Halley hasn’t been sleeping well in her new job. But who would, in a lonely spaceship full of the dead? That asshole Karl is probably sleeping like a baby.
Warnings: financial coercion, sexual assault, body horror.
This contains no spoilers and requires no lore knowledge. Read this and then go read Cold Eternity.
-
-
-
I used to sing in the shower.
Not well, but that’s not the point of shower singing. I’d hum whatever tune was stuck in my head, just to feel the vibrations in my chest and hear the warm watery echoes of my voice, ethereal in that steamy space.
I don’t sing in the shower here. As the only properly-alive person on a retired spacefaring museum full of cryogenic almost-corpses, it just feels… wrong.
I guess I’m not the only person. But Karl never comes up from the engine room, and I don’t suspect he’d inspire me to sing in the shower if he did.
Maybe I’m just too exhausted.
The stall is cramped, the tiles cracked and stained. Joylessly, unsingingly, I scrub down my aching body after another long day — has it been a day? — of work. The hot water is a feeble comfort. More than anything, it reminds me of how tired I am.
I’ll finish this shower, flop into bed, and hopefully not have another harrowing nightmare. A soupy, tedious, solitary routine of monitoring technically-not-quite-corpses on a ship that’s coming apart at the seams isn’t good for mental health, my subconscious keeps telling me.
But I can’t afford to be anywhere else. It’s only for a few months.
“Halley.”
A familiar voice almost makes me slip on the tiles. I catch myself against the stained wall, my heart thumping like a jackhammer in my throat.
Fucking. Karl.
I can see his silhouette through the plastic curtain, a fuzzy backlit shadow. He probably can’t see a thing from his side of the curtain. All the same, my arms are glued across my bare, soapy chest.
“The fuck do you want, Karl?” I snap. I usually keep my composure better, but shock and anger pulse through me. He’s being a dick on purpose.
“I understand you’re unhappy with your current wages.”
What, you mean my below minimum wage pay? I hug my arms tighter around myself. I’m not in a position to negotiate right now. Vulnerable, off balance, embarrassed. Which is probably why he initiated the conversation like this.
To stall, I say, “Last time I asked, you seemed pretty uninterested in moving on that point.”
“That was before I saw you in person. Holocoms, well… they don’t really do a woman justice.”
A cold spike of dread pierces me. Frantically, I scan the shower for anything I could use as a weapon. Soap, small plastic bottles— worthless. Not even a razor. Fuck.
“No,” I say firmly, as if that’ll be enough. As if that’s ever enough for a man like him. “Not interested.”
I thought he was just a tool. I didn’t think—
“So you are fine with your pay?”
“I’m not fine with your terms for increasing it.”
“You haven’t even heard my terms.”
“No,” I say again.
“I’m not asking to touch you.” His silhouette shifts, weight moving from one foot to the other as his hands find his pockets. “Just pull the curtain aside.”
He says it so casually, like he’s adding another room to my security rounds. I wanted to hope I was misunderstanding him. I wasn’t. I wasn’t.
“Twenty-one thousand hard credits. One-time payment.” I can’t see Karl’s smile, but I can feel it. “At least, one time for now. We can talk about a repeat gig later.”
Three weeks of pay. I squeeze my eyes shut. I could get off this fucking ship almost a month earlier than planned.
All it would take is a few seconds of something I can never take back.
I speak through clenched teeth. “If I say no?”
“I’ll leave.” Karl chuckles. “Might ask again in a month, though.”
The hot water in this shower has never run out, but I feel ice cold. I hate myself for even considering it. How much am I willing to compromise, to bend my own convictions? I’ve been asking myself that question a lot lately.
Karl sighs impatiently.
“You know, I could have just opened the curtain before you knew I was here. I didn’t have to ask permission, or offer payment.”
A feverish chill slides over me. My breath is shallow as I press myself back against the tiles. “Wh-what’s your point?”
“My point is that I have a vested interest in keeping our business arrangement amicable. I think I’ve proven that. If you say no, I’ll leave. If you say yes, I’m good for the money.” His voice sharpens. “But I do expect an answer. I have shit to do.”
I want to tell him to leave. To fuck off, in fact. I want to raise my voice and imply something scorching about his sexual proclivities. Instead, my voice comes out weak and broken.
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long do I have to hold the curtain open?”
“Until I say to close it.”
I flinch. “If you’re planning to touch yourself—”
“I’m not. Well, not in front of you.” Another chuckle that makes my skin crawl. “It’ll just be a minute. My hands will stay in my pockets. I just want to look.”
What he said is true. He could have yanked the curtain aside without asking. He could have joined me in the shower and pinned me against the tiles. I’m smaller than him and weak with sleep deprivation. He could have done whatever he wanted.
Still could.
Might ask again in a month.
And what if I say no twice? How much patience will he afford me?
Despair settles over me, cold and heavy. Here I go, compromising myself yet again.
“Twenty-one thousand,” I croak out. I grip the curtain.
“Oh, and…” Karl adds, “don’t cover yourself.” He exhales, the first time he hasn’t sounded completely cavalier about the whole thing. “I’m here for flesh.”
That horrible remark almost makes me back out. But I summon my resolve. If I’m going to do this, I’m not going to be huddled and shaking, avoiding his eyes. I won’t give him that. Taking a deep breath, I straighten my spine and set my shoulders. My left hand balls into a fist at my side while my right grabs the curtain and yanks.
The bathroom is empty.
For a moment, the sight won’t parse. A trickle of relief softens my shoulders for half a heartbeat before I realize how much worse this is.
I whip around, as if he could have somehow snuck past me into the shower. I step out, leaving wet footprints on the floor as I peer around the room. Empty. No sound but the still-running shower and my own shallow breath.
The bathroom looks exactly like it did when I got here. Everything exactly in place. Including the closed door.
No, he was here. I had a whole conversation with him. I saw his silhouette through the curtain. My heart races sickeningly. He was here.
Am I losing my mind?
“Karl?” I call weakly.
No answer. A watery echo of my voice bounces from the tiles. Numb panic swells in my chest as the silence stretches. He was here.
“Karl!” I raise my voice. “Karl!”
Flesh.
I blink. It feels like I heard someone speak, but no matter how I strain my ears, there’s no sound but the shower. I lean back past the curtain and turn off the water. The knob squeaks, the shower falls silent.
In its place, I hear breathing.
Wet, shallow, sickly. A shiver of adrenaline pulses in my chest. My head whips around, but no one’s here.
Nothing’s here.
Slowly, like I’m falling against the pull of artificial gravity, my gaze tilts up.
A necrotic mass of living meat sprawls across the stained ceiling panels and rusted pipes, a breathing cluster of human corpses. Tangled limbs spider out from wall to wall. Directly above me, a radially-symmetrical maw of oversized human incisors yawns wide in drooling anticipation.
FLESH
A sharp spike of pain in my shoulder informs me that I have fallen out of bed.
The blankets are tangled around my legs, the small room echoing with my heaving breath. All is dark, save a sliver of light peeking under my door.
A dream. Another fucking hellish dream—
I fumble for my holocom and send a beam of blue light scouring across my quarters. Everything as it should be. I tilt the beam up towards the ceiling. No monstrosity of human flesh hovering over me. I look at my closed door. No Karl.
I pull the blanket tighter around myself, so grateful that I fell asleep in my clothes. I feel stripped bare, to the skin, to the bone. The walls of my quarters press around me, both suffocating and insubstantial, like I’m being smothered in a mass of wet paper.
The holocom trembles so badly in my hand that it takes a few tries to check the time.
Fifteen minutes until my next set of rounds.
It’s both a curse and a relief. I groan, rubbing a hand over my crusty eyes. It barely feels like I slept. But I’m not particularly eager to fix that.
Nothing for it. I haul my exhausted limbs from the floor and set to work putting my shoes on. Karl will be on my ass if I don’t—
An irrational flinch jolts through me. I press my fingers to my squeezed-shut eyes, taking a long deep breath.
I need to get my shit together. It was just a dream. Karl is… vaguely annoying, probably a little lazy, and definitely paying me less than minimum wage. But that’s all he is, at least until proven otherwise. The rest was just my stressed-out subconscious projecting a common fear onto the proximate cause of my sleep deprivation.
And as for the rest of my dream…
Well, for better or for worse, there’s nothing on this ship more dangerous than Karl.
I shake off the last haze of sleep and push my door open. I might skip a shower this morning.
It’s not easy convincing Strade to do something other than torture.
Warnings: Noncon, humiliation, mentions of canon-typical torture, pussy’d reader insert.
-
-
-
“Fuck me instead!”
My voice clatters like broken glass. The basement’s musty rafters swallow the sound in their deep recesses of cobwebs and concrete, letting my words echo there as if trapped. My breath is too loud in the sudden silence.
I can’t believe I said that. From the blank look on his face, shadowed by the basement’s sickly greenish lights, Strade can’t believe I said it either.
He recovers before I do. A smile as sharp as the knife curls across his face.
“Oh?”
A single syllable exhaled on eager breath, but it drags the truth out of me like fishhooks. I slump against the pole, too choked by misery to speak for a moment.
“P-please, just… fuck me. Instead of cutting me.”
Sweat drips down my back. Blood drips down my leg. I can’t believe I said it, but to my shame, I can’t pretend I didn’t mean it. I’d do anything to make him stop.
“Sell me on it.”
The heavy press of humiliation yields, briefly, to confusion. I raise my eyes from the stained concrete floor to his eager face.
“Huh?”
“Oh, maybe that’s not the right phrase?” Strade chews his lip. “Überzeugen, Überzeugen… convince!” He beams. “Convince me!”
I still don’t understand. I must look as clueless as I feel, because Strade chuckles and gives my thigh an encouraging pat. The thigh he’s been slicing to ribbons. A fresh heatwave of pain sweeps over me.
“You seem terribly confident that I’ll have more fun fucking you than cutting you!” His eyes jitter over me, scanning, as if his gaze he can strip my skin away and see everything inside. “Convince me. Tell me how good it’ll feel.”
How good it’ll feel to… fuck me?
I stare at him, my wounds nearly forgotten. I thought everyone was kind of on the same page about this. I thought the offer would have… inherent appeal. That he’d jump at the opportunity.
There’s no mockery in Strade’s too-eager gaze. He means it. He wants me to explain, with my words, why it’ll feel good to fuck me.
I can’t meet his eyes anymore. Not for this. “It’s… tight,” I promise under my breath.
“Mm-hm?”
Not enough, apparently. I swallow and force more volume into my voice.
“I-it’s warm and soft, like…” I try to think of something pleasant to compare pussy to. His attention is rapt, piercing through me. “…Like a freshly-baked cake. Just for you.”
It feels dumb, and my face is burning, but Strade’s tongue lolls out like a hungry dog. It sends a shiver up my spine.
“I-it’ll feel so good wrapped around you.” The words are coming faster now, spurred by a heady mix of hope and desperation. “I’ll squeeze whenever you tell me to. As tight as I can. I— I’ll worship you like you deserve. I’ll—”
My words clunk to a stop as he grabs the elastic of my underwear. His bloody fingers leave sticky smears of gore as he drags it down my shaking thighs. I hiss in pain when the elastic scrapes my fresh wounds. The flash of the knife makes me flinch, but all he does is slice the underwear away. Then he wrenches my legs apart, fingers digging into my slashed thighs, and I nearly scream.
“Mmmh, that does look good.”
My face is on fire. My legs are spread so wide that my hips ache, completely exposing me to his ravenous gaze. This was a bad idea. Encouraging him to get between my legs is only going to make things worse. Panic begins to strangle me. He might just keep cutting me anyway. I didn’t think—
“And you’re not even wet!” He shoots me a playful look. “You must be awfully brave, inviting me inside like this.”
A sob chokes me. I wish I could take my words back. I wish I’d stuck to screaming and never begged, never bargained.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to be wet.” He slides his own fingers between his grinning teeth, withdrawing a long string of slobber. “I am.”
He reaches out and touches between my legs like he’s just grabbing another tool off the shelf.
His fingers are rough and thick, calloused from manual labor. The foreign slickness makes me squirm. He presses, searching and assessing, sending careless sparks of sensation shivering up my spine. When I brave another look at his face, he seems enraptured.
“Keep going.”
I don’t know what he means. My brain feels like it’s cooking. “Wh-what?”
“Tell me more about what you’re offering.”
Two thick fingers sink inside me.
The stretch, the pressure, the violation sends my stomach flipping. I’m running out of things to say, and it’s harder to think than ever. “It’s yours,” I ramble as his knuckles grind against me. “I-it’s all yours, you can do whatever you want to my— my—”
Words start to fail me as he spreads his fingers wide. Under his devouring gaze, I’m struck with the horrible impression that he’s looking inside me.
“D-doesn’t it feel nice?” I whine.
“Mmmh…” He curls his fingers, pressing into my insides. “Genau wie Kuchen.”
His thumb drags over my clit, a slow appreciative stroke. Savoring what’s his. I shudder, and I know he notices.
“But…” He withdraws his fingers from the grip of my body, dragging them over my clit. I can’t pretend his saliva is the only reason I’m slick. “You left some things out.”
“Wh-what do you mean…?”
“You told me how warm it was. How soft.” Strade explores every soft crevice, squishing and stroking. I can’t stop my hurt legs from twitching. “How tight it was.” He drags his tongue sloppily over his teeth. “You didn’t tell me it was hungry.”
His fingers plunge back inside. A jolt of motion flashes painfully in my slashed legs.
“I can feel you pulling me in. Gripping me. Pulsing.” He’s rambling just like I was, his breath just as heavy. “Nach mir schnappen wie ein Hund.”
“I—” Breath is failing me. His touch is relentless, “I-I’ll cum for you!”
Terror strikes as that absurd promise leaves my lips. What’s he going to do when I can’t? When he knows I was bluffing?
As his palm grinds on me and his fingers curl, a cold certainty dawns.
I’m not bluffing.
He’s going to make me cum.
Strade’s eyes are ablaze, his breath heavier than mine. A sheen of sweat glistens above the neck of his shirt, flattening dark curly hairs against his skin. He’s leaning so close I can feel his breath.
“Good,” he groans.
Even the flaring pain in my legs is drowned out as pleasure washes over me, pouring from his fingers into the rest of my body. As I gasp and arch, he leans even closer, tucking his face into my shoulder and locking his teeth over it. Muscle spasms in his jaws as he grinds more and more torturous bliss into me. Until my thrashing has weakened to overwhelmed twitching, my cries into whines. Until I can barely focus on the spinning ceiling.
By the time he releases me, both with his knuckles and jaws, I’m wrung out and spent. Sweat burns in my wounds.
“Wow!” With a sparkling grin, Strade spreads his fingers, showing me the slick strand that clings between them. “That was satisfying!”
With a strained grunt, he pulls himself to his feet. Idly, almost in a daze, he slides his tongue between his slick fingers. I stare up at him, and he stares back, heavy-lidded and panting as he licks his fingers clean. He catches a knuckle between his teeth, as if he can’t help himself.
Something about the sleepy satisfaction in his eyes clicks for me. I think he finished. Just from that.
“But, I have to admit…” With a lopsided smile, Strade wipes his fingers dry on his pants. “Cutting you feels better.”
My heart drops into the floor.
“Not today, though. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He bends over, gripping my chin, forcing me to look up at his cheerful face. “Maybe tomorrow you can come up with another fun thing for us to try, hmm?”
You work for Fox’s trafficking empire, but not like that. You just balance the books.
Warnings: Nonconsensual sex acts, stuck-in-wall, large penetration, perpetrator pov, rationalization, corruption, canon-compliant kidnapping/human trafficking.
-
-
-
Your job is bookkeeping and admin.
Despite having no windows, your private office is pleasantly lit. A handful of potted succulents brings some life to the buttery-yellow walls. Your boss kindly allowed you to repaint them. The bare concrete was getting to you.
There have been four high-value sales this week, so you’ve been scrambling. Everyone’s going to be fighting over where that extra money goes. Maybe you can finally answer the tech department’s prayers for a high-grade mic. Security has been breathing down your neck for new uniforms, but you’ve told them time and time again it’s not a priority. No matter how much they loom.
Of course, you know what’s probably going to happen. The boss will find some bizarre new power tools or kink props that he just has to add to his collection before the next stream. The tech department will settle for a lesser upgrade than they were hoping for. And the security team will get brushed off again, because Fox likes when their uniforms are a little too tight.
Your job is bookkeeping and admin, and your employer is an underground snuff and human trafficking empire.
You’re not involved in that part. All you do is process payments, keep track of expenses, and troubleshoot the occasional technical issue that doesn’t require you to bother the IT person. You’ve always been good with numbers.
If you weren’t doing the job, someone else would. And you never have to touch the merchandise yourself.
“Hello, you busy little bee!”
You look up from your sky-blue desktop computer to see Fox himself leaning on the door frame. You finish typing a six-figure number into your spreadsheet before replying.
“Do you need something, sir?”
“You forgot, didn’t you?” He leans languidly on the frame of your office door. “It’s time for your annual review.”
Is it really? Time sure does fly.
“You’re getting a raise, of course. I’d be devastated if some other snuff stream poached my best accountant.”
“I wouldn’t dream of leaving, sir.” You click away at your keyboard. “Who could compete with your in-house dental plan?”
He laughs. It’s easy to butter him up with facial gore jokes.
“All the same.” He curls one clawed finger, beckoning you towards him. “Let me sweeten the deal for my busiest bee, hmm? Indulge me.”
You hate when your work gets interrupted, but there’s no saying no to the boss. Especially not when he asks like that. Making sure your spreadsheet is saved, you stand and follow him. With a swish of his tail, he leads you down the hall.
There’s no sunny yellow paint outside your office. Fox’s headquarters are built like a dungeon.
“So, uh… sweeten the deal?” you probe.
Fox’s tail lashes against you. “Now now. Don’t ask me to ruin the surprise.”
Claustrophobic concrete churns past as you follow him. Where’s he taking you? Not to his own office. Not to the exit, either. As you pass the reinforced door to the auction room, it suddenly clicks, and your stomach twists uncomfortably.
He’s taking you to the VIP rooms.
Some clients prefer their product fresh and untouched, but others will pay extra for a breaking-in service. Merchandise is immobilized, gagged and blindfolded, and stuffed in a special wall cavity that exposes only their useful parts. These rooms are set aside as rewards for well-performing employees, expensive perks for Fox’s most trusted clients, and of course a little stress relief for the boss man himself.
You don’t partake. Your job is bookkeeping and admin. You’re not… like the rest of them.
As you follow Fox down the hall, you try to think of a tactful way to turn his gift down. You doubt he’s trying to trap or trick you, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tread carefully. One should always tread carefully around the boss.
By the time Fox comes to a stop by an unassuming black door and turns on his heel, a decent plan has failed to coalesce in your mind.
“You don’t look very excited.”
Fox’s temper is legendary among his employees, and you’ve learned to spot it. Right now, he’s not angry. He’s playful. Best to play along.
“I am!” You laugh. “I’m just… a little intimidated, I guess.” You whisper and lean closer, although the two of you are quite alone. “The thing is… I’m not much of a top.”
A convenient excuse that happens to be true.
“Oh, my sweet busy bee.” He taps you on the nose. “Do you think I don’t know the tastes of my most valuable employees? Trust me.”
He pushes the door open.
The room is small, the size of a somewhat indulgent bathroom, tastefully decorated despite staying on-brand with the official company dungeon-chic. A high-backed black leather chair sits in one corner, just waiting to be smugly gloated upon. A stainless steel end table boasts a decanter, cut-crystal glasses, and complimentary scalpel if you’re feeling cruel. There’s even a fully-functional sink set into one corner.
Your eye is drawn, however, to the main attraction.
A hole is cut in the wall, lined with black leather to smooth over any rough edges. A much smaller hole than you expected. Rather than exposing the entire lower half of some unlucky merchandise, a single body part dangles out. And it has your heart in your throat.
That is the hugest cock you’ve ever seen, porn included. And it’s not even hard.
“It’s yours for an hour.” Fox gives you a playful shove, sending you staggering into the room. “Enjoy!”
He shuts the door.
Letting out an awkward huff, you look around the room. Fox might be insulted if you leave too quickly. Better at least pretend you appreciate his reward.
So this is what the coveted VIP rooms look like on the inside. You’re only familiar with them through the revenue they pull in. Personally, you think Fox over-invested. It’s not that the rooms aren’t profitable, it’s that they rarely get used by anyone outside Fox’s employ. He has to really like a client before he lets them step behind the scenes. He has to really have some dirt on them.
You just think the rooms didn’t need to be furnished this nicely. They could have been more barebones, functional. A harness or a stockade instead of this elaborate built-into-the-wall business. The stainless steel lube dispenser on the wall didn’t have to be wrapped in monogrammed velvet. But there’s no reasoning with the boss when his sense of style is on the line.
Hey, you approved the expenses for this nice fancy chair. You might as well sit in it.
The leather creaks dramatically as you flop down. It’s huge, just as over-the-top as the boss, but unexpectedly comfortable. There really ought to be a fluffy white cat purring on your lap for you to stroke menacingly while you’re in this chair.
But that’s not your scene. You’re an accountant. You stand up from the chair.
You missed a few objects in your original assessment of the room. A high stool with stainless steel legs and a leather seat is tucked beside the door, and beside it is a rolled-up mat. More tools to make using the room more comfortable, you suppose. How does the merchandise even get in the wall? You spin in a circle, looking for the seam of a hidden door in blank concrete.
Jesus. Where did Fox even find a cock that size? How big would it be hard…?
Heart skipping, you tear your gaze away. You’ve never touched Fox’s product before. To the best of your ability, you’ve rarely even seen it. The merchandise is just numbers in your spreadsheets. Names, sometimes, when you can’t avoid them. Prices. Revenue. Occupied cells. On rare and unfortunate occasions, you write one off as a loss.
Well. At least you don’t have to see his face.
Setting the product free is a thought that never even flits across your mind. You ran those numbers long ago. You’ve always been good with numbers.
You wander to the sink. The hardware is chrome-bright, industrial in a very fashionable way. You turn the knobs more for novelty than to confirm they work. Of course they do. Fox spares no expense when he cares about something. The hand towel is jet black, embossed in one corner with his logo in silver-white.
There are numerous unsavory reasons why someone might want to wash their hands after using this room.
Your gaze turns to the decanter. Well… Fox did say to enjoy the amenities, right? And your nerves could use soothing. Just a small glass, though. Once you’re out of this room, you have a spreadsheet to contend with. You’ve never attempted to format a spreadsheet while drunk, but it sounds like hell.
A curious sniff of the decanter fails to impart much information. You think this might be brandy, but you’re no expert. Knowing Fox, it’s expensive. You pour yourself a small glass and sip. Smoother than you expected. Maybe the price really does make a difference.
Inevitably, your gaze wanders back to the hole in the wall. With your nerves somewhat calmed, you give serious thought to the situation you’re in.
If merchandise has been assigned to this room, that means someone is paying to have them broken in. Which means that if you don’t do it, someone else will. Your heart sinks. There’s no point in chastely running out your hour without touching him. You might piss off Fox, and you definitely won’t spare this individual any hardship.
A sudden prickle of self-consciousness runs down your spine. You don’t recall if the VIP rooms have hidden cameras. Knowing Fox, it’s a realistic possibility.
So if you just stand here and don’t do anything…
With sudden determination, you march across the room.
Standing this close, it feels so much more real. The heat of living flesh. And yet, at the same time, it’s surreal. Like no more than a toy mounted on the wall.
It’s so big. It must be so heavy.
A trance draws your hand towards him.
The flesh twitches under your touch. Not arousal, but a flinch of surprise. You wonder how soundproofed the wall is. Could he hear you walking around? Did he have any idea someone was in the room? …How long has he been stuck here?
Better not to think about that. There’s nothing you can do.
Maybe he won’t get hard. How could he, in his situation? Fox can’t blame you for walking out of this room if the main attraction is unusable, right? That’s not your fault.
You let out a grateful sigh as the solution settles into place. You’ll put on a good show for the cameras, jiggle his plump balls for a while, and then swing by the boss’s office to let him down gently. Fox will probably buy you a nice bottle of wine or box of chocolates to make up for the fact that you didn’t get to enjoy the intended reward. And that’ll be the end of it.
…He’s getting hard.
At first, you’re not sure you’re seeing it. Soon there’s no mistaking: that thick shaft is getting even thicker, swelling against your arm. Arcing slowly upwards to greet you. When your hand wanders in a trance from balls to cock, it twitches visibly.
Fuck. So much for that plan.
Mesmerized, you stroke slowly from shaft to head, marveling at how much distance there is to cover. He stiffens under your strokes until his cock stands proudly out from the wall, warm and veiny, just starting to leak.
Maybe… he’s enjoying this.
This is better, right? Better than the other type of VIP room, where merchandise gets bent over and ravaged by big cruel security guards. You won’t be rough with him. The complimentary scalpel will remain untouched beside the decanter.
You knock back the rest of your probably-brandy and drop to your knees. He’s even more impressive from this angle. A heady musk wafts over you, arousal and sweat. Your mouth waters.
You’ll be good for him. He’ll be subjected to nothing but gentle, eager warmth.
That’s not so bad, right?
Even though your hand is wrapped around his shaft, you can’t quite believe it’s real until your lips close over the head. Warm, soft, flushed, eager, thick. When you part your lips and slide your mouth over him, your jaw aches so pleasantly. He drools on your tongue, slick and salty.
You sink your lips lower, lower, until your gag reflex takes over and yanks you off with a gasp.
Is he even harder than before? Even bigger? Or are you just struggling to fathom his size? Your saliva is dangling lewdly from the head, or perhaps he’s just leaking that much.
You swallow him back down as if he’s your first meal in weeks.
Kneeling on the bare concrete has your knees aching, but you don’t care. His cock stuffs your mouth so completely. Even when you take him as deep as you can, his balls still feel miles away. You pump up and down, working the rest with your hand, moaning when he’s not gagging you. Every time he pushes into your throat, you feel the thrilling ache of being stretched somewhere you shouldn’t be. It feels like he’s pressing straight into your brain, shutting off your thoughts.
His balls call your hands back. They’re so heavy. So full. So warm. You want to drain them. You want him gushing down your poor stretched-full throat. You wish he could grab your hair, force you to take him deeper. Use you until you pass out.
Another spasm of gag reflex has you gasping for breath. You nuzzle under his cock, sliding your tongue over his balls. The hot weight of him on your face is dizzying.
…Could he even fit inside you?
Shaky and fumbling, you strip yourself from the waist down, panting against his balls. He’s so hard. He’s so big. You need to find out if he fits. You need to know what he feels like inside. If you don’t try it now, you’ll be thinking about it for the rest of your life.
As you stand, your knees twinge. You should have used the complimentary floor mat. But the stool— the stool. You race across the room and drag it over, bending yourself over the plush leather surface, lining up with his cock.
Just before you can push back against it, a thought fizzles in your mind. Fox and his hidden cameras.
…Probably not, right? These rooms are for paying clients, after all. Spying on a holding cell is one thing, but Fox would surely give his most valued customers some privacy. Nothing but the best for them.
No one’s going to watch you get stuffed by this huge cock. Fox said this room was all yours.
As he presses against you, a flicker of trepidation interrupts your fervor. He’s bigger than any toy you’ve used, any past lover you’ve had. Maybe relying on spit was ambitious. You straighten up and avail yourself of Fox’s over-designed lube dispenser, smearing it along his shaft. Just a few strokes, carefully. You’ll be devastated if he climaxes now, before you get to try him.
Is this lube scented? It suddenly smells like rose and sandalwood in here.
Repositioned on your stool, you make another attempt. Oh, that’s better. The thick, blunt head of his cock coaxes you open, stretching you more and more until your body begs and taps out. This is going to take patience, which you desperately do not want to to indulge. You’re quaking with need already.
Would he be patient right now, if he had the freedom to do what he wished with your bent-over body? The thought of that huge cock forcing inside has you shuddering. You push back harder, harder, even when a sore ache begins to build.
You don’t care. You like it. You need it.
It must feel so good for him. You wonder how long it’s been since he squeezed this monster inside someone. Is he pent up? Is he desperate to use you?
The sudden pressure of his cock slipping inside makes you yelp, so loud you cover your own mouth. God, you hope these rooms are soundproofed. Shaking, you breathe heavily through your own fingers, waiting for the burn to subside. He feels impossibly huge. Like your body shouldn’t be able to hold this much.
But it will. And it’s going to hold more.
Taking one more breath, you push yourself further onto him. Each inch makes you hiss, freeze, grip the stool for support. But you’re determined. You push and push until he won’t go any deeper, until you’re filled to the brim.
Surely you’re only taking half of it. You pant against the stool as you pump your hips against him. The room swims drunkenly. You feel dazed, hypnotized, unable to think beyond the sweet burn of him inside you.
With a shudder, you slow your own motions. You don’t dare touch yourself. You want this to last. Fox gave you a whole hour, after all.
You’re going to use it.
Slowly, you pull yourself up the shaft. Just as slowly, you sink down, surrendering to the invasion. Another inch deeper, and you slide yourself up, then down again. Up and down. Up and down. A little further. A little deeper. You have to feel the whole thing. You need those big heavy balls pressed against your thighs.
A little further. A little deeper…
The chill of the wall brushes your bare skin.
“Fuck,” you breathe to the empty room. You bury your face in the stool, legs trembling. “Fuck.”
With one more rolling push, your hips are flush against the wall. He’s completely inside you.
You’ve never felt so full. So claimed. Your knees wobble and buckle, and you’d be on the floor if not for this stool. For a long time, you sit there and catch your breath, grappling with the sensation. He’s so big you can barely even squeeze around him. He’s so deep that you touch your own belly, expecting to feel him inside.
Bracing yourself on the stool, you slide all the way up, until only the head of his cock is keeping you stretched. Then you sink back down, inch after inch stuffing you, until your hips press against the leather-lined hole in the wall. Your brain is buzzing.
He could cum at any second. Empty those big heavy balls deep inside you. With each roll of your hips, you could tip him over the edge. It’s not like he can warn you how close he is. Your only hint is the occasional twitch of that thick shaft. A time bomb in your belly.
You slide yourself up again, but only make it a few inches before plunging greedily back down. You settle into a hungry rhythm, pumping the last few inches of his cock, pressing your hips against the wall each time. Does he wish he could reach through the wall and grab you? Pin you down and pound your holes until he slakes his lust? Fuck. You wish you could hear him moan.
Your gasps have become shameless. Your moans echo in the concrete cell. The glossy leather seat of the stool is steamed up by your breath. You’re not even touching yourself and you’re about to—
The first wave of pleasure almost knocks you out. Your body is trying so hard to clench around him, to pulse around him, but he’s too big. All you can do is shiver and spasm, hugging so tight around his cock, giving him the worship he deserves.
You pray, again, that the room is soundproofed.
It’s a long time before you can see straight again. The leather stool feels like your oldest friend. Every time you try to straighten up, to move, your body shudders again.
As you catch your breath, you rock your hips slowly against the wall. He didn’t finish, right? Surely you’d know. You would have felt him pulsing and throbbing, flooding you. How long has it been since he got off? How much is he saving up for you?
…You can’t just leave him like this. That would be cruel, right?
On wobbling legs, you venture another thrust. Every movement sends new shockwaves through you. You’re sore, inside and out, and yet it feels so much easier to take him to the hilt. Like he’s reshaped your body itself. Maybe he could slide into you even easier next time, use you with less prep. The thought makes you shudder, makes you move faster, harder.
Come on.
There’s no sound from beyond the wall to warn you when it’s about to happen. No gasp or groan or snarl. Only the unmistakable sensation of that thick shaft throbbing before he starts filling you, gush after warm gush. You keep yourself pressed against the wall as he pulses, your flushed face pressed against the stool and grinning dizzily with satisfaction.
It feels like an eternity before he’s done. You stay there, fully seated, until he’s given everything he has to give. Even after the last drop is spent, you really don’t want to slide yourself off him. If only he could keep you here, skewered on his cock, using you again and again…
But you have a spreadsheet to get back to.
With a sigh, you begin the arduous process of removing yourself from him. Every inch feels thicker to your sensitive body, as if he swelled inside you. When the head finally slips loose, a wet gush follows it. You take another moment to catch your breath, bent over the stool and quaking, as it dribbles down your thigh.
You’ll be getting off to the memory of this for weeks.
At last, you straighten up and attempt to support yourself on your own two legs. They tremble, but you don’t collapse to the floor in an undignified jizz-splattered heap, so there’s that. You take a moment to admire your handiwork. His cock is a sloppy mess, still twitching as it starts to soften, still massive.
You need to wash up before you end up sucking it again.
The sink is a godsend. You wash your hands, your face, and clean up between your legs with the jet-black hand towel. The complimentary soap smells like rose and sandalwood. Matches the lube.
Refreshed and more satisfied than you’ve been in a long time, you’re ready to get back to your spreadsheets.
You open the door, and there stands Fox.
“Welcome back, little bee.” His smile is glowing. “You really were busy!”
You recoil with a yelp. Did he wait outside the entire time? Your face is on fire. You hope he doesn’t notice how shaky your legs are. You really need to check whether these rooms are soundproofed.
“You went a tiny bit over your allotted hour.” He winks. “But I won’t tell.”
Shit, did you really? You suppose you spent a while just killing time. And once he was inside you… time went all hazy.
“Sorry,” you mumble.
Fox flicks his hand, dismissive. “Nonsense. You earned it.”
The way he says it makes your face even hotter.
“Walk you back to your office?”
As mortified as you are, you nod gratefully. You don’t think you could keep a straight face if you encountered another employee on your walk back. Kangaroo would be such a prick if he noticed your cheeks flushed and your steps swaying. Ugh. This is why no one signs off on new uniforms for security.
With Fox at your side, nobody bothers you all the way back to your office.
As if it was all a dream, you’re back in your comfort zone. This buttery-yellow room with its sky blue desktop and warm lighting and collection of potted succulents. A peaceful little world of numbers. Just numbers.
You take a seat, and everything falls back into place. Right as you left it. There’s the spreadsheet you were working on.
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer!”
You clear your throat. “Sir?”
Fox hesitates at your door.
“Thank you.” You straighten up in your seat. “For the raise. And the special employee perk.”
A broad smile blooms across his face. “You are so welcome.” His tail swishes happily as he leans on your door frame. “Work hard, and maybe you can earn another perk before your next annual review, hmm? Our little secret.”
Your job is bookkeeping and admin. You work in a well-lit office, organizing spreadsheets and taking care not to over-water your succulents.
But right now, in your heart, you’re still in that dungeon of a room, indulging yourself to the limit. And you want to go back.
The warnings contain Mouthwashing spoilers, so I'm hiding them under the cut.
Warnings: Abuser pov, themes of sexual violence, references to unwanted pregnancy, canon-typical medical horror, distorted sense of time.
-
-
-
The passage of time has become a sick joke.
We're all waiting, I guess. But there's nothing we're waiting for. Day and night were always artificial constructs on this ship, but everyone's stopped playing along. Meals feel like sand in an hourglass. Sleep comes when it will, and I've stopped caring how long I spend in that black box of oblivion. Could be seconds, could be half a day. What's it matter when I always wake up tired?
But you know what I can always tell? Without needing to hear those familiar tortured moans echoing down the halls, blurring with the horrible creaks of a broken ship, I can always feel in my bones when it's time to give Curly his meds. My body doesn't know when to sleep, but this one rhythm is seared into me. The biggest act of futility on a futile ship.
So here I am, in the gloom of a synthetic night that has lost all meaning, making my way to medical.
Foam clogs the hallway. Scabbed-over wounds, still bleeding on the inside. The ship's dead, we're just trapped in the carcass. Like maggots writhing in roadkill.
Except we'd be living the dream if we were maggots, wouldn't we? Surrounded by food, secure in our shelter. So what's that make us? Worse than maggots. Suffocating inside a rotting body that used to give us life. Like an unborn—
Fuck.
Not maggots, in any case.
Lucky fucking maggots.
Hard to say if a heartbeat or a lifetime passes before I reach medical. It even smells like roadkill in here.
There's Anya, right where I expected her to be, at Curly's bedside. And there's the man of the hour himself, oozing through his bandages. I'm still not used to the sight. Every time I leave this room, I go back to thinking of him as he used to be. Strong and solid, annoyingly good-looking. Such a good goddamn leader.
He's none of those things anymore.
"How's he doing?" I ask Anya.
"Oh..." She gestures helplessly, not looking at me. "You know. He's... here."
There's a pill bottle in her hand. I have a guess what that means.
"You haven't given him the meds yet, have you?"
"I've been working up the nerve."
"How long have you been working up the nerve?"
She sighs. It's the sigh of someone for whom time has lost meaning. We've all been sighing like that lately. I rub my eyes until colorless sparks flash behind the lids.
"Do you need me to do it?"
She doesn't answer. The pressure of my fingers is starting to produce a red strobing that feels too much like the alarms of a crashing ship. When I open my eyes and my throbbing vision clears, Anya still isn't looking at me, but she's holding out the pill bottle.
Like it's that fucking easy. Just pass everything off to the captain. Everything.
Everything.
I reach for the pill bottle, but my hand slips past it. Like a ship ignoring autopilot. Instead, my hand locks around the solid human warmth of her arm. She jolts, tries to pull away, and all of a sudden she's willing to meet my eye.
"Can you at least tell me what your goddamn problem is?"
"E-excuse me?"
"You never give him the meds. I'm not buying this line that you're too squeamish for it. You're a nurse, allegedly." I didn't mean to grab her, but that doesn't mean I plan to let go. "If you're going to make me do it every time, at least tell me why you won't."
"I..." Her voice is frail. I can hear a thousand excuses strive and crumble on her tongue. Her gaze slinks away, settling on Curly. Damp crusty bandages and stumped limbs. "...I have limits."
"Yeah? So do I."
Everything. Every fucking thing is the captain's job. Every impossible task and no-win situation. I can't get a goddamn break.
How'd you do it, Curly?
Anya doesn't answer me, but she trembles. She's still pretty, even after all this. Here we are, starving and unraveling in this carcass of a ship, sleeping on floors when we manage to sleep at all, and she still manages to be so goddamn pretty. Long lashes and hair like velvet night, making that company uniform look better than it has any right to. Thriving in the roadkill.
"You know..." I'm not sure where these words are coming from. "If you're getting a sick little thrill from seeing him suffer, I'm not gonna judge."
She flinches harder than she did when I grabbed her. Wonder if I struck a nerve.
"Am I wrong?"
"Are you going to let go of me?" she murmurs.
I don't. I step closer, cornering her against the table. Sharing breath.
"You just can’t admit when you like something, can you?"
I can smell her, somehow, over the general ambiance of roadkill. It's nothing special; just cheap Pony Express standard-issue soap and woman. But it's just about the nicest thing I've felt in ages, standing this close to her.
Suddenly, all I want is to be closer. To forget everything for a short while and lose myself in her. Buried in living flesh instead of dead.
My hand wanders from her arm to her waist.
Might help us both calm down.
"Hhhhhgh."
A sound like fingernails dragging down a tombstone ricochets through the room. In his death-stained bed, Curly's one good eye is locked on me.
...No, of course not. Jimmy can't have a single fucking thing, can he? Jimmy has to give Curly his goddamn meds.
I grab the pill bottle from Anya's limp hand. "Give me that."
As soon as I step back, she runs. I can hear her footsteps echoing all down the foam-clogged hall, loud uneven clangs. I almost want to yell after her, but she's not worth it.
I take a long, deep breath. Nothing but a whisper of roadkill. The madness of her scent is gone.
"I wasn't going to do anything," I say to Curly.
How's a man with only one eye got a stare like that? I guess it helps to have no eyelids. Feels like a hypodermic needle aimed at my throat.
"Hey. It's not like it could have made things worse."
The joke doesn't seem to land. Or maybe it does, who fucking knows? Curly is about as good at smiling as he is at blinking. I let out another time-lost sigh.
"Yeah. Guess it wouldn't have solved anything either, huh?" Setting my shoulders, I lean over his bed, prying his lipless jaws open. "You're right, buddy. Might as well stay on task."
Good old Curly. Always keeping an eye on me.
As I stare down the fleshy tunnel of his throat— and the prospect of forcing down a pill with my bare fingers while he twitches and convulses— it occurs to me that I'll be sliding myself inside living flesh after all.
Another day of barely earning enough credits to cover your expenses, but everyone else in the tavern seems to be celebrating something. Your good buddy Chase is happy to explain the festivities.
Warnings: Poverty, alcohol, hunger.
-
-
-
The tavern is unusually festive tonight.
As you push through the doors and leave the cold wet outdoors behind, drunken cheer washes over you. The low rafters are thick with the scent of sweet spices and hard liquor, but more surprising than that is the singing. A rough combination of voices sweeps through the hearth-warmed room, from enthusiastic half-shouts to booze-bright high notes to low off-key rumbling. Two people at most are singing in tune, but everyone except you seems to know the words.
Awkwardly, you shuffle to an empty booth in the back of the tavern, far from the warm glow of the fire. In the overlapping voices, you catch something about the jaws of the earth and blood bright as gold. The tune is too jolly for the lyrics.
You’re not feeling particularly festive. The handful of credits in your pocket are barely enough to buy dinner from the innkeeper, and if you do that, you’ll have nothing left for fuel tomorrow. Maybe you could walk up to the bar and look pathetic and beg Isadore for a free meal, but…
You don’t know what you’d owe them later. Isadore seems to track your debts as closely as the sheriff does.
The cheerful singing swells into a chorus, and you finally catch complete sentences.
Lay that pickaxe down
There’s no treasure in the deep
Set your sights between the eyes
The gold’s between the teeth!
An entire roast drops onto the table in front of you.
You jolt back in your seat, gripped by the brief terror that the creature is still alive, before realizing it’s been stuffed with bread and fruit. A two foot long nut-brown tube of segmented exoskeleton sprawls across a wide plate, hardened and cracked from the fire, arching slightly in rigor mortis. The corpse is split from end to end and packed with slightly more stuffing than it can hold, giving it the odd appearance of an elongate loaded potato.
“Come on, you’ve gotta eat something fancy on Founder’s day.”
Chase drops into the seat across from you, flushed with alcohol and music. He’s not singing, but you hear the tap-tap-tap of his foot under the table, keeping the beat.
“Stuffed sandburster,” he explains with a gesture at the roast. “I’m no Isadore, but I do okay. Want some?”
Your stomach rumbles. You cross your arms and avert your eyes. “Today’s a holiday?”
“Founder’s day.” With a pocket knife, Chase carefully impales a roasted nut from the stuffing. He talks with his mouth full. “Old Sekhmet was a mining town back then, yeah? We’ve had to embellish some of the traditional holiday music. C’mon, have some, I can’t finish this whole thing myself.”
It smells… so good.
You can’t do it. You can’t swallow your drool and go to bed with an aching stomach when the food is this close, this available. The weight of defeat slumps your shoulders.
“What do I owe you?”
“Already told you.” Chase wedges his knife between the segments, splitting the carcass open. Rich steam billows out. “You’re gonna help me finish this.”
“Don’t jerk me around,” you grind out. “Just tell me what I owe you. I’d rather know now.”
Chase leans over the table and slams his knife into the wood, so hard the plate rattles.
“You don’t owe me anything.” Despite his steely grip on the knife, his voice is calm. “You don’t owe anyone anything. If you’re asking what I want from you…” He wrenches the knife free and leans back in his seat. “The same thing I’ve always wanted. And I’ll get it when I can take it from you, not before.”
The tavern’s drunken singing never faltered when his knife plunged into the table. As your heart pounds, the chorus rolls around again.
Lay that pickaxe down
There’s no treasure in the deep
Set your sights between the eyes
The gold’s between the teeth!
“So, are you gonna make me finish this whole thing myself?”
You give the bizarre holiday roast another look. With the segments split open, sweet flaky meat spills out, swimming in rich juices. A fork sits on the plate, though Chase is clearly content to eat with nothing but his pocket knife.
I’m no Isadore.
He’s right about that much.
You pick up the fork. “A mining town, huh? The song said 'jaws of the earth', is that a mine?”
Chase laughs and stabs a chunk of meat. “I’ll teach you the words.”
The jack-o-lantern that someone left outside Lawrence's apartment complex is starting to go bad.
Warnings: Contemplation of mortality, gross descriptions of a rotting pumpkin. Also Lawrence fucks it.
-
-
-
Someone in the apartment complex had placed a jack-o-lantern by the main door.
Lawrence flinched when he first saw it, that fleshy orange grin glowing in the darkness. For a few panicked heartbeats, he felt the deep terror of kinship. A fellow anomaly of nature, a fellow monster in the darkness, locking eyes with him.
Yet, in the gloom, the sight coalesced into a vague childhood memory of slippery seeds and goopy plant guts.
No, there was no life in those fiery triangular eyes, save a candle and a long-severed gourd. No distortion of the natural order save the hubris of human tradition. Halloween was a few days away, and this was normal.
All the same, Lawrence hurried inside.
He hadn’t thought about jack-o-lanterns in a long time. The concept drew him in more and more the longer he thought about it. Taking a knife to meat and carving out a new shape. A face made from wounds. It repulsed and fascinated him. Life made death made life again. Maybe his first impression of kinship wasn’t so wrong after all.
After Halloween came and went, the mysterious pumpkin enthusiast seemed to consider their task complete, and stopped placing nightly candles in their grotesque creation. Frozen nights and warm sun and the ravenous grasp of decay were all taking their inevitable toll, and the one-sharp grin was beginning to slump. The fierce eyes buckled inward.
Lawrence felt relieved that the cackling skeletal face could finally slide into death in peace. Relieved, and envious. Try as he might, someone always replaced his own burned-out candle.
A few days after Halloween, the pumpkin was almost collapsed, and a foul clear fluid was puddling around it. A glimpse through the now-cavernous mouth revealed no glow, only speckled black. Lawrence liked it better this way. No facsimile of life, only the honesty of death.
Although, perhaps there was more life in the jack-o-lantern than ever before. The mold and bacteria and maggots all reigned in their collapsing orange castle. And the crooked smile only grew and grew, as if it was proud to host such royalty.
It made Lawrence feel… welcomed. In a way he so rarely did.
No one in the apartment complex was awake at four in the morning. No no one saw Lawrence scoop the pumpkin into a tarp and hurry back inside.
Why did it always go like this? It was an impulse, a mistake, he never meant to, but he always had the tools ready to handle it. Why did he bring a tarp with him?
It wasn’t stealing. No one could possibly want the pumpkin in this state, no one would appreciate it, no one but Lawrence. If anything, he was cleaning up. The thought of claiming charitable motives made him so ashamed that he almost put the pumpkin back.
But he didn’t.
He rushed up to his studio as if absconding with a far more incriminating type of carcass. He didn’t know what he’d say if someone asked what was in the tarp, or why he had it. He didn’t know why this embarrassed him more than everything else he’d ever brought home.
But it was four in the morning, and no one saw him. No one asked.
The tarp fell away like the blue waves of a plastic sea. Lawrence cupped his hands under the rotting pumpkin, lifting it carefully. The chill of a November night had settled deep into the flesh. Lawrence didn’t mind. Most corpses were cold, and this one was lighter.
Now that they were alone, he could slide his fingers between the chunky shriveled teeth and pry the mouth open. An impressionist painting of black and green and yellow and orange yawned before him. The textures were fuzzy and sunken, stippled and slick. A lake of thin liquid rot puddled at the base.
It looked lovely in there. Lawrence wanted to crawl inside.
Was it really an invasion if dead things belonged here?
Lawrence pried the mouth open wider, slipping his knuckles past the soft teeth to caress the decay. A chill clung to the fetid air inside. Lawrence traced the growth of the mold, each touch crushing delicate microscopic structures, smearing spores across willing flesh. He pressed his fingertips into the eagerly collapsing rot.
Welcoming. Accepting everything he gave.
He needed to be closer.
Lawrence fumbled with his sweat pants as his hand roamed inside the pumpkin. The mouth was too wide, fresh wounds torn at the cheeks. He needed to feel the rot pressing all around him.
The eyes. No more candlelight, only a welcoming void.
The hollow triangular hole resisted his first push. But not the second. Leathery orange flesh deformed around him, the triangle swelling into a new shape as he filled it from tip to hilt.
The pumpkin never stopped smiling.
The chill was immediate, expected, and not unwelcome. The texture of decomposing plant fibers was something new entirely. Lawrence cupped his hands under the curves of the pumpkin like a lover’s hips, cradling it close and moving in jerky twitches. The once-firm flesh had become soft and supple. Rot made it gentle. It slowly crushed and collapsed under Lawrence’s rough movements, pressing closer around him.
This was not a mating that would produce new life, but Lawrence’s oblivious body went through the motions anyway. He gripped harder, shuddered, and the castle of rot welcomed that too.
The chill was fading, mellowing into a dull lukewarm. The afterglow faded just as fast. Numbly, Lawrence pulled himself loose, left with the soggy remains of the jack-o-lantern and filthy sweatpants.
An unnerving new facial expression now sprawled across the pumpkin. The mouth was open far too wide and slumping drunkenly. Though one eye was the same sunken triangle as before, the other was torn wide into a perfect circle, giving the face a wildly unstable look. The jack-o-lantern’s original architect could not have known, when they drove a knife through hard healthy flesh and carved out those devilish eyes, that each one would be just the right size for Lawrence’s cock.
Later, he’d sever the flesh that that hadn’t dissolved into goop. He’d scoop it into uneven portions, mix the chunks and slime into soil for his plants. The last memories of life would fade as fibers broke down and living roots delved through, siphoning water and minerals. Creating something new.
And then, at long last… that jack-o-lantern really would experience new life.
Another pang of envy twisted in Lawrence’s chest. He never would.
Ever since Strade got you, Ren’s been feeling insecure about his place in the household and in Strade’s heart. Strade, naturally, has to do something about this. Something awful!
Warnings: Emotional abuse, nonconsensual voyeurism, rejection and abandonment, no aftercare.
-
-
-
Twenty after midnight. The dull rasp of thirst woke you up, which is no surprise after how much blood you lost yesterday. Now you’re stumbling down the dark hall towards the kitchen, yawning, daydreaming of a cool glass of water.
Before you can reach the oasis of the kitchen, a murmur of voice freezes you in place. A muffled conversation through the closed door to Ren’s room.
“…quiet, lately.”
Strade’s voice. You missed the first half of what he said. But there’s only one person he could possibly be speaking to.
“I’m fine.”
The telltale choke of tears clogs Ren’s voice. He’s too relaxed, too casual, and you understand why. It’s the emotional version of making no sudden movements.
You should go back to bed. Forget the glass of water.
“Now now, I don’t think you’re being very honest with me.”
There’s no anger in Strade’s words, merely a fond chuckle, but you know a warning when you hear one. You’ve seen how much Strade loves to pry out the truth.
An aching silence stretches in the wake of Strade’s words. You should go back to bed, but you don’t. You don’t dare to move. Even your breath feels too loud.
“A-are you…” Ren’s voice is small and broken. “Are you going to keep me?”
You flinch in preemptive sympathy. Ren just exposed a raw emotional wound, and Strade’s about to shove his fingers in it. You don’t want to overhear this, but a reflexive fear keeps you rooted in place. Strade never lets you leave when he’s about to do something bad. Why would this time be any different?
“Fuchs, fuchs…”
His voice lowers and sweetens like the first hot sip of honeyed tea. That’s… not right. He’s not shoving his fingers in the wound. An uneasy chill runs down your spine.
“Are you feeling neglected?”
Ren sniffles, but doesn’t say anything. You shudder again, more tense by the second. You don’t know why Strade’s tone is setting your teeth on edge. This isn’t how he sounds when he’s about to be dangerous, this is how he sounds when he’s wiping your tears away after it’s all over. Soothing your trembling hands. Staring into your eyes and speaking from the soul when he says…
“I love you, you know.”
You don’t have to peer around the door to picture it. Strade tenderly cupping Ren’s face, hungrily sharing breath. Desperate to be close to him.
It suddenly feels very very cold in the hallway.
“You don’t ever have to doubt that.” Strade whispers the words. “You’re the light of my life. Everything you do delights me. How could I ever bear to get rid of you?”
The words are raw and tender, and you feel filthy for eavesdropping on them. You had no idea Strade felt that way about Ren. You thought… well, you’re not sure what you thought. Strade kept Ren, didn’t he? Why did you assume it wasn’t out of love?
It’s just that… you thought he loved you.
“Is this about your new playmate?” Strade chuckles. “You think you have competition, hm? I wouldn’t worry about that.”
A lead weight drops into your stomach.
You didn’t ask Strade to love you. You never wanted the type of love he gives. But you thought, right up until this moment, that his love was keeping you alive. Keeping his knife from cutting too deep.
And, since you had no choice… you basked in the quieter moments. The solid weight of him on the couch beside you, the sound of his breath. The way he ruffled your hair and smiled. The way he wiped your tears away and kissed you. The moments when his love was just love.
He said he wanted to keep you forever. He promised.
“If you’re this jealous…”
“Don’t!” Ren interrupts. “I— you don’t have to— you don’t have to get rid of anyone, right? You can keep us both. W-we get along.”
You could kiss Ren on the mouth right now, but his words don’t banish the hideous nausea that grips you. What was Strade going to offer before Ren interrupted?
Strade chuckles. “Relax, Fuchs! You’re so jumpy.” A pause, and you can picture Strade’s rough knuckles affectionately brushing hair out of Ren’s face. “Do you believe me when I say I’m keeping you?”
Silence. Ren must have gestured, because Strade continues, his voice lower.
“Maybe I can show you how much you mean to me.”
The wall is cold as you lean back against it, slide down to the floor. Unease writhes in your stomach. You don’t think Strade is lying to Ren. For all of Strade’s transgressions, he’s never lied to you before. Maybe that’s why it feels like the floor is falling out from under you.
The creak of the door nearly scares you out of your skin.
Strade leans through the frame, his smile shadowed in the darkness as he looks down at you.
“Are you feeling left out?”
You wipe your eyes. Don’t let him see the open wound. His fingers are already twitching. “I’m fine.”
You say it exactly like Ren did.
“You don’t have to sit in the hallway. Come join us!”
You’re not in the mood, but when has Strade ever cared about that? Saying no will only rile him up more. Stiffly, you stand.
If Strade is disappointed by your numb compliance, it doesn’t dampen his spirits. He slings an affectionate arm around your shoulder and guides you into the bedroom.
Ren sits on the edge of the bed, his ears tilted away from you tensely. You’re not sure what you expected, but as soon as you see him, the floor turns to glue. Ren won’t meet your eyes, and it’s just as well, because you don’t want to meet his eyes either.
This won’t be the first time you’ve shared a bed with them both, but before… you and Ren were just dolls for Strade to mash together. Silently, you both agreed to suspend each other’s personhood for the duration of the ordeal.
Neither of you can manage such a feat right now.
“I’ve got the zip-ties!”
Naturally, Strade is merely energized by the heavy veil of discomfort. You didn’t even notice him pull away, but he must have, because two shiny plastic strips are gripped in his hand, proudly as an olympic torch.
Zip-ties might be a blessing.
“Here.” Strade gestures to the gaming chair by the desk and pats the seat. “Much better than the hallway floor, yeah?”
The chair creaks when you settle into it, and Strade’s right. It’s quite comfortable. Though getting zip-tied to a gaming chair somehow feels more degrading.
“Comfy?”
You don’t know what he’s about to do to you. What he’s about to make Ren do to you. But at least he’s removed your ability to participate, so you can dissociate in peace. Staring at the floor, you nod.
“Good! I’m so glad we could make you feel more included.”
He cups his hand around the back of your neck, kisses your forehead, and pulls away. Your numb gaze has fallen on the far wall as you wait for the nightmare to start.
Eventually, you’ll have to start screaming, or crying, or begging. But Strade’s good at pulling those reactions out of you organically, so you won’t have to perform. That’s one of the nice things about him. You never have to perform.
“Hey. Hey, look at me.”
You look up by reflex, but it’s immediately clear that Strade wasn’t talking to you. He’s laying Ren down on the bed, holding him by the waist.
“Let me see those beautiful eyes.”
The two of them fall onto the mattress, then onto each other’s lips. Ren is still tense, his ears still shaking, but he eases into it slowly. Strade’s touch slides up under his tank top, exposing his lean fuzzy chest. The kiss breaks only to toss the shirt away, and this time Ren is the one who pulls Strade back in.
A nervous doubt eats away at your attempted dissociation. It’s almost like Strade has forgotten you’re here. All of his attention is on Ren, kissing down his neck and chest, calloused hands tugging his pants down with fervent need. When Strade’s face disappears between Ren’s legs, Ren groans and arches on the bed. He’s forgotten you too.
The shadow of Strade’s smile in the hallway creeps across your memory. His words echo in your head.
Are you feeling left out?
Cruel realization twists in your guts.
You’re not involved in this. You’re not going to be involved. You’ve been placed in the corner of the room like a romantic candle, the hot glow of your suffering merely a backdrop to the lovemaking.
Strade isn’t going to touch you. Neither of them are.
“Ah—“ Ren’s breath catches as Strade hooks a leg over his shoulder. “F-fuck—”
“You look so delicious like this,” Strade groans, and he slips a finger inside.
You could say something. Strade didn’t gag you. But what is there to say? Should you beg Strade to inflict the very trauma you were bracing yourself to endure? Should you tell him he’s being an asshole? Admit that you want something from him, admit what you feel for him?
What do you feel for him?
No words rise to your tongue.
Strade leans over Ren, legs wrapped around his waist. You try looking away, focusing on the clutter on Ren’s desk. It doesn’t work. You can’t block out the sounds, the gasps and the groans, Ren’s startled hiss and Strade’s breathless laugh. You can’t ignore the knowledge that Strade is sliding himself into Ren’s body right now, pressing deep and hungry.
Eventually, the sounds of pleasure feel worse in a vacuum, and you turn your gaze back towards them. Or perhaps you’re just desperate for any scrap of intimacy you can feel with Strade right now.
Even from here, you can see Ren’s claws pressing into Strade’s back, threatening to break skin. You realize for the first time that Strade’s back is peppered with faint triangular scars in neat sets of five. How many times have the two of them embraced? How long has Strade had Ren?
“You’re mine forever, Fuchs.” Strade rambles as he thrusts, cupping Ren’s face. “Du gehörst mir. From the moment I first laid eyes on you until the moment death steals you away.” He laughs, gasps, presses closer. His next whisper is so soft you barely catch it. “And even then. Maybe I’ll fight death to win you back.”
Ren’s claws break skin as he cries out in ecstasy, his body bucking. Strade moves quicker, harder, his breath short and heavy. When Ren finally speaks again, hot and breathy and stuttering, you don’t parse his words for a moment. It takes you even longer to realize why.
“Ich liebe dich.” He presses the words into the narrow gap between his lips and Strade’s, staring up at him like Strade is the last thing in the universe. “Ich liebe dich, Ich liebe dich—”
Strade pulls Ren back into a kiss and groans again, his body shuddering for the final time.
For such a long time, the two of them lie still, catching their breath. Decadent afterglow, simmering contently just beyond your reach. Envy is sour in your throat.
It made things better, you realize. All those moments after Strade was done, when he nuzzled close to you and radiated satisfaction. It made you feel like you’d gotten through something. Accomplished something. It at least made you feel like the suffering was over.
There’s no relief for you now. Your wick flickers low, drowning in your own wax while the lovers catch their breath.
After a long time, the bed creaks. You’ve long stopped looking at it. You don’t look up as Strade and Ren untangle from each other, Strade chuckling playfully and mumbling something in German that you don’t catch. You still don’t look up as his heavy footsteps approach you.
When he’s so close that you finally have to lift your eyes, you can see a knife gripped in his hand. Fear fails to touch your body. You’re not sure you’d feel a knife right now.
Instead of bringing the blade to your skin, Strade snaps the zip-ties, releasing you from the chair. You rub your wrists more by reflex than anything. Before you can stand, Strade leans his thick arms on the chair and corners you there. His breath is hot and heavy, closer to you than he’s been all night. Finally meeting your eyes. Eating up the sight of you.
Lawrence gives you a special holiday tea for a special holiday hallucination.
Warnings: Drugs, unreality, vivid descriptions of decay, kidnapping.
-
-
-
You shouldn’t have drunk the tea.
You were cold. Wet snow was pelting the window behind his looming silhouette as he offered the steaming thermos. You hadn’t been dressed for the weather when you ran into him on the street. You didn’t expect to be outside very long.
Now you’re in his cold, cold apartment, duct taped to his chair. But the tea looks warm.
So you drank the tea. It tasted like bitter flowers, and it warmed you from the inside out. When you’d had your fill, he withdrew the bottle and took a long swig himself.
It didn’t take long for the room to tilt and melt around you. Lawrence grabbed the chair, you’re pretty sure. He twisted it around, turning you away from the window and into the room, like a pirouetting lover in a ballroom dance. You’re pretty sure that happened, and it’s the last thing you’re sure of.
The cramped studio apartment has chairs, probably. A table, maybe. So those things might be real. Though it would be strange if the table was a full length dining room affair, with dark glossy wood reflecting the cold light of the window. You can’t think of a reason for one man who lives alone to own this many chairs, running down the length of the table like the bony protrusions of a spinal column.
The lavish holiday spread that runs from end to end is probably a hallucination.
Horrors swim in the corners of your eyes. The roast becomes roadkill. Cold decay writhes over the pastries and pies. When your gaze snaps back, it all glows and steams enticingly, fresh and whole.
So… table and chairs, maybe real. Food, definitely not real. One way or another, you would have smelled it. The other dinner guests… you don’t want those to be real.
Shapes shift in the cold light of the snowstorm, obscuring the features of the bodies slumped awkwardly in the chairs. Each one bound with silvery duct tape, just like you. The ones nearest your own seat look unconscious, though you can’t make out their faces. Further down the table, the flesh slumps and sags. Necks hang at impossible angles. Joints are too sharp. At the far end, obscured in cold shadows, you see only jumbles of pale angles.
Behind you, he sighs.
“Do you see them?”
His fingers caress your neck. The cold light of the window is at his back, casting a long dancing shadow down the table. The grisly vignette seems to stretch on forever. Why can’t you see the far end? The table twists and distorts like the reflection in a folded mirror, disappearing into devouring shadows.
Slowly, in lurching unison, every hollow-eyed dinner guest rolls their empty gaze towards you.
“It’s so nice…” Lawrence whispers, “not being alone for the holidays.”
Warnings: heavy gore (not actually eye-based), nonconsensual sex acts, nonconsensual body modification, medical themes.
-
-
-
You fell asleep in a bed and awoke in the basement.
At first, it doesn’t feel like waking up. The cold touch of concrete must be another nightmare creeping over you, a flashback. You could never forget the smell of this place.
A chasm of dread opens in your stomach as you realize you’re not asleep anymore.
Your view of the basement is sideways. The floor presses a chill into your cheek, shoulder, and leg: a streak of cold down one side of your naked body. You’re laying on your side…? He’s never bound you like this before. Duct tape wraps your legs in tight bands, four of them evenly spaced from thigh to ankle. Your arms, twisted behind your back, have received a similar treatment.
When you crane your head against the floor to get your bearings, you catch a glimpse of the familiar pole with its horrible dark stains, jutting sideways from the wall-floor and into the cavernous ceiling. As soon as you move, you hear a horribly familiar chuckle.
“Guten Morgen! Not feeling too sleepy, are you?”
A pair of heavy boots stomp into your tilted view.
“You know I hate using drugs, but I needed to be sneaky about moving you.” Strade kneels down, tilting his own head to smile at the proper angle. His curls tumble across his face. “But it should be out of your system now! Feeling alert?”
You wish you were still drugged. Terror pounds in your chest. He hasn’t had you down here since he first caught you. “Strade, wh-what’s going on?”
“I was at the hardware store yesterday, and I got an idea I just had to try out. You’ll be so pretty!”
“Strade…” Your voice cracks with dread. “Please, I-I don’t want to be down here again.”
He pulls a small silver object out of his pocket, flashing it over you. “Do you know what this is?”
The piece of hardware between his fingers is looped into a circle at one end, ridged with the spiral of a screw at the other. It looks like a metal question mark, you think distantly.
“It’s an eye screw!” Strade answers without waiting for a response. He snickers. “Funny name, right? Don’t worry, it’s not going in your eye.”
“Strade.” You’re trying to keep your voice calm, and failing. “What’s going on?”
“I thought about getting the brass finish, but the silver is just so classic. I asked Ren, and he says this will bring out your complexion!”
“Wh-where are you putting that?”
He pats your hip reassuringly and stands up. “I’d better get everything ready!”
He stomps out of your view. You twist on the floor, your heart racing in your throat.
This can’t be happening. Not again. Not again.
All too soon, he’s back. A fresh chill washes over you: the electric drill is clasped in his hand.
“Look!” He whirs the tool over your face. The helical metal drill is smaller than the last time he had you down here. “Sterilized!”
Is he wearing latex gloves? You’ve never seen him bother with all this before. You shake your head frantically. “The basement isn’t sterile, that’s not going to work!”
“It’s a little naughty, isn’t it?” He chews his lip, a deep blush in his cheeks. “I don’t usually take this much time to prepare! I feel a little… what’s the word? Ah, teased!” He laughs. “I got so flustered, getting this all ready. But I’d like you to heal up nicely once it’s done.”
“Once what’s done?”
He straddles your bound legs, pinning you to the floor on your side. Apprehension draws goosebumps to your bare skin. You can’t stop looking at the drill.
“Strade, please, don’t do this again, please, let me go–!”
Your whole body jolts at the first touch, but it’s soft and wet. An alcohol swab, you parse mechanically. Rubbing in rigorous circles over your hip.
“This is going to be worse…” Strade whirs the drill again. “…and I mean a lot worse, if you thrash.”
The cold tip of the drill presses onto your freshly-sterilized skin, and then he turns it on.
It feels like an ember pressed into your flesh. A hot ripping spot of agony reducing your flesh to pulp. You scream, and despite his warning, you jolt under his weight. He pulls the drill back, leans his forearm on your ribcage to pin you in place, and replaces the drill in the wound.
The twisted metal sinks easily through your shredded flesh, and then it hits bone.
Unspeakable agony skewers you, impaling you like a suckling pig. It shatters up your spine and boils in your flesh. You can’t even tell if you’re screaming.
The drill bit presses down, down, down, grinding slowly into your hip bone. When it breaks into the final sanctum of your marrow, you pass out.
…
For the second time, your nightmare dissolves into a colder and crueler reality.
The concrete presses a chill into your cheek, shoulder, and leg, grinding against your sore skin. Pain is a hollow drumbeat in your bones. You groan, delirious with pain, as the world drifts back.
The sideways basement shifts slightly in your vision. Your duct-taped legs are folded up against your chest, Strade’s warm belly pressed against your ass as his cock slides in and out. That’s not where the pain is coming from. You barely even feel that slick violation over the molten anguish in your hip.
“Sorry.” His apology is a hot breath behind you. “I wanted to wait until you were awake, but I couldn’t — nnnh — help myself.”
Every thrust sends a bullet of pain through your hip. With a miserable groan, you twist your head against the cold rough floor, staring down your own bound body.
The eye screw is buried in your flesh with a half-dried stream of blood pouring from the grisly wound. Strade’s hand is on your hip, his thumb looped through the metal ring.
A handle. He gave you a handle.
You think about the alcohol swab. The sterilized tools. The latex gloves. This wasn’t just torture, this was surgery. He’s not going to take the screw out when he’s done. He wants your skin and bone to heal around it, to see that little silver loop poking out above the hem of your pants as you go about your day. Knowing he can grab you whenever he wants. Knowing he can give it a playful little tug, and you'll scream.
“Ahhh…” His thrusting picks up, sending thunderclaps of pain through you each time the screw jostles in your bone. “It looks so good on you…”
For the first time this morning, you experience a stroke of good luck. You pass out before he finishes.
Sam Winchester has spent his whole life in the subterranean world of New Kansas, making his living by fishing on the dark sea and dreaming of sunlight. But the world he lives in is plagued by demons who resemble humans. When Sam meets someone named Cas, he begins to flirt with the idea of trust.
Warnings: Gun violence, knife violence, murder (sort of), angst, gushy romance, anxiety, intense fear of commitment, light bondage.
I know thanksgiving fics are a little thin this year, so I'm bulking it out with this extra-long basically-original story I wrote a long time ago, because I'm still quite proud of it.
Detective Gavin's current mark— the mercenary Michael "Mogar" Jones— likes to frequent a particular bar. But before Gavin can get him to talk, he'll have to deal with this bar's unique way of dealing with troublemakers.
Warnings: Nonconsensual sex acts, stuck-in-wall, humiliation, manipulation, eroticization of unhygienic conditions (no bathroom stuff involved). Includes a trans man character.
Not a sequel, but same universe as this story.
-
-
-
The life of a private eye takes me to such fascinating places.
I've never set foot in this particular dive bar, but the moment I step out of the sulfurous night and push my way through those swinging doors, I can smell the local flavor. There are about fifteen flavors of dive bar. I'm something of a connoisseur.
Detective Gavin Free, at your service. My clients love how I'm not afraid to get dirty.
The dart board on the wall is telling. Nestled among the darts is a solitary pocket knife, one ring out from the bullseye. Galvanized steel floor plates, rusted all to hell, but recently wiped clean. Chatter volume simmering at a solid three out of ten. Smells like smoke and alcohol, but nothing harder than that. This is a place for serious, rugged drunks who police their own.
That's probably why my mark likes it here. This place has mercenary written all over it.
My entrance has drawn a few assessing stares. I'm not a regular, and I'm not dressed like the type of person who becomes a regular here. My shirt's too clean, the fabric too easily torn, and there's nary a weapon to be found on my supple body. Only a handful of motives a man like me could have in a bar like this, and the patrons are all waiting to see if I'm merely an annoyance or if I need my teeth knocked out.
There's a couple reasons I'm not afraid of getting jumped. Firstly, this isn't the kind of bar where people get mugged for the cash in their wallet. Everyone here has ended more fights than they've started, and is accustomed to a better payout than pocket change. Secondly, I could talk my way out of a black hole if I knew its kinks first.
And third, I'm already at half-mast just thinking about all these big tough mercenaries manhandling me right there on the pool table. It's not a good reason to not be afraid, but I am what I am.
"What can I get you?" the barkeep asks when I take a seat. He's got majestic facial hair, miles of tattoos, and a few distinguished silver streaks.
Focus, Gavvy.
"Give me your favorite," I sigh, and I'm not focusing.
If he’s interested— or annoyed— he doesn't let it slip. Instead he whisks a squat golden bottle off the shelf and pours it into thick glass. When he expertly shaves a long, fragrant curl of orange peel with an etched pocket knife, I almost quake with envy.
"There you go." He slides the glass to me. "My favorite."
I sip. Woody and rich, and not shy about being mostly hard liquor.
"I'm looking for a man," I say.
"Married," he replies, cleaning a glass.
I laugh. "A specific man." Another sip. "Mercenary by the name of Michael Jones. Also goes by Mogar. Heard he likes this bar. Is he around?"
The barkeep snorts, flicks the towel over his shoulder, and tilts his head at the hall that leads to the restrooms.
"Pissing?" I ask hopefully.
"Not exactly." He sets the clean glass down, and oh what I wouldn't give to be wrong out by those tattooed hands. "You'll find your man in the penance room."
Oh, what spectacular news. Our mercenary's a pervert!
These old dive bars on the frontier, they've got clever tricks for keeping order. Cause trouble, and the bouncers stick you head-first in a hole in the wall for the better-behaved patrons to enjoy. Always been tempted to get myself thrown in one. Seems a lovely time, blind and helpless at the disposal of drunk strangers.
But there's a problem.
See, the penance room just makes you available. It doesn't guarantee a constant stream of visitors. Not every drunk is interested, and most are done after one round. However long you spend getting fucked, you'll spend a lot longer in dark cramped silence, not getting fucked. No light, no voices, walls crushing close like you’re buried alive. A solitary confinement speedrun.
That puts me off just a touch. I get wretchedly antsy when I have to sit still.
But I digress. It seems I've found my mercenary, and under the loveliest circumstances. Wonder if he's got calloused fingers or a thick strap buried in some unlucky asshole right now. Lord. Am I sweating? I didn't hope to see this man thrusting and groaning unless I seduced him first.
I hate to abandon a nice glass of barkeep's favorite, but I simply can't wait any longer. I knock back the drink (goes down smooth, wonder if he does too), drop my money on the table, and abandon my seat.
"Thanks!"
My lucky day. Less lucky for whatever poor fool is doing time in the penance room. Mogar doesn't strike me as a tender lover, is all I'm saying.
Focus, Gavvy.
Think he'd let me eat his ass while he finishes?
The hallway from the main bar to the penance room is cramped as any spaceship. The hubbub of the patrons dims behind me, and so do the lights. I smell the room before I see it: lemon-scented disinfectant locked in noble combat with the heavy reek of sweat and sex. Lord, do they keep the heat cranked up back here? It's like a horny sauna.
I'm dizzy as I round the last corner.
The room has five stalls— five waist-height rubber-lined holes— though only two are occupied. Two peach-perfect butts, one svelte and lean, one thick and muscled. Both, to my expert eye, already sampled by the patrons. Perched over every hole like a hunkered bird of prey is a small LED screen, two buzzing with fuzzy mugshots. For the discerning customer who takes an interest in who they're fucking.
I take a moment to soak in the view, because it's lovely to see a cute rump mounted on the wall like prized taxidermy, but I'm soon forced to acknowledge a problem.
No one seems to be using the amenities.
My sunny disposition falters as I scan the grimy shadows. Did the infamous Mogar slip out while the barkeep wasn't looking? I'm shit out of luck if that's the case. It was hard enough to track him here, lord only knows where he'll be now.
I'm about to swing my steps back around to the bar when the mugshots catch my eye.
I don't recognize the pretty face on the screen over Svelte and Smooth. Thick and Muscled, on the other hand... freckled scowl, strong jaw, dangerous eyes. My gaze drops to the man himself— or at least the only quarter of him I can see— before returning to the screen to confirm.
Michael "Mogar" Jones (he/him)
Destruction of establishment property
Time remaining 1:05:27
...Ah. When the bartender said my man was in the penance room, he didn't mean by choice.
Well, this changes matters! For one thing, I can't very well interrogate him like this. No one's a good conversationalist when their upper half is locked in a lightless coffin. Shame, because I could be wonderfully persuasive to a man in his position.
I stride closer to the screen, getting a better look at this devilish mercenary. Handsome even on that staticky little display. I kneel down for a look at him in person. Freckles on the ass too. Doesn't shave his cunt. Wonder how much time he's served already? From the decadent mess on his thighs, he's certainly been popular.
My schedule sure opened up all of a sudden.
I lean in until my lips are a hair away from his ass and let out a long hot breath.
He clenches visibly. As if the welcome mat wasn't already laid out. I feather my fingertips along the curve of his ass and I'm rewarded with a tantalizing shiver.
Wonder what he's thinking in there? How long has he been waiting in the dark, knowing a touch could descend at any second? Is his heart racing with uncertainty as my index finger swirls in aimless circles on his hip? Or perhaps he's been worn down like a pebble in a creek, smooth and cold with defeat.
People— people who are worse at this than me, I mean— they think interrogation is all about what questions you ask. Perhaps how loud you ask them. No, it's got everything to do with who you're asking. It's no good to interrogate some stubborn bastard, steady-headed and focusing all those rational thoughts on how to deal with you.
What you want is someone malleable. Agreeable. Off balance. In professional terms, what I'm about to do can be considered... prep work.
I splay my hand over the mercenary's ample ass and drag my tongue over him. He tastes like drunk strangers. And I love the taste of drunk strangers. I lock my lips around his clit and suck, still groping his ass. Wonder if he can hear me groaning. Seems unlikely, since I can't hear a peep from him. Maybe he's gagged. Maybe the barkeep's got another hole on the other side of the wall for his mouth.
Regrettably, I have to pull my mouth away to slip a finger inside.
Clenching, twitching. If I had to put money on the table, I'd say he hasn't climaxed recently. Doubt most of the clientele here would bother with it. Bet I could make him cum on my fingers in under a minute.
...In fact, from the way he's gripping me, I'd better be careful I don't do that by accident.
Fortunately, this is my forte. I slide my fingers out and dive back onto him like I'm starving.
I've got what you might call an oral fixation. I just love doing things with my mouth. Talking, mostly. A lot of people wish I'd do less of that. And lucky for them, there's a great way to shut me up: simply grab me by the hair and fuck my face. Works like a charm.
I groan against him, tracing his boner with my tongue, sucking him into my mouth. The metal floor is slightly sticky. I bet it's doing wretched things to my nice pants. I bet when I leave the penance room, everyone will know how much time I spent on my knees. Cleaning up everyone else's mess.
The longer I suck, the less he tastes like drunk strangers, and the more he tastes like a sweaty, rabidly horny man. I almost expect him to rip through the sheet metal wall and take me. If only.
From this angle, I can't finger his pussy while I'm eating it. Fortunately, some thoughtful soul got his asshole slick and loose, so my thumb slides in nice and easy. Feeling the clench makes it easier to keep tabs on how close he is. I lick and suck and groan against him until he starts to squeeze a little too tight, then pull back and leave him with nothing but my breath. He can't buck in his position, but I can tell he's trying.
Look at that boner! I bet if he was free, he'd be fucking my face stupid right now. Pinning me against this filthy steel-plate floor and smothering me. Groaning and flexing and...
Well, he can't do any of that right now, can he? All he can do is twitch while I stand up, idly pumping my thumb in his ass and unzipping my pants that are way too clean for this establishment.
What, you thought I was an exclusive bottom?
I let my cock flop against his ass, grinding amorously. Not much of a plot twist for him, but I still have to wonder what he's thinking in there. Is he resigned to his fate? How do I measure up to the rest of his admirers? Instead of my cock, I dip my fingers inside, more for my benefit than for his. Something about stopping to smell the roses.
A little advice from a seasoned private eye: it's always an advantage to know your target's sexual tastes, whether you plan on fucking them or not. I hit the jackpot with Mogar and found a real live hookup of his. According to this guy, the man's a monster in bed. He showed me the bite marks.
Eventually, he got around to mentioning that Mogar spends a lot of time at this bar. And here we are!
Still, one hookup is one data point. I know Mogar tops, but I don't know if he bottoms. As I drag the head of my cock up and down his pussy, I can't help but wonder how accustomed he is to being filled and pounded. Will I have to coax his body to let me in, or will it betray him eagerly?
Either way, I'm getting inside.
Now properly incensed with desire, I grip him by the hips and let my cock find its way home. As soon as I start to press in, he clenches down like a bear trap. Coaxing it is. In shallow thrusts, I squeeze just the head of my cock inside before pulling back, fucking him open slowly. On each press, I sink a little deeper. Each time he relaxes, I claim more ground.
I'm told the boa constrictor employs a similar method.
By the time I'm a couple inches in, it's too late to fight back. The rest of the conquest is leisurely. Like sinking into a hot bath.
I know what you're thinking. Now that I'm inside, it should be obvious whether Mogar is an experienced bottom or an amateur. And yes yes, I know I'm not the first person inside him today. Someone else — probably several someones — have done a little prep work for me. I'm not small, is all I'm saying.
And you'd be wrong in assuming I can tell whether this pussy gets pounded on the regular or not. The brutal grip on my dick could be explained by a lot of things. Anger, for example. Perhaps the pent-up need to cum.
I hope it's both.
For a few lovely moments, I zone out and enjoy myself. It would be better if I could see his snarl in person, but for now, I'll stare lovingly into the eyes of his gritty mugshot as I fuck him. Regrettably, I have to get my head back in the game. There's another unfortunate lapse in my intel: I have no idea what makes this man cum. He might go off like a shotgun if I pound too hard, who knows? Or maybe I'm safe so long as I don't touch his clit. My only choice is to go slowly and observe carefully.
No problem for a man of my talents. I've been on stakeouts before.
I slow my thrusts to a crawl. It's a lovely sight, my cock disappearing into him inch by inch, sinking deep until my balls press against his aching boner before dragging back out. I cannot overstate how important it is that this man does not achieve climax. I want him edged until common sense erodes. I want him strung out into a breathless quaking wreck. For professional reasons.
With one more deep thrust, I pull back and back until I finally flop loose. I kneel down to admire my handiwork. Now that's a man on the edge if I've ever seen one.
I lean in and give his clit the slowest lick I can.
I'm flying pretty close to the sun, but my wings haven't melted yet. He's twitching just right on my tongue. I move up to his ass and give it a much longer, deeper kiss. I should visit bars like this more often.
And as long as I'm here, it would be a real shame not to sample both holes.
I stand up and swirl my cock against his ass so he's really got time to think about what's coming. Wonder what his ass-to-pussy ratio has been today? Do the patrons here have a favorite hole? ...Does he?
A purely academic thought exercise. I can't ask him if he wants it up the ass, and he can't stop me from taking it.
His tight hole buckles and submits at the first hard press. Oh, I'm for sure not the first person to slide up here today. He got me so slick that I can sheath myself to the hilt on the first thrust. Positioned as I am, I'm face to face with the LED screen and its low-quality mugshot. Name, crime, and sentence flicker erratically below that lovely scowl. My breath is steaming on the screen as I fuck his ass.
Must be so humiliating for a notorious mercenary like him. Reduced to an obedient toy, servicing anyone who wants it, all that muscle and danger locked up tight. What if a rival merc saw him like this? Someone who knows him, maybe? Which do you think is worse: a fellow gun for hire taking advantage of this rare upper hand, lording it over him for the rest of his career... or getting used by a smug, fancy little prick of a detective who could never take him in a fight?
I like to think I'm the more degrading one. It's healthy to have a good self-image.
The thought is a little too exciting, in fact. And so is the pleasant squeeze of his body, and that pissed-off mugshot, and—
I pull out in a rush, panting, bracing myself on the wall. My cock twitches against his ample ass, but holds its fire. Good lad.
I'm sure he's quite desperate already. But I think we can do even better.
With one more heavy exhale, I step away from the stall. Now that I'm not transfixed by ass, I'm learning some interesting things about this room. In terms of cramped quarters designed for public sexual punishment, this penance room is pretty dolled up. On the wall across from the stalls are a few thoughtful amenities: a lube dispenser, a sink, and a small sanitization field. Big enough to stick your hands into. Or your dick. I whistle to myself as I do exactly that. You know I once visited a penance room with complimentary breath mints? Now that's service.
And speaking of service, my current beneficiary is waiting for me.
With my cock squeaky clean and freshly sanitized, I saunter back to the stalls. There's my mark, muscular and dripping wet, waiting patiently for me to finish fucking him. I wonder briefly who's in the other stall, proud owner of the svelte and smooth ass. Idly, I cop a feel, and I'm rewarded with an adorable twitch. I bet it's impossible to tell if the person in the stall next to you is getting pounded. Imagine never even knowing you've been cucked.
Tempting to squeeze my cock up a different ass for a while, just so I could say I used them both. But I'm a professional, and Mogar gets my full attention right now. I leave Svelte deliciously neglected so I can slide myself balls deep into Mogar's iron-tight pussy.
Fuck, that feels good. How'd I ever convince myself to pull out?
I could do this all day. Edge him, edge myself, tonguefuck his holes and debate which one to cum inside. Maybe if I take too long pounding him, some burly merc will get impatient. Skinny little private eye hogging all the ass, right? Maybe he'll mash my face against the LED screen and use me instead, all without letting me pull out.
One can dream.
What one can't do is botch the investigation by accidentally giving this mercenary the sweet sweet relief he needs. And I'm losing my resolve. I keep thinking about how good it would feel, his powerful body clenching and climaxing around me, helpless to do anything else. I'm nearly whining as I pull out. Shame no one's around to enjoy my pathetic little noises.
It's a roll of the dice, but let's assume he can't cum from anal, shall we?
There's no tease this time. No torturous anticipation. I bury my cock in his ass like I'm entitled to it and fuck as hard as I like. I suppose I am entitled to it, aren't I? He shouldn't have started trouble in this bar if he didn't want to do a little community service.
He looks damn good in that mugshot. Do I dare? I bet that screen is a petri dish. My hips bump his ass with each thrust as I contemplate this new line to cross.
Of course I dare.
The screen buzzes under my tongue as I drag it over his rugged snarl, a filthy kiss. Making out with his crime, and his punishment.
The orgasm catches me off guard. Just imagine how Mogar feels. I moan against the scuffed glass, my hips stuttering as I empty myself into him, pulse by pulse.
Last chance for some professional killer to drunkenly stumble in and rail me. It would be so easy right now, what with me being all wobble-kneed and hazy. Probably wouldn't notice I had company until I felt a hand around my neck.
...No takers? Can't have it all, I guess.
With one more shudder, I pull back. The mugshot looks even better with a wet smear of cooling spit dripping down the glass. I let my gaze drop, savoring the sight of my cock sliding out of his well-used ass. He's still gripping like he doesn't plan to let me go. But, just like everything else I've done to him, he has little choice but to embrace the inevitable.
My cock flops out, leaving him slick and loose. I love the sight of a freshly-fucked ass. I zip up my pants, kneel down on that sticky floor, and slide my tongue up that sore and sensitive hole one more time.
Call it a goodbye kiss.
I wipe my mouth as I stand again. He doesn't taste like drunk strangers anymore. Tastes like some posh detective now.
Now that I'm not busy nutting, I take a moment to read the screen. Terribly hard to read when a man's tight ass is milking every drop from you. Know what I mean?
Michael "Mogar" Jones (he/him)
Destruction of establishment property
Time remaining 0:29:43
Half an hour left, hm? That's plenty of time for someone with less of an agenda than me. And worse, that's an eternity to spend trapped in the dark, untouched and helpless, teetering on the brink of orgasm.
...He is teetering, right? I hope I didn't fuck that up.
I slip two fingers inside. Sure enough, he's still got the twitching clench of someone desperate for climax, and I let out a satisfied sigh. Perfect. I can almost hear his frantic groan when I pull away for the last time.
Imagine: edged within an inch of your life and abandoned like that, completely immobilized, with a fresh load up your ass. I do love being a bastard.
But I'm done here, and now I need to move quickly, before some brute stumbles in and undoes all my hard work. I give Svelte a friendly slap and see myself out.
The bar is much as I left it, plus or minus a few patrons. A few of them glance up as I emerge from the penance room, but no one seems to find the sight remarkable. Ooo, wow, the mysterious guest with the nice clothes is a pervert. Breaking news.
"Found your guy?" the barkeep drawls when I take a seat.
It's not exactly a question. I was back there for most of an hour.
Since he doesn't seem to expect an answer, I don't bother with one. "What’s his favorite drink?"
The barkeep shrugs. "He usually just says 'beer' and drinks whatever I set in front of him."
"One of those, if you will. And another round of your favorite." I pull out my wallet. "And I'll pay triple if you let him out early."
The barkeep gives me a sharp look, a look he hasn't given me before, and I have a feeling he’s experiencing the unusual sensation of surprise. "Why?" he asks at last.
The truth will suffice. "I have questions for him. You wouldn’t believe how unhelpful he was in his current state. Couldn’t get a straight answer." I slide a generous financial incentive across the bar. "If he breaks any more furniture, I'll cover it."
The barkeep smiles, gritty and lopsided. "Yeah, you will." He pockets the money, pours the drinks, and tosses his trusty towel over a spigot. As he walks off, he says, "I lied about being married."
I choke on his favorite drink.
Minutes pass, giving me time to collect myself, and time for my thoughts to wander. How does one get out of the wall, exactly? I saw some interesting seams in the rubber and metal, so perhaps the whole thing splays open like some multi-jawed beast, and the restrained troublemaker slides out on rails like some far less menacing kitchen appliance. I'm not ready to give up my theory that there's access on the other side of the wall, for private use only. Mostly because I'd love to imagine the barkeep getting in on this action.
Oh dear. You don't think he'll make a move in the short time he's alone with Mogar, do you? I suppose that's a risk I'll have to take. So long as Mogar gets released first, I think we're in the clear. Even wobble-kneed and freshly fucked, I'd put my money on the merc in a fight. I picture the barkeep's dextrous, inked-up hands. I picture his wrist crushed in a scarred grip.
Would the tables turn, perhaps? Would Mogar use the first available body he grabbed to get himself off? Probably not, unless he wants to go right back in the wall. The consequences of his actions have been made nothing if not clear.
I'm fretting, I know. It's because this part of the mission is so thoroughly out of my hands. That never sits well with me.
The stool next to me scrapes.
My heart thumps as I look up. There's Michael "Mogar" Jones taking a seat next to me, back in the denim and leathers that mercenaries favor. He looks a lot bigger when he's unrestrained and I'm in strangling range. The mugshot really didn't do him justice.
"I'm told you're the reason I have a free drink."
His voice rasps, struggling with speech. Wonder if he really was gagged in there, or if the soundproofing was just that good? Maybe he was screaming the whole time. I wouldn't know.
I lift my drink in toast. "Cheers."
He grabs the beer, downs an impressive amount in one swig, and lets out the sort of heaving sigh that can only come from a man who desperately needed a beer. "I also hear you're the reason I'm out early."
Is he going to ask if I fucked him? Maybe he doesn't want to know. Maybe he thinks I'd lie.
I would.
"Why?" he asks instead.
I sip my drink before answering. Barkeep's favorite is growing on me. "Private investigator Gavin at your service." I offer a hand. You know, the one I was fingering him with. "I've got a few questions for you. Since I'm here to ask a favor, seemed only fair I do you one in return."
A favor isn't exactly what I was doing in the penance room, but he doesn't have to know it was my balls slapping against his clit.
He shakes my hand— strong grip— but his eyes narrow. "And what if I'm not interested in your questions?"
"Then don't answer." I lean my chin in my hand. He's easy to swoon at. "But I'll be heartbroken if I can't interest you in anything else."
How do those blueballs feel, love?
I can see it in the clench of his jaw, the twitch of his fingers around the beer. The heaviness of his breath. Snagged another one.
"I'll hear you out," he says into the bitter foam of his drink.
Later tonight, when he's pulling my hair and bruising my hips and making me his bitch, he'll be so confident that I never made use of him in the penance room. Nothing instills trust like a sense of power and conquest. Then, after using me like a toy for however many orgasms that edging session built up, he'll tire himself out and collapse into the steamy sleepy romance of pillow talk. Comfortably enveloped in bliss, he'll answer every question I ask.
Detective Gavin Free, at your service. I'm always worth the money.
If you're new, you might be unfamiliar with this tradition of mine: every year on (American) thanksgiving, I try to queue as many short stories as I can to post throughout the day. That'll happen on November 27 this year.
I started the tradition to provide a distraction. I know a lot of people will end up seeing family that they're not on good terms with during the holidays, and might be dealing with a higher level of bigotry than usual. And boy, that has not stopped being a relevant concern over the years, huh? I sort of hoped I'd be doing this for fun by now and not out of necessity.
I digress! There are fewer stories than usual this year, but I hope I can make up for that with much longer stories than my usual 100-200 word microfictions.
For those of you who need it: I hope it helps. For those of you who don't need it, I hope you enjoy!
Strade wants to have a little talk about the difference between your pleasure and his pleasure.
Warnings: The sex is not consensual because the reader is a captive and not in a position to say no. However, Strade coerces them into physically taking initiative and verbally requesting things. This is used as a tool of emotional abuse and is not real consent. The reader’s gender and genitals are left ambiguous.
-
-
-
“You know, Schatz,” Strade muses. “We tend to do what you like in bed.”
You glance up from the laundry you’re folding. His jokes are usually funnier than this. “Excuse me?”
The mattress creaks as Strade sits on the edge of the bed. “Oh, don’t misunderstand. I enjoy focusing on your pleasure! But perhaps tonight we could do something special for me.”
“I’m sorry…” You rub a hand over your eyes and blink a few times. “All I ever do is suck your dick. What are you talking about?”
Strade’s smile twitches. “You think I’m wrong?”
“I think you’re fucking with me.”
“Ha!” Strade flops down on the bed. “Yes, of course. Didn’t I just say I wanted to do something for my own pleasure?”
With a huff, you turn back to the laundry.
“Are you feeling neglected, Schatz?”
Some sort of noose is closing around you. You fold another shirt and debate how much to struggle. “No, it’s fine.”
“You think we never focus on your pleasure?”
“It’s fine.”
“Let me make it up to you.”
When you look up, Strade is peeling his shirt off. He flops back to the mattress, crossing his thick arms behind his head.
“I’m all yours. Beanspruche mich. Do whatever you like to me.”
You stare, laundry forgotten in an instant. It’s not like you haven’t seen him shirtless before, strong arms and soft belly, fuzzy chest and dark nipples. But that doesn’t mean you’re immune to the sight.
“Whatever I like?” you reiterate.
Strade sighs happily. “So long as it pleases you.”
This can’t be right. There must be rules he’s not telling you about. You glance around awkwardly, fidgeting. He doesn’t really mean anything. He wouldn’t just lie there if you got a knife from the kitchen, you’re sure of that.
But you don’t want to get a knife from the kitchen. You don’t want him hurt and bleeding, you want…
Maybe you should just start with what you want.
Gingerly, you lean over him. He meets your eyes with eager intensity, no flinching, no judgement. It’s easy, almost like letting gravity take over, to fall onto his lips. He returns it with familiar passion, a little too much tongue and teeth, like he always does, but his hands remain folded behind his head.
He really is letting you lead.
Your hands wander to his chest. Muscle and fuzz fill your palms, warm handfuls. You groan into the kiss as you squeeze. Fervor fuels your touch, sending your hands down to his belly, his hips, his thighs. Your kiss slips off his mouth and trails down his neck. He chuckles, as if you’ve brushed a ticklish spot, but he tilts his head to give you better access.
Emboldened, you give him a little nip. He chuckles again, this time with a little hiss, and makes no effort to push you away. You kiss your way down his chest, nuzzling the fuzzy dip between his pecs, then down his belly.
You keep expecting him to grab you, to take control, but he doesn’t.
You’re tugging off his pants, huffing the smell of him, warm and intoxicating. His hair is thick as a bramble between his legs, his cock already half-stiff as it springs free. The weight of it on your palm has your heart racing. You nuzzle the shaft, trace your tongue along a vein, kiss your way to the head…
“See?”
Ice water runs down your spine. Frozen, your gaze drifts inevitably upwards. Strade is braced on his arms, a dangerous glint in his eye.
“This is your favorite, isn’t it? I told you: we always do what you like in bed.”
You glance down at his cock like you were caught robbing a bank. “I-I… I just—“
He cups your face, forcing you to look up at him. “Such a greedy lover.”
“No! I just want—“
“You could have done anything with me. I’m ready to please you however you want. But this pleases you more than anything, doesn’t it?”
“I…” Your voice is starting to crack. “I-I thought you liked it.”
Strade hooks his hands under your arms and hauls you up the length of his body. His strong arms wrap around you. “Läppisch, läppisch…” He rubs his forehead against yours affectionately. “I always like you.”
“A-are you… I mean, this whole time…” You don’t want to ask him. This is a horror you never fathomed until now. “Are you humoring me?”
He laughs. He doesn’t answer. You grip his shoulders hard, your hands shaking, your throat closing up.
“S-Strade, please.”
“I’ve never seen you like that before.” He rubs your back reassuringly. “Eager. Hungry. I liked it.” He nibbles his way to your ear, hissing in it. “Are you ready to do something for me this time?”
He slides your pants off your hips, down your legs. You can feel his erection drooling against bare skin. You’re nodding before you realize it.
His hand slides between your bodies, wandering between your legs. You shudder. Lump in your throat or not, your body is still thinking about how good he smells and how soft and warm he is. The evidence of your attraction is all over his palm right now.
“You’ve been keeping this from me,” he accuses softly.
You shiver. “L-like hell I have.” The words ring hollow. Your voice is thick and emotional. “You always take that whenever you want it.”
He chuckles. “I don’t mean your body.” His fingers explore you, sending tingles down your legs. “Your desire. You hide it away like dragon’s gold, Schatz. Are you afraid of it?”
There’s so much to be afraid of in this house. Knives, nails, saws, torches. How can you be scared of your own desire in a house like this? It’s not like you get to decide what happens to your body.
Strade’s hand moves over you like you’re a tool as familiar to him as any other. You squirm in his lap, burying your face in his shoulder.
“Is it easier, when I grab you and take what I want? You don’t have to…” Strade mumbles against your neck, his breath hot and stumbling. “Verantwortung übernehmen… mmmh,what’s the word… responsibility.” He laughs. “You don’t have to take responsibility for what you want, hm? Not if it’s actually what I want.”
“I just…” Your breath is quickening as you speak into his shoulder. “I w-want to keep you happy.”
He lets out a long, hungry breath. “Keep telling me what you want. I want to see your desire. I want you spread open.”
He strokes you like a machine, precise and relentless. You can feel his cock twitching against your thigh, but he’s making no effort to slide it in.
“I j-just want to make you happy.” This is such an embarrassing thing to beg for. “Please, just let me make you happy—“
“You weren’t this shy before. You were so open about your needs. Go on, tell me the truth.”
“I—” You sob into his neck. “I… like your body.”
“Mmmm. Why?”
“I-I like how it looks, how it feels, I like touching you—” You hiss when his stroking slows, teasing you along the edge. “I like how you smell and taste, I like how you sound when you fuck me, I want you, I want you—”
“Ahhhh,” Strade purrs in your ear. “What a vulnerable thing to confess. No wonder you were so scared.”
The tears are starting to spill over. “Strade, please—”
“I had no idea you desired me so badly. What a naughty little secret.” He nips your ear. “It’s a wonder I can keep up with you in bed, hungriger Teufel.”
“Please…!”
“Yes, keep going. Let it all out.”
He won’t help. He won’t say the things you want. His hand moves slowly, torturously, no matter how desperately you grind down into it. As badly as you want to finish, that’s not what you really need. That’s not what will set the world right.
“I want…” Your voice is a broken wreck. “I want to hear that… you want me too.”
His breath is heavy, each word rolled around his tongue like a piece of hard candy. “Oh, do you now?”
“Strade!”
“Is this how it feels to hold a living heart in my hand? I could never keep them alive long enough to find out.” He grips your face suddenly, forcing you to look at him. “But I always imagined exactly this expression…”
Your fingers are digging into his arms, your hips pressing into his hand. “Strade, please, I don’t care if you have to lie, just tell me you want me, please, please—”
He shudders, pulling you tighter against him, stroking you like he’s the one desperate for climax. “Ah…” He’s so beautiful like this, flushed and sweaty, pupils blown out with a drunk smile. “I love you so much…”
That’s what does it. That’s what tips you over the edge, all over his fingers. That’s what sends the world reeling into dizzy sparks. You’re kissing him like you’ll die without it as your body bucks.
When the fireworks fade, he’s still there. Still warm and solid under you.
“Can I…?” You’re so out of breath you can barely get the words out. “Can I make you feel good too?”
Strade laughs, kisses you, and laughs again. He cradles your face like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Oh, Schatz, you didn’t notice?”
…Oh. You do now. The splatters are all over your thigh, cooling slowly. He didn’t even have to touch himself.
“I couldn’t help it.” Strade’s chest vibrates under you as he chuckles. “You were so cute, squirming and begging on top of me. You really thought I was about to destroy your whole world.” He tucks his face into your neck again, as if sharing a secret. “This way of breaking you is a little safer than the basement, isn’t it? I know you’ll still be breathing at the end.”
You shudder. “Y-yeah. I guess so.”
“Thanks, Schatz.” He kisses your neck, his arm still locking you against his body. “You did such a good job of pleasing me.”
Warnings: Flirting, implied offscreen sexual content. Reader insert, masc!Rook.
-
-
-
“Ah, the man of the hour!”
You recognize the voice, though his face is temporarily hidden by your goblet of expensive wine. Here you’d been hoping to get through this lavish assassin party in their lavish assassin casino without hearing that voice directed at you. Lucanis had warned you that his cousin was trouble.
You lower your goblet, and there’s Illario, wearing tight leathers and a smirk that makes it clear how he gets away with being trouble.
“Rook!” He leans on a decorative table, sultry, which makes you feel like a mark. “I hope you don't mind if I trouble your evening with a question.”
You're still not used to the way Antivans talk. Like they're laying each word down on rose-strewn sheets. Perhaps at knifepoint.
“Go on.”
In contrast, your own words kick off their boots unceremoniously before flopping onto a cot.
“Are you fucking my cousin?”
You spit expensive wine across the lovely decorative table.
“Hopefully you don't spit like that if you are,” Illario remarks as you sputter.
“No–!” You wipe your mouth, then the poor splattered table. “I mean– th-that's hardly your business!”
“I ask because, if you're fucking anyone else, I can steal you away like a lovely unattended piece of art.” He smirks. “But Lucanis… if he's about to get laid, who am I to stand in the way of a miracle?”
You’re not drunk enough for your head to be reeling like this. You’re not choking enough for your face to be this red.
“So. Are you fucking my cousin?”
You've seen a man undress someone with his eyes before, but Illario's gaze seems to be peeling you bare and then adding new accessories. Leather straps, maybe. You take a large gulp of wine.
“No,” you say at last, your mouth somehow dry.
His smile doesn't change, but it seems to curl around you. “A pleasure to finally speak to you privately, Rook.” This can't be his normal voice. “If you will excuse me, I believe I’m going to step outside and enjoy the evening air. East balcony. Usually deserted. It’s a lovely night.”
He wipes an errant drop of wine from the table with one gloved fingertip. Your eyes track the movement like a hawk spotting a rabbit. All too soon, he’s walking away, and you watch that like a hawk too.
You take another nervous gulp of wine. East balcony, he said.
Lucanis warned you.
You set the goblet down so hard you spill wine over it all over again, and set out towards the east balcony.
You’ve always been a little too good at getting into trouble.
Hey wren! Your respawn verse has recently become my latest hyperfixation and I’m wondering on the status of it. I know game night updated in march, but I’m curious about any other projects you may be working on and if a new game night chapter is in the works. Thank you :3
Yes and yes!
Threatie and I have been working on the next chapter of Game Night, and we're planning to re-release the whole thing eventually, with new chapters once we get through the old ones. I'm also working on Excursions of the SS Bragg (the spin-off to Under The Mask featuring vignettes of sexual exploration) and of course I'm working on finishing Under The Mask itself.
And thank you for giving the verse some love, it really is special to me.
Private investigator Gavin gets hired for a job by bounty hunter Jeremy. Unfortunately for Jeremy, Gavin has unconventional ideas about how to receive payment.
Warnings: Coercive and abusive transactional sex, manipulation, threats of physical violence, orgasm denial (resolved), alcohol mention.
-
-
-
The moment I heard a knock on my office door, I knew it was trouble.
Don't give me too much credit for that. People who aren't trouble tend to avoid me like I'm an unpleasant puddle interrupting an otherwise pleasant stroll. Call that a sampling bias.
"Come inside," I call without getting up from my desk or even taking my crossed legs off it. If you can believe it, not the first time I've said those words today.
The door opens, and I'm greeted by a familiar well-trimmed beard and sharp eyes. Today's trouble is named Jeremy.
Let me tell you about Jeremy. They could easily snap me in half with one hand, even though I've got a couple inches on them. (A couple inches of height. No idea about the other one.) You see, I'm a gangly little beanpole of a private eye, and Jeremy is a compact battleship of a bounty hunter. And, from the looks of it, strapped. (With a gun. No idea about the other one.)
"Jeremy!" This is worth uncrossing my legs for. "Finally here to fall into bed with me?"
Jeremy smiles, and I'm reminded that I have a type. "Better. I'm finally here to kill you."
Dangerous, by the way. That's my type. People who could make sure my body was never found.
"Relax, just a little career joke." Jeremy crosses their thick arms and leans on my wall. "I'm here to hire you. I need intel on a mark."
Fuck me, I have a type.
I stand and pick up a decanter, which is significantly higher quality than the liquid inside it. "Drink?"
"I'm good."
"Right to business, then. Who do you need stalked?"
"Jack Patillo."
Eugh. They couldn't have sucked the joy out of the room faster. I have a feeling I'll need a drink for this conversation, and fortunately, there's one right here in my hand. I pour myself some.
"Snowball’s chance, love. She’s a regular of mine." I never like having to tell someone like Jeremy no. And by someone like Jeremy, I mean someone who can snap my neck. "Can't help you slit her."
Jack's a treasure, by the way. My kind, at least, and you know what they say about another man's treasure. She likes to invite me to her private rooftop hot tub, spend too much money boozing me up, and objectify me while she talks about whose life she's ruined lately. Love that woman.
Have I mentioned I have a type?
"Relax, I'm not going to kill her." Jeremy holds their hands up in an alleged gesture of peace, which isn't actually that reassuring, since their hands are precisely what I'm afraid of. "She has intel on my mark. I just need you to cozy up to her and write down a few things she says."
They're not going to like this number. "I'll need two grand. At least."
Sure enough, their jaw twitches and their hands look a lot less peaceful. "That's more than the bounty's worth."
"And I'll spend half of it just getting into the right party," I explain, since meatheads like them aren't versed in the machinations of the upper class. "Sorry, love. You took an expensive contract. It is what it is."
I'm not lying about the price. I'll lie about plenty, but I don't fleece my clients.
"Work with me, Gavin." Jeremy doesn't sound happy. More than that, they sound desperate. "Make it affordable. You and I do good business, let's keep that going."
Desperation is currency, you know. And I'm a gambler.
I wait until I've had another sip of whiskey before speaking, because dramatic timing isn't dead in this house. "I'll do it at cost. One grand." The whiskey tastes so much better when they're hanging on my every word. I sip slowly. "If you'll let me eat your ass."
It's like fireworks, the way shock and alarm and outrage flash across their handsome face. "Are you— no, and what the fuck?"
I shrug. "Then it's two grand."
"You can't be serious."
"Just for ten minutes. I'll time it. You won't even have to look at me."
"Fuck you. No deal."
"All right, but you're missing out on a bargain." I flash them a smile over the rim of my drink. "You think your ass is worth more than a grand?"
It occurs to me, shortly before their fist balls up my shirt and my back slams against the wall, that I might have made a mistake.
"How about you snap that rate in half and I don't snap you in half?"
I wince. I think their breath smells like blood. That can't be right, but it sure feels like it from this range.
"S-steady." I sip my miraculously-unspilled drink. "I can't do the job with a broken rib, can I?"
"I'm starting to not care."
"All right, then. Have your way with me, you brute." The whiskey really helps my nerves at times like this. "I suppose once you've bloodied your knuckles, you'll be off to find another private investigator who can do the job. Right?"
Their jaw is twitching again and their bicep looks ready to rip through their shirt. It's a little hot, but I'm regrettably not in a position to enjoy it, because I might be about to lose some teeth. Not my fetish.
This was a bad idea.
Jeremy snorts like a belligerent stallion and shoves me away, leaving my shirt rumpled.
"Ten minutes," they grunt. "Not a second more."
...Oh my god, scratch that. This was a brilliant idea.
"And I'm not touching you," Jeremy adds. "You enjoy the view for ten minutes and then we're done."
I smile, giddy, and hold my hands up in surrender, drink included. "'Course not! You just sit there and look pretty. Ah... you are going to let me use my mouth, right?"
They snort, and look away, and I can feel them wrenching one word out of their unwilling body. "Fine."
"Just your ass, mind you. Won't touch anything else." I pause. “…Unless you want—"
"Don't push your luck. I can't believe I'm even doing this much." Jeremy lets out one more unhappy huff and leans on my desk. Ass presented. "Hurry up."
I finish the rest of my drink in one burning gulp.
Jeremy’s undoing their belt as my knees hit the floor. It's a thick leather affair, weighed down with tools and ammo and a heavy blaster. My heart goes all aflutter when Jeremy pulls that fierce weapon from the holster.
"You can leave that on if you like," I quip. Can you imagine eating ass with a live weapon inches from your throat?
For a second, Jeremy grips the gun like they're considering using it, but then they set it on the table. "You're exactly as unpleasant in bed as I always assumed you'd be."
"Cruel and uncalled for," I moan.
"Hurry up before I change my mind."
Despite their words, when I reach to pull their pants down, they flinch away.
"I do this, and we're good. One grand for the job."
It's a bad time to smirk, but I smirk. "Want me to whip up an invoice?"
Their broad shoulders go tense. I'm sure they're picturing it. Official documentation saying One Thousand Credits and Ten Minutes Of Ass.
"Just do it," they relent, and their voice has lost some of its edge. That's hotter than their flexing arm.
This time, when I tug on their pants, they let me. Rough material slides down, and the curves it reveals are all muscle.
Jeremy’s a nice well-groomed killer. Always liked that about them. Never a hair out of place in their trimmed beard, never a stray splatter of blood or smear of dirt. Always smells fresh and clean. Do I detect a hint of cedar?
When I cup their ass, squeeze it, and spread it, I find they're just as well-groomed all over. Shaved smooth, fresh and clean. Clenched tight. My mouth is watering.
I, Gavin Free, am brilliant.
"I'm starting the timer," Jeremy snaps. They flash me a view of a small digital wrist pad showing 9:58, ticking down. Two precious seconds gone already.
I give their ass a little jiggle, tugging at their hole with my thumbs. "Can't believe you're doing this to me. Rushing me at a time like this. This is art."
Of course I've daydreamed about eating Jeremy's ass. Among other things. Shame they're so burdened with the tragic quality of not finding me charming. A person like them has to be pried open with a crowbar. But here they are, spread wide.
Hole looks tight. Wonder if they've ever let someone slide up in there, or if my tongue will be their first.
They're right about one thing, though: I am, cruelly and unfairly, on a timer. I start them out with a press of lips and a slow, swirling lick, like a first kiss. Never let it be said that I'm not a gentleman when the need arises. And the need is certainly rising, if you catch my drift.
Jeremy doesn't make a sound, but the thing about assholes is that they're terrible liars. Can't relate to that, personally. Jeremy's putting on a good show of not caring about the passionate makeout session I'm having down here — lovely chiseled jaw keeping the groans locked in — but I can feel the way they tense under my tongue. And I can feel the way they relax, in adorable frantic spasms, when I coax them open in slow licks. What a little traitor, that hole is.
"Is this really worth a grand to you, pervert?" Jeremy grunts.
I could use my words to reply, but I think the point is made when I plunge my tongue inside like I've got delusions of pounding their happy spot with it. This time, I can hear their breath hitch.
I bet you're wondering if I'm good at eating ass. Natural curiosity to have. And I'm humbled to report that my magic tongue could make the most stoic army vet go jelly-kneed in under five minutes.
And Jeremy gave me ten.
"Fuck," they whisper, and that's when I know I've won.
Good thing I can undo my pants without looking, because I'm about to punch a hole in them. Wish I had some lube. I refuse to pull my face out of their ass to retrieve some, though. Think they'd understand if I stood up and ground my dick against their slick hole? Just to get it wet, see.
Nah, they don't seem like they're in an understanding mood. Better just make do.
I can feel them trying to twist around to look at me before I hear them speak. "Are you jacking off?"
I come up for air long enough to reply. "Yeah? You’re not exactly scrambling to help out, are you?” I lick my lips. "If we're renegotiating the terms, could you pause the timer?"
Jeremy twitches, then grunts, "Just get this over with."
I bury my face back in their ass, and moan into it good and loud. Just so they're really aware that I'm jacking off.
It's been said that I have terrible survival instincts. This claim is unfair. I'm fantastic at getting out of trouble. Lots of practice, see? The thing is, I'm equally fantastic at getting into trouble, which brings me to a salient point.
Jeremy’s ass, you must understand, is perfect. Big and muscular. It could really use... a handprint.
I'm practically obligated.
The resounding slap of palm on skin is only half as loud as the curse Jeremy barks. I don't even recognize that one. Wonder what backwater outer world they picked up that spicy little phrase from.
"What the fuck?" they elaborate, that’s one I recognize.
"Didn't we agree I could touch your ass?"
"Eat it, not spank it!"
"Ah, devil's in the details, innit?" I place my hands chastely on my knees instead of Jeremy's spankable ass or my hard cock. "If the deal's off, I'll respect that. Say the word."
I can see their knuckles going white on the table. Go ahead, Jeremy. Cancel now, and I got all of this for free.
"Deal's still on," they grunt. They look away. "You've got five minutes left."
Handprint's starting to show up. All nice and rosy. I make sure to dig my fingers in when I grab their ass and resume my four course meal.
Their breath is getting shallower. I can feel them twitching, clenching. It's not their fault they're susceptible to my charms. All liars are good with their tongues. It’s dangerously tempting to slip a hand between their legs and fondle their balls. Maybe they’d even let me. I don’t have to see their dick to know I’ve got it dripping.
I pull back just far enough to whisper. "If you turned around, I'd keep my mouth open."
Their voice is stiff and strained. "I said you could eat my ass, nothing else."
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” I give them another long, slow kiss before adding, "I'd swallow."
Jeremy shivers. "Shut up." It's toothless. They've got no leverage and they know it.
"Thought you might enjoy gagging my stupid words." I swirl my thumb over their slick hole, so it's not lonely while my mouth is busy. "A lot of people do."
"If you put that finger in, I'm breaking it."
"You're tight, but I don't think you're that tight, love—"
They grab my hair, hard, and the noise I make is not a dignified one. Something slaps into my cheek. When the sparks clear from my vision, I find there's something far more impressive than sparks obscuring the view. And dripping on my face for good measure.
"Do not," Jeremy pants from somewhere behind their erection, "make me regret this."
I bet I've got stars in my eyes like a cartoon. "Good lord, Jeremy, this is what you've been packing this whole time?"
I'm a man of my word, so I slide my mouth over their fat cock, and jack off a little more fervently. They're moaning openly now. I'd be too, if I could make a sound.
I'd like nothing more than to get their balls against my chin, but Jeremy is a challenge even for a man of my talents. I bet they're enjoying the way my throat spasms every time I hit my limit, three inches from the base. I know I am. I'm about to make a mess on my floor, but listen, it's my floor and I'm allowed to do that. Wouldn't be the first time.
Finally, when my eyes are starting to water, I've no choice but to come up for air.
"Lord! Real beast you've got here!" I let it slide over my face, a decadent mess of heat and spit as I catch my breath. "Could split me in half with this thing. Want me to bend over? Bet it's been a while since someone took you to the hilt—"
Jeremy grabs my hair and holsters themself in my mouth.
"Shut up," they groan, and then they're fucking my mouth and I don't have a choice.
You think there's some sort of g-spot in the throat? I've always wondered. Anatomical science has yet to validate me, but I know my toes curl each time I sink my lips down Jeremy's impressive shaft. Between you and me, this might be worth more than a grand. But I'm not about to tell Jeremy that.
As fantastic as their dick is, that’s not what tips me over.
It's hearing the timer go off.
Their whole body freezes at the sound like a deer in headlights. Gagged or not, I groan louder than the uncaring beeps of Jeremy's wristband alarm as I throb in my own hand. Feeling them on my tongue, hard and aching and tragically out of time, sends a few extra shudders through me. Feels so good to let it all out. Bet they wish they could.
It's my floor, I'm allowed to do that.
When the show's over, I generously release them from my lips' embrace.
"Appreciate your time, love." I wipe my mouth off and give them a blinding smile. "You and I are square. A thousand credits, and I'm on the case."
A pearly drop of precome oozes down Jeremy's cock. They're looking at me like I just shot their mother.
I stand up, pluck a tissue from a nearby box, and wipe my dick clean. "Send me the file on your mark. Madame Patillo is holding a soiree tomorrow, I'm sure I'll have something for you after that. She's a frightful gossip."
I can see their jaw twitching. Bet they were seconds away from flooding my mouth when I stopped. It's a good look on them.
"Go on, you don't owe me anything else." The drop of precome is making a valiant trek down that flushed head. I toss the tissue in the trash. "Not that I could stop you if you wanted more."
Jeremy isn't looking at me. Well, that's bounty hunters for you. No subtlety. I'll have to be a little more heavy-handed.
"Help yourself to the whiskey if you like." I pull my shirt off. "I'm hitting the bath. I'm sure you and your blue balls can see yourselves out."
I make sure to bend over when I peel my pants down.
Rough hands grab my waist and their cock slaps onto my ass like a felled tree. Still slick and slobbery.
"You," Jeremy hisses, voice dripping with disgust, "are the fucking worst."
It occurs to me, as they shove me face-first over the desk next to my pricey decanter, that I might have made a mistake. I doubt it, though.
"Oh noooo, I can't," I moan. With the way they're pressing my face against the smooth wood, they probably can't see my stupid grin. "You said I could only eat your ass—"
They don't tell me to shut up this time, but their cock starts stretching me open, and that sends the same message. Wonder if they could tell I was pre-lubed when I bent over, or if they just don't care.
Poor poor Gavin, trapped under this murderous brute and their spectacular cock.
"F-fuck," Jeremy groans over me as they sink inside. I couldn’t be grinning wider. Bet they're not used to sliding in this easy.
"Feel that, love?" I tilt my hips up, swallowing another inch. "That's a grade-A slut's ass. Really makes the amateurs look bad, hm?"
“Nnh—!"
"Go on, you don't have to be nice—"
Jeremy grabs the back of my neck and plunges balls-deep, which just about takes my breath away. The same way a sunrise does. Sometimes you have to stop and marvel at nature.
Can't remember the last time I took it this deep, I'll be honest.
"Fuck," Jeremy groans again, more urgently this time, like they're getting choked out. When I told them not to be nice, they really took it to heart. I can see the discount whiskey sloshing in my pricey crystal decanter with each slap slap slap against my ass.
The decanter was a gift from Jack. She'd love to know it’s seeing so much action.
It doesn't take long. Of course it wouldn't, not with the edging I gave them. I press my hips back when I hear Jeremy's cursing pick up a flash of panic, just to make sure they fill me up nice and deep.
And they do. They really do.
This is the best kind of compliment to get. Feeling someone's body tense up and shudder, waves of pleasure spilling out on heaving breath, all the pulsing and twitching and throbbing... a love letter penned by the body without clearance from the mind. There's no higher praise in the universe.
Guess you don't hate me so much you can't nut in my ass, huh, Jeremy?
"Should I consider this a tip?" I purr as they quake over me.
Jeremy’s too far gone to reply, gulping down air. You think maybe it’s been a while since they got laid? Can't imagine that, just look at them! Still, I should have asked. Sure feels like they're emptying a month's worth of jizz into me.
"You know..." I wiggle my hips as Jeremy’s breathing finally starts to slow down. "I only got about eight minutes of eating your ass. We agreed on ten."
The hand around my throat is probably deserved, but I thrash all the same.
"You can still do the job after I choke you out, right?" Jeremy growls behind me, their voice rough and hoarse. "Is a necklace of bruises fashionable at these parties you go to?"
"J-just a joke, love! Deal's on, you'll get your intel!"
"I ought to make you drop the price more before I let you go. You fucking owe me."
Oh, as if my fetishes hadn't been indulged enough today, now I'm being extorted? "This is a mugging!" I lament, full of indignation and dick.
Jeremy snorts, gives my neck one more brutal squeeze, and reluctantly lets go. "Forget it. At least one of us should keep our word."
Pulling out is a sloppy process. Wish it lasted forever. By the time they're loose (and I'm looser), I really do need a shower. Can feel a mess running down my thigh.
"A thousand credits," Jeremy relents, tapping at the small screen strapped to their wrist. They've tucked their cock away by the time I've twisted around, much to my dismay. "I'm transferring the money and my mark's file."
"Don't forget about this," I tease, dancing my fingers over the blaster on the desk.
Jeremy moves like a pouncing cat and pins my wrist to the wood, hard and painful. I yelp. They pick up the gun, and for the second time today, they look like they're considering using it.
But that would be terribly silly of them. They've already paid me, after all. And they can’t exactly take it back.
"Do not," they growl instead of shooting me, "touch my guns."
Yeah, yeah, that's what they said about their dick too.
They shove the gun back in their holster about as forcefully as they shoved into my ass and finally release my wrist. "We're going to have words if you don't have something for me tomorrow night."
I smile as I rub my aching wrist. "Don't you worry about that, love. You wouldn’t have hired me if I wasn't the best."
"You've fucking got that right."
I kick off my pants, pace around the desk, and flop back into my office chair ass-naked. It's my chair, I'm allowed to do that. Jack’ll buy me a new one if I can't get the jizz stains out.
"Always a pleasure!" I call after Jeremy just before they slam the door.
Hate to see trouble leave, but I sure do love to watch it walk away.
