Slasher Handler

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!

If you were not an adult (18+) did it have any lasting effects?

A Dichotomy of Thought || Masterlist

Ghoap/reader—You move next door to a disabled veteran and his troubled partner. You have troubles of your own.

Part One—Johnny almost dies

Part Two—You give Simon five minutes

Part Three—You light a cigarette

Part Four—Johnny has a seizure

Part Five—Simon makes tea

Part Six—Simon and Johnny argue

Part Seven—Johnny finds a purpose

Part Eight—Poker Night

Part Nine

excuse me but WHAT RHE ACTUAL F-

picking up the manga rn

preparing emotionally for ch 100 JDKLFKLSD

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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.

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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)

words to use when writing

Appetite:

craving, demand, gluttony, greed, hunger, inclination, insatiable, longing, lust, passion, ravenousness, relish, taste, thirst, urge, voracity, weakness, willingness, yearning, ardor, dedication, desire, devotion, enthusiasm, excitement, fervor, horny, intensity, keenness, wholeheartedness, zeal

Arouse:

agitate, awaken, electrify, enliven, excite, entice, foment, goad, incite, inflame, instigate, kindle, provoke, rally, rouse, spark, stimulate, stir, thrill, waken, warm, whet, attract, charm, coax, fire up, fuel, heat up, lure, produce, stir up, tantalize, tease, tempt, thrum, torment, wind up, work up

Assault:

attack, advancing, aggressive, assailing, charging, incursion, inundated, invasion, offensive, onset, onslaught, overwhelmed, ruinous, tempestuous, strike, violation, ambush, assail, barrage, bombard, bombardment, crackdown, wound

Beautiful: 

admirable, alluring, angelic, appealing, bewitching, charming, dazzling, delicate, delightful, divine, elegant, enticing, exquisite, fascinating, gorgeous, graceful, grand, magnificent, marvelous, pleasing, radiant, ravishing, resplendent, splendid, stunning, sublime, attractive, beguiling, captivating, enchanting, engaging, enthralling, eye-catching, fetching, fine, fine-looking, good-looking, handsome, inviting, lovely, mesmeric, mesmerizing, pretty, rakish, refined, striking, tantalizing, tempting

Brutal:

atrocious, barbarous, bloodthirsty, callous, cruel, feral, ferocious, hard, harsh, heartless, inhuman, merciless, murderous, pitiless, remorseless, rough, rude, ruthless, savage, severe, terrible, unmerciful, vicious, bestial, brute, brutish, cold-blooded, fierce, gory, nasty, rancorous, sadistic, uncompromising, unfeeling, unforgiving, unpitying, violent, wild

Burly:

able-bodied, athletic, beefy, big, brawny, broad-shouldered, bulky, dense, enormous, great, hard, hardy, hearty, heavily built, heavy, hefty, huge, husky, immense, large, massive, muscular, mighty, outsized, oversized, powerful, powerfully built, prodigious, robust, solid, stalwart, stocky, stout, strapping, strong, strongly built, sturdy, thick, thickset, tough, well-built, well-developed

Carnal:

animalistic, bodily, impure, lascivious, lecherous, lewd, libidinous, licentious, lustful, physical, prurient, salacious, sensuous, voluptuous, vulgar, wanton, , coarse, crude, dirty, raunchy, rough, unclean

Dangerous:

alarming, critical, fatal, formidable, impending, malignant, menacing, mortal, nasty, perilous, precarious, pressing, serious, terrible, threatening, treacherous, urgent, vulnerable, wicked, acute, damaging, deadly, death-defying, deathly, destructive, detrimental, explosive, grave, harmful, hazardous, injurious, lethal, life-threatening, noxious, poisonous, risky, severe, terrifying, toxic, unsafe, unstable, venomous

Dark:

atrocious, corrupt, forbidding, foul, infernal, midnight, morbid, ominous, sinful, sinister, somber, threatening, twilight, vile, wicked, abject, alarming, appalling, baleful, bizarre, bleak, bloodcurdling, boding evil, chilling, cold, condemned, creepy, damned, daunting, demented, desolate, dire, dismal, disturbing, doomed, dour, dread, dreary, dusk, eerie, fear, fearsome, frightening, ghastly, ghostly, ghoulish, gloom, gloomy, grave, grim, grisly, gruesome, hair-raising, haunted, hideous, hopeless, horrendous, horrible, horrid, horrific, horrifying, horror, ill-fated, ill-omened, ill-starred, inauspicious, inhospitable, looming, lost, macabre, malice, malignant, menacing, murky, mysterious, night, panic, pessimistic, petrifying, scary, shadows, shadowy, shade, shady, shocking, soul-destroying, sour, spine-chilling, spine-tingling, strange, terrifying, uncanny, unearthly, unlucky, unnatural, unnerving, weird, wretched

Delicious:

enticing, exquisite, luscious, lush, rich, savory, sweet, tasty, tempting, appetizing, delectable, flavorsome, full of flavor, juicy, lip-smacking, mouth-watering, piquant, relish, ripe, salty, spicy, scrummy, scrumptious, succulent, tangy, tart, tasty, yummy, zesty

Ecstasy:

delectation, delirium, elation, euphoria, fervor, frenzy, joy, rapture, transport, bliss, excitement, happiness, heaven, high, paradise, rhapsody, thrill, blissful, delighted, elated, extremely happy, in raptures (of delight), in seventh heaven, jubilant, on cloud nine, overexcited, overjoyed, rapturous, thrilled

Ecstatic:

delirious, enraptured, euphoric, fervent, frenzied, joyous, transported, wild

Erotic:

amatory, amorous, aphrodisiac, carnal, earthy, erogenous, fervid, filthy, hot, impassioned, lascivious, lecherous, lewd, raw, romantic, rousing, salacious, seductive, sensual, sexual, spicy, steamy, stimulating, suggestive, titillating, voluptuous, tantalizing

Gasp:

catch of breath, choke, gulp, heave, inhale, pant, puff, snort, wheeze, huff, rasp, sharp intake of air, short of breath, struggle for breath, swallow, winded 

Heated:

ardent, avid, excited, fervent, fervid, fierce, fiery, frenzied, furious, impassioned, intense, passionate, raging, scalding, scorched, stormy, tempestuous, vehement, violent, ablaze, aflame, all-consuming, blazing, blistering, burning, crazed, explosive, febrile, feverish, fired up, flaming, flushed, frantic, hot, hot-blooded, impatient, incensed, maddening, obsessed, possessed, randy, searing, sizzling, smoldering, sweltering, torrid, turbulent, volatile, worked up, zealous

Hunger:

appetite, ache, craving, gluttony, greed, longing, lust, mania, mouth-watering, ravenous, voracious, want, yearning, thirst

Hungry:

avid, carnivorous, covetous, craving, eager, greedy, hungered, rapacious, ravenous, starved, unsatisfied, voracious, avaricious, desirous, famished, grasping, insatiable, keen, longing, predatory, ravening, starving, thirsty, wanting

Intense:

forceful, severe, passionate, acute, agonizing, ardent, anxious, biting, bitter, burning, close, consuming, cutting, deep, eager, earnest, excessive, exquisite, extreme, fervent, fervid, fierce, forcible, great, harsh, impassioned, keen, marked, piercing, powerful, profound, severe, sharp, strong, vehement, violent, vivid, vigorous

Liquid:

damp, cream, creamy, dripping, ichorous, juicy, moist, luscious, melted, moist, pulpy, sappy, soaking, solvent, sopping, succulent, viscous, wet / aqueous, broth, elixir, extract, flux, juice, liquor, nectar, sap, sauce, secretion, solution, vitae, awash, moisture, boggy, dewy, drenched, drip, drop, droplet, drowning, flood, flooded, flowing, fountain, jewel, leaky, milky, overflowing, saturated, slick, slippery, soaked, sodden, soggy, stream, swamp, tear, teardrop, torrent, waterlogged, watery, weeping

Lithe:

agile, lean, pliant, slight, spare, sinewy, slender, supple, deft, fit, flexible, lanky, leggy, limber, lissom, lissome, nimble, sinuous, skinny, sleek, slender, slim, svelte, trim, thin, willowy, wiry

Moan:

beef, cry, gripe, grouse, grumble, lament, lamentation, plaint, sob, wail, whine, bemoan, bewail, carp, deplore, grieve, gripe, grouse, grumble, keen, lament, sigh, sob, wail, whine, mewl

Moving:

(exciting,) affecting, effective  arousing, awakening, breathless, dynamic, eloquent, emotional, emotive, expressive, fecund, far-out, felt in gut, grabbed by, gripping, heartbreaking, heartrending, impelling, impressive, inspirational, meaningful, mind-bending, mind-blowing, motivating, persuasive, poignant, propelling, provoking, quickening, rallying, rousing, significant, stimulating, simulative, stirring, stunning, touching, awe-inspiring, energizing, exhilarating, fascinating, heart pounding, heart stopping, inspiring, riveting, thrilling

Need:

compulsion, demand, desperate, devoir, extremity, impatient longing, must, urge, urgency / desire, appetite, avid, burn, craving, eagerness, fascination, greed, hunger, insatiable, longing, lust, taste, thirst, voracious, want, yearning, ache, addiction, aspiration, desire, fever, fixation, hankering, hope, impulse, inclination, infatuation, itch, obsession, passion, pining, wish, yen

Pain: 

ache, afflict, affliction, agony, agonize, anguish, bite, burn, chafe, distress, fever, grief, hurt, inflame, laceration, misery, pang, punish, sting, suffering, tenderness, throb, throe, torment, torture, smart

Painful:

aching, agonizing, arduous, awful, biting, burning, caustic, dire, distressing, dreadful, excruciating, extreme, grievous, inflamed, piercing, raw, sensitive, severe, sharp, tender, terrible, throbbing, tormenting, angry, bleeding, bloody, bruised, cutting, hurting, injured, irritated, prickly, skinned, smarting, sore, stinging, unbearable, uncomfortable, upsetting, wounded

Perverted: 

aberrant, abnormal, corrupt, debased, debauched, defiling, depraved, deviant, monstrous, tainted, twisted, vicious, warped, wicked, abhorrent, base, decadent, degenerate, degrading, dirty, disgusting, dissipated, dissolute, distasteful, hedonistic, immodest, immoral, indecent, indulgent, licentious, nasty, profligate, repellent, repugnant, repulsive, revolting, shameful, shameless, sickening, sinful, smutty, sordid, unscrupulous, vile 

Pleasurable:

charming, gratifying, luscious, satisfying, savory, agreeable, delicious, delightful, enjoyable, nice, pleasant, pleasing, soothing, succulent

Pleasure:

bliss, delight, gluttony, gratification, relish, satisfaction, thrill, adventure, amusement, buzz, contentment, delight, desire, ecstasy, enjoyment, excitement, fun, happiness, harmony, heaven, joy, kick, liking, paradise, seventh heaven 

Rapacious:

avaricious, ferocious, furious, greedy, predatory, ravening, ravenous, savage, voracious, aggressive, gluttonous, grasping, insatiable, marauding, plundering

Rapture:

bliss, ecstasy, elation, exaltation, glory, gratification, passion, pleasure, floating, unbridled joy

Rigid:

adamant, austere, definite, determined, exact, firm, hard, rigorous, solid, stern, uncompromising, unrelenting, unyielding, concrete, fixed, harsh, immovable, inflexible, obstinate, resolute, resolved, severe, steadfast, steady, stiff, strong, strict, stubborn, taut, tense, tight, tough, unbending, unchangeable, unwavering

Sudden:

abrupt, accelerated, acute, fast, flashing, fleeting, hasty, headlong, hurried, immediate, impetuous, impulsive, quick, quickening, rapid, rash, rushing, swift, brash, brisk, brusque, instant, instantaneous, out of the blue, reckless, rushed, sharp, spontaneous, urgent, without warning

Thrust:

(forward) advance, drive, forge, impetus, impulsion, lunge, momentum, onslaught, poke, pressure, prod, propulsion, punch, push, shove, power, proceed, progress, propel

(push hard) assail, assault, attack, bear down, buck, drive, force, heave, impale, impel, jab, lunge, plunge, press, pound, prod, ram, shove, stab, transfix, urge, bang, burrow, cram, gouge, jam, pierce, punch, slam, spear, spike, stick

Thunder-struck:

amazed, astonished, aghast, astounded, awestruck, confounded, dazed, dazed, dismayed, overwhelmed, shocked, staggered, startled, stunned, gob-smacked, bewildered, dumbfounded, flabbergasted, horrified, incredulous, surprised, taken aback 

Torment:

agony, anguish, hurt, misery, pain, punishment, suffering, afflict, angst, conflict, distress, grief, heartache, misfortune, nightmare, persecute, plague, sorrow, strife, tease, test, trial, tribulation, torture, turmoil, vex, woe

Touch:

(physical) - blow, brush, caress, collide, come together, contact, converge, crash, cuddle, embrace, feel, feel up, finger, fondle, frisk, glance, glide, graze, grope, handle, hit, hug, impact, join, junction, kiss, lick, line, manipulate, march, massage, meet, nudge, palm, partake, pat, paw, peck, pet, pinch, probe, push, reach, rub, scratch, skim, slide, smooth, strike, stroke, suck, sweep, tag, tap, taste, thumb, tickle, tip, touching, toy, bite, bump, burrow, buss, bury, circle, claw, clean, clutch, cover, creep, crush, cup, curl, delve, dig, drag, draw, ease, edge, fiddle with, flick, flit, fumble, grind, grip, grub, hold, huddle, knead, lap, lave, lay a hand on, maneuver, manhandle, mash, mold, muzzle, neck, nestle, nibble, nip, nuzzle, outline, play, polish, press, pull, rasp, ravish, ream, rim, run, scoop, scrabble, scrape, scrub, shave, shift, shunt, skate, slip, slither, smack, snake, snuggle, soothe, spank, splay, spread, squeeze, stretch, swipe, tangle, tease, thump, tongue, trace, trail, tunnel twiddle, twirl, twist, tug, work, wrap 

(mental) - communicate, examine, inspect, perception, scrutinize

Wet:

bathe, bleed, burst, cascade, course, cover, cream, damp, dampen, deluge, dip, douse, drench, dribble, drip, drizzle, drool, drop, drown, dunk, erupt, flood, flow, gush, immerse, issue, jet, leach, leak, moisten, ooze, overflow, permeate, plunge, pour, rain, rinse, run, salivate, saturate, secrete, seep, shower, shoot, slaver, slobber, slop, slosh, sluice, spill, soak, souse, spew, spit, splash, splatter, spout, spray, sprinkle, spurt, squirt, steep, stream, submerge, surge, swab, swamp, swill, swim, trickle, wash, water

Wicked:

abominable, amoral, atrocious, awful, base, barbarous, dangerous, debased, depraved, distressing, dreadful, evil, fearful, fiendish, fierce, foul, heartless, hazardous, heinous, immoral, indecent, intense, mean, nasty, naughty, nefarious, offensive, profane, scandalous, severe, shameful, shameless, sinful, terrible, unholy, vicious, vile, villainous, wayward, bad, criminal, cruel, deplorable, despicable, devious, ill-intentioned, impious, impish, iniquitous, irreverent, loathsome, Machiavellian, mad, malevolent, malicious, merciless, mischievous, monstrous, perverse, ruthless, spiteful, uncaring, unkind, unscrupulous, vindictive, virulent, wretched

Writhe: 

agonize, bend, jerk, recoil, lurch, plunge, slither, squirm, struggle, suffer, thrash, thresh, twist, wiggle, wriggle, angle, arc, bow, buck, coil, contort, convulse, curl, curve, fidget, fight, flex, go into spasm, grind, heave, jiggle, jolt, kick, rear, reel, ripple, resist, roll, lash, lash out, screw up, shake, shift, slide, spasm, stir, strain, stretch, surge, swell, swivel, thrust, turn violently, tussle, twitch, undulate, warp, worm, wrench, wrestle, yank 

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. 

Touch Me 'Till I Vomit (pet!au) [11]

pet!au | ghoap x fem!reader | tag list

old memories

cw: non-con, PTSD, anxiety, slight suicidal ideation, manipulation, extremely unsafe handling of firearms

No matter how many years pass, Johnny’s still in that tunnel. 

Those damp walls follow him everywhere, and the humidity clings to his body like a second skin. Smothers every pore of his body until it’s screaming for air. Or, is that blood? The substance that trickles down the side of his face, sticky and warm? It envelops the line of his jaw like a tender lover. Like devoted fingers caressing the pain that florescences on the soft side of his skull. He needs the nails to puncture the bone. Seep into the tissue of his brain and remove the anguish that festers like a bad wound. 

A great roaring volume drowns out his senses as hands paw at his chest. He’s shaken like someone attempting to rouse their child from slumber but he doesn’t want to wake up. He needs to seep into the concrete. Liquify and soak into the cold, unforgiving ground, but he won’t. The hands dragging him by his vest refuse to allow it. He can’t die because someone wills it otherwise. Then comes the metal. Tongs and needles; scalpels that slice and tear; saws that grind marrow into dust — it hurts worse than the impact. Worse than an entry wound that bubbles and flattens into a cavern nothing can reach.

When he opens his eyes, there’s nothing but white. Walls, linen, clothes; it’s a blank canvas for him to paint on, and yet he can’t see the image. Gentle shapes and sounds, he tries to remember his cousin’s name but can’t. Wants to shape his mouth into the word but his tongue has forgotten the dance. He can’t remember the number assigned to him when he used to play keeper in football. The memory of his mother’s voice is distorted. Something is broken about his father’s face. He can hardly recall the name of the man always at his bedside. 

Ghost. Is that it? Weird bloke with the mask and dark eyes. There’s vague memories about him. Good ones. Ghost barks at the nurses and doctors who come to see him, always questioning what they’re doing. Why they’re injecting him with certain things. Johnny watches him. Thick fingers clench and relax like waves along the coastline. There is more to his name. It’s shrouded in fuzzy memories. Wading through the static, he plucks the word and lets it sit on his tongue until he’s able to get the useless muscle to move. 

“Simon?” 

Things hurt more after he says that word. That name. Calls upon the devil; sells his soul to a demon with dark eyes and lips that can’t properly curl anymore because of the scar tissue. He fights. Shreds skin with sharp teeth. Doesn’t care who the skin belongs to. Johnny’s regressed. Gone backwards in evolution. Has turned into nothing more than a bad dog locked in a cage, left alone to lick his wounds. Only the clink of his collar keeps him company. 

But the only thing that makes a dog bad isn’t because they bite or bark — it’s that they’re scared. Confused. He flails and howls lamenting cries as he tries to make sense of the collar and cage, or why his name seems to be something he can’t recapture. The only thing that’s there, repeating in his mind like a broken record, is the bullet. Gunshot ringing loud, lead ripping through his cranium; all he knows how to do is fight. Fight dirty. Fight hard. Slicing claws, bared teeth; something in him still craves blood. Still covets the taste of iron in his mouth. 

That desire is siphoned out of him. Drawn free from his body until not a single drop remains. It breaks down and decays in his body until there’s only fuzz left. A distorted reality. Things are better this way. Happier. Now, there’s nothing but that collar and cage and Simon and Simon and Simon and Simon —

“Fuckin’ hell, Soap, wake up!” 

Instead of the unforgiving metal bars of a kennel, Johnny feels a plush mattress. Sheets and blankets twist up his legs like ivy reclaiming some man made structure — something that doesn’t belong — and his limbs thrash in an attempt to free himself. He’s restrained. Thick arms wrap around his torso, pinning his appendages to his chest. Lips press against the shell of his ear as Simon grunts in frustration, attempting to hold his misbehaving dog down. 

“Easy now, easy. Down boy,” he murmurs. 

“Ah need tae go home,” Johnny rambles, hands pawing at Simon’s forearms. His chest heaves. Rib cage expanding just to crush right back into his lungs as he exhales, throat constricting like it suddenly feels the weight of the collar around it. “Need tae go home.” 

Simon shushes him. Demanding fingers grip Johnny’s forearms as he pulls him closer. He’s become a living straight jacket. Yanking back on his mutt’s leash until he calms. Until the storm passes.  

“You are home. Home with me, ‘member?” Simon attempts to coddle. The softness is foreign to his voice, but he tries anyway. “Look, even Bonnie’s here. Yeah? Your sweet bird? Look at ‘er. Look at ‘er, Johnny.” 

Confused eyes peer through the darkness until he finds you standing to the side of the bed, your back against the wall. Your parted lips look heavenly in the dull glow of the moon seeping through the windows, and he finds his heart quelling in his chest. Then he looks at your eyes. Wide as saucers. Dilated. Chest heaving. Breath escaping you. 

“Yeah, you see ‘er now. You’re home with me. Home with Bonnie. Better now?” Simon asks. 

“Ah still feel it. Digging ‘round in mah fuckin’ skull,” Johnny babbles, feet still kicking at the cloth that holds his legs hostage. His teeth grit so tightly he can hardly get the words to flow between them. 

“Need ya to relax, Johnny,” Simon huffs. Frustrated eyes glare at you, and your throat visibly bobs as he motions for you to come back to the bed. “Want Bonnie to help?”

Following Simon’s orders, you crawl onto the mattress. You shuffle along on your hands and knees, head bowed low but your eyes stay on the men in front of you like they’ll bite if you don’t. Johnny sees the trepidation that lurks in your gaze. Can nearly smell it as it collects like sweat on your skin. He doesn’t like it. That fear in your eyes. Are you scared of him? Why do you look at him like that? 

“Good girl, Bonnie,” Simon praises flatly. Without warning, his hand dives into Johnny’s boxers where he greedily palms at his cock. It’s still soft, having no chance to harden, and yet Simon is unrelenting. Johnny feels the urge to jolt, to fight back against the stimulation as he watches you sit back on your haunches, bottom lip quivering. “You want ‘er, dontcha boy? ‘Course you do. You picked ‘er out and everything. Doesn’t she make ya feel better? Feel at home?” 

There’s a dull buzz in the back of Johnny’s mind that attempts to rewire his brain. To slice away the coax seal and bare the metal cords to the damp air of his skull. To weave things until the pain stops. Until things make sense. But that buzz wanes and dies as his cock begins to harden and he becomes drunk on Simon’s words and the way he tugs at him. When he looks back at you, you are excited. Body quivering with anticipation, on your knees waiting for him like there’s nothing else in the world that can satiate your desire but him. 

“Aye. Ah do,” Johnny groans. 

Simon smirks against his ear. 

“Good boy. Go fetch.” 

Johnny eats you alive after that. Takes you while you’re face first into the mattress, cock pumping into your cunt at an abusive pace. You cry this time. You’ve been good about keeping it bottled inside, tears along with it, but seeing him screaming in his sleep has your anxiety high. Watching him thrash like that, curse, and beg. Like he had been possessed. Like he was somebody else. Fear courses through you like it’s the only component that builds the cells of your blood. Guttural sobs and wails are muffled by the way Simon shoves your face into the bedding and barks at you to quiet down. You are thankful that this time he fucks you on the bed. There’s no unforgiving wood to press into your palms or the side of your face as you grieve into the blankets. Still, it hurts all the same. Your cervix splits and bruises, walls stretched impossibly wide as he pistons into you, ripping you apart from the inside. 

He feasts on your cries. Mumbles that you sound so beautiful, moaning like that. 

All for him. 

When Johnny’s finished, he goes back to sleep. Curls around you like a devoted dog, arms lazily slung over you — nothing but dead weight. Before long, both men are snoring while you sniffle and writhe. There is no sleep to be had, not with the wounds that plague you. After so much time spent in the den of these beasts, you were hoping that your skin would become thicker. Calluses would form from use, and eventually this agony would remit. But scars can’t form if you don’t allow the wound to heal, and Simon is all too willing to tear at the scab until you’re bleeding all over again. 

He likes the taste of brine and iron. 

Morning comes and you still haven’t slept. 

It was a foolish idea to believe you could have. Laying with monstrous men and listening to the rattle of their breathing keeps you awake worse than any creature that could go bump in the night. You promise yourself you’ll sleep when they’re awake. You’ll sleep when Simon’s hands are busy working away at the garden and Johnny’s drawing sketches of your motionless body. It’s easier to rest when the sun is up. When you can open your eyes and make sense of your surroundings and not be swallowed by darkness and terror. 

Simon is the first to rise. He always is. Even the sun lags behind him in sputtering rays as he slinks out of the room. His movement is enough to rouse Johnny who finally relinquished his grasp on you in favor of turning to lay on his stomach. You breathe easier without the weight of his arm on your chest, but it does nothing to quell the ache that still burns in the pit of your stomach. That never-healing wound. That scar which will never quite mend. 

You stir when you hear the shower begin to run. Its creaky faucet strains against the old pipes, squealing as the liquid shoots through it. Lifting yourself up, you muffle your groans behind gritted teeth as you slip off the side of the bed. You’ve gotten good at being quiet. Soft as a mouse trotting through rotten walls. As silent as the flap of an owl’s wings in the dead of night. Even as you dress — fresh cloth pulling over soiled skin — there’s nothing, not even a peep, out of you. Johnny huffs, body missing your presence. You ignore him as you leave the bedroom. 

Morning birds chirp in your willow tree. You’ve decided it’s your tree. Beautiful branches, dancing leaves — Simon has Johnny, and Johnny has you, isn’t it only fair that you have something of your own? Finches chatter as they buzz from branch to branch, excited feet scurrying as they chase one another. They peck and chew at berries and nuts they’ve foraged in the bountiful forest that lay beyond the property, and you stand in front of the window for a moment watching them. 

They force an old memory to resurface. Something from when you were a child. A science class lecture that’s been buried in the grey matter of your brain for so long it had almost gotten lost. Evolutionary pressure. Finches are an example of this. Darwin’s finches, especially. They’re diverse. Changing for better survival. There are some with fat, wide beaks, others with small, dainty growths. Animals evolve fast to adapt and survive. To endure the earth and her cruel games. 

You wonder if you could test this on yourself. Stress your body to the point it has no choice but to morph into something stronger. Something better. If you climbed to the top of this house, or the ridge of those trees, and jumped, would you survive? Would your body scream and cry out for you to change and sprout wings before you hit the ground? Before you’re caught in Johnny’s maw for good? Is this just some foolish notion? Would you just shatter on the pavement below? 

Your sigh mixes with the chirping, free and sovereign. Either way, it would not be an issue for you anymore if you failed. Your wounds would never heal, but you’d be too dead to care about it. 

Simon’s shower turns off with a squeak and the sound snaps you back to reality. This is all a facade. You are not a bird, you are not a woman, you are a pet — nothing more. 

Knowing breakfast is soon to follow, you preemptively wander toward the dining room. If there is one thing to be grateful for in this meticulously crafted hell of yours, it is that you are well fed. There is no such thing as going hungry under Simon’s careful watch. He is not a good man — a good person — but he at least knows how to take care of his pets. You turn into the room —

— there is a gun on the table. 

Solvent hangs faintly in the air next to bottles of cleaners and old toothbrushes that dot the tabletop. It’s the same set up you recall seeing a few weeks back when Simon cleaned his rifle — when he reminded you that hunting season is fast approaching — but there is no rifle on the table. A hand gun sits in its place, resting on its side, aimed toward the wall. It’s not gutted. Each spring and screw lies perfectly in place. Primed. Ready to kill. 

It’s a proper handgun. At least, you think it is. Not one of the six shooters you always see portrayed in old American Western films. It’s deadly. Something officers or Army men would use. Your stomach sinks as you approach it, like it’ll decide to discharge from a mere glance alone. Sleek black metal covers the frame and grip, making it all look uniform, save for some wear and tear scratches. Some of the scratches look deep — long and gnarly gashes like the item itself had been through hell and back. You reach a hand out, floating and careful; your fingertips brush against the grip; wary, like it’ll bite.

“Shouldn’t be touchin’ that.” 

Retracting your hand, you jump as Simon’s voice cuts through the air with as much venom as a viper. You step back as your eyes jump to look at him. Shirtless, skin still freshly wet, he stands like a drowned barbarian as he stares at you. An apology bubbles up in your throat, but you won’t let it escape. You keep it trapped in your larynx as he slowly approaches with feet more quiet than you could ever wish to be. 

“Ever seen one before?” he asks. He crowds you, forces you back another step as he reaches for the pistol. Large hands dwarf the metal frame as he turns it over in his palm, showing it off. “A gun like this?” 

You shake your head. Knives are plenty common in England, but handguns? Something other than a hunting rifle? You thought handguns were banned. Though, Simon’s never been one to shy away from illegal acts. 

“Yeah. Didn’t think so. Fittin’ for a civilian,” he chuckles with crass humor. 

Simon does something unthinkable — he hands you the gun. 

There’s nothing but care as he holds it out, grip faced toward you, muzzle off to the side pointing at neither of you. Your heart leaps into your throat, swells in your esophagus, and then throbs. All you can do is stare. It stares back. Screams at you. You’re all too aware that this item acts not only as your executioner, but as your ticket out of this place. 

“Take it,” he urges. 

Like always, you obey. It feels too thick in your palm, and when he lets go, it’s heavy, much more than you could have anticipated it to be. Everyone in the movies always wields them so flippantly — as if they’re light as air — but the weight it holds screams its deadly intent. Simon’s fingers brush against you, adjusting your grip, and you try not to grimace at the feeling of his skin and tainted metal against your hand. 

“Is it loaded?” you question. You don’t know why you ask it. Maybe you want to know so you can be wary. To not hurt yourself. Or maybe you want to know so you can see if the risk raging in the back of your mind is worth taking. 

“Dunno,” Simon shrugs. Once more, he repositions you. Gently prods your hand higher and higher, elbow bent, muzzle resting against your temple. Maneuvers your pointer finger until it’s hooked around the trigger. A dead woman walking, he forces you to stand there with the gun to your head. “Wanna find out?” 

What a cruel world this is. The earth with her singing birds and sprouting flowers and bright blue skies, and you’ve hardly been able to enjoy any of it. All it has been is pain, and here you are wondering if you’ll ever get the chance to heal from it. Your heart thumps like an amateur drummer; without sense and rhythm. It demands to be heard. Forces you to listen to his cacophonous melody as it drowns the rush of blood in your ears. Your finger twitches, and the trigger gives way, but not enough for anything to happen. 

“C’mon. We’ll get you matchin’ with Johnny, huh? Ugly fuckin’ scar on the side of your head.” As he says it, he eyes the spot where the mouth of the gun meets your trembling flesh. He says it like he’s already imagining the gaping hole. “Pull the trigger, Bonnie.” 

It can’t be loaded. You’re certain of it. There’s no way he would leave something that dangerous around within reach. But it’s so heavy. As if it’s crammed to the brim with bullets ready to riddle your body full of holes. Your breathing stutters. Seizes the muscles of your chest and forces them to jitter. You stare at Simon’s chest. Nothing but pale, thick skin stares back at you. If you pull the trigger, you might paint him red. Red and pink and yellow. You wonder if that’s what he wants. If the feeling of water never feels as warm or embracing to him as fresh blood does. 

“I told you to pull the fuckin’ trigger.” 

Panic writhes in your stomach — you don’t want to die yet. 

Click!

The hammer strikes against nothing and dry fires. It rings louder than the terror in your mind and the vibrations that rattle your trembling body as your arm gives out, gun lowering away from your head. Of course it’s empty. How stupid of you to think of anything different. Simon would never allow you to leave before he’s ready to let go. 

When Simon laughs, your stomach lurches so fiercely you nearly vomit. Once you’re able to force yourself to face him, you’re met with the largest smile you’ve ever seen him wear. Crooked teeth sit between scarred lips as he swipes the gun out of your limp fingers. Taking a step back, he nods; utterly amused. It isn’t long before that sneer wipes off of his face and he’s back to wearing that biting, stoic expression he always does. 

“Atta girl,” he huffs. 

Sliding the gun into the waistband of his sweatpants, Simon saunters past you into the kitchen, leaving you to stand alone next to the table. Unstable knees nearly give out as your palms slap against the top, slowly dragging your body into a rickety chair. It hurts to sit, soreness jolting through your core with unforgiving electricity, but you refuse to make a sound. You sit there with tears welling in your eyes as you try to forget the way deadly metal feels in your hand. 

This is Simon’s greatest round of torture yet. He’s given you the keys meant to aid in your escape, but he’s changed all the locks. You bite into your bottom lip to get it to stop quivering. After living here, you’ve learned pain is the best enforcer. Only, it doesn’t quite work as well when it’s self-inflicted. 

Another click sounds, and you wince at it. Holding your breath, you wait for something else to follow — a sonic boom, a scream, a death rattle — but the only thing you hear is the sizzling of bacon on a hot pan as Simon prepares breakfast.

A Hole in the Earth

John Price x f!Reader | read on ao3 | thank you @glossysoap <3 for beta reading

One day, the earth opens up and swallows you whole. There's nothing that remains of you, except John Price's wife.

cw: rape/non-con, abduction, drugging, physical/corporal punishment (being spanked with a belt), non-con touching/groping, non-con medical procedures (lobotomy), forced gender roles, forced marriage, body horror, forced pregnancy, John is not mentally sound, dead dove, one shot, dark fic, i am being so serious when i say reader is forcefully undergoes a lobotomy.

The moment his eyes find you, you’re his — not that you’re aware of it.

John Price is a quiet man who lives a not-so-quiet life, but he desperately wants to. Some deep part of him yearns for a life in a cottage planted next to the lowering seaside thick with brine and mist. There, he could work on the fringes of some dewy forest. Craft items to sell like they did in the times of yore until the scent of some freshly cooked dinner called him home. 

Inside the cottage, he would find his wife with a plump, happy child babbling on her hip. She’d smile and greet him while setting their child in their seat and she’d rattle off all the adorable things the baby did that day. He’d stuff himself full, comment on his widening waistline, and they’d spend the evening reading in the living room together. Curled up together like huddling animals until their child was yawning and whiny. 

Once the bassinet swallowed his little one whole, and the house and earth was quiet, he’d lay his wife down to rest. Flat on her back, legs pushed up against the press of his hips as he ruts into her. And he’d whisper quiet words into her skin, little thanks for the work she does and the child she’s given him — preemptively thanking her for the next one she’s bound to carry after tonight. 

This is the life he’s dreamed of having, and the moment his eyes spot you entering the library, his heart nearly stops. 

Here you are — the woman he imagines marrying. Everything about you is perfect. The angles of your body and the poise you carry yourself with as you float between shelves of books. Stalking behind you, he can’t help but think your rump would look much better if you were to change out of those jeans and into a dress like any proper wife would, but he drops the specifics as you settle into a table tucked next to the floor to ceiling windows. 

Yes; here you are. The quintessence of the woman he’s dreamed of. Of posture and presentation, everything about you on a physical level is perfect—

—until you open your mouth.

As a friend comes to join you at the table, and your pretty lips get to flapping, John learns much about you and your anomalous life. How you’re studying hard for some degree, about the exam you have on Monday and the way’s you’ve been attempting to mitigate the stress. It’s difficult working towards a PHD. Of being the first woman in your family to attempt to earn such a feat. 

The idea of it all makes his head spin as he covertly flips through the book he stopped reading ten pages back. You — with your wide eyes and wet lips — deserve to be taken care of. Living a stress free life where your only worry should be about what to do with the food he provides, or what hobby you intend on indulging on for the day, or what to name the child growing in your womb. 

Really, it’s a shame the world has come to this. Where men scarcely provide for the women they marry, and mothers must slave away at jobs they shouldn’t need just to feed their children. A woman’s place is at home, comfortable behind strong walls and closed doors where she can cultivate a family and live a quiet life full of love and warmth. 

But John Price is just one man, and he knows he cannot save everyone. The blood staining his hands and the bones crushed beneath the soles of his boots remind him of this fact every single day. It haunts him the way rot precedes death. 

But he can — at the very least — save you. 

Most creatures wail at the sight of salvation, and you are no different. 

It takes time, like all things do, for the drugs in your system to dissipate into your blood. You begin to stir in the backseat of his car around the halfway mark home. John spares glances back at you. Looks at you just long enough to catch the drooping of your eyes and the pinched skin between your brows as you grumble and groan. The bindings on your wrists sour the view you create upon the leather seats, but he tells himself it’s just to keep you — his new wife — safe. 

Sweet things like you are known to hurt themselves in their confusion. His deliverance is bound to be petrifying until you make sense of it. Until he can show you the light of safety. Of security. 

His light. 

“W… what?” 

He’s leading you into the cottage — the house he’s always dreamed of — when you finally get your first word out of your mouth. It feels heavy on your tongue. A fat weight that threatens to choke you as you stumble alongside him. 

“Easy now, love,” John coos. “Let’s lay down now.” 

It isn’t until the next morning that you wake with your wits intact. Finally compos mentis, your eyes flutter open and your heart races at the sight of unfamiliar surroundings and an equally unfamiliar man. These walls are too rich to be part of your flat, and you don’t remember the sheets smelling of tobacco. 

A furious ache pounds behind your skull, so much so that you’ve nearly convinced yourself that the scene playing out in front of you is something you’ve hallucinated. John stands in front of you, back turned your direction, as he shamelessly undresses. Worn nightwear is haphazardly tossed into a hamper, and you helplessly witness as the thick muscles in his legs push him towards the dresser. 

He’s tall. Towers over most other men. Squinting, you try to scrounge up a memory of the man. Search for something familiar about him, but there’s nothing. You don’t recognize a single thing about him; not the dark hair that covers his chest and stomach, nor the glinting sapphire hue of his eyes as he turns to face you with a smile, now fully dressed. 

Too scared to move, the only thing you can do is lay there as he approaches the bed. You don’t realize your hands are bound until he grabs them, kneeling on the floor. Your stomach turns as he kisses your knuckles and thumbs over the newly placed ring on your finger. 

“Good morning, my love.” 

This — you learn — is your new life. With a dazzling gem on your finger, and a man who claims to be your husband, you find yourself trapped in a twisted paradise of John’s own creation. You are caught in the transitional period of shock and fear. Your body knows this is not right, and it fills your legs with all the hot blood it needs to flee, and yet you are as rigid as a statue. Frozen beneath John’s adoring gaze as he insists on doing everything with you. 

He dresses you in pale, milky dresses — no jeans allowed, he says. Leading you around the cottage, he introduces you to every room. The living room, the kitchen, the nursery. Each word he speaks has you swallowing and nodding your head, but you can’t help but think why he would feel the need to show you this place if you were truly his wife like he claims. 

Deluded. Erroneous. This man sees love where there is only confusion.

Your fear placates you only until lunch time. Really, it’s John’s fault. He should’ve known that a frazzled woman such as yourself wouldn’t do well around sharp objects. There’s no one to blame but himself for the four tiny holes that dot his bicep. Evenly spaced, the fork prongs don’t make it too deeply into his skin before he grabs your wrist. The muscles in his jaw flex as he huffs, the gentle hue of his blue eyes somehow darkening into something more virulent. 

He drags you into the bedroom after that. Mutters something about how ungrateful you’re being as he pushes you toward the bed. You rage against him as he forces you onto your stomach and lifts the skirt of your dress. The clinking of metal sends your eyes widening, and there is an unforgiving agita that thrashes in your stomach. 

Would it be easier if you were not aware of the brutality that men are capable of? 

“Please don’t,” you beg. “Please, don’t do this. I don’t- I won’t do that again.” You’ve no choice but to beg as your palms push against the mattress, only for you to be shoved back into the bed. “I’m sorry! I swear it!” He’s too strong. “Don’t do this, please…”

You can only sob as he tugs at your underwear, exposing you to him. 

Then comes the leather. Harsh, sharp cracks fill the bedroom as John’s belt crashes against your skin. It stings. The pain settles deep into your flesh until you swear you feel it split. Crack open until it’s raw and screaming just as loud as you. Cries rip through your throat until it’s just as sore as your rump, yet you attempt to stifle your sounds as you press your face into the duvet. Maybe, if you try hard enough, you can suffocate in the sheets. 

He stops after eight. Figures that two strikes for each hole in his skin is plenty. You flinch at the feeling of his hand rubbing over your skin, as if his touch is the only emollient comfort you need after such violence. His weight sinks into the bed as he leans to you. 

“I don’t like doing this, my love,” he whispers. His breath is hot against the shell of your ear, and somehow he sounds sincere. “Please don’t make me do this again in the future.” 

It’s humiliating playing into his fantasy. Of being some sweet, submissive and obedient wife. In a way, that’s all he’s rendered you as. Stuffing you in dresses and aprons while cuddling up to you at night as if you’re long wedded lovers. Yet, you don’t know how to leave. You don’t know how to free yourself from this place, so far out of the clutches of humanity. The only human close by is your false husband, and even then you’re not too sure that claim is true. 

Sometimes, John talks about things as if you were there to witness them. As if you remember them yourself. About you meeting his best mates or quality time spent together walking along the shoreline that skirts the property. He even laments about the honeymoon the two of you shared together. How he still sees visions of you splayed out on the bed before him — he even admits how disappointed he was when you didn’t conceive that night. 

He shares his confession as he forces you to curl up on the couch next to him. His longing words are paired with a lingering hand on your stomach. 

Never before have you wished to reach into yourself and rip out your womb like you do now. 

Despite living in his delusions, John is otherwise kind — so long as you manage not to crack the eggshells that litter the ground around your feet. You are always fed and watered — like any good husband would do for his wife — and the cottage is always warm. The clothes on your back are some of the highest quality you’ve ever worn, and he has not spanked you with his belt since you attacked him with your dinner fork. 

But there is an insidiousness that seeps out of the walls and into the air. It starts with longing gazes that linger on your stomach. Such fixation on your body leaves it riddled with frazzled nerves. You find your fingers trembling at the dinner table as you bring another spoonful of soup to your mouth. 

John watches you and daydreams. It’s obvious what he craves, and still you try to convince yourself things are no different as he rises from his seat. Nothing is different as his hands rest on your shoulders, thumbs digging into the taut muscle of your back. Nothing is different as his hands slip forward, kneading along your breasts until his palms are flat on your stomach. 

Your spoon drops into the bowl with a clink. 

“Come to bed with me, darling,” he whispers, body still hunched over yours. 

So you do, because what other choice do you have? 

It isn’t until John has you stripped bare in front of him — just like he soliloquized to you about your non-existent honeymoon — that you realize you’d much rather face his belt than this. The heat of his skin against yours. The way his chest hair brushes against your nipples. The scratching of his facial hair on the inside of your neck. 

Panic doesn’t truly settle in until his pants come off and you’re able to witness in pure horror just how much he wants you. You watch him with a trembling bottom lip as you lay on your back. Your brain attempts to urge you to flee. It fills your body with more warmth than you can handle, and you fear you’ll melt into the bed long before you find liberation. 

He knocks your legs open with a simple swish of his knee. Brutally cold air hits your sex, only to be smothered with warmth once more as he blankets himself over you. 

“John,” you stutter with chattering teeth. “I… I think I’d like to go to sleep now.” 

It’s as if you made no sound at all. His hips stretch your legs wide, and you can feel the weight of his cock hit the inside of your thighs. Your mind reels; desperately searching for a solution to this impending doom. 

“J-John.” 

“Sleep?” he repeats as if he just now heard you. His words reverberate in your chest as his head dips low into the crook of your neck. “We’ve hardly started.” 

Whatever protest is left inside of you quickly dies down as his lips press against yours. Even the hands you use to attempt to push him away are forced to relent as he weaves his fingers between yours. Intertwined as if you were lovers. 

Then there’s the intrusion. The splitting of your cunt as he pushes into you. John meets resistance inside of you as your muscles tense; every cell in your body detests him. Your breathing stops — breathing is impossible when everything in your body seems to turn to stone. Going from the state of liquid to a solid so quickly leaves your brain fuzzy and unable to think. John groans against your lips at your perceived tightness, and then he continues. 

Tears stain your face as he bottoms out, bodies molding together until you’re flush tight. Your thoughts go blank as this man — your self proclaimed husband — finds his rhythm. It’s nothing but stark white in your brain until there’s an eruption of terror. Of realization. 

The eyes are the window to the soul, and all John’s eyes have done the last few days is dream of a child. Of your swollen belly. 

It’s not your first time sobbing on this bed, and you’re sure it won’t be the last. Grief consumes you as you realize what this terrible union means — of what it will do to you, mind, body and soul. Grunting, John attempts to soothe you. He murmurs little praises into your skin but it means nothing to you. The churning of your stomach drowns out his promises to take care of you and the child he’s about to give you. 

Still, you cry. Any attempts to stifle them are fruitless as your tears seem never ending, and you can’t even muster a false moan. John huffs as he leans back to look at you — nothing but a wet mess. Eyes wrenched shut, head turned to the side as if you can’t stand to look at him. He attempts to continue, to snap his hips against yours, but his movements cease. 

“Really, darling?” he huffs. 

When all you can do is hiccup in response, John pulls out. He shoves himself away from you and slides off of the bed with a bestial growl. Trembling, you turn on your side as you listen to his feet carry him away from the bed. 

“Ruinin’ the fuckin’ mood,” he grumbles. 

After that, he locks himself in the bathroom. When your breathing calms, you’re able to make out faint moans as he finishes himself off. That night, he sleeps facing away from you. 

Convinced that you’ve upset John beyond repair, you find yourself playing into the role of his wife more than you usually would. Going as far as to fake smiles when he enters the kitchen, or even trot off across the vast property to give him a glass of water as he splits wood for the upcoming winter. Your skin crawls. Performing such tasks for this monster that’s trapped you to this pitiful existence is the last thing you wish to do. 

Still, you’re all too wary of how your fate rests in the palm of his hand. 

He does not spit venom at you like he did the night of your failed coitus. There is no shoving you onto the bed to spank you with his belt. In fact, he acts the way he always has. Telling stories that never existed anywhere else other than in fabrication, and holding you close as if he can’t get enough of the touch of your skin. 

For a short while, you are able to live thinking you’ve gone through the worst of it — this life as a bride prisoner. 

It isn’t until you’re brought to the shed that you realize you are sorely mistaken. 

You’re not sure why John has insisted you accompany him outside. There are vague promises of the intention to show you something, yet he refuses to share what. Hand holding yours, he leads you across the soft grass field and to the shed where he stores his work tools. You do not notice the new vehicle parked at the end of the lane, only the bright light that seems to be seeping through the gaps near the doorknob. 

John opens the door to reveal a stranger and a table. He’s tall, nearly scrapes the ceiling with the top of his head — taller than John, even. He watches you with dull eyes as he pursues several metal tools on a small cart. This stranger looks up at you as if you’ve interrupted something important. You had expected simple gardening tools to await you on this side of the entrance, and instead you’re greeted with some macabre horror that sends ice down your spine. Leather restraints. A medical mask over a scarred face. Blue gloves.

You’re hardly able to make sense of the scene before you when something pinches the skin of your arm. It stings worse than a bee, and when you go to swat at the sensation, you suddenly feel the tingling mute. There’s a flash of a needle as John wraps his hand around your waist, and your knees turn to water as he leads you further inside the small wooden structure. 

“This won’t take long, my love,” he whispers to you as if it’s a secret. 

Table. Wood. It hurts your back. Your head. Everything is slow. Obtund. You try to move your limbs but you realize this stranger has already trapped you within the restraints. Something smells sweet. Oddly sweet, and yet clinical. Antiseptic. Iodine. Something. Your head sways as you look for John, but he’s nowhere to be found. 

“Does this hurt?” 

The stranger's question leaves your eyes fluttering. You don’t realize he’s poking your arm with a needle, piercing your skin in the process, until he forces your head to look at it. 

“N-No,” you stutter. 

“Good.” 

You feel the odd pressure of more injections into your body, and eventually you’re so cocainized you can hardly keep a single thought from fluttering between your fingers. 

“What’s… what are you doing?” you slur. 

“Fixin’ you,” the man responds, accent thick and voice scratchy. He’s wearing long sleeves, but you can see the tattoo’s peek out right where the latex of his glove doesn’t quite meet the cloth. “John says you’ve been a bad wife.” 

A cacophony of thoughts flood your brain. Fix you? Like a pet? Like an animal? No, no but he wants children. So then what? What is there to change about you? 

“No… no I’m not his wife,” you babble. “He’s not- he’s just a stranger. He took me. Abduc… ted? Please… you… help me, please.” 

The stranger hums, and you catch the dark glint in his eyes flickering as he looks at the ring on your left hand. 

“Got a ring, don’t ya? Means you’re a wife,” he challenges. Gloved hands press against your forehead, pushing you against the table. Then, he retrieves something that looks akin to an icepick. Thin, long — like a needle. He presents it as if it’s a tool for work instead of a tool for horror. “Hold still, yeah? And keep talking. Wanna make sure I’m not scrambling the wrong parts.” 

It would be easier to say that you don’t remember what happens next — and perhaps you’ve forgotten parts of it — but you do remember. You remember the important bits. The pressure behind your eye as the pick is inserted behind your eyelid. The scraping crunch! of it breaking the thin bone just above your ocular nerve. And then, the cutting. The slicing. Dividing. 

Synapses and neurons, shut off. Brain forcefully compartmentalized. Thoughts and memories separated until there is no more anxiety or fear. 

There is no more you. That woman before is gone, as are her aspirations. That PHD is no longer just out of your reach, but long forgotten. 

You are — as you should be — the perfect wife. 

John Price has never been happier. His wife cooks delicious food and decorates the house to her heart's content with pictures and the wildflowers she picks from the lane outside their home. She always smiles when he enters the room, and returns every kiss he gives her. For some reason, she’s grown rather quiet ever since her procedure. Words seem to fail her, but he doesn’t mind her quietness. The only words she needs to convey are with her loving gaze. 

It’s those little moments that bring him pleasure, but his true joy greets him when he arrives home from a hard day’s work. 

Swaying in the kitchen, child in your arms, you greet John the same way you always do — with a smile. He grins ear to ear as he approaches you, hands resting on your hips as he stares down at his son. A year after your procedure, you blessed him with an heir; a son to nurture and provide for. Only a few weeks old, the babe sleeps soundly in your arms with fluttering eyelids as he dreams. 

“Here darling, let me,” John urges. 

Slipping his son from your arms, you smile up at him before pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. Turning around, you continue your work at the stove with swaying hips and a gentle hum — the only skill you seem to remember with your voice is sweet melodies. John doesn’t mind it. In fact, he rather enjoys watching you hum his son to sleep as he feeds upon your breast. 

Bouncing the child in his arms, John smiles to himself as he watches you. Daydreams bearing fruit in reality, he soaks up every moment of this life he’s built for himself. This quiet life he never thought was obtainable until he met you. The woman of his dreams. 

The woman he turned into the perfect wife.

Most creatures wail at the sight of salvation, and you were no different once upon a time ago. A bird always screams when first locked in a cage. But as you motion for him to sit at the table with a fresh plate of food in your hand, John is confident you’ll never cry at his generosity again. 

In the end, caged birds always remember how to sing.