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jack, who can see that you’re overwhelmed & exhausted at the function, calmly and quietly asking you “you feelin a lil dumb, sweetheart?” and when you finally let out the breath you’ve been holding and tearfully nod your head in response, he’s kissing your temple and consoling you “okay baby. get your stuff, we’re goin home.”
✮⋆˙ ryland wants to try something new :: cws. pwp, coercion, teacher/student
“Sto— stop— oh god, don’t—”
It’s a real fight in your head. A part of you wants to keep your legs open and spread your cunt out for him, but the other one wants to dig a hole and live in it out of shame.
You never would’ve guessed this whole tryst would come to this. To you sprawled like a whore on your professor’s desk, in his classroom, without any certainty whether or not the door is closed.
“Do you want to do this or not?” Ryland raises a stubborn brow at you, and you feel heat crawling up to your face. Because now he’s sorta disappointed in you. You’re unsure, and you’re making him feel like you’re not up to play.
“I don’t— I don’t know… it’s scary. What if someone sees?” you whisper, so quietly in fear that someone outside is going to hear.
Because there are people outside. You can see their shadows walking by the foggy glass. There’s no doubt that most of them are going home now, and the chances that one of them will have the idea to consult Ryland one more time before they go isn’t technically low.
“Alright. It seems like you don’t want me to continue,” Ryland says in a monotone voice that makes your heart drop. Even more so when he pulls his fingers away from your cunt, and he wipes them clean on his jeans without a second thought.
So now you’re just lying there, bare and vulnerable, while Ryland goes to pack up his bag. You’re not sure if this is a joke or not. But knowing him…
“Wait,” you call out meekly, and you feel pathetic. Because you can feel the cold air hitting your naked pussy, and you’re still dripping. There are loud footsteps out in the hallway, loud chatters, and yet you’re willing to risk it all if it means not disappointing Ryland. “I’m sorry, come— come back.”
You try to take a hold of his wrist, but the man just slaps your hand away, and you want to sob. You want to sob and bury your face in his chest, tell him that you’re sorry, that you didn’t mean pushing him away like that, making him doubt.
But in times like this, you really struggle to form a thought. It’s rare that Ryland gets pissed with you. Or maybe not with you, because you’ve noticed him being on the edge since morning. Though it seems that you’re only making it worse by acting up.
“Sir, I’m sorry,” you whimper, sitting up straight so you can cling to him, but Ryland is still not looking up. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please touch me. I didn’t mean it, sir, I really didn’t.”
“But you’re scared,” Ryland deadpans, now looking at you over his specs that’s dearly hanging on his nose. “You don’t want me to touch you with all those people around. Don’t you?”
You gulp. You want to answer yes, that you’re scared someone’s going to knock or come in. And you’re going to panic and cry under his desk.
But the look on his face tells you that it’s not the answer he wants to hear.
So instead, you just shake your head and hold his wrist. “I want you to touch me again. I don’t care anymore. Please. Want your fingers in my pussy again, sir, don’t you? Please.”
Finally, the glint in his eyes is back.
And before you know it, Ryland is reaching a hand in between your legs once more, and he’s quick to pinch your clit hard in between his two fingers.
Your legs instinctively shuts closed, trapping his hand with your thighs. And when you open your mouth to scream, your professor uses his other hand to shove his fingers inside your throat. So deep in your throat that you immediately gag.
“There we go,” Ryland coos. “You’re lucky we’re not home. If you deny me again, I have no problem using that nipple clamp on your clit if that’s what it takes to drill the lesson into your head. Am I understood?”
As the question rolls off his tongue, his fingers pinch your clit harder, and you can only groan on his fingers as you try your hardest not to bite him off. So you nod your head as best as you can, and Ryland finally eases up.
“That’s my girl.”
He pulls away his hand from your cunt, and begins unbuckling his belt instead.
a/n: to that one tiktok that says “ryland wouldn’t dirty talk like that,” nobody asked. and also, your mom doesn’t love you.
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Grace fingering you with surgical gloves on and using his biceps to muffle your moans so people wouldnt hear you getting your brain fuck by your favorite scientist
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
“What?”
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”
Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone else’s blood.
Graves’s blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesn’t.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”
“There she is.”
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
“You liked that.” He croons.
You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
“N-no.”
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
“Liar.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
“You should be callin’ me reckless.”
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. “You can’t—”
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
“I can’t what?” He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”
“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”
You can’t.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
“Too far gone to scold me now?”
You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.
And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.
“So am I.”
“Simon—”
“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”
“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”
His eyes flash. “There she is.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
“Try that again.”
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”
“Probably.”
“Price is going to—”
“Already did.”
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
“Read me the riot act.”
Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”
God. You think he’s lost his mind.
“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”
You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”
“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
“And if he talks about you like that again?”
You barely manage the whisper. “What?”
Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
“Leave it.”
Your breath trembles. “Why?”
His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.
Simply thinking about Jack Abbot correcting your posture.
He’s a doctor, so sure it starts there, in the territory of alignment and strain and long-term damage, all the tiny indignities a body absorbs when nobody’s paying proper attention to it.
And he worries about you, of course. Worries about the set of your neck and the rounded drag of your shoulders, about how you curl in on yourself over your charting like the screen might swallow you whole, about how you hunch over your phone texting those ridiculous little emoticons and memes he glances at with visible suspicion.
So he makes an effort to fix it.
A broad hand behind your chair, angling it closer to the desk until your spine has no excuse but the lengthen. Two fingers slipped beneath your chin when you’re bent out of shape around your phone on the couch, tilting your gaze upward until the vertebrae stack properly and the ache in your neck eases. Even in transit — plate to sink, fridge to stove — he stops to cup your shoulders, easing them from your ears with a downward glide of his thumbs.
A silent reward hums through the touch: a silent good girl, there you go.
“Sit up, sweetheart.” “Uncross your legs.” “Laptop higher.” “Relax your jaw.”
He knows he’s a perpetual nuisance, aware he sounds like someone’s dad, can practically hear the eye-roll you swallow every time.
He also knows it embarrasses you, especially at work, where your face goes warm when he corrects you within earshot of other people. And it isn’t that he sets out to make you squirm, though he’d be lying if he said he got nothing out of that quick little fluster he can pull from you with a word, a hand, a look.
It’s just that once he notices you folded in on yourself for too long, something in him firms. His voice drops into that clipped, authoritative register, flipping a switch to brisk certainty and command, and by then it’s already too late to pretend you’re not going to listen.
So when he catches you slouched at the station again, practically kissing the monitor, he doesn’t hesitate.
Steps in behind you. His palm fits against the ridge of your upper back, heat seeping straight through the thin cotton.
“Up.”
You mutter, “I hate you,” eyes never leaving the vitals grid, and Jack takes it as the green light it is.
His thumb glides from back to shoulder to nape. The opposite hand curves under your jaw’s hinge, guiding your head until your spine clicks back to neutral while the entire nurses’ station pretends their screens are riveting.
Public proof that your posture, and maybe the rest of you, answers to Dr. Abbot’s touch far faster than to your own irritation.
“There’s a whole skeleton under all that,” he observes dryly. “Try using it.”
You bat at his hand, a half-hearted slap. “Stop manhandling me at work.”
He ignores that, drops the chair one notch (ignoring your surprised squeak too), angles the monitor to proper eye level, then squares your shoulders with both palms. A measured squeeze follows, equal parts reassurance and warning.
“Better,” he decides. “And if I catch you bent over that phone again, I’m taking it.”
He likes the line of you best when he’s the one arranging it.
You figure that out later, breathless and flushed, forehead buried in his sheets while he kneels behind you, two sure hands repositioning your ass in the air like he’s smoothing kinks from an instrument only he can tune.
“Uh-uh,” he grunts, and you’re too far gone to know what he means until his palm presses between your shoulder blades and eases you down, down, down, your hips staying high as your face sinks into the pillow. “Arch for me — c’mon, deeper bend, don’t cheat your lower back.”
Your breath catches when he palms the dip he’s just created, fingers splaying and then he’s sliding his cock in your folds slow. It earns a pleased mewl from you, angle perfect because he’s engineered it that way.
Every push has a tiny corrective tap — shoulders down, knees wider, perfect girl — until your pussy clenches and drips all over his rigid stomach and he finally lets you break form, hips snapping while his palm settles, triumphant, at the very spot that first straightened you hours ago.
MARIA NOTE hello this is my trying out little blurbs/drabbles bc this random thought rlly evoked something in me... don't know how to feel it ab. it feels naked without my fun graphics but alas! and the tiny text??? what do we think?? yes or no i'm in the middle right now so feel free to share opinions... it looked a little strange as regular but idk i'm lowkey having an existential crisis over this ok bye
You know running is useless. You know hiding is useless. You know I’ll find you between the trees, smiling like I already own the ending, tie you down, and use you until your soaking wet pussy betrays every scared little sound you make.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Times Up. The room is dim. Expensive furniture reduced to shapes in the darkness. The only sound besides your own breathing is a quiet hum from a digital timer mounted on the opposite wall. Red numerals glow in the gloom: 00:59:57.
Just under one hour.
"You're awake." The voice comes from somewhere near the door. You crane your neck, wrists already testing the leather restraints, and watch him step into the faint light. You don't know his face. But you recognize the way his eyes move over your body. Roaming. An inventory assessment.
He's carrying things. Metal glints.
"The rules are simple," he says, approaching the bed. His footsteps are unhurried. "When the timer hits zero, I undo the restraints. The door opens. You leave." He pauses at the edge of the mattress, looking down at you. "One small addition."
Cold metal touches your nipple. You gasp as he fastens the clamp, the bite sharp and immediate, radiating heat straight down to your core. The second clamp follows. You arch involuntarily, straining against the leather.
He produces a vibrator. Sleek. Expensive looking. You watch him lower it between your legs, watch the silicone part your folds and settle against your clit. He turns it on.
"Every time you cum, an hour gets added to the clock."
You look at the timer. You look at yourself. Spread open, clamped, vibrating.
One hour. You can do one hour. You just have to not cum.
He steps back. Settles into a chair at the side of the bed and watches.
You try to focus on the numbers. Try to think about other things. Work emails. Grocery lists. The pattern of shadows on the ceiling.
But the clamps send sharp little signals with every breath. The vibrator hums against flesh that's growing wetter by the minute. You clench your jaw. Breathe through your nose. Don't cum. Don't cum.
He hasn't moved. He's just watching.
Your hips twitch. You didn't tell them to. The pressure is building low in your belly, a warmth that spreads and tightens simultaneously. You're wet enough now that the vibrator glides, hits new angles.
You bite your lip until you taste blood.
The numbers blur. 00:47:23. You've been holding on for twelve minutes. It feels like hours. Your thighs are trembling. Your breath comes in sharp little gasps you can't control.
He knows. You can see it in his stillness. The way he's leaned forward slightly. Waiting.
"No," you whisper. To yourself. To your body. To the orgasm building like a wave you can't outswim.
It hits you anyway. Your back arches off the bed, a sound tears out of your throat that you don't recognize, and you're cumming so hard your vision goes white at the edges. It rolls through you in pulses, each one a betrayal, each one exquisite.
When you can see again, you look at the clock.
01:46:12
"Impressive effort," he says. He's standing now, holding a remote. "Let's try a different setting."
The vibration changes. Pulsing now. It mimics something. A heartbeat. A thrust. Your overstimulated clit throbs in response, too sensitive, too raw, and somehow already building again.
"No... please.." you gasp out, the words weak.
"Please what?" He moves closer. His fingers trail along your inner thigh, impossibly light. "Please make you cum again?" He dips a finger into the wetness pooling between your legs, holds it up so you can see. "You're dripping. Your body knows what it wants."
You shake your head. But your hips are rocking against the vibrator, tiny movements you can't seem to stop.
This time when you cum, you're crying. Tears streaming down your temples into your hair. The clock resets: 02:38:47.
He fucks you for the first time somewhere around hour four.
Slow, at first. Long strokes that let you feel every inch, that build friction to an unbearable degree while the vibrator keeps humming against your clit. You cum on his cock within minutes. The clock adds another hour. He doesn't stop. Doesn't even pause.
He switches to something harder. Brutal. Each thrust punches the air out of your lungs, drives you up the bed until the restraints catch. You cum again. You can't help it. Your body has stopped consulting you. It just responds. Takes. Shatters.
He introduces other things. Hot wax pooling in the hollow of your throat, dripping down between your breasts. Ice traced along your inner thighs until you're shivering and burning at once. His mouth on your cunt, tongue flicking precisely where the vibrator has made you most sensitive, most ruined.
He talks through it the whole way. That's probably the worst part. "You get wetter when you're scared." "That's three in a row. You're getting efficient." "We have so much time now."
The clock climbs. Six hours. Eight. Twelve. You stop being able to track it. The numbers lose meaning. Everything loses meaning except the next wave, the next peak, the next hour added to your sentence.
Somewhere in the blur, you realize you've stopped wanting it to end.
The thought surfaces between orgasms, when you're floating in that shattered space where language doesn't quite work. You should want to escape. You remember wanting that, vaguely, like a dream you had as a child. But the wanting has curdled into something else.
He slows down. You're not sure when. The frantic edge bleeds away, replaced by something almost gentle. The vibrator stops. He removes the clamps. Your nipples throb with the renewed blood flow, a pain that registers as pleasure now. Everything registers as pleasure now.
You blink at the clock. 00:06:43.
Six minutes. After everything. How?
He's undoing the restraints. Your wrists fall free. Your ankles. You can move. You can leave.
The thought sends ice through your veins.
Leave? Leave this room? Leave him? Go back to a world where no one touches you like this, where you're responsible for your own orgasms, where pleasure is something you have to chase instead of something that hunts you down and devours you?
The silence of outside presses against the walls. Empty. Ordinary. Unbearable.
He steps back. Gestures toward the door. "It's almost time."
Your hand moves own between your legs, finding your clit, swollen and slick and excruciatingly sensitive. You rub with clumsy desperation, chasing the build.
"Don't," you hear yourself say. Begging. Sobbing. "Don't make me leave. Please. I need to cum. I need more time."
He goes still. Watching you fuck yourself on his bed, desperate to add another hour to your captivity. The pressure is building fast, your ruined body trained now, eager.
"Let me stay. I'll be good. I'll cum as many times as you want. Just don't make me go."
Four minutes on the clock.
Your fingers work faster. You're so close. So close to another hour in this room, in this darkness, in this endless cycle of being broken and put back together wrong.
pls pls any smut with steve rogers!! i’m obsessed with ur writing, so maybe even an enemies to lovers with sort of a dark nomad era stevie? tysm <3 and totally ignore if not your thing!
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summary: your training partner is getting particularly sick of hearing you with your hand between your legs late at night.
warnings: mentions of death, masturbation, degradation, choking, manhandling, dubious consent, age gap impilied
word count: 1.8k
authors note: i just wanted to get this posted. it is a mess. i will be back
“i could snap your neck like it’s nothing, y’know?”
steve’s tone was taut with tension— the fleshy mound at the base of his thumb sunk further into your delicate neck like a bee to pollen. his fist left nearly no room for the sweet, sweet oxygen that you sputtered so desperately for. you couldn’t breathe.
“like a twig.” he detailed while you thrashed. he didn’t even have to try. you were tiring yourself out— like a wounded bird waiting to be put out of its misery.
steve had his knee rammed between your thighs, the other bent at your hip. his grip was viselike and unrelenting. the pressure was too dire, and with the hand that he hadn’t wrestled behind your back moments ago, you pawed at his thick forearm; a pathetic, feeble attempt to free yourself.
you took it well most days— the grappling that left you with more lesions to tend to than a planned mission. you were steve’s punching bag under the guise to prepare you for the usual orgy of hot, flying blood and gore.
the obesity of grief following wakanda was too much for steve to bare, and that infuriating moral backbone of his was consumed by whatever demons taunted him when he closed his eyes at night. it was easier that way, he found; to get the job done and deal with the fallout after… if at all.
he stopped licking his wounds. altruism curdled to misanthropy, getting thicker and impossible to push through without ripping away at parts of himself. with every city, every country, spite bled into his veins, and eventually, steve stopped pulling his punches.
the indifference in his glare was unmistakable when he finally let up. you dropped to the floor, limp and shamefully aware of the pool of arousal building between your legs. the tip of your nose kissed the ground he’d just stood on. he huffed like a provoked animal, retreating off of the jet and back into his habitat that was the third motel they’d jumped to in a week. sometimes you wondered if he’d beat you to a pulp you if there wouldn’t be any consequences, but how would he take his anger out then?
you were another kid that he had to worry about— another on the roster that sam took in like a stray dog. you were a trained fighter, collateral damage for hydra and mouthy like no other. you were begging to be put in your place— too quick to confidence now that you were “free”. like a true military man, steve didn’t waste any time.
how you got mouthy with him on a mission and he lost it? it started as once a week training. to keep you well-oiled, steve chided when you insisted it wasn’t necessary. and well-oiled you were. after every session you buried yourself in the flimsy sheets of your cheap bed and prepared to pretend that you hadn’t touched yourself with your neck still hot from his knuckles when you see him next. unlike steve, who couldn’t embellish the truth any longer.
it didn’t matter if you shared a wall with steve or if he was on the opposite stretch of the building— your muffled moans and the lewd squelch of your fingers buried between your thighs was no challenge for his hearing.
the romance of cold showers and fucking his fist to the sound of your open-mouthed panting had died. you’d woken him up for the third time this week, and the little restraint that steve rogers had left in his body was kept for moments like this— ones where he couldn’t break down your door and take what he wanted. he might’ve been put through hell through the war, but at the end of the day, he was a man. an old one, afterall. he didn’t think he could get it up anymore until the first time he had you in a reverse armlock and heard the wounded cry that spilled from your lips. the well-intentioned, 1940s gentleman that was steve had fizzled out months ago by then, and he tended to err on side of hatred when you weren’t writhing beneath him. it didn’t bode well for you— you were taking luxuries, biting at the hands that fed you. bickering and and back-talking now that it wouldn’t result in a bullet in the head… not unless you caught steve on a historically horrible day.
you’re in a rear headlock this time. his hips are heavy against the fat of your thighs, one of your hands curled around his thick forearm and the other being utilized to pathetically strike at his gut. you’d woken him up again tonight. he’d had enough.
you were always playing a losing game— struggle only for show when you both knew you were helpless to his strength. this was foreplay for steve. the hill of his bulging bicep was forced into your windpipe. you could feel the blood rushing into your head with a sickening thump. your knees gave out before your hands could react, and he let you drop. you could feel the warmth of blood pool above your lips, and the ghost of his strength hung heavy on your neck like a weight.
“bad day, roger’s?” you stammered out between heaves for oxygen, clutching at the mat to ground yourself until your vision faded from black and into colour again. your expression was rich with that arrogant sneer, even as your nose had started to bleed. yeah, steve had a bad day, and you took the brunt of it. this was nothing knew, but what was new, was the fist in your hair. he tugged, forcing you to gaze up at him, and you cried. he smirked. the desperation was straining in his pants, and he made sure you could see it too.
the sexual tension had been marinating for far too long— a wealth of muffled moans when he forced your cheek into the mat or jimmied his leg between your thighs where you had to be positively aching. he noticed the way your back always arched. he could smell the sweetness of your arousal every time he pinned your hands above your head. you could only hide so much from a super soldier.
“i’m tired of listening to you finger-fucking yourself down the hall every night.” he leaved down to hover just above your face. blunt, spoken in that rocky, authoritative tone of his. the once-refined steve rogers would be squirming in his seat, but the one towering behind her hadn’t flinched. in fact, his jaw was clenched tightly now.
“i’m—“ the word came out in a gasp. eyes pricked with hot tears and cheeks went the shade of rosewood. it was like her mind had went numb, faced with the fact that he’d been forced to listen to her moan and shift around in her sheets every night just to hit the right angle. it was a stress-reliever, she’d sworn to herself, but steve’s scarred hands didn’t make it hard to get started. “i didn’t—“
steve saved you the poor excuses, cutting off your pathetic lies with his own assumptions instead. “such a bitch when you don’t get some cock, huh?”
it was true— you were high-strung, moodier on the days when you hadn’t given yourself a release. steve had started to wonder just how pliant you’d be if he took care of you. just once; just to see if you would stop talking-back, and then he could consider a better… treatment plan.
the veneer was broken, and you finally saw him for what he was— a pervert. you were humiliated, bottom lip trembling now, frightened by the tingle in your skull once the implications settled in. instead, your eyes went big and soft like some sort of doe-like defence mechanism to save you from your ultimate fate. it wasn’t good enough, given steve used his leverage with his fist in your hair to bully your stunned, parted lips over the fabric of his cock; a pair of thick, black sweatpants. they left little for the imagination, especially with his tip just prodding at your jutted-out lower lip. he nudged it between your drooly lips, and his sac curled into his body in anticipation.
“stevie—“ you whined into the wet cotton. he cut you off with a gentle smack to your lips, and you listened like a well-trained dog, sat eagerly at his feet.
"don't open that mouth again unless i have something to put in it.” he was sterner this time, bucking his hips forward into your face this time. you could smell his musk, feel the hardness of his tip poke at the corner of your lips. you were quiet, almost paralyzed with your nails dug violently into your plush thighs.
“isn’t it so much better when you give in?” he murmured, loosening his waistband and tugging his hard cock free from the confines of his pants.
a bout of suppressed need was heavy in your gut, saliva thick and pooling in your mouth when steve pawed at your jaw. he hooked his thumb under your tongue, introducing his cock with a swirl of his tip on your tongue. he’s heavy and thick, just liked she’d imagined all of those times with her eyes screwed shut. what she didn’t expect was for him to be so gentle, and it certainly didn’t last long.
"you deserve this. say it." steve heaved, feeding you his cock in rhythmic, even thrusts. his fist is white in your hair, the veiny underside of his cock pronounced against your battered tongue. “gettin’ used like a fuckin’ slut. it’s what you deserve.”
the words could barely be gargled out through each desperate plunge of his hips. your nose kissed his happy trail, face flush to his groin with every tug and push on your hair.
you could barely breathe, choking and pounding at his meaty thighs. it was fruitless. he’d entwined his hands behind your head to rock your face into his groin, humping like a rabid dog to get his fix.
“shut up, you’ve been asking for it. you can take it.” he grunted out through your whines. besides, your core was weeping anyway. it spurred him on, bulldozing into your cavity until salty beads of precum sprouted from his tip and onto your pallet.
he was all-consuming— pawing at your neck, pulling at your hair. you couldn’t do anything but gag around the width of him, and the tears did nothing to slow him down. the way he cradled your jaw when his hips stuttered, his fat balls coiled and his sticky seed shot back into your throat with an aggressive pulse of his shaft would be on repeat in your mind for weeks.
he ended the training session with a pat on your cunt. you’d swallowed him down to the hilt, and licked him clean like your swollen mound wasn’t crying for his touch.
“good fuckin’ girl,” he uttered like he hadn’t just escalated his problem by a hundred.
i miss ur fics so much 😭 they are all so beautifully written where i need to read every single line and detail (usually i skip around) i understand if u dont wanna write anymore but tysm for what u did bless us with!! 😫❤️
thank u … i’m trying desperately to get back into it 🥹 i have a steve piece that i might just post the first few paragraphs of to see if people want it
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