DOGMEAT MASTERLIST

holy fuck that was so hot

7: Night Shift

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

you work in one of the tourist traps along a popular beach pier known for its party scene. it's a night like any other. you have no idea about the unusual party crashers who are about to show up and ruin everything.

->original work. explicit; contains non-con, graphic descriptions of violence, feral behavior, hard vore, mind control, terato, non-human genitalia.

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Last week, it was “Greek Gods of the Sea.” Togas and tridents, mostly, some seashell bikinis, a few fake beards stuffed with plastic starfish. They drank too much and cranked the music too loud, but that’s nothing new. Everyone knows what to expect from the Lucky Rock Pier Party People Association (“Lurpppa” to the local news, “Trouble at Ten O’Clock” to your fellow boardwalk employees, “Those Fucking Kids” to beachfront property owners). 

You wear headphones most nights anyway, desperate to keep the shrill, repetitive carnival songs of the pier funhouse from being seared into your brain. They don’t bother you much because the sign at the front says there’s no bathroom and all the hot dogs and funnel cakes are further down the boardwalk, but a few will trickle in just for something to do. If they spot the freezer, they’ll huddle around the glass and stare like the Mona Lisa’s in there, agonizing over a choice between an ice cream sandwich or fruit pops. 

Tonight, it’s a glow party. Neon beach balls and glow stick arches. You can’t hear the noise they’re making through your headphones but you can feel the bass throbbing through your feet. Someone’s probably going to call the cops again. The tourist family population retreats this time of night so it’s just you, the handful of shops still open this late, and Trouble at Ten O’Clock. This one’s more fun to watch, at least, bright and colorful like the spill of noctiluca. They’re vivid in glow-in-the-dark body paint, covered in luminescent stripes, swirls and splatters. 

A few of them come stumbling up the pier earlier than usual. Three women in different halter tops, painted with matching curly cues and butterflies on their faces. One of them wanders off to look at the tote bags. Another, much more inebriated, leans heavily against her friend. The designated driver, you assume, who drags her to the freezer to pick out something to eat. You glance down at the beach and see one of them sitting on Lucky Rock, the jagged chunk of stone sticking out of the water not far from shore. You’re not sure how he climbed up the slippery, steep sides but he’s definitely not supposed to be up there. The people on the beach are way too excited about it, gathered around cheering and hollering. 

Three ice cream sandwiches are dropped on the counter in front of you. You lift one side of your headphones and shrieking noise rushes in, the glow party just as raucous as you expected. “Will that be all?” you ask. The woman nods. Her friend starts to fall over and she has to support her weight against her shoulder. You ring up the total and she groans. Everything on the boardwalk is three times the price it should be, but she adds a tote bag when the other woman wanders back with one and tosses their ice cream inside. “Thanks, come again,” you call, sliding your headphones back on.

Ten minutes until closing time. Not much to do but sweep out the sand gathered in the doorway and tidy up the disaster zone a horde of children made of the stuffed animal section. Sharks and dolphins on the top shelf, turtles on the second, fish and starfish on the third—

Something moves in the corner of your eye. Startled, you turn and find a man ambling slowly through the store. A stray from the glow party, you think at first. Then you look again, paying attention this time. He looks like all the partygoers down on the beach, a silhouette with luminescent edges, but he shouldn’t. Not under the store lights. He’s midnight blue from head to toe beneath intricate glowing patterns, chest and shoulders speckled with small dots like cyan freckles with larger spots along his sides. Thin stripes trace the outlines of muscle beneath the skin, turning into a spiral pattern at his hips. 

Which you can see, you realize, because he’s naked. No swim trunks. No speedo. He’s wet and dripping all over the floor like he just crawled out of the water, a puddle slowly growing beneath his feet, and you can follow the course of every droplet as they roll slowly down curves and valleys of lithe swimmer’s muscles. Some of the lines on his torso are moving, you realize. Horizontal squiggles on either side of his abdomen flinch and pulsate. 

Gills, you realize. The pieces come together all at once in your mind. Despite working the boardwalk as long as you have, you’ve never seen a sea muse before. Most people haven’t. They’re skittish, you’ve heard. They prefer quiet coves and grottos, places humans have a harder time reaching. Safer that way if they decide to shed their tail and sun themselves for a while. This one certainly doesn’t seem bothered by the commotion down at the beach, poking through the t-shirt rack with long, clawed fingers. He doesn’t look much like the pictures you’ve seen, either, but all the pictures are of muses lurking in tropical reefs, big-finned and colorful like bettas. Beautiful like him, but not bioluminescent and not quite so large. He must come from deeper, colder waters. 

You set down a stuffed octopus as gently as you can but he hears it, turning swiftly to face you. Your heart races. He has the large, eerie eyes of an abyssal creature, glowing half-moons gleaming underneath wide silver irises and black sclera. Nobody prepared you for what to do in this situation. Do you play dead? Raise your arms and make noise to scare him off? What you mistook for slicked back hair is some kind of shimmery membrane. It flares out like the neck flap of a cobra in a threat display, but it starts to sag and flatten the longer you stare at each other. His eyes move slightly in their wide sockets, looking you over head to toe. 

An uncannily human smile spreads across his face. He makes some odd gestures towards you. His mouth moves. He’s talking, you realize, trying to communicate. You almost lift your headphones off but your brain catches up at the last second. You don’t know a lot about sea muses but you know enough to keep your ears covered. 

He blinks, staring at you in almost comical wide-eyed confusion. Then he smirks, his gills fluttering with laughter. He starts pacing back and forth, slowly inching closer like a shark circling prey in the water. He’s between you and the door so you inch towards the register counter instead. Maybe you can slip out the back? 

He stops suddenly, leaving some distance between you. He speaks again, tapping the side of his head and pointing at you. You shake your head and he frowns, but he doesn’t give up. You watch, morbid curiosity overpowering your fear, as he starts to move in a slow, seductive manner. It’s some kind of dance, you think, arching his back and extending the membrane on his head again, bioluminescence glittering on thin, translucent flesh. He holds your gaze as he runs a hand down the center of his chest, over his stomach, down to his pelvis and—

You’re not entirely sure what you expected to see between his legs, but it’s still a bit of a shock. The thick, jutting member is deep indigo at the base and a lighter aquamarine down the length. It barely resembles a human cock except in its vaguely phallic silhouette, oozing from an engorged sheath that dribbles cloudy slime. The shaft is smooth with a gentle upward curve, thick and shuddering with unnatural flexibility. It narrows to a soft triangular tip. Two additional appendages unfold from his hips. They remind you of crustacean legs, rigid and insectoid. They bend along two joints, pawing at the air with their sharp claw tips. 

The sea muse makes a thrusting motion. The tentacle-cock wraps around his hand, drooling like a tongue. His bioluminescent patches flash and dim like a flickering candle. You’re no marine biologist but it feels safe to assume this is a mating display.

“Uh. No? No thanks,” you say.

He grins. You see a row of daggers for teeth. He speaks slowly and your heart skips a beat when you clearly read the words, Are you sure? on his lips. 

“I’m sure. Thanks anyway.” Maybe you should be flattered. You’ve never heard of anyone getting hit on by a sea muse. He lets out a big, disappointed sigh, extra dramatic so you can’t miss it, and gives himself one last stroke before he moves on. You half-expect the cock to slither back into its sheath, but it stays obscenely hard and straining upright between his legs.

To your dismay, he doesn’t leave but instead pokes around the shop some more. He wanders to the left, examining surfboard keychains and hibiscus shot glasses. He wanders to the right, squinting at the postcards. Eventually, he makes his way to the freezer and slides it open with some difficulty. His head membrane flares out wider than you’ve ever seen it the first time he sticks his hand inside. You wonder if he hissed. He tries again, pinching a fruit pop in its colorful package between his claws. He rips the plastic open.

“Hey!” you say. “You can’t just—”

He looks back over his shoulder at you, eyes narrowed and membrane spread in warning. You turn away and continue to mind your own business. 

The glow party seems to be winding down. The beach balls are all sitting in a pile. Some of the glow stick arches have toppled over. The pounding bass isn’t shaking the pier anymore. You see a lot of people lounging in the sand, rolling around, stretched out together, a bunch of them writhing—

Oh, you think. That’s bold, even for Trouble at Ten O’Clock. There’s no mistaking those thrusting, grinding, back and forth movements for anything else. There are a few couples scattered around but most of them have settled into a spot worryingly close to the water, seafoam rushing around them whenever the waves come surging up the beach. They tangle together in passionate motion, kissing and caressing and fucking like it’s the last night of their lives.

Something about it unsettles you. They’re being so rough with each other. This isn’t a slow, sensual orgy but a frenzy. Mindless, animalistic rutting and forceful movements. You see mouths open in silent screams. Some of them aren’t moving. Some of them are trying to crawl away but they’re being dragged back by the ankle, the hair, the arm, pulled through the dark sand. Why is the sand so dark? And wet, glistening where the tide hasn’t risen yet. 

The horrific realization grips you slowly. You’re in denial. You must be having a nightmare. A man tries to claw his way up the beach but someone else pins him down, straddles his back. You don’t see what happens, can’t make it out in the dark, but the paint on his body stretches and splits, and the sand darkens in a liquid motion under him. A woman arches her back in the throes of ecstasy, surrounded on all sides by eager, thrusting bodies. They’re biting her, you realize. Their heads lower and blood splashes the sand. Through all of it, she squirms and rakes her fingers through the sound as though she’s never felt pleasure like this before. Someone crawls between her legs and she opens them eagerly, loops them around the waist of something that is not human, you realize. None of the ones surrounding her are. They glow more brightly in more precise patterns, membranes pulsating, gills fluttering.

Your headphones are ripped away, clattering uselessly to the floor. You hear an awful cacophony of moaning, screaming, begging, and weeping. You think, for just a second, about running. Your muscles tense and your heart races. Where? For how long? You don’t know but you’re willing to try. 

“Where are you going?” says the sea muse and you can’t move a muscle. His voice is low and melodic. You hear the ocean when he speaks; the hiss and splash of the shallows, the heavy drone of the deep. “Hm? Do you want to join them?” You hear the wet slap of his footsteps for the first time as he comes closer. His hand grasps your chin lightly, barely applying any pressure, but you feel compelled to turn around. To look up at his sharp-toothed smile and the gentle pulse of his bioluminescence. “My shiver is down there. Frenzying,” he says. He turns your head to the side, just far enough to glimpse the gruesome scene on the beach, then returns your gaze to him. 

“Please don’t,” you say hoarsely, your throat constricted. “Don’t make me, don’t—” 

“It’s been so long,” he says, and your mouth snaps shut. “Since I last came ashore.” He walks backwards, his fingers still ghosting against your chin, and you follow. You don’t want to but your legs move on their own. His voice is addictive. You hang on every word and you hope he never stops talking. The silence between makes you tremble. “Even longer since I last mated. You can see it. You can tell how long I’ve waited, if you look.” 

You don’t want to look but your eyes betray you, gaze lowering to the slithering thing between his legs. It curls around itself impatiently like a snake. Another glob of slime slides slowly from its sheath and dribbles on the floor. The way it moves frightens you, the base twitching and undulating, slug-like. 

“You want this,” he says. He takes another step back and you rush forward. He strokes beneath your chin. 

You shake your head desperately. Your mouth is trying to shape the word “yes.”

“You do. You want this.” His back hits the register counter and he leans against it, spreading his legs wide. “You want to taste me,” he says, his voice dipping lower. 

You drop to your knees so fast it hurts, feeling the blooming sting of new bruises. It doesn’t matter that you’re terrified. It doesn’t matter that the thing bobbing in your face is like nothing you’ve ever seen before. You open your mouth and suck the strange, pointed head without hesitation. The sea muse moans and your thighs quiver, inner muscles clenching on nothing. You have to hear it again. 

“You need it,” he purrs, thrusting shallowly. You bob your head, taking him deeper every time. He hits the back of your throat quickly, his cock eager and probing at the inside of your mouth. “You need me to spill inside you. You need everything I have to give.” You moan and choke around his length. His hand rests on the back of your head, forcing you down further. His thrusts get harder and faster, crushing your nose against his slick abdomen. 

Some part of you is screaming at the alien movements of his cock, how it nudges and prods and tries to snake down your throat, but you can’t focus on that. He doesn’t let you. Every grunt and moan, every hiss of praise, makes the fear even more distant. 

“You need—oh, yes,” he groans, clutching your head with both hands as he pounds into your mouth. “You need to mate with me. You need—mm, suck on me, suck on the tip—fuck, you need my milt. I have so much and you need all of it.” 

You make a humiliating, needy sound when he suddenly pulls you off of his cock. It slips out of your mouth reluctantly, the tip sliding back and forth against your lips. He drags you to your feet by the forearm, shoving you against the register counter. He bends you over it, tearing at your clothes with his claws. You cum when he blows softly against your ear. You’re still shivering, clawing mindlessly at the counter when he kisses and licks the shell, sliding his tongue into every little dip and groove. 

“Do you want me?” he whispers. You hear a slick sound, a grunt, and then his hand is at your entrance. He uses the pads of his fingers but he’s not very careful. His claws prick your thighs as ass while he smears thick, warm globs between your legs. “Hm? Do you want me?” 

“Yes,” you sob. You arch your back and try to press your hips back against him. He makes a growling sound against your ear that makes your knees buckle, nipping the lobe playfully. 

“You want to be fucked?” One hand reaches around and roughly works your sex, spreading a warm, tingling sensation. “Want to be filled with milt?” 

“Yes!” 

His cock slides along the curve of your ass, teasing you. Then it slithers down, sliding into just the right angle with the tip pushed against your entrance. “Good human,” he purrs, and your eyes roll back in your head. His tip presses inside and then he’s thrusting hard and fast without warning. More slime drips from his sheath and slides down his length, the tingling slickness easing his punishing rhythm. It wouldn’t matter if the lubrication wasn’t there. You can’t do anything but lay there and gasp and meet his thrusts, needing his cock inside you more than you need to breathe. 

Those sharp, grasping appendages hook around your thighs. You feel them lock into place, their grip tightening until you’re right up against the sea muse’s body. His thrusts don’t slow at all. If anything, he’s even rougher and faster, deep humping thrusts that make you tremble and scream. He keeps talking through all of it no matter how winded and breathless he gets, keeping you right on the precipice of orgasm after orgasm with filthy whispers and wet, open-mouthed kisses against your ear. 

“So tight,” he hisses. “You feel so good, squeezing me like that. You want it so much. I’m going to give you everything. You’re going to be so fucking full.” His hips stutter, losing rhythm. You cum again just as a rush of warm wetness pulses inside you, spurting every time the sea muse thrusts. Thick, creamy liquid churns and foams at your entrance, a trickle dribbling down your thigh. You hear a few drops hit the floor under you. The sea muse rides out his orgasm with long, loud moans that send you over the edge again and again. He crushes you against the counter, hips rolling. One last, slow thrust fills you with another hot gush of his strange cum. 

He breathes heavily. His hips sway while he’s still sheathed inside you and his cock curls just the right way to make you sob for mercy. “Hm? You think we’re done?” he murmurs. “I told you. It’s been a long time. I still have so much more to give you. And you want it, don’t you? You need it?” 

“Yes,” you say, your voice quivering and broken. The sea muse starts to fuck you again and all you can do is let him.

You don’t know when it ends. It could be minutes, or hours, or days. The passage of time is measured in breaths and heartbeats and orgasm after orgasm. The floor is slick and sticky under you, a white puddle of milt steadily growing. You think he bites you but you don’t know. It all feels good, especially when he tells you how perfect you are, how sweet and submissive, how well you’re milking his cock of everything he’s saved for this moment. He makes you ride him once, seated on the counter while he bounces you in his lap. He digs his claws into the meat of your ass and leaves marks. 

You don’t know who finds you. Someone else who works the pier, probably, too horrified and embarrassed for both of you to stick around. The Coast Guard sweeps the water but the sea muses are long gone, leaving nothing behind but the mangled leftovers of their frenzy. The bodies glisten in the sand, torn to shreds like a burst whale carcass. By sunrise, the flies and the seagulls are swarming. You’re escorted to an ambulance with a blanket over your shoulders. The first person to look you in the eyes tells you, very quietly, that you might want to quit your job and consider moving inland. 

“Those are mating marks,” he says. You don’t know how he can possibly tell, given that they’re everywhere. Jagged, oozing circles dot your shoulders, arms, thighs and back. “Because they’re at a very precise depth. Meant to scar, not to kill. That means it’s going to come back.” They tell you not to look at the water but you do, one last time, before you leave. You don’t see anything. That doesn’t mean anything. The water’s deep and it seems to go on forever.

That night, in a hospital bed, you have a dream of someone singing to you. It sounds like the ocean filling your ears.

scrap metal muzzle part i

this started off being based on a nightmare i had and spun entirely out of control and become... this fucking thing. enjoy my ghoap x fat reader scrapyard fic.

this is just part 1 of 2, because holy hell did this get long (11k words in this part alone). part 2 is darker, so be aware.

cw: vague references to a past abusive relationship, manipulation, oral sex, threesome (kinda), voyeurism/enthusiastic cuckholding (sort of? idk how to even categorize it), possessiveness, un-negotiated kink, pet play, 24/7 kink lifestyle, praise, verbal degradation (towards soap only), only lightly edited bc i'm tired

in hindsight, you probably should have spent more time planning your escape. should've had a mechanic look over the car you purchased for cash off craigslist, should've planned your route more thoroughly, should've taken food with you. ah well. it's too late to go back, by now phil will have come home and noticed that you're gone. he's probably making the rounds to all of your friend's houses, banging on their doors and demanding to be let in. at least you'd had the foresight to warn them, you suppose. didn't tell any of them where you were going or what was happening, obviously, just told them you were finally leaving phil and he might come around looking. the repeated choruses of 'oh thank god' had spurred you on, stoking the fire within you that made your quick exit from that relationship feel like a life or death situation. hell, for all you know about phil's temper, it very well might've been.

the first few hours on the road went just fine as you broke every speed limit you came across, careening towards the sunset as you made your slapdash escape. the van was in your possession less than twenty minutes before you sent the mass text to your friends and family, letting them know you were on your way out. in less than sixty minutes everything you'd owned in phil's apartment made it's way into the back of the van, some of it boxed but most of it rolling loose. all your clothes are in garbage bags, your jewelry in ziplocks. out of spite you took all the silverware and remotes, all of them shoved in a grocery bag along with your toiletries and makeup.

by the time the sun had fully set, rain started pouring down. it was already difficult to see with the yellow, clouded headlights, but this unexpected monsoon just made it worse. it was already hard to navigate the winding country roads this way, but the deluge of rain made the line on the road look blurrier, and you couldn't help but worry about potentially crossing over the white line on accident and winding up in a ditch. you'd probably be safer on a bigger road with rumble strips, but you had figured risking it out here was still a far side safer than taking to the major highways where phil might have his cop buddies be on the lookout for you.

the rattletrap van gives up the ghost when you stop by the side of the road to pee, squatting so only your ass hung out the door and got rained on. you grumble as you pull your underwear over cold, wet skin, and cursed when you turned the key and realized the engine was outright refusing to turn over again. fuck, shit, motherfucker. you slam your hands against the steering wheel as you curse out god, phil, and nissan while the rain continues to slam against your windshield in a deafening cacophony. you turn your headlights off to look for light pollution against the cloudy skies, something to indicate which direction you should start walking in so you can find some help. hope rises in your chest when you see not just light pollution, but a small, glowing yellow square off in the not too far distance. it's got to be a building of some kind, clearly occupied. perfect. hopefully whoever's inside is feeling charitable.

after digging through black garbage bag after black garbage bag, you finally find your best coat and get to walking. the rain is freezing cold, and the northern wind, that bastard, is whipping it right in your face, shoving your hood back off your head and soaking your hair. you can only cling to your hood for so long until the biting rain makes your hands go numb, forcing you to shove them into your pockets as you trudge forward. why don't raincoat hoods have a drawstring like hoodies do? this is fucking bullshit. ugh, fuck, you're going to look like an absolute mess when you arrive, but hopefully that helps earn you some sympathy when you ask for help.

it feels like ages until you come up on the building with the lit window, but when you do, it's clear it's not a house, but a business. that... might be better, actually. it feels less intrusive to go to a business for help instead of a private residence. nobody's gonna answer the door with a shotgun if you walk up to a business. probably. right?

the sign above the door says s&j scrapyard, and with the light that spills out of the lit window, you can see the high fences that run around the building, large jagged shadows of scrap towering behind them. with a hard swallow, you rap on the door. shave and a haircut, just to let whoever's inside know that you're there and you're friendly. it feels like ages that you stand there, back towards the wind, waiting for someone to come, but when the door finally swings violently open you find yourself wishing you'd never come at all.

a huge man stands in the doorway, his big body nearly blocking out all the sickly yellow light that tries to pour out from his dry office and out into the night. he's so broad you wonder idly if he has to enter and exit doorways at a slight angle just to fit. he's covered from head to toe, with big boots, skeleton patterned gloves, and a balaclava, leaving only his dark eyes and the bridge of his nose exposed. he's so tall you find your head tilting back a bit just to look him in the eye. he makes for a very intimidating figure, and you can't be sure if it's the cold and wet that has you shaking or his domineering presence.

"wot you want?" he barks out, chuckling when you flinch. "s'after hours and i don't got copper f'ya anyways. beat it."

"i- no, my- my car broke down just up the road. i was just wondering if you knew of a mechanic's shop that might still be op-open." you stammer out through chattering teeth. from inside the building you hear a high pitched, animalistic whine and the sound of metal clattering on concrete.

"oi! settle!" the man in the mask barks over his shoulder before turning back to you. "ain't nothin' open this time of night."

"oh." shit, ok, now what? do you trudge back to the van on your sore feet only to come back in the morning and ask for a phone? do you curl up under the small awning and sleep here, hoping this man doesn't mind? do you-

"tell you wot- i'll come tow ya, and you can sleep in the parkin' lot. we can call a mechanic in the mornin'." the man says, gruffness in his tone easing up just slightly. "i'd invite you in, but the mutt- 'e gets too excited about new people. especially pretty girls. might bite on accident."

being called a pretty girl is a surprise, especially since you're pretty sure you look like a drowned rat, and you can feel your eyebrows rocket to your hairline at the praise. of all the things you'd expected a 6'5" scrapyard worker with a thick manc accent to call your fat ass, 'pretty' didn't make the list. still, it's nice, even if it does have you a little flustered.

"oh, uh, sure, yeah, thank you so much, i really appreciate your help." the relief is palpable, you can feel the tenseness in your shoulders melt away. finally, one thing has gone your way. you're determined to cling to your silver linings. thank god you've got a big van full of bags of clothes that you can sleep on top of and not, like, a vw rabbit full of pots and pans.

in no time at all the two of you are in the cab of a tow truck, rolling down the road to your broken down ride. the man tells you his name is simon, he's been picking up broken down cars and selling them for scrap for a few years since leaving the military. it's just him and the mutt out there, the mechanic he'll call is in next closest town, which is about a thirty minutes drive out. you tell him a little bit about yourself, explaining vaguely that you've just left a volatile situation back home and are looking for a fresh start. simon doesn't say anything to that, doesn't ask prodding questions, just hums thoughtfully as he pulls up to your shitty van before hopping out, hooking it up, and towing it back to the front of the shop.

"i'll take a peek under the 'ood myself tomorrow, but dunno 'ow much 'elp i'm gonna be. my business is takin' things apart, not really one for puttin' 'em back together." simon tells you before he leaves you for the night, cursing at his yowling dog when he steps back into the yellow light of his office.

sleep comes easier than you thought it would, the high adrenaline from making your daring escape suddenly coming to a screeching halt and bringing you crashing down while you rest on your nest of clothes and blankets. you don't even have time to kick your shoes off before you're drooling on the bag under your cheek, letting your guard entirely down as you take solace in the pitter patter of rain on the windshield of your locked van. phil could drive by this place, see the van, and never even know you're inside. that comforting knowledge is what propels you into a deep, dreamless sleep that's only disturbed by three sharp knocks to the door sometime in the midmorning.

"got breakfast, if y'like." a gruff voice calls through the door as you stretch out the aches in your bones. fuck, your hair probably is a mess, but it's hard to give a shit when a meal is being offered. after a quick change of clothes and fussing with your hair in the rearview mirror a bit, you clamber out into the bright morning sun, beelining for the front door and letting yourself in. the office isn't too big, just a small space for customers to stand at a big, long counter. there's also a kennel set up there- empty save for the fluffy pillow and chew toys left behind. there's a few doors lined up along the back wall, and you assume one leads out to the scrapyard, the other to simon's personal quarters. you're not sure about the third. janitor's closet maybe?

"oi." simon appears out of the far left door, jerking his head, beckoning you to come around the counter. you cautiously step through the door into the kitchenette of what looks like a small studio apartment. it's a real bachelor pad if you've ever seen one. there's a messy bed shoved into the corner, and the walls are completely sparse save for a large television that's hung just a little bit crooked. there's some dirty clothes on the floor, more chewed up rubber dog toys, and several empty beer cans lined up on the windowsill behind the bed. simon pulls out a chair for you at the little kitchen table, metal legs groaning against the linoleum.

"thank you so much, for everything. i don't know how i'm going to be able to repay you." you admit as he places a hot bowl of oatmeal in front of you. to say that your finances are limited is an understatement. phil hadn't allowed you to work for years, so half of your savings were used up on that rattletrap parked out front.

"mm. expect you don't 'ave much in the way of cash, then?" he asks, settling into the seat across the table from you. it's hard not to notice that he isn't eating. probably doesn't want to take off his mask in front of a stranger, you rationalize, trying not to think too hard about why he's wearing one in the first place. maybe he's scarred up, burnt, or otherwise disfigured. not your place to ask, really, not when he's been so helpful. he's allowed his own secrets, just like you're allowed yours.

"no, sorry. i, uh, i mean. you could put me to work, i guess?" you say before shoveling a hot spoonful of breakfast into your mouth. mm, peach instant oatmeal. that's the good stuff. simon leans back in his chair, crossing his massive arms over his equally massive chest, the corners of his eyes creased in what you hope is a smile.

"and the mechanic? gonna go work for 'im, too?" he asks, tone teasing.

"whatever it takes, i guess." you say with a shrug as you slowly finish your breakfast, savoring every bite. simon watches you eat in silence, dark eyes trained on your every move. it's unnerving, but you imagine that way out here, he probably doesn't have guests very often. hell, it's incredible he has two chairs for his kitchen instead of just one. it's likely you're eating out of the only bowl in the whole place.

"tell you wot. i'll show ya 'round the junkyard, introduce you to the mutt. 'e's been needin' a playmate, and i' 'aven't 'ad the time t'give 'im the attention 'e needs. you play with 'im and keep 'im occupied for a few days, and i'll make sure your van's taken care of." simon tells you, and you keep waiting for the catch.

"so... if i play with your dog for a few days you'll cover the mechanic's fees and call us even?" you ask, unsure if you're misunderstanding. he huffs out a laugh and nods. "... didn't you say he bites?"

"does sometimes, when 'e's oll riled up. olready muzzled 'im up f'ya, if that 'elps." he cocks his head, eyes still trained on you. "wot you say?"

"you don't even know what the cost of the repairs is going to be." you point out. "i doubt playing fetch and keeping fido out from under your feet is going to be worth whatever it costs to fix my shitty van."

"mm, maybe. still might be a right side cheaper than drivin' 'im oll the way to the city, boardin' 'im in a kennel for a few weeks. knowin' 'im, i'd probably 'ave t'pay extra, considerin' what a bloody 'andful 'e is." simon grabs your empty bowl. "tell ya wot, you 'andle 'im today and we'll consider the tow service covered. i'll call the mechanic, get an estimate, and we can take it from there. olright?"

"yeah, ok. thanks." you tell him, throwing him a small, grateful smile as he stands to clean your dishes. "i, uh, i really appreciate this. i won't let you down."

simon looks you over as he rinses off your bowl in the sink, chuckling to himself as if what you've just said is funny. ok. weird. but it could be worse, you suppose.

when he finishes, simon takes you on a tour of the scrapyard, showing you the piles of crushed cars, broken home appliances, and seemingly endless bins and barrels of various parts. it's a labyrinth of scrap, irregular alleys and lanes zig zagging all over the place. you're gonna get lost in here, you can just feel it in your bones. in the back is the car crusher, a barbaric looking piece of machinery that simon seems especially proud to own and operate. judging by how full this yard is, you'd guess he gets plenty of use out of it. the heat from the rising sun seems magnified in here, possibly intensified by the piles of scrap metal all around you, piled much higher than you are tall. simon walks alongside you, peering around each corner as if he's looking for something.

"'ang on, lemme call soap." simon tells you mere seconds before letting out an earsplitting whistle. "soap! come!"

there's an instant commotion up and around a blind corner, the sound of a big body hoisting itself off the ground and running towards you as fast as it can while you and simon saunter in the general direction of the noise. when you finally see soap, you stop dead in your tracks, jaw dropping so hard you're afraid it'll scuff your already dirty shoes.

this whole time, you'd been expecting some sort of half-pitbull junkyard dog, a canine with a skull that's roughly the size of a watermelon with badly cropped ears and a tail that won't stop wagging. what's bounding up towards you on all fours isn't even remotely close to what you'd seen in your minds eye. soap is, in fact, a fully grown man wearing shoes and gloves shaped like paws, with kneepads and the tiniest black speedo you've ever seen. there's a pert little rubber tail sticking out of a hole in the back, wagging as he wiggles his hips in obvious excitement. a shaggy looking mohawk is crushed under the strap of a black and brown leather mask that's made to look like a rottweiler's snout with floppy ears attached at the top. he looks at you expectantly with the bluest eyes you've ever seen, whining a little bit through what sounds like a gag of some sort.

simon's behind you, his big broad body blocking your retreat when you instinctually try to take a step backwards and away from the petplay enthusiast that's come to a skidding halt and kneeling at your feet. it's hard not to stare with wide eyes at the man in front of you. you're not anti-kink by any means, but, christ, some warning would've been nice, or at the very least a fucking consent check. still, you're not really in a position to argue. you can't afford to pay whatever simon's towing fee would be, seeing as you barely have enough for gas and food. too late to back out now, you suppose.

"you're right. your kennel fees would be enormous." you deadpan, and simon laughs behind you with a deep heh heh heh. a gloved hand presents a well-chewed rubber ball from over your shoulder.

"muzzle will stay on, but 'e can still fetch. it's 'is favorite game, so it should keep 'im occupied for a while. i'll bring lunch f'ya both 'round one." he says as you take the ball, noting the deep toothmarks that are suddenly very obviously human. "be good, soap. remember- no 'umpin' or nothin'. i'll let 'er 'ose you down with cold water if you can't behave."

it's wild how much his threat to soap makes you relax. ok, so this isn't a sex thing, really. he just wants someone to treat his boyfriend (you assume) like a dog while he gets some work done. outsourcing what seems to be a 24/7 lifestyle thing to a desperate traveler. it's still jarring, this nearly naked man in fetish gear loudly panting through a leather mask at your feet, but, hey. you've been to pride before, it's nothing you haven't seen. it's nothing you've ever participated in, either, but you suppose new beginnings will bring about new experiences. you'll just treat this man exactly like a dog for a while and maybe you'll be able to get back on the road soon.

"i'm sure i won't need to do that, he looks like a very good boy." you coo down at soap, who wiggles his hips so hard it makes the rubber tail go whap whap whap against his asscheeks. you really, really don't want to think too hard about how that tail's connected. simon chuckles and pats you on the shoulder.

"that's the spirit. i'll be in the office, let me know if 'e acts up or if you need anythin'." he says before stalking off back through the maze of rust, leaving you alone with soap.

"so." you start awkwardly, and soap huffs out a laugh from behind his leather snout. "hey! just gimme a second, ok? i was expecting a mean pitbull or something, not-" you pause. best to just keep treating him like a dog. "-such a handsome, nice boy. so sue me for being startled."

soap's eyes crease in the corner, an obvious smile, and when you absentmindedly toss the ball a little and catch it his attention snaps to the chewed-upon red rubber.

"can you show me somewhere that i can throw this? this, uh, lane isn't long enough for me to really chuck this, i don't think." genuinely it's amazing this man's impeccably bronzed skin isn't cut to shit, what with all the jagged metal sticking out of columns of ruined cars and appliances. soap's scrambling back to where he came from like a bat out of hell, and you find yourself jogging a little to try to keep up and not lose him.

he leads you to the fenceline, a long open lane that leads right up to the building, with a lawn chair propped up next to a very large dog house in the shade.

"think simon'll be mad if i borrow his chair?" you ask the gagged man that's hopping up on his knees trying to get the ball from your hand.

"mmrf mmmrf!" he 'barks', and you laugh.

"that a no?" you tease, eyebrow cocked as you hold the ball above your head.

"mmrf!" ah. one for yes, and two for no. or it might be the other way around. hm. ah, well, you figure a loyal dog will let you know if you've crossed a line sitting in his owner's spot. you chuck the ball towards the house as you wander towards the shade, laughing as soap scrambles to try to catch the ball, watching him scoop it up with his paws and open the 'jaw' of his leather mask, placing the ball snugly inside before trotting up to you, head held up with pride. the second you try to take the ball, he dodges, clearly in a playful mood as he rests on his forearms and wags his ass in the air.

"oh, you little shit." you laugh as you try to catch the wiley motherfucker to pry the ball out of his muzzle. soap seems thrilled that you're playing along, trying to duck and weave out of your arms reach while you urge him to 'drop it, soap! drop iiiiit!'. when you finally grab the ball and chuck it again, he shoots off after it, moving much faster than someone on their hands and knees should be able to. you post up in the lawn chair, happily accepting the ball that he thankfully chooses to deposit in your lap. your hand hovers over his head as you debate giving him pets. is that crossing a line? you should probably ask him first, right?

"you want head scritches? is it ok to pet?" you ask in a sing-songy voice you reserve for animals and babies too small to make words yet. soap's eyes go wide a minute before you get an affirmative and enthusiastic 'mrrrf'. you slide your fingers under the strap, massaging at the scalp there while you watch his eyes slide closed out of bliss. you wouldn't know for sure, but you'll bet it feels every bit as good as when you get a backrub underneath your bra strap. you can't help but laugh as soap's leg kicks out just like a dog's, thudding against the ground and kicking up dust.

it's funny, really. sitting here in this scrapyard with a half naked man who's pretending to be a dog while enjoying the shade on a warm and sunny day is the nicest time you've had in a good, long while. it sure beats the shit out of any day spent under phil's roof, that's for damn sure. you throw the ball a few more times, and eventually soap seems to get tired from all the fetch and flops down at your feet, sighing contentedly. you hover your hand over his chest, raising your brow in a silent question- is this ok? am i taking it too far if i pet your chest like a dog?

soap, bless him, seems thrilled at how much you're playing along, barking once as he rolls onto his back with his elbows, wrists, and knees bent, kicking his leg out again as you pet at his thick, dark chest hair, making sure to keep your touches all above the sternum. if soap gets hard, the head of his cock peeking out of his tiny little shorts while you gently card your nails through the dense patch of body hair, you politely ignore it, chalking it up to involuntary bodily reactions.

"y'gonna spoil 'im if you keep carryin' on like that." simon's voice comes from seemingly out of nowhere, and, shit, is it one already? you retract your hand like soap's scalded you, immediately standing to get out of simon's seat. soap whines a little in disappointment at the lack of your touch, rolling back onto hands and knees to nuzzle against simon's muscular thigh.

"sorry, i-" a single gloved hand in the air stops your hurried apologies as he hands you a brown paper bag.

"don't fuss, you're olright. johnny bein' good?" johnny? oh. yeah. of course this grown man crawling at your feet doesn't have 'soap' written on his birth certificate. you open the offered bag and find a sandwich- turkey on rye- and a cold can of coke. hell yeah, that sounds perfect.

"yeah, he's a good boy. and, uh, thanks." you raise the lunchbag slightly, and simon grunts in acknowledgement, leaning down to pet soap behind his leather ears. "i can see what you meant, he's got a lot of energy. you might as well build him a giant hamster wheel to run on, just watching him go after that ball makes me tired."

simon huffs out a laugh. "well, thanks t'you i've gotten more work done than i 'ave in a good long while. 'preciate it. i'll call the mechanic after lunch and make an appointment for 'im to come take a look at that van of yours."

"sounds good." you sit tentatively back in the lawn chair, putting your soda in the faded plastic cupholder built into the arm and cracking it open.

"think you can 'andle a few more days of keepin' my boy busy? not sure when price will be able to come by. only mechanic f'miles, 'e's got a full calendar, even with 'is employees 'elp." simon says, unbuckling something on soap's mask. it's not until he pulls it free that you can recognize it for what it is- a bone-shaped rubber gag, covered in drool. you have to blink twice to stop from staring at how chewed up it is.

"yeah, i think so. i think we've had a pretty nice morning together, huh boy?" you ask, and soap just wiggles his ass in an approximation of a wag, audibly panting through his mask.

"you like your new friend? yeah? olright, c'mon. gotta feed the both of us. you stay out 'ere and knock on the window if ya need anythin'." simon instructs while he and soap head back towards the door. it takes a few moments alone and a bite of your sandwich before you piece together that neither of them can eat in a mask, and that you're probably not allowed to see either of them without one. maybe the mask is a kink thing for simon too? ok, sure, that's the most reasonable explanation. they're also probably gonna fuck about this, but that's definitely not your business.

your sandwich and soda are long gone by the time soap trots back to you alone, flopping into the dirt by your side and clearly angling for more chest rubs. you hesitate for a moment, wondering to yourself if you're willing to give him another boner, but you figure simon's probably taken care of him during their lunch, that you don't have anything to worry about. the rest of the afternoon is spent alternating between gently petting at him above the waist, throwing the damn ball, wrestling the damn ball back from him, and idly telling him stories about back when you were allowed to have a job. he seems to enjoy the tales of crazy customers, funny things children would blurt out at you, and small acts of kindness you'd witnessed. when the sun starts to set, soap bumps his head against your knee, an obvious 'get up, go on' if you've ever seen one.

"didn't realize you were a herding breed." you mock-grouse, earning you a huff of laugher from inside a hollow leather snout. he leads you through the maze of twisted steel to the back door, pawing at the dense wood and obviously waiting for you to let him inside.

"hang on, hang on," you tell him as you poke your head in. "uh, simon? soap wants let in, is that okay?"

the groan of a chair sliding on linolieum is your response, and in a few beats simon's masked face greets you.

"impatient mutt. gonna eat in the kennel, then? is that wot you want?" simon chides, and you can't help but feel like you're the one that fucked up somehow. "go on, then. get going."

soap scrambles in past his legs towards the front of the shop, out to where you'd seen his metal crate. you're left standing awkwardly at the door, feeling bashful for having apparently broken a rule you didn't know about. simon notices the way your shoulders are raised, the way you're caving in on yourself, just the same way you did when phil would scream and throw things. unlike phil, he seems to grin at you under his mask, apparently pleased.

"oh, sweet girl, you duckin' your 'ead because you think you're in trouble, too?" simon coos at you, reaching out and rubbing his thumb against your round cheek. "you're a right side more obedient than my johnny, i think. you'd make a proper puppy, wouldn't you?"

"not my scene." you say quietly, and he exhales a small laugh.

"pity, that." he says softly, stroking your face and staring into your eyes for a beat before continuing. "come on, lets get you both fed."

he turns on his heel and steps inside, leaving you stunned and bewildered at the doorway for a moment before you cautiuously venture back in. there's a mostly-finished plate of meat and veggies at the table, and you can hear simon talking to soap through the door, chiding him for being a 'greedy pup' over the sounds of silverware scraping off food from a plate. you just stand in the kitchen awkwardly, waiting to be told what to do in this man's home. you're still a stranger to him, really, and you don't want to overstep while in his space.

when simon returns, he chuckles to see you waiting with your hands held behind your back, patiently waiting for his instructions. he nods to the empty spot at the kitchen table.

"sit."

your obedience is practically instant. you settle into the chair and watch as simon plates your own serving of chicken and steamed veggies, the smell of which makes you hungry. the chicken looks under seasoned as fuck, but, hey, free food is free food, and you're not about to say or do anything to fall out of the good graces of someone who's willing to pay your mechanic's bill in exchange for you throwing a rubber ball for his boyfriend.

"called price, the mechanic. 'e's booked up for a while but should be 'ere by the end of next week. went ahead and moved your van to the back, keep it from gettin' broken into at night." simon informs you as he sets down your plate and silverware with a small clatter on the table. that's a much larger timetable than you'd wanted, but you suppose it can't be helped.

"thank you. for everything." you tell him for the second time today, and those dark eyes smile at you from across the table.

"obedient and grateful. sure you don't want to be a pet, pet? i'd treat ya real nice, just ask soap. lad's got no complaints." dark eyes look you up and down as he sets down a glass of water for you, pausing briefly on your soft tits before his gaze meets your again.

"that might just be the gag." you tease, and you jump a little when simon suddenly lets out a laugh.

"that thing don't stop 'im none. should've 'eard all the bitchin' and moanin' i got this mornin' after breakfast when i told 'im not to 'ump your leg. you'dve thought i'd told 'im that 'e was gettin' fixed." simon teases, and you feel your face heat with embarrassment as you eat your bland chicken, keeping your gaze down at your plate. you eat in silence, simon watching you like a hawk the entire time, like he's studying the way you sit, the way you eat, the way you conduct yourself. he takes your plate away along with his own when you finish, placing them in the sink.

"you'll stay in 'ere with me from now on. need some proper rest on a proper bed if you're goin' t'keep up with soap all week. " he tells you, tone brooking no argument, and you glance nervously at the bed in the corner. it looks like a king size mattress, so it's probably big enough for your wide hips and his broad shoulders... but what about soap?

"does soap normally sleep out there, or am i gonna be taking up his spot?" you ask quietly, nodding towards the door that leads to the lobby.

"normally 'is crate's in 'ere, but 'e'd been actin' up lately and needed punishment." simon replies while rinsing the dishes, tilting his head to look over at you. "you said 'e was good today, right? think 'e should come back in 'ere tonight?"

"he was good, but. well. that's your call, not mine." you say diplomatically, doing your best to be as unobtrusive and unassuming as possible. after years with phil, you've perfected it like an artform.

simon hums, sounding very pleased. "too right, it is. still, if the pup's been good, may as well reward 'im."

he shakes his hands dry over the sink, and saunters over to the door, calling out to soap.

"oi. bird says you were a good pup today. you think you've earned sleepin' in 'ere with us people?" a single, clear bark rings out from the next room. "olright. finish up and bring it in, then."

the door swings closed of it's own accord when he steps away and back towards you, leaning in close enough for you to finally notice how blonde his eyelashes are. huh. maybe he's a ginger under that mask.

"now, as much as we'd both like, s'not safe to 'ave 'im masked and gagged oll the time. you just keep treatin' 'im the way you 'ave been, and no starin', yeah?" simon instructs, voice lowered as if the man that's noisily dragging a metal cage across a concrete floor in the next room could possibly overhear him.

"your house, your rules." you reply quietly, earning you another deep, pleased hum.

"you sure you don't want to be my pup? wouldn't even make ya stay in a kennel at night. bet i wouldn't need t'punish ya at oll. think you like bein' good. y'wanna be good f'me?" he rests his forehead against yours, his cotton-covered nose bumping against the side of yours.

"my knees hurt just watching soap run around all day. i don't think i'm cut out for it." you say as lightly as possible, shoving your hands under your thighs to try to hide the way they're trembling under simon's attention. "besides, you have him, you don't need me-"

"sure i do, love. need ya t'keep soap actin' right, don't i? s'pose you've got a point, though. you're a nice, obedient bird, but i can't 'ave puppies lookin' after puppies, can i?" a loud crash and yelp from the next room elicits a sigh and an eyeroll from simon before he stands back up to his full height, finally giving you some breathing room. fuck, you can feel your heartbeat in your throat. jesus christ, was he hitting on you? while his boyfriend loses a fight with a metal cage in the next room? what's even harder to reconcile is that you liked it, the way this man praises you and pays attention to you. continuing to stay here is probably a bad idea... but, shit, it's not like you have other options. on weak knees you follow simon to the lobby, where soap's crouching down, trying to push a turned-over pet cage with his shoulder.

"can i help?" you ask from behind simon, who turns to wrap his arm around your shoulders. you freeze, uncertain, but when you look to soap, he seems thrilled that his boyfriend (or whatever the fuck they are to each other) is holding you close.

it's almost jarring, seeing soap without his dog mask. he's a handsome guy, with a slightly grown out mohawk and stubble. his strong jaw is marked with a scar that looks like lightning arcing across his chin, and when he turns his head you can see another mark that had been hidden by his mask, a giant star made of scar tissue by his temple. it's huge and ugly, and whatever left it must've been horrifying. you school your face into a less pitying expression, opting to focus instead on how pretty the rest of him is.

"wot a lovely new friend you've got, johnny. offerin' to 'elp you out when she's olready looked after you oll day. a right angel, this one. wot do you say to the pretty girl?" simon's praise washes over you like a warm bath, making you feel golden and glowing underneath your ribs. he doesn't strike you as a particularly easy man to please, if the way he speaks to and about soap is any indication.

"thank ye, pretty girl." soap says, his first human words made even lovelier by his scottish accent.

"of course. this isn't a job for puppies, is it? can't move it with your puppy paws, huh? i'll grab the cage and you be a good boy and just show me where to put it." you coo down at him, and when he smiles at you it's like all of him lights up like a firework as he nods feverishly. the cage isn't heavy, just big and awkward, but you manage to get it tucked into the corner soap points at with his nose with minimal cursing and grunting while simon supervises the both of you from his spot leaning against the door frame.

"there we go, right where it belongs. what a good helper! suchagoodpuppy!" you praise soap, ruffling his mohawk in an approximation of a pat to the head. he looks so pleased to be spoken to this way, treated like the puppy he wants to be. honestly, you're starting to understand the appeal from simon's end of it. puppy play might not be your kink, but seeing this beautiful man smile at you like you're personally responsible for hanging the stars in the sky might be.

simon's arm wraps around you again, this time slung low across your lower back, his hand resting on your big hip. he's getting bolder now, unless you say or do something, you imagine things will only escalate... but you're not sure if you mind. sure, this maybe isn't normally your scene, but these guys have been nothing but kind to you, taking care of you when you needed it most. would it be so horrible to let yourself enjoy them like that? to let them enjoy you?

"startin' to get offended, johnny. you behave for 'er much more than you do f'me." simon teases, eyes smiling.

"she's so good t'me, sir. plays with me as long as i want. talks sweet to me and pets me nice." soap smiles warmly up at you from his spot on the floor, and you can't help but smile softly back.

"yeah? she pet your belly 'ow you like?" simon asks, fingers kneading at the plushness of your hip almost absentmindedly, thumb strumming along your waistband.

"no. doesnae touch me below the ribs." soap looks and sounds a little pouty about it, and you don't know why but it makes you feel embarrassed to have them talk about how you touch soap as if you're not even here.

"because she knows you belong to me." simon's free hand reaches over and tilts your head up to look at him. "isn't that right? you don't play with other people's toys without permission, because you're a polite bird."

"i try to be." your voice sounds so small, and simon rumbles a low, pleased sounding laugh at you before gently chucking your chin and patting your ass.

"come on, you two. on the bed. got a movie for us before we sleep." simon instructs before nodding to you. "go get your sleep clothes and toothbrush out of the van while we set up 'ere."

a motion detecting floodlight illuminates the scrapyard when you wander back out, throwing long, dark shadows behind the piles of rusting metal as you make your way to where simon had towed your shitbox nissan just a few yards from the door. it takes a little digging before you find your sleep shorts, tank top, and toothbrush, and you change quickly in the van before coming back in to see the small pile of pillows on the bed rearranged and that soap's changed, too. gone are the paw gloves, kneepads, speedo and tail, and it strikes you as almost weird how normal he looks in just paw print boxers.

"go brush your teeth and we'll get started." simon's voice comes from behind you, startling you briefly. your hand flies to your chest as you gasp and wheel around, and you can't help but laugh at how silly your response is. it's just simon, nothing bad or scary. not like phil. he's in grey sweats, a plain shirt, and his balaclava, thus solidifying your 'his mask is a kink' theory in your mind. why the fuck else would he wear it to bed, right?

"for a big guy, you sure move quiet." you chuckle as you pass him to head to the small bathroom just off the kitchen. it's hard to say why, but the heh heh heh of his low laughter behind you makes your hair stand on end. when you come back from brushing your teeth, simon is sitting on the bed with soap tucked into his side. they look so cozy together, you feel a little awkward intruding. soap perks back up at the sight of you, not unlike a terrier, and pats the empty space on the mattress next to him.

"c'mere, hen. give us a cuddle." he looks so excited to be snuggled between you and simon, who are you to say no? as soon as you're sat down soap squirms to reposition himself so his head is against your shoulder and his leg is thrown over simon's, somehow leaning against both of you at the same time. you and simon make amused eye contact over his head, and you can't help but relish in the pleased sounding hum you earn as you gently scritch at soap's scalp. it's been so long since a man's been pleased with you, let alone two. you'd forgotten how heady it is, being liked and appreciated.

the movie starts, and it's one of the old godzilla flicks from the fifties. it's pretty enjoyable, and it reminds you of how much you prefer practical effects over cgi. every now and again soap readjusts himself, slowly sliding further and further down until his face is pressed against your chest. he's not sly, it was obvious from the get-go that this is where this was headed, and you can't help but roll your eyes in good humor as he nuzzles against you slightly.

"soap. be good." simon warns sternly, the tone of his voice making the smaller man freeze and glance up at you apologetically.

"sorry, bonnie. yer just so soft, ye ken? feels nice to snuggle up on." he rolls a little more towards you, rubbing his hand across your wide, soft stomach in gentle circles as a man in a rubber lizard suit smashes cardboard tokyo on the screen.

"i'm ok with it if simon is. it feels nice." you say softly, deferring to the obvious shot-caller. you're not lying, it really does feel nice to be wanted like this and not scrutinized and picked apart the way phil did. he only ever touched you to either hurt you, fuck you so hard it hurt, or to point out shit to hurt your feelings. being touched because you're being actively enjoyed as you are, big soft belly, stretchmarked tits and all? that's a novel thing for you. it's been a while since anyone's touched you like this, and you can't help but hope simon lets you keep this for just a bit longer.

soap's head whips around comically fast, his doglike pleading whine making you laugh. simon nods his head in chuckling approval once, and soap's face is shoved right against your tits with a pleased sigh, the impact of his face slamming back into you making you sway with a surprised laugh.

the movie continues, and by the end you and soap are turned towards each other, the side of his face pressed against your chest while you stroke your fingers through his chest hair, still not daring to go any lower than that. it's not like you'd need to, you can see the obvious tent in soap's boxers. simon grabs the remote and turns off the tv before curling himself around soap's back, hooking his masked chin on his pup's shoulder, rubbing his big hand on a hairy lower belly.

"isn't she nice, johnny? think we got lucky, 'avin' a sweet bird like 'er land in our laps." simon murmurs right into his ear, his dark eyes fixed on you in a way that makes you want to squirm.

"real sweet, sir, and a bonnie lass, too. soft as a lamb." soap nuzzles against you, eyes closed and losing himself in the sensation of trying to bury his face in your tits again.

"we like t'reward sweet 'round 'ere, don't we?" simon coos, and suddenly the room is much, much warmer. your face heats as you try to ignore the needy feeling between your legs.

"aye. can i do it, sir? cannae stand it anymore, need to taste her." soap whines against your skin, speaking about you like you're not even there. for some reason that you don't care to think too hard about, it makes you shudder, breath stuttering out as you clench your thighs.

"wot you say, sweet'eart? you want soap to give you your reward f'bein' so good?" simon's hand moves from soap's belly to your hip, grazing over the tender skin right above your shorts.

you shouldn't. everything in your logical brain screams you shouldn't. it's a bad, bad, bad idea, taking up with two of the strangest strangers you've ever met, especially right when you've just escaped a heinously controlling relationship. however, logic is the last thing you're concerned about, what with these two broad-shouldered men chomping at the bit to 'reward' you while they touch you gently and tell you how good and sweet and bonnie you are.

"please?" you whisper, and no sooner is the word out of your mouth than simon is scruffing soap by the hair on the back of his head, yanking him back away from you.

"you behave yourself, pup. she's not one of your chewtoys. if i see ya gettin' rough with the pretty bird, i'll throw ya in the kennel for the night. got it?" he growls in soap's face, angling the other man's head back at a deeply uncomfortable looking angle.

"aye, aye, i'll be good, sir. promise." soap says eagerly, his wrists still bent as if he's got little paws instead of hands. simon stares down at him silently for a moment before he lets go, sitting up on the bed.

"come 'ere." simon instructs, patting the space between his legs and pulling your shoulders until your back is flush with his chest. "take those shorts off for johnny, and let 'im make up for being such a right pain in the arse oll day."

"you weren't a pain." you reassure soap, lifting your hips to slide your shorts and panties off in one go, running your fingers through the thick mohawk as he settles between your thighs. it feels like there's hands everywhere, caressing your thighs and hips on soap's end while simon reaches over to push your tank top down and play with your tits, murmuring low in your ear.

"you just keep your eyes on soap, no lookin' back at me." he tells you mere moments before you hear a swish of fabric and feel a nibble on your ear. the way soap's smile is directed over your shoulder, you have no doubt simon took his mask off behind you... so, not a kink thing? it's confusing. "get to work, pup. need 'er relaxed f'me."

soap wastes no time diving into your pussy like a starving man, licking long, broad stripes across your core and shoving two crooked fingers into your cunt, gently massaging you from the inside as he moans against you. you're soaked already, although it's hard to tell how much of it's your own creeping arousal from during the span of the evening, and how much is just soap's slobber. he's so thorough, making sure every inch of your pussy is laved with the attention of his talented tongue. you can feel electric heat between your legs grow and grow, travelling up your spine and spreading through your body. your toes start to twitch and your hips start to buck, and every roll of your nipples between rough fingers makes your back arch.

the wet sounds of soap licking and slurping against your cunt echo off the sparse bedroom walls, making the entire experience feel that much more lewd as simon sucks hickies onto your neck and shoulders, urging soap on while he pinches at your nipples.

"'ow's she taste?" simon asks, and soap pulls off your cunt with a loud, sucking pop that makes your hips jerk and eyes roll back.

"like heaven, sir. sweetest little cunt i've ever had." soap reports back, adding a third finger with a suddenness that makes you yelp and press back against simon.

"yeah? think maybe next time i'll lie you on your back and fuck 'er cunt right over your face, let you lick us both at once. you can clean 'er out afterwards." simon tells him, laughing when both you and soap moan at the thought of it. "you like that, bird? like that mutt's mouth on ya?"

"it's so- ah!- so good." you say breathlessly, which earns you a kiss to your temple. soap gets to work lavishing your clit with attention, sucking and licking at it like making you cum on his face is his life's entire purpose, making your hips buck against his mouth as your fingers dig in to the thick thighs bracketing you from behind.

"lookit you. bet your tits bounce real nice when you're gettin' properly fucked, eh? can't wait to see that." simon whispers into your ear before sucking on your earlobe, his hot breath against your face making you shudder even more. you're so close, so fucking close, all of the nerves in your body are buzzing under your skin and you can feel your muscles twitch even more. all of you is primed and ready for release, just a little more, a little further-

a large hand slides up to your throat, not squeezing but just holding, keeping you pinned against simon's chest as you start to buck and shake and pant while soap works his hips against the mattress, chasing his own release while working hard to give you yours.

"gonna cum, love? go on, softie. cum on 'is face, make a right mess of my boy." simon growls, rocking his hips so you feel his hard cock pressing against your back, and it's enough to push you over the edge. your legs shake as your eyes roll back, nails digging into simon's thighs, and it feels like fireworks are going off inside of you, bursting into color and sound while you whine and shake in simon's arms. the sound of your own blood pumping in your ears nearly drowns out the pleased little laugh coming from over your shoulder, and the hand around your throat moves across your body to hold you in a backwards hug as you come down.

soap, however, doesn't stop his ministrations between your legs even for a moment, and it's quickly too much too much too much. you try to pull back away from his face, gently pushing at his forehead to get him off of you while your brain still comes back online, but he's not having it. when you pull on his hair, he growls against your cunt, lashing out suddenly and biting at the inside of your thigh with bruising force. the pain and surprise makes you jerk back, holler, and slap at him, but before your palm can make contact with the side of his head, ghost's big hand is wrapped around the back of soap's neck, yanking him sideways until he falls off the bed entirely.

simon shoves at you hard to get out from behind you, and is on top of soap in a flash, yanking him by the hair and shoving him into the wire crate, locking him inside. the second you realize you're seeing the back of his head, blonde hair cropped uneavenly, you close your eyes tight, knowing simon doesn't want you to see him without his mask. if he's going to defend you from soap's teeth, the least you can do is respect his rules.

"fuckin' mutt. can't 'ave nice things with you around, can i?" simon growls with what sounds like a sharp kick to his cage and a whimper from soap.

"'m sorry, sir, i didnae mean it. didnae mean t'hurt our pretty bird-"

"our bird? no, johnny. you're all muddled up. she's not our bird, she's my bird, and i gave you the chance to be sweet to 'er and you fucked it right up, didn't you? like the dumb mutt you are. can't even apologize properly, can ya? tell my bird you're sorry." simon grits out through clenched teeth, and you blanche at his words. his bird? you've only been here a day, only let soap eat you out, and he's already staked a claim on you? an alarm goes off in your head so loud that you barely register soap's groveling apologies.

"i'm sorry, lass, ye just taste so good, didnae want tae stop, ye ken? donnae ken what got into me." soap pleads, and you feel the mattress dip down next to you.

"lookit 'er, soap. even when she's scared and 'urt she's a good girl, know's 'er rules and 'er place, don't she? only been 'ere a day and 'as it down better than you." simon praises, his voice much closer. you startle a little when you feel the press of thin lips against yours, but a warm, solid hand on the back of your neck soothes you instantly, making you feel grounded and safe. maybe it's ok, maybe simon didn't mean to be so instantly possessive. the way he's kissing you feels softer and sweeter than you'dve expected from him, maybe he's all bark and no bite when it comes to you. the kiss doesn't last long, and you feel a large body lean over your lap for a moment.

"can open your eyes now. you olright, love? let me see." simon says softly, kneeling on the mattress, mask back on his face as he gently touches your knee to urge your legs apart so he can get a better look at the throbbing bite. "skin's not broken, but it'll likely bruise."

"he scared me." you blurt out, voice a little watery from high emotions. you feel better seeing soap in the cage, but you're still on-edge. it's jarring to see a man as big as him cower and whimper like that, keeping his head low and shoulders tensed behind criss-crossed metal bars. clearly these boys play rough when it's just them, and you're not sure you want in the middle of all that. plus you're still not exactly sure how you feel about simon calling you 'his' so quickly. you want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but you're not sure he's earned that yet.

"of course 'e did, you're just a soft little dove that got caught in a fuckin' mongrel's teeth. 'ang on." simon gathers the three pillows on the bed, positioning them under you and gently pressing your shoulders to urge you to lie back on them. "there you go. i'm gonna make you feel oll better now, olright?"

he shoves down his sweatpants, pulling out a fat cock that looks roughly the circumference of a red bull. it's half-hard already, twitching in his hand in a valiant effort to defy gravity and it's own considerable weight.

"that- that's not gonna fit." you tell him, eyes wide and staring at the absolute weapon hanging between his legs.

"it'll fit, just might need some 'elp is oll." he reaches down over the far edge of the bed and brings up a half-empty bottle of lube, slicking himself up thoroughly as the smell of silicone starts to fill the room. soap whines from his kennel, and from your periphery you can see him humping at the pillow that's been laid in his cage.

"quiet, you, or i'll throw a sheet over your kennel and you'll only be able to listen." simon snarls at him, and soap pipes down immediately, still rutting away without a pause in his pace. when simon's attention returns to you, you feel pinned in place, like there's a giant spotlight on you. he cocks his head to the side, his hand still working over his thick shaft as his eyes rake over your body.

"i- i have an iud, and i don't have anything. you know. if you want to, uh." you stammer out, unsure what to say. simon chuckles, a deep rumbling sound that reminds you of thunder. the warning of an oncoming storm.

"good. me n' the pup 'ave a clean bill of 'ealth, that makes things simpler, don't it?" simon tells you as he knee walks between your thighs, notching the head of his cock against your entrance. "deep breath, love. let it out slow."

it's not hard to follow his instructions when the push of his cock into your body feels like it's pressing the air right out of your lungs like the plunger of a needle. as big as he looked, he feels even bigger. the stretch of your already sensitive pussy tap-dances on the line between 'delicious' and 'too much', making you moan as your eyes roll back.

"oh ho ho, sweet'eart, you've got a nice tight cunt 'ere. gonna be 'ard t'stay offa you, innit?" simon chuckles a little breathlessly when he bottoms out, and looks back over his shoulder at soap, who's whimpering like a dog in his kennel. "which one of us you wishin' you were right now, eh? me or 'er?"

"both." soap whines, and simon laughs as he rocks his hips at an even pace that's already making you dig your fingers into the sheets. thank fuck for lube, the drag of his fat cock in your cunt would be a lot less pleasurable without it, you're pretty sure.

"of course, greedy pup. olways wantin' everythin'." simon turns his attention back to you, speeding up his rhythm, making all of you juggle with the impact of his body against yours. "'e can't 'ave this perfect pussy, though. that's mine. mutt like 'im would just ruin it. fuck, love, you look so good wrigglin' on my cock."

he leans forward, one hand planted on the mattress, and gives you a dirty grind of his hips against your clit that has you gasping and groaning. fuck, it's been a hot minute since sex has felt good and not something to be put up with, like a way for someone to work out their anger against you. it's nice to be wanted, to be coveted like this. you roll your hips up to meet simon's, and he groans a little at your enthusiasm.

"enjoyin' yourself, bird?" he asks, and you can only nod your head as you pant and grind your clit against him when he bottoms out. "tell soap 'ow much you like it. go on, don't be shy. 'e wants t'know."

you feel your face heat up, sudden embarrassment catching up to you, and suddenly putting together words and sentences is the hardest it's ever been in your life.

"it- he's so big, soap. he's so fuck- ah!- fucking thick, i've never- i've never- ah, fuck! simon!" you whine as he rubs a large thumb over your clit. it's overwhelming, somehow even more so than when soap ate you out. simon's just so big, so imposing, and all you can do is wiggle your hips and take what he gives you as that warm thrum under your skin winds up again, making your brain slow and your tongue clumsy.

"go on, keep goin'. you've never what? tell us." simon taunts as his free hand runs up and down your body, squeezing at your tits, hip, and belly while he stares down at you, panting through his mask.

"i've never been fucked so well!" you blurt out. "please, simon, please make me cum on your cock! i wan- ah!- i want to so bad!" you blurt out, hiccupping and squirming while your brain melts out of your ears and onto the pile of pillows underneath you. there's something so deliciously dirty about it, about hearing soap whine and pant from his cage on the ground, being made to confess how much you like taking his boyfriend's cock while he only has a pillow to hump. guilt doesn't have the chance to set in before soap pipes up.

"oh, bonnie lass, ye just keep taking him so nice and i ken simon'll give ye everything ye want. pretty girl, love watching ye bounce while ye get fucked by his big fuckin' cock. wanna see him fuck ye from behind and make that big arse jiggle." soap babbles, and the sounds of his cage rocking and rattling gets louder as he speaks, clearly picking up the pace as he fucks his own bedding.

simon only responds by dropping his weight to his forearms, bracketing your head and trapping you underneath him as he really starts putting his back into it. there's something extra thrilling about the way he stares at you from behind his mask, his face forbidden from your eyes. beads of sweat roll down his arms and drip from his shoulders onto your skin, and somewhere in the back of your cock-addled brain, the desire to lick them up is only barely restrained from becoming action.

your orgasm slams into you, harder and more acute than you've ever experienced before. all of the tension in your body is flung out of you with a velocity that makes you sincerely doubt it'll ever come back. it hardly registers that the yell echoing through the studio apartment is yours, or the loud grunt from soap's kennel, or that simon's sitting back up on his knees and digging his fingers into your big soft hips, leaving divots in the fat as he slams into you hard as he chases his own orgasm.

"gonna fill you up." is all the warning you get before simon groans above you, his hold on you tightening to a bruising pressure before he pulls out with a grunt and flops onto the bed next to you, yanking a pillow out from under your head to take for himself. he rolls his mask up to his nose, and you only get a glimpse of a scarred jaw and thin lips before you instinctually dart your eyes away.

"holy shit." you breathe, staring at the ceiling and trying to get your bearings back after cumming the hardest you ever have in your life. thank god you don't have anywhere to be, walking is going to be impossible for the next fifteen minutes, minimum. simon just huffs out an amused laugh as he reaches over and cracks a window, fishing a cigarette out of a jacket that's crumpled on the floor and lighting up.

"you learn your lesson, mutt? if you behave next time, you'll get to play with 'er some more. no more bitin' the big soft bird, you 'ear? not your place to mark 'er up." simon says after a long exhale of smoke, ashing his cigarette in a mug propped on the windowsill behind him.

"yessir. sorry, bonnie." soap says, flipping his cum-covered pillow over so he can sleep, settling into his cage for the night.

"i forgive you, soap. i should know better than to bother hungry puppies when they're eating." you tease, and your heart flutters in delight when both men laugh softly in the dark.

"keep tellin' ya, you're gonna spoil 'im rotten." simon mutters, not unkindly, before you hear another sizzle of a drag on his cigarette.

"i'll make it up to you." you tell him, scooting away a bit to give him a little more room to lie down. it'd be rude to try to cuddle him, right? someone like him probably doesn't want that, not from a random hookup slash vagabond he's taken pity on. you curl up on the far end of the bed so as to give simon as much space as he wants before the sudden sound of his voice breaks the silence.

"wot you doin' oll the way over there? get over 'ere." a big hand pulls at your shoulder, not letting go until you're pressed up against his side. his arm curls around your shoulder possessively, holding you tight. "stick close, don't want you runnin' off before you make it up to me."

"m'not going anywhere." you say sleepily, your eyelids getting heavier as you feel yourself sink into the mattress. you hadn't even realized how tired you are until just now, and it feels like sinking deeper and deeper into dark and murky water, overwhelming your body as you slowly lose consciousness. your ears hear but your mind does not retain the words that simon says to you while you drift off with your head against his shoulder and his arm keeping you in place.

"too right, you aren't."

victory lap

“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day-old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch.  “an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—” “Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. His hackles raise on instinct, everything inside of him hissing to back away. “Got something else in mind.” Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture— And all his for the night. or: John strikes a deal with young Simon Riley. his cooperation on a team they're putting together in exchange for a night with you. naturally, it goes awry.

18+ SMUT. implied noncon, dubcon. under-negotiated kink. bondage. overstimulation. size difference. size kink. messy, sweaty gross sex. rough sex. unsafe sex. mean Simon. smitten Simon. bullydom!Simon. spit kink. degradation and humiliation. young!Simon (pre-mw2019-2022 when he was still a Seargent; 25-28ish). manipulation. attempts at taming a stray dog that goes as well as you'd expect.

It's John who takes his muzzle off.

Dangles the key on his finger when he kicks open the door, letting his Lieutenant glimpse what lay behind it. Giving a gruff, like what you see? when his eyes finally adjust to the low light flooding in.

It takes him half a second. Enough time to commit the scene in front of him to memory.

It's you, of course.

good dogs get rewards, don't they, Simon?

Waiting for him. Pretty as a picture in sleek silk chiffon ribboned in intricate shibari around your chest, stomach, and thighs. Legs spread on the table; ankles tied down to the sides in nude jute rope. Hands clasped together, fingers laced; wrists tied above your head. The blindfold wrapped around your head is a pale pink ribbon, thicker than the silk on your body. Wrapped twice over your eyes, and tied in a pretty bow behind your head, he imagines.

In the split of your thighs, he finds you already slick. Wet. It drips down onto the table, puddling beneath your ass. The spread of your pussy, glistening in the flushed light; the small, pink vibrator taped to your clit makes his cock twitch. 

"All for me?" He rasps, eyes fixed on your cunt. On how pretty it looks. How inviting. A soft, ripe peach offered in the heat of summer, and he wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into you. Her. "'ow sweet o'you."

And Price, he thinks, eyes slanting sideways as he glances at the man sliding into his chair. It stands to reason that this whole thing, you on a silver platter for a starving wolf, wouldn't have happened if he hadn't seen the look on Simon's face when you first met him. The hunger.

Simon's not stupid, of course. He knew you were off limits the moment Price put his paw on your nape, squeezing once. Owned, claimed. The intention, the message, clear. Mine.

Don't touch.

And the way you lit up, stammering out something about how good it was to meet him, told him everything he needed to know how your willingness to be shackled to his Captain.

But even so—

He couldn't take his eyes off of you.

(and in his intense cataloguing of everything you did, he couldn't help but notice how you kept touching your neck when Price was dragged away for a conversation leaving you all alone in a room rankled down his spine. almost as if you were reaching up to fix a collar—)

The memory alone makes him shudder.

"All yours, Simon," Price drawls from his perch on the throne. Between two fingers, a cigar sits, unlit. Ghost huffs.

The words are a vicious bite to the want pooling low in his belly. "That so?”

The room seems to shake when he steps inside. Floor creaking ominously under his weight. It makes your mouth drop, heavy breaths spilling out between dull teeth. Chest rising and sinking shallowly with a wild sort of nervousness that flits across the expanse of your cheeks, in the tremble of your lower lip. 

Despite your unease, your legs stay open. Held aloft by the rope, he knows, but also—

A testament to how trained you are. 

He prefers his pets wild. Unpolished. Vicious little things that he gets to bring to heel with a sharp bark and rough hand glued to the back of their skulls, pushing their head into the dirt, to the floor, where it belongs. 

Fine china broken at his feet. 

But you—

Manicured. Groomed to perfection. Save for the harsh breaths and the shake in your joints—both an indication of just how new you are at this. A novice. One slowly being crushed under the leather boot of a man who reeks of smoke and whiskey. 

But knowing his captain and the furious need for control, he imagines you're better than some of the seasoned ones he'd come across in his lifetime. No room for errors.

And certainly no forgiveness for them, either. 

His cock twitches again—a heavy, aching weight against his thigh—and he reaches down to cup the thickness of it, crushing the flesh in his palm to stave off the need burning in his loins. The urgency to sink inside of your pretty little cunt rewiring the part of him that likes to mess his pets up first. Ruin them before he takes them. Fucking them to the point of unconsciousness—and sometimes, beyond it. 

But you—

You've been a phantom taste in the back of his throat for months now. A tease between his teeth. Sinking his jowls into you is the only thing on his mind. 

And when you're offered up so enticingly—

Well. 

Price can't blame him much for how badly he's going to ruin you. 

He reaches out, fingers pressing cruelly into the slim, thumb-sized vibrator Price has locked against your clit. A mindless, incessant torture, he's sure. Pushing you over the edge on a constant, unrelenting loop. 

“Messy girl,” he rasps, the starchy fabric of the mask glueing to his balmy skin. 

The reprimand makes you flinch in shame, but the flutter of your cunt belies the contrition that drapes over your brow in a shallow mimicry of sorrow. He can see why Price latched onto you so quickly, and doesn't bother fighting the stab of envy that brims in his chest. 

“Didn't your old man ever teach you any manners?” He mocks, dry and derisively. Quietly amused by the soft mewl you let out, one that only just eclipses the snort from Price. “Daddy's been slackin’, ‘asn’t he? Let his little girl turn into a messy fuckin’ slag.” 

You try to close your legs to no avail, the rope keeping you spread. In part, he thinks, from shame—blistering, burning, and vibrant when it streaks across your face—but mostly from the slick gush that leaks out of your drenched pussy at his foul words. Trying to hide it from him. To keep him from knowing just how much the brassy roll of his ugly words makes your empty little cunt ache. 

“Look’it you.” He rumbles, enjoying the shiver in your joints. The way your head rolls to the side, nose pressed tight to the skin of your arm. “Messy pussy just achin’ to be fucked.”

He adds more pressure until you choke. The scream lodged in your throat. Your toes curl. He hears the soft pop of your joints when you arch your back like a cat in heat yowling for attending. 

“Want it bad, don't you?” He taunts. “Daddy must’a spoiled you too much—” another scoff from Price. The creak of leather. The clink of ice against glass. “Didn't teach you any manners—”

He wants you to beg. Wants to hear the peal of your voice—rough and ragged and begging him to sink inside you; fuck your little cunt until you can't walk anymore—but that's not what he's here for. Not why Price dragged him up to the room. Gave you to him. 

And with the silk gag in your mouth, he knows he won't get it, anyway. Tied in a pretty bow behind your head. Wet with your spit already. 

Simon's fingers slide down, dragging over the folds of your cunt. You're wet. Soaked. Drenched in a way he's never seen before; folds glistening. Thighs wet. Sticky. He licks his lips. Tastes the brine of his sweat. He wants to eat your pussy. Spread you wide on his tongue and make you beg Price to let Simon make you cum. 

The thought roots in his head. Burrowing deep. He can already hear your sweet voice pleading with his captain—please, please let him make me cum—but he pushes it down when Price makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. 

He knows why he's here. 

And wonders, then, when he steps back and drops his hands to the button on his trousers, how many times you've been punished like this. The thought is a sour smoulder in the back of his head. An ugly, foul thing unfurled over the soot-stained walls of his skull. 

(he'll ask later. get the names of every man Price let see you like this, and pluck the memory of you right from their skull—)

“So needy,” he drawls, dragging his cock out of his slacks as they fall low on his thighs. “Even after this pussy’s been spoiled so much?”

It makes you keen, and the noise is a searing knife to his guts. He groans with it—low and rough, the noise scraping over the flesh of his throat until it hurts. 

“Gonna have to punish you, ain't I? Needy fuckin' thing—” so he says, but his cock is just as sticky as your thighs, weeping a steady stream of pre-cum that pools in the tangle of hair at the base, dusting over his heavy, fat balls. 

He shuffles closer, and reaches out to your knee, slipping his fingers behind your shin. The squeal of naked flesh against the metal tabletop shouldn't make him throb but it does. Cruel man, he thinks, and drinks in the way you wince. 

He presses his cock against your slit, mouth dropping in a harsh pant when he takes in the hideous sight it makes. Your pussy is covered up by his girth. The tip of his cock bobbing over your belly button, dripping pre-cum into the divot. 

Simon pulls his hips back, letting his cock glide over your silken flesh. The wet squelch it makes when he thrusts forward, cockhead tapping on your belly, has him grunting like an animal. It's obscene, this. The way he can't even see your folds over the wide spread of his cock. Pussy tucked neatly under him. 

He can't even begin to imagine how you'll take the full length of him inside of you when his cock nudges past your belly button when he lets his balls rest on your molten slit. Poor thing. 

He doesn't know if Price stretched you before this. Got you ready for him. But the man makes no move to intervene when Simon pulls back until his head slips down your seam, bracketed between your plush, swollen folds, tight against your entrance. All he has to do is—

Push

And the tip of his cock slips in. 

You make another noise at the sting, and he thinks you might be crying but his eyes are riveted to the spot where you open for him. Pussy so small, so tiny, compared to his cock in a way that's sickening. Garish. But your little cunt drools on him. Rim fluttering like a heartbeat on his glands, pulling him deeper. Enticing him to sink inside. All the way. Until he can feel the hitch of your breath on his cock. 

He leans back to get a better view, the motion forcing another inch inside of you. The noise is slick. Giving as your silken flesh parts around him, eagerly taking him in. But as wet as you are, as pliant, the stretch is unbearable. It chokes the air from his lungs when you tighten up around him—

“Fuckin' hell—” he snaps, his upper lip curling up beneath the mask. Your cunt makes him angry. Suddenly, viciously. The fury drips down his spine, pools at the base of his cock. His hand slips out from between your thighs, roughly grabbing your waist. Holding on tight as he jerks his hips harshly against you. 

You feel good. Perfect. Wrapped snugly around him. A hot, wet embrace. And he huffs at the bitterness that clots in his lungs; the surge of pleasure so blisteringly intense, it nearly makes him gag. Makes him sick. 

Price has this every night. 

The thought alone is a poison. It needles in deep, lashing at him with foul, rabid teeth. Cruelly, he pushes deeper, sinking his cock in another inch, another, another—mindless in this pursuit to tear you apart well before you're ready for it. 

He wants it to burn. To ache. Wants to be the worst fuck you've ever had; cock too big for you to take, but he feeds it to you in full. Gives you all of it. Every inch. Until your stomach churns with every press of his cockhead against your cervix, his glands sliding over that spot inside that makes your knee jerk and your eyes roll. 

Wants you to remember him as a beast. To think of his cock and feel nauseous. 

To sink deep inside of you—brutal and savage—until you can still feel him in your pussy for days. Each step causing a sharp pang in your lower belly. 

It's awful, he knows. Terrible. But he forces himself into you anyway, feeling your flesh split around him. A blunt, unyielding pressure until his balls tap against your ass, pussy spasming around the fat length he punishes you with. He's sure he's deeper inside of you than anything—any man, cheap silicon—has ever dreamed of being. Kissing places in you that nothing has ever touched. Feels it in the nervous flit of your muscles pulsing around him—this foreign thing bludgeoning into uncharted territory, stretching you wide. Almost virginal all over again. It makes him groan. 

Your pleasure is a muted ripple down his spine. The vibrator forcing you into enjoying the sharp sting of your rim pulled taut around the plug of his cock, skin blanching from the strain. He wants to stay just like this—grinding his hips into the backs of your spread thighs, cockhead chiselling into the molten seal of your womb with every gyration until the line between pleasure and pain begins to blur. Until you gag from how badly having your walls battered burns, hurts, but the bloom of pleasure deep inside your groin keeps you in place. Makes you arch your back, wanting more. 

Desperate for it. 

But this isn't what Price wants, is it? 

No—

He voices his impatience with a muffled grunt. Get on with it, Simon is pinched out between the silver of space between his teeth, the butt of a burning cigar keeping his jaw unhinged. The heady, sour-sweet stench of smouldering tobacco, nicotine, staining the words. 

You clench at the sound of Price's voice, pretty pussy drawing all tight around him. Perfectly trained. Sweet thing, he thinks, pulling out of you slowly. Just a few inches. Feeling your skin glue his; the glide of your walls over his shaft sickeningly good, nauseatingly so. He holds it for a moment, staring down at you through the eye holes of his mask, breathing heavily. Sweat drenches his skin. Tacky, hot. The starchy fabric clings to his flesh, peeling away each time he moves his head. 

The exertion of fucking his cock into you shows through the muted pulse of his joints, muscles aching from the strain of pushing forward. 

(Holding himself back.)

You blink at him blearily, eyes misted with tears. A smaller puddle sits on the table near your temples. 

Up close, he can see the full detail of the intricate shibari binding you tight. The sleek pink ribbon weaving over your chest, your breast, stomach—hishi karada, Price said. At the base of your neck is more silk in a mockery of a collar. And he wonders if you miss it, then. The solid weight of leather on your skin. If your hands weren't tied up, he imagines they'd be there. Holding firm. 

Just like the night he first met you. 

The silk rope, the loss of your collar—

“Your dad's a cruel man, ain't he?” He mocks, sliding his fingers over the delicate trim of silk bound tight under your heaving breasts, peppering across your nipple, down the slope. Resting at the base of your throat. The thin slip of fabric is not enough to give you what you need. The pressure, the friction. The sense of being owned. “Didn't even give his little girl a collar.” 

More of that tantalising shame rake over your expression. Tears dribble out in hot drops, spilling down the side of your face. 

He hums, slips this fragility into his back pocket. “Want me to give it to you, little girl?” 

He spits the words out like they're wrong. Awful. Takes in your flinch, the downward twist to your lips, and shoves that, too, into his pocket. 

Simon has no intention of waiting for an answer, for permission—he reels back, hand still splayed wide over your sternum, and pulls his cock out more until only the flare of his glands peaks out. He's soaked—glistening with your slick. So wet that it drips out of your plugged hole, gliding down the cleft of your ass. 

He wonders if you always get like this—

Bites that thought clean through with an angry groan, and pries his fingers out from the back of your knee, dragging them to the end of his mask. Rucking it up over his skin, bunched against the bridge of his nose. 

If the mess of his mouth, chin, the crooked, angular slope of his nose horrifies you at all, you don't let it show. Content to quietly sob on the table, eyes flickering between the thick plug of his cock between your thighs and the Price. 

He hates you, he thinks. And then he spits on your pretty pussy, right over your taut rim. Watches the foamy mess bubble, drip down to the skin behind his mushroomed head. When it pools there, he pulls back until the widened flare of his glands slips free. You whine—a noise of bright hot disgust, humiliation—and he lets it burrow under his skin, trickle down his spine. Then he pushes forward, popping the head back inside of you. 

The spit—his spit, too. 

And he does it again. The same thing. Pulling out, spitting. Feeding it to her. Letting it rub against the slick, wet (wetter now) walls of her cunt. 

Price doesn't say anything about this claim. Schoolboy possession—childish and immature when you're used to fine leather gripping tight around the slope of your neck.

Still. 

He pulls on your proverbial braids until it burns. 

The hum of the vibrator takes some of the sting away when he shoves inside of you again, cockhead bullying into your cervix with an unmatched cruelty. Leaking slick, steady, over your seal. Drooling, thick and viscous, against your walls. Staining you. 

Ruining you.

Each breath is punched out when he bottoms out. Forced from your lungs. Winded. He knows it hurts almost as much as the thick bludgeon of his cock pressing deep, but as he scrapes and claws at the rot concealing over his humanity, morality, he finds nothing inside of him left to care. 

He stops looking. Stops searching. 

Simon fucks into you with vigor instead, laughing mockingly at the lewd, sinful squelch of your cunt. “Think that's the sound of all my spit, birdie? Or is your sloppy little cunt always this fuckin’ messy?”

Each piston makes his pelvis slap into the vibrator; he can feel it through the tangle of coarse hair spooled above his cock. Buzzing incessantly against his skin. The spike of sharp pressure has you yowling beneath him, hips twisting, turning, trying to flee from the brutal onslaught. Pleasure and pain balancing on a knife's edge. 

He holds you there. Dangles you above the precipice just because he can—

A lazy flick of his waist. The savage grind of his hips. The softened bulge of his lower belly tapping against the plastic toy—

And it breaks you. This careless, effortless attention he pays to you has you tightening up around him like a knot, a vice; cunt squeezing, squeezing, before you shatter. Wave against a cliff; you spasm on his cock in a series of shallow, tight throbs pulsing along to the rapid fire of your heartbeat. 

His eyes are locked on your face. Pretty, lachrymal. Tears bleed down your temples, soaking into your hairline. Puddling underneath. 

His own little sea of your miserable pleasure. 

Eyes rolled into the back of your head. Toes curling. Hips jerking, twisting. Trying to run from the ugly, awful way he makes you cum. Makes you gorge yourself on pleasure. Force-feeding you pain with each sloppy, brutal thrust into your sopping, messy cunt—swollen, bruised; battered. And his—

—ice clinks against glass. A clicking swallow follows. The hollow thud of glass on wood. Scraping over the veneer as it's pushed back into place. Tobacco is chewed up by flames, popping and sizzling; smoldering with each inhale as the playwright watches the show he weaved together unfold—

—his. 

The silk around your neck comes loose with each thrash of your head rolling from side to side, shaking with quick, successive no, no, no’s that go unheeded, ignored. Every animalistic rut of his hips makes you change your mind, anyway. Turning those devastating no’s to yeses so eager, your teeth clack with every thrust. 

As it slips, sliding down the sweat-slicked column of your arched throat, he finds a stripe of red. A scab. Right at the knot where your collar would sit. A pretty gem in the middle. Your name, or maybe something that would amuse Price more than the perceived idea of your autonomy—bitch in glinting gold. His name and number etched into the back. 

if found, return to John Price. 

A foldhold, perhaps. Tailor-made for his boot. 

He hunts, Simon knows. Walked in reeking of leather and smoke when they first met and casually mentioned how good he was at Big Game hunting. A threat, then—however thinly veiled and erring on the side of mordant humour it was. But he wonders if Price personally made the collar you mourned the night he swung you into Simon's path. 

Your neck was bare, then. Blemishless. 

A collar too small. Tightened too much. Punishment, he supposes, and feels a sick sense of satisfaction roll down from his nape to the bottom of his spine where it pools in his groin—hot, molten oil—as he wonders just how much convincing it took you to agree to this. To spread your pretty legs for the ugly brute Price dangled you in front of. Who watched you all night from the corner of the room, chest heaving and eyes wide, wild, and furious. Reeking of rot. Want. To let him rut you like an animal while Price watches from the corner of the room—

A bead of sweat follows the phantom trail. 

“Fuck, birdie,” he's rasping, voice uttered wrecked. Mangled in his throat. “So fuckin’ tight f’me, ain't you? Must want me to cum inside this pretty cunt—”

You shiver. Knee jerking. There's a real sense of panic in your eyes when they dart over to Price, silently nursing another glass of scotch. He follows your gaze, catches Price glaring at him with his chin dipped low to his chest, peering out through his lashes. Brow furrowed. A flat line. 

Simon doesn't stop thrusting. Keeps a steady pace despite the anger brimming inside of him as the pleasure grows. Festers. 

Then—

Barely discernible: a nod. 

Shadows fall over his cheeks. He brings the glass back to his mouth with a surly mm between the mouthful. An irrevocable fuckin' get on with it. 

And Simon does.

The look he gives you pure predatory hunger. Victory in the potent stench of charred bones. He lifts his chin, stares down at you—all spread out like a gift to a god—and surges forward with a rabid hunger brimming in his guts. Unquenchable. Horrific. 

—wants you to eat you alive. Consume you whole. Leave nothing for Price to pick at, to mourn over,

settles instead for ruining your pussy. For fucking you raw. Cumming deep inside of your quivering cunt even when he knows you don't want that. Are silently begging Price to reconsider. To get this ugly fucking mutt off of you—

It churns his guts. Makes him viciously excited over the image that brims in the back of his head, tears raining down your cheeks as you bring a shaky hand to your aching, swollen cunt, feeling the thick, viscous glob of his cum leaking out.

Or before that, when you have to lay there and take it. Feeling his cock throbbing, pulsing as it spits cum inside of you. When he pulls out, and a milky trail follows, dribbling down between your cheeks. At his mercy the whole time, too, because Price won't get up right away to untie you. You'll have to lay there in his filth, feeling it ooze out of you—

He wants it. Badly. Feels it scorching his hindbrain, burning him up from the inside out. 

Later, he thinks, he'll fuck you with more finesse. Make you cum on his fingers—stuff them inside of your sore, aching cunt to the last knuckle; give you three of them to squeeze around, to cling to, and watch the ink on his bruised, scabbed skin disappear inside of you over and over again, pulling them out all slick, pearlescent with a mix of his cum and yours. On his tongue, too. Keep you in this pretty frogtie, unable to push him off—or pull him closer. Forced to take it. To let him lap at your pussy until he quenches this uneasy hunger festering inside of his stomach, growing bolder, greedier at the sight of you splayed out like this, exhausted already even though he's only just begun. 

Fuck you again, too, just because he can. 

all yours for a night, Price had said, sealing your fate with a sharp, decisive nod. 

He plans on making the most of the twelve hours until sunrise that he has. 

This, then, the appetizer—

It curls over his shoulders, tar-stained fingers digging into the tight coil of his muscles, easing the tension in increments. Soothing out the fear that still clings to him of missing out. Still, very much, that hungry little mutt on the side of the street, peering into the bakery at the family's milling about, smiling happily. Content to ignore the brat in rags glaring at them from an alcove with bruises on his chin, and a black split on his lip. Diving for scraps because the alternative is going to bed with an empty stomach in a house that reeks of flat beer and stale piss. 

There's nothing to miss out on here, it reasons, when he has you all night. All his. 

“Beg me,” he huffs, sniffing through the balmy, damp mask when it slips down his crooked nose. “Beg me not to cum inside you.”

All you can do is make a small, keening oomph behind the loose gag, words muffled by wet silk. His head rolls back, eyes narrowing down at you in mocking delight—catlike, leonine, in the dwindling glimmer of sunlight spilling through the crack in the curtains. 

“C’mon,” he taunts, rolls his hips into you just to hear the loud, wet squelch of your pussy taking the full, fat length of his cock. Lets the noise box through his ears in a vicious, heavy punch. “Or I'll cum inside you—”

He's already there. Edging toward the precipice. 

Simon grabs the tops of your thighs, digging his fingers into your skin, and pulls you closer to the edge of the table until your ass lifts. It opens you up wider for him, knees notched wide, nearly level with your ears. The new position lets him push in deeper, fucking you in full now. Balls slapping against your ass with every brutal stroke. 

He leans down, knee lifting to the table as he climbs on before dropping the full heft of his weight onto you. Forearm braced above your head, the other catching the column of your bare, scratched neck in the wide spread of his palm. 

The size difference before was intoxicating. A rush that pooled in the back of his head before rocketing down to his spine, filling his cock, but this—your knees bracketing around his waist, spread so wide they're forced down flat to the table below in a split that lets his cock sink in deeper, head tucked against his collarbone, swallowed whole beneath him, is his undoing. 

Arched over you like a beast, he grunts. Ruts into your sopping cunt and feels the whines that spill from your throat at the rough way he batters into you. 

The softness of his lower belly grazes the vibrator humming on your clit. The pressure makes your eyes widen, and roll into the back of your head. Neck trapped in his hold as you thrash beneath him, sobbing in earnest. In dismay. 

He's sure it hurts. The pleasure careening into overstimulation—the kind that burns, bellows too much, no more. He huffs out a derisive snort, and eats your misery from your parted lips, dipping his head down to catch the seam of your mouth in a mockery of a kiss. The silk wrapped around your head, tucked neatly into the corners of your mouth, keeps it from being anything more than a messy smear of his scarred, torn lips and your muffled gasps. The band prevents him from really tasting you, and he makes do with curling his tongue over your teeth, catching the drool running down your chin. 

It's gross. Messy. He slurps you up, and hums in pleasure when he tastes the brine of your tears. 

“Gonna cum,” he grunts into the silk before catching it between his crooked teeth, nibbling on the wet hem, sucking on your spit soaked into the fabric. 

Your pussy spasms around him. Eager, he thinks—pulsing like a heartbeat and starving for it. It blooms under his skin, burning hot like a fever. His tongue slips under your gag. Eyes glued to yours, listed in quiet, merciless delight when you grimace as he slides it along yours, nearly gagging you on it. 

It's almost sweet. A pastiche of loving making—as close to the real thing as he's ever come. The thought is a bludgeon to his head, making his ears ring—

And he runs from it. Rears back from the sloppy kiss, eyes creasing, brow furrowing, as you stare up at him with wet, glossy eyes, rheumy with tears. Silently pleading for something he can't discern. He feels that trail of anger coiling in his guts again, sitting low in his belly as his hips stutter to a slow, softer roll. 

His finger lifts, settles on the corner of your unhinged jaw, holding your head steady. There are lines, he thinks. Walls, divides. Protective armour—

And some shouldn't be crossed. 

Simon spits on your gag. Squeezes the huff of disgust from your throat when he feels your chest expand with it. Bullies himself closer, smothering you under his weight. Owned, then. Claimed. 

You can't close your mouth around the gag, or fingers digging into the muscle of your jaw. He keeps you like that, degraded. Dehumanised. A vessel for him to use as he likes—

Nothing more, nothing less. 

Sinks into your bruised cunt again, hips slapping meanly into yours in a way he knows must ache. Sets a choppy, deep pace; humps your pussy and grinds the weeping, swollen head of his cock into your battered cervix. Loses himself in the messy, plugging rolls of his hips; the wet, tight slide of your skin—flushed and clenching around the thick of himself he feeds to you, over and over again. Mindless in the pursuit to ruin you further. Stain you with his cum—

The problem is:

You feel like heaven. Pussy wrapped tight around him. Silken walls hugging his aching cock until it feels like he's melting into the hot, wet squeeze of it. So good it hums inside his head like a purr, rattles his thoughts around until the ugly, bitter anger is turned inside out. Flipped. 

He thinks about lines again as his sticky, wet balls glue to the slick skin of your ass, peeling off in a way that has pleasure peppering along his spine, spooling in his lower back. He did that, caused it. Made you so fucking wet that his knees slide in the messy spill of it leaking all over the table. The loud squelch of him slamming into your cunt echoes in the room—shrill and bone-melting. Ego-feeding. Enough to gorge his pride on it until its belly threatens to burst at the seams. Overfull. 

Simon grunts. His face is soaked. The damp fabric of his mask is too drenched to even mop it up, sticking to his skin as sweat rains down from his shorn hairline, misting over his eyes. His upper lip. The dip of his chin. He's more water than man. Liquid. Melting into you. 

The heat is unbearable. “Gonna cum in this pussy,” he snarls, and it sounds like a threat. Is one. He's going to burst inside of you, molten and thick. Been a while, he thinks, and feels his balls draw up. Tightening in a promise as he fucks himself into a syrupy stupor above you. 

The inside of his ears are wet, and he thinks it might be his fucking brain leaking out—

The tight coil of his body snaps before he does, giving out in a heavy groan. He catches himself before he crushes you beneath him, still mindlessly thrusting into your cunt, cock pulsing, throbbing. Growing thicker, thicker, as he heaves into your temple, breathing in the pine scent of your skin. Loam, sea. Sweat. You smell like Price beneath it all—leather and smoke; scotch and wood—and his lips curl into a vicious snarl, teeth bared at the man in the corner, silent observer to this blasphemous confessional where he spills his guts inside of you, and you eat them up like they're made of gold dust. 

It rushes him. A kick to his soft stomach, a boot crushing his ribs. The force of it hurts when it hits, surging up from the base of his spine, too fast for him to brace for. Tensing, coiling. The pressure knocks the air from his lungs, makes his hips stutter. Joints whining, twinging with pain. 

He moans low and brassy, mangled deep in the rot of his chest, and cums deep inside of you. Sloppy, mindlessly rutting into the spread bracket of your thighs as pleasure burns across the back of his neck, his spine. His hips roll, shaking. Melting as he spills, spits thick globs of cum out, cockhead bullied tight against your plug. 

All you can do is heave beneath him, whining at the molten spend he pours into you. Poor fuckin’ thing—

His lips are sticky, slick with sweat. He rubs them against the tacky skin of your temple, your cheekbone, babbling nonsense out on a purr—

Breedin’ this tight little pussy right in front of your old man, birdie. Got ‘im watchin’ his little girl take my thick fuckin’ load inside o’her. Fuckin’ hell—

—things that leak out between the cracks in the armour. The thick veneer. Made worse, his personal hell, when he feels your hips bump into his, taking his cock deeper inside as you squirm under the heavy weight of him. With your thigh flexing, squeezing his hip, it almost feels like you want more. All of him. For him to crawl deep inside of you, cocooned in the bracket of your ribs—

“Needy fuckin’ thing,” he rasps, words slurring. Eliding into mush. Nonsense he'll come to crush between his teeth later when he buries himself back inside of you over and over again, feeding blood to this vicious seedling inside of him. 

Through the pounding in his head, your gasping little hitches in his ear, the undeniable silence from Price weighs on him even as the aftershocks of his release mute the noise in his head. A dense, hazy fog clouding over all thoughts. 

It doesn't feel angry. Jealous. If anything it reeks of victory—

He grasps through the blanket, the murk, with lazy hands until he finds what he's looking for, and—

Oh. 

Right. 

(“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. 

He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch. 

“an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—”

“Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. “Got something else in mind—”)

Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture—

He stares down at you now. The base of his cock is soaked with your slick, flesh throbbing, pulsing, as he cums inside of you. 

It's this—you, crying over the feeling of him spilling so deeply inside of you while your old man watches from the sidelines, unable to do anything but sit there as Simon fills his baby girl up—that he wanted. Wants. Needs, he thinks, more than the stale, humid air he breathes. A place of his own. Home. Even if it's made of paper mache, carved inside of someone else, someone who already has a collar. A brand—

But that's the point, isn't it?

A sick feeling curls over his shoulders as he thumbs the slim vibrator off of your clit, staring down at the swollen nub at the apex of your mound. Sore and sensitive and flushed bright. Bruised like an apple. Abused for hours. Poor thing, he thinks, even as he rubs the flat of his finger over it. 

His cum seeps out around the softening plug of his cock. But it's still thicker than anything you'd ever taken before, he's sure. Sick with the deep sense of satisfaction that rolls over him at the thought. 

It's worth it, then, even as the dawning realisation trickles over him like hot oil—

“What d’you like, Simon?”

A pretty bird in pale pink chiffon. Too good for the likes of him. Afraid of him, too. Cowerin’. Cryin’ somethin’ awful when he sinks his ugly, fat prick into them—

Price hummed. Curled his index finger over the top of his cigar, tapped the thick wrap twice with the tip of it, and then brought it to his lips. A flash of teeth beneath his beard—nicotine-stained; crooked in the low light—before they sunk into the butt. 

There was something measured in his stare. Predatory. 

Victorious. 

And—

He gets it. You were a dangling lure in the deep, dark of the abyssal layer. A glimmer of light in thick murk. Iridescent. Dazzling. He was always meant to sink his teeth into you, wasn't he? Always meant to take a bite—

hook. line—

—sinker. 

Or—

It would be if the fish Price caught wasn't a leviathan. 

—in the scorching trail the oil leaves behind, something bestial, primordial, inside of his cocks its head in consideration. he can make a feast from this, it says; and so, he does—

“Need my help, Price?” Simon drawls, arms crossing over his chest as he stares down at him, quietly amused, and John feels the pulse between his temples starting up again the same way it had all those years back when he bumped into the man with you on his arm. 

He grunts. “Sendin’ you to Mexico.”

“Tha’ so? I might be busy.”

He sucks in a deep breath, reaches for his cigar. The itch claws behind his eyes, in his gums. There's a headache, too. One he knows won't be soothed over with the numbing bliss of nicotine or a shot of scotch. Not when he'll have to slink home afterwards, this massive behemoth nipping at his heel, and deal with the aftermath of what happens whenever he sets Simon loose on you:

an icepack pressed tight against your aching cunt, a glare fixed on your face as he dotes on you after you made him clean up the absolute mess Simon left behind with his fingers and tongue—

“never again,” you'll hiss, wincing with each pull of his knuckles on your sore, bruised walls. “I mean it—”

(you always say that but the look in your eye whenever he pulls out the silk—the new assortment that Simon bought for you himself—tells him otherwise—)

He presses the heel of his palm into the crease between his eye and bone, rubbing until he sees phosphenes spark behind his eyelids. 

“She'll be in silk,” he grouses, sucking his teeth in irritation. “And you'll be on fuckin’ plane to Mexico the next morning, Riley. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” he draws lazily with a half-hearted shrug, but Price can see the mutt inside of him panting with glee. He pretends to huff. Then: “I want her in white this time.”

The fuckin' prick.

—Price’s gamble of using you to lure the big, bad dog in works. but maybe a little too well. because now his sergeant expects one every time he's sent on a mission. and they send him out a lot. 

—he now has a key to his captain's house. lets himself in whenever he wants. finds you exactly how he asked for it. usually tied up in silk, crying, and struggling to get away when he stalks inside the room. on your knees, begging him so sweetly not to fuck your throat too hard. you have work tomorrow. or fighting him off as best as you can until he pins you down, works his cock inside of you. 

—in full view of the cameras, of course. non-negotiable. Price gets to see everything his brutish sergeant does to his pretty bird. everything. 

—Simon is the one who keeps you company when Price is sent off to work with the CIA. keeps you stuffed full of his cock in the bed you share with Price, his little girl sobbing into the pillow that reeks of smoke and leather and sex as Simon forces every inch of his stupid fat cock inside you

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Leftovers [1/3]

Simon Riley x fem!Reader | a non-canon addition to my mafia!141 series |

part 2 | part 3

warnings: unhealthy thrupple relationship, hurt/some comfort, slight dub-con, possessive Simon, smut, (f!recieving oral, fingering, p in v) 6.5k wc

Mr. and Mrs. Price don't know how to take care of you properly. Simon is hellbent on saving you, no matter the means.

The first and only rule that came with living with the Prices was that no matter how much you thought otherwise, they didn’t really love you.

It didn’t matter how sweetly Mrs. Price kissed your forehead, her lips would never grace yours, and despite how deliciously Mr. Price would pump his fingers into your cunt he would never bless you with the opportunity to take his cock. Above all else, they first belonged to one another before ever belonging to you. All you were good for was being their sweet little pet, nothing but a catalyst for their pleasure; their favorite aphrodisiac. 

There were worse things in the world to be, and being a pet wasn’t all that bad. The Prices kept a roof over your head and gave you meals at least three times a day, if not more. Every now and then while Mr. Price was away at work, you and Mrs. Price would fall asleep on the couch together. Hours later you would wake up with your head on her chest, but you wouldn’t dare to stir her awake because the sound of her heart beating was more captivating than anything that droned on the television. 

But she would always wake up when Mr. Price came home, and she’d drag you off to the bedroom where they’d strip you bare like some spectacle. Mrs. Price’s lips would devour every inch of your skin, kissing your neck, chest, and breasts; kissing everything except for you. Meanwhile, Mr. Price would fuck his fingers into you and growl every time his wife giggled at your moans. His cock would harden in his pants, a sight that you would never be able to see, and just as you came undone on his fingers his lips would always find their way to her instead of you. 

They would laugh and giggle as you squirmed underneath them and coo about how adorable you were. How soft and pliant you were for them, such a good and well behaved pet. They would kiss your body a few more times before tucking you in for the night and leaving you alone to do their own lovemaking elsewhere. That’s how it always ended. Always the lover, never the loved, but that was okay. At least you weren’t alone. 

Things started changing when Mr. Riley showed up. 

He showed up at the house one day by invitation from Mr. Price and nearly scared you half to death. Like a ghost, he seemingly appeared in the living room one evening and took up all the space on the loveseat. Perhaps that’s what had intimidated you at first, just the sheer size of him. He stood taller than Mr. Price did, and the bulging muscles of his body was proof he could rip you in half if he so pleased. Then there were the faded scars on his face, the ruggedness of his features and the piercing expression in his dark brown eyes. He looked at you like you were a meal ready to be eaten. Or, maybe you just wished that he would. 

Mr. Riley was a quiet man, you learned. He hardly spoke throughout dinner and when he did he was rather short and blunt with his responses. Though he was a man of few words, everything he said seemed to have some sort of meaning. There was something about his voice that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end and you nearly choked on your food at the sensation. It wasn’t at all unpleasant, and if anything the deep timbre of his voice was rather soothing, and you liked the teasing nature of his banter with Mr. Price. Perhaps you enjoyed it too much. 

There must have been something about the way you looked at Mr. Riley that caught attention. Truly, you meant no harm by it. Art littered his arms in the form of dark tattoos that you couldn't pull your eyes from because you had never seen ink cover the skin of someone so beautifully before. Never seen anyone quite capture the well formed muscle and veins like had been done on Mr. Riley’s arms. And really, the scars on his face and his crooked nose intrigued you. There were stories waiting to be uncovered, literature that hid behind the depths of his eyes. You just wanted to read it. That was all it was, you swore it. 

After plates had been cleaned and the table was cleared away, you learned you were not as subtle as you thought you were with your minor infatuation with your guest. Not even your intense stare at the TV screen as you pretended to pay attention to the movie Mrs. Price had picked out was able to throw suspicion off of you. Just as you had gotten settled on the sectional next to Mr. Price, you felt a hand rest on your shoulder, quickly followed by a hot breath on your ear. 

“Pet,” Mr. Price whispered, “my friend looks lonely over there. Why don’t you keep him company?” 

His proposition made you tense against his side and he chuckled at your failed attempt at keeping cool. Keep Mr. Riley company? Once more your eyes found their way to him and you felt your throat tighten at the thought. Were you supposed to sit by him? Entertain him? No, that felt wrong. You belonged to the Prices, not their friend. Then again, you were instructed to keep the man company, and good pets do as they’re told. 

Without so much as a word you rose from your spot on the sectional and quickly made your way to the loveseat Mr. Riley had settled himself on. It was difficult not to fall into the gravity of him when you sat next to him as his weight shifted the cushions, giving you no choice but to all but lean into him. You heard his quiet hum in surprise, as if he hadn’t expected you to just so blatantly sit next to him. You caught him look at you for a short moment, but you kept your eyes glued to the TV as if he was never there to begin with, and eventually he looked away. 

Embarrassment. It was the only word you could think of to describe how you felt sitting next to that man. Conversing with others wasn’t exactly your forte, it’s why you agreed to throw your old life away when Mrs. Price invited you into a relationship with her and her husband. They would take care of you, and you wouldn’t have to be perceived and go out and about in the world. They knew full well of that; perhaps that was their way of having some fun with you. 

Things were fine until halfway through the movie when Mr. Riley put his arm around you. There was nothing you could do but fall against his side as his firm hand settled against your waist. He held you close to him as if he had no intention of letting you go, and yet acted as if he had never done so in the first place as his attention stayed fully trained on whatever boring movie droned in the background. Blood gushed in your ears and panic settled into your chest. Surely that had broken some sort of rule, and yet when you glanced over to the Price’s with wide eyes, you realized that they couldn’t even care less. 

So you took a deep breath in some attempt to calm yourself, and once the blood settled in your veins, you realized that you could hear Mr. Riley’s heart. Each beat was strong and steady as if it had never wavered throughout its entire existence, and its reverberations were so strong you could feel it pulse throughout your own body. You took another deep breath, this time more content, and realized you rather liked the smell of him too. Some sort of dark, soft aroma mixed with the faint scent of cigarettes. It was comforting, perhaps the most calm you had felt in a long while. 

“Cute, isn’t she?” 

It wasn’t until Mrs. Price spoke that you realized you had fallen asleep like that, tucked into the side of a man you hardly knew. Cold hands pulled you away from the warmth that was Mr. Riley, and half awake you were brought to your room without the chance to glance at him from over your shoulder. Despite it all, Mrs. Price cooed at you while she laid you down in your bed and tugged the blankets over your body with a simple kiss to your forehead. 

“Goodnight, pet,” she cooed before closing the door behind her. 

That night you fell asleep alone in your cold bed while dreaming about the warmth Mr. Riley had given you. It was something you could only ever pray for when craving something from the Prices, and yet he had given it to you so willingly, as if you didn’t deserve anything less. Maybe it was unfair of you to compare the people who had given you so much to a man who you hardly knew. Friendly. That’s all he was. But it didn’t end there. Every time Mr. Price invited him over, he always directed you to Mr. Riley’s side eventually, talking about how lonely he looked, or that you should be a good host to him. 

Soon enough it got to the point where you didn’t even need prompting; you already knew your place was next to Mr. Riley. Curled against his side, hanging off his arm, even sitting on his lap, in one instance. Each touch that he gave you seared across your skin, but it was always respectful, nearly too respectful. Fingertips always gliding along your waist but never dipping low enough to caress your hips or grope your ass, nor high enough to brush against the underside of your breasts. His touch always left you craving more, and yet that was something he didn’t seem to intend on giving you.

He did, however, give you a new name. Sweetheart, he called you. It was something he whispered to you at first from the safety of the confines of his arms, as if he worried Mr. Price would overhear him and reprimand him for it. Then he became a bit more brave. He called you sweetheart when he asked you to pass him the salt at dinner, and then again when you eventually fell asleep on the couch and he offered to carry you to your room. Some strange part of you wished he stayed with you that night, but you knew that thought alone made you a bad pet, wanting anyone other than the people you belonged to. 

But the thing was, the more warmth Mr. Riley showed you, the colder the Price's home felt, because even after all that time, it wasn’t really your home. 

“Hey, sweetheart.” 

Loud music and even louder people caged you into that VIP room, suffocating you to the point you nearly passed out. It didn’t help that Mrs. Price had dressed you up like her personal doll, slathering makeup on your face and throwing you in a skimpy dress, you hardly recognized yourself in the mirror. And still, despite it, Mr. Riley had found you and settled on the spot next to you in the conversation pit. 

“Mr. Riley,” you greeted as you uncomfortably pulled at the skirt of your dress. 

“Mrs. Price dress you up in that?” he asked.

You half expected him to wrap his arm around you like he did every other time the two of you were close to one another, but he didn’t. Perhaps there were too many prying eyes nearby and he didn’t want to spark any rumors. Either way, his presence alone was comforting enough. You always hated going to Mr. Price’s club, and that night was no exception. Too loud, too many eyes, you were always out of place. 

“Was it that obvious?” you asked with a half-hearted chuckle. 

“Just doesn’t seem like you,” he responded gruffly. 

Of course not. Extravagant things weren’t meant for a pet. “Yeah. Probably not.” 

Even from a distance you could still make out the faint scent of him. That warm musk mixed with tobacco had started to smell like home. And it was wrong, you were sure of it by that point. At what point did Mr. Riley become more comforting than the man and woman you lived with? But at that moment, with so many people crowding you, you didn’t care. Closing your eyes, you blocked out everything else around you except for him. There was no music, no mingling guests, no rancid scent of alcohol; it was just you and him. 

Until the sudden sound of clapping brought you back to reality, anyway. Your eyes shot open and you were met with the same view as before, just more still. A quick glance around revealed everyone staring at Mr. and Mrs. Price, who stood at the front of the room, all cooing and cheering and clapping for them. They held one another as a few people rushed up to talk to them, where you heard squealing and several pats on the back. Confused, you turned to Simon with your head tilted to the side like a curious dog. 

“What happened?” you asked. 

With a simple nod of his head, Mr. Riley gestured up to the couple at the front of the room. “They just announced Mrs. Price’s pregnancy,” he said. 

Those words left his mouth so simply. So nonchalantly. As if you should have known. 

You should have known. But you didn’t. Because no matter how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise, they didn’t really love you. 

You’d forgotten the first and only rule.

You didn’t know how you ended up on the terrace, you just stopped running when the cold night air hit your skin. Despite the way your tears muddled your vision, everything became painfully clear. This was their plan all along. To get pregnant, to start their life and continue it without you. It’s why they never kissed you, only ever played with you, refused to fuck each other in your presence; you were always meant to be disposable. Why continue to take care of a pet with a child on the way? 

And it hurt because you knew you’d never have that. Never obtain that unconditional love, a kiss on the lips, a cock in your cunt, a child in your arms, because you had been the Price’s plaything. Their pet who never dared to bare her teeth. You’d never be the sweet little wife, only some poor, skittish animal that only knew how to play. But you craved it so bad you swore you’d die. You wanted to be someone’s wife, someone’s lover, to be loved, to have kids and a home that wasn’t cold as ice. 

That life just wasn’t for you.

“You alright, sweetheart?” 

Somehow, Mr. Riley always seemed to find you. It was as if some invisible string had been tied between the two of you, and no matter how knotted it got he would always make his way back to you. Unsure if you should welcome his presence or not, you kept your hands firmly on the terrace railing and your red eyes focused out on the city in front of you. Your tears blurred the sparkling lights so much that you could nearly confuse them with stars if you squinted hard enough, yet that realization did nothing to quell the anxiety and terror that ate away at your stomach. 

“I’m alright,” you pitifully assured, although you weren’t too convincing. 

Mr. Riley’s hand touched the exposed skin of your back where his thumb started to rub small circles into your flesh. You nearly crumbled at the contact as you were drowned in the overwhelming urge to throw yourself at him, to beg to be loved even if only for a short while. Instead, your grip on the railing only tightened as you focused all your energy into not letting another tear fall. 

“John told me to watch you for the night. Take you back to my place,” he said softly. 

His words weren’t surprising. Sending you off to spend the night with him was just the next step to getting rid of you. Why would they want you in the home when they’d have someone new to prepare for? You were certain your room would be turned into a nursery before long. After a moment, you turned to face him and you did your best to muster your strongest of smiles as you ignored the stinging behind your eyes. He looked at you with such pity that you nearly broke into tears once more. 

“Lead the way.”

It had been so long since you had visited someone that you forgot what it was like to walk into a room and not have every inch of it memorized. Mr. Riley’s apartment was something you didn’t recognize, yet it wasn’t completely unfamiliar. In a vague sort of way, it smelled like him, and that was enough to calm your nerves and silence the pain that festered in your stomach. It was rather plain as far as decorations went, but it was cozy and warmer than anyplace else you had been for quite some time, and that was more than enough for you. 

First order of business was getting you a glass of water, something Mr. Riley took care of right away. Such a small gesture, and yet it had your heart swelling in an odd and unfamiliar way. Still, you were thankful for something to soothe your sore throat, and the two of you sat in silence on the couch as he ensured that you drank every last drop. 

“Do you wanna change into somethin’ more comfortable?” he questioned when you handed him your empty glass. 

“I don’t… have a change of clothes,” you said meekly. 

“You can wear some of mine,” he insisted.

Something within you wanted to decline. Wearing his clothes certainly broke some sort of rule, and you doubted that the Prices would be happy with you for it. But then there was a pang of sorrow that echoed throughout your chest, a painful reminder that you no longer belonged to them, and probably hadn’t for quite some time. 

Like a lost dog, you followed behind Mr. Riley until you reached his bedroom. His bed was bigger than you had anticipated it to be, significantly bigger than yours, and it was well made. A dark duvet covered the expanse of the mattress, and when you sat on the edge of it you sunk into it as if it welcomed you home. Maybe if you laid back on it you could fall asleep and never have to face the painful truth of the reality you found yourself trapped in. 

It didn’t take him long to fish out a simple shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts for you to change into, but when Mr. Riley turned to face you, it was as if he had turned to stone. Maybe it was the tear-smudged makeup stains on your face, or the fact that he hadn’t seen you look so content until you sat there on his bed, but he looked at you with such intense pity your chest ached. Eventually he got his body to listen to him and he carefully approached you and set the clothes on the mattress next to you. 

“I’m sorry,” he said unprompted. 

“For what?” you asked, eyebrows drawing together. 

“That they abandoned you.” 

Hearing it outloud was more excruciating than the initial realization. Abandoned. Tossed aside. Just a spare. Your chest ached so fiercely it felt as if your body split in two, and there was nothing you could do to stop the tears and sobs from flowing forth. It was pitiful and pathetic, and you hated how terribly small you felt. There were so many tears inside of you that you could wipe the earth clean with them, yet as you cried you didn’t feel any less dirty or used. 

Then the bed sunk down next to you, and instead of sitting on the mattress you had been scooped up into Mr. Riley’s arms and into his lap. His arms were the only thing that held you together in that moment, and he carefully tucked you underneath his chin and squeezed all the sorrow from your body. A cautious kiss pressed into the top of your head, slow and wary as if the very act itself was forbidden. When you didn’t protest, he kissed again, and then again, as if he couldn’t get enough. It was the closest thing to being loved you ever felt, and that realization only broke you further. 

“I just… I just wanted what they have,” you admitted once your sobs had dwindled to small hiccups. “I always thought that they’d let me be a part of it eventually. But I’ve been waiting so long and then… then they get pregnant without telling me and I realized I’ll never be good enough. Never enough to be kissed, or held, or loved. That’s all I wanted.” 

After placing one final kiss against the top of your head, Mr. Riley carefully moved your face away from his chest to tilt your head up to force you to look at him. Irritated from crying, your eyes were a bright pink shade, and so terribly swollen you had difficulty opening them fully. Still, his thumb smoothed over your mascara-stained cheek and you felt his grip grow tighter around you. 

“You deserve so much more than what they did to you,” he whispered, his whisky scented breath fanned across your face. “They were selfish, yeah? Dunno how they could be. First time I laid eyes on you I wanted you. Wanted to love you, to prove that you’re worthy of it.”

A few more fat tears rolled down your cheeks at his words just for him to quickly wipe them away. You had never received such kind and comforting words from anyone before, least of all the Prices. But his words held meaning, you knew they did. How could he look at you so softly and lie? No, it was impossible. His words were true and you could feel your want grow in the dark cavern of your stomach. 

“Mr. Riley…” you said at a loss for anything to say.

“Simon,” he corrected. “Say my name and I’m all yours, sweetheart. I’ll give you that love, that life, you deserve.” 

Maybe it was wrong to want him as badly as you did. Something dark and primal inside of you craved him and every inch of his tattooed skin, and yet you felt shame for feeling so. But why? You had been abandoned. A bit of comfort was the least bit you deserved. 

“Simon,” you whispered.

His lips crashed into yours not even a second later, and the feeling nearly had you sobbing into his mouth. It felt so pure, so overwhelming. Finally, you could taste someone. Taste the spice of whiskey and the smoke of cigarettes rather than just the salt from your tears. By instinct your arms wrapped around his neck and you pulled yourself closer to him as if you wouldn’t be satisfied until you were nestled in the warmth of his chest inside of his ribcage. 

Eventually, your bodies collided with the mattress and you found yourself caged in by Simon’s arms as he hovered over you. His tongue slipped into your mouth and you felt him groan into you like he had never had such a tasty meal. Then his lips began to wander, and he kissed along your jawline, neck, and further down to your stomach. It was the first time someone kissed your body and it felt like you were being given something rather than having something taken away. 

“So gorgeous,” he whispered against your stomach. His hands dipped underneath the short skirt of your dress and pushed it up over your hips, exposing your panties. You let out a shaky breath as he kissed your clit through your underwear, and you realized you had never had someone’s mouth on you like that before. “Wanna taste you, sweetheart. Tell me I can.” 

It was strange to have someone ask permission before doing something with you, and you felt your throat grow dry at the thought. Strange emotions swirled like a storm in your head where sorrow mixed with desire among other terrible conflicting emotions, and all you could muster was a simple nod. You just wanted it all to stop, for him to take away the pain no matter the cost. 

“Need you to use your words,” Simon mumbled against your heat. 

“Yes!” you spoke. The word erupted out of you with little regard for any of those confusing feelings muddling your mind. “Please…”

With a swift yank Simon pulled your panties past the swell of your hips and you raised your legs into the air to let him pull them fully off of you. After tossing them somewhere behind him, he lowered himself onto the mattress and kissed your cunt once more, this time fully bare, which sent a jolt throughout your body. He hardly gave himself the time to admire your body before his tongue began to greedily swipe along your clit. It felt so foreign and unfamiliar yet so intense you found your legs instinctively squeezing shut. Simon only chuckled against you as he pressed his hands on the inside of your thighs to keep himself from suffocating too soon. 

There was nothing you could do to stop the way your back arched off the bed in pure bliss. Already he had given you more pleasure in a few moments than you had received in your entire relationship with the Prices, and you bit into your lip as you mumbled out sweet nothings into the heavy air above you. Once you had grown wet enough with his spit and your own arousal, Simon carefully slipped a finger into your heat and you gasped at the sensation. You had never felt so full before and your muscles pulsed around him in greedy response. Despite all the pain and heartache you experienced that night, nothing could drown out the overwhelming mantra of more that reverberated throughout your entire body. 

When Simon pulled away from you, your first instinct was to sit up and pull him back to you, but you paused when you saw the way he looked at you. Dark, heavy eyes pierced through you, and you watched in awe as he sat back and slid his shirt off his body in one swift motion. He was so big. Hardened muscle covered with a thick layer of skin and healthy layer of fat, he collapsed on top of you where his lips were on yours once more. His taste was different this time. It wasn’t just whiskey and cigarettes. There was this earthy sapor mixed with it, and it took you a moment to realize that you tasted yourself on his lips. 

Then something ripped. Threads of cloth tore a part, and you realized you could no longer feel the dress around your body anymore. Whatever clothing you had worn had been replaced by Simon’s chest pressing against yours, and the skin to skin contact made your head spin. 

“Don’t need that anymore,” Simon mumbled against your lips. “Don’t need anythin’ of theirs anymore, yeah?” 

You nodded in agreement until you remembered what he said earlier about using your words. “Yeah,” you breathed. 

His lips descended down to the soft tissue of your neck while he started to grind his hips against yours. The rough fabric of his jeans were all too stimulating against your needy and swollen clit, and you whined into Simon’s neck as you writhed underneath him. 

“Do you want more?” he asked as he continued to grind his hardening bulge against your sex. “I’ll give you anythin’. Just gotta ask for it.” 

“You,” you blurted out without so much as a second thought. “Please Simon, I need you.”

There was no more time to waste. With one hand, Simon reached down and unzipped his pants where he released his painfully hardened cock. You felt as he teasingly ran his leaky tip along your slit, smearing precum against you until he carefully dipped down into your hole. Hardly even an inch inside of you and you realized he was significantly girthier than his fingers were, and you found your head falling back against the mattress with a moan at the stretch of him. 

“So goddamn perfect,” Simon grunted as he continued to push deeper and deeper into you. “Gonna give you the whole world. Anythin’ you want. Deserve so much more than them, fuckin’ christ, sweetheart.” 

More tears poured down your face by the time he bottomed out. It was all just too much, so much anguish and love melding into one confusing feeling in your mind. Yet Simon kissed away every single tear as he began to carefully thrust into you. Each time he moved in you an all consuming wave of pleasure rippled through your body, forcing moans to mix in with your cries in some sort of lamentable symphony. 

“I know, I know,” Simon cooed as he placed a fat kiss against your cheek. “You’re mine now, yeah? My girl. Gonna treat you properly. I’ve got you, love.” 

Through it all, he was so soft with you, so warm, and you felt that heat begin to pool in your stomach. Every thrust into you marked you, it scratched away the essence of everything the Prices had done to you, what they didn’t do to you. Every empty space that had collected dust inside of you was filled by Simon and the searing passion he pumped into you. That was all you had ever wanted. To be seen, to be touched, to be loved. You had finally found it. 

When you came, you did so with a sob. Muscles seized and you wrapped your arms so tightly around Simon’s neck he had no choice but to collapse against your chest as he continued to thrust into you. Your tears soaked into his hair as you sloppily kissed the top of his head, body still craving more of him despite the endorphins that ravaged your body. 

“There she is,” Simon sighed, his voice a low rumble. “Doin’ alright, sweetheart?”

“Please,” you begged. “I need it. Need you to come, please Simon.” 

Your plea sent him toppling over the edge and he slammed his hips against you one final time before he held himself there with a thick and strained groan. His cock twitching inside you was an unfamiliar feeling and yet you relished the way he filled you, warm cum soothing an ache only he could tame. Your grip around his neck loosened as you felt yourself melt into the duvet. All that pleasure, that love, finally got your mind to fall quiet. 

Once Simon managed to catch his breath, he gently pulled out of you before falling next to you. Strong arms maneuvered you onto your side where he pulled you against his chest where he held you firmly against him. As usual, his heart pounded strong and steady in his chest, and the longer the two of you laid there the more calm it grew. Whatever tears you needed to cry had all fallen, and there was nothing but pure bliss that settled over you as you nuzzled against his body. 

“I love you,” Simon said. He said it softly, as if it was a secret. Something special that only you could know. 

You couldn’t remember the last time someone whispered that phrase to you. 

“I love you, too.” 

That night was the first night in years that you didn’t fall asleep alone, and when you woke up you realized it wasn’t a dream. His arms stayed wrapped tightly around you throughout the night, and you woke to the scent of his musk and you couldn’t help but smile. Really smile. It was real and you were there and you were loved. You buried your face further into his chest and he reacted in kind by pulling you closer. 

“Mornin’ sweetheart,” he hummed. 

Humming back, you stretched your limbs with a groan that left him chuckling and he placed a quick kiss on your forehead. He sat up in bed and pulled away from you, which left you whining, until he reached down towards the foot of the bed to grab the clothes you weren’t able to change into the previous night. 

“What do you want for breakfast?” he questioned as he handed you his shirt. 

Such a simple question, really, and yet it felt so much more important than that. This was the conversation lovers had in the morning. Contemplating, you took the clothes from him and set them beside you as you tilted your head and shrugged. “Whatever you feel like making.” 

A small smile pulled at his lips, crooked and scarred, as he glanced toward the bedroom door for a short moment before his attention returned to you. “Alright, I’ll go get started. Take your time, yeah?” 

Simon Riley made you feel like a princess and you held nothing in your heart for him but adoration as you watched him slip out of the room, still half naked. Just like he had said, you took your time getting ready, and even then it still wasn’t all that long. You fixed up your appearance as best as you could without a mirror before slipping his shirt over your head. It was long enough that it fell down to your mid thighs, and because of that you didn’t bother with the shorts, or your still slightly damp underwear from the night before, either. 

Sizzling bacon and freshly warmed toast greeted you by the time you meandered into the living room, and you smiled to yourself at the sight of Simon cooking in the kitchen. You drooled at the way the sinewy muscles in his back flexed as he worked, and you couldn’t fight away that odd arousal that bloomed between your legs. Deciding that it was a good idea to get some food in your system before attempting to initiate anything physically demanding, you instead sat yourself on the couch.

Your phone sat face down on the coffee table in front of you, and your stomach dropped at the sight of it. Something twisted in your gut at the thought of unlocking it and seeing no messages, at realizing just how little the Prices surely missed you. Yet, you needed to bite the bullet. How were you supposed to start your new life with Simon if you were still holding onto the ghosts of your past? 

With a shaky hand, you reached for the item and quickly turned it on. You prepared yourself for its mocking screen, for the heartbreak you knew you would be able to mend later, and yet it still wasn’t enough. Nothing could have readied you for the twenty missed phone calls and the countless texts from both Mr. and Mrs. Price. Begging to know where you were at. Asking if you were safe. Pleading with you to come home. Saying that if you hadn’t responded by noon they would call the cops in fear that the worst had happened to you. 

Your throat dried out and you couldn’t stop your lips from trembling. Why did they do that? Was it supposed to be some sort of sick joke? Proof that no matter how far away from them you got you could never escape the hold they had on you? No, you listened to the voicemails. Listened to the way Mrs. Price’s voice quivered when asking if you were alright, when she begged you to come home, and you nearly sobbed. 

Something was wrong.

“Simon?” you asked as you snuck into the kitchen behind him. 

“Yeah?” he asked as he turned around to face you. 

He froze the moment he saw your face. He could read the trepidation on your face as if it were the morning paper, and he quickly placed down his cooking utensils. You hated the way he looked at you with such care and yet with some sort of knowledge, as if he already predicted what you were about to ask him. 

“Did you lie to me last night? About Mr. Price asking you to take me home with you?” you asked.

“Yes.” 

His response came quick and without hesitation and that almost made things worse. You wished he had paused for a moment to think about the way that word would shatter you, and yet he didn’t. Tears pooled in the corner of your eyes and you found your face falling into your hands in disbelief. He lied to you. He fucking lied. 

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he asked as his hands brushed against your shoulders. 

“They’re going to be so mad at me,” you cried as you pressed your palms into your eyes. It had to be a cruel joke. You wished it was. They hadn’t given you up at all, and you were going to have to pay the price for betraying their trust. 

“Hey… hey, look at me,” Simon ordered as he pulled your hands from your face. The way his hands engulfed your wrists was almost laughable, and you didn’t bother to fight against him. “I thought we agreed that you’re mine now. You’re mine, and I’m yours, yeah?”

“But you lied,” you retorted. 

“They were neglectin’ you!” he corrected, and his voice boomed with such strength you nearly cowered. “Would you have followed me if I hadn’t said that to you last night? Or would you be stuck in that house with partners who wouldn’t even tell you that they were havin’ a damn kid? No, you’re mine now.” 

One of his hands dropped down between your legs, and you gasped as your back came in contact with the counter. He palmed at your naked cunt, felt the way his cum oozed out of you at the gentle pressure of his fingers and the sudden tensing of your muscles. 

“Do you really think they love you enough to take you back like this? With my cum inside of you and the taste of you still on my tongue?” he questioned. “I did what I did to save you. I was tired of seein’ them treat you like that. I’m not lettin’ that happen again.” 

Words failed you and all you could do was stare up at him and cry. It was all so wrong and yet something in the back of your mind screamed that he was right. He was right because in one night he had given you everything you had all but begged of them to do for you in all the years you had been together. Even if they still wanted you, maybe they really didn’t deserve you. But you would still have to face them eventually. Admit that you were running away, that you didn’t belong to them anymore, and that thought terrified you.

Giving up, you collapsed against him and allowed all your anguish to spew from your eyes. Just like the previous night, his hold on you was strong and caring, and he did so without hesitation. After all, you were his girl. He saved you, and he had no intention of letting you go. 

On The Run Part 1

The Barn

mdni

cw: violent behavior, suggestive themes, i will get better at this i swear

It’s a downpour tonight. The roof overhead rattles with the force of the winds outside, keeping you awake. Your eyes drift towards the window periodically, watching the lightening illuminate the night sky, thunder rolling closer and closer as the wind hails. Your four loyal, massive Tibetan Mastiffs lay around your bed, dead to the storm raging outside. You’d normally have them out in the barn, but with how terrible it’s coming down you would have felt terrible.

But now you lie awake, worry in the pit of your stomach. Some of the goats had just given birth, and with this storm you knew the kids had to be distressed, and their bleats often agitated the horses.

You absentmindedly reach down to run a hand through Dixon’s fur, who lets out a pleased huff, nuzzling your palm. You try to let the beat of rain lure you to sleep, eyes finally feeling heavy as your breathing evens out.

But then you hear it, over the raging of the storm you can still hear your stallion, Sebastian, neighing, and then the pound of his hoofs against his stalls, and you're flying out of your bed.

Nothing spooks your stallion, absolutely nothing.

You race down the stairs in just your nightgown, rushing to pull on your boots, no socks, as Dixon, Grimes, Judy and Maggie come bounding after you. You throw open the door, the screen slamming against the house from the wind but you pay no mind, running towards the barn, barely catching yourself from slipping in the mud.

The closer you get, the louder you can hear all your herd. Your hearts pounding harder than the rain when you reach the barn doors, and you can hear the dogs barking behind you as you reach to yank open the double doors

Locked.

Your barn is never locked.

From the inside.

“Hello?!” You yell, slamming your palms against the wood, guilt wracking your body when you hear something scurry away on the other side.

“What are you doing in there?” You scream, shaking the handles with all your might, but they hold strong, and after a harsh yank, your hand slips, sending you flying into the mud.

You can hear what can only be described as chaos in the barn, and tears prick your eyes as you crawl forward, banging your fists against the doors.

“PLEASE! Please don’t hurt my animals! They’re already scared! Please- AH!” You scream as the door flies open, sending you face first into the barn floor.

You barely register the blood dripping from your hands as you scramble to stand up, taking in the scene.

The mares were going wild, bucking and kicking the doors of their stalls while Sebastian raged, having busted his door down, prancing infront of his ladies protectively.

Your goats were huddled in a group on the corner, the kids tucked between their bodies and the sheep standing in front of them, shaking so badly their wool was trembling. The rest of the stock is scattered, hiding in various corners of the barn.

You whistle, which immediately catches Sebastian’s attention, huffing and puffing.

“I’m here! It’s okay, ma is here!” You hush them, slowly walking towards the stallion with your hand out, palm up.

He neighs, tossing his head, leaning down to sniff your hand, when he stops, and suddenly a new sound reaches your ears.

Dixon and Grimes are growling out a warning.

Before you can even blink, there’s a hand over your mouth. Your gasp is muffled at the pressure of cold steel at your neck, an arm wrapping around your chest pulling you into a firm, solid figure.

“Not. A. Sound.” A gruff voice barks in your ear, and your blood runs cold.

“Lock the doors back.” The man orders, and a sinking feeling overcomes you when you hear a new set of footsteps. You stumble as you’re jerked back, Dixon barking as you start to thrash, kicking your feet, but the grip around you tightens.

“Fuckin- Knock it off!” He growls, pressing what you can only guess is your carving knife painfully against your throat and Grimes lets out a guttural sounding bark before lunging, only to yelp when a foot shoves him back, and you thrash harder, attempting to nip at this man’s hand.

“Stop you little fuckin-SHIT!” He bellows as your teeth sink into his palm, not releasing until you taste his blood splash over your teeth, and then you’re on the ground.

“Little bitch!”

“Don’t touch my fucking animals.” You spit, turning to stare up at the intruder, just to be met with a ski mask and cold eyes. You can’t help but freeze, the carving knife glinting in the low light of the barn.

He’s quick, and you try to stumble to your feet, but you're once more in his grasp. You go for a punch, but he catches your wrist easily, pinning your arm behind your back with one hand and yanking your forward with the other, pinning you against him, and the knife is at your throat again.

“Let’s try this again.” He says between clenched teeth, tightening his grip till you whimper.

“Ghost. Lighten up.” A voice pipes up, raspy and stern with a commanding tone. The masked man, Ghost, rolls his eyes, but loosens the hold he has on your wrist.

“Who else lives here?” He questions, and it feels as though a bucket of cold water has been dumped over you.

“No one…” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut when his grip tightens once more. “Don’t bullshit us. Who else lives on this land with you?!” He’s in your face, making you open your eyes, tears blurring your vision.

“It’s just me I swear!” You sob, feeling the tip of the knife digging into your skin. “I swear to god it’s just me, you can go check the house-“

The pressure of the knife is gone, and the shock of your bare knees hitting the barn floors barely phases you as Dixon and Grimes dart to your side, whining softly as they nudge your hands with their heads.

“Think she’s telling the truth?” A new voice speaks up, a thick Scottish accent ringing in your ears as you try to put distance between you and the four, you are finally able to count, men standing in the middle of your barn.

“Explains the massive mutts.” Ghost grunts, glancing at the four mastiffs, who you push behind you, shielding them, trying not to let your fear show more than it already has.

“They aren’t mutts.” You hiss, Judy nuzzling her giant head into your back as you shuffle them back, away from these men.

You hold your head high, but your lip can’t help but tremble when all their eyes turn to you.

“You sure there’s no one else in that great big house?” The older man with scruffy facial hair asks with a tilt of his head, and a spark of agitation flares in your chest. Why did they want to know so badly? if they were going to…

If they were going to kill you, surely they would have done it by now, right?

“I swear on my life.” You plead, voice cracking. You’re horrified when you realize your nightgown has been soaked through this whole time, noticing the way the one with the mohawk, the Scot, keeps eyeing your bosom. You look away, cheeks burning as fresh tears prick your eyes.

“Soap, Gaz. You two go check the house. Report back to me, I want a moment with her.” The unnamed man ordered.

Mohawk and a dark skinned man nodded, heading out of the barn. Ghost passes one of them the carving knife, and your fist curl in your lap.

“What do I do Price?” Ghost asks, and the man, Price, waves a hand, eyes trained on you. “Search the surrounding area, look for anyone hiding on the property.”

“Understood.”

And then you were alone. The barn has settled, most of your animals having made their way to the farthest wall behind you. He approaches you slowly, cautiously eyeing Dixon who raises up, baring his teeth, but you click your tongue, and he steps back immediately, sitting at your side like a statue as the others guard the flock.

You feel a puff of air breath against your head, and you can’t help the wet laugh that bubbles out when you realize Sebastian is standing guard over you.

“Seems you’ve got yourself quite the protection.”

He muses, eyes bouncing between the animals.

“They were abandoned when I found this place.” You confess, a slight tremble to your voice as you watch Price crouch in front of you. He’s quiet for a moment, eyes flickering over your form and you wrap your arms around your middle.

“If my men are walking into a trap, whoever is there will be killed.” He says simply, tone almost bored and you feel your face pale.

“They’re not! This is my land! Mine!” You insist, frustrated tears falling freely as you flex your fingers, muscles tense.

“Tiny little bird like you, all by herself?” Ghost scoffs as he returns, and you feel your ears burn.

“What did you find?” Price asks him over his shoulders.

“Can hardly see shit in this rain but I found no one. There’s a truck around back but the engine seems shot.” He shrugs, eyes peering at you through that ski mask and you avert your gaze.

The doors open against, the other two rushing in, soaked to the bone.

“The house is clear sir. Only one room looks lived in, two guest rooms down the hall on the upper level and a small library on the ground level. Gaz found a shotgun by the front door.” The Scot, Soap, you gather, reports back to Price.

“I told you. It’s just me out here.” You mutter, and this time Ghost is crouching in front of you, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him.

“You hiding from something little bird?” He asks, cocking his head to the side

“You’re the ones breaking into my barn and scaring my animals!” You snap, trying to get out of his grip, but he only holds tighter.

“You’re a little fighter aren’t you?” You see his eyes crinkle, and you're shocked this man even knows how to smile under that mask.

He releases you, standing up and stepping back to stand with the other three men, who still loom over you. You feel like a lamb being sent to the slaughter house, and you bury one of your hands in Dixon’s thick fur to ground yourself.

“Please-“ You start, voice shaking, and you feel a tear slip down your cheek.

“I don’t have much, there’s maybe three thousand dollars in the safe in my closet. I’ll give you the code just…” Your voice trails off, a sob slipping past your lips and Dixon whines, low and sad as he places his giant head in your lap.

“Please don’t hurt us. D-don’t hurt my animals- I won’t even call the cops, it would take the nearest deputy three hours to even reach my house.” You beg, exhaustion and nerves taking over as your shoulders slump, trembling with your quiet sobs.

You see Price’s boots approach you, and he tilts your chin up, and you flinch when he brushes a tear away with his thumb.

“Stop all these tears pretty. We don’t want to hurt you or your little farm.” He coos down at you. Confusion swirls in your head, making you dizzy as another sob can’t help but slip out, Price cupping your cheeks, shushing you softly as he wipes your cheeks.

“I don’t understand…” You whisper, searching this strange, terrifying man’s face for any sign of deceit, but he just grins at you.

“You told us the truth. Very good.” It sounds almost like praise the way he whispers it to you, and you whimper, shame filling your stomach. You look away from him, taking a shuddering breath as you struggle to compose yourself.

“Let’s get you back inside hm? Can’t have you catching a cold.” He tsks, and before you can argue, you’re being lifted into his arms, tucked against his chest. You try to struggle, but the adrenaline has worn off, confusion left in its wake as these strange men usher the herd into their correct pens, Soap barley escaping one of the Roosters pecking at him in defiance, before pausing.

“I don’t think I want to mess with this guy.” Gaz mutters, the three of them staring at Sebastian, who stares back, as though daring them to try and corral him.

“He.. He’ll go back in his stall once it’s quiet… You scared them…” You mutter, tired as you give in, resting your head against the strong chest you’re pressed against, and you feel Price’s grip tighten.

“You’re freezing sweetheart, let’s get you out of these wet clothes.” He murmers, and your heart skips.

“I can do that myself.” You hiss, staring up at him with narrowed eyes, despite the fact you can feel your cheeks burning.

He just laughs.

6: Ruins

(previous)

the kind stranger from the diner lets you stay the night and introduces you to his husband.

->sexually explicit. contains mild gore, mentions of hard vore, mystery meat, voyeurism/exhibitionism, implied pheromones, ambiguous consent, mentions of breeding, mild feral behavior.

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Glenn does not hop into his car and lead you to his place. He gives you instructions—vague and contradictory, “you’ll know it when you see it,” with a knowing wink and a kiss to the cheek—and says he’ll meet you there. He does this because you’re in Verlinda, and he’s a local. 

Verlinda is further north, of course. Looking at your map, it’s nearly in the top left corner of the page. Some would call it the “city center” or “capital” if they used such terms, home of the Stag. But Verlinda is also the sea of green on the other side of a highway guardrail, the underbrush and turning leaves. Verlinda is every dried up factory town when the conveyor belt stops running. Verlinda is every cornfield when the last farmer dies. Verlinda is every dead mall and empty church, every old house with a coat of climbing vines. Verlinda is everything, everywhere, eventually.

“Sleepy?” the girl asks. She holds her takeout box of syrupy pancakes protectively on her lap.

“Yeah,” you admit. “Long day.” 

You see her nod solemnly in the rearview mirror. She gazes wide-eyed into the distance; looking west. “Home,” she says quietly. “Will home…want me?” 

“Of course they will,” you assure her. She meets your gaze in the mirror, frowning. Not sure if she believes you. “It’s something we all worry about,” you tell her. “But I know you’ll do fine. My friend, who has eyes just like yours? He still lives there. He makes sure everyone has what they need and no one feels left out.” You glance northeast. The pull is a dull ache in your chest, the bitter sting of loneliness. “Your home will want you. I know that,” you say quietly. “You’re very lucky.”

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: HOW DO BY SNEAKER PIMPS]

This town has been Verlinda for a long time. Cracked concrete gives way to gravel and paved dirt. Main street is a ghost town, gaping windows and leaf-strangled streetlights. An old sawmill buckles beneath the weight of the forest growing up around it, shrubs growing on the roof. Some things are preserved and repurposed. Tourist destinations like the diner have carefully maintained exteriors, the wild trimmed back but not fully tamed. 

By the time you stumble upon the cluster of old, overgrown cottages and mossy cabins Glenn told you to look for, it’s nightfall. The shapes that dart at the very corners of your headlights look animal, antlered and bushy-tailed and cloven hooved, but you never get a clear look. You drive very, very slowly, just in case something should wander into the road in front of you.

Deep in the woods, fenced in by evergreens and cradled by tendrils of ivy, you find the place. Glenn is standing out in front, having beat you here despite the distance. Three excitable children sprint after each other across the yard, yelping and laughing. All four of them turn at the sound of your car approaching, eyes eerily aglow as your headlights pass over them. The house is dark inside, weeds and thistles growing up to the windows.

Glenn walks over and you roll your window down. “Where do you want me to park?” you ask.

“You’re fine where you’re at,” he says. You’ve barely pulled out your keys before he opens your door and the girl’s behind you. “Anything you need carried in?” 

“I’m good, I travel light.”

The children are triplets, looking remarkably like one another and Glenn, all redhead boys with bushy curls and sharp-toothed smiles. “Dad!” they shout, practically trampling each other to be the first to inspect you. They wave at the girl but only stare at you. “Dad,” one says, pointing at you, “is this dinner?” 

Glenn laughs heartily and ruffles his son’s hair. “Dinner’s cooking, isn’t it? These are both guests,” he stresses the word, his tone slightly scolding. “Don’t you remember what I said about couriers?” 

“That there’s…not a lot?” the boy asks.

One of his brothers pipes up, “Not enough to hunt. Population’s too low.” 

“Exactly right.” Glenn starts herding them to the front door, gesturing over his shoulder for you to follow. You hesitate. It’s your first time inside a Verlindan den, but you were explicitly invited. You take a deep breath. The girl looks nervous but she follows you inside.

It’s pitch black inside. There’s an earthy smell, soil and forest, and the faint coppery odor of blood. You hold out a hand in search of a guiding surface, a wall, furniture, something to get your bearings. There’s the hissing scratch of a match being struck and you see Glenn ahead, lighting candles. Slowly, the dark melts away. You’ve walked into a cozy living room. Most the furniture is wood; an antique dish cabinet, a pair of bookshelves, a long table in front of the fireplace. No couch and no chairs, you notice, just a series of rugs, blankets and pillows strewn across the floor. No light fixtures either. You suspect there’s no electricity. 

There’s a muted thunk in the next room. The clatter of a cutting board and the slippery sounds of meat.

“C’mon in, make yourself at home. Set your bag down wherever,” Glenn says. He fusses with the blankets self-consciously, pushing them into more nest-like piles and fluffing the pillows. You see one of his kids pick something up off the floor and trot over to the girl.

“This is my pillow,” he says shyly, “but you can use it if you want. It’s really soft.” The girl watches him carefully, primary eyes narrowing. “Look, it’s got you on it!” He turns it around, showing her the little butterflies embroidered on the end of the pillowcase. The girl takes it from him very carefully, touching the black and orange threads of the butterfly’s wings. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. 

Glenn gives you a brief tour, guiding you around with a hand on your lower back. “Bathroom’s over there,” Glenn he says. “Ah, remind me to light a candle in there. Guestroom is upstairs but you can sleep wherever, just let me know if you need more blankets, pillows, anything like that. We’ll be down in the burrow. There’s room if you’d like to join us but it’s no problem if you like your space. Kitchen’s right over here but, ah…” 

There’s another hard, meaty thunk. Glenn steers you back towards the living room. The triplets have coaxed the girl into laying on the floor with them, paper and colored pencils scattered around. They draw triangular trees, squiggling rivers, and eerie-looking deer with strange antlers. The girl draws home. She gives the smiling people more details; more eyes and more legs. The house with a chimney is at the top of a hill.

“That’s Albie,” Glenn says quietly, gesturing to the boy who gave up his pillow. “And that’s Archie and Arden.” He watches them with proud eyes and a sad smile. “Their mother passed a few years ago. Killed on the road. She’s buried under the willow out back.” 

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” you say. 

“We’re alright now. We’ve had time, closure. The Stag made it right.” He pauses, looking at you out of the corner of his eye. “You know about that, don’t you?” he asks, lowering his voice further. There’s a threat lurking in the words. “You know the law of Verlinda. You’ve never hit anybody, have you?” 

You swallow hard. “Never. I swear.” Courier training is minimal. As long as you have a driver’s license and a pulse, anyone can risk their life on the road. Nobody bothers to teach you much or tell you about local customs. This is the one thing they tell you before your very first delivery, a precaution learned from decades of mistakes and misadventure: the law of Verlinda is vengeance. If you see an animal on the road, you let it pass first. If you hit one, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.

“Aw, I’m just teasing you, courier. You’re a good sort.” Glenn chuckles and squeezes your shoulder. “I’d have known if you’d hit somebody. Wouldn’t need to ask.” 

He turns his attention to the kids lying in a circle, showing off their drawings. Arden has doodled what looks like a pickup truck lying on its side, billowing smoke. The figure beside it is shadowy scribbles, hunched and satyr-like, twisting horns and bloodied claws. “Papa’s awesome!” he tells the girl. “He’s really strong and fast and he knows how to fix the holes in my socks and make big blankets from a bunch of little squares.”

You hear a sharp crack and something peeling apart in the kitchen. Water runs in the sink. Slow, heavy footsteps draw closer and an enormous figure saunters out of the dark. “Glenn,” you hear, a low, gravelly rumble. 

“Hall,” Glenn says, grinning. The man looming at the entrance to the kitchen is much larger than Glenn, taller as well as wider, towering over both of you. Biceps bulge beneath his tight, short sleeves but he’s soft and pudgy around the middle. His hair is long, a loose braid dangling nearly halfway down his back, neatly shaved stubble dotting his chin. 

He’s wearing an apron that’s spattered, top to bottom, in blood.

“Papa, Dad brought guests,” Archie says, using the same careful enunciation his father did earlier. “That one, too.” He points you out specifically. “That’s a courier. So no eating them.” 

“I’ll try to keep it in mind,” Halvard rumbles. That’s a joke, you think. You hope it’s a joke. Halvard walks over to shake your hand and you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes. “Call me Hall. Glenn says you’re staying the night.”

“If that’s okay,” you say carefully.

“Fine by me. Boys, why don’t you and the little miss play outside? I’ll call you back when dinner’s ready.” 

“But we just came back inside,” Arden says.

“C’mon,” Archie grumbles, getting to his feet. “They’re gonna talk about grown up stuff and don’t want us to hear.”

“Don’t go far,” Glenn warns. “And don’t go too fast. She can’t see in the dark as well as you can.”

“We know, Dad,” Albie says. He holds out his hand and the girl hesitates, glancing at you first. When you smile and nod, she gingerly takes Albie’s hand. He’s a little too excited and practically yanks her out the door with him, but you think you hear her giggling. The door slams shut and the children’s voices fade. 

“They’re good kids,” you say. “Nicer than some humans have been to her.” 

Glenn clicks his tongue. “Not saying much, I think. But I’m glad to hear it.” He wanders over to the fireplace and lights a pile of twigs inside, fanning the fire until it spreads to the larger logs underneath. 

“I’ll get us some drinks,” Halvard says, gone before you can decline. 

Glenn beckons you over to the fireplace and tugs you down onto the rug beside him. He’s piling blankets around you and on top of your lap, and you have the briefest flash of panic at how heavy they are, how easily he could lean in and tear your throat out and you’d be too slow to stop him. “So,” he says. “Tell us about yourself.” 

You shrug. You’re not really sure what to say. “I’m a courier, but you knew that already.” 

“Child of the road, too.” His eyes are brown but they look gold in the firelight, fixed intently on you. “Where’s home?” 

“I’ve never been there.” 

“Hm. That’s a shame.” He scoots a little closer, burrowing his hand into the blankets until he finds your thigh. His palm strokes up and down your leg gently. “I ask because I’m curious. Sometimes we have a sense for it and sometimes we don’t. You’re closer kin to me than the little one is, but it’s hard to tell. You’re…” He pauses. You hear him sniff the air. “You’re hiding it, aren’t you? Not letting it show.” 

“Glenn,” Halvard growls. He comes back with a large mug, something burnt gold and honey-sweet sloshing around inside as he sets it on the table. “You’re being rude.” His apron’s gone. You push back from the table, intending to move so he can sit next to his husband. He keeps you still with one large hand on your shoulder and sinks down on your other side. Between their bodies, the blankets and the fire at your back, you’re almost too warm, but the air is getting colder as the night goes on. 

“Sorry,” Glenn says sheepishly. “I know, that’s personal. I’m nosy is all. Maybe a little protective. Predator eats prey, and we eat predators. You smell like something I’d eat twice over.” His hand inches up your thigh, giving the lightest teasing stroke between your legs. “You got some sharp teeth, sweetpea, if only you’d let ‘em grow out.” You let out a gasp when he leans in further, nipping your ear, grinding his palm against your clothed sex. You can feel Halvard’s chuckle through his chest, warm and solid against your back. 

“You asked ‘em first, I hope,” he murmurs, reaching around you for the mug on the table. 

“Mm, I’m thinking we’re on the same page. But sure, I’ll ask.” Glenn catches your chin and pulls you into a hungry kiss, all tongue and teeth. He nips at your lip and coaxes you into opening your mouth wider, letting him in deeper. You gasp into the kiss when the hand between your legs gropes shamelessly, cupping you through your clothes. A string of saliva connects you when he pulls away. “How about it, sweetpea?” he says, stroking your cheek. “You wanna turn around, let me mount that sweet ass of yours?” 

You glance back at Halvard, just to be sure. He’s smiling lazily, eyes roaming your body while he takes a long gulp from the mug. His other hand slips into his sweatpants, palming a thick, twitching shape under the fabric. “Fair warning,” he rumbles. “He’s gonna wear you out.” 

Glenn smiles coyly, sliding his hand back down your leg. “Yeah, maybe,” he purrs. “But you’ll like it, I promise.” He grabs your ankle and pulls, sending you sprawling on the floor. You’re flipped over in a sudden, dizzying motion, climbing to your knees before a hand—sharper than you remember, the ends tipped with claws—grips the back of your neck and shoves your face into the rug. Glenn’s face nuzzles your nape and you hear him inhale deeply, pressing his tongue against your skin. “You smell like you’re in season,” he groans, scraping his teeth against your neck.

You manage to get your head turned just far enough to look up and see Halvard in front of you and shiver. His gaze is smoldering. He looks down at you with half-lidded eyes, pants around his hips, hand on his cock. It’s as big as the rest of him; round head, thick, bulging shaft, balls dangling fat and heavy beneath. He strokes himself from base to tip and you realize he’s still not fully hard. 

You don’t know what comes over you but looking at it makes your mouth water. “You’re just gonna watch?” you say.

You hear Glenn cackle behind you. He’s not undressing you fully, just tugging your pants out of the way and leaving them bunched up around your knees like a makeshift restraint. You think they look at each other—Halvard glances somewhere above you and his smile widens. “You say that like I’m not looking at the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he tells you. “Yeah, I’m good with watching. You’re giving me a break.”

You hear a belt unbuckle, clothes shucked to the floor. Glenn’s warm, naked body drapes across your back. He hikes your hips a little higher and kisses down your spine. His cock is hard and dribbling precum when he thrusts between your thighs, grinding his length against your sex in fast, rocking thrusts. “Gimme a drink, babe.” 

“Don’t spill it,” Halvard warns. He takes another gulp from the mug and then leans over you, his hand on the back of your head. You hear them kissing, licking and sucking at each other, while Halvard rakes his fingers over your scalp and Glenn fucks your thighs faster. Halvard’s cock is nearly in your face, bobbing against his stomach. He’s almost fully hard now and you have the sudden urge to take him into your mouth.

You never get the chance. They pull apart with a gasp and you hear what must be a growl from Halvard, low and feral. He settles back down in front of you, setting the mug aside. He’s watching intently, pumping himself in slow strokes. Glenn knocks your legs apart with his knee and he’s breaching you without warning, short, quick thrusts that get a little deeper each time. “Oh shit,” he gasps. “Fuck, you’re tight!” You feel him adjusting, shifting hips higher. Mounting you, just like he said he would. He’s moving fast and panting like he’s on the verge of cumming already.

And then he does. You freeze in shock when Glenn lets out a stammered moan, spilling inside you. It’s not much, just a small spurt, but you feel his balls draw up and his length pulse and twitch. He nuzzles his face against your shoulder and laughs breathlessly. Then he starts pounding into you again. You gasp and twist up the blankets under your hands. You hear him panting and groaning, the obscene, fast-paced slaps of his hips against your ass. 

“Baby, you didn’t warn them,” Halvard says, a lighthearted scolding he doesn’t mean. Glenn doesn’t answer. All of his attention and effort is solely on you, fucking you, breeding you, pistoning his hips and pounding the breath out of your lungs. “He’s gonna cum a lot, honey. Doesn’t mean he’s done. He won’t be done for a long, long time, so just try to bear with it.” He leans back, giving you a full view of his thumb teasing the tip of his cock. “You know the saying, right? ‘Fuck like rabbits?’”

Glenn is merciless. His hips don’t ever stop moving. They slow just a little when he comes, thrusts shaky and drawn out, but he starts right back up again and you feel like he gets faster. Your knees are going to be bruised or rugburned or maybe both after this, but right now, you don’t care. There’s just the heat and the friction, the squelch of cum foaming up around Glenn’s length, the slap-slap-slap of your bodies meeting. 

Glenn slips a few times, pulls out too far and his cock glides wetly against your skin, still rock hard somehow. He whines and starts sinking his teeth into you, playful nips turning to frustrated, angry bites. You have to help him. He’s too clumsy, his hips too insistent. You hold yourself open and press back against him, guiding him back to your sloppy hole. As soon as he’s inside you again, he cums. You’re not sure you can hold yourself up anymore. Your body starts to sag and Glenn follows until you’re both prone. He hooks his feet on the inner side of your ankles and pulls your legs apart even further, keeping you spread open while he humps against your ass. 

You’re starting to feel feverish, sweaty and overheated. You also don’t want to stop. Halvard’s hand speeds up and you feel his gaze burning into you both. “Maybe you should stay, courier,” he says. “Let my husband breed you every night after he’s done mounting me.” 

Glenn cums again just from the idea. He lays his hands on top of yours and changes his angle, rotates his hips just right, and grinds against the spot that makes your toes curl. When he speeds up again, you nearly scream.

“Just think about it, alright? Think about how fucking good you could feel all the time.” His hand’s drenched in thick precum and he’s still leaking more, squeezing himself at the base. He strokes himself hard and just as fast as Glenn fucks you, matching the rhythm. “I could mount you, too,” he murmurs. “Or I could have you in my lap. Hold onto your hips and fuck you stupid. I know you could take it, honey.” 

The fantasy sends him over the edge. He gets closer, grunting softly and muttering a curse as he pumps his tip right in front of your face. You squeeze your eyes shut as it happens. He lets out a low, rumbling groan and thick, sticky cum splatters on your cheeks and chin. There’s so much of it. Blood rushes between your legs thinking about what it’d be like with him on top of you instead, slamming into you, pinning you down with one strong hand, leaving you stuffed so full it’d leak out before he was done. 

You cum with a whine and Glenn follows right after you. The sound he makes is absolutely feral. He fucks you through it and kisses your neck, hips snapping against yours. You’re beyond exhausted, peering up at Halvard for help. He chuckles fondly, rubbing some of his cum into your cheek with his thumb. “Hang in there, courier,” he says huskily. “I’m sure he’ll be done eventually.”

*

Glenn intercepts the kids at the door. You can hear their voices muffled through the ceiling; Archer bragging about a toad he caught and Arden insisting he just saw it from a distance, that it hopped away before they even got close. Albie says the girl got sick and you sit up hearing that. Glenn murmurs something and there’s a long pause. 

“Aw, kit, that’s silk,” he says. “Was that the first time you’ve made it?” Another pause. “It’s nothing bad, but I bet it surprised you. Just means you’re feeling happy and safe.” 

“Don’t even think about getting up,” Halvard says, gently pushing you back down. The burrow is a dark, cozy basement room, a sea of soft things so thick you can’t see the floor. He’s been fussing over you since Glenn finished rutting, whisking you off for a bath and giving you a fresh set of pajamas. His, you assume, because they’re far too big to be Glenn’s. The fabric is soft and slightly floral scented. “You’re going to feel it in the morning.”

“I feel it now,” you mutter. 

Halvard settles in with you, pressing his fingers into the knotted muscles in your back. You melt into the touch and he makes a sound almost like a purr, kissing your shoulder. “Glenn told me you’re leaving bright and early. I’d try to tempt you to stay longer, but I know it’s urgent. But, honey, if you ever come back through here…” He turns you around, pressing his forehead against yours. 

“Yeah,” you say quietly, shutting your eyes. “I know where to find you.”

(next)

excuse me but WHAT RHE ACTUAL F-

picking up the manga rn

preparing emotionally for ch 100 JDKLFKLSD

Fics and drabbles that lay in the realm of horror whether that be straight spooks or non-con fantasies (basically if it has non-con or allusions to it then it'll be classed under horror over smut)

Fics

No Second Location - mainly serial killer Soap, some serial killer 141 Savage and Sacrosanct and further plot- historical fantasy, Soap and Ghost The Revelation - cult shit with Ghost and Soap The Eyes of God - evil religious Ale and Rudy Devil's Trumpet - Appalachian horror with 141 Cry Baby - Ghost plays with you while Gaz is away Back Chat & Sequel - IT reader getting bullied by Soap Foul Magic - druid Soap Deductive Reasoning - fish folk 141 Make your own way home - Soap possessing you to get to Ghost Mace teaching reader to deepthroat for Ghost Mace raping reader to make her hero worship Ghost

Drabbles

AU Thoughts Wonderland AU thoughts Neverland AU thoughts Westworld AU thoughtsFallout AU thoughts

Expanded with Drabbles Ghost kidnapping a civilian - #mhairidrabblescodkidnappers Graves doll - #mhairidrabblesdoll Good Boy Bad Girl - #mhairi's good boy bad girl

Soap Soap who loves his fleshlight more than you Soap who gets his team to run train on you Trick or Treat with Soap Obsessive Soap Soap’s obsessive girlfriend Soap preying on Catholic virgins Creepypasta Soap Dogfighting but the dog is Soap

Price Tinsel choking with Price Price breeding you Never lets go Price Price’s retirement plan Kidnapper Price Price manipulating his way to a wife Sleazy politician Price Tactical questioning with Price Price intending to steal you and your boyfriend

Gaz Branding with Gaz Gaslighter Gaz “Romantic” Gaz

Ghost Serial killer Simon Ghost who targets vulnerable women Matching scars Ghost

Ghoap Circus!Ghoap thoughts Marriage of convenience with Laird MacTavish Forced marriage with Simon Ghost mad at you for not realising you are Soap’s Soap using Ghost to lube you up  Ghost fucking you to punish Soap Loan shark Price sending Ghoap to deal with you

Other Traded to Kortac Temporarily blinded reader Toxic senior officer 141 Astronaut reader Escape room Beta reader forced to be an omega Price and his dogs Price making a doll for Ghost 141 and how they break girls Bellesa sex toy customer service Serial killers Gaz and Ghost Price forced husband historical fantasy Misogynist to transfem 141 Salem witch trial Price and Ghost Honeytrap omega Flight with Price and Ghost Ghost kidnapping a nanny for Soap’s surprise baby Blindfolded reader with someone who is not her boyfriend Soap Soap’s filthy notebook Werewolf Johnny selling you out Ex-husband Simon sending Gaz to break your heart Crow shifter 141 Farmer with a holiday lodge  Halloween not real cops Sustainability officer

IMPORTANT UPDATE!!!

so i moved blogs! my new @ is @red5tars !! i will slowly be moving some of my posts over there. do not feel obligated to follow but if you'd like.. i will see you on the other side!