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anantaru · 2 months ago

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⋆. 𐙚 ̊ he sees you in lingerie — love and deepspace

including. zayne, xavier, rafayel, sylus, caleb

warnings. fem! reader, reader wears lingerie, oral (fem! receiving), very messy, creampie, doggy, slightly toxic, fingering, established relationship, they're whipped fr

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ zayne

your sexiest pair of lingerie literally drops zayne's jaw— and then his composure, slowly but surely as his laugh forms soft, later broken and akin to darkness, "you wore this for me?" his hands roughly grab your wrists, pinning you down to make you say it again, please, say it like you meant it, "look at you," he growls, voice already gravel alike.

"sweet little thing, begging to be ruined, you've done this on purpose, haven't you?" and the man makes a mess of you in seconds— ripping the thin lace and shoving your legs apart, sloppily attacking your neck with kisses which felt more like bites.

zayne fucks you like he's angry at the world and you're the only softness left, and when he finishes? well, he doesn't pull out, no— he watches his milky cum drip down your thighs like it's proof that you're belonging to him, "mine," within seconds, he groans out your name again and pushes himself back inside to put his cum all where it belonged, over and over, like he'll carve it into your soul.

lust pours off him like steam as he palms your waist and shoves you deeper into the mattress— not hard, but firm enough to remind you who's in charge here.

and when you look up at him— sweet little thing that didn't even know what you've asked for, you grind back against his body as he pushes himself lower, licking down your stomach, claiming you with his tongue flicking between your thighs like a promise and a threat all at once, teeth grazing your flesh just hard enough for it to sting.

zayne ruts his tongue against your folds shamelessly, whispering filth into your cunt like he needs you to hear every word of what he's going to do to you, "you look like a fucking sin dressed up as a dream, baby, all this lace you're still wearing? it's coming off with my teeth."

his hands were all over you, ripping and shredding and biting as he presses his face further into your cunt, kissing hard into your clit, groaning into the skin like he's slowly losing control due to the simplicity of your taste— and truly, he was losing it, faster than you originally thought.

"you made me like this," he growls, "look at what you fucking do to me."

your hips were bucking into his tongue as his cock presses tight against the mattress, twitching the little impulses on his erection away as every lick between your folds felt like the edge of the cliff before he shoves you off as he growls when he feels your slick pool out of you, ultimately completely ripping your panties apart with a snarl.

"you're soaked," he says, "it's so pretty to see," and it sounds like an accusation, almost, like a curse? as if he wasn't the sole reason as to why you were dripping wet already, "you wanted me mad, didn’t you?"

and now you've got zayne furiously devouring you, his hands gripping your thighs, dragging you closer with a kind of desperation that felt less like desire and more like obsession— and his mouth never left its place, tongue alternating between quick, breathless swipes and long, drawn-out licks of wetness which melted your spine and left you helpless, helpless against the hunger of it all.

you do not stand a chance, not a single one and were already dizzy with how close you were, how shamefully fast he's undone you, the sight of him between your legs enough to split your sanity wide open.

pleasure built inside you as his lips suckled at your clit to zap through every single nerve in your body like lightning in a storm, without a doubt, he was relentless, his tongue moving without rest and all you could do was let go as your back arched off the bed, eyes screwed shut, mouth opened in a silent scream as you tumbled over the edge.

thighs clenched around zayne's head— and he looks up at you with that damned smirk of his, the one you knew very well, "you think i'm gonna let you walk after this?" he hisses, placing a subtle kiss on your clit, "baby, i'm gonna fuck you so full, you'll forget what silence sounds like."

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ xavier

xavier looks at you like you've undone him with a single thread as his breath stutters before he stands in front of your pretty frame— staring, like he's seeing something he's not supposed to, and the way a longing curls into his belly felt like sickness, all from the sight of the lacy fabric hugging your hips.

"fuck," he chokes angrily, flustered by you, "do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" as his hands find your waist, then slide down, slowly, as he towers on top of you like it's worship— his tongue tracing your breasts, his fingers squeezing the sides of your hips as he hooks his digits into the band of your lingerie.

the lingerie in itself was black and clinging, thin where it should conceal, sheer where it shouldn't, a masterpiece, yeah? and it makes his balls swell and his groin twitch in his pants, yet xavier smiles, so sickly sweet it drips down like syrup from a knife, sweet only in the way rot is sweet, in the way evil was soft and persuading before it devours you, a smile that says you're in trouble, yes— but worse, that he'll enjoy every second of it.

"you're gonna be good for me, right?" his voice was low, wet with need as he fucks you with desperate, stuttering thrusts, his whole body quaking, "say it," he gasps, losing rhythm, "say you want me, say you need me to mess you up," and when you do? he shatters— with his mouth instantly attacking your throat, your name bleeding from his lips like a confession too filthy to share.

"fuck, angel," he sighs, already moving, already crowding your walls with his twitching erection taking all the space in your pussy, as your entire body melts and your heart bursts out your chest, "dressed like this just to tempt me, huh?"

he presses against you further as you can feel him, so fucking well— piercingly hard and twitching, his cock trapped within your pussy that's growing damper and damper with every filthy grind he gave you as his mouth crashes to yours— his tongue sloppy without a clear pattern as he moans into you when you whimper out his name, his hands skating down to your thighs, spreading them shamelessly.

you need to realize that xavier doesn't ask, he takes, "you were made for me," he growls between licks as if it would hurt to stop, his mouth slicked up with spit and sin, dripping from his chin as his tongue works lower, slower, then rough again, "no one else, no one."

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ rafayel

uh, well, your originally smart and devilish plan didn't unfold the way you've had imagined, not quite.

look at it now, rafayel had no desire to touch you nor curse, with no gasp leaving between his lips, instead— he laughs, a dark and low, like thunder breaking over water laugh that made your thighs press together as his eyes rake over you slowly, cruelly, as if he wanted to devour you whole and still leave enough of you to feel every second of it.

"how generous of you," he says, voice like poison laced with honey, "offering yourself up in such pretty little threads."

then he rises, slowly, takes his time peeling the silk off your body with his hands, one strap at a time, dragging his knuckles down your chest, your stomach, your hips as his mouth follows, lips cold, breath hot, every kiss leaving behind a trace— first spit, then glistening bruises, lastly sharpened teeth.

he bends you on your stomach— his body flushed to your back as he presses his cock hard between your ass, still clothed, grinding with desperate need as his mouth hovers over your shoulder, "you don't get to walk away after this," rafayel promises, "not looking like that."

but then you cry out his name in warbled moans and the cutest sobs, reaching back for his large, veiny hand because you secretly liked being used, grasping at his hand like you need it to survive, and he lets you have it— lets your fingers clamp tight around his as you inch back against him frantically.

you're moving like you can't help it— hips rolling against his swollen cock, his tip nudging your hole, dragging your slick against his and welcoming his fumbling hands before he finally lets you get it for real this time, taking the rest of your lingerie of as it turns feral, the kind of motion born from madness, from ache so deep it eats you alive.

and rafayel cannot stop licking you, his mouth was everywhere, spit dripping down your skin, tongue lapping and sloppily hungry at your neck, like he's starved and you're the last thing on this wretched earth. he enters you at the same rhythm you grind back, friction filthy and wet between you, an unspoken sync that should shame you both but only drives you further.

rafayel doesn't just fuck you, he studies your reactions, catalogs them, every moan, every cry, every pathetic little whimper, "so fucking desperate," he snarls, shoving his cock further and then dragging it out fully, slow and filthy, "you wore this just so i'd ruin you, didn't you?"

and ruin you he does, isn't that right? over the edge of the bed, hand in your hair, voice low and venomous at your ear, "scream for me, princess, louder, you fucking love this," he groans, his voice raw and broken against your throat, tongue flicking out again to taste the salt of your sweat, to drown in it, "feel how soaked you are— grinding back and fucking my cock like a damn animal— fuck, you're fucking dripping for it, aren't you?"

and you are, you're soaking his cock and the insides of your thighs, his pelvis, even beyond that, soaking yourself— even worse, you can hear it, the slick, the wet, the mess you made from being overstimulated so fucking much.

the drive off the edge was when he began spitting on it— hot and thick globules of saliva against your warm pussy, splattering it up all disgustingly, then going further in doing it to your back and your shoulders— smearing it with his mouth, grinding harder, meaner, into that spot that makes you clench and whine.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ sylus

sylus sees you and goes still, not blank— no, there's too much boiling heat buzzing from under his skin— although still, like an animal ready to pounce, his eyes darken, head tilted, mouth parting as if trying to find suitable words but failing.

his voice cuts, sleek and sharpened like glass dragged slow across your skin as he tells you to; "take it off."

"take it off," but you don't, not even after he's told you the second time, instead, you smile and he snaps instantly.

"i said—" his words die on his tongue, smothered by the press of your lips he angrily groans into your mouth, teeth knocking into yours when his hands tear at the flimsy material, wanting it gone immediately.

his fingers were bruising, pulling and pushing and gripping your thighs so hard they ache as he pushes you into the wall, a hand passionately around your throat— not choking, not yet— but possessive, a reminder.

he turns you around as he grinds at your pretty ass being all so cute and sweet on display for him, pressing his cock between the mounds of flesh like he's lost in a heat that won't break, "you're beautiful," he admires, "mine, mine, fuck, you look like a fucking dream, i hate it."

he bites at your shoulder, marks you until his name was written into your skin as his hands wander down, fingers pushing inside without warning as he groans at the feeling of your wet cunt, at how ready and prepared you were for him— and when you sob his name, when your legs squeeze together, he grabs your chin and forces you to look back at him.

his fingers were already deep inside your panties and there's nothing in the way now— just his veiny hand and your cunt, and obviously, the mess that binds them together. he slides his fingers through your folds and spreads the slick like he owns it, like he's been starved for this taste of you, humming at how your folds spread so obediently for him, how you're already dripping wet and whining at how sensitive he's got you, your arousal gushing like a wound that won't close.

"so wet already," he breathes against your throat, lips dragging his spit over your neck and jaw, "look at this, baby— your pretty pussy's begging for me," sylus laughs as his thumb circles your entrance, never quite pressing in— just teasing, just ghosting over that trembling rim, watching you twitch and gasp and grind against his hand like a thing possessed.

desperation twists at your spine, lips parting in a whimper you couldn't contain as your thighs turned sticky with your own arousal, making a mess of yourself across his palm as he spreads you open with two fingers at last, groaning low at the shimmer on your pussy dampening his digits instantly and the way you flutter and clench around nothing but his knuckles.

"you need it that bad, huh? all this for me? look at you—" his voice splits into a laugh, yet turns darker still, spit trailing from the corner of his mouth as your hole pulses at the filth of his voice, more slick drooling out with every breath, soaking his hand, soaking the sheets, soaking everything.

your body jerks with every slow stroke of his knuckles, every press that doesn't give enough— fuck, didn't fill you, you wanted him and not this— yet he doesn't stop fingering you embarrassingly cruel, never giving you what you needed, not yet, in fact, sylus wants you crying from how empty you were, sobbing from the absence of his dripping dick wrecking havoc, he wanted you on weak knees, shaking and soaked and ruined before he ever gave you his mercy.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ caleb

caleb sees you and almost trips over himself— twitching, alive with unspeakable want the second he registered your sinful lingerie hugging your body everlastingly bright— his gaze latches onto the gleam of lace, and something in him cracks, fuck, that absurd strip of silk between your thighs must've been the end of him.

he noticed it again, something inside him snaps so quietly yet so instantly— when then, the shock burns away, and in its place grow narrowed eyes, dark with a hunger he couldn't conceal, sharp and resembling a blade being drawn.

caleb doesn't touch you yet, he looks, and it burns, "you think I wouldn't lose my mind the second i saw you like this?" and the question lands awe alike, it's madness with him, truly, caleb feels the tent in his denim grew thicker as his cock urges to get freed.

his hand comes up— two fingers tracing the edge of the sheer fabric, as if testing its durability, it tremors, so faint you'd miss it if you weren't watching him like he's the sun swallowing the world, "you think i don't see what you're doing?" and then his voice folds in on itself, cold and cracked like winter-bled stone, scraped raw at the edges, "dressing like this… for me, for my eyes," as if angered with the strain of not already having you split open under him.

he leans in to wrap his arms around your body, his breath ghosting on your collarbone, not your mouth, not yet, "trying to tempt a man who hasn't even laid his hands on you properly."

he pauses and you felt it— something deep in him unraveling, "you don't know what you've done," and when he finally moves, it's devastating,

you're on the bed before you can breathe, shoved down into the mattress like he cannot bear for there to be even a second more without you beneath him. the sheets twisting under your back, warm and doused from where your skin meets the fabric, soft where his hands are anything but nice.

one hand wrenches your thighs open, rough and eager, spreading you like you're something innocent he's about to defile while the other grips your chin, fingers digging into your jaw, forcing your eyes up to meet his.

"i want you to look at me while i take you apart," he purrs as his mouth meets your skin, not gentle but methodical, his wet muscle drawing heavy circles across your chest, then lower, wetting the sheer lace with spit as he growls, "filthy fucking thing, who told you you were allowed to dress like this unless i told you to?"

you try to answer but he cuts it off with a kiss— filthy, wet, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth until it stings, spit stringing from his tongue to yours when he finally pulls back, his voice quieter now, developing a more dangerous sense.

"this body's mine," he's drilling into you now, slow and brutal between your legs, his cock thick and twitching against the damp heat of your center and whenever he fully sheathed himself inside, caleb made sure to add additional fast n meaty rocks of cock to massage your pretty pussy, his hands forevermore keeping you nice and spread on the bed, "—not to be paraded, not to be touched, not to be looked at unless i allow it."

each word lands with a thrust, his mouth returning to your throat, open, hot, desperate— mouthing filthy praise like reverence fouled by lust, a prayer stitched in sweat and spit, "feel how soaked you are?" his cock fucking the arousal back into your cunt until he sees a faint ring of white sheathed on his length, "you were waiting for this, don't lie, you wanted me to lose control."

and you have him now— his mask shattered, face flushed, hair sticking to his forehead, teeth sinking into your skin with favor as he pulls your legs over his hips and pushes in slowly, watching your face twist and melt around him.

"fuck, you take me so well," he whispers, voice thin with control, every syllable trembling on the edge of collapse, "mineminemine i'll make sure no one can look at you without seeing what i've done."

and when you arch your body into him the moment you feel the bubble inside your belly pop— you scream his name with tears clinging to your lashes as caleb shudders from the way you were constricting around him, milking his cock as he fuck you harder, soon after spilling inside you with a low, wrecked growl, hips still thrusting gently as he whispers, "good, good… so good for me."

he doesn't leave your body instantly, in fact, he doesn't pull out, rather does his forehead drop to your shoulder due to exhaustion, and you feel his breathing rattle through your skin like winter wind, cold and biting.

the quake in caleb's limbs never leave, even as he manages to choke out your name, "next time, i want to pick one out for you, spoil you, buy it and rip it off you again,"

and god, he will.

#love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace smut #love and deep space x reader #love and deep space smut #love and deepspace #lads x reader #lads smut #rafayel x reader #rafayel smut #sylus smut #sylus x reader #Caleb smut #Caleb x reader #zayne x reader #zayne smut #xavier x reader #xavier smut #lads x you #love and deepspace x you

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pucksandpower · 5 months ago

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Car Trouble

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: in which it starts with Max insisting that you borrow one of his many cars while yours is in the shop and somehow turns into you being dragged away in handcuffs because (according to your jealous housemates) the only way you could ever afford a car like that is by having stolen it … suffice to say, your protective boyfriend is less than amused

Warnings: law enforcement abuse of power

The thing is, you know it’s a gamble the moment you put the key in the ignition. Your little car, a 2004 Fiat Panda with a chipped paint job and a suspiciously rattling exhaust, has been teetering on the edge for months. But it’s all you have, and it’s gotten you this far.

Except now, as you sit in Max’s driveway, the dashboard flickers ominously, a banner of orange warning lights. You groan, lean your head against the steering wheel, and curse under your breath. Maybe it’s the alternator. Or the battery. Or the car’s just finally decided it’s had enough.

Max is at his kitchen window, a mug of coffee in hand, his eyes narrowing as he watches you. He steps out, still in his Red Bull Racing hoodie, hair a mess, and jogs over. You don’t even get the chance to open your mouth before he’s leaning down, peering through your open window.

“Car trouble?” He asks, but it’s more of a statement than a question.

“Take a wild guess,” you mutter, throwing your hands up.

He chuckles, low and warm. “Let me have a look.”

He gestures for you to pop the hood, and you do, reluctantly. Max circles around, lifting it with a practiced ease, his brow furrowing as he inspects the engine. You know he’s not a mechanic, but he knows enough to recognize that it’s bad news.

“I think it’s, um, all of it,” he says, voice laced with amusement. He looks up at you. “You really drove all the way here like this?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say defensively. “It was fine when I left. Mostly.”

Max gives you a pointed look but lets it slide. He straightens up, wiping his hands on his jeans, and nods toward the house. “Come on. I’ll call someone to get it towed.”

You hesitate. “Max, I can-”

“I know you can,” he interrupts gently, eyes locking with yours. “But why should you?”

He has this way of cutting through your defenses with a single look, and it’s infuriating. You sigh, climbing out of the car and slamming the door shut. Max winces, raising an eyebrow.

“Easy. I think she’s suffered enough,” he teases.

You glare at him, but he’s already dialing a number, one hand braced on his hip, the other holding the phone to his ear. He’s so calm, so unbothered, like this is just another Friday, and your car isn’t smoking in his driveway. It makes you feel small, somehow, and a little embarrassed.

“Hey, mate. Got a Fiat here that needs towing. Yeah, looks pretty bad. Can you get someone here today?” Max pauses, glancing at you, then back to the ground. “Nah, it’s not mine. It’s my girlfriend’s.”

The word hangs in the air, filling the space between you. It’s not the first time he’s called you that, but every time he does, it sends a little thrill through you. You shove your hands into your pockets, kicking at the gravel with the toe of your shoe as he finishes up the call.

“Right,” he says, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “They’ll be here in an hour or so. Want to come inside?”

You nod, following him up the steps and into the house. It’s quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of the floorboards beneath your feet. Max leads you to the kitchen, where the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. He pours you a cup without asking, handing it to you as you sink into a chair.

“So,” he begins, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “What’s your plan?”

You shrug. “Get it fixed, I guess. If it’s even worth fixing.”

“It’s not,” he says bluntly. “That thing’s a death trap.”

You know he’s right, but hearing it out loud stings. “I can’t just buy a new car, Max.”

“I’m not saying you should,” he replies, voice softening. “But you can’t keep driving that. It’s not safe.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that makes you feel like you should say something, but you don’t know what. Max watches you carefully, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on in your head. He always does that — wants to fix everything, make it all better. And it’s sweet, but sometimes, it’s exhausting.

“Look, I have an idea,” he says finally, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. “You can use one of my cars until yours is sorted.”

You blink up at him. “Max, I can’t-”

“You can,” he insists, a determined edge to his voice. “And you will. You need a car, and I have plenty. It makes sense.”

“It’s too much,” you protest, shaking your head. “I can’t just borrow one of your cars like it’s no big deal.”

“It is no big deal,” he counters, his gaze steady and unwavering. “It’s a car. I have, like, a dozen of them. And I want you to be safe.”

The logic is sound, but it still feels wrong. You open your mouth to argue, but Max holds up a hand.

“Let me finish,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “You’re here for the weekend, right? We’ll get your car towed to a shop, see what they say. In the meantime, you use one of mine. If they can’t fix it, we’ll figure something else out.”

“Max-”

“No arguments,” he interrupts again, smiling faintly. “Please. For me.”

You huff, staring down at your coffee like it might provide some kind of answer. When you look up, Max is still watching you, his expression soft and earnest. He’s not going to let this go, you realize. And maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

“Which one?” You ask, finally relenting.

A slow grin spreads across his face. “The DBS.”

Your eyes widen. “The Aston Martin?”

He nods, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Yep.”

“You’re insane,” you say flatly. “I can’t drive that.”

“Sure, you can. I’ll teach you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?” He steps closer, dropping to a crouch in front of you so you’re eye to eye. “That you don’t want to accept help from your boyfriend? Because, if that’s it, we’re going to have a problem.”

His words catch you off guard, and you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” he murmurs, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I want you to have it. Just until you’re sorted.”

You let out a long breath, your shoulders sagging as the fight leaves you. “Fine. But I’m not keeping it.”

“Deal,” he says instantly, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

There’s a beat of quiet as he stands, pulling out his phone again. He’s about to dial when you speak up.

“Wait.”

He pauses, glancing at you. “Yeah?”

You chew on your bottom lip, considering your next words carefully. “Are you sure? I don’t want to scratch it or-”

“Hey,” he cuts you off, voice gentle. “It’s a car not a piece of priceless china. It’ll be fine.”

His nonchalance is almost infuriating, but you can’t help the way your heart swells at his unwavering confidence in you. He believes in you, even when you don’t.

“Okay,” you whisper, and it’s like something shifts in the air between you. Max’s gaze softens, and he reaches out, squeezing your hand.

“Good. Now, let’s go get the keys.”

***

It’s raining, and the house smells like damp clothes and stale toast. Chloe stands by the living room window, holding her cup of tea, her gaze idly drifting over the dreary street. The drizzling rain matches her mood, which is sour on a good day and worse now that she’s been stuck inside with a mountain of uni work she has no interest in.

A sigh escapes her lips, louder than she means it to, but no one’s around to hear. Her housemates — well, most of them — are scattered across campus, probably doing something useful with their lives. And then there’s you. Always flitting in and out with your head held high, like you’re too good for this dump of a house.

Chloe rolls her eyes at the thought of you. She’s been harboring this quiet disdain ever since you moved in. It’s irrational, she knows that. You haven’t done anything to her, not really. But there’s something about the way you carry yourself, always so composed, so put together, that grates on her nerves. And lately, you’ve been acting … different. Happier, even. Chloe’s seen you, the way you disappear for the weekends, only to return with that smug smile. It’s not hard to guess why.

Chloe knows you have a boyfriend, though you’ve been annoyingly tight-lipped about it. She’s overheard snippets of conversation, seen the texts you try to hide when someone else walks into the room. But still, she can’t figure out why you’re with someone who clearly has money. A lot of money. The kind of money girls like you — girls like them — don’t get near unless there’s some major luck involved.

As she stares out the window, she suddenly sees something that makes her pause. Her tea sloshes dangerously close to the rim of the mug as her hand freezes. There, pulling into the lot, is an Aston Martin. Glossy, sleek, and roaring like a mechanical beast as it glides through the rain. The headlights cut through the fog, and the car comes to a slow, calculated stop directly in front of their house.

Chloe’s brow furrows, her pulse quickening. What in the world …

She watches, transfixed, as the driver’s door opens, and you step out, closing the door behind you like it’s no big deal. You glance around the street, pulling the collar of your jacket higher against the rain, completely oblivious to the fact that Chloe is practically burning a hole through the window with her gaze.

“What the hell?” Chloe breathes, her voice sharp in the stillness of the room.

Her eyes narrow as you cross the street, keys jingling in your hand, moving with an air of confidence that has no right to belong to someone pulling up in a car like that. Chloe watches every step, every casual flick of your wrist as you lock the car and walk toward the front door.

She should turn away, pretend she didn’t see anything, but her brain is spinning, trying to process the absurdity of the situation. That’s a three-hundred-thousand-pound car. You can barely afford rent, let alone something like that. Her mind races with the only plausible explanation — there’s no way in hell that car belongs to you.

Chloe slams her cup down on the coffee table, not caring that it splashes tea everywhere, and darts toward the stairs. She takes them two at a time, bursting into her flatmate Amelia’s room without knocking.

“Amelia! You won’t believe this.”

Amelia looks up from her laptop, startled. “Chloe, what the-”

“Come here. Now.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, spinning on her heel and rushing back down the stairs, Amelia reluctantly trailing after her. Chloe pulls her toward the window, jabbing a finger in the direction of the car still parked outside.

“Look,” she says breathlessly, her words tumbling out too fast. “Look at that.”

Amelia leans closer to the window, blinking at the car through the rain-streaked glass. “Is that an Aston Martin?”

“Exactly.” Chloe’s voice is a mix of disbelief and something darker. “And guess who just stepped out of it?”

Amelia frowns, her brow creasing. “No way. You’re joking.”

“I’m dead serious. She just parked it like she owns the place. What the hell is going on?”

Amelia lets out a low whistle, leaning back against the couch. “I mean, that’s … that’s not normal.”

Chloe folds her arms, pacing the length of the room now. “She’s probably stolen it. I mean, there’s no way she could afford something like that. Do you know how much that car’s worth?”

Amelia shakes her head slowly, eyes still glued to the car outside. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s her boyfriend’s?”

“That’s what I thought,” Chloe snaps, “but come on, who does she know that has that kind of money? I don’t care who her boyfriend is, something’s off.”

They both fall silent for a moment, the only sound the rain tapping against the window. Chloe’s mind races, jumping to conclusions faster than she can keep up. Everything about this feels wrong. She’s always suspected there was something up with you, but this? This is something else entirely.

Amelia breaks the silence, her voice hesitant. “Maybe she’s just lucky? I mean, maybe he’s, like, rich-rich. You know?”

Chloe scoffs. “No one gets that lucky. And she’s been acting so secretive lately. What if she’s involved in something shady? I mean, who just pulls up in a car like that?”

Amelia shrugs, clearly unsure how to respond. But Chloe’s not done. There’s a fire in her now, a burning need to know what’s going on. You’ve always been too quiet, too private, and now it’s all starting to make sense. There’s no way you’re as innocent as you pretend to be.

She whirls back around to Amelia, eyes blazing. “You know what? I’m going to call the police.”

“What?” Amelia’s eyes widen in shock. “Chloe, are you serious? You can’t just-”

“Yes, I can,” Chloe cuts her off, already reaching for her phone. “She’s clearly up to something, and I’m not going to sit here and let her get away with it.”

Amelia tries to protest, but Chloe’s mind is already made up. Her fingers fly across her phone screen, dialing the non-emergency number. Her heart pounds in her chest as the call connects, and she presses the phone to her ear, pacing as she waits for someone to pick up.

“Chloe, this is crazy,” Amelia says again, her voice laced with anxiety. “You don’t even know-”

“Shh!” Chloe hisses, waving a hand to silence her.

Finally, the line clicks, and a calm voice greets her. “Thames Valley Police, how can I help you?”

Chloe takes a deep breath, her voice steady as she launches into her story. “Hi, I’m calling to report a suspicious vehicle. It’s parked outside my house, and I’m pretty sure it’s been stolen.”

The operator asks for details, and Chloe rattles off the make and model of the car, her eyes never leaving the Aston Martin still parked outside. She glances at Amelia, who’s biting her lip, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation, but Chloe’s too far gone to care.

“I just … I know the girl who’s driving it, and there’s no way she could afford a car like that,” Chloe explains, her tone sharp. “I think she might have stolen it.”

The operator asks a few more questions, and Chloe answers each one with growing confidence. She can feel it in her bones — something’s off, and she’s not about to let it slide.

When the call ends, Chloe lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, her hands shaking slightly as she lowers her phone.

“Chloe, you didn’t have to do that,” Amelia says quietly, her voice full of worry. “What if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not wrong,” Chloe insists, her jaw clenched. “You’ll see. The police will sort it out.”

She turns back to the window, her eyes narrowing as she watches the car, half-expecting something to happen. But nothing does. The car sits there, pristine and out of place, mocking her with its sheer audacity.

And you? You have no idea what’s coming.

***

It’s supposed to be a quiet afternoon — one of those rare breaks between classes when you can actually catch your breath. The rain’s let up, and a misty sun filters through the clouds, casting a soft glow over the pavement outside. You’re halfway up the stairs to your room, your backpack slung over one shoulder, when there’s a loud knock on the door.

The sound is sharp, authoritative, and it echoes through the house, stopping you in your tracks. You glance down, frowning slightly. It’s not like you’re expecting anyone, and the others aren’t home yet. Maybe it’s just a delivery.

But then the knocking comes again — louder, more insistent. Your unease deepens as you drop your bag and head back down the stairs. By the time you reach the door, a faint prickle of anxiety is buzzing under your skin.

You pull the door open, and there they are — two uniformed officers standing on the doorstep. They look serious, their expressions neutral but firm, and you feel your heart sink. This isn’t a casual visit.

“Can I help you?” Your voice is steady, though confusion laces each word.

One of the officers, a tall woman with cropped brown hair and a no-nonsense gaze, steps forward. “Are you the owner of the Aston Martin parked outside?”

The question takes you by surprise. “Um, no,” you say, blinking at them. “It’s not mine, but-”

“We’re going to have to ask you to step outside, please,” the other officer, a man with a stern jawline and dark eyes, interrupts. He glances over your shoulder, as if assessing whether you’re alone.

“What’s this about?” You can hear the uncertainty in your voice now, a sharp edge creeping in. “The car belongs to my boyfriend. I’m just borrowing it-”

“Step outside, miss,” the woman repeats, her tone brooking no argument.

Swallowing hard, you do as you’re told, stepping out onto the front stoop. The chill of the autumn air hits you, and you wrap your arms around yourself instinctively. This isn’t making any sense.

“I don’t understand,” you say again, a little louder this time. “What’s going on?”

The officers exchange a look, and then the man speaks. “We received a report that the vehicle may have been stolen. We need to ask you a few questions.”

“Stolen?” The word feels foreign on your tongue. “No, it’s not stolen! I told you, it belongs to my boyfriend-”

“Do you have any proof of ownership?” the woman asks sharply, cutting you off. “Registration documents, anything like that?”

You open your mouth, then close it, frustration building. “The registration is in the glove compartment. If you just let me get it-”

“Stay where you are,” the man says firmly, holding up a hand to stop you. “We’ll check it ourselves.”

“Can’t you just let me show you?” You take a step forward, but both officers tense, their hands hovering near their belts. Your heart stutters in your chest, a cold trickle of fear sliding down your spine. “I’m telling the truth! I can unlock the car and show you. Please, just let me-”

“Miss, please calm down,” the woman says, her tone laced with a warning. “We’re following protocol here. If you cooperate, this will go much smoother.”

“But I am cooperating!” The words burst out, your voice rising despite yourself. “I’m not lying. It’s my boyfriend’s car, he let me borrow it while mine is in the shop-”

“Miss, we need you to step away from the vehicle,” the man says again, more forcefully this time. He pulls out a small notepad, flipping it open. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

You hesitate, caught off guard. “Max,” you say finally, your voice faltering slightly. “Max Verstappen.”

There’s a pause — one that stretches uncomfortably long. The officers exchange another look, something almost skeptical passing between them.

“Right,” the woman says slowly, like she’s testing the words in her mouth. “And you expect us to believe that Max Verstappen, the Formula 1 driver, lent you his Aston Martin?”

“Yes!” Your hands are shaking now, anger and disbelief mixing with fear in a volatile cocktail. “Why would I lie about that? Just let me-”

“Miss,” the man interrupts, his tone hardening. “We need you to turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

The words hit you like a slap, knocking the breath from your lungs. “What? No, you can’t-”

“Turn around and place your hands behind your back,” he repeats, each word clipped and precise.

You look from him to the woman, desperation clawing at your throat. “Please, just let me open the car. I can prove it’s not stolen. Please-”

But they’re not listening. Before you can say another word, the woman steps forward, reaching for your arm. You flinch back instinctively, panic flaring in your chest.

“Don’t-”

“Miss, don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be,” the woman says sharply, grabbing your wrist with practiced ease. She spins you around, her grip firm but not painful, and then you feel the cold, unforgiving bite of metal as she snaps a pair of handcuffs around your wrists.

“No, wait-” You twist, struggling against her hold, but it’s useless. The cuffs dig into your skin, and you can’t breathe, can’t think.

“Please, I didn’t do anything! You’re making a mistake!”

The man steps closer, his face impassive. “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence …”

His voice blurs, the words running together in a nauseating hum. You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes. “No, no, please, I didn’t steal anything! Just call Max, he’ll explain-”

“Miss, we’re taking you down to the station,” the woman says, steering you away from the house and toward their patrol car parked at the curb. “We’ll sort this out there.”

“Wait!” You stumble, the cuffs biting into your wrists as they push you forward. “You’re not listening! The car isn’t stolen! If you just let me get the registration-”

But they ignore you, their grips unyielding. The street seems to tilt and blur as they guide you toward the back of the car, your shoes scuffing against the wet pavement. Everything feels surreal, like you’ve been dropped into a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

The woman opens the back door, and the man gives you a gentle but firm shove. You fall into the seat, the leather cold against your legs. They close the door with a solid thunk, the sound reverberating through your bones.

“Please,” you whisper, leaning forward as much as the cuffs allow. “You’re making a mistake. I’m telling the truth …”

But they’re already walking away, their voices low as they talk to each other. You catch fragments of their conversation — words like “protocol” and “standard procedure” — but it all feels distant, unreal.

You slump back in the seat, staring blankly out the window as the patrol car starts up, the engine a low, steady hum. The world outside blurs into a swirl of gray and green as they pull away from the curb, and your mind races, panic and disbelief tangling together in a messy knot.

How did this happen? One minute you were heading to your room, and now you’re being carted off to a police station like some sort of criminal. It doesn’t make any sense.

You try to replay the last few minutes in your head, searching for something — anything — you could have said or done differently. But there’s nothing. They weren’t listening to you. They didn’t care about your explanation. They just saw a girl with an expensive car and decided you must be guilty of something.

Tears prick your eyes again, and you blink them back furiously. You can’t fall apart now. You have to think, to figure out what to do next.

Max. You need to call Max. He’ll sort this out. He’ll tell them the truth, and they’ll have to let you go. But how are you supposed to do that when they’ve got you locked up in the back of a patrol car?

The drive to the station feels like it takes forever, each second dragging out in painful clarity. You try to keep calm, to breathe through the panic tightening in your chest, but it’s hard when every bump in the road makes the cuffs dig deeper into your skin.

Finally, they pull up in front of the station, and the officers get out, coming around to your side. The door opens, and the woman leans down, her expression unreadable.

“Come on, miss. Let’s get this sorted out.”

You nod numbly, letting them help you out of the car. Your legs feel shaky, your whole body trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. They lead you up the steps, through the front doors, and into a small, sterile room that smells faintly of disinfectant.

“Please,” you say one last time, your voice breaking. “Please, just call him. He’ll explain everything.”

But they only exchange another glance, and the woman shakes her head slightly. “Let’s get your statement first, miss.”

And then they’re sitting you down, the lights glaring down from above, the cuffs still biting into your wrists. And all you can do is sit there, your heart pounding in your chest, as the nightmare continues to unfold around you.

***

The fluorescent lights above hum softly, the cold, sterile environment of the police station pressing down on you from every angle. It feels like you’ve been here for hours, your wrists still red from the handcuffs, a dull ache in your joints from sitting on the hard chair. Every second stretches, torturing you with the weight of waiting.

You're trying to stay calm, but your thoughts keep spiraling — back to the car, back to the police showing up at your doorstep, back to the way they refused to listen. Your voice shakes every time you try to explain, but it’s like they can’t hear you. It’s suffocating.

Across the room, the officer — her name’s Thompson, you think — sits at her desk, flipping through some paperwork. The sound of pages turning feels louder than it should. Every time you shift in your seat, she gives you this look, like she’s annoyed by your very presence. Like she’s waiting for you to break.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore.

“I want to make a phone call,” you say, your voice cutting through the stillness. You sit up straighter, your hands balled into fists on your lap.

Thompson doesn’t even look up. “You’ll get your chance,” she says dismissively, still flipping through the file.

“No,” you say, firmer this time. “I want to make it now. I have the right to make a phone call.”

This time, she looks up, her expression flat. “You’ll have to wait.”

“I’ve waited long enough,” you snap, surprising yourself with the force in your voice. Your patience is gone, the fear of being trapped in this nightmare pushing you into desperation. “I know my rights. I’m allowed one phone call, and I want to make it.”

Thompson raises an eyebrow, like she’s weighing whether or not you’re serious. After a beat, she sighs, pushing the stack of papers aside and standing. “Fine,” she says curtly. “One phone call.”

She leads you to a small side room — bare, with only a table, a chair, and a landline phone sitting in the middle. You sit down, and Thompson places the phone in front of you like it’s some kind of offering.

“One call,” she says again, her eyes narrowing. “Make it count.”

You don’t hesitate. You dial Max’s number, your fingers trembling slightly as you press the buttons. The ring tone fills the room, each ring stretching out the time between your breaths. You press the phone closer to your ear, your heart pounding.

It rings once. Twice. And then-

“Hello?”

Max’s voice comes through the line, smooth and steady, as if he’s just woken up from a nap and isn’t even remotely phased by the sudden call. But you know him better than that — there’s a sharp edge beneath the surface, a protective tension that’s always there when it comes to you.

You swallow hard, fighting back the lump in your throat. “Max …”

There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts — serious, focused. “What’s wrong?”

“They arrested me,” you say, the words rushing out before you can stop them. “The police — they think I stole your car.”

There’s silence on the other end, just for a second. Then his voice drops, low and dangerous. “What?”

You feel the weight of his anger through the phone, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you feel a flicker of relief. He’s going to fix this. He’s not going to let them treat you like this.

“They showed up at the house,” you explain, your voice trembling slightly. “They wouldn’t let me get the registration. They didn’t believe me when I said the car was yours. They just-”

“Where are you?” His voice cuts through your explanation, sharp and commanding. “Which station?”

You glance around the room. “Bedfordshire Police Station. They won’t let me-”

“Stay where you are,” he says, his voice brooking no argument. “Don’t talk to anyone else. I’m on my way.”

The line goes dead before you can respond, the dial tone ringing in your ears. You stare at the phone for a moment, your heart racing. You know Max is angry — no, furious — but that anger isn’t directed at you. It’s for them, the people who put you in this position.

Thompson steps back into the room, her expression unreadable. “Finished?”

You nod, handing the phone back. She doesn’t say anything as she leads you back to the main room, but you can feel her eyes on you, judging, assessing.

You sit down again, your legs shaky, but now there’s a quiet fire burning in your chest. Max is coming. He’s going to make this right.

The minutes tick by, painfully slow. Thompson goes back to her paperwork, the other officers moving around the station like it’s just another day. But for you, every second is excruciating, the tension building in your chest like a storm.

Then, finally, the door to the station swings open with a heavy thud, and you hear the low murmur of voices — followed by a voice you’d recognize anywhere.

Max.

You can’t see him from where you’re sitting, but you can feel the shift in the room. There’s a sudden stillness, the officers glancing up from their desks, their postures stiffening. Even Thompson’s face changes, a flicker of surprise crossing her features before she composes herself.

You strain to hear the conversation at the front desk, but it’s muffled. Still, you catch bits and pieces — his name, the car, your name. And then there’s the sharp, unmistakable edge of authority in Max’s voice as he says something that makes the desk officer sit up a little straighter.

Moments later, the door to the holding area swings open, and there he is. Max strides in, every movement purposeful, his eyes locking onto you immediately. There’s a fire in his gaze — controlled, but fierce — and the tension in his jaw tells you everything you need to know.

He’s not just angry. He’s livid.

“Max …” Your voice is small, a mixture of relief and shame. You hadn’t wanted to drag him into this mess, but you also know that no one else could’ve handled it the way he can.

He crosses the room in a few quick strides, his hand reaching for yours. “Are you okay?” His voice is low, steady, but you can hear the tightness underneath it.

You nod, but tears prick at your eyes. “I-I didn’t know what to do. They wouldn’t listen to me …”

He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ve got it from here.” His tone is resolute, his eyes never leaving yours.

Then, without another word to you, Max turns to face the officers. His entire demeanor shifts, his posture straightening, his presence filling the room with an air of control that demands respect.

“Who’s in charge here?” He asks, his voice calm but unmistakably authoritative.

Thompson steps forward, though there’s a flicker of hesitation in her movements. “I am,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “Officer Thompson.”

Max doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “You arrested my girlfriend under suspicion of theft. I’d like to see the evidence you have for that.”

Thompson falters, her eyes flicking over to the other officers. “We … we received a report of a stolen vehicle, and-”

“And instead of verifying the ownership, you decided to arrest her?” Max’s voice is cold, each word measured. “Did you even check the registration in the glove compartment?”

Thompson’s jaw tightens. “We were following standard procedure. She became agitated and-”

“She was agitated because you were treating her like a criminal,” Max cuts in, his tone sharp. “You had no reason to arrest her. If you had checked the registration, you would’ve seen my name on it.”

He takes a step closer, his presence towering over Thompson, making her shift uneasily on her feet. “Do you know who I am?”

There’s a beat of silence. The room feels like it’s holding its breath.

Thompson nods slowly. “Yes. Mr. Verstappen, we-”

“Then you know how much trouble you’re in,” Max says, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone. “You’re going to release her. Now. And then you’re going to issue a formal apology.”

Thompson blinks, clearly taken aback by his bluntness. “Mr. Verstappen, I understand your frustration, but we were simply-”

“Don’t patronize me,” Max interrupts, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. “You’ve already made a mess of this situation. Don’t make it worse by pretending this was some kind of mistake. You arrested her because you assumed she didn’t belong in that car. Because you didn’t bother to listen.”

Thompson opens her mouth to argue, but Max doesn’t give her the chance. “I’ll be contacting my legal team,” he says, his tone firm. “And if you don’t release her immediately, I’ll make sure this becomes a very public issue.”

The threat hangs in the air, thick and heavy. Thompson hesitates for a moment longer, and then — finally — she nods.

“Release her,” she says quietly, signaling to one of the other officers.

The relief that washes over you is immediate, your heart pounding in your chest as the handcuffs are removed. Max’s hand is on your shoulder in an instant, grounding you, his touch warm and reassuring.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs, his voice softening as he looks down at you. “We’re getting out of here.”

You nod, letting him guide you out of the station. But before you step through the door, you glance back at Thompson, who’s still standing there, her expression strained.

Max pauses, following your gaze. He meets Thompson’s eyes, his expression unreadable. “Don’t ever treat her like that again,” he says quietly, the words carrying more weight than any threat could.

And with that, he leads you out into the cool night air, his arm wrapped protectively around you as you step outside.

***

Max’s fingers are wrapped tightly around your wrist, his grip firm but not painful, as he guides you toward his car in the station’s dimly lit parking lot. It’s quieter out here, the cool air thick with the scent of autumn leaves and something sharper — the lingering smell of petrol. The night is still, almost peaceful, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of chaos you’ve just been dragged through.

But Max’s silence is unnerving. He’s holding onto your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

He stops in front of a sleek, black Porsche 911 GT3 RS, the kind of car that turns heads and raises eyebrows. It’s an aggressive machine, all sharp edges and raw power — just like Max right now.

“Get in,” he says, his voice low and controlled, as if he’s holding back a storm. He opens the passenger side door for you, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

You hesitate for a second, looking up at him, trying to gauge his mood. “Max-”

“Get. In,” he repeats, enunciating each word with a finality that leaves no room for argument.

You slip into the passenger seat without another word, the leather cool against your skin. The car’s interior is immaculate, everything in its place, the faint smell of new leather lingering in the air. Max rounds the front of the car and slides into the driver’s seat, his movements tight and controlled. He doesn’t say anything as he starts the engine, the car roaring to life with a low, throaty growl.

He peels out of the parking lot with a precision that feels almost surgical, his eyes locked on the road ahead, his jaw clenched. The silence between you is heavy, charged with an emotion you can’t quite name.

“Max-”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” His voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, sharp and accusing. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel.

You blink, taken aback by the question. “Tell you what?”

“That they arrested you,” he says, each word bitten off like it’s leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “That they-” He breaks off, shaking his head like he can’t even bring himself to say it. “Why didn’t you call me immediately?”

You swallow hard, your gaze dropping to your lap. “I-I didn’t want to worry you. You were probably busy, and-”

“Busy?” He lets out a short, humorless laugh, his eyes flashing as he glances at you. “You think I care about being busy when something like this happens? When you’re involved?”

“Max, I didn’t want you to-”

“To what? Be pissed off? Too late for that,” he snaps, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. He takes a deep breath, his grip on the steering wheel loosening slightly. “What happened, exactly?”

You tell him, your voice halting at first but gaining strength as you recount every detail — the officers showing up, the handcuffs, the questions, the disbelief when you tried to explain the car belonged to him. Max’s expression darkens with each word, his jaw set in a hard line.

“They just … wouldn’t listen,” you finish softly, staring down at your hands. “I told them it was yours. I even tried to show them the registration, but they didn’t care.”

“They didn’t care because they had already made up their minds,” Max growls, his voice a dangerous rumble. “They saw you and assumed you didn’t belong in that car.”

He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself. You can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to keep his temper in check.

“Why would they think the car was stolen in the first place?” He mutters, more to himself than to you. His fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel, his mind clearly racing.

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. “Someone must have reported it,” you say slowly, the realization dawning on you as you speak. “Someone must have seen me with it and assumed …”

Max’s gaze snaps to you, sharp and focused. “Who would do that?”

“I-I don’t know.” You shake your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. “It could’ve been anyone. The car … it stands out. Maybe someone thought it looked out of place at the house.”

Max’s frown deepens. “No,” he says firmly, his eyes narrowing. “No, it wasn’t just anyone. It was someone who knows you. Someone who knew that wasn’t your car.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and damning. Someone who knew you. Someone who saw you with the Aston Martin. Someone who-

“One of your housemates,” Max says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur.

You open your mouth to protest, but then you stop, the pieces falling into place in your mind. One of your housemates. One of the people who knows you can’t afford a car like that, who might have thought — wrongly, jealously — that you had gotten your hands on it through some shady means.

Max’s eyes are hard, unyielding. “It has to be,” he says, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Someone saw you with the car and called the police. There’s no other explanation.”

You take a deep breath, the realization settling in your chest like a lead weight. “But … why would they do that? Why would they assume I stole it?”

“Because people are idiots,” Max mutters, his gaze flicking back to the road. “Because people are jealous. And because they didn’t like seeing you with something they thought you shouldn’t have.”

There’s a bitter edge to his words, and it makes your heart ache. Max has dealt with his share of jealousy, of people looking at him like he doesn’t deserve what he’s earned. He knows what it’s like to be judged, to have assumptions made about him based on nothing but surface impressions.

But this is different. This is personal.

“Whoever did this,” Max says, his voice low and controlled, “is going to regret it.”

Your eyes widen, a pang of fear and something else — something almost like excitement — flaring in your chest. “Max, wait-”

“We’re going to your house,” he continues, his tone brooking no argument. “We’re going to find out who made that call, and I’m going to make sure they understand exactly what kind of trouble they’ve caused.”

“Max, no,” you protest, your voice rising. “You don’t have to do that. I-I can handle it. I’ll talk to them, I’ll-”

“No, you won’t.” He glances at you, his eyes blazing. “You’ve been through enough tonight. I’m handling this.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the look on his face stops you cold. There’s a steely determination in his eyes, an unshakeable resolve that tells you there’s no point in fighting him on this.

He’s already made up his mind.

“Max, please-”

“Enough,” he says softly, but there’s no gentleness in his tone. “I’m not letting them get away with this.”

You fall silent, your heart racing as the car speeds down the quiet, empty streets. The tension in the car is suffocating, but there’s also a strange sense of relief. Relief that he’s here, that he’s taking control, that he’s going to make this right.

You know you should feel bad, should feel guilty for dragging him into this mess. But right now, all you feel is a fierce, overwhelming sense of gratitude.

Max’s hand finds yours again, his fingers lacing through yours, squeezing gently. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, his voice softening just a fraction. “I’m going to take care of it.”

You nod, swallowing back the words you want to say — the apologies, the pleas for him not to do anything reckless. Because you know it won’t make a difference. Max is stubborn, determined, protective to a fault. And when it comes to you, he’s willing to do whatever it takes.

The drive to your house feels both too long and too short, every second charged with anticipation. When Max finally pulls up outside your shared house, he cuts the engine and turns to you, his expression unreadable.

“Stay in the car,” he says firmly.

You blink, surprised. “What?”

“Stay. In. The. Car.” He enunciates each word with that same controlled intensity, his eyes boring into yours. “I’m going inside.”

“Max, you can’t-”

“I can and I will,” he interrupts, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’m not letting you go in there and face them after everything that’s happened tonight.”

He reaches out, his hand cupping your cheek gently, his thumb brushing over your skin in a soft, soothing gesture. “Just stay here, okay? Let me handle it.”

You want to argue, to tell him it’s not necessary, but the look in his eyes stops you. There’s a fierce protectiveness there, a determination that makes your chest tighten.

“Max …”

“Please,” he murmurs, his voice softening. “Just this once. Let me take care of it.”

You hesitate, then nod slowly. “Okay.”

He leans forward, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your forehead before pulling back. “Good.”

And with that, he steps out of the car, the door closing with a soft thud behind him. You watch as he strides toward the front door of your house, his shoulders squared, his posture radiating confidence and control.

But the second he disappears from view, you find yourself reaching for the door handle. You know he told you to stay in the car. You know he wants to protect you.

But you can’t just sit here and let him fight your battles for you.

Taking a deep breath, you push the door open and step out into the cool night air, following him up the path toward the house.

***

The door swings open with a resounding bang, ricocheting with enough force to make the picture frames on the adjacent wall rattle. Every head in the common room snaps up, eyes wide and startled as they turn toward the unexpected intrusion.

Max stands in the doorway, the very picture of barely restrained fury, his presence so commanding it seems to suck the air out of the room. His gaze sweeps over the small group of people lounging on the mismatched sofas, taking in their shocked expressions and slack-jawed stares with a level of disdain that’s almost palpable.

“What the hell is going on?” He demands, his voice a low, dangerous growl that reverberates through the room.

No one answers immediately. They’re all too stunned, too caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the tall, broad-shouldered stranger radiating aggression. It’s Chloe who finally finds her voice, pushing herself up from her seat on the sofa and taking a hesitant step forward.

“Um, excuse me, but who are you?” Her voice wavers slightly, but she lifts her chin defiantly, trying to project an air of authority. “You can’t just barge in here like this.”

Max’s eyes lock onto her, and something in his gaze makes her flinch back, the confidence in her stance faltering. He doesn’t bother answering her question. Instead, he turns his head slightly, calling out over his shoulder.

“Come in here,” he says, his tone softer but no less commanding.

You step into the doorway behind him, hesitant and unsure, your gaze flicking nervously between Max and your housemates. You don’t miss the way their expressions shift when they see you — surprise, confusion, and something darker, more judgmental, flickering across their faces.

“Y/N?” It’s Amelia who speaks this time, her brows furrowed in confusion. “What’s going on? Who is this guy?”

Max’s jaw tightens, his gaze still fixed on Chloe. “I’m Max,” he says curtly, as if the name alone should explain everything.

It clearly doesn’t. The blank stares from around the room make that abundantly clear.

“Max Verstappen,” he adds, impatience lacing his tone. Still no recognition. “Formula 1 driver? Y/N’s boyfriend?” He tries again, a hint of disbelief in his voice now.

A flicker of something like realization crosses a few faces, but Chloe just scoffs, folding her arms across her chest.

“Yeah, sure,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “And I’m Lewis Hamilton.”

Max’s lips curl into a cold, humorless smile. “Trust me, I would never want to be him.”

The comment flies over Chloe’s head, but it’s enough to send a ripple of laughter through the room. Max’s smile fades as quickly as it came, his expression hardening once more.

“I’m her boyfriend,” he says again flatly, jerking his head in your direction. “And I’m here to find out which one of you decided it was a good idea to call the police and have her arrested.”

The laughter dies instantly. The air in the room thickens with tension, eyes darting from Max to you and back again.

“Arrested?” Amelia repeats, her voice rising in pitch. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Max snaps, his gaze still boring into Chloe, like he can see straight through her. “One of you called the cops and reported her for driving a stolen car. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

A murmur of confusion ripples through the group, genuine bewilderment on most faces. But Chloe’s eyes dart away, a flicker of guilt crossing her expression before she schools it back into one of indifference.

“What — no, that’s ridiculous!” She says, her voice a touch too high-pitched. “Why would any of us do that?”

Max’s gaze narrows, his eyes zeroing in on her like a hawk spotting prey. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice dangerously quiet. “You tell me.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick and heavy. Chloe shifts uncomfortably, her gaze flickering toward the others as if searching for support. But no one says anything. No one moves.

“Look,” Chloe finally says, trying for a breezy tone that falls flat. “If she got arrested, that’s … that’s not our fault, okay? Maybe there was a misunderstanding or something.”

Max’s eyes flash, and you feel a shiver run down your spine at the barely restrained fury simmering beneath the surface.

“A misunderstanding?” He repeats, his voice deceptively calm. “Yeah, I’d say there was a huge misunderstanding. Like the fact that you assumed she couldn’t possibly be driving that car legitimately. Like the fact that you assumed she’d have to steal it to have something that nice.”

He takes a step closer to Chloe, and she instinctively steps back, her expression faltering. “Whoever made that call didn’t just cause a ‘misunderstanding.’ They caused a whole lot of trouble for no reason other than pettiness and jealousy.”

“Hey, wait a minute-” One of the other housemates tries to interject, but Max doesn’t even spare her a glance.

“Do you know what it’s like to get a phone call telling you the person you love is sitting in a cell?” He asks, his gaze never leaving Chloe’s face. “Do you know what it’s like to hear that they were treated like a criminal just because someone here,” — he practically spits the word — “decided to be a self-righteous, vindictive bitch?”

The room goes deathly silent. Chloe’s face has gone pale, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, no words forthcoming.

“Max, maybe we should-” you start, reaching out to touch his arm.

He cuts you off with a quick shake of his head, his eyes still locked on Chloe. “No. She needs to hear this.”

You shrink back slightly, your stomach twisting with a mix of anxiety and something else — something like relief. Because as harsh as Max is being, there’s a part of you that’s grateful. Grateful that he’s standing up for you, that he’s putting words to all the anger and frustration you’ve been bottling up since this whole nightmare began.

“You don’t get to treat people like that,” Max continues, his voice low and cold. “You don’t get to make snap judgments about someone based on what you think they deserve. And you sure as hell don’t get to sic the cops on them just because you’re too insecure to handle seeing someone else with something you want.”

Chloe’s lips tremble, her eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape route. “I … I didn’t …”

“Didn’t what?” Max demands, his voice rising. “Didn’t think it would matter? Didn’t think about the consequences? Or didn’t think you’d get caught?”

The accusation hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. No one moves. No one breathes.

“I didn’t think-” Chloe starts, but the words catch in her throat. She swallows hard, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I just — I thought …”

Max lets out a short, harsh laugh. “Yeah, you thought. That’s the problem.”

He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as if trying to calm himself. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, steadier, but no less cutting.

“You know what? I don’t even care what your excuse is,” he says quietly. “Because there is no excuse. Nothing you say is going to change what you did. Nothing is going to make up for the fact that you had her dragged off in handcuffs for no reason other than your own messed-up assumptions.”

Chloe flinches at the words, her shoulders hunching as if she’s trying to make herself smaller. You almost feel a pang of sympathy for her — almost. But then you remember the cold metal of the handcuffs around your wrists, the humiliating feeling of being treated like a criminal, and the sympathy evaporates.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Max says, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re going to apologize. Right now. To her.”

He steps back slightly, giving Chloe a clear line of sight to you. She hesitates, her gaze flicking up to yours, and for a moment, she just stares at you, her eyes wide and fearful.

“I … I’m sorry,” she finally mutters, the words barely audible.

Max’s gaze hardens. “Louder.”

“I’m sorry,” Chloe repeats, her voice trembling. “I-I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand. I just … I thought the car was … that it wasn’t …”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to finish. But she trails off, her face crumpling with guilt and shame. It’s not much of an apology, but it’s more than you expected.

You take a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

Max nods once, satisfied. “Good. Now, if I ever hear about you pulling something like this again,” he says, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “you’ll regret it. Understand?”

Chloe nods frantically, her face ashen. “Y-Yes, I understand.”

“Great.” Max turns away from her, his gaze softening as it lands on you. “Come on,” he murmurs, reaching out to take your hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

***

The Porsche purrs along the quiet stretch of motorway, the engine’s deep growl a steady undercurrent to the conversation hanging in the air. It’s late — well past midnight — but neither of you seem in any hurry to get home. There’s a lingering tension, a heaviness that neither of you know quite how to disperse.

Max’s hand grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles stark against the leather. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the faint glow of the dashboard casting shadows across his face. His jaw is set, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead, but there’s a tightness around his eyes that betrays the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

He hasn’t said much since leaving your house. Just a few clipped sentences, terse reassurances that he’s not mad at you, that you didn’t do anything wrong. But the words feel hollow, inadequate against the weight of what happened tonight.

After a few more minutes of silence, Max finally speaks, his voice low and controlled. “I talked to the mechanics earlier today.”

You blink, taken aback by the abrupt shift in conversation. “The mechanics?”

“Yeah.” He glances at you briefly before returning his gaze to the road. “About your car.”

Oh. You feel a pang of anxiety, your stomach twisting unpleasantly. You’d almost forgotten about your poor, beat-up little car, abandoned at some garage in Milton Keynes. “What did they say?”

Max hesitates, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “It’s … not good.”

You swallow hard, your heart sinking. “What do you mean?”

“They think it’s beyond saving.” His voice is careful, as if he’s trying to break the news gently. “There’s too much damage. The engine’s shot, the transmission’s on its last legs … basically, it’d cost more to repair it than it’s worth.”

You stare at him, uncomprehending. “But … but I just had it serviced a few months ago,” you protest weakly. “It shouldn’t be that bad-”

“It’s not your fault,” Max interrupts gently. “That car’s been through hell. It’s a miracle it’s lasted as long as it has.”

“But I can’t just … give up on it,” you say, a note of desperation creeping into your voice. “It’s my car, Max. I need it.”

“You need a car,” Max corrects softly. “Not that car. There’s a difference.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. “I can’t afford a new one right now. I still have to pay for-”

“Hey, hey.” Max’s hand leaves the steering wheel to rest on your knee, squeezing gently. “I’m not saying you have to buy a new car.”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicion flaring. “What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying,” Max begins, his tone careful, measured, “that I’ll get you a new one.”

The words hang in the air between you, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him, your mind struggling to process what he’s suggesting.

“No,” you say finally, shaking your head vehemently. “Absolutely not.”

Max’s brow furrows, his gaze flickering to yours. “Why not?”

“Because … because that’s ridiculous!” You sputter. “I’m not letting you buy me a car. That’s way too much.”

“It’s not too much if you need it,” he argues calmly.

“Yes, it is!” You insist, your voice rising. “It’s too much, and it’s not your responsibility. I’ll figure something out-”

“Like what?” Max challenges, his voice sharpening. “What are you going to do, keep borrowing cars you’re hesitant to actually use? Take public transport everywhere? What happens when you need to get somewhere and you don’t have a ride?”

“I’ll manage,” you say stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. “I always have.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to anymore,” Max snaps, his frustration breaking through. “Why won’t you just let me help you?”

“Because it’s not your problem to solve!” You shout back, the words bursting out before you can stop them.

Max goes silent, his gaze turning stony. For a few long moments, the only sound in the car is the steady thrum of the engine and your own harsh breathing.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it that makes your stomach twist. “You’re my girlfriend. That means if you have a problem, it is my problem to solve.”

The certainty in his tone makes your breath catch in your throat. You look at him, really look at him, and see the determination blazing in his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw.

“Max …” you begin softly, but he cuts you off with a quick shake of his head.

“No, listen to me.” He takes a deep breath, his hand tightening on your knee. “I know you’re independent. I know you’re used to handling things on your own. But this isn’t about money, or pride, or any of that. It’s about making sure you’re safe, that you have what you need to get around. And right now, that means getting you a new car.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he presses on, his gaze never wavering from yours.

“Let me do this for you,” he says quietly, almost pleadingly. “Please.”

His sincerity takes the wind out of your sails, your protests dying on your lips. You stare at him, the weight of his words settling heavily on your shoulders.

“But … it’s just … too much,” you say weakly, your resolve crumbling.

Max’s expression softens, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t think so. And even if it is, I don’t care. You’re worth it.”

The simple, earnest declaration sends a rush of warmth flooding through you, your heart swelling in your chest. You feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you blink them back furiously, refusing to let them fall.

“Why do you have to be so damn convincing?” You mutter, half exasperated, half amused.

Max’s smile widens slightly, his thumb brushing gently over your knee. “It’s a gift.”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he says dryly, his eyes twinkling with a hint of humor. “So … you’ll let me do this?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. It still feels like too much, like accepting would be crossing some invisible line. But there’s a part of you that knows he’s right — that trying to handle this on your own would be stubborn and impractical and would probably end up causing more problems than it’s worth.

And more than that, you can see how much it means to him. How much he wants to do this for you.

“Fine,” you say finally, letting out a long sigh. “But only because you’re so damn insistent.”

Max’s grin is dazzling, the relief and joy in his eyes almost overwhelming. “Good. I’ll start looking for something first thing tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind the gesture. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably in love with you,” he counters smoothly, his grin widening at your soft, exasperated laugh.

“Cheesy,” you accuse, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

“Maybe,” he concedes with a shrug. “But it’s true.”

You shake your head, your heart feeling lighter than it has in days. “I’m still not letting you get me something ridiculously expensive,” you warn, trying to sound stern.

“We’ll see,” Max says noncommittally, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Max-”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he says quickly, holding up his free hand in mock surrender. “We’ll get something practical, okay? Something that’s safe and reliable and not … ridiculous.”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. “Promise?”

Max’s smile softens, and he nods, his gaze holding yours steadily. “Promise.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, a sense of peace settling over you. Maybe it’s not ideal, accepting something so big from him, but … maybe it’s okay to let him take care of you, just this once.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

Max’s smile is soft and warm and full of so much affection it makes your chest ache. He leans over, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch. “No, thank you.”

4K notes · View notes

zarameraki · 1 year ago

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♡₊˚🥀₊✧ 𝘀𝘂𝗸𝘂𝗻𝗮 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗯𝘀𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝘂𝗯𝗶𝗻𝗲 ♡₊˚🥀₊✧

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 minors do not interact 𖥔 king x concubine 𖥔 lots of plot with porn 𖥔 mentions of abuse 𖥔 mentions of sexual assault 𖥔 normal form sukuna (sorry yall but next time ill do his big boy one) 𖥔 he only has eyes for you 𖥔 you're his darling 𖥔 he would kill for you 𖥔 breeding (!!!!) 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 nsfw 𖥔 smut

: ̗̀➛ words: 8.8k

: ̗̀➛ notes: this took a whole WEEK to edit. im so obsessed with this story. it's my favourite thing ive written because i love period movies and dramas and really got to challenge my writing skills to give it more a fantasy-esque element. if you have any requests, don’t hesitate to send them. pls follow, reblog, like, comment—whatever you want! okay love you and enjoy.

The diligent hands of Lord Sukuna Ryomen’s palace attendants scrubbed away the grime that clung to every inch of your weary form. There were no traces of tears in your eyes, despite the discomfort of the cleansing process.

Perhaps it was the residue of gratitude for an escape from a foster family who saw fit to barter you away for a pittance to fuel their vices.

The water surrounding you had transformed into a murky haze, carrying away the evidence of your former life's hardships.

Yet, amidst this cleansing ritual, you couldn’t shake the puzzling thought of why the guards had singled you out from the other young women within the household. Uraume, the overseer of palace affairs, had arrived alongside them, their presence looming over the proceedings with an air of mystery.

That morning, you were subjected to abuse in front of everyone at the central market, longing for someone to stand up for you. And someone did. They offered you an escape from that hellhole and into a world of luxury.

You weren’t going to complain now that you had accepted this new fate of yours.

“Ya’ got too many scars, girl,” remarked one of the elderly attendants, gently assisting you out of the steaming bath, her hands wrapping a towel around your shivering form. “Our powders will struggle to conceal ’em all. How did ya’ come by such marks?”

“From my foster family,” you murmured, gaze fixed upon your toes as if they held the weight of your past. The plush carpet beneath your feet offered a small comfort, a luxury unfamiliar to your upbringing.

Memories of their harsh discipline flooded back—the blistering gravel underfoot as punishment for daring to voice dissent. It was a brutal introduction to a world where obedience was paramount.

“A wretched lot,” the attendant muttered sympathetically.

Enveloped in a silk robe, she led you into a chamber shared by a cohort of women, a realm far removed from the confines of your previous abode. Here, space was ample—the expanse excessive, with beds lining the walls and a high ceiling adorned with a single chandelier.

As you entered, a symphony of pretty faces and inquisitive gazes greeted you. Women of all colours and shapes reclined luxuriously in plain robes, their hair intricately braided or cascading freely down their backs. Conversations paused, curiosity piqued by your arrival, as all eyes turned to welcome you into their midst.

Beneath the weight of their scrutinising stares, you found yourself shrinking. These women, draped in silk and adorned with jewels, were the king's favoured concubines, a fact repeatedly emphasised during your journey to the palace and even in the fragrant confines of the bathhouse.

Every instinct urged you to rebel, to refuse to be just another ornament in the king’s harem, but you understood the value placed on purity by the monarch.

Unfortunately, your innocence had been cruelly stolen from you by your foster father, leaving you tarnished in body and spirit. Lord Sukuna would have no use for a damaged flower in his garden of perfection.

In truth, you couldn’t even imagine an image of his face in your mind. His Lordship remained a mystery to those beyond the palace walls.

“Here ya’ are.” The attendant guided you to your bed. “That vanity there’s yours to use.” She gestured toward the communal area by the window, where two other young women were preparing themselves. “Once your hair dries, one of my girls will assist ya’ in preparin’ for your audience with His Lordship.” Her touch was gentle as she caressed your cheek. “Rest assured, dear, ya’ safe now.”

You attempted a smile, though the effort seemed Herculean amidst your weariness.

As the attendant departed, her scolding to the rowdy girls fading into the background, you nestled into the comforting embrace of your soft bedding, ignoring the hushed criticisms trailing in your wake.

She’s feeble.

Her hair lacks refinement.

The king would never entertain a lowly pauper.

She’ll be gone by tomorrow.

Their words, like venomous serpents, slithered through the air.

Amidst their degradation, you succumbed to exhaustion.

But your slumber was interrupted by the bustling commotion of handmaidens assembling around you.

Disoriented and scarcely given a moment to collect your thoughts, you found yourself swiftly escorted to the vanity, where the clamour of girls jostling for space filled the air.

They manipulated your locks, weaving intricate patterns into your hair, fashioning a crown braid atop your head while allowing the remaining tresses to cascade freely down your back.

Meanwhile, other attendants removed your robe, their hands moving with practised efficiency as they anointed your skin with fragrant oils, infusing it with the delicate essence of lavender.

Between the flurry of activity, the whispers of your fellow concubines hung in the air like a veil of awe and trepidation. Their eyes were drawn to the scars marring your skin, as they speculated about how the king would perceive your imperfections as repulsive.

Good.

You craved precisely that outcome.

If the king recoiled at your sight, it meant he wouldn’t desire you to bear his heir. If the tales circulating in the town about his monstrous nature held any truth, then he’d likely offer you death as a reprieve—and you’d welcome it with open arms.

Before facing the king, you stole a glance at your reflection, the final moments of solitude before your fate was decided. The powder concealed the imperfections of your skin, rendering it smooth and flawless. Your cheeks and lips bore a muted hue reminiscent of crushed cherries. Delicate white blossoms adorned your hair, woven into your braids by nimble fingers.

As you stood, the other women adorned you in a robe of silky fabric, its floral pattern draping over your form, cinched at the waist to accentuate your curves. Barefoot, you followed them out, the chill of the floor beneath your feet a stark contrast to the warmth of anticipation and trepidation swirling within you.

“Good luck, pauper,” taunted one of the concubines, her voice dripping with disdain, echoed by a cacophony of mocking laughter.

Palms clammy with nerves, you shifted your gaze to the opulence of the palace corridors. Adorned with countless chandeliers and swathes of velvet drapery, they offered a stark contrast to the blooming back garden. Memories of tending to the earth and nurturing life back at your foster family’s home flooded your mind.

“Quickly now,” one of the maids urged, her voice tinged with urgency. “His Lordship detests tardiness.”

“I apologise.” You hastened your steps to keep pace with the group of attendants.

She halted before a grand set of double doors, guarded by imposing sentinels clad in formidable armour. With a flick of her wrist, the guards swung the doors open. She gently nudged you forward, and only as you crossed the threshold did the doors seal shut behind you.

You blinked, adjusting to the dimness within, scanning the chamber until your gaze alighted upon a pair of crimson glimmers opposite you. “My Lord?” You inclined your head and took hesitant steps toward the source of those fiery eyes.

“Come closer,” his command echoed through the chamber, sending a shiver down your spine. The low resonance of His Highness Sukuna Ryomen’s voice was unexpectedly rich and velvety. You had envisioned a voice tinged with age, but instead, it possessed a rough texture that awoken something within you.

With hesitant steps, you approached until you stood at the edge of his bed, your fingertips grazing the diaphanous curtains that enveloped him in a cocoon of privacy.

“Closer,” he urged, coaxing you to unveil the enigma lying beyond the veil.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you obeyed, parting the curtains and gracefully crawled onto the mattress. The silkiness of the sheets were a blatant contrast to the roughness of your foster house’s. A pang of guilt tugged at your conscience as you realized the irony of finding solace in this luxurious confinement of being his concubine.

“Enough.” His abrupt order halted your thoughts, drawing your attention back to the present moment.

As commanded, you obediently settled into your posture, folding your legs beneath you in the dimness. Within his shadowed realm, only the luminous crimson irises pierced through the gloom, studying you with an intensity that made your belly churn. Despite the curiosity burning within you, you restrained the impulse to voice your questions. Instead, you settled in the tranquillity that crowded the space between you.

“What is your name?” His inquiry cut through the hushed air.

“Y/N, my Lord.”

As your name slipped from your lips, he captured it delicately, repeating it like a sacred prayer. Each syllable danced on his tongue, imprinting itself upon the very essence of his being. In that moment, you observed a subtle shift—the shadows that had cloaked the chamber seemed to dissipate.

A soft, golden luminescence filtered through the parted curtains, cascading across half of Sukuna’s face.

You blinked in astonishment.

He appeared . . . young?

The age difference between you and him was not a chasm of decades, but rather a modest gap of no less than five years.

Physically, at least.

His appearance was striking, with locks of hair dyed a subdued pink hue, contrasting with a streak of darker shade beneath. His hair was styled into rugged spikes, lending an air of defiance. Intricate black markings adorned his features, tracing a path from his cheekbones down to his chin, while similar patterns wove across his strong shoulder, cascading over his defined pectoral muscles and sculpted abdomen.

As your eyes fell upon him, your heart quickened its pace, each beat a vicious drumming against your ribs. Gone was the expectation of a lord showing the signs of wisdom, with wrinkles upon his brow and a body marked by the passage of time. Instead, before you sat a vision of breathtaking beauty, defying your preconceived notions and leaving you breathless in awe.

With a graceful gesture, he swept aside the curtains, allowing them to unveil his entirety.

The same markings mirrored the other side of his face and cascaded down the length of his body, a mesmerising display of symmetry. Dark bands encircled his wrists, and his nails bore the same deep hue.

Poised against the headboard, he reclined with an air of effortless elegance, one knee raised as his elbow found a comfortable perch, while the other leg extended out. Though he was unclothed, a veil of silk sheets cloaked the lower half of his form.

“Remarkable,” you unknowingly whispered. Your hand clapped over your mouth. “I apologise, my Lord.”

Sukuna’s lips curved into a sinister grin, his flawless teeth gleaming in the golden light. While many would flee at the sight, you remained rooted in place, unable to tear your gaze away. A delicate flush spread across your cheeks, betraying the undeniable attraction simmering between your legs. He was absolutely divine, and the path of being his concubine suddenly didn’t seem so terrible.

Yet, the reality of sharing Sukuna with ten other women loomed over your thoughts like a shadow. The thought of him spreading his affections among so many others kindled a small flame of jealousy within you, mingled with confusion. Why hadn’t he impregnated at least one of them with the promise of an heir?

“Have you not been schooled in the art of lowering your gaze in the presence of nobility, Y/N?”

Your lashes fluttered as you registered your lapse in decorum, hastily averting your gaze. “Forgive me, my Lord, if my oversight has caused offence.” Surely, he wouldn’t punish you for a momentary lapse of admiration.

Would he?

A gentle touch beneath your chin guided your face upward. His fingers spread across your cheek, the warmth nearly forcing you to curve into his touch. Despite the temptation, your eyes remained obediently downward.

“Look at me.”

Your gaze lingered on him, tracing the delicate patterns etched over his cheek, the fiery hue of his irises, the elegant contour of his nose, and the soft curvature of his lips. Never before had you felt such a rousing desire towards any man. Yet fate had chosen to ensnare your heart with the one most forbidden to you.

“You bear a sadness that weighs heavily in your eyes,” he noted softly, his hand descending to the curve of your neck, his thumb caressing the frantic rhythm of your pulse. A low, melodic sound produced from his throat. “Tell me, my love, does the face before you stir fear within your heart?”

“It does not, my Lord. The fear of your appearance holds no dominion over me,” you declared with quiet resolve. “You’re quite . . . beautiful.”

Sukuna’s gaze sparked with a mixture of surprise and intrigue at your response.

Suppressing a nervous gulp, you silently reprimanded yourself for speaking so boldly to one of noble rank. Back in the confines of your former life, such defiance would have earned you swift punishment, yet here, in the presence of royalty, it could lead to your demise.

As you prepared to avert your gaze, ready to accept whatever consequences may come, Sukuna’s voice cut through the tense air before you could retreat.

“Don’t.”

In that moment, you found yourself questioning your instincts.

Why did you not cower in fear? Why did your body not tremble in the presence of a man who had slaughtered the lives of his enemies without hesitation? And most perplexing of all, how could you maintain unwavering eye contact with a figure of such formidable power?

“Remove your robe.” His grip remained firm around your throat, his thumb delicately tracing your pulse. “And do not stray your gaze elsewhere.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Your fingers loosened the fabric’s bindings, allowing it to cascade down your frame, and revealing the soft curvature of your form beneath. As it pooled around your lap, your breasts stood exposed to his scrutiny.

A shiver danced across your skin as his eyes traced the contours of your body, a faint smirk teasing his lips.

He brushed back strands of your hair, his touch trailing down your vertebrate. His eyes narrowed into thin slits, brows knitted together in contemplation, fingers repeatedly tracing the ridges of your scars.

“Turn around.”

The dreaded discovery that sent ripples of revulsion through the concubines had finally come to pass. Your scars lay exposed before the gaze of a powerful lord. Not only would he slit your throat, but also those of the maids who had tended to your needs, and perhaps even Uruame, who had brokered your purchase from the bastards responsible for your imperfections.

“Never before have I been compelled to repeat myself for a concubine.” His voice carried a lethal edge as he increased his grip around your throat. “Turn the fuck around.”

Your compliance came in slow, measured movements as you turned away, presenting your back to him in a gesture of submission. His hands gathered the strands of your hair, lifting them aside to reveal the raw truth etched into your skin. His fingers traced the jagged remnants of whip lashes, the seared imprints of cigars, and the cruel reminders of knife wounds inflicted by a foster father turned tormentor.

Silent tears traced a path down your cheeks, as you sat in a state of numbness, your gaze fixed upon the closed door of Sukuna’s chamber.

A tender sensation, soft and moist, grazed your back, prompting a reflexive twitch in your left shoulder.

Turning slightly, you beheld Sukuna pressing his lips against the scar that marred your shoulder blades.

“My Lord—”

“I did not ask you to speak,” he murmured over your skin, sending a tremor through your frame. “Rise onto your knees.”

Obeying his command, you ascended onto your knees, feeling the weight of his hands settle upon your waist. His lips trailed a path of reverence, bestowing kisses upon each mark that scarred your skin, from your marrow to your nape.

Your breath caught in a delicate dance of exhales, a whispered symphony escaping your parted lips. The wet caress of his tongue sent ripples of sensation coursing through your being.

His arm circled your waist, drawing you into the sanctuary of his embrace. A fleeting kiss graced the nape of your neck, followed by the suction of his lips upon the tender side of your neck. His soft hands possessively held the curve of your breasts, cradling their weight.

Your head reclined against his strong shoulder.

With his gaze fixed upon you, his lips glistened with a hint of moisture, while his crimson eyes locked onto your own human-like ones. You dared not divert your gaze as he previously ordered. His fingers pinched and pulled at your nipples, sending lightning strikes through your frame.

Unlike the non-consensual encounter of the past, there was no hint of agony; only a tantalising blend of pleasure that left you breathless, without a protest or helpless whimper. Instead, a sigh of pure rapture escaped your lips, encompassing your body in an embrace.

Sukuna’s gaze narrowed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as if he had stumbled upon a long-sought treasure.

His fingertips skated down your torso, gliding toward your centre. You captured your bottom lip between your teeth. Holding his gaze became a daunting challenge as he skillfully teased your sensitive nub, causing your breath to quicken and your chest to rise and fall with each exhilarating sensation.

Sukuna slid his middle finger into you. “You’re incredibly drawn, Sad Eyes,” he murmured, the endearment he had bestowed upon you almost provoking a smile. His lips grazed your ear as he continued. “Perhaps I should stretch you out”—he pushed in his ring finger, forcing a sharp gasp to tear from your throat and an involuntary arch of your body against his chest—“so that your cunt is able to welcome my cock.”

You stifled the knot rising in your throat as Sukuna plunged his fingers into you. Such profound bliss seemed inconceivable with mere digits alone.

“My Lord.” Your breath caught as he increased his tempo. “My—” Each thrust intensified the knot in your stomach, threatening to unravel you entirely. You teetered on the brink, dangerously close to staining his fingers with your release. A sharp gasp choked out of you as he struck a wondrous chord deep within. “Please, my Lord. I beg of you— I will soil your hand if you persist—” But your plea dissolved into a cry of ecstasy before you could utter another word.

Sukuna’s laughter danced teasingly in the hollow of your ear, leaving you utterly spellbound.

You were overheated, overstimulated, overridden by the explosive undoing from his fingers. Breathless and consumed by lust, your world spun as he seized your jaw and crushed his lips to yours.

In that electrifying moment, his tongue invaded your mouth, initially startling you, yet you surrendered to the rhythm.

Sukuna leaned back slightly after planting a tender peck on your lips. Exhaling softly, he threaded his fingers through your hair, his touch sending shivers down your spine. As his lips met yours once more, gentler this time, your hand ventured to trace the contours of his adorned chest.

“You are quite the vixen.” A playful glint danced in his eyes. “How valiant of you to seduce a lord into bestowing kisses upon his concubine.” A broad smile graced his lips, leaving you uncertain whether his words were playful jest or genuine admiration.

“Do you not bestow your kisses upon all your concubines, my Lord?”

“I do not pleasure their cunts, either.”

His speech carried the brashness of a tempest, a departure from the expected decorum one associated with royalty. Sukuna Ryomen defied conventions. It was a trait uncommon among lords, yet one that intrigued you deeply. His demeanour, both in battle and in the intimate confines of the bedchamber, lacked the softening. But you found yourself drawn to his unfiltered honesty, appreciating the absence of cryptic notions.

As you sat before him, considering your next words carefully, a surge of courage emboldened you to reveal your truth.

“My Lord,” you began, your voice quivering with uncertainty, “I . . . I am not pure.”

“Given the sounds you were drawing out,” he quipped with a chuckle, “I wouldn’t have surmised otherwise.” He assisted you in rising from where you rested against his chest, positioning you before him. Observing your solemn expression, he arched an eyebrow in curiosity. “Was your satisfaction not fulfilled?”

“Indeed, my Lord, it surpassed any expectation,” you confessed, worrying your lip as he sighed impatiently. “But I must disclose . . . I am not chaste.”

Sukuna’s response was subdued, save for the faint twitch in his jaw. He averted his gaze from yours momentarily, reaching for the decanter on his bedside table and pouring himself a measure of spirits.

“Speak,” he instructed, his tone clipped.

“It occurred before I reached maturity,” you murmured softly, your arms wrapped protectively around yourself. “My foster father—” Your words faltered as Sukuna raised a hand, a silent acknowledgment of his comprehension of your unspoken anguish.

“I need not hear more.” He swiftly consumed the crimson liquid in a single gulp. “You are dismissed for the night.”

“But my Lord’s desires remain unmet—”

“Leave,” he commanded, his tone final and unwavering.

With a gulp, you hastily gathered your robe around your form, delicately extricating yourself from his expansive bed.

Just as you thought to retreat, a firm hand seized your wrist, drawing you back into Sukuna’s embrace. His lips melded with yours in an intoxicating kiss, causing both your gazes to flutter open when he pulled away. A faint smirk played upon his lips as he adjusted the robe over your shoulder.

“Next time,” he murmured, plucking a flower from the adornments in your hair and placing it upon his bedside, “you shall grace my chambers without such distracting embellishments upon yourself.”

“As you wish, my Lord,” you replied with a respectful bow of your head, awaiting his dismissal until he gestured for you to depart with a casual wave of his hand.

In the shared chambers, your fellow concubines swirled around your bed, eager to hear of your inaugural encounter with Lord Sukuna.

Each girl shared their own vivid tales, painting scenes of ecstasy under the cloak of darkness, where the king’s touch invoked sensations akin to celestial bodies colliding, or where unfamiliar pleasures erased the boundaries of their throat—whatever that latter entailed.

Though a twinge of jealousy flickered within you, it was swiftly overshadowed by a swell of pride. The concubines pleasured Sukuna in darkness, the same darkness you had willingly entered, before his touch had set ablaze a world of gold for you.

They were merely beautiful means of physical gratification for their lord, devoid of the intimacy you shared—his fingers delving deep into your core. And never had any of them spoken of kisses exchanged. Sukuna had spoken true when you questioned if others received similar treatment.

But why you?

Why, after a mere span of ten hours within the palace walls, did you find yourself, dare you entertain the notion, as his favoured? What magic did you possess that drew him to you, and how had you managed to seduce his lips, his fingers, to meet yours in such an intimate embrace?

“Did he spend himself inside you?” one of the girls whispered, prodding your knee to rouse you from your silence.

“No.”

“Aye, he never does,” remarked a golden-haired girl with a resigned sigh. “He sees to it that we consume some berries afterward, claiming they prevent conception. Strange, isn’t it? Especially if he’s so eager for an heir.”

Another girl hushed her, leaning in with a conspiratorial tone. “Did he take you from behind? That’s his favoured position, you know. He’s had us all that way.”

You stumbled over your words, unsure how to respond.

“And did you savour his taste?” came the next question. “It’s quite rich in sodium—”

“Girls!” A booming voice echoed from the doorway of the bedroom, startling you and the other concubines into immediate attention. You caught sight of the elderly attendant who oversaw your care, hands planted firmly on her hips as she observed the chaotic scene before her.

With a disapproving huff, she pivoted sharply on her heel and departed, leaving a lingering sense of reprimand in her wake.

As the frenzied chatter about Sukuna’s body attributes gradually dissolved into the quietude of sleep, morning arrived with its routine of communal showerings.

Throughout the shared bath, you silently scrubbed away the remnants of the night, indulging your fellow concubines about your previous life in town.

Upon drying off and exiting the bathing chamber, you were met with an unexpected sight: a gathering of the girls clustered around your bed.

Navigating through the throng, you reached your space to discover a resplendent scarlet silk robe embroidered with intricate black floral patterns.

Gingerly lifting the note placed atop the fabric, you read Sukuna’s precise handwriting. Curious glances from the other concubines peered over your shoulders in anticipation.

No distracting embellishments, Sad Eyes.

“What does that mean?” a curious whisper floated through the air, followed by murmurs of intrigue from the other girls. “Why does he call you ‘sad eyes’?”

You clutched the letter to your chest, suppressing a grin as you ignored the questions, the mockery, and the jostling of bodies around you. Your attention was fixated on the magnificent robe gifted to you by His Lordship.

For the remainder of the evening, you slept without any interruptions, seeking to compensate for the countless nights spent battling insomnia within the confines of your foster home.

You observed with a keen eye that none of the other girls were ushered to Sukuna’s chambers; their time seemed to veer toward strolls in the back garden or spent in the dormitory, indulging in wine-fueled scandals about the palace staff, as was their custom.

As the clock struck eight in the evening, a troupe of maids entered the chamber bearing dinner trays. A wave of anticipation swept through the room as the other girls eagerly accepted their meals and accompanying pitchers of water. Your own stomach rumbled in hunger, awaiting your own turn.

But that moment never arrived.

Instead, the maid bypassed your bed entirely, moving on to the next. A surge of apprehension rippled through you as a handmaiden approached, guiding you away from the mattress and toward the vanity.

“What about my dinner?” you asked as the attendants groomed your hair.

“His Lordship has extended an invitation for you to dine with him tonight,” came the reply.

The room fell into a sudden hush.

Dine with him?

The notion sent a flurry of thoughts racing through your mind.

Before you could process further, you found yourself pulled upright, your garments removed to be replaced by the scarlet robe.

Envy flickered in the eyes of the other concubines as they observed, their resentment palpable as they stabbed at their food with exaggerated aggression. It wasn’t your doing that Sukuna had taken an unexpected interest in you.

With no adornments save for a dab of crushed cherry paste upon your lips, you were escorted to Sukuna’s chambers.

Once more, the imposing doors swung open, and you found yourself gently ushered into the chamber. As they sealed shut behind you, the room was flooded with light. Sukuna’s figure stared out at the moonlit gardens outside, clad in a billowing white silk robe.

“My Lord,” you greeted respectfully, inclining your head in deference.

“Draw near.”

Complying with his directive, you approached and stood at his side. His presence loomed over you, his stature commanding and formidable, capable of engulfing you entirely with a single embrace. Not that such thoughts dared to linger in your mind.

“Why is your face flushed?” he asked, his gaze penetrating.

You blinked, attempting to dismiss the telltale warmth creeping up your cheeks. “It’s nothing, my Lo—”

Before you could finish, Sukuna turned your chin towards him, his palm coming to rest against your forehead. A nervous swallow traced its way down your throat at his touch, his eyes trailing down your form, a knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as they settled upon you in your robe.

“Thank you for your gracious gift,” you murmured, feeling the warmth rise to your cheeks.

His fingers trailed through your hair, a mischievous glimmer dancing in his eyes. “I anticipate nothing less than thoroughly enjoying the privilege of removing it off of you.”

You blushed deeper at his statement.

“Come now. I’ve brought a surprise for you.” He took your hand in his with a tug, guiding you towards a doorway. With a simple flick of his fingers, the door parted, revealing a dimly lit hallway beyond.

Your gaze widened in astonishment. “How did you do that, my Lord?”

“Do what?”

“You opened the door without laying a hand on it.”

Sukuna’s striking blood-coloured eyes cut to you. “There is much about me that will be unveiled in due course, my love. What you perceive is but a guise for my true nature.” His smile, oddly childlike, sent a chill down your spine.

Was he some sort of sorcerer? You’d only heard whispers of human anomalies lurking beneath the earth’s surface or sealed within vessels, but historical accounts weren't exactly your cup of tea.

“I ventured into town today,” he said.

“Oh.” You swallowed hard, recovering from his previous statement. “I hope it was a fruitful trip.”

“Indeed, quite fruitful.”

In the soft glow of the distant hallway, Sukuna’s face came into view, casting a spell of trepidation upon your heart. His features were drawn into a mask of stoicism, his eyes devoid of warmth, and his lips pressed into a firm line, jaw rigid with tension.

Parting the curtains, Sukuna drew you near, his arm sweeping out to reveal a horrifying sight: your foster father, bound to a chair with chains, wearing the cruel marks of torture.

His face marred by countless wounds, an eye absent, and teeth scattered at his feet. His dignity stripped away, his vulnerability laid bare in his nakedness, and his manhood amputated.

The sickening lurch in your stomach threatened to betray your composure. “F-Forgive my intrusion, my Lord, but is he . . . is he dead?”

Sukuna’s response was a gilded dagger from within his robe, its handle decorated with a jewel reminiscent of your own captivating eyes. Nestled within the hilt was the very flower he had plucked from your hair. Upon the blade, your name was inscribed.

“Do as you wish, my beloved,” he whispered, his voice stained with dark fascination, offering you the instrument of your foster father’s fate with a chilling sense of detachment.

You couldn’t possibly bring yourself to commit such a heinous act.

Despite the unspeakable cruelties inflicted upon you by the bastard, the idea of taking another’s life filled you with a trembling dread.

Yet, the itch to end the torment, to rid the world of such a vile presence, simmered just beneath the surface as you stood before him, his life slipping away.

A hand trailed down the back of your head, guiding your trembling fingers to grasp the dagger tightly.

Looking up, you met Sukuna’s gaze, his expression hollow, his features obscured by shadows. This was the face of the Devil that cursed his enemies on their knees and had them willingly submit to death.

With a push from behind, you stumbled forward, drawing closer to your step-father’s prone form.

Glancing back at Sukuna, you were met with an incongruously bright smile. Quite a twisted paradox, His Lordship.

Your step-father sat unconscious, the stench of his bodily fluids assaulting your senses. His wounds oozed with a sickening mixture of blood and pus, his laboured breaths the only indication of life remaining within him. The scene was painfully familiar, a mirror image of the torment you had endured countless times before.

But now, someone had intervened, offering you a chance at liberation, a chance to end the cycle of abuse once and for all.

You glanced back again.

Until Sukuna.

Your gaze reluctantly returned to the true embodiment of cruelty before you. With a steady hand, you raised your arm, wielding the dagger with purpose.

It found its mark in your foster-father’s chest, a chilling silence punctuated only by the sound of steel meeting flesh. Ignoring the strangled cry that erupted from him, you withdrew the blade, then drove it back into his heart.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

His lifeblood painted your face and stained your pristine garments, mingling with the fabric in a macabre dance of crimson. To the untrained eye, it could easily be mistaken for a mere splash of vibrant colour upon your robe.

No one would dare suspect the truth.

No one would dare come near if they knew of your sin.

No one, except Sukuna.

Once the monster over your bed was consigned to the depths of hell, his guts spilling onto the floor around your bare feet, you allowed yourself a moment of grim satisfaction.

With a contemptuous snarl, you spat upon him, a visceral response to the years of degradation he had inflicted upon you for every misstep.

A comforting warmth touched your back.

Startled by the sudden contact, you tensed before easing at the sight of Sukuna’s faint smile.

As he reached to caress your cheek, you instinctively recoiled, lowering your gaze in deference.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” you murmured, “but I cannot permit you to spoil your hands with the blood of this man.”

Sukuna’s shoes entered your line of sight as he tilted your chin upward, his moon-white sleeve wiping away the traces of blood from your mouth and its vicinity. “You appear rather exquisite painted in blood, Sad Eyes. Perhaps I ought to designate you as my prized assassin instead of a mere concubine.”

“I beg your pardon, my Lord, but I cannot partake in killing . . . again.”

“You need not worry,” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear as he drew near. “I will defend you from any who cast their gaze upon you, let alone lay a hand upon your delicate form. Those who dare cross that line will face my wrath, their very existence extinguished before your eyes. Not a single tear shall stain your cheeks.” His lips brushed against yours. “From this moment forward, fear shall not reside within you. By my side, you shall command fear itself, my love.”

That night, Sukuna bathed you in the sanctuary of his chambers, washing away the traces of blood from your skin as you gazed at him with a sense of wonder. It wasn’t the superficial admiration the other concubines whispered about—it was a profound affection blossoming within you, nurtured by power and protection.

He draped you in the luxurious folds of one of his silk robes, summoning servants to prepare dinner. Seated upon his lap, he fed you spoonfuls of rice and chicken, even as your stomach protested its fullness. Soft kisses peppered your neck like a sweet dessert, culminating in one upon your lips before he reluctantly released you to retire to your dormitory.

In the ensuing weeks, Sukuna would consistently send a crafted robe ahead of each meeting—in the serene seclusion of his chambers, where the flickering candlelight cast shadows upon the walls as you dined together.

Over the course of these intimate dinners, he eagerly absorbed your musings, whether they revolved around the narratives of books discovered within the palace library or your adeptness with herbs and plants, nurtured by your profound knowledge.

On occasion, as the first light of dawn painted the sky with hues of pink and gold, Sukuna would summon you for a stroll in the haven of the back garden. Woven between the fragrant blooms, you’d dance about with childlike enthusiasm, identifying various flowers and tracing their lineage.

Ever the attentive listener, Sukuna trailed behind you, his gaze fixed upon your animated figure. He would only speak when you fell silent, demanding you to continue sharing the familial ties between apples, plums, and the roses they stemmed from.

Within the crevice of your soul, the once withered garden of affection had flourished into a lush wilderness, blossoming with untamed wildflowers and clouds that spelled out his name.

Sukuna inhabited your every waking thought, his intoxicating mouth that worshipped your body left you giggling in delight behind your hands.

Yet, each encounter with a fellow concubine, flushed and eager with tales of their rendezvous with him, felt like thorns piercing your tender heart. Jealousy, like ivy creeping upon stone, entwined itself around your every plagued thought. Your gaze often strayed to the bedside drawer where the dagger lay dormant. The mere mention of his physique by the other women tormented your soul relentlessly.

Why hadn’t Sukuna taken you as he had with every other concubine? You had grown accustomed to his presence, even eager to reciprocate the pleasure he gifted you every evening. You had offered yourself willingly, aching for the intimacy that would bind you even closer to him. But he had not claimed you in the same manner, not entered you fully, not seeded his legacy within you.

Did he question your worthiness? Did he see you merely as a transient pleasure? Were you destined to remain just a concubine, forever denied the honour of carrying his child?

“Why do you remain silent?” Sukuna asked, turning the pages of the book you had suggested to him; he was already half-way through.

You were seated snugly between his legs upon the bed, your back rested against his chest, fingers idly toying with the strands of your hair. “I find myself devoid of words this evening.”

“Hmm.” Sukuna took a leisurely sip of his drink before placing it aside. “Surely you can conjure something. You know well enough that I cannot endure your silence.”

With an exasperated sigh, you rolled your eyes. “Well, I apologise for failing to provide you with amusement, my Lord.”

Sukuna snapped the book shut.

You instinctively pressed your lips together, silently chiding yourself for the unintended sharpness in your voice.

With a heavy sigh, you resigned yourself to maintaining your composure, forcing yourself to take slow, steady breaths. Deep down, you believed that he wouldn’t inflict harm upon you or cast you out of his chambers. But the nagging thought chewed at you.

This was Sukuna Ryomen, and you . . . well, you were merely a shadow in comparison.

“If you crave my touch,” he breathed softly into your ear, “all you need to do is utter the request.”

With a determined resolve, you turned to face him, settling yourself upon his lap. Sukuna regarded you with a quirked eyebrow, a quiet acknowledgment of your unconventional audacity.

“I do crave your touch, my Lord,” you confessed, your voice a hushed plea, “but not only with your hands or lips. I long to feel you in a different manner.” Your gaze drifted down to his pelvis, the unspoken appetite evident in your eyes. “I crave that.”

Sukuna exhaled heavily, his gaze piercing as he addressed you. “So, you’ve been withholding your words simply because I haven’t fed you my cock?"

Heat rose to your cheeks at his blunt proclamation, though you had grown accustomed to his coarse mannerisms over time.

“Yes, my . . . Lord.” Your voice carried a mixture of embarrassment. “I’ve endured three long months of anticipation, patiently waiting to share in the pleasures enjoyed by your other consorts. Yet, with the arrival of autumn, I find myself still untouched by the experiences they so openly boast about.”

His lips curled into a smirk. “Are you asking me to bed you merely for the purpose of becoming a notch in your bragging rights?”

“Never, my Lord!” you protested vehemently, a hint of hurt flickering in your eyes. “I would never demean you with such vulgar talk in public. I’ve spun tales to the others, concealing the truth of our encounters. They remain oblivious to the pleasures you’ve granted me.” Your fingers traced the intricate markings on his chiselled abdominal muscles. “If my spoiled state displeases you, if I am deemed unworthy of your touch, pray, inform me now. Regardless, my sole wish is to fulfil His Lordship’s needs.”

Sukuna disentangled your hands from his chest, a gesture that caused a fissure to form within your heart, forcing your body to instinctively withdraw from his touch.

Just as you began to pull away, he swiftly encircled his arm around your waist, tugging you back onto his lap with a firm grip. Before you could utter a single word, his lips descended upon yours, silencing any protest with a passionate kiss.

With a purposeful touch, he skillfully divested you of your robe, revealing the curves of your form beneath. His hands, warm and adept, began to massage your supple breasts, kindling soft gasps from your lips. His own trailed a wet path downward, leaving a bridge of feverish kisses along the expanse of your throat, lingering over the rapid pulse beneath your skin.

As his lips found purchase on the tender flesh of your neck, his actions became more urgent, his touch more demanding. A pinch at your pebbled nipples sent a shiver of sensation coursing through you, followed by the heat of an open-mouthed kiss.

Your gaze drifted downwards, enchanted by the sight of his tongue encircling the sensitive spots, suckling on the swollen buds like a babe. Already, heat was building within the depths of your being, igniting a flame that spread between your legs.

Sukuna laid you back, relishing the delicate flavour of your lips as his fingers skillfully sought out your throbbing clit, stimulating it with unhurried circles.

With practised ease, he slipped two fingers inside you, quickening his rhythm without preamble. Your hand instinctively traced down to his chest, undoing the fastenings of his robe.

“Take it,” he whispered against your mouth, his breath mingling with yours. “Satisfy your lord, my love.”

Your fingers curled around his pulsating cock, the very object of desire that the other girls had passionately recounted. The knowledge of their previous intimacies with him only stoked the flames of envy within you, spurring you to intensify your ministrations.

With a surge of determination, you quickened the pace of your caresses, applying pressure with your thumb upon his sensitive tip while fondling his sacs.

Sukuna’s grin widened against your lips as he reciprocated with equal zeal, slipping a third finger into your slick heat until he was fully engulfed by your swollen core.

Together, you sailed upon the waves of raw carnal desire, locked in a lecherous race to reach your climax, each vying to be the first to cross the finish line—

Sukuna’s low, guttural moans resonated throughout the chamber.

You had achieved victory.

His essence spilled forth into your waiting hands, his cock convulsing with the intensity of his release. Moments later, you succumbed to your own climax, a soft cry escaping your lips.

With care, Sukuna withdrew his hand from your centre, and you instinctively examined your palm, noting the striking resemblance of his essence to your own.

You tentatively brought your fingers to your lips, savouring the taste of him.

“I did not instruct you to do that,” he growled, his gaze blazing as you tasted him. “But I suppose I’ll permit it.”

“It is salty,” you murmured, almost absentmindedly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, are you women incapable of discussing anything besides my cock?” he exclaimed, frustration evident in his tone.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension dissipating as he cleaned his fingers with his tongue before tenderly cradling the back of your head, drawing you to sit upon his lap. Your laughter softened into chuckles, a smile playing upon your lips.

“Did I please you, my Lo—”

“Sukuna,” he interrupted firmly. “Only you may address me by my given name.”

“My L—”

“I command it.” His tone left no room for argument.

You affirmed your agreement with a nod.

He was Sukuna.

Your Sukuna.

“Very well, Sukuna.” You felt a subtle shift in the air between you. His chuckle rumbled softly. “Shall I turn around for you?”

“And why do you deem such an unnecessary act necessary?”

“Because—” You suppressed the urge to divulge the whispers of the other concubines regarding his favoured position. “Never mind. How would you prefer me to present myself to you?”

“As you are,” Sukuna answered, his grip tightening around himself. “How you managed to have me spend by your hand in under five minutes is a marvel beyond my comprehension.”

Internally, you gave yourself a congratulatory pat on the back.

“Now, my love,” he said, inclining his chin towards his erection, “will you do my cock the honour of sitting on it?”

Licking the grin of your lips, you nodded, rising to your knees. With nimble fingers, you positioned his hardened length at your entrance, gradually lowering yourself onto him.

A sharp intake of breath escaped Sukuna’s lips, his hands instinctively grasping your hips. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, enduring the initial sting of penetration. Perhaps every touch of his fingers had been a meticulous groundwork for this pinnacle moment.

As you settled into your seat upon him, you granted yourself a minute to acclimate to the sheer magnitude of him stretching and filling your tight, supple walls.

Sukuna tilted his head back, impatience evident in his eyes. “Will you begin moving at a pace befitting this century, Sad Eyes?”

“Just a moment,” you retorted, your tone tinged with irritation.

“Unfortunately, the sight of your leaking cunt is testing my patience,” he remarked, his gaze lingering provocatively on your flushed form.

Collecting yourself, you affirmed your resolve with a nod before subtly adjusting your position, and swaying your hips forward. His strong hands guided you, aiding your movements as you sought a rhythm. “Gods, you’re— You’re quite large. It’s rather discomforting.”

“Ah, where has the enthusiasm to please your lord vanished, my love?” His laughter echoes through the chamber as he leaned back, amused by your scowl. “I must confess, your defiance is perhaps your most alluring trait. It has crossed my mind more than once during moments of handling myself in the bath.”

Your brow furrowed in dismay.

It was evident that the other concubines possessed far greater expertise in pleasuring him than you ever could. All you could manage was to feign enthusiasm, your movements faltering and disjointed, as you struggled to produce even a fraction of the satisfaction they effortlessly blessed him with. His laughter, which wasn’t helping your cause, bore an uncanny resemblance to the mocking tones of the girls who had taunted you in the past.

You no longer wished to endure this charade.

You halted in your tracks, unable to muster the courage to meet his gaze, your eyes fixated instead on his throat. “It appears . . . that I may not be adequately versed in fulfilling your needs. I shall endeavour to educate myself further before making another attempt. For now, I request permission to retire for the evening, my Lord.”

Sukuna’s grip tightened as he seized your jaw, compelling you to meet his gaze. “You dare to defy my command to address me by my given name?” His smile remained wicked as he drew your face closer to his own. “Remember, my love, there is a boundary to which I tolerate your rebellion. Do not allow my affections to cloud your judgement. I remain your Lord, above all else. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you managed to gasp out.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Sukuna,” you replied, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

With a swift motion, he released your sore jaw, and before you could even consider easing the ache, his lips crashed against yours.

In that moment, control slipped from your grasp entirely. His hands gripped the flesh of your buttocks possessively, guiding your movements as he claimed you with a primal savageness that left you shaking in his embrace.

“Does it pain you, my beloved?” Sukuna growled, his fingers curling around your nape possessively. “Do you feel the strain of my cock as I breach your tender walls?”

You whimpered softly, your head nodding against the curve of his neck.

“Fear not, my darling. I will diligently train this cunt of yours to accommodate every inch of me, dusk, dawn, and twilight. Your throat, too, shall be honed to fulfil my every whim, wherever and whenever I demand.” With a swift motion, he tugged your hair, forcing you to meet his glare. “And should you dare to entertain thoughts of defiance with any other man beyond the confines of my chamber, rest assured, there will be consequences.”

“Sukuna,” was all you gasped, eyes rolling back as his tip probed the depths of your womb. His tongue traced the delicate curve of your throat before shoving into your mouth, drawing out your own to suckle on. In the heat of the moment, your hands roamed aimlessly, torn between grasping at his waist, clutching his shoulders, or caressing his cheeks.

“Oh, how I love the sight of your breasts greeting me in my face.” Sukuna tightened his hold on each of them with a deadly grasp, savouring the melodious cry that escaped your lips. He lowered his head and teethed each nipple, drawing it out and relishing in the masochism of your sharp nails clawing down his back. “Deeper, my darling. You alone hold the privilege of marking my flesh. Let my scars mirror yours.”

With caution, you shifted your hands to rest upon his firm pectoral muscles before you could accidentally claw out his spinal cord.

Sukuna’s touch drifted from your bruised breasts to cradle your face, guiding your gaze to meet his crimson one.

Encouraged by his comforting presence, you arched your hips forward with newfound confidence. His fingers swept through your hair, pushing it away as he offered reassuring nods.

Now, the reins rested firmly within your grasp.

“Fuck . . .” Leaning back against the headboard, he released soft sighs. Warm breaths escaped his parted lips as you continued increasing your ministrations. Your gaze momentarily flickered to your favourite book resting on his bedside table before returning to his face.

Suddenly seized by an impulse, you leaned forward to plant a tender kiss upon his lips, trailing upward to gently brush against his cheekbones, tracing the intricate markings lining his skin.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Someone must play the role of the tender one between us, Sukuna,” you answered, mirroring the attention he had given your scars during your initial encounter. With each kiss, you felt his eyes tracing your movements, following the path of your lips as they journeyed across his face, landing upon his nose or the pulse of his neck.

“My beloved,” Sukuna’s voice caressed your ears, drawing your focus entirely to him, “listen closely to my words.”

You halted your movements, a curious expression dancing in your eyes. “What troubles you?”

With a deliberate motion, he guided your hips forward, his gaze unwavering. “Throughout the night, I will fill your womb ceaselessly, and in mere weeks, you shall carry my legacy within you.” Your heart leaped into your throat, fluttering with an overwhelming rush of emotion. “Peril will shadow your every step. Those who oppose us will stop at nothing to eliminate your life and the life of our child. Do you comprehend the gravity of our situation?”

You blinked back the tears, resigning yourself to the inevitable.

“But I vow upon my honour, such an atrocity shall never come to pass. I will sever entire bloodlines if even a single strand of your precious hair were harmed.” His movements quickened as he thrusted into you.

Your grip tightened on his shoulders again, gasping for breath between erratic pants.

“At dawn’s light, all concubines shall be reassigned to palace duties. You need only point out those who have dared to trouble you, though their transgressions are already known to me.” His motions became more intense as he pressed you onto your back, pinning your arms above your head. “And when the sun graces the horizon, you, my beloved, shall be proclaimed as my queen.”

Your voice wailed through the chamber as you cried out his name, drowning in the waves of scorching pleasure never before experienced.

Instead of seeing celestial bodies colliding, your gaze met the deep crimson of his irises, those same eyes that had captivated you on that very first night.

“Sukuna . . . ”

With a smile mirroring his own, you tilted your head upward, silently beckoning him to seal the moment with a kiss. As he obliged, his cock pulsed within you, filling you with his warmth until every fibre of your being was tethered with his.

But he didn’t withdraw. Just as he had promised, he intended to keep you close throughout the night, to claim you as his own.

And in that moment, as you laid with him, you welcomed the dawn of a new chapter standing beside him, prepared to reign as Sukuna Ryomen’s queen.

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heedra · 2 years ago

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Things NOBODY told me about being an adult that I wish they had:

When you get to the top of the river you're going to want to find a shallow stretch of riverbed with relatively calm water and sediment pieces that are gravel sized, not cobble, sand or mud. This is critical; test it with your nose if you're not sure! when you have this, you're going to want to flip on your side and slap the gravel as hard as you can with your tail to dislodge it; you're gonna want to alternate between digging the spot out and doing some more slapping until you've got a nice little cone shaped depression for the eggs.

grizzly bear

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meatconfetti · 2 years ago

Photo

Contemporary Landscape - Pathway Photo of a mid-sized contemporary partial sun side yard mulch garden path in fall.

#plants for the drought #lawn alternatives #gravel #sculpture #succulents and companions #plant combinations for marin

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monzamash · 2 months ago

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lando norris x you rating — 18+ (sex, coarse language) —requested by anon for monzamusings✨

“You smell sooo good, Lan.”

“Have you lost your mind? I just got back from a run,” He laughed, fending off your grabby hands as he tried to grab a cold water from the fridge.

Maybe you needed one too, he thought.

“Maybe I have lost my mind," you tutted and snatched the water from his grasp, gently placing it on the counter, “But I need you.”

It really should've been embarrassing being that desperate, in hindsight it probably was, but you knew your boyfriend – you knew how much he loved to be needed. And by the way those ocean eyes you'd fallen in love with many moons ago widened and that smirk tickled his perfectly shaped lips, he knew what you were hinting.

“It's that time of the month again!?” It always came around too quickly for his liking, and yours.

“It’s so baaaad,” you whined and dramatically threw your head back, gripping tightly onto the loose work-out top hanging from his shoulders. God, he looked delicious in that top.

Lando rested his hands on your waist with a sweet smile, thumbs gently rubbing your hips, “What do you need, baby? Because I'm not offering sex and getting rejected again – my ego can’t take it.”

You scoffed, “That was last night and you know what I’m like – sometimes I don’t know what I want but right now I need you to just... I dunno, touch me I guess,” your voice was low and meek compared to your usual tone.

But Lando understood. “What hurts?” he asked gently, pressing soft kisses to your flushed cheeks.

“Everything,” you sighed, melting into his touch.

“Here?” he asked tentatively as his hands slipped under the sheer shirt you’d thrown on, slowly travelling up to your bare chest.

You nodded, pliantly arching into his warm palms, “No bra? Hurts too much, huh?” he whispered, fingertips smoothing over your sensitive swells. Every movement laced in pleasure and pain.

“Be gentle,” you moaned back, eyes closed as his lips nipped at your neck.

“When am I not?” he asked cheekily, you could hear it in his voice.

“I can think of a few times… Jesus, that feels incredible.”

“My name is Lando,” he quipped back before giving you a toe-curling kiss, groaning when your fingers slipped into his tangled curls.

“Shut up,” you murmured against his lips as his fingertips gently brushed across your swollen nubs, earning him a deep moan and a sigh of relief.

His hands were warm and soft but calloused in all the right places. And he knew you like the back of them; like a maestro performing the sweetest of symphonies. He knew what you liked, how much pressure you needed to really feel it – he knew when to slide up your shirt and give you extra attention with his perfect mouth. The small whimpers from above encouraged him, the little whines every time he lapped with the wet tip of his tongue and he knew when you needed more.

Lando knew how far to push when you were like this – sore, swollen and achey. He couldn’t stop staring at them at dinner last night, or this morning when he woke up to you sprawled out in bed, uninhibited by a bra. And fuck did it turn him on, imagining what they may look like if someday, he was lucky enough to put a baby in you.

“Lan, your mouth feels so good,” you whimpered, barely making a sound.

“Think you can come just from this?” he asked, eyes coming up and boring into yours as his slick thumbs worked you over, pace quickening.

“I think– yeah.. shit – I’m gonna come…”

“I’ve got you,” Lando’s voice was gravelled as he alternated between each nipple with a pop, tongue flickering against the sensitive nubs while he steadied you against the kitchen island, knees trembling.

“Fuuu–ck,” you sighed, fingers still deeply entrenched in his messy curls as your body shook. The high built and washed over you slowly, like a soft crescendo – moan after moan slipping from your bitten lips, teetering over the edge.

Lando’s hands came up to cradle your chest while you came down from the clouds, pressing soft kisses to the swells of your breasts and trailing up to your neck, “How do you feel now?”

“Relaaaaxed,” you sighed, grasping his blushing cheeks in your shaky palms and giving him a sweet kiss.

“Good.” he nodded with a proud smile before giving you a gentle smack on the backside, “Now come and have a shower with me because I'm fucking stinky.”

“And hard…” You teased with a playful smile and a glance towards the mouth-watering outline in his stupidly tight cotton gym shorts.

Lando hummed and lovingly pushed you towards the bathroom, “And whose fault is that, huh?”

“I wouldn’t have a clue.”

inbox open for suggestions

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris smut #lando norris imagine #monzamashmasterlist

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hayatoseyepatch · 9 months ago

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𝕯𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓: Missing you, your boyfriend hated being apart from you. So what happens when he can finally get his hands on you once more?

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘: Gen Narumi & Soshiro Hoshina

𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝕮𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 2k.

𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖘: Gen Narumi & Soshiro Hoshina x Fem!Reader (seperate). (SMUT). 𝖈𝖜: oral (female receiving), minor impact play, dirty talk, praise, degradation, taking photos, oral (male receiving), marking, mentions of breeding.

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗’𝖘 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊: Two fics in one week? From me? Unheard of. Listen if this isn't proof of how much Kaiju No. 8 has consumed me I don't know what is honestly. I'm still messing around with writing for them and getting a sense of their personalities so please be kind to me. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ

Seeing the way you were laid beneath him blurred his mind in a cloud of lust and need. He justified his upcoming actions under false pretenses of you needing a "punishment” from earlier, when in all reality it was his own selfish need to taste you, unable to remember the last time he spent an extended period of time between your soft thighs. So rather than fulfilling your request of filling you with his cock he begins the long and tortuous process of trailing kisses down your frame, grinning against your skin as he feels your body arch into his touch, finally ending his slow descent by tugging the waistband of your panties back with his teeth, shivering in anticipation at the sound of the elastic snapping against your skin. Having enough of his own teasing he leans back groaning upon seeing the drenched material of your panties. “Holy shit babygirl, look at you, you're fucking soaked. And it's all for me, I can't wait to taste you, doll.”

He impatiently gripped the fabric of your drenched panties, tugging it off of your frame in one swift motion. Quick to pocket the article of clothing for later use, before laying flat on his front, settling himself between your legs, hooking a thumb in a fold pulling the skin to the side to expose you fully to his prying eyes. “Jesus, doll, god you're so fucking beautiful, I can't fucking stand it. Gotta commit this shit to memory.” His voice has a gravel, need consuming the octave in which his words are spoken.

He removes his phone from his pocket sliding up to access the camera to snap a photo of your exposed heat, making a mental note to use that the next time he was missing you on a mission, or maybe even send it to a certain vice-captain as a reminder of what he would never be able to get his hands on. Finally, needing to taste you before he drives himself insane, he dives down licking a fat stripe up your center.

Narumi lets his tongue circle your clit, alternating between flattening his tongue and applying just the right amount of pressure to caress the hardened nub, feeling himself getting drunk on the taste of you. “Ge-“ Any words you would try and formulate die on your tongue, getting cut off by his actions, hand flying to his hair to grip at it for leverage. A loud whimper left your lips, a near scream of his name close to follow. “Gen, please, I need you! Please, I love your mouth, but I really want you, I need you so badly.. feel so empty, haven't felt full since last time..”

Your words come out desperate, senseless pleas for him to do something, anything, to qualm the empty feeling of your cunt as it clenched around nothing. Knowing just what to say to push him over the edge and have him give you just what you were craving. Gripping the back of his hair, tugging him away from your cunt enough so you could look at him between your thighs. Eyes clouded with lust as you look into his own, their vermillion barely recognizable, his pupils blown so wide with lust. Your words are purred into the air, knowing that by the end of your sentence, you would have him hook, line, and sinker.

“I really need you to fill me up, Gen. Put a baby inside of me, I need you please, Gen.” You maintained eye contact looking at him between your plump thighs, hearing the groan that bubbled up from his throat in response to your words. For as good as he looked there, the tears that lined your lashline only enforced the need behind your words, the very same need that caused the mess between your legs in the first place. Narumi feels himself being pulled out of his haze only when your words sink in. He debates filling you with his fingers, desperate to get more of a taste of your sweet cunt, but Narumi was nothing if not willing to appease your needs. He could not deny his own needs any longer, the fabric of his pants and the plush of the mattress beneath him doing nothing to qualm his need like burying himself inside you would. Though what really sent him into a frenzy, was one phrase in particular, you always knew just what to say to drive him insane.

“Yeah, doll? Need me to fill that slutty cunt baby? Want me to fold you in half and breed you, princess? Do you want me to really make you a mommy, huh baby? Well, how could I possibly say no?” He smirks, parting from his position between your legs, leaning back on the heels of his feet before ripping down the zipper of his pants. With expert fingers, he was quick to free his aching cock from the confined of his pants, parting your legs further as he gazes at your exposed figure beneath him. Unable to help himself, he lands a harsh slap against your cunt. His grin was feral, your slick glistening against his chin. His hand soon finds a home against your throat, the other gripping the base of his cock lining it up with your entrance. “Tell me, doll, before I ruin you. Who's perfect pussy is this, hm?”

Hoshina never fared well when you both were apart. That proof was evident in the way he was on you the moment you returned to base. The mission your platoon had been dispatched on just so happened to be in his brother’s sector, fueling his need to claim you once more. His lips were all over your skin, sharp canines marking your neck, the darkened skin being his solace the insatiable need to have physical evidence that you belonged to him consuming him. He was always like this when you had to be in the presence of his brother. Their rivalry surviving even after all of these years. Knowing that you decided he deserved a little assurance. This was the only true spot of insecurity, and you intended to let him know just how much he’d never have to worry when it came to you. Stepping forward, gently guided him backward until the backs of his knees came into contact with the edge of the bed, pushing his shoulders until he sat on the mattress.

Now that the both of you were separated from the intense kiss, both of your lips swollen from the intensity of the embrace, he was free to look up at you curiously. His hands flew to your waist, pulling you flush against him. One hand pushing up the fabric of your sleep shirt, exposing your bare top half to his hungry gaze. He was quick to reattach his lips to your skin, using the height difference from you standing between his legs to his advantage. His other hand gripping the soft plush of you ass, using his hold on you as leverage to pull you closer. His tongue lolling out of his mouth, he was quick to take a hardened bud between his lips. His tongue rolling against it, coming to a point to flick at the sensitive area before letting his teeth capture it. Pulling his head back to tug until releasing, pupils blows wide seeing the bounce of the plush flesh he was rewarded with. He was quick to give the other the same treatment. “So fucking beautiful, baby, and all fucking mine.”

You run your fingers through his hair, letting out a soft moan at the attention he was giving to your body. “Yes Shiro, I’m all yours baby.” Your voice is breathy from the pleasure you were receiving, head falling back as you relish in the feeling of his expert mouth. “Missed you so much baby.” You coo, hands coming to his shoulder to push him away a bit. He was confused for a moment, if you missed him why were you pushing him away? Before he could protest or chase your skin with his mouth, you capture his lips in a deep kiss, hand trailing down his body before finding purchase on his hardened cock through the fabric of his pants. Giving it a squeeze, Hoshina can’t help but buck his hips into your hand, his body reacting subconsciously. You pull from the kiss, a string of saliva connecting your lips for just a moment before snapping. Looking into his hooded eyes, you let a grin slip its way onto your features.

Usually, Hoshina was always in control, working your body over and over again until the only word you could think to speak was his name. But not this time. This time you would be taking care of him. Dropping to your knees between his legs on the floor, your hands on his knees pushing his thighs apart. “let me show you just how much I missed you Shiro.” You coo, hands working dutifully on his pants, pulling his hard cock from its confines. His tip was already drooling with precum, the sight of it alone enough for your mouth to water. Ducking your head down you allow your tongue to collect his salty essence. “Fuck.” His hand flies to your hair, digits tangling in your locks. His word only fuels your actions. Steadying his cock with a hand at his base, your tongue circles his cockhead. Maintaining eye contact as you make out with his tip. “Fuck baby, please missed you too much, don’t tease.”

The plea in his voice was all it took for you to take his cock into your mouth. The groan that rumbles in his throat nearly muffles the sounds of your bobbing. Moving your head up and down on his length. Flattening your tongue on the underside of his cock, making sure to pay special attention to the vein that ran along his member. His fingers gripped the hair atop your head using it to guide your head up and down on his length, tears collecting at your lashline as the head of his cock kissed the back of your throat. “Fuck, kitten, so fucking good for me. That’s my girl taking my cock so fucking well, gonna make me cum baby, fuck.” He exclaims, throwing his head back in pleasure.

His hips bucking uncontrollably, effectively fucking your face. His hips begin to stutter, his vison going white as the coil in his stomach snaps. “Cumming, fuck kitten, fuck!” With only a few more bobs of your head, he fills your mouth with his seed, shuddering as he feels your throat contract as you swallow. His chest rises and falls as he catches his breath, coming down from his high. He spares a glance at you, seeing the way you let your tongue slide from your mouth, showing him your now empty mouth. His eyes darken, and before you could blink he swiftly grabs you, the world shifting as he swaps your positions. Your back hits the mattress, his larger form caging you in, lips capturing yours in a desperate kiss. His hips roll against your own, his cock already growing hard again. His next words are spoken between panted breaths against your lips. “That was quite the show, kitten. Now its my turn to show you just how much I missed my pretty little cunt, yeah?”

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics. Banners & writing by me. Tagging: @pixelcafe-network @interstellar-inn.

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starl1ght444 · 2 months ago

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bruce wayne x reader

[ admiring the cityscape by being fucked against it ]

MDNI !!! (·•᷄‎ࡇ•᷅ ) .ᐟ.ᐟ 18 + [3k word count]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

you stepped off the private elevator with a sly smile curving your lips. heels clicked sharply against the marble floor, announcing your arrival like a carefully rehearsed overture. you weren’t supposed to be here—not technically. but rules had never really applied to you when it came to bruce.— especially when he’d been ignoring your texts for the past two days.

you pushed the glass door open with your hip, arms full with a pastry box from his favorite café—an unsubtle bribe wrapped in flaky sweetness and the scent of cinnamon. he was behind his desk, hands buried in his hair, suit jacket abandoned and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. his tie was askew. unforgivable.“oh good,” you said, voice syrupy and casual as you set the box on his desk without asking. “you’re not dead. I was starting to wonder if I needed to file a missing persons report or just assume you’d run off with your secretary.” he didn’t look up immediately. when he did, there was a flicker of something dark in his eyes—stress, tension, something deeper. His jaw was tight. “I’ve been in meetings. back to back.” he was starting to feel exhausted. keeping up with his alternating lifestyle was catching up to him and starting to become extremely stressful.

you raised a brow, sliding into the chair across from him. “meetings? with who? the devil? ” — “no. just a few different investors.” his voice was flat. controlled. too controlled. “they might be worse.” — you leaned back, crossing your legs. your skirt tugged higher, just a little. “mmm. so you are in a bad mood. lucky me.” — he exhaled through his nose, slow, deliberate. his eyes dropped to her legs. stayed there. something shifted. subtle. dangerous.

“what are you really doing here?” — your smile returned, smug and sweet. “I missed you.” silence stretched between them. a slow pulse of heat started to build in the air, like a storm warning. bruce stood, not rushed—measured, predatory. walked around the desk until he stood in front of you, looming.“you missed me.” he stated. you blinked up at him, all innocence. “mmhm.” his gaze swept over you, slow and assessing. his hand came to rest on the arm of your chair, the other at your chin, tilting it up.“you picked the worst possible time to come here.” — “or the best possible time.”

bruce’s mouth twitched—just barely. that was all the warning you got before he hauled you up from the chair in one fluid motion, spinning you around and pressing you up against the cold glass window behind them. your palms met the glass with a soft gasp. “you want to tease me?” he murmured against your ear, voice low and gravel rough. “let’s see how well you take it when the whole city gets a front-row seat.”

your breath fogged against the glass as you instinctively braced herself, fingers splayed wide on the cool surface. the city stretched out endlessly in front of you, glittering and unknowing, and yet in this moment it felt like every window pointed right at them. bruce’s hands were already at your waist, not hurried—measured, calculating. his fingers slipped beneath the hem of your blouse, warm and possessive against your skin.“you wore this on purpose,” he muttered, voice dark with amusement as he tugged the blouse from your skirt. “tiny little buttons. just asking to be torn off.” you smirked over your shoulder, your tone honeyed and mocking. “i didn’t know you were going to be so—moody.” he made a low sound in his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a growl. “moody?”

and then the first button popped. not torn—no, bruce wasn’t giving you the satisfaction of losing control. he undid them one by one, slowly, with maddening precision. each tug of fabric revealed more skin to the sunlit office air: your collarbone, the edge of your bra, the soft curve of your stomach. “you’re lucky you came at the time you did, if you would’ve came in earlier i would have put you on speakerphone during my board meetings,” he said, dragging the blouse down her shoulders, letting it fall around her elbows, a deliberate bind. “letting them all hear how bratty you get when I ignore you for two days.” your breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut. “you’d be fired.”— “I own the company,” he reminded you coolly, sliding your bra strap down with two fingers. “and right now, I own you.”

his hand cupped your breast from behind, thumb teasing over your already-peaked nipple from being against the cold glass — while his other hand slid down your stomach to the waistband of your skirt. squirming, you exclaimed “someone could see—”“that’s the point.” making you shiver at the flat certainty in his tone.

your skirt came off in one fluid motion, pooling at your feet. bruce stepped closer behind you, his body heat wrapping around you like a smoldering blanket. the evidence of his arousal pressed hard against the back of your thigh, and still, he didn’t rush. his palm coasted over the swell of your ass. a sharp smack followed—just enough to make you gasp. “keep your hands on the glass,” he murmured. “I want you to feel how high up we are. want you to feel every inch of what I’m going to do to you… and know there’s not a damn thing anyone out there can do about it.”you whimpered, fingers pressing harder against the window, as if that would ground you.

“that’s better,” bruce said. he leaned in, breath hot on your neck. “i’m going to take my time with you. and you’re going to thank me when I’m done.” he dragged his fingers down between your thighs, just barely brushing where you needed him most, drawing out a quiet, desperate sound from your lips.“that’s right,” he whispered. “let me take my stress out on you.”

slowly plunging his thick fingers inside, just barely enough to have your gummy walls suck him in fully. your body was trembling now, legs pressed together instinctively as your thighs clenched around his hand, but he wasn’t letting up—not now. his fingers moved faster, deeper, ruthlessly precise. there was no hesitation in him. “please.. bruce.. please.. oh my.. shit mmhm nuhhg” you practically prayed to yourself, mumbling against the glass. every thrust of his hand had intent. purpose, to break you down. the wet sounds between you two echoed obscenely off the glass and polished floors, mixing with the quiet, strangled gasps you could no longer control. your forehead pressed harder against the window, while your smushed tits bounced against the glass — the city still spinning below you, but your focus was gone—blown to pieces by bruce behind, who knew exactly how to wreak you. bruce’s voice was low, almost amused, close to your ear. “you’re trying so hard to be quiet.”

his free hand slid up your spine, fingers tangling in your hair, gripping it just enough to tilt your head back. “I want you loud,” he growled. “let them all know who’s making you feel this good. let them hear what you sound like when you fall apart for me.” hoping you’d scream loud enough for the city of gotham to hear you.

the orgasm hit like a wave crashing against the rocks—violent, hot, overwhelming. your vision went white as your body pulsed around his fingers, a cry ripped from your throat without apology. you came hard, “nugg..fuck..fuc..fuck br..bruce..bruce...bru-nughh.”! head pressed against the glass, breath fogging the city skyline as your body shuddered through the aftershocks. bruce didn’t move right away. he kept his hand inside you, coaxing every last tremor out, until you were limp in his grip. then, slowly, he slid his fingers out and brought them to his mouth, bruce watching you with a dark, satisfied smirk from reflection in the glass. “quite the stress relief,” he murmured, licking the taste of you from his skin. “exactly what I needed.” he said as you sagged against the glass, breath still coming in uneven waves, skin flushed and dewy from the intensity of release. your legs felt barely functional, but bruce didn’t let you fall. his hands, still firm on your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“i’m not done with you,” he said simply, voice quiet but edged in steel. you managed a small, dazed sound in response—something between a laugh and a whimper. “you’re insatiable.” bruce leaned in, his bare chest pressing to her back, warm and solid. his lips brushed the shell of your ear as he replied, “no. just possessive.” and then she felt him—his length, hard and heavy, sliding against the back of your thigh. he wasn’t teasing now. no slow burn. no warm-up. he was past the edge of patience, and you’d lit the fuse. you gasped as he spread your legs slightly with his knee, your body still tender, hypersensitive.

“you can take it,” Bruce murmured, one hand moving to align himself, the other wrapped tight around your waist. “you’re mine. you’re made for this.” the first push of him inside made you cry out, “b..bruce.. mm..fuck..sobig...” forehead pressing harder to the glass making you grit your teeth from the pleasant pain. he filled you slowly at first—inch by agonizing inch—letting you feel just how stretched and wrecked you already were. your body trembled, muscles twitching, still quivering from the orgasm he’d just pulled from you minutes before. bruce didn’t give you much time to adjust. — once he was fully buried inside, he drew back only to slam into you again with a force that made the window rattle faintly in its frame. you let out a strangled moan, “jesus.shit.. bruce..mnmhh” your breath fogging the glass again as he began to move—steady, brutal thrusts that claimed every part of you.

your hands slipped on the window, but he caught your wrists, pinning them up and forward, holding you completely at his mercy. “you don’t come into my office..hmmn,” he growled with each thrust, “dressed like that, talking back, and think I’m not going to take you apart.” you whimpered, every thrust sending shockwaves through your already overwhelmed body. “let them watch,” Bruce said, hips snapping forward again. “let them see you come undone for me twice, against my glass, i hope we make the front of every news channel tonight, so everyone can see how well i fuck my girl.” your moans grew louder, your knees weak, toes barely keeping you up as he continued to pound into you. there was no space for thought—only sensation. heat. pressure. him. he was relentless. focused. using you with full intent, but behind the roughness, you could feel it—that thread of need. of something desperate buried under all that power. and he was close. you could feel it in the way his rhythm shifted, more ragged now. a growl rumbled low in his chest.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Who do you belong to?”

“You,” you gasped. “bruce..nnhg..i’m yours—” that broke something in him. with a final, hard thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, groaning against your neck as he came, his release hot and pulsing, the sound of his satisfaction thick and unfiltered. you both stayed like that for a long moment—both wrecked, panting, skin slick with heat and sweat, bodies pressed to the glass as the city kept moving far below.

“I needed that,” he murmured. even after they caught their breath, even as their bodies slowly stilled, he stayed pressed against her back, chest rising and falling with each heavy exhale. you were a mess—skin flushed, clothes tangled or half-gone, hands still braced against the window. you could barely stand. but he wasn’t done. without a word, bruce slid out of you, earning a soft, shaky gasp from you. your knees buckled, but his hands were already at your waist, spinning you around in one fluid motion. before you could find your balance, he lifted you effortlessly, your thighs wrapping around his waist by instinct, and carried you across the office. the desk was sleek, massive, and completely unforgiving. he dropped you onto it like a prize—scattered paperwork fluttering to the floor, pens rolling off the edge. His eyes were dark now, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched in restraint he wasn’t even pretending to hold anymore. and his cock covered in a both of your mixtures of cum, still hard and twitching In anticipation.

“you didn’t think I was finished, did you?” he said, voice rough and frayed. gaving him a breathless smile, eyes glassy. “didn’t expect you to still have the energy.” that earned you a sharp slap to your tit and a warning smirk. “careful.” he pushed you back flat against the cool desk surface, palms spreading your legs wide again. your body jolted with oversensitive shock when his fingers slid back between your thighs, finding you dripping with his cum, drenched and twitching. “still so ready for me,” he muttered, more to himself. “you can take more.” — you moaned softly, hips shifting as he teased you again—just a few strokes, just enough to feel how sensitive you were, how reactive.

but bruce didn’t waste time now. He lined himself up again, leaned over you, catching your wrists and pinning them above your head. the new position left you fully exposed—open, stretched out beneath him, nothing to hold onto but him. Then he pushed inside again. there was no warm-up this time. no slow tease. just heat and pressure and the blunt force of need. gasping, back arching as he filled you all at once, and then the pace began—fast, unforgiving, hips snapping against yours. with a sound that echoed sharply off the high walls of the office. the desk creaked beneath them, rhythm brutal. “you make me crazy,” bruce gritted out between thrusts. “walking in here like you own the place.” — your eyes rolled back as her body clenched around him, already too close, too raw. “nmuhhg.. mhm bruce..mnn”

“you like this,” he accused, voice low and dangerous. “getting ruined over and over until you forget your own name so you have to scream mine.” you couldn’t even deny it. couldn’t speak.

bruce leaned down, teeth grazing your throat, and growled, “come for me again. Do it. I want to feel you break all over me.” you shattered—loud, unrestrained. your whole body arched off the desk, mouth open in a cry as another orgasm tore through you unapologetically, more violent than the first. bruce swore under his breath, hands tightening on your wrists as your gummy walls clenched around him. he drove into you harder, deeper, chasing his own release—and when it hit, it was savage. his whole body tensed above yours, jaw locked as he spilled into her with a rough, broken groan. For a long moment, they didn’t move. just the sound of their breathing, the distant hum of the city beyond the windows, and the slow beat of hearts finally slowing.

bruce finally released her wrists, brushing his thumb gently over the red marks he’d left behind. “you’re staying for the rest of the day,” he said, voice low and final. you blinked up at him, lips parted, dazed. “i don’t think I can walk.” his smirk returned, that rare, wicked glint in his eyes. “exactly.”

the office was a wreck.

the desk was covered in scattered files and the ghost of fingernail marks. you laid draped across it like the embodiment of sweet destruction—hair tousled, skin glowing, lips swollen and parted in the aftershocks of bliss. bruce still hovered over you, hands braced on either side of her body, eyes locked on yours like you might disappear if he blinked. you finally broke the silence, your voice hoarse but unmistakably smug. “so… this is how you handle stress at work.” bruce exhaled a slow breath, lips twitching into a small smile. you gave a slow, wicked grin back and said “you’re lucky I don’t sue for workplace misconduct.” in a joking manner — that got a low laugh from him. he stepped back reluctantly, tugging you gently upright, arms winding around your waist. your legs dangled off the desk, too wobbly to stand yet, but you leaned into his chest, pressing a lazy kiss against his collarbone.

*.ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

thank u for reading!!! hope it was okay :3 !!

like & reblog 🌟 have a great day / night!!

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rafessecret · 7 hours ago

Note

can you do just a request of stepbro rafe taking yn to a secluded hotel and they have an intense night of passion including filming a sex tape

⋆˚࿔ step¡sister reader && rafe cameron

IT'S ONLY FOR ME I PROMISE

It’s hours away from anywhere familiar.

One of those places buried off the highway — a low-slung, half-forgotten hotel nestled behind a thicket of trees, sign flickering like a secret. The gravel crunches beneath the tyres as Rafe pulls in, hands clenched tight around the steering wheel. Jaw sharp. Eyes darker than usual. There’s tension in the air — a thick, heavy thing — but it’s not fear. It’s needed. Desire, simmering just under the surface. You didn’t even ask where he was taking you. He didn’t offer.

But when he leans over the console, thumb grazing your thigh, voice low and shaky with restraint, the ache twists deeper in your gut. ❝Ours for the night. No one’s going to find us.❞ The lobby’s dim. No cameras. No questions. Just a bored clerk who slides a keycard across the desk without a word. It’s under a fake name, obviously — he’d planned it that far ahead. You glance at him in the low hallway light, his beauty almost criminal. Tousled hair, stubbled jaw, the faintest bruise on his neck from last week when you got too brave. He's too pretty. Dangerous in a way that begs you to follow.

The room is warm and private, the kind of space designed for sins. Floor-length mirrors. Soft yellow lamps. A bed too big, too soft. Pillows everywhere. And the second the door shuts —

His hands are on you. Lips at your neck, breath ragged, body pressed close. It’s not rushed, but it’s desperate. He kisses you like he’s starved. Like you’re water, and he’s been crawling through a desert for days. ❝You can be as loud as you want now,❞ he breathes, voice curling into your skin like smoke.

You giggle breathlessly, dizzy already. He kisses you harder. Rougher. Mouth hot against yours as he groans, ❝Let me hear you this time, baby. No one’s going to come knocking. I don’t have to cover your mouth. I want to hear it all.❞ Clothes vanish. Your shirt tugged over your head, your bra unclasped with a flick of his fingers. He drops to his knees and kisses down your body — tongue flicking over your nipples until they pebble, mouth dragging heat down your stomach, then lower. He sinks between your thighs like he belongs there.

He kisses your inner thighs, leaving marks that bloom red and purple. His hands spread your legs wider, thumbs parting your folds like he’s unveiling something sacred. Then his mouth is on you — tongue slow and teasing at first, circling your clit, dragging soft, wet moans out of you. You buck under him, thighs trembling, hips lifting involuntarily.

He holds you down, palms firm against your hips, keeping you open for him. ❝Taste so fuckin’ sweet,❞ he groans into your pussy, voice muffled, nose pressed against your skin. ❝You’re going to cum for me before I even get inside you.❞ He eats you out like he’s starved — tongue dragging through your slit, lips wrapped around your clit, sucking gently, then harder, until your moans turn breathless and high-pitched. He flattens his tongue and moves in slow, deliberate strokes, pressing up against your clit in a way that makes your stomach tighten and your breath catch.

Your fingers sink into his hair. Your moans echo against the walls — unrestrained now, every sound spilling out of you. Loud. Needy. Wrecked. ❝Fuck, Rafe—please—❞ He groans again, the sound vibrating right against your core. His tongue flicks and swirls, alternating with broad, open-mouthed licks. He pulls back just enough to breathe, lips slick, then dives back in, lapping at your fluttering entrance and teasing your clit until your thighs are clamping around his ears.

Your hips jerk, the pleasure dizzying — your vision blurs, eyes rolling back as heat coils deep in your stomach. His grip tightens, anchoring you as you cry out, body arching off the bed. He keeps going. Sucks your clit, presses his tongue inside you, and groans like it’s his favourite meal — like your pussy is heaven. You cum with a choked sob, legs trembling, back bowed. Your moans are loud and unfiltered — high and broken as your orgasm washes over you.

He stays there through it all, tongue softening, slowing, kissing you through the aftershocks. Only when your body stops twitching does he finally pull away. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, pupils blown, jaw wet with you. Then he pushes you back on the bed, climbs over you — hot skin pressed against yours, thick cock dragging along your slick.

You gasp as he slides in — a broken, breathless sound that rips straight from your chest. It’s too much and not enough. Every inch stretches you open, slow and deep — painfully slow — until your walls are fluttering around him, clenching helplessly as he sinks in all the way. He bottoms out with a low groan, jaw clenched, his hips flush to yours, cock buried so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat.

❝You feel that, angel?❞ He pants, barely able to speak. ❝That’s all of me. Fuck—❞ He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, watching the way your mouth parts, how your eyes roll, and how your whole body trembles around his. Then he starts to fuck you — patient, deliberate thrusts that grind deep into your cunt, dragging against your fluttering walls, kissing the spongey part high inside that makes your toes curl.

You whimper. Then moan. Then cry out — loud and shameless.

Your nails carve down his back. Your hips meet every snap of his with desperation. And when your voice breaks, when that filthy sound slips from your lips, it does something to him. ❝That’s it, angel, fuck—❞ he groans, voice wrecked. ❝That’s what I wanted. Keep moaning like that. Let me hear you.❞

He picks up the pace, hips slamming into you with punishing force, fucking you harder, deeper. The headboard knocks, the mattress creaks, and your cries echo through the room — raw, high-pitched, uncontrollable. Your tits bounce with every thrust, mouth wide open in a scream that’s no longer muffled, no longer swallowed into silence. Rafe moans too.

Not just groans — but pretty moans. Breathless and broken, soft and low, slipping past bitten lips as he watches your body take him so perfectly. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are glassy. He looks like he’s in awe. You’re loud. So loud. Every gasp, every sob, every curse. It pours out of you like you’ve been holding it back for years.

He pulls out suddenly with a hiss, flips you over, and drags you into his lap. ❝Ride me, baby. Let me watch you fall apart.❞ You sink down on him with a choked gasp, slick coating his thick, veiny cock, your walls sucking him in like you were made for it. He stretches you wide all over again. Your thighs shake as you find a rhythm, bouncing up and down, and he meets you halfway with thrusts from below.

His hands grip your waist, guiding you, helping you take him deeper. His eyes flick between your face and the mess between your legs — between your swollen clit and the place where you’re stretched around him. He’s mesmerised. ❝Fuck, look at you,❞ he groans, voice gone, ❝So fucking pretty like this.❞ Then he reaches for his phone.

❝Can I film you? Just for me,❞ he asks, voice barely there. ❝You’re so fucking beautiful like this. I need to remember it.❞ You nod. He holds the camera low, angled up to catch everything — your tits bouncing, your face twisting in pleasure, the way you moan when his cock hits that spot inside you. His free hand slides up your body, pinching your nipple, then lower, rubbing your clit.

❝God, look at you. I’ve never seen anything better.❞ You cry out, your climax building sharp and fast — overwhelming, inevitable. Rafe doesn’t stop. His fingers stay on your clit, relentless, circling that swollen bundle of nerves with maddening precision while his cock drives up into you from below. ❝Come on, angel,❞ he pants, voice wrecked, eyes locked on your face. ❝Give it to me. Let me feel it.❞

And then it hits — shattering and blinding. You come with a sob, high-pitched and broken, your entire body convulsing as pleasure tears through you. Your head drops back, lips parted in a silent scream, thighs quivering around his hips. Your walls clamp down on his cock, fluttering around him as you ride it out, and that’s all it takes.

Rafe groans — loud, raw, unfiltered — as he spills inside you, thick and deep. He buries himself to the hilt, holding you down, his fingers digging into your hips as he fills you up. He doesn’t pull out. Just holds you there, throbbing inside you, forehead resting against your chest, whispering your name like a prayer. The camera catches everything.

Your wrecked face, flushed and wet with tears. The rise and fall of your chest. Your gasping, stuttered breaths. The tremble of your thighs still locked around him. The slick mess between you. The perfect, unholy image of ruin. ❝So fucking pretty,❞ he murmurs, voice hoarse, kissing your shoulder as the footage plays back soft and slow in the glow of the bedside lamp. ❝My perfect girl.❞

❝There she is,❞ he murmurs, breathless, pulling you into his chest. ❝My pretty little movie star.❞ Later, wrapped in sheets, sore and satisfied, you hear it — the soft, wet sounds of playback. He’s watching it again. Obsessive. Reverent. And you let him. Because the way he looks at you through that screen, like you’re the most sacred thing he’s ever touched — makes your heart pound all over again.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : hey angels… i’m so tired right now and i do not like this at all. it was rushed and not proofread, but i wanted to get something posted. sorry if it's a little messy! thanks for all the love, though! you all are the best

── ⋆ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @scne-vampire @browniepop62 @urcoolgf @sydneysslut

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

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yesimwriting · 10 months ago

Text

Easing

a/n just a little logan idea i had while thinking of ways to work on my characterization of him :)

Summary: A contemplation of mortality. Or, alternatively, reader sustains a minor injury while on a mission and Logan sees the end of the world.

Warnings: age gap (where everyone is of legal, consenting age), slight descriptions of injury, unnoticed pining

----

The dimness of the room adds an edge to your haziness, blurring the furniture in a way that dampens your mood.

You've been curious about Logan's room longer than you'd ever admit, and now that he's pulled you into it to not-so-discreetly scold you when all you want to do is go to bed, you can't even enjoy the benefit of taking in your surroundings.

You take advantage of the fact that your back is to him, eyes falling shut as you focus on ignoring the buzz of the electricity powering his bedside lamp. The plights of being an exhausted technopath.

There's a severity to his presence, a sharpness in the way he lingers behind you. It'd be all too easy to leave him to his brooding, to halfheartedly accept any verbal lashings he feels like giving you and be done with it. But Logan knows you, knows how you work well enough to find a way to interpret your lack of commentary into something it's not, a sign that something is wrong with you beyond a scrape against your temple and a drowsiness you're not used to.

"So," the word feels flat, almost distorted, "This is your room."

He exhales, a puff of air that tells you he's in no mood for anything lighthearted. "What were you thinking?"

Logan had asked the same question of everyone else involved. "That I was helping people."

There was nothing dramatic or life threatening about the scratches against the side of your face. You were thrown to the ground and the gravel cut against your cheek and the side of your forehead. You were quick to get up and put the person that attacked you in their place.

He walks forward, turning to face you. His attention remains fixed on some point that seems to exist right past your shoulder. "If it helps, I broke the other guy's nose right after."

Logan doesn't exactly ease, but you don't miss the way the corner of his mouth attempts to tug itself upwards. "Yeah?" The word's more amused than he wants it to be.

"Mhm," you hum cheerily, recalling the sting of your knuckles and the sound of bone cracking. That had been the part of the mission you wanted to tell him about. "Punched him just like you showed me."

His eyes briefly meet yours before falling towards the floor. "Deserved more than a punch."

You sigh. "Come on." When he doesn't react, you take a cautious step forward. Logan still doesn't look at you. "It's not that bad."

"You're bleeding."

Any blood staining your skin is old and dry. If Logan hadn't found you so quickly you would have cleaned it yourself in the bathroom. You barely had time to finish changing into your pajamas before Logan knocked on your door. "It's old." Your assurance doesn't ease him. You take another step in his direction. "Logan."

He lets out a breath, the sound pointed. "You didn't let anyone clean it?"

The question is the closest he's come to your usual dynamic. There's nothing passive aggressive about it, and yet it manages to dig at you a little more than anything else that's been said.

Logan's older than you. It's no secret and rarely a source of concern, the two of you comfortable enough with the age gap in your sort-of-friendship for you to occasionally joke about him being an old man. But when things like this come up, and he worries a little too much, a part of you starts to wonder if he only tolerates you because he sees you like a little kid.

You lift your chin slightly, doing your best to seem a little more stable. "I'm not one of the kids, I can clean my own cuts."

His eyes meet yours, the look warning you against leaning into anything overly confident. You resist the urge to smile. "Aren't you all grown up, bub?"

Your lips part, but you're too distracted by the uneasy warmth settling in your chest to think of a response. The corner of his mouth bends into what feels like a partial smile. The look vanishes before you can be sure.

He turns with no warning, walking towards an unfamiliar door. You watch him for a long moment before following.

Logan opens the door, turning his head slightly to make sure you're behind him. He turns on the light before fully stepping into the room. You inhale sharply in an attempt to dismiss the burning pressure of the influx of electricity.

His bathroom is tidy, with only a toothbrush and a soap dispenser taking up the counter space next to his sink; a navy blue bath mat in front of the shower; and neatly hung towels. Something about seeing this feels oddly personal, and you're not sure why. It's only a bathroom, and it's only Logan.

He halfheartedly taps his fingers against the counter once. "Sit," said in a tone that is only ever used when he's not in the mood to be contradicted, even if you only mean to do so adorably.

The warmth returns with a vengeance, but you obey anyway. As long as he's preoccupied with you, he's not lashing out at anyone that might have seen what happened to you and not attempting to kill Scott for thinking to ask you to go on the mission.

You pull yourself onto the counter, placing your hands on your lap to limit the space you're taking up. Logan twists the faucet before reaching for a wash cloth. He dampens the cloth before bringing it to your cheek. He dabs at the scraped skin with a carefulness that twists your stomach.

"You need to take better care of that face." It's meant to be another way of scolding you, but the words lack any bite.

If you were less aware of your breathing, you'd roll your eyes. "It'll heal."

Logan sighs, moving the cloth up your temple. He finds a particularly ginger spot beneath your eyebrow, you press your lips together to keep from reacting. He pulls the wash cloth away, giving you a look that makes you feel terribly transparent. "You're hurt."

"I--" You cut yourself off. There's little point in attempting to lie to him, especially when he's looking at you like that. "I'm a little sensitive, but that's normal. You're just not used to it because you heal too fast."

"Too fast?"

You nod, glad for the excuse to turn this onto him. "If you healed at the same rate as most of the population, you'd look at it like a paper cut."

He throws you a look that's entirely unconvinced as he sets down the wash cloth. "I'm sure."

Logan picks up the Neosporin he set aside earlier, applying some of the ointment to his fingers. He hesitates before dabbing the product against your skin. His other hand finds the other side of your face, thumb pressing into your chin to turn your head to better assess his work.

His eyebrows pull together as he searches your features for something you don't understand. You're not convinced he's found it, but he does eventually let you go.

Instead of moving away from the counter, Logan holds his hands out in front of you. It takes you a moment to understand what he's asking, but once you catch on you offer him your own hands, letting him study your knuckles.

The skin is a little irritated, but far from as agitated as the scrapes against the side of your face. "At least you got some good hits in."

The validation comforts you more than it should. You're glad he's too focused on your hands to see your smile. "I'm tougher than I look."

He lifts his head slightly, eyes finding yours in a way that feels a little softer than before. "I don't doubt that, kid."

Logan releases you carefully, setting your hands back onto your lap. He keeps himself there for a moment, fingers resting against the back of your palm. When he does move away, he does so to reach for the Neosporin.

You roll your eyes as he applies the product to your knuckles. "You're very dramatic tonight."

He glares in a way that tells you you're in no position to comment on his level of concern. Usually, you'd push, but he's probably been through enough tonight. And maybe--only maybe--a part of you is enjoying his version of coddling.

Logan picks up the wash cloth again, wiping the excess product onto the fabric before taking a partial step back. "You're clean."

He's still in front of you, too close to let you push yourself off of the counter. "Thanks." Your fingers tap against your knee. "Anything you want to yell at me or was that a Scott only thing?"

He scoffs. "I told him if you came ba--"

"I'm fine." His irritation at the correction is enough to silence him. "And it wasn't his fault." A completely true statement, considering Scott was nowhere near you when it happened.

Logan places one hand on the counter, the side of his thumb nearly touching your thigh. "It was his idea for you to be there." Another fact, though one that's completely disregarding the complexities of the situation. A single touch from you completely fried the security system being used to hold other mutants hostage. "He was outside of your room while you were changing..."

What? You blink, so surprised in the change of topic you don't even know where to start. "Uh--" In all honesty, you had thought Scott was kidding about staying near you until the situation was diffused. You also thought it was ridiculous to assume Logan would see you before morning. "He said proximity to me would make it less likely for you to kill him."

His eyebrows draw together, his expression morphing into something you can't quite interpret. "Not his best theory."

Now it's your turn to glare. While you're not particularly fond or un-fond of Scott, he doesn't deserve the blame for this. "Not his fault, either."

He frowns in a way that's meant to let you know that you'll have to agree to disagree. Logan watches you for another moment before taking a step back. You use the space to push yourself off the counter. He--he's closer than you thought he'd be.

"I uh--" You let out a breath, focusing on the drowsiness that had been bothering you the entire way back from the mission. This isn't the longest you've ever gone without sleep, but the mission had drained you. There had been a lot of complicated technology in the facility that you had to concentrate on mentally hacking. "I think I'm gonna go to bed."

Logan presses his lips together before letting his gaze fall to the ground. "You can--" The words are mumbled, hesitant. "You can stay in here tonight, if you want."

You blink. He um--You guys have spent a fair amount of time together, more so than usual recently, but he's never implied anything like this. The only thing more startling than the offer is the fact that it isn't...unappealing.

You like being around Logan more than you'd ever admit. You're always looking for excuses to be around him more, and now he's giving you a reason to stay.

"Yeah," the response feels too uncertain, too surprised. "If it'll help your old man heart to see that I'm perfectly fine."

He angles his head to the side, the corner of his mouth pulling itself upwards. "As long as you're doing me a favor."

"I know," you say, glad for the excuse to return to a more familiar dynamic, "I'm so kind."

Logan turns around with a slight sigh, "Mhm."

It's easy to follow him out of the bathroom. "That felt sarcastic."

"No," he lies, pulling back his sheets before sitting on the left side of his bed, "You're a saint."

You hesitate, standing halfway between the bathroom door and the bed. It's just Logan--who sits with you to watch movies he couldn't care less about, who actually listens to you, who sits you down on his bathroom counter and applies antibiotics to split skin.

You walk towards the other side of his bed. Logan pulls back the sheets on the other side of the bed before you sit. Now that you're actually resting beneath comfortable bedding, the exhaustion that you've been ignoring all night spreads over your limbs.

He reaches for his bedside lamp but doesn't turn off the light. "Comfortable?"

You mumble your confirmation before the room's soft light vanishes with a soft 'click'. It hits you, then, that you still haven't been able to take in his room the way you would've liked to. Maybe in the morning.

You lay down, pulling the comforter up to your neck. There's something distinctly relieving about the end of the day, when all forms of electricity are turned off and the buzzing beneath your skin is finally given a way out. You've gotten better at controlling it, at ignoring it until it's little more than background noise, but when you over use your abilities, the mental shield that divides you and the feeling begins to slip.

You're somewhere between asleep and awake when some instinct convinces you to squint your eyes open. A final look at Logan, and that'll be enough. It's too dark for you to make out much more than a vague silhouette, but something about his rigidness tells you he's far from asleep.

"Logan?"

He's silent for so long you begin to wonder if he's going to pretend to be asleep. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, and for a moment you're almost taken back by how much you mean it. "I was just..." There's no real end to your sentence. You don't know why you couldn't let yourself fall asleep. Maybe it had been the way he looked at you, concern too genuine over something so small. "Are you okay?"

You hear him let out a breath. "Anything could have happened."

There's a heaviness to his voice that immediately presses itself against your chest. Did this--did it really scare him that bad? You know he's used to the rapid rate at which his body repairs itself, but that doesn't mean that anyone that recovers at a regular rate is on death's doorstep over something so small.

"But it didn't." He scoffs, the sound dismissive. You move onto your side. "It didn't." When he doesn't react, you reach for him. He doesn't move away when you bend your fingers around his forearm. "And what didn't happen doesn't matter, what matters is that I'm here."

You pause, dragging your thumb against his skin. Logan lets out another breath, the sound something that lacks acceptance. He moves his arm away, but before you can read too much into the movement, his fingers are bending around your own.

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool and wolverine x reader #x men x reader #xmen x reader #hugh jackman x reader

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amywritesthings · 1 year ago

Text

press four for more options. | part two.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) Word Count: 3.5k Summary: After seeing your ex with his new girl at a work party, you take the not-so-smart advice from a friend to call a sex hotline to get over him. Your match? A baritone bossy dom named Levi.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - smut, alternate universe (modern), sex work, phone sex, dirty talk, dom!levi, light dom/sub, guided masturbation, pet names, nipple play, overstimulation, multiple orgasms Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics

part one. / part three. | masterlist

2-5-1-2.

It’s an easy enough combination to remember, being Christmas Day and all.

Pressing 2, 5, and 1 is easy. The final '2' makes you second guess yourself.

You’re not sure why you’re panicking. He’ll pick up.

(It’s literally his job, idiot.)

Fuck it.

Your index finger hits the '2' and the hashtag to finalize the combination.

When you hear the line go dead, you tense every muscle in your body.

No breathing.

No blinking.

Just waiting for that silky, sultry siren song to come over and confirm your bias that it’s the single sexiest voice you’ve ever heard.

—but it’s that automated lady you tried to bypass from the menu.

“Please enter your credit card number, followed by the expiration date—”

“Oh, Goddamn it,” you groan, shouldering the phone to shuffle your purse around.

Eventually after some digging, you find your card before she can continue a second loop of her payment spiel.

You can’t believe you’re legitimately putting your credit card information out there for anyone to steal.

Yet, if Annie’s been doing this for ages, then it ought to be safe.

Right?

After typing in the necessary numbers and confirming they’re correct, you’re so out of your own head that you don’t even realize the line switches from slight static to smooth nothingness.

“So you finally called back.”

“Shit!”

The buttery smooth greeting — or lack thereof — makes you nearly drop your phone.

You gasp and manage to catch the device just in time to hear a chuckle, graveled and low, on the other end.

“And just as jittery as last night.”

“Levi,” you greet breathlessly, straightening your outfit like he can actually see it.

You swear you hear a smile in his voice.

“Hey, baby.”

Oh sweet Jesus.

“Or do you prefer it when I call you Scarlet?”

You prefer literally anything he’ll give you, is what you want to say back, but you don’t want to automatically appear as though you’re ready to be walked like a dog at minute one.

“I’m… fine with ‘baby’,” you confess after a beat, focusing on the swirl of the marble counter below you just to dissociate to his voice.

“Thought so,” he arrogantly states before making this grunting noise, like he’s rolling his body in a chair to get more comfortable. “Are we talking again?"

"Is that alright?"

"You know it is." Levi's voice lifts, softer now. "And how's your Saturday so far?”

“Very mundane and super lackluster,” you admit. “I’m sure you’ve had a much more interesting day than me.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he replies without skipping a beat.

“No?” you ask with a smirk. “I’d say getting people off with the sound of your voice makes for a pretty interesting job.”

“Who said it’s only just my voice?”

Son of a bitch.

The phone shifts from your right shoulder to your left.

“It isn’t?”

He makes a noncommittal hum, and it runs straight to your core. “That's confidential, sweet Scarlet."

"Boo," you joke. "You're no fun."

"You haven't seen me at my fun yet," he corrects. "Speaking of fun: how are you not hungover?"

“The power of heavy tylenol and H2O? Which... I have to apologize that."

"For what?"

"Uh, I pretty much poured my heart and soul out to you last night.”

He chuckles. "I didn't mind it. Feeling any better about that situation?”

“I haven’t really thought about it since last night, so you’re already a miracle worker.”

"Oh?"

"Yeah, no joke."

“Huh." He clicks his tongue. "And what have you been thinking about?”

You say it without realizing you’ve said it out loud:

“You.”

Both ends of the phone go silent.

Your eyes widen, wanting nothing more than to take a pan out of one of the cabinets to bash your head in with anguish.

“In, like, an interested sense.”

Shit, that isn’t much better.

“An… interested sense,” he repeats, slower this time. His vowels dip deep.

“Oh no,” you bemoan. “Okay. Let me restart: I mean it in like a — you were on my mind? Today, sort of way. So I called.”

“...uh-huh.”

“Because the call ended so quickly!” you add. “I didn’t think it was going to end so abruptly at the fifteen minute mark, but I wasn’t done talking to you, so I called again.”

“You’re shit at asserting yourself, aren’t you?”

His words make you blink twice.

“Huh?”

“You don’t like making decisions or having to explain things,” he replies without judgment. “You think if you want something, then it makes you selfish.”

Ouch.

“Well, when you put it like that,” you reply in a bitter, yet lifted tone of surprise.

You hear a noise on the other end. A ‘tch’ if you can make it out.

“Sorry," he apologizes. "Too far?’

“No! Too real,” you admit with a small laugh. “And I’m sure you don’t want to play analyst-therapist tonight, so.”

“I’m here to do anything you want,” he reminds, syrup-y sweet.

“Anything?”

“Mostly anything,” he adds, and there’s a tiny chuckle bubbling between the words that makes your heart flutter. “Can’t hold a tune worth a damn and I don’t know how to speak some languages, so there are limitations.”

You laugh despite yourself, feeling your stress melt.

Then—

A small groan, like his head's tilting backwards. “Damn, I like hearing that.”

You turn away from your kitchen counter, subconsciously padding to your bedroom. “Hearing what?”

“Your laugh,” he explains. “It’s sweet.”

“Sweet?”

“Very.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” you say, rolling your eyes playfully.

Dark hair. Gray-ish blue eyes. Sharp nose. High cheekbones.

Fit.

When your eyes flicker to your own bed, you try to picture a version of him waiting there.

He could be leaning back on his elbow, button-down shirt splayed open like a newly-peeled present.

Maybe his legs are parted.

Maybe he stares at you like you’re all he could ever want.

His voice cuts through the fantasy, causing your breath to catch.

“What do you want, baby?”

Then it drops an octave lower.

“...c’mon, be selfish for once.”

For once.

Like he can read your soul through a damn cell phone.

But Levi is right — your entire short-lived relationship with Porco and just about any other man before him has been through a small lens. Fitting in the middle seat just to never make any noise. To bend with the curve rather than against it to create your own path.

It’s just a sex hotline, but for some reason, his words resonate.

Be selfish.

Wasn’t that the point of calling in the first place?

“Anything?” you repeat a second time, much softer.

Levi shuffles on the other line then exhales like he’s getting comfortable.

“What do you need?” he asks, tone low and words slower.

Purposeful.

“What do you want?”

You close your eyes, drawing in a slow, steady inhale.

Are you seriously doing this?

No more overthinking.

“Should I... get comfortable?” you ask, too afraid to say what it is that you want.

What you’re about to do.

“Mm, you near a couch or a bed?”

“A bed.”

“Don’t get on it yet,” he orders, “but walk towards it. Bend over it.”

Jesus Christ.

“Bend over it?” you ask with a shaky breath of disbelief.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “You’re home from a long day. I’m home from a long day. All you’ve wanted all day is to have someone tell you what to do, right?”

As much as your face feels like it's on fire, you slowly walk to your bed and put the phone down between your splayed palms.

You press the speaker option to ‘on’, and feel a wave of arousal hit your gut when you hear him sigh through the phone.

“I thought you said you wanted me to be selfish,” you remind, bending over your bed.

“You’re allowing me to take charge,” he retorts with little hesitation. “You’re letting me take care of you the way you always should’ve been taken care of. Your ex-boyfriend has no fucking clue what he’s missed out on.”

You exhale, trying to keep it together.

“Levi—”

“I’m right here, baby,” he huskily promises. “Right here. Not leaving you.”

You feel ridiculous.

You’re so turned on it’s almost laughable.

“You ready to let me take control?” he eventually asks, and you nod like he can see you.

“Yeah, I’m— I think so.”

“I like using a red-yellow-green light system,” Levi hums. “Red’s a hard stop. Yellow is negotiating, a slow down to check in. Green means you’re in.” He pauses, and you lean down closer to your phone, bending further. “Color?”

Even on speaker, his voice rips straight through you.

“Green,” you decide, blurting before your brain can catch up.

“Good girl.”

You’re not going to survive this.

“Are your lights off?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he decides. “I want you to crawl slowly onto the bed now. Can you do that for me?”

Your hand slides obediently, passing over the phone as you begin to rest one knee on the mattress. It dips with give.

“All the way up to your pillows, then you can lay on your back — but keep your eyes closed.”

“Okay.”

Eventually you drag your phone with you as you crawl to the headboard of your bed, only to then slowly turn around and drop to your back.

“Are your eyes closed?”

With the phone speaker right at your ear, it almost lends itself to the fantasy of him hovering above you.

His lips dip at the edge of your ear, the static lost to you.

“Yes,” you exhale, relaxing into the bed.

“Good. You’re doing so good for me already, and we’ve barely started.” He pauses, shifting once more. “What’re you wearing, baby?”

“Something so not sexy,” you joke, and it earns a breathy laugh from him.

“Bet you can make anything sexy,” he tells you, and it shoots straight to your lower belly.

“How would you know?” you ask, your hand already reaches for the hem of your shirt. “You’ve never even seen me.”

“No, but I hear you, and it’s fucking delicious.”

Your breath hitches, and you can hear it; the smile in his voice.

“Take everything off, except your underwear.”

“Bra, too?”

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he tells you, and it’s much less breathy. It’s certain, like he wants to check in — make sure you’re just as into it as he sounds. “Would you rather I help you take that off?”

Your brain blanks.

Slowly you push your jeans off first, kicking them to some unknown corner.

Then you rise, ripping your t-shirt off of your body, until you’re sitting in your mismatched bra and panties.

“How would you take it off of me?” you boldly ask, though you can’t quite get rid of the shake of anticipation in your voice.

“Fuck, I’d love to,” he grunts, and your face burns. “I’d be so busy pressing small, slow kisses to your neck. Reach up and touch your neck for me. Feel how I’d kiss it.”

You do.

As surprised as anyone else, you reach up and press your fingers against small parts of your neck, earning him a tiny gasp and noise of want.

“Dragging down to your throat.”

You press two gentle fingers to your skin again, following his path, before slamming your thighs together to try and relieve the heat between your legs.

“My finger would just… slip, right under the right strap of your bra.”

Your fingers dance across your collarbone, slipping your middle finger just under the delicate strap to mirror.

With your eyes closed, the motions lend to an almost out-of-body experience.

Like your hand trailing down your body isn’t yours; it’s his.

You’re his, right now.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, and you nods furiously.

“Very.”

“Good. Let me pull the other one down. I wanna see how pretty my girl is.”

The praises, the way he so easily speaks this way, has you all sorts of flustered.

Slowly you raise your other hand to pull down the strap, and whimper when you tug down as far as you can.

Your breasts spill out over the cup, allowing your hardened nipples to greet the night air.

“Can I touch you?”

The words almost make you open your eyes, as if you’ll see this mystery man hovering over you.

You know he's not here.

You wish he were right here.

“Yes.”

“How do you like to be touched, baby? Show me.”

“Levi,” you whine, allowing your shaky hands to run along your breasts.

You’re afraid, you’re exhilarated, but when you finally pinch the little buds and roll them between your fingers, you’re too far gone to care.

“Fuck—”

“Feels good, huh?” Levi’s own breathy voice interrupts your curse. “You look so beautiful like this. Letting me play with you— God, I could do this for hours—”

“Want you to.”

You don’t even recognize your own breathy tone.

Hell, you only hear him.

You only feel him.

“Need more,” you pant, and he hums with amusement.

“No,” he replies, “think I’m gonna play with you a little more right here for now.”

You accidentally pinch your nipples, harder, like he’s teaching you a lesson.

“Levi.”

“What, is my girl getting impatient?”

His girl.

You don’t even know him, but you’d sure as hell like to be.

(How easy is it, for you to fall so fast from your judgmental high horse when Annie first slipped you this number — only for you to be moaning on your bed, hands groping and kneading your breasts, for a man you didn’t know?)

“Y-You said,” you stammer, “to be selfish, and I want—”

“Shh, I’m gonna take good care of you, okay?” Levi interrupts on the other end. “But you have to do something for me, too.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t want you holding back on me. No shyness. No second guesses. I want you, I want to hear what I do to you. Is that understood?”

You can’t take it.

Your one hand leaves your chest to skim down to your belly, unable to wait any longer.

“I want you to touch me,” you hiccup.

“Yeah?”

His voice wavers in the response before it strengthens. Demands.

“I want those panties gone first. Take them off and spread your knees. Feet flat on the bed.”

No need to be told twice; you hastily pull your panties down your hips, your knees, until they pool at one of your ankles.

Your knees knock together before spreading, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“I want to touch you, too, baby.” Levi swallows, coating his throat. “How wet are you for me?”

Fingertips run past your lower belly to touch the apex of your thighs, gasping with surprise and relief when you feel that familiar electricity.

“Really fucking wet,” you admit.

The groan he emits is delicious. “Fuck.”

For a moment, you feel completely out of your depth.

This is meant to be a sex hotline, but there are lines blurred in your mind. Something about the sheer image of him leaning back into his chair, fucking a fistful of his cock while he has a phone operator headset against his ear, only turns you on that much more.

“If we had time, I’d spend all night memorizing what you taste like. What you feel like. How you let go — for me, only for me.”

“Only for you,” you promise, unable to stop yourself from drawing circles over your clit.

You moan, head bent back against your pillow.

“Fuck, you’re touching yourself, aren’t you?” he asks, and his voice seems less controlled now. It’s got a hint of raggedness, and it only quickens your pace. “You feel amazing, you know that? Such a pretty pussy, all spread and wet for me—”

“Shit, Jesus, Levi,” you gasp, knowing that you’re not going to last long. You’re too wound up from the night before. “If you keep talking like that—”

“What, are you gonna come for me?” Amusement tickles the question. “Oh, you can come for me, baby, but I’m gonna need at least two from you tonight.”

Your fingers press a little harder to your clit, and you keen.

“Wh– At least?”

“As if I’d ever be satisfied with only one,” he murmurs. “No, I wanna watch you come apart. Feel it on my fingers with those cute little contrac—”

That’s it.

You moan louder than you expected, the taut bowstring suddenly snapped in half.

You arch off the bed, relentlessly rubbing your fingers against your body to ride out the insane orgasm that you — that Levi has given you.

Even if you’re blissed out, you hear it on the receiving end:

“That’s it. That’s my girl. Fuck, you sound amazing. I know it’s gonna be tough, but keep going for me, okay? Don’t stop.”

“It’s sen– ha, sensitive!” you whimper, wanting to stop your hand.

“Mm-mm, you said you’d be good. Be selfish, baby. Give me two.”

“But Levi!”

Everything is on overdrive.

Your hand; your body; your mind.

You imagine he’s hovering over you, working you with his hand with a near-sadistic relentlessness.

As you battle your own refractory period, your toes curl, teeth clenched.

You want to be good.

You want to be so good.

And somewhere in that overwhelming intensity, you feel it: the ebb and flow of pleasure returning, crawling through your veins and forcing you to not give up.

To give this to him.

Then you hear it: panting.

As if he’s getting off to this himself. Your eyes snap open, wide, to an empty room.

When your cheek turns to the phone, you confirm that’s what you hear:

Ragged breaths, albeit softly, with added grunts of control.

Like he’s holding back.

Something about that image of him in a chair, his hand relentlessly pumping his cock in time with your hand, your whimpers and moans, does damage.

“I need— mm— want— please.”

“I’m right here, baby,” Levi promises, though his voice is weaker. You can even hear him swallow again. “Right fucking here, wanna hear you cum so bad.”

Maybe you really were pent up enough for two, because soon you’re slipping — falling — into that blissful nothingness while your body clenches on itself, clit fluttering from a second release.

It’s less intense, but that doesn’t make it any less good.

Everything throbs in your body as you come down, panting, with a slight sheen of sweat on your skin.

You turn to your phone, totally gone in the bliss of the aftermath.

Levi has grown silent as well; only light puffs of air come through the speaker now.

“Feeling better?” Levi asks with a hint of pride in his voice.

“Shut up,” you answer with a gentle laugh of your own. “I’m… shit. I guess that’s why they pay you the big bucks.”

That statement gets Levi to laugh, and your heart feels twice as full.

“That’s one way of pillow talk, I guess.”

The man pauses.

“Are you alright?”

As if he’s truly concerned, worried about your wellbeing.

You don’t allow yourself to fall for it, not completely.

This is his job — even if it felt so real, in the moment.

“Much better,” you promise, smiling to yourself.

“Happy to help,” he hums, his voice returning to that stormy swirl of seduction and softness.

The sobering reality of an empty bedroom should deter you, but all you can do is smile.

(When is the last time you genuinely felt giddy? Excited? Satisfied?)

“Hey, Levi,” you murmur eventually, slowly sitting up to unhook your bra and toss it away. No need to keep it on.

“Yeah, baby?”

You’ll never get over the way he sounds when he calls you that.

It’s permanently stuck to your frontal lobe, obscuring any other logic or reality.

“Am I still allowed to call?”

“Allowed?”

“Yeah, even though we…”

“What, you think you get one experience and your membership is up?”

Levi chuckles, shifting in his seat — or bed — or wherever he is.

“You can call me anytime you want.”

“Any?”

“Between company hours, yeah.”

“Even to talk?”

“Of course,” he answers, softer this time. “Always to talk. Go get some rest.”

“Mm,” you mumble, turning on your side as exhaustion takes over. “I will, but only because I want to and I’m being selfish.”

It surprises you to hear him laugh again, but it’s louder now.

More prominent.

As if he genuinely enjoyed your joke.

Get your head out of the clouds, girl, is what you want to say to yourself, but you can’t be bothered to care.

“Good. You earned it.”

A noise emits from your tired throat to acknowledge him, too sleepy to formulate a real sentence.

Then his voice drops to a whisper, for your ears and your ears alone.

“Goodnight, baby.”

You press the ‘end call’ button and fall into the deepest sleep you’ve had all year.

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading part two of P4! This is insane. I still cannot believe the feedback I got in part one. Seriously, you all made my June. I hope this next part has satisfied your curiosity of how Levi would be a hotline operator.

Thank you for likes, and even more love to those who choose to reblog this to help spread the word of this series or reply in the comments. ilu xo

#levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x female reader #attack on titan fanfiction #snk fanfiction #snk fanfic #aot fanfic #aot fic #snk fic #levi ackerman fanfiction #levi ackerman smut #levi ackerman fanfic #shingeki no kyojin fanfiction #fic: press four for more

803 notes · View notes

zarameraki · 1 year ago

Text

˖°🦇 ࣪𖤐 𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝 ˖°🦇ִ ࣪𖤐

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 mention of suicide 𖥔 minors do not interact 𖥔 unprotected sex 𖥔 bodyguard x senator’s daughter 𖥔 porn with plot 𖥔 banter 𖥔 sarcastic mmc x fmc who’s tired of his bs 𖥔 neck kissing 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 praise 𖥔 soft toji 𖥔 biting 𖥔 nipple play 𖥔 toji’s not an ass for the first time 𖥔 close proximity 𖥔 dirty talking 𖥔 bathtub sex 𖥔 small pillow talk 𖥔 nsfw 𖥔 smut

: ̗̀➛ words: 5.9k

: ̗̀➛ notes: this is my first one-shot and of course it had to be about my favourite unhinged man. i promise it’s good, y’all. if you have any requests, don’t hesitate to send them. pls follow, reblog, like, comment—whatever you want! okay love you and enjoy.

You hated being the senator’s daughter—burdened by the title you never chose. Despite the grandeur that surrounded you, you despised the life you were born into. The opulent dinners, the endless social events, and the constant scrutiny from the public were chains that bound your spirit.

If you had any spirit left to spare.

You yearned for a life of your own, away from the suffocating expectations that came with your father's political stature. You resented the polished façade you had to maintain, the carefully crafted image that hid your true self. The constant presence of the media felt like an unrelenting spotlight, casting darkness over your desire for anonymity.

The large ballroom was ablaze with sparkling lights and the murmur of conversations mingled with the soft strains of a live jazz band. You found herself at the center of attention, a reluctant participant in the grand social affair, unwillingly cornered by a persistent suitor your mother had chosen from the roster. Apparently, his family wealth and business ventures were the most fascinating topics he could think of.

You wore a forced smile and desperately sought a way out of the conversation. Your eyes darted across the room, searching for an escape route.

". . . you see, our corporation has been at the forefront of innovation for decades," the suitor boasted, gesturing expansively with his hands. "We practically built this city. My great-grandfather was a visionary, and my father has expanded our influence globally. I'm destined to take it to even greater heights."

“How wonderful,” you muttered. The suffocating aura of the suitor’s self-importance lingered in the air. Just as he reached out to place a possessive hand on your arm, a deep, graveling voice cut through the conversation.

“Careful,” warned Toji. His eyes, sharp and vigilant, locked onto your suitor’s hand, which froze in mid-air. “Take a step back, and we won’t have a problem.”

The suitor, momentarily taken aback, withdrew his hand with an affected chuckle. "Ah, my apologies. I was only admiring your bracelet. It's exquisite, really."

You shot Toji a glare as you replied, "Thank you for your compliment. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be returning home now. Senatorial matters to attend to, you understand."

His eyes narrowed, and he attempted to regain control of the situation. "But surely, darling, you wouldn't want to miss the grand finale of the evening. There's a surprise performance that my connections secured."

Before you could respond, Toji stepped forward, a stern expression on his face. "The evening is over, Mr. Mahito. She has other obligations to fulfill."

Mr. Mahito, a name you’d forgotten at his ‘hello,’ glared at Toji but wisely chose not to challenge the imposing figure. With a forced smile, he nodded and said, "Of course, I understand. Until next time."

As if.

Toji couldn't help but scoff under his breath, earning a side glance from you. "Does he ever run out of compliments for himself?"

You sighed. "He's harmless, Mr. Zenin. Just trying to impress, that’s all."

"Harmless, maybe, but annoying as fuck."

You eyed Toji with curiosity. "Why the sudden interest in my love life, Mr. Zenin? Jealousy, perhaps?"

He smirked, a rare hint of vulnerability in his eyes. "Jealousy? Princess, I guarantee you, I'm far too professional for such bullshit.”

You shot him a playful glance. "You know, if you were a little less broody and a bit more charming, you might have a chance."

His facade cracked, and a genuine smile played on his lips, that scar stealing your attention again. "Charm has its time and place.” He opened the back door of the limousine and nudged you inside. “I prefer to keep you safe."

Toji was insufferable just as he was tall. Dressed in a compressed black t-shirt that accentuated his broad shoulders and chiseled torso, he exuded an air of quiet intensity. The long, dark tendrils of his hair poked his half-hooded eyes that always carried a mist of amusement. He was a silent guardian who navigated seamlessly between your shadows and the limelight.

You remember the first day your father had introduced your newly assigned bodyguard. All you could do was ogle the devilishly handsome man and pray your father and his security detail didn’t hear you swallow too hard or sit with your legs clenched together.

You appreciated the fact that he was fantastic at his job. At least in the first couple of months. But after you’d started your fourth year at university, Toji practically glued himself to you.

It was like he was your shadow, and you couldn’t escape. You get it, Dad was a senator, and security is essential, but did they have to assign you the clingiest bodyguard on the planet?

You’d gone on a blind date a few weeks back with yet another pretentious finance head, and Toji had himself stationed on the table adjacent to yours. When your date had stepped out to use the bathroom, Toji leaned over the table, and you remember how his biceps had flexed and that infuriating smirk played at his lips.

"Princess," he drawled, using that irritating nickname he's given you. As if being the daughter of a senator automatically made you royalty. "You should smile more. It might help with those lines forming on your forehead."

You hoped he choked on his own smugness.

But then there were those moments when the loneliness crept in, and the isolation became too much to bear. In those moments, his sarcastic banter was a lifeline, a distraction from the weight of your responsibilities. You found yourself craving the very company you claimed to detest.

You caught him smirking as you glanced in the rearview mirror, and for a moment, you forgot about the suffocating expectations, the political games, and the constant surveillance.

It's just you and Toji.

The soft hum of the elevator filled the air as you and Toji stepped into the sleek, mirrored enclosure leading up to your apartment. You looked like you had just stepped out of a battle with a jungle cat. Your eyes, once vibrant, were now shadowed with fatigue, and your normally impeccable hair fell in disarray around your shoulders.

You sighed, the weariness evident. "I can't believe this day. Non-stop meetings, interviews, endless parties, and galas. I feel like I've been running a marathon in heels."

"Well, at least you made it out in one piece, Princess."

You fired him a tired glare. "Don't call me that. You know I hate it."

"Sure thing, Your Highness," he replied, a teasing edge in his voice.

As the elevator smoothly ascended, your legs wobbled, and you swayed slightly. Without thinking, you reached out for support, your hand landing on Toji’s muscular arm. He felt the sudden weight and turned to look at you, eyebrows raised to the roof.

"Whoa there, easy," he said, his voice softer than before.

You blushed an outlandish shade of red. "I'm sorry. I'm just so exhausted. I didn't mean to—"

Toji cut you with a grin, his tone filled with mock concern. "Princess, if you're going to faint, at least do it gracefully. No need to ruin my reputation as the best bodyguard in town."

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile played on your lips. "I'm not going to faint. Just a moment of weakness. That’s possible for even women like me, you know."

He chuckled. "Well, weak moments can be dangerous, especially in this line of work. You never know who might take advantage."

The elevator pinged, announcing their arrival at your floor. You straightened up, a renewed sense of determination in your eyes. "Thanks for the concern, tough guy, but I'll manage." You punched in the key code of your apartment door, the security light flashing green. "You can head home now. I’ll be fine from here."

"Oh, absolutely, Princess. But you know the drill—protocol and all. Can't leave the precious cargo unattended until it's safely delivered to its destination."

Your patience was wearing thin as you turned and brushed chests with the jester in black. “Mr. Zenin, for the hundredth time, I don't need an escort to my front door. I can handle myself."

Toji chuckled, the sound low and teasing. "Sure, sure. But what if a rogue pigeon attacks you on your way in? Or a gust of wind blows too hard, and you lose your balance? It's a treacherous world out there."

“We are indoors. There’s no rogue pigeons or a windstorm.”

Toji wore his stubbornness alongside his pride. “Just doin’ my job.”

You sighed, realizing arguing with him was futile. "Fine, come in if it makes you feel better, but then you're leaving."

"Sure," he said, holding the door open with a flourish as you entered the sterile, monochromatic apartment. From the high ceilings to the marble flooring, it was all your mother’s idea. For God’s sake, it was your apartment. You wanted earthly tones, Persian rugs, and a cat. A European tabby. You have wanted it since the day you were born because being an only child was like living in a house full of ghosts.

Your heels hit the floor with a muted thud, and your shawl cascaded down in a haphazard swirl as you brushed it off your shoulders. You sunk into the plush armrest of the couch, sighing deeply as you closed your eyes, attempting to shake off the fatigue that clung to you like a second skin. You were beginning to regret the three glasses of champagne to tune out tonight’s event.

"So, I’m guessing you’ve got another glamorous night in the political arena tomorrow, huh?" Toji asked.

You opened your eyes, your gaze meeting his, and managed a weak smile. "You have no idea. Sometimes, I feel like I'm caught in a never-ending dance of smiles and handshakes."

He pushed himself off the doorframe and strolled toward you. "Well, lucky for you, I'm a decent dance partner. Just not sure about my smile and handshake skills."

You wanted to tell him he had a nice smile, that the scar really added a touch of mystery to him—a mystery that kept you on your toes. He also had really large hands that you found yourself staring at during meetings or drives.

You ran a hand through your hair, loosening a few strands that framed your face. Toji’s eyes lingered on you, a subtle appreciation in his stare. Without thinking, he stepped in front of you, his fingers gently tucking the stray hair behind your ear.

"You've got a talent for getting yourself into these messes, Princess," he remarked, his voice low and intimate. His touch lingered, brushing against your cheek and then down to your neck. Unintentionally, his fingers traced the soft skin.

Your breath caught, the unexpected contact sending a shiver down your spine. You met his eyes, finding a silver of vulnerability in his usually cheeky behavior. For a moment, the air crackled with an unspoken tension. Toji, realizing the accidental breach of boundaries, withdrew his hand, mumbling, "Got a bit carried away there."

Your tired eyes softened with a mix of surprise and something else you couldn't quite place. "It's okay, Mr. Zenin. Just . . . let's just chalk it up to exhaustion.”

He straightened up. "Yeah, exhaustion. That's exactly it."

Nodding, you stood from your spot and awkwardly patted his shoulder. “You can see yourself out."

He raised a fascinated brow at the gesture, the scar curling up in a half-smile.

As you made your way upstairs to the bedroom, you couldn't shake the feeling of Toji’s calloused fingertips circling from your ear, knuckles softly brushing your cheekbone and down to your neck. The sensation lingered, sending shivers down your spine.

You entered the bathroom, the cool tiles beneath your feet a stark contrast to the warmth building within you, turning on your bathtub’s faucet. The running water drowned out your racing thoughts as you undressed. Your fingers traced the curves of your body, and your eyes, filled with self-doubt, studied your reflection in the bathroom mirror. The image staring back at you was proof of years of dieting imposed by your mother's relentless pursuit of the perfect political image.

You sighed, shoulders slumping, yet the boulders of burden settled upon them refused to fall. As you raised your head, you caught a glimpse of someone in the reflection behind you. “What the f—” A chill ran down your spine as you turned around, heart pounding.

There, in the doorway, stood Toji, his green gaze fixed on your face.

“What the hell are you doing here?" you demanded, wrapping your arms protectively around your breasts, hand covering your lower region.

Toji’s eyes softened, his usual sarcasm substituted by concern. "I heard you talking to yourself. Thought you might need some company."

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "That's not an invitation to barge in!"

“I'm your bodyguard, and part of my job is to make sure you're secure, even if it means guarding you in your own bathroom.”

“I'm perfectly safe in my own bathroom. Besides, you're not my babysitter."

Obviously, he ignored you and took a step closer to the tub, his eyes never leaving yours. He turned off the faucet just as the water was at the perfect level. His hand dipped in the steaming water. “Hot.”

“Oh my god, get out!”

“Get in.”

“What?”

“Get your ass in the tub.”

You rolled your eyes but didn't back down. "I'm not getting into that bathtub with you hovering over me like a hawk."

Toji sighed exasperatedly.

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued by a crack in his patience. "What's so urgent that you can't leave me alone for five minutes?"

He hesitated for a moment before smirking. "I want to wash your hair."

"Wash my hair?" you echoed.

"Yeah. I heard it's the latest trend in personal security."

You shouldn’t have chuckled, but you did anyway. Everything about this situation had blown out of proportion, escalated from zero to a million, and put an interesting mark on your otherwise professional relationship with your bodyguard.

Toji extended his hand, a silent invitation. You were at his beck and call in five seconds, lowering your hands from your bare body, and not once did he check you out. However, the tick in his jaw and the subtle flare of his nostrils easily gave him away. You accepted his hand, feeling the warmth of his palm against yours—his touch was firm yet gentle. You gingerly stepped into the embrace of the steaming water, sinking low until it covered your shoulders.

Toji wet your hair before squeezing a handful of shampoo into his palm, his hands strong yet gentle as he began to work the lather into your hair. His fingers moved in rhythmic circles, massaging your scalp with a skill that spoke of experience. The sensation of his touch, combined with the warm water, created a cocoon of comfort. The tension in your shoulders seemed to melt away, replaced by a strange but welcome calm.

"Seriously, though, why are you doing this?” you asked. “Bodyguards aren't typically known for their hairdressing skills."

Toji flashed a wry grin. "Rumor has it that a well-groomed princess is a happy princess. Plus, it's in the fine print of the bodyguard handbook—section 37, subsection B: 'Haircare Duties.'"

“But I’m not a princess.”

“Not to me,” he murmured.

As the water streamed down your back, you closed your eyes, surrendering to the tranquility of his caretaking. "Mr. Zenin," you whispered, your voice a gentle hum, "this is a side of you I never knew existed."

He chuckled softly, continuing to pour water over your hair. "I wear many hats, Princess. Tonight, I'm just Toji."

Your eyes opened, meeting his gaze. “Toji.”

He paused for a moment, his hands still in your hair. The only sound was the rhythmic patter of lingering water droplets leaving the faucet. You could feel the shift in his demeanor, a subtle tenseness that hadn't been there before. It was as if the temperature in the room had dropped a few degrees.

He cleared his throat, a nervous habit you had never noticed before. “First time you’ve said my name.”

Oh.

In a daring move, Toji let his fingers linger on your neck, his touch feather-light. Your breath hitched in your throat, or maybe it was his hand curling around your trachea that stopped it. He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours. If he kissed you now, you would never look at your bathtub as a source of taking your own life again. If he kissed you now, you would never look at him the same again. If he kissed you now, you’d drown in it. It would be the only time you willingly would without coming back up for air at the last minute.

Your hand reached up and cupped the back of his head as a green sign. Toji leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. The world seemed to hold its breath as he lingered there for a moment. Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, he parted your mouth with his tongue, seeking permission, and you welcomed him wholeheartedly.

But as quick as the kiss happened, the quicker he pulled back.

“Fuck.”

Your heart sunk.

Fuck, indeed.

Confusion and hurt flickered across your face as you struggled to comprehend the sudden twist in your actions. You hadn't considered the consequences, the potential risks that a romantic entanglement could pose to both of you. The weight of your privilege and his responsibility pressed heavily on both of your shoulders. "Toji, I thought . . .”

He suddenly stood, and you reached out with your hand, grazing his arm, frightened that he was going to walk away and leave you wallowing alone in your guilt. "Well, well," he drawled, the corners of his mouth lifting in a sardonic smile. Slowly, he tilted your chin up with a gentle touch. "I never thought I'd see the day when the senator's daughter would be so desperate for her bodyguard's attention."

A flush of embarrassment crept up on your cheeks, and you tried to pull away, but Toji’s grip on your chin remained firm.

“Desperation suits you, Princess," he continued, his tone light but with an undercurrent of something you couldn't quite place. "But remember, we're playing with fire here."

"You're one to talk, Mr. Zenin. Who kissed who first?"

His laughter echoed throughout the bathroom. "Touché, sweetheart. Touché."

You lowered your eyes, hugging your knees to your chest. “Whatever. You can leave now.”

“Leave? Not a fucking chance.” Toji’s boisterous laugh made you jump. He started taking off his shirt and tossing it aside. “It’s your turn to wash my hair.”

“W-What?”

He responded by unbuckling his belt and lowering his trousers, leaving him in his boxer briefs. Your hands covered your eyes when he was completely naked and incredibly erect. “What, you’ve never seen a naked man before, Princess?”

“Once,” you mumbled. You weren’t a virgin, a secret only you knew. It was during the first-year of university when you’d hooked up with one of your mother’s best friend’s son. Both your families had high hopes of an engagement, but you were against the idea. Thank goodness for that. He’d lasted about five minutes into the sex before collapsing on top of you. It was a painful disaster.

“You just signed a man’s death wish,” Toji said, settling into the tub with you. The water sloshed around him, cascading over the edges of the tub and creating small puddles on the marble floor.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” you whisper breathlessly.

"Taking a bath? Now, now, sweetheart. Don’t be mean." He reclined against the tub's porcelain edge, the water clinging to the contours of his muscular frame. “Why are you so far away? Come here.”

Your body defied your intentions as it glided away from the corner, moving towards him. His left leg extended while the right one bent, with the cap of his knee emerging from the water. Your small hand cradled it, guiding you closer until you were seated just inches away from his erection.

Toji splashed water over your face, causing you to yelp in surprise.

“Toji!”

“Eyes up here, sweetheart.” He tilted his head back, accentuating the chiseled contours of his jaw. His chest resonated with laughter. “You’re so pretty when you blush for me.” His large hand slithered to your nape and tugged you forward, claiming your lips in a feverish, powerful kiss, where his teeth pulled your bottom lip and sucked on it. It frustrated you that, once again, he broke away first, leaving you to whimper. “Turn around. On all fours.”

The questions fizzled out on your tongue. “Are you going to . . .”

“Fuck you?” He arched an eyebrow, the damp strands of his hair swaying in sync with the tilt of his head. “Fuck yes.” His lashes lowered, giving his eyes a dangerously dark glint. “Unless you don’t want me—”

“No!” The words slipped out before you could stop them. “No, I never . . . I want you to.”

“To what?”

Oh, he was really a dick. “I . . . want you to fuck . . me.”

He wet his bottom lip. “How do you want me to fuck you, sweet girl?”

Your chest rose and fell in synchrony with the ebb and flow of the situation. “I don’t know. I’ve only had sex once.”

“Baby, there’s a major difference between having sex and being fucked.”

On cue, your legs instinctively clenched in an attempt to find relief. “Are you clean?”

Toji raked his fingers through his hair and made a spinning gesture with his finger. Your body followed the motion, turning away from him and gripping the tub’s edge. “Wanna know a secret, Princess?”

“Uh, sure.”

The heat emanating from his chest pressed against your back. “I got a check-up the day I was assigned to you.” A sentence that visibly made you shudder. Of course, the insufferable bastard had planned this circumstance ahead. “I knew that sooner or later, I’ll have the senator’s daughter naked and needy underneath me. That I’ll have my cock buried deep within the tight walls of her sweet, sweet pussy, as she milks every last bit of my come. That I’ll watch as it drips out her hole and down her soft thighs.” He extended his arm and delicately lifted the drain plug with his fingers, allowing the water to gracefully swirl away from the bathtub. “I jerked off to the thought almost every night.”

“So, you accepted this job just to get a chance to sleep with me?” Your confidence tanked, and your body prepared itself to leave the tub. “Go to hell—”

Toji wrapped his palm around your hair three times, pulling it taut as he drew you back, pressing you firmly against his chest. “I wasn’t finished talking.”

“Let me go!”

“Know what I do when I escort you to your apartment, Princess?” He wasn’t gentle with cuffing his hands around your neck, immediately silencing you. “I wait like a fucking dog outside until you’re asleep. Then, I walk back in, clean up around your kitchen and living room because you’re too tired to do your chores, and after playing your maid, I tuck you into bed. I watch you sleep, even letting you hold onto my hand, until the moon exchanges for the sun. And I’ve been doing this for the past six fucking months.” He jerks your head to the side, his glare cold and cutting. “So, no, Princess, I didn’t accept this damn job to fuck you. This was just a side perk.”

"Oh," was all you could manage to say. The mystery behind the polished kitchen sink, the mugs and dishes neatly stowed away, the meticulously organized closet, and the unexpected peaceful nights of sleep settling within you finally unraveled. The source of your newfound stability, one that encouraged you to gradually wean off your anti-anxiety medication, was none other than your bodyguard who, unbeknownst to you, had been quietly tending to your well-being in the shadows.

Toji's gruff voice murmured near your ear, interrupting your contemplation. "You're mine, not only in body but in soul, sweet girl. No one—absolutely no-fucking-one—gets to lay a finger on you when I'm around. I won't let you out of my sight, not even for a moment."

You nod, curving your cheek and giving him a simple, soft kiss. “Will you wash me afterward?”

“Every time.”

“Will you sleep alongside me?”

“Every night.”

“And day?”

“Every day.”

“You promise?”

Toji didn’t answer, and you didn’t want to push the fantasy any further given your roles.

You’d made up your mind and rested your head back on his shoulder, a smile naturally splaying at your lips. “Don’t hold back, big guy.”

Toji kissed the side of you neck and nudged you forward so you were gripping the tub’s edge once again. His calloused, rough hand ran down your spine and settled on one-half of your ass. “So soft here.” He delivered a forceful slap, firmly grasping the flesh between his nails, stretching your skin taut, then spanking you again and again and again until your pussy was practically salivating for his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so wet already, baby.” He spat on his fingers and slipped through the slit of your soaking pussy, circling your swollen clit in fast motions. “When’s the last time anyone’s fucked this neglected pussy? Made you spread your legs and rubbed your pretty, puffy clit?” You moaned and broke into choppy gasps, pushing your ass closer to his fingers. “Your private tutor didn’t teach you a lesson on patience?”

“Toji, please.”

“Shh. I know, I know.” He mocked your desperation, gathering your hair in his fist. “Let’s see how many fingers my sweet girl can take.” Toji drove in two digits before you could blink, a maniacal chuckle escaping him as he skillfully moved them in and out, savoring the sounds of your pleasure-filled cries. “Yes, baby. Oh, yes. One more, okay?” His ring finger forced itself in, eliciting a groan from both of you. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He rested his thick fingers inside your warmth for a minute, feeling you clench and suck him in.

“Toji— Too much—”

“Not enough, sweet girl.” He began moving, easily hitting the spot that had your toes curling inwards. “You can take it, baby. I know you can take it.” You proved him by grinding back on his palm. “That’s it, sweetheart. Fuck yourself on my fingers. Such a good girl.” The squelching sounds crowded the bathroom, your release seeping out of you without you knowing. You cried out as he relentlessly thrusted his digits, gathering your sticky mess on his fingers and bringing it to your lips. “Taste how sweet you are.”

Your mouth covered his slick, white-coated fingers, tongue wrapping around them and suckling them deep towards the recesses of your throat. The sounds of you gagging made him grunt and sink his fingers ever further before pulling them out abruptly, strings of your saliva and release bridging the space in between.

Toji, with a sly grin, licked his fingers clean, shooting a playful wink at your flushed and flustered demeanor. “Delicious.”

Arm around your waist, Toji easily carried you back and turned you around so you were facing him, straddling his sturdy thighs. A rugged exhale escaped his lips, akin to someone who had endured a grueling day of manual labor. With muscles flexed, he extended his arms on either side, creating a protective barrier around the edge of the tub.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, drinking in your figure.

“Thank you.”

“No, baby. You don’t say “thank you” to me if I compliment you. You say “I know,” and move the fuck on.” He rubbed his hand up and down your thigh, cupping the side of your waist. You jumped when he flicked at your stone-hard nipple. “You’re sensitive there, huh?”

You mumbled, “Everywhere.”

“Speak up, sweetheart.”

“Everywhere,” you said with a volume that made him tip his head back and study you through the hooded slit of his eyes. “What you did, with your fingers, it felt good. Really good.”

“I know,” he replied, winking. “Want me to make you feel fucking fantastic, sweet girl?”

You nod, anticipating his next—

“Sit on it,” he said languidly.

“What?”

“Sit on my cock, Princess.”

He truly had a way with his words.

And you had grown accustomed to them.

Rising on your knees, you stumbled forward and aligned yourself on his ramrod erection, white beads of pre-cum leaking from the pink tip. He gripped the base of it, allowing you to sink down on his long, girthy length.

“Shit,” he breathed out, head lulling back.

“You’re—You’re too big.” The words strained out of you as you sought a comfortable position to move in. “Oh, God. Toji, I don’t think—”

He swallows your following words with his lips, cradling your flushed face in his hands. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck. “It’s okay, sweet girl. Get yourself comfortable because, in a minute, I’ll make you forget the word ever existed.”

“Oh, God.”

“Toji, baby. The name’s Toji. Fucking say it.”

“T-Toji . . . ”

He lowered his head and grasped your left breast, fondling it like a stress ball as if his stress levels were beyond the roof. You mewled when he pinched your nipple and stretched it out, heating it between his fingers. His lips latched onto your right breast, cheeks concaving as he sucked hard.

You were a lost cause at that point, watching him nibble the swollen bud between his teeth, giving you that devilish smirk. “Fuck, baby. Your nipple tastes so sweet.” His tongue circled around it, pulling it taught in his mouth. “Maybe I should make you a mother just so I get to taste the milk that’ll leak from them.”

“You’re so dirty,” you whispered, ignoring the sudden film reel of you and Toji and your children gathered around a Christmas tree in an apartment smaller than this, in a life quieter and more private than yours. You needed clinical help.

“I know you’re thinking it.” He released your nipple with a pop and kissed your lips. “Soon, sweetheart.”

Soon?

Toji didn’t allow you to overthink anymore before grappling your ass and raising it high off his cock, until only his tip remained in you. “Hold on tight.”

He pounded you down.

You yelped and stabbed your nails into his shoulders, shouting out, “Fucking hell!” which, obviously, made him burst out laughing, all while ramming you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt.

“Toji—ah!”

Tears streaked down your cheeks, which he quickly wiped away with his tongue, kissing each eye as if it were your mouth. He thrusted up into you in a staccato rhythm, gripping your nape to keep you steady in place. Your high-pitched whines and empty complaints fueled him to push both of your limits.

“Don’t let this get to your head,” Toji gritted out, a layer of cockiness in his voice, “but I’ve never once fucked anyone in this position.”

Well, that made you feel special, you supposed.

Actually, it made you want to try harder to please him. If you did well tonight, you could try every position in his book. So, you pressed your hands against his pecs and swirled your hips in circles, slowing his thrusts so you could take control. He was fascinated by your body, by your sudden superiority, settling his hands on your waist while you rode him insistently.

“Look at you riding my cock, baby,” Toji muses. “Look at you go. Just like that, come on. I know you can move faster.” He admired the movement of your breasts, the sweat-beads that crystallized on your skin, how your drowsy eyes rolled to the back of your head. You felt his cock twitch uncontrollably within your hot, sticky walls, felt the thick tip of it penetrate the spot that pushed you to the precise of your orgasm.

But your exhaustion caught up to you faster than your climax, causing your body to grow limp and slump against his chest. Toji embraced you, settling one hand on the back of your head and the other on your ass.

“You did well, baby,” he whispered into your hair.

“Don’t lie to me. You didn’t come.”

“Neither did you.”

You nuzzled your nose in the crook of his neck, circling your shaky arm around his strong neck. “I’m close, Toji. I’m almost there. I promise.”

That’s all it took for him to drive back up into you, grunting expletives and praises in your ear—fuck, oh, fuck, ah, fuck, such a good girl, my sweet fucking girl, oh, your pussy is so tight, so pretty, made just for my cock—while holding you flush against his sweaty chest. You kissed his temple and clutched his hair, breathing in the scent of your lavender-honey shampoo and his natural musk. He continuously mumbled, “Come on, baby, come on. Come for me. Come on my cock, sweet girl.”

And you did. With a cry that hitched in your throat, with your nails dragging down his shoulder blades, with his teeth sunk into your neck, with your bodies sweat-struck and panting like wild horses.

Toji drew you back and ran a hand on your cheek, brushing away the damp strands sticking to your cheek. “Good?”

You breathed out through your open mouth, the organ inside your chest hammering to break out. “Fan . . . tastic.”

He smiled warmly, not the arrogant-cocky kind you were used to receiving, and pressed his lips to yours. No tongue, nothing. Just a simple, chaste kiss. “Time to wash up, Princess.”

Switching from the tub to the shower stall, you began to wash Toji’s hair with your lavender-honey shampoo. You anticipated his complaints, but all he did was sit silently on the seat, using a loofa to clean your body. He complimented the curves of your figure, even taking a sneaky nip at your breast, then chuckling at your reaction. Like a gentleman, he dried off your wet body, combed through your wet hair as he blow-dried it, and then it was his turn, but of course, he forced you onto his lap while you did.

“How’d you get this scar?” you asked as you two lay in your bed, naked with your limbs tangled with each other. For the past hour, all you’ve done is trace your finger over his brows, his sharp, pointed nose, and his lips. “You don’t have to tell me—”

“Family. That’s all.”

“Okay,” you whispered, snuggling your face under his jaw and wrapping your arm around his torso as far as you can.

“You’re clingy, aren’t ya’?” he teased, hooking your leg over his hip.

“Was I too out of character for you, Mr. Zenin?”

You felt his smile on your crown accompanied. “You’re not a character, Princess. You’re a real person.” His hug around your sore body tightens as if you’re about to escape any minute. “It’s overwhelming how real you are, Y/N.”

“Did you just call me by name?”

He raised a brow, voice laced with charming sarcasm. “Was I too out of character for you, Y/N?”

Your hand cupped his cheek, stroking the scar by his lip. “You’re perfect, Toji.” You kissed the wound, the middle of his lips, and the tip of his nose for a good measure.

“Stop acting cute and sleep, Princess. You’ve got a tea party in the morning.”

Groaning, you decompress in his hold. “Goodnight, Toji.”

“Night, sweet girl. Dream of me.”

“You, too.”

“Always.”

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