Wowtheuniverse

From then on, John's scars were half of a matching set. The burns on his right side (and Johnny's left) from pulling the weak and infirm from the rubble of St. Paul's when the Great Fire broke out. The jagged line that started from John's front around to the left ended on Johnny's right, earned while fighting back to back for Charles III. The battle where they found, when the battlefield cleared, a young black man with very different scars of his own but a look both Johns knew well. Kyle sailed away from the colonies in a much different situation than the one that brought him to its shores.

By the time they found Simon Riley stumbling away from the disaster that was Cardigan's charge at the Battle of Balaclava, John, Johnny, and Kyle had developed a bond deeper than brothers, closer than lovers.

The foursome took some time to find their footing: Johnny drawn to Simon like a moth to a flame, uncaring if it burned him; John clashing with Simon's refusal to back down; Kyle's constant wary, haunted look no matter how safe they made him. By the turn of the 21st century, their lives were intimately intertwined. On occasion each man's interest would be piqued by someone outside their circle, but between the strange nature of time and the strength of their bond, no dalliance ever lasted long.

Until you.

They run into you, literally, in the pharmacy. Or at least Kyle does. Head down, not looking where you're going, headphones in to shut off the world and and you back straight into him as you step away from an array of plasters. You glance up briefly into warm brown eyes before averting your gaze, mumbling and apology and leaving as quick as could be. With your eyes trained on the floor, you don't realize Kyle's scrutiny. It was hard to miss the plasters in your basket as he'd watched you pick them up but he also noticed the tattoo concealer, the eye de-puffers. You had a pullover on and while May sometimes called for that, London had been experiencing a heatwave. In fact, Kyle had noticed some of the finer hairs on your forehead were stuck down by sweat. There was only one reason he could think of to need so much coverage on a spring afternoon.

Typing out a quick text to the others, Kyle pockets his mobile, leaves the basket by his feet and follows you out the door.

He watches, impressed, by how you weave effortlessly through the city, like fog, gone before those around you realize you were there. Head down, always down, you step into the gap between a pram and a businessman, step lightly over broken cobbles on the Mews in Paddington, duck around some teens loitering on a corner. He follows you at a distance for nearly an hour, wandering by when you stop into a shop, doubling back to make sure he hasn't lost you. You're not taking a straight route anywhere.

He's puzzling over that when you suddenly turn, cornering him. He was so caught up in you he failed to notice the way the city's sounds dropped away, how the streets were narrowing. And now you're here, not quite meeting his eye, a tremor in your raspy, "Why are ya following me?" but a steady hand holding a small blade in the space between you.

He can't say he wasn't following you. Clearly, this isn't an alley intended for foot traffic. The only reason he'd be here is because of you. So he tells you the truth, or, his version of. Tells you he noticed what you bought, clocked your clothes, thought you might be in trouble.

You bark out a harsh laugh. "So you thought it'd be good to follow the poor broken girl and what? Fix things?" You meet his eye in challenge, and he sees. Kyle sees the same pain he recognized in John and Johnny that first night, the same pain that still haunts Simon some days. But here it's different. It isn't weighed down with years, like theirs. Each of the men suffered lifetimes of sorrows before finding one another, lived through generations of pain alone. Your pain and sorrow, while a match for theirs, hasn't been spread out over time. It is concentrated. Raw. Pulsing just below the surface in rapid time with your heart.

"Not trying to fix what isn't broken," Kyle finally says. Because you aren't broken. But the cracks are there. Like they were in John and Johnny when they met, like they were in Kyle when John found him, like they still are in Simon sometimes. And time, which always used to hurt, has been helping them repair each other.

You huff a harsh laugh. "Sure, mate." Your hand is still steady but less aggressive, the waver gone from your voice. You ask again, more forcefully, "So why are you following me? You should know I don't have any money, and my mobile's shit, but I know how to cut you so you'll bleed. A lot."

When he responds, his answer surprises even him. "You ever hear of the American writer Hemingway? He once said, 'The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills.' Whatever happened to you, you didn't break, but ya still got cracks, right. I got friends like that. I used to be like that too. Cracked by the world. But we helped each other. Like the Japanese who fix broken vases with gold and they turn out better than before."

He's rambling, but you're still here, still listening. He sees when the knife dips just a fraction. Just enough to let him know you're paying attention. Long moments pass, but neither of you move.

"Was maybe wondering if I could buy you a cup of tea," Kyle says, breaking the silence. You wiggle the knife again, ushering him out of the alley. Again on a thoroughfare with a little late afternoon foot traffic, you close up your blade and slip it into your jumper. Glancing up the road, you mutter, "One cup," before nodding to a Pret a Manger sign a block away.

"One cup," Kyle agrees.

But one cup isn't enough time for him. Because as you talk about yourself, never getting close up who hits you or why you let them, Kyle knows he's found something special. After the cups are empty and the silence weighs heavily in the space between you, Kyle finally gives you his name and asks, "Can we do this again?"

You can't hide your surprise and barely keep from gaping at him. You scribble your number on a napkin and warn him, "Calls only. Don't text me. And don't leave a message."

You never expect to hear from the handsome stalker again. But three days later you get a call from an unknown number. You pick up to a smooth voice you vaguely recognize. "It's Kyle. From tea the other day. I was wondering if you were free for lunch. There's this place I know makes a great fish and chips." Tea was one thing, but a meal feels different. More open, more vulnerable. You're about to politely turn him down when your stomach grumbles loudly, reminding you of your skipped breakfast.

You accept instead and what follows is your new normal: a cup of tea or lunch with Kyle every few days. Never the same day, never the same time, never the same place. You want to ask him if it's on purpose, but you worry about his answer. If he says yes, then you'll know he knows about the abuse. If he says no, you'll have to explain why you'd notice such a thing. He said he suspected what happens to you that first day, but you've never confirmed anything. Never denied it either though the proof of the pudding is in the eating.

So you spend time with Kyle, simply existing. It allows you an escape of sorts, and you enjoy his company. You find out he's clever but never attended university. You learn he's spent time in the military and seen combat but doesn't share where. You know he lost his parents - "feels like a lifetime ago" - but he has a close group of friends - "we're each other's family." He learns about you too, but it's all guarded. Nothing that shows your unprotected underbelly. Nothing that could hurt you.

Months of meetings, never failing to miss one, and one day you don't show. Kyle knows in his gut something is wrong. He calls your number and it rings and rings. You don't pick up.

He doesn't know where you live, has figured out your mobile is off the rack at Tesco, so there's nothing to trace even if he had the means. He has no way to check on you, so he waits. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Then an hour. Two hours later and he's still sat at the cafe, his tea cold in front of him, when his mobile rings. For a moment, hope alights in his chest, but it's only Simon.

masterlist

an: not quite sure what comes next, but I thought getting this out into the world was a good start

Behind the tree line is a motorway, the distant roar of cars barely audible given the natural barrier. The sky is dark. No stars. Simon’s cigarette is the brightest thing on the lot beside the lone bulb affixed to the building in front of them. It’s above the faded wood door, unprotected from the weather. The bulb is slightly blackened, dampening the light.

“Think he’s trying to kill us?” asks Kyle, eyes narrowing as he observes the worn wood.

Simon exhales, smoke curling around his face as it dissipates into the air. “Price?”

Kyle turns to Simon, top lip curled in disgust. “Fucking look at this place, mate.”

Johnny sticks his hands in his pockets, shrugging. “Not up for getting ya’ dick wet?”

“Fuck off,” groans Kyle.

“Think he’s on to something, Johnny,” croons Simon. The behemoth of a man inhales the last of the cigarette, tossing the butt in the gravel, extinguishing the embers with the toe of his boot. “No windows. Weird lock. Metal walls. Fucking murder shed that is.”

“Think there’s a dead body in there?”

“Limbs hanging from chains?”

“Captain Price, the serial killer?” Kyle’s fist lands on Johnny’s shoulder. “Fuck me. That hurt.” Johnny lunges, the two men wrestling for a headlock.

Rolling his eyes, Simon kicks at Johnny’s shin. “Grow up. Fucking children.” Lighter in hand, Simon clicks it open. Shut. Open again. “Rather do this in the club?” He nods toward the secondary building, the larger one to the left. Muffled, pounding music oozes from the building, growing louder when the entrance door opens. “Where everyone can watch? You into that?”

“Piss off.”

Johnny throws up his hands. “No judgement, Kyle.”

“Price wants us to blow off some steam,” says Simon. “We’ve been pent up. Aggressive since the mission. He’s fucking right.” He side-eyes Johnny. “Also felt bad you almost died.”

Johnny sighs dreamily. “Loves me more than my own, Da.” Johnny throws his arm over Kyle’s shoulder, drawing him in. “Probably bought us one of the bonnie lassies in there. Or three.”

Simon growls low in his throat, eyes on the door. “I have the code.”

Kyle’s head tips back, gazing up into the starless sky. “Let’s have it off then.”

Johnny hollers, shaking Kyle like he’s a ragdoll before taking off to the murder sex shed.

“Out the way, Johnny,” scolds Simon, elbowing him.

Simon punches in the code, the red light flipping green. Twisting the knob, he shoves open the door, revealing darkness. It takes a moment for their eyes to adjust, to unwrap the present inside.

“Fucking hell,” murmurs Simon, stepping into the small room. Johnny and Kyle slide in on either side of him. The door shuts with an audible click. “Is that—”

“It is,” says Johnny, clearly surprised.

No bed or lounge decorates this room. No scantily clad women ready to offer themselves. There’s a hole in the wall. A cutout. Large enough for a human to crawl through. Breeding Hole is painted in glowing green neon above it. Two arrows curve inward to point at either side of the hole. The lettering oozes downward like fresh paint.

The hole is not unoccupied.

Johnny’s surprise turns to lecherous glee. “It’s a fucking glory hole.” He slowly strides forward, gaze sweeping over exposed skin and spread legs.

A woman, but only half, sticks out from the wall. You’re on your stomach, a black board with a red cushion supporting your weight, top end covered by a black curtain. Black stilettos, strappy with a razor-thin heel, is all you wear. The rest is exposed and open for them.

Beside the glory hole are two sets of ankle straps. One set is higher than the hole itself, allowing for legs to be locked open and wide. The second set are level with the support cushion. They can bend your knees, force them open, keep you restrained as they fuck you.

Price didn’t buy one or even three of the workers in the club for a quick fuck. A countdown on the wall denotes the remaining time.

Three hours.

Three fucking hours.

Price bought a session.

Graffiti covers the remaining three walls. Several television monitors play porn without sound. Overhead, music blares, a thudding rhythm that shakes the bones. Light comes from a few stray bulbs in the ceiling, each covered by a clear glass box in different colors. The set-up bathes the space in a kaleidoscope, heightening the pulsing intensity of the room.

Simon, Johnny, and Kyle circle you but don’t touch.

Glancing at a nearby rolling cart, Simon grabs a bottle of lube. “Look here,” he says, nodding his head.

It’s packed with silicon dildos of various shapes and sizes, anal plugs, vibrators, a variety of stimulation toys from a feather to a wooden paddle. There are extra bottles of lube, individually wrapped sanitation wipes to clean themselves, or you, off, and beside that are two rows of disposable cameras with extra film. A sticky note next to the cameras says “Use Me.”

“No condoms,” muses Simon, finding them absent after a second perusal.

“Says breeding,” chuckles Johnny. “Don’t need condoms for that.”

“Think she’s clean?” asks Kyle.

Johnny turns on him. “First you think he’s trying to murder us and now you think he’s going to give us STDs?”

“Not intentionally,” mutters Kyle.

Simon snorts, placing the lube back on the cart. “Think Price is the type?”

Kyle inclines his head. “Maybe to his enemies.”

“Be real shite of him,” laughs Johnny. “After feeling bad for me and all.”

Stepping forward, Kyle traces the lines of your body, fingertips hovering millimeters away from skin. “Hand me the lube,” he demands of Simon, not looking at him. “And a plug,” he adds as Simon places the lube in Kyle’s offered palm.

Johnny claps his hands together, grinning madly. “Aye. That’s how it’s done.”

Gripping the plug in one hand and the lube in the other, Kyle squirts a generous amount. As he places his hand on your ass, you jerk as if surprised. Kyle gives you a generous, reassuring squeeze before sliding his hand between, easing you open wider until your pussy and anus are stretched and exposed. Both tense and flex, and Simon groans.

“Fucking gorgeous sight,” murmurs Simon, rubbing his hand over the front of his dark jeans.

Kyle aligns the plug, pressing the tip against the puckered hole. There is resistance but it pops in smoothly. Your thighs shiver followed by another jerk of your body. Kyle fills his hands with you, squeezing, some of the remaining lube transferring.

Squeezing both cheeks, he settles his clothed hips in front of your exposed pussy. “Perfect height,” he says, lightly thrusting. He backs up, gesturing. “Try.”

Johnny takes his place and then Simon. Height won’t be a problem. They’ll be able to fuck you with ease.

“Who’s starting?” asks Kyle.

When no one moves, Johnny aims for his belt buckle. “Aye. I fucking will.”

Johnny releases his semi-hard cock, easing his pants open and down enough to keep the zipper away from his dick. Fisting the base, he jerks himself, pressing the head of his cock to your clit, rubbing against it. A sharp smack echoes with the music as Johnny’s free hand comes down on your ass. A few more send your thighs twitching.

Kyle licks his lips, joining Johnny, occupying his hand with the other cheek. Simon lingers at the cart, picking up different toys and vibrators, clicking them on and messing with the settings.

Beads of precum bloom in Johnny’s slit. He paints your clit with them, smearing it around to act as lube. A few more beads and he playfully teases your pussy, easing the tip in and out, all while jerking himself to hardness.

“What about this one?” Simon holds up a small vibrator no larger than the palm of his hand. It’s on, shaking wildly, nearly jumping around from the speed setting.

Johnny smacks his dick against your pussy a few times and steps away as Simon approaches with the vibrator.

“Too much?” asks Simon, switching the speed down a level.

“Not enough,” replies Johnny, slowing his hand movements to strokes.

Simon ups the speed again, firmly shoving the vibrator against your clit. Your ass bucks into the air. Kyle lunges forward, placing pressure onto your lower back, forcing you back to the cushion. You writhe under Kyle’s hold, attempting to escape the sensation. Simon, with the continued pressure, swirls the vibrator.

Another jerk, and they all jump back.

“Fucking hell,” laughs Johnny. “Got ourselves a squirter.” Simon is already reaching for a wipe, patting down your skin to clear the excess. Johnny inserts two fingers into your pussy, pumping slowly. “She’s dripping.”

“Need us to hold her?” asks Simon

“Aye,” and Johnny nods at the cameras on the cart. “Want a picture of this slick cunt taking my cock.”

Simon chuckles, handing off a camera to Kyle as he readies his own. He holds it up, snapping a photo as Johnny’s cock disappears.

“Fuck,” groans Johnny. “Tightest cunt I’ve ever fucked.”

Simon snaps a few more photos and sets the camera aside. “We got her, Johnny.”

Together, Simon and Kyle grasp your legs, pulling you toward them and further onto Johnny’s cock. They move as one, adjusting the ankle straps, locking you in as Johnny rests his hands on your back, putting his weight behind it.

Hips sharply jerking, Johnny drives into you, only chasing his end. Lips parted, panting, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Simon and Kyle watch intently, their eyes lust-laced and eager, each of them stroking themselves to hardness as they wait their turn.

Johnny groans out his pleasure, grinding his hips against you as his balls tighten. Kyle already has the camera ready as Johnny slips out. Simon moves when Kyle does, spreading your pussy wide with his fingers. Kyle waits a beat, snapping a photo when Johnny’s cum appears.

“Not enough,” observers Simon. “Needs more.”

Kyle takes position. He doesn’t fuck as wild and hard as Johnny, but his strokes are deep and deliberate.

Johnny smiles behind the disposable camera. “Hold that pose.” Kyle eases your leg up a bit, giving Johnny a clear view of how Kyle’s thick cock stretches your pussy.

The camera goes off and Kyle starts to fuck you again. When the creampie happens, they snap another cumshot photo.

“Not enough,” repeats Simon. “Not nearly enough.”

With three hours on the tab, they rotate, take pictures, make you squirt a few more times. Kyle removes the anal plug, going up a size, insert it while they turn you onto your back. Ankles are secured in new restraints, toes pointing toward the ceiling, legs stretched.

Simon hooks his arms around your legs, hands firmly gripping your thighs. He cares little for ceremony or niceness. Their mixed cum is smeared all over you pussy and ass, overflowing whenever one of them fucks your cunt.

Johnny aligns the camera perfectly, angling just so to capture the position without Simon’s head in the photo and the television monitor off to their left. It’s showing a gloryhole similar to this one.

“Turn her on her side,” instructs Kyle, indicating how with a flick of his finger. “Think that tight ass is ready.”

Unhooking your ankles from the restraints, the three of them turn you onto your left side. Simon eases you toward them a touch. Lifting your top leg, he plants it on his shoulder. He straddles your other leg, aligning his cock up with your pussy. Johnny spreads your ass cheeks for Kyle; the plug removed with a wet pop.

On the other side of the partition, you cry out around Price’s dick as not one but two cocks enter you. They fuck rough. Hard. Whoever they are. Not that you can ask. Not that you can say anything. All you can do is stare daggers at the man keeping your mouth occupied.

Price tuts as you choke on him. “What will your daddy think of you?”

Daddy won’t know about this at all.

You’re taking this but you’ll never speak about it. Whatever your adoptive father did to earn Price’s ire is unknown to you, and you don’t wish to know anyway. General Shepherd never brings work home, but you’re aware of his power, and that he likely has enemies everywhere.

When Price took you from your apartment in Washington D.C., you thought he’d kill you. Make you an example to your father.

“Apologies, love,” murmurs Price, using his thumb to wipe away smeared cum on the corner of your mouth. “But your father’s a bastard.”

There is cum in your hair, on your face, all over the cushion, spread over your breasts. You’re not allowed to swallow. Your mouth is a hole for Price to come in. Nothing more.

Price palms your breast, squeezing, teasing your nipple between thumb and forefinger. “Glad my men are having fun.” Price eases the rest of his cock into your mouth until you gag. He retreats slightly, but only enough for your breathing to return to normal. “They deserve it. After what happened to them. What your father put them through.” He sighs. Shrugs. “Not that they know who they’re breeding.”

Unable to move, unable to speak, you only stare, narrowing your gaze to stinging venom. Price brushes it off like it’s nothing.

Insignificant.

Killing General Shepherd was Price’s gut reaction.

Soap shot in the head, bleeding out, barely clinging to life. They thought him dead. His recovery, as slow as it was, surprised them even more. If Johnny had been killed, if he hadn’t survived, General Shepherd would feel lead, too. Know death was coming for him.

The sole reason Price didn’t fill General Shepherd full of holes is because Johnny lives, and lives well. Price’s revenge requires a different taste, and before him, the spread is bountiful.

A few favors are all it took to put Price in Shepherd’s office at the Pentagon. Place is a fucking fortress but it’s just a building when people owe you. Shepherd will know it’s him. There’s no doubting that. But Price wants him to know.

Price leans against the front of the desk, lightly tapping the final nail against his palm. Around him are pictures. Took a while to develop them. Can’t walk into a store, hand over rolls of film full of cumshots, and ask for them to be developed. He had to do this quietly. Discreetly. Took a few months of planning, but it’s here, in front of him.

Each and every picture is from that night. The only face that appears in any of the photos are of yours. Boys were smart about how much of themselves they revealed. A few didn’t make it, but there were plenty in the end.

Price admires his work, at how the photos cover nearly every surface. Shepherd will walk in, and everywhere he looks, they’ll be a picture of his daughter taking cock.

But there’s one final piece.

Something he didn’t expect.

Something that happened just this morning.

You should have killed me. You should have fucking killed me!

You were angry, standing at Price’s doorstep. Don’t know how you fucking found him, but your Shepherd’s, and he likely taught you well.

Beating on his chest, screaming in Price’s face, you raged, and then you spit out the real truth, the reason you even went looking for him in the first place.

The pregnancy test stares up at Price.

There are three possible fathers. All of them still ignorant about you and what Price did.

He’ll disown me. Did you know that? He’ll force me out of the family over this.

Price won’t put it past Shepherd to act so harshly, but you’re with him now. Left you asleep on his bed, curled up under the covers. He’ll have to tell the lads eventually, but not right now.

Rain glistened over the slick cobblestone streets and droplets caught in your hair. It was barely more than a fine mist, but the rain in London never truly stopped. The weather was a blessing in disguise, you supposed, because it helped to mask the horrid stentch of waste and smog that seemed to cling to these streets like an urchin.

You scurried through this darkened part of town, clutching your mantle coat tightly to ward off the impending chill. Alone, the buildings stood taller and the alleys were blacker. Things appeared more menacing at night, for night was when the thieves and scoundrels came out to rob and scare. Night was when the whores wandered and flaunted even more brazenly than in the day.

Drunken laughter spills with the light from a nearby pub and you quicken your pace.

Curse your older sister and her secret lover. Cynthia was supposed to have been chaperoning you for the evening but instead she had ditched you for Mr. Bradling. You weren't interested in ratting her out to father, but it was mighty tempting about now. You were thoroughly peeved that she'd insisted you find your own way home alone at this hour.

"You'll be alright." She had encouraged, shooing you away like a pesky little insect. "Just go, and don't talk to anyone."

"And look out for the Ripper." Mr. Bradling added cheerily. The comment earned him a sharp smack from your sister.

"Don't scare the poor thing."

"I'm not scared." You had rebutted.

But you were. You were terrified that someone would leap out of the dark and hold you at knife point any moment now. Every shadow seemed to coil and writhe, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

You had no idea where you'd ended up but it certainly wasn't the familiar safety of your well kept neighbourhood. No, this part of town was rough. Gritty. It smelt of decay and piss and factory smoke (that would surely take more than a few washes to get out of your clothes).

Should you be attacked, you'd have no idea where to run to. With your luck you'd probably find yourself fleeing deeper into this wretched borough.

The shrill shreik of a nightguard's whistle sounds a few streets down, startling you. You practically jump out of your skin, ice skittering down your spine as you realize your worst fear was coming true.

You're frozen- shock still on the sidewalk while you try and force your brain to think of what to do next, when a man barrels straight into you.

He knocks you into the narrow space between two buildings, trapping you within the filthy alley before you can do so much as let out a yelp. One hand shoves at your waist and pins you back against the grimey bricks and the other curls around your throat, ensuring your silence.

"You're not gonna scream, are ya girl?" The man's voice is low and raspy, thick with an accent you can't quite place.

You shake your head, eyes wide and frantic to placate him. I'm no trouble, they say. I'm harmless, don't hurt me.

"Right answer." He leans in close, breath too close to your ear and filtering down your throat.

Obscenely, you muse that this is perhaps the closest you've ever been to a man. Your heart jackrabbits in your chest with some wild mix of fear and.... something terribly improper.

The man takes a deep, unhurried breath of your expensive perfume, nose brushing against your pulse point and your knees buckle. The only reason you don't crash to the muck at your feet is because he's holding you up now.

You can barely see him through the dimness. It doesn't help that the collar of his coat is turned up high and the rim of his top hat tugged low, obscuring much of his face. What you can see though, is a nose with a jagged angle to it and a scared lip, curled up in a sneer.

He flexes his fingers, leather of his gloves creaking and he trails his hand up your ribs, skimming over the side of your bosom before falling away from your body entirely. You shiver from more than just the cold.

Improper.

The man tilts his head, assessing you in the same manner as you do him. The fine clothes, the ribbon coming undone from your ringlets, your delicate pearl necklace resting on clean skin. It's obvious that you aren't from around these parts. Painfully so. Perhaps if you simply gave him all your valuables, he would let you go unscathed and you could find a policeman to escort you back home.

"Please." You stammer, trembling fingers reaching back to fiddle with the impossibly delicate clasp. "Take my pearls. And my purse. Just- please don't hurt me."

The man shakes his head and gently brings your wrists back down to your sides.

"Don't wan' that." He grunts.

"Then... what is it you do want?" Comes your timid reply.

"Nothing, darling. Nothing at all, just keep quiet 'nd don't fret your lovely little head." He tucks a stray curl behind your ear, the motion feeling unnervingly sinister. "What's a pretty bird like you doing in this part of town, love? It's a mite more dangerous than you're used', I reckon."

"I... I got lost, Mister." Your hands clutch the front of your coat and twist anxiously. An amused rumble rises in his chest. A ragged laugh, you think.

"Lost, hm? Silly girl. Shouldn't be wandering all alone in a place like this. 'Specially at night. 'Specially with a murderer on the loose. The papers say he's quite deranged." His teeth gleam white in the darkness, but it's not a smile. More of a baring. Dull. Eager to rip into sacrificial flesh.

"I don't read the papers." You admit. "My father doesn't let me."

"Doesn't he now?"

You shake your head.

"But he lets you wander about London at night? All by yourself?" He pulls your coat around you tighter, like how one might bundle a child before sending them out to play. Like he doesn't want you catching a cold. It could have been a considerate gesture but it feels wrong coming from a stranger.

"He doesn't let me do that either. I'm not supposed to be here. Like I said, I got-"

"You got lost." He nods, eying you in a way that makes you want to slip out of your skin. "You're just lucky that I found you first and not some maniac or drunk."

"Or the Whitechapel Murderer." You tack on waveringly.

"Clever girl." He burrs. "So you do know about the killings."

"Bits and pieces."

He smiles at that. A horrible smile like you had just told some kind of sick joke.

"D'you want to know how he does it?" The stranger asks abruptly.

You didn't. You'd rather not know about the murders at all, but your sister was facsinated by the articles and often discussed them at supper. Despite the desperate shake of your head, he tells you anyways.

"I'm willing to bet he lures them into a dark corner just like this one." He begins, crowding you against the side of the building. He gathers the material of your dress and hikes it up your thigh, fingers crawling on flesh like an unwelcome spider.

"Get's em nice n' distracted with a hand up their skirt. Maybe dips a finger or two into their cunt."

You gasp at his vulgarity as he traces the seam of you over your undergarments, eliciting a cruel chuckle from him. More of a choked guffaw, really. A wretched noise.

"And then, when they're puttin' on their whore show..." he murmurs, lips brushing yours, "...he slits their throat."

A single gloved finger drags across your neck and there's a wicked gleam to his eyes when he spots your goosebumps. That same finger trails down to your necklace, giving it a harsh tug before continuing it's path and tracing along your collarbone. It trails down the buttons of your coat and upon reaching your stomach, hooks inside the garment.

"Then I reckon he takes a blade to the belly and guts 'em like a fish." He snarls with such ferocity that spittle lands on your cheek. The finger yanks your from coat, ripping it open and scattering buttons along the uneven stones below.

You whimper and squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to ward off the dreadful images of brutality his touch evokes.

Footsteps approach rapidly from beyond the backstreet, echoing off the vacant storefronts. Your heart pounds and the man catches your quickened breaths. A surgical eye, he has. It misses nothing.

"Think that's him, darling?" He slips a knee between your half exposed thighs and leans in to nip at the side of your neck. "Think ol' Jack 's come to get you too?"

"Oh, please." You gasp fearfully, clutching at his lapel.

Unfortunately, you've always had a runaway imagination. Your mind conjures up a man to match the footfalls. Tall and evil, a blade gleaming in what little moonlight that filters through the clouded night. Terror rises inside you, swelling into a crescendo and leaking out of your throat before-

"Oi!" Someone barks, and your eyes flutter open. A bobby stands at the mouth of the alley and frowns at the pair of you. "This ain't bloody' lovers lane. I'd get back inside if I was you. The madman's struck again."

Your cheeks burn red, mortification blooming at what it must look like to an onlooker. A man and woman tucked away into the privacy of the shadows? Her clinging to him and gasping while he embraces her so intimately?

You rip your skirts from his grasp and tug them back down to grant you what modicum of propriety you have left.

The stranger slowly pulls away from the crook of your neck like he's reluctant and turns to the copper.

"Blimey. Tonight?"

"Looks that way, lad." He confirms in a thick Irish brougue. "The- ah... wounds... look fresh." His eyes dart to you and he changes whatever it was he was going to say into something less grotesque in the presence of a lady. Really, you're just glad he still thinks you a lady after the falsely provocative scene he had stumbled upon.

"I'd best get her home then, safe and sound." The man speaks. "Thank you, officer."

Before you can protest and ask for a proper escort home, the policeman bids you both a goodnight and heads off down the street. It leaves you beneath this man you don't even know- who seems to be intent on scaring you and god only knows what else.

And you still don't have a clue how to get home.

Simon watches with perverted glee as you grow dazed, paling worse than a ghost when the reality of your position sinks in.

Another murder. Tonight. Just on the next street over and moments before he ran into you. A wicked man on the loose and killing young women for no true reason the police could discern. You could have been next.

You could have been next.

And you might have been next, but no. You, little lamb, were sweet. Timid. You avoided the slaughter because you were everything those sluts weren't; soft, tender. Virgin, he was sure.

Seeing you so completely terrified had something akin to pity tug the void where his heart should be. Sympathy, but not quite. He would have killed you just the same as the others. Lord, it would have been easy. And two in one night? The thought thrilled him like no other.

But the cops had been coming quick lately. There wouldn't have been enough buffer for a second kill, so he used you as his alibi instead. That didn't mean he couldn't toy with you in the upcoming weeks, though. Despite his baser instincts still simmering beneath his skin, he does his utmost to temper the lust for blood, and softens for his own benefit.

"I'm sorry for scarin' you, luvie." He curls his fingers around your arm in case you really do faint. "I get carried away sometimes and I forgot that a thing like you is used to more delicate conversation."

"It's alright." You whisper, shock starting to seep into your conciousness.

He slings an arm around your waist when you sway, keeping you at a strategic distance. He kept his work tidy. Always did, but these things were never perfectly clean.

As long as you didn't get too close, you wouldn't notice that his collar was turned up to hide the splatters of blood on his cheek. You wouldn't notice the scalpel tucked safelty away in his breast pocket, nor the fresh blood that was growing sticky beneath his gloves. It was hot and viscous and fully caked into his knuckles by now.

"Let me walk you home, yeah? Get you back to your bed safe and sound like I promised the officer?"

You nod vacantly and it's all too easy to guide you back into the empty streets. A fawn, too naive to fear the hunter. One who knew nothing of the dangers ever-present to a creature as dainty as you. As trusting.

It's endearing, the way you flinch at every sound. Every bottle broken, every angry shout. Even his careful touch has you shying away from him. That hardly surprised him, though.

He would bring you home to your (no doubt wealthy) neighbourhood just as promised. Though the temptation was there, he wouldn't harm even a single hair on your head. Maybe later, once he knew where you lived and the patterns of your days, he could insert himself into your life and play the part of a respectable gentleman. An attentive new suitor. One you would come to depend and rely on wholly.

Yes. He would sink his hooks into you not as the notorious Leather Apron, but as the respectable Mr. Riley.

And the best part? You'd never have any idea how close you'd come to heaven tonight.

Chat, we might be back to writing? I might have overcome the worst of my brainfog for now? Lets go?? AHHHH this was so fun to write, even if it took me months of coming back to it! Thank you for reading ♡