After the whole nesting incident, they made sure to keep an eye on when you got confused over certain vocabulary, teaching you and ensuring you were never left behind in the conversation.
Which is why it was so concerning—like heart-dropping, veins-freezing-over concerning—to see you speaking with a new General who decides to use his alpha voice on you.
You practically lose all balance, knees getting weak and shoulders hunching like you were just hit. You have no idea why you feel like this, but whatever this General just did, it’s causing a buzzing in your ears and a knot in your stomach, like if you don’t listen to what he just said you’ll explode. A loud whimper comes out unbidden and on complete accident. You’re still just barely there enough to tell that your scent is shooting into the distressed range.
All of that combined sends your team scrambling into fight mode. Minds reeling from another alpha commanding you and with all of the signals of fear you’re now sending out. Their instincts are screaming at them to help you, and to get this General far, far away.
So, basically, it’s not their fault how they treat this guy. Simon swoops in, pushing you behind him and into Johnny’s chest, making a barrier between him and the two of you. Johnny practically envelopes you, pushing his scent out to comfort you and block you from the affects of this General. Kyle joins Simon in his barricade, a deep growl emitting from him that you’ve never heard before. And Price. Price goes straight for the throat.
He slams his hands into the General’s chest, shoving him back and not giving him a moment to get his bearings before he’s grabbing him and taking him to the floor. He’s on top of him, forearms pressing against his windpipe, teeth barred in his face. You’ve never seen him behave like this before…normally he’s so composed and never has he used his alpha status to gain control of a situation. But he’s certainly using it now. This guy might be a higher rank, but it seems even he is folding to Price’s dominance.
“Don’t even think about doing that again.” It’s through gritted teeth, a deep rumble laced with threat. “My sergeant, my command. You don’t get to speak or touch or even look,” a growl escapes him at the thought, “do you understand?” His scent is like ozone, burning your nostrils and sending you scrunching up further into Johnny’s hold. Kyle takes a step back so he’s pressing against you, you’re practically encapsulated by them. You’re just glad this anger isn’t directed at you.
He shoves off of him, the general gasps, finally able to breathe again. John spares him no second glance. Simon and Kyle part for him to come through and grab you, taking you all away from the scene. You try to ignore how everyone is watching while pretending like they aren’t. It’s not every day John Price loses his cool.
Turns out this new general historically has a thing for using his alpha voice liberally to establish dominance…but you don’t think he’ll stick around for long.
The boys end up explaining to you about alpha voice; what it is, how it can be useful, and how people abuse it. It makes you ponder things, predominantly how none of them have ever used it on you.
You twitch your lips to the side, trying to decide if saying something is worth it. “…please don’t use that on me, if you can help it…” it’s a quiet plea, but all you know is you really didn’t like the sensation.
Their faces drop. John grabs your chin and brings you to look at him. He shakes his head, “never, bug.”
"Show Me How You Do It." Bo Sinclair and Rusty Nail X FEM! AFAB! Reader.
So! I have been talking about doing a cross-over fic with these two for a while, you know, the fucked up chain-smoking, truck driving, southern bastards who would totally get along AND make each other worse. So I went kinda hard on this, it gets pretty messy and nasty and violent, I hope you all love it and enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! And most importantly, Happy Valentines Day!
—
Rating. Explicit. Length. 5.6K. Bo Sinclair and Rusty Nail X FEM!AFAB! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: EXTREMELY DUB CON. Blood. Gore. A Mutual Murder Hobby. Chase. Predator/Prey. Kidnapping. Restraints. Duct Tape. Nipple Clamps. Masochistic/Pain Slut Reader. Blow Job. Rough Oral Sex. Throat Fucking. Gagging. Knife Play. Pain Play. Degradation. Dirty Talk. Insults. Voyeurism. Torture. Vaginal Sex. Branding. Crying Reader. Cream Pie. Raw Sex. Sloppy Seconds. Serious Threats. Forced Orgasm. The Idea Of Wound Fucking.
—
The pair met by chance, a totally random run in, they figured out each other's hobbies and proclivities by pure happenstance, but a strange friendship was forged all the same as a result.
Rusty had been on a truck route he'd done multiple times, so when he came across someone rude and in need of correcting? It was all too easy to go after their clique, safe in the knowledge he could indulge his murderous thirst and still hit his destination on time. He'd been on the group for two days, it was near midnight, her car was badly damaged, finally died with a sputter.
The massive truck comes to a stop, and she sees him in the rearview mirror, she curses and gets out of the car, all her friends are dead, she is alone as she makes a futile attempt to run, key word is attempt. They had got in a nasty fight earlier, Rusty took a tire iron to her leg, pretty sure he broke the bone, but she'd wriggled away, got back to the car had made a getaway, except now if she wants to continue her escape, no other option but to do it on foot. It's amusing how pathetic it is as she limps away. Rusty gets out of his truck and makes his way, not in a particular rush, following behind, she can see him coming, try to speed up, he laughs, then he breaks into the lightest jog and catches up so easily.
He locks a hand onto her shoulder, leg kicks out, his foot connects, and he violently dislocates her knee, causing her to go down like a sack of bricks with a sharp scream that matches the sound of the sickening crack of her bones breaking. She sobs weakly as Rusty stands over her prone form, back lit by his truck lights, he pulls out a pocket knife, flicks it open, lingers for a moment, simply watching and then he lowers down. A hand is in her hair, he stabs home, sinking into her throat, then tugging, dragging from the left to the right and cold metal tears through fragile flesh and hot blood jets out onto the pavement, staining his knuckles as he removes the weapon from her now dying body. He stands and waits, crimson dripping down silver, drop, drop, drop onto the asphalt. He watches until she stops making those sick gurgling sounds from choking on her own blood and stop moving all together.
Rusty admires the scene for a moment, and that's when he hears it, the unmistakable sound of an engine turning over, the headlights flicker on and wash over him in profile. He turns his head to see the pickup truck that created the sound, it had been turned off, partly hidden off-road in the grass. He can't see who is at the wheel, his hand tenses around the knife, the door opens, and a man gets out, he leans against the door and calls out, “Nice work.”
Rusty pauses, he isn't sure what to make of the supposed compliment, he keeps his guard up as the stranger approaches, soon he is standing close enough, bathed in the lights from Rusty's truck. He looks to be in his 30s, dark hair, a navy blue jumpsuit, a baseball cap, a crooked smile and the one thing that makes the tension ease, blood speckled across his own features. Rusty considers him, then asks, “You have a good night too?”
Bo laughs, genuine and joyful rolling off his tongue, “Oh, the best. Wanna hear about it?”
They drag the body off the road, move Rusty's truck off to the side, the pair of them lean against Bo's truck, they both talk and smoke. Bo opens up first, an olive branch, sharing how he and his brothers have their small town project, how people who run through get adopted into the “repopulation effort”, and how he had dispatched the last one who tried to get out of the town. Bo had the corpse in the truck bed, he showed it off, and that was pretty good proof for Rusty.
After that, Rusty shares the indiscretion that idiot made, the cross state chase, the friends he murdered that led to the finale’ Bo just witnessed. It was an entertaining hour to say the least.
“I gotta finish my delivery, but I got some free time after that, would love to see this town you’ve been talking up in person.” Rusty admits, which has Bo telling him, “Would love to have you, don’ wanna keep you an’ I have to head back myself.”
Rusty made a move to pick up the body and Bo brushed him off, “Nah, I can handle that for you, if my brother can’t do somethin’ with her, she can go in the gore pit.”
That intrigued him further still, “The gore pit, huh?”
Bo jerked his head behind him, a vague gesture in the direction of where it was, “S’ where undesirable bodies go, you know the ones too fucked up for our purpose, spare parts and whatever can’t be salvaged, t’aint far from here.”
“Well, mighty kind of you, thanks.” Rusty said it sincerely, he hasn’t met someone with his same hobby and certainly not someone willing to be so helpful. Bo told him, “Don’t mention it, I’ll see you round. I’ll make sure to warn my brothers who to look out for so they don’t do nothing untoward to you.”
They parted ways and Rusty held true to his word, he was back around here in a few days time, and it was all true, just as Bo said. He was shown everything from the gore pit to the basement, and now he had a home away from home and some friends to come visit, like-minded people who he can truly be himself around. They both got along on at least their shared motivation, setting right people who have a distinct lack of manners, Lester’s collection of knives and hard work ethic appealed to him, Vincent’s art was as impressive as his brutal nature, but he got along best with Bo, they were the most alike overall.
So it became a regular thing, swinging by and stopping when he was in the area, and the friendship grew over time, one of the best times they ever had was when Rusty stuck around for a few days and got to see them all in action when some unlucky people passed on through, he even helped out and fuck, if that wasn’t some of the most fun he ever had. Killing was usually such a solitary activity, sharing it with someone else with an affinity and talent for it, against trespassers and rude individuals? It threatens to border on the euphoric.
The friendship has developed to the point that they didn’t just spend time hanging around Ambrose, some nights they venture out, do it the Rusty way, find some “talent” and go from there, and that night at the bar, is how they meet you.
You don’t get nights out as often as you’d like, honestly, this was a rare occasion, you were headed to the table with a fresh drink when they noticed you.
“How bout her?” Bo asked, a glance to the man atop the stool next to him, once he caught his eye he tilted his head in your direction. Rusty followed the movement, looking you over as you settled into your seat, fingers gripping the cool glass in front of you, yeah you were definitely to his tastes, but it wasn't up to him.
Rusty focuses his attention back to Bo and replies honestly, “S’ your birthday, more about what you want than me.”
“True. So I want the illusion of bein’ polite, sue me.” He grinned before taking a sip of his own drink.
Once they had their sights on you, it was going to happen no matter what, the pair ganging up on you made it laughably easy, especially since the facade only needed to be maintained to get you out of the bar, into the truck and down the road.
The next time you got up the “meet cute” was executed, you were partially distracted and being convinced you knocked into Rusty and spilled his drink due to not paying attention was very believable, as opposed to the truth of him forcing it.
You were thoroughly embarrassed, offering napkins you snatched off the nearest table, stumbling over an apology, “Oh my God, I am so sorry-”
“S’ fine, accidents happen.” He assured you with that long southern drawl that caught your attention with an easy smile, and you insisted, “Really though, I am sorry, is there any way I can make it up to you?”
“Well actually…This drink? Was for my friend, not only that, it's his birthday, maybe buy a replacement and come sit with him?” He gestures over his shoulder, and you look in the direction he indicated, not a bad looking man at all, neither was the man in front of you.
Honestly, there were worse ways to spend your evening, it was more than agreeable. You look back up to his face, partially hidden from his hat, asking a question of your own and answering his query at the same time, “So what's he drinking?”
Once the drink was purchased and introductions were made, you were pleasantly surprised by how well you got along, the conversation flowed easily, the tone a bit flirty and when the offer to attend Bo's birthday party was made a long while later, you thought why not?
You took a cab here and had already had a couple of drinks, so riding with them in Bo's pickup truck just made sense. The mood on the way there remained light, music playing, and you were excited by the sound of the upcoming festivities. The drive flew by, leading to you riding up the main drag in Ambrose, you were at ease and distracted so you didn’t notice the lack of any other car on the road, or any other living person, but you would come to question that as soon as you were out of the truck and in front of the large dark house. You expected lights, music already pouring out, life, not this, the utter still and quiet that was permeating the street.
“Where is everyone else?” You asked in slight confusion and the pair shared a laugh, Bo asked, “What do you mean?”
A quirk of your brow with a point to the house, before your hand opens, palm flat and up as you press, “The party? You said there was a party here?”
Another laugh, this one much more devoid of humour, “Sorry for the confusion darlin’ see, this is the party. One-” Bo points to himself, “-two-” then pointing to Rusty, “-three.” He finished pointing at you.
“A party of three sounds pretty great to me.” Rusty agreed with a grin and Bo confirmed, “A threesome sounds like the perfect gift, hm?”
You would be lying if you hadn’t thought about that earlier in the bar, with the certain touches, being pressed between them, thought maybe the night might trend that way in a different set of circumstances, you were into the both of them, but the choice being all but removed is a horse of a different colour. The response in you is automatic, you turn, and you bolt, you run back the way you came, and part of you was very aware you wouldn’t get away, but wasn’t this your fault?
You should have known better than this, then to get in a truck with two strangers you had just met, it was stupid. Now you were running down the street, terrified, and judging by the lack of help from your calls and cries and no people around, this town is deserted save for you and the two of them. Any other town running down the main street screaming for help would at least get some attention, but clearly this is no normal town.
This is all calculated, and you played right into it, you can hear them behind you, hooting and hollering, they gave you a small head start, but now we're coming quickly, this is part of it obviously, the chase. You wonder how many times they have done this, if you would ever be found, if your story would eventually be covered on some morbid as fuck true-crime podcast, you push yourself harder, lungs burning, thighs straining and feet hurting from how hard you were pounding the pavement in an attempt to get away.
Of course, they catch you.
The one named Rusty had been the one to get his arms locked around your waist, yanked you up with a delighted, “Gotcha!”
“Damn, she almost made it all the way to the church!” Bo sounded like he was genuinely happy and your stomach twists, you scream, Rusty whistles in response and Bo comments, as if you weren’t there, “Good set a lungs on her, huh?”
Rusty grunted in the affirmative as he tightened his arms around you, keeping a tight hold as you attempt to squirm, kick and struggle. “Let’s get her into the basement.”
The basement? The last fucking place you wanted to be alone with these two was the fucking basement, it was futile, but you tried, you called out into the dark nothing of the night.
The basement under the garage was a dank dirty place, you don't take in many details, but your eyes do scan the photo wall, the mattress with no sheet on it, but the focal point is obvious once it enters your line of sight, the chair. Leather and metal, able to change the position, an archaic dentist chair.
You are put in it, held by one tightly and your wrists and ankles duct taped by the other, several loops around your knees and elbows further restricting your movement, in less than two minutes you know you weren’t going anywhere.
“Think this'll hold?” Rusty asked, grip loosening, and Bo hummed, “Yeah it should, has before.”
Confirming you are definitely not the first, then again the simple fact this room existed communicated that, a knife is drawn, and he says, “Too bad you are so restless, might have been able to save these pretty clothes if we coulda stripped 'em off before we had to tape you up.”
Rusty follows Bo's musing by saying, “Yeah, now we'll need to cut them off to get to what we want.”
“Shame.” He says it in a tone that gets across his overt joy at the situation.
You say nothing because you know it won't help, there are a few displeased sounds that escape when he begins to work regardless. The thin strap of your top is caught with the blade, he pulls it up and the strap snaps, the second one follows, next the shirt's hem is gripped with one hand and the knife saws up until the fabric is able to be yanked off your frame. You are pulled up from your sitting position and your nice jeans are cut in multiple places before the blade is put between his teeth and then strong fingers slip into the open spaces, then tearing until only some denim is left on the lower half of your legs, thanks to the tape. He nicked you with the knife a few times, and each time you inhaled sharply from the small jolts of pain, the blood slowly running.
Rusty sat idly by, on a chair of his own, watching this all go down, you wonder why he isn’t getting in on it himself, most he is commenting on what's going on, at the moment he is talking about your underwear, saying it's “Cute, think she was looking to get laid tonight?”
“That's a great question, let's ask her, she's been too quiet.” A hand is in your hair, jerking your head up to look at him instead of the cut he left on your inner thigh. “The panties are real nice, you dressed up cuz you were lonely? Desperate for some company?”
So maybe you were, perhaps that was the main reason you were out there tonight, but that doesn't mean you had to admit that to them. You don't want to not respond, so you lie, “It's for me.”
“Oh really? Don't know nobody who wears stuff this slutty just for themselves, do you, Rusty?” Bo's hands are on your body, knife off to the side as he starts to feel you up, fingers playing with the lace edges and delicate material covering your chest.
“Personally? No, I don't. Wearing something like that is just asking for it, inviting all sorts of attention.” Rough palms explore your tits, thumbs brush already hardening nipples and your breath catches. You bite out a response, “Ever heard of the saying look good feel good? That's all it is.”
Mutual scoffs and laughs, before Bo taunts, “Yeah, sure, let's follow this line of thinking, you look good to feel good, so I'll help you feel real good.”
“So generous.” Rusty complimented and Bo thanked him. You thought about how isn't this what you wanted in a roundabout way, you might as well try to enjoy it, right? Might be sick and twisted, but so is this whole situation, you’d be a filthy fucking liar if you said you weren’t into the idea of being restrained, perhaps if you mentally reframe this you can get almost as much enjoyment out of this as they are.
“You gonna put some of that to good use?” Rusty asked with a gesture to the wall, your head turns to see a series of what looks like torture implements on hooks and racks.
“Course I am! That's half the fun right there.” Bo left you on the chair as he headed over, your eyes went wide with panic, and you said, “What about what you just said? About feeling good?”
“Awe, you don't get it, see, the hurt is gonna make what does feel good, feel even better.” He said it slowly and carefully, as if you were stupid, and he needed to spell it out for you to be able to begin to comprehend it. You resent that, hate how much it arouses you.
He came back over, something in his hand that you couldn't quite make out, his opposite hand reached out, fingers hooked in your bra, and he pulled it down under the curve of your breast so it would stay in place. Bo says casually, “Nice tits.”
You laugh, a shocked nervous thing from how casually he stated it, that laugh is cut off abruptly when he flicks your nipple, you yelp and then that makes him laugh in turn. Some more flicks, hard pinches and twists led to him saying, “You look ready.”
Both his hands get into the mix, and you find out what he brought over, nipple clamps, worse still clover clamps. Traditional clamps pinch from two sides, clover clamps resemble their namesake and instead provide four points of pressure, like the directions on a compass but more sadistic in nature, boxing the sensitive bud in on all sides. He takes his time placing and tightening both of them until you can't hold back your whimpering, the pain is burning, more than slightly distracting, the chain connecting the clamps that currently rests between the valley of your breasts is freezing cold. You are trying to reign yourself in, not show just how much of a pain slut you are, but it is one of the hardest things you’ve ever had to do.
“Looks good.” Rusty praised, and Bo followed with, “Have to say I agree.”
You are repositioned, the chair is moved, the leg rest stretched out, you are pulled forward, and adjusted to his liking until you are on your knees and elbows, eye level with his belt buckle.
“I can't resist it, I gotta have that mouth, but M’ not stupid, I know it's dangerous, so keep those teeth in line, or I'll make it hurt much worse-” As he speaks he is opening his belt and dragging down the zipper on dark washed jeans, staring down at your face. “-you do a good job we can get to you feeling’ good too, faster.”
Makes sense, you do love sucking dick, you can fake some added enthusiasm, you can do this.
You had noticed how hard he was through his pants, and now he was standing before you, thick and hot shaft in his hand, he nudged his hips forward, the head of his dick to your lips. You resist for a fraction of a moment, but even that is enough to displease him, he grips and yanks your hair, breaching your less than willing mouth, he starts to slip inside you, closing your eyes and taking him halfway down on the first stroke, rewarded with a pleasured hum from him. The taste is strong, salty, but by no means bad, just the kind of flavour you’d find from a man who hasn’t showered in hours.
You pull back and then rock forward, you tighten your lips around him and suck, you think to other times, different circumstances to fuel you, a running track of your thoughts, “Act like you love it. Act like a slut. Give it your all. It might just save your life.”
And that is exactly what you do, you press your tongue to the underside of his shaft, dragging up and then forcing yourself down harder, sucking all the while, but you don’t just do that, you make sure to provide some good variety. You pull him almost totally out and focus on the head, tongue swirling around the tip, eyes open, and you look up to meet startlingly blue eyes, “Not a bad start.”
You can do a lot better than that. Rusty piped up, and your eyes shot over, watching as he is opening his own pants now, “How about you give her some more motivation?”
Sinking down again as your captor says, “I love how you think.” Bo reached over, you falter, and he said, “I didn’t say slow down.”
His tone is harsh, you fight a wince and step it up, picking up the pace and making sure to hollow your cheeks on every upward movement. You only got a few bobs of your head in until he had whatever he needed in his hand, he reaches down, and soon you are clued in, the harsh pull on your nipples, the chain pulled taut, now it was crystal clear, he added a weight. You were feeling it, back arching slightly to try and ease it, but there was no helping it, the pain in your nipples nearly doubled, and you had to fight to maintain momentum in sucking his dick.
Your focus is on Bo, but Rusty still checks in, and you can hear him openly jacking off at this point.
You begin to find your footing, some semblance of confidence, when Rusty cuts in again, “You're being so nice to her, M’ shocked.”
That gets the intended rise out of Bo, him muttering, “Shut up Rusty, I’m not fucking nice, and you know it.”
Rusty hits back with, “Coulda fooled me.”
Bo picks up the discard knife and holds it to your cheek, a shock of fear runs through you, body tightening up, and he barks down at you, “Is that the best you can do?”
Christ, you are being put to work. You begin to throat fuck yourself roughly, hoping that will please him enough, that the added pressure of the head of his cock penetrating the tight wet heat of your neck will soothe him. He does seem to enjoy it, in fact he enjoys it so much that the knife slips slightly and cuts your cheek, you whine around his dick, and he groans at the mild vibration.
Rusty even notices your efforts, calling out, “Look at her get after it.”
He can’t help himself, hips starting to move, fucking into your mouth that is steadily leaking drool down your chin.
You had been faring pretty well but with him getting increasingly rough, the pain from your chest and the second, fuck, third cut on your cheek, the lack of air, you feel your stomach turning, you gag too hard and pull yourself back with a gasping breath.
No rest is given, no kindness show, an open hand hit to your bloody cheek makes you cry out before fingers tangle in your hair and twist, pulling you closer to him, you don’t comply immediately. You are still trying to breathe, to rein in your stomach and not be sick, but he isn’t having it. Head pressing to your closed lips, and you shake your head, tempted to tell him you need a second, he tells you, “Open that addictive little mouth again.”
You shake your head, and he tightens his grip on the knife, “I’ll get in that mouth one way or another, even if I have to make a new hole to do it.”
The severe look on his face tells you how serious he is, you should have realized sooner that he is the kind of man who would get off on fucking an open wound. His fingers prod at the slice on your cheek and the image of him ripping it open with his own brute strength just like he did to your jeans earlier filters through your mind, like water rushing over a rock.
That convinces you, mouth back open, he shoved inside, and you find a way to make it work. The worst thing about all of this is how it is getting to you, the extreme situation, the degradation, the audience and pain, him using your mouth with no regard, your inner thighs are soaked. In a few more minutes, the extreme nature of the throat fuck has your eyes tearing up and when he catches the shiny wet tracks pouring down your cheeks he cannot help himself.
“She puts on a good little show, doesn’t she?” Rusty praised and Bo grunted in agreement.
He is hauling you up, no concern for how it hurts and pulls on the clamps, he throws you down onto that dirty mattress, you are on your back and that eases the pain on your chest a bit.
You wonder how he is going to do this with the tape around your ankles and knees, your legs are together and straight, but the answer comes quickly, your legs are brought up, rested on his chest, feet placed beside his head on his left shoulder. Rusty gets up, not bothering to put his dick away, “I got you a present, don’t let me stop you, I’ll get it ready.”
He is able to get great leverage, have complete and total access and still look down at your, as he puts it, “Pretty cryin’ face.”
One hand falls down, and he touches your soaked cunt for the first time, his fingers swiped up between your folds, and you arch, a gasp slips out, and he laughs, “Holy shit, you are soaked!”
Bo holds his hand up for Rusty to see, and he pauses whatever he is doing and laughs too, your eyes close, and you bite your tongue, suppressing a groan, you just want relief, you want him to keep touching you and hate yourself more than a little for that fact. You are wet, yes, but unprepared for how swiftly he enters you, essentially no preamble, it tears a loud moan from you and all pretense is abandoned, you can’t even remotely pretend this doesn’t feel incredible and exactly what you need. It both soothes your need and stokes it at the same time, the thick shaft dragging along your swollen walls, stretched to what it feels like their limit.
He doesn’t waste time, he is rough, cruel, he slams his hips into you with such force it hurts the backs of your thighs, but the positive far out weighs the negative, it feels amazing.
You lose yourself, moans and curses spill forth from your lips as you rock with him, his hands are needy, busy grabbing on you, feeling the soft planes of flesh within reach, the sound of skin on skin and his own curses and groans fill the space. Whatever Rusty is up to has totally fallen away in the background.
Even when he first got inside of you, actually cumming wasn’t honestly on your radar, and yet, here you are, hurtling towards that edge. You swear that at times with attentive partners giving it their all you can’t get off, and here is this total asshole, with zero care for your pleasure, his fingers brushed over your clit all of one single time, and he might just make you cum harder than anyone else ever has. It creeps up quickly, going from the thought, “I think I might actually cum-” to gasping out, “Holy fucking shit!” cumming with an ample gush in the span of less than two minutes.
The pleasure makes you shiver, body trembling, every small inhale noisy, you feel like your body isn’t your own and yet you are still locked inside of it, helpless to the complete overwhelming force of it sweeping through you. The walls of your pussy rippling around his shaft, as if trying to pull him even deeper, an impossibility because he is slamming every single inch into you on every forward thrust of his hips.
Bo groans loudly, his head tipping back, a swallow that makes his Adam’s apple bob heavily, “Christ I could die in this cunt happy.”
You are overstimulated, still struggling to come down from your high, when Rusty’s voice filters through your pleasure induced haze, “I think I got something to make it even better.”
Bo looked over his shoulder to Rusty, you can’t see him from your angle, but Bo gasps, “No you fuckin’ didn’t.”
“I sure as shit did, so you want it?” Rusty asked, and you hear a grunt in the affirmative, “Yeah, fuck, hurry tho, M’ gettin’ close.”
You hear the steps coming closer, even over the obscene sounds of your sex, the wetness and meeting of your bodies, you try to brace yourself, but you have no idea what you are preparing for, still struggling with your body weak from the evening's strenuous activities.
“Got a place in mind?” Rusty asked and Bo said, “Anywhere, you’re the expert.”
Bo’s voice sounded strained, his hips are flattering, but every thrust that does fully connect is somehow even harder, he really is close, and you know there is nowhere else he is going to cum but inside of you.
You don’t see it, you feel it first, the pain is unlike anything you have ever experienced, the pain is blinding, the scream that it rends from you is the loudest you have ever let out, no doubt. It goes on for a solid twenty seconds, your entire body locks up, naturally your cunt is included in that, and it proves too much for Bo, it pushes him over the edge, and he holds deep, cumming fully in your seizing pussy. You are begging, broken and nonsense, begging all the same, just for whatever they are doing to you to just end.
When Rusty steps away, your vision takes a moment to come back into focus, once it does, you see it, he is holding a branding rod, the still angry red capital B, they branded you, right on your outer thigh near your hip. Long after this night is done, if you make it out alive, a permanent reminder and souvenir from this, branded for Bo, his birthday present always, even if you manage to get away.
The pain is still ruling your mind, you are not at all focused on it when Bo pulls out, he lets go of your legs and lets them fall to the mattress you don’t notice the cum pouring out of you because of the sudden terrible pressure on the brand makes you sob. You don’t notice Rusty getting onto the mattress next, vaguely hearing him ask, “Mind if I finish up in her? I got real close earlier.”
“Go for it.” Bo encouraged, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand as you continue to cry. “Shhh, I gotcha.” Rusty puts you on your other side, taking all the pressure off your brand mark, thankfully, he lines up and slides into you with a deep groan, the sound of it makes you clench around him.
Rusty taking him up for sloppy seconds provided essentially no relief, the waves of pain radiating cuts through any pleasure, it is too strong for even a little masochist like you to enjoy. No way you are going to cum again tonight.
Rusty must have been very close before because he is cumming in you, adding to the mess, less than five minutes into fucking you. You feel pretty out of it when he pulls out too, you know you are making a mess, stuffed with far too much cum for any one hole. You lay there, still taped, sweaty, more tired than you think you have ever been when you hear Bo say, “Lets go have another drink and then see if we wanna come back and play with her some more tonight or leave her for tomorrow.”
“Love the way you think.” Rusty replies, you hear them head up the stairs, and you lay there, bringing your still bound hands up to take off the clamps still fixed on, far too tired to even think of escape, hoping they leave you for tomorrow and that the pain ebbs enough that you can get some much-needed sleep.
"I think I'd like to do it more," Jayce muses. "What? Cook?" "Yeah. For you. I mean, for the lab. For us." It's just a hobby. Or at least that's what Viktor keeps telling himself as Jayce starts cooking for him every day. Surely it doesn't mean anything. And surely Jayce won't let it get out of hand. Right?
🥣 Season 1 Hextech Lab Era
🥣 Mutual Pining
🥣 Food as a Metaphor for Love
🥣 Cooking Together
🥣 Eventual Smut
