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ninisdollie · 1 day ago

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champagne war - nishimura riki ˚⊹♡

❤︎⊹.

“In which reader can’t stand being a single more minute in a fancy party, so she leaves with Nishimura Riki, and although she doesn’t really like him, there’s tension between the two of them that will end up breaking.”

content: +18MDNI fem! reader x ni-ki, rich kids! au, kind of enemies to lovers, think about like chuck bass x blair waldorf kind of thing, drinking, mentions of drug use, smut, power play, lots of teasing (like lots), dirty talk, fingering, oral (f. rec), unprotected sex, creampie.

hate comments will be deleted and blocked, likes and reblogs are appreciated !!

The champagne flute had gone warm in your hand, but you brought it to your lips anyway, only to have something to do. The bubbles fizzed faintly against your tongue, sharp and sweet like the words you kept locked behind glossed lips. You stood a step behind your parents, quiet and statuesque, letting their conversation wash over you like white noise. Real estate, stocks, someone’s daughter getting into Yale.

God. It was exhausting.

The room was exactly what you expected, opulent and nauseating. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like it was a painting, but even the skyline looked bored. Velvet curtains draped in dramatic folds. Crystal chandeliers dripping like icicles. Everyone was dressed like they were auditioning for the role of “wealthy elite,” down to the men’s cufflinks and the women’s clutches that cost more than your car.

You didn’t hate parties, just the kind you were raised in.

The kind with string quartets and crystal chandeliers, where the champagne was expensive and the smiles even more so. Where every glance was a transaction, and every compliment had an expiration date. You’d grown up in these ballrooms, wrapped in satin and expectation, taught to smile just wide enough to be polite, but never too much to look desperate.

You knew how to walk like your mother. How to speak like your father’s advisors. You had the art of charm down to a science, and if anyone thought you were cold underneath the sugar, they never said it out loud.

You were soft-spoken. Elegant. Polished like marble—cool to the touch, impossible to chip. You knew which fork to use, how to read a room in under five seconds, and when to laugh even if the joke wasn’t funny. But just because you were composed didn’t mean you were nice.

Not always.

You had a reputation. Not the kind people said to your face, but the kind they whispered after you turned around. She’s… dangerous. That was the word someone once used. Not because you did anything wrong, but because you didn’t need anyone to like you.

And still, somehow, they always wanted to.

But no amount of etiquette classes had prepared you for just how boring it all was.

You let your eyes wander lazily around the ballroom. Everyone looked the same. Different brands, same price tag. You caught the eye of one of the girls from your prep school, she gave you a tight smile and a wave, the kind that said I hate you, but we’re in public, so I’ll pretend not to. You returned it with a tilt of your head and a slow blink, the way your mother taught you to dismiss people without ever breaking a sweat.

The string quartet in the corner was playing some hollow, classical rendition of a pop song, stripping it of any soul it once had. You tuned it out and took another sip of your drink, wishing it were something stronger. Something that could actually take the edge off the evening.

Your heels were beginning to pinch, but you wouldn’t sit. Sitting made you look tired. Tired made you look weak. And appearances, in a room like this, were everything.

One of your father’s associates turned to you suddenly, a portly man with thinning hair and a Rolex that screamed midlife crisis.

“And how’s school going, sweetheart?” he asked, in the tone of someone who didn’t really care. “Still planning to go into international law?”

You gave him a demure smile, the kind that made men underestimate you.

“That’s the plan,” you said smoothly. “Unless I marry rich first and skip the whole ‘working’ thing entirely.”

He laughed like you’d made the most charming joke in the world, and your parents chuckled along. You sipped your drink again, wondering how hard you’d have to slam your glass on the marble floor to make the night interesting.

A passing waiter offered a tray of hors d’oeuvres. You declined with a soft “thank you,” though you hadn’t eaten all night. Hunger, like emotion, was a luxury you rarely indulged in at events like this.

Somewhere across the room, another group burst into laughter—loud, fake, the kind that echoed for attention. A girl squealed over a Cartier bracelet. Someone was bragging about their upcoming summer in the Amalfi Coast. Someone else was trying to one-up them with Aspen.

You hated all of them.

And yet you smiled.

Because that’s what you were supposed to do.

Perfect girls didn’t frown. Perfect girls didn’t complain. Perfect girls endured.

But if you had to hear one more story about someone’s trust fund or private jet, you were going to scream.

So you did what you always did when you felt trapped in a place like this: you planned your escape.

You glanced toward the massive glass doors that led to the balcony, to the cool night beyond the golden glow. The idea of slipping away—unseen, untouched—was suddenly intoxicating.

You didn’t know where you’d go. Maybe you’d order an Uber. Maybe you’d walk just for the sake of walking. You didn’t care. As long as it wasn’t here.

You were just about to vanish—maybe for good this time, maybe just long enough to get air—when a woman in pearls clutched your arm with the strength of desperation disguised as curiosity.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she slurred slightly, her smile brittle with Botox and too many gin martinis. “Tell me again, what was the name of that summer program you did in Geneva? Was it language immersion or finance? My niece is dying to do something impressive for her college apps—”

“Excuse me, i really need to go to the bathroom” you said softly, with a practiced smile that barely reached your eyes.

You slipped away before she could protest. Polite, elegant, untouchable. It was an art form—one your mother had drilled into you since you were twelve.

You turned—and then collided with someone at full force. The sharp splash of champagne was immediate, cold and sticky as it splattered across the front of your silk dress. You flinched, took one slow step back, and then looked up—

Of course.

Nishimura Riki.

He looked like trouble dressed in Saint Laurent—tie askew, top button undone, one hand in his pocket and the other loosely holding a half-empty glass. Dark hair perfectly slicked back, golden Rolex on his wrist and diamond rings on his fingers. He blinked at you, a little unsteady, a smirk blooming lazily across his face.

“Oh, fuck,” he said between a chuckle, eyes trailing down your dress. “Shit. That’s… my bad.”

He didn’t sound sorry at all.

You arched a brow.

“Seriously?”

His grin widened, he tilted his head, chuckling again, his gaze now fixated on your face.

“Oh, but it’s the golden girl.”

You stared at him. Not surprised at all by his teasing tone, you knew it too well.

“Nishimura Riki. Of course you had to make an entrance.”

He chuckled.

“I was here first, actually. You just have a habit of running into people you pretend not to see.”

You exhaled through your nose, slow and sharp, and looked down at the damage. Champagne shimmered down the front of your dress like a crime scene in gold.

He tilted his head again, eyes tracking every drop.

Pervert.

“Don’t stare,” you snapped.

He didn’t look away.

“Can’t help it. You always dress like you want attention, but God forbid anyone actually gives it to you.”

Your lips curled.

“Better than dressing like you got thrown out of a boarding school.”

That much was true. Everyone knew the stories.

Riki was the son of a well known, disgustingly rich CEO— the kind of CEO with his own private jet fleet and a Forbes feature, the type of man who turned everything he touched into gold except his own kid. Riki had grown up in penthouses and luxury hotels, always photographed but never watched closely enough. He had a driver, a trust fund, and a habit of flipping off expectations with a champagne bottle in one hand and a permanent smirk on his face.

He was rich enough to do whatever he wanted. And reckless enough to actually do it.

He was infamous. A playboy, trouble dressed in elegant clothes and Prada perfume. He was so handsome, that was impossible to deny, tall long body that owned every place he walked into. But you never fell for it, never allowed yourself to.

And yet—he was still here. Still invited to every charity gala, every benefit, every masked ball thrown by people who talked shit about him behind $400 facials. Because no one dared cross the Nishimura name.

His father didn’t attend these parties anymore. Too busy flying to Dubai or brokering oil deals in Monaco. Everyone knew it. Everyone whispered that Riki had no leash, no filter, no shame. He was a storm dressed in designer. Uncontrollable. Dangerous.

And, apparently, drunk. As always.

“Just when i thought my night couldn’t get worse” you muttered, dabbing at your dress with a napkin from a nearby waiter’s tray.

He shrugged, tipping his glass toward his lips.

“Just when i thought mine couldn’t get better.”

“Insufferable.”

“Only when I’m around people who take themselves too seriously.”

You didn’t answer right away. You were too focused on your soaked bodice, the sticky cling of silk against your skin, the way his gaze hadn’t once wavered.

You glared up at him. This was typical Nishimura, you knew his games too well. Everyone did.

Riki not only enjoyed spending his time on casinos, surrounded by strippers, drowning on champagne and sniffing cocaine until his nose was sore red, but he also found — for some reason — extraordinary joy in annoying you. Ever since you’d known him.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I mean… yeah,” he said, unapologetically. “When else am I going to get to ruin the golden girl’s night and get away with it?”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You think you’re so untouchable.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make your spine prickle

“I am untouchable.”

God, you hated how calm he sounded. How amused. Like nothing anyone said ever got under his skin.

But you knew better. You’d heard the rumors, same as everyone. His father tried to keep him under control once—enrolled him in military school overseas. It lasted less than two months. He crashed his own car into the gates and got sent home. You’d seen the footage. He came back laughing.

And now here he was. Dripping champagne on the marble floors and looking at you like he wanted to see what you’d do if he kept pushing.

You should’ve walked away.

Instead, you stepped closer.

“I could have you thrown out,” you said sweetly.

He grinned like you’d complimented him.

“I’d let you.”

You snorted, flipping your long hair over your shoulder, posture perfect, as always. You smiled softly at an old couple — some people who worked with your parents before.

“You’re drunk.” You spoke between your teeth, still smiling.

He tilted his head.

“And you’re bored”.

You didn’t reply.

Because he was right.

And you hated that he was always right about you.

You hadn’t smiled all night. Not really. You hadn’t laughed, or breathed, or done anything that made you feel like a real person. Just another mannequin in heels, saying thank you and how are you and yes, Geneva was beautiful.

“I’m not going to sneak out with you,” you said finally.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

You raised a brow.

“Yet.”

The silence that fell between you now was heavier, tighter. Like something was wrapping itself around the space, pulling it closer.

The music from the string quartet swelled behind you, some delicate Mozart piece meant to impress people who only pretended to know what they were listening to. You could hear your mother’s laugh somewhere behind the champagne tower—sharp, polished, reserved for people who mattered.

Nishimura Riki didn’t move.

He just stood there, lazy and tall and smug as hell, looking at you like you were a puzzle he was dying to ruin.

“You’re staring again,” you said.

“You’re fun to watch,” he replied, unabashed.

You scoffed.

“That’s a lie.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, swirling the last of his drink. “You’re like a museum piece. Pretty, untouchable. Except I know for a fact you’re not as sweet as everyone thinks you are.”

Your lips curled.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Sure I do,” he said, stepping just a little closer. “You hate parties but you still show up in that perfect dress, say all the right things, nod at all the right people. You drink champagne like it’s water. You roll your eyes at small talk but smile anyway. You’re bored as hell, but you won’t leave. Because if you leave, they win.”

Your fingers twitched around your empty glass.

He tilted his head.

“And if someone calls you out? You bite.”

You said nothing.

He smiled like he’d won something.

“You like playing pretend.”

“And you like pretending you’re a rebel,” you said, cool and even. “But you still show up, too. No one really told you to come, did they?”

He blinked once. It was subtle. Barely there. But you saw it.

Bullseye.

“I go where I want,” he said, voice low.

“Right,” you murmured. “And it just happens to be wherever your father’s enemies are throwing a party.”

He laughed under his breath.

“You really have been paying attention.”

“I pay attention to threats,” you said sweetly. “Not boys who think causing a scene is a personality.”

That got him. You saw something flicker behind his eyes—something brief and brittle.

Then it was gone.

“Well,” he said, swirling the last of his drink before tipping it back, “I’d rather cause a scene than be the scene.”

You blinked.

“What does that even mean?”

He leaned in, just enough for his breath to brush your cheek.

“It means people don’t come here to drink champagne. They come to stare. At you. At me. At the freakshow. At the perfect daughters and the disappointing sons. We’re the entertainment, babe.”

You swallowed.

He grinned again—sharp this time, like he could taste how close he’d gotten to getting under your skin.

“Don’t call me babe.”

“Fine,” he said. “Golden girl.”

You hated that more. So you spoke.

“You know what your problem is?” you asked.

“I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.” He looked unbothered, almost lazy, like enjoying himself too much.

“You think you’re a tragedy,” you said. “But you’re just a cliché.”

His eyes glittered, but that same smirk stayed on his lips, his gaze trailed down your body, slow, intentional.

“And you think you’re better than all of us. But you’re still here.”

You opened your mouth.

Then paused.

Because that hit a little too close.

Another sip. Another breath. The air between you was charged now—sharp and quiet, filled with all the things neither of you were saying. His gaze dropped to your dress again, then back to your mouth, and you felt your spine straighten instinctively.

“You’re still wet,” Riki said, eyes full of mischief, words filled with double sense that shouldn’t have caused something in you.

You rolled your eyes.

“Charming.”

“You should probably get out of it,” he added, grinning. “Before the stain sets.”

You looked at him, eyes dark and sharp behind the black eyeshadow decorating them.

“Don’t push me, Nishimura.”

He leaned in one last time, voice barely above a whisper.

“Or what?”

And just like that, your phone buzzed in your clutch. A message from your mother.

Where are you? Come say hello to the Yamamotos.

You sighed.

He was already watching you like he knew.

“Ten bucks says you ignore it,” he said.

“I’m not like you,” you muttered.

“Right,” he said. “You’re better.”

You should’ve left. You meant to. But instead, you looked at him and said:

“Are you driving?”

He blinked. Just once. Like he hadn’t expected that.

“Why?”

“Because i can’t stand being here.”

Then he smirked, he put his hand on his pocket and twirled the keys between his fingers. You rolled your eyes, heels clicking as you started walking towards the exit.

The moment you stepped outside, the air kissed your skin. Cooler than inside, but thick with summer—humid, electric, like something was about to happen. His car sat at the edge of the marble drive, low and gleaming under the soft spill of golden lights from the mansion.

Convertible. Black. Obnoxious.

It looked fast even while standing still.

He slid into the driver’s seat like he owned the whole damn world, one hand on the wheel, the other tossing his blazer into the backseat. You hesitated before slipping into the leather passenger seat beside him. Cold against the backs of your thighs. Your dress shifted with every movement, fabric tight against your skin.

“Seatbelt,” he said lazily, not looking at you.

You clicked it into place.

Then he stepped on the gas.

The tires screeched against the gravel, and the wind slammed into you like a wave. Your heart jumped into your throat. You gripped the door instinctively as the city blurred around you—golden lights streaking like melting stars in your periphery.

Riki drove like he was running from something.

Like he knew the rules but never learned how to care.

One hand on the wheel, one arm lazily thrown over the back of your seat, fingers ghosting too close to your shoulder. His rings flashed as he shifted gears. The wind tore through your hair, tangled it, dragged it across your collarbones. The air felt alive in your lungs—cool, sharp, laced with smoke and perfume and night.

“You always drive like this?” you asked over the roar of the engine.

“Like what?” he shouted back, not taking his eyes off the road.

“Like you’re trying to flip us.”

He glanced sideways, grin tugging at his lips.

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

“You’re insane.”

He just laughed, and something about the way the sound curled in his throat made your stomach tighten.

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t empty either. There was something there—simmering between you, thick and unspoken. The way the tension pulled tight with every passing second. The way your legs angled toward the door, but your eyes stayed on his hands.

You hated how good he looked like this—wild and untouchable.

“You’re not drunk, anymore, are you?” you asked, eyeing him.

He smirked.

“Buzzed. Why, scared?”

“Terrified.”

He let out a sharp breath of amusement, the kind that could’ve been a laugh if he’d let it go.

“You’re not really the type to get scared easily.”

You shrugged, fixing your hair, fingers sliding across your collarbone as if that’d tame the wind.

“Maybe you don’t know my type.”

“Oh, I do,” he said, low and certain. “Daddy’s little princess. Polished to perfection. Killer glare. Gold-plated heart—if there’s one at all. Everyone knows you made a girl three years younger than you cry because she wore the same purse.”

You turned your head, slowly, sweet and dangerous smile on your face. Not ashamed, never.

“I’m sorry,” you said coolly. “Are you giving a monologue or just projecting?”

He whistled low.

“There she is.”

“There who is?”

“The version of you that’s actually interesting.”

You scoffed, biting down a smirk.

“You’re full of shit.”

“And you like it.”

You hated that he was right.

The tension between you was a string pulled taut—vibrating, dangerously close to snapping. His knee bumped yours slightly with each turn, just enough to notice. Your legs were crossed tightly. You could feel the way your dress had started to ride up, how the wind licked at your thighs, your chest, making your skin feel bare even under luxury fabric.

“I bet you like causing problems,” you said, voice lower now. “Just to see if someone finally puts you in your place.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. Then he cut into a sharp turn—fast enough to make you jolt and reach for the edge of your seat again. His fingers brushed yours as he steadied you, casual but not innocent.

“That’s funny,” he said, glancing at you. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

Your breath caught.

Something changed in the air—thicker, hotter. You realized how close you were. How intimate fast cars made things feel. Wind roared around you, but all you could hear was his voice in your ear. The space between you felt dangerous. Too charged.

He looked at you then. Really looked. Hair a mess from the wind. Jaw clenched. Lips slightly parted like he was about to say something he wasn’t supposed to.

You didn’t back down.

“You like being hated, don’t you?” you asked softly. “It’s the only kind of attention you don’t have to work for.”

“I don’t have to work for any kind of attention.”

“Exactly.”

He smiled, but there was something dark beneath it.

“So what kind of attention are you looking for?”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you didn’t know.

But because the answer was him—right now, like this, reckless and fast and stupid. Something wild enough to shake you awake.

“Where are we going?” you asked instead.

He licked his lips.

“Somewhere quiet.”

You leaned back in your seat, let your eyes slip closed for just a second as the wind whipped past your skin, making your pulse race in your throat.

You could still feel his gaze on your bare thighs.

He didn’t have to touch you to set your skin on fire.

It smelled like leather and something faintly woody, expensive cologne clinging to the air, subtle but heavy. You stepped out slowly, heels clicking on the marble floor, the distant hum of the city bleeding through the panoramic windows like a heartbeat.

The penthouse was too clean. Too curated. Everything in shades of charcoal and deep navy, cold steel edges and spotless surfaces. The kind of place no one really lived in, just passed through, like a ghost. Sleek, polished, lonely.

It was huge, it screamed luxury, but it didn’t surprised you, you had been in places like this many times before.

“Welcome to the void,” Riki muttered as he tossed his keys onto a stone countertop, the sound sharp in the stillness. He took off his shoes, letting them slide with casual indifference before throwing them across the floor.

You followed him in slowly, your fingers brushing the silky fabric of your dress at your hips. The air inside was cool, raised goosebumps on your arms. His silhouette moved through the dimness like it belonged there—shadow and tension, hands slipping into his pockets as he disappeared into the kitchen.

“You live here alone?” you asked, voice quiet but clear, as you wandered further in.

“Technically,” he called back. “My dad pays for it, so I guess that makes me a tenant of the bank of neglect.”

You snorted softly.

He returned with two crystal glasses of something amber. The ice clinked gently, catching the light as he held one out.

“Drink?”

You took it wordlessly, fingers brushing his for a moment too long. The glass was cool against your palm. You brought it to your lips, and the whiskey hit your tongue like fire—sharp, smoky, leaving a slow heat in your throat.

Riki leaned against the island, taking a lazy sip, eyes fixed on you over the rim of his glass. His jaw was sharp in the city light. Hair mussed from the wind. Collarbone peeking from his shirt like he didn’t care who saw.

“You always this quiet?” he asked, voice a little lower now.

“Only when I’m somewhere I don’t trust.”

He smirked.

“What gave it away? The walls or the host?”

You looked around, letting your eyes drag over the space, the untouched bookshelves, the single ashtray on the coffee table, the sterile absence of anything personal.

“You don’t really live here,” you murmured.

He tilted his head, confused.

“You sleep here, you drink here, maybe you fuck here,” you said, turning back to face him. “But you don’t live here.”

He didn’t respond. Not right away.

Instead, he watched you. The way your dress hugged your body. The way your bare shoulders glinted under the dim lights. The way you said things like they weren’t meant to cut, but they always did.

“You know me so well,” he muttered, but it wasn’t sarcastic this time.

You didn’t answer. You moved toward the windows instead, drawn to the open sky and the glowing chaos of the city below. It sprawled beneath you like something alive—lights blinking, cars crawling, neon and glass and ambition.

You felt him follow, the soft shuffle of his socks against the marble. He stood behind you, close enough that his warmth brushed your back, his scent curling around you like smoke.

“You didn’t have to come up,” he said quietly.

You kept your gaze on the skyline.

“I know.”

“You could’ve gotten in a cab, gone home, played nice like everyone expects you to.”

You tilted your head just slightly.

“And miss out on you offering me mediocre whiskey and a monologue about your daddy issues?”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound rough.

“Ouch.”

You took another sip. It burned less this time.

The silence stretched again—heavy, but not empty. There was a pulse in it. A question neither of you wanted to ask. A tension you refused to name.

His voice dropped, smoky and slow.

“Why did you come?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers toyed with the rim of the glass, catching condensation with a slow drag of your thumb.

You turned to face him, lifting your chin slightly. His face was too close. His breath ghosted across your lips.

“I’m not going to sleep with you, Nishimura Riki.” you said.

It wasn’t a threat. Just a fact you threw into the charged air between you, daring him to make something of it.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“That’s what they always say,” he said with a quiet smile.

“I’m not ‘they.’”

“I know.”

Riki leaned in—not touching, just there, and it made your pulse flutter stupidly at the base of your throat.

“That’s why you’re still here.”

Your breath hitched, and you hated the way your body reacted to his voice—how low it was, how sure. Like he already knew what would happen and was just waiting for you to catch up.

You stepped back, just an inch. Enough to break the magnetic pull, to feel your skin cool where his presence had burned too hot.

“This place is cold,” you murmured, turning away.

“Then take off your coat,” he said with a grin.

You glanced back at him with narrowed eyes.

“I’m not wearing one.”

His smile widened.

“Exactly.”

You hated him. You hated him, and you wanted him, and you hated that more than anything.

You walked past him toward the couch, the whiskey warming your blood, your skin buzzing from his nearness. His eyes followed you like gravity.

“You have any music?” you asked, settling on the edge of the leather cushions. Cool against your thighs.

“Are you asking me to set the mood?” he asked, walking toward a console.

“I’m asking you to shut up and stop making this feel like an interview.”

He pressed a button. Low, ambient beats started to fill the space—something dark, slow, sexy. He turned back to face you, now bathed in the low golden glow of a floor lamp.

“I thought you weren’t going to sleep with me,” he said again, voice light but eyes dark.

You tilted your head, legs crossing slowly.

“I’m not.”

He just smiled.

“Sure,” he said softly. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You sank further into the couch, the leather cool under your thighs, the whiskey warmer now—softening your limbs, loosening your tongue. The music throbbed low in the background, some sultry beat that made the silence between you feel more intimate than it had any right to be.

Riki sat across from you in the armchair, legs sprawled, glass dangling lazily from his fingers. His shirt had slipped open a little at the collar, showing a sliver of skin that made your throat tighten for no good reason.

He was watching you again. That same amused, unreadable gaze that had followed you all night. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The air was thick enough already, stretching thin with unspoken things.

You took another sip. Let the burn roll across your tongue. Let your knees brush just slightly against the edge of his.

“Still judging me?” he asked finally, voice rough from the alcohol, half-lidded eyes locked on you like he was trying to read beneath your skin.

“I’m trying to figure out if this whole act is a performance or just bad personality.”

He grinned.

“Who says it can’t be both?”

You tilted your head, watching him over your glass.

“It’s just funny. You always pretend like you don’t care about anything. And yet, here you are—looking at me like I’m your last meal.”

His smirk didn’t falter, but something in his eyes flickered—something darker, hungrier.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

The tension coiled tighter between you. Like a thread pulled taut between two magnets, neither willing to move first—but the pull was getting harder to ignore.

“I think you like me,” he said, lazily swirling the drink in his hand, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth.

You huffed a laugh.

“You’re drunk.”

“Not drunk enough.”

“Maybe you should be,” you said, voice quiet now. “Maybe then you’d stop talking.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His knees brushed yours now—subtle, but deliberate. His voice dropped, molten low.

“You want me to stop talking, princess?”

Your breath caught. Just for a second. Just enough that he noticed.

He smiled like he’d won something.

You set your glass down a little too fast. The ice clinked sharply.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” His fingers brushed the inside of your ankle—just a graze, casual and slow, like he didn’t even realize he’d done it. But he had. You knew he had. “You act like you’re above it all. Like this place, this world, isn’t yours too. But it is. You like the games. The power plays.”

You glared at him.

“You don’t know anything about me, i told you.”

“I know you didn’t leave,” he said, eyes on your legs now, then dragging slowly up to your throat, your jaw, your lips. “You could’ve, but you didn’t.”

His words settled deep in your stomach, hot and dangerous.

“Maybe I wanted to see how desperate you’d get,” you whispered, leaning in slightly—close enough that he could feel your breath.

His smile sharpened.

“I never get desperate.”

Your fingers twitched against the couch cushion, fighting the urge to reach for him, to push him back just to see if he’d stay there. You hated how his words slithered under your skin, how the heat between your thighs had nothing to do with the whiskey anymore.

“You always this cocky?” you asked, voice tight.

He leaned closer. The space between your mouths now was nonexistent. His lips hovered just out of reach—just enough to make your pulse throb against your neck.

“Only when it works,” he whispered.

You could feel it building, second by second. The tension wasn’t even coiled anymore—it was vibrating, taut, hot, hungry. Every breath you took felt like permission. Every brush of skin like a warning.

Your thighs pressed together.

You looked at him through heavy lashes, eyes glistening, voice low and teasing.

“You’re such a fucking cliché.”

“And yet you’re still sitting here,” he said, voice like velvet, like sin. “Looking at me like you want to be ruined.”

Your breath hitched again. You hated that he was right. Hated that he knew it. Hated how much you wanted to taste him just to shut him up.

But you stayed perfectly still. One inch away. Daring him to make the next move.

And he didn’t. He just looked at you.

You shifted your legs, crossing them slowly, and his eyes followed the motion like it physically affected him. His grip on his glass tightened, and his tongue flicked across his bottom lip, wetting it before he leaned back slightly in his seat.

He looked relaxed. But you weren’t stupid. There was a firebanked tension in his muscles, a tension that mirrored your own.

“You know,” he said lazily, letting his voice drag over you like velvet, “someone really needs to fuck the attitude out of you.”

Your entire body went still. The words hit like a slap—sharp, deliberate, too cleanly delivered to be a joke. He wasn’t smiling now. Just watching you, waiting to see if you’d break.

You didn’t.

Just tilted your head, exhaling slowly through your nose.

“You’re crossing the line.”

“Maybe,” he said, taking another sip of his drink. “But that’s kind of my thing, and you like it.”

“I don’t,” you replied coolly, but the heat climbing up your neck betrayed you. You could feel it blooming just beneath your skin—rage or want, you weren’t sure. Maybe both.

He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, eyes darker now.

“No? Then why are your thighs clenched so tight?”

You narrowed your eyes, chest rising. A shiver went down your spine, settling between your legs materialising in wetness that you tried so hard to ignore.

“You think you’re the first boy who ever said that to me?”

“No,” he said. “But I bet I’d be the first to actually mean it.”

You stood then—not out of fear, but because you couldn’t take sitting still with that kind of pressure between you. The air was vibrating. Your skin felt too hot, too tight.

“You don’t know what I need,” you said sharply, turning your back to him.

“Wrong,” he said, voice low. “You need someone to ruin you slowly. Someone who doesn’t worship the ground you walk on. Someone who grabs you by the throat and tells you to shut up because for once, you talk too much.”

Your stomach dropped. Fire roared through your veins.

You turned slowly, jaw tight, hands curled into fists at your sides.

“You think you can handle me?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “I think I can break you. And the fucked up thing is—I think you want to be broken. Just once.”

You took a deep breath, your heart hammering against your ribs like it wanted to escape. This wasn’t flirting. This was warfare. And you were losing ground by the second.

You walked toward him, slow, controlled, like every step was a challenge.

“You think you’re dangerous,” you said, now standing in front of him, voice soft but cutting. “But you’re just bored. Just like the rest of us. Daddy pays the bills, so you cause chaos, sniff coke until you black out, make scenes at fancy parties and fuck around to feel something.”

He smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. You got him, he knew it. But the thing is he didn’t care, not when it came from you.

“You’re right,” he said. “I am bored. And you… you’re the most fun I’ve seen in a long time.”

You leaned down, placing your hands on the armrests of the chair, caging him in.

“Say one more thing like that to me, Riki, and I swear I’ll leave.”

He stared up at you, lips parted slightly, chest rising as you closed the space between you.

“You won’t.”

“Try me.”

He looked at your mouth again—too long. Too slow. Then back to your eyes.

“Tell me to stop.”

You hated that you didn’t. You hated how your body buzzed from every word he said, how your thighs ached from the tension, how badly you wanted to slam your mouth onto his just to end the game.

But you didn’t.

You stepped back.

And smiled.

“I said I’m not going to sleep with you. I mean it.”

He leaned back in the chair again, exhaling like he was amused.

“Then you better get out of that dress before it catches fire.”

You took another slow sip of your drink, letting the burn of the whiskey distract you from the ache settling low in your stomach. His words still echoed through you like a bruise someone kept pressing—slow, intentional, just to see how much you could take before flinching.

Riki was watching you from the couch, one arm thrown lazily across the backrest, like he owned the whole room. Like he owned you, too. That same smug tilt to his mouth like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

His tongue flicked across his bottom lip.

“I know you like control.”

You arched a brow.

“So let’s play something.” He reached over and gently took your glass from your hand, setting it aside. “A game.”

“A game,” you repeated, wary.

His grin sharpened.

“Two truths and a lie.”

You rolled your eyes.

“That’s hardly threatening.”

“Yeah, but here’s the catch,” he said, stepping in until your knees almost brushed. “Every time you guess wrong, you lose a piece of clothing. Same goes for me. But also, every time i guess right, you lose a piece of clothing, and viceversa.”

You blinked.

“You want to strip with words.”

“I want to see how long you last before you lose control,” he said, voice low now, the edge of a dare in every syllable. “And I want to know what’s under all that silk and pride you wear like armor.”

You held his gaze, ignoring the way your heart beat louder. It was dangerous, not a good idea. There was tension between you two, you knew that. But not only sexual, there was more, like a power play, like none of you wanted to surrender to whatever the hell was going on.

“Fine,” you said coolly, crossing your arms. “But don’t pout when you’re down to your socks.”

He laughed, stepping back just enough to give space.

“Ladies first.”

You looked at him, letting your lips part slowly, letting him wait. Then:

“One: I’ve broken a boy’s heart at a debutante ball. Two: I’ve snuck out to Paris because i was sad. Three: I’ve never thought about fucking you.”

His brows lifted. A long pause.

“That last one’s the lie,” he said, voice almost smug.

You tilted your head.

“Prove it.”

“Because you’ve definitely thought about it.” His voice dropped a note lower. “You’re thinking about it right now.”

You said nothing, just slowly unhooked the top button of your dress. It wasn’t a win for him. Not when you made it look like an invitation you had total control over.

He stared.

“Your move.”

Riki’s smirk returned, a bit crooked now.

“Alright. One: I got kicked out of boarding school twice. Two: I’ve had sex in a Ferrari. Three: I’ve never been scared of my father.”

Your silence stretched.

You studied his face, the twitch in his jaw, the faint tension in his shoulders at that last line.

“The lie,” you said, “is that you’re not afraid of him.”

His grin faltered for half a second.

“Touché.”

He unbuttoned his shirt, slow and dramatic. The fabric slid off his arms and dropped to the floor like he didn’t even feel it. But his eyes never left yours. Under the shirt, Defined, lean, all lines and tension, the kind of body that was sculpted from privilege and discipline but carried like he didn’t give a single damn.

Your eyes trailed over his chest, broad and toned, the hard cut of his shoulders leading to arms that looked like they’d been chiseled out of shadow and heat. His skin glowed faintly under the ambient city lights, golden and warm like he belonged in a Renaissance painting—or under you.

You breathed deeply.

“Next round,” you said, feeling the heat rise between you like steam.

“You going to behave,” he murmured, “or are we gonna see who begs first?”

You scoffed, stepping forward, your mouth just barely brushing his ear.

“You’re going to lose, Nishimura.”

His breath hitched.

The game had just started.

And he was already falling apart.

You circled him slowly, the way you might admire a painting—or a weapon.

“You’re looking a little flushed, Riki.”

He leaned against the edge of the couch, bare chest rising and falling in measured control. The city lights glowed behind him, a cold contrast to the heat curling through the room.

“You wish,” he said, licking the corner of his mouth. “Hit me.”

You gave him a slow smile, walking past him, letting your perfume linger like a trap.

“One: I got suspended for slapping a girl at cotillion. Two: I’ve never had an orgasm someone else gave me. Three: I used to dream about marrying a prince.”

His jaw flexed. He looked at you like he wanted to rip the answers out of your mouth.

“That second one,” he said, tilting his head. “The orgasm one. That’s the lie.”

You raised a brow.

He smirked.

“You look too smug for someone who’s never come.”

You took a single step forward, hands on your hips.

“Wrong.”

He blinked.

“That one’s true.”

Riki’s knuckles tightened against the couch edge.

“You’ve never—?” he started, disbelieving.

“No one’s ever made me forget myself.” You walked back toward him, voice like sin. “Not even close.”

Something feral flashed in his eyes.

“Fuck.”

He took his rolex watch off, letting it rest on the table in front of him, smirking, and you rolled your eyes. Tricky.

“Your turn,” you said sweetly, though the room was humming with voltage.

He dragged a hand through his dark hair, trying to keep himself together. But you could see it now—he was fraying.

“One: I’ve been kicked out of four elite schools. Two: I once made a girl cry just by smiling at her. Three: I don't think about you when i touch myself.”

You didn’t blink. You tried not to think about it too much, about the fact, about him stroking himself to the thought of you. Not only because it was flattering, but because it was him. Because you knew, about his little obsession with you.

“Lie,” you said, gaze fixed on him. “The last one.”

He exhaled slowly, head tipping back.

“Fuck.”

“Thought so.”

You watched as he tugged the belt of his tailored pants loose, slow, reluctant. The sound of the metal buckle clinking was obscene in the quiet. The fabric sagged on his hips, his confidence slipping just a bit with it.

“You want to keep going?” you asked, eyes hooded.

He looked at you like he could eat you alive.

“Try me.”

You took another slow sip of your drink. Your lips glistened.

“One: I once snuck into a royal embassy. Two: I've faked every orgasm i've ever had. Three: I don't want to kiss you right now.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Last one’s the lie.”

You tilted your head.

“Wrong again.”

He stared.

“I don’t want to kiss you,” you repeated, voice velvet-wrapped venom. “I want to see how long you last when you’re not the one in control.”

His jaw clenched.

You stepped closer.

“Shirt’s already gone,” you murmured. “Watch. Belt. What next, Nishimura?”

Riki said nothing. He just reached down and shoved his pants lower, until he stood in just black boxers, his hard-on not exactly subtle. Thick, throbbing beneath the thin fabric. You tried to ignore the wetness pooling against the lace of your own underwear.

“You think this means I’m losing,” he said, voice rough.

“You’re sweating.”

“You’re bluffing.”

You reached out, traced one finger down the center of his chest—just a whisper of contact. He didn’t move. But his breathing caught.

Your mouth ghosted the shell of his ear.

“Let’s see if you still think that when you’re on your knees.”

His growl was low, primal, sharp enough to scrape against your spine.

“I’m going to wreck you,” he whispered.

You smiled, slow and delicious.

You let the silence stretch, thick and heavy between you, tasting like heat on the back of your tongue. Riki stood half-naked, eyes fixed on you like you were something sacred and profane all at once. His chest rose with slow, forced control, but you saw the flicker of desperation behind the composure. He was trying—trying—to hold onto the upper hand.

You were about to take it from him.

“I'll take this turn, just for fun” you said softly, walking away just enough to make him twitch, then turning to face him fully. “One: I’ve had a senator’s son beg me on his knees. Two: I once watched a boy cry when i left his bed without a word. Three: I'm not going to take off my dress right now, just to tempt you.”

His throat bobbed.

“That last one’s the lie,” he said hoarsely, almost too fast.

You didn’t answer with words.

Instead, you reached for the straps of your dress.

Riki didn’t move. He just stared.

You dragged one silk strap off your shoulder. Then the other. The dress slipped like water down your body, catching at your waist for one breathless second before pooling at your feet with a soft, luxurious sound.

You stepped out of it, graceful and slow, standing in nothing but your black lace lingerie—delicate, tailored, made for seduction even though you wore it like armor. It hugged your curves perfectly, the push up bra enchancing your breasts, shimmer from your perfume still on them, the kind of thing meant to be looked at, never touched.

And Riki was looking.

Like a man starved. Like he’d just been punched in the gut.

His mouth parted slightly. You saw his hand flex against the edge of the couch like he didn’t trust himself not to reach for you. The muscle in his jaw ticked, throat working like he couldn’t swallow fast enough.

“You okay there?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head. “You look a little… tense.”

He dragged his eyes up your body like it hurt him.

“What the fuck are you trying to do to me?”

You smiled, innocently.

“Just playing the game.”

He exhaled a curse under his breath. His eyes were darker now, clouded, no trace of smugness left—just hunger and something barely restrained.

“You think you’re in control,” he muttered, his voice rasping.

“I don’t think,” you said, stepping closer. “I know.”

You stood directly in front of him now, only inches between you. He didn’t touch. He couldn’t. Like if he did, it would all shatter.

“You wanna know what the lie was?” you whispered.

He nodded once, wordless.

“There’s never been a boy on his knees,” you said. “Not yet.”

He blinked, stunned.

Then a sound left him—deep, from the chest, something like a growl.

You smiled and turned your back on him, walking away slowly, letting him watch the way your hips moved in that barely-there lace, letting him sit in the ache you’d left in your absence.

You didn’t hear him move.

But you felt him.

A split-second flash of heat, a shift in the air—then your back hit the velvet cushions of his sofa, and the room tilted. Your breath caught sharply in your throat, lips parting in stunned silence as Riki caged you in with his body, his bare chest radiating heat that scorched every inch of skin it hovered over.

He didn’t touch. Not right away.

One palm pressed into the cushion beside your head, the other gripped the top of the sofa, holding himself above you like he was barely holding on. His eyes drank you in—flushed, breathless, all curves and lace and smirking defiance.

“You think you can just walk away after that?” he asked, voice rough with something unspoken—need, frustration, want. “Like I’m not gonna do something about it?”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence, glossy lips curling as your gaze dragged slowly—purposefully—down his torso. The carved lines of his stomach flexed under your stare. He was breathing harder than he should’ve been.

“Looks like you already did,” you murmured.

His jaw clenched, his eyes burned. Then he snapped.

He kissed you, like punishment.

There was no soft entry. No gentle incline. Just a crash of mouths, messy and immediate, like he’d been waiting too long for this and couldn’t bear the space between you for even another breath. His lips crushed yours, thick, firm and hot and full of intent. Tongue pushing past your teeth, not asking but taking, fingers finally curling into your jaw like he was trying to memorize the shape of you with touch alone. He tasted like whisky, perfume, and problems.

You moaned into him—reflexive, guttural—and he smiled against your lips.

Cocky, dangerous.

“Not so smug now, are you?” he breathed, voice low and wicked.

But you weren’t done playing.

You gripped the back of his neck, slid your fingers into his dark hair, and yanked, just hard enough to make his breath hitch and his body stutter above yours. His mouth tore from yours with a curse, lips swollen, jaw sharp under your fingers. You pulled him back down and kissed him like fire—rough and open-mouthed, all tongue and heat and teeth. He groaned into you, low and unfiltered, and the sound went straight to your core.

When you pulled back, your lips hovered near his ear.

“Don’t confuse surrender with strategy.”

He went still. Then you felt him laugh, dark and low against your throat, and you shivered.

“You think you’re still winning?” he asked.

You didn’t answer, just looked him in the eye and dragged your nails slowly down his spine, pressing your thigh higher between his legs. You felt how hard he was. How close he was to losing it. And still, you gave him that same knowing smile.

“I know I am.”

He let out something between a hiss and a growl, and his hand finally moved—sliding down your ribs, slow and deliberate, hi touch leaving a trace of fire on your soft skin, until it gripped your thigh hard enough to bruise. He pulled your leg over his hip, his body pressing flush against yours now, no space, no denial.

The friction made you gasp—just for a second. His hardness pressing against your soaked underwear, sending a jolt of pleasure through your whole body, your skin jumping, your lashes fluttering.

His breath hitched at the sound.

“I swear,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours, “you keep playing like this, I’m gonna ruin you.”

Your eyes locked, and everything burned—your lungs, your limbs, the air between you.

You smiled, same sweetness that made him want to lose all of his self control.

“Then do it.”

For a second, he didn’t move. He just stared at you like he couldn’t believe you’d said it. Like you’d just set the fuse on something he couldn’t put out now.

Then his lips found yours again, slower this time—deeper. Less rage, more intent. His hand trailed up your leg, thumb brushing the edge of your lace underwear like a silent promise. You arched under him, still refusing to break, still matching him push for push. Your skin was on fire, the need and lust taking over your whole body.

Every kiss, every grind of his hips, every soft moan he pulled from you was a move in the game.

Your hands wandered up the smooth expanse of his bare back, fingers dancing along his shoulder blades. He was carved perfection under your touch—warm skin stretched over hard muscle, the kind of body that had been sculpted for nights like this. You felt the tension in him—coiled, trembling restraint just beneath the surface.

You pulled back, just enough to breathe, just enough to speak.

“You kiss like you’re trying to win,” you whispered, your voice a velvet drag.

He smirked, not moving, still hovering over you like a predator stalking his prey.

“Isn’t that the whole point?”

Your brow lifted, gaze dropping between your bodies, to the obvious proof of how not in control he really was.

“You sure about that?”

His smile faltered for half a second. Then his hand slid up your thigh, fingers skating under the edge of your lace. Not enough to touch, just to tease.

“You talk a lot for someone whose legs are already wrapped around me.”

You let out a breathless laugh, half a scoff.

“Confidence or delusion, Nishimura?”

His name on your tongue made his grip tighten. The sound of it wasn’t gentle. It was challenge and heat and poison wrapped in satin. He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Say it again.”

You turned your head slowly, letting your mouth graze his cheek as you whispered,

“Riki.”

A groan left him and he kissed you again.

In a flash, his hands gripped your waist and flipped you beneath him, the cold leather of the sofa brushing your back. He caged you in, his body a shadow over yours, hot breath against your lips. You gasped, but the sound turned into a moan when he rolled his hips down once—slow, hard, just enough friction to remind you of exactly what he was packing.

“No more games,” Riki muttered, voice barely a breath.

“I thought you liked them,” you managed, tone breathy, but your words laced with challenge.

“I like winning.” His fingers slid down your body, over your ribs, then curled around your panties and tugged. “And you’re mine now.”

He said it like a fact, not a question. Not a request.

You let out a shaky breath as he dragged your underwear down your legs, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. The cold air hit your skin and you shivered, the damp fabric leaving you bare in front of him, wet, pulsing pussy in display, dripping your glistening arousal, but he was already sliding back up, spreading your legs open with his knees as he came to hover over you again.

“Look at you,” he murmured, eyes dropping down your body with reverence and hunger. “All that attitude and elegance, and now you’re dripping for me.”

“I’m not—”

But your protest died the second he dipped his head and kissed the inside of your thigh, then another, higher up, closer. His lips were soft, his mouth unbearably hot, and you felt yourself melting, unraveling, right there under him.

“You don’t have to act tough anymore,” he whispered against your skin, so close to where you needed him. “I already know what you want.”

His tongue licked a stripe up your inner thigh, deliberately skipping over the center. You gasped, hips twitching, but his hands pinned you down.

“And I’m gonna give it to you,” he promised darkly, "You said before no one has ever give you an orgasm before, now you'll find out."

He looked up from between your thighs, lips glistening, eyes lit with something wild and dangerous. The same look he wore when he drove fast, when he walked into a party like he owned the world, when he said your name like it was a sin and a prayer all at once.

“Ready to lose control, princess?”

You didn’t answer him.

You didn’t have to.

The look in your eyes said it all—dark, needy, defiant. Like you wanted to fight him just to see who would snap first. Like this wasn’t about sex at all—it was about power. About finally unleashing something that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

And Riki? He was ready to burn.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and what he saw there had him biting his lip like he needed the pain to anchor himself. Still on his knees, he dragged his hands up your thighs with reverence and possession, thumbs brushing the insides as he parted them wider, just enough. His touch left goosebumps in its wake—featherlight, and yet you felt scorched.

Then, his lips met the inside of your thigh again. Slow. Intoxicating.

He kissed there like he had all the time in the world, like he was building a shrine to the very idea of you. The way his mouth dragged—hot and wet—left a trail of heat so devastating it made your legs tremble. You could feel his breath ghosting just shy of where you wanted him, teasing your soaked pussy.

He was taking his time on purpose.

And it was killing you.

“Riki,” you warned, your voice breathy, wrecked already.

He looked up again, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“What? I’m just appreciating my prize.”

Then finally, his mouth.

You choked on a moan, your head falling back with a thud against the leather behind you as his tongue met you, hot and deliberate. He licked a long stripe through your folds with maddening precision, starting slow, then swirling his tongue around your clit with devastating ease. Your hips jolted at the sensation, but he was already there, hands anchoring you in place, strong and steady, holding you down like he’d been waiting to do this forever.

“Oh god—” you gasped, your fingers flying to his hair, threading through those dark, soft strands and tugging hard.

He moaned into you at the pull, deep and guttural, the sound reverberating against your skin. The vibration made your knees buckle, and if it weren’t for his grip, you might’ve collapsed completely.

“Not so mouthy now, huh?” he murmured against you, voice dripping with cocky amusement. “Look at you. You taste so sweet, your making a mess on my couch.”

You could barely think, barely breathe, but your pride flared like a second heartbeat.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you panted, jaw clenched, refusing to give him the full satisfaction.

“Oh, princess,” he growled, dragging his tongue in tight circles before sucking your clit into his mouth so hard you nearly cried out, “you’re the one writhing for me.”

And you were. Your thighs trembled in his grip, your stomach clenched. The heat between your legs had grown unbearable, liquid and pulsing, every nerve ending burning under his mouth and fingers.

And then, he added more.

One long finger slid inside you, slow and careful, curling just right as he worked you open. Then another, the stretch dizzying, delicious, your walls clenching around them, sucking him in with every thrust, with every wet sound of your own cunt. His tongue never stopped moving, switching between slow, torturous licks and messy, greedy flicks that made your spine arch off the wall.

You gripped his hair harder, gasping, your voice breaking.

“Shit—Riki—”

He hummed again, deep and pleased, like he’d already won. Like this had never been a game at all. His fingers pumped into you with an unrelenting rhythm now, knuckles deep, stroking just right while his mouth stayed locked on you. It was overwhelming—the speed, the precision, the fucking pressure building and building—

You were losing control. And he knew it.

He looked up once, his mouth still on you, and smirked against your heat.

Your breath hitched. Everything inside you tightened, coiled like a spring seconds before snapping. You weren’t just close, you were trembling on the edge, your body betraying every last defense you thought you had left.

And he knew it.

Riki kept his rhythm steady, cruelly steady. His fingers worked you open with precision—pumping, curling, stroking the exact spot that had your thighs clamping around his shoulders. His mouth, impossibly skilled, never strayed, tongue dragging over your clit with maddening consistency.

Each time you thought you’d fall over the edge, he’d ease just slightly, like he wanted to stretch it out, draw it from you slowly, painfully, until you were begging. Until you were nothing but need.

You squeezed your eyes shut, nails digging into his scalp, trying to pull him closer and push him away all at once.

“Riki—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled against you. “Look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, heavy with tears and lust, and you glanced down.

The sight alone almost did you in—him on his knees, dark hair messy from your hands, lips slick and glistening with you, pupils blown wide and locked on yours like you were the only thing in the goddamn world.

“You gonna come like this?” he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smirk. “Fall apart on my tongue?”

The arrogance in his tone should’ve pissed you off. Should’ve made you say something biting. But instead—

Instead it made your legs tremble harder.

His tongue flicked with a little more pressure now. His fingers curled with a little more purpose.

And that was it. The tension in your gut pulled so tight it snapped.

You came hard, loud scream leaving your swollen lips, hips stuttering against his mouth as your body convulsed. The wave hit you deep, dragging you under in a rush of white heat and sparks, every nerve singing with release. Your fingers fisted in his hair, your thighs quaked around his shoulders, and still—still—he didn’t stop.

He rode out your orgasm like he needed to feel every second of it. Lapping, sucking, stroking through the aftershocks until you were nothing but soft whimpers and twitching limbs, until your body sagged against the window, boneless.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was swollen, slick with you, dripping your own fluids. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, but he looked satisfied.

No. He looked possessive.

He stood slowly, towering over you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand but never taking his eyes off you. He tilted his head slightly, lips parted, expression dangerous.

“Still think this is just a game?” he asked, voice low, rough.

You met his gaze, dazed and disheveled and flushed. But despite everything—your orgasm, your shaking legs—you held your chin high.

And smiled.

“Isn’t it?” you breathed.

That look—dark, smug, defiant—hit him harder than any climax could. You saw the flicker of disbelief in his expression, the way his jaw clenched like he couldn’t believe you were still pushing him. Still trying to win.

In a blink, his hands were on you again.

Rough, possessive, done playing nice.

You barely had time to gasp before he spun you, pressing your chest against the backrest of the couch, your knees sinking into the cushions. His body was flush against yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. One of his hands wrapped around your throat, the other palmed your hip, pulling you back until your ass pressed into the hard line of him, still beneath his boxers.

“You think you’re cute?” he growled in your ear, his voice dark silk stretched tight.

You smirked, even as your heart pounded.

“I know I am.”

His laugh was low, disbelieving, almost breathless with how much you drove him crazy.

“I should ruin you for that,” he muttered, dragging your hips back again, slow and deliberate, just to feel you rub against him. His grip tightened. “I will ruin you.”

He leaned in closer until his chest pressed into your back, his mouth brushing your ear.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he murmured. “That you can just bat your lashes and push my buttons and I won’t do something about it?”

Your answer was a soft whimper when he rolled his hips into you, hard and slow. Teasing. Not enough.

Never enough.

“You want me to lose control?” he went on, grinding against your soaked, pulsing, still sensitive pussy. “You want me to fuck it out of you, until all that attitude melts right off your tongue?”

You bit your lip.

You were soaked. From the orgasm, from his words, from what he was saying. From him.

Without warning, his hand slid between your thighs again — this time rougher, surer — cupping you, pressing his fingers through your folds like he was checking just how far gone you were. He squeezed just enough to make you jolt, moaning before you could stop it. He shoved three of his fingers inside you, curling them perfectly and you bit your lip, shutting your eyes as the wet sounds collided with his heavy breathing in your ear.

Your back arched even more as he found a rhythm, not rough, not rushed, just intentional, like he knew he could break you, and he was breaking you. His fingers curled perfectly against your soaked walls, his wrist twitching and then he touched your g-spot, that was enough for you to whimper again, rocking your hips against his hand, which made him chuckle low.

He didn't say another word, simply removed his fingers with a slick sound, bringing them to his mouth before sticking his tongue out and licking them clean. Riki's hands then grabbed your hips, strong, posessive, making your back arch even more, creating a perfect curve just for him.

"So pretty like this" He mumbled, kissing along your spine which made you breathe through your nose "Been wanting to have you like this for so long"

You didn't respond, because you knew.

Then he pulled down his boxers, his red, throbbing, thick cock finally out, resting hard against his abdomen. Riki hissed through his teeth, stroking himself a couple of times before rubbing his tip against your aching folds, and you moaned again.

Then, slowly, he pushed in.

The stretch was gradual, deliberate — like he wanted you to feel it, to take in every slow, aching second of it. Your mouth fell open, no sound at first, just a breathless gasp as your fingers clawed into his back. He was everywhere — heat and weight and pressure — grounding you, filling you, claiming every part of you inch by inch.

Your body arched into his, instinctively, like it knew this. Like it had been waiting.

Riki groaned low in your ear, the sound raw and strained, like he was barely holding on.

“Fuck,” he hissed, forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut tight. “You feel—”

He didn’t finish. Couldn’t.

You could feel it too — the way your bodies fit, the way his control trembled at the edges. The pace he set was slow, almost reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your body from the inside. But it was more than just physical — it was the weight of everything that had led up to this moment: every insult, every glare, every look that lingered just a little too long.

His grip on your hips turned rougher now, fingers digging in like he wanted to leave something behind, a mark, a reminder, anything to prove he’d been there. The pace of his thrusts shifted, picking up speed, power, purpose. No more softness. No more control.

Just heat and need.

Your breath hitched sharply as he slammed into you again, the rhythm brutal in the best way — precise and punishing, every stroke deep enough to steal the words from your mouth, his cock buried deep inside of you, stretching you so good with every thrust.

“You should see yourself,” he groaned, voice ragged. “So pretty when you’re taking it. All that attitude gone now, huh?”

You whimpered, but that defiance still flickered in your eyes. So he leaned down, lips brushing your ear as he snapped his hips again.

“Say it,” he breathed. “Tell me who’s fucking you this good.”

You bit back a moan, turning your head just enough to meet his eyes, even as your body trembled around him.

“You talk too much.”

He grinned — wild, wicked.

“You won’t be so mouthy once I make you come again,” he growled, then shifted his angle, driving deeper — harder — hitting something inside you that made your back arch and your fingernails rake down his spine.

The sound you made this time was broken, involuntary.

“Yeah,” he hissed, voice thick with satisfaction. “Right there, huh? You like that?”

You couldn’t lie. Couldn’t pretend.

Because you did like it. You loved it , the way he was breaking you down and building you up all at once, the way he knew just how to push you to the edge.

He didn’t let up — just kept moving faster, rougher, chasing something in both of you. And when your moans turned to gasps, when your legs shook against the soaked leather of his couch and your knees started to falter, he dropped his head to your shoulder and growled.

“Don’t hold back. Let me hear you.”

You hated how fast the pressure coiled inside you again — hated how good he was. How right he felt.

Your bodies were slick with sweat, the air hot and heavy with breathless moans and skin against skin. Every thrust sent you deeper into the couch cushions, your thighs trembling from the aftershocks of the last orgasm and the promise of the next.

He was relentless.

And you were falling apart.

Your voice broke on a moan as he hit that spot again, your back arching, chest brushing against the couch with every movement. His mouth found your spine, then your neck — teeth grazing, tongue licking a trail of heat — and you could feel how hard it was for him to keep it together.

“You feel that?” he rasped against your skin. “How tight you get for me?”

You whimpered — nodding, gasping — unable to form words, because he was right. You could feel everything. Every stroke, every grind, the way he filled you so deep your head was spinning.

“You were made for this,” he groaned, driving in harder, deeper, chasing the way your body clenched around him. “For me.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you managed to whisper, voice shaking, breath hitching.

He let out a breathless laugh, but it was wrecked, frayed at the edges. His control was slipping fast. You could feel it — in the way his thrusts turned erratic, in the tension burning beneath his skin, in the wild look in his eyes when he pulled back just enough to see your face.

“You’re not gonna last,” you taunted, hips rolling to meet him. “You’re already close.”

His eyes darkened instantly.

And then, he snapped.

He grabbed your wrists, pulled out of you, flipped you over so your back was now against the leather and your legs wrapped around his shoulders, pinned your hands over your head into the cushions, and fucked into you so hard you cried out, your body jolting from the force.

“Say that again,” he growled, panting. “Say it, and I’ll show you just how long I can last.”

You stared up at him, dazed, ruined, lips parted in shock — and something in you loved this. Loved the fact that it wasn’t just lust between you. It was power. It was challenge. It was two people playing with fire and refusing to get burned first.

The rhythm of his hips was punishing now — deep, fast, precise. You were unraveling beneath him, every part of you hypersensitive, your body slick with heat and want. The friction, the pressure, the sound of your bodies colliding, it all built around you like a storm.

You couldn’t hold it together much longer.

Riki could feel it too.

He watched your face like he needed to memorize it — the way your brows knit together, the way your lips parted around breathless gasps, the way your legs trembled around his waist. You looked like a dream in ruin, all flushed skin and flushed pride, and he couldn’t get enough.

“Come on,” he whispered, low and rough against your ear. “Don’t fight it.”

You blinked up at him, trying to speak, but the words caught in your throat, choked by sensation. He rolled his hips again, grinding into the spot that made your eyes roll back, and his fingers never stopped working your clit, drawing tight, dizzying circles that pushed you closer with every stroke.

“Let go,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin. “Be good for me.”

The way he said it — soft, coaxing, like he already knew he’d won — made something inside you snap.

Your body seized beneath him, back arching as white-hot pleasure exploded through you. You clutched at him like you’d fall apart without the anchor of his body, your mouth falling open in a gasp that never quite turned into a scream, too overwhelmed to make sound.

He didn’t stop. He rode it out, held you down, let you feel every ripple, every aftershock, like he wanted to imprint the high of it into your bones.

And when your body finally went slack beneath him, shivering, lips parted, utterly spent, he leaned down, kissed the corner of your mouth.

You were still shaking when he cursed under his breath—low and hoarse—gripping your hips like he was holding on for dear life.

“Fuck,” he growled, buried deep inside you.

You felt the change in him, his pace faltering, his movements becoming rougher, more erratic. His breathing was ragged, shallow against your skin, chest pressing into yours with every desperate thrust.

His control was slipping. Finally.

You opened your eyes, just barely, and caught his expression—eyes half-lidded and burning, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body pulled tight like a bowstring. He looked like he was in pain. Like holding back was killing him.

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a growl, then buried his face in your neck as he thrust one final time, deep and hard. You felt him tense, whole body going rigid above you as he let go with a broken gasp of your name, spilling his warm, creamy seed inside of you, filling you, making you his.

The heat of it, the way he clung to you like he needed to feel every pulse of pleasure, it wrecked you all over again. He stayed there for a long moment, chest heaving against yours, your bodies tangled in sweat and silk and aftershocks.

The silence settled like mist over the room, warm and slow and heavy. Just the hum of the city outside the window, the quiet rustle of breath as your bodies slowly came back to earth. You laid tangled on the couch—bare limbs pressed against bare skin, his arm draped loosely around your waist, fingers absentmindedly tracing circles along your spine.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then Riki broke the silence.

“So…” he murmured, voice still rough from everything, “do I get points for making the golden girl come apart on my couch?”

You huffed a laugh against his collarbone.

“Please. That ego of yours doesn’t need points.”

He grinned. You could feel it without even looking.

“I think I deserve a medal, honestly.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, hair falling over your face.

“For what? Finally keeping up?”

His eyes narrowed playfully.

“Keeping up?”

“You heard me,” you smirked. “Don’t act like you didn’t almost beg.”

He rolled his eyes, but his fingers dug into your hip in warning.

“Watch it.”

“Or what?” you teased, raising a brow. “You’ll punish me?”

His eyes darkened again, just for a second—but the spark in them was unmistakable.

“Careful,” he said softly. “You say things like that, and I won’t let you sleep tonight.”

The way he said it sent a slow burn through your already sensitive body. You bit your lip, turning your face away to hide your smile. But he caught it anyway.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. And when you looked back at him, something softer had settled behind his gaze. Something quieter.

His grin returned, cocky and slow.

“What do you eat for breakfast? French toast? Smoked salmon? A fresh man's heart?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away, not yet. Because you weren’t quite ready to leave the warmth of his body. Or the way his voice sounded in the dark. Or how, despite everything, you felt like maybe—just maybe—he was your match.

I finished this at like 3:00 am so sorry if there are any mistakes!! <3 thank u sm for reading.

#enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #enhypen hard headcanons #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen hard hours #enhypen x female reader #enhypen nishimura riki #enhypen niki #niki nishimura #niki smut #enhypen niki smut #nishimura riki smut #nishimura riki x reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen fic #enhypen fanfiction #ni ki #enhypen ni ki #enhypen ni ki smut

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shadows-over-the-wastes · 4 months ago

Text

Shadows Over the Wastes: Chapter One

Stables. Bunkers, more or less, created to shelter ponies from the doomsday that was The Day the Bombs Fell. Or, aptly, The Final Day. Created with self-sustaining magical technology that would run until Reclamation Day. And even further beyond that. This is the environment I had known my entire life. Yellowcake Cream, an altogether uninspiring, and unassuming unicorn.

That was me. With a yellow coat, a blue-green mane that’s always too messy and sloppily tied back, and bright green eyes that have a blue discoloration to the sclera. My cutie mark is a Balefire green glass tuning fork, surrounded by a blue glow. If anything about me was unique or impressive, it was that. But it didn’t do much to compensate for my rather lacking stature, being one of, if not the, shortest mares in the entire Stable. It also didn’t explain my sad physique. I’m rather chubby, to put it lightly. Fat, to put it accurately. And worst of all, I never look like I get enough sleep, and I have a horrendous cough I can never get rid of. I’m not asthmatic, I’m just pathetic.

My special talent is… a little unclear. But I’m really good at fixing up the reactor in the Stable, and I’m unaffected by radiation, so my place is clear. I’m a reactor engineer and technician. A rather high-clearance, and low-effort job, which doesn’t help with my weight problem. Most of the time, I spend my days watching old TV shows, re-reading the Stable library’s selection, or simply hanging out in the bakery.

My sweet tooth was my friend Cherry Garcia’s fault. She’s the bakery mare, and runs the shop by herself, which she took over when her mother retired. Her coloration was that of red velvet cake. A maroon coat with a creamy white mane, striped with chocolate brown, and beautiful, crystal pink eyes. She was the Stable’s eye candy, always was for her peers, even when we were foals. All the colts thought she was the prettiest thing in the whole wide world. They weren’t wrong, but she always expressed that stallions weren’t really for her. She and I met because I was always the smartest foal in the class, and the quietest. She’s not book smart, but socially smart, so she came to me for help. We’ve more or less been inseparable ever since.

The piercings in my ears were my friend Aero Ace’s fault. He’s a punky gray stallion with a faux-colorful black mane, violet eyes, and plenty of tats and piercings to match. He’s an artist, with a needle and a brush. He’s also a troublemaker. Always has been, always will be. He’s not as big as some other stallions, built very lithe, and quick on his wings. We met for similar reasons, but moreso because he wanted to know the most effective way to prank somepony using a Mr. Handy robot. I told him all the ins and outs and how to change personality scripts. Even helped him do it. He stuck around me since then.

Today was another day of nothing, spent in my room, with a comic book sprawled on my bed. I was sat comfortably, twirling a pen in my magical grip as a notebook laid next to the comic. I wasn’t reading it, so much as I was using it as reference to draw. Another hobby I’d picked up to kill some time. I started when I was 16, and had gotten pretty good over the years. Sighing, I closed the comic book, going back to sketching. I was drawing a cowpony gunslinger, with a big chunky revolver. I always thought cowpoke were cool, that and the concept of aliens.

I heard a knock on my Stable room door. “Go away.” I called over, not peeling my eyes away.

“It’s Cherry!” Garcia called through the speaker system.

“Oh! C’mon in!” My ears pricked up, dropping my pen and looking over at the door.

The metal bulkhead door opened up, and the earth pony walked right through. She had a big, cheeky smile, a tray balanced on her back. She wore the same Stable suit we all did, dark blue and gold trim, branded with a bold 27. “Another hard day of work, huh?” She joked.

“Yeah yeah, I know. You can ask me for help if you need it, y’know.” I replied, leaning my head on a hoof.

“Oh no… don’t want you pulling a muscle.” Garcia smirks, joining me on the bed by my side, and gently setting the tray in front of us. It had three or four pastries on it, assorted. “Brought you the daily extras. Since you didn’t visit…”

I snickered, picking up an eclair with my magic. “Jeeze… this is all extras, huh?”

“Just figured I’d bring you some, since you never bothered to visit.” She chuckles, giving my side a poke.

Feeling my face flare up, I bit a sizable chunk from the pastry. “Sho what bringsh you by?”

“Well, I wanted to see your workspace! You always hang by the bakery, I’ve never gotten to see the reactor room.” She answers rather bluntly, shrugging.

I cough, almost choking on my mouthful. “You… you do?”

“Mmhmm! I wanna see what you do!” She grins, flashing her perfect white teeth.

I hesitated, eating the other half of my eclair, thinking it over. “Well… uh, I’m not really supposed to have anypony else in there. It’s a… bit of a dangerous environment.”

“Pleeeease…?” She pushes her nose up against my cheek, giving me the wettest puppy eyes she can manage. “I promise I’ll behave… I’ll even bake your favorite cake for the morning if you take me.”

My ears flopped back, “…Banana? You really don’t have to, y’know. You already brought all this.”

“Mmmhmmm…” Cherry nods, leaning on me a little more. “For my favorite nerd…”

Unfortunately, try as I might, I felt my face burn with her honeyed words. I hated how good she was at sweet talking me, it always worked. “Uhhh… y-um. Okay… I can take you in for the morning maintenance check.”

“Yes! Thank you, thank you!” Cherry gives me a tight hug, practically suffocating me with her forelegs. I didn’t really understand the excitement, but it was flattering in a sense.

I chuckled, giving her back a pat with a hoof. “I… don’t really understand why you’re so enthusiastic, but I won’t complain.”

“So what time do I need to be here?” Cherry backs up a little bit, her tail giving an excited shake.

Rubbing under my chin, I thought for a moment. “Ideally you wanna get here before security starts their morning patrol. I’d say anywhere between 06 hundred and half past. Preferably on the dot, though.” I pointed at her, “But. You need to do as I say. Any safety precaution not taken for you can mean dire radiation poisoning.”

“Promise… anything you say, I’ll do it.” She pats her chest, nodding.

Sighing, I give a nod, “Alright… be here fresh and early. And clean. Please. The decontamination protocols call for a shower at least the day before entering the reactor room.”

Nodding again, she smiles. “Showered and early, got it.”

Tapping my hooves together, I glance around the room. “So… um. Did you… wanna stick around for any other reason?”

“Of course, silly. Keep drawing, I’ll watch…” She leans on me, getting comfortable.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning came unceremoniously, after a productive day of drawing and eating the pastries that Cherry brought me. Getting on my Stable suit, I clicked my Pip-Buck onto my right foreleg, using a few dials and switches to get my authorization ready. As I walked out of my Stable room, I was greeted with the sight of the Overmare, Silver Lining. In the same hallway as me, speaking to another Stable member. She shot me a look, one that was hard on the nerves. She always tested me, ever since I took my Mother’s position as the reactor tech. Makes sense, considering this job is what took my Mom from me. And as far as my Dad goes, no news. Nopony really knows who he is. My Mom had an alcohol problem, and slept around. It could be any stallion, and she simply forgot. It made me a bastard foal. Something that was tough to live with. Something that got me taunted through my school years.

Breaking me out of the stare was Cherry, tapping me on the shoulder. “Hey! You good?”

“Uh… yeah. Fine.” I shrugged it off, starting to head for the reactor room. Garcia trailed closely at my side, trying to gauge what was wrong. I could tell, by the way her eyes were burning a hole through my skull.

“By the way, your cake should be settled by the time you come back with me to the bakery!” Cherry smiled, trying to turn my mind onto something else.

Looking over, I scoffed, “Yeah? You actually made one? You didn’t have to, you know. You have other customers.”

“You’re not a customer, Cake! You’re my friend. My best friend, at that.” She bumps me, nearly sending me off balance.

Stumbling a little, I snickered, shaking my head. “Alright, if you insist.” Before we knew it, we got to the reactor room. Glancing around, I checked to make sure nopony was near. Then, once confirmation was ensured, I opened the door. “Go go go…” I waved Cherry inside, before stepping in myself. Locking the door behind us, I sighed. “Alright. Now here’s the tough part.”

“I thought that was the tough part?” Cherry cocked her head.

Moving to a rack with hazmat suits, I shook my head. “Nope. You need to put one of these on.” I tossed her one, sitting so I could watch her.

Starting to slowly pull it on, she grunts. “Don’t you need one too?”

“Nope. My body doesn’t react to the excited magi-tomic energy in the air.” I wave a hoof. “Dunno why, but it doesn’t.”

“Huh…” She fits the respirator mask over her head, and I seal the suit, starting the circulation of air. Once ready, she stomps the metal shoes of the suit against the floor. “Good to go!” Her voice is garbled through the respirator, but clear enough.

Heading to the decontamination room, it seals behind us. Misting us with a germ-scrub solution, we’re then dried off. Then, without any further delay, we walk right through, into the reactor room. The reactor itself is a technological wonder. A Balefire reactor, one of the only subjects of its kind. Most other Stable reactors rely on magi-tomic fusion. Thus, they need their core replaced eventually. However, a Balefire reactor is a perpetual magic machine. A self-sustaining dark magic reaction, exothermic, and highly radioactive. It looked like a giant metal sphere, suspended by a series of green-glowing wires, with a thrumming, bright emerald mass swirling within.

“Welcome to where the magic happens.” I motioned to the generator. “My maintenance typically consists of dark energy ventilation, sorting, and purification.” Moving to a few tubes lining the walls, three on each side, I pulled large red levers on their sides. “Using these, more or less, vacuum-based traps, I suck the excess dark energy from the reaction, and trap them in specialized battery housing.” I demonstrate, tapping on a tube swirling with green-blue energy. Then, turning a wheel on the tube, I initiate the exchange. The energy excites, then decelerates, and solidifies into bright gold strands. Pure solar fusion energy. A primitive mocking of Celestia’s godly power, in the quick of my hoof. “And… voila. Pure, unfiltered celestial energy. Ready to be cycled into an empty core. This is a gross oversimplification of the process, but… I don’t think you could really get it without years of education. Like me.”

“That’s insane! I never knew this is what you did!” Cherry sounded astonished, staring intently at the raw fusion energy.

I nodded, patting the tube. “That’s pretty much it. Do that for every tube, and it’s exchanged. Easy stuff. Those cores are cleaner and last longer.”

She and I spent the next hour or two talking and ventilating the reactor. She quizzed me on just about everything I knew, regarding magi-tomic energy at least. I’d never had anypony else be as interested in it as I was, it was refreshing. However, just as we were getting ready to leave, single file through the decontamination room, I heard something. Before I entered the room with her, my ears twitched, and Cherry looked at me through the bulkhead door. “You okay?”

“I heard something. We shouldn’t have any other unauthorized life signs in the room. It’s protocol.” I kept my voice down, eyebrows furrowing. Then, I closed the bulkhead, squinting as I turned around.

Cherry banged a hoof on the door, looking through the window. “Cake?! What’s going on??” Her voice was heavily muffled, but audible.

Looking back, I yelled through the door. “Stay here, and stay safe! I’m gonna find what’s crawling around in here!” “Cake! No! C’mon! This is a job for security!” She bangs on the door. Unfortunately for her, my curiosity was getting the better of me.

The reactor room didn’t have much in the way of weapons. For defense or no. But, a screwdriver should do the trick. I’ve read a few comics where a good screwdriver to the eye was more or less a low-end lobotomy. I didn’t wanna kill anypony, so a lobotomy would have to do. However, I found the origin of the sound. One of the metal panels on the wall of the room had been moved, revealing a long, dark corridor.

I hesitated, but I made my way within. Using my horn to light my way, a cold breeze blew over my body as the panel suddenly shut. And locked.

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#mlp g4 #fallout equestria #mlp fanfic #mlp fanart #my little pony #mlp fim

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