I was the shadow. I was the shadow. I was the shadow. I was-was the shadow. I was was was was was was was was wastheshadow wastheshadow wastheshadow wastheshadow
What if I was fully clothed and I made you strip for me and straddled you with my cock rubbing against your hole, just slick enough to get it in, not nearly slick enough to feel comfortable, and I pressed a gloved hand over your mouth as I pressed in
Explicit sexual content from the first line! This is my first time actually writing smut, but I had a blast. This is very gratuitous Val and Vincent content. It is dubcon due to the inherent power imbalance between an officer and an NCO, but Val is ostensibly participating consensually (whether or not they have much of a choice if they want to keep their current safe position in a detention centre and not on the front lines of a civil war is another question).
If you want more context on their relationship, read these pieces from earlier on in their relationship: Eyes Open and Back for More? . This is written in the VMD setting that I co-write with @pythagoreanwhump
My bestie is convinced that Val is a woman and hasn't figured it out yet, which, yeah may well be the case. Forcefem them in the comments, I guess. I can't bring myself to spell estrogen with an o, sorry.
Contains: dubcon, explicit sex, referenced whipping, cigarette burns, dehumanising language towards a prisoner, brief reference to vomit, the military, slapping, biting, power imbalance and taking advantage of a hierarchical workplace relationship.
Staff Sergeant Val Winters can feel the blood from their torn back sticking to the sheets with every thrust of their commanding officer’s cock. They’ll have to wash the sheets later, they know, but they have long figured out the best methods for removing stains from laundry. Colonel Evelyn Vincent, as always in his full uniform, trousers unbuttoned, is trying to tell them something. They should be listening.
But Val can only think about the next week’s rota. They should really have predicted that the matter with the new recruits would not have resolved itself as neatly as they’d hoped. Now Private Thorson is in the infirmary, which means the rota must be changed, and probably, there will be punishments to administer. Really, Val thinks that the beating she received was well-deserved and had been a long time coming, but still, it isn’t proper to let such matters slide. A reminder of their authority in matters of discipline is due.
It doesn’t take much thought to make the sorts of noises they know Vincent likes to hear. They don’t have to fake the sounds of pain and pleasure intermingled together; Vincent is wearing one of his crueller sleeves, with sharp little ridges that scratch against Val’s entrance with every slide in and out. It’s just slick enough for there not to be blood, not enough for it to be truly comfortable, but then Val knows they don’t need much prep to be taken these days.
“Are you listening?” Vincent delivers the question with a slap, open handed, against Val’s left cheek. They allow themself a quick gasp of surprise. It’s just a warning; if it were a punishment it would be fist, no doubt. Val should know better than to ignore their commander when he’s in one of his moods. Some frustration with a prisoner, as always, that was now being taken out on Val.
“Yes, Sir,” they smile. They’re not even close to being hard anymore, but still their cock twitches slightly, dripping against their abdomen. The whipping had made them stiffen, their body always so eager for the pain even when their mind was screaming for mercy, but they could never keep it up these days without careful touch. It hadn’t been a standard whip, not the one they themself used to punish their soldiers, but something worse, with metal tips. Do you feel you could say no to him? The voice of the Loyalties Officer echoes in their head. I never have any need. He knows my limits. And surely that must have been true. He’d never broken them yet, stopping before they could beg, even as the taste of blood filled their mouth from biting their tongue.
“Fucking slut,” Vincent laughed, slapping them again. “At least someone around here appreciates what I do for them. Unlike that thing in Cell 30, the feisty one with the scar across its cheek. It fucking bit me, can you believe that? I wasn’t stupid enough to get my cock anywhere near those teeth, of course, but it ripped a hole in my shirt, and then got vomit and blood on my boots.” He looks down at Val with disgust. Another task to add to their ever growing chore list for the week. “Why do they never understand that I could make it good for them if they behaved?”
Val knows better than to answer. They’ve filed the rota problem away in their mind alongside the ever-present background noise of pain, and they try instead to pull up a mental image of the prisoner that Vincent is referring to. There’s so many of them, too many to properly keep track of, and they disappear sometimes, at the behest of Intelligence or in impromptu summary executions (intentional or otherwise). Still, they attempt to keep their secret records, stashing them away in disused store rooms and behind loose tiles. One day, they’re sure, maybe soon (they hope, they dread), some rebels will come asking.
They think they know which particular prisoner Vincent is currently complaining about: the one who is always fighting even when there is nothing to be gained from it, shouting that they won’t answer any questions. What they haven’t seemed to grasp is that Vincent is not in the business of interrogation. This part is just the punishment. Val will need to try to have a chat with them, in private: tell them to submit, to lie to him, pretend, do whatever they have to do in their mind. He’ll kill you. Don’t you understand? He will kill you if you don’t give him what he wants. And until then, he’ll make it Val’s problem.
“You’re so pretty like this,” Vincent tells them, running a hand through their light red hair. He lets them keep it just a little longer than strictly permitted, almost touching the collar. He enjoys it like that. Val thinks that when (if) they ever get out of the military they will let it grow long enough to rest on their shoulders, but not long enough to tie up into a regulation hairstyle. “You like this, don’t you?” Vincent asks.
“Yes, Sir,” they reply, as always. Vincent’s hair is loose from its usual bun, forming a curtain around his face. Val imagines what it would be like to run their hands through it, to feel it part against their fingers. Even if it were allowed, their hands are tied above them to the headboard, with the same rough rope that is kept for use on prisoners, when cuffs just won’t suffice.
“Tell me you like it, Sergeant Winters,” Vincent demands, though he isn’t angry anymore, not really. Seeing Val moaning and writhing underneath him always turns his mood around eventually. “Tell me you like it when I fuck you, and you like it even more when it hurts.”
“Yes, Colonel Vincent,” Val gasps out, bucking their hips and pushing back against their commanding officer, impaling themself further on his cock. “I love it when you fuck me, when you hurt me-” They choke down the unbidden ‘please’ on the tip of their tongue. They’re so close. If only Vincent would touch them between their legs… but they know better than to beg for it. They will come from the warm heat of the lash marks on their back, the ache of Vincent’s cock deep in their guts, or not at all.
Somehow, Vincent is always able to see right through them. He leans down, close enough that Val hopes for one, foolish, desperate moment that he might really kiss them, just the once. Their mind presents them with memories of a man, the night after a leadership course: the way he ran his hands over their body, toyed with their nipples, and pleasured them with his tongue, like someone who truly understood how their body worked. Vincent’s lips are so close to theirs, hair tickling their naked chest, their breasts. They imagine his tongue on their nipples, kissing a line up their sternum.
But instead he sinks his teeth into their neck, and bites – just above the collar line, so everyone will see the bruise for days to come. He punctuates the bite with a hard thrust, and Val can’t help but cry out, eyes shut, lips parted. Their cock twitches and a small pool of clear liquid gathers on their stomach.
Val is never quite sure when (or if) Vincent finishes himself. They understand that he can’t produce semen the way a cis man would, but it’s never felt appropriate to pry further. Either way, he always appears to reach a point of satisfaction, sliding out of them and tucking himself back into his trousers. It isn’t cold in his quarters, but Val can’t help but shiver. There’s no part of them that he hasn’t seen before, but they still close their thighs, feeling all too exposed.
“Get dressed,” Vincent tells them. There’s only a slight twinge of disappointment in Val’s chest at that. Sometimes he permits them to stay over, letting them sleep on the floor or, even more rarely, in bed with him. They’ve learnt how he likes his coffee (filter, splash of cream, no sugar) though they still don’t understand what difference it makes in what form caffeine is consumed.
By the time they’ve wiped themself clean and pulled their uniform back on, Vincent is smoking, leaning out the window. Val is acutely aware that there will be crimson marks on the fabric, as though they had spilled a jar of Vincent’s favourite ink on it. They had only made that mistake once, their first time handling a fountain pen, and had paid for it in the fresh scarlet of their blood blending with the ink. They’re also aware that they should probably requisition a larger bra.
Now that they have a moment of peace, Val realises just how exhausted they really are. They’re barely standing, swaying slightly on their feet. Please dismiss me, they beg wordlessly. Surely Vincent would not want to work this late into the night. At least let me kneel.
“Come here,” Vincent orders. Val obeys, of course they obey, step by step. Taking them by the chin, Vincent tips their head up, forcing them to look at him, and in that moment, all the exhaustion and the pain melts away in the gaze of his warm, brown eyes. “Give me your hand.”
Sharp pain blooms from Val’s wrist. Vincent grinds the glowing ember of his cigarette into the skin at the base of their thumb, just past the edge of their sleeve. It’s a mark intended to be seen. Val shudders slightly, makes a noise almost like a sob, never breaking eye contact. Ignores the stir of interest from their traitorous cock. Then they take a breath, compose themself, and smile. They don’t cry. They had been afraid that the estrogen would undo all the work that they had done in that regard, but the training seems to have stuck, at least in the company of others.
“Thank you, Sir,” they finally manage.
“My pleasure, Val, really.” It’s the most earnest thing Vincent’s said all night. The warm affection in his eyes almost makes it worth it. They pursued him, Val reminds themself. They wanted this. They could bask in his gaze forever.
Every Finn gets a choice: be a man in service of your country, or be a slob in service of men.
Fox Platoon has arrived in the mountains, at a dismal radio outpost. The men must undertake their duties, their occupational training, and — most importantly — an amateur performance of Gilbert and Sullivan. Mirri tasted a better future, but now her pills are gone. She's a chew toy for the privates, a begrudging confidant for her fellow slobs, and beneath the notice of everyone else.
Idle hands make the devils work. Busy hands make Finland safe from Communism. Mirri's hands are full, and they feel weaker every day...
Bridesmaid (Maidens, Part 2) by Ashley Finch on Patreon. Join Ashley Finch's community for exclusive content and updates.
I do really love it when women write graphic and fucked up things. I feel like so often people react to fucked up fiction with “of course a disgusting man would write this 🙄” and it often carries an unspoken (honestly sometimes spoken) message of “a woman’s PURE and DELICATE and FEMININE mind could NEVER think of something this VILE”. Thank you women in fucked up fiction 🫡
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