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The fog had thinned to little more than a light mist, and the sun was streaming through the treetops in golden pillars, but the woods felt more threatening to Magerold than they had before. He was not afraid of such terrain normally, dense forests being common by the beaches of Lanafir, but there was an eerie quality to the air here that he could not dismiss. As he trekked through the underbrush, his eyes darted about, caught by every shadow or twisted knot of a tree trunk that even vaguely resembled a face. He was armed, of course – any traveler through Drangleic must be, no matter where they trod – but his skills with a scythe would be hampered some by his heavy baggage. Exploration was a dangerous passion for one such as himself, but Magerold could not find it within his heart to give it up. So, traveling merchant he remained, through thick and thin.
He had been told a settlement was not too far through the wood, hence his path through this uninviting place, but it seemed he had either been misled or had gotten lost, because he had been told that two days prior. Magerold was not sure whether to hope for the former or latter. While not adverse to traveling long distances with his wares, the creeping discomfort that had ridden his back as he walked seemed to make his pack heavier. He wanted to find any sign of civilization, old or new, just to be reassured that life could have at one point existed here, but so far it had been nothing but trees and fog and the occasional cliff side that opened up so suddenly beneath his feet that he’d nearly taken a fatal tumble more than once.
At what he estimated to be midday, Magerold stopped for a break. Being Undead, he didn’t need sleep, but his muscles still had their limits. He’d found a little alcove on a hill that the fog didn’t touch, one with a nice steep rock face behind him that he could rest against safely. Offloading his pack, and the various bags he’d haphazardly strapped together about his person, Magerold tucked himself as far into the shadows as possible and closed his eyes. Just for a minute, he told himself. He’d be out of here soon. Then he could really relax.
The man who entered the clearing some short time later did nothing to mask his footfalls, a testament to how quickly and how deeply Magerold had entered sleep. Anxiety is a difficult emotion to keep up with, and powering through had exhausted everything he had. He only snapped back to consciousness when the feeling of eyes upon his person began to prickle the flesh down his back.
“Well, well, what have we got here?”
Magerold started back, forgetting the rock wall, banging his skull hard enough for lights to blink behind his vision. The newcomer leaned over him casually brandishing a blood encrusted ax, blocking his exit entirely. It was the worst potential thing he could think of to wake up to, cartoonishly so. For a moment, Magerold wasn’t even quite convinced he was awake, because the man seemed like something straight out of a nightmare. He was assured of the reality of the situation fast enough, however, when the stranger kicked at his gut.
“Oi, I’m talkin’ to you.”
He scrambled upright, trying to scoop up his belongings, failing in every respect. The man chuckled darkly, a hand shooting out to grab Magerold by the front of his tunic.
“Now, is that any way to treat someone? Runnin’ away when he says hello?”
Generally the type to give the benefit of the doubt to a man, Magerold had no illusions about the character of this one. He kicked the stranger squarely between the legs and ran. He left his things; he would return for them later, if he could. Maybe that was all the man wanted, and he would take his spoils and bugger off. Magerold somehow doubted it. He didn’t look like a thief, with all that heavy, loud chain maille, and that great bloody ax. A thief would have been preferable, because Magerold was used to those. He would have stood his ground more firmly, had that been the case, taken his time to pull a dagger or, Gwyn be willing, his scythe, while they had gone on with that your money or your life business, and while thieves could be nasty fellows themselves the man had clearly not wanted to just outright murder him or he would have been dead before he woke.
It didn’t matter that he had been near asleep on his feet not so long ago – Magerold flew through the woods as if on the wings of a bird. He didn’t know where he was going, but he was keen to remember where he had been, every rock, tree, and odd patch of moss branding itself into his memories as he darted between the foliage on long, lean legs. He would lose the man, then double back for his merchandise, and get out of this nasty damp forest quick as a whip. He’d escaped from worse before, from bigger monsters, mobs of the hollowed, back flipping bandits and the like, and it had never stopped him from pursuing his goal of exploration and adventure.
He hadn’t removed all the belts and bobbles on his person before his impromptu nap, and they whipped about in a staccato drumbeat against his body. He was going to be bruised and winded after this one. That was the last thought he had as he hung a sharp corner and the stranger hurled into him. It was no accidental collision, the man having pounced like a fox, like the mighty lion god they worshiped in these parts, and they rolled in the moss before he came out on top, pushing Magerold down into the earth with such violent force he thought he might be crushed.
“Gotcha, ya slippery little rabbit!”
He laughed, loud and manic. Magerold shrunk back, coughing horribly. He had been running full speed, and the other man was solid and sharp. Everything hurt. He could hardly draw breath without crying out.
“Get-get off me!”
They grappled, Magerold landing a few pitiful blows to his chest before the man grabbed his wrists. He attempted to again knee him in the privates, but the first time had been all the lesson needed to prepare his attackerand he twisted his hips to the side easily, using his own leg to pin Magerold further.
“Not this time,” he said, still breathless and mirthful, “I got you now. Tha’s right, I got you good.”
“What do you want?”
Magerold went limp. He hadn’t given up, but he certainly wasn’t going to waste all his energy on what was clearly a fruitless effort. They weren’t just going to lay here eternally, surely, so it was only a matter of waiting until he had an opening again. Running hadn’t worked the first time, but that could have been due to any number of factors. Given how little he knew of these woods, he may have even gotten himself turned around and run right back to the pursuer. That’s what he told himself, at least. He’d do better next time.
The man eyed him over. He was no less terrifying up close. Most Undead chose to cover their faces, something Magerold was used to and did not distrust, but the mask which closed over the stranger’s nose and mouth was wicked looking, almost like the muzzle of a dog, and scored deeply by battle. His eyes were clearly visible though, drooping and blue as the morning sky. Blue was a crafty color, a color of intelligence, but Magerold could not read these eyes, nor had any insight into what lay behind them. Bright as they were, they had a vague fog within them, as if the stranger were not quite seeing what lay before him as it was. Rather than answer his question, he sat back, not yet relinquishing Magerold’s wrists.
“If you move a hair, I’ll gut ya like a fish.”
Magerold winced. He believed it. That big ax was strapped across his back like it weighed nothing. Even when he was let go, he kept his arms still, stiff with fear, and watched as the man reached into his skirts for something.
“Roll over.”
It was rope. That was worse than anything Magerold could have imagined.
“Oh, no,” he stuttered, almost laughing in discomfort, “oh, please don’t! I don’t have anything for you, I promise!”
“Shut up.”
Seeing that Magerold was not cooperating, the man grabbed him by the throat. Magerold panicked, immediately going to try and pry him off, and the distraction was used against him as his attacker stood up enough to forcefully maneuver Magerold onto his side as requested. The opportunities for a sneak attack were quickly shrinking away, and Magerold lost any sense of patience he’d possessed, beginning to fight back in earnest.
“No! Don’t do this! I’m not worth anything, I have nothing for you! Don’t!”
Even as he beat his fists at the man, tore into his gloves, he was forced fully onto his stomach. He tried to hide his hands beneath himself, but one after the other they were pried out from under him, a knee sharply dug into the base of his spine to keep him pinned. It was a skilled capture, practiced, something which only lent itself to the terror building in Magerold’s chest. Whatever he was being abducted for, he was not the first to have been subjected to it. The rope knotted his hands behind his back with a few quick tugs, and the work was good, if his failed attempts at finding any leeway immediately after wereany proof. It was coarse rope, itching and biting at his skin.
“Please,” he begged, “please, sir, I don’t know what you want!”
“Get up.”
The order left no time to be obeyed, as he was dragged upright the moment it was issued. This man was strong, stronger than he looked. He was dressed like a knight, but Magerold could not tell from where. His accent was thick and unfamiliar. He wracked his brains for some story he’d been told along his journey, some tidbit he could manage to try and find common ground on with the brute to maybe soften his heart a little, but there was nothing, and even if there had been he likely wouldn't have been able to locate it inside his mind at the moment as every thought he had whirled about madly.
Without another word the man began to direct him forward, deeper into the underbrush, and on quaking legs Magerold complied. In the strange way of fear, he could hardly feel his body at times, and then all sensations would rush into him like a wave, nearly knocking him to his knees. If it weren’t for the constant prodding at his back from his captor, he was not sure he would have even been able to walk, and for a little while he felt as if he were not really there, like this was a dream or a vision and he was watching someone else be forced along the unmarked path between the bushes and trees that only the man seemed to know. The disassociation did not last, though, and soon enough Magerold was back to nervously chattering.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked, stumbling over his feet in his terror.
“Shuddup!”
The man pushed him hard, and Magerold tripped and fell onto his knees in the mud. Before he could even attempt to stand by himself, he was grabbed by the shoulder and hoisted back onto his feet roughly, urged on ahead.
“Please, I don’t have anything of worth to ya, I promise!”
He knew he should really have just acquiesced, quietly, but he couldn't help himself. Instead of telling him off again, this time the man punched the back of his head, holding him up with his other arm so he wouldn't tumble a second time. Magerold choked on his tongue, sputtering, shocked tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
“I said shut it!”
The man pushed him again so hard he fell flat on his face in the dirt. Magerold quickly rolled onto his back, trying to keep the madman in his sight at all times, only to be startled by how close he was. The area they were in was darker, the wood having grown close, and now he looked more like a monster than ever, the tattered hanging cape about his shoulders draped his body in shadow. He crouched over Magerold, getting right up to his face, and Magerold flinched away, but he went for his neck instead, pressing in close. Magerold could feel the cold metal even through his hood. The man was panting, and Magerold realized he was being smelled, like a beast at its kill.
He pushed in closer srill, laying atop Magerold. It was an odd and vulnerable position, though he could not take advantage of it to escape. Wherever they had been going was forgotten, their circumstance changing the stranger’s mood from hurried to something worse still. The man’s maille was heavy and cold. He snuffled and wheezed against Magerold’s neck, the white curls of his hair tickling where they touched. Reaching between them, he began to shift a bit, grunting gruffly, and Magerold could not see what he was doing but he could feel the weight of his body changing.
“Please, please don’t.”
He did not know what he was begging mercy from. He did not know what the man wanted, not until he pressed his hips down again, now without the pinch of his hauberk between them, and Magerold felt the hot shape of a cock along his thigh.
“Oh, no,” he stammered, shaking his head, “no, no! Please, if, if ya just let me go, I can-!”
“Quiet!”
Growling, the man wrapped his arms tight around Magerold, keeping him as still as possible.
“I dun wanna hear nuthin’ out of you, got it?”
He didn’t wait for a response. With his face pressed into Magerold’s neck, the man began to slowly, gently rock against him, his erection pressing needily into his clothed thigh. Magerold couldn’t see it, but it felt as if he were still covered as well, humping into him dry. Frozen with fear, his mind raced, yet seemed unable to focus on anything long enough to make sense of it. Whether this was a cruel joke, or the build up to something worse, his stomach was rolling. He could have let them man fuck him, if he wanted. Certainly, he was not excited by the idea, but it would have saved him the terror of their chase, and the uncertain outcome of having been tied up, far from his precious collection, sick with worry.
Magerold had enjoyed heavy petting before. In uncertain times, or unsafe places, it could serve as a quick way to express an affection to someone, or to relieve hot blood, serve as prelude to a more intimate conclusion. It had never been like this, fevered and aggressive, the one sided desperation of his captor almost pathetic, if it weren't for how terrifying it was. His breath was wet along Magerold’s neck, whining, his arms squeezing around him hard enough that they quivered. He did not have the wherewithal to question what series of lifelong traumas had led to this, what events had created the need this man had for crushing him to the floor, dominating him totally in strength and ferocity, but simultaneously reduced to a squirming, wretched display. All his mind could do was grasp at fragmented thoughts, pulling up anything to keep him from the fear of his current situation. The safety of his left behind things, and how he would find them again. The smile of his last lover, and how different it had felt. The way precum was leaking through the man’s braies and onto his leggings, and how it would leave a stain.
The man was fully hard, but he rubbed himself slowly, hips flexing in uneven, shaking thrusts. His chain maille rang against itself as he humped at Magerold, the loudest sound in the world in the otherwise silent clearing, only beat out by the man’s hissing breaths. He could feel him pulsing against his leg, and Magerold begged that that was a sign this would end soon, that this strange encounter would be completed when the man was, nothing more than an embarrassing and unsettling memory he could laugh about later in the arms of someone he trusted.
Then the man jerked upright, fully alert. Magerold hadn’t heard anything, but he hadn’t been listening, and he was so startled he let out a little cry, which went ignored. The man was looking directly in front of himself, and in his panic Magerold attempted to follow his gaze, awkwardly craning his neck backwards. It was another man, from what little he could glimpse. His eyes were hazy, maybe from the angle, maybe from the way they were watering. The figure crouched on a little hillock above them, though only by a few feet, barely more than a patch of dirt eroded to resemble a hill more than be one, in dark brown leather and silver plate, carrying a long spear. There was a shield of some sort strapped to his back, very large and heavy looking, but he seemed unencumbered, smiling pleasantly down at the two of them.
“What have you got there?” the newcomer said. Magerold gaped, mind racing.
“I caught myself a scared little rabbit, I did.”
His attacker looked up at the other man, eyes crinkling at the corners. The second stood on the ledge and gracefully slid down the dirt on his heels, landing a few feet away from them in a little cloud of dust and leaves.
“So I see,” he smiled calmly, looking down at Magerold with lazy, dark eyes.
“Do you intend to eat him all by yourself?”
“Haw!”
The man in chain maille barked out a laugh, clearly unafraid. Magerold’s worst fears were confirmed – they were in collaboration.
“I might skin ‘im, when we’re done. Might make a nice little stew. Yeah, boil you right up.”
He looked back down at Magerold, shaking him a bit where he grasped him, and Magerold whimpered in terror.
“P-please, auh, just, just let me go!”
The second man squatted down along side them, looking down into Magerold’s face curiously. He had a plain complexion, tipping into the realm of handsome. His eyes were soft and drooping, but intelligent, his pouting lips in a relaxed, amiable smile. What elevated him above common, however, was the way he seemed to exude peace, like the portrait of an angel, innocent and kind. It disturbed Magerold to look at him so closely, in the situation he was in.
“Poor little thing, aren't you?”
Magerold twitched as a gloved hand came to push some of his hair, which had been worked loose of his cap in the struggle, out of his eyes, so that his face was properly revealed.
“Looks like Creighton gave you a right scare, didn't he?”
Magerold’s eyes darted between them, throat dry.
“Please,” he said again, only managing a hoarse whisper, “you, you don’t need to hurt me!”
“Oh,” said the new man, “I know that, little rabbit, I do.”
Then his hand turned, gripping the strands of Magerold’s hair he had been stroking and tugging his head up by them harshly, causing him to cry out.
“That’s why it’s so fun.”
“Pate,” growled the other, Creighton, “I found ‘im first!”
“You did,” said Pate, “and you brought him right back here to me, like a good hound. Don’t give me that look, I won’t take him from you. I know better than to get between you and your prey.”
He dropped Magerold, whose head fell back to the dirt with a painful thud. They were crazed, the both of them, monsters. His heart was beating so quickly he thought it might escape his breast. Creighton was still hard against his thigh, and as he sat there, hyperventilating, he began to move again, dragging his clothed cock along his leggings.
“You’re a cute one, aren’t you?”
Magerold’s eyes could not pick one of them to land on, so he squeezed them shut.
“Please,” he begged, “I didn’t do anythin’ to no one!”
Then he reeled back, mouth wide with shock, Pate having slapped him across the face.
“Don’t look away.”
Pate’s voice was smooth as silk. Magerold obeyed, unintentionally, too stunned to do anything but stare up into his black eyes. As if nothing had happened, as if his associate was not currently curled over him like an animal, humping him dry, Pate continued.
“Where are you from, little rabbit?”
Stammering, Magerold licked his lips, tasting blood. He must have bit himself.
“L-Lanafir.”
“Lanafir?”
Pate hummed lightly, stroking along the cheek he had struck. The cold leather of his glove stung against the skin, something he was wearing biting at Magerold.
“I believe I’ve heard of it, once. Very closed off, isn't it?”
Magerold was unsure if he was meant to answer that, so he remained silent. Pate continued to pet him, arranging his hair, soothing him down. Several times his thumb strayed uncomfortably close to Magerold’s eye, so close he blinked in reflex, his lashes catching against it.
“How long have you been in Drangleic, then? Clearly not long enough, if you let yourself get trapped by this one.”
It sounded like an intentional jab at his compatriot, but Creighton did not react, lost in his own world. Magerold remained perfectly still, the metal thing on Pate’s finger tracing his cheekbones like the point of a needle.
“I'm not sure,” he swallowed thickly, “not more than a few years, surely. I, I’m only here to see things, treasures.”
That felt like a mistake to admit, so he quickly continued.
“Not- not that I have treasure on me, I’m not in it for the money, really. I just like things, you see, I like understanding where they came from, what they meant to people.”
Pate’s thumb pressed against his lip, rubbing the skin gently. Frightened into silence again, Magerold could only sit there, wide eyed, and hope for the best. Pate’s smile widened.
“A treasure hunter? Oh, what a coincidence! My associate and I too travel this land in search for rare and wonderful things, don't we?”
Creighton grunted.
“Yes, we’ve been all over this cursed borough, finding what is left to be had. Of course, that is the lovely thing about legends, isn't it? No matter how many times the vultures pick over these dry bones, fresh meat is always drawn in by the carnage, eager for a piece.”
He patted Magerold’s cheek firmly. Whatever had been scraping him finally cut hard enough to draw blood.
“They never expect to become part of the meal themselves.”
He rocked back on his heels. Magerold caught the dulled glimmer of his own ichor along Pate’s finger, only a few drops, but enough to ornament the ring he wore like jewels. A cruel little thing, all spikes, worn on Pate’s finger like a wedding band.
“Creighton,” he addressed his comrade directly, “wouldn't you rather enjoy our new friend to his fullest potential?”
The thrusting paused. Creighton looked up at Pate, unmoving.
“Surely, you’d find yourself much more comfortable inside a nice, warm body, hm?”
“Please, no!”
Magerold squirmed in place, stirred back to life from his stupor. Neither Pate nor Creighton acknowledged him at all, making long, wordless eye contact. Creighton shifted.
“What are you thinkin, then?”
“Come on, let’s unwrap your pretty toy.”
Magerold’s eyes bulged.
“Just a minute-!”
Creighton jumped up with a ferocity Magerold had forgotten he possessed and punched him in the nose. He yelped in pain, blood immediately bursting out across his chin and cheeks. With the weight off him, Magerold rolled to the side, uselessly straining his hands to escape, hiding his face in the grass as he whimpered and spat. Creighton, bow legged around his erection, brayed out a laugh and nudged into Pate roughly.
“Lookit ‘im, wailin like a babe! I didn’t even break it!”
He kicked at Magerold’s back, hitting his bound wrists instead. Magerold moaned painfully.
“Now, now,” came Pate’s dulcet tones, “don’t rough him up too much.”
“He just won’t shut it! I already told ‘im to keep it down.”
“Perhaps, but I happen to rather enjoy it when they scream.”
They were going to kill him, torture him, Magerold was sure of it. He tried to worm away in the mud, sniffling through the clotting blood as his tears washed clear lines down his cheeks. They let him crawl, dragging all the precious trinkets belted to his tunic in the muck, laughing, and then in just a single, easy stride, Pate was again at his shoulder, squatting down and grabbing Magerold’s hood.
“Where do you think you’re going, hm?”
“Please, I don't want to die again!”
Pate pulled his hood back, letting his messy crop of hair fall free. At the same time he brought a knee down on the small of Magerold’s back, not painfully, just enough to pin him there.
“Then you had better behave.”
He leaned down to say this, so that his plush lips kissed at his skin with each syllable. Magerold had many small golden rings pierced through his ear, including a large cuff on his left that connected to the chain of his monocle, which now hung useless and cracked below. Pate seemed very interested in them, because next he licked along the lobe, and up, flicking against them one by one. Hands blundered under his tunic and began to search out his waistband, and Magerold tried to kick them away.
“Please!”
“What did I say?”
Creighton’s gauntlets were still cold, and Magerold jumped when it brushed against his quickly bared buttocks. Though he knew he could not fight back, and fear dominated him above all else, indignation swelled in his breast.
“You’re rotten, both of ya! How can you, how could you-!”
Pate’s teeth closed around one of the rings and pulled. jerking away on instinct and it only made the sharp pain worse. He cried and tried to beg, but before he could formulate words Pate twisted his neck and ripped the earring out of the shell of his ear. Magerold screamed.
“Ouh, now ‘es really crying!”
Creighton guffawed, slapping a hand on his thigh loudly. Pate grinned at him, gently plucking the prize from between his teeth and pocketing it.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” he chided, cupping Magerold’s chin, “you have plenty more.”
“Oh,” Magerold wept, “oh Lord!” but he did not try to escape again.
They managed to shimmy his leggings down to about mid thigh, which was all that they needed to get a full view of his backside. Pate grasped one of his buttocks and pulled him apart, enough to see his hole, even with his thighs pressed together. He lay there, unmoving, trying to breathe through his mouth because his nose was clogged, weeping and choking. Maybe they wouldn't hurt him so much if he stayed good and quiet for them. Maybe he would survive this if he just let them do what they wanted.
“What a whorish ass,” Pate mused, “though I suppose I should have expected as much.”
He continued to massage and squeeze what little meat Magerold’s buttock had, pulling it back, slapping it lightly to watch it spring in place. He could hear Creighton just sitting there, panting like a waiting dog. Having been so vicious before, it was disconcerting for him to now be complacent, letting Pate take the lead. If he’d seen them in the streets, Magerold would have taken Creighton for the more dangerous of the two. It was terribly frightening to wonder what Pate had done to earn such courtesy from him. Back in Lanafir, men had always been open with their intentions, he had thought. Perhaps he had simply been too stupid to see it.
Having removed a glove, Pate was rubbing his fingers between Magerold’s buttocks now, circling his hole teasingly.
“There, that’s much better, isn't it?”
When Magerold did not reply, Pate dipped two of his fingers inside, not deeply, stirring him around as the body beneath him tensed increasingly.
“Isn't it?”
Magerold coughed, Pate’s knee in his spine digging in harshly.
“Y-yea!”
Flicking his unlubricated fingers about, Pate scissored his hole open. Magerold was not unused to penetration, and even though he had not lain with another in a while now his body relaxed and spread quickly, as if trained. Every part of him was clenched tightly in fear, but his ass welcomed Pate inside, cold and cruel as he was, with little resistance. He wished he had his hands free, simply to hold on to something, give him some sort of stimuli besides the discomfort. Blood was clotting in the light whiskers on his chin, and it itched. He wondered if his belongings were alright, where they lay scattered back along the forest floor. Pate’s knuckles blundered over his prostate and he had to bite back a whimper.
“Now that you’re being a good boy, maybe we should reward you.”
Cold bloomed in his chest. Magerold tried to look over his shoulder at them, blocked by his own decorative pauldron. Pate was still twisting his hole about, but at a slow, thoughtful pace, as if this were only the pantomime of a rape. Looking to Creighton, Pate jerked his chin back, indicating something Magerold could only guess at. The shifting of chain made him cringe immediately after, but Creighton didn't touch him, instead grabbing something out of one of the bags on Pate’s back.
“Which one?”
Pate hummed, screwing his fingers in just that much deeper. Magerold was beginning to feel the burn of his dry leather gloves more acutely than the throbbing in his face.
“The vine balm,” he said. There was a pause, and then Pate sighed long-sufferingly, and reiterated more clearly, “the purple one.”
A moment later he turned, never once removing his fingers from their work, and leaned over so that Magerold could see him more clearly, his free hand producing a little bottle of, indeed, purple liquid.
“Do you know what this is?”
Having traveled all over this land, Magerold had seen a great many things that the fluid could be, but he was far too timid at the moment to venture a guess. Swallowing an uncomfortable amount of blood, he shook his head. Pate chuckled.
“Well, let’s just say it will add a little vigor to your blood.”
“Wha-whaddaya mean?”
But Pate was not in an answering mood, already turned back to his ass, and a moment later Magerold jumped at the cool touch of liquid being poured down the crack of his buttocks. It slid between Pate’s fingers and into his open asshole, worked in quickly as Pate continued to thrust into him. While he could feel nothing odd about the lubrication, its fragrance was immediately noticeable, even through his bloodied nostrils. Not quite sweet, but floral in nature, and oddly invigorating. His heart was already pounding in terror, but another zing lit up his veins along side it, as if he were injected with a shot of adrenaline. There was nothing he could do with the feeling, though, no way to expend it that would not result in more pain. All he could do was quiver as his mind raced, and Pate plunged deeper still inside him.
The discomfort had barely begun to abate under the new wetness when Pate withdrew.
“There, that looks lovely, don't you think?”
He was again addressing Creighton, and Magerold had to bite his tongue to keep from responding himself. He was not nearly prepared enough. He could never be, not for this. Creighton growled something, shifting. Pate’s knee left his back and Magerold gasped for breath, free from the pressure.
“Up.”
That was the only warning he got. Immediately after, Pate shoved his fingers back inside him, all the way to the knuckle, hooking them around and yanking. Magerold yelped, kicking out.
“What-! I-!”
Instead of clarifying, Pate continued to tug. Magerold flailed, his asshole burning as it was stretched hard. He managed to tuck his knees enough to push himself up in the direction he was pulled, until his ass was up in the air to their liking.
“Auh, look at this!”
Creighton’s gravelly shout took him by surprise, especially when a hand was thrust between his thighs, grabbing his balls harshly.
“’Es got ‘em down here, too!”
He was referring to the short line of rings Magerold had pierced through his perineum. Pate made a sound of interest, and then Creighton had hooked a finger through one, tugging on it just enough to hurt. Magerold cowered, his ear stinging anew.
“P-please, don't!”
“What a masochist one must be to subject themself to such a thing,” said Pate. He wasn’t. It had been a bit painful, yes, but it had been a good night out with his friends, in a place he felt safe, and he had been very drunk.
“I’d imagine you’d go to great lengths to keep such delicate handiwork intact.”
“What do you want?”
Pate tapped at Magerold’s numbed wrists, where the rope bit into them.
“Hold still a moment, would you?”
He did, even when he felt the knots loosen. Creighton was still playing with his piercings, clearly having never seen something quite like it. Magerold wasn’t surprised, as it seemed the people in Drangleic did not practice the art the way those in Lanafir had. They were meant to enthrall a lover, a little gold to sparkle between his thighs as he bent down for someone, not to be pulled at. All the relaxation Pate had stirred into him was tightening up in fear.
“Get up,” Pate sang, “hands and knees.”
Magerold slowly lowered his arms under his chest. The change in position after having strained so long hurt, blood rushing back into his extremities like pins and needles. He pushed himself up as told, and Pate quickly maneuvered his wrists together, binding them again, this time in front of his body. It was a far more comfortable way to sit, but Magerold could not bring himself to be pleased about it, not when Creighton’s blunt fingers posed such an intimate threat.
“That’s good.”
Creighton let go of him and Magerold visibly sagged with relief. Even when Pate grasped his chin, turning him up to meet his gaze full on, he did not panic again, exhausted by the ordeal that had only barely begun. Creighton planted his hands on Magerold’s hips, his clothed groin bumping against the cleft of his ass, but Pate tutted loudly.
“I didn't go to all this trouble for you to wet your trousers like a teenager.”
Growling, Creighton paused, but did not yet pull away. Magerold stared blearily into Pate’s face, and while his vision was impaired without his monocle, he could vaguely make out a minute twitching along Pate’s placid features.
“Creighton.”
Magerold’s stomach turned. Pate’s voice trilled out like the coo of a dove. It was the most frightening thing he had ever heard.
Creighton reluctantly pulled off.
“...Foine.”
There was something rotten between them. Magerold, so unused to the kind of cruelty they wielded, could sense it, but not understand it, swaying breathlessly as he listened to Creighton pull his dick out. They were sick, not only in their delights, but at the core, and it made him feel sick as well. He couldn't see Creighton, but he could hear the way his heavy breathing snuffled through the holes in his mask. When he replied, he had sounded almost ashamed, almost enraged, but he panted and grunted and slapped the head of his dick against Magerold’s ass anyways, waiting to be commanded.
Pate sank down behind Creighton, smoothly gliding their bodies together despite the bands and buckles of his armor. With his hands about Creighton’s waist, he guided him, lips so close to where his ears burned beneath his cowl, his breath so soft that it almost sounded as if he were whispering, words too quiet to hear. Creighton closed his eyes and grimaced, turning his head away, but his hips jerked erratically, as if he were the one being fucked. He pushed the tip of his cock into Magerold’s hole and Magerold gibbered incoherently.
“That’s right. You do know how to fuck, see?”
“Shut up.”
Though he’d been wetted well, Magerold was clenched tight and not nearly loosened enough. Creighton sank in slow, growling in the back of his throat. It hurt, though not as badly as Magerold had feared, the burn of ill preparation something he would have happily overlooked with any other partner. By the time he was fully seated, Magerold was panting and whining with the terror of anticipation, his body a connection of pulses between his inflamed sex and the brutalized wounds across his flesh, a confused and electric pathway that made him feel nauseous. While he couldn’t see what Pate was doing, he felt Creighton lean over his back, similarly to how he had mounted his thigh earlier, digging his blunt fingers into Magerold’s skinny hips and beginning to hump at him.
He had been expecting to be pummeled with his cock the same way they’d pummeled him with firsts, but Creighton again proved surprisingly docile in his sexuality, grinding at Magerold’s ass without much real friction. Whatever time had passed between his initial attempts to release and their current entanglement had done seemingly little to abate his erection, and Magerold could feel him twitching inside, cradled within the folds of his hole the way many had been before, but it did not change his approach. When he did manage to pull out, it was never all the way, maybe an inch or two, before he dug back inside. He was trembling all over, but all he did was grunt and rub them together. Any of the curious pity he had felt for his attacker had long left him, though, and Magerold only wanted it to end.
“How does he feel?”
Pate’s voice drifted over the shuffling of metal like a dream. Creighton took a while to answer.
“Soft.”
“There, see? That's better, isn't it?”
Magerold held as still as possible, letting himself be used. He was lucky, he tried to reason – he could barely feel anything but the pressure of being filled. He could survive this. Then, he would go back to the city, one of the still somewhat living places he had passed through on his travels, where he’d earn lots of souls and meet many kind, smiling people in public spaces with no threat inherent. His head dropped to his chest, and his arms shook with effort. Creighton’s movements were uncoordinated and spastic, hard to anticipate and brace for, and he was growing unstable even on his hands and knees.
“Soft like a rabbit,” Creighton mumbled again, and Magerold squeezed his eyes shut. Creighton leaned in closer, pressing his face to Magerold’s spine, so that he could feel the cold metal of his mask. Shouldn’t it have warmed by now, with how he panted? In fact, Creighton seemed unnaturally cool all over, apart from his inflamed cock, though Magerold was having a hard time fully differentiating any sensation between his legs apart from the discomfort and nausea.
“Soft, hm?”
Creighton’s hips juddered a bit as Pate massaged them.
“And what else?”
Growling, Creighton shook his head, Magerold could feel the unkempt hair tickle the nape of his neck.
“I don’t…”
“Come on, tell me.”
Having slid back to his more gracious persona, Pate sounded almost loving. Magerold tried to block their conversation out, close his ears, but it was hard when the only other thing he could focus on was the cock grinding inside him and the pain in his scabbing wounds.
“Hot.”
Creighton sounded unfocused, if still angry. Magerold wondered if he was ever anything else. Even in his apparent submission he was liable to snap, a mad dog. He hoped he was close, that he would cum and it would be over and maybe they’d even let him go. Then Pate said,
“Let me help you.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in, both for Creighton and his toy. Magerold realized it first, hearing Pate beginning to undo his trousers, and though another cold lance of fear speared his chest he felt his throat relax instinctively, almost beginning to salivate at what he knew was coming. Still, he shook his head, whining softly when Creighton gripped him harder around the middle. He couldn't say anything – Pate had already made it clear what would occur were he complain any more than he already had. He couldn't stay silent either, terror grinding his teeth together so hard he felt them squeak. It was already too much, too horrible to bear.
“Sit him up.”
Creighton did as told, using his hold as leverage to pull them both upright, Magerold falling bonelessly into his lap. The change in position sank Creighton’s cock deeper inside him and he choked, long limbs tumbling all about as if he were a doll, not knowing what to do with himself. Pate slid in front of him with the silence of a shadow, too close, smile as sharp as a knife.
“Now I can really see you.”
Magerold wished he couldn't. He looked away instinctively but Pate didn't care this time, instead bringing his hands lower to spread Magerold’s thighs apart properly, exposing him further. Creighton was hugging him, the cold of his mask pressed between his shoulder blades uncomfortably. He could feel every wet breath intimately now, almost worse than the hardness of his cock still slowly jabbing away inside him. Unable or perhaps unwilling to bother lifting him, Creighton rocked them together to create friction, almost as if he were soothing himself from a nightmare rather than engaging in a rape.
Pursing his lips, Pate grabbed Magerold’s prick boldly, an action which made him flinch but was actually performed with a sense of delicacy.
“You complained so much, and yet, look at you now.”
He looked, if only because he could do nothing else, and saw that he was half hard in Pate’s hand. Magerold almost couldn't feel it, like he was looking at someone else’s body, staring with a detached confusion at his own dick, but then Pate stroked him and he did feel that. Pate’s hands were soft, delicate even, his nails clean and well groomed. They were not the hands of a seasoned killer, he thought, so smooth and dark they looked like they should be adorned with jewels. Continuing to bring Magerold to arousal, Pate sat himself down comfortably, very close, so that his own erection bobbed into view from under his leather tunic. As he attended to Magerold with one hand, the other took his cock and began to give it much the same treatment, masturbating them in tandem while Creighton pulsed inside him.
Sitting up like this while bound was awkward, but Magerold wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He wanted to push Pate away, even as he began to fully harden in grasp, but he didn’t dare. Keeping his wrists at the nape of his neck, he held his elbows up and away from himself, trying to keep from touching either of them, but Pate, as if reading his mind, scooted closer, til their cocks stood against one another and he was half in Creighton’s lap and half Pate’s, legs spread around him. The closeness allowed Pate to wrap around them both with one hand, stroking them together, and Magerold had to bite his tongue to near bleeding to keep from crying out in revulsion and pleasure. He was too accustomed to the feeling, too easily aroused by the way their heated skin slid together, the combination of their heartbeats throbbing where they touched.
“Oh, Allfather,” he whimpered.
None of it felt good, but the sexual pleasure persisted. Creighton’s lack of real movement kept the stimulation of having his ass plugged just gentle enough as to not overpower him with pain, and Pate, with his delicate hands, was quite good at manipulating them together. It was a cruel, unwanted fuck, but while his bruises stung, his prick was pulsing with desire. Unable to support himself properly, Magerold tried to lean back against the lesser of the two evils, but Creighton was already so attached to him he had little leeway to fall. Pate had a good rhythm going, beginning to breathe harder himself. With each downward tug he revealed their pinkened cock heads to one another, erotically rubbing together as the foreskin slid over them.
“Feeling good?” Pate asked, taking hold of Magerold’s hair and yanking his head back so that he could observe the way his victim grimaced. Magerold yelped, reaching to pull him off.
“Don’t!”
“Lift him up.”
Though his participation had been minimal and lethargic up til now, Creighton wasted no time in complying, hauling Magerold up til he was perched barely over his cock. The sudden withdrawal had been almost painful, dragging against Magerold’s insides after so little movement, but the heady smell of the oils used on him came out with it and again he was dazed into submission, blood roaring in his ears. Pate had released them both, snuggling up to Magerold til he was pressed to Creighton and Pate alike, closed in upon by the jaws of a bear trap. That was how Magerold realized his true intentions.
“N-no,” he said again, eyes widening, “you can’t-!”
Pate’s cock found his partner’s, angling up to press against Magerold’s already sore hole. Though he was only being supported around the midsection, Creighton’s hold was strong, so much so that Magerold’s renewed kicking did little to dislodge him. He couldn’t get a good angle in, hunched as he was, neither able to hit his attackers nor brace his heels in the dirt to pull free.
“I've had enough, I have! All I can take! Please!”
Holding his thighs apart, Pate began to push. He’d barely been stretched enough for Creighton, the oils thin and far too sparing in application to lubricate for two. Pate’s face, so close to his, was engrossed in the space between his legs where he pressed in, lips parted slightly, eyes black as coal.
“Don’t wriggle so,” he chided, “you wouldn’t want to make this any harder on yourself.”
As he said this the muscle began to give, just slightly. Magerold winced. It burned.
“Please!”
Pate grunted, canting his hips up, and it was just enough force for the head to pop inalongside Creighton. Magerold yowled in pain, trying to push himself up and away from them, but the only leverage he had now was Pate, whose armor he’d grabbed onto as the only solid thing his tied wrists could reach. It didn’t help; now that they had him where they wanted, both attackers worked to lower him down again by force. No matter how he fought, Magerold’s body opened up to them, and Pate and Creighton together forced their way inch by inch. It must have hurt them too, the tightness, the lack of proper lubrication, but Pate’s face was only one of calm satisfaction, and Creighton simply trembled.
When they were in as deep as they could be, their unweildly threesome complete, Magerold was barely holding himself upright. The stretch was unbearable, like fire, like knives, pain lancing up his spine, but his heartbeat was still in his cock, now pressed to Pate’s belly and leaking. With no way to abate his pain, Magerold dug his fingers into Pate’s leather tunic with such force his hands shook, gasping in little, open mouthed whines.
“No…!”
He didn’t need to see Pate’s smile to know it was there. No longer needing to force his legs open, Pate was free to reach down and again cup his balls, this time lifting them away while his other hand pulled back the flesh on Magerold’s thigh, trying to get a good look at where he had buried himself. Even knowing he was the source of his misery, Magerold hunched into him for support, hiccuping when one of Pate’s fingers traced his strained asshole.
“That wasn’t so bad, hm?”
Bracing his grip on Magerold’s hips, he must have communicated something to Creighton, because they began to move, lifting him up again. Magerold felt as if they were pulling his insides out, silently gaping in anguish.
“No blood,” Pate chirped, mildly interested in the observation, “seems you’re as loose as you look.”
Magerold could not imaging how he wasn’t bleeding, that his body wasn’t being torn apart at the seams by their rough handling, but he did not have time to question or complain. Together, they dropped him down, impaling him again, and this time he made his pain known, howling.
“Stop! Gods, stop!”
They did not. Now that they had begun, Pate and Creighton worked together to find a good pace, lifting and dropping him upon their combined cocks. Magerold fell into Pate completely, not by choice, huddled and clinging as if it would somehow afford him any comfort. Even if their assignation had been one he had chosen to participate in, the positions of the two seated men was awkward and uncomfortable, Magerold mashed between them with little care for his lanky limbs. Creighton was grunting louder than he had before, perhaps due to the stimulation being more than clothed humping or light friction, but Pate remained eerily silent the entire time, apart from his soft breaths in Magerold’s ear. It was the same ear he had torn the ring from, and the shell burned with the memory.
It was slow at first, thought this did not mitigate the agony of being speared open by two dicks when he was barely prepared to take one. Magerold could not even twist and cry as he had before, so shocked by the pain that it was all he could do to keep from screaming. Every time he was dropped, he felt the air squeezed from his chest, throat tight with the cries trapped in it. Yet, beyond that, a spark continued to stir in his gut. His cock had remained hard even through the terror, thanks to Pate’s skillful handling. Creighton had done little more than stretch him, but their movements now resonated with the part of his brain trained by sex. Their combined width battered his prostate with each and every pass, and like a punch to the stomach he reacted, blind and angry pleasure as much a thief of his breath as the suffering.
“I-I can’t take this,” he heard himself blubbering, “I'm dying!”
Pate responded by biting his neck through the fabric of his hood, and at the same time grabbing his cock. Even with the cloth between them, Pate’s teeth punctured the skin, holding Magerold still as he began to frig his prick. It was too cruel, having more pleasure forced upon him while he still burned. Their speed increased, beginning to really fuck into him despite the difficult position, the combination of their cocks producing obscene sounds as they dragged him out. He was sure his insides must be ruined, but all he could feel was wet, hard pressure, and his nostrils were filled with the scent of the balmy oil, which stirred his heart to a frenzy.
“You are a soft one,” Pate said, nuzzling against Magerold’s ear. His lips were bloody.
“Such a soft, wet hole.”
His voice was noticeably strained, but he sounded humored. Magerold’s head was practically resting on Pate’s shoulder, though the bouncing of their movements complicated things. He wanted to be anywhere but close to him, even back beneath Creighton alone, but he couldn’t bring himself to move away.
“Don’t you agree, Creighton?”
Though Creighton still clung to his back tightly, Pate now had the advantage in angle. Soon Magerold found that he was seated in Pate’s lap more than Creighton’s, with Creighton having to lift his hips far more actively to thrust with the depth he found pleasurable. Pate was training Creighton to take part, forcing him to pursue the more active role he had been demanding, though at the time neither party recognized this, Magerold too consumed by fear and Creighton numb and animal. He crouched at Magerold’s back, keeping up with Pate easily, but still the metal of his mask felt cold where it touched.
The continued pounding at his core was making Magerold dizzy. His prostate felt swollen, and every hard rub across it seemed to milk more precum from his cock. Pate was still so calm, tugging him off as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and Magerold wondered how many others he had done this to. Every now and then a thrust would knock their heads together and he would cry as his torn ear or bloody nose was carelessly smacked. Hunching over made the bruising in his stomach worse too, but he couldn’t straighten up or stop from clenching every time they dragged out of him, his abused asshole clinging as if he wanted them to stay. The heady scent of the oil seemed to be affecting all of them, becoming more fevered in their movements, their fucking drawing wet sounds out that only made him burn hotter.
He didn't want to cum, but the spring coiled tight inside his belly. It might have simply been the pressure of fear, or the scent of the balm, turning his nerves to jelly. Creighton was losing pace as well, his cock plunging in oddly beside Pate’s, but the lack of rhythm only kept the pressure against his prostate more constant, the stretch more wild. Pate played along his cock with such skill he could hardly breathe, smoothly pulling him off. He was dripping with precum, dripping with tears and saliva and blood.
“I-I can’t-!” he stuttered, clamping down.
“Quiet.”
Pate’s fingernails dug into his thigh. Shuddering his hips, Magerold whined, pushed at Pate’s chest, but before either of them could escalate the situation Creighton did. His arms tightened around Magerold’s waist so hard he felt his ribs creak and he choked out a pained breath, and then Creighton cursed several times quietly into his back and came.
Genuinely surprised, Pate drew back, pulling out entirely as Creighton plunged in to the root. The sudden withdrawal scraped against Magerold’s swollen insides just as Creighton battered them back, pulsing with spurts of thick jism. It felt as if he were pouring fire-water on the tender flesh, molten and irritating, and Magerold tried desperately to pull away but Creighton held onto him tightly, cock firmly plugged inside his hole.
“Now you’ve done it.”
Pate was cross, but neither Magerold nor Creighton were paying attention as he poured himself deep into Magerold’s bowels. Magerold could feel his heartbeat through his dick, every throb of semen, and he clawed at what of Pate he could still reach as if for help.
“Oh, God, please-!”
Clearly displeased Pate tried to pull his hands off, only for Magerold to scrabble at him again. Sneering, he hauled back and slapped Magerold across the face. He dropped forward into the dirt like a rock, and at the same time Creighton disengaged, finally releasing his crushing hold and pulling out himself.
“Cor!”
The head of his cock popped free from Magerold’s hole with a burst of cum. It was too much for Magerold, who himself jerked forward in place, now empty and untouched, orgasm hitting him. His ass was too stretched to close fully and so he squirmed in place, humping his cock into the dirt, gaping and dripping behind. How pitiful, how disgusting. Sexual shame was a concept almost wholly unknown to Magerold, but he felt it now, crawling and crying and cumming. He hardly even noticed Pate standing and approaching Creighton, didn’t care to, consumed by his own black ball of guilt and pain.
“You really can’t do anything, can you?”
Creighton was sitting back, clearly satisfied, letting his wet dick hang out. Even in the afterglow, he managed to give Pate a cutting glare.
“What th’ fuck do ya mean by that?”
Pate casually turned and stepped on Magerold’s spine, holding him down. Still reeling, Magerold could only moan horribly, his spent cock now crushed between his stomach and the hard ground.
“Does the job look done to you?”
Where he was sprawled, Magerold’s reddened, open hole was perfectly visible between his legs. Feeling as though he were being asked a trick question, Creighton remained silent. Pate’s erection still stood firm from his trousers, and he was not in the mood to let his partner figure things out by himself.
“You aren't supposed to finish before I tell you,” he said, stepping off Magerold just long enough for him to take a breath before kicking him in the side, rolling him onto his back. Coughing, Magerold tried to back up, but he was still so dazed he couldn't remember how to work his arms and legs properly.
“Fuck you,” said Creighton.
“We aren't done here.”
It was incredible how calm Pate sounded still. Creighton snarled at him.
“Whaddaya mean, huh? You sayin’ I can’t sling dick good enough?”
“Precisely.”
“Oi!” Creighton started to get up, but found his own legs a little unsteady as well, eventually settling on remaining half kneeling.
“It wasn’t my idea to fuck ‘im in the first place! I don’t recall askin’ you to come blunderin’ on in either!”
“That’s not the point.”
Pate crouched down beside Magerold, who flinched. He wanted it to be over. How much more could they prolong his suffering? He had to stifle a cry when Pate grabbed his buttocks and pulled them apart, revealing him fully again. Though his fingers were nowhere near the point of his shame, just pulling the skin around it was enough to ignite a sharp stinging, the muscle and delicate tissue of his asshole raw and swollen. As if to shame him further, another audible spurt of cum pushing back out.
“Look at this mess you made. Do you think I’m going to want to finish myself off in your filth?”
Creighton shrugged, irritated at being berated so soon after ejaculating.
“Not my problem, sunshine.”
Poised, Pate smiled stiffly.
“Clean him up.”
Not liking the sound of that, Magerold shrank.
“Now, now hold on…”
“With what?” Creighton scoffed.
“You know what,” said Pate, “your tongue.”
Magerold’s dick gave a little post-orgasm throb.
“Auh,” he moaned, turning his upper body to the side a bit to hide his face in the grass, “Can’t you just- just leave me alone!”
Pate held his legs apart, eyes locked with Creighton. It was dangerous to push the madman this far, even after he had relieved himself somewhat, but that was what kept Pate’s dick so hard: the power. Even as he thought this, Creighton seemed to waver, almost looking away.
“That’s disgustin’.”
“That’s why it’s a punishment.”
Creighton growled and spat, but as he did he was reaching into his hood to undo the clasps upon his penal mask.
“You’re a nasty fuck, ya’ are.”
Even in his lamentable state, Magerold had to look. The entire attack since Pate’s arrival, Creighton had been quiet, behind him, allowing the other man to control the situation, such that his facelessness had ceased to intrigue Magerold. Undead rarely desired to be seen when they had begun to wither, and so he had long developed a blindness to helmeted faces, seeing them as his companions with little curiosity or interest, but what he could see of the skin around Creighton’s eyes was clear and fleshy, if tired looking. He did not hide the face of a Hollow, and the shape and make of his mask did not imply it existed solely for protection either. Even while wanting nothing to do with the pair, Magerold found himself still wanting to know.
He regretted it when he saw. Creighton pulled the metal plate from his face to reveal a horrifically scarred mess of a human being. Ragged pink welts streaked across his skin, primarily around the jaw and mouth, as if someone or something had attempted to devour him. He had almost no lips left in some areas, a significant portion of tooth and gum fully exposed, and in his excitement a thin but steady stream of drool leaked from the opening. His mouthy breaths and slightly slurred speech suddenly all fit into place, in the marks of violence that branded him a monster.
Yet, Magerold had seen horrific injury in his Undeath, and all the revelation incited in him was a deep, woeful pity. Creighton was a cruel, evil creature, but oh, how he had suffered.
“Good boy.”
Pate left Magerold’s ass alone finally, moving behind Creighton whereupon he encouragingly grasped his shoulders.
“Good, good boy.”
“Shut up.”
Creighton dove between Magerold’s legs, not as a man but as a dog, forcing his thighs up over his shoulders and digging in. Magerold’s head hit the dirt again the moment his tongue slid out between his buttocks, gasping. Creighton’s mouth was wet and sloppy, his tongue surprisingly soft, and he did not hesitate to bury his face as deep as he could get it. Magerold squirmed but did not attempt to pull away, held fast by Creighton’s fingers while his tongue dug back inside him. The sore, swollen state of his hole made it painful to be penetrated again, but the liquid feel of Creighton’s tongue was admittedly a soothing relief at the same time, lapping at the inflamed flesh with little finesse.
“Yes, that’s right.”
There was a hesitation for a moment in Creighton’s movements, a stuttering of sorts, just enough that Magerold looked up in time to see Pate mounting his companion. It was difficult to make out exactly, over his own body and Creighton’s hunched form, but their posture was unmistakable. He was shocked at the callousness of it, for he had not noticed or seen any attention paid to prepare Creighton for him, but Creighton did not stop eating him out, nuzzling up against his perineum to thrust in deeper. His flagging erection throbbed with an impotent desire at the renewed stimulation. He hugged his bound hands to his chest, trying to control his heart.
Creighton’s eyes caught his, from behind his cock. They looked almost dead, blind, but they were so very blue. Magerold was struck with the thought that maybe he was not as stupid as he seemed, that the caged animal knew the cruelty of its master. Pate hunched over them both, fucking Creighton with quiet, smooth motions, smiling. All the while, Creighton continued to lick him inside and out, cleaning every last trace of cum from his ass. Copious amounts of drool were slithering hotly between his buttocks, a feeling that was both disgusting and mildly erotic and likely due to Creighton’s scarring. If he had the stamina, Magerold may have almost found it arousing.
“Good boy, tighten up, now.”
With a wet slurp, Creighton broke away from Magerold's hole, turning to glare over his shoulder.
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
Strings of milky saliva drooped between his mouth and Magerold's ass, obscenely lewd. Pate thrust in particularly hard, making Creighton wince.
“Don’t be a brat about it.”
“I’ll show ya a brat, bastard!”
Even saying this, Creighton did not move to attack, remaining crouched and taking Pate’s abuse. Pate made the move for him, pulling out suddenly and grabbing Creighton by the shoulder.
“Can’t even do your job properly, and now you’re giving me such a rude tone! What ever has gotten into you?”
He yanked Creighton onto his side, and Creighton did the rest, rolling into his back and spreading his legs open.
“Show me then, if you’re so good at everything,” he slurred, and Pate did, manhandling him into a breeding position. They were slightly to the side of him now, and Magerold watched wide-eyed as Pate’s dick sank into Creighton again, at the marred face of a monster and the angelic face of a demon as they locked eyes and fucked in the mud.
He had to get out of here. They were mad.
“What a little hellion you are,” Pate ground out between his grinning teeth, “so useless at everything but digging yourself a deeper grave.”
“Fuck you.”
Magerold dragged himself back with all the strength in his body. It was impossibly hard, but he had to do it. He had to.
“You always act so haughty, but you need me, never forget that. Need someone to put you in your place.”
Creighton spat at him, something which was not easy with his scarred lips and resulted mostly in splattering his own face with more spittle. Pate was really rutting into him now, slapping their hips together in a cacophony of leather and chain maille. Magerold pushed himself up onto his elbows, then his backside, too frantic to be cautious. It didn't seem to matter; they didn’t even look at him. Sitting up hurt terribly, his ribs screaming, a blistering pain shooting up his back, but he kept going.
“I don’ need you,” Creighton rumbled, “I dunneed anyone!”
Pate hit him across the face, like he’d done to Magerold, catching on Creighton’s teeth, which cut him with the force of it. There was blood, maybe from them both. Magerold tried to stand up and failed, twice, before he managed to get into a crouch. Strings of fluid arced between Pate and Creighton’s wet asshole.
“Don’t kid yourself.”
Magerold half ran, half crawled backwards, towards the trees. They would definitely see him, they’d break away at any moment and come for him, but they didn’t and they weren’t, not yet. He was praying in his heart for the kindness of the sun to shine down on him, just this once.
“Fuck you,” Creighton muttered, “fuck you, bastard.”
“Indeed,” said Pate.
Making it to his feet, Magerold fell against a tree immediately, but he did not go back down on his knees. He steadied himself, panting hard. The wet slapping behind him did not stop.
“Leaving so soon?”
He whipped around, but Pate wasn’t even looking at him, still crouched and deep inside Creighton. Magerold stumbled back.
“Fine, if you must. We’ll simply have to catch up later, hm?”
Pate laughed, strained but genuine, and Creighton did too. Madmen. Magerold ran, and didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. He felt their eyes upon him, even if he didn’t look, even while he ran, for the rest of his time in Drangleic, and some many years after.