“What Is This?… Hello? Anyone There? Who Were You Talking To? No One? I’m Just… It’s Me”

She’s a Tiger [Tony Montana x Reader 18+ Smut] Oneshot.

Read on AO3.

18+, explicit smut oneshot.

“I like to look at what’s mine, baby.” / “You want it that badly and rough, huh?”

Loyalty, money and trust are the only three principles Tony's revered since the attempt on his life at his estate and his divorce with Elvira. Meeting you amidst his new business deals, what you and Tony have had with one another behind closed doors is anything but innocent. Tony wanted you the moment he saw you and decided nothing would get in his way. Being able to spend as much time as you wanted with Tony while on business, both of your sexual desires matched into a three year sexual relationship with Tony's intention to go further with you. As the new owner of The Babylon Club, you've never shied away from a good time and as Tony's made excuses to come and see you time and time again, tonight he takes you back to your estate and gives you a rough night in that you've been begging for.

[WARNINGS]: Drinking/alcohol consumption / Wine play / Mentions of drugs / Heavy touching and teasing / Dirty talk / Rough sex / Spanking / Rough face and hair grabbing / Rough oral sex / Rimming / Slapping / Orgasm edging / Spit play / Fingering.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE]: My first Tony Montana x Reader (smut 😛) oneshot is finally here!! I promise you all it was well worth the wait. 🥵 The smut in this fic revolves around rough smut, so please make sure you check out the warnings. 🙏🏻 If you know my writing style, you know I can't stand reading "Y/N" or "reader", so the reader in this oneshot is named Celeste. ✨ Multi-chapter fic coming when...!? We'll have to see! 👀 All I have to say is until then, enjoy one smutty night in with rough Tony in bed sharing a bottle of wine. 🥴🔥

[ Babylon Club, 1:00 AM ]

Tony’s no stranger to the Babylon Club and its flashing lights, crowds of sweaty people dancing, pop and techno music blaring over the speakers while exotic cocktails and bottles of wine easily costing somebody’s monthly paycheque are served by the dozen.

Sights such as cocktail waitresses talking up customers at the front of the bar, patrons snorting cocaine off their credit cards in the bathrooms, bouncers keeping watch, and hookups in the corner are just the ordinary as Tony and Manny remain surrounded by the carefree and upbeat aura of the Babylon Club.

That’s the way it’s been for you just as it has for anyone else. The Babylon Club makes you millions a month; a truth Tony, Manny, and your father both know.

What your father doesn’t know is that you’ve been fucking his favorite Miami drug lord almost as long as the two have known one another and worked with each other. 

Tony hit his own private jackpot with Manny knowing he couldn’t even get a share of the big money working for street rats like Frank Lopez. 

Playing it big and making it big as Tony’s new motto after he and Manny singlehandedly took down every one of Sosa’s assassins sent to his estate which in itself sent out a dangerous method to anyone who had their eyes on Tony Montana.

Tony Montana isn’t a threat to be taken lightly. Tony Montana isn’t to be fucked with. Tony Montana isn’t your average Joe smuggling powder out on the street and neither is anybody acquainted with him. Tony Montana is the man with the money and the power—two traits your father valued in a business partner.

Born and raised in Miami, Florida coming from money and knowing money, your father owns every major hotel, casino, and resort in the entire state with a monopoly over the tourism industry. 

Being an only child and his only daughter, you’ve always been one to manage and help out in your line of the family business now working with Montana Management Company to launder drug money and sell cocaine in Miami. 

Tony’s now been under this business for three years with mutual trust and liking for your father—getting along with him and especially you on a personal level whether it's business talks or simply sharing a drink at the club. The big life has paid off for both Tony and Manny indefinitely.

As your own investment and as a birthday present, your father bought the Babylon Club and registered it under your name three years ago, even when Frank and Elvira were regular patrons at the time.

Tony and Manny have always been entitled to free drinks and service at the Babylon, but Tony’s never shied away from giving luxurious tips knowing just to who the club belongs.

When your father decided to meet with Tony and discuss the opportunity to do business with him for the first time three years ago, that was also the day you met Tony for yourself.

~

[ 3 Years Ago ]

“In all honesty,” your father glanced down at the endless array of numbers printed over a financial statement before he shook his head. “These numbers mean nothing to me. Your name is enough.”

“Who told ya first?” Tony took a puff of his Cuban cigar, completely and utterly relaxed in front of your father as compared to the formal and upright sitting Manny to his side. “That cockroach Sosa or Lopez?”

“Lopez, to be honest with you.” Your father chuckled and set the paper down. “Sosa choked on his own blood before I could even get a word out of him.”

“So now you know.” Manny gave a grin, “that says enough for us. What do you think?”

“What do I think?” Your father repeated with a small scoff as he raised his cocktail glass up to his lips. “I think you’re either a smart businessman or a dead businessman, so,” taking a large sip, your father set his drink back down. “I’m gonna take advantage of what those two bastards lost out on.”

Just then, you knocked on the door of your father’s office lightly enough to be heard but not to interrupt his conversation—carrying a suitcase in your free hand.

“Ah, come in.” Your father’s attention peaked, expecting you. “There she is now.”

You turned the doorknob and pushed open the door, aware you were a little over five minutes late to the meeting but only because of what you were carrying with you.

Tony turned his head towards the door in surprise, expecting no further company, especially from a “she”, whereas Manny kept his attention focused on the banking statements scattered over your father’s office desk.

You knew your father had been meeting with two new businessmen today and you were one of the first to see them escorted inside with security. 

You neither knew the businessmen’s names nor saw their faces properly but if it’s one thing that caught your eye and almost caused you to do a doubletake as you came to approach your father, it was locking eyes with Tony Montana.

From the moment that you had walked in carrying the suitcase close to you, the man with the short cut, choppy hair and pinstripe blue suit worn with a carefreeness to reveal the gold necklaces over a peek of his chest hair, had caught your attention instantly.

Feeling a tingle of arousal from the quick attraction, you forced your eyes off of Tony as quickly as you had put them on him and walked up to your father with the suitcase. “Everything’s all settled, dad.”

‘Dad?’ Tony thought to himself and let his greedy eyes dart over every inch of your body in the flowing, white summer dress that hugged over your curves.

“Ah, perfect. Thanks, darling.” Your father gave you a warm smile, gesturing to the middle of his table. “Please set it down here—I wanna show our newest partners what they’ve been itching for since they got here.”

While Manny politely looked up to acknowledge your presence now in the room, Tony was all the more amused to see his newest and wealthiest business partner had a daughter just as cunning as him and a part of the business. 

“Tony, Manny,” your father looked back at the two, beginning to introduce them to you. “This is my daughter. You’ll see she’s no different from you and me in our little operation. She owns the Babylon Club under our family name. Honey,” your father first pointed at Manny, “Manny Ribera,” then to Tony, whom you couldn’t help but catch his gaze over you, “and Tony Montana.”

“Mm, nice to meet you.” Purposefully, you extended your hand out to Manny to shake his first.

“Nice to meet you too.” Manny gave you his signature, charming smile.

“Babylon Club, huh?” Tony didn’t bother with introductions as he firmly shook your hand. “Think I’ve seen you there a few times before.”

Curiosity sparks in your eyes. “Haven’t seen you around before, Mr. Montana.”

“I’ll come ‘round more often then,” Tony smirked, causing your father and Manny to chuckle as you both began to pull your hands back from each other. 

Although you could pinpoint the exact moment you found yourself attracted to this Tony Montana figure as when you first walked into your father’s office, it was another thing entirely to feel his firm hand squeezing over yours and knowing just who you were meeting.

“I look forward to it then.” You told him.

The scent of Tony’s expensive cologne hit you first, and the gold adorning his collarbones, the unbuttoned dress shirt Tony was wearing and the look of confident boldness over his expression only confirmed how sexy you found this man. Even with Tony’s entrance to your father’s manor, you could tell he carried himself like he took no shit from anybody and owned the place. 

“You can call me Tony.” Tony grazed his tongue over his lips and wet them without taking his eyes off of you. “What do you call yourself?”

Tony’s eyes must have admired every inch of your body from your clothes to your eyes, the shape of your breasts, your thighs, your ass down to the natural posture your body was in. 

Seeing and knowing for himself that you were just as confident as he is in your words and actions—that you weren’t a nobody—turned Tony on even more. 

The Babylon Club would now just be an excuse for Tony to drop by with or without Manny to see you time and time again, and that was an advantage Tony wouldn’t be giving up. 

The gold over Tony’s slender fingers glistened underneath the bright lights in your father’s office and emphasized all the more that Tony was clearly giving it away to you right away that he was attracted to you.

Manny already felt the second-hand embarrassment from how Tony was coming off to you with his facial expression alone—something he would tease Tony about later without a doubt.

After telling Tony your name, you took your seat next to your father across from Tony and Manny. 

It was then that your father gestured back to the suitcase you had brought in and his security approached from the other end of the room to open it up in front of Tony and Manny.

The suitcase popped open to reveal three million dollars in cash, neatly stacked and organized inside. 

Your father rose from his seat with an amused look over his eyes as he picked up a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills from it and gave it a wave. “Three million is nothing, this is daily cash. This is the very least of what we’ll all be making a day.”

“That’s all I wanna see, man.” Tony grinned and put his cigar loosely in the corner of his mouth. “I like that.”

“We’ll make a boatload more then.” Your father laughed, tossing the stack in his hand to Tony who immediately caught it midair. “So then you know my answer to both of you is crystal clear today.”

“That is is,” Manny said with a smile. “We’re partners?”

“Without a doubt, we’re partners.” Your father sealed the deal by shaking hands with Tony Montana and Manny Ribera that day three years ago.

Having become official business partners, you knew to yourself back then that this was the first time you’d seen and gotten to know Tony Montana, but it certainly wouldn’t be your last—especially if your own desire could help it.

~

[ Present Day, 1985, Babylon Club ]

She’s on Fire blasts through the speakers of the Babylon Club, bringing nothing but the familiar sight of sweaty crowds drunk on cocktails and grinding up against one another through dance moves.

Tony and Manny sit in their back, private booth specially reserved for their every visit, smoking a cigar over five hundred dollars worth of 1964, vintage red wine. 

Tony remains just as distracted as Manny, now used to the loud blaring music above him as he puffs his cigar and gazes off towards the dancefloor. 

Already enjoying the luxury, familiarity, and comfort the Babylon Club has to offer, Tony wouldn’t want to spend the rest of his Friday evening after a full day of business everywhere else—but it’s your presence in the nightclub and only that which Tony gives a shit about.

Tony’s night is coming to an end but only with you, knowing he’s to pick you up tonight and return you to your father’s estate while he’s still away on business in Las Vegas for the time being.

Manny relaxes his muscles against the leather seats of the booth, letting out a relieved sigh and staring at his fingers clasped around his glass of wine. “Man, thought my fingers were gonna fall off today man. Count, count, count…”

“Get used to it.” Tony reverts his gaze to Manny. “You countin’ the big bucks now.”

“We got machines to do that for us, man.” Manny chuckles, sipping his wine. “They count that shit, then you make us count it twice.”

“The boss like his money exact.” Tony’s cigar loosely rests in the corner of his mouth. “And so do I.”

“Yeah?” Manny exhales, swallowing down his wine. “How much we takin’ home tonight, eh?”

“Ten.” Tony inches his wineglass closer to him over the table. “Each.”

“Shiiiiiit,” Manny grins, unable to hide his enthusiasm through his body language. “Damn right, baby. Oh, I could get used to this. Beats washin’ dishes any day for me.”

“Let the world think we still doing that.” Tony takes a long drag of his cigar. “I ain’t hungry anymore.”

“Got a million reasons to make mama proud now.” Manny holds up his wineglass, “and that girl of yours, eh?”

“My girl,” Tony repeats, a little stunned by Manny’s suggestive comment knowing he’s referring to you, but it’s only then that Tony easily discerns you out of the crowd of other girls you dance by.

Sitting upright in his seat, Tony locks eyes with the way your hips sway back and forth to the beat of the music. 

Carefree and lost within the music’s rhythm, you dance in a group with others, solely focused on enjoying yourself and unaware Tony’s eyes are on you from afar.

Ignoring the flashy sequin dresses of the girls dancing next to you and with you, Tony keeps his eyes focused only on you—drowning out the rest of his surroundings.

Manny’s already rambling on about buying a new sportscar he’s had his eyes on for the last little while, but as Tony’s greedy eyes wander over your body, all he sees and wants to see is that skin-tight, little black dress hugging every curve of your body.

The mini dress you’re wearing tonight has a lace-up feature on both sides that you’ve tied up to tighten your dress further over your thighs—revealing a sexy peek of skin through the laces with your back entirely exposed from the halter top style dress.

Wearing fishnet socks and finishing off your look for tonight with a pair of shiny black pumps, a surge of arousal hits Tony as he gets a perfect view of you dancing from where he and Manny sit.

Tony knows he’s to be taking you home tonight, but all he wants to do is relax back and watch you dance before him all night; it’s no surprise to Tony yet again how sexy he finds you.

Still ignoring Manny whose under the impression Tony’s actually listening to him, Tony watches you throw your head back in laughter, spinning around in a dance.

Tony’s eyes immediately land on your ass just as his imagination wanders to how he’d approach you on the dancefloor; his cigar in the corner of his mouth as he grinds up against your body in dance and gives your ass a firm squeeze.

From the peek of skin showing through the laced-up sides of your dress, Tony already wants to slip his fingers through and teasingly feel at you. 

Tony knows he’d have to fight the urge to pull off the ties and strip you down, but if anything he could do so once you both leave the Babylon together. 

After all, both you and Tony know it wouldn’t be the first time he’s stripped you and down and fucked you—especially in the back of Tony’s car when he was far too impatient and horny to bother driving you home or to his place first.

“Ay—” Manny nudges Tony, realizing only a few minutes onto his sportscar ramble that Tony may not even be listening in the first place. “You listening to me, man?”

“Yeah.” Tony clears his throat, still sounding distracted as his eyes haven’t left you. 

“Oh yeah?” Manny shifts in his seat, taking a sip of his wine. “Then what I say, man?”

“I don’t know.” Tony mumbles, continuing to watch you dance. “Some bullshit about another car or some shit.”

“Oh man, you ain’t listening at all.” Manny groans out in annoyance. “What—Oh. Ohhhhh, man…” A playful grin spreads over Manny’s lips as he finds just where Tony’s eyes firmly remain—onto you over the dancefloor. “Okay now, I see what you’re up to.” 

Tony doesn’t answer Manny, almost ignoring him outright as he lets his eyes continue to wander over the shape of your thighs and ass. 

“You keep lookin’ at Celeste like that and she’s gonna see you creepin’ her, man.” Manny nudges Tony again with his elbow. 

“Shut up, man.” Tony elbows Manny back. “I’m not creepin’ her. You know we gotta take her home tonight, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Manny taps his fingers against the back of the wine bottle. “And when we gonna do that?”

Tony forces his eyes off of you for the first time in several minutes to glance over at Manny and the wine. “Now. You go get the car, park in the front. I gonna get her then we head out.”

“Alright, alright.” Manny grunts, stretching out his arms. “I’m taking this too, though.” He snatches up the wine bottle.

“You leaving the rest for Celeste.” Manny points a finger at the wine bottle clutched in Manny’s hand. “You drank too much of that shit.”

“I will, I will.” Manny laughs. “I’mma just put it in the car so you won’t forget. All you do is stare at her anyway, man.”

“Yeah, whatever. I’mma go down to her.” Tony puts out his cigar, setting it down over the table before rising out of his seat at the same time as Manny.

Manny steps out of the booth holding the bottle of wine like it’s his firstborn child while he manages to awkwardly get through the sweaty crowds before him.

Tony thinks you haven’t seen him yet or at least you won’t while he’s approaching the dancefloor with just how packed and crowded it is, but you’ve already spotted him from the corner of your eye since he’d been sitting and drinking with Manny earlier on in the evening.

Even with the flashing lights strobing through the dimly light nightclub and the fast rhythm of loud music playing from the overhead speakers, it only takes you another quick glance up to see Tony now making his way towards you.

Without breaking your own dancing pace, you continue to swerve your hips and dance, enjoying yourself with everyone else around you.

Tony’s awkward half shuffle half dance through the crowd causes an amused smile to break over your face as you giggle, already locking eyes with him.

Without a word said to each other, you move from side to side over to Tony and press your back against his chest, teasing him by grinding against his body as you dance.

The surge of arousal Tony’s become all too familiar with in your presence spikes through Tony again, turned on to no avail by the way you dance and how sexy Tony finds your confidence coming off you.

“Is the night ending so soon?” You reach your hand back, caressing Tony’s face behind your shoulder. 

“Only if you want it to be.” Tony grins, dancing with you. 

You twirl around over your heel, facing him directly. “Mhmm, and when exactly did you get here?”

“Didn’t notice?” Tony raises a brow, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“How could I?” You move in closer to him, running a hand through your hair. “You’ve seen what I’ve been doing all night, haven’t you?”

“I noticed you alright.” Tony’s eyes flicker from your breasts back up to your eyes. “Just like everyone in this room too.”

“They can watch if they want. I don’t care what they think.” You chuckle quietly, pressing your hips up to Tony’s. 

“Yeah, I came here ‘bout thirty minutes ago before I saw you dancin’ like this.” Tony gestures to your waist. “Got you a little treat for tonight—you like your red wine, huh?”

“Mhmm.” You hold your arms up, continuing to dance. “If that bottle will last with Manny. Where is he, anyway?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout Manny, baby. He out to get the car.” Tony places both hands over your hips, giving them a light squeeze.

“Baby?” You blush, already feeling a swarm of butterflies beginning to accompany your reaction.

“That’s what you are,” Tony says in your ear over the music, “always been. You like it when I call you that?”

“You know I do.” Your face flushes red as you clutch onto Tony’s shoulders. “You gonna tease me in here all night like that or take me home?”

“Depends.” Tony smirks, “I can keep Manny waiting a while longer, you know. When you dancin’ like this,” he bites his lip, holding himself back from slipping his fingers underneath the lacing detail of your dress, “gonna have me waitin’ all night.”

“Mhmm, I’m not stupid you know.” You let out a laugh, placing your hands over top of Tony’s on your hips. “I’ve seen you looking at me all night, Tony.”

“Good.” Tony’s eyes meet with yours. “I like to look at what’s mine, baby.”

‘Fuck...’ It’s all Tony needs to say to have your arousal matching his in an instant in front of everyone.

You feel Tony’s hand squeezing over your ass harshly. “And like this, why not?” His hands begin to feel the material of your dress. “Look at you—got a nice body, perfect thighs, ass, tits.”

“Yeah? What are you gonna do with it?” You challenge back teasingly.

“What am I gonna do with it?” Tony repeats, raising both of his brows. There’s that playful look shining in his eyes again. “I’mma take you home like I was told to do. That’s what I’m gonna do.”

“Fine by me.” You smirk, letting Tony guide you away from the dancefloor by your hips. “If Manny’s driving us home, I won’t even be looking at you twice in the car.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.” Tony grins playfully, moving past crowds with you. “Manny can be a nosy fuck when he wanna be.” You laugh out at Tony’s comment as he continues, “oh yeah, I love the guy to death. He like my brother, but he gonna shove this up both of our asses if he finds out. Better he don’t know nothin’. Not now.” 

“Always.” You hold back a giggle as you and Tony finally reach the lobby of the club. 

“So my girl gonna pretend she don’t wanna touch me but,” Tony’s eyes dart over yours as he wets his lips, “you get home with me anytime and you act like you haven’t been fucked in a year.”

“Tony!” You whine, nudging him out of reaction to his provocative comment.

“It’s true, don’t lie.” Tony nudges you back with his elbow as you both approach the exit out of the club.

From the very moment you take the first step out and distance yourself from Tony, a moody and irritated “someone-interrupted-my-evening-out-and-is-making-me-go-home” look twists over your expression.

Manny’s already pulled out his convertible in front of the club, resting his arm against the front seat and eagerly looking up at you and Tony; not the least bit surprised as to how annoyed you appear.

“Hey!” Manny takes his other hand off the steering wheel, waving at you both to grab your attention. “How was your night, Celeste?”

“Just fine.” You huff, approaching the back seat. “Ended a little too early though, don’t you think?” You briefly exchange a glance with Tony, knowing, in reality, you want nothing more than for him to take you back home already. 

“Ah, yeah. Sorry about that.” Manny smiles back at you sheepishly. “Gotta do as boss says, you know. You look beautiful tonight, by the way.”

“You say it to my sister first, now to the boss's girl?” Tony raises a brow at Manny, getting into the passenger seat next to him.

You hold back a smile as Manny lets out a laugh, shrugging his shoulders. “I got my eyes on one girl, just my Gina.”

“Uh-huh.” Tony rolls his eyes, relaxing in his seat. “Get that straight.”

“No harsh feelings, right Tony?” Manny jokes back.

“Yeah, yeah.” Tony brushes him off, hearing you giggle behind him. “Just drive before I rearrange your jaw bones, okay? Okay.”

Manny chuckles, shaking his head as he starts up his car and begins to pull out of the vicinity of the Babylon Club careful to avoid the swarm of taxis and limousines hounding one another for VIP parking spots.

“What ya think, Celeste?” Manny taps his fingers over the steering wheel, driving out onto the street. “You like the car?”

“Yeah.” Your eyes wander over the red, leather seats and detailing. “Yours, huh?”

“Yep, one of them.” Manny proudly claims. “You seen Tony’s new ride?”

“How she gonna see what I didn’t buy, man?” Tony rests his head back against the headrest. “Sportscar is upcoming. I’m getting it customized, not buying that boring factory shit.”

“Of course you are.” Manny points out. 

“Another one, Tony?” You raise your brows, unaware he’s beginning to build such a collection for himself.

“Oh yeah.” Tony grins, turning his head back to face you. “Because I can, you know? That’s why. That’s the beauty of all this.” Tony begins to gesture and pat around the interior of Manny’s car. “Boss told me what’s the point of cash if you ain’t gonna spend it like this?”

“I don’t know, man.” Manny lets out a laugh. “Maybe our cars ain’t good enough. You know that Elvira always say she won’t be ‘caught dead’ in our cars.”

Elvira’s name sparks your interest instantly as you sit up in your seat. “Elvira Hancock?”

“Fuck Elvira, man.” Tony spits out, growing irritated almost immediately. “She ain’t like nothing.”

“So the great Tony Montana couldn’t even impress her, huh?” You rest your chin over your fist, amused by Tony’s reaction just by the mention of Elvira’s name. 

“Frank wasn’t just balls deep in her pussy. In her mind too.” Tony gestures to the side of his head as Manny snickers. “I ain’t ever impressed that woman. I got the big mansion, but she ain’ like me.”

“Maybe that’s better.” Manny points out. “Never hook up with the boss’ girl, that’s the main rule.”

Hiding your growing smirk behind your hand, you exchange a glance with Tony who winks at you. That’s definitely always been the case between the two of you—without a doubt.

A brief moment of silence follows before Tony slouches back in his seat and clears his throat. “Yeah, yeah. Boss’ girl. Especially one that don’t wanna be seen with you, right? She say shit like ‘you got off a banana boat, man’.”

Manny can’t help but burst out laughing, gesturing over to you. “At least when we take the boss’ daughter to dinner she doesn’t snort her own supply just to keep a conversation up, huh?”

“Damn.” You mumble in astonishment. “What the hell was up with that?”

“I dunno, man.” Tony throws his hands up in surrender. “I don’t give a shit no more.”

“Elvira really stormed off like they say she did?” You clear your throat. 

“Yeah,” Manny replies, no longer making a laughing matter out of it. “She went off to Balti—what was it?”

“Balty-more,” Tony tells him back.

“Balty? Baltimore, oh yeah! Yeah, Baltimore.” Manny repeats. 

“She got a new sugar daddy or somethin’, I guess.” Tony scoffs.

“And you two…?” You point your finger at Tony, expecting him to elaborate. “Divorced afterward?”

“What do you think, man?” Tony appears in no mood to answer any questions about it. “First thing she did was throw the papers in my face.”

“Someone sounds rather bitter.” You run a hand through your hair, tousling it.

“Confused.” Tony corrects you. “I give the woman everything and she don’t like it, don’t want it. Oh but you can get this, oh you see me dead in that car, I don’t go in no pools like that, I don’t eat this, I don’t like the wine you buy me. So what? She only want the powder. That’s crazy man. You can’t live like that.”

“Never get high on your own supply,” Manny quietly singsongs Frank Lopez’s advice to himself. “Yeah, man.”

Amused by how quickly both Tony and Manny’s tone has changed throughout the sudden shift of conversation touching Elvira’s name, you’re aware now that the playful, tough guy demeanor off Tony has faded into a serious and mellow, moody attitude.

You never met Elvira Hancock personally and didn’t feel the need to, but you’ve seen her in person in the past with Frank Lopez from your father’s business dealings with him.

Your father—just like Tony—never liked Frank much to begin with, but tolerated him for the sake of business and making money. It was never more than that, mostly unbeknownst to Frank himself, so it was nothing but a relief for your father and his business partners to hear Tony made short work of Frank and his men.

“Couldn’t have done a better job myself. That Tony—I told them, I said ‘don’t fuck with this guy’. Now I can’t say anything to the bastards at all, eh?”

The same reaction was warranted from your father and his men with Sosa’s death, but he was far more impressed with how Tony took down every single one of his men that clearly outnumbered Tony after they breached the Montana estate.

Without Sosa in the way and all of his operations falling into the hands of Tony and your father, there was no longer any heavy competition or talk about a monopoly starting to come onto the drug trade.

As a ‘thank you’ of sorts and a show of gratitude, your father personally paid for all of Tony’s expenses including the damage to his estate and belongings and provided replacements for Tony’s weaponry all out of his own pocket like a gift.

However, the bond between your father and Tony as both friends and business partners wasn’t bought or fueled by fear one may turn on the other. It’s built on trust and loyalty and is all the more exciting to you that your dirty little secret is that you’re fucking Tony on the regular without another soul knowing.

Still, Tony and you couldn’t be farther away from what “fuck buddies” are. Just as Tony has trust and loyalty to your father, he does for you.

Tony’s the only one who knows just what you like behind closed doors—how rough you love taking him in bed and how loud you can beg and whine for his cock.

“What does a woman who already got the whole world at her feet want from a guy like me. Huh?”

“Just your loyalty.”

Tony knew then without doing so much as even flirting with you that he liked you—that he wanted you for himself. 

After Sosa’s attempt on exacting revenge on Tony, almost losing Gina to gunfire and seeing the men he shared drinks with and counted cash with shooting at him relentlessly, Tony came out of that situation holding loyalty above all.

With the loyalty and trust you gave to Tony, he could never think of you just as a fling, something to fuck to pass the time let alone a “fuck buddy” and he’s made that clear to you time and time again, one way or another. 

Tony knows personally—and perhaps you don’t—but your father would more than likely approve and not mind Tony and you being in a relationship with one another. 

Your father sees Tony as a successful man of his word, his equal—not some half-brained goon working for him after all, so who's to say Tony won’t ask for his approval in the very near future?

The rest of the car ride home consists of small talk mostly between Tony and Manny, helping you keep up the “I’m-irritated-my-night-ended-early-thanks-to-Tony” attitude knowing how very curious Manny can be, piecing two and two together if he suspects some sexual chemistry going on between you and Tony.

Driving through the guarded gates after brief security clearance, Manny slows his car to a halt by the front entrance of your father’s estate before parking; still mesmerized by the grand splendor of the manor regardless of how many times Manny comes to visit.

Complete with custom-carved, marble fountains, three swimming pools, a private tennis court, and a garage for fourteen sports cars, the luxurious estate is a sight for sore eyes on its own just from the outside view.

Tony and you are both well aware your father still isn’t home—away on a business trip in Los Angeles for the next few days, and your estate remains heavily guarded. 

Manny on the other hand is still under the belief that your father is indeed home and occupied, hence why he requested Manny and Tony to pick you up from the Babylon.

Tony’s mansion isn’t far from yours in terms of size or distance; still in the same enclosed, private and hidden lots of Miami.

From the moment both of you step out of Manny’s car, your security by the front doors recognizes the three of you from afar.

Little glistening lights illuminate the walkway past the floral arrangements in the garden wrapping around the estate and leading up to the front doors. 

There’s a peaceful contrasting silence of crickets chirping and a warm summer breeze brushing up against you three from the loud, sweaty, and packed Babylon Club, marking the end of your night and the entrance into some much-needed “relaxation”.

“You gonna see the big boss, Tony?” Manny looks over at both of you. 

“Yeah, man.” Tony takes it from him with a nod. “Still got some business to do for tonight. I still got one of my cars parked here, I’mma drive home after.”

“Alright.” Manny accepts the lie, “call me if you need anything, and hey—Celeste—” Manny snaps his finger at you, “you too, you know?”

“For sure.” You chuckle quietly. “Thanks for the drive home, Manny.”

“Heh, no problem.” Manny grins, always boastful of his driving skills in the newest sports cars he can get his hands on. “Oh, and don’t forget this, yeah?” Manny reaches between the cushions of the car seats, pulling out the wine bottle he and Tony shared earlier tonight, and hands it to Tony. 

“You put that between the seats, man?” Tony knits his eyebrows in disgust and confusion.

“Yeah, why?” Manny pats the seats as you clasp a hand over your mouth to hold back your giggling. “I kept it nice and safe in case we hit a road bump, you know?”

“You better hope this shit ain’t broken, man.” Tony carefully examines the bottle in his hand before giving an accusing glare to Manny. “That’s five hundred bucks, if it smash in your car I was gonna make you lick it up.”

Manny and you burst out laughing as Tony rolls his eyes, shooing Manny off and dismissing him. “You just go say goodnight to Gina for me. You can’t fuck that up.”

“Yeah man, I will, no worries.” Manny starts up his car again, waving at the two of you. “Goodniiiight! I’mma see both of you tomorrow.”

“Night! Drive carefully!” You wave back as Tony shakes his head, heading straight for the estate instead. 

“This guy, man.” Tony looks over his shoulder the minute Manny begins to drive back towards the secured gate, now blasting loud pop music from his car’s radio. “Twenty-four seven party.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t offer to come to see ‘the boss man’ with you.” You smirk, approaching the front doors of the estate with Tony. 

“Oh, yeah.” Tony chuckles, “the one in Los Angeles for the next few days. Take it easy, huh baby?” Tony gives your ass a firm smack, grabbing it with one hand and giving the bottle of wine in his other hand a shake. “I gotta make excuses so he, believe me, you know? Not gonna say I’mma walk in here and fuck my girl tonight.”

Your face flushes red with blush as you slip off your heels by the foyer. “Who said anything about fucking?”

“Don’t tease me like that, baby.” Tony licks over his lips, holding up the wine. “I ain’t gonna do so until my girl gets to relax with me tonight.”

“You know I’d love to.” You smile wryly, eyeing the wine in his hand. 

“You got more of those guards up there?” Tony’s eyes dart up towards the spiral staircase leading to the second floor. 

“Mhmm, just a few.” You clasp off your earrings, looking up at the stairs. “They’re at the end of every hall, not much different from here.”

“Good.” Tony continues staring at the second floor, getting a good look for himself. “Then they won’t be all up hearin’ you in your room.” His gaze directs back down to the wine bottle in his hand. 

“What’s wrong with taking it right here?” A playful mood sets through you as you gesture Tony towards the living room.

“Sittin’ thirty feet away from each other in that big ass room?” Tony grins back at you. “What I gotta do to be close to you, baby?”

You let out a small laugh, “we’ve got privacy, of course. I’ll take you upstairs if you really want.”

“You do that then.” Tony follows you from behind as you lead him off towards the staircase. 

“Eager much?” You glance over your shoulder at Tony, sliding your hand up the railing.

“Eager?” Tony repeats, knowing damn well what you mean as you come near your bedroom. “Just get in that room—I’mma tell you what eager is.”

“Tony,” you giggle, pushing open your bedroom door and feeling Tony push you in with his hand over your ass.

“Gonna have to wait.” Tony’s quick to kick the door back shut with his ankle and set the wine bottle aside over top of your dresser. “You c’mere.” In an instant, Tony grabs your hips and causes you to squeal out in excitement, pulling your ass against the erection in his dress trousers. “What’s this, huh?”

“Tony,” you groan, feeling his cock brushing up against your ass and feeling almost embarrassed at how quickly he’s got you aroused.

“You see these?” Tony breathes hotly over your neck, tugging on the strings over the side of your dress. “You know, I been wanting to rip these off you since tonight. You lookin’ this sexy—” He gives the strings another pull before slapping your ass again.

“More than welcome to do it now,” you moan back in response. “Push it, already.”

“Push it, huh?” Tony grabs your arm, spinning you around to face him before tilting your chin up roughly to face him. “You tellin’ me to what to do, baby?”

“Mhmm,” you graze your tongue against your bottom lip, “stop pretending like Manny’s still here and push it already.”

“Oh yeah,” Tony roughly grabs your face, giving it a shake. “I’ll fuckin’ push it, baby. I’ll push it.” 

You let out a half squeal, half gasp as Tony shoves you onto your bed, prompting you to immediately begin to strip off your skin-tight dress. “You want it that badly and rough, huh?”

“Don’t fuckin’ remind me.” Just as quickly, Tony kneels on top of your bed and hovers over top of you, yanking and pulling at the fabric of your dress to get you undressed as quickly as possible. “You don’t know—” Tony hungrily kisses up your neck, much too impatient and frantic with his movements. “How fucking sexy you are.”

“Tony,” a soft moan escapes your lips as you tilt your head up to let Tony kiss you further; letting your hands wander through his choppy hair. “F-fuck.”

“Want to do this to you—” Tony’s kisses grow more demanding and sloppy as he pulls your dress off your chest and down by your waist. “All fuckin’ night. You know that?”

“Yes, baby. Yes,” you whimper, already feeling your nipples harden from Tony’s fingers brushing up against them and the cool air of your bedroom. 

“Fuck this,” Tony throws the dress off your thighs and tosses it to the floor like a rag, shrugging off his own suit jacket next. “Not even wearin’ a bra, huh?”

“Just how you like it,” you tease, squeezing your breasts together.

“Don’t fuckin’ tease me, baby.” Tony grabs your face again with one hand, sharing a wet, full-mouthed kiss with you.

Your eyes flutter shut instantly as you part your lips open to feel Tony’s tongue dominating yours; his kiss is deep, greedy, and almost bruising with power behind it. 

It’s not the first time your lips have ached for more after Tony’s kiss, reddened and glistening with his spit.

“S-so much for the wine,” you breathe shakily as Tony breaks the kiss.

Tony unbuckles his leather belt, tossing it over to the pile of his and your clothes upon the bedroom floor. “You know I wouldn’t forget the wine, baby.” Tony gives both of your breasts a firm slap, “I’ll drink it off your fuckin’ tits if I have to.”

“Uh, fuck!” You cry out in pleasure, watching as Tony begins to fully undress before you. 

“Get undressed, but keep these on.” Tony pulls at your stockings. 

“Mm, yes sir.” Only left in your fishnet stockings and a dainty pair of black, lace panties beneath him, you hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties and slip them off your ankles. “I’ve only got one wineglass in here, you know?”

“That’s gonna be enough, believe me.” Tony’s cock springs free from his briefs before he throws those off as well, pumping his thick eight inches in one hand before momentarily getting off the bed to reach for the wine.

‘Oh fuck. Fuck.’ Deep, tugging arousal builds in the pit of your stomach from the sight of Tony naked before you, let alone the feeling of your pussy having its own heartbeat from seeing his size again like it’s the first time.

Tony’s eyes dart across your room before spotting the single wine glass over your makeup table. 

“We’re gonna share a glass together, huh?” You rub down your thighs, beginning to spread open your legs.

“Think I have a much better idea than that, baby.” Tony licks over his lips, watching your pussy lips spread open—dewy from the wetness of your arousal. Tony holds the bottle of red wine in one and the wineglass in the other, keeping his eyes over your naked body and approaching the bed again. “Not gonna make me repeat myself tonight, right baby?”

“Never.” Your breath hitches as you watch Tony kneel down on the bed. “I’ll do anything you want, you know that.”

“I do,” Tony smirks wryly, gesturing to you with the wine bottle. “Get on those hands and knees—ass up, face down, baby.”

You gladly do as Tony demands, arching your back and blushing furiously knowing Tony’s got a perfect view of your ass and pussy from the doggy-style position you’re in. 

Keeping your face pressed down onto the pillow in front of you, your eyes peek to the side to see Tony placing the wine glass and the bottle onto your nightstand—redirecting his attention to you now.

“Mmhmm,” Tony cups your ass with both hands, squeezing and touching you.

“Ooh,” you let out a soft whimper, aroused by the feeling of Tony’s cool, gold rings against your skin. “Tony…”

“This ass belongs to me.” Tony gives your ass cheek a harsh slap, taking you by surprise. “Doesn’t it? Huh?”

“Mmm, yes!” You cry out, feeling Tony’s firm hands roughly fondling and squeezing your ass. “Yes, sir—” your words are muffled out from speaking against the pillow.

“This ass,” Tony hooks his fingers into the holes of your fishnet stocks, tearing a hole in them right over your ass and pussy with hardly any effort. “Is mine.” Tony spanks your other ass cheek even harder than he did to the other the first time. “Don’t move, baby.”

“M-mhmm.” You nod shakily against the pillow, keeping your legs spread open and your ass and back arched up in the air. 

Tony takes the wineglass off of the end table, spreading your ass with one hand before inching the stem of the glass in-between both of your ass cheeks so it’s tucked in without risk of falling out. “Yeah, look at that…”

Gasping quietly in surprise from feeling the glass being held between your ass cheeks, you look over your shoulder to see Tony giving the wineglass a few more nudges to nestle it between your ass.

“Said we was gonna share the wine.” Tony snatches the bottle of red wine off the end table next, popping the loosely put top off before moving the bottle towards your mouth. “You want a taste, baby? That good, red wine?”

“Mhmm,” nodding, you take a shaky sip of the wine straight from the bottle but only get a little bit to swallow before Tony pulls the bottle back.

“Now we can share. Get a real fuckin’ taste.” Tony begins to not only pour the wine all over your ass and torn fishnet stockings but into the wineglass between your ass as well.

“Yeah, baby. Look at that.” With Tony pouring the glass aimlessly and chuckling to himself as he makes a mess, you shiver from the cold, crimson liquor dripping all down your ass, soaking into your stockings with a majority of the wine landing into the wineglass. 

“Tony!” You whine, covered in wine and still looking back at him over your shoulder as Tony lets the empty wine bottle roll onto the other side of the bed.

“What’s the matter, baby?” Keeping the wineglass firmly pressed between your ass, Tony grabs your ass cheeks with both hands again and begins to lick up the wine over your skin.

“Ohhhh,” a moan escapes your mouth as you’re back to keeping your head firmly placed against the pillow. “Fuck, fuck…”

“I got it everywhere…for a reason,” Tony pants, letting his tongue slobber up the wine over your ass and thighs. “Mmm, taste so fuckin’ good. And ya got an ass like that…” Tony smacks both of your ass cheeks, letting more wine drip onto your legs and the bed before he yanks the wineglass out from between your ass.

“Ah!” You giggle breathily, clenching down on the bed sheets with both hands as you glance back over your shoulder again to see Tony taking a messy gulp of the wine before exhaling deeply.

“Come here, slut.” Gritting his teeth, Tony yanks a fistful of your hair back and raises the wine glass to your lips, spilling a bit down your chest before letting you drink up the rest. “Take a sip, huh?”

“I want—” You part open your lips, excited for a taste yourself but end up spilling the majority of it down your breasts.

“Someone’s a little too excited.” Tony chuckles breathily, giving you a rough, full-mouthed kiss over the mouth that could almost bruise you before he lets go of both the empty wine glass in his hand and your hair. 

“Tonyyyyy,” you whine, moaning as loud as ever as Tony moves back behind you, now quick to spread your ass cheeks open again before slicking his tongue in between.

“Ohhhhh, my God!” You throw your head back in surprise and moan loudly feeling Tony’s warm, wet tongue circling over your asshole and back down to your pussy.

“Fuck—” Humming against your clit, Tony drools and spits all over both your ass and pussy—licking every inch of you hungrily as if it’s his last meal. “—yes! YES!”

Demanding, rough, and feverish, Tony grips your hips to press your ass onto his face; his own spit dribbling down his chin from eating the hell out of you. “Mm!”

Waves of pleasure soar through you, causing your knees to tingle and feel weak from how Tony’s tongue focuses on flickering over your clit. “M-more, more, please, yes, more!”

You can neither stop yourself from moaning nor continuing to push your hips back against his face—obsessed with how greedy Tony is when it comes to teasing and pleasing you.

With the way Tony keeps a perfect rhythm and pace over your clit, it only takes you a few minutes throughout your filthy moans to feel your toes and fingers clenching from the intense orgasm approaching you.

“Tony! Tony!” You plead out, rolling your eyes back in pleasure. “G-gonna cum, I’m gonna cum!”

Tony is barely holding himself back while sloppily eating you out. Determined to make you cum over his tongue, Tony’s cock remains rock hard and pulsating—desperate to be inside you so much that it’s almost uncomfortable to him.

Spurts of precum already begin to dribble down Tony’s tip and shaft from hearing you moan and groan about how good Tony’s making you feel again and again.

Obsessed with the way Tony’s tongue licks and suckles over both of your holes, you attempt to keep your moaning quiet by muffling your voice against the pillow, but you can hardly remain still in the doggy-style position while Tony’s tongue is easing its way inside your pussy.

Tony doesn’t relent, beginning to slick his index finger inside of you two—impressed by how wet your pussy has become mixed with his spit. 

“Ahhhh, fuck, yes! C-cumming, I’m cumming—” Unable to hold back any longer, your orgasm breaks through and instantly rocks over every inch of your body in erotic ecstasy as Tony continues finger fucking you throughout it. 

Before you can even process what just happened or even act out in shock towards it, Tony’s eyes widen in amusement and he grins—keeping his head angled under your pussy as you squirt over his chin and neck in orgasm.

“That’s fuckin’ perfect, baby.” Tony smacks your pussy with the palm of his hand, giving your pussy lips a shake to get more of your squirt and cum out while swallowing everything in his mouth and on his lips. 

“T-Tony, Tony,” struggling to keep your back arched with the energy drained out of you from such an intense, heavenly orgasm, you squeal again to feel Tony dipping two fingers inside of your pussy, getting a string of your cum between them.

“Taste, baby.” Tony grips your neck, pulling you back before smearing your cum over your lips and then easing his fingers inside your mouth. “See how fuckin’ good you taste. Squirt in my mouth like that.”

“Oh fuck—” You let out another moan as Tony roughly grips your throat and forces you to flip over. 

“Spread yourself open.” Pinning your back down onto the bed, Tony grabs both of your ankles and stretches them back towards your shoulders. “Yeah baby, like that.”

Clutching onto your ankles and holding them up by your head in as much as you can stretch and spread yourself wide open for Tony, your face flushes red in humiliation and arousal. “Please…”

“Yeah,” Tony chuckles breathily, spreading your pussy lips open with both hands. “Look at that pussy, huh?” Tony rolls his tongue in his mouth before letting a wad of spit land over your clit.

You gasp out softly in surprise, watching as Tony rubs his spit in with the palm of his hand all over the wet folds of your pussy, and with his free hand, he pumps all thick, eight inches of his cock.

“Give me,” you whine, inhaling sharply as Tony doesn’t waste time teasing you further and slicks his cock over the folds of your pussy.

“Not gonna have to ask me twice,” Tony grunts, obsessed with how warm and wet your pussy feels against his shaft. “Fuck…”

The oversensitivity on your clit from your first orgasm causes you to squirm underneath Tony, whining quietly and feeling as if you’re about to sink into the bed from embarrassment at the way Tony looks pleased down at your pussy.

“You’re a tiger,” Tony breathes, positioning his cock to your entrance. “You know that?”

The impressive length of his cock alone causes the butterflies swarming in your stomach to knot up in excitement, wanting Tony to push every single inch of him inside you until you’re filled to the brim with his cock and begging for more.

Giggling out of breath, you feel Tony’s precum dripping over your entrance hole, easily mixing in with your wetness. 

Tony positions his hips as if he’s about to thrust in, but purposefully delays to tease you. Instead, Tony’s hands trail up to your breasts, giving them a squeeze with both hands.

“Gonna get you even more wet for me, baby.” Tony lets his fingers toy over your hardened, sensitive nipples—rubbing them between his forefingers and hearing you moan back in response.

Tony leans his head down to kiss both of your nipples sloppily, causing you to whimper and tug on his hair. 

Now more than ever, you can’t stop yourself from fantasizing about bouncing over Tony’s cock—wanting him badly as ever through all of this teasing.

Obsessed with the feeling of Tony’s firm, large hands gripping over the sides of your throat, your hot skin feels cool relief from the gold rings over Tony’s finger and his silver chain bracelet as he begins to apply pressure.

“Got ya, baby.” Tony now has you right where he wants you and how he wants you—fully under his dominance and control, spread open and ready to be mercilessly fucked all night.

Breathing heavily and locking eyes with Tony, you’ve absolutely no desire to fight back or resist. All your mind tells you is how desperately you want to get fucking railed by this man as hard as he wants to take you for however long he wants to pound your pussy.

“You’re mine, ain’t that right, baby?” Tony gives your face a smack, demanding a quick answer. “Ain’t that right?”

“Y-yes, Tonyyyyyy—ohhh!” You cry out in pleasure as you feel Tony’s cock entering your pussy, one thick inch at a time to fill you in.

“Fuck, yes, yes, yes.” Tony hisses under his breath, watching his cock penetrate you. “You like that baby, huh? That big cock going inside that tight pussy?”

All you can let out are filthy moans in response; your momentary shyness with Tony is replaced by a burst of sexual confidence. 

“Ooh,” Tony grunts as he stretches and fills your pussy completely. “Keep those nice legs up for me, baby.”

“Uhhhh,” groaning loudly, you feel a slight burning sensation from Tony’s thickness inside of you before it's replaced by nothing but pure pleasure; his cock beginning to thrust back and forth. “F-fuck me, Tony. Fuck me!”

“You’ll let me do anything I want?” Tony pants, clutching onto your inner thighs and picking up his pace fucking you. “Huh?”

“A-anything you want,” you nod frantically with a moan. “God, your cock feels so good.”

“That’s what I like to hear, baby.” Tony plants a full-mouthed, sloppy kiss over your mouth as he continues thrusting deeply and roughly.

You roll your eyes back in pleasure, feeling the room get ten degrees hotter to you from how Tony angles his cock downward to hit your weak spots as he fucks you.

As Tony begins to suckle and kiss your neck roughly, you pick up on the scent of his expensive cologne mixing with the smell of sex in the room.

Tony’s cock twitches in your body, pulsating with so much arousal that all he wants to do is pound you mercilessly all night; your body has never cried out this desperately for him to fuck you.

Tony gives one of your breasts a slap, watching them jiggle in front of him. “I m-make you feel good, huh?” An aggressive, demanding Tony is more than welcome fucking every one of his desires into you on your bed. 

“Yes!” You whine, shakily watching his cock slick into your pussy with ease.

“You take my cock in like a slut, you know that?” Tony speeds up, even more, his cock now rapidly slamming in and out of you with no intention to ever slow back down.

“Fuck!” You pant as you feel Tony’s lips pulling over the skin on your neck, leaving a reddened hickie and only heightening your pleasure.

Just from the way Tony’s body is pressed up to yours as he fucks you and the sight of Tony’s hips gyrating to yours sparks a fire of sexual frustration and desire into you like none other.

‘He knows exactly where to touch me, to make me like this…’

As Tony’s kisses trail upward, growing sloppier until he’s practically licking up your neck and to your jawline, you both join in another needy kiss with tongue.

You can feel Tony’s tongue battling for dominance over yours, suckling over it any chance he gets and meeting your moans into his mouth for a response. 

“Your father—” Tony parts from the kiss as a string of spit from both of your mouths splits. “—doesn’t know I’m fucking his daughter like this huh?” 

As you whimper and whine about from sensation after sensation, Tony keeps both of his firm hands pressed onto your hips and lets you eagerly take his cock in again and again with little to no effort on his part.

Now with a hand going up to grip your throat again, Tony leans down to your ear and fully angles his thrusting downward to reach your G-spot.

 “I want you so much, baby,” Tony breathes hotly over your neck. “Fuck…” The pressure he keeps down onto your hip subsides as Tony’s fingers now move down to play with your soaked clit at a quickened pace.

You let out a raspy moan and buck your hips up in response to the sudden, almost about to scream out from how good it feels to have Tony’s fingers rubbing quickly over your clit.

The expression on your face twists to pure delirium as your orgasm approaches you steadily. 

All you can hear is Tony breathing down against your lips saying, “I’m making you my little whore.”

“Tony, oh fuck!” Your legs begin to quiver up above your sides and you begin to struggle to maintain a hold on your ankles.

Each moan you give out is louder than the last, but it’s a surprise when Tony suddenly slicks his cock out of your pussy and taps it roughly over your reddened, throbbing clit.

“Don’t wanna make you cum just yet, huh?” Tony gives your face another slap—not enough to sting or leave a mark but enough for some pain knowing how much you love it.

His tongue hungrily grazes over your top and bottom lips before his hands squeeze over yours on your ankles, insisting you keep yourself spread in this position.

Your clit is almost swollen with arousal, begging to be touched and stimulated so much that your orgasm is desperate to be released even as Tony just teases you.

“Oooh, baby, music to my ears.” Tony chuckles breathily, letting his cock soaked in your juices slide over your clit once more just to hear the sloshing sound of the folds of your pussy parting.

Tony doesn’t waste any more time in teasing you—knowing you’re about to cum and if anything, you’ll do so on his cock only. 

Tony jerks his hips down and roughly thrusts into you without warning, making you scream from how good his cock feels filling you up all over again.

“You’re mine,” Tony growls in a low voice, “mine.” 

Tony exhales shakily, gritting his teeth as he presses his hips in further, completely filling you to the brim with his cock stretching open your tightness. 

“Ohhhh, I’m gonna cum! Gonna cum!” You squeal, arching your hips to Tony’s. “Oh, God!” It takes every bit of willpower in you not to scream out again and again from the euphoric sensations Tony draws out of you.

Tony forces his own orgasm back, refusing to cum in you just yet but the way your pussy clenches and contracts around his cock tempts him to do otherwise.

Tony coaxes your orgasm out of you first; the sight of him now with beads of sweat over his forehead sticking to his hair as he’s fixated on fucking you until you cum is more than enough to have you give in.

There’s an insatiable lust and craving you and Tony have for one another that releases through your second orgasm as you cum over his cock—shrieking out through your moans. “Yesssss!”

“I wanna fuck you—” Tony squeezes your thighs so harshly he digs his fingernails into your skin before slapping them as hard as he can. “—all the fuckin’ time.” 

Your mascara and eyeliner smear off your eyes and drip onto your cheeks from tearing up—it’s not due to pain or being overwhelmed, but from how good you’re being fucked and how intense your orgasm spilling out of you is.

Tony never slows his pace, obsessed with feeling your pussy still humming around his cock from the aftermath of your orgasm. “You fuck so good, baby.”

With Tony fucking the ever-living life out of you by the second, you desperately beg and whine for him to touch you over and over again—slapping and smacking your breasts, pussy, and thighs. 

Tony continues pounding into your soaked pussy like a wild animal, growing far more aggressive knowing how badly you like it rough with him. 

Barely able to form out a coherent sentence, your trembling hands threaten to loosen from holding up your ankles, and the soreness your legs feel from being spread open for so long even adds to your pleasure.

“Fuck!” Tony pounds into you, causing the springs in your mattress to squeak from fucking you like a ragdoll.

Tony’s more than well aware of how you roll your hips back at him weakly, still desperate for each and every thrust inside of you. 

Tony grins down at your pussy lazily, loving the way your creamy cum drips off his cock while he continues to pummel inside of you. “T-tight fucking pussy.”

You curl your toes in response, using the last bit of energy inside of you to clutch onto your ankles as your third orgasm begins to build in your pelvis.

“Open your fuckin’ mouth,” Tony squeezes your face, forcing you to face him directly.

Doing as he says, your eyes widen as Tony spits in your mouth. You swallow instantly, giggling breathily. “Y-yes!”

“Good girl,” Tony praises you, caressing the side of your cheek.

Your third orgasm building inside of you now is growing increasingly insistent and almost pleasurably painful. 

This time as Tony can tell you’re about to cum, he has no plans on drawing it out of you for long so he can take you by surprise again.

“Fuck, oh my God!” The tip of Tony’s cock hits your G-Spot and causes you to moan out so loud your hands let go of your ankles as your climax unwinds.

This time your orgasm hits you from all sides, unraveling in your gut and squirting over Tony’s cock and lower waist uncontrollably. 

“Mm!” Tony keeps your body firmly pinned to the bed, edging his own orgasm for as long as he can through yours.

It’s definitely not the first time you’ve squirted over Tony’s cock and with the way a final whine escapes your lips as Tony shoots his cum deep inside of your pussy, you revel in the sensation of feeling spurt after hot spurt of his seed in you.

Tony jerks his head back, letting out the loudest, deep moan you’ve heard from him as his cock twitches inside of you. “Yeah, baby—that’s it.”

Over a dozen spurts of thick cum inside of you later, a devilish smirk crosses Tony’s lips as he pops his cock out of you like nothing happened.

“Oh!” You whimper, quick to clutch onto your lower pelvis from the sudden feeling of fullness coming out of you.

“Fuck, yeah, baby. Look at that.” Tony spreads open your pussy lips, watching eagerly as a loud of his cum oozes out of you. 

“Tony,” you lick over your lips weakly. “G-gonna get me pregnant?”

“I’ve been thinkin’ about baby names all night,” he grins before giving you a wet kiss.

“You and me both,” you giggle weakly, clutching onto his shoulders. “Surely you’re not done with me.”

“You know how I fuck you well then.” Tony pulls your hair to move you off the bed. “I ain’t gonna be finished with you all night, baby. See this?” He pumps his still-hard cock, “gonna fuckin’ suck on it, aren’t you?”

“Mm, yes, I will.” You grin up at Tony as he practically drags you down to your knees off the bed.

“Fucking suck and don’t make me wait.” Tony taps the tip of his cum covered cock over your lips. “I wanna fuck that pretty mouth of yours, baby.”

You eagerly attempt to catch Tony’s cock in your mouth without using your hands and instantly surprise Tony with how you push your head in to take him into your throat.

“You’re gonna choke on my cum down that throat,” Tony keeps a steady hand over the back of your head to guide you on his cock.

As you sloppily begin to suck over Tony’s shaft, he bucks his hips forwards in response and moans. “Fuck, just like that.” 

The sight of your head bobbing back and forth over Tony’s cock like a hungry whore is one he’d gladly want to see night after night if he could help it.

Tony can’t hold back his own moans, letting his hands roam through your hair and pull back the loose, messy strands from your face. 

It’s only after then that he begins to thrust into your mouth to make you take more of his cock deeper down your throat, gritting his teeth. “Choke on it—dirty fucking whore.”

Insistently face fucking you, you gargle and gag over Tony’s cock as you slobber over it in a messy blowjob.

You clasp your hands around Tony’s girth, pumping his cock and giving him a handjob while you suck him off as fast as you can take him in and out of your mouth again.

Tony’s eyes remain half opened, his lips parted to let out low groans as he feels his second orgasm steadily approaching with your wet, warm mouth wrapped around his throbbing cock.

“You like having your mouth used, don’t you?” Tony watches as you drool all over his shaft, letting your spit drip off of him in wads before it lands on the floor. 

Sucking, slurping, jerking him off—it’s Tony’s hips beginning to twitch while he thrusts into your mouth that signals he’s about to hit the peak of his next orgasm.

Looking up at Tony with an innocent gaze in your eyes, you keep eye contact with him and moan against his cock; just as equally flustered and sweaty as Tony.

More of your spit trickles down Tony’s cock and sticks to his pubic hair—this time with no chance for Tony to edge himself into another intense orgasm he already knows is coming.

Without warning or showing he’s right about to cum, Tony cums in your mouth—surprising you, but only lets two spurts of cum down your throat before he pulls his cock right out of your mouth. “Fuck, yes!”

“See that?” Gasping out for air and swallowing down the cum in your mouth, Tony yanks your hair downward and lets the next six spurts of his hot cum land all over your face. “Yeah, baby. That’s right… No other man gonna do this to you like me.”

“Mm,” you lick off any cum near your mouth and chin, trying to catch some on your tongue as Tony finishes. “A-anytime, baby.”

“You know what that makes you?” Tony grunts, trailing cum off your cheeks with his thumb and back into your mouth.

“M-mhmm?” You suck on Tony’s thumb, licking off the cum and looking into his eyes.

“Mine,” Tony gives your face a playful slap, smirking. “Mine, baby, mine.”

With that, Tony pulls his finger out of your mouth, licking off your spit from it before roughly cupping your face with both hands and kissing you right down on the mouth.

Tony knows now he’s going to pin you up against the wall next and fuck you until both of you can’t take anymore or the sun begins to rise—whichever one comes first. Your heavily anticipated fuck session with Mr. Montana has yet to come to an end for tonight.

can’t stand him

Max Verstappen - Race Winner, Karting Champion, Charles Leclerc's Personal Mic Assistant

like father like son

Could you please write a Price x wife! Reader where they have a really hot make out session?

because you asked so nicely... of course, darling.

nsfw! 18+ below! not sex but a lil sm sm... i'm ngl i can't write just a kiss.

i'm too nasty i think

You and your husband had never really enjoyed attending dinner parties. But because you were both so polite, the two of you had never missed a single one. Well, neither of you were ever in the mood to have your ear chewed off for saying 'no' to an invitation.

Your friend would only whine, anyway, say "But John's always away on call. We've all got to make memories together when we can!"

As if you weren't blatantly aware of your husband's frequent absences already.

"You know, we could be doin' this at home," John chuckles, following you into the bathroom and clicking the door shut behind him.

Immediately, you pounce towards him - making an accidental, louder-than-intended thud as you pressed him into the door and wrapped your arms around his neck. You both giggle like mischievous children.

"Mm, you're right. We've been saying we'll stop coming for years," you say, as his forearms encircle your waist. "I don't think we're posh enough for them, love."

"Fuck 'em."

Your lips meet soon after, in sloppy and lazy pecks as neither of you are in a rush to get back out there and converse. John's arms have a vice-like grip around your waist, but they loosen as your kiss intensifies so he can cuff a hand at the back of your neck.

You squeak at the sensation. He squeezes the spot lovingly, before he slithers his fingers upwards and scrunches at the base of your hair. When he uses your hair to tilt back your head, he leans over you further as if it would help him explore deeper with the tongue he presses into your mouth.

Your hands are no longer locked behind his neck, sliding down his chest as you weaken under his grasp and succumb to the warm feeling of your battling tongues.

John pinches at your butt with his other hand then, chuckling cheekily when you pull apart momentarily to catch your breaths. And you respond by slamming your mouths back together, teeth almost clashing against one another in your desperate movement.

The hand on your ass doesn't shift, and you reach to pull John forward by the shoulders and hook your leg around his waist. It causes you both to stumble, but you knew your skilled husband would always catch your fall. He does, but soon taps at your leg for you to put it back down, before he walks you towards the bathroom counter and lifts you onto it with little to no effort.

Situated between your legs, he connects your lips once again and uses a hand to caress your cheek.

The pooling heat between your legs slowly becomes more and more evident, and you squeeze John's hips between each of your plump thighs in search of a shred of relief.

When your mouths part, he speaks low, voice hoarse and gravelly with arousal. "Fuck, sweet. We can't keep doing this..." You watch the risks being weighed in his face, before he shakes his head and makes his decision. His eyes flick onto yours, whilst he presses three of his fingers to his tongue and coats them in saliva.

You quickly widened your legs, biting onto your lip as his hand slips beneath your dress and hooks beneath the lace covering your pussy. Fingers press between your folds and immediately find your clit, which Johnny begins to rub with desperation. You know he needs to make this quick, doesn't want to make you both look suspicious, but you can't bring yourself to give a fuck about anything outside of the four walls of the bathroom, not when his skilled fingers are stroking at your spit-soaked cunt the way they are.

John kisses you once again, swallows each sound you make as he uses the hand on your cheek to graze over your cheekbone with his thumb.

"Guys? Hello? Are you in there together? I need to piss!"

Fuck.

You were never going to another fucking dinner party again.

Bro this video is fucked up in a way but Ngl I laughed so fucking hard when I saw this tiktok…. Like why…😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw.

Quick summary: After one too many drinks, you find yourself unable to think of anything but a certain smart-mouth detective who is in desperate need of a release.

Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)

Warnings: This is basically just SMUTT with a lil feelings (if you squint) sprinkled in there; kind of angsty at points (mentions of canon-typical death and violence (hellooo they're homicide detectives); gets a bit existential at points, watch out; pretentious.

A/N: YAY! I had this obsession with True Detective S1 all throughout October (watched it at my nan's house lmao), so enjoy the lovechild of that. This is just for fun, so, please, nobody be angry at me if they don't agree with Rust's characterisation, or any of the weird philosophical chat, lalallalal, OKAY ENJOY!!

***

The night air is sluggish and humid with the remnants of a warm summer’s rain, pressing down thickly, close, clogging, simmering just below the surface.

A few times, I’ve interviewed people who live in these sorts of places: motel-types, the “in-between”, where folks stay when they’ve either got no money, no choice or nobody. Other residents include passers-by who’re looking to save money on accommodation, skipping on the fancier places. Not that Louisiana really has any “fancier places”. Places without the paint peeling off walls like dead skin, I guess. A bed and breakfast in the nicer suburbia, with a view overlooking a subpar daydream of a ghost town centre. 

I’ve leaned up against the crooked, metal railing, felt the influence of my weight almost sending it and myself crashing down onto the faded parking lot beneath. I’ve leaned up there—after knocking—and waited, waited for a grey face to peer through a crack in the cracked door. I’ve smiled and remarked about how the beat-up, brass numbers up there are hanging by a thread. Sometimes, people are real stingy – they slink out and close the door behind them, or they remain in that little slit, just an eye visible, or they plain shut it in my face. Most let me in right away, maybe a little intimidated by the shiny badge clipped up in my jacket – I’ve sat across from ‘em, felt that mud in the room’s air seep into my pores, inviting me under its still swamp. 

Seems like the sort of place for him.

Too many a fuckin’ time, Marty’s come grumbling and muttering into the office kitchen, rolling his eyes, scoffing, huffing, the whole lot. And when I ask him why the strop?—“Ancient fuckin’ philosopher fuckin’ Rust Cohle on it again. Birthday’s comin’ up: get me earplugs and a generous bit o’ duct tape for my dear partner over there, would you?” 

Or somethin’ along those lines. 

For all his apparent talk about us silly, little “biological puppets”, this seems like Rust’s sort of place. Temporary existence, temporary living. Purgatory?

Whatever.

If you ask me, Rust Cohle’s head is so far up his own ass that it’s no wonder his outlook on life is so dark. 

If I was more sober, maybe I’d be thinking about it—about him—less—but this night out has had me so drunk I was maybe even hallucinating at some point. Rust?—sure, he’s been in the back of my mind for some part of the last few months – I have to see him most days I go to work, don’t I? – but, sometime in the space between my third and fourth shot of straight vodka, he was suddenly at the very front of it. I’d seen a guy who smoked like him: cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a simple, deep drag. I’d thought it was him, but then I realised his face was shrouded in the smoke that he’d exhaled, and I recalled that Rust never seems to do that. Never seems to exhale. All the tar and shit stays in. 

With a twist of my keys, the engine rumbles off into more-or-less silence. Fuck, it’s a bad idea, yes, just being here. If he likes to keep his distance, well—he’s entitled to that choice. 

I glance over my shoulder, out the window, out at the complex which is all yellow and shining, illuminated by buzzing halogen light bars and, of course, the occasional bug zapper. It’s clean enough. The lines of this parking space were white enough. Apartment 11A, said Marty. Second floor. 

“Are you drunk?” he’d asked – Marty, not Rust.

I’d replied, “No,” pressing closer to the phone box in attempts to remove myself from the swarm and bustle of the ladies’ bathroom. And it was an honest reply. Sort of. Despite his scepticism, by that time, I’d long stopped drinking, and all that remained from it was a sort of numb tingle in my fingertips—as far as I was concerned. 

I don’t think I’d be in this parking lot, stepping out of my car, if I wasn’t still a little bit gone. 

Marty’s sigh had crackled through the receiver. “Don’t bring any o’ tha’ party-this-party-that attitude to ‘im, alright? He’ll hate it.” I’d told him okay, my stomach spiking up with excitement. “Fact is, I don’t think you should go at all. ‘f you do, should be a work matter. This a work matter, detective?”

I’d lied, said yes, perhaps with a slur to my voice. 

He clicked his tongue. “Okay, buck, whatever you say.” Then, he’d hung up. 

There was something disapproving in the manner of the conversation. I got the feeling that he was talking to me in the same voice he used to lecture his daughters. The only reason I’d called him was to get something from him, sure, so that I could basically get something from Rust, his partner. I could see how that sort of thing might’ve upset someone. Not that Marty Hart should have any right to judge, not when he’s coming into work in the same clothes as the day before, stinking of sweat and God knows what. The unsaid agreement of everyone in the office is to turn a blind eye. I’ve met his wife. Someone should cut off his damn dick. 

Quiet, now. Hell, who am I to talk? Marty’s fun to chat with, makes a slow day at the office a little brighter. ‘Course, there’s rarely a slow day at the office.

And I’m at the top of the stairs, now. And I knock—one, two, three—on the pilling, forest-green door. Dulled down 11A. Blinds are determinedly shut, slats flat. For a second, I think maybe I’ll be waking him.

Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep. 

A grey face appears as the door swings just a little ways open, grave and sunken-tired. His expression isn’t so pissed-off as it is just his usual expression. 

“Rusty,” I say to him with a small nod, words scraping out dryly. 

He doesn’t respond right away – ‘stead, he leans his body out partway, eyes absent like he’s searching for some hooligan criminal in the night.

“Marty told you my address?” he asks lowly. It’s more a statement than anything, but I amuse him with a nod anyways. There’s a cigarette flaring up between his fingers. His hand twitches a little like he’s wanting to take a drag, but his eyes are fixed on my shoes, now, like he’s still coming to terms with the fact I’m a foreign body in his domain. 

My toes curl up tight in my shoes – there’s that prick of anticipation again. Ice-cold, you could easily mistake it as dread. 

Rust doesn’t exactly subject me to an imploring look—not really his style—but he bows his head down just slightly – that’s sign enough for me. He wants to know why I’m here, and he no doubt wants to know the quickest way to be rid of me. 

I sigh. I ask him.

My body trembles, and he notices it, records it, stores it away for later reference, for some other time he’ll find that it and me will contribute to his purpose. 

Rust has a face of stone. I get to know it well as I search for a sign there that might let me know what lies beneath. But, of course, a statue is solid through and through. Sharp angles and smooth planes carved hollow. If he’s cold to the touch, I’d like to reach out and be sure. Is he cold where a man ought to be warm? Christ, it makes my pulse jump just to think about it. 

There is no greater purpose or cruel intention underlying my words, as far as I’m concerned. Rust, however, lingers there, with his arm up on the door, barricading the entrance, while he peels back and flits over every layer of possible meaning, his attention fixed absently on my left ear.

He then looks at me—briefly—in the eyes, with a sort of paralysing intensity. Even the tingling in my fingers ceases to be. 

It takes a moment, pregnant with the chorus of cicadas, crickets and other night-creatures, before he steps back neatly to allow me in.

The door clicks softly behind me as I enter into a room that’s bare as bare can be.  

Rust grunts, coming up around me and into the kitchen area. “Want anything?” he mumbles around his cigarette, other hand shoved in his pocket. He’s still half-dressed in his work clothes, his tie strewn on the counter, his blazer slumped over a rickety picnic chair perched up in front of a wall of crime scenes and dead bodies. My eyes linger there—how can they not?

“A beer,” I tell him, still looking at those photographs, then at the stacks upon stacks of books. Philosophy, ethics, religion. Names I’d expect only those with PhDs to know.  

“Don’t think you’ve had ‘nuff to drink already?”  

I shoot him a look. “I think I can handle it, Rust.” He straightens up, raises his brow. I snort, reasoning, “I’ll only have one.”

“One,” he agrees, opening up the fridge and having a rummage around.  

White walls and all of them empty, like some sort of psych ward. Half-sure Rust actually did do some time in that type of care, though, so—shouldn’t make any quips about that. I don’t want him thinking I think he’s crazy – he gets enough of that, I’m sure.   

Back at my place, though, I’ve got posters or drawings or paintings up around every corner. My niece’s drawing of a mermaid sits on my dresser, and photographs of my family are displayed in the hallway. One up by the TV, I painted myself when I was in high school. About two years after I graduated, they asked if I wanted my portfolio back, and I’d obviously said yes. And I love my stuff! Some ‘cause it’s pretty, others because of memories and whatnot. Guess some people don’t have that creative trait, or they lose it. Or maybe they detest the sentiments, those strings that have been, are and will be attached to things. When my cousin broke up with her boyfriend, she cut her hair and burned his clothes. “I just want to forget him,” she’d snarled. I’d sputtered a laugh into my tea.

Rust plants a Corona down on the counter, already cracked open.

There’s no mirror in here either – I can’t check whether I look as desperate as I feel. When I focus back on him, Rust is taking a swig from his own beer, turning to glance at the crucifix pinned above the messy mattress on the floor. Huh. Didn’t peg him as a Christian.

His honey-blond hair doesn’t look cold to the touch, that’s for sure ‘n’ certain. Wonder if he just wakes up like that or what. Once, Marty had been teasing him at work, even cracking a smile out of the old guy. “Ain’t them just the prettiest curls y’ever seen, buck?” he’d remarked, nudging into me, cooing at him. Silently, in my head, even then, I’d agreed: prettiest curls I’d ever seen. Rust hadn’t looked up to chart my reaction, but, if he had, he’d maybe have seen my fidgeting fingers or hitch of breath. Or maybe he felt it, heard it. 

“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I offer pathetically through a nervous smile. 

He blinks, takes another swig, leaning over the counter that separates us. “No, y’aint.”

Jesus, I have to turn my head and shut my eyes for a second. I don’t particularly believe in God, but I ask Him to please give me the strength to resist my urges and act like a normal damn person for at least a few more minutes. And then I apologise for only praying out of convenience. In the face of temptation. This is why people shouldn’t drink – still, doesn’t stop me from downing a good part of my beer.

I turn to the wall and try to turn myself off a little bit. It’s not hard – Rust still has Dora Lange (rest her soul) pinned up on his wall, naked, blue, stiff. I don’t want to know why, so I don’t ask him. 

His eyes are adamant on the side of my head. Funny how he never seems to look at me at the same time I’m looking at him. Pisses me off a lot of the time – not just him, but in general. A lot of people share this same fear of not being heard, not being listened to and not being cared about. Men in particular, I’ve noticed, have a tendency to raise their voice over others’, to yell or shout or hit things or push ‘n’ shove. Marty’s that way – a lot of men at the precinct are, too. Women who are raised to be the listeners sometimes act out in the same way, frustrated at all the things they have to care about that men don’t, burdened with manners and politeness. I used to hate having to listen, to wait for the man who interrupted me to finish speaking. Rust always lets people finish their point, for better and for worse. Pisses me off in a different type of way. I can feel his judgement seeping out of him, so potent that’s it’s tangible, lapping at my feet.

He doesn’t push and shove – he’s a listener, too. Of course, he has that male privilege where his silence has a gravity, a magnetic pull, where mine is simply as is. At least he pays attention. Sure, on the surface, it might look like he doesn’t care at all, hunched over a case file at his desk, back turned to me and the rest of the lot, but proximity has its power – assigned workspaces put with his personality, and he knows what’s like and unlike me better than my sister. He’s reading into my refusal to talk, to face him – unlike me.

“So, you’ve given this some thought, then,” Rust says matter-of-factly, and my tummy bubbles up.

I snicker nervously, heart racing. God, I’d expected surprise, disbelief, outright refusal, maybe even a little disgust, but, when I manage to turn around and look at his face again, it just seems to me like a calmness. Stoicism found in the affirmation, maybe, of his expectations. It’s like I’m walking right into one of those little theories of his: a proved hypothesis.

I take another sip from my beer, feeling too shy for my liking. “Well, yeah,” I drawl, slumping over the kitchen counter and propping my chin up to look right back at him in a surge of liquid confidence. “I always think ‘fore I do anything that’s anything, Rust.”

Almost immediately, he retreats, standing up straight and resting the small of his back against the lip of the sink behind him. He hums, glances away. “We both know that’s a lie,” he combats, hands tucked into his pockets, chin tilted up, eyes down. A mouthful of beer numbs the sting of rejection. “What you mean is you think you can justify all your decisions. You think you can justify why you knocked on my door and said what you said—” he elaborates quietly, eliciting a snort from me, “—but, at the end o’ the day, all your decisions boil down to what you feel is right, not what is right.”

“‘n' you think you ‘n’ you alone know what’s right?”

Slate-grey eyes flit up and down my face, like I’m a specimen on a slide.

“I think that the girl who’s stumbled up on a fella’s door asking him to fuck her is less inclined to know, without bias, what’s right, yes.”

I swallow thickly, sucking the remaining flavour of beer off of my tongue before going in for another swig.

Christ.

Not a single bat of his eyes. Not a quiver of his mouth, not a twitch to his nose, not a morsel of natural, human hesitation. Does he have to be so crass? I did the courtesy of making it palatable, at least to my own ears, with a euphemism. But when have I ever known Rust Cohle to water anything down? No drink I’ve ever consumed will match his body’s preference of alcohol content. He’s nursing his beer close to his chest, but who knows what poisons lay dormant in these cabinets?

“Rusty,” I say lowly, maybe asking for a break – I close my eyes for just a second, part because I couldn’t bear it if I caught some sort of disapproval on his face, and part because it’s just past two o’clock in the morning.

Late nights have consumed my life recently, what with that sicko rapist connected to a Christian fertility cult. Children of God – “go forth and multiply”. His confession had turned my blood cold. Johansson had offered to sit in the box instead, but I did it anyway. I went home and cried over it, then came into work the next day to talk to some press and then receive my new assignment.

He hums, taking a drag from his cigarette, swallowing the smoke down. Rust knows how it is. To be honest, I’m probably the one who doesn’t know the half of it. One night at the office, he’d casually confessed to his insomnia, like he was just commenting on the state of the weather ‘n’ nothin’ else. So, I guess I won’t pretend to get it.

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “Are you into that whole abstinence thing?”

The weak light above flickers gently as he pauses, turns the question over in his mind. Anyone else would’ve surely laughed.

“I believe that man is susceptible to desire, yes—but he can resist it and its consequences should his willpower be stronger than the false promises posed by that temptation.

I snort again, because, now, I really am tipsy, and I can’t hold in my attitude any longer. It’s not that I think he’s lost it or whatever. It’s just—he’s so—objectively—absurd. Well—“objectively”. He’s got points, but those points lose all meaning in the spiralling darkness of overthought and deep contemplation wherein he’ll explain that everything really means nothing—and he’ll be right about that, sure, but also unintentionally prove a point about himself. I’d ask him what it means when, in a world where everything means nothing, a child will give their friend a flower found on the way to school, but I feel like his answer would be too morbid for my liking. Does that make me an unreliable source? The fact that I want to live?

He's absurd. He’s also a little bit awry in the head. Don’t know what he’s lost or what he’s lookin’ for, but it’s not a good look on him. He’s honest, yes – that’s a good trait. But honesty without kindness is cruelty. And he is kind – underneath, he’s kind, and I know that because of how hard he works to weed out evil people in this world, most times at his own risk. That’s kindness, albeit unconventional, whether he realises it or not.

The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.

“So, what?” I challenge under the guise of a teasing grin. “You can go mouthin’ off for hours on end about how up themselves religious people and all’at are, but you can’t draw the similarities between their philosophy and your philosophy? How does that work, Rust?”

While I was working that Children of God nightmare of a case, he just couldn’t seem to restrain himself – every bullshit word that left him revealed to me his hubris. Now, I’m not angry, and he’s not stupid – we’re not arguing. In fact, he seems intrigued, lean body shifted toward me. He sets his beer down on the counter, crosses his arms over his chest after securing his cigarette between his lips, and lowers his head as if to listen to me better.

I sigh, continue. “D’you know what I think? I think you oversimplify humanity. You’re a great detective—‘nd I guess you know it—and, within the confines of your job, it serves you well, makes you good in the box. But your assumptions are too general. People are who they are, sure, but they also decide to be those people. By their environment and those who surround ‘em, people make the decisions that define ‘em. A lot of the time, their circumstances ain’t fair. People born into badness are trapped by the badness—either physically, or up in their heads—and they have a tough time escapin’ it.”

Rust inhales the smoke again, the only evidence of it happening being the soft whisp that curls away from his nose. I wonder to myself how his lungs are still standing.

“‘s that how you explain that—homicide case you’re workin’ on?” Three-year-old boy died of neglect, his siblings found locked in cabinets, one in a dog cage, by their mother and stepfather. Rust’s eyes flash silver. “Killer had a tough time?”

Asshole.

I narrow my eyes dangerously. “Don’t be mean, Rusty,” I scold, and he blinks in concession. “I think evil exists. I think it’s complicated. I think you summarise things that ought not to be summarised.”

He’s silent for a heartbeat. Then, his hand comes up to pinch away his cigarette, and he waves it in a small flourish, explaining, “When I say “people”, I mean society. Human culture.”

“Last I checked, Rust, you don’t know everybody on the planet. You don’t know their “culture”, or experiences.” That seems to shut him up. My eyes wander to his broad shoulders, trail along the meat of his arms beneath the cheap, polyester shirt that hugs close to the muscle, and they linger there like the quiet that settles between us.

He nods slowly, once. “Our decisions define us?”

I bob my head, unabashedly staring at the elegant column of his throat, his neck, and the stretch of tan skin that is settled beneath the white undershirt revealed by the first one, two, three buttons which have recently been undone.

He’s quieter when he asks me, “Well, how does this decision define you, then?” There’s nothing malicious about the way he says it, or even lustful – just a calm curiosity.

“Ain’t it obvious?” I grin again, laugh a little, blush hotly. “I’m horny!” I hide my face in my shoulder, trying to compose the hiccups of laughter in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I snicker, wiping my palm over my brow, my eyes. “This probably isn’t very attractive to you.”

“You’re a very pretty girl,” he replies. He mutters my name solemnly, like we’re in a formal meeting or something.

I glance up, check whether he’ll offer me eye contact again, but he doesn’t – he’s staring at the wall, lost.

I scoff. “You’re a very pretty guy, Rust.”

God willing, none of the boys at the precinct will ever find out about this. If Marty lets it slip that I even asked for Rust’s address, then I’ll never hear the end of it. Worse, everyone’ll think I’m dead-gone over him. Guess I don’t really fit the standards expected of women around here: “wife”, or “whore”. Or “dead”. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously going about pretending I’m not interested in sex at all. Once sex comes into the equation, I’ll be reduced to that and nothing else. 

Anxious, I start flicking up under my fingernails. Is Rust already starting to think those things, too? I’m a great detective, but that’s the only capacity in which he’s really known me. 

I wring the neck of my bottle. “I should explain—”

He holds his hand up, stating, “I don’t need you to. Do you feel the need to?” 

Curious, wary, I watch his face, a blank slate. Still waters run deep. My eyes drift down, to where his hands are together in front of him, one relaxed beside him the other curled around his wrist with two fingers resting on the pulse.

“No,” I reply. 

“You thought it over,” he says, eyes tilting up at the ceiling, aloof, bored, maybe. His words are sort of monotone, like he’s reciting a passage from a book that he’s just recently read: “You chose me because you know me. You haven’t been sleeping well. You’re stressed, you’re scared, you’re frustrated.” He blinks. “You’re attracted to me due to some—unfortunate trigger beyond your control in the reptilian part of your brain.” Brief as the flicker of a candle in a still room, he looks over me, brow raised slightly as if daring me to tell him that he’s wrong. He pauses again, takes a short puff. “It makes you think I can take care o’ your needs.”

Look at the state of him: sallow and wilting on the inside. Reducing me down to a sentence or two, and being right about it.

“Well, can you?” I ask weakly, feeling small. He looks over me, blinks blankly. “How do you take care of your needs?” No reply. “You do have needs, don’t you?” I remark, tapping the rim of my bottle to my warm temple. “Programming ‘n’ whatnot.” 

He tilts his head away in dismissal. 

I smile, more to myself than to him. “Beat off in the shower, is it?”

For a second, Rust is still. My eyes grow heavy, admiring the strong profile of his nose. He then nods helplessly, like there’s no point in trying to lie.

I hum, a soft, self-satisfied smirk edging its way onto my face. “Must feel like a sin,” I snicker.  

He squints slightly, like he disagrees with my logic, but does not interrupt to protest. 

“I remember takin’ baths as a teenager and double-checkin’, triple-checkin’ I locked the door,” I confess. “Couldn’t take my time. ‘S that how it is for you, Rust?” I probe, tilting my head to the side, losing his eyes as quickly as I catch them. “You ever let yourself enjoy it? Let yourself want it—?”

“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.

“But your programmin’ says you do, right?” I point out, scrambling to hold onto the flaw in his argument. I search his face, my own bright, eager.

He quirks up a miraculous smile, and I myself burst into a wide grin. Still smiling—though, you’d have to admit, it’s such a strange sight, sort of gratifying, almost patronising—he shifts his weight between his feet, scratches at his nose with his pinkie, sniffs, takes a long drag of his dying cigarette. I know he must feel disjointed, though he doesn’t show it: he’s misstepped, and I’ve caught him. And how often does Rust Cohle misstep? I should’ve checked the news for a blue moon tonight. 

Interested, now, is he? Breathing quietly, rolling his jaw – he’s entertaining the competition I have goin’ up in my head. From the looks of the gentle smirk on his face, he’s enjoying it, too. 

“No,” he corrects with a dry husk to his voice. “No, I know what I want, and, when I think those things are necessary or useful, I know how to get them.”

In this type of context, I’d like to see him try. Though, he is an undeniably attractive man. Thick, solid all the way through, like a rich wood. But he’s got these brittle eyes: fraying.

He continues: “Most of the time, though, what we want is born out of dangerous feelings, like rage or lust. Ruminating on the consequences of those potential actions seems to me the more sensible thing to do than to just leave it and find out.” I sniff. “Desire is inescapable for most, including the sexual kind. I feel it—“ he eyes how I wriggle beneath my skin, “—you feel it. But it can be resisted. You’re lettin’ it dictate what you do ‘n’ say. If I do to you what you want me to, have you thought about how it might affect things down the line? Tomorrow, next week, next month—?”

“Yes,” I hiss, a little too emotionally, such that a gleam of satisfaction crosses his grey eyes at the strain and stretch of my voice. Christ. Desperate much?

I take several seconds to think before allowing myself to speak again, all while staring at him straight on and refusing to look away: I’d just die if I let him catch me out. “Well, how can you be sure of the fallout? How do you know the good won’t outweigh the bad? Not “you” specifically, but, also, yeah, “you” specifically. I can think about something morally ambiguous, and I can evaluate the potential consequences, and, just as you are satisfied to observe, I will decide to follow through with this somethin’ and deal with what I gotta deal.”

He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?” 

I tuck my hair tight behind my ears. “Yes.”

And he hums – that beautiful noise resonates in my stomach before sinking down there, low, its weight a comfort. “I agree with you in that respect,” he admits. 

A laugh erupts out of me like the sputter of an engine. Luckily, I’m easy to laughter – it’s like me, as is my genuine grin. “Rust Cohle’s agreein’ with me on somethin’?—Call the police!” 

“We are the police,” he replies smartly, watching me snort and smile and grow flushed in the face. I feel very grateful to that beer – at least my giddiness can be blamed on the effects of alcohol and save me from embarrassment.  

As I simmer down, he looks away, adds, “I agree to an extent. People all think that they’re one-of-a-kind. That they make these—amazing decisions. They speak and do and walk and play and work and fuck and eventually die – all of ‘em.”

“You’re part of the people,” I argue.  

He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”

“If a person acts due to their instinct, whether it’s succumbing to it or fighting against it, then isn’t man simply his programming?” He lowers his head. “You can be aware of it, and you can be a part of it, too. Who are you to deny yourself the good parts?”  

He fiddles with his cigarette, svelte fingers nimble and acute. I cross my legs, flex my hips; he notices. 

“Because of the consequences,” he replies, a soft whisper.  

I thought that everything meant fuck-all?

For someone who sees no meaning in life, he sure seems to spend a lot of time contemplating it. Here, I thought I’d have hot hands sliding all over me, gripping, spreading, pushing, but instead find myself defence in an unprecedented debate. 

Rust is breathing slower, deeper, almost unable, now, to look me in the eyes, even look at me in general, whereas, before, it had been a choice, whether that choice be conscious or unconscious. His cigarette burns weakly in his fingers, forgotten. The muscle in his jaw flexes, his expression hollow. 

My body buzzes with want, leaves me scrambling for breath like I’ve just run a race. I want. I want, I want, I want. The rough pads of his fingertips, the surest and most confident I’ll have ever known. Sharp tongue, quick and precise. Something about how he smells. All my compliments to pheromones – even in the heavy musk of the bar, I’d smelled him, ashy, warm, alive, and now it’s wreathing all around. Or maybe that’s just me – it’s like when you try to take someone’s pulse with your thumb, and all you’re feeling is your own heartbeat.

I want – my breath trembles with it.

“Rust,” I say softly. He shakes his head a little, looking away still, vulnerable like a wild animal. I sigh, gnawing at my lip. “I really want it. I—I’ve—it’s not just a rash decision,” I explain. “I’ve wanted it for a while, now.”

He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”

I huff out a sheepish laugh, fix my eyes on my restless hands. “You won’t remember it—”

“I will.”

His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up. 

“A year back,” I tell him. “You were working at the office—late, in the dark. You called me, and I asked you why, and you said—it was because you were tired and thinkin’.” I glance up to check if he’s maybe looking, but he’s not – he’s turned his head even further away. The soft, gentle curls of his hair tempt me. 

Blindly reaching for the bottle, securing it almost immediately, he finishes the rest of his beer, then sets it back down. 

“I—” he begins, scratching his nose, “—I was—tired.” He pauses to re-thicken his voice. “And—thinking—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the both of us know what he said that night: Of you. Thinking of you—of me .  

My stomach flips, leaving me almost nauseous, just like it did when I first heard those words. At first, I thought I’d misheard, that I was so tired my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, I thought he was being cruel, or maybe he was drunk. Those two instances weren’t—aren’t—unlike him, but he never, ever calls to be mean or to be stupid. He’d been quiet and warm through the phone after that, a presence so thick I could’ve sworn he had his arms around me right then. I hadn’t slept well for a time, then, of course, and that made it all the more vivid. His voice had made me shiver all the way through as he told me he had to get back to work. 

When I saw him the next morning, I couldn’t look at him. It was the first time I couldn’t, not wouldn’t. It was also the first time I felt him paying attention to me.  

I shift, ask the question I’d wondered since that call: “Why?”

A pause. 

Then: “You brought me coffee that morning,” he explains softly, speaking to the wall opposite. “I was—looking at the mug on my desk – it was yours. Green one you like to use.” He sniffs. “And…” He teeters on the precipice of that word but does not finish the thought. 

Hmm. That’s something to think about. Rust Cohle thinking about me and not picking apart why and why he shouldn’t be. It had been a mindless enough gesture – it’s not unheard of me to be makin’ coffee for other people in the office, not because I have to but because I like to. For the people I can stand, that is: Johansson always, and him for me; Cathleen;   Marty, when I’m not pissed off at him; and Rust, from time to time. Everybody knows that green mug is mine, though – nobody touches it, not even the boss. Rust reads far too much into things. Most of the time, he’s dead-on. I should’ve known from the moment I placed that coffee on his desk, from the sharpening of his eyes (that did not spare me a glance) that lingered on my lingering hand on his table, that he knew. Figured out something I hadn’t even quite figured out myself. Not until later that night. 

I wonder if he’s ever thought of me when fucking his own hand. I wonder if he thinks about me sometimes, when he can’t sleep, in between horror stories and brutal blows and uncovering the secret truths of the universe. I do, sometimes. 

When I push myself back to my feet, stand up, Rust’s attention springs back, and he watches me, looks at me.

Quietly, I relish in the satisfaction of his stare, crossing on light feet to toss my empty beer bottle in the bin. He steps aside to let me open the cupboard under the sink, his hand curled in a loose fist by his side. I’m not trying to tease him – I grant him the space he so clearly needs, retreating about five paces back, leaning slightly myself against the counter. 

I could say anything right now, no matter how insane, and he’d treat it with total and utter respect. I could reveal to him the reaction my body has to seeing his fingers fiddle like that with his cigarette, and he’d manage to identify the cogs and wheels in what, when you step back, actually turns out to be a hidden machine. Christ, I could probably remove all of my clothes, stand naked in front of him, and he’d look on as one would look on at a piece of evidence at work. Going over the details, once, twice, scribbling it all down in that big, leather ledger. 

Here’s what I think: he needs it. For all his talk about how unoriginal, how predictable mammals are at the end of things, he probably knows that himself. The tension in his jaw, the perpetual tightness of breath. That clipped way of talking he has, wound so tight around himself, like a compressed spring fighting its natural urge to let go.  

I could make him let go. Maybe. I wish he’d let me try. It’s nothing possessive, really: wanting to be the one to unravel his tightly coiled body. Just—the release of seeing him be. No thinking in particular – just being.

He is still, however, uncommonly mute, avoiding my eyes.

I sigh. I ask him tentatively, “You think I ought’a be ashamed o’ myself?” biting down on the fleshy inside of my cheek.  

“No,” he contradicts.

“But—you think I should be findin’ my fun elsewhere, with—some other guy?”  

He sort of pins his hands behind his back, pressing his weight against them there at the edge of the sink. He looks a lot taller from this angle. “I think there’s a lotta fellas stumblin’ over themselves to be with a girl like you.”

“Maybe,” I scoff, “but my reptilian brain don’t want none of ‘em.“ I blush warmly when I glance up and he’s there watching me, though there’s no bashfulness at all on his side of it. 

I expect him to maybe dart his eyes away again, like he does, and then walk me to the door, maybe even to the car if I haven’t offended him too badly, and then call it a night. I could stuff it in; I can compartmentalise. Monday would carry on as it always does, except now without the wondering and the yearning and the delusion. Did he have to be so good-looking? His cheap, wrinkled shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—like they are now—and those lean forearms braced up on the table, caging in the neatly set-out notes scrawled up in his ledger, like they have mind to escape. And he’s—beautiful. He’s tall. Out-of-place sort of tall, where he has this bend to his neck, sometimes, as to not draw attention to himself. Other times, though, he stands to full height, regal, elegant, authoritative, like when he comes out o’ the box.

He sees into people. He feels it all so deeply.  

And he’s looking at me, seeing into me, deeply. His eyes are brittle like china pieced back together with store-bought glue. The low light casts long shadows down his neck and harsh face. 

“Come here to me, Rust,” I say to him, beckoning him over with a tilt of my head. To my surprise, he does. He does immediately, peeling himself off the counter, eyes drifting somewhere just behind me as if disinterested.

He stubs his cigarette out on an old plate, abandons it there officially, before stepping slowly towards me, feet never dragging, dodging my searching eyes like the plague.

Hmm. Maybe I made a good argument “for” to his “against”. Or maybe he was never “against” to begin with. I’ll watch him carefully tomorrow and see if there was anything I missed.

I reach up and touch his face gently. I used to do this with my husband before he passed, and he’d close his eyes and whisper my name and lean into the touch, tender, loving – my fingers shake slightly with the memory. Rust Cohle does none of that, because he is nothing like my husband. He’s perfectly rigid against my fingertips; his stare flits briefly up right into my soul, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Everything about him is so sharp. The ridge of his cheekbones, the defiant slant of his nose. The lean muscle of his arms and shoulders, slightly sinewy just beneath the skin. 

But when I brush my thumbs up along his eyebrows, easing the sharp line between them, he sighs and closes his eyes, neck bowing down, still as stiff as before, just—different. A small gap, an opening, to that locked room of his upstairs.  

“Rust,” I whisper, nose brushing his. He hums again, lowly, eyes shut. “What do you think of us havin’ sex?”

“Sex,“ he replies softly, “is the illusion of connection constituted by the release of a mess of happy hormones, simply by touching all the right places—and nothin’ more.”

I hum and watch the look on his face grow brittle as our breaths mingle closely. God, he’s so near to me that my head swings in a bout of lightheadedness, heady, vision centring in on him and only him, such that I wouldn’t know if this place was burning down all around, even if the flames started eating us alive.  

“I think you’re full o’ shit, Rusty. Know how I know that?”

He sighs shakily. “How?” It’s like the word is dragged right from the pit of his chest, barely a breath to show for the effort of it.

“I can feel you against my leg.” 

He swallows thickly, but he does not blush, and he does not open his eyes. And, contrary to what he might seem, Rust is not cold like stone. When my fingers grow more confident, when they trace and drag lightly along the line of his cheeks, he is warm there. His pulse, when I find it, exists and is hot and slightly erratic, a fact that leaves my mouth dry and open. I can feel the inflexion of his throat as he swallows again, the shift of the skin and the rhythm of his heartbeat, the gentle influence of his breathing. 

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. So, I ask him, “Can I kiss you?” ever so gently. 

Softer still, he replies, “Yes,” with that slight Southern whistle of his, barely moving. 

Give me strength. Give me strength. 

That look on his face is filling me with a delicious, vibrating power. As I stretch my neck up to brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth, my eyes are open and watching him, charting him: Rust breathes strongly out of his nose, eyes still determinedly shut, like he’s absent and meditating. He is not tough as stone – parts of him are soft. He barely returns the kiss, but, as far as my brain processes, his lips are soft. Hesitant, maybe. 

Then, these soft lips part, and he is sucking in a hot, shuddering breath, capturing me in a deep kiss, as if to breathe all of me in, a strong hand threading through my hair. It hurts a little at first – a small noise escapes my throat at the slight shoots of pain tugging at the roots – but Rust doesn’t seem to notice. Not at first. No, he’s still breathing me in. His lips are dry, rough, a push and tug, a twist, and he’s kissing like a punch, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. Whatever oxygen I manage to hold onto is sucked out of me promptly. 

I whine, my body going all slack and tired as he smooths the hair out of my face, palms dragging clean back across my cheeks. Those hands cradle the back of my head, making it impossible to keep my eyes open.

Content, I sigh, eyes succumbing to the sensation and falling shut. The last thing I see is his own eyes slipping open to look at my face.

Boy, he’s a good kisser. Must be that lizard brain he has such a distaste for.

My fingers blindly reach and fumble at his belt, hooking into the waist, pulling him flush against me. Rust must forget what he’s doing for a moment, and he pauses where he is, in limbo, eyes far away. When I begin to unthread his belt from its quietly clinking buckle, he goes stiff again, blinks rapidly before perceiving me. 

Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.

His hands hover over my shoulders, not quite committed to the contact. 

He’s seeing me—really seeing me—as I unzip his trousers and spit crudely into my palm and curl around the length of him, warm, tight. I begin to understand the gentle throb and strain he feels, a delightful thrill running rapid all through my insides. He feels deliciously alive. 

But then he turns his head away, neck straining up, breath choked back in his throat. His hands come away, raised, it looks like, as if trying to seem non-confrontational, trying to come away unscathed from a bad situation. 

My stomach burns with desire. “Let yourself like it, Rust,” I mumble against his cheek. “Are you here with me?” 

I can feel him swallow.

“Yes,” he responds. I guide his face to me, stroking his cock confidently once, twice, as encouragement, maybe. Temptation. Whatever you want to call it. My mouth waters, my head goes airy, when I feel his sex twitch in my embrace. 

“Kiss me again, then.” 

And he does. Brows furrowed as if in pain, he does, with the tip of his nose dragging and pressing into my cheek. He kisses me sweetly once, then again, and then pants down hotly into my mouth, hovering there before sliding his tongue deep inside, close, smooth. 

I let myself love it. I let myself let go with every kiss he blesses me with, growing looser and easier and lighter each second. 

The weight of him in my hand inspires a beautiful urge to have him lay down and let me feel every part of his body. Even though his hips stutter, he doesn’t buck up into my fist, doesn’t whine, doesn’t moan, doesn’t curse. Not yet. He just breathes and breathes, and kisses me and kisses me, like it’s all he was set on Earth to do. All he’s allowing himself to do.

Desperate, perhaps, my thighs are pressed against his, feeling unnaturally weak and warm. The throb between my legs coincides with my heart rushing in my ears, a steady ache, impatient. Part of me wants to drag this out as long as possible, because what if this never happens again?—and another part wants to push him inside me already, have him fill me up, fuck me stupid. 

This thought stuffs me up to the brim, like cotton punched down into a pillowcase. I whine shallowly and try to slot his thigh between my own. 

A switch in his brain must flick on. 

It’s like he’s inside my head, like he’s in on my desperation, like he can see and feel every sinful image and thought circulating my alighted brain. He knows it all so well, such that he uses his hips to press us firmly against the counter, spreads my legs with the nudge of his foot between mine, and immediately pushes the rough pads of his fingers right where I need it, through the fabric of my skirt, letting me grind myself against him, hips and all. He circles there generously. I can feel my need dripping from me. He can too, no doubt. 

I sigh, he breathes. I gasp, he breathes. My eyes flutter open and shut, but he looks on, eyes half-lidded but stare immovable. 

He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt. 

“That feels good, don’t it?” he says gently, rocking me over his knee up and down, back and forth, fingers digging into the soft skin of my hips.

My legs widen. When I gasp out weakly, he raises his brow and scans my face, like he had predicted the shaky, wordless nod that I offer to him too late in return. 

“Did you want it like this, girl?” His voice is low, intimate, a hit of something just shy of addictive. “Or did you want somethin’ else, too?” 

He kisses the hollow of my neck. 

His other hand grips at my ass, up my skirt, kneading the flesh there, manipulating it, and his fingers ghost my slit, spreading me around his knee. He fucks up into my hand. I slide my fingers through his hair, which is soft and warm like butter. 

Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid, pretty curls. I’ve proved my point: regardless of whatever act he may try to put on afterwards, we’ll both know that Rust isn’t as numb as he wants to be, that I made him feel good, that I made him want me, and that he’s hot-blooded and thrumming with life. I can feel how alive he is . I hope he thinks of this again some time, whether by himself or surrounded by people. I hope it drives him a bit mad, remembering this. 

A hot, sharp breath fans out across my cheek, his mouth slotting back over mine, open, daring me. 

I rut against his knee, my fingers teasing the wet head of his cock. I look down between us, at my hand on him, with half a mind to drop onto my knees and make him cum down my throat.

Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.  

Then, he gently grabs my wrist and pulls my hand out of his pants, leaving me dazed and confused. With nimble fingers, he unzips my skirt, pushing it over my hips and dragging his hands over my bare skin. He asks me, “You want the bed?”

I step out of the pool of fabric around my feet, slide my shoes off. “‘s not a bed.” 

I slide my fingers beneath his sweaty, white undershirt, feeling the taut muscle there, feeling the steady breaths that contradict his racing pulse. He holds my eyes, dipping slightly when I dip, tilting when I tilt. “Seems like one to me.”

How unlike him. 

A smile spreads over my face, and his pupils blow wide, dark, imploring. “You wait ‘n’ see what happens when the dust-mites turn up.” 

His eyes on me alone are enough to leave me breathless, chest caving in on itself. Of course, when he kisses me softly, it only makes things worse – his long fingers curl around the base of my throat, watching me watching him, and his other hand slides up under the hem of my blouse, palm spread over my bellybutton. 

I sigh, try not to squirm. 

“You want the bed?” he repeats, heavy, rough. I bite back a needy whine that sits at the back of my mouth. His fingertips press down slightly into my pulse, tightening my breathing. 

I nod. “Yeah.” 

Think of all the times I’ve sulked over his lack of eye contact with me. Was I annoying? Uninteresting? That, obviously, was an immature way of looking at things, definitely not improved by my distinct femininity undergoing some kind of unspoken disapproval by most I met on the job. This is the most present he has ever been in a moment with me around.

As he pulls himself away, steps back, his eyes are darting over my face, less like he’s judging me and more like he’s trying to find and memorise every detail. I do that, sometimes: if I pay well enough attention, it feels like I’m re-living the moment when remembering. 

His hands slot sensibly into his pockets as if his cock isn’t blushing and poking out of his fly right now, belt undone, hanging low about his narrow hips. 

Legs don’t fail me now. I slink out of the glowing kitchen and carry on to where the mattress lies in a dim, blue corner, the strange crucifix watching over, a long shadow cast over the empty wall upon which it hangs. He follows shortly behind me, his warmth radiating out onto my back. 

I pause and look out onto the darkness revealed behind the half-open slats of the floor-to-ceiling blinds that shield the room from the window to the outside world. 

Rust’s presence is intoxicating behind me. He smells like cigarette smoke, still, enticing. I’m trying to quit, but he makes it damn hard. His nose is just shy of my hair, his body so close to enveloping me into him – the prospect of it makes me shiver in delight. I must hallucinate his fingertips along my spine. 

I unbutton my blouse with slow fingers, then slide it off and undo my bra. 

His breathing is level and grounding by my ear as he comes close, sliding his strong, wide hand up my stomach, along my ribs, and cups under my soft breast. He rubs over my nipple in gentle circles before squeezing over me warmly. He then comes around to pinch the creamy tissue gentle between his fingers and thumb, closing his hot mouth over, drawing along his feverish tongue. I sigh, stroke his hair, let him press soft pecks and kisses to the curve of the soft flesh and to my sternum.

My fingers, cupped around the nape of his neck, dip under the collar, cool. This touch, for some reason, causes him to make some sort of breathless, pathetic noise against me. His eyes are half-shut. 

“Anything else philosophical y’wanna get out before we fuck?” I quip smartly (though, not feeling so smart altogether), hand placed innocently on his hip. 

He lifts his head, removes his hands from my body – he looks so tragically beautiful in this light. “You want me inside you?” he asks genuinely, seemingly aloof to the fact I’m naked in front of him, open and wanton and pressing my thighs together, his eyes never drifting from mine.

“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper. 

He seems to really think about it – he’s always thinking. Briefly, his eyes flit down to my mouth. Then, he looks away, scratches at his forehead. 

After a moment longer, he swallows thickly and tips his head down over to the bed, tells me, “Lie down on the mattress,” in a gentle, decisive tone. He’s so soft-spoken – it makes my toes curl. 

I do as told, transfixed by the dark shadow in his eyes, and sink down to sit and then recline back on his coarse mattress, coarse bedsheets, with my weight on my forearms and chin tilted up towards him. He watches me, tucking his thick cock back into his underwear.

Still fully dressed in his work attire, he takes a step forward, looming over me, powerful, assertive. Saliva pools in my mouth—again—as I play with the thought of him sitting heavy on my tongue with his stomach tight, shaking, hands in my hair, fucking down my throat. I would let him. Hell, I’d probably let him do anything he wanted to me at this point. 

Does he know that? Maybe. I don’t know.

As he reaches his hand out too smooth the hair out of my face, I try to figure it out, but I can’t – he seems too wrapped up in his own desire to be thinking anything at the moment. I feel a flicker of satisfaction jump up in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe that’s something else. 

“Lie back, girl,” he tells me. 

My cunt flexes. 

I thump onto my back, breathless. “Take off your shirt, Rust.” 

Without replying, he sinks down to his knees in front of me, my thighs. Instinctively, I prop myself up and watch him unbutton that wrinkled shirt all the way down, shrug it over his broad shoulders. I could fuck myself silly just over the thought of those shoulders, I remark inwardly. He tugs the wifebeater over his head, lean muscles catching the low light, strong, study, solid, and tosses the thing to the side thoughtlessly. My hands reach out to touch him, to feel him and know him. When my fingers press into his skin, glide up his neck and down over his chest, he sighs deeply. He then carefully removes my hands, urging me to sprawl down under him.

“Said lie back, didn’t I?” 

Rust doesn’t say another word before placing his large hands on my knees and easing them apart, lowering himself to press pecks and slow, open-mouthed kisses to my thighs, closer, closer, stroking my sensitive skin gently. I almost flinch at his every touch, like it burns. His face is awful serious, like he’s concentrating. I wriggle in anticipation, eager. 

“Rust,” I whisper purposelessly. He looks up, hums, searches my face for anything the matter. 

I watch on desperately, on the brink of feral distress. A sob clogs my throat as he kisses my fluttering stomach, ducking his head down and curling his forearms, his hands, around my thighs. The dark stamp of his bone-bird tattoo curls over his arm. I realise he is waiting for my attention to return to him, his eyes patient but glazed over with something cardinal. Hungry.

“Can—?”

“Yes.” 

He hums. And then he breathes hotly over my underwear before pressing his nose right there into the damp fabric, inhaling my scent there. I whimper at the pressure he applies with the strong bridge of his nose, at the wetness of his open mouth against me. He breathes heavily into me, groaning slightly beneath it all – I can’t tell past the thrumming of my heart in my ears.  

“Rust,” I whisper again, my shoulder straining with the task of keeping me up and looking down at the sight of his sweet head buried between my glistening thighs.   

“Lie back.”  

He kisses me through my underwear, dutifully kneading the flesh of my hips, my inner thighs.

I thump back against the mattress, helpless, keening into his touch as this grey man roughly tugs my underwear down, down, all the way down, until they’re clean off my body, long gone, and then returns his nose to the cleft of my pussy, unseaming me with his tongue, opening me up, breathing me in. It’s enough to draw a shallow, hoarse cry from me. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t say anything, biting down on my white knuckles.

Rust licks warm over my clit, sucking gently on the bud of nerves (then not so gently), before sliding down, down through my very centre.

Whining breathily, the twist in my stomach tightens and spasms as he presses my hips and thighs right down against the mattress, slow, strong, giving me time to notice it, realise it, give into it, deny the natural instinct to curl my limbs tight all over his face, his neck, his mouth. 

Holy fuck. Rust Cohle has his face buried between my legs right now. I have Rust Cohle’s tongue pushing deep into my cunt – he sighs softly, a sound with its own powerful gravity a black hole to envelop me in, and grinds his hips against the edge of the mattress for a split second, just once. My mind pulses with the thought of making him cum. I wonder if he feels the same hunger. 

Then, he’s sinking his long, elegant fingers into me, one, then two, and just the knowledge that those fingers belong to him makes my thighs quiver and shake, makes me sigh again. Thick, confident, they curl inside, slow like an experiment, right up to the knuckle. When he taps up against me, when I squeal and crimp up into his hold, he returns himself to mouth dutifully over my clit.  My hand threads itself into his hair, holding him steady – I offer a breathless moan when his grip across my hips loosen, an invitation to begin rolling myself up over his pretty face. He pulls his fingers out of me, wet and hot, and encourages my thighs upon his beautiful shoulders, clinging onto them urgently. He shudders a little, I think, when I lock them firmly around his head and grind myself shamelessly against his mouth, his nose. He moves his jaw, his face, in tandem.

I cum after a while like that, because how can I not? The searing buzz reaches a roiling static.

I go loose, moaning softly, melted down flat, and stroke fuzzy fingers through Rust’s pretty hair as he sucks my clit still, as he inhales again and sighs again, reduced to something primitive and needy.

Thick, my heartbeat throbs and echoes like a drum in my skull, threatening. I feel so full that I could mistake the beat of pleasure for nausea pressing in my throat. It was silly to think that this could all be satisfied just from one time. My eyes closed, Rust’s light touch over my abdomen, up to my throat, is acute and heightened, like a million tiny, individual sparks. His fingers fumble over my jaw, then press lightly over my pulse. 

He retreats just as I’m playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, coming to stand to full height above me, unthreading his belt from his trousers with quiet, precise hands. I press my shaking thighs together, watching him breathe strongly through his nose, trying to remain somewhat respectable in the presence of the darkening look in his eyes that is locked down on my body.

He pauses, wipes some shine from his nose. Before he can continue with whatever, I find myself sitting up on my knees, grabbing his hips hard enough to bruise all pretty and purple, shoving the trousers down to his knees, and palming him through his boxers. 

We don’t have to say anything. He just watches me passively, pushing my hair back again, behind my ears, my shoulders, rolling my earlobe softly between his fingertips.

I remove his underwear, take him into my mouth, thick and long and wanting; he sighs, holds my head with two steady hands.

When was the last time someone helped him like this? I honestly couldn’t have told you, even given a loose theory, prior to this moment: Rust is simultaneously the hottest and most non-sexual being I’ve ever come across in my life. He just happens to be beautiful; he just happens to inspire these sort of feelings choking up inside me. No overarching intention that he’ll ever admit to, no vanity, no preening. So strict to himself, so tight, like a piston, something that fights and pushes and hurts.

So, as I hold him firmly and suck at the head of his blushing cock, kissing him, I watch his face, savour the tart taste of him, and press my thighs together: he’s becoming warmer, looser.

Still, as much as I want him, I know he’s wanted me. However vague he tells it, he’s wanted me. Good Lord, he looks even more stressed now, somehow, than when we had just been talkin’. Hands gently cradling my skull, he tilts his head away, watches the cross on the wall, as he succumbs to it, maybe, and begins to gently, languidly fuck my face. I tuck a hand between my thighs, and I love him, my other with the fingers digging into his hip, his ass. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll leave some sort of mark, just to remind him I was here, so that, when he’s being all indifferent again, with his eyes lowered to the floor as he shares a report with me at my prim, little desk, we’ll both know that we were once in this room together, here like this.

Rust breathes and breathes, almost mechanically, and slides his cock further into my mouth. The weight of him in there drives me half-insane. If I could consume him, envelop him, and we could be one and the same, I’d readily allow it. When he sinks deeper still down my throat, I sigh around him, rub myself the way I like.

His eyes are determinedly shut, like some part of him refuses to be here. 

Before I can make him cum, he shakes his head and tugs my hair back a little bit, mumbling for me to stop and sit away. 

For all his mouthiness just a half hour ago, would you look at him now?—Rust Cohle, plundered by the human sensation of speechlessness. I’ve never seen him out of his element before. When he comes down and cages me with his body, hot skin flush against hot skin, I don’t mean that in a bad sense. Shit, he’s far from it. But there’s nothing to say. Nothing of note, nothing to pick apart, no deeper meaning, no theory. Just an itch that has to be scratched. He wants, he is, and it’s heaven to see. 

In the dark, he sinks in to me as he is, eliciting from me a soft moan that curls over the shell of his ear. I have to bite down on his shoulder when comes the push, the stretch, the sink, the comfort of him inside. I curl my legs around his waist and grab at his ass, willing him deeper still. He shudders silently over me, thick ripples of pleasure rolling through his lean body.

I curse, but I’m sure it barely registers with him. 

His head lifts and his eyes clamp shut as he braces an arm against the wall, lifting one of my legs up over his hip and fucking into me deeper, slipping out and in, and again, and again. I know what I’d see if I took a look down, saw his cock pumping into me, but I can hardly do anything but buck my hips up to meet his effort, my stomach stuttering with that building pressure, hands gripping desperately around his neck and shoulders. 

Though, I’m not even sure it is effort that’s driving him. 

I mumble into his shoulder, dumb, focussing on the feel and press of him in my belly. I doubt he’s really aware of anything more than the sensation of it, evident from the small grunt that passes his lips as he fucks deep in me. His stomach presses heavier down onto mine, crushing a delicious pressure there, teasing out a long, breathy whimper. He snakes an arm around my hips, pushes his free hand to the back of my knee, tilting my legs back a little more, and then pulls me wider. Tight, he moves me how he wants me, my flesh dipping and carving, fucking himself raw with me, with my hot cunt. His mouth moves over mine, not kissing me, not speaking, just there, present, hot, panting. He doesn’t open his eyes, so I close mine, and I breathe.

Rust stutters and cums and spills over into me with a grunt. He pants sharply, harshly, rhythmically into my mouth, tense again, and then he collapses over my body, and he lays there. I lay there too, burning on the far inside. 

I think he only really remembers I’m there when I shift under him.

His eyelashes brush against my cheek. “Sorry,” he murmurs, but the sound of his voice scrapes directly against my brain with the shock of a flesh-wound. 

I assume he’s referring to the thick cum that I can feel leaking out of me now. He shifts his hips, adjusting himself in the grip of my cunt. My fingers wrap around his arms, squeeze as I feel him easing out. 

“It’s okay,” I reply. 

He glances down between us and guides himself out with a lewd noise, swallowing hard. I shiver. 

Quiet, sedated, he shrugs his trousers, his underwear, off of his ankles, slipping the bedsheet over both our naked selves. His hand spreads and flattens warm over my abdomen, feeling the gentle swell and sink of the breaths I take and release.

Goodfellas (1990)