*cough cough* pitcher x reader... *COUGHS SOOOO LOUDLY* ❀(⸝⸝•ᴗ•⸝⸝)❀
hi dear, sorry if this is poop but i hope you like it anyway ^_^
tags; gn! reader, reader is a nurse/doctor, mostly fluff
You’re speaking to yourself more than you’re speaking with him, really. Check-up’s with The Pitcher - as they call him - are standard. Fix him up, talk to yourself to drown out the noise of heavy breathing, send him back up. Every time.
“Ooh, you must have been giving these reagents a hard time.” You wince, fingers brushing around the pulsing red spot in his scalp, you don’t know how he’s managed to tank a brick to the head, but then again, you have no idea how anyone - ex-pop and reagents alike manage to take anything in this place. What you get back from him sounds almost like…a whine?
You hum in an attempt to soothe him, bringing an alcohol soaked-pad to the open wound. A pained shriek rings out in your ears, the sound ultimately torn and weak. “Oh, I’m sorry about that, dear.” Stepping back, you grab the bandaging, wrapping the wound a lot more delicately.
“Now, see, that wasn’t so bad.” Placing your hand over his, you squeeze, a polite and meek smile curling on your lips. “Is that…petrol?” The aroma of gasoline is undeniable the closer you are to his face, the distance between you and his nozzle merely inches.
He lets out a frustrated groan, words lost in his torn throat. Everything coming out in grunts or growls. In the end, he settles for a nod. You can’t quite tell if he’s smiling, but the tiniest squint in his eyes, beneath the gaps of his mask, makes it a darling sight to picture - if only he wasn’t locked up behind that damned mask all the time.
This is the most reactive he’s been in all your time treating him, and you’d be lying to yourself if you said the change wasn’t appreciated - besides, you’ve always found him quite…appealing. Not to mention, the more time you had spent assessing him had only fueled your curiosity; what did he look like behind that mask?
Alas, he still has a job to do. “Well, looks like we’re just about done here.” As he disappears behind the doors of the insertion gate, you roll out your palm to find a pair of eyeballs staring at you. Some poor reagents.
Was this his idea of a joke? You’re not sure whether to laugh or scoff - as you step to throw them into the trash, a post card catches your attention. Did he leave this? Tracing the burnt edges, you can briefly make out a finger print, then something scrawled out in ash;
im ovulating and im hor knee so is it ok if i can ask like.. the fem reagent is getting a train ran on them by the pusher, pitcher and nighthunter? (Totally not self indulgent at all *disappears ✌🏽*)
anon you’re so valid lmao, obviously pitcher is my fav 🩷 but i love a good train ride ;) enjoy angel
trapped
tags: dead dove !! afab reagent x the pitcher, the pusher, the night hunter, group sex, voyeurism, very dubious consent, multiple creampies, degradation, general filth, 3.7k words
darkness presses in, swallowing the faint light that filters through the slits of the locker you found yourself cowering inside of. having been separated from the other reagents in your crew and hearing the telltale signs of several ex pops, you had no choice but to run and hide.
desperately trying to catch your breath, you hear the dismal sound of one of your fellow reagents being dispatched in the other room. a shiver crawls up your spine as you silently pray to avoid a similar fate.
your breath catches in your throat as heavy footsteps echo through the room, getting closer and closer... the locker door creaks open suddenly, revealing a silhouette that blocks out the room’s dim light.
a tall, masked figure stands in front of you, and you scramble against the back of the locker, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
it's the pitcher.
he moves with an unsettling strength, his movements quick and precise, immediately clasping his gloved hand around your neck. unable to speak, you choke under his grip, hands uselessly trying to force him off.
his mask is plain metal, expressionless, but you can feel the intensity of his gaze as it sweeps over you. he doesn't speak, just watches, and your blood runs cold as you imagine all the horrendous things he could do to you. silence stretches out, your choked breaths the only sound cutting through it; you're frozen like a deer in headlights, every nerve ending screaming RUN.
as if your situation needed to get any worse, you hear another set of footsteps, lighter, quicker than the first, quickly getting closer.
just my fucking luck.
turning your head as much as possible, you see the pusher leaning against the doorframe, tapping his pressure sprayer menacingly and cutting off any exit from the room.
"well, well," he drawls, his voice a high-pitched rasp that scrapes against your ears.
"what do we have here?"
the pitcher doesn't turn, doesn't acknowledge him, but you see the slight tensing of his muscular shoulders. the air crackles with a tension so thick you could taste it. you're trapped between an immovable object and an unstoppable force, and you had a feeling you weren’t getting out of this situation easily.
"hey, she’s kinda cute" the pusher continues, pushing off the doorframe and striding further into the room.
“you thinking what i’m thinking, big guy?”
the pusher comes in closer, like a shark assessing its next meal.
"what’s got you so scared, sweetheart?"
he leans into you, trailing a dirt-caked finger along your bottom lip, a touch that sends a jolt of pure terror through your body. you flinch, grabbing at the hands on your neck holding you into place, trying desperately to find an escape.
"get away from me." you choke out, your voice trembling.
the pusher laughs, a sharp, unhinged sound.
"or what? you'll scream? who do you think is coming to save you here?" he leans in close, breath hot against your ear.
just as he's about to say something else, a new sound cuts through the tense silence; a labored, raspy cough that cuts through the cold air. from the shadows in the corner of the room, a figure detaches himself from the darkness.
the night hunter, all gangly limbs and jagged teeth, steps into view.
“heard you having fun.” he slurs.
his presence is a physical weight, a promise of violence that makes your skin crawl and the addition of the night hunter shifts the dynamic entirely. the monstrous man lurches forward, teeth chittering unnervingly.
the pusher straightens up, backing away from your trembling form. even he, a predator in this place, seems to hold a degree of caution around the man in the night vision goggles. the pitcher, however, remains unfazed.
with a sudden movement, he yanks you from the locker by your neck, and pushes you against a nearby table, crowding you in with his body. his gloved hands come up to frame your face, the leather cool against your feverish skin. he still doesn't speak, but you can hear the low, steady rumble of his breathing behind the mask. his touch is not violent, but it is strong and unwavering, a claim being staked.
a choked sob escapes your throat as you're trapped between the hard, wooden table and the solid mass of the pitcher's body. you can feel the heat radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cold room. knowing the two other men were an audience to this treatment sent waves of repulsion up your throat.
the pitcher's thumbs brush over your lips, a gesture that’s almost gentle, somehow more terrifying than outright brutality. his head tilts, eyes wide and searching, and you know he's studying every little expression of fear and confusion on your face.
the thumb on your lip presses past your lips, flooding your mouth with the taste of dirt, leather, gasoline, and the irony tang of blood. the pitcher pushes his thumb around, feeling every corner of your mouth; your eyes sting with tears of embarrassment at this invasion.
the hand not assaulting your mouth comes to find your flimsy, murkoff-issued top and sports bra; with a brutal tug, the fabric rips open, the sound tearing through the room’s tense silence. the cool air hits your exposed skin, pebbling your nipples into tight, aching points. you gasp and try to cover yourself, but the pitcher catches your wrists in his massive hands, pinning them to your sides.
the pusher lets out a low whistle, admiring your exposed form. the night hunter growls, mouth lolled open and drooling.
the pitcher’s hand returns to your body, tracing the curve of your waist, before dipping lower, his knuckles brushing against the waistband of your pants. he pushes past your plain underwear to find your most sensitive spot; you gasp as he starts messily rubbing your pussy.
the rough leather of his gloves provides an overstimulating pressure to your sensitive clit, rubbing his digits back and forth without any real rhythm or care. despite the feeling bordering on pain, his attention sends pangs of arousal straight to your core.
you bite your lip, trying to hold in a moan, but the masked man’s fingers are unrelenting. you cry out in pleasure when his rough fingers find your aching hole.
“shit, making the bitch wet already.” the pusher commentates.
without another moment's hesitation, the pitcher stills his ministrations on your wettening pussy, only to hoist you up onto the table as if you weighed nothing, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist for purchase.
you feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against you through his apron, a promise of what's to come. he pins you to the table with one arm, while the other fumbles to pull out his member. he finally takes it out, pumping himself to full hardness.
the pitcher is big; his cock is thick and veiny, with scars running along the entire length, and his head leaking with precum.
with a guttural groan that's the first real sound you've heard him make, he positions himself at your soaked cunt and thrusts into you in one brutal, unprepared stroke.
a cry is torn from your throat at the sudden, overwhelming stretch. he's impossibly thick, and the burn of it mingles with a dark, blooming pleasure that shames you to your core.
the pitcher sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving the air from your lungs and grinding your back against the unforgiving wood. his grip on you is ironclad, one arm banded around your waist, the other braced against the table beside your head. the sheer force of him is overwhelming, a primal power that leaves no room for anything but submission.
the pitcher continues bullying his cock into you, each thrust as splitting as the first. your eyes roll back in your head as he manages to hit your cervix with every push into your tight, gummy walls. you feel yourself growing wetter and wetter, the lewd sound of him fucking you betraying your body’s reaction.
your mind is screaming, but your body is a traitor, arching into him, your legs tightening around his waist as if begging for more. a lewd moan slips free from your lips.
“can’t believe you’re actually getting off to this shit, slut.”
from across the room, the pusher's appreciative groan cuts through the slick, obscene sounds of the pitcher's assault. you can't turn your head much to see, but you can hear the crude slap of skin on skin, and you can tell he’s enjoying this way too much.
"that's it, big guy," he pants, his voice tight with arousal. "give it to her, look at her taking it."
his words are filth, degradation that stings even as it sends another jolt of that shameful heat through you.
farther away, the night hunter is a menacing figure of horror, pacing around restlessly. his night vision goggles remain fixed on the crude scene, absorbing every detail and twitching with feral need.
the pitcher's movements become more erratic, his thrusts deeper and more forceful; the sound of his breathing behind the mask grows harsher. the scarred man’s rhythm stutters, a deep, guttural growl vibrating from his throat and through your entire body.
he buries himself to the hilt one last time, a punishing thrust that forces a choked cry from your lips. you feel a hot, pulsing flood inside you as he spills himself, painting your cunt with his release.
he holds himself there for a long, tense moment, his body shuddering with the force of his climax. when he finally pulls out, the sudden emptiness is as jarring as the initial intrusion. the wiry, scarred man lets go of you and backs up, chest heaving, as his release and your own slickness trails down your inner thighs.
the pusher is on you before you can even catch your breath.
"my turn." he snarls, his voice raw with desire.
he shoves the pitcher aside with surprising strength, and the larger man stumbles back a step before simply retreating to lean against the opposite wall, mask turned to watch.
the pusher doesn't give you a moment to recover; he grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him. he pulls you forward, bringing you to a standing position and kicking your legs out with his heavy boots.
“get on your knees." he commands, but he doesn't wait for you to comply.
he forces you down, the rough concrete floor scraping against your palms and knees.
he doesn't bother with any foreplay; with one hand gripping the back of your bruised neck, he lines himself up to your abused cunt, still leaking the pitcher’s release, and slams into you with a cry of pure satisfaction.
his rhythm is different from the pitcher's - not the relentless, powerful drive of the silent man, but a frenzied, frantic energy, muttering a stream of filthy praise and degradation under his breath.
"look at you, fucking taking it," he pants, smacking your ass with a loud crack that echoes in the small room.
"so wet for us, fucking hell. you love being used, don’t you?"
each word is a humiliation, but the force of his thrusts is rocking your body, rubbing against a spot inside you that makes your vision white out with pleasure, blurring the lines between pain and ecstasy.
“thaat’s right bitch, take it all," the pusher growls, his voice ragged and ecstatic against your ear.
his thrusts become even more erratic, losing their rhythm as he chases his own end.
"look at you, a mess on the floor, dripping with that mute freak’s seed and now taking my load. such a good little reagent for us, aren't you?"
he's using you, your body nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure; just a warm, tight hole to chase his climax in. you’ve abandoned all shame, panting and moaning as he bullies your insides as your own release mounts.
the pusher groans, a long, drawn-out sound, and then he stills, his hips jerking as he empties his cum deep inside of you, adding his to the pitcher's.
you can feel it dripping out of your punished pussy, another warm and sticky flood. he stays there for a moment, panting, before pulling out with a slick, obscene sound and giving your ass one last, possessive smack.
"all yours, creep," he pants, stumbling back.
you're left trembling on the floor, a wreck of fluids and aching muscles, your mind a fog of pleasure and pain from your denied orgasm. the two men are silhouettes against the wall, waiting for your final humiliation.
you gulp, remembering the other presence in the room.
a soft, shuffling sound draws your gaze upward; the night hunter ambles towards you, shamelessly fisting his cock. he stops before you, crouching slightly, night vision goggles glinting in the darkness. his mouth hangs open, tongue salivating, and you swallow a shudder of disgust.
he doesn't hesitate for any longer, his long, spindly fingers hooking under your chin, forcing your head up and his thumb pries your mouth open. you try to struggle, but your body is spent, a broken doll after the brutal fucking you've endured.
he roughly jabs into your mouth, forcing your lips apart, and his cock presses against you, the tip gnarled and bulbous. it tastes of salt and dust and something sterile, like antiseptic. with a rough push, he slides into your mouth, the ridges catching on your tongue.
he pushes himself deep into your throat, panting and stilling once your nose is pressed against the base of his cock. you can't breathe, your throat convulsing around the intruder as he begins a frantic, sloppy thrusting, fucking your face with a desperate need.
the night hunter's thrusts remain invasive and torturing, the monstrous man taking his time assaulting you. his ridged shaft fills your throat, cutting off your air until your vision stars, only to retreat just enough for you to snatch a desperate, ragged breath before it plunges back in.
your body is slack, an unwilling vessel for this disgusting violation. you force your throat to relax, eyes rolling in your head as you disassociate. from across the room, the pusher's sharp laughter cuts through the wet, slick sounds of your throat being used.
"holy shit, look at her go." he jeers, his voice dripping with a mixture of awe and contempt.
"takes a monster cock like a fucking champ. who knew you had it in you, reagent?"
you close your eyes, trying to pretend you’re anywhere but here. after countless minutes, the night hunter stills; his cock pulses in your mouth, a fluttering throb against your tongue. a second later, a flood of warmth erupts down your throat. it’s thick, almost viscous, with a sour and metallic taste that coats the back of your mouth.
you have no choice but to swallow, your throat convulsively around the still embedded organ as he pumps his seed into you. he finally pulls out of you once you start choking around his softening cock.
you collapse forward, coughing and gasping, and the night hunter shambles back, tongue lolling in pleasure. your body is a canvas of bruises, aches, and sticky fluids and you feel utterly broken. the pusher saunters over, crouching down to get a better look at you. he nudges your shoulder with the toe of his boot.
"you're a mess." he says, but there's no real malice in it, only a kind of lazy satisfaction.
"a hot, fucking mess."
he stands up, glancing at the pitcher, who gives a slow, deliberate nod.
"go on," the pusher says, waving a dismissive hand toward the only door to the room.
“get the fuck out of here."
shakily, you push yourself up to your feet. you hurry away, wiping at your mouth listlessly as you try to process what had just happened.
“see you next time, sweetheart!”
the sound of the pusher’s taunting echoes through the halls as you desperately move towards the shuttles, hoping you somehow still have time to escape the trial.
there was no telling what other horrors awaited you if you managed to get stuck in here overnight with those monsters.
