Guilty

Fanfics: Small Mercies (Leland Coyle x Fem!Reader) | Coyle x Puppy!Reader HCs | Mean (coyle x plus size!reader)

Mood Boards: Leland Coyle

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The stench of blood and viscera lingers in the air as you stumble through the threshold of the secretary's office bathroom, your lungs burning from the chase. Behind you, the Warden's body lies brutalized on the desk in his office. Your hands shake from the effort it took to beat your way through his stomach.

You tell yourself it's just the adrenaline, but you know better.

Of all the reagents sent in to this trial, you were the one who understood the trial victim the most. Seeing the Warden in the shower room, on his knees for Sergeant Coyle, made your chest ache. Ducking away, you hid your flushed face from your team while they watched. They'd never let you hear the end of it. None of them would get it.

Without your team, the only trials you did solo were either at the police station or the courthouse. You spent hours following Coyle around his domain, listening to him rant about anything and everything.

Not to mention the countless times you let him catch you, just so you'd know what it was like to touch him. Most of the failures on your record were from getting too carried away letting Coyle throttle you.

But now, with Coyle hot on your heels, it feels different this time. You lock the door behind yourself, but it's pointless. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The door on the other wall is barricaded, and every hiding place is occupied by junk.

You're terrified to face the prime asset breaking down the door. After what your team just did, there's no way he'd let you leave here alive.

The doorframe splinters at the latch. Leland Coyle crashes through the door like a raging bull. Huffing and puffing, his sights are set on you. His face is flushed and dark, mottled red as sweat beads down his face. Bloodshot eyes stare you down with an intensity that makes you weak in the knees.

Your feet carry you backwards, away from him, until you hit the edge of the half-wall jutting out from the shower.

You're stuck.

"Commie shitbird!"

You flinch and cry out, "Please, I'm sorry!"

"Do you have any idea–" he roars, pointing at you with his free hand, "how long it takes to train a mouth?"

You know he's not really looking for an answer, so you keep quiet.

"Months! Months I spent trainin' him," he spits, "y'all broke my toy!"

"I'm sorry!" you cry out, throwing your hands up in surrender, hoping any sane part of this man would take over.

"Sorry ain't good enough," he growls around his cigarette.

The rational part of you is telling you to stun him, but your rig is still on cooldown for another minute. Long enough to die. Twice. You press your lower back into the wall and look around, trying to brainstorm.

To your dismay, there's nothing. From the shower to the floor– it's all barren except for some used condoms and trash. It's like someone cleared the room of anything useful before you even showed up.

Coyle advances until he's looming over you, dripping sweat onto your clothes and puffing on that cigarette.

The smell of his tobacco turns a light on in the darkest part of your brain. He never smelled pleasant any time you've run into him, but whatever brand he smokes is smooth. It doesn't make you crinkle your nose and hold your breath; it makes you want a taste.

You look up at him pathetically. He could squash you like a bug and move on to the next reagent without a second thought. The thought makes you shrink down, making yourself a smaller target.

"Take a look at you," he murmurs, anger slowly subsiding as he looks you up and down, "Shakin' like a leaf. Ain't no need for all that, now is there?"

"Uh– I–" the words get caught in your throat and die there.

Coyle's ungloved hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb dragging across your skin. So many times you've imagined those thick fingers digging into your soft flesh, leaving bruises all over you…

But having him here in front of you, all heat and leather, those fantasies seem foolish.

"Cat got your tongue, Honey?" he asks condescendingly.

You nod, and he grins wickedly.

"That's alright. We'll get that tongue workin' in no time," he presses his thumb against your lower lip and you're tempted to bite it off, "See, my Warden knew his place was on his knees, takin' what I give him, and he was grateful for it. Begged for it."

Your reflection in his aviators is blurry, but you can still see the fear in your face as his hand slides down your neck and he rests his palm right up against your pulse.

"Y'all took that from me."

A gulp catches in your throat.

"So, I've decided you are gon' be his replacement. Eye for an eye kind of thing," he explains carefully, patting your neck.

"You don't mean–"

"Well, you certainly got the frame for it. Built for comfort, ain't ya?" he says smoothly, nodding down at your body and chewing on that damned cigarette.

On the outside, your cheeks are burning hot. You don't want him to know how badly he's getting to you, but you can't control how your body is responding.

You're divided. Any other day, you would have crawled right up to him. You would have begged him for the privilege.

Even while you're squeezing your thighs together to quell the tingly warmth, you know this is wrong. This isn't some late-night fantasy while you're alone in your sleep room. It's Leland Coyle in the flesh. A valued Prime Asset; unpredictable, violent, and not afraid of taking what he wants.

All you have to do is figure out a way to get past him and you'd be fine. The rest of your team isn't gone, yet. You could make it to the shuttle if you ran fast enough. There's still time, right?

Apparently not.

"So how 'bout it?" Coyle leans in impatiently, his cigarette threatening to ash over you as he speaks.

You try to nod, but your neck won't cooperate.

"I'm gonna need words, Honey."

You open your mouth and a whole lot of nothing comes out. Coyle graciously waits a few seconds, giving you time.

"See, I can tell by that look," he mumbles, "you're thinkin' real hard 'bout runnin'. That little stun of yours is coolin' down. I know you're just itchin' to knock me in the head with it."

Shaking your head frantically, you stutter, "N-no. I'm not."

"Well then, the next thing I wanna hear outta that pretty mouth is 'yes, Daddy.'"

"Yes… Daddy?" you whisper, looking at him uncertainly.

"Nah. Like you mean it," he pats the side of your neck roughly.

Your heart jumps. You need to do this right.

"Yes, Daddy," you say sweetly.

"Oh, Sweetness," he groans, slipping his thumb around your throat and squeezing with enough pressure to remind you what he's capable of, "you're gettin' me all kinds of worked up, and we ain't even started, yet."

You swallow thickly, letting out a shaky breath. Maybe this won't be so bad.

Coyle lets go of your neck, dragging his fingers along your skin before pulling away. He steps back, pulls the cigarette from his mouth and tosses it on the tile.

Using his cattle prod, he gestures to the floor.

"First order of business, I got to know if you can follow basic directions," he leans back slightly, resting his free hand on his belt buckle, "Sit."

You stare at him, dumbfounded by the command after everything else. Sit? Like a dog?

Coyle frowns at your confusion.

"On. Your. KNEES!" he barks.

You drop.

The tile slams against your knees, but you don't wince. You wouldn't dare. Your heart hammers in your chest as you look up at him, breathing in shallowly. His shoulders relax as you obey, kneeling at his feet like you were made to be there.

"Good girl," he hums, dropping into a squat. His fingers thread through your hair, petting and lightly scratching at your scalp, making your eyes flutter, "You take direction when it's given with the proper… motivation, huh?"

Coyle drops his cattle prod to the floor and his gloved hand cups your cheek again. He's turning your head this way and that, like you're livestock at an auction. He rubs his thumb over your cheekbone, around the night vision goggles implanted in your temple, and traces the shell of your ear gently. His touch is methodical, cataloging every inch of you. Determining your worth.

"Open," he commands, bringing his thumb to press on your lip.

Your jaw trembles. You part your lips, and he grunts in approval, thumb pressing against your tongue, groping the wet heat of your mouth. You try your best to ignore the shameful way you lean into his touch.

"Real responsive," he mutters.

His hand slides down from your hair to grip the back of your neck, tightening and testing the give of your flesh. His leather gloved hand moves to your chest, avoiding your ESOP. He feels along the sides of your breasts.

Then lower, fingers spreading across your belly through your shirt as you suck in a breath. He squeezes you, assessing the softness there with undisguised hunger.

Coyle nods, satisfied, "Good weight distribution. Not flinchin' from proper handlin'."

You feel like a show animal, preening under his inspection, desperate for his approval. You arch your back slightly, pushing your chest out, presenting yourself for his evaluation. It's ridiculous and pathetic, but his smile returns.

"Oh, you want me to like you, don't you?" he lets out a laugh and taps the ESOP on your chest, "Let's get this thing off'a you."

He tugs at the straps of your ESOP, leaning in close to reach around and unhook it from the back, then the front. Easily, he pops the cable connecting your night vision goggles and tosses the strappy contraption across the room.

Completely unarmed now, you lean away from him and sit back more on your heels. Being so close to him seems a lot more dangerous now.

Coyle returns to cup your breasts, kneading roughly. Once again, you catch yourself leaning into his touch. You can't remember the last time someone held you like this. Despite the person the hands are attached to, it feels nice. You know you can't deny it as a soft whimper tumbles from your mouth.

"That's better, ain't it? Damned thing seemed kinda tight," he says, cocking his head at you.

"Thank you," you say quietly, sighing from the way his fingers brush across your nipples through your shirt and thin bra.

He smirks, "The way you're actin', kinda seems like you're wantin' me to pick you up and take you home."

You take a deep breath and hum in agreement.

"You'd like that, wouldn't ya? Bein' kept. Fed from my hand, and trained up right so you know exactly how to please a man like myself."

An involuntary whine escapes your throat, and you nod hesitantly. Coyle lets go of your breasts, resting his forearms on his knees as he grumbles something under his breath.

"Ohh-kay, Honey. You'll do," he decides with a curt nod, "Gonna take some work, some real disciplinin', but I'm thinkin' you might be worth the investment."

Coyle pulls his cattle prod from the floor and stands up, towering over you.

"Follow," he commands, turning on his heel.

You scramble to get your feet up under you, knees fighting as you push yourself up. A sharp whistle pierces the air. You freeze, half-crouched, and look up at him.

"Never seen a mutt walk on two legs before," he grumbles, glancing over his shoulder.

Your knees hit the tile again, then your palms. The floor is gritty with grime and sticky with substances you don't want to identify. Something sharp pokes into your right palm, probably glass, but you hope it's just a pebble. You don't stop to check.

You lower your gaze and crawl after him as he strides out of the office area, trying to keep pace with his gait while your knees scrape against the concrete.

Coyle leads you down the stairs, one heavy bootfall at a time, never looking back to see if you're still there. He knows you have nowhere else to go.

The panopticon opens up before you; a vast, circular hell of iron bars and windows. Coyle stops in the center in front of the, silhouetted against the red emergency lights still strobing across the walls. You crawl to his feet and wait, ignoring the chafing of your thighs and tightness in your lungs.

From somewhere behind a metal gate directly across from you, a biter yanks against their chain. They growl inhumanly and bark. Your first instinct is to reach for your stun. You lift a hand to your chest before remembering that you're still unarmed.

The alarms shriek louder, and the overhead speakers crackle to life.

"Ten seconds remaining to reach the shuttle. Nine. Eight…"

Coyle grunts, "Sit."

You fold back onto your haunches, heels tucked beneath you and hands resting on your thighs. You stare up at Coyle's face, searching for any hint that he might let you go before the shuttle leaves.

"Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two.…"

He doesn't acknowledge you. He pulls a fresh cigarette from his belt and flicks his cattle prod to life. The electricity pops and crackles as he touches it to the tip, sparking the cigarette to life.

"One. The shuttle is now leaving."

The alarms cut out. The red lights stop their frantic pulsing. Inside your chest, the last bit of hope you had withers. You're not getting out.

You're not going back.

Coyle takes a long drag, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.

"Y'know, y'all made a pretty big mess killin' my Warden," he says, rolling his shoulders and settling into his stance like a man on his fifteen minute smoke break, "Hell, it's a good thing we came to this here agreement, or else your fine ass woulda ended up as set dressin' for the next trial."

He shifts his weight, grabbing his crotch through his pants and adjusting himself with a grumble. He's acting antsy and impatient, and it's making you nervous.

Shuffling feet catch your attention as a grunt rounds the corner from Block A, pausing when they spot you on your knees. They straighten up, machete snapping up into a ready position, and begin stomping toward you.

"I LIVE HERE!" they grunt, raising their machete high.

You look up at Coyle, expecting him to intervene.

He just sighs exaggeratedly, and winds his arm back. The cattle prod whirs to life as he holds it like a baseball bat. While the grunt closes the distance, you scramble to crawl backward when Coyle swings.

The crack of electricity and metal meeting their skull echoes through the panopticon. Blood spatters across the floor, a few hot droplets landing on your arm. The grunt drops like a sack of potatoes, landing inches to your left.

Coyle shrugs and spits on the floor beside their head, "Can't seem t'keep people from puttin' their hands on what's mine today."

He looks down at you expectantly and cocks his head.

"…thank you, Daddy," you whisper, lip trembling slightly.

"You're welcome, Honey."

He steps in front of you then, close enough that his crotch is level with your face. His bulge strains against the fabric, undeniably hard. He unhooks his battery pack and sets it on the ground alongside his cattle prod, metal clattering against the floor.

"Time for you to show Daddy some appreciation for keepin' you safe," he says lowly.

His gloved hand comes down on the back of your head heavily, insistently shoving your face into the heat of him. You can feel him flex briefly as his cock presses against your cheek.

Slowly, you respond. Your fingers find his belt buckle, fumbling with it until it comes loose. You undo the button, drag the zipper down, and pull his pants and underwear down together.

The stench hits you first. It's a sharp scent of stale sweat and musk. You recoil, fighting back a dramatic gag, and force yourself to push forward.

His cock is thick and veined, covered with scars in various states of healing. A dark bush of pubic hair frames the base, and a tiny bead of precum glistens, drooling from the tip.

"Go on, now," he urges, "Little justice ain't gon' bite."

You extend your tongue, licking the head. The precum is salty, mixing oddly with the tangy sweat coating his skin. You try to keep yourself from gagging again, but it doesn't work.

You pause, expecting punishment, but he doesn't do anything.

One relieved breath later, you take him into your mouth, resting your hands on the sides of his thighs for balance. He grunts in approval above you. His gloved hand curls into a fist in your hair.

Your mouth is dry and cottony with fear, but you try to accumulate what saliva you can. It's been a while since you've done anything like this. Months? Years? You aren't sure at this point. Fortunately, muscle memory kicks in soon enough. You're bobbing on his length without much need for his guiding hand, finding a rhythm that makes his thighs tense under your palms.

"That's it," he groans, "Bein' such a good girl for me."

He releases his grip, opting to pet your hair instead while you move. Tingles rush down your spine as his nails just barely scrape your scalp. You hum around him, appreciating the praise and his oddly gentle touch.

"Gettin'… kinda… close," he warns you, voice strained.

Already? Either you must still have some skill or he's dying to finish what the Warden started for him. You speed up your pace, eager to please. And eager to end this before your legs fall asleep.

"Hey now," he yanks on your hair, irritation creeping in, "Slow down. Ain't no rush."

You take it slower, drawing back until just the tip rests on your tongue, then sliding forward until your nose brushes against the bush of curly hair at the base. You go as far down as you can until you gag, throat convulsing around him.

Holding yourself there, tears spring to your eyes. Everything in your peripheral blurs, but the way he moans, calling you his "perfect puppy," makes you feel like you would hold yourself there until you suffocated if it meant he'd keep praising you.

Coyle tightens his grip on your hair, painfully. His thighs stiffen under your hands and he stops moving. Above you, he's growling obscenities through gritted teeth.

"Fuuuck. Sweet puppy, takin' me–" he moans, cock twitching in your mouth, "so– ugh– damn well."

You force him as deep as you can handle, drool dripping from your lips. Hot cum spurts down your throat while you try your best to swallow around him. You want so badly to make a good first impression, which means wasting none of what he gives you.

When it seems like he's done, his fingers loosen in your hair fractionally, you pull back enough to get a good deep breath through your nose. You smile with him still in your mouth, feeling a sick sense of pride.

Suddenly, he forces your head back down onto his cock, hard.

"I'm real sorry 'bout this, Sweetness. I just can't hold it," he says, flicking his cigarette to the floor and patting your face with his ungloved hand.

You look up at him with wide, wet eyes as warm and salty liquid trickles down your throat, filling your mouth. He grins, tilting his head back. You realize too late what's happening. Bitter and acrid, piss drips from the corner of your mouth as you attempt to swallow as much as you can without choking on it. Your fingers dig into his thighs, but he keeps you still.

Coyle groans while he does it, savoring the moment.

You struggle to keep up with the flow. It's too much all at once. Your lungs burn, screaming for mercy. All you can do is push against his thighs as you cry, protests muffled by his cock.

When he's actually done, bladder empty, he tugs you off of him. You gasp for air, sputtering as piss streams down your chin onto your already ruined clothes. You can't look up at him.

He pulls his pants and underwear back up, buckles his belt, and picks up his battery back and cattle prod. Without a word, he saunters off toward one of the exit doors, leaving you behind.

Before he reaches the doorway, Coyle realizes you're not following him. He whistles in your direction and snaps his fingers.

"Heeere, girl."

The words echo, but your knees feel glued to the floor. You're coughing, aggravating the burn in your throat. Catching your breath seems impossible. You turn toward him, but your eyesight is blurred by leftover tears.

"Don't make me say it again," he shouts.

Your hands find the floor. The concrete is cold, sticky in ways you don't like.

"Last chance," he calls out and you can hear the smile in his tone, "Come here, or I come get you… you don't want me t'come get you."

You spare a glance to the grunt laid out beside you and then you crawl. Even with your knees hurting, palms slipping on the wetness coating everything, you somehow make it over to him. You don't look up. You wait for his next command, staring down at his boots.

-

Time moves on. Days blur into weeks, marked by Coyle's moods– the times he's gentle and the times he's not.

He keeps you in a solitary confinement cell, deep within the prison. There's a cot with a thin mattress, a bucket, and a heavy iron door.

"It's for your own good," he tells you, like he's doing you a favor.

Like Easterman or the other assets are wolves at the door instead of him being the one who leashed you.

He did eventually bring you your own collar. A heavy, metal thing with one looped ring meant for a lead. It's a little tight around your neck, but Coyle promises he'll make you a bigger one soon.

Sometimes, when the rest of the facility is quiet, he clips a leash to your collar and lets you walk beside him.

He calls it stretching your legs, though you know better than to walk upright. You crawl through the corridors on hands and knees, while he strolls leisurely with his cattle prod swinging at his hip. Coyle keeps you close; close enough that his boot occasionally nudges your ribs when you lag behind. Close enough that he can reach down and pet your hair when you keep pace properly.

"Easterman's been askin' 'bout you," he mentions casually one evening, fingers brushing through your hair and grazing your scalp.

His name makes you cringe.

"Thinks he can take what's mine again…" Coyle says angrily, "Ain't gon' let nobody hurt my sweet puppy dog. You belong t'me."

He keeps his promise about training you right. Every morning he drills you until it's instinct. How to sit at attention when he enters your cell. How to speak, or rather, how not to. You're not allowed to use his name, except for the one that he chose.

"Who am I?" he'll ask, standing over you while you kneel at his feet.

"Daddy," you whisper. It makes your cheeks burn every time you say it, especially when he gives you that slow, pleased smile.

"That's right. My good girl."

He teaches you what he expects. Silence unless you're spoken to, eyes down unless he lifts your chin, and immediate obedience without hesitation.

His lessons are enforced with pain when you fail. If it isn't the cattle prod pressed to the chub of your inner thighs, then it's his belt across your ass or his hand across your face and around your throat until you lose consciousness.

But when you succeed… when you anticipate his needs before he voices them and when you crawl to him the moment he snaps his fingers, the rewards make everything feel worthwile.

-

Two weeks in, Coyle comes back after a trial with blood drying under his fingernails and rage simmering on his face. You can tell by how his jaw is set that something went wrong, and he's looking for a place to put that anger.

"On the bed. Face down," he says flatly.

You hurry to obey as your heartbeat thunders in your ears. The bed frame creaks as you position yourself, pressing your cheek to the thin sheets. You hear him unbuckling his belt. As the leather slides through the loops, you flinch before the first strike even lands.

The first hit is agonizing.

There's a half-second of nothing, then white, hot heat crosses the expanse of your ass that makes you cry out into the mattress. He doesn't speak. He doesn't praise or condemn you, and you don't expect him to. You let him work through whatever he's carrying. You let him take it out on you.

By the time he's finished, you're a sobbing, trembling mess.

And then, his belt hits the floor. His hands replace it. Calloused palms smooth over the welts he raised, tracing them gently. You flinch, but push back into it. You hate that you can't help it.

"Easy, Honey," he whispers, "You done so good for me."

Coyle drags his hands over your hips and squeezes. One stays on your hip while the other drifts across your ass again, then lower. His fingers dip between your thighs and he coaxes you to pleasure with the same lack of patience he used to inflict pain. When you finish, moaning and gasping and dripping all over his hand, he tells you how good you did. He says you were brave, pets your hair, and calls you his favorite puppy.

You'd take the belt every day if it always ended like this.

-

Three weeks in, he finds you touching yourself without permission. You're alone in your cell, bored out of your mind, when he unlocks the door unexpectedly. Your hand freezes between your legs, cheeks flushing crimson as he stands in the doorway, eyebrow raised.

"Ain't this a pretty picture," he drawls.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," you stammer, pulling your hand away and closing your thighs, "I didn't mean–"

Coyle steps inside and shuts the cell door behind him, crossing over to stand by your bed. You look away from him, mortified.

He tsks, "Didn't mean to? Or didn't mean t'get caught?"

When you don't answer, he sighs, "Look at me."

His eyes are hidden behind those damn sunglasses, but you look up at them anyway.

"Sweetness, you know what happens t'dogs that stay humpin' things without permission?" he asks.

"No," you shake your head.

"They get fixed," he pauses, "Or they get put down."

"Oh…"

"Spread your legs," he demands.

Shame makes you hesitate, but you obey. He looks at you for a beat and then kneels, leaning in to finish what you started. His mouth is hot, his beard rough against the plush of your inner thighs, and he brings you to the edge quickly.

All that, just to pull back just before you're about to explode.

"Please," you whimper, hips chasing his mouth.

"Please what?" he chides.

"Please, Daddy, let me–"

"Let you what? Let you cum? After you been in here touchin' what's mine without askin'?" Coyle smiles at you, eyes hidden by those dark aviators. You wish he'd take them off.

You whine desperately and he laughs at you, genuinely amused. He squeezes the meat of your thighs appreciatively.

"Well, I reckon I can make an exception since you asked so nice," he says, but doesn't move.

He stays kneeling there, breathing against your skin and watching you squirm.

"Thank you," you whisper, "Thank you, Daddy."

"Mmhmm," Coyle hums.

It's not really approval. His thumb presses into the crease of your thigh and drags it along painfully slowly, tracing the width of your leg.

When he finally lowers his mouth again, he's rougher. Your hips buck into the sensation before you can stop yourself. He pins you down with one hand pressed into the softness of your stomach.

"Stay. Still," he growls.

You're babbling nonsense. You know you are– "Please," and "Daddy," combined with sounds that aren't words at all. He adjust his angle, pushes two thick fingers into you, and curls them until your spine arches off the mattress.

Static bursts behind your eyelids as you grip the thin sheets and your body goes taut, but he doesn't stop. He slows down, keeping his tongue on you. The aftershocks hit you until you're oversensitive, whimpering, and trying to clamp your thighs down on his head.

Coyle gets the message and pulls back. His beard shimmers in the light as you pant, chest and stomach heaving. When he looks up at you, he licks his lips hungrily. You hear his belt jingling, coming undone and the whisper of fabric as he shoves his pants down. He's on you in an instant, settling between your legs.

"Gon' fill you up, Honey," he mutters, guiding himself into you with one hand.

He wastes no time sinking his cock inside of you, gripping your hip with his other hand. Inch by inch, your mouth falls open and your eyes roll back.

The way your body yields to him, soft and welcoming, has him setting a harsh rhythm. Possessive, deep thrusts make the cot shake against the concrete wall. Your gasping breaths and his grunts fill the cell.

"Good puppy," he pants, leaning more of his weight on you, forcing your legs onto his shoulders and pressing your knees toward your head, "Such a sweet girl for your Daddy, huh? Takin' me so fuckin' deep, like some cheap whore."

You whine beneath him. Coyle's hitting something inside you that makes your legs spasm. You're back to moaning nothing but nonsense. A broken mantra of "please, please, please."

He speeds up, hips snapping harder as you feel the shift in him. His breathing is ragged as he slides a hand under your hip. He lifts you into his thrusts like you're weightless, arranging you however he wants.

"Gonna cum in you, Sweetness," he groans, "You want Daddy's cum inside you?"

You nod wildly, "Please, Daddy–"

He buries himself inside of you and stills. You feel the pulse of him. His hips jerk involuntarily against you as you feel the heat flooding you. He stays there, pressing you into the mattress with his weight until the tremors stop.

His hand still grips your hip, fingers kneading the soft flesh until you're sure he's going to leave more bruises.

"God damn," Coyle breathes out with a laugh, "Swear you're the tightest little fuckpig I've had in a while."

You feel empty when he pulls out of you, coating your thighs and sheets with cum. You know what happens next. He's going to pull his pants up and leave, expecting you to clean yourself up as best you can.