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hadesknockedupintheunderworld · 9 months ago

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"Perception" a Nine Essay

I started writing this back in January to take a break from brainrotting about Netflix posting EP1 of Season 3 to discuss something I had been thinking about again (ever since reviewing the end of season 2 for the umpteenth time).

I'd like to talk about the differences in how characters in Sonic Prime see Nine versus how he actually is. I know this seems like a simple topic, but I think we all do well with a reminder of just how much the characters in the show know with their limited povs (as we the audience can view everything).

I'll be going pretty much character by character (grouping some together to discuss their povs at once), and ending with Sonic and Shadow.

(Note: At the time I wrote most of this, I had planned to have it done before S3 dropped, as I felt that the messages of this essay would be good to put out there before we all inevitably saw Nine as the season antagonist. To keep up with my original intentions, this essay will only go up to what we the audience knew as of S2)

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So let's start with Rebel Rouge and Renegade Knucks. They gather their first impressions of Nine as they witness Sonic and Nine's capture at the hands of the council, although they don't properly meet Nine until they enter the Chaos Council's base.

"Are you sure we were 'best friends'?"

"Blue streak has a friend?"

"Didn't look friendly. But whoever he is, he's involved now."

They haven't yet watched the video a resistance member took of Sonic and Nine's fight, and when they do, we only know for sure that they'll watch clips of Sonic talking about Green Hill. This means that (especially since there are no references during their meeting with Nine that they saw him fight Sonic), them listening in as Nine and Sonic are abducted is baseline their knowledge of Nine before meeting him.

They consider Nine a possible friend of Sonic's as they listen in, but it’s Rebel who mentions that Nine doesn't sound very friendly. This is a fair assessment, given the tone of Nine's voice and Nine's questioning if he and Sonic even were really friends. It's enough to be suspicious of someone's character, especially in a city like this, where choosing the wrong ally in your resistance could likely get you captured, or worse. It's also worth mentioning that first impressions matter with guys like Renegade who (like Knuckles) tend to make judgements of character based on first impressions and gut feelings. He trusts Rebel quite a lot as well, even listening to her judgement when it opposes his own, so it’s not impossible that her initial judgement of Nine as unfriendly starts to inform his assumptions as to Nine's character.

But I digress. If you believe they didn't watch the full video of the Nine/Sonic fight, that small moment is enough for one or both to be suspicious of character or decide they don't like him. If you believe they did watch the full video of the fight, then I'd say that's enough evidence to form even a bit of a negative opinion on Nine and his character (after all, it does showcase Nine fighting the hedgehog they believe could be a sign of hope/an asset to the resistance. It's not too hard to come to the conclusion that Sonic and Nine may have been fighting up until being captured, even if that isn't the truth).

Now, the first meeting.

If they do have bad impressions of Nine before meeting him, Rebel and Renegade don't hold these against him. Rebel only swoops in to save Sonic from the laser and battle the eggforcers (which also allows Nine to escape captivity). As for Renegade, although he arrives after Nine has used the commotion to sneak away to the monitor, forgotten, he also never accuses Nine of any foul play or of only caring about himself. During this scene, Nine frees Sonic, saves Sonic by taking control of Rusty Rose, and ultimately aids in the battle despite fighting.

Now, as for my claim that Renegade doesn't assume Nine as a threat to the resistance or believe him to be a bad guy, let's pinpoint the scene where Nine first talks to him.

"No"

If you rewatch this scene (Season 1 Episode 2), Renegade isn't moving with intent to attack Nine. After punching an eggforcer, he bounds in the direction he's facing. He takes one step, in the direction Nine happens to be in before Nine instinctively points a mechanical tail at him (perhaps assuming that Renegade was moving to sneak up on him?). In addition, Renegade has this surprised look on his face until Nine says his next words.

"Catch up, Echidna. I'm one of the good guys."

Of course, this does no favor to Nine’s image regarding Renegade (especially as this isn't the only moment like this in terms of how Nine talks to Renegade), but it doesn't prove Nine's a bad guy. At worst, it frustrates and annoys Renegade, and if it comes off as some sort of "secret villain red flag" to Renegade, he doesn't keep this moment in the forefront of his mind. After all, he and Rebel both choose to follow Nine's idea of stealing the Chaos Council's energy crystal, and they don't mention or act like they are suspicious of Nine during the fight. This is all to say that, at the current moment, to them Nine may have an attitude, but he's not evil or intending to betray anyone.

An attitude like Nine's during this portion is either something to overlook or a trait tacked onto an indication depending on how any given person sees you. This is to say that at best if someone likes you or believes you to be good, you're "just a little rough around the edges", and if someone dislikes you or believes you to be bad, it's "of course someone bad would have an attitude like this". It's an accessory, not inherently an indication of moral character or intentions. Someone can use it to further implicate him/find more reasons to dislike him later (such as when people talk/post/write about people they think are bad people and start nitpicking their appearance in their reasoning), but for now his attitude isn't enough to make Rebel or Renegade distrust him.

After all, didn't they really think Nine would save them after nabbing the red paradox prism shard?

The shot is a bit hard to get, as they fully smile just before the show cuts back to Nine. This is the best shot of it I have at the moment. Just know that during Rebel's recount of this event in Season 1 Episode 6, Rebel and Renegade visually start to smile when they see Nine return with the shard.

Now that the mission is accomplished, we see that they're just waiting for Nine to rescue them. However, when Nine chooses to leave alone, Rebel and Renegade take it as betrayal.

Renegade is surprised before he turns angry, freeing Rebel, Rusty, himself in his rage. Rebel's expression deepens (as if angry, regretful) and closes her eyes.

These are not the reactions of people who distrusted Nine (or Sonic for that matter) from the start.

This scene pointedly shows us that Rebel, Renegade, and Rusty did not see Sonic disappear into the red shard (the doors shut before they can). Then they watch Nine leave them to their fates, making off with the shard as Sonic is nowhere to be found. It's not about Nine's attitude or unfriendlyness (or, again, Sonic's attitude for that matter. As Sonic *also* made Renegade frustrated the same way Nine did, but by calling everyone by the wrong names). It's the fact that they have every reason to believe Nine AND Sonic used them only to abandon them when they got the shard.

And this is perhaps shown best this interaction between Renegade and Sonic.

"I didn't steal the shard!"

"But your fox friend did."

Sonic had explained what happened to him to Renegade, who explained it to Rebel. Despite this, Rebel still saw him as a backstabber, angry enough to want to leave him at the mercy of the chaos council or turn him "into a handbag". Why?

Well, remember that Renegade and Rebel's first introduction to Nine was Nine bringing his and Sonic's friendship status into question. Whether they believed the two to truly be friends then, they did see the two conversing at the red crystal before Sonic disappeared and Nine left them high and dry. So even if Sonic hadn't purposely left them, I don't think it's a stretch here to say that Rebel and Renegade had assumed the two planned to leave Renegade, Rebel, and Rusty behind. Perhaps Sonic didn't make off with the shard, and perhaps he couldn't help his disappearance, but his partner made off with it.

Rebel and Renegade don't know Sonic, especially not like the audience does. Both with the knowledge they had at hand AND to deal with what was a shocking betrayal to them, Rebel and Renegade considered Nine and Sonic to both be traitors. This is also not to mention that despite Sonic's new testimony of his disappearance and his surprise that Nine would leave Rebel, Rusty, and Renegade to die, he wouldn't give Nine up to them.

Sonic has to try really hard, advocate for himself after a score of disappearances, and help the rebels a number of times for Renegade and Rebel to even consider that he's telling the truth about his helping them.

Likewise, Nine doesn't advocate for himself (or really care to). He swoops in to fight, takes Sonic to disappear again. He swoops in to fight for a bit, and then is captured by the Chaos Council.

And not only do Rebel and Renegade not know he was captured specifically, they did not see it. Earlier, before the battle, they made it clear that the red shard could not fall into the Chaos Council's clutches, or everything would be done for. Renegade even probed Sonic for Nine's location so they could make sure Nine would never give it to the coucil (even despite Sonic's testimony that Nine would never do that). Not only does Nine's capture give the Coucil the red shard, it gives them the secrets to interdimensional travel and makes them more of a threat than before.

This is all to say that, on top of the fact that Nine doesn't try to change their opinion of him as a traitor, as far as they know (influenced by their own biased impressions of him) Nine started working with the Chaos Council, betrayed them all again to get ahead.

We the audience know just as Sonic does that Nine was captured, and that he used his status to aid Sonic and their search for the prism shards from the inside.

Rebel and Renegade do not.

In fact, (now starting from Season 2 Episode 5), Rebel and Renegade are both distrustful of Sonic when he tries to tell them this (and the fact that they see it as his fault that the Council nabbed more prism shards doesn't help)

"I'm gonna bust into the Yoke, grab the shards, and rescue Nine!"

"The fox with the attitude? The one who stole the shard?"

"I...know he's a little rough around the edges..."

"It's not just the edges."

"But he saved you!"

"And then he disappeared again."

"Because he was captured! We can trust him."

"Him? We don't even trust you."

Nine's actions matter to them, and those actions color their perception of Nine for a while. Same goes for Sonic. Their trust is not easily won back after being broken.

The only reason they decide to travel to the Yoke with Sonic in the first place is because they need to make sure the Coucil doesn't keep the shards, and Sonic is going there to try to take them anyways. They don't trust him, but they do need him.

Later in the episode, "Nine" contacts Sonic to tell him of a way into the Council's fortress. We can safely infer that this "Nine" who contacts Sonic is not the real thing. The voice sounds at best like a robotic imitation, and the way "Nine" talks is suspect enough for Sonic to mention that he sounds weird and to ask if he's okay. But not only do Rebel and Renegade have no reason not to believe that this is the real Nine leading Sonic into the Yoke, Sonic himself vouches for him.

"My inside fox is gonna get us in. Come on!"

"'Bring your friends.' Why would he say that?"

"Because he's a nice guy? I told you, we can trust him."

"Not like we have another option."

Whether Rebel believes that's the real Nine or not, she suspects Sonic is being led into a trap. Even Renegade says he "doesn't like this" and mentions how ominous everything feels when the doors into the Yoke open. They only go along with Sonic because they have no other ways to get into the building.

But lo and behold, it's a trap. Sure we the audience know that this is the Chaos Coucil's doing, that Mr. Dr. tricked Nine into giving him info about Sonic that would spark the idea of Chaos Sonic's creation. We know Nine regrets this slip up and even apologizes to Sonic later for being responsible for Chaos Sonic's creation, and we know Sonic doesn’t doubt Nine's telling the truth.

But to Rebel and Renegade? Sonic just followed his so called "inside fox" right into a trap. It plays into how they already see him, just as Sonic's forced transports to the other shatterspaces before this (via touching the shards) continued to play into how they already saw Sonic as a deserter. They distrust Nine for valid reasons, but it’s because of this distrust and their ideas of who Nine is that they believe the worst of him, even when the audience can see that Nine isn’t intending on betraying any given person.

And Chaos Sonic doesn’t help this view of Nine that Rebel and Renegrade have either.

"Failure? You've got the wrong hedgehog, pal."

"Au contraire, blue hair. I know a fox that might disagree with you."

"Another trap. I knew that fox would set us up!"

So when Nine contacts Sonic himself later...

"Sonic! Are you there?"

"Sorry, pal, but I'm a little busy at the moment."

"I have a plan. Follow my directions and lead it to me."

"Ya sure?"

"Positive. But you gotta hurry!"

"What else is new?"

Here's what Renegade, Rebel, and Dread have to save about it.

"Sonic, wait!"

"Ugh. I'm starting to think he likes traps."

"Aye. He does."

Again. We the audience know this isn't a trap. After following Nine's directions, Nine uses the prism energy to blast and destroy Chaos Sonic after this.

But Rebel and Renegade don't trust Nine. They see this as Sonic falling into all of Nine's traps out of naive trust.

And Dread only agrees because he did use Sonic's trust to lead him into a trap. Dread hasn't met Nine, but if others think this is a trap, he has no reason to believe anything other than Nine being another person weaponizing Sonic's blind trust.

And aside from when Renegade saves Sonic and Nine from Dread later, this is the last time Renegade or Rebel see/hear about Nine. Sometimes Nine really does betray their trust, sometimes Nine is truly trying to help Sonic, but after the initial betrayal, everything Renegade and Rebel see (in regards to Nine’s words and actions) plays into their point of view of Nine as a traitor.

Rebel and Renegade aren't insisting that Nine is going to betray Sonic because they're right and Nine is "secretly evil" and going to do just that or whatever. Sonic isn’t ignoring the "bad" things that Nine did only for Sonic to be punished with Nine being a bad traitor villain all along.

Rebel and Renegade keep insisting that Nine is a traitor because he left them behind, because he doesn't care about them, AND because every bit of evidence they see (a miniscule bit compared to what the audience sees) just so happens to play into their existing biased view of him.

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Let's move on to Rusty Rose.

Now this portion is shorter, as she only has a single run in with Nine. This singular run in is during the first few episodes when Nine takes control of her to help him, Sonic, Rebel, and Renegade fight.

Now here's something important about Rusty we learn in Season 2.

1. Loyalty matters to her.

2. She can choose her own alignment.

Rusty Rose's lines to Sonic when he's in the Chaos Council's clutches, in addition to the fact that the Chaos Council turned her into a fighting machine, gives us a hint as to what's going on here.

"Survival required adaptation, as you will soon learn."

Rusty Rose has always cared about her well-being. But to those she is loyal to, she would give even her life. This is to say that whether she gave herself up as the Chaos Council's weapon for her own survival or whether they saved her and she decided to work with them because of this (and because they'd destroy her otherwise), she is loyal to them. At baseline, she is loyal because she believes they will never betray her, that they will always come for her.

How exactly do we learn this?

In season 2, while Dread and his crew still have Rusty Rose in captivity, she insists the Chaos Council will come for her, and even becomes smug when the council comes for the shard.

The chaos council has come for me and the shard. Just as I said they would."

But in the end, the Chaos Council chooses to leave her after obtaining the shard. She seems surprised that they would betray her, even after following every order to the best of her ability and acting as they had programmed her to. And so, after the Council deserts her, she changes her loyalty (her eye turns pink from the red color) and decides to join Dread's crew.

This scene mirrors a point in the first few episodes.

When Nine briefly reprograms Rusty to work for him, her lone eye changes to the color yellow. Likewise, she's loyal to Nine and the rest and follows orders. And although we don't get to see her face in the Season 2 Episode 5 flashback when Nine emerges with the red shard as we do with Rebel and Renegade, we DO see her face when Nine leaves. If you look back to the screenshot I provided in the Rebel and Renegade section of this essay, you'll see that she looks sad and disappointed. She was betrayed and left behind too.

And what does she do when Nine leaves her behind? She restores her Chaos Council programming and her eye turns red again. She returns back to the only people she can seem to trust to value her.

So Rusty may not have spent much time with Nine, but loyalty matters to her. So all Rusty likely knows of Nine as of the ending of Season 2 is that he betrayed her.

I think with this in mind, it's safe to say that she has no reason to like him or believe in him at the moment either, even if she doesn't subscribe to common ideas of morality either. He betrayed his crew and it's as simple as that (and that's why she has no problem blasting Sonic when Dread frames him as a traitor).

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Now for the Chaos Council.

Now, I think it's clear given the fact that they appropriated his tech and that Mr. Dr. Eggman (in S2 E6) referred to Nine as having a "less dull mind than the usual rifraff", the Council at the very least sees Nine as someone who is a bit more intelligent than most of New Yoke's citizens. Given that their goals are to continuously conquer and *gestures to all that they're doing* they're less concerned with morals and more concerned with their own goals. This means that they just dislike/hate anyone who gets in their way. Things like morals, relationships, etc are all things to manipulate to get what you want (if Mr. Dr. Eggman's talks with Nine are any indication).

So. How does the Council see Nine? Do they see him as someone secretly about to or willing to betray Sonic?

Let's start with their first impressions of Nine (or rather, how they will remember him).

In Season 1 Episodes 1 and 2, while Nine and Sonic are captured, Nine's life and wellbeing is largely used as motivation for Sonic to follow the Council's orders. Aside from this, though, most of the focus (the camera and the Council's) is on Sonic. So, from the events of Episode 2 and 3 of season 1 where Sonic, Nine, Renegade, Rebel, and Rusty fight their way to the red shard, it's simple enough for the Council to consider them all friends (sans Rusty). Doesn't matter if they actually are. They work together (and with Sonic who considers them all friends), so they might as well be friends to the Council. This is not to mention how Mr. Dr. watches Sonic and Nine enter where the shard is, are aware via the power shutting off that their energy crystal has been stolen, and then Sonic and Nine are the two that disappear before the Council can capture them. So at the very least Nine is...cunning. In their minds, he's smart enough to take the power crystal, but not so smart as to clash with the Council's egos.

Now, whether they knew only Nine had taken the red shard or they assumed both Nine and Sonic had coordinated (like Rebel and Renegade had originally assumed), it doesn't really matter here. In S1 E6, Sonic appears (clearly shardless) mentioning the existence of other shards and asking where Nine is (thus indicating he doesn't know where Nine and the red shard are). Then, during the Chaos Council vs Sonic + Resistance battle after this, Nine appears out of a portal with the red shard upon his craft.

And if they hadn't seen "the fox who stole the shard" as Sonic's friend before, there is clear evidence can see between now and the Mr. Dr. Eggman/Nine talk that leads to Chaos Sonic’s creation that they do now.

In Episode 8 of Season 1, the Council discusses eliminating Sonic in pursuit of their conquest, but Nine voices his dissent.

"Agreed. With our work complete, I'll give our girl-bot the go ahead on Operation Elimination."

"Tch. Eliminating the hedgehog is a bad idea."

"Arguing for the life of your friend? What a shock."

After this, Nine argues against the idea that he and Sonic are friends, but he ultimately convinces the council not to eliminate him outright.

"You sent your robots to another shatterspace. Big difference. You've only barely accomplished what he's done without any technology. He's a living shatter battery!"

*The power in the yoke dies briefly, and the coucil members each groan/make sounds of frustration*

"Til we know why he gives off this power, we need him alive. What? H– Grahck!"

*An eggforcer shocks Nine*

"The rat's right. Too many questions for us to start playing exterminator. At least...not until after we wring every ounce of shatterjuice out of that blue varmint."

Not only does he smile in talking about Sonic's accomplishments, but, if you check the end of this scene, Nine lowers his head when the council laughs over Dr. Done It's final statement, he grits his teeth, and he frowns.

In Episode 4 of Season 2, the Council brings Nine out front, and Mr. Dr. sits there when Sonic arrives to see him.

"Nine?"

"Sonic, get out of here!"

*The Eggforcers shock Nine*

"No..."

In fact, when Mr. Dr. threatens the lives of Sonic’s friends if Sonic doesn’t give over the shard, he pointedly leans in Nine's direction as the eggforcers ready their electricity based weapons.

"I'll make this simple."

*Mr. Dr. Eggman moves his chair closer to where Nine is*

"Hand over the shard, or say good bye to your friends forever."

In case you don't go back to watch the episode for this, also note that he begins to lean over during the "to your friends" part of the line, and Nine is the only one of Sonic’s friends in view of the camera as Mr. Dr. gives the ultimatum. The camera only shifts to include Sonic's captured friends after shifting between Nine and Sonic's expressions, and after Sonic turns around to look at them.

So I don't think it's a stretch to say that Mr. Dr. Eggman thinks Sonic and Nine are friends by this point. At the very very least he knows Sonic considers Nine one, given how comfortable he is using Nine as leverage.

Anyhow, in all of the Nine/Chaos Council scenes between his initial capture and the scene where Mr. Dr. asks Nine how to defeat Sonic, the council isn't fully aware of Nine contacting Sonic. This means they are not yet aware of his continued contact with Sonic and do not know what the audience knows about Nine's working them from the inside. They just make Nine upgrade their shatterdrive, remark that they keep him around for his knowledge on the shatterdrive, make him deploy eggforcers, and then keep him cuffed with eggforcer supervision at all times (should he try to escape). They don't trust him enough to keep him uncuffed and completely unsupervised, and they need his knowledge regarding the shards, but they underestimate him. Dr. Don't provides him full access to their systems, even when they leave Nine alone with Eggforcers, they aren't monitoring what Nine could be saying/doing behind their back, and they seem to think they have Nine under their thumbs enough to destroy him should he attempt to fight back.

Let's move on to Season 2 Episode 5.

In Nine's first appearance in this episode, he's led into the room the Council is in by some Eggforcers and employs his "attitude".

"Ahem. You rang for me?"

"How long are we putting up with him?"

"He's built us what we want. Get rid of him already."

"Now, now. We're going to put him to work. But this one posseses a—shall we say—less dull mind than the usual riff-raff. He'll appreciate this."

Then, the council gives Nine a demonstration of the power they possess with the three shards in their possessions and uses it to build upgraded eggforcers for the purpose of quashing Sonic and the resistance. What is the purpose of this in tandem with Mr. Dr. Eggman's "compliment"? I think the next scene involving Nine and the council gives us a bit more context to form an idea.

During this scene, we see that the council has Nine standing before their display, watching Sonic and the resistance fight upgraded bots in the scareport.

"Enjoying the show?"

"It won't be enough."

"Enough?! Balderdash! My jumbo eggforcers will pound that varmint into blueberry jelly!"

"We'll see."

"Yes. We will."

With the combination of "complimenting" Nine, showing off their power and harnessing of the shards after discussing the topic of getting rid of him, and making him watch the upgraded bots fight Sonic, it's clear to me that they're making a power play here (or at least, Mr. Dr. Eggman is). Mr. Dr. is trying to make it clear the might they possess, the futility of rebellion or of trying to disobey orders.

But here, after Nine says "We'll see", I think Mr. Dr. decides to swap tactics a little. They're still trying (and failing) to defeat Sonic, and Nine seems to believe no matter what that Sonic will come out on top. Perhaps Mr. Dr. at least realizes that their display of power is not scaring Nine into submission or causing him to give up on Sonic.

"You admire him, don't you? For all of your bluster, you think of him as a friend. Funny. I thought you were smart."

And I don't see any reason why Mr. Dr. Eggman would lie about an observation like this. If it was about aligning Nine as Sonic's friend while Nine is secretly planning to betray Sonic or doesn't like him, then the focus wouldn't be on Nine's intelligence. To reiterate, Nine's friendship status (or at least, whether he believes Sonic to be his friend) is not put into question so much as how "smart" of a move it is to place his faith and friendship in Sonic. It's manipulation tactic to put Nine's trust in Sonic into question, to again try to get him to lose faith in Sonic. Why? Well...why else? Nine is Sonic's "friend" to the Council, right? So Nine is their best chance at figuring out how to destroy Sonic.

"We both know that the other members of the council won't stop Sonic. They lack vision and imagination. Unlike you."

"You think I have vision and imagination?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps you're just a stupid fox. Alone. Useless. Pathetic."

Here it's incredibly clear the way Mr. Dr. is trying to use Nine's insecurities against him. Even if he's only guessing, talking up or insulting his intelligence and talents or playing into a possible fear of loneliness and uselessness is a really good guess.

But when Nine gets ahold of himself, uses his tails to gain height and push Mr. Dr. back this time, and insults the Council's intelligence, Mr. Dr. resorts back to brute force. He laughs off the insults and brandishes one of those electricity based weapons.

"Tell me how to defeat Sonic!"

Of course, if Nine was only using Sonic for his own purposes of gathering the shards and secretly planning on betraying him, he could have done so at any point before now, or made it clear that he's set the plans in motion. But since we know Nine's confident in his ability to fight for himself and escape during episode 6 of season 2, he believes himself to have more control over his situation than anyone else does. With this in mind, as long as he's guaranteed a clean enough getaway with the shards he can choose to do so. This gives Nine the ability to manipulate the council back and use them to get the shards. And, to an extent, he does! Although Sonic fails in securing any of them, Nine puts himself in a position to use the council to get anything he wants, even telling Sonic that he's working them from the inside. With this in mind, while there is still risk involved, I believe that he doesn’t necessarily need Sonic's help.

This is all to say that any of these moments in Season 2 Episode 5 would have been a fine point to betray Sonic by telling the council everything he knows about him. The council is full of idiots (to Nine)—idiots with power, but idiots nonetheless. He very well could have used the council to get Sonic out of the way while continuing to play them so he could escape with all the shards.

And yet not only does he refuse to knowingly tell Mr. Dr. Eggman any weaknesses of Sonic’s, he trusts Sonic. Just see the way he's so sure Sonic will win, even as Mr. Dr. Eggman is trying to make him feel stupid for doing so. See how Nine talked about Sonic in S1 E8, tried to convince the council they’d be idiots to get rid of Sonic. See the way that Nine chooses to risk his own plans by contacting Sonic as regularly as he can. See just how Nine talks about Sonic when Mr. Dr. Eggman stops attempting to appeal to Nine's insecurities to get him to lose trust in Sonic:

"You can't. He's too fast. He thinks on his feet. No matter what you throw at him, he takes it. No matter how hard you hit him, he always gets back up! You'll never beat Sonic, because you can't understand him. You don't think like he thinks. You're not even in the same league.

And what does Nine do when Mr. Dr. Eggman and the Council treat those words as if he sold Sonic out (knowingly or not)? He tries to take it back. He says "what have I done?" He immediately tries to contact Sonic (likely to warn him), not realizing Dr. Don't had entered the room until he's caught in the act.

"Warning your friend? Not cool."

He doesn’t at all look pleased watching the Council create Chaos Sonic. He says "what have I done?" a second time while watching Sonic fight Chaos Sonic. Even Dr. Done It regards Nine's "selling out your blue chum" as a slip of the tongue.

And what does the Council do when they learn that Nine's been in contact with Sonic all along? Well they use this relationship to their advantage, of course.

Ah, ah, ah. Let's not be hasty. The fox can lure Sonic right to us."

After all of this, from now until the ending of season 2, here is what the council knows about Nine. They know he managed to steal all the shards out from under them again (with Sonic's assistance), and they pretty much just attempt to track him down to take the shards back. After arriving at Ghost Hill, they put most of their focus on fighting Sonic and Shadow to get to where Nine is with the shards, dealing with their immediate obstacles. They're also firmly antagonistic against Nine, as he's stolen the shards from them and is no longer under their control.

So let's summarize what we can safely assume the Council knows and believes by the Ghost Hill battle. Nine is intelligent, and his know-how and tech are extremely useful. They'd underestimated him, allowing him to steal the shards under their noses, contact Sonic to feed him information, and escape with said shards. They know that Nine trusts Sonic, considers Sonic a friend (at the very least), and believes Sonic will come out on top.

So we return to those questions.

How does the Chaos Council see Nine? As a tool to be used for his information, his intelligence, his technology, and his limbs, capable of performing work. They see him as Sonic's friend (an important one at that). He's bait for Sonic, a pawn that can be used to lure Sonic or motivate him to make certain choices. He's to be used when he can be, and to be crushed if he opposes the Council or is no longer useful.

Do they see him as someone secretly about to or willing to betray Sonic? Do they try to get Nine to betray him? Yes! They command him to dispatch eggforcers and upgrade their tech. They use his well-being as a bargaining chip or to lure Sonic into a trap. They're constantly using him against Sonic. They can see he has the potential to betray, which is exactly why Mr. Dr. appeals to his insecurities to persuade Nine to give up information on Sonic and let go of his trust in Sonic. And yet...they don't seem to think Nine is actively planning to betray Sonic. If they thought so, why spend so much time trying to convince him that placing faith in Sonic is stupid? Why not actively try to persuade Nine to work with them instead? Why do they keep on having to try? Why do they enjoy watching Nine protest as they laugh about how Nine betrayed Sonic? (And why does the insuation that it's all Nine's fault that the council could destroy Sonic get to him the way it does?)

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Let's talk about Shadow the Hedgehog.

Shadow (similar to Rebel and Renegade) is a character than people often forget to consider the full pov of. This is to say that I've seen people forget what it is exactly that Shadow knows, and what of his knowledge informs his actions and beliefs (like people believing that Shadow was stupid for thinking that getting Nine's tech would allow him to traverse the shatterverse, forgetting that he didn't even have a tenth of the knowledge Sonic does of everything going on, much less the audience's, by season 2).

So with this in mind, before Shadow and Sonic talk at the beginning of Season 2, what does Shadow know about Nine, and how does he act based upon this knowledge?

Before Season 2, we, the audience, largely see Shadow appear in either flashbacks or trying to talk to Sonic (which happens when he starts to run fast enough to exit the shatterspace or is hurled through the in between after touching a shard), so it’s hard to know the extent of what he knows or can even gather in those moments of communication. Luckily, Season 2 Episode 1 gives us a chance to see some things from Shadow's point of view.

Unluckily, it's a bit hard to determine what exactly Shadow can hear and see at this point, as the first Shadow pov sprinkles in a couple moments Shadow most likely could not have seen (but we cannot rule out him seeing)—moments that tell the audience what point in time everything is occurring. One such moment is when Shadow is chilling on a crystal in the space between the shatterspaces and we see the scene of Sonic being sucked into the red shard before he shoots out of the New Yoke portal entrance. This is to say, it's hard to know for sure whether Shadow is aware of all of the scenes that play out for the audience, such as the clips that play as Shadow punches the entrance to New Yoke (Sonic losing control of his feet/legs, the shot of Mr. Dr. watching Sonic run, etc).

What we can glean from context, though (during this portion, as well as later moments) is that Shadow can at the very least see and hear Sonic, even possibly some of his surroundings (within limits). At the beginning of Episode 1 of Season 2, we can see Sonic sort of partially phase through the portal and into the in between when he runs fast enough (parallel to how Shadow can begin to partly phase into the shatterspace from Sonic's pov if Shadow is around him). During Season 2, namely during the No Place portion as Sonic tries to make off with the blue shard, we can even watch Shadow hold a conversation with Sonic and see changes to his appearance (such as the red dot of light on Sonic as Dread's crew aims to blast him). And finally, during Season 2 Episode 1, Shadow admits that he saw Nine in his lab giving Sonic the tech and the lab Sonic ran fast in (scenes that played for the audience while Shadow was busy punching the New Yoke portal).

Okay, so let's consider what we can see before Shadow confronts Sonic in the space between. At the very very least, he's aware that Sonic has new tech on his gloves and shoes and can hear everything Sonic says when Shadow manages to reach him through the portals. At the very most, he has some strange unexplained telepathy that allows him to see and hear some of what Sonic sees and hears. Of course, I don't personally believe the latter, as this hasn't really come up or been explained. So in my opinion, at most he can just see and hear what's going on and Sonic’s surroundings within certain limits. Under this interpretation, I believe that it's possible he saw and heard some of the scenes the audience sees here such Nine talking about energy, Sonic losing control, etc (if his admittance of seeing Nine and Sonic in the lab as Nine puts the regulators on Sonic is anything to go by).

So what does this mean for Shadow's knowledge? I believe it's safe to infer that, from Shadow's pov, the tech Sonic got from the strange version of Tails (Nine) has some sort of effect on him (as Sonic started to move through shatterspaces after this).

The next piece of knowledge we know Shadow could learn is the existence of alternate versions of people in the different shatterspaces. When Shadow finally gets ahold of Sonic, Sonic (loudly) starts trying to sus out whether Shadow is "grumpy Shadow" or "Shadow who needs a shower" or "Sheriff Shadow" or whoever. Then, after this, he realizes that this is the original Shadow he's faced with.

"Shadow, you're...you! The real you!"

"The only me."

This is info enough for Shadow to learn there are other versions of people they (Sonic and Shadow) know out in the shatterspaces. It's even enough context to assume that they are copies of the real thing, fakes, if Sonic's wording of "the real you" is anything for him to go by.

Here are the next two bits of information to add to Shadow's abilities and what he knows (one we learn about Shadow, and one tidbit that adds to Shadow's knowledge). The first is a bit of a testimony of just what he can see when Sonic kicks up a lot of prism energy.

"Have...you been able to see me this whole time?"

"Not exactly. When you get going fast, you kick up prism energy, and it thins the veil to the void. It's like it's...opening a portal through the gateway."

So, at the very least, we know that Shadow can't just see Sonic whenever he wants, and hasn't been doing so the whole time. As Sonic kicks up prism energy by running fast, it thins the veil to the place in between, allowing Sonic and Shadow to see each other.

The second bit would be Shadow hearing about Nine for the first time.

"So that must be how I teleported into No Place. I was looking for Nine, I started running fast, and then, suddenly, I portaled out of New Yoke."

This isn't a lot, but it at least tells us that the existence of Nine has entered the equation here. A being that Sonic knows by name who exists in one of the shatterspaces, and someone that Sonic was specifically looking for.

Now, I want to bring up something interesting about Shadow's pov after he and Sonic enter Ghost Hill. Aside from some possible tidbits here and there (and more than likely experience solely through seeing and talking to Sonic), the bulk of Shadow's experiences with the shatterspaces are based upon his experience with Ghost Hill (the only shatterspace he can enter at this time).

"What’s wrong with them?"

"It's a shatterspace, Sonic. Just like the others. A cruel version to make us suffer."

"A cruel version to make us suffer"

That line alone gives us more insight into Shadow's pov. While we, the audience, can see that the existence of those who live in the shatterspaces aren't inherently existing out of cruelty/to mess with someone like Sonic, Shadow has only seen what Ghost Hill is like. This tells us that Shadow sees Ghost Hill as a cruel version of Green Hill, an imitation that allows you to see but not have. It shows you the places and faces and voices you know, but none of it is "real" (or in this case, the original). It's not even surprising for Shadow to feel that this is cruel or purposeful. I mean, he is the one trapped, unable to do anything, as Sonic just so happens to be the one with the power to fix anything. He is the one who's doomed to watch the shatterverse change while he can't do a thing about it. And so of course the only shatterspace he can enter tricks him into thinking it may have been home (the home that's gone). Of course that shatterspace is filled with imitations that seem like what he lost but cannot be.

While Sonic is on his hero's journey, Shadow is stuck in a genre more psychological. So of course, via his experiences being stuck and his only experience with one of the shatterspaces, he'd assume the entire shatterverse was designed this way.

So, to sum this up a little bit. It is entirely likely that Shadow sees the inhabitants of the shatterverse as not only fake copies, but of those whose existence is part of a cruel game to make he and Sonic suffer over the shattering of the prism and the loss of their home. Does this make sense? It not only inherently hurts, but it’s designed to be cruel.

Shadow has only met the "ghosts" of Ghost Hill at this point. He doesn't fully know what we the audience know—that the inhabitants of the shatterspaces are real people with lives and backstories.

Now, with all of this in mind, how does Shadow first approach Sonic regarding the knowledge he has? Remember. It's, baseline, that Sonic can enter shatterpaces while he can't, Sonic started moving through shatterspaces after obtaining the tech on his gloves and shoes from a being who resembles Tails, Sonic creates portals and thins the veil between shatterspaces and the void when he runs fast, that "Nine" is an inhabitant of one of the shatterspaces Sonic knows and looked for at some point, that Ghost Hill is the only shatterspace he can enter, that Ghost Hill resembles and immitates Green Hill to a degree of cruelty, and that he believes that all the shatterspaces are "cruel" versions of his and Sonic’s home with fake versions of people they know, crafted specifically to make the two of them suffer.

"Yeah...yeah, that could work! It has to work! We gotta show Nine. He's like super smart! He knows a ton about prism energy. He–"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Why 'no'? I just said he's, like, super smart."

"He can’t be trusted."

If there's one bit from the Shadow portion so far I need to point out, it's this. Shadow asserts that Nine cannot be trusted. Shadow has never even met Nine at this point, only seen him standing in the lab with Sonic. How can he be so sure that Nine—or the other inhabitants for that matter—are specifically untrustworthy? Not even just fake imitations. Untrustworthy.

Why does Shadow jump to this conclusion?

"What are you talking about? Of course he can. He's just like Tails. He's just a little...angsty, that's all."

Again, there is no proof that Shadow has even seen much more than maybe an image of Nine, much less met him. Sonic's sticking up for Nine's attitude again, just like he did when talking to Rebel and Renegade, but Shadow cannot even know much of anything about Nine. He should not have a bias (beyond looks) based upon knowing Nine.

And this also means that, most likely, Shadow cannot assert that Nine is untrustworthy due to any solid evidence like Rebel or Renegade can, for example.

"He's not Tails. He's Nine. And they're not. Your real. Friends."

"Dude. He's real. This is his reality. And you know what else is real? Nine's tech on my kicks and punching sticks. So back up off Nine."

So, again. Why does Shadow jump to the conclusion that Nine and the other inhabitants of the shatterspaces are untrustworthy? This is what I think based upon the evidence we've gathered in this section.

I believe that it's entirely possible that Shadow sees himself stuck in a psychological horror. Based on his experiences living in the shatterverse so far, this reality they're in is like a punishment game. He and Sonic are both being punished for how Sonic shattered the paradox prism. Their home is gone, everything is broken. Unless they can fix it, the shatterverse is the setting of this cruel game, filled with shatterspaces (pale imitations of the home they lost) and the copies—fake beings—who inhabit it that were created with the sole purpose of hurting Sonic and Shadow. They hold similarities of the settings and the faces of the people they know as if to taunt (or to remind what they lost and cannot have). Logically under this framework, if Shadow believes that the inhabitants of the shatterverse have an inherently cruel existence and exist to make them hurt, then them seeming real is a distraction from the fact that they're designed to hurt (think...how Yen Sid tells Sora in Kingdom Hearts 2 that Nobodies are fake people, and any emotion they show is a manipulation tactic to make people believe that they're real). But Sonic is not only acting like they're real, considering them friends, he's trusting them. Perhaps Shadow feels...angry, because the only other "real" person (the one who caused all this) keeps chasing these living lies and believing them when they say/act like they can help end this hurt (help "fix" everything, restore it to how it used to be). Perhaps to him, these people (Nine included) are beings who wish to bring hurt, so why, then, would they help end that hurt or erase their own existences by "fixing" everything? Maybe Shadow thinks Sonic is being stupid, that he's placing his trust in Nine only because he sees Tails' face (falling for the lie), and is also angry because Sonic would stick up for and trust Nine rather than believe him—someone who is real and wants to end the hurt.

Okay okay, I'll stop there for now. That's moreso an interpretation I think you can derive from the beginning of Episode 1 of Season 2 up to this point rather than necessarily fact or authorial intent. I just think it's...food for thought.

Of course I also happen to think that Shadow, with his limited knowledge of who Nine even is, also chooses to insist that Nine specifically is untrustworthy because he becomes jealous that Sonic values a "fake" so much and thinks of him so highly, trusting him even over Shadow (someone who is real and clearly just wants to help Sonic as well as fix everything).

In any case, here are the facts up to this point. Shadow has heard Nine's name, knows the tech on Sonic was designed by him, watched Nine put the tech on Sonic, thinks this tech Nine created allows Sonic to traverse the shatterverse, and knows Nine is smart and "like Tails" because Sonic speaks highly of him. With this evidence, Shadow believes Nine is untrustworthy. He also believes the inhabitants of the shatterspaces aren't real and cannot be Sonic's friends. Shadow also grows angry when Sonic tries to argue and assert that Nine is trustworthy and that he and his other friends are real.

After Season 2 Episode 1, Shadow takes more of a backseat role. While we get to see his pov at times, or even watch him talk to Sonic, he can only see inside the shatterspaces to any extent while Sonic is kicking up enough prism energy. This, of course, means that Shadow is still not privy to most of the information Sonic and the audience are.

In Season 2 Episode 2, Shadow (to our knowledge) is not privy to much going on. In fact, with what we know about the limitations he has of seeing inside the shatterspaces, he could have seen during the portions Sonic is particularly speeding, but none of these occur in relation to Nine. This is all to say that we the audience could see the scene where Nine contacted Sonic through the eggforcer, explained how he was infiltrating the Council from the inside, and upgraded Sonic's tech to make gathering the shards easier, but Shadow does not.

Here is the only conversation between Nine and Sonic in Episode 2 of Season 2 that Shadow was privy to any of.

"Hang on, Nine. I'm comin' for ya."

"No. Don't worry about me. I'm working on a plan to get the shards from the inside. The best thing for you to do is to get the next shard before they do."

"Are you sure?"

"Totally! These eggheads are playing into my hands. They don't—"

"—been dowloading their tech. You just need to get to the shard first, then get out. I better go."

At that last bit of dialogue (beginning with "You"), Sonic lands on a crystal out in the place between. After Nine hangs up on him, the camera zooms out, revealing Shadow standing on the shard next to him.

"That's the first time one of them has made any sense."

It's hard to know for sure how long Shadow has been listening to Sonic's conversation, but given just how far away he'd have to be stalking Sonic when he exits Boscage maze (far enough to hear without being within range of the camera), I think it's safe to assume he's at least listened to the lines Nine and Sonic spoke as Sonic landed on that piece of crystal. That line specifically was Nine instructing Sonic to get the No Place shard before the Chaos Council does, which lines up with the immediate goal Sonic and Shadow would have. This is to say that if Shadow heard this line at least, it makes sense for him to "compliment" Nine by saying that he makes any sort of sense.

Although I also believe Shadow says "That's the first time one of them has made any sense" because Nine is one of the first inhabitant of the shatterverse Shadow's heard that isn't exactly like the "ghosts" of Ghost Hill (essentially, seems to actually think rather than repeating a single line endlessly.

What this scene adds to Shadow's knowledge is that no matter how much of the convo he heard, he has reason to believe that Nine is also seeking the paradox prism shards. However, just because Shadow knows a motivation of Nine's and more of what he's like doesn't mean he trusts him. Or, at least, Sonic takes Shadow's attitude as him still being openly distrustful of Nine. Given how short Shadow is with Sonic, even spin dashing him into the No Place portal entrance, I don't find it too much of a stretch to assert that his attitude here is a mixture of his frustration at not being able to go himself and the relationship/trust Sonic insists on keeping up with Nine (rather than just "how he acts usually").

"Nine's on our side, Shadow. And if you're not gonna help, you can–"

"Oh. I can help."

Although Shadow shows up in Season 2 Episodes 3 and 4 to talk to Sonic and to delay the Chaos Council's mothership's arrival in No Place, none of these really involve Nine. In any of the moments Shadow could have seen Sonic in No Place, they were Sonic running away for the most part (trying to escape with the shard), which of course doesn't exactly help the pov he has of the shatterverse inhabitants. Though Nine also contacts Sonic and is able to see him during this portion, these do not coincide with the times Shadow talks to him. Likewise, although Nine was on the mothership while Shadow was attacking it, neither of them see each other, and there is no evidence to suggest that they are aware of each other's presence (as in, that Shadow knows Nine is on the mothership and Nine knows that Shadow is the attacker). With Shadow being largely absent the way he is, it stands to reason he still has no chance to see the complexity and humanity of the shatterspaces' inhabitants, especially since he's in contact with Sonic as Sonic is running away (trying not to get killed).

As for Episodes 5 and 6 of Season 2. Shadow only shows up once between these two. Specifically, Shadow's pov is shown in Episode 6 as he reacts to how the shatterverse is beginning to break down. Other than that, though, the only moments he'd have to peek into what's happening (offscreen in this case) would be while Sonic is running fast enough. During Episode 5 and most of 6, these moments Sonic may be running fast enough for Shadow to peek in on him are all while he's fighting. This, again, doesn't give Shadow a chance to really gauge the character of New Yoke's residents (aside from the council), much less a chance to see what's going on with Nine.

Even in Episode 7 of Season 2, Shadow doesn't show up until the scene in which he properly meets Nine. With this in mind, aside from Episode 1 of Season 2, Shadow is very rarely present during Season 2 before his first official meeting with Nine.

So, to summarize, this is what Shadow knows/thinks about Nine before properly meeting him. Nine is similar to Tails (in both looks and intelligence), Nine built the tech that Sonic wears on his gloves and shoes, Sonic trusts Nine and fancies him a friend, even going so far as to stick up for the idea that he's real and trustworthy, and Nine is also gathering the paradox prism shards.

That's...it. That's all. And Shadow knew even less when he'd initially claimed that Nine wasn't trustworthy. Before their official meeting, Shadow saw Nine maybe once via what he saw during Sonic's first arrival in New Yolk, and he heard him speak once after S2 E2, when he told Sonic to focus on getting the next shard. He has...such little context/knowledge compared to the audience.

Now, the first meeting. After Sonic and Nine enter the space between with the shards in Episode 7 of Season 2, Shadow catches the container for the shards with Nine on top.

"It's about time."

"Nine, meet Shadow. Shadow, meet Nine."

"You're not another version of Sonic...but you could be twins!"

"Hardly. I am the ultimate life form."

"Don't listen to him. Come on."

Personally, I don't feel as if Shadow acts differently than usual in this scene. He doesn't talk very much, doesn't greet Nine, and isn't necessarily "friendly", but, again, none of this is out of the ordinary for him. The only thing I can confidently say here is that Sonic’s problem is Shadow's attitute, which is why he tells Nine to ignore him. However, he responds as this is a usual thing as well. "He's always like this. Just ignore him." He is also not going out of his way to be mean or vindictive towards Nine. Even Nine (despite his talking about Sonic and Shadow's resemblance) can't have done more than mildly annoy Shadow.

No, what's more significant than the first meeting (for the purposes of this essay) is actually Nine's reaction to seeing Tails in Ghost Hill.

"This world... It's like an embryonic shatterspace. Like it got stuck in the blueprint phase while forming. Hmm... Perhaps it would be useful in finishing The Grim."

"As long as I'm around, you'll always have a wingman!"

"This is the friend Sonic thought was like me? Heh. We're nothing alike."

After this interaction occurs, the camera switches to Shadow, who begins to make this face.

There are two bits from Nine's words I believe could be of interest to Shadow here.

"Perhaps it would be useful in finishing The Grim."

"We're nothing alike."

Why?

Well, let's tackle the first one. One thing that Shadow knows about Nine is that Nine is also looking for the paradox prism shards. Sonic seems to think Nine is on his side, but Shadow hasn't trusted Nine and his intentions from the beginning (as I went a bit into earlier going over Shadow's opinions on Nine as of Episode 1 of Season 2). So if Shadow did hear this line (and it's a bit unclear, but not impossible, that he did), he has reason to believe that Nine doesn't want the shards for the same reason Shadow believes himself and Sonic do. Or, at the very least, that Nine just has different goals in general.

As for the second one, Shadow told Sonic all the way back in Episode 1 that Nine isn't Tails, that he can't be trusted, and that Nine (as well as the other variants) isn't one of Sonic's "real" friends. A statement like "We're nothing alike" straight from Nine's mouth would be validating in this case. It validates Shadow's opinion that Sonic is being stupid and that Nine and Tails aren't the same, and it can easily give Shadow less reason to trust him. After all, if Tails is someone who generally is considered a "good" person or someone who would logically try to help fix everything, but Nine is not at all like him... That line could put Shadow off because he's already distrustful of him, and because of the potential implications Nine could be making from as Shadow's pov. This is to say that although Nine here is only rejecting the idea that he is just like Tails (or really, just like anyone and not his own unique being), Shadow is already biased against him. With Nine's wording, it's not hard for Shadow to insert intent/implications where there are none in his interpretation of the line.

Now, what I find interesting after this (in addition to Shadow's lack of hostility towards Nine despite his assumptions back in Season 2 Episode 1) is the attitude change.

Of course Shadow may have been angrier at Sonic back then, but he had also asserted so confidently back then that Nine isn't Sonic's friend as isn't to be trusted (and not even confidently, but as if annoyed or angry). But he...fulfill's Nine's wish to be alone with the prism shards, offers to take Sonic out, and gives him a calmer talk at the end of Episode 7 of Season 2.

"How do you know you can trust him?"

...

"I don't think your 'friend' wants the same thing we do."

Vs.

"He can’t be trusted."

...

"He's not Tails. He's Nine. And they're not. Your real. Friends."

There are a multitude of reasons this change in tone and demeanor Shadow has could be. It could be because he calmed down a bit more since S2 E1, it could be that he's decided to take a different approach when talking to Sonic about Nine, it could be that he's not so overly confident in his belief that the variants are all just "cruel versions to make us suffer" anymore after meeting Nine (or at least that the variants are so one dimensional), or it could even be that he's decided that Nine is helpful but Sonic should be more on guard. It's...hard to know which or how many are the truth here. All we know is that there is an outright change between these scenes and even Shadow's attitude, and that, despite the little interaction they've had, what Shadow's seen and heard is enough for him to come to the conclusion that Nine may not have good intentions and/or that Nine isn't actually trying to help them. Just like with Rebel and Renegade, whether Shadow has valid reasons or reasoning we can understand from his pov on Nine's character and intentions, his heavy bias he had even before meeting Nine colors all the information Shadow learns about him. This is all to say that (like Renegade and Rebel) it's easy for even actions/statements that have no inherent bad intentions to just feed back into his existing bias against Nine.

So, just in case, I'll reiterate. Shadow does have enough evidence to suspect that Nine doesn't truly share his and Sonic's goals, and he has enough pre-existing bias based upon his first impressions of the Ghost Hill variants to be suspicious of Nine's intentions and character. However, he has still barely met, seen, or heard about Nine second-hand. He knows very few facts about Nine other than how he's intelligent, is looking for the shards too, and is someone Sonic clearly has some attachment to. Yet...he seems to feel that Nine is untrustworthy (perhaps even on gut instinct) despite the lack of solid proof.

Well, actually, he doesn't just feel, this way. He actually tells Sonic that he distrusts Nine.

"What about him? We can't just leave him alone with the prism shards."

"Uhhh, yes we can, seeing as how he's the only one who can put them back together. You know, fix reality. You really don't trust him, do ya?"

"No."

"Of course you don't. You don't trust anyone."

He doesn’t actually tell Sonic why he doesn't. If anything, throughout this whole scene of them talking about Nine, he seems not to understand why Sonic does trust Nine (why he and Sonic aren't on the same page). Perhaps it just feels...obvious to Shadow? But even then, with Shadow's facial expressions as Sonic takes the "Why wouldn't we trust him?" stance, it seems to be that Shadow's point of view remains to be that of "Sonic is trusting him naively. This is something that could cost us."

Finally, we arrive at the final episode of Season 2. Despite his distrust in Nine (like Renegade and Rebel before him regarding Sonic), he has no choice but to join Sonic in the battle against the Chaos Council. First, Sonic's right in saying that Nine is the only person they have right now who can recomplete the prism. Second, he doesn't want to leave Sonic to fight the Council alone.

Now, while Sonic is in communication with Nine during the battle, he rarely talks to him around Shadow. The only moment he does is when eggforcers breach the mountain and put the prism's security and Nine's safety in jeopardy, to which Shadow only tells Sonic to go and protect the prism. Out of the two, I feel as if it's clear that Shadow trusts himself to hold his own over Sonic (I mean, he felt as if he (Shadow) was the best one to gather the shards in S2 E1, and he just made a statement about how badly the battles go when Sonic fights alone), so it makes sense why he'd send Sonic off to fight some eggforcers while he himself holds his own against the council, giving Sonic his chance to move. This is all to say that it makes sense why Shadow doesn't choose to be the one to protect the prism here, but we should also keep in mind just how in the dark Shadow is about what's happening with Nine.

In fact, Shadow isn't privy to anything happening in the prism chamber for a while. He didn't see Sonic and Nine's interaction, didn't watch Nine power Sonic up with the shard energy, Sonic didn't give him a detailed answer on how he got stronger and who was involved (only that he "got a power up"), Shadow doesn't see Nine power Sonic up to defeat the prismatic Titan, and Shadow–

Pause.

That scene in the final episode. You know, the one where Sonic returns after defeating the prismatic titan, Nine says that they were just using the blueprint to figure out what shards went where so they could complete the prism, and Sonic asserts they've actually been doing it to fix Green Hill? The part where Sonic and Nine disagree over whether it's possible to fix Green Hill, whether they should fix what was or move on and create a new home?

The part where Sonic accidentally implies Nine isn’t real to him?

A scene in which Shadow would be able to clearly see Nine's motivations?

The ENTIRE lead up to Nine taking the shards and deciding to leave Sonic behind?

Yeah ha ha...ha...ahah...

Shadow doesn't see any of that. You want to know when Shadow arrives? What he sees?

All he sees is Nine with all the shards at the edge of a portal, Sonic trying to get him to stay and Nine leaving (choosing not to trust Sonic). Practically all Shadow sees of Nine and Sonic interacting while they don't know he's there is Nine "betraying" Sonic and stealing the shards. He misses the entire complicated conversation and everything that lead up to the event.

Again, Shadow misses any nuance and any context that might allow him to see Nine more as he is. Nine leaving with the shards, betraying them and blowing off Sonic's attempts to appeal to him? It just feeds right back into Shadow's existing bias against Nine.

Shadow didn't trust Nine. He thought Sonic was naive for choosing to trust Nine. He felt that Nine didn't share the same goals as him.

Of course Nine steals the shards, betrays Sonic (who'd believed in and trusted him so so much, Shadow knows), and leaves them to die. Shadow already thought the variants were practically designed to make him and Sonic suffer, and what best to make Sonic suffer by having his trust broken by a fake wearing the face of his best friend, right?

Shadow did not have proof or real reason to believe Nine to be evil or planning to betray Sonic. He didn't even have half the physical proof Rebel and Renegade had when they decided Nine was traitorous. Shadow just always felt that Nine couldn't be trusted, and frustrated and annoyed for some reason that Sonic didn't agree.

Does this make Shadow a good judge of Nine's character? Was Shadow really right because he was seeing the signs all along, or was it because everything that happened just so happened to line up with his pre-existing bias (like back when Chaos Sonic implied Nine was involved with the trap, and Renegade assumed that Nine had set up the entire trap because of course the "traitorous fox" would)?

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For now, let's move on to the last point of view. How does Sonic see Nine? Is Sonic really just some naive hedgehog who trusted a fox—a fox who was clearly always planning to betray him—just because he wore the face of his missing best friend? Up until the end of season 2, did Sonic just refuse to see or miss all the red flags—all the signs that Nine was always going to betray him in the end?

Let's start from the very beginning. Season 1 Episode 1: Shattered.

What not a single person can overstate is how Sonic’s initial perception of every variant and their character is heavily rooted in his own bias. In this case the "bias" at hand is Sonic either assuming the variants are one of his original friends (like when he thought Nine was just Tails who had forgotten him), or somehow connected to them. In my Sonine Prime essay series I have talked a few times during S1 about how Sonic is largely going through Season 1 trying to guess what's happening around him with his limited knowledge of everything at hand, his lack of knowledge of the genre he's in, and his scrambling to explain things without there being someone like Tails to understand it for him. At first he believes Nine is Tails but missing some of his important memories. Then he believes that Nine, Rusty, Rebel, and Renegade are just his friends but "messed up" (still with the idea that they don't remember him). Then he realizes that there are multiple variants and comes to the conclusion that they are all part of the originals or contain pieces of the original deep down. Sonic’s idea of the reality of the variants continues to change until he at baseline believes they are all their own real people.

But where does Nine fit into all this? Just how much does Sonic's original perception of him as "just Tails" affect how he sees Nine by the end or season 2? Does Sonic actually just 100% see him as a replacement for Tails rather than his own person?

Well, I can answer that last question now if you wish. The answer is no, but the entire thing is eh...complicated.

In Episode 1 of Sonic Prime, after participating in an entire fight scene against Nine (who he believes to be Tails fighting him for some reason or Tails who doesn't remember him and home), Sonic explains what he knows of Tails' backstory. In return, Nine reacts as if Sonic knows details about him that no one should know, but then goes on to explain what actually happened to him. Sonic, of course, begins to have a reaction based on this.

I will remind you that, at this point in time, Sonic believes that Eggman succeeded in taking over Green Hill. He believes that this is is home, and that Nine, Rebel, Renegade, etc are his original friends.

"...Doesn't make sense. You are Tails, but– you're not... Here, but...gone?"

As of here through to the end of Episode 3, we have reason to believe that Sonic believes that Nine is Tails. He does his best to recognize Nine's preferred name, but he makes a number of references to getting the prism and "fixing all of this", refers to the New Yoke variants as "messed up yous", and at times even acts as if the variants should be/are like his original friends (as we see from the scene he starts introducing the variants under the names and traits of the originals). He quite literally believes that Nine is just Tails without his memories of Sonic. He thinks he just needs to stop eggman, get the prism, and make his "friends" remember.

While I will emphasize how much it makes sense that Sonic would approach the New Yoke variants initially with this conclusion, it will unfortunately affect how he perceives Nine forever.

In Season 2 Episode 6, Sonic returns to New Yoke. Rebel and Renegade are angry at him for leaving them behind, and (as we covered in the Rebel and Renegade section) they consider Sonic and Nine to be traitors. However, while Rebel and Renegade (understandably) label Sonic and Nine as traitors for the betrayal they witnessed, Sonic is...surprised when he learns that Nine made off with the shard.

"I didn't steal the shard!"

"But your fox friend did. Right before he left us high and dry."

"He...did?"

I'm going to refrain into digging too far into how Sonic sees Tails (as dredging up the evidence would be another essay), but, in short, we know that Tails is his best friend. Tails is smart, he helps fight Eggman for the greater good, and he'd never leave a friend behind, right?

By this episode, Sonic has shifted his idea of the variants already. He no longer thinks Nine or Rebel or Renegade are just his original friends missing their memories, but we know that he feels as if there are pieces or traits of his friends who reside in all the variants deep down. He tries to talk like Amy and get Thorn to be a "good friend" and make up with everyone. He tries to appeal to Dread and get him to join the crew's search for the blue shard, referring to that stubborn loyalty of Knuckles'.

So Sonic has already created an idea of Nine based upon his idea of Tails. Sure Nine is "a bit angsty" and a loner, but he'd never leave any friends behind or leave people in danger, would he?

Tails would never just leave everyone behind, and Sonic doesn’t want to believe that Nine would or to believe the worst of him. So to Sonic...it must all be some huge misunderstanding, right? Sonic will prove that he and Nine aren’t traitors. When he finds Nine there has to be a reasonable explanation for why he made off with the red shard and left Rebel, Rusty, and Renegade to the council's mercy.

Nine is Sonic's friend, and Sonic believes that Tails is in him deep down here. He refuses to believe that Nine is evil or doesn't care about others.

"If they get that energy crystal back, we're done for."

"Nine won't let that happen!"

...

"I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me. But I'm not a traitor and neither is Nine. Let me prove it to you. Let me fight by your side."

He thinks so highly of Nine and believes in the good in him. Most of us agree that this is because of Sonic comparing Nine to Tails and because of how he initially started trying to pull Nine into the intelligent little buddy role. But...is this all because of Tails? Is it–?

Let's take a step back for a moment. Remember how in the previous sections I talked about the character's pre-existing biases and how Nines actions would coincidentally fit into these biases, and how I've emphasized what it is the characters actually have seen?

Well, here's the truth of the situation. Sonic didn't see Nine abandon Rebel, Renegade, and Rusty. While they're clearly angry, he has no clue what actually occured, how Nine acted, and he refuses to assume that Nine grabbed the shard and just split. And when you hear that someone you've already decided to trust (even though Sonic later updates his idea of Nine as his own person, it's due to Sonic's existing bias towards Tails that he trusted Nine in the first place) has done something awful, you'd want to see that proof or know the context. You'd want to hear what happened from the one you trust. And here's another truth about the situation. Nine up to this point has never betrayed Sonic. After they talked in the scareport after their battle, had a heart to heart, Nine proved he was no longer hostile to Sonic. Nine gave him the regulators and helped him with his little running issue. Although Nine had no way to save him when Sonic was about to be blasted back at the Yoke, when Rebel and Renegade swooped in to fight, Nine freed Sonic at his first available chance. During that entire adventure in the Yoke through to episode 3, Sonic has seen Nine work together with the others as they fight for a singular goal. Even when Nine suggested they leave the others behind to get the shard, Rebel tells Sonic the same thing right afterwards.

Aside from hearsay, Sonic (by Episode 6 of Season 1) has no reason to believe that Nine is a traitor. Nine assisting with the fight in the Yoke, helping him out—all of this feeds right back into the idea Sonic has of Nine's character. He reasonably feared that Nine would keep attacking him in episode 1 after the battle, and he reasonably believed that Nine baseline cared about the well-beings of others.

Let's look at Sonic's talks with Nine in S1 E6 after Nine picks him up from New Yoke.

(For the record, as I've already taken up quite a lot of your time here, I'm going to try to be as concise as I can with this section. But if you'd like to read a more in depth analysis of Nine and Sonic during this scene I've done, you can read Sonine Prime Part 6 here.)

As I said, Nine helping out in the battle before he picks up Sonic just feeds into Sonic's pre-existing bias. Nine very clearly only came to pick Nine up from New Yoke so he could take him to the Grim (and that's pretty much what he does the moment Sonic jumps into his cockpit). Sonic, however, already asserted to Rebel and Renegade that Nine is not a traitor and that this battle for the existence of the resistance and the citizens' hope in a better future will allow him to prove that neither he and Nine are traitorous. He doesn't know where Nine is exactly before he shows up, nor does he have real reason to believe Nine will show up during this fight, but Sonic was extremely happy Nine did. Likewise, Nine doesn't know any details about the resistance's fight with the Chaos Council. He has no real reason to believe that Sonic will just go with him and leave during the battle, but he's also very happy to see Sonic and to take Sonic's attention.

So while Nine came to New Yoke to pick up Sonic, Sonic assumed Nine came to join the fight, to help the rebels fight for a better future, and to clear their names. He's assuming that Nine shares the same intentions as him and has the same general idea of what "a good person" would do that he projects onto Nine. As for Nine, he also just kind of assumed Sonic would go along with him. When talking about the Grim to Sonic, he emphasizes that it's a clean slate, he appeals to Sonic's wish for home by talking about how it can be a new home for the two of them. In addition, he also has an idea of a "good person" he projects onto Sonic, given how he tries to appeal to that assumed nature by talking about how the two of them can create a "better world" (as opposed to New Yoke, a city that only brought Nine misery, that Nine has no hope for).

Plus, as the two traverse the area between the shatterspaces, they play tug of war with the conversation at hand. Sonic talks to Nine about how they really should get back to New Yoke to help the rebels (they're fighting an incredibly important battle at the moment). Specifically he says "we should get back" (emphasis on the "we"), and talks as if he's trying to remind Nine why they should be fighting right now and why that matters.

As for Nine, especially because he's pretty detached and doesn't know or care of the extent of what's going on in New Yoke, he keeps steering the conversation towards The Grim and what he's discovered about the shards. He keeps emphasizing that this is about creating home for the both of them together, and he also talks like he's trying to remind Sonic of "their" goals and why the creation of home here matters.

It's also worth mentioning here that Nine both does not know the extent of what's happening in New Yoke (because he wasn't there with Sonic, he didn't meet the full resistance, he doesn't know about the palm tree or the specifics of that fight of the future) and doesn't really care. He also isn't malicious about it either. He's not acting like everyone in New Yoke deserves to suffer and he's purposely leaving them there to suffer. Rather, he responds to Sonic's attempts to convince him to go back to New Yoke with him and fight by talking about how the city brought him misery and he doesn’t owe it anything. He's taking a neutral stance of "That city was not my home. It hurt me and it brought me only misery. I'm not going to go out of my way to destroy it or hurt people there. As long as people there leave me alone, then I will leave it alone. It's the city's problem if it's hurtling towards destruction, not mine."

These two are just focusing on completely different things—specifically things they emotionally invested themselves in and placed their focus in before the two met again in S1 E6. And yeah! Maybe how Nine acts during this scene should have been enough to tell Sonic that Nine doesn't care about New Yoke or saving every little person in danger. Nine does make it pretty clear that he only cares about his goal of creating a new home and better world for himself and Sonic. However, Sonic is the kind of hedgehog that not only believes in Nine's capacity for "goodness" (or how Sonic personally believes one has to be to be a "good person"), but that Nine has to be a "good person". Even before he'd accepted Nine as his own person that isn't just Tails, he'd formed that solid idea of Nine's character as someone who would naturally help people in need, and he doesn’t want to admit that the idea he has of Nine in his head is wrong.

But, even with all of that in mind, is any of this really proof or "red flags" that Nine would betray Sonic all along? Sure Sonic's ignoring here in the Grim that Nine doesn't care about New Yoke or the resistance all that much, but does Nine ever give any indication that he's just using Sonic to get the shards and was planning on exerting control over the shatterverse?

No.

Nine is happy to see Sonic. We know from S2 E7 that he very genuinely had integrated Sonic into his plans, very seriously planned to create a new home to live in with Sonic (so he wasn't lying about it). He already had two prism shards and was already experimenting with using them to alter reality in the Grim, and gave no indication he wanted more. He could have continued to shape the Grim to his will, but instead he brought Sonic there so they could do it together. When Sonic seemingly rejects his proposal to create a new world together, he seems disappointed, acts like he's been rejected, helps Sonic get back to New Yoke.

Nothing about that screams power hungry fox trying to hurt people on purpose. He got exactly what he needed (a couple shards and Sonic), and if he'd had his way right then, they would have just created a home in the Grim.

All the fox wanted was to be left alone and to be home.

During this scene, how can Sonic miss "red flags" that Nine has been "secretly evil all along" that aren't even there?

Sonic's only crime is trying to hold onto the exact idea he has of Nine as a "good person" by his own standards. And frankly, even when Sonic relents and goes to New Yoke without him, he makes it so clear that he just knows Nine will come back to fight with him, just like he knew Nine would come to help earlier (even if Nine had only actually come for him).

After their battle in S1 E1, Nine had a heart to heart with him. Nine created the regulators and helped Sonic control the energy bursting from him. Nine helped him and the rebels escape captivity/danger while they were in the Yoke, and assisted in keeping the others from harm as they all fought together. He came right in the nick of time to turn the tide of the battle for a minute in E6 of S1. And even after making it clear to the audience that he doesn’t care about New Yoke, and pushing against Sonic's internalized idea of his character, he still comes back for Sonic.

Even if he only comes back to join the fight so he can give Sonic another chance to pursue his (Nine's) goals, his coming back feeds right back into Sonic's pre-existing bias. After all, he knew Nine would come, didn't he?

Let's even go further into S2. Sonic learns that Nine got captured, and Nine makes this clear as well. He tells Sonic that he's going to use his vantage point to work the council from the inside. Both are aware of how dangerous it is for the Chaos Council to have access to so much shard energy. From the little contact Sonic has with Nine during most of this season, Nine situates himself as Sonic's inside helper and giving him direction. This is why he believes him when "Nine" leads them into the Yoke for a trap, and that's why he believes the real Nine when he leads him through the Yoke building in a plan to get rid of Chaos Sonic.

To Sonic, Nine always comes through for him, whether it's for fighting, giving him insider information, or giving him directions/plans/helping things make sense to him.

If Sonic just let himself see it, he would notice that Nine doesn't really care about anyone else but himself and Sonic, and he would know what Nine's actual goals were. Assuming that Nine naturally followed his same goals and acts regarding other people "like the real Tails would", that was Sonic's folly. That's where he was being naive and only taking in evidence that fit his bias of Nine as a good person.

But that doesn't change the fact that Nine did help people out, did help out Sonic. He prioritized his own goals over others' well-being in E6 of S1, and when he left Renegade, Rusty, and Rebel behind, but he did not do so without hesitation. It doesn't change the fact that he helped Sonic out and that Sonic had no reason to believe Nine was using him for his own purposes, because even when Nine made his true character and his goals clear, he always genuinely wanted Sonic at his side. And it doesn't change the fact that even when Nine was frustrated at Sonic, he still stuck up for Sonic. He still convinced the Chaos Council not to kill him outright. He still risks his position and safety to help Sonic, even in the face of being killed for doing so. He feels guilt and remorse for being the reason Sonic was led into a trap and attacked by Chaos Sonic. He expresses this guilt to the Chaos Council (as they jab and jeer and he goes "what have I done?"), and he expresses it to Sonic, who reiterates the trust he has in Nine.

What I'm getting at here is that Sonic’s problem was always how he didn't fully see Nine as he was, and how he just assumed Nine would go along with whatever he thought and wanted. Nine's criticism at the end of S2 was not a baseless one. However, his problem was never that he trusted Nine. No matter the place his trust in Nine began from, Sonic has never had any reason to distrust him, and, in fact, only grew to trust him more over time and Nine helped him out and proved that he cared about his well-being.

Sonic thinks Nine will go along with his goals because he's "just like Tails" and kind of assumes so.

Sonic sees "the good" in Nine and trusts that Nine is his friend because he's gotten to know Nine a bit better over time. Actions speak loud, and it says a lot that Nine continues to aid him and very specifically wants to be with him.

ㅤ

Now, in the interest of not going on for too much longer, I'm not going to go piece by piece through every Nine scene to dissect exactly who he is as a person and why. Nine's exact character is an essay for another time. So for now, let's keep in mind just what we can see of Nine in the show (and in contrast to what other characters think of him).

I'm going to pose a question or two. Has Nine the Fox been secretly evil all along? Has everyone else been seeing the signs while Sonic has been blind because he doesn't want to believe "Tails" could be evil?

And now, from what we've gone over so far, here's some of what we know about Nine:

Nine isn’t the type to hurt people for no reason or out of malicious intent. He attacks in self defense and generally just wants to be left alone. Thus, if you leave Nine alone, he won't go out of his way to mess with you.

He doesn’t care about others to an extent. If he's already involved in an event, he will help out if people are in danger. However, he always pursues his goals first. He ultimately hesitates when he sees Rebel, Renegade, and Rusty captured, but ultimately chooses to secure making it out alive and with the shard over risking losing either to assist these three.

He cares very deeply about Sonic. Even when he's clearly frustrated or disappointed or says that he's not friends with Sonic, his actions show otherwise. He wanted to build a new home with Sonic, and he risked his own well-being to help Sonic in S2.

He trusts Sonic back. He believes in his ability to overcome anything, even when the Chaos Council is throwing more and more terrible robots at Sonic and trying to convince Nine that it's not worth putting faith in him.

Others actually try to convince both Sonic and Nine during the runtime of S1 and S2 that the other shouldn't/can't be trusted, and that it's idiotic to place their trust in each other. These are scenes that genuinely end up showing that each plans to stay on the other's side and features them sticking up for each other.

Nine doesn't care about others, but not in a malicious manner. He aspires to be left alone and to his own devices, to which he will leave others alone and to their own devices. Even when he's alone and not in Sonic's presence, he never expresses a wish to exert control over the shatterverse and to be its god (essentially trying to make it all better). He only wants to create his ideal home with Sonic away from everything that hurt him.

He rejects the idea that he is exactly like Tails.

He actively seeks and even becomes smug/happy when he gets Sonic's attention. Being considered Sonic's friend or even a best friend is important to him.

The only ulterior motive he ever presents in helping out Sonic is when doing so allows him to get the home he desires, a desire that he includes Sonic in on for the bulk of the runtime. Essentially, he sees Sonic as a collaborator in a goal that includes them both.

So now, I pose the question to you reading this. Has Nine the fox been secretly evil all along?

Personally, I think not. He's not a "good person", but to be evil one has to have a specific kind of malicious intent. You can argue that the Chaos Council are evil because they act in self interest, knowingly oppress the mobians in New Yoke, and don't care what they have to do or who they have to kill to get what they want. They are aware of what they are doing and that they are hurting people, and actively choose to do "evil" deeds because they want to.

Nine acts in his own self interest, he doesn't go out of his way to be a hero to others, he doesn't care what becomes of the other shatterspaces, but he doesn't go out of his way to just oppress or hurt people. He doesn't attack people or leave them to die for the enjoyment of it. He's not outright acting evil with intentions to commit evil deeds, but he never claims to be a hero either. He's a morally grey fox who acts in his own self interest who just wants a real home, and just wants to be safe.

But all in all I ask this to you because I wonder genuinely. What of Nine's actions during these two seasons betray that he's just "what if Tails was evil"? Does acting in one's self interest or selfishly, even if you believe it's for a good cause and if you don't go out of your way to hurt people, make you an inherently evil person?

Has everyone else been seeing the signs while Sonic has been blind because he doesn't want to believe "Tails" could be evil?

Renegade, Rebel, Shadow, etc. They all don't trust Nine.

But with I've gone over so far re:their povs and what they've seen and know of Nine, have all of these people been seeing something Sonic has been missing? Have they not just been doing the same thing Sonic has been (in this case, forming an idea of them based upon first impressions and continuing to paint that person in a specific light because of how their continued experiences with that person fit their pre-existing biases)? They've had less run ins with Nine than Sonic has. What makes their gut instincts and povs more valuable than Sonic's pov of Nine (or the chaos council in s1 and s2 for that matter)?

What is it even that they're seeing that Sonic is missing? Is it that Nine cares more about creating a home within the Grim than saving people or being a hero, or even more than some goal of bringing back Green Hill (even at the expense of the shatterverse and his life)?

Sure, Sonic doesn’t want to believe Nine could be evil. Heck, he doesn't even want to believe that his idea of Nine as someone who would put his life on the line for those in danger and help people when he can is false.

But what? What exactly is it that he's missing? What are the "red flags" Sonic is "ignoring" in these two seasons that "prove" Nine has been evil all along? What was Sonic missing that proves Nine was always planning on betraying him?

ㅤ

It's all food for thought my friends.

Anyways, if you've read up to this point, thank you so much! I know it's a long one, but it means a lot to me that you'd take the time to read my thoughts and analysis. In the end, the point of this essay is that I implore you all to think of how the characters see each other. The creators put genuine thought into these characters, how they act based on what happens to them, and how they act based upon what they could possibly know from their povs. I implore you to consider why certain characters assert things they do. I implore you to think why Nine would have betrayed Sonic at the end of S2, why Sonic would have trusted him, and for what reason other characters may not have trusted him. I implore you to think of Nine not as a twist villain, but to think of how he actually is and what might push a person to this point.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

#sonic prime #sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog #the chaos council #mr dr eggman #dr done it #dr babble #dr deep #dr don't #renegade knucks #rebel rouge #sonic prime season 2 #sonic prime season 1 #nine sonic prime #miles nine prower #nine the fox #essay time #i just be ramblin #Fun fact! While I have been wanting to write this essay for a while‚ I actually finally broke down and wrote it BECAUSE it hit me again tha #Shadow missed the entire breaku– I mean. Uh. He missed most of the scene where Nine and Sonic broke u– I mean #uh dissolved their friendship. I was just consumed with thoughts over Shadow missing so much context even while I was seeing people assert #that Shadow knew what was happening regarding Nine all along #Oh also. Yes I have seen season 3. However‚ I wrote most of this up before S3 came out. So this essay only covers up to the end of season 2 #Maybe at some point I'll make a reblog or a second post where I do the same thing I did here but for the characters in S3 and how #they view Nine.#long post #Also if you've just read the post and You'd like to read more in depth looks on how Nine and Sonic see each other and why they would‚ I'd #give my Sonine prime series a shot. Yes it's focused on the shippy aspect‚ by a shipper‚ but one main purpose of it is to present the #complexities of these characters and just how integral understanding their general relationship/importance to each other is to the show #(romantic‚ platonic‚ whatever)

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yeyinde · 3 months ago

Text

bos taurus | dogmeat series pt., i

mafia butcher Simon Riley x Reader

You don't question your brother when he sends you to drop off packages to his friends, but when the enforcer for the 141 shows up to teach the small-time dealer selling on their turf a lesson, you realize there are different ways to pay someone back with pounds of flesh.

(OR: your brother owes them, and Ghost is content to let you settle the debt. after all, if you wanted freedom, then you shouldn't have caught the eye of the butcher of the 141, should you?)

18+ SMUT. noncon. objectification. marking. kidnapping. threats of violence. unsafe sex (manipulation into unprotected sex). rough sex. size difference. breathplay. 10k of foreplay. light pussy slapping. overstimulation. mafia au.

SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3

The goal is to be as quick and discreet as possible.

In and out, he says, looping the baggie around his index finger. Inside, a snowfall of white powder settles at the bottom.

Meth this time. Oxytocin the last.

He ties it tight before giving the bag a quick shake, breaking up the clumps. Satisfied with the way it looks, he turns toward you. Levels you with a sombre look, the picture of a concerned older brother.

You almost fall for it. Believe it. But the clouded, flat edge to his gaze undercuts his worry for what it really is. A farce.

“And if it seems sketchy—”

—run.

But your knees are locked, soles glued to the pavement. You can't move even though everything is screaming at you to flee.

The problem, maybe, is that there's nowhere to go. Escape cut off, filled by a body, a man—even though the idea, the mere notion, of thinking this behemoth as human, flesh and bone; blood and tissue, is laughable when he's so clearly a beast. A monster.

He fills up your field of vision. Your line of sight was eclipsed by the thickness of his waist, the broad expanse of his shoulders. Thighs that are as wide as the trunk of a tree. Arms boxing you in. A prison of obsidian. A black shadow.

In the panic that surfaces, surging to the top like an oil spill, you catch a pocket where he doesn't root. A small alcove between the bend of his elbow and the slot of his knee perched against the wall. Enough room for you to—

“Wouldn't do tha’ if I were you.”

His voice seems to shake the earth, rolling out of his broad chest like the low, brassy roar of a lion; a rumbling thunderclap.

You feel sick—

The leather covering his hand is cold when it closes around your arm, grip tight. Bruising. Trapping you with just the slightest effort.

“Go’ a problem, you and I,” he starts, and it's almost conversational. Might be, perhaps, if the clean, sleek outline of his gun inside the unclasped holster around his ungodly thick waist wasn't threatening you more than the grip he has on your arm. “How do you reckon we can fix it?”

You have a meagre twenty dollars in your pocket. Less money for them to take if things go awry. If they decide that the little girl standing in for her older brother was an easier target to rob—money and drugs—than to settle things fairly. Money, goods. Hand over hand.

Just like the movies, he'd said.

Just like the movies, you think when he leans in closer, bulk swallowing you whole.

There is a pockmark in the corner of his crooked, misshapen nose and the crease of his eye. A scar, maybe. It's circular—almost perfectly so; a silver-pink moon on the angular ridge of his nose. Uneven, craggy, like crumpled printer paper.

It looks almost like—

You think of the mark on your arm. Soot-stained. The smell of burning hair, tissue. The searing pain.

“I–I can pay you—” you stammer out, tearing your gaze away from the ugly mark on his skin. A cigarette burn. It makes you shudder.

He cocks his head slowly like a big, dumb dog, but there's something eerie in the ink spill of his eyes. The soft matte of a saltwater crocodile staring at you from beneath the murk. Calculative. Hungry.

“Pay me?” He echoes slowly, dragging the words out mockingly. “D’you know ‘ow much trouble your brother is in? For sellin’ ‘ere of all places?”

“No,” you swallow. It feels like your heart is stuck inside your throat. “I–I just—”

“Run ‘is errands,” he finishes cruelly but you can't deny it. “Ain't you a good little sister? Almost makes me wish I ‘ad somethin’ as sweet as you f’myself growin’ up.”

You don't answer. He doesn't seem to be looking for one, really; just empty words to fill space. To echo in your head, barbed wire around any sense of comfort you might have felt. Punishing cruelty.

He has the upper hand, it says. He's the one who makes derisive jokes while you tremble in his grasp, and try to make yourself as small, as unassuming, as possible. Hiding from the predator in plain sight. Hoping he passes you over for something bigger, more calorie-dense; the effort to catch and consume you expends more energy than the return. Hardly worth it in the long run. The comfort of a risk-reward ratio, right?

But he's opportunistic, it seems. A snacking scavenger.

Could eat, it says, like a basking tiger keeping a mouse trapped between his paws, letting it squirm and squeak as he slowly licks his lips. Not enough to fill its belly but enough to satisfy the gluttonous urge a predator has to eat. Sharpening its teeth on flimsy bones. Child’s play.

It's a fitting image, especially with the way he arches over you, looms; fingers looped around the thick of your arm, holding firm, but not—

Not as tight as he could.

It's a loose-fisted grasp. Lazy, almost. He knows you won't run—or, at the very least, knows you won't get far.

You peel your gaze away from his, dropping it to the curve of his shoulders—the width of them is just as dizzying as his height; broad, muscular. Pulling it further down the length of his arm, covered in a thick jacket. Black corduroy. Ashes stain the cuffs. A bulky watch juts out from his wrist. Gold. Glinting even in the grey-blue gloom of an overcast evenfall.

His muscles tense. Hand tightening around your arm, fingers digging hard. Rubbing muscle painfully against bone.

A warning, maybe. Stop looking—

But something else catches your eye. Blood red. The colour of meat. A fresh kill.

The back of his hand has a blooming rose. Petals spread out, unfurled. In the middle, a milky skull sits. Stencilled in boxy, yellow letters is ONE-FOUR-ONE—

You know what it means even as your mind whirs, gears turning, turning; plummeting into a tailspin, making excuses as it falls, dragging your heart down alongside it. An area code. Some special date. An inside joke.

But you've seen the marking around town before. Heard whispers about them from your brother, his friends. 141, they say, and then: mafia.

The real deal, he said, puffing around a joint his friend rolled. It's too tight. He scoffs, and rips it out from between his lips. Shitty roll, man, make another one—

Mob. Mafia. Gangsters. It seemed so extreme, Hollywood. Fiction, fantasy, all rolled into one. Tony Soprano. Ralph Cifaretto. Michael and Vito Corleone. Tony Montana. Larger-than-life men created on paper.

You think your brother thought so too. Child's play. Grown men selling weed to kids for two hundred an ounce. Buying themselves sleek, black cars—G Wagons, Escalades, Cullinans—on the Xanax they sell at clubs, parties. Cocaine. Heroin.

Nothing to worry about.

Then his friend went missing.

Sent out on a routine delivery to drop off cocaine to well-dressed men in suits outside of a local butcher shop. A normal, nondescript Tuesday.

But he wouldn't answer his phone. Texts were being delivered, read, but no chat bubble appeared. Nothing sent back. Calls went straight to voicemail. He wasn't at home. Wasn't at his mum's. No one saw him. Heard from him.

Your brother didn't call the police. Didn't report him as missing.

It's just not what they do, he said. You don't involve them. Ever.

The most shocking part of it was that no one saw anything. He just vanished. Disappeared—stock an’ all, your brother angrily spits—without a trace, picked up off the streets.

If it was the police, someone would have said something by now. They're hardly discreet. And a rival—

Well.

The biggest problem was that your brother was blindsided by his own small-time success. An accumulation of little wins bolstered his confidence. Overfed his ego. This fallout was tunnel vision. A refusal to see the bigger picture.

Or the storm clouds looming on the horizon.

You'd heard of the 141 in passing. Little quips, anecdotes from the passel of friends that congregated around your brother—often getting high on the couch and watching old cartoons; sharing a joint back and forth between gossip.

Through rheumy eyes, they'd talk about the real gangsters in town—much to the irritation of your brother—and swap tales of run-ins and feats they heard from a friend (of a friend, of a friend). Most of the guys were known already. Soap and Gaz are the biggest names that cropped up on the streets through reputation alone. Both fighters for a gym. MMA, mostly, but whispers of street fighting and extracurricular activities weren't uncommon.

Liked the thrill of it, they said. But the worst was a man simply known as the Ghost. An enforcer for the 141—a fucking butcher, more like, Liam cut in, jaundiced eyes widening—the guy who took care of problems.

“Can't be,” your brother scoffed, lifting off the couch to reach in his back pocket for his wallet. A small anthill of white powder poured into the glass table. “They don't get involved in our shit—”

And for the most part, you're sure that's true. Dealing to the same circle of people—outreach spread through word of mouth—seemed paltry in comparison to the scale of an operation that had a money laundering gym. But the problem was that your brother lacked common sense. His ego often got in the way of foresight. The shadow greed casts blocking out the bigger picture.

Like—

Territory is territory—regardless of what's being pushed.

You wish there was a modicum of surprise when his friend turned up. Barely recognizable. Sent right to the morgue as a John Doe.

Most would see the marks on the man's skin—the distinct lack of blood—as an indicator to abandon ship, find the boss, beg for forgiveness, and maybe even try to strike up a deal. But—

That picture is hidden under his anger. Greed. Selfishness.

He sends you instead.

You're somethin’ they ain't expectin’, he said. Won't mess with you.

Right.

He catches the realisation dripping down your brow—beads of sweat gathering at your hairline; anxiety, fear, churning your stomach—and hums. Cocks his head to the side.

“Was expectin’ ‘im t’show up, though—” he murmurs, hand tightening around your arm. The pressure, the sting, is eclipsed by the gnawing sense of dread biting viciously into you. “Told ‘im if I caught ‘im sellin’ on our streets again, there'd be trouble. Thought we ‘ad an agreement after ‘is friend. But—”

His eyes cut to yours. It feels like a knife to your guts, sinking into soft tissue. A pain you can't breathe around.

Won't mess with you, you think, and then viciously—sadly—he knew. Was warned by them and still sent you out. Let you take his place for whatever comeuppance they decided he deserved.

It should shock you. You almost wish it did. Desperately clinging to the threads of surprise that slip through your oily fingers, grasping onto the nothing but empty air. Numbed to the resignation that trickles in.

Of course he would leave you here to save himself. Letting you fend off whatever they threw at you alone. Leaving you trapped between a brick wall and a wall of a man.

The excuses are there. They pool on the tip of your tongue—it isn't me, don't do this, it's my (stupid, selfish) brother you want, not me—but you swallow them down and try not to wince at how quickly they dissipate when you do. It doesn't matter in the end because whatever you have to say won't negate the drugs in your backpack. The empty house you'll lead them to—your brother probably squirrelled away somewhere until this blows over. Half-hopeful you'd call him and say everything is fine, the deal went smoothly. You're on your way back. Or that the debt he racked up with them is settled by you.

It's half-hearted when it slips out again, caught between resignation and dread. A brittle whisper. A prayer—

“I can pay you. Whatever he owes, I can—”

He's already shaking his head.

“Too late for that, birdie. ‘sides, I don't want your money.”

He moves back, rocking on his heels to put a small measure of distance between your bodies. In that scant space, he drops his gaze, sweeping it over you. His eyes darken.

When he pivots them down, catching yours, you can't stop the shiver that crawls up your spine.

That calculative gleam is back.

“But I think we can work something else out.”

Something else turns out to be ushering you into the backseat of an old Ford pickup.

The door whines when he opens it. Rust flaking off, falling to the ground by your feet. Your mind reels. Spins comparisons to falling snow, dried blood.

He hauls you in with his hand wrapped around the nape of your neck, thick thigh sliding between your own to boost you up. The protest—a mindless, reactionary squeal at being manhandled—only makes him chuff. A brief flex of his fingers around the skin of your neck is the only warning he gives before it pulls away, and wraps tight around your waist. His thigh flexes, muscle drawing taut as he shifts his foot up to the running board, lifting your feet off the ground and seating you fully on his leg like a child.

(In his hands, you feel like one, too.)

The motion makes you slip, back glueing along his broad chest with a shallow thump. You feel the rumble of his laugh trembling up your spine before you hear it.

“Careful,” he drawls, oiled with amusement. “Might slip.”

Anything you could say in response is choked back when he bumps the corded steel of his thigh into the seam of your legs, pushing tight to your clothed cunt. His intention is unmistakable this time. Unignorable. And with the rasp of filtered, balmy air against your crown; the pull of a groan when you rock back into his groin, the noise still slicked with mirth, you feel a knot of dread spool tight in your belly.

Something else is dragged back to the forefront, coiling like wisps of smoke around you.

And you knew. It's shocking, you think, but not necessarily a surprise. To call it a dichotomy would be lying to yourself, and so, you settle against it. This notion that what he wants—wanted—is flesh. Not money. Not retribution.

Not to talk things out like you'd hoped he’d try (grabbing onto the idealistic thread, holding it tight to your chest); bringing you in and forcing you to convince your—stupid selfish greedy—older brother that quitting was the only option. Dangling you—baby sister—over his head in an appeal to his emotions. Familial bonds. Love.

That thread is cut. Snipped.

Probably severed when they first came to him with an offer. No strikes against him and yet—

The idea of using you to make him bend was expunged from the drawing board. It's not even a plan b, or c, or z.

And—

You knew. Have known. Maybe that's why it's so easy to swallow around the panic when it lances through your chest, climbs up your throat. You can think and feel and breathe around this dagger in your back like it was there the whole time and you've only just noticed it now.

Nothing but a small, whispered oh in the roiling polyphony of your emotions.

It sits there as he manuevers you into the passenger seat of his truck, your head spinning around the indescribable sensation of being woefully cognisant despite the paralysing fugue pressing against the bubble of stark awareness that keeps it at bay. It manifests itself as a numbed sort of shock. Or more accurately—

Indifference.

Defeat.

His hand brushes your cheek, the snag of dry leather against humid skin tugs uncomfortably at your flesh, stinging as they dance down to your jaw, the delicate line of your vulnerable throat, skimming over the curve of your breast—

And it's too much. Too present. Too real.

Autopilot. Dissociation. Derealisation. All of these concepts slip past the bubble of hypervigilance, skidding the surface like a pebble thrown over a lake. Out of reach as he unashamedly gropes you, barely making an effort to mask his actions as just buckling you in.

You pretend, though. Curl your fists around the sides of the seat, fingers digging into the worn foam. Head lulling back on the headrest. Eyes fixed out the window as he walked around the front, head and shoulders still visible in the windshield despite the height of the truck. It makes your heart leap, stuttering in your chest as the absurdity of his size is brought back into focus. Too big, you think. Grossly so.

There's a moment when you think about running. Toying with the idea of sliding your hand over the lock, pulling the door open when he's too busy on his side to notice. It'll give you an advantage—a head start. Enough time to slink through the dense forest of concrete buildings lining the industrial zone, and into somewhere safe. Help, a behemoth is chasing me—

But the door clicks. Swings open with a squeal of rusted metal just as your fingers twitch toward the handle. Hope evaporates with each lurch of the cab as he climbs inside, metal creaking under his weight when he settles in the seat.

From the corner of your eye, you can see his head tip. Chin angling toward you. Staring. Assessing.

When he speaks, you feel the words like cold fingers dancing maliciously down your spine.

“‘pected you t’run.”

It's said idly enough. Nonchalant. Tone even, if a little cruel, and you wonder if this is some test. One that you passed—and failed—in equal measure.

He doesn't look away. It takes less effort than you wish it did to peel your lips apart, to breathe in the stale, mulch scent of the cab—something overgrown, rotting, and damp—and mumble:

Where would I go?

It seems to amuse him. He hums around a mouthful of mockery before turning away, pawing at the ignition. Gloved hand curling over the wheel.

“Smart girl.”

You don't feel very smart. In fact, you feel very small. Stupid. Maybe you should have taken a stab at it—running. Tried, at least, to save your own life before the jaws of the beast closed over you like an iron bear trap around your ankle. Fought like hell. Clawed and kicked and screamed.

When most kids read the back of a cereal box, you learned about secondary locations. You know better than this.

But the truck sputters to life in a belly-deep rumble, hacking up soot into the air as he pulls the lever into DRIVE. The fight inside of you—however ephemeral it might have been—dies inside the smoke spilling out of his exhaust. Gone so quickly that you begin to wonder if it was even there at all—

Must be, you think, eyes listing outward. Keen. Mapping the twists and turns—a futile effort in the end: he doesn't bother hiding where he's taking you, and you've been down these old, grim streets more times than you can count.

It doesn't surprise you much when he turns down the street leading to the butcher shop. An old relic that still carries the marks of a booming farming town before it fell victim to industrialisation. Concrete skyscrapers in place of lush cornfields. Warehouses over old barns, ranches. Cattle, meat, produce—it all used to be a mainstay here but now hides under layers of steel.

The dark windows of the small shop gleam with hazy smears of neon blue, red, when you pull up, catching on the array of rowdy bars across the street. All clubs that belong to the 141. A playground of drugs, sex. More money than you'd ever see in your lifetime.

It's an uncanny juxtaposition to the quiet, assuming street right across from it. Barber, butcher, accountant firm, antique store. All dark inside and bathed in the smeared stream of glimmering neon as lights flash in the fading glow of twilight.

He pulls up to the curb in front of the shop. A bold move if the streets weren't so empty. Lifeless. The clubs won't be open for four more hours. Everything else follows the same nine to five as the rest of the world. The shops closed an hour ago, and everyone in town seems to know not to linger here after dark.

The air seems to stagnate in your lungs when he cuts the ignition. Slips the key into his pocket.

“Don't get any funny ideas in tha' pretty little ‘ead o’yours.”

“Funny ideas,” you echo, toneless. Flat. It rolls out with your exhale. Words that might have been smarter to swallow down. “Like following a stranger to a butcher shop?”

“Lippy little thing, ain't you?” He scoffs. The truck creaks when he shifts. “Ain't go’ no one t’blame but yourself. Told you what would ‘appen if you kept sellin’ in our territory. You should ‘ave known better.”

“That was my brother.” The words slip out before you can stop them. “Not me—”

“‘ow am I suppose t’know that? You were sellin’ where I told ‘im not to—” he has the gall to shrug. Spit these careless words at you like it wasn't life or death. “That's all there is to it, birdie.”

“That's not fair—”

The truck groans under his weight, shaking from side to side as he leans over to push his door open before turning back to you, rolling his eyes.

“Life ain't very fair, is it?”

The acerbic words are flicked out from between his teeth; an apathetic, droning curl clinging to each syllable. He doesn't care. Won't. What happens to you next is your choice, and yours alone.

And he's just doing his job—

“When I get out of ‘ere, you ain't gonna do anythin’ funny—”

His hand lashes out. Gloved fingers close over the thick of your throat in a blink. Fear lags by a beat, giving him enough time to sink his fingers over your neck, and when it catches up—heart rabbiting in your chest, thudding in your ears; roaring as your pulse thunders beneath the press of his thumb—he’s already got you in his hold. The width forces your chin to lift, stretching up to accommodate the curl of his hand around you.

Trapped like a rabbit. Cattle to the slaughter.

He tilts his head down, keeping his eyes on yours as he forces your crown into the headrest, chin lifted up. It's uncomfortable. The curve of your neck cuts off your airways. Constricts your breathing to shallow gasps. An ache grows in your nape.

The swell of panic, fear, in your eyes makes him hum. But there's nothing echoing back. An absence of light in the deep, placid pits. It looks like still water. A stagnant lake.

It's unnerving how dispassionately expressive his eyes are. Wild, wild. Vats of ink. Pools of obsidian. Ringed in red-lined ivory. Long, ashen lashes dusting over the smears of charcoal under his eyes. Sleepless nights, maybe. Fatigue. The corners are tattooed with coal, leaving behind a thumbprint in the crease.

But empty. Barren. No light.

Like black holes. Eating everything around it. Devouring all that gets too close, but giving nothing in return except a bottomless crater in the bruised-plum nebulous of space around it.

You're not sure you like it. You can't look away.

But in staring back so hard (getting pulled in deeper and deeper), you catch the twitch in his left eye. A shallow spasm. It throws off the symmetry when he blinks, one eye a sliver of a second behind. Desynchronized in a way that seems so—

Unlike him.

Disjointed.

You blink in response. Perfectly synchronous.

His lid twitches again. Just once. Brief. Pale, pink eyelids drop, unveiling a nebula of indigo veins on the smooth, thin surface as they roll down to half-mast over his eyes, now narrowed slightly in contemplation. Thought.

Whatever is happening in his head can't be good. It causes a ripple over the lake. Little rings rebound outwards.

He looks away first. A quick slide of his eyes to the corners, glancing out of the passenger side window. Whatever catches his attention is unknown to you. The anchor on his hand around your throat keeps you still. Immovable.

(Every instinct in your body compels you not to look away from him because nothing outside could ever be scarier, more dangerous, than him.)

A second later, he breathes in through his nose. The fabric of his mask is pulled into his nostrils from the force, forming little black holes under the crooked arch.

You hadn't really given much thought to his appearance outside of big, massive. But there's a strange asymmetry to the slopes and valleys beneath the balaclava. Trying to map his face, fill in the blanks with just black cloth and vague, lopsided outlines, is impossible. There are too many gaps. Too many missing pieces. You can only wonder, then, what he looks like under it.

Monstrous, you hope.

It's just a coincidence that he looks at you the moment the thought passes, but you flinch like a naughty child getting caught doing something you shouldn't when the heavy, dour weight of his impenetrable stare is levelled at you once more. Your heart stutters. It's loud in your ears. In the truck.

You wonder if he can hear it just as loudly as you do—

Another blink, and his gaze flickers down, settling on the gap between your lips, watching the little tremble they make with each shallow hiccup of air you greedily suck in. His head tilts to the side, eyes never leaving your mouth even as he leans down, masked lips brushing over the beading sweat gathering on your hairline.

It's a brief touch. A taste. You tremble when he pulls back, fingers tightening around your flesh.

His eyes are lavascapes.

“Are you, birdie?”

You almost forget what he's asking. The conversation hidden between the scant beats it took for him to measure your worth with the blistering intensity of his stare, and the tumult of your feelings still looping around each other in your belly. Knotting up tight into a ball. There's fear, of course there is.

But the rest—

You'd rather not think about.

The grip on your throat eases just enough for you to shake your head no to whatever he is asking. Doing anything funny, you think, scrambling at the tangle of memories flipping past, trying to connect the pieces to a puzzle you've already forgotten.

It must be the right response. Or maybe it's another question like before, a test where there’s no right answer.

Run, stay.

Smart and stupid.

But it seems to appease him—marginally. His eyes crease. Tightening. His other hand folds over your throat, sliding until his palms kiss the sides of your neck in a near-perfect symmetry.

Something frissons across the blank, placid lake of his expression. Another ripple. A shudder. He leans in for a moment, nose touching the apple of your cheek, and when he breathes in, it’s sharp, reedy. Cold air ghosts over your skin. Long, pale lashes flutter when you swallow.

He hums quietly under his breath before peeling back. The flatness to his gaze is back; a cold, impenetrable distance widening like a chasm as he uncoils around you. You almost fall for this—this indifference. An icy nonchalance. But you've been eating the minuscule quirks of him just as ravenously as he's been devouring yours.

There is something there. A fracture, maybe. A splinter.

But what leaks through from the other side isn't anything close to warmth. It's—

Hunger.

The shift in your throat draws his molten gaze to your neck, still wrapped tight in his firm grip. Your reflection blooms in the vat of black; eyes wide, all white. Pupils narrowed to a pinprick. Mouth slack, corners tugging downward from the pressure of his hand. The tilt of your head. His thumbs press under your chin, pushing you back further until it feels like your neck might break—

He stops. Shifts. You puff out a shallow breath.

What looks back at you is unremarkable in the murk. A sliver of fear. A slip of unease.

Eye of the beholder, you think when his breath chuffs out shallowly through the mask. When that hunger is ground down to a raw, esoteric fissure hairlining the black of his eyes. The widening expanse of his pupil.

You wonder if it's your fear that itches under his skin, dredging up something predatory in his hindbrain. The urge to chase. To bite.

But the nearly indiscernible flicker of his gaze has you brushing that idea aside when it snags on the expanse of his hand coiled around your throat. Easily swallowing it whole with just his palms.

You're not a small thing, but the indomitable size of him makes you feel insignificant.

You think he feels it, too.

His fingers flex over your nape, stretching. Pulling. It pushes the flat of his palm into your throat, ridges crushed against your trachea. But you can still breathe. It's shallow. Hoarse. A touch painful. Dizzying in a way that makes you feel like you're on a rollercoaster. A teacup ride that just spins and spins and spins—

The gap closes. A sliver of air snakes down your throat. Muscles flexing, shifting. Struggling to swallow around the pinch of his hand. A harrowing task when you feel the gloved fingers link to the first, then the second knuckle, tying together in a too-tight, impossible, noose around your neck. Thumbs overlap. Fingers slide into place. It forms a chain of his hands with no gaps between them. Not a single sliver of skin shows from under the leather of his gloves.

He makes a sound when they meet—a nasal groan in the back of his throat, mouth clenched shut so the air has no choice but to tear through his nose. It's raw. Fractured. The devastating moan of a tiger nuzzling at its meal.

Your vision blurs. A black fog presses into the edges, seeping over the arch of your peripherals. Dripping down slowly over the hazy smear of the man. The way the ochre sun peeks over the angular roof of the accountant's office illuminates his back and casts swaths of shadows over his front. Drenching him in murk.

Despite the flickering darkness shuttering over your sight, you don't blink. Even as the tears prickle at your eyes, they stay open. Fixed on him. Black holes, you think, watching as the fever marbling those obsidian pools recedes. Cools.

He makes that noise again. Softer this time. A purr from deep in his chest. A breath. And then he peels back. His hands go slack. His shoulders slumping back into the lax, easy spread from before as you gasp hard, nearly choking on the flood of air that roars down your throat.

Your cheeks feel hot for a moment, and then cold. Icy. You don't have to touch them to know that you're crying. That the deluge clinging to your lashline spilt over, dripping messily to the collar of your shirt.

The placid lake is back. In the stillness, you heave. Mouth hanging open, chin quivering. His thumb lifts, slides over the curve of your chin. You don't feel it. Numbed, maybe, by the brief kiss of hypoxia. But you see it. Watch as he slides it up to the jut of your lower lip, the black, angular tip tickling over your skin. He follows the seam between skin and lip, tracing it to the corner of your mouth. It's slick. Drool pools in the crease, dribbles over the top of his finger. His eyes drop when he mops it up, catching it on the pad.

He makes another noise. An arid rasp bubbling between the soft tissue behind the roof of his mouth and the back of his tongue. It's ugly. The shiver you try to fight back slinks through.

His hand peels away from your neck, movements lax. Slow. The unwinding gait of an idling tiger in no real rush, no hurry, because there's nothing in the frigid Arctic that can touch him.

You watch him with flared eyes as he brings his thumb to his clothed mouth, and rubs your spit into the fabric of his mask.

His eyes don't break away from yours once.

Your spit doesn't stand out against the black of balaclava, but the idea of it burns through you. Throwing you headfirst into a dazed stupor. Dizzy. Confused.

Satisfied with whatever it was supposed to mean, he clambers out of the truck before coming around to your side. Distantly, you're sure this is what he meant by funny ideas when he passes the headlight, head straight and eyes gliding around the empty street. An opening to run. You know where you are. It would be easy to flee. Hide in the construction zone just ahead, tucking yourself into the tightest corner you can find until help arrives.

Help, though.

Officer, please. I got caught selling meth in the mob's territory and now they're going to skin me alive. Please hurry—

Right.

They'd rather help bury your body than get in the way of the mafia. Gangland violence isn't their concern unless it tumbles out into the street. Fat wallets keep even the most compassionate person quiet. Willing to turn a blind eye.

You'd be thrown in a cell. Or dropped off at their doorstep.

Either way—

You won't be coming back alive.

There's nothing to steel, harden, when he pulls the door open, your nerves long since ground down to fine powder. Nothing to fight against, either. He hauls you out of the truck, hands firm on your skin. Bursting blood vessels easily between his fingers. Barely any effort at all to crack your bones.

The moment in the car seems miles away when he pulls you in front of him, hand curling over your nape. Any flicker of humanity rendered out when he pinches you tight and shoves you forward. Dragging you back to the butcher shop by the scruff of your neck, leading you down a narrow set of stairs to the basement where pale white carcasses hang from hooks on the ceiling. He laughs when you tense. When your heels dig into the brown-stained linoleum.

Ain't gonna hang you, he mocks, fingers dipping punishingly into the sides of your neck. “Not yet, anyway—”

It brings little comfort when he drags you to a room in the back, kicking open the door with the toe of his boot before pushing you inside with a nudge against your nape.

It's dark. Walls covered in stains; mould, mildew. Something you hope is just rust. A single mattress is shoved into the corner; sheets stained with sweat and grime. Tinged a pale brown. Two pillows sit at the top, lopsided and matted with use. Threadbare. A twisted, black heap of fabric sits at the bottom. Wisps of cotton poke out from the cigarette burns.

A pair of muddy, black boots sit against the wall at the end of the bed. A basket of clothes—jeans, black shirts, black sweaters—is piled on the wall across from the door.

The room smells of stale sweat and old cigarettes.

You don't want to be here. The thought is abrupt. Immediate. Unease prickles along your nape, warmed and damp under his gloved palm. Between the look of the room—the floors stained the same suspicious brown, the rumpled bed in a corner—and the smell, you know this is not a place you want to stay. To be trapped inside with a man cut from Everest; whose hands are more dangerous than the sharp end of a knife.

He must feel the tension brimming beneath your skin; the spark of adrenaline surging through your veins. The clamp of his hand on your nape digs in tighter. Holding firm.

A breath tumbles out, thickening with mockery. “Like I said,” he leans down, pressing the mountainous width of his chest into your spine. The accentuation in your size difference, how big he is in comparison to you, makes you feel like prey. Small. Brittle, thin. He eats you whole. Spares nothing for later. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

Another nudge and you're pushed further into the room. He leans away, foot shoving back on the door until it snaps shut with a noise that cuts through the gossamer that spun around you, bifurcating reality from dream. The haze is wafted away, and all that remains is a barren room with a lumpy mattress, the smeared stain of rotten blood coagulating on the floor, and his body boxing you in. No escape.

The rumble of his chest shakes loose the cobwebs spooling across your thoughts. A brush of humid air ghosts along the line of your jaw, dampening the skin below your ear as he leans in close, too close, and purrs:

“Go on now. Strip for me.”

Each scrap of clothing you slowly roll off of your body is exchanged for a slip of information about him—who he is (Simon Riley, the name rumbled through the split between his teeth; a low, brassy purr as his eyes gleam in the dark, drilling into the expanse of skin unveiled to him)—and what he wants—

Nothing, he tells you, lifting one massive shoulder up in a half-hearted shrug. Jus’ what's owed to me, pet. For stickin’ my neck out f’you.

You don't think he did. Not really. But you're harshly reminded of the unsubtle threat. The gun balanced on his massive thigh. So wide, so big, it seems to make it look smaller in comparison. Tiny. A toy.

Child's play.

It's made worse, somehow, as he lounges. Sprawls out on the bed, legs spread, pulling taut on the jeans that stretch around the thickness of his upper thigh, bunching around his calves in a half-tuck inside his black boots. Arms flexing. Folded over his broad chest. He rolled the sleeves of his black shirt up to his elbow, showing off an impressive tapestry of harsh, faded black ink. Crisscrossing lines. All asymmetrical. Guns, barbed wire. A bullet with a wide, toothy grin—

All of it knits together; woven into a tangled mass of muscle. Of man, hidden under scar tissue. Rope burns on his wrists cut so deep that the skin is permanently dented in. More cigarette burns hidden inside the mess of ink. Jagged lines—from a knife, maybe; bullet wounds.

His skin tells stories of a terrible life. Ink spills over the worst of them, but they're visible under the fading charcoal. A series of burns—acid, fire, chemical—and raw, torn skin. He looks like he's been mauled. Pressed into the cold metal of a wood chipper until chunks of flesh were taken out. But even with these deep gouges, craters of missing tissue, he's big. Bulky. Soft—like a tiger. Predatory muscle tucked away under a thick layer of fatty tissue.

The pillowed pouch of his belly, the softness around his biceps—

It belies the danger underneath. The steel.

But as scary as it is, it has nothing on his eyes.

Glinting in the dim room. Dark pools of obsidian that follow each movement with an almost clinical keenness. Sharpened to a razor's edge.

They might be pretty, you think, if they weren't so intense. So liquid. His eyes gleam like wet ink, languidly rolling along his lashline as you clumsily shed your jacket, your blouse. Shoes, socks. Pants. Until you're in nothing but your panties.

Swallowing around the influx of panic that flutters like little birds beating their wings against the soft walls of your throat, you slip your fingers into the hem, now or never, and—

And you hesitate.

There's a difference between undressing willingly and doing so to save your life. It should spurn you on—survive, survive, survive—but you freeze at the apex. The summit is within reach.

You know what happens when you climb it. Cross over the invisible threshold.

What you've been trying to ignore this whole time, ever since he shoved you into the room with a huff, taking his perch on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, but in such a terrifying state of vulnerability, nearly nude, you can't any longer. Can't avert your gaze to the stained linoleum in a thinly veiled effort to keep from glancing at the thickening bulge lying prone against his thigh.

His—

Well.

You knew what he wanted when he grabbed your face in his hand, squeezing your cheeks until your lips pursed, puckered for him to run his finger along the inseam. Prying your teeth apart. Rubbing his finger over your tongue, eyes dark—full; black holes pulling, tugging you in, dragging you closer to the event horizon framed in a ring of arsenic—and locked on to the sight of his gloved knuckle disappearing into your mouth. Wanting. Hungry.

You knew. And now—

Committing to it is legions above what you’re mentally prepared for. Nausea brims, churns your stomach. Unease curdling inside of you like rotten milk.

You don’t want this. But you don’t have a choice, do you?

That notion, the idea, prickles along your nape, raising the fine, peach-fuzz there until it stands on end.

You freeze. Movements still as every muscle in your body tenses. Coils. You can't do it. Can't—

A huff is dragged out of his chest as he sits up, knocking the gun carelessly to the mattress. His eyes daggering, sharpening into needlepoints, as he stares at you.

“Gotta do everything f’myself, do I?”

A grunt and he’s up. Pulling himself to his feet with nothing but the flex of his abdominal muscles.

There's no reprieve. Not a moment graced to gather your bearings before he crosses the distance between you. Once a comfort, a chasm, now conquered in a single stride.

The tips of his gloves are cold when they brush over your skin, sliding down the slope of your waist until they meet the hem of your panties. The last piece of modesty you have—

But he doesn't wait.

You're aware that this isn't a non-consensual thriller where the lead looms over the hapless love interest, eyes blazing with passion and need. That each interaction is drenched in a thick, palpable tension tethering the two together. Urges coalescing. Threads pulling taut, magnetic, dragging them closer and closer to the brink until they tumble over.

This is reality. And he doesn't stare into your eyes with an all-consuming desire as he slowly removes that last scrap of fabric keeping him from devouring you. No.

His skin-warmed fingers push under the elastic band with a rough shove, curling into the fabric until it tightens across your pelvis and thighs, and then he huffs, annoyed, and pulls. Pulls—

Until something gives.

The lace yields to the tension in his flexing bicep, and scrapes over your skin as it rips apart in his hand, threads snapping. Popping.

It hurts. Stings. You hiss, but the noise is ignored when he peels the ruined scrap of fabric from your legs, shoving it into his back pocket with a grunt of satisfaction. He looks back to you, eyes rippling like the dark, ink-black surface of a lake during nightfall, and coos, mocking and mean—

“Not s’hard, was it?”

He leans closer to you, a hand skimming up your spine before his fingers curl around your nape, keeping you still for just a breath before he pulls you into him with too much force. Your hands lift, palms slapping against his thick stomach when the movement nearly topples you over and threatens to break your nose on his chest.

“Makin’ me do all the work when y’supposed t’be payin’ me back? Ain't very nice o’you, is it?”

He touches you like he's taking stock of your worth. Grabbing a heavy, rough palmful of your beast in his hand, squeezing. Testing the weight, the softness, how supple you were between his fingers like he might with a piece of fruit. Meat. Prodding into the flesh, feeling the ripeness there. Gauging whether or not it was a piece he wanted to keep.

It's demeaning. Humiliating. He treats you like cattle; presses into the elasticity of your muscle, examines every inch of your skin for blemishes. Scouring for imperfections. There's no softness in the way he grabs handfuls of your body—squeezing your breasts, pushing them together, rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefinger; pinching your belly, your sides, your waist; curling his fingers under your thigh, lifting it until it hitches over his waist, cunt exposed and pressed tight to the bulge trapped in his jeans. Your ass is handled rougher than the rest. Each cheek sitting in a hand, squeezed and punched and spread embarrassingly wide.

He ruts into you as he does it. Pushes the thick, fat length of him into your belly, rolling his hips against you with a heavy, ragged puff of air.

He feels big.

Everywhere, of course—it’s not so much his height, but the absurd width of him that really digs into your hindbrain, crossing all those intricate wires until they're tangled up, knotted together. Seeing his thigh, the same scale as a tree truck, slotting between yours—a mere branch by comparison—makes your belly flop. Turn over itself.

The muddled wires spark. Heat pools between your hips.

He could crush your head between them like a bear pushing its paw down on a watermelon.

It's fear and heat.

The two work in tandem, forming a seamless cohesion, as they flit down your spine, brimming up the urge to sink to your knees, the need to roll over and show your belly. A paradoxical desire to both run and be chased.

You're not sure if he's tendering your meat to eat later or if this is the usual type of foreplay he engages in, but once satisfied you're softened up enough for him, he shoves his fingers between your thighs with an abrasive hum that reverberates through his belly, tickling your palms.

“Tired o’waitin’,” is what he says when your head jerks up, eyes widening in shock. Terror. Horror. “Don't look so surprised,” he huffs, dryly. Voice a rough scrap over your cheek. “What'd y’think was gonna ‘appen?”

“Wait—” but he doesn't.

His fingers twist, pushing through your folds to graze your clit. It isn't gentle. It's sudden, quick. You gasp more from shock than pleasure; the rough slide of leather feels strange on your flesh, and your head is too muddled to separate fear from bliss.

Despite that, your body heats. Reacts to his touch. Your lower lip wobbles. You bite back another sound that crawls up your throat when his knuckle catches on your clit again, the pressure just shy of too much.

The burn, the fever, melts the unease. Shallow gasps spill out. Your cunt clenches, fluttering around nothing—throbbing, growing sticky, slick; achy and empty—when he starts to glide his digit between your folds. Little sawing motions drag each groove and stitch of his gloves over your pebbled clit, each thrust of his hand between your thighs making heat pool between your hips. It's done so clinically, so detached, like his hand rubbing over your leaking pussy was nothing to him. An action to get done, a task to complete.

It's the shame of that, the embarrassment, that makes you want to weep. Your fingers dig into his chest, nails pulling uncomfortably on the pleated bumps of his jacket as you grip the fabric right between your fists, clinging to him like a newborn fawn—all wet-nosed, teary-eyed; knobbly knees threatening to buck.

“S–stop—” you mewl when the monotonous rhythm melts into something harder, more intense. Heart thudding in your chest, heat burning you up as he turns his hand, palm up, between your sticky, shaking thighs. He rubs his hand back and forth, curling his middle finger up when he passes your hole, tip pushing against your leaking rim.

The friction aches. The stretch stings. The leather feels strange, foreign when it pries your folds apart and dips inside of you.

You don't like it. It's too much—

He makes a sound—a tut—when you pull away from him, standing on the tips of your toes until the blunt curve of his finger slides out of you. He sucks his teeth in a mockery of disappointment before digging his fingers, hard, into the sides of your neck. A warning. You whine. Whimper—

It goes unheeded. And when you press your thighs tight together, shivering at the slip-slide of your skin rubbing against each other, he growls. The noise is inhuman. Animalistic.

Your act of deviance comes with a swift, bruising punishment.

His fingers tighten on your neck once again. A warning squeeze as he reaches down with his other hand, grabbing your hip. It keeps you still, immobile, as he bullies his boot between your feet, kicking your legs apart. You're not expecting it. When you stumble, he huffs in amusement. Can't hold yourself up? Want me that bad, huh? Needy fuckin' thing, ain't you?

You don't get a chance to respond. His palm splays wide over your hip, leather creaking as he flexes, stretching his fingers out, tapping some soundless beat out against your skin. Touching you like he's owed the privilege. The right. And in many ways—

Go’ a problem, you an’ I

—he does.

Brute strength, and an unmatched, almost laughable, dearth in your physicality ensures that he has the upper hand—even without the gun he left on the mattress; darker and flat, a full matte compared to what you were expecting.

(They're always so shiny in movies, aren't they?)

The threat of it—dull as it might be—roots you to the spot as he slides his hand down, thumb brushing over your belly button, dipping in; pressing until your stomach starts to ache—

It peels away when the whine wells up, sloping down, down. Teases your mound with the tips of his fingers, gentle swipes along the sensitive seam of your belly and pelvis, the sensation is an odd tickle that pulls at your navel, pulses at the apex of your thighs. You mewl—a slow, soft thing that barely makes it out from between your teeth—and he lets his hand drop. Palm flat against the soft flesh of your mons, fingers reaching, spreading, until they curl over your folds. Index and ring finger tucked tight into the hollow bend of your pelvis and thigh. The tip of his middle rubs gentle strokes over the skin above your clit. It's a whisper of pleasure. The idea of a touch.

Mindless, your hips flit, following his hand—

“Needy.”

It cows you. Douses you in icy shame. There's barely any mockery in his even, observant tone, but you feel it unfurl over your shoulders all the same.

He doesn't give you a moment to think, to let the ripples of humiliation take over, forcing you to pull away, hide. His fingers trail over your hood, the pebble of your clit. The sensation, the cool undertone in the leather of his glove, is unlike anything you'd felt before. The thick stitches in the fabric catch on your flesh, nerve endings flaring in pleasure. Heat blooms in your belly.

It feels good.

You gasp, head tipping back. His hand winds around your waist when your knees buckle, catching you with a rasping huff—

“Feelin’ good, ain't you?” He pulls you tight to his chest, finger rubbing circles around your throbbing clit. Your cunt clenches, empty, and you whine, needing something more. Something to fill the ache inside of you—

His finger slips. Slides easily between your folds, parting your lips around the thick of him until he reaches your drenched hole. The sounds it makes when he taps his finger against your fluttering core makes your toes curl. Has heat blistering over your cheeks, down the slope of your neck.

It makes him groan. The low growl makes you throb, clenching in needy little pulls, pulses, as his finger dips into the slick dripping out of you.

“Suckin’ me in,” he grunts, and pushes his finger inside, thrusting up to the last knuckle. Palm tapping against your folds as his index and ring finger close to give him more room to sink deeper into you. The messy, slick squelch is loud, rolling over the mewling gasps that tumble from your lips.

Heat floods your belly at the belly-deep groans he lets out when you squeeze around him.

“Stranglin’ my fuckin’ finger, birdie—”

He leans down, knocking his forehead against the side of your face. It's more intimate than you were expecting. Jarring. The proximity plays a twisted game inside your head—the urge to run, to roll over coalescing into a paralyzing tailspin. Rooting you to the ground when the warm, damp knit of his mask grazes your cheek.

The intimacy of his head on yours is eclipsed when you can feel the shape of his mouth through the fabric.

It's softer than you expected. A plush, fleshy give when he presses his lips against your skin. And—

A gap.

On the side of his mouth, there's a gouge. A pockmark. You feel the gap, the absence, of his flesh when he rolls it over your cheekbone. You try to read the asymmetry of his face—mapping all of these misshapen parts; his mauled lips, the crooked nose that digs into your skin and leaves behind a tacky smear of condescension when he breathes out through his nostrils in a heavy puff of air—and convince yourself that you're doing it so you can bring these patchwork pieces to the police later.

Survival, you think, your head tilting back as he noses down your neck, tickling along your skin.

(And when your cunt flutters around the rough, thick drag of his finger petting along your walls, you add: a bodily reaction. That's all it is.)

He takes another lungful of your scent before he rocks back on his heels, pulling away from you. Straightening up. Looming above you once more.

“Now—”

He pulls his finger out of you slowly and you try not to whimper at the empty feeling that brims up. The way your hips rock toward him, seeking and eager. Wanting.

Needy, just like he said.

Just a bodily reaction—

He holds his hand up to the dim light flickering over his head, fingers spreading apart as he takes in the glossy shine of his middle finger.

The gleam of it makes your ears feel hot. Shame pools in your belly as he makes another noise—a groan, deep and low, in the back of his throat. Eyes darkening as his pupils bloom, eclipsing his irises in an endless pool of black. They flicker toward you, listing half-mast in a way to leonine, so predatory, that it shudders through your bones. Run, run—

His hand flexes around your waist when you twitch. A warning. A threat. You tremble when he leans in, masked lips brushing over your cheek once more. Breath ghosting through the fabric, tickling the inside of your ear.

He smells of war. Of fire and brimstone. Napalm and nitroglycerine. You want to close your eyes, look away, but you can't. His proximity alone roots you to the spot. Turns you into a prey animal, frozen on instinct alone as he prowls around, creeping closer. Maw stretching wide, drooling dripping off razor-sharp canines—

“Let's see if y’worth all the trouble.”

—and he bites.

Knocks his palm into your sternum, roughly shoving you down on the mattress.

His hands fall to the button of his jeans. “Ready?” He asks, but doesn't seem to care about your answer. Opts, instead, to fall to his knee beside you. It pulls on his zipper, tugs it all the way down with a sharp, metallic sound that cuts through the stagnant air as each ring of teeth is pried apart.

You can't help it. You look. Dragged there by something primal, magnetic—the morbid curiosity to see the monster for yourself as it tries to take a bite.

And almost immediately, you wish you hadn't.

The spread of pale skin, dark curls jutting out from the split of his jeans, makes everything feel more real, and moving fast. Whiplash quick. Happening in a blink:

The shift of fabric as he pulls the mask up over his lips, letting rest on the crooked bridge of his nose. A flash of his mouth, mangled. Mauled. Full of ugly, pale pink scars. A gap where tissue once knit his upper lip together. The bite of crooked teeth as he brings the sticky, wet tip of his glove to his mouth, sinking in. Pulling. Tugging. The roll of skin—a rose, a gun, a skull—all encased in barbed wire; thick rivers of blue-green veins.

Another pull and it's free. Dangling between his teeth for a moment as he reaches up and shoves the jacket off his shoulders. Rolling and thick. Wide. A broad chest. Soft belly. There's an inch of flesh around the expanse of him—biceps, thighs, calves, chest, stomach, shoulders—but it's a buffer for the corded, streamlined muscle beneath. A layer of fatty tissue.

Like a tiger, hiding its dizzying musculature beneath a thick, loose pelt.

When he moves, it flexes. His shoulders roll; muscles bunching together, pulling taut under soft skin. The jacket slides off. Falls to the ground behind the mattress. Forgotten, discarded. The glove is next to go. Dropping from between his teeth, landing just beside your ankle with a muted thud.

He follows after it. Ink spilling over his lashline as his eyes drop, staring at the roll of his skin tucked on the outside of your thigh. Trailing up to your knee. Your hip. The split of your cunt beneath your other leg; knee tucked to your chest.

A flash of something, a flicker, is the only warning you get before the back of his hand is nudging the glove off of your skin, replacing it with the rough, calloused grip of his palm.

You jerk at his touch, flinching back—

He's intimidating above you like this. Leaning back on his haunches but still as tall as you are standing up. The sheer absurdity of his height—his width—is dizzying. Gives you vertigo when you look up.

His throat shifts when you move. A swallow. Coarse stubble grows down the column of his neck, dusting over his lower jaw, chin. The rest is swallowed by the balaclava bunched around his crooked nose.

He's not—

He's not handsome.

A smattering of crisscrossing scars, burns, skin pocked and gouged out in deep pockets along his flesh—the slide of a knife carving away at him, you think; digging down to his marrow—all take away from any sense of modern attractiveness you might feel for him with his broad, jagged nose and full lips.

But there's something rugged about him. Untamed. Wild. Appealing in a dangerous way.

You don't know if you would have let this happen under different circumstances. If this minacious beauty of his would have worked on you enough to want it outside of this awful, almost unfathomable trade.

He's too big. Wouldn't even fit inside of your house—

The graze of his thumb on your angle knocks the thought loose, and you're dragged back to the heat of his hand. Rough and coarse; palms slightly damp from the glove. It tugs on your flesh as he draws it up, a rubbery sort of pain as it catches on the soft, dry skin of your ankle. Your shin.

He follows behind a second later, pulling himself into the mattress with a huff, knees shuffling forward as he crawls over you. The jostling rocks your body. Makes your breasts shake as he lumbers on the bed, hand still sliding up, up, until his fingers curl over the bend of your knee.

The bed dips under his weight. Your body sagging, rolling into the divot beneath his knees. Tucked under him. Loomed over. He stares down at you through the cutout of his mask, eyes liquid in the gloam. Pools of melting, dripping obsidian. Black holes. Event horizon—

You look away before it drags you in. Submissive. Softened under the harsh burn of his flat, wide stare. He chuffs when your nose brushes over the thin skin of his wrist, mouth sliding over the thick, pulsing vein stretching down from his inner arm and curling into the bend of his hand. Your lips purse, and he makes that noise again.

Quietly amused, and—

He shuffles forward until the backs of your thighs are pulled over his, spread out on his lap. Bare. Open to him.

And he looks.

And looks.

Hungry, you think. Quietly amused and hungry—

The notion is wrenched out of your head when he shifts his weight. Watches the folds of your pussy open for him as he pulls your knees wider apart, head dropping between his massive shoulders, gaze drilling into the split of your thighs. Gasping at the sting, the sudden stretch, does little to deter him from shoving your leg down until the outside of your knee touches the bed. Muscles straining. Pinching. It hurts; hipbones twinging in agony.

But the embarrassment burning through you singes all the pain.

You're spread open under him. Bare. Legs tangled around his waist, stretched wide around the width of him. Ankles knocking into the hard plains of his lower back each time he shifts.

“Fuckin’ hell—” he grunts. Snarls. The word ripped up from the back of his throat, forced through the twisting channels of his nose. Nasal and ugly when it scrapes out between his teeth. “Gonna ruin this pretty pussy, birdie.”

It's a threat. A promise. You twist, mouthing your protests into the warm skin of his wrist.

There's something about his voice—that airy, brassy tone—that strikes a chord deep inside you. Makes heat pool between your thighs, leaking out in a syrupy mess—

His hand peels away from your knee, sliding down your sticky, damp inner thigh until his knuckles graze the sensitive slip of skin sitting between your outer lip and hip. That ticklish, belly-fluttering sensation blooms in your groin as he rubs his scarred knuckles over the crease, catching the slick gathered there on his thick, meaty thumb.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he groans, shifting his fingers until they cover the whole of your cunt, cradling you in his hand. He holds you like that for a beat, eyes locked on the way you're swallowed up by the broad stretch of his palm.

The rough drag of his skin over your folds feels good. An all-encompassing heat spreads over your tender flesh from the curve of your ass to the bump of your mons where his middle finger rests, almost touching the strip of skin between your loins and your belly. Held in his grasp. Cradled in his palm.

Your thighs twitch. A shallow jerk as your knees try to bend over his hand, but you can't. With his thumb and pinkie tucking into each crease between your outer lip and leg, it keeps you from closing your legs. Hinged by the wide, flat cup of his palm.

And it shouldn't bludgeon through you the way it does. All heat. All want. Need. A growing ache you can't think around.

(bodily reaction, you think even as the image of his hand—big with thick fingers, scarred knuckles; streaks of faded, ashy ink etched into milky, veined skin—laying over your pussy, swallowing it whole, sears into your mind—)

“Can feel your little cunt,” he grunts, feeling the pulse, the little throbbing pulls of your muscles as they twitch at the sight. The feeling. Clenching down around nothing. “Greedy little thing, ain't you, birdie?”

Anger paints his words as he rasps them out. A teeth gnashing, jaw clenching frustration that needles into the scorn, the fury, forced out between the tight seam of his crooked teeth.

You don't understand it. Can't, maybe.

But it's tucked away as quickly as it appeared, shifting into an ugly, mocking derision. Dry. Acerbic. His teeth flash, lip pulling upward in a sneer—a snarl—before he hums, sliding his hand down. The drag of his damp, rough fingers over your swollen folds has your knees falling open wider around his thick thighs, baring yourself willingly to him.

Want it bad, don't you? He mocks, and the sound of his voice alone has your pussy clenching tight, belly fluttering around the abrasive scrape of his tone. Brassy and full. Gritty. You whine, hips inching up—

His hand peels off of your slit. The rush of cold air drags another whimper out of you, hips pushing up to chase the heady, molten feeling of his skin on yours. And he's amused by it—a laugh echoes out, crackling in the hollow of his throat at your desperation—but you're too achy, too hot, to feel the simmer of humiliation nipping the apples of your cheeks.

He's not even making a real effort to pleasure you, to make you feel good, and yet—

Your hips twitch toward him in needy, mewling cants; please sits on the tip of your tongue, cradled between your teeth. Slips out on a shaky, breathless gasp when he meets you on the next buck of your hips, palm slapping over your wet slit.

The crack echoes through the room. Rough, dry skin on soaked flesh.

And it shocks you more than it hurts. The sting is there, of course, but it's just an afterthought to astonishment. An eye-widening disbelief masking the way your cunt smarts, throbbing from the slap. Nerves muffled behind the burn in your eyes, the searing heat pooling in your sinuses.

Wrenched open, unblinking as you stare up at him, your eyes begin to sting, to water. You blink, and feel something hot trickle down your cheek. A tear. His eyes snap to it. Pupils narrowing to a pinprick as he watches it slide down your face, little droplets clinging to your jaw.

“Poor baby,” he mocks, tilting his head as he tracks the teardrop. “Better behave.”

Behave. Like he's admonishing a child and not an adult.

It morphs; rots. Becomes yet another thing you shouldn't feel feverish over. The slick, sticky feeling grows between your thighs as your cunt flutters at the humiliation of it all.

And deeper—maybe—the bastardized sense of care—

(Punishment is affection in its own, special (awful) way and you've been aching for something just like it, haven't you—)

It's pushed down. Swallowed. And you know in the back of your head that if you keep eating these feelings, you're going to be sick. But you can't stop. Barely breathe around the idea of them sometimes—

“Tha’s’it,” he coos like he knows. Sees them bright and burning behind your irises. Little flickers of need, a smouldering want that you'll never grasp at yourself.

So he gives it to you.

The rough slide of his hand, all scarred and dry and calloused, scrapes over your slit once more. A full, flat stroke upward until your clit bumps into the ridge of his palm. Then down, down—

His fingers spread. Ring and index prying your folds apart as he pushes up once more, opening your seam to slip his middle finger through the slick, sticky mess that drips out of your burning cunt.

“Gonna be good f’me?”

The slide of his fingers drags the tip up to the bump of your clit. You stare down at it, fixed on the jut of his ink-black knuckles threading through your folds. The crease of his nail as he slips his fingers up higher, pad pushing over your pebbled clit. They're dirty. Grey-black under his nails. Congealed with dirt. Blood, maybe.

Your stomach churns even as your hips lift. Eager, searching. Hating yourself each second of it. It's gross. Disgusting.

You want his dirty, thick fingers inside of you—

“When I ask a question—” the tip circles over your clit. A shallow roll that pools heat between your thighs. “I expect an answer.”

“Y–yes,” you stammer out, hips flexing against his hand. Seeking more of that white-hot bloom of pleasure he brings with each pass of his finger.

“Good girl—” and you hate how it burns you up from the inside out. “Wasn't s’hard, was it?”

The retort is bitten back with the slow swipe of his finger drawing tight, small circles around your clit. His fingers are rough, scarred. Too dry. The abrasive drag over your soft sensitive flesh makes you whine—a drawn-out whimper nestled between clenched teeth.

It's too much.

Too harsh. Too sharp.

He rolls your clit under the pads of his fingers in jerking half-circles. Puts too much pressure on the bundle of nerves than you ever would—your touches are always soft, sickeningly sweet; gentling your flesh until you cum—and the sting, the burn, of it makes your toes curl. Body burn.

It's good.

And that's the problem.

It shouldn't be. His touch shouldn't make you so wet, growing slick and sticky between your spread thighs, bare to his hungry, prying gaze. Shouldn't make you moan. Hips twitching with each stroke of his fingers—

And then he peels away from you, but the time to mourn the loss of his touch, the fear of losing this trembling ember pleasure, is snuffed out when he presses his wet, slick fingers against the inside of your knee. The touch is intentional. Insistent. He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat before pushing it down to the mattress. The twinge of pain swallowed up as quickly as it forms when he drops to his elbows between your thighs, forearms curling under your legs, and tugs you sharply into him.

Heat floods your belly when the backs of your thighs press tight to his broad, muscular shoulders, but it's nothing compared to the sight of him on his knees between your legs. It's so obscene you nearly weep—

And then he leans down and licks a long, broad swipe of his tongue over your cunt.

You hadn't expected it, maybe. His mouth on your pussy, his broken, jagged lips sealing over your pebbled clit. Going down on you seemed too intimate for what he was after. His end goal. It does nothing for him at all—

You realise your mistake when he dips his tongue into your hole and his hips jerk forward. Unconscious. Eager. Seeking. The shifting drags his jeans down his hips, and his cock slips free.

Most of the cocks you've seen—in porn, pictures, art—jut out from the person's groin. standing at attention, the nasty comments used to say. Jokes whispered on the playground. But his falls. Droops down between big, folded thighs. Skin marbled in shades of red, peach. Deep gouges dot his upper thighs, some sinking deep enough to reach bone. More scar tissue than flesh.

—than man.

It looks raw. Fresh. Some injuries not too dissimilar to the Wagyu hanging in the front of the storeroom, on display and oh, so out of place in a town where the richest man must be just a hair above the poverty line.

On paper, anyway.

You swallow, avoiding his gaze as he pauses, dark eyes watching you with his mouth pressed against your seam. Unmoving. Still as a predator between your thighs, cock visible between the bow of his torso, jutting sickeningly from mangled legs as you gawk at this hideous thing that makes several, half-hearted attempts to spring up towards you, spitting clear, milky liquid all over with each jerk. Tugged down by its own weight. Too heavy to fight against gravity like the rest of the cocks you've seen have done—

Normal cocks, you amend. Textbook.

His is anything but.

Ugly, you think again, stomach churning. Roiling. Obscene. An odd thing considering what you're looking at but all too fitting with the way it droops, big, flared head drooling pre-cum all over the bed in long, dangling stands that prickle over your jaws—half nauseous, half hungry, too. Saliva pools in your mouth even though the sight of his cock scares you. Fills your belly with dread. Misery.

It looks like a bruise. Skin smeared with purples, reds. Patches of pink. Long, thick veins run up from the fattened, full base to the divot of his frenulum. Thick. It hangs low. Drips.

He raises slightly and shoves his hand down between his thighs, big hand curling over the fat base of his cock. His grip is tight around himself, and he strokes up, from base to tip. It squeezes more precum from the flushed, fat head, and dribbles between your spread thighs in a thick, pearlescent puddle.

It makes your mouth dry. That twinge in your jaws coming back. Festering. You wonder if he'll make you take that thing in your mouth. Choke you on it. Taste his precum—

“Fuck,” he snarls into your cunt, hand jerking over his cock. “Keep lookin’ at my cock like tha’, birdie—”

You gasp at the rough grunt, the way it seems to tremble through your sensitive flesh. More, though, from the way he sounds. His voice brassy, rough. Unkind, but the words bloom a fresh heat behind your navel.

His voice does things to you. Things you're not allowed to like.

Those thoughts are knocked from your head when he bows down again, eyes still fixed on you, and seals his wicked mouth over your cunt. It's hard to compare it to anything else other than being devoured. Eaten in the truest sense of the word.

His tongue splits down your seam, tip digging into your slick hole. A groan bubbles up at your taste—the soft, fluttering clench of your body trying to drag him in deeper. Needing him deeper. A huff of air ghosts over you, dipped in the same derision as earlier but the harsh slap of skin on skin, his hand working furiously over his cock, makes you acutely aware of how much this affects him.

“Taste good, birdie,” he grunts, and then sucks your fold into his mouth, laving it with his tongue and teeth until the skin is tender, swollen. “S’fuckin’ good—”

Your breath catches when the crooked arch of his nose presses taut to your clit. Pleasure twisting in a dizzying pirouette inside your belly, winding tighter and tighter—

His nose jerks up on your clit. Lips moulded to your seam, you hear him rasp eyes on me, birdie. Don't fuckin’ look away—

The rough snarl trembles through your body, sinking its teeth into the coil until it snaps under its jaw. Your knees snap around his head as your release locks your joints tight. His name, Simon, a hoarse cry on your lips. You barely have time to bask in the ripples of pleasure throbbing through your body before he rips away from you with his teeth bared, and his chin wet.

“Fuck—!” he snarls again, shoving your knees apart as he lifts his massive body up from between your thighs. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gotta be inside your tight cunt—”

He towers over you, grinding his cock into the apex of your thighs. The drag of his cock—a little damp from being stuck inside his jeans all day; balmy—against the dry skin of your belly makes you shudder. Shivering beneath him as he huffs through the mask. Head bowing. Dipping to look at the way his cock slaps down on you. Cockhead nudging above your belly button, dribbling a small puddle of pre-cum that gets smeared into your skin when he rocks back on his haunches.

His hand wraps around the thick base of his cock once more, squeezing tight as he grips himself above you. It makes the head swell, engorged with blood. Thickening in his hand as globs of pre-spend leak out onto your belly. That feeling in your jaws comes back—nauseous and wanting.

He leans back with a hum. “Like my cock, eh, birdie?”

The crass words bring a fresh bloom of heat simmering in your veins, creeping up your collar. Like doesn't really cover what you feel when you stare at it—his inked hands running along the long, veined shaft—and the unsettled feeling in the pit of your belly rears when he nudges forward, the weeping head of his cock bumping your mound.

It's humiliating how much want floods through you just looking at it. At him. Disgust, dread, desire.

You don't answer. Not that you really need to—

Your silence is loud enough.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, the rasp thick in his throat. “M’gonna give it to you, pet—”

And he does just that. Slips the head of his cock down the slope of your mound, letting it graze your clit until you're panting, whining softly for more, and pulls it over your slit until his pre-cum is smeared over your drenched folds. You know exactly what this is even without glimpsing the ugly burn of his possessive desire smouldering in the back of his eyes—ownership. Greed. Hunger. It revels in the stain on your skin, from belly to slit; his, all his. Outside and soon—

In.

It shocks a creeping sense of worry into you. “Wait, what about a condom—”

He snorts, ugly and caustic. “What about ‘em?” He taunts, and it's flat. Playful.

“You should—”

He drags his gaze away from the pearlescent smear of his spend on your folds, your clit, and the even, placid look in that stagnant lake tells you everything you already knew.

“I've never—” you start, wincing at the kernel of fear lacing your hoarse words. “Not without a condom—”

It's the wrong thing to say. Near cataclysmic. He drops his head back with a groan that rumbles out of the slope of his throat, sounding like the rip of a chainsaw.

“Firsts for everything,” he purrs, and he nudges your entrance with the bare, weeping tip of his cock.

“But—”

His hand lifts, catching your jaw in the too-wide span of his palm. The force makes your teeth clack together.

“Need me to gag you, birdie?”

You swallow. It's not much of a choice. Gagged and fucked raw, or—

Just fucked raw.

No gag. No condom. You fight back a shiver and wish it was all just from fear.

“No,” you murmur, like you have a choice. “No gag.”

“An’?”

“Um. No–no condom, either—”

It's not enough. "What are you gonna let me do to this pussy, birdie?"

You know what he wants. What he's angling for. But there's a line, you think. A delineation between unwilling participant, coercion, and giving into the need that slinks down your spine, and rots inside your belly.

(Being forced to ask for it isn't permission, but what happens when you want it more than your next breath?)

The shame can come later, you think, and feel yourself give in.

"Cum—cum inside me—"

“Good girl, birdie.”

You hate what that does to you. How eagerly your body reacts to the dark possessive curl in his eyes when you do something he likes.

He nudges your entrance again, this time with purpose. Intent. A heavy pressure pushing on your rim. Too tight, you think, and the sting of the first inch he feeds—forces—into you burns, pulsing behind your navel. His tip isn't even in yet, and it's already too much.

You think about telling him so, offering up your mouth instead, but he leans down on his forearms, and catches your lips in a bruising, biting pantomime of a kiss. A blood-soaked parody with more teeth and tongue—sinking into your lips, nipping hard until the skin splits; catching all that spills with his tongue.

With his weight pressed against you like this, there's nowhere to run when he cups your throat in his hand, winding the other up above your head, forearm tight on your crown to cage you in. And then he shifts. Bears his hips down on yours until the fat head of his cock pops inside of you.

Your squeal is chewed up between his teeth, swallowed down with a rumbling groan.

Caught beneath him, trapped, he works himself into you demanding, heavy thrusts. Each inch burns more than the last. A stinging stretch that brings tears to your eyes. It's already too much and it's not even half. Barely even the tip.

“Can't—” you slur into his wet, demanding mouth. “No more. I–I can't—”

The breath rushes out between his teeth. Your watery eyes drop to the divot above his canine. A permanent snarl. A condescending sneer.

“You can,” he says decisively, words ground out from between crooked teeth. He presses them to your cheek, nipping at the skin under your eye. Possessive and wanting—

(Hungry for something you can't name—)

“And you will.”

—Or maybe you just don't want to. Can't look at the thunderous need draped over his mangled, battered face without thinking of the rumble in your chest that echos back against his thundering call—)

Stupid, foolish thing—

The dark promise of his words isn't a threat until his hand tightens around your neck, nails grazing your skin, and he adds, all of me, birdie as he grinds his hips into yours shallowly. Broad chest expanding with each ragged inhale. Cementing his taunt with a steel edge as you try not to come undone beneath him.

You'll take every fuckin’ inch—

He pulls back until only his glands stretch you open, and you know what's coming when his fingers grip the sides of your neck tight. Holding on. Anchoring you to the bed as he nudges his forearm tighter between your skull and the wall, a protective hold.

Before you can tense up, bracing for it, or even cry out no, please, don't, you can't take it, he huffs, and then slams his hips forward, splitting you open on the fat stretch of his thick, too heavy cock.

Maybe it's hysteria, delirium, but the blunt press of his length against your tender, sore walls balms the ache, the sting. The deeper he pushes, the less it hurts. A paradox that leaves you whimpering under his hand, heels digging into the broad stretch of his waist as you struggle to decide if you want to kick him away or pull him closer.

A war you don't have the power to win when he surges forward, burying himself to the hilt with a growl that shakes the fragile tendons surrounding your heart. Fear, misery. Pleasure, pain. It admixes. Coalescing into a dizzying sense of fullness, unbearable pressure. Catastrophic in its heaviness as your mind reels, struggles to come to terms with the gut-wrenching, heart-aching uncertainty of how you're supposed to go on without having him seated as deep inside of you as he can get. You've never known emptiness before him. Before now. Mere seconds ago.

And now, the thought of it leaves a palpable hollowness itching behind your ribs. Festering. Rotting tissue and bone.

“Simon,” you choke, sobbing his name out under the firm press of his hand. “Simon—”

But he knows.

His arm curls over your head like a crown, and you can easily forget the pinch of each thorn when he holds you tight. Protectively. Possessively. Securing you in his arms before he lifts up, palm sliding over the mattress, touch tender against your cheeks, and then settles it on the indent of your knee. Widening you for him as he spreads his thighs under yours until you're opened up for him.

Those dark eyes are dragged down to the split of your legs where his cock disappears into your slick, swollen cunt. You follow it down, gazing at the impressive width of his stomach bowing over you until they land on the jut of skin pushing out from a messy smatter of damp curls around the base of his cock.

The coarse hair of his groin unfurls as it sticks to your wet lips, and he rolls his head back over his shoulders he heaves through the too tight stretch of your walls over his length. You feel the pulse of him inside of you, thudding like a heartbeat. It blooms molten under the feverish weight of his lidded, dark gaze.

“Fuck, birdie,” he rasps, and it's scorched. Charred. “Look at you—”

As the world is condensed, narrowed down to nothing but the near impossible stretch of his cock seated as deep inside of you as he can get, he leans down, scarred, mangled lips brushing cruelly over your ear, and whispers, see? Told you'd take me.

Every fuckin’ inch.

Your hand jerks to your belly, fingers dancing over your navel as if to feel him there, bulging from under your skin. Nearly hysterical as you try to come to terms with the pulsing, white-hot ache of him inside of you, slowly acclimating to his girth, his length.

He grunts when he sees what you're doing, eyes flaring as your fingers skirt around your navel.

“It's—” you shudder, gasping for air. “It's too much, Simon, I can't take it—”

He rolls his hips with a groan. “m’cock too big for you, birdie?”

His usual cadence is flat, droll, but an unmistakable sense of masculine pride, a deep, egotistic sense of satisfaction, drapes itself over his brassy words. Glueing to the scorching rasp of his voice in a way that makes you unerringly certain that he likes it. Likes that his cock is too big for you. That it hurts.

“Y’can take it,” he prompts, forcing more of himself into you until something snaps. Splits. Makes room. Carves out a space for him to fit.

The brief flash of pain is soothed when he's seated deep. That same paradoxical balm making itself known as he flattens his hips into yours with a noise—half a grunt, or a growl; a lazy, pleasure-soaked snarl. You're not sure what it is, but the sound knocks the air from your lungs, igniting inside of you like a spark inside a tinderbox.

It's only when his balls are flush against you that the same masculine pride brims up again. Primal. Animalistic. The urge to present your soft belly rears up suddenly, and it's only stifled when he grunts again, looking down at you with lidded, black eyes.

“Now, be good and let me fuck your tight cunt.”

He's not looking for assent. Nothing you could say at this moment will sway his mind one way or the other. There's a nasty spool of determination welling up like blood on a pricked finger. Beading up to the surface in a clean, neat droplet as he rolls his broad shoulders, and shuffles into a comfortable position on his haunches between your spread thighs. The motion jostles his cock in a way that makes your breath hitch with each jerk.

It's not painful. Not particularly. But you're overwhelmed by the sensation of utter fullness in a way you've never experienced before. Each grind of his cock against your overly stretched walls deeping that incipient feeling of anxiety brewing in your belly that one wrong move and you'll tear. He's just—

Too big.

And despite his claims—or rather, in spite of them—you don't think you can do it. Don't think you can take him. It's too much. It feels like being turned inside out and then put back into place. An uneasy sense of discomfiture blooms with each too-tight, too-sharp tug of his cock pulling taut on your rim.

Almost deliriously, you think you can feel the pulse of his cock inside your goddamn throat.

“Simon—” you start on a tremulous breath but he cuts you off with a hum.

“Relax.”

You can't. Can't—

“Fuckin’ hell, bird,” he rasps, leaning down suddenly until his face was pushed tight into the curve of your neck, breath shallow on your thudding pulse. “Stop squirmin’ ‘round me like tha’ or I'll cum right fuckin’ now.”

Your heart stutters. Gallops painfully in your chest. His words make you dizzy because for as much as this feeling of him, his cock, inside of you dances on a delicate precipice of being more than you can feasibly handle and somehow the most incredible thing you'd ever experienced before, you hadn't considered how he'd feel.

Inexplicably, it pleases you.

There's something so strange—so extraordinary—about bringing a man like him, like this, to his knees. Pleasuring him by just heaving through the white-hot stretch of his cock inside of you. Making him bury his head in your neck, groaning about how he was gonna fuckin’ bust, pretty thing, fuck—

It was a powerful feeling.

Unwarranted, maybe. But incredible, nevertheless.

“Fuck,” he grunts, and you feel his throat work around a thick swallow. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gonna fuck this pretty cunt so fuckin' hard until you beg me stop—”

And he does just that. Rears back from your neck, and settles again between your thighs—quicker this time. With an urgency that makes you whimper when his cock grinds against your walls hard enough to bruise.

When he finally pulls out until only the flared head of his cock remains, you knot a fist into the thin pillow, clinging on, and latch the other onto his hip as if that could somehow stop the vicious promise in his eyes about poundin’ you into the goddamn mattress. There's a flash, a brief flicker of his eyes, and then he thrusts back inside of you with a grunt that makes your belly clench, and your back arch.

True to the promises he gave, it's brutal. Violent.

Any pleasure you feel is leached through osmosis. A tether bound around his own.

His arm is shoved under your back, angling your pelvis up. Thighs dangling over the thick spread of his own, ass seated in his lap. He drives into you, thrusts deep—grinds his hips until your moans break into hoarse screams, whimpers. Makes your eyes roll so far back, all you see is black even when you blink your eyes up at him.

He carves a spot deep inside of you with each delirious piston of his cock, pounding into you with brutal thrusts, and then holding tight when his balls slap against your ass. Digging the head of his cock into the seal of your womb until it aches behind your navel. Each breath feels like glass in your lungs—

“Tha’s it,” he slurs in your ear, mouth damp against your skin. “Take my cock so good, pretty birdie. Little pussy was made for it, weren't you? Tight cunt all mine—”

His gruff words tug on that tether until you're wrapped around him like a bow. Following him down this endless spiral as he slams inside of you over and over again, cooing in your ear about the sounds you made for him, pretty cunt so fuckin’ wet f’me, birdie, hear tha’? all f’me—

“Cum f'me, birdie. Want this pussy cummin’ ‘round my cock—”

“Can't—” you gasp, arching into him, desperate and needy. It rides a line between pain and pleasure; a needlepoint you wobble on. “Need—”

You try to reach down, to touch your clit, but grinds his hips into yours with a snarl. “Cum ‘around my cock, birdie.”

“Touch me—”

“Fuckin’ hell—”

It edges on too much. Pain and pleasure teetering on a knife's edge, split apart by a line the width of a razer. Looping and tangling around each other until you can't differentiate between the two. But it makes sense, you suppose, staring up at him arched above you like a black cloud of smoke. All hunger and fire. Consuming, devouring, everything in its path. A wildfire.

Butcher, you think again when his hand wraps around your throat. A mimicry of what he did in the truck, forcing your eyes on him. Your life tucked neatly against his palm.

These hands take lives. It's what they're made for. All scarred, and thick. Scar tissue and bone. Muscle and cartilage. Meant to render meat of cattle. Slaughterhouse in the shape of a man. Consumption personified.

But where there should be fear, all you feel is an echoing sense of hunger. Leatherbound to each other, maybe—

The look that passes over his eyes as he stares down at you, cupped in his palm, seems to fit perfectly into the fractured gaps inside yourself you try so hard to ignore. And what doesn't—

Well.

He'll make room to fit.

You reach up, curling your fingers around his thick wrist. His eyes flash, but he doesn't slow his thrusts. Doesn't stop. Just watches as you peel his hand away from your neck, bringing it up to your mouth.

On his palm, there's a piece of skin that's unblemished compared to the rest of his worn, burnt hands. A strip just big enough for you to sink your teeth into.

And you do.

“Fuck, Birdie—!” The snarl is ripped from his throat. His thrusts grow harder, sloppier. Each bit of strength in his muscled hips and thighs is used to pound into you until your vision blacks out. It hurts. Aches. Your heels slip down, catching on the broad expanse of his lower back. And you tighten them around his waist, pulling him closer. Deeper. “Fuck, Birdie, fuckin’ cunt was made f'me, wasn’t it? So cum on my cock. Now—”

Whining, you shake your head. “Can't. I can't. I need—”

You don't get to finish. With a huff of anger, he rips his hand off of the mattress, leaning back on his haunches, and shoves his hand between your thighs, scarred fingers stroking over your pebbled clit. It's rough. Sloppy. His anger hums through his body, skewering into you as he glared down, gaze swinging like a pendulum between the split of your thighs where his cock disappears into your swollen cunt, his fingers rubbing over your clit, and back up the hand around your neck, the tears staining your cheeks.

There's an edge to his thrusts. A viciousness in the way he pistons his hips into you. Dark eyes catching every flicker—each wince, gasp, moan, whine all meticulously catalogued and exploited. He finds the spots that make your hips jerk, twitching both toward and away from him. Angling into the ones that have your eyes rolling back into your head, drool dribbling past your slack lips as you gasp his name out into the dank, humid air.

It smells of sweat, sex, and him. Something brutal, bloody, and dark. Rotten leaves. Charred forests after a rain shower. Dangerous. Tinged with a slight acrid, chemical stench—benzene, oxidizing iron. It drips down your throat, and drenches your lungs. Staining you from the inside out.

And he exploits that, too. Leans in, and breathes heavily against your upper lip, your cheek. Drowns you in his scent. His sweat beads along his jaw, droplets raining down over your brow. Soaked in his essence. Unable to see, smell, or touch anything that isn't him.

With his hand over your mouth, teeth sunk into his palm, all you can taste is him, too. Leather. Gun oil. Blood.

The ravenous look in his eye sharpens, turning into deadly points.

“Such a pretty fuckin' bird.” He rasps, the words shattered, mangled in the back of his throat. They carry the scent of blood when you breathe them in, and you wonder if he forced them through glass. Pushed them out with his bloody fists.

You bite down harder in response, keening through the white-hot pain of his cock spearing deeper than before, stretching you past your limits. The taste of blood on your tongue, the rasping snarl pulled from his chest, his fingers toying with your clit, push you over the edge once more. Again and again, and again, and—

His hand peels away from your oversensitive clit, dropping down to the mattress beside your face. He follows quickly after several impossibly deep thrusts that shove you higher up on the mattress, pressing in until his balls sit flush against your ass, cockhead battering against your cervix, and he groans—deep and liquid—when he comes, spilling inside of you. Rooted deep, cock twitching, Simon drops to his elbow beside your head, smothering you under his weight as the tension in his body bleeds out.

Your teeth stick to the divots in his hand, and the sensation of ungluing them from the wounds you gave him makes you shiver. Slowly, you roll your tongue out, chasing the drops of blood, and breathe heavily through your nose as he burrows deeper inside of you, chest shuddering over yours.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasps, hips jerking into yours with a slap that echoes through the room. “Little tease, ain't you?”

Even with his cock softening inside of you, it's still thick. Fat. Stretching you open as he yawns out above you, bloodied hand dropping down to cup your neck again, forearm resting heavily between your breasts. He raises slightly on his elbow, black eyes glinting in the shallow dark of the room. Piercing as they drill into your sweat-slicked face.

It aches when he moves. When he presses his hips harder into yours, the muscles in your legs throb as his broad waist splits them apart. Your feet dangle, sliding uselessly down his back, over his ass, before coming to rest curled around his thighs. Melting into the mattress, tender and sore and all chewed up—

You feel like a massive contusion instead of a person. A pestle. His.

The thought makes you shiver, and his eyes flash in triumph like he knows.

The feeling of him pulling out of you draws a whimper from your lips. The drag on your sensitive, bruised walls is a strange mix of tender pleasure and pain. He chuckles at your mewl—dark and low; the sound of nightmares, you think. Crackling sap on charred wood.

You try to pretend it doesn't make you shudder, but the way he hums in response dashes the feigned oblivion before it can form. All you can do is heave on the bed, and watch him through narrowed slits as he leans back on his haunches once again, head cocking to the side. His dark eyes fixed on the split of your legs. The ache in your cunt growing sharp under his molten stare.

“Fuck,” he rasps, the shallow groan pulled out from between clenched teeth. You wonder if the mangled curse was unintentional. Ripped from his throat before he could clamp his jaws around it—a crack in the facade. A hairline splinter in the indomitable mask he wears.

Your heart lurches. None of this makes sense, but your head is too muddled, too syrupy, to think much at all. A quandary for later when he throws you from his bed with a harsh slap on your ass and a and don't think about doing this ever again.

But you don't think you can move. “Give me a minute,” you start on a trembling breath. “And I'll—”

His brows move but his eyes stay fixed on your sore cunt. You can feel him leak out of you, spilling on the mattress in thick globs. The sensation makes you shiver.

“You'll what?”

It looks like he has to forcibly tear his eyes away from you, reluctance forming a cold, angry crater between his brows. The brunt of his ire—white, burning—makes you want to supplicate yourself at his feet, roll over on your belly and show the beast you mean no harm.

(Run, and run far—)

He huffs. “You'll what, birdie?”

It takes a minute to find your voice through all the panic clogging your throat. “I'll leave, um—”

He peels away from you with a loud, rough snort, and drops to his his elbow beside you. Hands curling possessively over your waist, fingers tight. Unyielding.

“Not goin’ anywhere, birdie. Told you, didn't I? You're mine.”

“I'm—”

“Go to sleep.”

He pulls you roughly to his chest until your head is pillowed on his shoulder, and then rolls on his back, keeping you cushioned at his side. You try to move, but his arm wedges under your neck, curling over your shoulder. Trapping you to him.

The panic wants to come now. To rage against the shackle of his embrace, to run home and scrub your skin until it bleeds. But the exhaustion collapses over it all until your eyes feel too heavy to hold open. Too painful.

As you drift, aimless and dreamless, his voice cuts through the fog. “Gotta learn ‘ow to cum with nothin’ but my cock inside of you sooner or later, birdie. Or you won't be coming at all—”

It sounds like a threat. A promise. You fall asleep with the words echoing in your head, his arm an anchor around your waist.

He wakes up hungry.

A gnawing in his belly pulls him from the thin doze he fell into after fucking you three more times—with your face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air for him to rut against like a beast; teetering over his hips, the spread of them too wide for your thighs to split over leaving you precariously unbalanced and shifting your weight above him as neither knee sat comfortably on the mattress; and on your belly with him crushing you to the floor under his bulk. The memory of which makes his spent cock stir, twisting limply against his damp, sticky thigh. Matted down with drying cum, sweat, the slick wetness of being buried inside your messy cunt.

Filled now with his cum.

He groans low in his throat as he thinks about it. The sloppy way you let him take you over and over again until you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore, passing out before he finished. Letting him fuck his cum inside of you as you whimpered in your sleep—

Perfect little thing, aren't you? So good to him.

Simon can't remember the last time he fucked someone, much less when it was this enjoyable (an understatement, of course; in the back of his head, wheels spin round and round as he tries to come up with a plan to keep his cock buried inside of you at all times while still doing his work—), and the overflow of unquenched lust churns in his belly. A hunger he can now slake on your willing body. In the silence, he purrs—

But the effort, the exertion, dredged up a different need inside him.

Simple hunger. An appetite.

He could eat—

his eyes slant toward the top of your crown in the dark, and he amends it, quickly, to: in more ways than one.

He'll go home in a minute. Make himself a steak from the prime cut he butchered a few days ago, leftovers that no one had any qualms about when he took several pieces home with him.

(and really, why would they argue with the butcher who keeps their wallets fat and their bills paid?)

It was left on the counter earlier before he got the call that your brother was making another move. Now a perfect room temperature as it waits for him to come back. Cook it the way he likes—

Rare.

The perfect grill is a nice char on the outside, but bleeding red on the inside. Basted in duck fat and garlic. A sprig of rosemary in the pan, but not touching the meat. Just enough to give the juice that earthy, sweet flavour. Let it rest for ten minutes under foil with the rest of the fat poured over it from the pan. Served as is with maybe a dash of salt and pepper on the side.

Simple. But incredibly difficult to perfect, he finds.

Everyone tries to make it fancier than what it needs to be, but at the end of the day, meat is meat. And going from picking scraps from the garbage outside of the Italian butcher on the corner to ordering his own pretentious filet mignon still gives him a sense of unease. Whiplash, perhaps. Nothing to something—how about that, Tommy?

Maybe that's why he prefers to raise and butcher his own cattle. A never-ending supply of meat for him to sink his teeth into even if this whole thing goes belly up and he's back to begging for morsels on the corner. Tommy hiding in the shadows with a baseball bat waiting to ambush the richer men who happen to feel altruistic that day.

This practice bled over into his current occupation, too. The basement of that same Italian butcher shop he used to sneak expired sausage from out of the bins is now his home base of sorts. A money laundering front of the 141. Headquarters for them to congregate in secrecy upstairs. And here—

A torture chamber for those who tried to cross them. Strung up on meat hooks like the cattle they eat, the ones he feeds them, until he makes up his mind on what he wants to do to them.

It's where you should have been, he supposes, thumb brushing a spot of dried blood on your shoulder, right below a nasty bite mark on your forearm. The ring nearly black from the clotted blood pooling in the indents. It matches several others on your thighs—top, insides, back—and neck, belly, collarbones, sternum. All chewed up. Marked by the butcher.

In working for the old Italian man who ran the shop when he was eighteen, he learned that most of the butchers preferred to mark their carcasses when they came in. A little x on the fat to signify they'd be the ones carving up the prime meat.

He didn't think you could handle his knife, so he gave you his teeth instead. But the implication is clear.

His.

It's overkill considering his reputation, and the claim he already had on you. Because even before this, back when he saw you through the window of his shop as he was moonlit as a legitimate butcher and businessman instead of the enforcer, the brute, everyone already knew he was, his interest was clear. You were off-limits. His to deal with.

And while Price refers not to get involved in small-time street dealers, the warnings Soap and Gaz impressed onto your brother should have been the end of an irritating situation and not the beginning of a fuckin’ headache. But no. He had to push. And push.

Until Price gave the order to take care of it.

And that he did.

(With the added benefit of killing one bird and keeping the other in a pretty cage.)

Price probably won't like his solution, but Simon racked up enough favours to keep a little pet of his own. Been a good boy for a long, long time now, and he supposes he's owed a bone.

Or a sweet thing tucked tight to his side having passed out some two hours ago after he slaked his dizzying thirst on you over and over again even though it doesn't feel like it's been enough.

It's rare that he has an appetite for people. Even rarer that he lets this meagre hunger consume him like this. But there's something about you that makes his teeth ache in the same way they often do whenever he's hungry for meat.

He wants to devour you. Consume you. Eat you alive and save nothing for anyone else to taste.

(So—

Price will just have to let him keep you, won't he?)

The mattress vibrates under him. His phone buzzing with an incoming text. He reaches over, pulling it close enough to read the notification on his screen. It's from Soap.

All her stuff is on your porch.

He hums, but doesn't reply. Simply opts to drop his phone on his belly, and tug you closer to his broad chest. He'll wake you in an hour, and the stirring in his groin tells him it'll be for another round. Maybe he'll take you in the freezer. Make you cling to the hook hanging down from the ceiling as he fucks you like that. He has a pair of ties for ox, lamb legs, that he can loop around your wrists and heft you up on.

It'll hurt, he's sure. The binds weren't designed with comfort in mind, but he can easily bear your weight as he pounds into you from below, your pretty legs wrapped tight around his waist.

The image, the thought, alone has him thickening against his thigh. He reaches down, gripping the base tight in his hand as he pulls you even closer, burying his nose in your crown.

At the very least, he wouldn't be lying when he told Price he strung you up.

Three rounds—on your back, your hands and knees, perched above him like a pretty goddess he stole away from a temple—and he still isn't satisfied. Fuck. He breathes in your scent and doesn't think he ever will be.

He'll get you out of here, take you home. Make you the steak he likes for a late dinner, rare and simple—the same one he gave your brother weeks ago when he dragged him into the shop, strung him up on a hook, and demanded payment for his disrespect.

Who'd have thought that his payment would be you?

(fitting, though, since he'd had his eye on you for a while now—)

He nudges you when his phone chimes again with another message doubtless from Soap telling him all your things have been tucked away. Matters dealt with.

“C’mon,” he grunts, running his hand down your spine. “We’re leavin’.”

You blink at him slowly. “Leaving?”

He nods. “Get dressed.”

You're quiet as he turns, reaching for his jeans left in a heap beside the mattress, but he hears the hitch in your throat. The click when you swallow. Unbothered by it, he turns, giving you his back as he wedges his feet inside the trousers, pulling them up his legs.

The bed shifts behind him. “I—I can walk back to my brother's—”

The hope in your voice is a delicate thing. Fragile like fine china. A pretty, vulnerable tchotchke meant to be seen, admired, but not touched. Not handled roughly.

Unfortunately for you, he's never had much of a gentle touch.

When he throws a glance over his shoulder, he's not surprised to find your arm folded over your bare breasts as you kneel on the mattress, your palm resting flat between your parted thighs, wrist and forearm covering the slip of heaven between them from his greedy, prying gaze.

It paints a startling picture, he finds. One with you looking thoroughly ravaged. Taken. But presenting it in a soft sort of sensuality meant to make a man feel both hot under the collar and like an unrepentant voyeur.

Pretty bird, he thinks, and feels his cock stir.

He rises swiftly, hiking up his jeans around his thighs as he goes, and then turns to you with a heady desire to crush that gossamer of hope between his greedy hand like a silken cobweb that will stick to his fingers.

“Not goin’ to your brothers,” he says, pushing his tongue against his cheek to stem the ache burning in his muscles.

You shiver, eyes growing wide, frenzied with fear as you stare up at him. The shift of your throat when you swallow makes pre-cum dribble out of his fattened cock. He's never really had much of a taste for it, but he's overcome with the urge to see you cry—

“Where are we going?”

Amid the ache in his loins, the flickering fantasies of your pretty, lachrymal face gazing up at him helpless, hopeless, and needy, he catches the edge of panic when you speak. The razor-sharp tremble of fear.

But buried amongst it, hidden in the bruised look you give him as he towers over you with his cock bulging in his slacks and his eyes burning with want, he finds a keen sense of eagerness amongst the rubble. Agog, almost.

And fuck. If that doesn't do something awful to him.

“What?” He taunts, cocking his head to the side as your breath grows shallow and your eyes wide. “Did you think that was enough to pay your debt, birdie?”

“What? You can't—”

“Don't like it—” he lifts his shoulder up in a cool, indifferent shrug, enjoying the dismayed expression that falls over your brow more than he should. “—go to the police.”

“The ones on your payroll?” You spit, eyes flaring wide like an angry cat. “You—”

Several things might have continued in place of your choked, angry sob, but it's swallowed down as pragmatically as it was the first time he cornered you earlier today. And as beautiful as your ire is, he finds the cornered look on your face to be much more pleasing. Prettier.

“C’mon, bird,” he mocks, holding his hand out toward you with a tick of his lips. “All your stuff is at home. Don't be stupid.”

“Stupid?” You gasp in indignation, but there's a bruised look in your eyes. A wounded thing that makes his breath hitch in his lungs for reasons he can't really ascertain, but just knows that he likes it. Likes it a lot. “This is—insane.”

Again, he shrugs, but the indifference this time isn't the same manufactured callousness meant to inspire fear. The conversation is stale already. Grating on him. He's not used to having his orders ignored or questioned. What he says usually goes—either through association or reputation, or just the fact that no one has ever come close to filling the same measure of space as he does—and questioning him like this makes him feel too much like a boy, and not enough like the living ghost he pretends to be.

“You can't do this. It's not right.”

An appeal to his humanity. Cute. He huffs, reaching down to fasten the button of his jeans. The sound the zipper makes cuts through the room. “You're mine, birdie. Better get used to it.”

Catching your eye as he says it was only meant to reignite the kindling fear you have of him from extinguishing. A scared prey animal was a better pet than an angry one. But the look on your face catches him off-guard.

It reminds him of a flightless little bird shivering in a child's shoebox. Tiny broken thing his mum warned him not to touch or its mother would abandon it to die on its own.

“Until the debt is paid off.”

A statement, not a question. He shrugs, but doesn't respond. Tilts his head toward the door. “Let's go.”

His lack of reassurance doesn't soften the flint in your gaze, but the prospect of recompense seems to spurn you on. Another wishbone of hope to cling to. And despite himself, he lets you keep it. Lets your little finger wrap around the delicate bone for comfort because as much as you might think there's a fifty-fifty chance of getting the bigger piece, he has no intentions of letting something like that get in the way of his appetite even if you do.

(And his hunger has always been particularly voracious, hasn't it?)

“Come, birdie. Gotta get you home, and fed, don't I?”

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #series: dogmeat #for only being 19k this really took a lot out of me #simon riley x you #ghost x you

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