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bitterrfruit · 2 months ago

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southpaw [ii]

boxer!Ghost x reader cw: dub(verging on non)con. lots of blood if the pics didn't make that obvious. 18+ mdni here's part 2 to my boxer ghost fic. this one is feral. sorry [masterlist]

Your communications with Simon following the frightening tryst in his sitting room had been few and far between.

After he had abandoned you throbbing and empty and you plummeted back to earth, you swiftly left. He had called you a spiteful little shit when you stormed out of his flat in a huff, with just a shred of caustic humour in his tone that belied his bitterness.

When your wits — with the force of a kick to the belly — had returned to you in the taxi home, you had told yourself that was that. You’d block his number and you’d kick the revoltingly crude and violent stranger out of your life. Reduce him to a foul memory.

But as you went to check your phone, looking at the six exchanged messages between yourself and his unsaved number, you faltered. A failure of your self-assertion. Instead you dumped your phone in your bag and glowered out of the window for the duration of the drive home, sucking on your vitriolic arousal like a sour drop.

You resentfully returned to your quotidian routine the next morning. Catching the subway to work and back, slogging through the Monday at your desk while sorely trying to distract yourself from the residual sensation of his fingertips in your slit. You stared into the voids between the pixels of your monitor, offering one-word answers when any of your coworkers addressed you — so vacant throughout the day that your manager had to check in with you, and you dismissed your fugue as a mere headache.

Your phone didn’t go off once that workday — no text from a friend, nor a relative, not even spam. Only whilst packed in the train car on the way home, sardine-squished between people taller than you, did your phone buzz in your pocket.

A text from the number you failed to block.

Can still smell your cunt on me.

Mortified, you immediately tucked the phone to your hips and shut the app, hoping the people pressed against you couldn’t read the message that just mired your phone screen.

The follow up appeared as a banner.

Making me hungry.

Your cheeks burned hot and you bit down on nothing, too humiliated to return to the app and reply to his filth. You stuffed your phone in your pocket for the remainder of the sticky train ride, and only reopened it once you had arrived back home and locked your front door behind you.

You hammered out a reply with splenetic fingers as you took off your coat. You’re a degenerate.

His answer came quickly. Still grumpy?

Stop messaging me.

The bouncing ellipses of his typed reply appeared and vanished a number of times, and you scolded yourself for attentively awaiting the answer you had expressly refused. When no reply came, your chest became heavy.

And it remained heavy, for the next two days, while your phone stayed as empty and dry as you were. Every time you picked it up you felt the flutter behind your ribs, the briefly lifted spirits as you silently hoped for a text from him. Maybe even a missed call. And every time it was blank, you felt your stomach sink. Stupid, for you had all but told him to fuck off. Perhaps you simply wanted him to persist. To insist.

In your capricious impatience you even typed out a few messages to him, but your shame ensured that they remained unsent.

You could have just apologised.

Didn’t think you’d give up that easily.

I didn’t mean never message me again.

On Wednesday evening, after work, you returned to the bar you had met him at. Maybe he’d be there, waiting for you, hoping you’d return so that he could accost you. You even planned for it, practised your spiteful response for when you found him there — you’d ignore him for a bit, to make him squirm, to force him to make the first move. Maybe you’d even pretend to have forgotten his name.

When he wasn’t there, you bitterly paid for your own drink and went home after only one.

You gave up hope as another sluggish day came and went, arriving home to your empty apartment and getting ready for bed far earlier than you normally would. Washed your face and brushed your teeth before nine-thirty.

You simply couldn’t face the indignity of reaching out to him. Not after setting your own boundary and he had aberrantly obliged it.

Once it hit ten you tucked yourself into bed under your winter-weight duvet, forced shut your eyes as you resisted the urge to check your phone before going to sleep.

And just as a groggy, heat-dizzied slumber began to suck you in, hallucinations of his mammoth hand kneading between your thighs, you heard your phone vibrate loudly atop the wooden surface of your nightstand. Its bluish glow illuminated your dark bedroom for a few seconds before it dimmed again.

Instantly awake and buzzing with adrenaline you reached to check, snatching your phone from its resting place and glaring bright-eyed at the screen. Probably just an email. Maybe a text from your coworker. Or a pop-up ad for UberEats.

Fight tomorrow at 8.

It wasn’t even an invitation. He was just informing you, and even that was a generous presumption. Maybe he was arrogant enough to assume you’d be there without an overt expression of his desire to see you.

Your seat is by the ring.

Bastard, you thought. Almost blurted it aloud. You chewed your lip. You knew you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t.

It took you a few attempts to conjure up a response. You typed some out and then swiftly deleted them.

Eventually, you landed on; You rly think i’m going to come and watch?

Wouldn’t have got you a seat if i didn’t.

You scoffed at your screen. Why should i?

Still wound up, are you?

The prick. Wtf does that mean?

All grouchy i left you high and dry?

You didn’t notice your thighs grinding together. No. You're a dickhead and i can’t believe i went out with you.

Quit bitching, jesus. Then, a follow up; You’ll get what you want after.

Your better conscience told you to slam down the phone and abandon the conversation and the fling in its entirety. Unbridled asshole that he was. Instead you held your thumbnail between jittery teeth and rubbed your toes together.

Who are you fighting? You asked, ungracefully changing the subject.

Does it matter?

You bit your lip. Not interested in watching you lose.

I won’t.

His arrogance made you snort. How do you know?

Got a prize to fight for.

His charm was shallow and crude, skirting a charade, and yet it unleashed a swarm of butterflies in your chest. Funneled a loathsome heat into a pool between your legs.

You knew what he thought his prize might be. He hadn’t been shy about it, had he? He plainly believed he could win your cunt as easily as he could a championship belt.

What’s that? You texted back, after a deliberate delay, wondering whether he’d follow up the text with something more explicit.

You tell me.

Dumped the burden on you to be the vulgar one. Not your strong suit, so you decided to attempt to emasculate him. As if such a thing were possible.

Hm. The other guy might fight to win it too.

The typing bubbles of his reply came and went for a minute. Wouldn’t put it past him.

You know him?

Mate.

You’re fighting your mate?

Yep. n I’ll beat him like last time.

You couldn’t explain the blooming heat in your belly at the prospect of watching him beat and be beaten by someone like him, big and heavy, just as ribald. You imagined a rivalry, all in good fun, until it wasn’t. You imagined they’d be looser with their fists, less mindful of the rules, when it was only their mate at the receiving end of the blow. You wonder if his opponent knows about you. What he might have told him.

And if you don’t?

There was no sense in your question, and no vindictiveness in your doubt. Maybe you just wanted him to express some possessiveness. To double down on his certainty. To claim ownership.

You nearly smacked yourself as the notion smeared its way through your head.

He’ll be a lucky man.

Not even a lick territorial. You chose not to dissect your lack of disappointment.

You didn’t reply to his final message, fingers too busy pinching at the angry clit under your knickers, hoping the castigation would settle the lust that throbbed in your temples — you knew it wouldn’t, but the compulsion to alleviate the burning in its nexus puppeteered your arm as though on strings.

Didn’t let yourself come, though. His ragged words wended about in your head, leaden and demanding. You can wait, like me.

Trudging through the Friday was infinitely more gruelling than any of the days prior. Tumescent anticipation churned in the pit of your stomach, every waking minute. You could not focus on a single task beyond the picking of your fingernails and crossing of your legs. Busied yourself with regular trips to the bathroom, to wipe away the distracting wetness that puddled in your core every time you reread the (not even that sexual) messages in your phone.

When a colleague glibly asked you what your Friday night plans were, you lied. Night in, probably. You told yourself that you hadn’t yet decided whether you would attend. A smarter girl would avoid it like the plague.

You knew yourself better than that.

Despite his lack of contact, you still tortured yourself under the shower after work. Scrubbed clean every mound and every crevice, re-shaved the same areas you tended to until they were raw, left a fruity-sweet hair mask in your locks for long enough that the tresses imbibed the scent. Smeared your body in your caramel-macadamia body lotion, brushed through your lashes a coating of mascara, painted on a layer of rosy-pink lip-gloss.

You excavated your entire closet in the hunt for the right kind of outfit; you wanted to look pretty, but not like an overdressed deer in headlights. Like a cool-girl who knew how boxing works (you didn’t), but not like you were trying too hard. Settled for a miniskirt and a graphic tee, boots and stockings to keep you warm. You hadn’t forgotten his refusal of them the last time, but it was a cold and windy evening, and he could fuck himself.

As the time passed seven and you still hadn’t heard from him, just as you began to wonder whether he had given up on you all together — he finally texted you.

The only content of his message was the address of the venue, with no frills nor any sly attempts to provoke you. Simply the name of the arena and the street it was on. Knowing you’d need a drink, or two, or three — you plugged the location into Uber and booked a ride instead of driving yourself, and it was a ten minute trip through the dark sleet.

The arena, so he called it, was barely an established venue — some kind of run-down community centre with layers of faded and peeling posters glued to its grimy brick walls, windows of steel-meshed glass and a single street light hanging over the push-door entrance.

You carried your heart in your teeth. It evidently would not be a televised fight, like you had wistfully imagined. What kind of back alley shithole–

The resentful thought was knocked out of you along with the wind in your lungs as a shoulder collided with you — a pair of men with their hands in the pockets of their puffers steamrolled past you, noisy raillery as they went through the entrance.

Attendees of the fight, you supposed – hoped – because you elected to follow them, with no other recourse, head held low under the hood of your jacket to avoid the rain.

You elbowed the glass swinging door when the men in front of you didn’t hold it for you, and immediately you heard the rowdy din of a crowd elsewhere in the building, muffled by walls or floors. The interior was brutally bright, beaming fluorescent bars hung ungracefully from the ceiling, their glow bouncing off the painted white cinderblock of the walls and onto the peeling grey linoleum.

Some kind of club or gym, you ascertained – peering down the halls and into doors, you spotted weights and bars, foam mats, black-and-red punching bags hanging from chains.

You were suddenly fraught with the same discomfiture that simmered whenever you were somewhere you didn’t belong. You followed the men through another set of doors, and down a long flight of stairs — the light of the fluorescents gradually grew dimmer as you descended into the darkness, where the hammering of an unruly crowd only became louder. The walls were unpainted in the subterranean floor of the building, and instead gave way to raw cement. At the base of the stairs was a small queue that disappeared around a corner, and you self-consciously stood behind the pair of men you had stalked there.

Uncertainty roiled in your stomach, suddenly feeling as though you had made a terrible mistake — the basement was dark, and loud, and it struck you that the only voices you heard were male. You should have had a drink before you left. And just as you anxiously considered turning around, three more babbling men piled in behind you, sandwiching you between the groups of them, conspicuously alone.

As the line moved forward, it became clear that the queue was held up by bouncer, and you were next up. A tall man with thick arms, disconcertingly vascular, sinewy neck as thick as a buffalo’s — you wondered if he was a fighter himself, moonlighting as security for the fight.

“This in’t a nightclub, pet,” he informed you roughly, and as though only just noticing the solitary woman in front of them, you abruptly felt the attention of the men behind you on your back.

Sure as shit isn’t, you thought to say, but nervousness held your tongue.

“I’m — yeah, um, I’m here to watch the fight,” you simpered, swallowing after you spoke.

He let out a huff of laughter at that, and you noticed him catch the eye of the attendees behind you. “Got a ticket, then?”

You gritted your teeth, chewing back curses as you realised the bastard hadn’t even given you one, let alone notified you ahead of time that they would be checking for them.

Adjusting your fists in the pockets of your puffer coat, you shuffled awkwardly on your feet. “I was invited.”

“Yeah?” He probed amusedly, “by who?”

“Simon—” you blurted, cutting yourself off upon realising you didn’t even know the man’s surname. “He’s — um, he’s fighting.”

The bouncer chortled raucously at that. “Riley?” He laughed, “fuckin’ hell. Alright then. Go on.”

His tone made your knuckles turn white. What was so funny? “Thanks,” you murmured.

“Good luck,” he jeered after you, and before you were compelled to ask for what, he was already conversing with the men behind you.

There was a short and narrow corridor of cement and dim yellow lights around the corner, old posters tacked to the walls, and the commotion of the crowd made your ears reel as it bounced off the concrete. The air was heavy and hot, dense with smoke and body heat, and you suddenly felt too warm for your puffer. You shucked it from your shoulders as you reached the end of the tunnel, sucking down a deep breath as you were birthed right into the snake pit.

The room within was far larger than you would have believed possible, concrete ceilings high enough that they faded into the darkness. The crowd was deep, droning, perhaps three- or four-hundred strong. All seated in or standing around their rows of plastic chairs, bottles of beer and cigarettes in hand.

You held your breath as you charily scanned the cement cavern, absorbing all the details you could fit in your congested mind, and wondering if you might see Simon lurking somewhere, waiting for you. But the space swam in shadows, barely lit by the odd crimson lightbulb hung on long wires from the ceiling; the audience’s faces only illuminated by the floodlights that hung in the centre of the atrium – blindingly bright and stark cold, they hammered down on the square ring underneath.

There, you caught sight of him. His back to you, standing in the corner and leaning on the ropes, shoving the end of an unbranded drink bottle into his mouth. You knew it was him by the buzzed auric hair that cladded his skull, the still staggering breadth of his titanic shoulders, the inky scratchings of his tattoos that sheathed his left arm and crept across his chuck to lick his neck.

You found something of a fissure between the drunken spectators, so you gawkliy weaseled yourself through the braying men on your way to the seat you hoped had indeed been saved for you.

And as though he had scented you on your approach, Simon’s head perked and turned over his shoulder, and his beady eyes immediately fastened on you. A rakish grin stretched in his lips as you came to a stop by the ropes – thankfully unimpeded – and he turned his gargantuan body to face you fully.

You hadn’t yet seen him without a shirt on, and the gauzy disbelief was plastered across your face at the sight of him up close. Cumbersome muscles wrapped his ironclad form like the overworked meat of a bull, almost doughy with the lard layer of a well-fed man. His chest was stocky and broad, alabaster skin smeared with freckles and grisly mauve scars, hirsute with a coating of wheaten curls.

He crouched down with spread knees to get a shred closer to your height, the stage of the ring a good metre off the ground. He wrapped his thick fists around the ropes, and peered at you through them as though behind bars. You tried not to glance down the leg of his shorts that hung loose from his thighs.

“Look at you,” he crooned, toothy and oozing satisfaction. “Didn’t think you’d show up, pretty.”

Your stomach went all tight when he called you that. “Didn’t you?”

“Thought I was a dickhead,” he derided, a breathy chuckle at the memory of your churlish insult.

“You are.”

He tilted his head, no argument. “Just came to watch me lose, eh?”

You cracked a smile at that, and his gratification at your capitulating scorn practically dripped from him. Sick of your bitching, so he said.

“Yep,” you said, through a simper.

He looked over his shoulder, then briefly leaned to the side – he pointed behind him with his thumb. “There’s your winner, then.”

In the far corner, you saw his opponent.

Not quite as tall but somehow heavier, so laden with muscle that he looked encumbered by it – but he couldn’t have been, not given how he bounced on the balls of his feet like he weighed a hundred kilos less, shanks turning carved and solid with every hop. He shook out the hocks of his arms, contorting his neck to stretch out the tight meat.

The man wore an unkempt mohawk down the crest of his skull, shaven sides a few weeks grown-out, mottled by the little pink knicks of healed scars. His carved cheeks were coated in a poorly kempt stubble, brows pulled together in concentration, a deep crease between them.

You froze when he noticed you staring – snagged your probing eyes with a tumid smirk – and cold embarrassment ran down your spine.

You quickly looked back at Simon, who was all but chortling at you.

“Not as pretty as me, is he.”

You couldn’t think of a witty riposte before your mouth began to speak – almost formed the words just as pretty – but you at least had the sense not to inspirit him. “That’s your friend?”

He shrugged facetiously. “Wouldn’t go that far.”

In the nebulous vacuum of the atrium you heard a bell chime, three sharp dings, and the already tumultuous crowd erupted into an uproar that made you wince. Time to fight. He glanced over his shoulder, kept a few short moments to bid you farewell before he turned into the bout.

“Do I get a kiss for luck?” He goaded, and you could tell by the mordant tone in his throat he expected you to say no.

And you did. Gave him an unflinching shake of your head and a pert smile. “You haven’t earned one.”

He grinned wide at that, barbed and cocksure, as he stuffed a rubbery black mouthguard into his mouth and clacked it into place over his teeth with his thumbs. There was something rabid in his eyes, stark-black and puncturing, edacious at the challenge you had given him and rearing red-hot to fight for you. To earn his prize.

Your stomach knotted up at the thought, and it made you a little queasy.

He had already demonstrated an effrontery in his nature, forcibly indulging you with a hand over your mouth and fingers between your legs – an act he decided he didn’t need to earn. He just did.

You couldn’t help but envisage what he might feel emboldened to do once he believed that he had earned it. What prizes he’d purloin from you.

You hurriedly swung your head around to find yourself a seat. An empty chair – thank god – wedged between two bulky strangers, one in a suit and the other in a wifebeater. No indication that it was for you, specifically, but you elected to claim it. It was a good spot, too. Right in the middle, not at a corner. The men beside you paid no mind to you, eyes (and likely wallets) rapt in the fight.

The two bulls in the ring turned to face each other, bouncing heavy on their feet, shaking out every meaty limb and rolling their ox shoulders. Adrenaline thrummed in your chest and sat high and humid on the back of your neck – the kind of heady anxiousness that felt like a hunk of steak between your teeth, one you weren’t allowed to bite into.

An announcer stood in the centre of the ring, microphone in hand, a snaking wire hanging out of its base and coiling across the foam floor. He opened with gentlemen – the lack of a preceding ladies felt pointed and offputting – and his spiel lacked the dramatic flair you had seen once or twice in a televised match.

No, instead, he bellowed gruesome statistics into the mic with no polish or class, and your mind went fuzzy as you absorbed it.

Fighting out of Glasgow and still a little wet behind the ears. Record of 33 wins and 1 loss. 21 wins by way of knockout. Weighing in at 109kg. 1.88 metres tall. In the blue corner, slipperiest cunt alive – Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish.

In the red corner, a fucking ugly Mancunian with 41 wins, 3 draws, and 4 losses. 37 knockouts. 113kg. 1.97 metres tall. Deadliest southpaw this side of the Pennines – Simon ‘The Ghost’ Riley.

They smile at each other, frothing at the mouth and manic in the eyes, mouthguards making their lips all puffy and dumb. Even quantified, their magnitude is challenging to fathom. You can almost feel the ground vibrate as they jounce on the foamy canvas, watching their heavy muscles jiggle and tighten with each movement.

Final decider of the trilogy. One win each. Odds are in the Ghost’s favour tonight – old dog with old tricks – four-to-six. Glaswegian underdog odds at six-to-five. Get your wagers in.

There was something decidedly boorish about the way the announcer roared into the mic, the scathing badinage he spewed towards the two fighters had you believing he must have known them personally. There was nothing legitimate about any of it, when you came to think of it – a considerable griminess sunk heavy in the air and filled up your nose, and you didn’t know how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

The frigid realisation rinsed you like cold water, when the announcer stood between them and they raised their fists – ungloved. Wrapped only in tape, a few thick layers over their knuckles, but not remotely thick enough to protect their own bones, let alone their opponent’s.

Simon invited you to a fucking bareknuckle. You weren’t there to watch a boxing match, you were there to watch bloodsport.

Suddenly, the knot in your guts wrenched a lot tighter. The label of deadliest carried the weight of feasibility, however horrific the notion was for you to swallow. Distended dread simmered in your stomach and singed your throat.

So why were you on the edge of your seat?

The dings of the bell made you jump, and the announcer hopped out of the ring as though fleeing from an unspent grenade. No referee.

The two beasts faced down in earnest, smiles fading – though their impressions remained – huffing and bobbing their heads as though about to charge, loose fists hung in the air close to their faces, heavy cocks bouncing around in their polyester shorts. They were mirror images of each other, minor differences in stature notwithstanding – Simon in his sinistral stance, leading with his left, Johnny with his right.

They circled each other like sharks, dithering about when to throw the first blow – you saw their mouths move as though speaking to one another, but you couldn’t hear it over the racket of the audience.

Then, in a blink, Simon jettisoned a fist with such speed and barbarity it blurred through the air, and the smack of its collision cut through the uproar of the crowd – parried, by Johnny’s rigid forearm, and in the flurry Johnny had thrown a retaliatory roundhouse to his adversary’s ribs.

You winced at every impact as though you could feel the strike on your own skin — they were so fucking brutal with each other, not dampened by even an ounce of concern nor a drop of reservation. No, they bulleted fist after fist, and the blunt smacks of knuckles beating thick meat made your teeth chatter with every collision.

Round one was over as soon as it had started — three harsh dings of the bell, and then carnivores pulled away from each other, lumbering to their corners and grabbing their drink bottles.

Simon was already dripping with sweat; he was glossy with it as though freshly showered, it beaded along his brow and traveled in rivulets down his back. His chest hounded with each haggard breath, he wiped his nose with his forearm and met your eye.

You shrunk a little under his stare, because it didn’t look like him. Not to say you were exceedingly familiar with his face — only the third date, after all – but there was something potently unhuman in him. A reflection of some omophagous barbarian, a minotaur in both stature and constitution.

He gave you no acknowledgement beyond a blink. He turned his back to you without so much of a nod, shaking himself out like a wet dog. His ferine mind was utterly ensnared by the hunt, you could see it on him, his eyes bulged with it. All red and frayed around the edges.

Three dings. Round two.

Their blood-hungry ferocity did not hamper, their vigour to remain at each other’s throats seemingly inexhaustible – the sheer violence made your eyes go glassy, delirious in morbid shock, unable to look away and yet unable to watch too attentively. Knuckles to cheekbones, to ribs, to ears; a volley of savage strikes that seemed aimless and unending, until–

Johnny’s gauzed fist slammed into Simon’s jaw, a blow that he almost followed to the ground, and hot red blood rained out from the site of impact. Splattered carmine in a fan across the grey canvas mat. Simon let out a currish snarl as he turned his head to shake out the blow, and the audience erupted into a deafening furore. Betters on the underdog especially jubilant, you supposed.

The bells dinged. Round ended.

When Simon turned to return to his corner and you got a glance of him, nausea climbed foamy up your throat. Blood cascaded from a deep split in his top lip, saturating his chin in bright-red that oozed down his neck and chest, pooling between his pectorals. Looked as if he had been down on all fours, tearing raw meat off the bones of a fresh catch with his teeth, letting the mess plaster him in his ravening.

You couldn’t look away from him. Something purely eolithic, primitive, animal, simmered in the back of your head, sent leery little shivers down the nape of your neck, coiled up tight between your legs. Why was your mouth watering?

“That oughtta hurt y’old bastard,” called Johnny from the far corner, voice plush with pride, beaming with it. “Maybe ah’ll win the prize, after all.”

Your fingernails nearly tore ladders in your stockings. Was he talking about you?

Simon’s head rocked back from his shoulders, and he cracked a smile, stretching the deep rupture in his lip. Riled. Pumped so full of epinephrine and testosterone that he hardly flinched. He turned back in. Ready to combust.

The instant the bells chimed – round three – he charged. Hooked a colossal leg around the back of his opponent’s knee, and they were quickly down and knotted on the mat.

You knew vaguely that boxing was fists only – nothing below the belt, no holds – and yet, they wrestled around on the floor like it were a different sport entirely, flinging punches and elbows and hooks from prone positions, growling like skirmishing bears in the frenzy.

A few flips of heavy bodies and Simon had Johnny flat on his back, leviathan knees either side of his hips. Simon curled forward, then, pinning Johnny down with entangled arms – and ran his mouth and nose down the length of his opponent’s neck, smearing a painting of fresh blood over his sweat-soaked skin. Johnny bucked and kicked in an almost pitiful effort to free himself, but in so doing only had more of Simon’s blood slathered across his collar; some on his cheek, some in his mouth.

You were by turn muddled and revolted by the roiling heat in your core at the sight – repugnant, you thought, unjustifiable–

WIth a hard buck the Glaswegian broke himself free, and with a twist, managed to land an elbow into the side of Simon’s head, a hard crunch of bone on bone.

Simon was inexplicably unruffled, his injurious grin almost pleased at the challenge – but with a rapid bludgeon square in Johnny’s nose, he finished the fight, and that was that. Johnny’s head ricocheted off the foam, and still twisted up with his rival, blinked dimly at the ceiling.

You didn’t even know the man, and you felt pity for him hard and cold in your chest – always sympathised with the underdog, couldn’t help it. He lay there with his hands on his chest as Simon pushed himself to stand, towering over his victim, rolling out his shoulders after the exertion. In the pandemonium the announcer thundered out the count to ten, and when Johnny only rolled onto his side to let the blood of his broken nose pour from his mouth and not down his throat, the count concluded with a deafening knockout.

If you thought the spectators were loud before, now you knew the true meaning of the word – chaotic uproar that shook the walls of the building, the triumphant howling of those who had bet on the southpaw almost as strident as the upheaval of the ones that bet on the wrong dog. You stood up to hesitantly applaud alongside the men beside you, only fearful that if you remained seated you’d get swallowed up by the stampede.

In the uproar Simon turned pointedly to face you, his savage eyes riveted to yours – and, like that, the rest of the building sloughed away. It was only him, the fleshy beast, and you, glossy-eyed in his crosshairs.

There was a weight in how he looked at you, something foregone, a fate already decided on your behalf. You felt it tugging you downward, hanging from your neck, and you could only stand there and wait for it to happen.

He won.

You couldn’t put up much of a fuss, after that. He hopped out of the ring once the show had ended, landing on the hard ground beneath with a thud. His eyes were peeled, his pupils pin-pricked, honed in, and you could only hold your breath as he paraded towards you.

He reached out to take your jaw in his bloody hands, thumb and fingers dimpling your cheeks as he yanked you into a revolting, blood-soaked kiss - his lips were pillowy, wet with sweat and smeared in hot blood, and you could taste the briny metal in your mouth. Tasted like butter and corroded iron. It was awkward too to kiss him over his mouthguard, cumbrous in his mouth, you could feel its rubber on your bottom lip when he sucked it between his teeth.

You wrestled him on instinct, smacking him on the chest to deter him, and your palm was instantly clammy with his sweat. There were people, men, surrounding you on all sides – spectating, jeering, hollering at the show the boxer was putting on for them. It made you shrivel in humiliation, and it only made Simon chortle.

He burrowed under his lips with his free fingers as he separated from you – your jaw still in hand – hooking his fingernails into his mouthguard and unsealing it from his teeth with a pop. He pulled it out of his mouth with a repulsive slurp, dragging gooey bands of blood and saliva along with it that clung to his bottom lip.

He grinned at you, then, and slick red filled every gap in his teeth, pooled at the corners of his mouth like a fucking rabid dog, and you could see the dark exposed flesh between the split in his lip. It made you shiver. It made your chest hot.

He wiped away the blood he left on your mouth with a thumb. “Where’s my prize, pretty.”

There was little you could do as he ferried you through the dissipating crowd, patting you on the bottom like he was guiding a cow, and you felt him huffing hot air down the back of your neck.

When you initially hesitated to go anywhere with him, as he was, he threatened to throw you over his shoulder instead. And that, somehow, would have been even more mortifying than being publicly carted off to be victory-fucked by the champion, so you swallowed your pride and walked instead.

Walking, if you could call it that – he was at your heels, practically driving you for the entire distance from the ring to an inconspicuous corridor at the quiet end of the atrium, out of sight and in the shadows. He all but pushed you there, nudging behind you if you walked too slowly, giving you a smack to coax you forward. Not the same entrance you had arrived through, but your frenetic thoughts hadn’t quite grasped that yet.

“In ‘ere,” he instructed flatly, hooking a finger into the collar of your t-shirt to stop you from walking onwards.

A door with a window at eye-height, steel-meshed glass that did not obscure anything behind it.

“What’s in there?” You asked quietly, perhaps stupidly, because he let out a huff of laughter at the question.

“What d’you think,” was all he said, and your stomach dropped.

You opened it with shaky fingers and shuffled inside. More gym, by the looks, though the room was dim and expansive; more empty boxing rings – practice rings, you supposed – punching bags and gloves hanging from walls, and the entire floor of the room padded in black rubber.

It dawned on you, then, with a hot flush down your spine. “We’re - we’re not going back to yours?”

He was pressing behind you by the time you finished the question, nudging you deeper into the room, and he already had his sticky hands bunching up the bottom of your t-shirt. “Not waiting that long.”

Your lungs shrunk, suddenly too small to suck in a deep breath, so you sipped at the air like it was liquid; he flayed off your t-shirt in one go, forcing your arms up into the air to pull it from your head. Your hairs stood on end as he dropped it to the mat – the air was dusty and cool but were blistering hot to the touch, blood simmering in your veins. He could probably see it, rising blush-red in the back of your neck, sweaty at the nape.

He huffed approvingly, and you winced when he snapped the band of your bra against your back. He hunched over your shoulder, looking down your chest – his humid arms hooked under yours, pumped up and vascular after their carnage, and seized your breast in a monstrous hand. He kneaded it roughly through the cup for his own gratification – paid no care to the chirp of pain that jumped from your throat at the needless strength of his grip, the firm core of your breast aching in the vice.

“Nice little bra,” he grumbled. “Put it on just f’me, eh?”

You only panted, bashfully avoiding a real answer. Because, you did. You knew exactly where this night was headed, what you girded yourself for – you just didn’t expect that it would happen here, like this, while he was soaked in sweat and blood and ripe with lust worked up in the fight.

“Knew you were a slut,” he said, under his breath, mouth and nose pushing into the crook of your shoulder and getting a good sniff. “Mh. Moment I saw ya.”

You reeled at the denigration, so acrid it made you shiver. Praise webbed in his repugnant words, though — he said it hungrily, exuberantly, exalting you for it. Made your guts go all twisty. Made fluid heat sink downwards and pool in your core.

His blood was viscid and icky on your skin, smeared up your shoulder — he was unperturbed by his injury, almost excited to get you covered in it, to mark you with it like a pack animal.

“I’m not,” you breathed, no real defense, and he chuckled at that.

“Yeah, y’are. Just picky, eh?” He crooned. “Made me fuckin’ work for it, didn’t ya?”

He unclasped your bra with deft fingers, and it came loose with a pop. As though he had made some unspoken command, you shimmied your straps down your shoulders for him, and let it fall from your arms.

He took you by the hips and spun you to face him. Shark eyes sunk instantly to your tits when they bounced with the motion, and a pleased curl tugged in his lips.

“Mh, look a’ that,” he murmured to himself, thumbing your pebbled nipple and chuckling breathily when you squeaked at his pinch.

His heavy hand slid then your shoulder, giving you a downward nudge.

“Knees, pretty,” he grunted dryly. “Suck it for a bit.”

Your fingers went cold, blinking up at him as though feigning innocence might appeal to his human instincts. His face was stony, and the needle-sized holes of his pupils gave you no sympathy nor patience. Refusal crossed your mind, a gust of air, fleeting and skittish—

A transient thought, really, because there was no refusing him, and the thought of daring to frightened you more than the thought of a sweaty cock in your throat.

Your eyes travelled the length of his torso as you awkwardly lowered yourself to your knees. Sweat pooled in the pit between his pectorals, sticky with congealing blood that clumped in the sedges of his chest hair. A thick and ungroomed blanket of straw curls trailed down from his navel, over the slight chub of his lower stomach, primordial padding over the rigid abdominals underneath. Met with the satin polyester waistband of his red-and-black shorts, loose on his thighs – the sheeny fabric strained where his cock hung heavy, and you could see every ridge of vein and head through the satin.

You swallowed, and he huffed impatiently.

With a wrapped hand he yanked down the front of his shorts – no briefs underneath — he unsheathed his cock with a fist around his base and narrowly missed hitting you in the nose with it. You concealed a grimace at the sight of it, inches from your face – it was ugly, burly, mauve at the smooth head, ruddy foreskin pulled back by his fist. Roped with plum veins that webbed under the rubicund skin, shuddering with heat.

More frighteningly, though, was its magnitude – fucking prodigious thing, fat from base to tip, thick like a log and so long it made you dizzy with dread to even consider taking it in your mouth, let alone in the cunt that tightened up at the thought.

You shouldn’t have been shocked, really – anything smaller would have looked disproportionate to the behemothic size of him. And yet, alarm was bright and hot in your face, and your throat dried up as you looked at it for too long.

Simon chuffed, amused. Ego stroked. He fixed a hand to the back of your head, and a breath lodged your throat.

“Not gonna suck itself,” he growled, lightly slapping his cock against your cheek. “Open up.”

You drew in a shaky breath, resting a flat hand on his hip to balance yourself, and curled your trembling fingers around his shaft. Fist now free from carrying the weight of it, he combed his thick fingers through your hair at the crown of your head — not to encourage, only for a better grip.

With parted lips you leaned forward, jutting out a wet tongue and running it from halfway up his shaft, along the ridge, to the underside of his head, and he let out a grunting sigh that made your nerves spark and your head spin.

After another lick and a tug on the back of your head, you finally summoned the bravery to open your mouth — unhinged your jaw to allow his cock to fit, and it jerked in your mouth when you wrapped your lips around it.

It was salty and sticky with sweat, fetid with the musk of riled up testosterone. You might have found it unpleasant if you weren’t dazed by your own concupiscence, molten lust roiling in your belly and turning the flavour of him into a sapid aphrodisiac. Your eyes fluttered shut as you tried to inch it deeper into your mouth, but the enormous pressure of the back of your tongue made you gag loudly around it.

“Bit big for that little mouth, eh?” He preened hoarsely, but he took no pity. The hand on the back of your head was unforgiving and coaxed you forward with a nudge. “Easy. Wider. Careful with those teeth.”

Your eyes began to water as he stuffed himself deeper, driving you by the skull, until the thick head of his cock plugged the back of your throat and you could no longer breathe through your nose. You could only hold on to the air already in your lungs, wrenching shut your eyes as he drove his hips slowly forward, cockhead against your tonsils.

“Mh,” he groaned, “tight little throat. Might park up in here.”

You blinked up at him when he said that, eyes wide and wet with strained tears as you silently pleaded with him through your clumped lashes.

“Oh, girl, you wouldn’t like that would you?” He jeered, grinning at the terror printed on your face, “you want me in your cunt, eh?”

A whimper got stuck in your chest when the tip of his cock hit the flat wall at the very back of your throat, and your heart rate began to decelerate with the lack of oxygen in your blood. Chest ached with the need to breathe.

“Poor girl,” he mumbled lowly, hand lodged at the back of your head and not allowing you to reel away. Cold horror rinsed you at the rigidity of his grip, a reminder of his strength, a hint at the sadism that bubbled under the surface of his skin. He wouldn’t let you breathe. “Neglected little cunt, I bet. She hungry, eh?”

Your vision began to double, black spots around your periphery as you choked on him — you wondered if your cheeks were turning blue, and you wondered if he enjoyed the sight.

“Can’t breathe, pretty?” He said, as you put both fists on his hips, shoving with all of your might — his massive hands kept your head utterly still, right where he wanted it. “‘M only halfway in and you’re choking. Not used to this eh?”

He finally pulled his pelvis back, releasing the suction in your throat and forcing you to gag, and you were at last able to breathe — you heaved deep a breath through your runny nose, and the rush of oxygen made your head spin. He grunted as he raked out his cock from your mouth entirely, and it dropped heavy once it pulled out from between your lips. A long string of gooey saliva drooled from your mouth, and suddenly your entire head felt empty and hollow.

You sniffed, wiping your nose and wet cheeks with your palms, your tears scarcely abating. A thick finger hooked under your chin and hinged up your head on your neck, forcing you to look at him.

“None o’ that,” he growled, rubbing an errant tear away with the pad of his thumb. “Don’t want tears.”

“Sorry,” you squeaked on instinct, fearful of reproach, and a satisfied smile cracked briefly in his lips.

He stepped around you, then, circling you like a vulture before looming behind you, and you remained dead still on your knees. A harsh hand fitted at the back of your neck and abruptly shoved you forward — you bleated as you tipped over and landed on your palms, on all fours on the padded floor.

The ground vibrated under you as you heard him drop to his knees behind you, heart in your throat. “Gotta get a look at my prize.”

He lifted up the back of your miniskirt, holding it against your lower back — before you heard him growl indignantly, and your skin prickled up.

“The fuck’d I tell you about stockings,” he snarled, the indignant anger rumbling in his throat made your teeth chatter. He swiftly had his paws on your ass, fingers clawing up the stretchy nylon into fists and immediately tearing the thin fabric along the seam that flossed you with a shrill zip. “Just get in the fuckin’ way.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered. You were appalled by your own obsequiousness – your lust rendered you sycophantic, grovelling, too eager to please.

He let out a low huff of laughter. “Mh, all sweet now, aren’t ya?”

You felt his thumb wedge itself in the cleft of your ass, over the fabric of your knickers – you squeaked and tensed up when he pressed against your asshole, and he chuckled to himself. He dragged it down to the dip of your cunt, and he exhaled hoarsely.

“Messy little thing,” he grumbled, hooking his thumb under your gusset and dipping between your folds, and you caught your tongue in your teeth. “Barely touched you and y’already ruined your knickers.”

The rich pride in his voice made you melt, a potent inebriant that made your mind go foggy and your tongue wet.

“Waited for me, did ya?” He asked huskily, heavy breathing growing more laboured with each inhale. You nodded obediently. “D’you stick your fingers in y’self while you waited?”

“No,” you breathed, eyes on the mat underneath you, though they fluttered shut when the tip of his thumb grazed your clitoris, pointedly declining it too much attention.

“No?” He badgered, incredulously, you could hear the toothy grin through his voice. “Not even one?”

“I didn’t,” you insisted weakly, shaking your head.

“Haven’t come in a while then, have ya?”

“I haven’t,” you promised.

He grunted in approval, and his hands slid to the waist of your skirt. “No wonder y’been so bitchy,” he grumbled. “All worked up and fuckin’ grumpy.”

He jerked down your bottoms with enough force that you heard seams popping, and you yelped – he shucked them down your thighs with little grace, and you fell flat on your belly as he straightened out your legs to tear them off entirely.

“Just need a good fuck to sweeten y’up, eh?” He gibed, hooking both mammoth hands into your waist and hoisting your hips upward, propping you up on your knees.

He hunched over the back of you, then, and you felt his cock rest heavy on your rear. He fixed a hand to the nape of your neck, resting a portion of his weight (you were sure that any more would snap your spine under his hand) to pin you down.

“Don’t you?” He pressed, hucking up a lump of blood-drenched spit into the fingertips of his left hand, and he reached back to smear the emulsion against your already sodden cunt.

“Yeah,” you chirped as he pushed a wide finger into your hole, voice high-pitched and laboured under his restraint.

The girth of one rough finger was already enough to sting, even with the amount of slick that had saturated you – you shivered in dread at the weight of his cock against the crease of your ass, at the thought of your neglected cunt having to tear itself in half to just to fit him.

And then he pushed another finger in, and your vision went blurry.

“Gorgeous little cunt,” he hummed to himself. “Nice n’ wet. Must be aching, mh?”

Restless, his fingers slipped out from you and he straightened his back, holding his cock and smacking it against your asshole, and your whole body went stiff.

To your dizzying relief he instead dragged his blunt head down the cleft of you, nestling in the slick folds of your pussy – he offered you no time to gird yourself, bucking his hips forward and stuffing his cock deep into your cunt whether you liked it or not.

A pained shriek erupted from your chest as he drove into you, cockhead ramming into the plug of your womb with a force that winded you, the girth nearly ripping the thin skin of your entrance as it bulldozed itself to the root. Turned quarry in the shock you jerked underneath him to unskewer yourself, wriggling eagerly to slither free.

“Get back ‘ere,” he grunted disapprovingly, yanking you back and hoisting your hips back up. He snatched your clawing hand by the wrist, twisted it behind your back and pinned it to the arch in your spine. “Too late to run away now, pretty.”

He wrestled you until you stilled underneath him, and you whimpered as he coiled back his hips and proffered you a very fleeting reprieve.

“S’that hurt, mh?” He queried wretchedly, and you squeezed shut your eyes as you nodded your head. He pushed into you again, only slightly slower, and you could only whine underneath him.

“Yes, fuck–” you sobbed, seeing stars in the struggle. “It hurts–”

He hummed, almost cooing at you. “Won’t hurt for long, love.”

With his non-restraining hand embedded in the flesh of your ass, he rocked into you again, and you nearly bit your tongue off. Your body was as stiff as a board, every muscle tensed to brace yourself for each thrust – and each push stung, a shooting pain that bulleted up your spine every time he hit the deepest part of you. You could only squeak and hiccup and wriggle when he allowed you, but he kept you firm to the floor.

Only when his rhythm steadied, and he let out low groans of satisfaction into your back, did your bones begin to loosen. The sharp pain abated into a swollen pleasure as your walls gripped and fluttered around his cock, each rut driving you deeper into the padded floor.

“Mh,” he crooned, when your yelps softened into fluid whining. “Tha’s it. Just needed to stretch ‘er out a bit.”

You felt hot dribbles on your back, rilled up your spine and dripped onto the mat – his blood, leaking from the still fresh split in his lip, you heard him lick his teeth. It should have disturbed you, his iron-reeking blood drooling onto your bare skin, smeared around by the arm against your back. Instead it made you dizzy with some feral, animalistic lechery.

It made the air smell like rust and sex, and you felt like a rabbit caught in the wolf’s maw. You wondered if he’d sink his teeth into you. You couldn’t ignore the thought of his blood and his spit being fucked into the deep ridges of your cunt. Maybe the mucosa of your pussy would imbibe it and his impression would be permanently embedded in the sticky depths of you.

“Fuckin’ perfect cunt,” he groaned, speeched slurred by his own intoxicant pleasure. He lifted a kneeling leg and planted his foot flat on the floor to drive himself deeper, greedy hands burrowing into the flesh of your hips as he speared himself into you. “Kept it nice and tight for me, didn’t ya?”

You nodded winsomely, cheek smushed against the mat underneath you, panting out whines that left humid fog on the rubber.

He snorted, then spat, and you felt a wad of warm saliva land directly on your puckered hole. It twitched on reflex, and you sucked a sharp gust of air between your teeth — he rubbed your other hole with the pad of his thumb, gradually increasing the pressure, coaxing it to loosen for him.

“Pretty little asshole, too,” he mumbled gruffly, a growl in his throat that made your hairs stand on end and your body turn rigid. “Y’ever had something in here, girl?”

You whimpered, heart racing with such ferocity it made your temples throb and your eyes sore.

“No, I—” You chirped through a held breath, interrupted by a buck of his hips and a pounding into your cervix. “I h-haven’t.”

He exhaled, deep and throaty. “We’ll ‘ave to change that.”

A squeak lept from your throat when his thick thumb pushed through the clenching entrance, constricting around his knuckle as he stretched it open, until his palm was flush with your rump.

“Mh — fuck. Be a shame to neglect a cute little hole like this, eh?”

You expected it to hurt, braced yourself for the sting — but in your fuck-drunk stupor you let him in with a comfortable ease, and it felt good.

A winded whine seeped out from your chest as you took what he gave you, a renewed surge of heat and slick flooded into your cunt and dribbled down your leg.

“Like that, do ya?” He purred, tugging at the thumb inside you and pushing it in again with the rhythm of his ruts. “All your little holes stuffed?”

You babbled like an idiot, whining and squeaking as he savagely fucked into you with a bestial vigour. Yes, yes, please, yes—

His pace only hardened as he chased his release, panting like a dog and dripping his blood and sweat down your spine. Your knees began to ache under the weight of him, rocking forward with every thrust, grinding against the concrete under the thin rubber.

“Mh — perfect little thing — takin’ my cock like a fucking angel, eh? Fuckin’ made for it, just for me, just for me to fuck proper—”

His ravening tirade turned you to pudding, rugged voice breaking with the fury of his pleasure, bullying your cunt as deep as you’d take him.

“Shit—” He grunted through teeth, leaning his full weight into you and making your eyes water with the strain on your neck. He chased a few hard ruts, blunt head shoved hard against your cushiony cervix as his cock jerked inside you. “Agh — fuckin’ Christ—”

You gasped in shock when you felt his come pump into you, pressure building against your womb as he filled you up so full you worried you’d pop.

“Simon—” You squeaked on instinct, unsure if out of maligned pleasure or the brief flash to reality that slapped you in the face — he fucked you without protection.

“Yeah, pretty thing—” he puffed deeply, sinking down onto your back as his fervour was drained out of him and into your pulsing cunt.

With that, reality flitted away as fast as it appeared.

A mournful sigh escaped you when he slipped his cock out of your pussy, his warm come quickly drooling out of your hole once it was no longer plugged; it ran down your thighs and dribbled onto the mat beneath you. He plucked his thumb from your pinched hole and rested himself on your rear. You felt immediately and woefully hollow, holes shuddering around nothing so eagerly they ached.

“Simon,” you whinged, repeating his name, with your motivation utterly eluding you.

“You’ll get yours, girl,” he growled breathlessly, come-sated sweetness gone as it came. “One fuckin’ second.”

Something abominable had slithered into your mind and taken root, you thought. The vitriol in his words should have made you bristle, but it only made you needier. Maybe it spoke to a recondite self-loathing buried so deep in your soul you had never touched it, let alone acknowledged it. Maybe you just liked the way his harsh voice went all gravelly when he snarled at you.

You yipped as he suddenly grabbed you by the hips, his recovery brief, and you were flipped unceremoniously. Landed on your back with a thud, limbs flailing in the blur — he grabbed you by the ankle and dragged your body towards him, held your legs open where he was kneeled between them.

He caught your eye, then; beady, shark-like, a glint of insatiable hunger that reflected in the pools of black. The split in his lip had reopened in his fervour, and his blood oozed fresh and red down his chin, into his teeth. Didn’t hamper him, though – he burrowed his gluttonous fingers into your hips and lifted your lower half off the floor.

A yelp of disbelief jumped from your throat as he hitched your thighs over his shoulders, pelvis in the air while your head remained balanced on the mat. Only on your back, glancing briefly around the room, were you suddenly reminded of where you were.

Fucking the southpaw on the floor, in the middle of a somewhat public gym – you could still hear the murmurings of the audience still in the building, and only then noticed that Simon had left the door to the quiet room ajar.

“Wai– wait, wait– Simon–” You stammered, watching as he licked the blood from his teeth, wolf-eyes peering at you from over your mound.

Figures that he didn’t care to listen. He buried his mouth in your cunt with the ferocity of a starved animal, flat tongue smearing over your slit for a taste, before he suctioned your clitoris into his mouth as though he might drink an orgasm out of you.

Not remotely put off by the surfeit of his come that still leaked from you, nor by the open wound in his mouth that weeped blood into your cunt, amalgamating with your fluids and his into some abhorrent concoction of lust and violence. No, in fact, he ate you with such a hunger that he must have been deliriously relishing in the debauchery of it all. You felt the emulsion drool down the valleys of your groin, glossy red beads trailing down your belly and between your breasts in rivulets. You felt it drip from your neck, into your hair.

“Ah – fuck–” You whined helplessly, arching your spine, heels inadvertently slamming into the meat of his back.

He groaned into your cunt as he sucked your clit between his teeth, seemingly fighting the urge to bite, and the vibrations of his low voice made a shudder wrack you from your skull to the soles of your feet. His grasp of your hips was harsh, thumbs burrowing into the tender pits of flesh behind the bone, and it only made the surging pleasure in your core even more voltaic.

More than a week since the last time you came, and that was at the plastic hand of a shitty bullet vibrator you got for free with a magazine; a climax so unsatisfying and meaningless it left you feeling emptier than you did beforehand. A week since he had brought you so close with his vindictive fingers, and a week of trying to recreate the feeling of his with your own, only to be sorely disappointed every time you tried. Worked up and grumpy, so he said–

It didn’t take him long to bring you to the same point he left you, burning and twitching and squealing under his touch – but this time had you seeing stars, had you bucking into his head like you might suffocate him with your pussy. You were sure he’d be pleased if you did, because he didn’t once come up for air. Kept your clit in his bloody mouth, under his lapping tongue with a consistency of pace and pressure that made your ears ring.

But, you could still hear the creak of a hinge.

Feel the vibrations of footsteps across the floor.

Your eyes shot open and you wrenched your neck to look towards the door – an enormously painful angle to have your spine at – and there stood a silhouette of a man, lumbering unfazed into the room.

“Simon!” You shrieked, kicking his back and writhing in his grip in desperate effort to stop him or break yourself free. A fool’s errand, really. There was no escaping him once he had you in his snare. “Stop, stop – Simon – there’s someone, ah–”

Mortified horror rinsed over you, molten hot, as the man continued his approach, and Simon did not relent. Persisted in laving your clit with unfettered voracity and only reinforcing his grip of your pelvis to keep you still, ruthless fingers implicitly chastising you for making a fuss.

Only when the voyeur was a few feet from you could you determine who it was – vision significantly impeded by the angle of your head, you only saw him upside down–

It was Simon’s opponent.

Johnny.

He looked down at you with lidded eyes, piercing blue even in the dark. Still in his boxer shorts, shirtless, sculpted muscles of his shoulders and arms carved out by the dim light seeping out from the door behind him. Dabbed under his nose with a blood-soaked towel, before his hand dropped to his side. Even in the darkness you could see the pitch in his shorts.

Your hackles were raised but your panic was forcibly smothered by your blinding pleasure; incoherent whines and pleas leaping from your throat as you felt your smouldering core unwillingly tighten up, ready to burst despite your humiliation under the eyes of a spectator.

“Simon – fuck, please, stop – he’s, ah – you’re gonna–”

You were a spluttering mess by the time you were swallowed by the tsunami of your orgasm, so forceful that you suddenly lost the ability to breathe – it ravaged through you in waves that made you buck and wail like he was truly sinking his teeth into your flesh. He might as well have been, with how sensitive your pebbled clit was under his unceasing tongue, all puffy and shuddering after its beating.

You whined desperately as the shattering climax abated, leaving your muscles frail and your bones all floppy, and any fight within you turned to milk and trickled out of you, buttery and soft. Johnny only watched attentively, and you would have shrivelled up with ignominy if all vitality hadn’t been drained from your body and into Simon’s mouth.

He finally peeled his lips from you, licking them as though having eaten a succulent meal, and he dropped you from his mouth. Lowered your hips so that your buttocks rested on his lap, legs wrapped around his torso. You could only lie there, utterly breathless, turning your head away from both of them as though that meant they couldn’t see you.

Simon gave you two reassuring pats on the thigh, wiped his mouth with his other forearm and smeared blood and come through the auburn arm hair that coated it.

“Tha’ better, pretty?” He purred huskily, thumb grazing your skin. “Better be all nice n’ sweet, now, eh?”

Johnny lets out a grunt, petulant disappointment in his throat. “So that’s what ye broke my fucken’ nose for.”

Simon snorted vindictively. “I wasn’t losin’.”

“S’not fair,” Johnny grumbled. “If I knew that was the prize I woulda snapped yer fucken’ neck.”

The unbridled violence in the way they spoke to one another made you sweat – laden with something morbid, a perverted hunger woven between every word, oozed from the two of them like tar.

“Easy, boy,” the southpaw chided roughly. “You’ll talk yourself into another concussion.”

“Psh,” his opponent retorted. “Yer just worried I’ll clatter ye now that I know the stakes.”

Simon let out a hoarse huff of laughter at that, unimpressed. Turned to look down at you, wide hand heavy on your lower belly, and he grazed your bullied clit with his thumb. You twitched with the shock, blinking distraught at him through wet lashes.

“Kid wants a rematch,” he grunted. “What y’reckon, pretty?”

idk guys. don't judge me. i was ovulating while writing this and it has been the kind fugue state where i need skin between my teeth. i hope someone gets what i mean by that

#call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x female reader #bitterfruit fics

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lovegasmic · 7 months ago

Text

OO1 𖤐 KINTOBER ; CORRUPTION

toji, sukuna, satoru x f!reader ꒰ tw. manipulation leaning to dub con, age gap ꒱ taglist in the comments.

𖤐 Megumi’s cute little friend from college who has the hots for Toji, but she’s just too shy and inexperienced to make the first move.

“Megumi and I? no, we’re just friends” is what you had said hours ago, when you so cutely arrived at his doorstep, with bitten lips and a notebook Megumi apparently forgot back at the lecture hall.

and Toji is not dumb not to notice the looks you give him, but it’s not sex all you want, or else you would have jumped on him on the spot, no, you’re a lot more innocent and naive, tugging on your skirt to cover your legs while sitting on his couch.

“is that so? i thought you were a thing” Toji is a lot more loose now, coming to sit next to you, a bit too damn close, and a hand on your knee.

suddenly a cheap porn video starts playing on Toji’s mind, one way too similar to your current situation, you mumbling a weak “we shouldn’t be doing this” while his hand is already sliding underneath your skirt.

his already rock hard cock twitching at the sight of your flustered self, panting for a mere touch on your inner thigh? god, Toji is going to enjoy this so much.

“boys your age don’t treat you like this” a calloused thumb tugs at your bottom lip, all puffy from your teeth digging on it, “are you going to be good for me, doll?” but can you really refuse? with the way the man towers over you, having you laying on your back, all flustered, panting with a lustful yet shy look on your eyes, one that Toji wants to turn into sheer submission.

Megumi’s not usually home, and although this detail should annoy his father, right now, the older is much happy about it, grateful that his son does not have to witness the way your puffy pussy lips part to greet the sticky, condom covered bulbous head of his cock, teasing, poking against your hole as if to taunt you to whimper louder.

“Toji...” sounds so heavenly how you moan his name, with a weak hand pushing on his lower abdomen, “we... shouldn’t...” is a weak complaint.

yet he does not even respond, almost forcefully sliding his tip into your tight cunt, grumbling at the sensation of your soft walls welcoming every fat inch, “you’re taking it well, doll” he smirks down at you, brutishly brushing your damp hair back in an attempt to be kind for a second, instead of just ravaging your insides.

your trembles, sobs and mewls all go straight to his balls, taut and full, forcefully slapping against your pussy with each thrust, no showing any signs of mercy even through your hiccuping moans, you’re enjoying it, soaking his cock down the couch, pussy fluttering and sucking him deeper with those pleading eyes of yours, dumb, gone just from some good cock.

with Toji’s large, broad chest pressing you down, forcing your hips to tilt up slightly, no one can blame you for getting cockdrunk, barely managing to squeal through the tongue shoving down your throat, “that’s an obedient girl” he chuckles, enjoying how you finally stopped mumbling comments over how this was wrong, now just focusing on soaking Toji’s balls with your creamy cunt.

𖤐 the new sorcerer from the outskirts of town, with sparkling eyes, hopes and a dream. truly pathetic to Sukuna, to be honest, all humans are pathetic and a waste or time. but why has he gone so quiet after getting a glimpse from inside Yuuji’s body.

obsessed is not a proper word, he’s not curious either, but there’s something about you that Sukuna wants to ruin so bad, he wants... needs to break your spirit and those sparkling eyes of yours.

it kind of fucks you up how the curse seem to stop talking when you’re around, Yuuji himself telling how how odd it was for Sukuna not to pester you too.

little did you know it was all part of a plan to lure you into his domain, not even giving you a second to process what was happening, having your defenses down and much easier to manipulate, such a terrible idea for a sorcerer.

“aren’t you so naive?” his hand squeezes your cheeks together, tone mocking right against your face, “did no one teach you not to let your guard down? useless human”

embarrassment, fear and awe all burn through your veins, what did you really wish to achieve? truth was that Sukuna’s lack of interest in you only made you... needier, needy for at least some reassurance.

the curse is not foreign to how your skin heats under his big fingers, how your eyes shine uncharacteristically, this situation was not what you expected, but it will do.

“say it again, loud and clear” a low and deep rumble against your ear, keeping your back tightly pressed against his chest with an arm around your neck, mercilessly sliding that thick cock in and out of your soaked pussy.

“t—haaah, thank... you, l-lord Sukuna...!” you’re a mess, an utter mess of saliva and tears rolling down your face to soak his arm where your nails dig into for support, almost dizzy from the lack of air and the way Sukuna’s cock presses just beautifully against the firm spot inside your cunt.

the man didn’t expect for you to be so willing, but those cute eyes of yours, begging to get fucked, got the best of him. with all his hands on you, groping, squeezing nipples and ass, all wherever he can touch and angle your soft hips to take more and more of his cock inside, almost making it impossible for you to breathe from how deep it hits, thankful that his whole strength is keeping you up, balanced on your tiptoes or else you would have fallen long ago, now all you had to do was to take whatever he has left in store for you.

𖤐 you are not Satoru’s student, but that does not mean he can’t have some fun with you.

you’re a bit too naive, aren’t you? sulking in silence at a bad grade, you’re grown, among the oldest students at Tokyo’s jujutsu tech, yet you’re in your own world, not even realizing it’s Satoru fucking up your student score.

call him a dick, whatever, you will never find out. and instead, come to his arms with a pout, asking for help to raise your grades.

a threat to stop giving you missions, or worse, sending you back home was more than enough to make you desperate.

you are so pretty when asking for help, something Satoru knew was not common, but now, you just need someone’s help, or at least some advice, and the mere thought that the white haired was your first option makes his cock throb.

“no matter what I do, it’s never enough for Yaga!” you poor thing, thinking you’re not good enough for your teacher, but Yaga is way too slow with technology as to realize your grades are strangely lower than they should, maybe he should not trust Satoru with them.

but it does not matter, because you let him touch you, you let him place you up his desk with such care you feel your face burning, setting between your thighs with kind and reassuring words, “Yaga is an idiot for not realizing how talented you are” Satoru’s voice is so low it’s almost a whisper that brushes past your ears, the same way his knuckles brush through your jawline and down your collarbone.

but you’re a sucker for those compliments, “do you believe so?” so cute, so pliant, with eyes twinkling and all.

“of course, angel...” he gauges in your reaction first, getting just a tiny squirm in return with breath hitching, “you are perfect”

it should not be a surprise to find you, merely minutes later, with his tongue down your throat and two knuckles deep into your squelching cunt, with his remaining hand squeezing your thighs and ass as if trying to leave prints of his fingers on your skin, making you ache so you remember him later.

your initial idea of seeking for help from Satoru all got drowned with his good the tips of his fingers dragged up and down your soaked walls, taking with him copious amounts of slick that just added onto the lewd sound, making a mess on the wood desk that squeaked just barely.

he’s just too good, and you’re so eager to cum that there’s not a coherent thought behind those eyes, glossy, staring in love at his own blue eyes while gushing cum all over his digits and palm.

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dollerinna · 10 months ago

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I WANT TO F**K YOU LIKE AN ANIMAL .

( black noir x fem supe!reader )

summary: the not-so-innocent things that go on in noir’s head abt you during The Seven meetings (wc: 1.8k)

warnings: MDNI, dub-con, rough p in v, doggy style, primal play themes, size kink, gagging, sobbing, corruption kink, Homelander being a weirdo at the end… just a lil’

first fic on this blog and I lowkey hate it- ughhh sorry if it’s all over the place!

The morning sun cast its golden glow upon the Manhattan skyline as The Seven assembled in their meeting room.

Homelander paced before them, detailing some new initiative he had conceived, but his words rang as emptily as the void behind his eyes. The Deep hung on his every syllable, eager as ever to prove his ass-kissing self with poorly-timed quips. This earned him nothing but a withering side-eye.

A-Train and Maeve listened with feigned interest, checking out of the conversation all but in body. Noir sat apart, idly fidgeting with a pen as his mind wandered. But his attention was drawn not to the usual faces, for there was a new supe among them—you, the latest fresh-faced recruit to their team.

On the surface, you appeared the absolute picture of attention—eyes forward, laser focused on Homelander as he tiresomely outlined the team's objectives.

It was cute, really, how focused the newbies always strived to be. Yet beneath the facade, you were actually anything but so, not when you felt an unseen gaze assessing you, weighing you.

Flicking your eyes discreetly aside, you confirmed a suspicion you could smell from miles away: Noir watching from across the table, his expression shrouded as ever behind the visor of his helmet.

Ugh, talk about creepy.

A subtle flutter of your eyelids shifted your line of sight, choosing to trust that his thousand-yard stare just so casually happen to drift your way and not an attempt to burn his gaze into your very soul.

Besides, what else could the guy possibly think about? Training, orders from Vought, simple pastimes—usually, such painfully mundane, run-of-the-mill thoughts occupied him.

But little did you know in this moment, as he studied your presence from afar, his mental reflections took a turn less… innocent.

─────────────────

“N-Noir… mmph-… please…”

It wasn’t his doing, he didn’t ask to be plagued with this sickly obsession; but every time he heard your voice, it was as if sweet, smooth-spun sugar had come alive.

An alien lust scorched Noir’s consciousness, catapulting his fevered mind into unfamiliar territory. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the sinful thoughts that stubbornly stuck to him like glue. Just the mere notion of ever being responsible for those pretty little sounds was enough for arousal to creep through his veins like a nasty virus, sapping what was left of his crumbling self-control.

Your every whine, your every moan, would be a siren's call that beckoned him to claim you, to strip away your composure until you were utterly, helplessly his. All he craved was to watch the light in your eyes dwindle, to witness your breaths dampening into shallow puffs of air that blanketed your gaze in a veil of fog, gradually muffling you into a stillness even quieter than he was.

And truthfully, it wasn’t a matter of whether you liked it or not.

Noir would ensure his touch left no room for refusal, his grasp iron-hard as he positioned your trembling, naked body on the floor to his liking—face pinned down, ass arched up, just as it should be. Yet even as he held you fast with a palm braced against your sweat-slicked spine, his other hand moved with a surprising tenderness, gently teasing loose and brushing apart the knotted strands of hair clung to your ruddied features.

He imagined the merest of touches would set your blood aflame, rumbling up a ripe groan from your core. “…Oh m-my god… fuck…” words fled your mouth on airless breaths, nearly inaudible but still enough for him to catch. In response, he’d slowly lift a finger to your glistening lips, accompanied by a soundless ‘shh’—a signal for you to behave.

After all, good girls should never cuss.

Large, strong hands would then greedily paw at the lush fat of your ass cheeks, the scratchy textured fabric of his gloves leaving blooms of red across your flesh. Spreading you open, he’d admire the way your juicy, moist folds parted slightly, the aching emptiness within your entrance eliciting an involuntary clenching—your muted moans, trapped in your throat, acting as a wordless plea for more of his touch, more of him.

He liked to think you’d be mere putty in his hands, before he was even close to fucking you.

Noir would take his sweet time exploring you, his curiosity of the human form eclipsing the immediate need to quell a white-hot carnal desire every red-blooded man gets. He was good at rearranging people’s insides, literally, but what if he flipped the script in a much different way?

Experimentally, he’d run the very tip of his gloved finger along the weeping slit of your sex, ghosting ever so lightly over your swollen, hypersensitive clit to collect your slick arousal. Then, without warning, he’d dip an entire digit into your quivering depths, reveling in the way your spongy muscles squeezed and welcomed him in.

Your breath would hitch at the intrusion, skin prickling with a visceral need as you eagerly shoved your rear back against his palm, craving more. However, just as swiftly, he would withdraw his hand, bringing it close to his face to observe it covered in your juices, inspecting how the slimy, milky-white essence connected a trail between his fingers.

Who knew light fondling and agonizing silence was all the foreplay you needed? (or at least, in Noir’s fanciful pornographic depictions of you)

Once done playing with his food, he’d drag his knees closer to your body, his hips flush against your ass, leaving your peripheral vision filled with nothing but his imposing, darkly-clad figure dwarfing your own. Without hesitation, he’d reach down to remove the codpiece off him, freeing his hefty cock which sprang forth in the air, where it stood rock-hard, veiny, and impossibly large.

Wrapping a hand around himself, the thickly-roped, buzzing veins were betrayed by each gritty pull of his glove, drawing a guttural grunt from behind his balaclava. He’d guide his erection between your warm folds, the engorged ridge of his tip prodding against your bundle of nerves, sending electric jolts of pleasure to crackle through your core, before he began to sheathe himself inside you with a push that drove him home.

With a grip possessive and firm around your waist, Noir quickly fell into a steady, almost robotic rhythm of sturdy pushes and pulls. Each punishing collision of your bodies was answered by the lewd, rapid sounds of skin-on-skin, making damn sure you felt every single inch of him as he rutted into you like a man possessed.

He’d only hope to see you struggle taking him all in, envisioning how the sheer scale of his size forced the very air out from your gasping lungs.

“P-Please Noir!… ngh-… my body can’t handle this much,” your once-lovely voice now ragged and frail, scraping sobs grinding your vocal cords near silence as you churned and coiled like a fawn caught in the clutches of a big, bad wolf. “Be gentle, I’m begging you!—-” You choked out weakly, bordering on a soft, pitiful whine.

Expectantly, a weighted silence followed suit from Noir. In his typical, unsparing fashion, he slipped a glove from his hand, jamming it into your mouth and effectively gagging you into silence, as if to say—pipe down, be a good girl, and take my cock like you’re supposed to.

Even without a single word uttered by him, it worked like absolute fucking magic.

Your torso would practically collapse under the onslaught, wobbly limbs giving way as you let Noir use your arched up, offering form like a personal fleshlight. His hips would retract further back in an excruciating slowness, simply marveling at your wetness coating the base of his member like a second skin, only to slam back into you with raw vigor.

Your tight, gummy walls would be offered absolutely no time to adjust to the relentless invasion of his girth, the sheer thickness of his cock forcefully stretching out your cunt to shape him, to the point it felt like he was trying to split you into two.

He’d yank your flexing thighs back to meet his brutal series of thrusts, burying himself into you to the very tilt as the fleshy head of his cock kissed your cervix, igniting a searing white bolt of static to lance through your vision, momentarily fracturing it.

The all-consuming, dizzying sensation hit you like a ton of bricks, toppling your senses and wrenching a strangled sob out from your slack jaw once more. This earned you another biting touch from Noir’s thumbs pressed into your sides, as if seeking to wring every gasp out of your chest, to hear your moans rattle through your ribcage.

However even your rawest cries were swiftly muffled, swallowed by the balled-up glove shoved roughly between your teeth, which reduced you to nothing more than a gagging, pleasure-drunk whore for him to claim.

─────────────────

Meanwhile…

“Welp, that about covers it for today,” Homelander announced with a thunderous clap, loud enough for it to ring through Noir’s ears and bring him back to the present.

Slowly, Noir spun his head back towards Homelander, who had just finished addressing the team while his own thoughts drifted to places where even the pearly gates of heaven wouldn't give him the time of day.

“Now shoo- and no more sloppy behavior. I’ll be keeping an eye on each and every one of you.” Homelander dismissed them with a casual wave and a chuckle laced with another one of his thinly veiled threats.

As everyone, including little-miss-oblivious-you, got up to leave the meeting room, Homelander sauntered over to Noir, heartily slapping a heavy hand onto his back. “Earth to Noir! I know that look—thoughts a million miles away behind that sphinx-like mask of yours,” giving a sly little shrug, he slanted a meaningful look towards Noir’s codpiece. “But methinks, someone here isn’t as impenetrable as I thought…” A thin wry smile played his lips, a subtle hint at his x-ray vision allowing him to see a particular something-something of Noir’s that was currently just as hard as his body armor.

“It might do you good to line that suit with zinc. Wouldn't want any unwanted eyes peeking where they shouldn’t, do we?" An amused exhale, part sigh part snicker, slipped out of Homelander as his gaze swept over Noir once more.

True to form, all he received in turn was Noir’s standard muteness, as soundless as a grave.

Homelander eased the quiet with a huffed laugh, rocking back on his heels as he tilted his head in playful study of Noir. "But don't worry," he added with a knowing smirk, "it happens to the best of us. But do try to keep your head in the game! And not with your other one, ‘kay buddy?” Homelander jested in mock-reproach as he landed one last waggish, firm slap between Noir's shoulders, flashing his gleaming white yet eerily pointed grin.

Noir remained statue still, no hint of feeling betrayed by his rigid posture despite the toe-curling awkwardness of the encounter, or perhaps he'd yet to fully realize Homelander had peered within and seen his aching, raging hard-on behind the suit's facade.

Noir silently watched Homelander shoot two playful finger guns, his cape swirled shut behind him before leaving the room.

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Pssst- Likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

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Apologies if there are any grammatical errors here, cuz I’m alr so done with this fic 😭😭😭

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hyperprosexia · 1 month ago

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cw: 18+ | omegaverse; shameless smut; voyeurism; dub-con; gn!reader; poly!alpha!141; a/b/o dynamics

》 previously

price can feel each tremble and quake of your exerted muscles as he keeps you in position on his bed.

one large paw scruffing you by the neck, your face tilted to the side, cheek smushed against the mattress, because he can't waste one of your sweet sounds to be muffled.

no, he needs to hear you.

they need to hear you, smell you through the slim crack between the bedroom door and floor.

and listen to the wet, squelching noises of their captain's prick pounding into your sopping hole, sucking him deeper with each grind of his hips while your silken walls ripple and flutter around his throbbing cock.

he's been mounting you for the past hour after working you open, turning you nicely loose and pliant for him, for much longer than that.

the bedsheets are soaked with your combined essences; sweat and cum and slick drenching the white fabrics, and filling the air with your lovely scents.

scents and sounds that are leaving his boys desperate, pacing, and snarling in front of the locked bedroom door like the pack of starved wolves they are.

perhaps he'll let the boys sleep in them once he's finished with you tonight.

price considered this to be the safest option, and the next step of your introduction to his beloved pack of alphas.

"my sweet, sweet 'mega, can ya hear how crazy you drive my boys?" he rasps into your ear, draping himself over your tacky back with a low groan protectively, claiming and possessing as his mouth latches and sucks on your sensitive scent gland, leaving another lovebite on your skin.

you spread your knees wider apart and push your hips back, nodding obediently with a soft, breathy exhale while his coarse chest hair rubs over your flushed back. his burly, hot frame on top of you making you dizzy while his strong alpha scent engulfs you like a weighted blanket.

"m'gonna let 'em knot you one after the other, aye? gonna make sure they won't break you, though."

outside the bedroom, johnny is barely able to keep himself from breaking the door in as he scratches and claws at the dark oakwood, leaving marks with his blunt nails while kyle keeps trying to sniff your scent through the crack at the bottom, kneeling on all fours while his cock leaks inside his boxers and his drool dribbles down his chin as he huffs and pants for you and his pack leader.

it's simon who's staying behind them, keeping himself somewhat together, though he keeps his rough palm over his rapidly swelling bulge; cupping and squeezing himself absentmindedly while his eyes roll back behind his balaclava with each chirp and mewling whine price coaxes out of you.

and the three younger alphas listen with bated breaths as price picks up the pace he's fucking you in working you both towards another mind-blowing climax.

the bed's frame squeaks and creaks with the sheer force of the captain's thrusts; skin smacking against skin obscenely as you moan and cry out in pleasure while your alpha's knot begins to swell and thicken as he works it past your sopping rim with a guttural groan until it lodges at last, keeping you stuffed with his thick loads of cum.

once you collapse underneath him, limbs giving out while he's still deeply connected to you, he runs his calloused palms along your curves soothingly; cooing praises into your ears with his gruff voice as he hovers above you, one arm braced next to your head while he keeps caressing you tenderly with his free hand.

"... the choice is yours now, sweetheart," he murmurs, nosing along the curve of your neck as he inhales your mixed, heady scents deeply.

"who would you like to meet first, hm?"

#cw omegaverse #cw dubcon #john price #john price x reader #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #poly!141 x reader #call of duty #cod #cod x reader #cod smut #johnny mactavish x reader #simon riley x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader #tf 141 x reader

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aila0veyou2death · 18 days ago

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𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐅𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡, 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬

𖹭 pairing: viltrumite!mark grayson x flesh-hungry!female!reader (A.K.A warlord prince with god complex x bio-engineered monster girl built for carnage)

𖹭 TW: DUB CON, dark content, blood, gore, violence, power imbalance, swearing, possessive behavior, death, non-human biology, captivity, enemies-to-lovers trope?, face-fvcking, p in a v, size difference, breeding k1nk, dumbification, belly bulging, master/pet dynamic, overstimulation, biting, marking, p0rn with a plot.

𖹭 author's note: This fic is long, dark, messy, and 100% born from my horny little brain while watching Invincible Hope you enjoy :P

Silence had never sounded so victorious.

What was once a vibrant blue planet, bursting with resistance and stubborn will, now lay in ruins. Cities crumbled. Skyscrapers reduced to bones. Blood dried into the dirt...Humanity tried its best—they fought with desperation, with all the fire they could muster.

But in the end, it was never a fair fight.

The Viltrumites walked the Earth's surface like gods claiming what was rightfully theirs.

Mark Grayson—son of a human mother, molded by a Viltrumite father—flew alongside the others in silence, dressed in the same white uniform. His gaze was sharp, scanning the rubble below. He didn't blink. Didn't speak. Just watched as his people moved like a plague across the land, searching through the decay not for survivors, but for something more valuable.

Secrets. Weapons. Leftovers of mankind's final, frantic efforts to defend itself.

They scoured beneath the ash, the collapsed buildings, the bones of a world that had tried to resist. Eventually, they found it—underground bunkers hidden deep beneath the crust of a dead world.

Inside, scraps of humanity clung to life. The scent of sweat, fear, and filth hit them first. Then came the screams—raw, panicked, and pointless.

The survivors didn't beg. They knew better. They cried, they clutched each other, they tried to run.

Mark said nothing. Not a single word. He didn't interfere. He simply watched, unmoved, as the others handled it. Blood filled the halls and screams died quickly.

There was no mercy left to give. Only silence and death.

Not a single emotion flickered in his eyes. No sorrow. No pity. No guilt. Nothing.

Not even as he hovered above the charred remains of the planet that birthed him.

Earth burned. And he watched.

He had been taken away before he ever had the chance to experience what this world could have offered him—just a boy when his father brought him to Viltrum, to be raised as one of their own. As a soldier. As an heir.

There were no childhood memories to mourn. No human attachments to cloud his judgment. To him, Earth was not home. It was a mission. A conquest. Another name on the long list of worlds that fell beneath the Viltrumite flag.

A hand landed firmly on his shoulder.

He didn't flinch. He knew that grip—it was measured, heavy, and commanding.

He turned his head slightly, meeting the sharp, weathered gaze of his father. Nolan stood beside him, armor stained with blood and ash, his cape fluttering in the dead wind. He looked at his son, not with warmth or pride—but with the calm precision of a general addressing his equal.

Nolan's eyes narrowed, his gaze shifting from his son to the smoldering wreckage below. The quiet crackle of still-burning buildings echoed between them like a lullaby of conquest.

"It's pathetic." he muttered, voice slicing through the smoke. "The ones hiding underground. Crammed in piss-soaked bunkers, clinging to some foolish hope that their heroes would come back for them."

Mark said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"They should've surrendered," Nolan went on, colder now. "Some did. The smarter ones. But the rest?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "Cowards. Hiding like insects in the dark. It’s disgraceful."

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant wind and the distant creaking of a collapsed tower.

Then Nolan spoke again, glancing sideways at Mark. "We should check the GDA's underground facilities. Cecil was always hiding something. Back when I worked with him, I caught whispers—rumors of illegal experiments, unnatural weapons… even bio-creatures bred for war."

Mark’s brow furrowed slightly. "You think they actually built something strong enough to stop us?"

Nolan let out a low, humorless chuckle. "Doubtful. But who knows? If there is something down there, it could either be a useful tool… or a lingering threat. More likely, just another one of Cecil's pathetic failures rotting in the dark."

He looked ahead, eyes sharp. "Whatever it is, we can't leave it unchecked."

Without another word, Nolan lifted his hand and gestured.

From above, four Viltrumites dropped through the smoke in perfect formation, landing beside them in silence. Their white uniforms were stained with dirt and streaks of blood, but their expressions were calm and ready.

"Head to the GDA headquarters," Nolan ordered. "New York is nothing but bones now, but if they hid anything, it's down there. Deep." He turned to Mark. "We dig. We search. No stone left untouched. I want their secrets exposed and buried with them."

Mark gave a small nod and took off, the others following behind. They soared through the grey sky, silent wings of death gliding over what was once one of the busiest cities in the world.

Below, skyscrapers stood like charred tombstones, windows blown out, steel skeletons groaning in the wind. The familiar spire of the GDA building jutted out from the rubble, half of it caved in, the rest barely standing. Whatever was beneath it had remained hidden even through Earth’s last breath.

The Viltrumites landed and began tearing into the rubble like it was paper, shoving aside steel beams and broken machinery.

They crashed through steel and concrete with ease, moving deeper into the abyss beneath the ruined city. Reinforced floors gave way. Labs long abandoned passed in a blur of rusted equipment and glass. The dust thickened. Lights flickered, dim and weak like dying stars. The silence turned heavy. Tense. Wrong.

Then they found it—buried farther than any of them expected. A sealed facility, hidden beneath layers of stone and steel. Carved into the earth like something meant to stay forgotten. The air down there clung to them, thick with rot, blood, and iron.

The hallway ahead was narrow, smeared with the stains of time and something more violent. Rust bled down the walls in lines like veins. Blood left in handprints. Claw marks. Torn restraints bolted to the walls. Some of the doors were dented from the inside.

Nolan stepped forward and shoved one of them open with a metallic shriek.

WEEOO-WEEOO-WEEOO—

The alarms wailed like dying animals, echoing up every floor and spilling out into the ruined city above. Scarlet lights flooded the hallway, pulsing like veins. It was a scream. It reached the top of the building. The streets. The sky. Every Viltrumite nearby the area turned their head at the sound that's coming from crumbling structure.

And in the depths of that pulsing red light... something laughed.

Soft at first, childlike and playful.

Then it grew louder. Sharper. Hungrier.

A small figure dragged itself from the darkness of a ruined chamber, half-naked, blood-stained, nails cracked and filthy, hair tangled into a wild, matted mess. Your eyes were wide, glowing faintly under the emergency lights. Your body was trembling—not from fear, but from hunger. You hadn’t fed properly in months. Maybe years. And their scent—those clean, proud Viltrumite bastards reeking of blood under their pristine uniforms—hit your senses like a drug.

You smiled wide.

Your gaze snapped to the Viltrumites—and your pupils dilated.

You lunged.

It all went to hell from there.

The first Viltrumite barely had time to blink before you slammed into him, your fangs tearing deep into his throat. You shook your head violently, ripping out chunks of flesh like a starving beast. His scream gurgled to nothing as you twisted—snapping his neck and tearing it free with a savage pull.

You bounced off the falling body, landing on all fours like an animal, with his head still in your hands. Then you bit into it, chewing with noisy satisfaction, like it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.

The others quickly charged, and one swung but missed.

You dropped the head mid-laugh, and grabbed his wrist, twisted it until the bones snapped loud enough to echo. He screamed. You slammed him into the wall so hard the stone cracked. The third came next—until your claws tore through his chest and you punched into his stomach, yanking out his organs like candy from a piñata.

"Oooh, so warm~!" you cooed, blood dripping from your chin. "Fresh meat really hits hard."

Mark stood frozen, mouth slightly open. His fists clenched and unclenched like his brain hadn't caught up yet. "What the hell...?"

Nolan didn't speak. His expression was hard, unreadable. But his eyes narrowed—and he took a single step back when you ripped the body in half, gore spraying across the floor in a wet splash.

No mortal prisoner stood before them—but a demon cloaked in flesh.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall as more Viltrumites stormed in, drawn by the alarm—only to find two of their own dead, one barely clinging to life, and you at the center of it all. Blood-drenched, crouched low like a beast, surrounded by the shredded remains of their comrades. You grinned from ear to ear, fangs glinting in the scarlet light, eyes sparkling with joy.

You looked up at the new arrivals and waved with a severed hand.

"More food?" you asked sweetly, licking blood from the stiff fingers in your grasp. "Hell yeah! Looks like we're going full course for breakfast today."

Mark's stomach twisted. He couldn't tear his eyes away. He was frozen in shock, even as his fists clenched on instinct.

Nolan's eyes darkened, his jaw tightening with rage.

And then you moved again—laughing, a blur of gore and teeth as you lunged forward.

The fight erupted.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

You left a trail of carnage in your wake—bodies were torn, blood still warm, the taste of Viltrumite flesh clinging to your tongue like candy. They fought hard. Harder than you expected. But not hard enough to stop you.

Some were left twitching on the ground, ribs shattered and lungs heaving. Others were little more than red pulp smeared across the concrete. You didn't kill all of them—not out of mercy, but because you were too full, too high on the rush of violence, and too focused on one thing now.

Escape.

You burst through the final floor like a cannonball, tearing through the layers of the GDA's underground like tissue paper. The red lights still flashed behind you, alarms screamed themselves hoarse. Your bare feet slammed into the cracked pavement of the surface—them you froze.

For the first time in decades, you felt air that hadn't been filtered through vents or tasted like copper. The sky opened above you—gray, grimy, sick with smoke, but still a sky. Buildings stood in disrepair, cracked and leaning, some half-swallowed by the earth like rotting teeth. The world wasn't at peace. But it wasn't the warzone you remembered either.

You stood on shaking legs—bare, blood-streaked, sun-drunk—blinking hard against the harsh, unfiltered daylight. Everything felt too big. Too open. Too quiet. You could still hear the screams of the underground, the alarms howling like dying things, the wet crunch of bone in your teeth. Blood still clung to your mouth like honey.

What happened here—?

A sudden gust of wind blew behind you—it was sharp, fast, and heavy.

Before you could fully turn, something slammed into your cheek like a meteor. The impact sent your body spiraling backward through the air, crashing through an abandoned car and skidding against the pavement before you dug your claws in, stopping yourself with a screech of broken concrete.

You snarled, wiping blood from your mouth, eyes snapping up at the figure hovering midair.

Dark hair. Blood on his fists. Chest rising and falling with tight, controlled fury.

Mark Grayson.

His eyes locked onto you, not with fear—but something worse. Cold, seething frustration. His fists clenched at his sides, twitching like he was holding back the urge to rip you apart on sight. He was scratched up, bruised, panting. Signs of your earlier encounter still painted across his skin. Behind him, more Viltrumites descended from the clouds like vultures, with Nolan among them, arms crossed, silently watching.

"Well, well," you purred, dragging yourself up to your feet with a crooked grin. "Aren't you a pretty one."

Mark didn't waste time. He charged.

You stepped aside like you were dancing, catching his arm mid-swing—but he twisted, and the two of you went crashing into the ground. His body slammed into yours, forcing the air from your lungs. You hit the pavement hard. It cracked beneath you.

You laughed.

Your legs locked around his torso, muscle to muscle, as you twisted and the two of you crashed through the skeleton of another half-standing building.

"Is this how you greet girls these days?" you breathed, grinning at him. "Tsk. No flowers? No sweet talk? Geez. What's up with men lately?"

Mark gritted his teeth, trying to overpower you.

You leaned in close, whispering against his jaw. "You always this rough on your dates, pretty boy?"

The two of you clashed again and again—flesh against flesh, teeth bared, blood spilled. The ground split open beneath your feet with every collision, debris flying, the city echoing with the sound of carnage. You were laughing—breathless, wild, drunk on adrenaline. Mark was giving you a fight, and god, it felt good.

But he was starting to slip.

You saw it in the way his chest heaved, in the slight delay between his punches. And worse—he hesitated. Just once. His gaze dropped to your mouth, flushed and slick with blood, and he flinched when you licked it slow, grinning through the chaos.

"Fuck, that hurts so good..."

That's when they invaded.

The other Viltrumites descended like mad hounds. You didn't get a warning—just the sudden weight of five bodies crashing into you mid-lunge. You screamed, thrashed, tore into one's side with your claws and sent another flying with a headbutt. One tried to grab your wrists but you quickly snapped his fingers like twigs. Another went for your legs and you sunk your heel into his jaw.

You were brutal. A machine built to kill. But they didn’t care. They kept coming.

You growled, nearly feral, muscles screaming under the strain of so many hands forcing you down. Your feet left the ground. You were held in place by sheer numbers that had your back arched and neck straining. One arm was pinned behind you, another around your ribs, another around your throat.

Then you saw... him.

Nolan.

Hovering just out of reach. Watching you with cold judgment in his eyes.

Something inside you snapped.

You lunged, with your head whipping forward like a beast. You nearly got him—teeth bared, inches from tearing into his throat—but you were yanked back at the last second. Still, it rattled them. They didn’t expect you to go for the general.

And neither did Mark.

He moved without thinking and slammed into you with enough force to break a mountain, shoulder in your gut, arm locking around your chest as he drove you to the ground.

"Stop!" he shouted, his breath hot against your skin.

You twisted in his grip—then bit down. Hard.

Your sharp teeth sank into his forearm, tearing its skin, ripping the muscle. He shouted, blood running warm across your tongue. You could taste him—Viltrumite blood, rich and violent, flooding your mouth like a reward.

He yanked his arm back and without pause, drove his fist into your jaw—forcefully.

You were still smiling as you went down, lips smeared in red. "...fucking awesome." you muttered breathless, the taste of Viltrumite blood still warm in your mouth. Your eyes rolled back as the world cracked sideways. Your body slumped and the sky above you blurred. You barely heard the other Viltrumites yelling before your knees buckled and your vision started to go dark.

The last thing you saw was Mark's face—shocked, bleeding, staring down at you like he didn't know whether to be petrified or fascinated.

And then, there were arms around you.

Strong and steady. Definitely his.

Mark caught you before you hit the ground completely, lowering you into his hold like he wasn't still bleeding from your bite, like he didn't just knock you out cold. You didn't feel the relief in the others, or the weight of containment cuffs snapping around your wrists. All you felt was warmth, before darkness swallowed you once again.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

You stirred with a groan, pain blooming at the base of your skull. Your body ached, heavy and sore like you've been hit by a planet—and maybe, in a way, you had. Your thoughts came sluggish, swimming through the fog in your head. Voices echoed around you, distant and distorted at first, like they were bouncing off the walls of your skull. But slowly, they grew clearer—they sharpened into words, whispers, and conversations.

Your eyes cracked open.

Bright lights seared into your vision.

You were kneeling.

Both knees pressed against freezing tiles, with your legs spread apart as if it forced open with no mercy. Thick restraints clamped tightly around your wrists behind your back, made of some dense, unyielding alloy that even your strength couldn't break through. The cold kiss of metal crawled over your spine. Chains dug into your skin where you had already been bruised, holding you still.

You were naked.

Completely.

There was no cloth, no covering—nothing to shield you from the cold or the sea of eyes watching from every corner of the stadium. The air prickled along every inch of your exposed skin, and the lights were focused solely on you, spotlighting every inch of your body—every inhuman line, every unnatural curve, every scar and every mark. Every part of what made you a monster was put on display.

A muzzle clamped tightly over the lower half of your face, molded hard against your jaw. It silenced you completely. No speaking. No biting. Just the soft rasp of your breath through your nose, quick and sharp, barely enough to calm the burn in your lungs. Your mouth was sealed shut.

A low growl rumbled from deep in your chest.

The sound cut through the low hum of voices like a blade.

Conversations stopped. Heads turned. The entire stadium fell silent.

Dozens—no, hundreds of eyes snapped to you.

They were all Viltrumites.

All of them. Rows of them, seated in ranks dressed in pristine white uniforms, most of them were cloaked—like some twisted cult of gods looking down at their captured beast. Their faces were cold, observing, and judgmental.

You shot the crowd with a venomous glare.

Then, one of the seated figures stood.

"It seems the beast has finally awoken."

The voice cut clean through the silence—calm, commanding, sharp as a blade. "Good."

General Nolan stepped forward, his presence heavy like gravity, each step deliberate. The stadium seemed to tense beneath his weight. He didn't look away from you, not even once, not even while the crowd of white-cloaked Viltrumites leaned in, listening. Hanging on his every word.

"This is the weapon that slaughtered twenty-seven of our finest." he announced, voice crisp and brutal. "An Earth-born experiment that crawled out of her hole after decades of silence. Not a soldier. Not a warrior. A threat. One that’s proven herself to be something far more dangerous than even a Viltrumite..."

You weren't listening to him.

Not really.

You didn't care for his dramatic little speech. All you cared about was the weight of the chains digging into your wrists and the deep, familiar ache that sparked in your muscles. You shifted on your knees, raw skin scraping against the cold metal floor as you tested your bounds again. Harder. Rougher. You knew they were watching. You simply didn't care.

Your breath came fast through your nose, the muzzle clamped over your mouth keeping you from speaking, biting, screaming. It was tight. Containing. But it wouldn't hold you back forever.

A low growl rumbled in your throat.

Then came the footsteps.

One by one, other Viltrumites stepped forward—soldiers, elites, survivors. Each of them wore the scars of your fury like badges of shame. Torn uniforms, burned skin, bruises blooming down their jaws and ribs. Some limped, others stood stiff and bloodied. They looked like warriors who had fought something far worse than their own.

They stood beside Nolan, forming a silent wall of evidence, an undeniable proof of your destruction.

"...To those who doubt what she's capable of," Nolan continued, gesturing toward them, "Let these survivors be your reminder—of the massacre she unleashed. Of the destruction this monster has caused."

A ripple of hushed awe and unease moved through the stadium. Even behind disgusted whispers and down-turned mouths, you could feel it.

Fear.

Respect.

Even some admiration.

They weren't just looking at you like a monster. No. Some of them were looking at you like you were unstoppable.

A force of nature.

You kept your head high despite the chains, the cold, the exposure. And as your gaze flicked across the stage, your eyes locked on something else—someone else.

Pretty boy.

He was standing just behind Nolan. Silent and stiff.

His face was hard to read, his jaw tight, but his eyes never left yours. Even after everything, he wouldn't stop looking at you.

And then there was Anissa, standing beside him like a shadow. Arms crossed, chin lifted slightly, like she was trying to figure you out. Judging and calculating. Not impressed—but not dismissive, either. She whispered something to Mark, a sharp little comment masked behind a smirk.

He didn't look at her. Didn't react. His gaze was locked on you.

And despite everything—despite the bruises on your body, the metal biting into your wrists, the weight of every eye watching—you smirked behind the muzzle.

Even now. Even here.

You could feel it.

That heat in your veins.

That wild pulse in your chest.

That hunger.

And he was still watching.

Their voices rose around you—cold and calculating, debating your fate like you were some unruly creature rather than a living being. The Viltrumite council spoke in harsh tones. Some suggested you be kept alive for study, molded into a living weapon. Your strength was too rare, too valuable to waste. You were a weapon, after all—unrefined, but powerful. Others disagreed. Their voices were sharp with caution, insisting you were too dangerous, too unpredictable, as you had already killed too many.

But then, the conversation shifted. It spiraled—quicker than your still-throbbing head could follow. But you caught enough.

They weren't talking about justice anymore, or even punishment.

A new thread had slithered into the room, it low and quiet at first. A suggestion that made your skin crawl.

"She's female." one of the council members said plainly, studying you with clinical detachment. "And clearly fertile."

Your jaw clenched behind the muzzle.

"She may be human in origin, but her body’s resilience and strength—those are above even standard Viltrumite females." another added. "Breeding with her could produce a hybrid that surpasses us. A child born of her might become the key to furthering our strength."

Disgust curled in your gut.

Breeding.

Shit. They were seriously discussing breeding you.

You could feel the weight of their eyes on your bare form. They weren’t just looking at a criminal anymore. They were evaluating you like a broodmare.

The female Viltrumites didn't object either. One of them tilted her head and added, "Her frame suggests high reproductive capability. The musculature, the hips, her bone density—everything aligns."

You wanted to laugh. To rip the muzzle off your face and tell them to shove their breeding program up to their asses.

But all you could do was breathe. Controlled, but furious.

And yet… somewhere under the heat of that fury, something twisted—a perverted, morbid curiosity coiled in your gut.

Breeding you?

Like you were some kind of baby-making machine.

You were trained to kill. Built for war. A monster, they said—and now suddenly, they were talking about your hips, your womb, your usefulness as if you were nothing more than a vessel. A thing to be filled, broken, used to build their empire from the inside out.

Your stomach turned. The word fertile echoed in your ears like a curse.

What were you now, a walking cradle? A fucking incubator for the Viltrumite legacy?

And worse—part of you wondered. What would it even look like? You, monstrous and wild, collared and panting beneath someone they chose for you. With your body betraying you. Bearing Viltrumite blood. Creating something terrifying. Something worse.

Something like you.

Your eyes narrowed, seething through your lashes.

You weren't going to let them own you.

But gods, the idea wouldn't leave. It curled around your brain like smoke. Sick. Curious. And Violent.

They didn't want to kill you.

They wanted to breed you.

A tall, scarred warrior stepped forward from the group of survivors—his arm still in a sling, a fresh wound slashed across his chest.

"If she is to be contained," he said, "then she must be broken. Handled. Someone will have to... train her."

The word train sent a flicker of rage down your spine.

"She won't yield to just anyone. Most of us tried, and barely survived. But according to the surviving officers…" His eyes narrowed at you. "There was one who managed to fight her back. Who held his ground longer than anyone else."

You stopped moving.

"Mark Grayson." he said.

The silence that followed was loud. Heavy.

"She responded to him. Almost like she enjoyed it." another commented. "We observed it—she was smiling. Laughing. Every time he hit her, she hit harder. She didn't want to kill him. It's almost like she wanted to play."

The crowd murmured again.

"She was having fun, and yet he still managed to injure her. To bring her down."

Mark's hands were clenched at his sides now, his brows furrowed, jaw tight. His silence said more than words could.

"She's a beast." the first speaker said. "But beasts can be trained. And if anyone is going to do it… it has to be him."

General Nolan finally turned slowly to face his son. "Mark."

Mark lifted his eyes, and for the first time, you saw the faintest flicker of conflict in them.

Nolan's voice rang clear, loud enough for all to hear. Cold. Final.

"She's your responsibility now."

"Break her. Tame her. Turn that wild thing into something useful. Think of it as… training a new pet." Nolan sharply commanded.

The word pet hung in the air, heavy and cruel.

And just like that, the decision was made.

You were no longer just a monster.

You were his task. His burden. His possession.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

You were moved into Mark Grayson's private quarters two days later.

You were escorted like an animal—your wrists locked in thick cuffs, a black gag secured tightly between your lips, and a gleaming high-tech collar locked around your neck. It pulsed faintly red, a constant reminder of the shocks it could deliver. You had already learned its bite. The plain white prisoner uniform clung to your body neatly but it couldn't hide the tension in your muscles or the defiance in your eyes. Your hair had been washed, but left wild and tangled, like they hadn't cared to do more than rinse you clean.

His father led the procession, flanked by five other Viltrumites. They walked in silence—grim and towering, like they couldn't wait to be rid of you. When the door to Mark's quarters hissed open, they shoved you forward without care. You stumbled, unbalanced, but didn't fall. You landed on your knees before him, like a stray beast dumped at the feet of her new master.

Mark said nothing.

He stood tall in his pristine white Viltrumite uniform, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable. His eyes moved over you—your face, the collar, the gag, the subtle twitch in your smile. You could feel his gaze, cold and heavy, like he was judging you.

He didn't look surprised. He didn't even look particularly interested.

But he looked at you like you were his. Like you were already his.

The cage in the corner of the room was built just for you. Reinforced alloy. Thick bars. It wasn't hidden—it was a fixture in the space, something he'd clearly made room for. You were shoved inside it without grace, and the door clanged shut with a low, echoing finality.

His father said a few quiet words before departing with the others. Something about obedience. About control. Mark nodded, silent and cold, never once looking at you again until they were gone.

Only then did he approach the cage.

You were lying inside, already curled on your side like a cat. When he finally turned his gaze to you, you met it with a wink.

He stared at you with an unreadable expression. There was no lust, no hatred—just something… calculating. You could sense the effort it took him to stay composed, to look down at you and not act. You could feel the discomfort behind that stare. And you loved it.

He left you alone after that.

But when he returned hours later, the cage was torn open like it was made of paper. One of the bars was bent backward, and sparks flickered where the internal locking system had fried. You sat lazily in the center of his bed, legs tucked under you, the remains of your uniform hanging from your hips. Your upper body was bare—slick with sweat and blood, lips red from raw meat as you gnawed on something half-cooked

It stained his bedsheets. It stained your fingers.

He stopped in the doorway and stared at you for a long moment.

Then he exhaled slowly and murmured, "I really hoped you'd stay in the cage."

You licked your fingers, then flashed him a lazy grin. "I'm not an animal, Grayson."

He said nothing as he entered, stripping out of his uniform until he was half-naked. He moved toward the small kitchen like you weren't there, calm and composed, even as you followed him with your eyes, your teeth still sunk into the meat in your lap.

"Don't you have anything better to wear? Didn't my father give you something?" he asked over his shoulder.

You stood behind him now, silent, completely naked. You stretched your arms up—slowly, deliberately—exposing yourself without a single shred of shame.

"Ooh, don't like what you see?" you asked, with your voice sickly sweet.

Mark didn't turn around. "You don't get to tease me, pet."

Your smile widened. "That collar says otherwise."

And then—before you could take another step toward him—it sparked. Electricity crackled across your throat in a violent shock. You collapsed to the floor with a hiss, trembling and panting, but still smiling through the pain. He still didn't turn around.

"You're mine." he said flatly. "And pets don't speak without permission."

You lay there twitching on the floor, laughter bubbling from your throat even as your body spasmed.

You were such a problem. A walking mess of temptation and chaos. A feral, sharp-toothed creature he hadn't tamed yet. You stalked around his space like a spoiled cat—shedding blood, climbing on his things, curling up naked where you didn't belong. You didn't eat the rations he gave you. You rejected everything cooked. Mark quickly learned that the only way to keep you fed was raw meat, still dripping. And when he gave in and brought it, you looked at him with gleaming eyes like he was rewarding you.

He hated that. Hated the way you made him feel like he enjoyed your presence. Like he looked forward to your games.

You were always touching his things, brushing against him when he walked past, whispering into his ear when he tried to sleep.

"You're fun when you're pretending not to want me." you whispered one night, your breath warm against his neck. "I was just wondering how long it would take before you finally snapped."

His hand gripped your jaw tight, forcing your gaze to meet his. His thumb brushed slowly along your collar

"I will break you..." he murmured, voice low and lethal. "And you'll beg me for it."

You met his threat with a wicked smile, eyes gleaming with challenge.

Gods, you were such a naughty thing.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Living with Mark was a war of nerves.

He didn't speak much, not unless he had to. He gave orders, not conversation. Every time he walked into the room, he expected obedience—and every time, you gave him the exact opposite.

He tried to tame you with structure. Routine. Food. Clean quarters. The cage—still bolted to the corner of his room—was meant to remind you that no matter where you roamed, this was still captivity. You were still his.

And yet, you prowled through his space like a cat. A filthy, bloodthirsty little thing with sharp teeth and mischief in her eyes.

You made a game out of pissing him off.

You ripped the sleeves off the black Viltrumite uniform he had ordered for you, claiming they were itchy—then refused to wear anything else. You slept wherever you pleased, most often curled in his bed, stretched across the sheets like you owned them. You dripped blood on his floors from your stolen snacks, purred at him in mockery, and bared your teeth every time he looked too calm. You called him "pretty boy," "master," "hot stuff" and "Grayson," depending on what reaction you were hunting for.

Sometimes, you stood right in front of him, naked and smiling, collar still glowing red.

Sometimes, he didn't say anything.

Sometimes, he did.

And when he did, it was never nice.

Still, you could feel it—beneath all that authority and arrogance, something was cracking. Every time you got under his skin, every time his jaw clenched and his fists curled, you felt it coming closer. That first fight between you hadn't just been survival—it had been ecstasy. Something deep in your corrupted instincts craved the collision again. The pain. The rush. The blood. And the way he had looked at you, panting, bruised, victorious.

You wanted to taste it again.

But Mark had been sent off-world. Called away on a brutal conquest with other Viltrumites. Rumors spread fast—it had been ugly. Ugly and loud. You could practically hear the taunts in his ears, the rage in his fists. You knew how he got when pushed too far.

So you pushed him further.

By the time he returned, there was blood on Viltrum's walls.

You had tried to escape.

You tore through six Viltrumites before they even realized what was happening. Ate one. Injured another so badly they couldn't walk. You laughed the whole time, dripping with gore, half-mad with the thrill of it. You're not actually trying to leave, not really. You just wanted to fight. You wanted to feel alive again.

Once they captured you, they threw you into one of their most heavily guarded prisons. Chained you like the monster they said you were. But not before you left your mark.

So when Mark came home—wounded, furious, soaked in blood and sweat—he didn't go back to his quarters.

He went straight to the prison.

And when the cell door hissed open, there you were. Naked again, legs casually crossed, sitting on the floor like a satisfied beast after a feast, while still wearing your collar like a choker. Your mouth was stained with red. Your arms were chained above your head, but your eyes were calm—glowing with smugness and something else.

You tilted your head. "Welcome home, pretty boy~"

He stepped inside. The door sealed shut behind him with a cold hiss, and he didn't speak. He just stared and his silence was loud.

You didn't lower your gaze. Didn't shift or flinch under the weight of it. You wanted this—you wanted that fire in his eyes, the heat of fury crawling down his spine. You wanted that unhinged thing in him to wake up. To bare its teeth. To bite you back.

You smiled, slow and sharp. "You look like shit."

His jaw tightened. The cuts on his face were still fresh. Blood streaked down the side of his neck, half-dried, and his hands were trembling from self-control.

You cocked your head, chains clinking above you. "What's wrong? Mission didn't go so well? Or are you just mad I had a little fun while you were gone?"

You let out a giggle as he moved closer. Boots echoing off the cold floor. You shifted, legs still crossed, thighs open just enough to tempt.

"You killed six." Mark said, voice laced with coldness, "Injured five more."

You smiled with your teeth. "I was hungry."

His palm cracked across your face before you even finished the sentence.

Your head jerked to the side, the taste of copper blooming on your tongue. You spat, a string of red falling to the floor between your knees, then looked up at him with a smug, bloodstained grin. "There he is…"

He stepped closer. Towering. Trembling with restrained fury.

"You think this is funny?" he snarled.

You laughed, low and taunting. "It's hilarious, actually. They cried so loud. Struggled like babies. You should've seen their faces, pretty boy." Your voice lowered to a mock whisper. "I think you're getting soft on me. Not the same Viltrumite who left me broken on a battlefield."

His eye twitched. His chest rose and fell like he was holding back the urge to throw you through the wall.

"What do you want, huh?" he snapped. "Another beating?"

You cocked your head, smile dripping arrogance. "I want to see you snap. I want the same fire that pinned me down and made me feel alive. You've been boring since you brought me here... there's no fun."

Something shifted in his face—a cold fury, flickering with something darker.

His hands moved.

He simply undid the belt of his white Viltrumite uniform, then let the fabric drop away just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, and mean. Veins tracing the length like dark roads, the head was wet and angry.

You blinked. Frowning, your mouth twisting into a sneer. "Eww, gross—what the fuck do you think I'm gonna do with that!?"

Mark stepped forward, towering over your chained form. His hand wrapped around your collar, tilting your head back roughly.

"Open your mouth."

"Fuck you."

"I swear," he growled, leaning down until his breath scorched your lips, his voice is low and seething, "If you don't open your fucking mouth, I'll tear your jaw open and shove my cock down your throat until you forget how to breathe."

Your eyes narrowed as you watched Mark stand tall before you, his 8.5 to 9-inch cock jutting out, the swollen tip slapping lewdly against your parting lips. You could feel the heat radiating off his thick shaft, smell the heady musk of his arousal. His girthy length hovered dangerously close to your face, a silent threat and a promise of what's to come.

You opened your mouth slowly, not out of submission or eagerness, but to bare the sharp, wicked teeth you were so proudly known for. It was a challenge, a silent dare. Your tongue darted out, flicking against the weeping slit of his cockhead in a teasing caress that was barely a touch.

Mark's eyes flashed dangerously as you slowly parted your lips, revealing the glint of your sharp teeth. This was no act of submission, but a silent challenge thrown down between you. "Tuck those fangs away." he growled, his grip in your hair tightening warningsly.

You met his glare with a defiant tilt of your chin, not complying. "Make me." you taunted, your voice dripping with insolence even as his fingers dug into your scalp.

A dark snarl rumbled in Mark's chest. "Brat," he spat. His other hand shot out, gripping your collar possessively. "If I feel even a graze of those little fangs on my cock, I will snap your fucking neck. Got it?"

Before you could react, he pushed it forward, the thick head of his dick forcing your lips apart and stretching them obscenely around his girth. You gasped as he pushed deeper, your throat squeezing around its size. The tip of his cock kissed the back of your throat, making you gag reflexively.

Mark paused, allowing your throat to adjust to his size. His thumb stroked along your jawline, not a gentle caress, but a dominant, controlling gesture. "Breathe through your nose." he commanded gruffly. "You can take it."

Trapped and stuffed full, your glare was your only remaining weapon. Mark started to move, his thrusts initially slow and deliberate. Each drag of his thick length along your tongue and throat sends jolts of unwanted pleasure through you. As if your body is betraying you, you can feel your cunt pulsing, clenching around nothing as he used your mouth.

His pace increased, fucking your face hard and rough. Wet, filthy sounds of flesh slapping echoed through your cell. Drool and precum mingled, dripping down to your collar and to the floor. He gripped your hair tighter, holding your head still as he hilted with each brutal thrust.

He forced you to take his entire length, over and over, balls slapping against your spit-slicked chin. Tears streamed down your face from the relentless face-fucking and lack of oxygen, but he showed no mercy.

Suddenly, with a harsh tug on your hair, he yanked your head back and pulled out abruptly. You gasped desperately, drawing ragged breaths, thick ropes of your saliva was connected to his cock and the head of his dick was an angry red, flushed and leaking, hovering inches from your face.

It was then silent between the two of you, nothing but the sound of heavy breathing filling the tense air. His chest rose and fell, sweat beading at his temples, while you knelt there—lips swollen, throat aching, eyes glassy and unfocused from the brutal rhythm he'd forced on you.

Your head swayed slightly, lightheaded and dazed, the aftershocks of it still buzzing through your body like static. You blinked up at him, not out of defiance this time, but because your mind hadn't caught up yet—too fogged to realize he had pulled out without even cumming.

Mark grasped the metal cuff binding your wrists and, with a simple flex of his superhuman strength, tore it apart like it was nothing more than paper. The sudden release sent you off balance that you collapsed forward with a grunt, catching yourself on your hands and knees in an undignified sprawl. Before you could push yourself up, his fingers hooked under your chin, jerking your head back to meet his gaze.

A slow, mocking smirk tugged at his lips as he took in the sight of your disheveled state. Then, without a word, he grabbed you and with a sharp, effortless motion, hauled you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. The air rushed out of your lungs as your body collided with the hard wall of his chest, muscles shifting beneath you as he began walking out of your cell.

As you attempted to slip free from his hold, one hand gripped your rear possessively, giving it a sharp, punishing slap. The stinging pain radiated through you, a silent warning from him. You bit back a yelp, determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing you cry out.

Mark walked down the corridor in heavy silence, his steps echoing ominously as he carried you like a trophy draped over his shoulder. Viltrumite guards paused to stare, their gazes lingering on your bare, used form. You could feel their eyes crawling over your skin, filled with assumptions, judgment, maybe even envy at the power play unfolding in front of them. You shot them a sharp side-glare, though the faint blush dusting your cheeks betrayed the heat pooling beneath your skin.

Without breaking a stride, Mark took off into the air, the force of his flight making the wind whip past your ears. In seconds, you landed hard on the balcony of his private quarters. He barely gave you a moment to react before tossing you onto the bed like you were nothing more than his personal possession. The moment your back hit the mattress, he was already stripping off his bloodied uniform before crawling on top of you, pinning you down with the full weight of his body.

And then his mouth crashed onto yours. It was not gentle or loving but a brutal claiming. His tongue forced its way past your lips to dominate your mouth. He poured all his pent-up frustration and lust into the kiss, one hand gripping your hair to hold you in place as he plundered your mouth.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he released your bruised lips, both of you panting harshly. "You've done nothing but push and provoke me—every damn chance you got." he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "But now? You're right where I want you."

With one swift motion, he caught both of your wrists and pinned them above your head in one large, unyielding hand, pressing them into the mattress. His body hovered close, radiating with heat and fury as he leaned down, his breath hot against your ear. "No more games."

Mark shifted his hips, positioning himself between your spread thighs. The thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance, already slick with your unwilling arousal. "It's time someone taught you the meaning of obedience." he rasped. "And I'm going to enjoy breaking you in."

With a single, brutal thrust, he slammed forward, burying himself to the hilt inside your tight, dripping cunt. A guttural moan tore from his throat as his aching cock sank into the silken heat of your depths. Your back arched off the bed, a scream of pained pleasure punching from your lungs as you were split open on his massive shaft.

"AAHH~!"

"Fuck, you're so goddamn tight..." Mark grunted, giving you a moment to adjust to his size stretching you wide. "This cunt was made for my cock." He rolled his hips, grinding against your cervix, before pulling back and slamming in again.

Each relentless thrust sent lewd, wet sounds bouncing off the walls, your moans rising higher with every slap of skin against skin. His free hand roamed up your body, seizing your breast in a firm grip, fingers digging its softness as he pounded into you without mercy.

"Aah! Aah! Aah! Fuck! Mark! Mark—!"

Mark's mouth found your neck, his lips and teeth teasing over the sensitive skin. He licked and nipped at your racing pulse before soothing the sting with his tongue, almost tenderly. Mark's lips trailed up to your ear as he continued his relentless pace. "That's right. Scream for me." he demanded, voice a guttural rasp. "Let them hear who owns you now." His hand slid from your breast to your throat, fingers wrapping around it possessively, not squeezing, but with the clear threat of doing so.

He pistioned his hips faster, each powerful thrust striking your cervix and sending bolts of white-hot pleasure spiking up your spine. Your cunt clenched and fluttered around his plundering cock, slick walls gripping him like a velvet vice. The stimulation was overwhelming, pushing you rapidly towards a peak.

Mark panted harshly, sweat dripping down his brow from exertion. "Take my cock. Fucking take it, you whore." His grip on your hair and throat tightened in tandem with his increasingly brutal thrusts.

He could feel your body tensing, your legs starting to quake. "No." he growled. "Don't you dare cum without my permission." To emphasize his point, he reached between your bodies and pressed down hard on your clit, pinching the sensitive nub almost cruelly.

"No! No! Aah! I-It's too much! Aah! I can't—AAHH~!" Your back arched, a scream ripping from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you. Your cunt spasmed and clenched wildly, milking Mark's hard cock as wave after wave of ecstasy consumed you.

Mark groaned, the rhythmic squeezing of your cunt pushing him closer to his own release. "You think you deserve to come after all the shit you've pulled? You'll be punished for this." he growled, his hips slamming into yours with a punishing force as he chased his own pleasure.

With one last, brutal thrust, he buried himself balls-deep inside of you. His cock jerked and throbbed as it unleashed it's hot, thick ropes of seed directly into your spasming walls. He filled you with his essence, flooding your empty womb, until you were overflowing.

As the final pulses of your shared climax fades away , Mark collapsed onto you, pinning you into the mattress. He caught your lips in a searing kiss, more passionate and intense than the one before. When he finally broke away, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes searching yours with a dark, triumphant gleam.

"We're not done yet. You think you get to rest after cumming without permission?" he growled.

Your hazy eyes fluttered open, cheeks flushed deep red. Still breathless, you gave him a small, teasing smile as you slowly dragged your wet tongue across your lips, hungry for more.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

The night blurred into a haze of relentless, brutal coupling. Mark's stamina seemed boundless as he took you in every position imaginable, each thrust driving into you with punishing force and precision. The bed creaked and groaned beneath the onslaught, a lewd symphony of carnal lust.

You were drunk on pleasure, drowning in the overwhelming sensations of his body claiming yours over and over. Laughter bubbled from your lips, interspersed with wanton moans and cries of ecstasy. It was a stark contrast to the pain and fury of your first fight; this was a different kind of battle, one where you found yourself surrendering to the enemy's touch.

"Look at you," Mark growled, voice thick with satisfaction as he pounded into you from behind. "Taking my cock like a bitch in heat." His hands gripped your hips bruisingly, fingers sinking into the flesh as he rutted into you with wild abandon. "Such a good little pet."

He leaned down, teeth finding your ear as his hips snapped forward, striking your cervix dead-on. "You're going to look beautiful, all round and full with my child..." he murmured, voice dripping with dark promise. The filthy words sent a shiver down your spine, even as a traitorous part of you thrilled at the idea.

Your body was a canvas of marks and bruises, each one a testament to his ferocious desire. Your breasts bounced with each powerful thrust, the two slick with sweat and come. The obscene squelch of his seed sloshing inside you with each roll of your hips was the only sound louder than your escalating moans.

You lost count of the number of times he filled you, painting your insides white with his release. Your womb was flooded, as your belly starting to swell with the sheer volume of his cum. It looked as if you were already pregnant, the bulge of his seed a perverse parody of new life.

As dawn approached, Mark finally slowed, his thrusts growing less urgent as he chased his final climax. With a hoarse shout, he buried himself to the hilt, cock jerking and pulsing as he pumped you full once more. He collapsed against your back, crushing you into the mattress with his weight.

After a long moment, he rolled onto his side, spooning you from behind. Mark's strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling your limp, body flush against his chest. He nuzzled into your hair, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat that clung to your skin. You could feel his heart pounding against your back, gradually slowing as exhaustion claimed him.

As exhaustion threatened to pull you under into a deep, dreamless slumber, Mark's strong arms encircled you from behind, holding you close against his muscular chest. He curled around your limp body like a lover, one hand possessively splayed across the slight swell of your belly, feeling the way it strained with the heavy load of his seed trapped inside you. A look of dark satisfaction flickered across his chiseled features as he surveyed the results of his relentless claiming.

"Rest now, my love." he whispered against your ear, a tender darkness in his tone. "Close your eyes… because when you wake up, I'm going to make you mine all over again."

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊˚⊹ ᰔ

𖹭 please don't repost, publish, or translate this shit anywhere. You don't have the right to do that. Thank you for understanding.

Divider made by @cafekitsune ୨ৎ

#𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒂𝒑𝒐𝒕🐈‍⬛𖹭.ᐟ #viltrum mark #viltrumite mark #viltrumite mark x reader #invincible variants #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson smut #invincible fanfic #invincible #invincible x reader #invincible x fem!reader #invincible smut

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ilium-ilia · 3 months ago

Text

calyptra thalictri

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | masterlist

sow

tw: drugging, non/dub-con, somno, implied breeding

He comes to you in dreams with heady breath that bleeds through black cloth to brush against your face like a lover's kiss.

But he is no lover, nor man.

Only monster—you call him Ghost.

Ghost arrives when you're in the slick, airy stage between slumber and consciousness, where everything shines too bright and yet is shrouded in a numbra so thick you swear it will choke you. Nothing but tendrils to morph and dance in your vision as you look up at the wide mass before you.

Each time he visits, he wears a mask. Black, with a chalky skull outline along his nose and where his mouth should be—only his eyes are visible. Pools of water darker than the lowest depths of the ocean, ready to drown you. Ready to feel the way your pulse quickens when held beneath the waves that have consumed him long ago.

He never speaks. Not to you—only to himself in deep growls that your fuzzy brain can scarcely make sense of. When he first came to you all those months ago, he stood at the edge of your bed—foreboding, looming taller than any beast you've ever seen or have yet to see since. You were only able to keep your brain awake long enough to make out the way his jaw dances beneath his mask to murmur the word perfect.

You think nothing of it until you start to wake up sore. It's more than odd bruises along your hips that sting when you poke them—it's the pounding in your head when you rouse, and the swelling of your cunt. Your lip is torn; split down the center. A curious tongue pokes at the blood that oozes from the crack, and it tastes suspiciously like love.

The next time he appears, he is on top of you. Hips pinning yours to the bed, hands on either side of your head, your body jostles. Every shockwave ripples through your body, shaking the fatty tissue along your thighs and stomach—you feel each thrust in your throat.

You groan, and he shushes you.

"Soon," he hisses. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, darkness consuming your vision, but not your hearing. "It'll take soon."

Countless nights pass like this. He comes to you, body joining with yours, murmuring things that aren't meant for human ears—that aren't meant for anyone corporeal. Each time you attempt to speak, you find your vocal cords painfully paralyzed. They die in your throat. Shrivel into useless tissue. All your questions bleed through your tongue to fester, leaving you with a sour taste in your mouth when you wake.

He's not real—your little Ghost. Only the most concerning reoccurring dream you've ever been plagued with.

You tell your friends about this dream. About this strange man who haunts your psyche when you can't quite get your bearings. You speak of his mask, and how he pins you with his gaze alone; how real his hands feel on you. Embarrassment forces you to omit the sensation of his cock and how it pummels you, but share the odd wounds you wake up with. Bitten lips, raw skin.

Their gazes shame you, and you do not speak of it again.

Some childish part of you had hoped that these dreams would cease the moment you spoke them out loud, but Ghost is persistent. He comes again, and again, and again. Hot breath wheezing. Tight throat growling. Firm hands squeezing.

Soon. Soon. Soon. Soon. Soon.

There is one night when your dream verges on the edge of reality, finally granting you the opportunity to talk to him.

Your Ghost.

Body rocking, legs bent and hips widened, your chest heaves as you force your eyes open as your question expels from your throat:

"Real?"

Ghost freezes. He stares down at you with the same, dark eyes he always does, and you try your best to keep your gaze locked on him. A shaky hand rises off of the bed, fingertips kissing his clothed cheek as you groan.

"Are you... real...?"

Ghost shrugs your hand off of him. "Sleep."

Unable to keep your eyes open any longer, you follow his order. Eyes fluttering shut, breath sighing from your nose, you allow slumber to capture you in her fickle grasp.

Though, you swear you feel clothed lips on yours and dull teeth piercing into your mouth before she can fully pull you under.

When Simon is finished with you, he stands at the edge of your bed like he usually does. Everything is tight. The knots that dot his back, the tension at the base of his skull—but everything feels quiet when he looks at you. There, in bed, ruined by him. Sleeping soundly, unaware of the apparition who's been taking you as his own for all these months.

Before he leaves, Simon pats the pocket of his jumper, and reminds himself to add more Benadryl powder to your sleepy-time tea mix before he leaves.

He can't have you asking questions like that again—not when he's too busy trying to make you his.

#ilium writing #female reader #sr ilia #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #calyptra thalictri

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yeyinde · 1 year ago

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old, grizzled retired alpha!Price who gets stuck in his cabin with omega!Reader when the winter roads, the only way in and out of his domain, melt with the encroaching spring. and really. what's an alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat without any suppressants. it's not like either of you really have a choice, after all.

dub con; age difference; power imbalance; rough sex; size difference, size kink; abo dynamics: knotting; breeding kink (astronomical); mean!Price, Dom!Price; unsafe sex; oral (f!receiving); slight innocence kink; implied kidnapping; coercion; slight baby trapping; possessive, greedy Price pulling strings from behind the scenes, as per usual. this is basically Alpha John Price knotting Omega Reader in mating press, bullying you into submission

It's an accident, of course.

An unfortunate combination of poor timing and human error.

But this accident culminates in Price folding his body over you—mating press, you note a touch hysterically; you'd have expected him to be all tradition: presenting to an alpha on your hands and knees, cunt bare for the taking, waiting to be claimed. And while it might not be traditional, Price will claim you tonight. Bully his cock into your drenched cunt, split you wide on the thick of him, on his knot (fuck, fuck, fuck—), and keep you plugged up around him until the unexpected heat passes.

And really. What's an old, grizzled alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat. It's not like either of you really have a choice, after all. It's agony. It's want. Primal, instinctual. You need him. Ache with it. The urge, the desperation, to be filled. Claimed. Conquered. Owned.

As he presses bluntly against your drenching slit, notching heavy and insistent into your fluttering, aching hole, spilling slick in thick rivulets down your thighs, over the engorged head of his cock, you can't help but wonder how could you be so stupid?

“Spread your legs for me.”

The command rolls off of his tongue, slips—liquid, molten—down his chin, where it dangles for a moment. Pebbled hest. A globbing demand. You want to roll away when it starts to fall, unspooling slowly until it drips down to your chest, but you can't. You're stuck. Trapped. All you can do is watch helplessly as this barking order, matchstick casuistry, touches your kerosene-slick skin, igniting in a bloom of fire that spreads, rapidly, through your veins. Your body.

An Alpha's whim must be met. Even this one. This one—

Your former chief, boss. Now retired in the mountains, chiselling out a little place for himself in a corrie, pitching this log bivouac beside a marbled blue tarn. Cut off from the rest of civilisation every spring when the only way in—and out—melted into a raging, uncrossable stretch of river. The ravine frothing too furiously for boats to dock safely on either side. Trapped here with him until next winter—

(oh god oh god—)

You don't know how it got to this point. Scorched. Soaked. With him leaning over you, in all his tartarean glory, making demands of your body as easily as pulling on loose thread between his thick fingers.

You could blame Gaz for this.

Sat pretty at his desk, idling a jar of gun oil in his hands. Your gun is spread out on the desk, taken apart. Worrying his lip between his teeth, he said, “someone should check in on Price. Haven't heard from him in a while.”

Through a quick game of hierarchy, that someone ended up being you. Forced to trek halfway up a mountain just to make sure your mercurial boss didn't die over the winter. Bitten off more than he could chew and too much of a proud Alpha to admit defeat, and call for help.

You had enough suppressants to last you there and back. Three days. One in the morning, one in the afternoon. Price, despite his surly disposition, is an intense Alpha to be around—

Even for Betas.

Some, unintentionally, succumb to his whims without even a forethought spared on rationality. It's innate. He says something, and people listen—

Like now. Hours after you discovered your suppressants were gone, and his heavy, cloying scent thickened in the air, suffocating you. When he leaned against the thick log doorframe on the porch of his cabin, thick arms folded across his broad chest, murmured, “come all this way just to see me?” and all at once, the world fell out from under you—

Plunging you into his arms, his embrace. His growl in your ear, “you’re in heat,” he grunted, fists balled against your sides. “fuckin’ Christ—” and the death sentence he imparted on you: “either I take care of this, or your heat becomes too much for me, and I tear you to pieces. But it doesn't matter does it, mm? You can't make it back down in this state,” more snarling anger, dry heat. Scorching. His chin jerked to the river at the foot of the mountain. “In a few hours, It’ll be melted through. Uncrossable.”

Per usual, John Price leaves you very little room for choice, doesn't he?

Slowly, shakily, your pitched knees part, unveiling your bare cunt to the man towering over you with a condescending coo on his lips, red-hot desire in his smouldering Tartarean eyes.

“Tha’s it,” he murmurs, voice full of sarky delight. “Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”

It’s not meant to be answered—the jeer chock full of hyperbole. Despite this, your body responds instantly. Back arching, legs spreading out wider around the bulk of his frame, nearly flush against the warmed fur covering the floor of the cabin—wolf, he muttered proudly before he pushed you down against the soft pelt, mouthing teasing at your jaw. Chest heaving. Fingers curling, knotting into the pelt.

The urge to present for him is intense. An unanswerable call when he pins you down on your back, body a cage keeping you trapped where you lay. Open, inviting. All for him.

This surly, awful man—

His hands are rough, padded with calluses and hard, jagged scars that jut up from his flesh. It feels abrasive, sandpaper grit, when he leans down, hand pressed against your knee. The drag, then, when he lets it drop down the skin of your inner thigh, makes you keen in the back of your throat. Gnarled palms bleed heat into your soft skin. The contrast is dizzying—size, scale, texture; it all leaves you breathless. Victim to your own instincts, ones that scream at you to roll over. To run. To make this massive, virile alpha yours—

He cups your pussy in the palm of his hand, heel pressed against your clit, fingers sliding between your slit, touching your entrance with the tip of his middle finger. The way the length of it swallows you whole, long, thick fingers reaching beneath you, grazing the cheeks of your ass, sets you on fire in a way you've never felt before.

Price sees it. He must. He leans back on his haunches, broad chest heaving as he stares, transfixed, at his hand folding over you, wrist propped against your mons.

He groans low in his chest. When he speaks, desire scorches his words to cinders.

“Ever had an Alpha's cock here?”

His question is scorching.

In a small town, choice is slim. The ratio of alpha to omega, and beta to both, is skewed highly in the latter's favour. You think, Price included, there are maybe five eligible alphas in the whole township. Two omegas, yourself included. Everyone else—

Unbothered, unburdened by this horrific anomaly of genetics, of lingering animal instinct. A relic of when people were more beast than man.

But even with that, the suitors lining up ready to claim you since you arrived three years ago is negligible. Nearly nonexistent.

The shame of it is absurd. You know without any shadow of a doubt that your worth is not measured by the number of Alpha's wanting to claim you, but that prickling unease in the back of your head won't be quelled by common sense. Who cares, you want to scream. Who fucking cares—

“No,” you bluster; choking on your anger, your shame. Despite being an omega—rare as they are—everyone in town seemed soured by your scent. Adverse to the pungent pheromones you released innately.

“No?” He echoes, and the stab of worthlessness needling into your pericardium makes you want to howl, want to cry.

He doesn't let you. He leans down, hand resting on the floor beside your head, the other still anchored to your cunt, and presses his lips to the shell of your ear. His breath is a humid kiss that tickles across your flesh.

“Good.”

The praise bubbles in your marrow. You melt under the heat, whimpering. Head lulling to the side, exposing your neck. Offered up for him to take.

He huffs, chest expanding. The coarse bed of hair tangled on his sternum in a smattering of black catches on your nipples, the rough graze making you gasp, soundless, into the humid space between your bodies. Aching already and he barely touched you.

Price follows the twist of your chin, lips pressed flush to your ear. With him crowding so close, you can feel the rumble, the low vibration, through his chest before he even speaks. A soft purr, sultry and rich. Pulling you deeper into the throes of your submission with a startling ease.

“I don't share, and I'd hate to have to tear another alpha apart for touching you,” his beard scrapes against your cheek, words soaked in possessive fury at the thought alone. “You're mine.”

You want to fight against it. Against him. No one owns you. Has claimed you.

You have only ever belonged to yourself.

“M’not—”

Price shushes you with a nip, blunt teeth dragging down the plush flesh of your earlobe. “Don't fight it, love. Just—give in.”

You won't. Can't—

Despite the heat—heavy, oppressive, and wet, like the balmy swelter of a tropical jungle; bubbling dross on molten metal—you fight. Rage. Push back against the heady scent he exudes, ones meant to soothe, melt. Until you're malleable. Tensile. Mouldable to fit his needs, his desires, his cock. Putty in his scorching hands.

It bleeds through, though—noxious and potent. The acrid miasma of a wild, untameable man: leather, hide, and animal rot; bleached bones; felled timbre. A wet forest after a wildfire; charred wood, argillaceous soil. Damp. Cloying. Choking.

Reeking of authoritative power, he leans over you, breathes in the heaving exhales you let out. Lets the taste of you sit on his tongue, curl between his crooked teeth.

He's close like this. All fire, all heat. And underneath the scent of a pursuing alpha, you pick up hints of him. Of what he smelled like before, when you were his subordinate and he spent most of his days making yours miserable. Stale smoke, wet tobacco, old leather, dry whiskey.

You hate how much it calls to you.

Maybe sensing your defiance, or growing tired of this push-pull game, he huffs out a breath that sounds less aggrieved than you'd want it to, full of playful amusement. Like he expected this. Like he knew you'd fight back with brittle fists and wicked teeth.

Price pulls back, leaning against his haunches. Content now to devour you at a distance. His eyes leave a scorching trail from your heaving breast, your quivering stomach before fixing once again on the way your pussy is swallowed by his hand. His middle finger circles your sopping hole. The tease is a burst of pleasure, of sensation. A tickle, a taunt. The drag of it makes a loud, sticky noise; the unmistakable slosh, the squelch of just how wet you are for him.

And it is for him. All for him.

Your heat is an incipient bloom on the horizon—a slow, crawling sunrise. You shouldn't be this slick yet. This drenched.

The embarrassment blisters through you when he makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. A loan bitten, swallowed before it can fully form.

Price coos, voice scorched. Full of char. “All’fer me, mm? Such a good little omega.”

You hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it—

—but nearly choke yourself on a moan.

He chuckles, dark and rich. The sound entirely too similar to crushing a fistful of charcoal, and you're reminded suddenly why he's unmated at the age he is.

Surly bastard. As approachable as a fucking grizzly bear in a rut.

Your lips twist, jerking downward. “Fuck you—”

He circles your rim once more, chuffing low as he does so, letting the slick noise of your soaked cunt speak on his behalf.

You bite back a snarl, letting it fizzle out in the back of your throat. However reckless you might be, however much you might dislike him, he's still an alpha. Snarling in his face would only get you bent over his knee (at best).

And at worst, well. Maybe they'll find whatever is left of you next spring.

Next spring.

Thinking about just how long you're trapped here with him—no phone, no service—makes you want to cry. To break down, to—

No. You can't. Won't. Not in front of him.

Not Price. The awful man who spent three years picking away at everything you've ever done. Writing you up for every little misstep. You wondered then, and you still wonder now, if he hated you because you were an omega who dared to work with him, as his equal, or if his brand of distaste was just for you.

(The latter, it must be—he’s always been so kind to Alex, an older omega.

You're just the exception.)

This sprawling train of thought is clipped when he sinks his finger into you, to the second knuckle, and you choke.

“Ah, fuck, don't—”

He curls his finger. “Protest as much as you'd like, but if you didn't want this, your pussy wouldn't be this fuckin’ wet would it, love?”

He's right. You hate him for it.

But he doesn't give you a chance to complain. He slips his finger out, the wet drag of your flesh pulling on him, unwilling to let go, is loud. Awful. You burn hot—hotter still when he groans at the noise.

“Such a good girl for me, ain't you?”

Price circles your entrance as he says it, pressing two fingers against your rim, rubbing. Gathering slick. You wish it didn't feel as good as it did—electric shocks of pleasure sparking at his touch, but the feel of it is a tease. You want more. Much more—

He presses those long, thick fingers inside again. Two this time. All you can do is mewl around the sudden stretch, the sting.

Your discomfort is a palpable thing. Unease, distress—the acid scent plumes around you, leaking from your pores. Price stops suddenly, fingers still crooked in a half knot inside you.

“You're tight,” he drawls, jowls working. Tensing. His eyes flash, heat lightning. “You—”

He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes narrowing into slits. They drop down to where he disappears inside of you, flesh stretched tight around him. Drilling into the way the slick runs down his fingers, over his knuckles, drenching the back of his hand, and he hums.

“Has anyone ever touched you here before?”

More shame. It bubbles in your chest, this awful, insidious thing.

It hasn't been for a lack of suitors, really. But rather, other things have always taken precedence over heats, over ruts. School, then your career. And well—

Betas around here don't seem very interested, either.

Maybe you have peculiar wants. Urges, needs, that you've always been hesitant to fill. A wellspool of desire that runs deep, vicious. You want to mate. For keeps.

Maybe they can scent that on you. A loud cry that says, stay away.

You take a shuddering breath before nodding shallowly, twisting your head away so you don't have to look at the patronising gleam swirling in frothing Tryhennian.

“Look at me.”

The command bludgeons your resolve. Your chin jerks back immediately. Desperate to obey. To listen. Frantic with the urge to quell the alpha, to soothe his plight—

But where you expect anger, you're met with the most peculiar sort of expression etching itself into his brow, his rugged face.

His lips parted, lax. The picture of surprise.

Your eyes widen. A gasp is ripped from your throat at the raw, fractured look in his eyes. It's new, this. Unexpected. Where you anticipated scorn is instead a slow, unwinding look of want, of greed, so thick, it glues to the air.

Patchwork hunger, predatory and damning, hews into your skin. Fine needles piercing, pricking, along your flesh.

Branded ownership. You feel it settle against your chest. Dig in when his chest expands with his, hissing inhale.

There's a dark tremble to his shoulders that makes your toes curl.

“I should take this slow, then, mm? Prep you. Get you nice and ready for my cock,” his words have you keening, arching for him. Achingly empty. His hand lifts, settles against your quivering stomach. The slightest pressure makes you shake, quieten; submitting to the touch. “But. I don't have the patience for that.”

He slots his thighs between your legs, pressing it tight against your cunt. The pressure—blissful pleasure; frantic at the touch—is almost your undoing, but there's a plexiglass between full submission and the urge to flee. Still. The heat is rapacious. The desire, the yearning, doesn't abate.

The haze is thick. So thick. It would be easy to slip under the veil, to let yourself go. To give in—

"Easy, omega," it comes out as a guttural rasp; the charcoaled command uttered in a mockingly placating tone. The sort one might use to soothe a wild animal or a startled mare. Fitting, of course, when you're rutting against the thick spread of his thigh, leaking slick all over him.

down girl, he doesn't say, but he might as well have because you're clenched tight around nothing, aching hollowly in a way that rings through your bones. You can't help it, you want to whine when he huffs, lips pulling downward in a frown. Disappointed in you, perhaps. But how do you fight instinct when you're hardwired to want to spread your legs at the pungent, lour stench of a virile alpha's incipient rut, the briny tang of his pre-cum saturating the air. A heady elixir that sends shockwaves of agonising need through your body.

It's too much. The burn of your heat is a vicious, deadly combatant. Knife to your jugular, hand around your throat, it demands compliance.

And when he reaches down to his stained slacks, drawing your eye to the tent in the front, to the dark pool at the front where he leaks his spend into the fabric, you keen. Jealousy scorching through you instantly at the sight; animal instinct that makes you want to bare your teeth at it because his cum is just for you, all for you—

Amusement pierces the air. Punctuates it with the heavy, noxious weight of his satisfaction.

He hums, reaches into his slacks. Curls his fist around the thick of himself.

“Want this, don't you?”

You gnash your teeth against your desperation, legs popping open further. Inviting. Eager.

“Of course you do. Want this—” he frees his cock, pulling it over the band of his trousers, and you choke.

It's wet with his spend, and angry looking. The mushroomed head engorged, swollen. Flushed a deep vermillion. Veins run the length of it. Pulsing with his need. His want.

Price groans, strokes his hand down his shaft. Pearlescent beads of pre-cum bubble up from the tip.

You ache. Suddenly, viciously. Hollow. Empty. You want him. Need him—

“Yeah? Want this fat cock inside of you, mm?”

And you, finally, give in—

"Please, please, Price—"

"No." He taps the head of his cock against your clit once, twice. A warning. A reprimand. You keen at the whitehot agony, the unfathomable burn of pleasure ripping through your body. He coos into it. Echoing your whimper with a derisive snort. Mocking. Cruel. You hate him. Hate him. Need him so badly you think you might go insane if he doesn't pry you apart right this instant—

"I'll give you my knot when I'm good and ready. Now, be good for me, mm?” His eyes are dark in the harsh flicker of the wood stove. Burning liquid black. Molten puddles of crushed sapphire. You hate the way he looks at you. Hate how it makes you want to roll over on your belly, soft and submissive, giving all of yourself over to this terrible man. “That's it. Good omegas get what they want. Bad ones get punished. And I don't think you'll like being taken over my knee, would you?"

His words send a fresh wave of heat through your veins. Hellfire. Scorching. You want to blame the fever on the stove burning away in the corner of the room, on a sickness you can't scrape off of your bones no matter how many times you chisel into your skin. An infection eating away at you from the inside out.

But it's futile. He doesn't care about your excuses. He never has—

“Spread yourself. Go on and show me that pretty cunt you want me to ruin so badly.”

Unspooled, liquid under his bulk, you don't even hesitate before your fingers unfurl from their fight knot in the fur, making a slow, timorous crawl down the supine length of your sun-scorched body.

Your flesh feels foreign, like it belongs to a stranger. To someone else. Each touch is a phantom whisper gliding along sweat-slicked skin; new and different, and not yours.

Not yours at all because your skin would never prickle with goosebumps over the sight of your chief kneeling between your legs, the hair on his thigh matted, slick with your wetness. The unruly black thatch darkening into a patch where you shamelessly rutted against him, eagerly seeking friction over the place you ache the most.

For him. All for him.

It's impossible. Impossible. And yet—

As your fingers curl over the tops of your thighs, notching into the soft, heated flesh at the bend of your hip and groin, you feel just how soaked you are for him. How wet. How eager. It stains your skin, reaches almost down your bent knees. Beneath you is a puddle drenching the fur.

Your fingers slip, sliding in the mess you made. You flush when he huffs, humoured by it all, and dip your chin away from the scorching, piercing look in his cerulean eyes, drilling holes in the apex of your thighs. Greedily taking in his fill as your fingers glide over your sopping folds, gingerly parting them. Presenting to him on your back. Ripe for the taking.

“One hand,” he rasps, words clicking in his throat. He holds his hand up, curling his fingers down and leaving his index and middle finger up in a pointed V. “And the other—” he swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing. “I want you to touch your clit for me.”

You follow his instructions, slipping your fingers between your folds, opening yourself up for him. Your other hand sits on your mons, fingertips brushing your swollen clit as heat floods you. Electric. Each touch is a shock of pleasure roiling down your spine, and more slick dribbles out of you, dripping down your aching, empty hole, down your ass, until it soaks into the furs below.

The scent of a needy omega fills the air. Your scent.

Where most are sweet, supple, yours has always had a bite. A tartness to it, an earthy tang. Boysenberry. Loam. Lemongrass. Beeswax. You bluster. Flushing. Embarrassment plumes up, mushrooming in the air—smoked orange peels, coral berry sour—and you wonder if he's repelled by it, this strange smell of yours—

Price’s head rolls back, nose pitched in the air. Breathing in deep, groaning with his exhale. Eyes fluttering, flashing. He eats it clean from the air. Mouth dropping open, panting.

It's then when the unmistakable musk of a pleased Alpha—smoked tobacco and sage—clots beside your scent do you feel the prickle of free will hewing into your periphery.

None of what he demanded of you carried the unignorable weight of a command. Before you can even think of the ramifications of that, he's moving. Heavy body falling, sliding down the furs. His hands come to rest, hot and firm, on your knees, spreading you wider, wider, to fit the boxy heft of his broad body between them.

He hovers over you, head bending to fit in the brackets of your thighs. Leading with nose, nostrils flaring, fluttering, as he pulls in deep lungfuls of your scent. Over and over, and—

His head bows. Humid air ghosting over your sopping cunt when he exhales. It's then when he dips his chin further, further, until the bottom of his face is flush with your pussy, mouth parting around a groan that reverberates through the floorboards, rattles your bones.

“You smell s’fuckin’ good, love,” he rasps, choked. His eyes are gyres. They might just swallow you whole. You fight back a shiver, resolve threadbare. Stitches coming apart. “Bet you'd taste even better.”

It's all the warning you get before he pushes his face into you, mouth dropping open to let his tongue lull out. Licking a scorching stripe from hole to clit. And, oh—

Oh.

Your head drops, eyes slipping closed at the liquid feeling between your thighs. The whitehot sensation of his tongue laving across your slit.

So this—this—is what you've been missing out on. Pure feeling. Molten. It blooms in your loins, knots tight like a spooled bow.

Your fingertips are in the way from him pressing his tongue flat against your clit, where you throb the most, and you move to pull your hand away. To give him access to everything, all of it. Every part of you he wants. It's all his, his, so long as he keeps doing what he's doing with his mouth, his tongue—

But his hand slashes through the air, snatching your wrist in a vice grip. Stopping your retreat. You whimper, hips flexing up, wanting his mouth. Needing more of what he's doing between your thighs.

“Look at me,” he demands. You obey. Instantly. His eyes are black holes. Everdark. Eclipsed, totally, by the bleed of his black pupils spreading out. You moan, thighs parting wider, wider. “Good girl. Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”

He doesn't let you answer. Draws your wet fingers to his mouth, pressing the pads against his lower lip, nails scratching his teeth. He breathes in, shoulders bunching up. Eyes fluttering again, rolling back in his head. And it's divine—

To have such a surly, contemptuous Alpha on his knees for you, fat, heavy cock drooping between his thighs, spitting a steady stream of spend onto the floor. Wasteful. You keen again, back arching. Needy. Wanting—

Price sucks in your fingers, tongue laving between your knuckles. The pressure, the feeling, is good. You like this. Like his mouth.

But your fingers are not where you want him.

“Please, Price. Please—”

He pulls off with a pop. Leans his cheek on your inner thigh.

“What do you want? Use your words, omega.”

Heat blooms in your chest, but you're long past the point of embarrassment anymore. Shame. It's all awash under the torrent of need. Desire. Swept in the rage of your heat. Nearly rendered delirious by it.

“Want your mouth.”

“Where?”

“M–my—” you swallow, fingers spreading your folds wider. Opening yourself up to him. He glances down, nostrils flaring once again. But he doesn't move. Won't. You groan, head rolling back. “My pussy. Please. Want your mouth on my pussy, Price—”

He groans, low. Dark. But then he's moving. Head bowing. His tongue is scorching. Whitehot. He drags it through your folds, teasing at your rim. Presses it inside, just a touch, a shallow thrust. And—

Ah.

You make a noise in the back of your throat. Awful, wet. Choking. The feeling of his tongue inside of you is good. Beyond words.

It slips in more. The full length. Stuffed. You keen, arching. Aching. Hips flexing, jerking against his mouth. He lets you ride his face like this, fucking your hole with his fat tongue, nose glued tight to your clit.

All you can do is sob his name, fingers curling, knotting, into his damp hair, holding him close.

His tongue leaves you, sliding up your seam until it cups your clit. Laves over it. He lifts his chin, and seals his mouth over you. Sucks—

The spool unravels. Pressure released. You flood around him, on him. Pussy gushing slick over his chin, drenching him. Drowning him.

Lips sealed over your throbbing clit, he moans low. Deep. Eyes rolling back in his head. Gyre blue.

“Tha’s it,” he coos, pushing two thick fingers inside your throbbing cunt. “Think you're about ready for my cock, ain't you?”

He doesn't let you answer. And—

You don't think you can form a coherent thought. Running on sensation. On instinct. You make to roll over on your belly, ass pushed into the air, ready for his knot, but he stops you. Hands squeezing your hips. Firm.

“No. I'll take you like this.”

And it's hard to reconcile the urge to present with his demands. His wants. You whimper. He answers it with a grunt.

“Stay still.”

You flatten to the fur, body melting. Lax.

“Good girl.”

The praise is a serrated knife to your jugular, cutting a jagged line across your skin. Spilling blood. You quieten under his bulk, now. Desperate. Docile. Collared in blood.

His hands push behind your knees, lifting your legs. Pushing, pushing. Until they rest under your ears. Spread open for him. Ready to be claimed, owned. Bred.

“Price, Price, please—”

He shushes you with a coo, pitching your heels over his shoulders. Shuffling closer until his heavy cock, hanging thick and fat between his legs, bumps against your ass. Your cunt. You whimper, back arching. Needing him to fill you up. Split you apart.

Ruin you—

“Gonna fuck you now. Knot you.”

It's a warning. A threat. You feel it trail over your skin, branding. A collar. You lift your chin, letting it settle there. So long as he makes you feel this good, he can do whatever he wants to you. Anything—

And so, he does.

His cock is a heavy weight against you, pressing. Pushing. He doesn't wait for you to adjust, for your body to acclimate to the burning stretch of him splitting you apart.

Your slick aids in the brutal onslaught of his cock prying your untouched flesh apart, chiselling open a space just for him to fit.

It should hurt more. And maybe it would if you weren't drowning in the throes of a vicious heat, numbed to everything but the way his cock feels as it slides, inch after inch, inside of you. Thick, fat. Pulsing. You pant shallowly, head turning. Chin pressing into your shoulder.

It's good. This burn, this ache. This madness—

“Christ—” he spits, sounding almost angry. Furious. You peer up at him, eyes wet with unshed tears. Through the murky haze, you catch the clench of his jaw, the prominent divot between his brows. Face tightening with pleasure. Rapturous. “This cunt was made for me, wasn't it, love?”

“Yes—” it's breathless. An airless whisper. “All yours, all yours, John—”

You repeat this as he reaches halfway inside of you. As he bends down, mouth feverish he slots it greedily over your lips in a bruising, sloppy kiss. You mutter it against his teeth, his tongue. He swallows your acquiescence, your submission, down with a moan. Drinks you in as he takes, takes, until you're full of him. Stuffed.

John bottoms out with a moan that trembles down your throat, balls pressed flush against your ass. Split apart on him. Claimed.

He settles, letting you adjust to the sensation. Content to simply mouth sloppy kisses over your face, your cheek, jaw. Nipping your skin. Basking in this, in finally having you stretched around him. His pleasure is ripe in the air. Heavy and acrid. Smoked leather. Fresh, and heady.

It's novice, this feeling. This pressure. This fullness. Your hand drops, falls, palm sliding between his heavy, hairy belly, resting over yours. Feeling the unmistakable bump of him rearranging your anatomy to fit—barely—in you.

He lifts up, elbow dropping to the floor beside your head so he, too, can feel for himself the way he fits within you. His hand comes to lay beside yours, flattening over the bulge of him protruding from your flesh. His cock jerks inside of you, twitching. The feeling makes your toes curl, your cunt throb.

“Like that, huh?”

Your nod is slowly, languorous. Everything feels unreal. Like you're staring at the world from underwater. Inky. Fractured. Raw.

The burn of the stretch is there, throbbing like a bruise. A contusion. He scents the sting, the ache, and slides his hand down, cupped over your swollen, stuffed pussy. Fingers tangling into the thick bed of curls grazing your mons. Price quells the burn with a swipe of his thumb rolling over your clit.

It has you clenching, tightening even further around him. Feeling the thick stretch thrumming inside of you. Plugging you up. And fuck—

If that doesn't just light you up from the inside out. Supernova. Blistering heat.

Pieces of yourself chip off, fluttering to the soft, downy fur below you with each heavy breath he takes. Your heat swells to a crescendo, breaking over the edge of your lingering cognisance. It's all sensation now. Pure, unfettered feeling.

And Price takes no time at all to exploit it. To batter your melting, liquid body into submission even further.

It starts with shallow grinds against the plug of your womb. Carving more space inside of you for him to fit, to ruin.

He fucks you like this. Cock heavy and fat inside of you. Giving you the full length until your rim catches on the burgeoning swell of his knot. Over and over again. Pulling deep, delirious moans from your throat. Breaking you to pieces on the spread of him seated deep. Tugging more and more compliance from your body, wringing pleasure out of every nerve ending.

The sounds are horrific, and had you any sense of self left to mull over them, your shame, embarrassment, would have burned you alive. The wet squelch of your cunt swallowing him down, over and over and over again—

“Needy little pussy,” he bites out, blunt teeth skirting over your pulse point. A tease.

The press of them heightens everything, elevating it to a tipping point.

This is what you were made for. What every atom in your body screams out to. Wanting. Needing to be spread out under him, this dark, awful man.

“I'm not going to claim you,” he's saying, words wet against your temple, tongue snaking out to catch the droplets of sweat beading on your hairline.

It makes you whine in dismay, desperate for his teeth buried in your skin.

“No, no, please—! I need it, John, I need it—”

“Then beg me. Beg for it—”

You do. It babbles out of you. Broken, fractured. Pleas, orisons, screamed to heavens; aching for his teeth on you, in you. Claiming you for his own. You want it more than you think you've ever wanted anything in your whole thing. Half of you, empty and vacant, hollow, begging to be filled. To be completed.

And really—

You've felt it from the beginning. This stirring, agonising want. Desire. A bone-deep yearning for the man who looked at you, up and down, and dismissed you with a charred scoff and shallow shake of his head.

“What's a little omega like you doin’ runnin’ around the woods, love? Ought to be at home—”

Where you belong.

It didn't make sense at the time. He's so different with everyone else—Alex, Farah—but reserves his scorn, his discrimination, just for you. Special little thing, aren't you?

But even still. Still. You tried. Struggled against the crushing weight of his derision, burying your fingers into the rubble, clinging on for three, devastating years until your nails broke, bled. Left stains on the pavement. Until he, stiff-lipped and clipped, told you he was retiring. Escaping the loose binds of a non-existent town on the fringes of civilisation for the sanctum of the wild, untamed forest. The mountains.

You wanted him to say, come with me, even if you might have gouged his eyes out for even asking. Tore his still-beating heart out with your bare hands.

But instead, he nodded at you. A quiet goodbye. Left you bewildered, furious, and unclaimed, unwanted, and now—

Those blood-stained fingers dig into the softness of his nape, biting flesh until it gives, breaks, under the jagged stumps of your nails, and you wrench him forward, into you, snarling mad. Apoplectic with fury at being denied so long.

“Fuck you,” you bite out, brittle with ire. Disobedient even through the noxious curdle of heat subduing your senses. Your rationale. “Fuck you, John—!”

His skin breaks first. The bitter scent of hot, wet pavement, pennies in the summer sun, sickly sweet iron, fills the balmy cabin. He groans, choked, throat bobbing, jaw clenching. You don't let him get anything out.

You pull him by the scruff of his neck into you, face buried in your collarbones. Heels dig in, sliding along the slick sweat of his broad back. Finding purchase against the knob of his spine, and pressing. Pushing. Kicking at him until he slots his hips into yours, pressed as deep as he could possibly go. Throbbing inside of you. Spitting molten spend as he wrenches you open.

The first person to ever do so.

He must know this, feel it simmering in the air, because he groans low, deep. It bubbles out of his chest, a half-bitten snarl saturated in the smoke of his desire. Feverish, possessive.

“Mate me,” you demand, head tilting back into the awaiting plinth of his palm, cushioning your crown. “Claim me.”

He—John, you think, delirious; gone—John places a tender kiss to your pulse point, soft despite the uneven, desperate way he fucks into you now. All that careful finesse falling to pieces under your foot, growing choppier as he sinks in deep. Pistoning shallowly into your sloppy cunt, taking. Taking.

“Please, John,” you breathe, clenching tight around him. Needing that last push to drop over this vertiginous precipice that yawns out, a growling, hungry chasm, before you. Heat spears into your marrow, drowning out all the fight inside of you. Dousing those flames until they're a smouldering heap; clumps of hot, wet ash in your hands. “Please take me—”

The growl he makes is inhuman. Lingering in the shadow of it is a mocking burst of laughter. Dark, hellish. He leans in close, mouth tight against your skin, and whispers, “already have, love.”

Those words lose any meaning when he opens his mouth wider, licking a stripe over your neck. A soothing rinse. And then he buries his teeth into your pulse, tearing through your skin. Claiming. Owning. It rips through you—all heat, sensation: blistering, inferno. You burn alive beneath him, smouldered under his possessive, heavy bulk.

Price leans back with a vicious, terrible growl. Blood dripping down his chin, mixing with the tacky slick of you still covering his face. Pinkish under the waning light of the dying sun.

The sight of it, the horrible throb in your throat, breaks over you.

His tongue flicks out, chasing the drops. With a swipe of his finger over your clit, you fall to pieces around him, clenching. Throbbing. Screaming with your release. Gushing around him as he grips you tight, working you through it, muscles fluttering, flexing. The deluge of pleasure is molten, spreading liquid through your body. Inescapable bliss.

He grunts, pace slowing to a sloppy grind. Letting you leech pleasure from the overfull feeling of being speared open on him. Knot swelling. Bumping into your rim. John gives you respite for a moment, content to hump against your messy cunt until you melt into the furs, panting with exertion. With pleasure.

He keeps his thumb pressed against your clit, stroking. Shoving you into the side of too much, of pleasure-pain. Overstimulated. You mewl, whimpering.

“Greedy girl,” he chides, cruel, and pulls back. The wet drag of his cock against your sore, sensitive walls is overwhelming. You keen, shaking under him. “Couldn't wait to cum around my knot, mm?”

He doesn't wait for your excuses. He never does. He just thrusts into you again, a slow climb until his knot bludgeons into you. Fatten up at the base of his cock. He holds it there, grinding it against your pussy as you arch, mewling at the sting of your hole being stretched further around the curve of his knot.

“You can take it,” he coos. The muscles in his shoulders flex. You reach out, petting along his chest. feeling him. All powerful, corded muscles hiding under a thick layer of pelt. Soft flesh.

His knot catches. Slips. He bullies it against your sore, stuffed rim, throwing the full heft of his weight behind his shallow grinds until finally, finally, your body yields. Giving in. Opening for him.

He sinks in with a broken groan, mouth dropping open. Lax. His shoulders slump under your hands as he pumps you full of cum. Plugged up tight on his fat, pulsing knot. It's too much. Too much. All you do is cling to him, nails biting into his flesh. Marking him like the bloody ring around your neck marks you as his.

Locked together, damned, he leans down. Huffs in your ear.

“Gonna fuck you full all spring until it takes, love. Until you're swollen, fat, with our kid.” His voice is a thunderclap. A promise. A threat. “Won't keep them lonely for long, though, will you? We'll give him a sister or brother. Gonna breed this pussy as much as I want, mm. Give us a big family. I've already started on the nursery for you. After your heat, I'll let you pick the colours, yeah?”

Satiated Alpha permeates the air. It's thick in the back of your throat, clogging your senses. Drowning you. Pulling you under.

The last thought before you sink below the waterline is a broken, fragmented sense of dread, confusion. It comes in a daze. Flickering embers. Quickly snuffed out by his palm gliding across your eyes, closing them.

“Sleep now,” he rasps, hips stuttering as he fills you with more cum. Uncomfortably full, it floods your cunt, locked tight against your womb. “Gonna need it when my rut starts later.”

And, docile, collared, you obey, drifting. Dazed. But wondering, in the back of your head, in the part of you not yet consumed by the ink-black darkness that eats away at you, why did he build a nursery for you if he didn't know you were coming today—

—swallowed, eaten. his teeth are buried in your neck once more, and all thoughts dissolve in an instant. Dissipate into the gnawing aether where he splits them between his molars, gulps them down.

nothing matters anymore. you belong to him—

The cabin reeks of satiated omega—sweet, pungent. Rotten apple peels, and burnt orange. It's this heavy scent—sex, loam, and you—that draws him out of his doze, tired eyes blinking against the flickering light of the wood stove pushed into the corner.

Price groans when he shifts, body aching. Muscles stiff, sore, from disuse.

It’s been a long, long time since he knotted an omega, and he underestimated the sharpness of your claws, your needle-like teeth. But he wears the marks, the scars, of your aggressive coupling on his shoulders, his back. Clawed up, torn. He grimaces when a clotting scab breaks, peels back from the wound. Blood drips down his spine in a steady, ticklish trickle.

It took a lot more than he expected to make you submit. Had to force you to take his knot twice more before you finally, fully, relented, slurring his name into the sheets as he rutted into you from behind, begging for your Alpha to fill you up.

Had you again after that—so soft and sweet for him now. Pulled you down on his lap, let you take what you wanted from him, sluggish and lazy, until he gripped your hips tight, fucking up into you as he thickened with his release. Plugged you up nicely as you drooled on his shoulder, lulled to sleep from three brutal rounds of fucking.

But the battle was worth the victory in the end. To have you tucked into his chest, purring with contentment and too blissed out from heat exhaustion to worry about anything else, was enough. More than, really.

Especially now, with you curled on him, snoring lightly, breath tickling his chest hair, he feels more sated than he ever had, breathing in the heaviness of your smell. Your thick miasma. New, now. Different.

His scent, his mere essence within you, changes your smell already. Chemicals admixing. Body moulding, morphing, to adapt to him. His presence. You smell like the sea, salt water. Algae blooms. He leans down, breathes you in. Tastes his own headiness in the back of his throat—charred timber, smoke; leather. It clings to you. A second skin.

No matter where you go, everyone will know you belong to him.

This thought, this truism, makes him purr. A deep rumble from the pit of his gut. Satisfaction rolls off of him in towering waves, hewing the air where it congeals into plumes of conquest. Hard earned, too—

Three years. It only took three years to get to this point. To chisel under your skin, to break you down in his paws. Fine powder.

He lifts his hand from your back, and scours it down his salt-slickened face. He feels heat blooming under his skin. A telltale flush of his approaching rut. Perfectly timed, too. And that reminds him—

He pushes away from you slightly, spent cock slipping free from your warm, drenched cunt. His cum drips out of you, a deluge that leaks steadily onto your thigh, the ruined fur below. It puddles there and stains the air with his unmistakable musk. The conquering of an omega in heat; claimed. Owned.

He doesn't go far. Can't. There's a possessive, needy thrill under his veins. A snarling growl in the back of his head, snapping rabid jowls at him. Demanding he stay close to his mate. His omega. Don't leave the nest, it warns, or another could crawl in, fill the empty space—

Price cuts that thought off with an aborted snarl. There are no others. He made sure of it. Bloodied his knuckles against every alpha within a one-hundred-square-mile radius of his territory. Growled in their faces, hand against their throat, and told them to stay away from, you, this pretty little omega.

Message received, of course. But you were a prickly little thing. Bitter. As much as he wanted to roll you on your belly, make you present your cunt to him, he knew he had to tread carefully. Baby steps until you were close enough to his jaws to snap up, all his. Always. Ever since you stepped foot into his domain, your tart scent coalescing perfectly with the pine, oakmoss, tang of him. You've been his before you even knew who he was—

Wily omega with your shaking fists and bared teeth. Skittish little thing. Needed to play his hand slowly, to box you into a corner before you were even aware of the walls closing in around you. Snapped up tight his maw. Bear Trap quick. Had to be smart about it, bide his time. Push and push until all you thought about was him.

(checkmate)

John reaches for the loose floorboard, prying it open, and pulls his cell phone out—one he knows he’ll have to bury in the yard before you wake. There are very few contacts on his list, and he idly scrolls through the messages (steaming Jesus, the smell o’er—ye sure ye don’ share, cap?; better take her, Price, before I do) before he finds Gaz’s.

The last message sent was hours ago from Kyle. on her way. but fuck, didn't realise how fast fake suppressants worked, chief. gonna have to find her quick. might not make it up the mountain smellin as good as she does—

Good boy, he types with one hand, the other petting possessively down your spine. Curled there, a weighty pressure. You found him in the end, right on the cusp of your burgeoning heat. Pawing desperately for the suppressants Kyle made sure wouldn't be there.

(His parting gift brought on by a conversation ages ago—

“why haven't you mated, cap? not gettin’ any younger.”

“haven't found the right one. ain't gonna settle.”

“more like, your shitty attitude scares all the pretty omegas away, huh?”

“that, too,” he bit down into his cigar. suddenly angry, viciously so. “‘cept one.”

Kyle followed his gaze, and—

“so, take her. she wants you. reeks like she does. you can smell it, too, can't you?” his eyes flashed. playful. “maybe that'll be my retirement gift to you.”

“not funny, Garrick.”

“m’not tryin’ t’be, cap.”)

Three dots appear almost instantly. It takes a moment. Then: fuckin’ prick. Another message from Kyle pops up seconds after. told you, didn't i? i wasn't bein funny. congrats, cap ;)

As if sensing the sudden whiplash of his mood—deep, proprietorial—you stir in his arms, mewling in confusion. John drops the phone, hiding it from view, and pulls you tighter in his arms. In his embrace. Mouth pressed tight to your hairline, he rumbles, “shush, shush. I got you.”

His words make you quieten slightly. Quelled under the susurrus lull of his bellowing purr. But there's still a deep ravine between your brows. Unease lashes the air, acidic. Bubbling up from deep within you.

None of this must make any sense to you. Mercurial boss to mate, but he knows you'll come around to the idea of him soon enough. After all,

he has you all to himself until winter.

all to himself.

His hand falls, cups your lower belly possessively. Covetous. You grimace in your sleep, shifting away from the heavy, oppressive brunt of his smell. Obsessive. Potent like a wildfire. Dangerous.

But there's nowhere for you to run. Nowhere to go except deeper into his arms, his hold. Gyves around your throat; a bloody ring of his teeth.

Price hums. “Best gift I've ever gotten.”

#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #alpha price #alpha john price x omega reader #idk how this is like 8k its all just smut lmao #captian john price #john price #price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price #cod #pricefics

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cowgirlvi · 2 months ago

Note

Jinx who likes to fuck w a full bladder ( bc 'it feels better!:((' )

mdni. sub-bottom jinx. fem-top reader. piss kink. vaginal sex. strap-on usage. squirting? dub con? humiliation kink. degradation.

jinx masterlist

word count: 1k

it’s her dirty little secret, one she never outright admits but that you’ve started to pick up on. jinx always propositions you for sex when her bladder is full. she’ll slink up to you, eyes half-lidded, raspy voice dripping with something sweet and sinful, fingers already teasing at the hem of your shirt.

you catch the subtle shifts, the way she bites her lip just a little harder, the restless way she presses her thighs together when she thinks you aren’t looking, how she pushes her hand against her taut stomach while you fuck her. she’s playing a game, pushing herself to her limits, teasing her cute pussy and bladder all at once—the little slut.

she must think you’re stupid or something, because you know what she’s doing. when you stuff your fingers inside her cunt, you can feel the way her bladder is swollen with piss, how her gummy walls are more sensitive and responsive to your digits, how she squirts in copious, whorish amounts.

one night, she doesn’t bother with pretense. she pounces on you like a cat, pupils blown, demanding you fuck her right this second—so of course, you finger her greedy hole open, situate the baby-pink strap onto your hips, and press inside her pussy.

”ah—ahh fuck, nghhh!”

she’s whimpering more than usual, shivering and pushing her hand against her bloated stomach—right where her bladder sits underneath her skin, where the tension is coiled the tightest. her little pussy is fluttering around your cock, squeezing onto your shaft like a lifeline, as if it’s taking her an immense amount of strength not to instantly piss herself or squirt around your shaft.

and you suppose you have your own dirty secret, because you need to see jinx piss herself while you’re fucking her tiny hole—you want to see the way her eyes glaze over with shock and embarrassment, how she’ll groan pitifully while she’s unable to control her bladder and she’s just forced to release, release, release.

”mmffuck! you’re—in my, aughh, stomach! i can feel it, can feel it,” she’s babbling mindlessly, already fucked stupid. you can see it in her hazy eyes, the way she’s dizzy with the pleasure of having your colossal cock insistently hammering against her bladder. “o-ohh-h, unnhh!”

electric thrums of pleasure course through her fluttering, pink walls—hugging your strap with the constraints of a corset laced too tight. her nails dig into the skin of your wrists, where you’re gripping her waist, and her small body is taut with anticipation, glistening with sweat.

you admire the way your strap presses inside her—in and out, in and out—and you can’t decide which view you like better; fucking her fast and hard, watching the way small droplets of squirt pulses from her pussy, admiring the intensity of her small tits bouncing—or fucking her languidly and deep, making her entire body shiver every time your cock pushes past her bladder, watching her try to run away from the sensation until you have to pin her hips to the bed.

and, all too quickly, jinx keens, going cross-eyed. “wait—wait, hunghh! something’s wrong—“

you continue swinging your hips, fucking your cock inside her sweet pussy with newfound determination. “what’s wrong, sweetheart?” you ask instead. but you already know.

reluctantly, she admits, ”i’m gonna—gonna, ahh, pee!”

you snicker, ”then do it.”

”h-huh?”

”it’s not a big deal. just let go, baby. it’ll feel so good,” you coo, and she looks so stupidly confused, eyes round, unsure if you’re messing with her, if this is a test. “you want to feel good, don’t you? so let go right fucking now.”

”i can’t, i can’t! that’s fucked—“ she says and you press your hand against her stomach suddenly. she squeals like a pig, chest heaving and flushed. her head thrashes from side to side, the white-hot pleasure too much for her body to handle. “ah-hh! unghh, please!”

”come on, you can do it. isn’t this what you wanted? to be honest, i’m surprised you haven’t pissed yourself sooner.”

and jinx gapes, utterly shocked. her breath stutters in her throat, choking on the words to explain herself and also stuttering over whorish moans. she’s still being fucked, after all—fucked while the urine in her bladder sloshes around painfully.

“what, you think i didn’t know? you’re a dirty fucking girl,” you tease. you’re being mean, you know you are, but you’re aware that jinx likes it too; you know she’ll have no choice but to come—piss—around your cock if you’re calling her nasty names.

her nails score down your back, leaving red welts in their wake as she clings to you, trying to anchor herself against the maelstrom of sensation. her belly tightens, muscles clenching as she tries in vain to hold back the flood, but it’s no use.

jinx gasps like a wounded soldier, and then her eyes roll into the back of her skull, a stream of piss escaping from her urethra. she can’t control herself, can’t stop the way she’s pissing all over you like a dumb dog. goosebumps paint across her pale skin, and of course, you don’t stop. you keep fucking her little pussy until she’s finished and satisfied, until she’s so sensitive that it hurts.

you snicker perversely, observing the way jinx makes a mess of herself and you. poor thing is so embarrassed, watching with mortification as her piss completely drenches your abdomen and bedsheets. it’s warm and the smell is pungent—saccharine and sour—but you like it because it’s jinx.

she’s looking up at you through her lashes with shame. her makeup is ruined, staining her cheeks in messy streaks, and her own drool is slimy on her chin. you lick the saliva off her chin, tracing the smudges of her makeup with your thumb.

”messy girl,” you murmur, low and teasing. “look at you.”

jinx swallows hard, her eyelashes fluttering as she fights the urge to look away. but she doesn’t—she lets you see her like this, allows you to revel in her state of disarray. you swear, jinx has hearts in her eyes right now. and you’re in no rush, savoring the moment, letting your fingers trail lower, tracing the line of her throat, down, down, down—until you reach her piss-drenched stomach.

you suppose you should clean her up now.

taglist; @marvelwomenarehot0 @marieeeluvsyou @mxchi-mxxn @el-amor-que-tu-quieres @jinxvex @teddybearbutch28 @stupendousbananasharkcop @nahcala @ellieslob @idontwannabehereatm @rhian88 @kyur1jinx @absfemme @blackdykegirlblogger @thatgrlnany @imfckngfantastic @addison12459 @f3ralpuppyg1rl @prettyprincess19 @saphhvi @vixxxxxxxen @jinxedbambi

(2/25/25)

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vunblr · 4 months ago

Text

Toy Soldier (part 1)

Bit by bit, torn apart. We never win, but the battle wages on for toy soldiers.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings:Warnings: 18+ only. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Eventual Smut. Dark Content: Sexual Assault Wounds (Bucky). Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence. Mentions and depictions of Non-Con (both characters as victims).

Summary: She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

Word Count: 5.6.k.

notes: Even though this fic will include the tone I usually maintain in my stories, there will be flashbacks to unpleasant events that might be triggering. Please read the warnings carefully, and if I’ve missed any, feel free to let me know. More tags will be added in the future.

The cell reeked of bleach and iron, a suffocating blend of sterility and blood. She sat huddled in a corner with her knees drawn to her chest, shaking from the lingering aftershocks of what they had made her do mere hours ago. A steel table in the center of the room bore the evidence: blood-soaked rags, reinforced restraints, and instruments that glinted menacingly under the harsh light.

The door creaked open, and she flinched instinctively. Her pulse quickened as they rolled him in on a gurney, his body was impossibly broken again, but somehow, still alive. The Winter Soldier. His mask was cracked, exposing a bruised cheekbone, his metallic arm hung at an unnatural angle, wires sparking like dying fireflies. His tactic suit was shredded, revealing deep gashes that glistened with dark blood.

"Fix him," the handler barked, void of empathy. He tossed a clipboard onto the table, detailing every injury, every broken bone, every expectation to her work. "We need him ready by morning."

She didn’t move at first. She never did. But the familiar press of a gun muzzle against her temple jolted her into action. They didn’t tolerate hesitation.

Her bare feet slapped against the cold tiles as she approached the table. Soldat’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his blue eyes were half-lidded and glassy, staring past her into the abyss. She wondered, briefly, if he even felt the pain anymore, or if the agony had simply become a part of him, stitched into his body like the scars of the wounds she was forced to erase.

She laid her trembling hands over his chest, cutting the remnants of the suit and rushing her power forward like a tide, knitting sinew, mending fractures, restoring what should have been allowed to rest. His body convulsed as the healing process awakened raw nerve endings. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of both relief and torment and her eyes burned with unshed tears.

"Good pet," the handler sneered, patting her head, "Keep going."

As the minutes dragged into hours, her hands moved mechanically, weaving muscle and bone back into place. Every touch drew more from her, siphoning her strength to pour life into a body that shouldn’t be able to withstand such brutality. The process left her light-headed, and her vision started blurring at the edges, but she didn’t dare falter. They would notice. They always noticed.

As her hands pressed over a jagged wound on his side, a faint tremor ran through his body. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and his eyes fluttered open. Glassy and unfocused at first, they slowly, impossibly, found her. A vacant gaze, yet somehow piercing, locked onto her face as if trying to understand who she was and what she was doing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words spilling out before she could stop them. She kept her voice low, trembling, her fingers brushing the edge of the wound as she worked. “I don’t want to do this. I’m sorry.”

His gaze didn’t falter, even as she murmured the apology again, with a cracking voice. He didn’t speak -he probably couldn’t- but the weight of his stare felt like an answer. He knew. Somehow, he knew.

More time passed, and the room emptied. The guards left her alone with him, trusting her to finish her work under the ever-present cameras. The sterile silence closed in around them. She wiped the sweat from her brow and whispered again, “I’m sorry,” her voice breaking completely now. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

Soldat blinked slowly, almost as if acknowledging her words, but his body remained still. Her fingers lingered over his shoulder where fresh skin covered what had been a deep gash, and couldn’t stop herself from caressing his bloodied temple before going back to mend him.

By the time she finished, her legs felt like water, barely holding her upright. The Soldat’s breathing had evened, the jagged cuts on his skin replaced by fresh, pale scars. His metal arm still hung limp, but it wasn’t her area of expertise. He looked human again, or as close to human as Hydra would ever allow him to be. She allowed herself to caress him again as if that gentle touch could make up for what her actions on his body entailed, his endless torment.

When the door creaked open, the spell was broken. The handler barked a question she didn’t hear over the roaring in her ears. Then he stepped forward, inspecting her work with a critical eye. He tugged at Soldat’s extremities and poked his body, then he turned to her with a smile that chilled her blood.

“Well done,” he said, sickeningly sweet. “See? You’re still useful. You’ve earned yourself another day.”

The words felt like a slap, a grim reminder of her reality. She wasn’t a person to them. She was a tool, an extension of their will, just as much a prisoner as the man she had just saved. Her power was her curse, chaining her to a life of servitude. And for what? To keep the Winter Soldier standing. To ensure he could carry out their dirty work, kill their enemies, and endure whatever horrors they deemed necessary for him to endure.

The handler gestured to the guards. “Take her back. She’ll need her strength for tomorrow.”

They grabbed her arms, dragging her toward the door. Soldat's eyes shifted for a moment, trailing her as they walked her out, his gaze still glazing but faintly flickering with awareness. Then the door slammed behind her, sealing them both back into their respective hells.

----

The cryopreservation always left her disoriented, the passage of time reduced to a murky void of nothingness. Days, months, years, they blurred together into a haze she couldn’t untangle. Based on the count of the meager breakfasts slid through the cell door, it had been two days since they’d pulled her from the tube. Her body still ached from the cold, and the numbness clung stubbornly to her limbs.

When the metallic clank of the cell door jolted her from her thoughts, she instinctively tensed. Two guards stood there, gesturing sharply for her to follow.

The halls they guided her through were unfamiliar. These weren’t the sterile corridors leading to the medical bay. These walls were darker and the air was heavier, and the faint hum of machinery was replaced by an unsettling silence. Confused, she knit her brows but swallowed the urge to ask.

When they descended a narrow staircase, her stomach sank. The flickering lights cast long shadows against concrete walls. They passed rows of heavy metal doors, each marked with faint rust and grime. No cells with bars, no windows, just solid slabs of steel.

Her breath hitched when they stopped in front of a door near the end of the corridor. One guard yanked it open with a screech that set her teeth on edge. The other shoved her forward, barking a single command: “Fix it.”

The door slammed shut behind her, and the sound echoed in the cramped room. She stood frozen, since the stench hit her like a physical blow: blood, sweat, semen, and something else she couldn’t place.

Her gaze darted around the sparse room. A cot pushed against one wall. A table cluttered with ominous instruments. And in the corner, barely illuminated by the flickering overhead bulb, the Soldat.

Her breath left her in a shaky exhale as she took him in. He was curled into himself, naked, trembling despite the heat radiating from his abused flesh. Blood and cum stained his thighs, while bruises painted his skin in grotesque patterns. His wrists and ankles bore the raw marks of restraints, and burns and welts layered over old scars, turning his body into a tapestry of pain.

But it was his face that shattered her. A blank mask with hollow and distant wet eyes, haunted by whatever horrors had left him in this state.

She forced herself to move. When her shadow fell over him, his head snapped up and his vacant blue eyes locked onto hers. The movement was sharp and instinctive, but he didn’t lash out, didn’t flinch. He simply stared, as though he were looking through her rather than at her.

She paused for a moment, crouching to his level, resting her hands lightly on her knees. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her voice steady. “I’m here to help you.”

He didn’t respond. The haunted emptiness in his expression pierced her chest. He didn’t deserve this. “I know,” she said softly, inching closer. “I know it hurts. I’ll do what I can.”

She reached for him carefully, brushing his arm. His muscles tensed under her touch, but he didn’t pull away. Gently, she guided his arm away from where he’d been clutching his side, revealing the bruises and burns scattered across his flesh. Her stomach churned, but her hands remained steady. She had no room for hesitation, no time to falter.

As she worked, she whispered to him, not apologies this time, but reassurances. “I’m with you now, I’ll make this right, even if it’s only for now.”

As expected, he didn’t speak, didn’t move beyond the involuntary twitches of his battered body. But his eyes stayed on her, betraying a silent acknowledgment, a fragile thread of trust.

She tried to focus on the burns on his chest, the raw welts along his ribs, anything but the bruises and blood marking his inner thighs. But eventually, she had no choice. The damage there couldn’t be ignored. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she shifted closer, and her hands trembled for the first time that day.

She couldn’t comprehend it. Couldn’t understand how anyone could twist a man into this, into something pliable, stripped of will, used like a puppet for their every vile whim. The red book and the chair had shattered his mind, and then they’d wielded that power not only to carry out their heinous crimes but also to satiate their carnal perversions.

“Soldat,” she said softly as she crouched closer. “I need to see the rest.”

His chest started to rise and fall in shallow breaths. His lip was caught between his teeth, bitten hard enough to draw blood. The distant, vacant expression he’d worn before had given way to something else now, resignation, or shame.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “I know it's private -should it be-, and it hurts a lot… but I promise I’ll make it better, yes?”

Her tone was as soft as she could make it, the kind someone might use with a frightened child. For a moment, there was nothing. Then he exhaled and shifted ever so slightly, granting her access. The movement wasn’t much, but it spoke volumes. He didn’t fight her. He didn’t resist. Even now, after everything, he complied.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her hands moved carefully, brushing his battered flesh with as much gentleness as she could muster. She swallowed hard, trying to keep her focus on the healing, not on the tears threatening to spill over. Every touch she had to make felt like another betrayal of his dignity, but she couldn’t leave him like this, they wouldn’t leave him like this.

“It’s not fair,” she said under her breath “Fuck, it’s not fair.”

Every so often, her gaze flicked to his face, but he didn’t look at her this time. His eyes were closed, and his body was eerily still except for the faint shudder of his breathing.

—-

Some days, she wondered if he resented her. If he was even capable of that. She wasn’t the one inflicting the pain, wasn’t the one abusing him, but she was the one who ensured he survived it. She pieced him together, over and over, a cruel kind of mercy that prolonged his torment. Without her, they wouldn’t have been able to keep breaking him the way they did.

It haunted her.

Sometimes, it seemed like he remembered her. On the rare occasions when his body was whole and he wasn’t immediately dragged back out for another mission or another “session,” his vacant gaze would linger on her. Just a flicker of recognition in those haunted blue eyes, something that made her wonder if, somewhere beneath the chaos they’d inflicted on his mind, a part of him knew who she was.

Other times, he didn’t seem to know her at all. He would stare past her like she wasn’t even there. She didn’t know which was worse: the possibility that he hated her or the possibility that he didn’t think of her at all.

-----

Nine years had passed since her escape from their clutches. Nine years since Captain America and his team put down Pierce and dismantled Hydra’s plans, the Soldat went missing and she got away in the chaos of the fight.

In the early days, survival had been a constant struggle. She’d wandered aimlessly at first, her coarse, prison-like clothes drawing stares from strangers who gave her a wide berth. The world was unrecognizable: a kaleidoscope of flashing screens, roaring cars, and people glued to strange, glowing devices. Everything felt faster, louder, and infinitely more confusing than the world she remembered.

For a couple of days, she kept to the shadows, but the hunger and desperation eventually pushed her to the edge. One night, trembling and exhausted, she walked into a police station. The officer at the front desk glanced at her with a mixture of suspicion and concern, likely wondering if she had escaped from a mental institution. And maybe, in a way, she had. She tried to explain, spilling out her words in a garbled mess of decades-old trauma. She told them about being taken, about Hydra, about the years spent in cryo. The officer raised a skeptical eyebrow and asked her to sit while he "sorted things out."

She knew they didn’t believe her. Not until one of the younger officers, fresh off patrol, walked in with a nasty road burn on his arm. She didn’t think, just acted. In seconds, the wound knitted itself back together under her glowing hands. The room fell silent, every set of eyes fixed on her in a mix of fear and awe.

From there, things moved quickly. The police dug into her story, and to everyone’s shock, her name and photo flagged a cold case from October 1962, a missing person report filed by her family. A woman who had disappeared without a trace, and presumed dead after two years of fruitless searching.

But what the police uncovered was too big for them to handle alone. They passed her case to federal authorities, and soon, she found herself in the hands of people who promised her a fresh start, though she quickly learned that nothing came without strings attached.

The feds helped her establish a new identity, gave her a place to live, and taught her how to navigate the modern world. In exchange, she worked for them using her mutant powers to heal injuries, aid covert operations, and clean up the messes no one else could.

Still, the past lingered in her mind, haunting her in the quiet moments. She often wondered what had become of the Winter Soldier, since freedom, she realized, was not the same as peace.

In the years that followed, she began piecing the fragments of her past into the puzzle of the present. The world had changed in ways she struggled to comprehend, yet she adapted, carving out a relatively ‘normal’ existence.

Then, one day, she heard his name.

James Buchanan Barnes.

She learned about him in bits and pieces from news reports and whispered conversations among the people she worked with. Steve Rogers' best friend. The Winter Soldier.

The details unfolded like a tragic epic: framed in a terrorist attack, slipping under the radar, fighting in Wakanda, only to vanish in the Blip. And then, five years later, he returned. His face, no longer the blank mask of the Soldat, appeared on screens everywhere as the government pardoned him under strict conditions: mandatory therapy and restricted accommodations, a leash that kept him just shy of true freedom.

She watched every news segment, every interview. He wasn’t the weapon she remembered. There was something different in his eyes. Half-masked pain, certainly, but also humanity. He was trying, struggling to reclaim himself, to exist in a world that only knew him as a ghost or a monster.

It wasn’t an obsession. At least, that’s what she told herself. It was curiosity, concern, a connection she couldn’t sever no matter how hard she tried. Because no one else could understand what they’d been through. No one else had seen the depths of his torment, or felt the same chains biting into their skin.

She hadn’t planned to ever contact him. The idea terrified her. For all she knew, his fractured mind might not even remember her. Worse, maybe he did and resented her for the role she’d played, for the way she’d prolonged his torment under Hydra’s commands. Those thoughts were enough to keep her at a distance, safely watching from the shadows of her new life.

But life and destiny had their ways of unraveling carefully laid plans.

-----

Her work with Sam Wilson had started as another government assignment, one of many designed to keep her powers useful and her secrets buried. Yet, somewhere along the way, it had turned into something more. A friendship. He didn’t know about her past -no one did, actually-. He only knew the version of her life the government had scripted, a fabricated identity polished to perfection.

Leaving that aside, she liked him. He had a way of making her feel less like a displaced ghost and more like a person. Sometimes, they hung out after missions, sharing laughs over beers or stories about the ridiculous situations they found themselves in. And when he came back from a mission bruised or limping, she always tried to help.

That friendship had led her here, to a bustling backyard party, with warm laughter and music filling the air. Sam’s birthday celebration. She had accepted his invitation without thinking much of it, expecting a relaxed evening with a few familiar faces. What she hadn’t expected was to see him.

Standing at the drinks table, not the Winter Soldier, not the cold, empty Soldat she remembered, but James. His shoulders were relaxed, his hair shorter, and his blue eyes clearer than she’d ever seen them. He looked... alive in a way that left her breathless. For a moment, she froze, and her stomach twisted into knots. But there was no turning back now.

Not when he lifted his face after grabbing a glass of soda, only to find her mere inches away, rooted in place and staring at him like a rabbit in the middle of the road.

Her breath caught, and the world around them seemed to fade into a blur of laughter and music as his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. The faintest flicker of something -recognition? confusion?- crossed his face. The glass in her hand suddenly felt heavy, and she tightened her grip around it as her heart raced.

“H-hi,” she managed to mutter, almost lost beneath the hum of the party.

He tilted his head slightly, deliberately, as if weighing her. For a long, agonizing moment, he simply looked at her with an unreadable expression. Then his lips parted, and a single word escaped from them, low and hoarse.

“You.”

Her stomach dropped while her mind scrambled for a response. Did he remember her? Or was it just the way her face stirred a distant and fractured memory?

“I-” she started, but the words tangled in her throat.

His gaze darted over her, taking her in: the way she clutched the glass like a lifeline, the way her shoulders tensed, the way she made one step back as though retreating was an option.

Sam’s voice cut through the moment, cheerful and oblivious. “Hey, Buck! Flirting already with one of my girls?”

Bucky flinched, the spell breaking as he snapped his gaze toward Sam, stiffening his posture. “I’m not f-”

“Don’t be a dick with her,” Sam interrupted, grinning as if he were the greatest matchmaker alive. “She’s good people. Y/n, this is Bucky, a pain in the ass but a good friend. Bucky, this is Y/n.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his expression still unreadable as his eyes flicked back to her. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer a hand or a smile, just narrowed his eyes slightly, like he was trying to solve a riddle only he could see.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her instincts screamed at her to move, to flee, to escape his scrutiny before his fractured memories pieced her together.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she squared her shoulders and forced her lips into what she hoped was a polite and not-too-awkward smile. “Nice to meet you,” she said, her voice much steadier than she felt.

Bucky studied her for a moment longer. Finally, he gave a slight nod, stepping back as though he’d decided she wasn’t worth the effort of figuring out. “Yeah. Same,” he muttered before turning to leave.

As he moved away, she exhaled, a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her grip on the glass trembled, the adrenaline coursing through her leaving her both relieved and strangely disappointed.

“Don’t take it personally,” Sam intervened, leaning in with a knowing smirk. “He specializes in a heterogeneous game of staring, brooding, and groaning. Dry comments here and there, too.”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, grateful for the break in tension. “Good to know,” she murmured, still gripping the glass tightly.

Sam patted her shoulder with the easy camaraderie of someone who had no idea the weight of the moment that had just passed. “He’s not so bad once you get past all the walls. Might take a while to crack that nut, but hey, who knows?”

-----

Two months later, Sam called her for a job.

“It’s a simple mission,” he’d explained. “Poland. The higher-ups want you to stay at the safehouse most of the time in case something goes wrong, but if we need someone to move unnoticed -play tourist, fetch intel- they figured you’re our best bet.”

She hesitated for a beat, her instincts screaming at her to say no this time. But she had never ditched a mission before and Sam will be there, so she agreed.

When she climbed aboard the military plane early the next morning, with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, she almost turned around and fled.

Bucky was already sitting there, strapped into his seat, with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was as closed off as ever, and his gaze was fixed somewhere on the cabin wall. Her stomach dropped, and before her brain could process what she was doing, she turned sharply on her heel and headed straight for the cockpit.

The pilots greeted her with raised brows, clearly surprised to see her there before takeoff. She forced a nervous smile, chatting with them about flight logistics, weather conditions, anything to stretch the time and delay the inevitable.

“Shouldn’t you be back in the cabin?” one of them asked eventually, glancing at her curiously.

“Just thought I’d keep you company,” she replied, slightly strained.

The hum of the plane’s engines growing louder reminded her she couldn’t hide forever. She exhaled deeply, gripping the doorframe. Maybe, she could slip into some corner, unnoticed once the plane was in the air.

But life wasn’t so kind.

“Sam’s voice came loud and clear, calling her. “C’mon, you’re holding us up!”

Bucky’s head turned, locking his sharp gaze onto her the moment she entered. His expression didn’t shift -no frown, no surprise- but what she saw in those blue eyes made her knees threaten to buckle.

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. “Hi,” she greeted the two men quickly, her voice barely above a murmur, before moving to the furthest seat she could find.

Her hands fumbled as she pulled a book from her bag, flipping it open without even checking the page. She pretended to read, scanning the same line over and over as if the words might somehow shield her from the weight of Bucky’s stare.

Sam furrowed his brows, glancing between them with a mix of confusion and curiosity. He’d been prepared for the usual brooding and disagreements from Bucky -his default settings on most missions- but he’d expected her to be more engaged. She’d always been sharp and chatty, quick to offer solutions or crack a joke, but now she seemed... distant.

He leaned toward Bucky, “Did you scare her off already before I got here?”

Bucky shot him an unimpressed sidelong glance. “I didn’t say a word.”

Sam, determined to break the awkward silence, leaned back in his seat and raised his voice. “Alright, we’re stuck in this tin can for the next few hours. Someone better start talking, or I’m gonna make us all play twenty questions.”

She forced a small smile, though her eyes remained glued to the book. “You win. I’m reading.”

He huffed dramatically, shaking his head. “Tough crowd.” Then he turned back to Bucky. “Guess it’s just you and me, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t respond, his gaze flicking toward her briefly before settling on the wall ahead. His expression remained impassive, but his metal fingers tapped against his thigh, the only sign of some internal debate.

-----

After a while, Sam, ever persistent, leaned forward, and turned to her “So,” he started, casually but probing, “you ever been to Poland in other mission before? Got any recommendations for pierogi spots or are we flying blind here?”

She hesitated, tightening slightly her fingers on the edge of her book. Avoiding interaction had been her plan, but the pointed look Sam sent her way made it clear he wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

Finally, she closed the book with a soft sigh, forcing herself to meet his expectant gaze. “No, never been,” she replied, cautious. “Though I think I read somewhere Kraków’s old town is nice.”

Sam grinned, seizing the opportunity. “Kraków, huh? I’ll take that as a vote to play tourist if we get the chance. “Maybe you can even guide us, seeing as you’re good at blending in.”

“I doubt we’ll have time, Sammy,” she said quickly, trying to deflect.

“Oh, come on,” Sam teased, leaning back in his seat with an exaggerated grin. “You’re one of the friendliest people I know. You’ll probably charm us into some exclusive spots. Earn your keep!”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, shaking her head. “I think you’ve mistaken ‘friendly’ for ‘quiet enough not to get in trouble.’”

Sam smirked, undeterred. “Nah, you’ve got that vibe. People trust you, and open up to you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how often you walk away with more intel than anyone else.”

Her fingers tensed slightly on the edge of her book, but she forced herself to smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment... I think.”

“It is,” Sam replied, his tone warm and easy. “And I’m just saying, if we do get downtime, we’re counting on you to find the good spots.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she managed to say, though her stomach churned under Bucky’s relentless stare.

He hadn’t said a word, but the weight of his gaze made every exchange feel heavier like he was dissecting her responses, searching for cracks in her calm facade. She refused to look at him, focusing instead on Sam’s cheerful grin.

Sam clapped his hands together. “That’s the spirit. See, Buck? She’s already proving more useful than you.”

Bucky huffed, the barest flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before disappearing. “Yeah, well, let’s see if she’s still useful when things go south.”

Her stomach tightened at his words, though she kept her face carefully neutral. It wasn’t outright hostility, but the skepticism in his tone felt like a challenge, a warning wrapped in a dry comment.

Sam rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Man, you’ve gotta work on your people skills. Not everyone you meet is gonna double-cross you, you know.”

Bucky didn’t respond and bit his lower lip as he looked away, clearly done with the conversation.

She forced a small smile, trying to defuse the tension. “I think he’s just saying I should prove myself first.”

Sam shot her an encouraging look. “You don’t need to prove anything to him. Trust me, you’re good-”

“Sam,” Bucky intervened almost dryly. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. This isn’t sightseeing. It’s a mission. If she’s not-”

“I can handle myself,” she interrupted, managing to keep her voice steady despite the sudden rush of heat to her face.

The fact that she addressed directly to him got Bucky’s attention. He turned, locking his gaze onto hers, and for a moment, the silence between them felt heavier than the thrum of the plane’s engines.

“Guess we’ll find out,” he murmured, leaning back slightly in his seat. He kept staring at her sharply and unyielding. After a beat of silence, he added, “And, actually, what exactly do you do?”

Fuck.

The question wasn’t casual, she could see it in the way his eyes stayed fixed on her, a glint of something just beneath the surface. He knew. He was waiting for her to say it, to confirm what he already remembered but was pretending not to.

Sam raised an eyebrow, looking between them. “Bucky, come on. She’s solid, alright? I wouldn’t bring her along if she wasn’t.”

Bucky didn’t even glance at him. His attention stayed locked on her. “I didn’t say she wasn’t solid. Just curious what her... specialty is.”

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. If he wanted to play coy, fine. Two could play that game.

“I’m good at staying unnoticed,” she said, feigning a casual tone “Recon, blending in, getting intel…” She shrugged lightly, as though explaining her skill set was just a routine part of the job.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in faint amusement. “That it?”

She gave him a polite smile, curling her fingers around the edge of the book on her lap. “Well, I’ve been told I’m handy in a pinch. Let’s just say I’ve got a knack for fixing things.”

His lips quirked, but the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fixing things, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied smoothly, ignoring the way her heart raced under his scrutiny. “Little cuts, scrapes, that kind of thing. Nothing too fancy.”

Sam, oblivious to the subtle tension between them, chuckled. “Don’t let her undersell it. She devours. Saved my ass more than once, you wouldn’t believe the absolute carnage I've seen her mend.”

“Good to know,” Bucky commented, with his gaze still locked on her. There was something in his eyes -something sharp-, almost daring her to break first, but she didn’t flinch.

“Just doing my job.” She added, her eyes still glued to the unreadable baby blues.

Bucky leaned back, the corner of his mouth twitched as if he wanted to say more but decided against it.

Sam glanced between them. “It's pretty early for a staring contest.”

She didn’t answer; she just smiled at him and returned her focus to the book. He remembered, she was sure of it.

Still, if he wanted her to confirm it outright, he’d have to try harder. For now, she’d play his game, and she was determined to win.

-----

The safehouse was a two-bedroom apartment in an old building that groaned with every step. It was cramped but functional, the kind of place that wouldn’t draw attention. As they settled in, Sam tossed his bag onto one of the worn couches and stretched like a cat.

“Alright,” he said, grinning at her. “Do us all a favor and work your magic in the kitchen. I haven’t had a proper meal in weeks, and I can’t survive on takeout and those protein bars Bucky packs.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Cooking would give her something to focus on, and it was the perfect excuse to isolate for a couple of hours.

“Fine, let’s see what I can do,” she muttered, scurrying inside the kitchen.

“You’re the best!” Sam called, grabbing his jacket. “I’ll be back soon, gotta meet a contact nearby. You two... play nice.”

The sound of the door closing made her grimace. She exhaled slowly, tying an old apron on her waist as she dug through the sparse pantry and fridge. Within minutes, she was chopping some potatoes, humming Animals while she was at it, because fuck it all.

She felt the weight of his gaze pressed against her back like a physical thing before she heard him. He stood in the kitchen doorway, quiet and unmoving, a presence impossible to ignore.

Her grip on the knife tightened, but she didn’t turn around. “Need something?”

“No.” The simple word carried so much weight that it made her pause mid-cut.

She exhaled slowly and resumed her task. “Then why are you standing there?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretched until it became almost unbearable.

“You’re good at it.”

Her hand froze. “At what?”

“Pretending.”

She forced herself to keep chopping, while her pulse hammered in her ears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” His tone didn’t carry malice, but the words felt heavier than any accusation. He leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms. “I remember you.”

Her chest tightened, and the room suddenly felt smaller. “You’re mistaken,” she said flatly.

“I’m not.” He took another step forward. His tone was soft, but the words were unrelenting. “You were there. Hydra.”

Next Chapter ->

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky hurt/comfort #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader #the winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x female reader #winter soldier fanfiction

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lady-lauren · 7 months ago

Text

❥ SHANKS X FEM!READER

❥ WORD COUNT: 2.3k

❥ WARNINGS/TAGS: forced orgasms, some yandere vibes, dub-con to be safe, very inappropriate use of conqueror's haki, power dynamics (captain/crew), praise, creampie, Shanks is so mean but so good and I would die for him

→ Kinktober Masterlist ←

“You’re gonna cum for me, darlin’, even if I have to take it from you.”

The weight of his words curl around your throat like a vice, blood pumping in your ears you until can barely hear his boisterous laugh.

The smile he gives is so cheshire, so oddly genuine, it makes a shiver of fear run down the back of your neck. Perhaps it’s actually pleasure, but the emotions are too entangled for your brain to piece apart your state of mind.

He’s not letting you go this time, not until he gets what he wants.

“Shanks,” you plead, nails gripping into the black fabric of his cloak, “we shouldn’t, you’re my captain, and I—”

“And your captain knows what’s best for you. Promise.”

The playful lilt in his voice is disarming.

He always lures you in so easily, and usually you can squirm away, calm your raging heart and pretend like you’re not the object of his desires. Because you shouldn’t be, you can’t be, you’re honor bound to serve him as your captain and you refuse to let lust cloud your relationship to Shanks. He helped make you a pirate. You’re more than a mistress.

Yet he’s already stripped you bare for him tonight, easy work for one of the most powerful men on the seas.

Warm lips press into your cheek as you turn your face from him, gritting your teeth as you deny his kiss.

Shanks chuckles in the face of your defiance, squishing his fingers into your cheeks to make you look at him.

“You know, you really are cute, thinking you can stop me. Besides, don’t you want to follow Captain’s orders, hm? That’s why I picked you—you’re so loyal, always willing to please. But you should please and be pleased.”

His eyes close with a sincere smile, the pink scars nearly shining in the firelight of his room.

Perhaps you do forget sometimes how weak you are compared to him, to the man who can cut down enemies with a single gaze.

Trapped between his colossal body and the wall, you have nowhere to run, no way to slink off and keep only ghosts of his touches. He’s going to make you feel every moment.

“Want me to show you how good I can make you feel?”

��Trust me, I know, I know how good you’d feel, but I can’t—”

“You have no idea.”

Somehow he feels closer, as if the sun-kissed skin of his chest from his parted shirt is already blending into yours. He is darkness clouding over you, engulfing you.

He cups your chin with his hand, big fingers spilling down onto your neck. He slants his mouth over yours before you can protest, moving plush lips until you can’t help but moan. Spiced rum, aged and smooth, greets you when his tongue slides between parted lips. He kisses like a dance, like a back and forth that he leads.

“Breathe,” he whispers, and you don’t have to ask why. You sense his conqueror’s haki in the air before you feel the power lick at your skin, dragging and pulling and hot.

“Cum for me.”

Lightning quick, your tummy tightens, the pleasure centers of your brain on overload as he overtakes you. Desire boils down to your cunt like a poisonous liquid heat, unbearable, sinful, yet so, so blissful as your pussy flutters and you fall over the crest of orgasm.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck you, fuck, fuck…” Your eyes squeeze closed as the ecstasy is literally ripped from your body, like he somehow sunk his hand inside your core and extracted all the delight he craves.

“Doesn’t that feel good?”

You can’t help but nod, because yes, it does, as if pleasure is bursting like supernovas underneath your skin. Your hands are clinging to him, one around the back of his neck, the other beneath his shirt, like you can’t help but be closer to the source of your heat.

“Shanks, I…” your tongue is so thick in your mouth, searching for words you can’t think of.

“Now imagine just how fucking good you’ll feel when you do that on my cock.”

“Please, oh, god, please.”

His famous laugh greets your ears and you’re almost knocked back to the reality of who has you in his grasp.

“That’s my girl.”

You’re in his bed before you know it, eyes glassy at the sight of his naked body. You knew he’d be beautiful, but the actual view of him, on his knees, pumping his cock in his hand while between your legs has you whining.

“What’s going on in your pretty little head? Tell me.”

“I…want you, so badly, and I-I’m sorry for pushing you away. I never—”

He shushes you, takes his hand from his cock so he can brush the back of his finger across your cheek, “You were just doing what you thought was right. Didn’t wanna just be my plaything, did you? I know you wanted to be my strong little pirate, but you can be both.”

“Promise?”

“Swear it.” He grins like a little boy as he mockingly draws an X across his heart with his finger.

How can someone so deadly be so adorable?

Your instincts are flaring again, telling you to run, that once he sinks his claws into you, you’ll only ever be his. Nothing more, nothing less.

Maybe that doesn’t sound so bad, especially not with how good it feels when he buries his hand between your thighs, fingers playing in your wetness.

Shanks is equal parts messy and methodical, swirling his fingers around in your slick folds before rubbing his thumb over your already sensitive clit. You cry out, back arching and nails digging so deeply in his pillows you swear you hear fabric rip.

“Think I made you wet enough to take my cock already, don’t you?”

To prove his point, he slides his slick-drenched fingers between your lips, letting you taste yourself. You nod your affirmation as you suck against his skin, his eyes shining as you wrap your tongue around his fingers.

You eye his cock between his legs, preening at the thought of having him inside you. His cock is pretty, fat, already leaking and veins straining beneath silken skin. Red curls crawl up his toned stomach and you nearly drool around his fingers.

All you ever wanted was to be a pirate, but the sight of your captain’s cock has you content to be a whore.

“Been dreamin’ about you in my sheets ever since I found you, darlin’. Knew you were the one for me, my perfect girl.”

“Oh please,” you gasp as he draws his fingers from your mouth, dragging them down to your tit so he can pinch your nipple, “you know what praise does to me, Shanks.”

“Of course I do,” he sing-songs, grasping his dick and pushing his tip between your folds. He presses in, a cant of his hips shoving his cock halfway into your dripping hole. Your head falls back at the stretch, cooing at the feel of him.

Shanks is clearly done chasing you, mindset moved to capture, to take. He bottoms out and immediately starts moving, grinning as he watches your pussy lips drag along his length.

He wolf-whistles at the sight, making you flush with a strange mixture of embarrassment and pride. “Look at that pretty fucking pussy. So slutty already for me.”

Strong fingers push your thigh back, spreading you wide as he starts his pace.

“Now,” Shanks clicks his tongue against his teeth, “let’s see what it feels like when I make you cum around my cock.”

“You don’t, ah,” you gasp as his cockhead prods against a soft spot, “h-have to make me, I’ll—”

“Shh, I’ll take care of you, baby. Let me make you feel good, yeah?”

There’s no time to think, not with how fast he acts, a simple look into your eyes has you shattering until you scream. The pleasure claws from your depths all over again, more intense now that your cunt has his fat cock to convulse around. You suck him in deep as you fall, bliss blooming over every nerve ending. Your toes curl, your nails cut into his shoulders, your stomach nearly hurts from the twisting of your orgasm.

“God damn, you feel so fucking good when you do that, get so tight around me.”

“Sh-Sha—mhm, fuck,” you try to protest, to say something, but the way his body moves into yours is like the mesmeric waves, lulling you into a headspace of drifting euphoria.

He’s all over you—hand in your hair, tongue sliding down your neck, lips sucking at the fat of your tits, teeth scraping along your curves. He’s all encompassing, snaking his arm behind your back until you're pressed against his thick chest and rocking with every thrust.

The orgasms have made you numb, all you feel is pure carnality, like now you just exist to fuck and be fucked.

For a moment you wonder if he’s still forcing it on you, but you decide you don’t care. He’s the only one who can make you feel like this, haki or no.

Shanks brushes his nose down your cheek, lips hot and wet as he kisses your skin, “Touch me, baby, be with me.”

Like puppetry, your hands trace his musculature, taking note of how his shoulders roll with every push and how his abdominal muscles stiffen whenever your cunt spasms from pleasure.

You kiss over the freckles on his shoulder, down to the thick bicep he no longer wraps in bandages.

He groans as your lips get close to where his arm used to be, a purr from deep in his chest like you’re too close to something vulnerable.

“Gonna take from you again, darlin.’ Gotta feel your cunt suck me dry.”

“N-no I can—I can do it, I can cum for you, promise.”

“Mhm, where’s the fun in that when I can just make you?”

His hand snakes around your body, letting you sink into the bed free of his hold. He teases your clit just because he can, because he likes watching you wiggle and writhe and whine beneath him.

You suck in a sob, “Please, just a little more, more, and I—”

Shanks’ haki feels like the warm licks of familiar fire. He burns because you let him too close, stared too long at the flames.

You’re sure he purposely brings the assault of his conqueror's power on slower, lets it bleed and blend with the ecstasy building from the sensitive pressure on your clit.

This crest is bigger, fuller, like you’ve been thrown from the Red Force into the toiling dark ocean. Only it’s boiling, scorching and tugging the pleasure from deep within your belly.

“Oh god,” you throw your head back and whine, “too hot.”

Shanks groans deep from his chest, fingers pausing on your clit as he feels you cum around him. His thighs shake, cock twitching and throbbing. Mean fingers dig into the softness of your belly like he’s clinging to sanity, holding himself back just enough to be in control.

“One more, baby.”

He starts thrusting again, a slow grind into your depths that has red curls kneading into your clit. You feel him in your guts, your heart, like the beat of blood in your veins.

“C-can’t, god, can’t, please.” Please no. Please yes. You’re back in an entanglement of emotions where no way is up, the sun still so far from underneath the waves.

Shanks buries his face in your neck, red hair fanning like embers across overheated skin.

He sucks at your pulse, flesh between his lips, “yes you can, my good girl. For me.”

You’re slammed into a new atmosphere, floating for seconds before being dragged back down, down to where you feel details of your name whispered against your throat and the pulsing of a thick cock as ropes of cum spill into tight, gummy walls.

“Fuuuucckk, oh g-god, Shanks, hurts, so good, shit—”

You babble until your mouth runs dry, anchored by your captain’s bruising grasp on your hip. He has you flush against his body, heavy breaths syncing as you both float up from hell.

It’s like waking up from a dream when he starts kissing you, all feather-light and reverent. He sits up and his lopsided smile seems so sincere.

“So proud of you, really thought you were gonna pass out there for a second.” He laughs playfully, blowing a stray red hair from his face.

All you do is whine and shift your sore hips, gasping at the feel of his cock still hard and deep inside you.

You’re not sure how much time passes before he pops his dick out—your heart beats are too erratic to count as seconds.

He sinks praises into your skin, kissing down your breasts, your belly, making you jerk when he kisses the mound of your pussy.

His breath is hot on your clit. That feeling has your mind shattering like porcelain, a sharp smack centering you straight back into reality. You sit up and stare at the scene before you, sharp-eyed prey watching a predator in the forest.

“Shanks, no, please, for the love of god—”

“No no no no, it’s okay,” he coos from between your legs, eyes closing and head cocking to the side as he smiles, “I’m not gonna take this one from you. Promise. Gonna let you do it all by yourself, nice and slow.”

It’s easy to forget that Shanks is a bad liar when he shoves his pretty face down to eat his cum from your pussy.

#kinktober #shanks smut #shanks x reader #tw.yandere #one piece x reader #shanks x you #one piece smut #one piece shanks #akagami no shanks #akagami no shanks smut #akagami shanks smut #akagami no shanks x reader #op x reader #dripping banner by @/adorenedwithlight

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