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Nines never got used to the feeling of a stake being ripped out from his ribcage.
Going in, torpor hit quickly enough that it made the pain negligible, just a faint jab before a long sleep. But coming out, a stake left a gaping hole that his body frantically tried to heal over, fast enough to feel like his chest was caving in as he bled from the inside, his heart no doubt a ragged mess. It almost felt like dying again, with torpor's dizzy murkiness far more intense as his body righted itself. He grit his teeth, flexed his fingers, anything to feel a little more grounded, before he opened his eyes. Maybe, as he came to, he'd hear the faint echoes of some familiar voice telling him to be less of an idiot, talking about what a pain it had been to come get him, asking how he got into this mess. Maybe he'd hear a snatch of that one song the bartender seemed to really like as he sat up, slowly, in the back room of The Last Round.
But that was a little optimistic, wasn't it? No, he awoke to the cold gaze of Sebastian LaCroix, standing over him and holding a bloody stake in his hand.
"Good evening, Rodriguez."
Nines sharply avoided LaCroix's eyes and looked him over with senses heightened into a panicked rush - his stance was relaxed, non-combative, as he softly set the stake down onto a small table behind him. Nines couldn't spot any other weapons. Any relief he felt at the absence of immediate danger to his life was crushed when strength returned to his body enough that he could move his limbs - only to find cold metal biting into his skin, keeping his hands together behind his back, and his ankles secured to his thighs. The awkward position forced him back into the plush sofa he'd been dumped on, his range of movement severely limited to keep his balance. He scanned his surroundings as much as he could, and recognised nothing of the small room or its ornate furnishings glinting under faint lighting.
His head snapped back to LaCroix as he took a seat beside him, turning to lean lazily against the armrest and look Nines up and down. The Ventrue had never gotten so close to him before - even in their earliest and, if one were being very generous with the term, most amiable interactions, LaCroix had always set a pointedly unnecessary distance between them, stealing fearful glances when his mask of distaste slipped. Nines wondered if that fear still lurked somewhere, whether he knew that one loose restraint would mean his brutal, bloody end. He doubted it, somehow, judging from the smug languidness that radiated from him as he peered at Nines, flickering distant fire through the Brujah's veins.
Tempting though it was to just lean forward and try to bite LaCroix to death, Nines knew when biding his time was the best option. And he could see how LaCroix savoured these quiet moments, savoured the turmoil that Nines was keeping choked under the surface - he took a slow and steady sip from a glass upon the table and put it down gently, before glancing at Nines with something between challenge and curiosity. He was waiting for words, he knew - rage or pleading or sobbing - but Nines would not give him what he wanted, leaving the silence to hang heavily on his shoulders.
The city glowed outside of one small window, far too high up to be a viable escape route even if he was not restrained. If he'd been just a little faster - if he'd gotten the fuck out at the mere mention of the word 'bloodhunt', if he hadn't gone down that specific alleyway, if he'd drawn his gun a second sooner... no, the possibilities weren't worth thinking about. Reality didn't care about them.
Finally, LaCroix was the one to break the silence.
"There was an attack tonight," he announced matter-of-factly.
Nines glanced the Ventrue's way, gritting his teeth. He knew that any words from this man were meaningless, carefully chosen for a reaction rather than genuine communication, but that didn't stop the way his voice wormed into his ear.
"Only a small one," he continued. "Several Anarchs - rather brazen and terribly stupid. They were dealt with quickly." A cold chill ran through Nines' body. "Do you want to know what they sought?"
Nines wanted names, he wanted to know how many, and he wanted to know what was becoming of Los Angeles during the past... fuck, how long had he been kept here? But LaCroix knew that, of course; that much was obvious from his soft smile, in the glee that he took in dangling such information just out of reach. Nines tested the restraints once more, enough to tear at the skin of his wrists, as he glared in silence.
"They didn't want answers, or anything of the sort - they actually gave up on all of that rather quickly. No, this time, they wanted vengeance, for their fallen comrade. You are a dead man, Nines Rodriguez, slain beneath the swift justice of a bloodhunt, as far as anyone would care to know." He almost bit at the bait of justice, at how LaCroix could think he had any right to use that word. "The outrage of your death will pass. In fact, some of your cohorts are already trying to distance themselves from your poor example - to wash their hands of the man who would murder in cold blood-"
The fire that had been stoked inside Nines ignited furiously, burning his control away - his lips pulled back as he snarled, "I did not-"
"This is no courtroom," said LaCroix, voice loud and patronisingly steady, "there is no judge to hear your proclamations of innocence. I'd rather eschew that particular bit of tedium."
"Fuck do you want, then?" growled Nines. "If you're gonna kill me, just get it done." Get out a weapon, get distracted, any opening where I can ruin your fucking skull-
LaCroix paused, thoughtful, sipping from his glass once more. "The funny thing is, I don't actually know what I want with you, in the long term." He scratched idly at his jaw, fingers long and slow and elegant as he luxuriated in Nines' torment. "You can't continue operating in Los Angeles, of course. I'm quite finished plucking your thorns from my side, and you are wont to filling everyone's heads with nonsense. However, killing you simply seemed rather... anticlimactic. Wasteful." His cold eyes narrowed at the Brujah, and his tone became suddenly much more biting. "That's what I've always thought you were, you know. A waste."
He leaned in to close the gap between them, hand reaching towards his body. Nines tensed defensively, his vitae pumping strength through his veins that could only pulse, impotent, against his bindings. He still couldn't see a glint of any weapons, but he prepared himself for a blow of some hidden blade, for the tension buzzing in the decreasing space between their bodies to bloom into whatever the Ventrue was ready to dole out - he flinched when he felt nothing more than a light caress travelling up his thigh. The pain did not come, and instead of a knife raking through his skin, he felt only a hand grasping at his cock. His eyes widened and he looked up at the other man, stilled with shock.
LaCroix looked pleased, much less aloof than he was used to - his pompously pristine exterior peeled back to reveal a rotten core beneath, with a tired and degenerate drunkenness in his leering gaze. His smirk became daring, fingers massaging through his jeans, and in the haze of the much stranger turn this had all taken, Nines was caught.
He felt warmer, suddenly, looking into his heady gaze, catching the sharp and sweet smell of blood and feeling the hand palming him with just enough pressure, enough to distract him from the metal chafing him. He found himself diverting his blood to swell his cock into the touch, the fulfilling of base and pleasant urges a distraction enticing enough that he answered without a second thought. Nines had always considered LaCroix attractive enough to think it was a shame that he was a morally bankrupt sociopath, and now, with a softness to his fine features underneath the subdued light, it felt oddly... bearable, to have him so close.
His senses returned sharply, and cold reality with it. A distinct feeling of wrongness gripped his stomach as he turned his head away from LaCroix and scoffed.
"That's what this is about? You're gonna stick your dick in me and call that a victory? You're pathetic."
LaCroix raised his eyebrows, eyes lidded, lips quirking in amusement. "Not mine, no," he replied, his voice barely restraining his glee. He looked behind Nines, over his head. The Brujah noticed, then, the long shadow flickering over him, and the feeling of a previously unnoticed lurking presence called his defences back in full strength. "Approach," said LaCroix, to the unseen figure.
Nines' stomach dropped. The footsteps were heavy, and as he glanced towards them, he felt his resolution withering. He hoped to God that it wasn't-
LaCroix's Sheriff. He towered over both of them as he walked slowly, standing in front of the sofa in all of his hulking might, broad shoulders blotting out any of the dim light to stand as a monstrous shadow. Soulless eyes fell on Nines, narrowing as they looked him up and down, examining him like prey.
Then, his thick neck turned back to LaCroix. Whatever question hung unspoken was answered with a quick nod from the Prince.
Nines tensed and pulled against his binds once more as the beast reached for him, shoving him aside and dragging him easily into his grasp. Then he sat, pulling Nines in close to himself, one leg over his solid thigh, claw-tipped fingers holding him in place. The beast leaned in close, close enough that Nines could feel a slow huff of cool breath against his neck before he inhaled, deeply, to take in the Brujah's scent. His wide chest pressed against his back, big enough to envelop the other man, who was by no means small. The smell of old leather and stale blood choked him as Nines was held by one of the last vampires he wanted to be in the embrace of. His claws ran cold and prickling trails up his chest, down his legs and, in a moment of blind desperation, he found himself looking to LaCroix in panic.
"No, you - you can't be serious," he attempted to negotiate, despising the display of weakness the moment it had slipped out of his mouth.
"Oh, does the thought frighten you? If only I'd known this is what it would take - I would have done it much earlier."
The Sheriff's claws dug suddenly into his shoulder, ripping down through his shirt to pierce into his chest, wringing out a burst of pain before he clenched his jaw shut once more. Another claw pried his legs apart, and though he fought, his power proved to be woefully inadequate.
When he heard LaCroix give the smallest hint of a derisive chuckle, his eyes fixed on where the Sheriff held Nines' struggling form, he realised that he was giving him the satisfaction of watching him squirm. Nines clenched his fingers into fists behind his back and steeled himself, urging his body into stalwart steadiness rather than wild flailing. He'd been through worse, he told himself, he could deal with this.
"Fuck you," he muttered.
LaCroix tilted his head condescendingly at the remark, but he said nothing. His eyes were still alluring and Nines realised, as LaCroix reached forward to palm at him again, he was still hard. He rubbed against him, surging a dazed warmth into the air that Nines struggled not to lose himself to again, even for a moment - enough that he barely registered a much larger hand joining LaCroix's caresses, groping uncomfortably between his legs before curling into his thigh.
Nines hissed from between clenched teeth as his jeans were torn away, the skin of his inner thighs lacerated in the process, torn cloth mingling with shredded flesh - thankfully, only a brief snag caught on his cock before it was hit with cool air. Blood seeped from the stinging flesh, running inwards as his legs were held up, his body exposed for the Prince's appraisal.
He could see the spark in LaCroix's eyes as he stared down at him, and damnit, his cock should not be leaking, he should not be so painfully hard. The sluggish, supernatural haze periodically befalling him, mingled with the occasional surging threads of anger and fear, made for an exhausting and blurry combination - it was only exacerbated when he saw LaCroix reach to the table for a bottle of what could only be lube.
He closed his eyes against it all. He didn't know whether he was angrier at these sick fucks or himself.
LaCroix's fingers grasped his jaw tightly and forced him back to meet his eyes. He leaned in again, the wrong and dragging closeness overwhelming once more and then, his lips were on him, soft and wet mouth against his. He was aggressive, tongue filthier than he'd ever imagined the Ventrue to be capable of as his hands trailed down to grip his shaft, giving it a few lazy strokes that had Nines gasping at the sudden sensation. The fingers did not linger, preferring only to tease - LaCroix soon lowered to rub softly over his entrance. He supposed there was relief to be found in the fact that he'd slicked up his fingers, and that those claws weren't going in him, but he almost wished that wasn't the case. Pain, he could deal with, but his disgust at his own reactions, at the prospect of enjoying this... LaCroix pushed in slowly, penetrating him easily with two slim fingers as his tongue brushed against his. He stretched him open with a surprisingly forgiving pace, the slight discomfort of a steady burn nothing compared to the feeling of being pressed just right. He could almost, somehow, forget about the claws pressing into the stinging scores in his legs, he could almost think he was somewhere else-
Nines caught himself again, before he could fall. He bit at LaCroix as hard as he could without drawing blood, and spat him away from his face, willing his livid revulsion to return. A blond eyebrow cocked in response.
His fingers spread inside of him harshly, the suddenly much more intense stretch making him wince in pain - then, he stifled a gasp as one brushed his prostate, sending a thick drip of precum oozing down his shaft.
"This will be easier for both of us if you cooperate," LaCroix informed him. "I know you struggle with the concept, but even you must be getting tired of this sort of thing by now."
"Fuck you," he repeated, voice loud through gritted teeth.
LaCroix spared him one more withering glance, before his gaze directed above him, to the monster keeping Nines in place. "Very one-note, isn't he? Shut him up."
Panic muddied his half-stupor once more as the broad claw that had been digging lightly into his shoulder moved to grasp his neck, encircling it in a massive grip. He strained at his bindings again, tugging as far away as he could from having his windpipe crushed or his throat slit; however, tethered as he was in both body and mind, there was little he could do.
He had no words for what became of his flesh next. It was something wrong, something a thousand miles from a knife or a bullet as it permeated into him and shifted things beneath his skin into places they should not have been. LaCroix continued to pump slowly into Nines' hole, sliding more slick fingers into him; the steady fucking combined with the burning, twisting sickness in his neck to overwhelm his senses entirely. Then, he felt something snapping, leaving a severed rawness in his larynx. The moment the Sheriff's claw withdrew, he opened his mouth to say something, to demand what the hell he'd done, but no words came. His throat strained around nothing, his protests falling mute.
LaCroix flashed a derisive smile. "Much better." Then, he looked above, addressing the Sheriff once more. "Continue."
LaCroix gave one last jabbing hook inside of him before he pulled out, leaving the Brujah empty and tightening around nothing. But that was what he wanted, wasn't it? He felt the Sheriff shift behind him, heard the rustling of fabric and metal, and Nines struggled to make some protest, spit some defiance... his words still failed, and nothing was stopped. He was pulled back, flush against the Sheriff's hips, until he froze as he felt another hard cock resting against his spread thighs.
He forced himself to look down.
It was... terrifyingly proportional. He had expected that, but it didn't stop the cold shock that bloomed in his chest when he saw it. LaCroix's lube-slick fingers drifted from Nines' hole to instead glide over the heavy cock, and as it glistened, Nines was jarringly reminded of its owner's monstrosity in the fierce ridges lining its length, the dark mottled grey head purpling with dead blood. When LaCroix's pale thumb rubbed over the head, the Sheriff's claws dug into him just a little tighter - not enough to draw blood, this time - and he exhaled a soft growl into Nines' ear.
"He's very good at that kind of thing, you know," murmured LaCroix, pulling back with a vague gesture towards Nines' neck. "That's far from all that he could do. He could take your ears, your eyes. A single tendon out of place, and your limbs will no longer move. He could leave you useless." His eyes narrowed. "Perhaps you'd appreciate my current kindness, after that."
The Sheriff's hands crept threateningly up his thighs once more, radiating a power that sent a shudder up the Brujah's spine. Even had his voice not been stolen, he was not sure he would have been able to form words.
He didn't have time to fear his hands, however, as the tip of the Sheriff's cock soon pressed against him. Even with his rim thoroughly stretched, the head spread him wide. He closed his eyes, bracing against the inevitable as the beast clutched at his hip and slowly entered him.
The sink onto his cock was slow, agonisingly slow, pushing with a pace that felt practised - carefully toeing the line enough for the stretch to sting but not enough to stop the pulsing ache of his own hard prick. He was learning all kinds of things he'd never wanted to know about this man. His claws skimmed over his body again, drawing Nines' leg up to make it easier to thrust up into him. He could feel every ridge as it slipped past his rim, sliding up to throb so deep inside, his grunts at the sensation nothing more than empty air torn from a mangled throat. When he blearily opened his eyes, he saw LaCroix staring with lips parted a fraction and eyes rapt with attention at the place where the Sheriff's cock split him open, his collected facade slipping once more into something unnervingly filthy.
When the coarse hair at the base of his cock brushed against Nines' hole, the Sheriff breathed another low growl into his ear. Nines forced himself not to shudder again as a cold, dead tongue extended to trace up his neck, curious and searching, briefly brushing solid fangs against his skin in what the Brujah could only assume was a taunting warning. Then, his broad hands wrapped around Nines' waist, punching the air straight out of him into a soundless groan as he sheathed himself completely.
Nines gasped, his thighs shaking and his sack achingly tight as many monstrous ridges rubbed inside of him, hitting at the right places with devastating precision. A hard pace was quickly set - he wasn't going to be torn and bleeding, but it was rough enough to drown out any thoughts that weren't focused on the intoxicating slide in and out. The Sheriff held him like he weighed nothing, his heavy cock smacking against his stomach as he was moved pliantly, barely able to even curl his toes beneath the onslaught. LaCroix shifted in his seat, hand moving between his thighs and Nines saw, then, just how hard he was at all of this. That fact should have meant nothing to him, but he felt another drip of precum seep from his head as LaCroix sat back, lounging regally, and withdrew his own prick. He palmed it with a contented sigh as his eyes slowly traced over the Anarch being fucked by his Sheriff.
He pounded into him relentlessly, now, every well-placed thrust making his cock leak copiously - the rage and dread wasn't coming naturally anymore, as he tightened around every bump pushing into him again and again until he was so full, limp against the hands moving to hold his hips in place and his legs open. Only one faint echo of dread that managed to surge from the fog of arousal far stronger than it had been in a long time - at the realisation that he might be able to come from this.
His mouth opened around gasps barely audible even to himself, and his eyes darted back to LaCroix. His hips were twitching, now, his hand picking up a more frantic pace.
"You look much more pleasant when you aren't so angry, Rodriguez," murmured LaCroix, voice strained with arousal. "I look forward to when you're like this all the time. To when you're docile."
The edge to his words flared something in Nines once more, but his attention was soon diverted as rough hands finally reached around to grasp his aching cock. He thrust up into the friction, uncaring as his head rolled back to rest on the Sheriff's chest, tightening around him. He grit his teeth and tried to hold on to this one last shred of dignity, to this one vulnerability that hadn't been mercilessly exposed, but it was in vain. His whole body tensed as he came, chest heaving as his sensitive shaft twitched against those rough fingers, squeezing tight enough to make him flinch and gasp. His hole was sensitive as he was still fucked into, until he heard LaCroix mutter something he didn't quite catch - the Sheriff's body tightened, then, slamming in one final time before Nines felt the powerful rush of his come pumping inside of him as another brief, coarse noise erupting from the beast of a man. His claws were on him again, shredding away the final remains of his shirt as they scored up his ribcage and held him tightly to his chest as he gave his few final thrusts. His seed spilled from him, thick rivulets dripping to the floor even with the softening cock still plugging him up.
His post-orgasm daze was broken by the sudden noise of LaCroix standing up, and a much softer hand lacking in any sharp points grasping tightly into his hair. He was wrenched forward, brought to eye-level with the head of LaCroix's slick cock. For a moment, Nines felt a wave of horrifying compliance wash over him, the natural compulsion to simply open his mouth and suck him, to taste him as he so clearly wanted. The moment passed, thank God, and Nines instead clamped his jaw firmly shut. However, LaCroix was apparently unaffected by his reluctance as he rubbed his palm over himself a few more hurried times; it was too late to jerk his head away by the time Nines realised what was happening. LaCroix finished on his face with a low, satisfied groan. His come just barely missed his eye, as the rest ran over his cheek and down to his mouth - his lips twinged at the utter degradation, his hands straining to wipe every speck of this man off of his face, even as his limp dick gave a traitorous twitch.
Quiet fell over the little room, broken only by the slick sound of the Sheriff slipping out of him and the soft rustling of LaCroix tucking his cock away. Nines' lucidity returned slowly, but his head still felt light and muted, his senses dulled to the point that he could only focus on the wet, throbbing rawness of his hole as he was left empty. An ugly, detestable fact surfaced in that dullness; the fact that he could hardly remember the last time he felt as satisfied as he did right there, sullied with come from the hardest fucking he'd ever received, helpless to even make a single sound of complaint about it all.
His lethargic attention was snatched by a hand of pale fingers in front of his face - LaCroix was looking down at him with a faint smirk as he brushed his fingers over his cheek, smearing the seed towards his mouth. Nines glared, jolting his face away.
"If you wished to regain the ability to spit vulgarities at me, I suggest you stop being so petulant," he said softly.
Nines huffed a sigh and swallowed, the unnatural contortion of his throat making itself known once more. He cast his eyes down, carefully considering his next move. He wasn't blind to the limitation of his options, or the severity of his situation, and he knew that this petty show of submission would probably please his captor greatly.
He gathered as much of the wetness as he could into his mouth, pursed his lips, and spat in LaCroix's face.
The Sheriff reacted before the Prince, seizing his neck to flip him over and slam him down onto the sofa. Nines realised that he'd been barely teasing him with his claws earlier - when he dug them into his stomach this time, his true rage made for viscerally deep wounds, scrambling organs that the Brujah didn't need anymore but that could still fucking hurt. His eyes blazed like a rabid dog's as his lips pulled back over savage fangs. Nines didn't flinch from the piercing stare - he let instinctual fury sear through his body before terror had a chance to, baring his own fangs as he sparked strength through his bound limbs. He knew that he had no chance against the behemoth, that his odds would be miserable even on equal footing, but he was ready to go out as best he could.
"Don't," rang LaCroix's voice, exasperated and unamused. The Sheriff's claws pulled from Nines' innards immediately, though they still pricked at the healing skin like so many pointed little reminders. Far more terrifying than that, however, was the way that the light in the monster's eyes dimmed at the sound of LaCroix's voice, like something just switched off behind them. Nines wasn't quite sure, but he thought he might have felt something dim inside himself, too.
He didn't have long to contemplate it, and maybe that was a mercy. Nines saw LaCroix's fingers closed around the bloody stake, slipping it calmly back into his chest, and the blackness overcame him once more.