#141fics

And it really is sloppy. Wet, messy. Your poor cunt swollen and dripping, leaking so much that it starts to puddle on the starchy sheets below. His Lieutenant is a big man, and he feels a pinch of sympathy swell at the fuckin' sight of you—limp, like a doll; wrists bound above your head, skin inflamed and chaffed from struggling to get out.

On the end table, he spots a water bottle and scattered tablets. Sleeping pills, he's sure. Something to keep you docile and quiet while he's called away from the divine split of your lax thighs, and sent halfway across the city by Price. Leaving you all alone, unattended. Unable to do anything except wait for him to get back so he can stretch that sore, messy cunt on his cock all over again, fill you right back up—

Poor thing.

But he can't really deny that the modicum of sympathy he feels is scrapped together from the sludge at the bottom of a dry well. Just droplets in the palm of his hand, and honestly—it's more jealousy that Simon got to you first instead of real pity because he'd be lying (hand on a Bible, fingers gripping the beads of a rosary—i shall not lie) if he said that the sight of you hasn't been haunting him since the moment they wandered into the diner. His mind spinning debauched thoughts of you—dressed up pretty in soft pink and chocolate brown—from the moment you wandered over to his table, looking like a dream. Like a cutout from a porno magazines his dad hid inside the shed in an old shoebox.

Just the sweetest little thing.

And he's not the only one.

They've all been prowling around you a little bit since landing in your sleepy-eyed town—asking for more coffee even though it tasted like shit and was burnt to hell, just to keep you close. To keep you coming back to their table as they soak in their fill.

Price dropping rasping sweetheart's and love's and thank you, darlin's that they all pretended not to hear. And Simon—

Well. He sees now where all those lingering stares, the ones that made Johnny's hackle raise, hair standing on end, led his Lieutenant, and what they meant. He thought it was wariness at first—or maybe that's just what he told himself late at night when he pulled his shirt up his navel, fingers grazing the thick trail of course hair to the soft, sensitive patch of skin at the base of his cock. Thinking about the way his Lieutenant looked at you. A whisper in the back of his head that screamed wrong and no and look away, she's fucking mine; little bites, nips, he couldn't hold back even when his hand curled around the base of his thickening cock, drawing twisted, ugly fantasies of what Ghost might do with a pretty thing like you.

And fuck—

What that did to him. Does.

It would be another lie if he said he's never thought of it before. Got off on the idea of it. Something that started as a cut—just this little papercut that he kept scratching and scratching until it tore, splitting further apart. Opening wide, like a chasm. This gaping hole that pulsed around the thought of his Lieutenant. A sick little thing that throbbed around the shape of him. The absurd width and the way he moved—like a mean, old dog Johnny would sometimes find prowling corners on the outskirts of town. A grizzled tiger with broken teeth, snapping it's maw at anything that got close enough to eat. Just this awful, mean looking thing in size and shape and temperament. Hard, jagged lines. Solid like a brick. And then—

You. Recoiling when he curled a massive paw around the cup of coffee. His palm swallowing it whole when you could barely get your fingers to meet around the thick of the base. The size difference clicking in a way it sometimes did when pretty, feisty things would try to step toe to toe with him and have to glare up, up, because they barely even reached his chin.

The urge to overpower. To claim. To tuck something smaller and softer than himself beneath the bulk of his body, hiding his kill from view.

He's always been the driver, not the passenger. The one in control. The main character, not the one watching from the sidelines, though—

But he really can't get the thought of Ghost swallowing up someone the way he did with the cup. A stomach-churning thought. Just a sick obsession burning in the back of his head—the massive brute rutting against you. The juxtaposition between the big, nasty beast and the pretty thing beneath him crying out because he's just too big burns him sometimes.

And he should help you.

Wants to, too. Really, he does. Wants to be your knight in shining armour, rescuing you from the big, scary man who tied you to his bed and ravaged you like this, made that poor, little pussy ache when he stretched you on his fat cock. Wants to so bad—

But he wants a taste even more.

Wants to lick your messy, abused cunt until his Lieutenant isn't dripping from you anymore. Until the only thing glistening on your folds is his spit and your slick. Maybe—if he has time—slide inside your poor pussy and fill it up again, like he wasn't even there in first place. Ghost wouldn't even know the difference, would he? Would come back to you leaking all over the sheets, just like he left you. Ready for seconds (or fifths, sixths, considering the fuckin' mess between your thighs, and goddamn, if that isn't one of the hottest sights he'd ever seen—); pretty little cunt ready for that fat, thick cock to split it apart again, stuff it full of cum all over again—

He palms his cock, thoughts of calling for help dissolved into a keening in the back of his head; just this unignorable, urgent need to eat. Hunger like he'd never felt before, strong enough that just looking at you splayed out like the helpless little victim you are, leaking and messy and full of fucking cum that isn't even his, is making his belly growl. He'd cut his own arm off at this point for just a fucking taste—

And he gets it. Drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, wrapping his hands around your thighs before he pulls you into his mouth for that first, scorching lick—

And it's salty, bitter. Thick. Ghost's cum tastes pretty fucking gross, really (something he isn't too surprised by considering the man's diet mainly consists of barely cooked red meat, Marlboros, and bourbon)—or maybe he just doesn't have the acquired taste for it—and he winces, a little, thinking about the dried remnants of it around your mouth, how many times you had to drink down the same, briny taste; but it's not—

It's not enough to make him stop.

Underneath the brine of it, the fuckin' smell of you and his Lieutenant dense in his nose, he can taste you. Sweet. Earthy. Slightly metallic—like the first lick of a papercut, and it makes him whine in the back of his throat, rasping out a muffled, slurred, poor baby before laving his tongue over your abused cunt, soothing the ache Ghost must have left behind. The stretch that was probably on the wrong side of too much, turning his milky cum a pretty strawberry pink.

You poor fucking thing—

He can feel just how swollen you are when he splits your bruised folds apart with his fingers, peeling them away so he can dig his tongue into your tender, chaffed hole to scoop out a mouthful of pink-tinged cum that pools inside of you. Salty and bitter and so fucking perfect, he could almost weep. It spills down his chin, stains his shirt, and despite the several swallows he takes, feeling the slimy, thick cum oozing down his throat, there's still so much of it. A thought that makes him whine, that has him rutting against the side of the bed like a dog because god, you're so fucking full, aren't you?

His hand presses against your pelvis—fingers pushing into the space between your lower belly and mound to push more cum from your cunt, sitting like an eager fucking thing between the split of your thighs, mouth open, tongue out to catch anything that spills from you. Fingers pushing and pushing. Swallowing it down, one mouthful after the other—

Ghost, when he'd changed after a mission that got him a little too messy, was just this jumble of scar tissue and thick pelt, and that's where it should have ended. Eyes politely averted, maybe a crass joke at his Lieutenant's expense (handsome, my bloody arse), but he couldn't stop looking at the thing dangling between his gnarled thighs. The way it hung there, swaying between his legs. Thick and fat and uglier than anything he'd ever seen before. The urge to ask—fuck, LT, how do you ever get pussy with a hideous thing like that?—crawling up his throat as he stared and stared and—

got harder than he'd ever been in his entire life, coming so fucking hard, that his belly ached after

—and he thinks of it now. Almost the width of his wrist soft, and how much bigger it must have gotten when he peeled your panties away, unveiling the pretty, slick split of your cunt. His hand slides up your belly, resting above your belly button where he knows the tip of Simon's cock would reach by memory alone, and how deep he'd speared it into you. Stretching you out around his fat cock, making this pretty pussy swallow every fuckin' inch—

He cums, then, rutting against the side of the mattress, head fuzzy with nothing but the thought of Simon ruining your cunt, coming inside of you over and over again, the taste on his tongue—sweet, wrecked pussy, and bitter, cherry-tinged cum—

He grunts, groaning into the swollen mess of your cunt before shoving his tongue as deep inside of your fluttering, swollen little hole as he can get, and still, somehow, finding the taste of Simon even after his belly feels stuffed full with it.

A dream, he thinks, rubbing his mouth and chin over your messy, wet folds; the silken, swollen split of a tender, well-fucked cunt the most heavenly thing he'd ever felt against his skin. And the fact that all that pink-tinged cum soaking into his stubble belongs to his Lieutenant is something that just wrecks him more than he thought it ever would. A fantasy spinning behind his eyes as he imagines the way you'd have cried and thrashed and screamed when slid that hideous fucking cock inside of your tight cunt, balls slapping against your seam hard enough that he feels the irritated, burning skin above the plush dents of your ass cheeks. How terribly he must have treated you, such a sweet little thing, as he heaved above you, hands curled around your hips, maybe digging into your waist, as he pulled you back into each thrust just to make sure this sweet cunt he risked so much to fuck, to ruin, took every, hard earned inch. Rutting into like a beast, a man starved. The way he looked down at you probably taking on the same shape and colour of that look Johnny saw in his eyes when you turned your back to the table, shoulders tensing like you knew there was a tiger hiding in the bushes behind you.

Pretty, dumb little prey too bracket by the idea of safety indoors and the cellphone inside your pocket to notice the behemoth of a man luring in the shadows after you clocked out for work, following you to your car before he scooped you up and slaked his hunger on this little cunt Johnny can't stop fucking with his tongue either, too eager for another sip despite how sore he knows you must be. Stretched wide around something thicker than his own wrist, insides feeling like the same papercuts he itched to madness in the back of his own head.

Poor thing, he thinks again when you stir, letting out a sluggish little whimper. But it's a muted sense of sympathy. Like the oooh and ahhh of an ambivalent crowd; humming along in obligation instead of real pity because despite how tight your little hole gets around his tongue when he curls it inside, and the darkening of that pretty, pink-tinged cum to rose-red, he's too hungry to stop.

This is the first real meal he's had in years, and no matter how much you wince and whine, he knows he has to take what he can before the predator returns to finish off your bones.

Later, with his belly full and his lips sticky with dried cum and slick, he finds his way back to the diner with the document in hand, ignoring the piercing look Ghost sends him and offering up an easy grin.

Lax and nonchalant because the man will find nothing amiss when he gets back to his room because Johnny had no reason at all to go into the bedroom at all. He'll open the door and see you splayed over the mattress, pussy wet and messy and still leaking cum—

(pink-tinged, of course, because Johnny got a little carried away himself by that sweet clench of you around the thick of him. something he'll coo about and apologise for later when he sneaks back inside for another taste—)

But what he forgot was the keen eyes and sense of smell on an apex predator, and when Simon snatches him up by the scruff of his neck before shoving him against the wall with a hungry, snarling, teeth-clacking kiss (that's more of an eating, really; a devouring that makes Johnny's cock throb and his stomach whine in longing), all he can say is whoops when Simon growls out,

He grew up on a farm. Has seen things most men would consider improper, but it's the sight of those thighs shifting in the sunlight, half-hidden beneath the book, that breaks him. Makes him feel like a voyeur for the first time in his whole life. Like a man starved. Aching.

He wants his hands on those thighs more than anything he's wanted in his whole life. Wants to squeeze the meat of them until she's whimpering, begging him to stop—

Run his claws down the length, splitting pretty skin so he can finally leave a mark. Bite down on the insides that she keeps rubbing together. Make her feel it each time she squeezes her thighs together—a permanent imprint of his teeth. A claim that anyone who has the privilege of peeling her knees apart will see.

(and he'll have the privilege of tearing them apart so they'll never get to see it again—)

He doesn't know her name, but that doesn't really even matter because he knows, in his bones, that he wants the taste of her on his tongue for as long as he's alive. Wants her beneath him, clawing at his back until the ugly, twisted scars there are overwrought with her own claim, her struggle to get away—

(wants her buried in a shallow grave beside him, those fingers that keep shaping out looping little figureeights forever knotting tight around the ribcage that tried to swallow her whole—)

It would be a lie to say he's never wanted anything in his life before when he's spent most of it up until now hungry. Starved. But he's never felt compelled enough to have. Never sated the ache in belly because it always seemed so pointless when it would just start grumbling again in a few hours time; but as she rubs those thighs together, he realises that he's just never wanted something badly enough to take it. To have. To sate the ache, soothe the beast.

And it's just instinctual, really, when he wanders up to the open window, nose in the air, scenting the musk of her perfume that clots into the stench of sun-scorched earth and gasoline. Hands clenched tight by his sides, joints tense and ready to spring open and snap shut. To grab, and hold as he drags her into the bushes across the street and disappears into the canyons below, her ensnared in his grasp: a gazelle in the jowls of tiger. Conquered and caught.

She'll get used to him with time. Grow accustomed to the only taste, the smell, she'll ever know again. Ache for it, too, maybe; when he's gone hunting for food with the key to the chains he'll have to lock around her ankles tucked in his back pocket, yearning for his touch and shaking until he comes home. Pries her open, stuffs her full—

(—so full, she'll always feel empty when he isn't inside her. incomplete. unmade on the sheets he'll steal from the motel down the road where holidaymakers stay when they come to gawk over the canyon rim, shifting those pretty, scarred up thighs together like she is now, begging for something to fill the ache he left behind—)

She looks up quicker than he'd expected she would, catching him as he's only five steps away from her and the forever he's building in the back of his head. The look in her eye is flat, but not surprised. Like she was waiting for him the whole time—

"Hello," she says, low and sweet; a voice full of honey as her eyes widen and her lips curve into a small smile. And it would be, should be, but he can taste the sour poison buried in the sugar. Something that sets his teeth on edge. Stops him dead in his tracks. "You look lost. Can I help you, honey?"

Honey.

Nothing about him would make a woman call him honey. Would have them fluttering their lashes at him like she is, lips curved into an artless smile; eyes lidded. Heavy with desire as they rake up and down his body, from the dusty workboots they shipped him home in before the war ended, to the overalls that don't quite fit anymore because he's no longer that eighteen year old farmboy he was when he turned them in for a green uniform. Everything about him is borrowed. Handed down. Stolen, too, because no one is interested in hiring someone like him when the war has been over for months now, and corporate America is ready to move on from the mayhem and misery, and reclaim some sense of normalcy before the haunted, angry faces of men torn from an era that left them behind can leave a permanent scar—

like what the shrapnel did to his face.

The war he was thrown into far too young left him a scarred, mangled mess of a man; a patchwork calamity some sympathetic doctor had the misfortune of putting back together in a humid, disease-ridden tent. Left him twisted and ugly; spare parts that should have been used on someone else, someone better, but we're instead sewn to the empty shell they called a body, held together with fishing wire and rusting staples.

He's all jagged, craggy tissue; missing pieces and healed over pockmarks because there was no flesh left to spare in a graft—one that wouldn't have done much to fix the damage anyway.

He knows she can see his canine through the jagged split of his upper lip where molten metal dripped down from beneath his eye, leaving a path of gnarled scar tissue in glossy, pale pink, a hideous burr, before it burned clean through his mouth, turning it into a cave. The nose that was broken more times than he can remember now sitting in a crooked angle that no doctor is willing to even try and fix. A gash across his brow. A chunk of skin taken out along his jaw, the wound, the indent, so deep, some people swear they can see bone through the thin slip of skin.

Honey, he knows, is the last thing that usually comes to mind when people see him, and it's this misstep—her sticking to the script even when he must make her skin crawl—that picks apart the artlessness of her lure, laying bare the artifice of her carnal design in broad daylight.

She's a trap.

A lure.

Something shiny and sweet dangling deep in the ugly abyss. Gleaming so bright, it's easy to overlook the curved hook poking out underneath.

"Are you okay, honey?" Her head tilts, lips pulling into a pretty little pout, and he's struck by how good she is when he feels the burn of it in his guts. The urge to unravel himself in front of her, lay himself bare for her to gawk at brims, and it takes everything inside of him to swallow it down. To not give in.

To what, he isn't sure—

Not until the bell chimes, and he suddenly understands her game when the door of the shop opens, and he strolls out.

He's tall. Not as tall as Simon, granted—but still big. Brawny. Broad shouldered, thickened up around the waist and thighs. Bearish despite the expensive linen and gold. The simple brown trousers and starch white button-up likely costs more than anything Simon owns, but he thinks that's supposed to be the point.

Through the glare of the bright sun sitting in the passenger seat of a sleek car, a picture begins to take shape. A businessman on holiday with his pretty, younger wife. The image of American luxury—something that is meant to fill him with greed. With anger. With want. Wanting the car and the pretty thing inside of it is natural, isn't it? Jealousy. Desire. That's what this is. That's what they're selling.

Envy and awe.

On the surface, anyway.

"Oh, right," she chirps, slipping out of the passenger seat as the haunting notes of the song follow her out (if i didn't tell her, if i didn't tell her, i could leave today—), and in the spill of daylight, she's even prettier. A plump, preening little bird grinning wide and bright at him. Begging come take a bite. "My husband said he was looking for someone to help him on our ranch. Do you happen to be looking for work? If you don't have any family around here, we have a room available, too—"

When Simon looks back at the man, he catches a dangerous edge in the cerulean eyes that assess him silently from the driver's side—a hiccup in the facade, he's sure; silence in place of a razor sharp speech about a ranch he can't run on his own while his pretty little lure chirps in the front seat, prying apart his life story so sweetly in this feigned song of concern. 

The pieces fall together pretty quickly after that because if there's one thing Simon knows more than hunger, it's a predator. A killer.

Danger.

His gaze drifts back to the pair of birds dangling beneath the rearview mirror, and he snorts. Shrikes. He should have known—

But the thing is, he can see this ruse working for a lot of people. Ensnared by the designer watch on the husband's wrist and the big, pretty gem on the lovely wife's finger. The sweet way she speaks to him—honey, won't you come help us? We'll pay you, of course—could put anyone at ease, lulling them into a false sense of security, and maybe even the bite of opportunism. They paint themselves as easy targets—a dumb, rich couple who can't see the plan forming in the back of the strangers head: go with them. Rob them blind. Maybe even fuck the wife, too. And then leave them for dead.

The landscape aids in this plan, too. The Grand Canyon is only a few hours away. The perfect place for someone to go missing and never be found.

He can see them taking a bite. Climbing into the car—

Only to be met with the flat, dead eyes of a predator. Hunters. The wife sings a sweet song as her husband aims a gun at their heads and tells them to behave. 

Or that’s how it should go. 

But he knows by the way she keeps glancing back at her husband that he's not following the script. That this isn't part of the plan. That this pretty little bird has bitten off more than she, than they, can chew.

The man—John Price, he grunts after some prompting from his pretty songbird—just watches Simon silently for another moment, eyes too sharp, too knowing; assessing in a calculative, deadly way that a lesser man (and maybe even just a whole man) might flinch at, shudder under the weight of, and try to run away before he hums, cocking his head to the side, and all at once the weight in his gaze changes. Shifts. Like a predator sighting something across the field—

Shedding skin.

There's a flicker of intrigue. A disturbance rippling across the stagnant pond, shaking the cool, flat blue of the abyss, and Simon has to imagine that this, this, is the last thing all of the men who stood in this same spot as he is now, half-dazed by the sweet song of the siren in the passenger seat, saw before the bear dressed in beguiling tweed—a man on his way to a country club, who has never known hunger a day in his life—sunk his teeth into their jugular.

(that pretty bird still chirping away in the front seat—oh, honey, c'mon on now, you're gettin' blood all over the seats, baby—before she turned that razor sharp beak on them, sinking it deep into their soft, exposed belly—)

But the bubbling gleam in John’s eye is that of a different sort of hunger—something different from killing, from fucking. 

"Sure, sweetheart," he says, lips twitching under the thick moustache, curving up into a too-big, too-tight Duchenne smile. And all at once, the game changes. Shifts when you let out a happy little laugh—

Simon knows he isn’t another spoil to be impaled on a spike anymore, but a pawn to be used against a spoiled little bird who is too blinded by the thrill of the hunt to see the way John’s lips twist in displeasure—pretty bird, in trouble for biting off more than they, than she, can chew. 

"Whaddya say, mm? Interested?"

The hunter becoming the hunted, the punished, is really nothing new, but he’s willing to bet that this is the first time you’ve ever been at the mercy of a man who wasn’t your husband. 

Left to fend for yourself as John leans back in a chair, and watches the man you wanted so badly to become your prey, a shared soil impaled on a spike, forcing your pretty, bitten bloody thighs apart until they’re split wide around his hips, shoving his cock into your sore, messy cunt over and over again as you plead for mercy, for help—

(sorry, John, sorry—please—!)

Grasping fingers only inches away from the knife John tossed on the bed when Simon dragged you back inside, downstairs, kicking and screaming because this wasn’t the way the game was supposed to go.

And he keeps you there, perched always within reach of the knife, but never enough to be able to close your fingers around the hilt as he takes his spoils in the soft give of your body. The sticky, slick slide of your wounded thighs squirming around his hips, leaving smears of blood on his skin. A trophy he'll keep for as long as he can because there really is nothing sweeter than the way you beg him for mercy, to please, please, take his cock out because it hurts, and it won't fit, it doesn't, and—

Easily the sweetest song he's ever heard as he acclimates himself to this new dynamic, this shifting, evolving game John is playing a game where he pretends to teach his wife a lesson in proper victim profiling with the thick split of a stranger's cock battering her poor, sore cunt, and tosses out his own lure for Simon to bite down on:

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanted to play, mm? So why aren’t you playin’?”

because the thing is, John has always been more of a pack animal, preferring to hunt in a group, as a unit sharing the spoils, a than a solidary predator.

safety in numbers, Simon supposes, and as he stares down into your tear-filled eyes, and those pretty lips that, only hours ago, were blissfully popping bubble gum now caught in a whimper as he does what he wanted ever since he saw you and stuffs you full, he can't help wondering if you ever knew you were never the hunter, but always the prize.

the pretty bird that drew in hungry monsters like him—

It's John who takes his muzzle off.

Dangles the key on his finger when he kicks open the door, letting his Lieutenant glimpse what lay behind it. Giving a gruff, like what you see? when his eyes finally adjust to the low light flooding in.

It takes him half a second. Enough time to commit the scene in front of him to memory.

It's you, of course.

good dogs get rewards, don't they, Simon?

Waiting for him. Pretty as a picture in sleek silk chiffon ribboned in intricate shibari around your chest, stomach, and thighs. Legs spread on the table; ankles tied down to the sides in nude jute rope. Hands clasped together, fingers laced; wrists tied above your head. The blindfold wrapped around your head is a pale pink ribbon, thicker than the silk on your body. Wrapped twice over your eyes, and tied in a pretty bow behind your head, he imagines.

In the split of your thighs, he finds you already slick. Wet. It drips down onto the table, puddling beneath your ass. The spread of your pussy, glistening in the flushed light; the small, pink vibrator taped to your clit makes his cock twitch. 

"All for me?" He rasps, eyes fixed on your cunt. On how pretty it looks. How inviting. A soft, ripe peach offered in the heat of summer, and he wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into you. Her. "'ow sweet o'you."

And Price, he thinks, eyes slanting sideways as he glances at the man sliding into his chair. It stands to reason that this whole thing, you on a silver platter for a starving wolf, wouldn't have happened if he hadn't seen the look on Simon's face when you first met him. The hunger.

Simon's not stupid, of course. He knew you were off limits the moment Price put his paw on your nape, squeezing once. Owned, claimed. The intention, the message, clear. Mine.

Don't touch.

And the way you lit up, stammering out something about how good it was to meet him, told him everything he needed to know how your willingness to be shackled to his Captain.

But even so—

He couldn't take his eyes off of you.

(and in his intense cataloguing of everything you did, he couldn't help but notice how you kept touching your neck when Price was dragged away for a conversation leaving you all alone in a room rankled down his spine. almost as if you were reaching up to fix a collar—)

The memory alone makes him shudder.

"All yours, Simon," Price drawls from his perch on the throne. Between two fingers, a cigar sits, unlit. Ghost huffs.

The words are a vicious bite to the want pooling low in his belly. "That so?”

The room seems to shake when he steps inside. Floor creaking ominously under his weight. It makes your mouth drop, heavy breaths spilling out between dull teeth. Chest rising and sinking shallowly with a wild sort of nervousness that flits across the expanse of your cheeks, in the tremble of your lower lip. 

Despite your unease, your legs stay open. Held aloft by the rope, he knows, but also—

A testament to how trained you are. 

He prefers his pets wild. Unpolished. Vicious little things that he gets to bring to heel with a sharp bark and rough hand glued to the back of their skulls, pushing their head into the dirt, to the floor, where it belongs. 

Fine china broken at his feet. 

But you—

Manicured. Groomed to perfection. Save for the harsh breaths and the shake in your joints—both an indication of just how new you are at this. A novice. One slowly being crushed under the leather boot of a man who reeks of smoke and whiskey. 

But knowing his captain and the furious need for control, he imagines you're better than some of the seasoned ones he'd come across in his lifetime. No room for errors.

And certainly no forgiveness for them, either. 

His cock twitches again—a heavy, aching weight against his thigh—and he reaches down to cup the thickness of it, crushing the flesh in his palm to stave off the need burning in his loins. The urgency to sink inside of your pretty little cunt rewiring the part of him that likes to mess his pets up first. Ruin them before he takes them. Fucking them to the point of unconsciousness—and sometimes, beyond it. 

But you—

You've been a phantom taste in the back of his throat for months now. A tease between his teeth. Sinking his jowls into you is the only thing on his mind. 

And when you're offered up so enticingly—

Well. 

Price can't blame him much for how badly he's going to ruin you. 

He reaches out, fingers pressing cruelly into the slim, thumb-sized vibrator Price has locked against your clit. A mindless, incessant torture, he's sure. Pushing you over the edge on a constant, unrelenting loop. 

“Messy girl,” he rasps, the starchy fabric of the mask glueing to his balmy skin. 

The reprimand makes you flinch in shame, but the flutter of your cunt belies the contrition that drapes over your brow in a shallow mimicry of sorrow. He can see why Price latched onto you so quickly, and doesn't bother fighting the stab of envy that brims in his chest. 

“Didn't your old man ever teach you any manners?” He mocks, dry and derisively. Quietly amused by the soft mewl you let out, one that only just eclipses the snort from Price. “Daddy's been slackin’, ‘asn’t he? Let his little girl turn into a messy fuckin’ slag.” 

You try to close your legs to no avail, the rope keeping you spread. In part, he thinks, from shame—blistering, burning, and vibrant when it streaks across your face—but mostly from the slick gush that leaks out of your drenched pussy at his foul words. Trying to hide it from him. To keep him from knowing just how much the brassy roll of his ugly words makes your empty little cunt ache. 

“Look’it you.” He rumbles, enjoying the shiver in your joints. The way your head rolls to the side, nose pressed tight to the skin of your arm. “Messy pussy just achin’ to be fucked.”

He adds more pressure until you choke. The scream lodged in your throat. Your toes curl. He hears the soft pop of your joints when you arch your back like a cat in heat yowling for attending. 

“Want it bad, don't you?” He taunts. “Daddy must’a spoiled you too much—” another scoff from Price. The creak of leather. The clink of ice against glass. “Didn't teach you any manners—”

He wants you to beg. Wants to hear the peal of your voice—rough and ragged and begging him to sink inside you; fuck your little cunt until you can't walk anymore—but that's not what he's here for. Not why Price dragged him up to the room. Gave you to him. 

And with the silk gag in your mouth, he knows he won't get it, anyway. Tied in a pretty bow behind your head. Wet with your spit already. 

Simon's fingers slide down, dragging over the folds of your cunt. You're wet. Soaked. Drenched in a way he's never seen before; folds glistening. Thighs wet. Sticky. He licks his lips. Tastes the brine of his sweat. He wants to eat your pussy. Spread you wide on his tongue and make you beg Price to let Simon make you cum. 

The thought roots in his head. Burrowing deep. He can already hear your sweet voice pleading with his captain—please, please let him make me cum—but he pushes it down when Price makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. 

He knows why he's here. 

And wonders, then, when he steps back and drops his hands to the button on his trousers, how many times you've been punished like this. The thought is a sour smoulder in the back of his head. An ugly, foul thing unfurled over the soot-stained walls of his skull. 

(he'll ask later. get the names of every man Price let see you like this, and pluck the memory of you right from their skull—)

“So needy,” he drawls, dragging his cock out of his slacks as they fall low on his thighs. “Even after this pussy’s been spoiled so much?”

It makes you keen, and the noise is a searing knife to his guts. He groans with it—low and rough, the noise scraping over the flesh of his throat until it hurts. 

“Gonna have to punish you, ain't I? Needy fuckin' thing—” so he says, but his cock is just as sticky as your thighs, weeping a steady stream of pre-cum that pools in the tangle of hair at the base, dusting over his heavy, fat balls. 

He shuffles closer, and reaches out to your knee, slipping his fingers behind your shin. The squeal of naked flesh against the metal tabletop shouldn't make him throb but it does. Cruel man, he thinks, and drinks in the way you wince. 

He presses his cock against your slit, mouth dropping in a harsh pant when he takes in the hideous sight it makes. Your pussy is covered up by his girth. The tip of his cock bobbing over your belly button, dripping pre-cum into the divot. 

Simon pulls his hips back, letting his cock glide over your silken flesh. The wet squelch it makes when he thrusts forward, cockhead tapping on your belly, has him grunting like an animal. It's obscene, this. The way he can't even see your folds over the wide spread of his cock. Pussy tucked neatly under him. 

He can't even begin to imagine how you'll take the full length of him inside of you when his cock nudges past your belly button when he lets his balls rest on your molten slit. Poor thing. 

He doesn't know if Price stretched you before this. Got you ready for him. But the man makes no move to intervene when Simon pulls back until his head slips down your seam, bracketed between your plush, swollen folds, tight against your entrance. All he has to do is—

Push

And the tip of his cock slips in. 

You make another noise at the sting, and he thinks you might be crying but his eyes are riveted to the spot where you open for him. Pussy so small, so tiny, compared to his cock in a way that's sickening. Garish. But your little cunt drools on him. Rim fluttering like a heartbeat on his glands, pulling him deeper. Enticing him to sink inside. All the way. Until he can feel the hitch of your breath on his cock. 

He leans back to get a better view, the motion forcing another inch inside of you. The noise is slick. Giving as your silken flesh parts around him, eagerly taking him in. But as wet as you are, as pliant, the stretch is unbearable. It chokes the air from his lungs when you tighten up around him—

“Fuckin' hell—” he snaps, his upper lip curling up beneath the mask. Your cunt makes him angry. Suddenly, viciously. The fury drips down his spine, pools at the base of his cock. His hand slips out from between your thighs, roughly grabbing your waist. Holding on tight as he jerks his hips harshly against you. 

You feel good. Perfect. Wrapped snugly around him. A hot, wet embrace. And he huffs at the bitterness that clots in his lungs; the surge of pleasure so blisteringly intense, it nearly makes him gag. Makes him sick. 

Price has this every night. 

The thought alone is a poison. It needles in deep, lashing at him with foul, rabid teeth. Cruelly, he pushes deeper, sinking his cock in another inch, another, another—mindless in this pursuit to tear you apart well before you're ready for it. 

He wants it to burn. To ache. Wants to be the worst fuck you've ever had; cock too big for you to take, but he feeds it to you in full. Gives you all of it. Every inch. Until your stomach churns with every press of his cockhead against your cervix, his glands sliding over that spot inside that makes your knee jerk and your eyes roll. 

Wants you to remember him as a beast. To think of his cock and feel nauseous. 

To sink deep inside of you—brutal and savage—until you can still feel him in your pussy for days. Each step causing a sharp pang in your lower belly. 

It's awful, he knows. Terrible. But he forces himself into you anyway, feeling your flesh split around him. A blunt, unyielding pressure until his balls tap against your ass, pussy spasming around the fat length he punishes you with. He's sure he's deeper inside of you than anything—any man, cheap silicon—has ever dreamed of being. Kissing places in you that nothing has ever touched. Feels it in the nervous flit of your muscles pulsing around him—this foreign thing bludgeoning into uncharted territory, stretching you wide. Almost virginal all over again. It makes him groan. 

Your pleasure is a muted ripple down his spine. The vibrator forcing you into enjoying the sharp sting of your rim pulled taut around the plug of his cock, skin blanching from the strain. He wants to stay just like this—grinding his hips into the backs of your spread thighs, cockhead chiselling into the molten seal of your womb with every gyration until the line between pleasure and pain begins to blur. Until you gag from how badly having your walls battered burns, hurts, but the bloom of pleasure deep inside your groin keeps you in place. Makes you arch your back, wanting more. 

Desperate for it. 

But this isn't what Price wants, is it? 

No—

He voices his impatience with a muffled grunt. Get on with it, Simon is pinched out between the silver of space between his teeth, the butt of a burning cigar keeping his jaw unhinged. The heady, sour-sweet stench of smouldering tobacco, nicotine, staining the words. 

You clench at the sound of Price's voice, pretty pussy drawing all tight around him. Perfectly trained. Sweet thing, he thinks, pulling out of you slowly. Just a few inches. Feeling your skin glue his; the glide of your walls over his shaft sickeningly good, nauseatingly so. He holds it for a moment, staring down at you through the eye holes of his mask, breathing heavily. Sweat drenches his skin. Tacky, hot. The starchy fabric clings to his flesh, peeling away each time he moves his head. 

The exertion of fucking his cock into you shows through the muted pulse of his joints, muscles aching from the strain of pushing forward. 

(Holding himself back.)

You blink at him blearily, eyes misted with tears. A smaller puddle sits on the table near your temples. 

Up close, he can see the full detail of the intricate shibari binding you tight. The sleek pink ribbon weaving over your chest, your breast, stomach—hishi karada, Price said. At the base of your neck is more silk in a mockery of a collar. And he wonders if you miss it, then. The solid weight of leather on your skin. If your hands weren't tied up, he imagines they'd be there. Holding firm. 

Just like the night he first met you. 

The silk rope, the loss of your collar—

“Your dad's a cruel man, ain't he?” He mocks, sliding his fingers over the delicate trim of silk bound tight under your heaving breasts, peppering across your nipple, down the slope. Resting at the base of your throat. The thin slip of fabric is not enough to give you what you need. The pressure, the friction. The sense of being owned. “Didn't even give his little girl a collar.” 

More of that tantalising shame rake over your expression. Tears dribble out in hot drops, spilling down the side of your face. 

He hums, slips this fragility into his back pocket. “Want me to give it to you, little girl?” 

He spits the words out like they're wrong. Awful. Takes in your flinch, the downward twist to your lips, and shoves that, too, into his pocket. 

Simon has no intention of waiting for an answer, for permission—he reels back, hand still splayed wide over your sternum, and pulls his cock out more until only the flare of his glands peaks out. He's soaked—glistening with your slick. So wet that it drips out of your plugged hole, gliding down the cleft of your ass. 

He wonders if you always get like this—

Bites that thought clean through with an angry groan, and pries his fingers out from the back of your knee, dragging them to the end of his mask. Rucking it up over his skin, bunched against the bridge of his nose. 

If the mess of his mouth, chin, the crooked, angular slope of his nose horrifies you at all, you don't let it show. Content to quietly sob on the table, eyes flickering between the thick plug of his cock between your thighs and the Price. 

He hates you, he thinks. And then he spits on your pretty pussy, right over your taut rim. Watches the foamy mess bubble, drip down to the skin behind his mushroomed head. When it pools there, he pulls back until the widened flare of his glands slips free. You whine—a noise of bright hot disgust, humiliation—and he lets it burrow under his skin, trickle down his spine. Then he pushes forward, popping the head back inside of you. 

The spit—his spit, too. 

And he does it again. The same thing. Pulling out, spitting. Feeding it to her. Letting it rub against the slick, wet (wetter now) walls of her cunt. 

Price doesn't say anything about this claim. Schoolboy possession—childish and immature when you're used to fine leather gripping tight around the slope of your neck.

Still. 

He pulls on your proverbial braids until it burns. 

The hum of the vibrator takes some of the sting away when he shoves inside of you again, cockhead bullying into your cervix with an unmatched cruelty. Leaking slick, steady, over your seal. Drooling, thick and viscous, against your walls. Staining you. 

Ruining you.

Each breath is punched out when he bottoms out. Forced from your lungs. Winded. He knows it hurts almost as much as the thick bludgeon of his cock pressing deep, but as he scrapes and claws at the rot concealing over his humanity, morality, he finds nothing inside of him left to care. 

He stops looking. Stops searching. 

Simon fucks into you with vigor instead, laughing mockingly at the lewd, sinful squelch of your cunt. “Think that's the sound of all my spit, birdie? Or is your sloppy little cunt always this fuckin’ messy?”

Each piston makes his pelvis slap into the vibrator; he can feel it through the tangle of coarse hair spooled above his cock. Buzzing incessantly against his skin. The spike of sharp pressure has you yowling beneath him, hips twisting, turning, trying to flee from the brutal onslaught. Pleasure and pain balancing on a knife's edge. 

He holds you there. Dangles you above the precipice just because he can—

A lazy flick of his waist. The savage grind of his hips. The softened bulge of his lower belly tapping against the plastic toy—

And it breaks you. This careless, effortless attention he pays to you has you tightening up around him like a knot, a vice; cunt squeezing, squeezing, before you shatter. Wave against a cliff; you spasm on his cock in a series of shallow, tight throbs pulsing along to the rapid fire of your heartbeat. 

His eyes are locked on your face. Pretty, lachrymal. Tears bleed down your temples, soaking into your hairline. Puddling underneath. 

His own little sea of your miserable pleasure. 

Eyes rolled into the back of your head. Toes curling. Hips jerking, twisting. Trying to run from the ugly, awful way he makes you cum. Makes you gorge yourself on pleasure. Force-feeding you pain with each sloppy, brutal thrust into your sopping, messy cunt—swollen, bruised; battered. And his—

—ice clinks against glass. A clicking swallow follows. The hollow thud of glass on wood. Scraping over the veneer as it's pushed back into place. Tobacco is chewed up by flames, popping and sizzling; smoldering with each inhale as the playwright watches the show he weaved together unfold—

—his. 

The silk around your neck comes loose with each thrash of your head rolling from side to side, shaking with quick, successive no, no, no’s that go unheeded, ignored. Every animalistic rut of his hips makes you change your mind, anyway. Turning those devastating no’s to yeses so eager, your teeth clack with every thrust. 

As it slips, sliding down the sweat-slicked column of your arched throat, he finds a stripe of red. A scab. Right at the knot where your collar would sit. A pretty gem in the middle. Your name, or maybe something that would amuse Price more than the perceived idea of your autonomy—bitch in glinting gold. His name and number etched into the back. 

if found, return to John Price. 

A foldhold, perhaps. Tailor-made for his boot. 

He hunts, Simon knows. Walked in reeking of leather and smoke when they first met and casually mentioned how good he was at Big Game hunting. A threat, then—however thinly veiled and erring on the side of mordant humour it was. But he wonders if Price personally made the collar you mourned the night he swung you into Simon's path. 

Your neck was bare, then. Blemishless. 

A collar too small. Tightened too much. Punishment, he supposes, and feels a sick sense of satisfaction roll down from his nape to the bottom of his spine where it pools in his groin—hot, molten oil—as he wonders just how much convincing it took you to agree to this. To spread your pretty legs for the ugly brute Price dangled you in front of. Who watched you all night from the corner of the room, chest heaving and eyes wide, wild, and furious. Reeking of rot. Want. To let him rut you like an animal while Price watches from the corner of the room—

A bead of sweat follows the phantom trail. 

“Fuck, birdie,” he's rasping, voice uttered wrecked. Mangled in his throat. “So fuckin’ tight f’me, ain't you? Must want me to cum inside this pretty cunt—”

You shiver. Knee jerking. There's a real sense of panic in your eyes when they dart over to Price, silently nursing another glass of scotch. He follows your gaze, catches Price glaring at him with his chin dipped low to his chest, peering out through his lashes. Brow furrowed. A flat line. 

Simon doesn't stop thrusting. Keeps a steady pace despite the anger brimming inside of him as the pleasure grows. Festers. 

Then—

Barely discernible: a nod. 

Shadows fall over his cheeks. He brings the glass back to his mouth with a surly mm between the mouthful. An irrevocable fuckin' get on with it. 

And Simon does.

The look he gives you pure predatory hunger. Victory in the potent stench of charred bones. He lifts his chin, stares down at you—all spread out like a gift to a god—and surges forward with a rabid hunger brimming in his guts. Unquenchable. Horrific. 

—wants you to eat you alive. Consume you whole. Leave nothing for Price to pick at, to mourn over,

settles instead for ruining your pussy. For fucking you raw. Cumming deep inside of your quivering cunt even when he knows you don't want that. Are silently begging Price to reconsider. To get this ugly fucking mutt off of you—

It churns his guts. Makes him viciously excited over the image that brims in the back of his head, tears raining down your cheeks as you bring a shaky hand to your aching, swollen cunt, feeling the thick, viscous glob of his cum leaking out.

Or before that, when you have to lay there and take it. Feeling his cock throbbing, pulsing as it spits cum inside of you. When he pulls out, and a milky trail follows, dribbling down between your cheeks. At his mercy the whole time, too, because Price won't get up right away to untie you. You'll have to lay there in his filth, feeling it ooze out of you—

He wants it. Badly. Feels it scorching his hindbrain, burning him up from the inside out. 

Later, he thinks, he'll fuck you with more finesse. Make you cum on his fingers—stuff them inside of your sore, aching cunt to the last knuckle; give you three of them to squeeze around, to cling to, and watch the ink on his bruised, scabbed skin disappear inside of you over and over again, pulling them out all slick, pearlescent with a mix of his cum and yours. On his tongue, too. Keep you in this pretty frogtie, unable to push him off—or pull him closer. Forced to take it. To let him lap at your pussy until he quenches this uneasy hunger festering inside of his stomach, growing bolder, greedier at the sight of you splayed out like this, exhausted already even though he's only just begun. 

Fuck you again, too, just because he can. 

all yours for a night, Price had said, sealing your fate with a sharp, decisive nod. 

He plans on making the most of the twelve hours until sunrise that he has. 

This, then, the appetizer—

It curls over his shoulders, tar-stained fingers digging into the tight coil of his muscles, easing the tension in increments. Soothing out the fear that still clings to him of missing out. Still, very much, that hungry little mutt on the side of the street, peering into the bakery at the family's milling about, smiling happily. Content to ignore the brat in rags glaring at them from an alcove with bruises on his chin, and a black split on his lip. Diving for scraps because the alternative is going to bed with an empty stomach in a house that reeks of flat beer and stale piss. 

There's nothing to miss out on here, it reasons, when he has you all night. All his. 

“Beg me,” he huffs, sniffing through the balmy, damp mask when it slips down his crooked nose. “Beg me not to cum inside you.”

All you can do is make a small, keening oomph behind the loose gag, words muffled by wet silk. His head rolls back, eyes narrowing down at you in mocking delight—catlike, leonine, in the dwindling glimmer of sunlight spilling through the crack in the curtains. 

“C’mon,” he taunts, rolls his hips into you just to hear the loud, wet squelch of your pussy taking the full, fat length of his cock. Lets the noise box through his ears in a vicious, heavy punch. “Or I'll cum inside you—”

He's already there. Edging toward the precipice. 

Simon grabs the tops of your thighs, digging his fingers into your skin, and pulls you closer to the edge of the table until your ass lifts. It opens you up wider for him, knees notched wide, nearly level with your ears. The new position lets him push in deeper, fucking you in full now. Balls slapping against your ass with every brutal stroke. 

He leans down, knee lifting to the table as he climbs on before dropping the full heft of his weight onto you. Forearm braced above your head, the other catching the column of your bare, scratched neck in the wide spread of his palm. 

The size difference before was intoxicating. A rush that pooled in the back of his head before rocketing down to his spine, filling his cock, but this—your knees bracketing around his waist, spread so wide they're forced down flat to the table below in a split that lets his cock sink in deeper, head tucked against his collarbone, swallowed whole beneath him, is his undoing. 

Arched over you like a beast, he grunts. Ruts into your sopping cunt and feels the whines that spill from your throat at the rough way he batters into you. 

The softness of his lower belly grazes the vibrator humming on your clit. The pressure makes your eyes widen, and roll into the back of your head. Neck trapped in his hold as you thrash beneath him, sobbing in earnest. In dismay. 

He's sure it hurts. The pleasure careening into overstimulation—the kind that burns, bellows too much, no more. He huffs out a derisive snort, and eats your misery from your parted lips, dipping his head down to catch the seam of your mouth in a mockery of a kiss. The silk wrapped around your head, tucked neatly into the corners of your mouth, keeps it from being anything more than a messy smear of his scarred, torn lips and your muffled gasps. The band prevents him from really tasting you, and he makes do with curling his tongue over your teeth, catching the drool running down your chin. 

It's gross. Messy. He slurps you up, and hums in pleasure when he tastes the brine of your tears. 

“Gonna cum,” he grunts into the silk before catching it between his crooked teeth, nibbling on the wet hem, sucking on your spit soaked into the fabric. 

Your pussy spasms around him. Eager, he thinks—pulsing like a heartbeat and starving for it. It blooms under his skin, burning hot like a fever. His tongue slips under your gag. Eyes glued to yours, listed in quiet, merciless delight when you grimace as he slides it along yours, nearly gagging you on it. 

It's almost sweet. A pastiche of loving making—as close to the real thing as he's ever come. The thought is a bludgeon to his head, making his ears ring—

And he runs from it. Rears back from the sloppy kiss, eyes creasing, brow furrowing, as you stare up at him with wet, glossy eyes, rheumy with tears. Silently pleading for something he can't discern. He feels that trail of anger coiling in his guts again, sitting low in his belly as his hips stutter to a slow, softer roll. 

His finger lifts, settles on the corner of your unhinged jaw, holding your head steady. There are lines, he thinks. Walls, divides. Protective armour—

And some shouldn't be crossed. 

Simon spits on your gag. Squeezes the huff of disgust from your throat when he feels your chest expand with it. Bullies himself closer, smothering you under his weight. Owned, then. Claimed. 

You can't close your mouth around the gag, or fingers digging into the muscle of your jaw. He keeps you like that, degraded. Dehumanised. A vessel for him to use as he likes—

Nothing more, nothing less. 

Sinks into your bruised cunt again, hips slapping meanly into yours in a way he knows must ache. Sets a choppy, deep pace; humps your pussy and grinds the weeping, swollen head of his cock into your battered cervix. Loses himself in the messy, plugging rolls of his hips; the wet, tight slide of your skin—flushed and clenching around the thick of himself he feeds to you, over and over again. Mindless in the pursuit to ruin you further. Stain you with his cum—

The problem is:

You feel like heaven. Pussy wrapped tight around him. Silken walls hugging his aching cock until it feels like he's melting into the hot, wet squeeze of it. So good it hums inside his head like a purr, rattles his thoughts around until the ugly, bitter anger is turned inside out. Flipped. 

He thinks about lines again as his sticky, wet balls glue to the slick skin of your ass, peeling off in a way that has pleasure peppering along his spine, spooling in his lower back. He did that, caused it. Made you so fucking wet that his knees slide in the messy spill of it leaking all over the table. The loud squelch of him slamming into your cunt echoes in the room—shrill and bone-melting. Ego-feeding. Enough to gorge his pride on it until its belly threatens to burst at the seams. Overfull. 

Simon grunts. His face is soaked. The damp fabric of his mask is too drenched to even mop it up, sticking to his skin as sweat rains down from his shorn hairline, misting over his eyes. His upper lip. The dip of his chin. He's more water than man. Liquid. Melting into you. 

The heat is unbearable. “Gonna cum in this pussy,” he snarls, and it sounds like a threat. Is one. He's going to burst inside of you, molten and thick. Been a while, he thinks, and feels his balls draw up. Tightening in a promise as he fucks himself into a syrupy stupor above you. 

The inside of his ears are wet, and he thinks it might be his fucking brain leaking out—

The tight coil of his body snaps before he does, giving out in a heavy groan. He catches himself before he crushes you beneath him, still mindlessly thrusting into your cunt, cock pulsing, throbbing. Growing thicker, thicker, as he heaves into your temple, breathing in the pine scent of your skin. Loam, sea. Sweat. You smell like Price beneath it all—leather and smoke; scotch and wood—and his lips curl into a vicious snarl, teeth bared at the man in the corner, silent observer to this blasphemous confessional where he spills his guts inside of you, and you eat them up like they're made of gold dust. 

It rushes him. A kick to his soft stomach, a boot crushing his ribs. The force of it hurts when it hits, surging up from the base of his spine, too fast for him to brace for. Tensing, coiling. The pressure knocks the air from his lungs, makes his hips stutter. Joints whining, twinging with pain. 

He moans low and brassy, mangled deep in the rot of his chest, and cums deep inside of you. Sloppy, mindlessly rutting into the spread bracket of your thighs as pleasure burns across the back of his neck, his spine. His hips roll, shaking. Melting as he spills, spits thick globs of cum out, cockhead bullied tight against your plug. 

All you can do is heave beneath him, whining at the molten spend he pours into you. Poor fuckin’ thing—

His lips are sticky, slick with sweat. He rubs them against the tacky skin of your temple, your cheekbone, babbling nonsense out on a purr—

Breedin’ this tight little pussy right in front of your old man, birdie. Got ‘im watchin’ his little girl take my thick fuckin’ load inside o’her. Fuckin’ hell—

—things that leak out between the cracks in the armour. The thick veneer. Made worse, his personal hell, when he feels your hips bump into his, taking his cock deeper inside as you squirm under the heavy weight of him. With your thigh flexing, squeezing his hip, it almost feels like you want more. All of him. For him to crawl deep inside of you, cocooned in the bracket of your ribs—

“Needy fuckin’ thing,” he rasps, words slurring. Eliding into mush. Nonsense he'll come to crush between his teeth later when he buries himself back inside of you over and over again, feeding blood to this vicious seedling inside of him. 

Through the pounding in his head, your gasping little hitches in his ear, the undeniable silence from Price weighs on him even as the aftershocks of his release mute the noise in his head. A dense, hazy fog clouding over all thoughts. 

It doesn't feel angry. Jealous. If anything it reeks of victory—

He grasps through the blanket, the murk, with lazy hands until he finds what he's looking for, and—

Oh. 

Right. 

(“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. 

He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch. 

“an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—”

“Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. “Got something else in mind—”)

Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture—

He stares down at you now. The base of his cock is soaked with your slick, flesh throbbing, pulsing, as he cums inside of you. 

It's this—you, crying over the feeling of him spilling so deeply inside of you while your old man watches from the sidelines, unable to do anything but sit there as Simon fills his baby girl up—that he wanted. Wants. Needs, he thinks, more than the stale, humid air he breathes. A place of his own. Home. Even if it's made of paper mache, carved inside of someone else, someone who already has a collar. A brand—

But that's the point, isn't it?

A sick feeling curls over his shoulders as he thumbs the slim vibrator off of your clit, staring down at the swollen nub at the apex of your mound. Sore and sensitive and flushed bright. Bruised like an apple. Abused for hours. Poor thing, he thinks, even as he rubs the flat of his finger over it. 

His cum seeps out around the softening plug of his cock. But it's still thicker than anything you'd ever taken before, he's sure. Sick with the deep sense of satisfaction that rolls over him at the thought. 

It's worth it, then, even as the dawning realisation trickles over him like hot oil—

“What d’you like, Simon?”

A pretty bird in pale pink chiffon. Too good for the likes of him. Afraid of him, too. Cowerin’. Cryin’ somethin’ awful when he sinks his ugly, fat prick into them—

Price hummed. Curled his index finger over the top of his cigar, tapped the thick wrap twice with the tip of it, and then brought it to his lips. A flash of teeth beneath his beard—nicotine-stained; crooked in the low light—before they sunk into the butt. 

There was something measured in his stare. Predatory. 

Victorious. 

And—

He gets it. You were a dangling lure in the deep, dark of the abyssal layer. A glimmer of light in thick murk. Iridescent. Dazzling. He was always meant to sink his teeth into you, wasn't he? Always meant to take a bite—

hook. line—

—sinker. 

Or—

It would be if the fish Price caught wasn't a leviathan. 

—in the scorching trail the oil leaves behind, something bestial, primordial, inside of his cocks its head in consideration. he can make a feast from this, it says; and so, he does—

“Need my help, Price?” Simon drawls, arms crossing over his chest as he stares down at him, quietly amused, and John feels the pulse between his temples starting up again the same way it had all those years back when he bumped into the man with you on his arm. 

He grunts. “Sendin’ you to Mexico.”

“Tha’ so? I might be busy.”

He sucks in a deep breath, reaches for his cigar. The itch claws behind his eyes, in his gums. There's a headache, too. One he knows won't be soothed over with the numbing bliss of nicotine or a shot of scotch. Not when he'll have to slink home afterwards, this massive behemoth nipping at his heel, and deal with the aftermath of what happens whenever he sets Simon loose on you:

an icepack pressed tight against your aching cunt, a glare fixed on your face as he dotes on you after you made him clean up the absolute mess Simon left behind with his fingers and tongue—

“never again,” you'll hiss, wincing with each pull of his knuckles on your sore, bruised walls. “I mean it—”

(you always say that but the look in your eye whenever he pulls out the silk—the new assortment that Simon bought for you himself—tells him otherwise—)

He presses the heel of his palm into the crease between his eye and bone, rubbing until he sees phosphenes spark behind his eyelids. 

“She'll be in silk,” he grouses, sucking his teeth in irritation. “And you'll be on fuckin’ plane to Mexico the next morning, Riley. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” he draws lazily with a half-hearted shrug, but Price can see the mutt inside of him panting with glee. He pretends to huff. Then: “I want her in white this time.”

The fuckin' prick.

—Price’s gamble of using you to lure the big, bad dog in works. but maybe a little too well. because now his sergeant expects one every time he's sent on a mission. and they send him out a lot. 

—he now has a key to his captain's house. lets himself in whenever he wants. finds you exactly how he asked for it. usually tied up in silk, crying, and struggling to get away when he stalks inside the room. on your knees, begging him so sweetly not to fuck your throat too hard. you have work tomorrow. or fighting him off as best as you can until he pins you down, works his cock inside of you. 

—in full view of the cameras, of course. non-negotiable. Price gets to see everything his brutish sergeant does to his pretty bird. everything. 

additional tags: vaginal fingering, anal fingering, rimming, anal sex, p-in-v, double penetration, heavy implications/discussions of double anal and double vaginal penetration.

AO3 MIRROR

Surrounding the dense thicket is a deep riparian zone with a vicious undercurrent. It acts as a moat, almost, separating the woodlands from the glade that makes up the town. 

The serene surface belies a nebula of underground caves, eroded by the harsh runoff of a waterfall deeper into the forest. It runs in an almost perfect circle along the exterior of the town, serving as both a defence from outside attacks, and—

As a cage. 

With the dangerous waters that cut a circle around your town, it leaves little entry points to escape from. 

But, you suppose that doesn't matter because leaving is not an option. It never was. 

You sometimes wonder if your ancestors knew this before cultivating the barren lands, learning through trial and error just how deadly the seemingly protective waters were. Or if the land was purposefully terraformed to lure would-be settlers into its maw, forever entombing them with a dangerous fosse and an unforgiving forest. One with an insatiable appetite.

The only means of escape—if it could be called that—is a grove in the treeline where a giant taiga fell several decades ago. It sits across the river, covered in a bed of lichen and moss, and makes up a bridge—of sorts. Crossing it is precarious. The tree is old—archaic. It wears its age in the softness of its waterlogged wood, bloated from the runoff of the river passing below it every day.

Any day now, they say, it'll break into pieces and drift down the river. Stuck in an endless circle, an inescapable ouroboros, unless it can squeeze through the canal that opens up to a confluence on the opposite side of the forest. 

But it holds—just very prejudicially. 

Those who try to cross it without propitiation from the gods find themselves lost to the undercurrent before they can place the other foot on the lichen-covered log. 

It seems almost mythological. A story told in the dark about haunting beings, gods, who keep humans locked inside of a barren landscape like cattle, only allowing those deemed worthy enough to be a yearly sacrifice to cross. 

But it's the reality. Your reality. 

The truth is very much that your own home is a slaughterhouse for rapacious beings lurking in the forest. Ones who demand a sacrifice. Meat.

You know this, of course, because you've seen what happens to those deemed worthy. 

They leave, dressed in silk, adorned in gems, and return as a pile of bones. Ones stripped, picked clean. Hollowed out. The milky surface bears the marks of scars in the shape of teeth. False starts, gnaw marks—the gods feast on your people, they satiate their hunger on the townsfolk, and in exchange the land blooms. 

This facet is the most important—especially when you spend most of the year on the verge of succumbing to starvation. 

It’s said that the garish tradition started after a devastating wildfire tore through the forest. A given, since boreals are wont to burn. Thrive, even, on the raging fires that crackle through the thicket. It burned for seven days, and decimated the local wildlife to half a fraction of what it once was. The accumulation of charred wood and ash left behind a thick, desolate stratum of podzol that suffocated the once fecund land—irrevocably changing things for the worst.

Without any fertility in the soil to grow crops—an already arduous task with the floor of the coppice being covered in a thick layer of dead leaves, pine needles, lichen, and moss to begin with—the primary source of food was dwindling. The wildlife had either perished in the vicious fires, or fled to higher ground near the base of the mountains, leaving behind an insubstantial river with a low population of fish, and whatever happened to linger—mainly small, burrowing prey. 

It wasn’t enough. Isn’t. Not in these subarctic temperatures.

And in their most desperate hour, their prayerful sobs were answered the next morning. 

(how benevolent of the gods—)

After the bones are returned, deers stand, placid and docile, in the open field, as if waiting to be taken, eaten. The charred husks of the berry trees sprout, blossoming year-round. Highbush cranberry, cloudberries, bearberries, bog blueberries. Foraging lush bushels of chokecherry, and wild mushrooms—great swaths of fairy rings, birch milkcap, musutake, black moreal. The peatland becomes mineral-rich. Harvests of hearty vegetables—potatoes, cabbage, cauliflower, carrots and other hardy vegetables.

You quench your hunger on the bountiful offering, ignoring that it was grown in blood. It's easy to ignore the empty house, the space where someone you grew up with once occupied when your stomach is full.

But it never lasts. 

Everything dies eventually. The gossamer falls. The deer meat hung on the drying rack rots. The hares flee, and the berry bushes perish. The potatoes rot. Turn toxic. Anything jarred or stored makes you sick.

You're at the whim of the gods.

And then—

Another bone appears beneath the spruce tree. Another body snatched from their bed in the dead of night. 

—rinse, repeat. 

It’s an honour, they say with rotten meat between their teeth, and a gaping hole in their bellies. You should be honoured that the gods picked you. Deemed you worthy.

You can't bring yourself to see it that way. It always felt like living inside of a cage. Being fattened up, prime for the picking. But it doesn’t matter much what you think—there's no escape. Not even for those lucky enough to be chosen. 

They're revered, canonised, and utterly unenviable because the reality is that no one wants to die. At least not without the freedom of choice. And this doesn't just strip it away—it flays it. Carves it from bone. 

(but oh, what little choice you have, anyway—death by hunger, starvation; death by drowning; or—

Sustenance for the gods.)

And as they lay wreaths of gold and emerald on their head, you can't help but picture a shackle instead. 

But you don't dwell on it much. You raise hens for a living, and sell their eggs in the market. What good would a chicken farmer be to a god? 

It'll never be you.

Until it is. 

They come for you at dusk, and it's every bit of the wild tales you've heard as a child, right down to the small details. Men in black, billowing cloaks lead you to a temple made of sandstone and iron. A monk chanting about the sorry state of your poor soul.

(maybe the gods have mercy on us all—

and may they choke to death on your ribcage.)

You're pushed into a chamber, stripped of your rags, and thrown into a large basin filled with scented oils of jasmine, waterlily, and amber. They scour every inch of your skin, and tut about the dirt under your nails as if you all weren't in the same sorry state as each other.

It's decidedly clinical for something that is supposed to be such a great honour. Detached. You feel less like a sacred offering as the evening passes and more like a descaled fish, ready for the fryer. It eats at you. This fear pulses wetly in your throat. 

The horror might come later—at midnight, when you try, and fail, to sleep. Thoughts plagued with all the unknowns lurking just out of sight. A paltry few hours spent being primed and plucked and decorated—not unlike your chickens that end up on a spit being roasted over an open fire. Trussed up with butter, garlic, thyme and rosemary.  You wonder if they, too, felt sacred when you'd snatched them up after spending a whole season getting them perfectly plump on lettuce, chard, and fresh grains.

The parallels feel almost ironic, and you wither in the glare regret casts as you sit in front of a large vanity, staring at your clean cheeks—not yet painted on with the dizzying assortment of blushes and crushed pigments the woman said they'll use tomorrow when you're ready for it (as if you ever could be)—and trying not to fall into abject despair. 

Death this time tomorrow. 

You suppose it's only your fault for thinking yourself differently from the rest. Unpickable. A joke in hindsight.

You spend your last night on earth staring outside your window, gazing at the pale moon, and trying to avoid the shadows in the forest. The ones that drool, and bark—singing for your blood. 

Something is out there. You can feel it in the air like a burgeoning storm. Feel it's eyes on you from the sprawling treeline. Waiting, hiding in the shadows; some rapacious beast on the prowl. 

You're just not entirely certain it could be likened to a god. 

The guards, your escorts, are led by a man who introduces himself as Graves, as if he hadn't met you before. 

Under the watchful eyes of the elders, he's a near-perfect gentleman. Careful in the way he regards you, considerate to a fault. Friendly. Open. He bows his head when he speaks to you, and it's always hushed. Softened. Respectful. 

It's only when they turn back toward the village that the hand on your forearm tightens. 

“Now,” he drawls, tugging you toward him. His tongue pokes against the inner skin of his cheek. “We got, ah, some ground rules to go over, sweetheart. Despite what they might have told you, tonight is a very special night for us.”

You've heard it all before. Offer a nod in response. 

He steamrolls through it. “Truth be told, I don't know what's going to happen when you wander through those trees, but what I know isn't going to go down is you trying to make a break for it. See, we're pretty, uh, experienced with this. We've got men all over the place. Dogs ready to hunt you down.”

His hand snakes around your wrist, squeezing tight. You feel the grind of your bones, and try not to wince. To show fear. It's too early for that yet. Not when you haven't seen what lures within the thicket. 

“Don't make us have to hurt you, sweetheart,” he croons. “They don't like damaged goods.”

It's with that warning that they bring you to the rotted remains of the old spruce tree. Water froths around the log, spraying icy mist over the vibrant green moss. 

One slip, you think—

Three years ago, a teenager decided to test the currents for himself. He waded into the water until it was chest deep, laughing with his friends back on shore. It's fine, he hollered. It's barely pulled me at all—

And then, as if a hand from below grappled his ankle and yanked him down, he was gone. No flailing. No screams. He didn't buoy and bob the water, struggling against the unseen current, he was just gone. Taken. 

His body was never found. None of them are.

(a little part of you is convinced an equally malevolent being, god, lives in those depths, devouring the hapless fools who try to test what happens when you battle against a starving river.

this, though, has never been proven. and most just think you're a little mad for it in the end.)

You think about him as you feel the cold water spit against your bare ankle—

Bare, because the gods have little need for clothing on their dinner, and they dressed you in nothing but a thin, silk robe. No footwear. Maybe because that, too, isn't needed on a meal or because they're worried that once you scramble across the log, you'll try and run through broken pine needles and stinging furze. 

How silly of them, though.

Trying to survive a subarctic forest that thrives on setting itself on fire this time of the year is not something you planned on. 

You think of that boy who drowned, and—

“And I'm supposed to go through here—? Just walk across this log?”

One of the guards brushes his fingers over your nape, muttering prayers under his breath. It shudders across your skin. 

Graves nods, looking contrite, but he can't quite hide the fervid excitement in his withering gaze. “Yep,” he drawls, popping the p. “Straight on through, and if you're good enough, the rest of us will have a nice year.”

Acid pools on your tongue. If you're good enough. You swallow it down. “And if I'm not?” 

“I'll, uh, have to hunt you down. And you won't like what happens when I find you.”

“Can't be much worse than what's going to happen to her soon,” someone jeers. It lands like a punch to your gut. 

“What's going to happen to me?” Your voice shakes. 

Graves shrugs. His smile is all teeth. “You'll meet the gods, of course.”

“An honour.”

You baulk. “Right.”

His eyes roll, listing toward the midnight sky. The moon is large. The ring around it looks red. 

“It's time,” he decides and places his hands on your shoulders. “Now, get moving, little girl. And you better be on your best behaviour, now.” 

The or else is unsaid. You hear it like a gunshot through the unnatural silence of the forest, anyway. 

“And if I fall in?”

“You best pray you don't. I'll come in there myself to get you.” 

“Accidents happen—”

There's a howl. It cuts through the air like a knife. 

“What was that?”

“You're pissin’ them off—” Graves’ fingers tighten around your wrist once more. “You aren't the first to try it. Won't be the last. But let me tell you one thing: it never works. Ever. They'll drag out, and I promise, it'll be so much worse for you when they do.”

The howling grows louder. Closer. You tremble. 

Something blooms in your hindbrain, a once dormant piece of yourself coming to life under the pale moonlight. Roll over, it whispers. Submit. 

You swallow down acid on your tongue, and fight the urge to dry heave into the bushes. 

You don't want to roll over. You want to run—

Graves lets go of your arm, and gives you a shove. “Get to it. Don't got all night.” 

Shakily, you step onto the log. The soles of your feet sink into the lichen. It's soft, porous. Damp. The air around you is electrified, smelling strongly of ozone. Something heavy, atmospheric. The air before a lightning strike. It congeals in your throat, thickening on your tongue. 

Had you not caught the fresh scent of death clinging to the air beneath it, you might have found it enticing. An ambrosial cocktail that tickled along your synapses, curled, protectively, over you. 

But rot is heavy in your nose. The smell makes you nauseous. 

“Go on,” Graves goades, sounding irritated. “Before I drag you there myself.” 

They murmur prayers as you place one foot in front of the other, crossing the narrow log. Maybe their hymnals reach some higher power because you find yourself stepping onto a soft bed of upturned soil and moss on the other side, the raging river a distant memory. 

Too bad, you think, feeling dazed, overwhelmed, as you gaze into the unfathomable black forest that yawns out beyond you. You wish they choked on their prayers. You wish you fell in. 

“Keep going straight,” Graves calls, his voice a mere echo against the howling winds and the roaring river. “And if you try to run, I'll hunt you down, little lamb.”

The forest carries an almost unnatural silence as you trudge through the thicket, weaving around towering white spruce and gnarled Jack pine. Fireweed and lupine nips at your heels. 

Its absence of sound is jarring. No birds, insects, animals—not even your footfalls make any noise, covered by the lichen blanketing the forest floor. All you can hear is your haggard breath as you traverse through bushels of dense cloudberry, and ferns. 

This feels purposeful—the world falling silent in the face of a deadly predator—and you wish there was more light streaming through the sparse treefall gaps in the canopy where threads of thin moonlight spill in. It barely grazes the most eaten floor, and you rely most on a trail of rowans and willows to serve as your guide. 

Unease is a malevolent friend digging talons into your neck. 

It warns you, in clandestine whispers, of the unimaginable horror that lay before you. Urges you to run, to escape. The highlands, the mountains, can offer sanctuary. The white death might take you first, sure, but is that worse than becoming dinner for gods?

Gods. Beasts. Monsters. Some abomination that lures in the shadows between the towering white spruce, in the weeping willows that droop in sorrow as you pass.

You can see them, it hisses. Feel them in the underbrush. In the dip of the aspens. The lurch of the oaks. They're waiting, hungry—

You should run.

You want to.

Succumbing to hypothermia over being roasted on a poke—if they even bother to cook their meat before they eat it. This line of thinking, this thread, makes you wonder what will happen if they just eat you alive. Like the grizzlies that used to hide in the forest.

Your heart thunders. Something in the unfathomable dark growls.

Run. Run—

As if privy to your skittish thoughts, the forest itself seems to bend, opening up. A treefall gap illuminates a small grove in the thicket. You hear something outside of your own breath and the unnatural, guttural snarls for the first time since you entered: running water. A waterfall.

You step into the clearing, heart pounding in your chest. The heavy tenebrous of the forest yields to the harsh moonlight spilling, intrusively almost, into the coppice. In the sudden visibility, your eyes adjust, minutely, to the ethereal divide of nature.

Despite the garish nightmare you're about to experience, this small patch of land is breathtaking. Even through the horror, the fear, its beauty is inescapable, and incredibly out of place. 

A secluded basin is nestled between a dense forest with a winding stream cutting through the middle. A boulder juts up from the lip, large and imposing, and it's there where things begin to shift. Tilting your world sharply on its axis. 

At first, you think there must be a mistake. 

Instead of a monstrous being, an unfathomable god, there are just two men in a clearing. 

Two normal men. 

The first is sitting, relaxed and spread out, on the boulder. One hand is wrapped around his knee pulled up loose to his chest while his left dangles off the face of the rock. His other hand is pressed flat to the rock behind him, holding him aloft as he reclines. 

The dangling heel kicks off the rock, sending his leg into a lazy swing. He repeats it. Mindless. The picture of languor. 

And that's what he gives off—

An airy sense of impish ease. 

It's reflected in his mien as well. From his hair—wild and untamed, coiffed into a messy mohawk with the sides shorn down—to the small grin he wears, lips crooked up into half a grin as he, too, takes you in. Playful, you think. Puckish.

He's big, you note. Broad shouldered. A tapered waist. His biceps bulge. Thighs flex. And you know, then, that he could crush you with his bare hands.

He leans forward when you appear, eyes latched on to you, wide and unblinking. An eerie sense of foreboding begins to permeate your guts as his unrelenting stare continues.

“What is this—?” You start, but the words are stolen from your mouth when you glance to the side, suddenly aware of the behemoth leaning in the shadow of the boulder. 

You thought you knew what fear was before. Eyes in the dark, whispers in empty rooms. Shadows tucked into corners, moving silkily along the walls. Footsteps echoing yours. Your name hissed through the weeping leaves of the draping willows. The clock ticking down the final minutes to your death. Graves and his warnings—run, little rabbit, and we'll hunt you down. Fingers twisting on your arm, bruising bone. 

None of that compares to this. 

The majority of his body was hidden behind the boulder, angled perfectly to downplay the sheer, unimaginable size of him. He’s cut from obsidian, bathed in black. The tight trousers he wears do little to hide the way his thick thighs, wider than the trunks of the firs behind him, bulge when he walks.

Seeing him walk out without making a single noise, deadly and silent, has your heart rabbiting in your chest. Something primal rears. A fear that curdles inside your chest. 

He wears the shape of a man—a pastiche, a masquerade—but the fit is uncanny. It's a farrago, a mosaic, of what a man should look like, but where the imitation ends is in his eyes. Black holes. Pits. 

You think of the Sheol. Purgatory. These awful, wretched places folded, condensed, and forced into devastating, abyssal blue.  He says nothing, just stays silent. Looks almost bored as he takes you in. Impassive.

The impish man introduces them after a beat—Johnny and Ghost (fitting, you think, for a man who looks like a wraith)—and says nothing else about what this is, what they are. 

Not human. Not in the slightest. You can see tendrils of smoke curling off their skin, wisps of something diaphanous that coils in the air around them. Silken, black strands. It's mesmerising. Hypnotic. 

It's in this strange dissonance between their preternatural appearance and the shadows that congeal around them, ephemeral, static, that your unease takes root. Something is off about this. Something is wrong. 

The wires in your head fire. The electrical jolt bellows at you to run—

As if he hears these thoughts, the man cut from Everest shakes his head, agitating the wisps of curdled smoke pouring out from around him. 

Fear gnarls over you. Keeps your feet from moving. 

A good thing, too, because the other man—impish, dogish—grins at you, all daggered teeth, deadly canines, and takes a step toward you. The way he watches you is keen. Sharp. Hungry. 

There's no escape.

Cheekily, he calls you hen, and doesn't seem particularly bothered to learn your real name. But you suppose no one ever stops to know the name of the pig they're going to eat—they just enjoy the roast. 

(The thought makes you shiver.)

He holds his hand out after a beat, eyes drilling into yours, and waits for you to slip your palm into his. Maybe you're meant to. The way he holds his gaze on you is expectant. Eager. 

No one bothered teaching you the proper way this was supposed to go, but you've seen the aftermath. Cleaned, picked bones. Teethmarks digging deep into the surface. Insides hollow with the marrow sucked out. 

They were gnawed on—something everyone seemed quite eager to ignore. 

(it's an honour to be chosen—

you fill in the blanks. colour in the lines with the sharp edges of his teeth as they gleam, deadly, in the jaundiced light. 

—and eaten.)

It fits. The way they look at you is famished. Starved. As if they hadn't a meal in aeons, and you—a sweet, tender lamb—stumbled upon these rapacious wolves in the dead of night, all vulnerable and soft. Easy prey. 

In the middle of the clearing, his hand wavers. His brows pinch. 

You've done something wrong. Broken an unspoken rule. 

Roll over, roll over, roll over—

But you can't bring yourself to touch him. 

There's a chasm between the threshold of his open palm and yours, a gaping maw. Step over the line, and doom yourself to the whims of this Cimmerian beast and his Stygian king. 

You'll go back as bones. Ones buried with all the others as the people in your village plug their ears and cover their eyes, pretending they can't hear the growling through the forest. The screams. They'll parade you around for a little while, just long enough for the fervour of your massacre to wane, and the promise of luxury tomorrow to settle in. 

They'll have a feast in your honour, and eat the things you no longer can. Telling lies over cherry pie to fill in the blanks when they realise they have no idea who you were until your name chiselled into bone became the most important thing about you. 

It angers you. 

Fuck them. You take a step back. You'll run if you have to. Shake off them and the dogs. And if you don't, if you can't—

Well. Either way, you'll be eaten alive. 

Johnny's brows crease further. A gorge splitting between them. You think he might be disappointed by your choice. Hurt, even, when you flinch back from his reach. The human emotion he wears looks real enough that you could easily trick yourself into pretending not to see the sharp flush of anger on his cheeks when you, a mere mortal, refute him, a god. 

Almost. 

But it's there—hidden behind hazel parapets.  

Though, he hides it much better than Ghost. 

There's a crackle. Ghost huffs, his broad chest expanding with his exhale. It's a reminder of how massive he is. How imposing. 

He lifts his hands and you know that he could crush your skull without any effort at all. Like pinching an insect between his thumb and forefinger. 

You shudder. 

“Tryin’ to run, pet?” He drawls, crossing his arms over his chest, and the low timber of his voice curls around your hindbrain like smoke. 

It's not quite anger that permeates the air around him despite the ice in his tone. No, this is muted. Rougher. Saturated with mirth. 

You suck in his breath. He finds this amusing.

“Need to be brought to heel, I reckon,” he's saying as if you were an untamed animal instead of a person. Housebreak the feral cat before it pisses all over the place. 

You glare at him, bearing your teeth. 

“I'm not a dog—”

“Nah, dogs ain't half as lippy as you.” He volleys, rolling his thick shoulder back like he was readying himself to take a swing. “But you'll learn soon enough that this cheek isn't going to get you any rewards.”

You don't want any of his rewards. Angrily, you swipe at your stinging cheeks, as if to wipe the humiliation from your skin. It's on the tip of your tongue to snap back, vitriolic words curdled milk in the back of your throat, but he doesn't allow you to spit it out. 

“What's this?”

His tone is peculiar. Flinty. He stares at your wrist, stone-still. 

And it's this, the unnatural silence that permeates around him as he glares holes into your skin, at the burst blood vessels underneath your flesh, pooling thickly in the form of a handprint that decidedly is not theirs, that it all seems to hit you. 

This whole time, you've been battling with this sense of cosmic dread, trying to fight yourself on whether or not you have the mental resilience to fully give in and believe the things that flaunt itself in front of you. 

The curls of smoke drift off their bodies as if their actual size is much too vast to fit in the skin they picked, and it leaks from their pores. 

Seeing him go eerily still reminds you that despite the same tongue they speak in, they're still monsters beneath the façade. Something archaic and unknowable. 

Johnny leans over, and before you can move, his hand lashes out, taking hold of your wrist. His fingers trail over the damage buried beneath your skin, and something shifts, fractures, across his face. His grip tightens. Fingers shackle around you. 

He looks very much like a snarling dog when he feels the contusion under your skin—fangs bared, canines sharpened to find points. You stumble, but his iron grip doesn't leave much room to fall. 

“Who did this?” it's mangled in his throat. Rasped out between clenched teeth. 

You don't understand their concern, their anger. “What does it matter? You're going to eat me, anyway—”

“Gonnae eat somethin’, hen, but it won’t be you.”

“For now,” Ghost's tone is still measured, firm, but the way he looks you up and down, like the centrefold of a feast, makes you shiver. Has heat licking across your skin. It feels like condemnation. A basin of sin. 

They're meant to be gods, you think, distant and unsure. And yet, you'd quicker liken them to something demonic, Mephistophelian, than to anything holy. 

“They didn't leave us much choice, hen,” is what Johnny says when screams erupt through the dense forest, rattling the treeline. You startle, jumping back. Johnny grips you tighter. 

“Don't worry—” be not afraid, you think, a touch hysterically, hand flying to the hollow of your throat when you meet the mirth-saturated eyes of Ghost. “We won't hurt them,” Johnny snorts behind him. He shifts. “Much.”

It's added as an afterthought. The skewed afterbirth of their mordant humour.

You don't have much time to dwell on it. Through the mouth of the clearing, a face emerges, gaunt and ashen. One by one, they march. Driven by an instinctual tug you can't begin to fathom until the treeline is filled in with the faces of the men who brought you here. They stare back at you—terrified, uncertain, angry, accusatory, as if this is your fault, and you shiver harshly in the arms of the men who paraded them here because you know, deep down, it is. 

You're not sure why they're here, but the contemptuous looks thrown your way make you think they don't, either. 

Graves steps forward first, his brown eyes sweeping across the clearing, calculative, assessing, before landing on you. Something ugly twists across his expression, hidden by the shadows that drape over his brow. It's fleeting. Brief. And then it's gone, tucked away. His pallid demeanour is a mask hiding that viciousness below—something the bruises on your arm know all too well. 

“What's this?” He says, and you commend him on the unaffected lilt in his tone as he stares Ghost right in the eyes. “Finished with your dinner already?”

Beside you, Johnny shifts. His body coils. Tenses. An angered cobra rattling out its warning trill. He moves closer to you, shielding you with the bulk of his body as if these men—mortals—were more of a threat to you than himself. 

On the opposite side of you, Ghost just watches. Frigid, unmoving—eerily so. A predatory tiger low in the grass, stalking its unassuming prey. 

“Didn't, ah, like our offering this year?” He's asking, hand sweeping out toward you. “We have more. Prettier ones with less bite to them. If that's what you prefer.”

They talk about you as if this whole affair is transactional—cattle sold on the side of the road. You think you've given away hens with more dignity and respect than these men seem to have for you. 

“You've hurt her,” Johnny's tone has gone soft. Low. “We told you, didn't we? Untouched.”

He looks nervous. “She's a wily little thing, you know. Tried to make a break for it. We had to get her here, didn't we?”

It's a lie. The echo of it rents the air.

"Wrong thing to say."

Someone moves. You'd have thought it was Johnny who struck first, with how tense he it, but when you glance back, he's beside you still. Holding your arm, eyes widened. Wild. Feverish. 

When you turn around, Ghost's massive frame seems to have doubled in size. The shadows you'd seen curling around him congeal, turning corporeal. 

The men run, scattering through the clearing. 

They don't get very far. You can hear the crunch of bone when Ghost disappears behind them. The screams—

“Stay here,” Johnny whispers, hazel eyes blazing with an archaic hunger you can’t begin to unravel. “We’ll get him. I'll skin him alive for hurtin’ what's ours.”

You crouch behind the boulder with your hands over your ears, childish and terrified, and try not to think about the sounds you can hear echoing through the clearing. Ripping, tearing. The crunch of bone. Something falls by your feet. You squeeze your eyes tight. 

Monsters. They're monsters. No god could ever do the things they do. 

You bow your head, as if in prayer, and try to ignore the way some wires in your head begin to misfire. Because the thing is: you should be afraid—are afraid—but a broken part of you can't help marvelling at the majesty in the way they move. 

There's something to be said about the way a man eats, you think. And they're absolutely foul about it, feral. 

You shiver. Something slinks out, oozing tendrils wrapping around your head, digging talons in your mind. Poisoning you from the inside out—

Or maybe just waking up. 

“Good. You didn't run. Y’don’t have to be afraid, hen.”

Johnny's wiping his bloody mouth with the back of his hand when he walks around the boulder to get you. He holds a gore-drenched hand out for you to take, the same one you refused earlier. You slink back, and stand on your own. It throws him. You can see the brief frown beneath the viscera covering his mouth. 

Ignore it, you think, curling your hands into fists. His disappointment doesn't make you ache. 

“We're not gonnae hurt you—”

“Would hav’ been stupid to try. I'd have hunted you down,” he eyes the tremble in your hands, a nasty smirk pulling at the corners of his bare mouth. “But maybe that's just what you needed, eh, sweetheart? A good chase and hard shag in the dirt? Fuck the disobedience right outta you. Maybe I ought to.”

“He's a softie on the inside,” Johnny drawls, and it's fond. Fond. As if he hasn't heard the horrific things that slipped, oily and corrosive, out of Ghost's mouth. “Just gotta be good, hen, and we'll be good t’ya, too.” 

They speak to you as if you were a wayward child in need of corporal punishment, and not an adult whose life was irrevocably changed in a matter of hours. Who just watched men turn into monsters and devour someone whole while they tried, futilely, to run away. 

It angers you, but you don't let it take hold because deep down, you know it's hollow. Graves is no one to you but a face in a sea of people.

The thought sticks, tarry-slick, to the walls of your chest.

They let it pass, speaking to each other in low tones. The chase, the slaughter, seems to have some effect on their moods. Johnny is restless, and agitated. He skirts around Ghost, taking swipes with his words; their idle banter filling the clearing as they regal the thrill of the hunt. 

Ghost, too, seems filled with frenetic energy, but it's mild compared to Johnny. He stands with his arms crossed over his chest, jaw gnashing under the skull mask stained with blood. 

You're not sure what their relationship is, but it feels ancient. Unknowable. The way they look at each other holds so much weight that you feel the pill of it even several paces away from them. As if they're the only two in the world, and everyone else is just getting caught up in their gravity. 

Why, then, they chose you is a mystery. One you will doubtless get any answers to. 

But the conversation loops back to you before you can ask (what are you, why me, who are you—)—to your bared teeth and tense shoulders; your disobedience—and you fight back the urge to flee as it leaps up to the surface. Get away, get away—

“But she was good,” Johnny is saying, and there's a strange lilt to his tone. Softer than when he spoke about the damage to your wrist, than when he told you to stay put. It's featherlight. The echo of it is a comfort. “So good for us, eh, Lt? Good girls deserve rewards.”

“Good, huh?” Ghost drawls. “Then why don't you give her some pats on the head, Johnny?”

It makes you bristle. Flinch. “Don't you dare—”

“There it is again. That bite.” Something sparks in his dark eyes; a fire on the edge of an alluvial fan. “Gonna have to do somethin’ about it, aren't we, pet?”

There's madness in the arsenic white of his eyes. A fever. The heat spreads, the blaze catching everything in its path. Johnny stands beside him. You watch as that field of hazel and elm begins to burn. 

“We'll be good t’ya,” he's saying, and something inside of you—old, archaic; an ancestral toll—starts to ring once more. 

Stay still, it says. Bare your neck, your belly. If you're good, if you're quiet, the predator won't eat you whole—

Reluctantly, you submit. 

“Good,” he purrs. The satisfaction in his tone is a dagger cutting through the fraying strands of your crumbling resolve. “Don’t worry, love; we'll cut them out of your chest and fill the hole with ourselves.”

It's Johnny who touches you first. 

His hand presses softly to your cheek, fingertips brushing the curve of your cheekbone. Reverent. Delicate. There's blood on his hands. He doesn't seem bothered. Doesn't seem to care at all that it's leaving broken smears on your face, fingerprints from the men he—

Ate. Consumed. Butchered. 

(but your home was always an abattoir, wasn't it?)

It's tacky. Cold. You can feel it drying, rotting, on your flesh, and you want to be sick—are nauseous from it, even—but Johnny's leaning down, as if he knows, and steals your mouth in a bloody kiss before you can move. Run, flee. 

(you wonder how far you'd get before they caught you. or if you'd even get very far at all—)

Is it Graves you taste when his tongue snakes past your lips, running across yours? Playful. Coy. Or perhaps the officer who brushed his fingers along your nape, murmuring words of prayer as they led you here. 

Maybe it's all of them. All of them. 

Oh, god—

Johnny pulls away. 

“Don't worry about them, hen,” he breathes across your numb lips. “Just focus on us—”

As if to reinforce his words, you feel Ghost move behind you, bracketing your body in. Caged between their mass. Imprisoned under their attention. 

His hands settle on you, one falling on your waist, pinching your flesh to the bone. Tight. Unyielding. You know, at that moment, he wants it to hurt. An admonishment, perhaps, for thinking of the people they threatened to carve out of your chest. The other curls around your neck and the broad expanse of it swallows you whole. 

“Easy,” he mocks when he feels your pulse hammering against his palm. Skittish. “Do as Johnny says, pet. I promise you'll like it more that way.”

The underlying command is ever present in his tone. A constant. Brassbound. Or else. Or else—

You shiver when he leans down, masked chin nuzzling against your crown. His hand squeezes once. Good job. 

The silent praise thrills you. It shouldn't. You're too aware of what they are, what they do and what they've done, for it to fill the barren hole in your chest, the one they threatened to stuff full of themselves, but, oh, does it leak. Seeps down the split edges, pooling at the bottom. A small, serous layer filming over. Congealing. 

No, no—

You don't want this. God, you do. Damn you, you do—

“Thas’it,” Johnny is slurring, wet and messy, across your chin, tongue snaking out to catch the spittle that dribbles down the corners of your slackened jaw. “Let us in, hen. We'll be so good’t ya. So fuckin’ good—”

“Johnny.” 

Simon utters the word and it sounds like a warning. A threat. But maybe much of everything he says has that quality to you because Johnny doesn't whimper, or answer the command. He doesn't stop—

He groans, low and throaty, and then he's kissing you again, drowning you. Stealing the air from your chest. Sucking it straight out of your lungs. His tongue presses into yours, playful licks turning demanding, harsh. He's devouring you. Feasting. 

You'd seen this man—beast monster creature demon—eat people. Break open skulls and slurp on grey matter. Rip off limbs and eat the tissue, the muscle, like it was a delicacy. Gouge out eyeballs, and swallow them whole. Fingers, toes. Tongues. He'd sucked out the marrow and then threw the hollowed bones of Graves at your feet. 

(Ghost tossed the hand that touched you after, completely skeletal as he'd chewed on the cartilage like it was grizzle—)

They're horrifying. 

And yet—

You kiss back. Are kissing him back. Chasing the softened band around the tip of his tongue with yours, brushing the flat of it over his taste buds, curling over his teeth. It's strange, odd, you're not sure what is happening to you, just that he tastes divine. That the blood between his teeth is ambrosial on your tongue. Heady. The texture is thin, watery, and you whine low in your throat, wanting more of it, more of him—

But there's screaming in your head. You don't want this. Shouldn't. 

His tongue glides over your bottom lip, and then he's sucking it into his mouth, biting down into your soft flesh with blunt teeth. Moments earlier, you'd seen those teeth crush bone. There's fear, but it's far away. Muted. It feels like it's hidden underwater, trapped beneath the flood of endorphins that lash through your veins, white-hot. 

It's good. You like kissing him—

His hand slides up your waist, coming to rest on your heaving breast. The roughness of his palm gliding over your nipple has your toes curling. There's an ache inside of you, desperate to be filled, and you feel it pulsing in need when he traps your hardened nipple between his thumb and forefinger through the silk of your robe, pinching, tugging. You want his mouth on you. Want this wicked, sinful tongue all over your body. You need it—

Need him, need him, them—

Johnny grunts, the noise vibrating across your lips. The itching tingle under your skin is a shock. It jars you. You come back to your senses with the taste of warm blood on your tongue. Of Johnny rutting his hips into yours, his erection pressing hard, heavy, against you.  It's them. It's him—

He's making you lose yourself. Pulling at the splintered pieces of your resolve, your control until it comes loose, breaking away from the fractured wall that is your sense of self. Your agency. Your autonomy. 

You're struggling to catch up to the thinning threads of anger, disgust, fear, but they dance out of your reach. All you're left with is this emptiness that screams at you to satiate it. 

Johnny's hands drop to the sash around your waist. “Wrapped ye up, nice and pretty fer us.”

He leans in close, and you catch the scent of ichor. Of iron. It churns your stomach, and sours through you. You want to be sick. Want to turn away from him, but something keeps you in place. Something soft, warm. 

A sun-scorched cornfield after a rain shower. Coumarin. Something earthy, mild. Warm. You bask in it, leaning in close. Wanting more, more—

Ghost's massive frame moulds to your back, and the heat of his body is an inferno nearly as oppressive as his presence. It jars through you, shaking the reverie that fell, soft as snow, around you. 

If Johnny smells of life, of fresh bloom, then Ghost, by contrast, smells of death. Rotting leaves. Damp soil. 

Their smells are sharp. You breathe them in, letting their scent stain your lungs. 

He slides his bearish hand over your cheek, and the way it spans the entire length of your face has soft shudders rippling through your body. He's a mountain. A behemoth. You feel the power in his body as he rests it against yours, fragile. Vulnerable. The contrast makes you sick. 

The way he touches you, too, makes you feel nauseous. The way they both do, like they're owed the privilege. It's possessive, familiar. Reverent, in small shades. It makes that oily thing that slinked out in the wounds trauma wrought preen. Purring under the attention. Under their anchoring gaze. 

The part still feebly clinging to the old way of your life, when you'd play by the hungry shores and pretend you could not hear the rapacious growls from within the forest, rallies against it, knocking battered fists on the walls of its gilded prison. You shouldn't feel special in their arms. 

You're not the first, after all. 

The thought is a knife to your gut. A twisted, rotten feeling wells in the brutal aftermath.

You wonder if this is what they do to everyone they pick. Stripping them bare, ridiculing them—making a mockery of something that’s meant to be sacred, pure. It tugs at your chest, needling inside the empty space they promised they’d fill. 

“Do you always play with your food like this?” 

You didn't mean for it to slip out—especially not so fragile. Made of thin glass. 

They go still before you. 

Johnny's brows furrow. Ghost drills holes in the back of your head.

“Our food?” Johnny's asking, as if your town wasn't built as a banquet hall for them to feast on. “What are you on about, hen?”

“Jealous, are we?” His voice is a rasp. Gravel. “Guess we'll have to show you your place then, pet.”

Your place. You want to ask if that's by his foot, kneeling before him, or if it's on a platter, but he doesn't give you the chance. 

Your head is turned sharply to the side, fingers digging, harsh and unforgiving, into your jaw until it drops open to alleviate the ache. 

As Johnny works on taking your robe off, growling at the welts that line your skin, Ghost dips his fingers into your mouth, petting your tongue, nearly making you gag. Choke. 

“Stick it out,” he growls, and you're quick, mindless, to obey his command. “Good.”

He tastes of leather and gun oil. Briny from the blood under his nails. The dirt. 

It's the furthest thing from godly. 

The searing aftertaste of something ozonic, calcined, seeps down your throat. Sinful, wicked. You think of brimstone, ichor; ashes from psalms, and try not to gag. 

He takes a moment to stare at the soft, pink flesh held in his massive, scarred fingers, gaze darkening with something that looks like it might burn if you get too close. 

And then, satisfied with whatever he finds, he leans in, and spits on your tongue. 

You flinch, body jerking in their hold, but you're stopped from going too far by their hands keeping you in place. Shackled. 

It's hot. Wet. You feel it land in a thick glob in the middle, right above the blackened nail of his thumb. It begins to slide down the side when your lip wobbles under the weight of your shame, your embarrassment. 

It's degrading. It's awful. Gross. Your eyes flood with searing, angry tears. A watery, black distortion of yourself, drenched in lachrymose, glares at you from the domed surface of his ink-black eyes. 

“Swallow it,” he warns, letting go of your tongue. “And you better not waste a drop.”

There's char in those eyes. Something inside of you rears, the lingering remnants of an atavistic fear of the things that might burn you. It begs you to obey, to roll over and show him your soft, vulnerable belly. 

Something about this man makes you want to bare your neck in submission. 

You swallow. It burns going down. 

Your place, you think, tasting something vile on your tongue. 

“You're disgusting,” you spit, glaring at him. Both of them. 

“Mouthy little thing, aren't you?” 

“You spiton my tongue—!”

“Ungrateful, too.”

Johnny's fingers drag up your inner thigh, catching the slickness that drips from your core. He brings it up, letting Ghost see the glistening slick that coats his fingers. He spreads them, cheeks flushing at the strands that pull apart. 

You bristle, hot and full of shame, but the evidence of your arousal staining his fingers is damning. 

“Think she liked that, Ghost,” he whispers, reverent. His fingers twitch, body buzzing with a strange, kinetic energy. 

He hums. It's guttural. Low. “All bark, and no bite.” 

Johnny reaches for your robes, nodding along to Ghost's words. “Gotta tame the little hen,” he murmurs, but it's distant. Absent. His gaze turns molten when he looks at you. 

Tame. Like an animal. Like you're some untrained beast. More of that shame wells up inside of you at the sheer degradation of it all. You're rendered into nothing but a pet for them to toy with and then devour. 

Sickeningly, desire pools alongside the loathing. Uncontested by the slick dribbling down your thighs, the bare ache of your cunt clenching down around nothing. 

It's them, of course. Rewiring your head. Hewning you into a shape that fits their interest. A little pet for them to play with. 

You shudder. Wish it was only because of the chill on your skin as a drape of midnight silk falls over the forest around you, and the horrible shadows these monsters cast in the pale moonlight. But there's an eagerness in your pulse. A sense of anticipation that can't be blamed on fear alone. 

Deft, bloodstained fingers strip your robe off your shoulders, letting it fall to the lush grass below. His eyes are burning amber when they run the length of you, now bared to them both. 

“Gonnae fuck you now,” he's rumbling, desperate and hushed, and for a moment, you could almost trick yourself into thinking it's a plea. That he is begging for this, pleading to have a taste, but you know when Ghost pulls you back, letting Johnny drop to his knees on the forest floor, eyes fixed on the apex of your thighs, that the idea of asking never once crossed their minds. 

You should be honoured. 

The wicked gleam in Ghost's flinty gaze seems to reinforce this notion, cementing its place as a brassbound truism, a gospel for you to bend and pray at. 

Johnny unzips his trousers, and the sound of it cutting through the unnatural stillness of the forest makes you antsy for something you can't begin to let yourself think about. His clothes are left in a messy pile as he lays down on the grass, beckoning you closer. His gaze skirts away from you, to Ghost looming impossibly large over your shoulder, a silent conversation you don't understand—don’t think you ever could—and then Ghost moves. 

The heat of his body tattoos itself along the length of your back, searing and firm. You bump into him, and there's no give at all. It's solid. Unyielding. His chest rumbles. He drops his arm, looping his massive bicep around you, fixing it snug beneath your breasts, and pulls you flush against him. 

This close, you catch the scent of the woods lingering in the obsidian shadows that blanket him like a cloak. Cedar, pine. But there's something heavier beneath it all. Wet. Humus. Loam. Moss-covered rocks. Freshly dug dirt. He smells of the forest after heavy rains snuffed out a scorching wildfire. Calcine. Char. 

His hands are soft when he holds you. Gentle. Or, rather, as gentle as a man like him could be. He drags you down, perched above Johnny's cock—long, fat, and veiny—and the sudden deluge of trepidation that edges so softly into fear rears, makes you whine. 

“Stop—!” You gasp when your knees hit the soft grass, one teetering an inch off the ground by the breadth of his hips. “I've not—I’ve never—”

You can't bring yourself to say it. 

Ghost begins to purr. “Sweetest little thing, ain't you?” 

Johnny whines. “Gonnae make it good fer ya. Fer waitin’ for us.”

You want to lash out at that. Bite back. You didn't wait for them. 

But he's not listening. His eyes are buried in the place between your thighs. 

“Bring her here.” 

Ghost complies with a rough noise spilling from his chest. “Gonna get yourself a taste, Johnny?” 

“It's gonna be heavenly, Lt.”

They're not listening to you anymore, and really—they haven't been at all. Ghost pushes you further up the length of Johnny's chest until your thighs are being pried apart by the width of his face. Hovering over him like, bare, fills you with a keen sense of embarrassment. 

You sound shier than you'd like when you tremble, asking: “What if I hurt you?” 

Ghost chuckles. “Death by drowning? I think he'd thank you for it, pet.”

“S’okay,” Johnny's slurring, humid breath ghosting over your slit. “Won't hurt me, hen. Just—fuck—just sit on my face, pretty thing. Need t’taste you.”

It's the only warning he gives before he's pulling you down, letting your cunt rub against the stubble on his cheek. When his mouth is flush to your slit, he breathes in deep, and moans. It's filthy. And then he opens his mouth and his tongue presses between your folds, licking a long, rasping stripe up to your aching clit. The feeling ignites a heat unlike anything you'd ever felt before. An electric shock. A soft, wet heat. 

Johnny licks at your cunt like a man starved, grunting and groaning into you as if it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. His hands keep you anchored in place, unable to wiggle away from the scorching kisses he peppers over your clit—a little tease, he murmurs, for being so good. 

It's too much—this pleasure, unknown to you, is endless. Overwhelming. You gasp wetly, choking on your spittle as it leaks from the corner of your mouth. Everything is notched up, heightened, and then condensed to just the feeling of Johnny's mouth on your bare cunt, feasting. 

He devours you with a ferocity that leaves you breathless, punches a hole straight through your lungs until all the air you feebly gulp down slips out with a whine, a wheeze. 

You think you might fall. Might drop off the steep precipice, and shatter at the bottom. Broken. Unfixable. They'll take you apart—

And then you’re falling forward from a shove against your back. The only thing that saves you from hitting your face off the ground is Johnny's firm hands on your hips. You catch yourself on your palms, bracing them against the grass. Gasping at the suddenness of the assault, and the way it exposes you further, pressing your cunt harder into Johnny's face. 

“Ain't that a sight?” Ghost’s voice is pure sin as it washes over you, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

Johnny takes the new position in stride, adjusting himself as he sickles on your clit. Your hand lifts, and settles on the length of his mohawk, fisting it tightly in a white-knuckled grip. 

Something is knotting inside of you, being pulled tight. Ripped asunder. 

Ghost's fingers are long, and thick. He circles them around your rim, softly. Teasingly. And then he's pushing one inside, stretching you. 

“Tight,” he rasps, and it sounds like praise. “Gotta loosen you up, don't we?”

A single finger feels like more than you can handle, and you flinch, tightening around him. His breath rushes out on a groan. 

“Ease up, pet.”

Easier said than done, you think, whining when he curls his finger, stroking your aching, sensitive walls. This, Ghost knuckle-deep and Johnny circling your clit cruelly with the tip of his tongue, is too much. It edges sharply into pain, into too much, too intense. A tug-of-war on your body, pulling you in the direction of sinful pain and unrepentant pleasure. 

You whine with it, hips squirming. You're not sure if you want to get closer, to take his fingers deeper, or to get away. And then adds another, pressing it in along side his index. The stretch is different, new. You mewl, fisting the blades of grass between your fingers. 

Johnny licks down, the tip of his tongue slicking Ghost's fingers as he scissors them deep inside of you. All the way to the last knuckle. He pisons his hand against your sopping, aching cunt, and the wet, lewd squelch has the tips of your ears burning. 

You're wrapped tight around his digits, and he coos mockingly at you.

“Takin’ two for me, pet. Good girl. Now take another—”

His ring finger circles your taut, raw rim. You flinch, keening. Johnny soothes the ache with his tongue, dipping it sloppily inside your aching hole. 

“C’mon,” he husks, pressing, pushing. It's tight. You feel the ache of the stretch deep in your belly. “Take it—” something gives. You gush around him, yowling in that heady mix of pleasure-pain. His knuckles knock against something inside of you that has your toes curling, your back arching. “That's it. That's my good girl—”

His voice is pinched, strained. The sound travels down your spine, liquid and white-hot, leaving you quivering in the aftermath. 

Below you, Johnny groans into your drenched pussy; the sound is wrecked, ruined. You tremble when the vibrations roll through your clit, nudging into that coil that spools, tightening inside of your belly. 

“Gonna come for me?” 

He quickens his pace, fucking his fingers into you with a raw aggression that makes your spine feel liquid, pooling with bliss. 

It knocks the air from your lungs, and makes you quiver. A plucked bow pulled taut—

Johnny's lips close around your clit, bullying it mercilessly with his tongue. It brings you to the brink, belly knotting. Twisting. Something coils, spools—

Then Ghost is leaning down, the mask pushed up to the bridge of his nose, and he sinks his teeth into your nape as he brutally fucks his fingers against a spot inside of you that makes your vision turn to static. 

It's the singeing pain and the blistering pleasure that makes you clench down tight on his fingers as he rides you through the high of your climax, howling some amalgamation of their names into the blood-scented night. 

“That's it.” The words are mangled in his throat. Bitter, charred. “So pretty when you come around my fingers like that.”

The taste of your blood is thick on his breath when he pressed his bared mouth to your sweat-slicked temple. The humid breaths ghosting across your damp skin has you shivering, body still buzzing with the heavy release of endorphins. It makes you feel heavy. Laden. You go slack in his arms, worn to the bone mentally and physically. Everything seems to catch up to you at once. 

It's almost as if they were expecting it, waiting for the crash. 

They pull you back, and you go easily in their arms. All soft and malleable, perfect for them to mould how they like. Ghost holds you aloft over Johnny's hips, fingers biting into your flesh. It burns. You press against it, embracing the ache. 

Johnny lines up, the weeping head of his cock pressed taut to your slit, sliding across your slick folds until he finds the place you burn hot, wet. He notches against it, the mushroomed tip dipping inside of your drenched hole, opening you up. 

The hands on your hip twitch, tightening. It's almost too much, and you whine into Ghost’s mouth, muffled slightly from the hard crank in your neck as he turns your head sharply, smothering you in those too intense kisses, the ones that feel like you're being slowly boiled alive. Cold, icy to molten in a steady incline that leaves you feeling so far away from yourself, lost amid the unrelenting simmer of his heat. 

He presses down on your hips. Johnny breathes out heavily when you take more of him in, your wet cunt stretching over his glands. 

Your eye cracks open, vision hazy, blurred from unshed tears that pebble along your lash line. It burns. It feels like you're being split in two. 

Johnny's head is angled off the soft mossy floor of the forest, chin pressed tight to his sternum as his eyes glued to the sight of you above him, narrowing in—unblinkingly, wide-eyed, and wild—at the place where he disappears inside of you. 

His eyes flash, liquid gold, when you're pulled down, flush against his pelvis. Swallowing him whole. Johnny twitches inside of you, cockhead pressing taut to your walls. You wail at the feeling of him pressed in deep.

“Fuck, hen,” he's whispering, reverent. “You look s’fucking good like this, don't’ye? Simon, oh fuck, Simon, have a look at’er.” 

You feel Ghost shift behind you, hooking his chin on your shoulder to stare, openly, at the place where you take Johnny into the root. He rumbles at the sight. You feel the reverberations rattle your bones. Dislodging cobwebs that weave over your common sense. 

“Look’it that,” he coos, all false warmth and softened edges. It brews a storm inside of your cunt—crackling heat, searing electricity. You clench, needily, on Johnny, and sob at the white-hot heat simmering in your core. “Stretched so pretty around your cock, Johnny.”

“Fuck, yeah,” he slurs the words out, drooling slightly. It makes Ghost snort, mocking. Cruel. His hands tighten around you. 

“The nights barely started and you're already panting like a dog in heat.”

Johnny bucks his hips with a groan, setting a sloppy rhythm of grinding his cockhead against an untouched place inside of you that fractures your vision into pieces and makes you throb. 

He's every bit of the dog in heat Ghost mentioned, pistoning into you like a man starved for it. Selfish, greedy, but there's a softness to his pace that belies the eagerness of his rut. 

With the sting of the stretch dulling to a sensation of fullness, pleasure licks across your skin. A damning feeling in the pit of your stomach, all liquid heat that threatens to drown you if you're not careful. 

The noise of him fucking into you from below is lewd and shameful, and sounds like it could fill the whole forest. The loud smack each time your hips meet; the wet squelch when slams his cock inside of you, balls slapping against your ass—the happy noise of a purring cunt, Ghost rasps, mouthing over your nape. 

But it's nothing, of course, to the litany of moans that are forced out of your mouth, high-pitched and desperate. 

“Thas’it,” Johnny's slurring, laid out beneath you like sin incarnate. Your hands scramble along the firm length of his chest, struggling to find purchase as he ruins you. “Feels good, aye, hen? Like it when I fuck you like this, don't ye?” 

That part of yourself that's still hurriedly looking for exits, for an escape route, wants to protest his claims, but there's a fire in your belly. The smoke billowing up your esophagus is choking it. 

Emotions whiplashing between fear, loathing, and something soft, something affectionate—a paradox you can't begin to unravel considering you barely know them. But it sits there, gleaming amongst the pleasure-pain that ripples down your spine. 

You want their approval, even though their attention sits in your stomach like a stone. Weighing you down. Anchoring you. The duality of it all crosses wires in your head, and makes you yearn for something. For them. 

You think hate it. Know, deep down, you should hate it more. 

Ghost cups his hand over your mons, fingers brushing over the flushed, tight seal of your rim. Having the bearish palm of his hand cup you like this, rough fingers stroking, petting, is too much, and you sob from it. From the intense heat, the searing pleasure, the biting pain, of it all. Pleads get tangled in your throat, caught on the warring sensations wracking your body.

You flinch back, and he coos, mocking and mean. You hate him, you think, hate this (hate, even more, that you don’t), but your silent curses go unheeded. Ghost curls around you like a boa constrictor, a noose—tight and unyielding—and makes a pleased noise in his throat when he spans the width of his hand over your pelvis and finds that the length of it swallows you whole. 

His size is immeasurable in a way that scratches at your hindbrain, almost as if he's changing his shape, flexing limbs and mass hidden from your mortal eyes. It makes you feel impossibly small in his arms, and there's fear—to be expected—but something prickles in the back of your throat when you see just massive, how ungodly, the sheer dearth between your sizes truly is. 

He's huge. A mountain. 

The fire is only fuelled further when his thumb gentles a rhythm over your clit, as if to distract you from the steady pressure he puts on Johnny's cock, forcing the stiff length into your back wall. The sudden stretch makes your knees tremble. Has a new, dizzying heat licking up your spine. 

“Ghost—”

The ache has you whining. Has Johnny's hands scrambling up, holding tight against the sides of your ribcage. He grunts, back arching when it makes you go impossibly tight around him. 

“Oh, fuck, hen—! Feels so fucking good—” he's slurring, cheeks flushed. Eyes hazy. He looks so devastatingly beautiful, laid out for you like this. A feast. 

It's easier to pretend with him, you find. 

Unlike Ghost, Johnny has an uncanny ability to seem human enough for you to blind yourself to the tendrils wisping, gossamer-thin, off his skin. Nearly translucent. A soft, satin cream to Ghost’s heavy, moody charcoal. 

You could almost make yourself believe that the smudge under his eye is just discolouration instead of the rotting blood of someone you used to know. His nails, his fingers, are all stained with the juice from strawberries you'd enjoyed during dinner. 

That the shadows in his eyes, the ones that coil and roll like a caged serpent, is just a trick of the light. 

Could, you think. But can't. 

Can't because he burns much too hot for a human man. Feels like chiselled stone between your thighs. 

And the hunger. 

It paints his expression a deep, forest green—rapacious, greedy—and brims from something that feels older than the earth itself. That ground you sit on a mere infant to the primordial being beneath you. And it might be. 

Neither of them has said what they are, but they've shown you enough. Ripping through a group of people in seconds until all that remained was discarded limbs, and torn appendages. Broken bones. A horrific bloodbath, over by the time it took you to whisper their names in a fractured plea. 

Ghost bit through muscle like it was tissue paper. Ripped apart guns and knives as if they were flimsy, plastic toys. 

It terrifies you. 

“You're so wet,” Ghost chides, as if he knows the trail your thoughts turned down, and wants to rub your disobedient nose in it. “Just a messy little cunt, aren't you?” 

The airy baritone of his voice has heat pooling in your lower belly. 

“No—” you try to refute him, try to fight back, but his thumb just presses harder into your clit in torturous punishment. “Ah, don't—”

And then he's pushing in, worming his finger in beside Johnny. 

The shock of it is electric. It buzzes through your nerves until they're charred, singed, with the thought of it alone. The burn in your cunt, the harsh, too-much stretch, the pressure, is dizzyingly sharp, and unshakeable. It aches. Makes your pussy throb—

“Makin’ room fer y’erself, Si?” 

Ghost grunts, the sound thick and raspy from the bend in his neck as he leers over your shoulder, watching the slick run down the back of his hand as he works his forefinger into your cunt, sliding it along Johnny's cock. It's neither a confirmation nor a denial, and the uncertainty has your head spinning. There's no way—

“Like that idea, pet?” 

“You won't fit, you won't—”

Humid breath curls across your cheek when he huffs, the airy chuckle bursting with unrestrained mirth. Ghost chides you with an abrading tut; a gentle admonishment for a cheeky child. The embarrassment of it all, the humiliation of being reprimanded like this, makes shame turns supernovae when he rubs his thumb, approvingly, over your clit when your protests fall silent. You can feel your muscles relax just a bit more, letting him worm the tip of his middle finger in with a searching stretch that makes you keen, whining at the white-hot burn of it all. It's too much—

You throb, shivering, at the wet, sinful squelch your drooling cunt makes when Ghost manages to push both fingers in together. 

“Good girl,” he drawls, and it's poison. “Won't fit, eh? I don't dunno about that, pet. Your little cunt seems eager for it, don't you think?”

“Oh, fuck, Si—” Johnny's hand comes up, cupping the back of Ghost's hand where your slick runs down to his wrist. “She's got ye all wet—”

You can't refute it. Not when you can see the slickness drenching his back hand, spilling all over Johnny's quivering stomach. 

Ghost chuckles again. “Could drown in it, Johnny.” 

“Ah, fuck, dinnae tease me like that—” 

He bucks into you slowly, and the sensation nearly makes you weep. With his cock rubbing against you, filling you so deep, and Ghost maliciously toying with a spot inside of your cunt that has you seeing stars, has molten heat pooling in your belly, you teeter on the brink of overstimulation, body pushed past the very edges of your mettle. 

Something has to give, has to break. You're glass in their overeager hands, fragile sides pressed upon by rotten, greedy fingers. The pressure has cracks forming, splinters. You feel raw, fractured; there's a pressure inside of you that grows laden with each jerk of Johnny's hips, each cruel swipe of Ghost’s thumb, tightening. Tightening. 

And then it pops. Breaks. You're coming around them, cunt throbbing like a heartbeat, drooling mindlessly at the rapturous pleasure buzzing through your marrow. 

They shatter you into basal parts, broken fragments. 

Neither seems particularly bothered to put you back together again. 

You come to—unaware, even, that you had passed out—with your head resting on a firm chest, ass pitched in the air, hips held in place by strong hands. There's pressure against you, inside of you, but it's different from before. 

Johnny groans into the spread cheek of your ass when you whimper, answering your feeble call. It's all so animalistic, primal. You tense. 

Beneath you, the chest you're splayed on top of rumbles. “Careful, pet. Johnny's gone through such trouble to stretch your little ass. Be a waste if you tensed up now, wouldn't it?” 

He rubs his bearish paws up and down your arms for a moment, in some twisted pantomime of comfort, before making his intentions known when he continues further down on the last stroke until he has one hand sliding around your hips, resting on the cleft of your ass, and the other curling beneath you, cupping your tender, messy cunt in his palm. The fit of them around you, in such intimate places you'd only ever dreamed of giving away to the person you love brings out a strange, sickly feeling in your gut. It's not a perfect fit. The hand he shoves between your thighs digs painfully into the bones of your inner legs. His fingers fold over themselves just to squeeze in.

But the rough, scorching hand on you is possessive. His dark eyes burn with it.

Mine, mine, ours. 

The hand on your ass slips lower, to where Johnny has your rim stretched taut around three fingers. Circling the stinging skin with the tip of his index. 

Johnny makes a low noise in his throat, and leans forward, his warm breath whispering across your sensitive flesh. Ghost's finger lifts. Johnny's chin rests on his knuckles. 

There's a wet, sucking noise. A gag. A muffled groan. A pop, then—

“Fuck, Si. Can still taste her on you—”

“Yeah? Go on, then. Lick her off me, Johnny. Clean me up.”

He does. You feel the whisper of his tongue as he licks Ghost's finger, sucking on it with a particularly lewd moan. 

Johnny pulls off with a pop. “Got you nice and wet."

Ghost presses his slick finger to your stuffed hole, petting around Johnny's knuckles, and maybe it's muscle memory from the last time he had his finger against you, but your body relaxes. Knows, immediately, what his intentions are. There's no sense fighting it. Not when you know what the pinch feels like when you do. 

He feels the way you slacken in his hold, and he purrs. 

“Quick study, huh? Good girl.”

He growls the last part out, a mangled tease in the thick of his throat. Rasping, pitched low. It licks across your hindbrain, coy and sensual, and pressing into that place inside of your head that aches at the mere notion of approval—especially from men like him, like them—and you can't help it. Can't stop yourself. 

You whine, arching back into it. Folding your body against the lines of praise skirting across your spine. A cerebral pleasure unlike anything they're doing to your body now. Being praised by someone who cuts his body into the mocking shape of a man, but leaks madness and apathy into the air like a poisonous gas should not bludgeon into that stupid little place inside your head that quivers at any semblance of approval, and yet—

Damn you, it does. 

Beneath you, Ghost’s eyes darken, sharpening with intrigue. Wet with his hunger. A starving beast on the prowl. You can see his mind whirring, locking in on this piece of vulnerability you dangle in front of his muzzle like a scrap of meat. 

He hums, chest rumbling with the low decibels. Content, for now, with this weapon you hand him, sharpened to a fine point to better flay your skin. It's a nasty look in his eyes. Full of something you can't name—something far too animalistic, primal, for your domesticated senses to hone in on, to interpret. 

That alone—this unnameable thing that flickers across blue scar tissue, dark and damning—makes you shudder, and you hate yourself for it. 

(but hate, even more, that you stopped being able to tell the difference between desire and fear with them; the two opposing sensations merging into a Frankensteinian beast with dangerous claws dipped in fresh poison.)

His reward is the tip of his finger pushing into your hole, cooing the whole time about how good you are, how good you take them, so pretty like this, ain't you? all loose and fucked stupid—

The stretch is sharp. Stinging. You wish it would ground you in some way. Shake loose the cobwebs that seemed to have knit over your dormant sense of self (agency, autonomy, propriety, respect—) until you come back to yourself, back to the fire you felt all your life. The one that burns like a wildfire in your veins. 

Maybe that anger might be enough to get you out of this, away from the jowls of the beasts who look at you sometimes like they want nothing more than to tear into your flesh, and gnaw on your bones. To ruin you. Gnash your atoms between their teeth, and snuff out the embers crackling in your misfiring synapses until you're a husk, a shell. 

Perfectly hollow so that they can stuff themselves in the empty space. 

You won't, won't—

But Ghost leans up, the veins in his neck bulging under the strain of keeping his head aloft, and he starts to nuzzle his masked lips over your nipples. The heat from his mouth bleeds through the cloth, and the contrast of warmth and the starchy scratch of his balaclava grazing your sensitive flesh has you mewling out, thrashing to get loose. 

He grunts, tightens his hand on your hip to keep you from moving, and bites your nipple, hard, through the fabric. A reprimand, you know, for daring to try and pull away. 

Johnny huffs behind you. “Cannae do that, hen. Might hurt you with all that squirming, so sit still.” 

He pats the hand—not currently three fingers deep inside of your ass—on your cheek as he says the last words. It's sharp, and stings. You blanche. 

You've grown accustomed to Ghost’s prickliness. The way he edges between being mocking, mean, and slightly cruel, to offering small morsels of praise and softness when you bend so prettily to his whims. He's had a firm hand in most of this. Commanding, leading, directing. Content to push you around into the shapes he likes best, ones that you've grown to like, too. And when you don't comply—he’s rather adept at showing you his displeasure (in almost equal measure to his rewards). 

Having Johnny scold you, however, is worlds apart from the brutish dominance, the flat apathy, you've come to expect from the man who leers at you, smirking and mean and nasty, while calling you their good girl, their pretty pet. 

Where Ghost is the firm hand, Johnny has been the comforting embrace.

This little tap to your ass is somehow worse. You bow to the shame that rips through you. Dragooned into obedience by their hands, this disappointment from Johnny is painful. You whimper, hating how easily they make you bend. 

Johnny makes you want to be good.

“Sorry,” you whisper, voice paper-thin. “I'm—I’m—”

“S’alright, hen,” he's cooing instantly, rough palm stroking the stinging skin gently. Forgivingly. “Jus’ worried about ye.”

They play you like a marionette. Pulling on all the right strings to make you dance. Johnny whispers words of adoration against your flesh, the soft embrace to Ghost’s firm hand. It makes your head spin. 

They fuck your hole with their fingers, cooing nonsense at you, at each other—promises made to fuck this hole together, too, in the future (“very, very near future, pet, you can bet on that—”), to take turns tonight to fill you to the brim, until all of your holes are drenched in them—and the rhythmic motions start to drag you down to that place again, the one that turns you docile and stupid. That has your logic, your common sense, dribbling out of your ears until all that remains is white noise, static. 

Ghost fits his whole finger inside, and Johnny teases your rim with his tongue. The sensation of pleasure and pressure is almost too much for you to bear. 

It's then, when you wobble on the brink of passing out again, that Johnny pulls back from your ass, panting. Decisive. “Think she's good to go, Lt.” 

“Yeah? Get her nice and loose, Johnny?”

As if to prove it, Johnny slowly pulls his fingers out, moaning low in his throat when your hole gapes slightly around Ghost's finger, stretched out and ready for him. 

You burn, burying your face further into Ghost's chest to avoid the white-hot shame of it all. It's dirty. Awful. 

You feel empty without Johnny's fingers inside of you, too. 

Ghost laughs like he knows, and it sounds just like a tree breaking apart in a forest fire. Consumed by ash, charred beyond salvation. It glues inside your head, sticking to that Frankensteinian place that lights up, nuclear, whenever you can't tell whether or not you're terrified or aroused. 

(The unbearable ache in your empty cunt calls you a liar.)

Johnny's cock isn't small by any standard—a truism your aching cunt can easily attest to—but when Ghost tugs harshly on his trousers, and his cock springs free, you're hit with a dizzying sense of fear at the sight of it. 

Ghost is thick, uncut. The tip is flushed a deep red, leaking prespend. It arches up toward you, brushing the soft skin of your stomach as Johnny, mindless to your sudden nerves, shuffles you into position.

Despite the tendrils of fear coiling over you, when it droops under the heavy weight of itself, coming to rest along his broad abdomen, a rush of saliva fills your mouth. 

It feels a bit like a betrayal when your cunt throbs, achingly empty. Desperate. 

“Like what you see, pet?” He scrapes the words out of his throat, and the smell of smoke is heavy in air when you breathe them in, brimming with dark promises. 

Your lashes flutter when he reaches down, gripping his cock in his hand. Jerking it toward you. A tease. You whimper, wanting it so viscerally that your hips begin to wiggle, arching back. Desperate to be filled again. To be taken part all over. 

He huffs when your slackened jaw grows slick with drool. 

“Greedy thing, ain't you?” 

“I’m–I’m not—” It's hard to protest with the evidence running down your chin. 

There's a nasty crinkle in his eyes. He taps the fat head of his cock against your inner thigh. “Don't worry. I'll let you get a taste later—plan on fucking that cheek right out of your mouth.”

“Don't be too rough on her, now. You know I like it when she begs.”

“Oh, she'll beg—” he punctuates it by pushing you lower on his lap, until your pussy sits right above his dribbling cock. “Just might not make much sense when I'm gaggin’ her on it.” 

“You're a bad man.” 

Ghost growls. “The worst, Johnny.”

The head of his cock presses against your throbbing clit, and hysterically—stupidly—you can't help but to think of a chaste kiss with the way the weeping tip nudges into your flesh. But the flash of pleasure spiking down your spine when Ghost slides his hand over his length, pushing it harder against you, dashes the garish, misplaced innocence of the act from your mind. 

It leaves a wet smear of prespend when he notches it lower, finding your messy, wet hole, and pushing inside. 

Ghost seems to savour the way your rim clenches around him—starving for it, he snarls—content to just tease you by popping the head in until it's swallowed up by your eager cunt, only to pull out barely a second later. It's torture, this. 

“Please,” you're babbling, begging. It's unbecoming, and had your sense of awareness not leaked out of your ears, you might have felt something like shame over it. For pleading with this brutish man—this monster—to stick his cock inside of you, splitting you open, and pressing up tight to the place you ache the most. 

“So pretty when you beg,” someone is slurring, and you think it might be Johnny, but there's a slurry in your head again. That awful static. 

Ghost digs his heel into the soft ground under his feet and hefts his hips up at the same time he pulls you down, roughly meeting you in the middle. The impact is brutal. The angle has him battering into a spot inside that nearly makes you pass out from the blistering pleasure rocketing through your core. It's a whiplash—pure euphoria ghosting along your veins that is chased, in a terrible pursuit, by the pinching sting, the intense pressure, of Ghost's cock forcing its way inside of your cunt, stretching you to the very brink of what you think you can handle. 

He lets your hips rest flush against his, balls pressed tight to your perineum, a momentary respite, but it doesn't last long. Ghost is impatient for you in a way that feels undeserved. Mean. He waits until you're breathing in before rolling his hips, eyes crinkling at the corners when you choke on your gasp. 

“What? Thought this is what you were begging me for, pet,” he's chiding, but the liquid desire in his voice sullies his mocking words. “I'm jus’ givin’ you what you asked for.” 

Johnny snorts. 

You want to refute his words if only because he sounds so satisfied with himself, but he doesn't give you the chance to bite back. He lifts you up, and snaps his hips into you again. Harsh, demanding. He gives you no time to rest before he's setting a terrible pace that leaves you clawing at his chest, scrambling to find purchase amid the unrelenting torrent of this horrific pleasure-pain that burns through you. 

Ghost slows his pace as Johnny's hands settle on your waist. 

“Ready for me, hen?” He's asking, soft enough that it melts some of the trepidation choking you when you remember what all the preparation was for. “I'll be gentle. You'd like that, won't yeh? All stuffed full of us.”

Ghost hums when you're pulled flush against his pelvis. “Pretty stuffed already, I reckon.”

“Bet she is, sir,” he drawls, mouthing wetly over your bruised nape. 

The honorific is new. You hadn't known monsters had hierarchies. 

“C’mon, then,” Ghost teases, moving his hands to settle on the curve of your cheeks. 

You feel like little more than a toy when he spreads them apart, showing Johnny your slick hole, ready for him, and the taut stretch of your cunt swallowing Ghost’s cock, his balls resting, heavy and hot, against your holds. It's obscene. Lewd. 

He whines like a wounded animal. 

“Steamin’ Jesus, Lt,” he breathes, panting. “Give a damn warnin’—ah, fuck, hen, look’it yeh—”

You can imagine the sight you make, and burn, blistering under the weight of his gaze and the deep ache in your guts, the want. There's embarrassment, a touch of anger, but—

The absence of shame prickles against you. 

They don't give you a moment to unravel that thought. Johnny braces his hand on your hip, and feeds his cock into your slick hole. 

It's a blunt pressure, unlike their fingers, his tongue: it spears you open, wrenching your rim apart to fit. The head pops in, slipping inside, and you think you might break, might shatter once more into tiny fragments, broken by the devastating stretch of their cocks before your body gives in, yielding. It's almost as if he was waiting for it, for this soft submission. The moment your body relaxes around him, he pushes forward, and doesn't stop. Doesn't slow. He ploughs through you until your cheeks are flush with his hips. 

You're so full, indescribably so. Stuffed to the brim by their cocks, seated so deep that it almost feels like they're reaching all the way up to your throat, and you swallow reflectively, tasting the brininess of your spit from the lingering blood in Johnny's kiss. 

“Fucked nice and sloppy,” Ghost rasps, twitching inside of you. His cock jerking against your walls makes you keen. 

You feel them move together, separated only by a thin wall of tissue, and it has your toes curling, your body coiling. Too much, too intense—you can't tell where Johnny begins and Ghost ends. The slow simmer in your belly is notched up, all rationale and thought turning into a slurry in your head, leaking out through your ears. You teeter on the precipice, unable to do anything at all except take. 

They match paces with each other, slowly taking you apart. Unmaking you. You catch stars in Ghost's eyes when his gaze jumps from you to Johnny, and back again; the ethereal glow of an event horizon, too far past the brink to escape it. It snares around both of you, trapping you in its inescapable pull, and you know, then, that this feeling inside of your chest is rotting hope. 

There's no escape. 

Bullied between them, stuffed to the brim, and used for their pleasure—it breaks you, shatters the tenuous grip you had on your resolve until it's wisps of smoke slipping through your fingers. 

The hushed reverence from before is gone. Snuffed out between claws that sink into your flesh, digging through tissue and tendon to swipe at your bones. False starts laid out in their namesakes. They fuck you like an animal, docile and trapped between them, and wholly at their mercy. There's no give, no inch—they take; ripping into your feeble body with frenzied teeth and bestial growls, trying desperately to quench their insatiable appetite. 

It's messy, primal. They fuck you the same way they feasted—with animalistic brutality until you're bloodied scraps at the altar of their desire. A second sacrifice gifted by beasts with barbed wire claws and poisoned tongues. 

In a way, it's almost punishing. As if they're going out of their way to bruise your walls and batter your cervix, bullying your insides until you're raw and tender, pulsing with the fill of them. An ache you'll feel for aeons. 

And maybe that's their goal. To galvanise you into a fine powder, to split your atoms between their teeth. Crushing the part of you that draws divisional lines between yourself and them, them and you. To cave it all in until the delineation isn't just blurred but destroyed. 

With the last vestiges of cognisance being fucked out of you by Johnny's sloppy, short thrusts, and Ghost's merciless pace, it already begins to blur when you think about it. About separation. Their quest to batter you into submission, to soften your edges enough so they can reshape you into their likeness, their image, is working. Damn them—

It doesn't take much to send you reeling back to primalism, to shred the scar tissue sealed over your hindbrain, and leak over your atavistic fear of those dormant instincts churning inside of you. The urge to run, and hunt, and eat—gorging yourself on prey animals crushed under your heel, torn apart by your teeth. 

The clandestine whispers in your ear, hissing to you about how you were made for them, born to be laid out between their bodies, and fucked stupid by their cocks, to be filled by them over and over again drown out the part of you that wants to rebel. That wants to flee. 

Johnny runs his hands over the plains of your stomach, palm pressing against the bulge of Ghost's cock outlined on your stomach. The shock of it, of his fat cock showing through your skin, gives way to a nebulous pleasure. A want you didn't know was ever there. Filling you so deeply that your body changes with his shape. 

“Gonna fill you up,” it's uttered as gospel. Ironclad. Apodictic. “Gonnae make a mess out of ye, hen. Gonnae make ye swell wit’ it.”

He paints a future for you with the air itself as his canvas. Something hot thickens in the base of your throat. You choke on it.

“Gonna come, Johnny?” His hands are searing when they drop to the back of your thighs, spreading you open. It forces Johnny deeper inside of you. “Go on, then. Come for me.” 

It's all it takes for him to rut into you, groaning low in his throat as he takes, takes. Grinding his cock into you with a near maddening desperation. 

His feverish pace pushes you down the precipice, fingers scrambling through the colluvium that breaks under your touch. It's intense, blisteringly so. Your body is a tinderbox. Between their intense heat, you burst into flame..

Your release rockets through you like a shockwave, and you gush around Ghost's cock, clenching down around them like a vice. 

“Oh, fuck, hen—gonnae—!”

Johnny spills, molten, inside of you, grunting, whining, wetly into your nape. He holds your hips tight against his pelvis as he fills you, thighs trembling with the force of his release. 

Your body throbs, aching in a way you've never felt before, and you mewl when Ghost begins to fuck into you harder, chasing his own end. It's too much—

You babble nonsense against his chest, drool leaking from the corners of your mouth. Johnny runs his hands over your quivering belly, murmuring into your nape. Take it. Go on, take it, hen. You can do it, you can be good for us—

You want to. Badly. Ache the need to be so, so good. It sews itself into your hindbrain, the feverish need to be perfect for the two of them. In the slurried mush that remains of your head, you remember two words only. Please, Ghost. Please—

Johnny fills in the rest. “Come inside her, Simon. Fill her up. She's gaggin’ for it—”

He grunts at that, jaw clenched tight. The veins in his neck bulge through his skin, pulsing with his heartbeat. You feel his cock twitching deep inside of you, nudging against a spot that makes something deep in your belly ache. 

He hones in on it, pushes deeper, presses into it mercilessly. It's a jolt of pleasure, of pain; the two seamlessly intertwined together. It's overwhelming. Too much—

Johnny's hand drops between your messy thighs, bullying his thumb over your clit, fingers stroking along Ghost’s cock as it pistons in and out you. And then there's static—white noise. 

You think you come again. 

His arm tightens around your waist when you gush around him, and he hisses through clenched teeth, calling you greedy. 

Comin’ again? What a greedy little cunt. So desperate for my cum, are you?

He bullies his cock inside of you, desperate and sloppy, once, thrice, and then he's groaning into your bared throat, nails digging harshly into the skin of your hips. He presses his cock tight against your cervix, pulling on your waist to make you take him as deep as possible, not relent until his balls are flush against your ass. He comes like this, cock jerking, pulsing with his release, painting your insides with his virile spend. 

With you boneless between them, barely clinging to sanity, Johnny catches Ghost’s mouth in what might be a kiss, but it's full of growls, snarls, and too much teeth. A punch with his bloodied lips. It's aggressive, bestial. You shudder under Johnny's body, burrow your cheek into the damp fabric of Ghost's cloak. 

Seeing them aim to maim each other with teeth, tongue, and claws digging into their vulnerable, thick necks, fills you with a potent heat. Unshakeable. Unquenchable. You want more. More of this, of them—

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny,” comes a wet rasp, drought on the taste of him. “Haven't had enough?” 

“What?” It's full of breathless mischief. “Cannae keep up, ye old bastard?” His hands fall, hot and heavy, against your back, fingers dipping soothingly into the knobs of your sweat-slicked spine. “Gonnae have to. She's rarin’ t’go again.”

Ghost levels you both with a flat look, but the pools of liquid obsidian give way to a fresh heat. Something ugly curls inside the basin. Possessive. Damning. 

“Insatiable, aren't you?” 

His softening cock gives a feeble twitch inside of you, belying the implacable lilt to his tone. You mewl with it, walls too battered and bruised for anything more. 

Ghost’s gaze drops to you. A pendulum swings through the ink. Something shifts. Breaks. That madness you'd seen earlier rears, snakes out from the rivers of blood cutting deep rivulets through the whites of his eyes. The confluence is shattering. 

His hand lifts from your hip, and disappears over your shoulder. You hear the rustle of fabric, the heavy breath that spills from his wide chest as he breathes in deep. The sound is different this time. Unencumbered by the cloth around his mouth—

The pieces are put together for you when a searing mouth with razor-like teeth bites down on the meat of your neck. 

Pain—sharp, poignant, and vicious—rips through your body, making you yowl into the empty, dark forest with your misery. 

This doesn't feel like the bites given by Johnny earlier—ones that, now, feel almost playful, gentle, by comparison—and you think of Graves, of the ashen faces of the soldiers as they ripped into them, and you tremble, body thrown into a paroxysm of sudden, unadulterated fear. 

He'll eat you—

“Ah, c’mon,” Johnny's voice cuts through the terror clotting in your pounding head, and you cling to the sound of his voice like a comfort. Sick, wrong—you mewl desperately, hands twitching for the safety of his arms. He coos sweetly at you, but doesn't steal you from Ghost’s grasp. “Said we weren't gonna do that now.”

Ghost's jaw unhinged from your flesh, tongue rasping over the fresh wounds, drinking your blood up with a horrible slurp. His fattening cock jerks inside of you, swelling along with his hunger. 

It dawns on you, then, as the pain dulls into an achy throb that this wasn't him consuming you—it was much, much worse. 

This is him claiming you. 

It's a bloodied brand on your throat, a perfect ring around your pulse, for the whole world to see, to know, that you've been laid claim to. Collared. 

He makes a noise, a pleased hum, as if he can hear your thoughts before pulling away with a suckling pop. 

“You said, Johnny boy,” he drawls wetly, bare mouth smearing against the deep wound in your throat. He sounds drunk, words slurring out in a loose tease. The bite seems to unravel something inside of him, and he buries his face in your neck, scarred lips and teeth tugging at your bruised, sore flesh. “Best start now, I reckon. Before this pretty head of hers gets any stupid ideas.”

You're panting from the pain, dizzy with it and nearly nauseous, before Ghost purrs against your pulse, tongue laving over the deep tattoo of his teeth forever embedded in your skin. 

It feels a bit like betrayal when Johnny tilts your chin, exposing the untouched side of your neck, and presses a gentle kiss to your pulse before sinking his teeth into the spot opposite of Ghost's. 

“Ours,” he growls, and for the first time since you've met him, he sounds everybit of the inhuman monster you've easily likened to Ghost. “Gonnae take such good care’a ye, hen. Gonna take you from this place, keep’ye with us.” 

Madness loops in Ghost's gaze when he raises his head, eyes cresting in a deep, satiated pleasure as he takes in the possessive arm Johnny keeps around your waist, his head buried in your neck, whispering terrible things in your ear (“ours, ours, ours—forever, hen; never gonnae leave ye. never gonnae let ye go—”). Whatever he finds in this awful embrace makes him relax beneath you. Has him stretched out and purring, content to just take in Johnny's promises, and the way you feel (trapped) in his arms. 

The jowls of a double-headed beast close in around you, keeping you caged in the wet, fleshy maw of a monster that thinks it's saving you this way.

And maybe it is. There's nothing left of the place you called home. They bring you to their haven—an impossibly large cave at the base of the mountain—and tuck you into a bed of furs, humming over your laden form at the way you fit so perfectly into their home (“just where you belong—”) before leaving to make good on their promises. 

Everything inside of the cave is silent, but, oh, how the ghosts in your head scream. 

home, you’re home—

get out. get out. getoutgetout—

But there's no escape. 

The madness that leaked from their pores, that poisoned miasma, must be contagious. Or maybe they're remaking you. Shaping you into their likeness. 

Your gums ache. There's a gnawing in your guts. An emptiness that bellows into the dark, begging to be filled. 

As if hearing the call, they return to you reeking of blood, death, misery. It stains their skin red. Taints their touch with the aftertaste of carnage. 

You kiss their scarred lips, licking the ichor from their teeth. Satiating yourself in the sin they force down your throat as they fill that howling emptiness inside of you. 

(“over and over again, hen—until you forget what it's like to be without us.”)

They cradle you in their palms—wolves taking dominion over a lost little lamb. 

(“we'll carve them from your chest, and fill the barren hole with nothin’ but ourselves.”)

thank you so much @moondirti for encouraging me to write this, and @sprout-fics and @guyfieriii for the juicy ideas (and full credit for the makeout sess with Rudy goes to @guyfieriii) 🖤

(@ tumblrstaff, please don't delete my blog for this)

also, thank u so much cod fandom. if this revokes my fandom license, just know that it's an absolute honour and privilege to go out into the way i came in—with nothing but filth. 

you only have yourselves to blame. and this person in particular 😭

It starts like this: 

Price, a little bruised around the edges, and worn from the helicopter, grumbles about needing a drink. Gaz, a little quieter than usual, a little subdued, nods firmly beside him. 

It's a spate—Shepherd, Graves—and the cumulation of it all leaves you feeling a little lour, a little out of it. Betrayal, death. You all reek of gunpowder and ichor. 

That may be why there is a palpable sense of relief when Alejandro and Rudy fish out some bottles stashed away in the kitchen. He holds two by the nozzle, hefts them in the air, and says:

Who wants some?

No one, not even Ghost, says no. 

It's the burn of hindsight, that fuzzy little thing called moribund that leaks into your marrow as you all take turns showering (they let you go first, unspoken, of course), and converge around the large meeting room where everything—including Simon Riley—was exposed. 

Several drinks in, Gaz turns to you and says: never have I ever…, and things quickly devolved from there. 

That was then, before you knew how Price, Soap, Gaz Alejandro, and Rodolfo, liked to kiss. 

Price—rough, just like everything else about him; shades of smouldering tobacco leaves in the form of an unrelenting powerplay. He batters you into docility, leaves you feeling vapid and stupid by the time his hands rubs circles on the small of your back, the other holding your chin and leading you—always a leader, always—in whichever direction he wants. He's a thinly-veiled lesson in discipline. When you stray from his command, his fingers—thick, and bruising—are immediately there to reprimand you. He tastes like leather and smells like suede. His beard grazes your face until you feel a little sunburnt, a little dazed. He smells of low-grade motor oil and charred pinyon, and the musk of it makes you feel more intoxicated than the aged tequila on your tongue. 

His tongue curls over your teeth and the noises he lets out are rasping guttural growls. The kicking engine of a classic car that was left to idle for too long. An American muscle car, maybe. The whiplash bellow of a Hemi purring against your lips. A mustang, a Chevelle. Something drenched in masculinity and oozing authority. 

It's controlled. Blistering. He shifts your body around until you're tucked into the warm press of his chest. His hold is ironclad. No escape. 

It's Soap, then, something falling from his lips. My turn, maybe. But nothing is solid in the effervescent grey matter saturating your thoughts. You feel drunk with pink peppercorn and sweetgrass when it envelopes you from behind. 

His hands pull you away from Price, murmurs of soft words, things meant for a lover spill from his full pink lips. So pretty, hen; gonna make you feel so good. His eagerness shows he slots his pelvis to yours, and the hard, firm bulge of him nearly has you seeing stars. 

Soap lingers for a moment, fingers tracing the wet curve of your raw lips, chafed and irritated by the bristles of Price's beard. 

It wouldn't be wrong to call the way he touches the drying amalgam of yours and Price's—captain Price, superior, boss; untouchable—saliva obscene. It's filthy the way he grazes his finger under the curve of your lip, eyes honeycomb and wanting. 

"Wanna gimme a kiss, hen?"

When he asks you like that, soft and hushed, the ghost of his breath across your stinging lips, you can't say no. 

His mouth is molten on yours. He kisses you like he's starving for it. It's wet, and messy. Spittle drips down your chin when he shoves his tongue in your cavern, chasing your taste. Teeth clash, and your lips are pulled softly into his mouth until they swell, bruised and numbed. He only pulls away when you gasp, begging for air, grinning wickedly in the amber glow. 

You barely have a second to catch your breath before Gaz is there, hands firm on your ass, dragging you into him. 

Gaz peppers you in small, full kisses. Open mouth, teeth sinking into the plush bed of your bottom lip, suckling it into his mouth. Then he pulls away, leaves you dazed, and leaning forward, chasing the thrill of him. He huffs, hands sliding around the curve of your waist. Want it bad, eh? 

A tidal wave. A storm surge. They batter against you until you're drunk off the taste of them. An illicit elixir of sin. A tantalising tease of what's to come. 

Alejandro kisses you with unmatched finesse. Velvet soft sensuality that tastes of spiced clove and armoise. It starts slow. Just the press of his lips on yours. They lift into a grin, teeth sealed when you whimper and try to chase the santalum on his tongue. He laughs: a low, throaty chuckle, and wedges the tip between his teeth. A small taste, but not nearly enough to satiate you. You feel a little bit like you're floating in the clouds when his tongue finally fills the gap between your teeth; roiling over every inch of space he can find. 

You feel like a beached log—ruined by the gritty sand on the bottom of the seafloor, and spat back out into dry land. Covered in the taste of them all, you find yourself slipping off a steep precipice into a chasm you can't climb out of. 

It's Rodolfo, then, who grounds you. 

His hand is warm on your chin—a beacon of light in a dark tunnel. His lips are a balm to your irritated, bruised flesh. It's sweet. The taste of sweet Brachetto d'Acqui and hedgerow blossoms. He smells of golden copal and kisses you like he's pressing his lips to the hands of his Father; a baptism in soft skin and reverent touches that make you feel like you've been found. Its featherlight whispers of his lips across your skin: the corners of your mouth, the soft skin between your chin and lower lip. 

Hands on your waist, hot and heavy. Soap sinks his face in the space between your shoulder blades with a slow drawl of your name, teeth grazing your flesh. His stubble abrades your flesh until you're trembling in their embrace. Static shocks of pleasure bloom in the pits of your stomach. 

Rodolfo's head drops, murmured words spilling in hymnals as he nuzzles your neck. Soft, gentle. He puts you together again just to dissolve you into ashes from psalms. 

Gaz leaks grape cigarillos, and nag champa incense when he presses flush to your side. 

It's when he asks Alejandro if there's any oil, any lube, does it start to sink into your sun-warmed flesh that this is happening. It's real.

You could blame Gaz— never have I ever had a threesome or a gangbang —but the idea mushroomed inside of your head, sporous and damning, until it was all you could think about. you, of course, weren't immune to the sudden hush that fell over the group drinking near the table when you stammered out your answer: 

No, I've never had a threesome or a gangbang before.

It all happened so suddenly. The atmosphere was a rich, dense cloud of feverish energy buzzing around you; a miasma of hedonism in smoke and white musk. 

Price, then, behind you. Alejandro's barking laughter (no way, cariño, you're too beautiful to never have been fucked like that before). The way Soap's eyes gleamed in the light. Rudy's quiet shake of his head. Ghost's eyes liquifying: heavy, midnight oil on your skin. The sound of glass cracking when Gaz said:

Well, would you? 

Would I…? Silence. Poignant. Stifling. 

Would you ever have a gangbang? 

It spiralled from there. Gaz's words burrowing into your skin. His hands—are hot and heavy on your body. Soap dropping to his knees as he lifted your leg up on his shoulder, breathing deeply against your clothed cunt. 

Want to, hen? Wanna take all a'us? 

Alejandro's sharp breath. Might break her, hermano. Don't know about you, but I'm a big man.

Yeah, Price's mouth on yours, breath ghosting over your trembling lips. The scratch of his beard rubbing your skin until it was pink and flushed. Ain't the only one, mate. 

Lips searing into yours. Sensual rolls of his tongue from Alejandro, hands roaming across your back. A soft, sweet series of kisses that left you breathless from Rudy. Messy, almost hypoxia-inducing ones from Soap that made your head spin, and drool dripped down your chin, your neck, covering your chest. An intense, blistering assault by Gaz, his hand firm on the nape of your neck. 

It felt a little bit like a dream. Feverish and desperate. Tinged in the surrealism of being passed around like a prized trophy kissed after a well-won match. 

It feels like a cacoethes and carries the taste of Alejandro's tequila. Bad decisions made under terrible influence. 

And now—

Now:

There are hands on your body—many of them, in fact: Price holding the back of your knees up to your chest as he swipes his tongue over your aching cunt, lapping at your clit; Soap's on your nipples, pinching and tugging until you're mewling at the sharp pleasure-pain that ripples down your spine. Rodolfo stroking your face, murmuring in dulcet Spanish about how good you are, how pretty you look with your captain between your thighs. Alejandro's fingers ghosting over your torso, and trailing down to your throbbing clit when Price forces the thick of his tongue inside your quivering hole. 

It edges into overstimulation; you're equally aware of every single brush across your trembling flesh, and completely gone at the same time. Dissolved into liquid mush. 

And they haven't even really started yet. 

Gaz is gone somewhere in search of the petroleum jelly in the office upstairs. Ghost leans against the wall—not willing, you think, to partake but still here, still watching you spread out on the table where he dropped his mask for the first time as everyone touches you. 

"Fuck, cariño," Alejandro rasps, his finger pressing against your clit in tandem with Price's tongue fucking into the clutch of you. It's too much—his voice is heavy with sin and the heft of it makes you quake. "Bonita. You're so pretty like this, eh? All flushed pretty carmesí and aching for it." 

Rodolfo, Rudy he murmurs low in your ear when you whimper his name, chuckles. "She's stunning, eh, hermano."

"Fuckin' right," Soap breathes, his fingers drifting across your smeared lips. "You want this, aye, bonnie? Want us to fuck you silly?"

All you can do is moan brokenly around his hand, fingers rubbing across your tongue. 

"Where's Gaz?" Price grumbles into your cunt, beard grazing your inner thighs. "Wanna fuck this tight pussy already, love. Need to feel you around my cock—"

He punctuates his words with the tips of his blunt fingers, pushing two of them into your dripping hole. The sting makes you keen, makes your knees shake. You want to say too much, too sudden, but you can't speak around the three fingers shoved into your throat.

The look on your face makes Alejandro groan. "I want your mouth, cariño. Can I?" 

"Christ, hermano," Soap huffs, amused. Tone draped in sex. It makes your thighs quiver. "Ready to start, then?" 

"I am," Price grouses, nose flushed against your clit. "I've been thinkin' about this cunt for a long time, love."

They move in tandem. Seamless weaving with one singular goal of stuffing you full of all of them. 

Soap pulls his hand away, rubbing your slick over his flushed cock. 

You moan against Alejandro's cock when he presses it to the seal of your quivering mouth. His hand is firm on your head, but his eyes are gentle. He waits for you, holding still until you give him your affirmation to continue. The sight of his flushed, tanned cock makes you whimper. He smells of sin: oud and myrrh; heady and thick. Your head swims with the way it clots in your lungs.  

Your mouth aparts, tongue rolling out over the weeping head of his cock. It's salty. Brinny. You moan a little when it slides deeper into your mouth. 

"Jesus—," Soap pants, rough and slurred. The noise jars into you. 

Hands fall over you again, and you lose track of who is touching you when Price groans into your cunt, and Alejandro pushes your jaw open wider, sliding more of his cock into your mouth. 

The air buzzes with something bordering on frenetic. Pent up energy from the success of the mission, the alcohol spuming in your veins. The high of the win burns through everyone. 

This—a gangbang —would never have happened if it wasn't somehow the perfect storm, the coalescence of all the right emotions. 

It's intense. Surreal. 

And then Alejandro pitches his hips forward with a smoked groan, murmurs:

"Fuck, gonna cum, cariño. Are you gonna swallow it for me?"

A hushed silence falls around you. It's one thing to attend, but another to partake, and you wonder if they are realising that this is the point of no return. 

It's met with a soft moan. 

You want it. Want his cum. Want to taste more of that salty haar tang in your throat, feel it settle in the pit of your belly. Hot and syrupy thick. 

He pitches his hips forward, hand sliding up the length of his cock not buried in your throat, stroking himself as you suckle on his head. It's sloppy, and wet, and fuck —

Alejandro is the first to cum. The first to spill his milky release on your tongue. It's salty, briny. Not at all dissimilar to the margaritas he handed you hours ago.

His moan is choked and hoarse, a low bellow in the depths of his belly that rumbles through you in a series of deep uh, uh, uhs. 

You barely have time to swallow when Rudy is there. Hands on your cheek, eyes lidded and pleading. Can I, cariño? 

Alejandro's cum spills from your tongue when he pulls away, dribbling down your chin, neck. It puddles on your chest where Soap's thumb catches the droplets, smearing them around your hard nipples. 

You nod, swallowing down the mouthful of cum, brows furrowed in pleasure with each roll of Price's tongue laving at your cunt; the gentle way Soap kneads your flesh. 

Rudy shuffles closer, and the flavour of cardamom spumes around you. His body burns hot, heavy cock twitching in his grip. Your mouth drops, tongue lulling out, and he grunts at the sight, eyes cresting. 

"You're beautiful, mi Reina."

Rudy's cock brushes across your tongue, eyes shuddering when you wrap your lips around him, head tipping back in pleasure. "Fuck…"

Your tongue laves over his slit, tasting the salty spill of him. His breath is ragged, heavy. There is no warning—just a strangled choke of your name—and then he's cumming on your tongue, ropes spurting over your cheeks and chin. 

You gasp, wet and broken, and absolutely filthy. 

"That's it—," Price mumbles against you, blowing a huff of air across your slit. It makes your toes curl—the perfect mix of not enough and too much, and—

Rudy strokes your hair, eyes glazed. The angle is awkward, but his mouth slots over yours, tongue rubbing over the mess they made of you. He kisses you like he's worshipping you. Like you're the best thing he'd ever tasted, and he can't get enough. 

There is a blunt pressure against your core. A delicious coil inside of you unspooling. 

Price has three fingers buried to the knuckle inside of you, tongue rolling over your clit, when you cum around him, knees shaking as you moan at the tight clutch of your walls stretched taut. 

"Fuck," Soap breathes, taking Rudy's place when he pulls away from you, lips red and glossy. He pushes his blunt head against your cheek. Cum spurts out, splattering across your face in thick milky ropes. "That's what you sound like when you cum? Jesus—"

You barely have time to catch your breath when Price lifts his head, beard soaked in your slick. Heat pools in your belly again at the sight. He looks like ruin. Wet and dark, and hungry. You whimper when he rubs the scuff of his damp beard over your spread pussy. Coarse hair grazes your clit, and the spark of pleasure has you seeing double. Makes liquid bliss bloom in your chest. 

"Couldn't wait, eh, cap?" Gaz returns with a wink, waving the bottle of jelly in his hands when he moves into your periphery. 

"Can it, and get over here." 

"Impatient."

Price helps you sit up, mouth stinging, and sticky with cum and saliva. His eyes catch in the dimming light high in the rafts. Drunken desire spools in the shades of sapphire blue. His thumb brushes across the corner of your mouth. 

"Might have to see you like this more often, love."

"Shooting your shot already, cap?" Gaz drawls, humour lacing in his tone. 

"Not my fault you waited too long."

"You're lucky," Alejandro rumbles. Firm hands fall to your shoulders, rubbing the knots in your back until your head falls, forehead pressed to Price's chest with a moan. "Should stay here, cariño. I'll make you happy. Get you nice and fat on Mexican food, and swollen with mis hijos e hijas."

"Sí," Rudy's lips brush the shell of your ear, whispering saccharine words in Spanish. "We'll live on the farm. Drinking wine every day. I'll take you to the coast."

You shudder, belly spuming with heat. Overwhelmed, dizzy. It's a dangerous elixir. A deadly combination. It makes you want, yearn. 

"No way," Soap huffs. "She's comin' home with us. Back to the UK where she can sit on my cock whenever she wants—"

"You're all wrong," Gaz scoffs. "Price called dibs the moment—"

"That's enough." His command is rough, dry. 

Gaz glances at you, and the humour shifts. Darkens. "Fuck, look what they did to you already." 

You feel it, thick and viscous, on your burning skin. The flush deepens. You can only imagine what you look like. Your lashes are clumped together, and heavy. Cheeks irritated from the beard burn and the saline smear of cum over your flesh. Swollen, cock-bruised lips. Messy in voluptuary pearlescent. 

"You look good," Soap says, taut, and slightly breathless. 

They stare at you like you're a banquet—a feast. Your heart thuds in your chest, cum-filled belly rolling. Its—

Powerful. Sensual. 

Price's eyes flutter when he leans over you, hands feverish when they fall on your skin. "Gotta move you, now, love. That alright?"

You swallow and taste the ocean. The sea. "Y—yeah."

He shudders. A frisson flurries across his face. "Good."

His hands are solid on your body as they manoeuvre you until your belly is flushed to the table, panting against the damp fabric beneath you. He presses his cock against your ass, letting you feel the iron-hard, velvety soft heat of him. You push your hips back, cunt throbbing. You want it. Want his cock. Want him to fill you up until you're stuffed and fat, and—

Happy, Alejandro said. Happy. 

"Soon, love," his voice is a thunderclap in a bottle. You tremble when the balmy heat of him moves away from you, leaving you spread and exposed. 

"Fuck," Gaz murmurs. His hand trails down your spine, fingers slipping between the crease of your ass. 

He spoke to you about it already. Five of us. Wanna—he licked his lips, eyes hooded and caramel rich—wanna let me fuck your ass?

In for a penny. 

Gaz shushes you when you whimper, mouth ghosting over the soft flesh of your ass. He wastes no time. His fingers dig into your cheeks, spreading them open. You mewl. Your body is electrified: too much, too soon, too raw—too exposed; but Gaz groans deep in his throat. 

"Fuck, look at you." 

He doesn't give you a moment; doesn't waver even when Soap tells him to move away so they can see. There is no preamble. His tongue laves over your asshole, a filthy grunt spilling from his lips as he tastes your flesh.

"Steamin' Jesus, Gaz," Soap groans. Slick noises can be heard behind you. "Fuckin' Christ—"

It's strange. The sensation is heightened by the awareness that everyone—everyone—is watching Gaz devour your ass like it's the best meal he's had in weeks. You quiver, dropping your head into the table. Price stands by your side, cock jerking each time you moan. 

His hand on your head is a comfort. A heavy weight. Your hips rock back into Gaz's tongue, keening when it slips into your hole. It doesn't hurt, but there's an insistent pressure as he stretches you open. 

A cold, slick finger joins soon after, and the ache makes you choke. 

"S'alright, love," Price murmurs, and your lachrymose eyes blink open, gritty and sticky, and dart to him. His hand tightens around the base of his cock. Your cunt throbs at the sight. "Focus on me, yeah?"

"C—captain—"

The rawness in your voice makes him groan. Makes them groan. You can hear Alejandro swear. Soap grunt. More slick noises reverberate around you, and you flush. Cheeks burning. They're getting themselves off to this. To Gaz fingering your tight asshole open for their cocks. Another hole for them to slip inside. 

Fuck, fuck fuck—

"That's it," Price coos, low and smoky, and filled with rough tobacco. 

His hand threads through your hair as Soap's roam your body, slipping beneath your chest and the table, punching your nipples, stroking your belly. Rudy, or maybe Alejandro—you can't see, can't tell—tap on your clit as two fingers are pushed back into your throbbing cunt. 

You want them. Want it. 

"P—please—"

Price groans, his cock spitting out prespend that dribbles down the length of him. "I want you to suck my cock, love. Will you do that for me?" 

You nod, core quivering as a rush of heat flutters down to the base of your spine. You still taste Alejandro, Rudy, on your tongue. 

You wonder if Price tastes just as good.

Price helps you move, and angles his cock toward you, grunting when your wet, sloppy mouth seals over the head. 

He tastes even better. Salty and bitter. Tobacco ash and smoke. You want to drown in it. 

Gaz stretches your ass as you swallow your captain's cock, and your head still spins with that notion, not quite able to believe you're on your knees for them, spread open, and being readied for all of them that take. 

It cudgels into your stomach: a gnarling frisson that makes throb, makes you push back onto Gaz's fingers, his tongue, and moan around Price's cock. 

"That enough, Gaz?" He sounds wrecked when he speaks. Ashes and gasoline; it's saturated in want. The air crackles with impatience. 

His tongue slides across your fluttering hole in a long, wet stripe, as if savouring the taste of you before he pulls back. 

"Yeah—," it's wet when it slurs out of him. His fingers press against your loose hole, moaning a little when you greedily take the tips inside. "Fuck, she's more than ready, cap."

Price wastes no time. He pulls you off of him, and the others—all communicating in a series of strange commands you can't decipher through the rush in your head—all make room for him. 

He turns you around, and lifts you onto the table, legs spread around the thick of him. His cock throbs against your pussy when you wiggle back, trying to get comfortable on the bed of masks—Ghost's masks—and it hits you, now, that you're going to get fucked. That your pussy and your ass have been stretched, prepped, and are ready for them. All of them. 

He stares down at you, nostrils flaring, and the dark look in his molten sapphire gaze makes you wonder if he feels it, too. If it's hitting him with just as much of a punch as it is you. 

His cock nudges against your hole. He pauses, eyes flickering up from the seal of your cunt around his flushed, engorged head, to confirm, one last time, if you want this. If you're sure.

It's debauched and absolutely filthy, but—your hand reaches out when Soap steps up, cock bobbing with each step, and you grasp his shaft. Alejandro's fingers ghost over your bruised, swollen mouth, and you let him lead your head to his throbbing cock, lips sealing over the leaking head. 

Rudy's hands are reverent when he takes your other hand, bringing it to his length. 

It's all the confirmation he needs, but still. Price waits. Your heart thunders in your chest. Your captain—always so—

The thought is nipped when you nod around Alejandro, and he pushes inside of your pussy. Stretching your cunt with his girth. You moan, legs falling open wider as he splits you apart. 

It's good. It's too much. It's—

He feeds it into you, lips curled up in a snarl as you split around him. He grunts—rasping growls that spool inside of your core until you're white-hot, and whimpering. 

"Come on, love," is rucked from his throat. A battering ram against your chest swinging hard, and ferocious until you see stars. "You can take me."

It makes you tremble. Makes the world around you grind together; tectonic plates shifting, crashing. Earthquake tremors along the base of your spine, rattling your bones. It cracks them open, and leaks Nirvana through your bloodstream. 

Price's cock wrenches you open. Each inch jarring the soporific slurry of sex and smoke congealing heavy in your veins until you're mewling around Alejandro's cock. 

His groans of pleasure as resin thick; smouldering sandalwood. Cracking sap. He works himself inside of you, gruff praises falling from his still-damp lips. You feel good. This pretty cunt was made to get ruined, wasn't it? Take me, love. That's it. They slide over your skin, oud oil and syrup thick, until your flesh prickles with goosebumps. 

Alejandro's cock hits the gummy walls of your throat, his grunt curls over you. Clove and amber. You burn. There is a give, and then—

His hips slide against yours, cunt stuffed to the brim with his cock. Tears leak down your cheeks at the feeling of him sitting so heavy inside of you, at the blunt press of Alejandro's cock choking you in shallow thrusts. 

"Bloody hell—," he groans, head tipping back as he stares at the seal of your pussy taut around the base. "Look'it you. So full of cock. You look like you were made for this, pretty thing."

"Our little slut, eh?" Alejandro huffs, pushing his hips closer to your face as you lap at him. "If her pussy feels as good as her mouth, hermano, I won't last too long."

"Fuck, can't wait to fuck you next," Soap grunts, his hand wrapping around yours as he guides you along, showing you what he likes. "Cannae fuckin—"

Rudy's hand falls to your swaying chest, rubbing your aching nipples as Price begins to fuck you, filling you up over and over again with his fat cock. 

It's good. It's so fucking good. You whine around Alejandro, and feel molten pleasure bloom in your belly as they use you, revere you; eyes fixed on your body as you take them all in. 

"I'm gonna cum soon," Price grunts, his hips pistoning into you hard enough to jar the table. The metal legs grind against the cement floor. The room filled with the scent of sex and the lewd noises that spill from the wet squelch of your cunt greedily swallowing down your captain's cock. The suckling sound of Alejandro fucking your throat. "Look at you, look at this pretty fucking cunt taking me—"

Soap's fingers fall to your clit as Price hits the plug of your womb with the blunt head of his cock, sending pleasure ricocheting down your spine until you're arching off the table. Muscles coil, tightening together as he knocks into the soft walls of your pussy, sending you reeling. 

"Ah, fuck—," Alejandro grunts. "I'm gonna cum, cariño. You'll swallow it for me, eh? Swallow it all—fuck—"

He cums down your throat for the second time, hands stroking your face as he feeds it to you with muttered words in slurred Spanish too fast for you to pick up.

You can't focus. Can't think—

The taste of cum on your tongue, the blissed noses that spill around you, and the way Price fucks you deep, battering against your fluttering walls have you seeing stars. 

You moan, nearly choking on the thick cum that drenches you. Soap leans down, spits on your clit, and rubs the mess in with his fingers. It's feral. It's disgusting—

Your cunt spasms as you're shoved over the precipice, squeezing and throbbing like a heartbeat around the thick plug of Price's cock as he spears it against your womb; a battering ram into your flesh. 

"Jesus, captain," Soap sounds awed, voice pitched low and slurred. "Just givin' it to her, aye?"

"Fuckin' hell—"

He cums inside of you with a grunt of your name draped in liquid sin. Cock twitching deep inside of you, pressed taut to your womb. He holds it there and makes you take it. Drowns your cunt in his thick cum. 

It's wet between your thighs. Your throat clicks when you swallow, nose burning from the flood of briny cum Alejandro poured down your throat. 

Price pulls out slowly, taps the head of his sticky cock against your clit, and you flush at the feeling of him leaking out of you. 

There is no respite. Gaz's hands are on your body, head numb and fuzzy, as they speak about the intricacies of fucking you, of filling you up. 

"Think she's ready for two?"

"Are you?" Soap's fingers fall to your aching cunt, spreading the thick cum around your clit. "Can you take us both?"

"No. Not yet." It's Ghost who speaks, and your belly rolls at the low husk of his voice. 

"Yeah, give her one more." 

Soap's fingers slip into your cunt, and curl against your sensitive walls. "Fuck, captain. You filled her up good."

Rudy's thumb presses against the seam of your mouth, eyes pleading when he stares down at you. His thick cock grasped in his hand. 

You're little more than a ragdoll. An offering between the gods. Soap parts your thighs, head tapping against your throbbing cunt. 

Price leans against a beam close by, eyes burning into you in search of any glimmer of distress. Having him close by calms you. Makes you relax. You settle, mouth popping open for Rudy as Soap pushes himself into your pussy. 

"Fuck, your pussy feels incredible—"

He lets out a string of curses in rapid-fire Scots, burying the full length of himself into your cunt. 

He fucks you like he's aching for it. A madman. His hips bludgeon into you until you're seeing stars, until you're choking around Rudy's cock. It's too much. Too much—

You want more. 

Rudy's hands are gentle on your face, brushing your hair away as he cants his hips. His cock slides over your tongue, and you try to hollow your cheeks, to make it good for him, but the blistering pleasure makes your mouth fall open. 

"It's okay, bonita." He murmurs, resting his head on your tongue as he fists the length of himself. "Just like this, okay? Just like this. Let me—," he fucks into his palm, eyes rolling back as he rubs his weeping slit over your tongue. 

Gaz's hand grabs your swaying breasts in his hand. "I'm gonna fuck your ass next, yeah? Gonna split your little hole open on my cock. You don't want, don't you? Wanna be fucked in all holes, like a little whore."

Fuck. Fuck—

Rudy pushes his cock into your mouth, groaning as molten cum sputters out, drenching your tongue and cheeks. 

"Oh, fuck—," Soap pants, hips slamming into you. His eyes are fixed on your messy face. "You look so fuckin' pretty with cum all over you, so fuckin' good for us, aye?"

His eyes snap shut, brow furrowed in pleasure as he buries the full length of himself inside of your spasming pussy, filling you with another load of cum. 

It's good. It's so good. The sensation of hands on your body isn't foreign anymore. Alejandro moves when Rudy finishes, stroking your hair, and leaning down to kiss your forehead. You go to him eagerly, mouth parting as he slips his softened cock into your mouth. 

Words are murmured around you, grunts and groans of pleasure so robust and full that you clench, aching at the sound of their bliss. 

Fingers on your nipples, your clit, makes you see white. Makes your back arch as liquid pleasure blooms inside your core again. 

Soap pulls out, and you barely have time to mourn the loss of him when Gaz slots between your legs, fingers falling to your ass, and slipping inside with a groan. 

"Nice and loose, now," he purrs, spreading his fingers inside your tight channel. "Gonna fuck this pretty asshole. Gonna fucking ruin you. Alejandro's gonna fuck your pussy after, eh? Maybe me and Price can fill you up at the same time, huh?"

"Gaz," his name is drenched in smoke, a shuddering rumble that stabs tight into your core when Price speaks. Your cunt throbs at the thought. "If you don't hurry up—"

"Alright, alright, cap." 

Rudy's behind you at the head of the table, hands roaming over your skin, smearing cum all over your flesh. He murmurs low, sweet words in Spanish you can't hear over the roaring in your ears when Gaz spreads your legs, cock nudging against your virgin hole. It's comforting, though. His presence is solid. Your hands grip his forearms, whining at the sting, the blunt pressure pushing into you. 

Soap groans. You can hear his voice to your left along with slick sounds of him touching his spent cock. 

"That's so fuckin' hot. Steamin' fucking Jesus—"

You're relaxed enough that Gaz slips inside without much of a burn. It feels strange: a heavy pressure, a slight sting. You're prepared enough that it's more foreign, and uncomfortable than it is painful. But it's—

Full.  

You moan when his hips buck shallowly, pushing more of him into your asshole. It's weird. It's strange. It's—

"How does it feel, love?"

Price's fingers fall on your throbbing clit. Alejandro's—you think, maybe; you can't see through the blurred tears in your eyes—push into your sopping cunt, groaning wetly at the lewd squelch of the cum inside of you. 

"It's—"

Belly full. A pressure unlike anything you'd felt before. Snug, and tight, and—

"Good," you whimper, arching your back. Your nipples are tugged. Pussy stuffed with three of Alejandro's fingers. Ass full of Gaz when he finally, finally, bottoms out with a moan. "It's so good—"

He fucks you slow, steady. Savouring the tight clench of you around him. 

Price works your clit, murmuring about how good you are. How pretty you look, full of cum and getting your ass stuffed with cock. 

"You were made for this, weren't you? Little cockslut."

It punches the air from your lungs when he hisses it into your ear. 

Gaz pushes the length of himself inside your ass, moaning about how tight you are. How he can't wait to fill you up. His hands fall, sliding over your ass cheeks until he brushes over the rim of your stretched hole, hips stuttering. 

"God," he chokes. "Fuck, you look good."

"Yeah, she does," Soap breathes, hands palming at your body, rough and hot and tacky with his release. They glide up the length of your body, pressing into your swollen mouth. "Open up for me."

His fingers taste of pennies when he pushes them against your tongue, stroking over your flesh. He thrusts them in tandem to the rolls of Gaz's cock splitting you deeply. It's a filthy crescendo of moans, grunts, the sloppy wet sound of your gummy mouth being fucked by three of Soap's fingers, and the lewd, fleshy snap of Gaz's pelvis and thighs slapping against yours. 

Rudy strokes your hair, pushing the tangled mess of it out of your eyes, and murmurs about how good you're being. The soft praise prickles over you like the warm glow from an altar candle. The heat makes your eyes burn, stinging with tears, and you take what they give you, and try not to get lost in the rapture of their flesh staining your skin. 

Price's finger pushes against your sensitive clit. Rudy's soft voice permeates around like burning incense. The heavy weight, the foreign slide, of Gaz stretching your channel makes you keen low in your throat, muffled by the messy drag of Soap's knuckles on the roof of your mouth. 

You cum again, shuddering from the billowing pleasure blanketing you from all sides, and fall into the embrace of Rudy's arms. Price's hands are a plinth on your hips, keeping you up, keeping you grounded, and Gaz works himself to completion, scorched words of bliss spilling from gritted teeth.

Soap leans down, tongue catching the mess spilling from your gaping mouth. Alejandro rubs your fluttering walls. It's intense. Overwhelming. You're surrounded by a dense smog of pleasure and musk: clove cigarettes, bayberry, oakmoss, and the thick tang of a wet, loam and humus forest. 

The drawling moan Gaz lets out makes your core ache. He buries himself deep, hips glued to the plush seam of your ass, and he spills deep inside of you. 

"Joder, cariño, you look good with your ass stuffed, eh?"

You can't speak around Soap's fingers. The only noise that spills is a sloppy, wet moan. 

Gaz presses kisses into your spine, slowly, slowly, pulling out of your ass. 

"Yeah, she does." He slurs, rubbing his chin over the small of your back. "Who's next?" 

Everything blurs into a fever dream of hands and tongues, and the delicious stretch of your cunt, your ass, as they stuff you full of them. Filthy words are whispered into your temple as they grow bolder with your body. 

Price gets you off just by slapping his palm over your clit until you clench around Rudy's cock. Soap licks up your tears, fingers pressed as far down your throat as he can get them, and murmurs how sexy you look full of cum. How he can't get enough of your tight cunt and pretty little hole.

You were made for them, Alejandro whispers, and pulls your hips down until you're seated on his cock. The blunt head of Rudy's cock soon presses to your wet asshole, bottoming out with a deep groan. His hands are reverent as they run across your flesh, choked whimpers falling out about how fucking stunning you look when you're stuffed to the brim. 

You sob between them as they share a messy kiss over your shoulder, grunting into each other's mouths as they ruin you. 

Gaz and Price drag you away soon after they finish, petting your messy hair away from your sticky, sweaty forehead, and splitting you apart between them. You scream into Price's chest as he holds the fat of your ass cheeks open for Gaz to rut into like a man starved for it. Possessed. He coos in your ear when Soap shoves his cock into your gaping mouth, choking you on the thick of him. So fucking good, love. Meant for this. After we'll run you a bath and you sit on my cock while I clean you up, hmm? 

You feel a little stripped down to the marrow, pulverised under their wanting hands; when Price presses into your womb, and cums again. The molten spume inside soothes the throbbing ache of your core. A debauched balm to a raw wound. 

It would be a lie to say you hate the way it feels to be so full of them. To have their taste in your tongue, sticking to the back of your throat, pooling in your belly, your pussy, your guts. You're full and sore and you feel like one massive contusion—broken and battered and barely clinging to sentience—when his cock slips free with a wet squelch. 

It's a little surreal, but—

Comfortable. It shouldn't be. It should be weird, and awkward, and—

Fuck. You had sex with five men in the span of several hours. Your teammates, your captain, no less. And yet. 

Yet:

You feel full in a way you'd never been before. Satiated and stupidly fucking happy. 

Price snorts when you lay back on the floor, a blissed-out smile tugging on the corners of your mouth.

"Liked it, did you?"

You don't have the capacity for speech. Words escape you. They can't seep through the salty mess in your throat. 

Instead, you moan—low and needy—and feel your belly quiver when Price's eyes flash. Smoke and embers. And when Alejandro groans aloud. When Rudy's hand trembles on your skin. When Soap's hand falls to his spent, softened cock, unable to stop the thrum of desire when you sound like you had the best meal in years. When Gaz shivers, and says please tell me we can play this game more often. 

It's good. It's—

Footsteps. A hush. A shadow falls over you.

Then: "decide to join in, after all, Lt?"

Ghost's hands are hot on your sensitive flesh.

He says nothing as he crouches down on the floor where Gaz and Price dragged you, but his eyes are liquid when he stares at the mess of you. Drenched, you're sure, in cum; it leaks down your chin, out of your sensitive, raw pussy, and your aching hole. Doused in their pleasure, and burning from the sting of their ardour. 

"Fuck, Lt," Soap murmurs, dazed. He'd spent himself on your face only moments ago, and when your glassy eyes fall to him, you find him staring fixed at the apex of your thighs where Ghost slots himself between. "You're gonna ruin her—"

You don't know what he means until you look back. The air in your lungs catches, eyes widening. He's huge. Fat and throbbing, prespend leaks down the absurd length of himself. It twitches when he catches you staring at him, sticky, numbed mouth dropping open. 

"S—sir—"

His hand slides, fists the base of himself. He taps the head of his cock against your quivering, sloppy cunt. "Can you take me, pet?"

Shit. Shit—

You don't think you can, not at all, but—

Slick noises around you. Grunts of pleasure. Murmured words. They want to see you split apart on his cock. Stuffed full. Your belly lurches. Heat simmers inside of you once again. 

Your trembling eyes find his, and you lay back against the floor, knees parting. Inviting. Your tongue rolls over your bottom lip. 

"Fill me up, sir—"

He snarls. 

Ghost doesn't wait. Doesn't touch you with softness, or reverence. His hands are branding, white-hot, when they fall to your thighs, pushing your knees to your chest. His eyes are glued to the messy seam of your cunt, spilling viscous cum down your ass until it pools below you in a puddle. 

You're wrecked. Ruined. You'd had all of them inside of you—your mouth, your pussy, your ass—except him, and your belly flips, head a muddled slurry of want, want, want as the fat head of his cock slips over the milky mess, catching on your ruined, red hole.

"Thought you got lost, Ghost," Alejandro says, words carrying secrets you can't make sense of. 

"Never." 

He pushes the mushroomed head into your cunt, rumbling at the give of your body as you part for him, sucking him in deep. Ghost fills you up until your belly bulges with the length of him. 

Soap moans at the sight. At the way you take the massive cock burrowing deep inside of you. 

They all seem to be enjoying the way he ruins you. Over the heft of his shoulder, the thick bracket of his arms, you see them all staring at the way he wrecks you. Batters your body with wet, sloppy noises spilling out. 

He fucks you slow: long, deep plunges into your core, gaze sliding in increments to your face, slack and tacky with lashes clumped together with an amalgamation of spittle and cum, and the stretch of your cunt swallowing him to the root. It's intense. Dizzying. 

You feel pushed past your breaking point: overarching beyond the mettle until you're a raw nerve exposed to the corrosive chemicals in the air. Split apart and reassembled into something new and vulnerable. You're chafed and aching, and it edges on painful, and blistering like a third-degree burn being rubbed against rough wool. But despite the sting, the graze still feels good when it itches over your inflamed skin. A balm that burns before it soothes. 

Ghost—Simon, now, you suppose since he's currently eight inches deep inside of your sore cunt—seems to somehow know. Maybe it's the hoarse crackle in your throat when he hits you deeply, or the exhausted droop of your eyes when he presses his weight against you, filling you up until he sits heavy in your chest, but he takes pity on your poor, battered body bursting with the molasses thick heft of euphoria that congeals inside of your marrow. His thrusts are punctured by the soft way he gazes at you. A physical weight to his stare slams into your chest with each roll of his hips, nudging you back to that steep precipice you'd dropped from so many times you'd lost count. 

The dance is familiar. 

But the gentle, almost possessive, way he touches you isn't. 

"Fuck, Lt. Can see you bulging through her belly." 

Soaps words are met with a rasping snarl, a brutal piston of his cock into your gummy, wrung-out walls. A hand falls to your belly, feeling the swell, and the pressure has phosphenes burning your eyelids when they snap shut at the heavy mist of pleasure that falls on you. 

You don't think you can cum again. Your head is a slurry of intense pleasure: gummy and stupid on the way they fucked the sense out of you. Synopses misfire. You feel like you're barely cognisant anymore. 

It's not good enough, though. 

His fingers find your clit, pressing against the tender nub until you're bucking against him, trying to get away from the agonising euphoria pounding through your core. 

"I want to feel you cum on my cock, pet." 

You can't—

You really can't. But he doesn't relent. He shoves himself into your quivering cunt until you see stars flash across your eyes, and the scent of nirvana permeates in the air. 

If you won't go willingly to the vertiginous edge, he'll drag you there instead.

A sharp thrust has your mind whiting out; the overstuffed feeling of being stretched to the brim sits heavy in your core. Your nails press into his shoulders, desperate to hang on to something tangible, real. They dig deeper until the moons flood with blood. It makes him groan—deep, low; rucked coals over open flames—and the noise has you reaching for Orion with your bare hands, mouth dropped low to catch the cosmic dust that permeates in the air between you. 

"Fuck—" a sharp whimper has him huffing into your neck, a satisfied noise he can't bite off, can't stifle. 

He likes it. Likes spreading you open, and watching you squirm. Likes the flash of pain that flickers across your face when he first kisses your drenched core with the fat head of his cock. Eyes wide, fixed on the scrunch of your brow, the wrinkles in your nose, the deep, punctured gasps that spill from your gaping mouth—he misses nothing, stare branding you.

It's the thick of him when it splits you apart, breaks you in half, that really captures his full attention. Stuffed to the brim, and clawing at him for respite from the way he fits inside of you; he takes it all in. Eyes never wavering. Liquid want flooding the bottom ring of his lower eyelids, a molten pool half hidden behind his lash line. He gazes down at you, fans of ash cresting over. 

And then when he bottoms out, when his cock is fully seated inside of your body that struggles to make room to fit him, he lifts his gaze. A perfect polynya. He stares at you, then, watching—almost placidly, impassively—as you grit your teeth from the burn of taking him to the root. A slow roll of his hips to test your mettle; a harsh grind of his cock nestled taut against the plug of your womb. It has you singing. 

A test of the water. A battering of the futile clutch you have over your sangfroid. He won't start until it breaks. Until it shatters. 

His hands are hot when they grasp the soft skin behind your knees, pointing them down toward your swaying chest as he fucks you open in deep, almost languid cants of his hips until you're grabbing at the ground, and mewling his name. Broken, now, by his cock. 

Simon is a storm. 

A gale. He ravages you until you're dizzy with the brutal way he takes you—and takes, takes, takes —and begging for mercy. 

None comes. 

You can't barter with a typhoon. Can't make deals with a hurricane. 

It hits. Breaching your shores with enough force to ruin. 

"Simon," it is whispered low, constricted. The air in your lungs is liquifying; condensation builds until you're choking. 

Another huff. He thrusts harder, head notching into something that has you lurching forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder. You spasm around him until he growls in your ear. 

His thighs widen, pitching his hips low as fucks into you, a touch savage. Your leg slips from his hold, the back pressed against the muscles of his beneath you. The coarse hair of his legs tickles your flesh. Goosebumps erupt. You shiver. 

The breath you gasp in is wispy, and thin. It isn't enough to quench the ache in your chest, but nor is it enough to truly let you slip into the throes of hypoxia. He brings you to the brink, lets you gaze over the edge of that unknown abyss, but refuses to let you any further. His grip is unyielding. It burrows into you. 

Like this, with black moulting over your vision and phosphenes glimmering in the cosmic yonder that stretches out in front of you, you can feel everything. There is a startling clarity that rocks through you. You can feel each ridge and vein of his cock as he slams it into you, prying your walls open as he steals all the air from your lungs.

"Shit—"

He cums with a grunt that sounds like it was dragged through barbed wire. Liquid pleasure blooms when you feel him twitch inside of you, and all you can do is cling to his massive shoulders as he rides you through the throes of bliss battering into your core. 

Eyes drink you in: wide in the pale moonlight that spills from the window, cut at the bridge of his nose by the mask, jowls snapping at you. He's bathed entirely in black; drenched in tenebrose. A Stygian being looming over you, taking its wares from the tight clutch of your body, and forcing the air from your lungs until it's filled with the scent of him, and nothing more. 

"You look good like this," he murmurs, eyes fever red and cosmic black. "Fuckin' hell, pet. You were made to be fucked, weren't you?" 

Your eyes roll back into your head at the gruff sin leaking from behind his mask. 

"Yes," you whimper, voice shredded and wrecked. He's not the only one who groans at the sound of you, ruined and aching. "Fuck, I love your cocks—"

It feels like the end. Like you'd been spat out on the wrong side of a tornado, and thrust into a battle you weren't, entirely, prepared for. 

But you won. There is victory in the ache that thunders through your joints. A hard-fought war that left you a victor in the middle of a burning no man's land. 

You can hear them around you. Price stroking your hair, and whispering about how good you were. Gaz and Soap huffing with exhausted laughter that sounds a touch delirious, as if they still couldn't quite wrap their heads around the act they were buried balls deep inside of you mere moments ago. 

Alejandro and Rudy mutter to each other in blistered Spanish. You hear the clink of bottles as they toast each other over a victory, and a fucking gangbang. 

They take turns touching you. Caring for you. Rudy makes you drink water, eyes melted chocolate—glossy and sleek with the remnants of pleasure. Aqui. He says, pressing the cool bottle to your sweat-slicked forehead. Aquas. Drink up, mi corazón. 

Alejandro supports your shoulders when you struggle to sit up and take a sip. Gaz has a towel pressed to your cheeks, cleaning up the flaking mess of dried cum and sweat. Soap's hands clench yours tight when the bottle shakes in your grasp. Price is there to hold it steady. 

Ghost hasn't taken his eyes off of you once since this started. You meet his stare, gloaming light shading everything in gold. He tips his chin. A promise in the obsidian cut of his eyes. 

Thought you got lost, Ghost—

Gaz huffs. Gems shatter. Crushed into shards that sit in the palm of your hand, waiting to be reassembled. 

(Someday, you think.)

"Best game of never have I ever, ever." 

He touches you like you're something special—a fine seashell plucked from the sandy shores; raw gold powder dusting his fingertips each time he glides them over your sateen flesh. It's too much sometimes—the pure love concentrate feels like it might one day swallow you whole, and you burn with the notion of being spat out on the opposite side, dazed and confused. Left bereft of his skin under your hands, his rapturous gaze on you. 

But he won't. 

He made it clear with the black box in his pocket, the one he has yet to present to you. It's been there since Alejandro whisked him away one afternoon, eyes burning fiercer than the scorching sun over the Cerro La Mota, and he came back, body buzzing and effervescent, limbs echoing with the clang of elation through his bones. He swept you in his arms, and you felt something in the canyon of his body. A change. 

You'd felt it in your marrow when he slung his jacket over the back of the couch, rolling his sleeves up as he made his way into the kitchen. 

Want some mole con Chile Guajillo y Ancho tonight, cariño? Alejandro and I went into town and got some fresh pollo y tomate. 

You hummed absently as he moved around the kitchen (no, no, go sit; I'll cook tonight—he says it every night, and you always acquiesce), and reached for his jacket. It fell, weighed down by something in his pocket. 

Your hands tangled in the hem, and you felt the outline of it tucked away. A secret for him to keep. You folded it back where it was, head spooling with molasses-thick love, a tangled web of cotton over your thoughts. It leaked down to your pericardium where it sits now, even still, congealed in the canyons of your chest. 

That was weeks ago. And now—

It's his birthday, and yet he treats the day as if it was yours. Something special for you. 

Alejandro made faces at him over the albondigas at dinner, and you pretended you couldn't infer the meaning in their wordless exchange. 

Steady, like everything else in his life. He commits wholly, entirely. He gives his all to something and leaves nothing spared. 

You don't rush him—the box is going nowhere, and neither are you. A ring on your finger is more so a symbolic object than it is anything tangible. It's not enough to qualify this. 

Rudy sits back, watching you—always, always watching you—and the fine dusting of pink on his cheeks makes your belly tingle with a new type of heat. A warmth that spreads from the capillaries in your heart all the way down to your toes. It's a basking warmth; a glow—like the dull, setting sun. 

"I—"

He shushes you softly, shaking his head. "No. This is about you, cariño. All for you."

You huff, the words it's your birthday stagnant on your tongue. It doesn't matter to him, not at all. He gives everything. Everything. And this is no different. 

His fingers slide under the curve of your knee, opening you up like an offering to Baal. 

The only time his eyes flicker away from yours is to stare, wide-eyed and wanting, at the apex of your thighs where he fits like a puzzle. 

"Eres tan Hermosa, cariño—," the words stuttered out of his chest; a whispered worble drenched in the tinge of worship. 

(Before him, you'd never known what it was like to be revered.)

You gasp his name out in a broken quiver, and he meets you in the middle, groaning your name in the same tone, the same hushed breath. His lips seal over yours, devouring the moans as if he was starved for them. 

Kissing him feels like pressing your lips to still water. Baptismal. You feel the filmed surface against your flesh, hot and heady, and open up for him, eager, wanting. His tongue slides over the seam, chasing the spice that lingers between your teeth. 

He tastes of bayberry and smells of incense. The elixir makes your head spin when he floods you with his potent miasma. You drink in the tang of heliotrope and mewl at the way he takes you apart with just his kisses—his tongue, his teeth. 

"Need you," he pants into your teeth, lips scraping across the ivory. "Need to be inside you."

Your legs spread, ankles locking over his thighs.

"I'm all yours."

And you are. Wholly. Completely. Always. Siempre. 

His cock nudges between your folds, slipping inside of you. Each inch feels like a blessing when it parts your flesh like it was made to fit. 

Your fingers curl into his firm biceps, your anchor amid a storm of pleasure, as he murmurs words spoken in broken English—chopped declarations of love, of completion, of finding serenity between your thighs. 

I was made for you, he says.

And you huff in response, a fractured gasp of pleasure, elation splintered at the seams because you were thinking the same thing. 

I was made for you, too. 

Two halves, joined. 

Rudy slots his hips to yours, bellies flush together, chest to chest, and his lips find yours once more. Interwoven limbs. Connected at all intervals. No gaps in the seams. 

(You think of geometry when his flesh slides against yours—a near-perfect fit—and wonder if soulmates really do exist.)

It's a coalescence of pleasure. Silhouetted bliss. You syphon Nirvana from the blunt head that presses into your gummy walls, and suffuse it into his joints until he melts into you. Liquid. Pliant. Giving, always giving. 

Another first—you'd never known what making love was until Rudy. Until he split you apart like an old bible, hands running down the scripture of your flesh like it was meant to be followed earnestly and unequivocally. He slips inside genesis and finds Arcady in your pores. 

It's a lesson in completion. Devotion. 

Each brush of him inside of you feels like whispered matins in a hushed hall. The clang of the organ strummed through the dome of Sainte-Chapelle. It reverberates through you until your bones sing with the aftershock. 

You cling to him, echoing his vespers into the plush, warmth of his lips, etching your gospel into his marrow until his eyes darken with empyrean thunderclouds, drenched in his fervour. 

He's a slow, methodical lesson in piety. Soft rolls of his hips, cock filling you to the brim, until ichor leaks from the corners of your eyes, and your mouth falls open against his, voice ringing with the shrill song of your unfettered dulia. 

He leads you up a staircase into the aether where the cosmos seeps into your flesh, igniting you with stardust and clouds of nebula. It's a steep incline; a meshing of atoms and molecules until the beginning of him and the end of you ceases. Until you're joined together; an elliptical galaxy, a merger. 

Rudy sinks into you deeper, his eyes misting cosmic dust that coruscates like fine copper in the radiant ochre haze that leaks in from the open window. He's stunning in bronze, and you're starved for the sun. 

Your fingers thread through his damp hair as he ruts into you, pulling him closer into your embrace until he's glued to you. Every atom touches, sparks. He reeks of fougère accord, olibanum, when you breathe him in, gasping in pleasure as he burrows deep inside you, blunt head kissing the seal of your womb. 

He speaks hushed words, offerings to Hēdonē, as he splits you apart and makes you whole again with each cosseted roll of his hips. 

His name tumbles from the seal of your lips, whispered into the gaps between his teeth. He bites down on it, an answering call that lures you in. Closer. Closer. 

His palms are slick when they lift from your hips, catching your wrists in a loose, warm grip. Your fingers spread when his slot between the gaps, hands tugged, and dropped to the pillow above your head. 

"Ahhhh, cariño—," his words are a low hiss, a feverish whimper. You swallow it down, and bask in the tang of his surrender. His eyes peel open, gazing at you. Perfect creosote circles, cresting in bliss. "I need you to cum from me—I need you to—"

It brims in your veins, liquid nirvana. He takes you to the edge of the galaxy, and watches as the cosmic wonder flashes across your eyes, hands linked with his as you meet samsara together. 

The divot in his brow is drenched in pleasure. Your hands grip his tight as he moves—a gentle current, a cascade—and the valley of bliss carved out in the wrinkles of his forehead makes you ache, make you mould your body, pliant and liquid, into each crevasse carved from porphyry. 

He pulls you along, sweeping you through the motions with each steady rock of his body against yours. Full, and soft, and pleasure drunk on a heady elixir of this, of him, you mewl his name, an orison, and find yourself flowing through welkin clouds. 

Ecstasy bleeds, molten and liqueur-rich, from each gorge in his canyons, pouring over you, and filling in the gaps that remain. Sealed in euphoria, together in perfect symmetry, he drags you to the very brink until the waves crest, Seabreeze clings to your skin in glimmering droplets. 

The clench of you around him, the utterance of his name when it slips through the gap of your teeth, make him groan, make him call out to you in the same tone, the same taste of Elysian Fields on his tongue. 

Rudy cums with a bitten-off whimper. A moan, low and satiated, when he spends himself within you. Liquid heat, potent and brassbound in devotion. 

It's poetry when he cums, you think, dazed and edging into that precipice of madness and euphoria, hysterical on the slow simmer of fine wine coursing through your veins. 

It's scripture, gospel when his eyes drop, mouth pressed tight to the corner of your lips, panting your name in a hymnal chant over and over again as he ruts further and further inside the haven of your body. 

You drink him in, catching the fleeting taste of incense on his tongue when he presses his lips to yours, fervid and quivering. Each shudder of his large frame rattles through you like an echo through your hollow valleys, shaking your bones until you're humming with the same tune. 

"Cariño," it's a tumultuous quake, an aftershock of potent devotion.

He says nothing else—simply content to enjoy the moment lolling through you. 

You huff, tongue sweeping over the sweat beading beneath the curve of his lower lip. Salty-sweet. Lemon zest and cinnamon sugar. You drink him in, eyes heavy set and puddling with the warm ochre glow of his body glued, stuck, to yours. 

Your legs lock around his waist. He peppers you in messy, sweaty kisses that make you giggle at the way it tickles your flesh. 

It's sunkissed heat. Moments stolen on the veranda in the mid-morning dew. The weight of his hand on your shoulder, the soft ardour in his gaze when it flickers to you. Sipping coffee over a shared plate of huevos rancheros, and watching the sun break through the plume of clouds low over the distant mountains. It's his hand slipping into yours. His arm around your waist when you walk through the streets. His eyes on you, always.

Sneaking kisses just because he can. Touches and brushes of his fingers over your skin until you feel bereft of comfort without his fingerprints on your flesh. 

Its—

"Love you," you murmur into the crease of his nose. "So, so much—"

He presses his sweat-slicked forehead to you, eyes burning with the smouldering heat of his love, and says: will you—

You cut him off with a kiss, whispering always into his enamel. 

The cut of his grin is drenched in adulation. The sunset over empyreal blue, dusting the Cerro Potosí peaks in bronze. It's superlunary bliss in the palm of your hands, and you echo it with your own. 

(You think of cyclicity when he slips the ring on your finger, a perfect fit. His hand in yours, fingers spooled in red thread. You know, then, that soulmates really do exist.)

Alejandro greets you with a tight hug around your middle, head tucked into your neck. 

"So, he finally grew some balls, eh?"

He pulls back, slaps Rudy on the shoulder, eyes glowing under the tinted glasses he wears. Rudy meets his gaze, a smile wider than you'd ever seen tugging on his lips. It wobbles. Both of theirs do. 

Alejandro sniffs, and turns his head, but it does nothing to stop the mist that gathers along his lash line. Rudy shakes his head, his wrist digging into his eyes. You turn, tucking the private moment into the folds of your heart when you see another wordless conversation play out between them. 

After a moment, Alejandro jerks his head around, grinning. "You'll finally be señorita Parra."

Rudy's cheeks dust vermillion. The tension in his shoulders ease as if this, too, was a moment he was savouring. 

Your smile is the first touch of sunshine after a monsoon. "I would have waited forever."