*thinks about OCs* *Thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *Thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS ABOUT OCS* *thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCS* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks ABOUT OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *Thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *Thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS ABOUT OCS* *thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCS* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks ABOUT OCs* *thinks about OCs*
hii, are you willing to make more law x reader someday?
Yes, absolutely. I’ll definitely write more Law x reader at some point.
That being said, I already have quite a few Law requests waiting, and I don’t want my blog to turn into the Trafalgar Law Industrial Complex overnight. I love writing him, but I also need a little variety so my brain doesn’t dissolve.
So yes, more Law will happen, just probably not several Law fics back to back. I’d also love to get requests for other characters, especially ones I haven’t written for yet or who aren’t on my masterlist.
I’ve been writing mostly for my OCs in private lately, so I’ve been a little away from the general fanfic side of things.
I’d like to interact more here again and get a better feeling for what people actually enjoy reading from me, so:
What would you like to see more of?
hard smut / filthy requests
fluff / soft comfort
angst / emotional damage
hurt & comfort
domestic scenarios
domestic scenarios + smut
slow burn / tension / yearning
jealous / possessive / toxic dynamics
character rambles & headcanons
short thirsts
long reads
anything, I just like reading
Voting ended onJun 30
Also, my asks/requests are open for pretty much everything, so feel free to come bother me. Characters, headcanons, smut, fluff, angst, random thoughts, anything. I want to yap more.
If this poll somehow found you before my profile did, feel free to snoop around a little. Maybe you’ll find something you like reading.
Law came back to the cabin looking like someone had carefully removed every working part of him and left the attitude behind out of spite.
He shut the door with his heel, Kikoku still in hand, hat low over his eyes. His shoulders were tight. His jaw was worse. There was blood on his sleeve that probably wasn’t his, which meant he would ignore it until someone else made it inconvenient.
You were already on his bed with one of his blankets over your legs, reading a book you had stopped pretending to care about twenty minutes ago.
“You look charming,” you said.
Law gave you a flat look. “Don’t start.”
“That bad?”
He set Kikoku against the wall with too much care. “No.”
So yes.
You put the book aside and stood. He watched you like he expected you to ask him what happened, and you didn’t. You just took his hat off, placed it on the desk, and reached up to push your fingers through his hair.
For a second, he stayed perfectly still, then his eyes shut.
“You’re eating,” you said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re eating.”
“I’m your captain.”
“And I’m very impressed. Sit down.”
His mouth twitched like he wanted to argue, but he was too tired to make it worth the effort. He sat on the edge of the bed while you brought him the bowl from the little warmer you had stolen from the galley. Rice, broth, fish. Nothing fancy. Nothing heavy.
Law stared at it. “You poisoned this?”
“I considered it, but Bepo looked sad.”
“Mm. Weak.”
You sat beside him and held the bowl until he took it. He ate slowly at first, like he was doing it only to shut you up. You kept your fingers in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp between pauses, and the longer you did it, the more his posture sank.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Enough for you.
There were entire confessions in the way Law accepted being touched without making a miserable comment about it.
When the bowl was empty, you took it from him and placed it aside. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face hidden in his hands. You kept stroking his hair.
Neither of you said anything for a while.
The Polar Tang hummed around you, deep and steady under the sea. The sound filled the room, safer than silence, gentler than the things neither of you wanted to name.
Eventually he turned his head just enough that his cheek rested against your thigh.
You looked down at him. “That’s new.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re cuddling my leg.”
“I’m resting.”
“On me.”
“Mm.”
You smiled, but you didn’t tease him further. Your fingers slid through his hair again, slower now, nails barely touching his scalp. He exhaled through his nose, quiet and rough.
It should not have felt intimate, but it did.
He turned his face slightly, and his lips brushed the inside of your wrist.
You stopped breathing for half a second.
His eyes opened, sharp even half-dead with exhaustion. For a moment, he looked at your wrist like he hadn’t meant to do that. Like his body had moved before his control returned.
Then, because he was impossible, he did it again.
A warmer kiss.
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Law.”
“Problem?”
His voice was low, tired, almost bored. You hated him a little. “No.”
“Then stop looking offended.”
“I’m not offended.”
“You look like you’re trying to decide whether to hit me or climb me.”
You stared at him. He looked back, deadpan, mouth barely curved.
“You’re the worst man alive.”
“Probably.”
Then he kissed your palm. Not quickly. Not as a joke. His mouth pressed there like he was testing your pulse, your patience, both.
Heat crawled up your arm.
He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. His eyes were dark, shadowed from lack of sleep, but clearer now. More present. More dangerous in the quiet way.
“You’re still thinking too loudly,” he murmured.
“I’m thinking you should sleep.”
“I was.”
“You were kissing my hand.”
“Multitasking.”
You laughed under your breath, and something in his face changed. He reached for you then, one hand closing around your hip, and pulled you down with him under the blanket. It was clumsy only because he was exhausted. Law being clumsy felt illegal.
You ended up half beside him, half on him, your knee between his legs, his arm around your waist. The blanket slipped over both of you, trapping heat fast.
“This is a terrible sleeping position,” you said.
“Then leave.”
His hand spread over your back and held you there.
You looked down at him. “You are very bad at bluffing.”
“I’m excellent at bluffing.”
“You’re literally holding me hostage.”
“You’re not resisting.”
Fair.
His mouth found your wrist again, then your forearm, slow little kisses that did not match the sharpness of his face at all. You watched him do it, feeling each one settle lower in your stomach.
Comfort turned strange that way. One moment you were keeping him together. The next, his lips were on your skin and the air was too warm and his hand had slipped beneath the back of your shirt.
His fingers were ice cold.
Law’s mouth twitched against your arm. “Sensitive?”
“Your hands are freezing.”
“I’m a doctor.”
“That explains nothing.”
“It explains enough.”
His hand flattened against your lower back, then slid up, warmer now from your skin. He touched you like he was still trying not to ask for anything. Like he could make this practical if he moved carefully enough.
You leaned down and kissed him.
That broke the last useful thought in the room.
He kissed back slowly at first, his mouth firm and tired, one hand cupping the back of your neck. Then your fingers tugged lightly in his hair and he made a sound so low you almost missed it.
You didn‘t miss the way his grip tightened.
“Do that again,” he said against your mouth.
You smiled. “Ask nicer.”
His eyes opened. Exhausted, half-wrecked, still somehow arrogant enough to ruin your life. “You’re warm, fed, and in my bed,” he said. “Don’t get ambitious.”
“You dragged me here.”
“I made a medical decision.”
“Was kissing my palm also medical?”
“Your circulation looked poor.”
You laughed, and he kissed you harder to shut you up.
His hand slid under your shirt again, and this time he didn’t stop at your back. His palm moved over your waist, your ribs, then higher, dragging heat after it. He gave you just enough time to pull away. His thumb brushed under your breast, light enough to be cruel.
Your breath caught.
Law’s mouth paused against yours. “Still fine?” he asked, quiet now.
You nodded once.
His eyes narrowed. “Words.”
“Yes,” you said. “Still fine.”
Then his hand covered you properly, and the sound that left you was embarrassingly soft.
He kissed your jaw, your throat, the spot below your ear, while his thumb moved slowly over your nipple through the thin fabric. Not rushed. Not sloppy. Precise enough to make your hips shift without permission.
His thigh slid between yours under the blanket, pressing up just enough to make you tense.
You broke the kiss with a shaky breath. “Law.”
“I know.”
That was the problem. He always knew.
His hand left your chest and slid down over your stomach. Slow. Warm now. His fingers traced the waistband of your shorts like he was considering the most annoying possible way to take you apart.
You grabbed his wrist. He stopped immediately. For half a second, his face went still. Careful. Too careful. Then you guided his hand lower.
“Brat,” he murmured.
“You were taking too long.”
“I was being considerate.”
“You were being evil.”
“That too.”
His fingers slipped beneath the fabric.
Your whole body went hot.
Law watched your face as he touched you over your panties first, slow pressure between your thighs, finding the wet warmth there. His mouth parted slightly, the smallest crack in his composure.
“You’re soaked,” he said, low.
Your face burned. “Don’t sound surprised.”
“I’m not.”
“You sound proud.”
“I am.”
You should have had a comeback. You did not. Because his fingers moved, and the blanket made everything worse. The heat. The closeness. The tiny space where every breath hit his mouth and every movement rubbed your body against his. His hand stayed steady between your thighs, stroking you through the damp fabric, watching you try not to fall apart too quickly.
“You’re quiet now,” he said.
“I hate you.”
“Mm. Of course.”
His fingers pushed your panties aside and your nails dug into his shoulder.
He exhaled once, controlled but rough, when he felt you bare. His fingers slid through you slowly, gathering slick heat before circling your clit with the kind of patience that made you want to bite him.
You buried your face against his neck.
He let you for exactly three seconds, then his free hand caught your jaw and tilted your face back. “Don’t hide.”
“You are annoying.”
“You knew that already.” His fingers circled again, a little firmer, and your hips rocked into his hand.
That made his eyes drop. There was something devastatingly hot about him like this. Still tired. Still half-dressed. Still acting like he had control while his breathing slowly betrayed him. His hair was messy from your fingers. His shirt was wrinkled. His gaze kept moving between your face and the shape of your body shifting under the blanket.
He touched you like he had all the time in the world. Like the world outside his cabin had finally shut up.
When one finger slipped inside you, your breath snapped.
Law kissed the corner of your mouth. “There?”
You nodded.
“Words.”
“Yes.”
His mouth brushed yours. “Good.”
He worked you open slowly, one finger at first, then two, his palm pressed against your clit with every shallow thrust. Not rough. Not gentle either. Intentional. The kind of touch that made your thighs tighten around his wrist.
“You’re making this difficult,” he muttered.
You laughed breathlessly. “For you?”
“For my self-control.”
Your eyes opened, and for once you caught him before he could hide it. The hunger in his face. The strain in his jaw. The way his hips had shifted closer without him seeming to notice.
“Oh,” you whispered.
“Don’t.”
“You’re turned on.”
His stare went flat. “Excellent medical deduction.”
“You’re really turned on.”
“You want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Then stop talking.”
But you felt him against your thigh now, hard and hot through his clothes, and the knowledge made your body clench around his fingers.
Law inhaled. His eyes sharpened. “You did that on purpose.”
“I didn’t.”
“Liar.”
His fingers curled inside you.
You gasped, hand flying to his shoulder, and his mouth found your throat again. He kissed you there messily now, less controlled, teeth grazing skin as his fingers kept their slow, ruthless pace.
Under the blanket, your hips moved against his hand. His palm rubbed your clit every time his fingers pushed deeper. You were hot everywhere, trapped between his body and the blanket and his voice near your ear.
“You’re close,” he said.
You hated how calm he sounded.
You hated more that he was right. “Shut up.”
“Very close.”
“Law.”
“Mm.”
A laugh broke out of you, shaky and breathless, and he kissed it straight from your mouth. His fingers moved faster then. Just enough. The angle changed, his thumb pressing directly against your clit, and your body went tight.
You grabbed his hair and he groaned, not a neat little sound. Not controlled. Low, rough, dragged out of him before he could stop it.
That was what pushed you over.
You came against his hand with your face pressed into his neck, trying to keep quiet and failing in small, broken sounds. Law held you through it, fingers slowing but not stopping too fast, his mouth at your temple, his voice low and close.
“There,” he murmured. “That’s it.”
Your whole body shuddered.
“You’re evil,” you whispered again, weaker this time.
His lips brushed your hair. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
He was quiet for a moment. His fingers slipped out of you slowly, and you felt the loss of them in a way that made your stomach twist. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you.
The exhaustion was still there, but underneath it was something rawer. Needier. Law, caught between wanting to pretend he was unaffected and being very obviously affected.
You looked down. His belt was still fastened. His shirt still buttoned. He looked unfairly composed for someone who had just ruined you with his hand. “That seems unbalanced,” you said.
His mouth twitched. “You’re recovering fast.”
“I’m talented.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You’re hard.”
The silence after that was deeply satisfying. Law stared at you.
You smiled.
For once, he did not have an immediate answer. Then his hand caught your waist and pulled you closer until your thigh pressed between his legs. He shut his eyes for one second, jaw flexing.
You moved against him lightly.
He sucked in a breath.
“Oh,” you said softly. “Sensitive?”
His eyes opened. “Careful.”
“No.”
“No?”
You reached down between you and worked his belt open under the blanket. Your fingers were less elegant than his, mostly because your hands were still shaking. Law watched you struggle for three seconds before looking personally offended.
“You’re going to break it.”
“I am not.”
“You’re attacking it.”
“It’s dark under here.”
“It’s a belt, not an enemy.”
“Help or shut up.”
He huffed a tired laugh and helped, undoing it with one hand like an irritating show-off. You pushed his pants open just enough to slip your hand inside.
The moment your fingers wrapped around him, his entire body went still.
He was hot in your hand, hard and heavy, and the sound he made when you stroked him once was almost silent. Almost.
You kissed his jaw. “There?”
His eyes cut to yours. “Don’t start.”
You stroked him again, slower, and his forehead dropped briefly against yours.
That shut both of you up.
The room got quiet except for breathing. Yours uneven. His controlled until it wasn’t. Your hand moved beneath the blanket, fingers sliding over him, learning what made his mouth tighten, what made his hips shift, what made his grip on your waist go almost too firm before he forced himself to ease up.
He was beautiful like this in the worst way. Still trying to hold himself together while letting you touch him. Still trying to be Law about it, even with his breath breaking against your mouth.
You kissed him softly.
He kissed back harder. His hand returned between your thighs, slick fingers finding you again, and you jolted. “You’re sensitive,” he murmured.
“I just came.”
His mouth curved faintly. “You’re welcome.”
You squeezed him in warning.
His smugness died immediately.
Worth it.
He groaned against your mouth, hips pushing into your hand before he could stop himself. His fingers pressed against your clit again, slower now, less calculated, more distracted. That made it hotter. Law losing precision because your hand was around his cock felt like something you should put in a museum.
A terrible museum.
For horrible people.
You moved together under the blanket, messy in a quiet way. Your hand stroking him. His fingers rubbing you. His mouth dragging over yours, then your cheek, then your throat. Neither of you fully undressed. Neither of you needed to. It felt almost more intimate like this, half-hidden and overheated, clinging to each other in the small private dark.
His voice dropped near your ear. “Can you come again?”
Your stomach clenched. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“You’re very demanding for a man I fed rice to.”
His laugh was barely there, rough and low. “Answer.”
“Yes.”
His hand changed pace.
He kissed your cheek like he was pleased with himself and too tired to pretend otherwise.
The second time built slower, deeper, your body still oversensitive from the first. He kept touching you like he knew exactly how much you could take, while your hand grew slick around him from his own precum. His breathing got worse. His jaw pressed against your temple. His hips started moving into your fist in short, restrained thrusts.
“Law,” you whispered.
His fingers stilled for half a second. Not stopped. Checked.
You nodded quickly against him. “Keep going.”
He did. Your legs tightened around his hand again. The blanket had slipped down to your hips, but neither of you cared. Your shirt was pushed up. His pants were open. Everything was too warm, too close, too much.
And still, somehow, soft.
Because his other hand was in your hair. Because his mouth kept brushing your forehead between kisses.
Because even while he was touching you like he wanted to ruin you, he held you like something precious he would rather die than name.
You came again with a broken little sound against his mouth.
This time Law followed almost immediately. His body went tense, his hand closing hard around your hip as he came into your fist with a rough, muffled groan. His face pressed into your neck, breath hot against your skin. For a few seconds, he did not move at all.
You held him through it, fingers gentle now.
His breathing slowly evened out. “Messy.”
You laughed, exhausted and warm. “That’s your first comment?”
“It’s accurate.”
“You’re romantic.”
“I’m tired.”
“You came on my hand.”
“You were involved.”
“You’re stupid.”
His mouth brushed your shoulder. “You’ve said that too.”
“And I’ll keep saying it.”
He shifted carefully, cleaned you both up with a towel from beside the bed. He was efficient about it, but his touch had gone softer. Almost shy, if Law could ever be accused of such a thing without committing murder.
When he settled back down, he pulled the blanket over you both again. You ended up against his chest, your leg tangled with his, your hand resting over his ribs. His heartbeat was slower now. Heavy. Human. He held your wrist for a while, thumb moving over the inside of it.
You thought he was asleep.
Then he murmured, “You’re still not allowed to tell anyone I cuddled you.”
“You didn’t cuddle me.”
“Good.”
“You medically restrained me under a blanket and then got me off twice.”
His chest moved with a quiet laugh. “Accurate.”
You smiled against him, boneless and warm. After a long silence, his hand slid up to the back of your head. He held you there, not tightly. Just enough.
“Thank you,” he said.
It was so quiet you almost pretended not to hear it.
You kissed the side of his throat. “Anytime, Captain.”
“Don’t call me that in bed.”
“Oh, you like it.”
“I don‘t like it.”
“You’re lying.”
He sighed, but his arm tightened around you.
Later, he woke you up with his mouth already against your neck and his hand flat on your stomach.
Not soft. Not sweet. Possessive and warm, his fingers spread under your shirt like he had been holding you there for a while and had only just decided to make it your problem.
You opened your eyes into the dark cabin.
Everything hummed low around you. The walls were thin. Too thin. Somewhere outside, metal creaked, pipes clicked, and the ship sounded alive in the worst possible way.
Law’s mouth moved against your skin. “You awake?” he murmured.
You swallowed. “No.”
His teeth grazed the side of your neck. “Liar.”
You shifted back against him just enough to feel him hard behind you.
His hand stopped moving. For one long second, neither of you breathed right, then his fingers tightened at your waist. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
“I’m sleeping.”
“You’re bad at it.”
“You woke me up.”
“You moved first.”
“You were touching me first.”
His mouth brushed your ear. “I was checking your pulse.”
“At my waist?”
“You’re alive, aren’t you?”
You almost laughed, but then his hand slid lower, over your hip, dragging you back against him with enough pressure to make your breath catch.
Law heard it. His voice dropped, mean and quiet. “Careful.”
You turned your face halfway toward him. “Or what?”
That was the mistake. His hand came up and covered your mouth before you could say anything else. Firm. Just enough to remind you exactly where you were, exactly who slept outside that door, exactly how much trouble you were in.
“Or you’ll wake someone,” he murmured. “And I’ll make you explain why you can’t behave.”
Your stomach tightened hard. His eyes caught yours in the dark. “Yeah,” he said, too calm. “That’s what I thought.”
You made a muffled sound against his palm.
Law’s mouth twitched. “Still mouthy. Impressive.”
Then he moved. The blanket shifted over both of you as he slid down your body, disappearing beneath it. Heat flooded your face before his hands even reached your thighs.
“Law,” you whispered.
His answer came from under the blanket, low and dry. “Lower.”
Your fingers twisted in the sheets. “Law.”
“Better.”
His hands pushed your thighs apart, not gently, not cruelly. Just with that controlled strength that made your body obey before your pride could complain. His mouth pressed to the inside of your thigh first, slow and hot, then higher.
You grabbed the blanket. He kissed you once over the thin fabric of your panties. You jolted.
He huffed against you. “Sensitive.”
“You’re annoying.”
His fingers hooked into the waistband and dragged it down just enough. “Still talking.” Then his mouth was on you.
Your head fell back into the pillow, breath breaking immediately.
He did not ease into it. He ate you out like he had woken up starving and decided manners were a disease. His hands gripped your thighs under the blanket, holding you open while his tongue dragged through you slow, then deep, then mean. He was quiet about it except for the low sound in his throat when he tasted how wet you were.
The sound alone almost ruined you, so you bit your knuckle.
One hand left your thigh and pushed your wrist away. His fingers laced with yours instead, pinning your hand beside your hip under the blanket.
“No hiding,” he murmured against you.
“Then let me be loud.”
His mouth paused. The silence under the blanket felt dangerous. Then he gave a low, humorless laugh.
“You really want to embarrass yourself that badly?”
Your whole body burned.
He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth returned to you, hotter, wetter, filthier. His tongue circled your clit with awful patience before he sucked lightly, just enough to make your hips jerk into his face.
His grip turned bruising. “Don’t move.”
“You’re under the blanket eating me out,” you whispered, breathless. “And you’re giving orders?”
His eyes flicked up from between your thighs. Even in the dark, you felt that stare.
“Yes.”
Then he lowered his mouth again and made you regret being funny.
You were close too fast. Embarrassingly fast. It climbed sharp and hot through your stomach, your legs shaking around his shoulders, your fingers gripping his hair beneath the blanket. He groaned when you pulled, and the vibration went straight through you.
“Law—”
Voices passed outside.
Both of you froze. You stopped breathing. Law went still between your legs, mouth still close enough that you could feel every exhale against your soaked skin.
Two crew members walked past the door, speaking quietly. Too close. Too awake.
You stared at the ceiling, one hand clamped over your own mouth.
Under the blanket, Law’s fingers dug into your thighs.
The voices slowed. For one horrible second, you thought they would stop. Then the footsteps continued down the corridor. Their voices faded. The ship hummed again. Silence settled.
Law did not move for another few seconds, then his mouth pressed one slow kiss to the inside of your thigh.
You whispered, shaky and furious, “You didn’t let me finish.”
He emerged from under the blanket just enough for you to see his face. His mouth was wet. His hair was a mess. His eyes were dark in that flat, devastating way that made him look meaner than he actually was.
“I wasn’t trying to make you finish.”
Your brain stalled. “Huh?”
His hand slid up your thigh. “I wanted to taste you.”
You stared at him. He looked completely serious.
“Do you ever hear yourself?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You’re disgusting.”
His mouth curved faintly. “You’re wet.”
You had no response ready for that. He kissed your stomach once, over your shirt, then climbed over you with an efficiency that should not have been attractive. His hand caught your hip.
“Turn over.”
Your pulse jumped. “Ask nicely.”
Law’s eyes narrowed. Then he leaned in, mouth beside your ear. “Turn over before I decide you don’t get to come at all.”
You huffed and turned. Fast enough that you heard him exhale a quiet laugh behind you.
“Asshole.”
“I’m about to fuck you into the mattress and you’re still insulting me.”
“You started it.”
“I’m going to finish it.”
He pushed you flat onto your stomach, hand between your shoulder blades, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. Your legs were pressed together beneath him, thighs tight, body stretched out under the blanket. He straddled them from behind, knees bracketing your legs, trapping you in place with his weight.
The position made you feel pinned before he even touched you.
It made you quiet.
Law noticed that too. His palm slid down your spine, slow, possessive. “There,” he murmured. “Finally learned something.”
You turned your face into the pillow. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” His hand slid beneath you, finding you between your pressed thighs. He felt how wet you still were from his mouth and went still for a second.
Then his voice dropped. “Still dripping.”
You squeezed your eyes shut. “Stop talking.”
“No.”
He leaned over you, chest against your back, and his arm slid around your throat, forearm firm across your upper chest and collarbone, hand gripping your shoulder, holding you exactly where he wanted you. Your breath hitched anyway.
Law’s mouth brushed your ear. “Tap twice if it’s too much.”
Your hand found his wrist. You tapped once just to be annoying.
He went still, then you dragged his arm tighter around you. “Bad idea,” he whispered.
“Then stop.”
He did not. His other hand disappeared between you, belt shifting, fabric dragged down just enough. You felt him press against you from behind, hard and hot, sliding between your thighs first, coating himself in how wet you were.
Your fingers curled into the sheet. “Law.”
His hand came over your mouth again. “Quiet.”
Then he pushed in.
The angle stole your breath.
Because your legs were together, because he had you pinned flat, because he was above you and around you and everywhere, he felt deeper than before. Tighter. Hotter. You made a broken sound into his palm and his arm locked more firmly across your chest.
He stopped halfway in, forehead dropping against the back of your head. “Fuck,” he breathed, so low it barely had sound.
You clenched around him. His hand tightened over your mouth.
“Don’t.”
So you did it again.
Law went silent, then laughed once, dark and breathless.
“You really are asking for it.”
He drove in the rest of the way. Your body jolted under him, trapped between his chest and the mattress. His hand swallowed the sound you made. The blanket hid the movement, held in the heat, made every thrust feel secret and filthy and too close.
He didn’t fuck you fast at first.
He fucked you hard.
Slow, deep, punishing thrusts that made your thighs tremble together under his weight. His arm stayed around your throat, holding you up just enough that your back arched beneath him. His mouth hovered near your ear, breath rougher than he probably wanted it to be.
“There,” he murmured. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
You nodded against his hand.
His hips snapped forward again. “Of course it was.”
Your eyes rolled shut.
“Look at you,” he said, voice low and mean. “Couldn’t stay quiet from my mouth, and now you’re trying to take this without waking half the ship.”
You whimpered into his palm.
He slowed just to make it worse. “That was not quiet.”
You bit lightly at his hand.
His rhythm faltered. Barely.
But you felt it.
Law’s mouth pressed to your temple. “Careful,” he whispered. “I’m already being nice.”
You almost laughed. It came out as a muffled sob when he started moving again, rougher now, hips grinding deep every time he buried himself inside you. The pressure of your legs together made everything tighter, every stroke dragging against your clit through the way he had you pinned.
It was unbearable.
He knew. He had to know. His hand slipped from your mouth only long enough to catch your jaw and turn your face slightly.
“Breathe.”
You dragged in air.
“Good.” Then his palm covered your mouth again. It should not have been sweet. It wasn’t, not really. But there was something in the way he kept checking, kept holding you together while taking you apart, that made your chest ache under all the heat.
Law’s voice roughened near your ear. “You can take it.”
Your nails dug into his wrist.
“You can,” he repeated. “You’re doing it.” A hard thrust made your whole body jolt. “Quietly.” You made a desperate noise into his palm. His breath shook. “Mostly.”
That almost ruined you. The dry little correction. His voice half-wrecked, still somehow sarcastic while fucking you into the mattress under a blanket with people sleeping down the corridor.
You pushed back against him as much as you could.
Law’s grip turned rough. “Greedy.”
You nodded.
“Yeah?” His mouth brushed your ear. “That all you wanted? Me pinning you down so you’d finally stop pretending you don’t like being handled?”
Your body clenched hard around him.
He cursed under his breath. “Thought so.”
His thrusts got rougher then. Less patient. His chest stayed pressed to your back, his arm around your throat, his hand over your mouth. You were completely trapped under him, legs together, body pinned flat, taking every deep stroke while the bed barely creaked beneath the blanket.
He was trying to keep it quiet.
That made it hotter, because you felt how much effort it took him. The strain in his arm. The way his breathing kept catching. The way his hips wanted to move faster but he forced them into deep, controlled thrusts instead.
“You’re close,” he said.
You nodded quickly. His hand slid from your mouth to your throat for half a second, just to hold your jaw, to keep your face turned enough that he could see you.
“Not loud.”
You swallowed. “Then don’t make me come.”
His eyes darkened. Wrong answer. His hand returned to your mouth, and his other arm tightened across your chest.
“I told you,” he murmured. “Brat.”
Then his hips changed angle.
Your whole body went rigid.
He had found exactly the spot he wanted, and because he was Law, because he was cruel when he was right, he kept hitting it. Again. And again. Deep and rough and controlled, his mouth at your ear, talking you through every second like he could feel your mind slipping apart under him.
“There. That’s it.”
You shook beneath him.
“Don’t fight it.”
Your fingers clawed at the sheet.
“Just stay quiet.”
You came with his hand clamped over your mouth and his arm locked around you, the orgasm tearing through you hard enough that your body tried to curl under his. He held you down through it. Kept you flat. Kept fucking you while you pulsed around him, every sound trapped against his palm.
Law groaned into your shoulder. Not quiet enough. Not nearly as composed as he wanted to be.
You heard it and clenched again, that made hips stutter.
“Don’t,” he rasped.
You did. His control snapped in a way you felt more than saw. His thrusts turned shorter, harder, less even. His face buried against your neck, teeth grazing your skin, breath hot and broken. “You’re unbearable,” he muttered.
You made a muffled sound that might have been a laugh.
His hand pressed more firmly over your mouth. “Still not funny.”
It was absolutely funny.
Then he drove into you deep and stayed there, his whole body tensing over yours as he came with a rough, smothered sound against your shoulder. His arm around your throat held you close while he shook twice, breathing harshly into your skin.
For a while, neither of you moved.
The cabin was silent except for both of you trying to remember how to breathe like normal people.
Then another set of footsteps passed outside.
He froze instantly. So did you. His hand was still over your mouth. He was still inside you. The footsteps paused.
Your eyes went wide. Law slowly turned his head toward the door, expression murderous in the dark.
Someone outside yawned, then kept walking. The footsteps faded.
You started shaking beneath him. Not from fear. From trying not to laugh.
Law’s hand tightened over your mouth, but his own breath hitched once near your ear. “Do not,” he whispered.
You shook harder.
He pulled out slowly, and you both winced. He cleaned you up with infuriating efficiency, still under the blanket, still half-dressed, still trying to look like he had not just lost several pieces of his sanity. Then he dragged you back against him, your back to his chest, his arm around your waist this time.
Much safer. Much less threatening. Still possessive.
You whispered, “You didn’t make me explain.”
His mouth brushed the back of your neck. “Next time.”
Your stomach flipped. “You covered my mouth.”
“And you still almost got us caught.”
You smiled into the pillow. Law exhaled slowly behind you, then pressed one quiet kiss to your shoulder. Soft enough to make the whole thing worse. After a moment, he muttered, “You okay?”
You reached back and touched his wrist. “Yeah.”
His fingers laced with yours. “Good.”
Morning on the ship was usually quiet in a way that felt medical. Dim lights. Low engine hum. People speaking in tired voices because being loud before coffee was how accidents happened.
Law walked into the galley looking like death had filed a complaint against him and lost. Hat on. Shirt buttoned. Face blank.
Completely normal.
You were already at the table with your cup in both hands, trying to look like a person who had slept. You had not. Not properly. Your legs still felt suspicious. Your throat had one spot that made you want to slap him and kiss him every time you swallowed.
Law did not look at you first. That was how you knew he was looking at you.
Bepo was making breakfast with too much cheer for the hour. Shachi and Penguin were half-dead over their plates. Ikkaku was reading something and pretending she was not watching the room with deeply feminine intuition.
Law sat across from you. Calmly. Like he had not had his hand over your mouth a few hours ago because you were both idiots in a submarine full of people with ears.
“Morning, Captain,” Penguin mumbled.
“Morning,” Law said. His voice was normal.
Terrible man.
You lifted your cup to hide your mouth.
Law reached for the coffee pot, then stopped. Just for half a second. Barely anything. His fingers flexed around the handle.
You noticed because you were a bad person. A ruined person. A person with evidence.
His hand was close to his face, and he had smelled it. Not strongly. Not obviously. Just enough.
His eyes went flat.
Oh.
Oh no.
You looked down into your cup so fast your neck nearly cracked.
Law poured his coffee with terrifying precision.
You were going to die.
Not from shame. From trying not to laugh.
He set the pot down. His thumb brushed once over his index finger, like he was trying to decide whether his own hand was guilty of a crime.
It was.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
Across the table, Law’s gaze flicked to you. Sharp. Warning.
You widened your eyes innocently.
His jaw tightened. That was when it got worse. He took a sip of coffee. Then his chin dipped slightly, and the faint shadow of his beard brushed the rim of the mug.
His whole face changed by exactly nothing.
But you saw it.
He smelled you there too. On his own skin. From last night. From under the blanket. From the way he had buried his face between your thighs and then still had the nerve to act like breakfast was a normal social event.
His eyelids lowered for one second.
He stared into his coffee like it had personally betrayed him.
Your shoulders started shaking.
Law looked up slowly. “Something funny?”
“No.”
Your voice was too high.
Shachi looked at you. “You okay?”
You nodded quickly. “Coffee went down wrong.”
“You didn’t drink any.”
“Emotionally.”
Ikkaku’s eyes lifted from her page.
Law’s stare could have amputated you.
Bepo turned around with a plate. “Captain, do you want eggs?”
Law did not answer immediately. Because he had moved his hand again. Because his fingers were near his mouth. Because, apparently, his own body had decided to spend the morning reminding him exactly what you tasted like. His nostrils flared once. Very slightly.
You pressed your lips together so hard it hurt.
Law shut his eyes for half a second. He looked like a man trying to survive war.
“Captain?” Bepo asked, worried.
Law opened his eyes. “No eggs.”
Bepo’s ears drooped. “Oh. Sorry.”
Law’s face softened by a millimeter. “It’s fine. Rice.”
“Okay!”
You watched him pick up his mug again. His hand was steady. His face was blank. His control was flawless. Except his ears were faintly red.
You placed your cup down very carefully.
He looked at you. You looked back. Neither of you said anything. Then you smiled.
His expression turned dangerous.
Under the table, his boot nudged your ankle.
A warning.
You nudged him back.
A mistake.
His eyes sharpened. You looked away first because you were not suicidal before noon.
Penguin squinted between you both. “Why is it weird in here?”
“It’s always weird in here,” Shachi said into his plate.
“No, this is different.”
“It’s your face.”
“My face isn’t weird.”
“It’s morning. Everyone’s face is weird.”
You made the mistake of glancing at Law again. He was staring at his rice like the entire concept of appetite had become complicated.
You knew exactly why.
You imagined him trying to eat breakfast while still smelling you on his chin, still catching it on his fingers every time he moved, still pretending that it was not making him think about throwing the whole tray across the room and dragging you back to his cabin.
He would rather be executed than admit it.
That made it so much better.
You took pity on him. Mostly. You leaned forward slightly and said, very casually, “Captain?”
His eyes lifted. “What?”
“You have something on your face.”
Law’s stare went black. Ikkaku slowly lowered her page. Bepo turned around. “Where?” Bepo asked, deeply concerned.
Law did not move. You reached across the table before he could stop you, thumb brushing lightly over the edge of his chin.
His skin was warm. His eyes did not leave yours. The whole room narrowed around that tiny touch.
You pulled your hand back and looked at your thumb. Nothing there. “Nevermind.”
Law’s expression stayed perfectly blank. Too blank.
He was going to kill you.
Penguin blinked. “What was it?”
“Nothing,” Law said. His voice was calm enough to be a medical threat.
You took another sip of coffee. This time you could not stop the smile.
Law leaned back in his chair, one hand around his mug, the other resting on the table. His fingers flexed once.
Still guilty. Still remembering. Still pretending. Then he said, without looking away from you, “You’re assigned to inventory after breakfast.”
You stared at him. “What?”
“Medical inventory.”
“That’s not my job.”
“It is today.”
“That sounds personal.”
“It’s organizational.”
Shachi pointed his spoon at you. “You should never question medical inventory. That’s how he gets mean.”
You looked at Law. Law looked back.
There was no expression on his face.
None.
Except his eyes said very clearly: Keep laughing and I’ll give you something to be quiet about later.
Your stomach flipped. Unfortunately, your mouth was still alive. “Do I need gloves?”
Law’s hand stopped around his mug. Ikkaku made a tiny sound and hid behind her page. Penguin frowned. “For inventory?”
You looked at Law with the innocence of a war criminal. “Just asking.”
Law stood. Very calmly. Pushed his chair in. Very calmly. Picked up his tray. Very calmly. Then he leaned down as he passed behind you, close enough that only you heard him.
“You are going to be quiet when I deal with you.”
Your smile vanished so fast it was humiliating.
There you are. I knew you would stay.
The Masterlist is here. If that still does not satisfy you, requests are open.
You gonna make a part two to that Enjin fic????
Probably not.
I don’t really like turning oneshots into two-parters because they usually feel complete to me as they are. BUT I’d definitely be open to writing a new Enjin fic with the same kind of dynamic, just with a different idea/scenario
contains workplace romance, slight age gap, heavy sexual tension, praise kink, light dominance and submission, possessiveness, jealousy, teasing, slow-burn escalation, MMF
Your first day started with a badge that didn’t scan, a laptop that greeted you in three different languages, and an email titled “Welcome :)” that contained exactly one attachment and no explanation.
Software engineering, they said. Stable job, they said.
You were standing in front of a glass office with your name still unfamiliar in your own head when someone behind you said, brightly—
“Ah! Fresh meat—I mean—new hire! Delightful.”
You turned and paused, because—right. Okay. That was…not what you expected.
He looked like he’d walked out of a different genre entirely. Tall, sharp suit, deep red coat like he refused to commit to the concept of “casual,” hat tilted just enough to look intentional. His smile was wide, controlled, and just a little too excited for 9:07 AM.
You blinked.
A taller man stood half a step behind, softer in every way. Light hair, slightly rumpled vest, sleeves pushed up like he’d forgotten when he started working and never stopped. His posture was hesitant, but not weak.
Also…fuck.
Okay. You loved slightly older men. That was a known issue. A manageable one. Usually.
This did not feel manageable.
“Hi,” you said, because you were still a professional. Technically.
Caine clapped once, delighted. “Oh, she speaks! Excellent, we’ve avoided the worst-case scenario.”
You stared at him.
“Most people speak, Caine.” Kinger chuckled.
“Well yes, but you never know,” Caine said, waving it off like that was a completely normal concern. Then his attention snapped back to you. “You’re with us. Congratulations. Condolences. Come along.”
He turned immediately, already walking, expecting you to follow.
You did. Because, again. Job.
Kinger lingered just long enough to give you a small, apologetic look before stepping after him. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“I figured,” you said. You didn’t. Oh god.
Caine gasped. “Wait!”
You flinched. Hard enough that your heel nearly slipped and you walked straight back into a solid chest. Warm. Very warm. Oh. That was the other one. Your brain paused for a full second before politely shutting down.
“Sorry—” you started, already stepping forward again, face neutral like you hadn’t just mentally short-circuited over a man existing behind you.
Kinger, for his part, didn’t move away immediately. Just steadied you lightly by the shoulders, gentle and careful, like you were something he didn’t want to startle and then let go.
“It’s alright,” he said quietly. “No harm done.”
Great. Perfect. Fantastic. You were going to die here.
Caine, meanwhile, had spun around dramatically, one hand outstretched like he was presenting a prize.
“I am Doctor Victor Caine,” he announced, voice booming with unnecessary grandeur for a hallway with exactly three people in it. “And the tall, blonde, and devastatingly handsome individual beside you is my—and now your—colleague, Mister Lucien Kinger.”
Kinger made a small, embarrassed sound. “Caine—”
“What?” Caine shot back immediately. “Am I wrong? Should I undersell? I refuse to undersell.”
You nodded once, like this was all completely normal. Like your onboarding didn’t currently feel like a fever dream. “Nice to meet you both.”
Caine beamed like you’d just validated his entire existence. “Marvelous. She’s polite. Keep that. It’ll fade.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works,” you said dryly.
He pointed at you. “Ah! Sass. Even better. You’ll survive.”
“That’s…reassuring.”
“It shouldn’t be,” Kinger murmured under his breath.
You caught it. You absolutely caught it. And that—combined with the way his mouth twitched like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud—did something very specific to your brain chemistry.
Caine snapped his fingers. “Right! Orientation. Or what passes for it. Step one: do you know how to code?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Step two: ignore half of what I say.”
“Caine—”
“I said half, Kinger, not all. Let’s not discourage initiative.”
Kinger sighed softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose like this was a conversation they had daily. “What he means is—we’ll walk you through everything.”
“We will?” Caine tilted his head.
“Yes, we will.”
“Ah. Democracy. How tedious.”
You exhaled slowly. You had been here—what—five minutes?
Your badge didn’t work. Your laptop spoke in tongues. Your supervisors were—
You glanced between them.
One was chaos in a tailored coat with a smile that looked like it could start problems for sport. The other was soft-spoken, warm, and very clearly the only thing stopping the first from committing workplace crimes.
And both of them were—Yeah. No. You were not thinking that again. You cleared your throat. “So…where do I sit?”
Caine lit up like you’d just asked the best question of his life. “Ah! A woman after my own heart—straight to logistics. Kinger, she’s brilliant. I like her.”
Kinger gave you a small smile. “You haven’t even seen her work yet.”
“I don’t need to. It’s a vibe.”
“That’s not a metric.”
“It is now.”
You pressed your lips together.
Kinger noticed. His expression softened just slightly, like he was relieved you weren’t already planning your escape.
Caine turned on his heel again, gesturing grandly down the hall. “Come along, dear employee. Let us ruin—excuse me—shape your future.”
You followed, because apparently, despite every warning sign your brain was firing at full volume, you were already a little bit hooked.
That was your first day.
And your way straight to hell.
The next few weeks settled into something that should have been chaos. Objectively—it was.
Nothing in that office functioned the way it was supposed to. Deadlines bent around Caine’s moods, meetings turned into debates that somehow ended in snacks, and your project board looked like it had been curated by three entirely different personalities with no communication between them.
And yet you liked it. More than liked it, actually. You found yourself waking up a little earlier just so you wouldn’t miss the quiet moments before everything inevitably derailed.
Kinger was always there first. Not early in a strict sense—more like he’d simply never really left.
Sleeves rolled, hair slightly disheveled, glasses pushed up while he leaned over his desk with that careful focus of someone who got lost in his work and forgot time existed. He’d look up when you came in, like he needed a second to adjust back to reality, and then his expression would soften in that quiet, almost shy way.
A mug waiting. Sometimes tea, sometimes coffee, sometimes just water with a slice of citrus floating like he’d put actual thought into hydration as a concept. It was never announced, never pointed out. Just there.
You never mentioned how much you noticed.
Caine, on the other hand, made it impossible not to notice him.
He arrived like a disruption.
Always late. Always loud. Always acting like the room had been unbearably dull before he entered and he was doing everyone a favor by existing in it.
And every single morning, there was a sticky note on your desk.
Not a normal one. Never something useful.
One morning it read: “If anything breaks, it wasn’t me.” accompanied by aggressively scribbled bees in the corner.
Another day: “Motivation is a myth. We run on spite here.” with a tiny, badly drawn sword.
And once—just once—“You look like you’d survive a lawsuit. Impressive.”
You had turned that one over twice before deciding not to question it.
Caine didn’t explain them but the day he forgot—on accident, you were sure—you had found yourself pausing at your desk, waiting, before realizing it wasn’t there. He noticed that. Of course he did. So the next morning there were two.
By the end of the first month, you had stopped pretending this was normal workplace behavior. You had also stopped pretending you weren’t enjoying it. Because somewhere in between the chaos and the quiet routines, something shifted.
You learned the rhythm of them.
Kinger worked like a constant, steady, thoughtful, careful with everything he touched.
He talked to himself when he was deep into something, soft murmurs under his breath as he pieced problems together step by step.
Sometimes you’d catch fragments—half-formed thoughts, small corrections—and if you leaned just slightly into his space, he’d include you without hesitation. No ego. No resistance. Just a gentle, “Here—look at this part,” like collaboration was the most natural thing in the world.
Caine worked like disruption. He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t stay quiet. His focus came in bursts, sharp, brilliant, chaotic and then he’d veer off, pacing, humming, talking, singing under his breath before it turned into actual volume.
And when something went wrong, that was when it got interesting.
“Son of a—” he’d start, cutting himself off mid-sentence, visibly recalculating.
You’d glance up, already knowing.
“—sparkling spoonful of incompetence,” he finished instead, voice strained like it physically hurt him not to swear properly.
You bit back a laugh. Kinger didn’t even look up. “You can just say it, you know.”
“I cannot,” Caine snapped, offended. “We have standards.”
“You called someone a ‘walking spreadsheet error’ yesterday.”
“And I stand by that.”
You had learned very quickly that pushing Caine—just a little—was entertaining.
Pushing him when Kinger was involved? That was something else entirely.
Because Caine was absolutely not subtle.
He liked to pretend he was. He liked to act like everything he did was intentional, controlled, part of some grand performance.
It wasn’t.
Not when it came to you. Not when it came to Kinger.
You noticed it the third week in. You had leaned over Kinger’s desk, close enough to see his screen properly, your shoulder brushing his arm as he explained something in that low, thoughtful tone. You hadn’t thought anything of it—just normal, easy proximity.
Until Caine appeared.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just…inserted himself.
Physically.
One second there was space between you and Kinger, and the next there wasn’t because Caine had stepped right between you, one hand braced casually on the desk like he belonged there.
“Oh? Collaborative moment?” he said brightly, eyes flicking between the two of you. “How thrilling. Don’t mind me, I’ll just—supervise.”
You stared at him.
Kinger blinked slowly. “You weren’t even in the room a second ago.”
“I move fast.”
“You were singing in the hallway.”
“I multitask.”
You should have stepped back. You didn’t. Instead, you leaned slightly against the desk again, just enough that your shoulder brushed Caine this time.
His sentence cut off mid-word.
That was when you realized.
Oh.
Oh, this was fun.
After that, you didn’t stop. You didn’t push too hard. Just enough. A brush of your hand when you passed Kinger something. Leaning in close when you asked a question. Letting your knee bump his under the desk like it was accidental.
And every time Caine reacted. Sometimes instantly, sometimes a second too late, but always. He’d step in, interrupt, redirect, insert himself like he physically couldn’t stand not being part of whatever was happening.
Kinger noticed too.
He just didn’t comment on it but sometimes, when Caine turned his back for a second, Kinger’s eyes would flick to you—soft, a little amused, a little something else—and you’d feel that quiet shift again.
The one that said he wasn’t as unaware as he pretended to be.
By the time a month had passed—You had them.
Not in a dramatic, obvious way. Nothing had been said. Nothing had been defined. But the dynamic was there.
Settled. Comfortable. Dangerous, if you thought about it too long.
Your project got heavier around that time. More complicated. More pressure. The kind that settled into your shoulders and didn’t leave even when you went home.
The office changed with it.
Kinger got quieter—not distant, just deeper in his work, more focused. The soft murmuring returned, constant undercurrent as he worked through problem after problem, occasionally pushing his glasses up with a tired exhale.
Caine got louder. Not in a disruptive way. In a…compensating way.
He filled the silence Kinger left behind.
Humming turned into singing. Singing turned into commentary. Commentary turned into creative swearing that got progressively more ridiculous the more frustrated he got.
“At this point I’m convinced this code was written by a sentient spatula,” he muttered one afternoon, pacing behind you. “A malicious one. Possibly French.”
You didn’t even look up. “You’re projecting.”
“I am not projecting. I am observing.”
“You called a bug ‘emotionally manipulative’ ten minutes ago.”
“It was. It kept reappearing.”
Kinger huffed quietly, not quite a laugh. You glanced over and he was watching the two of you now, expression softer than it had been all day. Less tired.
You weren’t supposed to get attached to coworkers like this.
You knew that. You really did. But when you leaned back in your chair, stretching just slightly, and felt Caine’s hand briefly press against the backrest as he passed—
When Kinger wordlessly slid your mug a little closer because he noticed you hadn’t touched it in a while—
You stayed right where you were.
By that point, your mornings had developed a rhythm.
Door. Coffee smell. Low murmur of Kinger already working. Something faintly unhinged left behind by Caine—either in physical form or emotional damage.
So when you pushed the office door open that morning and stopped, it was because the rhythm was…off.
They were too close.
Not casually. Not the normal, “leaning over a screen” or “sharing space because the office was small” kind of close.
You stood in the doorway, one hand still on the frame, slowly squinting your eyes at them like your brain was trying to manually process what it was seeing.
Caine was standing right in Kinger’s space. Not just near him—in it. One hand braced against the desk beside Kinger, the other hovering suspiciously close to his face. Kinger, meanwhile, looked like he had been caught mid-thought, mid-breath, mid—something.
His posture was off. Shoulders a little tense. Eyes a little too wide. Caine, on the other hand, was grinning.
Of course he was grinning.
“I was helping him look for his glasses,” he said immediately, like he’d been waiting for you to walk in just so he could deliver that line.
Kinger made a small, distressed sound beside him. “Yeah—yeah. My glasses.”
Your eyes narrowed further. You didn’t move. You didn’t blink. You just tilted your head slightly, gaze sliding up—“…they’re on your head,” you said flatly.
Silence.
Kinger froze like you’d just pulled the plug on him. His hand came up hesitantly and touched the top of his head. “…right,” he murmured, voice suddenly very careful. “That would explain why I—couldn’t—find them.”
Caine didn’t even try to recover.
He just laughed under his breath, low, amused, completely unbothered and then his attention snapped back to you like you were the more interesting situation now.
Which, apparently, you were, because the next second he was moving.
You barely had time to react before he closed the distance, arms sliding around your torso with zero hesitation, like you’d been the intended target all along. And then you were moving too. Backwards.
“Caine—” you hissed under your breath, hands instinctively coming up to push at his chest, but he didn’t even slow down. If anything, he leaned into it, steering you effortlessly like this was choreography he’d practiced.
“Aaah, my delicate little sunflower,” he said, voice dripping with theatrical affection as he pulled you into a full hug—tight, warm, overwhelming in that way that should have been annoying and was. Mostly.
You hated how normal it felt. He’d always been touchy. Always too close, too casual with it, like personal space was more of a suggestion than a rule.
“Caine,” you tried again, sharper this time.
He loosened his hold just enough to look down at you, with that stupid, unfair face. Sharp lines, red-white hair catching the light just right, that grin that never quite left his mouth, and eyes—God. His eyes were infuriating. Bright. Alive. Way too expressive for someone who pretended to be in control of everything.
You felt your brain short-circuit for half a second before you forcibly shook it off.
Work. You were here to work.
You pressed your hands flat against his chest and shoved. Or—you attempted to, because he didn’t move. Not even a little. Your expression flattened. “Are you fucki—”
“AHHH—!”
Caine’s scream cut you off instantly, loud and dramatic like you’d just tried to stab him instead of speak.
You flinched. Your brows pulled together.
Right. No cussing.
You stared at him, unimpressed. He stared back, equally intense, like he’d just saved the moral integrity of the room.
Behind him, you could feel it before you even looked—Kinger.
Still there. Still quiet. Still watching. When you finally glanced past Caine’s shoulder, you caught him adjusting his glasses properly now, the movement just a little too deliberate, like he needed something to do with his hands.
His gaze flicked to yours for a brief second. Soft. A little embarrassed and something quieter, harder to name before he looked away again.
Caine, completely oblivious—or pretending to be—tightened his hold just slightly again before finally letting you go with a dramatic sigh. “Honestly,” he said, like he’d been personally wronged, “the language in this workplace is appalling.”
You crossed your arms, deadpan. “I didn’t even finish the sentence.”
“I know,” he said gravely. “I feared for what it could have become.”
Kinger let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.
You caught it. Caine caught you catching it and just like that, his attention snapped back again—sharp, immediate, like a switch had flipped. He stepped half a pace closer. Not touching this time. Just—There. “You’re late,” he said suddenly.
You blinked. “I’m three minutes early.”
“Emotionally late.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
You stared at him. Then past him at Kinger, who, despite everything, had the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
The banter about “emotional lateness” had barely left his mouth before you were done playing.
“I don’t like your attitude today,” you said, voice low and flat, pushing past Caine with enough shoulder to make it deliberate. He let you, barely, his fingers brushing the small of your back like he couldn’t quite stop himself. “And you aren’t innocent either.”
You shot Kinger a warning look on the way to your chair. Just a flick of your eyes. Enough. Caine followed you in, all mock innocence and red coat tails. “But—my dear—”
“Sit down.”
He sat. Immediately. Like the word from your mouth had weight.
Kinger stood without a word, collecting your mug and his own with that quiet, careful grace he wore like armor.
He didn’t look at either of you as he slipped toward the kitchen, but the door hadn’t even clicked shut before Caine spun his chair around, facing you across the small office like the space between you was personally offensive.
You ignored him. Opened your laptop. Typed one meaningless line just to look busy.
“Didn’t you like my little adventure?” he asked, voice a shade too low, a shade too possessive for nine-thirty in the morning.
“You spun me like an idiot,” you answered without looking up. “That wasn’t an adventure. That was vertigo.”
He hissed—sharp, theatrical, the sound of a man who’d just been called out and liked it too much. You rolled your eyes, already reaching for the next keystroke.
“Caine,” you said, calm, almost bored. “Dial it down.”
Ooooh. He didn’t like that.
The chair scraped back. He was on his feet and across the room in two long strides—too fast, too fluid for someone who claimed to be all drama and no follow-through.
Before you could blink he’d spun your chair, caging you in with one hand braced on the armrest, the other on the back, leaning down until the world narrowed to red-white hair, sharp grin, and the faint scent of bergamot and oil from whatever ridiculous product he used on that stupid beard.
You tilted your head up slowly, meeting his eyes.
Your fingers slid up the front of his crisp white shirt until they caught the silk of his red tie. You wrapped it once around your wrist, then yanked.
Hard.
Caine’s breath caught. The chaos in his gaze stuttered, pupils blowing wide as you pulled him down close enough to smell the warmth of his skin, close enough that his next exhale ghosted across your lips.
“You can intimidate him,” you murmured, amused, “but not me, sweetheart.”
His knuckles went white on the chair. You felt the tremor run through him—restrained, vibrating, like every chaotic inch of him wanted to grab you right back and forget the open door and the rules and the fact that Kinger was three seconds from walking in.
You didn’t let go of the tie. Not yet. You held Caine there, foreheads almost touching. You could feel Kinger’s stare on the nape of your neck like a physical touch—warm, heavy, curious in a way that made your stomach tighten.
Caine’s grin widened, feral and delighted and completely unrepentant.
“No,” he laughed right against your mouth, the word hot and low. Then he grabbed the back of your head—gentle, always so strangely gentle beneath the theatrics and bumped your forehead to his in one firm, possessive tap. “Absolutely NOT.”
You knew, in that split-second of shared breath and racing pulse, exactly how this would have ended if Kinger hadn’t come back.
Instead you turned away, and took the fresh mug from Kinger’s hand. Your fingers brushed his on purpose. He didn’t pull away.
“I am, uh…not asking,” Kinger said quietly, eyes flicking between the two of you like he was trying to read a language he only half-understood. His voice was soft, but there was heat under it—banked, careful, waiting to see if you’d let it flare.
You sipped the tea. Still perfect. Still exactly how you liked it.
The tension after that didn’t break.
It thickened.
For the next three days it sat in the office like humidity before a storm—sticky, electric, impossible to ignore no matter how hard you tried. You hated it. God, fuck, you hated how much you didn’t hate it.
Caine watched you like he wanted to eat you alive.
Not in the polite, workplace-appropriate way. No.
Every time you leaned over your desk to adjust a line on the character designs, his gaze dragged slow and deliberate across the curve of your neck, down the line of your spine, lingering like he was already imagining how you’d taste if he finally got his teeth on you.
He still talked too loud, still paced like the floor owed him money, still filled the room with chaotic commentary on the project.
But the second your eyes met his, that grin sharpened into something feral.
Kinger, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to die between your legs.
Quiet, devastating, and so fucking polite about it. He stayed tucked in his corner, sleeves rolled high, murmuring code under his breath like a prayer, but every time you stretched or crossed your ankles under the desk his shoulders would tighten.
His stare would flick up, soft, starved, almost apologetic, like he knew exactly how obscene the thought was and couldn’t stop having it anyway.
He’d push his glasses up, clear his throat, and go right back to typing, cheeks faintly pink.
You kept your head down and worked on the character designs like your life depended on it. Lines, colors, expressions that somehow kept coming out sharper and hungrier than you meant them to.
The office hummed with the low clack of keyboards, the occasional dramatic sigh from Caine, the soft rustle of Kinger shifting in his chair. Nothing was said. Nothing was touched.
But everything felt touched.
It was very late, well past the hour any sane person should still be here, when Caine suddenly stopped mid-pace, spun on his heel, and gasped like the idea had physically struck him.
“WE SHOULD—go out. All three of us.” His voice cracked with theatrical delight. “Maybe dinner? Maybe a bar? Somewhere with low lights and questionable decisions. Come on, we’ve earned it. The project can survive one night without us pretending we’re not all thinking about the same thing.”
He said the last part like it was casual. Like it wasn’t a lit match tossed straight into the dry kindling you’d all been pretending wasn’t there.
You looked up from your screen. Kinger’s fingers had frozen over his keyboard.
Caine’s grin was pure chaos, eyes bright, red coat still somehow flawless after twelve hours of pacing. “What do you say, darling? Kinger? Don’t make me beg. Actually—do make me beg. I’m flexible.”
The air in the office pulled taut again, thinner now, like it might snap if anyone breathed too hard.
You tilted your head, letting the smallest smile curve your lips.
The place Caine picked was exactly what he’d promised—low lights, warm tones, just loud enough to blur conversations into a soft hum. The kind of place that made everything feel a little closer than it should. A little more private. A little more dangerous.
You slid into the booth first. Kinger followed, taking the seat beside you after a brief hesitation, like he was aware—too aware—of the proximity it would create.
Caine took the seat across from you, already leaning back like he owned the place, menu in hand, expression far too pleased with himself.
“This,” he announced, glancing around with satisfaction, “is what we call atmosphere.”
“It’s a restaurant,” Kinger said mildly, though his voice had that faint strain again, like he was holding onto something just under the surface.
“It’s an experience,” Caine corrected, flipping the menu open with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Try to keep up.”
You didn’t comment. You didn’t need to. Your hand resting against Kinger’s thigh as if it belonged there. Warm through the fabric, solid, grounding. You let your fingers brush slightly, testing, Kinger’s breath hitched.
He went still for a fraction of a second before his hand came down over yours, gentle but firm, guiding it away like he was trying to correct something before it spiraled.
“Careful,” he murmured under his breath, voice low enough that it didn’t carry past you.
But instead of letting go his hand stayed, then shifted, sliding back to your thigh. His fingers pressed in, just a little, like he was testing something now, mirroring you in that quiet, careful way he did everything.
Your mouth curved slightly. Satisfied. You let his touch settle, let the tension stretch just enough before your heel slipped, your foot slid free, smooth and deliberate now, no hesitation left in it as it moved under the table. Across.
Toward Caine.
He didn’t look up. Still reading. Still completely absorbed in whatever overly complicated description he’d found.
Which made it all the better when your foot brushed his shin.
You dragged it up just slightly, testing the line, waiting for the reaction—Nothing. For a second.
Then his hand shot down too fast, catching your ankle cleanly before you could pull back, grip firm as he guided your foot further between his legs, pressing it there like he’d already decided what to do with it.
You felt it. Enough. More than enough.
Caine hadn’t moved otherwise. Still sitting there like nothing had happened, menu in his other hand, expression perfectly composed.
“Since when were you in charge?” he asked, voice smooth, almost bored as he snapped the menu shut with a sharp, deliberate motion.
You didn’t pull your foot back, if anything, you pressed a little harder. Just enough. And then you leaned sideways, head coming to rest lightly against Kinger’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Kinger went rigid for half a second before forcing himself to relax, though his hand on your thigh tightened instinctively, fingers pressing in just a bit more than before.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked quietly, voice careful, like he was trying very hard to stay composed.
“Very,” you said, just as quietly.
Across from you Caine stilled, his grip on your ankle tightened slightly. Not enough to hurt—just enough to remind you he was still there, still holding you exactly where he wanted. His head tilted, just slightly, eyes narrowing as he took in the picture in front of him.
You.
Leaning into Kinger.
Kinger letting you.
Your foot still very much between his legs.
A slow breath left him through his nose. “Fascinating,” he said finally, tone light but just a fraction too controlled. “We’ve developed a system, have we?”
Kinger shifted beside you, clearly aware of everything at once now, his hand still on your thigh like he didn’t know whether to move it or leave it. “You’re the one who suggested we come out,” he said, a bit too quickly.
You lifted your head just enough to glance at him, smile small, unbothered. “You didn’t say not to.”
He barked a laugh. “Oh, I see,” Caine murmured, leaning forward slightly now, elbow resting on the table as he studied you properly. “You’re feeling bold tonight.”
“Am I?” you asked.
“You are,” he said simply.
Under the table, his thumb brushed against your ankle before settling again. Kinger’s fingers flexed against your thigh in response, like he was reacting without meaning to.
A waiter approached. Perfect timing. Menus were taken. Orders were given. Voices returned to something almost normal, though the undercurrent never left.
And through all of it—Nothing changed.
Your head stayed near Kinger’s shoulder, close enough to feel the steady rhythm of his breathing. His hand stayed where it was, warm, grounding, just this side of careful.
Caine didn’t let go. Not once. Not even when he leaned back again, expression shifting back into that familiar, sharp amusement. His gaze flicked between the two of you, calculating. Entertained. Just a little bit unhinged.
“Well,” he said lightly, folding his hands together on the table. “This is going to be an interesting evening.”
You met his eyes, smiled and pressed your foot just slightly further.
Dinner should have helped.
That was the logical, civilized assumption—food, low lighting, a public table between the three of you, something neutral to dilute the thick, syrup-slow tension that had been coiling tighter every day in the office.
It did not help.
If anything, it made it worse. Because now there was no pretending it wasn’t deliberate.
Caine leaned all the way into it like the night was his personal stage and you were the only audience that mattered.
Every comment sharpened just enough to cut, every glance lingered half a second too long, dragging across your mouth, your throat, the slow cross of your legs under the table.
He asked questions he already knew the answers to—just to watch the way your lips moved when you answered, the way your breath caught when his foot brushed yours under the cloth.
When you gave him that dry, unimpressed look instead of the reaction he wanted, his grin only widened, delighted and dangerous, like denial was the foreplay he craved most.
Kinger was quieter, but never less present. If Caine was wildfire then he was the slow, banked heat that crept under your skin and stayed there, warm and patient and utterly devastating.
His voice stayed low and careful, that soft rumble that made you lean in without meaning to.
His hand lingered when he passed you the wine, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist like an accident that wasn’t. Every so often his gaze would drop to your mouth, hold, then flick away—cheeks faintly flushed, jaw tight, like he was fighting the urge to say something filthy and gentle all at once.
You played along, of course. You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly what you were doing—letting your knee rest against Caine’s under the table, letting your fingers trail along Kinger’s sleeve when you reached for the salt, smiling just enough to keep them both stupid and starving.
By the time dessert menus were offered and promptly ignored, the tension wasn’t just sitting there anymore. It was stretched tight, humming, alive.
The walk back to the car didn’t break it. The drive made it worse.
Caine didn’t ask. He assigned.
“Passenger seat,” he said, voice velvet and command as he unlocked the car, red coat flaring like he owned the whole damn night.
You gave him a look.
He gave you a bigger one, eyes glittering. “Don’t argue with me in public, darling. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“You absolutely do not,” you shot back, but you slid into the seat anyway, because the pull was already too strong and you liked the way it felt when he won small battles.
The second the door shut, his hand was there.
Right on your thigh. Warm. Firm. Completely unapologetic, fingers splayed like he’d been waiting hours for permission he hadn’t asked for.
You didn’t move it. Didn’t acknowledge it directly. But your fingers tightened in your lap, and that was enough—his thumb shifted once, tracing a lazy circle that promised everything he wasn’t saying out loud.
From the backseat came silence. Kinger was there, watching. You caught it in the rearview mirror—just once, briefly.
His eyes were dark, fixed on the place where Caine’s hand claimed you, that soft mouth pressed into a line like he was holding back a groan.
The second your gaze met his he looked down, but not before you saw the hunger there, quiet and aching and so fucking polite it made your stomach clench.
Caine noticed, of course. He always did.
“Comfortable back there, Kinger?” he asked lightly, one hand on the wheel, the other still owning your thigh like it belonged to him.
“I’m fine,” Kinger answered, voice low and steady, though the faint edge of strain gave him away.
“Good,” Caine hummed, thumb stroking again, higher this time. “I’d hate for you to feel left out.”
You snorted softly, the sound half-laugh, half-warning. “Subtle.”
“I’m many things, my dear,” Caine replied, that wicked grin flashing in the dashboard glow. “Subtle is not one of them.”
“No kidding.”
His fingers squeezed once and your breath hitched before you could stop it.
The rest of the drive passed in that same stretched, electric quiet. Waiting. Simmering.
By the time the car pulled up to the building, your head was buzzing with it, skin too warm, pulse too loud.
You stepped out, smoothing your clothes on instinct, eyes flicking up to the sleek entryway and then you really looked.
At the building.
At the way they both moved toward the door without hesitation, shoulders brushing like they’d done this a hundred nights before.
Together.
You blinked. Once. Twice.
The realization slammed into you all at once, slotting every lingering glance, every too-close moment, every jealous little interruption into perfect, filthy clarity.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, the words slipping out before you could catch them.
Caine turned, already reaching for you with that theatrical flair, slinging one arm around your waist and twirling you once—smooth, effortless, pulling you flush against the hard line of his body.
“My sweet little biscuit,” he purred against your ear, voice dripping honey and sin. “What’s that pretty head of yours spinning about now?”
You pushed his face away with the flat of your hand, but you didn’t step out of his arms. Couldn’t.
Not when Kinger was standing right there, watching with that soft, helpless little smile, hands loose at his sides like he was waiting for permission to join.
“You two fucking live together?!” The words came out sharper than you meant, but the heat in them was unmistakable.
You ignored him, still pinned against his chest, heart hammering as the knowledge sank deeper.
They lived here.
Shared space. Shared mornings. Shared nights.
The same walls that had probably heard every low murmur, every frustrated growl, every quiet, desperate sound they’d ever pulled from each other while you’d been sitting three desks away pretending not to notice the way they moved like they already knew each other’s bodies by heart.
It made everything so much hotter it was almost unfair.
Kinger let out a quiet, rueful laugh behind him—soft, warm, the sound sliding down your spine like a touch.
“We do,” he admitted, voice low and honest, cheeks flushing that faint, delicious pink again. “Though Caine prefers to call it ‘strategic cohabitation.’”
Caine huffed, still holding you close, chin resting on your shoulder like he had every right. “It’s not lying, it’s curation. We agreed on a unified front.”
“We did not agree on lying,” Kinger corrected gently, stepping closer now, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back, the three of you caught in a triangle of heat and held breath. His hand brushed your arm—light, careful, but the look in his eyes when they met yours was anything but. “And now she knows. So…what happens next, hm?”
You looked between them, both of them watching you like the night had just cracked open and handed you the reins.
“Oh,” you said softly, lips curving like you’d just been handed the match and the gasoline. “This changes everything.”
Caine’s arm tightened around your waist, pulling you harder against the solid heat of his chest, red coat brushing your back like a warning and a promise all at once.
His breath ghosted warm against your ear, that theatrical purr dropping into something rougher. “Does it now, my sweet little biscuit? Care to elaborate before I—”
You didn’t let him finish. Your eyes locked on Kinger and you reached for him without hesitation. Fingers hooked into the silk of his tie, right at the knot, and you tugged.
Kinger’s breath hitched, a soft, startled sound.
He let you pull him down, let you drag him into your space until his mouth was right there, inches from yours, while Caine’s arm stayed locked around you like an anchor.
The three of you tangled together on the doorstep—your back to Caine’s chest, Kinger’s taller frame bending to you, the night air suddenly too thick to breathe.
You kissed him. No preamble. No gentle lead-in.
You crushed your mouth to his like you’d been starving for the taste of him, tongue sliding past his lips the second they parted on a gasp.
Kinger melted. His hands came up instinctively, one landing on your hip, the other bracing against Caine’s arm like he needed something solid to keep from falling apart.
The kiss was wet, deep, filthy-sweet: slow drags of tongue, the faint scrape of teeth when you nipped his bottom lip, the way he groaned low in his throat and gave in completely. His emotions spiked—surprise flashing hot across his face before it burned straight into raw, desperate want.
You could feel it in the way his fingers tightened, in the helpless roll of his hips forward, pressing against you like he’d been holding back for weeks and the dam had finally cracked.
Caine behind you went rigid for half a second, possessive jealousy flaring sharp and bright—then he groaned, the sound low and wrecked and utterly delighted.
“Oh, darling,” he breathed against the side of your neck, voice cracking with that perfect mix of outrage and arousal.
His free hand slid up your ribs, possessive, claiming, thumb brushing just under the swell of your breast like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you tighter or push you harder into Kinger’s mouth.
“Look at you. Stealing kisses right in my arms. You’re going to ruin me. Both of you. Filthy little—ah—mischief makers.”
You didn’t stop kissing Kinger. Not when he was making those soft, broken sounds into your mouth, tongue sliding against yours like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.
His glasses fogged slightly, you felt the heat of his cheeks, the way his breath stuttered every time Caine’s hand wandered higher or your fingers twisted tighter in his tie.
Caine’s mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear, sucking a slow, open-mouthed kiss there while his hips pressed forward, letting you feel exactly how hard he was against the curve of your ass.
“Inside,” he murmured, voice rough and commanding and trembling with want. “Now. Before I decide the doorstep is good enough and we give the neighbors a show they’ll never forget.”
Kinger pulled back just enough to breathe, lips shiny and swollen, eyes dark and glassy behind his lenses.
He looked wrecked already—cheeks flushed deep, chest heaving—and the way he stared at you, then at Caine, like he couldn’t believe this was real but would happily die if it wasn’t… it made something hot and vicious curl low in your stomach.
You let go of his tie but didn’t step away.
Instead you leaned back into Caine’s chest, letting him hold you up while your fingers traced Kinger’s jaw, thumb brushing his wet bottom lip.
“Keys,” you said, voice husky. “Or I’m dragging you both inside by whatever I can grab next.”
Caine laughed and fumbled for the door like a man who’d just won the lottery and was terrified it might vanish.
Kinger’s hand stayed on your hip the whole time, thumb stroking slow circles like he couldn’t stop touching you now that he’d started.
The door had barely clicked shut behind you before Caine had you moving again, arm still locked around your waist, guiding you backward through the dark entryway like he’d choreographed this exact moment weeks ago.
“Inside, my darlings,” he announced, voice already pitching into that grand, theatrical boom that made the walls feel smaller. “Let us not waste a single second of this magnificent evening on trivial things like coats or common sense.”
You laughed until the backs of your knees hit the couch and you tumbled down into soft cushions and even softer chaos.
Caine followed without hesitation, dropping over you like a red-coated storm, mouth finding the curve of your throat while his hands pinned your wrists above your head in one smooth, dominant sweep.
“Look at her, Kinger,” he narrated, loud and delighted, eyes glittering as he glanced sideways at the taller man still standing by the door. “Our little chaos catalyst, already sprawled so prettily for us. Isn’t she exquisite? All sharp tongue and softer sounds just waiting to be coaxed out.”
Kinger didn’t answer with words at first.
He simply crossed the room in that quiet, measured way of his, shedding his vest somewhere along the way, sleeves already rolled high.
Then he kneeled beside the couch, one hand sliding up your thigh while the other brushed Caine’s arm like he needed the contact to stay grounded.
His touch was everywhere at once, palm gliding under the hem of your shirt, thumb tracing slow circles over your ribs, mouth pressing open and reverent against the inside of your wrist.
Caine’s mouth found your collarbone and Kinger’s fingers slipped higher, teasing the edge of your waistband like he had all night to worship every inch.
Caine laughed, nipping at your pulse point while he kept your wrists captive. “Yes, yes, exactly like that,” he crowed, hips rolling down against yours so you could feel exactly how hard he already was. “Our perfect little troublemaker. Kinger, darling, look how she trembles when you touch her there—magnificent. I could watch this for hours.”
You didn’t know how it happened, time blurred under the weight of hands and mouths and Caine’s endless, filthy narration but the couch wasn’t enough.
Not nearly.
One moment you were pinned between them on velvet cushions, the next Caine had scooped you up like you weighed nothing, carrying you down the hall with Kinger right behind, still murmuring praise against your shoulder.
“Bed,” Caine declared, kicking the bedroom door open with dramatic flair. “Much better for what I have planned. You’ll thank me later, my sweet.”
You landed on their massive bed in a tangle of limbs and red silk, pushing yourself up on your elbows, chest heaving, head spinning with how fast this had gone from teasing to this. Your mouth opened on instinct—
“Fu—”
“NO.” Caine yelped, loud and scandalized, one hand dramatically clapped over your lips like you’d just tried to set the apartment on fire.
His eyes were wide, grin fighting to break through the mock horror. “None of that in this house, darling. We have standards. Sparkling spoonfuls of delight only, thank you very much.”
“Oh my god, really?” you managed around his fingers, half-laughing, half-wrecked.
Kinger chuckled from the foot of the bed, soft, and utterly fond as he stood there already opening the buttons of his shirt one by one, revealing the smooth plane of his chest inch by inch. The sound of it curled low in your stomach.
You sat up a little more, eyes flicking between them, between Caine still hovering over you like a possessive king and Kinger’s slow, careful undressing and the realization hit you all over again.
They lived here.
They shared this bed.
They’d been doing this dance with each other long before you ever walked into that glass office.
“Wait—wait, wait—” you said, voice dropping into something darker, hungrier. Your grin turned menacing, slow and sharp and full of every filthy possibility now spinning through your head. “If you two are a couple…”
Caine’s grin matched yours instantly, wicked and delighted. Kinger’s fingers paused on the last button, eyes darkening behind his glasses as he watched you figure it out.
You leaned back on your elbows, letting the implication settle between the three of you like a live wire.
“Oh,” you purred, “this is going to be the best threesome I’ve ever had.”
That was our little mistake. Wasn’t it? You can leave now.
But you won’t.
The Masterlist is here. If that was not enough, you know where to put your request.
contains cunnilingus, fingering, light choking, pussy slapping, dry humping, coming in pants, marking and biting, dirty talk, consensual rough play, strong language
The workshop corner of HQ was quiet the way you liked it—thick with the smell of ink, scrap-metal shavings, and the faint ozone bite of half-finished regalia.
Dim bulb overhead, August’s fabric scraps long cleared off the shared bench, just your drafting table, a couple of half-molded masks, and the low hum of the pit outside like distant static.
You were hunched over a fresh design, stylus scratching lazy circles into the filter housing, when the door creaked open without so much as a knock.
Enjin, of course.
Umbrella propped against his shoulder like he’d wandered in to sweep the floor instead of ruin your silence. Cigarette already lit, that bright, easy grin splitting his face the second he saw you.
“Evenin’, mask girl. Thought I smelled genius in here.”
You didn’t look up. Just arched a brow and kept sketching, voice flat as the metal under your palm.
“Wrong corner for janitor duty, blondie. Try the trash chute. Might suit you better.”
He chuckled and dropped into the stool across from you anyway, long legs stretched out, one boot nudging the edge of your stool like he was testing how much space you’d let him steal tonight.
“Harsh. I come in peace. Mostly.” A pause, then that lazy tilt of his head. “You been avoidin’ the common room again. Team’s starting to think you’re a ghost.”
Your kick sent his stool squeaking across the concrete like it was personally offended, wheels rattling over a stray bolt you’d probably meant to sweep up yesterday.
Enjin let it carry him a full meter before he planted one boot and glided right back, elbow now braced on your drafting table, chin in his palm like he had all night and nowhere better to be.
“Team can think what it wants,” you said, and flicked your stylus at him without looking up. It bounced off his chest with a soft thunk. “And so can you. Door’s still open, blondie. Use it.”
He caught the stylus mid-air and twirled it between long fingers. That bright, stupid grin widened, cigarette smoke curling lazy between you two.
“Aw, c’mon. I like your silence. It’s peaceful. Kinda makes a guy feel like he’s not just average janitor trash for five minutes.”
He leaned in, voice dropping to that warm, gravel-rough murmur that always sounded like he was half-laughing at himself.
“Besides, August cleared out hours ago. Means it’s just you, me, and whatever genius you’re hiding under that mask sketch.”
“Enjin.” you said sweetly.
“Yes ma’am?”
You leaned down and his grin widened. “Get out of my workshop.”
He got a flat expression, rolled his eyes, mouth a straight line, then he sighed. “Giiiiirl.”
You flicked his forehead with one hand and stole his cigarette with the other. “Out, Mary Poppins.”
He didn’t budge.
Just rubbed the spot you’d flicked like it was the most tragic wound in the Abyss, that easy chuckle rumbling low in his chest while the stolen smoke still dangled from your fingers.
The ember glowed between you like a dirty little secret.
“Mary Poppins,” he echoed, deadpan, dragging the name out like it tasted funny. “Damn, girl. That’s cold. I show up with my umbrella and my good vibes, and you hit me with nanny-shaming. Next you’ll be tellin’ me to fly away on a spoonful of sugar.”
He reached over without asking, fingers brushing yours as he plucked the cigarette right back, slow enough that the contact lingered like he meant it.
Smoke curled up between your faces, thick and sweet with that cheap pit tobacco he always smoked. His knee knocked yours under the table on purpose this time.
You didn’t pull away. Couldn’t be bothered. The silence you loved so much was already ruined.
“You know I only come in here ‘cause your quiet don’t feel like quiet. It feels like…I dunno. Home base. No one yappin’. Just metal and ideas and you pretending you hate me.”
You snorted, the sound too soft to be convincing.
The cigarette was back between his lips now, but he held it out again anyway—offering like it was a truce, or maybe just an excuse to watch your mouth close around it.
“Pretending,” you echoed dryly, taking the drag slow, letting the smoke roll out like you had all the time in the world to evict him. “Bold of you to assume I’m pretending anything. Door’s still open. Use your umbrella and fly, Mary.”
He didn’t move.
Of course he didn’t. Just hooked one ankle around the leg of your stool and tugged you a fraction closer, the wheels whispering across the floor like they were in on the crime.
“Yeah, well,” he said, “I like it when you tell me to get out. Makes the stayin’ feel earned.” His thumb brushed a stray ink smudge off the back of your hand, casual as breathing. “Besides…those masks of yours? They keep the team alive out there. Least I can do is keep you company while you make ‘em. Even if it means gettin’ flicked like a damn pest.”
The corner of your mouth lifted a little.
“You’re worse than that,” you said, stylus still scratching idle vents into the sketch. “Maybe I should whip up a plague-doctor mask. Full beak, zero charm. Might keep your annoying ass from showing up like a stray cat in heat.”
Enjin cackled—low, genuine, the kind that always rattled the bulb overhead. “You’ll never get rid of me, baby. Not even with a whole damn beak.”
He slung an arm around your waist without asking, easy as breathing, pulling you flush against his side like the stool between you had personally offended him. Warm fabric, cigarette smoke, and that faint metallic tang that clung to him after every trash run.
“Enjin.”
“Mm?”
“Move. Or I will slap you.”
He didn’t even flinch. Just tightened the arm around your waist like you’d threatened to tuck him in for the night, grin stretching slow and lazy against the side of your head.
“Promises, promises.”
His thumb traced a lazy circle over your hip, thumb pressing just enough through the fabric to remind you he wasn’t going anywhere.
Smoke curled past your cheek as he leaned in closer, voice dropping into that gravel-warm murmur that always felt like trouble wrapped in honey.
“C’mon. You haven’t slapped me yet. Starting to think you’re all bark, girlypop.”
You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. Deadpan.
Your hand came up clean and sharp, not hard enough to bruise but loud enough to crack against his cheek like punctuation on a bad joke.
Enjin’s head tipped with the slap, cigarette still hooked between his lips, grin flickering for half a second before it snapped back brighter, filthier.
“Damn,” he breathed, rubbing the spot slow like he was savoring it. He flicked the cigarette aside, grabbed your jaw, and kissed you hard.
You tried shoving at his chest but he was faster, already rolling the stool back toward the door with you still half in his lap. The lock clicked shut under his fingers.
He stood, shrugging his jacket off in one fluid motion and tossing it over the little couch like he owned the place.
“Do you know what comes with actions like that?” he asked, voice low and velvet-rough, eyes dark under the dim bulb. “Consequences.”
He pulled you up by the collar, gentle but firm, until you were nose to nose. You looked up at him, all wide-eyed innocence you didn’t feel for a second.
“Oh nooo,” you cooed.
His grip stayed light on your collar. Not yanking you closer, just holding you right there, waiting, like he knew exactly how much space you needed to pretend you hated this.
“Don’t start with that innocent shit,” he muttered, eyes dragging over your face like he was trying to memorize every flicker. “You don’t mean it.”
You tilted your head anyway, lashes low.
His jaw flexed. For a beat the only sound was the faint swing of the bulb. Then his hand slid from your collar to your throat, not squeezing, never rough, just resting there with his thumb under your jaw like he was checking you were still breathing steady.
“You hit me,” he said, almost conversational, thumb brushing slow. “Stole my smoke. Called me Mary fuckin’ Poppins. And now you’re looking at me like that.”
Your fingers caught his wrist, not pulling him off, just holding him in place. Testing. “Should’ve left when I told you,” you said, flat as ever.
He huffed a quiet laugh, breath warm against your lips. “Yeah. Probably.”
But he didn’t move an inch. Instead his other hand settled back on your hip, slower this time, fingers splaying like he was claiming every inch he’d already decided was his.
“Door’s locked,” you pointed out.
“Yeah.”
“Bad move.”
“Yeah,” he said again, quieter, thumb tilting your chin up just a fraction. His gaze dropped to your mouth, breath catching like even he was annoyed at how much he wanted this.
“Go on then,” he murmured, voice thick. “Slap me again.”
He didn’t back up. Didn’t give you room. Just stood there, umbrella propped forgotten by the door, eyes half-lidded and waiting like the only thing better than your silence was the way you broke it.
You didn’t slap him.
You knew he’d like it too much—the way his grin always turned filthy afterward, like your palm on his cheek was just the opening act.
Nah. Not today.
You held his gaze instead, steady and unblinking, letting the silence stretch thick between you while his hand stayed right there on your throat, thumb warm under your jaw like it belonged.
Your fingers drifted down slow, palm dragging over the front of his pants until you cupped the solid heat of his bulge. You stroked along it once, deliberate, then squeezed nice and firm, feeling him twitch under the denim.
“Oh?” you whispered, voice all sugar-soft, tilting your chin up so your noses brushed. “You liked getting slapped, hm?”
You glanced down at your hand for half a second, just long enough to watch your palm rub over him again, then flicked those big, innocent puppy eyes right back up at him. Sweet as sin. All fake.
Enjin’s breath caught, rough and low. His fingers flexed against your throat, not tighter, just there, like he was memorizing the exact second you decided to play dirty.
“You—” he started, voice gravel-thick and already edged with that lazy promise of trouble.
“EEEENJIIIIIIIN!”
The yell ripped down the corridor outside, loud and bright enough to rattle the locked door like a cheap alarm clock.
Enjin’s forehead dropped to yours with a low groan, half-laugh, half-murder. “Motherfucker,” he muttered, breath warm against your lips, thumb still stroking your jaw like he wasn’t quite ready to let the moment die. “Of all the goddamn times.”
His hand stayed on your throat a beat longer, reluctant, before he finally eased off. He straightened, snatching his jacket off the couch in one fluid motion. The fabric snapped as he shrugged it on, collar popped like he hadn’t just had your hand on his dick two seconds ago.
You stepped back, unlocked the door with a quiet click, and pulled it open.
The two of you stood there in the doorway, shoulder to shoulder, the workshop’s warm smell bleeding out into the cooler hall air while Rudo’s boots hammered closer.
“He’s here,” you said, flat but kind, tilting your head toward the blonde disaster at your side as Rudo rounded the corner.
Rudo skidded to a stop, chest heaving, that wild mop of hair even messier than usual.
His eyes flicked between you and Enjin, quick, assessing, like he was checking for blood or broken bones before his whole frame sagged in visible relief.
“Thank goodness,” he exhaled, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “I’ve been yelling for you everywhere, man. Big trash wave hitting the east gate. The others are already geared up waiting on your lazy ass.”
Enjin’s grin slid back into place, easy and bright as ever, though the look he cut you sideways was still dark and filthy around the edges. “Easy, kid. I was just…lending the mask girl a hand with some regalia tweaks. Critical work. Life or death.” He slung the umbrella over his shoulder, voice dropping just enough for you to catch the gravel in it. “Ain’t that right, sweetheart?”
You didn’t answer. Just arched a brow and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, letting the silence do the talking while the faint ache of his hand on your throat still lingered like a promise.
Rudo blinked once, oblivious as always, already turning on his heel. “Whatever, just hurry up.”
Enjin gave a lazy two-finger salute, but before he followed, he leaned in close enough that his breath ghosted your ear. “Don’t finish those masks without me, yeah? I got plans for later. Consequences, remember?”
Then he was gone, boots echoing after Rudo down the hall, leaving the workshop door half-open and your pulse still doing stupid little flips under your skin.
You touched your throat once, just to feel where his thumb had been, and let the tiniest smirk tug at your mouth.
Idiot.
By the time they came back, you were already asleep.
You forgot to lock your door. Of course. But well, who would’ve thought—nobody ever tried anyway.
Enjin still knocked once, a lazy rap of knuckles against the frame, before the handle turned with a soft click.
“Sup. You up?”
You didn’t even open your eyes. Just rolled over, yanking the blanket over your head like it was armor against the entire Abyss. “Get out.”
The door shut behind him with a quiet snick. Shoes scuffed the floor, he was freshly bathed. You could smell it through the blanket.
You heard the low rustle of his clothes then the mattress dipping under his weight as he perched on the edge of the bed, right by your cocooned form.
He chuckled, that warm gravel rumble you could feel through the blanket.
“Cute. Real welcoming. Almost as sweet as when you had your hand on my dick earlier.” A pause, the faint smell of smoke drifting under the fabric. “Mission went fine, by the way. Thanks for asking. Rudo almost ate it on a loose pipe, but we cleaned up nice.”
You stayed buried. Silence was your best weapon, especially at whatever ungodly hour this was.
Enjin wasn’t deterred. His fingers found the edge of the blanket and tugged it down just enough to uncover your face, slow like he was peeling back a secret.
“Missed me?” he murmured, voice dropping low and filthy-sweet. “Or did you just pass out dreaming about finishing what you started in the workshop? ‘Cause I’ve been thinking about those pretty fingers squeezing me all damn night.”
You groaned.
His hand slid under the blanket over your bare leg. He always touched you when he had the opportunity.
“You woke me up,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep and zero patience. “The disrespect is loud.”
Enjin’s laugh came out soft, almost fond, thumb tracing a lazy line up the inside of your thigh like he had every right to map you out at 3 a.m.
“Disrespect? Baby, I knocked. That’s practically a love letter in my book.”
His palm stayed warm and heavy, fingers splaying wider, inching higher just to feel the way your muscle twitched under his touch.
“Besides,” he added, grin audible even if you refused to look, “you left the door unlocked. Kinda feels like an engraved invitation. ‘Come in, blondie, finish what we started before Rudo cock-blocked us.’”
You cracked one eye open just enough to glare, blanket still half over your head like a very disgruntled turtle. “Invitation’s revoked. Go sleep in the trash where you belong.”
He didn’t move. Just hooked two fingers under the blanket’s edge and tugged it lower, exposing the curve of your shoulder, the strap of whatever threadbare tank you’d passed out in.
His gaze dragged slow—lazy, appreciative, the same way he sized up a good piece of scrap before deciding it was worth keeping.
“See, that’s the thing,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough and way too pleased with himself. “I like the disrespect. Makes the staying feel earned. Kinda like how you squeezed me earlier and then acted all innocent with those big puppy eyes.”
His hand slid higher, thumb brushing the edge of your shorts, teasing the hem like he was daring you to stop him.
“Still thinking about it. Been half-hard the whole way back thinking about how you’d look if I returned the favor right here.”
You huffed, the sound half-laugh, half-exasperated sigh, but your leg shifted just enough to let him settle in closer. The mattress dipped deeper as he stretched out beside you, one knee nudging between yours.
“Keep talking and I’ll make you sleep on the floor.”
Enjin’s grin flashed bright in the dark, teeth catching the faint glow from the hallway light still leaking under the door.
“Try it. I’ll just crawl back in and remind you exactly how loud that disrespect gets when my mouth’s on you instead.”
His fingers kept moving, slow, patient circles on your skin, warm and sure, like the mission dust and the late hour and your fake grumbling didn’t mean shit.
You didn’t kick him out. Not yet, anyway.
He kissed your shoulder first, soft, almost sweet, lips warm and lingering like he was apologizing for waking you even while he was already planning to ruin the rest of your night.
Then he slid under the blanket, all six-foot-three of him folding down between your legs with that lazy grace he saved for when he was about to be a menace.
He dragged the covers up over his head and shoulders until he was fully cocooned, just the faint outline of broad shoulders and messy blonde hair visible in the dark. “Just in case,” he mumbled against your skin, voice muffled and way too pleased with himself.
You snorted, the sound half-laugh, half-exasperated. “Just in case what? Rudo walks in again and you pretend you’re hunting for lost socks?”
He didn’t answer.
Just pushed your top up slow, palms skating over your ribs—gentle at first, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts like he had all the time in the world.
Then he squeezed, firmer, possessive, when the mood struck him. His mouth followed right after, licking a wet stripe up your stomach, kissing every inch he uncovered, biting just hard enough to leave faint marks that bloomed pink under the dim hallway light leaking in.
Sucking little bruises into the soft skin beneath your navel, all the way down.
It was always like this with him, greedy and playful and stupidly thorough, like your body was the best piece of scrap he’d scavenged in weeks.
He reached your pubic bone and breathed you in deep, nose brushing the fabric of your shorts. “Mmm.” The low sound vibrated straight through you. Then he bit down—sharp, teasing, right over the bone.
Your hand shot down and smacked his forehead before you could think twice. “Enjin.”
He just chuckled, the vibration filthy against your skin, and nudged your legs wider, draping them over his shoulders like they belonged there.
The blanket tented comically over his head as he settled in, making himself comfortable like a man about to sit down to a five-course meal he’d been craving since the workshop.
He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, stubble scraping just enough to make you twitch.
His finger hooked into the crotch of your shorts, sliding the fabric to the side with zero ceremony. “Still think I should get out?” he murmured, voice gravel-rough and smug as hell from under the covers.
Hot breath fanned over your now-exposed pussy, tongue already darting out to taste the first slick inch of you.
“Or you gonna keep pretending you hate me while I eat this pretty little thing like it owes me money?”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really—not when he flattened his tongue and dragged it up slow, deliberate, groaning like you tasted better than anything the pit had ever offered.
The blanket shifted as his shoulders flexed, arms sliding under your thighs to pull you closer, locking you right where he wanted you. Dry, filthy, and entirely too good at this.
You buried your fingers in his hair instead, tugging just hard enough to hear him laugh again—low, warm, and already promising you weren’t getting back to sleep anytime soon.
He ate you out like a man who’d been starving for weeks.
No more teasing words. No lazy nicknames or gravelly little taunts about consequences. It was late—too fucking late—and Enjin had never been much for talking when he could use his mouth for better things.
Especially not when it was buried between your thighs, blanket tented over his shoulders like some filthy secret fort, and the only sounds he wanted were yours.
His tongue dragged up the slick length of your pussy in one long, greedy stripe, slow at first, savoring, then faster—flat and hungry, like he was trying to lick every drop of you before the night ended.
He groaned low against your folds, the vibration rolling straight through your clit and up your spine.
Then he did it again.
And again.
No rhythm yet, just pure need, mouth open and messy, sucking softly at your entrance before diving back in.
You felt his teeth next, sharp little nips along your inner thigh, then right against your clit, just enough to make your hips jerk.
He chuckled once, the sound muffled and warm under the blanket, but he didn’t pull back to say shit.
Instead he hooked his arms tighter under your thighs, palms spreading you wider, thumbs pressing into the soft crease where leg met hip like he was locking you in place for the main course.
He played with you. God, he really did.
One second his tongue was circling your clit in lazy, wet loops—teasing, feather-light—then he’d flatten it again and lick broad stripes like he was cleaning the last bit of sauce off a plate he never wanted to leave.
He sucked your clit into his mouth, gentle at first, then harder, cheeks hollowing under the blanket while his hips rolled slow against the mattress.
You could feel the bed shift with every lazy grind of his cock against the sheets—half-hard and getting harder, denim still on because he hadn’t bothered stripping.
He didn’t care.
All focus on you.
The wet sounds were obscene under the covers: slick, filthy, rhythmic. His nose pressed against your pubic bone when he buried his tongue inside you, curling, fucking you with it in shallow thrusts that made your back arch clean off the bed.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hum in approval. He liked when you got greedy right back.
A soft bite to your clit again, then a soothing lick, then another bite. Playing. Always playing. Like your pussy was the best toy he’d ever found in the trash heaps and he was in no rush to put it down.
You bit your lip to keep quiet, but a broken little moan still slipped out.
Enjin’s shoulders flexed under the blanket in response, a low, satisfied rumble vibrating straight into you like praise.
He doubled down—tongue working faster now, two fingers sliding in alongside it without warning, thick and calloused and perfect, curling just right while his mouth latched onto your clit and sucked like he was trying to pull an orgasm out of you by force.
The mattress creaked under his slow, shameless grinding.
You felt the heat of his breath, the scrape of stubble, the way his free hand kept sliding up your stomach to squeeze your tit like he couldn’t help touching every inch he could reach.
All of it under that stupid blanket cocoon, like he was hiding from the world just so he could devour you in peace.
He loved this too much. You knew it. Could feel it in the way he groaned every time you clenched around his fingers, in the way he kept humping the bed in tiny, involuntary rolls like the taste of you was getting him off more than anything else could.
No rush to fuck you. Not yet. Just this starving, focused, filthy worship until your thighs started shaking around his ears.
Your breath hitched. Another moan, louder this time, and he answered with a deeper thrust of his fingers, tongue flicking fast and relentless over your swollen clit.
He wasn’t stopping until you fell apart for him.
And even then…you already knew he’d just start all over again.
He made you come like it was the easiest thing ever.
First one hit slow and rolling with his tongue flat and relentless on your clit while his fingers curled deep, stroking that spot that always made your thighs clamp around his ears.
You tried to stay quiet, tried to keep the blanket over your face like it could hide how badly you were falling apart, but the moan tore out anyway, low and shaky, hips jerking up into his mouth as the orgasm crashed through you.
Enjin didn’t stop. Not even close.
He just groaned into your pussy like the taste of you coming was better than oxygen, sucking and licking through every pulse until your grip in his hair turned mean, nails scraping his scalp hard enough to sting.
He loved that shit.
You felt it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his hips rutted harder against the mattress, chasing friction while he finger-fucked you through the aftershocks.
Then he dragged you right into a second one.
Faster this time. Filthier.
He sealed his mouth around your clit and sucked while his fingers pumped deeper, wet sounds obscene under the blanket.
Your moans turned into helpless little broken whimpers that made his cock throb against the sheets.
He ground down shamelessly in pure desperation, chasing his own release while he worked you higher.
You came again, hard, right against his face, slick flooding his tongue, thighs shaking, grip in his hair vicious enough to make him grunt.
And that was it for him.
He finished in his pants like a teenager, hips stuttering, a muffled curse vibrating straight into your oversensitive cunt as he spilled hot and messy into the fabric.
He licked you once more—long, slow, flat tongue dragging from your entrance all the way up your clit like he was cleaning every last drop he’d earned.
Then he slapped your pussy. Playful. Not enough to hurt, but rough enough to make your hips twitch and a fresh spark shoot up your spine.
He sat back on his knees, blanket sliding off his shoulders, hair a wrecked blond mess, chin shiny with you.
His chest was still heaving, that lazy grin fighting its way back even while he was clearly still coming down, cock softening in the wet spot he’d made in his pants.
“Goddamn,” he drawled, voice gravel-rough and amused, eyes half-lidded as he looked down at the mess between your legs.
“Look what you made me do, lady. Came in my pants like I’m fourteen again. All ‘cause you taste too good and pull my hair like you’re tryna scalp me.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, slow and deliberate, then leaned down to press one last lazy kiss to your inner thigh—teeth grazing just enough to remind you he wasn’t done being a menace.
“Worth it though,” he added, voice dropping lower, still riled up even as the late-night haze settled in. “You gonna let me crash here now, or you kicking my sticky ass out after I did all that work?”
His hand stayed on your thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles like he already knew the answer.
“You can stay,” you breathed, the words slipping out before your brain caught up. “Fuck,” you muttered right after, throwing an arm over your eyes like the ceiling had personally betrayed you.
The aftershocks were still humming under your skin, thighs loose and warm, and here he was, still between your legs looking stupidly pleased with himself.
Enjin chuckled low, that gravel-rough sound that always felt like it scraped right along your nerves in the best way.
He slid your shorts back into place with careful fingers—almost gentle, which was hilarious coming from the same guy who’d just made you come twice with his face buried like it was his full-time job.
He tugged your top down next, smoothing it over your stomach like he was tucking you in.
Then he leaned up and kissed you, slow and deep, tasting like you and smoke and pure smug satisfaction.
His hands found your waist, squeezed once, possessive and warm.
“Gonna use your bathroom real quick,” he murmured against your mouth, grinning that bright, filthy grin, “and then I’m stealing the good side of your bed.”
He slapped your thigh, playful, loud enough to make the skin sting just right before pushing up to his knees, already popping the button on his pants with zero shame.
“What a mess,” he muttered, glancing down at the dark wet spot he’d left like it was the funniest shit he’d seen all week.
You couldn’t hold it back.
A short, dry laugh punched out of you, half-muffled by your arm.
Because yeah—it was kinda funny. This big, cocky man reduced to creaming his jeans like a horny teenager because he got too into eating you out.
Enjin shot you a look over his shoulder, one brow arched, eyes still dark and riled. “Laugh it up, girl. Next time I’m making you clean it up with your tongue.”
He stood, pants hanging loose off his hips, and padded toward your tiny bathroom like he owned the place.
The door clicked shut behind him, water running a second later.
You stayed exactly where you were, arm still slung over your eyes, a lazy smirk tugging at your lips.
The room smelled like sex and him. Peaceful, almost. Until the bathroom door opened again and he came back out.
He killed the light on the way, plunging the room into that soft, late-night dark you liked best.
The mattress dipped hard as he climbed in beside you, long body stretching out and immediately stealing half the bed like he’d promised.
One arm looped around your waist, tugging you against his chest without asking. Warm skin, clean soap, and that low rumble of his voice right by your ear.
“See? Told you I’d be quiet,” he said, deadpan, even though you both knew he was full of shit.
His fingers traced idle circles on your hip under the blanket, thumb brushing the edge of your shorts again like he couldn’t help himself.
“You sleep better with a little company anyway. Admit it.”
You snorted, turning your face into his shoulder just to hide the smile. “Company’s pushing it. You’re more like a stray that learned how to pick locks.”
Enjin’s laugh vibrated through his chest, warm and easy.
He pressed a lazy kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple, softer than he usually let himself get. “Stray’s got perks. I come with oral skills and free heat.” His hand slid lower, cupping your ass under the blanket, giving a light squeeze. “And I don’t snore… much.”
Your room felt smaller, warmer, the kind of quiet you actually didn’t mind sharing anymore.
His breathing evened out slow, but his fingers kept moving—lazy, absent touches like he was mapping you in his sleep.
“Next time you squeeze me like that, I’m not finishing in my pants, sweetheart. Fair warning.”
You tilted your head up, lips brushing the warm skin of his shoulder, voice barely more than a breath in the dark.
“Next time just fuck me on my table.”
Enjin went still for half a second, then that low, rumbling chuckle rolled out of him, the one that always felt like it started somewhere deep in his chest and ended between your legs.
His arm tightened around your waist, fingers splaying wide over the curve of your ass like he was already filing the suggestion away for later.
“Shit,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough and amused, mouth pressed to your temple. “You’re gonna make me hard again just thinking about it. You, bent over all that scrap and ink, ass up while I ruin those pretty masks you pretend are more important than me.”
He nipped your ear, lazy and filthy.
“Might have to lock the door twice next time. Or not. Let August walk in and learn what real regalia looks like.”
You snorted, the sound dry and sleepy, but your hand slid up his chest anyway, nails dragging light over his skin just to feel him shiver. “You’d like that too much.”
“Damn right I would.”
He shifted, pulling you flush against him under the blanket, one long leg hooking over yours like he was staking permanent claim on the bed, the room, the whole damn night.
Skin on skin, warm and clean and still smelling faintly of you, felt better than any workshop quiet ever had.
His thumb traced slow circles on your hip, the kind that said he wasn’t planning on moving for the next ten hours.
For a minute the only sound was the distant hum from outside and the even rhythm of his breathing against your hair.
No more words. He never needed many after the fact—especially not when the late hour wrapped around you both like one of your half-finished gas masks.
You felt his grin against your forehead, small and satisfied, before he finally spoke again, softer this time.
“Table it is, then. But only if you promise to wear one of those new designs while I’m at it. Call it…quality control.”
You didn’t answer. Just let your eyes drift shut, the smirk still tugging at your mouth, his heartbeat steady under your palm.
The workshop could wait.
So could the consequences.
For tonight, the silence was yours and his and it felt exactly right.
You are still here, so I assume it worked.
The Masterlist is here if you need another excuse to stay. If you want your own little disaster, requests are open.
The way you write banter has me actually dying. I just read what may well be your entire masterlist (I went down it like a checklist) and your DIALOGUE and BANTER is so good. Your writing is incredible all around but I keep coming back to the interactions, ESPECIALLY in your power play fics!! I just had to rant about how talented you are🙂↕️
Went through the whole masterlist like a checklist… I’m not sure if I should be impressed or slightly concerned for your wellbeing.
But thank you. Seriously. That’s a lot of time to spend in my chaos. 🤍
As a reward, you may consider yourself aggressively appreciated.
HELLOOO, i just wanna say thatt i love your blogs! Like i always jump in happiness if you post cause you're literally my favorite writer! I hope you do some gachiakuta in the future (especially jabber cuz i love him🥹✌🏻💯) anywayss bye love you (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)
The dim, flickering light of the abandoned underbelly chamber barely cut through the haze of dust and leftover adrenaline still clinging to the air.
Jabber lay sprawled beneath you on the worn-out pile of scavenged blankets, his chest heaving, manic grin splitting his face even as fresh toxin-laced scratches bloomed across his skin like glowing veins. His Mankira rings glinted on your fingers now, warm from his body, heavy with promise, and every shallow breath he took made the locs framing his face shift like wild ropes.
You straddled his hips, thighs locked tight around him, feeling the hard, insistent press of his cock trapped between your bodies.
He was already slick with pre-cum and the faint sheen of sweat, twitching every time your nails dragged another light, deliberate trail down the center of his chest. The neurotoxin burned slow and sweet for him, making his muscles twitch and jump under your touch.
“Fuck…yeah, just like that,” he rasped, voice low and ragged, eyes half-lidded but burning up at you with pure, unhinged obsession. “Scratch deeper, pretty thing. Make it sting. I can take it.”
You smirked down at him, heat curling in your belly even as something softer flickered behind it.
He was insane, dangerous and beautiful in the most feral way—and he looked at you like you were the only thing in this trash-heap world worth craving.
You leaned in, dragging the rings slower this time, letting the toxin kiss a fresh line across one of his pecs until he arched hard beneath you, a breathless laugh tearing from his throat.
“Greedy bastard,” you murmured, sweet but edged with challenge.
He groaned, hips bucking up sharply, trying to grind himself against your heat. One of his hands shot up, rings clinking as he gripped your waist like he might flip you but you were faster.
You dug your nails in harder right over the fresh scratches, pressing the toxin deeper, and his whole body jolted. A raw, heavenly moan ripped out of him, head tipping back, locs spilling across the blankets.
“Shit—yes—hurt me nicer than they ever could,” he laughed, the sound wild and cracked with pleasure. His cock throbbed hot against your thigh. “You’re so fucking strong…my strong, sweet girl. Nobody else gets to do this. Nobody else gets me like this.”
You rolled your hips slow and mean, letting just the tip of him nudge against your entrance before pulling back, teasing. The control felt electric.
He was bigger than you, much stronger and faster but right now he was letting you win, letting you wreck him, because it made his blood sing.
“Stay down,” you warned softly, leaning down to bite the side of his neck.
Your teeth sank in until you tasted copper, warm and metallic, and his laugh melted into a moan that vibrated against your lips. He shuddered hard, one hand fisting in your hair, not pulling you away but holding you closer.
“Mmm…bite harder, baby. Draw it all out. I love when you mark me up like I’m yours.” His voice dropped, obsessive and crazy-soft. “You are keeping me, right? Say it. Tell me you won’t get bored of breaking your favorite freak.”
You licked the wound you’d made, soothing and filthy at once, then rocked down again, finally sinking onto him in one slick, tight slide. The stretch burned deliciously. He filled you perfectly and the moment you bottomed out, his hips jerked up on instinct, chasing more.
You pinned his shoulders with the rings still on your fingers, dragging fresh tingling lines down his arm as you started riding him. Every roll of your hips ground the toxin-laced scratches, making him twitch, laugh and moan all at once.
“Fuck—look at you,” he panted, eyes wild and fixed only on your face, that obsessive gleam brighter than ever. “Riding me like you own me. You do, don’t you? My pretty, feisty little monster. Shit, clench like that again and I might lose it.”
You smiled down at him, sweet despite the way you were using his own weapon to drive him higher, and gave him exactly what he wanted—another slow, mean grind while the claws dug in just a little harder.
He was completely gone for you, laughing breathlessly through the burn, body arching and trembling under every touch like it was the best kind of pain he’d ever chased.
His pupils were blown wide, eyes glassy and feral as he stared up at you like you were the only fixed point in his spinning, violent little world.
His chest rose and fell in sharp, greedy bursts, every fresh neurotoxin trail you’d carved glowing faintly against his dark skin, making his muscles twitch and jump under you like live wires. He looked completely fucking gone—high, unhinged, giggling through every moan like the pain and pleasure had short-circuited his brain straight into heaven.
And he was loud. Extremely.
“Fuuuuck—yes, baby, yes—harder, c’mon, don’t you dare go soft on me now,” he laughed, the sound cracked and breathless, turning into a shameless moan when you rolled your hips again, taking him deeper. His locs stuck to his sweat-slick forehead. “You feel so good—so tight, so wet, so perfect—shit, I’m addicted. You’re my favorite fucking drug, you know that?”
You bit your lip, trying to keep some control even as heat coiled tight and vicious in you. He was thick inside you, stretching you just right, and every slow grind you gave him made the toxin burn hotter under his skin.
You could feel how close he was to flipping the script—his hands kept twitching at your thighs, fingers flexing like he was dying to grab but you weren’t done playing yet.
You dragged the Mankira rings down one last teasing line across his abs, watching his abs clench and his cock throb hard inside you. Jabber’s head snapped back, a loud, giggly moan ripping out of him as the toxin sang through his veins.
“Too much?” you asked, voice sweet but teasing, already sliding the heavy rings off your fingers one by one.
He didn’t answer with words—just a wild, breathless laugh that dissolved into a needy whine the second the last ring left your hand.
The moment they were gone, Jabber moved. Both of his hands shot to your hips, fingers digging in bruisingly hard, yanking you down onto him with zero warning.
The sudden, rough thrust punched a sharp moan out of you—“Shit—” you hissed, nails digging into his chest for balance as he dragged you forward, forcing you to take every inch in one brutal snap of his hips.
“There she is—fuck, there’s my babygirl,” he growled, voice hoarse and giddy all at once. His grin was pure chaos, wide and unhinged, but his touch was starving.
He smacked your ass hard, the sting blooming hot as he used the grip to bounce you on his cock faster and rougher, setting a punishing rhythm that had the wet slap of skin echoing in the dim chamber.
“Louder, baby—let me hear you moan for me. You take me so fucking good—shit, you’re squeezing me like you wanna break me.”
You couldn’t help it.
The shift from slow, mean control to Jabber lost and manic beneath you, hips snapping up to meet every downward grind, hands gripping, smacking and dragging you exactly where he wanted—had heat exploding through you. You moaned loud, sweet and filthy, bracing one hand on his chest while the other tangled in his locs, tugging hard enough to make him hiss with delight.
“Yeah—pull it, pull my hair, make it hurt,” he laughed, the sound loud and cracked as he fucked up into you harder, the toxin making every sensation sharper, wilder. He was high on it, high on you, pupils blown so wide he looked drunk. “You’re so sweet when you moan like that, my feisty little monster. Nobody else gets this—nobody else gets to ride me while I lose my fucking mind for them. Only you. Only fucking you.”
He sat up suddenly, one arm locking around your waist to crush you closer, hair falling around your faces like a messy curtain as he buried his face in your neck.
His hips never stopped while his free hand smacked your ass again, then squeezed, spreading you open so he could drive even deeper. The new angle made you cry out, pleasure spiking sharp and hot, and Jabber moaned right against your skin, loud and shameless.
“Mmm—hear that? That pretty sound you make when I hit it just right…fuuuuck, I’m addicted. Can’t get enough—never gonna get enough of this tight little pussy, of you biting me and scratching me and owning me.” His voice dropped into something crazier, softer, almost reverent even while he fucked you stupid. “You’re mine, yeah? Say it—tell your crazy boyfriend he’s yours while I fuck you raw.”
You gasped, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave new red lines, and he shuddered violently, hips stuttering for a second before he laughed loud, giggly, completely lost and slammed back in even harder.
He was a junkie who’d finally gotten his favorite hit, and he was riding that high like it might kill him.
The aftershocks kept fluttering through you, lazy little pulses that made him twitch every few seconds.
Jabber was flat on his back on the old blanket, arms lazily tucked behind his head, chest rising and falling in slow, satisfied breaths.
The toxin trails on his skin had faded to a soft pink, mixing with the faint streaks of blood. He looked wrecked in the best way—grinning that wide, unhinged grin, eyes still glassy and half-lidded, completely high on whatever cocktail of pain, pleasure, and you was running through his veins.
You reached for the small bottle of water you’d scavenged earlier, tipping it gently so the last of the cold liquid slid over his chest and abs in slow, glistening trails. It washed away the thin lines of blood, cooling the heated scratches, and Jabber let out a low, giggly sigh that turned into a soft moan when the chill hit his skin.
“Mmm…that’s nice,” he murmured, voice rough and lazy, watching you with pure, obsessive adoration. “My sweet girl playing nurse after she rode me like she was trying to kill me. Fuck, I love you like this.”
You smiled down at him, as you used your fingers to gently wipe away the last traces of red.
He was still inside you, soft but thick, keeping you full and warm while you took care of him.
The contrast made everything feel softer, heavier, more intimate. You leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a slow, teasing kiss that quickly deepened—tongues sliding hot and lazy, tasting the faint copper of his blood mixed with the sweetness of whatever candy he’d stolen earlier.
Your breathing mingled, heavy and shared, chests pressed close as you kissed him deeper, slower, like you had all the time in this trash-heap world.
When you finally pulled back just enough to breathe, you felt him starting to harden again, thickening slowly inside you, stretching you once more with that familiar, delicious burn. A grin tugged at your lips. You rocked your hips just once, teasing, and watched his eyes flutter.
“You like that?” you asked, voice low and flirty, sweet with a filthy edge. “Me taking care of you after you came so deep inside me? All messy and warm, still leaking out while I clean up my favorite freak?”
Jabber’s laugh was soft this time, giggly and annoyingly charming, but his eyes were dark with hunger and something almost embarrassingly soft.
“Shit, baby…you’re gonna make me blush if you keep talking like that. Look at you—sitting pretty on me like it’s your throne, wiping blood off me like I’m some delicate thing. But we both know you’re the one who put it there.”
He shifted his arms from behind his head, one hand sliding slow and possessive down your back, the other cupping your ass, squeezing with just enough pressure to make you gasp.
“Mmm, yeah…I like it. Love it. You taking care of your crazy boy after you wrecked him? Makes me hard all over again. You’re too good to me and I’m too fucking gone for you.”
He pulled you down closer, your breasts pressing soft and warm against his chest, nipples brushing his skin with every breath.
His hand on your ass kneaded lazily, fingers digging in as he rocked up just enough to nudge deeper inside you, a lazy grind that had you both breathing heavier.
The kiss you shared next was messier—tongues tangling deep, wet sounds mixing with your shared moans, his free hand sliding up to tangle in your hair and hold you right where he wanted.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he mumbled against your lips between kisses, voice husky and giggly, still high and unhinged but wrapped in sweetness. “All flushed and sweet, tits on my chest, my cum still dripping down your thighs while you play gentle. Fuck. I’m addicted. Can’t stop wanting you. You bite me, scratch me, ride me till I’m laughing like a maniac…then you clean me up and kiss me like I’m worth something. Makes me wanna keep you forever, pretty thing. My hot woman who knows exactly how to break me and put me back together.”
You laughed softly, nipping at his bottom lip before soothing it with your tongue, your hand still tracing gentle circles over his cleaned abs.
“You’re such an annoying junkie,” you teased, voice breathy and flirty as you rolled your hips again, feeling him swell fully hard inside you once more. “But look at you… all soft and obsessed, watching me with those pretty eyes while I take care of you. It’s almost embarrassing how gone you are for me.”
“Embarrassing? Nah,” he grinned, but his touch stayed tender even as his fingers smacked your ass lightly playful, and possessive. “It’s honest. I’m your junkie, baby. You’re my favorite hit. The only one that makes the world stop feeling boring.”
He pulled you into another deep, tongue-heavy kiss, breathing hard into your mouth as his hand slid between your bodies just enough to thumb slow circles over your clit, making your breath hitch. “Keep cleaning me up, sweet girl…or don’t. I might just flip you again and fill you up a second time while you’re still being so nice to me.”
You leaned in for another slow, filthy kiss, whispering against his lips, “Then stay right here…let me take care of my favorite addict a little longer.”
You were still sitting pretty on his cock, warm and full, trading slow, deep kisses that tasted like sweat and blood and pure want. Jabber’s hands roamed lazy over your ass, squeezing, when he suddenly grinned against your mouth—wide, giggly, and way too pleased with himself.
“Alright, sweet thing… my turn.”
Before you could tease him back, he flipped you.
One quick, smooth roll and your back hit the blanket, him hovering over you with that obsessed energy crackling all around. He was still breathing hard, still high on the toxin and on you, but his grin never faded as he kissed down your body—messy, open-mouthed, leaving little bites along the way that made you arch.
“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, voice rough and flirty, spreading your thighs wide with both hands. “All messy from me with my cum still leaking out like you couldn’t get enough. That’s so fucking hot, baby.”
You laughed breathlessly, feisty even while your body buzzed. “You’re such a greedy idiot—”
“Yeah, and you’re my favorite bitch,” he cut in with a loud, giggly moan, already lowering his head. He didn’t tease. He dove in like a starving man—tongue dragging hot and filthy through your folds, licking up every drop of his own release mixed with yours.
The wet, obscene sounds filled the dim space as he swallowed it all down, humming loud and happy against your pussy like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
“Shit—Jabber—” you hissed, hips jerking, one hand flying to his hair.
He laughed right into you, the vibration making your toes curl. “Mmm, say my name louder, pretty girl. I love when you get all sweet and loud for me.” His tongue circled your clit, then dipped back inside, lapping greedily, swallowing everything you gave him. He was loud about it—moaning, giggling, making sloppy, wet noises that should’ve been embarrassing but only made you wetter.
One of his hands slid up your body to pinch your nipple while the other gripped your thigh, holding you open so he could bury his face deeper. He sucked hard, then softened it with lazy licks, switching between mean and sweet until your legs started shaking.
“You taste so good with me inside you,” he mumbled, voice muffled and filthy, pulling back just enough to grin up at you. His chin was shiny, lips swollen. “My cum, your pretty little pussy… fuck, I could stay down here all night. You gonna come on my tongue, baby? Let your crazy boyfriend drink it all up?”
You moaned, sweet and feisty, tugging his hair harder. “Stop talking.”
He barked a loud laugh, eyes sparkling with pure obsession. “Yes ma’am—fuck, I love when you boss me around.” Then he was back on you, rougher, tongue fucking into you deep, nose grinding against your clit, sucking and licking like he was addicted to the taste of both of you together. His moans vibrated through you, loud and shameless, while his hands kept you pinned exactly where he wanted.
Every time you twitched or moaned louder, he got greedier—swallowing every drop, humming happily, occasionally pulling back just to murmur flirty, crazy shit against your slick skin.
“God, you’re perfect… my sweet, feisty girl who lets me be this nasty for her. Come on, baby—flood my mouth. I wanna taste how much you love your crazy man.”
He sucked your clit again and you felt that coil snap—pleasure crashing through you sharp and hot. You came with a loud moan, thighs clamping around his head, and Jabber moaned like he was the one coming, drinking down every bit of it with greedy, happy little sounds.
He didn’t stop until you were trembling and oversensitive, only then pulling back with a wet pop and that wide, satisfied grin, licking his lips like he’d just had the best meal of his life.
“Mmmm… best aftercare ever,” he laughed, crawling up your body to kiss you deep, letting you taste both of you on his tongue.
His voice dropped softer, still giggly but stupidly sweet. “You okay, pretty thing? Or you want me to flip you again and keep going till we both can’t walk?”
He nuzzled into your neck, pressing lazy kisses there, hands still roaming like he couldn’t stop touching you.
You both stayed naked for a long while after that, tangled up on the blanket like you had nowhere better to be in the whole damn Abyss.
Skin on skin, slow and lazy at first, then hot and rough again whenever one of you got bored of being sweet.
Jabber’s hands never really left you—tracing lazy patterns over your hips, squeezing your ass, pulling you in for deep, messy kisses that turned filthy fast.
He’d laugh against your mouth when you nipped his lip too hard, then flip you under him just to grind against your thigh like he couldn’t help himself.
“Fuck, you’re addictive,” he mumbled between kisses, voice rough and giggly. “One taste and I’m already twitching for round three.”
You shoved his shoulder playfully, sweet but feisty. “Give a girl five minutes to breathe, would you?”
He just smiled wider and kissed you harder, tongue sliding deep, hands rough on your waist until you were both breathing heavy and laughing into each other’s mouths again.
Eventually the high started to settle and the chill of the underground air nipped at your skin.
You sighed, stretching. “Alright, crazy boy. We should head back before someone comes looking and finds us like this.”
Jabber groaned dramatically but rolled off you, both of you finally tugging clothes back on in the dim light. You pulled your shirt down, smoothing it over your hips, while he shrugged into his jacket and started sliding his rings back onto his fingers one by one.
The second the last ring clicked into place, the neurotoxin activated with a faint shimmer. One of the sharp edges caught his own thigh through the fabric. Jabber froze mid-motion. You froze too, shirt halfway tucked in, staring at him.
He side-eyed you slowly.
You raised a brow.
Then that smirk crept across his face… and bloomed into a full, manic grin.
“No, Jabber—” you huffed, already taking a cautious step back, half-laughing, half-warned.
Too late.
His eyes lit up with that fresh toxin rush, pupils blowing wide as the familiar high slammed back into him. “Ohhh baby,” he drawled, voice cracking into a giddy laugh. “Look what you made me do. Can’t even put my own rings on without thinking about you scratching me up again.”
“Jabber, I swear if you—”
He howled loud, wild, pure chaos—then launched himself at you with a playful bark and a giggle that bounced off the walls.
“Jabber!”
That did something to you, didn’t it?
The Masterlist has more trouble for you. If you want a different kind, Requests are open.
