#fantasysmutscenes

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.