Chapter 12 Kess #3
His cock is already free, already hard—when did he unfasten his pants? I don't know, don't care. He's huge, flushed and straining, the head weeping precum that catches the lamplight. My mouth waters at the sight even as my cunt clenches around nothing, desperate and empty.
The blunt pressure of him against my entrance makes us both groan.
"Now," I demand, and it comes out half growl, half plea. "Rhystan, now—"
He thrusts into me.
One brutal stroke that splits me open on his cock, buries him so deep I swear I can taste him. The stretch burns—he's too big, I'm not ready, and it's exactly what I need. I scream into his shoulder and he snarls into my hair and we're both so far gone there's no coming back.
"Fuck—" His voice is wrecked, guttural. "You're strangling my cock. So wet and tight I can barely move—"
But he moves anyway.
The weapon rack shakes with each thrust.
Metal clangs and chimes behind me—swords swinging in their brackets, spear hafts knocking together, the whole structure creaking and groaning under the force of his hips. A blade falls and clatters to the stone floor somewhere to my left. Neither of us cares.
He's fucking me against the weapons we were just fighting with. Surrounded by steel and violence and the tools of war. Each drag of his cock along my inner walls sends sparks up my spine, each thrust punching the breath from my lungs.
This is what we are—combat and claiming tangled together until they're the same thing, until I can't tell if I want to kill him or keep him forever.
I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, lock my ankles in the small of his back, use the leverage to meet him thrust for thrust. The angle changes and he hits something inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes.
"There," I gasp. "Right there, don't stop—"
"I know where you need it." He drives into that spot again, again, relentless. "Can feel you fluttering around me every time I hit it. Feel how close you are through the bond—"
"Harder," I snarl against his throat. "I won't break."
He obliges.
The pace turns punishing—brutal, relentless, each impact driving the air from my lungs.
Each withdrawal leaves me empty and aching, clenching around nothing, desperate for him to fill me again.
The weapon rack digs into my spine with every thrust and I don't care, can't care, can't think about anything but the pleasure building at the base of my spine like a wave about to crest.
I bite his throat again. The same spot I've bitten before—the claiming mark I gave him on the altar, scarred over now but still sensitive.
My teeth find the raised tissue and tear it open fresh, and blood floods my mouth.
Hot copper and woodsmoke and something wild underneath, something that has no name in any human language.
I swallow it down.
Feel it burn through my veins like liquid fire. Feel the way my body responds—fever spiking higher, slick gushing around his cock, my inner walls clenching and rippling along his length.
Feel the contamination spreading, his blood mixing with mine, changing me into something new.
The thought surfaces distant through the pleasure, more observation than concern. His blood in my mouth. My blood on his lips where he's been kissing and biting my throat. The two of us bleeding into each other, boundaries dissolving.
I should be afraid.
I'm not.
His rhythm stutters, loses its steadiness. The knot is swelling at the base of his cock—I can feel it catching at my entrance with every stroke, stretching me wider each time before popping free. Growing bigger. Getting ready to lock us together.
"Kess—" My name comes out broken, desperate. "I can't hold it back—"
"Don't hold back anything." I bite down on his throat hard enough to make him snarl, hard enough to feel his hips stutter. "Give me your knot. Breed me. Fill me until I can't take any more—"
The words trigger something primal in both of us.
His hips snap forward one final time and the knot forces its way inside—a brutal stretch that wrenches a scream from my throat, that makes my vision go white at the edges.
It's too much. I'm being split open, stuffed full, impaled on more cock than my body should be able to take.
The knot swells even larger now that it's seated, locking us together, grinding against something deep that makes my whole body shake.
"That's it," he groans against my temple, voice shattered. "Taking my knot so well. So fucking tight I can barely—gods, I'm going to—"
I'm coming.
The orgasm rips through me like wildfire. My back arches against the weapon rack and I hear metal crash to the floor behind me, swords and spears knocked loose by the force of my convulsion. My cunt clamps down on his knot in rhythmic pulses, milking him, demanding everything.
He gives it.
I feel the first hot rush of his release flooding me, feel the knot flex as he pumps jet after jet of cum into my depths.
There's nowhere for it to go—the knot keeps everything sealed in, pressure building as he fills me beyond what should be possible.
My belly distends slightly under the volume, skin going taut.
"Can't stop," he groans, hips still jerking in tiny thrusts. "Filling you so deep—fuck, Kess, there's so much—"
He roars against my temple as another wave hits him, the sound vibrating through my skull, and I feel his claws finally slip free—pricking my hips, drawing thin lines of blood that mix with the slick smeared across my thighs.
The weapon rack shudders.
We shudder.
Everything shudders, and then goes still.
The orgasm fades to aftershocks—little tremors that make us both gasp, the knot shifting inside me with each one. His hips have stopped moving but his cock keeps pulsing, keeps flooding me with warmth. I'm so full it's almost painful. So full I can feel it in my chest.
We stay there for a long moment, pinned against the weapon rack, both of us breathing like we've just run for miles. His face is pressed into my hair. My teeth are still latched onto his shoulder. Neither of us seems capable of letting go.
"Fuck," I breathe finally, the word muffled against his bloody skin.
"Yeah," he agrees, voice completely destroyed.
Slowly, carefully, he shifts his grip. One arm bands around my waist to support my weight; the other cups the back of my head, cradling me against his shoulder. The movement jostles the knot inside me and we both hiss.
Gentle now. The violence burned through, leaving something softer in its wake.
"Anyone could walk in," I murmur. Not really a concern—more an observation.
His chest rumbles with exhausted humor. "I broke the door off its hinges and roared loud enough to shake dust from the rafters. No one's coming anywhere near this armory for hours."
Good.
Because we're going to be here for a while. The knot shows no signs of going down.
He carries us to the corner where training mats are stacked—walking carefully, each step shifting him inside me in ways that make my breath catch. Settles down with his back against the wall and me in his lap, still joined. Still locked together.
More comfortable than the weapon rack, at least.
I rest my forehead against the curve of his shoulder and let myself breathe.
Let myself feel the bond humming between us, content and satisfied, that invisible thread that ties us together pulsing with something that might be happiness.
Let myself feel his heartbeat against my chest, steady and strong, gradually slowing.
Let myself feel the changes in my body.
His hand moves to rest on my hip. Right over the scars from the first claiming—the ones his claws left when he gripped me on the altar, the ones that have been healing wrong ever since.
I feel the moment he notices.
His fingers trace the raised tissue, and I feel them hesitate. Press harder. The texture is different now—harder than skin should be, tougher, like scar tissue that's turned to leather. Or scales.
His hand goes still. Just for a second.
Then he keeps moving, keeps stroking, like he didn't notice anything unusual.
But he did.
I felt it.
And he knows I felt him noticing.
His hand moves to my other hip. The unscarred one. Traces the same pattern across unmarked skin.
Comparing. Testing. Confirming what he suspects.
"Kess—"
"Don't." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "Whatever you're about to say. Don't."
He goes still beneath me. I feel the words he wants to say pressing against the inside of his chest, feel his worry through the bond—sharp and jagged and desperate to be voiced.
Then: "Okay."
Just that. No argument. No pushing.
But the worry doesn't fade. If anything, it sharpens. And my own fear rises to meet it, both of us sitting in the wreckage of weapons and silence, both of us keeping secrets we're too afraid to share.
The knot finally starts to soften.
Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. I lose track of time, floating in the strange intimacy of being locked together, feeling him pulse inside me, feeling each weak spurt as his body wrings out the last of his release.
When he finally slips free, I feel the rush of his cum trying to follow—my cunt clenches instinctively, omega instincts trying to keep his seed in, but there's too much.
It spills down my thighs, hot and thick, mixing with slick until I'm dripping onto the training mat beneath us.
He uses his ruined shirt to clean us both. Gentle hands wiping cum and slick from my thighs, from where it's leaked down to pool beneath me. Careful touches treating me like I'm something precious instead of someone who just tried to kill him with a practice sword.
Neither of us mentions the scars.
Neither of us mentions contamination.
Neither of us is brave enough to be honest.
Not yet.