Revenge Gone Wrong!
By: Mikolai
The floodlights buzzed softly above the deserted field, their glow carving out islands of artificial daylight in the sea of darkness. Chalk lines glowed neon under the humming lights, crisp and untouched since the last game. A lone plastic bag tumbled across the thirty-yard line, caught in a breeze that smelled of fresh-cut grass and distant rain.

Metal clanged softly in the distance, the chain-link fence protesting as nimble fingers found purchase. The cat boy landed with a muffled thud, his sneakers indenting the damp turf. He crouched low, ears twitching at the distant laughter of janitors smoking behind the equipment shed. The adrenaline tasted metallic, like licking a battery.

His name was Troy, fourteen and wiry, all coiled muscle under dense black fur that drank in the floodlights. At five-foot-five, he darted between shadows with the precision of someone who'd practiced this route in daylight. Blue eyes, that were as blue as the ocean, scanned the empty bleachers. The janitors' voices faded, replaced by the hum of an engine sputtering to life—their truck rolling toward the exit.

He pressed himself flat against the cold aluminum siding of the equipment shed, breathing steadily despite the pounding in his chest. His sleeveless shirt stuck to his damp fur, and his shorts rode up as he crouched lower. His old sneakers gripped the turf tightly. Spiky fur between his ears twitched with every sound: the distant click of a gate, the hiss of sprinklers shutting off. They had left the lights on. Perfect.

Up close, Troy's body betrayed his training. His biceps weren't bulging—not yet—but the lean definition spoke of stolen dumbbell reps in his brother's bedroom. The fur there was sleek, lighter at the joints where friction had polished it. His shoulders rolled smoothly under the shirt as he reached for the shed's padlock, fingers agile from years of climbing fences and, later, scaling goalposts. The shorts showed off thighs that could piston-kick through plywood if he put his mind to it.

But it was his hair that always made older boys smirk—short, spiky fur that defied gravity along his scalp, longer at the front where he'd muss it back with a quick swipe when nervous. The black strands caught the light like wet ink, each one stiff with cheap styling gel that smelled faintly of synthetic oranges. Not that anyone got close enough to notice anymore. Not since the execution.

Memories flickered behind his eyelids whenever he blinked—his brother's team kneeling on the fifty-yard line, jerseys ripped off by the winning squad, pads and cleats piled like discarded armor. The team is fully naked, hands tied behind their back, and waiting for the end. The crowd had roared when the first player dropped, the gunshot muffled by the stadium speakers blaring the victors' fight song. His brother was third. Troy remembered how his brother's fur had matted where the bullet exited—just beneath the left ear, perfectly aimed—the blood soaking into the turf in a slow, spreading arc.

The padlock clicked open with a satisfying sound; its mechanism was rusted from years of neglect. Inside, the smell of mildew and synthetic leather made his nose twitch. Equipment racks loomed in the darkness, with shoulder pads glistening dull like the shells of dead insects. His claws, retracted until now, slightly extended as he brushed past a shelf of game balls, each bearing the school's logo. The same logo was stitched onto the executioners' uniforms as they lined up the losing team. One bullet per player. Efficient.

Troy's backpack hit the concrete floor with a thud as he shrugged it off. The zipper echoed loudly in the silence. Inside, amid a half-eaten protein bar and his brother's old wristbands, there were three cans of industrial-grade enamel spray paint stolen from his uncle's garage. The colors were chosen intentionally: blood-red, bile-yellow, and electric blue, the same shade that had washed over his brother's body when they carried it off the field.

The switch panel hummed when he flipped it. Fluorescents flickered to life, their buzz syncing with the pulse in his temples. Suddenly, the shed wasn't just a tomb for equipment, it was a canvas. Shoulder pads became blank faces staring at him from their racks. Troy shook the red can violently, the ball bearing inside clattering like a loose tooth. He didn't bother with words. The first arc of paint hit the nearest helmet with a wet slap, obliterating the school's mascot in a dripping Rorschach of crimson.

Yellow came next, streaking across rows of freshly laundered jerseys hung for tomorrow's practice. The paint bled through the fabric, tendrils spreading like poison in water. He worked fast, claws unsheathed now to carve jagged lines between colors, scoring deep into the wooden benches. The scent of enamel mixed with the musk of his own sweat, sharp and chemical. Somewhere under the fury, his lungs burned.

Outside, the stadium walls appeared pale under the floodlights, their concrete surface inviting defacement. Troy's sneakers left wet footprints on the bleachers as he ascended, with spray cans clanking at his side. At the top, overlooking the field below like a sacrificed animal, he uncapped the blue paint. The initial letter took form—bold, dripping strokes spelling "MURDERERS." The paint dripped in rivulets, pooling in the mortar lines like veins filling with ink. His wrist ached from the exertion, but each movement of his arm felt like twisting a knife in unseen flesh.

Between the frustrations of "CHEATED" and the looping "FUCK THIS TEAM," his claws scraped the concrete. Flecks of paint dotted his fur, adhering to the fine hairs on his forearms like crusted constellations. The smell was gasoline-sweet, sticky at the back of his throat. He spat to clear it but quickly regretted wasting the saliva as his mouth was dry from adrenaline and fumes. Below, the vandalized letters shone wetly, their edges already beginning to crust where the paint was thickest. It was never enough. It would never be enough.

The wind shifted direction, bringing with it the distant sound of a police siren—probably unrelated and miles away—but Troy's ears instinctively flattened. His tail, which had been swinging in tight arcs as he painted, froze. A fleeting thought surfaced: his brother would've laughed at how ridiculous this was. That hurt more than any critique. He leapt off the bleachers in a single smooth motion, landing with bent knees to cushion the fall. The turf beneath felt soft and forgiving—almost too forgiving. Real grass dies. Real grass leaves stains.

Back at the shed, the carnage looked better under the flickering fluorescents. Red streaked down the shelving units like arterial spray, pooling around the bases of toppled tackling dummies. Someone would find them tomorrow morning, slumped over in mock-execution poses, their foam necks ringed with yellow paint nooses. Troy smirked. His backpack was exactly where he'd left it, resting against a deflated football someone had stabbed with a screwdriver—an old act of vandalism that now felt quaint compared to his handiwork.

He crouched to grab his backpack, fingers brushing the frayed strap. That's when the voice came—low, amused, and so close the breath tickled his ear fur. "Hope you had fun, little shit."

Troy's spine stiffened mid-reach. Cold words felt like ice water sliding down his neck. He was alone, he had checked, but now the shed air grew heavy with the scent of sweat and spearmint gum. Suddenly, a knee drove into his lower back before he could turn, forcing him over the backpack with a grunt. His vision blurred at the edges as something hard, perhaps a bat, struck his skull just behind the left ear, the same spot.

Darkness swallowed him in ragged gulps. No fade-out, just a light switch flick of consciousness. One moment: the sting of enamel fumes, his claws flexing against concrete. The next: nothing but the throb of his pulse in places he didn't know could ache—deep behind his eyeballs, in the hinge of his jaw, right where his tail met his spine.

Cold tile shocked his bare thighs awake. Troy blinked against fluorescents that stung like lemon juice in a cut—too bright, buzzing in time with the headache gnawing at his skull. His arms screamed from the angle, wrists bound behind his back with what felt like athletic tape, sticky and tight enough to mat the fur there. The scent of industrial soap and mildew clogged his nose, undercut by something metallic. Blood? His own, probably.

He was propped against the shower wall, legs splayed, every inch of him exposed. The air prickled his damp fur, still beaded with water droplets that traced paths down his chest. His own breath hitched when he glanced down—his cock lay flaccid against his thigh, thick even soft, the foreskin pulled halfway back from the glistening tip. A traitorous shiver ran through him as a draft licked the wet fur at its base, black and tightly curled, darker than the sleek pelt covering the rest of him.

The door creaked open slightly before slamming against the stop, rattling the showerheads. Troy's ears flattened—not only from the loud noise but also from the smell of adrenaline and victory that accompanied it. Boyish musk, sour and gamy, blended with the industrial scent of locker room soap. Two pairs of bare feet slapped on the tile as they laughed about something Troy couldn't make out through the ringing in his ears.

First through the door was the hyena—six feet even, all corded muscle under golden-brown fur that darkened to stripes along his spine. His muzzle curled in a grin, sharp canines flashing under the fluorescents. "Well, look what the cat dragged in," he drawled, voice raspy from shouting at the game. Troy's gaze flicked down despite himself—the hyena's cock swung thick and heavy between his thighs, the foreskin wrinkled loose around a flared pink tip. The base was a nest of coarse golden fur, wet from the shower and clinging in dark clumps. His balls hung full and low, the left one slightly larger like they always were in his species.

The hyena lazily scratched his crotch, fingers digging into his thick pubic fur while he observed Troy. His name was Jax, 17 years old, captain of the football team, though the only jersey he wore now was the water streaming down his chest. His black-tipped ears twitched as Troy struggled against the tape, causing his spiked mohair to flutter. The hair was bleached at the tips, with roots showing as dirty honey where sweat had washed out the color. His amber eyes with slit pupils glowed under the locker room lights.

Someone’s tail swished against the tile behind him with a dry rasp. The lizard boy, Brock, leaned against the doorframe, standing 6-foot-three and already filling out a college athlete’s physique at 18. His scales were a deep green, resembling old bruises, fading to yellow along his belly and throat. A single black stripe ran from his left temple to his jaw, cutting through one reptilian eye—pupils as thin as razor cuts in the sulfur-yellow irises. His hair was cut very short in a military style, matching the inky blackness of his spade-tipped tail, which was currently thumping against the shower drain grate.

Brock’s cock hung thick between his thighs, the shaft a mottled gray-green that darkened to emerald at the base. The head was broad and flared, the slit puckered tight in its flaccid state, but the sheer girth made Troy’s throat click when he swallowed.

“Caught yourself a live one, eh, Jax?” Brock chuckled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the tile walls. He kicked Troy’s sneaker by the door aside with a clawed foot, the rubber squeaking wetly against the floor. “Thought you were just fucking around when you said you heard something.”

Jax grinned, flicking a bit of shower water off his muzzle. “Nah, saw this little shadow darting around the field like he owned the place. Figured he’d either be some wannabe fan or—” His amber eyes raked over Troy’s bound form, lingering on the feline boy's cock. “—someone stupid enough to think vandalizing our gear was a good idea.” He leaned down, his breath hot and reeking of energy drinks. “Which one are you, kitten?”

Troy bared his teeth, fur bristling even as his tail curled defensively against his thigh. “Go fuck yourselves,” he spat. “And let me go before I claw your—”

The hyena’s laughter interrupted him with a wheezing, high-pitched echo bouncing off the tiled walls. Brock chuckled deeply, causing the shower rods to vibrate. “Oh, he’s got spirit,” Jax gasped, tears in his amber eyes as he wiped his face. “That little bastard’s got...” His laughter suddenly stopped when Brock grasped his shoulder, scales scraping against fur.

The lizard’s slit pupils dilated. “Wait,” he murmured, tilting his head. The black stripe along his face seemed to darken as he leaned closer. Troy’s fur prickled under the scrutiny. “That execution last week,” Brock continued slowly. “The losing team’s captain. Had a kid brother, right?” His forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air between them. “Black fur. Blue eyes. Spiky little shit that was watching from the stands.”

Jax’s grin disappeared. His claws, which had been retracted, clicked against the tile as he crouched down, pushing his muzzle into Troy’s space. The feline boy recoiled, but the hyena seized his jaw, forcing his face up into the bright fluorescent light. Troy’s breath caught in his throat as Jax’s nostrils flared, taking a deep breath. “Oh fuck,” the hyena whispered. His amber eyes widened. “You smell like him.”

Troy’s chest rose and fell rapidly. The sharp, acrid smell of his fear mixed with Jax’s breath. His throat moved as he tried to swallow the rising sob. Then, the hyena’s thumb brushed the moisture under Troy’s eye, gathering a tear he hadn’t noticed. Jax held up his claw, inspecting the tear like a scientist studying a specimen. “Little brother,” he whispered.

Troy—Troy shattered. His brother’s name burst from his throat, raw and jagged: “Derek!” The sound echoed loudly off the shower tiles, startling in the sudden silence. His voice broke as he yelled, “You killed him! You fucking …” A sob escaped him, and Troy began thrashing against his bounds, claws scraping the tile as he screamed. The words tumbled out rapidly, venomous and soaked with emotion. “You lined them up and… and shot him in the fucking head like—”

Brock quickly moved in front of Jax, his scaled hand covering Troy’s mouth to silence him. His grip was firm but not rough, like holding a stubborn puppy by the scruff. “Listen,” Brock whispered, his slit pupils narrowing into thin lines. His breath carried a minty scent mixed with something dry and reptilian. “Your brother knew the rules. Everyone does. Fail the Death Game? You die.” His thumb lightly stroked Troy’s cheekbone, leaving a tear track in the black fur. “Don’t blame us. Blame the officials in City Hall or the government who made it law.”

Jax exhaled sharply through his nose, ruffling Troy’s spiked bangs. His claws retracted with a soft click as he leaned back, amber eyes flicking between Brock and their captive. “So, what’s the play?” His voice had dropped an octave, rough with something that wasn’t quite pity. His tail twitched, stirring the humid air between them. “We can’t just let him go after this.”

Brock finally loosened his scaled fingers, peeling away from Troy’s muzzle with a wet sound. The feline boy gasped, lungs filling with air as he briefly tasted freedom. The lizard absentmindedly wiped his palm on his thigh, leaving Troy’s saliva smears on his emerald scales. His slit pupils dilated as he looked at the restrained boy, flicking his tongue to sense the tension in the air. “Could report him,” Brock thought, though his tone was uncertain. Then, more softly: "Or we could have some fun first.”

Jax’s ears twitched at that, his tail flicking involuntarily. Troy’s stomach dropped as the hyena’s amber eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something much more threatening. Recognition. Hunger. “Ohh,” Jax exhaled, a wider grin spreading across his face. His claws, which had been sheathed moments earlier, softly clicked against the tile as he crouched, gently guiding Troy’s chin with a single finger. “Now, that’s an idea.” His thumb traced the feline boy's lower lip, pressing lightly to indent the soft skin beneath the fur. “Bet he’d look real pretty on his knees.”

Troy jerked back violently, hitting his head against the shower wall. “Fuck you,” he growled, his legs slipping on the wet tile as he struggled. The tape kept his wrists painfully restrained, a cruel mockery of his brother’s final moments. “I’ll bite your fucking—” Jax gripped his spiked hair, pulling his head forward. Pain shot through his scalp as the hyena forced him down to his knees, the cold tile pressing against his shins. Troy’s breath caught—not only from the sting but also from Jax’s overwhelming scent, a mix of sweat, spearmint, and musk, thick enough to fill his senses.

“Cooperate,” Jax growled, pressing Troy’s face into the wiry golden fur of his groin. The feline boy gagged as the hyena’s cock swelled against his cheek, hot and heavy, already leaking precum that smeared across his muzzle. “Or we’ll hold you down and do it anyway.” His claws pricked Troy’s nape; not enough to break skin, but enough to promise worse. Behind them, Brock’s tail slapped against the floor, his scaled feet slapping toward the lockers.

The lizard came back with a bottle of industrial-grade lube, the kind trainers used for deep-tissue massages, its cap already off. Troy flattened his ears at the wet squelch as Brock squeezed a thick glob into his hand. The smell hit him first—clinical and sterile, like a hospital—before the cold sensation against his exposed backside made him jerk. “Easy,” Brock said softly, claws pressing into Troy’s hips to keep him still. The feline boy’s breathing became short and panicked as thick fingers smeared the lube lower, opening him with rough precision.

Jax’s grip tightened in Troy’s hair, forcing his muzzle flush against the hyena’s swollen cock. The head pulsed against his lips, salty precum beading at the slit. “Open,” Jax ordered, voice rough. When Troy clenched his jaw, the hyena’s free hand found his throat, thumb pressing just shy of crushing his windpipe. “Last warning, kitten.”

Brock’s claws kneaded Troy’s hips behind him, scales scraping against fur as he spread the feline’s cheeks. The cold lube trickled down his tailbone, but Brock’s thick, stiff cock pressed against his skin. Troy shuddered as the broad head nudged his entrance, the relentless pressure causing his claws to scrape futilely against the tile.

Jax’s fingers twisted tighter in Troy’s hair. “Open,” he repeated, voice thick. Something in the hyena’s tone, the raw hunger, made Troy’s jaw slacken instinctively. Jax shoved forward without hesitation, his cockhead breaching Troy’s lips, the taste of salt and musk flooding his tongue. Troy gagged, drool slicking his chin as Jax bottomed out, the wiry golden fur of the hyena’s groin tickling his nose.

Behind him, Brock exhaled sharply, a hiss of scales shifting, before driving forward in one brutal thrust. Troy’s scream muffled around Jax’s cock, his body arching as the lizard’s thickness stretched him impossibly wide. The burn was white-hot, lube doing little to ease the stretch of Brock’s ridged underside dragging against his walls.

Jax groaned, hips jerking shallowly into Troy’s throat. “Fuck, he’s tight,” the hyena rasped, claws pricking the feline’s scalp. The scent of Troy’s fear—sharp and sour—mixed with the musk of their sweat, heavy in the humid shower air. Brock chuckled darkly, his scaled chest pressing against Troy’s back as he bottomed out, pelvis flush against the feline’s ass.

Brock’s forked tongue flicked against Troy’s ear. “Tighter than I expected,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement. His hips pulled back agonizingly slowly, ridges dragging against Troy’s inner walls, before slamming home again. The impact forced Troy forward, Jax’s cock hitting the back of his throat—salty precum spilled over his tongue, thick and bitter.

Troy’s claws scraped uselessly, bound wrists flexing behind him. Every thrust from Brock jolted his body like a puppet, forcing choked gags around Jax’s girth. Tears pricked at his blue eyes, streaking through his black fur. The hyena’s musk filled his nose, earthy and pungent, mixed with the sterile sting of lube and his own rising panic.

Jax groaned, thrusting shallowly into Troy’s throat. “Damn, he’s got a mouth like a vice,” he panted, golden tail lashing behind him. His claws flexed against Troy’s scalp, not quite drawing blood—yet. The feline boy’s ears flattened as Jax’s hips stuttered, the hyena’s cock pulsing hot against his tongue. “Gonna…fuck…” Jax’s warning was cut off by his own snarl as he came, thick spurts flooding Troy’s mouth. The feline gagged, but Jax held him firm, forcing him to swallow every bitter drop.

Behind him, Brock’s scales rasped against Troy’s sweat-slicked back with each thrust. The lizard’s breath came in sharp hisses, his grip bruising on Troy’s hips. “Feels even better when they fight,” Brock growled, his slit pupils blown wide. Troy whimpered around Jax’s softening cock as Brock’s pace turned erratic, his ridged shaft dragging mercilessly against Troy’s oversensitive walls. The lizard’s claws dug in deeper, drawing pinpricks of blood just as he slammed home one final time. Troy arched violently as Brock’s heat flooded him, the lizard’s low groan vibrating through his spine.

Brock gave it a minute, just long enough for Troy to feel the humiliating stretch of cum already leaking around his rim before pulling out with a wet pop. The feline gasped as thick globs oozed from his loosened hole, dripping onto the tile between his knees. Jax chuckled darkly, finally withdrawing his spent cock from Troy’s mouth with a slick sound. “Roll him over,” the hyena ordered, already stroking himself back to hardness. Brock obeyed, flipping Troy onto his back with a rough shove that knocked the breath from his lungs.

Troy’s bound wrists dug into his spine as Jax came to kneel between his splayed legs, golden fur glistening under the fluorescents. The hyena’s cock twitched against his thigh, half-hard again and smearing precum across Troy’s black fur. Jax grabbed the lube bottle from Brock’s scaled hand, squeezing a thick stream directly onto his own cock. The cold gel made him hiss, but his amber eyes never left Troy’s face as he spread it with rough strokes. “Gonna feel this properly now,” Jax growled, gripping Troy’s hips hard enough to bruise. His claws pricked skin as he yanked the feline’s pelvis up, exposing Troy’s leaking hole to the humid air.

Brock’s shadow loomed over them, his reptilian cock already stiffening again; thick veins visible beneath the mottled scales. He spat into his palm, stroking lazily as he watched Jax position himself. Troy twisted away instinctively, but Brock’s clawed foot pinned his shoulder to the tile, the rough pads scraping his fur. “Hold still,” the lizard murmured, tail flicking in amusement. “Or it’ll hurt worse.”

Jax didn’t wait. He sheathed himself in one brutal thrust, the stretch forcing a ragged scream from Troy’s throat. The hyena’s golden fur matted with sweat as he pistoned into the feline’s abused hole, his claws leaving crescent moons in Troy’s thighs. “Fuck, you’re still tight,” Jax panted, hips stuttering. The slurping squelch of lube and cum echoed off the tiles, mingling with Troy’s choked whimpers.

Brock’s scaled fingers suddenly gripped Troy’s jaw, tilting his head back. The lizard’s cock slapped wetly against his cheek, precum smearing his tear-streaked fur. “Open up,” Brock rumbled—not a request. Troy’s lips trembled, but resistance was futile; the lizard’s thick girth filled his mouth before he could protest, the musky taste of reptilian salt flooding his tongue.

Jax’s thrusts grew erratic, the hyena’s golden fur bristling as he bottomed out with a snarl. Troy’s body jerked between them, impaled at both ends, his muffled cries vibrating around Brock’s shaft. The lizard’s claws scraped his scalp, forcing him deeper onto the ridged length.

Brock’s tail lashed against the tile. “Swallow,” he ordered, scales rasping against Troy’s cheeks as his cock pulsed. The feline’s throat convulsed around the bitter flood, tears spilling freely. Jax followed with a guttural groan—heat flooding Troy’s insides.

When the hyena withdrew, cum leaked onto the tiles in thick strands. Troy’s stomach heaved. His own cock stood rigid against his belly, twitching pathetically. The boys laugh, and for the next two hours, they raped Troy. Having their fun while they torment the feline.

After two hours, they were finally done. Troy lay limp on the shower floor, limbs splayed like a discarded toy, his fur matted with sweat, cum, and the sharp sting of lube. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow. His throat burned from Brock’s rough use, his ass throbbed from Jax’s relentless pounding, and his wrists—still bound—ached from hours of straining against the tape.

Jax exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he stood. His golden-brown fur was slick with sweat, his cock now soft and glistening against his thigh. He glanced down at Troy with an expression that wasn’t quite pity—something closer to satisfaction. “Fuck,” he muttered, scratching at the side of his muzzle. “That was something.”

Brock leaned against the wall, his reptilian cock already tucked away, scales shifting as he stretched. His slit pupils flicked to Troy, then away—like he couldn’t decide whether to acknowledge him or pretend he was already gone. “We can’t just leave him here,” Brock murmured, voice low enough that Troy barely caught it.

Jax snorted, wiping his muzzle with the back of his hand. His golden-brown fur was still damp, sticking in clumps where Troy had clawed at him. “Obviously,” he muttered. Then, quieter: “But we can’t report him either.” His tail flicked, brushing the tile with a soft tap. “Not after... that.”

Brock exhaled through his nose—a dry, reptilian sound—and tilted his head toward the corner where the cleaning supplies gathered in shadow. Jax followed, their bare feet slapping against the wet floor. Troy’s ears twitched, his breathing ragged as he tried to catch their whispers. But they spoke too low, their heads bent together—Jax’s spiked mohair grazing Brock’s scaled shoulder.

“Easy,” Brock murmured, his slit pupils contracting as he flicked a glance at Troy’s limp form. “Same as the brother.” His claw traced a slow line across his own throat. “No mess. No witnesses.” His tail coiled tighter around the mop handle propped nearby, the spade tip tapping a silent rhythm against the tile. Jax’s golden-brown fur bristled along his spine, his claws clicking against his palm—once, twice—before he nodded.

Brock left without another word, the shower door hissing shut behind him. The silence stretched, broken only by the drip of water from the showerhead and Troy’s ragged breathing. Jax crouched, his knee popping as he reached for the feline’s bound wrists. The athletic tape tore free with a sticky rip, revealing raw, pink skin beneath. “Up,” Jax ordered, his voice rougher than before. His claws pricked Troy’s shoulder as he hauled the feline upright, steering him toward the spray.

Troy stumbled, his legs numb from hours on the tile. The water hit his back like needles—too hot, but he didn’t flinch. He braced his palms against the wall, head bowed as the stream sluiced pink-tinged water down his thighs. Jax lingered by the drain, tail flicking. The hyena’s gaze burned hotter than the water. “Scrub,” he muttered, nudging a bar of soap toward Troy’s foot. It smelled industrial, like bleach and fake pine.

The feline's claws retracted as he worked the soap into his fur, lather foaming murky where Brock’s cum had dried in clumps. His movements were mechanical; his shoulders hunched against the spray. Jax watched—not helping, not touching—just tracking every twitch of Troy’s tail, every shudder as water found raw patches where tape had ripped fur. When Troy finally turned off the faucet, his breath hitched. The air was cold now, clinging to his damp pelt.

Jax tossed him a towel—stiff from the dryer, smelling of industrial bleach—without meeting his eyes. Troy caught it clumsily, the fabric scraping his palms. He didn’t dry himself so much as smear the water around, black fur spiking in uneven clumps. The hyena’s nostrils flared at the scent of Troy’s fear, sour beneath the soap.

The shower door hissed open again before Troy could wrap the towel around his waist. Brock’s scaled feet slapped the tile, his mottled green tail dragging something coiled behind him—rope, thick and hemp-scratchy. “Ready,” the lizard murmured, tossing Jax a strip of black cloth. The hyena caught it one-handed, his claws snagging the fabric.

Troy’s ears flattened. “Drop it,” Jax ordered, nodding at the towel still clutched in Troy’s shaking fists. The feline’s grip tightened, his claws pricking the rough fabric. Brock exhaled sharply—a dry, impatient sound—before lunging. The lizard’s scaled palm cracked against Troy’s wrist, knocking the towel loose. It hit the tile with a wet slap, exposing Troy’s battered body fully again.

Brock didn’t give Troy time to react. The lizard spun him effortlessly, scaled fingers pinning Troy’s wrists together at the small of his back. The rope rasped against fur as Brock looped it tight, each twist biting deeper into flesh. Troy hissed at the burn—not just from the rough hemp, but from Brock’s claws scraping his spine as the lizard knotted the final loop with practiced efficiency.

Jax’s shadow fell over them, the hyena’s scent—musky and thick with exertion—washing over Troy’s muzzle before the black cloth even touched his face. The fabric smelled like sweat and detergent, rough against Troy’s damp fur as Jax draped it over his eyes. The feline flinched when the hyena’s claws grazed his ears, tying the blindfold snug enough to press his eyelashes against his cheeks. Darkness swallowed Troy’s vision, amplifying the ache in his shoulders from the rope and the dull throb between his legs.

Brock’s scales rasped against the tile as he stepped away, his footsteps retreating toward the door. The shower room air shifted—cooler now, smelling of chlorine and the metallic tang of old pipes. Troy’s whiskers twitched at the faint creak of hinges, then the distant slap of reptilian feet on linoleum. Gone.

Jax’s breath warmed the nape of Troy’s neck, the hyena’s muzzle hovering just above his fur. "Only chance, kitten," he murmured, his claws tracing the rope, digging into Troy’s wrists. His voice was oddly soft—almost regretful—but his grip tightened as he leaned closer. "Say you’ll be mine. Kneel when I tell you. Take my cock when I want it." His tongue flicked out, wetting the shell of Troy’s ear. "Do that, and I will walk you out of here alive."

Troy’s tail lashed against his thighs, the damp fur sticking in clumps. He bared his teeth behind the blindfold, the taste of Brock’s cum still coating his throat. "Eat shit," he rasped, voice raw from screaming. The words came out cracked but clear, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood. "I’d rather die."

Jax exhaled, long and slow, his breath hot against Troy’s nape. The hyena’s claws tightened in the rope binding Troy’s wrists, the rough hemp biting deeper. "Careful what you wish for, kitten," he murmured, lips brushing the feline’s ear. Then, quieter: "You just might get it."

The locker room reeked of mildew and old sweat, with fluorescent lights buzzing like distant hornets. Troy’s bare feet flinched on the cold floor, and his whiskers twitched from the scent of bleach and a metallic odor—maybe rust or dried blood. Jax guided him forward with a hand on his shoulder blades, claws grazing fur whenever Troy hesitated. The blindfold heightened every sound: a leaky faucet drip, a locker door creaking open, and the wet slap of Jax’s bare feet on the tile.

Then the air changed—colder, wider, carrying the crisp bite of night and freshly cut grass. The football field. Troy’s breath hitched as his toes curled against dew-slick turf, his ears straining for Brock’s telltale scales rasping against something. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Step up,” Jax growled, shoving Troy forward until his shins bumped against wood—the stool, wobbling under his weight. The feline’s claws dug into nothing as Jax forced him onto the unstable perch. Above him, rope creaked against metal. The noose. Troy’s stomach lurched as the rough fibers brushed his muzzle, the knot bumping his collarbone.

Brock’s scaled hands lifted the noose without ceremony, sliding it over Troy’s head with a precision that spoke of practice. The hemp scratched his fur, settling snug against his throat. The lizard adjusted it with slow, deliberate tugs—tightening just enough to make Troy’s breath hitch but not yet cut off. Then, with a sudden jerk, Brock yanked the rope upward. Troy gasped, his toes curling as the upward force lifted him onto his tiptoes, the stool trembling beneath him.

Jax chuckled, claws hooking under the blindfold’s edge. He ripped it away in one swift motion, letting it flutter to the grass like a discarded flag. Troy blinked against the stadium lights—blinding after minutes in darkness—but the sight that crystallized before him was worse: the same endzone pylons, the same chalk lines, the same patch of turf where Derek’s body had crumpled. Jax leaned in, his breath hot and rank with laughter. “Full circle, huh?” The hyena’s tail flicked against Troy’s bare thigh. “Brother got the shot in the head. You get the noose. Poetic.”

Brock’s claws rasped against the rope as he secured the final knot with a surgeon’s precision. The lizard stepped back, tail curling around Troy’s discarded sneaker. “Difference is,” he mused, slitted eyes tracking the trembling stool beneath Troy’s feet, “your brother died a captain.” His tongue flicked out, tasting the air. “You’ll die a—” The pause stretched, deliberate. “What’s the word for someone who gets fucked stupid before the drop?”

Jax’s laughter barked across the field, sharp as a gunshot. Troy’s claws flexed against nothing, his tail lashing wildly. The noose chafed against his windpipe with every panicked breath. Below, the grass shimmered under stadium lights—dewdrops catching the glow like scattered glass.

“Whore,” Jax supplied, golden eyes gleaming. His claws tapped against the wooden stool, testing its wobble. “Right?” The hyena leaned in, nostrils flaring as he inhaled Troy’s fear. “Or maybe ‘bitch.’ Depends how much pride you’ve got left.” His muzzle split into a grin, canines glinting. “Which, judging by the way you came on my cock earlier... not much.”

Troy’s tail lashed violently, the fur along his spine bristling. “Go fuck yourself,” he spat—but his voice cracked, the noose stealing the force from his words.

Jax’s foot drummed against the stool, making it wobble precariously. “Last chance, kitten,” the hyena purred, leaning in until his golden muzzle hovered inches from Troy’s face. His breath smelled like stale beer and raw meat. “Say yes, and I’ll cut this rope right now.” A claw traced the feline’s collarbone, leaving a pink welt. “Be my toy. My cute little fighter.” His tongue flicked out, wetting Troy’s nose—a mockery of affection. “I’ll even let you wear clothes sometimes.”

Troy recoiled, the noose biting into his throat. His tail lashed against his thighs, damp fur sticking in clumps. “You’re fucking delusional,” he rasped, voice raw from screaming and rope-burn. His blue eyes burned with defiance despite the tears streaking his cheeks. “I’d rather hang.”

Jax froze, his golden fur bristling along his spine. For a heartbeat, his claws flexed—like he might grab Troy’s muzzle and shake the words loose. Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose. “Damn,” the hyena muttered, shaking his head. His ears flattened briefly, tail flicking in something almost like respect. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” He stepped back, claws clicking against the turf. “Fun while it lasted, kitten.”

The stool wobbled as Jax’s foot hooked around its leg. Troy’s breath hitched, his toes curling against the wood grain. He didn’t look down. Didn’t beg. Just stared straight at Jax—blue eyes burning through the hyena’s grin until it faltered.

Then Jax kicked.

The stool skittered across the turf with a hollow thud, leaving Troy dangling mid-air—legs cycling wildly, toes curling against nothing. The rope snapped taut with a sickening creak, cutting off his gasp before it could fully form. Blood roared in Troy’s ears as his vision pulsed red at the edges, his claws unsheathing instinctively despite the binds. His thighs flexed, knees jerking upward in futile spasms, but the noose only bit deeper, fraying fur and skin alike.

A wet, strangled noise escaped Troy’s throat as his cock twitched against his belly—half-hard despite the searing pain. His body didn’t care about dignity now; it thrummed with adrenaline and the primal urge to survive, pumping blood to every extremity in a last-ditch rebellion. Precum beaded at his tip, glistening under the stadium lights while his toes clenched and unclenched in the air like a drowning swimmer.

Jax tilted his head, eyes tracking the feline’s desperate spasms. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t taunt. Just watched with an intensity that bordered on reverence as Troy’s black fur rippled with muscle contractions—beautiful even in death throes. Brock’s slit pupils dilated, his tongue flicking out to taste the scent of Troy’s fear. The lizard’s claws flexed, scraping against his own scaled thighs as if restraining himself from reaching out to touch.

Troy’s vision tunneled—spots dancing at the edges, the stadium lights blurring into molten gold. His pulse hammered against the rope like a trapped bird, each frantic beat only tightening the noose’s grip. His toes curled upwards instinctively, claws extending in silent protest, but the rope refused mercy. Saliva dripped from his muzzle, thin strands swinging like pendulum weights beneath him. His cock twitched pathetically against his stomach, still slick with precum —betraying him even now.

Thoughts unraveled in jagged fragments: Mom’s rose-scented soap clinging to her apron. Dad’s calloused hands adjusting his football cleats before junior varsity tryouts. His baby brother’s laughter rang through the kitchen as Troy sneaked him extra pancakes. He should’ve hugged them longer. Should’ve swallowed his pride and stayed home. Should’ve—

The noose twitched, interrupting his regrets with a fresh wave of agony. Troy’s claws scraped uselessly against his back, leaving pink trails in the black fur. His lungs burned like they’d been doused in gasoline and lit aflame. Still, his legs pistoned—knees jerking upward in savage, uncoordinated kicks as if his body hadn’t yet accepted what his mind knew: this was how it ended. On this field. With these smells—freshly cut grass and the coppery tang of his own blood where the rope sawed deeper.

He wouldn’t scream. Not for them. But air bubbled wetly in his throat anyway, a primal sound forced out by collapsing tissue. Below, dew glittered on the turf like millions of tiny eyes watching. The same eyes that had watched Derek’s skull explode under the executioner’s bullet. At least big brother hadn’t choked. The thought was bitter, stupid—but Troy clung to it as his vision fractured into prismatic shards.

His erection twitched violently, smearing precum across his abs with each desperate kick. The sensation was obscene—pleasure threading through the agony like poison in honey. His balls tightened against his thighs, the ache building despite the noose’s grip. His body no longer cared about dignity. It wanted release. One last fuck-you to Jax and Brock before the darkness swallowed him whole.

Jax’s claws dug into his own thighs, golden eyes tracking the way Troy’s cock pulsed in time with his spasms. The hyena’s nostrils flared, drinking in the musk of sweat and terror and the salt-sharp tang of precum. "Look at him," he rasped, tail lashing. "Fucking look at him." His voice cracked, as if he were the one choking. Brock’s tongue flicked out, tasting the air where Troy’s scent coiled thickest. The lizard’s slit pupils dilated to black pits, his claws scraping furrows in the turf.

Troy’s vision pulsed red-black-red, the stadium lights strobing like a deranged heartbeat. His tongue lolled, saliva dripping in ropes onto his chest. His claws raked uselessly at his back, shredding fur but finding no purchase against the hemp. His thighs pistoned—knees jerking upward in savage, uncoordinated kicks—but the noose only bit deeper. Blood welled where the fibers sawed into his windpipe, hot and metallic against his fur. His toes curled and uncurled, claws extending in silent protest against the nothingness beneath him.

Troy’s cock was fully hard now that it was painful. His body had surrendered to its primal wiring, pumping blood where it mattered least. Precum dribbled down his shaft, glistening under the stadium lights. His balls tightened against his thighs, pulsing with every ragged attempt at breath. The orgasm built like a tidal wave—inexorable, inevitable—rising through his hips and curling his spine backward despite the rope’s chokehold. His cock jerked violently, spraying streaks of cum in wild arcs across his stomach, his chest, the grass below. Somewhere in the haze, he heard Jax swear—half-groan, half-laugh—as a pearly strand caught the hyena’s shoulder.

His climax tore through him with shuddering force, hips bucking against nothing. Semen flecked the painted endzone line, mingling with dew like some grotesque baptism. Troy’s vision whited out—pleasure and pain fusing into a single, searing point. His toes curled inward, claws scraping air as his body spent itself in helpless spasms. The noose bit deeper with every contraction, stealing what little breath remained.

Jax’s claws dug into Brock’s scaled shoulder, the hyena’s golden eyes locked on Troy’s twitching form. “Fuck,” he breathed—halfway between reverence and hunger. His tail lashed against the lizard’s thigh. “Look at him. Still fucking hard.” The feline’s cock pulsed weakly, dribbling the last of his seed onto his own abs.

Brock’s tongue flicked out, tasting the musk of Troy’s dying release in the air. “Won’t last,” he murmured, slitted pupils dilating as the feline’s kicks grew sluggish. His scaled fingers curled possessively around Jax’s wrist, claws pricking fur. “Come home with me.” The invitation was rough, urgent—his erection pressing against the hyena’s hipbone. “Let me ride you ’til sunrise.”

Jax’s ears twitched, golden gaze flicking between Troy’s spasming form and Brock’s heated stare. A slow grin split his muzzle. “Only if your old man fries up those pepper-bacon strips,” he purred, nipping the lizard’s jaw. The kiss that followed was all teeth—Brock’s forked tongue sliding against Jax’s canines while Troy’s choked gurgles underscored their hunger. Somewhere above them, the rope creaked.

Brock pulled back with a wet smack, nostrils flaring at the scent of Troy’s release still clinging to the air. His claw traced the hyena’s lower lip. “Dad’ll cook anything I tell him to,” he rasped, tail flicking toward the stadium tunnel. “Just gotta hose the stupid cat’s stink off the tiles first.” He stepped away, scales rasping against turf as he turned—never glancing back at Troy’s twitching legs.

Jax stayed.

The hyena's claws dug into his own thighs as he watched Troy's kicking grow weaker—legs twitching like a broken marionette's, toes curling inward with each dying spasm. The feline's blue eyes had rolled back, showing only whites beneath fluttering lids. Spit and cum streaked his chest, the mess glistening under stadium lights like some grotesque trophy. Jax exhaled sharply through his nose, tail lashing as he stepped closer.

"Shoulda said yes," Jax muttered, claws scraping the turf as he circled the dangling feline. He reached up, gripping Troy's limp hips to still the fading tremors. The hyena's thumb rubbed circles into the feline's hipbone—gentle, almost affectionate—before trailing down to brush the softening length between Troy's thighs. "Would've fed you well. Let you sleep in my bed." His voice cracked oddly as he leaned in, muzzle pressing against Troy's sweat-slicked shoulder. "Even bought you clothes and video games to keep you happy."

Troy's breath hitched—more reflex than response—but his ears twitched weakly at the words. Something wet dripped onto Jax's paw from the feline's slack muzzle. Saliva or blood, maybe both. The hyena licked it off without hesitation, eyes never leaving Troy's face. "Stubborn little fuck," he rasped, claws digging crescents into Troy's thighs. "All that fight wasted." His tongue flicked out, lapping at the thin red lines where the noose had split fur. "Your mom got another kitten at home? Twelve or thirteen years old?" The question hung in the humid air between them, punctuated by the slow creak of rope fibers straining. "Wonder if he's got your eyes."

Silence answered him. Troy's limbs had gone still, swaying slightly in the night breeze like a grotesque wind chime. His blue eyes—once sharp enough to cut glass—were clouded over now, pupils blown wide in death. Jax exhaled sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring at the lingering musk of fear and spent arousal clinging to Troy's fur. The hyena's claws flexed, scraping against Troy's cooling skin as he dragged his touch upward—over hipbones, past ribs, finally cupping the feline's jaw. His thumb brushed Troy's slack lips, still parted around a tongue gone purple.

"I’ll find out soon enough," Jax murmured, pressing a kiss to Troy's blood-slicked forehead. His tongue darted out, tasting copper and salt. Behind him, the stadium lights buzzed like angry hornets, casting their glow over the tableau: a predator crouched beneath his kill, worshipping what he'd destroyed. The hyena's tail lashed once, twice—then stilled as an idea took root. His golden eyes gleamed as he traced the curve of Troy's ear with a claw. "Everyone's got a price," he breathed against the feline's fur. "Even dead boys' moms." Jax leaves Troy dangling body as he goes to the locker room to meet Brock.

Hours Later.

Dawn crept across the football field like a guilty thing, its pale fingers curling around the bleachers before daring to touch the body. The janitor’s flashlight still lay discarded on the turf where he’d dropped it—its beam catching the dew-tipped grass and the slow drip of fluids from Troy’s dangling toes. Someone had cut him down before the cops arrived, leaving his corpse splayed in the endzone like a discarded jersey. His blue eyes were open, frosted with morning moisture, staring at the pylons where his brother had bled out weeks prior.

The uniforms took photos first—flashbulbs popping against Troy’s bruised throat—before zipping him into a bag that smelled of industrial detergent and old blood. One cop whistled under his breath, nudging the feline’s stiffening tail aside with his boot. "Goddamn shame," he muttered, jotting notes on a crumpled pad. "Kid had a scholarship offer from West Ridge, you know." His partner just shrugged, tossing the clipboard onto the gurney before slamming the ambulance doors shut. The real paperwork would bury that detail anyway.

They arrested the groundskeepers before lunchtime—two middle-aged mammals already sweating through their polygraphs. By evening, the DA’s press conference played on every screen: grainy security footage of the locker room, pixelated torsos shoving a blurred figure against the showers. The audience cheered when the district attorney praised the football program’s resilience.

Jax scored three touchdowns that Friday, his gold fur streaked with Troy’s number in black war paint. The hyena licked it off during the post-game interview, grinning at the camera. “Dedicated to a fallen rival,” he lied smoothly, tail flicking toward the freshly painted endzone where forensics had bleached the turf. Brock’s claws dug into his shoulder pads—possessive, approving—as ESPN circled the moment for their “Friday Night Heroes” segment.

The school board wired Troy’s parents a check marked “athletic scholarship reimbursement” with no return address. His mother used it to buy Derek and Troy's headstones; his father drank it away in a motel bathtub. Neither noticed the duplicate deposit—smaller, untraceable—that appeared in their account the same day Jax signed his letter of intent to Michigan State. The accompanying memo read simply: ‘For your youngest’s tuition.’