat again, “You’ll be happy to hear that,” he trails off for a moment before continuing, “It’s being put down.”
Your eyes finally find him, darting over quickly as you set down your notes.
“What’s being put down?”
“The creature.” He says with a smile, as if he’s offering his saving grace.
“No!” Leaves you involuntarily. The wrist with the bandage finds your heart as you stand, shaking your head at your supervisor, “You can’t do that!”
His brows pinch, “What do you mean? I thought you’d be happy about this. He tried to kill you.”
“No, if he tried to kill me I’d be dead, he almost killed me, he spared me!”
Your supervisor steps closer you, holding his palms up in a weak attempt to calm you. You back away from him with each step he takes, still shaking your head.
“He hurt you!”
“That was an accident!” You say, angrily. The edge in your tone causes him to still his stride. You don’t usually speak to him like this.
He says your name again, voice soft and eyes full of pity, “He put your replacement in the hospital.”
Your face goes slack as you look at him with wide eyes, shaking your head slowly, “No!”
He says your name again, “Yes. Listen, I see this has left you on edge. Maybe you should take some more time off, no problem. We can even get you in touch with a counselor specialized in war trauma.”
“No, listen to me, you can’t kill him!”
“How many more sudden and unfortunate accidents do you think we can continue reporting before the wrong person starts asking questions?!” His voice has lost his pity, obviously frustrated with your disapproval.
“You can’t be mad at a wasp for stinging when you whack its nest, can you?! He was made for that purpose!”
He raises his voice, stern enough it stuns you, “And what do you expect us to do with a monster made for the purpose of killing? Let it out into the public? Let it rot in a jail cell while we keep feeding him our employees?!”
“He didn’t kill me!” You say exasperatedly, “He didn’t kill me because you guys are starving him! You’re not feeding him enough. That’s enough to make any man kill.”
“Why are you sympathizing with it? It’s a monster!”
You look at him with squinted eyes and mouth parted in disgust, “He’s not a monster! He’s-“ You cut yourself off.
Your supervisor lowers his head in your direction and crosses his arms over his chest. “Go on.” He says.
You put your palms together gently in front of you, careful not to bend your injured wrist. A sigh leaves you.
“Look, I’ve been doing research on him, okay? He’s rather remarkable and he’s surprised me more time than I can count.”
He scoffs, “I’m sure it has.”
Your eyes screw shut for a moment as you groan in frustration, “No! I mean, sure, he is a miraculous biowarfare weapon equipped with superior predator features, that’s a given, but in addition to that he’s an intelligent creature capable of independent thought! He is capable of being kind and showing mercy. You don’t understand!”
He cocks a brow at you and sighs, “I guess I don’t.” He reaches out, as if he’s going to put a hand on your shoulder to comfort you, but stops himself. “Look, it’s been a rough week for everyone here, okay? Why don’t you take some more time off and we’ll take care of things here.”
You realized there was going to be no getting through to him. That there would be no way to get him to see that Konig was an intelligent being capable of restraint, that he had no say in his creation as a weapon, that he was misunderstood due to the weight of being a prisoner, and that even the worst behaving prisoner deserved not to starve.
“You’re still going to kill him, aren’t you?” You say, more of a statement than a question.
He doesn’t say a word, pity still flooding his stare. He turns slowly, stopping once he’s got the lab door ajar at his finger tips,“I’ll see you when you’re feeling better.” He slips out, and you watch the lab door swing to a still as you swallow his words.
It doesn’t matter how you feel about Konig right now, all of your complex feelings have been pushed to the side. They can’t kill him, he doesn’t deserve that fate, that’s for sure. You can’t hold a being prisoner, underfeed him, and then expect him not to act on his primal urges. Not even a human would pass that test.
That and the idea of him disappearing from your life permanently is enough to make your heart pound and your head spin, having to press your uninjured hand to your forehead to wipe away your sweat.
This is your fault, you’re thinking. That if you hadn’t let a substitute go in there after you left things so messy with him maybe this fate would have been spared.
No, no. You can’t afford to think like that. You can’t afford to blame yourself for his actions.
But your actions could save his life.
“Yes,” you say, out loud frantically to yourself at your own idea, “Yes!”
You’re searching the lab, pulling open cabinets hard enough they slam against their holds, leaving their doors open as you dig out their contents and leave them scattered on the floor.
You find what you’re looking for, the sharpest object you could think of in the lab, a scalpel.
You had grabbed the entire dissecting kit with the firm grip of your uninjured hand, finding a sprint as soon as it’s in your grasp. As you run you lay your injured arm across your chest, setting the pouch on top of it like a makeshift table as you pry the zipper open and dig for the scalpel. Your feet are hitting the tile hard and each step jostles your injured wrist but you’re not sure how much time you have.
You have the horrible thought that it might be too late, that when you get there you’ll find an empty cell and you’ll never have the chance to say goodbye, I’m sorry, or thank you again. The lump in your throat and the prick of tears in your eyes makes you stumble, and you use the opportunity to slow to find the scalpel, pulling it from the hold of the pouch through blurry vision. You let the pouch slide off your bandaged arm and crash to the hall floor, returning to your quick pace, damned be lab rules of running with sharp instruments.
You slam your badge into the receiver in a panic, the tears already threatening to spill over at the thought of never seeing Konig again. The scalpel scratches against your badge and when the alarm sounds, you’re looking frantically down the halls to see if anyone is going to try and stop you. When you pry open the heavy metal door enough you stumble into his cell.
He’s still in there, alive, and your tears quickly turn to that of relief.
You’re don’t hesitate, crossing the red tape and closing the distance between you, scalpel in hand.
His tentacles are at a bluff, writhing and fully extended as you dash at him. You realize that sprinting at him full speed with a weapon after the way you left things was probably not the best way to approach the situation.
“Konig!” You say, out of breath and slowing to turn your direction towards the ropes instead of him. You waste no time scraping the scalpel against the taught restraint with your uninjured hand, “We got'ta get you out of here - they’re going to kill you!” The tears are flowing down your cheeks again. You’re not sure if it’s the panic, your upset feelings of him bubbling up at seeing him, or the thought of him being killed.
“We gotta get out of here, we have to go!”
You struggle through the first rope, handicapped by your injury and fraying it in multiple spots as your hand shakes. The scalpel slices all the way through, and the rope snaps back, the loops around Konig’s bicep releasing in large coils.
You make a dash for the rope restraining his other arm, out of breath and tears blurring your vision. Your hands shake as your uninjured hand slices the ropes, unable to grip the restraint with your other hand. You fumble it for moment, panic slowing you down. Something grazes your hand and you flinch, but relax when you see Konig’s tentacle gently tapping your palm. He flips it sucker up, offering to take the scalpel from you.
“Oh, yeah.” You say, a dizzy heat creeping up your cheeks. You hand him the scalpel, blade facing your chest so the end of his appendage can safely coil around it.
He takes slices precisely through one of the indents you started in the rope with ease.
You can’t help the awe as you watch him, mouth slightly part as your eyes follow the tentacle slice through the rope securing his wrists to the ceiling. You take a step back, hands slightly braced at your sides.
His free tentacles are curling and writhing in excitement as he gets the final swipe through his restraints, the slack releasing and dropping to the ground in loops. Once fully unrestrained, he takes his time stretching his muscles, eyes closed and small grunts leaving his lips as his tentacles move in synchronization with his movements. He rubs out the red and irritated lines the ropes left behind on his arms.
You’re still in awe as you watch him, eyes wide and slack jawed. You hadn’t given yourself time to prepare for being in a the same room as a fully unrestrained superbeing designed for killing.
Had he just been being nice to you for his own benefit, you’re thinking this would be the time for him to kill you.
Once he’s done working out his muscles, he steps over to you slowly, eyes not leaving you as his boots make their commanding presence known on the concrete.
“Oh, I-“ You cut yourself off, looking to the side as you take a few steps back. Your palms are out, and you’re thinking maybe you should have thought this through a bit more.
He says nothing, his glowing gaze boring into you as he closes the gap, leaving only inches between you two.
The nerves are apparent on your face as you stare up at him, having to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. He frame towered over you and his tentacles curled behind him alluringly. You flinched when the end of a tentacle came up to brush your cheek, leaving behind a small line of clear slick.
“Thank you.” He says, and for once you know what he means.
“Thank you.” You respond with a shaky voice, eyes flicking around his features nervously.
“Are you ready?” He says, nodding to your badge.
You’d forgotten he’s being hunted. Your unease of him is overtaken by the panic to save him.
“Yes, yes! We should hurry.” You say, starting a sprint for the door, but a tentacle loops firmly around your waist and lifts you up, your feet still searching for floor. Another tentacles comes underneath you like a swing, allowing you to place to weight on it. You can’t help but let out a few nervous squeaks as you’re adjusted in the air. Once you get your bearings you he puts you close to his back, letting your head sit next to his so you’re looking over his shoulder. You’re in a nest of slick tentacles, securing around you to keep you steady, and you’re reminded of the nightmares you’d experienced with a sea of tentacles swallowing you whole.
One appendage is offered to your injured wrist so you could rest it. He does all of this without looking at you, his focus on carrying your through the cell.
He stills and a tentacle reaches out, sucker up, and it takes you a moment to understand he’s asking for your badge. You give a nervous laugh when you realize, pulling it from your neck and ruffling your hair with the lanyard as you do. His tentacle curls around the badge and it disappears from your view.
You hear the grating alarm and the clunk of the lock. Two tentacles return instead of one, opening the lanyard of the badge to place it gently around your neck so you don’t have to. He simultaneously gets the door you struggled so much with opened with ease, and he’s careful as he gets both of you through the doorway.
“Which way?” He whispers through his harsh voice.
You point over his shoulder so he can see your arm from behind him. “That way, I need to grab my keys.”
As soon as he’s starts moving you realize why he didn’t let you run. He’s scarily fast, moving efficiently through the hallways as his tentacles allow him lengthier strides. You’re mesmerized by the way they shoot out, using the walls, floor, and ceiling to support himself as he moves. It’s like something from a horror movie, you think, and you can’t help imagine the fear a victim would feel being charged at like this.
“In here!” You point to the swinging doors of the lab. He’s got you smoothly inside, careful to make sure the doors don’t hit you on the recoil. His tentacles place you down gently, ensuring your feet are steady on the tile before removing his support.
You’re quick once on your feet, running to one of the undisturbed cabinets and shoving your stuff into your lab coat pockets with your good hand before dashing back to him.
“Okay, let’s go!”
But he doesn’t move, because some papers strewn on the lab table had caught his attention. He picks up a piece of paper with his hands and holds it up. The light shining through the page lets you see ink of a sketch you did of him during your obsessive research.
“Oh, that- yeah, that’s, uhm.” You purse your lips together and squint, trying to find an ending to the sentence you hastily started, “Hard to explain.”
He sets it down gently, using his hands to sift through a few more sketches of himself, anatomy labeled and fully detailed. Separate sketches of just the close details of his tentacles. Theories to what’s under his hood and his skeletal structure. His eyes scan over more pages and he find logs of your interactions, his diet, body language.
You laugh nervously, flush creeping up your neck as your eyes dart to the side.
“We should go.” You say, less urgent and more breathy than you meant it to.
He looks at you, glowing eyes piercing into you and you’re not sure how to decipher his stare.
He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, stacking the papers together and rolling them up in a way not to crease them. He tucks them into the waist band of his pants as he wordlessly returns you to your spot on his shoulder as he takes you from the lab.
“Which way?” He says once you’re both in the hallway, but a screams echoes from behind you, and you both whip around to look.
“Go, go, go!” Your hands frantically tap his shoulders to emphasize your words after meeting the horrified stare of a coworker, who had turned quickly on her heels to flee from you two.
He starts to sprint towards the person running from him and you tap his shoulders more forcefully, “No, the other way! Away from people!”
He gives a single nod, grunting in response as he turns on his heels and heads the opposite direction.
There were workers at the end of this hall, too. Three of them, and you can see your supervisor as he rips his attention away from the conversation he was having and turns to the mass in the corner of his eye.
He stumbled backwards, and the others turn to gawk too, screaming and fleeing from you both in a panic. You supervisor had froze, pressing his body against the wall as his shock and horror melds with confusion when he made eye contact with you, perched on Konig’s shoulder.
He shouts your name in panic, eyes searching frantically for aid.
As you Konig tentacles reach out to the halls to quickly pass him, you put one finger up on your good hand. “Don’t forget this!” You say cheerfully.
The dumbfounded and offended look on his face leaves you with an overjoyed smile as you turn back around to rest your arms back on Konig’s shoulder, lower half still supported by his tentacles.
“The stairs are through that door.” You say, leaning forward on his bare shoulder to point.
You both stop in your tracks at the sound of a blaring alarm, much more shrill than the one of his cell. It’s deafening, shrilling through the entire building. There’s bright emergency lights that reflect off the walls from the lockdown sirens.
He looks to you, and instead of yelling over the loud alarm you just point to the doors to the stairs and tap his shoulder frantically again, hoping your urgency translates.
It does, and he continues through the halls, tentacles clearing his strides and pushing open the door to the stairs. The alarm can still be heard, but you’re farther away from the speakers and it’s easier to hear the chorus of heavy footsteps echoing up the stairwell. You grip tightens on Konig’s shoulder, a nervous squeak escapes you.
You both lean over hand rail to see the commotion below, and you can make out flashes of tactical gear and weapons of dozens of soldiers moving in a group up the stairs.
Your eyes widen and you look to him nervously, unsure of your next move.
You really did not think this through.
It’s hard to tell with his hood, but he seems unnerved. He watches carefully over the stairs, and you’re tapping him quickly, silently pleading with him to keep moving to search for another way out.
A free tentacle reaches out to rest on your palm, leaving behind a slick and letting you know that he’s got this. You swallow and let your hand lay on his shoulder. You can’t help the way your fingers dig in to his firm shoulder.
The soldiers are close enough you can hear their voices below you. You screw your eyes shut, trying to search for your trust in Konig and hoping this hasn’t just turned into a suicide mission.
The soldiers are almost in your view when Konig’s tentacles moves you both to the gap in the middle of the stairwell that drops all the way to the ground floor. He’s got you both suspended in the air, his grip on you tight, with tentacles laced onto either side of the handrails of the floor you’re on.
He releases the rails he had held in his tentacles for support, letting you both free fall past the soldiers and down to the ground floor in a blur, catching you both with his tentacles against the bottom floor hand rails.
Expletives leave you without thought, and he turns his head to you to check on you as he exits the stairwell, now on the ground floor.
The alarm is defeating again, so you resort back to using the taps and points to direct him out of the building.
He freezes when the sun hits him, having to hold a tentacle up to shade his eyes.
Does he even remember the last time he saw the sun?
It takes him a moment to steady himself.
“My car’s over there!” You point once he’s steady.
You can hear yelling from the building behind you, the lockdown drill still blaring.
Once you’re at your car he sets you down, and you race to fling the driver door open, fingers fumbling as you start the engine.
He opts for the backseat, and you think it’s a bit odd before you consider the need for him to have room on both sides of him. He’s forced to hunch over in the middle seat, his head is pressed up against the ceiling. His tentacles had spread to the trunk, the front seats, pressed against the windows and coiled up on the seats next to him to get them all to fit. He’s blocking your view of the rear windshield window but you can make it work, you think.
You throw your car in reverse, using just the side mirrors to guide yourself out of your parking spot. You can see the building doors burst open, soldiers pouring from the building. One points to your car.
“Shit, shit, shit!” You say, pressing on the gas, tires squealing as you exit the parking lot.
You hang a skidding right and shoot for twenty over the speed limit, but get slowed by traffic.
“C’mon…” You say to the car preventing you from speeding as you nervously eye your rear view, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. You drive with just one hand, your bandaged arm resting in your lap.
You get a glimpse of a familiar military vehicle in your sideview and you squeal, “OhfuckOhfuckOhfuck.”
The gas pedal slips out from under you and you slide your knees over to glance down in a panic before your eyes return to the road.
You weren’t going fast enough for Konig’s liking, apparently, because his tentacle had stole the pedal from you, pressing it to its full extend against the floor mats. The engine roars as it struggles to keep up, and you have to used your injured hand to steady the steering wheel as you swerve off the road to desperately navigate the other cars.
Your foot desperatly searches for the break, but another tentacle shoots out from your left, coiling around the metal that held the brake pedal and holds it firmly in place. You tried to push it down with all your might, but you were no match for his strength, as if you were trying to crack a boulder with just one foot.
He doesn’t let you use your arm for long, two tentacles coming in to take the steering wheel from you. Your engine is roaring and your eyes find the odometer, you’re going 40 over and climbing.
He coils a few tentacles around you and your seat for good measure, bracing your head and core in the event of a crash.
The expletives are falling from your lips without thought. You’re going well over 100mph now, never having gone this fast in your car before.
“Konig, slow down!”
He’s navigating with ease but too many close calls makes you screw your eyes shut to brace yourself.
He finally lets up once you two are out sight of the soldiers tailing you, letting off the pedal and offering you back control of the wheel.
It takes a few deep breaths and expletives before you take the wheel from him, leaning forward once his tentacles release you.
“Don’t!” Sharp inhale, “Ever do that again!” You say, heart pounding in your chest as you nervously eye the sideview mirrors for signs of trouble.
“I didn’t want them to catch us.” He says evenly. There’s a pause, and you catch each other’s eyes in the rearview mirror in between checks of the road.
“I’m sorry if I scared you.” He says with a flick of his tentacle.
You take a few more deep breaths, wiping away the clear stick Konig had left behind on your forehead, “Well, we didn’t crash.” You’ve regained the wheel and find your groove going twenty over.
“I don’t know where to take us.”
“You don’t have a home?” He asks.
“I do, but they have my address in my employee files. It won’t take long for my place to be flooded with soldiers looking for you.” You say, briefly holding the wheel with your bandaged hand so you can put on your indicator to change lanes, sprained wrist returning to your lap.
Silence falls on you both mull it over. You keep driving, wanting to put as much distance between his capturers as possible.
The tentacle stretched in the passenger seat moves close to your bandages, “What happened?” He asks, voice low.
“Oh, uh,” You keep your eyes on the road. You had assumed he would have been aware of what he did to you. It made sense he didn’t realize it happened when it did, his attention elsewhere at the time.
You debate telling him in your head, but decide it’s best to be honest with him, “My wrist sprained when it hit the concrete. When I uh, tripped.”
You swallow hard, glancing at him in the rearview. He’s leaning forward between the two seats, his head close to yours.
“I did that to you?” He asks with a tense frame.
You look at him again briefly before your eyes find the road. “It happened so fast. Neither of us were thinking properly.”
He leans back in his seat, still having to hunch over to fit under the car’s roof. The tentacle outstretched to you retracts to the back seat with him.
Another silence falls over you both as he digests the new information.
“I’m sorry.” He says, voice strained, “I never wanted to hurt you.”
You glance at him in the mirror again, his eyes are turned to his boots. “It’s okay.” You offer a weak smile, even if he can’t see it. “I would have done the same, remember?”
He doesn’t say anything, but he gives a slow shake of the head, and in between checks of the road you can see the fabric of his hood rippling with his movements.
You continue down the highway in silence, keeping your eyes on the stretch of road ahead of you. You drive until the sun sets, making stops for gas only when the station is empty, quickly filling your tank in fear someone will spot the ultimate creation of biowarfare resting in your back seat.
You see a sign for a motel and you decide you’ve covered enough ground today.
“Ready to stop? We can rest for the night here. Give you a chance to stretch out in privacy.”
He hums, but ignores the question, attention directed out the window and over the horizon, “I forgot how beautiful the sunset is.”
It catches you off guard, the sweet words whispered in awe from his intimidating frame.
Your eyes find the clouds reflecting the orange of the sun’s warmth. The bright colors gradually shift to the calm blue of dusk as the sky stretches on. Some of the brighter stars of the night sky are already making an appearance on the other end of the sky.
“It is beautiful tonight.” You say.
A small smile creeps on your features, finally feeling anything other than regret and worry about your impulsive decision to free him. Maybe the hasty ruining of your life and being forced to live on the run was all worth it, because now Konig gets to see the sunset again.
You pull into the parking lot of the motel, pulling out your wallet as you speak, “Stay out here and try to lay low. I’ll get us a room.”
You leave the engine running for him as you handle things at the front desk. The motel was as shady as it looked, not requiring your ID and accepting cash for payment.
Perfect. Untraceable, that’s what you needed. The man in the white stained undershirt doesn’t even give you a second look when he hands over the room key.
You turn your head both ways to scan the parking lot before preemptively unlocking the door to your room. You return to the car with an awkward jog, opening the driver side door to gather anything you’d need.
“We should be good. Just move quick.” You say, closing the driver door behind you.
You watch as he gets out, tentacles pouring out of the car one after another.
He doesn’t seem to be in as much of a rush as you, taking a moment to stretch out his back with a pop.
You’d gotten a head start to the motel room, but he still catches up before you reach the door, opening it for him so he can get all of his appendages inside. You nervously peek out to the parking lot one last time to make sure no one saw you two, closing and locking the door behind you before securing the blinds shut.
“Okay, we should be safe.” You say as you move to pull the sheets up on the mattresses to check for bed bugs.
The room is as dingy as you expected it to be. Peeling wallpaper stained with years of cigarette smoke. Outdated decor and furniture. Stained and faded carpets. An old box television perched on a dresser facing the two queen beds.
“No bugs.” You announce once you’ve thoroughly checked both mattresses. You look to Konig, who’s standing in the doorway of the tiny bathroom, eyeing up what you assume is the shower. You hear the water turn on in a spray against the shower’s porcelain followed by the sound of a belt jiggling.
Your brow quirks as you kick off your shoes and shed your lab coat, stretching your sore back as you settle in on one of the mattresses.
He starts a shower and you can’t help but picture him soaking his tentacles and sore body through the wall of the motel room. He left the door open, and some sinful part of you thinks about peeking.
You don’t, forcing your attention to the TV. You mindlessly flipped through channels with the remote, thoughts lingering on Konig showering. You settle on reruns of a lighthearted show.
You hear the shower turn off with a hearty thud of its noisy pipes. Some more time passes, and you can see flicks of corners of a white motel towel from the doorway.
The jingle of his belt makes an encore, and after a few more moments he reappears, turning the light off for the bathroom with a free tentacle. Another continues to works the towel, dabbing off stray water beads from his skin.
Your cheeks flush, and you catch his wet muscles flexing from the corner of your eye as he makes his way to the other mattress, laying down on his front with a relieved huff. His tentacles relax as well, draping themselves on the duvet and hanging off the sides, the ends lazily flicking and curling as they dangle.
You both sit silently for awhile, forcing your attention towards the TV set while you watch his tentacles curl alluringly in your peripherals. You’ve settled into your spots on your respective beds, trying to find some respite after such a stressful day.
He breaks the silence first.
“I will never forget your kindness.”
“Oh,” You start, heat still flushing your features but keeping your stare towards the television, “It’s nothing.”
“You sacrificed everything to save my life.” He says definitively, “Even after what I did to you.” His eyes linger on your bandages.
“It just seemed like the right thing to do.” You shrug, your eyes finally meeting his. “I was really only at that job for the paycheck.” You pause again, fingers fidgeting with the TV remote, “The guilt was starting to weigh on me anyway. Better to live honestly and on the run than settled-in but trapped, right?”
His glowing eyes stare into yours as he considers your words.
He nods slowly, tentacles twitching and curling.
You give him a cheeky smile and a point, “But no more killing people, okay? I’m responsible for your actions from here on out.”
He huffs in amusement, lifting up one tentacle in the air as if giving an oath, “I promise.”
He stirs suddenly, as if he had remembered something.
“I have something for you,” he says as he sits up, reaching into his pants pocket. You quirk your brow as he stands, closing the gap between your beds and as he presents his fist to you. He towers over you, even more so from your spot sitting slouched on the bed.
You look at him with intrigue, cupping your hand underneath his, “It’s not a bug, is it?”
He laughs, and it’s the first laugh you’ve heard from him aside from the wicked laugh from that first day you met him, the laugh that raised the hairs on your neck and haunted your dreams. This one’s different, softer and playful. It makes your chest warm and you can’t help the goofy smile you give in return.
“No, it’s not a bug.”
He lets the small item drop into your palm and your brows scrunch as you study it.
Your pearl!
You let out a quiet gasp, eyes darting to him once you understand. It must have slipped from your pockets when he had held you upside down during your altercation in his cell. You hadn’t even thought about it, didn’t realize that you had lost your precious pearl. You had been avoiding thinking about Konig up until you heard about his pending execution, and at that point you had bigger things to worry about.
You pick up the uneven pearl with two fingers, moving it in the light, “You had it all this time?”
“I’ve been keeping it safe for you. I was worried I’d never be able to return it to you.”
You purse your lips at the way you had left things. Leaving him without closure in that sterile cell, forcing him to sit with his unresolved feelings and thoughts without an explanation. Never knowing if you’d be back.
“I’m ashamed, at how I treated you. I thought I had ruined the one good thing I had in there.”
Your cheeks flush at his words and you wrap your fist around the pearl. You’re forced to break eye contact with him, hoping he can’t see the heat beneath your skin.
“I’m sorry I left you alone.” You say, eyeing the floor by his feet. “I just needed time.”
He considers your words carefully. “I can’t blame you for that.”
His eyes flick down to the hand that held the pearl and both of you bask in the silence for a moment.
“Maybe tomorrow we can get you a necklace for it, so it doesn’t get lost again.”
You tilt your head to meet his gaze, mouth parted and eyes wide. A tentacle brushes the apple of your cheek, and he looks at you like he had eyed the sunset, in awe and stunned with its beauty.
He had understood the significance of the pearl this whole time, and he returned it to you post-freedom, meaning there was no chance of him attempting to gain your trust for his benefit.
“Konig,” You whisper, voice breathy.
“Yes, meine perle?”
“Thank you.” You hold the pearl in a fist placed over your heart and keep your eyes fixed up at him.
His hand reaches down to your face, tracing a finger on the underside your jaw. Your breath hitches at the chill that shoots down your spine.
“I’ve been watching you.” He says, finger resting just under your chin, keeping your gaze on him. Your eyes flick nervously to his tentacles curling alluringly over his shoulder before returning to his stare.
You’re not sure what he means, but you’re too stunned by his words and the light touch of strong fingers, breath still hitched and heartbeat pulsing in your ears.
He pulls out the rolled up stack of papers he took from the lab and held close. All of the sketches and logs and theories you’d made during your obsessive research, “Looks like you’ve been watching me, too.”
He gestures to the papers in his hand before placing them on the nightstand to his side.
The tentacle that brushed your cheek moves to your hair, curling strands gently between the slick end of his appendage. Another gently takes the pearl from you, setting it down with the papers.
“Am I wrong, meine perle?”
Your jaw slacks open a little further as you stutter out the beginning of a few sentences, each quickly abandoned one after another.
You settle for a shake of your head accompanied by a full flush of your features.
He gives a hum of satisfaction as he leans down close enough that his hood almost brushes up against your skin. His glowing eyes are inches from yours.
“I want to repay you, meine perle.”
His thumb continue to soothingly stroke your jaw, His voice drops, soaked in a sultry tone as his gaze maps your features.
“You worked so hard for me. Went through so much, didn’t you? So good for me.”
You give a sharp inhale at the praise, a warmth suddenly pooling in your lower abdomen. You’re hypnotized by his large frame, his gentle touch, the inflection of his words. You can only stare up at him in anticipation, caught off guard by his change in demeanor.
A tentacle rests on your knee and begins to creep up your thigh. You try to look down but his hand under your chin keeps you steady.
“I want to make you feel so good, meine perle. Will you let me do that?” His voice dropped to a low whisper, and another tentacle creeps up behind you, making you flinch as it slithers down your shoulder and curls around your collarbones, “Will you let me reward your hard work?”
Your thighs spread obediently at the touch of his tentacle and Konig takes the opportunity to stand between your thighs, keeping them open. When you go to answer the only thing that comes out is a nervous squeak, so you opt for nodding your head.
The grip on your face tightens, a few of his fingers indent the soft flesh of your cheeks, “Ah, ah.” He gives a slight shake of his head. “You have to say it, meine perle.”
It takes you a moment to find your voice. “Yes, Konig.” You whisper through shallow breath, eyes wide as you look up at him. “Please.”
He gives another pleased hum, a tentacle eagerly coiling around your waist and picking you up from your spot on the edge of the bed.
A gasp leaves your parted lips, hands finding the slick coiled appendage at your center for leverage. Your socks scraped the duvet as he repositioned you to the middle of the bed.
Two tentacles work the button of your pants, a sharp inhale leaves you as they yank your zipper down and slide the waistband to your thighs. His eyes trace every inch of newly revealed skin as his tentacle placed you down on the bed, removing the appendage looped around your middle. By the time he gets your jeans off and discarded to the floor, two more tentacles have already begun sneaking up the hem of your shirt, slithering up your stomach and lifting your slick stained shirt with it. You obediently, albeit hesitantly, put your hands over your head to let him take your shirt and bra off in one swipe, ruffling your hair as he does.
You’ve got your upper half propped on your good arm, palm sunk in to the mattress. He corrects this by looping a tentacle around your good wrist, giving it a careful but firm yank as another presses to your sternum and guides your back flush with the mattress. Another simultaneously wraps around the forearm above your injured wrist, gently pinning it to the bed and forcing it to rest on the mattress above you. The two tentacles that removed your shirt trace down your exposed core and down each leg, giving you goosebumps behind the trail of slick they leave behind. The tentacles stop at your ankles, wrapping around them and up your calves like a snake coils its prey.
In quick movements your ankles are forced to in the air, extended and spread. He kneels onto the bed at your feet, positioning himself so he’s kneeling in the new space between your thighs.
He stills, tentacles holding you firmly but comfortably. You can feel his suckers against your bare flesh, each having their own independent wriggling grip on you. Your chest rises and falls, trying to swallow your nerves of being undressed and fully restrained at the hands of the powerful being you’d freed.
His eyes are tracing all of the newly exposed flesh, and you can’t help but squirm against his appendages as you fight the urge to cover yourself. He holds you steady, all your limbs extended as he takes his time committing the curves and dips of your delicate body to memory.
His eyes find your panties, already stained with arousal at the way he spoke to you, manhandled you.
“Such a delicate thing you are, meine perle.“ He says, eyes half-lidded as they admire you.
“You knew you wouldn’t stand a chance against me, didn’t you little one?” His voice is low but gentle, and you’re stunned by his words, his forwardness. You can’t help but be intimidated pinned beneath him.
“You knew the risk you were taking. You knew I was deadly.”
One of his tentacles come up to gently smooth the hair he had disheveled when removing your shirt. You flinch at his touch, and he gives a pleased hum once he successfully fixes your hair.
“And yet you couldn’t help but throw yourself at me.” His eyes briefly widen before returning to their half-lidded boring stare, “Time and time again,” He shrugs in casual disbelief of you, “I’ve never seen anything like it, your carelessness.”
A free tentacle sneaks up your leg again, curling to stroke your spread inner thighs.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re self-destructive. Suicidal, even.”
The tentacle at your thigh creeps up, teasing the waist band of your underwear, and you suck in a breath through your teeth.
“But I do know better, though, don’t I?”
The tentacle lets your panties snap back to your hips, and the appendages holding you as restraints tighten on your limbs threateningly, excluding your injured arm.
His eyes narrow and his voice drips of arrogance.
“You’re just a little masochist.”
The tentacle drags down your front, teasing your slit over the fabric of your panties.
“Aren’t you meine perle?”
Your thoughts are clouded with a haze as you cling to his words, hypnotized by his chilling voice, domineering tone, and arousing touches.
He lets you get away with not responding this time, studying your responses to his teases before he continues. He gives another hum, a tentacle tracing down your neck and core, leaving behind a cool trail of his slick.
The tentacles tracing your cunt curls around your waistband again, while the two appendages securing your ankles maneuver your legs as they slide your panties down.
“Do you like that I have so much power over you?”
He has to unravel the appendages on your ankles to remove your underwear, discarding them over his shoulder. The cool breeze on your dripping cunt makes you shiver, tensing your core and arms in his restraint.
“That I’m a predator and you’re just a sweet defenseless little thing?”
His tentacles quickly rewrap around your ankles, but this time he secures the thick middles around you, covering the tops of your feet in his slick suckers as he forces your legs spread. His tentacles slither all the way up your legs from foot to upper thigh like thick black vines, and he leaves the ends of his tentacles with extra slack so the tips can tease the lips of your dripping cunt.
“Does the danger turn you on, meine perle?”
He gives a hum as he eyes your exposed and spread cunt, thoroughly slicked with your own arousal.
“I can see it does.”
You flush under his stare, still mesmerized by his words and the heat pooling in your lower abdomen.
He leans forward, his hands finding the mattress on either side of your core. You shrink under him as he leans down. He presses the front of his pants against your cunt, spread open by the tentacles looped around your legs.
“You were afraid of me.” He says, and you let out a broken sigh as he grazes your clit, your hips giving small involuntary grinds against him, “Yet you still gave yourself to me, so willingly.”
He hovers his face inches from yours, glowing eyes reflecting off your wide eyes. His voice drops low, and the hem of his hood drags across the curve of your breasts. The smaller tentacles that pour from under his hood curl around your tits, and you flinch under his touch when the ends of slick appendages start to tease your nipples to attention.
“I think someone that brave deserves to be thoroughly rewarded.”
He keeps his face close to you, leaving the equivalent of kisses through his hood down your middle as his smaller tentacles trace your skin.
He kisses all the way down to your cunt, spread open by the larger appendages coiled around your legs. You lift your head to watch him, and he keeps his half-lidded stare on you as the tip of a smaller tentacle swirls slowly around your clit. Another traces your dripping entrance.
A breathy sigh leaves you, your thighs tensing under his tentacles, but he holds firm.
“I am curious,” He starts, eyes locked on yours as he lays his chest flush to the mattress between your wrapped legs. He props himself up on his elbows, and brings a hand up to his hood to slowly pull it up halfway. His smaller tentacles part like curtains to reveal his mouth, and your eyes widen at the sight.
Your dreams had been scarily accurate, a taunting smile made up of rows of predator teeth. Razor sharp and killer. Concern and awe melded on your features, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide.
“Are you still afraid?”
He sticks out his tongue, and your face twitches as you watch it extend unnervingly far from his pointed teeth. The length and curl reminded you of another tentacle, but made of the flesh of tongue.
He dives his tongue up the slit of your cunt, a long deep stripe from hole to clit.
You let out a pathetic whine, your thighs begging to clench around him but tentacles forcing you spread. He hums, tongue sending the vibration straight to your pulsing clit.
He starts slow, tracing circles around you with his precise tongue.
Your hips grind into the pleasure, and he huffs in amusement at your eagerness. He lets his tongue unfurl, completely smothering your cunt with his slick tongue. He loosens his grip on your thighs just enough to allow you to get a better range to thrust into his face.
You give another whine when he stops teasing you, but continue to grind your clit against him in a desperate search for pleasure.
You give him a pleading look, mouth slightly parted for breathy exhales. He lets you grind long enough to embarrass you, waiting for the telling flush of your cheeks.
He finally pulls away with a long swipe along your cunt as you let out a sinful moan. The tip of his tongue returns to your aching clit, flicking side to side. He starts teasingly slow but hungrily picks up once he hears the hitched breaths you take.
You have to lay your head back to the mattress, closing your eyes as you give in to the pleasure.
He presses the tip of his tongue to your clit head on, pushing his tongue forward and letting it slither down your cunt. It curls around like a ribbon, the wide part of his tongue rolling down your clit as the tip curls back to your entrance, rimming your dripping hole. He teases you for a few moments before diving the tip of his tongue into your warmth, keeping the middle of his tongue pressed against your clit.
You let out a gasp as he enters you, and he gives a low pleased hum into your dripping cunt in return. His tongue slithers further into your warmth, the thick of his tongue continuing to graze your clit.
You start to grind down on him again but the tentacles around your legs climb further up your thighs, securing your hips as the ends continue spreading your cunt open for him. You give a whine, and he complies by pushing his tongue in and out of you, fucking you while stimulating your clit.
Your toes curl under his suckers and the moans are falling from your lips without thought as he tastes you.
When you tilt your head up to meet his eyes, cheeks flushed and breaths shallow, he’s eyeing you the same way he had eyed the meals you brought him. Free tentacles twitch in excitement as his hungry gaze follows his prey.
The corners of his mouth curl into a smile as he quickens the movement of his tongue, causing you to pull against the tentacles restraining your limbs, desperate moans leaving your parted lips.
He retracts his tongue, an arrogant laugh leaving him as he leaves your dripping cunt rutting into the air.
He licks another deep stripe against your entire cunt one more time, letting his nose swipe against your slit as he drags up. His eyes roll once he retracts his tongue again, a sinful moan leaving him.
“You taste so sweet, meine perle.”
You let out a whimper, rutting your hips in desperation at the sudden lack of touch. He gives another pleased hum as he sits up on the bed, eyeing you from above.
A free tentacle creeps between the mattress and your middle, and when you obediently arch your back he coils an additional appendage around your waist. He hauls you into the air with ease, the four tentacles on your limbs still spreading and supporting you. The tentacle on your injured hand, still less taut than his restraints, slithers up further to keep your wrist in-line with the rest of your arm in absence of the support of the mattress.
He puts you above his head, cunt resting just above his head. He tilts his neck back before burying his tongue back into your cunt while keeping you in the air above him.
A squeak leaves you as you tense against him, unnerved by the sensation of being suspended in the air. Your worry melts to pleasure as he fucks his tongue into you, his tentacle restraints bouncing you up and down in rhythm with his slick tongue.
The jostling and the tentacle coiled firmly around your ribs allows the moans and squeaks to leave you with ease, and he hums in satisfaction at the cute little noises you’re making for him.
He retracts his tongue again, letting his hood drop, and you look to him with pinched brows - as if offended he revoked your pleasure.
“I could eat this cunt everyday and not get tired of it.” He says, and even though you can’t see his mouth you can tell he’s wearing a cocky grin.
You let out a pathetic little whine, giving a weak tug against his restraint.
“Don’t worry,” He says, almost mockingly, before you feel a thick tentacle slither up to tease your cunt, a relieved whimper escaping you.
He uses his thick appendage to swirl around in the slippery mixture of your own arousal, his slick, and spit. He uses the smooth side of his tentacle, curling it against your slit as he moves your restraints, forcing you to grind your dripping cunt on his tentacle. Two more free tentacles slither up your chest, cupping your tits and teasing your nipples with the ends of his slick appendages. He continues grinding you against him as he lays the two tentacles over your tits, a sucker on each covering your nipple and applying suction. The stimulation makes you gasp and pull against his restraints, overwhelmed with him sucking both your nipples and forcing your clit to grind on his thick appendage at the same time. Your squeaky and broken moans echo throughout the motel room.
“I’m just getting started with you.” He says, low and dangerous, “Make sure to save some of those pathetic whines.”
The thick tentacle swirling your cunt teases your entrance before impatiently slipping into you.
You let out a pornographic moan as he plunges into you. You’re sure it was loud enough for the neighboring rooms to hear but being filled up by Konig’s tentacle felt too incredible for you to care. His slick tentacle was thicker than anything a human could offer, and his suckers allowed for a ribbed sensation as he fucked his appendage in and on of you. His dexterity allowed him to find your g-spot with ease, the end of his tentacle massaging it as he fucks in and out of you.
Your eyes close at the overwhelming pleasure, weak and limp as he puppets you up and down on his tentacle.
He’s using all of his tentacles on you now, and you’re helpless to stop him as he removes the appendage that secured your waist and coiled it around your neck, close enough to graze your flesh but not yet applying pressure. Your eyes open at the touch, half-lidded in pleasure as you find his glowing stare. Even through the overwhelming stimulation, it’s an unnerving feeling having him wrap around your neck, reminding you of his power. He could end your life, easily, and there would be nothing you could do to stop him.
He slithers further around your neck, and you can help but shiver under his threatening touch. He sees your brows pinch in worry and his eyes squint. While his hood obscures his mouth you’re guessing it’s twisted into a smile, as if he knows what you’re thinking and had planted the idea on purpose, reigniting your fears before you get too lost in the pleasure.
There’s a sinful glint in his eye, “Do you trust me, meine perle?”
He doesn’t give you a chance to answer, his tentacle tightens around your neck, cutting off your moans with a harsh gasp.
Your eyes widen in fear, your fingers scratching the air instinctively as you wiggle in his grasp.
The tentacle fucking your tight cunt doesn’t let up. You’re left with your mouth open as you ride him, the moans that would be coming out silenced by his tight grip on your airway. The lack of oxygen allows a fuzzy haze to cloud your brain, and suddenly you’re not even thinking about the danger or the tentacles restraining and choking you. All you can think about is the sensation of your cunt being teased and fucked as your nipples are milked by his suckers. You let your body go limp in his grasp, no longer anxious for release. You’re still looking at him, but he’s getting farther and farther away, your vision blurring his bold silhouette.
He waits for your eyelids to unevenly flutter shut before he loosens his grip, keeping his tentacle looped around your neck like a scarf.
Your first sharp inhale is involuntary, followed by desperate sharp gasps for air. He continues pounding your cunt, his tentacle diving further into you, stretching you open as you return from your haze.
His smug snicker progresses to a deep hum of satisfaction.
He gives no warning before he cuts off your air again, watching as you fight against his restraints while managing the overstimulating pleasure.
“I like watching you struggle, meine perle.”
He takes a moment to look you over, watching you tense and feebly wriggle against his strong grip. He soaks in the look of concern and arousal on your features. You fade away quicker this time, eyes going cross as you zero in on the tentacle fucking your soaked cunt, suckers clinging to your walls as he massages your g-spot.
“I’d feel bad about it, but I know you like it too.”
He releases his grip on your neck, tentacle unfurling and leaving behind a necklace of clear slick and imprints of his suckers. You’re sputtering and coughing as he allows you breath, struggling to steady yourself as you’re bounced up and down on his thick tentacle.
Once you catch your breath you’re giving him breathy moans again, tensing beneath the tentacles on your limbs.
“Look how aroused you get when I threaten your life. This tight little cunt is so wet.”
One of the smaller tentacles that extends from under his hood runs circles on your pulsing clit. The tentacle that had retracted from your neck traces a line down your spine, stopping to rim your ass.
Your eyes widen at him as he slicks up the entrance of your hole. You’re nervous about anal, but you don’t find your voice to stop him. He slips a slick tip in, allowing you time to relaxing on just a few inches as he continues working the rest of you.
You were right about him being good at multitasking. It’s a lot to handle a once, your clit being teased, cunt pounded, nipples being sucked, and ass being stretched around the end of his appendage, all while being restrained and unable to relieve the tension building inside your body.
You’re lost to the stimulation, moans and expletives and sweet nothings pouring from your mouth in jumbles.
Konig’s enjoying the show, reveling that he’s made you come undone under his power. The mess he was making over you, covering you in his slick and getting you drunk off his touch.
A white heat steadily builds underneath your skin, pooling to your lower abdomen.
“Konig! It’s too much- it’s too much I’m gonna -"
“Come for me meine perle.”
The waves of pleasure rip through you, convulsing in his grip as you come. Konig doesn’t let up as he fucks you through orgasm. Mercilessly pounding your cunt with his thick tentacle while you clench at the intense euphoria.
“There you go, so good for me.”
You let out a strangled moan, hands searching for something to grab onto for stability but they come up empty, straining against his restraints while powerless to the pleasure.
“Konig - please.” You manage out between your broken moans and meaningless stuttering.
He gives another low hum of approval and he still doesn’t let up, the tentacles still working all your sensitivities.
“Not done with you yet, meine perle.” He warns, and you let out a whine in response.
You’re quivering in his touch now, futilely arching away from him, your pleasure turning to over-sensitivity.
“‘s too much.” You mutter out, shaking in his grip and too weak to escape his touch.
“I know, but you’re going to take it for me, aren’t you meine perle?”
You let out another whine in response, twitching at the stimulation that was turning nearly painful.
He offers some relief by removing the smaller tentacle from your clit, but he keeps the rhythm of both tentacles inside you, filling you up and forcing you to bounce on him. He continues teasing your nipples with his suckers, enjoying watching your back arch desperately as you squirm under the sensitivity.
You keep his gaze, teeth still grit at the overstimulation, eyes pleading.
He removes the tentacle from your cunt as he holds you steady, no longer bouncing you but still teasing your ass as he undoes his belt. He pulls it free with one firm tug, discarding it with the rest of your clothes.
His hands ease his zipper down and he takes his time, amused by your expression seeped in curiosity, desperation, and awe. He inches his pants down enough to expose his genitalia.
A fleshy appendage, a few inches longer than what a standard human male would have, springs to attention from the waistband of his clothes. The entire appendage was a uniform deep pink with no head. The shape reminded you of another tentacle, larger at the base and ending in a slick tip. Slight indents that ran up the sides of his shaft.
He lets you admire him for a few moments before he lines your used cunt with his appendage, plunging into you without mercy.
You let out a loud moan at being filled again, and he rock his hips, letting his appendage grind in you as you sit on his full length.
“Shh,” he whispers teasingly, “Don’t want anyone finding out how much of a desperate slut you are for me, hm?”
He brings the tentacle that had occupied your cunt up to your lips, and you obediently open your mouth to let his tentacle slip in, silencing you as you suck on the end, tasting the mixture of your arousal and his slick.
Your moans and whines are muffled by his tentacle as he pounds into you, his restraints moving you up and down in rhythm with his hips, meeting your hips in the middle as he fills you up.
He lets out a low growl that shoots a tingle of excitement down your spine.
“This pussy feels even better than I thought. So fucking tight, meine perle.” His pace quickens, now pounding ruthlessly into your soaked cunt.
His hands find your hips, fingers pressing into your skin as he guides you on his appendage. The tentacles supporting you allow you to lift almost all the way off him before forcing you down his entire length over and over again.
The moans are pouring from you again, but gagged by the appendage fucking your mouth - slick, arousal, and spit dripping down your chin.
When he pulls his appendage away from your cunt, the rest of thick tentacles still work your ass and nipples as he works to flip you over. He forces you into an all-fours position in front of him, letting you rest your forearms and knees on the duvet, his restraints staying firm on your limbs as he bends them into position as if you’re his doll.
You obediently arch your back and lower you head down on the mattress, sticking your ass into the air. He can see you spread open from behind, and he watches the tentacle work your tight little ass as he shifts to his knees behind you.
He gives you a firm smack on the ass with his hand, huffing in amusement at your shocked gasp around his tentacle gag. He gives you a few more, alternating cheeks as the sound of flesh on flesh echoes throughout the motel room.
He hums in amusement at the squeaks that come from your gagged mouth.
“Such a naughty perle,” He teases in his arrogant tone, “Always putting yourself in danger, hm?”
You whine, fingers clawing at the duvet as you brace yourself, flushing at the idea someone might hear your punishment.
He stops not long after, leaving behind his handprints on your flushed cheeks. He’s getting impatient, so when he lines his appendage back up with you he slides in without warning, hands finding your hips for grip as he slides in and out of you.
He’s too excited, he can’t refrain from letting his hips flush with your pink sore ass.
The tip of his appendage curls forward inside of you, massaging your g-spot as he fills you.
He doesn’t let up, keeping a steady rhythm with his hips and all of the tentacles working you. Your tits groped, nipples sucked by his tentacles, mouth and both holes filled and fucked - it’s overwhelming enough to make you go limp in his hold, not a single thought occupying you as you mindlessly work your tongue around the tentacle gagging your mouth. You’re too focused on the pleasure, how good it feels to be at his mercy.
“Watching you got me so excited, meine perle.” He says though heavy breaths, his grip tightening on your hips, “I’m already getting close.”
His thrusts get more intense, and you think you’d be yelling if you hadn’t been gagged. You probably wouldn’t have been able to warn him about your second finish even if you hadn’t been silenced, too cockdrunk off the overstimulation to properly string together a coherent sentence.
Your cunt clenches around him as another orgasm rips through you, causing your muscles to tense in his restraint.
He lets out a hearty moan, his thrusts becoming slightly uneven as he struggles to keep his composure in your tight walls.
He comes everywhere, his finish not only marking his claim deep in your cunt, but also from each of his tentacles, tips releasing his come into your ass and mouth while coating your tits and spread cunt.
He twitches inside you throughout his finish, fingers digging into your hips as he gives a few light thrusts, milking every drop of his finish into your filled cunt.
You’re still limp when he finally pulls away with a strained moan, his tentacles placing you down gentle on the mattress. You’re on cloud nine, too high from your finishes to be able to support yourself. You let the mattress support you, basking in the warmth of the afterglow, bliss settling over you as you recover.
He gives another hum of satisfaction at the sight, having completely unraveled you and marked you with his seed. He leans down to plant a kiss through his hood on your back, his hands giving a light squeeze on your hips as he props himself up next to you. He runs his fingers up and down your back, swirling through the clear slick his tentacles had left behind.
He lets you rest for a few moments, waiting for your breathing to settle before a tentacle gently drapes across you.
“How about we get you cleaned up, meine perle?”
You let out a dazed hum of approval, letting his tentacles coil around you to carry you to the shower. He presses you to his chest, your head resting against him as he cradles your back and the crease of your knees.
When your eyes flutter open, and you meet his glowing stare, your face stretches into a warm sleepy smile. He unwraps your bandages carefully, and he doesn’t let you lift a finger once you’re both in the cramped bathroom, standing outside of the tub as he scrubs you down. You exchange little words, both of you still basking in the afterglow.
He takes his time wiping the slick and come off your skin, easing around the flushed marks his suckers had left behind on you.
It’s soothing - the warm water embracing you, and Konig smoothing a washcloth over your skin. Intimate, even, how he’s washing your upper arms as he holds your hand with his free hand, watching you while you relax into the water. He’s extra gentle with your injured wrist as he cleans you.
He’s in no hurry as he cleans your middle and legs, enjoying the glisten of the water on your plush breasts and thighs. He thumbs the bubbles on your skin under his soft grip.
He even washes your hair, his large hands massaging your scalp as he runs the suds through. He’s careful not to get soap in your eyes when he rinses the bubbles from your hair, using a tentacle to shield your forehead as he guides your head back under the stream of the shower, disregarding the water spraying all off the motel bathroom floor.
He’s being so careful with you, so sweet and soft, it was a jarring contrast to the Konig that had been ruthlessly pounding you moments before or the Konig you’d come to know trapped in his cell.
Once you were all clean, he shut off the showers with its noisy clunk of old pipes, he was quick to wrap one of the motel towels around your dripping body before he carried you back to the beds. When he stilled you meet his eyes, resting your hand on his chest.
“Guess we’ll have to share a bed.” He says in his cocky tone as you follow his gaze to the mattress, thoroughly soiled and stained from your session.
You roll your eyes at him, giving a soft tap on his chest in your disapproval of his corny flirting, but the smile on your face betrays any hope of hiding your enamor.
His eyes squint from under his hood with a smile, you assume, as he carries you to the bed with his strong arms.
It’s not easy for a being with tentacles shooting from his spine to cuddle. He wasn’t designed for cozy naps and soft embraces, but he does what he can. He presses against the pillows sitting up, at an angle to leave space between the headboard and his back for his tentacles to settle. He nestles you at his side, keeping your head on his chest as your arm rests against over his core. Your leg props up on his as you rest the side of your body on the mattress.
His arm wraps snuggly around your back, fingers making soft circles at your curve.
You’re already halfway to sleeps clutches when you mumble into his chest.
“Thank you, Konig.”
“Thank you, meine perle.”
———————————————————-
If you enjoyed this fic, you may enjoy…
THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN - Loser!Konig x Reader - Konig & Reader must compete in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death. (122k word slow burn)
CW: age gaps, questionable power dynamics, mildly drunk sex, cunniligus, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, Johnny is a friend of the reader's father
Gender Neutral AFAB Reader
WC: 2.2k
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
He was nearly thirty years my senior. Someone I’d known for what seems to be ages. And, a friend of my father's. And yet I couldn’t quell the bubbling feelings in my stomach.
The streaks of grey that speckled his dark hair shined in the light of the bonfire. It was long, framing his face. The creases in his skin seemed to compliment him well.
He was deployed with my father at some point. All the tales of the battlefield blended together. A grenade here, a hail of bullets there, and some nasty stitches as a reminder.
My gaze lingered on him a bit too long as we sat around the fire, a can of beer in each of our hands. I wasn’t usually one to attend these shit-shooting sessions, but when I saw the bag of marshmallows, I couldn’t resist.
And there I sat, in the backyard, with a flaming marshmallow. I gasped, quickly blowing out the flames. The group of men chuckled as I scrambled to extinguish the marshmallow. Sighing, I looked at the mess of charred sugar.
“I’ll take it,” Johnny said with a smile. He held out his paper plate pulling the marshmallow off of the spit.
“Try not to burn this one again, okay?” Another man chirped.
The beer in my hand slowly drained as the group of men reminisced. They recounted stories of intense battles and jokes they pulled on base. I listened in, nursing the drink in my hand.
Their voices quieted as the crickets grew louder. One by one, they left.
“I’ve gotta get home to the missus,” one said.
“I need to check on my dog.”
Until it was the three of us; McTavish, my father, and myself. The case of beer was almost empty and I could feel the alcohol in my veins by now.
“I eh…think I had a bit too much to drink. Mind if I stay here for the night?” Johnny asked. My father looked at me.
“That okay?” He asked me. I nodded, tossing my empty can in the trash. “Couch is all yours,” he told John. “Speaking of which, I think I’m gonna turn in for the night.” My father stood.
“I think I’ll stay out here a bit longer. I’m too comfy to move,” I laughed.
“Alright then. Don’t set the yard alight,” he told me before turning to wave to Johnny.
The back door clicked shut as he stepped inside. I grabbed the blanket dangling around my shoulders and tugged it tighter around my body. Johnny stood up, moving to sit next to me. I smiled at him.
“How’s college?” He asked, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket.
“Not too bad. My apartment's total shit though,” I sighed.
“Is that why you stay here?”
“Only on the weekends. At least I don’t have to deal with black mold.”
A silence grew between us. He smiled at me, blue eyes settling onto my bundled body. I could feel my heart racing every time his gaze met mine. I felt like a kid again, like I had a schoolyard crush. Gritting my teeth, I looked away, hoping the blush rising to my cheeks wasn’t too visible.
“You want the last beer?” He asked, pulling the can out of the case.
“You can have it.”
“Why don’t we split it?” He cracked the tab open. He brought the can to his lips and took a swig before handing it to me. My stomach bubbled as I took a sip from the can.
“What about you? How’s…retirement?” I asked. He chuckled, flashing a smile.
“A lot of reading, something I never expected from myself.”
“You and I both.” I smiled.
I stood, being mindful as to not drag my blanket through the fire. With the beer firmly clutched into my hand, I walked toward the trampoline at the back of the yard. Johnny, with one eyebrow quirked, followed behind me.
“Hold this,” I said, handing the can to him. I pushed myself up onto the trampoline. He followed behind. The springs creaked under the weight of us both.
“What are we doing here?” He asked, bringing the can to his lips.
“Drinking. It’s more fun when you’re on a trampoline,” I explained. He nodded, handing me the can. He crossed his arms behind his head and laid down, blue eyes locked onto me. I took a bigger sip than I meant, hoping to quell the nerves in my stomach. I shook the can. The last drops rattled against the aluminum. I tipped the can back, downing the remnants. With a small thud, I set the tin down on the edge of the trampoline.
Johnny's blue eyes settled onto me, watching as I lay down next to him. I kept my distance as the anxiety in my gut turned to nausea. I felt my face burning as I noticed his gaze from the corner of my eyes. Turning to face him, I couldn’t help but notice how he looked in the dim lighting. The moonlight illuminated the flecks of silver in his beard.
He leaned closer, placing his hand on my back. I could hear the pounding rhythm of my heart in my eardrums. His hot breath wafted over my skin, smelling of beer and chocolate. His beard tickled my skin as he pressed his lips to mine.
He pulled away abruptly, eyes widening as if he just realized what he’d done.
“Fuck- I’m sorry I didn’t mean-” he sat on his shins.
“Johnny,” I cut him off, sitting up to look at him. “Kiss me again.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“I don’t want to do something you’d regret,” he shook his head.
“Regret? Trust me, I want this too,” I confessed. His teeth sank into his bottom lip, blue eyes flicking down my body. He leaned in, running his hands up my sides as he kissed me.
I hooked my arms around the back of his neck, keeping him close to me as our lips moved against each other.
“You can’t tell your father about this,” Johnny mumbled against my lips. A muffled moan slipped from my lips. That single noise seemed to ignite something in him. Soon enough, I was on my back with the Scot hovering above me. His hands moved down my waist and to my thighs. He squeezed my thighs in his palms, grunting as he hooked my legs over his waist.
I could feel his cock stiffening from within his jeans. My head spun, thoughts being drowned out by the feeling of his calloused hands on my body.
“Can I take these off?” He asked, tugging at my shorts.
“Yeah,” I nodded, lifting my hips as he eased the fabric over my ass. He groaned, pushing my knees apart. His lips trailed soft kisses up the inside of my thighs. My head spun as he inched closer and closer to my core. His blue eyes locked onto my face, skimming for any hint of hesitancy.
He licked a stripe up my core, groaning as he tasted me. I clamped my hand over my mouth, quelling the noises rising from my lungs. He threw my legs over his shoulders, burying his face in my cunt. His tongue flicked against my clit. I ran my fingers through his hair, tugging him closer to my core.
He looked up at me, mustache glistening with my fluids. His eyes deepened to a navy blue as his pupils dilated. A deep blush settled on his cheeks. I couldn’t help but whine as he stared at me with those half-lidded eyes. His arousal was consuming him as he stayed put between my legs.
I felt two of his fingers circling my entrance, soaked in a mix of his saliva and my wetness. He pushed his fingers inside of me, giving my clit extra attention. His lips wrapped around my clit and he sucked gently. My eyes ached as they rolled into the back of my head. My thighs quivered, softly squeezing his head.
The tips of his fingers curled forward, brushing against my nerves with every thrust. I rocked my hips against his face, whining against the palm of my hand. I knew I was close, I could feel it in the way my stomach tensed.
He pushed another finger into me, moaning against my cunt when I clenched around the digits. The vibrations sent a jolt of pleasure up my spine. My back arched up off of the trampoline.
My cunt seized around his fingers as I came. A crescendo of moans poured from my chest. My face contorted, grimacing as I lost myself on his face. The man beneath me grunted, pulling back to watch as I went limp.
“You feelin’ okay?” He asked, curling up by my side. His arms wrapped around my body, tugging me into his warm embrace.
“I’ve never gotten head that good,” I spoke through panting breaths.
“Thanks for inflating my ego,” he chuckled. “You did so good for me.” He kissed along my jawline. I turned onto my side, facing the Scot. I cradled his face in my hands. His beard tickled my palms.
“I want to ride you,” I spoke, looking down at his plush lips. A breathy moan escaped his mouth. He leaned in, mashing his lips against mine. He gripped my hips tightly and pulled me onto his lap. Our lips didn’t break. I ground my hips against him, earring a groan from him. His hands moved to my ass, kneading my flesh.
“I need to feel you,” he spoke against my lips. I felt myself clench around nothing. His words had that much of an impact on me. Pulling back, I quickly undid his belt before moving to the button on his jeans. Johnny helped me, quickly shoving the denim down his thighs, just enough for his cock to spring free.
I spat into my hand before bringing it to his shaft. He was hot to the touch and flush at the tip. I stroked my hand up and down his cock, spreading the moisture of my saliva.
“Please-” he moaned, fingers digging into my skin.
I hovered over him, guiding his cock to my entrance with my hand. I watched his face contort as I slowly sunk down on his length. An immense pressure built in my stomach as he filled me up. Inch by inch I took him inside of me until I bottomed out.
When I looked back down at him, his face was bright red. His lips parted, and his chest heaved as he panted under me.
“So tight, come on, relax for me.” He groaned, bringing his thumb to my clit. He rubbed small circles into my skin, encouraging me to open up. I clenched my jaw, head spinning as I rose. He kept his hand steady on my ass as I bounced on him. The trampoline shifted under us, making each stroke that much more intense.
“Fuck, that’s it, baby,” he cursed.
Tears welled in my eyes. I leaned forward, shifting part of my weight onto my hands. My thighs quivered as the pleasure overtook me. I choked out a sob, only for his hand to quickly cover my face. My cunt squeezed his cock. I watched as his brows furrowed, eyes squeezing shut.
“Shit…did you just cum?” He asked, letting go of my face.
“Johnny, keep going,” I pleaded. I felt his cock twitch from inside me. His hands held me firmly, guiding me to ride him. He started with slow, deep movements. My hands stayed firmly planted on his chest. I could feel his heartbeat pounding under his sweaty skin.
As the haze from my orgasm lifted, I took control. My pace was faster, rougher than the one he’d set. His brows knitted.
He bucked up against me, hips meeting mine at every thrust. His cock hit deeper inside me, brushing a spot within me that had me seeing stars. I bit down on my lip, hard enough to draw bubbles of blood to the surface.
“I’m so close,” he sputtered.
“Johnny, cum in me,” I whined. He groaned, pulling my hips down roughly onto his cock. My body bounced with every thrust. My chest felt tight as if my ribs were squeezing the air out of my lungs. With a choked-out sob and heaving breaths, I came on his cock.
He moaned, feeling me cum around him. His hips stuttered as he came inside of me. I collapsed onto his chest. His arms wrapped around my waist, keeping me still as I came down from my high.
I felt sticky and absolutely disgusting. My hair stuck to my forehead, damp with sweat. With a grunt, I pulled off of him, laying down by his side. His spent cock rested against his stomach.
Our breaths drew quiet, only the sound of chirping crickets broke the silence that fell between us. I closed my eyes, basking in the warmth of his embrace. I wanted to pull the blanket over the both of us and fall asleep in his arms, but I knew we’d get caught in the morning.
It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?
✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | [ 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?
It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity.
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. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t 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 it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 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 you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve 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 it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony.
After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s 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.
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 you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.
After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t 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 didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it.
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 you’d 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. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised 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 you’re 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.
You’re 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 can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s 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 they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.
Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t 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 you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way.
And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re 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 wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.
You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.
Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s 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 you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t 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 that’s 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 you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s 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 one’s 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 won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.
The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t 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 anchor’s 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.
It’s the kind of name you’d 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 TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.
He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s 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. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s 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. There’s 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 he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.
You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty 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 didn’t have to be war heroes.
As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything.
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.
You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad 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 quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark.
He’s 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 sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.
It’s 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.
His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re 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 that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.
Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t 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 disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s 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 letter—
—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter?
…
You decide to send him a letter.
It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.
It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness.
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 don’t care to name—excitement, 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 crackle—thin, 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.
For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him?
You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.
You press the pen to the paper.
‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’
A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s 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. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).
You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve 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 won’t 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, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s 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 ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.
Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll 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. It’s 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 still…
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, you’re 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. It’s chilling how easy it is.
The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not 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 you’d 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 arm’s 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. There’s 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, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago.
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 reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.
At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—
BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – 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 doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:
“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”
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 haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet.
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 you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re 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 videogame—thick 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 to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— 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, you’re sure your life couldn’t 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.
It doesn’t.
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.
By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s 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 hadn’t 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.
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 don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s 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.
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 job—but 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.
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 you’re forced to swallow.
You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.
But you’re 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.
You’re 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.
Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t 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 can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.
Your eyes flick back to him.
He hasn’t 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 his—an 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. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.
Just silen—
“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”
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 it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.
Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s 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.
You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.
He fills the room—dominates it—far 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.
He’s 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 didn’t.
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 ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.
His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s 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. He’s 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.
It’s 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 you’re drowning, and he’s 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 he’s 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 doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.
All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d 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 didn’t hear him come in.
You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure.
It’s addicting.
Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.
“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s 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. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”
He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.
“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”
The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends 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.
“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.
“Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”
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 he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.
“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”
You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s 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 lonely—that desperate?
“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”
Yeah. You were that desperate.
You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”
He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”
You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“I have,” 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. “Won’t be as good as her.”
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 moment’s 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.
He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.
“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants. “Ever felt a cock that big before?”
“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”
He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes.
“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”
You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.
He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re 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 they’ll 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.
“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t 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 you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s 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.
“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”
Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before. “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.
“Don't know? Please,” 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. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs.
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.
“Whinin’ already?” 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. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you.
“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.”
“Yes,” 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. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”
He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”
“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”
“Good fuckin’ whore,” 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. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”
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.
He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”
Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d 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. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like 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. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering. “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”
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 you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..
He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”
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 can’t 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.
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.
"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s 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.
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 he’d be willing to let you swallow.
“What’d y’want?”
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, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?
“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”
“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”
“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.
“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”
“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.
“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”
“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.
He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.”
You could slap him.
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.
“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”
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.
“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”
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.
“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”
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. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him.
He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts, “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t 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.
“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” 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.
“Ghost,” 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 could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long.
He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” 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. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.
“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,
“Say it.”
“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”
“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”
“Atta fuckin’ girl,” 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.
“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” 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. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”
You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”
You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”
At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure.
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.
The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” 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.
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.
“Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” 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.
“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls..
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 don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried.
Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house.
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. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”
“for a first-timer.”
A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.
He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”
You don’t 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.
“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”
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. “You expectin’ anyone?”
You shake your head. “No.”
His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.
“I’ll get it,” 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 there’s 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. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”
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.
“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”
The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”
You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”
They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.
“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”
“Will do,” 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.
“Simon—” 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 him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.
ghost x f!reader. 17k words.
cw: noncon. kidnapping. gun violence. free use. smut. mentions of involuntary groinal responses lol. simon is a smug asshole and reader is into it
you get robbed at gun point while working the lone register at a nowhere petrol station. the money in the till is not the only thing he takes with him.
or [read on ao3]
Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, so they say.
The devil should have been busy with you, then. Malignant boredom had taken root in you, rankled in every crevice and swell, metastasized like knobbly tumours that parasitised on your will to live until only the grit was left.
You began your shift behind the till at the Gulf station in the late afternoon, shy of four p.m., as you had done yesterday and as you would tomorrow. You took over from Mitchell, who worked the morning shift, the old man with a wiry grey beard and eyebrow hairs like corkscrews sticking haywire out of his forehead. You’d work until midnight, when you would be replaced by Charlie, a pinguid twenty-something with legs like beanpoles and eyes so sunken they were hollow as caves in his skull.
They had been your co-workers for the better part of three years, yet they might as well have been strangers to you. The scant exchanges you would share with them were a few words at shift change, if that. Mitch would prattle on about some rude geezer and tell the same story about his ex-wife that he had every other week. Charlie, bedecked in his cheap headphones and carrying an egg sandwich cling-wrapped by his grandmother, would only give you a nod and ask been busy? with little attention paid to your answer.
You had been offered the morning shift when you first started.
The owner of the franchise station, Dave, was uneasy about the prospect of a ripe (his word) young woman working alone behind the register after dark, at a nowhere white-pole station in the sticks, where the only customers were long-haulers and on-the-way-home farmers. A just concern, you supposed, and a part of you had considered taking him up on his offer.
You refused, in the end.
Told him that someone like Mitch (frail, near-blind, on the cusp of Alzheimer’s) would far more likely be victimised by the ilk of patrons that trudged through the station. In your experience, anyway, most of the late-night customers that came through the push-door understood the implication of a burly old man being served by a young woman on her own. They’d tread more carefully, offer you kind smiles, sometimes mention their wives to make sure you understood they were not a threat to you.
There was always the odd lecher, though. Goes without saying.
The kinds of yellow-toothed men that would lean too far over the counter, talk to you like they knew you, overly familiar. The type to ask you to smile for them, or for a discount, or for your number. Ones that would joke about coming back, just to visit you. That would say you’re too pretty to be working in a dump like this, you should be in a bar instead. Maybe on a pole. Maybe in the passenger seat of their truck, to keep them company.
It never frightened you, really, because nothing ever happened. You stuck with the late shift because it offered the fanciful possibility that something interesting might come to pass. Maybe, if you were lucky, there would be a car wreck outside the station, or a patron threatening enough to justify hitting the panic button, or a fire set off by the fuel pump and you’d finally be able to put the ten-year-old extinguisher to use.
But you were confident that every shift would be the same, as always.
Nothing would happen, you would drive home to your shoddy seventies cottage in the pit-stop hamlet of Dunhill, eat a frozen pastry, sleep alone, and do it all over again. Days came and went like empty boxes on a trundling conveyor belt, your life a deserted factory, only still whirring because the last attendant forgot to switch off the machinery when they left.
Today was no different.
You perused the grocery shelves with cheap earbuds stuffed in your ears, the kind with squishy mushroom plugs that made it sound like you were underwater. Shuffling through the same playlist you had been slowly adding to over the last year — you liked the songs you already knew every word to, creature of habit that you were. Busied yourself by twisting the canned foods so that their labels all faced outwards, then backwards, just for a laugh.
It got to half-nine, the sun had long since set, and you had served one customer since your shift started. A middle-aged man with a muddy van, who bought three RedBulls, a pack of Chesterfields, and half a tank of diesel. He scarcely acknowledged you, a hi when he walked in and a cheers when he left.
Your meal for the evening was a pack of Walkers salt and vinegar crisps and a bottle of chocolate milk, plucked from the shelves and not logged. Leaned back in the plastic chair behind the till with your Chucks propped up on the counter, some Sally Rooney book with its spine broken folded in half in your hand.
You had milk in your mouth when you heard the characteristic thud of a closing car door, a harsher slam than you were used to. Attuned to the noise even while your ears were plugged. You swallowed it hard when you heard the chime of the bell, the swing of the door, the thuds of boots. New customer.
Sat upright, you peered over the register to see who had entered the station, and you were flummoxed when there was nobody there.
You grabbed your earbuds by the flimsy cord and tugged them from your ears with a pop — there were footsteps, someone was there, you weren’t crazy. You could hear the sound of provisions being swept from shelves and shoved into a bag, the bonking of cans and the crinkling of plastic.
Only once you stood did you see the head above the shelves.
Black hood pulled up. Could only see the side of him as he wandered down the aisle, towering beast shuffling along and torpidly picking things up just to put them down again. A foot taller than the racks he meandered between. Wore a black leather bomber over his hooded sweater, well-worn hide, turned tawny brown in the creases and at the edges. All bulky. Padded up. His shoulders swayed with the bravado of a gladiator who spent his life unchallenged.
Had you any remaining hospitality in your system you’d have greeted him, but you circumspectly held your tongue.
There was something in his presence that did not augur well. Something crooked, something bent. Turned the tired air inside the station dyspneic, too dense and thick to comfortably breathe.
Call it a woman’s intuition, if you believed in such a thing.
Simon hadn’t accounted for a bird at the till.
He’d have expected some ruddy-cheeked man with buck teeth and brown-bordered sweat stains on his shirt. The typical clerk at a shithole backroads petrol station, in his experience. They’d shoot him a grimy look, eye him up-and-down with a curl in their lip, all ruffian until he brandished the Sig Sauer he had tucked in the waistband of his jeans.
That was what he had prepared for. He came to stick the gunmetal barrel in the face of the old bloke behind the register, demand every stack of cash from the till drawer and anything valuable he had on his person, maybe fire at the ceiling if he moved too slowly. Piece of cake. In and out.
Instead, it was you.
Sneakers propped up by the register, sucking the crisp dust off your fingers with glossy lips. Reading a book as disinterestedly as you might watching paint dry.
Unluckily for you, it didn’t make a difference that you had a pair of tits. He wanted that money.
Your chary little head poked up from behind the counter once he was done collecting his supplies. A few cans of Baked Beans, couple bags of crisps, some vacuum-sealed biersticks. A roll of gauze and a bottle of Dettol for the flesh wound in his thigh. Pack of tissues. Bic lighter. KitKat for a treat. All shoved in the duffle bag he held in his fist, heavy with the wads of cash he had already collected from the last pit-stop on his trip north — an offy in a piss-stained back alley in Cheltenham. Grabbed a few pilsners for the road from there, too.
He forsook his urgency as he approached the register, measured pace, duffle in hand. Eyeing you up with each step as if you were a candybar on a display rack.
Pretty wee thing.
He hadn’t even shown you his gun yet, and your eyes were already peeled wide, glistening in the bright fluorescent lights hanging overhead.
None of the goods he intended to pay for. He didn’t need to make that any clearer to you, the assumption was already plastered on your face as he loomed towards you. Had his mask on, after all; thick black ski mask pulled over his head, jagged holes cut out for his eyes. No doubt that made quite plain his intentions.
You stood pin straight, curling the purple cord of your earbuds between your fingers as if some attempt to ground yourself. Not a drop of makeup on, he could see the satin sheen of sweat on your forehead, the plum rings unconcealed under your eyes. Nobody to impress out here. Still pretty.
“Um, which pump?” You asked flatly, tone meek, in denial of the obvious.
Your stupefied stare followed his hand as it ventured to the base of his sweatshirt, a frown fluttering in your brow as you all but tilted your head in nervous confusion. He reeled up the heavy fleece, white t-shirt underneath — but that wasn’t what your eyes clung to.
His hand curled around the grip of his handgun, plucking it out from the waistband and holding it insouciantly at his side. No need to point it at you, not yet.
Your skin turned cadaver grey as your blood flooded to your feet, eyes bulging with the instantaneous panic that wracked you as though you had been smacked in the face with it.
“Oh my god — ohm — oh my god,” you squeaked, tongue knotting in your mouth, tears quick to well. “Oh my god — y-you—”
It was this, the histrionics, that he hoped to avoid. The tears, Christ, the fucking tears. There wasn’t anything to cry about, not yet, but your rheumy eyes glowed sanguine, and the tears that oozed from them were clear and glittery. Rolled dramatically from their wells and dripped from your chin, seeped into the corners of your trembling mouth. All flushed and glossy and he hadn’t even spoken yet.
There was no blood-curdling outburst, though. You didn’t scream, didn’t wail, didn't scurry around hysterically like a decollated hen. You were stiff as a board, arms pinned flat to your sides. Merely whispered the Lord’s name in vain over and over as if he might answer your call.
“Please — ohmygod — please don’t hurt me,” you cried, lungs seizing with every word, hiccuping and spluttering like you had just been pulled ashore. “What do you want, you can — you can take anything. P-please—”
“Shut up,” he barked, and you flinched at his aggression. “Just open the fuckin’ till.”
You nodded so vehemently he thought your head might roll off your shoulders, and your pallid hands began raking over your body in desperate search of the pocket you kept your keys in. His glare followed keenly as they ran over your hips, waist, unabashedly caressing your arse in the search. After finding them in a back pocket you tried to orient the keys in your grip, but your fingers trembled so vigorously that you immediately dropped them to the linoleum floor.
“Fuck — I’m sorry,” you bleated as you bent down to pick them up, eyes still riveted to him, “I’m sorry, let me just — please, I’m sorry—”
He let out a grunt of exasperation as he marched around to the other side of the counter. Your feet remained planted still as though you were bolted to the floor, leery eyes following him while your head kept rigid.
A deer in headlights. Fawn, more like. Small and doe-eyed and too stupid to get out of his way.
You only whimpered when he jostled you away from the till, physically driving you to the wall with his hands under your arms, clearing his path. He took your shaky little hand in a fist and peeled it open, plucking the keys from your sweaty palm.
The register was old, something from the nineties, yellow-faded plastic with cube-clacky buttons. He shoved the tiny key into its slot on the drawer, gave it a good shimmy to loosen it up, and it popped open with a ding.
Pretty much empty.
“The fuck is this?” He growled, fingering through the notes in the drawer — all twenty-two of them. “There’s fuckin’ nothing in ‘ere!”
Your face screwed up like a wrung cloth when his glare shot to you. Great gulping sobs, your eyes squeezed into fleshy little crescents and spewed tears from either corner, terror rilling from your nose and making your lips all wet.
“I’m sorry — it’s not my — I think Mitch m-must have done the cash drop this morning,” you wailed, “Please — it’s not my f-f-fault!”
“Shut up,” he snapped, jutting the mouth of his Sig Sauer at you, callously reminding you of the fate he held in his grip.
He snarled to himself as he plucked out all of the notes, flipped through them to count it up. Nine fivers, six tenners, five twenties, two fifties. A few quid worth of coins floating around unorganised between the compartments. A prodigious spoil of three-hundred-and-five pounds.
Fucking joke.
He rancorously shoved all the paper in the bag — left the coins, ego too tall to fish out the petty change.
“Piss take,” he grumbled as he slammed shut the till drawer. “What else y’got.”
You blinked up at him timorously as he tucked his gun into his jeans and marched towards you, almost buckling over as though you could curl up into a shell to protect yourself from him.
Only cried as he spread your arms, shamelessly smearing his hands over your body to feel for something in a pocket. Down your waist, stomach, hips; all pillowy under the pressure of his hands, soft even through your t-shirt. Prodded the undersides of your breasts with shameless fingers, checking for anything tucked in your bra, and your lips curled in disgust as you looked away from him.
He almost cracked a smile at your diffidence. Maybe another time, pretty thing.
He flipped you around, manhandling you until your nose pressed into the wall. Hands smoothed down your back, before finding something rectangular tucked into the tight pocket of your skinny jeans. You squeaked in dispute as he stuck his fingers in the pocket, flush with your arse, but he had no time to enjoy it.
Little red wallet.
He flicked through it — a visa debit card, expired Primark gift card, two quid in the zipped pocket and a tenner note folded in a card sleeve. Eyed your license for longer than necessary — cute little photo of you, a tiny smirk in your lips as you gazed at the camera.
“Pretty name,” he said wryly, and you only huffed with your forehead pressed against the wall.
He didn’t bother taking any of the change. Looked like you needed it as much as he did. You winced when he pushed a finger in your back pocket, tugging it open so he could shove your wallet back in.
He instead returned his attention to the checkout, scouring the counters for anything else that could be deemed at all valuable. Nothing, obviously. Merely cardboard display racks of chewing gum and cheap candies. There was a cigarette cabinet behind the till, at least — after some fiddling he found the key on the ring that fit the lock, broke open the steel door, and swept an entire rack of cartons into the duffle bag.
As a last resort, he dropped the bag and crouched down, wiped underneath the countertops with gloved hands, hoping for a vault, a hidden compartment, or—
His fingers brushed plastic, creasing and soft; something wrapped in film, taped to the underside of the counter. He tore it off with a zip, held it in a tight hand; a stack of notes, more than a centimetre thick, wrapped with a hair tie and shoved in a zip-seal sandwich bag.
You let out a remorseful sob as you sunk to the floor with your back against the wall; thighs tucked to your chest, head dropped to your knees.
A grin peeled his lips from his teeth as the realisation settled. “This yours?”
“No,” you chirped, a pitiful attempt at a lie — he was unsure why you wouldn’t admit to it, it wasn’t as though he’d have informed your boss.
“Skimming, eh?” He snorted, peeling open the yellow seam of the plastic pouch and fishing out the stack. Flipped through them — mostly tens and twenties — easily a couple grand, at the very least.
“I just—” you sobbed, shoulders hunched, “I was just saving up. It doesn’t matter. Just t-take it.”
“Saving?” He asked incredulously, voice thick with amused derision. “Little thief. No better than me, are ya?”
“Whatever,” you bellyached, arms wrapped around your knees, snivelling on the floor.
He sucked his teeth as he dumped the stack in his bag. Too bad. His now.
As he went to stand, though, he went dead still — eyes hooked on a flashing blue light under the counter. Squinting, he leaned closer, to substantiate his hunch—
A fucking panic button.
His rage burst like a purulent blister — apoplectic with it, he ripped his handgun from his jeans and steamed towards you.
“You fuckin’ hit the alarm?” He roared, and you shrieked in terror as he took the collar of your t-shirt in a fist and heaved you up from the ground.
“I — I’m — I didn’t—”
Your spluttering only enkindled his fury. You cried out in despairing dread when he shoved the mouth of his pistol into the soft flesh under your chin, and he held his teeth to your cheek.
“Why the fuck would you go and do that, eh?” He growled, inexplicably disappointed. Thought you were smarter than that.
“I’m sorry,” you bawled, shaking your head, wet eyes bolted to the ceiling. “I didn’t know what to do, I just — I thought I was s’posed to, I’m s-sorry. Please — god, please, don’t kill me.”
He huffed, jaw rigid.
He wouldn’t put a bullet in you, pretty thing. Too lovely to mire with lead, that butter-soft skin.
It was a shame you were such a thorn in his side, fractious girl, because otherwise he would have just left you be. Would have taken his cash and been done with it, left you in your piss-wet jeans to cry to your boss about the ordeal and rightfully request some weeks off to escape to somewhere more therapeutic for the soul than fucking Dunhill.
“Would be a damn waste,” he grunted, finally pulling his gun from under your chin, sticking the barrel into his jeans. A moan of relief leaked from your throat once the instrument of your imminent death was no longer kissing your jaw.
Premature relief, love. He grappled you away from the wall, and with a shove, had you in front of him. You yelped when he collared you with a tight hand around the back of your neck, stumbled over your feet as he began driving you forward.
“What are you—”
“Use those legs, girl,” he barked, as he reached to hoist up his duffle bag from where he left it on the floor.
You blubbered like a toddler, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, as if your tears might engender pity from him. “Are you t-taking me?”
“Not gonna leave you to blab to the cops, am I?”
Another sob. “No — I wouldn’t — I won’t say anything, I don’t even know what you look like. Please—”
“Christ, you’re a whinger, aren’t you?” He rumbled, barrelling through the swinging door and hauling you across the asphalt of the forecourt.
The air was thick with the greasy smell of petrol seeping from lousy fuel pumps, amalgamated with the distant fumes of factory farms and cow manure that hung in a blanketing smog from there to Birmingham. Only the corrugated metal infrastructure of beef and dairy industries for miles in any direction out there.
He couldn’t fathom what a bird like you was doing with her feet in the mud, stagnating in such a miserable shithole. Maybe he was doing you a favour.
He tore open the passenger door of his twenty-year-old Mitsubishi L200 — a rusty black pickup he bought with cash from a shrivelled old man on Gumtree, with hopefully just enough life in it to last the drive north.
You stuck your hand out and planted it on the edge of the door as he pushed you towards it, vigorously shaking your head. “No, n-no — I’m not going with you, I’m not—”
He snorted, and when you didn’t capitulate with a shove, he swept an arm under your knees and hoisted you upward before dumping you into the passenger seat whether you liked it or not. You landed with a squeak, and before you could spew out any more vacant refusals he slammed shut the door.
He stormed around to the drivers side and hopped in beside you, tossing his duffle bag back between the seats, hastily igniting the engine as he shut his own door. Hit the central lock button and the entire truck locked shut with a clunk — you whimpered when you heard it, and turned your knees away from him.
“Where are you taking me?” You cried, as he revved the truck and rapidly accelerated, tearing out of the forecourt and over the curb, landing on the road with a sharp bounce and a tire screech.
He paid little attention to your whimpering as he sped off down the dilapidated country road, eyes flicking to the rearview every odd second to make sure he saw no flashing lights in pursuit. The vehicle dipped and recoiled over every pothole on the crumbling old road — motorway would be preferable, but he decided heading in the opposite direction to loop back around would be the safest bet.
You only sobbed quietly to yourself in his silence, no doubt his lack of response was a threat in itself.
He had no issue frightening you. Served you right.
Took some morbid glee in considering what you imagined he planned on doing with you. Whether you considered weighing up your chances. Might you survive if you were to attack him? Would he go easy on you? Might he enjoy the struggle?
Perhaps you were girding yourself for what he might do next.
Truth was, he hadn’t decided yet.
His decision to take you was as impulsive as it was inexorable.
You weeped until your tear troughs were droughted and nothing more could bleed from their ducts. Cheeks had gone sticky with it, salt dried gritty on your flushed skin, lips shrivelled and thirsty.
Transient thoughts of rebellion had been ignited and snuffed out in the ten minutes since he had abducted you from the station — you could have reached over and pulled the gun from his waistband, could have tried to kick through the passenger window, could have thrown a nuclear tantrum and bucked and screamed until he was forced to pull over.
All would have been futile. You weren’t stupid.
He had that gun in his immediate reach; in fact he kept a heavy hand resting high up on his thigh, prepared to yank it out of its nest above his crotch at any given opportunity. He had made abundantly clear the shortness of his fuse, and that his reflexive reaction to annoyance was to threaten your life.
Best you settle down, you thought — wait until his guard was down, until he pulled over somewhere, then consider something more drastic. While you were trapped in a car with him such an opportunity was unlikely to present itself.
There were no streetlights out this way; your abductor had bypassed Dunhill entirely, sticking to unmaintained back roads that had you bouncing up and down in your seat. Not the motion alone that made you queasy, but the fact he was driving even deeper into nowhere, where the only sources of light were the headlights of his truck, illuminating the dark road ahead like something out of a found-footage horror film.
“You didn’t answer my question,” you croaked, voice abraded to the point of gurgling stones.
You felt his head turn to look at you, but you kept your stare pointed out your window. Knees turned so far away from him that they burrowed into the door.
“Eh?” He huffed dryly.
Sipped a cautious breath before repeating yourself. “Where are you taking me?”
“I’m ‘eaded north,” he said, no elaboration.
“Where north,” you asked more firmly, warily frustrated.
He let out a breathy chortle, as though surprised you’d interrogate him. “Scotland.”
You cocked your head back in bewilderment and turned to glower at him. “Scotland?”
“S’what I said.”
“I don’t want to go to Scotland,” you whined, realising quickly the length of the drive — easily six hours to Glasgow if he stuck to the motorways, but you got the sense he was avoiding them.
“That’s a shame,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” you pleaded, terror thick in your throat. “What do you — what do you want from me?”
You regretted the question as soon as you uttered it, because there was some comfort to be found in uncertainty — that is, the possibility that he wasn’t going to throw you into the bed of his truck and rape you in the pitch dark of the backcountry night.
He looked at you again, eyes tar-black in the shadows of his balaclava, and you held shut your thighs on instinct.
“Dunno yet,” he said.
You might have cried if you had any tears left to give. Instead you blinked at him uneasily, petrified into a surreal state of milky numbness — maybe you were in shock, you had heard of that before.
“So you — you just took me because you felt like it?”
He shrugged with a single shoulder. “‘Spose so.”
A minute of stodgy silence settled in the cab as you stared blankly ahead down the spotlighted country road. You weren’t sure what you should do with yourself, and it made you itch all over. From the pits of you echoed screams to put up a fucking fight, to do something — instead you sat quietly, vacantly, erosively indecisive. Waiting for something to happen. For the other shoe to drop.
“Are you going to shoot me?” You timidly asked, words eking out like dripping water from a tight faucet.
“Hopefully not.”
“Then — then why did you take me?”
His head rocked back and bounced off the headrest as he let out an exasperated puff of air. “Y’make a lot o’ noise, don’t you?”
“Well there would be no noise if you hadn’t.”
He laughed at that, you could see the fine lines creasing in the corner of his puckering eyes through his mask. “Got me there.”
“So then why don’t you just let me out?” You pestered, only emboldened by his droning indifference. Apathy exuded from him like serum from an open wound, oily yet salutary, and you found it grotesquely reassuring.
“Don’t want to,” he bluntly replied.
“Why not?”
He was twitchy. On a razor edge. He lasered a glare at you and it stung, and you shrunk into yourself under the heat of it.
“Because I don’t want to.” He repeated, jaw tight.
You should have heeded the venom in his throat as a warning to shut up, but despite effort to wire your jaw shut, your compulsion to fill the silence was pathological.
“Are you — are you going to—” Couldn’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. The tail of it sat heavy and sour on your tongue.
“Goin’ to what.”
A quivering breath leaked through your teeth. “Rape me.”
He sighed heavily, languidly rocking his head to the side, and you felt his hard eyes on you. Excoriating you from legs to lips.
“Thought about it,” he said.
Ribs closed like dog jaws around your lungs.
Said with such torpor that it didn’t cut you like a threat. Instead it made your heart tight and hot, shuddering rather than beating, pumping out needly adrenaline that made your hairs spike up and your stomach drop heavy.
“And?” You creaked, voice scratching in your trachea.
“Wouldn’t mind a fuck,” he grunted indifferently. “But I don’t like crying.”
A mortifying heat feathered over your cheeks. Something pre-programmed, an evolutionary reaction to the suggestion of sex at all, consensual or otherwise — that’s what you told yourself, when you felt a reflexive shiver between your legs, and your ears turned hot.
“So that’s why you took me,” you mumbled anxiously.
“To fuck?”
You shot him a pointed lour in place of a response.
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
Fucking weird girl.
Your curiosity was potently unsettling, riveting in the same breath. Didn’t make sense to him, that you’d ask him so unabashedly whether or not he intended on defiling you. What answer were you hoping for? Did you simply want to make sure he said no?
You blinked at him vacantly after his candid response. No use in lying to you.
It wasn’t his style to brutalise himself into a bird, to bulldoze through wails and shrieks of refusal, physical capability to do so notwithstanding. He simply didn’t like tears. Felt beneath him, really, the impotent sadism needed to enjoy milking them. The only wetness he liked in a girl was a wet mouth and a wet cunt.
He was partial to a hisser, though. Liked his spitters and scratchers. The kinds of girls that would gripe and grouse about his brutishness but turned treacly sweet when he inevitably overpowered them.
Perhaps you’d be a hisser.
He would have liked to find out. What noises you might have made. What the skin of your thighs might have felt like when free of their denim sheaths. How your nipples might spike up in the invasive cool of the September evening, or under the unwelcome brush of his fingers.
There was a glimmer in the pools of your eyes, fretful yet inquisitive. He was probably only seeing what he wanted to see.
You went quiet after that, at least. For the best. Kept your little knees nailed together as you glowered out your passenger window, pleasantly pacified for the time being. Sulking like a fucking child, but he supposed he couldn’t blame you.
He wasn’t stupid enough to expect that you’d be cheerful after he kidnapped you. And he wasn’t in denial, either — he did kidnap you. There was no dancing around it. He threatened to kill you and then he abducted you, because he felt like it. Because he liked the look of you.
Not remorseful, though. It would be a cold day in hell before he ever felt sorry for anything. His brain just didn’t function that way. If he wanted something, it was his. No use wasting time feeling guilt over something not even he could prevent.
He spent his time in your silence considering how to make it worth his while. Whether he would, in fact, drag you all the way to Scotland with him. Whether he’d have you aid and abet his next robbery to make up for the piss-poor spoils he purloined from your petrol station. Whether he would find a way to fuck you on the way, or perhaps once he got to his destination.
Maybe he’d let you keep some of your savings if you showed him your pussy. He looked at you briefly as he thought about it. Wondered how badly you needed the money.
“What were you savin’ for, eh?” He asked suddenly, and you flinched at the sound of his voice.
Soft little girl. He’d need to harden you up.
“What do you mean,” you murmured, hardly a croak.
“Don’t play dumb,” he gritted.
You sighed warily, eyeing him before you answered. “Doesn’t even matter,” you grumbled. “You took it, so now I haven’t saved anything.”
He glowered at you, and something in his dissatisfied stare must have compelled you to elaborate. He had that effect on people. Birds, especially. Intimidation coursed through his blood and emanated out of his skin, it didn’t take much effort.
“I wanted to leave Dunhill, obviously,” you groaned, reluctant to spill every word.
“Yeah?” He asked, “where were y’off to?”
“Fucked if I know,” you muttered. “Literally anywhere else.”
He snorted at that. “Couldn’t do that without skimming, eh?”
“What, do you disapprove?” You hissed, scowling at him. “At least I don’t kidnap people when I need money.”
“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” he crooned through a grin. “M’only impressed.”
“Whatever,” you groused, crossing your arms and glaring out the window. “I only took it because I owe a bunch of money.”
He quirked a brow at that. “To who?”
“Why do you care.”
He shrugged. “Boring drive.”
You let out a petulant huff before you inevitably decided to answer him.
“I’m behind on rent,” you said, through gritted teeth. “Like, four months behind. And I’m still paying off my car, which I just needed to get repaired, so now I also owe money to the mechanic who did me the favour. Fucking owe money to the government, too, because they found out I was on the dole while I was working at the station.”
A curl tugged in his lips, brows raised in intrigue. No surprise you had managed to find yourself burdened by so many favours — landlord giving you grace, mechanics fixing your cars without payment upfront. Pretty thing like you, though, he’d expect you’d get everything for free. Couldn’t imagine what kind of penny-pinching wankers would still demand money from you when you looked like that.
Shame you didn’t cross his path sooner, he’d have fixed your car for you. No charge. Might have even let you squat at his place rent-free, assuming you made it worth his while.
Started to imagine it, despite himself. Pictured having a pretty thing like you to come home to. Standing in the kitchen in his t-shirt, nothing under it. He’d bend you over the counter and fuck you right there while you stirred your tea. Wouldn’t have taken much to get your cunt nice and wet, he thought. You seemed like you’d be easy to please, bored little thing, hopelessly awaiting a man like him to show you what’s worth living for.
Maybe he would take you all the way to Scotland, after all.
“What about you,” you asked dully, snapping him from his reverie. “Why do you need the money.”
He glanced at you, you picked at your fingernails and glared at his hands on the wheel.
“Must need it pretty bad,” you muttered, scorn bubbling in your throat.
He tapped the steering wheel. “Long story.”
“What, are you a fugitive, or something?” You asked, contemptuous eyes raking over him.
“Is it that obvious?” He asked, through a chortle.
You gulped, almost cartoonishly. So scared of him. He was sure the mask didn’t help, but he didn’t feel like taking it off yet.
“What’d you do?” You questioned, that pang of anxiousness never quite leaving your voice, despite your attempts at feigning bravery. “Kill someone?”
“Worse than that,” he said frankly.
Your brows knitted together worriedly, fingers knotting. Nervous fidgeting. “Some kind of rapist, then?”
“Not quite,” he replied facetiously, certain you must have found his amusement at the prospect ill-placed.
“Then what?”
“Got in trouble with people you shouldn’t get in trouble with,” he explained, purposefully vague. He enjoyed your inquisitiveness.
“A gang?”
“Could call it that,” he jeered. “Special air service.”
Probably shouldn’t have told you that. Couldn’t help himself.
“Special — wait, you’re in the army?”
“Not anymore,” he said.
You frowned uneasily. “What happened?”
“That’s a tale for another day,” he grunted, and you turned to glare out the window again, spiteful now that he left your curiosity unsated. Little brat.
Twenty uneventful minutes passed uninterrupted, then, and Simon focused on the route he had set out to follow. He had successfully avoided main roads for the better part of an hour, now electing it safe enough to return to the highway. Took a few dark turn offs, and every time the truck slowed, you visibly tensed up; so terrified that he’d pull over for a rest stop and drag you into the grass on the side of the road.
He didn’t like the streetlights. They were confrontational, accusatory, as though their beams of light were enough to alert every cop in the vicinity to his presence underneath them.
The highway was largely empty, at least. Only one car passed in the opposite direction as he cruised along the smooth asphalt, decidedly more comfortable to drive on than the tattered backroads. Meant he could drive a lot faster, too. Might have been able to cut his trip by an hour, if he stuck to eighty-five miles an hour for the stretch between there and Birmingham.
Your girlish little hands clutched the armrest of the door as he accelerated, the speed of the vehicle pushing you against the window as he followed a curve in the wide road.
“You’re driving too fast,” you said quietly.
He cracked a grin. How endearing that you thought to warn him. You were lucky he was trying to keep a low profile, in any other circumstance he’d be brushing a hundred. Then he’d really scare you, wouldn’t he? You could do with some toughening up, he thought.
“Now you’re worried about the law, eh?” He sneered.
“I just don’t want to die in a car wreck,” you bit.
Seemed his docility was emboldening you. Perhaps you were a hisser, after all. Wondered if he needed to correct your behaviour. Maybe you’d spit on him if he reached over the centre console and fixed his hand to your thigh.
“You’ll be fine,” he said.
He avoided the arterial motorway that cut through Birmingham, choosing instead to stick to the A roads that bounced between exits and junctions in a zigzag. Hardly efficient, such a route would tack on an extra three hours of travel between there and Manchester, but at least far less monitored than the M5.
He got cocky, he supposed.
Saw the flashing red-and-blue lights before the sirens started blaring, and you jumped like a bunny — your head wracked around with a speed that made your neck crick, glaring at the cop car through the back windscreen.
“Fuck,” he barked, through a clenched jaw, eyes jumping between the cruiser in his rearview and the highway ahead of him.
He could have shoved his foot down, pressed the accelerator flat to the floor and fled the likely jaded cop patrolling the country highway at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday. There was a chance the fat old bastard wouldn’t give chase, but that chance was slim. Simon didn’t need the attention.
He sunk his foot into the brake and slowed to sixty, veering into the shoulder. “Fuckin’ tosser.”
And didn’t you perk up? Itching all over to bounce out of your seat, head swinging back to look at the police car twice a second. All twitchy and riled up. He could see what you were thinking, it was printed in your cheeks, bright in your eyes; now’s your chance.
He hoped you weren’t that stupid.
“You gonna be a good girl?” He asked rigidly.
“What do you mean,” you squeaked, panicked, eyes peeled wide and skin glossy with sweat.
“Means keep your fuckin’ mouth shut,” he snapped, lifting up his jersey, and you gawped at the gun against his stomach. “You make a scene, I’ll have to shoot him. And then I’ll have to shoot you. Y’understand?”
You nodded tightly, wiping under your eyes with your palms, some paltry attempt to collect yourself. He sincerely hoped you’d behave. He didn’t want to kill you. Would be a waste of a pretty bird. Not to mention a fucking pain in the arse to hide not one, but two bodies.
“Good,” he muttered, as he tore off his mask and tossed it on the ground between his feet, slowing the car to a stop on the side of the highway. Rubbed his hand over his buzzed head on instinct, cropped hair velveteen under his palm. Hopeful the knit didn’t leave suspicious imprints in his skin.
Your lips went a little slack when you looked up to see him unmasked, and a grin creased in his cheeks. Saw plain as day that glimmer in your little eyes, as they scoured over his face as if reading the pages of a book.
Didn’t think he’d be pretty, did you? He was not ignorant of his looks, and wasn’t humble about them either. So blatant in your flustered expression that you liked what you saw, only too virtuous to admit it to yourself.
He wound down his window before the policeman approached. He was adept at pretending to be a good boy. Spent decades licking boots in the military, and cops were even easier to please.
The officer was middle-aged and saggy-eyed, just as jaded as Simon had predicted. The truck was taller than him, so his hatted head peered through the center of the open window, assessing the cab with his lips in a line.
“Evenin’,” Simon said simply.
“Heading home, are we?” The officer asked, eyeing up the bird next to the driver, lathering you in more attention than necessary.
Could’ve clubbed him in the nose for so shamelessly drooling over you — as far as the cop was likely aware, you were his bird, not some slapper along for the ride. He had king-hit men for less.
“You bet,” was all he said.
“Must be in a hurry,” the cop said derisively, glare finally returning to the driver. “Any clue how fast you were going, mate?”
Mate made Simon twitch. Swallowed back the urge to spit not your fucking mate, instead offering a placating grin and a pat of the steering wheel.
“We are in a bit of a hurry.”
“Yeah? Enough of a hurry to be going twenty over the limit?”
“Bird tells me to hurry home, I hurry home,” Simon jeered. “Y’know what I mean.”
The officer almost tutted, until your voice cut across from the passenger seat, and Simon’s knuckles turned white on the wheel.
“Don’t blame me,” you snapped. “It’s not my fault you can’t control yourself.”
To Simon’s surprise, the cop chuckled at that.
“Need to rein your fella in, love.”
“I tried,” you lamented. “I told him he was going too fast and he was going to get pulled over. I told him so. Bastard doesn’t listen to me.”
Simon blinked in your direction, to see you sitting upright with your arms spitefully crossed over your chest, cheeks red-hot with panic and knee bouncing in frustration. If he didn’t know the root of your unease was the fact he had abducted you, he’d have believed you were a contemptuous wife itching to castigate her reckless husband for getting in trouble.
Seemed the cop believed that, too. “Bird’s smarter than you, eh?”
Simon snorted, electing to play along. “That she is.”
“Looks like you’re in plenty of trouble, then,” he taunted.
Simon looked at you, again, to see you scowling at him before you glowered out the windshield. “Mh. Think so.”
“You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to do the paperwork,” the policeman said sternly. “I’ve got your plate, though, so slow down, yeah? Way down. No excuse for eighty-five in a sixty.”
“Understood.”
“Don’t let me catch you again, eh?”
Simon smiled politely, concealing the chortle that curdled in his throat. Cop wouldn’t be seeing him again at all, ever, because he was fucking off to a different country and intended to stay there for as long as he remained under the radar.
He’d have to dump the car, though. With the plate on the record it was fated for the scrapyard.
“Appreciate it,” Simon said through an artificial grin. “Have a good one.”
The cop only nodded, patted the car door with a flat hand, before waddling back to his cruiser without another word.
Simon was humiliated to admit the relief that doused him was sobering, letting out a ragged sigh as he rolled up the window and twisted the keys in the ignition. He was certain that the encounter would have been far uglier — felt his hand twitching towards the gun on his stomach more than once, imagined how quickly it could have been over if he simply tore it out and pointed it at the wanker’s forehead.
You, strange girl, saved his arse. Whether or not you had intended to help him, you did. His eyes fixed to you as he pulled back onto the motorway, speedometer creeping back up to sixty and staying there, while the police car was still in sight.
“‘Bastard doesn’t listen to me’?” He quoted with a brow raised, incredulous amusement rich in his tone.
“What,” you muttered derisively, staring rigidly out of the passenger window, arms tightly interlocked.
“Think of that on the spot, did ya?”
Seemed you were avoiding eye contact with him now, glare fastened out into the moonlit countryside and head bolted still. Ashamed, perhaps, that you had thwarted your only real opportunity to escape him. Or, worried that if you looked at him for too long, your fear of him might have mutated into something far more difficult to justify. He smirked at the thought.
“You should be grateful,” you grumbled.
“Should I?”
“You didn’t get arrested because of me.”
He chortled at that. Maybe your tactic to ingratiate yourself was to help him, but he got the sense that wasn’t your intention.
“In that case, ‘course I’m grateful.”
“Then say thank you,” you spat, finally swivelling your head on your neck to pin your grouchy little lour to him.
“Thank you,” he crooned, grin sharp.
“Whatever,” you griped, slumping back into your seat with a huff.
He wasn’t sure if he preferred you whining and crying to pouting like a teenager, either option tested his patience. He at least found the latter vaguely amusing, only slightly more endearing than a whimpering abductee in his passenger seat.
“Thanks not good enough for you?” He asked mordantly, and you scoffed. “What, do I have to lick your cunt to prove it?”
Your stare cut to him out of the corner of your eyes, head impudently bowed to avoid facing him head-on.
“Don’t say things like that,” you murmured uneasily, eyes glittering under the streetlight that passed by.
“Like what?” He sneered, “don’t want me to talk about licking your cunt?”
“Shut up,” you chirped, stiff-lipped, tipping your knees away from him and once again scowling out of your window.
He snickered at you, couldn’t help it, watching you get all tight and restless when he said it again. Certain you were involuntarily picturing his head between your legs, whether you liked it or not.
“Don’t like the word cunt?” He teased, winding you up for his own enjoyment. “Or don’t like thinking of me licking it?”
“Stop it,” you whined, shrivelling up like a raisin.
He grinned. “I can call it your pussy instead.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Uh-huh,” he laughed.
You turned to tug at the door handle, yanking at it unrelentingly, and it only thumped as you failed to break through the lock. “Let me out.”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
“Open the fucking door,” you spat, spite simmering in the back of your throat. “Let me out.”
He liked this better. Hissing derision, contemptuous attempts to escape, to demand your freedom. Much more enjoyable than your earlier weeping, all snotty and puffy-eyed.
“Not gonna happen,” he said.
“You’re a pervert,” you growled.
“So?”
“Let me go,” you repeated, glaring daggers at him.
“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said candidly, tone as rigid as he intended it to be. He meant it.
Again stymied, you slouched over and turned away from him, and went petulantly silent. Simon drove ahead unruffled, took another exit off the motorway — once again trundling over a poorly kept rural road, heading in the direction of the next highway junction half an hour north.
It was evident being off the beaten track put you on edge, pellucid in the way you tightened your arms around yourself once the streetlights became fewer and further between. He couldn’t blame you, it was certainly slasher-esque to cart you around backroads, where the only buildings were abandoned barns and grain silos. Lucky for you, he wasn’t a murderer. Not anymore. Besides, all of his past killing was government sanctioned. Most of it, anyway.
You kept your mouth shut for the next long while, huffing and puffing every now and again, making sure not to let him forget how unhappy you were with your circumstances. Strangely enough, he found it endearing.
“I need to pee,” you said suddenly, a squeak, shy to say so.
He snorted. “Think I’m thick?”
“I — I’m being serious,” you stammered. Unconvincing.
“Hold it,” he said unsympathetically, turning a left corner, the momentum making you tip into the centre console, your shoulder nudging against his before you spitefully tugged yourself away.
“I can’t,” you grouched.
“Piss yourself then,” he sneered. “I’m not keepin’ this car.”
Your brows scrunched up in disappointment. “I don’t want to — to pee on myself. That’s just gross.”
He smiled. Something cute about you.
“You can piss when we stop for the night,” he said. “How’s that?”
“We’re stopping?” You asked quietly, blinking at him charily, as if he’d change his mind if you spoke too loud.
“Been a long fuckin’ day,” he grumbled. “I’m not driving for nine hours straight.”
“Nine hours?” You pestered, “I thought we were going to Scotland?”
He couldn’t help but grin at that. Perhaps it was a Freudian slip — we. Maybe you had come to terms with it already, the ineludible fact that you were stuck with him for however long he wanted to keep you. So far, that looked like a good while.
“Taking the long way,” he answered.
“What the hell, how many people are looking for you?” You asked, pouting in worry.
He sucked his teeth. “Not enough to find me.”
You didn’t need to pee at all.
In fact, your nerves had sucked up every drop of water that remained in your body after your deluge of tears. They were glutted with it. All swollen and pinging with panic every odd moment, when you remembered you were supposed to be in fight-or-flight.
You were seething, though, that you had failed to convince him.
The plan was poorly conceived, in fairness — you only imagined getting as far as an unlocked door, girding your legs to bolt off into the endless fields on the side of the road in whichever direction they took you. Didn’t spend a moment considering whether you could outrun the goliath, or how rough he’d be when he predictably tackled you. Maybe he’d simply have shot you as you ran away, turned it into a game of target practice for his own amusement.
There was shame brewing within you, now.
Sweltering, emetic, frothy as it crawled up your throat — you were disgusted with yourself, at how pathetic you were being, at how little you had done in the interest of your own escape. How you had let all of it happen.
You always imagined yourself a fighter, it was easy to imagine such a thing. In hypotheticals you would kick and scream, could easily overpower your assailants by sheer will, your resolve to survive so strong that capitulation was inconceivable.
Reality stung.
You weren’t a kicker or a screamer. You were a sit-and-waiter, and that realisation was sobering as it was disappointing.
Humiliated that you had forsaken a real opportunity at rescue for no discernable reason. No reason you could truly justify. Perhaps you had done it to save the police officer; if you hadn’t intervened, your deranged captor would have shot the innocent man for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, and it would have been your fault for making a fuss.
Terror was the next excuse, but that didn’t quite justify it either. If you were so terrified that the man would shoot you, you would not have uttered a word. No, you would have been quiet, a good girl, just as he ordered you to be.
It assuaged your fear, you thought, to see his face.
You were surprised to see a face at all beneath the mask, forgetting he was a man and not some caricature of chaos and violence. He looked like a soldier, too. All scarred and cynical, disillusionment was inlaid in his features despite how caustically he grinned at you.
His hair was freshly buzzed, sandy blond velvet coating his head, long pink cicatrices carved lines into his scalp as if someone had attempted to cut through it and peel it from his skull. He was tattooed, you could tell, by the teal-black engravings that crept up the side of his neck, the rest concealed by the thick hood of his sweatshirt. Nose a little swollen at the bridge, fractured once and poorly healed.
The shame was even more potent when you caught yourself eyeing him for too long, flicking over to him every now and again just to get a glance, the shortest possible eye contact to ensure he didn’t catch you staring.
Fucking mortifying that he was good-looking.
That your mind even allowed you to think so, that your eolithic subconscious had considered your abductor’s appearance at all. The way he had rakishly smirked at you was arrogance manifest, you could see in his russet-brown eyes a patent awareness of your attraction. As if he could smell it on you, goading you to admit it, ego stroked every time you caught his eye.
So you didn’t.
You kept your body tilted away from him, gaze locked out of your passenger window, sweaty hands clamped together. Every now and then you felt his glare on the back of your neck, heard him breathing in your direction — it felt as though you were counting down the minutes until he felt compelled to reach over the console and touch you.
It was only a matter of time, undoubtedly. That’s what he took you for, you were certain, despite his supposed ambivalence. The thought made your heart sit fat in your throat. Stopping for the night was a deadline.
“Where are we stopping?” You asked weakly, voice aimed at the passenger door.
He let out an exasperated breath. “Not sure yet.”
“Are you going to sleep in the car?”
He seemed to find that amusing. “I might not look it, love, but I’m a creature of comfort,” he said. “I’ll get us a bed.”
Us. You shivered when he said it.
A scornful refusal knocked at the back of your teeth, but you knew how he’d twist it, would mock your aversion. He’d make another foul little quip about your pussy, you thought.
You didn’t want to give him the chance to say the word again. Not simply because it was revolting to listen to the degenerate joke about eating you out — licking your cunt, it echoed in the sauna of your skull — but because the mere mention of it turned your cheeks claret-red and the back of your neck all clammy.
What was worse, is that you knew he could see it on you. Plainly emboldened by how much it ruffled you. Could decipher your unease as an effort to conceal some biomechanical reaction, one provoked by the mere suggestion of it, by the vibrations of his voice as he said it.
“Do me a favour,” He suddenly demanded.
You refused to turn and look at him. “What.”
“Grab me a fag, will ya?”
Animosity congealed in your mouth. The fucking gall to request favours of you. “From where?”
“Bag in the back there,” he said simply, “light’s in there too.”
“Fine.”
You peered behind the headrest, his unzipped duffle bag was dumped on the back seat; just out of reach if you were to extend an arm between the gap. Instead you had to twist your entire body and contort yourself through the middle, waist between the front seats as you climbed over the console.
You resented being in such a position, arse jutting out towards the windshield, unable to see the driver that sat so close to you — so you were quick about it, burrowing through the sack, stuffed to the brim with junk, and myriad different brands of cigarette cartons.
“Which ones do you want,” you asked impatiently.
He huffed as he thought about it. “What’ve we got?”
“Um,” you murmured, digging through the cardboard cartons. “Mayfairs, Richmonds… uh. Embassies, Davidoffs—”
“Mh. Gi’s a davidoff,” he interrupted.
You followed his instruction and plucked out the trim red box, and an orange Bic lighter once you found it at the bottom of the bag, wedged between wads of cash. You peeled away the thin plastic covering and flipped open the card lid as you reeled your body back between the seats — immediately you caught him lavishing your rear in attention. He sniffed casually when he caught your eye, utterly shameless.
Heart shuddered in your ears as you sat back down in your seat, gooseflesh prickling up in your skin as you held the carton out for him to pluck out a roll.
He pinched the end of one and stuck it between lips curled over his teeth, before gesturing wordlessly for you to give him the lighter.
“You’re a doll,” he said, muffled by the filter in his lips. Jaw jutted out to angle up the cigarette, he flicked the lighter in his fist with his thumb, little orange flame hovering under the end of the roll as he sucked it.
“Whatever,” you grumbled, swiftly turning away from him to return your attention to the road out the window.
Seemed he was approaching some area of population, little brick houses began popping up on the side of the street, lampposts peppering the road ahead. A surge of adrenaline made your hackles spike up — bystanders, you thought, people who might have heard you if you screamed loud enough.
“Want a puff?” He asked indifferently.
“I don’t smoke,” you snarked, distracted.
He snorted. “Goodie girl, are ya?”
“No,” you said curtly.
“Mh, that’s right — you’re a little thief,” he taunted. “Not a good girl at all.”
There was no response that would spare you his teasing, so you kept your mouth shut. Stayed silent for the remainder of the drive, in fact, a solid quarter-hour — until the car bounced over something and you jolted in your seat. Quickly realised he had pulled up into a parking lot as the truck began to slow.
A two-star Travelodge, evidently, one planted directly on the side of the northbound highway. It looked barren, coral bricks all grimy with lichen and sludgy brown water stains, every window blocked by shut curtains. Not a single light glowed from within a hotel room, only the dim yellow lantern bolted to the wall above the sliding door at the entrance.
You held your tongue in your teeth as he drove to a park at the very back of the lot, under a low-hanging tree branch, concealed by shadow. Your skin began to itch, crawling with bugs and alight with adrenaline — you could run, now, if he opened your door. Maybe you could sprint to the nearest building and hammer on the door, shriek that you’d been kidnapped, and to please please call the police. Or, maybe you could try to snatch his gun from him and shoot him in the fucking head.
Instead you sat still in your seat. Felt your chest breaking out in a panic rash.
“Righ’,” he said casually as he killed the engine, the suspension of the truck bouncing under the weight of him as he adjusted in his seat. “Look at me.”
You shook your head in refusal. Entire body stiff as wood. Anticipation frayed your nerves and made your hairs stand on end. It was suddenly real.
You kept your eyes pinned away from him, but it was futile, because he reached a massive arm across the gap and seized your jaw in a single hand. Fingers dimpled your cheeks as he twisted your head to face him, and you attempted to scowl at him, but your quivering lip made plain your alarm.
“You gonna make a fuss?” He asked stiffly, pinching his cigarette with his free fingers, silvery smoke clouding out from behind his teeth.
You just about said no on reflex, but bit down on it instead, because it likely would have been a lie. Only pouted at him scornfully and shivered in his grip.
“What d’you think will happen if you do.”
You swallowed. “You’ll shoot me.”
He shook his head. “Would be an uncomfortable night for you, though, I can tell y’that.”
A crease pulled between your brows. “Are you going to — to beat me up, or something?”
He chuckled at that, a cocksure grin; you suddenly felt a weight in your chest, burning hot, made your ribs sink and your heart flutter.
You hadn’t yet seen his face up close. His cheeks were stubbled, skin peppered with freckles and the creases of early aging. Teeth were sharp and unexpectedly white, raffishly crooked with pointed canines, a silver cap on a premolar. His lips were full, pale, a single scar running through the top one, white stripe in the ruddy pink.
The shame returned with a kick to the stomach when you noticed yourself staring at his mouth, and you tried to look away from him, but he riveted your head in place.
“Don’t plan on it,” he said, after a beat too long.
Sweat pricked along your hairline. “Then what.”
“I’d like to have a nice long snooze,” he grumbled. “I don’t wanna be up all night wrangling you. So if you throw a tantrum you’ll be sleeping tied up with a sock in your throat. S’that what you want?”
“No,” you chirped.
He nodded approvingly. “I don’t want that either. I like the sound o’ your voice. Be a shame to snuff it out, wouldn’t it?”
You attempted to nod, and though his hand kept you still he understood the intention. With a ragged sigh he finally released you, giving you a condescending pat on the cheek.
With a grunt he suddenly twisted and leaned between the seats, gargantuan body taking up the entire cab as he reached behind you to grab his duffle bag, and you wedged yourself against the door to avoid touching him.
Clambered about as he reeled the giant bag back to the front, before snatching the car keys out of the ignition and unlocking the driver side door. He kicked it open and hopped out with a huff, immediately slamming it shut behind him — only unlocked your door with his keys once he was directly outside it, pre-empting any of your attempts to slip away.
He opened the door for you with a clunk, and the biting air of the late autumn night made your entire body tighten up.
“Get out,” he said.
You nodded, swivelling yourself on your bottom and sliding out of the truck cab, landing directly in front of him. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and left the stub smoking on the concrete.
“C’mon.” He fixed a hand to your bicep and yanked you away from the car, shutting the door with a slam.
You were light on your feet as he ferried you towards the entrance to the cheap hotel, his other fist white-knuckled around the strap of his bag.
“You don’t need—” you chirped, almost tripping over your feet, “—to hold me so tight.”
“No?” He snorted.
“I’m not gonna run,” you spat, hushed despite yourself.
“Obviously.”
The sliding glass doors trundled open as you approached them, a tired ding echoing out to welcome you. The reception was quiet, poorly lit by vibrating fluorescent bars, stunk of fresh linen toilet spray and floor cleaner.
Your abductor let go of your arm abruptly when he noticed the receptionist — a teenage boy with headphones on, who disinterestedly looked up from a Nintendo Switch to address the tall brute that sauntered in with you in tow.
“Y’after a room?” The kid asks monotonously.
“Standard double.”
The receptionist clicked around on the computer, smacking chewing gum between his teeth. “How many nights.”
“Just the one.”
Click click. “It’s sixty-eight for the night.”
“Y’take cash?”
The kid frowned dubiously at that, jaw hanging open as he rolled the wad of white gum along his tongue. “Sure.”
“Lovely,” your abductor grunted, unzipping the flap of his duffle bag and fishing out a thick wad of paper notes.
Jaw gaped as you watched him unashamedly finger between the notes to pluck out three twenties and a tenner, slapping them on the counter of the reception before tucking the stack away again. As agape as the receptionist at his brazenness, all but showing off his spoils, plainly stolen.
The kid pouted skeptically as he swiped the notes and counted them again, tucking them aside, and you wondered if he used the same technique as you.
He dropped a keycard on the counter. “Room thirteen,” he said.
“Cheers.”
Your abductor scooped up his bag and planted his other hand on the small of your back, nudging you ahead of him towards the narrow hallway, never allowing more than two feet to grow between his body and yours.
You glanced around feverishly as you wandered meekly down the corridor, identical doors mirroring each other for as far as you could see, until the hall turned a corner. Eyes clung to the glowing green emergency exit lights dotted along the ceiling, as if they might lead you to your salvation.
“Can’t believe you actually paid for a room,” you murmured spitefully, when he nudged you forward by the arse as if guiding a ewe.
“Wouldn’t want to break the law,” he chuffed.
In any other circumstance you would’ve giggled. You might have found him funny if he weren’t the deranged fugitive who had kidnapped you.
A yank of your shirt stopped you in your tracks, tugging you back — your abductor had flippantly taken your t-shirt in a fist, as he shoved the key card into its slot under the handle of a door behind you.
“In,” he snipped, shoving you through the door once he had pushed it open.
The room was small. Hardly enough room for the double bed in the middle of it, skinny end tables wedged on either side. The only amenities were a shin-height fridge and a kettle on a bench, tucked into a nook by the door. It was hot in there, too — radiator bubbling all day, you guessed, to counteract the cold weather.
Immediately you fixed your stare on the window by the bed; a good metre across, brown aluminium trim, lumpy textured glass that distorted the view of whatever sat directly outside the hotel room. Ground floor, you thought, easy to slip out, if you could open it —
Noticed, then, that there was no indication it could be opened at all. No hinges, no frames, no handles. Simply a flat plane of glass stuck in the wall.
Your stomach wrung itself, and you did your best not to keel over. The air was suddenly infinitely stuffier, sweltering, torrid in your lungs.
He flipped shut the bolt on the door, and landed a pat on your shoulder. You could unlatch it, obviously, but the old thing was squeaky, clanking old brass, and undoing it would certainly alert him.
He nudged you out of his way and dumped his duffle bag on the floor beside the bed, evidently claiming the side closest to the door, as if prepared to catch you should you try to slip around him.
In truth, the notion of escape was scarcely a whisper. Supplanted by a nauseating docility — a survival instinct, you thought, to simply behave. To do as you were told.
He began undressing himself, uninterested in whether you observed him; shucked off his old leather jacket and hung it over the back of his bag, unlaced and kicked off his muddy old boots. Your toes curled involuntarily into the soles of your shoes, watching him like a degenerate, as he tore off his hoodie and t-shirt and tossed them to the floor.
Something out of a movie, you thought; gargantuan beast of a man, broad-shouldered and cladded in such a dizzying mass of muscle and adipose bulk that he looked encumbered by it all. The icteric light of the sconces by the bed carved out the divots in his back, the valley of his spine, the symmetrical dimples above the waistband of his jeans — you felt sick with yourself, that you even let your eyes venture there, but they cleaved fast to him despite your chagrin.
He was slathered in tattoos as you had imagined, all flames and skulls and barbed wire, broken up by the occasional stamp of something more meaningful — a sacred heart, serif-font numbers, somebody’s name with a date beneath it. You could read it from where you stood; Johnny, 11/2023.
You were only thankful he hadn’t turned around — couldn’t see you leering at him, and spared you having to see him from the front.
“Still need to piss?” He asked roughly, and your lips twisted.
“No,” you said, still standing awkwardly by the door.
He snickered. “Seemed pretty desperate before.”
“I — yeah,” you stammered, “I don’t know. I’m fine.”
Gave you a shrug as he lumbered into the ensuite bathroom, and you heard the unbuckling of a belt and zip of a fly, the clunk of metal on a counter, then the steady stream of his piss landing in the toilet water.
You scoffed in revulsion. Fucking pig. Couldn’t even close the door. You heard him rinse off his hands at least, though you couldn’t be sure he had used any soap.
He emerged from the bathroom rubbing his shaven head and with his belt undone, leather straps hanging loose from his hips, zipper of his jeans wide open. His gun was gone. Plaid boxers bunched up, distended by the mass within and protruding through his fly — you felt yourself turn berry pink, more repulsed by yourself than him.
This time he caught you staring, and he was manifestly pleased about it. A smug grin pulled in his lips as he shuffled towards you, and you rested your weight on your hind foot.
“Y’want a Valium?” He asked you, and you frowned at him bewilderedly.
“What?”
In front of you, now, you panted like a cornered animal in the shadow he cast. “Might help you sleep.”
You grimaced at him. “You just want to knock me out.”
He snorted. “Why would I do that?”
The daggers you stared at him served as your only reply, and he half-heartedly rolled his eyes at you.
“You reckon I’d want to fuck a sleeping bird?”
“Probably,” you muttered, averting his gaze when he uttered the word.
“No fun in that,” he said simply. “No nice noises if you’re asleep.”
You scoffed, perturbed by how he discussed it happening with you as if it were an inevitability. “What, like screaming?”
He cracked a grin. “Screamer, are ya?”
Your blood went runny. “Stop it.”
He brushed a knuckle under your chin, and you flinched — but to your relief, he relented. Turned away from you and squeezed the back of his neck as if to release tension.
“Get into bed,” he grumbled, plodding towards the bathroom, returning swiftly with his gun in hand.
You went cold. “Why?”
“The fuck do you think?” He replied curtly, shoving his pistol under his pillow, before he pulled his jeans down and your mouth went dry.
“I don’t want to,” you squeaked.
He chuffed at that. “Christ, fucking is the only thing on your mind, in’t it?” He taunted, “don’t get all worked up.”
“I’m — I’m not worked up, you—”
“I’m too tired for this shit,” he grunted, “‘n I’m not havin’ you up and about while I’m sleeping. Get into bed or I’ll put you in bed.”
There was no give in his expression, it was a final order. He did look tired — eyes were sunken and beset with aubergine rings, lids heavy with frustration and exhaustion. He stood with hands hooked on his hips as he impatiently awaited your acquiescence, and you sensed you were on a short timer.
“Fine,” you murmured, shuffling around the end of the bed with your arms crossed tightly, eyes averting him.
He watched you, though. Scrutinised your every move as you bent over to untie your shoelaces, pulling off your converses and dumping them on the carpet.
“Sleepin’ in your jeans?” He jeered, when you reached to pull back the blankets.
“I’m not taking my clothes off,” you retorted, sitting on the mattress and swiftly tucking yourself under the covers. The mattress was foamy, soft, sunk deep as though permanently impressed by all the bodies that have ever slept in it.
“Hardly comfortable,” he said, smirking, decidedly amused.
“Don’t care,” you groused, rolling onto your side away from him, blanket up to your ears.
He chuckled. “Suit yourself.”
You bounced on the mattress as he fell into it, springs moaning as they sunk deep beneath him, and you felt your body tip back towards him — you curled up, as close to the edge of the bed as you could get without toppling over the side.
He switched off the sconce above the bed, and the room was abruptly black as pitch.
The mattress recoiled as he adjusted himself, settling into bed with a gruff sigh, and you felt his warm breathing on the back of your head.
He seemed to find comfort quickly; exhales turning deep and languid, you sensed he had fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.
There was some relief in that. Temporarily escaping him while he was unconscious.
With your heart thundering in your ears, though, sleep was impossibly out of reach for you. You could hardly keep your eyes shut, they fluttered and twitched as you tried to close them, and they’d bolt back open as though spring-loaded.
Now’s your chance — it echoed ad nauseum in your skull like the chiming of a clock, over and over until your ears rang.
You could have slithered out of bed and scurried to the door, unbolted it and ran down the hallway if you were quick enough. You could have used the steel-legged chair in the corner to shatter the window and sprint into the night. You could have slipped a hand under his pillow nice and slow, snatched his gun from under his head and shot him while he slept.
Instead you lay dead still, save for the trembling that never quite subsided.
You tried to vivisect your own mind while you stagnated in the bed. Attempted to determine why you failed to enact your own rescue, why you actively avoided pursuing your freedom.
The answer eluded you, in concrete terms anyway.
Truth was, you didn’t know where you’d go.
Literally, of course — you had no idea where you were, no phone with you, no sense of direction. You could run to a bystander and ask, of course, but you didn’t want to do that either.
It was as if you didn’t want to go back.
The thought of it nauseated you almost as gruesomely as the uncertainty of the path ahead. Of being dragged back to Dunhill, of being back to square one, of having no money, no prospects, no future.
It was the obscurity, you thought, that kept you there. Something new. Something different, albeit terrifying. The ambiguity of any future, however short, was somehow preferable than the certainty of not having one at all.
Worse to admit was whatever churning you felt between your legs. What seed he had planted when he took you had taken root, tendrils burrowing into the recesses of you and tumescing with a reluctant anticipation. You all but throbbed with it, as if your body were preparing itself for the inevitable, manipulating your mind into assenting to it.
It made you feel sick, and your skin was febrile, sticky with apprehension.
You were baking — the air was thick with it, stifling heat, though in truth it was likely your thundering nerves that set your body alight. Too anxious to release yourself from under the covers, or to roll into a cooler position, or to flip over your pillow to the cooler side.
You lay cocooned for as long as you could bear the heat, but your blood was molten and your head began to ache, and you resorted to uncovering yourself.
You did it desperately slowly, peeling the cover away from you inch by inch, and even in the air you found no relief. Your last resort was to turn off the radiator — if you could — but you’d need to get out of bed for that.
Slinked a leg over the edge of the mattress, whisper-slow, used your elbow to prop yourself up—
You felt a hand grab at your hip, and you were unceremoniously yanked back into the bed with a squeak.
“Where d’you think you’re goin’,” he grunted, voice gratingly hoarse after a half-hour sleep.
A ten-tonne arm was suddenly hooked over your waist, and you were flush with his back, his knees folded in behind yours.
“I just wanted to turn the heater off,” you whispered, hoping he wouldn’t hear you.
“Too hot, eh?”
You exhaled shakily. “Yeah.”
“Y’know why you’re too hot,” he murmured, and you felt him stick his fingers into the back of your skinny jeans, tugging the stretchy waistband and snapping it against your lower back.
“I just can’t s-sleep when it’s warm,” you stuttered, tongue tangling in your mouth.
“Bit restless, are ya?”
You felt his hand glide over your belly, and your muscles turned to stone, entire body tensing up with the touch.
“I’m not havin’ you tossing and turning all night,” he grumbled, thumbing at the button of your jeans, unfastening it with a pinch.
“Don’t do that,” you breathed, heart plugging your trachea, unable to swallow a real breath.
He persisted unimpeded as if he had not heard you, pushing down your zipper and stuffing his hand unhesitantly down the front of your underwear.
You squeaked in fright the moment his fingers brushed your mons — every millilitre of blood in your body flooded out of your extremities and pooled between your legs, a reflexive reaction that fired off every nerve ending under your skin.
“No, d-don’t—” your whimpers of refusal eked out between your teeth on instinct, but their root lay more in humiliation than fear.
His hand was icy against your feverish skin, and goosebumps bristled out from his touch — your vision went foggy as a cold middle finger the size of two of yours slid along your seam, lips went slack as the tip burrowed deeper.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunted, his stony voice tickling the hairs on the nape of your neck, “you are warm, aren’t ya?”
“Stop it,” you whined, half-heartedly, defeat viscid on your tongue.
His finger snaked deeper between your legs, the others flush with the puffy outer lips of your cunt, thumb burrowing into your groin as he wedged his hand in the tight gap between your pussy and your jeans.
He chortled under breath when the tip of his finger broached your entrance, dipping into the mortifying abundance of your fluid that had pooled there. God, there was so much of it, you were humiliated — you had been in denial, ignoring it, even as you felt it slicken the gusset of your underwear, maybe even the inseam of your jeans. It was only instinctive, you told yourself, it wasn’t like that—
“Jesus Christ, girl,” he chuffed, breathless, and you could not for the life of you tell whether he was proud or disgusted. “Made you wait too long, did I?”
You shivered, cunt pulsing around nothing, felt the nettle sting of adrenaline crawling down your spine.
“N-no, I—”
Bit down on your tongue as his slippery finger dragged up between your folds, catching your clitoris with a swipe and making your legs clamp together in a vice.
He only scoffed in awe. “Sensitive thing.”
“Stop doing that,” you mewled, so embarrassed that your cheeks were aflame, ears burning red-hot, heart galloping in your chest.
He didn’t believe your attempts at refusal, and you weren’t certain you did either — not when he stroked your clit with the palp of his finger, up and down, all of his movement honed in on the one spot that made you choke on air.
“Not so bad, is it,” he sneered.
You curled up like a cat, but he kept you fastened to him, immovable hand burrowed deep in your jeans. His finger slid between your folds effortlessly despite how hard you pressed your legs together — there was no escaping it, every brush of his fingertip against your slippery clit burned more than the last, igniting an inferno in the core of you that seemed inextinguishable.
Fucking humiliating, degrading, shameful, that the brute who had abducted you could make you feel that good, do so little to have you so, so—
“You’re a fuckin’ furnace,” he jabbed, and he swiftly tugged his hand from between your legs and out of your jeans.
Whatever remorseful noise spilled from your mouth was beyond you, high-pitched and so wanton it made you sick to hear it, but he only snickered.
“Quit whingein’,” he chided, taking your waistband in a fist.
He hiked your jeans down with a violent tug, tearing them down to your thighs, underwear pulled down with them. What little abnegation you had left turned to sugar on your tongue, dissolving in your saliva and sliding down your throat.
The blanket was gone, then, pulled off and pooled at the end of the bed — the slightly cooler air biting at your bare skin scarcely settled your tempers, even less so when he roughly shoved his hand between your legs again, now unobstructed. Three avid fingers prodded against your hole as if to collect the syrup that pooled there, slickening themselves before they dragged back up.
You yelped like a kicked puppy when he kneaded your clit, pads of his fingers pressing and pulling in firm circles, bud swollen and shuddering and so sensitive it was sore.
You could only whine about it, now unwilling to fight him off and likely incapable even if you wanted to. He had you riveted to him, chest solid against your back, heaving arm locking you in place. Your compunctions had melted, deliquescing into the stodgy recesses of your mind; usurped by the revoltingly animal, blood-thinning want that thundered in your temples and made your mouth all wet.
“Don’t, p-please, you’re—”
“Tha’s it, girl,” he rumbled, directly into the back of your skull, and it made you dizzy. “Let it happen.”
Your core tightened up, cunt constricting as tight as a vice, painfully empty — the surge was as sudden as a flash flood, just as violent, and you drowned in it as it swept you under. You came beneath his fingers with a winded whimper, so forcefully you bucked your legs to evade him, bullied clit ablaze and spasming in waves that made your heart stop with each contraction.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he chortled, easing his infliction but not yet stopping. “Listen to you.”
“Shut up,” you whined, unable to catch your breath.
“That’ll help you sleep, eh?” He teased, fingers finally retreating, trailing your slick up your mons before he landed flat on his back with a huff.
You were molten, sweaty hair clinging to the nape of your neck, and you wanted nothing more than to take off all your clothes and have a cold shower. All you could muster was your jeans, though, already half-off — you used your feet to peel them down to your calves, kicking them off into nowhere. Your shame had dissolved, now, utterly irretrievable.
The stale air was cool against the wetness of your inflamed cunt when you rolled onto your back; a potent relief, despite how unbecoming you felt it to leave yourself so exposed in the company of a bedlamite.
“Now stop fussing,” he grunted, settling into the mattress, hand resting on his stomach. “Don’t want you wakin’ me up again.”
You couldn’t have fussed, even if you tried. Body utterly siphoned of all energy, mind as foggy and blank as smoke.
It took you less than a minute to fall asleep.
Morning came with rain.
The glow of daylight through the embossed window was powdery white, you heard the gentle patter of raindrops landing on the pane, the loud dripping of a leaky gutter pipe somewhere outside.
Your mouth was chalky, tongue swollen, vision too blurry to identify where you were at a glance.
The realisation rinsed you like cold water when you heard the gruff breathing from beside you. Heavy and deep, the warmth of a body lying too close to you, you felt the hirsute skin of a leg against yours.
You were nauseous as you remembered the night before, when your legs brushed together and you noticed they were bare — no underwear on either, the sheets tangled up between your feet and your hair greasy on your forehead. Your cunt was still sticky and it made you wince to move and feel it, remembering how he had touched you, that his fingers were likely still covered in the dried residue of the orgasm he had milked from you.
The remorse was as pounding as a migraine. Brontide in your skull that made the room spin, and you wanted nothing more than a glass of icy water and some ibuprofen.
You peered over your shoulder at your abductor; lying on his side with an arm folded under his pillow, shoulders rising and collapsing with each heavy breath, scarred face somehow peaceful in his slumber. It was surreal to witness him like that, observing him in his most vulnerable state — you knew his gun was under that pillow, but the thought of trying to steal it faltered as fast as it came.
Instead you slipped out of the bed, pattering on the soft soles of bare feet to the tiny kitchenette, and filled up a brown glass mug with tap water. You drank it all in three hard gulps, then filled up another.
He didn’t stir, not even slightly. In such a deep sleep that you likely could have put your jeans back on and unbolted the door without even waking him.
Instead you went into the ensuite, shutting the door behind you. The bulbous knob had a push-button to lock it, but it was loose, and no matter how many times you pushed it, it failed. You gave up quickly, though — didn’t want to wake him up yet.
The bathroom was arranged nonsensically — the toilet sat by the door, the vanity across from the shower that was tucked into the corner. Its glass walls were grimy with limescale, every amenity made of faded ivory acrylic and stained brown at the edges where the janitors had failed to clean it.
You flushed the toilet when you saw that he hadn’t and swore under your breath in disgust. Fucking animal. You quickly peed, rinsed out your mouth with water from the sink, then turned on the shower. You only had a t-shirt to take off, revolted that it was all you had worn during the night. You hung it on the towel rail.
You kept the water lukewarm, too sensitive for cold and too feverish for hot. An array of cheap mini soaps and shampoos lined the tiny in-built caddy, and you were not frugal in using them. Used almost the entire bottle of body wash to lather every crevice of your body, washing away the sweat of panic and ignominious lust that mired your skin. Shampooed and conditioned your hair with products that smelt like pine and citrus with an undercurrent of battery acid.
The water was cleansing, a pleasant distraction, and you shut your eyes as you rinsed off your face, rubbing the grease off your skin.
You rubbed your eyes before you opened them — immediately spotted a silhouette outside the shower, and a blood-curdling scream erupted from your chest as you sprung from the ground. Almost slipped over when you landed on the PVC floor, but you managed to catch yourself with your hands on the glass.
“What the fuck!” You shrieked, heart galloping so rapidly you worried it would break a rib.
He was blurry through the spray of water landing on the shower walls, but you could see him lumber towards the shower door. You shrunk into the corner when he cracked it open, back firm against the square tiles as if you could slip through the fractures in the grout.
He stepped into the shower as if he hadn’t noticed you there, leviathan that he was, his body took up two thirds of the space in the narrow glass box. Boxers were gone, his cock hung heavy and unashamedly, and your stare caught on it like a fish on a hook. Fucking bludgeon of a thing; it swung as though prideful, thick from root to head, roped with veins and sheathed in rosy foreskin. Half-hard, it jutted out from his bed of wheaten curls at a forty-five degree angle, and it bounced as he took a step.
You looked at it for too long, breath caught in your gullet, and he noticed.
“Settle down,” he taunted, hardly a croak, morning voice abraded and gurgling from his throat. He shut the shower door behind him.
You had a plethora of disputes to mount — get the fuck out, how dare you, you didn’t even knock — but they all fizzled at the back of your throat, when he hauled you out of the corner by the hips, swivelling you around until your nose was flush with the shower wall. Kept you there with a hand cuffed around the back of your neck, wet hair knotting in his fingers.
“You can’t—”
“Prettier than I thought,” he murmured to himself, a rough hand smoothing from your hip to your ass, brazenly taking a handful and squeezing hard enough to make you chirp.
“Get off—”
You choked on the rest of your dispute when he packed his hand between your legs, the gap tight where you held your thighs together — he gave no warning when he snaked his finger between your folds, nudging for an entrance.
It happened so fast you couldn’t catch a breath — he found it quickly when your hole twitched at the intrusion, and you yelped in shock when he unhesitantly pushed it inside you to the knuckle, palm flush with the base of you.
“Lovely little cunt.”
And despite every effort to maintain some dignity, every bulwark you had attempted to erect against succumbing to your baser appetites, came toppling down in the quake of his words. Scruples sloughed off from you like the shed of a snake, and whatever slithered free was as shameless as she was hungry.
“Mh, still nice and warm after last night, in’t she,” he crooned, flexing his finger to push it deeper before raking it out.
He was priming you, evident in how he stretched you open around his thick finger, pumping it in and out of you as though assessing how deep he could go. You pressed your forehead against the cold tile, toes curling into the plastic shower floor, whimpering like a wounded animal.
You felt like one, when he tried to push a second finger in — he had to wriggle it to wedge it in, bully it deeper before your hole could stretch to fit it. It stung where the fragile skin pulled taut, but it was a delicious pain, like the burn of liquor or the sting of pulled hair.
“Christ, that’s tight,” he grunted into the shell of your ear, and a chill prickled down the side of your neck.
He ran out of patience, you supposed, because he slid his fingers out of you and your cunt spasmed in protest of its emptiness. He had spun you around then, handling your body like a ragdoll, moving you right where he wanted you — had his hands under your ass in a blink, and he deftly hoisted you upward, back grinding against the tile wall.
You hooked your legs around his hips on instinct, arms slung over his shoulders when he put them there, his face level with yours. Water ran in rivulets down his face, dripping from his hairline and off his chin. Pupils distended and black as tar, beady as a shark, and glaring into the depths of them made your tongue even wetter.
His titanic arms held you up without exertion, and one released your thigh to scoop underneath you — held his cock upright in a fist, and with no pause he lodged the clubbed head of his cock against your opening. He pushed in with his full weight, reaming you open on the girth of it, and your eyes glassed over.
The noises you made were animal, mewling and gasping, coughing when he landed against the spongy plug of your womb, cock as hard as a gun barrel and just about as threatening.
“Fu-hu-huck,” he chuffed into your cheek, voice oozing ardent satisfaction, vibrating directly into your skull. “Tha’s heaven.”
It tracked that he was a talker, given how chatty he was for the duration of the drive — but you liked it. God, you liked it. Mortifying, yet liberating to admit to yourself, that you wanted to hear him talk; you wanted to hear him tell you how lovely, how pretty, how perfect you were.
“All sweet now, aren’t ya?” He purred, bouncing you upward as he rutted hard. “Just what she needed, mh?”
You almost said it aloud — yes crept along your tongue and prickled at the tip, but you weren’t quite ready to let loose the confession. It escaped instead as a moan, head rocking back and knocking against the tile, and he let out a low chuckle, because you said it in all but words.
“Yeah,” he grunted, panting, pelvis grinding against yours as he pistoned into you, somehow deeper every thrust. “Fuckin’ knew it. Barmy for it the second I walked in, weren’t ya?”
He grabbed your face by the jaw, angling your head to look directly at him, the squeeze of his fingers forcing your lips to pucker. His cheeks were ruddy, blood fresh and hot under his skin, eyes rabid with hunger and pride. They scoured every feature on your face and you melted beneath their attention.
“Gorgeous girl, aren’t you?”
He rutted with purpose, chasing his own end with no mind paid to your squeaks of sore rapture, grunting as his cock reeled out and stuffed you full again in steady rhythm. You could only burrow your fingernails into the meat of his back, carving into his wet skin as if holding on for dear life.
“Just fuckin’ perfect,” he grunted, a tirade that persisted through every thrust,
“Sweetest thing I ever stole.”
“Who needs fuckin’ money, eh?”
“Hit the jackpot with you, din’t I?”
“Might just keep you forever.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t ya, sweetheart?”
Perhaps your brain had been knocked against your skull one too many times, turned soggy and stupid in the heat, because you whimpered; “Y-yeah.”
His brows shot up at that, shocked — but that surprise quickly gave way to a lavish conceit, a vicious smile that oozed pride for having conquered your inhibitions without even having to try. You’d have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you.
“Yeah?” He goaded, grin wide and jaw loose, panting through his teeth. “Want me to steal you away, eh?”
You nodded as much as he would allow you to, and his lips planted on your chin as though tempted to bite you.
“I can do that, love,” he crooned, “I can take y’where no one will ever find ya. Keep you all for m’self.”
You whined when he only fucked you harder, tender skin of your back chafing against the grout with every jolt. Seemed he was approaching the summit of his own pleasure — huffing like a bull, thrusting with anger, not nearly as chatty as he had been for the rest of it.
“Agh, shit—” he groaned, mouth landing on your shoulder, teeth catching your skin. “Fuckin’ hell—”
He hastily reached underneath you to unsheathe his cock from your hole, leaving your cunt bitterly empty and convulsing in its sudden vacuity — his entire body jerked against you as he came, you felt his cock jolt beneath the cleft of you as it spurted ropes come against the tiled wall he held you to.
His climactic groans were music, to you, little lecher that you were. Some foul part of you was remorseful he hadn’t come inside you instead, hadn’t carelessly pumped you full of it — not a drop of rationality left within you, evidently.
You didn’t expect him to kiss you, but he did; planted a slovenly kiss on the side of your neck, pillowy lips wet with saliva and the water of the still-running shower.
He released you, then — didn’t quite drop you, lowered you as gracefully as he could before letting you land on your feet with a thud. Gave you a pet on the head as though to praise you, a prideful kiss into your scalp.
He shut off the water with a shove of the chipping lever, and the showerhead continued to leak fat drops of water despite it being shut off. He pushed opened the shower door for you, and you slipped out, sodden feet landing on the bathmat.
There were scant words exchanged as you handed him one of the towels, using the other to dry yourself off. You couldn’t help but watch him as he rubbed himself down with the teal-blue cotton, polishing his head like a bowling ball, flossing under his arms, unabashedly rubbing the towel under his balls to dry between his legs. Something in his nonchalance, unapologetically going about it all as if it were normal, was endearing to you. Made your hackles soften, if they were still at all raised.
You put your t-shirt back on, wishing you had a change of clothes, and ventured back into the bedroom — the air was still thick with the dusty warmth of the heater, and ripe with the musk of both of the worked up bodies that had spent the night in it.
“Get dressed,” came a demand from behind you, followed by a coaxing pat on your bare arse. “Need to hit the road.”
You looked over your shoulder at him, watching as he pulled on his boxers, tucking his cock away and snapping the elastic waistband around his hips. You picked up your knickers from where they had landed on the carpet the night before, shimmying up your legs.
Couldn’t yet believe what you were girding yourself for. What you had already accepted as the next step you would take.
You caught his eye, a pout in your lips;
“Can we get breakfast first?”
i've got a pinterest board for this one. the vibes have been stewing for a long while
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader
summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here!
word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry)
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending
It doesn’t start with sex.
It starts with Clark.
Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”
You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.
He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.
He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.
You’ve been friends ever since.
It’s not the cleanest origin story.
But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.
Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy).
But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”
He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.
Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.
Why, one night, it all… shifts.
.
You’re soaked.
Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.
Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.
The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.
So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.
Not because you’re weak. Please.
Because he lives closer.
Logistically. Geographically.
(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)
So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”
And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”
Clark blushes.
Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”
His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.
The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.
Instead, you look at him.
And he’s looking back.
Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.
You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.
Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.
It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.
But then, he exhales.
And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.
Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.
You break the kiss first, of course.
Because you always break things first.
When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.
Which is when the panic crashes in.
He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.
Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.
They always stop.
People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep.
You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.
And they get bored.
You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.
You step back like the floor might collapse under you.
Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”
Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”
The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.
You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.
“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”
“I know,” he says, without hesitation.
You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.
He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”
Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”
His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.
“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”
You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”
“Nope.”
“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”
He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”
He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”
And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.
So you do.
Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.
You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really.
But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.
His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.
And it’s terrifying.
Because it means it’s real.
It happened.
God.
It happened.
.
You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.
His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.
Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”
But you are. Because he is.
Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.
He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.
His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.
Lord have mercy.
You ride him like your life depends on it.
You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.
Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.
“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.
And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.
No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.
You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative.
“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.
So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—
He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:
“Do you want me to close my eyes?”
You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.
And you say no.
"No."
Never.
He nods. “Okay.”
Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.
You come so hard you forgot your name.
Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about the depth of your feelings for him.
It was insane. Deranged.
(Perfect.)
Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.
And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.
Then he hums.
You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.
But you listen.
“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.
Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”
You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”
“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”
You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.
.
And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone in the shower.
Truly.
You're just trying to get clean.
Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle.
And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.
He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”
And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.
Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.
He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”
Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?
But then his hands are on your hips—steady, reverent, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.
“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.
You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”
“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.
He moves inside you slow.
Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.
Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.
(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)
When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.
He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.
But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.
So, you just let him wash your back.
He didn’t ask you to stay.
You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.
But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again.
Making pancakes.
“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.
And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."
Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:
“Also, we need to talk.”
Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.
You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”
He looks amused. “Only eight?”
“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”
Clark nods slowly. “Okay.”
You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”
“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”
You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”
“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”
You glance down. You are. Damn it.
He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.
You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”
He raises his brows. “Rules?”
“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”
Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”
“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”
He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.
You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”
Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”
“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”
“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”
“Exactly. Wait—"
He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.
You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”
“You’re really against foot rubs?”
“I just think they set a tone.”
Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”
You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."
“Noted.”
You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”
He looks up.
There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.
You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."
Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.
“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.
“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”
You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”
Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”
You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”
“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”
“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”
Clark leans forward slightly.
The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”
And that—
God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.
You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”
“I’m just being honest.”
“Well, stop.”
He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”
You freeze.
Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.
“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.
He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.
And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.
You meet him halfway.
And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.
.
It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.
Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.
Which is so fucked. You are not precious.
You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.
He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”
And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”
Which is—god, so not fair.
Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.
You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.
And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.
“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.
Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”
“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”
“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”
You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”
“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”
You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”
“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”
“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”
“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”
You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”
Clark goes still.
Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin.
This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.
He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.
Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.
This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.
Still, he doesn’t move.
And that’s what sets you off.
You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”
He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.
“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.
You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”
“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”
You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”
He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”
His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”
Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.
You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”
He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”
“Watch me.”
His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”
Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.
“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”
You blink. “And how is that?”
Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”
You hate him for that. A little.
But you kiss him anyway.
Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.
And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.
“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”
“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”
“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”
You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.
“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”
And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—
He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.
You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.
He smiles.
“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”
.
Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.
That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.
He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.
You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”
He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.
.
Then it happens again.
This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.
Your phone rings.
Clark.
You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”
There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”
You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.
He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.
But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.
“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.
Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”
.
By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.
It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.
That’s all.
But still, there’s this night.
You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.
You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.
He doesn’t show.
No call. No text.
You sit through the entire movie. Alone.
And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.
Then you flip your phone over, face-down.
And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.
You’ve done it to people before.
You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.
Not from him.
Not from Clark.
.
Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.
You’re just a little annoyed.
And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.
And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.
Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”
Then: a video clip.
No sound. Just shaky phone footage.
A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.
You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.
BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.
You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.
Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.
.
The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.
Hey. You free tonight?
You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.
Then:
yeah. yours?
A pause.
If you want.
God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.
Still, you go.
.
It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.
Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.
“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.
He shrugs. “Felt like it.”
There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.
You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor
But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.
So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.
Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.
And then Clark pulls back.
Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.
But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up.
He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.
He just… stares at you.
And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.
“We need to talk,” he says.
You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.
You blink at him. “I—what?”
He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.
“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.
And that—that is when your stomach drops.
Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.
You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”
Clark pauses. He blinks at you.
“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”
His face twists. “What?”
“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”
Clark tries again. “I’m not—”
“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”
“I didn’t—”
“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”
Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.
“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”
“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.
“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”
Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”
You stare at him, lips parted.
He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.
“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”
You freeze.
Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.
That sounds like confession.
“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”
“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.
“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”
His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.
And for the first time, you see it.
The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.
Like he’s not scared of you. He’s scared for you.
But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.
You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.
Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.
Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there.
Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.
You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.
You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.
Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.
The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.
And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.
Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.
“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”
You don’t look at him.
Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”
“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”
“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”
It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.
You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door.
You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.
“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”
And then you leave.
.
You are, in every measurable way, unwell.
You don’t call it a breakup.
That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.
So, no. Not a breakup.
Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.
You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”
You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.
She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”
You blink. “Sorry, what?”
“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”
You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)
You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”
You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.
Or the banana bread.
Because there is banana bread.
It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.
You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.
Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.
He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.
You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.
You don’t answer.
He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.
He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.
(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)
You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.
And then tomorrow happens.
And then the next day.
And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.
Kind of.
You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:
Hotdog.
.
Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.
You stare off into the distance.
Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.
You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.
“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”
Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.
You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”
“I—”
“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”
He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”
You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.
Goddammit. He looks like home.
You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.
“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.
He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”
“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”
“I know.”
“And you took that as a challenge?”
Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.
“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.
You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”
“That’s not what I want.”
You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”
He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.
One arm wraps around your waist.
And then—
You are no longer on the ground.
You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”
“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.
“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”
“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”
“SUPERMAN?!”
“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.
“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”
Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.
You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.
“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.
“I know!”
“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”
“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”
“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”
The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.
“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.
“I did!”
“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”
“I showed up at your apartment!”
“With a cape, Kent?!”
“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”
You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”
“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”
“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”
“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”
You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.
“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”
“It’s real,” he says.
“Like, capital-R Real.”
“Yeah.”
You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”
And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.
So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”
Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.
“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”
His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.
“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”
He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”
His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.
“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”
He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”
You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.
And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”
He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”
The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in.
Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.
He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.
You lean back a little to look at him.
And then, honestly, you just kiss him.
Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway.
The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys.
The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there.
The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.
The banana bread.
“I love you too, you idiot.”
His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.
“You do?”
You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”
And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.
.
You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.
Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.
Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.
“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”
You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.
It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong.
You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.
But this is different.
This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.
“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”
“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”
He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind.
You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.
He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it.
"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.
His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts.
Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.
You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.
“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."
Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.
“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. “Get in line, pretty girl.”
He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.
“I love you.”
Your breath stutters.
He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.
You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now.
But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”
He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.
“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”
You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”
He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.
“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”
“Stop—”
“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”
You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.
And you kiss him.
Hard.
Hungry.
Grateful.
“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”
Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.
Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.
You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.
.
The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.
You’re about halfway to Smallville.
“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”
Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."
You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”
“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”
You stare at him.
He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”
You snort. “That’s very comforting.”
He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”
You blink at him.
“…The guest room?”
A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”
You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”
“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”
“We are dating.”
“I know.”
You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”
“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.
You do.
God, you do. You love him.
It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.
And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.
Officially.
Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.
No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.
Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
Which should terrify you.
(And maybe it does, a little.)
But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.
Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”
You turn.
He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.
“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.
You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.
“Me too, Michigan.”
His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”
“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”
“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."
You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”
Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”
He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.
You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.
“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”
“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.
“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”
You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.
“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."
𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴: lıllılı.ıllı.ılı Jack Nyras x F!Reader ıılıı.lllııılı.
"Haunted - Beyoncé ⋅" ★
𝟶𝟷:𝟻𝟷 ━━━━━━●─── 𝟶𝟹:𝟶𝟹 ⇆ ◁ ❚❚ ▷ ↻
W/C: 10.6k // Summary: Your mother had always warned you to be careful with who you trust- for if you weren’t, the devil would eat you out of house and home. Getting used to your new life was easy, until a man born half shadow starts to visit your door. And with no one to turn to, you realized that maybe you should have listened.
Tags: P in V, cunnilingus, slight dub-con, breeding, monster fucking, light fear-play, the dove is mildly concussed, predator-prey dynamics, water sports if you squint, dry humping, throat fucking, knotting, marking and biting, cannibalistic tendencies (obvi :p), and talking reader through it.
A/N: This is the most freak nasty thing I’ve ever written. She is fat. And she is FILTHY. Jack is actually prehistoric and is fluent in at least 8 languages !! (He calls reader like 2 latin nicknames bc I thought they were fitting ^.^ mellilla: little honey and mi ocelle: my little eye. Like, that’s so him me thinks…)
I’m really proud of this one so I hope you guys like it T-T ALSO title idea from a blurb @horny-marbles wrote that I obsessed over and @rainrot4me ILY. The name little lamb fits Jack so well I’m crying. (I’ve stolen it.) OKAY HAPPY READING ^3^ !!
➽──────────────❥
You moved in exactly a year ago.
New town, new you, or something like that. A house on the edge of nowhere, tucked into the treeline. When you’d initially bought it, shaking hands to seal the deal, nothing was out of the ordinary. The conversation itself was mundane, but there was a tension in the realtor's shoulders that made you uneasy. His eyes were constantly darting to the windows in every room, always glancing at something just out of sight. It was odd how he seemed so ready to bolt, like there was a threat he couldn’t tell you about, a hushed secret that outsiders weren’t supposed to know.
You had brushed it off, even when his palm trembled in yours far more than professional jitters allowed. Ignored it when his obvious apprehension built sky high as dusk started to set. This was a good deal, rare and reasonably priced on the market compared to the others. So you packed your bags and settled in, the memory of the troubled salesman long forgotten.
Until that night.
A week in, and you were decently satisfied. Arranging the built-in fire pit for some well-needed rest, when you’d heard it. A rustle of leaves along the borders. Your backyard stretched acres, the fields were vast, your home was isolated from neighbours, and the closest thing you had to civilization was a gas stop on the highway.
You weren’t superstitious by any means; logic came first. It was probably just a fox, attracted to the bright lights of your porch, not some ghastly ghoul that’d come to eat you, right? Shaking your head to rid the thoughts, you resumed your task. Your decor was homey, miscellaneous camping chairs you’d bought on a whim, all circling the bonfire you’d painstakingly started on your own. Armed with a pack of marshmallows and graham crackers, you sighed. Popping the fluffy treats on a cleaned stick and kicking your feet up.
The hearth looked borderline ancient, with scuffed brick and unused for at least a decade; it still worked like a charm, though. Enjoying the warmth, you should have been relaxed, the atmosphere serene, moon hanging bright over the clouds. The breeze was cool enough for a light sweater, comfortably chilled to perfection. There was just this feeling that wouldn’t leave you fully, the heaviness of being watched.
Overactive imagination had haunted you since childhood; that’s all it was, naive anxiety over things that didn’t exist. Yet the feeling of eyes on you only grew.
You had eaten through a quarter of the bag by now, distracting yourself with the sugary snacks barely worked, and the once peaceful evening had developed an edge. This was stupid; you were not going to ruin your long weekend because the person who sold you the home had anxiety. The rumours hadn’t helped much either; your trips to town were eventful, the people kind and considerate. It was whispers that made you pause, the look of shock, when you told them about your residence.
Patting your shoulder as if they pitied you, gaze drifting to the multitude of missing posters stapled on almost every corner. The words ‘how unfortunate’ were never spoken; you felt it anyway. The nonsensical worries flooded your mind, and you decided you were going to silence them once and for all. What’s the harm in checking? You were going to do a quick sweep along the perimeter, something to ease the tension.
You’d gone back inside and grabbed a flashlight, the metal snug in your hold. Feeling confident as you walked. This was just because the house was new, being unaccustomed to your surroundings, had you a little off-colour, that’s all. The beam swayed back and forth, searching between branches and shrubbery, but nothing. You were about to head back, ready to tell your friends the next day about your little adventure, when you caught it.
A figure, just stray of the spotlight. The shape of a hand, the rest completely swallowed by darkness. It didn’t even register at first; you were frozen, not screaming or sprinting, simply standing in place. Nearly unbothered, you slowly tilted the torch up, from his arm to his chest, your head angled back. His form never seemed to end, reaching to the leaves, you don’t know how you’d missed him before. Broad in an inhuman way, you had to step back to fully capture him in light, neck hurting from the strain.
The sight hits you full force when you see his face.
A dark blue mask, eyes barren with empty voids in exchange, he looked a part of the shadows themselves. Towering over you, only a few feet away. Cold sweat wracked your body. Donning a black sweater, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, you realized why his hand had confused you. His skin was grey. A muted charcoal, claws in place of dull nails. Stygian and blade-like at his fingertips, you were going to die tonight. It wasn’t even his appearance; it was how he carried himself.
The air around him reeked of death, making every instinct preinstalled in your blood scream danger. Your ancestors’ way of survival. A millennium of defining what it meant to be in the presence of a predator. Palms clammy, you were panicking; therefore, you said the first thing that came to mind.
“Please don’t eat me.”
Squeaked out in a pitiful attempt to be spared. He didn’t move an inch, stillness alienating. You were an anxious rambler; this time was no different. “I have marshmallows if you’re hungry?” Then, just barely, he leaned his head to the side, as if he was studying you. You continued anyway. It was a very, very dumb thought, but maybe he was friendly?
“You’re uh… super tall. That’s cool, you live around here, or you just prowl the trees for fun?” Awkward and sweaty, you laughed at your own joke. And despite being terrified, you did your best to crack a grin at him. He remained silent. Shifting from foot to foot, you stared at him, and he stared back. His eyes, or lack thereof, were boring into you, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. Coughing into your fist once, you cleared your throat, “I just moved in, so, neighbours, am I right?” Shrugging, you chuckled.
He didn’t. “I think I’m gonna turn in, long day and all that. I’ll.. see you around, probably?” Cautiously backing up, you inched towards the house, facing him the entire way. By the time your heel made contact with the porch, he was still here, unmoving as ever. Now, a faint silhouette in the distance, you waved and shouted goodnight.
You didn’t sleep a wink.
➽──────────────❥
You truly, in honest to god truth, have no idea how you ended up here.
After your encounter, you began gaslighting yourself into thinking it was a fever dream. That plan immediately went down the drain when he started showing up. Frequently. At first, you’d been jumpy to say the least, stiff while you had your one-sided conversations. He’d show up at the threshold at random times during the week, always silent and as rigid as the day you’d met him. You didn’t know why he kept coming back, or why you’d light your bonfire and wait, you just did. Justified by the fact that if he wanted to hurt you, he would have already.
Over time, his attendance became less scary and more routine. You could rant, spew every living thought you had, and he’d just stand there. You weren’t even sure if he was paying attention; it was simply nice to get things off your chest. Then, he’d stopped looming in the evergreen, choosing to sit quietly on a stump a couple of steps behind your chair.
It was kind of charming the way he’d scrunch himself up to fit, the make-shift stool far too small. His hands folded neatly in his lap as he listened. The question of who he was and why he was forefront of your mind, he definitely wasn’t a run-of-the-mill man from what you could tell. Aside from the ashen skin and claws, you’d catch glimpses of pointed ears when he’d shift. Hidden under his hood, highlighted by the fire when the wind was in your favour.
You’d asked before, but you never really expected a response to be fair. Odd fashion choices, you supposed, but who were you to judge? You’d talk about unceremonious things, a show you’d started, a new recipe you tried, and he’d stay no matter how boring. You spoke to him the way you would a stuffed toy, not quite addressing him, more just filling the air. However, after another night in his mysterious company, it clicked. He was lonely. An answer so obvious that you were disappointed in yourself. The discussion wasn’t special or different than the others prior; the pieces just fused.
You couldn’t guess what he got up to in the daytime, but you thought you were well within your rights to assume he didn’t get out much.
The understanding changed your view of him entirely. And with that, the way you interacted did too. Your fear mellowing out into fondness, your talks stretching longer and longer. Finding comfort with him near, and whether you knew it or not, you were breaking him down. The walls he’d spent years building, soaring and impenetrable, were starting to chip. Jack kept his distance for good reason; he knew what he was. The thing parents would tell stories about to keep their young in bed, the shadow in the closet that you’d have nightmares of.
He was an abomination, born of violence and greed, sacrificed for the promise of grandeur. The ritual forsaking, binding him to walk the earth in chains. Imprisoned by the very hunger that had damned him. The appetite for blood. The need to take, stealing from the innocent, to feed. He had lived more lives than he could count, each more punishing than the last.
He hunted on autopilot, getting it over with and gorging himself full. It made him feel disgusted; most days, he’s numb, and on others, he screams until his throat is raw. An outsider in his own home, his peers wary at best, but he sees the way they judge. As if their hands are not as tainted as his, they talk amongst themselves, sharing meals and inside jokes, and he watches.
Their companionship refuses to extend. When passing around chips or confectionery, he’s skipped. Never considered, like the nourishment will be dirtied if he touches it. The worst part is, he can’t blame them. He doubts they’re aware he can even digest anything other than flesh; how could they? When he returns, emanating finality, when he walks past with crimson dripping from beneath his mask. He hates it, being the boogeyman, even amid monsters.
That’s why you were so interesting. He could smell the fear on you, yet you laughed at him. Told him he was tall, and that it was cool. The normalcy of it stunned him, made him return. To watch as he always did, but you started talking to him. Cautious at first, then your scent warped into something sweeter, warmer.
He searched everything for hints of distress, your body language, your tone, your eyes, to the way you sat- and nothing. You trusted him.
He thought you were strange.
You thought he was sad.
So, that night you’d brought him a snack. His hands were always empty while you munched on whatever treat you had. It made you feel a little guilty; perhaps he never talked because he was shy, and you were literally stuffing your face in front of him. Waking up early to prepare, you spent the afternoon baking away. If you were going to offer him food, you were going to do it right.
Packing a basket with the pastries, you descended the foyer, already spotting his emerging figure from the trees. However, instead of facing your seat to the fire, you’d swivelled around. This was new; the basket in your arms was also new. He tilted his head to the side. Just what were you planning? For the first time since you’d met him, he seemed genuinely shocked. Leaning back like a skittish animal as you placed the goods in his lap, he tensed. A couple of seconds passed, and you began to second-guess every decision you’ve made up to this point. Was it offensive? Maybe he was allergic? An uncomfortable pause wedged between you, before he broke the silence.
“You don’t fear me.”
A statement. His voice was deep, baritone rumbling low in his chest. The base of it was so guttural you felt it more than you heard it. Peering up, his gaze meets yours, “Why?” The question was asked softly, for someone who appeared so commanding, he spoke fairly quietly. The contrast was jarring, yet it endeared him to you even more. “Well, I don’t know, I thought you looked lonely.” The last syllable left your mouth as he stood. How curious, a human, capable of understanding how he felt.
His frame overtaking you, neck craned up, “I just think you’re neat, I suppose.” Nodding, your eyes flicked to the basket that had slipped onto the grass. “I baked, if you were hungry.” You were a timid little thing, clueless and naive. A fawn ensnared in the claws of a beast you’d willingly thrown yourself at. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him without disdain, and you were so open. Defenceless, almost like a pet, it wasn’t your weakness that made his mouth water. It was your trust.
It stirred something in him, a part he’d assumed died long ago. Want. His desire, animalistic and starved, simmered under his skin. Ever-present and ready to snap. You could see it for just a moment, his muscles contracting as if he’s prepared to pounce- before it’s smothered. The heat freezing over, shame taking its place. Guilt and mortification surge through his body in waves. You’d offered him your efforts in good faith, and his appetite had increased for a completely different reason. It was humiliating to have the lack of control he possessed.
Your words had seemed to take his breath away for the worst. Somehow even more rigid than earlier, this was not the effect you wanted. Backtracking, you sputtered, “I’m sorry if I overstepped- it’s just I always have something when you visit and I realized I’d never offered before-“ A clicking resounded from his throat, eyes (voids) vacant. You fidgeted in place, “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to, it’s cinnamon rolls I made today. I think they’re pretty good- ah, I should have asked if you’re allergic.”
The explanation is clumsy, though your earnestness fascinated him, so desperate to make him feel at ease as if you had any power here. Caring so much about his comfort that you’d spent your precious time baking for him. Mortal lifespans were terribly short in comparison to his decades of existence, and you had chosen to waste your constantly whittling human seconds just to not- what? Hurt his feelings? An ever-draining hourglass, each granule of sand adding to the growing mass, counting down to your end. An act so seemingly meaningless to you held a world of weight to him.
A sacrifice. Scarlet dripping down your arms as you proposed it at his decaying shrine, clueless to the fact that this was what had sealed your fate. The moment he’d decided for the first time to keep something for himself. If the devil dealt in blood, this must be his payment for the carnage he’d spilled. His paid bounty finally surfacing, a gift in exchange for all the destruction he’d raged. Wrapped in silk ribbon, his naive rabbit to keep.
You’d spent the rest of the evening as you usually did, except for his newly added dialogue. He still wasn’t much of a talker, but he’d tell you things. Actually answering your questions instead of leaving them to fade into obscurity.
He told you his name was Jack, that he lived far into the woods away from the lights, told you he didn’t like the noise. Said that it was better to wear a mask, not expanding further when you prodded. You had learned that he had some sort of enhanced hearing, scent and senses alike, you also assumed he was blind, though you thought it’d be rude to ask, settling on his hobbies instead.
He was smart, that’s for one. Jack’s knowledge of the medical field was no joke; he knew about intricacies you hadn’t even heard of, and that he liked order and schedule. Organization, spending his time memorizing the way the trees moved, mapping out the forest trails and the wildlife that inhabited them. It was admirable how much he noticed about such tiny details, picturing his lumbering form silently staring at squirrels while he walked past made you giggle.
His responses drifted from vague to elaborate; it felt like you’d both known him your entire life and only met him today at once. Nonetheless, a routine had formed. And so had your solace in him, an unlikely companion was a companion all the same.
Or so you thought.
➽──────────────❥
The anxiety of the house’s surroundings became a far-off memory.
Rarely crossing your mind, you worked, you rested, and in between, you had a friend to keep you company. Yet, the word friend was becoming more denial than fact by the day. Your initial impression of Jack was fear-inducing, clouded by distrust and adrenaline, then it was baseline acceptance, and currently it rests at humbling and embarrassing attraction. The traits that had you recoiling in shock now had you doing a double take, not in disgust or terror, but in longing.
His outfits remained more or less the same; it wasn’t new clothes or anything of the sort that drew you in, it was the minute attributes that slowly caught your attention as your perception of him altered.
First, his height. It had stunned you the night you’d run into him; presently, you had to take a breath every time he ducked under a doorway not to say something obscene. Towering in all his might, the worn-down fabric stretched across his chest, struggling to contain his brawn with each step he took. And he was broad, shoulders stacked with high-strung muscle, built for pressure and gruelling labours you couldn’t name.
The same claws that had frightened you made you want to douse yourself in ice water; you think your entire head could fit in his palm. Faint scars littering his forearms, you’d watched as the veins in his hand bulged when he helped you move a table. Lifting the heavy oak with an arm, not a single grunt, either, it was effortless. One time, you were so entranced in your daydream about what it’d feel like if he’d just pick you up and squeezed—
He had to have called your name at least three times to snap you out of it.
The worst offender? His voice. Like the purr of an engine every time he spoke, smooth and low. As deep as bourbon. He didn’t speak much, and when he did, it reminded you of distant thunder. Resonate in the way it commanded, never failing to make you shiver. You thanked your lucky stars he couldn’t see, saving you the humiliation of being caught glancing at him excessively, or the way you pouted with want when he’d move a certain way, his hoodie rising just above his belt.
Your face growing hot, eyes averting his face when he’d lean down to listen. The way you’d squeeze your thighs together when he’d hum by your ear in agreement. He was your friend, so when you’d mention you needed something fixed around your home, he’d do it without question.
The shameful part came when he would grab the tools, and you’d tell him you were going to read. The lie was always said confidently. You were most definitely not going to read or spend any time in your room, trailing behind him as quietly as you could, peaking from the corner while he worked. It was terrible, and you knew it; the guy couldn’t see, and you were using that to your advantage like a pervert. He would kneel by your sink or wherever and tinker about, with your figure tucked by the room’s edge.
He navigated your space with ease, most likely due to his intensified awareness, you presumed. You tended to forget he didn’t possess the same sight you did, rushing up to him, picture in hand to show him a stupid doodle you’d made, to be met with nothing. A slight head tilt and silence, freezing for a brief moment before you start prefusely apologizing. Jack’s response was the same every time. Bringing up a loose fist, his knuckles brushing your nose bridge, before tapping your forehead twice with his thumb. A way of teasing you, his version of vocalizing he took no offence.
His face is hidden by the mask, but you swear he’s grinning at least a little behind it. You imagine the quirk of his lips, the way his cheeks pull up just a tad, you think his smile would be nice. You also think it’s an absolute crime that no one has hit on him before, appalling, actually.
Selfishly, you’re grateful, though that doesn’t make the information any less shocking. You’d brought it up in passing if he was seeing anyone, and he’d turned to you with such visible confusion you’d laughed. In theory, it made sense; in practice, it did not. Like have you seen him?
Over seven-feet-something of straight man, hulking yet gentle, and aside from his vaguely questionable hobbies— he was nearly perfect boyfriend material. Gentlemanly, where he didn’t even try, the type to cup the corner of tables when you’d bend to pick up a dropped mug. Closing cabinets so you wouldn’t hit your head in the bustle, and grabbing your bags before you could even decide if you needed help or not.
Jack was thoughtful, far more considerate than you think people gave him credit for. And perhaps if you told your peers you were in love with some lone-wolf forest dweller who lacked eyes, they’d judge you, but that’d only be because they hadn’t met him. You guaranteed that if he had a night on the town, he’d have suitors lining the block. You told him that. Making a joke about it when he was staring at you like you were crazy for insinuating he, the literal embodiment of the silent type trope people dreamed about, was taken. He had shaken his head, pinching your cheek softly, then returning to his task.
Patient, tall and humble. And he almost one-hundred-percent did not see you like that. This must be hell.
➽──────────────❥
Jack was not blind.
As a matter of fact, he had better sight than anyone else on the planet.
Demon biology and science were tricky; he didn’t have physical eyes, sure. However, he could see just fine, analyze moving creatures even miles away if he wanted; his “view” of things worked vastly differently from the average person’s. The first time you’d stumbled and apologized, he had half the heart to correct you, until you blushed.
He could feel it, the blood rushing to your cheeks, then you mumbled out some shy excuse about your bad memory. Twisting your thumbs together, pupils dilated as you blinked up at him. It was adorable. He knew it was probably bad and very misguided to lie to you like this; he simply couldn’t help himself. You and your puppy-like curiosity, so excited to show him the most mundane things, because you thought he’d like it. A cool rock you had, or a funky colored sticky note you’d found, as if your eagerness would overwrite your previous knowledge of him.
It was awfully indulgent on his behalf, yet he didn’t have it in him to cease. Especially when you started following him around, nearly tripping over yourself in an attempt to be discreet. It became a game, pretending he didn’t see you, ignoring your inaudible giggles behind your hand when he’d move something heavy for you. Acting like he hadn’t noticed you peering from the hallway, mouth pressed into a thin line in fear of being caught while he was repairing a rickety chair leg. He was well aware he was playing with fire; you didn’t even know who he was, what he did, let alone what he was.
But was it truly so wrong to preserve this one thing?
All he did was serve under orders; his dictator left him alone most times, but that didn’t mean he was free to do as he pleased. Patching up wounds day and night, drowned in violence at hours on end. Saving the lives of people who would leave him to bleed if they got the chance, not even in feeding did he have reprieve. An act so impossibly human warped into something despicable by most standards.
He was deluded at this point because, somehow, a part of him believed you’d stay. Stay when you inevitably find out, stay when he’d confess to you his wrath, stand by his side when he’d return to you, soaked in gore and carnage. You had to, wouldn’t you? He’d shown up in the middle of the night, looking like death itself, and you’d grinned at him had you not? He’d returned time after time, as mysterious as the last, and you’d welcomed him, had you not? Giddy when in his presence, your joy seeps into his bones, and he can smell you. Smell your craving. Your lust. The scent is sickly sweet, thick molasses that coats the walls. Borderline taste the heat that coiled between your plush thighs.
Your want comes in waves, knocking the air out of his lungs, the second it hits his nostrils. And it was getting harder and harder to ignore, spit collecting under his tongue as you bluff. Sitting in front of him, pretending your core wasn’t slick with need, all because he was close to you. A lamb to the slaughter, presented on a silver fucking platter. The control on his own desires waned every time you pushed too close, leaned in too far.
He was growing restless, the energy making his body taut. He started hunting more, feasting with abandon, tunnel vision stuck on his memory of you. Winter was approaching fast, and he needed more meat to keep him satiated than normal, primal instincts taking hold. Jack’s hunger was blistering; he wanted to devour you whole.
And he was sure you’d thank him with a smile on your face.
➽──────────────❥
There had been a shift in the air recently.
The forest around your residence had turned quiet. Originally, you’d assumed it was the weather that had driven the birds away, but this seemed… different, strange in a way. The silence felt unnatural, like the wildlife was hiding from something. Chased away by an invisible threat, the once lively trees had fallen still. It left a strange ache you couldn’t quite place. As for Jack, he’d been weird lately, too.
The last time you saw him, his shoulders were tense, and he barely answered any of your questions. It didn’t feel like he was irritated or annoyed, just distant; as if his mind were elsewhere. Responding to everything you said with grunts or stiff nods, his body jerking faintly once and a while, resembling a predator holding itself back.
He’d abruptly stood up when you were reading on the couch, arriving only a few hours earlier before suddenly storming out. That was weeks ago. You were worried, staying up on random nights just in case he’d stopped by and no one was there to open the door. He did have the spare key you’d given him; you just wanted to see him the second he returned. Wracking your brain for anything you could’ve done to set him off, yet you can’t remember a single time in the past month he had even disagreed with you. He was fine, nothing was standing out, leaving you to stew in your own confusion and fret. Your concern was solely focused on him—
Until you started noticing the blood.
Stark against the fresh snow, the faded red streaks weave between the timber. Specks spread across the yard; you had tried to rationalize it, you lived in the woods for god’s sake, just because it was a little quieter than usual didn’t mean the animals stopped existing, stopped hunting. It didn’t mean the rumours were true.
Then, you noticed the claw marks. Dug into the bark, stretching across the trunks and dragging into the frozen soil. They were ragged, angry, left by something starved. The scores were sizable; whatever creature that had done them had to have been massive, some too high up to be from a bear. You weren’t close to the hillside either, mountain lions out of the question, and even if you were, what kind of feral cat leaves scratches like that?
None of it was making sense; the lacerations didn’t look sporadic either. Your property had been marked. Ice filled your veins as you stared; you hadn’t even realized how much time had passed.
The sun was long gone, dusk setting heavy over the treeline. A gnawing dread had begun creeping in; you were terrified. If it were on paper, perhaps you could have brushed it off, chalked it up to nerves. You’ve dealt with strays before; this was another variant entirely. A finality in the air that wouldn’t shake. Along with your worry for Jack, you selfishly wished he were here to protect you. His unyielding nature, always reliable, sturdy and safe. He appeared to be able to keep a cool head about almost anything. He’d know what to do, where to go, what to say to stop the tremble in your hands.
You were close to tears when you spotted it, cold sweat lining your back. A flicker amongst the trees. Moving far too fast to be human or animal, the shadow ripped its way through the shrubbery. Breaths picking up, you darted behind your sofa. You knew it was a bad hiding place, but something in the way it advanced told you shelter was pointless. Pulling your knees to your chest, you clamped a palm over your mouth to muffle the petrified sob. A growl echoes out; the sound is guttural, reverberating through the walls, shaking the glass windows as the wind wails.
Eyes shutting tight, you curled into yourself. Of course, this would happen when he was away. At this moment, you would’ve given anything to bring Jack back to you; he’d know how to fix it, he always did. When you’d panic over something stupid, he would soothe you in a way only he could. But Jack wasn’t here, and you were alone. Scared out of your mind with a hell bound beast encroaching on your home, you didn’t want to die.
The fear was unlike anything you had ever felt, chilling you from the inside out. It spread like a parasite, aching in your lungs with every breath, twisting your stomach to nausea. You hiccuped, hugging your legs close. You didn’t want to die- this wasn’t fair, and if something happened to you, what would happen to him? Your dearest friend, more loved than he’d ever know, and you’d never even gotten the chance to tell him. The porch creaked loudly, heavy steps thudding against the frosted wood; you wanted to scream.
The door swings open, breeze screeching in the background. The cold is rushing in, draft circling the room, and the lock clicks shut. Apparently, this beast had manners. Heartbeat deafening in your ears, then you hear it. The tell-tale shuffling of boots, Jack. Shooting up, you spun around, already stepping past the couch. Relief flooding your body, lips twitching up, you wanted to laugh— tell him about how scared of the storm you got without him.
He’ll probably think you’re ridiculous, shake his head a tad and ruffle your hair. Scold you softly, say you’ve been watching too many movies, reading too many books, with a reasonable explanation on the tip of his tongue. Rounding the corner, the words died in your throat. The tempest had cut your power, but even from where you stood, you could tell something was horribly wrong.
The darkness of the hallway enveloped him. He stood off-center, shoulders hunched, his hands limp by his sides, twitching every couple of seconds. It was too dim to see clearly, yet you caught it anyway. A thick, viscous liquid, dripping from under his mask, now that you had noticed it, you realized he was drenched in it. The scent reaches your nose a beat after, metallic.
“… Jack?”
Muttered weakly. His head tilted down, like he was observing you. You knew it was him, so why were you so uneasy? His foot dragged an inch forward, your legs reacting before your mind, subconsciously taking a step back. He notices, he always does. When you were anxious, when you were hungry, because you forgot to eat breakfast, when you were scared.
The notion hurts him; your fear felt violating and wrong in his body. The pained howl he lets out has every hair on the back of your neck standing on end. Sharply pitched, inhuman as he continues to stalk closer. You shuffle away further, retreating, and it upsets him. You looked so terribly fragile, meek, with tears still clinging beneath your lashes. He needed to warm you, to keep you safe, it was blizzarding outside after all, and he knew how anxious you got during blackouts. His mask took a hit during the hunt, and his hood had been knocked off somewhere along the way. The buckle too withered to hold up the weight, finally snapping, mask slipping off and clattering to the floor. You barely register the sight before he crosses the hall in three strides.
His face. Gaping sockets where his eyes should be, filled with black tar that smeared his skin. He says your name, or a version of it anyway. Voice warbling deeper than you thought possible, cadence unsteady. Reaching out for you, his clawed hand brushes your cheek, catching a tear that falls when you blink.
“Little lamb.”
It barely sounded like him, and all you can do is stare. His mouth opens, tongues sliding out to wet his lips. Wait, tongues..?
Your eyes widen as they swiped along the edge of his teeth. Pointed and sharpened, like they could bite through bone. He presses his forehead to yours, arms caging you in. Your hands instinctively pressed against his chest, clutching the damp fabric. You trust him, yet your gut is screaming for you to run, the inner battle making you shake in his embrace. Brows furrowing, why wasn’t this working?
Shivering meant you were cold; it meant you were vulnerable. The scent of your distress sets off alarm bells in his head; his urge to consume and preserve you clashing. A gravelly and repetitive clicking resonated from his throat, overlapping his speech, “Cold. Why do you tremble so, mi ocelle?” The concern emitted from him in ripples, apprehension so heavy it felt as if you were suffocating. “I- I was just worried about you, it’s… storming out.”
You didn’t know what to say; the events playing out were something you’d never learnt to plan for. What were you to do when the devil was at your door with a bleeding heart in his hands? Perhaps you were foolish. Naive in ways others would never understand, but if the Morningstar were yours, then it must be in your fates to be burned.
Leaning in, he cooed. “You were worried… for me?” Your timid confession seemed to appease him, nuzzling your face with his. Amusement blooming across his features, he traced up your spine, the edge of his talons fraying cotton. “Prey tell, my dove. What do you fear?” Your mind was racing for an answer, searching for something- anything- that wasn’t him.
Swallowing, you stuttered, “I thought- I thought I saw something in the woods—“ He hummed, like this was fun, like he knew. Reading the barren truth that you could only deny for so long. “It was by the window. I saw it earlier, I swear-“ Cutting you off when he suddenly withdraws. The frost was a harsh contrast, his warmth no longer shared. “Then let’s look together. To ease you.” He glances at you once from over his shoulder, turning as he heads for the living room.
The plush entryway carpet does little to comfort you, following in his steps until stopping in front of the aperture, your stomach in knots. Jack leaned back against the frame, almost leisurely. “Describe it to me, won’t you?” You toed at the rug, ankle bumping the coffee table leg.
“It was tall- and it growled so loudly the house shook.”
His shoulders twitched, stature reaching above the windowsill. His brawn obstructs the moon’s glow, the shadows spilling like ink. As if you were framed by death’s silhouette. Baritone purr rumbling deep behind his ribs.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and it left these gashes on the trees. Blood trails in the snow-“
The muscle in his forearms twisted while he gripped the glass ledge, sable keratin tapping the surface in rhythm. They gleamed under the pale light, dark crimson dripping off the razor edge and splattering up his hands like paint.
“I see.”
“And it sounded hungry, like it wanted to devour me in one bite.”
Tongue dragging along his teeth, nearly drooling. The weight of his eyes left goosebumps in their wake. Sweeping from your pouty cheeks to the flushed curves of your chest. Memorizing your damp skin.
“Starved, I’m sure.”
“It was tearing apart everything in its path, and moving too fast to be an animal- I don’t know- it- it was like a—“
“Monster?”
Your head snapped up. Empty voids boring into you, black oil mixing with red. His complexion, the claws, you couldn’t decide if you were stupid or so desperate for attachment you’d refused to see the signs. It was always there, a whispered thought when the conversation died down, a realization when his hand would jerk at the sight of the news. Now it was too late, the monster was in your home, and he was going to eat you alive. With nowhere to turn, panic seizes you, breath coming in shallow pants. Jack’s face was unreadable, eerily still.
You spin on your heel, sprinting up the stairs. He was standing next to the main hallway entrance; you wouldn’t be able to get past without him grabbing you. You can hear the harsh thud of footsteps from behind, hot on your tail. You know it was futile, yet adrenaline clouded your judgment. Running like hell, as fast as you could, swerving around the staircase railing the second your feet hit the second floor. It didn’t matter if he was going to catch you; you needed to get away. Ducking in through the gap of the bedroom door, you carefully made your way to the ensuite bathroom.
It was over; you just wanted to go on your terms, have some time to think before it ended. Being a human was truly awful, you think. Because in all of this, the part that bothered you the most was how much you enjoyed being held by him. His touch, the way he brushed away your sadness, and now he was coming to slaughter you. How ironic is that? That even now, being hunted, you still wished he were there to comfort you.
Vision blurring, you laughed to yourself. The bathroom didn’t have a lock; you slid down the wall and onto the cool tile. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots, stopping outside the door. The knob turned slowly, and he pushed it open. When you saw him, it made your chest heavy. He looked handsome like this, the moonlight from the window outlining his frame. He was pretty, beastly features or not, they were his, and that was enough. “Can you at least do it fast? I baked you cinnamon rolls, y’know.” Wobbly smile on your lips, you tensed. Bracing for the impact, the numbing pain of a puncture wound, but it never came.
Opening your eyes, you sniffled. Jack had knelt in front of you. Docile, unmoving and rigid as stone. Submission in the way bite-ridden guard dogs revere sheep. “Such a peculiar little thing.” Said softly, hushed and low. Not snarling or pouncing on you like you expected, simply quiet, handling you with care as he always did. Scooting closer, he tucks your frenzied hair behind your ear before resting both hands on your legs. His thumb rubbed in gentle circles against your calf, “You thought I was going to kill you?”
The lightness of his tone makes you blink, like scolding a child for not holding on when they were afraid of the dark. Shedding tears for something so easily fixed. “So sure I was your end, yet your body still calls for me.” He had you pinned, half crawled over you as he spoke, the random jolts that wracked his body worsening by the second. Faces inches apart, you could see the restraint that held him together, the slight shake in his breathing, how his hand flexed, nails digging into the porcelain. “I can smell it, mellilla.” Dipping his head to your neck, he inhales deeply before his teeth break your skin with little effort. You flinch at the feeling, gasping.
You grabbed onto his sweater, eyes watering in confusion. It hurt; the laceration was shallow enough not to be fatal, just deep enough to bleed. His tongues lapped at the mark. You were so sweet. Groaning as he swallows, and you shiver at the sound. His knee was pressed between your thighs, rocking back and forth every time he moved. The pain was slowly melding into gut-churning heat, wires crossing in your head, you whined. Breathing hard, he shifts, hips grinding down.
“You have no idea, do you?-“ The zipper of his jeans nudged against your clit, your thin sleep shorts were riding up, and the pressure had you dripping. “-What you do to me, fuck.” His assault on your throat never faltering, drinking in your nectar. Sinking his canines in deep over your pulse, he needed to feel it. Had to taste your heartbeat or he’d lose his mind. Hot tears streamed down your cheeks, and you clung to him as if he were a lifeline, squeaking when he started gulping at your spilling wound. “Sorry- I know. It hurts, doesn’t it?” Muffled against your skin, his apology fell on deaf ears.
Parting from you with a wet pop, strings of blood and saliva stretched from his jaw to your neck. More beast than man as he sat back on his haunches, chest heaving. His lids drooped low, drunk off it, “Look at you, my little rabbit. Ripe enough to eat.” Hooking a finger under your shirt, he yanks it up in one swipe. Claw slicing it cleanly, leaving you bare. It made his mouth water. Caging you again, his mouth clamping around the perky nub. Writhing, your back arched off the floor. Arms secured to your sides by his palms, Jack’s strength was otherworldly. Even through his sweater, the contours of his body were unmistakable.
The ache had you dizzy, cunt throbbing in pulses with each nibble he took, littering your breasts in bruises and cuts. Tongues acting as a salve, easing the sting with gentle licks. Mewling, you pushed up into his mouth. He didn’t touch you like he wanted to fuck, he touched you like he was trying to rapture your soul. Have you reborn, remade, fracture your very cortex until the only thing you remembered was him.
Bodies moving in tandem, driving his hips to a slow, agonizing grind. Simulating sex, the same motions, yet not quite there. Your head was spinning, denim stained where your cores met. “You’d forgive me, wouldn’t you? If I got too hungry, you’d let me have you-“ When you said he was going to kill you, this wasn’t what you had pictured at all. The base of his words had you squeezing down on nothing, crying to be filled. He kisses you softly, to mar you right after. “-Let me lick your bones clean, show everyone my teeth- so they’d know how delicious you were. How divine you satisfied me-“
It was sick, vile, the fantasies he spun, your lust betraying your principle. Lips molding to yours, his tongues violating each centimetre of your mouth. You gagged around the intrusion, slimy and tentacle-like; they swarmed the cavity. Proding deeper, his mouth latched as he fucked your throat. Only pulling back once you were on the verge of passing out, fist rapidly slamming against his side. Your lungs burned, black spotting your vision, fear reaped amore that seeped into the darkest corners of your mind.
His cock throbbed with need, hefty against your cunt, and you could feel each and every pulse. It’d tear you apart, larger than you thought possible; you’d never wanted anything more in your life.
Panting above you, the chuckle that left his lips was manic. “They’d wage war in envy, massacre their own kind- driven to madness that they couldn’t have you.” Laving at your collar bone, the heat in your stomach on the brink of scorching, coiling tight. You’d soaked through the fabric, wetness making it stick to your folds, “Build shrines in your name, frame your ribs in mausoleums just to admire-“ His rutting growing harsh, desperate and feral, “Worship you like religion. Offer gold and jewels- sacrifice their gods at the foot of your tomb.” Your release hits you hard, euphoria choking you. Jack, close behind, cumming with a hollowed groan, the aftershocks making his hips jolt. Unrelenting, when his pace fails to cease, not giving you a chance to recover.
“You’re cruel to me, my lamb-“ Arms cocooning you, he lifted you off the tile, trapping you to him. His words pierce through the fog, “I- I don’t understand.“ Huffing out his nose, he laughs, exasperated. “You think I couldn’t see you? Hiding behind corners, following me around like a needy pup.” The admission floods you with embarrassment, pouting as you try and avoid his gaze. “I thought you were-“ he interrupts you, amused. “Blind? How quaint.”
Mocking and adoring all at once, you were so fun to play with. “It was adorable, you know. Pretending you weren’t there, watching you stumble and apologize.” He leaned in close, mummuring against your ear, “Pretending it didn’t have me starved.”
The cadence sends goosebumps down your back, shoulders bowed while you whine. “Always so kind, hm? Don’t worry, even if my sight did not lead me-“ kissing down your neck, he continues. “-There are plenty of other ways to indulge, are there not?” Leaving hickies in his path, nicking your fevered skin, “Sound.” Teeth grazing, before sinking in, your lips parting in a sharp gasp, “Jack.” Trailing further, slipping his hands from under you, and gripping your hips. Hard. His talons penetrate the fat of your ass, drawing blood. “Touch.” Pain and pleasure laced, and all you could do was lie there and take it.
Crawling down your body, bruises blooming over your abdomen. Mouth dragging over your tummy, your navel and pelvis. He snags the waistband of your shorts with his canines, jerking his head back harshly and shredding them off you. He borderline growls when his eyes land on your pussy. He thinks they should hang paintings of your cunt at the fucking Louvre. Puffy and weeping, beautifully delicate as he runs the pad of his thumb up your slit. “And-“ collecting the syrup, his grin stretched wide, a smirk that had you gushing,
“Taste.”
He dives in, lapping at your aching clit with fervour. It was too much, too fast. Convulsing, your hands shot to his hair, grabbing at the messy locks. Thighs snapping closed, bracketing his head. His tongues were everywhere, nose buried in your mound, wet squelching filling the room. “Oh- ngh- fuck.” You were crying, screaming as if you were being murdered. He uses your waist as leverage, thrusting you into his mouth. The tendrils reached deep, fucking you rough while his nose grinded on your sensitive bud. They scissored you open, devouring you whole, and you felt dizzy. Arching, your heels dug into his back, “S’too much- Jack, please- I can’t.”
He groaned into your heat, your pleas making him rut against the floor. You were shaking something fierce, the pressure building in your gut becoming unbearable. “W-wait, please- please, feels weird-“ His tongues were hitting your spot over and over again, eyes rolling back as your body went taut. The orgasm was cataclysmic. Your cunt pulsed wildly, liquid splurting out. It coated his jaw, spraying across his face; you couldn’t even think. Brain completely emptied and ears full of cotton, Jack still gulping down your spillage. He pulls off of you with a sticky smack, breathing heavy, “Messy girl.” He taunts. Sitting up, he grabs the back of his hood, throwing it off in one swoop.
Shoulders sculpted, sweat beading down the contours of his chest, and you stared shamelessly. Gaze drifting from his flushed and heaving pecs to the divots of his V-line, happy trail peaking over his belt. He tugs at the buckle, the metal clasp falling open with a clink. Popping the zipper, he wrenches his cock free, and the sight made your eyes widen. The head drooled with pre, sitting dense in his hand, it looked like it weighed pounds.
There was no way that thing was fitting inside you. “I don’t know if I can…” Trailing off, hesitance contorting your features. “It’s going to hurt.” Blunt and matter-of-fact, and you knew he wasn’t boasting. Not for ego or otherwise, it was simply a warning. “But you’re strong, I know you are.”
Yanking you by the hips, he settled between your legs, lining himself up. “Remember to breathe, my flower.” Soothing you, as he nudges his cock against your entrance. The tip struggles past the tight ring before sinking in, the stretch making you hiss. Your fists are balled up at your sides, tears immediately gathering at your lashline. Whimpering, it felt like he was ripping you in half. “Shh, I know- doing so well. My brave girl.” He hushes you gently. Gathering your hand in his, he presses your palms flat and intertwines your fingers. “Squeeze when it gets too much.”
Rocking forward, he pushes in an inch, your pained whine bouncing off the walls. “Just focus on my voice, can you do that for me?” Forcing your lids to stay open, you nod, “Okay.” But as his hips buck barely a centimetre, your panicked yelp stops him in his tracks. “It- it hurts- I can’t.”
Hiccuping, you were quivering like a leaf, face scrunched uncomfortably. Cooing low in his throat, he drops his head closer. Tongue collecting the salt on your cheeks, “Poor thing, why don’t we play a game? To distract you.” You sniffled, “A game?” He hums, nose brushing yours. “When I move, you’ll count.” Explaining slowly, he kisses you, reassurance mixing with saliva. “Do you trust me?” The question whispered, sacred against your lips, and your eyes fluttered shut. “Yes.”
With your green light, he begins to thrust, carefully and reverently. Shaft glistening with your slick, he slides deeper. “One.” You sighed, breath fanning across his skin, “That’s it, good girl.” You felt like silk around him; it was intoxicating. His length is dialating your walls, “Two-“ The once prickling twinge had started to dull, melding into a warm simmer amidst your thighs. You clutched his hand firmly, “Ah- three.” Gliding in and out, probing further. He grunts, restraint wearing thin. “Four.” He was hardly halfway, and you swore he was in your lungs. Jack shuddered over you, vein prominent against the lines of his neck, Adam’s apple bobbing.
Jaw slack, his spit dribbling onto your skin, carnal and dangerous. His teeth bared as he let out a strangled keen, “Forgive me, my sweet.” His hips were jerking before you could even comprehend what he’d said. Slamming to the hilt, and you wailed. “Gods, you feel- fuck-“ He panted, head flung back. Tremoring violently while he held you flush. You went limp, the sensations overwhelming you, fully speared on his cock. So impossibly filled, the last of his control had withered to ash.
He fucked into you like an animal. Hard and fast, brows furrowed in ecstasy. Bruising grasp on your waist, using your pussy as a sleeve, he raises you. Bouncing you as if you weighed nothing. One hand tugging at your wrist, the other keeping you steady. “Feels so good- can’t fucking stop.” Your back bowed, helpless. Shockwaves sparked up your spine each time you sank on his cock. Molten iron pounding against your cervix, branding your cunt with his lust. The climax takes you by surprise, whiting out your vision. You clenched on him so hard he could barely move, glands pulsing as he stuffed you.
The sticky lacquer is pumping you full, leaking out and puddling on the bathroom floor. Tongue like lead in your mouth, you slurred, “J-Jack- ngh.” He doesn’t even blink, slipping you off, he flips you. Your arms were jelly, crumbling onto your chest, face pressed to the cold tile. Ass propped by his claws, he slides back inside in an instant. Sanity draining with each second, he couldn’t feel your warmth.
Your body jolted roughly from the power of his thrusts, drilling into you with abandon, frantically chasing his release. His veins had been flooded with magma, broiling him alive. Thumbs kneading at your flesh, spreading you wide, he lets out punched groans when his balls slap against your clit. A milky ring is forming at the base of his shaft, gluey and opaque. Lewd plaps filling your ears, his palm pressed your arch down into a perfect semi-circle, driving deeper and deeper, “Christ- you take it so pretty, my lamb- fucking made for this weren’t you?” You scratched at the foundation, delirious, he was so strong. So big, fucking his authority into you, ruining you for anyone else.
Your eyes crossed- stomach bulging from his girth, you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, sobbing as drool leaked out of your agape mouth. Jack was mounted on you like a dog.
Lugging you up, manhandling your boneless form, he bends you over the sink counter. Chiselled hips pummeling you from behind, his flexed bicep locked around your throat. The mirror had fogged with condensation, the tap sputtering from the ruthless tempo, and you barely recognized yourself. It was pornographic the way he had you, something you’d see on the front page of an exed out website. And he wasn’t faring any better, dishevelled strands stuck to his forehead with perspiration. Skin dewy, globs of slick and cum dripped down your legs, he sounded gone. Huffing, “Made for me, made to be bred- should I keep you like this?” His pace quickened, close to the edge, “Keep you full, begging for my cock? Chained and desperate- you’d like that, no?”
Your brain failed to form a cohesive thought, high on the pleasure, “Ah- p-please-“ The response fuelled his rut; he needed to sear his print onto your flesh. Stain you like possession, sovereignty over your spirit, heart and womb. Jack snarled, seething, and he yanked your head back. The climate is sweltering, pressure on your airways tightened, “Words, girl.” He was so mean, abusing your poor cunt. “Yes- please, want it. Wan’ it s’bad.” Shrill cry, leaving your lips.
This wasn’t sex; it was ownership.
His release paints your walls lava-hot, stars bursting behind your lids. Before the afterglow has a chance to reach you, he throws you over his shoulder. Kicking the door open with his foot, the hinges screeching loudly, and you dangled almost lifelessly in his hold. Stepping into the room with little ceremony, he tosses you on the mattress, landing with a bounce.
He was gorgeous, the crescent light peeking through the curtains, tongue running along his sharpened canines. Sultry as he crawled between your thighs, up your body, famished. Prowling, eyeing you like sweet prey- he had you under him for hours. It was ritualistic, claiming and methodical; his devotion clung to you in smoke. Whispering scripture against your skin in languages older than the earth itself. Pulling orgasm after orgasm from your yielding body, refusing to stop until you’d forgotten your own name.
You were a mural of depravity, illustrated in fever. Aphrodisiac tinted with Jack as your artisan.
Ankles by your ears, you had lost count of how many times he’d made you scream, the bliss blending, and the only thing that existed was him. All encompassing, and drilling into your oversensitive pussy. “S’too m-much- I can’t.” His chuckle mocked, “Too much? And here I thought you wanted to be mine-“ He was bullying you, cruelly pressing down on your bloated tummy. Weeping tip knocking mercilessly into your soft spot, you flailed against the sheets, twitching and whining pathetically. “Please, I can’t- I can’t-“ babbling, you gushed around his girth, completely drenching his abs. He had fucked you dumb.
Snickering, he snaps his hips forward, pelvis flush and grinding on your puffy clit. “Liar.” And he began jackhammering into you, unrelenting, his weight folding you in half. The headboard slammed against the wall vigorously, pictures tumbling off the nightstand, mattress squeaking every thrust. Its movements were so harsh that they left indents in the plank flooring. His muscles rippling with exertion.
Claw hooked beneath your knee, his free hand reaching up to strike the bedpost with a bang. It splinters under his strength, and you moaned like a whore. “One more- give me one more, my life.” He grunted, panting and burying his face into your shoulder, the linen shredded to bits.
The frame was thrashing, creaking noisily with warning. His cock swelled at the base, the stretch burning as he forces it passed your opening. Knot stuffing you full, filling you to the brim, and you writhed hysterically- digging your nails into his back. Shallow scrapes littered his skin, from his shoulder blades to his tensing arms. “Mmph- oh god, m’cumming- Jack-“ It blazed from your head to your toes, igniting everything in its path, thrumming in your blood. Teeth sunk in your neck, growl vibrating to your lungs, his inflated girth trapping his seed deep.
Mahogany cracking sharply, the wood giving in and collapsing. The bed was slanted, haphazardly held up by one leg. And Jack is already licking the wound clean, kissing the area softly. He sighs, “… Apologies.” Strangely guilty, the change in demeanour gives you whiplash.
You didn’t know what he was apologizing for, whether it was the marks that scattered across your flesh, or the ruined guest room- either way, you could tell he meant it. Covered in bites and bruises, and you’d never been happier. He takes initiative, carefully scooping you up and rolling your bodies over slowly. Tucked against his chest as your breathing evened out, still connected. You assumed you’d be stuck here for a while. The primal heat finally dying down, the sun began to gleam over the horizon. Your limbs felt like lead.
Sleepy and warm, you broke the silence, “Would this be a bad time to tell you I have a crush on you?” The confession was framed as a joke, yet your vulnerability lingered in the air that followed. He exhaled through his nose with a huff, an almost laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching just a tad. “You are by far the strangest human I’ve ever met.” Giggling quietly, you cuddle further into his chest, “You would’ve eaten me if I wasn’t.” Your words make him pause, shame creeping in. Looking up, you can see the storm starting to brew in his head. “I was kidding, twas’ just a joke.” And he scoffs in disbelief,
“You should hate me.”
“Too bad I don’t.”
It was bothering him. No matter how stone-faced he was, you’d realized you had learned to read him. “Jack-“ He cuts you off with a disgruntled hum, “You don’t even know what I am, what I’ve done-“ Leaning up, you kiss him. Sweet and slow, letting him feel your trust. “I let you into my house when you’d say like- two words a day max. Plus, you looked like the boogeyman when you showed up that one time. And-“ You peck his jaw, continuing, “I still thought you were cute, so.” Jack stares at you as if you’ve grown three heads.
“Your self-preservation is severely lacking-“
“Answer my question, beasty.”
He raises a brow at the nickname before responding anyway. “… No, it would not.” You were admiring him, your gaze fond. “So…” Trailing off, expectant. Tilting his head in thought, while his hand pets the small of your back. “So?” He kind of reminded you of a stray cat, a very large, very dangerous stray cat. “Do you- y’know.” You mumble, shrugging. The expression that overtakes his features makes you snort. He seemed so offended, “If you’re asking if I care for you, the answer should be obvious.” He says it like you’ve insulted him, borderline pouting. Though if you told him that, he’d deny it with fervour. Perhaps it was in bad taste, but the rollercoaster he’d put you through demanded vengeance. “Which would be?” Drawling, you teased him. Jack’s deadpan somehow deepened, and you pressed.
“Say it- you like meee-“ And he blinks at you. Amused, he nods, “I do.” Something so plainly stated, so sure in his ways. It made your stomach flutter. “You’re lucky you’re so handsome, I’d be mad if anyone less pretty broke my bedframe.” His entire body freezes under you, sockets widening for a millisecond. Worry passes through your thoughts, going to ask what you’d said that had made him uncomfortable- you paused. The grey hue of his skin didn’t really allow for blush. Or so you thought. Because as he tilts his chin down just the slightest, the faintest hint of blue dusts his ears. You gasp,
“Oh my god, are you blushing?-“
“I beg of you.”
Interrupting you, his eyes shut. Holding you stiffly, as a lightbulb goes off in your head. He was flustered. Squinting at him, you were in shock. Jack had bent you six ways to Sunday after showing up covered in blood, scaring you half to death, and he couldn’t handle being called handsome? Swiping your thumb along the crease under his eye, you cradled his face. “I don’t know about you, but I actually think you’re quite dashing.” His lashes flutter open, memorizing your grin, the gentle lilt of your voice. “Rest.” Chiding you with a tut, he cups your nape, pressing your cheek back down. Skin on skin, you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began, closer than close, really.
Maybe there would be hardships, sleepless nights and times he’d chip at your heart. And maybe he’d mend it with guilty hands, hollowed eyes when he begged in atonement. However, that was for future-you to stress about. So for now, you’d lie your head and listen to the thrum in his chest. Safe in his embrace, more protected than you’d be anywhere else. Your love was filled with tongue-tied confessions, clumsy and unsure. That was okay, though.
Because he was yours, sharp teeth and all.
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A/N: SORRY FOR THE DELAY T-T I’VE BEEN TEWW BUSY BUT ITS HEREEE YAYY EVERYONE CHEERED !! I hope you guys liked it bc he is my princess and he is very gorjus to me ^3^
I hope you guys enjoyed the lay out because I spent time making the dividers match with the headers- I actually really like that part 💔💔💔 it scratches an itch in my brain so well 💔💔💔
To the like 3 people who noticed and went “damn, that’s fye” to themselves at 2 am reading my shit- I see you and I love you and u r invited to my wedding.
𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴: lıllılı.ıllı.ılı Brian Thomas x F!Reader ıılıı.lllııılı.
"Kiss Land - The Weeknd ⋅" ★
𝟶𝟷:𝟻𝟷 ━━━━━━●─── 𝟶𝟹:𝟶𝟹 ⇆ ◁ ❚❚ ▷ ↻
W/C : 5.7k // Summary: Structured life with a structured routine. You lived mundane, content and simple- until a mystery man with a voice like syrup starts dialling in past dark. Charming and sweet but who is he really. In the midst of a storm, do you pick up the phone?
Tags : Soft dom! Hoodie, p in v, cunnilingus, and unprotected shenanigans. (Nothing too crazy bc he lowkey loves you baddd)
A/N : I’ve literally never written smut like this before :..) I’m tryin my best here alright? Thoughts (lustful and decrepit) of hoodie have literally consumed me and I needed to get it out </3 (Also art and all that done by yours truly :p)
Shout out to @rainrot4me and @dirtyl0ver for inspiring me like no other ^3^ !!
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12:00 AM
It flashed harshly on the display of your alarm. The red glow reflecting off wood. Turning for the fifteenth time since you had gotten under your sheets, you sighed.
Dragging a hand down your face in defeat, restless, you knew he’d call any minute now. The telltale ringing that only came after dusk had set. You should’ve been scared. Uneasy that a man you had never seen, whose face you didn't know, had not only found your number but also your address, and was persistent in his advances. He was just so… nice about it.
It felt like you were losing your mind.
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The calls started a year earlier, a couple of steps into your nighttime routine. Hair pulled out of your face and moisturizer in hand, before a buzz caught your attention. Your phone, vibrating on the nightstand. UNKNOWN-CALLER ID flickering across the screen, a spam call, obviously. Usually, you would’ve swiped to hang up, paying it no mind- but you were bored. Besides, what’s the harm in wasting the time of a scam artist, right?
Propping the phone on your shoulder as you pressed it to your ear, you spoke, “Hello?” Nothing, no eerie heavy breathing either, just the vague ambience of wind to keep you company. Maybe they were taking a late stroll and butt dialled you by accident, before you could even finish the thought, a voice echoed out. Cutting through the static,
“Hi.”
Raspier than you expected, if you were expecting anything at all.
“Sorry, I think you have the wrong number- hope you find who you’re looking for.” Okay, so it was a real guy, reaching up to cut the call and finish your skincare. He says something that stops you in your tracks. “Sound real sure there, how’d you know you ain’t the right one?” Now that was different, brow raised with a click of your tongue,
“Well, I’m sure I’m not expecting any calls tonight-“
“But you picked up, didn’t you?”
Whoever he was, he seemed certain he had reached his destination. Crickets loud in every pause of the conversation, and maybe you should have hung up, brushed it off as a man with nowhere to be. It was just that, every day was the same, going to work, coming back and passing out to do it all over again. When you were off, you ordered takeout, watching the same sitcom you had since you were a kid; this was new.
As stupid as it was, it felt exciting, even if just for a tiny bit. A stray encounter to tell your friends about, something to laugh at down the line, so you entertained it. And maybe that’s where you sealed your fate.
“Because you called me,” your weak attempt at defending yourself interrupted by a low chuckle. “You answer any call that shows up, or am I special?” The nerve on him, scooting onto the edge of your bed, you scoffed, legs crossed with the curl of your lip betraying your supposed irritation. “You flirt with every random number, or am I just special?” Quiet shuffling on the other side, along with what sounds like a stifled laugh, “Only when pretty ladies pick up.” Oh, you could hear the smirk in that one, “So it’s a hobby of yours to go on late-night strolls and hit on strangers?”
You leaned back against the plush comforter, toying with a piece of your hair like you were talking to a crush.
It was silly to be fair, and perhaps it wasn’t the smartest move to stay on the line, but honestly, he was kind of growing on you. The banter was light, his voice having that teasing lilt that you would read about; you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you feel at least a little special. “Hey now, have some faith, will ya? I got places to be, busy n’ all that.” And you’re sure he was, that didn’t mean you weren’t going to poke fun, though.
“Yeah? Doing what?” You had no idea what he even looked like, if he was handsome, if he was close to your age or even safe to be speaking to. A runaway prisoner getting his fun in before they chased him down, a bandit from the other side of town killing time by a pay phone.
Overactive imagination running wild, ’too many story books clouding that head of yours,’ as your mother would say. He hummed, the base of it crackling over harsh breeze, tone almost mocking,
“Guess.”
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It started with just talking, every Wednesday.
He’d call, and you’d answer, you’d ask questions, and he’d give vague responses depending on how “personal” he deemed them to be. Sometimes it was his favourite colour, ranging from how he liked his coffee to where he grew up. He told you his name was Brian, nothing more, nothing less. It felt like you knew everything about him, yet nothing at all; it was strange. You were never put off by it, though.
Until he started leaving you gifts.
Trinkets and snacks you craved that you had never told him about, showing up at your doorstep. You’d pressed him about it, futile as he’d always give you that same carefree response, “but it’s your favourite, ain’t it?” Or “Thought you’d like somethin’ like that, had to get it.” Like it wasn’t overtly concerning, he just happened to know exactly where you lived, like it wasn’t out of the norm that he seemed to know the things you liked without you ever bringing them up. But it felt normal, you talked to him all the time, for hours at that, he had this way about him.
Always saying the right things, voice smooth, calming, like perhaps you were just anxious for no reason. Overanalyzing things that didn’t really matter, he was your friend for god’s sake, you trusted him, didn’t you? Just running errands and stopping to think of you. Dropping by to give you a pick-me-up. I mean, was it truly that crazy to be thoughtful? You had never even seen him in person, face to face, that is.
You assumed he called from his phone; lately, however, he had started showing up across the street. An old, roughened phone booth, the glass foggy and smeared with graffiti and age. You were alarmed at first, a stranger, standing in the dead of night, pay station directly in front of your bedroom window, you could see it as clear as day. His worn-down yellow hoodie was pulled up, ski mask with an unsettling red frowny face painted on. Scuffed up jeans and boots to match. Your phone rang as he waved a gloved hand at you.
Now you were sitting here waiting for that same man. Conflicted as you were, you still looked forward to hearing his voice. The soft drawl to it when he spoke, deep and warm as it settled into your bones. He was comforting; you wanted to hate him, the calls sending chills down your back, a horror movie come to life. Yet it wasn’t, and you didn’t.
Dating was bleak, a small town where everybody knew everybody, and you were an outsider. Moved in for a fresh start, it was nice, of course; however, you never felt like you fit. Everyone had already set into their ways, a set path with set people, high school sweethearts or childhood friends who became something more. They all had belonging in one way or another, and none of it ever really fell into place for you.
But he was yours.
Something you had all to yourself. See, you had friends, and you never held it against them for prioritizing partners or loved ones they had known all their lives- even so, that didn’t make it any less lonely to live the way you did. This was different, no idea who he was technically, sure, but you could tell him anything. Talk about anything. Stay on the phone all night when things get hard, and he’d listen. Genuinely listen like you were the only person in the world who mattered. Bring up things you told him about months ago, small details that most people forget the second they turn around.
He knew you, and you’d like to think you knew him, too, the important parts anyway.
Thunder breaks your train of thought, loud and cruel. The force of it shuddered through your window and into the floorboards; it was storming. Seasons changing and weather turning harsh. The raindrops projected into silhouettes across your room, the only light source coming from the dim streets and the moon above.
You stood, pushing off the mattress with damp palms and pacing to the window. Your thin sleep shirt doing little to protect you from the cold, scanning the road until finally, you spot him. Brian. It was like clockwork, your phone ringing as you embarrassingly scrambled to grab it.
“Miss me?”
As cozy as you remembered, greeting you like he was happy to be standing in the pouring rain.
Giggling under your breath, “Never.” A lie he couldn’t help but laugh at, coming out hushed. Your worry for him trickling in the longer you stared outside, his clothes were no short of soaked, sagging off his frame, unbothered as he looked, the risk of getting sick hung heavy at the back of your mind. He leaned against the booth, arms crossed, holding up the wired phone to his ear. “Aren’t you cold?” The knitted mask covered his face, but even at a distance, you swore you could see the way his mouth twitched, “Never.” Spinning it back on you with a kick of his heel, you bet he was proud of that one.
“Well, you could… come inside, if you want?” Unsure, the second it left your mouth. You had never spoken to him in person, let alone invited him in, but it had to be freezing out there. The wind and unrelenting showers were a recipe for disaster. He paused, the shock obvious in his stance, disappearing as fast as it came. “Careful dolly, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were sweet on me.”
Damn him and his smooth words.
Cocky in a way that radiated off of him, how annoying. Butterflies disguised as irritation settling in your gut, you snapped.
“Clearly, you don’t because your tough guy act is gonna have you bedridden, Brian.”
Your outburst stunned both you and him into silence, darting your eyes away from the glass like that would somehow erase his memory. An inhale, then a very, very amused exhale, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
With a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders, he cocked his head to the side. In true bastard fashion. Jaw hung open, your head whipping back to the window. “What do you mean by ‘okay’?” He’s borderline hunched over on himself, hand clamped over his mouth with laughter you can’t quite hear, audacity rippling with every movement.
The phone dropped by his hip before swinging it back up near his face. “I mean, I don’t want my pretty miss t’be mad at me,” straightening himself as he continued. “Holdin’ you to it, been wantin’ to see that face up close.” With that, the line cuts with a stutter.
You throw your phone onto the bed in a frenzy. What are you doing? The walk across the street was two minutes max, which meant he could be here any second now. You weren’t even wearing anything cute, and on top of that, what if he was an axe murderer? Images of your body in a ditch flash through your head. At least you went out doing something you chose to do.
The dull thud of knocking ends your spiral short. Peaking from behind the corner, you steady your breath. floorboards creaking as you walk down the hall, it’s now or never. The front door swung open, and there he was. Taller than you thought, broad-shouldered and gaze focused on you. He was intimidating to say the least.
“Thought you were a woman of your word, darlin’. Or do ya just like seein’ me beg?”
A quick shake of your head as you stepped to the side, heat crawling up your neck. “Right! Right- come in, sorry.” Nervous laughter bubbled out as you clicked the lock shut behind him. The water starts to puddle, hands sliding to rest in his pockets, “Cute place, it suits you.” Words slightly muffled, it was odd hearing him this close, as opposed to over a speaker. Not bad, just new.
Surprisingly enough, his mask had somehow managed to stay dry, hood catching the bulk of it. He wasn’t shivering in the slightest; in fact, he seemed perfectly comfortable lounging in your walkway fully drenched. “I have clean clothes that probably fit you, just um- stay here- or actually you can, uh..” The words fade into nothing; floor becoming more fascinating by the second. Your nerves appeared to spur him on, stepping closer until he was almost chest to chest. Leaning down, he tilted his head to the side, humming low in his throat. “Mhm?”
He was doing this on purpose; he had to be. Your face felt hot, hands fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, “You can stay in the living room, it’s down the hall. I’ll go get the stuff.” Mumbled as you awkwardly shuffled around him.
You could faintly hear him follow your instructions, racing off to your room before he could even respond.
Slamming the door shut (softly), you slid onto the ground. This was humiliating. You had known him for a full year, talked to the guy constantly, so why was this so scary? Not because you were scared of him, if anything, you liked him too much. And that was exactly the issue; sure, you kicked your feet on the phone from time to time, but now he was in your home. He was going to wear the clothes you gave him, and he was probably going to spend the night. You hadn’t even asked if he wanted to, did you even want him to? Well, yes, you did, eager yet fearful was the motto.
Thoughts running a mile a minute, you find a pair of baggy sweats and an oversized black t-shirt. The clothes bundled in your arms, and with newfound determination, you march your way back down the hall.
➽──────────────❥
The room was dim, your feet tucked under you while you tried not to stare. He just looked so domestic, lounging against the other side of the couch. Arm slung over the backrest of it, mask still secured over his face. He had changed and returned like he had done this a million times, you guys talking like you usually did (with more or less stuttering on your part), eventually settling on the sofa to unwind. The shirt you gave him may have been loose on you, but it looked like it was about to bust at the seams every time he moved.
Fabric pulled taut over his chest, hugging his biceps, he hadn’t bothered to tie the strings of the sweatpants either. Grey waistband sagging low on his hips, the peak of his boxers was driving you mad. You felt perverted; this was the first time you’d seen him this close, and you were thinking about him like a piece of meat.
“You mind?”
The confusion must have been clear on your face, snorting softly before readjusting, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Holding it up as an explanation, “Ah, no, it’s fine.” It was not fine. You hated people who smoked inside; it was like he had you under a spell, wanting to do just about anything to appease him. Hooking a thumb under his mask, he pulled it up above his nose. The glow from the candles you’d lit flickered across his jaw, faded scars scattered from his collar to his face. A jagged one right over his mouth. He was handsome.
Cig snatched between his teeth, lighter sparking as he inhaled. The smoke swirled in wisps; you couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel them. Trailing up and down your form, your thighs clenched together, body reacting before your mind could catch up. His head lolled back, the lines of his neck on full display, saliva pooled in your mouth. “You alright there, sugar? Lookin’ kinda tense.” It was effortless, reading you like a book. Fingers skimming through your pages the way a lover would.
He was toying with you, lips quirked up in a smirk that could kill, “Yeah, I’m- I’m good,” your response unconvincing as ever.
God, his voice, low and smooth. Southern drawl curling around the vowels like honeyed fog, rumbled in his chest when he spoke. The purr of it made you ache; it was so unfair.
You cleared your throat; it had been over an hour since he came in from the storm. However, you desperately needed to ease the tension before you made a fool of yourself. “I mean- if you’re not comfortable, I can grab you a sweater or something?” He huffed, smoke puffing out. Not sparing you any grace, he caught your wrist, tugging you near. The pull causes you to stumble over in a half-crawl to his side. Grip firm, he snaked your hand under his shirt, palm flat against skin. The toned ridges of his stomach had you almost choking, “’m warm, see? Right as rain, pinky swear.” Breath fanning your face, he smelled like nicotine and mint, temptation mixed all into one. Hold finally loosening on your arm as you dropped back into the sofa, gaze still fixated on him.
Stunned in place, mouth opening and closing again like a fish out of water. “But,” the word drawn out, slow with a click of his tongue, head turning towards you,
“If you keep undressin’ me with your eyes, I’m gonna catch a cold.”
Your breath hitched, tension so thick you could suffocate.
“C’mere.” His thighs spread wide, hand patting his lap, the cigarette stumped against the empty Coke can he’d been sipping on. Lazy grin stretching across his lips, “Don’t gotta be scared, s’just me.” Comforting with an edge, a predator coaxing prey straight into a bear trap. The metal teeth sank into your ankle before you could blink.
You crawled onto his lap, clinging to his shoulders to steady yourself. Nose nearly brushing his, you mapped out his features. Healed scrapes filled with stories he hadn’t told you, the dimples marking his cheeks, gave him a boyish charm you wouldn’t expect. His hands settled on your waist, thumbs tracing idle circles, “Nervous?” You swallowed, heat dragging up your spine in waves.
“I just, I really like you, and I’ve never- I don’t know, done this… before.”
Ducking your head to the side, looking everywhere but his face. The confession surging out in an anxious ramble, your filter failing to stop it. He cooed, “Aww, it’s okay. You like me, baby?” Murmured and soft, caressing up and down the curve of your hip. He reached to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, fingers tracing your jaw before tilting to meet your eye. “Use your words. Can’t be good t’you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong, now can I?” His attention was overwhelming, making you jittery all over.
“I like you.” The pout on your lips had him feeling like a man starved. “Yeah? You want me?” Nodding, you clawed at the cotton of his shirt, needed it so bad you could cry, “Words, little lady.” His tone bordering on stern, “I- I do, I want it, I want you.” And he smiled like he won the fucking lottery, “Atta girl.” Hand burying in your hair, pulling you close.
The kiss was slow, firm and deep. Lips molding to yours, he squeezed your hip, wanted to eat you whole. Tongues entwined as he groaned, arms wrapping around his shoulders, grinding down, it was a portrait of desperation. You whined into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound. This wasn’t just making out; this was atonement, divinity in the form of lust.
Hands sliding down and palming your ass, rocking you back and forth. He breaks the kiss, a string of spit stretching between you. Faces flushed as you panted, “Let’s do this proper, yeah?” He hoists you up like nothing, legs wrapped around him on instinct, a blur of messy kisses and the slam of your bedroom door following.
Your back hits the mattress with a bounce. Arms bracing on either side of your head, “You don’t know what you fuckin’ do to me, dolly- feel like I’m losin’ my mind.” He’s weak, breathing you in, biting at your neck. Leaning back on his haunches, he gripped the collar of the shirt, pulling it off in one move. The sight of him made you drip, chest heaving as he knelt in front of you. Sculpted from cruelty and hardened work, scars littered his abdomen. Lips slick and bitten red, Brian was a vision fit for the ages.
He was on you in an instant, roughly tugging up your shirt before grunting like it pained him. “tryna’ kill me, is that it?” Braless, breasts spilling across your chest. Kissing down the valley of your ribs, he marked you up like you were his, ruining you for anyone else.
Slipping your shorts off your legs, you squirm, soft whimpers escaping. “I know, you need it real, real bad.” Chuckling under his breath, you were the cutest thing he had ever seen. Panties soaked through, his thumb circling your clit, sliding it down and pressing in. Hips jolting up, he was being so unfair. Playing with you like this, “You’re being mean.” The whine bubbling up your throat, tears starting to collect at your lash line. You couldn’t help it; it felt like you were burning from the inside out, and he was laughing at you.
“Oh, am I now? My poor crybaby, ain’t I jus’ the worst?” The grin on his face was anything but remorseful. Thankfully, he was nowhere near as composed as he seemed to be; mercy on you was mercy on himself. Shifting the lace to the side, he sank between your thighs.
You bloomed open beautifully, delicate and weeping like a spring daisy. He dragged his tongue up your slit, losing patience by the second. Drinking you in, nectar sweet on his pallette, liquid gold to a sinner. It was a mess. Sloppy as all hell, tongue fucking you deep like he’d die if he didn’t. Arching off the bed, you almost screamed. Your hands grasped wildly at the sheets, trying to ground yourself as he devoured you. His thumbs spreading you open, mumbling as he ate you. He pulled back just enough to spit on your sensitive cunt, legs twitching from the impact.
It was so much, too much, thighs shutting from the stimulation. The pleasure coiling in your stomach, getting tighter and tighter, clawing up your throat as your shoulders bowed. Finally snapping when he slips two digits into your heat, curling up just right. Pumping in slowly while you fell apart, “hah- I can’t, mmph-“ eyes rolling to the back of your skull. Pressing knuckle deep, letting you ride out your high before replacing his touch with his mouth. Lapping at your slick, he was making out with your pussy. You barely registered when he sat up, sight hazy with stars dotting behind your lids.
Jaw falling slack, the pads of his fingers pushing past your lips, “Did so well, my girl; I think you deserve a treat.” Tongue swirling around his digits, releasing them with a wet pop.
He reaches down, tapping your puffy clit like a button. Breathing out his nose when you squeak. “I’ll be damned, yer’ honeypots dripping somethin’ fierce, babydoll. That all for me?” The cadence sickeningly sweet, filling your head like molasses.
Vulnerable under him, yet that damn mask still covered his face. You felt exposed, needy as you tried grabbing at him, “Take it off, please-“ your voice is wobbly at best. Clinging to him with glassy eyes, he leaned in close, “Always so polite, hm?” You let your hands stray and wander, slowly nudging under the knitted fabric. Dragging over the bridge of his nose, freeing his ruffled hair when it fully slipped off. Little sun-kissed freckles dispersed across his skin, scattered like constellations. Blonde strands sticking up in every direction, pupils blown wide, your palms cradling his face.
Lips meeting in the middle, there was a shift in the air, softer, quieter, but real.
Dropping his hips to grind against your bare core, you could feel it, the throb of him. Pushing off you abruptly and forcibly shoving down the waistband, his boxers came with it. Cock springing out, sitting heavy between his thighs. Pre collected at the slit with a vein running down the underside, Adam’s apple bobbing in contained frustration. He pumped his wrist once, lining up and dragging it up your folds, tip catching on your hole. His brows furrowed, running his tongue along his teeth, “Fuck.” You were sopping wet, puddling under you and glistening. It coated his entire length. Your fingers sank into the plush of your ass, legs spreading even further. An invitation.
Presenting your welcoming cunt on a silver platter. Hips canting as he gave a shallow thrust, pushing in and out, fucking you with just the tip. “Please— please, please-“ The beg rolling off your tongue, you had never wanted anything more in your life.
Aching and empty, his cock sinking in inch by mouth-watering inch. “Shh, baby. You’ll get yours.” He snickered. The stretch was euphoric, hands bracing your thighs as he worked you open. Rocking back and forth, pressing to the hilt. He threw his head back with a satisfied groan, “S’fuckin’ tight, shit.” The squelch of your needy cunt ringing in your ears, slick dribbling down your ass. The sight of your connection was hypnotic. He wanted to be gentle, needed to be. But you were making that so goddamn difficult, pliant beneath him, perfect and plush. Just ripe enough to fucking eat. Brian wanted to break you, not roughly, rushed and brash, no.
He was going to take you apart, flood your veins like a drug. Shatter you like porcelain, before putting you back together, molding your cunt to his shape.
Claim you body, mind and soul.
Folding your legs to your chest, shallowly thrusting to ease you in, “Big stretch, jus’ like that, takin’ me so pretty darlin’.” The squeeze had him rambling, euphoria on wheels. Your pussy was embarrassingly loud, sticky plaps echoing through the room. “Hear that? She’s sweet talkin’ me, think she has a crush?” His taunt would’ve made you defensive if you could think properly, if you could think at all, that is.
He was so deep, skin on skin as you hiccuped. You were writhing against the comforter, pleasure sparking from head to toe. The only thing you could do was lie there and fucking take it, letting out punched ‘ah ah ah-’s every time his hips snapped into yours. Your orgasm hits you hard, vision going white, the pleasure acting as fireworks going off in your gut. Heartbeat loud in your ears.
He wasn’t far behind, your cunt squeezing down on him, vice hold while his thrusts lost rhythm. He pumped you full, spilling against your cervix. Moaning bordering on a whine, he sank his teeth into your neck, muffling the pitched sound. Your arms were about as heavy as lead, dizzy and panting, before he says something that has your eyes flying open. Hand wrapping around both your wrists, pinning you to the bed. “Don’t get all sleepy on me now, we’re just gettin’ started.”
The words leave his lips with a growl, slamming back into you with fervour. Headboard banging on the wall from the force. Your voice catches in your throat, and you could barely breathe. A flip had switched in his head. His only goal was to breed you, stuff you until it leaked out. He needed to fuck his cum into you so far you’d taste it tomorrow. “B-Brian- ngh- Brian,” you were drowning in it, his touch burned like a brand and healed like a salve. All encompassing, you could feel him everywhere. “I’m here, baby, I’m here.” He rasped into your shoulder, dick dragging against your G-spot, hitting bull’s-eye.
He was pounding your cunt like it owed him money. You tugged wildly in his hold, sheer strength holding you down, hand dipping past your thighs to circle your clit. Thumb tracing the letters B-R-I-A-N, the combined pressure of him bullying his cock into your walls, sending you over the edge. Not letting up, he pulls off of you, flipping you over. Face shoved into the pillows, ass up and trembling. Your peak stuttering before he’s thrusting back in, hips grinding against your ass and balls deep.
He’s fucking you mean, pummelling into you over and over and over, with a bruising grip on your waist that you’re sure will leave marks. Using you like a toy, watching your wet cunt stretch around him, he felt fucking high. Your pussy was drooling onto the sheets, sticking to your thighs and dripping. “You want it? Say it then, tell me you fuckin’ love it dolly.” Eyes crossed as you slobbered against the cushion, “Want it— wan’ it suh-so bad.” Pace growing harsh, his abs tensing from the exertion, “Yeah? Then thank me. Thank me for fucking you.” You struggled to form a coherent thought, his rhythm making you weak.
Unfortunately for you, hesitation was not something he tolerated.
“You think anyone else could make you feel this good?-“ sliding his grasp from your waist to press you down, thumb digging into your spine, pushing you into an almost painful arch. “You’re mine, you hear me?” He yanked you up by the hair, back flush to his chest. With an arm wrapped around your throat, the bulging muscle choking you as he snarls. “You let any other bastard touch you like this and I’ll blow his brains across that fuckin’ wall.”
The threat made you gush. He confirmed everything you were suspicious of, worried about, but you couldn’t stop. Brian was dangerous, yet his attention was intoxicating. A buzz you couldn’t get enough of. He had you cock drunk, hooked on it like an addict. “I- ah- ‘m yours, all yours.” Babbling, your hand reaching behind to drive him deeper, the other helplessly clawing at his bicep. Nails leaving pale scratches in their wake, his gruff chuckle making you shiver, “All mine, huh? Oh, honey, you promise?” Voice laced with condescension and sugar.
His palm smooths down your front, pressing on your stomach. “Feel that? I’m right here.” You cum with his name on your tongue like a prayer, clamping down on him while you cried out. Thrusting once, twice, more before his hips stutter, filling you to the brim with a low groan.
Legs giving out as you both collapse, careful not to crush you under his weight. “Fuckin’ christ.” He dropped his head on your shoulder, the reality of it finally setting in. His hair was a mess, sweat beading down his arms from where he held you, “You alright? I wasn’t too rough, was I?” The switch in tone gave you whiplash.
For a man who was just threatening to kill your hypothetical lovers, he sure was soft in the aftermath. He peered at you from the crook of your neck, blushed, and eyes half lidded. “Mm, no, it was good, I liked it.” You sigh, sinking further into the post glow. The laugh he gives warms you, hushed and sappy, pecking your nape with a hum. The air was heavy with the scent of bodies and lust, rolling off of you with a grunt, he tugs you to his chest. “We should get up,” voice of reason as stable as the shake of your legs, it’s the thought that counts, though. “Yeah, we should.” The two of you not making a single move, as the heat and desperation faded, you could really see him.
Maybe you should’ve taken the chance to run for the hills while his guard was down, but how could you when he was looking at you like that?
His gaze flickered across your face, from your nose to your lips, memorizing the lines of your features. He stared at you like he wanted to save the view for a later date, when he was buried in blood and responsibility.
A keepsake for a rainy day.
“What?” You liked to tease, and you supposed he did too with the way he huffed in response. “What? I can’t appreciate my lady?” How rude of him to melt you like this. “Your lady? Since when?” A sharp retort that had him grinning, nose scrunched in a way that made your heart flutter, tooth gap peaking out. Crooked and fond, he made you feel so incredibly safe. “Since yesterday, haven’t ya heard?”
The lovesick giggle bubbling up your throat before you could stop it, “Yesterday? And you didn’t tell me?” Now that earned you a snort, “Yes ma’am, and I’ll be sure to have it in writin’ next time.”
It was stupid, the pillow talk and banter. Dangerous or not, he was the best smooth talker you’d ever met, and you’d be damned if you let him slip through your fingers.
➽──────────────❥
You had fallen asleep like that, tucked into his side, arm thrown over his chest. The bed was still warm when you awoke, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen. Rushing out of your room, nearly tripping over yourself, you realized he had cleaned you up. Rounding the corner into your kitchen, your heart heavy, before something catches your eye— a note.
“Got called into work, you looked too cozy to wake up, sorry darlin.
P.S. Left my jacket on your couch, take care of it for me, will ya?”
Scribbled with unmistakable handwriting, you had to laugh. So there it was, the start of your new routine. He still rang you, of course, except now that call was always followed up by a knock at your door. And Brian was still as mysterious as always, coming and going as he pleased, but it worked. You waited and he’d call, you’d answer, and he’d knock. Like clockwork.
Just you and your midnight lover.
➽──────────────❥
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A/N : AHHHH ITS HERE !! My blood sweat and tears went into this so I really hope y’all like it 😭😭😭 I love rambling ab my favs so PLEASEEE talk to me !! Comment to ur hearts content ☝️☝️ I firmly believe Brian talks u through it and I shant be silenced.
While I’m lucky that I do in fact feel hunger and receive hunger cues. Unfortunately there is a limited window of time. Meaning, if I don’t eat within the time frame where I physically feel hungry, I will stop feeling physically hungry but I will feel the effects of it.
