#explicitfanfic

It started as a drunken guild bet—some half-serious challenge scribbled between bounty postings, a dare buried beneath nonsense about drinking contests and sparring rematches. You weren’t even supposed to notice it. It was a joke, something meant to get laughs over mugs of beer and spilled stew.

But Laxus noticed.

Something in him went still. Not anger. Not quite. It was darker—possessiveness coiled with pride, tempered by the glint of something territorial in his eyes. It wasn’t about the bet. It was about you. And when he saw your name beside the dare—Let [Y/N] take on the Thunder God Tribe, bet she can’t last five minutes—he didn’t laugh.

He just smirked. And made sure the training hall was cleared.

Now you're on your knees in the middle of the floor, the stone cool beneath your bare skin, wrists bound tight behind your back with a silk sash someone “borrowed” from Erza’s closet. Your arms ache, your thighs tremble, but it’s the grip on your scalp that keeps you still. Laxus stands behind you, one thick hand buried in your hair, holding you in place like a trophy he’s showing off.

He doesn’t like to share. He’s made that very clear.

But when it’s his idea—when he’s the one in charge—everything becomes fair game.

The rest of the boys are circling now. Freed’s shirt is already gone, abs glistening with sweat. Bickslow’s tongue flicks over his lip, pupils blown wide as he eyes the way you writhe under Laxus’s grip. Even Evergreen’s watching from the shadows, arms crossed and eyes sharp—not joining, but not stopping it either. There’s something amused in her gaze, like she’s taking mental notes, enjoying the spectacle in her own quiet, dangerous way, smirking like she knows how this ends.

The bet doesn’t matter anymore. This is about Laxus proving a point.

He leans down, breath hot at your ear.

“Five minutes?” he growls. “Let’s see how many times you can come in ten.”

His hand yanks your head back as he forces your gaze up—past his smirk, past the others unbuckling their belts—to the guild crest above the door. It’s the only thing you’re allowed to focus on as Laxus shoves his fingers past your lips, curling them against your tongue until you gag.

“That’s it,” he mutters. “Let ‘em hear how pretty you sound when you choke.”

What follows is a blur of teeth and skin and sound. Hands roam your body—rough, eager. Fingers tease your nipples, twist them. A palm strikes your ass, the sting blooming instantly, making you jolt forward. Someone’s cock rubs against your cheek. Another slaps against your thigh.

And Laxus? He never lets go of your hair.

Every time you squirm too much, his fist tightens. Every moan earns a rough tug. His voice is a constant in your ear—taunting, praising, commanding.

“You wanted this.” “Don’t pretend you’re not soaked.” “Look how greedy that cunt is.”

They take turns using your mouth, your pussy, your ass—each moment blurring into the next in a dizzying flood of sensation. One thrusts deep while another strokes your cheek, another tugs at your hips with bruising force. It’s not just use—it’s rhythm, contrast, a dance of dominance that leaves your body shaking and your mind unmoored. The pressure, the fullness, the stretch—you feel everything, everywhere, all at once—each thrust more punishing than the last. They fuck you like a toy passed between brothers, laughing, growling, praising you for how well you take it. It’s filthy. Messy. Overwhelming. Lube and spit and cum slick every inch of your body.

And through it all, Laxus watches.

He only joins in once you’re wrecked—gagged, drooling, and reduced to something raw and pliant. When he finally steps in, it’s not with haste but with a slow, deliberate dominance that says you’re his to finish. His eyes flick down over your body—not with sympathy, but with the satisfaction of a predator knowing the prey is exactly where it should be. Then, and only then, does he kneel behind you, his cock already hard, the head pressed between your cheeks.

“Mine now,” he grunts, and the stretch burns.

You sob, but your hips roll back anyway.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head up again, and snarls against your ear.

“Say it. Say who you belong to.”

And you do.

Over and over, until the others are laughing, until Laxus is groaning and emptying inside you, until the air smells like sweat and sex and thunder magic crackling through the floor.

By the end, your throat’s raw. Your legs won’t hold you. You collapse in a trembling mess across his lap, his arms the only thing keeping you from sliding onto the floor.

He kisses your temple. Rough. Possessive.

And when someone dares ask if you lost the bet—

Laxus chuckles darkly. “She didn’t lose.”

He strokes your thigh, voice dropping into something low and dangerous.

You wore the crimson lace as a dare—Klaus’ gift, Elijah’s undoing. For a man built on centuries of restraint, jealousy becomes a quiet apocalypse. He says nothing when he sees you, only circles like a predator in fine silk. Every glance is an accusation, every touch a punishment, and beneath each subtle movement, you feel the ache of something deeper—like a piano wire pulled taut between your ribs, vibrating with tension you’re too afraid to name, and every breath between you is a rope wound tighter with tension.

He watches you move through the parlor like a relic he hasn’t decided to claim—yet. The lace clings to you, barely concealing skin he’s committed to memory in quieter times. It’s not just the lingerie. It’s the implication: Klaus gave it to you. You wore it in Elijah’s house. You stood, back arched, glass in hand, and smiled.

Elijah says nothing. He doesn’t need to.

When he speaks, it’s later. Alone. In the quiet room where the music doesn’t reach and the fireplace crackles low. You don’t hear his footsteps—you feel them, like thunder beneath marble floors.

He closes the door behind you both.

“Do you understand what you’ve done?” he asks, voice low, patient, precise. A blade sheathed in velvet.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes.

His eyes rake over your body, not hungrily—meticulously. As if each thread of lace is another offense to catalog. “My brother gave you that?” he asks, finally stepping close enough that your perfume warps beneath the weight of his.

You nod. “It was a joke. He thought—”

Elijah’s hand lifts. A single finger pressed to your lips.

“I’m not interested in what Klaus thought.”

He steps back. You think he’s going to leave.

Instead, he opens a narrow door behind the bookshelf and gestures for you to follow.

What lies behind the bookshelf isn’t a closet—it’s a chamber, narrow and suffocating in its intimacy. The walls are smooth stone, the air thick with warmth and wax. Shadows flicker with the pulse of dozens of low candles, their flames casting the illusion of movement even when you’re standing still.

And in the center: a mannequin. Draped in crimson lace. Your exact size. Your shape. The lingerie on it is identical to what you wear.

And it smells like you.

“Elijah—” you whisper, heart fluttering with something that isn’t quite fear.

“I had it commissioned,” he says simply. “After the first time you wore it.”

You stare at him. “That was months ago.”

“I remember,” he says, and for a moment, something in him fractures—just behind the eyes.

He steps forward again. Reaches for the mannequin. Runs his hands down its sides. “She’s never spoken back to me. But I’ve said so many things to her. Things I could never say to you.”

You feel breathless. Powerless. But you step toward him anyway. He doesn’t stop you. Just watches.

“You’ve been using—”

He turns then. Sharp. Predatory. “Don’t finish that sentence unless you’re prepared for the answer.”

Your heart hammers.

Then he’s in front of you. The mannequin to your side. His fingers hook the edge of your panties and snap them against your skin—not roughly. Deliberately.

“You want me to lose control,” he murmurs. “You want me to hurt.”

His voice dips lower, and his fingers tighten at your hip, grounding you, making sure you can’t step away. A flicker of heat pulses through you, sharp and instant, clashing with the defiance rising in your chest.

“I want you to feel,” you snap back, and your hand finds his chest, pushing—not to escape, but to challenge. The air between you shifts, heavy, electric. A single breath and everything changes.

That breaks him.

Elijah pushes you back against the mannequin. The lace scratches your spine as his hands lift you. He pins you there, eye to eye with your own ghost in silk. He doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He turns your head to face it.

“This is who I touched when I couldn’t have you.”

Then he kisses your neck. Bites. The pain is soft, meant to linger. You cry out, but he only pushes harder. His hand slides up your ribcage, thumb brushing under the swell of your breast, teasing but never kind. The lace scrapes with every movement, taut and tingling.

When he finally takes you—right there, standing, pinned—it’s punishing. Slow. Intimate. His mouth never leaves your throat, lips dragging over your skin with every thrust like a benediction and a curse. His hand stays locked on the small of your back, pressing you against her—you—the whole time, forcing you to feel the lace imprint into your spine, a mirror to the one straining and damp against your skin.

The way he moves is deliberate, devastating. His cock stretches you full and aching, each grind of his hips a controlled burn, a sermon in dominance. He withdraws nearly to the tip before slamming back in, each movement laced with withheld fury, with years of restraint unraveling.

The room smells of wax, silk, and sex—his scent woven into the air like a vice. The heat is stifling, clinging to your skin in waves, every breath heavy as if the atmosphere itself is saturated with his presence. scent overtaking everything. You moan and writhe but the grip on your hip holds you still, grounded, trembling beneath his control. He hisses when your pussy clenches around him, voice rasping into your skin.

“You were mine before you even knew it.”

He says nothing else. Just breathes harder. Faster. Until you’re clawing at his back, nails raking over his shirt, voice broken into gasps that barely form his name. You choke on it—on the worship, the punishment, the unbearable want.

You break before he does.

Your orgasm hits like confession—tears spilling, voice choking as your walls clamp around him, desperate and spent. He doesn't let up. Not until you’re limp, shuddering, begging in fractured syllables. He fucks you through it, relentless, murmuring low against your ear—not comfort, but possession.

Only then, only then, does he still inside you. And it’s not softness—it’s reverence. A kiss against your temple. Possessive. Eternal. As if to mark you.

He doesn’t pull out immediately. He lingers, rooted deep inside you like a warning, like a vow not yet spoken aloud. Each breath he takes drags across your neck, and you can feel the tension still humming beneath his skin, not sated—just postponed. Possession pulses in the silence between your bodies, and you know: this isn’t the end. It’s only the pause before the next lesson.. Keeps you impaled on his cock, lets you feel every throb of him pulsing inside you while the mannequin’s lace digs into your back.

“You wore it for him,” Elijah whispers finally, “but you’ll never forget who made you feel it.”

Jealousy isn’t beneath Elijah Mikaelson.

The safehouse is a concrete box buried under an abandoned ski lodge—Umbrella black-site turned bolt-hole. Gray walls, fluorescent buzz, the smell of antiseptic baked into concrete. Nothing about it says comfort, not until you found the hot tub tucked behind a reinforced sliding panel. Stainless steel, recessed into the floor, fed by a geothermal pipe that never cools. An odd luxury in a bunker built for attrition.

You’d laughed when you discovered it, giddy from blood loss and residual adrenaline. H.U.N.K. had only grunted, stripped to the waist, and disappeared to clean gore from his gear with the same mechanical efficiency he brought to fieldwork. You hadn’t expected him to join you. You’d almost hoped he wouldn’t—because if he did, it would mean something neither of you were supposed to admit.

Now the water churns around you, lit from beneath by a sickly teal glow that makes the bruises on your ribs bloom like algae in moonlight. You’re submerged to the collarbone, every pulse soothed by heat. The door hisses open.

He steps inside, silent as death.

The mask comes off first—a clack of ceramic against tile. You’ve seen him kill a man without blinking, heard the crack of necks and gunfire, but never his face. Now you have: sharp jaw, faint scar bisecting his left brow, cheekbones cut like shrapnel. Eyes the color of winter steel. Hair sweat-damp and plastered to his temple.

He looks human. Tired. Dangerous.

Tac vest, gloves, boots—he removes everything with methodical precision, stacking it in silent order beside the bench. The last thing to fall is his holster, which he lays atop the pile like a final barrier relinquished.

The water hisses as he steps in, muscles flexing under old scars. You watch the shift in his body, the precise economy of movement, and feel a new heat pool low in your stomach—anticipation wrapped in fear. His knees brush yours under the surface. He says nothing.

You sit in that silence for a full minute. Breathing. Watching the rise and fall of his chest. Then:

“Feet,” he says, voice made rough from the mask's filter. Not a question. Not a request.

You lift one leg slowly. Water trails off your calf like molten glass. He catches your ankle in one calloused palm, thumb pressing into the arch. He tests the soft tissue like he's checking for damage—and maybe he is.

The touch turns indulgent. His fingers knead with slow, deliberate pressure: the ball of your foot, the delicate dip beneath your toes. You sigh, then bite it back. His gaze flicks up to yours.

“Mission was sloppy,” he says.

“We got the sample.”

“You limped the last mile.”

“Twisted it on rebar,” you admit. “Thought you didn’t notice.”

He lifts your foot higher, water trailing from your heel.

“I notice everything.”

His mouth replaces his hand. Lips brush the instep. Then his tongue—rough, deliberate—traces the ridge of bone. You gasp. He continues.

He switches feet. The ritual repeats. Slow massage. Careful kiss. Tongue dragging heat from your core to your skin. He takes each toe into his mouth, sucking like he’s starving. When he grazes the pad of your big toe with his teeth, a whimper escapes.

“Quiet,” he murmurs. Not unkind. A warning, or maybe a reminder.

His free hand glides up your leg, smoothing over bruises, finding muscle, then higher. Inner thigh. Close now. Your swimsuit offers no barrier. You’re bare beneath it, and he feels it.

He growls.

“Off.”

You comply. Peel the wet fabric down your legs, hand it to him. He doesn’t look at it, just tosses it behind him like evidence. Then he pulls you forward. Into his lap. Onto his cock.

Waves crest and spill over the tub’s edge, slapping wetly against the tile. Your knees find purchase on either side of his hips. His length—hard, hot, heavy—presses between you, pinning you open with every breath.

He holds both your feet, places them on his shoulders. The angle folds you, exposes you. You feel air kiss your nipples. You feel the tip of him notch against your entrance.

“Hold still,” he rasps.

His hands slide down your shins, pause behind your knees. Then lower. Grip tightens around your ass, spreading you. The head of him pushes forward, slow, stretching you. One inch. Two. You clench. He keeps going.

When he's fully seated, you can't breathe.

The stretch is obscene. You whimper, and he answers it with his mouth—a kiss stolen through instinct, not habit. Clumsy, then hungry. Tongue thrusting in rhythm with the shallow pump of his hips.

Each thrust stirs the water into chaos. Your breasts sway above the surface. His grip migrates—one hand to your back, anchoring you. The other returns to your ankle, thumb tracing a circle over bone. It shouldn't be tender. It shouldn't matter. But it does.

“Thought about this,” he says. His breath is fire in your ear, and your skin prickles with goosebumps, heart hammering at the unspoken danger laced in his voice. “Since the sewers. Your pulse against my blade. Wanted to feel it break beneath me.”

You tighten around him. His pace stutters. He curses softly.

“Come,” he orders. Thumb pressing hard into the arch of your foot. “Now.”

It detonates. You arch. Toes curl. Every nerve spasms. He follows with a broken groan, hips jerking as he empties into you, burying himself to the root.

Still joined, he eases your legs down, massages the tremble from your calves. You collapse forward, boneless. His arms gather you.

His heartbeat is a thunder roll against your cheek.

“Mission debrief in six hours,” he murmurs.

You hum in response, already slipping under. His fingers trace your spine like he's memorizing the ridges. The mask lies forgotten on the tile.

There are no safe words in Umbrella’s black sites—only protocols. You learned that the hard way.

One mistake. That’s all it took. A single botched line of code during the extraction sequence. The delay cost the team a man—maybe two—and compromised the integrity of the mission. But H.U.N.K. doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t show anger. He doesn’t need to. You see it in the precision of his stride, in the way he locks eyes with you beneath the blackened visor. There’s no forgiveness in that mask. No expression. Just mission parameters—data, discipline... and you. The outlier. The anomaly he’s been assigned to correct.

Instead of logging the error in your personnel file, he gestures. Silent. Orders without words. You follow, heart pounding, every step echoing off sterile tile and steel. Down through reinforced corridors, deeper into Umbrella’s restricted sectors, past labs and holding rooms until the air turns cold and dry.

You’ve never been to the training cell below Sublevel Six. It hums with sterility, the kind of space never meant for observation—only execution. It’s nearly soundproofed. Sealed. Lit only by strips of flickering white above the chamber’s center—where the pillory waits like an altar of correction.

Steel stocks. Electro-locks. Bolted to a concrete platform like an execution stage.

H.U.N.K. moves behind you. The click of his gloves is almost soothing in its regularity. He presses a palm to your back, pushes you toward the frame, and without a word, binds you in. Chin down. Arms through. Legs parted and secured at the base. The cold bites instantly at your skin.

You can’t see him. You can only feel the weight of his presence behind you.

“You know the protocol for disobedience,” his modulated voice murmurs, low and unfeeling. “This is not personal. This is correction.”

The click of a latch. The drag of reinforced leather against your skin. Then—

CRACK.

You flinch forward. Not from pain, but the sheer sound—like a whip against glass. Your knees buckle within the brace.

“One. Thank you, sir.”

Again. This time it bites. Across the lower curve of your ass. Fire blooms in your spine.

“Two. Thank you, sir.”

He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t check in. Just strikes.

Three. Four. Five. Each one harder, placed with exact precision—beneath the swell of your ass, the top of your thighs, across the base of your spine. You count, voice trembling, tears already burning the corners of your eyes. He never speaks. Doesn’t need to. Every command is implied.

By ten, your thighs are slick, trembling. By fifteen, your cunt clenches around nothing, raw with need. The air stinks of sweat and restraint. Still, he does not stop.

At twenty, he tosses the strap aside.

Gloved fingers drag over your abused skin, testing. You flinch at every brush. Your body is trembling so hard the steel shakes around you. Then—cool gel, clinical, dispensed from a tube. He spreads it without warning, slick between your cheeks, across your hole.

Then a second hand joins the first—between your thighs. Two fingers inside you, curled and unforgiving. You writhe, trying not to cry out, but the gag he affixes next makes it moot. Leather. Strapped in tight. A ball to silence you.

“Too loud,” he says. “Protocol requires silence.”

Then the plug. Huge. Unrelenting. Cold.

He doesn’t stretch you. Doesn’t prepare you. Just pushes until your body gives. The plug seats deep, wide enough to burn, heavy enough that you feel it settle behind your cunt like a second heartbeat, thudding in time with your pulse.

And then he fucks you. Without warning, his cock—hard, hot, brutal—presses into your dripping cunt. The stretch is overwhelming. Too full. Plugged. Gagged. Pinned.

He fucks you like a drill. No praise. No name. Just breath and thrust and grip. His hands clamp your hips like restraints. His rhythm is relentless—brutal, deep, calibrated for devastation.

You scream around the gag. Muffled. Useless.

Tears stream freely now. Every nerve alight. His cock slams into you again and again, slapping your ass, shaking the entire pillory. Your body is drenched in sweat. Your pussy flutters, overstimulated and helpless. Your ass burns from the plug, from the strikes, from the weight of him.

You come without permission—ripped from you in spasms, helpless and raw. The climax tears through you, violent, consuming.

Then again. And again. Your vision whites out. Your body convulses. The gag catches your cries. Your breath turns ragged, shallow. Your mind teeters.

He fucks you through it. Until your limbs stop responding. Until you can no longer sob—only shake.

Then he comes. No grunt. No shout. Just the hard, final press of his body as he spills deep inside you.

He pulls out slow. Deliberate. Letting you feel every inch slide from your ruined hole.

Then silence. He removes the gag. The straps. The plug. One by one. His gloves are stained. Your thighs are soaked. He crouches. Lifts your chin with a finger.

“Good soldier,” he says.

Then he’s gone. His footsteps fade, swallowed by the cold. You’re left in silence—raw, open, trembling in the dark. The echo of the pillory creaks faintly in your ears. Your pulse pounds in your throat.