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Vessel knows that each of their dynamics differ from one another — he knows, he knows, he knows — but, even still, the sheer extent with which their dynamics differentiate between the four vessels never fails to leave the First feeling dazed, stupefied even.
(Vessel could never treat III like this. Sure, he loves teasing the bassist, craves the burn of III's bright blue eyes digging beneath his skin, covets the playful ire with which III so often regards Vessel with, both on stage and behind the curtains of their professional careers; it's a game of cat and mouse that they couldn't live without.
A game.)
Vessel watches, kneeling beside II as the drummer stands before the two other men in the room. He's dressed to impress: a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up tight over II's strong forearms and the luxurious buttons popped open and free, allowing all six of Vessel's wide eyes to follow the trail of smooth skin stained charcoal from their deity's influence, tattooed lines that were once colorful displays of art now traced in subtle golden line work; sleek black pinstripe slacks that hug the soft, muscled curves of II's legs held up by a dark leather belt that hangs loosely around II's waist, all tied together with the sharp outlines of II's well-worn leather Oxford shoes. He looks expensive, powerful, like sin incarnate.
(The only thing that reminds Vessel of II's humanity is the sly little peeks of his sock's that Vessel catches. The socks are patterned with cute little lemons, the stitch work handmade and delicate over the teal base of the fabric. They were meant as a gag gift from IV and III, but II had been so taken by the sight of them but they've become a bit of a comfort item of sorts, the drummer typically saving them for when he needs to meet with their record label on Vessel's behalf.
Now, they serve as a comfort for Vessel as he kneels obediently on the floor, watching as II flips open a pack of Richmond cigarettes with one hand and fishes for his lighter with the other.)
While II is the epitome of well-dressed and put together — sans the devious way his dress shirt is unbuttoned and yet remains tucked into the waistband of his trousers — III is the complete opposite.
The bassist is naked on the floor maybe a handful of centimeters in front of where Vessel waits to be commanded. The pale bits of naked flesh that peek through the charcoal veil of Sleep's influence are flushed a dark, angry red. Vessel had watched as II somehow managed to wrangle III into viscous submission, how II had flogged III with deadly precision until the bassist's back and sides was as colorful as II's tattoos once were, and how II had spanked and smacked III's haunches until tears were streaming down his sharp cheeks, leaving one of II's luxurious pant legs with the sharp impression of III's teeth surrounding a dark stain from his pathetic drool.
This position that II has forced the other man into leaves III vulnerable, exposed in the most primal of ways, completely unveiled from Vessel's gaze. The combination of III's face and shoulders shoved into the cold floor beneath him and the taut rope that keeps him tethered to II's every desire, III's back is forced into such a delicious arch that leaves his entire backside completely on display; his bruised ass cheeks are forced to part thanks to the angle that his thighs are spread at, leaving his neglected hole and utterly ignored cock available to the gaze of the other men in the room.
II is an expert in his craft, and Vessel had watched with a mix of awe and horror as he somehow managed to abuse III's body in ways that left the bassist teetering on the thin line between too much and too little stimulation; his entire body flushed and bruised in violent, angry hues of pinks, reds, and purples, but while every sensation in his backside and joints burns with the fucking intensity of an exploding star, the nerve endings in his groin ache, anticipating some kind of release that II will make sure his lover doesn't achieve.
(Lover…
No. No, that- that's not the right word—not in this moment, not to Vessel.
Victim.)
III's knees are rubbed red and raw from the various positions II has somehow manhandled him into, the pale bits of his long arms stained a harsh pink from the memory of II's fingers squeezing his limbs tight. Speaking of, III's arms are pulled down between his spread thighs, his wrists bound together impossibly tight with II's favorite crimson rope. As intimately acquainted with II's rope collection as Vessel is, the man knows that this special rope is reserved for only the most debauched of scenes, the kind of scenes that make IV's skin crawl and he has to sit out of more often the not.
(Punishments. Corporal punishments.
But, for what…? Between the smell of the tobacco and the sight of that damned rope, Vessel genuinely can't remember how he got here; he knows that III has a knack for irritating II, that the bassist gets some kind of sick thrill from the methodical pain that II is capable of dishing out, but-)
Vessel knows that rope fucking hurts, especially with how its knotted tight around III's bony wrists, the crimson rope leading back towards where II's shiny, perfect shoes are clamped down firmly over the rope—a leash.
Luckily for III, his wrists are the only part of his body that remains bound.
Unluckily for III, the drummer standing tall behind his vulnerable body on the floor knows exactly how to use that goddamn rope to it's fullest fucking potential.
"I'm getting bored." II sighs, lighting his cigarette and taking a long, slow drag. He drags his foot closer, forcing III's arms to drag backwards at a painful angle — just to hear the man yelp — before sliding his foot forward again, mercifully providing the rope with a small amount of slack.
II exhales the smoke from his lungs, tilting his head back as he offers a what could be considered an utterly pornographic view of his throat and collarbones. A view that Vessel would normally be devouring if the man wasn't already laser focused on II's hands.
Vessel swallows thickly as he takes in the way II's fingertips and palm are flushed a soft baby pink; his fingers are shorter than III's or Vessel's, but they hold more strength in them than Vessel could possibly comprehend. His charcoal-kissed knuckles are sharp and prominent, and Vessel has to resist the urge to roll his own hips against the floor as he takes in the way II's tendons shift beneath his skin.
(Vessel would rip II's skin off if it meant he could marvel at the inner intricacies of II's hands, kiss every layer of muscle as he would peel it away from his ultimate desire, lick through the gore of his beloved before kissing from II's distal interphalangeal joints all the way up to his acromioclavicular joint.
Fuck—Vessel never even had an interest in learning about the names of each individual bone that makes up the human arm.
Well… not until II finally blossomed in his creative freedom with Sleep's worship.
…and maybe when II fingered him for the first time.)
Lost in deprave fantasies, Vessel almost misses when II cocks his head down to regard the other man at his feet.
"Well?" II hums, completely and utterly unfair. "Hurt him."
Vessel's breath hitches as he watches II take another lazy drag from his cigarette, every ounce of blood in his body freezing over as II focuses his dangerous attentions onto him, and not the lanky bastard of a man that had been spitting and growling curses every time II so much as thought of laying a hand on him.
"…what?" Vessel asks, confused and confounded as Vessel struggles to maintain eye contact with the man standing tall above him. Normally, Vessel has maybe a little over half an entire head over II in terms of height — with III towering over the drummer with almost an entire head of difference between the two men — but, right now, Vessel has never felt smaller in the man's presence.
II sighs—heavy, disappointed, as he pinches the space between his brows with his free hand, shaking his head as if in disbelief. Vessel shrinks.
"You have teeth, don't you?" II huffs, his voice clipped and vaguely annoyed as he shrugs and gestures towards III's bound and captive body. "So fucking use them."
Vessel gapes up at II's unimpressed expression, his tongue subconsciously swiping his crooked fangs as he glances back towards III's already abused form: the gashes over his shoulder blades that lead down to the bruises that stain his ass and the backs of his thighs.
(The filthy streaks of precum that drip down obscenely from III's flushed slit, his cock visibly throbbing as III is left to listen in on II deciding his fate. Vessel watches as a fat glob of the milky substance slowly beads at the tip of III's neglected shaft, the droplet slowly growing in size the longer Vessel stalls for time, threatening to drip down and join the other droplets of wasted precum as it slowly saturates the crimson rope that keeps III leashed to the demon behind him.)
"I-I can't. III, he-"
Wrong answer.
II twists his foot over the bundle of rope that remains trapped below his step, swiftly crouching down in front of Vessel while ensuring that III remains trapped against the floor. With one hand and a frightening amount of speed that leaves Vessel afraid, II reaches forward to squeeze Vessel's cheeks between his thumb and the rest of his fingers, his perlicue pushing down against Vessel's chin as II's fingers dig into his cheeks.
"Do I need to remind you?" II asks, his voice low and dangerous, bordering on a harsh whisper as his tobacco stained breath caresses the edges of Vessel's teeth. "Dogs don't speak. They don't think for themselves, they don't talk back, they don't do anything but be. Good."
Vessel gasps quietly into II's skin, trying to open his mouth to protest, to negotiate, to beg, to say something, but II squeezes harder into Vessel's cheeks, throttling his head from side to side in a manner that quickly silences him. With his other hand, II brings the cigarette to his lips, digging his teeth into the filter and rolling it around slightly; he hums softly, raising his newly freed hand to Vessel's mouth. He squeezes a little harder, forcing Vessel to open his mouth a little wider with a quiet, pained wince.
Slowly, deliberately, II reaches into Vessel's mouth, his thumb pushing Vessel's top lip upwards while his index finger dips behind Vessel's teeth, sneaking beneath the wet underside of his tongue. Vessel makes a noise, even jerks back from suspire, but II's grip keeps him still as his lithe fingers drag his tongue out of his mouth, the pad of his thumb sliding down over the curve of his fang before pressing down onto the surface of his tongue.
"Dogs are supposed to be good, loyal little things. When I say sit, a good dog sits; when I say roll over, a good dog rolls over," II hums, his lashes veiling the unnatural blue of his eyes as he regards Vessel's tongue with an almost bored expression. "When I say bite, a good dog fucking bites."
II squeezes Vessel's tongue harshly, breathing cigarette smoke into his open mouth before shoving Vessel away from him entirely, the drummer standing back up and adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as if nothing had even happened. He plucks the cigarette from his lips, but not before taking another long, unbothered drag from the damn thing.
(The room is beginning to smell like blood, sweat, sex, and fucking tobacco.)
II waits for Vessel to gather his breathe, finding his balance again as he fixes his position, kneeling on the floor like a good fucking dog. There's tears gathering in Vessel's primary eyes, his lower set squinting from the threat of moisture spilling down his cheeks.
But he doesn't cry. The tears feel heavy in his lower lashes, the moisture burns his eyes a little bit, but Vessel refuses to cry.
Whether or not II notices, the man makes no comment.
"You'll be good for me, won't you?" II asks, but Vessel knows it's not really a question; it's an expectation.
Vessel nods, unable to find his voice for some time until II fixes a lethal fucking glare on him. "Y-yeah. Uhm, yes. Yes, sir." He stumbles out, shrinking beneath the weight of II's intensity.
"Good. Good boy." II murmurs—quick, short, and in a way that makes pure heat blossom in Vessel's stomach. There's a soft wince from III as II slowly drags the rope trapped beneath his shoe closer to him, forcing III's arms to lift off of the ground with how taut II is making the rope to be. "Well? Go on, then. Bite."
There's a brief moment of stillness as no one in the room says anything. III grits his teeth as his arms twist into a more painful position, leaving Vessel to silently watch as II takes another drag from his precious fucking cigarette. II says nothing as well, doesn't even glance at Vessel as he keeps his piercing eyes fixated on the way III is trying not to writhe against the floor.
Finally, Vessel crawls forward, approaching III's thigh as he stares at the way the lithe muscle beneath his skin quivers from the strain of his current position. There's a bead of sweat that gathers at the sharp curve of his hip bone, and Vessel helplessly watches as the moisture slowly inches down towards the edges of III's outer thigh.
There's another moment of almost placidity as Vessel watches that mystical bead of sweat, but it's quickly broken when II audibly clears his throat, raising a thick brow when Vessel snaps his head to gaze at II with wide, wet eyes. II simply jerks his head towards III, but he doesn't say anything more.
Dubiously, Vessel leans forward, breathing through his open mouth as he seals his lips around the slight jut of III's hip bone. The bassist jolts as Vessel's tongue lashes out to selfishly lap at the bead of sweat, interrupting its descent over III's thigh as he slowly bites down around the bone. III shivers — maybe he gasps, Vessel honestly doesn't really know — but his breath is quick to even out, and, as Vessel slowly detaches his teeth and leans back to see the mark he's left behind, he's relieved to find that his fangs barely even left an impression in III's bruised and beaten skin.
"…are you serious?" II growls, displeasure and annoyance clearly tainting his voice. "Is that what you call a bite?"
In an instant, it feels as if the entirety of Vessel's body has become a living contradiction: his skin feels hot to the touch, accompanied by an emotion that's terribly akin to shame as his foggy mind registers the sheer dispraise in II's voice, yet his insides feel as if his blood and organs have all frozen over completely as anxiety and desperation cloud his senses.
As if to make amends, Vessel leans back in, his lips already parted and his teeth bared as he closes in on III's haunches once again sealing his lips around a chunk of skin just above III's buttock; he first sinks his teeth into that hunk of flesh only a little harder than his previous attempt at a bite, but then he sinks in a little harder, harder, harder until III's hips are jolting forward, trying to escape Vessel's teeth as a wounded gasp punches out from his throat.
Vessel hadn't even unlatched his teeth from III's skin yet before he hears a low groan of approval come from II, the vague image of II taking a drag while groping at the tent that's beginning to grow in the front of his trousers. The sight of II — fucking II — leaning back with a lit cigarette in one hand and his clothed cock in the other made Vessel feel seen.
It made him feel good.
"Look at that," II murmurs, smirking softly as his eyes meet Vessel's, his hand squeezing his growing erection as he raises a brow at Vessel's borderline awestruck expression, "good boy."
Vessel's breath hitches as he slowly tears his gaze away from II, his eyes instead roaming over the crimson rope still trapped beneath II's shoe, until he finds himself gawping at the bite mark — the proper mark — he'd just left over III's ass cheek.
It's dark, the impression of his teeth clear and definite — they've always been sharp, but they'd only grown even more dangerous with Sleep's influence — with small droplets of blood already beading to the surface.
And Vessel watches.
Heat coils in his belly again, arousal thrumming in his cock like a second heartbeat; it feels good. Vessel knows that he could never reach the level of power that II seems to so effortlessly ooze from every goddamn pore.
He smiles. Leans in to sink his teeth into a patch of flesh more towards the center of III's spine, maybe a little off to the side, adjacent to a wicked looking gash from one of II's floggers. Vessel seals his lips around that patch of skin, digs in harder, harder, harder again until III's swearing underneath his breath. He licks the indents of his fangs, cleaning whatever minuscule amounts of blood bead to the surface in an attempt to cling desperately to Vessel's wild teeth.
He likes that.
Fuck, he likes the way it looks on III's skin, he likes the way his skin gives way beneath Vessel's teeth, even if only a little bit; he likes the way it makes him feel, he likes the way it must make II feel.
Good. It's so good.
(He's so good.)
So, Vessel does it again. Again. Again. And again. And again. And again, again, again, again, again-
There's another chunk of flesh between Vessel's teeth, his tongue lashing out to lave against the victimized skin trapped between his fangs—the taste of blood blossoming to the furthest reaches of Vessel's mouth, blessing even the spaces behind his molars with the sweet tang. Vessel's now fully leaning over the expanse of III's back, his naked chest and pectorals rubbing almost sensually against the gashes, bruises, and wounds that liter III's back.
Vessel doesn't know how long it's been, but, evidently, it's been long enough for III to have found enough energy to start lashing out beneath him.
"Stupid fuckin' dog-!" III would choke out, his entire body trashing as much as possible without actually pulling his shoulder or damaging any of the muscles in his strictly bound arms. "Pathetic-! F-fuckin' asshole! Bloody stupid prick! You're dead! You're so bloody fuckin' dead! Get the fuck off of me, you- you feral fuckin' mutt!"
Vessel unlatches from the skin at the nape of III's neck, lifting one hand to run his clammy palms over the damage that's been done to III's back, feeling the way his trembling fingers lift and dip over the wounds that him and II have both left.
(Both-)
Vessel laughs loudly — maybe the adrenaline is getting to him, the oxytocin and dopamine driving him to new heights — leaning in to kiss the bite he'd left at the base of III's neck, smearing the droplets of blood over his lips as Vessel shamelessly gropes one of III's sore ass cheeks, leaving the bassist to gawk underneath him.
"Vess," II calls out to him, his voice a soft and silky purr as he stands behind both Vessel and III; his features are soft, the most genuine that Vessel has seen the drummer all night.
II hums in approval as the younger man twists around to regard him, taking in the sight of III's blood staining Vessel's lips like makeup, the unmistakable smile on Vessel's lips as III writhes on the floor below them, the crimson rope that keeps III in position held firm beneath II's foot—somehow managing to keep the beast tethered properly to him despite III's constant wriggling. II laughs, cooing softly as he seemingly admires Vessel's euphoric expression.
"Oh, Vess," II sighs again, chuckling softly as he tilts his head to the side—the same way one would do when admiring a small, helplessly puppy vying for their attention before them, "you're so boring, aren't you?"
…what?
Vessel's expression drops, his entire fucking body turning to ice as he watches II lift his foot from the bundle of rope that had kept III leashed and contained.
Despite III's wrists still being bound together, the bassist is able to yank his arms out from between his spread thighs, gaining enough momentum to sit back on his knees and swing his fucking arms out and across the side of Vessel's face—smacking him onto the fucking floor.
II laughs as Vessel crumbles onto his side, falling over onto his stomach as the side of his head throbs terribly from III's strike, his vision doubling for a split second as he struggles to recover from III's newfound freedom.
With a great amount of effort, Vessel tries to lift himself up onto his hands and knees, but III's foot slams against the back of his head, forcing his cheek against the cold floor in a cruel mimicry of III's position on the floor mere seconds prior.
Vessel wriggles helplessly beneath the weight of III's foot, his ear still ringing, his vision still blurry, and his mind still reeling from II's betrayal.
"Fuckin' whore-" III growls viscously into his ear, applying more weight over his foot as it presses against Vessel's head. III slams his hips forward, his dripping neglected cock — still flushed an angry red, still aching with the promise of a release that's now within his grasp — roughly sliding between Vessel's folds, the tip of his cock brushing dangerously against the underside of Vessel's cock. "Let's see how the idiot mutt likes gettin' fucked in doggy, yeah?"
Even with his wrists bound together, III is still able to utilize his arms and fingers, reaching between his spread thighs to grasp the base of his dick, slapping his heavy length against Vessel's pussy as he pants and swears furious promises into Vessel's ringing ear. With a heavy growl, III slams his hips forward, forcing Vessel's dripping and unprepared cunt to accommodate his decent girth and his cruel length. Vessel cries out, the burn of his inner walls so suddenly being forced to stretch and adapt; it's a tight fit, one that has III groaning and panting over as he forces Vessel's cunt to devour his cock bit by agonizing little bit.
The world around him is a blur as III forces himself inside of Vessel's tight hole, but his surroundings become a little clearer, a little sharper when Vessel's brain recognizes II's laughter.
(His laughter.)
The sounds that II's fancy shoes are edged as he rounds around the tangled mess of III's and Vessel's bodies until he's properly facing Vessel. He crouches down, his knees popping quietly as kneels beside Vessel's pinned down head.
"Awww. Look at you…" II coos, taking one last deep drag from his dwindling cigarette.
II reaches forward, those deft fingers of his easily slipping past Vessel's lips to once again drag his tongue out from behind his teeth, the pad of his thumb practically petting down the surface of it as II encourages the man to stick out his tongue as far as possible; he leans down, exhaling the smoke over Vessel's tongue and his face, his fingers digging into the sensitive skin of Vessel's tongue when it tries to retract from II's grip, the instinct to hack up his own lungs naturally taking over.
But he isn't done.
II grasps the cigarette between two strong fingers, sensually plucking the stick from between his lips and bringing it down to Vessel's outstretch tongue; he holds it just above the moist surface for a brief moment, smiling down at Vessel's wide-eyed expression, the very tip of his captive tongue wriggling in fearful desperation. But a soft chuckle, II drives the cigarette butt into the center of Vessel's tongue, moaning softly when Vessel chokes on the excruciating pain that erupts from such a sensitive part of his mortal body. The drummer digs the cigarette into the squishy flesh until the cigarette is completely extinguished.
"Mmm…" II purrs, petting Vessel's cheek as he finally removes the extinguished cigarette from Vessel's burning tongue. "There's a good dog."
With a haunting chuckle, II is quick to stand up, depositing the old cigarette into the ash tray he keeps by the window, sitting down on the bed with his legs spread—perfectly wide enough for Vessel to see the stain of precum on the very tip of II's clothed erection.
As II unbuttons his slacks, III finally, finally pierces through the last of Vessel's innermost defenses, the bassist's balls slapping harshly against Vessel's vulnerable cock in a way that makes Vessel gasp for air—choking on the stale scent of tobacco and burnt flesh. With the leverage III has from his foot pinning Vessel's head down, the bound man begins to roughly pump his cock in and out of Vessel's defenseless pussy, his balls smacking against his poor cock with every forceful stroke.
As Vessel watches II take out his own aroused cock, the drummer now slowly stroking his shaft as he lights another cigarette, the room once again filled with a thick haze as II takes a euphoric drag of his new cigarette.
Vessel watches the way II's fingers tease around the cigarette, his other hand worshiping his cock as he watches III mount Vessel with thinly veiled delight.
Vessel watches, his eyes feeling heavy.
And as II takes another drag, his lips curled back into a cruel smile, a tear slips down Vessel's cheek.