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shotmrmiller · 10 months

Text

Loba

Pairing: John Price x GN!Reader

TW: Some gore description. Thats it, i think.

WC: 2.4k

There was something odd about you, John Price's neighbor. To the untrained eye, you were an average person. But John's been a sniper longer than he's been captain, which meant he was perspicacious. His ability to intake information and process it was second to none. And so, he'd like to think he knew what he saw when you once looked at him in passing. The eyes of something that sits atop the food chain.

Yet, he can't help but doubt himself. You're a small thing. Soft, plush, comely. You greet everyone with a smile. Bake homemade chocolate chip cookies for the surrounding neighbors on occasion. Sit on your knees, digging your fingers into damp soil, planting flowers in the garden. Had it been a trick of the light? He supposed it didn't matter. As much as you intrigued him, you had a partner you sent off to work with a polite kiss on the cheek and lunch bag in hand every day. Ordinary.

Until one day, normal turned abnormal.

John liked to sit on his porch, tea in hand, and people-watch. He hid it under the guise of reading the paper so he wouldn't put people off— but he liked to be observant. And being observant meant knowing the routines of his surrounding neighbors. So, John noticed that your partner hadn't been home in two weeks. And you, his pretty little neighbor, are irate. Slamming the front door closed after taking out the trash, hands digging into the planting soil with such ferocity he'd think it was hiding treasure, and not one greeting to anyone. Not even him.

And that definitely didn't sting, he tells himself. You were unavailable and clearly in love if your temper as of late had anything to say about it.

One afternoon, John is sitting outside in his customary spot when he watches your car pull up into the driveway and park. You open the driver's door with such force that he thinks it's about to come off the hinges and get out with furrowed brows, narrowed eyes, and lips firmly pressed together.

Oh? That's a first. Granted, John's deployed a lot so he's not home all the time, but he's never seen you this upset since you moved in next door 6 months ago.

Your partner hops out of the passenger side and runs up behind you, trying to diffuse the situation.

"Honey, please, forgive-," and John watches you turn around, get in their face, and snarl— like a dog ready to fight. Teeth bared in evident hostility, the skin on your nose scrunched up in fury. You look unreservedly feral, John thinks.

He hears you let out an animalistic growl before you notice John sitting on his porch. Pivoting on the balls of your feet, you stalk towards the house not waiting for your partner to follow.

If John coughed to cover the chuckle he let out at the sight of your partner scrambling behind you like a pathetic puppy, he'd never admit it.

Later that evening, John hears frantic pounding on his front door, and he freezes. It's almost midnight. He can't help but think that his enemies have found him, so he quietly moves to his bookshelf and grabs his loaded handgun. Pulling the slide back to chamber a round, he moves to cover when he hears a recognizable voice alongside the knocking.

"Please, Mr. Price, I only want to ask you something!"

With the handgun behind his back, he approaches cautiously, before undoing the locks and cracking it open a smidge. It's your partner, and they look jumpy.

"This is not an appropriate hour to be knocking on doors, by the way," he grumbles.

"I know, Mr. Price, and I apologize but I had an emergency."

John frowns. "I'm not the coppers."

"I just had a quick question for you."

He points the gun as he opens the door wider, finger on the trigger while still holding the firearm out of sight of your partner on the other side.

"Right, then. What is it?"

"I wanted to ask if you've seen my partner. They still haven’t come back and they've been gone since before I got home. I already called to file a missing person report."

John clenches his jaw.

"No, I haven't. I'll keep an eye out for you, though. Now, if you'd excuse me."

"Yes, of course. Have a good night, Mr. Price."

Closing the door, he tightens the grip on his gun. John is an interrogation expert. Reading body language is his second nature— so he wonders why they lied about calling the police.

In the morning, John goes out to ask if you'd come home when he notices you in the yard gardening with a pleased smile on your lips. His heart stutters at the sight. Oh, how lovely you looked taking care of your home. What he'd do to have a person like you for him to come back to— that he wishes it was you is a secret he's taking to his grave.

John shakes his head and clears his throat to catch your attention and you turn your head.

"Mr. Price, Good morning!", you greet.

Walking over to stand next to your kneeled form, he says, "Good morning, love. I'm only wanting to check up on you. Your partner came over late and seemed very distraught at your disappearance."

You purse your lips in annoyance. Interesting.

"I'm so sorry. I hope they didn't wake you, Mr. Price."

"Not at all, love, I tend to stay up late. And please, it's John."

You curl your mouth into a dimpled, teasing smile— enchanting him.

"Alright, John."

The way you said his name so alluringly is going to haunt him in his dreams, he knows it. With flaming cheeks, John pulls at his facial hair to distract himself from the direction his thoughts take.

"Right," he swallows hard, "Well. I—uh, figure that you didn't want your partner to know where you were, so be aware that you could always tell me anything. If only to know that you aren't missing."

He hears you sigh before taking off your gardening gloves and moves to stand when John reaches his hand out to assist and you take it. Your hand is so tiny in his, it makes him reluctant to let go. Dusting your pants, you say, "They knew where I'd be going. They've been letting me starve, and I'm ravenous." And your eyes look up to his.

There it is again. That predatory gaze. Like you'd eat him whole.

"I don't—" and you cut him off.

"I've got to take care of myself. I'm not going to sit around hungry, and I can't eat apologies."

Tipping your head to the side, you open your mouth to tell him something when the both of you are startled by a car honk. John quickly moves to block your body with his, the need to protect being instinctual, when he realizes that it's your partner in front of the driveway— and they do not look pleased.

John feels your hand on his bicep as you step around him, and he feels the egotistical urge to flex.

"Seems like I'm needed elsewhere. It was a pleasure speaking with you."

He looks at you with ocean-blue eyes and murmurs, "Pleasure's all mine, love. Remember what I said."

John follows the movement of your hand tucking a lock of hair behind your ear before you say, "You'll be the first person I go to, John", and you jump again at another honk.

He sees your eyes flick from him to the car and back at him— and the toothy smile you give him sends dread, like molasses, down his spine.

"I'll be seeing you, then."

And then you're getting into the car and closing the door with a slam, tires screeching on the pavement. Gone.

As John walks back to his house, he tries hard to not think back on your pointed ears, or how sharp your canine teeth had been, or how your pupils had dilated when looking at your partner— like a predator catching sight of its prey.

It's the witching hour, and John startles awake to breaking glass and some crashing from next door. Your house. Ripping the blanket off of him, he sprints to his closet and slips on some sweats and laces on his boots before taking out his NATO rifle— heading towards the back of his house. He slips out through the back door and walks up to the fence separating his backyard and yours. John slings the rifle to his back and jumps, fingers hooking over the edge of the fence, and climbs over it.

On light feet, he crouch-walks while aiming the rifle at your house fully alert. His ears pick up some human whimpering, and then a deep, low rumble that sends vibrations into his chest. What is that?

Clenching his teeth, he walks up and peers into the door window and his blood freezes in his veins. The house is a mess. Glass litters the floor, and the dining room table is splintered into pieces. Some blood splattered on the walls and smeared on the kitchen tiles. He turns the door handle, and it opens. Unlocked.

John thinks the worst has happened. A home invasion turned homicide. That he'll find your body lying in a pool of blood. Your normally captivating eyes lifeless. He shakes himself of his mild panic— now is not the time. Walking further into your home, boots softly crunching on debris, he spots your partner on the living room floor.

And they're bloody with injuries, trembling violently. John runs up to them and grabs their shoulder.

"Are you alright?!" he shouts. But your partner isn't responding, rather looking unblinkingly into a darkened hallway. John notices and swiftly aims his rifle down the hall. Then he hears or rather feels, another vicious guttural growl. Then he spots two glowing orbs in the dark like reflective tape shining with artificial light.

The orbs then rise, almost to the ceiling, and draw near slowly. John can't remember the last time he froze during a tense altercation, but then again, whatever the hell that is, isn't something he's ever dealt with in combat. He's snapped out of his reverie when the figure is lit up by the living room light and his jaw drops.

It's something out of stories. Tall, human body-shaped covered in black fur standing on two legs. Large human hands tipped with curved claws. Saliva dripping from its bared teeth and extra-long canines. Golden eyes with black slits and a long, scrunched snout. A werewolf.

Your partner screams before scrambling to hide behind John's body like a shield.

"Please! I didn't mean—", their pleading is cut off by another ferocious growl. John looks up at the werewolf and instantly recognizes those eyes. He's seen them before, on you— his cute little neighbor.

John remembers saying once that if you cannot recognize the target, you are the target. And those molten-gold eyes weren't looking at him but rather behind him. The werewolf's long arm reaches out to touch John's shoulder, slightly pushing him to the side. Its intent is clear— It's a predator on the hunt.

He shuffles out of the way and witnesses the werewolf wrap one clawed hand around your partner's ankle and yank— pulling them into the darkness. John hears them wailing, pleading for their life. Sees them clawing at the floor trying to stop the drag of their body but to no avail.

Not even a minute later, there's a sickening crunch and then the screaming stops— nothing but John's heavy breathing, soft gnashing of teeth, and more bones breaking. He slowly gets up from the ground and waits. For what, he doesn't know.

John then hears a door open and close. Something sounds like sticks being snapped into place, a loud muffled whimper, and then a door opening again. Out steps you, wrapped in a blanket with your hands and mouth dripping blood. Exhaling, he slowly walks up to you, putting his hands on your shoulders.

"That was you, then," he questions and you nod.

John sucks in a breath before asking another question.

"Why did you eat them?"

"They took the role of handler yet wanted me human. Domesticated. Shoved in a closet during a full moon. As if that could stop me."

You lock eyes with John, pupils blown wide open.

"Besides, no man can tame a predator by acting like prey."

He nods, head hanging low, conceding. Wrapping an arm around your shoulders and the other on your lower back, he kneels and with a grunt picks you up— carrying you out the front door.

"Let's get over to my house, I'll have this taken care of."

John feels your warm breath against his neck and grips your body tighter. Unlocking the door, he steps inside and deposits you on his couch, then jogs to his bedroom and gets his phone. He's tapping the screen when he hears you.

"John, I'm still hungry."

He stops and closes his eyes for a second, before moving to the door and holding it open.

Looking at you with a stony gaze, he says, "You will be home before daybreak. Not a minute later. Do I make myself clear?"

You nod and run up to him. Picking up his hand, you press his open calloused palm onto your cheek— nuzzling it— and give it a bloodied kiss, before running out and disappearing into the night.

John raises his hand to look at his palm and closes it tight. He already has blood on his hands, what's a little more. Back to his phone, he dials a number and puts it up to his ear.

"Simon. Yeah, I know it's late. Listen, I need you to come over. There's some cleaning up we have to do. Bring a mop." and hangs up.

If holding on to your leash is how you stay with him, then he's holding it with an iron fist and never letting go. Although, it'd probably be a good idea to move away from this neighborhood if he wants to show off his cute little neighbor wife.

A/N: I got inspired by shakira's song ofc. love it. Thank you to my beta for gassing it up. You a real one.

#call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #cod mwii #john price #john price x reader #captain john price #captain price fanfic #captain price x reader #captain price #cod x reader #mw2 #john price x you #captain john price x reader #captain price x you

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boxofbonesfic · 2 months

Text

Title: Blood and Sand (2 of 2)

Pairing: Werewolf!Moon Knight x Reader

Wordcount: 8,594

Summary: You are selected to accompany your mentor on a dig, but what you find in the desert instead makes you wish you had never come at all.

Warnings: Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Fantasy, Dark Fantasy, Murder, Kidnapping, Cults, Implied Torture, AU, Smut, Monsterfucking, Lycanthropy, Cannibalism

A/N: honestly, thank you for reading part one because this is just… porn and violence luckily for me, those are some of my favorite things to write, LMAO. we knew this was going to be self indulgent, so i hope it’s your kind of self-indulgent too. to be clear: this part has all the fuckin’; human, monster and otherwise. 😂❤️ spanish translations provided by the amazing @negronispagliato❤️ bottom divider by @firefly-graphics!

💀

“Oh thank fucking Christ.”

You wake with your head pillowed in Steven’s lap, his eyes dark with concern. You shift, moving to get up—but your skull erupts with pain. Sharp tendrils of it that strike at the nerves behind your watering eyes. Even talking is too much, your jaw aching as you attempt to open your mouth.

“No, Love, don’t.” He holds you still, large palms cradling your face on either side as you whimper. Steven’s eyes harden with anger. “Prick made you read too much.” The hard edge in his voice is unfamiliar—unsettling, even. You aren’t used to seeing anger on Steven’s face. No, that emotion is much more reserved for Marc or Jake—but he’s nearly trembling with it, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“I’ll fucking kill him.” The words are so low you barely hear them—hell, you half wonder if you’ve imagined them. For a moment, a shaft of the setting sun sinking beneath the frame of the narrow window, and his chocolate eyes turn a molten, animal yellow.

“I will eat his fucking heart.”

Steven has the patience of a saint, laying there unmoving until the pain subsides enough for you to crawl out of his lap. Your whole body feels exhausted, wrung out and limp. The water he offers you is tinny, but you’re used to it—every drink of water you’ve had in recent memory tastes like this, it’s almost all you know.

“What happened?” You croak, fingers struggling to hold onto the chipped mug you both share. Steven looks angry—and then ashamed.

“You read,” he says slowly. Reluctantly, he brings his sorrowful gaze to yours.

“And we ate.”

They do not come for him again that night, and you’re grateful for it, burying your face against his chest, clinging to Steven beneath the threadbare blanket—the only one you have. You suppose at least that you are grateful that there are no rats, no spiders or insects. They keep the the corners, skittering away whenever he comes close.

They can sense it, you think, the thing beneath his skin. You can too.

—

Marc kisses you hungrily, his fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of your neck as he tugs your head back. With his other arm he pulls you hard against his chest. You go willingly, easily, arching your back against him. He’s not back yet—not fully, not really.

The other priests can’t read the Word like you can, don’t feel it the way you do—so it takes longer for Marc to come back to himself from the jackal-thing, the moon-drunk thing, and sometimes when they bring him back to you, it’s still worming around inside his head.

Like tonight.

Claws prick at your skin, stroking the line of your throat. Marc’s too-sharp teeth pull at the lobe of your ear before he kisses you again, sloppily.

He tastes like copper.

“Make me forget.” It’s a demand, not a request, but it’s one you’re happy to oblige.

“He’s hard behind you, the fat length of him pressing insistently between the cheeks of your ass. One hand slithers beneath the tattered hem of your tank top, trailing the pads of his fingers across your nipples. The other squeezes the curve of your hip. He doesn’t pull your pants down all the way—full nudity is a privilege you cannot afford anymore. Not with the guards doing random checks now, now that they know.

Pricks.

Mikhail especially seemed to take great pride in discovering you, often standing at the observation window when he had no reason to—the weight of his cold gaze heavy on you every time.

Marc boxes you in with his body—you suspect both because he enjoys the feel of you pressed against him with nowhere else to go, and because from this angle, they can only see his back. Marc kicks your legs open a little wider, humming as he spreads the thick beads of precum leaking from his tip across his head, and you shudder as he slides against you with a lewd squelch. Your breath catches as he traces your pulse with one sharp claw.

“Are you afraid of me?” There are two voices in his throat, twining around one another like vines. One is Marc’s, the one you know, the one that growls your name hungry and low—

And the other one, the one that knows you.

“No.” You aren’t. You should be, should always have been, but for some reason, you never are. There’s so much fear here, running in your veins, oozing out of the fucking walls, you don’t want to feel it with Marc, too. You reach behind yourself to palm his cock with slow, sure passes until he moans into your hair, hips bucking into your hand. You clench around nothing, and Marc chuckles darkly into your hair like he knows it.

“I can smell it, you know?” He breathes, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “How wet you are,” his hand snakes around to your front, sliding down beneath your loose waistband to cup your cunt, fingers slipping eagerly through your folds. He bites down hard enough to bruise, and you whine his name pathetically.

“Marc—!”

“See?” He circles your entrance with deft fingers, the rough stubble on his face rasping against your cheek. “So ready.” Your eyelids go slack, your head lolling back against Marc’s shoulder as he presses two thick fingers into you, moaning low. “Soft and sweet and ready…” You don’t even think he’s talking to you, now, mumbling to himself—no, to Jake and Steven, probably—about his enjoyment of your body, how good you feel, how much he wants you. Marc scoffs at a comment you didn’t make, confirming your theory.

“Made for us, huh?” Marc draws a line with the tip of his claw over your nipple, and you feel his lips curve against your throat. “Maybe so.” He grips the back of your head with one hand, the other still buried in your cunt as he kisses you again, hungrily swallowing the whimpering moan you try and fail to contain. He sucks on your tongue, running the sharp points of his canines along it before releasing you.

“Steven says you’re made for us.” He watches your face with pale yellow eyes, enjoying the look of dizzy bliss you know is there. You whine when he thumbs at your clit, your eyes rolling as you clamp down around his fingers. He grins.

“I think he might be onto something.” Everything you know is turned on its head now—everything is real, because how do you know it’s not? Gods and Monsters, the veil is open, forever torn for you now, and you see them all.

“Maybe so,” you run your tongue across your lips and he follows the movement with rapt attention. “Or maybe you were made for me.”

He laughs.

Marc scissors his fingers inside you as you go to pieces. Happy, it seems, to shoulder your weight because your trembling legs will not do so on their own. He alternates between sucking at your pulse point, and mumbling heated, possessive promises into the curve of your jaw. You feel each word as he says it, maybe even a little before, his lips moving against your skin.

“You feel so good, Baby, m’gonna feel you on my cock next,” You’re too gone to be embarrassed by the wet sucking noise your cunt makes when he pulls his fingers out, watching as he lifts them to his mouth, deftly cleaning each one with long strokes of his tongue. It’s almost enough to make you forget where you are, what you’ve done.

What you’ve become.

You aren’t like him, but you aren’t like you anymore, either. You see the words in your minds eye even when Loki’s book isn’t before you, feel the weight of them on your tongue days before you speak them. No, you are changed.

It’s why you need this as much as Marc does—it’s the only thing you can control.

“Hands on the wall, Baby.” You brace your palms against the wall as he nudges your thighs wide with his knee, pulling the waistband of your pants down to your thighs. You can’t help but arch back a little as he slides his cock through the soaked and swollen folds of your cunt, moaning your name. The low, guttural appreciative sound he makes as he sinks in is almost as good as the burning stretch of his entry. You arch, pushing back against him until he’s seated all the way inside, his hips pressing tight against the curve of your ass.

“Fuuuck.”

You’re blissfully full, stars dancing behind your closed eyes and then—Christ—he starts to move. Marc grips your waist with both hands, holding you good and still. Your fingers scrabble against the concrete wall, teeth sinking into your lip as he drives into you, pulling nearly all the way out before filling you completely again.

Maybe Steven’s right, you think, as Marc wraps one hand around your throat, pulling you flush against his chest. Maybe I was made for them. It certainly lends credence to his theory, the way your body fits perfectly into the hollow of his like this, his cock filling you so completely that there’s barely even room for breath. The hand on your hip drifts to your belly, pressing down as he slides back in. His lips curve against your ear.

“Think I can feel me in there?” He asks, before pressing down harder. You writhe against him, your body hot. “Maybe if I press harder…” Marc holds you like that for a while, pressing down on your belly with one hand as he ruts into you, growling. You’re practically a mess by the time he begins to work at your clit with his thumb, circling it softly.

“M-Marc, fuck,” You grit his name out as you cum again, twitching pathetically in his arms. Marc’s head falls back, his eyes closed as he revels in the feel of it, you clenching around his cock like a vise. He presses in deeper, a and fuck, you hadn’t even known he could. And you feel his teeth—blunt now—press hard into your neck as he spills inside of you, the warmth of it making you shudder.

He stays like that, his teeth buried in your throat while he pants, fingers flexing on your hips.

Marc cleans you up, sacrificing a portion of what little water you are allotted to clean the mess he’s left between your thighs, and you return the favor, before laying down heavily on the cot. Marc curls around you, placing his body between you and the door.

—

“She’s not going.” Jake has placed himself between you and Mikhail, his arms crossed. “She’s not well.” You aren’t. You’ve been… wrong since your reading the night before, your head swimming with symbols, and a man with a bird skull for his head; bleached white like it had been baked in the unforgiving desert sun, tall enough to move the moon across the sky. Your nose is still bleeding sluggishly, too, you taste copper when you lick your lips. No, not a man—a God.

KHONSU.

Why do you know his name?

“This is not a debate.” Mikhail sneers. He’d come alone today, unlike every other time he had been sent to fetch you. Loki didn’t take chances when it came to security, you’d learned that by now. So why was he here? Alone?

“Loki wants her.” He jerks his head at you, blue eyes dark over Jake’s shoulder when he meets your gaze. “Move, freak.” Perhaps he doesn’t know the difference between the three, or maybe he just doesn’t care, but a lump forms in your throat when Jake squares his posture, fingers curling into tight fists.

“What, you going to fight me in chains?” He mocks. “I said move.”

“No.”

You’re expecting more of Mikhail’s smug condescension—not for him to ball his meaty fingers into a fist and punch Jake. His head snaps to the side, and you watch a satisfied smirk spreads across Mikhail’s face in response. He tries to shoulder past in that moment, using Jake’s surprise as an avenue around him.

You hear the sick sound of bone crunching as your brain struggles to understand what you’re seeing. Mikhail’s arm is broken, hanging limply at his side, while Jake stands over him, his lip curling.

“I see how you look at her.” He kicks him, and Mikhail looses a pathetic whine as the breath is driven from his lungs. “Patético.” He squats down, gripping Mikhail’s short, blond hair.

“Let go—fucking stop!” He shouts, and finally, you hear the guards clamoring at the end of the hall.

“The fuck is going on down there?!”

“You hear that?”

It doesn’t deter Jake though, as he cocks back and drives his fist into the other man’s face hard. His eyes are dark, jaw set tight. The muscles in his back tense and flex as he draws back again, and the spray of blood that coats his face as Mikhail’s nose breaks this time coats Jake’s face, flecking his skin with thick drops of red. He licks his lips before bringing a sputtering, gagging Mikhail’s head level with his own. His eyes are red and crossed with burst vessels, nose smashed in and lips burst open.

“Fuck you!” He screams, his voice cracking with pain. “You and your fucking whore—”

“You think I don’t know what you were planning? What you were going to do?” Jake asks, cocking his head like he really wants to know the answer. “March her out of here, take her someplace nice and quiet,” Jake pauses, spitting on the ground beside Mikhail. “Asqueroso de mierda.” Fucking pig.

“Quiero que sepas que eres un muerto viviente. Entiendes? You’re done.” You’re a dead man. I want you to know now, understand? So when it comes later, it isn’t a surprise. Jake doesn’t let go, not even as the sound of frantic footfall grows closer, only seconds away, now. “So when it comes, it isn’t a fucking surprise.”

The guards storm into the room, shouting, weapons drawn. There’s so much blood, Mikhail’s bones are sticking up through the ruined meat of his arm, not to mention his face. Loki follows, his face contorting with anger.

It takes Rumlow pressing his pistol to the back of Jake’s head to make him stop, to make him let go so they can drag Mikhail out of the room as he wails, cursing the both of you. You can tell Loki wants to punish him—punish both of you—but he needs you. You to read the book, to be the conduit he can’t be, and Jake to partake of the sacrifice, to consume the flesh and appease the God whose power they’ve stolen.

And Mikhail needs medical attention.

Loki settles for roughing Jake up a little, the guard team taking turns until he’s had enough, waving his hand to call them off. To his credit, Jake looks fairly unfazed, despite the physical evidence otherwise.

“Perhaps housing the two of you together was a mistake.” He replies, and you scowl at him.

“Kidnapping people for your fucked up rituals was a mistake.” You reply, and he laughs.

“How cute.” Loki’s slow smile sends a shiver down your spine. “You still think you’re people.”

They don’t come that night—too busy with Mikhail, you expect.

Which is good, because Jake Lockley is nothing if not an opportunist. You wake as he’s fitting your knees over his shoulders, gazing up at you hungrily from between your thighs, his black honey voice rumbling in your ears.

“Ábrelas pa’ mi.” Open for me. There is utter silence around you, no footsteps, no quiet conversation from the end of the hall. For the first time in weeks—months—you are truly alone.

So there is no one to hear the rising cacophony of your voice as Jake sets to work between your thighs, his tongue lashing against your clit, and fingers prodding eagerly at your entrance. Your eyes roll, a breathy moan worming out from your throat. You can’t help yourself from rocking your hips against his face, and Jake smirks, his lips curving against your cunt.

“Te sientes bien, nena?” Feel good, Baby?

“U-uh-huh,” you nod dumbly. Your unfocused eyes stare unseeingly at the dark ceiling, one hand tangled in his messy curls just to have something to hold on to. Jake groans when you pull, his fingers pressing into the softness of your thighs as he holds you still. There’s a hunger, a desperation in his touch that is markedly different from the way Marc, or Steven does.

Like he knows he may never get another chance.

You arch up off the cot, and Jake’s palm cracks against your thigh in warning.

“Still.” He cuts his eyes at you from between your thighs. “No hagas que me repita.” Don’t make me say it again.

He devours you until you’re trembling, toes curling as you cum with a wail. Jake’s fascination with your cunt is obsessive, the way he maps every inch with his tongue, checking the lines with his fingers just in case. He rolls his tongue against your clit, chuckling darkly when you convulse. When he’s finally had his fill, Jake rises from between your legs, wiping your slick from his mouth with the back of his hand.

For a moment, he just looks at you, studying the lines of your body and committing each one to memory. You feel strangely vulnerable laying there beneath him, not because this is the first time—it isn’t, and at this point you’ve lost count—but because you realize this is the first time any of them has ever seen you fully naked since the first time, not just with your shirt rucked up beneath your chin, or your joggers pulled down around your thighs.

You reach for Jake, kissing him and tasting yourself on his lips and tongue as he fits his hips between your thighs like a puzzle piece. The full body shudder that erupts is impossible to hide as his cock slides against you. Jake grins down at you.

“Esto es tuyo, déjamelo darte.” That’s yours, Querida. Let me give it to you.

The thick, rigid length of him takes up every inch of available space inside you at this angle; and Jake glories in it, pressing your thighs apart and back, muttering silent curses as he throws his head back. He pulls out, quickly filling you again with a wet, vulgar noise that would’ve embarrassed you had you the capacity to consider it, but you don’t, not when Jake is looming over you. He isn’t an emotive man, not even a particularly talkative one, but like this… He practically sings.

“Shh. I want to see if I can get in any deeper. I know you’d like that.” Your cunt squeezes down around him as if in response, and Jake chuckles. He slides his hands down your thighs like he’s holding you steady as he presses in. Once he’s in as far as he can get, his hips fitted against yours almost too tightly, there isn’t room in you for breath, let alone thought. And whichever words do make it into your head simply just… come out of your mouth, even if they’re just half formed.

“Sh-shit, Jake—what’re you—fuck—!” Luckily for you, he’s not really listening anyway, his dark eyes focused on the slick mess between your legs, but you can’t stop the train now that it’s started, whiny, needy pleas falling from your lips without your say-so. Jake cups your chin, dragging his thumb across your parted lips.

“Stick out your tongue, baby—mierda, así mismo-!” fuck, yes, like that-! Jake squeezes your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger before leaning down to suck on your tongue as he slams into you, groaning. Your head is spinning, eyes wide and glassy as your lover places his index and middle fingers on the flat of your tongue.

“Chúpame.” Suck. You obey immediately and without complaint, closing your mouth around his fingers. Jake moans so low it sounds almost like a growl, his fingers digging into the meat of your hip as his eyes roll shut. He thrusts in hard and you gag around his fingers, whimpering. They’re slick with your drool when he pulls away, thick strands of it connecting the tips of his fingers to your puffy, kiss swollen lips. It’s like the sight inspires him, and he takes them again, furiously devouring every gasp and moan you release as he continues to fuck you.

Every single one of your nerve endings is writhing with pleasure, a veritable ocean of it overwhelming you as you’re swept away beneath it. Jake is everywhere, his hands on your face, your hips, your breasts, your cunt—in your fucking mouth—you don’t know how to process it all.

You’re cumming before you realize it, choking out a curse as you press your face, your teeth into the side of his neck. His cock spasms inside of you only moments after, sticky warmth oozing out of the place where you’re joined as Jake presses his forehead against yours, eyes closed. After a few seconds, he collapses to the side, sliding out of you only for an instant before he pulls you against his chest. You shiver as he slips back in just as easily.

The next words he speaks are uttered quietly into your hair.

“Can we sleep like this, querida?” His fingers trace patterns on your skin. “Please.” You don’t ask why—you don’t need to.

“Yeah,” you nod against his chest, and he pulls the blankets up around your shoulders. “Okay, Jake.” He presses a kiss to the space between your shoulder blades, and as your world fades to black, you feel his lips moving against your skin, mouthing the words he won’t say out loud.

—

“King of crossroads

Travelers and Thieves

Accept this offering, accept his flesh and blood as penance—”

Blood streams from your nose as you read the Word, coating your lips and dripping down your chin. You can taste it in your mouth as you form each syllable. Your skull feels like it’s about to split open—there’s not enough room inside for infinity, after all. You see yourself spread out like a series of mirrored reflections in every direction, in every lifetime.

You read the book in every century, you worship the God of Moons and mirrors at sacred altars raised high above the chaos below and profane ones, hidden in in the deep, secret places. You are a thousand you’s who have come before, whose blood stains the pages like yours does—

As you read, he eats.

You barely hear the screams anymore—it’s so hard to hear them, over the noise of a thousand thousand lifetimes—but in your doubled, tripled, infinite vision, sometimes you see it.

The thing in your lovers’ skin, the jackal-thing, tears the arm from a crying man, but you cannot smell the blood. Your nostrils are still full of incense from somewhere else, but you hear the sickening sound of splintering bone, gore staining the jackal-thing’s wide maw. It turns unfocused, yellow eyes on the guards in the outer circle of the ritual room, snarling. Distantly, you suppose you are aware of the sound of straining metal, stone cracking as he, they, it, strains to reach them, it’s long arms outstretched.

“Stop.” Loki’s voice is eons away. He shakes you—you don’t feel it. Your eyes don’t even stray from the page. “Stop, I said!” The commands blur into insignificant background noise, you cannot hear Loki now, because He is here. You can feel him, turning his attention to you as his power flows in through your soul and out through your mouth. And when He slips in to look through your eyes, His disgust makes your own lip curl.

UNWORTHY.

Loki slaps you then, his palm cracking across your cheek, snatching the book from your hands. The last few syllables die out on your tongue as he snaps it shut. You stand there, dazed and blinking at your empty hands. Slowly, you bring your hand to your face, sweeping the tips of your trembling fingers through the sticky wetness just above your lips, and they come away dark red.

Below you, the beast strains to reach the soldiers still. You squint at the links connecting the collar at its throat to the anchor set deep into the concrete—are they stretching? As you think it, there’s a metallic snap as it bursts, affording the creature another foot forward. It strains at the two on it’s arms, pulling with all its might.

You know you don’t have long before he reverts, before the bones begin to crack again, turning skin to ragged meat as his body changes again—

You cannot let that happen.

Loki doesn’t expect you to lunge for the book, to drive your shoulder into his chest as hard as you can. The air rushes out of his lungs, and he stumbles back, cursing breathlessly.

“What the fuck are you doing—”

You snatch the book from his limp fingers. Book is an exaggeration for the stack of loosely bound, frayed papyrus you hold in your hands, between two carved slabs of soapstone. It practically hums against your skin as you hold it now. You will decide which parts you read.

“You have no idea what you’re doing!” Loki snarls, staggering toward you. “Give me—”You step back just as the second chain breaks, leaving only one. Someone shoots, a bullet passing through the meat of the jackal-thing’s shoulder, but the wound closes up before your eyes, knitting back together till there’s nothing a there but short wiry fur and a few drops of blood.

“Boss!” One of the guards calls up to Loki from below. “He’s—”

The final chain snaps, and the beast looses a triumphant snarl. “Shoot!” Loki screams. “Fucking shoot it!” You watch, horrified as the rain of bullets tear into its flesh, chunks of stinking, steaming meat littering the floor by its feet. It doesn’t seem to care, luminous yellow eyes fever bright with bloodlust. The ragged holes in its flesh close almost as instantly as they appear, bone and sinew mending back together as the soldiers scream. You watch as it tears one of their arms out of the socket, its wide jaws frothy with blood and spittle as it crunches through the raw, red meat of it.

“Kill him!” Loki is screaming, the remaining guards flocking to him as the beast, the jackal, tears through the men in the sacrificial circle. “Fucking shoot him!” The carved stone beneath them is slick with blood, the whole room stinks of it, hot copper and fresh meat. Their boots slip against it as they struggle to escape, many of them having fired their entire clips into his unwavering chest.

The words flow from your mouth like electrical current, bypassing your brain as your tongue forms words you’ve never heard before, words that leave your head buzzing and ringing. There’s pressure behind your eyes, in your skull, a full feeling that leaves blood leaking from both your nostrils. The text becomes one word, a single word, and you know the book has changed to meet its maker’s will, the one who speaks through you now, whose clear moonlight burns at your insides and streams out of your mouth as the words singe your tongue.

DEVOUR.

You both feel and do not feel Loki press the cool muzzle of his pistol to the back of your head.

“Stop. Fucking. Reading.” He seethes, pulling back the hammer.

You wouldn’t even if the choice was still yours, but you don’t tell him that. You can’t, not with your throat full of the most ancient of magics. He pulls the trigger, and you feel the bullet burn against your skin—but it does not penetrate. Instead, it falls to the floor at your feet, rolling until it falls down into the gory mess below. He’s behind you, but you can see him anyway—the moon is a mirror, and all mirrors are your eyes—his face ashen, blinking as he fires again, and again, and the bullets all fall uselessly away like pebbles.

“We need to go!” Rumlow is covered in blood, his face bearing the marks of the beast’s displeasure. “Fucking now!” He racks another round into his gun as he barrels up the stairs. Behind him, your monster is making short work of the three remaining guards on the lower floor. “If she wants to stay here and burn her-fucking-self to ashes, let her! There’s always another voice, ain’t that what you said?” Loki nods, casting you a dirty look. “Let’s go!” as it stands there in the pile of steaming gore, it lifts its shaggy head up toward the moon framed in the skylight, and howls.

“We need the fucking book!” He argues. He steps towards you, like he means to pry your fingers from its smoking pages, but he reels back, screaming. A monstrous hand the size of a butterfly net bursts through Rumlow’s bulletproof vest, and somehow you can hear the wet sound of the merc’s body trying to function around the intrusion—a wet, sucking noise—before he drops to the ground, still.

The jackal-thing steps over him. The dark fur around its mouth is flecked with bits of meat, and it runs its tongue along its muzzle in obvious anticipation of more. But instead of advancing on your fleeing captors, it turns to you, fixing you with those terrifying eyes.

COME.

DEVOUR.

COME.

DEVOUR.

The God steps into you as one might shrug on a too small coat, steadily and aggressively working his way into your body, filling you like a helium balloon. The same presence you’d felt when you first touched the book overwhelms you now, and more burning light pours from your eyes as he peers about the room with indisputable anger. The voice that comes from your mouth is not yours, is not human.

It is the sound of sand, of tides, of ages and of cold fire.

“YOU WHO HAVE ABUSED MY POWER.” White fire pours from your lips, dripping down to the floor to pool like liquid. You do not take a step forward, Khonsu does, and the stone cracks beneath your combined weight. “YOU WHO HAVE SLAIN THE INNOCENT. WHO HAVE ENSLAVED THE PRIESTS OF MY HOUSE.” They run then, making for the doors, but neither you, nor Khonsu feel the need to chase them.

It makes no difference.

“YOU WILL BURN.”

You lift your hand, and you feel the jackal’s blood slick fur against your palm as he leaps at your command. The halls are filled with a veritable symphony of pleading and screams as his jaws find them—or you do.

Loki makes it all the way to the vehicles, dragging a broken leg behind him as the two of you follow closely behind. It is more satisfying than you can admit as you wrap your fingers around his throat, his flesh blackening and peeling away as you lift him.

“My hand was forced,” you say, grinning as the realization dawns . “But you will never force it again.”

He doesn’t have vocal chords left to scream with as he burns.

You know it when Loki dies, because you feel all the power go out of you, your body crumpling like a doll. He’s gone, the God, the ancient thing wearing your skin to exact his vengeance. You feel like an empty glove, and you lay there in the sand as the garage burns behind you, smoke curling into the dark night sky. The shape of his presence remains within you, though, and your spirit rushes back in to fill the space.

Exhilarated, giddy exhaustion fills you, hell, you feel like you might even be high. You’re flying, your blood singing with the echoes of the power of ancients, even as you lay there, your body exhausted.

The jackal-thing approaches you, yellow eyes bright as it covers your body with its own. You’re barely clothed now, the signed remains of your tank-top and joggers easy enough to strip off. You feel magnetized, like you have to touch and be touched, like the energy thrumming in your veins needs their help to release. And by the impatient, possessive way the jackal-thing looks at you, you gather they feel much the same.

The beast snuffles at your hair, and then licks at the space above your collarbone, huffing. You whimper when his teeth break skin, arching your back against his chest. There’s a deep rumble that sounds almost like Marc’s laughter before it looses a growl, laving at the blood-sticky skin of your throat.

His tongue laps at the blood between your breasts, and you hiss, your nipples peaking stiffly. You aren’t afraid, not of him—of them. You don’t know that you’re really afraid of anything anymore, not when you have but to speak for the ancient power to fill you like a water balloon.

Claws press at your soft skin, goosebumps rising in their wake as you feel his grip tighten around your waist. He wants you on your belly. You know it instinctively, like the knowledge had come from your own head, and not from elsewhere.

You whine as he pulls away, but you roll over, your hands slipping in the sand. They don’t wait for you to position yourself fully, tugging you back against the creature’s furry hips, it’s sticky, pink cock pressing insistently against your already slick folds. It feels like fireworks are popping off beneath your skin, and you can hardly contain your joy.

They’re dead. Not just dead but punished, and you are free.

Free.

Your mouth opens as he slams inside, the throbbing knot at the base of his cock forces you open even further and you let out a breathy wail. You suppose you should be ashamed, afraid, you should be a lot of things—but what does that even mean, now? Now that you are this? What even are shoulds in the face of what you have weathered?

The jackal-thing looses a pleased growl, rutting into you with sharp, hungry thrusts. They soon punch not only the air from your lungs but the thoughts from your head, your eyes rolling as you fall forward onto your forearms. He bears down on you with singleminded insistence, carving space out from within you that you know you’ll feel later.

“Oh God, oh God, Jake.” You mumble their names amidst streams of nonsense into the crook of your arm as the pleasure condenses into an aching point in your belly. “M-Marc, p-please, I need—S-Steven—” Teeth close around the meat above your collarbone, and you let out a wail that echoes across the dark sand as you cum fitfully. If not for the possessive hands at your hips holding you in place, you’d have fallen flat on your belly onto the sand. Instead, you twitch and whine in his hold as his cock throbs heavily inside your slick, spasming cunt, flooding you with sticky heat. There’s so much of it you can feel it leaking out of the place where you’re joined, dripping down the backs of your thighs.

When you try to move, the jackal-thing growls at you, and you resolve to stay still, at least for a little while. You can feel it’s tongue move against the wound, laving it slowly, lovingly. He pulls out of you, and there’s a sickening crack as his body begins to revert again. You sit gingerly on the remains of your joggers and close your eyes as you wait for silence.

You hate this part—you know it hurts.

Soon, though, there is skin pressed against your back instead of wiry fur, and when you venture a glance over your shoulder, Steven looks back at you, bloody and exhausted.

“Hello, Love.”

—

You know you’re grinding blood and viscera into the luxurious white carpet as you enter Loki’s rooms, but the mess only brings you a giddy sort of satisfaction. There is so much blood—so many bodies. You’d stopped counting Loki’s sacrifices, and you find yourself wondering if the bodies number the same—if somehow they cancel one another out. Part of you hopes they do, that the scales will at least be balanced, if not weighted in your favor. But there is another part of you, a new part—but somehow ancient at the same time—whispers dark words of reassurance that you can barely discern from the background noise of your own thoughts.

They deserved it. Vile murderers, usurpers—

Their deaths were too merciful.

The suite looks like something out of a magazine, like a five-star hotel come to the goddamn desert. There’s even air-conditioning. He had lived above you in luxury for months—you don’t even know how long, not really—while only floors below the two of you had been kept in terror and squalor.

It would have been laughable if you hadn’t had to live through it yourself.

It doesn’t occur to you that you’re destroying things until the first bottle of expensive cologne becomes victim to your cold, unthinking rage as you grab it off of the dressing table and lob it into the mirror. You watch the pieces of glass burst and shatter into uncountable fragments. For a moment, you see your own bloody face reflected back at you before it crumbles. It’s unbelievably satisfying. So much so that you pick up something else—a watch, a fucking rolex—and hurl that too. Golden springs roll away underneath the dresser as the pieces shoot off in all directions

Steven doesn’t say anything as you grab the heavy looking table-clock too, and beat it into pieces against the table’s surface.

You stand there, panting in the aftermath of your rage, a trail of destruction leading across the room. Steven pulls you into a tight embrace, and you sob into his chest, openmouthed and wailing. You had watched as the beast had slaughtered everyone—and and it was right to do it. As somehow, it—they?—had kept every promise made.

Mikhail’s ruined throat, the beast feeding you warm, slick pieces of Loki’s beating heart—

So why aren’t you whole yet? Why do you still feel like a piece of you has been carved out, lost forever? Replaced with something ancient? Unknowable? You cling to Steven, terrified that if you loose grip on him, you’ll loose your tenuous hold on reality. He lets you cry, stroking your head and mumbling soft affirmations into your hair until you’re only sniffling, instead of sobbing brokenly against his skin. When you’re ready to, you pull away, and rub the back of your bloody hand across your face.

He tucks a finger under your chin, those big, dark eyes of his swirling with emotions you cannot hope to name.

“Let’s get cleaned up, shall we?” He asks with a weak smile. “Can’t go back to civilization looking like we killed people.”

“We did,” you say, looking down at the dried blood staining your palms. There is a soft voice that curls up like smoke from the darkness at the edges of your thoughts, sounding so much like your own that you aren’t entirely sure it isn’t you thinking it—They deserved it. They deserved justice.

Steven’s smile falters. “They would have killed us, Love.”

“I—I know. I know. They deserved it.” Your fingers curl into righteous fists. You remember the hail of bullets at the dig-site, every screaming, pleading person Loki forced down the beast’s throat, and those thoughts curdle the self doubt sitting in your belly. The God’s booming voice echoes in your memories.

UNWORTHY. USURPERS. KILL THEM ALL.

“They deserved it.”

You explore Loki’s bedroom, the press of a button unlocking an equally luxurious bathroom. You’re stripping before you realize it, the ragged, dirty clothes you’d been wearing discarded on the tile floor. The water is hot as soon as you turn it on, and when you step gratefully under the spray, you nearly begin to cry again. You haven’t bathed properly in months—you don’t even know how long you’ve been here. Steven steps in behind you, and the two of you stand beneath the rainfall shower head, watching red swirl down the drain.

Steven takes such care with you, you almost worry he thinks you’ll break, shampooing your hair, detangling the thick curls with his fingers. You relax against him, the muscular planes of his chest pressed against your back. He rinses the suds from your hair and skin, cupping water over your head. You let him.

As the ash and blood wash from your skin, you discover new scars, ones you could not even hope to notice in the dim light of your cell. It’s like you’re rediscovering yourself, relearning what you look like, who you even are. You feel like a different person now, than the one who’d been brought here, her head bagged, wrists zip-tied—

No, you are someone else now, someone else entirely.

Steven cups water over the bite mark on your shoulder, and you hiss at the sting of it. He doesn’t stop though, pressing an apologetic kiss to the skin between your shoulder blades as he cleans your wound.

“Made a right mess of you, he did,” Steven replies. “Eager bastard.”

“Well, it’s not like he can kiss me,” you say, and Steven laughs.

“I-I think I can fix that,” he says, his voice thick with sweet, eager confidence. You fear for an instant that some spark of the earlier fire still remains inside of you, but as Steven caresses the curve of your jaw lovingly, you do not feel the all consuming fire—you just feel him.

He presses kiss after kiss to your lips until they’re parted and swollen from his attentions, his firm hand on your chin holding your head steady as he works. Steven only stops when you’re dizzy and panting, fingers scrabbling against his slick skin as you try to hold onto him. He pulls you down onto his lap on the shower bench, groaning as his cock presses against your cunt.

“F-fuck, Steven,” the words are gasped against his throat as your fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders. “God-!” He holds your hips steady, the two of you rocking against each other. How does this feel more intimate than when he’s actually inside you, his cock sliding through your slick folds with audible noise, his other hand tangled in the curls at the nape of your neck with his face pressed to the side of your throat. You’re eager for more contact—desperate for it, even, but he keeps the pace frustratingly slow and steady.

“Used to dream about when we’d get t’do this—patience, Love—with no one bloody watching.” Steven rocks his hips into yours, and you pressing sloppy, needy kisses of your own against the skin of his neck and shoulders, and you feel his hips buck against you as he chuckles.

“Fuck, you little minx.” He grips your wrists behind your back with one large hand, forcing you to arch against him. He groans before leaning down to tug one of your nipples between his teeth. ”Fine pair we make.”

“Oh yeah?” You ask, fighting to keep the words even as he wraps his lips around the other nipple, and your toes curl. “And what pair is that?” Steven releases you with a pop, and then releases you so he can squeeze your breasts together, admiring your swollen, puffy nipples.

“The voice and the vengeance, of course,” he says, pressing another kiss to the skin between your breasts. You moan and shiver as the leaking head of his cock pushes hard against your entrance, your clit rubbing deliciously against the base. He teases the both of you, pressing until his head’s almost inside, and then pulling away again until you’re panting, hips straining uselessly against his firm hold.

“Steven please,” you whine his name pathetically. “I-I want to cum—!” Steven nods at you, his face the perfect picture of understanding.

“I know, Sweetheart. I know you do. A-and you’re gonna, I promise. As soon as I think you’re ready, m’gonna let you cum. Can’t force things—he was rather…” He pauses, like he’s searching for the right word. “Rough with you earlier.” You know you should appreciate Steven’s consideration, his mindfulness of the fact that you’d already them lay claim to your body—your shoulder still bears the stinging bite mark the jackal had left on you. Instead, you let out a frustrated whine at his words, attempting to force yourself down onto his cock. Steven clucks his tongue at you, before pausing, and then he chuckles.

“Marc says we should make you wait extra long for that.” He lifts your hips easily despite your efforts, moving you back and forth across his tip. He lowers you just enough that the head of his cock pops inside, and you mewl, clenching down around him. “But since you feel so fucking good inside, I’m not gonna do that.”

Steven’s head lolls back against the tile and he thrusts shallowly, teeth sinking into his lip before he pulls you off again. This time, he guides you to the bench before sinking to his knees on the floor of the shower. Steven spreads your legs wide, tugging you to the edge before kissing you.

“Let me make you feel good,” Steven mumbles against your mouth. “Wanna make you feel good, Love.” He trails wet, sloppy kisses down the side of your jaw and between your breasts, mumbling praises against your wet skin. “So fuckin’ beautiful,” Steven sighs, pressing another to the skin above your cunt. “So perfect.” You whine as he peels your thighs apart, tossing your legs over his shoulders.

“You don’t have to be quiet anymore, Love,” he says, glorying in the shrill whine you loose as he drags his finger through your folds. “So let’t hear it.” Where Jake and Marc are hungry, eager, Steven is diligent. Methodical. He sucks on your clit, working his tongue against it with slow, deep strokes that leave you gasping, your thighs clenching around his curly head.

“God, fuck, Steven,” sentences are a chore to form, so single words have to suffice as you tangle your fingers in his hair just as his own circle your entrance deliciously. Your hips undulate against his face, your eyes closed. The orgasm takes you by surprise, your thighs trembling as pleas, praise and curses all fall from your lips in equal measure, and you aren’t sure which ones you mean.

“Fuck, yes Steven, feels so good, fuck-fuck-fuck, please—” You’re a simpering, weak-limbed mess when he finally releases you, your legs like jelly. It takes little maneuvering to get you back into his lap again, and this time, Steven wastes no time. He positions you above his cock before dropping you down, letting gravity help him fill you. It punches the air from your lungs in a sharp exhale.

You can barely focus on breathing though, not when he feels like this inside of you. The fullness is delicious, leaving you gasping when he repeats the motion, lifting you until his head’s almost out, and then dropping you back down again, but still desperate for more. More that Steven wants to give you, more that you don’t know you can take, but that you’re more than willing to try. Your cup runneth-the-fuck-over with pleasure, throbbing on every nerve ending, choking out every other thought.

“Oh, Love,” he groans, rolling his hips into yours. “There it is.” Steven’s hips buck against yours; short, teasing thrusts that stimulate, but don’t fulfill. Finally, he sheathes himself in you to the hilt, his hips bucking softly against you like he’s looking for more space inside where there is none. The mark from where they’d bitten you as the jackal is still there, humming with power. Steven laves his tongue against it, moaning, savoring the coppery taste of your blood on his tongue.

“God,” Steven gasps against your skin, holding you close and tight, curving his hips up into yours with increasingly desperate thrusts. “F-fuck, you’ve no idea—” You’re not sure if he’s sputtering out a response to Marc or Jake, but you don’t really have the spare capacity to consider it. Not when Steven is whispering feverish praise and promises into the curve of your throat, and then making good on them with every thrust.

“Feels s-so good , fuck, want you to cum on my cock—!” He’s almost as bad as you, mumbling possessive nonsense as he slots his teeth into the marks the beast left behind. Briefly it occurs to you that he shouldn’t be able to, but then Steven grinds his thumb against your clit and the electricity of it makes you think pointedly of other things. Like the way his body feels against yours, and you’re close, so fucking close—Your knees tighten around his hips, digging into his sides but he doesn’t seem to notice, or care.

With a whine and a shudder, you go boneless in Steven’s arms, your eyes rolling as the fireworks become bombs, become supernovas, and your cunt clamps down around his throbbing cock like a slick, wet fist. Steven kisses you, and you taste your own blood on his lips as he slams you back down, holding your hips still and in place as he cums too.

“Mmm, yeah, mmmfuck,” his head is leaned back against the tile, curls plastered against his skull from the water. Steven stares unseeingly at the shower head above you, holding you tucked against his chest as he fills you. You rest your head against his chest, your own heaving.

Steven finally releases his death grip on your hips in favor of drawing shapes against the skin of your back. You’re not eager to move and neither is he, keeping you caged comfortably against his chest. There are scars here too, old ones, healed over and almost gone, new ones, fresh, pink wounds you know will leave still more.

You catalogue them, listing each one as your fingers travel across his skin. Chest. Stomach. Forearm. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, not really, not until you feel Steven’s lips curve against your hair.

“What’re you doing, Love?”

What am I doing?

You remain silent and thoughtful as Steven helps you off of him, murmuring assent when he asks if he can clean you off. It’s not until you’re getting out of the shower, watching him toweling off, counting the scars on his back—that you realize.

“I’m cataloguing.” You say, laying a hand on his back. Steven jumps.

“What?”

“I’m counting them. Your scars.” You lick your lips. You know you can’t take them away, you can’t erase them—but you can avenge them. Loki’s network is vast—your lips curl into a small smile. Was vast. Now it is rudderless, a snake without a head. You will dispose of the rest of it. The dark fury in your head feels righteous, and when your eyes meet Steven’s, they are bright with the same.

“I want to pay them back.”

fin

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