“You’re mine. Even if I have to remind you every day.”
୭˚. ᵎᵎWords: 4.1k୭˚. ᵎᵎ Cw: noncon, dubcon, graphic violence, blood, gore, on-page murder, dead body, necro-adjacent sexual content, forced sexual acts, predator/prey dynamics, humiliation, dehumanization, rough sex, gunplay, breathplay, choking, physical restraint, handcuffs, power imbalance, possessive/obsessive behavior, psychological horror, no aftercare, trauma, self-loathing, character death (Seraphite OC), post-apocalyptic setting, survival horror, explicit sexual violence, animalistic behavior, extreme kink, Kinktober darkfic. (marked in fic where it gets a bit off the deep end)
You’d carved out a life for yourself at the ragged edge of what used to be Seattle—just far enough outside the Seraphite border to be left alone, but close enough to barter for necessities when the world’s silence pressed too heavy. The little cabin hunkered between black-needled cedar and the moss-choked riverbank, its crooked windows always fogged, the roof patched with sun-bleached tin and the carcasses of old tarps. In the dim morning, woodsmoke curled from the stovepipe, curling against a sky the color of old bruises. In summer, wild roses strangled the fence line, their thorns catching at your clothes like fingers. Now, autumn leaves layered the ground—thick, matted, hiding any prints left behind by raccoons, strangers, or worse.
The silence here wasn’t peaceful. Some days, it felt sentient, like the woods themselves were holding their breath. The infected rarely wandered this deep anymore, but sometimes you’d hear them at night—ragged breathing on the other side of the river, or the distant, bone-deep click of a throat no longer human. The Seraphites, when they came, glided through the trees with painted faces and unsmiling eyes, leaving behind little woven charms on your porch: protection, or warning, you never quite knew. You traded them what you could—salted meat, dried apples, old bullets—and in return, they kept your secret. Once, a crone with braided hair told you, “You’d be priestess, if you lived among us. Out here, you’re a ghost.” You’d laughed—small, brittle—but their blessings clung to you like a second skin.
You lived by ritual: wake, fetch river water before sunrise, boil it until the windows steamed. No music, no radio, not anymore. The only voices were the memory of your sister’s—sometimes you swore you still heard her in the wind, humming lullabies, warning you when danger was near. You moved quietly. Peace was all you wanted, but in this world, even peace felt haunted.
You stood at your battered sink, bare feet numb on warped floorboards, steam swirling above the enamel basin. You scrubbed a mug, eyes flicking out the window, tracking the river’s slow churn. The air had a heaviness to it—storm coming, maybe, or something worse. The crows were gone, and that always meant trouble.
A shape moved at the edge of the clearing—broad, deliberate, dragging shadows with her. Not a Seraphite: no robes, no paint, no prayer beads. This one wore military green, boots caked in mud and leaf-rot, the glint of a rifle at her back. Her steps were slow, predatory—like a wolf nosing at a burrow, hungry for whatever moved inside.
You froze, heart thumping. WLF. You’d heard enough stories. You knew what happened to outliers and loners—sometimes they vanished without a trace, sometimes they ended up strung between trees, a warning for others. You ducked below the window, breath shallow, skin prickling. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.
But she didn’t keep walking. Her boots thudded up your porch steps, the old wood groaning under her weight. You heard her pause, then the slow, deliberate jangle of the door handle—testing, then twisting harder. The lock shuddered in its rotting frame.
You tried to think—gun upstairs, knife in the pantry, nowhere to run. You crawled low, every muscle screaming, pulse thundering in your ears. The silhouette on the frosted glass was monstrous: huge shoulders, the flash of blond hair, the cold patience of a predator waiting for a rabbit to break cover.
You made it to the stairs, hand gripping the banister, when the front door splintered. A gust of cold, wet air swept inside, and with it, the sharp tang of sweat and gun oil.
You barely made it three steps up before a vise-grip caught your ankle—fingers cold and wet from the rain, impossibly strong. You kicked, scrambling, but she hauled you down like you weighed nothing, your back slamming hard against the steps, the world spinning.
The next moment, you were sprawled on the suede rug, breath punched from your lungs. Above you, she loomed—massive, wild-eyed, face shadowed by the storm behind her. Her eyes were pale and hungry, and she stared at you like a starving animal finding prey at last.
“I’ve been watching you,” she rasped, voice hoarse from disuse—or something else, something feral. “Did you really think you could hide from me out here?”
A drop of rain slid from her jaw onto your cheek, icy and real. Her hand still clamped your ankle, and you realized—shuddering—that she hadn’t even bothered to close the door.
You gasped, scrambling upright, and—without thinking—swung your heel as hard as you could into her stomach. The woman grunted, a guttural, animal sound, folding forward just long enough for you to wrench free. You bolted, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the hammering rain, vision tunneling as you tore barefoot through the open doorway and into the choked dark.
You didn’t stop to look back. You didn’t dare. The woods pressed close, branches clawing your bare arms, mud sucking at your bloodied feet. Sharp stones and tangled roots tore skin and split nails, but pain was nothing now—not with the monster at your heels. Your pajamas were soaked, tank top clinging to your ribs, hair whipping into your mouth as you plunged deeper into the cedar gloom.
Behind you, boots crashed through the brush—heavy, relentless. Not a patrol. Not a warning shot. You heard the rasp of her breath, guttural and raw, close enough to taste the fear rolling off your tongue. The trees blurred, shapes warping in the half-light, everything unfamiliar. You’d lived here for years, but now it was all teeth and shadow.
You zigzagged between black trunks, desperate to lose her, every instinct screaming prey, prey, prey. You ducked behind a thick tree, plastering yourself against its moss-slicked bark, blood from your feet slicking the roots. You tried to slow your ragged breath, prayed the pounding in your ears wouldn’t give you away.
But she was there—appearing like a nightmare, too fast, too solid. She crouched just meters away, eyes glinting beneath the dripping hood, a smirk twisting her lips as if she relished the hunt. Rain dripped from her lashes; her hands hung loose, relaxed, like she’d done this a thousand times before.
Your whole body trembled. You grabbed a downed branch—heavy, gnarled, sharp with lichen—and swung. She caught it in one fist, the wood cracking against her palm. You tried to wrench away, but she only yanked you closer, her grip bruising.
You expected pain—expected the end. Her chest heaved against yours. For a heartbeat you caught the wildness in her face, rainwater and sweat mixing on her skin, blood blooming on her split lip.
And then, without warning, she crashed her mouth to yours—feral, desperate, nothing like a kiss and everything like a threat. You choked on panic, biting down as hard as you could, tasting copper and rain.
She hissed, jerking back with a cry, the tang of blood on both your tongues. Her fist connected with your cheek, sudden and brutal, and your vision flashed white. You dropped to your knees, disoriented, branches and rot pressing into your palms.
She didn’t give you time to scream. Strong arms wrapped around your waist, hauling you up like a sack of grain. Your head lolled, everything spinning—the forest, the storm, her voice rough and trembling in your ear:
“I’m not trying to hurt you.” The words cracked and shivered. “I just—I need you to come with me.”
Rain battered the canopy. Somewhere, a crow screamed. The world spun on, indifferent. And you, limp and shivering, dangled helpless in the arms of your hunter—dragged back through the mud and leaves into a nightmare that felt too real to escape.
Everything was a muddled daze. You drifted in and out of dreams—rain against the windows, the sharp ache blooming in your jaw, the distant echo of crows calling from the woods. You blinked into the watery light of morning, finding yourself sprawled awkwardly across your own bed. You shifted, only to realize your right arm was stuck—cold metal biting into your wrist, cuffed tight to the old iron headboard.
Panic surged up your throat. You yanked, chain rattling, but it held firm. Your skin was clammy with sweat and river water. Distantly, you tried to recall how you got here—running, fighting, teeth and blood, her arms around you like a vice. Had she knocked you out? Had you passed out from the blow?
You weren’t alone. The woman—the Wolf—was next to you, half-curled on top of the patched quilt. She was stripped down to a battered tank top and threadbare boys’ shorts, her body scarred and corded with muscle even in sleep. She lay on her side, facing you, hair damp and tangled. The bruised sky outside bled a weak gray light through the warped window glass.
She stirred, lashes fluttering, then rolled over with a low, tired groan. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, her voice hoarse with sleep and regret—or something colder.
You flinched as she leaned in, pressing a warm, apologetic kiss to your bare stomach. Her hand slid over your hip, rough and steady, thumb tracing idle circles against your skin. Your mind warred between instinct and exhaustion, fear and the confusing pull of her touch.
Outside, the world was silent—no Seraphite hymns drifting from the riverbank, no warning calls, only the slow drip of rain off the tin roof. Inside, her tongue moved lower, soft and slow down your stomach, leaving damp trails that raised goosebumps in the chilly morning air.
Logic flickered in the back of your mind: if you let her touch you, if you gave in, maybe she’d protect you. Maybe the Wolves would spare you, treat you as her possession rather than another trespasser for the bone piles. Survival sometimes meant surrender. But even as you tried to think, her mouth was already between your legs, her tongue lapping at your clit with aching, desperate hunger.
Your breath caught, hips bucking involuntarily. When had she taken your shorts? Her head moved between your thighs, shoulders flexing as she moaned into you—a low, guttural sound that made the bedsprings creak. Her brows knitted, gaze hungry and starved, as if you were the first and only softness she’d tasted in years. She ground her hips into the mattress, losing herself in the act.
You’d never been touched like this—never, in all the years since the world ended, since the old life crumbled. Every nerve was on fire, your body arching, the iron cuff digging into your wrist as you gasped and clawed at the tattered sheets.
She paused, mouth slick, gaze heavy. For a moment, the two of you hung in the quiet, lost in the cocoon of stormlight and breath.
Then—sharp and sudden—a knock at the door. Three deliberate raps, echoing through the wood and the hush of the cabin. You froze, blood running cold.
“Stay here,” she rasped, her breath curling white in the cold air. As if you had a choice. The handcuff clinked as you tried to move, the metal biting into your bruised wrist—a reminder that you were as much a fixture here as the battered nightstand or the shotgun nailed above the window.
Abby moved away, each heavy footfall creaking across the warped floorboards. You could hear her boots thud down the stairs, the sound muffled by old wool rugs scavenged from abandoned farmhouses. You strained to listen, fear prickling every inch of exposed skin. The storm outside had died to a drizzle, but thunder still rumbled low and distant, blending with voices below.
Then—voices. Muted at first, then sharp, heated. You recognized the rough cadence of a Seraphite elder, one of the few who’d dared trade with you for years. He’d always seemed fearless, showing up with salt, wild honey, or bundles of river herbs in exchange for your smoked meat and moonshine. His presence had kept you safe from the worst of his kind. But now, your fragile arrangement shattered under the weight of Abby’s jealousy.
You heard the cold click of a gun—a threat, a warning. Then a struggle, the floor shuddering with a body hitting the boards. A grunt, muffled but final. A chair scraping, something dragged. Your chest tightened as you heard heavy boots returning, slow and deliberate.
Abby appeared in the doorway, framed by the gray morning light, her arms wrapped around the limp body of the Seraphite. Mud streaked his robes. His hair was matted with blood, his eyes unfocused. Abby tossed him forward, letting him sprawl at the edge of your bed, a grotesque offering.
She pressed the muzzle of her pistol hard against his temple, teeth bared in a snarl. Her jaw worked, muscles flexing with rage and something deeper, unhinged. “Why the fuck is he bringing you gifts?” Her voice vibrated with venom, echoing in the cramped room.
Your breath hitched, panic nearly choking you. “We—we trade for protection,” you stammered, the words tumbling out. “He keeps the others away, I swear—”
A gunshot shattered the silence. Blood splattered hot and sticky across your thighs, staining the sheets, spattering up your chest and arms. The Seraphite’s body jerked, then sagged lifeless to the floor, crimson soaking into the threadbare quilt.
You gasped, sobbing for air, the shock washing over you in icy waves. Your body went rigid, the taste of metal thick on your tongue. Abby tossed the corpse aside like refuse. She was shaking—whether from rage or need, you couldn’t tell.
“I’m the only one you need protection from,” she growled, crawling up onto the bed, her skin and hair streaked with gore. She pressed her blood-slicked body over yours, pinning you beneath her weight, her breath hot and ragged against your ear. Her mouth found your clit again—rough, desperate, half-mad with hunger and claim.
Your mind reeled, senses overwhelmed by the iron tang of blood, the cold weight of her pistol as she pressed it to your temple—loaded, safety off, the promise of death lingering in the air with every desperate, lapping stroke of her tongue. Your hips bucked involuntarily, terror and pleasure crashing together in a storm you couldn’t control.
Abby paused, her mouth glistening red, eyes boring into yours, wild and endless. “Right?” she whispered, the barrel of her gun nudging harder against your skull.
You nodded, throat convulsing as you swallowed back a scream. “Right,” you managed, voice shaking. You didn’t know if you meant it. You didn’t care.
She smirked—cruel, satisfied—and kept going, her mouth relentless, her gun unwavering. You clawed at the sheets, mind blurring at the edge of madness, trapped between her violence and her mercy in a world gone entirely, terrifyingly feral.
Before you could even process what was happening, the world shattered around you—your body arched violently against the sweat-slicked sheets, an orgasm tearing through you with the force of a gunshot. You sobbed helplessly, the sound swallowed by the thick, humid air of the cabin. The old handcuff rattled against the iron headboard, bruising your wrist, reminding you there was nowhere to run.
“Fuck! It’s too much!” you cried out, the words raw and broken, voice almost unrecognizable. Abby didn’t slow. If anything, her eyes darkened, jaw clenched tight as she took her free hand—calloused, strong from years of survival and war—and shoved three thick fingers into you, merciless, relentless.
The pain was sharp, bright—slicing up your spine and colliding with the pleasure until you didn’t know which way was up. You screeched, legs thrashing against the tattered quilt, breath hitching with every ruthless thrust. Abby’s movements were brutal, efficient, like everything else she did. The old boards creaked beneath her knees, the gun pressed so hard to your temple you could feel the cold bite of steel with every heartbeat—a brutal reminder that you were hers, and nothing in this broken world could change that.
Another orgasm wracked your body, thighs trembling violently, tears streaming down your cheeks as you spasmed in her grip. You could hear the storm outside, the low boom of thunder mingling with your own wild cries. The infected howled somewhere in the distance—a faint, animal chorus lost beneath the sound of your own undoing.
Abby didn’t let up. She pumped her fingers in and out, wet and obscene, not giving you a moment to breathe. You sobbed, hips jerking uncontrollably as a third, then a fourth wave crashed over you. Your vision blurred, lights sparking behind your eyelids. She held the gun steady, the barrel cold and threatening against your skin, the safety off—a promise and a warning all at once.
“Say you love me,” she growled, pulling her head up to meet your gaze. Her lips were red, slick with you, and her eyes burned with a hunger that bordered on madness.
“What?” you choked, voice strangled, brain short-circuiting.
She leaned down, biting your clit hard enough to make you scream, pain and pleasure twisting together until you thought you might black out. “Say it.”
“I love you!” you yelped, the words tumbling from your lips, desperate to make it stop, desperate for anything at all.
She let up, smirking, breath hot and wild against your skin. “Good.”
Then she was on you again, tongue unyielding, forcing you over the edge until a fourth, agonizing orgasm tore through you. Your stomach twisted, body wracked with aftershocks, and you sobbed harder as you squirted onto her hand—humiliation and relief crashing together.
Abby chuckled low in her throat, eyes never leaving yours as she lapped you up with animal hunger. She finally pulled her fingers free, sticky with your release. You collapsed back, trembling and wrecked, tears streaking down your face, lungs burning for air.
She wasn’t finished. Abby reached over, grabbing the cooling corpse of the Seraphite leader, and propped his bloodied body up at the side of the bed, forcing his empty, glassy eyes to face you.
Abby pressed her mouth to your ear, her voice a raw, possessive rasp in the silence that followed the storm: “You’re mine. Even if I have to remind you every day.”
You nodded, breath shaky, trying to convince her you understood—trying to show submission, obedience, anything that might save you. But Abby’s gaze was sharp and unrelenting, like a knife pressed to your throat. She studied you, every twitch and tremble, and you knew instantly that she could see straight through the desperate lie. Her lips curled into a sneer.
Without warning, she grabbed your waist and manhandled you, flipping you over so your cuffed wrist was twisted uncomfortably above your head, your cheek pressed into the ruined sheets. Your body shook as she yanked you up onto all fours, her grip unyielding, pinning you in place with monstrous strength. You barely had time to gasp before she reached down and dragged the dead Seraphite’s corpse closer—a grotesque, bloodied thing, heavy and limp. She shoved him underneath you, his cooling flesh squishing against your bare thighs, the stink of iron and rot flooding your senses.
You tried to squirm away, bile rising in your throat, but you heard the unmistakable clink of a buckle and the slick sound of lube. A thick, silicon-tipped strap-on pressed against your entrance, its girth already threatening. The room stank of blood and wet earth; the wind howled outside, rattling the windowpanes in their rotted frames. Somewhere, rain dripped steadily into a rusted pot, the only other sound besides your ragged breathing and the pounding of your heart.
“Not on top of him!” you shrieked, horror rising as you felt the man’s bloodied, caved-in skull beneath you. But Abby ignored your plea. She gripped the back of your neck, fingers digging in so hard you saw stars, and forced your face down—straight into the gore.
Your nose mashed against his broken head, wet brain matter squelching up your cheek. The stink was overwhelming—rotting flesh, sour and metallic, making your stomach lurch. You sobbed, body trembling uncontrollably, and then Abby shoved inside you, the strap-on stretching you obscenely wide. It hurt—God, it hurt—but she was relentless, her hips driving forward until you could barely breathe, your scream muffled by the blood and bone smeared across your lips.
Her other hand found your clit, pinching it mercilessly, sending a jolt of pain up your spine. You bucked and kicked with your one free hand, fingers clawing at the soiled sheets, but the other was still locked to the iron headboard, rattling with each of her violent thrusts. Your face slid in the gore, the dead man’s hair and brains matting your cheek, mixing with tears and snot.
“You are mine,” Abby growled, voice so close to your ear it vibrated in your skull. Her breath was wild, desperate. Every thrust made your body slam into the dead Seraphite beneath you, your thighs splattered with blood, the sticky wetness seeping up into your skin.
Your body betrayed you. You tried to shut it all out, to dissociate, to pretend you were somewhere—anywhere—else, but your muscles seized and you convulsed, orgasm crashing through you so suddenly it was like being electrocuted. You sobbed into the pulp of the man’s skull, your voice swallowed by gore, and your body squirted again—hot, humiliating release drenching Abby’s thighs, the corpse, and the mattress below.
Abby laughed, a low, unhinged sound, and slapped your clit, making your hips jolt. “Good job,” she crooned, her tone mocking and possessive.
You wept, shame and horror twisting inside you, your body still twitching with aftershocks. You hated yourself for cumming, hated the mess, hated how the taste of blood and rot filled your mouth and nose. You tried to catch your breath, but she wasn’t done.
Abby slid out, only to slam the dildo into your ass, making you scream in shock and pain. Your free hand clawed desperately at the bed, nails splitting, as she drove herself in deep. With each thrust, she pushed your face further into the sticky, ruined skull below you, until your scream was muffled—swallowed by brain and blood, the horror of the world collapsing into one brutal, inescapable moment.
And of course, even as your body trembled and your mind recoiled, Abby’s hand found your clit—fingers slick and merciless, circling, pressing, tormenting the abused bundle of nerves until you wanted to scream. It was almost too much; you ached, swollen and raw from everything she’d already done, but somehow the pain only sharpened the pleasure. Shame and desire twisted together inside you, something primal and ugly and exhilarating. You hated yourself for it, but deep down, some feral part of you loved it—loved the filth, the fear, the utter loss of control.
You were slick and leaking, juices spilling down your thighs and mixing with the congealing blood of the corpse beneath you. Abby’s strap-on rammed into your ass with bruising force, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing in the tight, blood-stained bedroom. Each thrust jarred your bones, your ribs aching with every collision, and you knew you’d carry these bruises for days.
Your free hand clawed desperately at the shredded bedsheets, the other still chained to the rattling headboard. Your body shook, then convulsed—another orgasm tearing through you, hot and helpless, even as you sobbed into the gore matting your face. You bucked your hips back, instinct overriding thought, needing more, needing her, even as disgust churned in your gut.
“There, just let go… there you go…” Abby crooned, her voice suddenly gentle, almost mocking in its tenderness. Her breath ghosted over your shoulder, warm and close, while outside the wind howled and rain battered the cracked glass. She drew out every wave of pleasure, working you until you thought you’d fall apart.
You nodded, tears and snot and blood smeared across your cheeks, the taste of iron thick in your mouth. Gore clung to your face, the dead man’s hair tangled in your lashes, but you barely registered it—all you could feel was her, the pain, the pleasure, the sick, electric rush of being owned.
Finally, Abby pulled out, the loss of her presence sending a fresh wave of humiliation through you. She gripped your hips, flipped you onto your back, and crawled over you. Her hand closed around your face, thumb smearing a streak of blood across your cheek as she forced you to look up at her.
“You are mine,” she whispered, the words a threat and a promise, her eyes wild and shining in the storm-lit dark.
It was terrifying—like being caught in the jaws of a predator—but somehow, impossibly, it was electric. You shivered, broken open and remade by her violence, her touch, and the world that had abandoned you both.
"Warm hands, open mouth."
Sub!Sevika x Reader
Needy, desperation, whimpering, fluff, face riding
uhhh see ya then! Tomorrow will be more tame but since it's October i wanted to keep a spookier/horror theme
