My AO3 is @Lollyberry18. I send fanfic-related asks under Anon as “🐦⬛”. For my main Tumblr account or Discord, please DM me. Please note, I am very careful with giving out personal information.
If you are under 18 years old, HALT! THIS BLOG IS NOT FOR YOU! I am an adult, and this blog contains mature and explicit content that is NOT SUITABLE FOR MINORS!!! If a person is discovered to have exposed a minor to adult content, EVEN UNKNOWINGLY, that can put the person in LEGAL TROUBLE! I don’t care if you’re 17 3/4, I don’t care if you claim you’re “mature for your age”, I don’t care if you’ve already seen adult content somewhere else. MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED!!!
I started this side blog as a way to keep track of my favorite fanfics and engage in the fanfic community on Tumblr! As of yet, I have not written or posted any fics of my own on this blog, but I might someday. I do send requests or prompts to some of my favorite creators, though. Pretty much all of the fics on this blog are afab reader self-inserts, if that’s not your thing then that’s totally fine.
The main celebs and characters that are featured on this blog are:
Alfred Molina
- Otto Octavius/Doc Ock (Spider-Man 2/NWH)
- Maxim Horvath (The Sorcerer’s Apprentice)
- Ricardo Morales (Law & Order LA)
- Various other Molina characters
Pedro Pascal
- General Acacius (Gladiator 2)
- Oberyn Martell (Game of Thrones)
- Max Phillips (Bloodsucking Bastards)
- Various other Pedro characters
Walton Goggins
- Cooper Howard/The Ghoul (Fallout)
Tagging System:
I tag fanfic/fandom posts with the actor and character’s names, as well as the piece of media it’s featuring. Pictures and gifsets are tagged “pics and gifs”, and either “movies” or “tv shows”. For Alfred Molina characters, I typically tag the post as “Molina-verse”.
Fanfic posts are tagged as such, including the tags “[character name] x reader”, “x reader”, “self insert”, and depending on the level of content, “nsft”. (I will also sometimes tag a post as nsft if I put explicit content in the tags.) I often tag a fanfic with the name of the author’s blog.
Fan art is also tagged as “art” and “fan art”, along with the fandom it’s from.
Interactions with my friends and mutuals are usually tagged “friends” as well as the person’s blog name. Any other post is usually tagged as “text post”.
dearest @womans-armor-workshop - i promise i have a more serious image in my mind, but i need to catch a train at 5 am, and i can't sleep, therefore unspeakable stoopid things happen 🍏
Belated request for more Maxim? Or Comte? Really any of the boys with limited fics
(I miss them.)
Not belated at all! My inbox is basically always open, with the caveat that I may not answer every request that gets sent. I ended up going with Maxim. This fill is NSFW
It’s standard for the women of your family to be sent to the dullest corners of the kingdom. That was part of your mothers agreement with the king. She could keep her holdings as her own without marriage, so long as she didn’t use her five daughters, ruthless and stubborn as herself, to overtake the surrounding holdings by marriage.
And so all five of you were shipped off to quieter areas, ones where there’s no power vacuums to fill, no politics to play. Yours is grim, grey, and mountainous, but it has its charms.
Still, had you been sent to a city, you doubt you’d be excited at the prospect of a new court advisor taking up residence in the castle library. Apparently he has some history as a sorcerer, which does make him more interesting than the last one
The library is a favorite haunt of yours, so you navigate it easily, even as night falls outside the windows, to reach the study and advisors chambers at the back of it. At one of the back tables stands a man in dark clothes with a bronze tunic splashed atop them. His black hair stops at his shoulders, and his profile is striking, an aquiline nose and rounded cheeks, all complemented by a short beard.
He looks up at you with brown eyes that would be alluring were it not for the mild disdain radiating from him.
You introduce yourself with a curtsy, adding, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Horvath.”
“Yes, I’m quite sure it is.” He returns to his task of arranging papers and books on the table. He’s not a small man, but the movements of his hands are quick and efficient. You tilt your head, trying to make out the writing on the page; runes, not ones you recognize.
“Are you here for any reason but to perch and preen in hopes of my attention? I thought shrikes were much busier birds than that.” He looks up a moment with (barely) polite disinterest at the bracelet on your left wrist.
It’s your personal crest; your mother instructed all her daughters to choose their own, to claim the bird as their title and their inspiration, and had a few accessories made of it for each of you before sending you off. Yours is the shrike, wreathed in thorns.
“I come here every day. I was merely stopping to be polite.” You turn your attention away from him and toward the shelves, “and you strike me as the kind who requires some degree of bowing and scraping from those who cross his path.”
He chuckles with faux amusement, “There’s no point in flexing your talons at me. Your fearsome pedigree may intimidate others, but I” flame appears on his fingers and he flicks them to light the torch affixed near the darkening window, “am not easily cowed, your delicate and radiant ladyship.” He says the last bit with a sneer.
Excitement tingles your fingertips; you’ve never seen someone, even a sorcerer, perform magic so easily. You want to say as much, but one look at his smug expression tells you he caught the reaction on your face.
“Quite the neat little trick.” You flash a dry smile his way, retrieving a jar from one of the pouches around your waist.
He scowls, “Leave me to my work. Now.” He lifts his hand, drawing your attention to the blue, faintly glowing gem in his ring, “or I’ll turn you into your namesake and keep you in a pretty cage in my study.”
You finish applying the salve from the jar to your hands, “As you wish, my lord.” You pause your steps by the torch, flame high and hot. You set your hand over it, snuffing it out with unnatural ease. Horvath’s eyes widen a moment in the dim candlelight as you smile at him.
“You’re not the only one with tricks up their sleeve. Goodnight, my lord.”
“I’m mostly glad it worked. I’ve never tried the salve on a flame that large.” You finish undoing Lady Jean's hair from its braids.
“A bit more intimidating than bumping your hand on the stove.” She smiles at you in the mirror; you created the salve after one too many times of burning your hand in the kitchen, “sounds like it got his attention though.”
She winks and you snicker. Technically, your role in this castle is to be her companion, but her parents are so protective that the two of you hardly leave the grounds, and she’s busier and busier with taking over her fathers duties. Lately, your main service to her has been keeping a watchful eye out while she sneaks off to see Sir Henry in the knights quarters.
Once you bid her goodnight, you head for the library. Horvath has been showing off his abilities left and right in the few days he’s been here, and you’re looking for a volume that will help you learn more about the types of spells he’s using.
Candle in hand, you weave toward the back and the shut door of Horvath’s rooms. The more esoteric (some might say ‘forbidden’) books live in this area. You’ve walked through it dozens of times.
This is the first where you’re suddenly trapped with your back against the shelves and ropes across your body. You yelp, startled, and drop your candle in the process, the air extinguishing it as it falls to the ground.
The door to your left swings open, Horvath silhouetted in the light from his room.
“My my, it seems I’ve caught a little bat fluttering about in the dark.” He leisurely approaches you.
“I’m glad you find this amusing. Is that why you set these traps?” You twist, trying to free your limbs.
“They’re not for fun, I assure you. I am not without my rivals and enemies; it pays to have some security.” He watches you squirm with a tight-lipped smile, “do you need some help, sweetheart?”
You roll your eyes and nod. Horvath leans in, tipping your chin up with the side of his hand, “Say please.”
“If you leave me here I won’t get any sleep and neither will you.” You don’t break his gaze, even when his thumb darts up to rest on your lower lip.
“Say it.”
Deciding not to push your luck, you dip your head, “Please untie me.”
“Much better.”
The ropes slither back, allowing you to step away from the shelves.
“Thank you so terribly much, Lord Horvath. You are ever so kind.” You simper exaggeratedly, try to slip past him only for him to catch the front of your nightdress and hold you in place.
“If I catch you like this again, little bat, I may not release you so easily.” The easy menace in that deep voice conjures unexpected desire; you want to tease him, ruffle his dignified air a bit and then roll over on your belly to purr and pout when he finally disciplines you.
You bat his hand away and depart with a curt, “goodnight” before he can spot your blush.
—------------------------------------
Your mornings follow the same routine; rise, bathe, dress, help Jean dress, and then go to check on your “challenge.” It has many component pieces; it would be difficult for someone to tamper with one of them without you knowing instantly, but you don’t feel like leaving that to chance.
As you begin your checklist, Horvath strolls in through the door, gaze moving from you to the ceiling.
“I’ve heard Lady Gray’s daughters are known to set difficult challenges for suitors. I did not picture something so deceptively simple.”
“Deceptive?” You’re curious as to what he’s noticed.
He indicates the shining, blue stone hanging from the center of the high ceiling, “That is clearly the item the hopeful young man must obtain. You’ve hung it on a chain, so there’s no rope to shoot or burn through to free it. The position makes it difficult for a ladder or other contraption to reach it. And these” he taps one of the stones on the floor directly beneath the gem with the toe of his boot, “are enchanted to electrify someone who stands on them too long, are they not?”
“They are.”
“Of course, the stone is for a ring-”
“Not quite. It’s a key” You smile when he glances at you with genuine curiosity, grab the right side of your skirts and raise them all the way to your hip, revealing a glimpse of the silver chain around your waist.
For the first time since you’ve met, Horvath laughs in genuine surprise.
“A key for a chastity belt is a bit on the nose.” His smile lingers along with his gaze as your skirt drops back into place.
“The men who seek marriage with me want, among other things, to produce heirs with someone of high standing. They’re after the chance to make use of very specific parts of my body. I want them to have to confront that fact to win my hand.”
“A cynical notion. I admire it. Although you must not have turned your nose up at all of them right away; dresses in blue and purple, let alone black, do not come cheap. Your suitors were wise to gift you them.”
“Only one ever did; the rest are from my mother. She mastered a spell to let her change the color of fabric and metal.”
“So magic runs in your family. Interesting…” His gaze returns to the key
“Not in any great quantity, but enough to be useful. I was able to enchant the key so that I can’t get it down, so no one can threaten me into it.” You follow his gaze, notice the thoughtful crease in his brow, “I suppose the challenge is much easier if someone is very good at magic.”
“Don’t worry, little bat. I’ve no interest in your hand or” his eyes take their time moving from your ankles to your face, “any other part of you.”
“Of course not. You’re far too old for me.” You flutter your lashes.
“Considerably. But I’ll have you know that any lady of this court would sell her soul for a chance at my affection.”
You raise a brow, “And yet I never see them on your arm.”
“My heart is spoken for.” He says with a mild shrug. Something sad skitters behind his eyes.
“Then I won’t torment you too terribly with my feminine wiles.” You bat your lashes again, much more comically.
“You’re a deeply unserious creature.” It sounds almost fond as he bows, “and I shall see you at breakfast.”
Maxim should have just turned her into a bird when he saw her. Because after a month in the castle, he finds Lady Shrike–as much of the castle calls her– keeps stealing scraps of his attention. When he chases after them there’s increasingly something that pricks his interest, compels him to stay.
It doesn’t matter. He’s just gone awhile without a friend, a companion, without even an apprentice, for quite some time. He came here to lay low, and to see if there were any tomes in the vast castle library that would increase his power or further his quest to free Morgana. The little bat is a diverting conversation companion. Nothing more.
A boisterous laugh from down the dinner table; the lord and lady of the castle are hosting a would-be suitor. Max likes amusing himself by guessing whether a given young man will attempt to Lady Jean, his shrike, or both.
(Not his. She isn’t his. There was only one woman he ever wanted that way and now she’s stuck inside a doll).
Then again, this knight is here solely to hear the sound of his own voice.
“...my father has a whole menagerie of such beasts, ones he and I have hunted. Those we wounded in the pursuit hang on our walls. Our newest trophies are a family of griffins.
Lady Jean wrinkles her nose, but the man plows on, addressing Lady Shrike instead.
“Any beast you ask for, I can bring. Just try me. Even a dragon wouldn’t be too great a task to win a fair maiden’s hand.”
Lady Shrike taps the edge of her cup, “My sister, Lady Sparrowhawk, was brought a dragon pup by a suitor. She adores the creature, calls him Hades. The man who gifted him however…well, let’s just say that he learned it’s unwise to strike a woman who you’ve recently gifted a fire-breathing reptile.” She sips her wine, thoughtful, “she married a very charming naturalist. Hades adores him. Hasn’t eaten anyone since well before the wedding.”
Uncomfortable silence hangs at the table, although Lady Jean is clearly hiding a laugh behind her sleeve.
Maxim cannot resist
“And who did he eat prior to that?” He asks with prim curiosity, as if there’s nothing odd about the topic at hand.
His reward is a smile directed purely at him, “An assassin sent after my mother. We didn’t know Hades could move that swiftly; my sister spoils him so much that he looks more like a large barrel on legs than a majestic beast.”
“I knew one with the opposite problem. He was like a scaled piece of string. I once saw him tie himself in a knot chasing fish.”
She laughs, her first real one of the whole evening, and Maxim feels an awful warmth blooming in his chest.
“Why not just conjure them?” You cut a bundle of Henbane from the dirt as Maxim holds digs mushrooms from the ground. He’s holding a spell above the pair of you to keep the rain away, but it does nothing against the muck and damp everywhere else.
“For some aggravating reason, botanical ingredients lose their potency if conjured rather than picked fresh.” He stands, shaking dirt from his gloves, “this will suffice. Come along.”
You take his offered arm, only a little nauseous as you move from the woods to the library in a blink. Maxim waves his hand and you’re both as clean and tidy as freshly made beds. He pulls out a chair without touching it, and indicates that you should sit down.
“Go on, then. I invited you for your nimble fingers.”
“Not my stunning looks and dazzling wit?”
“I suppose those factor in.” The reply is playfully glib.
It’s odd, how easily flirtation comes to you and Maxim. You always found it a struggle before, even with suitors who piqued your interest. With him, it’s like following the steps of a dance you’ve known since birth.
You suspect you took the first ones a few weeks ago, the night after the awkward dragon conversation.
You picked up knife throwing at age ten. Your mothers Fool taught you, delighted to have found a way to make one of his ladies smile. It only occurs to you much later that it’s a rather odd skill for a Fool to have; your mother never did say where she found him, only that she found him invaluable.
You’re hitting the wooden target again and again, not caring about the bullseye. What you’re after is the thunk of the wood to drown out the scolding you received about not horrifying guests.
This time, your throw doesn’t hit the board. It hovers, then flies backward, landing handle-first in Maxim’s hand.
“Do you know what puzzles me, little bat?”
“I suspect you’ll tell me regardless.”
“Why the king thought it wise to order your mother to send her offspring away and to find husbands before their 30th. That seems an excellent way for her to sink her talons into many lands and bloodlines.”
“He got it into his head that if we stayed close to home we’d be more stable and expand little by little, until our resources were enough to challenge him. Besides, he believes marriage will tame us; that the subservient nature of women will mean we lose interest in all else but our husbands once we’re wed.”
Maxim scoffs, which you appreciate. Your dagger flies to the target without him throwing it, and is followed by a second blade from inside his cloak. Both hit the edges of the bullseye. The elegant lethality of the motion sets a fire in your core. You quell it with a question.
“Can you do that without magic?”
“Of course.” He sneers.
You smile at him over your shoulder, “show me.”
It turns out his aim isn’t quite as true without spells. And so you stand at his side, guiding his wrist until his form is perfect.
Mugs of tea float down to the table as Maxim sits across from you. Jars appear next, as does cloth that you lay the collected herbs and mushrooms out on. Max snaps and all the plants are as dry if they’ve been hanging in the sun for months.
“Now, let’s see if you’ve been paying attention to my instruction.” Maxim’s eyes glint in the firelight. You meet the playful challenge in them with a grin.
“Do your worst.”
He lifts a thorny stick, cocking his brow.
“Blackthorn. Elixirs to weaken your enemies without poisoning them to death.”
“Good. This?”
“Vervain. Protective charms.”
Maxim smiles, pleased, and stands, circling the table as lifts plants and you rattle off their name and purpose.
When he raises a bundle of blue flowers, still fresh, you pause.
“Harebell. It doesn’t have any special properties.”
“Not so” He passes behind your chair, loops an arm around the side to hold the flowers in front of your chest, “I find they’re the closest match to your eyes.”
You snicker at the sudden, syrupy comment, but take the offered blooms. When you turn your head to look up at him, Maxim is watching you with a small, curious smile.
“Why, Lord Horvath, that was uncharacteristically sweet.”
For a moment, you swear he’s blushing.
“A word to anyone and I shall turn you into a kitten and tie a pretty ribbon around your neck.” He brushes a lock of hair from your brow, “now, start on those elixirs.”
“Of course, my lord.” You press your cheek into his touch for a breath, then get to work.
You like a good joust as much as the next girl, but you forget how interminable they become on festival days. Lords and knights and all manner of people come from miles around to show off. Those who do well are rewarded with a feast in the castle hall.
The meal is overwhelming this year, in no small part because Lady Jean’s father was generous in his invitations. Probably in the hope that one or both of you will be one over by one of the knights. You wonder if he notices how Sir Henry seldom leaves Jean’s line of sight. Heaven knows some of these men are hellbent on staying in yours.
Your only consolation for your growing headache and exhaustion is seeing Maxim dressed for the occasion; his hair shines like ink in the torchlight, his tunic is bronze shot through with deep blue, and he even has a sword on his hip. He looks more regal than all the other guests combined.
Your smile grows thin as the evening wears on, and you’re so irritable that nothing on the table seems worth staying seated in the cacophony for.
The chair beside you scrapes the stones, and you hope it’s someone quiet.
A large palm rests on your forehead, “It seems you’re running a fever, my lady.”
Maxim speaks loud enough for the surrounding table to hear, but winks when he glances back at you.
“Indeed. I fear I must retire for the night.”
Once you exit the hall, you’re faced with a second conundrum. There’s at least one set of footfalls behind yours, and they don’t belong to Maxim. A quick look over your shoulder reveals one of the jousters pretending to examine a tapestry.
If he follows you to your room, he’s liable to pester you. Not to mention that other guests may follow suit in hopes of your attention. You need to go somewhere that no one will look for you.
You easily lose your follower in the darkened library, and the handle to Maxim’s chambers dips in welcome when you set your hand on it. A lamp lights on the wall near the bed, enticing you to sit down on the blankets.
Laying down, you rest your cheek on the pillow. It smells faintly of the smokey sweetness that clings to Maxim’s clothes. You don’t plan to linger, just rest and give the festivities a chance to die down before retreating back to your room.
When you next open your eyes, the candle in the lamp is a stub and Maxim is at the bedside, undoing his cloak from his shoulders.
“Roosting away from prying eyes, I see.” Maxim undoes his sword-belt.
“Mmhhm” You yawn, stretching, and notice that in your dress rode up in your sleep, high enough to show the narrow chain of your chastity belt.
Maxim glides his gaze up your leg, “Much less coverage than I expected from such a device.”
“It’s a simple chain with an enchantment.” You raise up on your elbow, feeling no need to cover yourself, “I’m not about to make it difficult to enjoy my own touch.”
“Clever little bat.” Maxim steps closer, hand around the middle of his scabbard. He reaches out with the sword, using the pommel to guide your dress back into place. You try not to pout as you sit up
“I’m a little surprised I could get in here without trouble.”
“I feel no need to lay traps until I turn in for the night.”
“Not even in your bedroom? And unless I’m somehow special, It seems like someone could easily lay in wait here.”
“Someone did.” Maxim smiles, “are you feeling better?
“I no longer want to tear my ears off. Thank you, by the way, for helping me excuse myself without seeming rude.”
“It was purely for selfish reasons. You become painfully snappish when overstimulated.” His disinterest hides fond familiarity.
“I appreciate it all the same.” You get to your feet. Maxim doesn’t step back, preferring to stay in your space as he tosses the sword to the bed and begins on his next layer of clothing. When you make no attempt to move past him, he pauses and sets his hands on your waist.
“Off you go, sweetheart.”
A blink and you’re in your own room, the bed turned invitingly down. There’s even a mug of tea waiting for you. It occurs to you, as you tuck yourself in, that Maxim never did answer your second question about the traps.
The following night, once the castle is asleep, you change into a purple dress with black trim, its bodice the lowest of any clothing you own. Then you weave your way to the library, not bothering with a light, and slowly pass the same shelf that trapped you all those months ago.
It does the same tonight; one loop across your shoulders, one just below your chest, another across your hips, and a final one right below your knees. They’ve barely tightened into place when Maxim appears in his bedroom doorway. The light spilling from it is all you have to see by, but you can tell he’s in his tunic, trousers, and shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“Working late?” You smile as he approaches you.
His head moves, slow and hawk-like, “The same could be asked of you.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” You look up as he looms before you, “came looking for something to read.”
He rests the back of his hand against your cheek, the gem of his ring cool on your skin, “Do you know what I think?”
“Do tell.”
“I think you’re lying to me, sweetheart.” The touch glides down your throat, “I think you came here to call my bluff. To make me believe you’re more than willing to be caught in the dark by a man who could do anything to you.” The rope across your shoulders slithers back into the shelf as both his thumbs trace the neckline of your dress.
“Not everything, though.” Your breathing speeds as his touches continue.
He chuckles, dark and alluring as wine, “Do you think your little belt would stop me? Your maidenhead” an invisible hand tugs the rope at your hips, “would remain untouched. The rest of you would be utterly at my mercy.” His nose brushes your cheek as he whispers in your ear, “It’s hours until dawn, little bat. Do you have any idea the things I could do to you in that time? The pleasures I could take from you? The sounds you would make for me and me alone?”
His touch remains feather-light, even as an aching warmth floods your body.
It takes two swallows before your tongue cooperates.
“Do you know what I think, Max?”
His smile is an amused, inquisitive, tight-lipped one, the kind he gives when he’s waiting for you to speak.
“I think you’re the worst kind of man. The kind who talks a poor maid to death rather than take action.” You press your chest into his touch in invitation.
He takes it, but not the way you expect. Blue sparks crackle from his finger tips as he cups your tits through the fabric. The warm prickle of pain makes you moan.
“This is supposed to be a punishment, sweetheart. For addressing me so informally.” His hands draw the sparking trail down your sides, ropes disappearing as they do.
“I think it suits you.” A new rope traps your hands behind your back before you can reach for him. You whine, aroused, at the feeling of being trapped. Of being his to do with as he likes.
He chuckles again, “You are impossible. Whatever shall we do about that?”
“Seeing as I’m trapped, I can’t do much at all.”
A dramatic sigh as Max finally reaches for the laces of your bodice, “You princesses. Always needing to be waited on.”
“I’m not AH!” You laugh as yanks the dress open, moan at the scratch of his beard as he kisses your tits. Those same, invisible touches aid him, groping and shifting each side to meet his mouth whenever he pleases. His real hands find their way under your skirts, caressing your thighs between small shocks that make you wiggle and whimper against him.
“Let me touch you!” You twist your wrists but the rope doesn’t budge.
“Patience, sweetheart.” He kisses a path up your neck, his hands leaving your legs in favor of tilting your face this way and that for him to kiss it.
You whine, frustrated, and he feel him smile, “Don’t worry, my darling, I’ll give you what you want in time.” He presses close enough that you feel his hardening cock through his pants, “Any luxury, any need, say the word and it is yours, all my power will be yours to…to…”
The touches suddenly stop, the rope evaporates. You set shaking hands on his chest and whisper, “Max?”
His hands gingerly hold your jaw as he rests his forehead to yours, “I…I cannot do this. There are other promises I have made. Flutter off, little bat, and do not come to me like this again.”
He’s gone, the latch on his door thudding as it locks, before you even have time to reply.
You obey Max’s request. You cannot tell if it is you, him, or both that scales back how much time you spend near each other during the day. It’s not as if you stop speaking, but Max has thrown a defense up, and so you build a wall of your own to be safe.
Today, the two of you are in the study; Jean and her parents are away for the next few days, leaving you to run the castle with the aid of Max and the other advisors.
As you’re reviewing letters from nearby nobles, a messenger appears at the door.
“My lady? A man calling himself Balthazar Blake is here to speak with you. He says he’s a sorcerer with urgent news.”
“I’ll be there in a moment, thank you.” You stand and notice Max’s jaw locked tight.
“You know him.”
“I do. He's an old enemy of mine. I do not wish to risk a confrontation at this time, yet any spell to conceal myself he will be able to sense and undo.”
You tap the table with your nail a moment, then say, “Can you transform into something small enough to fit in my pocket?”
“What good will that do?”
“I have an idea, but I need you to trust me.”
Max sighs, “Very well.”
Then he’s gone, and a rather elegant, black rat sits on the floor.
“Awwww, you’re so cute! Come on.” You lift him in your hands, tucking him into an empty pocket, “and not a peep out of you. Or should I say not a squeak.” You smile down at him. The rat rolls its eyes.
Balthazar bows when you enter and introduces himself.
“I’m here because I’ve gotten word that one of the most powerful Morganian sorcerers in the world is in this part of the kingdom. A dangerous, treacherous man named Maxim Horvath.”
Thinking on your feet, you gesture for him to sit down, “What does he look like?”
Balthazar describes the spitting image of the man in your pocket, along with the reason he’s hunting him. You wait for him to finish, then shake your head, “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. We do have an advisor by that name, but he in no way resembles such a sorcerer. He’s old, quite old, all grey and narrow. And he can barely levitate a book, let alone do complex spells.”
You spy several servants trading confused looks and shoot them a warning glance. They school their faces.
“It’s funny you should say that. Because even in this room, I sense powerful magic.”
“Does it intensify if you come closer to me?”
The sorcerer stands and takes a few steps, then nods.
You dip your head with an apologetic laugh, “I’m terribly sorry, but it seems my chastity belt is throwing you off. It has some very strong enchantments on it.”
Balthazar winces and laughs along with you, “I’m sorry. These things can happen.”
You invite him to stay for dinner, knowing it would raise suspicion if you don’t. He declines, and so you send him off with some food from the kitchen as a gesture of goodwill.
It’s only once he’s fully out of sight of the window of your room that you take Max from your pocket and set him on the floor.
“Were you ever going to tell me about any of that?”
“The long fight between Morganian and Merlinian sorcerers does not concern you.” Max straightens his clothing and runs a hand over his hair, “I came here to research and stay away from prying eyes while I make my next set of plans.”
“Oh no, it absolutely concerns me. I prefer to know if any of my friends have plans to enslave mankind any time soon. Relatedly, that is a terrible plan; do you have any idea how much work it is to run a kingdom? Or even just a holding within a kingdom? Ruling the world sounds exhausting, magic or not. Not to mention you don’t even really need to rule if you’re that powerful, you can just bend the world around you to your will–” you stop as you notice him smiling at you, “what?”
“I notice your concerns are with the practicality of the approach, not the idea of power.” He takes your hand, “it would be a fitting world for you, my shrike. You’re cunning and sharp, no frail flower.”
“I don’t want to be those ways all the time. I want respect and influence, yes, but I want softness, too. A life where my edges don’t have to be sharp every second of the day. A life with someone who likes all parts of me.” You sigh, “do you really want the world Morgana lays out?”
“I have my…misgivings. At times. But it doesn’t matter; I swore my loyalty to her in hopes it would one day win me the heart of the woman I loved most. Now they’re both inside the Grimhold.”
You meet his eyes, “That’s why you pulled away the other night, isn’t it?”
“I was on the brink of swearing devotion to you. A thing I promised to two others in two ways”
“I understand.” Your heart aches, and so you pull your hands from his and turn away, “I have work to attend to. I will see you at dinner.”
Jean and her parents returned home two nights ago. This morning, all of you awaken to a commotion.
“So, don’t panic” Jean stands in your room, still in her nightclothes, “but the key is gone.”
“What?!”
“The guards are looking around the room and the grounds for who took it, but you should come make sure it’s not a mistake. Somehow.” She sounds unconvinced even as she says it.
She’s right to be. An hour later, there’s no escaping the truth; the key to the chastity belt is gone, and no triumphant suitor has yet to appear. When you go to ask Max for help, you find him missing as well. Away on an errand, according to the servants.
The conclusion is obvious, but nonsensical. If Max took the key, why not tell you? You’ve never known him to miss a chance to gloat. And why take it after telling you that his devotion belongs to another?
You chew on the question all day, first with Jean and then on your own, until night falls and the whole castle decides that there’s nothing to do but wait and see who turns up demanding your hand.
You don’t intend to wait around your room for answers. Instead, you wait around Max’s bedroom. The longer you linger, the more you notice items missing; combs, cloaks, boots, specific boots, the things Max uses day in and day out.
Tears sting your eyes; did he really leave you here without saying goodbye?
A small swirl of shimmer air appears to your left, bringing Max into the room. He sees you and jumps with uncharacteristic skittishness.
“Must you always lurk in the dark, little bat?” He straightens his tunic, returning to his usual dismissive air.
“It’s not that dark. And I’m answering a single question until you give me back my key.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Max.” It’s practically a snarl, in part to distract from the tears that won’t clear.
He sighs, producing a small, compact looking glass from his pocket. When he opens it, the blue gem for your belt seems to be behind the glass. He taps it with his finger, and the stone is now in his palm.
“I put it there for safekeeping. Even if something happened to me, someone would have to know the Hungarian mirror trick to get it out.” He turns the stone over in his fingers, attention fully on its facets.
“Max, if you care for me even a little, please skip the dramatic monologue and just tell me why you went to the trouble of getting it down and then not telling me.”
“Balthazar is no fool. And the universe always blesses him with luck. He’ll come back eventually, looking for me. So I’ve made preparations to return to a home in the Carpathians to lay low awhile longer. I couldn’t bear the thought of another having you if I could not, and so I took the key. As you said, it’s quite easy for a powerful sorcerer. It practically dropped into my palm.”
Your eyes widen, but Max doesn’t notice.
“I had ample time to think today as I moved my possessions from here to there. I am as black-hearted as they come, Morgana’s second in command” he takes your hand, “but I cannot bring myself to keep this. I cannot deny you the chance to find another who truly loves you. To have a family as it pleases you.” He sets the gem in your palm, closes your hand around it, “I’m sorry for worrying you, little bat.”
He kisses your cheek, crestfallen.
“You say it fell into your hand?”
“Yes. I barely had to enchant the chain holding it to the ceiling.”
“You’re wrong. You didn’t have to enchant it at all.” You hold the gem between your fingertips, “It was complicated, finding a sorceress who could do it, but I had a loophole built into the challenge. One that only I knew. If the person loves me, and I them, then the key would simply fall at their feet.”
Max blinks at you, “I…I didn’t dare to hope. The way I feel for you is nothing like what I felt for Veronica. I feel no desperation to prostrate myself, to plead my case and swear that I would be a dog at her feet if that’s what would please her. With you, I’d give anything to stay at your side because when I’m there, I’m happy.” He smiles softly, “I show off because I enjoy it, not because I feel I must do it or lose your attention.”
“That leaves one other devotion to deal with”
“Yes…” He strokes his beard, “Morgana would not be pleased to know I delayed.”
“True. But” You saunter toward him, hands behind your back as you look up at him, “what better place to make plans than your mountain stronghold. Away from prying eyes. And surely…” you run your fingers along his jaw, “she wouldn't want you rushing things. A proper plan could take decades to create.”
A familiar mischief kindles behind his eyes, “A wise observation. A slow and steady approach, that’s what’s called for.”
“At least on that front.” You brush your lips to his as you set the gem in his hand, “On the marital front, I need you to fuck me. Now.”
He growls, excited, and pulls you to him. There’s passion in every slight shift of his lips, and you meet it with your own as he lifts you by your thighs. Instead of taking you to the bed, he only makes it to the wall, shoving you against the bookcase as you wrap your legs around him.
“So demanding, my prim and proper princess.” He purrs as you kiss his face and nip experimentally at his lower lip before he captures you in another, fiery kiss.
You manage to reply, “M’not a princess” as you shove your fingers into his hair.
“No, no you’re not.” Max undoes your dress enough to pull the sleeves down and off, “you’re my bride to be, my beautiful lady in black, the shrike of my heart” he kisses you, right hand flailing under your skirts as the left strokes your cheek. A half-dozen invisible hands hold you up and greedily paw you, while a few more undress your husband-to-be, “you’ll lack for nothing, my love. We’ll go where we wish, see the whole world or only our bed as it pleases you, because I won this” he touches the gem to your belt, allowing it to fall away, “fair and square, and you are mine.”
“Max” you moan as he holds your legs open and shoves his cock as deep as he can. The noise you make after is closer to a shriek than you’d like.
“Does it hurt?” He runs his hands soothingly along your thighs.
“N-no, no, it’s just…good lord are all men this big?”
“Flattering.” He grins, kissing you more slowly and moving his hips at the same tempo, “there we are” he groans, utterly content, “god, sweetheart” his head drops to your chest. Warm breath pants across your chest as he thrusts steadily and deep.
You rest one hand in his hair, kiss the crown of his head as your other hand roams down his back and along his arms, “You’re a cruel man, Maxim Horvath. Keeping this handsome body, this stunning face, out of my reach for so many months.”
“I am the epitome of wickedness.” A tender kiss to your left breast, then a slight shock to your right.
“Ah!” You laugh and rock your hips against him, “do that again please.”
“I can do even better.”
“Oh!oh.” Your hips jolt and your thighs tense as the same electricity teases your clit, “s-so you can.”
Max straightens, kissing you with a gorgeous grin, “Oh, little bat, there are so many things I cannot wait to do to you.” He presses a finger to your lips, “don’t ask for them now. We have to pace ourselves. For the sake of this delicate cunt and the furniture, if nothing else” he indicates where the bookcase is shuddering from your movements.
“Of course.” You take advantage of his new position to slip your hands under his shirt, savoring the warmth of his skin and the shape of his belly and chest.
Max kisses you thoughtfully, “I’ll do a spell this time, to make sure nothing results from this evening. No heirs just yet. Or ever, that’s what you wish.”
“Why, Max, it seems you gave some thought to our future before today.” You relax in his embrace, even as the invisible hands stroke and pet every inch of you.
“Even a wicked sorcerer has his daydreams.”
“And what is he dreaming of right now?”
“Of fucking you until we’re satisfied and most of these books are on the floor.”
You kiss him and grin, “Then he should get to it.”
Max kisses you hard enough that you wonder if you’ll both come away with bruised lips. You can hear his cock thudding into you, even as books drop from the shelves. One real hand possessively plays with your tits, and the other digs into your hair, the hold deliciously firm.
You moan as his spells and his cock lavish every inch of your cunt with attention, and when your orgasm comes to hide your face in his neck, sobbing with pleasure. You feel sheepish a the reaction until you catch the gasping words from the man holding you.
“My darling, you feel so good, god I’ve wanted this for so long, so long, you’re mine, I love you, god help me I love you so much” his hips jerk erratically and he groans, “there we go, sweetheart, fuck, fuck.” He cums with a ragged moan, hands moving to your head and shoulders, cradling you as he pulls free.
“My sweet love.” You murmur.
“Not a word. I simply need to keep you from collapsing on the floor.”
“It’s not my knees that are shaking.”
Max grumbles something in what you suspect is Hungarian and manages to guide you both to bed.
“Do you wish to marry here? If we marry on my land, it simplifies much of the politics.” He pets your hair as you nestle against him.
“I’d like that. Assuming we can get my family there. Jean too.”
“Of course. You’ve actually seen very few of my powers, little bat. There are complicated tasks I can do like that” he snaps his fingers, and suddenly you’re in a black nightgown, bundled up under the covers with a bare-chested Max.
“Show off” you kiss his chin, “I can’t wait to see more. “
Max Phillips x f!reader | wc: 3.8k | explicit, mdni | ao3
summary: driving Max to meetings is part of your job as the assistant. providing him with snacks and your tits to busy his hands and mouth is part of your situationship.
warnings: no use of y/n, ablebodied reader, reader has tits big enough for titfucks, established coworker-with-benefits situationship (and a sprinkle of idiots in love), blood (duh), blood drinking (duh²), blood play (duh³), spitting, Max and reader being kinda switchy, pet names (sugar tits, Maxie), breast play, nipple play, titty fuck, breastfeeding but vampire style (you've read it here first), cum eating, dm me if I missed any
a/n: this is my embarrassingly late entry for @burntheedges roll-a-trope challenge. it sat half finished in my wips for months. I got assigned 'roadtrip' and road tripping is driving around and eating, right? This is for my titty fuck (fic) and Max enjoyer. A lot of love, as always, to @guiltyasdave for the usual: beta, hyping, going feral over the pointy teeth man 💛💛💛
“Sugar tits!”
You sigh and check the rear view mirror. Max smirks at you, splayed on the backseat of the car, looking dapper and cocky as always.
“Sugar tits, can I have a snack?” He bats his lashes and purses his lips into the fakest of pouts that you have ever seen on his face.
“You already had your snack. Remember? Before we left?” You raise a brow and glance at him again. Still this shit eating grin on his face.
“Yeah, I remember. But I can’t taste your pussy on my tongue anymore. My mouth misses you, sugar tits.”
You shake your head, not able to hide your own smirk now. “No. It hasn’t even been two hours. Patience is a virtue, Max.”
The pout on his face is a real one now. He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks, his fingers starting to fondle himself. “Bitch,” Max mutters and then sees a shit eating grin spread on your face. HIS signature facial expression. He would love to slap it out of your face, with his dick. “Whatever,” he grumbles, pulls one hand out of his pockets and reaches for some paperwork to look over.
Work trips with Max needed a little more planning. It was like traveling with a toddler at times. He needed attention, enrichment, constant skin contact, he needed his special seat (in the back, all windows blacked out of course) and snack breaks.
You spoiled him. Spoiled him rotten. And the consequences of your actions are now sitting in the backseat, glaring at you, licking over his teeth and gums. He looks like he’s gonna pounce on you any second now.
You take a hand off the steering wheel and reach behind you, patting his knee.
“Maxie,” you coo and give him your best doe eyes in the rear view mirror.
He frowns, his lip twitches. He is hangry, and while your hangry makes you grumpy and verbally lash out, his hangry makes him snap necks.
“Don't. Maxie. Me,” he hisses and licks over his gums again. They pulse in the same rhythm as his fangs that start to grow and push out. The same rhythm his dick throbs in his briefs, too. Hungry always means hungry for all physical pleasures. “Pull over. Now!”
Sometimes you couldn't tell if he was really about to snap or if he was just acting like the big bad vampire to get what he wants as fast as possible. And honestly, you didn't want to find out.
You find a break area a minute later and when you join Max in the backseat, he is all over you in no time.
The position is practiced, a habit formed through daily repetition over the course of months. It’s comfortable, almost cozy, it makes your heart flutter and not only because Max drinks from you.
You are pulled underneath him, one of your legs between his thighs, and like hormonal teenagers you rub against each other in the back of the car.
You can feel it, sense it in the powerful movements of Max’ body on yours. He tries hard to hold back but the hunger in him is primal, raw. You let him take what he wants at this point. With his eyes darkened and fangs on full display, it isn’t about wanting anymore, it is about what Max needs.
“Need you, sugar tits,” he groans with his open mouth pressed against your pulse point already. He tries to hold back, because he likes you. Straight up eating you would not be a nice thing to do. He wants to be nice, just a little bit, and just for you. “Be a good girl for me, will ya?”
With his hands kneading your tits and his fangs grazing your neck, his thigh pressed against your crotch and you grinding down on him, there isn’t much else left to do than to nod. You like that he needs you, that he takes a liking in your blood specifically, maybe even in your mouthy behavior.
“I’ll be good. Take what you need,” you murmur and pull down the collar of your blouse for him. “But no stains, I don’t have a-”
His patience wears thin, it’s barely there. Stains. As if he was a messy eater. He snarls a “shut up”, a hand finds the back of your neck to hold you in place, but also to make it as comfortable as possible for you. He is no monster.
Max nuzzles the crook of your neck, taking in your scent, the blood, the perfume, your skin. His tongue licks over your pulse point, once, twice, he can already taste you.
Something sharp grazes your neck, it feels like two needles. Another lap, warm, soft, wet and then he bites you. His fangs cut through your skin and the underlying tissue with ease, a feeling you will never grow accustomed to.
When your fingers clutch his arms, gripping the fabric of his suit jacket like he grips the back of your head, Max coos with his lips latched to you. He never asked how it feels for you, being fed from. But he imagines, sometimes, when he feels pathetic and sentimental in the emptiness of his apartment, that it doesn’t feel too good.
He is no monster. Soothing circles are massaged into your scalp, he shifts his weight to not crush you and he hums, hoping it would help you with the uncomfortable feeling. The first drops of your blood spill into his mouth and he licks them up like a cat licking up spilled cream.
“Go ahead,” is all you murmur and it sounds like a quiet wince. “‘s okay, Maxie.”
He sighs softly, changes the angle of his jaw and the sweet coppery blood fills his mouth. So sweet, so warm, your heartbeat on his tongue. He laps, swallows, whines. You taste good. Special, lively, warm, like calmness. Whenever he feeds on you it fills his veins with your essence and his mind with your… acceptance of him being an abnormality of nature? You taste as if you like him. Not just the sexy vampire aura, but him, Max. Maxie.
He drinks a few mouthfuls, slowly, even though his hunger for you tells him to drain you. He would never drain you. That would mean killing you, losing his favorite blood bag, the only one he has. The only one he wants. Your blood warms his heart and he swallows it together with the emotions that start rising up in him. He is no monster. But he is no wimp either.
Your fingers relax, a hand roams up his arm and all that you can hear in the back of the car is the quiet suckling and swallowing coming from Max. He ruts against your thigh, semi-hard and with less neediness than before. His hunger starts to slowly disappear, and even though he still lays on top of you, even though he still feeds on you and rubs himself against you, this is for comfort. That's what you suspect, at least.
You once asked him why he did this, the hums and rubs, the pressing of his tongue on the tiny puncture wounds in your neck without really drawing any more blood. He scowled. He wouldn't need comfort. This was all part of the process. And you clearly had no idea about that.
Max was right, you didn't know what was part of the feeding and drinking and what was not.
But you tested your comfort theory out one evening: you stroked over his hair, hummed in response and spoke softly to him. And instead of making fun of you, Max almost became affectionate. He almost snuggled up, closer to you.
You never spoke about it again, about this moment of softness. When he lifted his head that evening, he smiled. You smiled back. Then the moment was over and he talked about a presentation for the next day.
The rutting stops and the languid licks over your wound turn into a soft kiss with his lips lingering, as if he's afraid to disrupt the connection with you.
“Feeling better now?” you ask softly, breaking the silence in the car.
“Mhmm,” he hums against your neck and for a second you think you might get another one of those cuddly soft cotton candy moments with him.
Max shuffles slightly, one hand still holding your head in a comfortable position while the other one creeps up your side and finally finds its place on one of your breasts.
“Been good,” he murmurs and squeezes you once. “Made no stains. I want a reward, sugar tits.”
“You already got your reward, Maxie.” You turn your face towards him and catch him licking the corners of his mouth clean. “The little sippy sip?”
“Yeah, but I also want your tits. Please?” He flashes you a wry smile and his teeth look like white marble with red streaks.
You tug on a strand of his hair, just harsh enough to see his smile turn into a lopsided pout. “No. There’s an important meeting in an hour and we still have to get there. Titty time takes forever with you.”
He knows you're right. And he hates the thought of arriving too late to the meeting and losing the pitch. With a groan his face disappears in your cleavage, one hand kneading you desperately. His voice is muffled while he whispers and gently tugs on a mouthful of your tits. Something about “be back soon, Linda and Rita” and you know he’s talking to your tits, again. Max truly is a tit man, a man sized toddler who is doing the grabby hands whenever you're wearing something that shows a sliver of cleavage.
“But afterwards, right?” He looks up at you, expectantly. The demand is clearly written all over his face. You nod your head because saying no isn’t an option with a moody and cranky vampire.
“Yeah, after the meeting.”
The meeting was good. Really good actually, of course. Max convinced the other party to throw a whole lotta money at him and the company. And when you exit the elevator together and enter the underground parking, he is strutting like he just got five inches taller and his balls bigger.
While you search for the car keys, Max is searching for the fastest way to feel your skin under his hands. He doesn’t care that someone could see, or that there are security cameras everywhere. He just needs to feel you. You manage to open the car before he pulls up your blouse and you get on the backseat with him. When the door closes with a quiet thud you know that there’s no escape. Not that you wanted one in the first place.
Max after a successful business thing is not so different to the everyday version of him: cocky, arrogant, horny, hungry. Dangerous. But everything is maxed now. His eyes are darker, teeth sharper, voice lower and somewhere between sweet and lethal. A predator needing his fix.
“Sugar tits…” he croons, licking his lips as he pulls on your hip and drags you under him. Vampire strength, manhandling but the supernatural kind. You don’t even question how you end up in certain positions anymore.
Max is straddling you, all you see is the strained fabric of his slacks, bulging thighs left and right of your torso, a throb behind the fly. His hands on your chest, palming, pawing, squeezing.
“You’ll let me have this, right? Let me have you like this?”
A rhetoric question, you both know it. So you just nod your head yes, hands already roaming over his thighs, higher, until you feel his hard bulge. Palming, pawing, squeezing. Two can play a game and you're always the lucky loser.
Max involuntarily bucks into your hand, immediately annoyed about his body’s lack of obedience.
“Patience,” he snarls and contradicts his words with hasty fingers unbuttoning your blouse and letting your bra snap open. Front closure for easy access.
Both of you sigh in relief. You because the straps aren’t cutting into your shoulders anymore and Max because he finally can return to his playground, his homebase. He cups your tits, gently, as if holding something precious, and buries his face right into them.
“That's my good Maxie,” you coo with your hand in his hair. You get a happy purr from him when you breathe in deeply, your chest rising. His nose is nestled between the swell of your breasts and he almost can smell your heartbeat, taste the creamy thud on his tongue.
He licks you, the salt on your skin like an amuse bouche, the first little treat in a line of more tasty courses. Open mouthed, flat tongued, prickly fanged he moves over your flesh, his thumb rubbing over your nipple and making it stiff.
He pinches it, tugs at the bud until you wince and until he can hear you clench around nothing. Yeah, he fucking loves his hightened vampire senses.
“Want you,” he slurs with his tongue kitten licking the other nipple, coaxing it to tighten and peak, “feed me!”
They are sensitive, hurting even. He knows it, your muscles twitch with every lick and every tweak. And when he closes his lips around your nipple, you suck in air and hold it deep in your lungs.
With his hands on your tits, Max settles on top of you. He loves this, your warm, soft flesh almost spilling through his fingers, the weight of them perfectly resting in his palms. He loves how sore your nipples taste. Because he licks them so often, sucks on them, suckles himself into a state of sleepy horniness every night.
It soothes you, too, despite the pain. Something inside of you always kicks in, something embarrassingly motherly. But when you hear him smack his lips, the sound of him swallowing his own saliva and your–
“Ow…” you hiss when his teeth cut through your skin, and he is still sucking your nipple into his mouth. A gulp, a purr, his hands kneading your breasts now in an attempt to increase the blood flow.
“Maxie.” A sigh falls from your lips, somewhere between affection and lightheadedness.
He lifts his head a little bit, slowly sucking on your tit, drinking your blood. But his big brown eyes, the shine in them… Perhaps it’s some vampire poison that lets you have these thoughts, but he almost looks like he really cares for you, beyond the blood and breasts.
Another purr comes from him and when he moves to the other breast. Long threads of his spit mixed with your blood dribble from his lips. Max is messy on purpose. He likes the way you look like this, skin glistening like tart cherries, plump and sour and sweet on the tip of his tongue.
Max likes the feel, too. His hands press your breasts together and rub them to spread the bloody drool before you feel a sting around your other stiff peak and the wet heat of his tongue. This time the suction and slight pain makes you moan. The grip in his hair tightens and when you push him closer Max obliges happily.
Closer and more. That is all that is on his mind. Before you it was only ever more. But with you? He wants to be closer. On your skin, under your skin. And he wants you under his skin, too. In his bloodstream, flooding every cell in his body, running through his veins and heart and brain and dick.
“Fucking need you,” Max mutters, fangs and tongue still half-way latched onto your tit. He is hard, digging into your thigh with every roll of his hip. He pushes himself up enough to watch how his saliva slickens your chest, combining with the tiny drops of scarlet blood, running from around your nipples.
You only notice that he isn’t wearing his pants anymore when he’s straddling you again. Crouching over you, he makes the backseat feel even more cramped. Max’ thighs cage you in, his skin cold against you, but it’s the look on his face that sends a shiver down your spine.
Blood is trickling from the corners of his mouth, with his fangs on full display. He knows he looks like a monster. He is a monster. One with a hard cock begging to be taken care of. You’re already reaching for him, looking hungry for him.
“Don’t, sugar tits. Just relax. Look pretty,” he says and spits in his hand. “Can you do that for me?”
You watch him wrap his fingers around his cock and stroking himself. He is impatient, you can tell by the way he squeezes himself and his nostrils flare again. You’re quick, appeasing the beast with a nod.
“I'll look extra pretty. And Maxie?” Your hands cup your tits now, and you pinch your sore nipples with a wince.
The leather of the seats creaks under his knees when he shifts, bringing his cock between your breasts. The sight alone lets Max moan. He tears his gaze away and looks back at you. Eyes half-lidded, your lip sucked between your teeth, the tiniest frown on your face because you’re aching for him. He can smell it.
“What is it, sugar tits?
“Fuck my tits real good.” You push your breast together, burying him between them. Smirking. Knowing exactly how to pull on his strings to make him lose it.
Max just scoffs, As if he ever doesn’t fuck you good. He pulls back and, with a groan, pushes his throbbing length in between your blood and spit slicked tits. You’re so warm and soft and wet. Not as tight as your pussy and so different to your mouth and ass. But nothing matches the look of your bloody tits and hands. And the look of his cock, covered in a mixture of spit and blood and his leaking precum. Max loves to see his tip appear and disappear again from between your breasts squished together. And he loves that sound, this distinct wet sound of fucking your tits, so sloppy and slippery.
He could take his time. He could make sure that you enjoy it too, with his hand between your legs maybe. But he doesn’t. He'll make it quick, because you’re hurting, basically folded in half on the backseat. Max will take his time later, with you in his bed and his fingers in your pussy, then his tongue, then his cock, then his tongue again. Fuck, he really is soft for you.
With his hands clutching the seats he picks up the pace. Each stroke drags his balls back and forth over your skin, your sternum deliciously hard beneath every inch of his cock while there is still blood oozing from the bite marks he left on your nipples.
“So pretty like that,” he rasps between thrusts, whining when he sees you pinching your nipples again. “Best tits I ever had. Best. Fucking. Tits.”
The tinted windows start fogging up, the air inside the car becomes stale. It doesn’t need the senses of a supernatural bloodsucker to smell it. The iron stench, the precum, the spit, the arousal leaking out of you while you're rubbing your legs together. You love the tender Max, who sometimes peeks through in silent moments, but you also love him like this: raw, messy, needy. The perfect excuse to be nasty yourself.
”Cum in my mouth, Maxie,” you breathe softly, already licking your lips. “Cum down my throat.”
He snarls, lips twitching to bare his fangs as he tries to not lose all of his restraint. He never told you, and never will, but this is the hardest part. To keep himself human enough when you are feeding into the beast he is. Especially now. With your fingers kneading your breasts, smearing your own blood on them, keeping them pressed together so he can fuck himself stupid between your tits.
“No,” is all he manages to spit out, his hips stuttering now. “Fuck, sugar tits. Gonna cum.”
He hears you clench, hears the soft squelch of your soaked panties cutting through your folds so you get some kind of pressure on your clit. He smells it. Smells whatever was left of his last load trickling out of you. Jesus fucking Christ, you didn’t even clean yourself up since last night?
That does it for him, and with a howl he spills himself on your chest. Pearly white mixing with the scarlet that’s already coating your skin, his cum spouting up to your neck and chin. Max keeps thrusting until the rush ebbs away. He swallows thickly, admiring his work that almost looks like a Jackson Pollock, painted on your tits. Signed by the artist himself, with bite marks all over them.
Pulling back and yanking your hands away so he can get to his second favorite part: cleaning up. Tasting himself and you. Gathering his spent first with his fingers and then his tongue, he starts licking and slurping, lapping broad stripes up from between the valley of your breast to your collarbones. Licking over your nipples, just because he loves them so perky and sore, cleaning up the last drops of your blood. Saving up a small pool of his now red tinted cum.
“Want some, sugar tits?” He looks up, eyes dark and shimmering, his lips and chin and cheeks having a wet sheen. You just nod your head, opening your mouth and waiting for his fingers, dipped in cum.
But he leans down instead, licking the last remains of his load into his mouth and moving up to hover over your face. He smirks, fucking smirks at you, wiggling his brows and then spits his cum into your waiting mouth.
You swallow him down, the distinct taste of both of you spreading on your tongue.
“Menace,” you murmur, your head lolling back onto the backseat. You need a moment. The thought of actually driving now lets you groan.
“Funny way of saying ‘thank you’,” he teases, his sharp edges softening a bit. “Here…”
He finds the wet wipes you have stored under the seats and starts cleaning you up, then he opens the wrapper of a granola bar and pops pieces of it into your mouth. “Your blood sugar is too low, sugar tits. You taste awful.”
“Funny way of saying you care about me.”
“Shut up. I don't,” Max hisses and scowls. And feeds you another piece of granola bar. “Just making sure my blood bag is kept alive.”
“Sure, Max,” you roll your eyes and close your bra and blouse with a few winces. He nudges your leg, bottom lip jutting out in a bratty pout.
“Sure, Maxie,” you correct and sit up.
His pout dissolves in a toothy grin.
“That's more like it. Now move your ass and do your job, sugar tits. Drive your boss home, chop chop.”
✨comment or reblog so Max calls you sugar tits, too. you know you want him to. 😌
in my work of fanfiction i am going to hold the villain responsible for their actions by making them have sex with the person they tried to kill, which will effectively address all the relevant moral issues by being hot.
