I Wanna Read A Sylus + Simon X Reader Smut (I'm Ovulating)

Part 01 - Severance | Frostbite Series | The Winter Soldier

Pairing: The Winter Soldier x Original Female Character (1st Person)

Word count: 2,488

Summary: Elena is violently abducted from her hospital, blindfolded, and flown to a secret HYDRA base deep in the Carpathian Mountains. She quickly learns why she was taken—her expertise is needed to “repair” something they refuse to call human. When she finally sees the Winter Soldier, brutalized and broken beyond recognition, she is horrified. But worse than his wounds are the implications—HYDRA doesn’t just use him as a weapon. They use him for everything.

Disclaimer: This series is extremely dark, touching on graphic violence, psychological torment, and human suffering in all its forms. If you choose to read, proceed with caution.

Warnings: strictly 18+, Abduction & Forced Confinement, Physical & Psychological Torture, Implied SA & Exploitation, Violence & Threats, Strong Language

A/N: i am BEYOND excited to share the first chapter with you guys! even though this is dark stuff, i'm having fun with the writing process so far. i really hope you will enjoy it too :) happy reading!!

❄️ Frostbite Chapters: Part 01 - Severance - you are currently here Part 02 - Incision Part 03 - Containment Part 04 - Recognition Part 05 - Trigger Part 06 - Submission Part 07 - Disobedience

📍Masterlist

It was supposed to be a regular Wednesday. I was in the scrub room, hands sterile, mentally running through the procedure I was about to perform; delicate spinal reconstruction for a young man injured in a car crash. Standard case, nothing I haven’t done before.

Until the door slammed open. 

Before I could turn, something yanked me back with a force so brutal it knocked the air out of my lungs. A hand clamped over my mouth, another locked around my waist, crushing me against an unyielding chest. Cold air rushed over my skin as I was dragged backward like prey.

The scalpel tray crashed, echoing back a sharp sting against the tiled floor. I thrashed as my instinct was taking over, but I was no match for the iron grip that was holding me in place.

"If you fight, we’ll make it worse."

My heart stopped in its movement. I jerked my head to the side, only to see masked men in black tactical gear, covered from head to toe, impossible to identify. The realization slammed through me like ice.

It wasn't a robbery. Not of an object, at least.

I'm being kidnapped.

My body surged with adrenaline, muscles tensing, legs kicking as I tried to scream, but the hand over my mouth clamped down harder, suffocating the sound before it even left my throat.

That is when something cold and sharp pressed against my neck.

"Quiet, Doctor."

A sting. Then, nothing.

Now, I wake up to complete darkness. They blindfolded me. My head is pounding, my mouth dry as sandpaper, and my wrists ache from the zip ties digging into my skin. I try to move, but my body is sluggish. They drugged me. There’s a sickly smell in the air, something like oil, metal, and rotting. The floor beneath me vibrates faintly while I spot the unmistakable, muffed sound of engines roaring. 

A plane.

I’m on a goddamn plane.

The realization shocks the grogginess right out of me. There's no fucking way. I yank at my restraints, testing their hold, but it’s useless. I can barely lift my hands. My breath is coming in too fast, and I can feel a panic attack forming in my chest, but I take a deep breath.

Stay calm, Lena. Think. If they wanted to kill you, they would've by now. They need you for something.

Just as I manage to regulate myself, I hear footsteps approaching from the front of the aircraft. A chair then scrapes against the metal floor.

"You’re awake, Dr. Mirea."

The accent is thick, Russian or something close. He's calm, almost polite, which makes the situation comical to me. I can’t see him from the blindfold that is strapped tightly around my head, but I can hear the smirk in his voice. 

"Where am I?" I ask, the sound coming out all raspy and dry.

"Does it matter?"

"Since I’m the one you kidnapped, I’d say it does." I force the fear out of my voice. I won’t let them hear me break.

I hear papers rustle in his hands before he sighs, like I’m his 10-year-old child throwing a tantrum.

"Professor Doctor Elena Cătălina Mirea. Thirty-two years old. Romanian immigrant, naturalized citizen of the United States. Harvard Medical School for M.D. and Ph.D. Double board-certified in trauma and neurosurgery. Specializing in combat injuries, reconstructive procedures, and neural damage. Published in at least seven international medical journals. Former consultant for the Pentagon’s advanced rehabilitation program. Shall I go on?"

My stomach twists to the size of a tennis ball. I always knew I had a reputation, but to hear it spoken back to me in a situation like this, in his voice, makes my blood run cold.

"Impressive credentials," he muses, flipping through the file. "The kind that would make a person very difficult to replace."

I scoff. "If you needed a surgeon, there are easier ways to book an appointment."

He laughs, and I swear he sounds amused. "Not for this project."

I lick my cracked lips, trying to swallow the fear clawing at my throat. "Why am I here?"

He doesn't answer for a couple of seconds. I can hear him shifting in his seat, the sound of saliva popping in his mouth as he grins. The motherfucker must be enjoying this.

 "It’s no use pretending you don’t understand what’s happening. You were chosen for a reason."

I grind my teeth. "If this is about money—"

A sharp laugh cuts me off. "This isn’t about money, Professor. This is about purpose." He pauses, then continues in a tone laced with thinly veiled amusement. "You will be saving an asset of great value. An asset that has been damaged and requires repairs."

An asset? Repairs?

"You’re mistaken," I say, forcing steel into my voice. "I’m not an engineer."

"Oh, Professor." A gloved hand pats my knee in a deeply condescending way. "You’ll learn soon enough… There’s no difference."

I stiffen.

"You’re needed to repair it," he continues. "Our most valuable weapon. It sustained extensive damage during a recent mission. Tissue damage, internal injuries. And there are… complications."

I don’t know what horrifies me more—the way he speaks, or the fact that I still don’t understand what the hell he’s talking about.

"What exactly is ‘it’?" I bite out.

He pauses. Then, as if indulging a particularly stupid child, he clarifies.

"The Winter Soldier."

Excrutiating cold creeps down my spine.

I’ve heard that name before briefly, in fearful whispers among government officials and intelligence circles. A ghost story, an assassin that doesn’t exist. Well, at least that's what I've always thought.

"You’re talking about a person."

He clicks his tongue. "It was a person. It is now a machine—one that needs to be maintained, serviced, and controlled."

I shake my head, rage bubbling in my chest despite my fear. "I’m a doctor. I save lives. I don’t reprogram murderers."

"You don’t have to," he says, and though I can’t see him, I can hear the smirk in his voice. "You just have to make sure it doesn’t fall apart before we do."

The plane jolts slightly, and my stomach lurches. I didn't spend fifteen years of my life dedicated to practicing medicine to patch up cold-blooded assassins. I refused so many offers from high-ups asking for the same thing, just to be put on a plane at gunpoint to do the exact thing I swore I will never do. I press my lips together, forcing my mind to stay focused. 

There has to be a way out of this. 

The man beside me shifts, his voice dropping to something almost bored. 

"Make no mistake, Professor. You will do what we ask. If you refuse… well." A deliberate pause, stretching just long enough for my skin to crawl. "We’re quite experienced in making people… cooperative."

A chill scrapes down my spine, but I don’t let it show. I know exactly what he means, of course I do. I've been around men like him before, so I force my breathing steady. I keep my face blank and I decide to stay silent.

For now, silence is survival, and if they think I’ll go down easy, they haven’t done their research properly.

The base I'm dragged into is nestled deep in the mountains, buried beneath ice and stone where no one dares to look. Cold doesn’t even begin to describe it; the air bites like sharp razor blades slicing through my skin; my hospital scrubs are practically useless against it.

My feet barely touch the ground before the air is sucked out of me. My body convulses, shaking so violently that my teeth clatter. Every inhale burns my throat like I’m breathing in the very ice from the surface. I begin to think I'm not even going to make it inside, when someone shoves a bundle of clothing into my arms; a thick, insulated jacket, thermal gloves, sturdy boots. I don’t hesitate—I tug everything on, my fingers already stiff with frost.

The guards nod at one another, exchanging looks of quiet acknowledgment. I’m not shackled, no one is grabbing me, forcing me to my feet. In their eyes, I am an asset, a necessary tool. 

Good. I will try to use this to my advantage.

I feel my body reaching a somewhat healthy temperature as I am being taken more and more underground. The deeper we go, the more guards appear in the corners, next to the doors—they are everywhere. I can't even begin to comprehend what kind of horrors they must be guarding—at least until the door at the end of the corridor groans open, and the world tilts.

I have seen the worst of human suffering. Open chests, shattered skulls, intestines spilling onto the floor. I have peeled burned flesh from bone, held dying hands, seen life leave bodies in ways too violent to be poetic. I have witnessed agony, stitched it together, carved it out, buried it in the hollow spaces of my mind.

And yet.

And yet.

When they drag him in, something inside me shatters.

At first, my eyes can’t process what I’m looking at. A figure barely standing, hunched, trembling, a mass of exposed flesh and metal swaying between two guards who have to hold him up by brute force. He stumbles, his boots scraping against the floor. He's barely conscious. His head lolls forward, making all his damp hair cling to his gaunt, bruised face.

He breathes—or tries to. A wet, ragged gasp leaves his mouth, as if each inhale is a battle he’s losing.

Fucking hell.

He’s dying on his feet.

Mortifying cold sinks into my gut, as sharp as the wind outside. I ignore how my own hands shake and my throat tightens, and before I know it, I’m already assessing and diagnosing.

His skin is pallid, almost gray, lips cracked and tinged with blue—hypothermia. The deep bruising across his ribs, the uneven hitch of his breath—at least one fractured rib, likely more. The way his left leg drags slightly—hip injury? Nerve damage? His metal arm twitches and jerks at his side—malfunction, misfiring signals, nerve trauma in the shoulder.

He lifts his head slightly, which is when I'm met with his eyes. They're unfocused, but not empty—no. They hold horrors so severe it makes my stomach turn.

"Oh, don’t look so shocked, Professor," one of the men drawls. "It’s not like it feels anything."

Laughter ripples through the room. It makes me want to throw up.

The soldier sways, and no one moves to help him. Hell, they laugh at him like he is some kind of spectacle in a circus. My hands twich at my sides as I'm starting to realize what I've got myself dragged into.

This isn’t just suffering. This is torture. Systematic, calculated destruction. 

This is what happens when a body is kept alive not for the sake of living, but for the sake of being used and owned. When the person is carved out, reduced to something that breathes but does not live. I've seen it with assault survivors, people who's been trafficked, but what I'm looking at could never compare to that.

My breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps as my throat tightens, my vision flat out rejecting the inhumane torture I'm witnessing. I don’t even realize I’m moving until a rough hand grabs my upper arm, yanking me back.

I had stepped toward him.

God—I had stepped toward him.

I don’t remember deciding to do so, it is just some instinct that had taken over; something so deeply ingrained in me as a doctor, as a human, that for a moment, I forgot where I was. I forgot who I was dealing with.

He sways again, his whole body trembling with overexhaustion and agonizing pain. The weight of his own existence is too much for him to bear, and still, no one is helping him.

I swallow, blinking rapidly, forcing the burn behind my eyes to stay put. 

Fucking hell, I will not cry. Not in front of them.

A sharp laugh suddenly cuts through the room, yanking me back to my unforgiving reality.

"Oh, look at that," one of them sneers. "Got yourself a little fan, Soldat."

Another chuckles. "Careful, Professor. It bites sometimes," he grins and leans closer to me. "But if you like it so much, it can also be trained to keep its mouth busy in… other ways."

I wrench my arm free from the guard’s grip, my jaw locking as they all burst out laughing. A sickening wave of horror crashes over me and I feel it like a punch to the gut. Good fucking God. My stomach churns so violently I have to swallow against the bile rising in my throat.

They’re still laughing like fucking idiots.

I glance at the soldier, like I need to prove to myself that this is some cruel joke, that this isn’t what it sounds like. But he doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t anything. He just barely exists, silent and still as a corpse, his head slightly bowed, his gaze locked somewhere far, far away. 

A tremor runs through my hands as my heart beats so loud in my ears, I'm convinced my brain is trying to shut out the stress. My vision tunnels and not from fear, but from something sharper, and I know right away that it's rage. Not even rage—it's all-consuming fury. 

I bite my tongue until it nearly bleeds, because what the absolute fuck am I supposed to do? Scream at them? Attack them? They’d drop me in an instant, put a bullet in my skull and find someone else; someone worse. Then he would just stay here trapped and used, in God fucking knows what sick ways.

I feel my breath shake as I force myself to move, to do something before they notice the way my hands tremble. I straighten my back, lock my jaw, and turn to the soldier once more. He's looking at me like I'm glowing.

"How much time do I have?"

The guard chuckles, shaking his head. "Efficient. I like that." He glances at the other men before looking back at me. "How long does it take to patch up the weapon, Professor?"

I clench my jaw, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. My gaze flickers back to the soldier—his body locked in place, his face a mask of empty obedience, but his pain is evident.

"I need a full assessment," I say, my voice clipped. "But from what I can see?" I exhale sharply, shaking my head. "This isn’t a patch job. This is a rebuild."

The smirk falls from his face. "Be more specific."

I lift my chin. "Four weeks. Maybe more."

His expression darkens, clearly unimpressed. "You have three."

A muscle jumps in my jaw. 

"Then you better pray he survives."

"After everything you have done. How will you sleep at night?"

"Next to my wife."

The Asset.

Be happy for no reason, like a child. If you are happy for a reason, you’re in trouble, because that reason can be taken from you.

Deepak Chopra

can’t help but think about

Men who look like they haven’t felt the touch of a woman. (they haven’t) They develop a crush on you. Men who look at you with doe eyes, ready to please. Men who will do anything if you asked. Men who shiver when you whisper in their ear. It can be anything, but the feeling of you getting close— fuck they’re goners. Men who imagine you in ungodly ways, all of this new to them. Men who are on the verge of crying because they are so sexually frustrated.

Men who still can’t believe how someone like them (shy, submissive, a stuttering mess) managed to pull someone as confident and bold as you.

Men who whimper when you finally touch them. Guttural grunts and moans, whines and whimpers— all a part of the melody they let out just for you. Men who look up at you with expectant eyes, wanting–no needing you to praise them. We’ve already established that they love your voice, so throw in a ‘good boy’ or ‘you did so good baby’ and their brain stops functioning.

──────────────────

I don't want it if it ain't your touch - West Side // Ariana Grande

I’m in class rn and all i can think about is this.

Ethan Landry, Sub!Miguel O’Hara, Simon Aumar, Harry Potter, Yuta Okkotsu, Tyler Galpin, Bucky Barnes +your favs!

ARMED AND DANGEROUS 💥

…….gang i don’t know how many swags i got left in me but THIS DESIGN.. 😩

тгк: kameyasart

Insta/Twt: kameyasart

Available on Inprnt (link in bio!)

𝑪𝑨𝑴𝑷𝑼𝑺 𝑭𝑹𝑬☆𝑲 !!

#SYNOPSIS— whoring around your college campus with the jjk men #CHARACTERS— toji, nanami, choso, itadori #CONTENT WARNINGS—

★ LAB TECHNICIAN!TOJI

who you suck off as an apology for him to go through all that trouble to fix the broken incubator you messed up.

“You gotta—fuck, do better than this, doll,” the rugged male teased, hiding a groan beneath his breath as your throat tightened around the fat tip of his cock. “We wouldn’t want your name on this report, do we?”

The sounds that bounced from the walls were dirty to the core—a mix of wet squelches and muffled chokes. You were on your sore knees, spit-covered hands twisting around his veiny length that couldn’t quite fit into your mouth as you lapped over his sensitive slit with your tongue. He was all you could smell, the strong scent of his masculine essence drifting into your nose, making your head heavy and drawing a tingly pool of arousal between your sticky thighs. 

His large hands tightened around your head when you hollowed your cheeks, tears clinging onto your eyelashes as you drunkenly gazed up at him; absorbing the sight of him nearly melting from pleasure. “Keep sucking, pretty girl,” Toji inhaled through his teeth, his eyes closing shut into a frown as he threw his head back, his hips jutting towards you as the pressure building in his nerves neared its limits. 

You felt his tip twitch before he slammed your head all the way down to the base of his shaft, your body jumping from the shock and your jaw slacking from the fullness of his cock that stuffed your entire mouth. Your head remained still as the groaning male fucked his cock into your wet cavern, your throat gagging, tightening around his fat girth every time it touched the base of your throat. 

His groans turned to almost cries of pleasure as he forced himself deeper and harder into you, his balls slapping against your chin and your fingers reached between your aching legs, playing with yourself. You were nothing but a messy state of a toy, with drool dripping down your swollen lips and tears ruining your makeup with each sore gag of your muscles, pathetic digits rubbing your throbbing nerves. 

A moan gurgled up from your throat when a rupture of velvety cum filled your insides, spilling down to your chin and chest. “That’s it, take it like a good fucking girl,” your eyes rolled to the back of your head as his strong hands forced your nose against his pelvis, and you let out a soft groan when the thick whiff of his masculine scent hit your senses. His breath was hot and heavy against the crisp air as he moaned through his crashing orgasm, pulling your hair from the pressure as you tongue his throbbing sensitive tip.

You spat his thick semen onto the ground after Toji pulled himself out of your mouth, your eyes blinking into a rest as you tried to relax your sore jaw. And before you knew it, you’re pulled onto your feet, a look of unsatiated smirk lurking on his face. “Now, won’t you show me your other hole?”

★ PROFESSOR!NANAMI

who gives you a late personal class about the female anatomy when everyone has left the lecture hall.

The cold pad of his fingers rolled your hardened bud, and a mixture of humiliation and twisted arousal pervaded through your mind as you laid on top of his desk, thighs spread as he inspected your exposed sex. “—it’s surrounded with nerves, and extends to beneath the labia majora.”

His touches flutter down your to said part of your loin, and his eyes momentarily fell upon your face; drinking in the sight of your feverish visage, evident of the blood that cascaded through your vessels. 

“It’s…” Kento’s gaze remained on you, and you could almost see the carnal hunger prowling behind his glasses, his fingers working its ritualistic dance of heavy swipes on your puffy clit. “Very sensitive.” 

Your back arched as pleasure began to sneak up upon you, your lips pouting in frustration at his tease. “M-More,” 

“Use your words,” his words were like a harsh gash of rejection, denying you your path to greater pleasure just to hear you beg for him. 

“Touch me more, sir,” your breath was stuck at the top of your throat, throbbing cunt yearning for the fingers that traced the outline of your lips. You’re so fucking needy for him—slick arousal leaking out of your hole, crying for his touch to fill your wet cavern. “Please…”

“Hmm,” he smirked, thick digits stretching past your tight walls before stirring up your insides with every curl. Your hips rose into the air as he continued to taunt your dripping cunt, pressing against the gummy part of your wall and jumbling up your nerves. “What do you say now?”

“T-Thank you! Thank yo—hhngh!” your teeth were clenched and eyebrows shot upwards, feeling the jittery burn passing through your nerves and dancing at the edge of orgasm. His thumb rolled over your hardened clit, never once losing the momentum of his digits in and out of your squelching, needy cunt. “Nngh! Haa—”

Kento’s canines grazed against the flesh of his lip as he watched your features twist to the rising intensity in your belly. Your hands scrambled to grip the edge of the table as he felt your walls flutter, wet cunny gushing around his hand and juices squirting onto his wrist as your stomach tensed. “Good girl,” the low timber of his voice nearly made you purr as you breathed cool from your high. “Why don’t we move on to something more?”

★ NERD!CHOSO

who does your assignments for you in exchange for you to teach and guide him the ways to please a girl with your own body.

“T-There, good!” your grip tightened around his hair as you slightly pushed his head into your cunt, your hips rolling with your eyes sighed into a close. He’s quiet, observing the way your body jolts whenever he strokes the certain part of your wall, centralising his 

He’s slurping you up like a fucking feast, moaning through your pulsing cunt like a man on a week-long fast. The bridge of his nose rubbed against your hardened clit, stimulating your senses with the bumps and curves of his tongue.

“Nngh—ah! Choso, baby!” his face flushed red from the way you cried his name, nails sinking into his hair, gripping onto his scalp as you rode his face to your high. “Keep going, I’m c-close,” you breathily vocalised, your chest rising and dropping at a high frequency. 

He’s good. Perhaps better than you would ever imagine at something so lewd—cheeks hallowing to suck on your throbbing clit as his tongue flicked them over and over again. 

“S-Stop, Choso…! I’m do—annh!” you yelped when he continued to lap at your walls even after your orgasm, disregarding your pleas as he continued to overstimulate you with his licks. His big hands forced your thighs apart when you tried to squeeze them together with his head in between, your attempt futile to stop the butterflies from fluttering through your sore cunt.

He was suffocating himself in your weeping cavern, groaning and moaning with your glistening juices coating his lower face—addicted to the way your syrupy essence tasted on his tongue. Your toes curled as your consciousness burst through another dimension of pleasure, your puffy clit sore and cunny gushing all over the bed sheets. 

Choso peaked at your messy features from between your thighs, his sleepy eyes taking in the sight as he rubbed his hard-on against the bed before sinking down for another lap at your sweet juices. 

★ JOCK!ITADORI

who fucks the remaining adrenaline left after his game into your cunt in the locker room, the revelry outside from the crowd covering up the banging of the locker metal and your animalistic groans.

“Baby—haa, y’look s’pretty in—nngh, my medal,” Yuuji drunkenly muttered against your skin, the gold dangling on your neck hitting your marked chest with every brutal thrust of his into your cunt. 

“Y-You did s’good—aangh!” your nails dug into the skin of his shoulders, thighs numb from how hard he was fucking you. Yuuji had your legs wrapped around his waist, and your back banging against the locker door for the past 10 minutes—you knew your body would be sore but who cares when you’re gushing around his fat cock. 

“Mmnh—y’feel s’good, baby,” his sweaty body pressed against yours before he sloppily kissed your swollen lips again. “Y’so tight—haa, I can feel y’squeeze all over me.”

“F-Fuck, Yuuji! I’m close—haangh! D-Don’t stop!” you cried as you gripped onto his back for your dear life, the roaring orgasm that slowly crept up from your womb threatening to flush your sanity away with its current. 

“M’close too, baby. Wanna cum in y-you, please!” he pressed his heavy head against the cool locker metal, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes. He was so fucking near, and his thighs almost gave up to the tingly burn that made his muscles sore. 

“T’is f-fine, Yuuji. Y-You can cum in me—mmmh!” with a loud, guttural moan, Yuuji buried himself to the hilt inside your core, his body tensing as his seed painted your walls white. He doesn’t stop when his thick cum spurted out of your hole, even when you’re screaming his name from the raw burn as he continued to ram into your sloppy cunt. 

He’s got a good amount of pent energy in him, and a round of fucking wouldn’t amount to controlling himself. You’d have to have your legs broken off before he’s satisfied yet. 

ん？

Valdaro Lovers

꧁ here's where the story ends ꧂

The Lovers of Valdaro at the National Archaeological Museum of Mantua, Italy

seaside drive