IMPORTANT UPDATE!!!

Did we as a society just forget this happened?

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.

holy fuck that was so hot

7: Night Shift

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh. No? No thanks,” you say.

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

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

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

“Hey!” you say. “You can’t just—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

finders, keep her

ghost/soap/reader

18+ only for dub-con/non-con, lifestyle puppy play, implied depression, (consensual) kidnapping, spit-roasting, cunnilingus, dehumanization, fingering, double penetration, pussy and face slapping, leashing and collaring, dollification(?), victim blaming, breathplay, less-than-socially-acceptable quid pro quos. (9.1k)

They’re big enough to fill the hole in your heart. You’re small enough to fit in their cage. It's a perfect match. or: Ghost and Johnny shepherd an unassuming girl into their puppy play lifestyle.

read on AO3.

You’re neglecting the fourth drink of the night.

The ice cube has melted. The salt on the rim has hardened. The lime wafer has wrinkled. You stare at the glass so hotly it could curdle along with the resentment lining your gut.

A group of girls—pretty, you must admit—flock towards the bar, all giggling and swapping inside jokes that have you flinching because you aren’t privy to them even though you want to be. One bumps into you and throws you a cursory glance, frowning, an apology crossing her tongue which you hate because then it means you can’t dislike her without being the asshole.

You squirm away, giving them their space. Your gaze slips toward them every now and then like a one-sided game of hide-and-seek, your eyes scratching at their intimate bubble because you want a way in so badly you’re willing to fold like wet cardboard.

Poking your head into their conversation is an idea you quickly retract because the embarrassment would smite you. You would come off too strong, or too weak, perhaps, and would make them uncomfortable. They’d either feel as though they have to speak to you, or you’d get muscled to the sidelines of the conversation. In any case, you’re the stilted bird with farmed out wings.

You polish off your drink in one, slick motion. It’s lukewarm and arid and doesn’t give your throat the chafe it needs. Your stomach seethes for something wide-shouldered, stronger, leading you to slip off the stool because you know the bartender won’t serve you any longer. Your makeup has thawed with your tears, tracking down your cheeks. Your eyes are puffy and your feet are blundering, pigeon-toed.

You stand up, consider saying bye, but bite your tongue and leave without a word. You step outside and shiver as the midnight mist swathes you mockingly, burning the untouched breadth of your skin because you’ve never had a lover to claim it first. You stumble down the sidewalk, the route back home parsed-over in your memory because this is the only route you ever take—to the bar and back home—no detours to a friends place nor a secret lover, no address scrawled on a napkin from a guy who saw you across the room and found you cute.

Again, you know the route perfectly. You know the motel-turned-escort den that gutters out with vacant signage and the corner-store that’s about to close down because it doesn’t pull enough customers.

(Sometimes, you buy a bouquet of roses just to raise the owner’s spirits. You oscillate between pretending it’s for the friends you don’t have and the lover you’ll never get, and the owner nods each time, happy, never catching onto your ploy because you suppose people have their own problems and nobody is indebted to solving yours.)

You know the broken fire hydrant, the gritty alleyway and the cat that noses at garbage bags for food to feed her kittens.

What you don’t know is the shadow that loiters beneath the awning, nursing a cigarette.

The smoulder barely illuminates his face, leaving him in the shadows. It gives you a blank canvas to stab at, lets you fit the features of your silly crushes into his face, lets you imagine him as the one that got away from high school. Lets you picture that in some world, it’s you between his lips. You’re his cigarette. Hot and addictive and comburent, wrapped by his mouth and spent because he won’t stop sucking you dry. 

“Oi.”

The world quickly collapses beneath you, but you realize you’re just tripping. You gird your feet to keep yourself from falling and continue stumbling down the sidewalk because surely, he wasn’t speaking to you.

“Bird in the dress. Oi.”

You spin around. There’s no bird in a dress behind you—but a portent bank of mist in your wake, an omen—so you turn back around and point to yourself, whiplash gnawing your neck.

“Yeah,” he nods. “You.”

All you can see are the whites of his eyes, so uncanny it has you squirming. He’s shrouded in the shadows, nebulous, with the only thing attesting to his humanness being his gaze, unwelcoming and off-putting. More anthropoid. Less human.

“What’s got you walkin’ here all alone?” He asks. “It’s dangerous, y’know. Lots of crime roamin’ round these parts.”

You don’t know how to tell him you’ve fallen into an orifice in the earth that God forgot to fix while making it. A hole that you haven’t been able to claw yourself out of, rendering you invisible to that of a regular passerby. 

Nobody “bothers” you. Even if somebody did, you wouldn’t read it as such. Any bone thrown in your direction is something you’d viciously thumb through. It would stave off your deep-seated hunger, scratch the itch that’s been burning you for God knows how long.

You settle for an awkward, “Oh… thanks,” and preen under his stare. 

He has no details on his face. No depressions. It’s as if he were cut from a monolith, devoid of any identifiable features. 

“Are you lookin’ for something?” He tacks on. “I am. We could help each other out.” 

He takes a drag from the cigarette and the light softly flares. That’s when you see he’s wearing a mask, overripe and macabre, hiked over his snarled lip. 

“Oh…”

“C’mon, pet,” he murmurs. “Have a mate waitin’ for me. Wanted me to bring back some fun.” 

A plume of warmth smoothes over you, simultaneously smothering the part of your gut that screams warning but also wrapping around your hindbrain, making you act on want instead of wit. 

You pick at your nails, fidgety. 

“Uh, I dunno.”

“Figured,” he nods, tossing his cigarette on the ground. “Didn’t reckon you’d say yes, anyway. Don’t seem the type.”

It feels like a scythe through the heart. You don’t know this man, but he’s already wadding you up and tossing you to the side like a moth-eaten cloth. It hurts. Claws your throat. Thumbs you in like a dimpled orange, tears you open.

You take a panicked step forward. “I– I’m the type.”

He makes a noncommittal sound and shrugs. 

“I am,” your eyes are dewy, and your fingers cramp around his stout arm because you’d rather die than prove him right. You’d rather twist the spire in your gut than prove all those people right. 

You are fun. You aren’t a wet blanket. People love hanging out with you, in fact–

You can’t see him in the darkness, but you know his face is distorted by something mean. You can hear it in his voice, stale and cleverish. Amused. The skin of his lip is pulled back, poorly imitating a smile. You can hear it.

“Sure?” He asks. “My mate, he’s a barky one. Hyper. Might be too much for you.”

You nod. It’s like slicing yourself open, baring yourself to him. Signing the blood pact even though you don’t know what you’re getting into. He’s thrown you a morsel of attention and now it’s your sustenance. You cling onto him like a parasite, deriving whatever attention he throws at you and feeding off it, sluggish and squeamish and malleable. So loose-limbed, you could break off and harden into the quick of his fingers.

(He’s a mean man. Capitalizing off her loneliness because she doesn’t have the friends to steer her away from the bulky, scary brute with scarred flesh. She’s vulnerable, so desperate for attention, he barely has to do any work. Her makeup is already blotchy, smeared, hollowing out her eyes.

He can only imagine what she’d look like choking on his cock. Would she cry? Would she genuflect and try saying thank you because they’re the only people to ever spare her a second glance? Would the words collapse because her nose is scrunched, flattened against his bristly pubic bone?)

He grunts, slipping his hand over your hip. 

“My flat’s close, c’mon.”

He holds you so firmly, it almost hurts. He curls his hand around the base of your neck and drags you after him, inconsiderate of the way your tipsy, pigeon-toed feet struggle to keep up. The people you pass by glance at you concernedly, others excitedly, as they gape at the bulky giant who doesn’t seem keen on letting you go anytime soon. It gratifies you because finally, you aren’t nebular. People are looking at you, and they’re jealous. There’s an attractive man who has you by your scruff, and this time, he isn’t going to leave you for one of your so-called friends. 

The thought turns you gooey. Impairs you for the rest of the walk. You kitten into his neck—which stinks of sulfur and cigarettes—when he picks you up so suavely it makes your head spin, throwing you over his shoulder. He carries you into a down-trodden flat and up a flight of stairs, fishes his keys from his pocket and jams it into the lock, kicking it open. The whole time his expansive palm presses a spoor into your pillowy flesh, the fore-end of your ass cheek.

He sets you down and doesn’t bother stabilizing you.

“Johnny!” He yells. “Where are you?”

You try stealing a glance around the flat, but everything is astigmatic. Bleeding. The alcohol is catching up to you. It ropes through your veins, drenching everything in molasses.

You hear the faintest reply, “In the bedroom,” muffled behind a wall. Your respite fleets away when you’re picked up again and brought further into the flat. Into a dimly-lit bedroom where another man emerges from the murk, his cheeks engorged around a splitting smile. 

He—Johnny—closes the space between you in three strides. He’s shorter than the man who carries you but is taller than you, and since you’re still hoisted over the masked man’s shoulder, you’re able to peer down at him. Get lost in the labyrinth that are his blue eyes, the velvet of his lips. He’s so pretty he could be split across magazine catalogues.

He’s so pretty, it disarms you.

His eyes remove your fuse. His lips make you melt, fluxing into his palm as he cups your cheek because currently, he has the intimacy you’ve been divested of for so long. Anxiety and presentiment—which is something you should be feeling, really, after being shepherded into a sketchy flat—eludes you. Johnny reaches out and toys with your hair. 

“Oh,” he gasps. “She’s real bonnie. Real bonnie.”

His voice is softer than the other, but still held down by something rough. It could be cigarettes, could be something else.

(A raw throat, bruised time and time again.)

“Thank ye, Ghost,” Johnny warbles.

That should have been your prompt to leave, among many. A man who calls himself Ghost, a manifest to the living. Invincible and untouchable. Dangerous.

Ghost sets you down again. You’re squished between the two men, each one more intimidating than the other, and squirm. Johnny asks for your name, which you give to him with a tremor in your voice.

He hums. “Pretty name for a pretty girl. Fittin’.”

Your inhibitions esker and your brain halts. Warmth spools over you. The last time you were called pretty, it was your grandmother pinching your cheeks. Now, it comes smooth as silk from a man three times your size with stout arms and a crooked, boyish smile. 

He steps away and sits on the foot of the bed. A few seconds pass, awkward, because you’re unsure what to do with yourself. Johnny placates you as he pats the spot beside him. 

“Here,” he says. “Sit with me.”

Ghost gives your bum an encouraging squeeze. You walk up to Johnny and sit next to him, squeamish. 

The mattress dips under Johnny’s weight and you fall against his shoulder. Your lungs toil, and the feeling of his flesh against yours works like an aphrodisiac, inspiring heat and froth in the pit of your stomach. 

It increases twofold when Ghost grunts. 

“Give ‘er a kiss, Johnny.”

You seize up. Johnny’s hand is on your cheek in record time, suffocating and divoting as he turns your head towards him. The kiss is wet and rough, over-eager, and makes your mind rescript him as volatile instead of purely obedient. He’d gone from prey to predator—with Ghost’s permission—and pounced on you.

“Kiss him back,” Ghost says a little too harshly. “Give him your tongue.”

You comply, yelping when Johnny sucks at it. Licks it. He cradles the back of your head as he curves his tongue into your mouth, mapping your every inch. He moans into the seam of your lips, humps the bed, and pulls you closer. Johnny grabs your hand and guides you over his crotch, cupping it. 

“Feel it, hen?” He breathes. “So fuckin’ hard for ye. Are ye wet?”

He’s kissing you before you can answer. It’s bruising. Teeth clinking, lips bumping. He rams your answer to the back of your throat and decides to check for himself, making your stomach flip as he drags his fingers over your pussy and presses into your clit.

He scoops your dew up and pulls his fingers away, sucking them clean, turning to Ghost with imploring eyes. 

“Can I eat ‘er pussy?”

The fact that he asks Ghost instead of you thrums you with concern but it gets smothered when Ghost shortly nods, and it dawns on you that a stupidly attractive man is about to go down on you. Your blood rises to a rolling boil, your stomach churns. Your panties cling to your cunt and outline the barest hint of your lips.

Johnny pushes your back onto the bed. He nudges your legs apart, hikes your dress over your waist, and borderline salivates from his loose jaw as he rubs your pussy through your panties. Your head swims when he leans down, flattening his nose against your sex. The air in your lungs turns to creosote as he sharply inhales, kissing your clit. Kneading your waist. Leaving a mosaic of teeth-shaped concavities into the chub of your thighs. Your hands find the tuft of his mohawk and your eyes find Ghost in the corner of the room. Tempered together, it’s metamorphic. Euphoric. It smites you like the first thaw of spring as Johnny presses his tongue against you, licking a stripe up your sopping slit while you maintain eye contact with Ghost. You flounder under his eyes, tremble under Johnny’s mouth. 

Dew skitters over your skin. Your belly cramps with pleasure. Your thighs clench around Johnny’s head, hemming him in. He growls and releases your clit with a pop and spreads your legs back open a little too roughly, stretching your tendons like frayed rope. 

He ignores your gasp of pain, as does Ghost. Johnny thumbs you open and grins at your hole, blowing at your bare cunt. He flicks your bud with his tongue, shutting his eyes, murmuring into your sex.

“Cute fuckin’ pussy,” he whispers. “Such a bonnie girl. Tasty girl. Pretty little puppycunt.”

It hits you like whiplash. A vein of discomfort tempered with a fresh stir of arousal. You’re squirming, threshing. Johnny won’t stop making out with your… puppycunt, and now, when you turn to look at Ghost—perhaps to ask for help—he palms himself through his jeans, watching raptly.

You whine when two fingers prod your hole. It’s Johnny working you open. He slips a finger inside and pumps it in and out, curling them into your walls before adding another. He finger fucks you so fast and with so much vigour, it hurts. He’s like a dog with farmed out hair, unfettered without a leash. Eager. 

Ghost strides close and grips Johnny by the neck, pulling him away. “Easy, kid. You tryin’ to rip her a new one?”

Johnny flushes. Blush colours his cheeks, reflecting his embarrassment at being scolded. He sniffles. “Nae.”

“Then play nice,” Ghost growls. “Or no more playdates with my pet.”

Your ears ring. Surely, you didn’t hear that right. You couldn’t have, otherwise you wouldn’t be shaking with another wave of arousal. You aren’t a pet. You can think and speak and most importantly, you don’t have a tail to chase. 

It’s off-putting and discomforting. Who wants to be degraded to a pet? Pets are muzzled, leashed. Two things that don’t belong on humans—but Johnny seems to disagree.

He pulls his shirt over his head, baring his hairy chest. His prong collar. 

It cuts into his neck, makes the skin around it puff up, plum-coloured, stealing the oxygen that should be rising to his head. It explains his bleary gaze, his behaviour, dimmed by the pillowy headspace he’s in. It makes him gasp and drool, tongue lolled out, still glistening from your cunt. Makes him pant. Like a dog. 

He quivers. “Can I fuck ‘er? Please, Ghost?”

Ghost situates himself behind Johnny. He swings his forearm across his neck and puppets him into a headlock with one arm, shoves down Johnny’s pants with the other. He chokes a hand around his cock, pumping it, squeezing it, brushing his thumb over the sensitive slit, collecting his precome and using it to lube him up.

Ghost pets him, scratches behind his ears. It must have a Pavlovian effect—conditioned and trained, broken in—because Johnny is quickly poised above you and folding your knees up to your ears, catching his cock onto your sticky clit. 

“She ever taken one before?” He breathes. It takes you a while to understand he’s speaking to you, but is asking about your… core. Talking about it like it’s sentient, like it wants him just as bad.

(Considering how warm you are, how your clit throbs, you just might. You feel gooey, close to melting on his tongue and between his sticky fingers. Blood roils under your flesh, bubbling while you clench around nothing at all. Desperate. Needy, because you’ve only ever had your fingers and a regrettable vibrator. Hungry, because Johnny’s cock is drooling onto your belly, long and solid.) 

“She– uhn, no,” you eke out. “I’ve never, um, done this.”

He sharply inhales. You think he can smell sex in the air, prurient, because he’s quivering and bucking himself forward, slipping his cock between the fat of your cunt. 

“So me and Ghost, we’re… markin’ our territory, aye?”

Apprehension knots in your throat. You swallow it down though, nodding. You’re already neck-deep in this ordeal and you’ve long-since drowned in purgatory, waiting for someone to spare you affection. This is your only buoy. 

And so you nod, goading him. 

Johnny grins. He grabs your waist to keep you from thrashing and pins you to the bed while Ghost takes your wrists. Johnny sinks into you, splitting you open, his drool dripping onto your cheek. 

He has to force himself past your first ring of muscle, and since you’re pegged into the bed, you can’t squirm at his lengthy, curved cock ramming into you. You can whine and beg him to “Please be gentle–“ but that gets smothered under Ghost’s palm as he covers your mouth, blocking your nostrils in the process. 

You worriedly scratch at his other hand—the one keeping your wrists together—because you start to feel spotty. You bury your nails into his flesh, etching him with sickle-shaped divots, trying to dig his skin into the quick of your fingers, panicked. 

But Ghost looks down at you unfazed. His eyes daunt you through his mask. He pointedly does not move his hand. He keeps your lips pressed tightly and your nose flattened, abased to sniffing his cigarette-smelling palm. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. Johnny is pounding into you, crazed, making your legs flail dumbly and also making your stomach knot. You can’t deny the pleasure that tears through you, tempered by your pinched nostrils, complemented by Johnny reaching down to thumb your clit. 

“So fuckin’ soft–“ he gasps. “So warm. I need to come in ye, puppy. Need to–“ 

Your mind doesn’t track the rest. It’s caught on him, how his wet lips wrap around that operative word—puppy. How it sent shivers down your neck, how it prompted the faintest whisper of a phantom tail from your spine.

“Like tha’, don’t you?” Ghost grunts. “Bein’ our dog.”

You shake your head and pick out a laugh somewhere in the syrupy stretch of your mind. It’s sarcastic, disbelieving. Surely, it would have your hypothetical dog ears drooping. 

“‘Course you do. You’re just like one,” Ghost says. “So fuckin’ needy. So desperate for attention, am I right?” 

Each word is a punch to the gut. Your gaze turns runny with tears, leaking down your cheeks, to which Johnny swiftly laps up. You can’t squirm away—you’re trapped beneath him—helpless as he licks away your brine. 

You sob. “I– I don’t like this anymore–“

You move your fingers to cramp around Ghost’s wrist, only to find he isn’t there anymore. It’s a small mercy because he returns swiftly, this time, holding something that glistens. 

Handcuffs. Not the fuzzy type you see in intimate, soft-edged pornos. It’s the type that translates into being snared up, bitten by steel. It sizzles your skin when he loops them around your wrists and locks them in place. 

With his hands free, Ghost unzips his jeans. His boxer-briefs are distorted by a hard-on, pushing into your face, impossibly large and intimidating. He takes his cock out and even though he grips it by its base, it droops. Ghost is just so heavy, so fat, it hangs downward, whispering against your lips, leaking with thick precome. 

He slaps it against your cheek. “Open, pet.”

You hate that you listen. You tell yourself you’re just scared of being punished—not at all chuffed for Ghost’s cock—as you unfurl your tongue and take him between the lips, flinching at his taste. His size. 

He works the hinges of your jaw open as he forces himself inside. Your muzzle burns, aching, splitting around his fat cock. He pushes himself all the way inside with a hard thrust, the bristly hairs on his pubic bone tickling your nose. You feel the spine of your throat bruise and your spit fruitlessly trying to soften the burn, pealing out as a gurgle. 

Ghost rolls his hips and growls when your molars graze him. 

“Pet’s got teeth, aye?” He grits out, nudging himself deeper. It tastes like creosote when he hits the back of your throat—thick and tart.

You’ve never been so full. From your cunt and your mouth, your beginning and end. Johnny’s ravaging you, Ghost’s pounding into you. You’re getting dizzy.

Whenever you fantasized about your first time, you thought it would feel magical. Like falling into tufted grass. Spread open like an oyster shell with your mother pearl licked clean. Squeezed like a stone fruit to test its ripeness, pert and plush. Forever in a state of becoming: a sculpture, or a painting, perhaps. Your lover’s hands would wisp around you like paintbrush bristles and mould you with clay-crusted fingers. You always hoped that during your first time, you would be suckled like ambrosia and kept in their molars for later because you’re just that sweet.

But these men maul you like a chew toy–

–and spit you right out.

They come without warning. Johnny’s seed hits your walls just as Ghost fills your throat. They hold you down and snap into you, giving you their last inch. Making sure that what they force into you, takes. 

And you do take it. Rapidly unfurling like a spool of thread because all it takes is a gruff “Good pet,” from Ghost for you to climax. 

You whine like a dog when you do. Johnny lulls you with kisses and heavy pets while Ghost waits for his cock to soften before pulling out. You can’t speak after. You whimper, whine, and howl. Like a dog. You curl into Johnny’s arms when he hugs you even though you hate him, blindly trusting and stupidly forgiving. Like a dog. 

“Ye did perfect,” Johnny murmurs against your lips. He’s practically sucking your face, licking off Ghost’s come.

“Still needs training,” Ghost grunts.

Johnny nods, pink, embarrassed at being corrected. “Aye.”

“So do you,” the bigger man sneers. “Too fuckin’ buzzed. ‘Aven’t I taught you better?”

You miss the way Johnny bristles, eyes blown wide. Your mind is too sticky, too gooey, to acknowledge how his breathing turns ragged. Your eyes flutter shut, and you slip into limbo.

Nobody knows if you dream of chasing squirrels and running after cats that night, a tight collar fit around your neck.

You wake with a dry mouth and a warm core. You’re alone in bed, uncuffed, folded in the sheets as you drowsily find your bearings.

You curl your snout in the air, smelling food. Your stomach bubbles with hunger but fear overrides that. You know you should leave but your heart, gluttonous, wants to stay forever.  

You crawl out of their bed and adjust your dress. You stumble out of their room and find the kitchen by following your nose. Ghost and Johnny sit on two stools in front of a raised island, eating their breakfast. An untouched plate sits between them.

“Mornin’, puppy,” Johnny smiles.

You flounder, awkwardly stepping away. “G-good morning.”

Ghost is leaned over his plate, wolfing down his mountain of food. Johnny is more polite, patting the stool next to him. 

“Come eat,” he says. “Must be hungry from yesterday.”

Right. Yesterday. There’s no need in rehashing the events because it still lives on your skin. Pocked flesh marred by bruises so fresh it looks like rope burn, a smoulder between your legs so hot it hurts when you squeeze your thighs. The retellings are parsed-over in your mind, flashing at you to get out of here as soon as possible. 

They ignored your struggle. You’re desperate, but you don’t have a death wish. 

You grimace. “Yeah.”

“It was nice, aye?” He asks, spooning another bite into his mouth. “We had fun.”

Your mind skids to a stop. Fun? Your cheeks are still stale with dried tears, your thighs still quiver. They turn limbless when you take a step for the door and Ghost snaps his neck around, shooting you a scornful look.

“Stay,” he growls. Commands.

There’s a storm inside you. A tempest. Cold winds that read of desire colliding head-on with humid air that screams danger. They drag each other aloft, fogging your brain. Making your feet move before your mind can.

You scoot into the stool and grip your plate. You sneer at the contents because it looks scooped from a tin, barely fit for human consumption. The slop trickles, and it’s obvious you’ll need a spoon. Your tongue braces when you realize that requires asking for one. 

You speak with a rough burr. “Um. May I have a spoon, or something?”

Ghost spares you a cursory glance but doesn’t say anything, opting to smack his lips around another mouthful. Johnny is the one to smile, shaking his head.

“Sorry puppy, no more o’ those. We’ve just enough for us two. We dinnae get company much.” 

Ghost spells it out for you. “We’ve no more utensils. You’ll eat without ‘em.”

The air around you blisters with his crass clarification. You stare at your plate, the wisps of steam that curl from it. You look at your fingers, white-knuckled around the chipped ceramic. Recently manicured. Too spruce to dirty with food. The unsaid fallback hangs over your head like a storm cloud, greyscale and grim. You squirm like a dog caught in the rain. Hair matted to your forehead, ears drooping. 

You don’t say anything as you bend your neck and open your mouth. You snag a morsel between your teeth, swallowing thickly. You can’t liken the taste to anything—it’s unlike anything you’ve had before. Bland, like cardboard. Sticks to your teeth. 

Johnny shoves his nose in your face and grins. “Yummy?” 

You smack your lips a couple times. “Um, yes. Look, I should really get going–”

You stand up but get shoved back down. Ghost’s palm is split across your shoulder, keeping you in place. Your squirming is in vain. He has a vice grip on you, fingers tightening around you like a collar. 

“This is what you wanted, no?” He asks. He presses his fingers deeper, divoting your skin. “Attention. We gave you tha’. Now you’re just being ungrateful.”

You can barely shake your head because Ghost still has an iron-grip on you. Your protest is fickle, because not even you believe it. You did want a good fuck. You did want to be broken in and put together again by hands other than yours. You did want to be fed vestiges of affection, but upon sleeping with them, you’ve found the taste to be bitter. Too harsh, like sandpaper on your tongue. 

You want nothing more than to spit it out.

But Ghost isn’t so understanding. He doesn’t like being divested of what he wants, it seems. And what he wants is you. Even Johnny cowers under his glare, looking at you worriedly while Ghost moves his hand around your jawbone.

“Never taught any manners, were you?” He grunts. “Stray pet. Used to scraps. Wouldn’t know a good opportunity from a bad one if it hit you in the face.”

He pulls you in for a wet, sloppy kiss. You flush as you recall your fickle protests—that you aren’t a dog—because the way spit bends between you, stringy, smeared across your cheek, reminds you of two mutts fighting, their scrimmage made of mangled canines and saliva.

But only one fighting dog can be victorious. 

And it sure as hell isn’t going to be you. 

Ghost is all muscle softened by fat. Corded sinews and disciplined thew. He stands as tall as a sequoia and his shoulders yawn as wide as an ocean. He might as well be Sasquatch with how large he is, how he exacts fear in your bones. He’s eclipsing, and with such a sizable stature comes a sizable appetite. He bites into you. 

You wince at his teeth in your neck. You’re already weak beneath him, thawed, like a volatile solvent. You’re the spun sugar of cotton candy, melting on his tongue. Soft and sugary. He sucks at your neck and leaves mulberry-coloured bruises on your skin, tonguing after you. 

Your nerves flare when he bites, and you push him away. Your hindbrain has caught up, panicky and anxious because while you crave lips grazing your skin, Ghost’s mouth is cracked and dry and stinks of cigarettes. You beetle away, frowning, stumbling off the stool.

“Tail between your fuckin’ legs like I’m gonna hurt you,” Ghost sneers. “You always do this? Seduce men then scream rape? S’that the only way you get pity?”

You step back but hit Johnny’s chest. Fear seizes you. You’re damp with sweat and your heartbeat is quickly rising. You shake your head, tears falling, spitting incoherent protests.

“No?” He steps closer but he can’t crowd you backward anymore. Johnny’s chest is immovable metal against your back. He holds you in place, keeps you from squirming as Ghost continues. “You agreed to come home with me. Just ‘cause y’regret whoring yourself out doesn’t mean we’re bad blokes. We’re no bad blokes, pet. You’re just a fuckin’ liar.”

He grabs your chin, hoists your head up. “And I don’t fancy liars. Do you, Johnny?”

You feel the Scot puff up behind you. “Nae, Ghost. Dinnae like ‘em. Not one bit.”

“I reckon she needs a lesson,” Ghost rasps. “Would you agree?”

“Aye. O’course.”

Ghost looks down at you. “Would you agree?”

You can’t say no because he still has you by your chin. His grip is bruising, keeps you poised. You want to shake your head but Ghost puppets your chin up and down instead, making you nod even though you don’t want to. Making you sign yourself away like a forged slip of paper. 

Ghost’s lips peel into a Glasglow smile. Johnny smooches your cheek.

“Can’t cry wolf now, puppy,” he says. “Ye nodded, ye ken. That’s consent. It’s practically on paper.”

“I– I didn’t,” you croak. “He made me–”

“Oh, but ye did,” he chuckles. “Quit bein’ a tease.”

Your mouth clamps shut and your legs follow mindlessly as Ghost tugs you away. He takes you to the living room, toward a man-sized dog cage nestled in the corner. The only thing disarming about it is the cottony blanket on the bottom, the pillows in the corner.

But the teeth marks that scratch the cage bars offset that. Someone’s been in there before, and they struggled. And the way Johnny bristles when you approach it tells you all you need to know.

“Get in,” Ghost grunts. 

You don’t move, so he takes you by the scruff of your neck and forces you onto your knees. He swats your ass and shepherds you inside, locking it behind you.

You spin around on your hands and knees, lip trembling. You whimper, but Ghost shakes his head.

“You think about what you’ve done,” he says. Then he makes for the bedroom with Johnny quick at his feet.

The next hour is a blip in your memory. 

You hear their door slam closed. You hear growls and groans, air sucked through teeth. You hear the zip of clothes ripping, the ring of a belt being unbuckled. Johnny’s voice wafts through the wall, distorted by sobs, while Ghost’s voice is husky and phlegmy. They’re both tempered by the headboard slamming against the wall.

It sounds like two bears trying to maul each other in there, but by your moistening cunt, you know better. Skin slapping against skin, wheezy breathing. Those sounds translate a carnal force. You feel it in your core, your wettening sex. The bars of the wired crate press tracks into your skin as you manoeuvre yourself, shamefully slipping your fingers below your panties. 

You’re already slick. Shame burns you. Eats at you and makes you wilt like cellophane caught on fire. The all-consuming flare of arousal smothers your fear and licks your skin, makes your stomach knot as you imagine what they’re doing to each other. You rub your puffy lips, circle your clit. Edge your fingers into your hole and wince at the pain.

(Whether you like it or not, you’ve been claimed. Snared. Ear-tagged. Branded. Their shadows still haunt your skin, your abused cunt. There’s a rubbery stretch when you force your fingers inside, your other hand racing to clamp your mouth shut. You pump them in and out, a gyre of water and grease fire bubbling within you. You don’t want this—you want to go home—but pleasure has snuck under your skin. Arousal has annexed your forebrain, making you chase down whatever’s pleasurable.

An orgasm. Kibble. A bone. Belly scratches–)

You curl your fingers inside you. You can still feel Johnny’s mouth on your pussy and Ghost in your throat. They’ve violated you, broken you in. Made you theirs.

As their groans crest, you see your climax in the distance—two smouldering lights that hit you with the force of a bullet train. Liquid smooths out of your cunt, down your fingers. Your blood rushes to your ears and submerges the sounds of them reaching their own high.

Your orgasm gets drawn out like a spinning wheel, taking minutes to peter out. Still you don’t hear the door open, or the approaching footsteps. You don’t hear the dreadful leitmotif that plays from imaginary speakers when they enter the room. You simply open your eyes, fucked-out, and see them towering over you. Naked if not for their boxers.

“Did you touch yourself?” Ghost pants. His jaw feathers, peevish. 

You smack your lips together, plucking whatever cow-sense you have left to shake your head and lie. 

“No…” you scrimp out. 

He snarls. “Check ‘er.”

Johnny pricks up with an unsettling level of enthusiasm. He drops to his knees and unlocks the crate, cooing, but is contrarily rough in how he forces your legs apart. You burn as he thumbs through the folds of your hot cunt, stroking your clit.

“Made a fuckin’ mess ye did, lass,” he tuts. “And ye dinnae leave any fun for us?”

Ghost grabs you and drags you out, huffing all the while. Your world helixes when you’re tossed over his shoulder, carried further into their flat. You get dropped in a tub and muscled against the wall, still drowsy, with no time to gird yourself before a barrage of ice-cold water starts stabbing you.

Ghost grabs the showerhead and twists it to the jet setting, spraying you down. You try folding yourself into the rust-crusted corner of the tub but it does nothing to offset the freeze that rattles you. You splay your hands out and curl your legs into your chest to shield yourself, but it’s fruitless. Ghost leans in and sprays you closer, the heavy stream tamping against your sensitive pussy and slick chest. 

You open your mouth to beg– 

“Please.”

–but it gets filled up by sloshing water, running down your throat like liquid fire which you belch back up. 

Your legs beat around as Johnny rips your dress off. You think you've been spared when the water turns off, but your mercy fleets away as Ghost drags you out of the shower and onto the floor. You shiver like a wet dog, soaking wet, dripping onto the mat. You impulsively curl into the towel that Johnny wraps you with, desperate for warmth.  

“Just had to hose ye down, bonnie,” he says. “Ye dinnae mind, do ye?”

He roughly dries you off. The terrycloth of the towel feels more like sandpaper with him. You can’t complain though because your head is suddenly puppeted back, forced by Ghost’s hand which is cupped under your jaw. He thumbs your mouth open and shoves a toothbrush inside, scrubbing your gums so roughly you could bleed. He scours away the taste of his cock and the alcohol from last night. The bristles reach the back of your throat and you gag around it, spitting into the sink as he shoves your head forward. 

Your mind is too spotty to notice Johnny vibrating in the corner. “Can I dress ‘er, Ghost? Please can I dress–”

Ghost shoves you in his arms, and it seems that Johnny already came prepared with clothes tucked under his arm. He lowers to his knees and fits your feet into them, kissing up your thighs as he pulls up the shorts. A simple sweatshirt goes over your head—no bra—so your nipples perk against the cotton, pebbled.

He pulls you in for a deep kiss once he’s finished. It winds you, leaves you breathless.

(And strangely enough, it leaves you wanting more–)

Ghost stalks out of the bathroom and Johnny follows close behind, dragging you with him. They go out the door and into a beaten-up truck, shoving you in the back. It all happens so quick you have no time to brace when Ghost tamps down on the gas and hastens down the road. 

Hope flickers within you. You stare outside, watching how buildings and trees blur past you. You believe they’re taking you home, tossing you back onto the same sidewalk they found you on. Maybe they sprayed you down to clear their evidence, maybe they changed your clothes so a missing persons poster wouldn’t find you first. 

You prick up against the window as the bar Ghost found you in front of comes into view–

–but your skin melts around your bone when you drive past it, watching it become a speck in the sideview mirror. 

Anxiety feathers its way up your back, gumming itself into the divots of your spine. You don’t bother asking where you’re going—that would earn you nothing more of a sparse grunt and a short huff. You purse your lips and try not to cry. Every second is another anvil on your chest, heavy and steely, stifling your breath. 

Your fingers snap around the door handle as you approximate the best time it would be to pull it. You’d have to pucker yourself, swing the door open, then roll out—all without one of them catching you first. 

You shoulder yourself into the door. Your hand goes taut on the handle. You nerve yourself, ready to push it open, ready to roll onto the pocked street and scrape yourself threadbare–

–but the opportunity never comes. Ghost pulls into the parking lot of a sleepy strip mall and cuts the engine. He parked tightly between two vans so even if you tried, you wouldn’t have the space to run. 

You have to swallow your flinch when you glance at the rearview mirror and catch him staring at you, beady-eyed.

“We’re gonnae spoil ye puppy,” Johnny says. He slips out of the passenger seat and goes to retrieve you. His tone is pillowly but his grip is firm, warningly. “Ye get to pick out whichever one ye fancy.”

Embarrassment pulls at you as he tugs you into a store. The scent of bird seed and aspen shavings hit the back of your throat, stale and soil-like. You must smack your lips before talking.

“P-pick out…what?”

He stops short in front of a colourful aisle, and it strikes you belatedly that this is a pet shop. Fitting, seeing as you’re similarly skittish to the ensnared bunnies and hamsters. 

Johnny nudges you forward. “Any collar ye like, puppy.”

That’s when it slides into place. There’s a glut of dog chokers in front of you, varying in colour and design. Some are bedazzled and some are flower-printed, others are made of cork and stink up the whole aisle with artificial leather. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth and your head begins to throb, as if you’re being pumped full of mercury. 

You have to dig deep to find your words. Slowly, you find, human intelligence has been escaping you. You whimper before speaking and sink into your new sweatshirt. 

“Do I have to?”

“Ghost’ll just pick one for ye if ye don’t,” he grins. “And I ken ye’ve got better style, pup.”

You look back at the aisle and try to think of what you would get your own dog to soften the discomfort creeping up your throat. Your fingers glance off the collars in an effort to gauge which would feel the best around your neck—or, as best as they could feel, anyway.

Your touch flutters over salmon-pink webbing. A bone-shaped tag dangles from the collar, waiting to be inscribed with a name and an owner’s phone number. 

(The implications don’t elude you. The dog tag is an empty slate which welcomes a new name and erases your old one. Once the collar locks around your neck, the name that gets etched into the metal plate will be yours for however long they keep you. You wouldn’t answer to your current title but would get Pavloved into replying to something else.)

“Ye fancy this one?” Johnny asks. “Fine choice, puppy. It complements ye real nice. Brings out yer eyes.”

He swipes the collar and brings you to the cashier. The girl working the counter is young, plump, and briefly reminds you of the world outside your new confines. You consider whispering for help before Ghost situates himself directly behind you, the metal teeth of his jeans zipper distending into your bum.

“What name would you like on the tag?” She asks, listless. 

You remember Johnny calling your name pretty. It makes it especially jarring when he sticks his neck out, answering with a bright smile, “Puppy.”

She gives a quizzical look. You can hear the question in the bend of her eyebrow—”You’re naming your puppy, Puppy?”—but you suppose she doesn’t get paid enough to care, so she shrugs and scores it into the plate, asking for a phone number.

Ghost gives his and pays with a crumpled wad of cash. He doesn’t wait for change before turning on his boot and dragging you out of the store, stuffing you back into the truck. This time, Johnny sits next to you. He loops the collar around your neck and kisses you softly, wetting your skin before locking it in place. 

His eyes shine when he pulls back. They’re two lagoons, depthless and blue, gleaming like rip currents ready to pull you in. Again, Johnny’s beauty belays your hostility. His crooked smile and his ruddy cheeks flirt you toward him, nuzzling you into his chest. He cradles your head and doesn’t stop kissing you the whole ride back. Similarly, Ghost’s bone-deep stare never leaves you through the rearview mirror. 

Evening comes quickly.

A greyscale canopy has blanketed the sky, mirroring the dread you feel in your solar plexus. Your knees are fettered from being folded for too long and your shins begin to bruise against the hardwood floor. Your neck has been leashed to a leg of their dining table for God knows how long now, tensing as they cook dinner. 

You can’t see what they’re cooking, but you can approximate using your snout (potato skin, bruised onion). Your hearing is also more acute because again, your eyesight has been taken, blackened behind a burlap sack that’s fit over your head and girded around your neck.

You saw what was written on the bag before Ghost pulled it over your head. 

Dog in training.

And it wouldn’t be incorrect. You keep scratching the floor, keep whining. Johnny just thinks you’re hungry and slips food under the hem of your sack. When you ask them to let you go, he suddenly can’t hear you. 

You heed the belch of chairs being pulled out, and two deep sighs from Ghost and Johnny as they sit down. You hear their utensils clink, scraping against their plates, hitting their teeth. Your stomach burbles with hunger, and in a lapse of judgement, you feather towards one of the men and lay your head on their lap in a wordless beg, hoping it isn’t Ghost. During your time here you’ve come to learn he doesn’t take kindly to grovelling mutts.

But throughout this ordeal luck has continuously escaped you. It shouldn’t surprise you when a large hand rests on your head, squishing you against the thickening rise of his jeans. 

“Hungry?” Ghost rasps. You hear the flick and flare of a lighter. You hear cigarette paper burning away as Ghost lights it up, inhaling the smoke between bites of food. 

You grizzle, nodding against his tented jeans. 

“Take my cock out,” he says. 

Essentially blindfolded, you struggle with finding his fly. Your fingers fumble over his crotch and flinch when you catch his zipper, pulling it down to feel his boxer-briefs distorted by a raging hard-on. 

You tug on his boxer-briefs just enough for his cock to slip out, thwacking against his tummy with a soft thump. You choke your hand around him, but his cock is too thick for your grip to wrap all the way around. You employ both hands, working them up and down his length, brushing the pad of your thumb over his dripping slit.

It startles you when he cups your cheeks. His hands are larger than your head, and unexpectedly rip a hole through the burlap, just big enough for your mouth. You capitalize off air that isn’t recycled and open your mouth for a lungful, but your inhale gets dampened as Ghost feeds his cock into you.  

He rubs his slit over your tongue and slides himself down the spine of your throat. You retch around him, however his hand is split behind your neck and keeps your nose squished against his bristly pubic bone. He bucks his hips into you, drawing on his cigarette, eating his food. You can barely hear Johnny through the mescal pooling in your ears–

“Is she suckin’ ye off?” “Ghost, can I watch? Or join? Or can she suck me next? Please?” “What’s she doin’? Is she doin’ it right? Ghost–”

You feel cigarette shavings fall on your head, and humiliation tingling up your spine at being his ashtray. Your cunt twists when Ghost grunts, scratching his teeth together. His voice is husky and tight, malformed with arousal as you suckle his fat cockhead. 

“You shut your gob Johnny,” he growls. “Or you’ll spend the night in the kennel.”

Johnny snaps his mouth shut. You can hear it. That, and the table rattling as he humps his chair. All the noise around you ripens into tinnitus as Ghost squishes his thighs around your head and goes rigid with his orgasm, emptying his balls down your warm throat. His spume is slick, filling up your mouth, chasing after him in strings as he pulls himself from your throat. 

He swats your cheek. “Was that yummy, pet?”

Your pussy aches. Your tangible arousal bleeds through your panties, hot and sticky. 

(They say that as you’re drowning, it feels like hell. Like you’re getting attacked by white-capped waves. The pain quickly ripens into an unexplainable peace, and soon, the treacherous water turns into a warm hug. It’s peaceful. A timeless limbo.

Maybe you’re drowning now. In Ghost’s come, or Johnny’s affection, or their doting. It’s the only explanation for the way your hackles lower and a drowsy smile stretches over your face, as you softly nod.)

“This is why you need us, pet,” Ghost continues. “We’re here to take care of you. Keep you fed. Groomed. It’s what you deserve.”

You drop your head on his knee, wistful. 

“We cannae do that if yer bein’ thrawn,” Johnny tacks on. “You dinnae have to feel guilty about it. After all it feels good, aye?”

You nod as Ghost pulls the sack off your head and unleashes you from the table. He shepherds you into his lap and kisses you sweetly, fondling your tits. 

“Does my pet want more?” He rasps into the seam of your lips. 

You mumble a soft, “Yes,” languid, grinding on him. Ghost is quick to correct you—he grips your jaw and stares at you witheringly, shaking his head.

“Pets don’t talk,” he says. “You just nod, alright? And don’t shake your head. They don’t say no, either.”

Ghost stands up before your response and carries you to the bedroom. He drops you on the mattress and crawls on top, planting his arms on either side of you. 

(There he goes again, trapping you in a cage.)

Johnny stalks through the threshold and leans down to kiss you. They scatter their lips over your body and map your skin, dragging their tongues across your curves. Their hands follow suit—gripping, dimpling, caressing. Tightening the collar around your neck. 

Ghost tugs you by your martingale. “You’re gonna take us both, alright?”

A prudish “Yes,” sits on your tongue, but you bite it off. You nod instead. Thawing into their touch, their tongues. Their rules. Their lifestyle. You let them peel your clothes off and spread your pussy, spitting on it, plunging their fingers into it. You don’t know whose wrist to grab as they both fuck you open on their fingers, and you finally opt to twisting the bedsheets in your grip to ground yourself. 

“So wet, puppy,” Johnny breathes. He sweeps his hand over your sticky folds, giving it a smack. Ghost catches your flinch and thumbs your clit, tracing it, curling his stout fingers into your walls. 

“She wants more,” he grunts. “She’s needy.”

Johnny unzips his pants and takes his dick out. He nods, drowsy, as he tugs at his cock. 

“I’ll fuck ‘er,” Ghost continues. “Fill out this pretty pussy.”

Johnny whines. Long and tinny. Pouty. “But ye said I could have ‘er, Ghost. Ye said I could have ‘er again. That’s nae fair–”

“If you keep being a brat about it, you won’t get her at all,” Ghost makes a withering, warning look that shuts Johnny up.

Ghost takes his shirt off, and you have no time to ogle at his bristly chest before being pulled onto his lap. His cock lays in front of you, fat and heavy, pressing against the squish of your cunt. You’re grinding down on him when he rasps something that drains you, turning you pruney, into vacuum-sealed cellophane. 

“You take ‘er backside,” he says against your jaw. It agitates another stir of arousal out of you. It travels down your ass and waves over your furled hole, lubing it up. 

You realize it now—Ghost warned you of it—Johnny is hyper, barky. He wastes no time in rutting his cockhead into you, breaking the skin of your shoulder as he bites you to offset the pleasure scuttling up his spine. He forces himself into your asshole, prattling nugatory apologies every time you smart with pain. 

“I ken it hurts,” he says. “I’m sorry puppy, it’ll go away soon. Please dinnae be mad at me.”

Just as the burn starts to elapse, Ghost slides into your pussy. It’s a maddening squeeze. You clamp around him, clawing your nails down his hairy, bulging chest. Your hips spurt and stutter, taking them whole, unravelling into ribbons as they snap into you. 

It’s world’s better than your inept fingers and cheap vibrator. Getting hollowed out, split open on two fat, heavy cocks. Trapped between them as they guide your hips, as they lean over you and dovetail their lips together, their saliva dripping onto your head with how messy it is. 

You heft your neck up, desperate to join in. Desperate to catch their spit in the cradle of your mouth. You’re just barely given a gorge to slip through, kitten licking their lips, sucking their tongues. It’s wet and messy and has you knotting up around them, locking up tight as your orgasm feathers over you, caught in the girdle where your leash is and trickling down to your tummy where the barest outline of Ghost’s length protrudes.

They don’t let up after your orgasm. They keep going—they’re two dogs stuffing their snouts into an addled carcass, mangled roadkill—there is no mercy. They fuck you through the bulk of your orgasm, even as you go limp against Ghost’s chest. Even as words elude you when you want to prate about how good it feels, and you can only produce gasps, howls, whimpers and whines. 

Perhaps it’s providence that you’re here, that you came across Ghost under that awning. You’ll ignore the red flags, the warnings, and you’ll indulge in their sick lifestyle. 

It’s a quid pro quo. They have someone to pamper, you get pampered.

Maybe you’ll even bark for them too.

Slasher Handler

Description from the discord:

My next (first fanfic) project is going to be an AU for charmed!slasher!Simon where reader knows he's dangerous, finds out he's literally a killer, and decides to provide him with ✨enrichment✨ to help him… I dunno? Control his urges? Channel them into good? Meet the need before the distressing behavior starts? They're way over their head.

Series Content Warnings: DARK FIC, 18+/MDNI, Alternate Universe - Serial Killer 141, Serial Killer Simon "Ghost" Riley x Final Girl Reader, sexual content, dubious consent, under-negotiated kink, mind games

Please review chapter specific content warnings

Read on AO3

Part 1 - Meeting Your New Neighbor (SFW)

Part 2 - Grocery Shopping (SFW)

Part 3 - Meeting Kyle For Coffee (Time skip) (SFW)

Part 4 - Consequences (To Meeting Kyle For Coffee) (NSFW)

Part 5 - Reward (For Being So Considerate) (NSFW)

Part 5.5 - After the Reward (From Simon's POV) (NSFW)

Part 6 - Simon's Been Restless (NSFW)

Part 7 - Date Activities (NSFW)(Not Spicy!)

Part 8 - Romance Isn't Dead (NSFW)(Not Spicy!)

Part 9 - Pneumothorax (NSFW)

Gaz Interlude - A look into the medical side of things (SFW)

Gaz Interlude Part 2 - The other side of the medical side of things (SFW)

Soap Interlude - Guess who's out on good behavior? Part 11 - Slip Lead (NSFW)

Big man, Big mouth

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!reader (because demeaning girl usage) WC: 4.9k it's just gross smut and simon gets kinda mean sometimes nothing crazy :) ty to the brain to my pinky @xoxunhinged and precious beta @waves-against-a-cliff catching my errs

The smile you’d had on your face all morning is subsequently wiped once you’re told that you won’t, in fact, be spearheading a team meeting with air conditioning and a cup full of your favorite medium roast, but instead, you’re being sent somewhere where practical experience trumps theoretical, textbook knowledge. And alone, at that.

Guess your travel mug is about to make its big debut.

The construction site is alive with purpose— the buzzing of drills, raucous banter, and the low hum of music from a stereo. You run a hand down the back of your skirt that is more tourniquet than office attire you were forced into wearing, regretting not drawing the line at the heels pinching your toes. "Professional setting, professional appearance," your boss had said. Nothing here demands you to stand in ironed clothes with dust settling on your eyelashes and the taste of grit on your tongue.

You feel out of place, a white-collar worker surrounded by hard hats and steel-toe boots. Perhaps taking this job for a promotion was hasty on your part. But it’s too late now and the sun above you is wilting the starched collar of your blouse.

Best get this over and done with. (The bottle of barefoot wine at home will be your reward for your suffering.)

Walking to the home still in a semi-skeletal phase had been a bit uncomfortable, anxiety gnawing at your nerves and the polished shoes at the skin of your heel. But what made your shoulders tense and spine stiffen was the crew. You'd expected disgruntled workers, sure. A bit of grumbling here and there. No one likes to have someone with more authority and less experience trample all over your work, telling you what's what.

Not them eyeing you like you're a fish in a shark tank. A little minnow pulled out of her natural habitat and into the mix with dominant predators. The paper on your clipboard crinkles audibly as one of them— the leader, you gather— stops you before you can get any closer than he feels necessary. He plods over, hard hat tucked into his arm, wiping his sweaty brow with his sunbaked forearm, a few wood curls nestled into his beard.

"Ya lost?" he grunts.

There's a guy with a comb for hair and limpid blue eyes staring right at you from the back as he leans on a half-built wall with a smarmy grin on his thin lips.

"No! No, I, um—" you stammer, "I'm here as a temporary replacement for, um—"

He cuts you off with a dismissive wave, fingers thick as steel beams. "Right. Yeah, yeah." Bloody rude. "The inspector." His head tilts and spits on the cement, eyes giving you a once over, lingering on the bare skin of your calves. "John," he says then jerks his head behind him, to the shady inside of the home. "Let's get ya out this sun 'fore you melt like sugar on the driveway."

You keep your lips pressed in a line, swallowing down the retort sitting on your tongue with a hint of frustration, and follow him on swift feet. It is unforgivingly hot and at least there's a roof overhead. Most of the walls were still just wooden beams, the foundation concrete covered in dust. Rough-bristle brooms lean in corners, the stereo now sitting silently in the center of what’s to be the living room next to a man with a massive frame and a sweat-soaked wifebeater who didn't bother turning around as you made a beeline for the only fan feebly cutting through the muggy heat inside.

John from behind you grabs your attention. "So? What's the issue this time? We jus' had tha' muppet pass through a week ago." You turn around, the breeze now somewhat cooling the back of your neck.

"Just need to personally check what's left—" you clear your throat, giving the clipboard a waggle, "on this. Nothing too grand." The blonde one with shorn hair hasn't looked up once from the blue cooler between his legs.

John scratches his head. "Right." There's a drag of heavy boots behind you. "Temporary, eh?" His eyes are like cerulean rivets, pinning you in place.

Gruff Scottish cuts in, tone dripping with amusement. "Will ye look a' tha'," he mutters, accent thick and deliberate, "bosses up top sent a bonnie wee lass to keep an eye on things. Make sure ye pay good attention, aye?" The brute comes to stand in front of you, flexing one arm, bicep like a knotted tree trunk. "Would hate ye missin' the show."

Show ‘em your teeth, little fish. That promotion is already in your hands, don't let it slip through your fingers.

"Listen, you—" you snap back, cheeks burning hot but then his eyebrows raise to his hairline, the corner of his lip curling in challenge.

"It's Soap, hen."

“...Right.”

What the hell kind of name is Soap?

A third voice— crisp English just like John's— cuts through the air from the second floor. "Wipe the slobber off ya chin 'nd leave 'er alone, Soap! You still hav'ta sweep up 'ere!" A man with bronze skin and a cap adorned with the Union Jack in the center pokes his head out from over the wooden railing. His smile looks stiff.

"Miss." His eyes flash to Soap. "Move it. You can get your cock—" wow, mouth like a sailor, that one, "wet while on company's time." His gaze falls on you for a moment longer before disappearing back into the upper level.

Soap grumbles what sounds like a "fuckin' 'ell Kyle" but heads for the stairs anyway, steps creaking under his weight. "Ah'll be 'round if ye need me," he says with a wink.

Unlikely.

John absently shakes his head and turns to the grizzled, mountain of a man still hunched over that cursed cooler of his. "Simon." He suddenly moves then, rising smoothly to his feet for someone his size. He's a wall of muscle, a very clear force of nature, and he's now staring at your—

your shoes?

"Alrigh'," he gruffly says, "We'll get outta your way. The faster you can look for, whatever it is you're lookin' for, the faster you can get out o' my beard." He places his hard hat back on and gives Simon a nod. "To work, break time's over."

Simon walks past you without so much as a glance, his thick arm brushing roughly against your shoulder with enough strength to make you take a step back but then he speaks. "Don't trip on nothin', girl. I'd hate f'r our pretty mascot t'get injured on the," he emphasizes the last word, tone heavy with mockery, "job."

Your tongue is pressed firmly behind your clenched teeth as you straighten your skirt. Get this shit over with.

--

Their attitudes toward you had left some to be desired, but they had done their job seamlessly. Not a crack in place nor a bolt out of it meaning that ticking off the rest of the boxes on your clipboard had been a cinch, making the promotion even easier. By the time you were ready to go home— the thought of leaving behind the tangy scent of sweat and iron adding a pep to your painful step— the sun had already dipped, casting long shadows over the construction site.

Until John's unwelcome chivalrous gesture: sending one of his to accompany you to your car. "t's late out," he says, leaving no room for lip. Fine, whatever. The faster you get out of here the better. Saliva pools in your mouth at the thought of having a chilled glass of wine with chinese takeout for dinner.

Except the one waiting for you in the garage with a lit smoke between his chapped lips is Simon. He flicks it to the ground, smothering out the embers with the heel of his boot. "Move. Ain't got all day."

The last strand of your patience snaps and your mouth twists into a snarl. "Then leave off! I don't need a fucking chaperone. Believe it or not, I do know how to look both ways before crossing the street."

You'd only taken three irate, swift-footed steps away from him, clipboard trembling in your grip when the back of your shoe dug into raw skin; a sharp, sudden agony flaring out in a hot, thick wave and you stumble. The world spins for a second, colors blurring together until—

The relief is immediate. The hot needles on your raw nerves dulled down to a throb, vision blurring from the brief bite of intense pain. You breathe in a deep lungful of air, tasting salt and sawdust while you flex your feet, hissing when the blistered skin stretches. At least the damage to your toes is minimal.

But not to your pride. Tripping over your own feet, because the driveway while unfinished is still flat, now means you're being hauled over his shoulder, which is broad enough to be surprisingly comfortable, in the opposite direction of where your car is with your heels in hand. The fabric of his tank feels stiff under your sweaty palms.

"Is this kind of behavior normal for you? Or am I just lucky?" your voice is tinged with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. His arm tightens uncomfortably around the back of your bare thighs even though the office skirt you managed to squeeze into is knee-length.

"Only when I spot clumsy-footed birds like you. Can't 'ave ya splat on the concrete like a crime scene outline." A slow creeping flame spreads from your neck to the apple of your cheeks when you notice the guys staring at you from a window upstairs, Soap giving you a toothy smile. Even Kyle seems amused. Mortifying. Someone strike you down now. Actually, no. Then who'd feed your cat once you’re gone?

"'nd John would chew me out f'r lettin' ya break these," his long fingers circle your ankle, "in 'alf." You try to muster a response, but the words sit behind your teeth, your chagrin having tangled your tongue into knots.

Then he stops and the creaking of hinges reaches your ears. "Wait." Your eyes land on a black cargo bed, caked with dried mud. "Are you just going to sit me in your car?" He sets you down in the back seat anyway, tossing your shoes inside.

"Truck. I can drop ya on the patch of grass if ya like." Simon leaves you there, going to the driver's side rummaging through the middle compartment. His work truck is exactly what you'd expect from a man like him. The seats are covered in a thin layer of dust, you imagine he gives no one a ride, a well-worn visibility vest strewn about, an extra pair of work boots stained with splatters of white paint—the size difference of your shoes compared to his has you swallowing a lump the size of your fist down.

Simon pulls out a mid-sized red box and places it on the floor mat then props your leg up on his. His grip is firm but gentle as he inspects your open wounds and then sucks on his teeth. "A bit stupid, wearin' ankle breakers when out on a job." He prods around the inflamed skin, the pain making you tense.

"Don't worry about me and mi—" you hiss when he digs his thumb into the arch of your foot, "mine. Maybe I wanted to look nice." Fuck those shoes.

"'m sure ya did, though the skirt's all ya need." The warmth of his breath spreads through your toes and up your calf, raising gooseflesh.

You can't hold back a snort. "And now you're going to tell me that you prefer women in skirts and dresses?"

Simon switches legs, careful to not aggravate the blisters further. "I prefer my women with no clothes. But both of those make it f'r easier access. Like yours. Can see your knickers from 'ere." That has your heart skipping a beat, eyes widening with disbelief. Instinctively, you sit upright, back straightening with a pop.

"They're red."

You chuff out a breath. He's lying. You'd put on the only available pair you had at the time since you'd forgotten to dry your laundry the night prior. A simple, cotton grey. "You—! Fucking hell, I almost kicked you in the teeth." Simon's looking at you now, eyes dark and intense.

"Wouldn't be the first time someone's tried," he says with a smirk, voice low. "White, then."

The first aid kit still lies on the floor mat. "Stop talking." Simon ignores you, instead grabbing your other leg and pulling you closer toward the edge of the seat. Toward him.

"Green," he rumbles, his hands cupping the bottom of your feet, thumb and pointer coming to gently tug on your toes before moving his way up. You feel like a young, dewy-eyed farm girl having her first tumble in the hay and he's only now stroking the protruding bone of your ankle. The motion is slow, deliberate, a tender caress that sends a shiver up your spine. Has it truly been that long since you've had your body shape imprinted into the mattress?

"How about," you swallow thickly, "you patch me up proper and I'll be on my way?" If anyone else had heard, they'd say you're trying to convince yourself that being here isn't what you really want. But the little garble in your voice gives you away.

Simon hums, a sound that vibrates in your chest, sinks into the marrow of your bones. "Little bird wants t’go home 'nd 'ave only a throw 'nd a cat t'warm 'er bed?" You feel a different kind of ache this time, pulsing sharp and deep in your core. "Eh? Y'wanna curl up on the couch with one o’ those sex books while playin’ with your pretty cunt?" 

The idea of having to use the blue bullet sitting inside the nightstand drawer sounds unappealing. And it’s probably out of battery too. Damn. 

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and shake your head. He doesn’t accept that as your answer.

"Wha's tha'? You will speak when spoken to, pet. Do you," he emphasizes the last word as he begins to open your legs by the knees, "wanna go home with an empty pussy or let me fill it 'til you're leaking cum out ya ears?"

Can't say no to him serenading you like that. You clench around nothing, hesitance crumbling like sand. "B-but what about your job? Aren't you still working?"

Simon grabs you then, dinner plate-sized hands wrapping around the softer part of your waist. "'M on a break. I'd say I deserve it after all my 'ard work." He lifts you effortlessly, the hem of your skirt rolling as you widen your legs further.

He rolls his hips once, feeling the bulge in his jeans brush against your sex, feather-light, and you bite on the thickest part of your tongue to keep from moaning like a cat in heat. "And what about us being in the open?" you ask though the question is redundant. Besides the crew's work vehicles, there's not another car in sight. If anyone else had been working nearby, they've long since left.

He seems to share your sentiment. "If tha's all? 'm tryin' t'see if I got it righ'."

No, that'll just about do it. "Okay. Alright." God knows you need this. Even if it comes from a stranger you'll probably never see again. Simon doesn't wait any longer, pushing up the rest of your skirt to pool above your thighs.

He hisses long and low through his teeth. "Tight little thing, innit?" Yeah, well. You were going to tell him that while putting on your skirt that morning had been an absolute nightmare, it wasn't that small on you until the tips of his fingers glided along your clothed slit. Oh. He's not talking about that.

"I guess grey's my new favorite colour. Especially this—" he thumbs the darkened wet spot on the fabric, "shade." When he adds more pressure, you can't help but let a gasp out as you buck your hips in want of more. "Easy. 'aven't even started with you." Simon opens the front of your blouse with a single hand, coming undone easily. He goes for the clip of your bra that's serendipitously placed on the front.

"Gotta let the girls breathe," he says. Whatever his reasoning doesn't matter because all there is, is relief. No more underwire digging into your skin, no more suffocating restraint. You only wore the blasted thing because all of your sports bras would've been visible through the blouse.

Simon rolls a hardened bud with one hand while unbuttoning the front of his jeans with the other. "Eatin' this," he gives the mound of your pussy a mean tap, "gonna 'ave t'wait. I'll get ya off though, don't worry tha' little head o' yours."

You wonder if he says that to everybody he fucks in the back of his truck. "What? Why?"

His length sits hot and heavy over your cunt. And it's big enough to kill. Death by cock. That'll be on your epitaph. "'m a big geezer," he mutters, fingers toying with the side of your panties, "lyin' down so you can sit your cunt on my face isn't gonna work righ' now."

Definitely says that to everybody. "Doesn't matter. I'll take care o'ya 'nother way." Simon pulls the dampened gusset to the side and lowers his head to— "Pretty like I thought it was." A fat glob of spit lands on the puffy lips of your pussy and he smears it around with his cock, tip sliding right along your clit. He uses his thumb to press himself down harder, more friction, more sensation, each slow roll of his hips pricking neglected nerves awake, alive, and it feels good. Surprisingly good.

The way the scar on his lip whitens as he bites it tells you it's just as good for him too. "Thought about it much, did you?" He goes lower this time, ruddy tip catching on your entrance momentarily before returning up.

"Since you walked inside a place you 'ave no business bein' in. Birds like you shouldn't be minglin' in the trenches with us grunts." The tips of your ears are hot as he stares down at you. "Should be sittin' nice 'nd pretty in a cubicle with air conditionin' 'nd an oversized mug o' watered-down coffee."

Simon cups the swell of your arse, canting your hips to glide himself better. Every bump and ridge on the underside of his cock is rubbing slowly on you and the thought of licking a slick stripe on the vein only tightens the white-hot coil below your navel.

"Or better yet, sittin' at home doin' wha'ever else while waitin' f'r a man like me to come back from work with a ribeye 'nd redskin potatoes in the oven." He lets your panties fall back into place; the sodden front almost transparent as he rubs against your swollen clit at the same time. God, he's fucking. your. panties! And you're bloody letting him.

What a way to break this year-long dry spell.

He bends your legs so that your feet are now being held flat on the thick of his chest with his hands as he picks up the pace. The suspension springs on the truck begin to groan. "I like mine medium rare."

Your back's come off the seat, spine bowed. You're close, so fucking close, you've got slick coating the inside of your thighs, dripping down to your arse, probably staining his polyester material underneath. This is torture and your pussy feels tender, raw, yet he's barely touching the focal point of your desire. If he doesn't make you come in the next minute, you're breaking that thick neck of his.

It's like he read your mind because he uses his cock to tap on your clit firmly, hard enough to hear a wet thwack and he does it once, thrice and—

And then your body gives, an intense climax that steals the breath in your very lungs, has you your blunt nails biting into the muscle of his forearms, his groan drowned out by the shrill ringing in your ears. Your face feels hot, probably is hot to the touch and there's a sting on the middle of your bottom lip and can taste iron on your tongue. Even the tips of your fingers tingle.

Through your half-lidded gaze, you see Simon holding onto the top of the truck while his breath comes in ragged gasps. Did he come? You curiously touch the expanse of your stomach. Not sticky.

"No. I didn't come. You," he takes in a deep, steadying breath then reaches to squeeze the sides of your face, cheeks plumping under the pressure. "You almost 'ad me, though. I don't remember the last time I 'ad to think tha' 'ard of London t'not finish. But I'm not done with you."

Simon hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and takes them off with urgency only to stuff them in his back pocket. "Better with no clothes on, remember." You can feel his twitching cock leak onto your heated skin.

"If ya need, use this." A black bundle of fabric lands on your chest, what is— It's a mask? If he means to hide your identity from his coworkers, you're not sure this skull mask is going to work. He drags you to him roughly until your arse is hanging off the seat. And then there's a hot, dull pressure pushing against your entrance that's followed by a searing sting, and it, it's so much, it's too m-

"Tight fucking-, Ya need t-, fuck, to relax," he grunts, fingers dimpling your thighs. Simon's thrusts are jerky, short, as he wrenches your walls apart. Even with your creamy cum and his spit it's still a struggle. "'Alf way there," and a rattled breath escapes you. You're being split right down the middle and there's still some left?

For the next few moments only your squeaks and mewls can be heard as he makes room for him, your hand flat on his lower stomach— feeling the coarse, thick patch of hair on it— as if you're trying to keep him away, out, something but then he snarls and snaps his hips. You've heard of a ring of fire some women experience at some point in their life and you think this is yours. The thin skin of your entrance burns, most likely stretched to its limit, like a rubber band about to snap.

"Easy," he drawls out, "The worst's over. Took me like you're made f'r me. G'mme ya 'and." He takes your clammy hand and has you touch where the two of you meet. His eyes are glued to your fingers that are split into a v, pads feeling your cunt soaked in viscous slick.

The groan he lets out at the sight makes the world around you spin. "Stay jus' like tha'." Sure, not like you’ve got anywhere to go. Not with his hands tight around you like metal cuffs. Simon holds nothing back, not even in the very first minute. Doesn't warm you up to it, don't let you try to get used to him turning you inside out. His thrusts are long, firm, hungry— bottoming out every single time until he sits snugly at the plug of your womb. Grinds up when he meets resistance, eyeing your features in case there's discomfort.

The only ache you've got is the one he's fucking into you. (And you also might be partly lying on his tape measurer.)

But then he hitches your legs up, hands around the back of your thighs as they're pushed toward your chest and that pulls a whine out of you that you're sure John and the crew heard. "There she is, bird's got a healthy set o' lungs on 'er." He keeps the same, unforgiving angle and doubles down, using the bulk of his weight to pin you in place, forced to do nothing but take and take and take.

Until Simon's strikes the side of your arse with an open palm. "D'ya hear 'em?" Wha? What? Hear who?

And then you hear it. Him. The handsome one with the hat from upstairs. "Ghost?" he sounds right across the street and Simon hasn't stopped rocking the truck as he fucks you right through it. "Wha's tha' Kyle?" His voice is steady even though there are beads of sweat rolling down the side of his temple.

"I said good job on all your 'ard work 'nd we'll see ya tomorrow. You 'ave a good night too, Miss." There's a crude whistle followed by a pained grunt and a quick mumbled apology. Maybe if you don't respond they'll just get in their car and go home.

But then John calls out to you too.

"Simon must’ve missed you, sweetheart. “Wow. He barks out a laugh. " 'ave yourself a good night, Miss.” Then, sternly says, “Tomorrow at 6, Simon.”

Simon, though, has no intention of letting you take the easy way out. He smacks your arse again, right in the same— already tender— spot from just moments before. "Answer 'em, pet. Or 'ave I fucked all the manners outta ya?" He accentuates the last three words with thrusts so sharp that if he hadn't been holding you in place, you would've been sent sprawling back.

Whatever words you're supposed to say are snagged in your throat like hooks, only whimpers and high-pitched gasps falling past your trembling lips. He drags his thumb over your bottom one, the calloused pad of it tough. "Go on. Be good 'nd tell 'em to 'ave a good night too. And no names. Only one comin’ outta you should be mine."

When you open your mouth, he weaves a hand down to your clit, jerking it in fast little circles that have you forgetting where you even are. "Mf- g-good," he gives you just a second of respite to spit on it. "Good night-," his fingers are almost torture, and god, you're going to come in front of all of them. You warble out the words hastily, feeling your impending orgasm come at you with the speed of a freight train.

"Tha's a good bird, singin' when I tell ya to." There's no stopping this, not with all of his focus on the little bundle of nerves and every drag of his cock making your spine arch as if he were winding it. "Squeeze my cock, tha's it."

Your legs shake violently, toes curled, and you can feel a cramp begin in your calf but none of it matters, not when you're seeing bright lights behind your scrunched eyelids, not when you feel fingers in your mouth to stifle the scream that's viciously wrenched from your throat nor when Simon growls out a "Fuckin' 'ell."

"I told ya, if ya needed somethin' t'bite on, use tha'," he jerks his head toward the mask that's tight in your fist. Your soul is still floating adrift in the wind and he's already trying to make conversation. And he did not say to bite on it.

"I'm not puttin' this unwashed thing in my mouth." You languidly watch him inspect his hand, looking at the deep purple teeth imprints on his fingers. Whoops.

"But you'll 'ave me after sweatin' under the bloody sun for 'ours." His hand slides behind your nape, lifting your head a bit as he lowers his chest to meet your sweat-slick one. Your hands come to claw at the shifting muscles of his back when he begins anew, this time his pace is relentless, sharp, predatory. He's a shark that has scented blood and is now on the hunt.

The prickling bristles of his facial hair scratch against your temple. "This," the hand around your neck tightens, your rapid pulse now roaring in your ears, "is the best pussy I've ever had." His thrusts are jarring, make your teeth clack together hard enough to hurt, and after a dozen of them, he comes with a cruel bite to the junction of your shoulder, snarl animalistic.

Hopefully, the guys drove off a while ago otherwise you're re-dressing and driving home with that mask Simon tossed your way.

Your blouse is unfortunately beyond saving. Your skirt isn’t faring any better if that massive tear in the front has anything to say about it and your shoulder will require at least half a bottle of concealer plus a couple of bandaids, which the first aid kit is completely empty of. Not even the first aid guide is inside. 

You sluggishly begin to button up one of Simon's spare flannel shirts when he asks you if you're hungry.

"No." Not really. Hard to feel much when most of your nerves from the ribs down are shot.

"Get in the front, I'd like t'eat my dinner soon." He's staring right at the apex of your legs, your cunt still throbbing from the abuse."'m 'ungry." There’s no tow car sign on the street, actually, there’s not even a simple stop sign here. 

It better not get towed. You’re not paying a dime if it does.

(Are your feet still hurting or can he fuck those too? No? Next time, then.)

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.

Hello there! My family needs to leave Gaza out of necessity . I suffer from nightmares that are so closely resemble reality that I no longer Differentiate between reality and a dream.Thank you for taking your efforts and time in reading my plea. There are no words to describe the horrors unfolding in this place,never expected to find myself in this situation. Because of this horrible situation I have decided to come before you guys for a financial support so that I can evacuate my family from this hell that we are into.The funds will be strictly used for the evacuation . I will personally bear any additional expenses incurred.Your support will make a significant difference in alleviating the suffering of my family ,We urgently need any kind of support before it is to late. As time ticking away translates to lives lost in Gaza I'm here and ready to answer any questions or concerns you may have.Kindly reach out and connect with me

i don’t have the means to donate but i can reblog!

and y’all should too.

URGENT HELP🚨🚨🚨🍉🇵🇸

Hello,

How do you do ? I hope to be in a good condition.

This is my special campaign

We hope to help us by donating or sharing to others.

Every donation makes a different even if it a small.

As you know, the war began on October 7 and lasted ten months. During this period, we were unable to obtain food, drink, or treatment because we did not have money.

There is no source of income for the family at the present time, so we are unable to buy food, clean water, and medicine, especially after we are afflicted with the ongoing infectious diseases spread in the north like Hepatitis C disease.

Our house has been damaged a lot since the beginning of the war. We are from the north of Gaza and we are still in the north and have not displaced to the south. We displaced 10 times from place to another seeking to safety .

We hope for your help and support, even if only a little.🙏🙏

Vetted By Femme intifada on telegram.

This is the link if you would to read our story well 👇👇

https://gofund.me/4e896ac1

Thank you all

https://gofund.me/4e896ac1

day 23 ; virginity loss

↠ bo sinclair x reader

fandom: house of wax word count: 2.8k warnings: nsfw 18+, bimbo!reader, reader has shitty friends, coercion, corruption, dubconish, fingering, blowjob, cum swallowing, dirty talk, kind of semi-public sex, unprotected sex, creampie, pervy!Bo, allusion to murder, the plot is like a bad porno but i promise this is good guys

kinktober m.list || read on ao3

“God, did you forget to fill the tank again?”

You lean over from the backseat to take a look at the fuel gauge, and see the arrow is nearing empty. You furrow your eyebrows. “I was sure it filled up all the way,” you murmur. You try to recall when you all last stopped at a gas station, and how your friends delegated you to fill up the car while they went into the shop and bought snacks.

“Well it obviously didn’t, you idiot!” Your friend jerks the wheel and pulls over on the side of the desolate road. “This is why we never like to go anywhere with you.” 

You bite your lip, holding back tears. It wasn’t your fault that you were so forgetful sometimes, always getting distracted and lost in your thoughts.

This was supposed to be a fun road trip with your three closest friends, celebrating your college graduation nearing. But after a car karaoke session that went on for too long made you guys miss an exit, you’d been stranded on empty roads with nothing but trees surrounding you for quite a few miles now.

Your friend sitting in the backseat with you turns to face you, her arms crossed against her chest. “You should be the one to go find a gas station,” she protests. “It’s your fault we got stuck out here anyway.”

Your two friends in the front row look back at you and then at each other before nodding in agreement.

You crane your neck to look at the journey that would be ahead of you. It looked as though it continued to stretch for miles and miles with no end in sight, only the empty road and dying trees.

“By myself?” you ask hesitantly.

All three nod in unison.

You huff in defeat, unbuckling your seatbelt and stepping out of the vehicle.

“I’ll try to be back—”

They slam the door in your face before you can answer.

“—Soon,” you finish before sighing and starting the long walk, hoping to find some destination before it got too dark.

~

Bo was not expecting to see a pretty little thing like you around Ambrose when it was nearing dusk, especially all alone. You had your arms wrapped around your bare midsection, and even from his spot inside the gas station he could see that you were shivering from the cool air as the sun set. You were looking around frantically, and he could tell immediately that you were lost and looking for help.

He smirks. Oh, he’d help you, alright. Bo took that as his cue to reveal himself to you. He wipes his hands with a dirty rag and tosses it aside, exiting the station.

You hear the ringing of the bell as Bo opens the door, and you turn your head towards the source of the sound. You scurry on over, seeing Bo in his mechanic’s uniform.

“Sir! Hi!” you start, fumbling over your words. “You work here, right? Do you have some gas? My car—well, it’s my friend’s—but it’s, like, miles back there and we ran out.” 

Your eyes then shift to the side and he could tell you were embarrassed. “It’s kind of my fault.”

Hmm. Sir. He liked hearing that come from your pouty lips.

Bo gives you a toothy grin. “Don’t gotta worry your head ‘bout it, sweetheart. I’ll get ya all settled. Come with me.” He slides his hand across your lower back, just barely grazing your ass. You gasp under your breath at the feeling, and Bo can’t help it when his cock stirs at the sound.

As you walk into the gas station, Bo scans you up and down. He notices that you have nothing on your person but your clothes, and even then it’s just little scraps of a skimpy top and skirt—which means you must’ve forgotten a wallet, too. His grin widens even more.

Reaching behind him without you noticing, he cranks the thermostat down. The air gets cooler within seconds, and Bo revels in seeing your nipples harden as they poke through your top.

He goes to find a can of gas, rolling up his sleeves as he plucks it from a top shelf. He notices when you gulp and stare at his muscles as he flexes them subtly.

You were such a cute little doll. He was going to have fun with you.

He plops the can on the counter. You go to reach for it, but he holds a hand out. “Ten bucks, little lady.”

Your eyes bulge almost comically and it takes all of Bo’s strength not to laugh at your expression.

“Wow, that’s a lot more than I thought it would be,” you say nervously, shifting on the balls of your feet.

Bo exaggerates a sigh. “Times are tough out here, owning a small business like this. We don’t get many customers out here.” He opens his hands to motion to you the desolate town of Ambrose.

You completely buy into his bullshit excuse, nodding your head in complete understanding. “Oh my god, that sucks, like, a lot.” Patting down your lame excuse for a shirt, you look up at Bo with wide eyes, jaw dropped in surprise. “I forgot to bring my wallet!”

You were such a dumb little thing. What were your sorry excuses of friends thinking, sending you off all alone?

“I’m so sorry, sir!” You clasp your hands in front of you in a pleading manner, looking up at him with big, watery eyes. Bo holds back a groan. Jesus, those eyes could make a man cream his pants if he wasn’t too careful. “Please, is there anything I can do to pay you back? I’ll do anything!”

Bo pretends as if he’s thinking long and hard. Oh, he knew exactly what you were going to do as payment.

“You know, I get lonely sometimes,” Bo starts, a mock frown on his face. “A cute lady like you could really help a man like me out.” He shuffles up to you, and palms your ass under that sorry excuse for a skirt.

“Oh!” You gasp, grabbing onto his arm. “That’s really sad, sir.” You look lost in thought for a moment before continuing. “I don’t know if I can do that for you though.” You bite your lip, looking unsure of yourself.

“Aw, you gotta be kidding,” Bo clicks his tongue, rubbing his hand around the plumpness of your behind. “I bet you’ve helped lotsa guys out, huh?”

“A-actually,” you look down in shame. “I’m a—” you lower your voice to barely over a whisper, “—virgin.”

Bo blinks. That wasn’t a response he was expecting from you. So the slutty clothes were just for show, was it?

“Oh really?”

You nod, blatant regret all over your face. “I don’t think it’ll be good for you, ya’know, since I haven’t really had any practice and all that.”

He puts a smile back on, laughing gleefully and patting you on the shoulder, rubbing a thumb between the groove of your collarbone. “Well, that’s no problem for me, sweetheart. I can teach ya!”

Your eyes lighten up. “You can?”

“Sure I can!” He starts to undo his belt, throwing it aside on the counter. “Just need you to get on your knees for me and I can show you what to do.”

His cock jumps in anticipation, looking forward to seeing your juicy, plump lips wrapped around—

“Wait a minute!” you cry out, interrupting his fantasies.

Bo pauses in his movements, his jaw ticking at your interruption. “Yes?” he askes, concealing his frustration.

“What’s your name? I don’t wanna do this without knowing it.”

He sighs and points to the nametag on his jacket. “I’m Bo.”

You slap a palm across your forehead and nervously giggle. “Oh jeez, I should’ve known to look first!”

“That’s okay, sweetheart,” Bo mutters through his teeth impatiently. “Now lemme help you out, alright?” “Oh! Yeah, sorry!” You—finally—drop to your knees in front of him. “What do I need to do?”

The sight of you in front of him like that, so eager and pliant, had his cock jumping in his pants.

Bo lowers his jeans and boxers, his hard cock now revealed to you. He wraps a hand around the base stroking his full length as it puts it on display for you.

“That’s…big,” you murmur. You look up at him, concern plastered across your features. “I dunno if it’s gonna fit.” Your eyebrows crease together and those damn pouty lips of yours come out again.

Bo bites his cheek to conceal his smirk. This was gonna be a lot more fun than he thought. “I told you, that’s what I’m helping you with, ain’t I?”

You nod.

“Great. Now open those pretty lips up for me.”

You open your mouth as wide as you can, giving Bo a perfect hole to stick his cock into. He guides himself inside you, hissing as the warmth of your mouth envelops his length.

“Good girl,” he praises. He begins to thrust his hips slowly, your lips latching onto him as he does so. “You gotta let me move, sweetheart.”

“Sorry,” you mumble around him, and he groans at the vibrations that travel up his cock.

Your lips loosen and you start to suck on his cock, the suction of your lips making shivers of pleasure run down his spine. He grips the back of your head, controlling the pace of his thrusts.

“Fuck, look at you,” Bo hisses. You look so pretty and innocent with his cock stuffed down your throat, gags escaping your lips. “You’re a natural. Sure you haven’t done this before?”

“I told you—!”

Bo slaps your cheek, shushing you. “Stop talking.”

You nod obediently, the action making him pulse inside of your mouth. His grip on your hair tightens as his thrusts become harder, more primal. He fucks your mouth with vigor, ignoring your gags and the way your nails dig into the skin of his thighs.

He cums faster than he’s ever had before, groaning as his hot release coats the back of your throat. You cough around his cock, spurts of liquid splashing against your cheeks.

“Swallow it,” Bo commands.

You gulp harshly, your lips still secured around his cock. The extra pressure has him bucking his hips and like a good girl you swallow all of his cum. He pulls his cock out of your mouth, and you begin to cough and sputter as you regain your breath.

“Is that it?” you question him.

“Baby, I still gotta get rid of that virginity of yours.”

“Oh.” You giggle behind your hand. “Right.” You start to strip, only taking a couple of seconds since you’re practically naked already. “What do I do now?”

Bo’s cock hardens back to life at your nude form in front of him. Your nipples are hard, attached to your perky breasts that bounce up and down right in front of his eyes. He stares lecherously, licking his lips. “Now that you got my cock all wet,” Bo rubs his length, now slick with his cum and your saliva, “I can stick it in your pussy.” You bite the inside of your cheek and nod, your eyes flicking between his face and his cock. “I know I asked before,” you begin, and Bo moves to place your hand over his cock, “but will it really fit?”

Lord, he was really starting to understand why your friends let you go alone.

“Yeah, I told you, I’ll make it fit.” He lifts you from the back of your legs and places you on top of the counter. He brings his thick fingers to your pussy, sticking a fingertip inside.

You gasp and arch your body into him, throwing your arms around his broad back. Your bare breasts brush up against his chest and he relishes in the contact. 

“That feels really good, Bo!” you cry out. He adds a second finger inside of you, pushing the digits in deeper. He can feel how wet you are and the way you clench around him so desperately. Your hips jerk into him unsteadily, chasing the pleasure his fingers bring you.

He chuckles. “It’ll feel even better when I stick my cock in you.”

Bo removes his fingers, basking in the way you whine as he pulls them out, leaving you pulsing and desperate to be around him. He lines his throbbing cock with your entrance and pushes himself in without hesitation.

“Bo!” You scream, nails digging into his back. Little gasps leave your mouth as he begins to thrust in and out of you. Your pussy grips him like a vice, and it’s difficult for him to move inside you with you so needy for him.

He shushes you, gripping your cheeks and watching as tears leave your eyes.

“It hurts,” you whine to him. Your nails grip onto him as if your life depended on it.

He shoves his face into the crevice of your neck, placing kisses upon it. “Gotta relax a bit for me, okay?” he coos into your ear. “Or it won’t feel good for you.”

“You promise?” you ask through glassy eyes.

He nods, and feels as you unclench just a tad around him. Bo is able to rut himself into you harder now, and he can’t help but be more forceful with his thrusts as it causes your breasts to bounce right in front of him.

“Look at that.” He motions towards where the two of you are connected, his cock pulsing at the way your blood and juices coat the base. “Look at how we're connected now.”

Oh wow,” you gasp in awe. “That’s kinda romantic, huh?”

Bo doesn’t respond. If you wanted to put it that way, he wouldn’t stop you. He ignores the way his heart stutters in his chest.

His hips continue to pound into you, your body bouncing along with the power of his thrusts. The whines that come out of your mouth sound so angelic, and Bo has to fight the urge to kiss you.

“I—I think I’m gonna cum,” you moan out, your head thrown back and your eyes are scrunched up in pleasure.

Bo didn’t need you to tell him that. Your pussy goes back to clenching down on him, your walls tightening around his cock, fitting themselves to the shape of him. He curses quietly into your neck. He never wanted to leave the warmth of your pussy.

“That’s it, baby,” Bo coaxes you. He moves a finger to your clit, enjoying the way you jolt at the newfound sensation as he rubs circles on the bead. “Cum around my cock.”

“Cumming!” Your voice is squeaky as your legs come up to wrap around his backside, and you finally reach your peak. Your pussy tightens around Bo even more, and he can’t help it when he cums for a second time as you squeeze every last drop out of him.

You pant heavily as you come down from your orgasm, sweat rolling down your temples despite the cold air of the station that surrounds the two of you.

Bo’s own breathing is heavy, something he’s not used to much. You squirm out from beneath him as you drop from the counter, legs still shaking from the aftermath of your orgasm. You bend down to gather your scraps of clothing, and Bo has to take all of his strength to conceal his groan as he watches his cum slowly leak out of your pussy.

“Leaving so soon?” Bo didn’t know what compelled him to say that. You were just some cute college kid passing through that was a chance to get his dick wet. Yet there was something about you that drew him to you, like a moth to a flame.

You shimmy back into your clothing, and he notices how you ignore the trail of his cum that runs down your thigh. “My friends’ll be mad at me if I take too long getting back.” You pause in your movements. “I can take the gas now, right?”

Bo’s heart drops in his stomach. He realizes quickly that no, he wasn’t going to let you take the gas. In fact, he wasn’t going to let you leave at all. He wanted you—needed you—here with him. He couldn’t let a pretty little thing like you just pass by him like that.

He glances outside quickly. The sky's already turned to a pitch black hue, and he knows there’s no streetlights on your way back to where your friends wait for you. He turns back to you as you stand awaiting his answer.

“It’s pretty dark out there, little lady.” You peek over his shoulder, and your eyes widen as you realize just how late it had gotten. “It ain’t safe for you ta’ be out walkin’ all alone. Why don’t you stay over at my place for the night?”

“B-but what about my friends?” A pout overtakes your face and you look up at Bo with puzzled eyes.

Bo smirks, holding you close to his chest and running a hand over your hair. “Don’t need ta’ worry about them, sweetheart. My brother’ll come an’ fetch ‘em.”