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We wake to the smell of burning. It’s hot, cloying, gets in our clothes. Don’t really remember how we got here. Don’t really remember why we’re standing amid a wreckage, of broken wood, of smoldering trees, of bodies laying around me, no longer housing what it once did.
There are three of me, and yet we are still one. We feel the consciousness ripple across three minds, all working together--nothing is hidden from me. We have no blindspots, no weaknesses, no one who can hurt us.
(Us? What about them?)
We sheath our blades, and for a moment we expect something to happen. Something to change. But it doesn’t. We stand on the destroyed stone floors, wondering what we are supposed to do now. It’s late, the sun has long since set, and all that lights the way is the fire of the crumbling town.
( ...we did this… )
We’re not used to what happens after the fight.
It’s quiet. No heartbeats, no stirring. No sound of heat nearing us, threatening to carve us open. It’s hollow. We don’t like it. We want it to be loud. There needs to be screaming. We need to see the life leave their eyes. The body to become hollow and lifeless. For it to crumple to the floor as nothing but a slab of meat, to decay back into the earth and feed the maggots and plants that will grow in their place.
It’s over. And we’re still here. Our hearts don’t quiet, our senses do not dull, and we are ready for a fight that never comes.
The seconds tick by, each an eternity as we take in our surroundings. We can sense the worms underneath us and the trees behind us--every flicker of life, inhuman but moving all the same. Not worth our time. Not something with a soul. At least--not in the way we crave it.
We stand, and the wind parts around us. Three hearts. Three minds. All silent in anticipation. We feel it softly at first, and then loudly, and then all at once--something is coming.
Something lives.
He’s fast. We don’t react in time. One moment there’s nothing around us for a mile, the next, his foot is slamming into one of our temples. One head snaps back, the other two don’t. Two arms grab his ankle--it’s hot, covered in a bright blue fire we instinctively recognize but do not recall-- and slam him into the stone below me.
He looks up at us with anger.
And we realize, we know him.
We know his blond hair, we know the dark hues he clads himself in, a suit with a tie, ragged and singed, but a suit nonetheless.
( We know that stupid curly brow… )
He attacks, but he’s weak. He’s injured. We can see it--the blood staining his coat, pooling from obscured wounds. He’s pretending to be strong, putting on a brave face. He wants to defeat us.
Kill us, maybe?
His gaze contains murder. Even his teeth angrily grind down in defiance against us. It invigorates us. The world becomes bright, and despite the night we can see as clear as day. The smell of fire makes us salivate, and we look at this man, this familiar stranger, and we see the power he holds within him. His passion. His heart.
We know him deeply.
And it’s not enough.
It’s not enough to look at him like this, swing after swing, blocked blow after blocked blow. We need him, to taste him, to feel him, to draw him close. To beat, to bend, to break.
He has a name, we know it, it’s on the tip of our tongues, but we cannot speak it, cannot quite bring it to form. We watch as he lunges, as he shines bright in fire, as he searches for weaknesses in our defense.
( He won’t find one… )
We see his hands, kept at an angle. Just out of reach. They touch the floor, as he propels forward, and they touch his body when he feels pain. But he does not use them, even as his body starts to shake in desperation and he realizes he will not win.
A man with a vulnerability. A dream that surpasses sense. Something precious to him, far more than his life.
And we cannot look away. He’s beautiful like this, covered in blood, wheezing desperately as we stomp on his chest and break his ribs. He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even try to flee. Does he know he’ll die here? He has to. We won’t let him get away. Not now that we’ve seen him. Not now that we know his scent. His taste.
( A dream… he has a dream… )
We grab him. It’s easy to pin him down. Slam his head down onto the ground. Dig our knees into the back of his legs. Hear him scream. Curse. Struggle underneath us. He’s too weak, the poor bastard. Half as strong as us, maybe. We don’t know if he’s realized that yet. But he will.
We need him. We need more. It’s not enough to kill him, to lose him forever. We need to feel more. We need it to last.
One arm on each wrist, one arm on his head, one on his back. Leaving the other two to wander. To touch. To feel his skin, his beating pulse underneath. He’s hot to the touch, constantly and aggressively alive .
It’s easy to run a single claw down and tear at the seams. The layers of clothes rip imperfectly, showing off his back in a tattered mosaic. It’s untouched, no bruising, no wounds. A marvelous warrior, this man is. And now we get the privilege of leaving our mark. We salivate, letting one of our tongues lower onto his exposed skin, savoring his taste. His skin is surprisingly rough, phantom scar tissue just underneath the surface of his skin. He’s hidden his past well, but his body still tells the story. Of burn wounds, of bruising, of blunt force, of being torn apart.
He hisses, angry at us. “Fuck you” he spits. It’s a pointless gesture. A meaningless attempt at defiance. It disappoints us. We want a real fight. We want him to strain against us until his limbs snap. For him to curse us with his dying breath. For him to scream our name in terrible awe.
( We have a name…? )
We’re hard. We feel it. We feel the building heat, the intensity in our groin. The need is carnal, and we know to savor his flesh. We bite at his bare skin, dragging our teeth along his spine. He yells, but not loud enough. It’s a rough, pained yell. Not desperate. Not terrified. Not yet.
We grind down on him, and the next noise the man makes sends us to a bliss that heaven would envy. He gasps in a dry, throaty voice. It’s unexpected. He’s not ready. Caught off guard. A prey that has yet to realize his predator in its true form.
We want to push in, to spread his legs, to tear him in two, and our patience is growing thin. Our heads pound with excitement and we bite down again at the back of the neck, sinking our teeth in as far as they go. He yells. This one’s stifled. He’s trying to silence himself. We press down harder on his wrists, letting it carry our weight. He feels it and goes rigid, and the yell escapes in a sudden, hurried gasp.
We rip out a chunk of his flesh, swallowing it. He screams. It tastes of metal and salt, of a home he once held precious.
( ...our home… )
The meat is stringy and unfulfilling. Long pork isn’t meant for us. We could eat him whole and never be satiated. Our tongue yearns for something better. Something roasted, something with flavor. Something that falls off the bone. We can taste it so clearly, a ghost in our mouth, but we cannot say what it is. But it’s certainly not him, not the raw piece of flesh we stole from him.
He shudders as he bleeds. It’s this bright red, like it always is, but we can’t help be entranced by it. We dip our tongues in, savoring the same taste as before, letting the blood coat our mouth and drip down our chin. His shoulders tense as if he’s trying to stop the bleeding or attend to himself, but he has nowhere to go. He’s at my mercy, and for a moment he goes still.
Just a moment. A single solitary moment where he stops fighting, his muscles relax, his screams die, and we hear the tepid sound of sucking air in. He knows what he is now, he knows he has become prey. He might have accepted death, but he now accepts he’s hunted. That he is alive for our benefit, our entertainment, our desires. And we are not merciful.
The next moment, the rigidity returns and he pushes against my grip. “Piece of shit,” he says, but I hear the fear. The bite isn’t there. It’s a desperate whisper. He’s saying it to himself, not me. As if the words will protect him, keep him safe, tell him he didn’t fall to the whims of the destructive force he foolishly challenged.
The blood drips down his back, pooling at his sides. The mosaic of torn clothes and exposed skin stains red. Our patience fades, and we push down experimentally, savoring the friction of his rigid body against our cocks.
More. It’s a single word, and it overtakes our body. More, we need more . We pull back his arms, and the hand on his head goes to his neck. We force him upright and press one of our heads against his. Two other hands go down to his thighs and torso, slipping under his clothes and savoring the rising heat of his skin. We graze a nipple--he flinches, but remains silent. With the final hand, we pull at his tie, tightening it around his neck.
“Foolish,” “Pathetic,” “Weak,” we say. His breath turns tight and his skin goes pale. We watch his expression panic, his eyes darting across the horizon in hope of sanctuary, but there is none to grant. Our grip on the tie grows tighter, and we pull it as far as it will allow. It rides up, past the destroyed collar, directly onto his neck. It sinks into the bloody gash, rubbing against his exposed muscle.
We listen. We listen as his breath grows ragged. As he starts to gurgle and choke. As his fingers twitch, unable to provide himself relief. We listen to his heart pounds so intensely we can feel it push against his chest. We savor it. We drag our sharp teeth against his neck, nipping and tugging, never breaking skin, but threatening to. Every time we bite down and grind his skin between our teeth, his gasps grow harder. He’s afraid.
He doesn’t beg. We expected begging, but now we’re invigorated by the silence. The refusal, the obstinance, the stubbornness of a man trying to die with dignity. We pull his hips against ours, pressing our cocks against his ass, and he chokes again. Dignity is not something we give. It is what we take, what we feast on. It is our mantle, our crown. As a force of nature that destroys all that it touches, we do not grant dignity.
We press into his suitpants, not bothering to remove them. It tears easily, and we grip tightly at his ass. Will he be able to take us? Will he die? It’s exciting. If he lives, we will spare him. Perhaps not. We don’t need to decide that now.
We press in, just with a thumb, and he groans. It’s pained and desperate, but the surprise is gone and the panic has yet to set in. The challenge makes us more eager. Make him panic. Find new heights for his screams. He has lost, but he has so much more we can take from him.
( he’s going to lose everything)
Our cocks slip out easily over the top of our pants. Three of them, curved identically, clustered together. Each one individually throbbing with need. He will take us, there’s no doubt now. He will take us in our entirety. If he dies, then he dies. But we don’t think he will. He’s special, even in utter defeat, we see his passion. He will survive, we are sure of it now. There is no “if” or “maybe”, he simply will. Even if he wishes he hadn’t.
The thought invigorates us, and six sets of eyes roll backwards. We groan in delight. Our voice is thick in our throat, heavy with want. Our fingers eagerly dig into his ass. It’s firm and muscled and as we push it reddens.
Unable to hold back, we push our cocks against his rim. He yelps--and chokes as the tie slips deeper between the gore of his bloodied flesh. But instead of relief, of ecstasy, all we feel is frustration. Nothing gives way. He’s tight and red and our cockheads push uselessly against him, unable to penetrate.
We press both our thumbs in and pull. He hisses faintly, weakly, pathetically. We pull him apart, stretching his rim out as wide as we can muster. His own body protests, contracting and tightening, trying to keep us out, a last defense that we easily shatter.
“ Don’t --” he protests and it’s music to our ears and when he says “-- fuck -- ! ” immediately afterwards we drive into him, pushing past the tight rim and forcing our cockheads inside.
He’s gasping now, quick, rapidly, in a raising pitch that’s only punctuated by the choking, gurgling noise of the air struggling to leave his throat. His chest is rapidly rising and falling in shallow breaths.
And we feel ecstasy . Only our cockheads are buried inside of him, and that alone is enough to make our bodies warm and our breaths shudder with want. We pull his wrists outwards just a little further, just before we hit the limit and risk dislocating his shoulder. We consider it, snapping it out, letting it hang limpy, another free hand to grip and grope and tear at his body
( ...no… )
But we don’t. Not now, anyway. Instead, we grip tightly at his hips and force him closer, our cocks slowly edging deeper and deeper.
“You feel so good ,” “We’re going to destroy you,” “Moan like the bitch you are,” we say.
We thrust and we see white. We’re barely in and the pressure has us in a chokehold. We growl and push him down further. His body’s trembling, shaking now. His legs are spread into a near split as he barely manages to take us. With one last drive forward, he envelopes us completely, and his ass is rubbing up against our skin.
Our words fumble in our mouth, melting out like honey. He’s gorgeous like this, bleeding, screaming, rejecting my every grasp. We want to take our time and slowly fuck him, inching him across our shaft and savoring each sensation and each moan, but we’re too impatient. We slam into him without stop. Our hands grab around his hips so tightly our fingers can touch, and the hand around his neck drops to his chest, dragging its nails down his untouched skin.
His noises are nonstop now, with no more gasps between them. Instead there’s a low, whining moan, no words, no intelligence. We let go of his tie and grab him by the jaw, forcing him to look at us. His eyes have rolled over and his mouth is agape as his throat seizes against the tight grip of the tie. At first he doesn’t even realize he’s looking at us, and then a second later his eyes hazily snap back into focus and widen in fear.
We grin, watching him go white as we slam him back onto our dicks. His eyes pulsate and his head dips back. His skin clings to his cheek bones and his hair, sweaty and bloodied, has formed stringy clumps that show both of his eyes.
We laugh at this man, this prey of ours. How he whines when we fuck him, how his body bounces uselessly against our cocks. How his thighs twitch limply with every thrust. We grow ever more hungry, ever more unable to control ourselves.
We let go of his hands and they fall pathetically to his side. While two hands remain on his hips, the other four wrap around his body, pressing his back against our chest. Close. We want him close. He struggles, of course he does. Blood from his neck smears on our skin.
He whimpers when we bite him. One mouth on his shoulder, one mouth at his neck, one at his jaw. The fighting spirit has vanished. There’s no pretending now. Pity. We had such respect for him too.
We drop to our knees and force him down with us. His face scrapes against the stone, staining it red.
“ Mine, ” “ Mine, ” “ Mine ,” we whisper into his bloodied ear and he gives a rough, rugged sob. The tattered fabric of his clothes tear further, sliding past his shoulders.
We slide in so easily now, not like before when he was tight. We push his legs together and moan at the pressure. Our hips thrust against his ass, pushing him deeper into the stone. His face dips, dragging ever so slightly.
We’re breaking him.
( ...stop… )
It’s too late now. We can’t stop. We had hoped he would survive, but oh well. He’s weaker than we thought he was. But we’ll get what we want regardless. We’re almost there--
Fuck , we’re almost there! Fuck he’s hot, fuck even stretched out he’s still clenching around our cocks, fuck every time we thrust in we lose our minds just a little more.
Orgasms begins to build. We bite down onto his shoulders. We can’t control ourselves. It’s too much. We’ve never felt anything like this before. Nothing so close, so sharp, so intense as our our erections swell and our breath grows hot. Closer and closer, until we can’t even tell if our prey is still alive.
We can’t think. We can’t-- we-- I--
And then it’s like we’re falling. We ejaculate into him, and it’s as if our hearts stop.Semen drips out mixed with blood, coating his legs and ours. We gasp weakly into his ear and hold him close.
Faintly, distantly, we hear his heart beating.
He’s still alive.
We smile contentedly and grind our hips into him as exhaustion starts to overtake us. Finally, I let go and fall back. I grip at my face, panting. I stare at the man’s form, hazily.
He looks at me. Amidst the crumpled, beaten form, he looks at me. Just for a moment. He looks at me in a distant, bleary haze and then his eyelids flutter shut and his body stills. And suddenly I see the curly eyebrows and the smell of cigarettes fills my nose.
“Sanji?”