Recruit Fucker

The mattress smelled like cigarette smoke and spilled beer, which was about right for a gang hideout. You’d gotten used to it after a month—the lumpy springs, the faint mildew in the corner, the way the ceiling light flickered like a dying heartbeat. The door slammed open before you could finish lacing your boots. "New roommate," a voice drawled, too cheerful for the suddenness of it. You barely had time to turn before a hand clamped around your throat, shoving you face-first into the floor.

The impact knocked the air out of you, knees scraping against rough carpet as your ass lifted instinctively, like your body knew what was coming before your brain did. Sam’s grip tightened just enough to keep you still, not enough to cut off your breathing completely. His other hand was already working at the waistband of your pants, fingers dipping under fabric with practiced ease. "Gotta say," he mused, voice dripping with amusement, "I was hoping they’d stick me with someone fun."

His grip was iron tight—not crushing, just unrelenting. The heat of his body pressed against your back, the rough denim of his jeans grinding against your ass as he adjusted his knee between your thighs. "Easy, easy," he chuckled, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. "You fight too much, they’ll just pair you with someone worse. And trust me—” His fingers finally won the battle with your belt, the leather hissing as it loosened. “—there’s worse.” Sam’s thumb stroked the pulse point under your jaw, almost soothing. Almost.

"See? You’re smart," he murmured. His free hand slid down, palming the curve of your ass through your pants before hooking fingers into the waistband. "Smart ones last longer." The fabric slid down your hips, cool air hitting skin, and you shuddered. Behind you, Sam let out a low whistle. "Damn. They really did give me a present." His voice dropped, the playful lilt replaced with something more lewd. "Now. You gonna be good?" The question was rhetorical—his hand tightened warningly around your throat, just enough to remind you who was in control.

Sam's weight settled more firmly over you. His knee nudged your thighs wider, the denim seam rough against bare skin where your pants had been shoved down just enough to expose the curve of your ass. "Look at you," Sam mused, his voice a lazy purr against the shell of your ear. His thumb pressed harder into the hollow of your throat, not choking, just there. "Pretty thing like you, tossed into the deep end." His free hand traced the dip of your spine, slow, proprietary, before landing a sharp smack that made you jerk against him. The sound echoed in the cramped room, followed by Sam's chuckle. "Oh, you jump cute. Bet you sound cuter."

Behind you, the rustle of fabric—his belt unbuckling, the clink of metal loud in the silence.

Sam had this way of sitting—leaned back just a little too far in his chair, one arm draped over the empty seat beside him like he owned the place. Which, in a way, he kind of did. The diner’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sharp shadows under his smirk as he twirled his fork between his fingers. The rest of the table was loud, voices overlapping over half-eaten plates of fries and burgers, but Sam’s silence was the loudest thing in the room.

You’d only been with the crew a month, long enough to know the rules but not long enough to know how to navigate Sam’s little games. He’d been testing you since day one—your jacket mysteriously vanishing from the hook, your coffee “accidentally” knocked over, the way he’d shoulder-check you in the hallway like it was just bad timing. And every time, he’d flash that same grin, all teeth and zero apology.

Tonight, the diner booth was packed elbow-to-elbow, the air thick with grease and laughter. You were wedged between Veles and Sam, trying to keep up with the conversation, when Sam’s fork clattered onto your lap. “Shit,” he said, voice dripping with mock regret. “My bad.” His hand followed, brushing over your thigh like he was searching for the damn thing. Except his fingers lingered, pressing just a little too deliberately, tracing the seam of your jeans like he was reading Braille.

Across the table, Vince was mid-story, oblivious, while Joey snorted into his soda. Sam’s fingers curled, his thumb dragging slow over the fabric—testing, teasing—before he finally pulled back, fork in hand. “Found it,” he announced, like it was some grand victory. His knee bumped yours under the table, a quiet dare.

The moment stretched like taffy—too long, too sticky, the air suddenly thick with something sharper than the diner’s fryer grease. Sam’s knee stayed pressed against yours, a silent challenge burning through denim. But the rules were clear: react, and you lose. This was one of Sam's perverted tests again.

Sam’s grin widened. He loved this—the push, the pause, the way your jaw tightened when you swallowed a retort. He twirled his reclaimed fork between his fingers again, the metal catching the light like a flick knife. "So," he drawled, loud enough to cut through Vince’s story about some busted deal. "Newbie still ain’t spilled a drink on himself yet. What’s the record again? Two months before Brutus cried over a milkshake?" The table erupted in laughter, Vince pounding the table hard enough to rattle the ketchup bottle.

Under the table, Sam’s foot nudged yours. Then his toe dragged up your calf, slow. "Fuck," he muttered, his eyes were bright, thrilled.

Sam had that look again—the one where his eyes lingered just a second too long, like he was waiting for something to click. He leaned against the chipped countertop of the gang’s hideout, a beat-up diner they’d taken over after the owner skipped town. The air smelled like old grease and cigarette smoke, but Sam didn’t seem to mind. He was too busy smearing mayonnaise onto a patty with the precision of a chef plating a five-star meal.

"Made you something," he said, sliding the burger across the counter toward you. The bun was slightly soggy, the lettuce limp, but the mayonnaise glistened under the flickering fluorescent light. It was thick. Too thick. "Eat up. Gotta keep your strength." His voice was casual, but his fingers tapped the countertop like he was counting seconds.

The mayo stuck to your fingers in strings. Something about the way it clung felt off—not like the cheap stuff from the squeeze bottle, but heavier, like it had been whipped too much. Sam watched, arms crossed, his usual smirk dialed down to something quieter. More expectant. The others were already eating theirs, joking around, oblivious. One of them—Jun, the wiry kid with the perpetual scowl—took a huge bite and grimaced. "The hell’s in this, Sam? Tastes like disappointment and expired condiments."

Sam didn't answer Jun, just kept watching you with that same unnerving focus, like a cat waiting for a mouse to twitch. The mayonnaise stretched between your fingers as you pulled them apart, clinging with a persistence that made your stomach tighten. You lifted the burger, hesitating at the moment before the first bite—when Sam's foot nudged yours under the counter. Not hard. Just enough to say I'm here. Just enough to say I'm waiting.

Across the room, Marco—the oldest of them, the one who never laughed—snorted into his own burger. "Jesus, rookie. It's a fucking sandwich, not a live grenade." His voice was rough, but there was a thread of amusement in it. The others chuckled, half-distracted by their own meals, their own jokes. You could feel Sam's knee pressing against yours now, the heat of him bleeding through your jeans. His fingers had stopped tapping. The diner felt too small suddenly, the air thick with the scent of cheap meat and that too-sweet mayonnaise.

"Just take a bite, idiot." Sam scoffed and moved, he shoved the burger into your mouth to make his point.

The flavor hit you first—salt, fat, the dull tang of processed cheese—but then, underneath it, something richer. Muskier. The texture was wrong, too, thicker than mayo had any right to be, coating your tongue in a way that made your throat lock instinctively. Sam exhaled, slow and satisfied, like he'd been holding his breath. "Good, right?" he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. "Made it special for you." Sam's grin widened, all sharp edges and quiet victory. He leaned in, elbow nudging yours as he pretended to inspect his own burger. "You look like you've never eaten a sandwich before."

"You call that a clean sweep?" Sam's voice cracked like a whip across the empty warehouse, bouncing off the corrugated metal walls. He was already stalking toward you, work boots scuffing against concrete stained with old oil spills. "Two fucking security guards nearly got the drop on us because you were too busy staring at your own shadow."

You opened your mouth to argue, but Sam didn’t give you the chance. A rough shove sent you stumbling backward—your spine hit the edge of a shipping crate hard enough to knock the breath out of you. Before you could recover, Sam was on you, hands pinning your wrists, his knee wedging between your thighs. His grin was all teeth, no warmth. "Guess I gotta teach you how to pay attention."

The lesson was crude, efficient. Sam didn’t bother with foreplay, just yanked your pants down past your hips and pushed in with a grunt. You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper as he set a punishing pace, the crate rattling with every thrust. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise, his breath hot against your neck as he muttered something between a threat and a praise—you couldn’t tell which.

Then, a soft honk.

Sam froze mid-thrust, his head snapping toward the sound like a predator catching a scent. You followed his gaze—past the half-open warehouse door, where afternoon sunlight spilled across the concrete, Lucy the goose waddled into view. Her white feathers ruffled in the breeze, neck outstretched as she surveyed the alleyway with the regal indifference of a creature who owned the world.

"Oh, fuck," Sam hissed, voice tight with something that wasn’t anger for once. He pulled out of you so fast you gasped, already yanking his pants up one-handed while the other jabbed a finger toward the door. "Goddamn it—Lucy! Lucy, get back here!"

Lucy, of course, ignored him. She honked again—cheerful, oblivious—and pecked at a discarded burger wrapper near the dumpster. You barely had time to pull your own clothes back together before Sam was hauling you upright by the collar, his usual swagger replaced by frantic energy. "You," he growled, shaking you slightly, "are gonna help me catch her. Now."

Sam's grip on your collar tightened, his knuckles whitening as Lucy disappeared around the corner of the alley. "Because," he hissed, shoving you toward the door, "you're the idiot who left the fucking door cracked open when you dragged that crate in earlier." The accusation was sharp. Sam bolted past you, his boots kicking up gravel. Lucy was already halfway down the alley, her webbed feet slapping against the pavement with surprising speed. Sam lunged for her, missed, and nearly face-planted into the pavement. "Lucy!"