Big Man, Big Mouth
Big man, Big mouth
Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!reader (because demeaning girl usage) WC: 4.9k it's just gross smut and simon gets kinda mean sometimes nothing crazy :) ty to the brain to my pinky @xoxunhinged and precious beta @waves-against-a-cliff catching my errs
The smile you’d had on your face all morning is subsequently wiped once you’re told that you won’t, in fact, be spearheading a team meeting with air conditioning and a cup full of your favorite medium roast, but instead, you’re being sent somewhere where practical experience trumps theoretical, textbook knowledge. And alone, at that.
Guess your travel mug is about to make its big debut.
The construction site is alive with purpose— the buzzing of drills, raucous banter, and the low hum of music from a stereo. You run a hand down the back of your skirt that is more tourniquet than office attire you were forced into wearing, regretting not drawing the line at the heels pinching your toes. "Professional setting, professional appearance," your boss had said. Nothing here demands you to stand in ironed clothes with dust settling on your eyelashes and the taste of grit on your tongue.
You feel out of place, a white-collar worker surrounded by hard hats and steel-toe boots. Perhaps taking this job for a promotion was hasty on your part. But it’s too late now and the sun above you is wilting the starched collar of your blouse.
Best get this over and done with. (The bottle of barefoot wine at home will be your reward for your suffering.)
Walking to the home still in a semi-skeletal phase had been a bit uncomfortable, anxiety gnawing at your nerves and the polished shoes at the skin of your heel. But what made your shoulders tense and spine stiffen was the crew. You'd expected disgruntled workers, sure. A bit of grumbling here and there. No one likes to have someone with more authority and less experience trample all over your work, telling you what's what.
Not them eyeing you like you're a fish in a shark tank. A little minnow pulled out of her natural habitat and into the mix with dominant predators. The paper on your clipboard crinkles audibly as one of them— the leader, you gather— stops you before you can get any closer than he feels necessary. He plods over, hard hat tucked into his arm, wiping his sweaty brow with his sunbaked forearm, a few wood curls nestled into his beard.
"Ya lost?" he grunts.
There's a guy with a comb for hair and limpid blue eyes staring right at you from the back as he leans on a half-built wall with a smarmy grin on his thin lips.
"No! No, I, um—" you stammer, "I'm here as a temporary replacement for, um—"
He cuts you off with a dismissive wave, fingers thick as steel beams. "Right. Yeah, yeah." Bloody rude. "The inspector." His head tilts and spits on the cement, eyes giving you a once over, lingering on the bare skin of your calves. "John," he says then jerks his head behind him, to the shady inside of the home. "Let's get ya out this sun 'fore you melt like sugar on the driveway."
You keep your lips pressed in a line, swallowing down the retort sitting on your tongue with a hint of frustration, and follow him on swift feet. It is unforgivingly hot and at least there's a roof overhead. Most of the walls were still just wooden beams, the foundation concrete covered in dust. Rough-bristle brooms lean in corners, the stereo now sitting silently in the center of what’s to be the living room next to a man with a massive frame and a sweat-soaked wifebeater who didn't bother turning around as you made a beeline for the only fan feebly cutting through the muggy heat inside.
John from behind you grabs your attention. "So? What's the issue this time? We jus' had tha' muppet pass through a week ago." You turn around, the breeze now somewhat cooling the back of your neck.
"Just need to personally check what's left—" you clear your throat, giving the clipboard a waggle, "on this. Nothing too grand." The blonde one with shorn hair hasn't looked up once from the blue cooler between his legs.
John scratches his head. "Right." There's a drag of heavy boots behind you. "Temporary, eh?" His eyes are like cerulean rivets, pinning you in place.
Gruff Scottish cuts in, tone dripping with amusement. "Will ye look a' tha'," he mutters, accent thick and deliberate, "bosses up top sent a bonnie wee lass to keep an eye on things. Make sure ye pay good attention, aye?" The brute comes to stand in front of you, flexing one arm, bicep like a knotted tree trunk. "Would hate ye missin' the show."
Show ‘em your teeth, little fish. That promotion is already in your hands, don't let it slip through your fingers.
"Listen, you—" you snap back, cheeks burning hot but then his eyebrows raise to his hairline, the corner of his lip curling in challenge.
"It's Soap, hen."
“...Right.”
What the hell kind of name is Soap?
A third voice— crisp English just like John's— cuts through the air from the second floor. "Wipe the slobber off ya chin 'nd leave 'er alone, Soap! You still hav'ta sweep up 'ere!" A man with bronze skin and a cap adorned with the Union Jack in the center pokes his head out from over the wooden railing. His smile looks stiff.
"Miss." His eyes flash to Soap. "Move it. You can get your cock—" wow, mouth like a sailor, that one, "wet while on company's time." His gaze falls on you for a moment longer before disappearing back into the upper level.
Soap grumbles what sounds like a "fuckin' 'ell Kyle" but heads for the stairs anyway, steps creaking under his weight. "Ah'll be 'round if ye need me," he says with a wink.
Unlikely.
John absently shakes his head and turns to the grizzled, mountain of a man still hunched over that cursed cooler of his. "Simon." He suddenly moves then, rising smoothly to his feet for someone his size. He's a wall of muscle, a very clear force of nature, and he's now staring at your—
your shoes?
"Alrigh'," he gruffly says, "We'll get outta your way. The faster you can look for, whatever it is you're lookin' for, the faster you can get out o' my beard." He places his hard hat back on and gives Simon a nod. "To work, break time's over."
Simon walks past you without so much as a glance, his thick arm brushing roughly against your shoulder with enough strength to make you take a step back but then he speaks. "Don't trip on nothin', girl. I'd hate f'r our pretty mascot t'get injured on the," he emphasizes the last word, tone heavy with mockery, "job."
Your tongue is pressed firmly behind your clenched teeth as you straighten your skirt. Get this shit over with.
--
Their attitudes toward you had left some to be desired, but they had done their job seamlessly. Not a crack in place nor a bolt out of it meaning that ticking off the rest of the boxes on your clipboard had been a cinch, making the promotion even easier. By the time you were ready to go home— the thought of leaving behind the tangy scent of sweat and iron adding a pep to your painful step— the sun had already dipped, casting long shadows over the construction site.
Until John's unwelcome chivalrous gesture: sending one of his to accompany you to your car. "t's late out," he says, leaving no room for lip. Fine, whatever. The faster you get out of here the better. Saliva pools in your mouth at the thought of having a chilled glass of wine with chinese takeout for dinner.
Except the one waiting for you in the garage with a lit smoke between his chapped lips is Simon. He flicks it to the ground, smothering out the embers with the heel of his boot. "Move. Ain't got all day."
The last strand of your patience snaps and your mouth twists into a snarl. "Then leave off! I don't need a fucking chaperone. Believe it or not, I do know how to look both ways before crossing the street."
You'd only taken three irate, swift-footed steps away from him, clipboard trembling in your grip when the back of your shoe dug into raw skin; a sharp, sudden agony flaring out in a hot, thick wave and you stumble. The world spins for a second, colors blurring together until—
The relief is immediate. The hot needles on your raw nerves dulled down to a throb, vision blurring from the brief bite of intense pain. You breathe in a deep lungful of air, tasting salt and sawdust while you flex your feet, hissing when the blistered skin stretches. At least the damage to your toes is minimal.
But not to your pride. Tripping over your own feet, because the driveway while unfinished is still flat, now means you're being hauled over his shoulder, which is broad enough to be surprisingly comfortable, in the opposite direction of where your car is with your heels in hand. The fabric of his tank feels stiff under your sweaty palms.
"Is this kind of behavior normal for you? Or am I just lucky?" your voice is tinged with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. His arm tightens uncomfortably around the back of your bare thighs even though the office skirt you managed to squeeze into is knee-length.
"Only when I spot clumsy-footed birds like you. Can't 'ave ya splat on the concrete like a crime scene outline." A slow creeping flame spreads from your neck to the apple of your cheeks when you notice the guys staring at you from a window upstairs, Soap giving you a toothy smile. Even Kyle seems amused. Mortifying. Someone strike you down now. Actually, no. Then who'd feed your cat once you’re gone?
"'nd John would chew me out f'r lettin' ya break these," his long fingers circle your ankle, "in 'alf." You try to muster a response, but the words sit behind your teeth, your chagrin having tangled your tongue into knots.
Then he stops and the creaking of hinges reaches your ears. "Wait." Your eyes land on a black cargo bed, caked with dried mud. "Are you just going to sit me in your car?" He sets you down in the back seat anyway, tossing your shoes inside.
"Truck. I can drop ya on the patch of grass if ya like." Simon leaves you there, going to the driver's side rummaging through the middle compartment. His work truck is exactly what you'd expect from a man like him. The seats are covered in a thin layer of dust, you imagine he gives no one a ride, a well-worn visibility vest strewn about, an extra pair of work boots stained with splatters of white paint—the size difference of your shoes compared to his has you swallowing a lump the size of your fist down.
Simon pulls out a mid-sized red box and places it on the floor mat then props your leg up on his. His grip is firm but gentle as he inspects your open wounds and then sucks on his teeth. "A bit stupid, wearin' ankle breakers when out on a job." He prods around the inflamed skin, the pain making you tense.
"Don't worry about me and mi—" you hiss when he digs his thumb into the arch of your foot, "mine. Maybe I wanted to look nice." Fuck those shoes.
"'m sure ya did, though the skirt's all ya need." The warmth of his breath spreads through your toes and up your calf, raising gooseflesh.
You can't hold back a snort. "And now you're going to tell me that you prefer women in skirts and dresses?"
Simon switches legs, careful to not aggravate the blisters further. "I prefer my women with no clothes. But both of those make it f'r easier access. Like yours. Can see your knickers from 'ere." That has your heart skipping a beat, eyes widening with disbelief. Instinctively, you sit upright, back straightening with a pop.
"They're red."
You chuff out a breath. He's lying. You'd put on the only available pair you had at the time since you'd forgotten to dry your laundry the night prior. A simple, cotton grey. "You—! Fucking hell, I almost kicked you in the teeth." Simon's looking at you now, eyes dark and intense.
"Wouldn't be the first time someone's tried," he says with a smirk, voice low. "White, then."
The first aid kit still lies on the floor mat. "Stop talking." Simon ignores you, instead grabbing your other leg and pulling you closer toward the edge of the seat. Toward him.
"Green," he rumbles, his hands cupping the bottom of your feet, thumb and pointer coming to gently tug on your toes before moving his way up. You feel like a young, dewy-eyed farm girl having her first tumble in the hay and he's only now stroking the protruding bone of your ankle. The motion is slow, deliberate, a tender caress that sends a shiver up your spine. Has it truly been that long since you've had your body shape imprinted into the mattress?
"How about," you swallow thickly, "you patch me up proper and I'll be on my way?" If anyone else had heard, they'd say you're trying to convince yourself that being here isn't what you really want. But the little garble in your voice gives you away.
Simon hums, a sound that vibrates in your chest, sinks into the marrow of your bones. "Little bird wants t’go home 'nd 'ave only a throw 'nd a cat t'warm 'er bed?" You feel a different kind of ache this time, pulsing sharp and deep in your core. "Eh? Y'wanna curl up on the couch with one o’ those sex books while playin’ with your pretty cunt?"
The idea of having to use the blue bullet sitting inside the nightstand drawer sounds unappealing. And it’s probably out of battery too. Damn.
You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and shake your head. He doesn’t accept that as your answer.
"Wha's tha'? You will speak when spoken to, pet. Do you," he emphasizes the last word as he begins to open your legs by the knees, "wanna go home with an empty pussy or let me fill it 'til you're leaking cum out ya ears?"
Can't say no to him serenading you like that. You clench around nothing, hesitance crumbling like sand. "B-but what about your job? Aren't you still working?"
Simon grabs you then, dinner plate-sized hands wrapping around the softer part of your waist. "'M on a break. I'd say I deserve it after all my 'ard work." He lifts you effortlessly, the hem of your skirt rolling as you widen your legs further.
He rolls his hips once, feeling the bulge in his jeans brush against your sex, feather-light, and you bite on the thickest part of your tongue to keep from moaning like a cat in heat. "And what about us being in the open?" you ask though the question is redundant. Besides the crew's work vehicles, there's not another car in sight. If anyone else had been working nearby, they've long since left.
He seems to share your sentiment. "If tha's all? 'm tryin' t'see if I got it righ'."
No, that'll just about do it. "Okay. Alright." God knows you need this. Even if it comes from a stranger you'll probably never see again. Simon doesn't wait any longer, pushing up the rest of your skirt to pool above your thighs.
He hisses long and low through his teeth. "Tight little thing, innit?" Yeah, well. You were going to tell him that while putting on your skirt that morning had been an absolute nightmare, it wasn't that small on you until the tips of his fingers glided along your clothed slit. Oh. He's not talking about that.
"I guess grey's my new favorite colour. Especially this—" he thumbs the darkened wet spot on the fabric, "shade." When he adds more pressure, you can't help but let a gasp out as you buck your hips in want of more. "Easy. 'aven't even started with you." Simon opens the front of your blouse with a single hand, coming undone easily. He goes for the clip of your bra that's serendipitously placed on the front.
"Gotta let the girls breathe," he says. Whatever his reasoning doesn't matter because all there is, is relief. No more underwire digging into your skin, no more suffocating restraint. You only wore the blasted thing because all of your sports bras would've been visible through the blouse.
Simon rolls a hardened bud with one hand while unbuttoning the front of his jeans with the other. "Eatin' this," he gives the mound of your pussy a mean tap, "gonna 'ave t'wait. I'll get ya off though, don't worry tha' little head o' yours."
You wonder if he says that to everybody he fucks in the back of his truck. "What? Why?"
His length sits hot and heavy over your cunt. And it's big enough to kill. Death by cock. That'll be on your epitaph. "'m a big geezer," he mutters, fingers toying with the side of your panties, "lyin' down so you can sit your cunt on my face isn't gonna work righ' now."
Definitely says that to everybody. "Doesn't matter. I'll take care o'ya 'nother way." Simon pulls the dampened gusset to the side and lowers his head to— "Pretty like I thought it was." A fat glob of spit lands on the puffy lips of your pussy and he smears it around with his cock, tip sliding right along your clit. He uses his thumb to press himself down harder, more friction, more sensation, each slow roll of his hips pricking neglected nerves awake, alive, and it feels good. Surprisingly good.
The way the scar on his lip whitens as he bites it tells you it's just as good for him too. "Thought about it much, did you?" He goes lower this time, ruddy tip catching on your entrance momentarily before returning up.
"Since you walked inside a place you 'ave no business bein' in. Birds like you shouldn't be minglin' in the trenches with us grunts." The tips of your ears are hot as he stares down at you. "Should be sittin' nice 'nd pretty in a cubicle with air conditionin' 'nd an oversized mug o' watered-down coffee."
Simon cups the swell of your arse, canting your hips to glide himself better. Every bump and ridge on the underside of his cock is rubbing slowly on you and the thought of licking a slick stripe on the vein only tightens the white-hot coil below your navel.
"Or better yet, sittin' at home doin' wha'ever else while waitin' f'r a man like me to come back from work with a ribeye 'nd redskin potatoes in the oven." He lets your panties fall back into place; the sodden front almost transparent as he rubs against your swollen clit at the same time. God, he's fucking. your. panties! And you're bloody letting him.
What a way to break this year-long dry spell.
He bends your legs so that your feet are now being held flat on the thick of his chest with his hands as he picks up the pace. The suspension springs on the truck begin to groan. "I like mine medium rare."
Your back's come off the seat, spine bowed. You're close, so fucking close, you've got slick coating the inside of your thighs, dripping down to your arse, probably staining his polyester material underneath. This is torture and your pussy feels tender, raw, yet he's barely touching the focal point of your desire. If he doesn't make you come in the next minute, you're breaking that thick neck of his.
It's like he read your mind because he uses his cock to tap on your clit firmly, hard enough to hear a wet thwack and he does it once, thrice and—
And then your body gives, an intense climax that steals the breath in your very lungs, has you your blunt nails biting into the muscle of his forearms, his groan drowned out by the shrill ringing in your ears. Your face feels hot, probably is hot to the touch and there's a sting on the middle of your bottom lip and can taste iron on your tongue. Even the tips of your fingers tingle.
Through your half-lidded gaze, you see Simon holding onto the top of the truck while his breath comes in ragged gasps. Did he come? You curiously touch the expanse of your stomach. Not sticky.
"No. I didn't come. You," he takes in a deep, steadying breath then reaches to squeeze the sides of your face, cheeks plumping under the pressure. "You almost 'ad me, though. I don't remember the last time I 'ad to think tha' 'ard of London t'not finish. But I'm not done with you."
Simon hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and takes them off with urgency only to stuff them in his back pocket. "Better with no clothes on, remember." You can feel his twitching cock leak onto your heated skin.
"If ya need, use this." A black bundle of fabric lands on your chest, what is— It's a mask? If he means to hide your identity from his coworkers, you're not sure this skull mask is going to work. He drags you to him roughly until your arse is hanging off the seat. And then there's a hot, dull pressure pushing against your entrance that's followed by a searing sting, and it, it's so much, it's too m-
"Tight fucking-, Ya need t-, fuck, to relax," he grunts, fingers dimpling your thighs. Simon's thrusts are jerky, short, as he wrenches your walls apart. Even with your creamy cum and his spit it's still a struggle. "'Alf way there," and a rattled breath escapes you. You're being split right down the middle and there's still some left?
For the next few moments only your squeaks and mewls can be heard as he makes room for him, your hand flat on his lower stomach— feeling the coarse, thick patch of hair on it— as if you're trying to keep him away, out, something but then he snarls and snaps his hips. You've heard of a ring of fire some women experience at some point in their life and you think this is yours. The thin skin of your entrance burns, most likely stretched to its limit, like a rubber band about to snap.
"Easy," he drawls out, "The worst's over. Took me like you're made f'r me. G'mme ya 'and." He takes your clammy hand and has you touch where the two of you meet. His eyes are glued to your fingers that are split into a v, pads feeling your cunt soaked in viscous slick.
The groan he lets out at the sight makes the world around you spin. "Stay jus' like tha'." Sure, not like you’ve got anywhere to go. Not with his hands tight around you like metal cuffs. Simon holds nothing back, not even in the very first minute. Doesn't warm you up to it, don't let you try to get used to him turning you inside out. His thrusts are long, firm, hungry— bottoming out every single time until he sits snugly at the plug of your womb. Grinds up when he meets resistance, eyeing your features in case there's discomfort.
The only ache you've got is the one he's fucking into you. (And you also might be partly lying on his tape measurer.)
But then he hitches your legs up, hands around the back of your thighs as they're pushed toward your chest and that pulls a whine out of you that you're sure John and the crew heard. "There she is, bird's got a healthy set o' lungs on 'er." He keeps the same, unforgiving angle and doubles down, using the bulk of his weight to pin you in place, forced to do nothing but take and take and take.
Until Simon's strikes the side of your arse with an open palm. "D'ya hear 'em?" Wha? What? Hear who?
And then you hear it. Him. The handsome one with the hat from upstairs. "Ghost?" he sounds right across the street and Simon hasn't stopped rocking the truck as he fucks you right through it. "Wha's tha' Kyle?" His voice is steady even though there are beads of sweat rolling down the side of his temple.
"I said good job on all your 'ard work 'nd we'll see ya tomorrow. You 'ave a good night too, Miss." There's a crude whistle followed by a pained grunt and a quick mumbled apology. Maybe if you don't respond they'll just get in their car and go home.
But then John calls out to you too.
"Simon must’ve missed you, sweetheart. “Wow. He barks out a laugh. " 'ave yourself a good night, Miss.” Then, sternly says, “Tomorrow at 6, Simon.”
Simon, though, has no intention of letting you take the easy way out. He smacks your arse again, right in the same— already tender— spot from just moments before. "Answer 'em, pet. Or 'ave I fucked all the manners outta ya?" He accentuates the last three words with thrusts so sharp that if he hadn't been holding you in place, you would've been sent sprawling back.
Whatever words you're supposed to say are snagged in your throat like hooks, only whimpers and high-pitched gasps falling past your trembling lips. He drags his thumb over your bottom one, the calloused pad of it tough. "Go on. Be good 'nd tell 'em to 'ave a good night too. And no names. Only one comin’ outta you should be mine."
When you open your mouth, he weaves a hand down to your clit, jerking it in fast little circles that have you forgetting where you even are. "Mf- g-good," he gives you just a second of respite to spit on it. "Good night-," his fingers are almost torture, and god, you're going to come in front of all of them. You warble out the words hastily, feeling your impending orgasm come at you with the speed of a freight train.
"Tha's a good bird, singin' when I tell ya to." There's no stopping this, not with all of his focus on the little bundle of nerves and every drag of his cock making your spine arch as if he were winding it. "Squeeze my cock, tha's it."
Your legs shake violently, toes curled, and you can feel a cramp begin in your calf but none of it matters, not when you're seeing bright lights behind your scrunched eyelids, not when you feel fingers in your mouth to stifle the scream that's viciously wrenched from your throat nor when Simon growls out a "Fuckin' 'ell."
"I told ya, if ya needed somethin' t'bite on, use tha'," he jerks his head toward the mask that's tight in your fist. Your soul is still floating adrift in the wind and he's already trying to make conversation. And he did not say to bite on it.
"I'm not puttin' this unwashed thing in my mouth." You languidly watch him inspect his hand, looking at the deep purple teeth imprints on his fingers. Whoops.
"But you'll 'ave me after sweatin' under the bloody sun for 'ours." His hand slides behind your nape, lifting your head a bit as he lowers his chest to meet your sweat-slick one. Your hands come to claw at the shifting muscles of his back when he begins anew, this time his pace is relentless, sharp, predatory. He's a shark that has scented blood and is now on the hunt.
The prickling bristles of his facial hair scratch against your temple. "This," the hand around your neck tightens, your rapid pulse now roaring in your ears, "is the best pussy I've ever had." His thrusts are jarring, make your teeth clack together hard enough to hurt, and after a dozen of them, he comes with a cruel bite to the junction of your shoulder, snarl animalistic.
Hopefully, the guys drove off a while ago otherwise you're re-dressing and driving home with that mask Simon tossed your way.
Your blouse is unfortunately beyond saving. Your skirt isn’t faring any better if that massive tear in the front has anything to say about it and your shoulder will require at least half a bottle of concealer plus a couple of bandaids, which the first aid kit is completely empty of. Not even the first aid guide is inside.
You sluggishly begin to button up one of Simon's spare flannel shirts when he asks you if you're hungry.
"No." Not really. Hard to feel much when most of your nerves from the ribs down are shot.
"Get in the front, I'd like t'eat my dinner soon." He's staring right at the apex of your legs, your cunt still throbbing from the abuse."'m 'ungry." There’s no tow car sign on the street, actually, there’s not even a simple stop sign here.
It better not get towed. You’re not paying a dime if it does.
(Are your feet still hurting or can he fuck those too? No? Next time, then.)
More Posts from Bobiologist and Others
day 23 ; virginity loss
↠ bo sinclair x reader
fandom: house of wax word count: 2.8k warnings: nsfw 18+, bimbo!reader, reader has shitty friends, coercion, corruption, dubconish, fingering, blowjob, cum swallowing, dirty talk, kind of semi-public sex, unprotected sex, creampie, pervy!Bo, allusion to murder, the plot is like a bad porno but i promise this is good guys
kinktober m.list || read on ao3
“God, did you forget to fill the tank again?”
You lean over from the backseat to take a look at the fuel gauge, and see the arrow is nearing empty. You furrow your eyebrows. “I was sure it filled up all the way,” you murmur. You try to recall when you all last stopped at a gas station, and how your friends delegated you to fill up the car while they went into the shop and bought snacks.
“Well it obviously didn’t, you idiot!” Your friend jerks the wheel and pulls over on the side of the desolate road. “This is why we never like to go anywhere with you.”
You bite your lip, holding back tears. It wasn’t your fault that you were so forgetful sometimes, always getting distracted and lost in your thoughts.
This was supposed to be a fun road trip with your three closest friends, celebrating your college graduation nearing. But after a car karaoke session that went on for too long made you guys miss an exit, you’d been stranded on empty roads with nothing but trees surrounding you for quite a few miles now.
Your friend sitting in the backseat with you turns to face you, her arms crossed against her chest. “You should be the one to go find a gas station,” she protests. “It’s your fault we got stuck out here anyway.”
Your two friends in the front row look back at you and then at each other before nodding in agreement.
You crane your neck to look at the journey that would be ahead of you. It looked as though it continued to stretch for miles and miles with no end in sight, only the empty road and dying trees.
“By myself?” you ask hesitantly.
All three nod in unison.
You huff in defeat, unbuckling your seatbelt and stepping out of the vehicle.
“I’ll try to be back—”
They slam the door in your face before you can answer.
“—Soon,” you finish before sighing and starting the long walk, hoping to find some destination before it got too dark.
~
Bo was not expecting to see a pretty little thing like you around Ambrose when it was nearing dusk, especially all alone. You had your arms wrapped around your bare midsection, and even from his spot inside the gas station he could see that you were shivering from the cool air as the sun set. You were looking around frantically, and he could tell immediately that you were lost and looking for help.
He smirks. Oh, he’d help you, alright. Bo took that as his cue to reveal himself to you. He wipes his hands with a dirty rag and tosses it aside, exiting the station.
You hear the ringing of the bell as Bo opens the door, and you turn your head towards the source of the sound. You scurry on over, seeing Bo in his mechanic’s uniform.
“Sir! Hi!” you start, fumbling over your words. “You work here, right? Do you have some gas? My car—well, it’s my friend’s—but it’s, like, miles back there and we ran out.”
Your eyes then shift to the side and he could tell you were embarrassed. “It’s kind of my fault.”
Hmm. Sir. He liked hearing that come from your pouty lips.
Bo gives you a toothy grin. “Don’t gotta worry your head ‘bout it, sweetheart. I’ll get ya all settled. Come with me.” He slides his hand across your lower back, just barely grazing your ass. You gasp under your breath at the feeling, and Bo can’t help it when his cock stirs at the sound.
As you walk into the gas station, Bo scans you up and down. He notices that you have nothing on your person but your clothes, and even then it’s just little scraps of a skimpy top and skirt—which means you must’ve forgotten a wallet, too. His grin widens even more.
Reaching behind him without you noticing, he cranks the thermostat down. The air gets cooler within seconds, and Bo revels in seeing your nipples harden as they poke through your top.
He goes to find a can of gas, rolling up his sleeves as he plucks it from a top shelf. He notices when you gulp and stare at his muscles as he flexes them subtly.
You were such a cute little doll. He was going to have fun with you.
He plops the can on the counter. You go to reach for it, but he holds a hand out. “Ten bucks, little lady.”
Your eyes bulge almost comically and it takes all of Bo’s strength not to laugh at your expression.
“Wow, that’s a lot more than I thought it would be,” you say nervously, shifting on the balls of your feet.
Bo exaggerates a sigh. “Times are tough out here, owning a small business like this. We don’t get many customers out here.” He opens his hands to motion to you the desolate town of Ambrose.
You completely buy into his bullshit excuse, nodding your head in complete understanding. “Oh my god, that sucks, like, a lot.” Patting down your lame excuse for a shirt, you look up at Bo with wide eyes, jaw dropped in surprise. “I forgot to bring my wallet!”
You were such a dumb little thing. What were your sorry excuses of friends thinking, sending you off all alone?
“I’m so sorry, sir!” You clasp your hands in front of you in a pleading manner, looking up at him with big, watery eyes. Bo holds back a groan. Jesus, those eyes could make a man cream his pants if he wasn’t too careful. “Please, is there anything I can do to pay you back? I’ll do anything!”
Bo pretends as if he’s thinking long and hard. Oh, he knew exactly what you were going to do as payment.
“You know, I get lonely sometimes,” Bo starts, a mock frown on his face. “A cute lady like you could really help a man like me out.” He shuffles up to you, and palms your ass under that sorry excuse for a skirt.
“Oh!” You gasp, grabbing onto his arm. “That’s really sad, sir.” You look lost in thought for a moment before continuing. “I don’t know if I can do that for you though.” You bite your lip, looking unsure of yourself.
“Aw, you gotta be kidding,” Bo clicks his tongue, rubbing his hand around the plumpness of your behind. “I bet you’ve helped lotsa guys out, huh?”
“A-actually,” you look down in shame. “I’m a—” you lower your voice to barely over a whisper, “—virgin.”
Bo blinks. That wasn’t a response he was expecting from you. So the slutty clothes were just for show, was it?
“Oh really?”
You nod, blatant regret all over your face. “I don’t think it’ll be good for you, ya’know, since I haven’t really had any practice and all that.”
He puts a smile back on, laughing gleefully and patting you on the shoulder, rubbing a thumb between the groove of your collarbone. “Well, that’s no problem for me, sweetheart. I can teach ya!”
Your eyes lighten up. “You can?”
“Sure I can!” He starts to undo his belt, throwing it aside on the counter. “Just need you to get on your knees for me and I can show you what to do.”
His cock jumps in anticipation, looking forward to seeing your juicy, plump lips wrapped around—
“Wait a minute!” you cry out, interrupting his fantasies.
Bo pauses in his movements, his jaw ticking at your interruption. “Yes?” he askes, concealing his frustration.
“What’s your name? I don’t wanna do this without knowing it.”
He sighs and points to the nametag on his jacket. “I’m Bo.”
You slap a palm across your forehead and nervously giggle. “Oh jeez, I should’ve known to look first!”
“That’s okay, sweetheart,” Bo mutters through his teeth impatiently. “Now lemme help you out, alright?” “Oh! Yeah, sorry!” You—finally—drop to your knees in front of him. “What do I need to do?”
The sight of you in front of him like that, so eager and pliant, had his cock jumping in his pants.
Bo lowers his jeans and boxers, his hard cock now revealed to you. He wraps a hand around the base stroking his full length as it puts it on display for you.
“That’s…big,” you murmur. You look up at him, concern plastered across your features. “I dunno if it’s gonna fit.” Your eyebrows crease together and those damn pouty lips of yours come out again.
Bo bites his cheek to conceal his smirk. This was gonna be a lot more fun than he thought. “I told you, that’s what I’m helping you with, ain’t I?”
You nod.
“Great. Now open those pretty lips up for me.”
You open your mouth as wide as you can, giving Bo a perfect hole to stick his cock into. He guides himself inside you, hissing as the warmth of your mouth envelops his length.
“Good girl,” he praises. He begins to thrust his hips slowly, your lips latching onto him as he does so. “You gotta let me move, sweetheart.”
“Sorry,” you mumble around him, and he groans at the vibrations that travel up his cock.
Your lips loosen and you start to suck on his cock, the suction of your lips making shivers of pleasure run down his spine. He grips the back of your head, controlling the pace of his thrusts.
“Fuck, look at you,” Bo hisses. You look so pretty and innocent with his cock stuffed down your throat, gags escaping your lips. “You’re a natural. Sure you haven’t done this before?”
“I told you—!”
Bo slaps your cheek, shushing you. “Stop talking.”
You nod obediently, the action making him pulse inside of your mouth. His grip on your hair tightens as his thrusts become harder, more primal. He fucks your mouth with vigor, ignoring your gags and the way your nails dig into the skin of his thighs.
He cums faster than he’s ever had before, groaning as his hot release coats the back of your throat. You cough around his cock, spurts of liquid splashing against your cheeks.
“Swallow it,” Bo commands.
You gulp harshly, your lips still secured around his cock. The extra pressure has him bucking his hips and like a good girl you swallow all of his cum. He pulls his cock out of your mouth, and you begin to cough and sputter as you regain your breath.
“Is that it?” you question him.
“Baby, I still gotta get rid of that virginity of yours.”
“Oh.” You giggle behind your hand. “Right.” You start to strip, only taking a couple of seconds since you’re practically naked already. “What do I do now?”
Bo’s cock hardens back to life at your nude form in front of him. Your nipples are hard, attached to your perky breasts that bounce up and down right in front of his eyes. He stares lecherously, licking his lips. “Now that you got my cock all wet,” Bo rubs his length, now slick with his cum and your saliva, “I can stick it in your pussy.” You bite the inside of your cheek and nod, your eyes flicking between his face and his cock. “I know I asked before,” you begin, and Bo moves to place your hand over his cock, “but will it really fit?”
Lord, he was really starting to understand why your friends let you go alone.
“Yeah, I told you, I’ll make it fit.” He lifts you from the back of your legs and places you on top of the counter. He brings his thick fingers to your pussy, sticking a fingertip inside.
You gasp and arch your body into him, throwing your arms around his broad back. Your bare breasts brush up against his chest and he relishes in the contact.
“That feels really good, Bo!” you cry out. He adds a second finger inside of you, pushing the digits in deeper. He can feel how wet you are and the way you clench around him so desperately. Your hips jerk into him unsteadily, chasing the pleasure his fingers bring you.
He chuckles. “It’ll feel even better when I stick my cock in you.”
Bo removes his fingers, basking in the way you whine as he pulls them out, leaving you pulsing and desperate to be around him. He lines his throbbing cock with your entrance and pushes himself in without hesitation.
“Bo!” You scream, nails digging into his back. Little gasps leave your mouth as he begins to thrust in and out of you. Your pussy grips him like a vice, and it’s difficult for him to move inside you with you so needy for him.
He shushes you, gripping your cheeks and watching as tears leave your eyes.
“It hurts,” you whine to him. Your nails grip onto him as if your life depended on it.
He shoves his face into the crevice of your neck, placing kisses upon it. “Gotta relax a bit for me, okay?” he coos into your ear. “Or it won’t feel good for you.”
“You promise?” you ask through glassy eyes.
He nods, and feels as you unclench just a tad around him. Bo is able to rut himself into you harder now, and he can’t help but be more forceful with his thrusts as it causes your breasts to bounce right in front of him.
“Look at that.” He motions towards where the two of you are connected, his cock pulsing at the way your blood and juices coat the base. “Look at how we're connected now.”
Oh wow,” you gasp in awe. “That’s kinda romantic, huh?”
Bo doesn’t respond. If you wanted to put it that way, he wouldn’t stop you. He ignores the way his heart stutters in his chest.
His hips continue to pound into you, your body bouncing along with the power of his thrusts. The whines that come out of your mouth sound so angelic, and Bo has to fight the urge to kiss you.
“I—I think I’m gonna cum,” you moan out, your head thrown back and your eyes are scrunched up in pleasure.
Bo didn’t need you to tell him that. Your pussy goes back to clenching down on him, your walls tightening around his cock, fitting themselves to the shape of him. He curses quietly into your neck. He never wanted to leave the warmth of your pussy.
“That’s it, baby,” Bo coaxes you. He moves a finger to your clit, enjoying the way you jolt at the newfound sensation as he rubs circles on the bead. “Cum around my cock.”
“Cumming!” Your voice is squeaky as your legs come up to wrap around his backside, and you finally reach your peak. Your pussy tightens around Bo even more, and he can’t help it when he cums for a second time as you squeeze every last drop out of him.
You pant heavily as you come down from your orgasm, sweat rolling down your temples despite the cold air of the station that surrounds the two of you.
Bo’s own breathing is heavy, something he’s not used to much. You squirm out from beneath him as you drop from the counter, legs still shaking from the aftermath of your orgasm. You bend down to gather your scraps of clothing, and Bo has to take all of his strength to conceal his groan as he watches his cum slowly leak out of your pussy.
“Leaving so soon?” Bo didn’t know what compelled him to say that. You were just some cute college kid passing through that was a chance to get his dick wet. Yet there was something about you that drew him to you, like a moth to a flame.
You shimmy back into your clothing, and he notices how you ignore the trail of his cum that runs down your thigh. “My friends’ll be mad at me if I take too long getting back.” You pause in your movements. “I can take the gas now, right?”
Bo’s heart drops in his stomach. He realizes quickly that no, he wasn’t going to let you take the gas. In fact, he wasn’t going to let you leave at all. He wanted you—needed you—here with him. He couldn’t let a pretty little thing like you just pass by him like that.
He glances outside quickly. The sky's already turned to a pitch black hue, and he knows there’s no streetlights on your way back to where your friends wait for you. He turns back to you as you stand awaiting his answer.
“It’s pretty dark out there, little lady.” You peek over his shoulder, and your eyes widen as you realize just how late it had gotten. “It ain’t safe for you ta’ be out walkin’ all alone. Why don’t you stay over at my place for the night?”
“B-but what about my friends?” A pout overtakes your face and you look up at Bo with puzzled eyes.
Bo smirks, holding you close to his chest and running a hand over your hair. “Don’t need ta’ worry about them, sweetheart. My brother’ll come an’ fetch ‘em.”
On The Run Part 1
The Barn
mdni
cw: violent behavior, suggestive themes, i will get better at this i swear
It’s a downpour tonight. The roof overhead rattles with the force of the winds outside, keeping you awake. Your eyes drift towards the window periodically, watching the lightening illuminate the night sky, thunder rolling closer and closer as the wind hails. Your four loyal, massive Tibetan Mastiffs lay around your bed, dead to the storm raging outside. You’d normally have them out in the barn, but with how terrible it’s coming down you would have felt terrible.
But now you lie awake, worry in the pit of your stomach. Some of the goats had just given birth, and with this storm you knew the kids had to be distressed, and their bleats often agitated the horses.
You absentmindedly reach down to run a hand through Dixon’s fur, who lets out a pleased huff, nuzzling your palm. You try to let the beat of rain lure you to sleep, eyes finally feeling heavy as your breathing evens out.
But then you hear it, over the raging of the storm you can still hear your stallion, Sebastian, neighing, and then the pound of his hoofs against his stalls, and you're flying out of your bed.
Nothing spooks your stallion, absolutely nothing.
You race down the stairs in just your nightgown, rushing to pull on your boots, no socks, as Dixon, Grimes, Judy and Maggie come bounding after you. You throw open the door, the screen slamming against the house from the wind but you pay no mind, running towards the barn, barely catching yourself from slipping in the mud.
The closer you get, the louder you can hear all your herd. Your hearts pounding harder than the rain when you reach the barn doors, and you can hear the dogs barking behind you as you reach to yank open the double doors
Locked.
Your barn is never locked.
From the inside.
“Hello?!” You yell, slamming your palms against the wood, guilt wracking your body when you hear something scurry away on the other side.
“What are you doing in there?” You scream, shaking the handles with all your might, but they hold strong, and after a harsh yank, your hand slips, sending you flying into the mud.
You can hear what can only be described as chaos in the barn, and tears prick your eyes as you crawl forward, banging your fists against the doors.
“PLEASE! Please don’t hurt my animals! They’re already scared! Please- AH!” You scream as the door flies open, sending you face first into the barn floor.
You barely register the blood dripping from your hands as you scramble to stand up, taking in the scene.
The mares were going wild, bucking and kicking the doors of their stalls while Sebastian raged, having busted his door down, prancing infront of his ladies protectively.
Your goats were huddled in a group on the corner, the kids tucked between their bodies and the sheep standing in front of them, shaking so badly their wool was trembling. The rest of the stock is scattered, hiding in various corners of the barn.
You whistle, which immediately catches Sebastian’s attention, huffing and puffing.
“I’m here! It’s okay, ma is here!” You hush them, slowly walking towards the stallion with your hand out, palm up.
He neighs, tossing his head, leaning down to sniff your hand, when he stops, and suddenly a new sound reaches your ears.
Dixon and Grimes are growling out a warning.
Before you can even blink, there’s a hand over your mouth. Your gasp is muffled at the pressure of cold steel at your neck, an arm wrapping around your chest pulling you into a firm, solid figure.
“Not. A. Sound.” A gruff voice barks in your ear, and your blood runs cold.
“Lock the doors back.” The man orders, and a sinking feeling overcomes you when you hear a new set of footsteps. You stumble as you’re jerked back, Dixon barking as you start to thrash, kicking your feet, but the grip around you tightens.
“Fuckin- Knock it off!” He growls, pressing what you can only guess is your carving knife painfully against your throat and Grimes lets out a guttural sounding bark before lunging, only to yelp when a foot shoves him back, and you thrash harder, attempting to nip at this man’s hand.
“Stop you little fuckin-SHIT!” He bellows as your teeth sink into his palm, not releasing until you taste his blood splash over your teeth, and then you’re on the ground.
“Little bitch!”
“Don’t touch my fucking animals.” You spit, turning to stare up at the intruder, just to be met with a ski mask and cold eyes. You can’t help but freeze, the carving knife glinting in the low light of the barn.
He’s quick, and you try to stumble to your feet, but you're once more in his grasp. You go for a punch, but he catches your wrist easily, pinning your arm behind your back with one hand and yanking your forward with the other, pinning you against him, and the knife is at your throat again.
“Let’s try this again.” He says between clenched teeth, tightening his grip till you whimper.
“Ghost. Lighten up.” A voice pipes up, raspy and stern with a commanding tone. The masked man, Ghost, rolls his eyes, but loosens the hold he has on your wrist.
“Who else lives here?” He questions, and it feels as though a bucket of cold water has been dumped over you.
“No one…” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut when his grip tightens once more. “Don’t bullshit us. Who else lives on this land with you?!” He’s in your face, making you open your eyes, tears blurring your vision.
“It’s just me I swear!” You sob, feeling the tip of the knife digging into your skin. “I swear to god it’s just me, you can go check the house-“
The pressure of the knife is gone, and the shock of your bare knees hitting the barn floors barely phases you as Dixon and Grimes dart to your side, whining softly as they nudge your hands with their heads.
“Think she’s telling the truth?” A new voice speaks up, a thick Scottish accent ringing in your ears as you try to put distance between you and the four, you are finally able to count, men standing in the middle of your barn.
“Explains the massive mutts.” Ghost grunts, glancing at the four mastiffs, who you push behind you, shielding them, trying not to let your fear show more than it already has.
“They aren’t mutts.” You hiss, Judy nuzzling her giant head into your back as you shuffle them back, away from these men.
You hold your head high, but your lip can’t help but tremble when all their eyes turn to you.
“You sure there’s no one else in that great big house?” The older man with scruffy facial hair asks with a tilt of his head, and a spark of agitation flares in your chest. Why did they want to know so badly? if they were going to…
If they were going to kill you, surely they would have done it by now, right?
“I swear on my life.” You plead, voice cracking. You’re horrified when you realize your nightgown has been soaked through this whole time, noticing the way the one with the mohawk, the Scot, keeps eyeing your bosom. You look away, cheeks burning as fresh tears prick your eyes.
“Soap, Gaz. You two go check the house. Report back to me, I want a moment with her.” The unnamed man ordered.
Mohawk and a dark skinned man nodded, heading out of the barn. Ghost passes one of them the carving knife, and your fist curl in your lap.
“What do I do Price?” Ghost asks, and the man, Price, waves a hand, eyes trained on you. “Search the surrounding area, look for anyone hiding on the property.”
“Understood.”
And then you were alone. The barn has settled, most of your animals having made their way to the farthest wall behind you. He approaches you slowly, cautiously eyeing Dixon who raises up, baring his teeth, but you click your tongue, and he steps back immediately, sitting at your side like a statue as the others guard the flock.
You feel a puff of air breath against your head, and you can’t help the wet laugh that bubbles out when you realize Sebastian is standing guard over you.
“Seems you’ve got yourself quite the protection.”
He muses, eyes bouncing between the animals.
“They were abandoned when I found this place.” You confess, a slight tremble to your voice as you watch Price crouch in front of you. He’s quiet for a moment, eyes flickering over your form and you wrap your arms around your middle.
“If my men are walking into a trap, whoever is there will be killed.” He says simply, tone almost bored and you feel your face pale.
“They’re not! This is my land! Mine!” You insist, frustrated tears falling freely as you flex your fingers, muscles tense.
“Tiny little bird like you, all by herself?” Ghost scoffs as he returns, and you feel your ears burn.
“What did you find?” Price asks him over his shoulders.
“Can hardly see shit in this rain but I found no one. There’s a truck around back but the engine seems shot.” He shrugs, eyes peering at you through that ski mask and you avert your gaze.
The doors open against, the other two rushing in, soaked to the bone.
“The house is clear sir. Only one room looks lived in, two guest rooms down the hall on the upper level and a small library on the ground level. Gaz found a shotgun by the front door.” The Scot, Soap, you gather, reports back to Price.
“I told you. It’s just me out here.” You mutter, and this time Ghost is crouching in front of you, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him.
“You hiding from something little bird?” He asks, cocking his head to the side
“You’re the ones breaking into my barn and scaring my animals!” You snap, trying to get out of his grip, but he only holds tighter.
“You’re a little fighter aren’t you?” You see his eyes crinkle, and you're shocked this man even knows how to smile under that mask.
He releases you, standing up and stepping back to stand with the other three men, who still loom over you. You feel like a lamb being sent to the slaughter house, and you bury one of your hands in Dixon’s thick fur to ground yourself.
“Please-“ You start, voice shaking, and you feel a tear slip down your cheek.
“I don’t have much, there’s maybe three thousand dollars in the safe in my closet. I’ll give you the code just…” Your voice trails off, a sob slipping past your lips and Dixon whines, low and sad as he places his giant head in your lap.
“Please don’t hurt us. D-don’t hurt my animals- I won’t even call the cops, it would take the nearest deputy three hours to even reach my house.” You beg, exhaustion and nerves taking over as your shoulders slump, trembling with your quiet sobs.
You see Price’s boots approach you, and he tilts your chin up, and you flinch when he brushes a tear away with his thumb.
“Stop all these tears pretty. We don’t want to hurt you or your little farm.” He coos down at you. Confusion swirls in your head, making you dizzy as another sob can’t help but slip out, Price cupping your cheeks, shushing you softly as he wipes your cheeks.
“I don’t understand…” You whisper, searching this strange, terrifying man’s face for any sign of deceit, but he just grins at you.
“You told us the truth. Very good.” It sounds almost like praise the way he whispers it to you, and you whimper, shame filling your stomach. You look away from him, taking a shuddering breath as you struggle to compose yourself.
“Let’s get you back inside hm? Can’t have you catching a cold.” He tsks, and before you can argue, you’re being lifted into his arms, tucked against his chest. You try to struggle, but the adrenaline has worn off, confusion left in its wake as these strange men usher the herd into their correct pens, Soap barley escaping one of the Roosters pecking at him in defiance, before pausing.
“I don’t think I want to mess with this guy.” Gaz mutters, the three of them staring at Sebastian, who stares back, as though daring them to try and corral him.
“He.. He’ll go back in his stall once it’s quiet… You scared them…” You mutter, tired as you give in, resting your head against the strong chest you’re pressed against, and you feel Price’s grip tighten.
“You’re freezing sweetheart, let’s get you out of these wet clothes.” He murmers, and your heart skips.
“I can do that myself.” You hiss, staring up at him with narrowed eyes, despite the fact you can feel your cheeks burning.
He just laughs.
WIP wednesday featuring a surprise fic that won't be posted for a few months (:
inspired by this - 3.8k perverts!priceghost x f!reader (mostly unedited bc im lazy) (on ao3)
cw: dark fic, noncon touching, noncon fingering, dirty talk, praise, public sex (no getting caught, just the very brief threat of it)
You know it’s wrong to judge a book by its cover, but that doesn’t stop your heart from sinking when you realize who you’ll be sitting beside for your twelve hour flight.
At first you think you’re looking at the wrong row - there’s been an error, and the row you’re looking at only has two seats instead of three. The space between the man sitting in the window seat and the man sitting in the aisle seat is simply miniscule, there’s no way that’s where you’re meant to sit.
But it is. Your ticket still reads 8B after three checks just to be sure, and the number posted on the luggage compartment doesn’t change even after you rub your eyes. Jesus.
The man in the aisle seat has a thick brown beard and a paperback novel held close to his face, reading glasses resting on his nose. The book looks comically tiny in his hands, and he has to squint a bit even with the glasses to read. If he weren’t so big, you wouldn’t say he’s intimidating at all, but he’s so broad that his shoulders don’t fully rest on his seat, and the woman walking in front of you has to turn to avoid brushing him.
His neighbor isn’t any smaller, and he doesn’t have a book and glasses to make him look less intimidating. You can’t see any of his features because he’s wearing a ski-mask that covers every inch of skin except for his eye-sockets, and the high turtleneck covers the rest of his neck where the mask stops. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his shirt is so tight that the seams almost look like they’re ready to split where his biceps are the biggest. It’s absolutely ridiculous.
With one last look at your ticket number, you resign yourself to a full day of being squeezed between the absolute mountains that are your apparent seat partners. Maybe you’ll get lucky and the plane will be empty and a flight attendant will take mercy on you and guide one of them to an empty seat, but you know it’s wishful thinking.
“Excuse me,” you say quietly, inching around the leg angled out into the aisle. The man it belongs to gives you a smile and a nod, but he doesn’t move for you. “Sorry,” you mutter, awkwardly leaning one hand on the seat behind him so you can heft your bag into the overhead compartment and push it closed, the heel of your hand brushing his shoulder. You feel a draft over the accidentally-bared skin of your stomach and all the blood in your body rushes to your cheeks as you quickly tug your shirt back down, fingers fumbling.
“‘S no problem, honey,” he says, voice so low pitched it almost disappears in the sounds of the plane’s engine. The hairs on your arm stand up and you hesitate for a moment in the aisle, smiling nervously at the man in front of you in the hopes that he’ll maybe stand up, or shift a bit at all so you can step into the seat.
He doesn’t, only settles back a little further in his seat and folds his hands over his stomach, book abandoned in the little pocket on the back of the seat in front of him. You know it’s not a trick of the light when his eyes flicker down to your chest before back up, his lips quirked underneath his mustache.
Bastard. You’re dressed for a twelve hour flight, the baggy sweatshirt you’re wearing doesn’t do anything for your form, and he’s got the audacity to ogle you?
It’s impossible not to brush against his thighs when you step over him. His legs are spread enough to leave a not-so-small space between his knees, but you very intentionally take the risk of stretching all the way to the middle seat. You have to hold onto the headrest in front of you to avoid falling over his lap, but it’s worth it when you fall into your seat instead of one of their laps.
Even with your knees tucked close together, their legs press against you. You can feel their shoulders against you too, a solid pressure closing you in on both sides. Neither one of them shift to give you more room.
God. It’s going to be a long flight.
———————————————————————
The first hours of the flight is uneventful.
You try early on to subtly get yourself more room by pressing your knees against theirs, hoping they take the hint. The man on your right doesn’t shift, but the man on your left pushes back against you, leaving you with even less room than you had initially. You give up that method quickly.
You last about thirty minutes after take off with your shoulders hunched and your legs squeezed together before breaking and leaning forward just enough to look to your right, at the less-intimidating man, tapping his elbow where it rests next to you.
“Excuse me,” you start, having spent the last several minutes rehearsing your request in your head. “Would you mind–”
“Of course, how could I forget,” he interrupts you with a small chuckle, angling his big body towards yours. “John Price. Lovely to meet you,” he says, holding out a hand.
“Oh,” you say, tentatively shaking his hand and introducing yourself on instinct. “It’s good to meet you too. Would you mind, um, maybe giving me a bit more space?”
He smiles at you, looking down at where your knees are tucked together like he had no idea he was taking up half of your leg-space.
“Sorry, honey, I can’t take up much less space,” he says, huffing a laugh and dropping one big, heavy hand on your thigh. “Simon and I aren’t small men. Seems you’ll be the one paying the price today, hm?”
You force an awkward laugh, the hairs along your arms standing up on end at what has to be an intentional innuendo. John squeezes your thigh, his hand big enough that his fingers rest just a little too close to a part of you he should not be touching. When he doesn’t lift his hand immediately you shift a bit, angling your knees towards the other man - Simon, apparently - and he takes the hint, patting you twice and folding his hands back over his stomach.
He’s making absolutely no attempt to take up less space, and he’s not even trying to hide it.
You glance towards your left, and the thought of asking Simon if he can shift away from your personal space evaporates when you instantly lock eyes with him. He’s not subtle about staring at you, his entire head turned towards you and his chin tilted down so his eye-line couldn’t be more clear.
Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire as you turn to face the seat in front of you, sinking back into your chair and tucking your feet beneath the row in front of you.
The rows all around you are empty - a miracle you’d be more thankful for, if either of your row-partners were taking advantage of it and moving. Surely they’d be more comfortable if they moved? It seems absurd that they’d rather squeeze you between them than take an entire row to themselves, but that seems to be the case.
When the flight attendant stops by to offer you a drink and a small bag of pretzels, you ask about moving.
“Sorry,” she smiles apologetically, glancing at where you’re squeezed. “No moving seats once we’re in the air. You’ll have to make do, I’m afraid.” She moves along with her cart before you can ask if she’s absolutely sure.
“‘Fraid you’re stuck with us, sweetie,” John says, smiling down at you. His grin is somewhere between condescending and vaguely paternal, and you’re not sure you like the feeling it gives you in your stomach. “We’ll be good to you, promise.”
Again, all you can do is force a laugh and turn away, hoping he won’t keep pushing. His shoulder is warm against yours, softer than Simon’s, and you’re already more than ready for this flight to be over.
Unluckily for you, you’ve got another eleven hours with these men.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying not to make it obvious that you’re thinking about screaming.
———————————————————————
When you open your eyes what must be a few hours later, the plane is dark. The only light comes from a small reading light turned on several rows in front of you, and the soft glow of the lights down the aisle.
You hardly realized you’d fallen asleep, let alone that you were now waking up. The drowsiness clings to you, your eyes heavy and your body surprisingly warm considering you hadn’t had a blanket.
It takes you another few moments to realize someone’s touching you. Two someone’s, if you can count the number of hands on your body correctly.
“Wha’...” you mumble, shifting forward a bit and blinking until your vision clears.
“Hush, honey,” you hear from your right, a heavy hand stroking your thigh and another rubbing over your hair. “People are sleeping.”
You shift forward a bit, then gasp when you feel another hand slip over the front of your pants. There’s a jacket resting over you, that’s what’s keeping you so warm, and it also keeps you from seeing who’s hand is currently cupping your center.
“Wh-what’re you…” you whisper, shifting as far back as you can, panic quickly rising in your throat. “What’s going on?”
“It’s alright,” John coos, the hand on your hair coming down to rest on your breast, squeezing lightly. He chuckles when you gasp and jolt away, only pushing yourself further into Simon. “We’re just gonna have a little fun with you, ‘s all. Just gotta relax and be good for us.”
“Stop,” you whisper. It does nothing, Simon’s hand - and it must be his - slipping down the front of your sweatpants and bypassing your underwear. You whimper when his fingers split the lips of your cunt. “Stop it, stop, I’ll- I’ll scream.”
“So?” The man behind you rumbles, and the first sound of his voice sends shivers down your spine. Without warning, he sinks a finger into you, easily following your hips when you try to squirm away. “You think the stewardess gives a shit what we do to you?”
“‘Sides, I think you want to be good for us,” John says, lifting your right leg and laying it over his thigh. Simon slips a second finger inside of you and your eyes squeeze shut at the invasion. “Don’t you, honey? This’ll feel better for you if you behave.”
“Please,” you whisper, blinking tearily up at John and slapping at his arm. Simon’s free hand comes up to rest around your throat, and you can’t help but gasp at the feeling of his rough calluses on your hyper-sensitive skin. “Please, please don’t do this. I don’t know what you want, but-“
“You stupid, girl?” Simon huffs, grinding the heel of his palm cruelly into your clit. You throw your head back, teeth gritted against the sharp pleasure. “Don’t want anythin’ but this. Just sit still and be quiet.”
The noise you make sounds wounded, and you only become more distressed when you see the way John’s eyes are trained are yours, his desire palpable in the small space between you.
It’s harder than you’d admit to keep from moaning. Simon’s skilled with his fingers, the three of them - because he’s shoved another inside of you, ignoring your squirming - thick and crooking at just the right angle. His wrist is bent at a horribly awkward angle but it doesn’t seem to bother him as he pushes his palm up into your clit almost painfully hard.
Your foot flexes where it dangles between John’s thighs, your knee holding him tight despite your desire to crawl away from both of them.
He slips one of his hands down to yours, lacing your fingers together and holding on tight as you feel an orgasm slowly begin to heat in your blood.
“Feels good, hm?” John rumbles, stroking a thumb over the back of your knuckles. “I bet you’re makin’ Simon feel good, too. She tight for you?”
“Like a vice,” Simon grunts, ducking his head over yours and shoving his nose into your hairline, breathing deeply. He uses the hand not fucking you to shove his mask up, enough that you can feel the shape of his lips as he mouths over your ear, teeth sharp. “Gonna feel fuckin’ heavenly on our cocks.”
“Please don’t,” you gasp, heart racing.
“Settle,” John commands, his hand tightening on your thigh for just a moment. “Can’t fuck you here anyway. Gonna have to smuggle you back to the bathrooms for a quickie, aren’t we Simon?”
“No,” you say on a moan, your hips working against your will as your peak rises in you, your heart stuttering in your chest.
“Too cramped,” Simon grunts, wrapping his arm around your neck and holding you in a loose headlock as he focuses more intently on your g-spot, fingers pressing against just the right spot to make you feel like you’re losing your mind. “Gonna break m’ fuckin’ back bendin’ her over the sink.”
John chuckled. “You don’t wanna fuck her then?”
“Never said that,” Simon shoots back, the scowl audible in his voice.
You wrap one hand around Simon’s forearm as your orgasm creeps up on you, gasps punched from your chest as you writhe in his arms, nails digging into his sleeves. Your eyes are squeezed so tightly shut that the few tears resting in your waterline slide down your cheek.
“Pretty girl,” you hear John coo, a big and warm thumb brushing your tears away. Your eyes fly open as you pant, nearly cross-eyed with pleasure. His hand covers the entire side of your face, fingertips resting in your hair. “Oh, you’re right there aren’t you? ‘S alright, you can come. Go ahead, honey.”
Before you can ever register what’s happening, Simon’s hand flies over your mouth as you reach your peak. It rocks through your body, sending shocks from your toes up to where you can feel the nose pressed to your scalp. Your eyes roll back in your head as your entire body goes tense, Simon not giving you a moment of rest as he finger fucks you through your orgasm.
“There you go,” John rumbles. You feel the jacket resting over you shift and open your eyes just in time to see him look down at where Simon’s fingers are buried inside of you, his palm working leisurely at your clit. “Such a good girl. Put on a good show for us, hm? Bet you’ll do even better when you don’t have to stay quiet. Bet you make real pretty noises, don’t you?”
You can’t do anything but pant from behind the hand covering your mouth.
A moment later, Simon pulls his fingers from you. You can’t help but wince, at both the loss and the way he pats the meat of your cunt before pulling his hand away completely, wetness smearing on your stomach.
He holds his hand in front of your face, and the way your cum is literally dripping from his fingers only serves to work you back up, even so soon after your orgasm. Your hands shake where you’re clinging to the two men.
“Lemme have a taste,” John says, grabbing Simon’s wrist and tugging it closer to him, swallowing his pointer finger down to the knuckle easily. He closes his eyes, visibly savoring the taste of you. “Delicious,” he hums, licking his lips when he pulls back.
“You now,” Simon grunts, pulling away from John and taking his hand away from your mouth, shoving his middle finger and ring finger past your lips before you can even try to speak. “Get a good taste, bird.”
You gag when he pushes to the back of your throat, but he pulls back just enough to tease you with the threat of it after you gag.
You nearly bite him, teeth just beginning to put pressure on his knuckles when his free hand comes up to your jaw, shaking you roughly.
“No,” he scolds, squeezing the hinge of your jaw until you whine, high-pitched and breathy. “Bad girl. No biting.”
You nod as best you can, loosening the light hold you’d had on him. He only grunts in approval, releasing your jaw and pushing another few centimeters into your throat.
Reluctantly, and with your panic growing again, you lick his fingers clean. You feel boneless and limp, but neither of the men keeping you folded between them is any less tense than they were when you first opened your eyes. You keep your eyes carefully averted from John’s face, even though he’s nearly all you can see because of how close he’s leaning.
Simon pulls his fingers from your lips with a pop, and you take a few deep, gasping breaths, desperate for an ounce of calm so you can actually think again.
“My turn,” John says quietly, shifting your leg off of his and wrapping one hand around your waist, tugging your body into his. You go easily, his arm wrapping around your shoulder and keeping you tucked tight to his side. You can only stare up at him wide-eyed as he shifts the jacket covering you - and now that you look more closely you know it’s the one Simon was wearing earlier - over his own lap.
John grunts and your breath shudders when you recognize the sound of his belt unbuckling. You stare at the seat in front of you, forcing yourself not to look at what he’s hiding underneath the jacket covering him.
“Here,” John says, grabbing your hand with a light but unbreakable grip. You try to resist but it doesn’t do any good for you, he’s still able to guide your hand down to the cock laid against his stomach without a struggle.
You can’t help but whimper when he wraps your fingers around his length. You find yourself absurdly thankful that they don’t seem to want to fuck you - your fingers don’t even fully wrap around his shaft, the idea of taking him inside of you sounds like a nightmare.
“Soft hands,” John mumbles, almost to himself. “Go ahead and grab me, honey, you can squeeze a little.”
You don’t follow his instructions, but it doesn’t matter to him. He wraps his hand around yours, squeezing for you. Your shoulders hunch a little, head ducking, and when your gaze lowers you can’t help but look at the length of him in your grip.
He’s bigger than you’d thought, somehow. Long and thick, the tip of him ruddy and his balls swollen where they rest on his folded down boxers. The tip of him is damp, his pre-cum slicking your fist as he jacks himself off with your hand.
His head is tilted towards you, mouth open just enough to let him pant as he stares down at your face, your own lips damp.
“Feels good, pretty girl. Gonna make me come all over Simon’s jacket, aren’t you?”
“I’ll bill you,” Simon grunts on your other side, and when you turn to look at him you see he’s got his own cock pulled out, jerking it with such a tight grip that his knuckles have gone white. You can’t help but gasp at the sight, his own length pale and flushed red, fat and ugly. He runs his tounge over his teeth when you look back up at his face and you turn your head away quickly.
He grunts, and your row of seats shift as he fucks up into his own fist, almost treating it like a fleshlight with how rough he’s being. John, conversely, lets you keep your grip loose and almost limp as he fucks into the hole your fingers make. The arm holding you to him is like iron, holding you tight to him and not giving you an inch of space.
“Fuck,” John grunts, head dipping lower and huffing heavy breaths, your hair fluttering away from your face from the air. “Makin’ me feel so good, honey, you’re doing so well. Gonna come, give you a little treat.”
You can feel Simon still at your back, can hear his breaths become more ragged as he comes over his fist. Your fast glance shows you tattooed knuckles covered in his cum, his flushed cock limp and soft where it rests on his lap. His eyes are dark, gaze resting on your lips. You don’t even have time to take a breath before his fingers are shoved into your mouth again.
He moans now, scraping his knuckles over your teeth as he tugs his fingers slowly out. Your hand instinctively tightens around John’s length, squeezing it in stress.
“Fuck,” he hisses from next to you, arm tightening around you and wrapping around your front, forcing you to turn a bit. Simon ignores your shifting, holding his hand like a fist in front of your lips. You can’t help but flinch away from what feels like a threat, until you see the cum still splattered across his hand.
“Lick,” he commands, his voice so low and rumbly you almost can’t hear it over the plane. “C’mon, clean me up.”
Your fingers are nearly shaking around the cock still in your grip, and you feel John’s chest rising beneath yours, his breaths puffing over your head. He hooks his chin over your head, wrapping himself entirely around you. You can feel sweat dripping down your spine from the heat of him, your palm clammy and damp with pre-cum.
You stick your tongue out tentatively when Simon presses his hand against your face, your lips squishing against your teeth. You give his knuckles small kitten-licks, the salt of him strong on your tongue. He twists his hand a bit in front of your mouth, but doesn’t give you an inch of space until you’ve cleaned his hand completely.
You can tell when John comes from the way his body shudders against yours, his nose tucked right behind your ear and his hand squeezing yours tightly, giving up on slow, soft strokes in favor of squeezing the cum from his tip.
“Fuckin’ perfect, sweetie,” he says, voice nearly a growl as he pushes himself further into you. “Perfect girl, bein’ so good and behavin’ so well for us. Gonna have to get you somethin’ nice when we touch down, hm?”
You close your eyes and shiver against the idea of not touching down and running as far from these men as possible. You’d thought maybe you could lose them in the airport - where better to get lost in a crowd.
But John’s grip hasn’t relaxed around you at all, and looking up into Simon’s dark eyes, you get the dawning sense that these men aren’t going to be easy to shake.
Picture this: Doll is selectively mute, or otherwise she’s in so much shock from her situation that she literally just cannot speak (as an autistic person sometimes I get so overwhelmed that I go partially mute). The boys think she’s just being stubborn but she’s at least trying to sign, so they know she’s not necessarily doing it on purpose.
Queue competition between the boys where they fuck her nonstop and tell her they’ll only stop if she says one of their names, and place bets on who will break her first.
Main fic
Hm. reader's too nonverbal to do much narrating so I'm gonna carry on with John's POV.
cw: noncon. multiple (forced) orgasms. anal. dp, including two in one. ghost has a jacob's ladder cause i'm incapable of imagining him any differently sorry. overstimulation. unrealistic sex. Unedited again cause I'm dropping this and running tf away
It's Simon who notices first because of course it is.
John spends all morning wasting his time trying to get a reaction out of the girl, but she just grits her teeth and bares it all without so much as a whimper. It would be impressive, if it wasn't so goddamn annoying and he tells the boys this over a meal one evening, listening as they each in turn complain about the silent treatment they've been receiving.
Not long after, Simon disappears downstairs, seeking John out in his room when he reemerges.
"She's gone non-verbal."
"You too, huh?" John sighs, pulling on his boots. "Well, I'll get that bitch to bloody scream if I have to. Let's -."
"No, cap, it's... muteness. Don't think she's doing it on purpose."
John's about to ask why the fuck he should care if she's doing it on purpose or not, but he suddenly remembers the first few years of knowing Simon, the long stretches of silence he'd fall into. At the time, John had just assumed it was Ghost being broody, but now he wonders...
"Well, how do we get her out of it?"
Simon shrugs. "Not likely to, honestly. Can be a trauma thing."
John rolls his eyes, carries on tying his boots.
"The more pain you put her through the worse she's gonna clam up."
Now that gives him pause, gears grinding to a halt until the piece of debris that clogs them is ground beneath the cogs. They spin to life again with a renewed energy after - a wind up toy cranked too far.
"Pain. Pleasure. Hard to tell the difference sometimes."
***
The game is simple enough, but the objective is harder than initially thought. Gaz gets her first, always eager to please. Soap can't even wait until the other sergeant is fully done to get his hands on her, spitting on her tits to fuck between them while Gaz pants into his mouth, the two rapidly falling into each other's pleasure more than the girl's. She keeps her mouth firmly tight, though the pinch between her brow tells John she's not immune to Garrick's pretty cock.
Simon at least understands the objective, pushing Gaz away when he's done to manhandle Soap onto the bed, putting the bird in his lap. Simon works her arse open with cold lube while Johnny moves her in his lap, spearing her down onto his cock and Simon's waiting fingers. This time when she grits her teeth she looks far less pleased, but John wouldn't care if she cried out for them to keep up or to make them stop so he says nothing, watching raptly when Simon decides she's stretched enough for him and he pushes at the bird's shoulder until her and Soap both lay flat on the bed. Soap whines, watching over her shoulder while Simon lines himself up, legs straddled wide over Soap's knees. The poor boy stands less of a chance than the girl does, whimpering the second his lieutenant starts fucking into her, his piercings probably rubbing Soap through the thin wall of the girl's cunt.
Sure enough, the sergeant breathes a soft, 'shite, LT,' and his thrusts turn weak, aborted, sporadic. He moans when he cums, combining with Gaz's, dripping down his softening cock as Ghost's movements keep the girl bouncing on him. Soap whines again, overstimulated, and John can't help reaching out, cupping the sergeant's base to keep him nestled in the girl's warm cunt. Simon chuckles when Soap wails, adjusting his grip on the girl to keep her in place and carries on, cock sliding against the younger man's with barely any barrier.
If the goal was to get the bird to sing, Soap leads by example. But while her mouth hangs open as she watches the younger man fall apart beneath her, she still does not cry out. Not even when Simon grunts in her ear, voice gravel rough and shot, symphonic as it twines with Soap's incessant crying.
Simon pants as he comes down from his high, peering down at John questioningly for a moment. John nods, not entirely sure what he's signing up for, until Simon pulls the girl up off Johnny's front, snaking his hand down her stomach to get his thick fingers on her clit. John grins, feels Soap's cock give a valiant twitch when the girl clenches around him instinctively, sending a hot glob of cum rolling down to the base of the man's cock. John can't help leaning forward to lick it off, laughing cruelly as the younger man yelps.
He's vaguely aware of Gaz straddling Soap's head, assumes he's fucking the man's mouth by the way Soap's whines have turned to soft wet noises. He's too distracted licking his way up the girl's cunt to look.
Simon adjusts to make room for him, sitting on the bed next to Johnny as he continues fingering the girl's pretty clit. John licks along the seam of where her cunt seals around Soap's hardening cock and he hears her gasp - strangled and quiet, but a genuine gasp all the same. He spreads her cheeks, makes more room for himself, and gets to work moving her along Johnny's cock again, his tongue worming its way in alongside Soap when he pulls her back to Soap's base.
They work her like that for a bit, listening as her gasps slowly lengthen, become something like proper moans. Gaz coos at her about how pretty she sounds and she wails when Simon hooks a finger in her rear.
He knows she's cum by the way the spend that coats his tongue gets thinner, tastes less bitter.
"Fuck," John grunts, mouthing at the base of Johnny's cock to make him cum quicker, eager to be in her pretty cunt next. Soap gurgles around Gaz's cock, hips flexing as he fucks up into her faster. When he cums, John laps it up eagerly, tongue flicking against the rim of the girl's cunt just because he likes how she whines.
With Soap truly spent, John drags the girl down to his lap, spearing her on his cock without much preamble. She's loose, soaked, and John rocks her shallowly on himself for a moment just to listen to the way the cum churns within her, frothing on his cock and catching in his curls.
"Shite, doll," he groans, catching her wrists when she tries to reach up over herself, gripping onto his shoulders for leverage. He draws them back down behind her back, keeping them trapped between their bodies in one hand. With his other he cups the exposed column of her throat, revels in the feel of the tendons working - words forming and dying off under his very hand.
"Wanna cum again, don't you?" He coos, mouth pressed close to her poor sunken cheek as if he's completely absorbed in her. Really, he's watching Simon pull Gaz down alongside himself, fisting both their cocks in one big hand.
"Stop that," he warns when the girl bites off another sweet sound. "You wanna cum again you gotta let me hear it."
She doesn't at first, wiggling in his grasp as if he'll let her ride him without asking first. She breaks when he squeezes her throat and his cock twitches within her.
"Please," she whispers, "wanna -."
He's about to tell her too bad when Simon nods at him, a clear 'reward her' if ever he's seen one.
"Spoiled," John chastises, but the hand on her throat moves to slap her cunt all the same, spurring her on. "Go on, then, fuck yourself. Take what you need."
She's uncoordinated, sloppy, legs too tired to ride him with any finesse. It does the trick any way, and she falls limply against his chest when her legs give out beneath her, cunt dripping clear cream and residual cum, both.
"Good girl," John coos, fingers collecting the mess, spreading it over her abused clit just to watch her twitch. "Wasn't so hard, was it?" But if he expects an answer, or for her spell to be over, he's sadly mistaken.
Well, maybe not sadly.
"You want to be done?" She nods against his shoulder, body still slumped and pliant. "Use your words," John warns and she swallows loudly, eyes drifting somewhere by his ear. "More it is, then," John sighs, mock disappointment staining his tone. He shifts, gets his toes dug in underneath himself, and then fucks up into her with the kind of abandon only earned after watching four people cum multiple times.
She yowls, tests his grip on her wrists. He lets them go in favor of keeping her hips elevated, and her fingers find his thighs, digging into the meat of him there.
"You're gonna cum again," he hisses between grit teeth, using his free hand to turn her toward where Simon grips his and Gaz's cock loosely, teasing. "And then I'm going to hand you off to the boys again. And you're gonna take them both, right here -," he illustrates what he means by dragging his hand down her front and hooking the tips of two fingers in her cunt alongside his cock. "Unless you say my name, beg me stop."
She doesn't, so John fucks her stupid, stretching her open until she whines and begs and pants and releases, cunt squeezing around everything he's given her so tight he can't help but follow, paint her poor abused insides in so much cum he's no doubt she'll be able to take the other two easy enough.
The boys drag her up between themselves, hooking her leg up over Gaz's hip. They line up and her voice is shot when she finally uses it again, reaching behind herself to push at Simon's abs.
"Can't - you -."
Simon just hums, big hand brushing along her flank. "Want it in your arse is that it?" he teases, and she squawks, alarmed, when he slides in easily there instead, cock still coated with the lube he'd used to stroke himself and Gaz off with. He grinds deep a few times, letting Gaz's head notch against the rim before pulling back completely to let Gaz dip in. The girl whines, long and loud, and Soap hums in sympathy as he slots himself behind Gaz, too fucked out to do anything more than watch raptly.
She doesn't break until Gaz asks if she can take them both, his hand on Simon's ass keeping the bigger man in place while he slots his cock up next to the other, her poor abused rim stretching threateningly.
"No, please," she cries, and Simon just laughs, pushing in further.
"You know the rules, pet."
But it's John she turns to, eyes big and pretty and watery. "John, please, make them stop."
It's Soap who snuggles her after, the two of them both so fucked out and used up that they can't do much beyond lay there limp and exhausted anyway. Simon and Gaz get each other off with tight fists and dirty kisses, then follow John up to collect on their winnings from the game, but it's John who pockets the keys of a recent vic's car, grinning when Gaz scowls at him.
"Well it was my name she called."
If you were not an adult (18+) did it have any lasting effects?
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
A Dichotomy of Thought || Masterlist
Ghoap/reader—You move next door to a disabled veteran and his troubled partner. You have troubles of your own.
Part One—Johnny almost dies
Part Two—You give Simon five minutes
Part Three—You light a cigarette
Part Four—Johnny has a seizure
Part Five—Simon makes tea
Part Six—Simon and Johnny argue
Part Seven—Johnny finds a purpose
Part Eight—Poker Night
Part Nine
victory lap
“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day-old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch. “an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—” “Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. His hackles raise on instinct, everything inside of him hissing to back away. “Got something else in mind.” Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture— And all his for the night. or: John strikes a deal with young Simon Riley. his cooperation on a team they're putting together in exchange for a night with you. naturally, it goes awry.
18+ SMUT. implied noncon, dubcon. under-negotiated kink. bondage. overstimulation. size difference. size kink. messy, sweaty gross sex. rough sex. unsafe sex. mean Simon. smitten Simon. bullydom!Simon. spit kink. degradation and humiliation. young!Simon (pre-mw2019-2022 when he was still a Seargent; 25-28ish). manipulation. attempts at taming a stray dog that goes as well as you'd expect.
It's John who takes his muzzle off.
Dangles the key on his finger when he kicks open the door, letting his Lieutenant glimpse what lay behind it. Giving a gruff, like what you see? when his eyes finally adjust to the low light flooding in.
It takes him half a second. Enough time to commit the scene in front of him to memory.
It's you, of course.
good dogs get rewards, don't they, Simon?
Waiting for him. Pretty as a picture in sleek silk chiffon ribboned in intricate shibari around your chest, stomach, and thighs. Legs spread on the table; ankles tied down to the sides in nude jute rope. Hands clasped together, fingers laced; wrists tied above your head. The blindfold wrapped around your head is a pale pink ribbon, thicker than the silk on your body. Wrapped twice over your eyes, and tied in a pretty bow behind your head, he imagines.
In the split of your thighs, he finds you already slick. Wet. It drips down onto the table, puddling beneath your ass. The spread of your pussy, glistening in the flushed light; the small, pink vibrator taped to your clit makes his cock twitch.
"All for me?" He rasps, eyes fixed on your cunt. On how pretty it looks. How inviting. A soft, ripe peach offered in the heat of summer, and he wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into you. Her. "'ow sweet o'you."
And Price, he thinks, eyes slanting sideways as he glances at the man sliding into his chair. It stands to reason that this whole thing, you on a silver platter for a starving wolf, wouldn't have happened if he hadn't seen the look on Simon's face when you first met him. The hunger.
Simon's not stupid, of course. He knew you were off limits the moment Price put his paw on your nape, squeezing once. Owned, claimed. The intention, the message, clear. Mine.
Don't touch.
And the way you lit up, stammering out something about how good it was to meet him, told him everything he needed to know how your willingness to be shackled to his Captain.
But even so—
He couldn't take his eyes off of you.
(and in his intense cataloguing of everything you did, he couldn't help but notice how you kept touching your neck when Price was dragged away for a conversation leaving you all alone in a room rankled down his spine. almost as if you were reaching up to fix a collar—)
The memory alone makes him shudder.
"All yours, Simon," Price drawls from his perch on the throne. Between two fingers, a cigar sits, unlit. Ghost huffs.
The words are a vicious bite to the want pooling low in his belly. "That so?”
The room seems to shake when he steps inside. Floor creaking ominously under his weight. It makes your mouth drop, heavy breaths spilling out between dull teeth. Chest rising and sinking shallowly with a wild sort of nervousness that flits across the expanse of your cheeks, in the tremble of your lower lip.
Despite your unease, your legs stay open. Held aloft by the rope, he knows, but also—
A testament to how trained you are.
He prefers his pets wild. Unpolished. Vicious little things that he gets to bring to heel with a sharp bark and rough hand glued to the back of their skulls, pushing their head into the dirt, to the floor, where it belongs.
Fine china broken at his feet.
But you—
Manicured. Groomed to perfection. Save for the harsh breaths and the shake in your joints—both an indication of just how new you are at this. A novice. One slowly being crushed under the leather boot of a man who reeks of smoke and whiskey.
But knowing his captain and the furious need for control, he imagines you're better than some of the seasoned ones he'd come across in his lifetime. No room for errors.
And certainly no forgiveness for them, either.
His cock twitches again—a heavy, aching weight against his thigh—and he reaches down to cup the thickness of it, crushing the flesh in his palm to stave off the need burning in his loins. The urgency to sink inside of your pretty little cunt rewiring the part of him that likes to mess his pets up first. Ruin them before he takes them. Fucking them to the point of unconsciousness—and sometimes, beyond it.
But you—
You've been a phantom taste in the back of his throat for months now. A tease between his teeth. Sinking his jowls into you is the only thing on his mind.
And when you're offered up so enticingly—
Well.
Price can't blame him much for how badly he's going to ruin you.
He reaches out, fingers pressing cruelly into the slim, thumb-sized vibrator Price has locked against your clit. A mindless, incessant torture, he's sure. Pushing you over the edge on a constant, unrelenting loop.
“Messy girl,” he rasps, the starchy fabric of the mask glueing to his balmy skin.
The reprimand makes you flinch in shame, but the flutter of your cunt belies the contrition that drapes over your brow in a shallow mimicry of sorrow. He can see why Price latched onto you so quickly, and doesn't bother fighting the stab of envy that brims in his chest.
“Didn't your old man ever teach you any manners?” He mocks, dry and derisively. Quietly amused by the soft mewl you let out, one that only just eclipses the snort from Price. “Daddy's been slackin’, ‘asn’t he? Let his little girl turn into a messy fuckin’ slag.”
You try to close your legs to no avail, the rope keeping you spread. In part, he thinks, from shame—blistering, burning, and vibrant when it streaks across your face—but mostly from the slick gush that leaks out of your drenched pussy at his foul words. Trying to hide it from him. To keep him from knowing just how much the brassy roll of his ugly words makes your empty little cunt ache.
“Look’it you.” He rumbles, enjoying the shiver in your joints. The way your head rolls to the side, nose pressed tight to the skin of your arm. “Messy pussy just achin’ to be fucked.”
He adds more pressure until you choke. The scream lodged in your throat. Your toes curl. He hears the soft pop of your joints when you arch your back like a cat in heat yowling for attending.
“Want it bad, don't you?” He taunts. “Daddy must’a spoiled you too much—” another scoff from Price. The creak of leather. The clink of ice against glass. “Didn't teach you any manners—”
He wants you to beg. Wants to hear the peal of your voice—rough and ragged and begging him to sink inside you; fuck your little cunt until you can't walk anymore—but that's not what he's here for. Not why Price dragged him up to the room. Gave you to him.
And with the silk gag in your mouth, he knows he won't get it, anyway. Tied in a pretty bow behind your head. Wet with your spit already.
Simon's fingers slide down, dragging over the folds of your cunt. You're wet. Soaked. Drenched in a way he's never seen before; folds glistening. Thighs wet. Sticky. He licks his lips. Tastes the brine of his sweat. He wants to eat your pussy. Spread you wide on his tongue and make you beg Price to let Simon make you cum.
The thought roots in his head. Burrowing deep. He can already hear your sweet voice pleading with his captain—please, please let him make me cum—but he pushes it down when Price makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat.
He knows why he's here.
And wonders, then, when he steps back and drops his hands to the button on his trousers, how many times you've been punished like this. The thought is a sour smoulder in the back of his head. An ugly, foul thing unfurled over the soot-stained walls of his skull.
(he'll ask later. get the names of every man Price let see you like this, and pluck the memory of you right from their skull—)
“So needy,” he drawls, dragging his cock out of his slacks as they fall low on his thighs. “Even after this pussy’s been spoiled so much?”
It makes you keen, and the noise is a searing knife to his guts. He groans with it—low and rough, the noise scraping over the flesh of his throat until it hurts.
“Gonna have to punish you, ain't I? Needy fuckin' thing—” so he says, but his cock is just as sticky as your thighs, weeping a steady stream of pre-cum that pools in the tangle of hair at the base, dusting over his heavy, fat balls.
He shuffles closer, and reaches out to your knee, slipping his fingers behind your shin. The squeal of naked flesh against the metal tabletop shouldn't make him throb but it does. Cruel man, he thinks, and drinks in the way you wince.
He presses his cock against your slit, mouth dropping in a harsh pant when he takes in the hideous sight it makes. Your pussy is covered up by his girth. The tip of his cock bobbing over your belly button, dripping pre-cum into the divot.
Simon pulls his hips back, letting his cock glide over your silken flesh. The wet squelch it makes when he thrusts forward, cockhead tapping on your belly, has him grunting like an animal. It's obscene, this. The way he can't even see your folds over the wide spread of his cock. Pussy tucked neatly under him.
He can't even begin to imagine how you'll take the full length of him inside of you when his cock nudges past your belly button when he lets his balls rest on your molten slit. Poor thing.
He doesn't know if Price stretched you before this. Got you ready for him. But the man makes no move to intervene when Simon pulls back until his head slips down your seam, bracketed between your plush, swollen folds, tight against your entrance. All he has to do is—
Push
And the tip of his cock slips in.
You make another noise at the sting, and he thinks you might be crying but his eyes are riveted to the spot where you open for him. Pussy so small, so tiny, compared to his cock in a way that's sickening. Garish. But your little cunt drools on him. Rim fluttering like a heartbeat on his glands, pulling him deeper. Enticing him to sink inside. All the way. Until he can feel the hitch of your breath on his cock.
He leans back to get a better view, the motion forcing another inch inside of you. The noise is slick. Giving as your silken flesh parts around him, eagerly taking him in. But as wet as you are, as pliant, the stretch is unbearable. It chokes the air from his lungs when you tighten up around him—
“Fuckin' hell—” he snaps, his upper lip curling up beneath the mask. Your cunt makes him angry. Suddenly, viciously. The fury drips down his spine, pools at the base of his cock. His hand slips out from between your thighs, roughly grabbing your waist. Holding on tight as he jerks his hips harshly against you.
You feel good. Perfect. Wrapped snugly around him. A hot, wet embrace. And he huffs at the bitterness that clots in his lungs; the surge of pleasure so blisteringly intense, it nearly makes him gag. Makes him sick.
Price has this every night.
The thought alone is a poison. It needles in deep, lashing at him with foul, rabid teeth. Cruelly, he pushes deeper, sinking his cock in another inch, another, another—mindless in this pursuit to tear you apart well before you're ready for it.
He wants it to burn. To ache. Wants to be the worst fuck you've ever had; cock too big for you to take, but he feeds it to you in full. Gives you all of it. Every inch. Until your stomach churns with every press of his cockhead against your cervix, his glands sliding over that spot inside that makes your knee jerk and your eyes roll.
Wants you to remember him as a beast. To think of his cock and feel nauseous.
To sink deep inside of you—brutal and savage—until you can still feel him in your pussy for days. Each step causing a sharp pang in your lower belly.
It's awful, he knows. Terrible. But he forces himself into you anyway, feeling your flesh split around him. A blunt, unyielding pressure until his balls tap against your ass, pussy spasming around the fat length he punishes you with. He's sure he's deeper inside of you than anything—any man, cheap silicon—has ever dreamed of being. Kissing places in you that nothing has ever touched. Feels it in the nervous flit of your muscles pulsing around him—this foreign thing bludgeoning into uncharted territory, stretching you wide. Almost virginal all over again. It makes him groan.
Your pleasure is a muted ripple down his spine. The vibrator forcing you into enjoying the sharp sting of your rim pulled taut around the plug of his cock, skin blanching from the strain. He wants to stay just like this—grinding his hips into the backs of your spread thighs, cockhead chiselling into the molten seal of your womb with every gyration until the line between pleasure and pain begins to blur. Until you gag from how badly having your walls battered burns, hurts, but the bloom of pleasure deep inside your groin keeps you in place. Makes you arch your back, wanting more.
Desperate for it.
But this isn't what Price wants, is it?
No—
He voices his impatience with a muffled grunt. Get on with it, Simon is pinched out between the silver of space between his teeth, the butt of a burning cigar keeping his jaw unhinged. The heady, sour-sweet stench of smouldering tobacco, nicotine, staining the words.
You clench at the sound of Price's voice, pretty pussy drawing all tight around him. Perfectly trained. Sweet thing, he thinks, pulling out of you slowly. Just a few inches. Feeling your skin glue his; the glide of your walls over his shaft sickeningly good, nauseatingly so. He holds it for a moment, staring down at you through the eye holes of his mask, breathing heavily. Sweat drenches his skin. Tacky, hot. The starchy fabric clings to his flesh, peeling away each time he moves his head.
The exertion of fucking his cock into you shows through the muted pulse of his joints, muscles aching from the strain of pushing forward.
(Holding himself back.)
You blink at him blearily, eyes misted with tears. A smaller puddle sits on the table near your temples.
Up close, he can see the full detail of the intricate shibari binding you tight. The sleek pink ribbon weaving over your chest, your breast, stomach—hishi karada, Price said. At the base of your neck is more silk in a mockery of a collar. And he wonders if you miss it, then. The solid weight of leather on your skin. If your hands weren't tied up, he imagines they'd be there. Holding firm.
Just like the night he first met you.
The silk rope, the loss of your collar—
“Your dad's a cruel man, ain't he?” He mocks, sliding his fingers over the delicate trim of silk bound tight under your heaving breasts, peppering across your nipple, down the slope. Resting at the base of your throat. The thin slip of fabric is not enough to give you what you need. The pressure, the friction. The sense of being owned. “Didn't even give his little girl a collar.”
More of that tantalising shame rake over your expression. Tears dribble out in hot drops, spilling down the side of your face.
He hums, slips this fragility into his back pocket. “Want me to give it to you, little girl?”
He spits the words out like they're wrong. Awful. Takes in your flinch, the downward twist to your lips, and shoves that, too, into his pocket.
Simon has no intention of waiting for an answer, for permission—he reels back, hand still splayed wide over your sternum, and pulls his cock out more until only the flare of his glands peaks out. He's soaked—glistening with your slick. So wet that it drips out of your plugged hole, gliding down the cleft of your ass.
He wonders if you always get like this—
Bites that thought clean through with an angry groan, and pries his fingers out from the back of your knee, dragging them to the end of his mask. Rucking it up over his skin, bunched against the bridge of his nose.
If the mess of his mouth, chin, the crooked, angular slope of his nose horrifies you at all, you don't let it show. Content to quietly sob on the table, eyes flickering between the thick plug of his cock between your thighs and the Price.
He hates you, he thinks. And then he spits on your pretty pussy, right over your taut rim. Watches the foamy mess bubble, drip down to the skin behind his mushroomed head. When it pools there, he pulls back until the widened flare of his glands slips free. You whine—a noise of bright hot disgust, humiliation—and he lets it burrow under his skin, trickle down his spine. Then he pushes forward, popping the head back inside of you.
The spit—his spit, too.
And he does it again. The same thing. Pulling out, spitting. Feeding it to her. Letting it rub against the slick, wet (wetter now) walls of her cunt.
Price doesn't say anything about this claim. Schoolboy possession—childish and immature when you're used to fine leather gripping tight around the slope of your neck.
Still.
He pulls on your proverbial braids until it burns.
The hum of the vibrator takes some of the sting away when he shoves inside of you again, cockhead bullying into your cervix with an unmatched cruelty. Leaking slick, steady, over your seal. Drooling, thick and viscous, against your walls. Staining you.
Ruining you.
Each breath is punched out when he bottoms out. Forced from your lungs. Winded. He knows it hurts almost as much as the thick bludgeon of his cock pressing deep, but as he scrapes and claws at the rot concealing over his humanity, morality, he finds nothing inside of him left to care.
He stops looking. Stops searching.
Simon fucks into you with vigor instead, laughing mockingly at the lewd, sinful squelch of your cunt. “Think that's the sound of all my spit, birdie? Or is your sloppy little cunt always this fuckin’ messy?”
Each piston makes his pelvis slap into the vibrator; he can feel it through the tangle of coarse hair spooled above his cock. Buzzing incessantly against his skin. The spike of sharp pressure has you yowling beneath him, hips twisting, turning, trying to flee from the brutal onslaught. Pleasure and pain balancing on a knife's edge.
He holds you there. Dangles you above the precipice just because he can—
A lazy flick of his waist. The savage grind of his hips. The softened bulge of his lower belly tapping against the plastic toy—
And it breaks you. This careless, effortless attention he pays to you has you tightening up around him like a knot, a vice; cunt squeezing, squeezing, before you shatter. Wave against a cliff; you spasm on his cock in a series of shallow, tight throbs pulsing along to the rapid fire of your heartbeat.
His eyes are locked on your face. Pretty, lachrymal. Tears bleed down your temples, soaking into your hairline. Puddling underneath.
His own little sea of your miserable pleasure.
Eyes rolled into the back of your head. Toes curling. Hips jerking, twisting. Trying to run from the ugly, awful way he makes you cum. Makes you gorge yourself on pleasure. Force-feeding you pain with each sloppy, brutal thrust into your sopping, messy cunt—swollen, bruised; battered. And his—
—ice clinks against glass. A clicking swallow follows. The hollow thud of glass on wood. Scraping over the veneer as it's pushed back into place. Tobacco is chewed up by flames, popping and sizzling; smoldering with each inhale as the playwright watches the show he weaved together unfold—
—his.
The silk around your neck comes loose with each thrash of your head rolling from side to side, shaking with quick, successive no, no, no’s that go unheeded, ignored. Every animalistic rut of his hips makes you change your mind, anyway. Turning those devastating no’s to yeses so eager, your teeth clack with every thrust.
As it slips, sliding down the sweat-slicked column of your arched throat, he finds a stripe of red. A scab. Right at the knot where your collar would sit. A pretty gem in the middle. Your name, or maybe something that would amuse Price more than the perceived idea of your autonomy—bitch in glinting gold. His name and number etched into the back.
if found, return to John Price.
A foldhold, perhaps. Tailor-made for his boot.
He hunts, Simon knows. Walked in reeking of leather and smoke when they first met and casually mentioned how good he was at Big Game hunting. A threat, then—however thinly veiled and erring on the side of mordant humour it was. But he wonders if Price personally made the collar you mourned the night he swung you into Simon's path.
Your neck was bare, then. Blemishless.
A collar too small. Tightened too much. Punishment, he supposes, and feels a sick sense of satisfaction roll down from his nape to the bottom of his spine where it pools in his groin—hot, molten oil—as he wonders just how much convincing it took you to agree to this. To spread your pretty legs for the ugly brute Price dangled you in front of. Who watched you all night from the corner of the room, chest heaving and eyes wide, wild, and furious. Reeking of rot. Want. To let him rut you like an animal while Price watches from the corner of the room—
A bead of sweat follows the phantom trail.
“Fuck, birdie,” he's rasping, voice uttered wrecked. Mangled in his throat. “So fuckin’ tight f’me, ain't you? Must want me to cum inside this pretty cunt—”
You shiver. Knee jerking. There's a real sense of panic in your eyes when they dart over to Price, silently nursing another glass of scotch. He follows your gaze, catches Price glaring at him with his chin dipped low to his chest, peering out through his lashes. Brow furrowed. A flat line.
Simon doesn't stop thrusting. Keeps a steady pace despite the anger brimming inside of him as the pleasure grows. Festers.
Then—
Barely discernible: a nod.
Shadows fall over his cheeks. He brings the glass back to his mouth with a surly mm between the mouthful. An irrevocable fuckin' get on with it.
And Simon does.
The look he gives you pure predatory hunger. Victory in the potent stench of charred bones. He lifts his chin, stares down at you—all spread out like a gift to a god—and surges forward with a rabid hunger brimming in his guts. Unquenchable. Horrific.
—wants you to eat you alive. Consume you whole. Leave nothing for Price to pick at, to mourn over,
settles instead for ruining your pussy. For fucking you raw. Cumming deep inside of your quivering cunt even when he knows you don't want that. Are silently begging Price to reconsider. To get this ugly fucking mutt off of you—
It churns his guts. Makes him viciously excited over the image that brims in the back of his head, tears raining down your cheeks as you bring a shaky hand to your aching, swollen cunt, feeling the thick, viscous glob of his cum leaking out.
Or before that, when you have to lay there and take it. Feeling his cock throbbing, pulsing as it spits cum inside of you. When he pulls out, and a milky trail follows, dribbling down between your cheeks. At his mercy the whole time, too, because Price won't get up right away to untie you. You'll have to lay there in his filth, feeling it ooze out of you—
He wants it. Badly. Feels it scorching his hindbrain, burning him up from the inside out.
Later, he thinks, he'll fuck you with more finesse. Make you cum on his fingers—stuff them inside of your sore, aching cunt to the last knuckle; give you three of them to squeeze around, to cling to, and watch the ink on his bruised, scabbed skin disappear inside of you over and over again, pulling them out all slick, pearlescent with a mix of his cum and yours. On his tongue, too. Keep you in this pretty frogtie, unable to push him off—or pull him closer. Forced to take it. To let him lap at your pussy until he quenches this uneasy hunger festering inside of his stomach, growing bolder, greedier at the sight of you splayed out like this, exhausted already even though he's only just begun.
Fuck you again, too, just because he can.
all yours for a night, Price had said, sealing your fate with a sharp, decisive nod.
He plans on making the most of the twelve hours until sunrise that he has.
This, then, the appetizer—
It curls over his shoulders, tar-stained fingers digging into the tight coil of his muscles, easing the tension in increments. Soothing out the fear that still clings to him of missing out. Still, very much, that hungry little mutt on the side of the street, peering into the bakery at the family's milling about, smiling happily. Content to ignore the brat in rags glaring at them from an alcove with bruises on his chin, and a black split on his lip. Diving for scraps because the alternative is going to bed with an empty stomach in a house that reeks of flat beer and stale piss.
There's nothing to miss out on here, it reasons, when he has you all night. All his.
“Beg me,” he huffs, sniffing through the balmy, damp mask when it slips down his crooked nose. “Beg me not to cum inside you.”
All you can do is make a small, keening oomph behind the loose gag, words muffled by wet silk. His head rolls back, eyes narrowing down at you in mocking delight—catlike, leonine, in the dwindling glimmer of sunlight spilling through the crack in the curtains.
“C’mon,” he taunts, rolls his hips into you just to hear the loud, wet squelch of your pussy taking the full, fat length of his cock. Lets the noise box through his ears in a vicious, heavy punch. “Or I'll cum inside you—”
He's already there. Edging toward the precipice.
Simon grabs the tops of your thighs, digging his fingers into your skin, and pulls you closer to the edge of the table until your ass lifts. It opens you up wider for him, knees notched wide, nearly level with your ears. The new position lets him push in deeper, fucking you in full now. Balls slapping against your ass with every brutal stroke.
He leans down, knee lifting to the table as he climbs on before dropping the full heft of his weight onto you. Forearm braced above your head, the other catching the column of your bare, scratched neck in the wide spread of his palm.
The size difference before was intoxicating. A rush that pooled in the back of his head before rocketing down to his spine, filling his cock, but this—your knees bracketing around his waist, spread so wide they're forced down flat to the table below in a split that lets his cock sink in deeper, head tucked against his collarbone, swallowed whole beneath him, is his undoing.
Arched over you like a beast, he grunts. Ruts into your sopping cunt and feels the whines that spill from your throat at the rough way he batters into you.
The softness of his lower belly grazes the vibrator humming on your clit. The pressure makes your eyes widen, and roll into the back of your head. Neck trapped in his hold as you thrash beneath him, sobbing in earnest. In dismay.
He's sure it hurts. The pleasure careening into overstimulation—the kind that burns, bellows too much, no more. He huffs out a derisive snort, and eats your misery from your parted lips, dipping his head down to catch the seam of your mouth in a mockery of a kiss. The silk wrapped around your head, tucked neatly into the corners of your mouth, keeps it from being anything more than a messy smear of his scarred, torn lips and your muffled gasps. The band prevents him from really tasting you, and he makes do with curling his tongue over your teeth, catching the drool running down your chin.
It's gross. Messy. He slurps you up, and hums in pleasure when he tastes the brine of your tears.
“Gonna cum,” he grunts into the silk before catching it between his crooked teeth, nibbling on the wet hem, sucking on your spit soaked into the fabric.
Your pussy spasms around him. Eager, he thinks—pulsing like a heartbeat and starving for it. It blooms under his skin, burning hot like a fever. His tongue slips under your gag. Eyes glued to yours, listed in quiet, merciless delight when you grimace as he slides it along yours, nearly gagging you on it.
It's almost sweet. A pastiche of loving making—as close to the real thing as he's ever come. The thought is a bludgeon to his head, making his ears ring—
And he runs from it. Rears back from the sloppy kiss, eyes creasing, brow furrowing, as you stare up at him with wet, glossy eyes, rheumy with tears. Silently pleading for something he can't discern. He feels that trail of anger coiling in his guts again, sitting low in his belly as his hips stutter to a slow, softer roll.
His finger lifts, settles on the corner of your unhinged jaw, holding your head steady. There are lines, he thinks. Walls, divides. Protective armour—
And some shouldn't be crossed.
Simon spits on your gag. Squeezes the huff of disgust from your throat when he feels your chest expand with it. Bullies himself closer, smothering you under his weight. Owned, then. Claimed.
You can't close your mouth around the gag, or fingers digging into the muscle of your jaw. He keeps you like that, degraded. Dehumanised. A vessel for him to use as he likes—
Nothing more, nothing less.
Sinks into your bruised cunt again, hips slapping meanly into yours in a way he knows must ache. Sets a choppy, deep pace; humps your pussy and grinds the weeping, swollen head of his cock into your battered cervix. Loses himself in the messy, plugging rolls of his hips; the wet, tight slide of your skin—flushed and clenching around the thick of himself he feeds to you, over and over again. Mindless in the pursuit to ruin you further. Stain you with his cum—
The problem is:
You feel like heaven. Pussy wrapped tight around him. Silken walls hugging his aching cock until it feels like he's melting into the hot, wet squeeze of it. So good it hums inside his head like a purr, rattles his thoughts around until the ugly, bitter anger is turned inside out. Flipped.
He thinks about lines again as his sticky, wet balls glue to the slick skin of your ass, peeling off in a way that has pleasure peppering along his spine, spooling in his lower back. He did that, caused it. Made you so fucking wet that his knees slide in the messy spill of it leaking all over the table. The loud squelch of him slamming into your cunt echoes in the room—shrill and bone-melting. Ego-feeding. Enough to gorge his pride on it until its belly threatens to burst at the seams. Overfull.
Simon grunts. His face is soaked. The damp fabric of his mask is too drenched to even mop it up, sticking to his skin as sweat rains down from his shorn hairline, misting over his eyes. His upper lip. The dip of his chin. He's more water than man. Liquid. Melting into you.
The heat is unbearable. “Gonna cum in this pussy,” he snarls, and it sounds like a threat. Is one. He's going to burst inside of you, molten and thick. Been a while, he thinks, and feels his balls draw up. Tightening in a promise as he fucks himself into a syrupy stupor above you.
The inside of his ears are wet, and he thinks it might be his fucking brain leaking out—
The tight coil of his body snaps before he does, giving out in a heavy groan. He catches himself before he crushes you beneath him, still mindlessly thrusting into your cunt, cock pulsing, throbbing. Growing thicker, thicker, as he heaves into your temple, breathing in the pine scent of your skin. Loam, sea. Sweat. You smell like Price beneath it all—leather and smoke; scotch and wood—and his lips curl into a vicious snarl, teeth bared at the man in the corner, silent observer to this blasphemous confessional where he spills his guts inside of you, and you eat them up like they're made of gold dust.
It rushes him. A kick to his soft stomach, a boot crushing his ribs. The force of it hurts when it hits, surging up from the base of his spine, too fast for him to brace for. Tensing, coiling. The pressure knocks the air from his lungs, makes his hips stutter. Joints whining, twinging with pain.
He moans low and brassy, mangled deep in the rot of his chest, and cums deep inside of you. Sloppy, mindlessly rutting into the spread bracket of your thighs as pleasure burns across the back of his neck, his spine. His hips roll, shaking. Melting as he spills, spits thick globs of cum out, cockhead bullied tight against your plug.
All you can do is heave beneath him, whining at the molten spend he pours into you. Poor fuckin’ thing—
His lips are sticky, slick with sweat. He rubs them against the tacky skin of your temple, your cheekbone, babbling nonsense out on a purr—
Breedin’ this tight little pussy right in front of your old man, birdie. Got ‘im watchin’ his little girl take my thick fuckin’ load inside o’her. Fuckin’ hell—
—things that leak out between the cracks in the armour. The thick veneer. Made worse, his personal hell, when he feels your hips bump into his, taking his cock deeper inside as you squirm under the heavy weight of him. With your thigh flexing, squeezing his hip, it almost feels like you want more. All of him. For him to crawl deep inside of you, cocooned in the bracket of your ribs—
“Needy fuckin’ thing,” he rasps, words slurring. Eliding into mush. Nonsense he'll come to crush between his teeth later when he buries himself back inside of you over and over again, feeding blood to this vicious seedling inside of him.
Through the pounding in his head, your gasping little hitches in his ear, the undeniable silence from Price weighs on him even as the aftershocks of his release mute the noise in his head. A dense, hazy fog clouding over all thoughts.
It doesn't feel angry. Jealous. If anything it reeks of victory—
He grasps through the blanket, the murk, with lazy hands until he finds what he's looking for, and—
Oh.
Right.
(“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts.
He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch.
“an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—”
“Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. “Got something else in mind—”)
Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture—
He stares down at you now. The base of his cock is soaked with your slick, flesh throbbing, pulsing, as he cums inside of you.
It's this—you, crying over the feeling of him spilling so deeply inside of you while your old man watches from the sidelines, unable to do anything but sit there as Simon fills his baby girl up—that he wanted. Wants. Needs, he thinks, more than the stale, humid air he breathes. A place of his own. Home. Even if it's made of paper mache, carved inside of someone else, someone who already has a collar. A brand—
But that's the point, isn't it?
A sick feeling curls over his shoulders as he thumbs the slim vibrator off of your clit, staring down at the swollen nub at the apex of your mound. Sore and sensitive and flushed bright. Bruised like an apple. Abused for hours. Poor thing, he thinks, even as he rubs the flat of his finger over it.
His cum seeps out around the softening plug of his cock. But it's still thicker than anything you'd ever taken before, he's sure. Sick with the deep sense of satisfaction that rolls over him at the thought.
It's worth it, then, even as the dawning realisation trickles over him like hot oil—
“What d’you like, Simon?”
A pretty bird in pale pink chiffon. Too good for the likes of him. Afraid of him, too. Cowerin’. Cryin’ somethin’ awful when he sinks his ugly, fat prick into them—
Price hummed. Curled his index finger over the top of his cigar, tapped the thick wrap twice with the tip of it, and then brought it to his lips. A flash of teeth beneath his beard—nicotine-stained; crooked in the low light—before they sunk into the butt.
There was something measured in his stare. Predatory.
Victorious.
And—
He gets it. You were a dangling lure in the deep, dark of the abyssal layer. A glimmer of light in thick murk. Iridescent. Dazzling. He was always meant to sink his teeth into you, wasn't he? Always meant to take a bite—
hook. line—
—sinker.
Or—
It would be if the fish Price caught wasn't a leviathan.
—in the scorching trail the oil leaves behind, something bestial, primordial, inside of his cocks its head in consideration. he can make a feast from this, it says; and so, he does—
“Need my help, Price?” Simon drawls, arms crossing over his chest as he stares down at him, quietly amused, and John feels the pulse between his temples starting up again the same way it had all those years back when he bumped into the man with you on his arm.
He grunts. “Sendin’ you to Mexico.”
“Tha’ so? I might be busy.”
He sucks in a deep breath, reaches for his cigar. The itch claws behind his eyes, in his gums. There's a headache, too. One he knows won't be soothed over with the numbing bliss of nicotine or a shot of scotch. Not when he'll have to slink home afterwards, this massive behemoth nipping at his heel, and deal with the aftermath of what happens whenever he sets Simon loose on you:
an icepack pressed tight against your aching cunt, a glare fixed on your face as he dotes on you after you made him clean up the absolute mess Simon left behind with his fingers and tongue—
“never again,” you'll hiss, wincing with each pull of his knuckles on your sore, bruised walls. “I mean it—”
(you always say that but the look in your eye whenever he pulls out the silk—the new assortment that Simon bought for you himself—tells him otherwise—)
He presses the heel of his palm into the crease between his eye and bone, rubbing until he sees phosphenes spark behind his eyelids.
“She'll be in silk,” he grouses, sucking his teeth in irritation. “And you'll be on fuckin’ plane to Mexico the next morning, Riley. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal, sir,” he draws lazily with a half-hearted shrug, but Price can see the mutt inside of him panting with glee. He pretends to huff. Then: “I want her in white this time.”
The fuckin' prick.
—Price’s gamble of using you to lure the big, bad dog in works. but maybe a little too well. because now his sergeant expects one every time he's sent on a mission. and they send him out a lot.
—he now has a key to his captain's house. lets himself in whenever he wants. finds you exactly how he asked for it. usually tied up in silk, crying, and struggling to get away when he stalks inside the room. on your knees, begging him so sweetly not to fuck your throat too hard. you have work tomorrow. or fighting him off as best as you can until he pins you down, works his cock inside of you.
—in full view of the cameras, of course. non-negotiable. Price gets to see everything his brutish sergeant does to his pretty bird. everything.
—Simon is the one who keeps you company when Price is sent off to work with the CIA. keeps you stuffed full of his cock in the bed you share with Price, his little girl sobbing into the pillow that reeks of smoke and leather and sex as Simon forces every inch of his stupid fat cock inside you
holy fuck that was so hot
7: Night Shift
art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises
you work in one of the tourist traps along a popular beach pier known for its party scene. it's a night like any other. you have no idea about the unusual party crashers who are about to show up and ruin everything.
->original work. explicit; contains non-con, graphic descriptions of violence, feral behavior, hard vore, mind control, terato, non-human genitalia.
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Last week, it was “Greek Gods of the Sea.” Togas and tridents, mostly, some seashell bikinis, a few fake beards stuffed with plastic starfish. They drank too much and cranked the music too loud, but that’s nothing new. Everyone knows what to expect from the Lucky Rock Pier Party People Association (“Lurpppa” to the local news, “Trouble at Ten O’Clock” to your fellow boardwalk employees, “Those Fucking Kids” to beachfront property owners).
You wear headphones most nights anyway, desperate to keep the shrill, repetitive carnival songs of the pier funhouse from being seared into your brain. They don’t bother you much because the sign at the front says there’s no bathroom and all the hot dogs and funnel cakes are further down the boardwalk, but a few will trickle in just for something to do. If they spot the freezer, they’ll huddle around the glass and stare like the Mona Lisa’s in there, agonizing over a choice between an ice cream sandwich or fruit pops.
Tonight, it’s a glow party. Neon beach balls and glow stick arches. You can’t hear the noise they’re making through your headphones but you can feel the bass throbbing through your feet. Someone’s probably going to call the cops again. The tourist family population retreats this time of night so it’s just you, the handful of shops still open this late, and Trouble at Ten O’Clock. This one’s more fun to watch, at least, bright and colorful like the spill of noctiluca. They’re vivid in glow-in-the-dark body paint, covered in luminescent stripes, swirls and splatters.
A few of them come stumbling up the pier earlier than usual. Three women in different halter tops, painted with matching curly cues and butterflies on their faces. One of them wanders off to look at the tote bags. Another, much more inebriated, leans heavily against her friend. The designated driver, you assume, who drags her to the freezer to pick out something to eat. You glance down at the beach and see one of them sitting on Lucky Rock, the jagged chunk of stone sticking out of the water not far from shore. You’re not sure how he climbed up the slippery, steep sides but he’s definitely not supposed to be up there. The people on the beach are way too excited about it, gathered around cheering and hollering.
Three ice cream sandwiches are dropped on the counter in front of you. You lift one side of your headphones and shrieking noise rushes in, the glow party just as raucous as you expected. “Will that be all?” you ask. The woman nods. Her friend starts to fall over and she has to support her weight against her shoulder. You ring up the total and she groans. Everything on the boardwalk is three times the price it should be, but she adds a tote bag when the other woman wanders back with one and tosses their ice cream inside. “Thanks, come again,” you call, sliding your headphones back on.
Ten minutes until closing time. Not much to do but sweep out the sand gathered in the doorway and tidy up the disaster zone a horde of children made of the stuffed animal section. Sharks and dolphins on the top shelf, turtles on the second, fish and starfish on the third—
Something moves in the corner of your eye. Startled, you turn and find a man ambling slowly through the store. A stray from the glow party, you think at first. Then you look again, paying attention this time. He looks like all the partygoers down on the beach, a silhouette with luminescent edges, but he shouldn’t. Not under the store lights. He’s midnight blue from head to toe beneath intricate glowing patterns, chest and shoulders speckled with small dots like cyan freckles with larger spots along his sides. Thin stripes trace the outlines of muscle beneath the skin, turning into a spiral pattern at his hips.
Which you can see, you realize, because he’s naked. No swim trunks. No speedo. He’s wet and dripping all over the floor like he just crawled out of the water, a puddle slowly growing beneath his feet, and you can follow the course of every droplet as they roll slowly down curves and valleys of lithe swimmer’s muscles. Some of the lines on his torso are moving, you realize. Horizontal squiggles on either side of his abdomen flinch and pulsate.
Gills, you realize. The pieces come together all at once in your mind. Despite working the boardwalk as long as you have, you’ve never seen a sea muse before. Most people haven’t. They’re skittish, you’ve heard. They prefer quiet coves and grottos, places humans have a harder time reaching. Safer that way if they decide to shed their tail and sun themselves for a while. This one certainly doesn’t seem bothered by the commotion down at the beach, poking through the t-shirt rack with long, clawed fingers. He doesn’t look much like the pictures you’ve seen, either, but all the pictures are of muses lurking in tropical reefs, big-finned and colorful like bettas. Beautiful like him, but not bioluminescent and not quite so large. He must come from deeper, colder waters.
You set down a stuffed octopus as gently as you can but he hears it, turning swiftly to face you. Your heart races. He has the large, eerie eyes of an abyssal creature, glowing half-moons gleaming underneath wide silver irises and black sclera. Nobody prepared you for what to do in this situation. Do you play dead? Raise your arms and make noise to scare him off? What you mistook for slicked back hair is some kind of shimmery membrane. It flares out like the neck flap of a cobra in a threat display, but it starts to sag and flatten the longer you stare at each other. His eyes move slightly in their wide sockets, looking you over head to toe.
An uncannily human smile spreads across his face. He makes some odd gestures towards you. His mouth moves. He’s talking, you realize, trying to communicate. You almost lift your headphones off but your brain catches up at the last second. You don’t know a lot about sea muses but you know enough to keep your ears covered.
He blinks, staring at you in almost comical wide-eyed confusion. Then he smirks, his gills fluttering with laughter. He starts pacing back and forth, slowly inching closer like a shark circling prey in the water. He’s between you and the door so you inch towards the register counter instead. Maybe you can slip out the back?
He stops suddenly, leaving some distance between you. He speaks again, tapping the side of his head and pointing at you. You shake your head and he frowns, but he doesn’t give up. You watch, morbid curiosity overpowering your fear, as he starts to move in a slow, seductive manner. It’s some kind of dance, you think, arching his back and extending the membrane on his head again, bioluminescence glittering on thin, translucent flesh. He holds your gaze as he runs a hand down the center of his chest, over his stomach, down to his pelvis and—
You’re not entirely sure what you expected to see between his legs, but it’s still a bit of a shock. The thick, jutting member is deep indigo at the base and a lighter aquamarine down the length. It barely resembles a human cock except in its vaguely phallic silhouette, oozing from an engorged sheath that dribbles cloudy slime. The shaft is smooth with a gentle upward curve, thick and shuddering with unnatural flexibility. It narrows to a soft triangular tip. Two additional appendages unfold from his hips. They remind you of crustacean legs, rigid and insectoid. They bend along two joints, pawing at the air with their sharp claw tips.
The sea muse makes a thrusting motion. The tentacle-cock wraps around his hand, drooling like a tongue. His bioluminescent patches flash and dim like a flickering candle. You’re no marine biologist but it feels safe to assume this is a mating display.
“Uh. No? No thanks,” you say.
He grins. You see a row of daggers for teeth. He speaks slowly and your heart skips a beat when you clearly read the words, Are you sure? on his lips.
“I’m sure. Thanks anyway.” Maybe you should be flattered. You’ve never heard of anyone getting hit on by a sea muse. He lets out a big, disappointed sigh, extra dramatic so you can’t miss it, and gives himself one last stroke before he moves on. You half-expect the cock to slither back into its sheath, but it stays obscenely hard and straining upright between his legs.
To your dismay, he doesn’t leave but instead pokes around the shop some more. He wanders to the left, examining surfboard keychains and hibiscus shot glasses. He wanders to the right, squinting at the postcards. Eventually, he makes his way to the freezer and slides it open with some difficulty. His head membrane flares out wider than you’ve ever seen it the first time he sticks his hand inside. You wonder if he hissed. He tries again, pinching a fruit pop in its colorful package between his claws. He rips the plastic open.
“Hey!” you say. “You can’t just—”
He looks back over his shoulder at you, eyes narrowed and membrane spread in warning. You turn away and continue to mind your own business.
The glow party seems to be winding down. The beach balls are all sitting in a pile. Some of the glow stick arches have toppled over. The pounding bass isn’t shaking the pier anymore. You see a lot of people lounging in the sand, rolling around, stretched out together, a bunch of them writhing—
Oh, you think. That’s bold, even for Trouble at Ten O’Clock. There’s no mistaking those thrusting, grinding, back and forth movements for anything else. There are a few couples scattered around but most of them have settled into a spot worryingly close to the water, seafoam rushing around them whenever the waves come surging up the beach. They tangle together in passionate motion, kissing and caressing and fucking like it’s the last night of their lives.
Something about it unsettles you. They’re being so rough with each other. This isn’t a slow, sensual orgy but a frenzy. Mindless, animalistic rutting and forceful movements. You see mouths open in silent screams. Some of them aren’t moving. Some of them are trying to crawl away but they’re being dragged back by the ankle, the hair, the arm, pulled through the dark sand. Why is the sand so dark? And wet, glistening where the tide hasn’t risen yet.
The horrific realization grips you slowly. You’re in denial. You must be having a nightmare. A man tries to claw his way up the beach but someone else pins him down, straddles his back. You don’t see what happens, can’t make it out in the dark, but the paint on his body stretches and splits, and the sand darkens in a liquid motion under him. A woman arches her back in the throes of ecstasy, surrounded on all sides by eager, thrusting bodies. They’re biting her, you realize. Their heads lower and blood splashes the sand. Through all of it, she squirms and rakes her fingers through the sound as though she’s never felt pleasure like this before. Someone crawls between her legs and she opens them eagerly, loops them around the waist of something that is not human, you realize. None of the ones surrounding her are. They glow more brightly in more precise patterns, membranes pulsating, gills fluttering.
Your headphones are ripped away, clattering uselessly to the floor. You hear an awful cacophony of moaning, screaming, begging, and weeping. You think, for just a second, about running. Your muscles tense and your heart races. Where? For how long? You don’t know but you’re willing to try.
“Where are you going?” says the sea muse and you can’t move a muscle. His voice is low and melodic. You hear the ocean when he speaks; the hiss and splash of the shallows, the heavy drone of the deep. “Hm? Do you want to join them?” You hear the wet slap of his footsteps for the first time as he comes closer. His hand grasps your chin lightly, barely applying any pressure, but you feel compelled to turn around. To look up at his sharp-toothed smile and the gentle pulse of his bioluminescence. “My shiver is down there. Frenzying,” he says. He turns your head to the side, just far enough to glimpse the gruesome scene on the beach, then returns your gaze to him.
“Please don’t,” you say hoarsely, your throat constricted. “Don’t make me, don’t—”
“It’s been so long,” he says, and your mouth snaps shut. “Since I last came ashore.” He walks backwards, his fingers still ghosting against your chin, and you follow. You don’t want to but your legs move on their own. His voice is addictive. You hang on every word and you hope he never stops talking. The silence between makes you tremble. “Even longer since I last mated. You can see it. You can tell how long I’ve waited, if you look.”
You don’t want to look but your eyes betray you, gaze lowering to the slithering thing between his legs. It curls around itself impatiently like a snake. Another glob of slime slides slowly from its sheath and dribbles on the floor. The way it moves frightens you, the base twitching and undulating, slug-like.
“You want this,” he says. He takes another step back and you rush forward. He strokes beneath your chin.
You shake your head desperately. Your mouth is trying to shape the word “yes.”
“You do. You want this.” His back hits the register counter and he leans against it, spreading his legs wide. “You want to taste me,” he says, his voice dipping lower.
You drop to your knees so fast it hurts, feeling the blooming sting of new bruises. It doesn’t matter that you’re terrified. It doesn’t matter that the thing bobbing in your face is like nothing you’ve ever seen before. You open your mouth and suck the strange, pointed head without hesitation. The sea muse moans and your thighs quiver, inner muscles clenching on nothing. You have to hear it again.
“You need it,” he purrs, thrusting shallowly. You bob your head, taking him deeper every time. He hits the back of your throat quickly, his cock eager and probing at the inside of your mouth. “You need me to spill inside you. You need everything I have to give.” You moan and choke around his length. His hand rests on the back of your head, forcing you down further. His thrusts get harder and faster, crushing your nose against his slick abdomen.
Some part of you is screaming at the alien movements of his cock, how it nudges and prods and tries to snake down your throat, but you can’t focus on that. He doesn’t let you. Every grunt and moan, every hiss of praise, makes the fear even more distant.
“You need—oh, yes,” he groans, clutching your head with both hands as he pounds into your mouth. “You need to mate with me. You need—mm, suck on me, suck on the tip—fuck, you need my milt. I have so much and you need all of it.”
You make a humiliating, needy sound when he suddenly pulls you off of his cock. It slips out of your mouth reluctantly, the tip sliding back and forth against your lips. He drags you to your feet by the forearm, shoving you against the register counter. He bends you over it, tearing at your clothes with his claws. You cum when he blows softly against your ear. You’re still shivering, clawing mindlessly at the counter when he kisses and licks the shell, sliding his tongue into every little dip and groove.
“Do you want me?” he whispers. You hear a slick sound, a grunt, and then his hand is at your entrance. He uses the pads of his fingers but he’s not very careful. His claws prick your thighs as ass while he smears thick, warm globs between your legs. “Hm? Do you want me?”
“Yes,” you sob. You arch your back and try to press your hips back against him. He makes a growling sound against your ear that makes your knees buckle, nipping the lobe playfully.
“You want to be fucked?” One hand reaches around and roughly works your sex, spreading a warm, tingling sensation. “Want to be filled with milt?”
“Yes!”
His cock slides along the curve of your ass, teasing you. Then it slithers down, sliding into just the right angle with the tip pushed against your entrance. “Good human,” he purrs, and your eyes roll back in your head. His tip presses inside and then he’s thrusting hard and fast without warning. More slime drips from his sheath and slides down his length, the tingling slickness easing his punishing rhythm. It wouldn’t matter if the lubrication wasn’t there. You can’t do anything but lay there and gasp and meet his thrusts, needing his cock inside you more than you need to breathe.
Those sharp, grasping appendages hook around your thighs. You feel them lock into place, their grip tightening until you’re right up against the sea muse’s body. His thrusts don’t slow at all. If anything, he’s even rougher and faster, deep humping thrusts that make you tremble and scream. He keeps talking through all of it no matter how winded and breathless he gets, keeping you right on the precipice of orgasm after orgasm with filthy whispers and wet, open-mouthed kisses against your ear.
“So tight,” he hisses. “You feel so good, squeezing me like that. You want it so much. I’m going to give you everything. You’re going to be so fucking full.” His hips stutter, losing rhythm. You cum again just as a rush of warm wetness pulses inside you, spurting every time the sea muse thrusts. Thick, creamy liquid churns and foams at your entrance, a trickle dribbling down your thigh. You hear a few drops hit the floor under you. The sea muse rides out his orgasm with long, loud moans that send you over the edge again and again. He crushes you against the counter, hips rolling. One last, slow thrust fills you with another hot gush of his strange cum.
He breathes heavily. His hips sway while he’s still sheathed inside you and his cock curls just the right way to make you sob for mercy. “Hm? You think we’re done?” he murmurs. “I told you. It’s been a long time. I still have so much more to give you. And you want it, don’t you? You need it?”
“Yes,” you say, your voice quivering and broken. The sea muse starts to fuck you again and all you can do is let him.
You don’t know when it ends. It could be minutes, or hours, or days. The passage of time is measured in breaths and heartbeats and orgasm after orgasm. The floor is slick and sticky under you, a white puddle of milt steadily growing. You think he bites you but you don’t know. It all feels good, especially when he tells you how perfect you are, how sweet and submissive, how well you’re milking his cock of everything he’s saved for this moment. He makes you ride him once, seated on the counter while he bounces you in his lap. He digs his claws into the meat of your ass and leaves marks.
You don’t know who finds you. Someone else who works the pier, probably, too horrified and embarrassed for both of you to stick around. The Coast Guard sweeps the water but the sea muses are long gone, leaving nothing behind but the mangled leftovers of their frenzy. The bodies glisten in the sand, torn to shreds like a burst whale carcass. By sunrise, the flies and the seagulls are swarming. You’re escorted to an ambulance with a blanket over your shoulders. The first person to look you in the eyes tells you, very quietly, that you might want to quit your job and consider moving inland.
“Those are mating marks,” he says. You don’t know how he can possibly tell, given that they’re everywhere. Jagged, oozing circles dot your shoulders, arms, thighs and back. “Because they’re at a very precise depth. Meant to scar, not to kill. That means it’s going to come back.” They tell you not to look at the water but you do, one last time, before you leave. You don’t see anything. That doesn’t mean anything. The water’s deep and it seems to go on forever.
That night, in a hospital bed, you have a dream of someone singing to you. It sounds like the ocean filling your ears.
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