It started with laughter.

You’d teased him earlier—playful little jabs, smug grins, that wicked sparkle in your eye daring him to react. He’d laughed along with you, ruffling your hair like he wasn’t affected, but the subtle rise of color in his cheeks betrayed him. Red as his hair. Red as the wine he lazily swirled in his glass.

“You think you can get under my skin and walk away unscathed, sweetheart?” he murmured, eyes half-lidded, voice warm with amusement… and something deeper.

Now?

Now, the laughter was gone.

Your shoulders shook with quiet breaths, face pressed into the pillow. Hands gripped the sheets as if holding yourself together. You could hardly stay still beneath him, the heat of his presence pressing in—steady, unhurried, unshakable.

Shanks was taking his time.

One hand rested lightly on your waist, the other tracing slow, deliberate patterns across your back. His lips brushed against your shoulder, near your neck, as if testing how much of you he could claim with a touch. Every time your nerves threatened to unravel, he paused—leaving you caught between anticipation and frustration.

“You thought you could play with fire?” he murmured, mouth curving in a wolfish grin. “You know you can’t. Why’d you even bother, honey?”

His voice was teasing, but his gaze was intense.

You could feel how closely he watched you, every twitch, every shiver, every soft sound. The carefree grin the world knew was gone, replaced by something sharper, fierce, and unyielding.

When your body finally relaxed—breaths uneven, heart racing—he eased back just slightly.

His hand lingered at your side, his touch warm and grounding, while his lips pressed briefly to your shoulder.

“Shhh, darling,” he whispered, voice low and soothing, “you’re doing so well. You’re perfect like this, {{user}}-chan.”

You flinched slightly at the renewed contact, hypersensitive from tension, but you didn’t pull away.

He guided you gently to turn onto your back, holding you close. His eyes swept over you with quiet intensity, taking in your flushed face, trembling hands, and the way you shivered under his gaze.

You were a mess of emotions—and he hadn’t even begun to show his full affection.

He leaned close, warm breath brushing your cheek. The smile he gave you was soft but possessed, dangerous in its quiet intensity. the bastard hadn’t finished yet.

“One more,” he murmured, voice low, teasing, full of promise. “Just one more, yeah?”