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I obey.

He presses in slow at first, filling my mouth in one long, possessive glide. The burn is instant. The stretch, deliberate. The piercings scrape against my tongue and the roof of my mouth—foreign, heavy, fucking perfect.

He holds me there. Doesn’t move. Just watches me breathe around him. Watches me submit.

Then he moves.

His hips snap forward, and I gag, the head of his cock punching into the back of my throat. My eyes water. My lungs scream. But I don’t pull away—I fuckingleaninto it.

He drags back slowly, the ridged metal scraping like a threat, then slams forward again. My throat convulses, spit spills down my chin, and the rope behind my back creaks with the strain of my restraint.

I flick my tongue along his underside between thrusts—every barbell, every ridge, every soft hiss of breath I can drag from him. He groans low, the sound primal, his fingers tightening around my jaw.

His breath stutters, his fingers tightening against my jaw in warning—or appreciation.

He pulls back.

“Switch,” he says darkly.

Ruin steps forward, his cock already hard and glistening with precum. He strokes it once, then guides it to my mouth. There’s a tenderness in the way he brushes his knuckles against my jaw first—a silent question. I part my lips in answer.

He pushes in, slower than Rule, but just as firm. The weight of him, the different piercings, the stretch, the taste—different. Deeper. His rhythm is slower, less brutal—but no less claiming.

“You're fucking addictive,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and reverence.

I moan around him.

He rolls his hips deeper, forcing air from my lungs and shame from my body. There’s no room for either anymore. Just them. Just the rhythm.

I swirl my tongue around the head, tasting him, teasing the piercings. He groans, thrusts a little deeper, letting his breath shudder through clenched teeth.

Then he pulls back.

Rule takes me again. His thrusts are harder now, more desperate, like the sight of Ruin using my mouth has stirred something primal. The piercings in his cock strike against the back of my tongue and drag on every exit.

They switch again.

And again.

I flick my tongue over each of them every time they press to my lips. Teasing. Worshipping. Demanding more. Their tastes blur together—dark, hot, endless.

My mouth is stretched, aching, flooded with their taste. My throat is raw, my jaw sore, but I take them both, again and again, until my lips are swollen. There is spit dripping down my chin, and my lungs are screaming for breath I refuse to ask for.

Everything else disappears. My mind goes blank.

The next several minutes blur into a rhythm of dominance and possession. They switch every time one of them gets too close, dragging my mouth from one cock to the other like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Rule brutal. Ruin controlled. Both hungry. Both relentless.

Time bends. My throat is their altar—shared, worshipped, wrecked. And I take it all because I want to, because this is mine. They don’t just switch—they orbit, a force of nature with me at the center, held together by rope, heat, and the kind of obsession that can’t be faked.

Tears stream down my cheeks. My spit coats my chest, my chin, the ropes—but I don’t stop. I don’t want to.

Rule finally pulls me up by the rope at my chest, breath ragged. Ruin catches me before I can sway. Lifts me like something sacred. My body is boneless, trembling, but I don’t feel weak—I feelclaimed. Their hands are reverent, but there's nothing gentle about the hunger burning in the air.

They lay me on the bed like I’m something breakable.

But something they fully intend to break.

Ruin slides in behind me, his body warm and heavy as he spoons against my back. The bed dips beneath us. I feel the hardness of his cock pressing between my cheeks before he reaches past me—grabbing the little packet Rule passes him with steady fingers.