Chapter Text
The gunshot rang out behind them like a starting pistol, and they ran. They couldn’t hear him start after them over the sound of the blood rushing through their veins. He didn’t end up starting after them until a minute had passed. He wanted a hunt, not a slaughter. Their calves burned as they sprinted through the dense trees, just trying to put as much distance between themselves and the man that brought them there as possible. They remembered the bar. They remembered the yellow tinted shades. Remembered his accent. They didn’t remember their drink, or what he slipped into it, or the ride in his camper out into the woods.
They darted behind a thick bramble for cover, realizing belatedly that they’d run in a straight line. Stupid, he’d be able to track them so easily. They listened for any sound of footsteps, but heard nothing. It didn’t settle them at all. He was probably quiet. Had probably done this before, they thought with a start. Where could they go from here? He’d see them run. He’d nail them in his scope and boom, their brain would paint the trees like a water balloon. They had to divert course. It felt almost childishly simple as they reached for a stone, cradling it in a sweaty palm and slotting it into their fingers. The grip they used for skipping them across lakes. This would make it lower, harder to see. They closed their eyes, hoping, and threw. The stone careened through gaps between the trunks and made a distinct rustle about 10 yards away.
Suddenly, they felt something shift. A presence was gone, eyes off the back of their neck. They peered through the thick branches and saw nothing but more endless trees. He had to be gone. But not for long. They’d stay low. Crawling along the brush, collecting leaves in their hair and scrapes on their skin, but thankfully staying mostly obscured allowed them to put even more distance between themselves and where they approximated he must be. When they felt far enough away, they were back on their feet sprinting. Every once in a while a bird would chirp or a branch would quiver, and each time it felt like their heart would give out. But it was never him. They ran until they met a shallow stream, flat rocks lining its bottom. It was a relief.
What he didn’t know, couldn’t know based on how surface their conversation had been, is that they knew these woods. They knew this state. They had the home ground advantage. And they knew this stream led to a cave mouth not far from their position. They followed along the muddy bank until they reached it, stone walls enclosing pitch darkness. They made sure to muddy up their shoes as much as possible and sprinted into the cave, making their steps sloppy and desperate and most importantly, visible. Once they’d hit the first bend, they stripped off their boots and held them in their left hand, using their right to navigate along the very edge of the smooth bank within the cave, making sure not to disturb their prints. The sunlight hitting their skin as they exited didn’t feel good. It felt cold, harsh, exposed. Now that they’d laid a trap… what? Run? Keep running until their legs gave out and they were still nowhere near a trail or road or help? Let him catch them eventually? Strip them like he’s skinning a buck, have his fun with them and blow their head off when he’s spent?
Fuck that and fuck him. They weren’t going through that shit again just to not survive it. Weren’t letting another predator get them while they bleat and struggled. They weren’t going to be prey this time. They mustered all their strength and scrambled up the rocky wall above the cave, snatching at any holds they could find and scuffing their knees against the stone. But they made it. They sat at a perfect vantage point, hidden behind the scraggly beginnings of a tree on an outcropping a few feet behind and above the cave mouth. They waited, thighs burning, crouched there for what felt like hours until they spotted him. The first thing they saw were those fucking yellow aviators. Did he not know he was easy to spot? No problem, just made it easier for them.
He looked pissed, grinding his teeth and gripping the handle of his knife with white knuckles. But he relaxed as soon as he spotted the footprints, and a big venomous grin split his otherwise handsome face. He made no effort to be silent, rushing into the cave assuming his helpless shivering little prize would be walled in with no escape. It made them flush with anger. The idea that he thought so low of them, that they’d be that stupid. But they had to wait. And they did. The sun reached its peak in the sky and began to shift gradually West before they heard his echoing footfalls returning. If he was pissed before he sounded even worse now. They crouched like a cat, using the sound of his steps to cover the noise of them slipping out from behind their hide and crawling to the ledge. They only had one shot at this. Their eyes and ears tuned to the ground below them, every muscle pulled taught as a bowstring.
They saw the rim of his brown hat leave the cave, then the rest of it, then they leapt.
He didn’t even have time to react to the small sound above him before he was slammed into the ground. He landed painfully on his elbow and, unfortunately, his face. Whatever tackled him took a second to pull itself together, and he tried to flip it only to have a hand tangled into his hair and his forehead slammed into the wet rock below him. His vision swam as they beat him into the riverbed a few more times. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, no use. But his hand was still close to his kukri. He grabbed it, but the person pinning him lashed out at his fingers with their nails, slashing bloody jagged cuts into the back of his hand.
“Fuck!” It was the first time they’d heard his voice since the bar. It felt nice to know they’d hurt him. His grip loosened just slightly as he recoiled from their claws and they took the opportunity to grab the hilt of the blade and rip it from its sheath, immediately pressing it to the back of his neck, right at the top of his spine, and letting it sink slightly into his skin to get the warning across properly. He stilled under them like a corpse. They spent a few seconds breathing, almost growling, before they spoke.
“Now you’re gonna be real good and put your hands where I can see them.” They planted a foot, now back in its boot, between his shoulder blades. Slowly, the man dragged his hands to the sides of his head. His muscles twitched and they could tell, like reading his thoughts, that he was about to leverage his upper body and fling them off. They bared down on him and pressed the blade of what they now recognized was a kukri closer, drawing a steady little line of blood rolling down his neck and into the water. He stilled again and his hands went slack. “Good. Good boy.” He growled in response. They laughed.
There was rope slung around the shoulder that held his rifle. They slowly, carefully, slipped both off his arm. Now they had to consider what to do with him. He couldn’t be allowed his weapons. He couldn’t be let off running. But they needed a way to get back to civilization, or to their cabin at least. They had no compass and no map, and even familiarity with the woods wouldn’t help them on a trek that’d take miles at least. The longer they waited the more liable he was to get the jump on them. They made their choice, shifting their boot to the back of his head and pressing his face into the ground. He cursed and swore and writhed, clearly thinking they meant to drown him, while they grunted and took the handle of the kukri between their teeth, setting to work on tying him with both hands. They wound his wrists securely behind his back, bent at the elbows, and looped the rope around his upper arms, under his hands again, and then around his neck in a tight collar. He’d choke himself if he tried to free himself. They didn’t tie off the cord, however. They kept the slack wound in their hands like a leash, and finally let their boot off his head. He sputtered and shook his upper body to get them off, trying to pull his arms back around to get under him and garroting himself in the process. They laughed even harder and stood up off of him.
The man leapt up as fast as he could manage and turned around, bearing his teeth and cursing them out with profanities they’d never even heard of. He made a dash at them but they just stepped aside and let him fall flat on his face again. It’s a wonder his glasses hadn’t broken. They knelt down on his back and yanked the rope leash tight, tilting his head up and choking him. Leaning down to his ear, they spoke lowly. “Here’s how this is gonna go, alright? You’re gonna take me back to where we started and you’re gonna be real nice for me. If you don’t hurt me, I wont hurt you.” They emphasized the point, digging their knee painfully into his spine. “But if you try any shit, I’ll make you wish you never met me in that fuckin bar.” They chuckled. “You can live without all your fingers, y’know?” His hands tensed up and curled into fists as if protecting them from just the thought. It made them burst out laughing, a lopsided toothy smile lingering on their face.
They stepped off him and stood, stretching their legs, before yanking at his leash. “Up and at ‘em, bud. Get walking.” And he did. They walked behind him while he lead, like a dog and its owner. He insulted them with every name in the book, including some Aussie shit they didn’t know were even words, but he wasn’t too much of an issue. For the first few minutes, anyways. Once he’d exhausted all his insults he got quiet. In that lull, the hunter broke into a sprint. He knew they couldn’t hold the rope, not without gloves anyways. They knew it too. So they dropped the line and stomped on it instead, clotheslining him at the neck and sending him into the ground hard. While he gasped like a beached fish for the wind that’d been knocked out of him, they flipped him over and shucked off his fingerless gloves.
“Won’t be needing these,” they chirped, pulling them on and testing the leather. Nice quality, clearly worn. But too big. They’d do, though, if he tried anything stupid again. They stood back and let him struggle upright on his own, even getting close to dust him off. Or to get a better look at him, in any case. He was tall, certainly taller than them, and lanky. They weren’t especially skinny themselves but he must’ve had a few pounds on them. All wiry muscle and lean meat. They knocked the hat off his head for good measure, which made him snarl at them. They grinned and plopped it on their own head. Also too big, but it didn’t matter. Only left in his aviators, they could see he had brown hair, combed back if not for how mussed it had gotten, and sideburns. How 70s. Their hand had gotten tired of holding the kukri, so they unclasped the sheath around his belt and hooked it around their waist instead. When all was said and done, he looked more like a wet angry puppy than a serial killer. They snorted a laugh and he turned his nose up at them.
“Alright, back to walking.” They tapped his heel with their boot and he started up again, though not without some considerable grumbling. It was silent after that. They hated silence.
“You know the rule about mountain lions, Jack,” they spoke into the late afternoon air as the two continued on.
“Don’t call me that,” he growled.
“Well what’s your name then?”
“I’m not that stupid.”
They gave a yank on the leash. He yelped.
“Fuck, alright. Mick. Just call me Mick.”
“Alright then. You know the rule about mountain lions, Mick?” They emphasized his name, drawing it out almost flirtatiously. They watched him tense. Cute.
“Yeah.” Of course he knew it, they knew he must. But they continued on anyway.
“You’re never supposed to take your eyes off of one, Mick. Never supposed to turn and run. They’ll track you, hunt you, follow you for miles without you ever knowing. Should’ve had eyes on the back of your head, mate. ” They imitated his accent, giggling when he cursed at them under his breath.
They kept on like that for a bit, trading the occasional barb, turning this way and that. Finally, he made a remark. “I can’t believe I slipped like that.” He sounded genuinely wounded. They laughed as hard as they could to make it sting more.
“You clearly didn’t listen well enough back at the bar. You know I live here?” They regretting saying it as soon as it left their mouth. He was still a deranged murderer, even if he was bound and at their whim for the moment. He flicked his head back to look at them, surprised, then turned back around.
“In the state?”
“In the woods,” they clarified. “You really think I could’ve done all this if I was just some sheltered city bitch?” A yank on the leash for emphasis. “I’m a hunter like you, Mick.” He slowed a bit, clearly thinking, but shut his mouth and kept walking. They were glad for the captive audience.
They began to ramble about their house, their little cabin. Their garden and shed and beloved heirloom rifle. He almost looked relaxed at that particular topic. His steps became more casual. He listened. They talked his ear off about fishing, how they’d always loved it. How they’d wanted to become an ecologist and study marine life. How they’d dropped out instead. How they’d moved here and been mostly alone since. It was a stupid thing to say, but they’d gotten oddly comfortable with his presence.
“Sometimes I think Ted Kaczynski was right.” The hunter burst out laughing for the first time since they’d met. He had to pause just to catch his breath.
“You wanna be a killer, mate? Am I listenin’ to some shooter’s manifesto?” He was smiling. A genuine smile.
“Like you’re one to talk,” they groaned, only tugging the rope gently to remind him to keep walking. The sun was starting to dip under the canopy. “I think about it sometimes. I’m just fucking sick of it all. People who want to stand on your neck while they cash the checks they made off you, people who want to box you into a group they can beat bloody without caring, men who want to chew you up like gum and spit you out. Hurt you just because they can.” Their grip on the rope tightened and their hands shook. He listened, thinking.
“Like me, yeah?”
“Like you, yeah.”
He shivered a bit, continuing on towards his camper. It couldn’t be too far now.
“What’re you lookin’ to do about it? Men like me, I mean?” He tried to mask the genuine fear pulsing through his veins. It’d be the end of the line soon. Mick Mundy had never been at the mercy of anyone else. He hadn’t been hunted since the war. He couldn’t tell why he didn’t hate it like he should.
The pursed their lips. “Dunno,” they said. As if the thought struck them out of the clear blue sky, they blurted, “I’ve always liked cannibalism.” Yeah, that made him stop dead in his tracks. The rope around his neck tightened. He started walking again. “Academically… I read, researched about it all the time. It just fascinated me, y’know? There’s so much history there, so much meaning. So much symbolism. Survival cannibalism, mortuary cannibalism, symbolic cannibalism, exo and endo.” He had no idea what those last few meant. “Catholics eating the body and blood of Christ, that’s cannibalism. Just like the Donner Party and Dahmer. We’re all just…” they paused, looking down, “we’re all just meat.” His blood pumped faster, and he genuinely couldn’t tell if it was fear or excitement. “I mean I like it… romantically…” they mumbled, “I think it’s sweet. Having a piece of you in someone forever. Energy from your flesh flowing into every cell of their body. And I mean… it’s a little hot.” He could hear the shy smile in their voice. “We’re all just animals. Just meat. Humans are smart and sapient and our brains are so advanced, but once we’re dead we’re just meat. Nothing wrong with eating meat.”
The first silence in a while fell after that. He could tell they were close, could see the camper roof over the shrubbier trees. “So, you plannin’ on eating me then, mate,” he joked. They laughed too. It was… cute. “No… I’d wanna get eaten. Sometimes I think if I could regenerate my flesh, and I didn’t have to feel pain, I’d like someone I loved to butcher me. To have the person I love treat my body with all the care a carcass should get, use every part of me, and feed me a bit too. I don’t wanna die without tasting human meat.” Another lull, the camper was visible now. “That’s why I went to that shitty bar, y’know,” they spoke softly. “I want to find someone to settle down with. Expand the cabin a bit, not be… alone out here.” The last phrase was spoken so quietly he had to strain to hear it. His heart was pounding and he still couldn’t tell why.
“Ooh, nice camper!” The sudden mood swing to painfully chipper was jarring. He truly hadn’t had any idea what he was getting into when he picked them out of that crowd. They were just as wrong in the head as he was. Mick stopped in front of the door, waiting for them to catch up. He couldn’t remember if he’d locked it or not. Evidently, he hadn’t, as they gripped the metal handle and swung the door open, nudging him inside. He almost tripped again, knives and tackle and parts of a scope he’d opted not to use littered the floor, thrown around as he set himself up for the hunt earlier in the day, rushing to beat the drugs in their system to their waking. They glanced around at the mess and scowled.
“Were you raised in a barn? Or is this how you live down under?”
“Piss off.” They walked him over to the bed and shoved him on his ass onto the worn box spring. They stood in front of him, clearly mulling something over. His palms sweat. He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. Every part from his elbows to his nails was numb and burning. His neck ached.
“I’m gonna do something…” they trailed off and Mick watched as they stepped closer, close enough to pull them into his lap, and looped the rope leash around his calves, tying it tight. He didn’t even try to stop them. “Need you staying put while I look for my shit.”
Their eyes scanned the camper. The shelves behind the bed, the windowsill, the cabinets, the small kitchen, the tiny table and bench. Bingo, phone and bag. They shuffled over to the little fold out coffee table and snatched their phone, listening for any sign of the hunter moving from his spot on the bed. They walked back over to him, unlocking the device and checking the power. Only 20%. That’s fine, they had signal. They were standing before him again, looking the captive man up and down trying to puzzle out a way to keep him seated while taking their eyes and hands off him. He jolted when they opted to sit in his lap.
“Bloody hell…”
“Shh,” they interrupted. “I’m going to send my friend a pin of my location, see?” They pointed to their screen. “I’ll set it to track my location for the next 24 hours.” A smug grin was plastered on their face as they typed out a message, letting their friend know they’d gone camping, with the excuse that they were letting her know where because they weren’t familiar with the area and wanted to be safe. They sent a little quip about 127 Hours. A texting bubble popped up. Their friend told them not to joke about things like that. They sent back, “I caught a gorgeous fish today. Not sure whether to let it go or eat it. It’s not native, so no worries about endangered species.”
“I’m the fish, aren’t I?”
“Clever.” Sarcasm. They stood up, grabbed him by the chin, pointed the camera at his face and quipped “say cheese” before snapping a few photos. He was grimacing in all of them. “Not very photogenic, huh?” They reached for his face again and he thrashed like a rabbit in a trap. They stomped their foot on the floor and leant in close. “Stop fuckin moving, Mick.” He stopped fuckin moving.
They reached up to his face, pressing their hand to his skin for the first time since they’d beaten his face into a riverbed. He shuddered. Delicately, they removed his glasses. He blinked. “Hm… you’re kinda handsome.” He blinked again. “I mean… I started talking to you last night for a reason.” Their hand lingered a little too long on his skin. They snapped another picture of him, much better looking now that he wasn’t scowling. “There, got your face in my phone and my location marked, so if you try anything funny,” they glanced back at him coldly, “you won’t make it out of this county, let alone the state.” They crossed the room and tucked their phone back into their bag, shuffling things around to find a wallet, all bills and cards still thankfully inside, and a Swiss army knife. They kept the knife.
Walking back over to the bed, eying him like a cornered animal, they clambered back into his lap. He was still a few inches taller than them in this position. He could smell the dirt and sweat in their hair. Their eyes locked onto his. “I’m going to do something, Mick.” He shivered. “I’m gonna do something real stupid. I sent those messages,” they unsheathed a small blade on the knife, “so I could have some insurance.” He couldn’t keep his eyes off the glinting knife edge. “For when I untie you.” The man stilled under them.
“Untie me?”
“Yeah, untie you,” they replied. “Not your hands, I’m not an idiot.” They climbed off him and hooked a hand under his legs, sawing into the rope securing them. It broke and they unwound what he now realized were knots clearly learned from shibari. He could feel himself getting hard. “But I don’t want your fingers to stop working.” They grinned up at him. “You need those.” He couldn’t tell if that was an innuendo or a reassurance he’d be left to keep hunting once they’d gone. He didn’t know if he wanted them gone. Still, he made a perfunctory fuss when he was flipped onto his stomach. “Quit being such a fuckin’ baby, I’m not gonna carve you up or anything.” They cut through the rope at his neck and upper arms, leaving only his hands bound and looping the last bit of cord into a tight knot to keep those secured.
He felt deft small fingers massaging his calloused palms. He could feel his hands again, finally. But they hurt like hell. They were straddling his back now, rubbing feeling and life back into his fingers, then wrists, then arms. He almost relaxed into the touch, forgetting who he was with and why he couldn’t move his arms. It was a strange thing, really. Should he be afraid? Technically, yes. They’d ambushed him, bound him, taken him into a camper and still had his rifle, kukri, and their own knife on them. But he had tried to kill them. They were right, he was that type of man. He had been planning on having his way with them before he gutted them like a buck. Chewing them up and spitting them out. All this made them even, then. But where did that leave them now? Hazily, he thought, he might like them. They were… not all there. Not right in the head, certainly. But he had no room to talk. He’d only been around maniacs and war criminals for the past… well, he couldn’t remember how long. And now that the war was over, he was left to rip a bloody path through the world like he used to, only this time, unsanctioned. They turned him over and just looked at him. Big eyes. Blue eyes like his. They smiled. “Feeling better?”
“A bit, yeah.” He chuckled. “Thanks, love.”
He watched them blush. Christ, how cute.
They were straddling his waist. Both paused.
Subtly, their hips shifted. His shifted too. They let out a cute little breath, feeling him already half hard. They placed their hands on either side of him on the mattress and gripped the sheets as they ground themselves into him. He couldn’t stifle the groan he let out even if he wanted to. He wished he could touch them, reach up and grab and pin them natural like, choke the life out of them, run his hands softly over their pretty face, drag them by the hair, gently scratch at their scalp… anything. He struggled with his arms and they noticed. “Can’t untie you, Mick. You know that.” They moaned softly and it was like birdsong. “But I can get us comfortable.” To his dismay, they pulled away from him.
He propped himself up on his elbows and watched as they began stripping. First his kukri… it looked so natural slung around their hips. He was about to grouse at them about treating it well when they carefully, almost reverently, they laid it on a bedside shelf. The same with his rifle on the coffee table. Their knife was discarded behind them somewhere, but he couldn’t focus on anything but them pulling their shirt over their head. Nothing was underneath. Pure, bare, perfect skin, unmarked by the bramble scrapes and cuts that lined their hands and arms. Like the bared belly of a rabbit. Soft, tender, easy to gut. Then their pants. He could already see that they were wet. He rolled his hips for a semblance of friction against his now painfully hard cock. They kicked off their boots and even socks, and finally, their uncharacteristically cutesy underwear. They were cute. That’s why he’d picked them. Cute, small, soft, and certainly didn’t look like they could outpace him or beat him in a scrap. They were right, he should’ve listened to them better. They were a smart fucking animal.
They got to work on his clothes. He lifted his hips to allow them to relieve him of his belt and pants and boxers. They somehow managed to maneuver his vest off. There wasn’t much they could do for his shirt, though, not with his hands bound, so they settled for unbuttoning it. Nimble hands ran over his chest, down his stomach, tracing the short hairs down to his cock. He could’ve whined. They ran one finger up the bottom, swiping up the precum gathered at his tip and bringing it to their mouth. Mick tossed his head back and groaned.
They didn’t know what size they’d expected, but he was long. Probably about as much as they could take before it started to hurt. Curved slightly upward and just thick enough to feel good. It really wouldn’t have been hard for him to get ass without having to hunt it first. They wrapped one hand around him and drew it up and down lazily, running their fingers over and underneath the head just to make him groan more. Their other hand stayed splayed out on his stomach, applying just the slightest pressure to keep him down. Let him know he still had to play nice. They couldn’t keep their mouth off him for too long. They licked up the underside and his hips bucked hard against them. Desperate. They laved the head in kitten licks and finally wrapped their lips around it. He jolted again but their hand on his torso kept him down. The head was their favorite part. It was nice and sensitive, they didn’t have to worry too much about their teeth, and it always made their brain go a little fuzzy just having their mouth full. It’d been a while, and Mick was big. They probably couldn’t manage all of him. Slowly, they worked their way down, stroking what they couldn’t fit with their hand, running their tongue along every vein.
Mick could’ve died and gone to heaven right then. Well, certainly not actually heaven. But it felt like it. Their hand did the best it could, but wasn’t strong enough to stop him from bucking his hips into their mouth. They felt it hit the back of their throat and forced themselves not to gag. They wanted to prove something. Without warning they sunk their mouth the rest of the way down and grabbed onto the sheets, clenching their fist to distract themselves from the need to choke and splutter. The man under them growled and rutted against their face as they let their tongue loll out. The excitement and pride of finally getting to deepthroat someone momentarily distracted them from their need to breathe, but it could only last so long. They let his cock slide lewdly out of their throat and gasped for breath. When they looked up, they could see him gazing at them in what seemed like awe. His pupils were blown so wide his irises looked nearly black. They looked at one another, panting. The setting sunlight slanted in through the gap in the curtains and streaked across their face. Their eyes, a black pit surrounded by ice blue, were lit wide and staring. They looked like a big cat’s. Predatory.
Suddenly, they shifted up his body. He met them and clambered to his knees. Neither of them needed speech or instruction for this. They worked in tandem like two wild animals. They knelt on the bed and let their upper body relax into the sheets. He was on his knees behind them, over them, admiring the curve of their hind and the shape of their back. He froze when their hands went to the kukri on his shelf. They unsheathed it, twisted around, looked him in the eyes, and cut the ropes. “Gonna keep this on me,” they whispered, “just to be safe.” He flexed his hands. “But I wanna feel your hands. Want you to eat me.”
His palm was on the back of their neck instantly. He shoved their head down, pressing their upper body into the mattress as they cradled the knife still in their hands. With the other, he lined himself up and rammed all the way inside them, feeling their muscles tense and grip at the intrusion. They yowled like a cat and he dug his nails into the back of their neck, setting a brutal pace as he mounted them, groaning and growling and snarling. He felt so big inside. So good. Even without prep, even if it stung and burned and felt too tight and too much, it hurt so good. They babbled and whined into the sheets, letting tears slip down their cheeks unbidden. The hand on the back of their neck was grounding, good, hot. They cradled the kukri like a teddy bear, watching their panting breath fog up the smooth metal. He leaned down above them, staring. “Treat my knife nice. That’s precious stuff.” He snapped his hips into them to make a point, slowing down and grinding inside them. They let out cute warbling whining moans at the feeling and let their tongue loll out of their mouth. On impulse, as if by some natural reflex to show affection, they nuzzled into the cool metal of the blade, licking it like a cat and planting kisses on its surface. Mick got impossibly harder. They could feel him pulse inside of them. They grinned up at him.
“That turn you on?”
He hooked a thumb roughly into their cheek and pulled their lips back to inspect their sharp little canines.
“Yeah. Yeah it does. You’re gonna keep doing that while I fuck your brains right out.”
He let them go, their lips immediately back on the knife and planted his hands on their hips, digging his nails in like claws to keep them there while he fucked into them rougher and rougher. The whole camper rocked and echoed with whines and groans and yowls. He clawed at them hard enough to bleed. They licked the dull edge of the knife like it was his cock. He draped himself over their back, falling into them closer and closer as his hips slapped into theirs. They were so fucking tight. So hot. Unbearably hot.
His. Each other’s. Marks, eyes, broken brains, shared between two wild animals. He rutted into them carelessly. He could feel himself getting closer. They gripped him so good. He couldn’t help himself, he sunk his teeth into the meat of their shoulder, growling. They yelped and moaned and muffled their face into the tear stained sheets. When he tasted blood he pulled off, and bit down on another patch of unmarred skin. They bucked their hips back against him and he snarled into their ear. They’d never felt this close just from fucking. They’d never cum just from penetration. But god were they close. So was he. They didn’t have any shame or pride left to keep them from begging.
“‘M gonna cum… gonna cum… wanna cum,” they whined. He sped up and they bit down on the sheets. “W-want…” they whined.
“Say it.”
“Want you to cum inside. Breed me. Fuck babies into me,” they begged through whines and pants. And who was he to deny them? Mick bit hard into the back of their neck like a tomcat and fucked their hips into the mattress until he felt them squeeze and cry and cum around him, milking him inside. They could’ve blacked out from the force of the orgasm that hit them. It hurt and felt perfect and amazing and burning hot. He thrust himself as far inside as he possibly could and let their pulsing muscles tip him over the edge, pumping everything into the perfect writhing hot whining little animal underneath him. Knocking it up. Giving it babies. His broad hand pressed to their stomach, into the sensitive soft of their pelvis and he swore he could feel himself inside, throbbing. He’d never cum that much in his life.
They both lay there, clutching the sheets or each other or the kukri still lying in bed with them until they could process coherent thoughts again. Feel less like animals and more like humans. He stayed inside, keeping his cum tucked up inside them as deep as it’d go, making them his from the inside out. They both maneuvered around together, setting the kukri back on its shelf and rolling onto their sides, his arms holding them flush to him. He stared at the back of their head in the now too hot camper, pale twilight barely illuminating the both of them. He breathed in. Smelled like sweat and sex and dirt and blood. As it should. Eventually he had to pull out. It was just too sensitive, and his aching back needed a rest. Mick shifted and let them roll over to face him, their weight sinking the mattress next to him and pulling them closer. He couldn’t help it.
He wrapped his hand around their neck.
Their eyes flicked up to his. A little too raw, a little too cold, a little too animal. He froze. Two animals sighting each other across a clearing, the last two of their species, unsure whether to breed or kill. He gently pressed his calloused thumb up the column of their throat and tilted their chin up to his, pressing his lips to theirs as softly as a man like him could manage. They fell asleep like that, face to face. Biting distance. Kissing distance. Throats bared and teeth closed.
They woke up at the feeling of him shifting, trying to crawl out of bed. They stiffened and he froze. They stared at each other like deer in one another’s headlights. He broke the silence with a little nervous huff, “I’m just gettin’ up to make coffee, love.” They relaxed again, though not fully, and sank back into the worn mattress. They watched him as he moved; long legs corded with wiry muscle carrying him to the small stove, big rough hands delicately manipulating the burner dial, shoulders mapped with rope burns flexing and unflexing, pretty eyes the same color as theirs softening as he slipped back into a familiar rhythm. They thought about his face. His head. His brains plastered all over the camper wall. It’d be a shame to ruin a pretty face. They stretched out and mewled, curling into the sun warmed sheets like a housecat. The hunter chuckled and tracked them out of the corner of his eye.
He brought over two cups, but they left theirs on the small bedside shelf. They weren’t one much for coffee. He sat, staring out the narrow window and idly rubbing a hand up and down their calf. As they thought, they were sore and dead tired. The purpling bruises laced across his wrists, arms, and neck looked nasty and raw in the sunlight. They imagined their own neck didn’t look much better.
“Mick?”
He startled a little. “Yeah?”
“You gonna kill me?” He looked at them.
“You gonna kill me?”
“No.”
He took a sip of his coffee. “Then, no.”
A silence that was shockingly comfortable overtook them. He finished his cup and stoop up to refill it. They noticed the writing on it. “#1 SNIPER”.
“You were a sniper,” they asked, tracing their fingers idly in the sweat soaked sheets. He tensed a bit, then relaxed.
“Yeah… was.”
“Makes sense,” they sighed. “War’s over now, though. So what’s the new job, Sniper?”
The use of the name he’d known for years struck him. It felt familiar and alien all at once. He wasn’t even a sniper anymore.
“Dunno.” He let the mug sit on the counter, unfilled.
“In that case,” they said, and he heard them stretch and the sheets shift, “wanna go home? You can check out the cabin.” They walked over towards him, their warm smaller frame pressing into his. “Could go fishing. Hunting. Not… be alone.” He cautiously wrapped an arm around them. When he looked down they were staring back at him.
“Yeah… sounds alright.” He breathed out, relaxed, and they did too. They were warm. It felt nice. “Let’s go home.” They smiled, toothy and big, and he watched the corners of their eyes crinkle.
“You’re gonna need to put some clothes on first, Sniper.” He pinched them.
“You too, ya wild animal.”