Kota woke to a hand shaking his shoulder, gentle at first, then insistent. His body felt like it had been run over by a truck and left in the sun to bake. Every muscle ached, especially the ones he didn't even know he had—inner thighs burning, lower back screaming, cock so oversensitive it twitched painfully at the slightest shift of fabric against skin. He was sprawled across the velvet sectional where Kin had finally collapsed on top of him an hour earlier, both of them out cold in a sweaty, cum-sticky heap. The purple LEDs still pulsed overhead, slower now, like the room itself was catching its breath.
"Wake up," Corey's voice cut through the fog, low and teasing.
No response. Kota's eyelids felt glued shut.
"Wake up, cutie."
Still nothing. He tried to sink deeper into the cushions, chasing unconsciousness.
"Come onnnnnn."
A pause. Then, closer to his ear: "I'm stepping on your balls if you don't wake up."
Kota jolted upright so fast the room spun. "Jesus—fuck—don't!"
Corey knelt on the rug in front of him, grinning like a fox who'd just raided the henhouse. His long white hair was still messy from earlier, sticking up in wild tufts, and he was wearing nothing but the baggy gray jeans slung low on his hips.
"Easy, big man. You look like death warmed over."
Kota snatched the bottle without a word, twisted the cap off, and chugged half of it in three long gulps. The cold shocked his throat, grounded him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stretched, slowly, carefully feeling every vertebra pop and every overworked muscle protest. His tank was gone. Completely fucking gone. Five orgasms—Carter, Charlie, Corey, Gideon, Kin—had drained him dry. His balls felt like bruised plums, his cock raw and hypersensitive even soft, and a dull, throbbing exhaustion sat heavy behind his eyes. He wasn't sure he could get hard again if the world depended on it.
Corey tilted his head, grin softening into something almost fond. "Want me to feed it to you like a mama bird? Open wide."
Kota snorted despite himself. "Pass." He took another long drink, then handed the bottle back. "Thanks."
Corey shrugged, still kneeling close enough that Kota could smell vanilla body spray mixed with sex and sweat. "Anytime. You earned it."
Beckett's voice cut across the room, flat and clinical as ever. "Recess concluded. Mort initiates Phase 5."
Mort, who had been slouched on the bean bag scrolling his phone like the whole ritual was beneath him, froze. His blunt bob haircut didn't move, but his shoulders tensed visibly. He looked up slowly, dark eyes narrowing. "Wait. Me? Now?"
"Alphabetical order is non-negotiable," Beckett said, already holding a fresh sterile Q-tip between two fingers like a surgical instrument. "Energetic commitment clause was agreed upon at intake. Participation ensures payment. Non-compliance results in aura dissonance and forfeiture of compensation."
Mort's jaw clenched so hard Kota heard the teeth grind. "I'm just here for the hundred bucks, not therapy." He stood anyway, movements sharp and angry, like every step cost him dignity. "This is fucking ridiculous."
He stripped aggressively crop sweatshirt yanked over his head and thrown across the room, shiny black parachute pants shoved down and kicked off in a heap. No underwear. He stood there naked for a second, pale skin gleaming under the LEDs, short frame compact and tense, fat ass curving out dramatically from that narrow waist. Then he marched to the sectional, dropped onto his back with legs spread wide, arms crossed tight over his chest, and glared at the ceiling like it personally owed him money.
"Make it quick, pretty boy," he snarled at Kota. "I'm not here to fall in love."
Kota stared down at him, still half-sprawled from the earlier blackout. His body screamed in protest sore, drained, emotionally raw from Kin's frantic paranoia-fueled marathon.
But something about Mort's glare, the way he kept his arms crossed like armor, the bitchy defiance even while spread open and vulnerable… it sparked something. Kota's cock twitched, then thickened slowly against his thigh. The death stares somehow helped. They pissed him off just enough to override the exhaustion.
He moved forward, knees sinking into the cushion between Mort's thighs. No preamble. He lined upstill slick from earlier and pushed in rough, one long, steady thrust that didn't stop until he bottomed out. Mort hissed through clenched teeth, back arching off the velvet, but he didn't tell him to stop. Didn't push him away. Just cursed under his breath, low and vicious.
"Fuck—asshole—warn a guy—"
Kota pulled back and slammed in again, harder. "You said quick."
Mort's glare didn't waver, but his voice cracked on the next thrust. "Fuck—deeper—don't half-ass it, you prick—"
Kota obliged. He hooked Mort's knees over his elbows, folded him in half, and fucked down into him with short, brutal strokes. The angle was merciless—every plunge dragging against Mort's prostate, making his thighs tremble despite the crossed arms and the glare. No moans at first. Just curses. Lots of them.
"Shit—fuck—cunt—harder you bastard—don't you dare slow down—"
But then Kota shifted, grinding up on every upstroke, hitting that spot dead-on. Mort's glare cracked. His arms flew up, hands gripping Kota's biceps hard enough to bruise, nails digging in. Eyes squeezed shut. A short, sharp cry escaped before he bit it back.
"Fuck—there—right fucking there—"
He turned total slut mode. The bitchy front shattered. Moans spilled out—high, desperate, nothing like the controlled snarls from earlier.
"I'm a slut—fuck—your slut—fill me up—please—god—breed me—need it—"
Corey's head snapped around from where he was lounging on the rug.
"Holy shit. Mort?"
Carter's glittery eyes went wide. "Oh my god, he's begging."
Charlie whispered frantically, "This is iconic he's literally calling himself a slut right now—"
Even Toby peeked through his fingers, stunned.
Mort didn't care. He was gone hips bucking up to meet every thrust, hole clenching greedily, voice breaking on every word.
"Deeper—fuck—own me—please—cum inside—need to feel it—"
Kota sped up, chasing the edge through sheer force of will. Mort came almost angrily body locking tight, short sharp cry punching out before he bit his lip bloody to muffle it. Cum splattered across his own shiny black crop top in thick ropes, untouched cock jerking between them.
Kota pulled out at the last second, stroked twice, and finished across Mort's stomach—hot stripes painting pale skin and the black fabric. Mort immediately swiped two fingers through the mess, stared at the glistening digits for a second, then licked them clean while locking eyes with Kota in open challenge. The bitchiness flooded back instantly.
"Happy now?" he rasped, voice wrecked but sharp.
He stood wobbly, thighs shaking grabbed his parachute pants off the floor, and stormed toward the bathroom, muttering "fucking ritual bullshit" under his breath. But he didn't slam the door. He closed it quietly. Small progress.
Kota collapsed back against the cushions, panting hard, vision swimming. six down. Two to go. His body felt like it belonged to someone else—limp, used up, every nerve fried. The purple light pressed against his closed eyelids. He wasn't sure he could stand, let alone fuck again.
But the room waited. Beckett already held the next Q-tip, expression blank.
Phase 5 complete.
Kota dragged a hand over his face and tried not to think about the next name on the list.