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SUMMARY: Extremely horny muscle hunks fight psychic aliens. Contains fisting and huge plugs, lifelong cum denial, huge ghost dicks, straight men fucking each other, sweat and piss. Humiliation and friendship in equal measure. Dudes being dudes.
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POV: Fist King
The rising sun drew pink and orange into the alien savanna before him. Much like the smooth sandstone terrace he patrolled, Fist King glinted with slowly drying body oil.
His mere 5'5'' frame carried as much vein-bulging muscle as omniroids could pack onto him before straining mobility. His large boots crunched on the temple ruins' ancient dust.
Fist King's skin was almost as black as his skimpy star ranger uniform – a chest harness where gear clung, a thigh strap for more equipment, and of course the jock pouch over the minimized dick he'd last jerked on the day of enlisting.
The sun had been rising for a while – days lasted longer on the world of Sig-3. Every minute or so the light streak of an orbital shot rammed the ground beyond the horizon.
With no threats in sight, Fist King swaggered back into the ruins, his Nova grenade launcher firmly harness-stuck to his wide back.
A swig from his canteen with one hand, Fist King gently patted the waiting plug with the other. It was firm but practically sloshing with Python lube after the refill.
His plug was a forearm ending in a pointed fist, life-sized, 16 inches, thick enough to rival his biceps. By muscle memory, the ranger stuffed his hole, letting the personalized plug ooze lube as it found the well-worn path.
Overwhelming anal bliss hammered through Fist King's guts, as always, dancing along his years of pent up horniness.
In the low light just hitting their indoor mini-camp, Fist King picked up his hood, a flexible shell that fit his face perfectly. The hood was shaped and painted as a distorted blue skull with the creepiest grin. The star ranger's circle of dreadlocks poked out above.
It rendered him blind and dulled his hearing. In this hood-deprivation, his angelic senses ramped up. Awareness flowed in, as if he had eyes all around his head, but also of the other nearby ranger, or rather the filigree "angel" symbiont in the other's spinal cord.
Fist King picked up the other plug, equally refilled. Faggot's plug was a flared cobra-like beast, curvy to trace the shape that perfectly pushed Faggot into ass-heaven.
Fist King plucked a stick-strip off his harness, put it on his jock pouch and stuck the cobra there, as a wiggly fake dick drooping well past his knees, lube oozing off the tip.
Swaggering down to the lower floor, Fist King walked past one of Faggot's Hummingbird drones. A hovering, palm-sized silver ball – the top half painted red - shone light his angel senses barely needed.
Thick spores hung in the air, complex and aggressive enough to eat through any hazmat suit and mutate his genes in minutes. But Fist King's naked skin exuded enough psy-radiance to keep the alien mold trivially at bay.
A blue and a green topped Hummingbird drone later, Fist King had made it to a ground floor atrium, the blue sky visible far above.
Faggot was shredded to lowest viable bodyfat, some light gainboosters having grown his biceps just bigger than his head. He was practically a twink next to the omniroided black ranger.
Faggot was staring at a wall lush with inscriptions in ancient Gray.
Playing at scientist again, probably. It was hard to be sure behind Faggot's white dragon mask, simple to the point of abstraction. A circle of blond hair poked out above, topping the otherwise smooth head. Same uniform of boots, harnesses and the ol' pouch, same studs.
"This is fascinating," Faggot said as he sensed his team mate near. Verbal speech transferred flawlessly between symbiotic angels.
Fist King hummed in response. No patience for wannabe historians.
"This place was built early in the second wave of resistance. So early there's no mention of the prophet in-"
Fist King shoved the cobra into Faggot who instantly pushed his ass out to make entry easier. Grabbing the taller but slimmer ranger, Fist King plug-fucked with abandon. Faggot's pained groans made his enjoyment obvious.
The customized plug sank in perfectly, the especially molded base filling Faggot's crack, making the plug impossible to dislodge accidentally.
After a few more thrusts Fist King detached and pulled the less muscle-bound trooper by the blond hair until Faggot kneeled before him.
He mimed a facefucking, the pouch not touching Faggot's dragon mask.
With the "beta type" angel bound to Fist King projecting his greatest desire, and the "omega type" angel within Faggot made to receive, a virtual dick parted Faggot's lips behind the mask.
The kneeling ranger gagged as if a real cock was pushing down his throat while the top got the benefit of a huge rockhard rod getting sucked without unpacking his useless, soft mini dick.
The phucking – phantom fucking – continued even as Fist King stepped aside. He pissed a hard stream with legs apart, the jock pouch directing the rush straight down.
Faggot's intense perception of sweat, precum and man-meat would be joined by virtual piss, like the real thing in all but the presence of fluid.
Faggot followed suit and splattered his own legs, kneeling in his own stream, giant ripped thighs quivering with fresh anal pleasure.
Quickly approaching a virtual orgasm, Fist King gave Faggot a slap on the back of the head. "Come on, fist sucker, we shoulda been meeting up a minute ago. You can stare at the drone pics."
Faggot forced a "yes sir" through the choking, his airflow not truly cut off by the unreal deep throating.
Fist King paused on the stairs as he ghostgasmed, fingers on his nipples.
He looked down himself – at the minuscule pouch vanishing between immense quadriceps – and hit an abs vacuum. His big hands ran along the fist-plug inside him, hugged tightly by his guts and bulging under his brickhouse midsection. The phantom dickgasm shot through him with a moment of sweet relief but left him no less horny.
POV: Faggot
Faggot blinked his tears into the dragon mask. He didn't need clear or even open eyes to see when he was fed visual data from his angel and Hummingbird drones alike.
Still mulling over the inscription dates he waddled after the massive grenadier, his cobra caressing his insides brutally.
The meeting corridor – just in front of an old granary - was suspiciously empty.
Despite the relative grandeur of the palace town ruins, the streets were fairly narrow.
"The options are," Faggot said, "we misunderstood time or place, or they did, or they are otherwise occupied, or-"
"Dude," Fist King said. "Do you faggin see that over there? Raisins."
Faggot sent drones ahead, blue and green. The corpses of tall, spindly humanoids native to Sig-3 were strewn around the bend. Gray even in life, they had withered and dried. Except their faces were unfinished or missing.
"Fake raisins," Faggot clarified. "They weren't here before. Probably grew in place. They're not moving but we should advance."
"Yah," Fist King grunted and started phucking him again, an unreal dickhead on his tongue. Faggot swirled around the illusion so real he could literally taste it. There was no way for an "omega" carrier to stop a phuck, not when they were all this horny.
Knee deep in desiccated alien corpses, they tried to sense the fellow rangers. The next room had multiple blocked exits.
"Up top?" Faggot guessed. "I sense a guy. It's one of the golden boys. I think they're busy."
"Fistsucker," Fist King cursed. "...Wait."
The drones had detected it, too. Movement of the adjacent chamber's door.
Faggot readied his plasma blaster, Fist King his Nova launcher.
The door ruptured into a stream of splinters and dog-sized tarantulas.
Faggot fired plasma bolts into the spider crowd, estimating the likeliest leaders by size and apparent age. He was in his element. Fist King lobbed a static repulsion projector at the burst entrance and a vibrating sphere emanated from the little device. Chokepoint creation was the grenadier's specialty.
The tiniest spiders made it through, tossing themselves at the rangers, but never landing. Their venomous fangs couldn't make it through the psy-radiance invisibly glowing off their skin. Boots crunched the xeno-beasties to mulch.
The real threat was psychic.
Faggot sensed the Promise once again. Gentle as a breath, solid and beautiful as a diamond, tempting like the second shot of heroin.
He could know if only he chose. If only he gave in, allowed Yggdrasil into his mind, it would teach him everything, let him learn the purpose of every leaf in creation, the root of all physics, every seed of meaning.
Understanding was so close.
What was a spider's bite in the face of the Promise?
Faggot's angel took over his guts and made the anal walls massage the custom plug. The auto-fucking plateaued the pleasure and craving equally at infinity.
Faggot continued to fire with quivering thighs, some of his focus on the drones, some on his gun, most on his ass. He groaned and grunted so loudly, his voice reverberated in his mask.
This was the true test of a ranger, focusing on sex enough to escape Yggdrasil's false oaths, while staying in the fight.
The "raisined" gray figures behind them had risen in an effort to shamble toward the rangers.
Back to back, the troopers took position, Faggot securing the spider stream and other entrances.
Fist King used the hallway's natural chokepoint to deploy a sentry mine. Sparks and lighting sent man-sized raisins to the ceiling, their dried out skin ablaze.
Fist King's entire body was tense, muscles popping even more. He was yelling "fuck yes fuck me fuck yeah" on top of his lungs to support his own anal focus against the psychic attacks.
"Everyone in cover?" came a somewhat calmer voice through the outer walls, communicating angel-to-angel.
Faggot let his drones estimate distances. His green drone had snuck into the spider room past the repellent field and scrambling bugs. Near the center was a roiling bulb of hyper-dense bio matter, spitting out new, gerbil sized bugs that matured rapidly.
"Should be good, Dominus Rex" Faggot responded. "I got visual on the spawner. Step two meters left, twenty degree left of us."
"Gotcha. Breaking in."
A Cerberus triple-detonation ripped a new door into the exterior wall with a plasma cloud that would have blinded an unhooded eye and brought a bit of ceiling down with it.
Dominus Rex was a Yaeger – a mecha consisting of an opaque capsule where a single pilot lounged, stubby arms full of firepower and two tank-track legs. The bulky metal beast shuffled in, unable to squeeze into the doorframe.
"Fist King, field down," the pilot said.
Another Cerberus blaster shot rammed into the spawner, its biomass decompressing all at once as a flood of green goo.
Fist King and Faggot barely avoided getting flushed along as the goo avalanche hit them navel high, thick as honey.
The malformed raisins kept coming, their unfinished bodies crackling with sentry damage. Unnatural motions propelled the fake zombies through the muck, advancing them as a meat wave against the sludge tide.
"Where's everyone?" Faggot asked into the angelic link.
"Other side of the place," the pilot said. "But we have a sitch up top. Go around, get them. I'll take over."
Dominus Rex took position to block the exit and rattled metal slug rounds into the raisin horde.
Fist King retrieved a goo-logged sentry mine and the two rangers followed the tide outside where it spilled between smaller hip-high ruin walls and failed to sink into the savanna's packed dirt.
They broke into a run along the exterior walls, no longer assgasming quite so hard.
Faggot sent his drones ahead in a relay, stretched to max psy-range. He tried to establish a link to the duo of Candy's drones.
Amid the crumbled walls of an ancient entrance hall, two other rangers were beset by squids – translucent gas bags in pale colors crowding the sky, their tentacles lashing like a thousand electric cables in a storm.
"Got eyes on them," he said. "Lots of squids."
One ranger, maroon haired, was fading in and out of existence in the corners of the room. His teleportation made it impossible to get into the feed from his hood-cam.
The other swayed on his knees, unresponsive, worshipping the world tree.
"Fuck, Candy is down. Mutants caught them empty assed. I find the plugs, you help Saint Sexy."
POV: Fist King
Aerial chokepoint creation was harder but Fist King was up to the task.
As they got closer, he could sense the Menace again. An unshakable sense that being a trooper was simply too vulnerable, too dependent on others. That only Yggdrasil could offer true control if he let it in. He could be King indeed, with infinite subjects to command.
Fist King focused on the arm replica in his ass, and on the only thing the asexual world tree had never figured out how to offer – cumming.
With body-gasms radiating from his guts, Fist King fired a grav-neutralizer into the center of the open-air room before the squids even knew what was happening.
He lubed up his hand – the one not holding the Nova – and yelled through the angel link. "Saint Sexy! Your faggin time to shine!"
Saint Sexy, the team's second in command, stopped blinking in and out of existence. His muscle-bulging ochre skin was decorated with tattoos all over. The maroon fringe topped a mask fashioned after the Chinese man's own face – extreme ahegao anime rendition, including cartoony tears and drool on a face wrecked by pleasure.
Fist King and Saint Sexy jumped into the pillar projected upward by the grav-neut, their pecs slapping together like firm cushions. They were equally matched, with the Asian's taller frame bulked out to an aesthetic shape from Swellsurge roids.
The jump continued, up and up to "eye level" with the squids, blue and yellow and white bulbs all threatening to slam into them.
Plasma blasts diffused on the squids' rubbery skin or were absorbed by quickly hardening gel within the beasts.
Fist King fired a static attraction field on the farthest squid. The wobbling sphere pulled other squids in, creating a cluster. Saint Sexy clung to him, wrestling his own inner demons.
The Menace hit Fist King. Wasn't it pathetic to rely on others? Let them have the glory? Like a servant? Why not rule this world on the back of Yggdrasil?
Saint Sexy pushed his ass onto the lubed fist offered. The massive Chinese beefcake sank to the elbow of the black muscle monster. With a whole body tremble and his boots flexing from curled toes, the lieutenant pissed from his tiny pouch onto the grenadier's pecs.
Through the anal ravages, Saint Sexy held onto Fist King's harness, groping for a particular mine.
POV: Faggot
Faggot was crawling on all fours for multiple reasons. It helped him feel more fucked – which fought the Promise, it let him avoid low swinging tentacles, and it let him see underneath things while his drones provided eyes from above.
With Saint Sexy and the grenadier clearing the skies, Faggot had to rescue Candy by himself. He scrolled back in the footage of Candy's face hood cam.
Candy was an omega-angel carrier but so was Faggot, so he couldn't even use phucking to distract the Yggdrasil victim.
Candy was a white guy, but unlike Faggot's light tan, his skin was pale and pinkish hued. He was omniroided as hell at 6', looking bulky with his bodyfat almost hitting double digits. A heart-shape of platinum hair on his smooth scalp crowned a cutesy, pinkish kitty mask.
His empty, sloppy hole was glistening with lube, as he mumbled reverence to Yggdrasil on his knees. At least he was still emitting psy radiance, no mutating serums injected yet, the angel working in overdrive.
Some of the squids got popped, shots landing in their "mouths" there tentacles met bulbs. Transparent sludge showered down.
Finally, Hummingbird drone "purple" reported familiar shapes. Faggot crawled under the toppled pillar hiding the plugs.
He first lubed up the ribbed tentacle with suckers, squeezing the 15 inch serpent to a decent glisten.
As he crawled toward Candy, he stuck the tentacle to his pouch with stick tape and popped it into Candy's hole, the base fitting exactly between the gigantic globes. He held into Candy's harness from behind.
Candy reared up. He didn't snap out of it, though.
It took some doing to force the big guy on his back. Faggot held Candy around the thick neck, right by the tattoo of four differently colored drops, representing blood, toil, sweat, and tears.
He pulled the kitty mask up and forced his inhaler between the trembling lips. A broad face, sharp-jawed but puffy cheeked, with a piggish nose broken several times before.
One huff of Rainbow Dew.
To make sure Candy didn't exhale it all right away, Faggot pulled his dragon mask up, too, and pressed their lips together.
Rainbow colors bled into his blind vision, the angel throbbing in his neck like a second heart. Horniness was dialed past maximum. It was practically impossible to focus on battle now, but it gave Candy a chance to put up a fight on a different front.
Faggot tossed the second plug he had found at the grav-neut pillar before his consciousness melted into fucktacular cravings.
He stick-taped their plug bases together - his arms around Candy's right leg, his feet holding Candy's head - and double-headed-dildo fucked to ram assgasms into both their guts.
POV: Fist King
With the squids so conveniently clustered, Fist King used the heat field projector, stuck to one of the squids in the mass, and let them get boiled. One after another they popped, hot sludge raining down.
Lieutenant Saint Sexy's ahegao mask turned to him. "Good job, short king. Here comes my battering ram."
A plug floated up next to them. Extremely customized to the point of being a mess of seemingly random knots and bulges rising in roughly equal circumference to an only 12 inch but double-fist thick rod.
Ever the show-off, Saint Sexy blink-teleported off Fist King's arm, leaving lube strings to vaporize in the wake of his spacial distortion.
The lieutenant appeared upside-down, snatching the floating plug from the air as his asshole squelched loosely closed.
Knees bent and far apart, Saint Sexy rotated the plug into his ass with practiced twists.
He ran his free hand through his maroon hair as he righted himself within the zero-gravity pillar, then flexed with both arms. "Superhero landing?"
Fist King looked down. "Better do it fast as fuck. The squid shit is cooking my neut."
They rushed down along the gravity-neutralizer projection, hitting the sludge puddle with a splash, side by side, one fist and the opposite knee on the ground each.
Faggot and Candy emerged from the floor, warm slime dripping off them like oil, glistening as they spasmed with drug-enhanced assgasms.
Dominus Rex rumbled nearby, its own grav-neut projectors firing. The Yaeger hopped onto the ruin town's roof – the center where a ziggurat sat. The pilot sent a curt request into the angelic link. Their commander was in trouble.
POV: Candy
Candy was plug fucking his omega buddy Faggot with all his muscular might in the steaming flood of honey-oozing jelly. They were wrestling, pulling the plugs out and pushing back in for rapturous pleasure, kicking each other's pouches with their boots for a ball crushing that should have helped bring them back to sanity – just like in training.
The pleasure-pain drug-fuck was all that kept Candy from returning to the loving Embrace of Yggdrasil, where he was so seen and valued.
Pathetically flexing through assgasms, the rainbows in his vision bleeding into his thoughts, Candy found the kind of love the alien mind-invader couldn't offer. Fucking fucking fucking fu-
Some fat cock entered his kitty-masked mouth, spreading the throat in spite of material reality. Saint Sexy was phucking him back to the present moment.
"Good boy," Saint Sexy's voice purred into his angel connection. "Sweet little cotton candy, come to daddy. Suck me off."
Candy felt a pull of obedience. His blind-eyed awareness found the Chinese trooper with the perverse anime face-hood.
Saint Sexy was a golden boy, meaning he carried an "alpha type" angel, a rare compatibility, granting him his "blink" teleportation.
Candy could have resisted but it would have felt wrong and be futile so he obeyed. It helped that Saint Sexy knew just what to say.
Extracting himself from the bottom-on-bottom wrestle-fuck, Candy helped Faggot to his feet, both sliding in the thick sludge that dripped glisteningly off their white skins.
The lieutenant walked past, his wide frame swaggering. Among the more abstract Asiatic patterns tattooed on his body was the "back-dick". An upside down cross shape, using Saint Sexy's neck as the base of a dick, balls spread aside for the cross-shape, the shaft down to his lower back where a dickhead exploded a cumshot into his ass crack. He wasn't even gay, just utterly unique.
As the lieutenant passed, Candy stretched his tongue out and licked form the back-dick's head – and Saint Sexy's ass crack – up to the man's neck for a sloppy, open mouthed nuzzle before breaking away.
Of course Saint Sexy had an easy time ascending through liberal use of blink, teleporting him up the wall in a few jumps.
Candy ensured his blaster was on his thigh strap and the round Sphinx shield were fixed to the back of his harness. Then he, Faggot and Fist King climbed with some effort. Not that an ancient wall was a serious obstacle for star rangers.
Candy sent his own drones ahead. He only had two, "black" and "white". One stayed trained on the climbers, the other relayed with Faggot's, to give a feed from higher up.
On the ziggurat, Dominus Rex, Saint Sexy and their commander were engaging a brood titan.
An armored bug, big as a tank, stood on six legs long enough it could have stepped over a house. Its hyper-dense bio core was constantly repairing the plasma blaster damage. It kept shitting out dog-sized crawlers that forced the warriors to stay back.
The oral phucking was getting less necessary as Candy regained focus but the lieutenant was too far ahead to negotiate with.
It had been a difficult adjustment for pussy-hound Candy but the constant phuck-attacks had retrained his mind. He gulped and slurped with abandon. Luckily, the virtual cumshot wasn't far out. Candy felt the tremble of Saint Sexy's ghost-gasm as strings of nothing were pumped into his tummy.
Then they reached the ziggurat roof.
It was littered with bug shells and green ooze dripping into the many holes in the broken stone. They couldn't rush in without danger of falling through but they could already fire.
Faggot unloaded plasma bolts, Fist King prepared sentry mines, Candy fired his plasma gun and readied the Sphinx shield, the disc glinting with jelly sludge.
"I'm scanning for a safe path," Faggot said. "Pillar under here, this way, not too far left..."
"Orders, commander?" Candy asked.
"We're almost through to the core," Warlock spoke into their minds. "Dominus Rex got this if you gun down the small fry. But there's another. Candy, drones down the hole where I'm standing."
"Yes sir!"
Candy piloted the black drone with a thought. There was another, smaller titan in the halls below, just pushing out of its cocoon, unable to even lift itself onto the immense legs, like a fawn.
"Newborn titan," Candy said.
"Candy with me," Warlock said. "We meet in the middle."
The leader disengaged, leaving the Yaeger to pummel the tattered titan in the face with Cerberus bolts.
Warlock stood a crazy 7' tall, pitch black skin. At this height it was easy to overlook just how beefy he was. His muscles seemed "hidden" in the sheer width of his frame and length of his limbs unless they splayed with a flex. He had an aura that made him "out-tower" even men yet taller.
The black commander wore a golden skull with too many eye holes – all false of course, to keep up sensory deprivation – crowned with thorns ringing his bald head.
"Warhorse galloping solo?" Saint Sexy teased.
Warlock's voice retained a calm, deep timbre. "You get to stay in sunlight. Take over here. Candy, jump. We meet up below."
While the main group pushed the titan off the ziggurat, Candy re-entered the ruins, followed by his drone duo.
There was the newborn, almost as big, uncoordinated but already shitting crawlers.
The maggots slithered at them, each plasma hit popping one, when Warlock collided into the drone controller. Hands around Candy, the leader got goopy but held on – body contact helping them stay on track as Yggdrasil hit.
Candy had done so much, shouldn't someone finally see that? Wasn't the infinite mind of Yggdrasil the only being capable to truly appreciate the magnitude of Candy's sacrifice? All those hours, the work, the struggle, the forgoing of fun and joy and... pussy.
Candy thought of fucking, his honed mind keeping him too horny for philosophical debate. His angel worked the plug, making his guts fuck themselves. He felt Warlock press against his ass, the commander hitting a light abs vacuum, the plug inside him rubbing between Candy's cheeks.
Virtual dick entered his real ass, phucking along the already spread walls of Candy's plugged hole. The psy-cock was a mere idea, a projection, able to ape unrealistically large tools. Especially since goldenboy Warlock was also an alpha-carrier, able to phuck like hell even under difficult conditions.
The commander patted the heart-shaped patch of hair on Candy's head. "Make us some space, kitten."
Candy brought the Sphinx shield forward. It snapped to his chest harness's front, his arm entwining with Warlock's. The repulsion field rattled his pecs and ribs as it initiated, pushing back debris, gunk and any maggot in the shield's cone. A wall of force.
They'd hit the titan's head long enough to shoot a hole in it, plasma and brain gore bursting out the top. The core had to be in a different segment. They both knew as much and worked their way back.
Crawlers around them dropped dead on their own. Warlock's gold power was mindkilling them. Weak newborn creatures were no match for his angel's psy-attacks up close.
Plug-fucked and ass-phucked Candy pressed into his commander, unable to stop grinning. Getting attention and working on a "project" put him in a decent mental state. The alien mind-rapist could fuck itself – or rather, fucking was the one thing it couldn't.
On the other hand, Warlock's aim was failing. The psy-dick vanished. "C-candy, you're gonna have to next-level me."
"Yes sir."
With the Sphinx attached to his chest, Candy could afford to use both hands to reach behind himself, between Warlock's legs.
He pulled the plug all the way out. It was a horse cock – thus, the warhorse jokes – as big as a boy's leg, with two segments and a flared head. Crouching, awkwardly half turned, Candy dug his fist in to guide the way, then slipped the horse cock alongside, fist-and-plug fucking his commander. The angel-gold rubbed Warlock's guts against the invaders for constant stimulation.
The next-level assgasms were enough to save Warlock from his mental struggles.
Their fight resumed, now more defensively as the newborn titan was finding its footing.
A detonation rumbled overhead and dust rained from the crumbled ceiling. The sound of a titan dropping dead was followed by the rush of core fragments decompressing.
The others reported in, then dropped into the room along with the pinkish-red mist of core biomass. Dominus Rex stayed on top, blasting down with the Yaeger's heavy machine slugger.
The shredding of the bug's armor let Faggot analyze the position of the core and soon all fire concentrated on it while Warlock - his hand on Candy's chest, gripping the harness, his psy-dick in Candy's psy-ass – mindkilled crawlers as fast as they were birthed.
"It's gonna blow!" Saint Sexy yelled.
"Cover!" Warlock ordered.
Candy and the commander stayed in place, trusting the Sphinx shield to keep them save. Dominus Rex got the last shot in and the titan ruptured in a shockwave that brought down flecks of ceiling. Bio-goop flooded into the staircase to lower levels.
"Was that it?" Fist King asked. "Was that the whole fist-sucking nest?"
"Think so," Warlock said. "Let's move. Drones, scan."
"Yes sir," Faggot said.
While Faggot relayed intel, somebody was phucking Candy in the face. He gagged and choked, his abs spasming as he felt like his airflow was cut even as it wasn't. With the cock a mere phantom, the taste of cum, piss, and dick sweat never abated.
It was a hard enough phuck he felt virtual abs and thighs touching his face. Which angel-beta or goldenboy was doing that? He subtly shifted which trooper he was following to gauge the connections.
The leader grumbled. His long legs carried him to the exit the fastest, the black thighs trembling with cut muscle. "I don't feel a lingering presence but you never know. There's only one broken titan egg shell by the newborn, so it should be everything."
Saint Sexy grunted. "The place wasn't as cleared out as the fist-suckers told us."
Warlock waved him off. "Ugh, what else is new? It's push and pull."
Saint Sexy pointed at his ahegao mask. "I'm rolling my eyes, if you can't tell, Warhorse."
"Don't believe you, gooner."
Saint Sexy pulled his hood down in the daylight of the windowed corridor. He pointed at his round face and the thin eyes nearly rolled so far back, the angelically golden iris was barely visible.
The secret phucker was Saint Sexy. The psy-cock's pulsing indicated fauxgasm was near.
Candy gave the lieutenant's highly customized plug a pull, the random knots sliding out, then back in by gut pull-strength alone.
Saint Sexy's round face distorted into ahegao, smiling, tongue out, pushing into the commander's pecs as he got ass-fucked while ghost cumming.
Warlock pulled him away by the maroon hair, not in the mood for games. But he slapped Candy's round, bouncy glutes on the way past.
POV: Saint Sexy
As much as Warlock pretended to be annoyed, he was jostling with his fellow golden boy for an anal invasion. Most days, Saint Sexy kept his psy-ass out of reach easily, but he'd just creamed his psy-dick into Candy's throat – which had done nothing to reduce his horniness but done everything to break his stamina.
Warlock phucked Saint Sexy's ass for just a second before taking his victory and leaving it be.
The commander pulled his many-eyed thorn skull off to let him see the smirk.
Warlock had an Arabic face, an aquiline nose, sharp, severe features. The golden iris always seemed to gleam.
By the noises Candy was making, Warlock continued the phuck into the white guy's throat.
Faggot was going on about the chamber full of raisins. "They must have done something for Yggdrasil before being left to rot, but there was no record of attack. So what-"
Saint Sexy pushed his psy-ass into Faggot's face, forcing the now-unmasked omega blondie to mime a rimjob for his amusement. Phantom ass was trickier than phantom dick but Saint Sexy's desires and urges had shifted over the course of service.
"Day is young, Warhorse," he said.
"Might do more ruin hopping," the commander said. "It's a trip to the next one, though. This is a nebulous frontline. Maybe we look for missions."
Saint Sexy huffed. "Rumors, you mean."
They met up with the Yaeger already by the buggy.
The buggy was a clusterfuck of metal beams and pipes the size of a camping trailer, studded and plated with multiple generations of repair. The flag of the United Stars Alliance fluttered as the highest point.
Dominus Rex clicked into place in the back, serving as main engine. "No enemy activity detected in the open."
Faggot hopped into the driver's seat, his drones jumping from his harness to the dashboard and uploading footage into a wide screen. "Safety readings are go."
One by one, the star rangers pulled their plugs out and hoods off, resting them on shelves and hooks.
The sonic shower by the side of the buggy looked like stacks of boom boxes. Warlock went first, even the stickiest dirt vibrating off his skin and uniform.
Faggot's rimming had become perfunctory, so Saint Sexy closed the connection and let his empty hole neutralize.
"The warhorse needing a grooming?" Saint Sexy asked.
The commander bent over, hands on the buggy while Saint Sexy took to the sonic shower. "I need pussy, a massage and a cold beer. Preferably all by different hot chicks."
"Nah, don't lie, you live for your boys."
Cleaned up, Saint Sexy drenched his fist and arm in anal lotion. He dug into Warlock to the wrist and worked the calming white salve into the commander's guts, pushing in and out, a little deeper each time.
Dominus Rex' lid popped, the capsule revealing Cypher. A man sufficiently muscular it seemed he was straining the cushioned interior to burst, massively muscle-bulging at 5'10''. But of course, the inside had been adapted to his crazy beefy shape.
Cypher was an evenly cappuccino brown african with a buzzed mohawk so sharp it seemed painted on. His mask was a swirl matched to his skin so perfectly it seemed to replace the face. Easily the creepiest looking battle hood among them.
Screens blinked off as Cypher pulled his raised legs out of the pedal sockets and let go of the hand levers.
He slipped off his plug – a totally smooth bullet shape – and didn't even say hi as he headed for the buggy dashboard.
"What's good, Cy?" Warlock said, his voice warbling from assgasms.
Cypher nodded and took his mask off. A handsome, classically african face with a wide, flat nose and a big smile – when he ever smiled. The thick eyebrows were segmented by sharp slits.
"Not a fan of tight spaces."
"Really?" Saint Sexy badly faked astonishment. "Seems tight in there."
The lieutenant glanced at the open Yaeger as if seeing it for the first time. The beige cushioning, the belt straps, the deactivated screens, the tiny black analog watch put there as "decoration" so they'd stop calling Cypher a minimalist because he didn't want to be associated with more labels than strictly necessary.
The pilot was unimpressed. "Dominus Rex doesn't like tight spaces."
Warlock rose from the Chinese man's fist. "I'll keep you open field when possible, as you know. Okay, Saint Sexy, your turn."
The leader thickly lotioned his arm and sat back on the buggy's frame. Saint Sexy crouched above and fucked his way down the "shaft", letting his instincts take over his facial expressions for some organic ahegao.
"Little to the left," Faggot told him from the dashboard. He was watching their lotion application on the drone.
"You move right," Warlock said, jokingly annoyed.
"It's the better angle for you both to- ugh, nevermind. We have plenty of footage. The superhero landing looks cheesy."
"That was Fist King's idea," Saint Sexy lied.
"Fuck yeah," Fist King said and flexed, his back to the group, probably not even listening, as he rode Candy's lotioned arm.
"Should make a good vlog, though," Faggot said. "Want to watch it back?"
"Trusting you and the edit-AI," Saint Sexy said. "As long as you make me look good."
"Some things even the edit AI can't fix."
Faggot deserved to be phucked to hell and back for that but the lotion was just pushing against his third hole, finding the deepest area a fist was able to reach comfortably, the smoothly spreading assgasms crashed back and forth inside him.
"Aren't we putting this lotion segment in the vlog?" Warlock asked.
Faggot got up. "Sure, my turn in the shower. Everybody get ready."
POV: Faggot
With the entire gang clean and their sloppy asses relaxing – a steady drip of white lotion down their thighs – they assembled in the middle of the buggy where rubber mats softened the ground.
"Drones covering every angle, threat detection currently zero." Faggot tapped the dashboard. "Buggy interior cams recording. Ready."
Warlock nodded at Cypher and with a mental command, the empty Dominus Rex produced a full coverage repulsion field around the vehicle.
Harnesses and pouches popped off, hung up on hooks along the buggy's metal straps. Comically tiny genitals were revealed – or not. Some of them probably couldn't even see their minimized dicklets under the bulge of brick wall abs.
Warlock squirted a fountain of body oil onto his bald head, letting it rain in rivers. Six fully nude men collided.
Everybody did their best to rub all available skin, their own or someone else's. Dicks were brushed roughly with no regard - they were never going to get any less soft.
Right away Faggot felt three psy-dicks enter him. Two in the mouth, one in the ass.
The pile of men rubbed off on each other, getting the vital oil onto their skin to stay radiance-emitting, spore-resilient, blood-acid immune and give sunburns no chance.
Saint Sexy was the first to collapse to the ground, his feet curling hard with psy-cock stimulation.
With his mouth stretched almost painfully, Faggot grunted into the air while rolling over Cypher and into Fist King's slippery arms. One dick retreated from his mouth, leaving the other to phuck as deeply as it wanted.
The missing dick entered his ass instead. The double anal was easier to appreciate without a plug. The psy-dicks were bigger and longer than their real counterparts, based on the tops idea of their dicks and their emotional state – and some complicated interaction with angel comparability.
Faggot could have given a little presentation on all that, not as overwhelmed by a phuck as he was by his trusty cobra. But the cuddle pile made up for that.
Less and less slippery, the men on the rubber mats worked the oil into each other, their hearts pounding at the vulnerability of being out of uniform.
Fist King pinned Faggot down, his black, massive muscle thighs legs between the somewhat slimmer, white ones. He mimed a fuck, his soft micro-dick slapping against the phuck-gaping hole.
Faggot chuckled into the oral assault. "You're cheating on me?" he said past the rod in his mouth, the angel connection helping him be understood.
"Ugh, what?"
"I can tell," Faggot said before violently gagging. "Your humping... not matching up... with any cock in me... you're phucking Candy..."
Fist King grinned. He let go of Faggot and sat on his face instead. Faggot faced the tiny thumb-like cock, a white-ink Nietzsche tattoo where the pubes had once been: He who cannot obey himself will be commanded.
It was impossible for Faggot to close his mouth with the unrealistically big psy-dick invading so he pushed his tongue out and rimmed. Lotion didn't taste like anything.
Someone dug into Faggot's ass. No, it was a ghost hand. Fist King's desire to dominate "manually" was great enough to could psy-fist sometimes.
Double phucking continued to run his walls sore as the added phantom hand found its way past the second hole.
Someone's real arm pushed across Faggot's face and into Fist King's ass – brown skin, Cypher – and Faggot raised his fist in case somebody wanted to sit on it. Somebody did, although he didn't see who. He'd see it later in the footage when editing the vlog, if he cared.
With Fist King getting fisted, the rim job had turned into a nothing job as Fist King's limp, barely sensate dick squished itself into Faggot's face. Not that he could have closed his mouth enough to actually suck a tiny real tool.
Maybe the others would still have bothered complaining, but Faggot was the one actually gay member. At least when it came to bottoming.
They'd probably need a second round of anal lotion before real hole-rest began, as usual.