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His back arches violently beneath you as the transformation rips through him mid-thrust. You feel it happen inside him first, his hole clamping down on your cock like a vice, the rhythmic pulse of his changing body milking you without mercy. His claws rake down your forearms, tearing through skin and drawing hot ribbons of crimson that drip onto his heaving chest. You grip his hips harder, forcing him to take every inch as his lycan form bulks and shifts beneath you.
His spine pops. His jaw elongates, fangs glistening with saliva as he snarls up at you, eyes blown to dark slits of pure animal hunger. You feel his insides rearrange around your shaft, tighter now, hotter, the friction building to something almost unbearable as his new form demands to be filled deeper, harder, ruined.
He claws at your shoulders, drawing you down, those beast eyes burning with Formless desperation of finding something that gives him a challenge. "Don't fucking stop," he rasps, voice guttural and broken. You feel his cock spilling precome untouched across his transforming abs, his body betraying how thoroughly he's submitting to your cock even as his claws draw fresh wounds across your back.
The pain is white-hot. You crave it. Every sting of his nails, every throb of his tightening lycan hole around your base, every desperate growl vibrating through his chest as you pound into his changing flesh. He could shred you open right now. The thought makes your balls tighten, your thrusts savage and uncontrolled.
You feel his hole flutter, then clamp in rhythmic spasms as his knot throbs and untouched cock erupts across his fur-sprouting stomach. His howl tears through the room, and you bury yourself to the hilt, letting his convulsing body wrench your own release from you, flooding his transformed guts while his claws sink deep enough to hit bone.
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I usually don't post self-indulgent fics. So I was wondering if anyone would be interested to read an ongoing story I've been writing of my & a friend's OC being included in Kanoh Agito's backstory starting from his survival in the Russian-Mongolian border before he got taken in by The Other Niko.
It's pretty gruesome so I'm hesitant to share.
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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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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Fun Fact: Looking through Kaede's Wiki, I found that she knows multiple languages! We love our intelligent, beautiful Queen.
Between The Lines
The fluorescent lights of Yamashita Trading Co. hummed with the intensity of a dying star, and Akiyama Kaede was its exhausted satellite.
She adjusted her glasses with the knuckle of her middle fingerāa habit sheād developed to avoid smudging the lenses with her fingerprintsāand stared at the spreadsheet blurring before her. Three languages flickered across her monitor: Japanese logistics, English contractor clauses, and German liability waivers for the Kengan Annihilation Tournament preliminaries. Her blazer, buttoned precisely to the collarbone, felt like armor against the chaos. Her blonde ponytail, swept severe and professional with that errant chin-length strand tucked behind her ear, swung as she pivoted in her chair to grab another folder.
"Thirty-seven fighters to lodge, medical records to verify, and Yamashita-san wants the revised itinerary by dawn," she muttered to herself, French and Spanish curse words mingling under her breath like a private storm. She didnāt notice the door open.
She did notice the smell. Sweat. Iron. Something wild that didnāt belong in an office.
"Akiyama Kaede."
The voice was gravel against silk. Kaede jumped, clutching her blazer closed over her white shirt, her brown eyes wide behind the red frames.
Tokita Ohma leaned in the doorway, his mop of dark, seaweed-messy hair casting shadows over his narrow, relaxed gaze. He wore the same black-and-grey t-shirt and blue jeans heād worn for three days, sneakers scuffed at the toes. He looked big in the small office space, tan skin glowing under the harsh lights, athletic build coiled with an energy that made the room feel too small.
"Ohma-san," Kaede managed, switching to her professional maskāthe one that seemed cold to others but was really just a shield against her own social awkwardness. "If youāre here to demand another match, Iāve already told you. The representative fighter roster is closed. Please submit a formal request in writing."
Ohma blinked. His illiteracy wasnāt a secret to her anymore, not after months of watching him struggle with contracts, watching him call everyone by their full names in that strange, heavy katakana way heād learned from the Inside.
"Not here for that," he grunted, pushing off the doorframe. He moved closer, and Kaede found herself pressing back into her ergonomic chair, aware suddenly of her heightāor lack thereofāand the way her blazer pulled when she breathed too deep. Donāt think about the weight, she commanded herself, feeling the heat of irritation prickle her neck when she remembered the office gossip about her last week. Professional. Be professional.
"Then what?" she asked, her voice clipped, polite, distant.
Ohma stared at her. Really stared. His battle-hungry braināthe one that calculated kill zones and pressure points and victory angles in milliseconds--scrambled. There was no fight here. No opponent. Just Kaede. The smell of her perfume, something sharp and clean like lemon and paper. The click of her pen. The way her glasses slid down her nose when she was concentrating, revealing the frustration in her eyes.
He didnāt know why he kept coming back. Why heād beaten three men unconscious yesterday in the preliminaries but had spent the aftermath wondering if sheād eaten lunch. Why seeing her now made his chest feel like heād taken a palm strike to the sternum.
"You're... tired," he said finally. It wasnāt a question.
Kaede blinked. The observation was so blunt, so lacking in office etiquette, that it disarmed her. "Iām... managing the tournament logistics. Itās eventful." She gestured vaguely at the stacks of paper. "Too eventful for... distractions."
She meant crushes. She meant the way the other secretaries giggled about fighter physiques. She meant the vulnerability of wanting someone when her job demanded perfection.
Ohmaās calloused hand reached out. Kaede froze. He plucked a stray paperclip from her blazer lapel--she hadnāt even noticed it stuck there--and held it up between his thumb and forefinger.
"You're crooked," he said.
"Excuse me?" Her voice rose, defensive, ready to chastise him for mentioning her appearance, her age, her--
"Your hair," he clarified, nodding at the chin-length strand that had escaped her ponytail, falling across her right cheek. "It's... crooked. And you got this... thing."
He dropped the paperclip onto her keyboard.
Kaede stared at him. Her heart performed a traitorous gymnastics routine against her ribs. "Thank you," she whispered, the German and Spanish and French all evaporating from her tongue, leaving only Japanese. Only honesty.
Ohma nodded, scowling. He hated this. This feeling. It wasnāt the clarity of battle. It was murky. It made him want to protect her--which heād already done once in the preliminaries when debris had fallen, his body moving before his brain to shield her--but also made him want to stay. To learn how those blonde locks felt against his skin. To know why she buttoned that coral blazer so high.
He didn't understand it. He just knew heād fight anyone who made her look that exhausted again.
-
Weeks blurred. The tournament raged. Kaede fainted when she saw him alive after a match she thought had killed him--the world going black, her chest heaving as she collapsed against Yamashitaās desk, only to wake to Ohmaās scarred hands holding her shoulders, his wavy hair brushing her cheek as he leaned too close, asking if she was broken.
Sheād pushed him away. Professional. Distance.
But he kept calling her full name. Akiyama Kaede. Like a prayer he didnāt know he was making.
-
The night air in the tournament district tasted like rain and asphalt. Kaede finally stepped out of the office at 2 AM, her blazer unbuttoned for the first time in fourteen hours, her glasses fogged from the humidity. She wanted to cry from exhaustion, but her pride wouldnāt let her.
"Akiyama Kaede."
She didnāt jump this time. She turned.
Ohma sat on the concrete steps outside. Heād been waiting. Three hours. He didnāt have a watch. Heād just... waited.
"Youāre here," she said, her voice small.
"You're here," he countered, standing. He leaned over her, just over half a foot taller but he didnāt use it to intimidate. Not with her. Never with her.
The streetlamp flickered. Died.
They stood in the sudden dimness, shadows swallowing the details of his scars, her glasses, the corporate polish and the street-fight dirt. Just shapes. Just breath.
"I don't..." Ohma started, his rough voice faltering. He who belittled champions and provoked monsters. He who feared only one womanās mating instincts but feared this--this--more than death. "I don't know what this is. In the Inside, we didn't... I didn't- I don't know words for..."
He gestured between them, frustrated, his narrow gaze finally breaking open to show the confusion, the want, the violent tenderness heād been storing up every time he watched her adjust her glasses or curse in four languages.
Kaedeās professional demeanor cracked. The socially awkward girl beneath--the one terrified of being too old, too heavy, too awkward--stepped forward.
"Ohma," she whispered. Not Tokita Ohma. Just Ohma. "You don't need words."
The dark hid her blush. It hid his trembling hands.
They moved at the same time. Her coral blazer brushed his black tie-dye t-shirt. His seaweed hair tickled her forehead. He smelled like battle and pine. She smelled like ink and lemons.
His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing the hinge of her glasses. She didnāt chastise him. She didnāt faint.
"Akiyama Kaede," he breathed, and it sounded like surrender.
"Kaede," she corrected, her hands finding his chest, feeling the athletic build, the heartbeat that raced like a war drum. "Just Kaede."
Their lips met in the dim night, slow and burning and finally understood.
