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The trial was emptier than it should've been under any circumstances, even between batches of reagents. Cleaners and repairmen weren't anywhere to be found around the police station, nor the usual crowd of grunts and their much larger counterparts. Even with the stench of rot lingering in the air from corpses, decaying from the inside out and seeping into the walls, the entire building was entirely too still. The concrete walls echoed madness, screams of death embedded into their frames.
The snitch's dead body still sat untouched, entirely electrocuted to visceral pieces of charred flesh. The smell spread through the room, sinking into the already abused corners of the chamber itself. Not too far away was the only noise to be heard, a lost series of squeaks. Not of prey like a mouse, but metal weakly shifting on its hinges, or a faulty nozzle stopper. The sound itself was closer to the evidence collections, near offices full of desks covered in insides and clutter.
Murkoff employees knew better than to interfere when Sergeant Coyle needed a good hatefucking to get the bitterness of injustice out of his system.
Coyle's leather glove slick with coagulated blood held both of Pusher's raw and malnourished wrists behind his back, his fingers bruising with their brutal force. Pusher's bones creaked beneath the pressure, his throat dry with anticipation beneath his stuffy gas mask. The constant psychosis coursing through his body was a richly enhanced feeling, spiking his heart rate in the face of his entrapment.
Pusher was awkwardly bent over a damaged desk, his ass exposed beneath the crude apron he usually wore for impractical purpose. The raw flesh exposed across his skin in vicious boils and burnt grafts almost went entirely unnoticed, almost nothing compared to the red-rimmed lunacy in his eyes beneath his mask. He looked up as much as he could past the large tank of psychotic gas, up towards Coyle's cocky grin, cigarette lit between his teeth.
The officer had his boner pressed directly up against Pusher, the pressure more suffocating than their equipment issued by Murkoff. In an even more shameless prospect, both of them knew very well that they were being surveyed, yet, all Pusher could do was raggedly pant for breath, in an uncertain mix of lust and half-formed terror of something he wasn't so accustomed to.
Coyle pushed himself further onto Pusher, pressing the tip of his electrified baton into his thigh with a low groan. The sensation was stark and hot, leaving his cock throbbing for attention. Despite everything, Pusher was abnormally quiet, even his usual snide and whimsical remarks being silenced.
"C'mon.. ain'tcha gonna sing a pretty song for me with that habitual craziness a'yours?" Coyle teased, his voice low with a heavy Southern drawl. He took a heavy drag of his cigarette as he withdrew his baton just for a moment, letting the anticipation settle between them. "I'd damn well reckon you enjoy this shit, you filthy lil' tool."
Pusher reacted immediately to the remark with a hoarse gasp, as well as the new pressure against his waist, and he couldn't even deny it. He hated how pathetic he sounded, especially as the designated lunatic of every trial that Murkoff deployed him in. He reveled in the Skinner Man's presence, in crafting the nightmares that made reagents shriek in agony and watch the world around them crumble into a terrible and paralyzing acid trip.
Yet, now, beneath Coyle's command as the unfortunate contender to his frustration, he felt methodically cornered. "C'mon man.. you know I got bad legs, just let me up—" he choked out, his husky voice carrying with a charm that felt too casual for his situation. He was notoriously disconnected from reality in more ways than one, only making his undeniable arousal that much more jarring to himself.
Coyle lowered himself further on top of his victim, his jeans grinding against Pusher's bare skin. "You know damn well you shouldn't be lyin' to an officer of the law, perverted schizo," he furthered, his voice carrying with an elegance so uncharacteristic and twisted of himself. "I'll get you slicker than a dyin' prostitute." The click of his belt undoing itself was starkly loud against the echo chamber of the empty office, only insulated by the necrosis of corpses nearby.
But, Coyle didn't rush in and give himself the pleasure of a good aggressive fuck. Not yet. He wanted his special guest to feel every agonizing piece of himself be exposed, humiliated, and torn apart. And he knew even better that if he wanted to fuck this man to death, Murkoff wouldn't even stop him. They couldn't.
Instead, he leaned down further, his hot breath ghosting across Pusher's ear. The other male squirmed, a full body shudder rippling through his chronically uneasy frame. The stilts holding up his calves were askew on their hinges, with Coyle holding his weak legs firm in place. The officer let out a low, hearty chuckle, a deep resonating noise of pleasure that only held a singular candle to his deep sadism.
He let his teeth graze against Pusher's exposed shoulder, a mere whispering warning of what was to come. Then, without further prelude, his hand pressing firmly down against Pusher's lower back and holding his wrists firmly in place, Coyle bit down hard into the other Ex-Pop's flesh. It wasn't just a mere mark, but a deep enjoyment of owned flesh, one that left Coyle extremely turned on in the midst of Pusher's unrestrained shuddering whimper. His canines dug into the skin, embedding, until blood welled up in rivets and spilled onto his tongue.
He unclamped and pulled away agonizingly slow, a rich groan escaping his throat as he tasted the blood in his mouth. His baton lay aside, unused as of now but never forgotten. His free hand, covered in electrical burns and scars, came down to his crotch, groping himself just to give himself the luxury of pleasure that he wanted to control in place for Pusher. Coyle wanted to display every reminder that Pusher belonged to him right now, and that he would always be true justice.
Pusher himself was undeniably needy, in ways that he hadn't ever dared to experiment with before. It wasn't like being homosexual was acceptable anyway in the 1940s, but he also knew that Murkoff couldn't possibly interfere with Coyle's intense libido. He was trapped in circumstance, like a mouse in a hole with a predator just outside. Even then, he couldn't ignore how hard Coyle's teasing made him, how much weaker his knees felt with every word out of the cop's mouth.
Coyle wasted no time traveling upward, sinking his teeth into the flesh of Pusher's tender neck. This time, Pusher wasn't so lucky as to stay silent. "Ah— Ya got me.." he muttered mindlessly, not exactly realizing how slutty it sounded until the words escaped his lips, muffled beneath his mask filter. He fidgeted, his tremors becoming more painfully prominent as Coyle withdrew his teeth. Blood welled up in marks, rows of flesh grafted in ownership beyond just lust.
"You're just enough of a sexy bitch for me ta bleed out 'til I've used your poor ass like a whore. You're really into this, you fuckin' boytoy," Coyle whispered, low and husky in his intent. His restraint was unrelenting, yet his free hand caressed Pusher's half-naked body, almost mocking in its path and deliberateness. "Gonna make ya shriek and purr like an alley cat."
Coyle lifted himself, just enough to feel the boner prominent in his trousers. He took a deep inhale of his cigarette again, savoring the taste of tobacco and nicotine in his lungs the way he did the smell of burning flesh. He turned his attention back to Pusher, his leg restraints violently shaking in their effort to sustain him. Yet, Coyle was relentless, his grip tightening with every second he spent unsatisfied.
Pusher shook his head in half-broken shudders, almost hesitant movements that projected more fear than rejection. "C'mon man, you don't— you don't gotta.. I can hook you up, I got the good stuff. You'll see with your third eye, I swear it," he spat, almost stupidly in its presentation. Coyle didn't seem to be listening, his bare hand unzipping his pants with expertise. There was hardly anything preventing him now, nothing bordering him away from the emotional turmoil he recieved when the reagents killed his snitch.
"Oh, yeah..?" Coyle retorted, then going silent for a moment before continuing. "I got an enlightenment for you, cripple-fuck.. I am the law, and I already see everything that your spiritual bullfuckery wouldn't even amount to in the face of justice, and God." His voice was confident with something horrific, as he positioned himself for the obvious anticipation that would solve all of his pent-up fury. He looped his fingers in the band of his boxers so casually, pulling down, exposing his erection to the open air of rot in the trial environment.
He didn't even care to warn Pusher, or give any signal. The intrusion was immediate and brutal as he thrust himself deep into the other male, leaving Pusher's back arching with a largely diluted mix of pain and pleasure as he let out a half-broken cry. The first initial humps were sheer ecstasy in the face of his rage, like a drug he couldn't put down. He plastered himself over Pusher, applying pressure, stating with just his power alone that he owned the playing field.
Pusher's groans were formed through mindlessness, noises that spilled in the mingling field of his own enjoyment and disconnection from reality. The noise of flesh viciously meeting flesh echoed through the office area, with Coyle letting out heady sounds of his own. Even through his frustration waning away, he was only just beginning, his power trip only escalating as his hands tightened on Pusher's fragile bones. The other man couldn't so much as form words, entirely lost in his permanent psychotic daze and the slurry of being used as a sex toy.
Coyle retrieved his shock baton, still sparking relentlessly with the power it sustained from his battery pack. Without missing a beat, he began to carve into Pusher's back, shattering the illusion he was so immersed in with a strained scream. One letter came after another, the electrical burns searing skin and cauterizing the flesh instantly. Sergeant Coyle never stopped his assault, his hips still driving into Pusher with undying force.
"Fuckin'— Goddamn it, this hurts—," Pusher strained, his voice cracked with visible agony as his body convulsed beneath the Prime Asset. He was entirely merciless, his baton tracing grafts through Pusher's flesh nonstop. When he finally lifted it, the electrical currents flashing in the darkened room, the jagged letters glinted deep red with scarring damage: 'FUCKTOY'.
"Yeah, I'll bet it does. I like 'em slick.. in every perverted way your cooked brain could ever muster," he responded, a condescending tone in his voice as he only drove himself harder into his victim. He felt Pusher's body responding against his will, his groans becoming shrill and ragged with pure unlabeled sensation. The tension only built in the two of them collectively, with Coyle's own breaths becoming huskier with exertion. His mind went into overdrive just as fast as his hips were moving in pure lust, his baton temporarily remaining forgotten on the side of the desk.
As he was humping, deep and commanding, Coyle reached over to a glass bottle by the desk, stranded and forgotten in a cardboard box. He slammed the object into the corner of another desk, with tinted shards flying in all directions. With a swiftness that felt almost uncanny without the reagents around, Coyle took the sharp glass edges and jutted deep into a part of Pusher's aching back, elliciting a sharp jolt and a weakened yell from the man beneath him.
The blood welled up immediately, flowing down the male's back in an attractive stream of crimson. Coyle felt himself get impossibly more aroused from the sight of it, familiar yet just as invigorating. He was panting for it, closing in on his release. Yet, just for a moment, he pulled out entirely. Not only to leave Pusher throbbing, as well as himself in a masochistic urge, but to dip his gloved hand into the rivet of blood, coating his palm. He then lowered his hand to his painfully needy cock, stroking it with an extra slick layer that left him shuddering.
Despite it being fresh, the blood itself had its own chill that left him reeling for more. He turned back to Pusher, his hand still covered in red, and proceeded to push himself in deeper, fueled entirely by a frenzied desire. Pusher's body reacted in diverse mannerisms, from a twitching emptiness, to a shaking need from far within his core when Coyle began to use him again. His own erection ached, especially electrified when the officer hit the most sensitive spot of his prostate.
Pusher released a noise that didn't carry the same energy as the others, more desperate of a cry than any other noise. Coyle immediately zeroed in on it, his perception sharp with desire as he felt his own release nearing closer. Their sex was a chorus of groans and grotesque wet noise, a sick caricature of a man driven by chemical cure and the overwhelming urge to be all-powerful.
Coyle picked up his baton again as he continued to hit Pusher's sweet spot, finally bringing himself the pleasure that would amplify his senses down to their most stripped and raw forms. He was eager, pressing the baton directly into his thigh as his head threw back in ecstasy. Low groans escaped him relentlessly, cracked with a desire so indescribably violent. The blood coating his boner only added more pleasure while he was inside of Pusher, only making his final thrusts that much more intense.
The immense volts of the shock baton spread through the both of them, only serving to multiply every single layer of libido that built itself between them. The air was warm with sex and sweat, with Coyle's thrusts reaching their brutal peak as he felt the pressure in his body begin to break. Finally, he came inside of Pusher with an intoxicating groan, a low drawl that carried through the room. But, he didn't stop there.
In fact, even as his climax began to die down, he continued thrusting harder, bringing Pusher to the very edge of his limits and humiliation. Coyle's ego was higher than ever, the cigarette between his lips glowing steadily with embers that seemed to observe. Finally, Pusher let go of his last resistance, his body giving in as he reached his own release. He shuddered with the aftershocks, leaving him as breathless as Coyle was.
The officer withdrew, adjusting his aviator shades and finally releasing Pusher from his bruising confines. Even then, the other Ex-Pop didn't even move, his legs nearly giving out when Coyle stepped back from his spot and redressed himself. Off-white flowed out of Pusher's used body, his fresh wounds still festering as the red from his back dripped down his legs all the same. The heavy tank on his back didn't help with the effort of recovering, his nozzle nearly forgotten at the side of him.
Coyle relit his cigarette with his baton, making the embers spark orange to life once more. He exhaled the smoke in a cloud beside him, reveling in the Ex-Pop he just marked. Pusher turned back, his eyes unseen beneath his gas mask lenses. "I think I'd rather.. be hit with a brick than do that again," he confessed, his voice low with a hidden psychotic banter. His demeanor was still just as unhinged and detached, but Coyle cracked a small smile.
"Then I'll make sure to fuck you up worse every time 'til you prefer the hand of God to crush you like nothin'," Coyle cockily replied, caressing the handle of his stun baton. "Go on now, go fuck back off to the facility just for 'em to make a ruckus about how you belong to me now."
Pusher groaned in a daze as he finally stood up from the desk, only half-conscious as his gas nozzle hung loosely in his hand. Slowly, he hobbled away, leaving Coyle to his own devices in the dark.
"You see there? That's use; that's justice."