Bluecollar!Ghost Comes Home To His Pretty Little Bird After Months Away On The Oil Rig

oh my god…

Title: Wendigo Disorder.

Pairing: Yandere!Sukuna x Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 5.0k.

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Cannibalism, No Curse AU, Chef Sukuna AU, Oral Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Kidnapping, Gore, Physical + Psychological Abuse, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, and Prolonged Captivity. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

Sukuna kept the basement door locked.

That was the only part of his rustic, oversized house that was off-limits to you. For the first few weeks, he’d kept you either collared and leashed to the headboard of his bed if he was home and locked in a roughly human-sized dog kennel when he wasn’t, but now, you were allowed to wander freely, even if he still kept deadbolts on the windows and doors. Occasionally, he’d lock you out of the kitchen while he was working on a new recipe or tell you to stay in your bedroom while he talked to his every-mysterious “business partners”, but for a kidnapper, Sukuna was surprisingly trusting. The basement door was the only thing that was always locked – and you should know. You checked the knob at least twice a day.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of you escaping, or hurting yourself, or god forbid, hurting him. Even in the early days, before you’d proved you weren’t going to run away, he seemed to be more concerned that you might be a nuisance than that you might be any kind of threat. The only thing you really knew was that the basement was where he kept his meat locker, and while you were curious, you were sure that wasn’t what he was keeping you away from. Sukuna had you sample everything he made. If he was going to start withholding food, then he would’ve had to—

“Oi, brat.” You felt his elbow jab into your side, drawing you out of your thoughts. “Quit daydreaming and try this.”

You glanced towards him, pouting as you straightened your back and repositioned yourself on the kitchen counter. You would’ve been more comfortable to sit on the floor, or better yet, at the table in the next room, but he liked to have you as close as possible whenever he was cooking. Not that you’d have it any other way. “You’re always so mean to me,” you sighed, in a pitchy mock whine. “One day, I’m not going to want to spend time with you at all.”

“As if. You can’t get enough of me.” He rolled his eyes, turning back to the stove top. Currently, he was working on something for his restaurant – a variation on karaage, a spread of vegetables and meat (pork, maybe, but you weren’t entirely sure) sitting on a cutting board off to the side, a greased skillet waiting next to it. His attention was on the broth simmering in the pot in front of him, though, which his ingredients would strew in before being fried. He’d been toying with it for the better part of an hour, and you’d sat diligently within arm’s reach, only slightly motivated by the fact that he’d threatened to break both your ankles if you tried to move.

Your sample turned out to be a piece of broccoli – likely chosen to best compliment the flavor of the broth – and you accepted it eagerly, letting Sukuna bring his chopsticks to your lips and feed you by-hand. Of course, the flavor was heavenly, and of course, you took long seconds to savor it, letting your eyes fall shut as you chewed and swallowed. Sukuna watched you intently, his dark eyes never leaving your lips. It wasn’t a secret that his favorite part of you had always been your mouth. You didn’t mind – his cooking was the only thing you’d ever liked about him.

Praise would’ve been pointless. It was a given that anything he made would be the best thing you’d ever tasted, so you tried to focus on something more productive. “It’s… salty,” you surmised, pursing your lips. “Did you use your…?”

“Cum?” Sukuna finished. “Just a tablespoon. ‘m surprised you can even taste it.”

A month ago, you might’ve recoiled, refused to eat, but now, it was all you could do to pretend to be surprised.

You watched intently as he added another cup of water, another round of herbs all kept in mismatched, unlabeled jars. Your heart skipped a beat as he finally reached towards the cutting board, but he pulled away at the last minute, turning to you, instead.

“’kuna,” you whined as he slid into the space between your legs, planting a large hand on either side of you. “I was actually hoping to eat sometime tonight, y’know.”

“I know, I know.” And yet, he didn’t seem concerned, chuckling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the base of your throat. “You’ll get to, just sit pretty for a little while longer.”

“But—” He cut you off with another kiss, this one immediately followed by feeling of his pointed canines burrowing into tender skin. You flinched into yourself, and Sukuna groaned into your neck, drawing back just far enough to run the flat of his tongue over the twin puncture marks.  Your hands shot to his shoulders, but you resisted the urge to push him away. Even if you did, it was already too late; you could feel something stiff pressing against the inside of your thigh, hear him murmuring something low and affectionate into the dip of your shoulder. Resigned, you leaned back against the kitchen cabinets and shut your eyes.

At least, if he got this over with quickly enough, you might still get to eat.

~

Your first impression of Sukuna, unsurprisingly, was that he looked more like a body builder than a chef.

Calling him massive would’ve been an understatement. He stood a head above you, with biceps as thick as your head and a chest so defined, you could see the outline of his definition through the thin fabric of his black (presumably not Health and Safety compliant) tank top. He had piercings, too – twin studs underneath his bottom lip, lining the bridge of his nose – and tattoos, black lines forming intricate patterns across his jawline and bands around his wrist. You already had your back to the concrete wall, but you pressed yourself against it, regardless, eager to put as much space between you and him as possible. Sukuna remained where he was, perpetually unimpressed.

His introduction was brief, succinct. “You’re the little bitch Uraume sent out?”

“I… I think so?” You genuinely weren’t sure. The waitress had only told you that the owner wanted to talk to you outside, which you hadn’t been surprised by. It was your fourth time coming in that week, since his restaurant didn’t do takeout and the last person to order more than they could eat in one sitting was promptly and proudly taken outside and beaten half to death. You couldn’t risk that, not when more than half of your meals came from his shop.  “I’m sorry, I just—Are you the chef? I really like—”

“Shut the fuck up.” He took half a step toward you, and you glanced down the alleyway behind his restaurant. One end was cut off with a chain-link fence, and while the other side opened up onto a proper road, it was still more than fifty feet away. You never would’ve made it, not with someone like Sukuna chasing you. “Who sent you? The Gojo clan?”

Sent you? You had no idea what he was talking about – if you had someone to fund your addiction, you wouldn’t have to resign yourself the cheapest section of his overpriced menu. You opened your mouth, but must’ve taken longer to answer than you realized. You blinked, and suddenly, his hand was planted on the wall beside your head, his body only a hair’s width from yours. He had to tilt his head forward to look at you, which while not surprising, did little to comfort you. “Answer the fucking question.” And then, when you shrunk into yourself at his tone. “I swear to fucking Christ—Did he tell you what happens to the people who piss me off? Because you’re about to—”

“I can’t eat anything else!”

You were just as surprised as he was to hear your own voice. Still, you did your best to recover quickly, falling into a stiff bow as deep as the confined space would allow. With your eyes fixed on the pavement, you forced yourself to go on, to say something that would stop the owner of your favorite restaurant from murdering you in the alleyway behind that aforementioned restaurant. “I—I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time, but—but a classmate brought me here a few months ago, and—and I haven’t been able to eat anywhere else since. I can come in less often, if that’s what you’re bothered by, but please.” You forced yourself to inhale, to breathe. “Please, don’t ban me.”

At that, Sukuna broke. You didn’t dare to look at him, but you could hear the smirk in his voice, the airy laugh lacing his tone, as if he found something about your desperation funny. He did, obviously. You’d quickly realize that Sukuna found most things about you funny. “You think I’m going to… What was it? Ban you?”

You nodded furiously. “I—I know you kicked out that salaryman last week, and a couple students the week before. They were all regulars, but I haven’t seen any of them since.” It was a rushed explanation, only half-coherent, but you still tried to go on, bowing your head. “I—I can’t cook, and I can’t eat anywhere else, anymore. If you ban me, I really don’t have a lot of other options, so—”

“You can go back to your table.”

It was your turn to blink, this time, to startle. You didn’t straighten your back, not until you felt Sukuna’s hand on your shoulder, heard the grin in his voice sharpen. “Really?”

“Mhm. Don’t order, I’ll send something over. And you’re going to stay until closing.” And then, as you stared up at him with as much gratitude you’d ever felt, “We’re going to grab a couple drinks after I close up shop. Try to think of a few more compliments, before then.”

It wasn’t a question, but you nodded regardless. After scurrying back to your table before Sukuna could change his mind, a white-haired woman who you’d never seen working the front of house before brought you a meat dish so rare, you could’ve sworn it hadn’t been cooked at all.

It went without saying that you savored every bite.

~

“Needy ass brat.”

His bicep dug into your stomach where you were slung over his shoulder, your legs dangling uselessly was your hands clawed half-heartedly at his back. You weren’t really upset that he’d caught you – you knew it’d only be a matter of time the moment you slipped out of bed – but it was frustrating just how quickly he’d come to get you. You’d barely gotten to the kitchen, let alone the fridge.

Your mind drifted back to the basement door – to the meat locker. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you decided that you would try to pick the lock tomorrow, after he’d left for the day. Whatever punishment he’d dull out would be worth it, if you could actually get in.

Unceremoniously, you were dumped onto the floor of his bedroom, left to shamble to your knees as he collapsed onto the foot of the bed. You moved to stand, but Sukuna was quick to catch you by the hair and force you back down. “Disobedient, too,” he muttered, his voice still rough with exhaustion. “Tell me what you were trying to do before I decide you can’t be trusted with the ability to walk.”

You sulked, letting out a shallow sigh and resting your cheek against the inside of his knee. “I’m just hungry,” you explained, feigning thoughtlessness. It was more or less true. You were eating better than you ever had before, and yet, your stomach had never felt emptier. “I was gonna come back, after I got something.”

Sukuna chuckled, running his fingers through your hair. You melted into his thigh, eager to keep his mood light, sentimental. “I feed you three gourmet meals a day, baby. Don’t act like you’re starving.”

“But I am.” You sighed, stared up at him with your doe-like expression. “I’ve really been craving meat, lately, ‘specially that stuff you keep downstairs. Can you make it again tomorrow?”

“We’ll see. I don’t want you getting spoiled, and ‘sides, I’ve gotta save some of it for the shop.” You frowned, sinking deeper into his thigh, and Sukuna sighed, raking his nails over your scalp. “But, maybe, if I got some motivation from my little helper…”

He trailed off, and suddenly, it was your turn to play oblivious. “Well, yeah, I’d obviously help,” you chirped, mimicking his smile. “I’m not very good in the kitchen, though, so you can’t blame me if—”

“That’s not what I want from you, babydoll.”

You felt something tighten in your chest. It wasn’t painful, but the way his fingers tugged at your hair was.

He didn’t pull. You tried to be thankful for that, but it was hard to be thankful for anything when his free hand was already at the waistband of his sweats, freeing the semi-stiff cock formerly hidden beneath the grey fabric. You frowned, but didn’t pull away. “How are you already hard?” And then, as you settled onto your knees, “You woke up, like, two minutes ago.”

“Always gotta have something nice n’ warm ready for my baby.” Rather than let your whining deter him, he focused on drawing you into his lap, encouraging you to lean into him, to brace yourself on his muscular thighs. Controlling as always, Sukuna guided you gently towards his cock. You half-expected him to force you down at the last minute, to laugh as he suffocated you on his length, but of course, he didn’t. He wasn’t that kind.

He wouldn’t let you play such a passive role in your own dehumanization.

You moved as quickly as you could without making your unwillingness entirely transparent, taking the head of his cock past your lips and running the flat of your tongue over his slit (already leaking, as if this couldn’t get any worse). You couldn’t pretend to be some pure-of-heart, dewy eyed virgin, not when most of your mornings were started with Sukuna thrusting three fingers lazily into your cunt and most of your nights ended with his face buried between your thighs, but you never seemed to be able to completely brace yourself for just how wide you had to open your mouth to take him, just how mindful you had to be to not let your teeth scrape against his shaft as you struggled to get past his tip. Like everything else about Sukuna, his cock was too fucking big. Not that he seemed to care.

If anything, Sukuna seemed to like the way you gagged around him. As you wrapped a hand around his base, pumping over the parts of his shaft you couldn’t swallow and trying to ignore the fact that your fingers didn’t touch, you heard him groan, felt his grip tighten on your hair, and knew he was staring at you, drinking in the sight of you choking on his cock with as little shame as you had dignity. “Good girl,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Are you gonna start moving, or does the spoiled princess need a little help?”

‘Help’ meant him holding your head in-place while he fucked your skull. Resisting the urge to shake your head, you bobbed shallowly, the veined underside of his cock gliding over your tongue as a knot of ache formed in either corner of your jaw, the strain already too painful to ignore. You could taste his arousal in the back of your throat, feel him throbbing against the hollows of your cheeks, but you forced yourself to dip your head lower, to take him deeper, to at least attempt to match the stuttering pace of your hand with that of your mouth. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him distracted. His hand drifted from the back of your head to the nape of your neck, his thumb pushing rough patterns into your skin. “Still can’t believe I get to keep such a sweet thing all to myself.” It was almost cruel, how composed he sounded while saliva dripped from the corner of your mouth. “It would’ve been a shame if I’d fucked up and done something really mean, that first day. I don’t think I would’ve gone through with it, though. As soon as I got a good look, all I wanted was to see what that pretty mouth looked like wrapped around my cock.”

His breath hitched, his hips bucked, and you audibly gagged as the blunt head of his cock slammed into the back of your throat. You jerked away on reflex, but Sukuna didn’t let you go far. His hand wrapped around your neck as he rolled his hips, forcing another inch of his cock down your throat, then another, until it was all you could do to blink away the tears quickly forming in your eyes. Your hand fell away from his shaft to scramble and claw at his thighs, but if Sukuna mourned the loss of contact, you couldn’t tell. The only thing you could make out was his cock pulsing against the convulsing walls of your throat and his voice, as distant as it was deafening. “Fuck,” he sighed, then again, “Fuck. Desperate little bitch. My desperate little bitch. Can’t go three fucking seconds without needing me to take care of you, isn’t that right?”

Your only response was a desperate, keening whine – mostly muffled by the twitching object lodged in your airway. Rather than a plea for mercy, Sukuna seemed to take it as confirmation, taking you by the back of your head and forcing you that much further, that much closer. “Fucking—Take it.”

He didn’t give you a chance to spit, let alone pull away. Your nose brushed against the defined muscle of his abdomen as you felt something bitter and searing flood down your throat. Calling it swallowing would’ve been too generous.

That night, you vomited twice before letting Sukuna carry you to bed. Despite everything, you would dream only of the taste of fresh blood and burnt meat.

~

Despite everything, you only saw the kitchen of Sukuna’s restaurant once. He expected you at your usual table almost every day, invited you out for drinks at one of his classy, dimly lit lounges (a severe juxtaposition to his own hole-in-the-wall establishment) nearly as often as that, but he only let you see his back of house once, late at night, hours after closing.

Coincidentally, that was also the night he took you away.

Admittedly, it was difficult to remember why you’d been called back to the kitchen. That section of your day was blurry, distant, fuzzy around the edges from the moment you stepped into his shop to the second you woke up alone in a bed you didn’t recognize, the smell of sweat and cigarette smoke thick in the air.  Still, you could remember the feeling of chilled titanium pressing into your back, the heat of Sukuna’s body above you, what he’d looked like as you stared up at him from below. You remembered thinking, possibly for the first time, that you hated everything about him, from his inflated ego to his resonating voice to his awful, conniving smirk, and realizing that you’d never be able to leave him.

You also remembered the white-haired server being there – standing in the doorway, her expression one of pleasant indifference as she explained something grotesque and nonsensical to Sukuna, either oblivious to or uncaring of how deeply he was buried inside of you. You watched her lips move, but only a few words broke through the haze – disposal and witness, nothing that made any sense. You remembered noticing how pretty she was, and thinking that it was a shame she wasn’t the owner, rather than Sukuna.

You could remember asking for something, and Sukuna humming in response before something was shoved past your lips – heady and thick and raw. You tasted blood on your lips, felt yourself choke, and then, everything was dark.

~

“Oh, sweetheart.”

You should’ve known he’d gotten home. You’d been able to make out the sound of his footsteps through the floor above, been able to feel the light spill onto your back as the basement door and its useless, mangled knob were pushed open, but it wasn’t until you heard his voice that you could bring yourself to care. Even then, your hold on the raw chunk of half-frozen meat only tightened, nails digging into the ruddy, bleeding tissue. As much as you didn’t want to put a name to it, it would’ve been impossible to deny what it was – to ignore what you’d seen inside of the meat locker, to pretend you hadn’t recognized the disassembled bodies hanging on rusted-over hooks, to act like you could mistake the taste still heavy on your tongue for that of pig, or cow, or some other, inferior animal. It would’ve been useless, even if the temptation was still there. It would’ve been futile.

Almost as futile as trying to deny that it was the best fucking thing you’d ever choked down.

You heard the tell-tale creak of Sukuna starting to descend the staircase, and before you could stop yourself, dug your teeth into the brunt of the sinew, tearing off the largest mouthful you were capable of and swallowing it whole. You dipped your head for another bite, but it was too late – Sukuna was already behind you, his hand already wrapped around the collar of your shirt, your body already being jerked back and away from your hard-earned prize. You tried to dig your nails into the thick of the fat, to stuff the last of it past your lips, but with an airy chuckle and a quirk of his wrist, the cut was torn away and discarded just as thoughtlessly.

For the first time, you snapped towards Sukuna, your teeth bared and your eyes narrowed into something furious, something hostile. “Why would you—” And then, letting out a miserable sob and turning away from him, “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break anything, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and then—”

“I get it, baby. You aren’t in trouble.”

“And then I found something heavy enough to break the knob and I couldn’t stop thinking about—” You cut yourself off suddenly, letting out a sharp exhale. “…I’m not?”

“No, princess, you’re not.” If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve mistaken his tone for something gentle. His gaze fell to your chest, and for the first time, you noticed the blood dripping down your chin, staining the fabric of your top. “We should get you cleaned up, though. You’ll only feel shittier when it dries.”

You didn’t protest as he pulled you into his arms and carried you upstairs, out of the basement, away from the meat locker. You didn’t say anything as he set you on his bed, your back leaning against the headboard, and eased your top over your head, replacing it with one of his own, and produced a damp cloth from the nearest bathroom. Gingerly, he cleaned the gore off your face, never rushing through a stroke or applying more pressure than was absolutely necessary, stopping often to kiss your forehead or the bridge of your nose. You were sniffling by the time he finished, crying by the time he left the room, and sobbing when he came back – a bowl in hand with a pair of chopsticks laid across its rim.

Its contents were predictable: meat, pan-grilled in thin slices and, as far as you could tell, left unseasoned. “I’ll make some rice when you’re done,” Sukuna went on, as you struggled with the chopsticks. “To balance it out. You’ll need something to take the edge off.”

You nodded vacantly, accepting the bowl greedily despite your shaking hands. It was better raw – the flavor richer, the taste fresher – but you weren’t in a place to complain, not when it was so much easier when you didn’t have to gnaw and tear like some wild, starving animal. Not that you weren’t eating like one – keeping the rim of the bowl pressed into your chin, never letting more than a second lapse between one mouthful and the next. You only paused when you felt the mattress dip, noticed Sukuna positioning himself between your legs, and but he only smiled, only rested a hand on your knee. “Keep going,” he urged. “It’d be a waste to let it get cold, right?”

“I don’t like this.” Your voice was still unsteady, prone to cracking, but it was true. You didn’t want him to pretend to be nice. “I’ve never really liked you. I’d leave, if I could. There hasn’t been a moment since you kidnapped me that I haven’t spent fantasizing about getting out and fixing what you’ve done to me.”

“You’re just saying that to hurt my feelings, doll.” You were, but it wasn’t. Slowly, he lowered himself onto his chest, one hand spreading your thighs apart while the other toyed lazily with the hem of your shorts. You felt him lean against your thigh, pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the tender flesh. You’d gained weight during your time with him – not much, just a few pounds, a little plush to soften your harsher edges. You weren’t sure whether or not to care. “I’m just proud, that’s all. Don’t you want me to be proud of you?”

You didn’t want anything from him. Your appetite gone, you placed the bowl haphazardly on the bedside table, watching through clouded eyes as Sukuna removed your shorts entirely, taking agonizing seconds to guide them down your legs before letting them drop to the floor below. You expected your panties to follow, but Sukuna only settled into place, dragging the pad of his thumb over the length of your slit, pausing to draw slow, idle circles into your clit through the silken fabric. It went without saying that he picked out your clothes, even if he rarely had the patience to tell you exactly what to wear. You were allowed to choose your outfit day-to-day, but it didn’t matter. It couldn’t, not when your entire closet was suited to his tastes.

His hands curled around your thighs. You felt his tongue before you realized what he was doing – wet and warm and thick, his saliva soaking through the thin material and infecting you, spoiling you. You tried to ignore it, to remind yourself that you should be used to this, used to him, but this just… wasn’t what you were used to. Normally, you could expect him to be cruel, degrading, impulsive, but tonight, he seemed more than happy to bury his face between your thighs and play lover – albeit, a lover who still must’ve known he was unwanted. A lover who must’ve known you would’ve preferred a captor.

Your panties were dragged to the side, his tongue immediately finding your cunt. He took his time, laving over your entrance, coaxing reactions out of you despite your best attempts to dig your teeth into your tongue and hold back. He knew too much about you. He’d had too much time to learn. Heat pooled in your core, leaking out through your pussy, and Sukuna lapped it up like a fine wine – his thumb finding your clit as his tongue traced patterns into your cunt, and—

And oh, god, you were crying again, tears dripping down your cheeks despite your pitiful attempts to brush them away. Sukuna’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, and you felt him smile against the inside of your thigh, his tongue dipping shallowly into your cunt once, twice before he pulled away, straightening his back. His hand quickly replaced his mouth, two thick fingers thrusting into pussy with a humiliating sort of ease, spreading apart and curling against you and filling his bedroom with those embarrassing, wet, vile noises you’d never been able to stand. He didn’t seem to mind, holding your gaze as he spoke. “When did you put it together?”

“I—I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t play dumb.” And then, as his thumb traced harsh circles into your clit, “You knew what you were looking for. What gave it away? The texture? The smell?”

Your mouth opened, but you didn’t answer, a fractured moan falling from your lips in the place of anything more intelligent. Sukuna hummed, adding a third digit, and you spilled open in an instant. “Your restaurant,” you managed, the words rushed and sloppy. “No matter what I ordered, the meat would always taste the same. At first, I—I thought you were just being cheap, but then I noticed how often your regulars would just suddenly stop coming in, and—”

You were cut off by your own miserable, keening whine; his calloused fingers catching on something tender and vulnerable inside of you and taking advantage of it. “And you kept coming in,” he finished, hushing your whimpering. “Loyal little brat. Uraume wanted to get rid of you, but I knew I was right to take you in.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You were too busy moving your hips against his hand, seeking out the pleasure that your body craved and your mind rejected. Sukuna took pity on you, cooing as he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into his lap, supporting you as the movements of his hand turned short, erratic, as he edged you closer and closer and closer to your climax. You came undone with a sob, burying your face in his chest, and Sukuna was kind enough to nurse you through it, to hold you against him as your body crumpled and your poor, beaten soul seemed to give out entirely.

Eventually, he broke the silence. “I think,” he said, bowing his head and running his tongue over your cheek. “It’s time for you to learn to cook.”

You couldn’t think, but you didn’t have to. There was only one thing you ever would’ve said.

“I’d like that.”

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.

words to use when writing

Appetite:

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

Arouse:

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

Assault:

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

Beautiful: 

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

Brutal:

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

Burly:

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

Carnal:

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

Dangerous:

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

Dark:

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

Delicious:

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

Ecstasy:

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

Ecstatic:

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

Erotic:

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

Gasp:

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

Heated:

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

Hunger:

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

Hungry:

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

Intense:

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

Liquid:

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

Lithe:

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

Moan:

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

Moving:

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

Need:

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

Pain: 

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

Painful:

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

Perverted: 

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

Pleasurable:

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

Pleasure:

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

Rapacious:

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

Rapture:

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

Rigid:

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

Sudden:

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

Thrust:

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

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

Thunder-struck:

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

Torment:

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

Touch:

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

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

Wet:

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

Wicked:

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

Writhe: 

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

scrap metal muzzle part i

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"sit."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"too right, you aren't."

omfg

Neighbor!Simon who can't help but roll his eyes the moment he hears the annoying peppy music play at exactly 9:30 every morning through the paper thin walls.

Though he's already been up for hours he missed being able to enjoy his coffee and newspaper quietly.

Simon hearing the bumping and thudding as you get ready for your day and slamming the door on your way out.

Hearing you every time talk on the phone, laughing loudly and talking a million miles a minute.

You getting excited after the multiple failures to strike up a conversation, he finally tells you his name.

Knowing when you came back home by the smell of your dinner wafting through the air vents. He can't deny it made his stomach ache as he munched on his leftover takeout.

His silent appreciation of how you become silent at a decent hour, seemingly out of respect for the quiet hours of the building.

Holding his breath whenever he opening the doors and whispering a prayer hoping not to run into you again and get held hostage in a thirty minute conversation.

How he has begun to memorize your schedule from the types of sounds resonating from your unit so he could dodge you in the halls.

He had to stop using the apartment gym after learning your enjoyment of the treadmill to blow off steam after a long day

As well as your habit of forgetting your headphones causing you to chatter about nonsense the whole time.

Resorting to running a few blocks around the neighborhood instead.

One day jogging his route and catching you in the corner of his eye, hanging on the arm of some guy, around the corner of the building

The irritation rising in him as he considered the noises he would be hearing tonight.

Coming home and taking a shower. When he shuts off the water he hears more noises from across the wall. He can hear you... crying?

He remains still as he hears you sob in your own bathroom, mumbling incoherently to yourself, followed by a few sniffles then starting the shower.

Him, unable to control the pang of sympathy that tightens his chest.

Starting to feel bad about the constant avoidance he decides to let himself be caught up in your conversation in the hallway.

Going to the gym but only on rainy days, and letting you yap on about your friends and how work was going.

Feeling excited when he recognizes a song through the shared wall. Maybe it wasn't that annoying.

One night hearing more strange noises while he sits reading a book in bed.

He hears a quiet whimpering making him feel bad again as it gradually grows louder.

Realizing the whimpering is not from tears when he can make a distinct word clearly slip through the layers of drywall and paint. separating your bed from his.

"S-simon.."

━━━━⊱♡⊰━━━━

A/N: Consider this a 2.5 part to my neighbor!Simon series so far. If this is sloppy I apologize, I am two glasses of wine deep on an empty stomach. I needed to put out something. Simon has been haunting me. Also, I'm sorry part two is taking so long. My mother-in-law has been in town and it's hard to get writing done when there is an extra guest in the house. If you want to be added to a taglist lmk! I believe I am 3/4 done with part two now. <3

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.

IMPORTANT UPDATE!!!

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

Ghost and soap need to realise reader has two holes!!!!!!!!!!! They can have her and each other 😭

LMFAO?? ok but ghost doesn't like reader that way (yet) so. yk

(johnny and reader are not even in love together too. they fuck not out of love but for a secret third thing which is because they're both in love with simon. sure, affections for each other arise but they're so stubborn that they won't even entertain their feelings until everything's splintering and has turned into a mess, and john is telling them three to get their shit together)

...what i would honestly see is ghost and reader sharing johnny.

ghost seeks you out first, hands balled into fists and shoulders tensed but there's something he loves more than feeding his greed and that was giving johnny whatever he asks for. and somehow, for whatever reason simon can't honest to god fathom, johnny wants you.

so he comes to you with a question, blind to the way you're staring up at him with a mixture of horror and pain.

"i really don't give a shite, honestly, and i know you don't care about me too." he pauses, breathing in deeply. "but you and i, we both adore him. so, what do you say?"

you say yes.

it's foolish, you know, but this is all that ghost allows you to be with him. this is how close you could ever get to him. and it hurts and it's pathetic but in that moment, submerged in your heartbreak, you couldn't even protect yourself and agreed to his proposition.

(the first night together with them was of peaking desperation; it was all gasped-out words and rumbled moans. johnny pressed you on the bed, ass up, and took you like that. ghost claimed his mouth; thick cock sliding down johnny's throat while ghost whispered out praises and confessions, calling him his good boy and his perfect love. telling him how beautiful he is as he choked on ghost's cock and how good he is at fucking you.

you felt forgotten. used.

johnny chased your tears away later with a kiss but ghost's silence almost kills you. it is as you bask in johnny's warmth that you realize how ghost has not once touched you.)

Imo I think we need more poly 141 fics or threesome fics where reader and one of the lads are the subs. Like I’m obsessed with your dom ghost and sun reader and soap!!! I wish there were more fics like that our there!

YEA YEA ABSOLUTELY!! i love love that dynamic; the ghoap x reader one has a special place in my heart because it’s so ‘master and his pet and his pet’s toy’ trope yk??? but yea dude poly!141 (x reader) is just so beautiful, but when theres clear power dynamics going on?? oh yeaa <3

also uh if its any consolation, i have a bunch of lil blurbs of this dynamic :3

his command, 02 (dom price x sub reader x switch ghost)

mommy (sub soap x dom reader; sub gaz x dom reader)

sir n his dolls, 02 (dom price x sub reader x sub gaz)

frenzied addiction (dom ghost x sub reader x sub soap)

little lamb and lying dog (dom price x sub reader x sub ghost)

orgasm denial, 02 (dom price x switch reader x sub ghost)

marionette (dom ghost x sub reader x switch gaz)

….yea! teehee >3<