#hunkxreader

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.

Scene Start:

The secure Umbrella command center was eerily quiet, lit only by the dim blue glow of a computer monitor. The hum of servers filled the room like a distant storm. HUNK—yes, the Grim Reaper—sat stoically in full tactical gear. His mask was on. His gloves tapped rhythmically against the keyboard as he leaned into the screen. His mission debriefing? Complete, filed with terrifying efficiency. His field report? Flawless, naturally. His kill count? So high even HR pretends the file doesn't exist.

His current objective?

"Chapter 14: Tactical Submission — Part 2."

He clicked.

"The air was thick with tension as she shoved HUNK against the wall. 'You’re always in control,' she growled. 'Let’s see how you like following orders for once.'"

He tilted his head.

“…Damn,” he muttered, his voice muffled under the helmet.

He was about to continue when the door to the control room hissed open.

“Yo, you comin’ to the briefing or—?” an operative started, holding a clipboard.

HUNK shut his laptop with spine-snapping speed.

“No.”

The operative blinked. “You… okay, boss?”

“…Tactical reasons,” HUNK replied flatly, standing stiff as a board.

You, in pajamas, sipping from a chipped mug that reads “#1 Simp,” while giggling at the notification: *New Kudos from SilentReaper95.*