Untitled

Five men. All older. All watching. They called themselves a crew, but they moved like a pack.

Mac, 57, was the leader. Silver hair, a scar along his collarbone, and a voice that never needed to raise. He spoke in few words, and everyone listened. When he fixed Ezra with those calm, coal-dark eyes, he didn’t have to say anything at all. Ezra obeyed.

Rhys, 54, was the broadest of them—quiet, bearded, and tattooed from throat to wrist. He’d lifted Ezra clean off the ground on his first day without so much as a grunt. Since then, he’d taken to standing behind Ezra during breaks. Just close enough to make him feel prey-like.

Tomas, 51, had a knife always strapped to his thigh and a laugh that never reached his eyes. He was the most playful, but it was the dangerous kind of playful. The kind that left Ezra’s pulse stuttering when he said things like, “Pretty boys should kneel when real men work.”

Gregor, 49, didn’t speak much at all—but when he did, it was usually while gripping Ezra’s jaw. Between his two thick fingers and saying something in a low growl like, “You look better when your mouth is shut.”

And Fraser, 46, the youngest of them—but still old enough to have years of grit in his bones—was the one who always watched Ezra like he already owned him. Smirking. Waiting. Patient.

Ezra was twenty-nine. Still strong, still stubborn. But surrounded by them, he felt young in a way that wasn’t about years—it was about power. He could say no, but he wouldn’t. Not to Mac. Not to any of them.

Not now. That day, they had just finished setting a carved capstone in place when Mac crooked a finger at him.

“Boy,” he said simply. “Come here.”

Ezra obeyed. The others flanked him, slowly, as if they'd done this before. As if it was natural. As if they'd been waiting for him to understand something he hadn’t yet realized.

“Do you know what happens,” Mac said softly, “when a Circle decides to keep what it finds?”

Ezra's breath hitched. “No, Sir.”

Mac’s fingers curled into the back of his hair, slow, deliberate. “We claim it. Mark it. Use it. Ruin it for anyone else.”

Gregor murmured from behind him, “You’re the youngest thing any of us have touched in years.”

“Fresh,” Tomas added. “Soft.”

Ezra trembled. He wanted to run. He wanted to kneel.

Mac tilted his chin up. “You want it. Don’t you?”

Ezra nodded once. Then again.

“Yes, Sir.”

The five men moved in. Boots crunching over stone. Kilts brushing against sweat-slick thighs. No one rushed.

Predators never do. Ezra stood still in the center of the circle—young, outnumbered, trembling—and exactly where he belonged.

The stone beneath Ezra’s knees was cold. They’d led him—no, escorted him—into the heart of the stone circle like something sacred, something offered. The moment he stepped inside, the temperature shifted. The wind stilled. The world narrowed to five men and the heat radiating off their bodies, off their stares.

He was on his knees now, at the center. Shirtless. Marked with dust, sweat, and the fingerprints they’d left behind guiding him into place.

Mac stood before him. The others circled in silence, eyes gleaming in the firelight like wolves who had waited too long for their meal.

“Do you know why we brought you here?” Mac asked, voice low.

Ezra swallowed. “To… prove I belong?”

Mac’s mouth curled into something darker than a smile.

“No, boy. You already belong.”

He reached out and brushed the back of his fingers down Ezra’s cheek, slow and firm. “This is just where we show you what that means.”

Rhys stepped in next. He didn’t say anything—just laid a thick, gloved hand on Ezra’s bare shoulder, squeezing once. Ezra felt the weight of that touch in his chest more than his skin.

Tomas crouched beside him, tilting his head. “Still holding yourself upright?” he whispered, amused. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Gregor pressed his hand between Ezra’s shoulder blades, firm, forcing him a little lower. “Head down, hands behind your back. Submit properly.”

Ezra obeyed—his breath shaking, his spine bowed, his palms resting against the small of his back. The cold stone kissed his knees. His heart pounded.

Fraser knelt behind him, whispering close, “You’re going to be so easy to keep once we’re done with you.”

Mac stepped in again, circling him slowly. “Five of us. One of you.” His fingers slid along Ezra’s shoulder, then under his jaw, lifting his head just enough to meet his eyes. “And yet none of us are rushing. You know why?”

Ezra’s voice wavered. “Because you already own me?”

Mac smiled. “Good boy.”

Then he leaned down and kissed Ezra’s forehead—not rough, not showy. Devotional. And one by one, they followed.

Rhys’s kiss pressed into his temple. Tomas ghosted his lips across Ezra’s cheek. Gregor’s was rough, right over the crown of his bowed head. Fraser’s lingered by his neck—hot breath and stubble, a silent promise.

When Mac knelt in front of him again, it was with slow reverence, resting one heavy hand over Ezra’s sternum.

“We’re not just taking you,” he said. “We’re marking you. As ours. As kept. As a group.”

Ezra’s breath hitched.

“Do you want that?” Mac asked.

Ezra nodded, almost too fast. “Yes, Sir.”

Mac leaned in, close enough to taste the words on Ezra’s lips. “Then remember this, boy: there’s no going back.”

The circle closed in. And Ezra didn’t want to.

The keep was old stone, high-ceilinged, lit with firelight and silence. Ezra knelt again—this time on a thick wool rug in the center of their private den. His bare skin was warmed by the hearth, but his body still trembled from the weight of five men watching. Every breath he took felt like it was borrowed. Every second, suspended.

They’d stripped him slowly when they brought him inside—not just of his clothes, but of everything he thought he’d be allowed to keep. Confidence. Modesty. Control. Now all that remained was obedience.

Fraser was the first to speak. “What are you, boy?”

Ezra kept his eyes down. “Yours.”

“All of ours?” Rhys asked, voice a quiet scrape of thunder.

“Yes, Sir.”

Gregor’s voice was sharp, near his ear. “And what does that mean?”

Ezra swallowed. “It means I don’t belong to myself anymore. It means I listen. I serve. I obey.”

“And if one of us tells you to stop?” Tomas asked, circling him.

“I stop.”

“And if all of us tell you to kneel?” Mac added, stepping close.

“I kneel.”

Mac cupped the back of his neck. “That’s right.”

Ezra was kissed again—first by the firelight, then by their hands. His shoulders. His ribs. His thighs. Every part of him claimed. Not rushed. Not rough yet. Just known.

They didn’t take him that night—not fully. Not yet.They made him wait. Made him kneel and listen as they spoke over his head—about him. Around him. Like he was already furniture. Already theirs.

***************************************************

Flashback

It had started months before Ezra even arrived. Mac had seen him first—on a video, a recommendation from another crew. “Strong back. Sharp eyes. Fast learner. Pretty.”

Gregor was the one who asked the question none of them voiced: “Is he submissive?”

Fraser smirked. “Let’s find out.”

They’d shared men before—briefly, in pairs or threes, during long winters when the keep felt too empty. But it had never lasted. No one could handle all five. Not really.

Not until Ezra. They saw it in him from the first day. The way he bent. The way he waited. How he flinched from praise like it hurt more than punishment. They talked in the dark that night, gathered around Mac’s long wooden table.

“He won’t last,” Tomas had said at first.

“He might,” Rhys countered. “If we take our time.”

Mac sipped his whisky, slow and certain. “We don’t take him. We train him.”

Fraser leaned back in his chair. “As what?”

“As ours.” Mac looked up. “Evenly. Fully. Permanently.”

Gregor only nodded.

The pact was made. Not just to share Ezra. To shape him. To strip him down until there was nothing left but instinct and obedience. To give him five centers of gravity. Five hands. Five voices. Five men who’d never need to raise one to remind him where he belonged.

***************************************************

Back in the present in the keep. Ezra’s head was bowed. His body ached—not from pain, but from holding still.

Mac knelt behind him now, lips brushing his neck. “Tomorrow, we begin properly. You’ll learn our rules. Our rhythms. Our hands.”

Ezra’s voice was barely a whisper. “What about tonight?”

“Tonight,” Mac said, “we teach you how to sleep* in service.”

Ezra blinked. Fraser was already lifting him up, strong arms around his waist. Rhys pulled back the furs on the bed. Tomas slid beneath them first. Gregor held out a hand.

And Ezra—naked, trembling, undone—was pulled into their bed and laid in the center like an offering on a shared altar. Hands curled around his waist. Arms wrapped around his chest. Someone kissed his temple.

“Breathe, boy,” Mac murmured as Ezra exhaled.

“You belong here now.”

Ezra woke to warmth—too much warmth. Not the kind that came from a hearth or sunlight through an open window. This was the warmth of skin, of breath, of bodies wrapped around his like he was a prize hoarded through the night. His limbs ached, heavy from sleep and something deeper—something that left his muscles soft and his bones humming.

He was surrounded. Gregor’s chest was pressed against his back, one thick arm slung over his middle, holding him in place like a man guarding something sacred. Rhys was curled at his front, the slow rhythm of his breathing steady against Ezra’s throat.

Fraser's legs were tangled with his, one foot hooked around his ankle like he might float away if not claimed completely. Tomas sprawled behind them all, fingers idly combing through Ezra’s hair. And Mac—Mac sat at the edge of the bed, watching.

Always watching. Ezra blinked slowly, head swimming in the haze of what came before: hands and mouths and heat and being opened again and again until he was nothing but sensation. There was no pain left. Just the echo of being taken.

And now... he knew. This wasn’t over. This was just the beginning. He could feel it in the tension coiled beneath their softness. In the way Rhys’s breath had quickened. In the weight of Gregor’s arm tightening across his waist. In Mac’s eyes, sharp and unreadable in the quiet dawn.

They were waiting. Waiting for him to wake. Waiting for him to understand. He was going to be claimed. Not gently. Not sweetly. But fully.

No more soft mouths or whispered promises. No more teasing touches meant to ease him into obedience. He’d had his initiation. He’d been made pliant, made open, made theirs.

Now came the rest. Now came the ruin. One round for each man. Five bodies. Five lessons. Five ways to be undone. And Ezra? Ezra wasn’t afraid. He was ready. He didn’t need to ask what they would do. He simply met Mac’s gaze, swallowed thickly, and whispered:

“I’m yours.”

And they moved towards him both in unison and each of them individually.

Fraser was the first to move. Of course he was. The others stood back, watching with lazy curiosity, arms folded, lips curled in that half-smile the group shared when they knew something was about to be taught. Ezra was already trembling, lying back on the furs, his thighs slick with sweat and aching need. He was still soft in the way new boys always were—eager, overwhelmed, too pliant for his own good.

Fraser, at 46, was the youngest of them, but he carried it with sharp confidence, coiled like a whip rather than worn like armor. He didn’t need age to own Ezra. He needed only a smirk and two fingers hooked beneath the boy’s jaw.

“You look sweet when you beg,” Fraser murmured, straddling Ezra’s hips, dragging the backs of his fingers across Ezra’s flushed chest. “You don’t even know what you’re begging for yet. You think you do. That’s cute.”

Ezra arched beneath him, breath stuttering in his chest. “I just—”

Fraser pressed a thumb to his lips. “Shh. Don’t ruin it by talking too much.”

He leaned in, his beard scratching lightly over Ezra’s cheek as he whispered, “Round One isn’t about what you get. It’s about what you’re denied.”

And then it began. Fraser rocked his hips, slow and steady, letting Ezra feel the pressure of him, the promise of friction, without giving anything real.

He rolled his body against Ezra’s, his hands braced on either side of the boy’s shoulders, dragging his torso deliberately across Ezra’s trembling frame.

“You’re already making those sounds?” he teased. “I haven’t even started.”

Ezra whimpered, back arching helplessly under him. Fraser’s rhythm was maddening—grinding, rolling, hovering just on the edge of friction. He let their bodies meet just enough to make Ezra pant, just enough to make his cock throb, but never enough. Not to fall. Not to come.

He bent down and nipped at Ezra’s throat, teeth dragging just hard enough to sting.

“Sweet little mess,” Fraser growled. “You’re going to come apart from nothing, aren’t you?”

Ezra tried to respond, but Fraser kissed the words right out of his mouth—wet, hungry, filthy kisses that left Ezra gasping. Every time Ezra bucked his hips, Fraser stopped. Froze. Smiled. Waited.

“You’re not in control,” Fraser whispered. “Not even of your own need. That’s mine now. You understand that?”

Ezra’s voice cracked. “Y-yes, Sir.”

Fraser nipped his lower lip. “Good.”

He kept Ezra there, teetering on the edge for what felt like hours. Hands roaming. Mouth exploring. Heat building like wildfire in Ezra’s belly, only to cool again and again when Fraser paused—denying, denying, denying.

It wasn’t until Ezra was flushed to the neck, trembling with need, his body arching helplessly into every denied motion, that Fraser finally leaned in, kissed his forehead, and whispered:

“Now you’re soft enough for them.”

And just like that, he slipped away, leaving Ezra panting, untouched, completely unraveled—and still aching for more.

Ezra barely had time to catch his breath. Fraser’s teasing had left him flushed and aching, chest rising and falling in desperate little gasps, eyes wide and glassy with want.

He was pliant now—softened and opened by denial, left to tremble on the rug like a well-kept toy still waiting to be played with. And Tomas? Tomas liked his toys needy.

At 51, Tomas had the lean, coiled build of a predator that liked to stalk close. He wore his tattoos like warning signs, half-faded and wrapping down his arms like a story told in blood and ink. He grinned as he stepped forward, cocky and feral, a flash of teeth behind a beard still damp from whisky.

“Well now,” he drawled, crouching beside Ezra’s wrecked body. “Look at you. Soft little thing, twitching like you’ve already been ruined.”

Ezra blinked up at him, lips parted, barely able to respond.

“Don't worry,” Tomas purred. “Fraser just unwrapped you. I get to break you in.”

Without warning, he gripped Ezra’s jaw—firm, controlling, but not cruel. Yet.

“Open your mouth,” Tomas said, and when Ezra obeyed, he hummed in approval. “Good boy.”

Then he turned to the others, who were still watching like wolves at the edge of the firelight. “Hear that?” Tomas asked. “He still listens.”

Gregor snorted. “We’ll fix that.”

“Oh, I plan to,” Tomas muttered, turning back to Ezra with a smirk. “Let’s see how much noise you make when I’m really inside you.”

He didn’t strip—he didn’t need to. He simply pushed Ezra onto his back, straddled his hips, and began to move against him—grinding, rougher than Fraser had dared, hands planted on Ezra’s shoulders to pin him down. Ezra gasped, voice cracking into a needy cry.

“There it is,” Tomas grinned. “That’s the sound I wanted. You like that? Getting taken like a boy who begged too pretty?”

Ezra nodded, but Tomas shook his head.

“No, no. You answer. Use your voice, pretty thing.”

“Yes, Sir,” Ezra whimpered. “Please, more.”

“More?” Tomas echoed, hips dragging over Ezra’s again, harder now. “More of what? You want my hand on your throat, or my hips between your legs? Or both?”

Ezra moaned. “Both. Please—”

Tomas laughed, leaned down, and bit Ezra’s throat—not enough to break skin, just enough to leave a mark.

“You’re going to be black-and-blue before the sun comes up, and you’ll *thank* us for it.”

Ezra writhed beneath him, hands clawing at the rug, overwhelmed by the mix of rough friction and Tomas’s voice in his ear—taunting, cruel, intoxicating.

“You begged for this,” Tomas growled, shifting his weight, grinding harder now. “Begged to be taken. Claimed. Filled. You know what that makes you?”

Ezra sobbed. “Yours.”

Tomas chuckled, low and rough. “Ours. But tonight? Tonight, I make the first deep bruise.”

He gripped Ezra’s wrists and pinned them above his head, bending down to press their chests together—his mouth barely an inch from Ezra’s ear.

“Don’t come,” he whispered. “Not until you’ve taken all five of us. And if you do?”

Ezra trembled. “Then I get punished.”

Tomas smiled against his skin.

“Now you’re learning.”

When he finally pulled away, Ezra was wrecked—face flushed, chest heaving, thighs trembling. Tomas stood up, looked down at the red marks blooming across Ezra’s collarbone and throat, and gave a satisfied hum.

“Don’t wipe those off,” he said to no one in particular. “I want to see them in the morning.”

Then he walked away, boots slow against stone, and left Ezra gasping in his wake—ruined just enough for the next man to start again.

Ezra barely moved. His skin was flushed and glowing, streaked with sweat and marked by Fraser’s teasing fingerprints and Tomas’s bruising bite. His lips were swollen from kisses, his thighs trembling from friction, and his arms lay limp at his sides like he’d already surrendered the rest of the night.

But they weren’t done with him. He heard the shift of heavy boots and opened his eyes just in time to see Gregor standing over him—still shirtless, kilt hanging low, arms crossed over his broad chest. He said nothing.

Gregor never said much. At 49, he didn’t need to. Gregor moved like stone—not fast, not loud, but inevitable. Where Tomas had been fire and Fraser had been smoke, Gregor was gravity. Ezra didn’t realize he was being pulled until it was already too late.

Without a word, Gregor reached down and gripped Ezra’s bicep, hauling him upright in one fluid motion. Ezra gasped as his knees scraped across the rug, trying to find balance.

Gregor didn’t help. He simply stepped behind him, one hand curling tight around the back of Ezra’s neck, pressing him back down—hard—until Ezra’s cheek was flush against the rug, hips raised, thighs spread.

The message was clear: stay there. Ezra whimpered, chest heaving. Gregor still hadn’t spoken a word. He kneeled behind him, the weight of his body radiating heat over Ezra’s back. One large hand slid slowly up Ezra’s spine, trailing sweat and tension. The other gripped Ezra’s hip—not roughly, but firmly, a wordless claim.

Ezra waited for a command. A question. Anything. But Gregor gave him only the slow, heavy slide of pressure—grinding against him with brutal, controlled force, letting Ezra feel every inch of what was to come without once breaking the silence.

Ezra cried out—a sharp, broken sound that echoed in the stone room. Still, Gregor said nothing.

He rocked into him, relentless and brutal, his hand tightening at the back of Ezra’s neck to keep him down, keep him obedient. The only sounds in the room were Ezra’s cries and the punishing rhythm of their bodies colliding.

There was no sweet talk. No praise. No warnings. Just the grind of hips, the slap of skin, and Ezra’s desperate, strangled gasps for breath. Gregor’s control was terrifying. And perfect.

Ezra wasn’t just being used—he was being silenced, reshaped, ruled by the absence of comfort. He couldn’t beg, couldn’t speak, couldn’t process anything except the way Gregor moved—like every thrust was a nail sealing Ezra’s place in the group.

His hands clawed at the rug. His mouth opened in a silent scream. His body shook under the weight of it.

And then, just when Ezra thought he couldn’t take another second, Gregor pressed a flat palm between his shoulder blades and buried himself in a final, punishing thrust that made Ezra sob outright. Silence again.

Gregor didn’t linger. He stood slowly, adjusted his kilt, and leaned down just once—pressing a single kiss to the back of Ezra’s neck. Soft. Gentle. Intimate.

Then he was gone. Ezra was left gasping, trembling, forehead pressed to the rug like a prayer. Not a word had been spoken. But the message was clear: You are mine.

Ezra had stopped pretending he could hold himself up. His limbs were shaking, skin marked with fingerprints and heat, his breath shallow in the cradle of his throat. He lay on his side now, curled just enough to feel small, just enough to feel held, even if no one was touching him yet.

But that was about to change. Rhys approached quietly, like the tide. He didn’t have Tomas’s bite or Fraser’s smirk or Gregor’s silence. He had weight—gravity of a different kind. Not like Gregor’s stillness. Rhys was movement. Rhythm. Pulse.

He knelt behind Ezra, one massive arm sliding underneath his waist to lift him gently. Ezra gasped at the touch—too soft after what had come before—and was immediately gathered close, cradled against a broad, hairy chest slick with sweat and warmth.

“Shh,” Rhys murmured, voice like crushed velvet, deep and rasped from too many years of smoke and cold mornings. “I’ve got you now.”

At 54, Rhys had strength like ancient stone. His hands dwarfed Ezra’s frame. He moved slowly, but when he moved, it was final. He didn’t take. He claimed. Ezra melted into him before he even realized he’d done it.

Rhys shifted, settling back against the thick headboard, pulling Ezra fully into his lap. One big hand rested on Ezra’s chest. The other between his thighs. Not moving. Not yet. Ezra whimpered.

“You’ve been through it, haven’t you?” Rhys murmured, pressing a kiss to Ezra’s temple. “All wrecked and wet and needy.”

Ezra nodded, breath catching.

“You still want more?” Rhys asked, rubbing slow circles over Ezra’s ribs.

Ezra moaned, whisper-soft: “Yes, Sir.”

Rhys chuckled, low and warm, and tightened his grip.

“Then let me give you what the others can’t.”

And then he moved. Slow. Grinding. A steady, possessive rhythm that stole Ezra’s breath and left him open and full. He rocked his hips with purpose, with heat, with ownership—every motion a wordless declaration: Mine.

Ezra cried out with each movement, body oversensitized, already wrung out, but Rhys didn’t care. He held him through the tremors, pressed Ezra’s back against his chest, kissed his shoulder, whispered praise between every deep, shattering thrust.

“You take it so well,” he murmured, mouth brushing Ezra’s ear. “All of it. All of us. But right now—right now, you’re mine.”

Ezra nodded, tears in his eyes. “Yours. Yours, yours—”

“That’s right.” Rhys buried his face in Ezra’s neck. “And I’m not letting you go.”

His thrusts grew deeper, heavier, more insistent. Ezra couldn’t move, couldn’t think—only feel. The press of skin. The fullness. The unbearable sweetness of being wanted by a man who didn’t stop.

Rhys held him tighter. “I don’t fuck to get off,” he whispered. “I fuck to keep. And you’re not leaving this bed until your bones remember that.”

Ezra sobbed, body curling into the rhythm, hips pushing back desperately against Rhys’s every stroke.

“You’re going to feel me tomorrow,” Rhys promised. “And every time you sit. Every time you *kneel.* You’ll remember who put you there.”

When he finally finished, it wasn’t with a growl or a curse—it was with a broken breath, a kiss to Ezra’s throat, and a whisper so soft only Ezra heard it: “I could stay inside you for hours.”

Ezra collapsed in his arms, boneless, floating.Rhys held him through the aftershocks, stroked his hair, kissed his jaw.And just before sleep could steal him away, Ezra whispered, “Don’t let me go.”

And Rhys—possessive, patient, unyielding—only held him tighter.

Ezra didn’t know how long he lay there, wrapped in Rhys’s arms, breath shallow and heart pounding.

His body felt like silk pulled too tight—frayed at the edges, buzzing with overuse, oversensitivity, over-everything.He was soaked with sweat and praise, his skin shining with possession, every inch of him touched, tasted, taken.

He thought it was over.He was wrong. When Rhys let go—slowly, gently, like he was offering something back to the group—Ezra felt the shift. The air in the room grew heavier. The furs were tossed back. The others stepped away, and the last man approached. Mac.

At 57, Mac didn’t move like a man his age. He moved like time—slow, inevitable, quiet until it wasn’t. He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. Because when Mac entered the room, every other man stood still. And now, so did Ezra.

Mac’s voice, when he finally spoke, was low and firm. “On your knees.”

Ezra obeyed instantly, body moving before his brain could catch up. His thighs ached. His skin burned. But he knelt, trembling, head bowed.

Mac stood over him, silent, just watching. The others gathered like shadows around the edge of the room—bare-chested, satisfied, silent now. Because this wasn’t just the fifth round.

It was the final one. The claiming. Mac stepped forward and tilted Ezra’s chin up with two fingers, meeting his eyes.

“Say it.” he murmured.

Ezra’s throat was dry. “Say what?”

Mac crouched down in front of him, their faces nearly level. “Say who you belong to.”

Ezra blinked back tears. “All of you.”

Mac’s eyes didn’t flicker. “No. Not enough.”

Ezra’s lips parted, breath catching. “I belong to us.”

Still not enough. Mac leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You belong to me. Every inch that’s been touched tonight—every sound that left your mouth—it’s mine now. And I’m going to take it. Slowly.”

Ezra’s whole body shuddered. “Yes, Daddy.”

That made Mac smile. He stood again, then stripped—deliberate, unhurried, folding his shirt neatly and placing it aside. He approached Ezra not like a man who needed to fuck—but like a man delivering a sentence.

His hands gripped Ezra’s hips, guiding him up and over onto all fours. Ezra was beyond thought. Beyond fear. Beyond shame.

He was ready. Mac’s first thrust was slow and deep—not rushed, not angry. But firm. Like he was sliding into place. Like he’d always belonged there.

Ezra cried out, head dropping, arms shaking under the weight of it. Mac growled, wrapping an arm around Ezra’s chest to pull him up, body flush against his back.

“You’re not going to ride this one out like a good boy,” he whispered. “You’re going to feel me.”

Ezra moaned, completely gone. Mac didn’t thrust fast. He didn’t have to. He fucked like a king—controlled, claiming, ruthless. Every roll of his hips shoved Ezra forward, then dragged him back. Over and over. Deep. Cruel. Absolute.

“You’re not just mine tonight,” Mac said, voice rough in his ear. “You’re mine forever. You’ll sleep in our bed. Crawl to our boots. Beg to be used. And every time you’re touched, you’ll remember who took you last.”

Ezra sobbed, body trembling.

“You think they softened you up for their pleasure?” Mac growled. “No, boy. They were preparing you. Because only I get to finish what they start.”

Mac’s thrusts grew harsher, heavier. Ezra could barely hold himself up. Every movement wrecked him deeper. Every thrust made him cry out.

“You’re going to carry this inside you,” Mac whispered. “For days. Weeks. You’re going to leak ownership when you walk.”

Ezra was beyond words—only tears and moans and desperate, clinging hands. His body gave in. His mind followed. And Mac was relentless.

When he finally came, it was with a roar—his hips grinding deep, his body shaking against Ezra’s, and his hand gripping Ezra’s throat just hard enough to hold him there. When it was over, Ezra collapsed face-down into the furs, his body still twitching, his mind blank.

Mac didn’t leave him. He pulled Ezra into his lap, still inside him, cradling him like something precious. Ezra clung to him, breath shallow, tears running silently down his cheeks.

“You’re ours now,” Mac whispered against his temple.

“You’ve been broken in. Now we build you back up.”

Ezra only nodded. Because he knew—there was nothing left to give. And everything left to become.

Ezra wasn’t supposed to still be conscious. He was trembling in Mac’s lap, wrecked and ruined, body limp and marked in every shade of ownership.

Every breath he drew was shallow. Every inch of him burned. He couldn’t remember the last time he spoke a full sentence.

Which is why no one expected him to whimper and whisper: “Don’t stop.”

Silence. Mac stilled behind him. The other four—Rhys, Fraser, Tomas, Gregor—turned toward the bed, all breath and stillness and need.

“Please,” Ezra choked, voice raw. “I—I can take more. I want to feel you all again. I want it to hurt.”

It was Tomas who growled first.

“You don’t ask for the final round, pretty boy,” he said darkly, stepping forward. “You beg.”

Ezra looked up, eyes bloodshot but burning. “Please… hurt me. Ruin me. Fuck me so hard I forget who I was before tonight.”

That was all they needed. The room moved fast—like wolves drawn to a kill. Mac didn’t stop them.

He offered Ezra. Gregor grabbed his arms. Rhys took his throat in a steady, firm hold to keep his head tilted back. Tomas straddled his thighs, pinning him flat. Fraser leaned in from behind, one hand tangled in his hair, the other already trailing down his spine.

And when they took him again—together—it was with violence made holy. No rhythm. No teasing. Just brutality.

They used him like a body, a thing. Each man harder than the last. Thrusts rough enough to shake the bed. Hands gripping. Teeth biting. Voices low and brutal in his ears.

“Don’t run,” Fraser snarled. “You asked for this.”

“You begged,” Gregor muttered, slapping his thigh. “Now take it.”

Tomas bit down on his shoulder. “You’re nothing but a fucktoy now.”

Rhys kissed his cheek and growled, “And still ours.”

Ezra sobbed through it all—shaking, screaming, begging more, more, more—until his voice cracked and his body stopped fighting and he surrendered. Entirely.

By the time Mac stepped in, he didn’t even need to say a word. He flipped Ezra onto his back, climbed on top of him, and took him one last time—mercilessly, fully, with every ounce of strength he had left.

No praise. No care. Just the final, deep, devastating stretch that made Ezra scream like he was being split in half. And he was. He was being split—into what he had been, and what he now belonged to.

When Mac came, he didn’t groan or curse. He whispered: “That’s it. There’s nothing left of you now, is there?”. Ezra didn’t speak. He couldn’t. But he nodded. And they all knew he meant it.

Ezra didn’t remember the moment they stopped. Only that he wasn’t alone when the stillness came. There was no fanfare. No final word.

Just a quiet settling—like the house itself had exhaled. The room no longer pulsed with heat and hunger, but with something heavier. Something sacred.

Ezra lay across Mac’s chest, limp and quiet. He wasn’t asleep. He was somewhere beneath it—deep in the soft, shivering silence of subspace, where nothing hurt and everything echoed. His skin burned.

His body twitched when anyone touched him. But he didn’t flinch. Because every hand that touched him now was gentle. They moved around him with care.

Fraser gathered a towel. Rhys stoked the fire. Gregor swept the sweat-soaked sheets from the bed and laid out clean furs. Tomas knelt beside him, a damp cloth in one hand, eyes unreadable. And Mac?

Mac never moved. He held Ezra like he was cradling something holy. When Ezra whimpered, Mac pressed his lips to the boy’s temple. “You’re here,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”

No one else spoke. Not because they had nothing to say—but because the moment didn’t need words.

Tomas wiped the sweat from Ezra’s neck, careful not to press too hard. “You did well,” he said quietly. “Better than any boy we’ve ever had.”

Gregor poured warm water into a basin near the hearth. “He didn’t fight once.”

“He didn’t need to,” Rhys said. “He wanted it.”

Mac kissed Ezra’s forehead. “He wanted us.”

Ezra didn’t reply. His lips parted, but only a soft breath came out. He was gone—but not in the bad way. He was far, far under. Floating.

Fraser scooped him up gently, towel in hand, carrying him toward the bath like something precious. Ezra curled into his chest instinctively, his head resting against Fraser’s collarbone.

They washed him in silence. Warm water. Strong hands. No teasing. No touching below the waist. Just steady care—palms sliding over his arms, his back, his thighs. Gentle fingers through his hair. Murmured praise. You were perfect. You did so good. You’re ours now.

Ezra wept softly—but not from pain. It was the kind of crying that happened when someone let go of something they’d been carrying too long.

When they laid him in the clean bed, five hands were on him. Stroking. Holding. Settling. Fraser curled around his back. Gregor pressed close at his chest. Tomas spooned behind Fraser. Rhys’s arms went over all of them. And Mac—he rested a hand on Ezra’s chest, thumb stroking a slow rhythm over his heart.

“Sleep now, boy,” he whispered. “You don’t have to be anything but ours anymore.”

Ezra blinked once. And then he slept—deep, silent, safe.

Ezra woke slowly. Not from sleep exactly, but from whatever place he’d drifted to inside himself. The fire had burned low. The air was cool against his skin.

The bed was soft. But it wasn’t any of those things that made him open his eyes. It was a voice. Low. Rough. Quiet. Mac’s: “You’re safe.”

Ezra blinked. His head rested on someone’s chest—Rhys, by the sound of the heartbeat. He felt Fraser curled behind him, one strong arm around his waist. Tomas’s leg draped lazily over his thighs. Gregor’s hand still rested at the small of his back, heavy and grounding.

And Mac sat at the edge of the bed, looking at him. Like he hadn’t taken his eyes off him all night. Ezra opened his mouth to speak, but the words cracked. His throat ached. His eyes burned.

Mac reached forward, thumb brushing gently over his cheek. “You don’t need to talk. Just listen.”

Ezra nodded.

“You took all of us,” Mac said. “Every round. Every man. You let us into your body. You let us see you fall apart. And you never ran.”

Ezra’s lips quivered. His voice came out, cracked but real. “I didn’t want to.”

“We know.” Mac’s voice softened. “That’s what made it holy.”

Ezra looked down, unable to hold the weight of those words. “I’m... scared,” he admitted. “I didn’t know I needed this. I didn’t know it would feel so… big. Like I don’t exist anymore unless I’m with you.”

Fraser nuzzled into the back of his neck. “That’s not fear, baby. That’s surrender.”

“And it’s beautiful,” Rhys murmured, arms tightening around his ribs.

Gregor’s hand slid up his spine, warm and firm. “Let it happen.”

Tomas leaned over, brushing his fingers through Ezra’s hair. “You don’t need to be strong when you’re with us. That was never the point.”

Ezra’s tears started silently. No sobs. Just soft shaking and quiet wetness that trailed down his cheeks. He didn’t speak for a long time. Just let them hold him.

Then—he whispered: “I always thought I was too much... too needy. Too soft. Too loud in my head. Every time I wanted to give in, I’d tell myself I was pathetic. That no one would want to keep someone like me.”

Mac leaned down, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “You’re not too much.”

“You’re exactly enough.” Tomas added.

Rhys grunted. “You were made for this.”

“You belong.” Gregor said simply.

Fraser kissed the back of his neck and murmured, “Ours.”

Ezra sobbed. And this time, he didn’t try to stop it. Five sets of arms held him through it. And when he finally came down, breath soft, body warm, tears drying against Rhys’s chest—Ezra looked at them all and whispered: “I don’t want to leave.”

Mac smiled: “You don’t have to.”

Ezra woke to the smell of coffee. Not the kind you bought in shops—this was something darker, earthier. Ground by hand, brewed low and slow, filling the air like incense. He stirred beneath warm furs, his body sore and soft, every muscle humming like it remembered everything.

He was in the bed still. Alone, but not abandoned. The linens smelled like firewood and sweat and men who had taken him apart and put him back together again.

His fingers curled into the fabric, and he let out a soft sigh. Then the door creaked open.... Tomas, shirtless, barefoot, his hair a sleepy mess, a mug in each hand. His grin was lazy, like he'd never slept a full night in his life but didn’t care. “Mornin’, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick with warmth. “Thought you might be ready for something warm that doesn’t involve getting split open.”

Ezra blinked. “...You make it sound like a threat.”

Tomas chuckled, set one mug beside the bed, and handed him the other. “Baby, if I was threatening you, you wouldn’t be able to speak yet.”

Ezra smiled softly, the mug shaking just a little in his hands. His arms felt weak. His thighs ached. His chest was tight with something he hadn’t named yet—but it wasn’t fear.

“Where are the others?”

Tomas sat beside him, sipping from his own mug. “Mac’s downstairs. Rhys and Gregor are splitting firewood. Fraser’s in the shower.”

“And me?” Ezra whispered.

Tomas tilted his head, watching him. “You’re in bed where you belong. Cared for. Claimed. Wrecked six ways from Sunday, but still ours.”

Ezra’s eyes shimmered.

Tomas leaned in, kissed his temple. “You don’t have to earn it. You already are it.”

Moments later, Fraser wandered in, hair wet, towel slung low on his hips. He leaned against the doorway and grinned. “He’s awake?”

Ezra nodded.

Fraser’s eyes softened. “Good. Was starting to miss your noises already.”

“You’re awful,” Ezra muttered, blushing into his mug.

Fraser crossed the room, pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “And you’re beautiful.”

Then Rhys appeared, shirtless, chest slick with sweat and morning air, carrying a folded bundle of soft gray cotton. “Clothes,” he rumbled. “If you want them. But no one’s asking you to put them on.”

Gregor was behind him. He didn’t say anything—just walked over to Ezra’s side of the bed and rested a heavy, warm hand on his head. A quiet gesture. A silent vow.

And then Mac entered. Fully dressed. Hair combed. Calm as always. He looked at Ezra like he was looking at the dawn. “Good morning, boy.”

Ezra’s throat caught. “Morning, Sir.”

Mac walked over, sat beside him, and cupped the side of his face.

“I meant what I said,” he whispered. “You don’t go back to the life you had. Not unless you want to.”

Ezra blinked. “And if I don’t?”

“Then you stay.” Mac leaned in. “We build something here. Not just sex. Not just power. Something sacred. You give us your trust. We give you everything.”

Ezra’s voice cracked. “I want that.”

They all whispered to him in unison: “You have it.”

The others didn’t speak. But their silence was full. Of love. Of ownership. Of home. Ezra looked around at them all—five men, rough and real and devastatingly gentle in ways he never expected—and whispered, “I don’t deserve this.”

Mac kissed his lips, slow and firm.

“You do,” he said. “And we’ll remind you every day until you believe it.”

Mac leaned in once more, voice barely above a whisper as his thumb traced along Ezra’s jaw, and said,

“You’re not just ours tonight, sweetheart—you’re ours every sunrise, every breath, every time your heart beats like it was made to belong.”

He kissed him then—slow and deep, not to take, but to remind—and when he pulled back, the warmth in his eyes said what words couldn’t:

Literally the stuff my dreams are made of.