Chapter Text
You've always been a creature of habit. Once you start something, you find it very, very difficult to stop. Even if there's no return, even if it's actively detrimental to you; sunk-cost fallacy and all that, if that is even the right term to use. You've heard it used plenty of times when you gambled, anyway. You put everything you have into anything you like, and you've been slowly but surely running out of everything these days. Maybe you've already run out of it all for far longer than you're proud enough to admit.
But these few months have been different. A step in the right direction, probably. You get a lot of return for this, for starters - not anything like gambling where it leaves you walking carelessly across the highway bridge home, drunk and stumbling and far, far too close to the railing to be sure. This whole thing - this man, this beautiful, gorgeous man, with his long, scruffy hair, long enough to grab by the sides and pull when you've got him on his stomach, and his huge tits that bounce with every thrust, and his slender waist that softly opens up to voluptuous hips that are so easy to grab; muscular thighs that wrap around you in such a lewd display when you decide that day that you want to look him in the eyes as he takes you all the way in. This, him, to you, is all worth it.
You've found that you're not spending as much as you used to when your most unbreakable habit was gambling, now that you haven't been to a casino in nearly three months. You still remember your first ever commission for the Ashen Detective of Dovebrook, the one that started it all. You remember it much in the same way you remember the first time you felt the way his hips fit into your hands.
("This is all I have left this month," You started, not letting the good detective nor his assistant get a word in first. "I heard you'll do anything for money. I'm looking for something to get me to stop gambling. Can you help me?")
He's quiet when you fuck, despite the fact that his office seems to be soundproof, however the hell that works. But his face never lies, and neither does his body language - at least, you hope they don't lie. You're fucking him missionary this time for the exact reason stated above: his face, and while you love watching his ass, the virgin-tightness of it, the shape of it, the bounce of it; watching your cock pumping into it, listening to the obscene slapping of your balls against his perineum - there's just something so incomparably erotic about watching him cover his mouth with the back of his hand, barely breathing as his eyes roll back, shoulders hitching, visibly swallowing his saliva, Adam's apple bobbing, so that he doesn't drool all over the lid of his refrigerator again, and you have to wonder again, not for the first time and surely not the last: how much of this is real, and how much of it is just because you're paying him to do this?
But then you fuck back into him at a different angle and he bites down onto the side of his palm, a shrill sound audible at the back of his throat as tears spill out of his closed eyes, unabashed and shameless. He tightens around you, pulsing and shivering. He feels so fucking good, he always does; you groan into his shoulder, nearly collapsing onto him; you're lightheaded with how hard you are, never mind the absolute gorilla grip his tight little ass has on your dick, clenching down like he's trying to milk you dry for every single cent you own, for you to spill it all into him.
You want to. Again and again and again, you want to breed him. You want to fill him up with so much of your seed that it'd knock him up, no matter how impossible that is.
("That's a little extreme, Mister..." The detective trailed off, fishing for your name. You didn't give him a name when you came in. You didn't think that far ahead, and you didn't want to give him your real name. It was too personal, too emotional, too attached.
"John." You answered, and you knew that he knew that you knew that he knew it's fake. It's about as fake as a fake name could get, but he didn't call any attention to it. His eyes are piercing, though, a strange sort of mirth sitting in them. His monkey assistant, despite the crossed eyes, is looking up at you with a pointed curiosity that you can only interpret as an accusation. You'll need to ask him to leave soon. You doubt he'd want to stay for what you're about to ask of his partner.)
You love the tiny noises that he does make every now and then, and every single time it almost makes you come embarrassingly fast. For you to be able to fuck him so well that he can't control himself anymore, that he has to moan, squeal, trying to keep it in his throat, gatekept by his pursed lips.... it certainly boosts one's ego. You've found that being with the good detective like this has been doing that for you.
Case in point: there's a little, almost unnoticeable wet hitching in each breath he takes and exhales, and it's damn near pornographic. You're pretty sure you've watched actual porn with less erotic breathing than this. You feel as though you are going insane. You've been going insane for a while now.
(Instead, when the assistant named Narrator had left the office, the detective turned to you and asked: "There's a bunch of free addiction support groups around here. Have you tried any of 'em yet, Mister John, before you go around throwing your life savings at a detective? I can't guarantee I could help you here."
Instead, you replied: "None will work. Nothing's ever good enough. But you look like you know how to take dick."
He choked on his own spit at that, shocked. Your cock twitched at the sound of it, because you're a fucking degenerate. His voice is smooth and buttery, rounded into a deep timbre, a bass that permeates through your very bones. This close to him, in such a cramped space, in a soundproof room, it's all your ears could focus on.
"That's- I- wha- you-" He stuttered, face turning a truly pretty shade of pink. It's cute, it's so cute, and you wanted to ruin it. "What- What does that have to do with... what?"
"I want to fuck you whenever I feel like gambling. I'll pay you every time. I'll try to, anyway."
"But why- me?" He managed to recover, if only slightly, to ask. It's a good question. One that you were finally too embarrassed to answer.
"I'm a fan of your work." You replied, simply. It wasn't a complete lie. He didn't need to know you were cyberstalking him for the past month because you were enchanted, bewitched, and cursed, in that order, by his beauty the very first time you laid eyes on him in that photo on the article about the Millennium Killer case.)
The afterglow of orgasm has you feeling like cotton candy, floating away in the clouds, lighter than a feather and heavier than a mechatron. Exhausted in the best way possible.
You still wish you could bring him to a place with an actual bed to fuck on, though, but a hotel room is too professional and your own apartment is too personable. Even so, his desk and the lid of his fridge in which he sleeps are not exactly the best places to lock junks, most of all the pain of having his back dig into the hard edges of the damn things. But Ashveil has never complained about it. He doesn't care about the pain, apparently - barely even feels it, actually. You shouldn't be surprised, though. There are nails sticking out of his wrist. You can guess why he doesn't feel it.
You've taken to sitting on his chair while he lays across the lid of his fridge on his side. It was a ridiculous sight three months ago when you started this arrangement and it is still a ridiculous sight now.
He's passed out cold, sticky, sweaty, legs still shaking and breathing still laboured. You walk over to him, then, a sudden and overwhelming compulsion seizing you to look at him. To look at his lips, cherry red from biting, slick with spit and cum, his neck down, his collarbones, his fucking sinful tits and perky nipples, littered with bites and hickeys that are already starting to bruise over. His rosy cheeks, a little bit chubby in a way you can only really describe as adorable, and the lewd contrast between that and the dried tear tracks cascading down them - and his long eyelashes - you refused to believe he doesn't wear mascara, but you would have seen it run when he cries. If you look closely enough - when did you lean in so much? - you can see those tears sticking them together.
You go lower. His shoulders, broad and bitten, your teeth having laid claim to his person long ago. You start running your hands over his tits, his abs, down the sides of his waist onto his hips, and lower into his inner thighs, right below his spent cock. His thighs, in your opinion, are too underrated.
He's so beautiful. Ethereal. He almost doesn't look real, but you're sure he couldn't be an Imagenae. It's so difficult to describe his beauty. It's a task you don't see yourself ever being able to fulfill, no matter how much you stare at him. An alluring thing. Irresistible in every respect. You have to wonder: how is he still single? Or rather: how are you the only one he's ever allowed to do this to him? You're sure there's been more than enough people who've tried propositioning him in the same manner, but apparently you're the "first one". The first one he's said yes to? Or the first one who's asked at all? You doubt it's the latter. Or maybe he's just bullshitting you. Maybe he thinks you're one of those guys who thinks fucking someone who isn't a virgin makes you a cuck, and you're sinking too much money into him to let you go. But that's quite a bad faith interpretation of him, to be fair. You're just paranoid. You don't care if one or two or fifty guys have fucked him already, he's still tighter than even a virgin. You almost assumed he was a virgin the first time you stuck your fingers in him, shock colouring your features immediately at how tight he was.
All he did was stare up at you through his eyelashes, eyelids lowered and eyes clouded over with lust. And you realize he's not. A virgin, that is.
("Have you ever done this before?" You asked the first time around. He had sighed into your palm that was caressing his cheek, eyeing you up in a way that was somehow both lazy and more intense than you could take. You break eye-contact first.
"You're the first one." Is all he replied. You doubt it. You don't bring it up again.)
You're not naive enough to fall in love with the guy you're paying to have sex with you. He's not in love with you, he just likes your money. Never mind the few times you manage to catch him staring at you after sex, with an emotion you can only describe as pity sitting harshly against his pretty face. It's the only time he's difficult to look at.
You know you've fucked up a lot in your life. You get addicted too easily - to everything and everyone. But isn't a small step forward still better than no steps at all? And right now, you've gone and replaced one addiction with another that is significantly less expensive and undeniably more rewarding. But you can't decide if it's any more or less pathetic. Probably more. It'd be embarrassing and impossible to tell anyone that you've gone and become addicted to the love of someone you're paying to fuck without sounding like the most pathetic shitstain to ever walk this planet. But when you look at him, really look at him, the tightness in your heart ebbs to give way to something so intrinsically tender, so raw that it robs your lungs of air, for just a brief moment.
It's a terrible realization to come to on such a lonely night. That you've fallen in love.
Ashveil continues to sleep soundly amidst your turmoil. Maybe he already figured it out before you did. He's an exceptional detective, after all.