Chapter 1: Campfire Chat
Chapter Text
“Hey, Meg.” He dropped down heavily onto one of the logs by the campfire. God, he was so horny he could barely think. What the hell was going on? Meg looked up from doodling nonsense figures in the dirt.
“What’s up?”
“Trapper’s kind of a snack, right?”
There was a yawning moment of silence as Meg passed through all seven stages of grief in the matter of seconds, and only seconds later passed into a new, eighth one: ecstasy.
“A snack? Man, Trapper’s a whole damn meal.”
They cackled and high-fived. Meg grinned at him, shaking her head.
“But why’re you asking?” She picked up her stick again, stuck it in the fire for a moment to get a nice charcoaled end, and went back to scratching in the dirt.
“So you know how the Entity has no idea how a cycle works, so like once a month you and Feng and Nea—”
“Go out as far as is safe and polite and fuck like rabbits?”
Ver winced. Meg did not put it as delicately as he would have; still, she certainly said it well enough. “Yeah. I mean, a couple people here get really horny anyway because stress, but...”
“You think the Entity’s doing it to you too?”
Meg was sharp. Maybe not the most tactful, but sharp, with a good head on her shoulders and a good heart in her chest. Ver shrugged and nodded.
Someone rustled behind them.
“You guys talking about Entity-boners?”
Dwight was back. He’d lasted longer than they had, but not long enough. Lucky him, and unlucky him, but now he was back at the campfire, safe for now. Meg and Ver made varying noises of assent at the same time.
“I think those are called fear-boners and you just get them because of who you are as a person,” Meg helpfully supplied. “You know how the girls just get weirdly horny instead of having periods?”
Dwight nodded. He sat down next to Meg, tucking his elbows between his knees and leaning toward the meager warmth of the campfire. “Yeah, but I thought you—” he flicked his hand at Ver— “didn’t get periods.”
Ver grumbled something indecipherable. It was true; he’d stopped getting periods, then he’d gotten top surgery, and he’d been passing very well for a few years until the damn Entity had outed him to everyone via a chainsaw to the chest and a ruined shirt, and now was reminding him that it was a cruel thing by a case of the hornies. It was just like his first couple months on T, except worse, because the Entity was a jackass. “Just ‘cause my body physically can’t anymore doesn’t mean the Entity knows that, and also the Entity’s transphobic.”
“The Entity’s a fucking transphobe!” Meg crowed after him.
Slowly, people had been filtering in from trials. Nea, Feng Min, Bill, Dwight, Jane, Jake, Meg, and Ver now all circled the campfire.
Bill and Jane politely stayed out of it. Jake was listening, but in his prickly way that said he was happy to look on but woe to whoever tried to get him to participate.
“So the Entity is now a homophobe and a transphobe.” Nea nodded, sitting down heavily on her favorite log. “We all knew it was a piece of shit. What else can we pin on it?”
Feng Min cleared her throat. Everyone shut up and looked at her. She leaned forward on her log, extending one finger like a wizened old master as the others around the campfire listened with bated breath.
“The Entity,” she said, “is an incel.”
Ver and Meg went wild. Meg actually leapt up from her log and pointed her finger at the sky.
“Holy fuck!” Meg yelled. “The Entity’s an incel! And all the Killers are incels too!”
“What—” Bill was past the point of confusion. He looked around and then raised his brows, incapable of contributing but still wanting to see how this ended up, but also very incredibly confused.
“But why are they all incels? We agreed that Trapper is a whole meal.” Meg crossed her arms, seeing the opportunity for a good, fun argument that would eat up a chunk of time until the next round of trials began. “Okay, but he can’t fuck, even if he wants to. Therefore, Trapper’s an incel,” she recalculated.
Nea pressed her finger to her chin. “He can’t fuck ‘cause hooks in his dick?”
“What about Wraith,” Meg urged. Nea hummed, deep in thought.
“There’s just wood down there. He’s like a Ken doll. Have you seen him? No bulge at all, and I think I saw his bandages slip once and there wasn’t anything there.”
“Hillbilly?” That was Ver.
“FBI, open up!” Meg hollered. Nea snickered.
“Yeah, I think he has the mind of a kid. Not for fucking.” Nea nodded sagely.
“Clown?”
“He’s just an incel.” Nea curled her lip.
“Plague?”
“Rotted.”
“Pig!”
“You go to sleep with her and she pulls her panties off super seductively and she’s got a reverse bear trap on her pussy so if you try to eat her out you get the trap.”
The Entity’s realm did not have crickets. The campfire crackled softly instead until Feng Min mercifully broke the silence.
“Ghostface?”
“Also a fucking incel, and he’s probably addicted to hentai.”
Feng Min scoffed. “Have you seen his costume? He’s definitely addicted to hentai.”
Meg was by now on her back howling helplessly in laughter, Ver likewise folded over. Jake was watching both of them with narrowed eyes, and Dwight looked vaguely uncomfortable but also amused.
“Huntress,” Jake finally suggested.
“I dunno, just seems risky to me,” Nea shrugged. Meg sat up long enough to proclaim that the Huntress was stacked! before crumpling back to the ground.
“I know I’m forgetting somebody,” Nea mused. “Who else?”
“Doctor,” Ver offered, wheezing.
“He sticks his dick in you and you die of electrocution.”
“God, god, okay, uh, Legion?” Meg wiped her eyes.
“I’m not sure,” Nea admitted. “I’m pretty sure Legion fucks.”
“Shape fucks,” Ver forced out, still breathless and wheezing.
“Oh, yeah, Shape definitely fucks.”
“Oni fucks,” Meg called out.
“I don’t think Oni fucks,” Nea argued. “Nurse doesn’t fuck either. Or Hag.”
“Oni could fuck if he wanted to, he just doesn’t,” Feng Min suggested.
“Nightmare—”
“FBI open up!” Meg and Ver yelled at the same time.
“What is going on?” Yui paced out of the fog, brushing her hair back and taking a good long look at the chaos that had taken over the campfire. Quentin followed her, looking like a sleep-deprived and thoroughly kicked puppy.
“Does Oni fuck?” Meg immediately demanded without even giving her a basic rundown of the debate at hand, as was typical and polite.
“Oni does not fuck,” Yui responded. She sat down, Quentin dropping into the dirt next to her.
“Spirit?” He called over the muted crackling of the fire, and his head bonked softly against the log as he sprawled out.
“FBI—”
“Open up, yeah,” Nea rolled her eyes, waving her hand at them-- the joke had worn out its welcome, at least for another few minutes. “So…”
“I still think Pig could fuck if she wanted to,” Meg suggested.
“You are all so fucking weird,” Jake finally muttered. The whole-campfire chat split off after that, the survivors breaking into their own conversations as the campfire crackled merrily.
Chapter 2
Summary:
It only took about a day after that for the Entity to call him into a trial. He did an okay job— did one gen with Jeff before Jeff peeled off to hold the Trapper’s attention and shortly after stepped into a bear trap and died, then snuck over to the next-closest gen in a dilapidated building.
Notes:
also no porn in this chapter but ver THOROUGHLY embarrasses himself. the secondhand embarrassment is strong
Chapter Text
It only took about a day after that for the Entity to call him into a trial. He did an okay job— did one gen with Jeff before Jeff peeled off to hold the Trapper’s attention and shortly after stepped into a bear trap and died, then snuck over to the next-closest gen in a dilapidated building. He was sniffing the air like a dog after rain, he noticed. It smelled good. Weird, but good, in a vaguely unidentifiable way. He kept his hands in the gen and stayed just focused enough to not mess the delicate work of securing wires to each other, sparing the rest of his attention to trying to identify the scent.
His heart picked up, pulse thundering in his ears, and he abruptly dropped everything to run. He sprinted from the gen and vaulted through a window and immediately, humiliatingly, ran headfirst into the Trapper and fell on his ass. If he had to guess, the Trapper was almost as surprised as he was, since he hadn’t been grabbed around the throat while trying to leap through the window.
What he noticed even above that was that it was the Trapper that smelled really fucking good— spicy, clove-like, almost like the Sweet William Ver would sometimes burn when he felt like being an annoying little shit, but also wet leather and the sharp tang of blood, and something earthier— mud and pine from the woods, and sweat. Sweaty leather. Musk. The Trapper stared at him for a moment as he stared back, sitting on his ass dazedly and doing nothing, and finally bent down to manhandle Ver over his shoulder. Ver made an undignified little awgh noise and kicked, broken finally from whatever deer-in-the-headlights spell that had temporarily overtaken him.
Ver knew he should find lusting after the Trapper’s scent kinda grody and a little weird, and being put over his shoulder should be terrifying, but instead he felt himself start gushing like a geyser and his legs went weak.
Completely unfair. He’d managed to stay on task this trial, even, hadn’t been distracted by catching a whiff of himself getting all sweaty and bloody and then getting wet and his underwear being sticky and uncomfortable for the rest of the trial or anything. Now Trapper had ruined it by picking him up and smelling weirdly good while doing so. Ver squirmed, wiggling on his shoulder, trying to ignore how kicking his legs made them rub together and he was really, truly, stupidly, unfairly horny and if he could fistfight the Entity he would.
Fighting for his life kept him from making any particularly embarrassing noises, and when he was dropped on the hook he was almost grateful for the agonized scream that tore out of his mouth. It felt like it was taking most of his lungs with it and for once in this whole hellish experience getting laid was far from his mind.
As he stopped swinging, he slumped and let out a pained moan. He let his head droop. The Trapper was watching him, silent and statuesque for a few moments, and then knelt to pry open a trap for anyone who would come to rescue him, and then left Ver to his own miserable devices.
A few moments later Claudette neatly skirted the trap and lifted him from the hook, disappearing back into the fog with ease born of long practice. Ver’s legs felt shaky and weak and he really wanted to rub one out. He’d nearly died, and all he could think about was his stupid libido.
The gens. Get another fucking gen done, be a credit to the team, probably die on a hook, hit up Meg to get fingered behind a tree somewhere. Good plan. Solid plan.
He was so scattered he didn’t break into a run away from the hook until he felt his heart beat harder in tandem with another that did not belong to him. He was leaving a blood trail and he was sure the Entity was leaving scratch marks for the Trapper to follow— and the Trapper was fast. He dropped a pallet to buy himself some time and vaulted through a window.
He hid in a locker like an idiot. The Trapper paced right by him and looked down just in time to see the red, shiny blotches of his blood trail.
He’d done one-and-a-half gens. That was good, right? He’d been useful? Being hooked back-to-back within the span of two minutes generally meant someone was off their game enough that leaving them to strain against the Entity and buy time for gens to get done was about as useful as they’d be.
Instead of immediately prying him out of the locker as Ver expected, the Trapper tilted his head. Pressed his masked face as close as he could to the slats that Ver was peeking through.
God, that was scary. His breath was hot and that bloody-sweaty-musky-wet leather smell permeated the entire locker. God, that was hot. Ver whimpered and held the inside of the locker doors as if that would stop the Trapper from pulling them open.
He didn’t, though. He took a step back— Ver wondered what he could be doing. Daring Ver to step out himself? Giving him the chance to give himself up with some degree of dignity?
He knelt down and Ver heard a trap ratcheting open, which meant of course that the Trapper was intent on actually not leaving him any dignity at all. He gave a little moan of fear and despair this time. The Trapper straightened up and didn’t even give him another look as he paced out of the building to track down Claudette.
A minute later, a shriek said that he’d found her.
Fuck, Ver couldn’t just let her die! He’d be in pain, but he’d just eat the bear trap injury, pry it off, and take the heat off Claudette— maybe if he could occupy the Trapper, she’d find the hatch and when he inevitably got hooked she’d be able to make a clean escape.
He opened the doors and stepped out, hoping that somehow he’d miss the trap.
He did not. It snapped shut around his shin and he screamed again, dropping to one knee and prying at it. The edges were honed and wicked, tearing the flesh and muscle of his leg to ribbons, ripping open his fingers as well. It hurt a hell of a lot more than the typical bear traps the Trapper availed himself to. This trial was already awful— now it was a special kind of nightmarish. When he finally freed his leg from the trap, he’d lost too much blood to stand and his leg was too destroyed to even think about crawling, so he collapsed onto his front. Claudette screamed again. He started off at a belly-crawl, whimpering and crying as the effort sent shocks of pain through his hook-wounded shoulder and his mangled leg.
Claudette screamed a third and final time about thirty seconds later. He wasn’t going to make it to the exit gates like this, let alone the hatch. He was wet and uncomfortable, and agonized, and bleeding everywhere. His breaths came out unsteady and crying.
Maybe he could bleed out instead of dying on a hook. He dragged himself behind a pile of crates and bit his wrist to muffle the worst of his noises, though he was shaking with pain and was laying in a puddle of his own blood and had left a lurid, body-wide trail of it from where he’d freed himself from the trap. Normally in a trial he’d be able to push his pain aside just long enough to crawl to somebody. Now, though, there was nobody to crawl to. Maybe the Trapper, but he wasn’t stupid even though he’d made a lot of dumb decisions this trial.
He was too tired to even try and crawl away when the Trapper tracked him down. He just wanted to go back to the campfire-- didn’t even struggle when the Trapper hefted him onto his shoulder, just keened and hung limp. It was over mercifully fast.
“That’s rough,” Nea told him as he staggered out of the fog and collapsed by the campfire. A few seconds later, Meg followed suit from another trial.
“Guess who just got Mori’d!” She dropped down heavily, in high spirits despite the brutal method of her death.
“By who?” Ver mumbled.
“Legion. Four gens. Four fucking gens! And the idiot didn’t think to disengage!” She cackled and slapped her knee.
“You are very chase-able,” Ver offered, perking up a bit. Meg awwed and wiggled her hands at him. David gave them both a weird look and rummaged around in a toolbox. “Hey,” he said to David. Fog swirled around him and he didn’t even bother to get up. “Oh.”
The campfire faded away.
Chapter 3: David King
Summary:
Ver and David let off some steam.
Notes:
oh god sex FINALLY. david is a Bro
Chapter Text
Ver actually managed to survive a decently long time, mainly because he knew better than to be a hero and make risky plays in his current state. In the end, he still got a kanabō to the back and died on a hook.
He was the only one at the campfire when he returned— he stared into the flames for a few miserable, horny seconds, and sighed. Then, he turned around and paced into the fog to find a tree to jack off behind.
—
“--Ver? Ver. You over here?” Ver abruptly wiped his hand off on the tree behind him and tugged his pants up.
“Yeah! Over here.” He came around to wave at David. David did not look particularly fooled or impressed.
“I swear, you’ve been over here between every single trial for three days. You want some help taking the edge off?”
“Didn’t think I was being that obvious,” Ver halfheartedly defended.
“You think I haven’t noticed you slinkin’ around like an unfixed cat?” David rolled his eyes and leaned against a treetrunk. “--anyway, offer’s open. You’re not a bad-looking guy.”
“Aw, thanks.” Ver rolled his eyes a little back, even though David’s offer was very tempting. “--actually, yeah. You wanna--? Feel like I’ve been getting nowhere with my hand.”
David grinned, closing the distance to grab Ver by the wrist and push him bodily against the very same tree he’d been fruitlessly trying to get off behind. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Ver got warm again, a proper warmth, not the gnawing restlessness he’d been contending with for the past few days-- broken by that weird match with the Trapper. David’s knee pushed between his legs and David’s other hand dropped down to cup his rear, giving him a quick squeeze before going for his pants.
“Fuck.”
David growled out something in agreement, mouth latching onto Ver’s throat to apply tongue and teeth, creating bright red marks and making Ver’s blood rush. This was definitely what he’d been missing. The touch, the warmth, the weight of another person. He stepped out of his pants and kicked them to the side, uncaring that they were getting forest litter all on the insides. That was a problem for post-fuck Ver to deal with; right now, all his brain power was dedicated to getting David inside of him. David pushed his own jeans down just enough to get his dick out, and Ver wasted no time in reaching down to fist him a few times. David was solidly average, but thick, and Ver could feel how hot and hard he was-- he was fairly throbbing in Ver’s palm.
“Fuck,” he said again, mashing his lips against David’s with far more hunger than grace. David smelled like cologne, not the gross too-sharp cologne of the Ghostface but a far mellower sort. Masculine. Pleasant, usually, and arousing as hell right now. “Fuck me.”
David wasted no time in complying. He grabbed one of Ver’s legs by the thigh and hitched it up, pushed his legs open even more until he was leaning heavily against the tree for support.
He hissed as David pushed into him, but it was a good stretch. By now his pain threshold was stupidly high, and he was aroused enough to be accomodating— had been in a constant state of low-level and sometimes high-level arousal ever since this frustrating episode had started. There wasn’t particular pleasure in the initial penetration, and he’d had never been able to enjoy it as much as some people said they did, but the anticipation was doing a fine job in making him love it. David pushed in as far as he could go, hitching Ver’s leg around his waist. The angle pinched a bit but it was overwhelmed by the heat, David’s mouth on his jaw and David’s hand squeezing his thigh.
David had definitely done this before. Hell, Jake had probably done this before, squirreling off somewhere with someone and discreetly letting off some steam. It wasn’t necessarily intimate, just-- close. Tight, and heavy, and hot. Human. In this alien, uncomfortable place, human was to be cherished.
He mouthed out another fuck when David started moving. It only took another few seconds for him to free up a hand to push between them and rub himself with.
He didn’t eat or drink, so he wasn’t sure how he was so wet— still so wet. He was actually dripping slick down his legs. It was messy and would be embarrassing, but in Ver’s current state he was incapable of being embarrassed by much at all. David’s cock in him felt right, felt good, the heat and friction inside him and on his clit as he worked himself to his peak completing him like a missing puzzle piece. He didn’t even care that— if— it was the Entity making him feel this way because it felt so damn good.
“Fuck, David!”
David clapped a hand over his mouth, even though his eyes were crinkled in amusement. Ver moaned and whimpered against the barrier of his hand, bucking into him as well as he could with zero leverage and a tree trunk at his back, and David moved in a way that felt suddenly better, and that did it for him. He tossed his head back, David’s fingers invading his open lips and muffling his cries as he came. David pressed down on his tongue and Ver closed his mouth to suck on David’s fingers, free hand grasping David’s bicep so hard he’d leave bruises while the other rubbed him through his climax. Coming with a dick in him felt so much better than getting himself off with his hand had felt. When he pushed David’s chest, David obligingly pulled out and Ver went right to jacking him off. David’s cock was dripping, even hotter from having been inside Ver, and it didn’t take long for him to spill against Ver’s thigh.
“Fuck,” Ver said again, stupid and sated. David groaned against his neck. “You’re the best.”
David kissed him one more time, then pulled back. It was a struggle to remain on his feet, and his leg was a little sore from holding an awkward position for so long, but the insistent buzz that had clouded his thoughts for so long had quieted.
“That help?” David rasped. He cleaned his dick off and pulled his pants back up, tucking himself away. Ver nodded.
“Yeah,” he finally responded.
David suddenly looked down— Ver followed, and saw the fog climbing up his legs. “Aw, fuck,” he groaned.
It took him and left Ver alone. On one hand, it always sucked being alone when he didn’t have something to do— on the other, going into a trial covered in cum with his pants off would not be a good look.
Predictably, by the time he got clean and got his clothes back on, he was ragingly horny again.
He put his head in his hands and groaned.
He was still alone ten minutes later, and stood up to pace around the fire.
Another ten minutes passed and he was still alone, and— surprise!— still thinking about getting fucked against a tree by David.
“I’m going for a walk,” he told the zero people at the campfire, and paced off into the fog. Valuable things could be found in the fog for those brave enough to look— Ver often heard things scratching out there, just beyond the line where the campfire’s light faded out, and while he’d never been able to see a Killer from the campfire he had no doubts that they were out there somewhere, roaming. Waiting.
He paused for a moment to make sure he was alone and ducked into the darkness. The moon lit his way well enough. Sprigs of flowers and herbs grew, primroses and amaranth somehow blooming in the shade of the trees.
He’d stop and collect some any other time. He needed to keep moving right now, or he’d go crazy.
Chapter 4
Summary:
“You know,” the Trapper finally said, in a tone that was half-sympathetic and half-gentlemanly reluctance, “when a man has a powerful thirst, it won’t be satisfied until he slakes it.”
Notes:
oh its KILLER TIME BABEY. sex in the next chapter!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He walked for about twenty minutes before realizing he was no longer alone. Jake, maybe? Of all of them, Jake could venture as far into the fog as he pleased and find his way back with no problem. Maybe he was following Ver to lead him back when he inevitably got lost. He turned to check and see who it was— nothing, for a long moment, and then the familiar shimmer of displaced air, like a heat-haze.
Not a survivor. A Killer. Wraith, his fevered mind supplied. What rotten luck that the bloodhound of the Killers would track him down! He set off at a run in no general direction, just away. While cloaked the Wraith was fast, able to eat up ground within seconds and be nearly shoulder-to-shoulder; he wasn’t, though.
Of all the Killers, Ver knew that the Wraith could be playful. Indulgent, even, when there was no progress being done on gens whatsoever and the survivors prioritized running him all over the map. Ver was in his territory now, and had the distinct feeling that he was the one being played with. The Wraith was edging in on him from the sides and sometimes even cutting him off like he was running him around in circles, or worse, steering him. He turned sharply to the left as the Wraith hemmed him in on the right at an easy lope, and finally broke past a treeline of sorts, sprinting into a wide clearing. There were some stumps still in the earth but plenty of flat ground and a dilapidated shack— the Killer Shack— sitting stolidly in the center.
“Oh, fuck, no,” Ver said out loud to himself, and twisted on his heel to sprint back into the trees. He ran headfirst into the Wraith, which he should have seen coming, and disengaged to run the other way. There was a faint trail there worn through being long-traveled. Maybe he could follow it wherever the hell it led and get back to the campfire?
As he sprinted towards it, the fog parted once more— someone was already using it.
Fucking Trapper. He paused at the edge of the clearing, watching Ver being pursued by an invisible man, and raised his cleaver to give chase as well.
Of all the Killers he could have run into, the two he had the most experience evading was the only stroke of good luck he’d had in this entire situation. The clearest, closest path of escape was through the shack— run them around it, make some ground, and dash into the fog again. He’d never wanted a trial to take him, but suddenly the idea of only having to contend with one Killer with three teammates was exceedingly attractive. He’d lost sight of the heat-haze of the Wraith, but the Trapper was gaining ground. He sprinted into the shack and made for the far door.
He ran into something in the doorway. Wraith, again. He was definitely being played with. His heart was beating painfully and powerfully and fast, in his throat, still in his chest, in his arms even. He skidded backwards and turned on his heel to run to the window.
He was grabbed by the back of the shirt halfway through and dragged back.
“No, come on!”
Weird. Usually in a trial he’d find his words mangled into a scream. The Trapper did not seem as surprised and simply continued hauling him out of the windowframe as he just as stubbornly clung onto it. The Trapper was far stronger and pried him off with little effort.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
Ver wondered if the question was for him, but looked up and figured out that it wasn’t— the Trapper was looking at the Wraith. The Wailing Bell rang out and the Wraith fizzled into vision, pacing across the room to stand uncomfortably close to both Ver and the Trapper. This close, Ver could hear the growling chitters he made and his raspy breath. The Wraith was not a particularly threatening Killer. He was tall and swift, and certainly sneaky to the unobservant, but he didn’t have the hulking menace of the Trapper or even the Huntress. Of all the Killers Ver had first been introduced to, the Wraith was possibly the least intimidating.
He certainly was intimidating now, looming over Ver when he couldn’t run away or hide. Ver took a step back— ran into the Trapper, was almost nudged right against his side. The Trapper and the Wraith were having some sort of conversation in looks. Neither of them could really emote with their faces. The Trapper was wearing a mask, for God’s sake, and the Wraith was mostly petrified.
“What is it?” The Trapper grumbled. He shook Ver by the back of the shirt. The Wraith tilted his head and then looked pointedly down at Ver’s waist. Lower.
For a terrifying, breathless moment Ver thought that maybe he’d forgotten to put his pants back on and he was running around half-naked, and not even half-naked on the half he was proud of.
Of course the bloodhound could smell the want on him. Ver had been doing a good job cleaning up after himself and minimizing the lingering scent or other traces of sexual activity, but— there really was no hiding from the Wraith when he wanted to catch you. Ver felt himself getting wet at the thought and cursed himself internally very enthusiastically. Idiot. Horny idiot.
“Hm.” The Trapper grunted again. Now that he was standing there and not acting like he was going to stab-down-hook Ver, Ver was noticing again that he smelled good. He kept noticing the spice and musk and the heavy, heady scent of wet leather. The Trapper was incredibly solid too. He was a massive man with all functional muscle, definitely soft in a few places but those were all places that Ver should definitely not be thinking about. His thighs, for one. A protective layer of flesh and fat over his belly, and under that more muscles.
He abruptly derailed that train of thought and looked at the Trapper and the Wraith— both were looking at him already. He looked at the ground abruptly rather than meet either of their eyes.
“That why you’re so off your game?” The Trapper shook him again. “Poor lad.”
That also should not be hot. Ver whined and pressed both hands against his face, finally letting his knees buckle under him. The Trapper lowered him gradually instead of letting him collapse, finally dropping him to the ground. It was only a matter of time before one of the Killers picked up that he was so suddenly useless for a reason entirely different than fear— there was fear, but even that only informed the curious need kindling itself in his groin, didn’t negate it.
“Fuck, fine, there’s something wrong with me.”
There were definitely looks being exchanged over his head. From his hunched, tight position on the ground he reached roughly the Trapper’s knees and so would have to both look up and crane his head to see what the hell was going on. He did neither, simply continued to hide his face and feel bad for himself.
“You know,” the Trapper finally said, in a tone that was half-sympathetic and half-gentlemanly reluctance, “when a man has a powerful thirst, it won’t be satisfied until he slakes it.”
Ver laughed, strained and weak, because the Trapper had no idea how right he actually was. Thirsty. Fuck. Still, he unscrunched a bit and craned his head to look at the Trapper in his periphery.
“And if I wanna be unsatisfied?”
The Trapper laughed, then, an actual laugh, rough and truly amused at Ver in the way he usually only was when Ver ran right into a bear trap in plain sight.
“Then you can scurry on back to your campfire.”
The Clown was a creep, the Nightmare was legitimately an actual real offending pedophile, the Ghostface was a murderous voyeur and addicted to hentai, and Ver didn’t know exactly what sexual deviance had grasped the Pig but got kind of a weird vibe from her regardless. Compared to them, the Trapper was a regular hunk.
“And if I wanna stay?” Hopefully, his position-- looser now, sitting cross-legged instead of with his knees pulled to his chest, an elbow on his thigh and the other arm laying across his leg-- cued them in that he was interested-- receptive.
“You let us take care of you.”
At his current level of functioning, he found that proposal agreeable.
Very agreeable.
Notes:
feel free to tell me what you think! I'm putting Ver through a lot but he'll get some payoff soon, I promise.
Chapter 5: The Wraith
Summary:
“Evan,” the Trapper rumbled. Then, he gestured to the Wraith. “And Philip.”
“Evan,” Ver repeated, “and Philip. Okay. Got it.”
“That’s it.” Evan gestured to the couch. “Over there, and get your clothes off. You’re driving Philip wild.”
When Ver properly paid attention to Philip, he did notice how patiently he’d been waiting while Evan and Ver figured things out, but he was staring Ver down with an almost-familiar hunger. He had that look when he caught a scent and knew his prey was within reach; and again, Ver should not have found that as hot as he did.
Notes:
OH YEAH BABEY WE'RE REALLY IN IT NOW
Chapter Text
“Sure.” He scooted on his backside a little bit until he could face the Trapper, raising his arms in the universal up request. The Trapper leaned down and grabbed him under the armpits like he was a damn survivor and lifted him to his feet.
“Although, if I can... ask.” He looked from the Trapper to the Wraith, not shy but rather suddenly very aware of how dangerous his question might be. “Do you have names? That I can call you. I’m Ver.”
He couldn’t talk in trials, so it was clearly a just-for-here type deal, or at least he thought it would come across that way. The Trapper exchanged a look with the Wraith; a few seconds passed, and then he focused on Ver again.
“Evan,” the Trapper rumbled. Then, he gestured to the Wraith. “And Philip.”
“Evan,” Ver repeated, “and Philip. Okay. Got it.”
“That’s it.” Evan gestured to the couch. “Over there, and get your clothes off. You’re driving Philip wild.”
When Ver properly paid attention to Philip, he did notice how patiently he’d been waiting while Evan and Ver figured things out, but he was staring Ver down with an almost-familiar hunger. He had that look when he caught a scent and knew his prey was within reach; and again, Ver should not have found that as hot as he did.
The Trapper was the Killer the survivors had known the longest, and so it was an unofficial, unspoken agreement between the survivors that he was the one in charge of the Killers— this little exchange nigh but confirmed that, and Ver found himself surprised that he was letting Philip go first.
“I’ll go get some mending. You’ll be safe with Philip— he’ll keep anyone from trying something they shouldn’t outside of trials.”
Right. He’d lucked out with running into Evan, who cared about such silly things as fair play and the rules, and Philip, who could almost be described as gentle when he wasn’t led to butchery. If he’d run into Krueger or even Myers…
A different story, for sure, with a far worse outcome.
Those thoughts easily fell out of his head, replaced with better, louder thoughts such as I’m gonna fuck the Wraith! and I need to come so bad or I’m gonna die!
If he wasn’t so tied up with heat and need, he’d be alarmed at the sheer tenacity of his lizard brain’s determination to get laid. As it was, he was wholly in agreement with it and stripped on his way to the couch.
Philip dropped to the couch and pulled Ver down shortly after.
Philip was able to be plenty expressive even without the ability to move most of his face. His constant growling took on a pleased, chittering edge, and he held Ver by the hips as Ver dug into his bandages. Philip honestly seemed to be a little drunk off of the scent of Ver’s Entity-enhanced need so close to the source, and Ver couldn’t blame him. He’d been in very close proximity to it for the past few days, and it had been a blur of jacking off or dying in trials.
“You’re gonna keep me safe, huh?” He said instead of anything else. He pushed aside the bandages keeping Philip decent and felt around for something that resembled genitals.
There was a slit, right about where a cock would be, and as Ver ran his fingers down the length of it gently he felt moisture start to gather there. Then, something slick and flexible pushed against his fingers at the same time he attempted to push them into the curious orifice; he let it slide outwards and curl into his palm, around his fingers, leaving a trail of slick. It was faintly glowing the same icy blue as Philip’s eyes but was thankfully warm; not body-warm like Ver was, but different somehow in a way he couldn’t quite place.
“Mm, interesting.”
He pumped Philip’s dick— what he thought was Philip’s dick— a few times as it squirmed in his palm and even wrapped around his wrist. It was around nine inches long, if he had to guess, starting as slim as a finger and growing to be nearly as wide as Ver’s wrist at the base. Engorged with blood and also, apparently, possessing enough musculature to move, it twined around him almost heavily.
“Yeah, I want you in me.”
His mind was buzzing with need. Philip’s growl of agreement didn’t help clear the fog; he shifted himself on Philip’s lap, widened his straddle, and guided the lively thing to his hole. It wasted no time in prodding him open and sinking in fully to his heat. It liked heat, Ver was learning, was pulsing pleasantly inside of him and squirming around to press against his walls. That felt good. That felt really good, actually, made him want to cry with how right it felt.
Philip held him to keep him from pitching off of his lap when a climax hit, completely out of nowhere— he’d been rocking his hips, thinking fondly on the enthusiastic movements of Philip’s cock inside him, and then he was crying out as he was coming so suddenly he felt like he’d been hit by a train.
“O-oooh, oh, oh,” he meant to say something, probably that he was coming, but he couldn’t speak. “Oh, fuck, Philip!” That was something, at least. Philip’s hands squeezed his hips.
He expected to be sensitive and done, rewarded with a few minutes of post-orgasm clarity with which to reevaluate his current situation. He was not. Philip’s cock continued to writhe inside of him, and the burning need waned just long enough for him to realize that he’d been drooling all over Philip’s shoulder for the past minute.
He mumbled an apology and rocked back in his lap. Philip chittered reassuringly and brushed his hair back, though there was a distinctly hungry edge. He hadn’t come yet, and he certainly was aware of that.
“You wanna pound me into this couch?”
Not the subtlest line he’d ever dropped by far, but Philip had already made him come once and was currently still inside of him. The time for subtlety was long over. Philip nodded, hands slipping underneath his thighs to reposition them.
Ver found himself with his back on the armrest and Philip nudged between his legs. It gave him a great angle— Ver yelled again as the slight lulling in sensation returned full force. The constant movement of Philip’s unconventional cock combined with new, proper motions of fucking were overwhelming and addictive, and Ver wanted more. He yelled for as much. His nails dug into Philip’s shoulder but didn’t accomplish much except making his fingertips sore.
He entirely missed Evan returning to the room with a burlap sack, setting it down in the corner with a metal clang, and picking up his clothes haphazardly thrown on the floor to fold them neatly to set them down in a pile, but if he hadn’t, he would have figured that it made perfect sense. Evan liked things to be in order. He liked to have things under control. The sensation of Philip’s cock undulating inside of him took up all of his attention. His mouth was open, had been that way, streaming an endless litany of incomprehensible cries and moans.
Then he came, again, a much more telegraphed affair than his surprise climax of earlier. He wrapped his legs around Philip’s waist and cling onto him as Philip tipped over the edge as well. He had a weird cock, and he had weird orgasms to go along with it— Ver felt the writhing appendage in his hole flex, then grow, depositing a gout of viscous fluid so powerful he could feel it against his walls.
“Philip!”
Philip was growling into his ear, rough and pleased. Ver’s legs shook and he left them to fall open and weak; Philip held him there for a moment until they were both spent, and then rolled onto his backside and hauled Ver with him to sit on his lap once more. Philip’s cock wasn’t softening so much as it was retracting, slipping out of Ver’s hole to retreat back into Philip’s body, leaving a sluggish flow of cum and slick to follow it.
He got about a minute of afterglow before insistent need perked up in his belly again. Philip’s cock had fully regressed back into the slit it had come from, and though Ver teased the opening Philip did little more than chirrup and purr brokenly, oversensitive. His hands were still all over Ver; he was being cuddled, pretty much, held close to Philip’s chest and petted, but any hopes of a round two (was it three?) were regretfully unfounded. How he wasn’t rubbed raw from how often he’d been taking care of himself, he didn’t know.
He managed ten minutes of being held and caressed and purred to before need overwhelmed him again; Philip held still and let him grind against his leg until he came, staining Philip’s bandages with their combined fluids.
Finally, though, he had to extricate himself. Philip nuzzled the back of his neck and let him go, sitting properly on the couch, rearranging his bandages to cover himself and become decent again, and finally retreating to the far side of the couch to allow Ver to sprawl out. He looked outside, summoned his bell and scythe, and padded off soon after, leaving Ver and Evan alone in the shack.
No point in wasting time, was there?
Chapter 6
Summary:
He’d had at least a little bit of a crush on Evan— on the Trapper— since he’d first encountered him. He was huge, and strong, and when Ver had been new and terrified and very, very bad at running, and had cornered himself, Evan had shaken his head with something near disappointment and allowed him to dart on past. He’d gotten him in the end, hooked him in the basement, and had certainly been merciless in every encounter after that, but Ver remembered it fondly still.
Notes:
God I’m so sad I already chose my chapter naming conventions because “therapy with a naked man” has incredible, unimaginable power to it
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Evan…” He shifted into a half-curled position. Messy, and undignified, but no longer sprawled in the same position Philip had left him in.
Evan was sitting down cross-legged with a bear trap in his lap. He was cleaning it— had a small can of oil that he was using in conjunction with a rag to get the hinges working smoothly.
He’d been affecting careful, deliberate disinterest in Ver’s antics— to his screaming, his begging, how enthusiastically he’d gotten fucked by Philip. Either he genuinely wasn’t into him or there was something going on. Considering that Ver knew what the bulge in his pants looked like when he wasn’t aroused-- he was not proud of that-- he’d put his nonexistent money on it being the latter.
“Do you want to…?”
He’d had at least a little bit of a crush on Evan— on the Trapper— since he’d first encountered him. He was huge, and strong, and when Ver had been new and terrified and very, very bad at running, and had cornered himself, Evan had shaken his head with something near disappointment and allowed him to dart on past. He’d gotten him in the end, hooked him in the basement, and had certainly been merciless in every encounter after that, but Ver remembered it fondly still.
“I have no way of knowing if this is the Entity manipulating your desires,” Evan finally admitted. His voice was rough— he was aroused, which was good, but reluctant. Ver understood that. He knew he was attractive (sort of, if all the scars could be disregarded) and knew he’d put on a hell of a good show— but still, he was halfway out of his mind with Entity-enhanced need and desperate for any shred of intimacy. Evan seemed to be very proper, and with a strong— if strange— moral code. Sleeping with somebody who may not actually want it surely went against that moral code.
He was going to have to assure him, wasn’t he? He had to be not so horny for that— somehow, he wrangled his libido under control, for which he deserved a medal, and sat down on the couch with his legs tucked underneath himself. Covering himself, a little bit, though it truly made no difference. He looked a little more respectable and in control; and that was enough.
“Look,” he said, and almost said Evan, but decided against it. “This place sucks. If this place didn’t exist, and you were just… a guy, that I knew, I’d still be all over you. Really.”
Evan didn’t grumble, though Ver thought he would. He just looked at him instead, the mask inscrutable.
“Besides, I don’t want to fuck the Clown or Freddy. The Entity can’t make me want something. It can only make me want more of what I already do— you saw me run right into you. I do want you.”
Evan did grumble, then, setting the trap down in his lap. Ver slid off the couch to pad over to him, sinking down to his knees— as close as he’d ever gotten without being grabbed or hit. Post-fuck Ver was still hanging around enough to keep him from his typical Pavlovian fear reaction. Horny Ver was actively suppressing it and demanding that he place himself in Evan’s lap.
He put a hand on Evan’s arm instead— his bicep would be awkwardly high up, so Ver settled for his forearm. “I do,” he repeated when Evan tensed up under his touch. “I do want you.”
God, Evan was so scary in trials, and was still scary outside of them, but now— sitting, almost leaning away from Ver with how strongly he didn’t want to take advantage of him— Ver had to think about how decent of a person he could have been.
“Before I came here I was in school to become a grief counselor.”
That small reminder of who he used to be before this crazy place calmed him down. Not a lot, but— a little. Before he’d come here, he’d wanted to help people. That hadn’t changed.
“Can I…?” He tapped Evan’s leg, and to his surprise, Evan nodded. He shifted himself up into Evan’s lap, adjusting himself to allow Evan to figure out where to put his hands, and the trap took his place on the floor. “Well, grief counseling is— grief is a normal part of life. And when we’re grieving, it can make us feel like different people. It can even make us think we’re a bad person. For not having done enough, or for messing something up. I got into a car crash when I was sixteen and I died. I came back, but…” he’d been trying to make a point. Evan’s hands were now resting lightly on his hips and waist, holding him, and Evan was allowing him to talk, so he owed it to the man to finish it. “I blamed myself for it. I didn’t know why I deserved to live, but now I’m thinking that it’s not what I deserved or not-- it just is. Life just is.”
“What are you trying to say, boy?” His hands squeezed Ver’s hips. He wasn’t being cruel or biting; curious, maybe, harmlessly exasperated.
“I guess just that grief is a normal part of life. It’s okay to feel bad, or to feel things you don’t understand. Like, when you let me go the first time I saw you, and then you downed and hooked me anyway ten minutes later. It sucked, but I still thought you were hot. And you’ve hooked me probably hundreds of times since then and I still think you’re hot.”
That won a laugh. “One-track minded, aren’t you?”
“Well, I can come back here once this is all over and I’m normal again and we can have a real philosophical conversation if you want. I’m just out of my fuckin’ mind with this right now.” He shifted. Evan’s hands moved to support his back, tugging him closer. “Like, yeah, my parents think they’ve outlived me again and that sucks and I hate it, and it makes me angry, and I’d give anything to just let them know I’m kind of okay, and it’s hard to even do anything sometimes, but what am I going to do about it? I’ve got this to deal with.”
There was a long second of silence. He sighed and leaned against Evan’s chest, sobered for the moment; heat chased away somewhat by unhappy cold. He steeled himself and soldiered on
“So I’m here. And so are you. And I just said a bunch of depressing stuff to you and you still have a boner, so…”
Evan made a noise of disbelief. “I know why the Entity chose you, lad,” he snorted. “You’re relentless.”
“C’mon,” Ver urged. The talk had been hard— rather one-sided, and he didn’t think he’d been very assuring, but he’d gotten across the twin points of wanting to sleep with Evan and having that want be authentically, if not embarrassingly, his.
“You little pest.” Evan did not sound especially irritated and Ver was still sitting entirely in his lap, so he grinned at him and pressed closer. Ver would wonder if he was the one being pushy, but Evan had been the one to suggest taking care of him in the first place. Maybe it was just a weird Victorian thing.
“You can make me shut up if you want.” Ver set a hand on Evan’s chest. He didn’t have a great angle to get at his shoulder, the closest source of bare skin, so instead pecked his jaw. He found himself wondering what kind of a lover Evan would even be— gentlemanly? Rough? For someone who walked around setting traps and downing people with a rusty cleaver, Evan seemed terribly refined.
“You’re a little pest,” Evan repeated, and rose to his feet with Ver in his arms. Ver looped his arms around Evan’s neck and hummed lightly in complete agreement.
“C’mon,” he said again. “You said you’d take care of me.”
“That I did.” Evan’s voice was given over to a more playful, long-suffering tone. He dropped Ver down onto the couch unceremoniously, making him yelp, and then laugh, and leaned over him to loom-- a hand planting itself next to his head. In his lap, he’d been large, and certainly sturdy and warm, and when he’d picked Ver up it was a nice look at the world around him from a foot higher than normal, but now that he was bending over him Ver momentarily remembered why he was usually afraid of the man.
As it tended to do recently, the reminder just made him get wet again.
Notes:
ver is extremely badly trying to explain a core tenet of act (acceptance and committment therapy): it's normal to feel bad.
unfortunately, he's trying too hard to get laid to do a good job.
Chapter 7: The Trapper
Summary:
“Might break you,” Evan replied. Ver had to take a moment to puzzle out that his tone meant he was joking-- was playing. Ver ground back on him, giving his shoulders a hearty squeeze. Evan had been being careful. He could break him, and the low growl in Evan’s throat proved that he’d enjoy it. It was a reminder that even though he was one of the Entity’s captive beasts of burden, he hadn’t been taken because he was unsuited to it.
“Do it.”
Notes:
somewhat, uh, embarrassing confession? I enjoy writing foreplay and build up far more than writing the actual sex. also there's really only so many positions I can whip out rn, they're on a couch guys
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ver reached for the rubber of his overalls to help him divest; Evan let him, reaching instead to push his thighs apart. It was a little awkward to navigate the hooks but he managed to find where the fabric looped and buttoned, and carefully, minding the tug, freed it. He pushed Evan’s overalls down to his waist and then down further, pleased to notice that he wasn’t so obscenely scarred below the waist and did not have any hooks in his dick. Ver pressed himself back in the ratty couch cushions to take stock of said dick-- Evan wasn’t as explicitly monstrous as Philip or even the Nurse, and his dick was reassuringly humanlike. He was nearly as thick around as Ver’s wrist and about an inch short of being as long as his forearm-- girthy, and large, heavy and musky in Ver’s hands. Hands, because he needed both to handle it.
It would be in extremely bad form to ask if he’d been this large before coming to the Entity, so Ver did not ask that and busied himself with feeling Evan up. Unlike the tough, leathery skin of his shoulders and back, his cock was soft and one of the most skinlike parts of him. Large, even so. Ver was beginning to have something approaching second thoughts. Philip had been manageable, but he’d never had anything inside of him as large as Evan. He usually didn’t even make a habit of putting things inside of him at all. He gave Evan a light squeeze, stroking up and down from root to tip. Swiping his finger over the head to hear Evan sigh.
“You sure you’re not going to break me?”
Evan snorted. He pawed Ver’s thighs apart and tugged him down until he was slumped-- sat down next to him and hauled him over. Without a bed and with nobody wanting to fuck on the floor, it seemed like Ver was consigned to being on laps. He didn’t mind it too much and took the opportunity to grind back on Evan’s cock. His hands rested on Evan’s shoulders now, pleasantly bare of his overalls. The hooks were still there embedded in his shoulder, and they had to hurt. Ver didn’t know how he dealt with it.
Maybe he’d just gotten used to it, in the way Ver had just gotten used to aches and pains from his first crash. Maybe the Entity had magicked the pain away, the way those very same aches and pains quieted during trials.
Too much critical thinking for the state he was in. Too much reflection. He was hot, and wanting, and someone who was entirely capable of satisfying his heat and want was right under him, so fuck his critical thinking. The man himself was warm, and his cock was scorching, and Ver suddenly wanted it in him more than life itself.
“You’re a tough lad. You’ll be fine,” Evan assured. Maybe he’d noticed the far-away look in Ver’s eyes-- his hand brushed over Ver’s aching hole, then squeezed the inside of his thigh. “Let’s get you up.”
Ver murmured agreement and rocked forward until Evan could hook a finger inside of him. Just for a moment, testing, making sure that Ver was adequately prepped. Even one of his fingers was wonderfully thick and chased away all thoughts of other things in favor of eagerness. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been thinking about that had soured his mood in the first place.
Evan’s hands settled under his thighs and lifted him, allowing Ver to guide the hot, round head of his cock to his hole. He was still loose from Philip, and still wet from both Philip and his own slick. The slow, piercing push of Evan fitting into him hurt. A good hurt, like a deep stretch. He moaned and let his head loll back bonelessly.
“Evan…”
“Stay with me, lad.” Evan chuckled. Ver’s belly curled in on itself at the rasp in it. He squirmed and nearly dug his nails into Evan’s shoulders, but remembered the hooks at the last moment and squeezed him instead.
“You’re so big.” He’d meant to say something more intelligent than that. He pulled himself to Evan with his arms around Evan’s shoulders, even though his forehead barely reached Evan’s shoulder in the first place. How hot must he be? He felt like he was burning up. He rocked his hips back even without Evan fully seated inside of him, whining for it already. Evan chuckled again, indulgent.
“I’ll give you what you need.” He didn’t know why he liked that so much-- liked this threatening behemoth of a man holding him close, saying he’d give him what he needs. “I’ll take care of you.”
He liked that too. He pressed open-mouthed, fluttery kisses to Evan’s shoulders and chest, wherever he could reach. He’d wanted to sleep with the man since he’d grabbed him off of a gen the first time. Now that he was finally getting what he’d wanted for so long, he wasn’t sure what to think— he liked it, definitely, Evan’s cock was warm and huge inside of him and even so he didn’t feel so out of his mind with need as he had even two minutes ago. It was like his stupid libido had quieted.
In his favor. Definitely in his favor, because he could savor the feelings. He raised himself up enough to get leverage to actually move.
Evan’s breath caught. He’d been doing an admirable job of pretending that he wasn’t having just as good of a time as Ver, but pleasure-- or anything that felt good-- was a rarity in the Entity’s realm. It was why so many of the survivors ended up fucking each other or sleeping together, or sleeping on top of or leaned against each other. It felt good and for however long it lasted that good sensation could drown out everything else.
Again, too much reflection that was swamped with need within a second of having it.
“Fuck me,” Ver urged.
“Might break you,” Evan replied. Ver had to take a moment to puzzle out that his tone meant he was joking-- was playing. Ver ground back on him, giving his shoulders a hearty squeeze. Evan had been being careful. He could break him, and the low growl in Evan’s throat proved that he’d enjoy it. It was a reminder that even though he was one of the Entity’s captive beasts of burden, he hadn’t been taken because he was unsuited to it.
“Do it.”
Evan growled low in his throat. He looked over to the side of the couch— thinking about something. Ver occupied himself with bouncing as well as he could on Evan’s cock, consumed by the hot drag of it against his walls. He felt like his hole was on fire and all he could think about was how much he suddenly wanted to come.
He startled, twitching and tightening his grip around Evan’s shoulders, when they were suddenly moving.
“Over the arm,” Evan directed. He extricated Ver from his cock and helped him bend, one knee on the couch and the other leg supporting him on the floor. Evan neatly slotted in between his legs.
That was good. That was really good. His addled mind couldn’t quite catch on to what was so good about it besides the fact that Evan’s cock was huge and it filled him up, and that Evan’s cock was hot, and when he started moving the friction was so intense he couldn’t help but howl. He clutched the arm of the couch and clawed at it. Evan’s hands grasped his hips and kept him from squirming away or being pushed away from the force of Evan’s thrusts. Strong, and hard. Ver’s hips knocked the hard core of the armrest with every push in. He’d definitely bruise if Evan’s hands didn’t leave bruises already.
His one leg that was actually supporting him gave out, but Evan effortlessly picked up the slack— holding him still like he weighed nothing. He probably didn’t to the big man. It interrupted his stream of cries and moans with a softer, needier whimper.
“Evan, fuck, I’m so close.”
It had been maybe two minutes of the vicious fucking but already he was close. Evan’s cock was so deep in him it felt like it was hitting places Ver had never had hit before, sensitive and hot bundles of nerves that made his body jump every time Evan’s cock dragged over them. With how keyed up Ver was, maybe he’d be able to come if Evan just sat there hilted inside of him, grinding against him. He was so very grateful that Evan was moving.
He lasted maybe thirty more seconds before crying out and clutching onto the armrest of the chair, mind whiting out at the sheer intense sensation and pleasure that slammed into him. Evan’s cock was huge. He could feel every detail of it as his walls clamped down hard.
“Evan! Fuck! Evan!”
Evan’s thumbs dug into his hips. He was definitely going to bruise. They were going to be lurid, ugly, purple things, and they’d stick around until he got pulled into a trial, and he’d probably be poking and prodding at them when he got himself off next.
Evan grunted and just as violently emptied himself inside of Ver. Ver was shaking freely, limbs uncoordinated and shocky with pleasure. He didn’t want to know when the last time Evan had sex was— wasn’t going to mock him for lasting around ten minutes, either, especially considering Ver had come three times prior in the past hour and had come before him.
Evan pulled out of him-- he was actually getting sore-- and lifted his other leg onto the couch. Then, he patted his back twice, roughly.
Ver laid limply over the couch, for once feeling worn out and satisfied. Evan tucked himself away and tugged his overalls back up, once again clothed and decent. He returned to his small pile of traps and sat again.
The scraping of teeth being sharpened and the big man’s slow, deep breathing lulled Ver into a peaceful almost-doze.
Soon, though, he heard a steady, rhythmic click of metal and boot heels on wood.
Notes:
Three more Fuckin's planned! Feel free to guess who in the comments!
Chapter 8: The Deathslinger
Summary:
“Well, what do we have here?”
The newcomer had a pack-a-day raspy chuckle that made Ver’s belly flip. Evan looked up from his repairwork to where Ver was still draped ungracefully over the couch.
“Meat, Quinn. The Entity’s given him a need, so we’re taking care of him until it’s satisfied.”
Notes:
This is not a surprise to anyone… okay? Okay. also I finally got around to reading Caleb's lore so he's a bastard man now
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Well, what do we have here?”
The newcomer had a pack-a-day raspy chuckle that made Ver’s belly flip. Evan looked up from his repairwork to where Ver was still draped ungracefully over the couch.
“Meat, Quinn. The Entity’s given him a need, so we’re taking care of him until it’s satisfied.”
Ver had to admit, A Need sounded far more refined and pitiable than Mindmelting Horniness.
The newcomer— Quinn— chuckled again. “And is it an open invitation?”
“He’s a decent sort,” Evan interjected. Ver hazily realized he was talking to him.
“Yeah,” Ver decided. He sounded hot, at least.
“Mind if I dress him up a bit?”
Ver genuinely had no idea what that meant, but Evan grunted permission so it couldn’t be anything too bad. Quinn paced over to him, and before he could even turn to look a strip of cloth was tied around his eyes.
“Don’t want you getting an unfair advantage over the others, now, do I?” His voice was a low purr, sensual without trying to be. Ver wanted to curl up and cry, so strong was the sudden, overwhelming wave of want that struck him. He tried to respond and made a foolish awaugh noise instead. Quinn patted his cheek.
“Hold still.”
He wasn’t done dressing Ver up, apparently.
He sounded patient and pleased when Ver did hold still. Ver’s belly heated at the tone, and so he was easy to move. He let Quinn secure his wrists together behind his back, looping what felt like chain— oh, that was definitely going to bruise— around them, then his neck. It would choke if he fought, but was simply snug otherwise. He squirmed and fussed when Quinn guided his ankles up as well, but a pinch to the inside of his thigh settled him with little issue. When he was well and truly restrained Quinn rolled him over onto his back, hands and a knee nudging him into position propped up against the poor overworked armrest. There was a wet spot pressing against his arm that he recognized as a patch he’d bitten down on at some point. The person he’d been before this would never consider sleeping with even one person five times in a night. Now he’d slept with four people within the span of what was probably three hours.
Ver could already tell that the chains were going to be a problem at some point. It wasn’t too bad right now, and it would certainly be worse if he was on the ground instead of supported by the couch cushions, but they still dug into his skin. With his vision restricted it seemed to make the sensation of the cold chains, the puddle of his own warmth against the couch, and Quinn’s calloused hands arranging him as easily as one would a cloth doll take up more space in his mind. Someone was making a hungry, needy, whining sound-- it was him. Of course it was him. Quinn cupped his cheek to turn his head, examining him, a thumb brushing over his lips, and he nuzzled into his hand.
He dully noticed the Wailing Bell outside, and ignored it soon after in favor of letting Quinn stick fingers in his mouth. Taste, too, was more now that he couldn’t see. His skin was salty and rough and there was something else, acrid, sharp, not entirely unpleasant. His nails were ragged and worn. Uneven, catching on Ver’s tongue. His other hand was drifting down his chest to scratch the scars there. He had a lot. Two, his favorite scars, if scars could be favorite, from his top surgery; then, one that carved him from shoulder to belly button from his first accident-- crawling from the shattered window, hauling himself out as the car fought to keep him in. Grabbing at him, almost. Awful. Claustrophobic. That scar was an ugly and garish thing.
The thought left him once again, swamped with need as Quinn left his chest to push a finger into him.
“Wanna…”
He sighed, interrupted, turning his face into Quinn’s hand again. The blindfolded shifted a bit, affording him a glimpse of black leather, but it was tugged back into place within the second.
“A’ight, then.”
He whined again as Quinn shifted away, warm touch suddenly entirely absent, leaving him with only the grip of the chains-- they’d worried him for some reason, but he couldn’t remember exactly why now-- and the rough weave of the couch cushions.
“Don’t you cry. I’m right here.”
He groaned and tipped his head back, following Quinn’s voice. The chains stretched taut-- there was no movement he could make that wasn’t felt everywhere else on his body. Even a twitch of his leg made itself known in the chain across his throat.
A bear trap snapped shut from the corner of the room. Instinctively, he startled, and pushed the limits of his restraints too far; the chain pressed down on his throat harder, making him gag, and making him jolt, which did not help and in fact made things worse.
Quinn’s touch reappeared on his shoulder, then his neck, then smoothing over his face again and cupping his cheek; a conscious effort to soothe even as his voice took on an edge of amused admonishment.
“C’mon, now. You’re the one making it hard on yourself. Settle down.”
The cushion pressed down as Quinn shifted onto the couch, nudging between Ver’s spread thighs and shuffling up until what could only be his cock bumped into Ver’s hole. He stroked his cheek until he calmed and fell still, breath ragged. It only took another nudge to push inside; Ver sighed, and calmed further, once again feeling that abominable itch begin to get scratched.
Quinn bent to kiss Ver, chest-to-chest with him. He had whiskers, a scruffy beard, and twisted flesh on the right side of his mouth. The links of the chain pressed into his collarbones and around his arms, and his wrists were starting to dully ache now that Quinn was moving-- and moving him, by extension. He whined and shifted as well as he could. There really was no way to free himself from this and while it wasn’t actively painful, he could see it becoming as much in time.
Maybe he’d be worried. He should be worried-- that Quinn was here meant that he was a Killer, and no Killers came here for no reason. Evan being there still kept him from worrying too much.
The chains were so snug they couldn’t rattle, just make slight scraping noises as they ground together as Quinn rocked into him. He couldn’t even participate beyond being something needy and hot for Quinn to fuck-- didn’t want to risk choking himself again, didn’t want to struggle too hard against the chains and bruise himself up more than he’d already be. The inability to do anything except lay there and take it twined itself up with how he was already feeling, stoked even higher by the blindfold. Quinn wasn’t as big as Evan or even Philip, but more than made up for it with how frustrated he was making Ver.
Quinn bit his bottom lip-- he felt the sharp bite and crush of broken skin before he tasted blood. Retaliated, nipping at Quinn’s retreating tongue. The side of his mouth felt itchy and sore so he was probably getting damn beard burn.
It was slower than Philip or Evan. No less intense, and far less sudden now that he was unable to work for it.
“I’m gonna--”
Quinn let him breathe and gasp for a moment, though he didn’t let up his pace. Steady, not mechanical but constant and unhurried. He’d get Ver there; was getting him there, on his own torturous terms.
“Please--”
Quinn kissed him again. Shut him up, bit his bleeding bottom lip as he keened and moaned and finally came. Quinn was basically laying on him and keeping him from moving and choking himself-- a small kindness. Pleasure-drunk or not, he was reasonably sure he wouldn’t enjoy getting the improvised choke chain again.
“You’re a damn sight,” Quinn rasped in his ear as he slumped, limp with a reluctant, sore afterglow.
“Awgh,” Ver managed.
Quinn finally came in him after another minute of the same merciless pace. Ver was actually relieved. Quinn leaned back, pulling out of him and sighing lowly. Ver twitched in the chains and turned his face to the side. It made the chain pull across his throat, but not unbearably, and the crick in his neck was a more pressing matter now that he knew Quinn would step in to keep him from panicking and choking himself to death.
They sat there for a few minutes, just breathing. Evan was back to sharpening the jaws of a trap. When it went off again, Ver jolted, and Quinn put a hand on his chest, but he didn’t do anything else.
The fog of want and need that had made him so needy and stupid was receding.
Maybe just the needy part was receding.
“I didn’t wanna say this earlier ‘cause I didn’t want to make you mad before we fucked, but—” Ver squirmed, finding the chains as unyielding as ever. “I’m probably going to make your life hell. I’m pretty good at running.”
Quinn guffawed— worse, Evan laughed, too, from where he was watching the whole event unfold with his small pile of bear traps to mend, and Philip made one of his barely-there growls that meant amusement. What the hell was so funny?
“Sure. You can run if you’d like.”
“What does that mean?” He had no idea what Quinn meant by that, feeling more with every passing second like there was a joke that he wasn’t in on.
“You’ll find out.” That answer was not illuminating. Quinn sounded warmly amused and worse, smug. Ver tossed his head uselessly, the blindfold stubbornly secure, and bared his teeth. Harmless.
“What the hell does that mean, Quinn?”
”You’ll find out,” Quinn repeated, and patted the inside of his thigh. “An’ my first name’s Caleb, son. Mind you remember that.”
Ver huffed— but that sounded like a farewell, and he was still securely chained up.
“Wait, aren’t you going to let me out?”
Caleb made a noncommittal grunting noise. “Have a mind to leave you here all trussed up. Reckon the others might appreciate it.“ His hand dipped between Ver’s thighs, brushing his well-used, dripping hole. He was still, still horny, and the light touch was nothing less than electrifying even if he was so red and raw that actual sex would hurt. The pressure of Caleb on the cushions receded and the same click of metal Ver had heard when he came into the shack started up around the same time his voice came from somewhere else, above Ver instead of in front of him. “Reckon you might enjoy it too, son.”
Ver grumbled to himself, but had to admit— at least internally— that Caleb had him pegged. Maybe if he hadn’t already been thoroughly worn down and the chains weren’t bruising him so badly, he’d sink back into the couch cushions and whimper. He shook his head instead, feeling himself getting fussy and worried.
“No, no, let me out. C’mon. Come back, please.”
“Look at you minding your manners.” He’d be annoyed at how condescending Caleb sounded if he also didn’t find it unfairly hot. Caleb was coming back though, loosening the chains, moving his dead-weight limbs out of the way as the chains pooled around him, draping him over the couch and giving the reddened tracts of skin around his arms and wrists an encouraging, painful rub. “Guess I’ll be needing this anyways.”
The chain, body-warm now, dragged across him and was secured away somewhere.
He was too tired to protest anything that happened to him, but nothing did; Caleb took the blindfold off after rolling him onto his front and getting him to tuck his face into his arms, for all the world like he was about to take a nap. Gave him another rub, on the shoulder this time, and said a gruff something to either Philip or Evan before leaving the shack.
Ver laid there for a couple more minutes. He was feeling-- not normal. Closer to normal. He was still horny, but in a far more manageable way, and he could hold onto a thought for longer than ten seconds. He almost didn’t want to go back to the campfire. Almost.
“Thank you.” He sat up with a slight wince-- he was horrifically bruised, ankles and wrists and forearms, even across his chest and throat. He was lucky that he wore a hoodie and jeans. Those would certainly help him avoid awkward questions back at the campfire. They were folded and sitting on the floor where Evan had left them; the man himself tilted his head when Ver spoke.
Evan grunted at him. Philip was sitting in the window, keeping watch for something, but turned around to watch him pad across the floor to retrieve his clothes and get dressed.
“I’m gonna…” go back to the campfire died in his throat. Of course he was doing that. “Thanks for taking care of me,” he said instead. Even looked up and nodded, once. Philip waved-- a tiny movement of his wrist that made Ver smile despite himself.
He stepped outside the shack and made for the trail he’d spotted on his way in. The fog parted around him, and after twenty paces closed ranks to swallow him up in the Entity’s forest.
Notes:
I don't know how painful being hogtied with chains must be but it’s definitely not PLEASANT. also yeehaw hot.
Chapter 9: Chapter 9
Summary:
Seeing the Oni— Kazan? He thought his name was Kazan— barreling over to him with a goddamn katana and murderous intent radiating from his massive frame allowed him to do something he’d never actually managed to do in a trial: break down sobbing.
Notes:
This WAS going to be a big chapter like Caleb's but I wanted more time to work on the actual smut part of it. Kazan Big
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He kept moving until the trees gave way to a different kind of tree— then, dense outcroppings of bamboo, red wooden bridges over dry creekbeds.
He did not like this. The air was hot and still, silent, like the whole place was holding its breath. Familiar landmarks were scattered around, but the one that drew his interest was the tall, pyramidal structure where there normally was a high-risk gen. He could get a quick lookout from up there, see if he could spot the campfire, and hustle on over.
Good plan! He was getting his planning skills back, so that was nice. That was good. He sighed, relieved, and only winced a little bit when climbing the stairs made him ache.
His lookout yielded two things: one, he couldn’t see anything but the Yamaoka Estate and thick fog surrounding it, and two, he was not alone.
Or, he was alone, but he had been spotted, and he was about to be not alone very soon. A red streak was racing towards him. He’d found a good watchpoint, but it also made him a very vulnerable, very visible target.
Seeing the Oni— Kazan? He thought his name was Kazan— barreling over to him with a goddamn katana and murderous intent radiating from his massive frame allowed him to do something he’d never actually managed to do in a trial: break down sobbing.
In his defense, he’d had a long, exciting couple of hours what with David, then Philip, then Evan, then Caleb, and before that he had died to Kazan. He was entitled to this.
Crying, he knew, was a healthy release of emotions and nothing to be ashamed of, like a pressure gauge letting off steam. He still felt pretty stupid for not running and instead collapsing to his knees, burying his face in his hands and waiting for the end to come. Not the end, not really. There was no the end in the Entity’s realm, just an end. That made the process of grief and grieving somewhat complicated— yes, someone didn’t really stay dead, but there was still something to be said about watching them die. It was the same trauma over and over again just different enough every time that it was impossible to become numb to it.
He was full-on sobbing within three seconds. Wailing, even, the sound wet and muffled in his palms. It was kind of impressive.
Kazan hurtled right up to him and stabbed the plywood right next to his head. He screamed, which he also couldn’t do in trials unless he was hooked or downed, and covered his face to cry some more. Kazan was looming over him and trying to get him to look up— growling, snorting, shifting from foot to foot like he was annoyed with Ver’s pathetic display.
So what if it was pathetic. Kazan was scary and he was tired. He’d been through a lot. This was bullshit and he didn’t deserve it.
“How dare you trespass on the Yamaoka Estate?”
His voice was rough and deep— strained from years of howling war cries. It lacked the pleasant gravel of Evan’s voice and was far, far deeper.
“I didn’t mean to,” Ver hiccuped out. His own voice sounded frail and warbling next to Kazan’s. “Please don’t kill me. I’m sorry.”
“Of course you beg for your life when given the opportunity.” Kazan struck a flawless mixture of pleasure and disgust, in the tone of someone watching someone else he hated have something terrible happen to them. Oh, that’s awful— I hope it happens again.
Ver sniffled. He finally bit his lip and looked up at Kazan, tears streaming down his face. He must look a mess. He was incapable of making himself stop crying completely, but he had the feeling Kazan enjoyed his display of abject terror and submission.
“Please...” he finished lamely. His voice hitched. He blinked hard and squeezed a few more tears down his cheeks.
Kazan tilted his head, almost like he was listening to two voices; Ver’s, and someone else very far away. Trying to remember something, maybe?
He grumbled, then, and yanked his katana out of the plywood. Ver flinched.
Kazan wasn’t bad-looking. Ver knew, academically, that he was stupidly built— Evan could be passed off as just a freakishly tall and muscular man. Kazan was unmistakeably something else. His skin was a washed-out, ashlike blue, and the mask was as much a face as the face that hid under it was. His hair was white and bushy and seemed to hold itself up through the pure power of rage.
Ver liked big well enough. He liked built. And he really, really liked aggressive, so Kazan was ticking all the boxes one-by-one, and he should not be thinking about that while only a few seconds away from being decapitated or disemboweled or whatever it was ancient, crazy samurai did to home invaders.
“Please, really, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he tried again. His voice shook and he hid his face in his arms again. It was a really weird sensation, to be so scared he was crying and now also so suddenly, overwhelmingly horny that he was crying as well.
Kazan must have caught on to all the conflicting, intense emotions swirling around inside of him— confusion, and misery, and fear, and want, all strong enough to make his head hurt. He must be preparing to kill him. He cupped his hand, drawing the sluggish flow of blood from where Ver was already bleeding. His lip. His bitten lip, from where Caleb had tormented him. Kazan looked first to the gelatinous orb of blood hovering above his palm, then to the thin, stinging stream forcing itself from Ver’s lip. His mouth was swollen and red, smeared with blood and cuts from teeth, so it had to be painfully clear what he’d just been doing.
Kazan made a movement too strange and rapid for Ver’s once more lust-addled mind to follow and glared down at him. He grabbed Ver by a handful of hair— hard, white spots popping in Ver’s vision— and tipped his head back to look him in the eyes.
Ver was still busy crying. He didn’t fight, had no chance even if he’d wanted to. There were a few long, tense, frightening seconds where Ver thought Kazan would simply bash his head open against the wall or rip his tongue out or something else agonizing and violent, but he just let go of his hair and straightened up to his full, intimidating height.
“I shall show you undeserved mercy and allow you to leave with your life if you service me,” Kazan declared grandly.
Honestly, Ver’s libido agreed with that. The part of Ver that wanted to return to the campfire unscathed also agreed.
“Whatever you want,” Ver choked out. His eyes were stupid and glassy and blown again, weren’t they? He dragged his view back to Kazan’s face. He’d been staring at his crotch. That was possibly even more embarrassing than crying in front of the man.
“At least you learn quickly.” Kazan huffed, impatient but-- amused. Satisfied, for now, with Ver’s obeisance and terror. He seized Ver around the throat with one meaty hand and hauled him upwards.
Ver didn’t even have a chance to plant his feet before they were lifted off of the ground and he had to grab Kazan’s wrist to keep from choking, but Kazan’s fingers dug into his skin and the sore, purpled flesh there. He didn’t have time to bite back a yelp, but was thankfully able to bite down on his lip before it rose into a shriek. It really hurt-- really, really hurt, a dull and thudding and hot ache that was agonizing with the sheer intensity of it. The growing bruises tingled.
Anywhere the chains had touched him had bruised. Most were pale browns or greens, mercifully unsevere, but on his back, chest, and around his neck, ankles, wrists, and forearms, the pattern of the chain showed itself in purples so dark and florid they may as well have been black.
Kazan threw him over his shoulder instead of hauling him wherever they were going by the throat. Ver hung over his shoulder and panted, shaking worse than any frightened, cornered animal. He didn’t shake in trials. The most soothing part was that it was from a confusing mix of pain and arousal instead of fear.
Kazan let him down inside the house. It was less of a wreck than it was in trials, though Ver figured that made sense. If the Killer Shack could have a couch, the Yamaoka Estate could have been swept and cleaned when its inhabitants found the time.
His legs gave out and with a slight whuff, he went down to the tatami mat underneath him in an admirably controlled fall. He peered around Kazan’s legs to see most of the room; there was a bed with rumpled sheets in the middle of the far wall next to him, crossed katana in a display, a small wooden vanity with a circular iron-wrought mirror above it, and a painting on the wall. That, unfortunately, could not be saved with any amount of cleaning. It was splattered with blood and years of grime. A bedroom. This was a bedroom, one he’d never seen in trials, because any hint of peace or domesticity was anathema to anything the Entity could create. Did Kazan sleep here? He wasn’t going to get an answer, he knew that much, but he could put two and two together.
He’d been left to peer around in silence for about ten seconds. He finally remembered why he was here in the first place and looked up-- Kazan was already staring down at him. That nightmarish, twisted mask was staring down at him. Ver held it for about two seconds before he cracked and looked down at his crossed legs. Not a staring contest he wanted to compete in, and definitely not one he wanted to win. His continued timidity must have pacified Kazan somehow; he heard another huff from above him and Kazan took a few steps back, then turned.
“Take off your clothes,” Kazan growled back at him before thumping off to the vanity.
Notes:
Feel free to leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed! I cherish all of them dearly.
Chapter 10: The Oni
Summary:
Ver didn’t exactly leap to obey, since he was sore as hell, but he definitely didn’t dawdle. He stripped his hoodie, then the shirt underneath, and folded both to set them on the floor beside the bed. It was just a mattress pad on the floor, but it had sheets and two pillows and when he leaned his elbow back on it, it had some give. He pulled his shoes and socks off, tucked his socks on one, and then pulled his pants and underwear off. Kazan was still foraging around in the vanity drawers. Hopefully he was looking for lube, and hopefully he would find it. Ver didn’t want to think about taking his most-likely proportional monster no matter how wet he was naturally.
Chapter Text
Ver didn’t exactly leap to obey, since he was sore as hell, but he definitely didn’t dawdle. He stripped his hoodie, then the shirt underneath, and folded both to set them on the floor beside the bed. It was just a mattress pad on the floor, but it had sheets and two pillows and when he leaned his elbow back on it, it had some give. He pulled his shoes and socks off, tucked his socks on one, and then pulled his pants and underwear off. Kazan was still foraging around in the vanity drawers. Hopefully he was looking for lube, and hopefully he would find it. Ver didn’t want to think about taking his most-likely proportional monster no matter how wet he was naturally.
He put himself on the bed without asking, taking a moment to enjoy the firm springiness of the mattress before Kazan returned.
He did indeed have a small, squat glass jar in one massive hand. It was a jar of lavender retardant jelly taken from a fallen survivor’s map; Ver felt briefly as if he shouldn’t put it inside himself, but from the times he’d slathered it on a map to keep it from eating itself up in embers, it was cool and slimy and did absolutely nothing to him. Perhaps to keep the bloodhound from an unfair advantage, it had no scent at all.
It served a purpose. It had no qualities outside that purpose. The Entity was not a clever being with great care for small details.
“Prepare yourself and me.”
Kazan tossed the jar to him. He caught it to his chest and nodded, unscrewing the cap as Kazan undressed.
Maybe he took a little longer unscrewing the cap than he normally would have. With each new bit of skin Kazan bared in the process of stripping down Ver felt his own arousal shift from restrained but curious to actively crying out for him to reach over, to touch. Kazan was chiseled. His veins stuck out prominently under his blue skin, like a dehydrated bodybuilder, but Ver had the understanding that his body was just like that. He was a massive man. One thigh was nearly as thick around as Ver’s whole chest. His cock, too, was huge even half-hard; it would reach halfway down his thigh fully engorged and likewise, his balls underneath were swollen and huge. Ver’s mouth started watering with want and need. It was the need that was the worst. He could deal with want.
Need crawled inside of him and flayed his mind open and raw until he did stupid things.
“Let me blow you,” he couldn’t stop himself from saying. Kazan glared down at him— he still hadn’t taken the mask off. Ver could already tell he wasn’t going to. He was pretty old, right? Maybe he didn’t know what blowing someone meant. “Let me use my mouth on you,” he clarified. He could hear the husky lust in his own voice and admitted to himself— yeah, he was pretty desperate for it. Kazan finally nodded and took a step forward until he was standing at the foot of the mattress. Ver wasted no time in putting hands on his cock, one forging down to cup one of Kazan’s heavy balls. It was slightly fuzzy and very hot in his hand. Kazan would probably pop his head clean off of his shoulders if he dared to give even a little squeeze, so he shoved the urge down and leaned forward to put his mouth on him instead. A slow, steady dribble of pre beaded at the tip of Kazan’s cock. It tasted bitter and salty but not bad, just enough to make Ver notice it, and when he swirled his tongue around the hot, swollen head it got a noise he really liked out of Kazan that totally made up for the taste.
He lapped at and kissed the head for a few more seconds before moving down, following the prominent vein on the underside of Kazan’s cock. He jerked him with one hand, the other now resting on his thigh for support, and had to stretch his jaw to fit Kazan’s cock lengthwise into his mouth. Kazan made a pleased growling noise as Ver moved lower once he was thoroughly wet from root to tip; lips closing tentatively on the taut curve of his ballsack, giving a light suck and laving his tongue over the same spot. Since his skin was blue, would he blush or bruise purple? Ver was not the kind of fool who would want to find out. Still, Kazan actually moaned at the attention paid to his balls, so Ver had to be doing something right.
“Could spend hours down here,” he offered up playfully, not untruthfully, and returned to the head. Kazan didn’t mind a brush of teeth. Knew he was big, and knew that expecting otherwise was foolish because of it. Ver dragged his tongue— hot, and wet, a little bit raspy, and he knew that Kazan was a fan of that now— over his slit. Kazan’s thighs tightened. A massive hand seized a handful of his hair and ground him into Kazan’s crotch. He yelped, but took the domineering motion. Not much he could do against it. It made his entire face heat, too, all the way to his ears. The yelp melted into a pathetic, worked-up moan right into Kazan’s groin.
“You will not get off so easily.”
He held Ver there, nose and mouth crushed against his thick cock and the musky heat of his balls, until he nodded and mouthed agreement.
“Get on your hands and knees.”
He obeyed, falling onto his rear the second Kazan released his hair and scrambling to his hands and knees. Kazan followed him, shoving him into whichever position he pleased.
“You’re more swollen than a whore,” Kazan jeered at him when he got a good look at his red, overfucked hole, but that didn’t stop him from firmly jabbing one of his fingers inside.
Ver cried out immediately and dropped to his elbows. Fuck, he was sore. Why has he agreed to this? Because he didn’t want to die? Worse, because he really wanted to see what having sex with Kazan was like? Worst, because he liked that Kazan was treating him like dirt?
“Fuck, fuck—” he was getting used to intelligent thought escaping him when he had something in him, now, but he was still chagrined over it for a split second before he could no longer think.
Kazan must have judged him ready. Ver didn’t have to look back to pinpoint exactly what was breaching him, splitting him apart, hell on his sore walls and stinging hole because wow, they had both forgotten the lube. He was huge in Ver’s mouth and he was huge everywhere else. He cried out and collapsed further, arms giving out entirely and depositing him on his chest with his knees as the only thing keeping him propped up.
Kazan liked that position. The low growl over Ver’s head indicated as much— the hand pressing his chest to the ground all but confirmed it.
Belief was very strong in the Entity’s realm. Ver was moderately sure his anatomy was not constructed with Kazan’s cock in mind, but if Kazan wanted to fuck his hole, then by the power of the Entity, he was going to fuck that hole. There was an odd, uncomfortable pinching sensation before it was washed away by a tide of pure pleasure.
There was no one around to hear him but Kazan, so Ver screamed. Kazan started moving, so he screamed again. He sounded wanton and half-gone already.
He didn’t know exactly what position Kazan had taken up behind him, but it was giving him amazing leverage. He drew halfway out of Ver before slamming back in, feeling like a jackhammer in his hole, plunging so deeply Ver could swear he felt it in his throat. It shouldn’t have felt good. He should be screaming, but in agony— and instead he was howling in ecstasy. His hole was on fire. The loose, empty ache was gone entirely, replaced by the stinging stretch of Kazan’s huge cock.
It went on for what felt like forever— Kazan fucking him into the mattress, pressing his chest and face down so he could barely breathe, the immense pressure and friction in his hole driving him wild and making him buck and leap uselessly under Kazan’s merciless hand. Even after all the excitement of earlier, it was a lot.
“Not only are you red like a whore, you moan like one, too.” Kazan’s nails dug into his back. He was narrowly avoiding putting agonizing pressure on the chain-bruises, but more because those would not be sturdy places to hold his conquest down rather than active care for Ver’s condition.
“What a disgraceful display you are,” he continued, vicious and biting and completely pleased. He was getting off on it, hard. “Spread open, fucked by an enemy.”
He’d been howling and yelling the entire time, but he shrieked as he felt Kazan’s hot cum flood into him. That was enough to push him over the edge too. He didn’t even bother to bite the pillow or a mouthful of sheet, screaming freely as his hole clamped down around Kazan’s cock— it was stretched so far already that it couldn’t really do much, just tighten, and that sensation itself was new and strange, throwing him into entirely new spasms. Kazan’s hand on his upper back kept him from thrashing around and once his orgasm faded into afterglow he didn’t have the energy or will to move anyway.
Kazan grunted as he finished— Ver was glad for the Entity’s tenuous grasp on the limits of the human body, because he felt distended— pulled out, and rolled onto his back with another grunt, draping one arm over his middle and sighing.
Ver was still making keening and whining noises. His hole stung, and it was leaking Kazan’s cum now that his massive cock wasn’t in there to plug it up. It would fade away within the hour when the Entity forgot that it existed, but in the moment he felt worn out, wet, and unpleasantly sticky, but also languid wonderfully warm, and fuzzily tired.
He turned to his side to look at Kazan, clearing his throat— tentative, not so much afraid as he was polite.
“Can I lay on you?”
Kazan seemed to think it over for a moment, and then finally grunted and dropped his arm to his side. Ver crawled on top and positioned himself with his head on Kazan’s chest. He could hear his heart, then. Slow. Steady. Loud, like the assured pulsing of a drum.
“Who gave these to you?” A clawlike nail dragged over an ugly, chain-shaped bruise on his wrist. Kazan, Ver decided, was shit at pillow talk.
“Caleb Quinn. One of you. Chained me up.” He didn’t yawn, thank god, but turned his face into the firm mounds of Kazan’s generous pecs to hide a sleepy blink.
“And did he also make you submit?”
Ver was suddenly, intensely glad that he was more uncomfortable and tired than he was horny, because otherwise he’d say something stupid and try to get a round two.
“Yeah,” he said instead, and the conversation died a fast, merciful death. Kazan traced the bruises idly.
He let him lay there for about five minutes before judging himself recovered enough to move, then pushed him off. He fell onto the mattress with a grunt and pillowed his face in his arms.
Kazan rose from the mattress and thumped over to his armor. Ver took that as indication that he should get decent too— he surreptitiously mopped his thighs down with the edge of a sheet and pulled his clothes back on. They hadn’t actually used the retardant jelly, so he screwed the cap back on and tucked it in his pocket. It was slow going. He was still in the throes of a full-force afterglow. Everything was pleasant and oversensitive, even the texture of his shoelaces against his fingers as he tied them. He stood around the same time Kazan finished preening himself in the mirror, and didn’t have time to react when Kazan turned on him instead, reaching out.
Kazan scooped him up and hefted him over one beefy shoulder. He was too fucked-out to struggle, and figured that struggling would not help him at all regardless. There weren’t any hooks around, either. Kazan did say he’d show him undeserved mercy. Maybe he’d show him the way out.
Kazan’s other hand gradually found its way to his rear. Of course he’d want to feel Ver up-- It wasn’t like he could do it during a trial without Ver stabbing him in the back with something. Laurie had taught him how to do it, but he always froze at the wrong time, but also one time the dickish male Legion had slapped his ass when he was wiggling too much and he’d managed to do it then, and while it shouldn’t have worked, it somehow did.
Kazan’s fingers hooked in the back of his jeans. He huh?ed, twitching, and with a swift tug Kazan pulled them down. They hurt going over the bruises and there was absolutely nothing he could do to protest Kazan from rubbing a knuckle against his rear. His pants and underwear bunched around his ankles, held on by his shoes, and he was now unfortunately bared to the world— what parts of the world inhabited a fake version of the Yamaoka estate.
“If only every enemy begged as prettily as you do, I may have been a more merciful man in life,” Kazan mused. Ver mumbled something unintelligible, then squealed as he felt something push into his wet, sore hole.
A finger. Kazan was fingering him. Having no problems keeping him steady on his shoulder while he did the deed, either. Ver’s thighs were once again wet with his own slick. Kazan’s cum had stopped dripping out of him, but Ver would almost prefer that to being stretched open again so soon.
Fortunately, the gesture was more languid and possessive than actively seeking to stimulate him. There was no avoiding sensitive clusters of nerves being rubbed as Kazan’s finger shifted with every step, and he bit out tiny, exhausted moans every time he was jostled, but it thankfully wasn’t unbearable.
Kazan let him down at the very edge of the Yamaoka Estate. His hole was raw and stinging.
“Your campfire is over there. See that you return to it.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Ver managed. He was too wiped and frazzled to get to his feet or even sit up even if the grass underneath him was kind of poky and itchy.
“If this happens again, I will not be so merciful.”
“I understand,” Ver choked out, “thank you.”
He looked pretty damn harmless curled up on his side with his pants and underwear around his ankles. Kazan looked down at him for one more long moment before turning on his heel and stalking back into the fog and bamboo of the estate.
Ver gave himself five minutes to catch his breath, wipe himself down, and get decent. He didn’t know if Kazan would be coming back to enforce Ver’s leaving, but didn’t doubt it— he stepped into the fog, took a few steps, and when he looked back he was once again completely lost and alone.
Notes:
told myself kazan would just be mean the entire time but i looked away and suddenly they were cuddling, idk how that happened
Chapter 11: The Ghost Face
Notes:
I know that Danny's technically the Ghost Face but Ghostface flows better imho
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He found his way out of the fog in a faux-suburban neighborhood.
Haddonfield? No, worse— children’s toys. Springwood. Now that he knew the different realms were definitely inhabited even without a trial to fill them up, his heart picked up in his chest and sour fear clung to his tongue. He dropped into a crouch and hugged the walls-- he hadn’t entered through a gate, and he couldn’t see any. Instead of a brick wall, the impenetrable fog circled the suburban hellscape.
He’d take Haddonfield. Myers would just kill him. It would be terrifying, but it would be fast-- would be slow, leading up to it, but the act of dying itself would only take a moment.
The Nightmare, he knew, liked to play games, and if the amount of pallets Ver had thrown down on his head weighed anything his scale was tipped so far in the direction of playmate he was doomed.
He was crouched, cradling his head in his arms. It was stupid how frightened the concept of being at the Nightmare’s mercy outside the constraints of a trial made him.
He’d barely straightened up to continue forward, more hurried, when something wrapped around his throat. He didn’t even have the presence of mind to scream. He was already cried out from when Kazan had charged him, and his voice was already hoarse, and his clothes and hair were already rumpled, so he had to look-- pitiful, and vulnerable, both things someone did not want to look around the Nightmare.
“Gotcha.”
He did make a confused, questioning noise at the unfamiliar voice. It wasn’t deep and raspy-- not the Nightmare. Lighter, smoother, with an everywhere-nowhere accent like a newscaster. He turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of hovering black leather and a ghastly white mask. It was almost stupid how much he relaxed. He hadn’t had many trials with the Ghostface and so had not made an enemy of him like he’d made an enemy of the Nightmare or even the Doctor.
“Hey, baby.” God, his voice made Ver’s skin crawl. Still, he’d gotten snuck up on fair and square and running now would probably get him stabbed.
“What do you want?”
The Ghostface laughed, a huh, huh sound in his throat. “I wanna have some fun.” His hand on Ver’s hip made it very clear what he thought fun was— the leather tendril was still wrapped around his neck, and two were busying themselves around his wrists. Really, he was in luck that so many Killers seemed to want to fuck him instead of kill him. Nothing changed in the trials themselves and this was the first time he’d actually been away from the campfire in non-trial time, though, so he had no way of knowing if this was typical behavior.
He’d believe that it was for the Ghostface.
“And I’m fun?”
That won him a hoot and the clap of the Ghostface’s gloved palm on his hip. “We’re gonna have so much fun together.”
“You’re not gonna kill me or some shit, are you?” He surprised even himself with how dull and tired he sounded. Yes, he wanted to get back to the campfire, and no, he didn’t want to die in a gross and humiliating way. His hole was still stinging from Kazan. The Ghostface seemed to know exactly what was going on— the tough, semi-autonomous tendrils continued to cling to Ver, and the Ghostface’s hands were busily wandering.
“Nah. ‘S against the rules.”
There were rules? The Entity’s rules, like in a trial, or of some other senior Killer? Ver wasn’t sure.
“There’s rules?”
The Ghostface snickered. He palmed Ver’s ass and tucked his chin into the crook of Ver’s shoulder. “Just kidding. Man, you’ll believe anything.”
Whether he actually wanted to sleep with the Ghostface or not— he did, he noted to himself with both disdain and disgust— curious warmth was beginning to surface once more. The Ghostface let a hand venture to his front and dip boldly into his pants, past his underwear, and right into his wet folds.
“Baby, baby, baby,” he cooed, out on a pleased and smug breath that Ver hated as much as he wanted to hear more of, “what do we have here?”
Ver tried to groan and moaned instead, soft. Needy again. God, he hated himself, and hated that he was liking this, and hated that he was just standing and taking it. His knees buckled and he slumped back into the Ghostface.
“Let’s get you to a bed, baby.” The Ghostface’s voice stayed low and purring; intensely pleased with his catch. He steered a rather boneless Ver into one of the houses, down a flight of stairs and to one of the mattresses haphazardly strewn across the floor. The Entity knew how to make a house, kind of, and likewise kind of knew what the inside of a house looked like. Key details were always wrong. It didn’t give enough of a shit or maybe didn’t know enough to make it accurate. The Ghostface pushed him down, leather tendrils releasing him to float ominously in the still, dank air. “Better than that funky old couch, huh?”
Ver’s face heated and he opened his mouth to rebut— snarled instead, then snapped his mouth shut. Of course the Ghostface had been a surprise voyeur. Everything was a goddamn peep show with his ass around.
“Don’t worry about it, baby.” He had the audacity to laugh. Airy, like it wasn’t a problem at all-- like he’d forgotten to pick up milk at the store.
Before Ver could protest— doubted the Ghostface would comply even if he did— he’d pulled out a digital camera and snapped a photo of Ver laying there, half-dazed with need and indignant at having been watched. The camera was placed lovingly on the ground at the side of the mattress and then the Ghostface was kneeling over him, tugging his clothes off. Ver helped. He didn’t do a very good job of it. He mainly settled for crossing his arms over his chest and whimpering while the Ghostface pulled his jeans off.
“Oh, ow,” he commented as the swollen purple chain bruises came into view. “Looks like that hurts.”
“Don’t touch it,” Ver said at the same time the Ghostface squeezed his ankle. Ver tried to kick him, which did not help at all and instead gave the Ghostface an opportunity to shove his knee all the way up to his chest. Then, “where’s the Nightmare?”
The Ghostface huffed. “In a trial. It’s just us.”
He squeezed Ver’s ankle again when he opened his mouth to ask another question, then shuffled right up between his legs.
“Ow, ow,” he bit out as the Ghostface poked and prodded his sore hole. “Don’t, it hurts.”
“Aw, you don’t want me to?” The plastic mask pressed against his thigh, teasing with the implication but cold and incapable of the follow-up. “Poor thing. I know how horny you are, but it’s gonna hurt like the devil if you get anything up there now.”
He was fairly cooing, curious and cruel, and let his pointer finger drift down to nudge Ver’s until-now unmolested rim.
“...well. That’s not your only hole, sweetheart, is it?”
The pet names were making him angry and turning him on in equal measure. He hated the Ghostface, a lot, even more right now, but he was talking to him and had hands on him and he was going to take care of him so he couldn’t be too mad.
“There’s, ah, map jelly in my pants pocket.”
The Ghostface snickered and reached to the side to snag and retrieve Ver’s jeans. “Someone’s been naughty. We knew that, though, didn’t we?”
The small jar was freed in short order and the Ghostface unscrewed it, slicking up two gloved fingers. He hummed, examining the way the jelly made his fingers shine in the scant basement light, and pressed both to Ver’s ass. “Our little secret, baby. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Ver agreed, stupid and needy again now that he was getting something in him that didn’t hurt. He’d never done anal before. There was a first time for everything, and at least the Ghostface was reasonably humanlike if not a bog-standard human like the rest of them, but it certainly wasn’t the way he imagined he’d have his first time.
The Ghostface quieted in concentration as he tested Ver’s stretch and give. He was soft, grippy and hot inside, he knew that much. Not having to eat took care of any embarrassments that might occur due to the Ghostface sticking fingers— and later, hopefully, his dick— in Ver’s ass.
He reached inside the voluminous, slick leather of his costume and pushed it aside enough to reveal a reassuringly human sized, human shaped cock.
“Get in me, already,” Ver urged. He rocked his hips up into the Ghostface’s fingers. The sensation was entirely different from taking it in his hole but he was enjoying it in a way that said he’d enjoy it even if he wasn’t out of his mind with need.
“I’d love to hear you beg, but you don’t need to ask me twice.” The Ghostface’s voice was a sickly blend of pleased, predacious, and affectionate. Ver’s ass wasn’t as loose and wet as his hole, but he was decidedly relaxed and so the Ghostface lining up his cock and nudging over his rim made him excited instead of trepidacious.
“Please,” he breathed. The Ghostface hauled him closer with hands under his thighs and then pushed fully, properly into him. “Fuck.”
“God, you’re tight.” The Ghostface went slowly at first. The rub and pull of his cock in Ver’s ass was nothing compared to how Kazan’s cock had split him open, but it felt good without making him feel like he was sacrificing half his internal organs for the privilege. He reached down to rub lightly at his clit. Anything direct would hurt like hell— he stuck to the fleshy hood, featherlike and gentle, and finally the soft throaty vocalizations he was making broke into a louder moan. It encouraged the Ghostface to speed and go harder until the slap of leather against bare skin filled the cramped basement room and Ver felt drops of the retardant jelly leak from the join of their bodies.
“Am I your first?” The Ghostface was still pounding into him hard, worked up from the sensations and the power rush. “Tell me I’m your first, baby. First to get your pretty little ass. First to wreck it.”
“You’re my first,” Ver agreed. He squeezed his eyes shut and locked his legs behind the Ghostface, holding him close as if he might try to withdraw. He risked the pain to rub his clit harder, desperate circular motions that made the swollen, red flesh of his hole sting and ache in protest.
“Your ass is mine,” the Ghostface snarled, triumphant. Ver felt heat flood him from his face all the way to his chest, turning red, pleasure cresting at the possessive tone. The claim of it. Ver didn’t dare ask how he planned to enforce it.
He cried out instead and came, rubbing himself through it, and the Ghostface pressed his advantage until he spilled himself in Ver’s ass.
They separated and the Ghostface grunted, shaking his dick off and tucking it away. Ver sprawled, legs spread and the Ghostface’s cum dripping out of his ass, and didn’t protest when the camera was raised again.
He knew his M.O., and he wasn’t planning on falling for it now what his mind was clearer.
The knife— where was the knife? The side. Above his head, like the Ghostface had planned to grab it and thrust it in his heart while he was busy coming his brains out.
He grabbed the knife before the Ghostface could and hurled it as far away as he could. It won him a scandalized gasp, but the Ghostface darted after it and gave Ver just enough time to scoop his clothes up and book it.
No walls meant no skirting them to find a gate, and he was in the fog long before the Ghostface could track him down with no scratchmarks left behind to help him. Ver sighed and pulled his clothes on, shaking his head, and once again headed in no general direction through the endless fog.
Notes:
two non-smut chapters after this: a short, fun one, and then one more trial, and then we done baby!
Chapter Text
He wandered about in the fog for about what felt like an hour before a hulking figure came into view. Ver waited just long enough to ID it— the Trapper, which meant it was time to run. He’d gotten exceedingly lucky before, and was relatively sure Philip was the main reason, and now it was only the Trapper, so—
He’d be better off running.
With no tandem-heartbeat, the Trapper blended in to the trees and Ver couldn’t see him. Uneasy fear rose in his throat and he ducked behind a tree to catch his breath only to be caught around the middle by a strong, massive arm and slung over the man’s shoulder within the matter of two seconds. He keened, cried out, because without the arbitrary rules of a trial there was no way he could escape the Trapper’s grip now that he’d been captured.
“How do you think I can catch you lot in bear traps so often?” He chastised, but he was talking, so he might be Evan instead of the Trapper. Ver whined. “I know how you think.”
Frightening, and hot, and thankfully more the former than the latter. If Ver was still getting unbearably hot and bothered after the night he’d just had, he might hunt down the Entity and beg for relief.
“Stop that,” Evan admonished. Ver managed a broken, embarrassed giggle before uncrossing his legs and laying obligingly limp over Evan’s broad shoulder. “I’ll get you back to your campfire,” Evan finally continued, grumbling. He was headed there anyway, Ver realized. He was going for a trial.
“Thank you...” after the Ghostface, his voice was shaky and faint— his whole body felt weak. If the Entity called him into a trial he might cry. Evan grunted at him again. When they came within thirty paces of the campfire, he let Ver off of his shoulder and gave him a little push— Ver didn’t need any more encouragement to sprint back.
“Hey!”
So many heads turning to look at him had never made him feel so relieved before. Meg raised both her hands in greeting. “Do our emotions get stored from trial to trial so that’s why Killers let us go sometimes?”
Another debate was happening, then.
“Remember when Clown let Kate escape like five times only to hook her in the basement the sixth and then nobody had a trial for like two days? I think that’s a yeah,” he tossed out before dropping down next to Quentin.
Kate huhed. Nea nodded. “I hadn’t thought about it like that before.”
“Okay, but the Hillbilly never lets anyone go, and neither does the Oni.” Feng cut in.
“Hillbilly’s clueless, Oni’s a brute, next,” from Meg’s side of the campfire. Ver leaned back and let his eyes drift shut.
Home, again.
Chapter 13
Summary:
Ver's first trial with the Deathslinger.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ver found out why Caleb and the other Killers had been so amused when he bragged about being good at running.
Like the Huntress, running didn’t do shit against his literal freaking harpoon gun if one was in a bad position. Ver had gotten one good look at him at the very beginning of the match, since his good luck had seen him coming into awareness on top of an old West-styled saloon. Caleb— the Deathslinger, the campfire had eventually decided on after about an hour of heated debate— was tall, uncomfortably tall like he’d been seized by the head and feet and stretched, lanky and mean-looking. He had a black duster, a ratty cowboy hat and a metal brace around his left leg from some old injury.
Ver had looked at him and then ducked inside, letting his feet carry him to a gen in a less-exposed area, but this new place was different from the other realms. It had less cover, spiny cacti that were painful to hug and crouch against, and more gens appeared in elevated, vulnerable areas. Maybe they’d present an issue for a Killer who had to get close to strike, but the Deathslinger could simply spear them and haul them over.
The sun was up. It was going down; it was sinking below the horizon, half-set in the sky and frozen there, but it was the sun. It was magnificent. The Entity didn’t know how to mimic how sunlight felt against bare skin, didn’t know how to recreate the cottony warmth of sunlight through clothes, but the new realm was a dry, hot ghost town, and that was amazing. The sun was out, and that was beautiful.
Distracting, too. The Deathslinger was taking full advantage of their amazement.
The Entity was cruel, and Ver hated it; none of the hooks were facing the sun. It was only thanks to Bill that he was still alive after being hooked twice.
Thanks to Bill that he was the last one left, too, even after Ver had tried to keep the Deathslinger on him. It had worked too well— he was promptly dragged over a window by a harpoon in his gut and downed, and then left there as the Deathslinger hunted down Bill. With two people still alive, the Hatch didn’t open. It was incredibly pragmatic in its cruelty.
God, he was in so much pain. There were two holes in him, one from the hook and one from the harpoon. He didn’t know why he always had so much blood to lose in trials; by the thick, shiny trail he was leaving behind he figured he should have died twice over by now.
There was the distinctive sound of the hatch slamming shut somewhere in the town. Ver groaned— there was no chance. He had no chance. The Deathslinger would find him and hook him or he’d bleed out. Crawling to the exit gates wouldn’t do anything except hurt him more.
Figuring that he wasn’t breaking the rules and not caring if he was anyway, he rolled onto his back. Despite having dragged his broken, bleeding body over the sandy road his shirt was clean but for the obscene amount of blood on it and he looked at it distantly before letting his head loll to the side.
The sun. None of the hooks faced the sun. He’d be going to one soon. He just wanted to look at the sun for a little longer. He put an arm over himself as if to staunch the flow of blood from his hook-wounded shoulder. It did nothing. Covering the hole would let him pretend that it wasn’t there, but it hurt so much he couldn’t even do that.
His heartbeat rose in his chest, pounding hard, a current of red ebbing across his vision. The Deathslinger was coming up on him from the side he wasn’t looking.
He couldn’t cry; perhaps his body forgot how to cry in trials. Sometimes it remembered. It was ignorant now; despairingly exhausted, instead of hysterical.
The Deathslinger stood and watched him for a long moment. Even if he was new, he surely knew that survivors usually didn’t just give up; only when their entire stock of willpower and tricks had been exhausted, and even then if there was nothing to stop them from crawling they’d keep fighting. Normally Ver would want him to hurry up and end it so he could go back to the campfire.
He wanted to look at the sun just a while longer. It wasn’t the real sun. The real sun would be warm against his face; pleasant without being scorching. Would the Entity’s sun be able to impart sunburn?
The Deathslinger was still watching him. Finally, he leaned down and gathered Ver over his shoulder.
The walk took a few seconds and did not end at a hook, to Ver’s immense surprise. The Deathslinger went into the saloon and climbed up the stairs, Ver in tow over his shoulder as a beaten dead weight. He let him down; let him into a sitting position, still pained and bleeding, against the outside wall of the saloon next to the rumbling gen.
The sun. He’d brought him up here to let him see the sun. It was stupid, and indulgent, and tender, like he was giving Ver a reward for having survived until the end, or maybe for not struggling, or maybe just because he could and knew that his total victory was assured.
There was maybe a minute left before the Entity got hissy at Ver for having the audacity to not be sprinting towards the gates or else on a hook and erupted through the ground itself to end his trial. The Deathslinger knew that, by now. He picked Ver up and set off down the stairs to one of the hooks on the dusty main street.
Back to the campfire. Back to the starless sky, and the overlarge moon, and the endless night that Ver hadn’t known he’d hated so much. His breath caught, chest stuttering against the Deathslinger’s shoulder.
His belly lurched as he was hefted upwards and yanked firmly down onto the hook. The pain never lessened, and he was too worn to try and cage it; he screamed. The Entity emerged to take him, twining eagerly around his body and piercing through his back and belly with practiced, ravenous confidence.
He was gone before his body remembered how to cry.
Notes:
it's finished! I did NOT expect this to get as big as it did, but it was really fun while it lasted. Kudos and comments make my day! Tell me what you thought!
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good luck, ver! (Guest) on Chapter 1 Fri 21 Feb 2020 11:35PM UTC
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Last Edited Tue 03 Mar 2020 06:18AM UTC
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