Summary: When Kenny Ackerman finds out you’re a titan shifter, you become his secret, his obsession, and his future meal. Trapped underground, starved for touch and hope, you learn to crave his company. And you can’t decide what’s worse—longing for him, or wondering if this will end the way you always feared. (notes: Another request that I've gotten carried away with... I'll never get through them all if I carry on like this, but you guys are inspiring me!)
Warnings/Themes: Reader Insert, Titan Shifter!Reader, Dark!Fic, Stockholm Syndrome, Captive/Captor, Imprisoned, Extremely Dubious Consent, Psychological Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Non-Consensual Touching, Rough Sex, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Vaginal Sex, Restraints/Tied Up, Forced Orgasms, Degradation, Forced Submission, Angst, Hurt/Comfort (in a twisted way), Manipulation, Tragedy, No Happy Ending, Isolation/Loneliness, Touch-Starved, Loss of Autonomy/Identity, Slow Burn, Canon Compliant.
Notes: You can see the list of characters I will take requests for here.
Chapter 1: Now Ain’t That Something
You don’t feel the pain when your arm goes.
Not at first.
What you feel is heat — a flash-white burn, a pressure like someone struck you with a hammer made of sunlight. The world blanks out around the edges. Your ears ring. Something warm splatters across your cheek.
Then the sound hits.
A meaty slap as your severed arm hits the stone floor.
For a heartbeat, you stare at the emptym, steaming space where your limb should be, unable to process it. Your breath stutters. Your vision tears open and collapses all at once.
Someone screams.
It’s high, panicked — a raw, animal sound cracking through the narrow alleyways. You don’t know if it came from your own throat or from one of the Military Police officers you were fighting.
Your knees buckle. The world sways sideways.
Boots pound the ground. Metal clashes. A man shouts your name — or shouts orders. You can’t tell. Everything is a smear of noise and motion.
A hand fists in the back of your collar and yanks you so hard your skull snaps forward, teeth clicking together painfully.
Kenny’s voice is suddenly right behind your ear, hot breath hitting the nape of your neck.
“Hold still, kid.”
He sounds irritated. Not panicked. Not concerned. Irritated — like you’ve just become an inconvenience.
Your brain can’t keep up. Your body is five seconds behind everything. The severed stump at your shoulder pulses with a heartbeat that isn’t yours, blood pouring down your chest in steaming rivulets.
Hold still?
Hold still?!
You try — gods help you — you actually try. But survival instinct spikes hard and sharp through your nerves. The ringing in your ears turns to static. The city tilts. Your vision swims.
“No— get off me,” you choke, the words half a croak, half a snarl.
You shove at him with the hand you still have, palm slipping on your own blood. The world churns. You feel like you’re falling through your own skin.
Kenny doesn't let you drop. His grip is iron on your collar, steering you out of the open and into a narrow, piss-stinking alleyway between two half-collapsed stone buildings. Your boots skid and scrape against rough stone, leaving a trail of blood in your wake. The edges of your vision flicker, but you refuse to collapse.
You pant, sucking in lungfuls of cold, fetid air, sweat pouring down your temple. Your head is spinning; every breath is a knife, your teeth grinding against the pain. You dig your heels in, trying to slow him, but he’s stronger—and you’re so damned tired.
“C'mon, move ,or you're gonna die,” he snaps, not even looking back at you, just hauling you deeper into the shadows.
You try to swallow the panic clawing at your chest. You’re shaking, fighting to keep your feet under you, chest heaving. The stench of blood fills your nose, makes your stomach lurch.
You bite down hard, tasting copper, forcing yourself to breathe through the agony. The sound of distant gunfire fades behind the pounding of your own heart.
It thunders in your jaw, your throat, your wound—
—and then everything shreds into white agony.
A spark. A twitch.
Your arm is growing back.
Bone spirals out of nothing, knitting itself through your shoulder like burning wire. Muscles twist, reform—like a vine choking its way up a dead tree. Skin crawls over raw tissue. The pain hits late but hits hard — a screaming, electric, ripping sensation that drags a broken gasp out of your chest.
You double over, breath hitching, and Kenny’s grip tightens, hauling you back upright before you collapse.
“What the hell,” he mutters — but he's not shocked, not horrified.
His grin stretches—wide and wolfish, all teeth and cruel delight. He's fascinated. You hear it in the curl of his voice.
“Now ain’t that something.”
Your vision clears just enough to see his eyes — wide, bright, sharp as sunlight on steel.
He’s not looking at you like you’re a comrade. Or a threat.
He’s looking at you like you’re treasure.
You breathe once—sharp, ragged and stumble back. Your heart is punching your ribs.
“Kenny—wait—” you manage, reaching for him out of impulse, confusion, blood loss, everything spiralling—
That’s all you get out.
The butt of his gun cracks across your jaw, snapping your head sideways.
A flash.
A burst of sound.
The taste of iron floods your mouth.
Your knees give.
You hit the ground before you even register that you’re falling.
And the last thing you see is Kenny looming over you, smile stretching slow and hungry across his face—
Just before everything drops into blackness.
Chapter 2: Smart Girl
You wake to cold.
Cold stone. Cold air. Cold dread crawling down your spine.
Iron cuffs loop tight around your wrists, metal biting into the skin, bolted to the head of a bed that barely qualifies as furniture. The smell hits first—damp, mildew, old blood soaked into the grout. Your mouth tastes like rust and cotton. A single oil lantern flickers somewhere to your left, giving the room its only glow.
Your cheek is crusted with dried dirt. Your jaw throbs.
Kenny is sprawled in a chair beside you, with his legs kicked out. His hat is tilted low over one eye, and a cigarette dangles from his lips.
He leans forward when he sees your eyes open.
“Relax,” he drawls, voice scraping like raw soles against gravel. “I ain’t killin’ you yet. Not when you’re worth more to me alive.”
He taps his boot against your thigh, just once, like he’s checking if you still work.
You jerk back, instinct screaming. The chains pull taut with a scrape of metal. He watches you flinch, that damn smile creeping across his face like ivy. Slow. Patient. Inevitable.
“What the fuck, Kenny?!”
Your voice comes out hoarse. Too many hours unconscious. You yank against the cuffs again, testing the screws in the headboard. Solid.
“Got your fight back, I see, little titan.”
You freeze.
“That’s right, sweetheart. I know. You’re one of ‘em. Wasn’t expectin’ it from you, of all people.” He grins wider. “But lucky me, huh?”
You feel the blood drain from your face. He knows. He really knows.
There’s no use pretending, not now.
“How—” Your mind spins. Everything from before you woke up is a blur, memories tangled in pain and darkness.
“Arm grew back right in front of me.” He shrugs, flicking ash onto the floor. “Hard thing to miss.”
You try to shift your weight and regret it immediately. The chains lift your shoulders off the mattress, cutting into your wrists. You bite back a hiss.
Kenny watches you with nothing but cold interest. There's no kindness. It reminds you of the wolves you've seen in the forest, evaluating their prey.
“Where are we?” you manage.
“Home sweet home.” He gestures lazily around the bleak, damp stone chamber. “Middle of the underground. Real deep.”
His grin grows. “Shiftin’ in here’d kill ya, kill me, kill every poor bastard upstairs. Ceiling’d crush us all flat before you even finished screamin’.”
A lump swells in your throat. You swallow it back, slow and painful. It scrapes, tastes metallic—like you’ve been chewing on blood clots.
“And say you escape. Just as little ol' you,” Kenny kicks the mattress lightly. “Every one o' these toll guards owes me a favour. You run, sweetheart, they’ll hand you back to me, trussed up like a holiday pig.”
You don’t answer. His words settle heavy in your gut.
A quick scan of the room gives you nothing—damp brick, a leaking ceiling, shadows clinging to every corner. One wooden door. Thick. Old. Definitely locked.
“So I have no way out...”
He taps his temple. “Smart girl.”
He leans closer, elbows on his knees, cigarette dangling between them, glowing bright in the dim.
“...That's why you were working with Reiss.”
“Ding ding,” he says, and that smirk stretches even wider—teeth flashing in the lantern glow, delighted. You hate the way it lights up his whole face, the way he seems to savour your fear, your forced understanding. He looks at you like he’s already won, like every answer you give is just another prize to pocket. “Like I said... smart girl.”
He unfolds his long body from the chair and clears the space between you with one stride, heavy boots thudding on the stone. When he crouches low beside the bed, his eyes are still shining with that same unwelcome curiosity. There’s nothing human in the way he studies you, only that sharp, patient hunger, waiting for you to make a wrong move.
“I did think about killin’ you,” he says, nonchalant. “But then I figured… why waste a good opportunity?”
He drifts toward you, shadows slipping across his face as he reaches out. You jerk away, but there’s nowhere to go—the cuffs break skin on your wrists. His thumb drags slowly across the grime on your cheek, as though he’s checking the quality of what he’s bought. The touch is almost delicate, but it makes your skin crawl. You want to spit in his face. Instead, you hold still, jaw tight, blood thundering in your skull.
“That’s why you ain’t dyin’ yet.”
Chapter 3: Cryin’ Over a Little Sunshine
The days blur.
Kenny comes and goes like a ghost—always with the same swaggering calm, always with that amused edge in his voice. Sometimes he brings food. Sometimes water. Sometimes, just the sound of his boots and a sideways glance.
He never tells you when he’s coming.
He always locks the door behind him.
When he does feed you, he does it by hand—stews, stale bread, whatever he can scrounge up. He never unchains you while he does it.
You learn quickly:
He is your food.
Your heat.
Your only conversation.
The only person who touches you.
You lose track of how long it’s been—days, maybe weeks. Down here, the world shrinks to four walls, a ticking lantern, the sound of chains and the ache in your limbs. Sleep comes in fits, shallow and restless, and you wake unsure if it’s night or day. There’s no clock, no sun—only Kenny’s footsteps, only the scrape of a plate on the floor, only the rough, relentless sound of his voice.
You’ve worked for Kenny long enough to know he was never a good man. But you’ve never hated him like this before—never watched him with this much fury coiling under your skin.
And you’ve never craved the sound of his voice this badly, either.
When you ask why he hasn’t turned and eaten you yet—because you know enough to understand how this is going to go down—he huffs a low laugh, taps two fingers to his temple.
“Gotta time it right. Gotta be ready. No point in becomin’ a titan and dyin’ like an idiot five seconds later.”
He keeps you warm with extra blankets tossed over your legs. They’re scratchy and stale, heavy with the smell of old sweat and dust, but they’re the only comfort you have—comfort he was merciful enough to give.
He drags you out of the room sometimes—chains still tight—to walk laps in the tunnels.
“Keep those muscles from goin’ soft,” he mutters, smirking whenever you stumble.
It only happens once or twice. The first time, it’s just to stretch your legs, your arms dropping from above your head until the ache is almost sweet, blood rushing back to your numb fingers in tingling waves. Kenny’s hand stays steady on the small of your back, steering you like a stubborn dog, never letting you forget the chain between you. Even that touch—a calloused palm through a thin shirt—sends a prickle of sensation racing beneath your skin. It’s not kind, but it’s human, and you can't stand the warmth that blooms underneath the contact.
The second time, you’re led farther than before. Down a twisting corridor, up a set of crumbling stairs, until you spot a gap where the tunnel ceiling’s collapsed. There, for a breathless moment, sunlight slices in—a single golden bar cutting through dust motes and blackness. You stop in your tracks, blink against the brilliance, and tears sting your eyes before you can stop them. Silent, hopeless tears, rolling hot down your cheeks.
Kenny notices. For a moment, he just watches you, unreadable. Then, almost absent-minded, he swipes his knuckles along your cheek, smearing the wetness away.
“Look at you,” he drawls, half-mocking, half-soft. “Cryin’ over a little sunshine. Thought you were tougher than that, girl.”
But his hand lingers for a heartbeat longer than it needs to—strangely careful—before he turns you away from the light and marches you back down into the dark.
He talks to you like you’re his pet. Tightens your restraints thoughtfully, humming some old tune you half remember. Wipes the grime off your skin with an old cloth, as though he cares.
You tell yourself that you despise him.
You tell yourself you’re biding time.
But you start to recognise the sound of his footsteps.
You start counting the minutes between his visits.
Your stomach knots in a way you don’t want to think about when the lock clicks.
He senses it.
One night, his fingers slip through your hair, tucking strands behind your ear with an odd patience, watching for any sign of resistance. His hand is so warm, his fingers grazing your temple. For a second, you consider jerking away—tearing free from his touch just to prove you still can. But you don’t. You stay still. You let him do it, angry at yourself for the relief that floods your chest at even this twisted kindness—a shiver slides down your spine before you can swallow it. It makes you feel so weak, makes you feel watched in a way that’s almost intimate.
You meet his grey eyes, searching for any hint of softness, defiance, or maybe even regret. He just studies you, expression still, something calculating behind his eyes.
“Huh,” he says softly, almost to himself.
Chapter 4: There She Is
You lose control, somewhere between one night and the next.
It could be the hunger. Or the claustrophobia. Maybe just the silence stretching too long.
Whatever it is, you snap.
You twist against your cuffs, metal biting deeper, the bolts creaking. Your wrists burn raw. You manage to kick out with your legs, knocking the tin food tray across the floor. It clatters, the noise so loud in the quiet it buzzes in your ears. The cup tips, water spilling into the cracks of the stone.
The pressure builds. Panic, rage, shame—all of it twisting together until your throat goes tight. You scream, raw and ragged, every curse and threat that’s been festering in your chest bursting out:
“You’re a fucking coward!” you snarl, yanking at the chains so hard you hear something splinter in the headboard. The crack fills the room—echoes off the stone. “You hear me? I hope you fucking die choking on my bones!”
You thrash, spit, desperate to break free, to do anything. “I swear to god, Kenny, I’ll rip your damn throat out—”
The door flies open, slamming against the wall so hard it knocks the lantern to the floor. Kenny’s silhouette fills the doorway, that stupid fucking hat on his head, lean body blocking the light. For a split second, he just stares at you—eyes narrow, jaw working.
He crosses the room fast and slams you down onto the mattress with one knee, pinning you with casual violence. The air is knocked from your lungs; you twist, kicking, teeth bared, but he’s too strong and you’re too exhausted.
He clamps a hand around your wrists, holding you down. His knee digs into your thigh, heavy and unmovable.
“You done?” he growls, voice gruff and deadly, not amused for once. “Or you wanna keep makin’ a scene for the rats?”
You pant, chest heaving, face hot with fury and shame. Kenny’s close enough you can smell the sweat on him, see the cold spark in his eyes. He’s not even out of breath.
You glare up at him, throat burning.
“You're fucking dead the second I get out of here, I'll—”
But your voice gives out. It cracks—high, hoarse and pathetic—and the next breath that leaves you is nothing but a sob. Your strength deserts you. All that fury turns to salt, stinging your eyes, your cheeks.
You slump back against the mattress, chest heaving, wrists bloody and steaming. You close your eyes, feeling humiliation burn hotter than any pain. The chains rattle with your hopeless trembling.
He doesn’t strike you.
He doesn’t shout.
He laughs.
A delighted, cruel sound—almost beautiful in its wickedness.
“There she is,” he murmurs, gripping your jaw and forcing you to meet his gaze. “Thought I broke your spirit too fast.”
His hand slides from your jaw to curl around your neck.
You tremble. From anger. From fear.
From something else.
His eyes burn into you. His tongue flicks across chapped, thin lips. You can’t help but stare, heart hammering, confusion roaring in your head. What the hell am I doing?
“Atta girl,” he mutters, leaning in. His breath is hot against your skin, cigarette smoke and coffee and something that feels dangerously close to comfort.
Chapter 5: Now You’re Gettin’ Used To Me, Huh?
After that, he starts touching you more.
Small things at first—adjusting your bindings, a hand lingering on your knee when he feeds you. His fingers find your shoulder when he tucks a blanket around you. Sometimes he drags the pad of his thumb across the inside of your wrist, like he’s measuring your pulse.
Other times, he just leaves his hand where it shouldn’t be: a slow drag down your spine when he checks your restraints, the backs of his fingers trailing down your arm. Thumbs working circles into the soles of your feet, massaging away the ache until your eyes flutter closed, almost in relief.
One day, as you lie chained and limp, he rests his palm flat on your stomach—heavy, warm, just there. You mean to tell him to stop. But the words die in your mouth. You leave his hand where it is, burning a hole through you. Maybe you even arch into the touch, so slight you could lie to yourself and say it was nothing.
It’s maddening.
You hate him. You hate the way your body responds—how your breath stutters when his fingers brush your ribs, how you clench your jaw to keep from making a sound.
You start to notice the way that he smells—gunpowder and leather and sweat and old coffee. The bite of tobacco, the iron of his knife always close. Sometimes the scent drifts over you in the dark, and you press your nose into the filthy blanket just to drown it out.
Your heart beats a little too fast whenever he sits near you.
You catch yourself staring at the lines of his hands, the shape of his mouth. When he looks at you too long, something in your stomach twists, tight and dangerous, hunger and fear braided together.
You can’t decide what’s worse: when he ignores you for hours, or when he’s so close you can feel the heat of him.
One evening, while feeding you crusts of bread, he looks at you—really looks at you. He doesn’t speak. Just holds your gaze, searching your face for something you don’t know how to give. There’s a softness there that feels like a trap. A look you imagine lovers might share in the flicker of dying lamplight, not captors and prisoners.
You hold his gaze too long. Your chest aches. You want to spit, to bite his fingers, to scream at him for everything he’s taken. Instead, you open your mouth and let him feed you, throat tight, cheeks burning, heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.
You close your eyes and chew, the taste of bread and shame thick on your tongue.
“Oh, now you’re gettin’ used to me, huh?” he drawls, a lazy taunt, but there’s something else under it. Something heavier.
You turn your head away. The shame is molten. It burns through your chest, fills your throat. You’re so tired. You’re starving in a way food can’t fix. You ache for something, anything, to break the endless, empty hours. Even this: the way he makes you feel watched, possessed, known.
His hand finds your jaw—fingers calloused and unyielding, forcing you to face him again.
You try to pull away. You can’t.
You’ve been alone too long. You’re too weak to fight.
And his palm is so fucking warm on your skin, it makes your heart thud with a kind of animal longing you despise.
Chapter 6: Call it Practice
“You're the prettiest little thing, you know that?”
His voice is lower now, something like tenderness slurring the edges.
It’s almost worse than cruelty. Your eyes sting, vision blurring. Tears threaten, unwanted, unearned.
He notices. Of course he does. He can smell fear, hope, humiliation on you before you know you’re feeling it.
He strokes your hair back from your face, soft and steady, and you hate the way you tilt your chin up, just a little, for more. It feels like surrender. It feels like being chosen.
He watches your face—watches you break and rebuild yourself with every breath. His eyes are sharp, icy, but there’s something else there, too. Something you wish you didn’t want to see.
“Damn shame I’m gonna have to eat you, really…” he mutters, almost fond.
Your breath stops.
The words hit harder than you expect—a twisted hope flickers in your chest, a desperate prayer for something different, a different ending. Maybe, just maybe, he won’t do it. Maybe you’re special.
Kenny sees it, the way you falter.
His lips twitch, amusement flickering at the corners of his mouth.
“…Though I s’pose I can eat you a couple other ways first. Call it...practice.”
Your pulse kicks. You twist away—humiliation and desire tangled together so tight you can’t tell them apart anymore. You swallow, but your mouth is dry. Your cheeks burn. There's a disgusting little part of you that yearns for him to prove he means it. For him to touch you, to claim you, to remind you that you’re still wanted—even if it’s only as his prey.
He chuckles—knowing, pleased in a way that makes your skin tighten.
His hand slides to your thigh. He doesn’t grab or pry; he just sets it there, the weight of his palm warm and impossibly steady. A claim. A reminder. A test.
You stare at his hand like it’s a brand about to sizzle through your skin, not wanting to move.
Still, you part your thighs—barely an inch, barely anything.
Shame surges hot through your gut, but it’s too late to take it back.
“That’s it, little titan,” he murmurs, satisfaction curling around each word. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ you don’t wanna let me do.”
Chapter 7: Your Body's Honest, Even If That Mouth Ain't
The floor tilts under you. Heat floods between your thighs. Curls inside your stomach. A noise escapes your parted lips—somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, humiliatingly soft, slipping out before you can stop it.
Kenny’s hand shifts, just slightly. The tips of his fingers brush ever-so-gently over your heat. Your pulse careens into a stumbling sprint. Your eyelids flutter. You tilt your hips toward him without meaning to.
He leans in, the heat of him crowding your senses. His breath grazes your cheek, then your jaw, then your ear. His teeth close gently, nipping at your earlobe—just enough to make your whole body jolt.
The warmth of him is unbearable.
The want is unbearable.
Even though it makes you feel sick.
Even though you're shivering all over.
You're so ravenous with need. Need to feel anything that isn’t chains and cold stone and loneliness.
“Your body’s honest,” he whispers into the shell of your ear, voice soft enough to wound. “Even if that mouth ain’t.”
You tense when he shifts lower between your legs. Instinct flares, but it sputters out fast—no scream, no curse, no fight left in your muscles. Only trembling.
You open for him.
Not wide. Not eager. Just enough.
Enough to betray yourself.
Your eyes lock on the ceiling, tracing cracks you’ve memorised over endless nights, trying—failing—to steady your shaking breath as his face settles between your thighs.
He hooks a finger under the thin fabric and drags it aside, pausing to glance up and gauge your reaction. You meet his gaze—dark, hungry, unmistakably aroused. You can feel him shifting against the mattress, the heat of his body betraying his own need. The tension coils tight between you. You bite your lip, desperate to keep from letting anything else slip out—any sound, any plea, any of the madness swirling through your traitorous mind.
But when his tongue finds you—hot, rough, relentless—no bite to your lip can muffle the howl that rips from your throat. You lift off the mattress, hips seeking him, shameless and hungry. It's too much. Not enough. It's overwhelming, dizzying, the world spinning out from under you. He laughs—deep and delighted—the vibration rumbling right through you, then consumes you in earnest.
The flat of his tongue drags slow and deliberate over your swollen clit, once, twice, making your body jerk. You’re already so close it’s humiliating. Then he’s all in—licking, sucking, his tongue thrusting deep, feasting on you like he’s the one who's starved for days.
It feels outrageous. Too good.
His grip on your hips turns possessive, bruising, holding you in place as if he’s got every intention of devouring you whole. Every brush of his mouth feels greedy, drawn out—never tender, but focused, relentless, exploring every way to make you shudder. The chain rattles softly above you with each movement; a reminder that you are completely, helplessly at his mercy.
You arch, fighting to keep your eyes open, but he’s intent on dragging every reaction out of you. The scrape of his stubble burns in the best, most awful way, and you find yourself lifting into him, chasing the rhythm he sets. Your hands fist at the mattress, at nothing at all, desperate for an anchor. There is none. Only him, and his mouth, and the pulse pounding wild behind your ribs.
He lifts his head, just enough for you to see the way his mouth shines in the low lantern light. He licks his lips, slow, and his eyes find yours—sharp, wicked.
“Mm. Knew you’d taste like this,” he drones, voice roughened by desire. “Didn’t figure you’d beg for it so soon, though.”
Your cheeks burn. The shame is molten and thick, nearly choking. You want to deny it, curse him, pull away—but your body wants this too much. He watches it all with a wolf’s patience, the satisfaction of a man who’s broken a wild thing and taught it to answer to his hand.
He goes back to work, in no hurry at all, making you wait, making you squirm, savouring every ragged gasp and broken plea. Your thoughts shatter—words dissolving to the sensation. The ache builds, tightens, your body winding itself toward an edge you never thought you’d let him find.
He hums against you, low and approving. You know, deep in your soul, that he loves feeling you fall apart. Every sound you make, he takes as encouragement; every tremor, an invitation to go deeper. You realise, with a sick jolt of longing, that you want him to see you like this. Want to know what he’ll do when you finally break.
His thumb finds your hip, rubbing lazy, mocking circles—soothing, possessive, almost loving. His tongue never stops. He works you steadily, thoroughly, never letting you go, until your breath is coming fast and ragged, until your thighs are quivering around his head.
It’s mortifying, how quickly you lose yourself, how you tremble for him. You can’t even look at him anymore, eyes squeezed shut as everything tightens, sharpens, gathers, crests—
He growls into you, low and smug, and the sound—hot breath, rough tongue, those damned clever hands—tips you over.
Your release is fierce, tearing the air from your lungs. You cry out, powerless, your body spasming beneath his grip, held down and undone by the very man who should terrify you most. The pleasure is too much; it borders on pain, drags a sob out of your chest.
When you finally come down, you’re panting, half-strangled by your chain, your mind empty except for the burn of him.
Kenny lingers, mouth pressed to your hip, letting you ride out every last wave. He looks up, hat gone, hair dishevelled, eyes glistening in the low light. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, not breaking eye contact.
“Didn’t know you had it in you, darlin',” he says, satisfied.
His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, but you can hear the need still thrumming beneath it—like he’s not done, not nearly.
And somewhere inside, you know you’re not either.
Kenny sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving your face. You notice the bulge beneath his slacks—a heavy shape, the fabric darkening where he’s leaking through. Your stomach tightens. For a moment, you’re transfixed, unable to look away.
That’s the moment something in you truly breaks.
Or bends.
Or... gives in.
You aren’t sure which—only that it terrifies you.
Chapter 8: Look At You. All Mine.
You don’t have to wait long before you get what you want. What you should never want. What you’ve been thinking about—gnawing at, pacing after, desperate for—since you broke apart under his tongue.
Kenny doesn’t make you wait. Not when he’s already tasted the truth in your body, the kind of truth that ruins you for anything else.
He comes back the next day—cigarette glowing between his teeth. He stops in the doorway, takes you in, chained and wrecked, eyes still wild with the aftermath of your last surrender.
“There you are,” he drawls, all lazy satisfaction, voice deep and craggy enough to scrape you raw. “My little titan, waitin’ on her hunter.”
Your heart stumbles, starts to race. You’re not sure what to say, or if you’re supposed to speak at all. The room feels hot and airless, every inch of you longing, every sense tuned to him. You want him close and you want to bite him, scratch him, cry and beg and never let him leave.
He crosses to the bed in three long strides, hands braced on either side of you. His shadow falls over your face, blocking out the light. You expect roughness, but he’s careful—at first. He touches your cheek with the back of his fingers, tracing the line of your jaw, the filth caked there. He lifts your chin. The pads of his fingers are so gentle it hurts.
You meet his gaze. The grey in his eyes is bottomless, flickering with lust and something else—something dangerous. He watches you for a moment, and you swear you feel him searching your soul, weighing your worth, your need, your submission.
Then he leans in and kisses you.
It’s slow at first—almost loving, almost reverent. His mouth is hot, tasting of ash and salt and the sharp edge of violence. His lips press soft, then harder, and then his tongue finds yours, greedy and wild. The kiss turns rough, all teeth and tongue, a claiming that leaves your head spinning. You gasp against him, and he drinks it in like it’s oxygen.
He pulls back only to breathe, lips pink and shining, and when he looks down at you, you see your ruin reflected in his eyes.
“Been thinkin' about this all damn day,” he rasps, and you believe him. You’d believe anything, so long as he never lets you go.
He tears the blanket off your legs. The mattress shifts with his weight as he kneels between your thighs, knees pinning you open. You’re spread out for him, every nerve sparking. Your breath is in tatters, your chest rising and falling too fast. You reach for him—out of instinct, out of need, out of anything left in you that remembers what it means to want.
He shoves your thighs apart, hands rough, holding you wide and exposed. The sound he makes—low, smug, primal—crashes through you, makes you twinge, makes you clench your fists around the chain above your head.
You feel the warmth of his cock pressed against you, the hard line of his body fitting into yours. He fits himself to you like he belongs there, grinding in slow circles, teasing you both with the promise of more. He drags it out, just enough to make you beg, just enough to break you open.
When he pushes in—when he claims you—the world collapses. Your back arches, a cry breaking from your throat, half pain, half pleasure, all surrender. The stretch is burning, delicious, unbearable. You’re full, stuffed, made for this, made for him.
The sounds you make are nothing you recognise. Moans, whimpers, curses, broken prayers. You want to hate him, want to hurt him, want to worship him, all at once.
He thrusts hard, brutal, with a rhythm that borders on violent. Each movement rocks you up the bed, rattles the headboard, fills the room with the slap of skin and the harsh, laboured breaths you share. The chains bite into your wrists, but you barely feel them. All you feel is him—driving, pounding into you, forcing you to take and take and take.
You look at his face—his mouth twisted with pleasure, lips parted, sweat slicking his brow. His eyes are on you, dark and silver, hungry as the sea. In that moment, with his body inside you and his hand locked around your throat, you think—just for a second—that you might love him. Or something even worse.
He catches the look in your eyes, and his mouth curls into a vicious smile.
“Goddamn,” he breathes, voice guttural, “look at you. All mine. You love this, don’t you?”
You can’t answer. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to. All you can do is feel—his hand squeezing at your pulse, his hips snapping into you, his teeth marking your skin.
Then, as suddenly as it started, he flips you over—yanks you onto your stomach, chains clanking, nearly twisting your wrists the wrong way. He drags your hips up, spreads you open, and takes you again. Harder. Rougher. Nothing kind or gentle about it now. You choke on a sob, but you push back into him; confused, ravenous, lost.
He smashes into you, one hand gripping your shoulder, the other wrapped around your waist. You feel yourself tightening, spiralling, falling apart all over again.
When you shatter, you do it with his name on your tongue—the sound broken and raw.
He fucks you through it, never stopping, not even as you collapse under him, sobbing and boneless, empty and overflowing all at once.
“Good girl,” he grunts, and even the praise sounds inhuman on his tongue. He softens for a heartbeat, kisses the back of your neck, murmurs something you can’t catch. You know it's not sweet. But you pretend it is. You believe, for a split second, that he cares.
Then his hand glides from your hip, between your cheeks, finger drawing teasing circles around your other hole. He prods, presses in, voice a gravel-edged growl—coaxing and possessive. “Gonna let me have you, darlin’? Want me to take all of you?”
You say yes. You say you want him to have every broken, yearning piece. You mean it, even as fear and anticipation twist together in your belly.
It hurts. God, it hurts—the stretch is sharp, unfamiliar, and you bite your lip so hard you taste blood. But you want it, need it, can’t stop begging for him; deeper, faster. The sting is soon swept away by something hotter: the way he works you open, careful at first, then merciless, his thumb soothing over your skin even as you whimper and plead.
You’re clawing at the sheets, forehead pressed into the disgusting mattress, whining, screaming his name. He murmurs praise, filth, whispered words meant for you alone. “Open up for me, that's it, darlin'. Good girl.”
When he's finally to the hilt, when he fills you completely, the pain shatters into exquisite pleasure. Your whole body shudders, caught between agony and need, until there’s nothing left but him. Until you don’t know where you end and he begins.
He holds you tight through it, hissing between his teeth, then buries himself deep and spends himself inside you with a grunt, every movement scorching your soul straight into his hands.
When he’s done, he’s affectionate for a moment—wipes your hair away where it clings to your cheek, kisses your temple, breathes you in. You float, dazed and empty, the echo of his touch singing through your bones.
Then he leaves you there, alone and shaking, shattered and sore, his scent clinging to your skin.
It happens again. And again.
Every day, Kenny comes in, uses you however he wants—sometimes soft and slow, sometimes rough and fast. Your bed is a ruin of sweat, blood, seed, tears. You live for it. You long for it. You count the hours between visits, measure your world purely by the sound of his boots approaching down the hall.
You don’t want it to end.
You’re not sure it ever will.
You stop dreaming about freedom.
You only dream about Kenny.
Chapter 9: Feeding, Waiting, Using
Days pass.
Then weeks.
Time softens completely, loses its edges.
The only thing you have, the only thing you want is the hiss of Kenny’s lighter, the warmth of his body when he sits too close, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his voice sinking into your marrow.
He brings you peach pie—the stupid, impossible thing you mentioned wanting once, when you were half-delirious with fatigue.
A slice appears on a tin plate the next day.
You try telling yourself that it means nothing.
You try telling yourself that he's just keeping the cargo intact.
But it feels like something.
It feels like care.
It feels like love.
He tells you stories—not about himself, never anything that digs too close to the bone—but about the people he’s killed, the places he’s fought through, the strange little corners of the surface world you’ll probably never see again. His voice fills the room, that same gravelly drawl, always a little warmer around the edges when he’s in a good mood. Usually, after he’s fucked you into delirium.
Sometimes he sits at the foot of your mattress and smokes in silence, close enough that the heat radiating from his body presses against your calf. He never looks at you during these silences.
He doesn’t need to.
His presence alone feels like a hand around your ankle, always pulling you gently toward him.
And you let yourself drift.
You start believing—quietly, dangerously—that he won’t eat you after all.
Not now.
Not after everything.
You imagine you’ve become something else to him.
Something more than a meal.
More than a weapon he plans to swallow.
You start imagining a future that involves him—
A walk above ground.
A cigarette shared between your fingers.
The sound of his laugh, sweet and human in the open air.
You imagine touching him without needing permission.
You imagine him letting you.
You tell yourself he wouldn’t hurt you.
Not after how he’s held you.
Not after the way he’s touched you.
Not after the softness he’s let slip through the cracks of his cruelty.
You smile every time the door creaks open.
A small, helpless curve of your lips.
Your heart warms at the very sight of him.
He notices every one of these things.
And he lets you feel them.
He watches affection bloom in you like mould: soft, persistent, impossible to scrub clean.
He feeds it.
He waits.
He uses.
Chapter 10: Today's the Day
One night, you wake from a broken sleep, heart lurching at the sound of his footsteps.
Even the tread of his boots sends a ripple of anticipation down your spine. Your fingertips twitch against your cuffs, anticipation fluttering unbidden through your chest.
You turn toward the door with a smile you don’t bother hiding anymore. There’s no point in pretending around someone who knows every corner of you better than you do.
Kenny steps inside.
A key glints in his hand.
Everything inside you freezes.
His expression is blank.
No amusement.
No smirk.
No teasing drawl.
Not even any cruelty.
Just a strange, heavy stillness—
like dust just before an earthquake.
He walks toward you without a word.
Purposeful.
Quiet.
Quiet is worse than shouting.
Quiet is final.
“Get up,” he says, voice low enough to make your skin prickle.
Your legs tremble as you try to stand, blood rushing down pins-and-needles limbs. Hope surges up your throat—bright, painful, blinding.
He slides the key into the first cuff.
It clicks open.
Then the next.
Metal drops away from your wrists like dead weight, clattering onto stone.
Your arms fall to your sides for the first time in weeks—maybe months.
You inhale—deep and full and aching—lungs stretching until it hurts.
You sway, light-headed with freedom.
“Kenny…?”
His name leaves your mouth without permission.
His hand settles on your shoulder.
Steady. Warm.
Familiar in a way nothing else is anymore.
“Today’s the day.”
...
The ground vanishes beneath you.
Your stomach plummets.
Cold spreads through your ribs in a slow, choking bloom.
The lantern swims. The room bends.
Your vision washes in and out, like you’re underwater.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “No—Kenny, please—”
He watches you unravel.
Watches the hope drain out of you.
You see it in the slight tilt of his head.
The softening of his mouth.
But his eyes don’t change.
Not even a little.
He smiles.
Soft. Sadistic. Almost tender.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along your collarbone—so sweet you could cry from the cruelty of it. “Don’t make this any harder.”
You choke on your own breath.
Your knees buckle.
The stone bites into your skin as you collapse.
“Please—Kenny—don’t do this—”
Your voice shreds in your throat.
Your chest heaves.
You curl around yourself, trembling, small.
He steps close—
closer than he needs to—
breath warm against your cheek, like dozens of nights before.
His hand slides from your shoulder to your jaw, lifting your face.
His thumb brushes your lower lip.
A touch that's maddeningly intimate.
“You always knew,” he whispers, leaning in until his lips graze your ear, “this is how our little story ends.”
kaledo-art
yousharknotpass
vaporwave
pixelskylines
