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melis-writes · 1 year ago

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Blood Money (Tony Montana x Reader Multichapter, 18+ Smut) Chapter 2 – The Strings of Fate.

Chapter 1 / Read on AO3 / Chapter Masterlist.

18+, explicit smut read.

“The American dream, huh? You’ll see. It all goes up from here, man." / "The one who did the killing was Tony, Tony Montana. His friend’s name was Manny Ribera. Do those names ring a bell?"

Your return back home to to Miami is marked with bitter disappointment but an insatiable curiosity about this Tony Montana you met, whose world continuously moves to collide with yours. Migrating to Miami with Manny, Tony has leverage "knowing you" that he intends to take advantage of. Your heart simply aches and remembers too much to let go of the incident back in Havana and you find yourself almost wanting to see Tony again, but the thought of what you'd say and do next to a stranger holds you back. Tony on the other hand is bound to make his fate intertwine with yours no matter what it takes.

[WARNINGS]: Mentions of blood & violence.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE]: Another update/chapter just as promised for the Tony Montana girlies!! 🤗🤩 Long overdue but it's here at last and I couldn't be more happier with it. 🥴 Blood Money is definitely one of those fics I want to take my time with piecing and weaving the story together. It's building up just as the film would, so there's a looooot of excitement coming together and a gradual, authentic feel and touch of intimacy to Tony and Celeste's upcoming relationship! 🤭

With a taste for success and dollar bills, Tony Montana’s drug empire grew in vast wealth, power and influence by your side as the kingpin’s lover. From sharing an intimate history in Cuba, you and Manny Ribera were the only ones to believe and support Tony from rags to riches. Embroiled in the same lifestyle and sharing enemies, you and Tony come to build your empire and world together with the threat of it collapsing from the inside. As partnership turns to betrayal and thrill to danger, you find yourself in-between ultimatums and sacrifices for the man you love.

[ Havana, Cuba ]

‘Oh my God,’ you blink, almost staggering back into the hotel lobby—unable to stand remaining outside for a moment longer in Havana.

Taking a deep breath, you place your hand over the small splatter of dried blood that landed over your jeans; a strange relief washing over you to know it’s not your blood, but still a reminder of what your trip to Havana has gotten you into it.

Keeping your head down to avoid drawing suspicion or attention of any kind to yourself, you move past the front desk and quietly enter the elevator.

The elevator doors slide open with a ding only a few seconds later as you slip inside, hitting the fourth-floor button.

You lean your back against the elevator wall, tilting your head up to stare at the lights on the ceiling, taking another deep breath.

The initial rush of adrenaline and surprise you felt just fifteen minutes ago has worn off but sinks realization back into you.

The only thing you can focus on is getting back into your hotel room without doing anything else—attempting to process everything that just happened and what it means to you.

You’re out of the elevator and speed walking to your suite from the moment the elevator doors slide back open, wasting no time.

Unlocking the door, you step inside and shut it immediately behind you—giving your head a shake. You move your hand off of your jeans, checking your palm to see if any dried blood smeared over it only to see nothing.

Raising your head, you look around your hotel room before slowly stepping forward; taking everything in bit by bit.

It’s as if absolutely nothing’s happened; just as calm and normal as you left it this morning but you’ve returned back to your hotel room with someone else’s blood over your clothes and the vision of brains splattering over the ground for your memory.

The blood of the man on your clothes is the same one who attempted to mug you almost an hour ago, then got shot in front of your face at close range by two men you’ve never seen before—conveniently there at the wrong place but the right time.

‘It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’ You frown, moving towards your hotel bed.

There’s too much to think about; how you ended up in that situation, to begin with, leaving empty-handed, then coming across two men named Tony and Manny when you least expected it.

‘Still…’ You slip off your shoes and sit over the edge of your bed, clasping your hands together in your lap as you let your mind continue to think.

At the very least, your business is concluded in Havana. You have nothing else to do or look forward to here, and now without much of a choice you realize the danger you can find yourself in going forward here.

You don’t know what you expected. You flew down to Havana to find proof of your mother’s claims of a family estate, which was transferred to your name after her divorce with your father was finalized only to find crumbling rubble and a mugging lurking around the corner.

You’ve come from Miami with something to return with nothing and no reason to call home or your father right now as you’d prefer to let him know in person.

Not to mention the political tensions rising in Cuba only insists your best options now are to get back to Miami and never look back.

You move off your bed, approaching your half-opened luggage propped up next to the television, and stuff back the loose pieces of clothing sticking out as your mind continues to wander.

Truthfully, you’re not shaken by the mugging since it isn’t the first time you’ve been followed or provoked, but you’re not desensitized to crude, spontaneous violence either.

Had nobody else been around, you still could have dealt with the situation yourself and defended yourself just fine; you can handle a knife swiftly and well and you know how to use a gun.

Almost everything you’ve come to learn in terms of defending yourself one way or another has been because of the nature of your father’s business.

Even with bodyguards, you refuse to have someone else fight your battles, especially if it means business rivals gone rogue or inconspicuous assassins sent your father’s way.

Where Manny didn’t notice your relaxed state and lack of hesitation in your defensive prowess, Tony did. In just the sight of seeing you quickly calculate your moves with your flight or fight instinct, Tony easily discerned you from any other woman he’s met before in Cuba.

In fact, Tony liked nothing more than seeing how you held your ground before he made his presence clear, but your first impression of Tony is far from anything similar to what he thought of you.

It’s not that you think this Tony figure is some sort of show off whose trigger happy or a slum lord, but much closer to a truly born killer whose made peace with his own violence. Tony did what he did back there for you, after all.

You’d rather just forget the whole thing and move on, but your mind continues to linger on Tony with unease.

‘Those two…’ You stare down at your suitcase. ‘If all of that wasn’t bullshit, they’ll be on their way to Miami too.’

At the very least, your father will want to know everything that’s happened and hasn’t happened since you landed in Havana and you don’t plan on holding back any details either. Maybe the names ‘Tony Montana’ and ‘Manny Ribera’ will mean something to him.

When your eyes land back on the little splatters of dried blood upon your jeans it only reminds you that you’ll be telling your father everything.

You’ve come to remember Tony’s comment about him not being a name or face to forget, but you know you can’t say more or think more on the matter until you return back home at least.

Still, Tony’s come off as bold, confident—cocky even to you and you barely know who he is. You’re completely unaware that if you don’t see or find him in Miami, he’ll certainly come to find you again.

You almost find yourself blushing a little remembering the sight of him; although both men before you are very attractive in their own ways, there’s just something else about Tony that’s rubbed off on you differently.

Putting your hair up in a loose bun, you check the time on the alarm clock by your bed before leaning down and beginning to zip up your suitcase.

Regardless of finding anything for your family heritage or not, you’re finally ready to go home.

If you’re meant to see Tony again after all of this, you will. Either way, it’ll give you something to think about for the rest of your life.

[ Next Day, 5:02 AM]

Up at the “ass crack of dawn” or as Tony puts it, Tony and Manny are but two in a crowd of hundreds of Cubans preparing to board on boat to finally immigrate to the United States first thing in the morning.

Having barely slept the night before due to excitement, Manny can hardly keep his eyes open and finds himself consistently rubbing over his eyelids or scratching at his arm just to stay focused and awake.

Tony on the other hand slept like a baby, snored throughout the night, and knew what he’d come to expect at the “ass crack of dawn”; lineups, paperwork, and being kept under a watchful eye by guards for order.

“Think they want us gone more than we want to be gone,” Manny grumbles, rubbing his eyes again.

Just across from Tony and Manny are dozens of boats designed to carry hundreds of passengers, already beginning to pack on crowds of sweaty men bumping into each other—hollering to get a decent place to sit.

Regardless of the chatter and noise, the guards patrolling and policing the nearby area and the docks maintain order and peace well; shoving those around who lash out or are deemed disobedient to ensure security is kept in line this morning.

“We all going to one place this early in the morning,” Tony looks around his environment, appearing annoyed by Manny’s sleepy state. “That’s why I told your ass to sleep early last night, but no—you didn’t listen to me.”

“I tried man, I tried,” Manny whines back, slowly moving up in line with Tonny. “But I got too excited. Look, we’re finally leaving this place, man. Don’t blame me.”

“Yeah, finally,” Tony mutters to himself as he looks up at the boat closest to his and Manny’s lineup. “That could be the one.”

“Maybe,” Manny’s eyes light up.

“Your ass gonna be packed on there with me like a sardine anyway. Then you can sleep,” Tony comments.

“Shut up, man,” Manny chuckles, playfully smacking Tony’s arm.

“NEXT!” The officer sitting at the makeshift desk at the very front of the lineup calls, leaving Tony and Manny next in line.

Tony steps up first, staring back at the officer as he hands over his passport and crumped up documents upon the table.

“State your name,” the officer takes Tony’s passport without breaking his cautious gaze over Tony’s face.

“Antonio Montana,” Tony replies.

“You go by ‘Tony’?” The officer asks, staring at Tony’s passport pic and squinting his eyes.

“Yeah, sometimes,” Tony shrugs his shoulders.

Tony appears nonchalant in his passport photo, but the officer’s trained eye knows it’s no fake or forgery; this is the very man in front of him now only appearing handsomely crude.

The officer stamps Tony’s passport and hands it back to him only a moment later, gesturing to the very boat behind him. “That one will take you to go. Go to the next line ahead.”

Tony glances over his shoulder to give Manny a smug smirk before taking back his passport and papers and being nudged toward the next line by another officer.

Manny’s passport check is no longer than Tony’s and bound for the same boat, now standing in the same and last line to sail off from Havana.

“This is what I need, man,” Manny grins as the two walks aboard the boat at last, squeezing through a small crowd. “We gonna be in Miami before you know it, man. America! Sweet Miami!”

“The American dream, huh?” Tony crosses his arms, looking out towards the docks with an amused expression on his face. “You’ll see. It all goes up from here, man. That’s what I’m talking about, now—” Tony taps Manny’s arm, pulling him back from near the edge of the boat. “Stay close, man. You gonna barely have room to breathe in here and I’m not looking for your excited ass if you fall into the water.”

“Okay, man, okay,” Manny bursts out into laughter, moving aside. “Let’s go, let’s go. I wanna get out of here already. Miami, here we come, man!”

Unlike Manny, Tony doesn’t even bother to look back once at the life he was leaving behind, whether it was to say goodbye to Cuba one last time, reminisce about his childhood or think about where he came from.

Tony’s mentality and future are already settled in America; embroiled in the American dream without even being entirely aware of it. Tony can’t see anything else or past it.

All Tony knows now is he’ll no longer have to toil under a regime while being under a watchful eye in case any of his words or actions are warranted as “counter-revolutionary”.

Tony will no longer have to think his life has no meaning in Cuba but build his future elsewhere; one that doesn’t involve slaving away working at the docks and catching octopus ten hours a day only to be fucked by the government on the daily.

Tony always knew that if he couldn’t feel like he’s come to accomplish anything in Havana, he wouldn’t give up and decide this is how he has to live.

Even now, Tony keeps his eyes affixed on the waters ahead of the boat as security on the docks gives the all-clear to keep sailing onward while Manny watches the distance growing between him and Havana.

What Manny sees in Havana and what he’ll always remember is his home; the city he grew up in and had no intention of leaving until the Castro regime.

Manny grew up with Tony on the streets of Havana; it’s where he attended education all the way through high school, got his first job, had his first kiss, learned how to drive—just about everything.

Nothing else happened in Tony or Manny’s life outside of Cuba before it all went to shit; neither Tony nor Manny felt welcome in their own home anymore.

Still, optimistic and excited enough for the future, Manny welcomes the new chapter in his life. It’s just like the way it’s always been, of course, still side by side with Tony doing anything and everything they can just to make a living.

Before Manny can turn to tell Tony, “we’re really going, man”, he sees Tony already moving in line to get into the living quarters without a care for anything he’s leaving behind.

Tony’s already had one too many times to gaze out towards the sea and wonder how he’d get away from Havana and actually start living his life; he has no reason to do it to himself again.

“Aww, man,” Manny mumbles under his breath, cringing as he tenses his muscles and squirms through the packed crowd with Manny just to get inside the living quarters of the boat.

“What I say?” Tony pipes up, having reminded Manny well one too many times over as to just how crowded the trip to Miami will truly be.

“Yeah, yeah,” Manny and Tony get ushered towards one room by a guard, noticing six more men inside the crammed living space before the doors shut behind them.

Four of the sweaty men are already on their bunkbeds, reading newspapers and making quiet conversation with one another while the other two sit at a small, worn-out end table with flimsy, plastic chairs playing a game of cards.

With nothing but a rag as a makeshift rug in the middle of the room separating the bunkbeds from one another, Tony and Manny notice the bunk beds themselves are made of cheap stiff metal consisting of thin, very worn, old, and yellow-stained mattresses.

The crushed-looking pillow on each bed is in the same stained and sorry state as the mattress with a pilled-up, wrinkled wool blanket in the middle of the bed.

Manny cringes at the filthy sight of discomfort before him he has no choice but to spend hours with whereas Tony raises his brows for a moment, but accepts it.

“You go up,” Tony points up at the bunk bed before moving towards the lower bed. “I’m staying down here.”

Nodding, Manny begins to carefully climb up to the top bunk; wary of every step he takes up the shaky metal ladder with complete distrust and caution.

“Jesus,” Tony mutters under his breath, picking up the scent of body odor reeking from the other men in the room mixing in with the humidity and clear lack of proper ventilation.

Grunting quietly, Tony lays flat on his back—feeling no different from laying down over concrete or anything else stiff and guaranteed to cause back pain only to see a few of the men in the living quarters beginning to peek over at Tony and Manny, even letting their conversations fade out to do so.

“What?” Tony furrows his brows, immediately agitated by the staring as he smacks his pillow—attempting to fluff it.

The men immediately look back away to mind their own business from Tony’s gruff response.

“Tsk, tsk,” Tony shakes his head, resting his head back down on the reeking pillow.

“Hey, man,” Manny’s eyes peer down on Tony, catching his eye.

“Enjoying the kingdom up there?” Tony asks sarcastically.

“Please,” Manny whines quietly, “my ass hurts, man. This feels like a brick.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Tony rolls his eyes, looking up at Manny. “But it gonna be over before we know it.”

“Right,” Manny rakes a hand through his hair with a strained sigh, “like a whole day of travel.”

“Nobody else complainin’ here but you, man,” Tony points out. “What did you expect?”

“I dunno, man,” Manny plops back down on his bed. “Just thought your new friend would help.”

“What are you talking about, man?” Tony yawns, closing his eyes. “What friend?”

“Oh, sorry,” Manny lets out a soft laugh, “I mean your new girlfriend.”

The other men in the room begin to curiously look back over at Manny and Tony again, listening to their conversation.

“Or did you realize you can’t talk to a woman like that?” A playful grin crosses over Manny’s lips.

“Like what?” Tony’s eyes snap open as agitation begins to grow in his tone of voice. “Because I was good. I always am.”

“Yeah, you a real ladies' man, alright,” Manny scoffs, “if I didn’t know better man, I think you knew that American girl for a thousand years.”

Tony almost feels immediately possessive at the very mention of you; his muscles tensing up in response.

“Got tired of digging through old rocks, now you chasing women, huh? What I tell you, huh?! This is

my neighborhood, so if you fuck with it, you fuck with me!”

There isn’t a single detail of how Tony encountered you with Manny that Tony can’t remember; your face and voice are still etched in his mind with no intention of Tony wanting to forget just how he met you in the first place.

From how quickly everything happened and how Tony took the heat knowing your life was very much at risk right then and there out on the street, Tony can’t let go of meeting you. It’s like in a way, you were already his. What kind of coincidence could that be?

“I bet your girlfriend on a nice, fancy plane right now flying to Miami,” Manny continues, chuckling to himself. “She waiting for us or something, man? ‘Cause you said she gonna remember your face and all that shit for some reason.”

“Hey, shut up, man!” Tony snaps, leaning up on his elbows. “Shut up!”

Manny holds back his laughter by clasping a hand over his mouth as the other men in the room once again begin to stare at the two from the sudden yelling.

“What?!” Tony scowls towards the other men in the room; his voice sharpening. “What you all looking at, huh?! Nobody minds their own business in here, huh? Stop fuckin’ staring at me!”

This time, all heads are turned away sharply, pretending as if nothing ever happened.

“God,” Tony grits his teeth, rubbing his temples gingerly. “I’m in a goddamn mental asylum here…”

“I just asked a question, man,” Manny’s voice pipes up again.

“Yeah, I answer,” Tony snaps back, “we gonna see her again. I got a name, you forgot? What you think? I’m gonna mention her name when we get to Miami; when we talk to customs.”

“Wait, seriously?” Manny’s eyes begin to widen.

“Yeah,” Tony nods, “I do her a favor, she do one for me. Maybe she don’t know it’s coming but I know she not like that. If she really the big shot in Mami and not lying, then we see her again. She owes me.”

“She don’t have to help us, man,” Manny points out, “what if she don’t want to do nothing for us?”

“Then she gonna have to explain to the customs why she know our name,” Tony mentions with complete confidence in himself. “I told you, easy way out. I gonna thank Celeste for all she done, don’t worry, man. She need me, I need her. She’ll see.”

On your return flight back to Miami two hours later in first class, you remain indifferent and rather nonchalant about the trip home; doing well in getting your mind off of it.

Enjoying the comforts of first class and having a much-needed drink, you’re easily able to distract yourself and indulge in a book—curled up on your seat with a faux fur throw over you.

When you land back in the United States, your father’s private chauffeur as expected and scheduled picks you up to drive you back to his estate.

You’re grateful for the rest and relaxation you were able to get on your trip back, feeling the lasting effects of travel exhaustion only minorly over you.

In any case, the news of your trip to Havana and just what happened may surprise your father a bit, but it won’t cause him to become upset to any degree.

Only when your step outside of your chauffeur’s vehicle and make your way towards the guarded, front gates of your father’s estate do you feel a numbing ache inside of you desperate to be back at home.

You don’t plan on delaying the news of everything to your father a moment longer.

“Celeste!” Your father’s eyes light up at the sight of you entering the grandiose living room from the foyer. “Welcome back, sweetheart,” your father rises to his feet with a smile.

Standing in the first of many living spaces in your father’s estate with the floors polished in marble, a flair of Roman and Spanish architecture decorated with silver and gold finishings but also inspired by modern American interior design greets you once again.

“Father,” you can’t help but find yourself smiling back at him.

Your father extends out his arms, holding a glass of bourbon in one hand as he begins to approach you. “How was your flight, honey? You’re back almost just as scheduled—impressive.”

“As well as it could be,” you hug your father as he sets down his drink, embracing you back. “I’m just so tired,” you groan out over his shoulder, “every single time, and it always hits me at home.”

“It’s only ever so comfortable,” your father chuckles, patting your shoulders before pulling away. “Well?” His eyes fill with amusement, “I won’t have to guess too much as to how it went. I can see the disappointment in your eyes.”

“That obvious, huh?” You sigh softly.

“Mhmm,” your father nods, “it makes me even more curious. Let me just assume that…” Your father purses his lips, leading you towards the velvet couches to sit down together. “There was just nothing there?”

“Yeah,” you answer back.

“Figures,” your father moves towards the bar table across the room as you take a seat first. “But it’s also no surprise. Here…” Your father pops open a cask of whiskey, pouring some over ice in a glass and mixing half of it with a bottle of coke. “You could use the relaxation. I’m sure you’ve got more than enough to explain.”

“Thanks, Dad,” you lean up to take the drink from him before both of you sit side by side. “But you know I didn’t expect to come back empty-handed myself.”

“Sure, I know what you mean,” your father shrugs. “We can’t say it was entirely for nothing but it was no vacation either, huh?”

“Please,” you shake your head. “Havana is beautiful and lively but some parts... Well—that can be said for just about anywhere, including Miami.”

“Absolutely,” your father reaches for the drink he set aside.

“There was something, though,” you mumble, staring down at your drink. “Mom didn’t entirely lie to us.” You slouch down on the couch, taking a glum sip of your drink. “I don’t know how long it’s been or what happened to it, but there was something.”

“Your mother’s estate was there as she said?” Your father raises his brows. “It actually exists?”

“It did at some point,” you nod, “it’s demolished now, along with every other decent-looking villa I could have found there. Gone. It’s destroyed, just rubble.”

“I see,” your father frowns. “Grim news then.”

“I don’t know what happened to it, and it’s not like I could ask anyone,” you swallow down another sip of your drink. “The villa was right around the outskirts of something like a ghost town.”

“The rebels must have done some work to it,” your father rolls his eyes. “I’m not surprised. The villa must have been standing there for many years prior.”

“If Mom never told you about it, maybe it was only up and around when you two first married,” you suggest.

“A lie is a lie, isn’t it?” Your father raises his drink to his lips. “Your mother kept many things from me since we began dating; her family estates being one,” your father emphasizes the plural of an estate. “Although, I suppose it would be hard to legally prove it was destroyed when and how she owed us this much from the divorce.”

“I don’t know why she did this to us,” you swallow hard, continuing to drink. “First the lies, then the divorce—all of this. She just… She tore our family apart.”

“Yes,” your father agrees, “but it’s her fault and hers alone. She chose to do that to us, so we have no choice but to let it be. The same goes for her so-called villa—estate, whatever you wanna call it. I never wanted any of it for myself, but she owed you.”

“If it’s just a piece of history rotting there now, so be it,” you point out, “I don’t care, Dad. It’s not important to me. I just don’t want you to be upset by it because it’s…” You bite your lip, sighing again. “It was just another lie. Ugh, I can’t take this anymore.”

“And you don’t have to,” your father finishes his drink, exhaling quietly. “Neither of us do. We can leave it at that.”

“Only we can’t,” you lower your glass down to your lap—remembering just how you came across Tony and Manny back in Havana.

“My first American friend and she wanna help me. All Americans like you must be so nice.”

“I met someone,” you say, “two people, actually…”

“You think they may have known something about your mother’s estate?” Your father raises a curious brow.

“Well, they definitely knew more about where I was than me,” you shrug your shoulders. “They were two Cuban men. I assume they probably grew up around or in that same neighborhood from how they spoke of the street and knew it so well. “

“Hmm, interesting,” your father muses, listening to you explain. “And they helped you find the estate or at least what was left of it?”

“More like they saved my life,” you shake your head. “There was some other street rat lurking around, preying on me. I don’t know how long he was stalking me when I was there, but he snuck up on me good.”

“Are you alright? Did he do anything to you?” Your father’s eyes begin to grow with worry. “That man didn’t hurt you or anything?”

“Honestly, Dad, no. I’m fine, really. It was more of a question of what I was going to do to defend myself.”

“I know that sweetheart,” your father chuckles to himself. “No doubt you could, but it doesn’t make you any less concerned.”

“I know,” you purse your lips, “then those two men showed up like nothing. They must have been around. One of them… He…”

“The least you two could tell me are your names.”

“Tony. Antonio Montana.”

“He shows up, then he shoots my stalker right in front of me. Killed that guy like nothing; mocked him first and got him fearing for his life first. It was…something. His friend next to him just stood there like he’s seen this sort of thing every day.”

“He may have,” your father suggests. “What were their names?”

“The one who did the killing was Tony, Tony Montana. His friend’s name was Manny Ribera. Do those names ring a bell?”

“Hmm, no,” your father smoothens out his dress shirt, “I can’t say that they do. Should I?”

“I honestly don’t know,” you laugh a little to yourself, “they just seemed awfully convinced they’d see me again as if they already knew me.”

“And you’ve never seen or met these men at all before?”

“Never,” you reply.

“I’d just assume these men may be well known in Cuba,” your father rests his back against the couch.

“Or they could just be two guys in the right place at the right time,” you sip your drink again. “Either way, I do owe them. They didn’t have to do anything for me back there.”

“No shame or harm in that. I’ll keep their names in mind,” your father rakes a hand through his hair, “but how can they be so convinced that they’ll be seeing you again? You’re back in Miami now.”

“They’re migrants,” you point out, “and from everything going on in Cuba, I’m not surprised that they’re leaving like everyone else.”

“Now there’s something,” your father’s eyes light with curiosity. “So they’re coming to Miami.”

“Mhmm,” you swirl around the ice at the bottom of your drink. “They’ll be here eventually. Whatever part I seem to play in that doesn’t make sense to me.”

“You know you don’t owe either of these men anything, Celeste,” your father tells you. “You’re not obligated to do anything, although I can understand your appreciation towards them for what they’ve done for you.”

“I know,” you shrug, setting your drink down, “I’m just as much of a stranger to them as they are to me. Their words mean nothing to me anymore. We’ve forgotten each other already, it’s just… When I think of Havana, I’ll remember them again. I can’t forget that. It’s like I have to remember.”

“Celeste, honey…” Your father frowns, looking down at his hands for a moment as he ponders how to phrase his next words. “I do believe you’re getting a little too desensitized to all of this, sweetheart. All of the blood and carnage… This isn’t good for you whatsoever.”

“It’s not like that, Dad,” you murmur, denying it. “I was still shaken too and it’s not new, is it?” Your eyes meet with his. “We see it all too often ourselves.”

“Mm, that much is true,” your father notes. “I’m intrigued about these men because of what they did for you so I’ll keep their names in mind, but that is as much as I’ll do. Like you said,” your father begins to rise up from his seat, “you’re as much of a stranger to them as they are to you.”

“It’s all over now, Dad,” you scoff, slouching on the couch. “I’m never going back to Havana again. There’s nothing now.”

“I’m sure they’ve come to understand that too.”

[ Miami, Florida: Cuban Migrant Camp ]

“Okay, Tony,” The immigration officer sighs in annoyance, wishing to get done and over with this mandatory questioning held with high suspicion and an even higher rate of being refused a green card and full entry into Miami.

“So,” The immigration officer lets the file folder holding Tony’s documents plop down onto his desk with a smack, eyeing Tony carefully. “What’s your full name? What do you go by?”

“Antonio Montana,” Tony’s reply is as smug and confident as always; more like he’s at a job interview he knows he’ll get through anyway instead of being questioned about every aspect of his life in Cuba by US officials. “But everybody call me Tony.”

“Tony,” the other cop repeats, “and whose ‘everybody’?”

“Everyone,” Tony shrugs his shoulders. “Everyone who know me; my friends, you know. And you? What you call yourself?” The playful grin on Tony’s lips begins to grow.

The immigration officer rolls his eyes, avoiding the small talk invitation. “Okay Tony, where’d you learn to speak English like that?”

“In school,” Tony’s tone of voice begins to grow more serious. “Then my father taught me. He was from The United States. Just like you guys, you know, but he was a Yankee. He used to take me a lot to the movies, so you know, I learn a lot of English from there. I always knew one thing,” Tony points back at his chest, “coming to the United States. That’s what I wanted to do.”

“And where’s your old man now?” The police officer asks, picking up his clipboard.

“He dead,” Tony replies plainly. “He died somewhere, sometime. We not close after I began growing up. He left the family.”

“And your mother?” The immigration officer raises a curious brow.

“She dead too,” Tony answers, convincing enough.

“Tell us what kind of work you did back in Cuba, Tony,” the cop moves on to his next question.

“I worked in construction business,” Tony begins, “trades stuff. I work a lot with my hands. I build things. I was in the army too.”

“Hmm…” The immigration officer muses, opening up Tony’s file before exchanging an unamused glance with the police officer. “Interesting enough but far too convenient. What do you think?”

“I think he’s full of shit,” the cop answers, looking Tony dead in the eye. “You really don’t have any family in the United States at all? No cousins? Not even a brother-in-law or something?”

“No,” Tony remains unphased by their comments. “Nobody. Like I said, man, they all dead.”

“You ever been to jail, Tony?” The immigration officer sits on the edge of the desk directly in front of Tony.

“Me?” Tony blinks, almost appearing offended by the very question. “Jail? No. No way, no.”

“Been in a mental hospital?”

“Oh yeah,” Tony lies jokingly, “on the way coming here.”

Holding back his own laughter, neither the immigration officer, the cop or the guards in the corner of the room seem the slightest bit amused or entertains Tony’s jokes.

“What about homosexuality, Tony?” The immigration officer begins to slowly pace around Tony’s seat. “You like men, huh? You like to dress up like a woman?”

‘The fuck?’ Tony thinks to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. “The fuck is wrong with this guy, man? Are you kidding me or what?”

“Just answer the question, Tony,” The cop sighs out of impatience, shifting in his seat.

“Okay, no. Fuck no.” Tony answers. “No, okay?”

“Have you ever been arrested for anything? Marijuana? Heroin? Drugs of any kind?”

“No, no. No way, no,” Tony denies.

“Cocaine?” The cop narrows his eyes, growing increasingly suspicious.

“No, man.”

“Uh huh,” unconvinced, the immigration officer suddenly grabs Tony’s face, pointing at the glaringly obvious scar over Tony’s left eye. “Where’d you get that beauty scar, tough guy? Eating pussy?”

Tony is all the more wildly entertained by all of this. “Eating pussy?” Tony points up at his scar, “how am I gonna get a scar like that eating pussy, man? It happened to me when I was a kid. Mhmm, yeah, you should see the other kid, you know.”

“Then explain this,” the immigration officer lets go of Tony’s face, snatching up his hand again to show a small poorly tattooed, stick and poke heart pierced by an arrow. “The hell is this?”

“Ah, that’s for my sweetheart—” Tony begins, but neither of the officials are buying it.

“Sweetheart, my ass,” the immigration officer rolls his eyes, “we’ve been seeing a whole lot more of these lately. It’s some kind of code you and your friends used back in the can, huh? This is what? A pitchfork of some kind? Means an assassination happened, huh?”

“You wanna tell us about it Montana or should we take you on a little trip to the detention center?” The cop crosses his arms.

Tony pauses for a moment, remaining calm. “Okay, okay. You got me. I was in the can one time. One time, okay?” He holds his free hand up in surrender. “Nothing crazy though. I was buying dollars. Fake dollars.”

“Funny,” the cop begins to rise to his feet, alerting the attention of the guards in the corner of the room.

“No, it’s true,” Tony continues his story, “I got it from a Canadian tourist. Didn’t know it was fake.”

“Let me guess, you mugged him first?” The immigration officer appears all the more frustrated, thinking now’s his chance to brush Tony aside with the dozen others he’s interrogated already today. “Get him out of here!”

“So I fucked up, what’s to it?!” Tony protests, nudging back the immigration officers that begin to attempt to restrain him. “Wait—wait! Wait, man, hold on. Just hold on. Let me talk to this guy, okay!” Tony holds both of his hands up in surrender once the officers pull away. “Let me ask you something, man,” Tony points at the immigration officer, wetting his lips. “Are you a communist? Huh?” He asks completely calmly.

The immigration officer crosses his arms, staring back at Tony with a mix of disgust and disappointment in his expression.

“How’d you like it?” Tony scowls. “They tell you all the time what to do, what to think, what to feel. Do you wanna be a sheep like all those other people, huh? BAAA, BAA!” Tony bleats, beginning to loudly imitate a sheep.

“I don’t have to listen to this bullshit!” The cop fumes, rising up from his seat abruptly.

“You wanna work eight hours a day; you owe everything, you got nothing?” Tony redirects his attention to the cop, pointing at him as he speaks. “You want someone standing on the corner of every street watching everything you do and say, man? You wanna live and work like that? That’s what I did, okay? That’s what I did,” Tony gestures to his chest, “I made nothing. They make me clean octopus eight hours a day, every day! I got fucking octopus coming out of my ears, man!” Tony gestures to his ear. “I got holes in my shoes and they work me like that every fucking day. How’d you like that? What did you want me to do, stay there and do nothing? Huh?” Tony’s voice sharpens as he continues, “What could I do, man? What would you do?”

Nobody answers, but Tony’s words are well-heard and understood. As petty and difficult as the immigration officers and officials are, let alone completely unsympathetic to the sob story of any Cuban migrant, Tony’s explanation can’t be argued against.

“It make anyone go fucking crazy,” Tony’s voice begins to calm, growing serious. “I’m no thief, no criminal, okay? I’m Tony Montana, a political prisoner from Cuba, and I want my fucking human rights!” Tony slams the palm of his hand down on the table. “Right now!”

“I don’t believe a word of this shit,” the cop speaks up, surprising the others. “All of you sound the same. You know that son of a bitch Castro is shitting all over us. Send this bastard to Freedom Town where they’ll take good care of him.”

Tony scoffs, bursting out laughing as he doesn’t resist being restrained. “You know something? You can send me anywhere. This, there, here—it don’t matter.”

The officers begin to haul Tony towards the door of the interrogation room by force.

“There is nothing you can do to me that Castro has not already done,” Tony attempts to halt in his tracks, pushing his back against the cops. “I have someone who can vouch for me, you know that?”

Immediately, the cops trying to restrain and shove Tony out let go and take a step back, staring at the immigration officer in shock as if Tony’s words have rendered them completely helpless.

“What?” The cop furrows his brows. “What the hell did you just say?”

“That’s right,” a wry smirk returns over Tony’s lips. “I know somebody. She’s an American, and she live here in Miami. She know me, I know her. You don’t believe me? Fine, but you gonna believe her.”

“You said you had no family here, Tony,” the immigration officer presses.

“It’s true,” Tony confirms, shrugging his shoulders. “That no lie. She not my family, but she know me. I can prove that to you.”

“Who is she?” The immigration officer rolls his eyes, taking a seat back down at his desk. “Go on, tell us about this supposed woman you know. I call bullshit. You’ll say anything to save your own ass now. Just so you know I’m fucking serious, I’ll call her over here to see if you’re telling the truth.” He leans over the desk, lowering his voice. “And she better look me dead in the eye and say you’re her fucking best friend.”

Tony leans back in, resting his palms over the immigration officer's desk with a mocking, sweet smile on his lips. “Trust me, she will. Go ahead. She know my friend Manny too, so what are you doing? Call her already. Go on, ask her. Ask.”

“Ask who?” The cop interrupts. “Give us your American girlfriend’s name.”

“Celeste Navarro,” Tony answers. “That her name.”

The room immediately falls with silence and expressions grow extremely concerned.

One police officer standing by the door chuckles to himself, but with one death glare from the cop, he too falls quiet.

The immigration officer clears his throat, “Celeste Navarro?”

“Yeah, I bet you know her, don’t you?” Tony crosses his arms, cockiness growing in his demeanor.

“And I bet you don’t,” the cop spits back. “Do you have any idea what you’re fucking saying? How much weight the Navarro family name carries?”

“Sure,” Tony grins devilishly, “that’s why I just said it.”

“You better not be fucking with me, Montana,” the immigration officer slams his documents down on the table. “I’ll look into it—”

“You have to,” Tony pressures. “So just do it now, man. Quit wasting time. I miss her and I wanna see her again.”

“If you’re lying, Montana, you’ll be in a whole separate pile of deep shit from that alone,” the cop threatens.

“Then I’m in no shit at all,” Tony brushes them off, sitting back down comfortably in his seat and slouching before gesturing to the telephone upon the center of the cop’s desk. “Go ahead, call Celeste, man. Tell her Tony’s here and he misses her.”

#scarface #scarface 1983 #al pacino #tony montana #tony montana x reader #tony montana x reader smut #tony montana x oc #tony montana smut #scarface x reader #scarface x reader smut #blood money fic #blood money fanfic

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antilocaprine · 2 years ago

Note

For the kiss prompts: 12, in grief for frenrey :3

(Kiss Prompt List)

Ohohoho, you know how I love to write angst. And hey, I didn't write a four-thousand-word behemoth this time! Proud of me.

Please make sure to mind the tags for this one.

12: ...in grief.

This time around, Benrey doesn’t even see Gordon fall.

It’s his fault. It’s always his fault, and he’s growing tired of watching his friends die, even if time keeps getting reset and they all come back just fine. In the moment, every time, it still hurts.

This time, he was attempting to be unpredictable. He’d taken Gordon and split off from the rest of the Science Team, hoping that maybe he could keep Gordon alive if he had fewer distractions. However, he forgot that that also meant having less backup - because as distracting as the Science Team is, they make up for it by being utterly vicious in a fight.

He’s feeling that loss keenly now, as he turns from splattering bootboy brains across the corridor walls to see Gordon in a slumped pile of orange and black, huddled against a closed door a little way up the hall. His eyes are shut, but blood is bubbling sluggishly at the corner of his white-lipped mouth, so he’s still alive.

Benrey slams his pistol into its holster so hard he nearly jams a finger in with it, then stumbles over military corpses until he can drop to his knees next to the HEV suit.

“hey. hey, c’mon, you awake? wakey wakey, eggs and…” Benrey trails off. The flexible black mesh of the HEV suit is torn away on one side, and Benrey can see glistening things that twitch and pulse in a way that should never be exposed to light. He swallows and drags his eyes back up to Gordon’s face, which is slack and pale. His freckles look dark as blood splatter, and the tiny sliver of green Benrey can see beneath one eyelid is glassy and blank.

Benrey sighs. Gordon’s already gone; his body just doesn’t know it yet. There’s no point in trying to fix him. He’s tried before, in previous cycles, when Gordon was hurt less. He dies anyway, eventually. It might as well be now this time around.

“y’know, you’re makin’ this really hard,” Benrey says, leaning against the door jam and letting his shoulder bump up against Gordon’s. “i’m trying t’keep you alive, and you keep just…getting hurt.”

His eyes flick down to Gordon’s hands, one palm-up on the floor, the other loose in his lap. When Benrey decides to avoid the military attack that results in Gordon losing his arm, whatever is causing the time loops seems to react.

Gordon always dies sooner when he keeps both hands.

Benrey breathes in slowly through his nose, then makes a face at the blood-drenched smell of the corridor. He rolls his head against the wall and stares at Gordon’s unresponsive face.

“you wanna, uh…go somewhere else?” He glances around, then tips his head back and clips his face through the door they’re leaned against. A headcrab inside the room immediately lunges for him and he jerks back, thumping his shoulder against Gordon’s, causing Gordon to slouch over even more. Something in his chest makes an awful wet croaking sound, and Benrey hurries to pull him back upright.

He ends up tugging Gordon’s torso over to lean against his chest, tucking Gordon’s head into his own collar. There were some first aid classes that Benrey wandered into ages ago, when he was bored one day and there was a free seminar in one of the conference rooms. He hadn’t paid much attention to the actual lifesaving techniques, though - he was too busy goggling at all the ways that humans could die. Choking on food because their breathing and eating tubes were right next to each other? What the fuck? Whales had that shit figured out before they went back into the ocean!

He wishes he’d paid attention now, when every day for countless days he's had to see some of his friends die, and every day without fail, he sees Gordon die. That’s what resets the time loop, Benrey has decided. Every time Gordon dies, Benrey gets flung back in time to a seemingly arbitrary moment, and he can’t figure out why, let alone what the fuck he’s supposed to do to stop it.

Gordon’s fingers are limp, but Benrey still threads his in between and squeezes their hands together. “m’sorry,” he confesses quietly, trying to ignore the rattling wheezes stuttering out of Gordon’s throat. “i fucked up. we shouldn’t’ve gone this way, should’ve gone…with the others…”

There’s no response, of course. Gordon’s breaths are growing slower, his sides heaving arrhythmically as his body struggles to keep itself alive, even in the absence of enough blood to supply any higher brain function.

Benrey leans his cheek against Gordon’s hair. He’s tired down to his bones. He doesn’t even remember when the loop started, only that he’s been reliving the same day or so for…weeks, it feels like. Months. Maybe years…but maybe only weeks. Still, he’s exhausted, and he’s not used to being exhausted. It sucks and he hates it - almost as much as he hates the feeling of Gordon Freeman dying in his arms, again.

Time loops suck.

Gordon’s chest jerks as he heaves in a handful of rasping breaths; then he goes utterly still, sinking against Benrey’s side. Benrey tightens his grip on Gordon’s hand and leans into him to brace his weight. He never understands how humans seem to gain weight after they die.

Surprisingly, Benrey feels the corners of his mouth tighten involuntarily. The corridor is silent but for the metronome sound of blood still dripping from the gaping wound in Gordon’s side, and Benrey has to squeeze his eyes shut against an unfamiliar burning. He turns his face into Gordon’s head and presses his trembling lips against tangled brown hair.

“m’sorry,” he mumbles against Gordon’s scalp, because he’s supposed to keep them safe, all of them, and they all keep dying. “i don’t know how to - t’fix this.”

Gordon, limp and still in his arms, does not reply.

Benrey heaves in a shuddering breath and holds the body tighter, waiting for the tingling sensation that always precludes the tug where he’s yanked back to the start of the cycle, again and again and again. He almost misses it this time, but when he opens his eyes, he’s standing in a storage room as Bubby and Tommy blast through a pile of crates while Dr. Coomer punches a single crate into splinters.

Orange suddenly takes over his vision, and Benrey steps back and looks up into Gordon’s annoyed glare.

“Hello? Earth to Benrey? Are you even listening to me?”

“huh?” Benrey says, still blinking spots out of his eyes.

“Fucking impossible,” Gordon huffs, then spins on his heel to go pull Dr. Coomer off his crate before he starts punching a hole in the concrete again.

Benrey stands very still, breathing in the smell of broken wood and unwashed bodies to clear his nose of death. He rubs his hands together almost compulsively, knowing they’re no longer saturated in Gordon’s blood but still feeling it on his skin. He thinks he knows what he did wrong - splitting up is obviously never going to work. They have to stay together. He’ll figure something else out as they go.

“Hey! Benrey! Are you coming?”

“Leave the man alone, Gordon - he’s obviously contemplating his place in the universe!” Dr. Coomer scolds. Gordon rolls his eyes, bright green and frustrated and alive, and stomps out of the room.

Benrey ducks his head and follows. What else can he do?

Time loops suck.

#hlvrai #my words #kiss prompts #snippets #askbox #sapphireskeletons #(temporary) character death #time loops #blood #gore #swearing

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twigg96 · 2 years ago

Note

Ok so this might sound really stupid but you know that one vine where that guy ties a potato to his celing fan and it spins in circles, dethlok reacting to their s/o doing that?

Hello @stevethejanitor!! Thank you so much for the ask!! Again I’m so sorry I’m so late getting to asks. But this isn’t stupid i think this is a great ask!! I hope you like these HCs!!!

“No babe! You gotta trust me on this! It’ll work!”

- Nathan sighed stepping away from the step latter, watching his partner in vague amazement as they drunkenly tried to tie a potato on a string to the ceiling fan. “You’re going to fucking fall.” Nathan warned, stepping forward once more as they finally got it tied but tipped back. “Noooo I’m fine.” They whined, jumping off the latter much to Nathan’s dismay. Walking over to the light switch, his partner stood proudly. “Now watch!” They whispered, flipping the switch. Nathan and his partner watched as the potato started to swing around the room on the swing much to his amusement. Turning the fan up his partner began to sing. That is until the potato and fan started to go too fast and out of control… then his partner and he were screaming trying desperately to dodge the potato as they tried to stop it from damaging anything too expensive.

- Pickles smirked, chuckling as he helped his partner tie the potato to the ceiling fan. “Dood, there’s no fuckin way this is going to fucking work… it’ll fly off in seconds.” He bet grinning at them when they gave him a challenging look. “I bet it won’t. I bet we can even turn the fan to high.” They said cockily. Smirking down at his S/O Pickles chuckled kissing them gently before walking to the switch. Laying a hand on the switch, Pickles hummed. “What do I get if I win?” He whispered. “Mmm. Weed and a blowjob?” His partner offered. “What about me? What do I get if I’m right?” They asked softly, giggling as Pickles feigned deep thought. “You’ll find out.”

- Murderface stood outside his partner’s room crossing his arms in aggravation. When they called at 6 in the morning saying it was an emergency this is not what he expected. He quite frankly was expecting to plow his partner into oblivion… not be told to wait buck naked with a chub. But when his S/O whipped open the door telling him to come in he was immediately met with a UFO bonking him in the nose and his partner laughing. “I’m so sorry babe! I forgot how tall you were!” His partner cried pulling him closer to the center of the fan. “Yeah I noticed… what happened in here?” He asked, watching a potato fly around on a string. “I did it…” his partner replied grinning from ear to ear. “Did what?” He asked letting his partner hold him close. “I made a potato fly… so you need to keep your promise and marry me.”

- Toki bolted through the halls of Mordhaus juggling the hot potato he managed to swipe from the kitchen after dinner. Darting into his room he locked his door and jumped on his bed, ignoring the knocking of the concerned klokateers outside. “We haves to hurry before they finds out!” Toki yelled giggling as his partner climbed up on the bed beside him, tying the potato to the fan as fast as they could. Both giggled and laughed as they pushed and shoved each other acting like young children as they jumped off the bed and running to the switch to flip it at the same time. Watching it whirl to life they cheered and laughed. Until the potato moved faster and faster out of control suddenly they were screaming trying to open the door that was locked. Just as the two organisms sharing a brain cell were about to figure out the lock, the potato fell apart and hot potato splattered against the walls, much to their amusement.

- Skwisgaar glared at his partner completely unamused. “This ams dumb. It ams never goings to work and ams only going to break mines fan.” He growled, despite holding his partner up on his shoulders. “Oh shut up.. it’ll work…” they muttered smirking to themselves as they tied it off, tapping his head to be let down. “Don’t tinks so. Just tinks someone ams goingks to get hurt.” He murmured walking with his partner over to the switch. With a shrug they flicked it and watched it begin to fly around. “It’ll be just fine just you-“ they started bragging… just as the potato flew out of the string and beaned them squarely in the nose. Despite all the complaints Skwisgaar said earlier, he flew into action. Turning the fan off, Skwisgaar grabbed rags to stop his S/O’s bleeding nose. “What’s did I tells you huh?” He whispered holding his partner close kissing their head. “Don’t do no more stupid stuff.”

#thank you for the ask!#thank you so much for the ask #please check them out #please follow them #headcanon meme #imagine metalocalypse #metalocalypse headcanon #metalocalypse #dethklok #toki wartooth #skwisgaar skwigelf #pickles the drummer #nathan explosion #william murderface

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gatormyst · 4 months ago

Text

The End Of Evangelion

I…I don’t know what I really watched there. I had to physically move my computer back away from my face because of how confusing and just absurd I guess this movie was. It’s so hard to describe this movie. The best way is to just watch it yourself. Going in all I knew was that it was an alternate ending to episode 25 and 26 so it took place right after Kaworu was killed by Shinji.

So, the first half of the movie wasn’t too terribly weird besides Shinji yanking it to a comatose Asuka in the hospital. I found that weird and disturbing. It actually caught me so off-guard I paused the movie to take a breather. Within the first 15 minutes of the movie. After this Shinji is hating himself even more and what does he do best? He completely and utterly shuts down and hides in a corner. When the NERV HQ is being attacked by SEELE (some super-secret organization) he still just hides in the corner and doesn’t move at ALL. Even when a pistol is pressed against his forehead and his brains are about to be splattered across the wall. All this self-hatred and loathing is because he still feels like he doesn’t fit in with the hegemonic masculinity society which is true because he doesn’t. The rejection from everybody else of his queer masculinity just makes him go insane I guess. Especially because he just killed the one person who showed and shared the same queer masculinity as he did (since it takes place right after he killed him). So, because of that Shinji is beyond messed up in the head.

The second half or like last third of the movie was a fever dream. I honestly had no idea what was happening for most of it. I was just along for the ride. I know Shinji tried to strangle Asuka because her hegemonic masculine traits were beating down on his queer masculine traits in the scene and he just snapped. He went full on crazy, flipping a table, throwing and smashing chairs and finally strangling Asuka as Pen Pen watched from behind the doorway. This was Shinji finally showcasing his acts of violence, finally showcasing his hegemonic masculinity. Trying to become dominant when most of the time he’s been not as dominant or kind of subservient. I don’t even know what happens next there’s Rei who fuses with that giant white guy who was crucified over the water and then she becomes it and everybody on earth dies and becomes one body and mind. No psychological walls between them so you can’t tell where one person starts or ends. I was just confused and had to go with the flow for it. Then finally he rejects it saying that he doesn’t like it and wants to go back to the way it was before even if he does get hurt. That’s what ends up happening. Shinji and Asuka wake up on the beach and he strangles her immediately but she caresses his face and gets him to stop then calls him disgusting. The movie ends there.

It was a wild ride for this movie and I don’t know if I can relate to a single part of it. I’ve never really been depressed to the point Shinji has in this movie. I mean I’ve been sad but never THAT depressed. I really felt for Shinji even if it was hard to relate to him. Overall, this movie was weirdddddddddd and that’s all I can really say about it. If you’re an evangelion fan you should definitely watch it because it's interesting to see the alternative ending than what was in the show.

0 notes

saetoru · 2 years ago

Text

#𝐈'𝐌 𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐋𝐋 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 (𝐈'𝐋𝐋 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐎)

☰ SYNOPSIS ⋮ he doesn’t make a lot of good decisions, but ran thinks threatening you with a gun was one of his better ones. or basically haitani ran slowly falling in love with you every time he climbs through your balcony

— pairing ⋮ haitani ran x reader

— length ⋮ 10.6k words (my fault boss)

— contents ⋮ nsfw and 18+ content, fem! reader, mentions of blood, drugs, and violence (bonten activities), strangers to lovers, bonten! ran, jealous! ran, kind of slow burn-ish, mutual pining, stab wounds (on ran), med student! reader, he threatens you with a gun to patch him up rip, fingering, gun play, edging, dacryphilia, handjobs, unprotected sex, creampie, praise, pet names (princess, doll, pretty girl)

— notes ⋮ this is the most cliche thing i’ve ever written—and i’ve written a lot of cliche things. but i wanted to write at least one cliche gangster romance. ty ris and cat for hearing me ramble about this and reading over it ily <3

the first time ran comes to your apartment, it’s by mistake. he’s got a stab wound to his arm—from who, he doesn’t quite know, but he’ll sure as hell find out eventually—and a couple of cops tailing him. he doesn’t know what else to do but climb to the first-floor balcony of the apartment building behind him.

your first-floor apartment’s balcony, that is.

scaling up the wall and climbing over the railing is easy enough, he’s got a great build and even better athletic ability—although, it does leave a searing sting in his wound and a throb up his arm that makes him stagger for a moment. and then he crouches under the little table you’ve set up for reading—there’s not much fresh air or wowing sights to intake in this side of the city, so all it’s really good for is to sit down and read at sometimes.

he hears the cops turn the corner, listens as their footsteps pound against the sidewalk as they run, and then he grins to himself when the sounds become more and more faint, and it becomes more and more apparent that he’s lost them. he waits one more moment before standing—because being in this game as long as he has, with a name as big as his, he knows that being messy is nothing if not a gunshot to your head and the rest of your affiliates being tracked down. so he waits a few minutes, chuckles through a gritted jaw from the pain at his victory, and he stands.

and then he comes face to face with you.

you stand there, staring at him through the glass with your mouth agape, eyes falling immediately to the blood on his arm and the small knife lodged in the skin through his sleeve, and you tremble. and now he’s doomed because you’ll scream, the cops will come running, and there’s no way he’s gonna scale back down in time to run away—nor does he think he has the stamina anymore. so he does the one thing he’s good at. sweet talk.

and by that, he pulls out his gun and holds it to your forehead through the glass door—with a smile, though, that’s the part that makes it sweet.

“alright, listen here woman. i won’t shoot your brains out if you don’t start causing a scene. deal?” he raises a brow, and you look almost like you’re seconds from taking the gun from out of his hands and pulling the trigger on yourself. it almost makes him feel a little bad.

almost.

“i-i…d-don’t worry, i’d never!” you quickly stumble over your words, frantically trying to persuade him you’re not going to make things worse and he won’t have a reason to splatter your brain all over your room for your family and friends to find. “i d-don’t even…it’s not like i care! you can do what you want,” you chuckle nervously, “seriously, i don’t judge. i’m totally not a judgey person, really. no tattling to any cops here,” you even make a show to zipper your mouth shut with your hand and throw away imaginary keys.

he almost snorts. to be quite honest, you’re kind of cute— in a pathetic and weak kind of way. and you seem to be trying to convince yourself more than him that you’re not a threat, but still, he lowers his gun.

and since he’s not exactly known for being a good man—which is not without reason, either—and because he argues to himself he’ll never see you again and it couldn’t really hurt, he taps against the doorknob with the head of his gun.

“open this door,” he demands, “unless you want me to shoot at the knob and let myself inside. then i won’t be nice, though,” he smiles with sickeningly faux sweetness. if he shoots at the door, the cops will definitely find him, and then he’ll definitely get caught. not before he’d have managed to kill you though, but something tells him knowing you’re dead won’t really make jail all that more enjoyable for him.

but it doesn’t matter anyway because the threat is enough that it makes you gulp before you move to unlock the door.

“p-please don’t hurt me, mister,” you sniffle, opening the door as you stare at him with watery eyes.

ran doesn’t kill strangers, and he certainly doesn’t kill women and children. not that you know that, of course—and not that you have reason to believe it either. he’s sure you’ve spotted the bonten tattoo on his neck by now, and he knows it doesn’t really paint a great image for him in your head. bonten isn’t exactly known for having morals—however loose they may be—that leaves women and children out of it. but ran and rindou come to an agreement at young ages that the two of them would live by that rule, even if any organization they join doesn’t.

“i’ll let ya off the hook if my wound’s cleaned and my stomach’s full,” he spits—he doesn’t really talk to people this way, that’s more rindou’s style. ran is a bit smoother, purrs out saccharine words. the first thing you learn in this line of business is that drugs are easy to mask under sweet, sugary tastes. one wrong move and that drink you’re offered is the reason you’re tied up with a pistol pressed to your skull. that’s how ran likes to go about business, so sweet and undetected, the pistol is pressed against the back of your head before you even have a chance to realize it’s coming.

“i don’t…i haven’t m-made dinner yet—”

“then you better get cooking,” he chuckles condescendingly, tapping his gun to your arm. you whimper in fear, and he almost feels remorseful…until his arm throbs again, worse than ever this time. he lets out a low groan in pain, hissing as he stares down at his injury, trying his best to assess how bad it is—until you reach forward and catch his attention.

he takes a step back, and instinctively holds his gun up until you hold your hands up in surrender. gulping, you fumble over your words again.

“i can…umm, i work in a hospital,” you say quietly, “i just…i can treat that,” you point to his arm, “it doesn’t look too bad, so don’t worry.”

ran stares at you for a moment in disbelief—how can someone so close to passing out, who stumbles over their words so much, work in such a stressful place under such pressure? but he counts his blessings and simply nods.

“kay, get to it then, i don’t have all day.”

“it’s uh…it’s night,” you whisper, and then your eyes widen before you sputter. “s-sorry, i just…i have an awful habit of like…you know, being too literal when i’m nervous. my boss, she uh, she hates it. well, i think she hates me in general, but i—”

“you talk a lot,” he says bluntly, “it’d probably get you killed by now if it wasn’t me.”

“oh,” you squeak. this time, he does let himself snort in amusement. “my bathroom is this way,” you point to the door on the opposite side of the room. he waits a moment, watching as you simply stand before raising a brow.

“feel free to lead the way.”

“oh, right!”

——

in your defense, you didn’t think someone would climb onto your balcony the same second you come home from work ready to cry your eyes out. whoever said get a job and be self-sufficient and work to be successful and be a woman-in-stem and all that other bullshit being a good idea was a liar. you are not defining your own future—because at this rate, you’re not even sure you’re gonna live long enough to have one.

either the stress will cause you to drop dead in the middle of your shift or the lovely gangster man who forcefully broke into your home right before your breakdown will kill you. whichever comes first, your money’s on either one.

you don’t usually act this pathetic. usually, you just bite your tongue and hold onto the long thread that is your patience. but this man has caught you in a very bad moment with a very bad situation and well…you’re only human.

so you may be making a tad bit of a fool of yourself, but he seems to be decently approving of your actions if he’s whistling behind you as you gather the first aide kit in your bathroom.

“tiny bathroom you got here,” he mumbles, peering over your shoulder as you gather disinfectant, and the bane of his existence—needle and thread to do stitches.

it causes you mild irritation because really, who does this guys think he is? he trespasses onto your property (it’s rented, but that’s not the point), interrupts your mental breakdown, holds a gun to your head, enters your home, demands your services and food, and now he’s nitpicking over the size of your bathroom? you almost wish the stab wound was over his heart and not his arm, just so you can tell him there’s nothing you can do and watch him bleed out over your sink with your own two eyes.

but then there would be a dead corpse in your bathroom, and explaining how that got there would be an entirely new problem, and you’re not sure an aspiring healthcare professional can afford to have a smudge quite like this one on their record. so you keep yourself levelheaded—but that doesn’t mean you can’t be at least a little petty.

“i’m a medical student,” you huff, “you try paying for a large bathroom and tuition.”

“touchy subject, huh?” he chuckles. ran glances around some more—there’s a towel with stethoscopes on it by the sink, he eyes it with an amused look.

“that was from the hospital i work at,” you mumble when you notice where his eyes have wandered, “they gave those in a bag as a little welcome gift. i thought i might as well use it instead of buying one myself, you know?”

“right,” he nods, biting back another laugh, “saving money. i like it, it’s financially responsible.”

“it’s a cute towel,” you huff, pouting slightly. when you’re not nervous and seconds from passing out from fearing for your life, you’re funny, ran decides. in an unintentional, rambling type of way. it’s kind of cute, but also entirely too naive—which is dangerous in a city like this.

“it is,” he nods seriously—because really, it kind of is. the stethoscopes have hearts on them. “so, what made you decide to be a med student? you love people? wanna be a hero? you have a passion for helping those who need—”

“i didn’t know what else to do,” you shrug, “so i picked it, and now i’m in too deep to back out.”

that’s not the answer he was expecting, but somehow, he likes it better than his guesses. it’s not that disgustingly self-righteous talk of giving back to the world or doing good for others he was prepared to hear. and in a world that doesn’t offer any good, he’s glad you’re not naively handing it out for free.

“so how—”

“give me your arm,” you cut him off, and now there’s a completely new side of you that he’s seeing—which is funny considering he’s known you for five minutes tops, but by now he’s seen you go from terrified to bashful to now serious. he figures this is the work side of you, the side that actually does seem equipped to shoulder working at a hospital—he has to hand it to you, you seem quite suited for the field.

“here you are, milady—ow, fuck, that shit stings,” he hisses, clenching his teeth as you pull the knife and begin to clean the wound.

“for someone who’s in the most feared gang in the nation, you’re kind of a pussy when it comes to injuries.”

“the fuck did you just call me?” he growls, sweat collecting on his forehead as he lets out labored pants. now it’s your turn to chuckle, and ran decides that since your laugh isn’t the ugliest, he’ll let this slide.

that and his arm really fucking hurts.

“i said you’re pussy when it comes to injuries,” you grin.

“not takin’ shit from the same woman that cried like five minutes ago. please don’t hurt me, mister,” he mocks, voice turning a pitch higher to imitate your voice as he fake sniffles to reenact your moment of weakness. rolling your eyes, you shoot him a light glare.

“they don’t hold guns at my face in the hospital,” you grumble, “excuse me if i was scared. and you aren’t the nicest when asking for help, you know. a please and thank you can take you a long way.”

“spare me,” he grumbles, “pleases and thank you’s don’t do shit in my line of work.”

“well, your line of work is what made you hold a gun to my head in the first place, so i already hate it.” he laughs—genuinely this time. not because you’re helpless or because you’re so awkward it’s entertaining. you pull a real laugh out of him this time, and it’s a boyish one, a bit too charming for someone who can kill you in under five seconds.

“true—”

“okay, done.” you interrupt as you tighten the stitches and tie the knot. he flinches a little as you pull on the thread to tighten your handiwork before registering what you just said—done.

“already?”

“aw, did my company entertain you enough to keep you distracted?” you tease. he realizes now that he’s been so busy bantering with you, that he doesn’t even realize you’ve started stitching him up, let alone finished. he has to admit, you’re definitely cut out for your job, even if you really don’t seem it at first.

“don’t flatter yourself, doll,” he grunts, letting you wrap his arm as he looks off to the side. now that he’s not worrying about the hunk of metal sticking into his flesh anymore, he’s a lot more aware of your proximity as you finish patching him up.

it’s oddly comforting—he’s never really been patched up in a small bathroom with cute stethoscope towels. usually, it’s in bonten hideouts, with people they’ve hired to take care of injuries like this. that or he does it himself, he’s figured out how to treat at least a few injuries after all these years. but he’s never had someone so close in a setting that’s almost domestic, never had anyone hum as they clean up the medical kit, never had someone who pokes their tongue out a bit when they’re concentrated.

but before he can internally curse himself for letting him enjoy something a little less rough than what he’s used to, you’re interrupting his thoughts.

“so, dinner and then you’ll leave me alone, right?” you raise a brow. obviously, you’re not too keen on keeping him here for long—and that’s probably for the best, he rationalizes.

so with a scoff, he stands, shooting you a small glare. “nah, forget it. i don’t need dinner anymore.” you blink before furrowing your brows, and he walks towards the door. he stops for a moment before just barely looking over his shoulder to cast you a glance. “thanks for fixin’ up my arm.”

———————————————

for a while, you’re mildly offended he skipped dinner after he already got free medical service from you. arguably, if you had charged him for either, you’d have made a decent number off of the stitching, and you can’t help but roll your eyes that of course, he didn’t choose to bail on the more pricier of your (forced) free services. plus, he’s left drops of blood on your balcony that you had to scrub at and rinse away.

what an asshole.

but still, a part of you kind of wishes maybe he’d have stayed for dinner—which is crazy, absolutely foolish. but he wasn’t bad company…at least when he wasn’t threatening to kill you, of course. and he didn’t even tell you his name, which you were kind of hoping you could ask over dinner. not because you wanted to get closer or anything, just that you feel it’s at least courtesy to tell someone your name after you trespass, threaten to kill, and then break in and demand help.

really, he’s such an asshole.

but life goes on, and you return to your shitty job with your shitty hours and your shitty boss. and it’s all back to normal for maybe…one week—and really, you probably should’ve figured that an encounter that’s as downright cliche and out of a novel as that one would lead to your life being anything but normal afterward, but for a small period of time you really let yourself believe.

he’s back in one week with that grin on his face that makes you want to smash your head against the wall. and, because he’s just that taunting, he has the audacity to tap against the glass of your balcony door with that damn gun of his again.

“i don’t suppose you’re here for a free physical now too, are you?” you huff as you open the door, making him grin at you widely as he lets himself in. he seats himself on your bed, spreading his legs widely in a way that almost seems inappropriate. he smirks a little when you quickly look away. “unfortunately this is not a free clinic.”

“i did not want a physical,” he chuckles, “but if you really wanna do one on me that bad, i won’t say no—”

“i’m calling the cops,” you spit. he only lays back against your mattress, hands behind his head as he snorts in amusement.

seriously, how much of an asshole can a guy be?

“i’ll just shoot you,” he shrugs. “i’ve shot people for less.” somehow, the last part doesn’t feel like a lie, so you decide to drop the topic all together—you don’t really want to test the theory of whether or not he really will shoot you.

“what’re you here for,” you squint, crossing your arms and tapping your foot against the floor at him like you’re waiting for an explanation he owes you. your ability to have so many personalities is truly astounding, ran thinks, you’re almost completely different from the sniffly and petrified woman he met just a week ago through the glass door—except you’re still kind of trembling from a distance away, a distance you seem keen on keeping.

“for dinner, of course,” he grunts like it’s obvious. “i had to cut our last date short, but i did say dinner was part of the deal. otherwise, i’ll just have to shoot you,” he says with a dramatic sigh. it almost makes your vein pop—of course, he picks the time convenient for him to snatch a dinner out of you, and of course, it has to be the night you decide to buy more pricey items from the grocery store to treat yourself for once.

you’re almost certain that his bank account has more than enough funds, and even if it doesn’t, he really isn’t someone people would deny free services if they want to live—you can attest to that yourself, so you can’t imagine why he can’t just get dinner elsewhere. but still, you sigh before you let your shoulders slump and your arms drop to your sides.

“it was not a date,” you firmly remind him, “but fine,” you grumble. “but the deal was dinner—and then you have to be out of my hair for good,” you warn.

“of course,” he grins, winking at you.

it’s not all too convincing, but you sigh and nod anyway.

——

the rest of your apartment is just as small and cramped as your bathroom is, ran notes this almost instantly. it practically feels like the size of a storage closet in the bonten mansion, but he doesn’t tell you that. he might be a gangster, but he’s still got some manners in him.

still, something about the little throw pillows you pile on the couch and the small glass figures you have on the tables makes him feel a bit more at home here than he ever has in the mansion. it’s small and cozy and it has what it needs, nothing more and nothing less.

he likes it—thinks the couch might be a perfect spot for him to nap on occasionally. but just as the thought trespasses his mind, he shoves it back out with a frown on his face. he cannot be daydreaming about napping on your couch.

“dinner almost ready?” he asks impatiently, head on his arms as he has them folded over your dining table. you chop vegetables and scowl, throwing him a dirty look as you scoff.

“dinner doesn’t happen in ten minutes,” you roll your eyes. he mumbles something under his breath and you move back to chopping vegetables—and then you ask the question you’ve been waiting to ask. “what’s your name?”

“what’s it to you,” he raises a brow.

“i scrubbed your blood off my balcony floor, let you point a gun to my head multiple times, cleaned and stitched your injury for free, and now i’m letting you eat my dinner. you can either pay me the bills for your maintenance or you can tell me your name,” you snap, making his eyes twinkle with amusement as he gives you a lopsided smirk. it grates at your nerves, makes you want to grab him by his lilac hair like it’s the scruff of his neck and toss him off your balcony.

but he hums before shrugging, “guess you’re right,” he admits. “haitani. haitani ran. you?”

“what’s it to you,” you mock his earlier statement, and he rolls his eyes in a way that can almost be described as fond.

“i like to at least know the names of the people i shoot in the head,” he teases, and you contemplate if you’d be able to aim straight for his heart if you threw your knife at him right about now. but once again, that probably would end with a tarnished legal record, and you don’t really want to watch all your hard work wash down the drain for a man whose hair looks like he showed the Trolls movie poster as his reference photo. instead, you just huff and mutter out your name for him, which he repeats quietly as if testing the sound as it rolls off his tongue.

“i’ve heard your name on the news,” you add, “you sure do have the cops running in circles for you, haitani ran.”

“‘s not like they’ll ever catch me,” he shrugs, “and if they get close, it’s not like they ever live long enough to get any closer.”

“that’s very reassuring to hear,” you say sarcastically, but either the sarcasm flies over his head, or he simply doesn’t care to acknowledge it.

“no worries, i’m not getting caught any time soon,” he drums his fingers on the edge of your table, throwing you a cheshire grin as you toss the vegetables in the pan and stir.

“very glad to hear that,” you scoff.

“i’m sure,” he hums, chuckling lowly, “more dinners i can keep you company during.”

you throw him a warning glance, making him turn away with a grin as he whistles. it gives you deja vu to the night in your bathroom, which almost instantly springs on a headache. in fact, you think ran might as well be a living, breathing, walking headache.

“the deal was that you’d spare me and leave me alone if i cleaned your wound and fed you dinner. you never said anything about this being a regular thing.”

“well, that’s why you gotta read the fine print, they always got catches in them,” he retorts, and now you’re really considering throwing your knife at him. at this point, you don’t even care if it lands at his heart—as long as it lands somewhere.

“there’s no fine print in a verbal agreement, asshole,” you spit.

“i whispered it,” he winks, “it’s basically the same thing.”

you’re starting to see why the police want to lock haitani ran behind bars so much, this man can’t possibly be allowed to wander freely amongst others—he’s horrendously bad for physical and mental wellbeings.

———————————————

ran likes your cooking. it’s hearty and homely and tastes like something you’d make on a budget—but it’s still good and that’s why he likes it.

it doesn’t taste like the expensive stuff he always eats, he doesn’t eat simple dishes too often—in fact, he can’t remember the last time he even had something simple to eat at all. it must’ve been back when he was younger, when he and rindou lived off of cup ramen and other snacks all the time, when they reveled in being able to eat all the junk food in the world without being told no. but even then, ran never got to eat a real home-cooked meal very often, and your cooking satiates a certain type of starvation he still suffers even after living such a lavish lifestyle.

so he returns every once in a while, joins you for dinner as he sits at your tiny dining table and watches you cook, lets you complain about your boss and your patients and your classes as you add spices and stir the pot. he laughs, makes a joke or two, which then, of course, makes you laugh too, and he thinks he can get used to this.

eventually, he starts leaving cash on the counter before he leaves to make up for all the extra grocery shopping you’re now doing to feed two mouths instead of one. he quietly leaves it there before you can say anything, and after a few back and forth arguments, you finally just let it be. if he could, he’d fund for you to move to a nicer apartment, something bigger, somewhere safer and a shorter distance from your work, somewhere where the balcony of your room isn’t just good for reading, but for some fresh air and a nice view of the city. but he knows you’ll never let him, and he doesn’t dare offer.

a short while after that, he even starts helping around the kitchen—which mostly only means he washes dishes and taste tests for anything the food might need because he’s not much skilled in doing anything else. but it’s nice, you form your own rhythm together, and it almost feels like he’s a well-knit piece to your carefully woven life.

and he doesn’t threaten to shoot you anymore—even if he never really meant to in the first place. he ends up changing phones often, being in a criminal organization means he has to use burners left and right, but he always sends you a text every night he leaves and signs it with a water gun emoji.

the first time he signs off with it, you tease him. great emoji for a gangster, you send, and you giggle when you all but imagine the scoff you know he must’ve let out. not my fault there’s no real gun emoji, he sends you back. it becomes a nice added bonus you look forward to with each visit.

that, and getting away with making him do your dirty work.

“ran, make yourself useful and help me carry these,” you point to a pile of books by your door. he raises a brow, staring at them like they’re too suspicious for him to touch.

“what'dya need that many books for?”

“to study,” you scoff, rolling your eyes, “they just got delivered and they’re heavy. and seeing as you had no trouble climbing my balcony with a stabbed arm, you’re strong enough to lift these,” you point at the pile. he rolls his eyes and scoffs, but still, he reaches and easily lifts the pile that would take you maybe three trips on your own.

“already got me being your little maid, huh?” he mutters, “washing dishes, carrying things around, what’s next? you gonna make me do your plumbing too?”

“can you do plumbing?” you giggle, “because then—”

“not happening,” he snorts, “nice try though, princess.” he sets the books down by the desk in your room, turning to flick the tip of your nose gently. it makes you crinkle it slightly before swatting his hand away. he thinks you look cute like that, nose crinkled and a soft grin tugged at your lips—blissfully unaware of how good you look. “you really need all these books to study? why can’t they just teach you the shit in class instead of makin’ you buy all this.”

“it’s additional aid that’s optional,” you inform him, like it’s common knowledge. but then again, you don’t think haitani ran is the type of guy who spent most of his time in school, let alone worrying about higher education. “but that almost always means it’s gonna be on the exams, so then it’s not really optional anymore,” you grumble. “college is a scam.”

“that’s why i just steal,” ran grins, “didn’t need college to pay my bills.”

“so then how do you have that cash you insist on leaving me for the groceries?”

“i steal that too, princess,” he snorts, “unless we get it from shit we sell—usually that’s stolen too.”

“i’ll stick to college then,” you mumble.

“probably for the best,” ran nods, almost a little too seriously. you raise a brow, and it makes a smile tug at his lips before he finally lets out the chuckle he’s been trying to fight back. “you would probably start cryin’ and turn yourself in after the first day.”

“would not,” you scoff, “i’m not stupid.”

“right,” he grins. “well, i’ll be on my way if that’s all the maid work ya need me to do for today. i’ll swing by tomorrow and—”

“oh, i won’t be home tomorrow,” you hum as you straighten out papers on your desk. he tilts his head, furrowing his brows a bit in confusion—and slight disgruntlement.

in all honesty, he shouldn't be this irritated that you have your own plans and your own life, you really only see ran once a week—sometimes less than that if he’s exceptionally busy, or you’re loaded with work and school. but he can’t deny that there’s just a small bit of him that’s irked that your free time isn’t only reserved for him, even though he knows it’s highly irrational.

“and why not?” he asks, trying to mask the unimpressed tone his voice desperately wants to lace with his words.

‘because i—” you spin, to face him, grinning widely, “—have a date. and he’s cute. and,” you drawl with a sing-song voice, “he’s smart.”

“smart,” ran repeats. the word tastes acrid on his tongue. it fuels something in him that doesn’t come out too often, a part of him that’s hungry for something worse than a petty fight. something purely dangerous and purely violent—something ugly that only shows up when he’s in charge of taking down a traitor, or rindou’s been messed with, or he’s been disrespected by a subordinate.

“yeah,” you nod, and you giggle—like he’s your friend and you’re telling him about some schoolgirl crush on the playground. he clenches his fist. “he’s really smart,” you say excitedly, “it’s really hot.”

“right,” he spits. “well, you have fun with that. i’ll see you…” he hesitates for a moment, trailing off before he ultimately doesn’t even care anymore, “i’ll see you when i see you.”

“what does that mean—”

the door to your room is closed shut, and a moment later, so is the front door. you stare at the spot he stood at just a moment ago in confusion, sitting in silence for a few moments before shrugging and turning to your textbooks.

it’s alarmingly difficult to focus when you don’t get a text signed with a water gun tonight.

———————————————

smart.

the sound of your voice repeating that one word replays on his mind on loop—and he’s sick of this track, has been since he first heard it.

haitani ran is a lot of things, but he supposes smart isn’t one of them—which isn’t to say he’s stupid, he’s just not an academic guy like your supposed date. it makes his fists clench because he basically (sort of) has a domestic little life with you, and some asshole with a perfect gpa is pulling giggles out of you without even trying. ran would love to see the look on this guy’s face when he finds out that you and ran cook together—even if you do most of the cooking and all he really does is wash dishes. and he especially wants to see the look on the guy’s face at the fact that you make his favorite for dinner every time he visits.

and at this point, rindou thinks everyone in bonten can tell something’s eating away at his brother, it’s crystal clear. it’s extra evident today because rindou is almost never the voice of reason, it’s always ran.

except right now—right now, haitani rindou is the voice of reason, and it’s alarmingly out of the ordinary.

“bro, i think the guy’s had enough—”

“shut up, rindou,” ran grits, his baton slamming away at the very disfigured face under him. blood paints the concrete in splatters, and at this rate, rindou thinks the man’s face and the sidewalk might just become one with how violently his brother is thrashing away at the man’s head.

“dude,” rindou tugs once at ran’s shoulder, and almost too easily, he’s able to pry him away. ran should never be this easy to pry away from an opponent. he casts a slightly concerned glance at the older of the two before he pulls ran to his feet and raises a brow. “the fuck’s gotten into you?”

“what do you mean? i’m fine,” ran grunts, spitting a mixture of blood and spit on the ground, rubbing away at the spot on his jaw where he’d been punched. it’s unlike him to start fights through hostility, ran has a charm to him that rarely lets things escalate unless they were meant to be escalated from the start. he sweet talks his way through any and everything, doesn’t involve himself until he absolutely has to—he never instigates a fight that lands him getting the first punch.

“yeah, sure,” rindou scoffs, “fuck you. tell me or i’ll wrestle it out of you,” he threatens.

“you won’t beat me,” ran raises a brow. in a way only a younger sibling can get away with, rindou flashes his brother the brattiest grin he can manage—which is rather bratty for a grown man in the largest criminal organization in the country.

“yeah i would,” rindou snickers, “you’d never hit me back. now what’s up your ass, bro?”

on any other day, ran would throw a (very soft) punch to his brother’s shoulder to prove rindou wrong, but he doesn’t care to at the moment—which only concerns rindou more. sighing, ran runs a bloodied hand through his hair. the sting of his knuckles reminds him of you, how you’d scoff as he holds them up at you, how you’d make some snide comment about your apartment not being a clinic and your services not being free, how even despite that, you’d carefully cradle his hand close to you as you’d clean the dried blood and disinfect the busted skin, how you’d stick your tongue out in concentration while ran would smile at the sight.

and for a moment, it really hits him how much you have someone like him softened up for you—and that might be dangerous, but he thinks the even more dangerous part is that he doesn’t find it in him to care.

he wants you, and whatever means he has to go through, ran thinks he’ll do it to have you. but he doesn’t think there’s anything he can really do, no matter if he uses his gun or baton or fists, if you don’t want him back.

“is this to do with that girl?” rindou asks bluntly. throwing his brother a dirty look, ran scoffs as he shakes his head.

“no, it’s nothing to do with that girl,” he grunts, “and she has a name.”

rindou snorts, looking his brother in the eye with amusement on his face that makes ran scowl. “yeah right,” he rolls his eyes, “that’s about as likely as this guy’s nose not being broken,” he deadpans, gesturing at the unconscious figure laying on the ground a few inches away.

“man, fuck you,” ran clicks his teeth, letting out an irritated huff before looking off to the side. it’s quiet for a moment before he finally grunts lowly. “fine. she’s got a date,” he mutters, barely audible.

rindou must hear it though because he offers a slow, sympathetic nod as he takes in the words.

“damn, sounds like it sucks.” ran almost wants to scoff at the words. you think? he wants to spit, but he doesn’t have the energy to start an argument. “you should probably…i don’t know, maybe just tell her how you feel?” rindou raises a brow. he’s judging ran a little bit, he can feel it.

now ran really does want to start an argument because who does rindou think he is, acting like this is as easy as he thinks?

if it were that easy for ran to admit he cares, he wouldn’t let you walk alone from work to your apartment at night on this side of town just because it saves you a bit of money. if it were easy, he wouldn’t let your boss take advantage of you to work hours you don’t want to work when he could easily drop in a little threat. if it were easy, he wouldn’t let you go on a date with a smart-ass know-it-all who probably lives off trust funds and his parent’s money on a joint bank account—even if ran is a wanted criminal and isn’t much of a better option.

but it’s not easy. and he doesn’t quite know how to tell you no one can touch you as long as he’s around, that as far as he’s concerned, no one can give you what he can as long as he’s around either—and he should be the only one that can actually stick around.

“shit’s not that simple,” ran spits. and once again, rindou is alarmingly the voice of reason—twice now.

“could be,” he shrugs, “if you just grew a pair.”

the man on the ground groans slightly, and ran swiftly gives his crotch a kick before walking off.

———————————————

the date was boring. you don’t talk to the guy again.

but more importantly, ran hasn’t shown up in about three weeks. that’s twenty-one days. five hundred and four hours. a number of minutes you don’t feel like calculating—but you know the number is high, and you’re mad.

you’re mad the first week because you brought a bunch of groceries to try a new recipe. it was good, and you think ran would really like it. you think he must be busy with whatever work a criminal does, so after waiting a while and realizing he’s not showing, you pack it up nice and tight in a little container, write his name on a sticky note, and after much contemplation, you add a small heart next to his name with a smiley face in the center. he doesn’t show, and eventually, you eat his portion for dinner before it goes bad.

you’re mad the second week because you’ve got loads to tell him, and he’s not here to fucking listen. your boss has been promoted, which means you have a new boss, and this one is finally a reasonable one. you’ve also found out your final replaces your lowest exam score for one of your classes, and you’re thinking about saving up to buy your professor a cruise ticket for his kindness. and now that your semester is almost over, you’ll finally have a little more free time. ran needs to hear all this, and you’re increasingly irritated he’s not here to poke fun at your “mundane” joys as he grins against his glass before taking a sip.

by the third week, you’re mad because you’re hurt. it’s apparent by now that haitani ran, the asshole who broke into your apartment and threatened to shoot you in the head, who not only got free medical services off of you but also free dinner a number of times, who made himself a part of your life against your will by incessantly tapping away at the glass of your balcony door no matter how long you try to ignore him, is avoiding you. he’s avoiding you, and it’s starting to leave an ache in your chest he never should have the opportunity to leave. and now you’re mad because not only has he hurt your feelings, but also because you’re foolish and naive and all the things he called you before for falling in love with someone like him.

so you curse his name, wipe your tears—you refuse to admit you cried over him, so you tell yourself it’s just stress from work and school—and you sit down at your desk to do some studying. you are defining your future, even if it’s one overpriced textbook and one underpaid work shift at a time.

but then there’s a tap at your balcony door and you almost contemplate calling the cops. but like clockwork, before you can even realize it, your feet are padding against the floor as you walk to open the door.

“stupid fucking haitani ran,” you mutter, “doesn’t he know i’m fucking studying? and i fucking hate him?”

he has the audacity to scowl at you through the glass when you pull the curtain of your door—if you stood a chance against him, you’d have killed him by now.

“well that only took forever,” he grunts, “hurry the fuck up, it’s cold out here.”

“you can freeze then,” you spit, crossing your arms. “because this door is staying closed,” you say firmly.

“then i’ll fuckin’ shoot the doorknob in and let myself inside, you choose,” he glares at you, and because he’s an asshole—because he always has been an asshole, he pulls out his gun. “then i won’t be so nice when i come in,” he offers you a faux grin.

“then do it,” you raise a brow.

for a second, he’s shocked. he didn’t think you’d actually challenge him—and you’d win this challenge of course, but still, he didn’t think you’d actually do it.

“open this fuckin’ door, princess,” he squints his eyes at you.

“where have you been, haitani ran?” you don’t back down. your hands are on your hips, your brows are furrowed and your lips are curled into a frown, and you’re calling him by his full name like you mean business—and it all means you’re mad at him, and he should apologize.

but all he can really feel is a tad bit excited because that must mean you missed him. like his absence meant something to you like it meant something to him.

he grins, you scowl deeper, and he grins a bit wider at that.

“oh is that it?” he grins, “did you miss me, princess? is that why you’re mad? you defini—”

the door opens all too quickly, and you’re coming forward with a finger prodding at his chest accusingly as you glare at him—face to face this time with no glass separating you.

“listen here, you asshole—”

you’re cut off by a kiss. haitani ran has the audacity to wrap his stupidly muscled arms around you, pull you flush against his stupidly firm chest, and press his stupidly soft lips to yours. and what’s worse? you let him. you let your eyes close, hands fist his shirt, and mouth mold against his.

he kisses rough, but still like you’re fragile. he bites and sucks on your bottom lip and drinks the oxygen from your lungs, but he cups the back of your head and rubs the small of your back. he groans against your mouth and lets his tongue explore you with heated passion, but he lets out a soft sigh every time your fingers smooth through his hair. he’s everything you want—painfully so, and you hate it.

so you kiss him deeper to forget.

“i’m listenin’, princess,” he chuckles lowly against your mouth, nose bumping against yours as he looks you in the eyes. if you weren’t sure your eyes were just as hazy as his, you’d be proud of yourself for the way his pupils are so unfocused. “but i think you’re a bit distracted,” he grins smugly.

he’s an asshole—has been since you met him. you don’t think that’s ever going to change at this point.

“fuck you,” you spit.

“you wanna?” he grins, “won’t say no,” he says as he pecks along your jaw, pressing hot, searing kisses to your neck before he nips gently at the skin, sucking into it until a small mark starts to form that makes you let out a quiet gasp. “won’t say no to you—ever,” he grunts.

“where have you been?” you repeat, fisting his shirt tightly as he moves onto the other side of your neck.

“you enjoy your little date?” he pulls away and looks you in the eye again, and you almost whine at the loss of his lips from your skin. instead, you notice the way he masks his hurt with a teasing grin. “did he help you study while you waited for the food?”

“he was boring,” you admit, cupping his cheek. ran presses closer against your palm, watches you carefully while it’s your turn to press gentle kisses along his jaw, how you take your time kissing the corners of his mouth before you press one soft, lingering kiss over his swollen lips. his breath hitches at that. “i don’t think he even owns a gun,” you smile, “how boring.”

he grins at that, lets out a soft chuckle before his smile widens and the chuckle turns into a boyish little laugh, coming right from his chest that you feel vibrate against your own.

“yeah?” he teases, “not as innocent as you seem,” he reaches behind him to close the door shut before he has you pushed onto your mattress, hovering over you with a smirk on his face. he pulls out his gun—you’ve seen it so many times before, but this time there’s no dread. it just makes you fill with excitement, excitement that pools as slick between your legs. “this thing here makes me interesting, huh?” he dangles the gun over your face.

you nod, gasping when he chuckles and loops a finger under the waistband of your pajamas.

“hips up, princess,” he hums, pulling the fabric down your legs as soon as you do, grinning at the way you're so wet already, making him chuckle before he presses the barrel of his gun to your head. “bet this excites you, huh?” one hand holds the gun to your temple, the other travels down to your clit, his thumb teasingly rubbing slow circles against it and making you whimper.

you’re dripping, he can see trails of your slick glistening against the insides of your thigh, and he can feel his cock twitch at the sight alone. slowly, his fingers tease against your entrance, making you whine before your hips buck to get more of him.

“ran, ran please,” you gasp, staring up at him with a pout on your face and his gun to your head. and you look fucking perfect.

he groans, slips his fingers into your tight walls, and watches as your face goes slack with pleasure at the intrusion. he curls his fingers into you, letting his palm glide against your clit before angling to find your spot. you gasp before letting out a breathy whine, trying to match his rhythm with your hips before he presses the barrel of his gun harder against your skull as he stops his fingers. you whimper at the loss of movement.

“no moving,” he growls, “you’ll take what i give, ‘kay princess?” you nod, staring up at him with wide eyes as he bullies his digits into your cunt, try your best not to move and just take it while his gun is right there against the side of your head. you close your eyes, moaning when he slams his fingers against your sweet spot, feeling the slow drag of his palm over your sensitive clit.

he fingers you slowly, takes his sweet time and watches you writhe under him as you fight your body to keep from moving. you can’t remember the last time you’ve felt this good, the last time something has excited you this much and left you breathless from just the thought alone. you mewl when he slams against your spot over and over, and ran listens like each whine from your mouth is the note to a song you wrote just for him. you serenade and he listens, that smug grin on his face that you want to kiss off.

“feels…oh god, feels good, ran,” you encourage, making him chuckle quietly as he rolls his thumb over your clit. you’re practically sucking his fingers in on your own, walls tight as they flutter around his digits—he can only imagine how you’d feel around his cock. but he wants to take his time with you, get to know you in and out like he has for weeks now.

he likes the sound of your voice when you ramble over dinner, and he likes the sound of your voice when you moan on his fingers, and he thinks he’ll like the sound of your voice as you wake him up in the mornings.

“don’t cum yet, baby,” he warns—because that’s just how ran is. he’s that sweetness you mask drugs with until you wake up with the barrel of the gun pressed to your skull, that soft glimmer in the grass of what you think is something shiny, but turns out to be the scales of a serpent waiting to sink its fangs into your skin. “you’re not cummin’ till i say so,” he hums, “gonna make sure i wipe that date from your memory.”

“p-please, ‘m gonna…’m so close—no,” you shriek, latching onto his wrist with your hands as he stills his fingers. he laughs at the way your lips wobble and your eyes tear up—and he grins all cocky at the way your walls flutter around his fingers while they’re stilled inside you. “please, ran,” you sniffle.

“please what?” he asks like he doesn’t know. “use your words, princess.”

“please, wanna cum,” you whine, “keep going,” you roll your hips for added emphasis, and he presses his gun a little harder against your head as another warning.

“anyone ever touch you like this?” he asks, pulling his fingers out and making you sob quietly at the loss of his fingers keeping you full. he teases over your clit, making you pant harshly as your thighs quiver. more, you need more—and he knows it too, gives you just enough that it’s not enough at all. “anyone ever make you feel like this? or get you this wet?”

“no, just you,” you insist, “no one else.”

“good,” he nods approvingly, and then his fingers slip into you once more, fucking into you hard and fast, making you throw your head back as you mewl. he tosses his gun to the side, creeps his hand up your shirt—he’s pleasantly surprised to find you’re not wearing a bra, so he squeezes and pinches at your nipple, rolling it between his fingers and watching as you squeal.

your hips are bucking against his hand now, the wet sound of his fingers bullying in and out of your pussy filling the room before he rubs harshly at your clit again. and then you cum, hard. your back arches, and you let out a quiet sob of his name that makes his cock ache in his pants as he watches your face break with your orgasm. he leans down and kisses you, lets you whine against his mouth. he drinks in your moans like he’s thirsty, like you’re the first drop of rain after a cruel drought.

“oh—f-fuck, ran,” you cry, spasming around his fingers before your hips fall back onto the mattress and your chest heaves with labored pants. you peer up at him as you come down from your high, and he looks down at you and meets your gaze.

he’s quick to pull his shirt over his head, letting you take in his tattoos through hazy eyes, watching slowly as your fingers lifts to trail over the lines and dips as you map his body. he shivers a little when you trace down the middle where the pattern is cut off.

“my brother has the other half,” he tells you quietly. you stare up at him in awe—it aches a little in his chest.

“it’s perfect,” you hum, “you have a whole side to dedicate to me now,” you grin cheekily, pulling a warm chuckle out of him before he leans in to kiss you again. and again and again. his lips press onto yours as soon as you pull away.

“would that make you happy?” he grins, “having your face on my chest?”

“not my face,” you scrunch your face in distaste. he grins, kisses the tip of your nose. “that’s just weird. but you should definitely get my name. big bold letters,” you wink.

“big bold letters, huh? i’ll keep that in mind,” he muses. you giggle, and he kisses you again, humming against your mouth as you wrap your fingers around his hair and tug gently.

you let a hand travel between your bodies, slipping past his pants to grab his cock. ran groans against your mouth, eyes fluttering shut as you smear the pre cum weeping from his tip along his length, wrapping your hand around him and stroking him a few times. he moans lowly, helping you slip his pants down his hips to fully expose his cock.

“fuck, princess,” he pants, rutting his hips into your fist, grunting when you squeeze the tip with each upstroke of your hand. he’s thick, heavy in your hand aching for the friction. you watch his jaw clench as you pump him slowly, watch as his forehead presses against yours and strands of his purple hair fall over his face to curtain his features. he looks pretty, like he’s yours, like he climbs through your balcony and comes home to you and your arms.

“next time i go on a date,” you mumble. he stiffens before cursing under his breath when you glide your thumb through his slit, “i wanna go with you.”

he moans softly, pants into your neck as his face falls to the crevice by your shoulder, muffles his sounds against your skin as you drag your palm along his pulsing cock, rolling over his tip before stroking down again. his hips are bucking to chase the friction of your hand, the squelching noise of your hand pumping him and his choked grunts filling the room.

“princess,” he groans, a hand coming on top of yours and gently forcing you to stop. you furrow your brows, but he pulls you back in for a brief kiss as he collects himself. “didn’t wanna cum yet,” he mumbles against your mouth, pressing a quick peck to the corner of your lips, “that’s for later—when i’m fillin’ you up so you know who you belong to.”

your breath hitches, and he grins when you whine his name, letting his hands squeeze your hips before he pulls your shirt over your arms and slips it off of you. he leans down, tongue rolling over your nipple, hand coming to cup your other tit and roll a thumb over the pebbled nipple so it’s not neglected. you gasp, throwing your head back as you moan, the dull ache between your legs returning as your clit throbs. he kisses between the valley of your breasts before taking the other nipple in his mouth, switching places with his hand and repeating his earlier actions until you’re tugging at his hair with a plea.

“ran, ran please—please, i need you,” you beg, making him let out a breathy chuckle in amusement.

“yeah? need me to fuck this pussy, baby? need me to make you cum?”

“please,” you whimper, lips pulling into another pout. ran learns two things—you like being spoiled, and he likes spoiling you rotten. because with just a simple pout and a bat of your lashes, he’s groaning before he strokes his cock a few times, lining up with your entrance.

your hips are greedy, raising up to get more of him, but he grunts and pushes you back with a warning glance, making you pout again. you both gasp with a shudder when he teases his fat tip along the slick folds of your cunt, dragging it along slowly before pushing into inch by inch. you mewl, arms flying to wrap around his neck and cling to him while he lets out a deep groan, panting at the way your walls constrict around him and all but suck him in.

“fuck, baby. so fuckin’ tight,” he grunts, “feel so good, pretty girl.”

“think i’m pretty?” you still have it in you to throw him a teasing remark even as he’s bottomed out, which only makes him want you more, only makes him want to come home to you every night instead of once a week—sometimes less than that.

“think you’re fuckin’ gorgeous,” he says instantly, “next man who tries asking you out’ll get shot in the head. swear it.”

“don’t worry,” you kiss the side of his head. he melts at the gesture, head tucking into your neck again. “only you.”

with that, he snaps his hips, pulling a soft moan from you and a choked groan from him before you’re both rolling your hips against each other. your hips snap against his, the sound of his cock slipping in and out of your wet heat and your skin slapping ringing through your ears as ran ran pants into your skin. the sound of his breathy moans makes your walls flutter around him, clit throbbing until his thumb catches it to rub slow circles.

“g-god—ran, like that,” you squeal, making him grin against your neck, thrusting his hips sharply and kissing the head of his cock with your sweet spot. it makes you dig your nails into his shoulder blades, makes him hiss with pleasure at the slight mix of pain.

“like that? that feels good, princess? my cock makes you feel that good? you’re fuckin’ dripping, you know,” he smirks, and if you weren’t so lost of the drag of his thick veins along your walls, you’d have been embarrassed by his words.

“yes, yes,” you mewl, “make me feel good—so good!”

“yeah, i bet i do,” he chuckles, “pussy’s squeezin’ me in,” he teases, “i don’t even have to do anything.” he angles his hips to slam into your spot again, making your legs wrap tightly around his waist as your thighs quiver. his thumb rubs harshly against your clit and you feel tears slip past your cheeks as you tug at the roots of his hair. “fuck—you feel so good, princess. so t-tight, not gonna last long,” he pants.

“c-close,” you cry. ran fucks you like he hasn’t committed crimes and doesn't have sins that taint his name. he fucks you like you’re an angel—like he deserves an angel, like he’s got one foot over the gates of heaven and there’s nothing to tug him back to hell. he pulls your body close and cradles it to his chest like the weight of you in his arms outweighs the weight of his crimes, like the sins of every person he’s hurt are undone with the slam of his hips into your heat.

he fucks you like he’s loved you in this life and the last—like you’re gifted to him in this life and he promises to find you in the next.

most of all, ran fucks you like he owes you for the healed scar on his arm, like he owes you for the warm home-cooked meals and the sweet laughs behind the rim of a cheap glass. like he owes you for the silly texts at three am and empty threats of not landing himself in jail in disguise for your worried concerns. like he owes you for the constant ache in his chest that’s replaced the vacant spot—because he loves the ache, and he loves you.

so he groans into your skin, peels his face from the crook of your neck, and presses his lips to yours and he kisses you like he loves you. because he does. he loves you like he loves climbing through your balcony and invading your dinner plans. he loves you.

“me too, baby,” he pants, voice lilting to a soft whine as you squeeze around his cock, pleasure burning through his spine in a slow build-up until it’s everywhere at once. “god, i love you, baby,” he rasps, the words spilling before he can even realize he’s said them.

it’s not until you repeat them back that he realizes what he’s said. “love you too, love you too, ran. so much,” you sob. and with a few more harsh rubs of his thumb over your clit, you come undone with a loud sob, hips rising from the mattress and head tossing back against the plush of the pillow beneath you. “fuck—ran, oh god.”

“sh-shit, ‘m close,” he breathes, “g-gonna make me cum, princess.”

the fluttering of your walls as you ride out your high makes him reach his, letting out a choked grunt of your name against your mouth before he lets out a wanton moan. he cums hard, filling you up with thick ropes of his release, and you feel his cock twitch in you through each one. you whimper against him as he fucks you through his orgasm, letting him fill you up and paint your walls white before he pulls out with a shaky breath and collapses over your body.

he blankets you with his weight, and you pull him closer like you’re tucking yourself in. it’s silent for a bit, comforting and sweet as you both linger in the bliss.

“i’m still mad at you for avoiding me,” you whisper against his bare skin. he scoffs, wrapping his arms tighter around your figure.

“and i’m still mad you went on a date with another man,” he grumbles.

“so then stop being mad and take me on one yourself,” you say back with a huff.

“if you go on a date with me, it means you gotta let me start walkin’ you home after work,” he warns. you smile to yourself, elated.

“deal.”

“and you gotta let me threaten that shitty boss of yours.”

“can’t. i got a new one,” you hum, stroking through his sweaty locks and scratching at his scalp, “this one’s nice. you’d know if you didn’t stop coming to visit.”

“i don’t wanna come to just visit,” he grunts. “you gonna give me keys to your door?”

“you’ll come every night?” you raise a brow, and he nods against your chest, pressing a soft kiss to the skin near his lips. you smile into ran’s hair, his weight in your arms and his heart in your hand. “okay, deal.”

#teepods.writings #thirstee!#fics.#ran x reader #ran x you #ran smut #haitani ran x reader #haitani ran x you #haitani ran smut #tr x reader #tr x you #tr smut #tokrev x reader #tokrev x you #tokrev smut #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers x you #tokyo revengers smut

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pa-panda-heroes · 3 years ago

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Ohgodohgodohgod the-the fucking first one with the biting and the NEED!! all I can think about is Hawks all red in the face absolutely plowing into ya and when he gets this full-body wave of "need'a cum, need to cum so bad oh fuck" and all he can do is bite into your shoulder and hold on so fucking tight. Can't move a single limb cause from the waist-up it's all well-trained muscle locking you into place but his hips are still grinding up into ya like he's possessed and he's so overwhelmed all he can do is keep going and he doesn't even realize- Oh! And how bout some whiny, brain-has-turned-to-mush sorta pleading? Begging to cum, fucking into you still and just not getting the fact he's just over-stimulated and still fucking going and all you can hear is him praising how good you feel and whining about how it's too much too good gotta fill you up more more more, till he gets so exhausted he can't do anything but lay there and let it his seed spill out and stick your thighs together

First I wanna say I am so sorry this took so long :’> Sweetheart I am screaming

Minors, please dni!!

“Fuck fuck fuck-!”

He thinks he’s about to explode - no, maybe implode. His head is empty, his hips fucking into you with wild abandon, your poor body pinned under his while he fucks you into the mattress. Keigo is feral, honestly, you just feel so damn good and warm and soft he can’t help it- but it’s not like you’re complaining. A bite to your neck pulls a mewl out of you, before it morphs into a hiss when his teeth remain bearing down on your sweaty, hot skin.

“Keigo- ah, easy,” you try to tell him, and surprisingly he listens and lets your skin out of his teeth. If he were “with it,” Keigo would’ve licked and kissed the bite in silent apology, but he’s damn near overstimulated himself by still pounding into you even after he’s cum twice already. It like nothing else exists but his throbbing cock and your wet pussy, and the sounds of his skin slapping against yours, wet and sloppy.

Keigo pants like a dog and whines like a pup. You can feel a stream of his cum slip out of you, but the bedding is the least of your concerns. Knowing there’s only more to come, it pulls a moan out of you. Your chest heaves, but not as much as his,

“Please, love, fuckin’- ah, fuck- can’t-“ he swallows thickly, desperate.

Your fingers curl in his hair, another orgasm approaching. Keigo’s so warm, fills you so well, and fucks you so well. You whine, almost like an agreement, and wrap your legs tightly around him, taking in all his hot, sweaty, and desperate heat. “Words, baby, c’mon,” you encourage through pants, having difficulty getting a good breath in from the pounding of his cock into your cunt. Your head almost swirls. It’s so light and fuzzy and good.

“Please please please,” his whine is damn near pitiful, his hips still fucking away. “I wanna, fuck-! Wanna cum inside my little dove, wanna fill you up!”

You gasp. “Oh, gonna, gonna cum, shit!”

The whine that comes out of him right after immediately throws you to the peak of ecstasy, another orgasm crashing into you and you whine loudly, Keigo holding you still despite your body’s involuntary movements.

“So good, dove, so fuckin’ good. Feel so good. Fuck!” He laps it right up, your throbbing walls swallowing him whole and squeezing him and your pretty little mouth gasping, whining, and squeaking so satisfyingly that he’s spilling into your cunt in no time, his thrusts becoming even more sporadic and rough and you almost can’t take it, it’s so much, so good, that you’re almost on the same page as your hero lover. Spurts of his cum fill you further, you can feel it, and you gasp.

“T-too m-much,” you hear him spit from his throat, “s-so good, too much.”

Even after fucking you out of your high and his Keigo continues fucking into your abused, messy hole, muttering and sputtering while his pace becomes nonexistent and he sporadically thrusts against you, splattering a little of the mixture of his and your juices outside. Sensitivity approaches you both, but just so happens to slam into you harder when his fingers roll at your clit and you keen.

Keigo keeps going, head completely empty save for the thought of fucking your pussy full of his cum. “G-gotta, ah, gotta fill ya more, lots more. Shit.”

You keen and instinctively try to push his chest, oversensitivity swallowing you whole, especially as he works at your clit, but his strength exceeds yours to the point he doesn’t budge a second. “Mm, baby, t-too much,” you whine, “c-can’t, it’s too mu-uch! I- mm!”

You’re cut off with Keigo’s lips smothering your own, the gasp from your shock and gasp giving him ample room to shove his tongue into your unsuspecting mouth. One of his hands moves to your hip, it’s grip so tight you’re sure there are supple pits in your skin from the right grip of his fingertips. He uses this grip to help keep you still, your senses going haywire even as you cry out, beads of tears hanging onto your eyelids by a thread.

It was going to be a long night...

#hawks x reader #hawks thirst #hawks smut #takami keigo x reader #takami keigo smut #keigo thirst #mha x reader smut #mha smut #ronnasey #I forgot how to tag lol #;;;; IM RUSTY ;;;;

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shorkbrian · 3 years ago

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So happy your requests are open and I don't mind the wait at all!

I just really want to see a sweet quirkless omega going into heat and sending her alpha Overhaul (Kai Chisaki) into a hard rut and he just pins her to a wall and fucks the life out of her before taking her to the bedroom to knot her.

but you do know that it would 100% be like "hate sex" on Chisaki's part (even though he kinda do like it lol)

(Kinda overhaul x reader x chrono btw but only for a little bit)

Just. Overhaul being able to tolerate you being kept at his compound because one, you're his mate, whether he likes it or not.

Two, you're quirkless.

And three? You don't bother him, you stay out of the way and you have passable hygiene when compared to Chisaki's standards.

But that has to be thrown out the window the second Chrono hauls you into Chisaki's office, the man in charge of watching you when Chisaki isn't around flustered and pink around his ears.

"B-boss, your omega, she's-"

"What the fuck is that smell." Chisaki growls, eyes immediately snapping to your trembling form. Taking in the way you're gasping, sweaty, barely able to stand even with Chrono's hand tight around your bicep and holding you up.

For some reason, the sight of Chrono touching you makes Chisaki itch. Odd, that usually wouldn't bother him.

The smell is cloying; too intense and too sweet, it makes his throat burn and his skin crawl.

"I think she's in-"

"Please, it hurts." You choke out, cutting off Chrono. "Need... I need-"

Chisaki recoiled as the scent got stronger, clouding his senses, making him feel... Chisaki didn't even know. Excited? Tingly?

Uncomfortable - he decided.

"Get her out. Give her a bath too, she smells disgusting." He commanded, but Chrono stepped forward instead of back out the door.

"Boss, she's in heat."

Heat?

Oh.

Overhaul cringed.

Logically, he knew it was going to happen eventually. But on the other hand, he had hoped his omega would be different. you was already quirkless, already pure... surely it wouldn't be too far of a stretch to assume that you wouldn't be affected by the mindless heat-addling that Omega's all seemed to undergo?

His irritation was rising.

"So?"

Chrono looked at his boss with questioning eyes, unsure what to do with the omega becoming increasingly more distressed at his side.

"You'll get her over it." Chisaki decides, ignoring the bitter taste that floods his mouth as he utters those words. His eyes slide over you again, lip curling into a disgusted sneer.

"Messy thing."

Chrono is frozen in disbelief. But this isn't a test of his loyalty, Chisaki truly doesn't want to deal with the germs and the mess and the cleanup associated with omega's during their heats. Slick everywhere, pheromones staining the room, needy hands touching everywhere-

"Sit her down on the couch." He instructs his second-in-command, rising from his office chair and stepping around his desk so he can close the door. "I want to make sure you don't damage her."

That's the only reason. Only reason he wants to be present and watching while Chrono fucks you through your heat.

"You're serious then?" The white-haired man asks, removing the plague mask he wears while inside the compound, thus beginning the process of disrobing.

Chisaki waved his hand idly, resuming his position in his office chair with a tired sigh. "It'd be such a chore for me to do it myself. Aren't you an alpha yourself Chrono? You should be jumping at the chance to bed a nice quirkless omega."

Chrono shrugs off his white coat, looking up from where you're panting on the couch while he stands in front of you, eyes finding his boss. "I wouldn't want to overstep my boundaries with your property."

The brunette smiles, not that anyone can see, but it's clear he's pleased by the crinkle near his eyes, the relaxed way he slumps in his chair. "And that's why you're my favorite Chrono."

You're wearing what you usually wear - long pants, a cozy sweater. Overhaul hasn't heard you complain about the chill in the compound, but it's clear to see it affects you by the way you dress and the way your nose darkens from the cold.

You don't fight the half-naked Chrono as he helps you out of your sweater, unbothered by the temperature of the room and looking entirely too hot and sweaty.

Chisaki supposes it's good that you aren't fighting. You had at first, when he first brought you here, crying and pleading for him to let you go and leave you alone. That pathetic show was quickly shut down with a simple demonstration of Overhaul's quirk, and what he'd do to you if you didn't comply.

Now you're seemingly accepting of the situation, casting nervous glances towards Chisaki, your attention constantly getting stolen by the pale man stripping in front of you.

It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time before Chrono has his cock in you.

And you look completely blissed out, mouth open and letting out choked little gasps on each thrust, one hand desperately trying to hold onto Chrono's shoulder, his arm, his chest - anything you can reach.

The other hand is on your stomach, and Chisaki doesn't understand why until he focuses on it, sees the distention whenever Chrono swings his hips into you.

Chisaki feels himself throb.

The sounds you're making sound like music. Awful music, all discordant and rushed and pornographic, stuttered breaths and pitiful cries, high-pitched and girlish moans in between Chrono's quiet huffs.

The sweet pheromones in the air become sweeter, thicker, and Chisaki can see the direct correlation between the smell and how much slick is dripping out of you, drenching Chrono's pretty cock, his stomach, even splattering his thighs on each thrust as his cock squelches deeper.

It's disgusting.

Digusting but curiously enamoring. Chrono's got you sitting on the couch, pushed up against the back while he fucks you. It's a tall piece of furniture, and Chrono merely hikes his leg up onto the cushions to gain a better angle to fuck you with. Your slick is everywhere; Chisaki knows that couch won't be salvageable after this. Somehow, he doesn't mind.

What he does mind, however, is the way Chrono is speeding up, rhythm stuttering and practically falling apart. He's going to knot you. Chisaki had given him full permission to - that's what taking care of an omega during their heat means, after all. But jealousy is boiling inside him, blood painfully engorging his cock, he feels tingly all over, very unlike himself.

He wants to touch you.

But you're a disgusting mess, smelling sweet and fertile and sweating and dripping everywhere. Chisaki can't believe he's feeling... attracted to you right now.

"O-ohh feels good, r-right there! Yes, thank you,t-than-" You mumble out, drunk on cock as you shudder through an orgasm, cream gushing out of your cunt and further dirtying Chisaki's office.

Chisaki sees red.

He's furious - not only at you, but at Chrono for touching you, and for himself for explicitly allowing it to happen. Chrono's about to knot you, claim you, and Chisaki is out of his chair before he knows what's happening.

"That's enough." And his gloved hands are ripping Chrono away from you, sending the other man reeling as his subordinate struggles to control his alpha instincts and stop himself from fighting his boss, tearing Chisaki to shreds for interrupting his mating.

Chisaki doesn't care, he's too focused on you.

"You're so pathetic." The man hisses at you, crowding into your space. When had he taken off his mask? He wanted to smell more of you.

His gloves are gone too, ripped away in a moment so he can feel your wet skin against his hands, feel the sweat beading your brow before those same fingers snap to undo his pants.

"I hate you, I hate you." He seethes, golden eyes staring at you so intently that you start to cry, overwhelmed with the situation, still craving a knot, craving intimacy and tenderness.

You've reduced him down to barely better than an animal, tearing at his clothes so he can sink into you, closing his eyes at the way you're wet and warm inside, perfect and velvety.

Chisaki doesn't know what's come over him. Normally he'd be disgusted, absolutely incensed at having such filth be in direct contact with his skin. But right now... all he feels is pleasure ripping through his veins, clouding his head, his mind, flushing rational thought down the toilet.

"Stupid, hate you-" his words rattle out on each rapid thrust, breath uneven and labored as his muscles stretch and work to fuck you harder and faster. He's building up to his peak.

One of his hands is fisted in your hair, close to your scalp and keeping you still, the other hand clamped firmly against your hip and making sure you don't wiggle away. Alpha instincts taking over as his brain convinces him to mate, breed, cum.

"You're so fucking dirty." He gasps, voice heated and gravelly as he struggles to fight through the heat taking over his body.

He's going into a rut.

Chisaki isn't supposed to do that. He takes supplements and suppressants to ensure he doesn't have too. Ruts are messy, nasty things to endure, and Chisaki would rather lick the floor of a dirty subway than experience one.

Yet here he is.

"You disgusting, wretched thing-" And you're crying, fat tears mixing with sweat and rolling down your chin. Chisaki feels disgusting himself, wanting to lick the liquid away.

He hasn't felt this good in his entire life, this burning fever pitch rising and rising and cresting, blazing along his nerves.

He can barely thrust his hips anymore, and only then does Chisaki realizes that he's popped his knot, jammed it in deep while you cried and moaned and struggled to hold onto him.

Theres a sick sense of satisfaction filling him up, his mind clears for half a second and Chisaki thinks to look over his shoulder, seeing Chrono still standing there with a soured look on his face, cock still swollen and drippy and bobbing purple against the man's stomach.

"Get out." Chisaki orders, and Chrono knows enough to merely pick up his coat and wrap it around himself before exiting the room. He's never seen his boss like this - so feral and unhinged and debauched like some regular dirty plebeian.

But Chisaki doesn't care. Odd.

He cares about grinding against you, feeling you milk every last drop of cum from his balls, shimmying his hips to hear you gasp and moan and clutch at his body, trembling like a little lamb.

Chisaki doesn't want to stop.

"As soon as my knot goes down-" He growls, lowering his face until it's mere inches from your own, breathing into your space. "I'm going to take you to my room and knot you until you break."

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savorysatori · 4 years ago

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— 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄, 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘. ✗

“choke me, spank me, look at me, thank me.”

— sypnosis: working as a maid in a new house is very exciting, you get the money and everything goes well. although, once you’re introduced to the son of the parents, everything goes down hill.

cw, warning: size kink (?), creep!ushi, pictures without consent, nipple play, gn!reader, non-con, somnophilia, sloppy sex, dry humping, praise, panty stealer ushi.

% wc: 2234.

↷ a/n: y’all have no idea how long this was sitting in my drafts, for fucking 5 weeks plsssss- anyways I hope you all enjoy! this was rlly fun to do. also! shoutout to daisy, this collab was really cool! congratulations on 1K bb. <//3

— @daisy-bakugo, PORNSCAPE EVENT! ilyy.

You were everything he wanted, everything he fantasized about.

[1,000.]

That’s how much they were paying.

It was enough to have you accept the job immediately. It was enough to have you choose between two of the slightly revealing maid dresses and enough for you to be standing in front of the wakatoshi mansion. Briefcase in hand with a bucket of supplies you were instructed to bring. Everything was just right, you were prepared to clean, everything would go well.

The frilly material of the skirt swayed around your thighs and glided against the softness of your thigh-highs. Glistening jewels of your gold bracelets glimmering in the hot sun shining down on your skin. The thin line of thread held up the damp clothes, shredding any of the excess water soaked into them. All of the Wakatoshi’s clothing were fancy. Gold lining stitched in the middle or at the end of the cloth, it was clear they were wealthy. But, it somehow amazed you when your eyes glided to the very end of the line — some shirts & shorts were childlike. Pictures of guns and cars were painted onto a black shirt, it looked like something a 5th grader would do. ‘Maybe they had a child?’ You didn’t know, you only met the parents. Folding up the dry ones, you’d stuff them into the cart and push them towards the other line of clothes swishing in the breezy wind.

You finished doing the daily chores, slipping into their kitchen that was designed well with a beautiful interior. Cold marble was felt up against your skin as you tipped the bottle of wine into your glass, clacking against it. Your glossy lips propped up against the cup and took small sips of the fruity flavor. It slid down your throat and surged a zing of bitterness back up to take in the taste, so sweet and yet so unpleasant at the same time. You’d lick the juice off your lips and place it down steadily on the counter, looking up to see a heady gaze sharped on you.

6’2 and steady build towering over you with dark olive hair — was the wakatoshi’s son. Ushijima Wakatoshi.

Your body stayed still, unmoving. He wasn’t anywhere near a 3rd grader - more like a full grown adult. Tongue peeking out from your teeth to lick the dryness seeping between the cracks, your eyelids hooded.

“Uh- Hello! You must the wakatoshi’s son, I’m the new maid.” Extending your hand out to meet his; his hand stayed at his side, not seeming to shift to engulf yours. You’d drop it back beside you and nipped at your lip when the silence between you both continued.

“Well, I’ll see you around. Nice to meet you.. Ushijima! Your parents told me about you.”

You’d excuse yourself away from his intimidating gaze and close the door behind you. Maybe it’s a good idea to introduce myself another time.

The same look from before followed you out of the kitchen, watching you as you’d take up the laundry basket. His eyes kept gawking at your every move. Staring with every bit of emotion nobody could decipher, Toshi wasn’t a very talkative man and it was visible. He situated himself in the shadows and looked from above, staying out of any scandals his parents were exposed to. He did keep his eye on you. Stepping out of his secure area and making every note to try and approach you without seeming like a creep. His creep intentions did creep up back into his system when you started staying at his house, sleeping in a guest room 8 feet away from his room. It was easy; so easy to sneak into it when the moon raised in the dead of night.

Soft thuds of his feet against the carpet thankfully didn’t alert anyone, giving him the time to steal peeps at your sleeping state. Comforter pulled up. Oversized shirt to cover up the intimate parts of your body he dearly wanted to explore. Soft breaths left your pink lips to breathe it in again, his cock stirring at the sound of it. Toshi knew what was right from wrong, he knew that doing something like this would cost his life — but, dear god you were everything he dreamed of. He couldn’t stop now.

His calloused hands raised the shirt for him to be able to see your tummy, sliding his fingers down to the waistband of your panties. They were so simple and adorned your skin beautifully, keeping the heat between your legs warm just for him. His free hand unzipped his jeans and let them pool at his ankles, such as his boxers. You stirred slightly at the foreign touch, brows creasing forward. He stilled until you relaxed back into slumber, his fingers separated your thighs, and slowly slid the oozing head of his cock between them.

“Ah, princess, f-fuuck.” breath ragged, eyes shut closed to take in the bliss. Contentment streamed through him, his hips rocking against you to feel more, more of you. He was greedy. Toshi was insatiable, he wanted everything of you. He didn’t just want — he needed you. It was a plea. A whine for you, a need. The selfishness ran through his family, that’s how he inherited it. From his family. Was he ashamed? No. Not when you felt so good right now, not when he was about to reach the orgasm he was climbing to.

Sweat fanned down his toned chest, abs glistening with droplets of precipitation. His hips rocked forward one last time, cum spurting from his head and between the soft flesh of your thighs. It was sticky and slimy, rolling down to cover every little spot.

The sight of you sleeping soundly while his cum leaked from between your thighs, made the flaccid touch of his cock stir. You were just so pretty, a pretty little something he wanted to scoop up for himself. And he would do it with no trouble whatsoever. His hand slid down to grab his phone from the floor, lying face down. Toshi aimed right in the frame, snapping a picture for later. He stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans and scurried away from your room, not bothering to clean up the mess of his dry cum smeared on you.

Pressing the ‘start’ button you watched the clothes in the machine swirl with bubbles of soap clouding over them. One hand on the machine and knocking it occasionally to make it turn on again. “Barely working.” You’d mutter.

Despite the Wakatoshi’s being filthy rich, their laundry room wasn’t at all cooperative. There were brown pieces of wood peeling off the wall with stains of what seemed to look like dry substance splattered on it. A bunch of plastic bags and socks were pushed to the corner of the room, dirty ones to be exact. Not much laid in the room other than the things you had listed — except for the posters of lewd manga hanging from the cluttered shelves.

The cool air of the basement door opening brushed up against you, your eyes drifting to see who it was. Standing there was Toshi. He was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday. His expression was the same as always, stern and uninterested. You were both met with the silence from yesterday, uneasiness creeping up back to you.

Bothering not to talk, you turned back to the machine to see it at twenty-one minutes. It was almost done and you could leave to wrench away from the awkward silence you were sitting in. You could still feel his presence, you knew he was there and it was uncomfortable. So many questions were left unanswered in your head, you couldn’t understand them.

The back of your skirt was flipped up to meet your back, his clothed length pressed against you. He was hard. There was no doubt he wasn’t big, and that was what made your eye sockets almost swell out. He slowly rocked the fabric of your panties along with his bulge. Fingernails digging into your hip and pushing you up more to gain more access and spread your legs.

“Ushijima-“ words of confusion scrabbled out from your mouth quickly, “w-what are you doing?”

“Shh.” He jabbed the curve of your back and made you lay pressed against the cold exterior of the rattling washing machine. His words flustered you, it provoked you to stay quiet. You had never heard his voice before and a situation like this only shook your brain into a deeper hole of complication. “J-Just — let me do this, let me try it out. Once.”

And you did. You let him try it just once, you let him delude into the fantasy he had been dreaming of. You let him do it. Once.

You calmed down from the aftershock of his tongue sending you to see stars, arms jerking when the feeling of his hot touch pressing your face against the door of the machine. Your fingers tightening around the handle and pulling on it slightly, cheeks swelling up with heat. The sounds of your whimpers and tiny jolts sent him to push along more, arm encircling around your stomach, his voice breathy against the shell of your ear. You were like a succubus, a being he couldn’t leave nor escape, so alluring, sweet and he had just met you not too long ago.

The smack of his cock meeting his stomach caused you to crank your head back, looking over to see a beautiful sight. Ushijima’s cock was thick, curving gently upwards. The skin was a light shade of cream, and the head was large, pink, expanding tip. “Ushi-“ your voice was wavery, unsure paring with it.

He’d shush you again, angling your leg up as his lips pressed a kiss to your glistening cunt. Toshi took notice of your expressions when he slid into the warmth delves; brows creased together and little words scampering out from your lips. Latching onto the handle and pulling it ever so often when he hit a certain spot, whenever the tip of his cock caressed against your cervix- it was so beautiful seeing you be reduced to a quivering, blubbering mess. A surreal sight he would only see.

“You’re so damn tight. So wet, so willing.. just like that baby.” The pump of his hips made you lose yourself over and over again, a mixture of sounds that were all kinds of slobbery and slurred due to your dizziness. His pace picked up with renewed energy, slick and wet sounds fill the air, sweaty bodies clamping against each other. The whines and pants of his name being drowned out, so pathetic- clinging to the latch and crumbling under his touch. It drove him like a mad man, his brain clattering, the way you took him in with no problem amazed him, you were so inviting and supple.

“S’too b-big! Ushi- ah! -“

The whines of him being too big impaled itself into his brain, your shivering body and cunt wrapped around all together had already made him blank out, now with your pleas, it caused a switch in his head to flip and jack-hammer himself into you. Pump after pump. It made your eyelashes flutter with droplets of tears risking to stream down the fat of your cheeks. His hands holding you firmly, brows furrowed with grunts flowing into your right ear. A grunt rippled from him as his cock throbbed harshly inside you, the feeling making him come undone right there.

“Just like that, ah, fuck you make me feel so good.”

Wrinkled skirt falling to the floor, his cock pulling out of you slowly with globs of cum dribbling out of you, he’d shuffle around till you faced him fully now with a perplexed look on your face. The shirt becoming loose as Toshi’s lips wrapped around the sensitive nipple, suckling and easing any leftover moans out from your throat. His hands placing you on the machine and attaching his lips back onto your nipple, tongue flat against your sweaty skin.

“Fuck, U-Ushi! holy- fuck, just like that.” Your back straining as you leaned back, gasping and threading your fingers through his hair to balance. Toshi wasn’t one with words, his statue being quiet and still. But, words poured out from his lips at the sound of your moans, when you were so good for him.

“So, good.. pretty. pretty, like a beauty.” He pulled off of it with a squelch, standing up high and cupping your chin to stare in your love drunk eyes. “You were so good for me, yeah?”

You nodded, vision hazy and eyes occasionally blinking to peer up at him with a blurry image. Your head rested in the crook of his neck, sniffling as he picked up the soiled panties from the floor and stuffed them into his back pocket. They were red and pink, swirly designs on them, he found them so cute. He slid your legs around him and walked out of the room, leaving the washing machine to rattle in the background with soap and water overflowing onto the ground.

Ushijima just couldn’t leave you after that day, he stuck to you like glue. Who could blame him? You were everything he wanted, everything he had fantasized about.

#ushijima x reader #ushijima smut #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu!! smut #haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #pornscape collab!!👒#cw noncon #cw somnophilia #cw size kink

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adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy · 4 years ago

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A/N: If there’s anything I learned from doing this, it’s that vampirerry is an utter WHORE. Good for him!!!! As for myself, I’m done with the semester and my term projects and finals left my singular brain cell fried, so this was a nice way to get back into writing again. I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thank you to the anon that suggested it, this was super fun to do! :D

read you’re someone i just want around here

word count: 6k

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Harry is very attentive when it comes to aftercare with Y/N. The sex they have is often rough and includes toys, degradation, and multiple rounds, so he believes aftercare is non-negotiable. Rough sex can be fun, but if it’s not followed by a lot of communication and post-performance support, it can take a hard emotional toll on a person. Even when intimacy isn’t meant to be inherently sentimental, there has to be a certain level of connection and etiquette surrounding it, or it could end badly for both parties involved. He always checks on her immediately after they finish, simply to gauge her headspace and how her body is responding, and after he’s made sure she’s alright, he goes into his usual routine of skin-to-skin contact and gentle coddling. Reassurance and praise is just as important afterwards as it is during, because it’s good to let a partner know that your appreciation runs deeper than just the physical need felt in the heat of the moment; everyone deserves to feel valued beyond their body.

Harry proceeds to clean Y/N up after every session, because it’s the least he can do since she’s usually the one getting the brunt of the work. He’ll fetch a clean towel dampened under warm water to wipe her clean, or he’ll offer to help give her a bath or a shower— whichever route she prefers. Harry dresses her, and changes the sheets if need be, and tucks her into bed to ensure she’s nice and comfortable. If it’s been a particularly intense session, he’ll go the kitchen and bring back a snack and a drink— a granola bar and a Gatorade, or some chips and her favorite juice, or if she’s feeling especially hungry, he’ll happily go out of his way to prepare her an actual meal— and he insists on feeding it to her bit by bit until she’s come to enough to handle it on her own. If she’s not hungry, he at least brings her a glass of water and urges her to drink it; better to be safe than sorry. After that, more cuddling is the status quo, which normally ends in Y/N falling asleep in his arms, and Harry has absolutely no problem with that at all.

B = Body Part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Harry’s favorite body part of Y/N’s is probably her chest. Yes, he likes it for sexual reasons— obviously— but there are innocent reasons for his fascination, as well. He likes how responsive she gets when he touches her there— how he can get her going just by groping her the way she likes it, or by using his mouth to tongue across her nipples until she’s writhing in pleasure and whining for more. He loves leaving hickies all over her tits, probably more than she likes receiving them. It’s just so fucking hot seeing himself marked all over her, especially when she’s putting on a bra and he can see all of the dark bruises scattered across the cleavage spilling from the undergarment. Filth aside, he also enjoys loving all over her chest. Absentmindedly cupping them while they’re snuggling, nuzzling his head between them while they’re watching television, massaging them under her shirt with his large palms as she sits back against his chest, sipping a glass of wine and chatting away, unwinding after a long day. It’s a form of intimacy; it provides a type of closeness nothing else can.

As for his own favorite body part, it’s a tie between two different areas. He loves his thighs— they’re one of his most prominent features. They’re thick and meaty and sensitive, so they’re the perfect sweet spot to touch when he wants to get riled up. Given his previous response, it can be easily deduced that he likes to get hickies there, as well. The marks look great peeking out from under his briefs (for the short amount of time they last, anyways) and they make a great accessory to the large tigerhead tattoo along his left thigh. It’s artwork, really; a proper Picasso.

His other favorite body part...well, take a lucky guess. It’s likely not that far off— literally, considering it hangs right between his thighs.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Harry’s personal preference is cumming inside. He adores feeling the way Y/N tightens around him when he finally orgasms (she’s just so warm and soft and unbelievably tight; it’s like she was made for him), almost as much as he loves seeing her reaction. Her body will immediately start to wriggle and her back will arch as she releases broken little whimpers, clinging to his shoulders with her nails and begging him to fill her until he’s milked his worth. Hearing her ragged breathing and feeling her sweaty chest stutter against his is enough to do him in, but when she goes as far as to gnaw on his ear and whine a soft little, “Want it all, baby. Want you dripping out of me when we’re done.” Well, that’s enough to kill him all over again.

Of course, there are times when Harry likes seeing himself all over her, too. On her outstretched tongue, or smeared across her pretty face and plush lips (she looks particularly cute when it ends up all over her eyelashes), or streaked over the valley of her tits, or pooled at the center of her tummy. If he’d been taking her from behind, then he likes seeing it run down the backs of her thighs, or splattered across the dip of her spine. And if she’d been giving him a handjob, then seeing himself dribbling down her fingers is just as good. Why? Because those fingers usually end up in her mouth, which means he ends up all over her tongue, and so the cycle comes full circle. How poetic.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Did Harry suggest wearing a matching set of a vibrating cock ring and buzzing bullet to do grocery shopping once? Yes. Did he drop three glass jars of peach preserves by accident as a result, causing them to have to book it out of the bread aisle while trying to look as unsuspicious as possible, which failed horribly because they were literally hobbling like a crippled elderly couple? Also yes. Did they end up fucking in a Target fitting room? Definitely.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

A lot of experience. Tons. Immense amounts. Insane amounts. Two hundred years of the same seven continents just means two hundred years worth of sex across every single one. And it gives you plenty of time to find the clitoris, as well as giving you a chance to learn the female anatomy like the back of your hand. That being said, Harry doesn’t doubt he could make Y/N cum with his wrists tied behind his back and a blindfold strapped to his face. In fact, he’s made her cum just by using his thigh, so that in itself is enough credibility to last him several more lifetimes. The toy chest in his closet and the fact that he’s well-endowed are bonuses— he knows more than enough tricks to keep her satisfied with just his tongue. Not to mention his fingers— they’re long for a reason.

F = Favorite position

Funny enough, Harry doesn’t have one. He’s spent so many decades cycling through every possible position in existence, it’s gotten to where he can’t pin-point a preference; all positions are unique, and they each have their own appeal. Reverse cowgirl is nice because he likes watching the way he stretches Y/N open with every plunge of her hips, and it also gives him the luxury of marking his rings across her ass in the process. Regular cowgirl is nice, too— having her chest bouncing in his face is nothing short of a divine miracle, in his opinion. Doggy style is a staple, and there’s always different add-ons he can apply to spice it up; for example, taking her from behind with her wrists tied to her ankles, or bending her over the kitchen counter with her face pressed into the marble, or fucking her against his glass wall with her hands and chest flushed to the cool surface as their breaths fog the floor-to-ceiling window.

Missionary is a tried and true option, and just like it’s prior counterpart, it can be enhanced with a variety of extra tricks. Bondage is a good condiment, against the wall is always a nice touch, spread-eagle never goes wrong, and just having her legs wrapped around his lower back is more than enough. However, he does have two favorite variations of the position. The first is when he mounts her legs onto his shoulders or along the inside of his elbows to open her up more, and then just ramming his hips down at a very specific angle that hits her g-spot just right, pounding her into the bed so hard she tears the sheets off the mattress. The second is a cowgirl-missionary hybrid: he sits back on his heels and uses the steep downward slope created by his thighs as elevation, pulling her ass onto his tilted lap and swinging her legs over either side of his hips. He gropes her waist with his palms and yanks her forward, bouncing her against his cock and watching her completely dismantle as he nudges all the right places with as much speed and force as she deems fit.

And then there’s fucking from the side, but that’s a whole other extensive conversation he doesn’t have time for.

Actually, maybe Harry will entertain it for a minute or so. He usually throws one of Y/N’s legs over his neck to get a deeper range, manhandling her roughly onto her side and yanking her closer to his body by her waist, grasping it with stern vigor and holding her down against the mattress, grunting out a gravelly, strict command along the lines of, “Stay fucking still.” He’ll drill into her at a brutal, consistent pace, staining his fingerprints along the curves of her torso and sponging damp kisses onto her ankle, smirking into her skin as he watches her fist at the duvet in a futile attempt at maintaining her bearings. It’s pretty evident that she can’t, though; the way her eyes lull around their sockets from his harsh stride does a terrible job at hiding her lack of self-control, alongside the fragmented curses she gasps out whenever he nudges her g-spot with the head of his cock.

“Oh, that was such a pretty noise. Did I hit that little spot you like?”

Her response will be begrudging, as always, which he thinks is ridiculously useless considering he can see her burying her face into the pillow to hide how her jaw drops open in sheer rapture. “No.”

“No?” The vampire leans forward, stretching her leg towards the headboard and preening at the garbled squeak that escapes her gritted teeth, plunging deeper as he lowers himself to her level. He knots her hair around his knuckles, tugging sharply until her face is tilted back enough to meet his fiery gaze. “Then why are you starting to shake?

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

It depends on the mood, honestly. There are definitely serious moments, but Harry enjoys the humorous ones just as much. He already adores making Y/N laugh and smile on a regular basis, and that desire only grows when he’s buried between her thighs, simply because she just looks so fucking cute laughing with her hair splayed around the pillows in a messy halo, her sounds of glee stuttering due to how sharply she’s jolting against the bed. He loves feeling her giggle into his mouth as he cracks sarcastic jokes and makes stupid witty comments that break the intensity in the air, especially because she’s usually clever enough to return them with some of her own. Then they both end up snickering like idiots as he tries to keep a solid pace, which eventually tapers to a messy, haphazard stride as their laughter drowns out their goal to the point where he has to take a genuine break to collect himself. There’s tons of examples— how could there not be? Sex is hardly ever perfect, so awkward moments are not only expected, but guaranteed. What better way to handle them than with a bit of humor?

There was an incident once where Harry accidentally knocked their foreheads together so hard, they both bruised (which he responded to with, “I’m pretty sure this isn’t what Cosmopolitan meant when they suggested matching couples tattoos.”). Another time, he got so into the moment he didn’t realize he was jack-hammering the top of her head into the backboard until she brought it to his attention (and made a comment saying it sounded like a sped up version of the beat to We Will Rock You). A bad case of the hiccups. Y/N burping right in his face halfway through his orgasm. A random leg cramp that made him think he was going to need amputation to survive. Accidentally rolling off the bed or couch onto the ground and nearly dislocating both of their spines in the process, getting his cross earring tangled in her hair and nearly ripping off his ear trying to get it out, and the unfortunate collapse of a pillow fort he’d spent over an hour building. He even sneezed in her face once, and when she instinctively went to shove him back, she wound up slamming her palm into his nose so hard he nearly passed out. Nose bleeds aren’t necessarily sexy, per se, but he just dug blindly through her nightstand until he found two new tampons somewhere in that black hole she calls a drawer, shoved them in his nostrils, and kept going. No one can ever accuse him of being unresourceful.

Queefing. Lots and lots of queefing, which he usually starts mimicking with his mouth, and then she responds to that by whining and telling him to cut it out, and then he takes to mocking her whining instead. It normally finishes with them laughing so hard that Harry’s cheeks hurt from smiling so big, but it’s a good type of pain. The best type of pain.

H = Hair (how do they groom?)

Harry likes keeping himself neat and orderly, but he doesn’t enjoy going bare, so trimming is his grooming preference. There’s just something so unappealing about a completely smooth dick— it looks like raw chicken and it’s fucking disgusting. He doesn’t have anything against a good bush, but it tends to get unruly and he’d rather not have to overcomplicate his shower routine. And honestly, he can’t trust himself because last time he had a full front yard going, he got shitfaced and tried to braid it on a dare. Keeping the hedges trimmed is the ideal landscaping option, and it just looks way hotter— a uniform dusting of hair is a good accessory and it just makes everything look more cohesive, given that he also fancies keeping his happy trail thick. It’s all about aesthetics, isn’t it?

I = Intimacy (the romantic aspect)

It’s no secret that Harry’s been somewhat detached from intimacy for the last two hundred years or so. Intimacy is reserved for genuine romance, and that’s something he hadn’t entertained since before the lightbulb was invented. But now that he has Y/N, intimacy has crawled its way back out from the deepest recesses of his subconscious, where it had been shoved into a bottomless pit with the rest of his trauma. He likes it— he likes opening up to her in any way he can, because sharing those obsolete parts of himself with someone again is more fulfilling than he ever imagined. He likes kissing her randomly when she’s halfway through a sentence, just to feel her words die off abruptly in her throat as she gives into his gentle gesture, a delicate smile spreading across her satin lips. He likes whispering sweet phrases of encouragement into her hair when they’re tangled amidst sweaty limbs and rumpled sheets, reminding her of how much he cares for her and how beautiful she looks when she’s so far gone and how she makes him feel like his entire body has been set alight. He likes sponging soft pecks across the stretch marks along her thighs and across the dimples on her belly, her skin candy and velvet on his tongue as she releases a watery sigh that lets him know he’s doing all the right things in all the right places. He just likes letting her know she's special to him, in any and every way he can.

Intimacy forges timeless bonds, and he reckons that assumption is unarguable, considering he knows a thing or two about eternity.

J = Jack Off (masturbation headcanon)

Harry likes to jack off, obviously. Who doesn’t? It’s why he has an entire section of his toy chest dedicated to self-pleasuring tools. Vibrating cock rings, an array of lubes that range from temperature-changing to sensation sensitivity, and a few pocket vags that get the job done whenever Y/N is out of commission (usually because of work). His favorite one is an electronic sleek black model that is made of a premium silicone material and has a variety of massage settings, suction strengths, and internal textures. It’s designed to make the session feel more real, and yes, it was expensive, but self-love is always worth the splurge.

The beauty of living on his own is that he can get off wherever and whenever he wants, without having to stress about someone interrupting an important step in his pampering routine. He usually does it in his room and on his bed, simply because Y/N’s pillow is close by and the experience is heightened when her scent is swimming around his hazy, bliss-drunken mind. If Harry is feeling particularly needy, he’ll ditch the toy all together and just hump one out against the mattress or cushion. If it’s a particularly restless day, he’ll take a toy downstairs and lazily play within himself on the couch while browsing through Netflix. Those instances usually average a few tamer orgasms rather than a single large one, but he’s not complaining; his stamina comes in unapologetic waves that stem from a never-ending supply, and he certainly has the time to kill. If Harry gets the sudden urge in the shower or while he’s relaxing in his jacuzzi, he won’t bother fetching a trinket; he’ll just stroke one out with his hand, using the cool metal of his trusty lionhead ring to tease the tip until he brings himself to orgasm. It turns out daylight crystals have more than one use.

There is one common factor amongst all these different choices, though: Y/N is present in every fantasy. And if the vampire is feeling especially bold, he’ll grab his phone and take a video of whatever he’s doing to himself, and then she’ll have a nice little gift waiting for her once she gets out of the café for the day. That usually leads to him receiving a present in return later that evening, and then he’s dialing her contact before the clip is even done playing, and then what he does during his alone time doesn’t require him being so alone anymore.

K = Kinks

Harry has tons— in fact, he has so many, he can’t really keep track. And he also has the sneaking suspicion that if he were to ever jot all of them down, he’d end up locked in some type of sex addict rehabilitation center. Bondage is a big one, so he’ll start there. He’s great with ropes, given that he learned his way around them ages ago. Chains are nice, but they can be a pain to set up without the right equipment; he’s thinking of getting a reinforced metal hook installed into his ceiling, like the one in his storage closet, which he uses to keep his punching bag secure. Handcuffs, obviously— velvet-lined, straight metal, fuzzy coverings, he’s got it all. Dominance, degradation, Daddy, Sir, choking, brat-taming, spanking, flogging, slapping— impact play in general, to be honest— spitting, wax, praise, begging, masochism, branding (mild stuff, no molten metal shit), collaring, discipline, dirty talk, edging, exhibitionism, face-fucking, face-sitting (with him on the receiving end), giving oral (is that a kink? It is now.) gagging (both the action and using the actual object itself), breeding (he hates that term but that’s the official name, unfortunately), teasing, voyeurism, role play, and… he thinks that’s it. Oh, and blood, but that doesn’t really count for apparent reasons.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Y/N’s couch is sacred, at this point. Their entire relationship started on that lumpy, worn excuse of a sofa, and it’s seen them through their progression from strangers to friends with benefits to lovers to more. It’s comfortable enough, the dark color hides any explicit stains, and the cushions always smell of her signature mixture of honey and lavender combined with Snuggle fabric softener. It’s finicky, but irreplaceable. His kitchen counter is a close second. It’s provided a lot, taken a lot, been through a lot— through a lot of Lysol wipes, to be specific. If it wasn’t marble, it likely would have been reduced to chunks and rubble by now, courtesy of his enhanced strength gripping the edges as he slams her against the smooth surface. The backseat of his Cadillac is consecrated, as well; there’s just so much erotic appeal to fucking in a car with rock music blaring in the background, muffling the obscene sounds of bodies connecting and a mixture of fever-pitch moans. The couch, the counter, and the Cadillac— the Unholy Trinity.

The jacuzzi is nice, too, but for the sake of his clever little “c” alliteration, he’ll leave that one as an implied token.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

As much as Harry claims he likes full submission in bed, he can’t deny that he loves being challenged. Delivering punishment and coaxing out an orgasm is so much more satisfying when he has to fight for it; it’s so fucking hot watching his girlfriend try to best him in a power struggle, especially when she finally— and undeniably, since he always wins— caves under his will and winds up begging him for what he otherwise would have gifted her freely. That’s where the brat-taming kink comes into play. He likes it when she mouths off and makes snarky digs, and he enjoys it even more when he tries to set her in place and she amps her disobedience as a result. There’s nothing more attractive than a battle of wits with someone who is a perfect match in every way. And when she channels her attitude into physical gestures, it riles him up beyond compare. For example, when she smirks and rolls her eyes, despite the fact that there’s trails of tears staining her cheeks and mascara smeared all over her waterline? Christ, he could go feral.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

No feet, no feces, no beastiality. There’s probably more, but those are the ones off the top of his head.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Receiving oral is great— he highly recommends it, solid ten out of ten— but giving it is so much better. Harry’s always been a giver, even when he was young and barely knew his way around a woman’s undergarments. The stereotypical expectation for a person who is beginning to explore their sexuality is that everything they do, they do for their own gain. It’s a selfish realization, yes, but it’s a primal type of selfishness that no one can truly be blamed for. It’s a simple concept: when you start having sex, you want as much personal benefit as possible. It’s only natural. But from the second Harry became sexually active, he came to find that providing release to his partner outweighed the bliss he could get from letting them pleasure him instead. It’s not direct pleasure, but rather cognitive, which more often than not translates itself physically. And when it comes to Y/N, that euphoria manifests tenfold.

Nothing compares to having his face buried between her legs as she tugs and yanks at his hair desperately, her chest heaving and jaw falling open as he uses his tongue to unravel her from the inside out. Spitting sloppily onto her folds and hearing the raw gasp of aroused shock that escapes her sore throat, which causes his swollen lips to spread into a dirty grin as he latches onto the sensitive bud at the thick of her core, fiddling with it until her legs are trembling uncontrollably around his sturdy shoulders. Watching her features go slack as he bobs his neck fervently between her thighs, swiping the bridge of his nose across her clit over and over until the entire bottom half of his face is drenched in her excitement. Fucking his tongue into her and feeling her buck against his jaw as she holds him in place with her fingers tangled in his curls, whimpering his name repeatedly in a voice so shattered, he could probably build a mosaic with the fractures. Feeling her drip down his chin and into the collar of his shirt, savoring how sweet she tastes as he pins her hips down against the bed and groans feverishly into her cunt, his ego idolizing the image of her so disheveled under his influence.

A measly blowjob is hardly any competition to that. Harry could very well cum just from eating Y/N out. In fact, he has, and that in itself is all the proof he needs.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

This is one of those other factors that depends on the mood. If Harry has been waiting all day for it, his impatience bleeds into his rhythm, which means he settles for fast and hard. It means he settles for bending her over the back of his couch with one palm around her throat and his other fingers in her mouth, pounding into her with so much force, the sofa starts shifting across the ground. If Y/N has been teasing him endlessly for a decent amount of time, it’ll be rough and deep, but not fast; he’ll drag it out for as long as possible, just to make her regret acting like such a spoiled brat. That’s when he brings out the paddle, or the crop, or just manhandles her across his lap and spanks her until she’s apologizing profusely through her whines. If he’s in a soft, romantic headspace, it’ll be slow and sensual, with lots of gentle caresses, giggly kisses dusted across eager lips and droopy eyelids, and penetrating strokes that make his toes curl and tummy clench.

Pace is relative, but the message behind it is all the same: I want you more than anything, and I’m going to show you just how deeply I mean it.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Quickies are fun, Harry will admit. They’re filthy and messy, and they show just how far gone two people are for each other to the point where they can’t wait to feel one another at a later time; that they need to be together now, or they’ll go absolutely insane. Quickies are saved for when the urge strikes at random times. For when he’s out with Y/N at a park, sitting under the shade with his head in her lap as she combs his curls out of his eyes and thumbs over his chin affectionately, and the sun filters through the tree canopy just right to where it illuminates her lashes and the suppleness of her cheeks in a manner he deems ethereal. For when they’re at the mall, walking hand in hand and licking at ice cream cones as they survey the shops, and she reaches over to wipe a bit of Rocky Road off the corner of his mouth, replacing the stain with a soft stipple of her lips instead. For when they’re out eating dinner and playing footsie under the table like immature teenagers, and she’s trying to steal a French fry from his plate but he keeps fighting her off with his fork because, “I told you to order your own, but you wanted those disgusting potato skins instead!” And she’s laughing so brightly and unapologetically, giving him a look that so obviously tells him she can’t wait to get him alone, and nothing seems quite as flawless as that fraction in time, then and there and nowhere else.

These simple but memorable moments cause him to get love boners, which he jokingly refers to as “sniffy stiffies,” where “sniffy” has to do with being sentimental, and “stiffy”...well, that one is pretty self-explanatory, no? It always ends with them shagging in the car, or in the family bathroom of a diner, and in the case of the park, in an obscure area of the forest that lines the jogging trail.

Quickies are just that— fast, but meaningful nonetheless, because they come from a place of genuine emotion. They’re fleeting, but unforgettable. Sniffy stiffy quickies, if you will.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Taking risks is the norm in Harry’s life, especially when it comes to his sex habits. He’s proven time and time again that he has no problem riding along the seams of a dare and just barely making it out unscathed, so experimenting outside of the bedroom is just another day in the life. Fingering Y/N in a music room in an antique shop, getting road head during a two hour drive back to Los Angeles, ripping his girlfriend’s panties out from beneath her dress at one of California’s most prestigious restaurants— the list is endless, really. Harry likes to think he has a gift for coming up with inspirational quotes on the spot, so he’ll lend his expertise here and now: “A life without risks is a life that isn’t worth shit.” It even rhymes, so he knows sorority pledges will have a ball putting it in their Instagram bios. A bit of charity work for the bird-brained.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Endless stamina. Literally. Vampires don’t stay tired for long, so he could be ready to go again within seconds. And he can last long, as well; his stubbornness and pride depend on it, and he likes making his partner cum first as an ego boost. He can go as many rounds as Y/N can and more, though he won’t push it. He doesn’t want her to end up in the ER with a bruised cervix.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Harry could run a sex shop from his closet; Y/N doesn’t take the piss by calling him “Fifty Shades” for no reason. He uses them on himself, he uses them on her, and he got high once and tried to sword fight Y/N with a dildo, so it’s safe to say he definitely uses them quite a bit. If his Lovesense Lush 3 vibrator could talk, he’d be drawn and quartered for excessive debauchery.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Harry loves teasing, that’s no mystery. Winding people up is one of his most practiced skills, so of course that would channel into his intimate life. He’s mastered it, though it’s not like it’s hard. A drawn out blink here, or a feathery touch there. An inch of space between his and Y/N’s lips to establish some tension, or squeezing her inner thigh with his palm hard enough to draw a tiny squeak from her chest. Touching her through her clothes, or leaving a trail of wet kisses down her throat and stopping right at her cleavage. Biting the sensitive skin along the inside of her knee, or dragging the tip of his cold nose down the center of her twitching tummy. Lapping slowly at her nipples until they perk up, or sinking a single long digit inside her and keeping it there just to feel her clench around it needily. And once he gets a pattern going, teasing molds into edging, edging molds into begging, begging molds into praise, and before he knows it, he’s hit four of his kinks with one roll of the dice.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Harry is very vocal in bed, and he’s not ashamed of it. He knows for a fact that Y/N loves it, and if him being loud gets her worked up, then he’ll let his throat go out in the process. He’s noticed that in different situations, he has an arsenal of sounds for each. If he’s being rough and dominant, he tends to groan, grunt, and growl. If he’s being desperate and needy, he turns to whines and whimpers to communicate how he feels. If he’s too zoned into the moment to distinguish all his emotions, broken moans and stuttered mewls are his default. No matter the circumstance, they all take the same route: they start low and soft, and escalate in volume proportional to the intensity of the moment. So what if half the building is hearing him orgasm for the third time as he mocks his girlfriends sobbing pleads and calls her his “dirty fucking whore”? Let’s be honest, it’s probably the highlight of their week. He has a great voice— a sultry, deep baritone that compliments his English accent nicely— and anyone would be lucky to hear it spew the filth it does. He’s yet to get many complaints, so he doesn’t intend on stopping.

W = Wildcard (random headcanon)

An honesty hour moment seems interesting, so he’ll confess a few tales from his past. The first time Harry ever went down on a girl, it was against a tree in a garden and he nearly asphyxiated under all the layers of her gown. A couple of years later, he ended up getting oral from a reverend’s daughter against a tree, too, for the morbid irony and associated religious revenge. And to drive the point home, oral was only the beginning of what she gave him. His first decade as a vampire was definitely his pettiest.

X = X-Ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

It’s not uncommon knowledge that Harry’s well-endowed. He remembers how insecure he was the first time he had sex— a shocker, he knows; he was insecure?— and how he knew barely anything regarding sizing and how to use his assets accordingly. But it’s been ages since then, and now he definitely knows his way around his own body (let alone his partner’s), and he most certainly knows that he’s above average not only as a person in general, but when it comes to what’s in his trousers, as well. Harry won’t specify inches— he loves how speculation drives others mad— but it was big enough to give Y/N a decent pause the first time she pulled down his pants, and it’s big enough to leave her absolutely fucked every single time, without a single miss. If that’s not credibility at its finest, then he doesn’t know what is.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Harry’s sex drive is insatiable, to say the least. His vampirism combined with his narcissistic tendencies makes the ideal cocktail— cocktail— for the constant fuse that’s always burning under his skin. He’s ready to go at all times; Y/N just has to say the word and he’s pulling on a pair of sweatpants as he grabs his keys, hopping down his complex’s corridor toward the elevator on one foot as he tries to get his last shoe on the other. Lazy morning sex is probably his favorite; he’s come to find it’s when he’s most pent up, usually after a sleepless night of feeling Y/N’s body heat radiating through all of his cold limbs. It also sets a great tone for the rest of the day, and he just loves seeing Y/N wake up to him lying on his side with his temple resting on his fist, his elbow propped against the mattress as he poses the other on his hip in a theatrical diva stance. He’ll smile at her giddily with all his pearly teeth, dimples twitching as his lashes flutter dramatically, dirty intentions written clear all over his face (“Good morning, hon—” “Wanna have sex?” “Harry, it’s ten in the morning.” “Is that a yes? Because it’s not a no.” “I haven’t even brushed my teeth!” “That’s fine, I’m gonna stick my dick in there anyways.”)

All in all, his libido is insane, and he’s lucky that Y/N’s is up to par or else he would have worked her into an exhaustion-induced coma by now.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Harry just...doesn't. Maybe once every few weeks, but definitely more often now than before he had his girlfriend. Sleeping just comes way easier when he has someone he cares about resting beside him, their inherent warmth thawing the stiffness from his muscles and putting his racing mind at ease. He feels safe enough around Y/N to let his guard down— both literally and metaphorically— and that seems to help with his supernatural insomnia; it sedates that nocturnal hyper-instinct in his brain that demands he be aware at all times, muffling the animalistic part of him that has been manning the reins for the better half of the last two hundred years. He doesn’t need to be so on edge anymore when everything he needs is just an arm-length away. Especially when she’s usually willing to lend her chest as a pillow, and who is he to neglect her wishes.

#ysijwa #harry styles smut #vampire!harry #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x oc #harry styles x you #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles mature #harry styles dirty fanfiction #harry styles fanfiction

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iambilliejeanok · 3 years ago

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DRABBLE

Feat- Madara

WARNINGS: 18+, smut, nsfw, overstim

(Image source)

Please let Madara eat you from the back after you come out the shower?

He wants to place your leg above the counter and suck on your sweet little clit until you’re dripping all over him and the floor.

He loves shoving his tongue into your asshole to feel you squeeze it while he’s finger fucking your drippy cunt and flicking your swollen nub until you’re screaming, shaking and your knees are bucking.

He’s not going to knock or ask you. He’s explained to you what he likes and unless you tell him no he’s going to invade your privacy and make you sit on his face until you’re crying.

Won’t let you sit somewhere even if you’re knees are failing you. If you fall he will catch you and just continue his work right there on the floor, holding your ass up to chest and diving into your little cunt, his fingers rapidly flicking your button and his tongue deep inside your warm paradise.

He loves eating you from the back though. There’s just something so erotic about that position, it makes him go a little animalistic when your ass is jiggling right in his face and your pussy is squirting for him, your juices collecting in his palm, forming a little puddle in his hand before it spills down his arms.

He loves making your juices splatter, clapping his palm against your clit while he’s roughly fingering you, stimulating your clit and gspot at the same time, making you squirt, the juices splattering in the most sinful way. He loves how it sounds when you’re cumming for him.

He can and he will make you squirt until you seriously can’t handle it anymore.

He will manhandle and maneuver you into positions he sees fit like it’s nothing, while his mouth is still roughly swallowing your clit.

You also get spanked a lot when he eats you out because you can never sit still and take it. You always have to be squirming around like a little brat.

The image of his big head forcing your thighs and ass apart while he sucks and flicks at your clit when eating you from the back is enough to immediately send you into climax.

He just spreads your pussy apart, exposing your sensitive clit so he can roughly lap directly on it, making you crumble to little itty bits of pieces, your brain half dumb as you drool and scream, the sounds of your cries of pleasure ripping right through your chest.

He wants to dirty you up again so he can fuck you against the marble walls of your shower, until he has to support all your weight because you’re trapped in a heavenly orgasm that just takes over your world for few minutes and let’s you full out feel and experience your orgasm.

When you’re cumming so beautifully like that he just holds you, slowly caressing your smaller body under the warm running water, embracing the feel of your hips jittering against his lower pelvis as your orgasm worked its way through you, throwing his head back in pleasure as your tight clenching cunt massaged him so damn good.

Madara fucks you for long periods of times and he doesn’t fuck you often because you usually need to fully recover before he can fuck you again. There’s no such thing as a quickie with Madara. But when he does fuck you laaawwwd, you’re drooling, heaving and crying and he’s not stopping😩😩😩😩😩😩

When he’s feeling a little particularly selfish he will fuck you two or three days in a row because he just has so much pent up stress from work, having to suffer the effects of you’re sinful body and your alluring voice teasing him day and night. He can’t live like that all the time.

And he will completely wreck you during that time. Enough that you’ll feel him for the next few days before you fully recover.

And also hickies are out of the question. It’s just something he does since he really loves you, he feels the need to bite you 24/7.

The after care is always insanely good because he’s so good at taking care of you and making you feel so damn good.

#naruto imagines #madara x you #madara x y/n #madara imagine #madara smut #madara uchiha #madara x reader

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ragingbookdragon · 4 years ago

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Batsis & Green Lantern, Sittin' In A Tree. K-I-S-S-I-N--Wait, Is That Our Sister? PT. 1

Kyle Rayner x Batsis One-Shot

Word Count: 4K Warnings: Explicit Language

Author's Note: Aye, looks who's back at it again with a fic like this! IT'S ME! Enjoy! -Thorne

**********************************************************************

The creature was coming at him a lot faster than he’d thought it was, and he barely had enough time to form a wall before it slammed into him. Even then, the force of it hitting the green construct sent him back a hundred feet and into the side of an abandoned skyscraper.

Pain wasn’t really felt when in the suit, but man, it still threw him for a loop and he groaned as he picked himself up off the ground, shoving glass and concrete away from his body. He could hear the rest of the Justice League fighting outside and as he started back towards the hole his body had made, the creature came in.

And this time, he didn’t have any to react, and the glowing magenta beast was coming right at him—fast. He lifted his arms and started to will a construction when a low sound came from his hand and with wide eyes, he watched the glowing neon green ring faded dull.

“Shi—”

His suit faded instantaneously and the next thing he knew, he was being shoved into the wall. It cracked under the pressure and his skull felt as though it’d been split when it connected with the concrete. The creature’s giant clawed hands wrapped around his throat, starting to choke the life out of him and he scratched at the magenta skin, to no avail.

“He—lp!” he gasped. “Som—on—e hel—p!”

Black started to edge from the corners of his vision and a haze began to settle over his brain as his lungs stopped receiving air.

I don’t wanna die. I don’t wanna die like this. Someone, anyone, help!

Something cold splattered across his face, and suddenly the steel grip around his throat went slack. The weight of the creature fell away from him and he dropped to his knees and collapsed onto his back, gasping in lungfuls of air to his deprived organs.

When his head stopped spinning, and he found the strength to move, he rolled onto his side and immediately, he recoiled with a shout of fear. The creature’s big ugly head had been decapitated and was leaking a fluorescent blue blood—that’s probably what splattered on his face and he reached up, wiping a hand across his skin. He pulled his hand away and there was the neon ichor painting his palm.

“You’re weak, Rayner,” a voice commented disapprovingly.

He craned his neck up to see a woman who looked about his age wiping the neon blood from a silver sword before she sheathed it on her back, her white slit eyes finding his.

“You almost died because your ring ran out of power.”

Kyle huffed and unsteadily stretched his legs. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m the woman that saved your life.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re welcome by the way.”

“Thank you,” he said, casting one last look at the creature before looking back at her. “So, who are you again? You obviously know me?” he took a moment to examine her suit. It was black, with silver stripes and in the middle of her chest was a silver symbol, that of a Greek helmet. But what got Kyle was the bat wings that outstretched from the sides of the helm.

“Are you apart of Batman’s troupe?”

She grunted and tapped at the glowing screen on her wrist. “Yeah. Name’s Silver Sentinel.”

��Oh, I know who you are!” he grinned. “You’re Dick and Jason’s sister!”

“Yes, please, tell the world who my younger brothers are.”

Kyle’s face heated and he glanced down at his hands. “Sorry.”

She tapped a button and waited, then a voice came over the comm link.

Talk.

Her eyes found Kyle’s and she replied, “Rescued your Green Lantern about two klicks from your position.” A sneer came over her lip. “Fool let his ring run out of power.”

He stared at his hands as embarrassment crawled across his skin, flushing from his neck up to his cheeks.

Hmm. Can you get him back to New York?

“I could be persuaded.”

Sentinel.

She rolled her eyes. “Alright, whatever. I’ll take him back to NY.” Walking over to the hole in the wall, she saw a beam of light. “Need a hand down there?”

Negative. We’ve got it under control.

“Ten-four. Silver Sentinel out.” The line went dead, and she looked down at Kyle. “Well, are you going to keep sitting there on your ass or are you gonna get up?”

He scrambled to his feet, an apology rolling off his tongue. “Sorry.”

She merely grunted in return and started off towards the exit, him following rather quickly. As they got to the entrance to the floor, she walked over to the elevator and pried it open, and Kyle had to fight to not be impressed by her sheer strength. She placed some type of device between the open doors and clicked a button, and it spread, keeping them apart.

Next, she pulled out what looked like one of the grapple guns Kyle had seen her family carrying around, and pointed it at the ceiling of the elevator, pulling the trigger. It hit the top with a clink, and she gave it an experimental tug before looking over at him.

“Come here,” she commanded, and Kyle blinked as something tight shot through his gut at the tone she carried—one of force and complete authority. Something told him that she was the type of woman who did what she wanted and expected people to fall in line behind her or else. He wasn’t sure if he should’ve been aroused or terrified, but it was probably a mix of both as he walked over.

She curled an arm around his waist and tugged his body up against hers. “Put one of your arms around my shoulder, the other around my body.”

“I—uh—I don’t feel comfor—” Kyle stuttered as his cheeks turned scarlet and she glared at him.

“We’re not going to dry hump in the elevator like horny teenagers, Rayner.” She pulled them nose to nose and he tried not to wince as the black nose of the cowl pushed into his skin. “If you’d rather us grapple down the side of the building where everyone can see, then let’s go.”

He swallowed thickly and did as she’d said a moment earlier, putting one of his arms around her shoulder, the other wrapping snug around her back. “N-no. We can do this,” he agreed, and she grunted.

“Listen carefully, this is going to be scary because you’re not used to it, but the second our feet come off this floor, don’t panic. I’ve got you and I’m not going to drop you.”

Though her voice was harsh, he could feel the security. “And the claw holding us up?”

“Has a gripping force of two tons.” She looked at him and inched towards the opening. “We’ll be fine.”

Kyle stepped over and looked down into the cold and dark shaft, immediately feeling his heart-rate pick up and she sighed when she heard the sharp intake of breath.

“You’re such a baby,” she scowled and pulled them into the shaft. His arms tighten instantaneously and even his legs tightened around hers. “Gonna try and climb me, Rayner?” she teased.

“Shut up,” he hissed and buried his face in her shoulder pad. “Just hurry and get us down.”

She snorted and clicked a button, allowing them to descend at a faster pace than he would’ve liked. “I thought Green Lanterns were supposed to be fearless?”

“Usually when I’m somewhere I could fall to my death, I’m powered up.” He retorted, still burrowed in her shoulder. “This is a little different.”

“Relax, Rayner. I’ve got you.”

Kyle pulled his face away from her armor and stared at her, though all he could make out was the white slits. “How are you this strong? I know I weigh at least one-eighty.”

She grunted. “Yeah, I can tell.”

He blinked. “Are you calling me fat? That sounds like you’re calling me fat.”

“Your muscle mass could be better.”

“That wasn’t a no,” he griped and when she chuckled, it sent shivers down his spine.

“To answer your earlier question—”

“The one where you called me fat?” he interrupted, and she scowled at him.

“The one about how strong I am. I work out daily, Rayner, and I can lift a lot more than my weight.”

“How heavy—” he chuckled nervously when she glared at him. “I’m not gonna finish that question.”

“Good idea, Rayner. Might save you from being dropped.”

“Hardy-har-har. You’re hilarious,” he retorted, and suddenly his feet his something hard. He looked down and saw the elevator, and she shoved him back from her, clicking the button on the grapple gun.

It recoiled in a matter of seconds and she tapped a button on the side of her cowl as she stowed the gun, then she moved to the corner of the elevator and brought her foot down as hard as she could. Kyle winced when the hatch gave way and he wondered how powerful she was to kick through a metal latch in one hit.

She looked at him. “Come on. I’ll call the Batplane when we get outside.”

“I thought only Batman was allowed to do that?” he asked, and she scoffed.

“Let’s just say I’m the one who’s allowed to do whatever she wants, and things don’t get fucked up.” She disappeared down the hatch and a moment later, he heard the elevator doors being pried open. “Are you coming, Rayner? I’d be more than happy to leave you here without a ride home.”

Kyle hurried and squeezed down the hatch, grunting when his tennis shoes hit the floor. The elevator rocked and creaked and she made a noise that sounded a lot like the one Batman made when he was annoyed.

“Hurry up and get through the doors.”

He ducked under her arms and out onto the floor and she followed, letting the thick metal doors slam behind her. She strode ahead and tapped at her screen.

“Alfred, are you there?”

A moment later, an older voice came over the line.

Yes Miss Wayne. How can I assist you this evening?

“I need the Batplane at my position. Could you send it?”

At once.

“Thanks Alfie.”

Of course, Miss Wayne.

As they waited in the lobby of the skyscraper, she murmured, “If you’re not going to ask whatever you’re thinking about asking me. Stop thinking. It’s annoying.”

Kyle blinked. “How’d you—”

“Oh please.” she rolled her eyes. “You’ve opened and shut your mouth eight times in the last two minutes.” She gazed at him. “Just ask.”

“You’re really Bruce Wayne’s daughter? (Y/N) Wayne?”

“I am.” (Y/N) replied. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I dunno…it’s just kinda hard to believe that a famous model doubles as a vigilante at night.”

“Why’s that so shocking? My dad’s a multi-billionaire playboy by day and Batman by night. Are you telling me a woman can’t do it too?”

Kyle’s green eyes widened, and he shook his head. “What? No! That’s not what I meant! I just meant that with back-to-back photo shoots, it must be hard to make time to do all this.”

(Y/N) hummed, turning her gaze to the street, a blur of red went by and she knew it was Barry Allen. “I run on my own schedule, Rayner, not anyone else’s.”

“Wow, you really are the woman in charge, aren’t you?” he remarked.

And she turned her eyes onto him again, this time narrowed in amusement as she teased, “Trying to see if you can find out what it’s like to be in charge for the night?”

Kyle’s mouth opened and snapped shut. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, swallowing nervously.

She crossed over to him in one step, getting up in his personal space again as she cooed, “Oh, you don’t?” he nodded and she reached up, trailing her silver armored fingers up the front of his white shirt and he was incapable of fighting how his muscles twitched at the pressure.

“I think you do,” she flirted. “Come on, Rayner. Don’t you wanna see what it’s like when you’re the man in charge? How much fun it can be to take all that control?” (Y/N) leaned close, her face barely an inch from his. “To be the one who holds all that power over a woman?”

He couldn’t breathe. His head was swimming with R-rated thoughts that if she really were a mind reader, she’d probably break his jaw, but all he knew was that his mind was so far into the gutter it wasn’t funny, and he swore she could hear his heart pounding.

She pulled away. “You should break out on your own instead of working for a design company. Then you’d have better control over your own schedule.”

Kyle blinked, stunned silent, then he said, “Wait, what?”

(Y/N) cocked her head to the side. “What?”

“What was,” he gestured wildly. “All that just now?”

Placing a hand on her hip, she asked, “I don’t understand what you’re talking about, Rayner. All I said was that you should get on your own.”

A deafening sound shook the floor and Kyle stared at the black plane settling down in the middle of the street. (Y/N) walked out the doors and to it as if it just hadn’t pulled a “J-turn” at twelve G’s.

“Let’s go, Rayner. I’ve got better things to do than babysit you,” she called, and he ran after her. She helped him climb into it, then scowled. “Move over. You’re in my spot.”

He shimmied in the tight space to the other seat and strapped in, watching curiously as she tapped at the buttons and flipped switches before grabbing hold of the steering device.

Kyle snorted. “It’s even shaped like a bat.”

(Y/N) huffed. “Yeah, that’s how we do things in our family.” She tapped at the screen. “Batman, this is Silver Sentinel. Come in.”

Read you loud and clear, Sentinel.

“Green Lantern and I are in route to New York.” She paused and directed her gaze to the screen, watching red dots surround a group of blue ones. “You’ve got enemies incoming. Do you want backup?”

Negative. You and Green Lantern get back to New York. We can handle this.

For once that night, Kyle watched as concern crossed (Y/N)’s face and she replied, “Dad, I think—”

I gave you an order, Sentinel.

(Y/N) glared and looked at Kyle and he about shrunk in his seat form the withering stare; she tossed him a helmet and ordered, “Put that on and don’t puke in it.”

“Don’t what?” he inquired as he put it on and the only answer he got was the sudden kick of the engines and he was pulled back in his seat. “Holy shit,” he whispered breathlessly as the Batwing took a U-turn in the air and headed off towards the fight.

Sentinel, we’re fine.

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t believe that,” (Y/N) retorted and in a matter of moments they were flying over the rest of the Justice League. She tapped at the screen. “You’ve got incoming hostiles from the north, east, and west.” (Y/N) flipped a few switches above her then pressed a button on the steering wheel. “Heatseekers and nanite missiles deployed.”

Kyle watched her go between the screen and the switches. “Hostiles in the east and west quadrants have been eliminated.”

What can you tell me about the north?

“You’ve got multiple hostiles coming in. Got a big guy too. Got any tips?”

They’re vulnerable to sound waves. Take him out and we’ll do the rest.

“Ten-four. Happy hunting.”

(Y/N) turned the steering wheel and directed the Batplane towards the north part of the fight, grinning when the giant creature came into view, while Kyle looked like he was going to crap himself.

“Merry Christmas, ugly. Kiss my ass,” she quipped and pressed a button, and a black tube the size of a fire hydrant shot to the ground, and with a thunk, sunk in.

“What’s that supposed to do?” Kyle asked and she grinned.

“Watch and learn.”

The device popped up, blue and armed and she hit the screen. Immediately the windows of every building and car in the mile radius shattered and to his amazement, Kyle watched the creatures screech and grab at their heads before they exploded into piles of neon blue goo.

His jaw dropped. “Holy shit. That was cool.”

(Y/N) smirked and checked the map once more. No more hostiles inbound and she hit the comm link again. “Justice League you are all clear. I repeat, Justice League you are all clear.”

Good work, Sentinel. Now do as I told you and take Green Lantern back to New York.

“Is nothing I do good enough for you, father?” she griped, though Kyle could see the humor in her eyes.

Get off the comm link.

“Make me.”

Sentinel. Get. Off.

“Fine, fine. I love you too.” (Y/N) pushed at the screen once more then reclined in her seat, shutting her eyes.

“Don’t you have to fly this thing?” Kyle asked as the engines picked up again.

“Nah. It’s got autopilot.”

“I gotta get me one of these,” he whispered, and she reached over him, pulling out something from a drawer. (Y/N) opened a snack bag and popped a cookie into her mouth.

“You could probably construct one with your ring,” she offered, then held out the bag.

He took one with a ‘thank you’, then said, “Yeah but there’s nothing like owning the real thing.”

“HA! Give my dad a couple million dollars and he might be willing to part with one.”

“And on that note, I’ll stick to constructs,” he chuckled, and the rest of their flight was filled with easy banter, where (Y/N) found herself teasing Kyle a lot more than he was comfortable with—only because he found himself lacking a comeback for every remark she gave him.

***

“You really gotta get a new apartment. This place is way too small for a grown man,” she commented, and he snorted, picking up a pair of shoes that were laying haphazardly on the floor.

“I’m not exactly on the billionaire’s credit card, (Y/N). I live on minimum wage and whatever I can get out of commissions.”

She observed Kyle as he recharged his ring and when he was finished, she asked, “How much do you charge for commissions?”

He blinked and looked up at her. “Oh, well it depends on what the commissioner wants me to do.”

“Give me a price range.”

“Uh…between eighty and two hundred. That’s usually what I charge.”

(Y/N) thought for a moment. “Mind showing me some of your best works? I’ve been thinking about hiring a graphic artist for a new project I’m working on.”

Kyle felt a giddy feeling rise in his chest and he practically tripped over himself to his desk to grab his sketchbook. His cheeks were warm when she giggled and took it from him, flipping through it in silence. And that wracked his nerves because without the cowl on, he could see just how scrutinizing her gaze was.

After a moment she passed it back to him and when she didn’t say anything, merely frowned, he couldn’t help but deflate a bit. “I guess it’s not what you’re looking for, huh?” he tried to sound light, but it came out a lot bitter than he meant.

(Y/N) hummed. “It’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

“I can get you in touch with a better artist at the—” he stopped mid-sentence and gaped at her. “Wait, what was that you said just now?”

She snorted. “I said your work is exactly what I’m looking for.”

He couldn’t fight the shock coursing through him. “Really? It is?”

Suddenly her smile was replaced with a scowl and she bit out, “Quit making me repeat shit and listen the first time.”

Kyle nodded. “Right. I just…wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“I know,” she replied cockily, then took out her phone and tapped at the screen before showing it to him. “I know you’re a graphic designer and not a clothing one, but you’d be really helpful with the new line of clothing and jewelry I’m planning on making.”

He took her phone gently and swiped at the pictures. “Justice League themed?”

(Y/N) tipped her head. “We’re doing an exclusive line for Gotham’s vigilantes first. If it pays well, we’ll go from there.” She took her phone back and stared at him. “I’m willing to pay you up to two grand for every design you give me.”

Kyle’s eyes practically popped out of his head and his jaw went slack. “Are you—are you being serious?”

She nodded and stowed her phone. “On one condition.”

He nodded. “For two grand a design? I’ll do anything for you.”

The corner of her mouth rose in a smirk and he realized his words too late as she purred, “Well I would love to see you on your knees for me. So, I’ll keep that in mind, Rayner.” Waving a hand, she added, “But besides that, if you want the job, you have to come to the manor.”

“Wayne Manor?”

“Mhm. I’ll provide everything you need to create and design.”

His dark brows furrowed. “I can do that, but why?”

A solemn look came across her face. “You almost got yourself killed tonight because you let your ring power down.” She placed her hands on her hips. “If you want this job, you’re going to take combat lessons from me and you’re going to start working out more.”

Kyle’s face pinched. “You want me to work out and get my ass kicked for a job?”

“More like so my brothers don’t lose a best friend.” She shrugged. “But, if a freelance artist like you can find better money elsewhere, I’d be happy to let you go and—”

“I get it!” he scowled and looked away for a moment before sighing and turning back to her, his hand outstretched. “Fine. It’s a deal. You pay me and I’ll do your designs.”

“And?” she questioned with a smirk.

He groaned, his muscles already feeling the pain coming. “And I’ll take lessons from you.”

(Y/N) smiled. “I’m so glad we could come to an arrangement.” She shook his hand. “It’s going to be a pleasure doing business with you, Mister Rayner.”

Kyle swallowed thickly as she pulled away and walked to the fire escape. “Likewise, Miss Wayne,” he replied lowly, knowing that with each sway of her hips, he was getting more and more screwed. Not only was she his better, she was also his best friends’ older sister—hotter and badass older sister.

She opened the window and paused, looking back at him. “This’ll be a three-month project. Are you okay with that, Kyle?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I can do that.” (Y/N) seemed to be thinking about something and he could tell. “Is something on your mind?”

She pulled on the cowl and gazed at him. “I’ve half a mind to tell you to pack a bag and spend the time at the manor while we do the project.”

“Pay my rent and I’ll consider it,” he snorted and then she blinked and shifted her gaze down to her wrist then tapped at it.

After a minute, she said, “Alright, your rent and utilities have been paid for the next three months.”

“What?”

“You said pay your rent. So, I did.”

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Kyle begged—he didn’t want to owe her like that.

She smiled. “Pack a bag Rayner. You’re moving in.”

“Seriously?”

“Didn’t I tell you to stop making me repeat things?”

He sighed heavily, moving to pack. “Yes ma’am.”

“Ooo, call me ma’am like that again and I might not let you leave when this is over.”

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bakugosbratx · 4 years ago

Text

Baby Eyes | Mafia Katsuki Bakugo x Fem! Reader

Warning: 18+ Content. Some non-con, blood, murder, Mafia Bakugo, Fem! Reader, bdsm, sexual intercourse, size kink, degrading, orgasm denial, Stockholm syndrome, yandere themes, etc.

Words: 2,896

A/N: thank you so much to @daisy-bakugo for letting me participate. It is really fun doing this collaboration with you. Daisy’s Event

Tags: @awilddreamerwrites @peachsenpie @miriobaby @milkthistletea @idfkwtfgof click here to see my other works

Vegas.

Many dream of this city. The gambling, the drinks, the money, the night life. It has it all. Your dreams and worse nightmares can be made here all within a single night. The world may be cruel, but Vegas is even crueler. At least, it is for Y/N.

Your pistol was held tight in your trembling little hand. You have not been properly trained for this moment since in your late teens. The weapon felt foreign to the touch. You are now in your twenties and you are usually not doing this line of work, but since you wanted to disturb your significant other while he was working, he handed you the gun for you to handle.

“Since you want to be such a fucking cry baby, here.” He growled, shoving the pistol into your pounding chest. You gasped.

“S-Sir, I—“ You stammered, using the name he loved to be called by you. You would help it lessen your punishment, but the man did not budge.

“Don’t keep me waiting, brat. Finish this piece of shit off swiftly and quit your damn crying.”

You watched as he left into the city lights of Vegas before turning your attention back to the male before you. The man begged for mercy beneath you and your mouth feels dry.

“P-Please, ma’am. I-I have a w-wife and t-three beautiful c-children. I’ll g-give you your m-money next week. I-I promise.” The fearful man stammered amongst the abandoned dark alleyway. You have heard this speech by many like him when Katsuki brought you on his missions. It should just fall on deaf ears, but tears still brimmed your eyes as memories flooded back to the forefront of your damaged mind.

These memories are the reason you are in this predicament. You begged and squealed, running towards Katsuki and hanging onto his arm when he directed you to stay in the car. You two could have been gone by now, but you decided to intervene. Now you are here, about to commit another murder.

Your father was in this same position a few years ago. Begging for mercy before Katsuki slaughtered him right in front of you. Your cries still echo this alleyway during late, breezy nights. People think you have been disposed of as well. That is what eventually happened to the remainder of your family, but you are just under a new identity.

The barrel of the gun digs deeper into the victim’s temple. You attempt to find your strength to pull the trigger. You need to before Katsuki returns. He does not like waiting and you really are pushing what is left of his buttons today.

“I’m sorry.” You whimper out, closing your sorrow filled eyes and pressing down on the trigger. The feeling of blood splattering amongst your cold skin brought back even more unwanted memories. Falling to your knees, you began to cry hysterically in front of the fallen corpse.

Heavy footsteps came up behind you after a few moments. Katsuki has been watching the whole time and you know it. This is what made the experience even worse. You know his judgment is coming. He gave you a task and although you succeeded, it isn’t good enough. He hates your emotional ways. ‘Baby eyes’ as he would say. Always crying over something or someone.

A big calloused hand entangling into your hair with a deep sigh following. You could not look up at him. You hate him right now. You need to, at least, but the feeling of his large fingers stroking your scalp delivered comfort. A comfort he gives and takes away on a whim.

“Took you long enough.” Katsuki grumbled. You gaze up at him with a pitiful look he knows all too well. There was a certain aura to you that changed when your mind drifted to that night. The night he murdered your family right in front of you and all you could do is watch in terror.

“I-I’m sorry.” You muttered out, already accepting that Katsuki is annoyed with you. This is not your first murder and sure will not be your last. He has groomed you long enough for you to know your role.

Katsuki kicked the man’s head with his large foot so he could see the man’s pleading face. Katsuki is cruel in that way. He loved seeing his victim’s expressions in their final moments. Especially when his beautiful woman killed them.

Digging into the man’s pockets, he grabbed his pack of cigarettes and black leather wallet to review what was contained inside it. The little cash the man held is now in Katsuki’s possession.

“Marlboro Reds,” Katsuki commented as he slipped the cigarette in between his moist lips and lit it up, “nice.”

Turning around to face you after letting the nicotine enter his system, he looks down at you. Grabbing your chin, you are forced to meet his gaze. You tremble under his touch.

“What did I say about that crying shit?” Katsuki recalls one of your many lectures.

“I’m sorry!” You exclaimed, a little too loud for your own good. Katsuki’s eyebrows furrowed together, not pleased with your tone. His hand found a way to your neck, giving you a nice squeeze as he guides you up to your feet.

“Let’s go.” Katsuki growls, his red orbs shooting venom into you. Your arm is now tight into his grip as he leads you to the parked all black Lamborghini.

You climb into the passenger seat while Katsuki climbs into the driver’s. You used the napkins in the glove compartment to clean up your soiled face. Katsuki is already on his second cigarette as he drives to the mansion you both share. Considering how fed up he is with you and your antics, you are surprised that half of the box is not gone by now. You know you are in for it once you arrive home.

Katsuki pulled up to the house after some time. Your tears did not pause once the whole way there which only agitated Katsuki even more. He did not say a word as you know to follow the tall man inside. Straight up the spiral marble staircase to the master bedroom, you begin undressing as Katsuki does not appreciate the mess in his living space. Along with the fact you are always to be naked within the bedroom. That rule was set once you turned eighteen years of age.

You sat on the edge of the bed, not enjoying the look in Katsuki’s angry eyes. His muscular arms folded against his chest as he leaned against the wall, glaring into you. You feel small — as usual — within his presence. He is making sure you remember your place.

“What the hell were you thinking out there, Y/N?” Katsuki begins after moments have passed.

“I-I don’t know.” You mumbled, twiddling your thumbs in your bare lap. Your insides are curling with each passing second. You are not sure why you did what you did, honestly. You have seen numerous people plead for forgiveness at Katsuki’s feet, but Katsuki is always going to be a merciless man. Your body acted before your brain could compute. You just wanted to save him. Salvage your loved ones death in some way, shape, or form, but it can never be done.

“You have to give me a better excuse than that. This little rebellion you're on lately isn’t doing nothing but getting you into heaps of trouble.”

“It’s not a rebellion!” You snap back, tears still spilling from your orbs. “You killed my family, Katsuki!”

Katsuki rolled his eyes, used to this statement coming from you. “Here we go again.” He scoffs with a tsk following shortly after. “We’ve been over this, Y/N. Your father sold you and your family out for cash. If anything, you should be fucking grateful I even let you live.”

“Grateful?” You repeat in disbelief, a half hearted chuckle escaping your lips. Maybe it was because Katsuki let you take another life, maybe your parents' spirits are coming through, or maybe you’re just so fed up with him, but a sudden burst of confidence runs through you.

You stand up, strolling over to the man before you. His jaw is clenching as he examines each cowardly step you take towards him. You glare up to the man before you, quivering before his mighty presence.

“You killed my family, Katsuki,” you repeat through gritted teeth and clenched fists, “I’ll never forgive you for that.”

“Oh yeah?” Katsuki challenged, his profound amused smirk appearing. The look in your glossy irises said all the words you didn’t have the courage to speak. “Good thing I really don’t give a fuck about your forgiveness, princess.”

Katsuki’s words soaked into your veins like venom. His smug looks always made you want to beat it off of him. Ever since you have met him. You both know you have no match against him. He will always win. Always.

You have been stuck with him since you were fifteen years old. You two never had any relationship or any sexual conduct until you were the legal age of eighteen. You would be lying if you said you didn’t fall for him over the years. He is all you know and Katsuki grew to like you over the years. Though he trained you to be the woman he wants you to be for him, you do throw a tantrum or two when needed.

“I hate you.” You sniveled.

“Sure you do. Let’s clean up that pretty face of yours so I can stuff it, eh?” Katsuki chuckled, cupping your chin with one hand so he can wipe your nose with a handkerchief with the other. You attempted to break loose of his firm grasp, but the male was not even phased.

“I don’t want your dick anywhere near me.” You admit allowed, still keeping the same angry tone within your words.

Katsuki arched his eyebrow, releasing your face from his grip and discarding the used cloth into the waste bin. “Considering the show you put on out there tonight, you’re lucky I’m not doing worse to you. I can always make that pretty ass of yours bruised too if you’d like?”

You immediately shake your head no. Your bottom is still a bit sore from two weeks ago when Katsuki put you over his knee. You are just now able to sit normal again. You do not need to go back to that.

“No, sir.” You stutter out, backing away from him and putting your hands behind your back. Katsuki is already pouring himself some whiskey into a whiskey glass that you make sure is always waiting on his dresser. He always enjoys a good drink after a long mission.

You take his black suit jacket off of him like expected and lay it on the dirty laundry hamper. Katsuki is already sitting on the bed, sipping on his alcoholic beverage, waiting for you to get to work. Kneeling before him, you begin unzipping his slacks and tugging down his underwear to reveal his erected cock. You take a moment to contemplate your future actions. You really did not want his dick in your mouth, but like Katsuki said before, you do not have a choice in the matter.

Your train of thought is derailed when Katsuki tugs on your hair. “Isn’t going to suck itself, brat. Get to work.”

Mentally groaning, your tongue swipes his length before placing kisses on the tip. Slowly, you begin taking in inch—by—inch. Saliva slid down his cock by the time you had it in your throat. Choking noises fed Katsuki’s already inflated ego.

“Can’t talk much with my cock down your throat, huh?” He teased, taking another sip of his whiskey. “For someone who claimed they didn’t want my cock to begin with, you sure are deep throating it rather quickly.”

You ignored his usual insults as you came up for air. You let out small coughs then go in for more, every vein being pleased with your tongue as you take it all in. Katsuki groans in pleasure as you pick up the speed. His cock is coated in your saliva as you did not slow down once to catch air. It wasn’t worth the ego boost he would feel from knowing he is too big for you.

Katsuki’s whiskey went unfinished as he could not focus on drinking it. Cum soon fills your hollow cheeks and down your throat as he releases into you. Not a drop was missed as you milked his cock. You were rewarded with a head pat.

“On the bed,” Katsuki instructs, “all fours.”

“Do I have to?” You whine. Katsuki vigorously grabs your chin, staring down into you. The room is dark, but his crimson eyes seemed to glow.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get on this fucking bed and shut your Goddamn mouth.” Katsuki hisses, sending chills down your spine. You do as you are told like he taught you. Arching your back, your ass is now in his perfect viewing. Katsuki’s clothes discarded to the hardwood floor below, his dick already erected at the sight of you.

“See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Katsuki asked, rhetorically. He spreads you open more for his personal view. “Yeah, that’s it.” He comments, overviewing all of you. One of his hands stroked his cock while the other pressed on your begging clit. You let out a soft moan, hoping he didn’t hear.

Placing his hands on your hips, he drags you closer to him. Leveling you with his cock, the tip slowly slips into your entrance then proceeding to pick up full speed. Your cunt swallows all of him, hugging his cock with each rhythmic thrust. You can feel your tight walls get stretched by his girth with each entry he makes, not even giving you time to get used to his size as he exits to repeat the same process. No matter how many times you two have sex, you will never get used to Katsuki’s length and size.

“Katsuki—“ You sob in pleasure and in pain.

“Shut it, slut. You’re going to take all of my fucking cock and like it. I’m going to fuck the brat out of you tonight.” Katsuki demands, pressing down on your spine so your ass is more perked up for him to smack periodically. Your cries and moans are muffled into the European satin sheets below. You grip onto them for support as Katsuki does not slow down once.

Your pussy pulsates with each thrust. It was about to give out on you and cum all over his cock. Though you did not want to give him the satisfaction, your cunt had other plans as it became tighter around Katsuki’s length.

“Aw, is someone going to cum?” Katsuki coo’s condescendingly, beginning to go agonizingly slow.

You lift your head to beg for sweet release. “Please let me cum, sir. Pretty please. I need to oh so badly.” You sobbed. His silence made your insides do flips. His slow strokes did not once stop and his nails dug into your thighs.

“No.” Katsuki finally denies as he knows you cannot take anymore. You gasp, your heart stopping for a split second.

“Katsuki, please.” You hiccuped. “I really need to.”

“Should’ve thought about that before throwing a tantrum today. Good girls get to cum.” Katsuki shrugged, using his long muscular arm to push your head back into the mattress. “Now shut the hell up while I fuck you senseless.”

Just like Katsuki stated, he fucked you until his high was met. Of course, he did not make it easy as he was about to bust, he would go slower to edge himself. He wanted this to be a punishment to remember. The whole time, you behaved and did not cum. No matter how many times Katsuki tried to get you to slip, you refused.

“C’mon and cum, brat. Y’know you wanna.” Katsuki would tease with immaturity. All you could say was incoherent “no thank you’s.” A soft rub on your ass was telling you that you passed his test.

Countless minutes, maybe even hours, have passed until Katsuki decided he was ready to release himself. “You can cum now.” He finally grants. You did not get to even process his words as your pussy released onto his cock. Babbles of pleasure and gratitude escaped from your lips.

“Good fuckin’ girl.” Katsuki praises, his cock now removed from you. You whine at the hollowness you felt.

“Lay on your back.” He instructs, doing his best to keep it together. You follow his request and switch over to your back. “Play with your tits.”

Your fingers grab onto your sensitive nipples, swirling on them before giving them a nice little pinch. Katsuki stood over you, stroking his cock that is covered in his pre-cum.

“Yeah, that’s it. Good girl.” Katsuki praised once more, analyzing your lewd faces as your fingers played with your breast.

“Mm, cover me with your cum.” You encouraged, rubbing your thighs together and pushing your breast closer to one another. Katsuki became feral as cum squirted onto your chest and stomach. Just the sight of you is making Katsuki forget today ever happened.

Just like always, baby eyes.

©bakugosbratx

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