Musings of a Half-Formed Thing

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Asks for any and all akotsk characters are welcome!

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Maekar Targaryen

One-Shots, Drabbles, etc.

something with teeth (mature)

Summary: Maekar and you take salvia. (Please note that this is a fanfic of a fanfic. The premise is inspired by the limits of your longing by @winterstellars )

ultraviolence (explicit)

Summary: Commander Maekar Targaryen saves you from a fatal mistake after you disobey orders, trapping you both in a collapsed basement on enemy lines. He punishes you for this.

Multi-Chapter

We Tell Ourselves Stories (mature) 

Summary: Five years. There was a line between you and him, once, but it blurred the way these things do: slowly, then all at once, until it was past the point of ever having been. You told yourself it was mutual. You told yourself you understood the terms.

Index:

i. “Prologue” — 1.3k ii. “Yours,” — 2.7k iii. “Instant Noodles” — 4.9k iv. “Feast Day” — 6.7k v. “Babyteeth” — 6.3k vi. “No Prices” — 8.3k vii. coming soon

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Daeron Targaryen

One-Shots, Drabbles, etc.

blood bank (TV-14, idk man)

Summary: You meet Daeron at group therapy.

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TW: sexually explicit content, power imbalance, age difference implied, dark!maekar, commander!maekar x subordinate!reader, fem!reader, potential military inaccuracies, active combat, adrenaline/PTSD/fight-or-flight-or-fuck, p in v, cnc vibes (there’s consent if you squint), choking, fingering, physical violence, mild gore, yell at me if i forgot one pls

A/N: first time posting smut and we’re diving into the deep end. i am so so willing to right a part two for this so just say the word. ultraviolence can also be found on ao3 can you tell i have my own military complex—variations on a theme from wtos (images above are not my own. creds go to original creators!)

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The basement swallows sound.

Above you, somewhere in the settling wreckage, the building is still deciding what it is—steel groaning against concrete, a slow catastrophic conversation between things that used to hold and no longer do. You can hear it through the floor. Through your spine. Through the back of your skull where the ringing hasn’t stopped.

The emergency strobe on Maekar's chest cuts the dark in pulses. Green. Black. Green. Black. In the intervals you can see the shape of the basement—collapsed support pillar, rebar flowering out of broken concrete, the staircase that is no longer a staircase. The dust hasn’t settled—it hangs suspended in the strobing light, turning the basement into something warped and underwater. 

You are sitting against the far wall with your back in the rubble and your legs not entirely cooperating and your mouth tasting of copper and dirt and something underneath both of those things that is just fear, just the animal output of a body that understood before you did that it was about to die. You feel the bile rise in your throat as you swallow.

You didn't hold fire.

The order was clear. Hold fire, fall back, hold fire—in your earpiece, in his voice, the voice that does not repeat itself—and your body heard it and your body did something else entirely, something that had nothing to do with training or protocol or the six months you have spent learning to override the part of yourself that just wants to run when it’s scared. Your body decided. Your hands decided. And then the world came apart at the seams and Maekar's arm was around your chest dragging you backward and the stairs were gone and then there was just the falling and the impact and the dark.

He hasn't spoken since.

This is worse than anything he could say.

He is standing in the middle of the basement, not moving, and the strobe makes him enormous—makes him a series of images rather than a continuous thing, a man assembled from green flashes, Kevlar and tactical black and the gas mask he still hasn't removed. His chest is heaving. You can see it even in the strobing dark, the visible effort of his breathing, the way his hands are held slightly away from his body like he hasn't decided what to do with them yet.

You are watching him the way small animals watch things larger than themselves. Still. Assessing. 

Why isn’t he yelling?

Why won’t he tell me off for disobeying his orders?

Say something. 

Anything. 

Please.

The basement smells like concrete and wet rust and underneath it the sharp acrid bite of cordite that's gotten into everything—your gear, your hair, the inside of your nose. Your own sweat has gone cold against your skin, the cold of fear-sweat that is different from ordinary sweat, sharper. You might actually vomit. Your lip is split. You discovered this when you licked it and got copper and it had already stopped bleeding which means it happened in the fall, which means you didn't feel it, which means your body had other priorities than informing you it was hurt.

Your hands are shaking.

You press them flat against your thighs and they shake anyway.

Hold fire.

Two words. One order. Six months of training for exactly this and your body looked at all of it and chose the animal thing and now you are here in the dark with Maekar Targaryen and the building groaning overhead and the rest of the squad gone, pulled back, following the order you didn't.

He reaches up.

The clasps of his gas mask release with two sharp clicks that sound enormous in the silence. He pulls it off and holds it at his side and you see his face for the first time since before and it is—it's bad. It's the worst you've ever seen him and you have seen him in bad situations, have studied his face across maps and briefings and the controlled blankness he wears in the field, and this is none of those things. He’s furious.

His jaw is rigid. His pupils blown. There’s no violet, only violence. There is concrete dust in his hair, in the lines of his face, pale against the dark, and a cut above his brow that is still bleeding and he does not appear to know it or care. His eyes find you in the dark with the precision of something that has been tracking you the entire time it appeared to be standing still.

He crosses the basement. Not fast. Worse than fast—slow and deliberate, each step measured. He stops in front of you.

The strobe puts him in green intervals, too close, the Kevlar and the cold air coming off him and the smell of cordite and blood—his blood, your blood, it's all the same smell, it's all the same dark. He is very large from this angle. From the floor of the basement with your back in the rubble and your legs that won't cooperate, he is enormous, he is the whole shape of the room, and your already reeling brain does something unhelpful with this information, adds it to the pile of things it cannot currently process and moves on.

He crouches down until he is at your eye level and his face is close and you can see the cut above his brow properly now, the blood tracking down toward his eye in a thin dark line, and he doesn't wipe it away. If he was anyone else, you’d lick your thumb and wipe his brow. But he’s him and you’re you and right now you are scared of him.

The silence goes on. Somewhere above, the building shifts—something settling or giving way, it's impossible to tell which. Distant gunfire.

Then, very quietly—

“What,” Maekar says, “did I tell you to do.”

His head tilts. Just slightly. Just enough. His voice is low and even and the evenness is the frightening part—this is not the calm of a man at rest. This is something caged. Something that has decided, for now, that the cage is preferable. The rage is there, you can see it in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands have gone very still, in the tilt of his head that is not curiosity, that has never been curiosity, that is a predator locating the exact coordinates of a thing before it moves.

He leans forward.

The strobe pulses. Green. Black. His face in the dark. The blood above his brow.

“Answer me.”

“Commander, I—” your voice fails you. “I don’t know.” 

The silence after is its own kind of violence.

He's on his feet before you finish. His fist hits the support pillar—once, twice, the second harder than the first—and the concrete weeps dust down through the strobing green and he stands there with his back to you and his shoulders and his breathing and the shaking in his hands that he doesn't know you can see.

“Fuck.” Through his teeth. Then: “Fuck—”

He turns around.

He doesn't speak. He just—looks at you. At your split lip. At the blood on your hands. At all the evidence of what almost happened arranged in front of him, and something in his face does something you have no word for, something that moves through the rage like a current, something worse than rage, and then his jaw locks and the rage comes back doubled.

“The IED—You could’ve—” He stops. Starts again. “You were going to—”

He can't finish it. Either of them. He looks at the ceiling like the words are up there, like if he looks long enough he'll find the one that covers it. He doesn't find it.

“Gods.” Quiet. Hissing. “Do you have any idea—do you have any—”

He crosses to you in two strides and he is too close, crowding the air out of everything, and his hand comes up and drags across his face—once, rough, wiping blood and concrete dust and whatever was written there—and then he takes a fistful of your jacket and hauls you to your feet in one motion and you barely have time to find your legs before your back hits the shattered beam and then his mouth is on yours.

It is nothing like you imagined. And you have imagined it. You are not proud of this but you have and it was nothing like this—this has no gentleness in it, no question, no preamble, just his mouth and the force of six months and two almost-deaths and the rage that has nowhere left to go. His hand is still in your jacket, knuckles against your chest, and the other comes up to grip your jaw and tip your head back and you taste blood—yours, his— and the beam is biting into your spine and you don't care. You grab his Kevlar because there is nothing else to grab and he makes a sound against your mouth—low, torn, almost pained—like something giving way under too much weight.

He pulls back just far enough to breathe. His forehead drops to yours. Both of you wrecked, both of you breathing the same cordite-thick air, the strobe still cutting green through the dark between you.

His hand is still on your jaw.

He doesn't move it.

“Tell me to stop.”

You say nothing.

He doesn’t wait for your brain to catch up with the choice you just made. A hand locks around your shoulder—not a grip, a clamp, the fingers digging through the canvas of your uniform into the muscle until it hurts—and he wrenches you around.

The world spins in a green flash. Your face hits the shattered concrete pillar. The rough stone scrapes your cheek, drawing a line of heat across your skin, but you don’t have time to register it before his weight slams into your back. He shoves you flat against the beam. His chest plates—hard, cold, unyielding carbide—crush your spine into the stone. He hasn’t taken off a single piece of his gear. He is a wall of tactical black and iron, and you are pinned between him and the ruin of the building.

The ringing in your ears is a high, steady whine, a siren that makes everything else feel like an impression. A series of impacts.

His hands are violent on your waist. He isn't unbuckling your tactical belt; he is ripping at it, his fingers catching on the heavy nylon web, cursing under his breath. The buckle cracks. The heavy leather hits the rubble by your boots with a dull, metallic thud.

Then his hands are inside your pants.

He doesn’t slide them down. He shoves them. The heavy, grit-caked canvas of your uniform pants is brutally forced over your hips, bunching at your thighs, binding your knees, locking your legs together in a helpless, hobbled knot. The cold, wet air of the basement hits your bare skin like a splash of ice water, making gooseflesh erupt despite the heat of him at your back.

It’s not clinical. It’s a frantic, predatory inventory.

His broad, calloused palms are massive against you, raking over your arms, your chest, the cage of your ribs—not caressing, but laying claim, checking the bone beneath the skin. He slaps his hands hard against the curves of your hips, your thighs, his fingers digging deep into the meat of your ass, squeezing until your breath hitches. He’s hunting for blood, hunting for breaks, frantically tracking the surface of your skin to see if the shrapnel got you, if you’re leaking out right under his fingers.

The rough, dirty skin of his hands drags against yours with a hard, frictional heat. It borders on violence. Every press of his palm leaves a hot, throbbing imprint, a violent reminder that your body is still whole, still solid, still here. You are completely trapped under his mass, your thighs pinned together by the bunched fabric, leaving you entirely exposed to the unyielding, armored weight of his chest pressing into your spine.

But it’s too heavy. Too rough. You whine. His palms are slick with his own sweat and the dust from the ceiling, and every time he moves, he leaves gray streaks on your skin.

“Stupid,” he mutters. His breath is hot, wet against the back of your neck, right where your hair is plastered to your skin with sweat and drying blood. “Stupid girl. You stupid, useless girl.”

He’s talking, but he isn’t looking at you. He’s looking at your skin in the green strobe, his head jerking with every pulse of the light. He doesn't know he's saying it. The iron control is gone; the filter between his brain and his mouth has been burned out by the blast.

“Could've been meat,” he rasps, his teeth grazing the skin of your shoulder blade as your undershirt is dragged down, bunched around your elbows. He bites down—hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to make you arch your back and cry out against the concrete. He drinks the sound. 

“Two seconds,” he rasps. “Two fucking seconds and you’d have been killed. I’d have been looking for pieces of you.”

He doesn't wait for you to breathe. His broad palm slaps hard against your hip, his fingers clawing into the flesh until you can feel the individual points of his knuckles bruising your bone.

“What am I supposed to do with you?” The words are a wet, desperate hiss against your neck, his spit mixing with the gray dust on your skin. “Look at what you did to me. Look at what you did.”

You try to move your hands, try to turn and face him, but they are trapped beneath your chest, pressed flat against the rough concrete of the pillar. Your nose is running. A mix of snot and dust and the copper from your lip is sliding down your chin, sticking you to the stone. You look disgusting. You feel entirely disassembled—pieces of you crushed against the wall.

“Commander, I—I’m—” you choke out, your voice small, vibrating against the pillar.

“Quiet,” he snarls.

He shoves himself closer. The hard, heavy ridge of his utility belt and the plates of his vest grind into your backside, a brutal, bruising pressure that has nothing to do with re-establishing rank and order and everything to do with the panic that you almost died. He almost didn’t get to you in time. He is marking you against the stone. His hand slides around to the front of your body, hooking into your hip bone, fingers bruising the flesh underneath the hem of your standard-issue briefs as he pulls your ass back against him, locking you into the angle.

The strobe flashes. Green. 

You see the shadow of his large hand against your own skin. It’s shaking. The legendary commander, the Anvil himself, the man who doesn't blink when the artillery starts, has fingers that are trembling against your hips.

“You don't die,” he whispers into your hair, his voice breaking on the last word, a ragged, ugly sound that makes your chest ache more than the concrete. “You don't get to leave me here. You don't have the fucking right.”

He shoves his hand lower, rough and uncareful, checking the heat between your thighs, finding you wet—not from preparation, but from the raw, chemical terror of the drop and the heavy, suffocating weight of him over you. He groans, a sound that is almost a sob, and presses his forehead into the space between your shoulder blades, his chest heaving against your back in violent, broken lungfuls of dust.

His hand doesn’t soften between your thighs. It stays wedged there, thick and heavy, pressing through the damp cotton of your briefs until the heat of your own terror is slick against his knuckles. He grinds his palm upward, once, twice, a blunt, deliberate friction that makes your hips twitch helplessly against the hard ridge of his utility belt.

“Look at this,” he mutters, his breath hot. “Soaking wet. You like this? Filthy girl.”

You can’t answer. Your jaw is glued to the cold concrete of the pillar, your nose leaking a smear of gray and rust mud across the stone. But your body betrays you—the sheer chemical relief of not being dead—and you push back into his touch, seeking the solidness of him, seeking more, always more than you ought to.

He doesn’t give you time to think.

He hooks two fingers into the waistband of your briefs, ripping them down just enough to clear the path, and plunges them inside you. Rough. Unrelenting. The dry, friction-heavy intrusion drags a choked scream from your throat, the sound bouncing off the shattered concrete walls like a trapped bird.

His other hand fists your hair, twisting the grit-caked strands until your scalp burns, yanking your head back so your throat is a tight, straining line. He mouths at your neck, his lips sliding over your sweat before his teeth sink hard into the muscle of your shoulder blade. He bites to hurt. He bites to leave a mark. The pain spikes through you, sharp and electric, mingling with the visceral heat between your legs until the boundaries blur and you can’t tell where the terror ends and the pleasure begins.

“M—Maekar—” you whimper, the name slipping out in a wet, broken gasp.

He freezes.

The fingers still inside you, a heavy, stretching weight that feels massive, terrifying. The silence in the basement drops like a hammer. The strobe cuts his profile into the dark. Green. Black.

“Commander,” he corrects, his tone dropping into something icy and dangerous—a warped imitation of the voice that executes orders, the voice that doesn't repeat itself.

He pulls his hand out of your hair and slaps your ass hard. The sharp, fleshy crack echoes off the rubble, a clean shock of sting that rattles your teeth.

“You don’t get to call me that,” he growls against your skin, his teeth brushing the hair at the base of your skull, a low, predatory vibration that goes straight down your spine. “Not yet. You haven't earned the right to put my name in your mouth, girl.”

Before you can draw breath, his hand moves to your throat. His broad, calloused fingers clamp around your windpipe, cutting off your air, forcing your face back down against the rough pillar. The world goes dim at the margins, the green strobe fracturing into spinning dots behind your eyelids. With your breath trapped in your chest, he thrusts his fingers back inside you—deeper this time, twisting them cruelly against the sensitive wall of your core, demanding everything you have left.

You writhe against the stone, hot tears streaming down your face, mixing with the dust and the copper on your lips. But you don’t fight him. You can’t. Your body is a coiled spring, wound too tight by six months of discipline and two seconds of near-death, ready to snap at the slightest friction.

He feels it. He knows it. He knows exactly how ruined you are.

“Take it,” he rasps, his voice finally fraying at the edges, losing its iron, turning into something ragged and starved. “Take all of it. You’re mine. Mine to break, mine to use.”

You nod, delirious, the lack of oxygen making your head light, your hips pushing backward against his armored thigh in a frantic, uncoordinated search for relief. For him. You want the weight of him to crush the remaining panic out of your bones.

“Yours,” you choke on the word.

He lets out a low, dark chuckle—a vibration you feel directly through the Kevlar pressing into your spine. He slacks his grip on your throat just enough to let a ragged gasp of air into your lungs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“There she is,” he murmurs, his voice rough with an ugly, possessive approval. “Good fucking girl.”

He doesn’t ease his fingers out of you. He wrenches them free—a sudden, slick evacuation that leaves you completely open, empty, and shivering against the stone. The ruthless slap he deals your cunt making your knees buckle, your boots slipping on the loose concrete dust, but his hand is already back on your hip, slick with you, a crushing vise that hoists you back up before you can hit the rubble.

He unzips his fly.

The sound is a sharp, mechanical click-hiss of metal teeth that cuts right through the high-frequency ringing in your ears. He doesn’t take off his vest. He doesn’t strip. He stays fully weaponized, an unyielding wall of Kevlar and carbide, except for the thick, iron-hard length of him that shoves its way between your thighs, blunt and burning hot against the skin of your backside.

You let out a broken, high-pitched sob into the concrete pillar.

“Don't cry now,” he growls, his voice dropping into that dark, hollowed-out register. He catches your chin from behind, his fingers sinking into the vulnerable flesh under your jawline, forcing your face sideways so you can see the edge of his blown-wide eyes in the green strobe. 

“You did this,” he snarls, his jaw grinding so hard against your ear you can hear the bone click. “You didn’t listen—look at the fucking mess you made. Look at me. Look at me.”

You can't. Your eyes are swimming with snot and dust-tears, the green light fracturing into jagged, painful lines.

He shifts his weight, his heavy tactical shinguards grinding into the back of your bound calves, forcing you down into an awkward, split-level bend against the pillar. Then he drives into you from behind.

The impact cracks through your skull. It’s dry, blunt, and completely unforgiving—a violent, abrasive intrusion that rips a ragged, breath-starved wail right out of your chest. Your hands slip on the pillar, your fingernails tearing as they scratch uselessly down the concrete, but he catches you by the pelvic bone, anchoring you to his stride.

The canvas pants bunched around your knees keep you hobbled, your thighs locked so tight that every stroke has to tear its way into you. There is no grace in it. The silence of the basement is entirely destroyed by the wet, loud squelch of friction—the gross, slick slap of heavy tactical gear and his sweat-damp groin hitting your bare skin, over and over, a rhythmic, depraved machinery that smells of iron and sex and old cordite.

You are coming undone. The last of your six months of discipline is leaking out of you in a steady, pathetic stream of saliva and sweat that runs down the front of the stone. You can't hold your own weight anymore; your thighs are shaking so violently they feel like water.

“Ma—Commander,” you gasp, your voice completely wrecked, splintering on the syllables as he hits you again, deeper, finding the very back of you and punishing it. “Please. I can't—I'm gonna fall—”

“I have you. I have you, stupid girl,” he snarls, the words tumbling out in a ragged, panicked rush.  “Stupid, brave—my brave girl—I’ve got you.”

His broad hand slides around the side of your neck, his fingers clamping hard over your windpipe. He applies pressure—heavy, animal, deliberate.

Air stops.

You panic. For one terrifying, white-hot second, the animal in you takes over and your hands fly back, your fingernails clawing frantically at the skin of his wrists, digging for purchase against his grip, trying to pry the iron out of your throat. But he doesn't budge. He just squeezes harder, anchoring you down, using his palm to choke the scream right back into your chest.

Black dots bleed out in your periphery. Between the concussion of the blast, the lack of oxygen, and the heavy, wet, relentless rhythm of his hips hammering into your backside, your body simply gives out. The green strobe fades to a sickly haze at the edges of your consciousness. Your fingers go limp, slipping off his wrists, and your head drops heavy against the stone as the ringing in your ears swallows the world whole, dragging you down into a suffocating, gray blackout.

A rough, stinging slap hits your cheek.

Then another, harder this time, his palm dragging across your skin to force the circulation back into your face. It is a paradoxical, warped sort of tenderness—violent, but frantic, the gesture of a man terrified that the light is leaving your eyes.

“Don't you dare go out on me,” he growls into your ear, his voice completely unraveled, a starved, desperate sound. He doesn't stop his assault for a single second. He drives his hips forward, pinning you to the stone as you blink heavily, your vision swimming back into the green dark. “You got this. Stay with me. Feel every. Fucking. Inch.”

Each word is punctuated by a brutal, uncoordinated thrust that shudders through your entire spine. He is surrendering entirely to the depravity of the moment, the impenetrable fortress of Maekar Targaryen reduced to a wild, panting beast marking his territory in the wreckage.

He hitches your left leg higher with his forearm, locking his elbow under your knee, tilting your pelvis at a cruel, hyper-extended angle that opens you completely to the bone. You let out a long, shuddering scream, your fingers finally finding the nylon webbing of his tactical harness and bunching it in a white-knuckled, delirious grip.

He shoves himself into you one last time, a hard, desperate plunge that goes deep enough to make your vision go black at the borders. The sound that rips from his throat isn’t human. It’s an ugly, guttural roar—a raw, pained bark like an animal taking a piece of shrapnel straight to the lungs—as he comes inside you, the sudden, scalding heat of it a shock against the freezing basement air.

He doesn't pull out. He stays there, buried to the hilt, his upper body bearing down as he buries his face into the side of your neck, his mouth pressed right against the pulse point under your jaw where your blood is still hammering. His chest heaves against your back in huge, violent, broken lungfuls of dust.

The strobe continues to pulse.

Green. Black. Green. Black.

His hands are still trembling against your bruised hips, holding onto the only piece of wreckage that matters.

He pulls out of you abruptly. The sudden, slick vacuum of his departure makes your knees instantly give out; without his massive weight pinning you to the pillar, you slide straight down into the dust and rubble, your legs still bound and hobbled by your canvas pants.

Maekar steps back. The green strobe hits his face as he tucks himself in, zips his fly, and adjusts his tactical belt with violent, mechanical efficiency. His hands are still shaking, but his expression has curdled into something cold, rigid, and entirely unreadable. He looks at the ceiling, tracking the distant thud of artillery and IEDs, completely bypassing you on the floor.

The reality of what you both just did—and what you are currently tracking down your inner thighs—sets in like a physical sickness. You are cold. Shivering. Covered in dust, blood, sweat, and him.

“Get your gear on,” he barks.

His voice is no longer ragged or imprecise. It is the flat, deadened tone of a commander on a map board, though the sheer force of how hard he is gripping his rifle betrays the storm underneath.

“Sir—” you start, your throat raw and scraped.

“Moving in two minutes,” he cuts you off, his back turned to you as he retrieves his gas mask from the debris.

You are forced to piece yourself back together in the dark, your fingers fumbling blindly with the heavy nylon webbing of your tactical belt. Every movement is agony. You are slick with him, the friction of the grit and canvas burning against your abused skin as you drag your pants up, buckling your armor over a body that is still actively leaking. Your hands are shaking too badly to get the straps right. You reach for your own gas mask, your bloody, trembling fingers slipping twice on the rubber harness, your breath hitching in a pathetic, small sob of frustration because the buckles simply won’t line up.

A shadow falls over you.

Maekar doesn't say a word. He just lets out a low, rough huff through his nose—half irritation, half something heavy and exhausted—and swats your hands away. His large palms are steady now, cold and efficient as they take the mask from you. He doesn't look you in the eyes, keeping his focus entirely on the straps, but he lifts your chin with two fingers, tilts your head back, and pulls the rubber seal cleanly over your face. He tightens the buckles with two sharp, practiced jerks that make the rubber bite into your cheeks, ensuring it's airtight. Perfect. Safe.

Then he lets go of you completely, shoves his own mask over his face, and the seals click into place, effectively erasing his humanity once more.

“Radio silence is broken,” his voice comes through the comm filter now, a metallic, hollow scrape that has no blood in it. “Third platoon is moving on the secondary objective. If you cannot walk, I’m leaving you.”

It is a lie, and you both know it—he just tore the basement apart because he couldn't bear the thought of you dying—but the fact that he is using the regulations as a shield to distance himself from his own depravity hurts more than anything else right now. He is utterly ashamed of his loss of control, and he is punishing you for witnessing it.

When you finally manage to stand, your thighs are trembling so violently you have to catch yourself against the pillar. Through the green lens of his mask, Maekar watches you struggle. He doesn't offer a hand. He doesn't offer another touch. He just turns and kicks through the collapsed drywall toward the fire escape.

As you breach the upper levels of the ruined building, the cold air hits the wet sweat on your neck, sending a violent shiver through your spine. The rest of the squad is waiting at the extraction point, their faces grim, covered in grime, but entirely focused on the mission.

When Maekar steps into the light, he is the Anvil once more. He delivers a curt, tactical briefing to the secondary squad leader, his voice steady over the comms, giving zero indication that five minutes ago he was spilling himself into his subordinate’s cunt.

But as the unit falls into a standard wedge formation to move through the active hot zone, Maekar takes his place at the rear.

Just before the squad pushes into the open street, his eyes find yours through the dust-caked visor of his mask. It is a brief, heavy, warning glance. The boundary has been re-established, the cage locked tightly around the beast—but the bruise on your neck and the ache between your thighs are permanent reminders that the cage can be broken.

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