Wind cuts into his skin like razor blades, sweat a dull balm to the needling midnight air. Every ragged breath claws his throat, leaves his mouth dry, tongue withered. Blood pumping, lungs wilting, muscles coiled tight and pulsing in utter agony because he can't remember the last time he sprinted, never mind ran for his fucking life.
Heat suffocates his internals while a clammy chill envelopes his skin. The rain doesn't help, soaking his gooseflesh and clouding his vision with mucky blues and greens. He hears and feels his trail, mud cushioning every hurried stomp. Thunder pries itself from the sky, sends an earthquake of a flinch through his weary bones.
He's an imitation of himself. Stripped of his coat, grime painting over his dry cleaned undershirt. Paleness palpable, a stark white that's without its usually sheen— nary a swipe of blush or a trail of highlight. His pants are left bunched up at the ankles; in his haste, he tore his personal seamstress' work, and now the couple inches he took off the leg are swallowing his calves. His shoe is gone, lost it the moment he shot out of the cabin, and he's really hoping to avoid being casted as Cinderella tonight.
Sure, maybe he should've thought a little harder about a business trip in the middle of fucking nowhere, but he's been invited to stranger places. The lack of other cars upon his arrival didn't alarm him either; he prided himself on punctuality, unlike some people. The cabin itself was hideous enough from the outside, uglier as more details revealed themselves as he approached. It reeked of rotten wood and aged mildew. The lawn, if you could call it such, was overrun with a jungle of weeds. It was at mercy to the storm, its structure shaky and marred by time. Though, if he must, could find it in himself to think of it as… homely, he supposed.
The door was unlocked, after all, though the hinges croaked in agony as he turned and pushed the rusted over knob. Filtering through the incredibly welcoming curtains of cobwebs, the decaying floorboards bellowed with his every step. The framed photographs strewn along the walls were coated with a thick layer of dust, though he can make out the shadows of two people in most of them, and the measly amount of furniture had been out of style for over a century, at least. It's a strange place for a sales pitch, but perhaps it was a test of Spamton's nerves, since there still wasn't anyone to greet him.
Again, weird, but some of the people in the higher ends of marketing were off their rocker, anyway. So despite everything, Spamton did not hike it back to his car. Instead, he set his briefcase on the lopsided dining table, putting more weight on its termite-chewed leg. He thinks to take a peek at the history here, snoop through the discarded papers littering the floor or the other wide open rooms, but an eruption of static sharply turns his head, keeps him still where he stands.
An unsteady, murky light casts an oily filter over the living room. The screen comes and goes, staggering to make itself known. The television is as ancient and abandoned like the rest of the home, shouldn't even be working by the looks of it. Spamton's morbid curiosity beckons him to it. He turns around and takes a step forward, then another, following the feeble flickering. The TV's crackles continues, soon overpowers the pitter-patter of rain along the cracked windows. Spamton draws closer, placing his hand on the faux leathery arm of the couch. He traces along a seam until his fingertips meet a puncture adorned by stuffing.
Nearer, until Spamton is center stage, illuminated by its haunting glow. He taps his nail against the frail screen. He caresses its upper frame. It rewards him with a peaking electrical cry and fingers dyed grey with dust. Forgotten but functional, there's no existence crueler, and Spamton has a feeling he's the only one willing to put it out of its misery. He bends his knees to reach behind the TV's stand to pull the plug on the old thing, but just as his knuckles wrap around the cord, a much-too-big hand much-too-calmly settles on his shoulder.
He doesn't remember much after that. There's hardly a point to, not when there's a crimson beacon in the distance— his darling Cungadero, in dire need of a wash if he survives this. Not if— when, because he's almost there— can make out the license plate, he follows each number and letter like scripture. His keys jingle in his back pocket, and—
He trips. A vine twists and traps his foot, and he falls hard, belly down. His arms are too slow on the uptake to cushion the blow, and he already feels the warm cloudy path of a bruise forming along his chest. Mud makes its way up to his eyes, into his mouth, and he wheezes through the taste.
He doesn't look back. Instead, he desperately crawls forward, nail beds red-brown with wet dirt and clay as his fingers grind into the ground below. Mud, rain, and sweat clings to his clothes, his skin, his soul— weighs him down, though the chains of the inevitable are heavier. Inch by pitiful inch, Spamton crawls because he refuses to go down without a good, honest try.
He doesn't get far. The same hand takes it place on his shoulder once more and forces him onto his back, and Spamton is graced with the view of his end mounting him.
The light returns. With it is a beast so monstrously big that Spamton prays that his eyes are playing a cruel trick on him. A few furious blinks say otherwise. It has the makings of a man— but where a head should be lies a television— identical to the one inside. A mockery of a suit covers it, patched together with crude stitching and dark stains. The screen is featureless, just bright and blinding and— it's fucking touching him.
"Stop it!" Spamton yells, shoving at its broad chest in desperation. "Stop! Get the fuck off me!"
The beast gives pause, as if it wasn't expecting Spamton to speak. It hesitates, and Spamton takes the moment to rear his leg back and ram his knee into the beast's side. A tear-jerking pulse sears into the joint the moment it connects. Like hitting a fucking fridge— what is this thing?!
Spamton groans as the pain echoes under his skin. The beast regains itself and lays its palm flat onto his torso, presses hard enough to constrict his breath.
The beast huffs— a laugh? It keeps huffing as its other hand reaches behind for— something, and Spamton writhes with all his strength because it can't be good. Regardless, the beast keeps him pinned and docile under its strength.
Rain streaks the beast's lifeless face, and Spamton's heart stops as his reflection gapes back at him in the steel of a cleaver. Hands and feet work tirelessly for freedom, hitting and kicking and fighting for a chance to live, but he's helpless to the beast raising it high and bringing it down and he can't watch, would rather be comforted by darkness than see his own blood stain the blade—
The shing of a swift cut rings in his ears.
Is this death? Blanketing oblivion? Free of pain, of obligation, of— no, there's something there. It's cold. Chilling. His teeth chatter. Warmth soon drapes over him in the form of a palm—
He opens his eyes. He's not dead, but he's— naked? Completely bare, the remains of his clothes in tatters at his sides. The beast is running its fingers over his chest, his hips, and its vents fume as it takes a hold of his legs and forces them wide apart.
Spamton's breath hitches, and he's already glistening after fingering himself in anticipation— er, no, uh— he's so scared, and his body slickens the space between his legs in instinct. The beast is captivated, ogling his wetness, and Spamton doesn't have to glance down far to see that the beast has undressed its lower half, a cock so thick and veiny that Spamton's insides clench around nothing in want— in horror, rather. His legs quiver, and he continues to uselessly kick at the air, only exciting the beast further it seems, as it huffs louder now, a warbled groan crooning from the speakers along its throat.
It shifts its hips forward, and the lavender head squelches against his fluttering folds. He swallows hard, and he keeps squirming, teasingly so, spreading his slick along the beast's drooling tip.
"Nonono, please, you can't! I-I—" Despite his protests, he can't stop his teeth from showing. Glee betrays his award-winning performance for a mere moment. He arches his back, puts on a face so wounded, and whimpers with wet and plump lips, "I have a husband."
A growl tears through the air, and the beast wordlessly sinks into his depths. Spamton is punched with the full breadth of a cock determined to crush his womb to death. The spit on his tongue flings from his open mouth like a bullet. Being filled to the brim so fast steals an orgasm from him quick enough to short circuit his receptors, fading ashes left of a raging heat. While the need in his belly is quelled, it's soon replaced with urgency— an escape from what's hogging the space in his guts.
It's too much, and he weakly tries to scratch at the beast's shoulders to please, please, please pull out. It does— for a moment. Only to lull Spamton into a false sense of security and sheathe itself right back in, then again and again, pounding into him with the voracity of an animal sinking its teeth into its last meal— fangs tearing through thin, plastic skin to tongue red liquor. Nails drag against his hips, keeps them vertical while gravity allows its cock to delve deeper, and Spamton can barely hold a thought, the thin string of consciousness a hair away from splitting.
The air between them is boiling, Spamton's practically melting underneath, and it feels so dangerously good to be fucked into the dirt like a bitch in heat, powerless to being claimed and mated and ruined. Forced into a songbird, cries and keens for the only one worthy. He's so wet that his slick has countless silvery threads connecting his thighs to Tenna's groin— fuck, the beast— whatever, who gives a shit, his vision's growing hazy and the sting of overstimulation is wavering. His tongue hangs out of his mouth like a dog and Tenna can't resist pulling it into his own mouth. Their lips stay locked as Tenna presses fully in and rocks his tip into the narrow cinch of his cervix. Wedges it tight inside and Spamton's eyes roll back and reflexively he flails because his body expects a rushing flood of cum into his uterus and oooh, there it is, a steady stream of soothing seed that Spamton drunkenly milks all for himself.
The world grows dark. He's so full it hurts. The feverish remnants of bites and scratches make themselves known in throbbing waves. His mouth is released, and the last thing he hears before his body gives out is a deep, grueling—
"Mine," and Spamton doesn't last long enough to argue otherwise.
"Well? How did I do?" Tenna prods for praise the moment Spamton steps out of the shower.
Spamton shakes the water out of his hair, then hums as he calculates the score. Add this, subtract that, a bonus there, so maybe… Yeah, that's it. He towels himself dry, and Tenna shamelessly watches from under the covers as red cotton slips under and through Spamton's joints to collect lukewarm drops that linger on his skin. He keeps Tenna waiting, slow even as he drifts to meet him in bed. Shuffling under the sheets, he makes his conclusion. "Fine."
"What?" Tenna gawks, antennas drooping. "Just fine?"
"You froze up, remember?" Spamton reminds. "And you went off script."
"That was intentional! To build up suspense." Somehow, he doubts that. Tenna must sense his disbelief, because he crosses his arms and pouts. "And oh, forgive me, I forgot to stick to the lines that I didn't have."
"Come on," Spamton coos, butting his nose against Tenna's own, adding in a kiss for good measure, and Tenna caves in instantly, all too eager to nuzzle back. "You know it's freakier when the killer doesn't talk."
"I compromised enough on the 'no guns' part, don't you think?" Tenna whines, pulling Spamton into his arms. He traces over the marks he left behind, blooming red indents of teeth and claws.
"They're called slashers for a reason." Spamton retorts, and he rests his cheek on Tenna's comforting shoulder. Tenna is a delightful pillow, even as brutal as he can be. "Tell you what, when you're up to fine tuning the western or mafia sections, you can call the shots."
"You promise?" Tenna asks.
"It's a deal," Spamton answers.