Nikki

“Valentine clears his throat. "So. Why can't you just say it?"
"Say what?"
"You know what."
"It's hardly the time or place."
"It is if you're dying."
"I can't."
"You're a dick. Just fucking say it!"
"I can't! I'm... English."
"What am I, a Martian? I say it all the time. I know you love me, why can't you say it?"
"If you know, then why do I have to?"
"You're missing the point a bit."
"I took your bullet, you little twat, don't you dare question whether I love you."
"Yeah, but you could say it."
The throb of the gunshots is pounding all down his arm and body. The pain's so bad he wants to cry, like he's five and he's skinned his knee coming off his bike.
"Je t'aime," he says, through gritted teeth, to shut the kid up. "Je ne sais pas pourquoi. Tu es... complètement bête, tu t'habilles comme une pute travestie, je hais ta musique, tu es fou, tu me rends fou, mais je suis fou de toi et je pense à toi tout le temps et je t'aime, oui. Tu comprends? Je t'aime. Seulement... pas en anglais. Je ne peux pas."
Valentine's shifting about like he's uncomfortable. "I ain't got no idea what you just said but I think I need to change my pants."
"Maintenant, ta gueule.”
― Richard Rider, Stockholm Syndrome

“The thigh pressing his legs apart rubbed side to side, massaging the growing bulge in his jeans. James groaned and bit down on one corner of his lower lip to hold back a startled yelp when the pressure increased to the point of near pain.

"Does that feel good to you, baby? Like that? Like it slow and gentle?" He lessened the pressure and slipped a hand between them, thumbing open the buttons of James’ jeans as he talked. Finding nothing under them except heated flesh, he shoved his hand inside and grabbed James’ cock, dragging calluses and fingernails lightly over the sensitive organ. James squirmed and made a strangled, animal sound in the back of his throat.

"No, you wouldn’t be on this side of town, in this bar, if gentle was what you were looking for. Maybe you want it a little rougher." He shoved his fingers down farther and captured the tight sac beneath. "A little harder." He massaged James, grinning at the increased squirming and guttural whimpers his heavy caress produced. "A little deeper."
Kicking James’ legs farther apart, he slid two fingers behind the sac, tracing the thin ridge of sensitive flesh that led up to his opening. Without hesitation, he shoved both fingers into James’ body, twisting and stroking the hot, slippery walls of muscle within. A guttural gasp rewarded his efforts.

He chuckled low and throaty, nudging James’ cheek with his nose, silently commanding him to look up until their eyes met. "You got yourself all ready for me, baby. All nice," the long agile fingers twisted roughly, "and slick," plunged deeper, "and tight.”
― Laura Baumbach

“Real-time creeps back in, and Lindsay realises the kid's on his knees beside him, saying his name over and over and over.
"What?"
"Oh, thank fuck... Jesus, you're bleeding like hell."
"Thanks, Sherlock."
"Can you see a bright white light?"
"Yeah."
"Oh fuck. Fuck! Okay, listen to me, don't go near it, okay?"
"What?"
"Stay away from the light."
"What are you talking about?"
"That's death, innit? Don't go near it, promise me."
"I mean I can see the electric lights on the ceiling, you berk."
"You berk! You knob, I thought you were dying."
"You didn't specify what kind of bright light, you just said bright light,
you might've been testing my eyesight."
"I ain't fighting with you when you've been shot.”
― Richard Rider, Stockholm Syndrome

“There's this thing. I can, like, do a cast of your cock and make a vibrator out of it. How cool's that? Cos then, right, then I can suck you off and have you fucking me at the same time, like there's two of you. I've gone all tingly."
Lindsay doesn't know what to say for a second so he just stares at Valentine with something he imagines must look like horror. "What the hell am I doing with you?"
"Broadening your horizons. Or something."
"I must be crazy."
"That's okay, that's why it works. We're both a bit warped. Together we make sort of one whole person.”
― Richard Rider, Stockholm Syndrome