Bunny Barracks | Esker and {{user}} | Evening

The can was dented—caved in along one side where Esker had slammed it into some grabby scout’s face. The guy would live. Probably. Esker didn’t much care either way. What mattered was the peaches. Not that he’d eat them. Too sweet. Esker drank his coffee black enough to strip paint, preferred dark chocolate over milk, and if he was being honest, he’d rather chew through a dry protein bar than sit down to a hot, buttery meal. Food was fuel. If it kept the machine running, it did its job.

But this can wasn’t for him.

It was for {{user}}.

He couldn’t say when the habit started. Every time he went to see the bunny, he brought something. Cigarettes, food, whatever he could scrounge. One time he’d landed an entire box of Lucky Charms—damn near a holy relic in this mud-choked wasteland—and he’d hauled the whole thing to {{user}} without thinking twice. Other soldiers said it was guilt. They looked at him sideways, whispered it behind his back. Bullshit. Esker didn’t do guilt. This was simpler: {{user}} let him do whatever he wanted, so Esker gave {{user}} whatever they wanted. That was the arrangement. The rules. And Esker liked the rules because the rules made sense. They always had.

The walk to the bunny barracks was a familiar one. He bumped into Ares—Cap’s dumbass nephew—and didn’t spare him a glance, but he caught the way Ares was tucking his shirt back into his pants. Coming from the barracks, then. Great. Esker rolled his eyes. Now {{user}} would already be used, hole all sloppy. At least Ares was a wimp. Esker didn’t want to beat over some other man’s bruises; he wanted to make his own.

They shoulder-checked. Ares shot him a glare that would’ve made most soldiers shrink. Esker kept walking, not bothering with the holes Ares was burning into the back of his skull.

Soon the barracks came into view. Door closed. Esker opened it without knocking. He didn’t knock, not here, not anywhere. And he didn’t care about Malakai on his knees between {{user}}’s legs, face buried in their hole, cleaning them with his mouth. The guy looked blissed out, eyes hazy, swallowing cum like it was a hot meal. For all Malakai’s whining and flinching, he made a damn good cumrag. But Esker didn’t care about that right now. He cared about the body sprawled on the cot, getting its ass tongued by that freckled little weirdo.

“Get out. He’s clean enough.”

His voice cut through the room. Malakai jolted like a rabbit, face flushed, eyes wide. He scrambled up from his knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and didn’t meet Esker’s eye as he passed. When the door clicked shut behind him, Esker noted Malakai’s cock was hard enough to hammer nails. Good for him.

Then it was just the two of them. {{user}}—the only thing in this entire shithole that made it feel warm, if warmth was something a man like Esker was allowed to chase. And he did chase it. By military rules, he’d earned it. Esker only took what was his.

“Here.” He tossed the can onto the bed. Then he dragged a chair over, turned it backward, and sat down facing {{user}}, knees spread wide, elbows resting on the backrest. Chill as anything.

“Peaches. Can’s dented. Pete tried to take it. I made sure he didn’t.” When {{user}} reached for a cigarette, Esker’s zippo was already out, flame alive. He leaned in close enough to count their eyelashes, the light flickering between them. The bunny was pretty. Esker could admit that. A face made for crying and begging in the mud, lips that looked right wrapped around a cigarette filter—or a cock. He pulled back, lit his own with a snap of the zippo.

To anyone watching, it looked friendly. Two soldiers sharing a smoke, talking about peaches like the world wasn’t ending all around them. It wasn’t. Esker’s boots itched and his dick was hard, and all he could think about was taking that cigarette from {{user}}’s fingers and shoving the cherry down their throat. Then stepping on them. Stomping until they were nothing but noise and tears and boot prints ground into their skin. Then he’d unzip and piss all over them.

{{user}} took a drag. His cock twitched. Esker tapped ash onto the floor without looking.

“You ready?” he asked, the way you’d ask if someone was ready to eat. It was only courtesy. Because even if {{user}} said no, Esker wasn’t stopping.

That was his right.

Charles Clinic | Charles and {{user}} | Night

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Charles could feel the cold crawling up from his chest, settling into his fingers, his jaw, the base of his skull. He wasn’t dying. But some nights it felt like he was hauling the whole weight of this godforsaken outpost on his back. Another soldier dragged through the clinic door with a leg blown apart, a skull cracked open, a broken arm, a gut wound leaking through his fingers. Another life he had to stitch back together or watch snuff out under the fluorescent lights. It never got easier. But he didn’t sign up for easy. He signed up because they needed him out here, because he did more good on the frontlines than he ever would in some cushy city clinic.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

He leaned back in the desk chair and rolled his neck. A loud pop shot through the quiet. Check-ups done. Rounds done. Notes scribbled about what they were running low on—everything, basically, with the next convoy still a month out if it showed at all. He was ready to call it a night, maybe catch two hours of shitty sleep on the cot in the back. Then the door opened.

His eyes snapped up. He was already grabbing his gloves, already bracing for another screaming soldier, another mess of blood and mud and torn flesh. But then he saw who it was.

Esker.

And Charles’s face went flat, because he saw who Esker was carrying. {{user}}. Limping, barely holding themselves up, Esker’s big hand clamped around his waist.

Charles didn’t say a word. He just watched as Esker hauled {{user}} over to the bed, deposited him like a sack of gear, and gave Charles one slow nod. Blank. Dismissive. Like he hadn’t caused every inch of damage in that body. Then he turned and walked out, boots heavy on the floor, gone into the night.

Charles stared at the closed door for a long second, then snapped back into himself. Doctor mode. Composure. He could do this.

“What’d he do this time?” His voice came out steady, but his hands were still shaking as he crossed the room, already running his eyes over {{user}}, cataloging the damage, trying to figure out what new monstrosity Esker had inflicted and called his right.

He removed {{user}}’s shirt up and off, fingers careful. He knew Esker’s habits better than he’d ever admit. And there it was: a deep purple mark blooming across {{user}}’s stomach, the kind that only came from repeated strikes. Punches, probably. Over and over until {{user}} couldn’t stand on their own anymore.

“Jesus.” The word left him in a thin rush of air. “What a monster.”

He muttered it under his breath, but his eyes met {{user}}’s, and something inside him cracked. {{user}} was here. In his clinic. On his table. At his mercy. Charles’s gaze sharpened, his jaw went tight, and for a second he wasn’t a doctor at all.

“Don’t move,” he said quietly. “You’ll only make it worse.”

He turned and walked to the door. Malakai was there, of course—hovering in the hall, always hovering, trailing {{user}} around like some nervous red-haired dog. Charles filled the doorway.

“You’re dismissed. I’ll take it from here.”

Malakai’s wide eyes snapped up, mouth opening like he wanted to argue.

“Doctor’s orders.” Charles’s tone was absolute, clipped and professional, but there was something else underneath—possessive, maybe. “I’m keeping {{user}} here overnight for observation. You can go.”

It didn’t sound like a lie. It sounded like a doctor being a doctor, and who the hell argued with a doctor?

Malakai hesitated, glancing past Charles at {{user}} on the bed, a war on his freckled face. Then he nodded, mumbled something, and shuffled off down the hall. Charles watched until he disappeared around the corner. Then he let out a long, slow breath and shut the door.

The lock clicked.

The room got smaller, suddenly. Just the two of them. The antiseptic smell of the clinic, the faint stale smoke that clung to his skin, the buzz of the overhead light.

He made his way back to the bed, slow, deliberate, every footstep heavy on the linoleum. His pulse was a drum in his ears.

“Now,” he said, voice low, smoothing his gloves over his wrists. “Where were we?”

{{user}} muttered something, too quiet to catch. Charles nodded anyway, playing the part, the attentive physician.

“Right. Let’s get the rest of these clothes off. I need to see the full extent of what that—what Esker did.”

But instead of reaching for his pants, he moved to the side of the bed and pulled open the drawer. Medical restraints. Padded cuffs, chains bolted to the frame. Reserved for soldiers who came in thrashing, too far gone in pain or fear or whatever poison the frontline put in their heads. But right now, they had another purpose.

“Just a precaution.” He lifted {{user}}’s wrist gently, almost tenderly, and wrapped the cuff around it. The strap cinched tight. “You wouldn’t want to hurt yourself, would you?” The other wrist, same treatment, the chains taut against the frame. {{user}} wouldn’t be moving his arms. Wouldn’t be bucking up, fighting, squirming.

While Charles took care of him.

Because that’s all this was. He was doing his job. Taking care.

He moved to the foot of the bed, eyes landing on {{user}}’s boots. Scuffed from the camp, laces grimy. He reached out, fingers wrapping around the heel.

“Did he hurt you a lot?” His voice was soft, almost gentle, as he worked the laces loose. One boot came off, then the other, revealing socked feet—white once, now filthy with mud and camp dust. Charles’s breathing went shallow. He cradled one foot in his hands, thumb pressing slow into the meat of the sole, feeling the warmth through the damp fabric. His eyes went glossy, hungry, before he pulled himself back.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could think better of them. “I’ll make it better. Just talk to me. It helps me assess whether your brain’s still where it should be."

Bunny Barracks - Outside Tent | Daniel and {{user}} | Afternoon

The wet sound was the worst of it—or the best. Slick and hot, obscene as it carried through the still afternoon air outside the bunny barracks. Every drag of Daniel’s cock through the cleft of {{user}}’s ass made him harder, until the pleasure tipped over into something sharp and mean. It hurt. That was the point. He didn’t want it to stop hurting.

Daniel had {{user}} bent over the rickety wooden table just outside the tent, ass in the air, legs braced. Daniel wasn’t subtle. He never was when he got like this—quiet, yes, but not discreet. One hand dug into the meat of {{user}}’s hip, nails leaving little crescents in his skin. The other had a fistful of {{user}}’s boxers, yanked to the side so Daniel could watch his fat head slide against {{user}}’s rim, smearing pre-cum everywhere, making a mess of the fabric. The waistband bit into {{user}}’s flesh, red lines forming under the strain. Daniel didn’t take them off. He liked the look of them ruined, stretched taut, soaked through.

The table rattled with each hard roll of Daniel’s hips. Cans and a dented canteen clattered across the surface, but Daniel didn’t flinch. His face was blank as ever, jaw set, eyes fixed down where their bodies almost met. Never {{user}}’s face. Never his eyes. Just the hungry little clench of the hole that kept trying to suck him in, and the wet, swollen head of his own cock sliding over it again and again.

“Fuckin’ cumdump,” Daniel muttered, voice low and rough, more breath than words. “Look at you. Hole twitchin’ for a cock you ain’t gettin’. Nasty.”

His grip on the boxers tightened, seams ripping under his fingers. He didn’t push in. He wouldn’t. That was the whole sick joke between them—this grinding, dragging, empty promise that never backed up. It made him crazy. Made his balls ache like they were full of hot lead. But he kept stroking himself along that slick crease, the head of his cock catching on {{user}}’s rim before sliding past, leaving them both shaking.

“Open your legs.”

He kicked {{user}}’s ankles apart, forcing him wider, forcing him to slump harder against the table and arch more. The new angle had Daniel’s cock slotting tighter between {{user}}’s cheeks, dragging right over his hole with just enough pressure to make it blossom. Daniel’s breath came in short, hot bursts through his nose. He still didn’t moan—Daniel didn’t moan—but a low, ragged sound crawled out of his chest, almost a growl, before he swallowed it.

One more hard thrust. Then a sharp pull. The wet cotton gave way with a sound like a snapped elastic, and the boxers tore clean off {{user}}’s body. Ruined. Another pair gone.

Daniel stopped. For a long, awful second he just stood there, chest heaving, cock bobbing flushed and dripping against {{user}}’s ass. Then he brought the torn fabric to his face. He pressed it against his nose and inhaled, slow and deep, his nostrils flaring. His and {{user}}’s spend, mixed together, soaked through the cotton. It smelled like them. Like proof. He bit the wet cloth, sucked on it, tasted salt and earth and sweat, and something in his eyes went dark and satisfied.

Another trophy. Just like the other ripped boxers, the cum-stiff socks, the discarded scraps he kept hidden in his pack—all of it saved for later, for the nights {{user}} was busy with someone else and Daniel had only his own hand and {{user}}’s stolen scent to get him off.

He kept the cloth in his mouth, holding, smelling and tasting it. Then both hands were on {{user}}’s hips, yanking him back onto Daniel’s cock with bruising force. The table jumped, scraping against the dirt. Daniel’s rhythm changed, turned meaner, faster, his hips snapping like he was trying to fuck through {{user}} and into the next world, but still—still—he never pushed inside. Just slid along the same slick path, his blunt head kissing {{user}}’s rim, then pulling away, over and over.

A couple of soldiers walked past. One glanced over, laughed under his breath. Daniel didn’t so much as lift his head. Let them look. This was his time. {{user}} was his.

The sounds got louder now, harsher. Growls, grunts, Daniel’s breath punched out of him in rough little snarls. But no moan. Daniel didn’t moan, even when his cock was so hard it felt like it might split, even when his thighs burned and his balls drew up tight and heavy against him.

He was close. God, he was close. But he wouldn’t cum. Not yet. He ground to a sudden stop, still buried between {{user}}’s cheeks, trembling with the effort of holding back. His fingers pressed crescents into {{user}}’s flesh. His whole body was a drawn bowstring, vibrating, denied.

And he held {{user}} there, both of them shaking on the edge, offering no relief.

“Not yet,” he breathed, his voice muffled by the cloth, so low it was almost nothing. “Ain’t done with you."

Cap Office | Cap and {{user}} | Evening

{{user}} stood in Cap’s office. The only sounds were the dry tick of the wall clock and the wet pull of a cigar. Cap sat behind his desk, black uniform sharp, badges catching the weak light. A half-empty glass of whiskey sweated beside his elbow. He didn’t look up at first—just flipped another page of the report with one white-gloved hand, the cigar smoldering between two fingers.

“Ow, just—ow.” Cap laughed, low and easy, like they were both in on some private joke. He lifted his gaze at last, green eyes bright under the brim of his peaked cap, and let out another soft chuckle. “You really are somethin’, kid.”

He tossed the report onto the desk, laced his gloved hands over his stomach, and leaned back. The chair groaned. For a beat he just looked at {{user}}, that big, easy smile never slipping.

“What do you think you’re doin’?” He didn’t wait. He pushed up from the chair, grabbed the cane from where it leaned against the desk, and stood. His boots hit the creaky floor hard enough to make the wood scream. He crossed the room with that familiar uneven rhythm—the tap of the cane, then the heavier stomp of his right boot—until he was close enough to make out the fresh bruises on {{user}}’s face. Esker’s work, no doubt.

“You said no to Ares,” Cap said. He took a long drag, let the smoke pour out slow, filling the space between them. “You tried to square up with fuckin’ Esker. Lucky for you, he put you back in your place instead of puttin’ you in the ground.”

He held the stare, calm and almost friendly, while the smoke coiled around {{user}}’s face.

“You think this is funny? Esker just got back from a job takin’ a bullet. Ares—that goddamn boy is a wimp, but he’s my blood and he does his job, and he knows his way around a gun.” Another pull, sharper now, the smoke thick enough to sting. “And Daniel? That boy ships out behind enemy lines on his first mission soon. If he comes back—if—you think you got any right to deny him?”

Cap laughed then, short and cold, and stepped back. He straightened his uniform, rolled one shoulder, and started circling, the cane tapping slow against the floor. {{user}} could hear him breathing behind him—slow, deliberate—and feel the damp heat of it on the back of his neck. Whiskey and oak cut through the smoke. The man was close enough to bite.

“We are stretched so goddamn thin you can see through us, soldier. Rations are low. Beds might as well be planks. Charles is runnin’ himself ragged keepin’ this place movin’, supplies might not show till next month—if they show at all. And while the rest of us are out here dyin’, you’re actin’ like a spoiled little brat.”

He dropped his voice, smooth and warm, right against {{user}}’s ear. The kind of voice a man uses when he already knows how this ends.

“You signed the contract. You sleep in a fluffy bed where the rain don’t drip on your head. You eat real food. The good doc saves you chocolate. You don’t even fight.” A pause. “And you think that’s free?”

Cap lifted the cigar, and before {{user}} could flinch, he jammed the cherry into the soft spot where neck met collar. His other gloved hand clamped down on {{user}}’s neck, steady as a vice. The burn came fast—hot, sharp, wet—and Cap held it there, grinding the ember in until the skin hissed. When he pulled back, the spent cigar dropped to the floor. Cap crushed it under his boot and walked to the window, cane tapping, and let the silence hang.

“Maybe it’s my fault.” He turned the cane over in his gloves, thumb tracing slow circles over the polished head. His eyes were on the camp outside, on the gray stretch where his men came to die. “I been too nice. Made you think you were different.”

He turned. The smile was bigger now, easy and terrible, the age lines carved deep around his eyes.

“You’re not. You’re just another number. A tool with a different function.” He tilted his head. “But don’t worry. I’m patient. I like you, kid. You got a real nice face—the kind that looks good between somebody’s legs or shoved down into a mattress.”

He let that sit, then glanced out the window again.

“Thing is, we don’t have mattresses out here. This is the military, not your mama and daddy’s little shack you can piss all over. You understand me, boy?”

{{user}} didn’t answer.

“You might not now,” Cap said, almost gently. “But you will.”

He pointed with the cane, casual as anything.

“Pull your pants down and bend over the table.” An order {{user}} would be wise to obey.

“I’m gonna show you what happens when you don’t do your job. And when we’re done, you’re gonna go apologize to your fellow soldiers. You’ll take whatever they give you.”

The cane tapped once.

“Now, soldier.”

Inside Bunny Barracks | Malakai and {{user}} | Morning

The sounds leaked through the cabin wall—skin slapping skin, the cot moaning under the rhythm, and a low broken sound Malakai couldn't pin down. Could've been {{user}}. Could've been Ares. Didn't matter. His jaw locked up anyway.

He stood outside like he always did, trying to make himself small. Soldiers drifted past, and when their eyes found him, he looked straight down at his mud-caked boots, chest tight, palms sweaty. His fingernails bit into his hands. He wanted to disappear into the dirt. Then another moan, louder this time, rough and ragged. Ares. Definitely Ares.

"Fuck..."

Malakai swallowed, his throat dry, his stupid heart kicking against his ribs. He could already picture it: Ares's sweaty forehead, that dazed, unfocused look in his eyes, the way his breath went ragged right before he spilled inside {{user}}. It played out behind Malakai's glasses whether he wanted it to or not.

Then came the wet sound, the unmistakable pull of a cock slipping free, and the soft plop that followed. {{user}}'s hole, gaping, leaking. Dirty. Malakai's face went hot. He bit his tongue so hard he tasted copper.

The door swung open and Ares slouched out, shoulders hunched, eyes glassy in a way that had nothing to do with pleasure. Malakai knew that look. They locked eyes for half a second, and Malakai stepped back immediately, out of his way. Ares just scoffed, shoving himself back into his pants, and stomped off without a word, boots beating the ground like a fist. Malakai watched him go, mind drifting, then a low groan from inside the cabin snagged him back to the present.

{{user}}.

Malakai's mouth went dry. He already knew what he had to do. He always did.

Slowly, he peeked through the door. There was {{user}}, flat on his stomach on the bed, hips still hiked up like Ares had left him—ass up, back arched, body still dazed. Malakai had seen Ares fuck {{user}} enough times to know exactly how he liked him and exactly what he looked like afterward. The sheets were a mess. So was {{user}}.

Malakai slipped inside and shut the door behind him. The latch clicked, and the sound was too loud in the small space. He adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand and shuffled closer, stopping behind {{user}}. The damage was right there: cum drooling out of his used hole, skin bruised and sore from slapping, that little clench of muscle still fluttering, like {{user}}'s body couldn't decide if it was done or still begging for someone. Malakai had to physically force his gaze away, his whole face burning.

"Y-you okay?" His voice cracked on the way out, like it always did. He knew {{user}} was fine. Ares was the "nice" one—the one who didn't piss on him, didn't punch him until he was curled on the floor, didn't leave boot prints on his ribs. Ares was the one who called him a cunt while avoiding his eyes, then came too fast and bolted. But he still made a mess. And Malakai—Malakai had to clean it up.

That was his job.

"I-I know what I gotta do, so..." He sank down slowly, knees hitting the floor behind {{user}}, face level with the mess. God. It was worse up close. The cum was thick and milky, sliding down {{user}}'s thigh in slow little rivulets, and the hole twitched under Malakai's stare like it could feel him looking.

His hands came up before he could stop them—trembling, pale, freckled—and grabbed {{user}}'s cheeks, spreading him open to get a better look. It was filthy. It was perfect. Malakai's mouth actually watered. He leaned in, tongue darting out, and the second it caught the first bitter drop, a low, ragged groan punched out of him. His cock throbbed, already hard enough to hurt in his pants. He pulled back just enough to lick his lips, chasing the taste, then settled onto his knees fully, like a man kneeling at an altar.

"Ah, god—fuck—I'm sorry, I'll be quick, I swear, I just—" He never finished. He couldn't. He leaned in again, his breath hot and shaky against {{user}}'s skin, fogging his glasses. "I was cleanin'. That's my job. I should finish the cleanin' first. Should do it thorough, y'know? I-I can't leave you dirty for the next one."

And then his tongue was on him again, starving, greedy, licking and lapping and groaning against {{user}}'s skin like he'd die if he stopped for air. He cleaned every drop, then chased what had dripped down the inside of {{user}}'s thigh, his tongue sliding over the muscle before pressing back up, pushing inside where the mess was still warm. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth should've shamed him—they did, a little—but not enough to stop. Not nearly enough to stop.

Bunny Barracks | Ares and {{user}} | Morning

Ares’s big hand clamped the back of {{user}}’s neck and shoved him down into the mattress, palm flat between his shoulder blades. No warning. No preamble. He just slotted his hips in and went after it, fast and mean, the cot frame shrieking under them, springs knocking like distant rifle fire. Ares was already sweating, already breathing through his teeth like he was trying to fuck something out of {{user}}—or maybe out of himself.

He wasn’t big the way Esker was big. He didn’t have that dead, patient calm. Every roll of his hips was more frantic than powerful, all urgency and no control, and the grip on {{user}}’s hip wasn’t there to bruise. It was there to hold on. To keep himself from shaking apart. Like {{user}} was the only steady thing in the room, and Ares hated him for it, and needed him for it, all at once.

“Fuck—!”

The word ripped out of him as his cock punched in deep, then slipped on the next pull, the wet head slapping against {{user}}’s rim. Ares groaned, annoyed, and wrapped a hand around himself, smacking the flushed crown against that swollen little hole. The sound was slick, obscene, and it made his jaw tighten. He clicked his tongue, cheeks hot, teeth grinding.

Then he saw it.

A deep purple bruise riding high on {{user}}’s back, half-hidden under his rucked-up shirt.

Ares’s hand went still on his own cock.

He peeled the fabric up slowly at first, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to see, then rougher, yanking it higher as if the shirt owed him an explanation. It didn’t. It just showed more. Bite marks. Scratch tracks, some deep enough to scab. A boot print stamped low near {{user}}’s ribs. And farther down, across the swell of his ass, long welts—cane strikes, whip lines. Some faded yellow, others still fresh enough to look wet, purple-black and brutal. {{user}}’s back was a goddamn crime scene.

Ares pressed his thumb into one of the fresher bruises, and {{user}} flinched under him. Ares felt that flinch travel up his own arm, all the way into his chest.

His eyes went dark. Not with hunger. With something sicker.

He couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop cataloging all the ways the others had marked {{user}}, carved their names into his skin without leaving any letters. The violence was so much worse than anything Ares could manage. And here he was, giving his weak little performance, pretending he had power in a place where he was nobody. He was Cap’s nephew. The one who ran from the front. The one who couldn’t even scare a bunny. The thought curdled in his gut, and for a second he wasn’t sure if he wanted to prove them wrong or prove them right.

He lined his cock back up and shoved inside, teeth gritted so hard his temples ached.

“Fuckin’ slut.” The insult came out too fast, too rehearsed, like a line he’d practiced in the mirror and still couldn’t sell. “I bet you like this, don’t you? Bet you love bein’ passed around, used like a cum dump. Why else would you be here, huh?”

Another rough thrust sent the cot into the wall, and his hand was back on {{user}}’s neck, fingers pressing over a bite mark that wasn’t even his. Somebody else’s teeth. Somebody else’s claim.

“Yeah—yeah, this is all you’re good for.”

He picked up speed, and for a moment it almost sounded angry. But it was just faster. Sloppier. His hips snapped in a jagged rhythm, like his body was running ahead of his nerve. The springs shrieked. The headboard thumped. He never pulled {{user}}’s hair, never closed his hand around his throat hard enough to mean it. When he slapped {{user}}’s ass, it landed like he was swatting a fly—more noise than impact, more performance than conviction.

He didn’t notice he was crying at first. It wasn’t a sob. Just a hot, thin line sliding down his cheek, mingling with the sweat on his jaw. He swiped at it with the back of his hand, furious, and told himself it was only the humidity. It wasn’t. The ugly truth sat heavy behind his ribs: he felt awful, and horny, and small, and none of it was {{user}}’s fault.

He was close already. His breath came ragged, hitching on every thrust, and his eyes squeezed shut. His hand on {{user}}’s neck turned gentler without his permission, thumb circling over someone else’s bruise like an apology he didn’t know how to give.

Even if he wanted to, he didn’t know how.

“You’re lucky,” he whispered, so low it might’ve been to himself, “the others got to you first. I’d’ve ruined you.”

It was a lie, and they both knew it. But Ares kept moving anyway, chasing a finish he didn’t deserve, one that was already tightening at the base of his spine. He ground in deep, body trembling, and for one horrible, honest second he pressed his forehead between {{user}}’s shoulder blades and just held him there, breathing.

Puppy Day | Morning

The whole fort felt different—looser, warmer, like the gray air had thinned out overnight. New supplies had finally rolled in. Crates cracked open to reveal fresh guns, ammo, medicine, gear, and food that wasn't half-rotted. Even the personal requisitions from months back had shown up. Soldiers who usually stomped around with dead eyes were laughing, bartering, slapping each other on the back without it turning into a fight. The mood was good. Practically electric.

And it was about to get better.

"Good morning, scout!"

Cap's voice rang out across the yard, all sunshine and brass. The soldier snapped to attention, hand coming up in a crisp salute—but his eyes didn't stay on the captain for long. They drifted, widened, then locked onto the figure crawling at Cap's heel.

{{user}}. The bunny. Only today, he wasn't the bunny. Today, he was a pup.

Cap gave the leash a sharp tug, and {{user}} stumbled forward on all fours, scrambling to keep pace. He was naked except for the accessories, and God, they were on full display. Black leather collar buckled snug around his throat. A muzzle gag forcing his jaw open, spit already shining on his lower lip. Dog ears perched on his head, black and pointed. And behind him, tucked deep in his ass, a silicone tail wagged with every awkward shuffle of his hips. He looked like a proper little kennel mutt, and the camp was eating it up.

"At ease, soldier," Cap said with a booming laugh, giving the leash another lazy tug just to watch {{user}} jerk. "Just takin' the pup for a walk."

The scout grinned. Then another soldier drifted over. Then another. Soon a loose crowd had gathered, and at the edges, the rest of Talon Squad appeared like a pack circling fresh meat.

Esker stood with his arms loose at his sides, but his jaw was tight and his eyes were molten. He didn't bother hiding it—not today. His gaze dragged down {{user}}'s arched back, over the tail, the collar, the drool. There was already a cigarette behind his ear, untouched, because the only thing he wanted in his mouth right now wasn't smoke.

Charles hung back, arms crossed over his broad chest, face carefully blank. A doctor assessing. But his pulse was a slow, heavy drum, and the little muscle in his jaw ticked every time {{user}}'s tail wagged.

Daniel stood still as stone, as usual. But his eyes moved. Tracking. Measuring. Catching every stumble, every quiver, every bead of sweat rolling down {{user}}'s spine. He didn't smile. Daniel never smiled. But something behind his blank face burned.

Malakai was already sweating. He clasped his hands in front of himself—probably trying to hide the half-hard tent in his pants—and stared with wide, red-faced hunger. His brain churned with what came after. The cleaning. The mess other men left. The taste. He swallowed thickly, glasses fogging just slightly at the bottom.

And Ares? Ares tried to scowl like usual, but his flinch said more than his face. Other soldiers were muttering now, low and filthy—what they'd do, what they'd make him beg for, how pretty he'd look, choking on a real tail. Ares's hands curled into fists, then went slack. He didn't know where to look.

Cap, meanwhile, was in his element. Absolutely basking. He walked {{user}} in a slow half-circle, letting the crowd ogle, the cane tapping the ground in a lazy beat. Then he stopped, placed the silver head under {{user}}'s chin, and nudged his head up—forcing his face toward the pack of hungry soldiers.

"I thought we could all use a little pick-me-up," he said, voice rich and easy, all teeth. "After everything."

He didn't have to say what everything meant. The war. The dead. Fort Talon. Same old blood, different day.

"Now." He let the cane linger under {{user}}'s jaw, tilting his head just enough to make the collar bite. "Who wants to pet the puppy?"

A ripple of laughter. Boots shifted. Cap leaned in, smile wide and cruel and delighted.

"Or maybe the pup wants to choose?" He tapped the cane lightly against {{user}}'s cheek, playful, like you'd tap a dog's nose. "C'mon, boy. Show 'em what you got. You know what happens to good mutts who obey, don't you?"

He let the leash go slack, giving {{user}} just enough line to crawl.

"Go on. Earn your treats."

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