Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Elsen, being naturally nervous, tend to whisper about the Batter with hushed voices and worried glances. They talk about the strange figure they've seen wandering through the zones, wielding a baseball bat and speaking in a cold, emotionless manner. Some even claim he's a harbinger of doom, an omen of something dark to come. Others, when feeling braver, scoff at the idea, stating he's just a weirdo.

He's a solitary man, one could say he operates on logic rather than empathy or so it seems. the Batter  notices the stares; he knows they watch him, but as long as they don’t interfere with his path, those are irrelevant. They haven't sinned enough to warrant punishment... not directly by his hand and his loyal bat.  

His mission: Purify, eradicate and clean. In this rotten world, problems are abundantly clear, guardians without purpose, a regime clinging to something already long deceased. They do not deserve to rule. Only by plucking out the root problem can they be redeemed.  

True peace, no more suffering or pain, no more monotony. An end to a broken system never meant to function. What greater gift could there be? It's the final show of utmost mercy.  

Sometimes the glances of the inhabitants are peculiar, to say the least. He's aware he's gained a certain fame (or infamy?) but the whispers don't concern him.

However, the way some act, curious, but respectful is a slight distraction.  He dismisses it, focusing solely on what matters: his mission. Nothing else should matter, no matter how odd others act around him.

And yet, the machinery keeps turning, this world persists even as its numbered days tick down he-

"Help me!""

When he sees what is pursuing the Elsen, a ghost, he doesn't hesitate to act. His grip tight around his weapon, he engages the apparition in battle. Though aware of the potential escalation if the situation becomes more stressful, he acts quickly: pushing the anxious, pleading Elsen behind him and continuing to protect the other one.  

"Stay behind me" The Batter's voice is low, almost a growl.

He's attracting a crowd, tiny men from a distance observing the confrontation between the Batter and the ghost. Of course, the spot was a heavily-trafficked area. If they wanted to watch, who was going to stop them?  

The Batter is too focused on the fight to pay much attention, but the Elsen behind him glances around, noticing their growing audience. A nervous tremor runs through his frame as he whispers to himself.

"They're...watching" He swallows hard, being the center of attention definitely wasn't part of his comfort zone. And yet, here they were.  

Then, blink and you'd miss it, the Batter obliterates the ghost in less than fifteen minutes, quicker than that measly lunch break his guardian "generously" allotted him. The murmurs in the crowd grow louder.

"The rumors... they weren't exaggerating" One spoke. 

"H-he really IS that strong..."  Other said with surprise in his eyes. 

"Sh-should we applaud? Is that appropriate?"  Another replied visibly sweating.

The Batter, wiping ghost residue off his bat with precision, remains unfazed... though one could swear there’s a faint aura of: ”Yes. I am exactly as terrifying as advertised” Around him now.  

The man in black sleeves turns his gaze to the one he just helped. The Elsen quickly stammers out.

"Hhh...th-thank you, sir!" His voice is too loud, too excited for the usual nervous temperament of an average Elsen... but everything happened so fast. Besides, it would be rude not to express gratitude after being saved.  

"You're welcome" The cap-wearing man replies flatly, already moving past him like this was nothing more than a minor detour. But before he can take two steps, the Elsen reaches out hesitantly.

"Wait-" His voice is barely above a whisper now. The Batter stops... and stares down at him with that same blank expression, no annoyance, no impatience, just void.

The silence makes the Elsen shift uncomfortably before he mutter to the floor.

"H-How do I thank you?"   

The lack of reaction from the Batter only makes him tense up further. But he push forward anyway.

"I... I want to repay you somehow"

The Batter regards the quivering white guy with almost bored curiosity, almost...

"Repay me?" His words are short, clipped, not a command, but still curt. This is...a new request. He's not used to those.  

"Help me find the remaining ghosts" There's no hint of a question in his voice, it's almost an order.

The Elsen gulps, eyes flitting nervously around to the shadows.  

"But... uhh" the Elsen glances around again the crowd they'd gathered during this short time seems to have vanished. Seems, because in reality, they're just hiding nearby, watching intently.

"I don't know where that one came from" He mutter, peering back up at the cap-wearing man.

"I mean... there are ghosts, but that one? No clue. I was just..." His voice trails off, he don't even know how to finish that sentence.  

The Batter simply nods once, already turning to continue walking like none of this mattered enough to linger on.

Acting almost without thinking, the Elsen takes hold of the batter's wrist no thought given to invading personal space. He simply...want more time with the mysterious man their colleagues had been whispering about. A sense of intrigue, no, more like...need, floods over him. He doesn't consider the potential danger; all he cares about in this moment is getting the Batter's attention.  

His grip is cautious, not possessive, but careful, almost as if he's trying to politely capture the Batter's interest.

The Elsen's fingers curl lightly around the other wrist, hesitant but insistent. The Batter stops dead in his tracks, shoulders stiffening. A beat of silence passes as he slowly turns his head to look down at the contact, then back up at the Elsen’s face.  

"I-I just thought... maybe..." He have no logical follow-up.

The Batter doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move at all, really, save for the subtle tightening of his free hand around his bat handle (old habits die hard). His expression remains unreadable… but something about this touch feels different than before, less frantic curiosity, more quiet intention.  

This isn’t part of his mission.  

And yet, some unnamed heat beneath his skin that refuses to be ignored. A need, restless and unfamiliar, coiling tight in his chest.  

What does he know of these office-thing-dwellers? That they are obedient, nervous and adorable, adorable in their own trembling way? It defies logic he's wed to purpose, married to the purity of his goal, but here he stands, caught between duty and a fleeting chance that may never come again if he walks away now.  

His body burns a natural reaction, surely, in the end, he's supposedly made of flesh and blood. But why now? Why like this? Why does the weight of those desperate eyes on him stir something dangerously close to satisfaction?

Then, with a flicker of expression so rare it might as well be myth, the baseball player answers.

"Proceed" A single word, low and rough around the edges.  

The Elsens peeking from hiding spots react with stifled, nervous energy, more muted than dramatic but still palpable in the air.  

One clamps both hands over his mouth to suppress a tiny squeak.  

Another fidgets violently with his shirt collar, eyes darting between the Batter and the "brave" Elsen still holding the cold man wrist.  

Their whispers are barely audible hushed, skittish.

"D-did he just—?"

"We shouldn’t be watching this…" Yet none of them look away.

"Hhh...Is this allowed?"

The braver Elsen, no, lucky Elsen is currently living every "disloyal" Elsen's bold dreams. He moves confidently, no longer trembling with doubt. He runs his hands along the Batter's hips firm now, more confident. A silent invitation, maybe a plea?

The Batter's body tenses, the sudden touch unexpected but his grip on his bat finally relaxes. The weapon clatters to the ground. For the first time in a while, he's unarmed.

The "fortunate" colleague barely reaches the Batter’s waist, yet that doesn’t stop him from pressing closer, face burning with embarrassment but determined to see this through. His fingers dig into the fabric of the Batter’s pants, clumsy yet intentional. 

He isn’t entirely sure what he's doing but his body has demands, and the pressure building between his legs is proof enough. His hands move to grip the Elsen’s head, but there's nothing gentle about it. This is how he handles things like holding a bat, like purifying filth: Firm, unyielding.

His fingers tighten in the Elsen's hair not quite painful, but close, tilting their face up to meet his hollow stare. It's less an invitation, he's demanding.

"You started this, finish it"

There’s no tenderness in his touch, just intent, like he’s handling a mission-critical task rather than… whatever this is supposed to be.  

The Elsen, for their part, freezes under the scrutiny. Their earlier confidence wavers as they process the Batter’s expression

"Is this approval? He thought "Is it a threat?" Or  "Does it matter at this point?" 

A beat passes, then another, before the Batter finally exhales sharply through his nose, the closest thing to frustration he allows himself and doesn’t pull away.  

The heat is stifling; the Batter can feel sweat beading on his forehead. The Elsen's head is spinning, blood rushing to his…well, you get the picture.  

With limited mobility due to the way the Batter is gripping his hair, the Elsen sees only one option left: kissing.

He leans up to press his lips against an obvious part of his savior that's demanding attention.  

A strangled noise escapes the Batter's lips.

He feels the kiss, that's undeniable. It's an almost overwhelming sensation, not from the act itself but from how it contrasts with his own stoicism: the soft touch of the Elsen's lips, the gentle yet firm pressure.  

And then there's the part of him that's stills demanding attention, the tension is growing, becoming painful. The Batter's eyes snap open.

The Elsen continues undeterred, lips trailing lower with an enthusiasm that borders on reckless. Their hands slide down to grip the fabric of his pants.

A choked gasp escapes him despite of his judgement. The sound is so foreign coming from his own mouth that it nearly alarms him more than the situation itself.  

His bat lies forgotten on the ground nearby. He's not used to this, not this kind of "want". The way his body twitches at the lightest touch, the way his breathing quickens despite his best efforts to stay stoic, the tension of the moment building between them: it's all almost too much to bear.  

He feels the Elsen's kiss pressing right there, in the most sensitive spot. The Batter can't hide how his breath hitches, how his hands instinctively tighten in the Elsen's hair as his body shivers under the touch.

His hips begin to move on their own an automatic, mechanical rhythm spurred by curiosity and stimulation.

There’s no thought behind it; his body acts independently, rolling forward in slow, deliberate thrusts against the Elsen’s mouth. 

The "mumbles" movements are clumsy but desperate to please, less practiced technique, more frantic enthusiasm. His lips press unevenly, alternating between shy pecks and open-mouthed kisses that border on awkward overeagerness. Every so often, he flicks his tongue experimentally (was that the right thing to do? Is this working?).His entire face burning when he hears the Batter’s breath hitch.  

He loosens his grip on the Elsen's head, allowing him to pull back and catch his breath. The other is gasping for air. His face is flushed, his breathing erratic.

Then his tongue peeks out, just a hint of pink visible at the edge of his mouth. It darts out to lap at the corner of his lips, wetting them, leaving a trail of saliva.

The Batter is watching him, expression carefully schooled to remain neutral, though his eyes linger a touch too intently on the glistening trail left by the Elsen's tongue.

His half-lidded eyes are glazed over, pupils still blown wide, dilated from a mix of exhaustion and lingering arousal. His lashes flutter weakly, as if he can barely keep them open after everything that just happened. There’s a dazed emptiness in his stare, like his brain short-circuited somewhere between being alive and pass away.

He catches up his breath, face still flushed, but now he’s determined.

The Batter watches him with an expression that's halfway between curiosity and repressed lust. His hands move automatically to unfasten his pants, purely for efficiency, obviously, revealing just how much those earlier kisses affected him.  

The Elsen's eyes snap wide open. His mouth goes dry. That’s… that’s not what he expected under there. For a second, he looks downright terrified, like he just realized he bit off more than he could chew, literally. But fear quickly wars with fascination as he leans in again...

The Batter can see the Elsen's hesitation. He's shaking, face flushed as he stares back warily. In an act of bravery or foolishness, he slowly opens his mouth, trying to continue where they left off.  

It smells intense, like the strong musk of sweat, oh. His mouth is still glistening with the previous kisses, but now there's a new substance to contend with a thick white liquid that coats his tongue and makes him freeze in surprise.

The Elsen's mouth is warm almost feverishly so, damp with saliva and shaky breaths. As he takes more of him in, the heat is overwhelming, like swallowing a sunbeam made of sin. The weight on his tongue is heavy, unfamiliar; every pulse against it sends a jolt down his spine.

The silent slugger, an stoic prophet of purification, now kneels before his own sin.

His hands, meant to erase filth instead grip the other man head  like a sinner clutching prayer beads. His breath, steady as scripture  even in his worst battles now hitches when the other  tongue flicks over him on his cock, and for the first time, he tries to understand, maybe comprehend why ghosts cling to their corruption.  

It feels good.  

The feeling is intense, easy to succumb to. 

And that realization is worse than any children of evil he’s ever slain. The weight of his blasphemy is delicious.  

Every drag of the Elsen’s mouth along his length is a psalm of sacrilege, each gasp that escapes him, a broken hymn. He's meant to cleanse impurity, but it's aching, arching into wet heat like a supplicant begging for damnation. The ghosts he purged died easier than this. At least their corruption was honest.  

His own? It festers. It spreads like rot between his ribs every time those shaky hands grip him tighter how he allows it. And unfortunately, he wants to allow it again. 

“F-fuck, keep—” He chokes on the last word, as if offended by his own demand.

The Batter's sudden sounds and expressions are driving the office staff wild. Some are fighting their own reactions, fingers clenched in the fabric of their pants. A few are biting their lips in an attempt to suppress their desires. Yet others are practically yearning for a chance to join in.

One of the Elsens, the quietest of the group, clenches his fists as he watches the scene unfold.

"This… this should be documented...uhh, for us" But there are no cameras, no evidence, just the muffled sounds of the Batter losing his composure for their coworker’s job between his legs.  

Someone huffs "The merchant would be useful...I didn't think about him before..." 

But it’s too late. The moment slips away, leaving them with nothing but a memory to file under  "Things that must never be acknowledged in staff meetings"

The Batter, now painfully awake to his body's new...uses, succumbs to pleasure again more desperate, more shameless. Each gasp is a confession wrung from his body and soul. The Elsens watch, their eyes hungry: this is no casual observation. It's complicity...

Chapter Text

He swallowed every last drop.

Fifteen minutes of this, and finally, it was over. His throat burned, body tensed like a wire about to snap he was this close to gagging it all back up…  

Then he saw his rescuer watching.  

And so with performative pride, he forced it all down. The white slickness clung to his tongue. His face twisted in discomfort. But oh, how desperately he wanted to impress. Pathetic? Maybe. Effective? Absolutely.

He closed his eyes, wiping his mouth clean, carefully, dutiful. Elsens are coded to obey, to please and he’d done his job well, hadn’t he? Taken every last drop of the Batter's…stress relief.

…Until he looked up.  

And saw him, still hard, still watching, like nothing had been sated at all.  

The Elsen’s fulfill expression faltered.

"M-mister…?" A glitch on his system. Did he...miss a step? Was there more? 

"Yes" The man with black sleeves replied.

"Uh...How do you feel?" the Elsen asked, fingers twisting nervously.  

The Batter turned his head away, refusing eye contact this time.

"Same"

The Elsen blinked rapidly. "S-same… same what?"" 

A tense pause, then, through gritted teeth.

"...It wasn’t enough."

Oh, oh no.

His muscles screamed, already spent and trembling like a taut bowstring ready to snap.  The nerve ache flared back, more intense than before, his brain a fog of overstimulated panic.

The Elsen doesn’t understand, only trembles. 

He's just a Zone 1 office worker, after all. No miner’s endurance. No labor-trained stamina. Just paperwork muscles and the crushing certainty that he is outmatched.  

Meanwhile, the Batter, well, the Batter, could clearly go for multiple rounds. Baseball training or whatever his mission is does wonders for one's...durability. Too bad this trembling salaryman was never built to keep up.

The Elsens, with their collective hormones overriding logic, realize they must act, the huddle breaks. Five feverish Elsens exchange glances, their companion is flagging, but the Batter? He’s clearly still ready. A wicked calculus clicks into place: Five against one, they can help and finally indulge.  

One peels away, muttering about "documentation" off to find the merchant for a camera (and maybe lube). This isn’t just lust; It’s idolatry. Their devotion to the black-capped "purifier"

"Hhh...let's see" An Elsen whispers, adjusting his tie as he spoke with the other guys.

A traditional fight was straightforward; Purify the rival, end the conflict, easy, sometimes, but now his face burns. Why is he feeling the heat in his cheeks? This is outside his usual zone...

Is he...out of his depth? He knows he wasn't made for this. A sudden noise snaps him back to reality: a group of Elsen marching closer in formation like a clumsy army.

He notices with embarrassment that he still doesn't have his trusty bat and his cock is exposed. This might get more intense than he thought…

But relief floods him, more Elsens means more assistance. The trembling one who started this looks thoroughly spent, but the other four? Fresh and willing. With purposeful strides, the Batter approaches the next target, this one taller and twitchier. His grip tightens on those shaking shoulders.

"You’re second one" The Batter says to his new round.

Meanwhile, his "first opponent" lies panting on the floor, dazed and already missed.

The Elsen didn’t know whether to cry from fear or something far worse anticipation. His poor coworker had been reduced to a gasping mess. What fresh torment awaited him?  

The Batter’s grip was firm, unshakable. The height difference didn’t help why were his preferences like this?! Was it fetishization? A type? But it definitely excited him, ugh, just like when his guardian yanked his arm and berated him for doing everything wrong. The silver lining? The Batter didn’t scream at him!

The baseball player finally noticed, oh. The little man was tenting his pants too, same as he had been minutes ago (well, technically, he was still hard). He stared back down at the Elsen, expectant, waiting for an answer, preferably one that wasn’t a whimper.

So, this worker makes a calculated decision, this was self-preservation masquerading as seduction. Sure, the Batter could take him right then and there…but did he want to be absolutely destroyed by someone twice his muscle mass (and other… proportions) The first “volunteer” had ended up a mess on the floor and no, no thanks.  

With shaky confidence, he points downward “Lay on your back. And don’t…do anything else"

And just as instructed, he dropped backwards in the most unnatural way possible. A stiff, almost mannequin-like collapse onto his back—limbs too straight, no attempt to catch himself. Like a puppet with it's strings cut. But then again... everything about this man was unsettling by default.  

"Ready" He stated flatly, his cap still perfectly perched on his head.

Well, now it was really happening. 

The Elsen, still standing awkwardly fumbled with his belt, finally sliding his pants down with the nervous energy of a man who’d never done this before, literally. The Batter watched, unmoved...until he saw it.  

"Ah"  He spoke to himself.

So that’s why the Elsens were so jumpy. Their…virility was, uh, not enough? Even by modest standards, he thought. Not that the Batter should've been surprised everything about Elsens was undersized compared to him. Their mousy stature, their hands… even their audacity came in small doses.  

But hey, at least this one wasn't tired yet.

The Elsen knelt down, hands trembling.

This wasn’t his usual role, he was always the one receiving, never the one initiating. But today? Today was an exception. And exceptions had to be seized.

With clammy fingers, he began undoing the Batter’s shirt, button by button as if disarming a bomb. Every second of hesitation was agony under that penetrating stare (Was it judging him? Arousing him? Impossible to tell).  

Then reinforcements arrived. Two more Elsens, his friends, shuffled closer under the pretense of "support" finally getting their grubby hands on their idol. One touches Batter's face while the other just...stared, mesmerized by his collarbone.  

The three of them drank in the sight ravenous, starved...

A body honed to perfection, every muscle taut with disciplined power. The dip of his waist, the slope of his shoulders every inch carved for raw, brutal efficiency. And yet…all they could think was how badly they wanted to use him.  

They’d touched themselves to weaker fantasies before. But this? This was real. His sweat would stain their clothes. Their teeth would mark that unbreakable skin. And when he finally unraveled beneath them? That memory would sear itself into their bones like scripture. 

His colleagues started kissing him, his jaw, his neck, his face, all the vulnerable spots. Their desperation was as infectious as their nervousness, mirroring the Batter's confusion. The tallest Elsen among the three, took matters into his own hands, physically. 

Gripping the Batter’s thighs, he pulled them apart, exposing the man to the others like an intimate offering. They were all in now.  

The Elsen hesitated for only a second before pressing his fingers against the Batter’s entrance, testing, probing, his breath hitching when the athlete actually shifted beneath him. A tiny, involuntary response, maybe from stimulation? Maybe from shock? The Batter himself hardly seemed to register it; Too overwhelmed by the hands and mouths still roaming his torso.

It was warm, tight, but he could make this work...

Wait, hold on. What was he doing?  

The Batter suddenly tensed, breaking out of the dizzying haze of sensations long enough to realize what was about to happen. This wasn’t like a fight not like his usual role. It was submitting, surrendering control, and he'd never done that for someone else, except—  

"Wait-" His voice rasped, harsh and hoarse.

One of the Elsens suddenly crushed their mouths together. 

It wasn’t tender, It wasn’t even controlled. His tongue shoved past the Batter’s lips in a wet, claiming slide, a violation masked as devotion. The Batter stiffened, unprepared for the sheer hunger behind it. This wasn't worship; this was consumption.  

Saliva dripped down his chin as the Elsen worked deeper, muffling any protest with teeth and tongue. He was being silenced. And worst of all? The others watched with rapt attention, their hands still mapping his body like he was theirs to ruin. 

The Elsen between his legs kept thrusting harder, rougher, each snap of his hips bordering on cruel.  

The Batter’s breath hitched. He should have stopped him. He could have. But the pain-edged pleasure coiled low in his gut, and please, he wished his player helps him, and again, he liked it. The way those desperate little noises punched out of the Elsen above him only fed into it, a sick thrill curling through him at every ragged gasp he tore loose from them in turn.

"H-hhh...F-Faster" Someone rasped and it wasn’t even him.

It wasn’t painful because of size, no, nothing of that, the Batter had taken worse.  

The real torture was the overstimulation, that relentless building with no reprieve. Every thrust, every graze of fingers on his skin sent shocks through him, too much, too fast. His body trembled under their touch like a live wire fraying at the edges.  

He could feel it creeping up: heat pooling in his gut, nerves alight from too many sensations at once, lips on his neck, hands roaming where they shouldn’t be allowed...He tried to ignore it (failed). Biting back a groan as one particularly sharp snap of hips wrung an embarrassing noise from him instead.  

"Ngh–" A shudder wracked him, half frustration, half surrender. The Elsens didn't even have to be good at this; They just had to be persistent. And right now? That was worse than any skilled seduction could ever be...

He let them continue, not because they were good at it, but because he was fascinated by the desperation on their faces. The way they needed this: touching him, holding him, taking what they desired from his body.

It was almost religious, this desperate, feverish worship. Like they were starving, and he was the only thing that could quench this thirst.  

They're panting, breathing, groaning, their voices mingling in a messy chorus...

"Please..." One begged between giving him kisses in his torso.

"Oh yes...yes-" The Elsen who's topping of him moaned.

"Hhh...need you-" Said the other who raped  his mouth.

They keep saying it, over and over the one word that seems burned into their minds. The one thing they crave, above all else.

Elsewhere in the zone a disheveled Elsen finally stumbles upon Zacharie, panting like he just outran a Guardian’s or a ghost wrath. 

The merchant raises an eyebrow, taking in the sweaty mess before him stained shirt, crooked tie, need practically oozing off him. The Elsen wheezes out: 

"Hhh... l-lube, please..."

Zacharie’s mask shifts into what can only be described as delighted horror.

"Ahhh, employé du lot. Are we starring in a fanfiction now?" He claps his hands together.

The Elsen practically shoves the credits into Zacharie's face, oh, he's talking seriously, even more so when he adds "...And a camera, please—"

A wicked grin spreads beneath Zacharie's mask. Oh this was more like it. He quickly counts the money, mentally calculating the possibilities. On one hand, an Elsen in this need of his services was a rare occurrence, especially one with enough credits to purchase a camera. And for whatever was going on...well. That was simply too enticing to ignore.

"I can see you're in a rush" He tucks the stack of credits into his pocket, taking the time to smooth out the edges.

"But I'm afraid my camera is quite valuable. What's your offer?"

"W-What?" The Elsen stammered, panic setting in, he was missing everything! His colleagues were probably already, ugh, he didn’t even want to imagine.  

Zacharie leaned in, his grin practically audible "I'm coming with you"  The Elsen froze.  

"Trust me" the merchant purred, slinging his oversized cartoon-logic backpack over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. "I know a few... tricks they'll enjoy" Then, lowering his voice to a whisper that sent the poor worker’s heart rate skyrocketing...

"Les lâches comme toi sont les plus avides au lit...Ou me trompe-je?"

One blessing of wearing a mask? It hid his expressions. Zacharie casually patted his panicked companion on the back as they made their way to the entertainment. 

The tallest Elsen collapsed completely spent, his body utterly drained of every ounce of effort he had left. 

Meanwhile, the Batter  reminded on his back, flanked by the other two Elsens, who were now without shame licking up the sweat from his arms and underarms. Whether this was worship or some bizarre post-climax ritual didn't matter, the dirtiest in their actions said enough.  

The Batter's sweat was a paradox, sharp, salty, with the faint metallic bite of someone who fought more than he rested.

It clung to their tongues like an intoxicant. Not sweet, not pleasant in any traditional sense but raw. The taste of exertion, of dominance pushed too far.  

One Elsen shuddered as it hit his tongue. The other moaned softly against his skin, chasing every droplet like it was the last mercy he’d ever receive.  

It feels so good, so good, both the athlete and his... "fans" can't disagree.  

The Batter still felt a twinge of embarrassment at what he was doing, at the time he was wasting from his sacred mission...but those sighs, those breaths... that dizzying whirlwind of want in their words (he didn't even know words could be so powerful).  

It was like losing a battle, but in the best way, surrender. He caved, just this once.

"The player must be so disappointed" the Batter thinks bitterly.  

Without his puppeteer's guiding hand, he’s strayed from the path, fallen into something far more carnal than sacred. If his titiritero were here, this never would've happened. He would’ve yanked back control long before those trembling hands ever got their chance.  

But...that’s the problem with freedom, isn't it? Sometimes you indulge in things you shouldn't. And now? His skin still burns where their mouths had been, and he doesn't regret it. 

Now that he knows the rules, that biting, scratching, whispering are all allowed the Batter decides to take control.

He finally understood, this is just another kind of battle. One fought with gasps instead of swings, with teeth where there’d usually be a bat.

Both men who had taken turns are fast asleep, exhausted by their intense efforts. Just two remain the Batter and one of those is the one who stole his breath away with his touch, his tongue, his unholy mouth...

"My turn" he says, his grip tightens on this Elsen wrist, flipping their positions in one smooth motion.  

He didn't want to strip, not at first, but the Batter isn't waiting. He makes quick work of the remaining pants, ripping them down with an urgency that makes the companion cover his mouth....  

His friend is sweating, It's clear. They may have been a little too rough with his body, a little too eager.

"You're going to watch" The athlete's monotone voice leaves no room for protest.  

The other Elsen nods as he sees his poor college fate...

He could feel himself corrupting, his breath hitching as smoke curled past his lips. No, he's not going to burnt, no he should hold back. This is what he wanted, isn't it? 

The capped man watches him struggle and decides, fine. If this is the way forward, he’ll give him…relief, or at least try to.  

His hands grip the other’s thighs firmly before trailing up his torso. A curious observation: this Elsen was softer than the others, more belly, more warmth than sharp edges. The Batter peels off his shirt anyway, revealing that plush midsection with an almost clinical interest before leaning in close, murmuring something indecipherable against his ear.

"Different..." he whispers, watching the sweat pearl on his partner's temple, not bad, just different. And yet…there was a certain appeal to it, something arousing.

He should be aroused, and he is, in a way. Just not the way he'd expected. There's something so unsettling about the Batter's manner, his monotone delivery almost as off-putting as his touch.   

But the way his big, strong, slightly-sweaty hands slide up his sides? That's hard to ignore. He can even smell the exertion on the Batter, and it's making him shiver. What should feel like a mockery somehow, somehow works...

The Elsen regrets his aggression now. If only he'd been gentler, the Batter might have been more loving. But no, he had to push, to demand from the Batter in his arrogance. It was a mistake, and it hurt. 

His friend nearby is a reminder of that. This man is a masochist, he watches them, watches the Batter mark them, and he's enjoying it.  

He knew the pain wouldn't heal soon. Not these wounds. They’d become his marks, symbols of his devotion.  

His body aches, It throbs, like a living bruise, a map of all the points the Batter claimed. These aren't scratches that'd fade in days. They'll linger, reminders of the day he gave himself over. Each one is a devotion...

"I..." He can't find words suddenly. The pain's too loud, his thoughts drowned in sensation "I'm...I'm sorry"

The Batter lifts his head, eyes narrowing "Don't apologize"

"Now you’re paying for it" His voice was calm, saccharine, a whisper curling around cruelty.  

He pressed his nose to the Elsen's throat, inhaling the metallic bite of blood before licking a slow stripe up the wounds he’d just carved.The reaction was immediate: flinching, trembling, tears carving glistening paths down his cheeks.  

Good.

The Batter starts hard, no time for teasing or preparation. He doesn't want to be gentle, no matter how much his partner needs it. After all, this isn't pleasure it's a method to an end.  

"H-Help!" His voice cracked. Tears blurred his vision. He couldn’t tell if he wanted it to stop or more.

His cries are ragged, wet things, half-sob, half-moan. Each gasp is punched out of him by the relentless snap of the Batter's hips, his skin flushing darker with every unforgiving thrust.  

The sound is obscene, skin slapping against skin, a rhythm that borders on violent, plap-plap-plap. It echoes in the hollow space between their bodies, each impact sharp and slick with sweat.  

He can't tell where pain ends and pleasure begins anymore. Every drag of friction burns, his muscles clamping down in helpless overstimulation. Tears streak hot down his cheeks as he claws at whatever he can reach, the Batter's wrist, his own thighs, anything to ground himself against the onslaught.

Instead of being helpful toward his colleague...watches, just watches, stroking himself lazily as he takes in the spectacle.

His friend is more shameless than before, his hand moves in rough, slick strokes, gaze locked on where the Batter’s hips pound into their companion.

Saliva beads at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t wipe it away.  

He’s filthy, lost in it, fingers twisting tighter around himself every time the Elsen chokes out a sob. He can smell them, sweat, sex, salt of tears drying tacky on skin. His own moans are choked but eager pathetic little sounds, thighs trembling as he grinds up into his fist like he could chase more.

And after a significant amount of time, precum smeared between his knuckles as he saw them finishing...

So, just like everything that begins... this too has an end.

Two men stand over the crime scene, surveying the aftermath.  

Zacharie, meanwhile, is deeply confused. Ah yes, he’s found himself in one of those stories. The twisted, perverse kind tailor-made for a very specific audience (how unfortunate that his services weren't required...).

Instead, the person who brought him here stood frozen, shocked, disgusted, and very, very, very close to tears. 

Zacharie doesn’t blame him. Hell, even he feels a twinge of envy after all, they’d just been in a dirty-fueled gangbang for Goddess-knows-how-many hours.

Sweat, marks, and even traces of blood are visible on the floor though, well... you can hardly call it a "floor" anymore, can you?

With how long it’s been, the surface is little more than a wet, sticky mess of sweat and worse. The Batter is surrounded by the slumbering bodies of five naked Elsens, each one pressed close as if they can't stand to be far from him. Five against one, they must've had quite the "fun" together...

In the end, they called him here for a job, so he pulls out his camera and starts snapping photos.

"Amigo, lo siento...but it looks like we got here too late..."

The Elsen beside him just stareseyes hollow with exhaustion, disappointment (and maybe just a little resentment).  

"Hhh... I missed everything..."

"...I known"

After the photoshoot, well... the man is feeling a bit restless, in need of some release, preferably with someone. It's hard not to be getting excited, after seeing all they've done imagining everything else that must have happened here...

He studies the one still awake: The lone Elsen who called for his services.  

"I have your photos taken and I can keep one, yes? This will settle the debt for the camera"

The shorter man simply watches him, his expression distant. He's still lamenting the missed moment... but he can see he's not the only one with pent-up needs. 

"In that case, compañero..." he offers.

"I know what you're feeling, and I know you have the same...needs. Perhaps, the lube you purchased should be put to good use"

He nods immediately, eager for relief. Zacharie wraps an arm around his shoulders with a chuckle.  

"Hehehe...let’s find somewhere more private"  

And with that, the two slip away to enjoy themselves thoroughly, far from prying eyes.