𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐬

He finds you in the snow.

Your body twitches, heat thrumming beneath your skin in waves so violent you can’t think. You’re stripped down to bare skin, the cold a phantom compared to the fire gnawing at your insides. Your breath rattles—panting, shallow, little whimpers spilling past your lips as you curl in on yourself. It’s inescapable. The ache. The need. The terror.

Then, boots crunch through the frost. A shadow looms over your trembling frame.

Childe crouches, sharp teeth flashing in a grin that drips amusement and hunger alike. “Well, well,” he murmurs, voice a low purr. “What do we have here?”

You can’t answer. Your throat locks up as his scent rolls over you, clogging your lungs. Musky. Overwhelming. Pure alpha. It sinks into your nerves like poison, unraveling you from the inside out.

“Didn’t take you for the type to go into heat in the middle of nowhere,” he muses, fingers ghosting over your burning cheek. His touch alone makes you jolt, legs squeezing together instinctively—pathetically.

He notices.

A laugh rumbles from his chest. “Oh, sweetheart. This is cruel.” His voice drips mock sympathy. “You need help, don’t you?”

Your nails dig into the frozen ground. A feeble attempt at resistance. A wasted effort.

His gloved hands pry you apart, effortlessly overpowering your shuddering frame. “No use fighting instincts,” he hums, pressing his nose against your throat. His breath is scalding, fangs scraping over your pulse. You flinch, a thin whine escaping despite yourself.

His cock hardens at the sound.

“Fuck,” he groans, shoving your hips down. “I can smell how wet you are.”

Terror coils in your gut, tangled with the throbbing need you can’t control. You jerk, a pathetic struggle, but he just chuckles, stripping himself bare.

His body cages yours beneath him—broad, powerful, suffocating. His cock drags against your soaked entrance, teasing, mean. “This is gonna ruin you,” he whispers against your lips, voice thick with lust and triumph.

And then he sinks in.

The stretch is unbearable, your body convulsing as he fills you, forcing you open, making space where there is none. He groans—low, guttural, animalistic—his hands gripping your hips in a bruising hold as he bottoms out.

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t stop him.

He doesn’t wait for you to adjust.

His thrusts are brutal, fast, driven by a primal hunger that leaves no room for gentleness. Every slam of his hips knocks the breath from your lungs, your body jerking under his relentless pace. The obscene squelch of your own arousal, the lewd slap of skin against skin—it’s overwhelming. It’s too much.

“You were made for this,” he pants, licking a stripe up your throat. “Made for me.”

He fucks you deeper. Harder. Until thought is impossible, until pain and pleasure bleed into one.

Until you break.

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