It started as a drunken guild bet—some half-serious challenge scribbled between bounty postings, a dare buried beneath nonsense about drinking contests and sparring rematches. You weren’t even supposed to notice it. It was a joke, something meant to get laughs over mugs of beer and spilled stew.

But Laxus noticed.

Something in him went still. Not anger. Not quite. It was darker—possessiveness coiled with pride, tempered by the glint of something territorial in his eyes. It wasn’t about the bet. It was about you. And when he saw your name beside the dare—Let [Y/N] take on the Thunder God Tribe, bet she can’t last five minutes—he didn’t laugh.

He just smirked. And made sure the training hall was cleared.

Now you're on your knees in the middle of the floor, the stone cool beneath your bare skin, wrists bound tight behind your back with a silk sash someone “borrowed” from Erza’s closet. Your arms ache, your thighs tremble, but it’s the grip on your scalp that keeps you still. Laxus stands behind you, one thick hand buried in your hair, holding you in place like a trophy he’s showing off.

He doesn’t like to share. He’s made that very clear.

But when it’s his idea—when he’s the one in charge—everything becomes fair game.

The rest of the boys are circling now. Freed’s shirt is already gone, abs glistening with sweat. Bickslow’s tongue flicks over his lip, pupils blown wide as he eyes the way you writhe under Laxus’s grip. Even Evergreen’s watching from the shadows, arms crossed and eyes sharp—not joining, but not stopping it either. There’s something amused in her gaze, like she’s taking mental notes, enjoying the spectacle in her own quiet, dangerous way, smirking like she knows how this ends.

The bet doesn’t matter anymore. This is about Laxus proving a point.

He leans down, breath hot at your ear.

“Five minutes?” he growls. “Let’s see how many times you can come in ten.”

His hand yanks your head back as he forces your gaze up—past his smirk, past the others unbuckling their belts—to the guild crest above the door. It’s the only thing you’re allowed to focus on as Laxus shoves his fingers past your lips, curling them against your tongue until you gag.

“That’s it,” he mutters. “Let ‘em hear how pretty you sound when you choke.”

What follows is a blur of teeth and skin and sound. Hands roam your body—rough, eager. Fingers tease your nipples, twist them. A palm strikes your ass, the sting blooming instantly, making you jolt forward. Someone’s cock rubs against your cheek. Another slaps against your thigh.

And Laxus? He never lets go of your hair.

Every time you squirm too much, his fist tightens. Every moan earns a rough tug. His voice is a constant in your ear—taunting, praising, commanding.

“You wanted this.” “Don’t pretend you’re not soaked.” “Look how greedy that cunt is.”

They take turns using your mouth, your pussy, your ass—each moment blurring into the next in a dizzying flood of sensation. One thrusts deep while another strokes your cheek, another tugs at your hips with bruising force. It’s not just use—it’s rhythm, contrast, a dance of dominance that leaves your body shaking and your mind unmoored. The pressure, the fullness, the stretch—you feel everything, everywhere, all at once—each thrust more punishing than the last. They fuck you like a toy passed between brothers, laughing, growling, praising you for how well you take it. It’s filthy. Messy. Overwhelming. Lube and spit and cum slick every inch of your body.

And through it all, Laxus watches.

He only joins in once you’re wrecked—gagged, drooling, and reduced to something raw and pliant. When he finally steps in, it’s not with haste but with a slow, deliberate dominance that says you’re his to finish. His eyes flick down over your body—not with sympathy, but with the satisfaction of a predator knowing the prey is exactly where it should be. Then, and only then, does he kneel behind you, his cock already hard, the head pressed between your cheeks.

“Mine now,” he grunts, and the stretch burns.

You sob, but your hips roll back anyway.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head up again, and snarls against your ear.

“Say it. Say who you belong to.”

And you do.

Over and over, until the others are laughing, until Laxus is groaning and emptying inside you, until the air smells like sweat and sex and thunder magic crackling through the floor.

By the end, your throat’s raw. Your legs won’t hold you. You collapse in a trembling mess across his lap, his arms the only thing keeping you from sliding onto the floor.

He kisses your temple. Rough. Possessive.

And when someone dares ask if you lost the bet—

Laxus chuckles darkly. “She didn’t lose.”

He strokes your thigh, voice dropping into something low and dangerous.

The safehouse is a concrete box buried under an abandoned ski lodge—Umbrella black-site turned bolt-hole. Gray walls, fluorescent buzz, the smell of antiseptic baked into concrete. Nothing about it says comfort, not until you found the hot tub tucked behind a reinforced sliding panel. Stainless steel, recessed into the floor, fed by a geothermal pipe that never cools. An odd luxury in a bunker built for attrition.

You’d laughed when you discovered it, giddy from blood loss and residual adrenaline. H.U.N.K. had only grunted, stripped to the waist, and disappeared to clean gore from his gear with the same mechanical efficiency he brought to fieldwork. You hadn’t expected him to join you. You’d almost hoped he wouldn’t—because if he did, it would mean something neither of you were supposed to admit.

Now the water churns around you, lit from beneath by a sickly teal glow that makes the bruises on your ribs bloom like algae in moonlight. You’re submerged to the collarbone, every pulse soothed by heat. The door hisses open.

He steps inside, silent as death.

The mask comes off first—a clack of ceramic against tile. You’ve seen him kill a man without blinking, heard the crack of necks and gunfire, but never his face. Now you have: sharp jaw, faint scar bisecting his left brow, cheekbones cut like shrapnel. Eyes the color of winter steel. Hair sweat-damp and plastered to his temple.

He looks human. Tired. Dangerous.

Tac vest, gloves, boots—he removes everything with methodical precision, stacking it in silent order beside the bench. The last thing to fall is his holster, which he lays atop the pile like a final barrier relinquished.

The water hisses as he steps in, muscles flexing under old scars. You watch the shift in his body, the precise economy of movement, and feel a new heat pool low in your stomach—anticipation wrapped in fear. His knees brush yours under the surface. He says nothing.

You sit in that silence for a full minute. Breathing. Watching the rise and fall of his chest. Then:

“Feet,” he says, voice made rough from the mask's filter. Not a question. Not a request.

You lift one leg slowly. Water trails off your calf like molten glass. He catches your ankle in one calloused palm, thumb pressing into the arch. He tests the soft tissue like he's checking for damage—and maybe he is.

The touch turns indulgent. His fingers knead with slow, deliberate pressure: the ball of your foot, the delicate dip beneath your toes. You sigh, then bite it back. His gaze flicks up to yours.

“Mission was sloppy,” he says.

“We got the sample.”

“You limped the last mile.”

“Twisted it on rebar,” you admit. “Thought you didn’t notice.”

He lifts your foot higher, water trailing from your heel.

“I notice everything.”

His mouth replaces his hand. Lips brush the instep. Then his tongue—rough, deliberate—traces the ridge of bone. You gasp. He continues.

He switches feet. The ritual repeats. Slow massage. Careful kiss. Tongue dragging heat from your core to your skin. He takes each toe into his mouth, sucking like he’s starving. When he grazes the pad of your big toe with his teeth, a whimper escapes.

“Quiet,” he murmurs. Not unkind. A warning, or maybe a reminder.

His free hand glides up your leg, smoothing over bruises, finding muscle, then higher. Inner thigh. Close now. Your swimsuit offers no barrier. You’re bare beneath it, and he feels it.

He growls.

“Off.”

You comply. Peel the wet fabric down your legs, hand it to him. He doesn’t look at it, just tosses it behind him like evidence. Then he pulls you forward. Into his lap. Onto his cock.

Waves crest and spill over the tub’s edge, slapping wetly against the tile. Your knees find purchase on either side of his hips. His length—hard, hot, heavy—presses between you, pinning you open with every breath.

He holds both your feet, places them on his shoulders. The angle folds you, exposes you. You feel air kiss your nipples. You feel the tip of him notch against your entrance.

“Hold still,” he rasps.

His hands slide down your shins, pause behind your knees. Then lower. Grip tightens around your ass, spreading you. The head of him pushes forward, slow, stretching you. One inch. Two. You clench. He keeps going.

When he's fully seated, you can't breathe.

The stretch is obscene. You whimper, and he answers it with his mouth—a kiss stolen through instinct, not habit. Clumsy, then hungry. Tongue thrusting in rhythm with the shallow pump of his hips.

Each thrust stirs the water into chaos. Your breasts sway above the surface. His grip migrates—one hand to your back, anchoring you. The other returns to your ankle, thumb tracing a circle over bone. It shouldn't be tender. It shouldn't matter. But it does.

“Thought about this,” he says. His breath is fire in your ear, and your skin prickles with goosebumps, heart hammering at the unspoken danger laced in his voice. “Since the sewers. Your pulse against my blade. Wanted to feel it break beneath me.”

You tighten around him. His pace stutters. He curses softly.

“Come,” he orders. Thumb pressing hard into the arch of your foot. “Now.”

It detonates. You arch. Toes curl. Every nerve spasms. He follows with a broken groan, hips jerking as he empties into you, burying himself to the root.

Still joined, he eases your legs down, massages the tremble from your calves. You collapse forward, boneless. His arms gather you.

His heartbeat is a thunder roll against your cheek.

“Mission debrief in six hours,” he murmurs.

You hum in response, already slipping under. His fingers trace your spine like he's memorizing the ridges. The mask lies forgotten on the tile.

The room thrummed with the kind of silence that vibrates in the air like a struck chord—sharp, tense, and heavy—where even your own breathing felt too loud. The door clicked shut behind you, and you didn’t turn. You could feel him there—the weight of his stare like static, the deliberate stillness that always came before something reckless, like the moment a match flares before it catches.

Enzo didn’t speak. Not right away. You heard the faint rustle of leather as he shrugged off his jacket, the creak of wood as he took a slow step forward, his shoes a whisper against the floorboards. Still, you didn’t move.

He loved that. The defiance you wore like perfume, laced with tension, steeped in challenge. You could almost hear him smirking.

His breath touched your neck first, cool and deliberate, ghosting over your skin like a warning. Then came the brush of his knuckles along your jaw. Not harsh. Reverent. Teasing. Possessive.

"You’re quiet all of a sudden," he murmured, his voice pure velvet, lilting with that infuriating British drawl. It poured over you like warm honey, slow and mocking, thick with amusement. "Not so bold without an audience, are you, sweetheart?"

Your breath hitched before you could help it. The heat of him, the way he hovered without touching—like he was savoring the silence just as much as he savored the control—made your skin prickle.

His other hand slid around your waist, fingers spreading across your abdomen before pulling you back flush against him. The solid press of his body left no question about what you were doing to him. He made no effort to hide it.

"You know," he went on, his lips grazing your ear, "I only bite when I’m proud."

Your body jolted at the memory. Of the last time—teeth dragging down your shoulder, praise murmured into your throat until pain and pleasure were indistinguishable, bruises shaped like compliments.

"Are you proud of me now?" you asked, barely a whisper, your voice steadier than your pulse.

He chuckled low and warm, his chest vibrating against your back. You could feel his smile in the breath that danced across your skin, in the slow curl of heat that crept up your spine.

"Darling," he breathed, "I’m bloody thrilled."

Then his mouth was on your neck—open, wet, his kiss pressed just beneath your ear with a reverence that bordered on religious. You gasped, hands flying to the doorframe to steady yourself, nails scraping into the wood. He didn’t bite. Not yet. He sucked a bruise into your skin, slow and deliberate, his tongue smoothing over it in soft, cruel circles.

His hand splayed across your stomach, keeping you still, like he was staking a claim.

"You do like getting marked up, don’t you?"

His voice was low, dragging, each syllable soaked in affection and menace. His teeth grazed your throat, a breath away from biting.

"Such a pretty thing… always so eager to prove me right."

You whimpered.

He grinned against your pulse, and then—he bit.

Not deep enough to break the skin, but sharp—commanding in a way that spoke louder than any bruise. Possessive. Deliberate. It stole the air from your lungs, made your spine arch, your legs quake.

His tongue swept over the sting.

"Good girl," he whispered, the praise warm against your damp skin.

Your knees went weak at the words. The warmth they left behind spread lower, pooling hot and urgent. He knew what that praise did to you. He knew, and he wielded it like a weapon.

His hand trailed lower, ghosting over your hips, fingertips dancing at the waistband of your skirt.

"Now," he drawled, every syllable slow and devastating, "why don’t you let me show you just how proud I am?"

He nudged you gently forward until your thighs brushed the edge of the bed. His hands followed the curve of your waist, one palm trailing up your spine, the other smoothing over the back of your thigh as he pushed the fabric up inch by agonizing inch.

You sucked in a breath as cool air kissed your skin, the exposure deliberate, ceremonial.

His mouth returned to your neck, slower now, more methodical, like he was imprinting a map. His fingers dragged a path from your hip to the inside of your knee and back again.

"Every inch of you begging to be mine," he whispered.

You were.

And you’d let him prove it—bruise by bruise, praise by praise, until there was no part of you he hadn’t claimed. Until you forgot who you were without his teeth, his voice, his name marking every inch of you.

He stepped behind you again and pressed his chest to your back, fingers sliding beneath your skirt to hook into your panties. He peeled them down slowly, inch by inch, until they were bunched at your knees. His other hand splayed over your lower belly as he bent you forward, guiding your hands to brace against the mattress.

You shivered at the air against your exposed skin, thighs already trembling.

He didn’t touch you—not at first. Just stood there, letting you feel the weight of his gaze, his presence like a second skin.

Then his fingers dipped between your legs, sliding through the wetness with a low groan. "So ready for me," he murmured, reverent, almost awed.

He pushed two fingers in, slow but firm, curling them as he leaned forward to whisper against your ear. "Such a good girl for me… already so fucking perfect."

Your moan was muffled in the sheets.

He fucked you with his fingers until your hips rocked back against him, desperate for more, gasping with every thrust. He only stopped when you were a shaking mess, when your legs were nearly giving out from the tension wound tight inside you.

Then he pulled away.

You whimpered in protest.

But the sound cut off when you felt the thick press of him—bare, hot, unrelenting—at your entrance. He pushed in slow. Too slow. Letting you feel every inch, every stretch, every beat of his restraint. He bottomed out with a groan and paused there, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

"Fuck, you feel like heaven," he muttered, voice wrecked.

He drew back and snapped his hips forward with force, setting a rhythm that had the bed creaking beneath you, your breath punching out of you with every thrust. Praise spilled from his mouth between groans—filthy, sweet, relentless.

"Good girl. Taking me so well. Look at you. So perfect around my cock."

Your fingers clawed at the sheets as the coil inside you wound tighter and tighter.

You broke first. Your orgasm hit like a storm, wrenching a cry from your throat as your body seized around him. Enzo cursed low and pushed deeper, fucking you through it until you were shaking, wrecked.

He followed soon after, pulsing inside you with a low, breathless moan. He stayed pressed to your back, panting, lips brushing your shoulder.

"So proud of you, love," he murmured, nuzzling the side of your neck.