Chapter Text
Graves couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so afraid. The hare trembling before the foxes. He could almost feel the physical pressure of the snare drawing tight around his neck, limbs flooded with adrenaline and singing with the urge to run— but to where?
Soap stood in one doorway, normally good-natured expression stormy. Ghost stood in the other, mask pulled taut across his wretched smile.
He dropped his hand to the pistol holstered at his hip and Ghost laughed as he fumbled it out, the first sound that shivered in the space between the three.
Graves didn’t get the pistol out.
Instead, a heavy weight crushed him to the wall, his wrists captured and wrenched up high above his head. His shoulders protested as they became the key point to support nearly all his body weight. The toes of his combat boots pressed against the concrete floor as he cried out, trying to relieve the strain.
“Fuck,” a voice laughed in his ear. Soap was the one holding him, then. Which meant Ghost was free to roam behind them, an attack dog unleashed. “What a catch. What do you think, L.t.? Kill him quick or draw it out?”
A rumbling chuckle in response. Graves gasped for breath, heart beating rabbit-quick in the cage of his ribs. He knew, with total certainty, that these men were going to kill him. He could taste the bloodlust in the air. And they were laughing.
“He certainly doesn’t deserve a quick death, but it’s not like he’s worth my time,” Ghost says.
Graves has seen Soap’s file, seen the things that he’s witnessed and done. He had never been able to access Ghost’s file, and that uncertainty is even more terrifying. No one bothered to scrub the records of people who were kind or clean.
“What do you think, Soap?”
“Please,” Graves gasped. He didn’t care about his pride, didn’t care about his dignity. He just didn’t want to die, not at the hands of men like these.
“Please,” Soap mocked in his ear. “You don’t have any right to ask mercy of us.”
“Listen to how desperate he is, though. It’s almost insulting, that a thing like this could’ve wreaked all that havoc. That he thought he could betray us.” Ghost again.
“Don’t kill me,” Graves pleaded, going still in Soap’s iron grip. “I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?” Ghost asked softly, dangerously.
There are tears on his face, Graves realises belatedly. “Anything,” he confirmed. Some wordless communication passed behind him and then rough hands were tearing off his tac vest, allowing it to clatter to the floor.
“You can tap out at any time,” Soap said, wrenching his arms back as Ghost slashed at the front of the undershirt he wore, nicking the skin of Graves’s chest beneath carelessly— or perhaps intentionally. It was dragged off his shoulders, baring his torso to the cool air. The fabric was twisted around his wrists, securing them. “But, well. We know what happens then, don’t we?”
A tear dripped from Graves’s face. “I understand,” he said, voice hitching halfway through the sentence.
He had faced death on many occasions, no stranger to summoning the Reaper or facing it; but here, trapped between two killers, two wild animals that frothed at the mere thought of his blood spilling onto the concrete and staining the soles of their shoes, he quaked.
Soap pushed him to stumble into a desk on the far side of the decrepit office, chest pressed into the wooden surface. The cut stung as it made contact with the surface.
“You know why we’re doing this, don’t you?” Soap asked, stepping away so Ghost could take his place.
“Yes.” Graves’s pants and boxers were pulled down roughly, leather belt whispering out of the loops. Ghost looped it around his neck, forming a makeshift collar and leash. A hand crushed his face to the desk as the belt was pulled taut, depriving him of oxygen. He bucked unintentionally as his lungs struggled to find oxygen, thrashing against the hold.
Ghost finally released him just as black spots threatened to overtake his vision and he sucked air down greedily, the ringing in his ears almost drowning out the lieutenant’s words.
“Where do you want it?” The edge of a blade whispered against his cheek.
“What?” He asked, eyes darting around wildly in an attempt to track the knife.
“I’ve decided to be kind enough to stretch you,” Ghost explained, patiently, like he really was doing Graves a favour. “So where do you want the cut?”
The knife moved, just the top digging in but still sharp enough to part just the top layer of skin, drawing a faint red line from cheek to neck. It hovered over his spine and Graves forcibly stilled himself, trying not to allow his body to shake with the sob building in his throat.
“Where. Do. You. Want it?” Ghost growled, quickly losing patience. “I will not ask again.”
“Leg!” Graves yelped in a panic as the point played against the palm of his hand.
“Leg?” Ghost mused, lifting the knife away. “I suppose that works.”
Pain exploded across the back of Graves’s thigh as the knife slashed, cutting fat deeper than before. He could barely bite back the scream as layers of skin, fat, and muscle parted beneath the sharp steel of the knife.
Graves panted, forehead pressed against the decaying wood of the desk beneath him, trying to catch his breath. He didn’t think anything of Ghost allowing him to catch his breath until he felt fingers digging into the gash.
The scream that dragged from his throat was panicked and pained as Ghost’s thick, gloves fingers pulled at the edge of the skin before his thumb pressed down and into the cut, running almost soothingly through it.
“You sound better when you scream,” Ghost said from above, delighted, “than when you were bossing your little Shadows around.”
Graves couldn’t form a reply to that, just pressed his face harder into the desk, trying to draw his focus from the pain in his leg up to the pressure against his head.
It didn’t work.
Ghost dipped over him to drag a tongue over the scarlet beads that had welled up from the light scratch he’d left over Graves’s back earlier. “Relax,” he soothed.
A thick finger circled his entrance, slick with Graves’s own blood. He wasn’t sure if he was woozy from the pain, or blood loss, or the scenario. Still, he took a deep breath and tried to untense his body.
Ghost hadn’t bothered to remove his gloves, Grabes realized, as the finger sank into him. The unusual ridges and added thickness made him grit his teeth against the drag. It wasn’t even painful; all the discomfort was centred around the wound in his leg. It wasn’t rushed, either, it was methodical, searching, almost as if—
He realised that Ghost was seeking his prostate with horror at the same time as the man finally brushed over it, causing Graves’s breath to stutter.
It would have been easier, somehow, if this had solely been about dominance, and not included his pleasure.
“Tapping out?” He could hear the smirk in Ghost’s tone as that spot was hit again.
Graves shook his head against the table, teeth sank firmly into his lower lip.
“Pity,” Ghost said nonchalantly before removing his fingers, dragging them through the stream of blood on Graves’s leg, and returning with two, then after a few minutes, three. Still, it wasn’t unpleasant, just a thorough job of prepping. The pain was saved for the other hand, which Ghost brought down to toy with the cut once more. It was a horrible pattern— each time Ghost rubbed intentionally over the prostate, he dug his fingers like claws into the injury.
Graves was barely aware of the half choked pleas he was screaming, begging for Ghost to stop as the raw, bloody flesh was abused. Still, he felt the fingers retreat once more, was jerked to awareness when he was tugged off the desk to collapse in a kneeling heap at Ghost’s feet.
The cool metal circle of a handgun met his temple— a scoped revolver, from what he could see from the corner of his eye.
“What— why—,” he stammered, stiffening in fear.
The butt of the revolver cracked across his face, then returned to its place at his temple. “You said to stop,” Ghost said, coolly amused, as if this were just a bit of entertainment for him.
“I didn’t— didn’t mean it. Please,” Graves said, chest heaving. The position was twisting the abused cut on the back of his thigh into an uncomfortable position, blood sticky and hot against the backside of his calf where the skin made contact. “Please don’t kill me,” he begged.
Ghost brought the hammer back on the revolver. “Then tell me what you would rather I do that would settle the score just as much as spraying your brains against the wall.”
“Anything,” Graves stammered. “Whatever you want, okay?”
Ghost squeezed the trigger, the sound impossibly loud next to Graves’s ear. The chamber ticked over one spot as his chest heaved with a sob.
“Wrong answer.”
“Fuck— I’m sorry!” He cried, twisting away from the gun as much as possible.
Ghost’s hand caught him by the hair, smearing blood into the strands, held him in place as he pulled the trigger again. “Try again. I don’t want to hear your apologies.”
“Fuck me,” Graves said frantically. “You can fuck me.”
Ghost stared down at him, their height difference made drastic by their positions.
“Beg for it,” he ordered.
Graves stared at him for a moment. “What?”
The trigger. Graves whimpered and flinched hard enough to cause the grip in his hair to tug painfully.
“You think I want to bring myself low enough to touch you? If this is your great redeeming quality, then beg. For. It,” Ghost hissed.
“Shit, okay— okay!” Graves said as the gun pressed more firmly to his temple. “I want you to fuck me instead of killing me!” His throat felt sore, his eyes stung. He could hear the hammer pull back again and the next words came out as a rushed, panicked scream. “Please fuck me! I don’t want to die— you can use me, please, please fuck me, I want it— don’t kill me, fuck me, please, I’m begging you, fuck me!”
He trembled in Ghost’s grasp.
“Prove it.”
The gun nudged at Graves’s mouth and he opened it, not wanting to imagine the way Ghost could easily shatter his teeth with the weapon. He curled his tongue around the barrel, hollowing his cheeks and closing his eyes as his cheeks heated in shame. The sharp taste of gunpowder invaded his senses as he licked up the length of the gun fervently, eventually lapping over where Ghost’s finger was curled over the trigger.
“Good enough for now,” Ghost grunted. The hand on his hair pulled up and he staggered to his feet painfully, centre of balance off due to his hands forced behind his back. He was bent back over the desk, moving gently with the motion of his sobs.
The hand returned to his thigh, smearing across the cut but thankfully not doing anything else. He could hear Ghost’s clothes rustling behind him, the wet noises of blood being spread over skin. Then Ghost was pushing into him, bottoming out in one rough thrust.
Ghost grabbed ahold of the makeshift leash again and pulled, using it as leverage as he set a brutal pace. The belt tightened as he pulled, wrenching Graves’s head back, chest spasming as he fought uselessly for air.
“You take me in like you’ve been starving for it,” Ghost laughed from behind him. Each time he fully hilted himself, he made contact with the stinging cut, still leaking blood. “Like a natural-born whore.”
Graves couldn’t even reply to the comment, dizzy from air loss. The leash slackened and he gulped down air, resting bonelessly against the desk’s surface. Ghost continued to slam into him, pressing against his prostate with every pass. Graves could feel himself thickening, had been since Ghost first started opening him up and massaging his inner walls with such intent.
“It’s a nice view, you know,” Ghost continued, drawing the leather belt tight again. “You’ve got a nice little ass, sucking me in all greedy— tight, too. Painted red in your own blood, my cock all pretty with it too, and—“ a hand snaked down to squeeze Graves’s heavy balls, “—you’re enough of a slut to get off to it, too.”
Graves’s head was swimming, unintelligible noises falling from his lips whenever he got the chance to breathe.
Heavy footfalls came from the closest doorway. “I see you’ve gotten started without me.” Soap. Graves hadn’t even noticed him leave.
“Found something that’ll work?” Ghost asked.
“Good enough,” Soap replied. He didn’t move for a moment, just observed the way that Ghost was fucking into Graves’s limp body. “Love watching you work,” he confessed, voice dark.
“Yeah?” He replied. “Well, come take a look at this.” Ghost pulled out and Graves shuddered at the feeling. Then he was being flipped onto his back on the desk, pinning his arms painfully and allowing his hard cock to drool against his stomach.
“No fucking way,” Soap laughed, reaching over to flick at the head. Graves whined and tried to squirm away. Soap just pressed a hand with crushing pressure into his chest, pinning him, and began stroking him with intent as Ghsot slid back inside.
Graves gasped for air as the two stimulated him, head banging against the desk. Ghost pulled his legs up over his shoulder, raising his hips a bit and removing even the smallest amount of leverage Graves had held.
“Bit of a cockslut, isn’t he?” Ghost teased, taking Graves’s balls in hand. “He tightens up so nicely around me when you do that,” he said after Soap ran a thumb beneath the head.
Graves’s dick was released after a few more painful minutes of teasing. He could feel the blood from the gash trickling down, feel the press of Ghost’s thumb into the meat of his thigh, far too close.
His head was being wrenched up suddenly, some length of cord wrapped around his head before Soap’s fingers came prying at his mouth. He kept his jaw clenched closed, though, denying him.
“Seems he hasn’t learned his place yet,” Soap commented. Ghost dug his fingers back into the cut, this time tugging to the side. Graves could feel skin and muscle tear just in the slightest, mouth parting open in a cry of pain.
Something hard and curved was pressed into his mouth, holding his mouth open. The string from earlier bit into the corners of his mouth as Soap tied it securely behind his head. An improvised ring gag, Graves realized.
“He’ll learn,” Ghost reassured Soap. He pushed Graves forward until his head dangled just off the side of the desk, barely giving Graves any warning before Soap was pushing past his lips, past the gag stretching his jaw, bumping at the entrance to his throat.
He coughed, sputtering, as Soap drew back from his mouth just as Ghost entered his ass. Soap was thick, just as Ghost was, and heavy in Graves’s mouth. He pushed further in with each thrust, bouncing Graves between the two.
“You look so much better like this,” Soap said, leaning forward to lay a hand over Graves’s throat, just above where the belt lay abandoned. He eased all the way forward, gentle this time as he entered Graves’s throat.
Soap stayed there, rocking gently but not pulling back far enough for Graves to suck in a breath. He tried to clench his jaw down, to force the other man out as his oxygen dwindled, but the gag kept his mouth open wide, drool leaking from the corners.
Soap eased out just as Graves was sure he was about to pass out.
“He clenches up so good when you do that,” Ghost said.
Soap laughed, pushing forward again, too soon, Graves’s lungs still burning. He thrashed, stuck between Soap’s gentle rocks and Ghost’s brutal pounding. The hand on his throat squeezed gently before massaging, feeling up the length of his neck.
“I think I can feel myself through his throat,” Soap observed, thrusting even deeper, squeezing harder. His vision was blurring, chest aching without air.
Soap didn’t pull out, just stayed there, fucking gently into his throat. “Such a tight, hot hole for us to fuck, aren’t you?” He asked.
Graves couldn’t agree, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.
Ghost closed a hand around his cock and stroked it, but Graves could barely focus on it against the pain in his chest, his back, his thigh, the ache of his shoulders as the maintained that cramped position.
Soap rocked forward again, content to choke Graves on his cock as Ghost ground into his ass, close to orgasm as his rhythm stuttered.
Graves slipped into unconsciousness as the first hot spurts of cum began to fill him up.
He was being carried over someone’s shoulder, one hand on his hip, the other harshly digging his sore thigh. Graves groaned, trying to gain his bearings, only to realise that the gag from before was still secured in his mouth.
“Welcome back,” Soap said from beside him.
Graves whimpered, trying to convey his confusion. A strand of spit dribbled out as he did.
His mouth was dry, jaw sore and shoulders aching. The worst injury, the cut on his thigh, throbbed dully. There were likely welts and bruises forming across his throat from where the belt dug in. The world was still fuzzy the way it always got when he lost too much blood.
“Oh, come on, now,” Ghost scoffed, adjusting Graves on his shoulder. “Don’t act like we’re the only ones that want to settle a score with you. You should be glad we’re not bringing back your corpse to play with. Unless..?”
Graves shook his head frantically, the action sending the world spinning.
Ghost clapped a hand against his cut twice in acknowledgement. “There’s a good boy, then. Now just stay quiet while we finish up our journey. No use fighting it now.”
Graves slumped, recognizing the truth in the words and accepting his fate.
He drifted off to unconsciousness once more as each step jarred him, bloodloss making the world fuzz pleasantly at the edges.
This would be his life now.