#slasher handler

You watch him for a minute, but he doesn’t look up. It’s hard to shake the feeling that something is wrong, but you do need to work. With a last wary glance at him, you settle your headphones over your ears - transparency on - and get back to organizing a data set that reminds you of a ball of duct tape.

It’s time for a break before you know it. Your companion, true to his word, hasn’t said a peep since he sat down, more than an hour ago. He barely looks up as you close your laptop before turning back to his book. He does look up when you flag down one of the servers.

“Lunch,” you say, inanely. To the server, you say, “Can I get the chicken sandwich today?”

“Chips ‘n a lemonade, yeah?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

They turn to your table mate. “And for you?”

“The same, ah guess?” He raises his eyebrows at you, like he expects you to give him permission or something. He looks back at the server. “Yeah, a chicken piece for me, as well. ‘Nd a juice?”

“Separate checks?”

“Aye, ta,” the guy says. When the server leaves, he blanches. “Hope you dinnae mind.”

You do mind, but it’s not like he can sit anywhere else right now. “It’s fine.”

He sets his book on the table, and your eyebrows shoot up. Whatever you thought he’d be reading, Jurassic Park wasn’t it. He grins. “Ah ken. It’s old, yeah? But it’s a damn sight better’n the movie.”

“Isn’t that how it goes,” you say, vaguely. 

But you’ve already fallen into his trap. He turns his chair to face you, crossing his arms and leaning into the table. His eyes are unnervingly blue - somehow even bluer than Simon’s - and bright with interest. “’M serious. It’s not just that a character yells in the movie and speaks softly in the book, aye? In fact, the movie made Dr. Sattler older, aye? Great choice, emphasize ‘er expertise.” 

Aging up a woman character? You’re reluctantly intrigued. “She was a less important character in the book?”

“Nae,” the man scoffs. “She’s probably the first o’em to realize how shite the whole thing is. Notices things. Stuff the other’s aren’t payin’ attention to because she’s the plant expert, an’ naebody pays attention to plants.”

You find yourself drawn in, in spite of yourself. Johnny, as he introduces himself, has obviously been waiting for a chance to talk about it, but he’s not pushy. He excitedly pulls a pen from his pocket to doodle along with his explanations. By the time your food has arrived, he’s convinced you to at least try the audiobook.

“I cannae pay attention stuff in mah ears,” he says with a grin as he starts to dig in. “But I hear good things, if you don’t ‘ave time to sit an’ read the text.”

As you nod along, you look up and almost choke on your next swallow. Simon is outside, looking at you through the window with raised eyebrows above his usual black surgical mask. His eyes flick to give the man at your table an obvious once over. And then he turns away and walks out of sight.

“Ye alrigh’?” Johnnys’ eyebrows are up near his hairline when you look back at him. “Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost.”

“Y-yeah,” you say, torn between staying seated and the urge to run after Simon. You can’t help but look at the window again, but he’s gone, there’s nothing for it. “Sorry, I thought… Sorry. Yeah, I’ll get the audiobook.”

When you get home, Simon is on the couch, the TV on with the volume low. He watches you, like he always does, as you take off your shoes and shuffle around to put away your things. When you finally join him on the couch, you find that he’s watching a nature documentary. A crocodile slides under the water with barely a ripple.

“He was only sitting with me because there wasn’t anywhere else,” you rush to say.

Simon turns to cock his head at you. “You get ‘is name?”

“John. Johnny,” you answer. “He told me about his book, but I left as soon as we were done eating.”

“Good,” he says with a nod. He lifts the arm closest to you, pulling you close as you settle into his side. “’S good to have friends, Precious.”

“He’s not a friend. Just some guy out to lunch like everyone else.” 

“You let him stay,” Simon points out. He squeezes you in a rough approximation of a one armed hug. “Been nervous around people, but you’re gettin’ better.”

This isn’t what you expected. You can’t help but side-eye him. “You’re… proud of me?”

Simon’s lips press gently against your forehead. “’S long as you pick better this time, I don’t mind you ‘aving friends. Can’t keep you all to myself forever. ‘Sides, you’ve marked me proper, ‘aven’t you? Got me as your little pet. Johnny’s not gonna be a problem.”

The little pink scar around his ribs is little more than a raised line. You slide your fingers under his shirt to pet at it. Among all of his scars, it’s one of the smallest. You’d cried the first time he’d let you see under the bandages.

“You’re not a pet,” you grumble, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You’re an alligator who won’t leave my house.”

“Your alligator, now,” Simon agrees. He focuses back on the television, seemingly done with the conversation.

You could leave it at that. But you turn to face him, instead. “You’re not mad?”

“Not unless ‘e ‘urts ya.” Simon presses his lips against your hair. “An’ I wouldn’t let that ‘appen.”

The following week, though, he stands over you with an exaggerated grimace at how crowded the place is. “Och, d’ya mind?”

Johnny is there the next time you go to the cafe. He waves from his table, but ducks back into his notebook without waving you over. So you work from your own table in peace. When you take a break for lunch, he’s gone. Two days later, it’s the same. It’s easier to concentrate, now that you’re less worried that he’ll take the conversation from the other day as an invitation. 

With a sigh, you clear some space for him. But just like last time, he keeps to himself, reading and occasionally jotting things down in his notebook. It’s not until just before lunch that he breaks the silence.

“D’y’ve a boyfriend then?” You can’t keep yourself from cringing fast enough, apparently, because he laughs. “Sorry, sorry, shouldnae asked.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you grumble.

“Aw,” he coos. “Don’ worry hen. You’re right bonnie. Ah’m sure they’ll come around, whoever they are.”

That would be sweet, if it wasn’t so painfully off base. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Oh, you’re right done wit’ me,” he laughs. “Ah ken’t I shoulda kept mah mouth shut. Ma always said runnin’ mah mouth would get me into trouble. I won’t bother ye again.” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s fine. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

He doesn’t push, and you’re grateful. But when it comes time to pay for lunch, he insists on paying. It grates on your nerves. A gift from a guy is never just generosity, you learned that long before Brandon. But you clench your jaw and pack your bag up a bit more roughly than usual and say your goodbyes.

“They didn’t have the brownies you wanted,” you announce as you return home from the grocer, two days later. “I think it was a limited edi…tion…”

You notice Simon watching through the window, but he’s there and gone before you can get a read on his expression.

There’s a smattering of blood on the entryway carpet.

You don’t drop the bag with the eggs, but only because your muscles are locked up. Did someone break into the apartment? Was Simon here when they did, or next door? Did they leave? Did he take them?

A sound makes you gasp before you bite your tongue hard enough to taste blood. And then again, a muffled groan, close, from the direction of your couch. 

It’s not Simon’s voice.

You gently set your bags down and reach behind the coats for the blackjack Simon insisted on leaving there for security. There’s a rustling. Another groan. You stoop low, trying to make yourself a smaller target, and creep around the edge of the couch.

When you see Johnny, bound and gagged, shirt covered in blood where he lies on the floor, your stomach drops so fast you feel dizzy.

“No, no, no, no, no,” you whisper, dropping the jack with a thump. You crawl over to him, looking around frantically. Simon is nowhere to be seen. But he did this. He had to have done this. Right?

Johnny twitches, groans again, eyelids fluttering open. When he sees you, his eyes go wide, and he frantically tries to sit up.

“No, don’t! I don’t know where you’re hurt,” you hiss. You reach around his head to untie the cloth that’s gagging him. “Oh my god-”

“We gotta get out’f here, bonnie,” he grunts, leaning into your hands as you help him upright. He spits blood on the floor. “No tellin’ when that mental bastard gets back.”

“Oh god,” you whisper again, touching the front of his shirt. It’s dark and sticky in a bloom across his chest. “Where are you hurt? Did he stab you?”

“Ah’m okay,” he grunts. “A bit banged up, but ah’ll live.”

You swallow down the urge to vomit. “There’s a lot of blood, Johnny.”

“S’nae all mine,” he answers. “C’mon, untie me, before Simon gets back.”

You’re shifting to reach behind him before your mind catches up. You can feel the blood drain from your face. “W-what? What did you say?”

“We need to get out of here!”

“No, you said his name, you called him - ”

“Simon? That’s what ye called him when you came home,” he hisses. 

“No, I didn’t,” you whisper, body stuttering between frozen and electrified. You never call Simon’s name where others can hear. “And - and I - you - you were unconscious.”

Shining blue eyes stare into yours from two inches away. Johnny’s bloody mouth curls into a smile. “Oh, he’s trained you up good, he has.”

You scream when he lunges forward, huge arms grabbing at you. 

His weight crushes the air out of your lungs when your back hits the ground. You twist under him, using the arm he hasn’t trapped to grab his hair and yank. He swears, and loosens his hold just enough that you’re able to free your other hand and jab him in the throat.

You expect the way that he chokes, but the hand he’s twisted in the back of your shirt stays locked tight. He coughs out a frenzied laugh as you twist. Your heart races as he prevents you from getting your knees up between your belly and his. But he doesn’t expect you to hammer the heel of your boot against the back of his knee, or how you use the leverage against his leg to roll away onto your belly. 

He doesn’t let go of you, but that’s fine, that’s okay, as long as you can reach under the edge of the couch. Johnny pounces, body curling around you without quite pinning you down. His fingers twist into your hair in an echo of how you wrenched at him. But he doesn’t stop your hand, grabbing the leg of the couch and then reaching under and up and-

“Try again, Bonnie,” Johnny chuckles into your ear when your hand meets nothing but cotton and wood.

Your heart doesn’t have time to stop. The grinding pain between your hip bone and the floor makes you pop up your pelvis and reach down. The tiny knife, Little K, jumps to your hand. It’s so easy to flick it open, you think you almost cut your own belly as you heave. Johnny rides you for a moment, then pops up onto his knees to let you roll freely.

You don’t have time to decide, gut or femoral, you just swing. Denim parts, pressure - 

Johnny yelps.

His weight is suddenly gone, and the arc of your arm slams the back of your hand and your elbow onto the carpet. It’s a shock, almost hard enough to make you drop the knife. You flick your eyes around, nearly blind with tunnel vision, and see Johnny standing over you. His jeans are slashed, outer thigh almost to crotch, but you can’t see blood, fuck.

He sways, oddly. Is your vision swimming? He doesn’t descend on you again, though, just laughs and wiggles. One of his feet isn’t on the ground, his injured leg is dangling, did you get him?

You imagine you can see Simon’s face, a little angry and a little amused. If you die here, Johnny will live to see his own intestines, you know it. Even if you survive, he won’t. Simon might gift you another skull. The thought almost has a laugh bubbling out of you. 

“You stupid motherfucker,” you hiss. 

“Oh, now you’ve done it.”

Simon’s voice startles you into action. You’re off your back and scrabbling backward in and instant as he manifests behind Johnny. Except, you realize, that Simon is holding Johnny up, one arm snaked under Johnny’s and hand around the back of his neck. That’s why Johnny looks off balance, it’s because he is, because Simon is here, he’s going to save you-

“Did real good, Precious,” Simon says with a grin. “Knew you’d get along.”

What? “What?”

Simon says something else, but you can barely hear him over your heart pounding in your ears. But you hear it when Johnny laughs. You see when Simon releases him with a ruffle to his mohawk and a shove toward the armchair. Before you know it, Simon’s scooped you into his arms and taken his usual seat on the couch. He pries the knife from your hand and snaps it closed. 

“Told you I was thinkin’ of gettin you a dog,” Simon rumbles, sitting you in his lap so your back is against his chest. Before you can protest that no, he never once mentioned a fucking dog, he continues, “This’n’s mostly ‘ousebroken, already. Soap needs a firm ‘and, but you c’n ‘andle him. 

Soap? What the fuck does soap have to do with anything? What kind of a name is…

"Oi!” Simon barks. “Off the furniture.”

Your stomach drops as you remember John Price, two months ago now. “Soap’s supposed to be my troublemaker, not you.” Soap.

When your wide eyes swing to him,  Johnny’s face is split into a toothy grin. He tips his head back against the seat of the arm chair. One of his hands touches the blood blooming through his jeans and brings it up to his lips. He laves his tongue over his fingers. “Ah’m lookin’ forward to gettin’ to know you, Bonnie.”

It’s not unusual for you to wake up alone, but it’s been happening more frequently. There was a period of about two months after Simon punished and rewarded you where you always shared your bed. But after that, he’d tapered off to his usual four or five nights a week.

Once, after he’d tucked you into bed and while he stared at you from across the room, you’d decided to ask about it. “What are you doing, when you’re not sleeping here?”

“Serial killer things,” he’d answered, flatly.

Most of the time you wish you could pretend it was a joke. But that night, right on the edge of sleep, you had thought it was the funniest thing he’d said in weeks. “Sharpening your knives and practicing your menacing voice?”

“Checking the acoustics of abandoned buildings,” he’d said, dry as a tundra. “For the screams.”

The next morning, he told you that you’d commanded him not to get tetanus. You don’t remember that part.

Over the last three weeks, Simon has only slept in your bed once. You’re a little irritated with how much it’s thrown you off. Part of it is that you feel paranoid when you don't know where he is. But it's mostly that you've gotten used to sleeping with him. He’s so damn comfortable. All of that muscle has just enough give to make a good pillow. As cold as the inside of his head is, his body throws off heat like a furnace.

And, you’re horrified to admit, you miss the sex.

After dinner, you throw a leg over both of his on the couch and drop your hands to his shoulders. He makes a curious noise, wraps a big hand around your thigh. It takes a little wiggling to get comfortable, but eventually you’re settled close and sharing breath. When you run your fingers through his hair, he presses his nose to your temple and takes a subtle (for him) sniff.

After much consideration, you’d decided that your first time initiating sex would start with nibbling on his collarbone. He makes a soft rumbling sound at the first feeling of your teeth. You feel like that’s a pretty good sign, so you keep at it, add sucking kisses to his skin. That gets you a big palm wrapped around the back of your neck.

“What’s this, then?” he asks.

“Miss you,” you answer back, between kisses. After another minute, you sit back to look him in the eyes. “You haven’t been around.”

“Been busy, luv,” he answers.

Too busy for me? You barely resist asking. Instead you say, “Too busy to sleep over?”

“Been sleeping during the day,” he answers with a shrug. “You’ve been nappin’ on me.”

You try not to pout too hard. “It’s not the same.”

“Thought you’d like having your own space,” he chuckles. “Used to like your privacy.”

You give him the driest look you ever have and tilt your head to look directly into the hidden camera in one of your plants. “Oh, yes, the privacy. So much of that happening.”

He chuckles and takes the opportunity for a gentle bite to your throat. “You need to see me giving you attention, then? Not enough to know I’m watchin’?” He drags biting kisses up to your ear. His voice rumbles through you when he says. “Wanna watch with me, sweetheart?”

The thought makes you flush hot in an instant, but you push through. “I just want to be with you. Stay with me tonight?”

Simon takes a moment to consider. Eventually he says, “Got a project that’s almost done. Could be done tonight if I’m not distracted.”

Sitting back to look into his eyes, you ask, only partially joking, “You’re not killing people, are you?”

He cocks his head with an amused curl of his lips. With the flat voice that makes your hair stand on end, he says. “No.”

Your body cools remarkably quickly, “Are you torturing people, Simon Riley?”

He drops a peck on the tip of your nose. “Not yet.”

“Simon!” you yelp, slapping at his shoulder and leaning away. “You can’t torture people!”

“You like a little bit of torture,” he mutters, easily overpowering you to pull you close enough to kiss at your chin, your throat, your collarbones. He snickers, asks, “Can’t a man have a hobby?”

“You need a new hobby!” you gasp, wiggling to get away. The part of you that loves his dry humor is drowned out by near panic. “I’m not having sex with you if you’re planning on killing people.”

That declaration is a miscalculation on your part. Next thing you know, you’re on your back on the couch. He’s caging your body under his, with one hand around your throat. The other hand easily catches one, then both of your wrists as you try to squirm away.

“Make you a deal,” he drawls, not an ounce of strain in his voice as he holds you down. “I’ll stay with you tonight. Give you all the attention you’ve been needing. And tomorrow, I show you what I’ve been working on.”

Brandon’s terrified face flashes behind your eyes. You fight back tears. “No, Simon!”

“I won’t kill anyone,” Simon coos. “I promise. Not even wounding anyone. Won’t be nobody but you and me. Been working on it for almost a month. Was gonna show you next week, but the weather’s gonna be real nice tomorrow.”

For all that he’s an absolute psycho, Simon has always kept his word. You stop squirming, hiccup, “You promise?”

“Cross my heart, precious girl,” he purrs. “Not planning on torturing anyone but you for a long time. And last time, I was the one bleeding, remember?”

At the reminder, you tap at his chest. Obliging, he drops down so you can kiss his scalp, right where your fingernails had dug in. It’s a ritual you started the day after you’d scored him, when you finally got a view of the damage. Simon had been a content and satiated polar bear while you’d fluttered around, horrified. He wouldn’t let you bandage it properly, but seems very happy now to let you kiss the spot whenever you want. The pattern helps to calm you down.

“I don’t like being tortured,” you whisper against his hair.

“You love to take what I give you.” Simon pushes you back down to the couch by your neck. His lips brush against your cheek as he growls, “Got you all scared right now, and I know you’re still so wet for me.”

When his lips meet yours, they’re surprisingly gentle. Everything about him softens. The hand around your neck starts petting you, while the other releases your wrists and makes its way down to your waist. His fingers inch under the hem of your shirt before tickling their way up your ribs. It would be so easy to relax into his touch, but you’re not fooled. He’s still Simon.

“Let me make you feel good, pretty thing,” he breathes against your lips as he pets at you. His hips rut down against yours, slowly, letting you feel where he’s hard and wanting. You can’t help but grind back. “Been missing the way you taste. Can give you a couple fingers before my cock. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

It does sound nice. Too nice. “You’re up to something,” you moan.

“’Course I am,” he agrees, easily, pressing fleeting kisses to your lips. “Gonna make you cry, sweet girl. Gonna make you bleed me again. Show you you’re mine, and that I’m yours.”

“I just cut my nails,” you sigh, scrubbing your short fingernails through his hair. “And crying sounds a bit intense for tonight. Can we… the rest sounds good. Can we do that?”

Simon hums as he kisses your mouth again. “Alright. Can I eat you out right here? I’ll wash the blanket tomorrow.”

That’s a downright reasonable compromise, so you nod. It doesn’t take long for Simon to divest you of your clothes, but he doesn’t actually move things along further. Just kisses you and kisses you for a long few minutes. Gradually, you settle in for a rare, extended make-out session. And as the tension eases out of you, Simon goes almost boneless with a happy purr.

By the time he pulls away to start kissing his way down your body, you’re warm and languid. It wouldn’t be Simon if there were no teeth, but the little nibbles and biting kisses he gives your breasts are gentle. His hands gently coax your legs up as he makes his way to the floor, on his knees. He’s gentle as he gets you angled so that he is holding up one of your hips without pulling the rest of you off of the couch.

His eyes are piercing when you look at him between your legs. He holds your gaze as he leans down to press gentle kisses to your mound and lower. His tongue is slow and indulgent when it makes its appearance. When his lips purse to create gentle suction over your clit, you let your head drop back. He hums when your fingers pet over his head, and sets to.

Sex with Simon is always overwhelmingly good, but he doesn’t usually give you both time to savor the experience. Tonight is different. After a half hour, you’re most of the way to orgasm before he slips a finger into you. You’re so wet that it’s barely a stretch.

“More?” you sigh.

Simon gives you another finger, easy as anything. He’s almost reverent when he curls them both up and forward. It makes you gasp and clench around him. He groans, but doesn’t speed up, doesn’t change his pace at all. Lets you wind tighter and tighter for long minutes before your peak rolls through you. He keeps going, stringing you along for a long, perfect moment. Then he gentles you through it until you’re panting.

“Another one?” he murmurs against your pussy. “Or my cock now?”

You roll your neck to look at him. “Another?”

“’F course, precious,” he says. And gets to work.

The second orgasm is just as easy and sweet as the first one. He gives you one more finger when you ask for it, calls you a good girl for asking. His other hand is large and hot, holding you close to his mouth.

Once you make your way through the waves of your peak, he climbs back onto the couch. You’re pulled into his lap and against his chest before he eases you down onto his cock. Even relaxed as you are, he feels so big inside of you. You mewl against his throat. He rumbles back and pets both hands down your back.

When you grind your hips down into his, he makes a gentle shushing noise against your temple. “Easy, easy. There’s a good girl. Let me do all the work, yeah?”

He keeps talking, praising you, as his hands guide you into a slow back and forth roll that leaves him buried deep. When he does start rocking under you, he barely withdraws an inch before he’s plunging back into you. Every few thrusts, he holds you down, coaxes you to rub yourself against his chest and belly. And then his hands are enticing you back into that effortless grind.

“Simon,” you moan, after a small eternity of this. You can hear the way your hips are slip-sliding together. “’M gonna come again.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead for a long moment before answering. “You want to?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Then you should, precious,” he rumbles. “Want me to keep fucking you after? Keep going? I can, you feel so good.”

You can’t imagine doing anything but agreeing. When you nod, he draws you into another kiss. Underneath you, he shifts, changing the position of his hips until you gasp into his mouth. The new angle, even without changing the pace, pushes you to the edge and over it before you really know what’s happening. You moan into each other’s mouths as you clench down. Everything is so slick and he doesn’t stop. Just keeps grinding your clit into his body while his cock fills you just right. Just keeps talking you through it.

It’s only when he’s getting close himself, a long time later, that his touches get a little harder, his pace a little faster. But even then, his hands are big and warm and hold you reverently. One of his palms holds your head so your face is pressed to his throat. The other holds you up by a thigh so he can thrust up into you. If you weren’t so hazy with pleasure, you might have been embarrassed by how wet everything sounds. But all you know is the next orgasm that is rushing up on you and the sound of his voice as he calls you perfect, precious, mine as he shudders and comes.

Later, he brings you a glass of water and coaxes you to finish it all before he climbs into bed behind you. He’s not going to sleep for a while, you know, but he seems content enough to cuddle you and hold one of your hands in his.

“That was really nice,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“Wasn’t bad,” he rumbles.

“You didn’t like it?” You twist to look at his face.

“Don’t worry, pet, I liked it plenty,” he reassures you. “’S nice, you being so soft for me. ‘S just different.” When you nod your agreement around a yawn, he chuckles. “All worn out from being spoiled? Sleep, sweet girl.”

“Been busy these last couple of days,” you protest, pulling his arm closer around you.

“I know,” he says. He squeezes you like a teddy bear. “Been working real hard at your new job. And I’ve not been here to help you sleep.”

“Yeah,” you agree, eyes heavy. “Sleep better when you’re here.”

He says something else, but you don’t quite hear it. You feel him press a kiss to your temple and hear, just before sleep takes you. “Sleep well.”

When you wake up, you’re cold and your sinuses feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. Simon must have opened the curtains for you when he climbed out of bed this morning, there’s so much light shining through your eyelids. You lift a hand to block some of the light out. Something clinks.

When you open your eyes, your heart starts racing immediately. You’re not in your room. You’re not in Simon’s room, which would be scary enough. You’re on a mattress on the floor, under a rough, dingy blanket. Your hands are cuffed together, with a chain that goes over the side of the mattress.

When you push yourself to sit up, your vision swims for a few seconds before settling.

“Morning, precious.”

You get so dizzy when you whip your head around that you’re afraid you’ll fall back over. When your eyes are able to focus, your stomach drops.

She’s not at all impressed with him as she drops the bill, which reminds him that he hasn’t gotten a haircut or shave yet. The little cash he has on hand goes to his lunch, and then he’s back on the street. Breathing free air feels damn good, so he strides into the park at the end of the block to think about his next steps.

The fact that he only had cash enough for a single meal tells him that Price didn’t know he was getting released today. That or he’s punishing Johnny, but he’s not gotten in any trouble his whole incarceration, mòran taing. (Many thanks.) So probably, it’s the former. That means he needs to call the old bastard. Unless...

He nicks a phone with a bump, apology, and a smile. Knocks the man’s wallet from his hand and gives it back with an exaggerated wince. It’s not hard to guess the man’s pin and add his own fingerprint to the scanner before disabling the damn lost phone app as he strides out of the park. Two minutes later, he’s dialing a number he’s memorized back and forward.

“This is Laswell.”

“Hello, Laswell,” he purrs. “Guess who’s out on good behavior?”

She must pull the phone from her ear, but he still hears as she swears rather impressively. “MacTavish. Who knows you’re out?”

“Naebody, apparently,” Soap says, exiting the opposite end of the park. “Barely had enough cash fer a scran.”

“How long ago did you call John?”

“Now, why would ah call Price, Laswell? Pretty sure he paid to ‘ave me killed in there.”

“No, he didn’t,” she sighs.

“Nae, Price’d do the deed himself,” Johnny laughs. “Pretty sure it woulda been Castle. Anyway, you got a pretty little lock box at the bank ah’m lookin at?”

“Do not rob a bank, Soap.”

“You wound me. I got out on good behavior, remember?”

“Soap.” Her voice brooks no nonsense. “Do not rob that bank. I’ll call John to wire money over.”

“Swell,” he chuckles. “Three hours?”

“You in a rush?”

“Well, ah gotta toss the phone back in the park.”

“Wonderful. Give it four hours. And Soap?”

“Aye?”

“I paid to have you shanked. Rachel sends her best.”

Your ass and thighs hurt, in that weird floaty way things tend to hurt when you work out too hard, too fast. You almost let your eyes flutter closed when Simon pets gently over your belly. But then you remember that it’s Simon, so you force yourself to keep your eyes open. The knife he flicks open with his free hand makes you jolt. The aborted flail-freeze you do makes him chuckle.

“Easy, luv,” he coos, still petting, finger dipping into your belly button. He pushes your shirt to bunch up over the top of your bra. “Just gonna get you ready for your reward.”

Not my pants, is all your addled brain can think of, staring at the knife. You’ll be mad if he destroys your shirt and panties. Frustrated as all hell if he slices through your on-its-last-legs bra. But the idea of shopping for jeans is enough to make you tear up all over again. You moan through the gag and shake your head, try to work your pants off with clumsy movements of your feet.

“You’re finicky today,” He hums and skims the flat of the blade from your ribs to your belly button. The sharp tip dips in, and you freeze again. “Used to let me do whatever I want. Now every other thing is a no.”

You force yourself to even out your breathing. It’s so hard to resist the urge to suck in your stomach, but you do. You fight through the fog to try to figure out what to do. There’s a right answer, you know, even if he’s not actually asking you a question. You look up into his face, look between eyes that are flat, but not bored. You wonder how long he could stay here, crouched, blade poised over naked flesh, waiting for you to decide how the night is going to go. You know for a fact he can outlast you.

You slowly reach for his hands with your own. The empty hand, you guide down over your mound. The hand with the blade, you nudge upward. You’re relieved when your trembling doesn’t translate to him at all. The blade maintains its steady, just barely scraping pressure. You guide his hand up past your diaphragm, over your ribs. Up until the blade of it is pressed against your left breast through the thin fabric of your bra. The point presses just enough to dimple the skin of your other breast.

Simon’s eyes are nearly all pupil. The empty hand dips lower, until his fingertips are just between your thighs. His index finger grazes over your clit. He leaves his hand there.

You risk taking a deeper breath. The point of the blade hurts, but rises and falls with you.

Then he chuckles. “Sweet girl. This is supposed to be your reward, not mine.”

And then the knife is gone, too fast for you to track it. Your breath leaves your body all at once. When he twists the hand between your legs, you part them as much as you can. His fingers pet over where you’re wetter than you expected. And for a long few moments, that’s all he does. Just pets you and stares into your face.

“Be honest with me,” he says. You hate when he asks this of you. It’s always a trap, but he only ever tells you to be honest when he means it. “Do you like when I hurt you?”

You start to shake your head, then pause. Do you like it? The obvious answer is hell no. The practical answer is that when he’s hurting you, you know where he is and what he’s doing. You know he’s not going to kill you. The screwed up answer is that whenever he hurts you, you get wet. And he always makes you feel good afterwards.

All of this would be easier to communicate without a gag in your mouth. So you give him a shrug.

“Not a no, but not a yes, hm? That’s fair.” The hand not between your thighs pets over your hair. “Poor thing. ‘S confusing. I don’t make it easy.”

“You’re an asshole,” you try to say. Your message must get across, because he gently raps his knuckles against your cheek.

“Tell you what,” he says, suddenly pushing his middle finger into you. “I’m going to give you your reward, and you can tell me afterward how you like it.”

He presses deep, which forces his fingers against where your ass still stings. The heel of his palm grinds against your clit, too. It’s too much too fast. You try to curl into yourself on instinct. Of course, he doesn’t let you. The hand on top of your head comes down, palm over the gag and fingers hooked under your chin to force your head back.

He stops fingering you grab the pants around your shins and force your feet closer to your ass. When he lets go of your face and gathers your hands between his, over your head, he replaces the hand on your pants with one of his knees. The result is a position that feels more exposed than if he’d stripped you bare. The way he keeps staring down into your eyes somehow makes it worse. And then he slaps at your clit, a sharp, bright sensation that makes you yelp. You twist, knees slamming inward against his hips.

Then he sinks into your body with two fingers. Before everything, you used to be fascinated by his hands. They were so big and broad and dexterous. Now you’re intimately familiar with how much bigger two of his fingers are than even three of yours. The stretch makes you wheeze around the gag. He doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s rolling his wrist, teasing your clit and fucking into you with a steady intensity. It’s horrible how fast your body gives over to him. It takes embarrassingly little time for him to coax you toward an orgasm.

As soon as you start tightening, he dips his face down to drag his nose against your cheek. “Pretty girl.” And he pulls his fingers out and slaps your clit.

You choke on your scream and jolt as he just. Keeps. Slapping at you, fast and just this side of too hard. He coos and shushes you, but you can barely hear him. The sensation confuses your body. Your hips stutter up into his hand and away.

When his fingers finally plunge deep again, it’s relief and torment in one. Your clit feels like it’s on fire when his palm grinds into it. The pressure of him inside is everything and still not enough. When he hooks his fingers up and in, your right leg tries to kick out as your orgasm rocks through you.

Simon almost seems to take your orgasm personally. His breath is hot on the side of your face when he growls something else you can’t quite hear. His hand doesn’t slow down or soften. Your peak stretches on and on as you whimper and whine back at him. After the barest dip in pleasure, he brings you right back to the edge again faster than you feel should be possible.

The second orgasm is overwhelming for a split second, and then Simon’s hand is gone again. Your hips chase him before your brain catches up. So your legs are spread even farther apart when his fingers slap down again. Where his fingers had been focused on your clit before, these strikes hit your whole labia. He doesn’t let you close yourself off at all, and something about the whole experience brings the pleasure roaring to the surface again. It’s the best-worst orgasm of your life.

Next thing you know, Simon is carrying you. You ragdoll a bit in his arms, dizzy and weak, but try to make your feet cooperate. It’s not much help, since he barely lets your toes touch the floor. So you try to focus on breathing and not choking on your own spit.

You’re not surprised when you’re dropped unceremoniously onto the side of your bed. Your knees knock a bit against the bed frame, which shakes some of the haze from your head. Before you can drag yourself up, his hand pushes your chest back down to the bed. With one hand, he unhooks your bra and tugs at your shirt. You cooperate as much as you can, proud when you get the shirt over your head and shake it free from your arms. You get your elbows under yourself and and try to make your feet figure out how to work with a floor again. But then Simon’s foot is standing on your pants. You have a moment of slow confusion with the top of one foot stuck to the floor.

He slaps your thighs apart, and you spread your still tender legs with a hiss. Then you yelp and try to escape up the bed as Simon slaps at your pussy. A part of you recognizes that it’s not as hard as it could be. The rest of you is overstimulated and overwhelmed. You kick and squeal. You reach around to grab at his wrist where he’s braced against your shoulder. He cracks his hand down on your ass twice.

When he finally hauls you onto the bed by the shoulder and one of your thighs, you yowl like an offended cat. He digs his nails in to make you do it again, then positions you so your hips are higher than your shoulders. Three fingers get pushed into you as he clamps his hand down on the back of your neck. You flail your feet, relieved to realize that you’re finally free of your pants.

Simon pulls his fingers free and drapes himself over your back, and you have a moment to wonder when he took off all of his clothes before he’s notching his cock at your entrance. It hurts, sore and stinging in a way you’ve never felt before. As he sinks in, you can’t help but moan. The stretch and fullness is everything you wanted five minutes ago. The usual too much of him is amplified by how puffy and swollen you must be.

“Drop it,” he growls in your ear. His fingers squeeze into the hinge of your jaw. You gasp as the gag falls to the bed, can’t help the way your spit drools from your mouth.

“Oh, god,” you moan, lips clumsy.

He snarls against the side of your face. “Say my name.”

“Oh, god,” you moan again. He chuckles and jostles his hips forward, pushing just a little bit deeper. “Oh, fuck! Simon!”

“That’s it,” he says, tilting your face so he can bite at your lips.

The pace he sets is slower than you expected, but hard. Now that your mouth is free, you whimper and whine as he grinds into your sore ass and thighs. The feeling of him pushing in and out is so intense that you claw a hand into his hair with a gasp. Suddenly, you jolt as his finger grinds into your clit and makes you sob.

And then he turns on the vibrator.

You shriek against the hand he slaps over your mouth. You aren’t sure you don’t levitate both of you off the bed trying to get away. There’s no escape. The orgasm is ripped from you before you can catch your breath. He rides out your shaking with a growl of his own, grinding deep. You shake and clench and flutter around him with a sob. And then another orgasm rocks through you.

It’s like your peak never ends. You’re strung from one orgasm to the next, until your limbs can do nothing but quake. You’re sobbing, begging, calling Simon’s name helplessly around the fingers he’s dipped into your mouth. It’s barely a relief when he finally pulls the vibrator away because that’s when he really starts driving his hips into yours.

“Please,” you gasp, nonsensically. Can’t find your fingers to snap once, let alone twice. “Simon, I can’t, please let-! I can’t. Please let me-”

“Oh, sunshine, of course,” he coos between grunts of effort. “’S your reward. Take it.”

“I can’t,” you sob.

His arm wraps around your throat, flexes to almost cut off your air supply. “You will. Because I say you will.”

The next orgasm is a full body contraction that whites out your vision. You’re distantly aware of your wheezing cries and digging your fingernails wherever they can get purchase. You feel Simon stiffen over you, snarling something under his breath. You have just a moment to realize what’s about to happen before you pass out.

When you wake up, you groan. Everything from your diaphragm down is sore. You’re flat on your belly. Simon is on his side beside you, petting up and down your spine in long strokes. When you flutter your eyes open, he leans down to press a long kiss to your eyebrow.

There’s a lot you want to say, but English fails you. “Guh-uh.”

“’S ‘at so? Interestin’,” Simon answers. He cocks his head and you realize there’s blood in his hair.

“Muh?” You want to reach up to touch it, see where your fingernails damaged him. Your arms aren’t cooperating.

“Made a mess of me,” Simon confirms with an easy grin. “Got a towel, but we’ll need to change the sheets.”

A towel? How bad did you get him? You try to sit up, with mixed success. “That much?”

He makes an affirming noise. “Surprised me.”

“’M sorry,” you slur. Words are so hard. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Simon’s eyes crinkle. His eyes aren’t warm, but they’re as close as they ever get. “Go to sleep, Precious.”

You hum. With effort, you work a hand out from under yourself and get your fingers up to his collarbones before you’re too weak to go any further. “Stay.”