Nick Folio x f!reader
!!! This is an 18+ fic. Anyone who interacts with this fic/my profile and does not have an age in their bio will be blocked. This is also a work of fiction, with a fictionalized version of a real person. If it isn’t your thing, don’t read.
Warnings/Tags: smut, p in v, brat tamer!Folio, small town blue collar fisherman Folio gets his own warning, elements of hunter/prey, fluff, brief knifeplay
Summary: Leave it to your friend to abandon you at the diviest bar on vacation. At least this guy has the heart to be your bar buddy…and then some.
Word Count: 12k
Authors Note: this is all because of that one *fucking photo* of Folio lighting a joint! bc you know what! his ass would listen to divorced dad rock unironically! this has been a months long endeavor, and we're stoked to be posting it finally. we’d like to thank the Academy and Craig Reynolds for giving our guy Nick Folio a place to talk about things he loves. Like fish. Even though this is posted Scout's (my) blog, please, PLEASE give @cowpokeomens love for this story, as well!!!! Bunny did so, so much amazing work on this and she is so talented!!!!!!
Betas: @rottingfern @the-way-of-words kiss kiss mwah you are both very good
Banner: @throughwoodsanddirt
Divider: @cafekitsune
“Through every forest
Above the trees
Within my stomach
Scraped off my knees
I drink the honey
Inside your hive
You are the reason
I stay alive”
Closer - Nine Inch Nails
The floor may as well be made out of double-sided tape, the way your shoes stick with each step. Luckily, the squeaky, squelching sound of rubber on concrete is mostly covered by the music overhead - something definitely akin to prehistoric Nickelback. A thorough mop and new playlist wouldn’t save this place, though; that would only be putting lipstick on a pig.
A faded cardboard cut-out of Hank Williams grins at you from his corner by the jukebox. He looks particularly dilapidated: hat warped, and covered in various Sharpie scribbles that vary from innocent to phallocentric. You can’t help but wonder if the warped cardboard at the base is from piss; some of the regulars don’t look too far from incontinence, so it wouldn’t surprise you.
The maroon leather of the booth you sit in is cracked, haphazardly bound together by packing tape. You count five large splits in the leather on your side and another two similar splits in the booth across from you, where your friend sits now. She’s draping herself over some smarmy, greasy motherfucker with wraparound sunglasses perched atop of his high and tight.
She’s laughing so goddamn loud. For Christ’s sake, she’s never had a good sense of volume or personal space, and you forgot just how much it’s amplified by alcohol. When she meets your impassive gaze, it’s almost like she’s saying, ‘Why the fuck aren’t you laughing? Please make me look good, at least look like you’re having fun!’
When she suggested ‘bar crawling’ for one of the vacation activities, this wasn’t what you had in mind. You thought maybe you’d drive to the city an hour away, hit up some of the gastro pubs and breweries.
“This place looks fun! And Maps lists it as a single dollar sign place - we should go there!” She chimed. You’re on a budget - can’t say no to cheap drinks. She tends to have good taste, so what the hell, why not?
Jokes on you. This is the first stop, she’s already sloshed, and you’re miserable.
In the interest of appeasing her, you give a half-hearted chuckle as you scoot out of the sticky booth with a quick, “I’m going to get another beer,” rolling your eyes as soon as your back is turned.
You brush a couple of peanut shells aside as you rest your elbows on the bar, sighing as you scan the meager excuse of a menu. Gasoline starts to look cheaper (and more appetizing) the longer you look. Maybe, if you bat your eyelashes enough, the bartender will take pity on you and offer to put an extra lime in your Corona.
“I hate to tell you, but burning a hole in the menu won’t make any new drink options appear.”
A voice interrupts your thoughts, and you commend yourself for not rolling your eyes. You beg for a god - any god - to strike you down so you don’t have to talk to another person in this godforsaken dive.
But you know you should say something…
Slowly, your turn toward the source, first laying eyes on a calloused hand loosely gripping a beer bottle of something domestic that makes your nose scrunch up.
And then, you see his face.
There are several words you could use to describe him, but as you scan him, none of them sit right: Grimy? A little harsh, even for you. Mangy just makes you think of stray dogs and is also a little mean. He’s not bad-looking, just…Scruffy.
That’s it: scruffy, from his muddied work boots to the black, worn Carhartt overalls covered with even more mysterious ichor.
His dark, presumably greasy hair is tucked under a backward trucker cap, and something that looks like a bird tattoo peeks from the vee of his unbuttoned henley. His face is weather-beaten, covered in a layer of dirt and grime from tradeswork, but his brown eyes carry a sparkle that feels like a respite from this godforsaken bar. The lack of crow’s feet around his eyes tells you he’s young enough to be around your age, and your stomach stirs when it hits you that he’s actually pretty damn cute.
He jerks his head over his shoulder, nodding toward your booth. “Your friend’s got one hell of a cackle.”
“Yeah, she’s…” You chuckle sheepishly, looking over your shoulder at the booth where she sits. Whoever the scuzzy drink of water is, she’s head over heels for him. He’s flashing her a smile while tickling her sides, and Jesus you are glad you drove, because no way in hell is she getting behind the wheel in the state she’s in.
Hell, she’s probably not going home with you anyhow.
You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you turn your attention back to the bar. A pint glass with - of course - some variety of piss beer sits in front of you now. Brow furrowed, you politely tell the bartender: “Oh, I didn’t order this–”
“Nope, I did.” The tradesman chimes in. You turn toward him again, brow still furrowed as he nods a thank you to the bartender, who smiles back before walking away.
“Can I be completely transparent?” You ask in a hushed tone after the bartender walks away.
He leans in with a single nod, silently urging you to go on.
“I don’t feel comfortable having another glass of this without double-checking that I’m caught up on my tetanus shots… but I really appreciate the gesture.” You’re shocked to make it to the end of your sentence, expecting this guy to - what? Interrupt you? Yell at you about how much he loves this shitty bar?
You’re doubly surprised to see that he’s responding with shoulder shaking laughter. “Understandable. What do you normally drink? No – ” He holds his hand up, as if he’s stopping you mid-sentence when you haven’t even opened your mouth. “Let me guess…”
Amused, you quirk a brow at him. “Be my guest.” You gesture for him to go on as you turn toward him, resting your elbow on the bar. He’s squinting, and you feel like a bug under a microscope, as his eyes flick back and forth between yours.
God, when was the last time someone looked at you this intently? A few years ago, when you first started college? A year ago?
Either way, it’s been far too long, and you forgot how your face feels when it heats up like this - under the attention of another. Specifically, a lover –
“Something fruity, with lots of juice and rum.” He interrupts your thoughts once more, all cocky, like he knows your sort all too well.
Well. Two can play at that. “Fruit and molasses is better than carbonated piss, thanks.” You say with a meaningful nod to his glass. “I usually take a whiskey coke.”
He raises his eyebrows again, clearly surprised at your response. “Y’know, Dean keeps a bottle of Jack behind the bar. I’ll bet it’s even aged a couple years by now.”
Snorting despite yourself, you try to suppress your giggle when the bartender - Dean - looks over at the two of you. “If Jack is whiskey, then Grey Goose is rubbing alcohol.”
The scruffy stranger chuckles, which prompts a wink and a smile from Dean, who is all too proud of himself. You give a polite smile before looking over at your friend and the stranger, who are now nose to nose as they exchange whispers. The longer you look, the more concerned you get as you see the twinkle in her eye, her signature ‘I’m head over heels’ gaze. At least, you tell yourself it's concern and not jealousy.
Maybe it’s the cheap beer softening your heart, but you feel kind of…happy for her, too. Which is a first, considering this isn’t her first time going home with someone else.
Maybe part of it is because you haven’t been as lucky as her, recently.
Your expression must say it all, because he cranes his neck into your field of vision to catch your attention, nodding sympathetically. “I get it. That’s Mark, by the way. He’s a tool, but he’s harmless. Wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
Looking at the way Mark runs his grimy hands through his even greasier hair, his gold tooth glinting in the fluorescent light as he throws his head back in laughter, you fight the urge to groan.
Annoying, but harmless. That’s a small relief, at least.
“I’m Nick, by the way. Nick Folio.” You tear your eyes away from Mark to introduce yourself and shake the hand of your freshly-appointed bar buddy. His hand all but dwarfs yours, calloused skin rough to the touch, but nonetheless warm.
“Nice to meet you.” You remark, and you mean it - he’s at least being nice, and he even bought you a drink! Sure, a disgusting, potentially drugged drink, but you’re taking what you can get tonight. You give him your name, and he’s about to respond when a too-loud voice yells directly in your ear.
“Heeeyyyy!” You flinch as you whip your head toward your friend, who has a death grip on Mark’s bicep, and her smile is the most toothy you’ve ever seen it.
“I think we’re gonna head back to Mark’s to hang out,” She giggles, stumbling into Mark, who puts a careful hand over hers as she regains her footing. “You gonna be okay here?” Her glassy eyes flick between you and Nick, with a tacky waggle of her eyebrows.
Well. There go your plans. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but it still stings. It’s probably for the best, though, because you might chew her out if you’re around her any longer. Bonus - if she leaves, you can leave.
“I’ll be fine, you guys be safe.” The last part included a pointed look at beady eyed Mark, who gives a polite nod and smile before turning toward the front door.
“Same goes for you two!” She calls over her shoulder as she stumbles alongside Mark, whose focus is now on getting her safely out the door.
You sigh after they exit, shaking your head as your eyes roll up to the ceiling. Mid eye-roll, you freeze, wondering how the fuck someone had managed to get a Coors Banquet sticker up there. It’s a dive bar, you remind yourself. Why are you surprised?
But now’s your chance. You can head back to the inn and relax in peace and quiet.
Pulling out your wallet to rifle through your dollar bills, you try to do the math on what 20% of a shit beer would come out to. This beer must’ve been what, four dollars? So less than a fourth of that…
“Standard bar etiquette is $1 for a high-quality, untouched beer.” Nick’s voice breaks your concentration, and even though he isn’t grinning when you look up, his tone sounds like he wants to, like he’s amused by your lack of social awareness.
“Leaving so soon?” He tacks on, a hint of disappointment now coloring his tone.
You shrug. “Not much else for me to do, when I’m not even drinking at a bar.” The only bar in town, you don’t say aloud.
He clicks his tongue, shaking his head in feigned sadness. “And here I was thinking you were enjoying our conversation as much as I was.” He’s egging you on, a sly smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth.
“Yeah, actually, you’re terrible company.” You respond flatly, but you can’t help that your lips curve into a small smile. “In fact, I should probably stay so you don’t harass some other poor girl with your awful taste in beer.”
He’s cheesing at you now, clearly delighted. Your stomach flips again when he looks away bashfully, smiling at his lap before fishing out his wallet.
“Well, you’re in luck, because I was actually about to leave.” He drops a few bills on the counter before he turns to look at you again, eyes entirely too intense for his light, teasing tone. “Might go raise hell somewhere else, if you wanted to keep an eye on me. Make sure I don’t get into too much trouble.”
He ends his sentence with a wink, and you try your damndest to fight the smile on your face, but it appears nonetheless. “And just what shenanigans did you have in mind tonight?”
He leans back in his seat, and you watch a bit dry-mouthed as he rubs his hands down his thighs before clasping them behind his head, raising an eyebrow suggestively. His biceps bulge under his henley, and you feel like an untamed animal with the way your eyes flick to them.
“I’ve got a pretty wild evening planned, if you think you can handle it,” he taunts.
You swallow, silently pleading against your will to let your mind go into the gutter. “Try me,” you snark, instead summoning your best, bravest impression of indifference.
He sighs, staring into space. “I need to feed my dog, and I usually have dinner with myself - I can’t keep canceling that, though. I’m forgetting something…” His brow is furrowed, eyes darting around as if his answer is flitting around the room like a hummingbird he can’t quite catch. His humor is dry, and you’re trying so hard to keep up the bit, but you can’t keep your smile as it becomes a grin.
His eyes widen, like the proverbial lightbulb has gone off as he nods when it “hits him”. “Right, I have that bank I need to rob, and my getaway driver dropped out last minute.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he lets out a long sigh. “Ah, and after that I have that damn call with the president, he’s already rescheduled for me twice…”
“Uh huh.” You nod earnestly. “That’s a lot for one guy, and it sounds like you could use some backup. I’d be a bad friend if I let you shoulder that weight alone.”
He nods with you, eyes scanning over your face, lingering when they fall on your lips.
“I mean, you said it. Recon at twenty-one hundred, my place?” He pauses, waiting for your response, thumb picking at the paper label on his beer bottle when you take a beat too long to respond.
“I live over by the old tennis shoe factory, not the one off the highway, but the-”
“You’re talking like I understand any of that. I’m not from ‘round here, partner.” Your faux, over exaggerated accent makes him through his nose.
“Not a problem,” He gives a single nod. “I could take you. One car is stealthier anyways.” He leans in, subtly nodding toward a group of older men sitting across the bar before uttering out of the corner of his mouth. “They’re all gossips, y’know.”
You let out a cackle, smacking your hand over your mouth as a couple of heads turn toward you. Nick bites his lip as he snickers under his breath, gaze lingering on you as you fight to collect yourself. As you take a deep breath while fanning your face, you glance out to the parking lot.
Oh, right.
“What about my car?”
“It’ll be fine,” He grunts as he rises from the barstool, slapping a bill on the counter. “Dean’s not gonna call a tow truck for a pretty girl, not if I have something to say about it.”
As you walk out the door, you’re not sure what else you expected as he leads you towards a forest-green Jeep Grand Cherokee. It’s not lifted, which is a green flag in your book.
He jogs ahead, holding the passenger door open for you. “Ever the gentleman, thank you!” You joke as you step in, pleased to see that the interior is surprisingly clean - aside from a sprinkling of pine needles on the floor mats and a pair of work gloves in the backseat.
“Of course, ma’am.” He replies with a southern lilt as he shuts the door behind you.
Sweet Jesus. Ma’am?
He circles the front of the car as you make a mental note to add being called ‘ma’am’ to your ever-growing list of turn ons.
His door slams shut, and the engine rumbles to life as he turns the key. The speakers hum with a fuzzy, radio-station-distorted Diary of Jane.
“Seeing as you’re not from here, I may as well give you the grand tour.” He starts, checking over his shoulder as he reverses.
“It’s good to know where the potential threats are, we need to plan our getaway route after all.” He shoots you a wink as he shifts into first gear, and if he keeps that shit up, you swear you’re going to turn into a puddle.
A couple hundred yards down the road, he points out his window to a particularly dilapidated gas station. “Now don’t turn your nose up at me, but this used to be the place to go if you needed a quick bite to eat. Hot dogs, breakfast burritos…you name it.”
It takes a great amount of willpower to not scrunch your nose at him. You cringe on the inside, but stay unflappable on the exterior as you ask, “What happened?”
“Some degens shot it up a couple years back - turf war of some sort. No one died, but it was abandoned the day after the incident.”
“Huh. ‘You’re not you when you’re hungry’, I guess.” You mutter.
He snorts. “Never thought I’d take home a girl who references Snickers commercials.”
“Never thought I’d be taken home by someone who calls criminals ‘degens’.” You playfully fire back.
He nods to the side, smirking as he accepts defeat. “Touché.” His southern drawl shows off as he ends it with a strong “-ay”, and the charm of it makes you smile.
The ferns and trees give way to a clearing where an old factory sits. It can’t be more than 3 acres of land, backed by a belt of trees. “This is the tennis shoe factory I told you about. I think if our plans go to shit, we can take shelter here, throw ‘em off our scent maybe?”
“But didn't you say you live close to here?” You question, turning to him. “That’s too close to home, it needs to be further away.”
You shake your head, clicking your tongue, playfully chiding him. “Good thing I came with you. You’d probably be in jail if I weren’t here to keep you in line and all.”
He smirks, turning to glance at you before snapping his eyes back to the road. “We’ll see how long I stay in line.”
Your stomach drops and your cheeks heat up. This is where your witty banter ends - the cat has your tongue, in uncharted territory nonetheless. Hookups have never been this witty before.
But who said this was a hookup?
Silence falls between you two as he turns onto an unpaved road, pulling as far to the left as he can to avoid the drop off from the paved road to gravel. “County refuses to fill this pothole, says I have to do it.”
He navigates the gravel road with ease, avoiding all of the potholes with one hand over the wheel, another resting on the gear shift. You take in the ensemble as subtly as you can from the corner of your eye - overalls, veiny hands, jawline, seemingly muscular arms under his henley… How dare he look so fucking good doing something so mundane, and how dare you find it attractive.
He pulls off of the gravel and parks the Jeep in front of a tree, a spot he’s clearly designated as his “parking”; but you suppose when you have this much acreage, you can park anywhere you want. Your hand lifts as you go to open your door, but slaps into your lap when he speaks up with a quick, “Don’t even think about it, missy.”
His warning is low, stern. There’s a hint of southern drawl toward the end of the sentence again, the kind that’s subconscious, like he’s tried to stamp it out over the years only for it to stubbornly weasel back in time and time again. It’s cute.
He slams the driver’s door shut, rounding the front of the vehicle in a jog to open your door.
“Welcome to my home!” He waves his arm in a grand gesture, playing up the gentlemanly role, donning an overdone, posh British accent as he welcomes you. You slide out of the seat, landing in the sod with a soft thump.
“Oh why thank you!” You reply, with an equally abysmal British accent.
“The properties out here are either built by rich folks or hillbilly hand-me-downs,” He says in his normal cadence while sliding his hands in his pockets. “Clearly, my life of crime has granted me the former.”
As you follow him through the front yard, you take a moment to scan the property, doing your best to avoid sliding around in the mud. His home is a humble single-wide, surrounded by a dense belt of pine trees. All kinds of odds and ends are scattered about: a roll of chicken wire, a half-used, sun-faded bag of potting soil, saw horses… all hints of a life spent working. Unfinished planks lean against the front porch railing, a hammer rests on top of the banister - clearly an unfinished home project. It’s a veritable curb-appeal-be-damned mess, and yet it’s evidence that he cares.
The porch creaks under your feet as you make your way up the stairs. There’s a rustle to your left, and when your head snaps toward the sound, three rabbits scurry into the trees.
“Oh, you have friends!” You gasp excitedly, craning your neck to try and see them better.
“Not for much longer,” Nick’s accompanying chuckle is predatory. “Hunting season starts next week.”
You can’t help the frown that forms on your face. “You hunt rabbits?” You sound heartbroken, even to yourself.
“I set out some traps on the property. Gotta be resourceful, y’know?” His tone is caring, as if to soothe your concerns. “There’s no limit to the amount you can catch, and if left alone, they’ll breed like - well,” He shrugs at you, grinning. “Bunnies. Plus, cook ‘em right and they taste delicious.”
You nod - you don’t like thinking about the rabbits caught in a trap, but you can’t blame him for making do with what he has.
He holds open the door for you - unlocked, you note - and you step through the threshold into the living room.
“I apologize, it’s no Chateau Marmont, but it’s home.”
Amber light casts a soft glow over the room when he flicks the light switch. A heavy faux mink blanket - complete with a wolf-howling-at-moon print, of course - is draped over the back of a worn, brown leather couch. Rustic oak baseboards match the wood paneling on the lower half of the walls, while family photos hang in odd places on the upper half, like they’re a temporary fix to hide peeling French floral wallpaper.
A couple empty Gatorade bottles sit on the coffee table, both of which he grabs by the tops of in one hand before walking to the kitchen on your right.
“It’s charming!” You grin. It’s been who knows how long since you've seen a home this dated, and it brings a sense of comfort to you. “It’s got a vintage touch to it, which I always enjoy.”
“Well, this was my grandmother’s before it was mine, so that checks out.”
“Really?”
You take a moment to look at the pictures, not wanting to pause too long - it feels too intimate to stare at them, even though he invited you into his home.
In a wooden, hexagonal frame, a younger, softer Nick holds a fish half his size, with the help of an older gentleman. Above it is a square, black and white wedding portrait, the same gentleman and an older woman standing together, smiling at the camera.
There’s a mix of his past, present, and future - with old pictures and hardware for upcoming projects bookending the currently yellowing wallpaper. The haphazardness and eclectic decor check out, then - he’s a bachelor, living in a hand-me-down property. The tension in your chest begins to unravel as you add more pieces to the puzzle that is Nick, this new character in your life, only if for a night.
Will it only be a night? No, don’t think that far yet. Don’t get lost in the weeds yet.
You turn your attention back to him, only to be met with a soft gaze. It feels so close, too close, even though he’s a couple feet in front of you. It makes your stomach churn - with what, you’re not entirely sure. Anxiety? Romance? Both?
You just told yourself not to get lost in the weeds, but here you are, still toeing the line of emotions you’re not sure you’re ready to face yet.
So, you fall back on what you’re good at - levity, sass, anything to keep these mushy feelings at bay. “Disappointing, I thought for a second you were the grandmother.”
He gives you a playful look, smirking as he steps toward the sliding glass door. “Careful, keep up that sass and I’ll put soap in your mouth.”
You chuckle, crossing folding your arms over your chest as you amble after him. “You like this with all of your houseguests?”
“Just the pretty ones.” He winks, as he slides the glass door open, standing aside as he lets you walk onto the patio first. Heat rushes to your cheeks again.
He might be a murderer. Don’t get too invested.
You turn to your right, and pause in front of the patio set - if you could really call a singular, ancient rocking chair and an upside-down, dirty, Home Depot 5-gallon bucket “patio furniture.”
You’re about to ask him where you’re supposed to sit when you collide nose-first with a solid, henley-clad chest. His scent registers before anything else: cigarette smoke, then something warm, like the smell of the outdoors in summertime, with notes of heady musk from a day’s work. You resist the urge to roll around in it, shaking your head slightly to realign yourself.
Don’t get lost.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to knock ‘ya out.” He apologizes, scooting around you to settle himself on the bucket. That leaves the rocking chair for yourself, you figure. You hold the majority of your weight on the arms as you lower yourself, not trusting it to hold together when you sit back.
“It’s solid,” He doesn’t turn to you, too busy fiddling with one of the flickering electric camping lanterns on the patio bannister. “Built it myself.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Really?” You crane over the side of the chair, inspecting the right arm closer. There's a medley of hand carved woodland creatures - squirrels, foxes, rabbits, deer, with small flowers filling the spaces between. You sit forward, turning to look across the backrest, where the same animals are mid-stride as if being chased.
You turn to the left side, intrigued to know the rest of the story, when a cool wind rushing past the porch sends a chill up your spine. Another cool breeze follows your shiver, this time smelling like sandalwood and powered Tide.
Curious, you look up to see a flannel jacket hanging in front of your face. You blink up at Nick once, twice, before accepting the offer with a hushed “thank you” as you wrap it around yourself.
The fleece lining is scratchy from multiple washes, but it makes the best shield from the night time chill when you slide your arms into the sleeves.
“Would you like some coffee? I have decaf, if you’re worried about it being late.” His face is so… relaxed, like deceiving you is the furthest thing from his mind. Still, you’re wary about taking a drink from a stranger.
But it’s a bit late for caution, considering you’re in the middle of nowhere, with no way to get home.
You could always hotwire his Jeep…
He must see the hesitation on your face, because he’s biting his lip to fight back a grin. It doesn’t quite match the softness in his eyes that betray his concern. “You can watch me make it. I’ll even have a cup first if that makes you feel better.”
It’s nice to be in the company of someone considerate, for once. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the pressure in your chest becomes so tense that you’re left with no choice but to exhale.
You nod. “I’d appreciate that.”
His grin widens and he stands to head inside, holding the screen door open and waiting for you. “C’mon then, I need your supervision so you know I’m not one of them city-slicker boys who drugs folk.”
You can’t fight back the chuckle that escapes your mouth as you follow him in. Didn’t expect to go home with anyone, not to mention someone that says ‘folk’ unironically.
He moves through the house quickly, even in the dim light. You wonder how long he’s lived here, if his family has owned this property for decades, if he’s happy.
His Mr. Coffee looks like a World War II relic: covered dings and dents, the once-white plastic now yellowed, and damn, you’re thankful for your espresso machine back home. Something about watching him go through the motions relaxes you, and you find yourself focusing on the way the muscles in his back ripple underneath that goddamn henley as he moves.
Your eyes glaze over at the thought of him doing this the morning after, shirtless, maybe wearing sweatpants and silly, fuzzy socks. He has to own fuzzy socks of some kind - if so, he probably received them as a Christmas gift and reluctantly wears them when he has no clean pairs.
He hits the “Start” button, taking a drag off of the vape he’s had in hand all night, and you curse yourself for not paying as much attention as you should have.
“What’s in that?” You inquire, nodding your head towards the pen, willing your eyes to refocus.
“Sour Diesel.” Comes his response around a puff of smoke.
Furrowing your brows, knowing you’re about to sound stupid, you question further. “You’re smoking… Diesel?”
He huffs a laugh, having a small coughing fit in the process. “No, it’s sativa.”
When this garners no reaction from you, he tries again. “Weed?”
“Oh.” That’s your brilliant reply? He’s smirking at you now. Way to leave your dignity at the bar. “So… it’s like a weed vape?”
He outright chortles. “It’s a ‘dab pen,’ but yes. It uses oil instead of the plant.”
You hum thoughtfully, nodding as if any of this makes sense to you.
“Would you like to try?” There’s no ounce of pressure in his tone as he holds the pen toward you, and it makes your heart warm.
“I’m still verifying that you haven’t drugged my coffee.” You remind him, giving the coffee pot a pointed look. “Besides,” You scrunch your face. “I prefer unleaded.”
You feel so fucking cheesy for wishing you could wrap his laugh around you like a blanket, but it can’t be helped. It’s hearty, loud, unashamed, and you can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face.
“Wonderful, you’re a woman of taste.” He jokes once he catches his breath.
You’re unable to linger on why his blinding grin makes your stomach somersault, because the coffee pot’s shrill beep grabs his attention. It’s a little awkward, the silence between you two as you watch him evenly distribute the coffee into two tin mugs. You wonder if he’s just as nervous and flustered as you, if at all.
“And for you - grass-fed, non-GMO, drug-free coffee.” You give the mug one last glance, thanking him softly, which he answers with a mid-sip nod. Gingerly, you take a sip, and it's not the best cup you’ve had, but that somehow adds to the pleasantness of the moment. There’s no road noise, an owl hoots in the distance, and you feel weight lift off of your shoulders as your mug taps against the counter.
It catches you by surprise when you look up to find his eyes already on you. Actually, it’s stupefying - you’d swear he was looking at Venus de Milo, the way his eyes are wide, a small smile on his face…
Transfixed, that’s the word. After a second, he’s blinking, eyes darting around the room, trying to look anywhere but at you as his cheeks turn pink.
“I’m gonna take a shower real quick and change clothes if that’s alright with you?”
Sure thing, that’s alright with you. More than alright. Whatever he needs to do to be comfortable. You almost want to ask if he needs help reaching his back, but you know it’s too soon.
He takes another hit off his vape - no, dab pen. The wisps of smoke that curl in the air when he exhales remind you of the cartoons you loved watching as a kid where the raging bull would drag its hoof along the ground, preparing to charge; though his presence is not that of a bull in a china shop. It’s gentle. Steady.
When he speaks up again, you’re pulled from your nostalgia. “You’re welcome to hang out on the porch, or inside if it gets too cold. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Take your time.” You watch as he disappears down the hallway, deciding to spend your time on the porch. With your mug in hand, you head back to your rocking chair.
When you settle in, you take the time to admire your surroundings: string lights hang around the awning, covered in pine needles and dust, illuminating the area just enough to see the yard. A sky full of stars twinkles above you as crickets chirp.
As another rabbit runs into the dark forest, you’re reminded of the summers you would spend at your grandparents’ house. They lived out in the middle of nowhere, next to some lake you can never remember the name of. Back then, it scared you: the endless noises, the possibility that a wild animal would stumble upon you and deem you a suitable dinner. You would cower inside after the sun had set, keeping a flashlight tucked under your pillow in case something decided to go “bump” in the night.
You don’t think age has made you any braver. Hell, last week you screamed when a spider the size of a peanut butter cup decided to join you in the shower.
This situation should scream serial killer: a rundown house in the middle of the woods, in a podunk town you don’t know your way around. Maybe what eases your nerves is how much this reminds you of your grandparent’s home.
No, that doesn’t negate the fact that he could be sharpening a knife right now.
On cue, a rush of water flows through the pipes, and your fear continues to dissipate little by little. No one sharpens knives in the shower, right?
…Right?
He’s showering. He’s showering after a long day at work while you’re bundled on the back porch, coffee in hand, like you’re in a Hallmark movie.
You're in your head, losing yourself in the scenario where you have some land way out in the middle of nowhere, where deer wander up to your porch as the evening sun sets below the horizon. Maybe you’d have chickens or pigs - there’s certainly enough acreage, assuming this land is all his.
You wouldn’t mind mornings in a place like this, having your first cup of coffee in your pajamas while listening to the animals wake up alongside you. Ideally, it’d be nice to wake up with someone beside you -
The screen door squeaks, and your gaze snaps toward the door.
Nick is a vision when he emerges holding his tin cup, dab pen, and a silver flask: his wet hair drips onto his shoulders, soaking the fabric covering them. The sides are cut short, the top part flopping over to brush past his ears, longer than the crew cut you thought he had under his hat. His face has been scrubbed clean of dirt and oil, his skin now glowy and even under the soft porchlight.
The gas station three-wolf-moon tee shouldn’t look as good as it does: he’s cut the sleeves to transform it into a revealing muscle tank, and your eyes helplessly flick to the exposed parts of his toned torso, teeth sinking into your lower lip when your eyes meet that smooth skin. He’s not defined like a dehydrated bodybuilder; this kind of muscle only comes from years of manual labor. Black jeans and the tattoos scattered on his arms complete the ensemble.
He is handsome as all get out, and you’re fucked.
In an effort to preserve your dignity, you turn your attention to your coffee cup, taking a deep breath before looking back at him, desperate to keep your mind away from the gutter. “What do you do for a living?”
He’s halfway through pouring whatever’s in his flask into his coffee when he looks up at you. “Hmm? Oh, I work construction.”
You nod. This makes sense, given his… everything. “So, you work in construction, hunt rabbits, and build furniture?”
He laughs lightly, swirling the contents of his mug before taking a sip. “I fish, too.”
“Oh, so he does it all, does he?” You tease playfully as you raise an eyebrow, grinning at him.
He chuckles shyly, cheeks tinged pink in the low light. “Well, you know what they say about idle hands…”
His words make you glance at his hands, calloused and roughened. Your mind trails off to what they might feel like against your skin, the coarse pads of his fingertips digging into your flesh. You can’t help but think that even if his hands were busy, they would still be doing the Devil’s work.
A knot forms in your belly.
“That’s true…” You nod as you sit up, shifting your weight slightly in an effort to ground yourself, to clear your head, to seem normal. “What do you fish for?”
“Trout.” He responds without any hesitation. He looks over at you, continuing upon seeing your curious look. “There’s lots of bass around here, but trout’s the best. You gotta know what you’re doin’.”
“So it’s not just throwing a worm on a hook and waiting hours on end?” You deadpan.
He flashes another smile at you, and if he keeps this act up, he’ll find himself smiling from under you. “Yes and no.”
There’s a beat of silence as he looks at you, the glint in his eye saying ‘Once I start talking, there’s no going back’. You nod to give him the go-ahead.He rests his elbows on his knees as he continues, a glint in his eye that tells you he’s been dying to talk about this: “Bass - bass will eat anything. They’re easy,” He takes a long drag off his pen, blowing smoke into the night. “Trout can be skittish, though. You’ll scare them off if you’re not careful. You gotta sneak up on ‘em.”
Whatever lingering apprehension you have melts off as you watch the smoke dissipate. He’s too genuine for his own good, maintaining the same light, soft-spoken tone throughout the conversation, though it’s clear that he’s deeply passionate about. The last of your earlier worries melt away the more he speaks, taking all remaining semblance of a threat with them as your body sinks deeper into the rocking chair.
“You can sneak up on fish?” You almost hate how interested you sound.
“Mhm.” He hums an affirmative while taking another sip. “I can’t go around tellin’ you all my secrets, though. You might get too good and beat me in the Trout Roundup this year.”
You make a mental note to ask what the hell a “Trout Roundup” is at a later point.
“I solemnly swear e to use this information for my personal recreational trout fishing, and not for evil.” You declare as you hold up a three finger salute.
His grin asks you to beg for his coveted secrets but turns to a look of false surprise. “Oh, so you’re a recreational fisher?”
You can’t contain the smirk on your face when it becomes a full-blown grin. “No, but if you keep talking, I will be.”
He laughs, more smoke coming out of his nose - tinted pink from the cold - with each huff of laughter. “You got me there, that was good.” It’s mesmerizing, the way the smoke catches the porch light, and you accept that there’s no way your mind can avoid the gutter now.
You internally groan when you realize that you’re hooked - all pun intended.
Fluttering your eyelashes, you try again. “Please?”
He’s quiet for a moment, eyes staring into yours over his cup. You can tell he’s debating it - these were trade secrets, probably something he only learned by trial and error. But while he’s having an internal debate, you’re wondering if his gaze is this playful when it’s between your legs —
“I’ll be right back.” He says quickly, hurrying back into the house.
You don’t have time to ask him what he’s doing before he re-emerges, holding a tackle box while a toothpick hangs out of the corner of his mouth.
Jesus fucking Christ, does he know what he’s doing?
He places the tackle box on the ground in front of him, cracking it open.
“I use a six-pound test - that’s fishing line.” He’s sitting on the bucket again, leaning in conspiratorially with his elbows on his knees once more as he talks around the toothpick. You nod, motioning for him to continue. His tone is hushed - urgent, down to business, like if he says it too loud, someone will snatch the words right out of the air. “Then a trouble hook-”
“A trouble hook?” You interrupt, needing clarification.
“Well, it’s called a treble hook, but I call ‘em trouble hooks.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Why?”
“Because you’re gonna run into trouble if this thing gets ‘ya.”
His gaze is matter-of-fact, matching his tone as he holds the hook between you two: three dangerously sharp prongs swoop in a “U” shape, with a barb near each point. You have to give it to him - it does, in fact, look like trouble. You shiver at the thought of it snagging on you as he continues on.
“I use these things called wooly buggers - it’s a fish streamer that looks like the stuff trout like to snack on.” He holds up a box of fuzzy-looking worms, grateful that you’re not encountering any slimy, crawling things like you had imagined.
You stand up, walking over to get a better look, hoping you don’t collapse or throw yourself at his knees and beg for him to talk fish to you until you come undone.
“You can hold ‘em, if you want.” He hands you the box, which you take delicately, not wanting to mess up something that’s clearly important to him.
But the fire in your belly is scorching hot, and the devil on your shoulder is whispering in your ear.
“So, there’s no worm?” You question, holding the fuzzy creatures up to the light.
He shrugs. “Sometimes, I’ve used ‘em before. You don’t need a worm, though. Maybe the trout likes the way the wooly bugger wriggles around, I’m not sure, but it works.”
“Are they expensive?” You ask, taking a slow step towards the edge of the porch. Subtle enough that it looks like you’re shifting your weight.
“Nah,” he shakes his head at you. “You can get ‘em at Walmart.”
“Ah.” You hum.
Another step back. “But they’re pretty important?”
He frowns slightly, eyes squinting and brow furrowing in confusion. “Well, yeah, they work the best, so-”
“And you’d be really upset if you lost them, right?” One last step. You’re at the edge of the porch now, tightening your fingers around the small box.
Realization dawns on his face, and you can’t help the devious smile that forms at the sight of his changing demeanor. Slowly, his hand lifts to the toothpick, eyes dead set on yours, and that’s all the answer you need.
He flicks the toothpick into the yard, standing up slowly as if to say ‘You want to play? Well, so do I. Run’.
If that doesn’t motivate you, what the fuck else will?
With a final, mischievous smirk, you’re off. Like a bolt of lightning, you’re jumping off the porch to run around the side of the house. It’s exhilarating, the way your heart thumps in your chest as you run, and you can’t stop the near-hysterical giggle that escapes you.
But you don’t hear the thump of boots on the sod behind you as you round the front of the single wide, and you slow your sprint to a jog. At your 2 o’clock, a few yards away, a branch snaps. Whipping toward the direction of the sound, you see another rabbit scamper into the woods, disappearing in the black of night. You heave a sigh of relief, knowing that’s one less threat you need to worry about. But where the fuck did he —
You feel his arms around you before you hear the screen door shut. The harsh clanging sound of metal hitting metal reverberates in the still night. The yelp that flies out of you is equal parts fear and excitement as he tightens his grip around your waist. You look over your shoulder, trying to get a look at your captor, only to be met with wet hair and warm skin against your cheek. Digging your heels into the sod does nothing to slow him as he drags you up the porch steps, hindering your attempted escape.
As the ground underneath you turns from sod to unfinished board to metal threshold, you’re kicking, laughing, clutching the fly assortment in one arm while the other tries to weasel its way between his arms. He’s breathing heavily, grunting in your ear as he carries you into the house, and you catch your reflection in the cheap, warped entryway mirror: your hair sticks up in every direction, skin sparkling from the warmth of the flannel jacket, and you’re panting like a wild animal. With how tight his arms are around you, you may as well be one.
You risk a glance at Nick, and his dark gaze meets your mischievous one in the mirror, flicking between your bright eyes and smirk. His jaw is set, and it’s here that you notice his cross earring swinging gently, catching the overhead entryway light.
As if he couldn’t get any hotter.
With his eyes locked on yours, he leans in, breath hot, lips brushing the shell of your ear, as he growls:
“Gotcha.”
Christ. There’s no way his intention is pure. The knot in your stomach tightens, but you don’t want to give in yet - not when this flavor of tension is so delicious.
As you work to catch your breath, you develop a plan: make him think you’re rolling over - slither in, betray his trust, and then sprint.
With a deep breath, you let your body relax, enough to convince him of acquiescence. You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as you check in with your body like you’re in a counseling session: where are you holding tension?
Inhale.
The bulk of the tension is in your gut, sending a steady warmth through your body, namely your core. Your back is tense, frozen in place from trying to wrestle out of his grip. No way in hell you can loosen the knot, but you can certainly roll your hips into his - just subtle enough that it’s innocuous, like it’s not insinuating anything.
Exhale.
His arms flex, enough to ensure that your movement isn’t an attempt to wriggle away from him. But the way your hips brush against him has him biting his lower lip, has him sighing - and you think it’s subconscious, but regardless of the motive behind it, you know you have him by the balls.
Who’s the hunter now?
Inhale.
All thoughts stop when the pressure around your waist loosens, and instinct kicks in.
Now.
In a snap, you’re out of his arms, hollering, “Not yet, motherfucker!” as you turn the corner to sprint down the narrow hallway. He slides on the hardwood floor, taking off after you, only to slam into the wall like the cars in those racing movies you watched as a kid.
You stop short on the runner rug, the fabric tangling at your feet, catapulting you to the ground. Nick follows you down quickly after.
It’s a scramble of elbows and knees as he finally manages to pin your wrists above your head in one hand, grabbing the box with the other. It clatters against the hardwood flooring as he tosses it into the adjacent room.
“Try running now, firecracker.” He grins down at you, pupils dilated so wide that his eyes look pitch black.
Sly motherfucker. You’re breathing even heavier after your tussle on the ground, not missing the way those dark eyes dart down to your tits to see the rise and fall of your breaths. A part of your brain registers something hard pressed against your inner thigh, and inspiration strikes.
You roll your hips into his, drinking in the way his eyes almost flutter shut. The moment of vulnerability gives you just enough time to flip the two of you over so that you’re straddling his hips, and he looks so damn good like this - cheeks flushed, wet hair splayed beneath his head. Instinctively, you lick a stripe from his collarbone to his jaw, grinding into him again.
“Fuck.” Nick grunts, large hands coming up to grip your thighs. You’re so close to his face that you can feel his breath fan across your cheeks. It smells like whiskey and coffee, an otherwise terrible combination that has you clenching around nothing.
You snake a hand down to where you know his cock is, hard and straining in his jeans, and Jesus, you want to see if it’s as huge as it feels. Palming him, you wait for his next move to strike.
“Want me to fuck you?” He asks huskily, like he’s the one doing the seducing, like he’s the one with the upper hand.
Hook, line, and sinker.
You inhale deeply, knowing what needs to be done. Finally, it comes out of you in a pitiful whine, submission dripping from your tone: “Please.”
The wild glint in his eye matches the nefarious shine in yours.
You lean forward, biting at the lobe of his ear before you whisper, “But if you want it, you have to come get it.”
You’re off of him again in a second, legs carrying you as quickly as they can to somewhere else - anywhere else.
You don’t get far. Now-familiar arms wrap around you once more, dragging you back into his chest. Before you can register what’s happening, you’re being lifted over Nick’s shoulder, taken into one of the dark bedrooms, the dim light of a bedside lamp casting a soft glow.
“Gonna make me work for it, huh?” He grumbles as he flips you over to toss you onto the bed. He rips off his shirt in seconds, and you finally catch a glimpse of the full tattoo on his chest. You were right earlier - it’s a bird, an eagle to be exact. Below it is a trout, helplessly thrashing in its captor’s talons.
He’s crawling over you, caging you in with his arms on either side of your head, legs tangling with yours. His dark eyes bore lecherously into yours as his hand comes up to your jaw - there’s no turning your head, no room to lash or writhe in his grip. He smirks, a silent boast of satisfaction with himself.
You can’t help but recognize the parallel between you and the tattoo as you’re ensnared.
He widens his eyes ever so subtly, showing off the perfect edges of his irises as he leans closer to you. His nose brushes yours, voice low as he growls another taunt:
“Where are you gonna run to now, little rabbit?”
The whimper that escapes you is piteously embarrassing as your aching cunt throbs. In the back of your mind, you know it’s pointless to try to gain the upper hand, but you can’t help it: you try to wrestle out of his grasp, desperate to let your tongue find its way to his sternum, to lick from there up his neck in one fell swoop.
But he tightens his grip, the back of your head bumping against the hardwood with a soft thump. He exhales an evil snicker before giving you an open-mouthed smirk. “Oh-ho, you’re trouble, aren’t you?”
His thigh forces its way between your legs, rubbing up against your cunt with a glorious pressure that makes you throw your head back and keen in earnest.
“What was that?” He goads before grinding his knee against you again. His voice is all but inside of you, directly in your ear. Another jerk of his knee elicits a prolonged whine that seals your fate - you are pliant, powerless in his hands, and loving every unit of pressure he delivers.
“I can’t wait to devour you.” His lips brush yours as he murmurs. Your mouth meets his in a hungry, undignified collision as your arms wrap around his neck, wet hair falling around your face like a curtain. His tongue passes over your lower lip, and when he licks into your mouth, you’re sold - it’s earthy, a kiss tasting of coffee and subtle notes of alcohol.
He smells clean, like soap and bourbon. Even though it’s probably the cheap 25-in-1 body wash that you can grab for three bucks at the supermarket, it’s gasoline on the fire in your belly.
His skin is soft and burning hot against you. For a fleeting moment, you wonder how the hell he managed to maintain such a high body temperature without a jacket in the cold.
Your hands sneak down to unbuckle his jeans, getting all the way to the zipper before he pulls back from the kiss. He’s hungrily staring down at you, and you allow yourself to flirt with the idea of him eating you alive when he barks out a command:
“Take your clothes off.”
Hm. No.
“Do it for me.” You respond defiantly, leveling with his gaze.
The tug on your hair is equal parts bliss and pain, but the ferocity in his eye makes it all worth it.
“Damn right, you’re not from here.” He growls through gritted teeth, pulling your hair once more and eliciting another whine from you. “Your manners would be better.”
You smirk. He’s waiting, you think to yourself, waiting for you to ask nicely. Part of you wants to roll over and beg, let him have his way… but a louder, more stubborn part of you has the reins now.
So, you don’t move a muscle, prolonging the silence as he waits for you to respond. You’re holding eye contact as he sits back on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You wanna try that again?” He’s holding his chin high, quirking an eyebrow up.
God, not one of these motherfuckers…revels in drawing it out for sooo long just so he can get his power trip. Just man up and do it, already.
You don’t realize you’ve said the last thought out loud until Nick is viciously fighting your jeans off of your legs, nearly tearing the denim in the process. Pure compulsion drives his hands while he mutters something about how he didn’t realize he brought home a “fucking brat” and “how much you’ll regret this”.
Your pants are rolled into a ball, thrown aside haphazardly as he pauses for a moment, staring at your soaked panties before both hands are tearing them off in one swift motion. The sound of fabric ripping at the seams combined with cool air on your soaked cunt makes you whine.
“God damn…” He whispers, transfixed on your core as his tongue swipes over his lower lip.
Nick needs no iron hooks to excerberate your mind. The resplendent, primitive hunger with which he eyes your cunt liquefies any thoughts you have left and distills them into the single, utterly carnal need to do unspeakably embarrassing things in chase of an orgasm. His gaze flashes a downright ravenous, wicked flare, torturously drinking down your wet-brained desire into the gravitational vacuum of his own. He injects pure lust into your limbs through the needlepoint of his gaze - it prompts a cold shock through you to be on the receiving end of it, like he’s spit your brains back at you through a straw.
Your legs shut on instinct, and it snaps him out of his daze.
He throws the remnants of your panties in the same corner as your pants before his hands fly to your shirt, removing it along with the flannel coat off before shoving them to the foot of the bed. He forces his hands under your back, fingers wildly fumbling against your spine as he grapples with the hooks of your bra. You could arch your back, give him more room to work, but his set jaw and furrowed brow look so cute.
After luck with only one hook, he grunts, hands ripping out from under you as he reaches for his nightstand.
“You said to do it for you…” He rationalizes, trailing off as he slips his fingers under the centre gore of your bra to lift it, and you don’t understand what he means until you hear something click in his other hand.
The pocket knife should scare you, but he’s careful as he replaces his fingers with the knife blade up, slicing it open in one, clean stroke as he jerks his hand back.
“Didn’t tell me how.” He finishes as he vigorously pulls your bra from underneath you, tossing it aside as he wastes no time taking a nipple into his mouth.
Your back arches, desperate to ease the tension in your lower belly as he ardently licks and sucks, leaving hickeys and love bites across your chest as he moves from one breast to the other. You grab hold of his hair at the root, holding on for dear life as you whine his name, desperate to hold yourself together.
You don’t realize your legs have fallen open until he’s lifting his head then kneeling to hook your knees over his shoulders.
The brutishness of his tongue as he licks a wide stripe over your cunt pulls a wanton cry from you, and the vibration of his groan against your already sensitive clit prolongs it as you buck your hips toward him. His hands keep an iron grip on your upper thighs, and his glare is an unspoken warning, a quiet “behave, or else”.
His tongue circles your clit once, twice, before he’s slowly sliding it back through your folds, down toward your hole. The pressure of his face against your core as he tries to lick as deeply as his tongue will allow is glorious. His damp hair brushes against your thighs as your fingers wrench themselves into his scalp, clawing, tugging - anything to help him closer to you. With this, his nose rubs against your clit as his tongue still fights to find that spot, even if it will never reach, and God, it’s everything.
It’s lewd, the way you yell his name. At this, he outright moans against you as his tongue slides out, this time, taking his time to find his way back to your clit, like he’s charting every crease and fold. Your grip tightens in his hair, impatience getting the best of you, and he looks at you through half lidded eyes.
Even in your haze, you can see that he’s drunk on you. The slow rut of his hips against the mattress, the way his fists clutch the plush comforter, the way his half-shut eyes look feverishly into yours tells you he can’t be assertive right now; he can’t tell you to know your place, no matter how much he wants to. The power you wield makes your core pulse, which prompts him to slip his tongue into you one last time before taking your clit in his mouth.
His right hand loosens, stroking the soft skin inside your thigh with the backs of his fingers before lining two up at your entrance, thrusting them in almost as quickly as he lined up.
He’s hitting all the right spots, and you’re getting dizzy, fluttering, unsure how much longer you can hold on for. How the hell does he know how to do this? Were there romance novels in the house or some shit? Did he take someone else home with him last night? The night before? Are you just a notch in the bedpost?
There’s no opportunity to dwell on it, because he adds a third finger, and you’re whining as your eyes pinch shut, vision turning white at the peripheral.
Your back arches in anticipation, in burning desire to untie the knot in your belly. “I’m right there, just like that, fuck-“
And then the motherfucker pulls his fingers out, leaving you to painfully clench around nothing. Your heaving, needy cry ricochets off his bedroom walls, and he doesn’t muffle you - not like anyone is around to hear you, anyway.
He releases his grip on your thigh to fuss with his belt, hastily pulling his cock out of his boxer briefs, and you shift nervously when it slaps unceremoniously against his thigh.
Your fingertips would barely touch if he’d even bothered to let you hold it, and you’re certain it will go past your belly button when he’s inside you. The logical half of your brain is wondering where the fuck it’s going to fit, but your baser instincts win as you buck your hips to rub against it.
His tongue, the cool air, the intimidating size of his pink cock, how it feels like the smoothest satin as it rubs against your soaked cunt - it’s all so much. Your clit feels like a bundle of frayed wires, your legs shaking, and you’re desperate to have just one moment to collect yourself.
You begin crawling up the bed. The look in his eye darkens as he grabs your ankles, his grip hurting twice as hard as he pulls you back.
“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks with a light, jovial tone which rivals that of a serial killer’s. You squirm under his leery gaze, trying desperately to close your legs. He ignores you, his hands returning to the inside of your thighs to brace them open before he continues. “It’s rude to leave in the middle of a conversation.”
It’s so condescending. He must still think he has the upper hand, considering that the contemptuous look in your eye doesn’t phase him, but rabbits are just as clever as foxes.
“And here you are, thinking I was enjoying our conversation as much as you were.” A devilish grin crawls across your face, and the look on his own is priceless. His tongue plays at his cheek when he realizes you’re donning the same tone he had in the bar to throw his words back at him. You see the dam break, gaze darkening as what little of his sweet and playful demeanor vanishes.
Before you can even think to fight back, he’s got you by the waist, and he’s flipping you onto your stomach. One hand is in your hair, pushing your head into the mattress while the other hand is locked on your hip.
Keeping your chin on the mattress, you crane your neck to catch a glimpse of your reflection in the window, fully visible against the dark backdrop of the night.
It’s a little pathetic. Your hair is even more of a tangled mess, eyes alight even in the dim reflection - grinding yourself back against him, panting loudly as you do so.
“Can’t wait a few seconds, huh?” He mocks, slapping your ass for good measure. You hiss at the sting of it, face flaming red with embarrassment at how much you enjoy it. “Pathetic.” His words echo your thoughts exactly.
An arm comes up between your breasts. With his hand resting over the base of your neck, he pulls you to his chest, his cock digging into your ass. Instinctively, your arms come up to cover yourself, trying to maintain some semblance of modesty as the window grants any passersby a full body view of you kneeling on his bed.
“What's wrong pretty girl?” His voice is in your ear again, following your line of sight to the window, eyes locking with yours in the reflection while his other hand tangles in the matted mess of hair at the base of your skull. “Afraid someone’s gonna see you?”
You nod, whimpering despite yourself, “Mhm.”
His voice is icy as he continues, “I think they should see you.”
You gasp as he releases your throat, only for your cheek to be pressed against the window, knees still on the mattress, ass awkwardly sticking out. The cool glass makes your entire body tense, nipples perking up once more as he lines himself up before sliding in too slowly, or maybe not slowly enough, you’re unsure of which one.
It’s like a bad porno, the way you gargle “Oh my god” as you’re stretched by him. When he can’t go any further, you convulse with the feeling of him so deep inside you, thighs already trembling as you accommodate his girth. He stays still for a moment, and you can see him out of the corner of your eye, gauging your reaction.
The term ‘rearranging your guts’ hits you in a new light. You’ve never felt this full, and will probably never feel this full again. You blink a few times, clearing the dots from your vision, as he begins to slide out slowly. You moan again, open-mouthed and desperate. It turns into a squeak when he slams back into you.
Without warning, his pace becomes barbaric. It has you howling, reaching behind you to claw at his arms, his hands, whatever is within reach. You know you’re being loud, but you’re pretty sure that if you tried to contain yourself, you would shatter like a teacup falling off of a skyscraper, with nothing but molecules remaining shattered on the ground.
During a moment of respite, gasping for air, you hear a deafening squelch. Horrified, you look down, only to realize -
“Look at you,” Nick grunts, as if reading your mind. “Look at what a mess you’ve made of my clean bed.”
Already?
Surely enough, his comforter has a large, dark wet spot underneath your joined bodies. It’s depraved, the way you want to make that spot darker and larger.
“C’mon, baby, you’ve got more in you.” He encourages you, his free hand sliding over your pelvic bone to rub at your clit. The feeling would make you collapse if there was anywhere to go. But you’re deliciously, fully trapped between the window, his cock, his hands in your hair and on your clit, and all you can do is continue to howl with pleasure.
Your palms come up to slam against the glass, sliding down until they catch on the trim of the window frame. Your knuckles turn pale with the force of your grip as you grunt, “I’m close, I’m so close Nick -”
He redoubles his efforts, and your eyes actually roll back into your skull for a moment as the pace he sets becomes almost unbearable. You’re right on the brink, losing all semblance of thought when he speaks again.
“Manners.” His voice is strained, like stopping would almost certainly kill him. But you knew he would - if it meant making a point, he would stop, just to torture you further. The hand in your hair slides to your mouth, a single finger wedging between your lips to, hooking into the corner of your mouth and pulling you off of the window.
“Please,” You beg, broken and desperate as you half speak around his finger. You want to resist, to go kicking and screaming into the good night, but submission is irresistible.
Your plea doesn’t sate him, because he pulls you further back, the force promising you a finger-cut chelsea grin should you misbehave.
“Again.” He growls.
“Please.” It’s humiliating, how whiny and distorted, how slurred you sound.
The kiss placed on the side of your neck is a sign of approval, and his finger slides from between your lips and back into your hair.
“Come.”
He resumes his brutal rhythm. A single tear rolls down your cheek as you scream, and you feel your bones tremble as stars burst behind your tightly shut eyelids. The sound of your come splattering against the comforter makes you clench harder around him. His hips stutter with growing inconsistency and force until he sinks his teeth into your shoulder before spilling into you with a long growl.
Your whimper is a mix of humiliation, apology, and arousal as he pulls out. Your legs shake violently, almost collapsing in his absence, but an arm wraps around your ribcage to stabilize you. He’s fighting to catch his own breath, almost heaving as he helps you settle down on bed. You catch one last glance of his smudged window before he’s maneuvering you around the dark wet spots on his comforter to lay down.
You don’t realize how badly you need him to pull you into his chest until he already has, kissing you tenderly wherever he can reach without jostling you too much. Your chest is heaving, legs still shaking, and you just know you look a mess.
“Pretty girl…” He trails off, peppering kisses on you as you catch your breath, practically melting against him as you come down from the high.
“Good job, baby.” He coos between kisses. You met him only a couple hours ago, but that’s neither here nor there as his arm comes up to wrap around your waist, rubbing circles on your back. He hums softly, still murmuring sweet praises and pressing soft kisses to your forehead.
You don’t want to fall, you don’t want to fall, you don’t want to fall. The phrase is like a chant, matching its rhythm to his heartbeat. You don’t want to fall? What - fall in love? Fall asleep? It’s too late to challenge the question further because your head grows heavier, allowing itself to be moved by the rise and fall of his chest as your eyes flutter shut.
It has to be ten minutes later when you gasp, shooting up from the bed to stare at Nick in horror, because he’s jolted from sleep when you exclaim: “Oh fuck!”
He’s up with you in an instant, eyes scanning over you worriedly. “What? What is it?”
“Your meeting with the president! You’re going to miss it - again.” You’re doing everything in your power to not crack a smile, to maintain the careful facade of concern you’ve schooled your face into.
His shoulders sag with relief when your words sink in. He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. Then he’s grinning at you, the same hand making its way up to grab your chin.
“I’ll have my secretary fax him in the morning.” He murmurs as he pulls you in by the jaw for a kiss, dragging you back down into bed, yanking the covers atop both of you as he goes.
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