A Special Place

Stryga watched as the crimson liquid slowly trickled down and collected in the hollow of the throat. A tiny stream flowing into a pond. With each beat of the twin hearts, it grew larger. The trickle turned into a river, a waterfall of deep, rich red.  A gasping rattle, surprised, guttural, akin to that of a dying animal, escaped the other man's lips. Hands flew up to the red line, which was getting bigger and spilling precious life in a steady rhythm.

Stryga was still watching. With his black, emotionless eyes, he observed the desperate struggle of the World Eater as he fought to contain the flood. He could taste the primal fear on his tongue, smell the chemicals and sweat being released into the hot, stale air of the ship. The tension in the room was turning into a nervous buzz. It all happened far too quickly for the brutal tastes of the legionnaires who surrounded him and his dying prey.

A = Aftercare

He doesn’t know how. Afterward, he just sits there, breath ragged, body still trembling with the effort of not tearing you apart. But he’ll cradle you in his lap, one trembling hand cupping the back of your head, forehead pressed to yours like he’s praying to something long dead. Sometimes he rocks you in slow, broken movements, like he’s trying to remind himself that you’re alive, whole.

B = Body part

Your ribs. He counts them with his knuckles when you lie against him, like you’re breakable, like you matter. He can’t explain it, but pressing his palm there anchors him reminds him you’re alive, his.

C = Cum

Hot, heavy, and almost painful, he cums with full-body violence. Not from pleasure alone, but release. Relief. Need. It pours into you with a growl torn from his throat, like he's marking the only thing he doesn't destroy.

D = Dirty secret

He touches you when he dozes off. Soft, desperate ruts against your thigh, mouth open near your neck. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Sometimes he wakes with your name crushed between his teeth, fists bloody from digging into his own palms to stop himself.

E = Experience

He’s raw. Not clueless just untrained. He doesn’t fuck with grace; he fucks like it hurts. Like he’s trying to learn your body by brute force. He improves every time, by watching you, listening to your breath, your sobs, your pleasure. That’s how he learns. You teach him.

F = Favorite position

You flat on your belly, his massive weight over your back, one hand over your mouth, the other fisting the sheets. He fucks you deep and slow like that, less risk of losing control. It’s also the only way he can truly let go without seeing your face break under his strength.

G = Goofy

Never. The Butcher’s Nails leave no room for laughter. If you laugh during sex, he’ll flinch like you hit him. But if he realizes it’s because you feel safe? He might nuzzle into your neck, almost confused. That’s the closest he’ll come.

H = Hair

Rough. Coarse. He doesn’t care about grooming. His pubic hair is wild, but his body is scarred and muscled, bare in patches from fights or implants. His skin smells like sweat, copper, and smoke. It sticks to you for days.

I = Intimacy

A trembling thumb swiping the tears from your face. His forehead pressed to yours while he still throbs inside you. His hands spread on your back as if he could absorb you into his chest and make the Nails shut up for once.

J = Jack off

He does not. He cannot. The Nails do not permit arousal without agony. The moment his mind strays to you, they devour it, twist it, punish him. So he waits. Caged. Starving. And when he finally has you again, he takes you like a dying man offered breath.

K = Kink

Size kink.

Touch-starvation. He’s starved of comfort. If you let him cling to you during sex, fingers shaking as he grips your back, he’ll cum faster than he wants to admit.

Breeding. He needs to fill you. Deep. Repeatedly. Like he’s trying to claim your womb with every thrust.

Overstimulation: He doesn’t know how to stop. One orgasm becomes three. You’re shaking and crying and still, he needs more.

L = Location

Somewhere far from his men. Somewhere with stone walls and no witnesses. A bolted door. A low bed. Anything where he can drop to his knees and fuck you until the Nails go silent.

M = Motivation

You touch him. That’s all. Just a hand on his chest. A kiss to his temple. A whisper like, “Stay.” He shudders. Growls. Then grabs you like you’re the only tether to his soul.

N = No

He won’t hurt you. He won’t let go during sex because he’s afraid his grip will crush you. He refuses to let you bind him either, he needs to hold you, even if it breaks him.

O = Oral

Giving A mess. He doesn’t know what he’s doing—but fuck, he tries. Tongue too rough, growling between your legs, gripping your thighs until they bruise. But the effort? Heartbreaking.

P = Pace

Violent when he can’t think. Slow and trembling when he can. Sometimes it feels like he’s barely moving, grinding so deep it steals your breath, holding you like glass. Other times, he’s pounding into you like a war engine.

Q = Quickie

He doesn’t plan for them. But if you kiss his neck in the wrong hallway, or straddle him while he’s sharpening his axe, he’ll grab you by the waist and grind against you until you’re limp and shaking, one hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds.

R = Risk

Low. He’s too scared of breaking you. If you suggest something dangerous, he’ll go still. His voice rough: "No. I’ll lose control."

S = Stamina

Insane. Four, five, six rounds if the Butcher’s Nails are throbbing. He fucks through the ache, through the rage, through his own body. He doesn’t stop until your voice is gone or you collapse in his arms.

T = Toys

No. He doesn't trust them. He doesn’t trust himself with them. What if something snaps? What if you bleed? He’d rather use his fingers. His mouth. Himself. That’s all he needs and all he trusts not to fail.

U = Unfair

He doesn’t tease. Not because he wouldn’t, but because he can’t. He’s too desperate. Too hungry. If he starts, he’ll break. So he takes you hard and fast.

V = Volume

A beast. Growling. Snarling. Snorting like a bull. He bites the pillow when he cums or buries his face in your neck to keep from roaring. He moans your name like he’s begging, low, raw, broken.

W = Wild card

He keeps your clothes when you leave. Not out of perversion, but to smell you. To hold them when the Nails scream. He buries his face in them, clutches them like a wounded animal, and survives another night.

X = X-ray

Huge. Thick. Ridged with angry veins. A cock like a war club, hot, hard, almost violent-looking. He leaks precum constantly when aroused, especially if he’s holding back. It pulses like something alive.

Y = Yearning

Unbearable. He’ll stare at you like a starving man then look away as if he’s done something shameful. His sex drive is monstrous, but he denies it until it spills over. Then he takes you like he’ll never get another chance.

Z = Zzz