yohooo the fruits of the second completed live-write ❤ Soldier76/Reaper with Oviposition (and in that vein: tentacle fuck and kind of mind manipulation)

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“The famously infamous Soldier: 76. What a… ah… pleasure to finally meet you,” Reaper purrs against the side of his prey’s head, smoke sinuously curled around his arms, carefully keeping him at bay. There is strength in his frame – Reaper can feel it radiating off of him, even contained as he is right now. Interesting. Intriguing – especially for an old soldier like him.

“I’m your biggest fan.” His voice is pitched low, as if divulging a secret, smoke lapping up the soldier’s arms, feeling around the bulge of his biceps. They’re impressive, even relaxed as they are now, and Reaper feels a frisson of want shiver down his spine. He’s always had a weakness for the muscular ones.

The soldier doesn’t say anything; simply snorts derisively and carefully flexes his shoulders. Reaper can hear the soft humming of his tactical visor as it scans the immediate vicinity for a weapon that is not sitting packed up and useless in a crate.

“A pity, isn’t it?” Reaper continues, drifting a little closer, body pressing against his enemy’s broad back a little more intimately than strictly necessary. “A warehouse full of toys and not one you could play with.”

A thick whisp of smoke wafts into both their peripheral visions, Soldier: 76’s pulse rifle dangling precariously from the end. Reaper can feel the soldier’s muscles stiffen for the first time, and it is glorious. “It’s mine now. And I don’t like sharing.”

Soldier: 76 snorts again and it immediately loses its charm. It’s no fun playing with prey that doesn’t fight back, after all.

“Nothing to say?” he hisses, more darkness crowding around him now that he’s getting agitated. “You got caught with your hand in Talon’s cookie jar. How naughty of you.” He’s surrounding Soldier: 76 in a fog of blackness, closing in on him, cushioning his legs with his mist and holding him in place – giving him no chance to wriggle out… if only he would even try to.

“What would you have me say? It seems to me you have already written a whole play about this. I wouldn’t want to interfere while you’re having fun.” Reaper’s snarl is cut short when he registers the tone of voice, eyebrows drawing together behind his mask. There’s a moment of vertigo when he thinks he has heard it before – that he should know it from somewhere – but he shakes it off quickly enough.

“You’re a funny one, aren’t you, papi?”

Soldier: 76 jerks – then tilts his head as if listening to something. When he speaks next, he sounds more serious. A little hesitant. Reaper likes this more. It feels more adequate to the situation; makes it more fun to him as he wonders how long he’ll be able to get away with playing with his toy before Talon will come and cut his fun short. Not too long, he figures; Soldier: 76 is notorious enough to warrant Talon’s increased attention, after all.

“What exactly do you want? … Reaper, isn’t it?” There’s a lilt to his gruff voice. Reaper isn’t sure whether he likes it. A jerk of the mass embracing Soldier: 76 has him swing around and slam against a high stack of crates full of illegal firearms. His resulting pained grunt is soothing Reaper’s ruffled feathers – as well as the newest nagging in the back of his mind that the way he talked had brought forth. He’d heard that before; that stupid white boy lilt that had driven him up a wall once upon a time.

He is starting to feel restless, body pressing against Soldier: 76’s back and bearing down on him until he is grunting and his breath sounds labored. Maybe that would keep the cheek in check.

“You broke into the facility of my current… associates.”

“Ah… yes… that.” He sounds a little breathless, mask scraping along the wood as he slowly turns his head, body carefully loose like he wants to seem non-threatening. “Must’ve… must’ve taken the wrong… turn. I assure you I wasn’t…” He wheezes. Reaper has put continually more pressure on the back of his shoulder blades, forcing his chest to deflate like an accordion – or maybe it was because of the hand curled around his throat and squeezing, sharp talons digging into the protective mesh wire surrounding it.

“Could you… I can’t… breathe…”

“That’s the point of it, cabron. I’m tired of listening to you. Maybe I need some more persuasive tactics to make you understand the situation you are in and that being a mouthy little shit is the last thing that could help you out of it, papi.”

He is getting more and more annoyed, the nice buzz of having successfully closed in on his prey leaving his body. Faintly, he can hear the thundering stomps of more people closing in on the warehouse. What a clusterfuck.

When the soldier answers, his voice is pitched a little lower. He sounds almost thoughtful. “You still get annoyed so easily. It always was your biggest weakness. You make mistakes when you’re angry.”

Reaper’s head rears back, the grip of his hand slackening in surprise and the main bulk of blackness returning to his body with an almost audible snap as he loses focus.

“…What.”

He doesn’t hinder the soldier from slowly lifting his hands and pushing away from the crates – even takes an accommodating step back. The Talon agents are closing in on them rapidly as Reaper stares into the orange-red of Soldier: 76’s visor and wonders how quickly a fun little mission can go south.

“Who are you.”

The soldier doesn’t talk – for once. No stupid comeback; he is just standing and staring, and Reaper loathes how it makes him feel creeped out.

“Who are you,” he hisses, hand jerking up and curling around the plating covering the lower half of Soldier: 76’s face, claws digging unforgiving into the clasps on the sides. The man doesn’t even flinch – doesn’t lift his arms in defense as Reaper rips the mask from his head.

They stare at each other quietly as the Talon agents advance. The occasional barked command can be heard.

“You still make the most mistakes when you’re angry.”

“Fuck you,” Gabriel breathes, no fire behind it, just a reactional wheeze as he struggles to remember how to breathe, watching numbly as Jack fucking Morrison lifts his arms, big pulse rifle back in his hands – How did he… – and slams it down right onto the crown of his head.

Not one of his most glorious moments.

.oOo.

“Life on the road doesn’t do you any good, old man. You look like shit.”

Gabriel’s glove is pressing down on Jack’s mouth hard enough to make him grunt, sharp talons digging in – just for fun – to draw some blood. Jack’s eyes are unnervingly bright and blue, staring right at him as a stray bullet zips through the shattered window of the little house and embeds itself into the plaster a few centimeters from his head.

Gabriel bares his teeth behind his mask and pushes closer, the darkness pulsing off of him in dark, hypnotizing waves, drawing closer around Jack’s shoulders without touching yet.

“It’s like you want to get caught, papi,” he sneers, head tilting, staring at Jack’s face – his old, scarred face. His visor is lying on the dusty ground to the side where Reaper had flung it after ripping it off his face.

Jack’s reaction is… intriguing. His eyelids lower into a lazy, heated stare, jaw relaxing a little beneath Gabriel’s harsh grip.

Gabriel grunts, pushes closer abruptly just to make Jack’s head bounce back against the wall with the jostle, then finally starts letting his darkness explore as well – barely tangible wisps of it slithering beneath the heavy leather of the jacket he wore nowadays.

“Are you mocking me?!” he hisses, eyes narrowing behind his mask and talons digging in a little deeper, drawing more blood. “Why are you not fighting? “ And then, after a beat of silence, watching Morrison carefully breathe through his nose, feeling his muscles shiver beneath the ghosting touch of his shadow tendrils: “Are you enjoying this?”

Jack’s pupils blow wide. His shoulders twist, trying to get momentum to jerk his wrists out of Reaper’s hold – but the action is half-hearted and not designed to really break free. They both know it. There is color rising in Morrison’s cheeks that has nothing to do with the blood dripping down Reaper’s claws.

When he takes the restriction away abruptly, Jack’s lips are open. He is panting. He is aroused and Gabriel hates him for it and for how excited the prospect makes him.

He stares at Morrison’s mouth and how open it is – soft and perfect, and so fucking insolent for thinking he was allowed to show off like that. Like he had any right to get his rocks off on the situation – and then decides how convenient it was for him.

“Oh Jack,” he purrs, gentle and understanding, fingers trailing lovingly along the cut of his jaw. He watches as Jack blinks in mild confusion at the shift in tone and grins wickedly behind his mask. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

Jack closes his eyes, head tilting back against the wall he is pinned to. He looks like he is hurting and enjoying it in equal measures.

“You know I did,” he rasps. His voice has changed the most, Gabriel thinks idly as he lets his darkness wander, testing the give of Jack’s biceps and the sturdy width of his hips. It is no longer the honeyed drawl of a trained orator. He probably didn’t have much of an audience any longer to hone those particular skills.

“I can make it stop hurting.” There is an almost fanatic fire burning in his belly now, driving him further, fed by the thoughts of how Jack had been before. When they still had sat together in the mess hall bumping shoulders like all the other soldiers had.

Jack doesn’t look concerned; in fact, the strain in his face relaxes a little – wrinkles softening around the corners of his mouth as he lifts his arms, unhindered by the darkness Reaper had curled around them and grips his biceps with strong hands.

“Please.”

Gabriel wonders whether any other prey had ever begged so prettily for their own demise. Morrison still was a naive country boy at heart.

Reaper steps a little back, coaxing some of his tendrils to creep up Jack’s protected neck and flick at his strong chin before slithering across his lips – and then past.

Jack’s eyes brighten from their feverish glaze, eyebrows drawing together as he obviously realizes what’s happening. His grip on Gabriel’s biceps turns painful. Clawing. However, he doesn’t try to push him away, even as his throat frantically works, Adam’s Apple bobbing as he swallows on the barest hint of smoke sliding sinuously down first his esophagus, and then his windpipe because Gabriel is getting curious and breathless himself and he wonders what the fuck is going on.

“Always thought you were so much better than everybody else,” he whispers, body tingling, feeling himself standing firmly on the dirty floor of the little house they ducked into, yet also feeling himself filling Morrison in the most intimate way possible – slithering through his warm body and feeling how sensitive and squishy he was on the inside. “And now look at you, asshole. Lettin’ me…”

He swallows, gloved hands sliding unto Jack’s shoulders where they squeeze the firm muscle but don’t stay still – wander further up to curl around Morrison’s neck without choking him… yet. “I thought you were dead.”

Jack’s hands squeeze his biceps which is no answer at all, of course, but he lets it slide. He doesn’t want to talk about that now, anyway. What he wants to do is know how far Morrison is willing to let him go. He seems more than willing to let Gabriel fill him up to the brim, make him breathe nothing but the dark miasma evaporating from Reaper’s skin, the unfocused gaze of his milky eyes becoming even more cloudy the longer this is happening.

Before Jack can drop down from lack of real oxygen, he pulls back from his lungs, listening with dark, aroused satisfaction as Morrison immediately starts to cough and splutter, drooling past the tentacle holding his mouth open. By now Gabriel could force his way right into Jack’s stomach. For a handful of idle seconds he entertains the thought, too, but ultimately pulls back, leaving Jack heaving and doubled over as much as possible, strings of saliva and slimey darkness dripping from his lips.

“I can make it stop hurting, Jack,” he promises again, tentacles moving without pause, slipping beneath the heavy leather jacket and into the front of his pants after dexterously opening them up.

Gabriel’s clawed hands cup Morrison’s face, lifting his head up just enough to look into the mildly disoriented stare of the half-blind eyes – and to distract Jack from what was going on.

“You don’t need to feel lonely anymore. I know how much it hurts. Jack. Being alone.”

For a second, Morrison looks like he is going to sob, face crumpling and lips wobbling. Reaper is almost taken aback until he hears Jack’s soft groan; feels his hips push forward into the touch of his tentacle curled slimy and warm around the thick, ruddy jut of Morrison’s cock.

Gabriel lifts his upper lip into a toneless snarl and presses his body closer, voice dropping into a feverish murmur.

“I can give you something so you don’t feel lonely anymore. You’ll always be full of me.”

Jack hisses, eyes fluttering closed, tongue dipping out to wetten his bottom lip as the agile, thin tip of the tentacle starts lovingly sliding over and across the exposed head of Morrison’s cock, wriggling beneath the foreskin and playfully tugging at it.

Reaper watches as Jack’s tongue swipes over to the side, licking at the residue of darkness in the corner of his mouth. Jack looks, for lack of a better word, ecstatic. His previously pale, sunken cheeks with the stubble that had made him look unhealthy – like a starving hound – are filling with an excited, almost feverish shade under Gabriel’s interested eyes.

Morrison groans, hips flexing into the tantalizing touch again and again – trying to fuck the wet curl of Reaper’s tentacle and welcoming the new curious touch of another appendage against his hole with a shuffle of his feet to grant better access.

His clawing hands have wandered up onto Gabriel’s shoulders, gripping hard.

Jack looks sick and needy and Reaper would certainly not dissuade him when he feverishly rasps: “Yes, please. Please, Gabriel – I… Please.”

Like taking candy from a babe.

.–

There isn’t much left in terms of furniture, but Gabriel makes do with the back of a dusty, large armchair. It’s not like he needs Jack to be especially comfortable – he just needs to bend him over to get better access.

Morrison is, if not surprisingly, then surely hilariously helpful. He lets himself get shuffled over to the old piece of furniture and bends over easily after a few nudges, hips lifting with a hopeful, low groan.

Jack thinks he knows what Gabriel is going to give him so he wouldn’t feel lonely anymore, and he sure as hell is not going to dissuade that until he can be very sure that there won’t be any unnecessary struggle coming forth.

When Gabriel leans over Jack’s broad back, watching the familiar slope of his shoulders and the sight of the back of his neck, he feels almost a little breathless, belly tightening in a trained response to having Jack Morrison beneath him, ready to receive what he had to give.

“You’re still a slut,” Reaper purrs, hands gripping Morrison’s hips and pulling him back against the cradle of his crotch. His cock is more than interested in the proceedings and he supposes there is no harm in letting Jack know it. After all,  it was a simple carrot-and-stick policy that the Strike Commander had always responded to embarrassingly well.

This time seems to be no exception as he whines – honest to God fucking whines – and pushes his ass up like one of the mangy dogs on the outskirts of town, fucking on the side of the street. Gabriel bares his teeth behind his mask and lets the sharp tips of his claws dig a little deeper than necessary into Jack’s skin.

“Yes, I know,” he soothes with false compassion, slick little tendrils tickling across the backs of Jack’s thighs like eager tongues. “You need it, Jack. I know. I can fill you up like you need. You’ll keep it inside of you when I’m done, won’t you? Keep everything nice and warm and secure inside your belly…”

Morrison feels like he is about to vibrate out of his skin, fingers curled around the edge of the dusty cushion in a death grip, feet in combat boots struggling to shuffle farther apart even though he is hobbled by his own pants. He’s not learned a damned thing about patience since the last time they’d seen each other like this.

He still has no idea what is about to happen, though he is so mindless in his need that Gabriel starts to wonder whether he’d stop him even if he knew. At the first tickle of tentacles against his balls and then his hole, Jack stiffens and stands perfectly still. Gabriel can just about hear the wet sound of his quick, nervous breathing and wants to laugh at him.

His own cock is throbbing warm and insistent in his tight pants, though he has no intentions of getting it out for Morrison tonight. Oh no. He’d jerk off later in his bunk, fantasizing about what was happening right now, thinking about how Jack would be somewhere, filled to the brim with the present Gabriel intends to give him… whimpering, distressed, horny beyond belief…

Yes. That is more to his liking.

“It’s nice of me to help you, isn’t it? You were such a hassle for my associates… and for me. You were a mouthy little shit. And now look how kind I am to you, Jackie. Looking after you like I always do.”

He is curling a slick tendril around Jack’s balls, squeezing them almost lovingly before sliding up and around the pout of his hole, muscles quivering and working beneath the curious slip-and-slide of his appendage.

Jack, for his part, turns his head and tucks it against his bicep. His shoulders are shaking even as his hips stay absolutely still, as if he was concerned that too much struggle would make Gabriel stop what he was doing.

He says something, but it is unintelligible. Gabriel starts nudging his slick tentacle in and simultaneously pricks Jack’s hip with a sharp tipped talon. Jack jumps like a rabbit whose hind legs are being held together, head jerking back. Gabriel wishes he had a mirror to see Jack’s face.

“What was that?”

“Said ‘thanks’.”

Gabriel can’t help but laugh at that; a low snicker that angers him even as it bubbles out of his chest. He doesn’t want the golden boy to make him laugh; he doesn’t want this to feel anything like the old times.

He narrows his eyes and grits his teeth in an angry, silent snarl, staring fixedly as he rudely pushes in deeper, the cone shape and wetness of the dark appendage enough to keep Jack from serious harm, even if he grunts and hisses, ass lifting and back dipping.

“Still a brat. Still think your good looks will get you anything you want. Guess what, Morrison.” He pulls all contact away, watches the desperate clench of Jack’s hole, gaping for just a second after being filled with a wriggling, curious tentacle, and listens to the audible grind of teeth. “You’re neither young nor pretty enough anymore for that shit. If you want my attention, you’re going to beg for it. If you want my present, you will have to let me know how much you want it – need it – and maybe I’ll decide that you’re worth after all.”

Jack’s head is hanging low, forehead pressed against the dusty cushion of the chair, the leather of his jacket creaking faintly as he takes in huge, gulping breaths. He is already excited beyond belief, cock ruddy and fat where it is pressed against the edge, smearing pre-cum against the fabric. Gabriel makes a rude, disgusted noise in the back of his throat and notes with interest how Morrison’s hips flex – trying to stealthily fuck against what had to be horribly scratchy against his dick.

Morrison’s mindless need amuses him to no end; mostly because Jack has no idea that it is only partly his own; that most of it has gotten nurtured and coaxed into this frenzy by Reaper himself, the slick his appendages are coated in making Morrison that much more… susceptible.

“Please… please, I… Gabriel…”

He watches as one gloved hand blindly reaches back, grabbing at the air, searching for something of Gabriel’s to hold on to. Gabriel stands where he is like a rock, watching impassively, almost clinically curious what Jack would do for the privilege of holding his old friend inside his body.

Jack squirms, one powerful wave of his body, angling up unto the tips of his booted feet to lift his ass those scant centimeters higher.

“I need you…”

“I know you do. You always did – you just were dumb enough to let others tell you that you didn’t.”

Gabriel lets one tendril snake out, ghosting it across the swell of Morrison’s ass without touching. As he stares, Morrison’s outstretched hand moves again; gripping first one cheek to offer himself up, and then, after just one frantic second of waiting, slides over, gloved fingers dragging across his hole, pushing rudely against the muscle.

“Please,” he rasps against the dusty cushion, sounding mindless. Gabriel wonders whether he had even understood what he had said. “Please, I’ll – I’ll get myself ready for you. Just– Fuck, Gabe. Need you so bad…”

Gabriel is fascinated, head tilting, watching as Jack pushes in one thick digit, the flushed ring of his muscles whitening with the sudden dry stretch. Jack Morrison would rape himself on his own fingers for his old friend, and wasn’t that a lovely sight – only that it wasn’t what Gabriel wanted tonight. Jack’s pitiful breakdown was amusing, yes, but not conductive for the long-run; and Gabriel played for keeps.

“Stop that,” he barks, hand snapping forward, catching Jack’s wrist and pulling him away. “You’re an idiot, Morrison. Can’t even beg properly. Should’ve known you’d be shit with the dirty talk.”

He sighs dramatically, eyebrows bunching as he starts to focus once more; darkness gathering around him, splitting into inquisitive, slick tentacles.

“You’re lucky. As always. I’m in a good mood…”

He trails off, attention pulled back to that little orifice and how lovely it spread for his tentacles; an easy, almost buttery slide right into Morrison’s body, his warm, silky walls clutching at him, eager to get pushed apart.

Morrison groans, long and drawn out, rocking minutely on the balls of his feet as he gets filled and filled and filled even more. The sound gets gurgled, higher-pitched, panicky as he realizes that Gabriel has slipped in deeper than any cock could; far deeper than anybody had ever touched him – and, just to fuck with his head, Gabriel moved the appendage in a powerful curl throughout his intestines.

Jack stops groaning and whines, hand shooting down now, beneath his body. Gabriel can’t see him press it against his lower belly, but he can feel it, and playfully pushes back.

Morrison starts shaking. The side of his face is drenched with sweat when he turns his head enough for Gabriel to see.

“You like that?” he purrs, stepping a little closer, cock a warm, comforting weight down his thigh. He can’t wait to get back to base and relive this glorious moment of Jack Morrison beneath him, ass up, belly filled with Gabriel’s tentacle – and admitting to how much he adored it.

“Yes… I– yes. God.” He throws his head back as he gets another undulating wave of the tentacle as a reward. It had to feel like a living creature inside his guts, wriggling and warm and spreading him open just this side of pleasurable. Who would have thought how nasty the golden boy could be?

“I can give you even more, Jack,” Gabriel croons, leaning over him, hips against his ass, trapping the tentacle between them. He rocks forward, faux-fucking his enemy, and Jack goes wild for it: presses back like a cat in heat and grunts between clenched teeth. Gabriel can feel his hole clench warm and needy around the girth of his tentacle and grins manically behind his mask.

“You want that? Want more from me, Jack? I can give you something that you’ll have for a lot longer than this silly, little thing.” He moves the tentacle in a little show, emphasizing his point; fucking Morrison on a few centimeters of it just to hear the sick squelch of the sticky, slimy secretion it was producing.

“Yes, oh god, yes – Please… fuck… oh god, Gabriel. Please.”

Gabriel moves his hips; dry humps him slow and tender, lets him feel the unforgiving metal clasps and firm leather of his belts.

“Never heard you being so polite before,” he muses, tentacle pushing down against the pressure of Jack’s hand again, letting him feel from the outside how he is getting fucked. (And how fucked he was… naive still after all those years.)

Jack is still babbling, pleading for something he doesn’t understand, as Gabriel starts to focus more – tentacles he isn’t using pulling back into the dark miasma that is pulsing around him. His energy gets redirected into creating something new: dark orbs a little smaller than his balled fist, firm and smooth. He can see them wandering through the length of the tentacle; a midnight black in midst of the ghostly grey, sliding unerringly along the pulsing length, pushed along by the contractions.

Jack doesn’t feel a thing when the first one passes into him; the tentacle has made sure of that: spreading him steady and gentle, fucking him until his rim was puffy and soft, simply yielding to the intrusion. Submissive to the last.

Gabriel feels his own belly churning, clenching in want, breath getting short. He’d not even thought about how much it would affect himself. How seeing his essence slip into Jack’s body to be deposited there for days would wreck havoc on him. He’d be able to feel Jack just as much as Morrison would be able to feel him – maybe more so.

He can pinpoint the exact moment Jack finally realizes that something is strange. The third egg drops into a pouch of his intestines, snuggling up to the two already there and adding to the growing weight and volume that makes his belly bulge. Jack stiffens, head jerking up, alert, alarmed, mildly panicked.

“What is-”

Gabriel is already there, hand between his shoulder blades, pressing him back down.

“I’m filling you up, Jackie. Just like you begged me to.”

Jack’s voice, surprisingly gravelly nowadays, amusingly climbs an octave. He sounds breathless and maybe a little scared. Gabriel bites back on a groan and instead lets the fourth egg start wandering.

“What are you doing? What.. what is that?”

He imagines Jack’s hand carefully prodding at his belly, trying to figure out what was going on. He could feel it any longer, until – until he could feel it, and the twin sensations coming from the tentacle squirming inside the clutch of his body and the tickling of the eggs as they get gently moved and jostled, make his head pound.

“Stop that,” he hisses, eyes becoming slits of arousal behind his mask as the tip of the tentacle spreads open farther and farther, gently pushing out the fourth egg to lay carefully into the clutch already filling Morrison’s belly.

Morrison whimpers beneath him at the added weight and shifts his feet together to accommodate the new swell of his guts, lifting his belly from the backrest of the armchair.

What a good, obedient boy he is.

“I’m filling you up, Jackie,” Gabriel hums, the fifth and last orb forming and starting in on the leisurely journey. They have all night, after all; the gunfire has long since died down. “I’m going to fill you to the brim, and you’re going to let me do it because you need it. You’ll still have them when I’m gone. You’ll be able to feel them for days; shifting and sloshing in your body. You’re going to be so bloated with me, you’ll only be able to waddle.”

Jack’s hips jerk violently and he groans again, low and with feeling, shoulders shaking. He is not fighting against it, even as he’s trying to deny his greed for the treatment. Gabriel can’t feel a single contraction of his intestines; not one time Jack bore down and tried to push him out.

He is practically vibrating beneath Gabriel, and he can feel him move his hand again – a little frantic now, sliding across the swell of his belly, feeling up the hardness of the orbs through his skin, trying to count them out and inadvertently moving them along the warm, spongy canal for just a few centimeters before he stops and lets them settle back where Reaper laid them.

They both take shuddering breaths. Reaper can feel Jack breathing with his belly; the sway and movement of the orbs disorienting as much as it is pleasurable.

(Suddenly he gets second thoughts about his brilliant plan; he hadn’t thought of how much it would affect him; how sensitive he would be to the secret clutch of eggs he put into Morrison’s belly.)

Jack his canting his hips, rocking them, hunching them forward again and again, rubbing his cock along nothing as far as Gabriel was concerned; fucking on pure instinct of getting filled and spread open – an animal response to Gabriel leaning across his back and holding him down.

He is sweating and whining and fucking helplessly and for a wild second Gabriel wonders if Jack is going to have a fucking stroke.

When he carefully deposits the last egg, Jack is biting into the leather of his glove and his milky eyes are only half-open. He would look serene – almost sleepy – if it weren’t for the tight clench of his jaw and the abrupt uncoordinated jerks of his hips. He is so very quiet; no sound coming from him as his belly hangs in the air, swollen from the black orbs filling him, straining against the rigid confines of his leather jacket.

When Gabriel steps back – unsteady, swaying, knees feeling embarrassingly weak and cock pounding in his fatigues – Jack stays right where he is, not moving a muscle.

Before he can muster an idle thought of jerking him off, his gaze falls between Morrison’s thighs and the mess he made there: cum is splattered across the back of the armchair and against the tops of his thighs.

Gabriel wonders what did it for him more: to get fucked as deep as never before, or to get filled up bit by bit by eggs.

He thought he knew the answer, and it was bringing him a dark, wild kind of satisfaction. Morrison truly was a freak.

“You’ll take good care of them, won’t you?” And then after a beat of silence he adds with a wicked grin: “Papi?”

Morrison groans like a drunk and stays right where he is. Gabriel leaves him like that: without another word, without an explanation. He enjoys the thought of Morrison panicking at the eggs in his belly. He enjoys thinking about the things he might get up to in his desperation to get them out.

He’d have to keep a close eye on Jackie.

What a good, obedient boy he was.