📆 KINKTOBER 2025 — DAY 27
⚡ Title: Shock Value
📚 Genre: Smut | Hair Pulling | Gangbang | Rough Sex | Exhibitionism | Consent Play
🎮 Fandom: Fairy Tail
👥 Pairing: Laxus Dreyar × Female Reader (+ Guild Members)
📜 Summary:
It began as a whim—some drunk guild bet, a dare scrawled in jest. You weren’t supposed to care. But Laxus noticed the challenge beside your name. Now you’re on your knees in the guild hall, wrists bound, hair tugged hard, heat and humiliation swirling as the others circle. When Laxus finally claims you, it’s not about the bet anymore—it’s about dominance, submission, and proving who you belong to.
SMUT WARNING! READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!
It started as a drunken guild bet—some half-serious challenge scribbled between bounty postings, a dare buried beneath nonsense about drinking contests and sparring rematches. You weren’t even supposed to notice it. It was a joke, something meant to get laughs over mugs of beer and spilled stew.
But Laxus noticed.
Something in him went still. Not anger. Not quite. It was darker—possessiveness coiled with pride, tempered by the glint of something territorial in his eyes. It wasn’t about the bet. It was about you. And when he saw your name beside the dare—Let [Y/N] take on the Thunder God Tribe, bet she can’t last five minutes—he didn’t laugh.
He just smirked. And made sure the training hall was cleared.
Now you're on your knees in the middle of the floor, the stone cool beneath your bare skin, wrists bound tight behind your back with a silk sash someone “borrowed” from Erza’s closet. Your arms ache, your thighs tremble, but it’s the grip on your scalp that keeps you still. Laxus stands behind you, one thick hand buried in your hair, holding you in place like a trophy he’s showing off.
He doesn’t like to share. He’s made that very clear.
But when it’s his idea—when he’s the one in charge—everything becomes fair game.
The rest of the boys are circling now. Freed’s shirt is already gone, abs glistening with sweat. Bickslow’s tongue flicks over his lip, pupils blown wide as he eyes the way you writhe under Laxus’s grip. Even Evergreen’s watching from the shadows, arms crossed and eyes sharp—not joining, but not stopping it either. There’s something amused in her gaze, like she’s taking mental notes, enjoying the spectacle in her own quiet, dangerous way, smirking like she knows how this ends.
The bet doesn’t matter anymore. This is about Laxus proving a point.
He leans down, breath hot at your ear.
“Five minutes?” he growls. “Let’s see how many times you can come in ten.”
His hand yanks your head back as he forces your gaze up—past his smirk, past the others unbuckling their belts—to the guild crest above the door. It’s the only thing you’re allowed to focus on as Laxus shoves his fingers past your lips, curling them against your tongue until you gag.
“That’s it,” he mutters. “Let ‘em hear how pretty you sound when you choke.”
What follows is a blur of teeth and skin and sound. Hands roam your body—rough, eager. Fingers tease your nipples, twist them. A palm strikes your ass, the sting blooming instantly, making you jolt forward. Someone’s cock rubs against your cheek. Another slaps against your thigh.
And Laxus? He never lets go of your hair.
Every time you squirm too much, his fist tightens. Every moan earns a rough tug. His voice is a constant in your ear—taunting, praising, commanding.
“You wanted this.”
“Don’t pretend you’re not soaked.”
“Look how greedy that cunt is.”
They take turns using your mouth, your pussy, your ass—each moment blurring into the next in a dizzying flood of sensation. One thrusts deep while another strokes your cheek, another tugs at your hips with bruising force. It’s not just use—it’s rhythm, contrast, a dance of dominance that leaves your body shaking and your mind unmoored. The pressure, the fullness, the stretch—you feel everything, everywhere, all at once—each thrust more punishing than the last. They fuck you like a toy passed between brothers, laughing, growling, praising you for how well you take it. It’s filthy. Messy. Overwhelming. Lube and spit and cum slick every inch of your body.
And through it all, Laxus watches.
He only joins in once you’re wrecked—gagged, drooling, and reduced to something raw and pliant. When he finally steps in, it’s not with haste but with a slow, deliberate dominance that says you’re his to finish. His eyes flick down over your body—not with sympathy, but with the satisfaction of a predator knowing the prey is exactly where it should be. Then, and only then, does he kneel behind you, his cock already hard, the head pressed between your cheeks.
“Mine now,” he grunts, and the stretch burns.
You sob, but your hips roll back anyway.
He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head up again, and snarls against your ear.
“Say it. Say who you belong to.”
And you do.
Over and over, until the others are laughing, until Laxus is groaning and emptying inside you, until the air smells like sweat and sex and thunder magic crackling through the floor.
By the end, your throat’s raw. Your legs won’t hold you. You collapse in a trembling mess across his lap, his arms the only thing keeping you from sliding onto the floor.
He kisses your temple. Rough. Possessive.
And when someone dares ask if you lost the bet—
Laxus chuckles darkly. “She didn’t lose.”
He strokes your thigh, voice dropping into something low and dangerous.
“She just learned who she belongs to—just like he told her from the beginning. Just like she screamed through the gag while he made her prove it.”
📆 KINKTOBER 2025 — DAY 25
⚙️ Title: Protocol: Obedience
📚 Genre: Dark Erotica | Double Penetration | Impact Play | Stocks & Restraint | Psychological Power Play
🎮 Fandom: Resident Evil
👤 Pairing: H.U.N.K. × Female Reader
📝 Summary:
In the deepest vaults of the Umbrella Corporation black site, you learn that there are no safe words—only cold, precise protocols. Your failure on a mission wasn’t logged—it was punished. Bound in steel stocks, you endure strap‑cracks, clinical plugs, and the harsh rhythm of his cock inside you. No softness. No mercy. Just procedure. Then his voice breaks the silence: “Good soldier.” You realise he meant you.
SMUT WARNING! READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!
There are no safe words in Umbrella’s black sites—only protocols. You learned that the hard way.
One mistake. That’s all it took. A single botched line of code during the extraction sequence. The delay cost the team a man—maybe two—and compromised the integrity of the mission. But H.U.N.K. doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t show anger. He doesn’t need to. You see it in the precision of his stride, in the way he locks eyes with you beneath the blackened visor. There’s no forgiveness in that mask. No expression. Just mission parameters—data, discipline... and you. The outlier. The anomaly he’s been assigned to correct.
Instead of logging the error in your personnel file, he gestures. Silent. Orders without words. You follow, heart pounding, every step echoing off sterile tile and steel. Down through reinforced corridors, deeper into Umbrella’s restricted sectors, past labs and holding rooms until the air turns cold and dry.
You’ve never been to the training cell below Sublevel Six. It hums with sterility, the kind of space never meant for observation—only execution. It’s nearly soundproofed. Sealed. Lit only by strips of flickering white above the chamber’s center—where the pillory waits like an altar of correction.
Steel stocks. Electro-locks. Bolted to a concrete platform like an execution stage.
H.U.N.K. moves behind you. The click of his gloves is almost soothing in its regularity. He presses a palm to your back, pushes you toward the frame, and without a word, binds you in. Chin down. Arms through. Legs parted and secured at the base. The cold bites instantly at your skin.
You can’t see him. You can only feel the weight of his presence behind you.
“You know the protocol for disobedience,” his modulated voice murmurs, low and unfeeling. “This is not personal. This is correction.”
The click of a latch. The drag of reinforced leather against your skin. Then—
CRACK.
You flinch forward. Not from pain, but the sheer sound—like a whip against glass. Your knees buckle within the brace.
“One. Thank you, sir.”
Again. This time it bites. Across the lower curve of your ass. Fire blooms in your spine.
“Two. Thank you, sir.”
He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t check in. Just strikes.
Three. Four. Five. Each one harder, placed with exact precision—beneath the swell of your ass, the top of your thighs, across the base of your spine. You count, voice trembling, tears already burning the corners of your eyes. He never speaks. Doesn’t need to. Every command is implied.
By ten, your thighs are slick, trembling. By fifteen, your cunt clenches around nothing, raw with need. The air stinks of sweat and restraint. Still, he does not stop.
At twenty, he tosses the strap aside.
Gloved fingers drag over your abused skin, testing. You flinch at every brush. Your body is trembling so hard the steel shakes around you. Then—cool gel, clinical, dispensed from a tube. He spreads it without warning, slick between your cheeks, across your hole.
Then a second hand joins the first—between your thighs. Two fingers inside you, curled and unforgiving. You writhe, trying not to cry out, but the gag he affixes next makes it moot. Leather. Strapped in tight. A ball to silence you.
“Too loud,” he says. “Protocol requires silence.”
Then the plug. Huge. Unrelenting. Cold.
He doesn’t stretch you. Doesn’t prepare you. Just pushes until your body gives. The plug seats deep, wide enough to burn, heavy enough that you feel it settle behind your cunt like a second heartbeat, thudding in time with your pulse.
And then he fucks you. Without warning, his cock—hard, hot, brutal—presses into your dripping cunt. The stretch is overwhelming. Too full. Plugged. Gagged. Pinned.
He fucks you like a drill. No praise. No name. Just breath and thrust and grip. His hands clamp your hips like restraints. His rhythm is relentless—brutal, deep, calibrated for devastation.
You scream around the gag. Muffled. Useless.
Tears stream freely now. Every nerve alight. His cock slams into you again and again, slapping your ass, shaking the entire pillory. Your body is drenched in sweat. Your pussy flutters, overstimulated and helpless. Your ass burns from the plug, from the strikes, from the weight of him.
You come without permission—ripped from you in spasms, helpless and raw. The climax tears through you, violent, consuming.
Then again. And again. Your vision whites out. Your body convulses. The gag catches your cries. Your breath turns ragged, shallow. Your mind teeters.
He fucks you through it. Until your limbs stop responding. Until you can no longer sob—only shake.
Then he comes. No grunt. No shout. Just the hard, final press of his body as he spills deep inside you.
He pulls out slow. Deliberate. Letting you feel every inch slide from your ruined hole.
Then silence. He removes the gag. The straps. The plug. One by one. His gloves are stained. Your thighs are soaked. He crouches. Lifts your chin with a finger.
“Good soldier,” he says.
Then he’s gone. His footsteps fade, swallowed by the cold. You’re left in silence—raw, open, trembling in the dark. The echo of the pillory creaks faintly in your ears. Your pulse pounds in your throat.
