est. midwest 1944

and alone time meant cleaning up where you got shallowly stabbed with a rebar pipe. troy called you lucky, but it doesn’t feel like it. it’s not like you survived falling off a building, and the rebar was only an inch from where you landed. a desperate pantheon operative just used what he could, and it endowed you with a quarter-sized puncture, less than an inch deep.

case made it worse before you could even process what he was trying to do.

it’s like he wants his entire fist in your guts, fingering and exploring. it’s appalling. the smell of copper is enough to make you nauseous, near impossible to hold back all the bile building. his fingers inside your stomach might as well be down your throat, too. your body is slouched against the island counter, sliding off the edge of your chair. case stands between your spread legs, his free hand working to loosely lock them around his waist. it's hard to tell if he's detached or focused.

he stares at what little skin of your stomach is exposed: fresh blood smears, and there's an inconsistent rising as you breathe heavily. all your energy goes toward digging your nails into his wrist, which does little to discourage him from thrusting in and out of the newly developed hole. his illuminati tattoo took witness to the scene before its singular inked eye, as if it were truly present. a bystander in his body. a body shared. case’s middle finger turns to the right as it eases out, coming back in so deep you moan. it’s loud and makes you feel gross. it wasn’t entirely out of pleasure, but case took it as it was: a loud, humiliating moan with a high pitch and breathy end. case looks at you for only a second, maybe even less, before shoving another finger in. the suddenness makes your body flinch against the kitchen island behind, wide-eyed and gasping.

it hurts. you were sobbing much louder earlier, but it’s turned into weak sniffling and simple tears. why was he doing this to you? you didn’t think case ever hated you, and he never hurt you. the only protests you're making are to protect your dignity against something so mortifying. straining to say something, anything, case just shoves his tongue past your lips. it effectively cuts you off, busying his tongue by licking the roof of your mouth and making you cringe. it's not to kiss, but to instead explore every inch of your mouth that he can reach; shoving your skulls together to get to the crevices that he wouldn't be able to in even his highest effort. if he could slam his head through yours just to feel everything you could give, he would. you whine as one of his knees lifts between your thighs and presses against your cunt. you would have seen it coming had you not closed your eyes.

he’s knuckle deep, two fingers prodding in and out like nothing, like it doesn’t hurt. your skin tears, and you squeal into his mouth. you bite down on his tongue, but he doesn’t pull away. he just adds another finger, cramming you full.

it feels almost intimate. is this love for him? maybe in another form of reality, this is something romantic to both of you. not a horrific and dehumanizing act. somewhere else, his fingers would reach gently to hold the curve of your waist, instead of smearing your own blood around on your stomach. case’s tongue snatches from your mouth, dragging it along your neck and sucking inconsistently on the skin while you whimper.

he pulls out, only for a few moments to grab the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head. there’s little regard for your inability to sit up. black bra exposed, and he gropes your left breast through the cotton and foam padding. no hesitation or time wasted before he comes to sloppily suck on the curve of your breast. the wet noise fills the air. is this foreplay? what the fuck is happening?

before the opportunity to further the spiral in your head comes, case starts again. he shoves his fingers back into your stomach, giving you back that forgotten need to puke. it irritates you, and you spit on him. landing on his cheek, he doesn’t care to wipe it off. why should he be afraid of your spit, anyway? after what he’s done?

is he disgusting for doing this? are you disgusting for enjoying it?