Chapter 4: Breakfast of Champions
The kitchen light was too bright. It cut across the table, illuminating dust motes dancing over the cracked sugar bowl and the deep, worrying stain on the pine wood where a pot of abomination goo had once fused permanently with the finish. Amity Blight padded into the room, her socks whispering on the linoleum. She was still in her sleep clothes—a soft, oversized Hexside t-shirt that belonged to Luz and a pair of thin cotton shorts. Her lavender hair was mussed, and she squinted against the morning glare.
Camila sat at the head of the table, a mug of coffee clenched between both hands. She wasn’t drinking it. She was staring into the black liquid as if it held secrets, or perhaps a verdict. Her usually tidy dark hair was pulled back in a loose, haphazard bun, strands escaping to frame a face that was flushed, her brow faintly dewy. She wore a simple, button-up blouse, the pale blue fabric straining dramatically across her chest. The top two buttons were undone, revealing a deep, shadowed cleavage, and dark, damp spots were blooming around her nipples, the thin material doing little to hide the leak. Amity’s eyes flickered to them, then quickly away, a polite witch tuning out a human bodily function she didn’t understand.
“Morning, Camila,” Amity said, her voice still rough with sleep. She moved to the counter, grabbing a bowl.
“Buenos días, cariño,” Camila replied. Her voice was oddly thick, strained. She cleared her throat. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Mhm. Once Luz stopped hogging the blankets.” Amity smiled fondly, pouring cereal. The crunch of the grains was obscenely loud in the quiet kitchen. “Is she still asleep?”
“No,” Camila said, too quickly. She took a shuddering sip of coffee. “She… went to the store. For milk.”
Amity nodded, not questioning it. The fridge was always running low on something. She pulled out the carton of apple blood—a Boiling Isles staple she’d brought over—and poured it over her cereal. The crimson liquid soaked the flakes, turning them a soggy purple. She carried her bowl to the table, sliding into the chair directly across from Camila, and to the right of the other occupant.
The Collector beamed at her, their star-flecked eyes blinking with innocent delight. They were perched on a chair, legs swinging, dressed in their usual simple tunic and trousers. They looked like a porcelain doll, ethereal and out of place amid the mundane human kitchen clutter.
“Hi, Amity!” they chirped. “Your hair is all fluffy. Like a startled cat-bat!”
“Uh, thanks,” Amity said, a slight blush on her cheeks as she self-consciously smoothed a hand over her hair. She took a bite of cereal, the sweet-tart taste of apple blood filling her mouth. “What are you guys up to?”
“Oh, just talking,” the Collector said, their smile widening. One of their hands was resting on the table, idly tracing a pattern in a stray sprinkle of sugar. The other was beneath the table, out of sight.
A low, rhythmic thump echoed softly, a sound Amity’s sleep-addled brain registered as the old washing machine in the basement acting up again. Camila jumped slightly, a tiny gasp escaping her lips before she swallowed it down. Her knuckles were white around the coffee mug.
“You okay, Camila?” Amity asked around a mouthful of cereal.
“Sí, sí,” Camila breathed, forcing a smile. “Just… a lot on my mind. The clinic. And… everything.” Her free hand, the one not holding the mug, dipped below the table as well. Her shoulders tensed.
The Collector giggled, a light, airy sound. “Camila’s thinking about big things. Heavy things.” Their golden eyes sparkled with mischief. “You’re thinking about your big project at school, right, Amity? The one about… dimensional stabilizing runes?”
Amity’s eyes lit up. “Yeah! Actually, I had a breakthrough last night. I think if I recalibrate the secondary glyph array to account for the passive magical bleed-off in this realm, I can increase the stability window by like, fifteen percent!” She launched into an enthusiastic explanation, gesturing with her spoon. She was in her element, talking magic, completely unaware of the universe existing beneath the scarred wooden tabletop just inches from her knees.
Beneath the heavy damask tablecloth, it was a different world. A dark, hot, wet world.
Luz Noceda was on her knees, her nose pressed into the rough fabric of the Collector’s trousers. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, precum, and her own spit. Her jaw ached with a profound, stretching agony. The Collector’s cock was buried to the root in her throat, an impossible, throbbing intrusion that made her eyes water and her vision speckle with black stars. It wasn't just big; it was a grotesque, beautiful weapon of flesh, veined like marble and hot as a forge. The head nudged the entrance to her stomach with every shallow, possessive thrust the Collector made.
Glrk. Glrk. Glrk.
The sounds were muffled by the cloth and the steady crunch-crunch-crunch of Amity’s cereal, but to Luz, they were deafening. Saliva slicked her chin, dripping onto her chest. Her small breasts were bare, her sleep shirt rucked up around her neck. One of the Collector’s feet, bare and pale, was planted on her shoulder, holding her in place. Not that she was trying to escape.
Her own hand was between her legs, fingers frantically working her soaked, hairy cunt. The coarse curls were matted with her juices. Every time the Collector shoved forward, the base of his shaft rubbed against her knuckles, and a fresh gush of arousal would coat her fingers. She was chasing her own climax, silently, desperately, while she served him. The conflicting realities—Amity’s voice chattering about runes above, and the brutal face-fucking below—smashed together in her head, creating a feedback loop of shame and electric, unbearable pleasure.
The Collector’s other hand wasn’t idle. It was under Camila’s long skirt, which was hiked up around her waist. Camila had no panties on. She hadn’t worn any since the incident in the laundry room, her pussy too sensitive, her body constantly on edge. The Collector’s slender fingers were buried knuckle-deep in her bushy, soaking cunt, curling and scraping inside her with a casual, ownership.
Camila bit her lip, hard. She could feel the rough pad of his thumb circling her clit, applying a maddening, inconsistent pressure. She was so full. Full of his seed from before, full of his fingers now. Her swollen breasts ached, a dull, heavy throb that peaked into a sharp pang each time a new trickle of milk leaked from her nipples, staining her blouse further. She was straddling her chair, trying to keep her hips still, but every twist of his fingers made her jerk. The chair leg squeaked softly against the floor.
“—and then the tertiary conduit has to be made of purified abomination clay, or the whole matrix just collapses into primordial ooze,” Amity continued, waving her spoon for emphasis. She took another big bite. “It’s so cool. Eda says it’s never been done before on this side of the portal.”
“Wow,” the Collector said, their voice a perfect mimicry of fascinated awe. Their hips bucked upwards, smoothly, pushing another inch of cock down Luz’s straining throat. Luz’s body convulsed, a series of gagging shudders that traveled through the floorboards. The Collector’s starry eyes never left Amity’s face. “You’re so smart, Amity.”
Camila moaned. It was a low, choked sound, barely audible. She disguised it as a cough, doubling over for a second. Her face was crimson.
“You getting sick, Camila?” Amity asked, concern finally cutting through her academic fervor.
“No, no, mija,” Camila managed, voice trembling. “Just… went down the wrong way.” Her hips gave an involuntary grind against the hand in her cunt. She was so close. The pressure was building in her core, a familiar, terrifying tsunami. The Collector’s fingers knew her body better than her own dead husband’s ever had. They crooked, pressing relentlessly on a spot inside her that made her see white.
Under the table, Luz felt the pace change. The Collector’s movements became sharper, more demanding. The foot on her shoulder pressed down. A silent command. More. Take it all. She redoubled her efforts, bobbing her head as best she could, her throat fluttering around the monstrous shaft. Her own fingers worked her clit in frantic circles. The obscene, wet sounds of her own cunt and the slick, gagging noises from her mouth were a symphony of debasement. She thought of Amity’s smile, her intelligent eyes, her trust. The thought, instead of stopping her, sent a vicious bolt of heat straight to her groin. She was cheating, right here, right now. And she was about to come from it.
“You should show me your notes later,” the Collector said conversationally to Amity. “I know lots about dimensional stuff. Older than runes.” His breathing was still even, but a faint, feverish pink had touched his pale cheeks. “It’s all about… tension. And release. You build up the pressure, and up, and up, in a closed system…” He paused, and beneath the table, he slammed his hips up once, hard, burying himself to the hilt. Luz’s nose smashed into his lower abdomen. A thick, salty pulse of precum flooded the back of her tongue. “…and then you just let it all go.”
As he said “go,” two things happened simultaneously.
His fingers inside Camila twisted violently, his thumb grinding down on her clit. The orgasm ripped through her with the force of a lightning strike. It was silent, total, a convulsive locking of every muscle in her body. Her cunt clenched around his fingers, gushing, a torrent of clear fluid that wasn’t just arousal. It splashed against his wrist, soaking the underside of the table and dripping onto the linoleum with a sound like steady rain. She slammed her other hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and unfocused, staring at the salt shaker as her body betrayed her with violent, quaking tremors.
At the same moment, the cock in Luz’s mouth began to throb. It was a deep, cosmic pulse. He didn’t pull out. He held her there, impaled, and came. The first jet hit the back of her throat like a hot, thick rope. She swallowed reflexively, gagging. The second filled her mouth, overflowing, spilling from her stretched lips. The taste was otherworldly—sweet and metallic, like ozone and starlight. It kept coming, a seemingly endless flood, painting her tongue, coating her teeth. Some of it dripped from her chin, joining the mess on the floor. As the pulses racked him, his own climax seemed to trigger hers. Her body tightened, her back arching, and a hot rush of her own release slicked her thighs, her cunt fluttering around her frantic fingers. She came in utter silence, tears streaming down her face, muffled by the god’s cock still pumping seed into her.
Amity finished her last bite of cereal, scraping the bowl. “Yeah, that makes total sense! The closed system thing. I’ll definitely show you after I clean up.” She stood, taking her bowl to the sink. The clatter of ceramic was jarring.
The Collector sighed, a sound of deep, satisfied contentment. They slowly, gently, extracted their fingers from Camila’s still-quivering cunt. Camila slumped forward, burying her face in her arms on the table, her shoulders shaking.
Under the table, the Collector pulled his slick, softening cock from Luz’s ruined mouth with a soft, wet pop. Luz collapsed forward onto her hands, coughing, strings of pearlescent cum and saliva dangling from her lips. She panted, sucking in the dank, sex-filled air.
“You’re a messy eater, Luz,” the Collector whispered down, not unkindly. They patted her head with their clean hand.
Amity turned from the sink, drying her hands on a towel. She looked at Camila, concerned. “You sure you’re okay, Camila? You look… really tired.”
Camila lifted her head. Her eyes were glazed, her makeup smudged. She looked utterly wrecked, profoundly fucked. “I… I am, cariño. I didn’t sleep well. Bad dreams.”
“Maybe you should lie down,” Amity said softly. She walked over and kissed Camila on the cheek. As she bent down, her nose wrinkled slightly. “Huh. Smells like… bleach? And something sweet. Did something spill?”
“I… cleaned earlier,” Camila whispered, her eyes darting to the floor near the Collector’s chair, where the evidence of their breakfast was slowly spreading in a sticky, translucent puddle.
“You work too hard,” Amity said, straightening up. “I’m gonna go get dressed. Collector, you wanna help me with those stabilizing arrays? I could use a cosmic perspective.”
The Collector hopped off their chair, adjusting their tunic. They looked pristine, innocent. The only sign was a slight, satisfied glow in their celestial eyes. “Sure! It sounds like fun!” They grinned at Amity, then glanced back at the table. “Bye, Camila. Thanks for the… talk.”
Camila just nodded, unable to speak.
Amity left the kitchen, her footsteps fading up the stairs. The Collector skipped after her, humming a dissonant, ancient tune.
The kitchen was silent again, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the slow, irregular drip from beneath the table. Camila sat amidst the wreckage of the morning—the dirty mug, the sugary bowl, the scent of sex and milk and apple blood hanging in the sunlight.
From under the tablecloth, a hand emerged, small and trembling. It gripped the table’s edge. Slowly, Luz crawled out. Her face was a ruined masterpiece of smeared tears, spit, and cum. Her eyes were hollow. She didn’t look at her mother. She stood on shaky legs, her shorts damp down the front. Without a word, she shuffled to the sink, turned on the cold tap, and cupped water in her hands, rinsing her mouth again and again. She spat, the white streaks swirling down the drain.
Camila watched her, a profound, shared emptiness opening between them, wider than any portal. It was filled not with magic, but with silence, and shame, and the relentless, heavy ache in their wombs.
Luz turned off the tap. She stared at her own reflection in the chrome faucet, distorted and unfamiliar.
“The store,” she finally said, her voice a raspy wreck. “I should… go get the milk.”
She left the kitchen, leaving Camila alone with the stains and the echoing, unspoken truth of what their home had become.