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Aunt Lotte was the one he recognized, stepping off the bus. She was flanked by two guys, both taller than her. Zeke, his brother, and Marcel, his step-cousin. In a sense he'd known time had passed; even on the front there were letters sometimes. They'd sent a photo, once, a few years back, from down at the big department store: all of them dressed in their Sunday best, stiff and smiling. But it'd been five years: Lotte was shorter, had a few more lines on her weathered face, but Zeke and Marcel had shot up like weeds, gone from bratty little kids to nearly as tall as he was, still coltish. He honestly couldn't tell which was which; they'd both dyed their hair, two browns replaced with bleached blond and a cotton-candy blue, fading to a raggedy yellow and green, respectively. The blue-haired one was wearing leathers, a bomber jacket with the sleeves torn off. It was probably to make him look older, tough, but it just made him look painfully young.

They all recognized him, at least. Lotte waved, her holler of "Hector!" loud enough to turn a few heads aside from his own. He waved back; got to see surprise or maybe recognition flicker over the two boys' faces. It'd been a long five years for him too, and he'd never begged a journo for his camera so he could send a photo back. They'd known he'd gotten the bite — "The Treatment" like they called it off the front — and he'd said how it'd took, but hearing it in a letter five years old was a whole other thing than seeing it in front of your own eyes. He could barely remember what it was like before this — hair two-tone, eyes shining, nails naturally growing into claws, ears all hairy. And the tail, of course.

"Well, just look at you," Lotte said, pulling him into a tight hug. "Been ages since I saw your sorry hide." Maybe not having anything better to say.

One of the kids — Zeke, probably; Marcel wasn't that touchy — pulled him into a crushing hug too, arms still lanky for all that he was a scant half-inch shorter. "Missed you, man," he said, and yeah, that was Zeke.

"Look at you," Hector said when they pulled back, mussing Zeke's dyed hair. "Shot up like a weed." He looked over at Marcel, who was a half-step back, dingy fringe covering his eyes. "The both of you."

They all walked out through the parking lot, so Hector went with them. The flight home had raced the sun, and then he hadn't slept on the long, rattling bus ride out to town; it felt like he'd been stuck on early-afternoon sunlight for days. Lotte had brought her car, a dusty station wagon with the front fender nearly falling off — at least that was familiar, bungee cords on the left side to keep it from scraping the ground. Half the buildings on the way back were new; the town'd grown since he'd left.

The rattle of the car brought him back to the army jeep, going over potholes out in the jungle — though its clinging humid heat was almost exactly unlike the baked-dust rust of the town. Zeke and Marcel said some stuff, and he maybe nodded or said some things, mostly looking at the red sunlight against his closed eyes until they finally pulled up to the old house.

He could smell the food from outside, the heavy savory of stew, spices hot, the bitter caramel of beets. "Well, I hope you brought your appetite with you."

The smell curdled in his stomach. He shook his head, slow. "Honestly, I'm beat. I could just use a place to sleep."

"The food'll get cold," she said, and maybe for the first time he could see her — not as the old aunt who'd taken him and Zeke in, but just as a woman, a person, someone who'd had the world take and take, someone who was just trying to keep what's left of her family happy and fed, celebrate him coming back alive, and here he was, ungrateful as ever, breaking her plans without even a thought.

"Sorry, Lotte."

And then that moment of weakness — imagined or otherwise — was over, and she was looking at him fondly. "I'll keep a plate warm for when you get up. You've got the second upstairs room, we cleared it out this morning."

"Thanks."

The old steps creaked in all the same places, and she still had the same setup on the landing between floors: a little end table with a sprig of long-dead lavender, a raggedly-woven wool wall-hanging behind it. They'd painted the hallway doors, a nice smooth cream.

The second upstairs room was above the garage and it got bitterly cold in the winter. They'd used it mostly for boxes before, bed drowned under years of packed-away junk, but at some point — probably not all this morning — it'd gotten cleaned up, old floorboards bare save for a handful of little rugs, the room clean and empty and smelling only of dead flowers. Bright in the mornings, he bet, with the eastern window.

He sat on the bed for a minute, breathing the dust, and then he undid his shoes and lay back over the sheets and slept.

He didn't dream, or if he did he didn't really remember it. Just the hazy half-asleep sense of noise and motion and light, until he woke dizzy, ears ringing from something he hadn't fully heard. From, as it continued, shouting downstairs, Lotte's voice sharp and... Marcel, he thought, probably, shouting, all youth and anger.

Zeke was at the top of the stairs, eavesdropping and looking pretty hangdog about it; when Marcel's yelling reached its crescendo and punctuated in the slam of the front door he flinched.

Hector looked at him; Zeke shrugged. "He and Lotte haven't got along well. For the past year, I guess." Hector was pretty nonverbal, still waking up, so he just nodded and pushed past.

By the time he made his way downstairs Marcel's boots had already clattered their way down the deck and over the paving tiles; the roar of Lotte's old bike sounded as he hit the bottom.

Hector looked over at Lotte: small now, older still.

"He's been such a terror these past few months," Lotte said, sigh soft. "Comes back after a few hours, gets snippy if I ask what he's been up to."

"They both just wanna grow up fast. Gotta be mad at someone when you're a kid." Hector took a few steps out from the porch, stars washed out by the dingy light above. He'd slid into his boots without even thinking about it, laces still undone trailing behind him. This was, at least, something he could help with. "I'll go catch him."

Lotte looked over at her truck. "He's already gone—" she started, but she cut herself off.

Hector gestured at his ears: "The shift ain't just for show." The burr of the bike made it easy to follow, a ways away and fading fast, but easy enough to track. He stripped off his jacket, tossed it over to Lotte. "I'll see what's up with him, see if he'll talk to me." And then he was off, launching himself over the fence and down the road, a long loping stride.

The town was different. It'd been a long five years: its center had collapsed in on itself; its edges had grown. Still all dust and rock and sand, and Marcel was headed to the outskirts, roaring down the new highway out of town, out where the scrubland turned to rocks: they'd blown a hole in the hills to get a nice level grade for the highway, and a truck stop'd sprung up besides. There was a stubby cliff besides the road, the rock still dynamite-rough in craggy lines, gravel siding between where Marcel'd pulled up.

The truck stop was all lit up, hidden from the town by a twist of rock, neon sign aglow. Gas, motel, diner, all in conjoined buildings. A miniature home for all the low-lifes that didn't want to head into town proper, or couldn't. Just looking at who was coming and going it was nearly all shifters, cat and dog and even a bull. Ex-vets like him, maybe, or just ferals who'd gotten bit in the wild. Hector snorted: a dive full of scum; of course that was where Marcel'd go in his little fits to play adult.

He got there just as Marcel was getting off Lotte's bike, and Marcel jerked back, surprised, when he saw Hector striding up out from the darkness.

"I don't really give a shit about what you were yelling about," Hector said, leaning back against the bike, one hand across his chest, idly tapping the carton of cigarettes in his other shirtsleeve. "Y'shouldn't run off like that. Lotte worries, y'know."

Marcel just stared at him, awkward, gravel crunching under his feet.

"You wanna run off to a dive to get burgers, we can get burgers." Hector tossed his jacket onto the bike, looking over at Marcel. "Stay here."

He had money in his wallet, $50 they'd given him when they discharged him, and the bartender whistled when he handed the bill over, crisp and clean. "Army?" he said, and Hector just nodded. More than a few of the guys here looked like him, just lucky for their discharge papers to have come up a few months earlier.

He had the burgers in a bag, grease slowly soaking through the bottom, and by the time he made it out Marcel had already gotten in trouble. There was a group of men surrounding him, all older, and one with a knife big enough to be a machete. Biker types, fully human all of them.

"—can give you a ride," one of them was saying, hand on his crotch, cupping his cock through his jeans. "Sweet little mouth you got would be just what we want."

"Fuck off," Marcel said, voice warbling embarrassingly at the end, and he made to shove the guy back.

The one with the knife grabbed him, tugging him close, machete wobbling down to nearly press against his chest. Drunk, Hector could smell it from here. "Awfully fuckin' rude of you," the guy slurred. "Prissy little cocksucker only goes for dog dick, ythink? Fuckin' mutants—"

And that was when Hector got involved. "Y'all wanna back off," he said, and they turned to him, the one holding Marcel slower.

"Why'd we wanna do that, you think?" It was the one who'd been talking when he came out, maybe the leader. Burly and unkempt.

Hector let a little more of his shift peek through, eyes shining, claws showing. "Cause I reckon you don't want to get your asses whooped, is what."

"What, you worried about the little cocksucker?" The one with the knife rattled Marcel by the upper arm, pulling him back against his chest, the flat of his knife pressed up nearly against his neck, Hector's growl growing in register with the motion. "We're just taking what the fucker's been offering."

Hector took a step forward, and the guy on his left took that as reason to take a swing. It was almost pathetic how easy it was: leaning away from the blow, and then catching the guy's arms, twisting one behind his back, pinning the other to his side as he splayed his claws against his neck. He squirmed and cursed, calling him a fucking crazy mutie shifter. "Careful," Hector said, digging deeper, feeling the guy's pulse under his fingertips. "Don't want me to slip and cut you."

There was a click from the side: two of the others pulling fat little pistols from back holsters. "Think whoever you are you should mind your own goddamn business," the boss said.

"How about you let him go and I don't have to kill you," Hector said, letting the shift creep higher. His muscles swelled, dark fur spreading down the back of his neck, across his chest. His tee creaked, straining skintight — the cigarette box in his shirtsleeve crumpled, the first thing to cave. Marcel looked about ready to piss himself, not even breathing with the machete blade pressed against his neck.

There was a second where Hector thought how he'd tell old Aunt Lotte he got her kid killed the first day he was back, before the biker spat, shoved Marcel forward. "Little cocksucker ain't worth shit." He groped his crotch, pulling. "Hope he repays you the favor."

Hector bared his teeth, hand squeezing the guy's throat for a second before he tossed him aside, hitting one of the gun-toting idiots with enough force to send them both to the ground in a heap. He stepped forward, crouching half over Marcel's body. "Glad we could be peaceable about this," he said, still letting the shift grow, seams of his shirt popping. "Now run." He roared, and they all took off. He lurched with them, stumbling over himself before he reeled the chase instinct back.

"You okay?" he said to Marcel, sitting up now, one hand touching his throat.

"Yeah."

He let the shift die down, feeling lighter and weaker in its wake, and caught his battered cigarettes when they fell from his busted sleeve. He fished out one of the least crushed ones, stuck it in his mouth, waved the case at Marcel. "You smoke?" he asked, Marcel shaking his head. It took two tries; his hands were shaking. "Y'know, when I got back I wasn't thinking how long it'd take before I had to threaten to kill a guy." He took a long drag, held it, blew out a cloud of smoke. Marcel shuffled to his feet, standing awkwardly by his bike, not looking directly at anything. "Figured I'd get at least a full day."

He took another drag and then picked up the burger bag from the ground, chucked it at Marcel. "Here's your burger. But I guess you weren't coming here for the food, huh."

Marcel stunk of sex — he'd figured it at first it was just a teenage thing; him and Zeke both reeked. But he didn't exactly take a deeper whiff. Now, though, he could count a half-dozen guys on Marcel, guys he must've sucked off in the past day or two.

"So, what, you storm off and suck some cock until you calm down?"

"It's not like that—" Marcel started, moodily chewing on his burger.

"Not really any of my business, is it?" Hector cut him off. "You wanna go blow some guys, it's no skin off my back. But at least find a better place than this dive; I sure ain't wanna tell your Ma her kid got gutted sucking dick at the truck stop."

Marcel shook his head. "Maybe in the cities there's other places, but here..."

"You still in school?" Hector asked, and Marcel nodded. "Lord, why not just ask some other kid out to a hop?"

"That's not—" Marcel flushed, blotchy, hair falling over his eyes like a screen.

"That not what you're after, huh." It hadn't exactly escaped his notice that most of the guys he'd seen pass through the stop were shifters, too. Shifters mostly a good ten years older than him, at least. Definitely put the looks Marcel'd given him in place. "What, you slumming? Gonna find some lowlifes, get smacked around? That the shit you're into?"

Marcel just looked away.

"You look underage as all hell; the guys that go after that kind of shit... they're bad news."

"I'm legal!" Marcel protested.

"Sure don't look it. You think the guys think you're telling the truth when you say you're eighteen? You're lucky you haven't met anyone real fucked-up. Some of the guys just wanna get their rocks off, but— shit, you say those bikers. They woulda straight-up gutted you, maybe had their fun with you first. There're all sorts of freaks around here."

"What, and how would you know?!"

"How d'you think?" Hector palmed a hand over his dick, grinding the heel of his hand over the arch of his shaft. "If you're after shifter dick, I got one right here you could suck on." Marcel's head whipped up, eyes wide as he looked up at Hector's face, then down at his crotch, the lump of his cock tenting his jeans. "That the kind of guy you go for? You wanna kneel in front of a guy, call him 'Alpha' while he fucks your face? Want some guy that calls you a faggot cocksucker, smacks you around?" He let his face pull into a sneer. "Or you really just into the dogs?"

"Are you... serious?"

"Wouldn't be a funny joke." Hector took a final drag, flicked the butt off onto the siding. "Y'think I was celibate in the army? There's always some slutty cockwarmer around; you wouldn't be the first."

Marcel stared at him for a long time, like he was weighing the option. Skittish for all that he reeked of strangers' loads. He slunk closer, eyes focused on Hector's hardening cock. Maybe it was fucked of him to want it, but if they were strangers... Marcel was a lean little twink, all wide-eyed innocence, rank with the scent of all the guys he'd let come all over him, and, yeah, Hector would be glad to add his load to the chart. He wasn't lying when he'd said there were freaks around.

Marcel's hand was warm against the night chill, pressing against Hector's thigh — like actually touching his cock would be going too far. Hector snorted, shifted against the bike, spreading his legs. "Don't get shy on me. It's gonna be in your mouth, least you could do is touch it directly." Marcel looked up, flushed and wide-eyed. "What, you want me to smack you? Get the fuck on your knees."

Marcel dropped like someone kicked him, knees hitting the dirt with a thump. Hector took a little pity on him, unbuckled his belt, unzipped his jeans, fished his cock out. It was true what they said about shifter cocks; back in basic training, what seemed like a lifetime ago, there'd been guys eager to take the bite just 'cause everyone knew it'd make your dick bigger. The rapid healing, increased strength — that was just combat proficiency. Out of all of the shifters out there, cats got the least, and it'd still taken Hector from well-hung to something bestial, fat and heavy hanging off him, a solid weight dragging at his crotch when he got hard. His cock lolled to the side, sharp tip jutting from his heavy foreskin, shaggy at the base with bristly two-tone fur crawling halfway up its length.

"That the kind of shifter cock you after?" He pulled Marcel close, palm clapped around his neck, all but mashing his face against his shaft. "Or should I go in there and find a dog, huh, get him to knot your fucking mouth."

Marcel whined, lips spreading, tongue dragging up the side of Hector's heavy shaft, lapping at his foreskin before he took in the head of his cock. He'd been doing it a while; you didn't get skills like that just sucking cock for a week. Marcel kissed his cockhead, lips pushing back his foreskin, tongue lapping across the underside, catching the wet droplets of pre Hector was already leaking, smearing it across his cockhead. His lips pursed, slurping back and forth over the fat ridge of his cockhead, and Hector groaned, dug his fist into Marcel's hair, dragged him down.

Hector's cock thickened in his mouth, fully-hard, stretching Marcel's lips in a fat oval. The bite'd done one more thing — fully hard, nubby little barbs flared across his cockhead, like a cat's tongue — or dick. They were smooth when Marcel sucked him in, only flaring out in sharp sandpaper spikes when he drew back. It was like electricity, a jolt straight across his cockhead; from Marcel's muffled grunt it was less nice on his end. His lips were puffy, swollen from the stretch of his fat shaft; from the constant rasp of his barbs, but he stayed there, bobbing on the head of Hector's cock, swallowing, face splotchy and flushed.

"You're a good cocksucker," he said, and struck another cigarette, taking a long drag as Marcel bobbed between his thighs, hands wrapped around his calves, grunting and groaning. Marcel drooled down his shaft, spit spilling over Hector's fat balls, soaking into the fur he had growing up his stomach.

He let Marcel slobber on his cockhead for a while, smoking his cigarette, before he took a more active hand in it. He thrust deeper, angling to the side, watching his cockhead bulge out Marcel's cheek before pushing down his mouth, Marcel's lips spreading around his shaft, open as he sucked in panting breaths, pursing further and further down his shaft. He dug into Marcel's hair, fucking a few inches of his cock back and forth, grunting on the withdrawal, barbs rasping all along Marcel's tongue, just-barely catching on his lips before he sunk back inside.

"Open up," Hector said when he got close, holding Marcel's head in place, and then he just fucked into his open, drooling mouth, cock spitting wet beads of pre, chin and neck shining with mess as he thrust, staring down at the sight of it. He came with a grunt, the first shot lancing across the roof of his mouth; pulling out more so the rest painted his face, shot after shot across his brow, webbing over his eyes, drooling from temple to chin. He finished in his mouth, the final wet gush splattering over his tongue, and then he watched his lips purse around his cockhead, throat jogging as he swallowed. "Good boy."

Marcel's cock was tenting his jeans, digging right into the seam, so he figured he might as well give him a hand. "C'mon," he said, pulling him up, unzipping. He was wearing powder-blue briefs, light grey in the dark, leaking so much the fabric was wrapped tight around his cockhead, the dark splotch glossy. Hector peeled his briefs down, his cock a nice handful, thumb brushing over his slit as he stroked him off — pumping one, two, three times before Marcel started to squirm and gasp, hips jerking, and Hector stroked him through his orgasm, load spurting along the curve of his thumb, slowly spilling down his knuckles. Afterward: feeding it right back to him, smearing his thumb over Marcel's bruised lips, watching him lap his stringy come off Hector's fingers before he just shoved them into his mouth.

He rode back with Marcel — "Wear the god-damn helmet; I didn't save your life just for you to crack your damn head open" — after he'd tucked his dick back into his jeans. Lotte looked glad, which, she sure as hell wouldn'tve been if she'd known just what they'd gotten up to.

He ate the other burger later: meat crumbling, grease rancid on his shifter tongue, and just barely managed to keep it down.

Of course that didn't stop Marcel: it was two days before he had another screaming argument with Lotte and stormed off. Hector'd been dozing at the time, half-waking from a nightmare each time the screams hit a loud note and spending a few dazed moments after waking trying to tease out what, if any of it, had been real. He was still unsteady on his feet when he stumbled downstairs, saw Lotte sitting pinched at the kitchen table.

"You'd told me if I'd been that much a shit when I was his age, huh?" he said, Lotte's amused snort at least showing he'd said something right. "The boy just wants to rebel against something and you're the best target." Not saying: last time I fucked your boy's mouth and loved it; took his dumb naiveté and used it to get a sloppy blowjob. Instead, what he did say: "I'll go get him again."

It was dusk as he left, the sky burnt orange-red-purple, color clear and glittering around the sun like the sky was all sharp glass. The pit stop was already lit up, and Marcel was already in the stalls, on his knees. There was a guy in there with him. Knotting his mouth, from the sound of it, Marcel's wet gags each time the guy thrust deep, the wet splatter as he spit up come onto the ground. The guy was getting off on having someone hear it.

He waited the ten minutes it took before the guy pulled out and swaggered out, giving Hector a sleazy grin. The guy was a ragged-looking trucker type, five years older, arms thick with cheap blue tattoos. Not that Marcel'd seen any of them.

The stall door was open, the taped-around hole uncovered. He went right in and shoved his dick through: "You want another dick to suck?"

"Did you come here to—" Marcel's voice was muffled through the partition, and Hector cut him off.

"I came here to get my dick sucked." He ground his hips against the partition, his half-hard cock lolling to the side. "You gonna?"

Marcel's jacket creaked when he leaned in, and his breath was hot and moist against his cockhead. Hector stiffened, cock lifting its way to a full erection, knowing Marcel's lips were just a fraction of an inch away. Wetness, heat — the drag of his plush lips over his cockhead, the wet sound as he opened wide and took in Hector's cockhead.

He groaned, cock twitching in Marcel's mouth. "Yeah, kid, that's the stuff." Marcel blew him, lips bobbing back and forth over his cockhead, slurping loud in the otherwise-empty bathroom. His tongue lapped at his cockhead, smearing the mess of his leaking pre across his flesh, lips pursing as he swallowed the wet mix of spit and pre. Wet streams of drool ran down his fat shaft — Marcel wrapped a hand around his shaft, pumping what he wasn't sucking on, breath rasping when he pulled off, long fingers coaxing wet spurts of pre from his leaking cockhead. Hector clenched the partition, thrusting through — fucking into Marcel's mouth, grunting each time his cockhead rammed the back of his throat, making the sloppy, wet orifice convulse around his shaft, a gurgling choking noise before Marcel pulled off, stroked him a few times before taking his cock right back.

"You like that, don't you?" Hector asked, fucking Marcel's throat, his bruised lips pressed right against the filthy partition, gurgling and gulping as he rammed forward, only half his cock vanishing through the hole before Marcel started gagging. "Like it when you choke on my cock. Swallow it down, fucker."

Marcel groaned, lips still wrapped around his cock, a high whine that vibrated against his cockhead; Hector spat out another messy string of pre, straight into his throat. His cock was filthy, smeared in crested peaks of frothed-up pre and spit, barbs just starting to rake across Marcel's lips, tugging back when Marcel lapped up his cockhead. Hector thrust all the way through, Marcel stroking him off with only the head in his mouth, huffing and drooling — his knees were clattering against the tiles; he could just imagine the kid's whole body needy, desperate: flushed, stroking himself off as he swallowed down squirts of pre, stroking off a fat shifter cock.

Hector growled, the animal sound filling the bathroom, and Marcel whined in response. "Gonna take my load, huh? Drink it down, wanna hear you swallow." He was just on the edge, barbs flushed and swollen, ripping through Marcel's lips each time he bobbed down. His cock was twitching, on the very edge, and Marcel knew it, keeping his pace steady, bringing him closer and closer with each pump, mouth hot and sloppy on his cock. "Fuck!" he yelled, banging the partition with one hand, slamming his cock through Marcel's sloppy fist. He came right in the kid's mouth, blasts flooding his tongue, spilling back over his cockhead; the pressure when he swallowed made the next few even heavier, a messy flood of shifter come hosing across the kid's mouth. The swallows were loud, a liquid gulp between breaths, his breathing sharp and high. He was practically jerking himself raw, hand slapping his zipper each stroke. Hector pulled back, cockhead just barely through the hole, spraying the last few spurts into air, hoping they painted his face.

He stood there for a few seconds, cock still drooling come, listening to the kid jerk off. "Kid," he said, waiting until Marcel groaned in acknowledgment. "Lemme finish you off. Wanna see when you shoot." He hadn't even closed his stall; he took the half-step over, rapped loud on the stall door. There was a pause, maybe pregnant with tension, before the lock clicked, Marcel leaning against the wall faux-seductive like every cocksucker Hector'd seen in his whole life. He had hit him with the final shots; his face was streaked white, across his jaw and down his neck. His lips were so bruised it was like he was wearing lipstick, or that someone'd punched him in the face.

And of course his jeans were down his thighs, same blue briefs he'd been wearing before hooked under his balls, cock jutting out red and dark, shiny. He'd slathered the mess of spit and pre he'd been jerking Hector off with along his own cock, and it was soaking into his underwear, sloppy strings of fluid slowly drooling down his shaft.

Hector stepped in, one hand braced across Marcel's chest, slamming him back against the wall, the other wrapped around his cock, pumping hard right where he'd left off. Marcel squirmed, lean twink body struggling under his arm, lips parted in a whining groan. His entire body shuddered when Hector stroked his thumb over his cockhead, hips snapping up, whine ripping from his throat.

"You sucked two cocks before I got here," Hector said, face an inch from Marcel's. "I can smell it on your breath. You really that desperate for cock?" He squeezed, practically wringing Marcel's cock, just this side of painful. "You ever let any of them fuck you?" he asked, clawed fingers slipping down, under his balls, pressing against the base of his ass.

"No," Marcel said, flushed, grinding his hips up, cock dragging across Hector's side.

Hector probed up, spit-slick fingers squirming between his cheeks, pressing against the pucker of his asshole. "You want to?"

Marcel's eyes went wide, breath huffing, and he blew off, cock spraying a sharp line up across his tee, blobs of come staining the fabric as Hector worked his asshole, sliding up and down, digging against the convulsing little ring of muscle. He didn't even have to touch his cock, pinned between their bodies, spraying all across Marcel's front. Kid had such a hair trigger when it came to real sex — like cocksucking in a dingy truck-stop stall wasn't "real" sex. Just a few dirty words could set him off.

"Here?" Marcel said, glancing down at Hector's still-hard cock, then to the stall door.

Hector shook his head. "If I fuck a guy, it's somewhere you can fuckin' lie down. Clean yourself up."

Marcel washed up in the sink, looking at least a little less like he just took a comeshot to the face — though there was really no hiding what they'd done. A minute later found them in the shitty motel next to the stop, the kind of place where you could rent rooms by the hour. Hector got one. Marcel — hell, Marcel looked painfully young, underage as all hell, face still flushed and splotchy, wet shirt sticking to his skin. The attendant didn't give a shit, and Marcel was innocent enough to look shocked at that.

When they got up to the room, Hector flipped him around, pinned him against the door. "If you do this again: never fucking let someone get a room. Fuck in the god-damn stall if you have to, because right now you're alone with some sleazy asshole and there ain't no one in the world who'd hear if you screamed."

Marcel hit him, and after a second Hector let him up, let him push away and stand furious in the center of the room. "If Ma told you to do this—" and Hector laughed, a single bitter bark.

"If your Ma knew what you were up to, she'd grab her shotgun and I'd be the first one she'd shoot." He paced closer. "I'm here 'cause I wanna fuck your ass, not to scare you straight." Marcel stepped back, away from Hector's approach, and the backs of his knees hit the bed. He went down in a sprawl. "Just, if you let any strangers at your ass, be a little less fucking dumb about it."

"You're not some stranger—" Marcel started, and Hector shut him up, pinning him down on the bed, both their legs dangling off.

"You really think that? You ain't seen me in years; you never really even knew me when you were a kid. You sure as hell shouldn't trust me more than any one of those scumbags who're eager for your sweet little lips around their cock."

"Yeah, well, I do," Marcel said, like that was defiance straight from his romantic heart, some grand battle against the cynics of the world.

Hector eased up. "I ain't gonna hurt you just to make a point, but you keep it up and someone'll, just 'cause they want something you got." Then he shrugged. "If you're gonna do this, do it. Take off your fuckin' clothes, lemme see what you got."

Marcel shoved his jacket off, pulled his shirt up with all the coyness of undressing for the night, face flushed red, never quite looking at Hector. It was his first time actually seeing him shirtless: he was lean in motion, nipples dark and peaked, a thin line of hair starting just above his belt. He bent to take off his boots, heavy black things faux-military in design. He unbuckled his belt, studs catching on his belt loops as he pushed it back, the heavy buckle clattering against his knuckles as he unzipped. Soaked underwear clinging to the mound of his cock. Layer after layer until he was just standing there, flushed and awkward, all his clothes in a little pile.

Hector realized he was grinning, leering even: watching Marcel squirm under his gaze, turned on and humiliated. Hector shoved him back, sending him stumbling onto the bed, hitting the shitty mattress with absolutely no rebound, springs all busted.

"You wanna get fucked, huh." Hector said, cupping his cock through his jeans. "You want me to fuck you. That's what you want, huh, your little cherry ass spread open by your step-cousin's cock." He clenched his cock: the outline going down one leg, inhumanly huge. "It's a big fuckin' cock, y'know. I'm gonna make you take it all, gonna breed you til my load's leaking out. You sure that's what you want?"

Marcel'd gone hard while he was talking, his cock standing stiff. Hector snorted, watching it pulse, press tight against his stomach, a wet bead of pre oozing from the slit.

"Get on the fucking bed," Hector said, shoving the kid back, watching as he presented himself: on all fours, ass in the air. He leaned in, dragging his claws over the skin of his ass, spreading his cheeks to look at his hole: tight and pink, absolutely virginal.

"You do this with any other guys, you make sure they wear a condom. Even the shifters. They can't get sick but they can still carry shit." He slapped Marcel's ass, dragged his thumb over his pert cheek. "You wanna be a fuckin' truck-stop slut, you gotta do some shit to make sure you don't catch some shit."

"So, uh, should you—" Marcel started, but Hector cut him off.

"Nah, I don't wear 'em. Gotta get extra-thick so my barbs don't rip through it; can't feel shit." He leered down at Marcel, pressing a sloppy kiss against his shoulder. "And you wanna feel my barbs, don't you?"

Marcel trembled, head jerking down in an awkward nod.

"Say it."

"I want — I want to feel your barbs," he said, cheeks beet red, flush growing down his bare chest.

"Play with your hole. Get yourself ready for me. Christ, you ever finger yourself?" He spat on Marcel's hole, let the kid reach back, smear it around until the muscle shone, clenching and opening. "Fuck yourself. Open yourself up for when I fuck you." Marcel groaned, a sharp little whine, and then he did it again when he slid his finger inside himself, a ragged huff of breath. Hector just watched, cock straining his jeans, Marcel spread out totally naked, huffing and whining as he tried to open himself up, clumsily pushing one and then two fingers deeper into his ass, pulling back and forth.

Maybe he should feel bad about it. That yeah, this was Marcel, his Aunt's little bratty kid, but it was also a lean twink, playing tough with his spurs and dyed hair, the kinda punk who so desperately wanted to be big shit. And here he was naked, all but begging as he played with his hole. His ass was up in the air, legs spread, balls pulled up tight, cock hard against his stomach and leaking pre, a short little string tethered to his cockhead.

"You wanna get fucked," Hector started, surprising both of them with his voice a feral rasp, almost hissing from his throat. The backs of his hands were dark with fur, nails half-shifted into claws. "I'll fuck you." Marcel all but mewled, a whine spilling over his lips, asshole clenching and opening against his fingers, practically sucking on his fingertips. Hector pulled back just long enough to shove his jeans to his thigh, cock arching up, fat and heavy, practically pulsing with his heartbeat. His barbs were out, scraping rough over the cheek of Marcel's ass, digging into the flushed pucker of his asshole. Marcel was slick, hot; muscle clenching on the very tip of his dick, pushing back when his cock jerked minutely, spilling pre down the crack of his ass, shining his skin and collecting in beads, rolling down the curve of his body.

Hector eased in, but there was no kind of "slow" that'd wouldn't be painful, not with his cock that big and sure as hell not with his barbs out. Marcel breathed hard, shuddering, maybe thinking he'd expected — more, maybe. Something else. Hector never got the appeal of bottoming, but then again he'd never really liked sucking cock either.

Whether or not he was getting off on it, Marcel was at least dedicated, pushing back with a huff when Hector spent too long rutting against him, just rip his cockhead back

and forth through the clenching ring of his asshole, until his flesh was red and puffy, swollen from the constant rasp of his barbs. He clapped a hand over the curve of Marcel's ass, claws dark against his pale skin, dimpling under his touch. He thrust deeper, a feral growl in his throat as he speared Marcel with a few more inches, asshole stretched lewdly around the bloated swell of his shaft, thicker and thicker until he pushed past the crest. Marcel whined when he pulled back, barbs tearing at his flesh deeper inside, but he let him, rocking back and forth, letting him sheathe half his cock into his tight little ass. Already there was a burble of pre leaking around his cock, wet drool spilling out when he pulled back, the wet slick just letting his barbs sink deeper into his yielding flesh. Each rasp — hell, each time he pulled back he almost blew his load right there, claws digging into Marcel's hips to keep him focused.

Halfway down the barbs stopped and the fur started, bristly stubble crawling up the lower half of his shaft that couldn't be any more pleasant. Marcel whined when Hector jammed in, rolling back and forth to drag the only slick, smooth inch of his length back and forth through his hole — cockhead still tearing back and forth through his guts, barbs fully swollen. The fur rasped, prickling over his flesh, grinding over his hole and into his ass. The clench of his ass just sent Hector's fur stabbing into his flesh, little pinprick bristles, and Marcel shuddered, whining as Hector jerked forward, battering through a second ring deep inside him like it was nothing, cock sliding through his ass into his colon. Hector's shaft slid deeper and deeper until he hilted with a smack, hips hitting his ass cheeks, heavy balls crashing against the backs of his thighs. He growled, bowed forward over Marcel's back, claws digging into his sides, just rolling his hips, stirring his dick where it was sheathed deep inside.

The jerk backwards was almost enough to bring him off, barbs flaring out all down his length, scrabbling into the walls of Marcel's ass, and he had to pause, rasping breath blowing over Marcel's shoulders. His cock twitched, each squirt of pre a blast like he used to come before the bite. He snarled, starting up and uneven tempo, sawing his cock back and forth, chest heaving as he drew in gulping gasps.

Below him Marcel wailed, body shuddering. His asshole clenched tight around his cock, then spasmed wildly as he shot off into the sheets, each pump coming with a rattling gasp.

Hector groaned, slamming in to the hilt, letting his guts clench all around his cock. He sawed back and forth a few final times, giving in to the temptation to just feel the rasp as his barbs sunk deep into the flesh of his ass, just a few solid pumps enough to bring him off with a roar, fat balls slapping wetly against Marcel's ass as he blew deep inside, spraying blast after blast, slowly drooling out around his churning shaft, the clear slime of his pre coming out mixed with streamers of white.

He groaned, letting his cock rest deep inside as he spilled the rest of his load, a wet burble spilling back as Marcel groaned, hole convulsing. Pulling out coaxed a last few spurt, turgid barbs bending back, rasping over the abused flesh of Marcel's ass before he popped out followed by a wet slurry of come, drooling down his ass, spilling over the tight lump of his drawn-up tight balls.

Hector looked down at his handiwork: Marcel's hole was wrecked, the tight pink virginal pucker he'd had all torn up, now gaping and flushed a bloody red, flesh puffy and soft when he ran his fingers around the rim. Marcel shuddered and he grinned, dragging his claws over Marcel's hole, so soft and heavy his fingers sunk right into the bloat. His load was drooling out, messy white lines streaming between folds. Marcel squirmed, huffing as Hector played with his ass, claws digging inside, and so he planted his other hand between his shoulder blades, pinned him down onto the bed.

"Nah, we're not done just yet. I got another load in me. In the mean time —" he slid two fingers up into Marcel's ass, a messy blob of come oozing out around them. "That fuckin' dog who knotted your mouth? It's gonna feel even bigger in your ass." He slid a third finger in, spread it so he was spreading Marcel's asshole gaping, rich red inner flesh on display, sloppy with his load. "Or you ever get a bronco? A big fat horse cock shoved through the hole for you to suck on. That shit is fatter around than a goddamn fist." He fucked Marcel's hole with three fingers, back and forth, pinky curled up against his cheek. "You wanna play slut to a bunch of fuckin' shifters, you gotta get broken in." He leaned in close, lips against Marcel's ear: "And I'm gonna be the one to do it, huh?"

Marcel shuddered, cock already hard again. "Yeah," he said, brokenly, between a wet inhale, tears in his eyes when Hector jammed his fingers deep.

Four fingers and then Marcel shuddered, hole clenching and opening like a mouth as he ground the crest of his knuckles against his hole, an elastic kind of tension wrapping around his hand as he kept trying to shove the whole thing in. "You ever thought about getting knotted?" he asked, and Marcel nodded weakly, sniffling. "This is what it feels like:" and he balled his fingers, whole fist ramming again and again against his hole, squelching through the stringy mess of his load that was still drooling out, splattering across Marcel's thighs and balls with each roll forward. The joints of his knuckles pushed in no problem, but the rest of his fist — he kept pushing, rolling back and forth, fist straining against Marcel's gaping ass. He sunk in, finally, overcoming some final resistance. Marcel's asshole gaped, pushing out into a lopsided ring, and his fist sunk in with all the force of a blow, ramming into the wall of his ass. Marcel whined, sucking in breaths between desperate little whimpers, and he came again just from that, from the thought of getting knotted probably, cock spraying all up his belly, streaking down onto the filthy sheets.

"Just imagine it," Hector said, "some filthy goddamn dog mounting you, slobbering down your face as he fills you up with his load." He tried to spread his hand, backs of his fingers digging into the aching walls of Marcel's ass. "It gets bigger, y'know. More like two fists. But I don't think even you can take that right now. And the whole time, pumping you full of watery goddamn dog jizz, until it starts squirting out around the knot because you're just that fucking full up. I seen a whole group take turns fucking a kid like you, taking knots one after another, stuffed so full he looked knocked-up. And they were just opening him up so the broncos could take their turn." He twisted his fist, drawing a sob from Marcel. "That the kinda shit you into? You wanna be a slut for any shifter that comes in here?"

There was a constant stream of clear pre webbing from the tip of Marcel's cock to the sheets, wet beads spilling down its length every time he jerked around Hector's fist. "Yeah," he said, nearly sobbing, voice wet and rattling, face stained with tears and snot. "Yeah."

Hector pulled out with a snarl, a wet slurp as his fist tore out, leaving Marcel's hole nearly blooming open, asshole forming a thick ridge around the red meat of his inner ass. He lined his cock up and jammed back in, tip to balls slamming into him in an instant, spiring him on the full length of his animal cock. Marcel wailed again, but Hector didn't even register: caught up in the tear against his barbs, the final dribbles of his last load spurting out with fresh pre, only seconds from blowing again. Each thrust slammed half his cock into Marcel's body, knees nearly leaving the bed with each impact, and it was only five increasingly brutal thrusts until Hector roared, a feral yowl tearing its way up his throat as he sprayed his second load straight into Marcel's guts, pulse after pulse continuing for a good thirty seconds of snarling and huffing, even after messy globs had started oozing out around the messy seal of his shaft, spilling in thick lines into his fur.

Hector listed to the side, crashing down onto the mattress, the both of them sweaty and breathing hard. The twitches of his cock finally stilled as he lay there are huffed, letting the dregs of his cock drool into Marcel's sloppy ass before slowly pulling out, grinning at the jizz-splattered gape of his wrecked ring, grinning more when Marcel winced and squirmed away when he ran his claws over the bruised red swell of bloated flesh.

Hector slipped an arm over Marcel's chest, pulled him until his back was against his chest, Hector's lips pressed against Marcel's ear. "That's getting fucked." His fingers bored into the gaping hole, a wet squirt of come gushing out when he pulled back. "You're gonna feel it for days." He dragged his lips across the nape of his neck, all sweaty and flushed, hair stuck to the skin, salty. Marcel shuddered and Hector grinned. "You gonna come back down here and get some stranger to fuck you in the stalls? Try and ride a bucking bronco?" He twisted his fingers, finger-fucking his exhausted hole, even as Marcel whined and squirmed. "You gonna make me take care of you every time you need to get fucked?"

He let go and Marcel jerked forward, tight ass on display, wrecked hole still oozing come, cock stubbornly half-hard. He looked at the clock: "Room's up in five minutes. Get your ass downstairs and I'll give you a ride home." And then he left Marcel there, slowly getting up onto all fours, tentatively stepping down to the floor when Hector let the door swing shut behind him.

He was smoking by the side when Marcel dragged his sad ass out, clothes hanging all wrong, limping like he'd never gotten fucked hard, face blotchy and eyes red. Hector waved him over, offered a cigarette he didn't take. He woulda smacked him if he had, probably. "Keep a quarter on you," he said, between drags. "Gimmie a call if some fucker you're all but turning tricks for leaves you stranded." He exhaled, tipping his head back to watch the plume of smoke dissipate into the air. "Not that you should be doing any of this shit." He jerked his head over to the bike. "I'll give you a ride back, anyway."

---

Marcel didn't stop. Maybe it hadn't sunk in, or maybe the kid just couldn't get the fear of the Lord put into him. He was twitchy and restless every time Hector saw him, between school — school! He was still in school, for God's sake — and Hector's lazing around town. So Marcel kept making scenes and running off to the truck stop, and Hector kept following him.

It was probably inevitable that things would come to a head. Things had... progressed. To where Marcel was on his knees, throat getting plugged by some nameless trucker, Hector watching and jerking off, waiting for his turn. To where this was almost his regular evening: going down to the truck stop, getting blown by the same whore who was always there. Just Hector got some forewarning for just when the whore was gonna come down.

The guy fucking Marcel's throat pulled back, letting Marcel cough wetly against his crotch, dog cock pulsing across his cheek, weeping slimy cords of pre into his hair. He twisted a hand into Marcel's hair, dragging him halfway to his feet. "How 'bout we lose the crowd and I fuck you proper?" he said, leering down; his cock gave another twitch, bloated red flesh inhuman in the most literal sense, steadily drooling pre. "A slut like you's just dying to get knotted, right bitch?"

"I —" Marcel started, voice reedy and rough. "I don't know..." he trailed off, gaze flitting to Hector, to the guy, squirming a little in the way he did. He pulled back, jerking from the guy's grip when he didn't let go.

The guy was not having any of it. "I think you're gonna do whatever I want you to do," he snarled, and bashed Marcel across the face, not even close to the way you'd just slap a slut to get him to moan. Marcel's head snapped back, hand reaching for his face, and the guy caught it halfway, a grin on his face that dropped when Hector roared and slammed him into the wall. Busted tiles rattled down to the floor, along with a thin thread of dust. The guy tried to hit him and Hector just brushed it aside, shift sending him swelling in size, the threads on his sleeves bursting as his chest expanded, biceps growing enormous.

And Marcel just stayed there, eyes flitting back and forth between them, flushed, lips parted. Hector growled, tossing his head to the side: "Get the fuck out of here!"

Marcel scrambled for the door, one hand jerking his jeans back up. He hit the door with his shoulder and kept going. Hector slammed the guy against the wall a few more times, not enough to seriously hurt him probably, then tossed him aside, snarl still rattling in his throat. Already he could hear other people reacting to the crash and the roar. Probably wouldn't do to be here when the cops came around.

Marcel was outside, pacing on the sidewalk by the motel doors. Cock a spar neatly outlined in his jeans, like the biggest problem here was his blue balls.

"This place is a fuckin' sty," Hector said.

"Just because you get... overprotective," Marcel said.

Hector growled, just, abruptly beyond caring about Marcel's rebellious shit. "Overprotective?" He reached out, picked Marcel by the collar and slammed him against the wall, so his sneakers were just barely scuffing the concrete. "You think this is all fun and games? Nearly getting gutted wasn't close enough for you?! You gonna be singing the same tune if I let some dude beat the shit out of you before doing fuck knows what?!" He rattled Marcel for punctuation. "It's a goddamn miracle some asshole hasn't already tried worse than that. Keep coming around and it'll happen!"

Hector let Marcel go; he slumped down onto his knees. The blow across his face was already starting to bruise, greenish in the dingy light. "And you know what? I'm not gonna be here to save you. You really wanna get yourself fucking tangled up in this shit? Be my fucking guest."

Maybe Marcel said something, but he wasn't listening. He just stormed off: over the deserted road, and then a leap took him halfway up the blasted cliff face, another taking him past the top, nothing there to mark his trail except a thin scree of loose gravel making its way down.

He still hung around until he heard the bike leave. Marcel leaving, hope-to-God back to Lotte's place. Hector —

The last place Hector wanted to be right now was in that old house. From the top of the cliff he could see the town laid out, a splotch of glittering yellow lights across the scrubland.

He went through the rest of his cigarettes, one after the other — were only four left in the carton anyone — up on the bluff, nothing but the cherry of his cigarette lighting his way as he headed back across the desert, and it didn't last more than the first few minutes of the walk. Just the moon and the distant streetlights.

It'd been late when he'd set out, and it was nearly dawn when he got back, Lotte's bike thankfully out in front, and — when he opened the door — Marcel sprawled across the loveseat, drooling on a pillow. Like he'd wanted to stay up and talk to him.

The anger had fizzled out of him, leaving him feeling heavy. Hector stared down at him for a while, face striped white in the moonlight, bruise dark over one eye. He shook Marcel awake, waking up with a snort and a groan, "Hector?" like he was still the little kid who had trouble sleeping through the night.

"C'mon, get up, you don't wanna sleep down here all night." Or what was left of it.

Marcel was half-asleep, feet weaving like he was drunk, and so Hector slung one of his arms over his shoulder, half-carried him up.

"No," Marcel said, "Wait." He shook his head, trying to wake himself up. "I wanted to... I wanted to say," he said, except by the time he'd even managed to get that much out they were in his room.

"Wait," Marcel said again, catching Hector's hands in his own, and pulled himself up enough to press a kiss against Hector's lips, chaste even for how they were still bruised from the cocksucking.

Hector let him, Marcel's eyes flickering open when he pulled back. "I like you," he said, teenager confessing a crush, and all Hector could think was of all the foolish things he'd done this was maybe the worst.

"You too," he said. "Now get some sleep, okay?" Trying for soft, comforting, if only to keep Marcel from really waking all the way up.

---

Things got weird. Well, fucking his step-cousin was already pretty weird. But there was a tension there now, any time they were alone, or hell even any time they were with other people. Marcel... quieted down, a little. Quit going to the truck stop.

Well, Hector wasn't following him. Maybe he still was. Quit having screaming arguments with Lotte before storming off, if he was still going. Because it wasn't really any of his god damn business, was it? If the kid wanted to get himself killed or drugged or raped or all of them at once, none of his fucking business.

So it was quiet. Hector was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe this was just normal now; maybe he'd only know things were well and truly over when Marcel dragged some cute little kid his age in the door. Maybe he could stop thinking about what Marcel was getting up to and start thinking about his own damn life.

It wasn't any particular day when it happened, just another timeless afternoon that stretched out forever. He still hadn't been sleeping through the night, and that meant he'd been dozing off every afternoon, into restless sleep, dreamless but leaving him just as exhausted as he'd been when he went out.

This time it was hazy, the heat in the old room stifling, Hector dimly aware of his pulse racing, of movement and inertia, and he blinked and woke to Marcel pressed to the ground, a thin line of blood where his own claws were sunk into the flesh of his throat. There was the ghost of a sensation on his shoulder, where Marcel'd knocked him, trying to wake him up, probably just seconds ago. Marcel was gasping soundlessly, hands battering at Hector's forearms. He jerked back sharply enough he just scored a fresh line across Marcel's throat. There was already a handprint bruise, blood flooding white flesh and turning it an angry red.

"Fuck," Hector said, just staring as Marcel gasped, wheezing on the ground. "I don't— don't wake me up. Haven't been sleeping well." He reached out, and when Marcel jerked away he flinched back more. "Sorry."

"S'ok," Marcel said, coughing once — touching his throat and coming back with red fingertips.

Hector cleaned him up, and Marcel let him, not flinching when he wiped down his throat, daubed iodine on the cuts. He felt sick when he looked at the bruise already forming, droplets of red at the fingertips. His huge broad hand splayed across the kid's throat, curved around his windpipe. It was shallow, anyway. He was breathing fine at least. It was dinner; that was why Marcel was even in there to wake him up. Dinner was quiet. No wonder.

---

Marcel finally cornered him.

"We need to talk," was what he said, like they were gonna have a big talk.

"Do we?" It was outside, Hector elbows deep in a bike, hands stained with grease. Somewhere where he couldn't just run away, which was probably why Marcel picked the place.

"I know you like me," he said, and Hector just thought: presumptious.

"You need to find a kid your own age," was what he said. "You're not bad looking. Find some sweet boy who wants to take you out on dates."

Marcel scowled, even the expression exaggerated, childish. "Guys my age are idiots—"

"—You think I'm not? You think those assholes at the truck stop aren't? We're worse! At least with a kid your age..." Hector trailed off: at least if it was a kid your age I could chase him off if he smacked you around. At least if it was anyone except him. He exhaled in a gust. "Just leave it, kid."

"What are you afraid of?" Marcel said, like it was that simple, getting a list of every concern Hector had and steadily arguing him out of them.

Hector just shook his head, turned back to the engine under his hands, and eventually Marcel went away.

He should've known that wouldn't be the last of it. Later in the evening, when everyone else had turned in and Hector was just about ready to lie down for a long night tossing and turning, there was the creak of the door opening. No knock.

It was Marcel, of course. Hector couldn't even pretend to be surprised.

"Hector," Marcel said, closing the door behind him, and the look on his face made Hector feel... probably what everyone else felt when he looked at them. Hunted. Trapped. Marcel sauntered over, every inch the truck stop twink, the saunter in his steps seeming transposed from the gravel siding. All he needed was a bike to lean over. Watching him put on the act — maybe Marcel'd been playing innocent young kid just as much as he'd been playing at being an adult. Not really sure what he wanted or how to get it.

Well. Marcel came close, wiped his palms on his jeans before leaning in, hands curving over Hector's knees. He sure as hell knew one thing he wanted, and how to get it.

"We shouldn't," Hector said, pushing him back. "Not here."

"What?" Marcel said, leaning in, hands curving over Hector's knees and then sliding up, cupping the bulge of his cock. "So you're fine fucking me so long as no one knows, that right?"

Heat seeped through Hector's jeans, Marcel's palm hot. His cock throbbed, slowly stretching to life under the touch. "I'm fine with— If you're at the truck stop you're— Lord, kid, if you're gonna put yourself out like that—" He stumbled over words, distracted in no small part by Marcel stroking him through his jeans, denim creaking as his cock filled their confines, growing into a fat spar skewing halfway to his hip. "What we do out there is... different."

"So, what, you want me to run over there now?" Marcel pulled back, letting Hector's cock throb, painfully tight. "So you can chase after me and get your rocks off?" He took another step back, honestly pretty likely to try and call Hector's bluff. If he was even sure it was a bluff.

Hector laughed a little, dry and short. "I think I liked it better when you were yelling at Lotte." He swallowed, gaze flitting to the closed door, everyone beyond it. "I don't think—" he started, and cut himself off. "You want my dick?" He spread his legs, the bulge of his cock obscene, blatantly on display. "How about you finish what you started?"

Marcel slid down, knees hitting the ground with a thunk: so different from the sharp echo in the bathroom stall. Lotte's old boards groaned as he shifted his weight forward, hands creeping up his thighs, rasping against the fabric. And Lord help him, Hector let him: pale fingers unbuckling his belt, slowly spooling the fabric back, flicking the button and unzipping, letting the mound of his sheath bloat out, stretching the fabric of his shorts. The bedsprings creaked as Hector rolled his hips forward, a growl in his throat as his cock flattened against Marcel's cheek, his first slow gush of pre leaking from his sheath and soaking a wet spot on his jockeys before Marcel peeled them down.

Marcel's breath was hot, ruffling Hector's fur. His lips pouted open, pressing to Hector's sheath in an obscene kiss, wet and slick as his tongue slid inside, lapping at the meat of his cock, soft and heavy. His eyes were hooded by his long lashes when he looked up, still sharp blue in the lamplight. Hector grabbed the side of his head — gentler, now, but still in control. In action, at least. Since... that was what Marcel was after, was always after. He pushed Marcel down, sheath pillowing in folds as the fat tip pushed across Marcel's lapping tongue, slowly unsheathing into his mouth, spurting pre in great watery bursts in the back of his throat. His lips slid down, pursed as a tight ring, throat jogging as he swallowed and then swallowed again, gulping down squirt after squirt of pre.

Hector rolled his hips forward, less fucking his face and more grinding his cock along the roof of his mouth, barbs already starting to rasp over his flesh. The soft sound of Marcel's lips peeling from his shaft, the drag of his tongue wetting his lips before they pursed tight again — those were the only sounds in the room, aside from his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Marcel lavished his shaft, practically fucking himself if Hector wasn't going to start thrusting: lips peeling back over his rasping flesh only to gulp it all back again, tousled hair falling forward over his eyes, mouth swallowing, gulping as he rammed his throat against the fat tip of Hector's cock, grinding himself down against it until he caught it, throat opening enough for him to cram the head in there, a band of pressure suckling on the very tip as he gagged and gurgled.

Hector let himself groan, one hand coming down, cupping the back of Marcel's head. He rolled his hips back and forth, Marcel's nose buried in his fuzzy pubes, flattening against the muscled plane of his crotch. The hairy base was deep in his mouth, stiff fur scratching his gums, barbs dragging up and down Marcel's throat in a way that made him gurgle, moans muffled around his cock and still loud enough Hector kept looking up at the closed door, expecting each time to see Lotte or Zeke somehow sneaking up on them.

Marcel had gotten good, throat milking his cockhead, breathing in rasping breaths through his nose when he was pressed to the base — pulling back with an obscene wet gurgle to lap at the tip, tongue teasing his barbs, hand stroking through the sloppy mess coating his shaft, pumping him steadily to match his bobs, until he looked up, making eye contact as he swallowed the whole thing down to the base again. Hector snarled, teeth sharp, cock flooding Marcel's throat with pre, spurt after spurt, each wet glug of him swallowing pursing tight around his shaft, bringing him closer to coming. It wasn't gonna be long.

He groaned low when he came, and Marcel pulled back in a rush — wanting to taste it. Marcel was a mess, face blotchy, lips bruised, skin glistening with the mess of pre that'd leaked from his sucking mouth. He caught each spurt, swallowing gulp after gulp as Hector blasted his load across the back of his throat, only a wet smear spilling past his lips. Marcel looked up at him, the image obscene and all the moreso with the backdrop of Lotte's old spare room, the dusty floral scent drowned out now by the reek of jizz.

Marcel pulled back, catching the rest of the spurts on his tongue, mouth open and drooling. Hector's cock was grotesque, animal: the purple-red of exposed muscle; barbs enormous and fuzzy at the edge, skin prickling up in tiny spikes; twitching twice with each spurt. Marcel's mouth overflowed, come hot as it spilled down the underside of his cock, and Marcel jerked out to catch the flabby tendrils that spilled over his red lips, painting his skin in zigzags of white. He raised his hand, lapping over his wrist like a cat, and grinned when the sight made Hector groan, his cock spitting a final gush over his cheek, thin and slimy as it dripped down his skin.

"C'mere," Hector said, pulling Marcel up into his lap, shucking his jeans as he went. His underwear were tented, a dark splotch of precome soaking through, and his cock flopped out right into Hector's hand, hard and leaking. The kid knew what he wanted, and Hector was gonna give it to him.

Not that it took much, like usual. Marcel started hunching and whining in seconds, squirming, hands wrapped around Hector's beefy forearm like he could stop the inevitable. He blew with a reedy moan, cock spitting a few lines of come up Hector's chest, and he kept stroking until he started squirming for real, unable to take the overstimulation. He twisted, falling sideways across the bed, pulling Hector down with him until they were laid out side-by-side, Marcel burrowing into Hector's chest with a pleased little groan. That wasn't something he could get at the truck stop at least, cuddles afterward. But here—

"God, Lotte or anybody could just walk in and see us." The two of them sprawled out, Marcel naked, Hector shirtless, jeans undone, his cock pressed right up against Marcel's lean hip, with only the thin sheet giving them any semblance of modesty. There'd be no disguising what they'd been up to. "Zeke'd have a heart attack."

Marcel squirmed against him, and not just the cute way he did when Hector was playing with him. "Uh, actually, I might've— I kinda already told Zeke. About us."

"You told Zeke?!"

Marcel flushed. "He knew about the — about the truck stop. At first I just said I met someone there, but then..." He grinned a little. "He told me to shut the hell up and never say anything about his brother."

Hector snorted. "Lord, don't tell me anything about what you tell him. And, fuck, make sure he's not gonna tell Lotte."

"He's your brother, you can talk to him," Marcel said, and then paused long enough, awkwardly fidgeting, that Hector had a good idea what he was gonna say next: "I was... I was going to tell Lotte, actually."

Hector rolled over, groaning. "You tell Lotte, you give me enough warning to be a good hour away. She knows I'll heal; she'll shoot a warning shot right through me."

"I guess," Marcel said. "And, uh, I was thinking.... We could go on... on a date or something. Or just to the burger bar. The good one." Marcel squirmed on the sheets, awkward, tentative.

Hector sighed. "I'm not gonna be able to argue you out of this one, huh?" He sighed. "Why the hell not."

Worse things Marcel could be doing. Maybe even worse people he could be doing them with.

"Sure, it's a date."