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tarabyte3 · 10 months

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The Devil Makes Us Sin

Fandom: Luther, Luther: The Fallen Sun

Pairing: David Robey/F!Reader

Chapter 3/? (10.1k words)

->start at chapter 1<-

<- Chapter 2

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Summary: Your life isn't perfect, and you don't enjoy moonlighting as a camgirl for so many repulsive men, but you need the money and it's yours. You're getting by just fine. You're content.

At least you thought you were. Then you get a strange text message. And you aren't sure if you're horrified or intrigued.

Warnings: Explicit rating, smut, stalking, spying, blackmail, manipulation, dubcon, dubious consent, Dom/sub, sadism, masochism, unprotected sex, oral sex, masturbation, mutual masturbation, choking, dirty talk, praise, humiliation, possessive love, yandere, minor description of gore, minor description of violence, murder, discussion of murder, shame involving sex work, light shaming of sex work, emotionally abusive mother, troubled mother/daughter relationship, sexual harassment, workplace sexual harassment

A/N: First: New warnings in the tags! There are details about previous workplace sexual harassment discussed in this chapter. Those details include unwanted touching of the arm and back, as well as unwanted comments from a superior (no specific comments are listed). Second: HI, I'VE MISSED YOU ALL. And I've been writing! 😏

Work title is from "Paradise Circus" by Massive Attack. Chapter title is from "I Await the Devil's Coming" by Mary MacLane. Text divider 1 is from Alessandro Magnasco's Interrogations in Jail. Text divider 2 is from Clément-Auguste Andrieux's Allegory of Death.

Also I've done some improvements on the way I'm handling chapter collages from now on.

Chapter 3 - My Life is Longing for the Sight of You

The next day, you show up to work in black heeled boots, tight black pants, and a silky black camisole. You had a black blazer as well, but it's currently hanging on the back of your chair. The removal of it is what tied the statement of your outfit together, in your opinion. Which is, "I don't want to be here."

However, the temperature inside the building is surprisingly chilly and your arms have gooseflesh. Part of you suspects someone turned down the heat to force you to put the jacket back on because they were too cowardly to approach you directly. It's amazing how effective a simple no is to people that aren't used to hearing the word no. It makes them afraid of hearing it again. So you're toughing it out just in case you're correct. Because you're enjoying seeing how far you can push them and you aren't about to give in now.

It's later in the afternoon, when you're feeling bored and scrolling absentmindedly on your work computer, that David sends you a photo.

There's no message and it isn't a selfie. But it is a picture. One taken from a balcony seating area—likely for a fancy restaurant or bar based on a table in the background—looking out over the city. In the bottom of the photo is a pair of crossed legs and feet propped up on a small footrest, as if the person taking the photo was leaning back slightly and relaxing when they snapped it. They're wearing fitted navy pants and very expensive looking brown oxford dress shoes. You stare at in confusion for a moment until—

It's him, you realize.

Those are his legs.

Which means he took a photo in the middle of his day, from his current point of view, and sent it to you. Unprompted. And he let you see a part of him. Only from the knees down, but it's still more than you had before.

You stare at the photo greedily, barely taking in the lovely view, as if his shins and feet might reveal something about him. Other than the fact that his shoes alone probably cost as much as your entire wardrobe.

You wonder if he's watching your face as you look at it. If he can see the shock and delight in your expression. You wouldn't be surprised if he wanted to see your reaction, so you smile into the camera. Just in case.

You send him a selfie back of you leaning your elbow on your desk with your chin in your hand and staring at your work computer in boredom.

Then you text him, "Your view is much better than mine."

Arguable. Mine doesn't have you in it.

Fascinating search results, by the way. Any particular reason you're looking at beds?

You flush with embarrassment as you read his message and remember what you'd been doing before he messaged you. Which is finally looking into replacing your old bed. You'd been so distracted by the photo, you'd completely forgotten. But of course he noticed.

"Yeah, my mattress is ancient and uncomfortable, and now I can afford a new one. It's called research."

I see. A king is awfully large for just one person.

The blush deepens, stoking to embers, and begins to radiate through your chest. There's a corresponding quiver of interest in your core. "I'm spoiling myself because I deserve it. Though I see your point. It might feel terribly lonely lying there all by myself."

You should get a big teddy bear to keep you company :)

You stare in indignation at your phone. He…he did not. Well so much for trying to flirt! And a smiley face of all things? God, he's infuriating.

"Maybe I will!"

You angrily toss your phone face down onto your desk and go back to scrolling. You're just as unfocused as before, but you're much more alert with irritation now. You'd think he'd want to flirt with you, but apparently he can't help himself when he sees an opportunity to get a rise out of you. And you gave him exactly what he wanted, you think to yourself.

It only takes a few minutes before you're glancing down at your phone again. He hasn't texted you first since he…well, since he blackmailed and threatened you. So that makes this new and interesting. It also expands whatever this is beyond just your computer. Makes it feel more real. It also means he was going about his day, thought about you, and wanted to share. It's almost sweet.

But was that his intention? To be sweet? Is he trying to woo you now rather than just make you a horny wreck? Or was there a reason? Something in the background you should have noticed that you were too distracted to see? Because you recognized one of the buildings just from having lived here so long, but it's nowhere near your apartment or work. It's a much nicer section of town that you rarely frequent—on your salary? Please. So there doesn't seem to be anything of importance about the area. Which means maybe he was just thinking about you.

Or—and this one seems most likely—he wanted to make sure you were thinking about him. And what better way to get your attention than including something as harmless as his feet in the photo. 'Well, it worked, didn't it?' You think.

With a frustrated sigh you pick your phone back up. There haven't been any new messages from him, which means he's probably very pleased with himself.

"You seem like you're having a relaxing afternoon."

I finished a meeting and now I'm enjoying myself.

"Business or pleasure?"

Business. My pleasurable meetings look much different.

"Do you have many pleasurable meetings?"

FAR fewer than I would like.

As you're trying to figure out a saucy reply he can't be an ass about, he sends you another photo. This one's of an elegant tumbler—likely made of crystal by the look of it—with a bit of dark amber liquid at the bottom. And it's being tilted and held by a hand for the camera.

His hand.

It's a photo of his hand.

You nearly drop your phone as your grip weakens from the shock, but you quickly regain control of it. Then you practically shove the screen to your nose to look, eagerly devouring another breadcrumb he's given you. And if you also zoom in to examine it more closely, who could really blame you?

He has lightly tanned skin, well groomed nails, and thick fingers, all of which are intriguing enough on their own. But what really catches your eye is the masculine swath of hair on the back of his hand that disappears up his wrist and into the edge of the photo. You also can't help but notice that it's definitely the hand of an older man. Which, for you, is not a deal breaker. In fact, it only intrigues you further. And god, the way he's holding that glass—gripping the sides with his pointer finger resting on the rim—is so casual and erotic.

You imagine those hands typing out every single thing he's ever said to you, moving expertly over his keyboard or the touchscreen of his phone. You imagine him looking at your picture as that hand unzips his pants, seeking to find release at the sight of you.

The thought of him in motion causes the dam within you to finally burst. Now you're very fucking turned on and left squirming and fantasizing about it in your cubicle.

You can't deny you want that hand on you. You want to discover how strong it is, to feel his touch along your face, and see just how gentle or rough he would be. You want to learn all the pain and pleasure that hand has caused while it's between your legs and drawing moans out of you.

Jesus, if this is what seeing just his hand does to you, what would seeing the rest of him do?!

"Whiskey?"

Close. Scotch.

"Looks satisfying. I bet it would warm me up nicely right now." You send the text with a very self satisfied, if a little sweaty, smile on your face. Because though you had been freezing before, you're practically radiating heat now.

It would.

"Yeah? I would love to get my lips on it and savor it on my tongue."

I would share if you were here with me.

"Oh, I don't know if that would be such a good idea. I make a lot of noise when I'm enjoying something."

Hmm. We can't have that, now, can we? And I certainly wouldn't want you to hold back. I suppose it's something better enjoyed with some privacy, then.

"I would like that."

Would you?

You stare at your phone.

You know what he's asking under the layers of flirting and innuendo. And it's not if you would enjoy a drink with him. It's if you've made up your mind about whether or not you would enjoy him. If your answer has changed since last night.

You also know you only have seconds to respond before he takes the break between messages as hesitation. And isn't that exactly what this is? You're absolutely hesitating. Because you still have so many questions to ask him first!

But you've seen something physical now. Tangible pieces of him that are coming together to wrap themselves around the frame of a personality that you've gotten better at reading, even through text. It's not a whole picture—of course it's not—but it's like seeing a figure take shape as it's being sculpted from a block of marble.

"Soon, I should think. I'm starting to find a lot of reasons to say yes."

In that case, I'm looking forward to our chat tonight.

"So am I. I should be home in about 2 hours."

I'll be waiting.

Also, if you're already spoiling yourself, I'm a big fan of silk sheets, personally.

You let out a distressed noise and do your best to steady your hands long enough to type out, "I'll keep that in mind."

Before the end of the day, you head into your boss's office to let him know you're using the last of your vacation days next week, so you'll only be in on Monday. Which would make that your last day instead. Which also means you only have two more days left in that hellhole before you're truly free.

You can tell he wants to say no to you—is actively working up the courage to do just that—so you fix him with an unimpressed stare.

"I am still entitled to those days, and I have no other time to schedule them. I'm also giving you more than the company's required forty eight hours notice. I'm not seeing the conflict."

"That sounds like poor planning on your part and therefore not my problem," he says, dismissively, barely sparing you a glance. "No."

"Would you prefer if I involved HR in the discussion? For your comfort, of course." To your delight, he finally looks up at you. "After all, I did have some emails I've been meaning to forward them before I leave anyway. It would save me so much time!" There's a cheerful, false innocence to your tone that makes him flinch.

"There's no need," he replies curtly. "The matter is settled."

"Of course." You shift on your feet. "How's your wife, by the way? I haven't spoken to her since the company holiday party. Such a delightful woman. It might be lovely to catch up with her some day." You let the threat hang in the air.

You can see the moment he relents. The way his shoulders sag with defeat and acceptance. You're going to vividly remember that moment for a very long time. "Fine. You may have your days off. Anything else?"

"Nope!" You smirk at him in triumph as he glowers back at you. You're almost sad that the conversation is over so you can't push him further. However, as you move to leave, you get an idea of how to do exactly that. You stop and turn back to him, trying to keep the excitement from creeping onto your face. "Actually, if you prefer, tomorrow could be my last day instead."

He stares at you with all the anger and irritation that has been building up inside of him the past several days. The exact vitriol you've been deliberately fueling. The sight of it makes your heart pound, but not in fear like it might have once. You're elated. You wanted this confrontation—to meet him on even ground for the first time. You don't have to put up with his bullshit and his creepy attention. You don't have to walk on eggshells, straddling that line between rejecting his advances and not pissing him off for fear that he might fire you. And he hates that you aren't that person anymore. Because that person he could control and take advantage of. But you? That he cannot touch. And, as you stare, bold and unbowed back at him, you can tell he knows it.

"I can do you one better. You're free to go and not return at all, if you'd like. Your time here is done," he says through gritted teeth.

"I do like! Thank you!" You grin at him. "But one more thing before I go." The smile falls from your face, as if hadn't been there at all. You fix him with a thin lipped, hate filled glare as you take three controlled steps forward so you're towering over his desk. Even though he's on the other side of it, he leans away in surprise. When you speak again, your voice comes out pure venom—harsh and dangerous.

"You are a small, pathetic man. You hide how weak you are by flexing your power over the people beneath you because it brings you joy to feel in control. But you aren't, no matter how much you pretend to be. You're still weak. You should be ashamed of your behavior. I'll be glad to go the rest of my life never having your offensive hands on me again. I should have ripped them off for your audacity. You're not worthy of touching me so how dare you ever think you had the privilege, let alone the right." You lean in closer. "You disgust me. Someday you will fall from the grace you exploit, and my only regret is that I won't be here to see you hit the ground when you do." Then you straighten up and casually brush out your blazer. He stares up at you, pale and speechless, with his mouth agape in shock. "No need for an escort. I can see my own way out."

You leave his office feeling high and weightless from the pleasure of finally getting to tell him the truth about what you truly think of him. You haven't felt like this since one of your streams, but this is that feeling magnified. Because, despite your similar disdain for them, in a way those men had been stand-ins. Now you got to say all of it directly to him and without hiding. It seeps, distilled into your belly and your chest and spreads to your fingertips and down to your toes.

It's intoxicating.

When you walk through the door to your flat, you only stop to lock it behind you. Then you scurry towards the bedroom, tossing your purse to the floor, shedding your blazer, and pulling your boots off one at a time as you go, leaving a discarded trail behind you. You head straight for the chair.

You aren't nervous about clicking the link this time. You're excited. The anticipation has been building up inside of you all day, and it only got worse after his texts. You're looking forward to learning more about him and seeing what he has to say. To you, about you—all of it. You don't even stop to consider whether or not you feel ashamed or concerned or scared this time. Or whether or not you should be.

Why should you be? You're capable. Smart. Perceptive—you've even caught him off guard a few times already, and you're confident he liked it. That it's part of what drew him to you in the first place. So if he is luring you into some kind of trap, you're looking for the wires and watching where you step. You don't think he is, though. Or at the very least, you believe him when he said the thing he wanted out of it was you.

Is it still a trap if you walk into it willingly and give him what he wants? If you offer yourself up in consecration? Because you plan on doing just that—the sacrificial lamb yearning for the wolf's jaws. You're prepared to receive his sacrament, just to see how much you might enjoy it.

Really, now the only question left is when.

As the site loads, you hold your breath until you see that black box waiting there for you in the corner of the screen. Then the air and tension bleed out of you in a sigh, leaving an eager thrill behind.

You smile into the camera. "Hello, David."

I could get used to that.

"Used to what?" You notice he changed his username to his name, rather than the ridiculous one he had before.

You, pleased to see me.

"I suppose you should continue to please me, then." You let slip a small grin.

I plan to.

"Oh? Then I'm even further pleased to hear it."

How pleased?

"Ah, but that would be telling. Where's the fun in that?"

I see I'm creating a monster.

"You really have no one to blame for this but yourself," you laugh. "But don't pretend you aren't enjoying it immensely."

I am. Immensely.

Did you miss me?

"I did a bit, yeah." Your cheeks grow warm at the admission. One which is actually an understatement.

You're not usually the sentimental or mushy type. In fact, you usually find that part of dating—if that's what you can even call this—to be frustrating. You kept your partners at arm's length in the past. To the point they inevitably accused you of being cold and distant. 'Another form of survival,' you realize. You couldn't let any of them close enough to see, otherwise they might accuse you of being worse. Now it's mortifying to know how much you really did miss him, and how quickly you've ended up here. Because all of this is new.

Good.

"Hearing from you this afternoon helped, though."

I'll have to remember that.

"I hope you do. And for the record," you glance up at the camera through your eyelashes as you lean in closer, "I was never talking about the Scotch."

Neither was I.

It WAS good Scotch, though.

"It wasn't nice to send me those photos while I was at work, but it was nice to get them." In a lower voice you add, "I liked seeing glimpses of you."

Did you?

"I did." Your blush runs hot as you remember every dirty fantasy you had about his hands on you for nearly an hour afterwards. How you had to stop looking at beds and silk sheets because it only made your affliction worse.

That's exactly why I sent them. I enjoyed the thought of you bothered at your desk.

"How do you know I was bothered?" You asked pointedly.

Are you denying it?

"Not at all. And you're not answering the question."

I told you. I like pressing your buttons. I've worked very hard to figure out what they are so I can do just that.

"I'm sure. And here I thought you just missed me, too." You give the camera a fake pout. "Cruel."

I never said I was a nice man.

"I suppose you haven't. And I suppose I wouldn't be so intrigued if you were."

This is also why I didn't want you distracted. Imagine if you'd had the freedom to respond to me.

Like you wanted to.

You suck in a breath and your eyes become heavy lidded at the implication. How would you have responded if you'd been at home? Well, you certainly would have flirted a lot harder. Or you would have sent a spicy selfie back to regain some power with the hope he might have given you just a little bit more of himself in return.

But you remember how worked up you got simply sitting there, thinking about him—and occasionally looking back at the photo. How you had crossed your legs and shifted uncomfortably while you tried not to squirm into your chair. Would you have…touched yourself? To the thought of him? The fantasy of his hands forces its way to the front of your mind. Of that casual pointer finger tracing along your jaw, and your body immediately responds with a slick, fluttering heat between your legs. You decide that, yes, you absolutely would have.

Wait…

Shit.

You suddenly realize that's what he actually means by responding to him. It's not texting back or being able to chat with him. He wants you to allow yourself to react to him. To get so worked up, so overcome with need, that you get off to the thought of him. Which you can't do at work. God, that's… 'tempting,' your mind offers.

"Well, I have some excellent news there." You try to tuck that realization away so you can regather your composure. For now. "Today was my last day at that shitty job. I don't have to go back to finish out the two weeks." Then, with a full understanding now of what it means, you add, "So no more distractions."

Is that so? That is excellent news.

How did you manage it? Or did you get bored of scrolling?

"No, I'm just very persuasive." You give the camera a smug look.

You are that.

"I also told my boss he was disgusting before I left. That felt fucking incredible," you nearly moan. "I've wanted to do that for years."

Then you've had a very good day so far.

"I really have," you say with a wistful smile.

However, as you think about why it felt incredible, the expression slowly falls from your face until it's replaced with a scowl. "He deserved far worse than what I gave him, though. That asshole used to stand behind me at my computer and touch my arm and back, or lean against me when he bent over to look at my screen. God, and he would try to get his face really close to mine, as if I might find it erotic or kiss him or something. I'd have to lean away in my chair for him to finally stop. He would also proposition me in his office and say suggestive things whenever he sent me an email because he was that confident in his ability to never face consequences. And he was right. He never did." You let out a disgusted sigh.

"When I was new, a couple of my coworkers complained to HR, and do you know what happened?" You don't wait for an answer. "All he had to do was watch a short video on sexual harassment. He never got a warning or written up. There was no follow up. Then they got fired for it. Not right away, but eventually the company found a bullshit reason to let them go, and soon there was someone new at their desk. We all knew the truth, though. That's why I never reported him. I knew it was pointless. It wasn't just him, either. It was several of the men that worked there. It's like they attracted men like him while the rest of them did nothing to stop it. We all learned quickly who to stay away from to avoid being easy prey."

By the time you're done talking, you're tense and clenching with anger. That place was a miserable, violating hellhole, and he was scum. You can't believe you put up with it for so long. You should have quit years ago! Why didn't you? Oh, right. Because men like that are easier to fool and distract so you didn't have to work as hard to blend in. Why would they care about your mask when your tits are right there?

You come out of your sudden rant and momentary introspection only to notice the chat box hasn't updated since his last message.

"David?" You call out. "Are you there?"

Nothing.

You wonder if your connection went bad as you were talking. Or if you've upset him by telling him all of those things and now he doesn't know what to say. If so, you can't really blame him. Once you started talking and finally got the chance to let it all out, you didn't hold back. Maybe you should have. How is anyone supposed to respond to that?

"Sorry, I didn't mean to dump all of that on you without warning. I know it's fucking horrible."

Not at all. I was just looking into something.

"Oh." There's a flicker of hurt in your chest. He'd been multitasking while you were talking? You know he never promised you his full attention, you just kind of assumed you would have it. Especially when you were opening up. Maybe…maybe that assumption was a miscalculation on your part. Maybe some truths are more important to him than others.

I'm sure walking out of there after all of that felt liberating.

"It did."

That's good.

"Indeed." You smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes because he seems…off. Or at least not prepared with a response or comment like he usually is, which sets off alarm bells in your mind. "Is everything alright?"

No.

"Oh. I—" You cut yourself off when you see another response pop up on screen.

I'm furious.

"About my job?" You ask, both hopeful and uncertain after thinking he was distracted. Maybe he had been paying some attention after all.

Yes.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to ruin the—"

Stop apologizing.

You don't have to apologize to me for what he did.

"S—" You start and then stop yourself with a huff of frustration. "Damn. I suppose I still have a few bad habits to work through."

Would you like to know what I was looking up?

"Sure," you say, a bit wary. Because you assumed he was looking up something that had nothing to do with you. Now you aren't so sure.

Dirt.

"Dirt?" You furrow your eyebrows in confusion.

Everyone has a secret, don't they? Something they keep hidden from everyone else that they're ashamed of getting out.

You feel a wave of involuntary shame about your secret before you remind yourself you have nothing to be ashamed of. You never did. Just another form of survival. And one you chose at that. There's a certain kind of power in that knowledge. Besides, it led you to him, didn't it?

I'm looking for theirs. The truth that will hurt them back.

"Oh." You're left staring at your screen in shock. You aren't sure how to respond to that because you hadn't even considered retaliation to be an option. Nor had you stopped to consider that he could dig into other people the same way he dug into your life. But now, after the way he phrased it, you're suddenly confident you were far from his first time doing so. "Why?"

For doing that to you.

Your heart skips a beat. He's angry on your behalf. No one has ever been angry enough on your behalf to do something about it. Especially not something like…this. Between his willingness to dig up dirt on someone else, and everything else he's done, you realize now that he's not one for comforting words or condolences. He acts.

For you.

Okay, he might not be a nice man, but he is sweet. Sweet, of course, being a relative term, considering what he actually plans to do. Which should be objectively horrifying, but you only find yourself touched by his anger.

But this is for you, so I will only use it if you tell me to.

"Alright," you whisper, still stunned and overwhelmed by what he's offering you. It feels like you're being handed a loaded weapon, and it's pointed at someone you loathe. How easy it would be to pull that trigger. How easy it would be to let it happen. How tempting…

Would you like me to?

Would you? You're not sure. It depends on what he digs up and the collateral damage it would cause. Would it be something that forces the company to shut down? Would your coworkers lose their jobs? All because of you?

Or…wait. Do you even care if they do? Your instinct was to worry and feel guilty, almost like a reflex. But if you push past that and dig deeper, to the core of yourself, do you actually care?

While they weren't your boss, they didn't make your experience there good by any means. You couldn't grab lunch or a coffee without having to listen to them talk about something pointless. Or worse, they cornered you and talked at you when all you wanted was to be left alone. And you know it wasn't because they wanted to talk to you or because they cared about you. They cared about having an audience.

Besides, it's not your fault they were also victims. It's not on you to feel guilty. All you should be worrying about right now is yourself. So if you do care at all, it certainly doesn't outweigh the yearning for vengeance. You're certain they would retaliate if they weren't afraid. They would unleash that deep anger, too. You just happen to be the one that got lucky enough to actually do so.

"Do it," you growl out. "Make them pay."

That's my girl.

His girl. A pleasant flush spreads up your neck. That's the first time he's ever tried to lay claim to you, and he did it in a way that was easy and confident. Almost unassuming. If you were a less perceptive woman, the implication of it might have escaped your notice. Maybe he was hoping it would.

Now the question becomes: Are you going to let him have that claim? Are you going to let him think of you as his? The idea sends desire coiling through your belly, and you know you're not only going to let him, you're going to embrace it. Because you like it. You want it.

Look at yourself right now. Look at how beautiful you are.

You stare at yourself on the screen. Your cheeks are flushed, your lips are parted in a pant, and your eyes are wide with hunger and excitement. There's a cruel, satisfied curl to your mouth. It almost looks like a snarl trying to blossom on your face.

You look beautiful and terrible.

What are you feeling?

"I feel…" Your gaze wanders around the room as you try to find a way to put the immensity of it into words. "I feel powerful. As though everything I once feared can no longer touch me. And I feel ravenous, like I want more of that." You close your eyes to help you focus deeper inward. "I feel almost high off of it. I got the same feeling on camera and when I towered over my boss and made him feel small. It's a rush. A euphoria. And...I feel pleased. Grateful." You open your eyes and glance seductively into the camera. "A little turned on."

It feels good, doesn't it?

"Good?!" There's a note of hysteria to the laughter that bubbles out of you. "David, it feels fucking amazing! I've never felt like this before."

I told you I planned to continue pleasing you.

"God, yes you did. And you certainly have." You let out a sigh and your expression softens. "I don't know how to convey my gratitude. You've done so much for me, I…"

No, none of that. I assure you, doing so is my pleasure. And you have my word that I'll go back to digging later. But right now, I have you here on my screen and I'm not about to waste another moment of it.

Especially not when you look so lovely.

"Thank you." You give the camera a coy smile. "I enjoy your flattery."

It's not flattery, it's the truth.

"Well, I enjoy it, nonetheless."

Speaking of the truth, I have a question for you.

"What's that?" You lean forward, suddenly interested.

Were you upset when I told you I'd been looking into something?

'Shit,' you think as you bite at your bottom lip in hesitation. You hoped he hadn't noticed, but of course he fucking noticed. "I was."

Why?

"I got emotional talking about my job, that's all." You shrug in an attempt to brush it off as nothing, hoping he'll accept that.

You're side stepping the question.

But of course he didn't. "That's because it's silly and not worth bringing up."

I beg to differ.

"Fine," you sigh in defeat. "I just…I thought you had been working on something unrelated while I was talking, and I guess it hurt my feelings. But like I said, it wasn't a rational response. I was already upset."

Did you think I wasn't paying attention while you were being honest?

"Yes. I know now you were, obviously. That's why it was ridiculous."

And why would the thought that I wasn't paying attention hurt your feelings?

"Because…" You trail off and your hands begin to fidget in your lap. You know he's asking you to be vulnerable again and that makes you uncomfortable. There are some truths that are still difficult to say out loud. But you also know now he's going to get you to admit it anyway, so you may as well get it over with. "Because I wanted you to listen. I wanted you to...want to listen. But I realized you never promised me your full attention and I shouldn't just expect it. That was unfair of me."

Hmm. I think there's been some miscommunication and it's my fault. Because you're making assumptions about me and what I want, which means I haven't been clear enough.

Your heart sinks. "No, some of that is my fault for making those assumptions in the first place."

Let me finish.

"Alright." There's tension in your shoulders and ice in your veins as you brace yourself for him to confirm that you shouldn't expect it.

I want you to be honest with me.

"I have been," you protest softly.

No. I don't mean tell me the truth.

I want you to be honest WITH me. Do you understand?

You blink in confusion as you try to process the difference between those two, almost identical statements. "I...don't quite think I do."

I realize now that I've made it seem as though I wanted to see you without your mask just because your complexity makes you more physically attractive. I won't deny that it does. You know that I want you. I want to see your naked body right here on my screen. I want to watch you pleasure yourself for me while I get off to it. Then I want to run my hands along every inch of you. I want to kiss you, and I want to fuck you so hard and so deep neither of us can speak. I want that. I want to take you and claim you as mine.

"Jesus, David," you whimper. As you read all the things he wants from you—your mind supplying you with the corresponding images and phantom sensations of each one—you can feel the responding heat and lust swelling urgently between your thighs. It leaves your sex throbbing painfully against the crotch of your tight pants, which had seemed like such a good idea that morning. You shift your hips, both needing to ease the pressure and seeking more of it against the damp cloth.

By the time you're done reading, the need is radiating up your torso, causing a violent fluttering in your belly. And there's a new paragraph for you to read.

You swallow hard, unsure how you can endure more.

But it's not all I want. I told you I see something in you that mirrors something in me. What I didn't say is that I've never seen that reflection before. I've never found the possibility of understanding or of being seen back. That's why you intrigue me so much.

People bore and disgust me, too, but you? God, you are something entirely different. I desire the truth of you because I desire what I see inside of you just as much as what I see on the outside.

It's not butterflies in your stomach. It's a flock of starlings—a twisting mass, swirling and diving through your guts on a thousand sets of wings. It aches just as much as your arousal does.

So I'll state it now so you never doubt me again.

You will always have my full attention because I can't look away from you. The more you shed your mask and grow into your own skin, the harder it's getting to remember anything else matters. I also want to listen to you. Every word, but especially when you're being honest. And I didn't say it earlier, but I missed you today, too. Because I missed you before you even spoke to me. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since I found you. My obsession with you has driven me nearly mad. You've ruined me for anything that isn't you. That's how much I want all of you.

Now do you understand? I want you to be mine in every way it's possible to want someone. I want you completely.

"Yes," you breathe out automatically, your voice barely audible. "I understand now."

Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel your sternum pulse and flex with every beat. You wonder if he can see it. You hope he can. You hope he can see the way he's left you breathless—your shoulders heaving as you desperately try to fill your lungs. The way your bottom lip trembles with every inhale.

You hope he can see all of that so he knows how affected and enraptured you are by him because you don't know what the fuck to say. That was the hottest and most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you. And it was said by a man that stalked you. A man you've never even seen before. It's as if he exists in your periphery and you can never turn your head fast enough to catch him.

"God, David. I'm…" You trail off helplessly.

You're what?

"Overwhelmed," you blurt out.

I won't apologize for it because that was my intention. Now you won't forget a word of it.

Will you?

"No. I don't think I could. No one's ever said even half of those things to me before."

That's a pity. You deserve to hear it.

But I won't deny that I'm also glad no one has. That the privilege has been mine and mine alone.

"Will you turn your camera on? Please," you beg, uncaring about how desperate you sound. "I need to see you."

No.

You let out a noise of frustration. "Why not? After everything you just said to me, I still don't get to see your face?"

I want to be able to look into your eyes the first time you see me.

"Fuck," you whimper. Now you can't even be angry anymore because he somehow made it even more romantic and devastatingly sexy. You take in a deep calming breath, which helps your nerves somewhat, but there's still a quiver in your voice when you continue. "If I'm being honest, the thought of that terrifies me at the moment."

Why?

"Because it makes me feel vulnerable in a way I've never felt before. Like no matter how much clothing I'm wearing, I'm still naked because you strip me bare. And that's just through text." You shake your head in disbelief. "Everything you've said to me, every light you've shone on my dark corners, it's as if the whole of me is being seen for the first time. Even though that part of me is this…unused, wretched thing, I can't stay in the dark anymore. I can't stand it. So I can't help but wonder how much more overwhelming it would be to stand in front of you and have your full attention."

Does that mean you're done hesitating?

"Am I?" You wonder out loud, as much to yourself as to him. "You're still such a mystery to me, but after that, I realize I don't care. I want to know you. Though," a puff of laughter leaves your lips, "in a strange way I feel like I already do. It's as if I'm living with a ghost. I can see you without seeing you. I'm always aware of you now no matter what I'm doing. You haunt me, David, and I can't stop thinking about you either. So, even though it scares me, for the first time in my life I actually want to be vulnerable. With you. For you."

You reach for the strap of your cami, intending to slide it off your shoulder—wanting to push it off and let the shirt pool around your waist. You want to bare more of yourself to him. You want him to see. Because, god help you, you realize you want all of that, too. In a way you've never felt before. Like a constant yearning clawing its way from your belly, up into your throat, choking you with it. And you don't know what that means, but you want it.

However, before your hand can even touch the fabric, your phone buzzes loudly on the desk next to you, causing the whole surface to vibrate.

You'd been so focused—so entirely consumed by him, that the sudden noise startles you. You look at it, baffled by the interruption, as it continues to rattle the desk. Then you realize: Someone's calling you. No, not someone. Your stomach sinks as you stare down at your screen in horror.

It's your mother.

"Fuck," you hiss. You scramble to pick up the phone and mute the ringer. At the very least, you need the vibrating to stop so you can have a second to fucking think.

As you hold it, your hands tremble. You're full of adrenaline from being startled and from seeing the caller ID. You're also fraught with violent emotion from the conversation you were having, as well as nerves from what you had been moments away from doing. You were going to take that next leap. You wanted to take it. With him. Instead you'd been interrupted.

You don't believe in fate, but you certainly believe in your mother's ability to ruin something, even unknowingly.

But why is she calling you? She can't possibly know what happened today, you tell yourself. How would she even find out? So she isn't calling to scold you or berate you. Probably. About this, anyway. There's still the likelihood of some perceived slight. What does she want then? After only half a second's hesitation, you send her to voicemail. Because you really don't fucking care either way. Let her stew. You mute your ringer for good measure.

Is something wrong?

"No, nothing." In your distraction, the lie comes—involuntary—out of your mouth.

I wouldn't even need to hear your voice to know that you're lying.

You wince and look back up at the camera. "You're right, I realized the moment I said it. I apologize, that wasn't intentional. It's just…" You struggle to find the words to make him understand. Then you realize you don't have any to convey what you're feeling or why you're feeling it, so you settle for blunt honesty instead. "It was my mother."

Do you need to leave?

"No!" You immediately protest. "Absolutely not!"

Alright.

Then is that something else you would want to talk about?

"It—" You cut yourself off before you can say anything more. Because god, that's a whole different can of worms you haven't looked at too closely yet. It's the mess in the corner you've been trying to pretend doesn't exist because you know sorting through it will be exhausting. Now you're running out of excuses to continue leaving it, and, in doing so, are letting the fear of it win.

"I think that's something I still have to work through somewhat on my own and come back to later. Besides, right now I get to talk to you and I'm not about to waste a moment of it." You smile softly as you echo his words back to him.

I'm glad to hear that.

Your heart is still pounding and your fingers still itch to take your shirt off. Instead you sit there and try to pretend none of that is happening.

What would you like to talk about now then? Any new revelations?

Or perhaps any new decisions?

You blush at the question. You suspect he could tell exactly what you were about to do because he sees you so clearly—and you still want to. Fuck, do you still want to. However, after the emotional turbulence you just went through, your mind is in turmoil despite what your body wants. And when you take that next step, you want to be deep in that moment again. You want your mind and body focused entirely on him.

"I think you were just privy to my biggest revelation. Which is that I rather like the thought of vengeance." You try to give the camera a playful grin to lighten the mood.

It's a very human response to pain.

Relief washes over you as he decides to play along rather than push, even though you know it's likely a calculated move on his part rather than for your comfort. "So is guilt, but I don't feel any of that."

Did you when I first suggested it?

"I did."

Why?

"I'm not sure. Another habit, I suppose." You shrug. "I felt like I should feel guilty because other people could get hurt. Then I realized those assholes getting what they deserve would always have collateral damage. Being afraid of it has probably stilled too many hands already. And I realized I simply don't care. It's not my fault, and I don't owe them anything." Saying it out loud causes you to wince. "That's probably terrible, isn't it?"

No. I think you may be surprised by how often the guilt many people feel is actually just shame for the absence of guilt. Once again, the only difference is honesty.

"Well, I'm currently feeling neither."

That's good. There's no reason you should. Our sense of morality is a societal concept. Shame is taught, but it can be unlearned.

"Once I realized that, it was an easy decision to make."

What do you hope happens with all of it? What outcome do you want most of all?

You glance up to stare directly into the camera, your expression vengeful and determined. "I want that place to burn, and I want every moment of it to hurt."

God, you're incredible.

Then I'll do my best to give you that.

"I have every confidence you will. I can attest to how thorough you are." You raise an eyebrow in challenge.

You can, can't you?

You can feel his smirk through the screen. "You've done this before." It's not a question.

I have.

"Many times."

Yes. Does that bother you?

"Not really. It answers a few questions and raises a few more, though."

Such as?

"What is it that you do? You're rich, you're good with technology, and you…what, dig into and stalk people in your free time?"

Not exactly.

"What, then? Are you some sort of entrepreneur?"

You could say that, in a way. I used to work in the financial sector. It paid incredibly well, but didn't give me what I wanted. It did give me my start and teach me to be very talented with money, however. Now I invest in things that pique my interest. Sometimes that's new technology. Sometimes it's my own personal amusement.

Does that satisfy your curiosity?

"It does a bit, actually." It doesn't answer how he found you, but it's a start. You tilt your head as you consider the screen and lean in closer. "Is that why you were in a meeting?"

Yes. I was getting an update on a business proposal.

"What for?"

Are you actually curious or are you just being polite? Because I would hate to bore you.

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know or if I thought I might get bored," you say honestly. Because you find that you actually do want to hear about it when it's coming from him. "I'm just trying to figure out who you are."

It was for an online security company.

And yes, I'm aware of the irony.

"I didn't say anything!" You bite your lip to stop yourself from smiling. "I did think it immediately, however."

Investing in something like that has its uses. It opens up a lot of opportunities for me to do what I do. But I meant it when I said I don't want to bore you. It's not as interesting as it might seem, and I truly don't make a habit of discussing work. It's a means to an end and nothing more.

"Alright, then no work talk." You relax back into your chair.

I suppose we've both reached our quota for the evening, haven't we?

"That we most certainly have. Although…" Excitement washes over you as you remember something specific you wanted to ask him from earlier today. "I did think of a few more questions after you texted me at work."

Did you?

"I did. Because I'm still so very curious about you, David."

Then by all means, ask away.

You don't hesitate or stop to think. "How old are you?"

Ah, these kinds of questions.

"Indeed, these kinds of questions. I can't see you or hear your voice, so this is all I have to build my mental image of you until I can."

How old do you think I am?

"Based on your hands, I would guess in your fifties. No younger than late forties."

Because of my hands?

"Yes. I can tell the difference between a boy and a man. Prominent veins, slight wrinkles, variations in your skin tone."

Perhaps I should be self conscious.

"Don't be. I rather like your hands. They're just…very telling." You squirm slightly in your seat as you think about them again. And what exactly they might tell you in the future.

Then I'll be pleased instead.

Anything else you could tell from just photos?

"Your nails are very well groomed and your shoes are well polished, so I suspect you put the same amount of care into the rest of your appearance. And you have nice, but expensive tastes. Particularly in shoes." Then with a hint of a smile, you add, "Likely in alcohol as well."

Correct on all accounts. You're very astute.

"I am." You grin while trying not to think about how those observations were likely due to the amount of times you looked at the photos rather than due to being particularly astute. "In fact, I can't help but notice you haven't actually answered my question."

Clever.

I'm 58.

"Hmm, a little older than I would have guessed."

Does that bother you?

"Not even a little. I find older men to be far more attractive, and their experience more rewarding."

Is that so? How much experience do you imagine I have?

"Enough." You give the camera a flirty smile. "You're too charming not to have lived a little."

I've been called many things, but charming is rarely one of them.

"Perhaps they didn't deserve it. Or were too dull to notice." The expression on your face softens with affection. "I find you to be quite charming."

Do you find it odd that you find the man that blackmailed you charming?

"No," you reply without hesitation. "Should I?"

I'm sure most people would say yes. They may even call it alarming.

"I think we've established that we're not most people."

No. We're not.

"Besides, we both know it was more than blackmail."

Oh? What would you call it then?

Your lips curl in amusement. "Flirting."

How could threatening you possibly be considered flirting?

"You wanted to get my attention. To intrigue and seduce me. Sounds like flirting to me."

Well, when you put it that way.

There's a pause.

It worked, didn't it?

"It did. I'm very intrigued."

And what about seduced?

Your eyes flicker up to the camera lens. "I'm feeling rather seduced as well."

That's a relief. For a second I was worried that I may have to try harder.

You swallow as you wonder what that might look like. Your voice comes out sounding more distracted than you intend. "I certainly wouldn't protest if you did."

You wouldn't? Well, I'll have to keep that in mind.

Oh god. A small part of you can't help but wonder if you've just made a mistake. The rest of you, however, is practically writhing with anticipation in your chair.

But first I believe you had more questions for me.

"Oh." You blink. "Right. I did." Your mind races to think of any of them.

Perhaps more questions about my appearance?

You know he's smirking again behind his screen.

"There might have been a few more of those," you say defensively. "Can you blame me? I don't know what you look like. Makes it difficult to think about you."

We both know "think" isn't the correct word there, don't we? You can think about me all day long.

You want to fantasize about me.

Your face burns with embarrassment and thrill. "Fine. That's exactly what I want. It's hardly fair you have that luxury, but I don't. You get to see me and know what I look like. In fact, you've probably seen more of me than I realize."

Oh, I don't blame you one bit. I just want you to be honest with yourself about what you're asking.

And why.

You're flustered by his response, of course. How could you not be? He knows that you want to have explicit, dirty thoughts about him. And he wants you to admit to it out loud.

But there was something you said that's giving you pause: 'You've probably seen more of me than I realize.'

"David," You say calmly as you tilt your head in curiosity. "Have you only watched me through video? Or have you followed me as well?"

It takes several very long seconds for you to get a reply.

Well now, you are a very clever girl.

Your heart begins to pound as the realization settles over you. "You have, haven't you?"

I once sat in that coffee shop you visit. I watched you order a coffee. Then you stared out the window to watch the rain as you waited, not two meters from me.

Your mind races to examine every memory you have of waiting for your coffee on a rainy day, combing through any detail you can recall. But it's useless. You visit that coffee shop several times a week, and you always go on rainy days for a bit of comfort because walking in the rain is miserable. Even some of the baristas you see regularly are faceless in your memories. None of it seemed important at the time. Not important enough to commit to memory, anyway.

"Did I look at you?" You're nearly breathless at the thought that you may have laid eyes on him before. "Did I see you?"

No.

There's a pang in your chest. An inexplicable loss, like you missed something important. A thread of what might have been. "Did you want me to?"

Are you asking if I had hoped we might lock eyes across the shop and it would be love at first sight?

"I don't know! Not that, necessarily, but something. A lingering glance. A polite nod of acknowledgement, perhaps."

No. I didn't hope for anything. I only wanted to see you.

"God, David. You were right there and I just…"

Now are you bothered?

"Yes!" There's a mania in your voice you can't control that's bordering on hysteria. All of this is overwhelming. Not because it scares you, but because you know now there was a chance this could have happened months ago and didn't. All because you didn't look. "I'm bothered I didn't notice you."

It wouldn't have changed anything.

You know he's right. Even if you had looked at him and thought he was attractive, you wouldn't have approached him. You never do. It usually ruins the illusion. "I suppose not."

Still, you can't help but wonder if he would have been different. If you would've felt pulled to him somehow, as though a part of you would have just known what he could awaken in you simply by looking at him.

"Did you think I was beautiful?" You ask quietly.

You were stunning. I could hardly take my eyes off of you.

You let out a pained sob as you read his response.

"Was it thrilling?" You're leaning in now, eager to read more, even if it hurts. "Being that close to me while I had no idea you were watching?"

Yes.

"Did you want to touch me?"

Desperately.

"This is torture," you groan.

How do you think it felt to see you?

And not touch you.

You imagine him chasing you out into the rain. Him, grabbing your arm as you turn in surprise, ready to yell at him to let go until you see his face. Him, pushing you against the brick building and capturing your mouth in a hungry kiss as water drips from your nose and runs down your cheeks. Him, slipping a hand into your jacket to grope along your waist. You, digging your fingers into his hair so he can never pull away from you.

Except you can't visualize any of it because he's still just a shadow of ideas and feelings in your mind. You want to fill in those blanks so badly now. You ache for it. Not knowing is maddening.

"What color is your hair?" You ask breathlessly.

Blond.

Your fingers, tangled through blond hair.

You let out a whimper as your face falls into your hands. You stay like that for several moments, trying to calm yourself down. Trying to will the fantasy out of your mind because the 'what if' is driving you mad. When you finally look up, there's a message waiting for you.

Perhaps we should call it here for tonight. You've had a very eventful and emotional day. And while I am thoroughly enjoying our conversation and your reactions, I want you to sit with them. I want you to understand why you're having them.

"I know why I'm having them!" You protest as your heart sinks. You're having them because you want him, you think. You want to be done hesitating. You want to be done with all of this so there's nothing but you and him—a tangle of limbs and lips.

And I want you to be sure. Do you understand?

"I understand." He wants there to be no hesitation. No doubts. No regrets. "But I don't want to go."

I know, darling. I don't want you to go, either.

But you're free to come back to me whenever now. Aren't you?

"I am," you reluctantly agree. You know you could log on first thing in the morning if you really wanted to, and you have no doubt he would be there within a few minutes.

Tomorrow we can pick up where we left off. Whenever you would like.

Whenever you're ready.

"I think being ready for you is starting to become my default state of being, David."

Is that so?

"Yes. In fact, I'm feeling quite eager."

Are you?

"I am." You squirm for the camera, seeking friction over your arousal. Only this time you make no attempt to hide it underneath a casual shifting in your chair.

So I see.

"But you're right. I have a lot of thinking to do tonight. And I'm going to be thinking very hard about what I want." Before he can respond, you whisper seductively, "Enjoy the rest of your evening, David."

Then you close the window.

While you miss him already, you've truly never felt so alive.

Chapter 4->

A/N: David is such a hypocrite. And he's a manipulative twat. (I desire him carnally)

Also now that we're 3 chapters in, I suppose I should tell you: Every scene where Reader is talking to the camera and he's been typing? David is using a speech to text program. So on the other end of the line, he's actually been talking back to her the entire time. 😇

#david robey #david robey x reader #david robey x f!reader #the devil makes us sin fic #luther the fallen sun #luther the fallen sun fanfiction #luther #luther fanfiction #andy serkis #x reader

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