u/Boring_Ad_8147

A Highschool DxD one shot about our favorite petite girls. A disclaimer that needs to be mentioned, all characters are 18+ and are consenting adult.

I wrote this earlier for fun. This story gets right into, so I hope you enjoy!

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Ophis and Koneko kneel naked on the wooden floor, their petite bodies pressed close. Two large dogs prowl around them. One dog lowers its head to Ophis, sniffing her smooth pussy before mounting her. Its front legs clamp around her slim waist as the red, veined cock drives straight into her tight cunt. Ophis lets out a sharp breath when the thick shaft stretches her open and starts pounding deep with fast, urgent thrusts. Her small frame rocks forward with every slam.

Next to her, the second dog climbs onto Koneko. It rams its cock into her pussy in a single hard thrust, burying itself to the base. Koneko spreads her legs wider as the animal fucks her, its balls slapping against her skin. Both girls jolt forward from the force, their small asses jiggling. The dogs rut them without pause, cocks swelling inside their slick holes.

Ophis reaches over and grips Koneko's hand, fingers locking together while the animals fuck harder. The first dog's knot swells, stretching Ophis wider as its cock pulses and shoots hot cum straight into her womb. Koneko's dog knots her seconds later, flooding her pussy with thick spurts. Cum leaks out around the swollen bases and drips down their thighs.

The dogs stay locked inside the girls, hips twitching as they empty their loads. Ophis and Koneko remain on all fours, panting, their pussies stretched and filled while the knots keep them tied.

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Remember this is a one shot AU, so nothing exactly lines up. I hope your enjoyed!!

Hey Guys, I know you have enjoyed this, but I am no longer posting this story on Reddit I moving it over to AO3, so if you really like this story then I will have all the chapters I have posted so far up tomorrow. Thank you for reading my story, hope to see y’all again soon.

This is a fun one, lots of foreshadowing.

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She stood under the spray until the water ran cold.
The guest room was silent when she stepped out, steam curling toward the ceiling, her skin pink and glistening. She dried herself slowly—not because she was thinking, but because she wasn't. Her body knew what it wanted. Her mind had stopped pretending it had a vote.
The black turtleneck lay on the vanity, untouched. She pulled on her underwear, her jeans, left the shirt where it was. The night air hit her bare arms, raised goosebumps, and she welcomed the cold. It kept her from thinking too hard.
The hallway stretched before her, dark wood and old money, the kind of silence that felt watched even when no one was there. She knew every shadow in this manor—had mapped them from the outside, months ago, casing the place for a job she never took. Funny how she'd ended up here anyway. Just not the way she'd planned.
Her bare feet made no sound on the runner. The stairs groaned once beneath her weight, a familiar complaint, and she ran her hand along the banister—mahogany, polished to a gleam, worn smooth by generations of Waynes who'd gripped it in haste or sorrow or joy. She wondered if Bruce ever thought about that. The ghosts in the wood. Probably not. He had other ghosts.
The study door was cracked open, the same crack she'd left it. A sliver of amber light bled into the dark hallway, and her heart kicked once—hard—before she pushed the door wider.
The fire had burned low, embers glowing like buried coals, casting the room in a dim, shifting warmth. The armchair where she'd spent the night sat empty, the cushions still dented. And on the rug before the hearth, Ace lay sprawled, his massive head on his paws, his dark brown eyes finding her the moment she stepped through the threshold.
He didn't get up. His tail swept once across the rug—a slow, heavy thump—and his gaze held hers with that unsettling intelligence she'd felt the first time, the sense that he saw past her skin, past her clever words, to something raw and unguarded.
She closed the door behind her. The latch clicked, final as a held breath.
"Hey, boy." Her voice was rougher than she meant. She cleared her throat, crossed the room, and lowered herself to the rug beside him. The wool was thick beneath her knees, scratchy through her jeans, and the heat from the dying fire washed over her bare arms.
Ace shifted, lifting his head, and she felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing. He was so large—impossibly large, a creature built for power, for the chase, for bringing down things that ran. And he had let her touch him, had taken her with a patience that bordered on tenderness, had left her wrecked and aching and hungry for more.
Her hand found his flank, the coarse black fur warm beneath her fingers. He leaned into her touch, and a low rumble started in his chest—not a growl, not quite a purr, something between. Satisfaction. Recognition.
"I came back," she whispered, and the words felt foolish even as she said them. Like he needed her to tell him. Like he didn't already know.
His tongue lolled out, and he huffed a warm breath against her wrist.
She laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of her, and it cracked something loose in her chest. She hadn't expected to laugh tonight. Hadn't expected any of this.
The fire popped. A log settled, sending a spray of sparks up the chimney. The room smelled of woodsmoke and dust and him—that musky, animal scent that had clung to her clothes, her skin, her hair, that she'd washed away in the shower and immediately regretted.
She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his shoulder, and breathed him in. Deep. Filling her lungs. Letting the ache settle into her bones the way it had in the bathroom, the way it had when she'd tasted herself on her fingers and known she wasn't done.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she murmured into his fur. "I never do this. I never—"
She stopped. Because she was talking to a dog. A very large, very patient dog who had fucked her senseless and was now watching her with the calm of a creature who had never doubted she'd return.
She pulled back, met his eyes. He blinked slowly, and she could have sworn there was amusement in that look. Judgment, maybe. Or the canine equivalent of I told you so.
"Shut up," she said, but there was no heat in it.
She shifted, settling onto her knees, and the movement pulled at the soreness between her thighs—a dull, pleasant ache that made her breath catch. She was still tender, still swollen, still carrying the memory of how completely he had filled her. And the thought of it, the memory of his weight, his rhythm, the low rumble in his chest as he'd taken her—
Her thighs pressed together. A reflexive clench. She felt the heat bloom in her belly, the slow drip of wanting, and she didn't bother to stop it.
Ace rose. Not fast—a controlled, deliberate movement, his massive body unfolding from the rug with a grace that belied his size. He stood over her, his shadow falling across her, and she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.
He was hard. She could see it, the thick shape of his arousal emerging from its sheath, dark and glistening, already straining toward her. Her mouth went dry.
"You're not wasting any time," she said, and her voice came out low, rough, a purr she hadn't intended.
He stepped closer, his chest brushing her shoulder, and she felt the heat of him through her thin top. His breath was warm on her neck, and she let her head fall back, exposing her throat, a surrender she offered without thinking.
His nose pressed against her pulse, and he inhaled—deep, slow, as if he was tasting her on the air. She shivered. Her hands found his flanks, gripping the thick fur, steadying herself.
"Okay," she breathed. "Okay."
She lowered herself to her elbows, letting her forehead rest on her folded arms, the rug scratching her skin through the thin fabric of her top. The position was instinctive, primal—presenting herself, offering herself, the curve of her back bare to him. She heard him move behind her, felt the displacement of air, the heat of his body settling into place.
His front legs came up on either side of her hips, caging her in, and she felt the weight of him—not pressing down, just there, a promise of pressure that made her breath come faster. His chest grazed her back, and she felt the vibration of his growl through her spine, a low, rumbling sound that was not a threat.
She was wet. She could feel it, the slick heat between her thighs, the way her body was already opening for him, ready for him, hungry for him. She pressed back, just a little, an invitation, and felt the broad, blunt head of him nudge against her through the fabric of her jeans.
A soft sound escaped her—a whimper, she realized, and she didn't care. She reached back, fumbling with the button of her jeans, her fingers clumsy and urgent. The zipper rasped, and she pushed the denim down, just enough, baring herself to the warm air of the study.
Ace's breath was hot against her lower back, and she felt his tongue—rough, wet, a broad stroke that made her gasp and arch into him. He licked her again, the flat of his tongue sliding over her slick folds, and she cried out, her fingers curling into the rug, her hips pushing back against his mouth.
"Please," she heard herself say, and she had never begged for anything in her life, not like this, not with her voice breaking and her body trembling and the word please falling from her lips like a prayer.
He answered.
The pressure of him, the thick head of his cock pressing against her entrance, stretching her, and she dug her forehead into her arms and bit her lip until she tasted copper. He pushed, and she felt every inch of him—the slick heat, the impossible fullness, the way her body yielded around him, accepted him, pulled him deeper.
She was sober this time. Every nerve ending alive, every sensation sharp and distinct and devastating. The roughness of the rug beneath her knees. The crackle of the dying fire. The weight of him inside her, the way he filled her so completely she could barely breathe. She heard herself moan, long and low, a sound she had never made before, and she didn't recognize her own voice.
He began to move. Slow, deliberate thrusts that dragged against her inner walls, that found every sensitive place and pressed, that left her gasping and trembling and clinging to the rug like it was the only solid thing left in the world.
She rocked back against him, meeting his rhythm, and the sound of their bodies—the wet slide, the soft slap of skin, his breathing, hers—filled the study like music. Her mind went blank. There was nothing but this. The heat. The fullness. The perfect, consuming weight of him.
A creak.
It cut through the haze, a small sound, the kind of sound a floorboard makes when someone shifts their weight. Her body went still, every muscle locked. Ace paused behind her, and she felt his growl—not at her, at the door—a low, warning rumble that vibrated through his chest and into her spine.
She turned her head.
The study door was open. Not wide, just a crack, the same crack she'd left it. And through that crack, in the dim light of the hallway, a figure stood.
Bruce.
His silhouette filled the opening, backlit by the faint glow from the sconces in the hall. She couldn't see his face clearly, but she didn't need to. She knew the shape of him—the broad shoulders, the stillness, the way he held himself like a man who had seen everything and was no longer surprised by any of it.
Time stretched. The fire popped. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
She should move. Should cover herself, say something, explain—God, what could she possibly say. But she didn't move. She held perfectly still, Ace still inside her, his warmth still pressed against her back, and she watched Bruce watch her through the crack in the door.
His hand moved. A slow, deliberate motion, dropping to his waist. She heard the soft clink of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper, and her breath caught in her throat.
He didn't step into the room. He stayed in the doorway, in the shadows, and she watched him pull himself free—his cock, half-hard already, thickening in his hand as he stroked himself once, twice, a slow, deliberate motion that made her stomach clench.
Smaller than Ace. Of course. But the hunger in his eyes—she could see it now, a glint of something raw and desperate and utterly human—matched the dog's. Matched her own.
She didn't look away.
She rocked back against Ace, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, and felt him slide deeper, felt the stretch and the burn and the overwhelming fullness, and she held Bruce's gaze through the crack in the door and let him see everything.
Her lips curved. A slow, private smile, the same one she'd worn in the bathroom mirror. You wanted to see, that smile said. So see.
Ace began to move again, his thrusts finding their rhythm, and she let her head fall forward, let her body surrender to the pleasure, but she kept her eyes on the door. On the shadow in the hallway. On the hand moving against his own length, matching the rhythm Ace had set inside her.
The fire crackled. The room was warm and dark and full of the sound of her breathing, the wet sound of Ace moving inside her, the soft, ragged gasp from the hallway that told her Bruce was not as composed as he pretended to be.
She rode the wave. Let it build. Let it crest. And when she came—when the pleasure broke over her like a tide, pulling her under, drowning her—she let herself cry out, let Bruce hear every shameless, animal sound she made, let him watch her fall apart on his dog's cock.
Her body clenched around Ace, pulsing, and she felt him thrust deeper, felt the hot pulse of his release flooding her, and she let it wash through her, let herself be filled, let the warmth spread through her core and settle into her bones like a promise.
She collapsed forward, her cheek pressed to the rug, her body trembling, her mind blank and soft and utterly spent. Behind her, Ace pulled out, and she felt the slow drip of him leaking from her, trailing down her inner thigh.
The door creaked. A soft footstep, retreating. And then the click of a latch, closing, leaving her alone in the dark with the fire and the dog and the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same.
Ace's growl deepened. Not the rumbling acknowledgment from before—something lower, darker, a sound that vibrated through her ribs and settled in her spine like a warning. His front claws dented the rug on either side of her hips, and she felt the shift in him, the coiled tension that had nothing to do with patience and everything to do with hunger.
He thrust. Hard. The broad head of him jabbed against her, but the angle was wrong—it caught on her slick folds, slid along her thigh, pressed against her entrance but didn't find it. She gasped at the blunt pressure, the near miss, the way he searched for her and couldn't quite land.
Again. His hips drove forward, and again the angle betrayed him—his cock slid past her pussy, dragging wet against her labia, leaving her empty and aching and desperate for him to find his mark. A frustrated sound rumbled from his chest, and she felt his breath hot on her lower back, felt the controlled rage in his massive frame.
"Easy," she breathed, but the word came out ragged, not a command—a plea. "Easy, boy. Let me—"
She reached back. Her fingers found the base of his shaft, slick with her own wetness, with the remnants of his previous release still glistening on her skin. She was so wet—so ready for him—and her fingers slipped as she tried to guide him, tried to angle him toward her entrance, tried to show him where she needed him most.
He thrust into her hand.
But her movement had shifted her hips, changed the alignment, and instead of finding her pussy, instead of sliding into that familiar slick heat, his cock pressed against a tighter ring of muscle. Her asshole. The blunt head pushed against it, and she felt the resistance, the impossibility of it, and she went rigid.
"Wait—" she started, but the word dissolved into a strangled cry as he drove forward.
The pressure was immense. A stretching, burning intrusion that she had never imagined, never prepared for, that cleaved through her like a blade of fire and fullness. She felt every millimeter of his invasion—the pop of resistance as her body gave way, the slow, relentless slide as he buried himself deeper than she thought possible, the way her own cry filled the study, animal and raw and utterly undone.
She was impaled. His cock buried in her ass, the full length of him seated inside a channel that had never been breached, that clenched and spasmed around him as if trying to decide whether to reject or accept. Her fingers curled into the rug, and she bit down on her lip so hard she tasted copper again, and the pain—sharp, exquisite, devastating—bloomed through her pelvis like a dark flower opening.
Behind her, Ace shuddered. A low, satisfied growl rumbled through his chest, and she felt his tongue on her spine, a wet, rough stroke that was almost tender. He was still. Giving her time. Letting her body adjust to the impossible fullness, the violation, the gift.
She breathed. Once. Twice. The burn didn't fade, but it softened, and beneath it she felt something else—a deep, resonant pressure, the ache of being filled in a place no one had ever reached before. Her thighs trembled. Her pussy clenched around nothing, wanting, and she realized she was dripping onto the rug beneath her.
She rocked back. A tiny, experimental shift, and the sensation—the fullness, the stretch, the way he seemed to reach all the way up into her stomach—made her cry out again, a sound that was half-sob, half-moan. Ace took it as permission.
He began to move.
Slow at first. Withdrew to the crown, then pressed back in, each inch of his reentry carving a path through her that her body was learning to accept. The drag was different here—tighter, hotter, the friction almost unbearable. She felt every ridge of him, every pulse, the way his thickness stretched her wide open.
Her hand found her own cunt. Pressed. Found her clit swollen and desperate. She rubbed herself in rhythm with his thrusts, and the dual sensation—his cock in her ass, her fingers on her clit—built a wave that crested faster than she expected, that pulled her under before she could catch her breath.
She came with a broken cry, her body clenching around him, and she felt him drive deeper, felt his own release surge into her—hot, pulsing, filling the channel that had never held anything before. She took it. All of it. Her body accepted the flood, the heat, the claiming of a place she hadn't known she wanted to give.
When it was over, she collapsed. Her cheek pressed to the rug, her body limp and trembling, his seed leaking from her asshole in a slow, steady trickle. Above her, Ace panted, his chest heaving, his weight still pressed against her back, grounding her, holding her in the wreckage of what they had done.
The fire popped. The room was warm and dark and full of the smell of sex and smoke and him. And somewhere in the manor, in the silence, she could almost hear Bruce's breathing—ragged, hungry, waiting.
She lay there, cheek pressed to the wool, feeling the slow leak of him cooling on her skin, the fire muttering its last embers. Above her, Ace panted, his chest heaving, and she felt the weight of him settle against her flank as he folded himself down beside her, his massive head finding her shoulder. She didn't move. Didn't want to. The room smelled of them—sharp and salt and smoke—and somewhere in the manor's bones, she could feel Bruce breathing, waiting, his ragged hunger still pulsing through the walls like a second heartbeat.
Minutes passed. Or hours. The fire died to ash, and the cold crept in, and eventually she pushed herself up on trembling arms. Her thighs were sticky, her ass sore in a way that made her breath catch when she moved, and she picked herself off the rug like she was made of broken glass. The study's half-bath was dark, and she found the light switch by memory, ran a damp cloth over herself in the mirror's unforgiving glare. Her eyes were too bright. Her lips were bitten raw. She looked like a woman who had been taken apart and reassembled wrong.
She left the cloth in the sink, stepped back into the study. Ace watched from the rug, his head on his paws, his dark eyes tracking her as she pulled on her jeans, left her top hanging loose. The hallway was darker now—the sconces had dimmed on their timer, and the silence was deeper, the kind of silence that came after midnight and pressed against your eardrums like water.
She didn't know where she was going. Her feet carried her down the corridor, past closed doors she'd never opened, past portraits of dead Waynes whose eyes followed her with painted judgment. The manor was a labyrinth of wealth and grief, and she was a thief wandering through the guts of it, still carrying the heat of what she'd done between her thighs.
A door. Ajar. A sliver of blue light bleeding into the dark hall—the cold glow of a computer screen, unattended. She shouldn't look. She knew she shouldn't look. But her hand found the wood, and she pushed, just a fraction, just enough to see inside.
Barbara Gordon sat at a desk in the dim room, her auburn hair loose, her shoulders hunched forward in an oversized sweater. She was scrolling. Her face was half-lit by the monitor, and Selina saw the expression there—the same furtive, guilty intensity she'd seen on her own face in the bathroom mirror. The screen flickered, and the search bar was still visible, the text glowing in the dark: canine-human…
Selina's breath stopped. The rest of the query was cut off by a tab that Barbara clicked open—a forum, anonymous avatars, a thread title that made Selina's stomach drop and her pulse spike in the same instant. Barbara's hand moved to the mouse, scrolled, paused, her jaw tight, her gaze fixed on something Selina couldn't see but could imagine, could feel in the heat still clinging to her own skin.
A floorboard creaked. Barbara's head snapped up, and she slammed the laptop shut, her face flushed, her eyes wide. But the hallway was empty—Selina had already pulled back, had already stepped into the shadow of a recessed door, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She pressed her spine to the wall and breathed through her mouth, shallow and silent, and the image burned behind her eyes: Batgirl, Barbara Gordon, daughter of the commissioner, searching for the same thing Selina had found on her hands and knees on the study rug.
She walked away. Didn't run. Walked, steady and deliberate, her bare feet silent on the runner, and she felt the manor shift around her like a living thing, its secrets pressing against the walls, trying to breathe. Three women in this house, she thought. Bruce, and the dog, and the hunger that ran through them all like a dark river.
The stairs groaned beneath her weight as she climbed, and she didn't stop until she reached the guest room. The bed was still made, the sheets cool and untouched, and she sat on the edge of it in the dark, her hands folded in her lap, her body still aching and full. She should sleep. She should leave. She should do a hundred sensible things that had never once crossed her mind in her entire life.
The window faced east, and she watched the sky lighten, a slow bleed of grey into black, the first birds beginning their tentative calls. She didn't move. She sat there until the room filled with pale dawn light, until the shadows retreated and the furniture became itself again—a dresser, a chair, a lamp she'd never plugged in.
When she finally stood, her legs were stiff, her joints clicking. She pulled on her turtleneck, found her boots by the door, and laced them slowly. The mirror over the vanity showed her a woman she barely recognized—hair tangled, eyes shadowed, lips still swollen from biting back cries. She looked like she'd been through a war. She looked like she'd won.
The study was empty when she passed it. The fire was cold ash, the rug still dented from their bodies, and the armchair where she'd first surrendered sat empty, its leather marked with the ghost of her sweat. Ace was gone. The room smelled of stale smoke and sex, and she breathed it in one last time before she pulled the door closed.
On the desk, a note. Bruce's handwriting—sharp, efficient, every letter cut like a blade. Breakfast at eight. We'll talk. No signature. No threat. Just the promise of a conversation she wasn't ready for, written in ink that had bled slightly at the edges of the W.
She folded the note neatly and tucked it into her pocket. The manor was waking around her—footsteps somewhere above, the distant clatter of a pan in the kitchen, the muffled voice of Alfred speaking on the phone. She stood in the hall, the morning light slanting through the tall windows, and she felt the weight of the night pressing down on her like a second skin.
A door opened behind her. She didn't turn.
"Miss Kyle." Alfred's voice, measured and calm, carrying the faintest note of something she couldn't identify—amusement, perhaps, or resignation. "Breakfast will be served in the main dining room. Master Wayne has asked me to inform you that he will be joining you."
She turned then. The butler stood in the corridor, impeccably dressed, his hands clasped behind his back, his face unreadable. He had seen everything, she realized. Had probably seen her cross the foyer at dawn, had seen the state of the study, had seen the note on the desk. And he had chosen to say nothing but what was required.
"Thank you, Alfred." Her voice came out steady. She was grateful for that.
He nodded once, a small incline of his head, and disappeared down the hall.
She stood alone in the morning light, the note warm against her thigh, the memory of Barbara's flushed face and frantic tab-close flickering behind her eyes like a dying flame. The manor hummed with secrets, each one heavier than the last, and she was standing at the center of them, still smelling of dog and sex and the strange, impossible hunger that had brought her here.
She touched her pocket. The paper crackled. And she began to walk toward the dining room, toward Bruce, toward whatever came next.

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I enjoyed writing part 2, next chapter we are looking forward to Selina having a talk with Bruce about her fucking Ace, and then as you guessed Barbara will be joining Ace’s harem, planning to make Ace take many women in the Batverse as his own. Bruce is a complete cuck in this story, I like Batman just as much as y’all, but it is just so much hotter to cuck him.

Haven’t posted in a while because I was writing this. Moderately Long. Chapter 1, so more to come.

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The guest room smelled like cedar and something floral—lilies, maybe, or jasmine—the kind of expensive nothing that meant a housekeeper had been through hours ago. Selina lay on her back, the silk sheets twisted around her legs, and counted the seconds between lightning and thunder. Seven seconds. A mile off. Close enough to feel the house's bones shiver when the next crack came.
She'd been in worse places. Rooftops during a chemical storm. Air ducts while a building's ventilation system cycled something that burned her throat. A safe room the size of a coffin, waiting for the alarm system to cycle down. This was a bed softer than any she'd ever owned, in a room that cost more per night than most people's rent, and she couldn't sleep.
Because it was his. Because the sheets smelled faintly of the cedar he kept in his closets, and the robe hanging on the bathroom door was cashmere he'd left for her, and the whole thing felt like a trap dressed in hospitality. Bruce Wayne didn't let people stay the night. He certainly didn't leave them robes and a full bathroom and a pitcher of water on the nightstand with a single glass.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet found the cold hardwood, and she stood there in the borrowed robe—too big, the sleeves falling past her wrists, the hem brushing her knees—and listened.
Nothing. The house had that deep, settling silence of a place built to hold secrets. The storm did the work of covering sounds, but underneath it, the manor was still. No footsteps. No creaking floors. No breathing but her own.
She moved before she decided to. A thief's reflex: case the joint. Learn the exits. Find the places that didn't match the public tour. She'd been shown to the guest room like a visiting diplomat, but she hadn't been shown the rest of the house, and that omission itched under her skin like an un picked lock.
The hallway ran long and dark, lit only by the occasional sconce burning low. Portraits lined the walls—Waynes going back generations, their painted eyes following her with that particular stillness of old money watching new trespassers. She counted doors. Windows. The thickness of the curtains in the rooms she passed. Memorized the distance to the main staircase, the servants' stairs, the narrow passage she spotted behind a tapestry that probably led to something useful.
Her bare feet found the silent spots in the floorboards without conscious thought. The sixth stair from the top creaked. The eighth board from the banister groaned. She filed it away and kept moving, the robe whispering against her calves.
The study door was open.
Not an invitation—it hung a few inches ajar, probably from the housekeeper's final rounds or Bruce's own restless habits. But it was enough. She pushed it wider with one finger, the light spilling out across the dark hallway like amber water.
The fire had burned low, coals glowing orange in the grate. Books lined every wall, floor to ceiling, their spines a mosaic of leather and gold leaf. A globe the size of her torso sat in one corner, showing a map of a world that no longer existed. A desk dominated the center of the room—mahogany, enormous, scattered with papers she absolutely should not read if she wanted to maintain the fiction that she was here as a guest.
She read three lines before she stopped herself. Something about a shipment in the harbor. Nothing useful. She turned away.
The liquor cabinet stood against the far wall, a heavy piece of carved walnut with a cut-crystal decanter sitting on its surface like an offering. She crossed to it without deliberation, her hand finding the stopper, lifting it, bringing the crystal to her nose. Scotch. Single malt, probably older than she was, the kind of bottle that cost more than her first car.
She poured two fingers into a lowball glass that had definitely been polished by hand. Raised it to the firelight. Watched the amber catch the glow and held it there a moment—a toast to nothing, to the absurdity of her being here at all, to the man who'd invited her inside when he should have called the police.
The whiskey burned warm down her throat. She let it settle, let the heat spread through her chest, and poured another two fingers.
She was reaching for the decanter again when she felt it—a shift in the air, a weight in the room that hadn't been there a moment before. The small hairs on her arms rose. Her hand stilled on the crystal stopper.
Very slowly, she turned.
The doorway was filled.
Ace stood there, massive and black, his dark brown eyes catching the firelight like polished stone. The white patch on his chest gleamed like a crescent moon, and his head was level with her waist even at this distance. He made no sound. No growl, no bark, no warning. He simply stood, filling the space, watching her with a stillness that felt older than any guard dog's vigilance.
Selina's fingers tightened on the glass. Her other hand hung loose at her side, ready to move, to block, to grab the letter opener she'd spotted on the desk nine feet to her left.
Ace blinked. Slow. Deliberate. Not a threat—acknowledgment.
She'd seen dogs before. Guard dogs, attack dogs, dogs trained to kill on command. This wasn't that. This was something else. His gaze held her not with aggression but with attention, the kind of focus that said he'd seen her come down the hall, heard her open the study door, known exactly where she was from the moment she'd left the guest room. And he hadn't raised an alarm. He'd waited.
She took a sip of the whiskey. Held his gaze over the rim of the glass.
He stepped forward. One massive paw, then another, crossing the threshold into the study with a grace that belied his size. His claws clicked softly on the hardwood, and his head swung low as he moved, those dark eyes never leaving her face. He circled the desk—not to put distance between them, but to draw closer, to come around the obstacle and stand in the clear space near the fire, where she could see all of him.
She could have left. The door was still open. The hallway was clear. She could have set down the glass, walked past him, returned to the guest room, and locked the door. He wouldn't follow her there. She knew that, somehow, with the same certainty she knew the number of exits from this room.
She didn't move.
The fire popped. A log settled. The amber light shifted across his black coat, catching the muscle beneath the fur, the deep rise and fall of his ribs as he breathed. His head came up, his nostrils flaring once, twice—reading the air, reading her. The scent of the whiskey, her skin, the storm on the windows. All of it passing through that dark gaze and being weighed.
She set down the glass. The crystal clicked against the walnut, and the sound felt louder than it should have in the thick silence.
Ace took another step. Close enough now that she could feel the heat coming off him—a massive furnace of a body, his chest at the level of her hip, his head tilting up to meet her eyes. He was enormous. She'd known that from seeing him in the foyer when she arrived, a shadow at the edge of her vision, a presence that Bruce had acknowledged with a single quiet command. But up close, in the firelight, with no one else in the room—he was something else entirely. His jaw could close around her forearm and crush it. His weight could pin her to the floor without effort. And those eyes, those dark brown eyes, held something that made her breath catch in her throat.
Not aggression. Not hunger. Something else. Something that looked like recognition.
Her hand moved before she told it to. Lifted from her side, palm open, fingers loose. She held it there, halfway between them, an offering she hadn't decided to make.
He watched her hand. His gaze tracked its movement, and then he stepped forward again—one more stride, his massive head lowering, his breath warm against her bare fingers.
He didn't press into her touch. He waited. Let her complete the gesture or withdraw it. The choice sat between them, suspended in the firelight, and the silence stretched until she could hear her own pulse in her ears.
She touched him.
Her fingers brushed the top of his skull, the short fur there, the warmth of his skin beneath it. He didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. His eyes closed once, slowly, and when they opened again, something in them had shifted. Something softer. Something that made her chest ache with a feeling she didn't have a name for.
"You're supposed to be guarding the house," she murmured, her voice rough from the whiskey and the strangeness of the moment.
Ace's tail moved once, a slow sweep across the rug, the only answer he gave.
She let her hand rest there, on his skull, her fingers curling slightly into the warmth of his fur. The fire crackled. The storm rumbled in the distance, moving off, taking the worst of its fury with it. And they stayed like that, the thief and the hound, the room settling into a quiet that felt less like a standoff and more like a beginning.
When she finally drew her hand back, he followed. Stepped with her as she moved toward the fireplace, as she settled into the leather armchair that still held the shape of Bruce's body. Ace laid his massive head on her knee, his weight a question she still didn't know how to answer, and she let him.
The whiskey was a warm river in her chest, loosening the knots she’d carried since she stepped through the manor’s front door. Selina let her hand drift down from Ace’s skull, fingers trailing over his ear—velvet soft, then the ridge of cartilage, then the short fur at his jaw. He leaned into the touch, his massive head a weight that settled deeper into her lap, and she felt the rumble of a low, contented sound travel through his throat.
“You’re not much of a guard dog, are you?” she murmured, the words slurring just slightly at the edges. She reached for the whiskey glass on the side table—found it, refilled it from the decanter she’d brought with her without remembering having done so. The amber liquid caught the firelight as she raised it to her lips. “Letting a thief pet you. Letting her drink his whiskey. Bruce would be disappointed.”
She took a long swallow. The warmth spread, pooling low in her belly, and she let her head fall back against the chair’s leather cushion. The ceiling was high, paneled in dark wood, shadows flickering across the grain. The storm had moved off, leaving only the hiss of rain against the windows and the occasional drip from the eaves.
And Ace’s breath, warm and even, against the inside of her thigh.
She looked down. His nose was pressed to the silk robe where it gaped over her knee, his nostrils flaring as he took in her scent. Not aggressive—curious. His dark eyes lifted to hers, and there was something in them she couldn’t read, something that made her breath catch.
“What?” she asked, her voice low, rough from the whiskey. “What do you want, boy?”
He didn’t answer. His head lifted from her knee, and he took a step back—just one, enough to clear space. Then his front paws came up, planting themselves on the armchair’s cushion on either side of her hips, and she felt the full weight of him as he hoisted himself onto the chair.
The leather groaned. Her thighs were suddenly spanned by his chest, his body filling the space between her legs, his breath hot against her stomach through the thin silk. She was caged by him—massive, warm, the scent of wet fur and clean dog and something deeper, muskier. Her hands flew up instinctively, palms flat against his chest, and she felt the solid wall of muscle beneath the black coat, the steady beat of his heart against her fingers.
“Easy,” she breathed, but it wasn’t a command. It was a question.
Ace lowered his head, his muzzle brushing the silk at her hip, then lower, along her thigh. His nose pressed into the crease where her leg met her body, and she felt the wet warmth of his breath through the fabric. She was bare beneath the robe—she’d taken off her clothes before trying to sleep, the borrowed silk the only layer between her skin and the cool air of the room. And now the air was replaced by him, by the heat of his body, by the shocking intimacy of his exploration.
She should stop this. She was a guest. He was a dog. The thought flickered and died as his tongue touched her—a long, warm stripe through the silk, directly over where she was already growing slick. Selina’s hips jerked, a small sound escaping her throat, and her fingers curled into the fur at his shoulders.
“You—that’s not—"
He did it again, firmer this time, his muzzle pressing deeper, and she felt the wetness of his tongue through the soaked fabric. The robe was clinging to her now, outlining the shape of her arousal, and he seemed to know exactly what he was doing. His dark eyes lifted to hers again, and she saw something cunning there, something that made her laugh—a low, breathless sound.
“You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?” She gave a short laugh. “Fine. Fine. Go on, then. Show me what Bruce’s dog is made of.”
She didn’t mean those words as permission. But Ace took them as one. He pressed his body forward, his chest against her stomach, and she felt it—the hard, slick length of him pressing against the inside of her thigh. Her breath caught. She looked down, and the firelight caught the shape of his erection: thick, deep red, emerging from the sheath with a glistening tip. It was huge—longer than any man she’d seen, and the base, the knot, swollen and smooth, promised a thickness that made her stomach clench with a mix of shock and arousal.
“Jesus,” she whispered, her eyes widening. “Bruce doesn’t have anything like that.”
Ace’s tail wagged once, a heavy thump against the chair’s arm, and his cock pulsed at the sound of her voice. Pre-cum beaded at the tip, a clear string that caught the firelight, and she watched it drip onto her thigh—a warm, slick trail that made her shiver.
She should have been disgusted. She should have pushed him off, retreated to the guest room, locked the door, and blamed the whiskey in the morning. But instead, her hand moved. Her fingers found his length, wrapping around the shaft just behind the head, and she felt the heat of him, the velvet skin over the steel-hard core, the pulse that beat against her palm.
“Look at you,” she murmured, stroking slowly, feeling the weight of him in her hand. “All this—and you’ve been holding back all night.”
Ace whimpered—a low, pleading sound that didn’t match his size. His hips twitched, a small thrust that pushed his cock through her grip, and she tightened her fingers, guiding him, exploring the shape of him. The knot, when she reached it, was a smooth, hot bulb that made her breath catch. She couldn’t wrap her hand around it. Her fingers didn’t meet.
“That’s… that’s going to take some work,” she said, her voice dropping. She released him, and he immediately rutted against her thigh, his slick cock sliding across her skin, leaving a trail of wetness. She felt the tip nudge the edge of her robe, then press between her legs, against the fabric that covered her cunt. The pressure was perfect—just enough to make her gasp, to make her hips rise to meet it.
“Oh, you want inside, don’t you?” She laughed again, the sound caught between a tease and a surrender. “You want to see if I can take it.”
She didn’t push her robe aside. Not yet. Instead, she let him rut against her through the silk, feeling the hard length of him slide along her slit, the fabric rubbing against her clit with each pass. Her head fell back, her fingers tangling in his fur, and she moaned—a sound that filled the quiet room, that belonged to no one but her.
“That’s it,” she breathed. “Just like that.”
His pace quickened. His breath was hot on her shoulder, his weight heavy across her body. The chair creaked beneath them, and the fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Her hand found his cock again, guiding it, pressing it harder against her, and she felt herself soaking through the silk, the fabric clinging to her skin.
“If you were a man,” she said, her voice ragged, “I’d tell you to fuck me. But you’re not. You’re better.”
The words felt true. There was no game here, no power play, no safe to crack. Just this: the heat of his body, the slick length of him against her, the raw, animal need that matched something in her own chest. She let go of her reservations, let go of the thief’s caution, and spread her thighs wider, inviting his pressure, chasing the friction.
Ace’s hips worked against her, his cock sliding through the wet silk, the tip catching at the edge of her opening even through the barrier. She felt a jolt of sensation—the promise of what was waiting—and she gripped the leather armrests, her knuckles white.
“Not yet,” she whispered, though she didn’t know who she was saying it to. Herself. Him. The question that hung in the firelight. “Not yet.”
But he didn’t stop. His rutting grew more urgent, his breath hot and heavy, and she felt his cock find the wet spot in the silk, the fabric now a thin membrane between him and the slick heat of her cunt. He pressed, and the pressure was a question—a demand—and she answered with a moan that was almost a sob, her hips lifting to meet him, her body already deciding before her mind could catch up.
The silk gave. Not tore—yielded, the wet fabric parting under the pressure of his cock as he drove forward, and the stretch was like nothing she'd ever felt. Her body opened around him, her cunt gripping the first inches of his shaft, and she cried out—a sharp, broken sound that she swallowed against his shoulder. He was thicker than any man, hotter, the slick-rough surface of his cock dragging against her inner walls as he pushed deeper, and the sensation was so overwhelming she forgot to breathe.
Her nails dug into his fur. Her legs, without her permission, rose from the armrests and wrapped around his barrel chest, her ankles crossing at the small of his back. She held him there, half-impaled, feeling the pulse of his cock inside her, the weight of his body pressing her into the leather. "More," she heard herself say, the word slurred and desperate. "Give me more."
Ace obeyed. His hips drove forward, seating himself to the hilt, and she felt the base of his cock—the swollen knot—press against her entrance, too wide to enter, but pushing, demanding. The stretch was a burn, a pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain, and she sobbed into his fur, her body clenching around him in a wave that surprised her. An orgasm, sudden and violent, ripped through her without warning, and she felt her cunt grip him, milk him, pull him deeper even as she shuddered beneath him.
He didn't stop. His rhythm was steady—a rocking motion that drove his cock into her again and again, the knot pressing at her entrance with each thrust, the slick sound of their bodies filling the quiet study. The fire had burned low, the amber light casting long shadows across the bookshelves, and somewhere in the manor a clock struck a hour she didn't count. She was lost in the sensation, in the drag of his shaft against her walls, in the way his breath came hot and heavy against her throat.
"That's it," she gasped, her voice raw. "Just like that. Don't stop."
He didn't. His pace quickened, his massive body working over hers, and she felt the next orgasm building—a pressure low in her belly that grew with each thrust. Her fingers found the white patch on his chest, the fur damp with sweat, and she held on as the wave crested and broke, her back arching off the chair, her cry swallowed by the crackling fire.
Time lost meaning. The clock struck again—one hour, then two, then three. The fire died to embers, then to ash. The rain stopped. The storm moved on, leaving only the deep silence of the manor and the wet, rhythmic sound of Ace's cock sliding into her. She lost count of her orgasms. They blurred together, each one building on the last, until she was a creature of pure sensation, her body a vessel for his rhythm, her mind empty of everything but the feel of him inside her.
His rhythm changed. The steady rocking grew urgent, his hips driving harder, deeper, and she felt the knot at his base—swollen now, thick and hot—press against her entrance with a force that made her gasp. "Yes," she breathed, her legs tightening around him. "Do it. Lock me. Fill me."
He drove forward, and the knot pushed past her entrance with a wet, yielding stretch that made her scream. Her body seized around him, a climax so intense she saw white at the edges of her vision, and she felt the knot swell inside her, locking them together, sealing him inside her. His cock pulsed—once, twice, a third time—and she felt the first flood of his cum, hot and thick, filling her deeper than anything she'd ever known.
Her hand found her belly. Pressed against the skin there, felt the warmth spreading, the slight swell that grew with each pulse of his release. She looked down—her stomach was distended, a visible curve beneath the rumpled silk, and the sight of it made her laugh, a breathless, delirious sound. "Look at that," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Look what you did to me."
Ace's breath was hot against her neck, his body heavy and still, the knot holding them together as his cum continued to spill into her. Minutes passed—ten, twenty, thirty—and she lay beneath him, her hand on the swell of her belly, feeling the heat of his seed inside her, the weight of his body pinning her to the chair. She was drunk. She was exhausted. She was filled in a way she'd never been filled before.
When the knot finally softened, when he pulled out with a wet sound that made her shiver, she felt the loss of him like an absence in her bones. His cum leaked from her, a warm stream that soaked the ruined silk, and she lay there, her legs still weak, her body trembling with the aftershocks of a night she would never forget.
She stood on legs that barely held her. The robe was ruined—soaked, torn, clinging to her skin in ways that revealed everything. She found her clothes where she'd left them, in the guest room down the hall, and she pulled them on with hands that shook. The black turtleneck. The dark jeans. The boots she'd worn through a dozen cities, a dozen heists. She dressed as best she could, the fabric sticking to her skin, the scent of him still on her.
She made it back to the armchair. The leather was still warm, still wet with the evidence of what they'd done. She sank into it, her body giving out, her eyes heavy, and she felt Ace's head settle on her thigh—a weight that felt like a claim, like a promise.
Her hand found his ear. Stroked once, twice, as the darkness crept in at the edges of her vision. The last thing she saw was the firelight catching the white patch on his chest, glowing like a crescent moon in the dying embers.
Dawn came gray through the tall windows, the storm's last clouds pale ghosts against a sky the color of old bone. Selina's eyes opened to a ceiling she didn't recognize—dark paneled wood, a crack in the plaster shaped like a question mark—and for a long second she hung in that suspended space between sleep and waking, her body warm, heavy, aching in places that had no business aching. Then the memory hit her like a wave of heat and shame and something else, something that made her thighs press together before her mind could catch up.
She lay still. The armchair's leather was cold against her bare legs where the robe had ridden up, and she felt the dried slickness between her thighs, the tacky evidence of a night that couldn't have happened. Ace's head was no longer on her—he was curled on the rug beside the chair, a massive black shape breathing slow and even, one ear twitching in his sleep. The fire had died to ash. The decanter on the side table was nearly empty, and the glass next to it held a finger of amber she didn't remember pouring.
She sat up slowly, every muscle protesting. Her hand found her belly beneath the ruined robe—still tender, still slightly rounded, as if his seed had left a shape that wouldn't easily fade. She pressed there, feeling the warmth of it, and told herself it was disgust. Told herself she was a thief, not a—what? What had she been last night? Her mouth tasted of whiskey and something saltier, and she forced herself to stand.
The robe clung to her skin in patches. She peeled it off, dropping it to the study floor, and stood naked in the gray morning light. The air was cool. Her skin flushed. She found her clothes folded on the desk chair where she'd left them—black turtleneck, dark jeans, boots—and she dressed with mechanical precision, as if the ritual of zippers and buttons could undo what her body remembered.
She caught movement in the corner of her eye. Ace had lifted his head, his dark eyes tracking her with that same quiet attention he'd worn all night. He didn't approach. He simply watched, his tail thumping once against the rug, and she felt a flush climb her throat that had nothing to do with shame.
She reached for the study door. Paused. The hallway stretched empty, still dark, the sconces dimmed to their lowest setting. She could walk away. Could find the front door, slip out before the housekeeper arrived, disappear into the Gotham morning and never think about this again. She took a step into the hallway. The floorboard under her boot creaked—the sixth stair from the top, she remembered, her thief's brain still cataloging—and the sound was so familiar, so hers, that she almost smiled.
Her thighs ached. She felt his seed shift inside her, a wet trickle that soaked the fabric of her jeans, and the sensation was so sudden, so visceral, that she stopped mid-stride. Her breath caught. Her hand braced against the wall, and she stood there in the dim hallway, trying to breathe through the wave of heat that rose from her belly, trying to tell herself it was just the residue of a bad decision, just the whiskey, just the strangeness of the night.
But her body didn't believe her. Her hand dropped from the wall, found the button of her jeans, undid it without conscious thought. She pressed her palm flat against her cunt through the denim, felt the warmth of her own arousal, and a low, helpless sound escaped her throat. Her fingers pressed harder, rubbing in a slow circle, and she felt her knees go weak.
She didn't go back to the study. She found the guest room—the door was still open, the bed still rumpled with the shape of her failed sleep—and she crossed to the bathroom, locked the door, leaned against the sink. Her reflection stared back at her: dark hair tangled, green eyes too bright, lips swollen and bitten. She looked like someone who'd been thoroughly, absolutely ruined.
Her jeans were already unbuttoned. She pushed them down, let them pool at her ankles, and her fingers found her cunt without hesitation. Slick. Soaked. Her folds parted easily, and she slid two fingers inside herself—felt the heat, the release of his seed mixed with her own wetness, the tender ache of a body that had been stretched wider than it was made for.
She leaned back against the sink, her fingers pumping slowly, her hips rolling to meet them. The memory was no longer shameful—it was fuel, a fire that burned away every thought except the need to finish what her body had started. She found her clit with her thumb, pressed hard, and the orgasm came fast and sharp, a sob caught in her throat, her knees buckling as she held herself against the porcelain.
She stayed there, trembling, her fingers still inside herself, the morning light falling through the frosted window in a pale rectangle across her thighs. When she finally pulled her hand free, she looked at the glistening slick on her fingers—his seed and hers, indistinguishable now—and she didn't wipe it away. She brought her fingers to her mouth, tasted herself, tasted him, and closed her eyes.
She wasn't done with this. The thought settled into her bones with a certainty that had nothing to do with logic. She was going to stay. She was going to let him find her. She was going to let this night become something she couldn't walk away from.
The bathroom mirror showed her a flushed, dazed face. She smiled—a slow, private thing—and began to run the shower. The water would wash away the evidence. But the memory, the want, the ache he'd left inside her—those would stay. She knew it like she knew the weight of a locked door, the click of a picked lock, the thrill of a thing she shouldn't want.
She stepped into the spray, the hot water pounding against her shoulders, and let herself feel the soreness, the fullness, the lingering heat of a night she would never forget. And when her hand drifted down again, sliding between her thighs under the rush of water, she didn't bother to stop herself.

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Hope you enjoyed, will start trying to write chapter 2 soon.

This was a fun one to write, I hope you enjoy.

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The Viking and the Raven

The wind howled across the fjord, whipping snow into his beard, but Bjorn the Black felt nothing. His cock was hard, jutting from his fur-lined breeches, glistening with pre-cum even in the biting cold. He had captured the raven hours ago—a sleek black thing with eyes like polished jet, its feathers ruffled and trembling in the cage he'd woven from willow branches.

Now he held it in his scarred hands, feeling the rapid flutter of its heart against his palm.

The bird was larger than a common crow, its beak sharp and curved, its claws hooked and dangerous. But Bjorn did not fear. He had broken men, women, even wolves. A raven was nothing.

He pressed the bird down onto the flat stone altar he'd dragged from the shoreline. Its wings beat uselessly, a frantic thump-thump against his wrists. With one hand he pinned its body, and with the other he guided the tip of his cock—thick, veined, swollen—against the soft down beneath its tail.

The raven screeched, a harsh caw that cut through the wind.

Bjorn grunted and pushed.

The head breached the bird's cloaca, the tight ring of muscle hot and slick. The raven convulsed, its legs kicking, its beak snapping at the air. But Bjorn held fast, thrusting deeper, feeling the impossible heat of the bird's body clamp down around his shaft. Its insides were soft, ribbed, struggling to accommodate him.

He drove his cock in to the hilt, his balls slapping against the bird's underbelly. The raven's cry turned into a wet, gurgling sound as its beak opened wide, unable to scream.

Bjorn began to fuck it.

Each thrust was savage, brutal. He pulled the raven back onto his cock, using its body as a sheath. The bird's feathers stuck to his thighs, to his stomach. Its claws scratched bloody furrows into his forearms, but he did not slow. He could feel its internal muscles milking him, trying to expel him, failing.

"I am Bjorn the Black," he growled, his voice low and guttural. "And I take what I want."

He came with a roar, his cock pulsing, spilling thick ropes of cum deep inside the raven's body. The bird went rigid, then limp, its head lolling. He held it there, buried to the root, flooding its guts with his seed until it dripped from the entrance, mixing with the blood from its torn cloaca.

When he finally withdrew, his cock was slick with a mix of cum and blood, the air thick with the smell of sex and iron. The raven lay still on the stone, its body broken, its eyes glassy.

Bjorn knelt, breathing hard, and stroked its feathers once.

Then he stood, tucked himself back into his breeches, and walked toward the longhouse, leaving the carcass for the wolves.

Back with another story, hope you enjoy 🎉

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Lirael moved through the torch-lit basalt corridors with her bow half-drawn, the string tapping once against her thigh. Shadow padded at her flank, his left hind leg dragging just enough to mark the rhythm of his steps.
"You smell anything worth killing yet?" she asked.
He huffed, low and steady.
She smirked at the sound. "No? Then this place is even duller than the last. Three levels and the only thing guarding that relic is dust."
Her boots struck the stone in even beats. Every trap so far had been obvious—tripwires, pressure vents, the usual elven handiwork from centuries ago. She disarmed two without slowing. The third she simply stepped over.
"Clan elders used to say no one clears a dungeon alone past the second gate," she said. "They were wrong about that too."
Shadow circled once, placing his body between her and a shadowed alcove, then fell back into stride.
Lirael kept her eyes forward. "Stay close if it makes you feel useful."
The corridor narrowed. Torchlight caught on faint carvings in the floor. She lengthened her stride, impatient now. Her boot came down on a rune that glowed soft blue beneath the leather.
It clicked.The floor dropped.
Lirael’s stomach lurched as the basalt vanished beneath her boots. Stone cracked, runes flared white, and she fell into a narrow shaft lined with pulsing glyphs. Her bow slipped from her fingers. She hit the bottom hard, knees jarring, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs.
The pit was small. Warm stone pressed against her back. Vines erupted from the walls—thick, luminous, veined with the same blue fire as the runes. They coiled around her wrists before she could reach for a knife, yanked them wide, and pinned them above her head. More wrapped her ankles and dragged her legs apart until her thighs strained. The vines tightened, then pulsed once, like they were tasting her. Heat seeped through her leathers where they touched.
Shadow landed beside her a second later, heavier, the dull thud of his body echoing off the close walls. Vines caught him too. They wrapped his forelegs and chest, forcing him upright, then dragged his hindquarters forward until the heat of him pressed against her ass. He growled, low and strained, and tried to pull back. The vines held. Another pulse of light ran through them and the air thickened with the sharp, metallic scent of old magic.
Lirael twisted her wrists. The vines only tightened. “Shadow—back. Now.”
He whined through his teeth, a sound that was half apology and half warning. His weight shifted. The blunt head of his cock dragged along the seam of her leathers, already swelling, already hot. She felt every inch of it through the thin material. Her body answered before her mind caught up—pulse quickening, thighs trying to close and failing.
The vines tightened again. A low hum filled the pit. Lirael’s belt loosened on its own, the buckle sliding free. Her trousers peeled down her hips in one smooth drag, baring her to the warm air. She sucked in a breath through her teeth. Shadow’s cock slid between her bare thighs, thick and heavy, the tip already slick. He thrust once, instinctive, and the head caught against her cunt.
“Fuck—wait—”
He couldn’t. The magic drove him forward. He mounted properly, claws scraping stone, and drove into her in one long, relentless push. Lirael’s mouth fell open. The stretch burned. He was thicker than she’d let herself imagine, the girth forcing her open until her walls clenched and fluttered around him. His hips jerked again and he sank deeper, the base of his knot already swelling against her entrance.
She gasped. The vines held her spread and helpless while he fucked her, hard and steady, each thrust shoving her forward against the stone. The sound was wet, obscene—her body yielding, taking him, slicking around the relentless drive of his cock. Shadow’s breath came hot against the back of her neck. His left hind leg trembled where it braced beside her hip, the old limp flaring under the strain, but he didn’t stop.
Lirael’s fingers curled into fists above her head. She wanted to curse him. She wanted to tell him to slow down. Instead a broken sound left her throat when he changed angle and the head of his cock dragged over that spot inside her that made her vision spark. Her cunt tightened around him. He growled, hips snapping harder, and the knot pressed insistently at her entrance on every stroke, stretching her further each time.
The vines pulsed. Lirael felt the magic shift, felt it push deeper into her skin, and the last thread of resistance snapped. She stopped fighting the spread of her legs. Her hips tilted back instead, meeting his next thrust, and the knot slipped inside. She cried out—sharp, involuntary. Shadow’s claws dug into the stone. He locked, knot swelling fully, and the sudden fullness dragged a raw moan from her chest.
He came in heavy pulses. Hot seed flooded her, thick and insistent, and the pressure against her walls pushed her over the edge. Her cunt spasmed around the knot, milking him, the orgasm rolling through her in long, shaking waves. She shook with it. Her thighs trembled. Shadow’s weight settled heavier on her back as the aftershocks rippled through both of them.
The vines loosened. Not enough to free them, but enough that her arms could sag. Lirael’s fingers found his fur where it brushed her shoulder. She curled them into the thick ruff at his neck and held on while his knot kept them joined, while his come leaked warm around the seal and down her thighs.
Her breathing slowed. The pit was quiet except for the soft drip of fluid and the low, steady rumble in Shadow’s chest. She stroked the fur under her hand once, twice.
“I don’t want to hunt alone anymore,” she whispered.

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Might not be the greatest, wasn’t feeling well while writing and still ain’t, I hope you enjoyed and feel free to leave suggestions for new stories.