I love your recent RE fics and I was wondering if I could request Victor Gideon X reader smut with mild cumflation? 👉👈✨
ʕ⊙ω⊙ʔ THIS IS ACTUALLY ONE OF THEM BIG BRAIN REQUESTS! Doctor Gideon is the one hella big boi so ofc he's prone to certain... FLUID VOLUME.
This one is a bit triggering due to the nature of our good doctor so be warned!
Enjoy!
ʕᵔᴥᵔʔ
The laboratory is dark - damp, cold, smelling of formaldehyde and rot and something else, something sweet and metallic and alive. The walls are lined with jars, with specimens, with things that should not exist. And you shouldn’t be here. But you can’t really remember why. Your mind is fuzzy and warm and your body is humming with strange, almost unnatural excitement. The light - green and flickering, casted shadows that moved when they shouldn't.
Someone entered a room – someone big, imposing, more massive than any men you’ve ever met. His body fills the room, blocks the light, presses against you from above. His skin is pale and mottled, stretched over bizarre proportions, marked with scars and stitches and the evidence of a dozen experiments gone wrong. Or maybe right. But his voice - His voice is gentle. Soft. Low. Warm in a way that does not match his face, his body, the way his hands pin you to the table though you found yourself not wanting to move. Doctor Victor Gideon is tall, easily seven feet, maybe more - and wide, thick, his shoulders blocking the light above you. His chest a barrel, his belly a soft curve beneath an opened dirty coat that used to be white. His arms are heavy with muscle and something else, something dense and wrong and pulsing beneath the skin. And he is holding you down with an ease that matched the gentleness as he started to touch you.
"Shh," he murmurs, his fingers spread across your throat, pressing gently, feeling your pulse flutter beneath his palm.
"Shh, little one. Don't fight. You'll only hurt yourself."
You try to speak - to plead, to beg, to scream - but his hand tightens, just slightly, just enough to cut off your air, to remind you of your place.
"I know," he breathes and his breath is foul, filling your lungs, your mind, your entire being.
"I know you're frightened. But this is necessary. This is what you were brought here for."
His other hand drops to your waist and finds the waistband of your trousers. Doctor Gideon pulls them down - slowly, deliberately, watching your face as he exposes your hips, your thighs, the soft curls between your legs.
"Beautiful," he whispers. "So beautiful. So soft. So ready."
You whimper in protest and your hips try to twist away, but his weight holds you still, his body pressing you flat against the cold metal of the examination table.
"Please," you gasp. "Please, don't—I can't—you're too big—"
"I know," he says again, and there is almost sadness in his voice, almost tenderness.
"But you'll stretch. You'll take me. You have no choice."
His fingers find your entrance, press inside—one, then two, stretching you open, feeling you clench around him.
"So wet," he observes, clinical, detached. "So ready. You've been thinking about this, haven't you? Lying in your little room, your hand between your legs, imagining what it would feel like to be taken by a monster."
He positions himself between your legs. His cock is huge - thick, long, veined, dripping with pre-cum. The shaft is dark, veined, pulsing with a slow, heavy beat. It curves slightly upward, reaches toward your belly like it knows where it wants to go.
"Look at it," Victor breathes. "Look at what's about to fill you, little one."
You look an your eyes widen
"It won't fit," you whisper.
"It will." His voice is cold and certain.
His cock presses against your entrance, stretches you even before he enters, promising pleasure at the edge of agony.
"Look at me," he commands. His eyes are strange — yellow, unnatural, sick - and they stare into yours with an intensity that makes your heart stop.
"Remember this," he whispers.
"Remember who put you here. Remember who filled you up." He pushes inside. You scream. His hand on your throat tightens, cuts off your air, muffles your scream into a whimper.
"Shh," he says again.
Your body tries to reject him, but his weight holds you still, his hand grips your throat, and he fucks you slowly, inexorably, deeper with each thrust.
"There," he breathes, his voice shaking with restrained need.
"There you go. Taking me so well. So fucking tight."
His forehead presses to yours, his breath is hot and wet against your lips.
"You feel that, little one? Feel me inside you? Feel me stretching you open? This is where you belong. This is what you needed."
Your hands claw at his shoulders, his back, the twisted flesh of his mutated frame. Your nails scrabble against his skin, leave marks, draw dark blood and he doesn't stop. Your eyes water and roll to the back of your head, because you can feel him, filling you up, feel him press against your cervix, stretch it, push past it into your womb.
"So full," you gasp. "So fucking full—"
"Not yet." He pulls back slowly. Thrusts forward harder. "You're not full yet."
He fucks you. Slowly at first. Deeply. Each thrust presses against your womb, stretches it, shapes it around him. His hand on your throat holds you still, keeps you from bucking away from the overwhelming sensation.
"Beg," he growls, exposing his yellow twisted teeth. "Beg me to fill you. Beg me to break you."
But you can’t. You can barely breath, barely think. All you can do is feel, feel, feel. His pace quickens. His thrusts shallow, hard, frantic. His breath huffs against your neck, his teeth scrape your shoulder and for a second you think he might take a bite out of you.
"You're going to come for me," he says. "You're going to come on my cock while I fill you up. You're going to feel my seed flood your womb, swell your belly, mark you as mine."
His thumb presses against your clit. Circles. Presses harder, scratches at it and you shatter. Your body convulses around him, clenching, pulling, milking him deeper. Your scream tears through your throat, muffled by his hand. He follows moments later. His hips stutter. His cock pulses inside you—once, twice, three times—and you feel it.
His seed. Thick. Copious. Hot. It fills you, floods your womb, spills past his cock and drips onto the table as he keeps pumping, keeps pushing, keeps filling you beyond capacity. You look down. Your belly is rounding, tightening, pressing against his belly as he pumps more and more and more into you.
"Look at that," he breathes, his hand sliding down to press against your distended belly, feeling his seed slosh inside you.
"Look at how full you are. Look at what I did to you."
He pulls out slowly, watching as his seed spills from your stretched entrance, drips onto the table, pools beneath you and yet your belly stays round. Heavy. Full.
"Rest," he murmurs, stroking your hair with a gentleness that belies everything else. "Rest, little one. We'll do it again, very, very soon. Next time I'll fill you more."
He smiles.
"And there will be a next time."
