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"There’s somethin' you should know." Guy says when the two of you are settling down for the night. There's nothing special about this particular night, no preamble to his statement—it's laid at your feet for your analysis, something that's just his way.
But it's the manner that his hand ticks possessively down your thigh, which is hucked over his as you shift on the mattress. The direction in which his brow furrows as he glares down at you, deep in thought. The way his hand begins to knuckle down the vulnerable flesh, as though he both wants a piece and to drape himself over you.
Something's up. Which is why you proceed with slow, deliberate caution.
"What is it?" You ask, without putting any more gravity to the statement than is necessary. You don't rush him, don't push—just raise a hand to rub your thumb into the flesh of his bare arm. He's shirtless, which means that you'll always take advantage of the sight and the opportunity to feel him up. But this time it seems like he needs your touch as affirmation than more exploratory purposes—the way he unconsciously leans into you all-but-confirms this for you.
He pitches a sharp exhale through his nose before he reconciles himself to speech.
"Sounds fuckin' stupid when I say it out loud—"—His eyes dart from the impression he's worrying into the sheet with his thumb, up to you—"—But I got a clone somewhere out there, runnin' around with my face."
"Oh. Is that a thing I should be worried about?" You ask, because you need to know—and clones aren't out of the wheelhouse, after all. There's Kon, there's alternate universes—this isn't too far removed from other incidents you've seen before. At this, his hand does clench over you—not painfully, but enough to really drive the point home how he feels about his identical twin, about everything, without saying a single word.
"Yeah, because he’s a piece of shit." Guy growls, and the anger isn't at you, but past memories—at the potential for disaster, it seems, if the two of you should ever cross paths.
Guy pauses, uncharacteristically reticent, clear that he's considering the virtue of articulating what he says. Then he decides better of it and continues on. "And he’s got a lot of my memories, too."
This is where the confusion replaces wariness for you. "What’s that got to do with anything?"
He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing—his hand slides up towards the junction of your legs. His voice isn't soft but it's growing more reserved as he confesses. "I had a lot of feelings for you."
It's a serious moment but you can't avoid injecting some levity, a playful smile turning up your mouth. "Had?"
You're rewarded with another squeeze, a glint of teeth. "Still do. You know what I mean."
He's quiet, and to add more fuel to the fire, he amends, "Feelin' went back a long while before I said anythin'. Before I did anythin'."
"And?" You ask, because there's still something that's hanging in the silence of the words yet to be expressed. But you still don't urge him along, letting him take it at his own pace. All you do is keeping rubbing that soothing rhythm of your hand into his bicep, which he continues to relax into.
"So whatever I feel for you, he’s got it too." Guy says, and it's not that he seems lighter with the admission, but there is something that is released with the statement. His eyes find yours carefully across the plane of space between you both, the warning clear before he makes it aloud.
"But he ain’t as nice as I am. So you gotta be careful with him, if we ever fuckin' run into him."
There's this odd trepidation, this weird adrenaline that you feel at this. At this faceless and yet clearly defined caricature of your man, with warped, parodic intentions towards Guy—towards you.
It's all you can do to say with as much imperious quality as you can lend to your voice. "Okay. I will."
"You promise?" He asks, watching you for your commitment to this vow, to him. You smile as you nod. There's little more than you can do as you lean up to him for a kiss he's insistent to return.
"Course I do." You reassure him, and it's not until you feel his mouth press over yours that he finally seems like he's at ease.
You don't think that you've ever been bound so tight. The wired cord cuts into the circulation of your wrists, your arms, your ankles. You've even been given liberty of being tied to the chair that you're tied up to—at least your captor took to the privilege of giving you a plush chair to be imprisoned with. For all the good it does you.
You still struggle against it, but it seems useless, seems pointless—you're exactly where your captor wants you. And it's something of a marvel to look at him, to see the gleam in his eyes, the curve of his smile, that specificity of how he paces back and forth in the space around you—it's all you can do to jerk your head around to keep track of him as he stalks the cage.
You hate how he sounds just like Guy, down to the syllable. Down to the inflection. Down to the way his hand feels drifting down your exposed shoulder—you have to swallow your shiver as the voice that's identical to Guy's grins into your ear.
"Didn't think I’d ever get a chance like this, honey." Joe gloats. "Guy's so good about keepin' you under lock and key."
It's like all the endearing traits, all the joy, all the things that make him Guy are leached out and warped. Made into something unloveable, undesirable, even though the outside is the same.
Maybe it's the malice that radiates out of him. Maybe it's the way his eyes are like flint, cold and unfeeling. Maybe it's the way he grabbed you as he spirited you away, lashed you to your restraints—his hands ghosting over you and squeezing.
As he chuckled hoarsely and smugly, "Shame Guy keeps this all to himself" and you cursed and fought back. As he laughed at your attempts to break free and said "I like someone with fight in them," and you tried to ignore the way it ignited something deep and dark and obscene in the pit of your abdomen.
"Wouldn’t call it that." You say in the present moment, cringing away from the way that he's leaning over you now, taking a familiarity in your space. He sounds like Guy, he feels like him, but he's not him, he's not him.
"Yeah?" He smells like him, too—focus, focus. "Whatcha call it then, sweetcheeks?"
You maintain your eyes trained on the distance, but keep him in your peripheral. Perhaps if you ignore the tiger in the cage it won't bite.
"Call it knowing how to keep a healthy distance." You answer back.
"Oh, yeah? Why’s that?" He taunts, his voice taking that cavalier quality Guy's gets after he's won a fight. Which makes you worry all the more. "He scared about what’ll happen if I get my hands on you?"
As if to further emphasize, both hands, which are currently finding their way to your shoulders, grab tight for good measure. It's not gentle—it's needy. It's hungry.It's worrying you.
"What’s it to you?" You ask, trying to sound braver than you feel. The smile that ticks across his face tells him that he knows this, which is why he continues to twist the knife.
"He's scared once I get my way with you," he says, and his voice is low and deep and makes you begin to press against your bonds again, "You'll know who the better Gardner is."
He slinks around so that he takes up the front space of you, blocking out all other sights, sounds—the only person who's been this close to you in such manner is Guy himself. And this warped funhouse mirror image seems like he's trying to take up as much of you as possible with his eyes, and means to take more.
"Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?" You shoot back, making sure you know how much you despise this situation. How little you think of him. But he doesn't believe it—it's clear from the slant in his eyes, from the way his knuckles are tracing against your jaw. From the way you aren't pulling away even though you should.
"No, but this will." He asserts, and even though you're beginning to recoil, there's nowhere to run as he kisses you. His mouth is hot, his tongue presses against the seam of your lips, his hands clutch you in place as you pull away, as some familiar fire ignites between your legs. It's wrong—but right. You know him and you don't at once.
You tear away as he lets you, which is only at his discretion, when he finally releases you. But you feel the impression of his hands on you, you feel the heat of his mouth still lingering. You want to spit at him but you're worried he would like it—you know he would.
"Fuck you." You curse at him with all the ire you can muster, ignoring everything else in this moment. He's unmoved.
"You askin'?" Joe leers at you.
"Nah, they ain’t." Another voice enters the fray—you look up to see your savior of the hour with a specific kind of anger that you don't think you've ever seen before.
"Join the party, Guy?" Joe asks with a grin. As though he's still not poised over you, clearly invaded your space. Having clearly taken what he wants.
Guy doesn't deign this with a response, only raises his hand with the ring. "Try this shit on for size, asshole."
You barely comprehend the ray of light that cuts through the space, that seems to shove Joe into the far distant wall with what you would qualify as a wet slap.
The wall that he's cut through crumbles like a house of cards, and this is the ample enough distraction that Guy zips down to the ground, works to take care of your bonds. You're released from the one that holds your body to the chair, but this is all you get before Joe has recovered enough to enter the fray.
He's tackling Guy with immediacy, making him careen back across the room, so that Guy can't continue his task of freeing you from the rest of your bonds. You take advantage of your new degree of freedom to try and work at your wrists, but it's a task in ineffectiveness. All you can do is struggle with more flexibility as you watch the two of them fight. One for your freedom, the other for your captivity.
"Yeah?" Joe asks as he sends a fist careening into Guy's face. Guy isn't stunned much as he shoves back, making his clone stumble.
"You just mad I made my mark on your territory?" Joe asks, and this is when you see that same intense fury as before—Guy is pissed, in a way you don't think that you've seen before.
He doesn't even deign this with a response, only manifests a green sledgehammer that he swings in Joe's direction—for naught. Joe sidesteps it with ease, laughing at the harsh snarl that escapes Guy as they continue their dance.
This is what motivates Joe to send back as he avoids another haymaker, "Think they liked it more than yours, Gardner."
Guy moves with an alacrity that you didn't think he possessed—all you can do is watch helplessly as he saps his fist against Joe's nose, making him bleed. Not that it does much to stop him. He laughs through the stream of blood that begins to issue thickly down his face.
"Think you oughta watch your fuckin' mouth." Guy grits through his teeth. Joe is on the retreat, but that doesn't mean that he won't take refuge in audacity as he makes a wild swing that doesn't make purchase.
Guy presses into the space, puts a leg between both of Joe's, and elbows back—Joe tumbles to the ground. You watch, with your heart in your throat, as Guy creates a bat that looks like it's more on the metallic side than wooden, closing the distance.
Joe swipes a smear of blood away on his wrist and grins. "Yeah—cause look what happens when you look the other way, Gardner."
At this, he turns and sets a brilliant, malicious grin upon you—you have to shudder. But Joe doesn't get to smile for long as Guy raises up the bat for a swing.
"Fuck you." Guy says, and it seems like all the rage, all the anger, all the wrath that he can't verbalize is channeled into the force of the blow. Joe gets rocketed back with more force than before, straight back through the hole his body created in the wall before.
Guy watches for a second to see if his twin is going to get back up before he runs—yes, runs over to you, and kneels, freeing your legs. Something in you belatedly realizes—this isn't going to be enough to put Joe out for the count. It's just going to be enough to daze him, and Guy is taking care to use every single second that this affords the both of you.
He's not panicked when he speaks, but there is urgency in his voice as he rises to his feet, leans over you in that comforting press to work at your wrists. "Come on, I’m gettin' you outta here."
"But Joe—"—You begin, turning back to the smoking hole that still has yet to display a trace of movement as you rise to your feet.
"Ain’t about him." Guy says gruffly as he saws off the cord around your wrist. You sigh as you turn your arms back around to the front, take a soothing rub of your wrist to inspire some sensation back in them. "It’s about you."
There's something in it that he's not revealing, in the way that his eyes are hooded—you begin to ask what's going on. But then you find that you can't talk at all. You can't say a single word—the hand that's clenched around the column of your throat, that's squeezing tighter, expelling all the breath with each fractional push that it works tighter, is keeping you from doing that.
It looks like it wasn't enough to take Joe out, after all—just put him off his bearings, shred a little bit of his outfit as he eyes you, then turns back to Guy with that satisfied, triumphant look.
"Joe—"—Guy shouts, and there's that reminiscent temper again, but it's being overshadowed by the worry, the fear in his eyes. For you. This is when you start to realize just how dire it is.
"You wanna make it about them?" Joe asks with a grin. He finally looks away from you back to Guy, letting you admire the profile of his face, and how much it is truly identical to your man's. How terrible this similarity is right now. "How about we put it to a vote?"
That hand presses tighter and you make a noise that causes Guy to step forward. But the free hand that Joe has that isn't pressing the life out of you warns him—take another step, and you might not take any more breath sooner. Guy stops immediately.
"Fuck you talkin' about?" Guy asks, and it's clear that the last thing he wants to do is keep this conversation going. Keep this dialogue moving. But it's all he can do to keep you alive.
"You were too scared to keep 'em from me, but I know what I felt." Joe continues, easy and leisurely as he holds your life in the curve of his hand. You're scrabbling your fingers against the ones holding you tight, for all the good it does you. "They liked the kiss. Bet they’d like more."
You can see that surprise, that shame that coalesces over you, as you realize that you never had the chance to tell Guy about the kiss. The infuriation that's starting to take further root as it sinks in for Guy, just how much advantage was given while the two of you were alone.
"Shut the fuck up." Guy threatens. Even though it's not wise, you can see his hand raise, a spark of power from the ring, whether involuntary or not, ready to light him up with the power of a thosuand incandescent suns.
"So how about we let them decide? Winner take all?" Joe asks with a grin. "Unless you’re too fuckin' scared to let em go."
"Whatcha mean?" Guy says, even though it's clear that he has an idea. Even though you have an idea from the way that Joe is bringing you close, close enough that he could take another kiss if he wanted. Your eyes dart down to where you can see his free hand snagging the button to your jeans, tearing them open without a second thought.
"I ain't cruel," Joe says to Guy, though his eyes are directed upon you, boring into you, clear in their starvation, what he wants to do. "We can share while we let them decide."
Joe's hand finally relaxes enough to let you take in a breath, though it's hitched as you cringe at the noise of the denim ripping from you with ease. You shiver as you feel the cool air on your legs, as your pants pool around your ankles at the ground.
"Think you'll like this, honey," Joe says, bastardizing the way that Guy gives you this nickname, "Think you'll like it a lot."
He turns you around without gentility—you gasp as you look at Guy, who has a degree of dawning horror on his face as he watches you being led around like a ragdoll. As you stare with something obscene and horrific and arousing pooling in your stomach, in between your legs, as Joe whispers in your ear, loud enough for Guy to hear.
"All you gotta do is be a good little slut and take us both."
That's all that you register before Joe hefts you up from behind, grabbing both of your legs—you make a yelp as you have to hold onto him from an awkward angle.
Guy knows what his marching orders are, so he crosses the distance with a distinct keenness, as the two of you are trapped in this horrific hostage situation. There's another pair of hands that join Joe's around your thighs, as you feel more exposed and humiliated than you ever have in your life.
"Yeah, hold 'em good," Joe praises Guy, and this makes that curl of Guy's lip return, though the worry, the fear is still present in his eyes, "Don't want 'em to get hurt before we get to the good part."
You hear the glide of a zipper from behind you and then there's something hard, something big, that's poking at the cleft of your ass.
You stiffen at the touch, turning to look—but from the angle that you've been lifted up at, all you can see is that malignant grin of Joe's, see the way that he tells Guy, "Come on, big man—take it out. Don't wanna keep our slut waitin', do ya?"
Guy actually snarls, his eyes fixated on the man that's keeping you both trapped here, in this situation that is involuntarily making you grow slick and hot at the very thought. Even though it's awful. Even though something in you is very excited for this, as you hear a similar zipper undoing itself and see Guy's own cock jut out—he's hard.
There's an odd feeling of pleasure and humiliation that emerges from you, as you realize that as horrific as this situation is, he can't resist the prospect of fucking you. Of having his way with you. You realize—of proving he's the victor in this situation.
"Oh, yeah," Joe compliments throatily in your ear as his fingers clench around your spreadeagle thighs, "Let's get to business."
As if to emphasize, Joe's cock presses against you and you whimper. Guy's cock rubs at your entrance, and there's something in his eyes that registers just how ready you are for him, the way that his eyes trace up to you, careful, cautious. His thumb soothes over the junction of your thigh and knee, the only thing that he can do for you right now.
"Honey—"—Guy checks in with you, and you nod approvingly.
"It's okay, Guy," you whisper. "Do it."
Guy slides into you, and it's a sensation that you're familiar with, the stretch and push of his cock against your walls. But this time, as there's this third interloper that holds you tight, even though Guy's hands palm under your knees securely—something is electrifying. There's something about the curve of his cock as it sinks into you at this angle that makes your head lean back, eyes draw tightly closed, a moan escape taut out of you.
"Oh, fuck—"—You whine, and there's a lewd chuckle in your ear from Joe.
"Sounds just like I thought it would," Joe praises. You can hear the growl of disapproval from Guy at this, but he's determined to chase away what he can as he begins to pump into you, as your walls swallow him up. "Looks real fuckin' good."
You can feel the ridge of Guy's cock as he thrusts into you, feel how he hits the back in the way that makes your vision edge and blur as you keep your eyes focused on him. Maybe if you stay looking at him, the way that his stare is lancing into you, this can distract from the hand that's directing the cock at your hole, teasing it.
"Think this'll feel real fuckin' good too, honey," Joe gloats in your ear, and then he begins to work his way into you. It's a more awful stretch than your entrance, which Guy is sailing in and out of with ease—with the intrusion of Joe's cock, it upsets the rhythm that was making you already come undone, already working to unspool that tension in your abdomen. But it doesn't undo the progress, so to speak.
In fact, as Joe pushes into you, and you feel your hole begin to take him in, you feel your mouth open. Guy sinks deep into you, hits the back, to make it a little more bearable—but he doesn't need to. Joe eases his way in, and there's something about the way that he's identical in every single detail to Guy that makes it good and bad at once. You can't stop the satisfied groan that slides out of you.
"Oh my God—"—you lean back against Joe's shoulder and he laughs, a cruel, pleased noise. He pushes in further and you take a shuddering, broken breath—hands are sliding up to paw up your shirt and grope at your chest.
There's so much sensation as you take both cocks that you're not certain who it is. All you can do is endure the pleasure that's cresting over you, that's making you lightheaded, that's making you move closer and closer to something rising surprisingly fast.
"Fuck, fuck—"—You gasp as you seat yourself on Joe's cock—he makes a grunt of pleasure. He makes an unfortunate perfect fit.
"Nice and tight for me," Joe is gleeful. "Think we can get to the fun part."
And then he pulls out and begins to fuck your hole—your eyes roll back into your head and you whimper. "Fuck—"
You're vaguely aware that someone is laughing in your ear, amused at how quickly you're coming unmoored, but you don't care. The way that it all feels—it's too much and not enough.
You feel someone fucking your entrance and you're aware that Guy is thrusting into you, keeping his thumb working up and down in that soothing motion that lets you know he's still there. Each pump that he works into you is pushing you closer to that edge. But at the same time, as Joe continues to fuck into your hole, you feel it arriving much faster than you expected—you've never been so filled before. You've never felt so complete before.
There's nothing but the noise of Guy's grunts as he fucks you, the moans that you make, the slick noise of both of them in you.
And the praise of Joe as he taunts in your ear and must surely torture Guy as he says, "Doin' real good, huh? Didn't know you needed both of us until you had us, huh, honey? Think you look perfect like this, don't you think, Guy?"
"Oh my God, Guy—"—Your head is lolling back, your thighs jumping as you're thrust into, used like a fuckdoll—this is the least you can do. Affirm your man's name—you feel those hands tighten around your knees, know he acknowledges it. But then you're stretched as Joe fucks your hole and you feel that cresting sensation taking root, rising quickly, before you can even say anything.
You come, and it's so much more intense than any other orgasm you've had with Guy alone—you wail, a full-body shake consuming you as your thighs tremble.
Guy slows so that he can hold you, but Joe doesn't cease at all, keeping that same terrible pace that hurtles you through to the end of your orgasm. Everything is hot and sweaty and overwhelming—you're not certain who was the final word in you coming. The first time you're coming today, you realize, and not the last.
"Looks good, don't they?" Joe asks with a smirk you can hear in his voice, even though you can't look, as you come down through the haze. "Wonder who was the winner on that one."
He's still fucking you, as Guy moves with him to match the pace. But you know—it doesn't matter who's won. No matter what, you've lost.