Finders, Keep Her
finders, keep her
ghost/soap/reader
18+ only for dub-con/non-con, lifestyle puppy play, implied depression, (consensual) kidnapping, spit-roasting, cunnilingus, dehumanization, fingering, double penetration, pussy and face slapping, leashing and collaring, dollification(?), victim blaming, breathplay, less-than-socially-acceptable quid pro quos. (9.1k)
They’re big enough to fill the hole in your heart. You’re small enough to fit in their cage. It's a perfect match. or: Ghost and Johnny shepherd an unassuming girl into their puppy play lifestyle.
read on AO3.
You’re neglecting the fourth drink of the night.
The ice cube has melted. The salt on the rim has hardened. The lime wafer has wrinkled. You stare at the glass so hotly it could curdle along with the resentment lining your gut.
A group of girls—pretty, you must admit—flock towards the bar, all giggling and swapping inside jokes that have you flinching because you aren’t privy to them even though you want to be. One bumps into you and throws you a cursory glance, frowning, an apology crossing her tongue which you hate because then it means you can’t dislike her without being the asshole.
You squirm away, giving them their space. Your gaze slips toward them every now and then like a one-sided game of hide-and-seek, your eyes scratching at their intimate bubble because you want a way in so badly you’re willing to fold like wet cardboard.
Poking your head into their conversation is an idea you quickly retract because the embarrassment would smite you. You would come off too strong, or too weak, perhaps, and would make them uncomfortable. They’d either feel as though they have to speak to you, or you’d get muscled to the sidelines of the conversation. In any case, you’re the stilted bird with farmed out wings.
You polish off your drink in one, slick motion. It’s lukewarm and arid and doesn’t give your throat the chafe it needs. Your stomach seethes for something wide-shouldered, stronger, leading you to slip off the stool because you know the bartender won’t serve you any longer. Your makeup has thawed with your tears, tracking down your cheeks. Your eyes are puffy and your feet are blundering, pigeon-toed.
You stand up, consider saying bye, but bite your tongue and leave without a word. You step outside and shiver as the midnight mist swathes you mockingly, burning the untouched breadth of your skin because you’ve never had a lover to claim it first. You stumble down the sidewalk, the route back home parsed-over in your memory because this is the only route you ever take—to the bar and back home—no detours to a friends place nor a secret lover, no address scrawled on a napkin from a guy who saw you across the room and found you cute.
Again, you know the route perfectly. You know the motel-turned-escort den that gutters out with vacant signage and the corner-store that’s about to close down because it doesn’t pull enough customers.
(Sometimes, you buy a bouquet of roses just to raise the owner’s spirits. You oscillate between pretending it’s for the friends you don’t have and the lover you’ll never get, and the owner nods each time, happy, never catching onto your ploy because you suppose people have their own problems and nobody is indebted to solving yours.)
You know the broken fire hydrant, the gritty alleyway and the cat that noses at garbage bags for food to feed her kittens.
What you don’t know is the shadow that loiters beneath the awning, nursing a cigarette.
The smoulder barely illuminates his face, leaving him in the shadows. It gives you a blank canvas to stab at, lets you fit the features of your silly crushes into his face, lets you imagine him as the one that got away from high school. Lets you picture that in some world, it’s you between his lips. You’re his cigarette. Hot and addictive and comburent, wrapped by his mouth and spent because he won’t stop sucking you dry.
“Oi.”
The world quickly collapses beneath you, but you realize you’re just tripping. You gird your feet to keep yourself from falling and continue stumbling down the sidewalk because surely, he wasn’t speaking to you.
“Bird in the dress. Oi.”
You spin around. There’s no bird in a dress behind you—but a portent bank of mist in your wake, an omen—so you turn back around and point to yourself, whiplash gnawing your neck.
“Yeah,” he nods. “You.”
All you can see are the whites of his eyes, so uncanny it has you squirming. He’s shrouded in the shadows, nebulous, with the only thing attesting to his humanness being his gaze, unwelcoming and off-putting. More anthropoid. Less human.
“What’s got you walkin’ here all alone?” He asks. “It’s dangerous, y’know. Lots of crime roamin’ round these parts.”
You don’t know how to tell him you’ve fallen into an orifice in the earth that God forgot to fix while making it. A hole that you haven’t been able to claw yourself out of, rendering you invisible to that of a regular passerby.
Nobody “bothers” you. Even if somebody did, you wouldn’t read it as such. Any bone thrown in your direction is something you’d viciously thumb through. It would stave off your deep-seated hunger, scratch the itch that’s been burning you for God knows how long.
You settle for an awkward, “Oh… thanks,” and preen under his stare.
He has no details on his face. No depressions. It’s as if he were cut from a monolith, devoid of any identifiable features.
“Are you lookin’ for something?” He tacks on. “I am. We could help each other out.”
He takes a drag from the cigarette and the light softly flares. That’s when you see he’s wearing a mask, overripe and macabre, hiked over his snarled lip.
“Oh…”
“C’mon, pet,” he murmurs. “Have a mate waitin’ for me. Wanted me to bring back some fun.”
A plume of warmth smoothes over you, simultaneously smothering the part of your gut that screams warning but also wrapping around your hindbrain, making you act on want instead of wit.
You pick at your nails, fidgety.
“Uh, I dunno.”
“Figured,” he nods, tossing his cigarette on the ground. “Didn’t reckon you’d say yes, anyway. Don’t seem the type.”
It feels like a scythe through the heart. You don’t know this man, but he’s already wadding you up and tossing you to the side like a moth-eaten cloth. It hurts. Claws your throat. Thumbs you in like a dimpled orange, tears you open.
You take a panicked step forward. “I– I’m the type.”
He makes a noncommittal sound and shrugs.
“I am,” your eyes are dewy, and your fingers cramp around his stout arm because you’d rather die than prove him right. You’d rather twist the spire in your gut than prove all those people right.
You are fun. You aren’t a wet blanket. People love hanging out with you, in fact–
You can’t see him in the darkness, but you know his face is distorted by something mean. You can hear it in his voice, stale and cleverish. Amused. The skin of his lip is pulled back, poorly imitating a smile. You can hear it.
“Sure?” He asks. “My mate, he’s a barky one. Hyper. Might be too much for you.”
You nod. It’s like slicing yourself open, baring yourself to him. Signing the blood pact even though you don’t know what you’re getting into. He’s thrown you a morsel of attention and now it’s your sustenance. You cling onto him like a parasite, deriving whatever attention he throws at you and feeding off it, sluggish and squeamish and malleable. So loose-limbed, you could break off and harden into the quick of his fingers.
(He’s a mean man. Capitalizing off her loneliness because she doesn’t have the friends to steer her away from the bulky, scary brute with scarred flesh. She’s vulnerable, so desperate for attention, he barely has to do any work. Her makeup is already blotchy, smeared, hollowing out her eyes.
He can only imagine what she’d look like choking on his cock. Would she cry? Would she genuflect and try saying thank you because they’re the only people to ever spare her a second glance? Would the words collapse because her nose is scrunched, flattened against his bristly pubic bone?)
He grunts, slipping his hand over your hip.
“My flat’s close, c’mon.”
He holds you so firmly, it almost hurts. He curls his hand around the base of your neck and drags you after him, inconsiderate of the way your tipsy, pigeon-toed feet struggle to keep up. The people you pass by glance at you concernedly, others excitedly, as they gape at the bulky giant who doesn’t seem keen on letting you go anytime soon. It gratifies you because finally, you aren’t nebular. People are looking at you, and they’re jealous. There’s an attractive man who has you by your scruff, and this time, he isn’t going to leave you for one of your so-called friends.
The thought turns you gooey. Impairs you for the rest of the walk. You kitten into his neck—which stinks of sulfur and cigarettes—when he picks you up so suavely it makes your head spin, throwing you over his shoulder. He carries you into a down-trodden flat and up a flight of stairs, fishes his keys from his pocket and jams it into the lock, kicking it open. The whole time his expansive palm presses a spoor into your pillowy flesh, the fore-end of your ass cheek.
He sets you down and doesn’t bother stabilizing you.
“Johnny!” He yells. “Where are you?”
You try stealing a glance around the flat, but everything is astigmatic. Bleeding. The alcohol is catching up to you. It ropes through your veins, drenching everything in molasses.
You hear the faintest reply, “In the bedroom,” muffled behind a wall. Your respite fleets away when you’re picked up again and brought further into the flat. Into a dimly-lit bedroom where another man emerges from the murk, his cheeks engorged around a splitting smile.
He—Johnny—closes the space between you in three strides. He’s shorter than the man who carries you but is taller than you, and since you’re still hoisted over the masked man’s shoulder, you’re able to peer down at him. Get lost in the labyrinth that are his blue eyes, the velvet of his lips. He’s so pretty he could be split across magazine catalogues.
He’s so pretty, it disarms you.
His eyes remove your fuse. His lips make you melt, fluxing into his palm as he cups your cheek because currently, he has the intimacy you’ve been divested of for so long. Anxiety and presentiment—which is something you should be feeling, really, after being shepherded into a sketchy flat—eludes you. Johnny reaches out and toys with your hair.
“Oh,” he gasps. “She’s real bonnie. Real bonnie.”
His voice is softer than the other, but still held down by something rough. It could be cigarettes, could be something else.
(A raw throat, bruised time and time again.)
“Thank ye, Ghost,” Johnny warbles.
That should have been your prompt to leave, among many. A man who calls himself Ghost, a manifest to the living. Invincible and untouchable. Dangerous.
Ghost sets you down again. You’re squished between the two men, each one more intimidating than the other, and squirm. Johnny asks for your name, which you give to him with a tremor in your voice.
He hums. “Pretty name for a pretty girl. Fittin’.”
Your inhibitions esker and your brain halts. Warmth spools over you. The last time you were called pretty, it was your grandmother pinching your cheeks. Now, it comes smooth as silk from a man three times your size with stout arms and a crooked, boyish smile.
He steps away and sits on the foot of the bed. A few seconds pass, awkward, because you’re unsure what to do with yourself. Johnny placates you as he pats the spot beside him.
“Here,” he says. “Sit with me.”
Ghost gives your bum an encouraging squeeze. You walk up to Johnny and sit next to him, squeamish.
The mattress dips under Johnny’s weight and you fall against his shoulder. Your lungs toil, and the feeling of his flesh against yours works like an aphrodisiac, inspiring heat and froth in the pit of your stomach.
It increases twofold when Ghost grunts.
“Give ‘er a kiss, Johnny.”
You seize up. Johnny’s hand is on your cheek in record time, suffocating and divoting as he turns your head towards him. The kiss is wet and rough, over-eager, and makes your mind rescript him as volatile instead of purely obedient. He’d gone from prey to predator—with Ghost’s permission—and pounced on you.
“Kiss him back,” Ghost says a little too harshly. “Give him your tongue.”
You comply, yelping when Johnny sucks at it. Licks it. He cradles the back of your head as he curves his tongue into your mouth, mapping your every inch. He moans into the seam of your lips, humps the bed, and pulls you closer. Johnny grabs your hand and guides you over his crotch, cupping it.
“Feel it, hen?” He breathes. “So fuckin’ hard for ye. Are ye wet?”
He’s kissing you before you can answer. It’s bruising. Teeth clinking, lips bumping. He rams your answer to the back of your throat and decides to check for himself, making your stomach flip as he drags his fingers over your pussy and presses into your clit.
He scoops your dew up and pulls his fingers away, sucking them clean, turning to Ghost with imploring eyes.
“Can I eat ‘er pussy?”
The fact that he asks Ghost instead of you thrums you with concern but it gets smothered when Ghost shortly nods, and it dawns on you that a stupidly attractive man is about to go down on you. Your blood rises to a rolling boil, your stomach churns. Your panties cling to your cunt and outline the barest hint of your lips.
Johnny pushes your back onto the bed. He nudges your legs apart, hikes your dress over your waist, and borderline salivates from his loose jaw as he rubs your pussy through your panties. Your head swims when he leans down, flattening his nose against your sex. The air in your lungs turns to creosote as he sharply inhales, kissing your clit. Kneading your waist. Leaving a mosaic of teeth-shaped concavities into the chub of your thighs. Your hands find the tuft of his mohawk and your eyes find Ghost in the corner of the room. Tempered together, it’s metamorphic. Euphoric. It smites you like the first thaw of spring as Johnny presses his tongue against you, licking a stripe up your sopping slit while you maintain eye contact with Ghost. You flounder under his eyes, tremble under Johnny’s mouth.
Dew skitters over your skin. Your belly cramps with pleasure. Your thighs clench around Johnny’s head, hemming him in. He growls and releases your clit with a pop and spreads your legs back open a little too roughly, stretching your tendons like frayed rope.
He ignores your gasp of pain, as does Ghost. Johnny thumbs you open and grins at your hole, blowing at your bare cunt. He flicks your bud with his tongue, shutting his eyes, murmuring into your sex.
“Cute fuckin’ pussy,” he whispers. “Such a bonnie girl. Tasty girl. Pretty little puppycunt.”
It hits you like whiplash. A vein of discomfort tempered with a fresh stir of arousal. You’re squirming, threshing. Johnny won’t stop making out with your… puppycunt, and now, when you turn to look at Ghost—perhaps to ask for help—he palms himself through his jeans, watching raptly.
You whine when two fingers prod your hole. It’s Johnny working you open. He slips a finger inside and pumps it in and out, curling them into your walls before adding another. He finger fucks you so fast and with so much vigour, it hurts. He’s like a dog with farmed out hair, unfettered without a leash. Eager.
Ghost strides close and grips Johnny by the neck, pulling him away. “Easy, kid. You tryin’ to rip her a new one?”
Johnny flushes. Blush colours his cheeks, reflecting his embarrassment at being scolded. He sniffles. “Nae.”
“Then play nice,” Ghost growls. “Or no more playdates with my pet.”
Your ears ring. Surely, you didn’t hear that right. You couldn’t have, otherwise you wouldn’t be shaking with another wave of arousal. You aren’t a pet. You can think and speak and most importantly, you don’t have a tail to chase.
It’s off-putting and discomforting. Who wants to be degraded to a pet? Pets are muzzled, leashed. Two things that don’t belong on humans—but Johnny seems to disagree.
He pulls his shirt over his head, baring his hairy chest. His prong collar.
It cuts into his neck, makes the skin around it puff up, plum-coloured, stealing the oxygen that should be rising to his head. It explains his bleary gaze, his behaviour, dimmed by the pillowy headspace he’s in. It makes him gasp and drool, tongue lolled out, still glistening from your cunt. Makes him pant. Like a dog.
He quivers. “Can I fuck ‘er? Please, Ghost?”
Ghost situates himself behind Johnny. He swings his forearm across his neck and puppets him into a headlock with one arm, shoves down Johnny’s pants with the other. He chokes a hand around his cock, pumping it, squeezing it, brushing his thumb over the sensitive slit, collecting his precome and using it to lube him up.
Ghost pets him, scratches behind his ears. It must have a Pavlovian effect—conditioned and trained, broken in—because Johnny is quickly poised above you and folding your knees up to your ears, catching his cock onto your sticky clit.
“She ever taken one before?” He breathes. It takes you a while to understand he’s speaking to you, but is asking about your… core. Talking about it like it’s sentient, like it wants him just as bad.
(Considering how warm you are, how your clit throbs, you just might. You feel gooey, close to melting on his tongue and between his sticky fingers. Blood roils under your flesh, bubbling while you clench around nothing at all. Desperate. Needy, because you’ve only ever had your fingers and a regrettable vibrator. Hungry, because Johnny’s cock is drooling onto your belly, long and solid.)
“She– uhn, no,” you eke out. “I’ve never, um, done this.”
He sharply inhales. You think he can smell sex in the air, prurient, because he’s quivering and bucking himself forward, slipping his cock between the fat of your cunt.
“So me and Ghost, we’re… markin’ our territory, aye?”
Apprehension knots in your throat. You swallow it down though, nodding. You’re already neck-deep in this ordeal and you’ve long-since drowned in purgatory, waiting for someone to spare you affection. This is your only buoy.
And so you nod, goading him.
Johnny grins. He grabs your waist to keep you from thrashing and pins you to the bed while Ghost takes your wrists. Johnny sinks into you, splitting you open, his drool dripping onto your cheek.
He has to force himself past your first ring of muscle, and since you’re pegged into the bed, you can’t squirm at his lengthy, curved cock ramming into you. You can whine and beg him to “Please be gentle–“ but that gets smothered under Ghost’s palm as he covers your mouth, blocking your nostrils in the process.
You worriedly scratch at his other hand—the one keeping your wrists together—because you start to feel spotty. You bury your nails into his flesh, etching him with sickle-shaped divots, trying to dig his skin into the quick of your fingers, panicked.
But Ghost looks down at you unfazed. His eyes daunt you through his mask. He pointedly does not move his hand. He keeps your lips pressed tightly and your nose flattened, abased to sniffing his cigarette-smelling palm.
You squeeze your eyes shut. Johnny is pounding into you, crazed, making your legs flail dumbly and also making your stomach knot. You can’t deny the pleasure that tears through you, tempered by your pinched nostrils, complemented by Johnny reaching down to thumb your clit.
“So fuckin’ soft–“ he gasps. “So warm. I need to come in ye, puppy. Need to–“
Your mind doesn’t track the rest. It’s caught on him, how his wet lips wrap around that operative word—puppy. How it sent shivers down your neck, how it prompted the faintest whisper of a phantom tail from your spine.
“Like tha’, don’t you?” Ghost grunts. “Bein’ our dog.”
You shake your head and pick out a laugh somewhere in the syrupy stretch of your mind. It’s sarcastic, disbelieving. Surely, it would have your hypothetical dog ears drooping.
“‘Course you do. You’re just like one,” Ghost says. “So fuckin’ needy. So desperate for attention, am I right?”
Each word is a punch to the gut. Your gaze turns runny with tears, leaking down your cheeks, to which Johnny swiftly laps up. You can’t squirm away—you’re trapped beneath him—helpless as he licks away your brine.
You sob. “I– I don’t like this anymore–“
You move your fingers to cramp around Ghost’s wrist, only to find he isn’t there anymore. It’s a small mercy because he returns swiftly, this time, holding something that glistens.
Handcuffs. Not the fuzzy type you see in intimate, soft-edged pornos. It’s the type that translates into being snared up, bitten by steel. It sizzles your skin when he loops them around your wrists and locks them in place.
With his hands free, Ghost unzips his jeans. His boxer-briefs are distorted by a hard-on, pushing into your face, impossibly large and intimidating. He takes his cock out and even though he grips it by its base, it droops. Ghost is just so heavy, so fat, it hangs downward, whispering against your lips, leaking with thick precome.
He slaps it against your cheek. “Open, pet.”
You hate that you listen. You tell yourself you’re just scared of being punished—not at all chuffed for Ghost’s cock—as you unfurl your tongue and take him between the lips, flinching at his taste. His size.
He works the hinges of your jaw open as he forces himself inside. Your muzzle burns, aching, splitting around his fat cock. He pushes himself all the way inside with a hard thrust, the bristly hairs on his pubic bone tickling your nose. You feel the spine of your throat bruise and your spit fruitlessly trying to soften the burn, pealing out as a gurgle.
Ghost rolls his hips and growls when your molars graze him.
“Pet’s got teeth, aye?” He grits out, nudging himself deeper. It tastes like creosote when he hits the back of your throat—thick and tart.
You’ve never been so full. From your cunt and your mouth, your beginning and end. Johnny’s ravaging you, Ghost’s pounding into you. You’re getting dizzy.
Whenever you fantasized about your first time, you thought it would feel magical. Like falling into tufted grass. Spread open like an oyster shell with your mother pearl licked clean. Squeezed like a stone fruit to test its ripeness, pert and plush. Forever in a state of becoming: a sculpture, or a painting, perhaps. Your lover’s hands would wisp around you like paintbrush bristles and mould you with clay-crusted fingers. You always hoped that during your first time, you would be suckled like ambrosia and kept in their molars for later because you’re just that sweet.
But these men maul you like a chew toy–
–and spit you right out.
They come without warning. Johnny’s seed hits your walls just as Ghost fills your throat. They hold you down and snap into you, giving you their last inch. Making sure that what they force into you, takes.
And you do take it. Rapidly unfurling like a spool of thread because all it takes is a gruff “Good pet,” from Ghost for you to climax.
You whine like a dog when you do. Johnny lulls you with kisses and heavy pets while Ghost waits for his cock to soften before pulling out. You can’t speak after. You whimper, whine, and howl. Like a dog. You curl into Johnny’s arms when he hugs you even though you hate him, blindly trusting and stupidly forgiving. Like a dog.
“Ye did perfect,” Johnny murmurs against your lips. He’s practically sucking your face, licking off Ghost’s come.
“Still needs training,” Ghost grunts.
Johnny nods, pink, embarrassed at being corrected. “Aye.”
“So do you,” the bigger man sneers. “Too fuckin’ buzzed. ‘Aven’t I taught you better?”
You miss the way Johnny bristles, eyes blown wide. Your mind is too sticky, too gooey, to acknowledge how his breathing turns ragged. Your eyes flutter shut, and you slip into limbo.
Nobody knows if you dream of chasing squirrels and running after cats that night, a tight collar fit around your neck.
You wake with a dry mouth and a warm core. You’re alone in bed, uncuffed, folded in the sheets as you drowsily find your bearings.
You curl your snout in the air, smelling food. Your stomach bubbles with hunger but fear overrides that. You know you should leave but your heart, gluttonous, wants to stay forever.
You crawl out of their bed and adjust your dress. You stumble out of their room and find the kitchen by following your nose. Ghost and Johnny sit on two stools in front of a raised island, eating their breakfast. An untouched plate sits between them.
“Mornin’, puppy,” Johnny smiles.
You flounder, awkwardly stepping away. “G-good morning.”
Ghost is leaned over his plate, wolfing down his mountain of food. Johnny is more polite, patting the stool next to him.
“Come eat,” he says. “Must be hungry from yesterday.”
Right. Yesterday. There’s no need in rehashing the events because it still lives on your skin. Pocked flesh marred by bruises so fresh it looks like rope burn, a smoulder between your legs so hot it hurts when you squeeze your thighs. The retellings are parsed-over in your mind, flashing at you to get out of here as soon as possible.
They ignored your struggle. You’re desperate, but you don’t have a death wish.
You grimace. “Yeah.”
“It was nice, aye?” He asks, spooning another bite into his mouth. “We had fun.”
Your mind skids to a stop. Fun? Your cheeks are still stale with dried tears, your thighs still quiver. They turn limbless when you take a step for the door and Ghost snaps his neck around, shooting you a scornful look.
“Stay,” he growls. Commands.
There’s a storm inside you. A tempest. Cold winds that read of desire colliding head-on with humid air that screams danger. They drag each other aloft, fogging your brain. Making your feet move before your mind can.
You scoot into the stool and grip your plate. You sneer at the contents because it looks scooped from a tin, barely fit for human consumption. The slop trickles, and it’s obvious you’ll need a spoon. Your tongue braces when you realize that requires asking for one.
You speak with a rough burr. “Um. May I have a spoon, or something?”
Ghost spares you a cursory glance but doesn’t say anything, opting to smack his lips around another mouthful. Johnny is the one to smile, shaking his head.
“Sorry puppy, no more o’ those. We’ve just enough for us two. We dinnae get company much.”
Ghost spells it out for you. “We’ve no more utensils. You’ll eat without ‘em.”
The air around you blisters with his crass clarification. You stare at your plate, the wisps of steam that curl from it. You look at your fingers, white-knuckled around the chipped ceramic. Recently manicured. Too spruce to dirty with food. The unsaid fallback hangs over your head like a storm cloud, greyscale and grim. You squirm like a dog caught in the rain. Hair matted to your forehead, ears drooping.
You don’t say anything as you bend your neck and open your mouth. You snag a morsel between your teeth, swallowing thickly. You can’t liken the taste to anything—it’s unlike anything you’ve had before. Bland, like cardboard. Sticks to your teeth.
Johnny shoves his nose in your face and grins. “Yummy?”
You smack your lips a couple times. “Um, yes. Look, I should really get going–”
You stand up but get shoved back down. Ghost’s palm is split across your shoulder, keeping you in place. Your squirming is in vain. He has a vice grip on you, fingers tightening around you like a collar.
“This is what you wanted, no?” He asks. He presses his fingers deeper, divoting your skin. “Attention. We gave you tha’. Now you’re just being ungrateful.”
You can barely shake your head because Ghost still has an iron-grip on you. Your protest is fickle, because not even you believe it. You did want a good fuck. You did want to be broken in and put together again by hands other than yours. You did want to be fed vestiges of affection, but upon sleeping with them, you’ve found the taste to be bitter. Too harsh, like sandpaper on your tongue.
You want nothing more than to spit it out.
But Ghost isn’t so understanding. He doesn’t like being divested of what he wants, it seems. And what he wants is you. Even Johnny cowers under his glare, looking at you worriedly while Ghost moves his hand around your jawbone.
“Never taught any manners, were you?” He grunts. “Stray pet. Used to scraps. Wouldn’t know a good opportunity from a bad one if it hit you in the face.”
He pulls you in for a wet, sloppy kiss. You flush as you recall your fickle protests—that you aren’t a dog—because the way spit bends between you, stringy, smeared across your cheek, reminds you of two mutts fighting, their scrimmage made of mangled canines and saliva.
But only one fighting dog can be victorious.
And it sure as hell isn’t going to be you.
Ghost is all muscle softened by fat. Corded sinews and disciplined thew. He stands as tall as a sequoia and his shoulders yawn as wide as an ocean. He might as well be Sasquatch with how large he is, how he exacts fear in your bones. He’s eclipsing, and with such a sizable stature comes a sizable appetite. He bites into you.
You wince at his teeth in your neck. You’re already weak beneath him, thawed, like a volatile solvent. You’re the spun sugar of cotton candy, melting on his tongue. Soft and sugary. He sucks at your neck and leaves mulberry-coloured bruises on your skin, tonguing after you.
Your nerves flare when he bites, and you push him away. Your hindbrain has caught up, panicky and anxious because while you crave lips grazing your skin, Ghost’s mouth is cracked and dry and stinks of cigarettes. You beetle away, frowning, stumbling off the stool.
“Tail between your fuckin’ legs like I’m gonna hurt you,” Ghost sneers. “You always do this? Seduce men then scream rape? S’that the only way you get pity?”
You step back but hit Johnny’s chest. Fear seizes you. You’re damp with sweat and your heartbeat is quickly rising. You shake your head, tears falling, spitting incoherent protests.
“No?” He steps closer but he can’t crowd you backward anymore. Johnny’s chest is immovable metal against your back. He holds you in place, keeps you from squirming as Ghost continues. “You agreed to come home with me. Just ‘cause y’regret whoring yourself out doesn’t mean we’re bad blokes. We’re no bad blokes, pet. You’re just a fuckin’ liar.”
He grabs your chin, hoists your head up. “And I don’t fancy liars. Do you, Johnny?”
You feel the Scot puff up behind you. “Nae, Ghost. Dinnae like ‘em. Not one bit.”
“I reckon she needs a lesson,” Ghost rasps. “Would you agree?”
“Aye. O’course.”
Ghost looks down at you. “Would you agree?”
You can’t say no because he still has you by your chin. His grip is bruising, keeps you poised. You want to shake your head but Ghost puppets your chin up and down instead, making you nod even though you don’t want to. Making you sign yourself away like a forged slip of paper.
Ghost’s lips peel into a Glasglow smile. Johnny smooches your cheek.
“Can’t cry wolf now, puppy,” he says. “Ye nodded, ye ken. That’s consent. It’s practically on paper.”
“I– I didn’t,” you croak. “He made me–”
“Oh, but ye did,” he chuckles. “Quit bein’ a tease.”
Your mouth clamps shut and your legs follow mindlessly as Ghost tugs you away. He takes you to the living room, toward a man-sized dog cage nestled in the corner. The only thing disarming about it is the cottony blanket on the bottom, the pillows in the corner.
But the teeth marks that scratch the cage bars offset that. Someone’s been in there before, and they struggled. And the way Johnny bristles when you approach it tells you all you need to know.
“Get in,” Ghost grunts.
You don’t move, so he takes you by the scruff of your neck and forces you onto your knees. He swats your ass and shepherds you inside, locking it behind you.
You spin around on your hands and knees, lip trembling. You whimper, but Ghost shakes his head.
“You think about what you’ve done,” he says. Then he makes for the bedroom with Johnny quick at his feet.
The next hour is a blip in your memory.
You hear their door slam closed. You hear growls and groans, air sucked through teeth. You hear the zip of clothes ripping, the ring of a belt being unbuckled. Johnny’s voice wafts through the wall, distorted by sobs, while Ghost’s voice is husky and phlegmy. They’re both tempered by the headboard slamming against the wall.
It sounds like two bears trying to maul each other in there, but by your moistening cunt, you know better. Skin slapping against skin, wheezy breathing. Those sounds translate a carnal force. You feel it in your core, your wettening sex. The bars of the wired crate press tracks into your skin as you manoeuvre yourself, shamefully slipping your fingers below your panties.
You’re already slick. Shame burns you. Eats at you and makes you wilt like cellophane caught on fire. The all-consuming flare of arousal smothers your fear and licks your skin, makes your stomach knot as you imagine what they’re doing to each other. You rub your puffy lips, circle your clit. Edge your fingers into your hole and wince at the pain.
(Whether you like it or not, you’ve been claimed. Snared. Ear-tagged. Branded. Their shadows still haunt your skin, your abused cunt. There’s a rubbery stretch when you force your fingers inside, your other hand racing to clamp your mouth shut. You pump them in and out, a gyre of water and grease fire bubbling within you. You don’t want this—you want to go home—but pleasure has snuck under your skin. Arousal has annexed your forebrain, making you chase down whatever’s pleasurable.
An orgasm. Kibble. A bone. Belly scratches–)
You curl your fingers inside you. You can still feel Johnny’s mouth on your pussy and Ghost in your throat. They’ve violated you, broken you in. Made you theirs.
As their groans crest, you see your climax in the distance—two smouldering lights that hit you with the force of a bullet train. Liquid smooths out of your cunt, down your fingers. Your blood rushes to your ears and submerges the sounds of them reaching their own high.
Your orgasm gets drawn out like a spinning wheel, taking minutes to peter out. Still you don’t hear the door open, or the approaching footsteps. You don’t hear the dreadful leitmotif that plays from imaginary speakers when they enter the room. You simply open your eyes, fucked-out, and see them towering over you. Naked if not for their boxers.
“Did you touch yourself?” Ghost pants. His jaw feathers, peevish.
You smack your lips together, plucking whatever cow-sense you have left to shake your head and lie.
“No…” you scrimp out.
He snarls. “Check ‘er.”
Johnny pricks up with an unsettling level of enthusiasm. He drops to his knees and unlocks the crate, cooing, but is contrarily rough in how he forces your legs apart. You burn as he thumbs through the folds of your hot cunt, stroking your clit.
“Made a fuckin’ mess ye did, lass,” he tuts. “And ye dinnae leave any fun for us?”
Ghost grabs you and drags you out, huffing all the while. Your world helixes when you’re tossed over his shoulder, carried further into their flat. You get dropped in a tub and muscled against the wall, still drowsy, with no time to gird yourself before a barrage of ice-cold water starts stabbing you.
Ghost grabs the showerhead and twists it to the jet setting, spraying you down. You try folding yourself into the rust-crusted corner of the tub but it does nothing to offset the freeze that rattles you. You splay your hands out and curl your legs into your chest to shield yourself, but it’s fruitless. Ghost leans in and sprays you closer, the heavy stream tamping against your sensitive pussy and slick chest.
You open your mouth to beg–
“Please.”
–but it gets filled up by sloshing water, running down your throat like liquid fire which you belch back up.
Your legs beat around as Johnny rips your dress off. You think you've been spared when the water turns off, but your mercy fleets away as Ghost drags you out of the shower and onto the floor. You shiver like a wet dog, soaking wet, dripping onto the mat. You impulsively curl into the towel that Johnny wraps you with, desperate for warmth.
“Just had to hose ye down, bonnie,” he says. “Ye dinnae mind, do ye?”
He roughly dries you off. The terrycloth of the towel feels more like sandpaper with him. You can’t complain though because your head is suddenly puppeted back, forced by Ghost’s hand which is cupped under your jaw. He thumbs your mouth open and shoves a toothbrush inside, scrubbing your gums so roughly you could bleed. He scours away the taste of his cock and the alcohol from last night. The bristles reach the back of your throat and you gag around it, spitting into the sink as he shoves your head forward.
Your mind is too spotty to notice Johnny vibrating in the corner. “Can I dress ‘er, Ghost? Please can I dress–”
Ghost shoves you in his arms, and it seems that Johnny already came prepared with clothes tucked under his arm. He lowers to his knees and fits your feet into them, kissing up your thighs as he pulls up the shorts. A simple sweatshirt goes over your head—no bra—so your nipples perk against the cotton, pebbled.
He pulls you in for a deep kiss once he’s finished. It winds you, leaves you breathless.
(And strangely enough, it leaves you wanting more–)
Ghost stalks out of the bathroom and Johnny follows close behind, dragging you with him. They go out the door and into a beaten-up truck, shoving you in the back. It all happens so quick you have no time to brace when Ghost tamps down on the gas and hastens down the road.
Hope flickers within you. You stare outside, watching how buildings and trees blur past you. You believe they’re taking you home, tossing you back onto the same sidewalk they found you on. Maybe they sprayed you down to clear their evidence, maybe they changed your clothes so a missing persons poster wouldn’t find you first.
You prick up against the window as the bar Ghost found you in front of comes into view–
–but your skin melts around your bone when you drive past it, watching it become a speck in the sideview mirror.
Anxiety feathers its way up your back, gumming itself into the divots of your spine. You don’t bother asking where you’re going—that would earn you nothing more of a sparse grunt and a short huff. You purse your lips and try not to cry. Every second is another anvil on your chest, heavy and steely, stifling your breath.
Your fingers snap around the door handle as you approximate the best time it would be to pull it. You’d have to pucker yourself, swing the door open, then roll out—all without one of them catching you first.
You shoulder yourself into the door. Your hand goes taut on the handle. You nerve yourself, ready to push it open, ready to roll onto the pocked street and scrape yourself threadbare–
–but the opportunity never comes. Ghost pulls into the parking lot of a sleepy strip mall and cuts the engine. He parked tightly between two vans so even if you tried, you wouldn’t have the space to run.
You have to swallow your flinch when you glance at the rearview mirror and catch him staring at you, beady-eyed.
“We’re gonnae spoil ye puppy,” Johnny says. He slips out of the passenger seat and goes to retrieve you. His tone is pillowly but his grip is firm, warningly. “Ye get to pick out whichever one ye fancy.”
Embarrassment pulls at you as he tugs you into a store. The scent of bird seed and aspen shavings hit the back of your throat, stale and soil-like. You must smack your lips before talking.
“P-pick out…what?”
He stops short in front of a colourful aisle, and it strikes you belatedly that this is a pet shop. Fitting, seeing as you’re similarly skittish to the ensnared bunnies and hamsters.
Johnny nudges you forward. “Any collar ye like, puppy.”
That’s when it slides into place. There’s a glut of dog chokers in front of you, varying in colour and design. Some are bedazzled and some are flower-printed, others are made of cork and stink up the whole aisle with artificial leather. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth and your head begins to throb, as if you’re being pumped full of mercury.
You have to dig deep to find your words. Slowly, you find, human intelligence has been escaping you. You whimper before speaking and sink into your new sweatshirt.
“Do I have to?”
“Ghost’ll just pick one for ye if ye don’t,” he grins. “And I ken ye’ve got better style, pup.”
You look back at the aisle and try to think of what you would get your own dog to soften the discomfort creeping up your throat. Your fingers glance off the collars in an effort to gauge which would feel the best around your neck—or, as best as they could feel, anyway.
Your touch flutters over salmon-pink webbing. A bone-shaped tag dangles from the collar, waiting to be inscribed with a name and an owner’s phone number.
(The implications don’t elude you. The dog tag is an empty slate which welcomes a new name and erases your old one. Once the collar locks around your neck, the name that gets etched into the metal plate will be yours for however long they keep you. You wouldn’t answer to your current title but would get Pavloved into replying to something else.)
“Ye fancy this one?” Johnny asks. “Fine choice, puppy. It complements ye real nice. Brings out yer eyes.”
He swipes the collar and brings you to the cashier. The girl working the counter is young, plump, and briefly reminds you of the world outside your new confines. You consider whispering for help before Ghost situates himself directly behind you, the metal teeth of his jeans zipper distending into your bum.
“What name would you like on the tag?” She asks, listless.
You remember Johnny calling your name pretty. It makes it especially jarring when he sticks his neck out, answering with a bright smile, “Puppy.”
She gives a quizzical look. You can hear the question in the bend of her eyebrow—”You’re naming your puppy, Puppy?”—but you suppose she doesn’t get paid enough to care, so she shrugs and scores it into the plate, asking for a phone number.
Ghost gives his and pays with a crumpled wad of cash. He doesn’t wait for change before turning on his boot and dragging you out of the store, stuffing you back into the truck. This time, Johnny sits next to you. He loops the collar around your neck and kisses you softly, wetting your skin before locking it in place.
His eyes shine when he pulls back. They’re two lagoons, depthless and blue, gleaming like rip currents ready to pull you in. Again, Johnny’s beauty belays your hostility. His crooked smile and his ruddy cheeks flirt you toward him, nuzzling you into his chest. He cradles your head and doesn’t stop kissing you the whole ride back. Similarly, Ghost’s bone-deep stare never leaves you through the rearview mirror.
Evening comes quickly.
A greyscale canopy has blanketed the sky, mirroring the dread you feel in your solar plexus. Your knees are fettered from being folded for too long and your shins begin to bruise against the hardwood floor. Your neck has been leashed to a leg of their dining table for God knows how long now, tensing as they cook dinner.
You can’t see what they’re cooking, but you can approximate using your snout (potato skin, bruised onion). Your hearing is also more acute because again, your eyesight has been taken, blackened behind a burlap sack that’s fit over your head and girded around your neck.
You saw what was written on the bag before Ghost pulled it over your head.
Dog in training.
And it wouldn’t be incorrect. You keep scratching the floor, keep whining. Johnny just thinks you’re hungry and slips food under the hem of your sack. When you ask them to let you go, he suddenly can’t hear you.
You heed the belch of chairs being pulled out, and two deep sighs from Ghost and Johnny as they sit down. You hear their utensils clink, scraping against their plates, hitting their teeth. Your stomach burbles with hunger, and in a lapse of judgement, you feather towards one of the men and lay your head on their lap in a wordless beg, hoping it isn’t Ghost. During your time here you’ve come to learn he doesn’t take kindly to grovelling mutts.
But throughout this ordeal luck has continuously escaped you. It shouldn’t surprise you when a large hand rests on your head, squishing you against the thickening rise of his jeans.
“Hungry?” Ghost rasps. You hear the flick and flare of a lighter. You hear cigarette paper burning away as Ghost lights it up, inhaling the smoke between bites of food.
You grizzle, nodding against his tented jeans.
“Take my cock out,” he says.
Essentially blindfolded, you struggle with finding his fly. Your fingers fumble over his crotch and flinch when you catch his zipper, pulling it down to feel his boxer-briefs distorted by a raging hard-on.
You tug on his boxer-briefs just enough for his cock to slip out, thwacking against his tummy with a soft thump. You choke your hand around him, but his cock is too thick for your grip to wrap all the way around. You employ both hands, working them up and down his length, brushing the pad of your thumb over his dripping slit.
It startles you when he cups your cheeks. His hands are larger than your head, and unexpectedly rip a hole through the burlap, just big enough for your mouth. You capitalize off air that isn’t recycled and open your mouth for a lungful, but your inhale gets dampened as Ghost feeds his cock into you.
He rubs his slit over your tongue and slides himself down the spine of your throat. You retch around him, however his hand is split behind your neck and keeps your nose squished against his bristly pubic bone. He bucks his hips into you, drawing on his cigarette, eating his food. You can barely hear Johnny through the mescal pooling in your ears–
“Is she suckin’ ye off?” “Ghost, can I watch? Or join? Or can she suck me next? Please?” “What’s she doin’? Is she doin’ it right? Ghost–”
You feel cigarette shavings fall on your head, and humiliation tingling up your spine at being his ashtray. Your cunt twists when Ghost grunts, scratching his teeth together. His voice is husky and tight, malformed with arousal as you suckle his fat cockhead.
“You shut your gob Johnny,” he growls. “Or you’ll spend the night in the kennel.”
Johnny snaps his mouth shut. You can hear it. That, and the table rattling as he humps his chair. All the noise around you ripens into tinnitus as Ghost squishes his thighs around your head and goes rigid with his orgasm, emptying his balls down your warm throat. His spume is slick, filling up your mouth, chasing after him in strings as he pulls himself from your throat.
He swats your cheek. “Was that yummy, pet?”
Your pussy aches. Your tangible arousal bleeds through your panties, hot and sticky.
(They say that as you’re drowning, it feels like hell. Like you’re getting attacked by white-capped waves. The pain quickly ripens into an unexplainable peace, and soon, the treacherous water turns into a warm hug. It’s peaceful. A timeless limbo.
Maybe you’re drowning now. In Ghost’s come, or Johnny’s affection, or their doting. It’s the only explanation for the way your hackles lower and a drowsy smile stretches over your face, as you softly nod.)
“This is why you need us, pet,” Ghost continues. “We’re here to take care of you. Keep you fed. Groomed. It’s what you deserve.”
You drop your head on his knee, wistful.
“We cannae do that if yer bein’ thrawn,” Johnny tacks on. “You dinnae have to feel guilty about it. After all it feels good, aye?”
You nod as Ghost pulls the sack off your head and unleashes you from the table. He shepherds you into his lap and kisses you sweetly, fondling your tits.
“Does my pet want more?” He rasps into the seam of your lips.
You mumble a soft, “Yes,” languid, grinding on him. Ghost is quick to correct you—he grips your jaw and stares at you witheringly, shaking his head.
“Pets don’t talk,” he says. “You just nod, alright? And don’t shake your head. They don’t say no, either.”
Ghost stands up before your response and carries you to the bedroom. He drops you on the mattress and crawls on top, planting his arms on either side of you.
(There he goes again, trapping you in a cage.)
Johnny stalks through the threshold and leans down to kiss you. They scatter their lips over your body and map your skin, dragging their tongues across your curves. Their hands follow suit—gripping, dimpling, caressing. Tightening the collar around your neck.
Ghost tugs you by your martingale. “You’re gonna take us both, alright?”
A prudish “Yes,” sits on your tongue, but you bite it off. You nod instead. Thawing into their touch, their tongues. Their rules. Their lifestyle. You let them peel your clothes off and spread your pussy, spitting on it, plunging their fingers into it. You don’t know whose wrist to grab as they both fuck you open on their fingers, and you finally opt to twisting the bedsheets in your grip to ground yourself.
“So wet, puppy,” Johnny breathes. He sweeps his hand over your sticky folds, giving it a smack. Ghost catches your flinch and thumbs your clit, tracing it, curling his stout fingers into your walls.
“She wants more,” he grunts. “She’s needy.”
Johnny unzips his pants and takes his dick out. He nods, drowsy, as he tugs at his cock.
“I’ll fuck ‘er,” Ghost continues. “Fill out this pretty pussy.”
Johnny whines. Long and tinny. Pouty. “But ye said I could have ‘er, Ghost. Ye said I could have ‘er again. That’s nae fair–”
“If you keep being a brat about it, you won’t get her at all,” Ghost makes a withering, warning look that shuts Johnny up.
Ghost takes his shirt off, and you have no time to ogle at his bristly chest before being pulled onto his lap. His cock lays in front of you, fat and heavy, pressing against the squish of your cunt. You’re grinding down on him when he rasps something that drains you, turning you pruney, into vacuum-sealed cellophane.
“You take ‘er backside,” he says against your jaw. It agitates another stir of arousal out of you. It travels down your ass and waves over your furled hole, lubing it up.
You realize it now—Ghost warned you of it—Johnny is hyper, barky. He wastes no time in rutting his cockhead into you, breaking the skin of your shoulder as he bites you to offset the pleasure scuttling up his spine. He forces himself into your asshole, prattling nugatory apologies every time you smart with pain.
“I ken it hurts,” he says. “I’m sorry puppy, it’ll go away soon. Please dinnae be mad at me.”
Just as the burn starts to elapse, Ghost slides into your pussy. It’s a maddening squeeze. You clamp around him, clawing your nails down his hairy, bulging chest. Your hips spurt and stutter, taking them whole, unravelling into ribbons as they snap into you.
It’s world’s better than your inept fingers and cheap vibrator. Getting hollowed out, split open on two fat, heavy cocks. Trapped between them as they guide your hips, as they lean over you and dovetail their lips together, their saliva dripping onto your head with how messy it is.
You heft your neck up, desperate to join in. Desperate to catch their spit in the cradle of your mouth. You’re just barely given a gorge to slip through, kitten licking their lips, sucking their tongues. It’s wet and messy and has you knotting up around them, locking up tight as your orgasm feathers over you, caught in the girdle where your leash is and trickling down to your tummy where the barest outline of Ghost’s length protrudes.
They don’t let up after your orgasm. They keep going—they’re two dogs stuffing their snouts into an addled carcass, mangled roadkill—there is no mercy. They fuck you through the bulk of your orgasm, even as you go limp against Ghost’s chest. Even as words elude you when you want to prate about how good it feels, and you can only produce gasps, howls, whimpers and whines.
Perhaps it’s providence that you’re here, that you came across Ghost under that awning. You’ll ignore the red flags, the warnings, and you’ll indulge in their sick lifestyle.
It’s a quid pro quo. They have someone to pamper, you get pampered.
Maybe you’ll even bark for them too.
More Posts from Bobiologist and Others
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.
IMPORTANT UPDATE!!!
so i moved blogs! my new @ is @red5tars !! i will slowly be moving some of my posts over there. do not feel obligated to follow but if you'd like.. i will see you on the other side!
Cool Girl
Ghoap x female reader / 18+ / masterlist
Your hand is shaking again.
It’s a defense mechanism or something, you think. Some physical manifestation of your anxiety. Something psychological, you’re sure of it.
It’s the only thing you’re sure of, if you’re being honest.
You stalk home as fast as you can, scowl affixed to your face like it’s been cemented there, seeping deep into your frown lines, etching them like a chisel on marble.
The walk sobers you. Brings you back to rational sense, little by little.
You shouldn’t have called them. You’re so dumb. You’re asking for trouble.
But is it so bad, to want to cause an emotional reaction? To want them to be as miserable as you?
It’s pathetic. A way to seek validation. A mistake.
One you’re sure you’re going to pay for.
Your front door is unlocked.
The door pushes open nearly on its own, and your eyes struggle to adjust in the pitch black of your hallway. No light from the street spills from the living room, which means the drapes have been drawn closed.
Your heart leaps into your ears, pounding between your temples at a frenzied pace.
It’s fine. You’re fine. It’s probably them.
What if it’s not? Do you have a weapon? A way to defend yourself? You find your pepper spray in your bag, readying it between trembling fingers.
“Hello?” You call.
Nothing.
“Hello… if you’re in my flat, you better-“ a firm hand grips back of your neck, like a viper assaulting its prey, and you scream.
“It’s me.” Simon murmurs into your hair, touching over your pulse. “Jus’ me.”
“You scared the shit out of me,” you twist out of his grip, fumbling for the lights.
When they flick on, you blink a few times to adjust.
He’s a sight for sore eyes in joggers, a black sweatshirt, black hat.
His eyes burn. They scald you, roving from top to toe, his mouth sealed in a scowl. “Have a nice night, sweetheart?”
You gulp. “I- I did.”
“Thought you were clever with that phone call?”
“I… I didn’t think-“
“You didn’t.” He cuts you off, and then points to living room. “Go sit on the couch.” Your hand trembles against your chest, and you hang your head.
Got the attention you wanted?
“Where’s Johnny?” You whisper as he takes the seat next to you, massive shoulders turning so he can peer downwards.
“Decided this was better to handle on my own.” Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest.
“Oh.” Simon takes a deep breath, eyeing your shaking hand, and then shakes his head. You can’t read it, can’t ever read him, and you wait with breath frozen in your lungs, wait for him to say something, anything.
But what comes next, is not what you expected.
“Johnny’s in love with you.” You jerk back, eyebrows raised into your hairline.
“No.” Your voice trembles. “No, this… this is casual.”
“It is.” Simon’s lips press flat. “The girl at the hotel, she was a job. Had nothin’ to do with our… personal lives. She was a loose end to tie up when we got back. It was convenient, that she lived in our city.” Your mind tumbles and falls, your sense dives off a cliff.
Johnny’s in love with you.
“I don’t understand… you, after-“
“I let you believe it.” He says simply, looking down his nose at you. He’s never looked so cold. “At first, I wanted to explain, to correct it, for his sake, but… the opportunity was too good. So I told Johnny that you reminded me of our arrangement. That you agreed, that you always said you didn’t want a relationship. The situation at the bar with your date,” he smiles self indulgently “that was just for fun. Would’ve fucked ya right up against that door for the whole bar to see if you let us. Split that pretty pussy open on my cock and watch you gag on Johnny’s, but you still wanted to be a brat,” he rolls his eyes, “it was all a distraction I built for him.”
Alarm bells blare inside your skull, Johnny’s words from the other day when he brought the flowers repeating over and over.
“Ye think ye saw us with another woman, or on a date, but-“
“Ye agreed. Ye always said ye didnae want a relationship.”
“No- no. He… he came here, he made it sound-“
Simon studies you. “He’s explosive, sometimes. Doesn’t handle his emotions well, gets all twisted up. I think when he came over here, he wanted you to tell him you wanted more,” he sighs, rubs his chin. “He’s so out of sorts over it all, poor boy.”
“Why? Why didn’t you… why didn’t you tell him the truth? Or me?” His lips curl into a sneer.
“Because Johnny is mine. I might share his body with you, sweet girl, but I won’t share his heart.”
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
Girls That Hate Cops and Buy Guns.
tags: fae!Soap x f!reader, gun play, stalking, ghoul brand magical bullshit, threats of violence, cnc kink exploitation, Soap is a rabid dog that should be put down, 2nd pov, reader is mentioned to be US American(sorry), minor mention of reader's eyes, smut baiting... sorry about that.
He knows you're home, can smell you, feel you moving through the apartment. His hands press against the locked door, his breathing deep as he tries to absorb the subtle scent of your home leaking through the cracks of the apartment door. He's been coming back here for days, following you home, biding his time, trying to convince himself not to force his way inside, not to mince the tumblers in your lock. The thought of you makes his teeth itch, makes his mouth water at the sight of your skin, the way you tip your head, the length of you neck. All on display for him as you work behind Price's bar, he just knows it.
It's hunger that gnaws at him, that forces his feet forward, that's stirring in his belly every time you pass him a drink. That tinge of inspiration makes his mouth water. Something in your fae-touched eyes that looks at him and knows exactly what to serve makes him feel like he's starving. He needs a new artist, and you're such a perfect fit. He just needs to get his hooks in you, and you'll fill him up. He won't be hungry anymore with you sitting in his stomach. He knows it. This time it'll be different. He won't pump too much inspiration into you, won't clog your brain too much. He can get it right this time, he won't suffocate you under his need this time.
The lock clicks, his magic invading every crack in the wooden door, filling in gaps that soak into the grooves, that make the screws loosen around the hinges. He feels the ache of the forest, the cries of the lumber now quiet. He's so hungry.
Your flat is dark. The soft light of the streetlamps filtering in through the windows where your blinds haven't been shut tight enough. There's light under your bedroom door, warm and welcoming. He follows it like a moth to a flame, his fingers ache for you, desperate to sink into your flesh, to tear at your heart, to make a home for himself in the recesses of your mind and carve and carve and carve until there's nothing left. Price warned him to stay away from his new bartender, but how could he? It was like dangling a steak in front of a starving wolf and hoping it wouldn't bite.
You ooze inspiration, all you need is a muse.
Something metal presses against the back of his head. Cold steel. It burns through the short hair on his head, dizzying iron and carbon with every intention to kill. Soap's blood burns hot, thrums through his veins with every beat of his heart, his muscles shaking with something closer to desire than fear. He can feel the annoyance radiating off of you, the flaring violence that tugs at your fingers and presses the muzzle of your gun harder against his skull. It's exciting. You might kill him.
"What are you doing in my house?" You ask behind him. There's no fear in your voice, the question flat, the score easily settled. You have the weapon, and he's broken a rule. Trespassing. How rude. It shivers through him, the indifference that carries you, that presses the barrel of a gun against his skin and bubbles iron against his skull.
"Where did you get that?" He asks, cocking his head. It drags the metal over his skin, the burn trailing from one point to the next. The metal digs into the thin skin, painful. No, it's excruciating. He wants more, wants to feel the way your nails would claw at his flesh, feel you drag iron over his broken skin. It shudders down his spine, thinking of all the ways you could hurt him. It makes his mouth water. He wonders if you'll pull the trigger. Heat rolls through his stomach.
"Brought it from home," There's a smile in your voice, barely there but enough to make his cock twitch. The cock of the hammer sends his blood rushing south, the venom in your smile as you press the barrel a little harder against him. "Worse monsters than you in the states, but I figure the method of disposal is the same."
"Ya think a bullet'll take me oot?"
"I'm willing to try it." You hum. He wants to hurt you back, wants to feel your blood squelch under his teeth, feel your skin warm under his hand, poke at the bruises he leaves... He wants to make you feel- feel anything really. He wants your attention, however he gets it. "Why are you here?" You question, finally hitting on the curiosity he's felt burning at the edge of your words.
"I want you," He says plainly. There's no way to convey the ache in his blood, the song of pain you're inspiring, in just three words, so he doesn't try. He turns his head, lets the muzzle drag over his skin, burning a path through his hair, through the thin muscle over his skull. You won't shoot him, he doesn't think, or you would have already. He manages to get all the way around, his body following the path of least resistance to face you.
Your brows twitch, your lips set in a grimace, watching the burn of his skin around the steel of your gun. You try to move it away and he catches your hand, pressing his harder against his forehead. He hadn't realized he was panting, that seeing the white, full moon, of your eyes would make his cock hurt. He grips your other hand when you try to push him away, pressing it hard against his aching cock. You flinch, your hips jumping, your fingers curling. The feeling of him...
Didn't you know? He's enjoying this.
"You've been following me," You try a different route, his eyes fluttering as he ruts against your hand. You swallow, you don't think the gun still burning the skin on his forehead is the threat you'd hoped it would be.
"Want ta lick your pretty cunt," He growls, his teeth bared, he yanks your hand keeping you in place when you cringe away from his voice, "Wanna fuck ya 'til you're bleedin', beggin' me ta stop." You can feel the twitch of his cock through his pants. He feels big. Heat tingles between your legs, your underwear suddenly pressed too close, the seam of your shorts catching against your clit as you shift on your feet. You feel like all your senses have been forced to high alert with just a few words.
"Someone should put you down," You glare.
"Ah wish you fuckin' would." He groans, his eyes electric even in the dark, "Wish you'd pull that fuckin' trigger, give me a reason to rip those little shorts off ya." You look away from him, your cheeks are burning. The threat makes you want to squirm as much as it chills you. "Knew ya'd like that, dirty birdie."
"I'm calling Price," You tell him after a deep breath. Soap blinks, something in his eyes sliding a little off kilter.
"Don't." He warns. You stick your tongue out at him, almost as quickly as he lets go of your hand to try and grab between your legs. You see his victorious smile, his fingers brushing over the wet spot on your shorts, at the same time you say his boss's full name.
You smell cigar smoke as soon as the last syllable leaves your lips, see a big hand grab the back of Soap's neck to pull him away from you. The air is seething with anger.
"Tryin' to have a nice night with the Missus," Price growls, "and you're causin' trouble."
"Ahm naw-"
"Save it," Price barks, he tips his head your way, a silent acknowledgement, before his anger is turned on Soap again, "Told ya to keep away from my staff, mutt."
Soap casts a pleading look your way before both of them disappear. Smoke settles heavy on the floor where the fae once stood. You finally let yourself lower your weapon, letting the shivering in your muscles overtake you as you try to find your way back to lock your door.
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
words to use when writing
Appetite:
craving, demand, gluttony, greed, hunger, inclination, insatiable, longing, lust, passion, ravenousness, relish, taste, thirst, urge, voracity, weakness, willingness, yearning, ardor, dedication, desire, devotion, enthusiasm, excitement, fervor, horny, intensity, keenness, wholeheartedness, zeal
Arouse:
agitate, awaken, electrify, enliven, excite, entice, foment, goad, incite, inflame, instigate, kindle, provoke, rally, rouse, spark, stimulate, stir, thrill, waken, warm, whet, attract, charm, coax, fire up, fuel, heat up, lure, produce, stir up, tantalize, tease, tempt, thrum, torment, wind up, work up
Assault:
attack, advancing, aggressive, assailing, charging, incursion, inundated, invasion, offensive, onset, onslaught, overwhelmed, ruinous, tempestuous, strike, violation, ambush, assail, barrage, bombard, bombardment, crackdown, wound
Beautiful:
admirable, alluring, angelic, appealing, bewitching, charming, dazzling, delicate, delightful, divine, elegant, enticing, exquisite, fascinating, gorgeous, graceful, grand, magnificent, marvelous, pleasing, radiant, ravishing, resplendent, splendid, stunning, sublime, attractive, beguiling, captivating, enchanting, engaging, enthralling, eye-catching, fetching, fine, fine-looking, good-looking, handsome, inviting, lovely, mesmeric, mesmerizing, pretty, rakish, refined, striking, tantalizing, tempting
Brutal:
atrocious, barbarous, bloodthirsty, callous, cruel, feral, ferocious, hard, harsh, heartless, inhuman, merciless, murderous, pitiless, remorseless, rough, rude, ruthless, savage, severe, terrible, unmerciful, vicious, bestial, brute, brutish, cold-blooded, fierce, gory, nasty, rancorous, sadistic, uncompromising, unfeeling, unforgiving, unpitying, violent, wild
Burly:
able-bodied, athletic, beefy, big, brawny, broad-shouldered, bulky, dense, enormous, great, hard, hardy, hearty, heavily built, heavy, hefty, huge, husky, immense, large, massive, muscular, mighty, outsized, oversized, powerful, powerfully built, prodigious, robust, solid, stalwart, stocky, stout, strapping, strong, strongly built, sturdy, thick, thickset, tough, well-built, well-developed
Carnal:
animalistic, bodily, impure, lascivious, lecherous, lewd, libidinous, licentious, lustful, physical, prurient, salacious, sensuous, voluptuous, vulgar, wanton, , coarse, crude, dirty, raunchy, rough, unclean
Dangerous:
alarming, critical, fatal, formidable, impending, malignant, menacing, mortal, nasty, perilous, precarious, pressing, serious, terrible, threatening, treacherous, urgent, vulnerable, wicked, acute, damaging, deadly, death-defying, deathly, destructive, detrimental, explosive, grave, harmful, hazardous, injurious, lethal, life-threatening, noxious, poisonous, risky, severe, terrifying, toxic, unsafe, unstable, venomous
Dark:
atrocious, corrupt, forbidding, foul, infernal, midnight, morbid, ominous, sinful, sinister, somber, threatening, twilight, vile, wicked, abject, alarming, appalling, baleful, bizarre, bleak, bloodcurdling, boding evil, chilling, cold, condemned, creepy, damned, daunting, demented, desolate, dire, dismal, disturbing, doomed, dour, dread, dreary, dusk, eerie, fear, fearsome, frightening, ghastly, ghostly, ghoulish, gloom, gloomy, grave, grim, grisly, gruesome, hair-raising, haunted, hideous, hopeless, horrendous, horrible, horrid, horrific, horrifying, horror, ill-fated, ill-omened, ill-starred, inauspicious, inhospitable, looming, lost, macabre, malice, malignant, menacing, murky, mysterious, night, panic, pessimistic, petrifying, scary, shadows, shadowy, shade, shady, shocking, soul-destroying, sour, spine-chilling, spine-tingling, strange, terrifying, uncanny, unearthly, unlucky, unnatural, unnerving, weird, wretched
Delicious:
enticing, exquisite, luscious, lush, rich, savory, sweet, tasty, tempting, appetizing, delectable, flavorsome, full of flavor, juicy, lip-smacking, mouth-watering, piquant, relish, ripe, salty, spicy, scrummy, scrumptious, succulent, tangy, tart, tasty, yummy, zesty
Ecstasy:
delectation, delirium, elation, euphoria, fervor, frenzy, joy, rapture, transport, bliss, excitement, happiness, heaven, high, paradise, rhapsody, thrill, blissful, delighted, elated, extremely happy, in raptures (of delight), in seventh heaven, jubilant, on cloud nine, overexcited, overjoyed, rapturous, thrilled
Ecstatic:
delirious, enraptured, euphoric, fervent, frenzied, joyous, transported, wild
Erotic:
amatory, amorous, aphrodisiac, carnal, earthy, erogenous, fervid, filthy, hot, impassioned, lascivious, lecherous, lewd, raw, romantic, rousing, salacious, seductive, sensual, sexual, spicy, steamy, stimulating, suggestive, titillating, voluptuous, tantalizing
Gasp:
catch of breath, choke, gulp, heave, inhale, pant, puff, snort, wheeze, huff, rasp, sharp intake of air, short of breath, struggle for breath, swallow, winded
Heated:
ardent, avid, excited, fervent, fervid, fierce, fiery, frenzied, furious, impassioned, intense, passionate, raging, scalding, scorched, stormy, tempestuous, vehement, violent, ablaze, aflame, all-consuming, blazing, blistering, burning, crazed, explosive, febrile, feverish, fired up, flaming, flushed, frantic, hot, hot-blooded, impatient, incensed, maddening, obsessed, possessed, randy, searing, sizzling, smoldering, sweltering, torrid, turbulent, volatile, worked up, zealous
Hunger:
appetite, ache, craving, gluttony, greed, longing, lust, mania, mouth-watering, ravenous, voracious, want, yearning, thirst
Hungry:
avid, carnivorous, covetous, craving, eager, greedy, hungered, rapacious, ravenous, starved, unsatisfied, voracious, avaricious, desirous, famished, grasping, insatiable, keen, longing, predatory, ravening, starving, thirsty, wanting
Intense:
forceful, severe, passionate, acute, agonizing, ardent, anxious, biting, bitter, burning, close, consuming, cutting, deep, eager, earnest, excessive, exquisite, extreme, fervent, fervid, fierce, forcible, great, harsh, impassioned, keen, marked, piercing, powerful, profound, severe, sharp, strong, vehement, violent, vivid, vigorous
Liquid:
damp, cream, creamy, dripping, ichorous, juicy, moist, luscious, melted, moist, pulpy, sappy, soaking, solvent, sopping, succulent, viscous, wet / aqueous, broth, elixir, extract, flux, juice, liquor, nectar, sap, sauce, secretion, solution, vitae, awash, moisture, boggy, dewy, drenched, drip, drop, droplet, drowning, flood, flooded, flowing, fountain, jewel, leaky, milky, overflowing, saturated, slick, slippery, soaked, sodden, soggy, stream, swamp, tear, teardrop, torrent, waterlogged, watery, weeping
Lithe:
agile, lean, pliant, slight, spare, sinewy, slender, supple, deft, fit, flexible, lanky, leggy, limber, lissom, lissome, nimble, sinuous, skinny, sleek, slender, slim, svelte, trim, thin, willowy, wiry
Moan:
beef, cry, gripe, grouse, grumble, lament, lamentation, plaint, sob, wail, whine, bemoan, bewail, carp, deplore, grieve, gripe, grouse, grumble, keen, lament, sigh, sob, wail, whine, mewl
Moving:
(exciting,) affecting, effective arousing, awakening, breathless, dynamic, eloquent, emotional, emotive, expressive, fecund, far-out, felt in gut, grabbed by, gripping, heartbreaking, heartrending, impelling, impressive, inspirational, meaningful, mind-bending, mind-blowing, motivating, persuasive, poignant, propelling, provoking, quickening, rallying, rousing, significant, stimulating, simulative, stirring, stunning, touching, awe-inspiring, energizing, exhilarating, fascinating, heart pounding, heart stopping, inspiring, riveting, thrilling
Need:
compulsion, demand, desperate, devoir, extremity, impatient longing, must, urge, urgency / desire, appetite, avid, burn, craving, eagerness, fascination, greed, hunger, insatiable, longing, lust, taste, thirst, voracious, want, yearning, ache, addiction, aspiration, desire, fever, fixation, hankering, hope, impulse, inclination, infatuation, itch, obsession, passion, pining, wish, yen
Pain:
ache, afflict, affliction, agony, agonize, anguish, bite, burn, chafe, distress, fever, grief, hurt, inflame, laceration, misery, pang, punish, sting, suffering, tenderness, throb, throe, torment, torture, smart
Painful:
aching, agonizing, arduous, awful, biting, burning, caustic, dire, distressing, dreadful, excruciating, extreme, grievous, inflamed, piercing, raw, sensitive, severe, sharp, tender, terrible, throbbing, tormenting, angry, bleeding, bloody, bruised, cutting, hurting, injured, irritated, prickly, skinned, smarting, sore, stinging, unbearable, uncomfortable, upsetting, wounded
Perverted:
aberrant, abnormal, corrupt, debased, debauched, defiling, depraved, deviant, monstrous, tainted, twisted, vicious, warped, wicked, abhorrent, base, decadent, degenerate, degrading, dirty, disgusting, dissipated, dissolute, distasteful, hedonistic, immodest, immoral, indecent, indulgent, licentious, nasty, profligate, repellent, repugnant, repulsive, revolting, shameful, shameless, sickening, sinful, smutty, sordid, unscrupulous, vile
Pleasurable:
charming, gratifying, luscious, satisfying, savory, agreeable, delicious, delightful, enjoyable, nice, pleasant, pleasing, soothing, succulent
Pleasure:
bliss, delight, gluttony, gratification, relish, satisfaction, thrill, adventure, amusement, buzz, contentment, delight, desire, ecstasy, enjoyment, excitement, fun, happiness, harmony, heaven, joy, kick, liking, paradise, seventh heaven
Rapacious:
avaricious, ferocious, furious, greedy, predatory, ravening, ravenous, savage, voracious, aggressive, gluttonous, grasping, insatiable, marauding, plundering
Rapture:
bliss, ecstasy, elation, exaltation, glory, gratification, passion, pleasure, floating, unbridled joy
Rigid:
adamant, austere, definite, determined, exact, firm, hard, rigorous, solid, stern, uncompromising, unrelenting, unyielding, concrete, fixed, harsh, immovable, inflexible, obstinate, resolute, resolved, severe, steadfast, steady, stiff, strong, strict, stubborn, taut, tense, tight, tough, unbending, unchangeable, unwavering
Sudden:
abrupt, accelerated, acute, fast, flashing, fleeting, hasty, headlong, hurried, immediate, impetuous, impulsive, quick, quickening, rapid, rash, rushing, swift, brash, brisk, brusque, instant, instantaneous, out of the blue, reckless, rushed, sharp, spontaneous, urgent, without warning
Thrust:
(forward) advance, drive, forge, impetus, impulsion, lunge, momentum, onslaught, poke, pressure, prod, propulsion, punch, push, shove, power, proceed, progress, propel
(push hard) assail, assault, attack, bear down, buck, drive, force, heave, impale, impel, jab, lunge, plunge, press, pound, prod, ram, shove, stab, transfix, urge, bang, burrow, cram, gouge, jam, pierce, punch, slam, spear, spike, stick
Thunder-struck:
amazed, astonished, aghast, astounded, awestruck, confounded, dazed, dazed, dismayed, overwhelmed, shocked, staggered, startled, stunned, gob-smacked, bewildered, dumbfounded, flabbergasted, horrified, incredulous, surprised, taken aback
Torment:
agony, anguish, hurt, misery, pain, punishment, suffering, afflict, angst, conflict, distress, grief, heartache, misfortune, nightmare, persecute, plague, sorrow, strife, tease, test, trial, tribulation, torture, turmoil, vex, woe
Touch:
(physical) - blow, brush, caress, collide, come together, contact, converge, crash, cuddle, embrace, feel, feel up, finger, fondle, frisk, glance, glide, graze, grope, handle, hit, hug, impact, join, junction, kiss, lick, line, manipulate, march, massage, meet, nudge, palm, partake, pat, paw, peck, pet, pinch, probe, push, reach, rub, scratch, skim, slide, smooth, strike, stroke, suck, sweep, tag, tap, taste, thumb, tickle, tip, touching, toy, bite, bump, burrow, buss, bury, circle, claw, clean, clutch, cover, creep, crush, cup, curl, delve, dig, drag, draw, ease, edge, fiddle with, flick, flit, fumble, grind, grip, grub, hold, huddle, knead, lap, lave, lay a hand on, maneuver, manhandle, mash, mold, muzzle, neck, nestle, nibble, nip, nuzzle, outline, play, polish, press, pull, rasp, ravish, ream, rim, run, scoop, scrabble, scrape, scrub, shave, shift, shunt, skate, slip, slither, smack, snake, snuggle, soothe, spank, splay, spread, squeeze, stretch, swipe, tangle, tease, thump, tongue, trace, trail, tunnel twiddle, twirl, twist, tug, work, wrap
(mental) - communicate, examine, inspect, perception, scrutinize
Wet:
bathe, bleed, burst, cascade, course, cover, cream, damp, dampen, deluge, dip, douse, drench, dribble, drip, drizzle, drool, drop, drown, dunk, erupt, flood, flow, gush, immerse, issue, jet, leach, leak, moisten, ooze, overflow, permeate, plunge, pour, rain, rinse, run, salivate, saturate, secrete, seep, shower, shoot, slaver, slobber, slop, slosh, sluice, spill, soak, souse, spew, spit, splash, splatter, spout, spray, sprinkle, spurt, squirt, steep, stream, submerge, surge, swab, swamp, swill, swim, trickle, wash, water
Wicked:
abominable, amoral, atrocious, awful, base, barbarous, dangerous, debased, depraved, distressing, dreadful, evil, fearful, fiendish, fierce, foul, heartless, hazardous, heinous, immoral, indecent, intense, mean, nasty, naughty, nefarious, offensive, profane, scandalous, severe, shameful, shameless, sinful, terrible, unholy, vicious, vile, villainous, wayward, bad, criminal, cruel, deplorable, despicable, devious, ill-intentioned, impious, impish, iniquitous, irreverent, loathsome, Machiavellian, mad, malevolent, malicious, merciless, mischievous, monstrous, perverse, ruthless, spiteful, uncaring, unkind, unscrupulous, vindictive, virulent, wretched
Writhe:
agonize, bend, jerk, recoil, lurch, plunge, slither, squirm, struggle, suffer, thrash, thresh, twist, wiggle, wriggle, angle, arc, bow, buck, coil, contort, convulse, curl, curve, fidget, fight, flex, go into spasm, grind, heave, jiggle, jolt, kick, rear, reel, ripple, resist, roll, lash, lash out, screw up, shake, shift, slide, spasm, stir, strain, stretch, surge, swell, swivel, thrust, turn violently, tussle, twitch, undulate, warp, worm, wrench, wrestle, yank
IMPORTANT UPDATE!!!
so i moved blogs! my new @ is @red5tars !! i will slowly be moving some of my posts over there. do not feel obligated to follow but if you'd like.. i will see you on the other side!
Fics and drabbles that lay in the realm of horror whether that be straight spooks or non-con fantasies (basically if it has non-con or allusions to it then it'll be classed under horror over smut)
Fics
No Second Location - mainly serial killer Soap, some serial killer 141 Savage and Sacrosanct and further plot- historical fantasy, Soap and Ghost The Revelation - cult shit with Ghost and Soap The Eyes of God - evil religious Ale and Rudy Devil's Trumpet - Appalachian horror with 141 Cry Baby - Ghost plays with you while Gaz is away Back Chat & Sequel - IT reader getting bullied by Soap Foul Magic - druid Soap Deductive Reasoning - fish folk 141 Make your own way home - Soap possessing you to get to Ghost Mace teaching reader to deepthroat for Ghost Mace raping reader to make her hero worship Ghost
Drabbles
AU Thoughts Wonderland AU thoughts Neverland AU thoughts Westworld AU thoughtsFallout AU thoughts
Expanded with Drabbles Ghost kidnapping a civilian - #mhairidrabblescodkidnappers Graves doll - #mhairidrabblesdoll Good Boy Bad Girl - #mhairi's good boy bad girl
Soap Soap who loves his fleshlight more than you Soap who gets his team to run train on you Trick or Treat with Soap Obsessive Soap Soap’s obsessive girlfriend Soap preying on Catholic virgins Creepypasta Soap Dogfighting but the dog is Soap
Price Tinsel choking with Price Price breeding you Never lets go Price Price’s retirement plan Kidnapper Price Price manipulating his way to a wife Sleazy politician Price Tactical questioning with Price Price intending to steal you and your boyfriend
Gaz Branding with Gaz Gaslighter Gaz “Romantic” Gaz
Ghost Serial killer Simon Ghost who targets vulnerable women Matching scars Ghost
Ghoap Circus!Ghoap thoughts Marriage of convenience with Laird MacTavish Forced marriage with Simon Ghost mad at you for not realising you are Soap’s Soap using Ghost to lube you up Ghost fucking you to punish Soap Loan shark Price sending Ghoap to deal with you
Other Traded to Kortac Temporarily blinded reader Toxic senior officer 141 Astronaut reader Escape room Beta reader forced to be an omega Price and his dogs Price making a doll for Ghost 141 and how they break girls Bellesa sex toy customer service Serial killers Gaz and Ghost Price forced husband historical fantasy Misogynist to transfem 141 Salem witch trial Price and Ghost Honeytrap omega Flight with Price and Ghost Ghost kidnapping a nanny for Soap’s surprise baby Blindfolded reader with someone who is not her boyfriend Soap Soap’s filthy notebook Werewolf Johnny selling you out Ex-husband Simon sending Gaz to break your heart Crow shifter 141 Farmer with a holiday lodge Halloween not real cops Sustainability officer
excuse me but WHAT RHE ACTUAL F-
picking up the manga rn
preparing emotionally for ch 100 JDKLFKLSD
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