this has been sitting in my WIPs forever. working title is “two idiots bad at sex fight about who’s on top”.
the usual Outlast and content warnings of this blog apply. Fem Reagent x Night Hunter. MDNI.
She’d seen the files. It almost made her feel sorry for him.
Maybe that’s why she kept doing this. Or maybe she was just crazy. It’s not like she actually thought this “therapy” was real.
“Мясо.”
Meat. It was a name she’d become more familiar with than her real one.
His fingers trail along her ESOP almost intimately before he finds the battery pack and disengages it. The immediate plunge into darkness makes her shiver.
“No сука cop. Now I can take my time,” He slurs, already drooling in anticipation, gobs of it dripping onto her shoulders. He reeked like a charnel house, but she didn’t mind as much as she used to. She was actually getting used to it.
As impatient as he seems, he takes the time to loosen the harness of her toaster instead of sawing through it. As soon as he has access to her breasts, he squeezes them roughly through her shirt, and she hisses softly in discomfort.
“Where were you hiding these?” He rasps, almost accusatory.
“Thought you could see everything.” She clenches her jaw as he shoves her shirt up over her head, forcing her to hold it or be further blinded.
“No bra? Whore,” He rumbles, amused, and she briefly considers kicking him in the crotch.
“At least I wear underwear,” She mutters lamely. Not being able to see what he was doing was starting to give her anxiety.
His mouth on her body feels more like he’s tasting her than anything. There’s no inherent eroticism in it. But it’s still stimulation—attention—and it’s almost enough to make her forget how he’d left her to bleed out at Coyle’s mercy.
Pathetic. It sounds like Easterman’s voice and she hates it.
Drool makes a shallow pool in her navel and she squirms a bit, arousal feeling like a candle flame in the wind. She runs her fingers along the outside of his pants until she feels the outline of his dick through the fabric and begins to rub. He hisses at the contact and she feels his teeth actually sink into her skin, the flash of pain catching her off guard.
She smacks the only thing she can really see—his goggles—and her stomach flips as he abruptly shoves her to the floor. Her bones immediately protest the contact with the pavement, pain shooting up through her back and tailbone.
The vague shape of him looms over her, only the glow of his goggles visible, and she feels her stomach churn. Anxiety and arousal in equal measure.
Little mouse. Little ghost. She felt like prey for once.
The diffusion of light from his equipment gives her just enough clarity to see his nose twitch, like he’s scenting something. Her?
“You like this,” He purrs, grabbing and abruptly digging his fingers into the still-healing flesh of her shoulder. The pain makes her mouth water from nausea and her mind screams all sorts of things like infection and amputation but the scariest part is the new heat that washes up through her belly.
“Stop,” She gasps, digging her fingers into the concrete, trying to lean away from him. But the Ex-Pop has the leverage, and he drops to his knees between her legs, forcing them apart with his thighs.
“Fight, then. Or admit I’m right.” His words slither around her head like a snake. Or a noose. What kind of game was he playing?
Gritting her teeth, she grabs the strap of his harness with her good arm and jerks as hard as she can, sending his jaw crashing into the fist of her other arm. Pain travels up through her arm and she curses under her breath.
Blood drips onto her chin from above and she watches as Night Hunter spits out a tooth that was probably already loose, then pops his neck, tongue running over the raw meat where his lips should be.
“Mmm… not bad. My turn.”
Without warning he grabs onto her goggles and wrenches as if he’s trying to pull them out of her skull entirely. It sends blinding pain streaking behind her eyeballs and she flails wildly, at least until he slams her face into the concrete.
The pain is all consuming, ears ringing as she feels her body desperately trying to escape it. Distantly she feels him yank her pants down, then her underwear, the cold air of the Police Station’s basement like a slap to the ass.
“Wake up, закуска,” He taunts, grabbing the back of her jacket and dragging her towards the lone desk in the room. Her legs get tangled up in her pants and she nearly faceplants onto the surface, but she manages to catch herself on the edge.
The sound of metal scraping on concrete and the thud of boots is the only warning she gets. She flings an arm out, trying to hit him, but he swats her with the dull edge of his machete and kicks her ankles apart.
“That punch of yours fixed a pain that was annoying me… so I’ll give you something nice,” He drawls, leaning his full weight down against her back while he tugs the front of his pants down with his free hand.
“You’re such a fucking dick,” She grumbles, trying to keep any shred of dignity she had left.
Night Hunter just chuckles. His hips began to move, grinding into her, smearing pre-cum over her thighs. It was annoying. It was uncomfortable. It was just enough friction to keep that flicker of arousal going.
“Such a mouth you have, honey. I can think of a better use for it.”
Night Hunter shoves several fingers into her mouth and she bites down until she tastes blood. She didn’t know why she was being so belligerent when he could actually kill her but he hadn’t yet so maybe the Ex-Pop was enjoying it. This was some kind of foreplay for him—for both of them?
She had yet to properly address the heat in her belly, the increasing irritation of why didn’t he just fuck her already??
A sudden sharp pain tears her thoughts to pieces and she bucks back against him, but it only makes it worse. Her mind is a whorl of hurt and blind and a tiny piece of her brain finds that ironic, but it hurts too much to laugh at.
She can’t feel the fingers of her left hand.
“What did you—“
“Squish.”
Something twists and digs in the mess of angry nerves in her left hand and she finally realizes what he’s done. The machete. He’s pinned her hand to the desk with the fucking machete.
“You can’t win. I’m better than you. Or did you do all of this on purpose?”
His voice is a poison-drip to her brain, syrupy and slow. She feels drugged. There’s nothing but the drag of his cock inside of her, a different kind of burn than the one in her hand, but close enough. Her brain can’t decide which one to focus on.
“Fuck you,” She spits through clenched teeth, but he just laughs, twisting the blade deeper into the back of her hand.
The Reagent finally utters a pure cry of frustration, but it cuts off into a yelp as she’s suddenly dragged to the floor. The cold concrete feels good against her face, briefly, until she’s flipped onto her back and shoved. Are they under the desk now? Why?
Night Hunter’s weight settles atop her, and a moment later she hears the door to the office slam open. Suddenly she can see, and it’s Coyle’s silhouette against the wall across from them, highlighted in a staccato blue arc.
Fuck.
The Ex-Pop’s fingers wrap around her jaw and she feels him rut against her again, to her own dull shock. Was he really going to…? She tries to bite his hand, but he just squeezes tighter, the permanent rictus grin on his face somehow widening. She isn’t sure what unholy position he’s contorted himself into, but she feels his cock sinking into her again and the fact that he’s pinning her down so effectively makes her anxiety spike.
“Know I heard somethin’… goddamn commies…”
Coyle’s voice so close to them makes her whole body tense, and she feels the grimy fingers gripping her face tighten.
She’d rather deal with Night Hunter than Coyle. Coyle would kill both of them, she knew. And, God help her, she didn’t even want the Ex-Pop to get hurt. If she wanted revenge she’d do it herself.
She feels her chest tighten. She hated feeling restrained. It felt like she couldn’t breathe, between Night Hunter’s weight and the ESOP digging into her sternum. This was the worst fucking thing they could do to her, and she hoped the scientists never figured it out.
She hears Coyle’s boots near her head and she clamps a hand down on Night Hunter’s thigh, digging her fingers into flesh and fabric. His fingers tighten on her jaw in kind until she swears he’s going to break something, but she doesn’t make a sound. She can’t. She can’t or they’ll both be dead.
He’s still practically humping her, an agonizingly slow push and drag of his hips that shouldn’t even be remotely pleasant, but there’s something going on with the adrenaline in her system—or maybe she’s just finally gone crazy—that it does. She’s embarrassingly wet, and she’s thankful that Coyle is here just for a moment because then Night Hunter can’t be smug about it.
The door suddenly slams shut again and she grabs the Ex-Pop’s shoulder, angling her head to avoid his goggles as she crushes her mouth against his. It’s the most vile thing she’s ever tasted, rot and blood, but at least she’s alive. He snarls against the “kiss” but doesn’t pull away, as if it’s a challenge, his thrusts turning more jagged and sloppy now that they have room to breathe.
By the time she pulls back, her stomach is churning, and Night Hunter just gives her a breathless chuckle that deepens into another snarl as she feels him finally finish inside of her. When she doesn’t join him, he keeps grinding until she does, the sensation bordering on painful until he finally moves off of her.
The adrenaline was starting to wear off, and she was tired. Even with the danger and the various aches and pains, she was tired.
“Don’t get cooked too much, мясо. I like my meat bloody.”
She strains her eyes to watch him disappear out of a crawl-space cut low into the wall. Almost as soon as he leaves, the front door to the office opens again, and she desperately tries to wriggle back underneath the desk. Night Hunter still had her damn battery.
As she hears the sizzling of Coyle’s baton again, she realizes that this was going to be a longer trial than she intended.
