𝔖𝔱𝔲𝔠𝓀 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝓎𝔬𝔲 Resident evil men x male reader
Summary: multiple scenarios with the trope ‘stuck in a hole’ with various RE men.
Tags: No use of Y/N. Male reader. Dubious consent. Dark Leon Kennedy. Dark Chris Redfield. Dark Ethan Winters. Dark Carlos Oliveira. Dark Piers Nivans. Top Leon Kennedy. Threesome and double penetration (Chris and Piers scenario). Top Chris Redfield. Top Piers Nivans. Gentle dom Ethan Winters. Dom Carlos Oliveira. smut. Anal sex. Size kink. Breeding.
A very old request that I got
Words count: 10000 (2500 per character)
ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
ℒℯℴ𝓃 𝒦ℯ𝓃𝓃ℯ𝒹𝓎
Those tunnels under what used to be Raccoon City smelled green with a sharp acrid undertone you'd come to associate with the things growing down here.
Condensation rolled down the curved concrete ceiling and dripped into dark puddles.
Leon walked point, muzzle of his gun sweeping low.
Every couple of steps your boot would scuff a chunk of broken concrete, or your sling would tap your hip. Leon never said anything, just turned his head a fraction every time it happened with the corner of one blue eye catching you in his periphery, checking.
"Behind me," he murmured for maybe the fourth time in twenty minutes.
"Already am."
"Closer."
You closed the gap and the back of his tac vest was sweat-dark between the shoulder blades.
Vines were on the walls.
You'd been seeing them since the stairwell, thin at first and no thicker than a finger, threaded through the cracks in the concrete.
They got bigger as the tunnel got deeper, now as fat as your wrist and woven thick across the right-hand passage.
Worse, they were moving and had a mouth, pink puckers ringed with rows of needle teeth, exhaling a thin acrid mist.
One of them spat as Leon stepped past and it hit the wall behind you with a hiss.
"Don't shoot 'em," Leon said quietly. "Conserve ammunition, knife if you have to."
"I know, Leon."
He didn't look back and held up his free hand to make an easy gesture, palm down.
You'd been told a hundred times in the last forty-eight hours to conserve every shell in his shotgun and round in your pistol for the bigger threats.
The vines that blocked the path went in clusters of one or two and Leon would step up and pin one with his gloved hand at the neck just below the head, vine trashing and bleeding thick green sap from the wounds caused by his hatchet before going limp.
By the fourth tangle you had the rhythm of it and Leon let you take the lead on the cutting once you'd proven you could do it without flinching, the closest thing to praise he was going to give you today.
It was after the eighth or ninth tangle that you saw the light at the far end of a long, straight stretch of tunnel.
Then you stepped over what looked like a crack in the concrete but was a root instead half-buried in the floor with only the top arc of it exposed.
You'd been told to watch the floor as well as the walls and your boot came down on the top of it with all your weight, causing it to spam.
Everything happened in one motion.
The root whipped up out of the floor with a crack of concrete dust and something erupted out of a seam in the wall to your left.
A vine as thick as your thigh, knotted with mouths and took you around the ribs.
It hit you so hard the breath came out of you in a single huff.
One coil, two, three, wrapping with sickening speed and pinning your arms, knife still in your hand but pinned against your own thigh, your feet leaving the floor as it lifted your body 10 feet up, pressure starting instantly and your ribs creaked, vision starting to fog at the edges.
You couldn't get a breath in past the coil at your diaphragm as a big mouth on the vine opened wide right in front of your face, dripping green acid and uncurling toward your throat.
A clack of Leon pumping a fresh shell into the chamber striking the thing about two inches from the soft pink palate inside that gaping mouth, making the mouth explode into a wet green spray that splattered the ceiling and your jacket, rest of the vine convulsing, coils tightening on you in a brutal spasm and then the whole thing went over sideways, slamming you down with it.
Concrete met your shoulder, wind knocked out of you again as the dead vine kept its grip.
You'd half-expected it to relax with the way dead things relax but this was a plant, not a person, stored in charge of turgor pressure and contraction proteins that had nowhere to discharge to.
Every cellulose fiber in it had locked.
Rigor mortis with a body wrapped in a corpse.
You lay on your stomach on the wet concrete, one cheek pressed to the floor, dead coils crushing you flat from shoulder blades to ankles.
You could still move your fingers and wrist but not your arm, resulting in the knife you were clutching tightly being completely useless.
"…Fuck," you tried to wiggle, arching your back as much as the vine would let which was maybe two degrees and you tried to corkscrew your shoulders.
It was thicker around than your torso.
You held out for another thirty seconds of useless squirming, sweat starting to bead at your hairline, pride doing a lot of the heavy lifting.
"Leon."
Silence.
"Leon. Leon. Get over here."
You heard his footsteps, reloading his shotgun and watching you struggle.
"Yeah?" His voice sounded almost bored. "What do you need?"
You glared up at him as best you could from your position and he was backlit by the bright light at the end of the tunnel, hair hanging in his eyes slightly.
"Use that hatchet." You bit it out, ribs hurting. "Cut me out."
He didn't move.
"…Leon. The thing on your belt. Cut me out."
You waited for him to help you, say another one of his one liners or do anything.
A crunch of gravel came as he lowered himself to one knee beside you.
You couldn't see what he was doing with him behind your line of sight, somewhere down by your hip.
The vine had you pinned face-down, cheek to the floor and one arm folded under you with the other that splayed out with the knife still loose in your fingers.
His hand settled on the back of your thigh, sliding them slowly up the inside of your thigh, a wave of goosebumps crested at the back of your neck and made every hair on your scalp stand up.
"Y'know," he said in a low voice, "I can't actually remember the last time I saw you like this."
His hand kept moving, pad of his thumb tracing a line up the seam of your inseam and your hips tried to jerk but couldn't.
"Helpless, after another one of your stunts.” He clarified.
"Leon—"
"And I told you to stop doing this. You can't keep getting in front of me. I'm the one with the gun who's been doing this since forever. You stay behind me. And what do you do?"
His hand reached the top of your thigh, back of his knuckles brushing the curve of your ass through your pants.
"You get trapped by a plant right after another distraction.l
"Leon, it was concealed, I couldn't—"
"Mm."
His hand settled, flat, on the curve of your ass, palm big with the span of it covering more than half of one cheek. He squeezed to make his point and your whole body lit up.
"I think," he said, "I'm gonna take this opportunity to teach you a lesson about who's in command and who you listen to."
A spike of pure shocked heat went through you, followed by a delayed, panicked surge of ’no, absolutely not, this is not happening.’ You jerked against the vine again and nothing moved, face burning where it pressed against the wet concrete.
"You—" Your voice came out higher than you wanted. "You are not serious, Leon. Get that damn hatchet. We're in the middle of a mission!”"
"Mm-hm."
"Even if there was a world where I'd be up for it, I am literally pinned, Leon, I cannot move, you absolute arrogant, smug, condescending—"
You were working yourself up to a real head of steam and say things you couldn't take back.
He shifted and moved his weight smoothly and straddled the dead vine, kneeling between your spread-pinned legs, hips lowering down toward yours to press forward until the heavy bulge in the front of his tac pants pressed flush against the cleft of your ass through your own.
You stopped talking at the feeling of him hard and big, full weight of him settling against your hole through two layers of fabric, length of him dragging along the seam of your pants as he ground down once, a single unhurried roll of his hips that pressed the ridge of his head right against the spot where, even through cotton and webbing, your body knew exactly what it was being offered.
Every word in your head evaporated, mouth open as he let you feel him there, vine creaking faintly around your ribs as your body tried to push back into the pressure.
His hand was still on your ass and he squeezed a little harder this time.
"Are you done?" he asked, quietly.
You couldn’t answer, light at the end of the tunnel went on flickering its bright end, indifferent.
"…I'll take that as a yes."
You stayed quiet, lying there with your cheek pressed to the wet concrete and the corpse of a vine welding you to the floor, heavy ridge of his cock stopping in the grinding at the seam of your pants into your hole.
"That’s a good listening."
His hand left your ass and you heard the soft rasp of leather as he unbuckled something at his hip, followed by a heavy thunk of the hatchet head sinking into the dead vine somewhere up by your shoulder blades.
Three hard strikes and the coil around your upper back loosened, soon after the one around your ribs and that one across your ass.
He left a thick stub of vine pinning your shoulders and one arm pinned to the floor.
You understood the geometry of what he'd just done before your brain put it into words as he left you face-down, arms pinned and hips free.
"Leon—"
"Shh." He didn't even look up, setting the hatchet down beside your head.
A reminder, maybe.
"I told you. M’ teaching you a lesson."
His hands came back to you, settling on your hips and sliding up under the hem of your jacket, palms hot through the thin moisture-wicking shirt underneath as he ran them up the length of your back inside the vest.
He found the dip of your spine just above your ass and pressed his thumb into it, hard, your hips arched into his hand involuntarily.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "That's what I thought."
"I haven't said yes to anything," you hissed into the concrete.
"You haven't said no, either." His voice was so calm and flat.
“Tell me to stop and I stop. Just tell me to stop."
You opened your mouth and closed it just as fast.
He gave you ten full seconds before the small breath of a laugh breezed over the back of your neck and his hands went to the waistband of your tac pants.
Flipping the button with his thumb and dragging the zipper down, hooking his fingers into the waistband and boxers at the same time to peel both of them down to mid-thigh area, cold air of the tunnel hitting your bare ass and the back of your thighs.
"Mm." Leon's voice, from above and behind, was appraising. "Look at you."
His hand settled, palm-flat, on your bare ass and squeezed almost painfully as his fingers spread, kneaded once and then his thumb dragged down the cleft of your ass and slid down between your legs.
"Oh, sweetheart."
"Don't—" his hand wrapped around your erected dick.
"Christ. How long have you been like this?" He sounded almost amused.
"Shut up."
His thumb dragged forward all through the veins and circled on the leaking tip.
Your hips jerked, dead vine creaking.
"Leon.“
"I'm just askin'." Another slow drag.
He was barely touching your cock and you were already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from making sounds. "You don't have to answer. Your dick’s already telling me everything I need to know."
You made a noise supposed to be a curse that came out as something else entirely.
Hearing fabric between the clink of his own belt and rasp of his fly yet you couldn't see, cheek pressed to the concrete and your view was a wall.
Those noises your hindbrain put together from the audio were doing things to you.
His bare cock dragged, hot and heavy, across the curve of your ass.
You felt the weight from sheer mass of it as he laid it down along your crack and let it rest there.
You'd suspected he had always been this big, having caught glimpses of the outline of him through his pants on a hundred occasions when you weren't supposed to be looking, but suspecting and feeling were two different things.
The head of him was up at the small of your back, base of him was nudging your taint thick enough that when he gave a slow experimental roll of his hips and dragged himself along, you felt your cheeks part around the girth of him.
"Oh my god," your words got muffled by the floor.
Leon made a low, pleased sound. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, you feel that?"
Trying to wiggle your body to get more friction but nothing occurred.
"That's what you've been mouthing off to for two years." Another slow drag and the wet head of him left a sticky line on your skin. "You feel how much of me there is, sweetheart? You think your smart fuckin' mouth is gonna keep being smart with this inside you?"
"You're so full of shit," you ground out and it would have been more cutting if your voice hadn't broken in the middle of it.
"We'll see." He laughed quietly before shifting and taking himself in hand, knuckles brushing the inside of your thigh as he dragged the fat head of his cock down through the cleft of your ass, over your hole and coating himself in you.
Every time it bumped your hole you twitched and the vine creaked, bulky man above humming a satisfied little hum.
He notched himself at your entrance under heavy pressure resting there.
"Last chance," he said quietly. "Say stop."
You didn't, mouth open against the concrete and letting you taste tunnel grit along your own breath together with the faint chemical sweetness of vine sap, feeling that obscene blunt pressure, body already trying to open for him on its own without your permission and the word stop was nowhere in your head.
Leon waited a beat longer, then he pushed, slow and steady.
The head of him stretched you, rim burning around the flare of him and your whole pelvis was lighting up with the strain before it popped past, the widest part of him breaching and you choked on a sound that wasn't a word.
He kept going, sinking deep and letting you feel every ridge and vein on the underside of him dragging along your front wall. He was so thick you could feel the walls of your hole straining around him in a stretch that was right at the edge of too much and he just kept coming, giving one last firm press of his hips, pelvis meeting your ass and you realized he'd bottomed out.
You were so full your eyes were watering, dick throbbing on the ground below as he twitched in a heavy pulse that matched your heartbeat.
Leon was very still on top of you.
He'd lowered down, chest against your back through the layers of your clothes and his mouth was somewhere near your ear.
The bastard wasn't even winded.
"There," he murmured. "There we go, breathe.“
You sucked in a shaking breath.
"Good." His hand slid up your side and along the underside of your arm, fingers lacing loosely with the hand that was still holding the knife. He squeezed. "Took the whole fuckin' thing."
"You're an asshole—"
"Mm." Almost fond. "I know."
He pulled out but not all the way, just the head was inside you now before he began fucking you.
The first stroke knocked the air out of you with how deep he went again with the full length of him sliding back into the root with one long unbroken push and your whole body shuddered around the intrusion.
He set a pace that was torturous to say the least, every thrust a full-length drag in and out of you, pressing his pelvis tight to your ass and making the dead vine creak under your shoulders.
"This," he said, low, his mouth at your ear, "is what you should've been getting two years ago."
You made a noise supposed to be a word.
"This is what happens," another deep stroke, "when you can't keep your fuckin' mouth shut," another, "and you can't follow simple instructions," another, "and you keep stepping in front of me like you're the one with seniority here."
"Ah—Leon!"
"Quiet." Firm, same voice he used in the field. "I'm talking."
He kept fucking you with consistency, every withdrawal pulled a slick squelch out of you.
Thighs and hands shaking, the one still tangled in his was squeezing his fingers white.
"You feel that?" he murmured. "Feel how deep I'm getting?"
"Y-yes—"
"Yes what."
"Yes— yes Leon—" You made a strangled sound into the concrete and he laughed quietly above.
"Good boy." Another deep stroke and his hand left yours to cup the back of your skull, holding your cheek firm against the concrete. "Good. Now. Tell me who's in command."
"You are—"
"Mm-hm."
"You are—"
"And who do you listen to."
"You.”
"And what are you gonna do," another stroke, harder this time, hips snapping forward and his pelvis cracking against your ass with a slap, "the next time I tell you to stay behind me."
"I'll—" Another slap. You couldn't get the words out, he was fucking the breath out of you.
“Fuck, Leon, I want you," another brutal thrust, his hand fisting suddenly in your hair.
He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in to the hilt, over and over, pelvis cracking into your ass with a hard wet slap every time, sound of it ringing off the concrete walls of the tunnel.
Your cheek dragged against the floor with every thrust, pecs aching where they were crushed under your weight.
"I'm— I'm gonna—"
"Yeah?" His hand left your hip and slid under between you and the floor and his fingers found your dick, pressing down on it, hard and ground the pad of his middle finger into it in tight circles at the top of the head in time with his thrusts. "You gonna come?”
"Yes—fuck!" Out of nowhere your whole body locked up in one long convulsion that started in your hole and rolled outward through every muscle you had.
You clamped down on him so hard he grunted, hips jerking back into him on their own, riding the thrust, milking him, hole fluttering and squeezing in waves that didn't seem to want to stop.
He fucked you straight through it as he kept that brutal pace going, his fingers still grinding your pulsing cock.
He went tight all over, hips slamming flush against your ass one last time and staying there, pressed hard as he came inside you in long hot pulses that you could feel, heat of him filling you up in spreading flooding pumps that just kept coming.
A low broken groan against the side of your neck, forehead dropping to your shoulder and his whole big warm weight settling down onto your back as he emptied himself into you.
His big body draped over your smaller one, weight pinning you almost completely.
"…Okay?" he murmured, after a while.
The question was so quiet and sudden that you almost laughed.
"…Yeah."
"Mm."
"…My ribs hurt."
"Yeah." He kissed the side of your neck. "Yeah, I bet they do."
He pulled out then and you whined at the empty drag of him, cum sliding out of you in a thick hot rush, down between your thighs.
Rasp of fabric as he tucked himself away and his hatchet was in his hand, working you free.
When you were loose he turned you over gently and gathered you up against his chest.
You were a mess and he didn't seem to care about any of it.
"You did good," he said quietly, into your hair.
"…Don't you start."
"Mm." A breath of a laugh. "Fair."
"You good to move?"
"…Yeah."
"Behind me," he said.
You swallowed.
"Yes sir."
The corner of his mouth moved.
"Good boy."
ℰ𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒲𝒾𝓃𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓈
The bayou stank of rot before you even reached the Baker estate.
You remembered telling Ethan as much, slouched in the passenger seat of his Dodge Challenger 1970, swamp pressing in yellowish on both sides of the dirt road.
He'd laughed at you in a tired way considering all the hours you had been inside his car to get to Louisiana, soft laugh that always made your chest do something stupid and reminded you that you didn't have to come but you'd insisted anyway because Mia was his wife and you'd liked her well enough back when she was around, but the truth you kept locked behind your teeth was simpler and uglier: you didn't trust Ethan to come back alone.
Having been in love with him since college.
Mia was in the basement of this place.
The first wrong thing.
Second one was that she remembered you, recognized Ethan, right away told you that someone she mentioned ‘daddy’ was coming.
Ten minutes later her veins went black, voice dropping two octaves and she threw you into the wall first, skull bouncing off old wood.
By the time you scrambled up, she had Ethan pinned by the wall and the noise of a chainsaw starting was the worst thing you had ever heard.
His hand came off and there was so much blood as you helped him up on his feet and pressed the wound to reduce blood loss.
Up in the attic there was a gun that Ethan used and emptied the magazine into his wife's forehead, making her drop on the ground while yelling how she loved him, before seeming presumably dead.
She had taken an axe to the neck and came back in no problem so you had a feeling this won’t be the last time you’d see her.
You remember Ethan staring at his own wrist where his hand used to be and remembered a big shape filling the frame.
“Welcome to the family, son.”
Jack Baker hit Ethan first, then he hit you and you’ve reached floor level.
When Ethan came to, he was tied to a dining room chair, severed hand stapled back to his wrist with industrial staples. The pain was distant with shock taking almost all the glory, body smarter than his head for once.
"Who are you?" he croaked at the disturbing family consuming human’ remains.
The chair next to him was empty.
"Hey. Hey— where is he? Where the fuck is he?"
Ethan process the next two hours quite rapidly between freeing himself, a cop dying right in front of him, a lot of shooting and phone calls with a woman trying to help him and herself escape this nightmare.
Under all of it was the same five words drumming in his skull.
‘Where the fuck is he.’
He searched and kicked open every door in the main house, mostly looking for you, calling your name in a hoarse whisper because something in him still thought the Bakers might not have noticed there was a second guest.
You weren't anywhere.
The phone in the trailer rang and he'd been told to come here by Zoe who had the missing head to make the cure.
"Heyyyy buddy." Lucas Baker's voice was a smear of grease and giggle. "I thought you should know, I decided Zoe needed a little time out. She and Mia are here with me. They’re keeping each other company.”
Ethan’s grip tightened around the receiver until plastic creaked. “Just let them both go. What do you need them for?”
“Nah-nah-ahhhh.” Lucas’ voice curled through the line like smoke. “This is family business, Ethan, and not your concern, understand?”
"Where is he, Lucas."
"Whoa whoa whoa, no how's it hangin'? Rude."
"Where. Is. He."
A long, theatrical sigh on the line followed by a giggle that crawled down Ethan's spine.
"Aw, you mean your little tagalong? Hooo boy. He's fine, Ethan. He's so fine… right here with me, actually." A pause, wet sound of Lucas licking his lips into the receiver. "Real pretty thing, ain't he? Didn't know you swung that way, big man. I mean, I don't blame you."
Ethan's grip on the receiver creaked.
"He's mine, by the way. I'm callin' dibs. Y'know, finders keepers."
"Lucas—"
"Nah nah nah, lemme finish. Bet your best friend's been pinin' for that big dumb dick of yours for years and you ain't never even looked. That's sad, dude."
"I am going to kill you."
"Awww really? Come on I made a gift for you! I got him all set up nice in the barn. You wanna see him again? Better hustle, hero. He's been askin' for you."
The line went dead and Ethan stood there in the trailer with the phone still pressed to his ear.
His staple-stitched hand was twitching, knuckles of his good hand white.
He left the trailer at a dead run.
The barn squatted on the edge of the property, a sagging structure of black timber and rusted hinges.
Sickly-sweet fungal stink hit his senses.
"…Ethan?"
Your voice cracked, muffled by something and coming from the back of the barn.
"I'm here," he said, and his throat closed up around it. "I'm here, just hold on!"
He rounded the stack of moldering hay bales and stopped.
There was a wall of plywood and two-by-fours hammered together, reinforced with steel banding and bolted into the barn's original beams.
It bisected the back of the barn floor-to-ceiling and in the middle of it, set at exactly the height of a man's hips, was a hole where he found you on the other side of the wall.
He could see your bare lower back, dip of your spine and curve of your ass where your jeans had been yanked down to mid-thigh along with your boxers shoved down.
Your hips were flush against the wood and there were leather straps bolted to either side of the hole that fastened around your thighs and waist, holding you locked in place at exactly the right depth, legs splayed back on the far side, bare feet braced uselessly against the dirt floor he couldn't see.
Your bare cheeks, cleft of your ass and pucker twitching glistening with either oil or lube and Ethan made a sound in the back of his throat.
"Ethan?" Your voice again, from the other side of the wall, thin and panicked. "Ethan is that you, please tell me that's you, I can't see anything."
"It's me. I'm here."
A speaker crackled to life from somewhere in the rafters.
"Awwww." Lucas. "Look at that. My heart, Ethan. Y'all are killin' me."
Ethan jerked his pistol up at the ceiling.
"Put the peashooter down for now and listen to your old buddy Lucas. I got a game for ya."
"Let him go."
"Mm. Nope." The giggle dropped out of his voice for a half-second and underneath was something colder. "I built that little contraption myself. Real proud of it. You see them tubes on the walls?"
Ethan looked and around the perimeter of the barn, snaked up the support beams, were translucent plastic tubes the diameter of a man's wrist. Inside them, sluggish and black and pulsing, was that same black mold.
"Those," Lucas chirped, "are on a timer. Ten minutes from when I stop talkin', they pop. Whole barn fills up with those monsters and they'll eat him from the feet up, eat you from anywhere they can reach."
"You're insane."
"And you're wastin' time! Tickety tock! There is, of course, a way to turn it off." A pause for effect. "Sensor in the hole, Ethan. Heat sensor set up so it deactivates the timer if there's a real specific kinda activity happenin' in there. Y'know. Activity."
Silence.
"…I am not," Ethan said slowly, "going to—"
"You are absolutely gonna. 'Cause if you don't, he dies and honestly, Ethan, I'd kinda prefer that, so part of me hopes you say no. But the other part of me wanna see his face when his big strong best friend finally gives him what he's been wantin'. Pick a lane, hero. Clock's tickin'."
The speaker got destroyed the second Ethan fired his gun repeatedly at it and the psycho’s presence was gone from this place.
"Ethan, don't listen to him, just find another way.”
He stood there, pistol hanging at his side and staring at the bare curve of your ass through the hole in the wall along the slick of lube smeared on you.
You had wanted him this whole goddamn time?
He stepped forward, barn floorboards creaking under his boots and set the pistol down on top of a hay bale within easy reach.
Behind the wall, you made a sound he'd never heard you make before.
A small, wanting sound when someone wants something the most in the world, is finally happening and it's completely wrong.
He stepped up to the hole and could feel the heat of you through the wood, that cologne you wore still strong and within his senses to pick up.
His staple-stitched hand came up and settled, careful and warm, on the small of your back.
You flinched. Then you pushed back into his touch.
"I'm here," he said, very softly, to the wall between you.
The timer in the tubes overhead began, faintly, to tick.
Ticking from the tubes overhead was soft at first, irregular pulse that Ethan counted under his breath without meaning to.
Roughly one tick a second, he'd done worse math under worse pressure in the last twenty-four hours.
His staple-stitched hand was still resting on your back, your skin was hot.
"Listen…" he kept his voice low. "I need you to listen to me real careful, okay? Can you do that?"
"…Yeah." Muffled through whatever was over your head, possibly a heavy fabric hood. "Yeah, I can hear you."
"There’s stuff in tubes all around the walls. He says they pop in ten minutes if I don't— if I don't do what he wants."
“Oh.”
"I'm gonna look for another way." His good hand was already moving, sweeping the wall on his side, fingers tracing the seams of the plywood. "There's gotta be a kill switch, or a wire… i don’t know just keep talking. What did he do to you? Did he hurt you?"
A long, shaky inhale on your end. "He knocked me out in the kitchen and I woke up here and he was talking the whole time, Ethan, he wouldn't shut up about you and me. About how I could help him in a sick game of his."
Ethan's fingertips found a bolt of steel he couldn't pry it out with his nails.
"Can't you find maybe a crowbar, or you have your gun, you could—"
"I'm looking. Keep talking."
His hand traced higher, the wall went all the way to the rafters and the studs were bolted into the original posts of the barn.
He could maybe shoulder it down, given an hour.
He stepped back and looked at the six tubes again, each one fed into a central junction box mounted high on the back wall, behind the partition that was holding you.
There was a power cord snaking out of the junction box and running along the rafter, coming down a support post and disappearing into a wall outlet near the barn door.
A wall outlet, two-prong wall outlet.
"Ethan?"
"I'm here. I'm thinking. Keep talking."
"What are you thinking?"
He looked at the outlet and at the tubes.
He had a magazine and a half left, the outlet was maybe twenty feet away. If he unplugged it, would that kill the timer, or trigger it early?
So. Don't cut power but the cord downstream of the timer, jump the contacts, bypass it.
He could use the pocket knife he had and currently less than nine minutes left.
But he could get there, climb up and the timer would die without Lucas knowing. Even if he had a remote control far away he wouldn’t be able to do shit.
As long as the heat sensor in the hole stayed warm and busy nothing suspicious should happen.
There was the problem of the psycho who could have placed something hidden for audio quality.
The risk of Lucas hypothetically figuring out Ethan’s plan and activating an hypothetical existing shortcut to your demise was bot something he was going to risk.
Ethan's mouth went dry.
He could save you without fucking you.
He could also fuck you.
He could do both in the right order if the sensor only needed a body.
Looking at you through the hole and the slick clutch of your hole, twitching with each breath, heat and pressure sensor presents.
If he could keep something warm and snug pressed inside you, the sensor would keep reading positive while he was working on the rafters.
His own cock stuffed in you to the root would do that beautifully.
Okay. New plan.
Fuck you, get Ethan's free hand to the pistol and one very well-placed shot through the junction box at exactly the right angle to short the timer without sparking the mold.
Ethan exhaled.
"Okay," he said to you, low. "I think I see a way, but I need you to trust me. Can you trust me?"
"…Always."
It was such a small word that hit him deeply.
"Then I need you to know two things." He stepped close to the hole again, until his hips were almost touching the wood. "I'm gonna do what he says… I'm so sorry. I don't see another move yet and the clock's running… but you don't have to do anything. Okay?"
A long silence on the other side of the wall.
"…Is there really nothing else? Like — couldn't you just put your fingers in me? Would that count? The sensor maybe just needs heat, maybe—"
"Maybe."
"—or— or what if I— I don't know, what if I, like, faked it, what if we made the right sounds and—"
"Hey."
You went quiet and he waited, letting the silence sit, interrupted only by the ticking of the tubes.
"You don't have to pretend you don't want it." He said finally, very gently.
Your breath caught in a sharp inhale.
"I'm not—"
"Lucas told me." He didn't say it cruelly. He said it like a confession. "On the phone. He told me how you wanted me."
Silence.
"…Oh."
"Yeah."
"…I'm sorry."
"Don't." His voice cracked, just a little.
In his pants his cock, which had been at half-mast since he'd first seen you through the hole, gave a hot, demanding throb.
A strange feeling of years of denial folding up and being put away.
The feeling of a man learning, in the worst possible circumstances, that he had been loved for a very long time.
"I'll take care of you, I promise. You don’t have to pretend.”
A long, shaky exhale on your end, fight going out of you in one slow breath.
"…Okay. Ethan, please."
His cock kicked again in his pants and he undid his fly, button popping and zipper sliding down and his half-hard length flopped out into the air of the barn thick and already flushed dark, weeping a fat bead of pre at the slit.
He was big and you were about to feel it.
Spitting into his good hand and wrapping it around himself, working slow strokes from root to tip as be watched himself fatten up the rest of the way in his own fist, veins more visible along the shaft, foreskin pulling back tight and thick enough around that he had to spread his thumb and middle finger to span it.
“You tell me if it's too much and I'll stop, promise to find another way."
"…You won't have to."
"What?"
"…I want it." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I've wanted it for so long, please just give it to me, I'll take whatever you give me, please—"
Something hot and dark unspooled in Ethan's chest and he stepped up flush against the wall.
He gripped the base of his cock in his good hand and lined the fat, drooling head up against your slick, twitching hole. The heat of you radiated against his glans before he even made contact until he pressed and his cockhead nudged against the pucker.
"Hnnh… god, Ethan," a sound of pure want from your mouth.
Huge like that just from the tip and he pushed, staple-stitched hand had come up to grip your hip through the hole, fingers splaying across the soft flesh of your flank to hold you steady as he worked.
Whatever oily slick had you opening for him slowly, ring of your hole stretching wider and wider around his cockhead, fat flare of his glans popping past your rim and you screamed (not from agony).
"Ethan—Ethan, oh— oh fuck!"
His hand on your hip squeezed, he could feel you pulsing and fluttering in trying to figure out what to do with the intrusion all while giving you a full minute to adjust to pushing again.
He fed himself into you in patient slides and never withdrew, just more and deeper, your hands somewhere on the other side of the wall scrabbling at the wood.
"Halfway." His voice was wrecked.
"Halfway?" It came out as a sob. "Halfway— Ethan, I can't, I can feel you in my— oh god, oh god—"
"You can, you said you'd take whatever I gave you."
"…I did."
"C'mon. Take it for me."
Another long, slow push and your inner muscles clutching at every ridge and vein along his shaft.
His staple-stitched hand left your hip and traveled up, slid around to the curve of your ass cheek and his fingers spread wide as he palmed your whole right cheek perfectly in his big hand.
"Mine," he heard himself say very quietly, almost to himself.
He could feel the heat of your bare ass through the hole, wet seal of you sucking the rest of him in as he gave a final grinding push and his pelvis bumped up against the plywood, the entire thing of him lodged inside you, head of his cock pressed up against your prostate.
You were sobbing on the other side of the wall from overflow.
"Ethan— I'm gonna—"
"Don't come yet, baby. We've got a long time to go. He needs the sensor reading for a while.” He whispered the last part to you. “We're gonna take our time and make it nice, okay?"
"…Okay." A high, helpless whine.
He held there buried in you for a full minute of not moving and letting his own body remember how to think.
Up on the rafters, the tube nearest the apex of the roof had the mold inside shifting and settling lower, the timer's mechanism doing whatever it was doing.
He glanced up, the junction box was twelve feet up. He'd need a clear shot or a clear knife angle.
The sensor was hot and Ethan just had to put up his best performance while he slowly, patiently, set up his real move.
He drew his hips back, drag of his cock leaving indescribable between the way your inner walls clung to him and the cool air of the barn hit his shaft as it emerged.
Pulling out until just the flared head was caught inside your rim and then he pushed back in all the way as he started fucking you.
Long and deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out and than pushing all the way back in, slap of his thighs against the plywood becoming a slow rhythm as he kept his big palm planted on your ass cheek, kneading, squeezing and occasionally giving you a sharp slap that made you yelp and clench around him.
He shifted his angle and tilted his hips down as the next stroke ground the head of his cock right into your prostate again and you came apart in sounds.
Every stroke hit it now consistently and you were just noise on the other side of the wall, a mouth and a hole with a body offering itself up to him. He could feel his own balls drawing tighter.
He very carefully reached his good hand back to the hay bale and closed his fingers around the grip of the pistol, staple-stitched hand staying on your ass to hold the rhythm.
Ethan brought the pistol up, eyes tracing the line of the cord up the post and along the rafter to get on the junction box.
He took aim with one hand and squeezed, shot cracking through the barn as the junction box exploded in a shower of sparks, tubes overhead making a long, wheezing sigh as their internal pressure released harmlessly into the rafters.
The mold inside them sagged, now dead and inert.
Now the only sounds in the barn were the slap of Ethan's hips against the wood and your high, dazed moans.
You hadn't even noticed with how far gone and cock-drunk you were that the gunshots had just blurred into the background of the noise in your own head while taking it, mouth open against the wall as every nerve in your body was screaming.
Ethan dropped the pistol back onto the hay bale and put both hands back to fully fuck you, slow patient strokes that had turned into something harder.
"You're safe." He grunted it into the wood. "We're safe. It's— it's done, I just need to finish, I'm so close."
"Yes—yes, yes, yes, please, please!"
He gave you a dozen more long, deep, brutal strokes and his shaft was throbbing, every vein on him was pulsing in time with his heart as he buried himself to the absolute hilt one last time and he came in long flooding pulses, balls emptying everything they had into you as he felt you clench around him.
Then he felt you come as your whole body locked up, hole spasming around his cock and your own untouched length presumably spilled untouched onto the dirt floor on your side of the wall, all from his cock alone.
He kept pumping, slow, milking the last of it into you, hot trickles down the insides of your thighs.
You whimpered, already half-unconscious by the sound of it while coming down hard.
Very slowly, he eased his softening cock out of you and a white runnel followed down the cleft of your ass.
He tucked himself away and buttoned his fly, picking up the pistol and walking around the partition
You were strapped into a wooden frame, hands bound to a crossbeam above your head and hood pulled low over your face, bare from the waist down and trembling.
He undid the straps, pulling the hood off gently and your eyes blinked open, wide and dilated.
"Hi," he said.
"…Hi."
"It's done, the timer's off. We're okay."
A long pause while you tried to make the words make sense in your fucked-stupid head.
"You shot the timer during?" Your voice was hoarse.
"Couldn't risk him possibly noticing.” He couldn't help the small, lopsided and exhausted smile. "Multitasked."
You stared at him before starting to laugh and he gathered you up against his chest, kissing the top of your sweat-damp head as he held you tighter.
𝒞𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓈 ℛℯ𝒹𝒻𝒾ℯ𝓁𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒫𝒾ℯ𝓇𝓈 𝒩𝒾𝓋𝒶𝓃𝓈
You couldn't see your own body, that was the first thing your brain kept tripping over between the heavy pounding at your other end and the wet rasp of your own breath in your ear.
From the chin up you were free and had a view of half a collapsed corridor and the long shadowed mouth of the tunnel the woman in blue had vanished down hours ago.
From the chin down you were buried, slab had come down at an angle and that was the only reason you were still breathing with the way it had pinned you front-down with your face turned out and your chin caught right at the edge so your mouth and nose hung free in open air.
Your hips angled up against the back side of the rubble in a way that put your ass at exactly the height of a man on his knees.
Carla had known what she was doing when she pulled the trigger on that grappling line.
You'd been following her for three hours.
Following was a generous term.
Chasing her.
She'd dropped half a ceiling on you and walked off.
Chris had found you later.
How long ago you didn't know.
Time had stopped meaning anything a while ago. You knew it had been long enough for him to comm for the rest of his men and long enough for him to figure out he could not, on his own, lift the slab off you.
It had been long enough for him to come around behind you, take stock of the angle of your hips and the way your tac pants had been half-stripped down off your ass by the friction of the fall and make a decision.
An hour? More?
You'd lost count of how many times you'd come.
The first one had been an accident, he'd been getting you ready, two big rough fingers working slow and patient inside you while his other hand spread you open and somewhere in the second slow drag of his knuckles against your inner wall you'd come on his hand without warning, drool sliding out of the corner of your mouth onto the concrete in front of your face.
He'd huffed a low laugh.
"Yeah," he'd said. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
Then he'd pushed in.
He was big, the man was a fucking mountain you'd known for six years of field decon tents enough times that the size of him was not, in theory, a surprise, but theory and the thing itself were two different categories of knowledge.
So thick the stretch of it made you sob into the concrete the first time he bottomed out and assaulted your prostate, causing your vision to white out.
The thing itself, four orgasms ago, had not slowed down and set a deep merciless pace that kept rocking your trapped body forward against the slab with every thrust.
There was a puddle of drool and tears under your face now.
Behind and inside you, Chris was fucking you steadily and didn't stop.
"That's six," he said, somewhere behind the slab and he sounded barely winded.
"Mm." Another slow heavy thrust, full length of him dragging out and sinking back in, your hips jolting forward against the slab and your forehead bumping the concrete. "You wanted my attention, you got it."
His big palm came down across your bare ass and you flinched, whole pinned length of you twitching, every time your ass clenched too tight around him in a way he read as ‘trying to rush him’, he'd slap you and growl “patience” and slow back down to that same merciless grind.
"You wanna tell me," another stroke, "what the hell," another, "you thought you were doing," another, "going off comms?"
"Captain—"
"Don’t captain me from down there."
Another deeper stroke.
"Three hours, soldier. No check-ins or location pings. I had Piers running circles in the east wing looking for your body parts."
"I—I was tracking…fuck! I was tracking the—"
"I know what you were tracking." His voice didn't rise. It just got harder, the way concrete gets harder when it sets. "You were tracking Ada Wong. ‘Possible sighting, pursuing.’ You know what pursuing doesn't mean? Going dark for three hours and letting yourself get buried under a building."
Now a harsher slap came.
"I am not losing you because you got cute and went off-script chasing a coat."
"I'm— sir, I'm sorry, I'm—"
"Sorry's after." Another stroke, grind of his pelvis against your ass had become its own slow drumbeat, slap of skin behind you rhythmic. "Right now I need you to learn something. You hearing me?"
"Y-yes—"
"Good." His hand came down on the small of your back where it stuck out from under the slab and he pressed, anchoring you.
He picked up his pace, grinding his hips tighter, finding the angle that put the thick head of him directly across the swollen knot of your prostate and started rocking into you in shorter, harder strokes.
You sobbed into the puddle of your own drool, hips trying to jerk forward and couldn't as your whole body was being wrung out from the inside by a man who outweighed you by ninety pounds at minimum and you couldn't even arch your back.
Coming from his cock for the seventh time with a long high broken whine, your own dick spurting helplessly into the small white lake you'd been adding to for the better part of an hour, ass clamping so tight around Chris that he grunted above you and held still for a beat to ride it out.
You were trying to breath with Chris balls-deep in your ass that footsteps came running up the corridor from the east, cadence of a man who had been sprinting for a long time and was running on fumes and adrenaline.
"Captain?!"
"In here," Chris called back, easy as anything, without pulling out of you and there was a deep wish to die that bloomed in your conscience. "Slow down Piers, he’s stable."
The footsteps slowed and stopped about ten feet from your head, you knew the exact moment Piers got the picture because he made a small sharp sound in the back of his throat.
"…Captain."
"Nivans."
"Captain, what the fu—"
"He's pinned." Chris's voice was perfectly level, another slow grinding thrust into your ass and your forehead almost bumped concrete. "Slab came down on the column and I can't lift it on my own. You got eyes on the rest of the team?"
"Th-they're— they're fifteen out, sir, they had to reroute around the—"
"Fifteen minutes." A grunt another stroke. "Yeah, that tracks."
"Sir."
"Piers."
A long beat of silence as your glassy eyes slowly fixed on Piers’ face, fatigues in his face with his rifle slung.
Most loyal man ever to Chris Redfield, standing in a half-collapsed corridor watching his captain railing you into a slab.
"…Is he okay?"
"Yeah," Chris said. "Aren't you, soldier?"
"Yes sir," you got out into the puddle, gaze lowering again on the ground below in shame and aroused.
"He’s been a little distracted lately." Another slow thrust. "Going off comms and chasing leads without backup. Thought I'd take the opportunity to remind him about chain of command."
Another long silence from Piers before you'd hear footsteps again and stopped in front of you.
You saw his boots now, standard combat boots, scuffed, laced tight and planted shoulder-width apart on the concrete about two feet from your face and he crouched, handsome and sharp face now into your field of view.
Intense hazel eyes from someone who knew you had been quietly infatuated with Chris for about three years and now here you were with your ass being slowly destroyed by the captain.
He smoothed your hair back while behind the slab, Chris started moving slower this time.
"He's right, you know," Piers said quietly. "You can’t disobey orders from the captain."
"I know. We'll talk about it later. Right now I want you to focus." He brushed his thumb across your cheekbone.
Chris had picked up the pace again behind you and Piers watched the way pleasure rolled through your face and broke up all attempts of translating thoughts into coherent words and his jaw tightened.
His other hand came up to start unbuckling his belt.
"Captain," Piers said without taking his eyes off your face, "permission to give the soldier something to focus on, sir."
A grunt from behind the slab. "Granted, Nivans."
Piers's belt came open with a small click, followed by the rasp of his fly. He kept his eyes on you the whole time and you opened your mouth, making Piers's breath hitched.
He took himself out of his fatigues with his free hand and guided himself forward, laying the head of his cock against your bottom lip, so hot and hard, wet at the tip from witnessing his captain obliterate your ass.
Salt-bitter taste of it spreading on your tongue the second he made contact and let you have it, holding the base of himself steady and waiting for you to lean forward into him.
When you tilted your chin out and took the head of him into your mouth, closing your lips around the flare of him, Piers's whole body shuddered above you, hand fisting suddenly in your hair.
"Fuck!" He breathed.
"That's it," Chris said from behind the slab, timing his next thrust to push you forward onto Piers's cock and you sank down another inch on Piers with the force from it and said soldier groaned through his teeth.
Between Chris's slow heavy grinding strokes in your ass and the way each one pushed your face forward onto Piers's cock, along the way Piers had begun to rock his hips in shallow counter-strokes that fed himself a little deeper into your mouth every time you came forward, you found a rhythm.
It didn't require thinking, your body was being used at both ends by two men who knew how to work in coordinated formations like you were another tactical operation.
Chris thrust, you moved forward and Piers slid deeper into your mouth.
"Look at him," Piers breathed.
"I been looking at him for an hour, soldier."
"Captain!"
Piers's hand cradled the back of your skull when hearing your words and he let Chris's rhythm do the work, holding you there with his cock sliding in and out of your mouth.
"Easy on his throat, Piers. He’s been working hard."
You came again without warning, the way they all had been now and your body had given up on having control of its own orgasms about three back, ass clamping down hard around Chris, mouth slack and open around Piers while your own dick was spurting another helpless little contribution to the lake under.
Chris grunted while Piers swore softly and pulled back just enough that he didn't choke you while you spasmed, easing back in once your jaw remembered how to work.
You made a noise around Piers's cock that was meant to be ‘yes please’ and it came out as a wet hum. It vibrated up the length of him and Piers's whole body jerked.
"Fuck!" Piers came with a long shuddering groan through his teeth, hand tight in your hair, cock pulsing hot down your throat in spurt after spurt and the sheer volume of it told you exactly how long he'd been wanting this and how much of it had been bottled up.
Swallowing because there was nowhere else for it to go and your throat worked around him.
When he was empty he pulled back slowly, head of him slipping out of your mouth with a long string of spit that connected you to him until it broke and fell.
Hair stuck to his forehead, flushed face looking at your forehead while you stayed slack-mouthed, still being rocked forward and back by Chris's steady rhythm.
Piers held your face in his hands and looked back.
"Tell him," Chris said, "what you're gonna do better from now on."
You looked at Piers’s steady eyes on yours and the shame of it should have killed you.
“I'm gonna check in on comms—"
"Every," Chris said.
"Every single time—"
"Good, what else."
"I'm not—ah— I'm not gonna pursue without backup."
"And?"
"I'm gonna listen!"
“Good.” His voice was strained now, deep slow grind of his hips starting to come apart into shorter harder jabs. "Good. You hear that, Piers?"
"I heard him, sir." Piers's thumbs stroked your cheekbones as he looked into your face.
"Then we're done teaching."
Chris came, hips driving flush against your ass and stayed there, grinding deep as you felt him pulse inside you in long heavy throbs that just kept going, letting out one low controlled breath through his teeth, big hand on the slab above your body as his weight settled forward against it.
"Five out," came a crackle from Chris's comm.
"Copy," Chris said, voice already back to normal as you felt his pants zipping behind the slab, rasp of fabric and click of a belt buckle. "Take the long way around. We're gonna need to brace the slab before we lift."
"Copy, captain."
Chris came around the slab, big shoulders with fatigues neatly back in order, face perfectly composed except for the slight flush high on his cheekbones and dampness at his hairline.
"How we doin'," he said.
"…Tired, captain," you whispered.
"I bet."
𝒞𝒶𝓇𝓁ℴ𝓈 𝒪𝓁𝒾𝓋ℯ𝒾𝓇𝒶
Currently stuck under half a ceiling in the bowels of Raccoon General Hospital with your rifle out of reach and radio crackling somewhere above your head.
Let's back up.
The hospital had gone bad really bad like everything in this city, bow overflowed with zombies from every corner.
You and Carlos had been trying to clear a path back to the staff stairwell, his rifle chewing through magazines and muzzle flash lighting up the hallway in stuttering orange pulses while you'd been on his six with your sidearm doing cleanup on anything that got past him.
You'd burned through a magazine and a half doing that and come out of the hallway into the records room with maybe seven rounds left between your sidearm and your spare, splitting off to look for anything to help against the army of undead while he held the door.
The records room had a maintenance access panel that opened on a low crawl tunnel running under the floor and about fifteen feet down the tunnel inside a case sat a hard-shell weapons open, on its side, contents spilled out across the concrete.
A Lightning Hawk, long barrel that could delete head and shoulders of anything.
The tunnel was tight, maybe two and a half feet high, three feet wide and you'd hooked your rifle sling over your shoulder so the weapon trailed behind instead of catching on the lip while starting to crawl.
You'd made it about ten feet when the ceiling had decided it was done, face now pressed against cool concrete and your ass in the air along your dignity in some other zip code.
Your shoulder had bumped a support beam on the way past and the whole section of ceiling about six feet in front of where you'd been had given up its career as a ceiling and become, effectively, a slab of fallen concrete sitting on top of your back.
It had landed on your tac vest, that was the saving grace with your gear taking the weight instead of crushing your spine.
You also could not, however, move.
Tried to push up for about ten minutes or crawl forward and simply couldn't, hips caught at an angle where the slab pinned the back of your vest to the floor and your ass was wedged up against the underside of the rubble at exactly the wrong angle.
Tried to wriggle backward and it worked the worst of all, because your tac belt had snagged on something on the way down and now any backward motion just yanked your pants further down your hips.
Your ass was bare to the open air of the tunnel and you could not, for any amount of leverage your arms were giving you, get your pants back up.
You'd been working on a plan of using your sidearm to shoot the support strut to your left, which you thought might, possibly, redistribute the weight of the slab off your hips enough to let you wriggle forward.
"Tell me my eyes are lyin' to me right now."
You closed your eyes.
"Carlos."
"'Cause from where I'm standing, my eyes are tellin' me that my partner got his ass stuck in a hole and I gotta be honest with you, parceiro, I was hopin' for a better answer than that."
His voice was getting closer while he crouched now, moving up the tunnel toward you and you could hear his gear shifting. "I’m been poppin’ zombies’ head with my rifle and you decide to play ostrich?"
"I'm not playing ostrich! I’m fucking stuck. Look, six feet in front of me, on the ground."
A pause as Carlos's boots stopped scuffing forward and you heard him shift his weight, going quiet, looking down the tunnel past you to spot the weapon.
"…Caralho."
"Yeah." A long low whistle.
"Okay. Okay, fine. I take back the ostrich thing. Mostly, like sixty percent of the ostrich thing."
"Thank you."
"That's still a lot of ostrich, just so we're clear."
You heard him drop, shift of his gear along a small grunt as one knee went down behind you. He was kneeling now right behind you. He didn't say anything for a beat.
Then his voice came, lower:
"Now, you wanna explain to me why your bunda is hangin' out the back of your pants, parceiro? Not complaining."
"Belt got snagged when the ceiling came down. I can't—" you tried again, just to demonstrate, small hopeless wiggle of your hips that did absolutely nothing except waggle your bare ass at him in a way that made you immediately regret it, "—I can't get 'em back up, my arms can't reach—"
"Mm. Yeah I see that."
A pause.
"Y'know," he said, "you got yourself in a real interessante position here and I'm thinkin' to myself, Carlos, meu amigo, you been workin' real hard upstairs. Your shoulder hurts from the recoil and here is your partner presentin' to you like a—"
"Carlos."
"—como uma oferenda, okay?"
"I am not a thank-you note."
"You sure look like one."
His hand landed on your ass, heavy and warm, calluses across the knuckles from a decade of rifles and ropes, spread of that hand across one of your bare cheeks covered nearly all of it and squeezed.
"Mm. Look at this ass stuck down here in the dark with no one to appreciate it but me."
"Carlos, are you— now? Like this?"
"Why not?"
"There are zombies upstairs."
"Door's locked on my way down, heard you yelpin' on the radio so I came lookin'."
"I wasn't yelping—"
His hand kept moving almost possessively down the curve of your ass, across the meat of your thigh where it disappeared under the slab, back up.
"So," he said simply. "You up for this or what? 'Cause I gotta tell you. I'm lookin' at what's in front of me right now and I'm motivated."
"Carlos..:"
"Just say the word. Yes or no. I ain't gonna be weird about it, tá?"
You were quiet for about three seconds.
"…that magnum's still down there."
Carlos laughed and his hand slapped your ass, almost playful.
"That a yes, parceiro?"
"…That's a yes."
You heard him work his belt, the fly went and the rasp of his fatigue pants down his hips. You couldn't see it but your imagination filled in the gaps with details not helping your blood pressure.
"Lemme see what we're workin' with," he muttered to himself, both hands spreading you, big thumbs dragging across the seam and you felt the breeze of the basement on parts of you that had not, in your professional life, ever been exposed to the breeze of a basement.
"Hm. Okay. You ain't been broken in for a while, né?"
"Jesus, Carlos!"
"What. I'm bein' polite."
You heard him spit and felt it land on you, thumb rubbing it down into you in slow circles.
"There's lube in my belt pouch," you got out.
"Oh? Olha só. My man came prepared."
"It's for gear maintenance Carlos."
"Yeah, sure, where's the pouch."
"Left side, belt. Second pouch back."
He found it as you heard the click of the pouch unsnapping, rummage and small grunt of triumph when he came up with the little foil packet. You heard him tear it open with his teeth, squeezing it onto his fingers and rubbing them together to warm it.
One slick fingertip circling your rim in slow easy passes and only when he felt you breathe out and ease did he press in.
"There you go, Calminho."
"Carlos, you don't have to. I'm not made of glass.”
"Yeah, but I am big and I ain't tryin' to wreck you on the floor of a hospital, tá? So we go slow."
"How big."
A small dry laugh.
"I'm not gonna stand here in a duct measurin' my dick for you. Just open up."
His finger sank deeper to the second knuckle and held it there, letting you breathe around it before starting easing it in and out in careful drags, hand still on your ass, big palm splayed out across one cheek holding you steady.
"Y'know," he said conversationally, as if his finger weren't currently buried inside you, "I been thinkin' about this for a while."
"Yeah?"
"Mm-hm. Truck rides, you fall asleep in the passenger seat sometimes with your head against the window. I look over and I think to myself ‘that right there is a problem.’"
"A problem."
"Yeah 'cause I'm tryin' to drive and keep my eyes on the road."
He'd added a second finger while he was talking and you felt the stretch open up around him.
You sucked in a breath against the concrete.
“Relaxa pra mim."
"I think we're… Yeah. I gotta tell you. Sittin' here lookin' at you all spread out makes me feel like a lucky man tonight."
"Carlos please…"
"Please what."
"Please get on with it!"
You heard him slick himself, low grunt he made when he gripped his own length and you heard the change in his breathing, slow exhale as he worked himself slick.
Then the head of him pressed against you and you realized Carlos had not been fucking around about the size thing.
Blunt head of him at your entrance thick, sheer girth of him stretching you out at the rim before you'd taken so much as the tip.
"…Ah—Carlos!"
"I do not joke about things like this."
He pressed in with one hand on your hip and one hand on the small of your back where it stuck out from under the slab and he eased inch by careful inch.
God, he kept going. You'd thought you had the measure of him from the first stretch at the rim but he was still pushing in, opening up around him and the burn-stretch of him kept getting deeper.
He bottomed out and you felt his hips meet your ass, rough fabric of his unbuttoned fatigue pants brushing the backs of your thighs, pelvis flush against you as he held there a good long minute, letting you breathe and get used to it, heavy length of him sinking deep and the slow grind of his pulse against your inner walls.
"Olha pra você." His voice was rougher now, easygoing teasing edge stripped down a notch.
His big palm slid up your back where it stuck out from the slab and back down to your ass as he squeezed.
Then he started moving, full length of him dragging in long unhurried strokes.
He angled his hips and the thick head of him dragged directly across your prostate on the next slow stroke, making you see white behind your eyes.
"There it is. Found it." Pleased. “Keep makin' that noise for me.“
He fucked you on that angle without stopping, heavy stroke nailing the spot inside you that turned your bones to water and you were drooling onto the concrete, cock hanging hard and untouched between your legs leaking down to the floor,.
"You gonna come for me? Without me touchin' your pau?"
"Yes!" You came harder than the situation seemed to warrant, your whole pinned body going taut and your ass clamping down around Carlos's cock and your dick spurting helplessly onto the concrete underneath you in long pulses you couldn't control.
Carlos groaned above you and held his hips flush against your ass, grinding in deep through it, riding you out, pulse of you milking him in a way that almost broke his rhythm.
"Inside?"
"Carlos, I swear to god…"
"Just askin'! I am being polite!"
"Inside. Yes. Inside, please!"
"Tá bom, parceiro. Tá bom."
He picked up the pace, slow patient grind breaking into something harder and faster, slap of his hips against your ass echoing off the concrete walls of the tunnel in wet rhythmic cracks, small grunt he made on every thrust getting tighter and shorter as he climbed.
With a long ragged groan through his teeth he came, hips jamming flush against your ass and grinding deep, thick pulse of him spilling inside you in spurt after spurt while grip on your hip tightened to the point of bruising.
"That was… give me a minute. I'm seein' colors."
"Take your minute."
He did while staying buried in you for it, big palm rubbing slow soothing circles on the small of your back, breath gradually evening out behind you.
Softening slowly inside you while nestled inside the slick mess of him already starting to leak down the inside of your thigh.
Eventually he eased out.
"Hold on." He fished around in his own pouches, came up with a field cloth and you felt him cleaning you up, down your thighs and the small ‘tsk’ he made when he saw how much of him was leaking out.
"Made a mess of you, parceiro."
"…Yeah."
"You gonna be able to walk?"
"…Give me a second."
"Take two."
He lay there next to you in the tunnel while humming two notes and his hand found yours in the dark, squeezing.
You'd be okay for the next stretch.
Note: Curious to know which one was your favorite <3
