Summary: Soft and sweet, too good for a place like that, you walk in with patience and kindness in your hands, thinking you'll help him recover his school year while he waits in jail. Cook, however, doesn't care about studying, he wants you. Late nights in a prison classroom turn into stolen glances, his hands finding excuses to touch and pull you closer, crooked grins and flirty words coming non stop. When he breaks out and shows up to you all hungry eyes, the line between right and wrong snaps clean in two.
Tags: No use of Y/N. Male reader. Possessive behavior. Obsessive behavior. Jealousy. Corruption. Usage of drugs. ‘Good boy x Bad guy’. Handjob. Degradation. Anal sex. Overstimulation. Cum marking. Top James Cook. Feral James Cook. Bottom male reader.
A request that I received from an anon (hope you liked this) but I also wanted to deeply thank @scrprints for sharing with me his amazing idea <3 helped out a ton
ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 - 𝒩ℯ𝓍𝓉 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 - gifs done by @scrprints
Words count: 5600
All the corridors smell like bleach dragged over old piss and something metallic, probably blood, long scrubbed but never gone.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead in a constant insect whine as you follow your supervisor through the heavy door, clipboard hugged to your chest. The room you’re led into is plain with four plastic chairs, various bolted table with the inmates selected for the program sitting on their respective ones.
James sits slouched back in the chair legs spread, boot heel hooked on a rung of the table. White undershirt clinging to broad shoulders, thick where muscle’s were built along a dense chest and corded arms with veins riding beneath the skin.
Those pale blue eyes snap to you the moment you step in, looking you over slowly, not shy or polite about it.
“Oi,” he drawls, voice rough, “they sendin’ me a bloody choirboy now?” His gaze dips, lingers and than comes back up.
Pretty thing, bet he don’t last a week in here.
Your boss rattles off instructions, pairing you with him, something about literacy targets. Cook doesn’t listen, he’s observing you instead and all the nerves in your skin could feel his gaze.
Taking the seat across from him, careful, composed. “I’m here to help you with—”
“—fuckin’ studyin’, yeah, got that,” he cuts in, leaning forward now, forearms on the table, movement tightening the shirt across his chest, fabric riding up enough to show a sliver of abs and faint line of hair disappearing under his waistband. “Question is—” his tongue presses slowly into his cheek, bulging it, suggestive as hell, “—what you get outta it, yeah?”
Not flinching is what catches him.
“You pass your assessments, I get my hours signed off. Seems fair.”
He huffs a low laugh. “Nah, nah. Ain’t that simple, is it?” He leans back again, chair creaking, spreading his legs wider.
The first session goes nowhere, he interrupts, swears, makes crude jokes every third sentence—“Bet you sound pretty when you moan, yeah?”—and watches your reactions like it’s a game.
Two days later, the smell in there hits same as last time.
Cook’s already there, bouncing his knee, restless energy coiled tight.
“Back for more, then?” he mutters, glancing up when you walk in and take a seat across from him.
The book lands onto the table with a soft thud but he doesn’t notice at first until you tilt it slightly for him to catch the corner of what’s tucked inside.
A whole pack of cigarettes.
His eyes lock onto it instantly.
“Oi—” he leans forward fast, hand shooting out but you had the advantage from your hand being already in the book that snapped shut, dragging it back out of reach.
“Not yet,” you murmur, voice low.
He freezes before slowly looking up at you and something shifts.
“You takin’ the piss?” he says, but there’s a flicker of real interest now.
“Study with me, quick test at the end…” your fingers tap lightly against the book’s cover. “Then you get these.”
A long silence follows as he stares at you.
Then he huffs loudly, leaning back hard and dragging his arms onto the table, biceps tightening and veins pushing up, shoulders rolling like he’s stretching just to show off the shape of himself.
“Y’ serious?” he scoffs. “You bribin’ me now?”
“Better than giving up like most of the… others did.” You reply softly, about to say friends but you hardly knew the other cowards who chose this program and backed away the first day.
His eyes drop to the table, jaw working.
“…why you even doin’ this, eh?”
“Credits,” you say lightly, a small smile playing on your lips. “I get a lot of them for this.”
He snorts.
“Bullshit.”
Truth came right after.
“My brother,” you say after a beat, fingers idly tracing the edge of the workbook. “Got written off early. School and people didn’t bother, everyone just… expected him to fail.”
Cook’s gaze sharpens again, but not in that cocky way. This one was focused instead
“He started believing them,” you don’t look away while continuing quietly. “Stopped even trying. Easier that way, I guess. Less embarrassing than failing in front of people who already think you’re shit.”
A short pause right after when picking up your memories.
“He didn’t need someone smarter than him,” you add, softer now. “He just needed someone who didn’t give up the second he pushed back and I always believed in him.”
Cook’s was staring at you now, tongue dragging over his bottom lip slowly in a pregnant pause.
He exhales sharply through his nose.
“Yeah, alright,” he grumbles, shifting in his seat and rolling both shoulders. “Don’t get all fuckin’… deep on me, yeah?”
He leans forward again, elbows planting back on the table, reclaiming space, reclaiming himself.
“Just get on with it. Bare minimum. That’s all you’re gettin’.”
There’s no bite to it.
Smiling faintly, you go through the material quickly. He listens more this time, even when pretending he doesn’t.
When you finally close the workbook with a soft thump, your fingers rest on the cover right where the cigarettes are hidden beneath.
You glance up at him, something lighter in your expression now.
“That enough, then?” you murmur, tone teasing just slightly. “Or do I need to keep bringing things in to hook you into studying with me?”
His grin spreads widely, transforms his whole face with cheekbones sharpening, eyes lighting up in amusement.
He leans back again, dragging one hand lazily over his jaw before letting it drop to the table.
“Not even close,” he mutters, head tilting and eyes locked on yours as he leans in close enough you can see the faint stubble along his jaw.
“See…” he murmurs, voice dropping low as one finger taps the book again.
“You got two ways you can pay for my time, yeah?”
Your pulse ticks but your face stays composed and he notices it.
His tongue presses into the inside of his cheek hard, dragging the flesh outward in an obscene motion.
“Either—” tap against the book, “—I get them, or you get under the table,” he mutters, barely above a breath now, “an’ put that mouth to better use.”
His tongue rolls slowly against his cheek again, eyes locked on yours.
All you did was simply sliding the book a fraction closer to yourself.
“Cigarettes.”
He laughs, genuinely amused, grin wider this time, teeth flashing, eyes bright with what looks a lot like interest and a hell of a lot like trouble.
The weeks dragged on in a place like this and Cook starts noticing things about you to fight off the boredom of this place.
Every time of the accorded schedule he’s waiting, slouched and fingers drumming against the table, jaw ticking when you’re even a minute late.
Fuckin’ hate that he clocks it.
He learns your name quicker than he admits, uses it wrong the first few times to mock, dragging it out with that crooked grin.
Suddenly he had gotten up a day to move his chair so that he was right next to you and he could hear better, like he said at least.
His arms snaked over your neck when he settled down with his knees brushing yours and a guard was about to storm in before you simply raised your hand at him, mouthing how it was everything okay while Cook grinned widely and almost provocatively at the guard backing away.
Sessions shift, they still start the same with books open and tasks laid out, but he doesn’t fight it like before.
He grumbles, swears under his breath, throws in the occasional “this is bollocks,” but answers come quicker.
He even… asks things.
“Oi—this bit,” he mutters one time, tapping the page with a rough finger. “Why’s it done like that, then?”
but he’d listen always and when it clicks, his reaction is instant with a quick, almost disbelieving laugh and when it clicks his reaction is instant in a quick, almost disbelieving laugh.
“Fuck me…” he mutters, then his eyes flick up to you. “Good boy,” he says suddenly, low and rough, a smirk pulling at his mouth.
Finds excuses to stay glued at your side, pointing at things that don’t need or asking questions he already half-knows just so he can dip his voice low enough that it’s only for you.
One time there was a situation that happened too fast.
You’re midway through a session, book open between you, Cook leaning in close enough that his forearm brushes yours every time he moves.
Before a chair scrapes as another inmate steps in.
“Hey,” he calls, ignoring his assigned volunteer completely. “You—yeah, you—come ‘ere a sec.”
Cook doesn’t even look up at first but you do and the bloke grins too wide.
“My one’s useless,” he says, jerking a thumb behind him. “Can’t explain fuck all. You seem better, come show me, yeah?”
His eyes drag over you in a way that’s not subtle or polite and Cook’s jaw tightens.
“Got someone, mate,” Cook says without looking up, voice calm but edged.
The bloke snorts.
“Yeah, I can see that,” he replies. “Don’t mean I can’t borrow ‘im for a bit, does it?”
“It means just tha’.” Now he looks up and there’s nothing soft left in his expression.
The other inmate steps closer anyway.
“Relax,” he says, grin turning nastier. “Just wanna see if he’s as good with his mouth explainin’ things as he looks—”
Cook moves before the sentence even finishes, chair screeches back as he’s up, fist already swinging and connecting it hard, bone against bone, snapping the bloke’s head sideways.
“Watch your fuckin’ mouth!” Cook snarls, shoving him back and the other inmate swings back.
Chairs scatter along fists flying and someone yells for a guard.
One blocks the inmate that started it all while you step in carefully, hand catching James’s wrist before it can come down again.
His skin’s hot and tense and there’s a wild look in his eyes once he looks at you and the tension in them slowly drains.
He jerks his arm back, running a hand through his hair, pacing once like a caged animal before stopping.
“Fuckin’ prick…” he mutters, voice still tight as guards storm in seconds later, dragging both him and the other inmate away.
He doesn’t expect you to come back the next scheduled session nor does he even know why they brought him in here on the chair and table.
Cook blinks when you actually did pass through the same door, sitting down next to him and setting your things out calmly.
“I spoke to them,” you say lightly after seeing the confused look on his face. “Told them that the other one started it all.”
His brow furrows.
“…yeah?”
You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Told them how much progress you’ve been making too. They agreed to let it go.”
Cook stares at you like he’s trying to understand something he’s never seen before.
“What?” you murmur, looking up at him playfully. “You upset you’re stuck with me again?”
He lets out a short, breathy laugh before shaking his head.
“Nah,” he mutters, leaning back, eyes still on you. “Reckon I’ll manage.”
Unfortunately, the end of the program came and a small window of time passed before Cook escaped from prison.
You had heard of that but only wished the best for him, deep down missing not having the chance to see him again in all those years until you found him one day leaning against the building of your study place, orange halos pooling over him reflected by wet pavement.
Back pressed to a graffitied wall, one boot hooked behind the other, hoodie pulled low enough to hide the sharp cut of his jaw, cigarette hanging lazy between his fingers, ember glowing bright each time he dragged on it, shoulders loose and posture careless but his eyes were scanning constantly.
When he saw you, it was like a switch got flipped. His head tilted, eyes locking in and that crooked grin spread across his face just like how he did years ago since your last meeting.
He was already pushing off the wall, cigarette flicked aside, boots hitting pavement in quick strides straight to you.
Your confusion barely had time to form before it cracked into happiness and he clocked it instantly.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed, laugh rough in his throat, eyes dragging over your face. “Look at ya.”
Missed that face more than he’ll ever admit out loud.
“C’mon. We’re not standin’ out ‘ere like mugs.” Hand catching your arm, pulling you closer.
Inly chuckles had the time to leave your mouth before he was steering you down the street, stubborn grip unrelenting, energy buzzing off him like static.
His place wasn’t much, smelled like smoke and cheap aftershave, but it was his and that alone said enough.
You ended up on the couch, shoulders brushing, knees almost touching. He disappeared for a second and came back with two cans, cracking one open with a sharp hiss before tossing the other cold thing into your hand.
“I’m glad to see you’ve… found a way to start again”
He didn’t answer, just sat there leaning forward, elbows on knees and drink hanging loose in his hand, eyes heavily set in focus on you.
“Y’know what the worst part was?” he muttered, huffing than a laugh, shaking his head like the thought irritated him.
“Funny, innit?” His voice dropped, rougher now. “Outta everythin’… it was you.”
He leaned back, dragging a hand down his face, jaw tight.
“Couldn’t get ya outta my fuckin’ head. Proper did me in.”
Leaning in closer now for anything but intention, invading your space without much care and his gaze dipped, eyes to your lips, then back to your eyes.
“I believe…” his voice softened, but the edge stayed, “we’d look good together.”
Truth, bare and bold.
“And the fact you walked in ‘ere… didn’t run and call no one,” his lips twitched. “Tells me everythin’ I need, yeah?”
Can still cold in your hand, you stared at him, heart louder than the quiet room.
All those hours and moments shared together with the now fugitive were still cemented in your brain, that gave the answer you were in deep need to know, hand moving before your thoughts could stop it.
Fingers sliding down, resting over his own warm ones
“You’re not wrong,” you murmured.
Something snapped loose inside him.
“FUCKIN’ KNEW IT—” He was up instantly, grin exploding across his face, laughter loud and wild as he bolted off deeper into the flat and you couldn’t help laughing under your breath, shaking your head.
God, he looked adorable.
When he came back, he had two small blue pills resting in his palm.
He noticed the way you stilled, but what he didn’t see was disappointment, rather hesitation and curiosity.
His grin softened, dangerously pleased.
“S’just a test batch,” he shrugged casually, but his eyes stayed on you. “Boss wants it checked.”
He tilted his head, watching you.
“Figured I’d use it t’ celebrate.” A pause. Softer now, possessive undercurrent threading through. “Got what I wanted now, ain’t I?”
Your hesitation kept showing and he leaned closer, voice dropping.
“C’mon… I can see it, yeah?” His fingers brushed yours, slow. “You’re curious. Nothin’ wrong wi’ tha’. What’s the problem in jus’ one?”
The can cracked open in his other hand, sharp hiss filling the space.
He smiled when you took one blue capsule from his hand.
“Atta boy.”
Both of you took them together, pill dry on your tongue before the beer washed it down, lukewarm now, bitter and metallic.
Your pulse kicked fast at the realization of what you just fed your cells, then his solid arm wrapped around your shoulders, bicep bulging as he dragged you into him without hesitation, heat bleeding through fabric as your side pressed flush against him.
“Yeah…” he muttered, lips brushing near your temple, breath hot, smelling faintly of smoke and beer. “Tha’s it.”
Oxy folded deep into your veins like warm syrup, spreading outward from your chest, down your limbs, up the back of your neck within half an hour from assumption.
Muscles you didn’t even realize were tense began to loosen one by one, unwinding until your whole body felt heavy against Cook’s sturdy one, slouched into him without even thinking, shoulder pressed into his chest, thigh draped over his now while an arm tightened around your waist, palm splayed wide.
“—an’ then he goes, right—” Cook was talking, voice slower and words dragging just a bit at the edges as he laughed at his own story and you joined too.
Not because you fully caught it, mind lagging a half-second behind everything because the vibrations of him laughing felt so good.
Your arm had ended up around his neck somewhere along the way, fingers lazily curled into the short hair at the nape, keeping him close without even realizing it.
His thumb brushing your side felt electric while the TV flickered across from you, some show spilling noise into the room but the words blurred meaningless in comparison to his too close proximity.
His head turned slightly mid-laugh, eyes drifting down to your lips and he stilled.
Fuckin’ hell… the sight of you unfiltered was a beauty to his azure eyes.
A small grunt left him involuntarily as he pulled you closer, your body sliding against his, side to his chest, hand shifting against his neck.
His lips pressed to yours slow at first, savoring but also slightly rough in a way that made your breath hitch against him.
Your lips parted instinctively and he exhaled through his nose, a low hum vibrating against your mouth as he adjusted, tilting his head slightly to deepen it the more time stretched.
Fingers at your waist curling to press you tighter into him as the kiss lingered and your lips moved against his unhurried, tasting beer and smoke.
“Mmm—” the sound slipped from him, thumb dragging up your side under your shirt, brushing skin and testing reactions while the grip in his hair tightened.
The kiss deepened as Cook pressed in harder, mouth opening against yours, breath mixing the more softness gave away to something more hungry.
He broke it suddenly, cursing under his breath and already yanking his tank top up and off in one quick gesture, tossing it somewhere behind him without a glance and revealing his broad shoulders and chest sculpted with muscle, pecs moving under your touch when your hand landed there the second he pulled you back in immediately, kiss rougher and more urgent, tongue sliding into your mouth without holding back.
A low groan rolled out of him and it spilled straight into your vocal cords, heat pooling low in your stomach.
“…Cook…” your voice came softer as you pulled back from his mouth. “…can we…not rush it?”
For a split second he looked confused, before scoffing lightly, a half-smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Course ya would say tha’,” he muttered, breathing still warm against your lips since he didn’t pull away, hand sliding down your arm, fingers wrapping around your wrist.
“A’right, sweetheart.” His tone dropped however as he guided your hand down, never breaking eye contact, blue eyes locked on yours with both understanding but a deep desire that didn’t faded away.
“Jus’… wanna let you see what ya do t’ me…” he murmured, settling your hand right over the thick bulge radiating heat through his pants.
Cook let out a breathy laugh, head tilting slightly, eyes flickering with something sharp and pleased.
“See tha’?” he muttered, voice rough. “Make it fuckin’ hard fer me t’ resist,”
Your hand hesitated before it pressed slightly and a sharp inhale from him followed, jaw tightening, hips twitching into your touch.
Heat crept up your neck.
“…I—” your voice dropped, softer. “I could… help, if you want…”
His grin turned filthy.
“Yeah?” he leaned back slightly, head hitting the couch, eyes half-lidded now, watching you. “Go on then, do what ya want…”
Your hand moved slowly, slipping under the waistband of his pants and feeling the drastic change of temperature from the heat packed in there as your fingers brushed him properly for the first time.
“Fuuuck—” Cook groaned as your hand wrapped around him.
He was big, thick to the point the length pressed heavy against your palm, veins pulsing faintly under your grip while one of his large hands gripped your hip tighter.
You moved tentatively at first.
“First time, yeah?” he teased between breaths, a crooked grin flickering.
“Or you always this—fuck—careful?”
“You’re an idiot…” you huffed lightly, cheeks warm.
He laughed, short and breathless. “Yeah, but you like me—ah—fuck—”
Your grip tightened slightly and his hips jerked.
“Tha’s it—don’t stop—” his voice took a rougher pitch, pulling you closer into his chest again.
Slow strokes, hand gliding along the twitching shaft while low grunts erupted from his throat.
“Good—fuckin’—boy,” he groaned, head falling back again, throat exposed, chest rising and falling harder now.“Jus’ like tha’—yeah—”
His other hand came up, gripping your jaw to pull it into a messy kiss with his tongue pushing into your mouth.
Every movement of your hand pulled groans, curses and breathless praise, body pulled flush against his the more your mouth got devoured and explored by his tongue as his hips bucked and he came.
A low, broken groan tore from his throat, body tensing under you as dense warmth spilled into your hand, coating your fingers as his grip on you tightened almost painfully.
His forehead dropped against yours, breath uneven, chest heaving as he slowly came down, still holding you close.
Two months of cramped rooms, drawn blinds, late-night laughter, quiet mornings where he barely slept but still kept you tucked close.
He kept his word too, fuckin’ stubbornly, even when it clearly drove him half-mad.
Every time his hands lingered too long at your waist to drag you into his chest, jaw tightening when someone looked your way.
That one time it almost went bad.
A bloke barely glanced over, nothing more than a passing look and Cook barked at him, hoodie almost slipping and letting his face get too exposed in what should have been a quick trip to your place.
You had to grab and pull him away, heart pounding as he muttered threats under his breath, eyes still locked like he was seconds from throwing a punch.
Could’ve been caught but he didn’t care at that moment.
So tonight, seeing the state of your ex-prisoner boyfriend, you waited.
The flat of his place was quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and distant street noise leaking through cracked windows.
Your skin prickled slightly in the warm air, bare except for the tight jockstrap hugging your hips, fabric stretched over your dick to leave little to the imagination.
Suddenly, the door on the other room opened as Cook stepped in fast, slamming it shut behind him with a heavy thud, muttering curses under his breath.
“Fuckin’ prick can’t even—” an irritated sigh left his mouth interrupting his rambling, probably moving one hand over his face, footsteps heavy as he moved straight to the fridge, yanking it open.
“Oi—y’ere?” he called out, grabbing a can and all you managed was a soft hum from built up anticipation.
“Good…” he scoffed lightly, cracking the beer open, already launching into whatever had pissed him off, words quick and annoyed before he heard bare footsteps against the floor.
He turned and everything stopped, can hovering halfway to his mouth, anger dissolving into disbelief.
“…fuck me…” You stood there, bare skin catching the low light, nothing but that jockstrap hugging you tight, leaving your ass almost completely exposed and body open.
“Hey…” you said softly, a hint of tension threading through your voice.
He moved, steps closing the distance until his bug and calloused hands landed on your ass immediately, fingers spreading wide and squeezing.
“When you started walkin’ ‘round like this fer me?”
All that anger was gone, replaced with a growing hunger reflecting in those eyes dragging over every inch of you.
“Wanted to thank you for keepin’ your word in all this time…” A low groan tore out of him as he pulled you flush against him, chest to chest.
His mouth crashed into yours with no softness this time, feeding on your breath while his tongue pushed in as a deep grunt rumbled from his throat straight into your mouth from the motion of lifting your body off the ground.
Hands still gripping your ass, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried you fast through the flat and into the bedroom, mattress dipping as he dropped you onto it, immediately climbing over and caging you in with his body.
Warm breath puffing from his mouth heavier now, thumb hooked under the jockstrap, tugging it slightly and letting it snap back against your skin.
“You got this on just for me?” He muttered low and, soon after, a grin spread across his face at seeing you nod.
“Always knew ye were a proper little slut fer me,” he breathed.
Your cock twitched instantly, trapped tight against the fabric as he grinder his hips forward slightly, bulge pressing firm against your own less covered one.
“You can do anythin’ you want,” you swallowed, breathing unevenly but trying to light up the same cockiness for those words he used months ago, different weight now. “Spent time preppin’ while waitin’ f’ya.”
“Fuckin’ right I can,” his eyes flickered, already shoving his pants and boxers down in rough motions to free himself, big and already leaking at the tip.
“Gettin’ all worked up like this?” He added, voice dipping into something meaner and teasing.
His hands grabbed your knees to push them up, spreading you open as he yanked the garment off completely and tossed it aside without care.
Then he lined himself up, head of his cock pressed right to its destination before sliding slightly against the slickness you’d prepared yourself with.
He exhaled sharply before pushing in.
Just the tip alone by width was enough to make you gasp, back arching slightly, stretch immediate and intense.
“Jesus—tight—” he groaned, head dropping to your neck, breath hot against flesh.
He kept going, forcing you to take him, body stretching around him, adjusting slowly as he pushed deeper, hands gripping your thighs tighter on his shoulders to the point finger marks would sure be left there.
Balls pressed heavy against your lower behind as he fully sank in.
“Fuck…” he groaned again, realizing a breath he hadn’t realized he holder until his pelvis kissed the bubbly and fluffy flesh of your ass cheeks, sure he had you speared on his cock and couldn’t sink any further in. “Feel that?”
Fucking hell if you did, he was big and it filled you completely, stretching to the point your toes curl.
He didn’t move right away, just stayed there for a moment to enjoy the sensations before a slow thrust followed, barely controlled, pulling out till the crown held the entrance stretched open right before pushing back in, dragging against every nerve through the pathway.
“Take it—” he muttered into your neck and your hands gripped at his shoulders he was fully back in, nails pressing into his skin as the pace picked up faster.
The sound of skin hitting skin filled the room, mixed with his low groans, breathless reactions out of your mouth along a constant creak of the mattress under the force of it.
He settled between your legs properly now, driving into you with more force, grip tightening and rhythm becoming relentless.
“Fuckin’ perfect like this…” he panted, pulling back just enough to look down at the way his cock disappeared between your legs, one hand going down to wrap around your cock, pumping in time with his thrusts.
The sensation built too fast, body tightening around him, breath catching as every thrust hit deeper, sharper.
“Gonna cum like this, yeah?” he muttered, voice rough.
You nodded, barely able to speak and that was all he needed as his pace snapped faster as he drove into you, chasing his own release.
Your body tensing, cock spilling over his hand as your back arched, a broken sound leaving your throat and Cook followed right after.
A deep, guttural groan got tore out of him as he thrust deep one last time, holding himself there as he came and started filling you.
For a moment, neither of you moved. It was just a mixture of breath and heat.
A sharp, guttural sound tore out of his throat, hips stuttering once before he pulled out abruptly, leaving you empty and twitch in protest.
“Fuck—nah—nah, not done—” His hands were on you instantly, flipping your sensitive body over without ceremony. Your chest hit the mattress, breath punching out of you as your hips were yanked up and your back arched instinctively, ass fully exposed to him now as he stared, chest rising and jaw tight.
One warm and big hand fisted into your hair suddenly to pull it back just slightly before shoving it back down into the mattress.
“Stay there—” You barely had time to react before you felt the head of his cock pressed back to it’s favorite area, hard and ready again as he pushed in.
A deep, forceful thrust that made your whole body jolt forward, a broken sound ripping from your throat when he buried himself inside you again.
“Fuuuck—” he groaned, grip tightening in your hair.
“Christ—you feel—fuck—” He didn’t give you time to adjust, not that it was needed.
Hips snapping forward again, setting a pace that was driven by something less controlled and more instinct, large shaft hitting your prostate with force that made your fingers curl into the sheets.
“Good fuckin’ boy—” he muttered, voice thick with need, free hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks and your whole body bounced slightly with each thrust.
“Gotta love seein’ ye all spread open fer me—fuckin’ made for it—” all of his lines where gettin’ interrupted and reset by each thrust he unleashed fueled by sexual frustration.
Your own cock twitched like his own buried to the hilt inside your gummy walls, sensitive but reacting anyway, dragging slightly against the sheets with each movement.
“Still want more, yeah?” he taunted huskily right up close to your jaw, lips shy away from placing kisses all over it, almost laughing under his breath.
Too many sensations that felt so good overwritten the chemistry of your brain as pleasure spiked again, overwhelmingly so.
His grip tightened in your hair again, pulling your head back to expose your neck as he leaned over.
“So fuckin’ tight…” he muttered, almost lost in it. “Though it fro’ the start you’d feel good—” his cock kept hammering against your prostate, hand working you steadily, not letting you even breathe properly as your body gave in completely.
Muscles weakening and arms trembling until they gave out, chest pressing fully into the mattress and head turned to the side, breath uneven.
Cook didn’t slow, he liked the way you went soft under him ‘cause it was just like how he pictured it mentally right from the start when he first met you.
“Let me do it—jus’ take it—” he breathed, voice dropping into something darker as his thrusts grew heavier and more erratic as his own control slipped, grip tightening everywhere at once and your cock throbbed in his hand.
Your body tightened again.
“Gonna—” you barely managed, voice breaking as a second orgasm hit hard, cock spilling again into his hand as your back arched weakly, a broken sound leaving your throat.
Cook groaned at the feeling of you tightening around him again, pace faltering for half a second before surging and chasing it.
“Stay—still—fuck—” A few more deep, desperate thrusts and he pulled out abruptly, you barely processed it before hot spurts of dense warmth hit your back and ass, spilling over your skin as he came with a low, drawn-out groan as he finished himself off over you.
Marking and covering you completely, breathing staying heavy for a moment after, chest rising and falling right on top of your back as he nuzzled his face right against your jaw and covered it with messy kisses.
“…mine…” he muttered under his breath after a handful of lips contacts.
Despite the breathy laugh that followed, his words were more a proud statement rather than a joke.
here's two articles about how JK Rowling just posted on X an upskirt photo of Freda Wallace, a transgender woman, after deadnaming her and misgendering her repeatedly online.
The wealthy author escalated a social media spat that resulted in posting a photo from a 2023 event at the Institute of Economic Affairs in
Rowling posted the picture taken from below because the trans woman, she said, was "refusing to debate me."
So in summation; Rowling demanded access to a woman’s time and when she couldn’t get it she retaliated by posting an upskirt image of her and called her fat, and some of her fans even went “I think I can see her genitals”.
She literally went “debate me! Debate me!” Over and over like the grifter she is and when she couldn’t get what she wanted and when “no” wasn’t enough she resorted to retaliatory sex-pestery, posting an image of somebody’s body with intention to shame and embarrass and spawn more waspish tittering from her internet followers.
Rowling is trash and this is disgraceful behavior, in case anyone has forgotten.
She had also claimed Freda "deserved" this sexual harassment because of what she was wearing... You know... The same excuse used over and over to try and justify rape.
J K Rowling committed a sex crime against a trans woman (specifically, violating the Sexual Offences Act 2003)
(1) A person (A) commits an offence if—
(a) A intentionally shares a photograph or film which shows, or appears to show, another person (B) in an intimate state,
(b) B does not consent to the sharing of the photograph or film, and
(c) A does not reasonably believe that B consents.
(2) A person (A) commits an offence if—
(a) A intentionally shares a photograph or film which shows, or appears to show, another person (B) in an intimate state,
(b) A does so with the intention of causing B alarm, distress or humiliation, and
(c) B does not consent to the sharing of the photograph or film.
pop health science is so annoying bc it'll be like "did you know? eating strawberries will give you mega cancer" and you're like pfft whatever begone influencer. but sometimes then you'll see a reasonably credible article like "Study Shows Possible Link Between Strawberries and Mega Cancer" and you're not usually the type to follow that kind of thing religiously but idk maybe you should consider not eating strawberries? but then there's another article saying "Strawberry/Mega Cancer Study Debunked" and it turns out the original study had a sample size of 3 and was funded by Big Blueberry, and strawberries may have a small connection to mega cancer but only if you are genetically predisposed to mega cancer and eat 50 strawberries every day. so you return to your strawberry eating life. but whenever you eat strawberries in public someone tells you about the mega cancer.
Can't help but appreciate how well the body language translates through VR.
The frantic head turning while looking for a place to stash the grenade, the double take as they realize the drawer they chose was FULL of grenades, and the "WTF" hand gesture as they point in disbelief at the drawer full of grenades? Chef's kiss.
Summary: multiple scenarios with the trope ‘stuck in a hole’ with various RE men.
Tags: No use of Y/N. Male reader. Dubious consent. Dark Leon Kennedy. Dark Chris Redfield. Dark Ethan Winters. Dark Carlos Oliveira. Dark Piers Nivans. Top Leon Kennedy. Threesome and double penetration (Chris and Piers scenario). Top Chris Redfield. Top Piers Nivans. Gentle dom Ethan Winters. Dom Carlos Oliveira. smut. Anal sex. Size kink. Breeding.
A very old request that I got
Words count: 10000 (2500 per character)
ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
ℒℯℴ𝓃 𝒦ℯ𝓃𝓃ℯ𝒹𝓎
Those tunnels under what used to be Raccoon City smelled green with a sharp acrid undertone you'd come to associate with the things growing down here.
Condensation rolled down the curved concrete ceiling and dripped into dark puddles.
Leon walked point, muzzle of his gun sweeping low.
Every couple of steps your boot would scuff a chunk of broken concrete, or your sling would tap your hip. Leon never said anything, just turned his head a fraction every time it happened with the corner of one blue eye catching you in his periphery, checking.
"Behind me," he murmured for maybe the fourth time in twenty minutes.
"Already am."
"Closer."
You closed the gap and the back of his tac vest was sweat-dark between the shoulder blades.
Vines were on the walls.
You'd been seeing them since the stairwell, thin at first and no thicker than a finger, threaded through the cracks in the concrete.
They got bigger as the tunnel got deeper, now as fat as your wrist and woven thick across the right-hand passage.
Worse, they were moving and had a mouth, pink puckers ringed with rows of needle teeth, exhaling a thin acrid mist.
One of them spat as Leon stepped past and it hit the wall behind you with a hiss.
"Don't shoot 'em," Leon said quietly. "Conserve ammunition, knife if you have to."
"I know, Leon."
He didn't look back and held up his free hand to make an easy gesture, palm down.
You'd been told a hundred times in the last forty-eight hours to conserve every shell in his shotgun and round in your pistol for the bigger threats.
The vines that blocked the path went in clusters of one or two and Leon would step up and pin one with his gloved hand at the neck just below the head, vine trashing and bleeding thick green sap from the wounds caused by his hatchet before going limp.
By the fourth tangle you had the rhythm of it and Leon let you take the lead on the cutting once you'd proven you could do it without flinching, the closest thing to praise he was going to give you today.
It was after the eighth or ninth tangle that you saw the light at the far end of a long, straight stretch of tunnel.
Then you stepped over what looked like a crack in the concrete but was a root instead half-buried in the floor with only the top arc of it exposed.
You'd been told to watch the floor as well as the walls and your boot came down on the top of it with all your weight, causing it to spam.
Everything happened in one motion.
The root whipped up out of the floor with a crack of concrete dust and something erupted out of a seam in the wall to your left.
A vine as thick as your thigh, knotted with mouths and took you around the ribs.
It hit you so hard the breath came out of you in a single huff.
One coil, two, three, wrapping with sickening speed and pinning your arms, knife still in your hand but pinned against your own thigh, your feet leaving the floor as it lifted your body 10 feet up, pressure starting instantly and your ribs creaked, vision starting to fog at the edges.
You couldn't get a breath in past the coil at your diaphragm as a big mouth on the vine opened wide right in front of your face, dripping green acid and uncurling toward your throat.
A clack of Leon pumping a fresh shell into the chamber striking the thing about two inches from the soft pink palate inside that gaping mouth, making the mouth explode into a wet green spray that splattered the ceiling and your jacket, rest of the vine convulsing, coils tightening on you in a brutal spasm and then the whole thing went over sideways, slamming you down with it.
Concrete met your shoulder, wind knocked out of you again as the dead vine kept its grip.
You'd half-expected it to relax with the way dead things relax but this was a plant, not a person, stored in charge of turgor pressure and contraction proteins that had nowhere to discharge to.
Every cellulose fiber in it had locked.
Rigor mortis with a body wrapped in a corpse.
You lay on your stomach on the wet concrete, one cheek pressed to the floor, dead coils crushing you flat from shoulder blades to ankles.
You could still move your fingers and wrist but not your arm, resulting in the knife you were clutching tightly being completely useless.
"…Fuck," you tried to wiggle, arching your back as much as the vine would let which was maybe two degrees and you tried to corkscrew your shoulders.
It was thicker around than your torso.
You held out for another thirty seconds of useless squirming, sweat starting to bead at your hairline, pride doing a lot of the heavy lifting.
"Leon."
Silence.
"Leon. Leon. Get over here."
You heard his footsteps, reloading his shotgun and watching you struggle.
"Yeah?" His voice sounded almost bored. "What do you need?"
You glared up at him as best you could from your position and he was backlit by the bright light at the end of the tunnel, hair hanging in his eyes slightly.
"Use that hatchet." You bit it out, ribs hurting. "Cut me out."
He didn't move.
"…Leon. The thing on your belt. Cut me out."
You waited for him to help you, say another one of his one liners or do anything.
A crunch of gravel came as he lowered himself to one knee beside you.
You couldn't see what he was doing with him behind your line of sight, somewhere down by your hip.
The vine had you pinned face-down, cheek to the floor and one arm folded under you with the other that splayed out with the knife still loose in your fingers.
His hand settled on the back of your thigh, sliding them slowly up the inside of your thigh, a wave of goosebumps crested at the back of your neck and made every hair on your scalp stand up.
"Y'know," he said in a low voice, "I can't actually remember the last time I saw you like this."
His hand kept moving, pad of his thumb tracing a line up the seam of your inseam and your hips tried to jerk but couldn't.
"Helpless, after another one of your stunts.” He clarified.
"Leon—"
"And I told you to stop doing this. You can't keep getting in front of me. I'm the one with the gun who's been doing this since forever. You stay behind me. And what do you do?"
His hand reached the top of your thigh, back of his knuckles brushing the curve of your ass through your pants.
"You get trapped by a plant right after another distraction.l
"Leon, it was concealed, I couldn't—"
"Mm."
His hand settled, flat, on the curve of your ass, palm big with the span of it covering more than half of one cheek. He squeezed to make his point and your whole body lit up.
"I think," he said, "I'm gonna take this opportunity to teach you a lesson about who's in command and who you listen to."
A spike of pure shocked heat went through you, followed by a delayed, panicked surge of ’no, absolutely not, this is not happening.’ You jerked against the vine again and nothing moved, face burning where it pressed against the wet concrete.
"You—" Your voice came out higher than you wanted. "You are not serious, Leon. Get that damn hatchet. We're in the middle of a mission!”"
"Mm-hm."
"Even if there was a world where I'd be up for it, I am literally pinned, Leon, I cannot move, you absolute arrogant, smug, condescending—"
You were working yourself up to a real head of steam and say things you couldn't take back.
He shifted and moved his weight smoothly and straddled the dead vine, kneeling between your spread-pinned legs, hips lowering down toward yours to press forward until the heavy bulge in the front of his tac pants pressed flush against the cleft of your ass through your own.
You stopped talking at the feeling of him hard and big, full weight of him settling against your hole through two layers of fabric, length of him dragging along the seam of your pants as he ground down once, a single unhurried roll of his hips that pressed the ridge of his head right against the spot where, even through cotton and webbing, your body knew exactly what it was being offered.
Every word in your head evaporated, mouth open as he let you feel him there, vine creaking faintly around your ribs as your body tried to push back into the pressure.
His hand was still on your ass and he squeezed a little harder this time.
"Are you done?" he asked, quietly.
You couldn’t answer, light at the end of the tunnel went on flickering its bright end, indifferent.
"…I'll take that as a yes."
You stayed quiet, lying there with your cheek pressed to the wet concrete and the corpse of a vine welding you to the floor, heavy ridge of his cock stopping in the grinding at the seam of your pants into your hole.
"That’s a good listening."
His hand left your ass and you heard the soft rasp of leather as he unbuckled something at his hip, followed by a heavy thunk of the hatchet head sinking into the dead vine somewhere up by your shoulder blades.
Three hard strikes and the coil around your upper back loosened, soon after the one around your ribs and that one across your ass.
He left a thick stub of vine pinning your shoulders and one arm pinned to the floor.
You understood the geometry of what he'd just done before your brain put it into words as he left you face-down, arms pinned and hips free.
"Leon—"
"Shh." He didn't even look up, setting the hatchet down beside your head.
A reminder, maybe.
"I told you. M’ teaching you a lesson."
His hands came back to you, settling on your hips and sliding up under the hem of your jacket, palms hot through the thin moisture-wicking shirt underneath as he ran them up the length of your back inside the vest.
He found the dip of your spine just above your ass and pressed his thumb into it, hard, your hips arched into his hand involuntarily.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "That's what I thought."
"I haven't said yes to anything," you hissed into the concrete.
"You haven't said no, either." His voice was so calm and flat.
“Tell me to stop and I stop. Just tell me to stop."
You opened your mouth and closed it just as fast.
He gave you ten full seconds before the small breath of a laugh breezed over the back of your neck and his hands went to the waistband of your tac pants.
Flipping the button with his thumb and dragging the zipper down, hooking his fingers into the waistband and boxers at the same time to peel both of them down to mid-thigh area, cold air of the tunnel hitting your bare ass and the back of your thighs.
"Mm." Leon's voice, from above and behind, was appraising. "Look at you."
His hand settled, palm-flat, on your bare ass and squeezed almost painfully as his fingers spread, kneaded once and then his thumb dragged down the cleft of your ass and slid down between your legs.
"Oh, sweetheart."
"Don't—" his hand wrapped around your erected dick.
"Christ. How long have you been like this?" He sounded almost amused.
"Shut up."
His thumb dragged forward all through the veins and circled on the leaking tip.
Your hips jerked, dead vine creaking.
"Leon.“
"I'm just askin'." Another slow drag.
He was barely touching your cock and you were already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from making sounds. "You don't have to answer. Your dick’s already telling me everything I need to know."
You made a noise supposed to be a curse that came out as something else entirely.
Hearing fabric between the clink of his own belt and rasp of his fly yet you couldn't see, cheek pressed to the concrete and your view was a wall.
Those noises your hindbrain put together from the audio were doing things to you.
His bare cock dragged, hot and heavy, across the curve of your ass.
You felt the weight from sheer mass of it as he laid it down along your crack and let it rest there.
You'd suspected he had always been this big, having caught glimpses of the outline of him through his pants on a hundred occasions when you weren't supposed to be looking, but suspecting and feeling were two different things.
The head of him was up at the small of your back, base of him was nudging your taint thick enough that when he gave a slow experimental roll of his hips and dragged himself along, you felt your cheeks part around the girth of him.
"Oh my god," your words got muffled by the floor.
Leon made a low, pleased sound. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, you feel that?"
Trying to wiggle your body to get more friction but nothing occurred.
"That's what you've been mouthing off to for two years." Another slow drag and the wet head of him left a sticky line on your skin. "You feel how much of me there is, sweetheart? You think your smart fuckin' mouth is gonna keep being smart with this inside you?"
"You're so full of shit," you ground out and it would have been more cutting if your voice hadn't broken in the middle of it.
"We'll see." He laughed quietly before shifting and taking himself in hand, knuckles brushing the inside of your thigh as he dragged the fat head of his cock down through the cleft of your ass, over your hole and coating himself in you.
Every time it bumped your hole you twitched and the vine creaked, bulky man above humming a satisfied little hum.
He notched himself at your entrance under heavy pressure resting there.
"Last chance," he said quietly. "Say stop."
You didn't, mouth open against the concrete and letting you taste tunnel grit along your own breath together with the faint chemical sweetness of vine sap, feeling that obscene blunt pressure, body already trying to open for him on its own without your permission and the word stop was nowhere in your head.
Leon waited a beat longer, then he pushed, slow and steady.
The head of him stretched you, rim burning around the flare of him and your whole pelvis was lighting up with the strain before it popped past, the widest part of him breaching and you choked on a sound that wasn't a word.
He kept going, sinking deep and letting you feel every ridge and vein on the underside of him dragging along your front wall. He was so thick you could feel the walls of your hole straining around him in a stretch that was right at the edge of too much and he just kept coming, giving one last firm press of his hips, pelvis meeting your ass and you realized he'd bottomed out.
You were so full your eyes were watering, dick throbbing on the ground below as he twitched in a heavy pulse that matched your heartbeat.
Leon was very still on top of you.
He'd lowered down, chest against your back through the layers of your clothes and his mouth was somewhere near your ear.
The bastard wasn't even winded.
"There," he murmured. "There we go, breathe.“
You sucked in a shaking breath.
"Good." His hand slid up your side and along the underside of your arm, fingers lacing loosely with the hand that was still holding the knife. He squeezed. "Took the whole fuckin' thing."
"You're an asshole—"
"Mm." Almost fond. "I know."
He pulled out but not all the way, just the head was inside you now before he began fucking you.
The first stroke knocked the air out of you with how deep he went again with the full length of him sliding back into the root with one long unbroken push and your whole body shuddered around the intrusion.
He set a pace that was torturous to say the least, every thrust a full-length drag in and out of you, pressing his pelvis tight to your ass and making the dead vine creak under your shoulders.
"This," he said, low, his mouth at your ear, "is what you should've been getting two years ago."
You made a noise supposed to be a word.
"This is what happens," another deep stroke, "when you can't keep your fuckin' mouth shut," another, "and you can't follow simple instructions," another, "and you keep stepping in front of me like you're the one with seniority here."
"Ah—Leon!"
"Quiet." Firm, same voice he used in the field. "I'm talking."
He kept fucking you with consistency, every withdrawal pulled a slick squelch out of you.
Thighs and hands shaking, the one still tangled in his was squeezing his fingers white.
"You feel that?" he murmured. "Feel how deep I'm getting?"
"Y-yes—"
"Yes what."
"Yes— yes Leon—" You made a strangled sound into the concrete and he laughed quietly above.
"Good boy." Another deep stroke and his hand left yours to cup the back of your skull, holding your cheek firm against the concrete. "Good. Now. Tell me who's in command."
"You are—"
"Mm-hm."
"You are—"
"And who do you listen to."
"You.”
"And what are you gonna do," another stroke, harder this time, hips snapping forward and his pelvis cracking against your ass with a slap, "the next time I tell you to stay behind me."
"I'll—" Another slap. You couldn't get the words out, he was fucking the breath out of you.
“Fuck, Leon, I want you," another brutal thrust, his hand fisting suddenly in your hair.
He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in to the hilt, over and over, pelvis cracking into your ass with a hard wet slap every time, sound of it ringing off the concrete walls of the tunnel.
Your cheek dragged against the floor with every thrust, pecs aching where they were crushed under your weight.
"I'm— I'm gonna—"
"Yeah?" His hand left your hip and slid under between you and the floor and his fingers found your dick, pressing down on it, hard and ground the pad of his middle finger into it in tight circles at the top of the head in time with his thrusts. "You gonna come?”
"Yes—fuck!" Out of nowhere your whole body locked up in one long convulsion that started in your hole and rolled outward through every muscle you had.
You clamped down on him so hard he grunted, hips jerking back into him on their own, riding the thrust, milking him, hole fluttering and squeezing in waves that didn't seem to want to stop.
He fucked you straight through it as he kept that brutal pace going, his fingers still grinding your pulsing cock.
He went tight all over, hips slamming flush against your ass one last time and staying there, pressed hard as he came inside you in long hot pulses that you could feel, heat of him filling you up in spreading flooding pumps that just kept coming.
A low broken groan against the side of your neck, forehead dropping to your shoulder and his whole big warm weight settling down onto your back as he emptied himself into you.
His big body draped over your smaller one, weight pinning you almost completely.
"…Okay?" he murmured, after a while.
The question was so quiet and sudden that you almost laughed.
"…Yeah."
"Mm."
"…My ribs hurt."
"Yeah." He kissed the side of your neck. "Yeah, I bet they do."
He pulled out then and you whined at the empty drag of him, cum sliding out of you in a thick hot rush, down between your thighs.
Rasp of fabric as he tucked himself away and his hatchet was in his hand, working you free.
When you were loose he turned you over gently and gathered you up against his chest.
You were a mess and he didn't seem to care about any of it.
"You did good," he said quietly, into your hair.
"…Don't you start."
"Mm." A breath of a laugh. "Fair."
"You good to move?"
"…Yeah."
"Behind me," he said.
You swallowed.
"Yes sir."
The corner of his mouth moved.
"Good boy."
ℰ𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒲𝒾𝓃𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓈
The bayou stank of rot before you even reached the Baker estate.
You remembered telling Ethan as much, slouched in the passenger seat of his Dodge Challenger 1970, swamp pressing in yellowish on both sides of the dirt road.
He'd laughed at you in a tired way considering all the hours you had been inside his car to get to Louisiana, soft laugh that always made your chest do something stupid and reminded you that you didn't have to come but you'd insisted anyway because Mia was his wife and you'd liked her well enough back when she was around, but the truth you kept locked behind your teeth was simpler and uglier: you didn't trust Ethan to come back alone.
Having been in love with him since college.
Mia was in the basement of this place.
The first wrong thing.
Second one was that she remembered you, recognized Ethan, right away told you that someone she mentioned ‘daddy’ was coming.
Ten minutes later her veins went black, voice dropping two octaves and she threw you into the wall first, skull bouncing off old wood.
By the time you scrambled up, she had Ethan pinned by the wall and the noise of a chainsaw starting was the worst thing you had ever heard.
His hand came off and there was so much blood as you helped him up on his feet and pressed the wound to reduce blood loss.
Up in the attic there was a gun that Ethan used and emptied the magazine into his wife's forehead, making her drop on the ground while yelling how she loved him, before seeming presumably dead.
She had taken an axe to the neck and came back in no problem so you had a feeling this won’t be the last time you’d see her.
You remember Ethan staring at his own wrist where his hand used to be and remembered a big shape filling the frame.
“Welcome to the family, son.”
Jack Baker hit Ethan first, then he hit you and you’ve reached floor level.
When Ethan came to, he was tied to a dining room chair, severed hand stapled back to his wrist with industrial staples. The pain was distant with shock taking almost all the glory, body smarter than his head for once.
"Who are you?" he croaked at the disturbing family consuming human’ remains.
The chair next to him was empty.
"Hey. Hey— where is he? Where the fuck is he?"
Ethan process the next two hours quite rapidly between freeing himself, a cop dying right in front of him, a lot of shooting and phone calls with a woman trying to help him and herself escape this nightmare.
Under all of it was the same five words drumming in his skull.
‘Where the fuck is he.’
He searched and kicked open every door in the main house, mostly looking for you, calling your name in a hoarse whisper because something in him still thought the Bakers might not have noticed there was a second guest.
You weren't anywhere.
The phone in the trailer rang and he'd been told to come here by Zoe who had the missing head to make the cure.
"Heyyyy buddy." Lucas Baker's voice was a smear of grease and giggle. "I thought you should know, I decided Zoe needed a little time out. She and Mia are here with me. They’re keeping each other company.”
Ethan’s grip tightened around the receiver until plastic creaked. “Just let them both go. What do you need them for?”
“Nah-nah-ahhhh.” Lucas’ voice curled through the line like smoke. “This is family business, Ethan, and not your concern, understand?”
"Where is he, Lucas."
"Whoa whoa whoa, no how's it hangin'? Rude."
"Where. Is. He."
A long, theatrical sigh on the line followed by a giggle that crawled down Ethan's spine.
"Aw, you mean your little tagalong? Hooo boy. He's fine, Ethan. He's so fine… right here with me, actually." A pause, wet sound of Lucas licking his lips into the receiver. "Real pretty thing, ain't he? Didn't know you swung that way, big man. I mean, I don't blame you."
Ethan's grip on the receiver creaked.
"He's mine, by the way. I'm callin' dibs. Y'know, finders keepers."
"Lucas—"
"Nah nah nah, lemme finish. Bet your best friend's been pinin' for that big dumb dick of yours for years and you ain't never even looked. That's sad, dude."
"I am going to kill you."
"Awww really? Come on I made a gift for you! I got him all set up nice in the barn. You wanna see him again? Better hustle, hero. He's been askin' for you."
The line went dead and Ethan stood there in the trailer with the phone still pressed to his ear.
His staple-stitched hand was twitching, knuckles of his good hand white.
He left the trailer at a dead run.
The barn squatted on the edge of the property, a sagging structure of black timber and rusted hinges.
Sickly-sweet fungal stink hit his senses.
"…Ethan?"
Your voice cracked, muffled by something and coming from the back of the barn.
"I'm here," he said, and his throat closed up around it. "I'm here, just hold on!"
He rounded the stack of moldering hay bales and stopped.
There was a wall of plywood and two-by-fours hammered together, reinforced with steel banding and bolted into the barn's original beams.
It bisected the back of the barn floor-to-ceiling and in the middle of it, set at exactly the height of a man's hips, was a hole where he found you on the other side of the wall.
He could see your bare lower back, dip of your spine and curve of your ass where your jeans had been yanked down to mid-thigh along with your boxers shoved down.
Your hips were flush against the wood and there were leather straps bolted to either side of the hole that fastened around your thighs and waist, holding you locked in place at exactly the right depth, legs splayed back on the far side, bare feet braced uselessly against the dirt floor he couldn't see.
Your bare cheeks, cleft of your ass and pucker twitching glistening with either oil or lube and Ethan made a sound in the back of his throat.
"Ethan?" Your voice again, from the other side of the wall, thin and panicked. "Ethan is that you, please tell me that's you, I can't see anything."
"It's me. I'm here."
A speaker crackled to life from somewhere in the rafters.
"Awwww." Lucas. "Look at that. My heart, Ethan. Y'all are killin' me."
Ethan jerked his pistol up at the ceiling.
"Put the peashooter down for now and listen to your old buddy Lucas. I got a game for ya."
"Let him go."
"Mm. Nope." The giggle dropped out of his voice for a half-second and underneath was something colder. "I built that little contraption myself. Real proud of it. You see them tubes on the walls?"
Ethan looked and around the perimeter of the barn, snaked up the support beams, were translucent plastic tubes the diameter of a man's wrist. Inside them, sluggish and black and pulsing, was that same black mold.
"Those," Lucas chirped, "are on a timer. Ten minutes from when I stop talkin', they pop. Whole barn fills up with those monsters and they'll eat him from the feet up, eat you from anywhere they can reach."
"You're insane."
"And you're wastin' time! Tickety tock! There is, of course, a way to turn it off." A pause for effect. "Sensor in the hole, Ethan. Heat sensor set up so it deactivates the timer if there's a real specific kinda activity happenin' in there. Y'know. Activity."
Silence.
"…I am not," Ethan said slowly, "going to—"
"You are absolutely gonna. 'Cause if you don't, he dies and honestly, Ethan, I'd kinda prefer that, so part of me hopes you say no. But the other part of me wanna see his face when his big strong best friend finally gives him what he's been wantin'. Pick a lane, hero. Clock's tickin'."
The speaker got destroyed the second Ethan fired his gun repeatedly at it and the psycho’s presence was gone from this place.
"Ethan, don't listen to him, just find another way.”
He stood there, pistol hanging at his side and staring at the bare curve of your ass through the hole in the wall along the slick of lube smeared on you.
You had wanted him this whole goddamn time?
He stepped forward, barn floorboards creaking under his boots and set the pistol down on top of a hay bale within easy reach.
Behind the wall, you made a sound he'd never heard you make before.
A small, wanting sound when someone wants something the most in the world, is finally happening and it's completely wrong.
He stepped up to the hole and could feel the heat of you through the wood, that cologne you wore still strong and within his senses to pick up.
His staple-stitched hand came up and settled, careful and warm, on the small of your back.
You flinched. Then you pushed back into his touch.
"I'm here," he said, very softly, to the wall between you.
The timer in the tubes overhead began, faintly, to tick.
Ticking from the tubes overhead was soft at first, irregular pulse that Ethan counted under his breath without meaning to.
Roughly one tick a second, he'd done worse math under worse pressure in the last twenty-four hours.
His staple-stitched hand was still resting on your back, your skin was hot.
"Listen…" he kept his voice low. "I need you to listen to me real careful, okay? Can you do that?"
"…Yeah." Muffled through whatever was over your head, possibly a heavy fabric hood. "Yeah, I can hear you."
"There’s stuff in tubes all around the walls. He says they pop in ten minutes if I don't— if I don't do what he wants."
“Oh.”
"I'm gonna look for another way." His good hand was already moving, sweeping the wall on his side, fingers tracing the seams of the plywood. "There's gotta be a kill switch, or a wire… i don’t know just keep talking. What did he do to you? Did he hurt you?"
A long, shaky inhale on your end. "He knocked me out in the kitchen and I woke up here and he was talking the whole time, Ethan, he wouldn't shut up about you and me. About how I could help him in a sick game of his."
Ethan's fingertips found a bolt of steel he couldn't pry it out with his nails.
"Can't you find maybe a crowbar, or you have your gun, you could—"
"I'm looking. Keep talking."
His hand traced higher, the wall went all the way to the rafters and the studs were bolted into the original posts of the barn.
He could maybe shoulder it down, given an hour.
He stepped back and looked at the six tubes again, each one fed into a central junction box mounted high on the back wall, behind the partition that was holding you.
There was a power cord snaking out of the junction box and running along the rafter, coming down a support post and disappearing into a wall outlet near the barn door.
A wall outlet, two-prong wall outlet.
"Ethan?"
"I'm here. I'm thinking. Keep talking."
"What are you thinking?"
He looked at the outlet and at the tubes.
He had a magazine and a half left, the outlet was maybe twenty feet away. If he unplugged it, would that kill the timer, or trigger it early?
So. Don't cut power but the cord downstream of the timer, jump the contacts, bypass it.
He could use the pocket knife he had and currently less than nine minutes left.
But he could get there, climb up and the timer would die without Lucas knowing. Even if he had a remote control far away he wouldn’t be able to do shit.
As long as the heat sensor in the hole stayed warm and busy nothing suspicious should happen.
There was the problem of the psycho who could have placed something hidden for audio quality.
The risk of Lucas hypothetically figuring out Ethan’s plan and activating an hypothetical existing shortcut to your demise was bot something he was going to risk.
Ethan's mouth went dry.
He could save you without fucking you.
He could also fuck you.
He could do both in the right order if the sensor only needed a body.
Looking at you through the hole and the slick clutch of your hole, twitching with each breath, heat and pressure sensor presents.
If he could keep something warm and snug pressed inside you, the sensor would keep reading positive while he was working on the rafters.
His own cock stuffed in you to the root would do that beautifully.
Okay. New plan.
Fuck you, get Ethan's free hand to the pistol and one very well-placed shot through the junction box at exactly the right angle to short the timer without sparking the mold.
Ethan exhaled.
"Okay," he said to you, low. "I think I see a way, but I need you to trust me. Can you trust me?"
"…Always."
It was such a small word that hit him deeply.
"Then I need you to know two things." He stepped close to the hole again, until his hips were almost touching the wood. "I'm gonna do what he says… I'm so sorry. I don't see another move yet and the clock's running… but you don't have to do anything. Okay?"
A long silence on the other side of the wall.
"…Is there really nothing else? Like — couldn't you just put your fingers in me? Would that count? The sensor maybe just needs heat, maybe—"
"Maybe."
"—or— or what if I— I don't know, what if I, like, faked it, what if we made the right sounds and—"
"Hey."
You went quiet and he waited, letting the silence sit, interrupted only by the ticking of the tubes.
"You don't have to pretend you don't want it." He said finally, very gently.
Your breath caught in a sharp inhale.
"I'm not—"
"Lucas told me." He didn't say it cruelly. He said it like a confession. "On the phone. He told me how you wanted me."
Silence.
"…Oh."
"Yeah."
"…I'm sorry."
"Don't." His voice cracked, just a little.
In his pants his cock, which had been at half-mast since he'd first seen you through the hole, gave a hot, demanding throb.
A strange feeling of years of denial folding up and being put away.
The feeling of a man learning, in the worst possible circumstances, that he had been loved for a very long time.
"I'll take care of you, I promise. You don’t have to pretend.”
A long, shaky exhale on your end, fight going out of you in one slow breath.
"…Okay. Ethan, please."
His cock kicked again in his pants and he undid his fly, button popping and zipper sliding down and his half-hard length flopped out into the air of the barn thick and already flushed dark, weeping a fat bead of pre at the slit.
He was big and you were about to feel it.
Spitting into his good hand and wrapping it around himself, working slow strokes from root to tip as be watched himself fatten up the rest of the way in his own fist, veins more visible along the shaft, foreskin pulling back tight and thick enough around that he had to spread his thumb and middle finger to span it.
“You tell me if it's too much and I'll stop, promise to find another way."
"…You won't have to."
"What?"
"…I want it." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I've wanted it for so long, please just give it to me, I'll take whatever you give me, please—"
Something hot and dark unspooled in Ethan's chest and he stepped up flush against the wall.
He gripped the base of his cock in his good hand and lined the fat, drooling head up against your slick, twitching hole. The heat of you radiated against his glans before he even made contact until he pressed and his cockhead nudged against the pucker.
"Hnnh… god, Ethan," a sound of pure want from your mouth.
Huge like that just from the tip and he pushed, staple-stitched hand had come up to grip your hip through the hole, fingers splaying across the soft flesh of your flank to hold you steady as he worked.
Whatever oily slick had you opening for him slowly, ring of your hole stretching wider and wider around his cockhead, fat flare of his glans popping past your rim and you screamed (not from agony).
"Ethan—Ethan, oh— oh fuck!"
His hand on your hip squeezed, he could feel you pulsing and fluttering in trying to figure out what to do with the intrusion all while giving you a full minute to adjust to pushing again.
He fed himself into you in patient slides and never withdrew, just more and deeper, your hands somewhere on the other side of the wall scrabbling at the wood.
"Halfway." His voice was wrecked.
"Halfway?" It came out as a sob. "Halfway— Ethan, I can't, I can feel you in my— oh god, oh god—"
"You can, you said you'd take whatever I gave you."
"…I did."
"C'mon. Take it for me."
Another long, slow push and your inner muscles clutching at every ridge and vein along his shaft.
His staple-stitched hand left your hip and traveled up, slid around to the curve of your ass cheek and his fingers spread wide as he palmed your whole right cheek perfectly in his big hand.
"Mine," he heard himself say very quietly, almost to himself.
He could feel the heat of your bare ass through the hole, wet seal of you sucking the rest of him in as he gave a final grinding push and his pelvis bumped up against the plywood, the entire thing of him lodged inside you, head of his cock pressed up against your prostate.
You were sobbing on the other side of the wall from overflow.
"Ethan— I'm gonna—"
"Don't come yet, baby. We've got a long time to go. He needs the sensor reading for a while.” He whispered the last part to you. “We're gonna take our time and make it nice, okay?"
"…Okay." A high, helpless whine.
He held there buried in you for a full minute of not moving and letting his own body remember how to think.
Up on the rafters, the tube nearest the apex of the roof had the mold inside shifting and settling lower, the timer's mechanism doing whatever it was doing.
He glanced up, the junction box was twelve feet up. He'd need a clear shot or a clear knife angle.
The sensor was hot and Ethan just had to put up his best performance while he slowly, patiently, set up his real move.
He drew his hips back, drag of his cock leaving indescribable between the way your inner walls clung to him and the cool air of the barn hit his shaft as it emerged.
Pulling out until just the flared head was caught inside your rim and then he pushed back in all the way as he started fucking you.
Long and deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out and than pushing all the way back in, slap of his thighs against the plywood becoming a slow rhythm as he kept his big palm planted on your ass cheek, kneading, squeezing and occasionally giving you a sharp slap that made you yelp and clench around him.
He shifted his angle and tilted his hips down as the next stroke ground the head of his cock right into your prostate again and you came apart in sounds.
Every stroke hit it now consistently and you were just noise on the other side of the wall, a mouth and a hole with a body offering itself up to him. He could feel his own balls drawing tighter.
He very carefully reached his good hand back to the hay bale and closed his fingers around the grip of the pistol, staple-stitched hand staying on your ass to hold the rhythm.
Ethan brought the pistol up, eyes tracing the line of the cord up the post and along the rafter to get on the junction box.
He took aim with one hand and squeezed, shot cracking through the barn as the junction box exploded in a shower of sparks, tubes overhead making a long, wheezing sigh as their internal pressure released harmlessly into the rafters.
The mold inside them sagged, now dead and inert.
Now the only sounds in the barn were the slap of Ethan's hips against the wood and your high, dazed moans.
You hadn't even noticed with how far gone and cock-drunk you were that the gunshots had just blurred into the background of the noise in your own head while taking it, mouth open against the wall as every nerve in your body was screaming.
Ethan dropped the pistol back onto the hay bale and put both hands back to fully fuck you, slow patient strokes that had turned into something harder.
"You're safe." He grunted it into the wood. "We're safe. It's— it's done, I just need to finish, I'm so close."
"Yes—yes, yes, yes, please, please!"
He gave you a dozen more long, deep, brutal strokes and his shaft was throbbing, every vein on him was pulsing in time with his heart as he buried himself to the absolute hilt one last time and he came in long flooding pulses, balls emptying everything they had into you as he felt you clench around him.
Then he felt you come as your whole body locked up, hole spasming around his cock and your own untouched length presumably spilled untouched onto the dirt floor on your side of the wall, all from his cock alone.
He kept pumping, slow, milking the last of it into you, hot trickles down the insides of your thighs.
You whimpered, already half-unconscious by the sound of it while coming down hard.
Very slowly, he eased his softening cock out of you and a white runnel followed down the cleft of your ass.
He tucked himself away and buttoned his fly, picking up the pistol and walking around the partition
You were strapped into a wooden frame, hands bound to a crossbeam above your head and hood pulled low over your face, bare from the waist down and trembling.
He undid the straps, pulling the hood off gently and your eyes blinked open, wide and dilated.
"Hi," he said.
"…Hi."
"It's done, the timer's off. We're okay."
A long pause while you tried to make the words make sense in your fucked-stupid head.
"You shot the timer during?" Your voice was hoarse.
"Couldn't risk him possibly noticing.” He couldn't help the small, lopsided and exhausted smile. "Multitasked."
You stared at him before starting to laugh and he gathered you up against his chest, kissing the top of your sweat-damp head as he held you tighter.
𝒞𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓈 ℛℯ𝒹𝒻𝒾ℯ𝓁𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒫𝒾ℯ𝓇𝓈 𝒩𝒾𝓋𝒶𝓃𝓈
You couldn't see your own body, that was the first thing your brain kept tripping over between the heavy pounding at your other end and the wet rasp of your own breath in your ear.
From the chin up you were free and had a view of half a collapsed corridor and the long shadowed mouth of the tunnel the woman in blue had vanished down hours ago.
From the chin down you were buried, slab had come down at an angle and that was the only reason you were still breathing with the way it had pinned you front-down with your face turned out and your chin caught right at the edge so your mouth and nose hung free in open air.
Your hips angled up against the back side of the rubble in a way that put your ass at exactly the height of a man on his knees.
Carla had known what she was doing when she pulled the trigger on that grappling line.
You'd been following her for three hours.
Following was a generous term.
Chasing her.
She'd dropped half a ceiling on you and walked off.
Chris had found you later.
How long ago you didn't know.
Time had stopped meaning anything a while ago. You knew it had been long enough for him to comm for the rest of his men and long enough for him to figure out he could not, on his own, lift the slab off you.
It had been long enough for him to come around behind you, take stock of the angle of your hips and the way your tac pants had been half-stripped down off your ass by the friction of the fall and make a decision.
An hour? More?
You'd lost count of how many times you'd come.
The first one had been an accident, he'd been getting you ready, two big rough fingers working slow and patient inside you while his other hand spread you open and somewhere in the second slow drag of his knuckles against your inner wall you'd come on his hand without warning, drool sliding out of the corner of your mouth onto the concrete in front of your face.
He'd huffed a low laugh.
"Yeah," he'd said. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
Then he'd pushed in.
He was big, the man was a fucking mountain you'd known for six years of field decon tents enough times that the size of him was not, in theory, a surprise, but theory and the thing itself were two different categories of knowledge.
So thick the stretch of it made you sob into the concrete the first time he bottomed out and assaulted your prostate, causing your vision to white out.
The thing itself, four orgasms ago, had not slowed down and set a deep merciless pace that kept rocking your trapped body forward against the slab with every thrust.
There was a puddle of drool and tears under your face now.
Behind and inside you, Chris was fucking you steadily and didn't stop.
"That's six," he said, somewhere behind the slab and he sounded barely winded.
"Mm." Another slow heavy thrust, full length of him dragging out and sinking back in, your hips jolting forward against the slab and your forehead bumping the concrete. "You wanted my attention, you got it."
His big palm came down across your bare ass and you flinched, whole pinned length of you twitching, every time your ass clenched too tight around him in a way he read as ‘trying to rush him’, he'd slap you and growl “patience” and slow back down to that same merciless grind.
"You wanna tell me," another stroke, "what the hell," another, "you thought you were doing," another, "going off comms?"
"Captain—"
"Don’t captain me from down there."
Another deeper stroke.
"Three hours, soldier. No check-ins or location pings. I had Piers running circles in the east wing looking for your body parts."
"I—I was tracking…fuck! I was tracking the—"
"I know what you were tracking." His voice didn't rise. It just got harder, the way concrete gets harder when it sets. "You were tracking Ada Wong. ‘Possible sighting, pursuing.’ You know what pursuing doesn't mean? Going dark for three hours and letting yourself get buried under a building."
Now a harsher slap came.
"I am not losing you because you got cute and went off-script chasing a coat."
"I'm— sir, I'm sorry, I'm—"
"Sorry's after." Another stroke, grind of his pelvis against your ass had become its own slow drumbeat, slap of skin behind you rhythmic. "Right now I need you to learn something. You hearing me?"
"Y-yes—"
"Good." His hand came down on the small of your back where it stuck out from under the slab and he pressed, anchoring you.
He picked up his pace, grinding his hips tighter, finding the angle that put the thick head of him directly across the swollen knot of your prostate and started rocking into you in shorter, harder strokes.
You sobbed into the puddle of your own drool, hips trying to jerk forward and couldn't as your whole body was being wrung out from the inside by a man who outweighed you by ninety pounds at minimum and you couldn't even arch your back.
Coming from his cock for the seventh time with a long high broken whine, your own dick spurting helplessly into the small white lake you'd been adding to for the better part of an hour, ass clamping so tight around Chris that he grunted above you and held still for a beat to ride it out.
You were trying to breath with Chris balls-deep in your ass that footsteps came running up the corridor from the east, cadence of a man who had been sprinting for a long time and was running on fumes and adrenaline.
"Captain?!"
"In here," Chris called back, easy as anything, without pulling out of you and there was a deep wish to die that bloomed in your conscience. "Slow down Piers, he’s stable."
The footsteps slowed and stopped about ten feet from your head, you knew the exact moment Piers got the picture because he made a small sharp sound in the back of his throat.
"…Captain."
"Nivans."
"Captain, what the fu—"
"He's pinned." Chris's voice was perfectly level, another slow grinding thrust into your ass and your forehead almost bumped concrete. "Slab came down on the column and I can't lift it on my own. You got eyes on the rest of the team?"
"Th-they're— they're fifteen out, sir, they had to reroute around the—"
"Fifteen minutes." A grunt another stroke. "Yeah, that tracks."
"Sir."
"Piers."
A long beat of silence as your glassy eyes slowly fixed on Piers’ face, fatigues in his face with his rifle slung.
Most loyal man ever to Chris Redfield, standing in a half-collapsed corridor watching his captain railing you into a slab.
"…Is he okay?"
"Yeah," Chris said. "Aren't you, soldier?"
"Yes sir," you got out into the puddle, gaze lowering again on the ground below in shame and aroused.
"He’s been a little distracted lately." Another slow thrust. "Going off comms and chasing leads without backup. Thought I'd take the opportunity to remind him about chain of command."
Another long silence from Piers before you'd hear footsteps again and stopped in front of you.
You saw his boots now, standard combat boots, scuffed, laced tight and planted shoulder-width apart on the concrete about two feet from your face and he crouched, handsome and sharp face now into your field of view.
Intense hazel eyes from someone who knew you had been quietly infatuated with Chris for about three years and now here you were with your ass being slowly destroyed by the captain.
He smoothed your hair back while behind the slab, Chris started moving slower this time.
"He's right, you know," Piers said quietly. "You can’t disobey orders from the captain."
"I know. We'll talk about it later. Right now I want you to focus." He brushed his thumb across your cheekbone.
Chris had picked up the pace again behind you and Piers watched the way pleasure rolled through your face and broke up all attempts of translating thoughts into coherent words and his jaw tightened.
His other hand came up to start unbuckling his belt.
"Captain," Piers said without taking his eyes off your face, "permission to give the soldier something to focus on, sir."
A grunt from behind the slab. "Granted, Nivans."
Piers's belt came open with a small click, followed by the rasp of his fly. He kept his eyes on you the whole time and you opened your mouth, making Piers's breath hitched.
He took himself out of his fatigues with his free hand and guided himself forward, laying the head of his cock against your bottom lip, so hot and hard, wet at the tip from witnessing his captain obliterate your ass.
Salt-bitter taste of it spreading on your tongue the second he made contact and let you have it, holding the base of himself steady and waiting for you to lean forward into him.
When you tilted your chin out and took the head of him into your mouth, closing your lips around the flare of him, Piers's whole body shuddered above you, hand fisting suddenly in your hair.
"Fuck!" He breathed.
"That's it," Chris said from behind the slab, timing his next thrust to push you forward onto Piers's cock and you sank down another inch on Piers with the force from it and said soldier groaned through his teeth.
Between Chris's slow heavy grinding strokes in your ass and the way each one pushed your face forward onto Piers's cock, along the way Piers had begun to rock his hips in shallow counter-strokes that fed himself a little deeper into your mouth every time you came forward, you found a rhythm.
It didn't require thinking, your body was being used at both ends by two men who knew how to work in coordinated formations like you were another tactical operation.
Chris thrust, you moved forward and Piers slid deeper into your mouth.
"Look at him," Piers breathed.
"I been looking at him for an hour, soldier."
"Captain!"
Piers's hand cradled the back of your skull when hearing your words and he let Chris's rhythm do the work, holding you there with his cock sliding in and out of your mouth.
"Easy on his throat, Piers. He’s been working hard."
You came again without warning, the way they all had been now and your body had given up on having control of its own orgasms about three back, ass clamping down hard around Chris, mouth slack and open around Piers while your own dick was spurting another helpless little contribution to the lake under.
Chris grunted while Piers swore softly and pulled back just enough that he didn't choke you while you spasmed, easing back in once your jaw remembered how to work.
You made a noise around Piers's cock that was meant to be ‘yes please’ and it came out as a wet hum. It vibrated up the length of him and Piers's whole body jerked.
"Fuck!" Piers came with a long shuddering groan through his teeth, hand tight in your hair, cock pulsing hot down your throat in spurt after spurt and the sheer volume of it told you exactly how long he'd been wanting this and how much of it had been bottled up.
Swallowing because there was nowhere else for it to go and your throat worked around him.
When he was empty he pulled back slowly, head of him slipping out of your mouth with a long string of spit that connected you to him until it broke and fell.
Hair stuck to his forehead, flushed face looking at your forehead while you stayed slack-mouthed, still being rocked forward and back by Chris's steady rhythm.
Piers held your face in his hands and looked back.
"Tell him," Chris said, "what you're gonna do better from now on."
You looked at Piers’s steady eyes on yours and the shame of it should have killed you.
“I'm gonna check in on comms—"
"Every," Chris said.
"Every single time—"
"Good, what else."
"I'm not—ah— I'm not gonna pursue without backup."
"And?"
"I'm gonna listen!"
“Good.” His voice was strained now, deep slow grind of his hips starting to come apart into shorter harder jabs. "Good. You hear that, Piers?"
"I heard him, sir." Piers's thumbs stroked your cheekbones as he looked into your face.
"Then we're done teaching."
Chris came, hips driving flush against your ass and stayed there, grinding deep as you felt him pulse inside you in long heavy throbs that just kept going, letting out one low controlled breath through his teeth, big hand on the slab above your body as his weight settled forward against it.
"Five out," came a crackle from Chris's comm.
"Copy," Chris said, voice already back to normal as you felt his pants zipping behind the slab, rasp of fabric and click of a belt buckle. "Take the long way around. We're gonna need to brace the slab before we lift."
"Copy, captain."
Chris came around the slab, big shoulders with fatigues neatly back in order, face perfectly composed except for the slight flush high on his cheekbones and dampness at his hairline.
"How we doin'," he said.
"…Tired, captain," you whispered.
"I bet."
𝒞𝒶𝓇𝓁ℴ𝓈 𝒪𝓁𝒾𝓋ℯ𝒾𝓇𝒶
Currently stuck under half a ceiling in the bowels of Raccoon General Hospital with your rifle out of reach and radio crackling somewhere above your head.
Let's back up.
The hospital had gone bad really bad like everything in this city, bow overflowed with zombies from every corner.
You and Carlos had been trying to clear a path back to the staff stairwell, his rifle chewing through magazines and muzzle flash lighting up the hallway in stuttering orange pulses while you'd been on his six with your sidearm doing cleanup on anything that got past him.
You'd burned through a magazine and a half doing that and come out of the hallway into the records room with maybe seven rounds left between your sidearm and your spare, splitting off to look for anything to help against the army of undead while he held the door.
The records room had a maintenance access panel that opened on a low crawl tunnel running under the floor and about fifteen feet down the tunnel inside a case sat a hard-shell weapons open, on its side, contents spilled out across the concrete.
A Lightning Hawk, long barrel that could delete head and shoulders of anything.
The tunnel was tight, maybe two and a half feet high, three feet wide and you'd hooked your rifle sling over your shoulder so the weapon trailed behind instead of catching on the lip while starting to crawl.
You'd made it about ten feet when the ceiling had decided it was done, face now pressed against cool concrete and your ass in the air along your dignity in some other zip code.
Your shoulder had bumped a support beam on the way past and the whole section of ceiling about six feet in front of where you'd been had given up its career as a ceiling and become, effectively, a slab of fallen concrete sitting on top of your back.
It had landed on your tac vest, that was the saving grace with your gear taking the weight instead of crushing your spine.
You also could not, however, move.
Tried to push up for about ten minutes or crawl forward and simply couldn't, hips caught at an angle where the slab pinned the back of your vest to the floor and your ass was wedged up against the underside of the rubble at exactly the wrong angle.
Tried to wriggle backward and it worked the worst of all, because your tac belt had snagged on something on the way down and now any backward motion just yanked your pants further down your hips.
Your ass was bare to the open air of the tunnel and you could not, for any amount of leverage your arms were giving you, get your pants back up.
You'd been working on a plan of using your sidearm to shoot the support strut to your left, which you thought might, possibly, redistribute the weight of the slab off your hips enough to let you wriggle forward.
"Tell me my eyes are lyin' to me right now."
You closed your eyes.
"Carlos."
"'Cause from where I'm standing, my eyes are tellin' me that my partner got his ass stuck in a hole and I gotta be honest with you, parceiro, I was hopin' for a better answer than that."
His voice was getting closer while he crouched now, moving up the tunnel toward you and you could hear his gear shifting. "I’m been poppin’ zombies’ head with my rifle and you decide to play ostrich?"
"I'm not playing ostrich! I’m fucking stuck. Look, six feet in front of me, on the ground."
A pause as Carlos's boots stopped scuffing forward and you heard him shift his weight, going quiet, looking down the tunnel past you to spot the weapon.
"…Caralho."
"Yeah." A long low whistle.
"Okay. Okay, fine. I take back the ostrich thing. Mostly, like sixty percent of the ostrich thing."
"Thank you."
"That's still a lot of ostrich, just so we're clear."
You heard him drop, shift of his gear along a small grunt as one knee went down behind you. He was kneeling now right behind you.
He didn't say anything for a beat.
Then his voice came, lower:
"Now, you wanna explain to me why your bunda is hangin' out the back of your pants, parceiro? Not complaining."
"Belt got snagged when the ceiling came down. I can't—" you tried again, just to demonstrate, small hopeless wiggle of your hips that did absolutely nothing except waggle your bare ass at him in a way that made you immediately regret it, "—I can't get 'em back up, my arms can't reach—"
"Mm. Yeah I see that."
A pause.
"Y'know," he said, "you got yourself in a real interessante position here and I'm thinkin' to myself, Carlos, meu amigo, you been workin' real hard upstairs. Your shoulder hurts from the recoil and here is your partner presentin' to you like a—"
"Carlos."
"—como uma oferenda, okay?"
"I am not a thank-you note."
"You sure look like one."
His hand landed on your ass, heavy and warm, calluses across the knuckles from a decade of rifles and ropes, spread of that hand across one of your bare cheeks covered nearly all of it and squeezed.
"Mm. Look at this ass stuck down here in the dark with no one to appreciate it but me."
"Carlos, are you— now? Like this?"
"Why not?"
"There are zombies upstairs."
"Door's locked on my way down, heard you yelpin' on the radio so I came lookin'."
"I wasn't yelping—"
His hand kept moving almost possessively down the curve of your ass, across the meat of your thigh where it disappeared under the slab, back up.
"So," he said simply. "You up for this or what? 'Cause I gotta tell you. I'm lookin' at what's in front of me right now and I'm motivated."
"Carlos..:"
"Just say the word. Yes or no. I ain't gonna be weird about it, tá?"
You were quiet for about three seconds.
"…that magnum's still down there."
Carlos laughed and his hand slapped your ass, almost playful.
"That a yes, parceiro?"
"…That's a yes."
You heard him work his belt, the fly went and the rasp of his fatigue pants down his hips. You couldn't see it but your imagination filled in the gaps with details not helping your blood pressure.
"Lemme see what we're workin' with," he muttered to himself, both hands spreading you, big thumbs dragging across the seam and you felt the breeze of the basement on parts of you that had not, in your professional life, ever been exposed to the breeze of a basement.
"Hm. Okay. You ain't been broken in for a while, né?"
"Jesus, Carlos!"
"What. I'm bein' polite."
You heard him spit and felt it land on you, thumb rubbing it down into you in slow circles.
"There's lube in my belt pouch," you got out.
"Oh? Olha só. My man came prepared."
"It's for gear maintenance Carlos."
"Yeah, sure, where's the pouch."
"Left side, belt. Second pouch back."
He found it as you heard the click of the pouch unsnapping, rummage and small grunt of triumph when he came up with the little foil packet. You heard him tear it open with his teeth, squeezing it onto his fingers and rubbing them together to warm it.
One slick fingertip circling your rim in slow easy passes and only when he felt you breathe out and ease did he press in.
"There you go, Calminho."
"Carlos, you don't have to. I'm not made of glass.”
"Yeah, but I am big and I ain't tryin' to wreck you on the floor of a hospital, tá? So we go slow."
"How big."
A small dry laugh.
"I'm not gonna stand here in a duct measurin' my dick for you. Just open up."
His finger sank deeper to the second knuckle and held it there, letting you breathe around it before starting easing it in and out in careful drags, hand still on your ass, big palm splayed out across one cheek holding you steady.
"Y'know," he said conversationally, as if his finger weren't currently buried inside you, "I been thinkin' about this for a while."
"Yeah?"
"Mm-hm. Truck rides, you fall asleep in the passenger seat sometimes with your head against the window. I look over and I think to myself ‘that right there is a problem.’"
"A problem."
"Yeah 'cause I'm tryin' to drive and keep my eyes on the road."
He'd added a second finger while he was talking and you felt the stretch open up around him.
You sucked in a breath against the concrete.
“Relaxa pra mim."
"I think we're… Yeah. I gotta tell you. Sittin' here lookin' at you all spread out makes me feel like a lucky man tonight."
"Carlos please…"
"Please what."
"Please get on with it!"
You heard him slick himself, low grunt he made when he gripped his own length and you heard the change in his breathing, slow exhale as he worked himself slick.
Then the head of him pressed against you and you realized Carlos had not been fucking around about the size thing.
Blunt head of him at your entrance thick, sheer girth of him stretching you out at the rim before you'd taken so much as the tip.
"…Ah—Carlos!"
"I do not joke about things like this."
He pressed in with one hand on your hip and one hand on the small of your back where it stuck out from under the slab and he eased inch by careful inch.
God, he kept going. You'd thought you had the measure of him from the first stretch at the rim but he was still pushing in, opening up around him and the burn-stretch of him kept getting deeper.
He bottomed out and you felt his hips meet your ass, rough fabric of his unbuttoned fatigue pants brushing the backs of your thighs, pelvis flush against you as he held there a good long minute, letting you breathe and get used to it, heavy length of him sinking deep and the slow grind of his pulse against your inner walls.
"Olha pra você." His voice was rougher now, easygoing teasing edge stripped down a notch.
His big palm slid up your back where it stuck out from the slab and back down to your ass as he squeezed.
Then he started moving, full length of him dragging in long unhurried strokes.
He angled his hips and the thick head of him dragged directly across your prostate on the next slow stroke, making you see white behind your eyes.
"There it is. Found it." Pleased. “Keep makin' that noise for me.“
He fucked you on that angle without stopping, heavy stroke nailing the spot inside you that turned your bones to water and you were drooling onto the concrete, cock hanging hard and untouched between your legs leaking down to the floor,.
"You gonna come for me? Without me touchin' your pau?"
"Yes!" You came harder than the situation seemed to warrant, your whole pinned body going taut and your ass clamping down around Carlos's cock and your dick spurting helplessly onto the concrete underneath you in long pulses you couldn't control.
Carlos groaned above you and held his hips flush against your ass, grinding in deep through it, riding you out, pulse of you milking him in a way that almost broke his rhythm.
"Inside?"
"Carlos, I swear to god…"
"Just askin'! I am being polite!"
"Inside. Yes. Inside, please!"
"Tá bom, parceiro. Tá bom."
He picked up the pace, slow patient grind breaking into something harder and faster, slap of his hips against your ass echoing off the concrete walls of the tunnel in wet rhythmic cracks, small grunt he made on every thrust getting tighter and shorter as he climbed.
With a long ragged groan through his teeth he came, hips jamming flush against your ass and grinding deep, thick pulse of him spilling inside you in spurt after spurt while grip on your hip tightened to the point of bruising.
"That was… give me a minute. I'm seein' colors."
"Take your minute."
He did while staying buried in you for it, big palm rubbing slow soothing circles on the small of your back, breath gradually evening out behind you.
Softening slowly inside you while nestled inside the slick mess of him already starting to leak down the inside of your thigh.
Eventually he eased out.
"Hold on." He fished around in his own pouches, came up with a field cloth and you felt him cleaning you up, down your thighs and the small ‘tsk’ he made when he saw how much of him was leaking out.
"Made a mess of you, parceiro."
"…Yeah."
"You gonna be able to walk?"
"…Give me a second."
"Take two."
He lay there next to you in the tunnel while humming two notes and his hand found yours in the dark, squeezing.
You'd be okay for the next stretch.
Note: Curious to know which one was your favorite <3
Wild caught clownfish will be like ‘hm you see, the anemone you got me is a slightly different color and tentacle width than the one I had back home, so I will not begin hosting it. I’ll be a sort of wandering ronin for the rest of my days.’ And then a captive bred clownfish will be like ‘ok so I have this curved rock I found and I just sit above it and it take care of me 👍’
This was on a post discussing shit parents doing a new satanic panic. Valid points all around but. But I’m crying. This is the funniest lie ever, no parody I could come up with this will be this funny. Nonbinary Julius Cesar
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