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HIII!!! Update, Iâm gonna post the requested fic very soon I just have to finish it real quick
School is beating the living shit out of me (thatâs why I havenât been writing and Iâm sowwyyy) but I have a week off this coming week so requests will be much appreciated
âPairing Manjiro "Mikey" Sano x Female!reader, established relationship
âWarnings: Angsty, domestic themes, pregnancy, deaths of characters, a suggestive scene (he cums inside of her but its not a smut)
âGenre: Angst, Suggestive
âRequests: Open
âWord count: 5895
MDNI
a/n: omg i hope anon likes this i tried my best lmao, i might make a part two, anyways thanks for ur request whoever u are <33
im writing now the second request
"Where are you now when I need you the most?"
âť â II ⡠âş
Her slippers scraped against the pavement, cotton pajama pants flapping around her ankles. "Itâs one AM," she muttered, rubbing at an eye with the heel of her palm. "School tomorrow." The protest sounded weak even to her. Mikey just tilted his head, the smirk widening as he tossed her his spare helmetâthe one with the faded sticker of a grinning skull sheâd always secretly liked.
The engine snarled awake beneath them before she could buckle the chin strap properly. His laugh vibrated through her chest as they peeled away from the curb, her fingers instinctively digging into the sides of his jacket. Tokyo blurred into streaks of neon and shadow, the wind stealing her breath as they wove between taxis and delivery trucks with inches to spare. She shouldâve been terrified. So why was her pulse singing?
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Behind the bushes at fourteen, sheâd been a mess of scraped knees and snot, hiding from some petty middle school drama. Mikey had vaulted the fence with a juice box in handâstraw already puncturedâand plopped down beside her like theyâd had plans all along. "Here," heâd said, pressing the cold carton into her palm. "Sweet things fix everything." The lie was so bald-faced sheâd hiccuped a laugh through her tears.
It was Mikey, always been Mikey. Since meeting him at the ripe age of fourteen, crying behind the bushes. He just stared down at her. Lollipop in mouth just like how she always saw him withâsomething artificially cherry-flavored and probably stolen from a convenience store, the wrapper crinkling between his fingers as he studied her like she was a math problem he couldnât quite solve. Back then, sheâd expected pity. Instead, heâd yanked her up by the elbow with a "Câmon, loser," and dragged her to the arcade where they spent hours beating up pixelated thugs until her palms stung and her throat hurt from laughing.
He talkedânot the kind of talking people did to fill silence, but the reckless, unfiltered kind that spilled out like heâd forgotten how to hold anything back. About his grandpaâs stupid rules, his brotherâs obsession with protein shakes, how he hated the way shoelaces felt when they got wet. And she talked back. About her dadâs terrible cologne, the way her science teacher pronounced "photosynthesis" like it had six extra syllables, how she secretly loved those cheap melon sodas even though they tasted like bubblegum and cancerous.
The gang adopted her faster than she could blink. Draken rolled his eyes when Mikey slung an arm around her shoulders like she was just another extension of him.
Hinata and Emma would drag her to the riverbank with stolen beers and bags of konbini snacks, their laughter echoing as they dared each other to dip toes in the freezing river water.
One thing she absolutely hated was the gang fights. She wouldâve thought it through, hanging out with delinquents if they werenât so funâif Mikeyâs smile didnât crack wider whenever she landed a decent punch during their impromptu sparring sessions behind the bike shed.
But after that first time she saw him take a crowbar to the ribs and just grin, sheâd thrown up in a back alley just at the sheer sound it made and cried so hard her nose bled. Mikey found her curled behind a dumpster, his knuckles still split, blood drying in the creases of his palms.
He didnât laugh. Just crouched down, pressing his forehead to hers, their breathing syncing until hers slowed. "Iâll be okay," he murmured, voice rough like gravel. "Promise." The lie tasted like the strawberry milk he bought her afterwardâcloying and sweet, but she drank it anyway.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Bajiâs funeral was rain-soaked and silent. Mikey stood statue-still under the black umbrella, fingers curled so tight around the handle she thought it might snap. When she reached for him, he flinchedâjust onceâbefore letting her tuck herself against his side. The scent of damp earth clung to everything, and somewhere behind them, Draken swore under his breath, kicking a puddle hard enough to splash his own shins.
Emmaâs death was worse. There were no fists to throw, no rival gang to burn down for it. Just a hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and the way Mikeyâs breathing hitched when he pressed his forehead to the cold metal railing of her bed. She found him afterward in the stairwell, methodically crushing a vending machine coffee can between his palms. He didnât cry until she pried his fingers open, the sharp edges leaving crescent indents in his skin. "Youâre bleeding," she whispered. Mikey stared at their tangled hands like heâd forgotten what blood looked like outside a fight. People close to them began to die or disappear like nothing happened, each time it desensitized her. Mikey was already used to it.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Bonten rose from the wreckage like a car fireâugly, inevitable, the gasoline smell clinging to Mikeyâs jacket when he came home at dawn. She stopped asking where he went. The answers were in the way his knuckles never fully healed anymore, the unfamiliar weight of a gun tucked under their shared pillows. Once, she woke to him scrubbing at his hands in the sink with such violence the water ran pink. He caught her reflection in the mirror and went very still. "Donât," he said, before she could speak. The faucet dripped between them like a metronome.
She sighed, pressing her forehead between his shoulder blades, arms looping around his waist. His ribs felt sharper under her palms than they had last month. Mikey exhaled through his nose, his grip on the sink easing just enough for her to feel the tremble in his fingers. The scent of expensive soap and iron filled her throat. Outside, Tokyoâs skyline blinked indifferently through their grimy bathroom window. "Youâre cold," she murmured into his spine. A lie. He burned fever-hot these days, like his body couldnât decide whether to self-destruct or ignite.
He just scrubbed away. The water turned rust-brown where it spiraled down the drain. His reflection in the mirror was a strangerâeyes flat black, jaw clenched tight enough to crack molars. She watched him catalog his own face like he was checking for damage. The third finger on his left hand wouldnât straighten all the way anymore; an old fracture healed wrong. He flexed it now, testing the limits, before dunking his hands back under the faucet. "Go back to sleep," he said, voice scraped raw. Another lie. Neither of them had slept properly since the night he came home with someone elseâs blood flecked across his eyelashes.
She peeled herself off his back with deliberate slowness, fingertips dragging down the ladder of his ribs. The scar tissue under his shoulder bladeâthat one was from Baji, back when they were dumb kids playing at being toughâfelt raised and knotted under her touch. Her voice was syrup-thick when she leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Only if you come to bed." It came out less seductive than sheâd hoped; more exhausted, more desperate. The attempt still made his shoulders hitchâa minute flinch she wouldnât have caught if she wasnât molded against him.
This time he followed. Not gracefullyâhe flicked the bathroom light off with unnecessary force, sending shadows lunging across the peeling wallpaperâbut he followed. The mattress groaned under his weight, springs poking through the fabric like accusatory fingers. He kept his back to her, spine a tense curve in the dark. She counted the spaces between his breathsâone, two, threeâbefore pressing her palm between his scapulae. His skin tasted like salt and gunpowder when she pressed her mouth to the knob of his seventh vertebra.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Mikey exhaled through his nose, a slow, controlled thing. Outside, a neon sign flickered arrhythmically, painting stripes of garish pink across his ribcage. She traced them with her fingernail, feeling the way his muscles twitched under the touch. "Stop," he muttered, but his hand caught hers when she started to pull away, fingers interlacing with bruising tightness. His pulse thudded against her wristârabbit-quick, despite the lethargy in his voice.
The ceiling fan wobbled on its axis, casting erratic shadows that made his face look hollowed-out in the dark. He let go of her hand abruptly, rolling onto his back with a creak of protesting springs. Beside him, she watched the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed.
"Ridiculous," she scoffed. The word landed between them like a dare. The mattress shifted as she turned her back to him, cotton sheets sticking to the sweat at the small of her back. Behind her, Mikey went preternaturally stillâthe way he did right before a fight, when his whole body coiled down to its barest essentials.
She counted the seconds by the drip of their leaky faucet in the bathroom. Twelve. Thirteen. The neon glow from the ramen shop across the street painted stripes over the peeling wallpaper, catching on the edge of his shoulder where he hadn't moved an inch.
The springs creaked when she swung her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the cold linoleum. "Absolutely fucking ridiculous, Manjiro,"
she muttered into the dark, fingers curling into the mattress edge. Behind her, Mikey inhaled sharplyâlike he'd been holding his breath since she turned away.
His shadow loomed against the wall as he sat up abruptly, the motion sending a stale breeze wafting over her shoulders. "What do you want," he rasped. Not a questionâan accusation, jagged-edged and raw.
She turned just enough to catch the way his fingers dug into his own thighs through threadbare sweatpants, tendons standing out like cables. "You," she repeated, watching his pupils swallow the last slivers of silver from the streetlights outside.
Mikey barked out a laugh that sounded more like a choke, tipping his head back against the wall hard enough to rattle the cheap frame. "That's new," he mused, thumb dragging over the fresh split in his bottom lipâa habit when he was calculating.
She huffed, dragging a hand through her tangled hair. The apartment smelled like stale takeout and gun oil despite her scrubbing every surface raw yesterday.
His favorite beef bowl congealed untouched in the fridge for the third night straight, the fat separating into greasy islands. Even the laundry she'd folded with military precision was still stacked untouched on the dresser, his wrinkled shirts mocking her from the pile.
She didn't hear him moveâjust registered the sudden heat against her spine an instant before his arms banded around her ribs like live wires. The scent of him flooded her nostrils as his chin hooked over her shoulder.
Mikey inhaled sharply against her collarbone, lips brushing the thrumming pulse point beneath her jaw. He always reminded her of strawberry for some reason âthat incongruous sweetness that clung to him no matter how deep he sank into Bonten's underworld.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
The scent of sex mixed with the sharp tang of sweat as he rolled off her, forearm draped over his eyes. His ribs heaved under the fading adrenaline, fingers twitching against the sweat-damp sheets like he was counting bullets instead of breaths.
She shifted against the mattress, acutely aware of the sticky mess between her thighsâhis, not hersâand the way her pulse still fluttered wildly at her throat. The realization hit like a backdraft: she hadnât come. Not once. Yet the smug warmth of him pooling low in her gut burned brighter than any orgasm ever had. Proof. Tangible, visceral proof that she could still unravel him, could still make his hands shake when they fumbled with her waistband.
By the third week, she started leaving the bathroom light onâjust enough illumination to catch the flecks of blood on his collar when he stumbled in at 4 AM. Sometimes, she swore she could smell gasoline and gunpowder on his knuckles before he even reached for her. Heâd always been tactile, but now his touch had a feverish desperationâlike he needed the press of her skin to remember what human warmth felt like. The way his fingertips dug bruises into her hips after midnight suggested he still knew how to feel something. Just not how to stop.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Weeks later, he was still the sameâbut worse. The wads of cash left crumpled in his jacket pockets like forgotten receipts grew thicker, the bills crisp with that telltale chemical smell that meant they'd gone through Bonten's laundering process. She found them when fishing for loose change to buy her favorite bubblegum, the edges stiff with dried blood she pretended not to see. Mikey stayed out longer now, returning only when Tokyo's neon signs flickered off one by one, his motorcycle growling into their shitty apartment complex's parking lot like a wounded animal.
The morning sickness hit her like a truck. She barely made it to the sink before doubling over, bile burning her throat as she spat into the rust-stained porcelain. The phone pressed between her shoulder and ear felt like an anvil. "Seriously, I don't know what to do..." Her voice cracked on the last syllable, fingers trembling around the edge of the sink. Through the grimy bathroom window, she could see Mikey's bikeâchrome gleaming under the weak morning sun, the helmet with the stupid skull sticker dangling from the handlebars like a taunt.
The pregnancy test sat on the toilet tank like a grenade with the pin pulled. Two pink lines. She'd checked three timesâonce when she first woke up with her stomach churning, again after chugging tap water until her bladder ached, a third time just to watch those damning lines reappear with cruel efficiency. The plastic wrapper crinkled in her fist when she crushed it, the sound absurdly loud in the suffocating silence. Outside, a motorcycle engine roared to lifeâMikey, always Mikey, revving the throttle like he could outrun the sunrise.
She slid down the bathroom wall until her knees hit the linoleum, the cold tile biting through her pajama pants. The fourth testâthe one she'd bought at a konbini three blocks away, paid for with coins fished from the bottom of her bagâstared up at her from the floor. Positive. The sob tore out of her throat raw and jagged, fingers scrambling to muffle the sound before it escaped under the door. Mikey couldn't know. Not yet. Maybe not ever. The thought sent another wave of nausea rolling through her, bile stinging the back of her teeth.
The memory of his handsâcalloused palms dragging up her thighs that first time, the way he'd paused with his lips hovering over hers like he was waiting for permissionâflashed behind her eyelids. She'd been so fucking grateful he'd wanted her at all, drunk on the novelty of his touch after months of watching him orbit her like a dying star. Protection had been the last thing on her mind when he'd finally pressed her into the mattress, his breath hot against her neck as he whispered something that might've been her name or a prayer.
Now she curled tighter around the toilet bowl, arms wrapped protectively over her stomach. The bathroom door rattledâMikey knocking with his usual impatienceâbefore the knob twisted under his grip. She barely had time to kick the pregnancy test under the sink before he shouldered his way in, smelling like cigarette smoke and something metallic. His gaze skipped over her crumpled form on the floor, landing instead on the toothpaste smeared across the mirror. "You good?" he asked, already turning away to rifle through the medicine cabinet. The question tasted like ashes.
She swallowed the bitter tang rising in her throat and forced a laugh. "Uh yeah. Just food poisoning." The lie settled between them like a brick wall. Mikey paused mid-reach for the Pepto-Bismol, his reflection flickering in the grimy mirror. For a heartbeat, she swore his eyes dropped to where her fingers dug into her abdomenâbut then he tossed the bottle at her lap with a shrug.
"Why are you here?" she blurted, catching the medicine clumsily. The plastic rattled like bones in her grip. "Didn't you have some... meeting?" The word tasted wrongâtoo clean for whatever midnight deals he'd been cutting with Bonten's underbelly. Mikey's shoulders tensed under his jacket, the movement sending a waft of gun oil and burnt rubber through the cramped bathroom.
His reflection smirked in the grimy mirror, all teeth and dead eyes. "Meetings in an hour." He leaned against the sink, deliberately crowding her space until her knees pressed against the tiles. "You look like shit." The observation came out rough, but his fingers were feather-light when they brushed her damp bangs off her forehead.
The sink pipes groaned when she flushed the toilet, the sound drowning out the plastic crinkle as she kicked the pregnancy test further into the shadows. "Gee, thanks." Her laugh tasted like bile and strawberry toothpaste. Mikey's gaze dropped to the medicine bottle trembling in her grip.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
He didn't moveâjust braced both palms against the sink on either side of her, caging her in without touching. The material of his jacket creaked. "Right, I'll get going now," he murmured, but his knees stayed planted against her thighs. His breath smelled like nicotine and the spearmint gum he chewed to cover it.
She waited until the apartment door clicked shutâuntil the roar of his bike faded into Tokyo's morning trafficâbefore fishing the crumpled napkin from her pajama pocket. The number was still legible despite the coffee stains, the ink slightly smudged from where she'd traced it with her thumb all night.
The phone barely rang twice before her mother's voiceâsharp with sleep and something like hopeâcut through the static. "Hello?â
She curled tighter around herself, knees pressing into the linoleumâs chill, the words clotting in her throat. âMama,â she whispered, and it came out sounding like she was eight again, scraped knees bleeding through her tights after falling.
Her motherâs sharp inhale crackled through the receiver. âAre you hurt?â The question was a bladeâclean, practiced, honed from years of picking up the pieces Mikey left in his wake.
The confession tumbled out in jagged pieces: the nausea, the tests, the way Mikeyâs jacket smelled like metal either from the barrel of a gun or the or the iron from someoneâs blood when he hugged her. Outside, a motorcycle engine growled three floors downâtoo early to be him, but her fingers still clenched around the phone.
Her mother exhaledâslow, measuredâbefore dropping the bombshell with terrifying calm. "Your cousin has a spare house in Kagoshima. Iâll talk to him." The line crackled with the weight of unsaid thingsâ
âlike how they'd need fake passports, how Mikey's network stretched across prefectures, how Bonten owned customs officials at every major port. But for the first time since those pink lines appeared, her ribs expanded around something other than panic. Hope, warm and syrupy, pooled under her sternum. It was going to be her and the baby. Just them. The bathroom tiles dug into her kneecaps as she pressed a hand to her stomach, imagining tiny fingers curling around hers beneath the skin.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
She played her part flawlesslyâleaving lipstick smudges on Mikey's coffee cups, draping herself over his shoulders when he checked his burner phone, laughing too loud at his deadpan jokes. The performance was almost convincing enough to fool herself. At night, she memorized the topography of his knuckles against her cheek, the way his breathing hitched when she traced the fresh scar above his hipbone. Every touch felt like theft. Every kiss tasted like goodbye.
The men in the kitchen froze mid-conversation when she shuffled in, their eyes flickering from her disheveled hair to the bruises peeking above her robe's collar. One of themâKakucho, maybeâhad the decency to look away. Mikey didn't. He watched her with that eerie stillness, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, ash collecting on the countertop like snow. "Go back to bed," he murmured.
She ignored him, padding across the sticky linoleum toward the fridge. "What's going on?" she asked softly, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm. The cold milk carton trembled in her grip when she pulled it out. "Why are they here?"
Mikey exhaled smoke through his nose, his reflection warped in the greasy microwave door. "I'm going to be away for a while." The men exchanged glances behind himâsomewhere between wary and bored. "Heading west." He took another drag, the cherry flaring briefly in the dim kitchen light. "Business in Osaka."
Her ears perked upâthis was the perfect chance. She had to cover her relief with a pout she knew would piss him off. "Again?" she whined, deliberately rubbing sleep from her eyes like she didn't notice the duffel bag stuffed with cash by the door. "You just got back." She let her robe slip off one shoulderâan old trickâand watched his jaw tighten when one of his men cleared their throat.
Kakucho shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting between them before muttering, "Boss, well uhâwe'll be in the car." The others filed out with the shuffling haste of men who'd seen this routine too many times, their boots scuffing against the threshold like they were fleeing a crime scene. Mikey didn't acknowledge their exit, just ground his cigarette into a chipped saucer with unnecessary force. The silence stretched like a wire between them.
"Two weeks," he finally said, thumb brushing the fresh scab on his knuckleâthe one she'd watched him split open against some faceless rival's teeth three nights prior. His gaze flicked to the milk carton trembling in her grip, then away just as fast. "Maybe three."
The hug came suddenâMikey hauling her against his chest with enough force to slosh milk down her thigh. Cold seeped through her pajama pants as his fingers dug into the small of her back, his chin hooking over her shoulder like he was trying to memorize the shape of her collarbones through sheer pressure. She inhaled sharplyâgunpowder, nicotine, that damn strawberry shampoo he'd been using since middle schoolâand knew. Knew by the way his pulse rabbited against her temple, by the damp heat of his exhale against her neck. This was the last time.
The door clicked shut at 11:47AM. She counted the seconds by the drip of their leaky faucetâtwelve, thirteenâbefore peeling herself off the fridge where he'd left her.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Her fingers shook when she dialed the number her cousin had texted, the burner phone's plastic casing slick with sweat. "The white van with the dented fender," the driver grunted after two rings, his voice gravel-road rough. "Iâll be outside in five." The line went dead before she could even respond.
The duffel bag smelled like mildew when she yanked it from under the bedâthe same one Mikey had tossed there after their last disastrous move, still streaked with mud from the rainy night he'd carried her over the threshold laughing. She stuffed it with essentials first: passports, cash, the ratty stuffed bear he'd won for her at a festival years ago. Her hands moved mechanically, stuffing jeans and tank tops between the gaps like she was packing a wound.
The fifth suitcase nearly toppled when she dragged it down the stairs, wheels catching on the cracked concrete. Through the grimy windows, she spotted the van idling across the streetâwhite with a dented fender just like promised, exhaust curling into the midday heat. A middle aged man in a baseball cap leaned against the hood, typing with one hand while the other drummed against his thigh in a rhythm that matched her pounding pulse.
"Your cousin's friend from law school," the driver explained as he loaded her bags, tossing the duffel onto the passenger seat like it weighed nothing. His knuckles bore faded inkâold gang tattoos blurred by time or laser removalâand the way he glanced at her stomach before slamming the trunk shut suggested he knew more than he'd been told. "Helped him beat an assault charge back in '87." The engine roared to life, drowning out whatever else he might've said about courtroom favors or underworld connections.
She flattened a palm over the barely-there swell beneath her sweatshirt, pressing until she could feel the pulse point in her wrist thrum against taut skin. The movement stirred the scent of Mikey's cologne clinging to the fabricâsomething citrus-sharp that shouldn't have survived three washings but clung stubbornly anyway, like his fingerprints on her hips or the phantom pressure of his teeth against her neck. The van hit a pothole, jostling her sideways into the door as Kagoshima's city limits blurred past in a streak of convenience stores and dying cherry blossoms.
The driver's cigarette smoke curled around the rearview mirror when he glanced back at her, his eyes lingering on the way her fingers knotted in the fabric over her stomach. "You're sure about this?" he asked, not unkindly, tapping ash out the window with a practiced flick. She didn't answerâjust watched the neon signs bleed into farmland through smudged glass, counting telephone poles until her throat stopped burning.
Somewhere past Nagoya, the van's engine developed a hiccup that shook the seats every few kilometers. The driver swore under his breath each time, his grip tightening on the wheel like he could strangle the vehicle into submission. She pressed her forehead to the cool window and imagined Mikey's bike breaking down on some rain-slicked Osaka backstreetâhim kicking the chrome fender in frustration, his white knuckles around a burner phone as he tried her disconnected number again and again.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
The house smelled unfamiliar, the sliding door sticking halfway when she tried to air it out. Her cousin had left groceriesâinstant ramen, eggs, a carton of milk with three days left before expirationâand a note tucked under the tea kettle: "Don't answer the door after dark." She traced the letters with her thumb, the paper thin as onion skin, and wondered how many favors her mother had cashed in to secure this much silence.
Her stomach swelled faster than she anticipated, stretching the seams of her cousin's old sweatshirts until the fabric strained across her ribs. The nearest clinic was a forty-minute drive on winding mountain roads, and her cousin's ancient Toyota rattled like a dying animal whenever he took her for checkups. He'd grip the wheel tighter with each pothole, muttering apologies when the jostling made her clutchâhis knuckles whitening like he expected Bonten's black cars to materialize around every blind curve.
Her cousin broke the silence one muggy afternoon as she sorted through donated baby clothes, his voice cracking like dry kindling: "He talked to me today." The admission hung between them, thick as the July humidity.
Manjiro? She didn't need to askâthe way her hands froze mid-fold around a tiny onesie said everything. Her cousin nodded, fingers drumming the scratched kitchen table where Mikey's old gang used to play cards. "They've searched everywhere," he muttered, eyes darting to the newspaper left open on the counterâits grainy photo of a Tokyo warehouse fire circled in red. "Told them I don't know anything."
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Mikey's business trip had indeed gone to hellâspectacularly so. The Osaka safehouse explosion made national news, though the reporters called it a gas leak.
The first few nights, he'd called from payphones with coins stolen from dead men's pockets, listening to her old voicemail recordingâthat stupidly cheerful "Leave a message after the beep!"âuntil the line cut off. By week two, he assumed she was punishing him for the extended absence, ignoring his calls out of spite while she rearranged their apartment for the umpteenth time.
The silence turned rancid around day nineteen, festering beneath his ribs like a gut wound left untreated. He came home to find her favorite mug still hanging from its hook, the chipped rim stained with her favorite lipstick he could've sworn wasn't there when he left. The realization hit like a sucker punch: she hadn't touched it in weeks. His fingers trembled around the ceramic handleâcold, untouchedâbefore sending it shattering against the wall where their futon used to be.
He tore through the house with the frantic energy of a man dismantling a bomb, upturning couch cushions and clawing at the closet floorboards like she might be folded between the floor slats.
The neighbors reported hearing glass breakingâthen silence, then the distinct sound of retching into the kitchen sink at 3AM.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
By dawn, Mikey's men found him sitting cross-legged in the wreckage of what used to be their bedroom, flipping through her abandoned sketchbook with methodical precision. Page after page of half-finished drawingsâhis profile smudged in charcoal, his hands rendered in ballpoint pen digging into her hipsâuntil the paper gave way to blank sheets. "Boss," Kakucho started, then shut his mouth when Mikey looked up at him.
Her favorite hair tie still dangled from the doorknob where she'd left it three weeks ago, the elastic stretched beyond recognition from when he'd compulsively twisted it around his fingers each night. Now it snapped between his knuckles with a sound like a gunshot. "They took her," he said to no one in particular, thumbing the frayed ends of the elastic. His reflection in the broken mirror above the dresser looked hollowed outâcheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, pupils blown wide with something darker than grief. "The only thing left keeping me whole."
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Three years went by. She often thinks about the day her daughter was born. She was alone in the hospital room.
The morning light streamed through the blinds in sharp angles, carving geometric shadows across the hospital floor. She remembers clutching the railing of the bed so tightly that her knuckles turned white, the pain radiating through her body in waves, like the tide coming in and out. There was no one to hold her handâno frantic calls to Mikey, no panicked messages to old friends. Just her, the nurses, and the rhythmic beeping of the fetal monitor. When they placed her daughter in her arms, tiny and pink and squalling, she felt something inside her break and mend all at once.
Misa babbled nonsense in the backseat of the car now, kicking her tiny feet against the booster seat with the same restless energy Mikey used to haveâalways moving, always needing to be somewhere. The resemblance was uncanny, from the way her dark eyes sparkled with mischief to the slight furrow of her brow when she was deep in thought.
It was both a comfort and a knife to the gut. Some nights, when the loneliness pressed in too hard, sheâd pull out her phone and hover her thumb over Mikeyâs old number, her breath hitching in her chest. But then Misa would stir in her sleep, mumbling incoherently, or call out in that sleepy, trusting voiceâMam?âand the moment would pass, leaving her with nothing but the ghost of his absence.
That afternoon, the park was bathed in golden light, the kind that made everything look softer, kinder. Misaâs tiny hand was warm and sticky in hers, gripping with all the trust in the world as she chattered endlessly about the "big kid slide" and the "purple flowers" and the "bird that stole her snack." Y/n nodded along, half-listening, half-drowning in the surreal normalcy of itâpicking her daughter up from daycare, walking home through the park, pretending their lives werenât built on a lie. She adjusted the strap of her bag, the weight of textbooks digging into her shoulder, when she heard it: five photo clicks, one after the other, rapid-fire and unmistakable.
Her gaze snapped upâinstinct honed by years of survivalâjust in time to catch the tail end of movement behind the ginkgo tree. A young man, early twenties maybe, with an unassuming face and a hoodie pulled low. Not dangerous at first glanceâuntil she spotted the ink curling up his wrist, dark as spilled ink, disappearing into his sleeve. A bonten tattoo.
And then before she could take another step, he sped off, his sneakers kicking up gravel as he bolted toward a waiting black sedan idling near the playground exit.
She squeezed Misa's hand tighter, her pulse hammering against the fragile bones of her wristâtoo hard.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
The entire weekend was spent in a haze of paranoia, jumping at every creak of the houseâs old pipes, every scrape of branches against the kitchen window. She slept with a knife under her pillow and Misa curled against her chest, listening for the telltale rumble of motorcycle engines that never came.
Monday morning brought no reliefâjust the same stiff-necked tension as she buttoned Misaâs overalls, fingers trembling against the tiny fabric straps. The knock came just as she was twisting her wet hair into a bun, three sharp raps that made the kids toothpaste slip from her grip and splatter across the sink. Misa giggled at the mess, oblivious, while her pulse jackhammered against her ribs.
"Go upstairs and stay there," she whispered, pressing a kiss to her daughter's foreheadâtoo quick, too desperateâbefore nudging her toward the steps. Misa hesitated, eyes widening at her tone, but obeyed with the solemn nod of a child who knew when playtime was over. The knife handle dug into her palm as she backed toward the door, its weight both familiar and foreign, the blade glinting in the sliver of sunlight cutting through the curtains.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
The chain rattled when she slid it looseâone link, then anotherâher breath hitching as she eased the door open just enough to see the silhouette haloed in morning light.
There he was. Thinner, darker circles around his darker eyes. His hair was short and chopped off, uneven at the nape like he'd taken shears to it himself in some motel mirror. Three years had carved new hollows beneath his cheekbones, sharpened the line of his jaw, but the way he held himselfâthat predatory stillness, coiled like a springâwas undeniably Mikey. His knuckles hovered inches from the wood, frozen mid-knock, rolled sleeves she didn't recognize.
The scent of him hit her like a physical blowâgunpowder and the sharp bite of unfamiliar cologne, undercut by something achingly familiar, something that still lived in the back of her throat after all this time.
She didnât realize sheâd dropped the knife until it clattered against the tile, the sound muffled by the sudden rush of blood in her ears. The door swung open completely on its own, as if her body had decided before her mind could catch up.
The hug was desperateâhis arms banded around her ribs with bruising force, her fingers twisting into the unfamiliar fabric of his jacket, his heartbeat hammering against her collarbone like a trapped bird. The smell of him was wrongâsome sharp, unfamiliar cologne layered over gunpowderâbut the way his breath hitched when she buried her face in his neck was achingly, terrifyingly the same.
Misaâs high-pitched "Ma?" from the staircase shattered the moment like glass. Mikey went rigid against her, his hands spasming against her back before slowly, deliberately pulling away. His gaze flicked over her shoulderâlanding on the tiny figure clutching the banister with wide, curious eyesâand the raw horror in his expression mirrored her own.
hihihi sorry ive never requested before but ill try my best lolz also i looooovee your fics and your whole aesthetic
also im soso sorry if this sounds randomly specific this is based off my oc and its like a whole thing but ill make it simple
manjiro x y/n, kanto manji arc. so like the two of them are both depressed as fuck, its at the point where manjiro has distanced himself from every former toman member and even y/n doesnt see him a whole lot due to gang stuff and his own struggles. y/n has her own internal struggles herself for they are both aware of each others traumas. y/n and mikey have known one another since childhood and have always been somewhat close. y/n is more of a quiet, lazy, introspectional girl who doesnt do much but smoke pot, rot in bed whether shes at her house or manjiros. shes at manjiros a lot, even when hes not home because her mother is some bitch cunt whore prostitute who frequently abused y/n as a child so shes like absolutely terrified of being around her.
manjiro comes home after doing whatever his duties as kanto manji leader are and finds sara curled up in his bed, rotting in her pjs (tank top+undies). manjiro hasnt seen her for a few days and you can honestly do whatever you want im not picky as long as theres a little fluff and smut smut smutttuhh
thank you sososososo much
Yayyyyy we got some banger ass loreeeeeee, thank u thank u â¤ď¸â¤ď¸
Itâs so good, Iâm gonna write this right away when I can â¤ď¸ thanks for the request
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Hi yawll just a lil appreciation post and update for all of you lovely people, it means so much to me that people are liking, reposting, following and commenting on my stuff, puts a genuine smile on my faceâ¤ď¸â¤ď¸ rn Iâm going through a tough time I donât want to get into it but itâs something to do with my family (so thatâs probably whatâs affecting my writing), so seeing people fw my stuff is comforting in a way
Anyways I am working on the request and Iâm going to release it around next week. Requests are always open for those who are interested đ
Thatâs all babes have a nice rest of your day/night â¤ď¸
Hey, Iâm not much of a requester, but I do have an idea for you. Itâs a commonly used trope, but Iâd love to see your interpretation. I know itâs oddly specific... sorry. đ
Manjiro Sano (Bonten arc preferably, since thatâs who I had in mind, but any arc will do) with a runaway baby mama. Y/N had been with Mikey through it allâhis last constant and the last thing he had to lose. He changed during the rise of Bonten, started distancing himself from her, afraid that maybe heâd hurt her too. Y/N takes it as a falling out (I'd like to add, despite their relationship changing and miscommunication, their affection towards each other remains the same.) The usual angst jazz.
When the test turned pink, Y/N made a choice in an attempt to make both his and hopefully her child's life betterâshe left. Disappeared. Of course, this crushes Mikey. He looked all over for her, got a few tips, but never found her. Eventually, he assumed she was dead somewhere. This made him sink further into darkness.
Three years later, Y/N is raising his child (Iâll leave the gender and appearance details to you), and Mikey receives a note after years of nothing. A singular picture. Of his Y/N and a child. Then he goes and hunts her down.
Feel free to change it up as you please. Funny enough, I was listening to After Hours by The Weekend while writing this and reached timestamp 2:48 and was like this is perfect for the lyric bit.
Anyway I hope this little idea helps out with your writing block, it's long, I know but you mentioned in your rules that you liked details. I love your writing style, and Iâm excited to see what other fics and projects you put out. Have a nice day/evening :)
Oh em gee I FREAKING LOVE YOU????
This is so good I love the whole storyline especially cause it suits Mikey so much
That lyric is in fact perfect and I think Iâll start writing it today!! Omg thank u anon, hope you have a really good day/night â¤ď¸â¤ď¸
âPairing: Bf!Izana x Gf!Y/N
âWarnings: smut, rough sex, choking (on izana's part), power struggle, not very experienced y/n, cowgirl, oral (male-receiving), safe sex,
âGenre: Smut
âRequests: open
âWord count: 7631
Minors don't interact
a/n: this fic was highkey ass and im running out of old fics to post and i cant write new ones cause im stuck in a writer's block so pretty please *bats eyelashes uwu* can yall start requesting so that i can start writing again<33 anyways hope yall enjoy this!!!
ao3 version
"Let's get out of this place, 'Cause you're starting to waste within this teenage wasteland."
âť â II ⡠âş
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
"You came." The words slipped out before she could stop them, breathless and raw. Her sneakers skidded against the pavement as she crossed the distance between them in three strides, arms locking around his waist like she could fuse them together through sheer force.
Izana stiffened, his cigarette dangling forgotten between his fingers. The burned-out streetlamp overhead flickered, casting jagged shadows across the sharp lines of his face. "Uhâyeah. Why wouldnât I?" His voice hitched somewhere between irritation and something softer, his free hand hovering awkwardly before patting her shoulder twice. Like he was swatting a fly.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, pressing tighter against him. His jacket smelled like smoke and gasoline, with something metallic underneathâprobably the switchblade he never went anywhere without. Her fingers dug into the fabric. "Because you always do," she muttered, quieter now. "Like last week when you stood me up at the arcade. And the time before that, when youâ"
Izana clicked his tongue and jerked his chin toward the alleyâs dark mouth, where a rusted chain-link fence rattled in the wind. "I told you, I was busy. You know how it is." He took a long drag, the cherry flaring bright enough to illuminate the scar cutting through his eyebrow. A pause, then he flicked the cigarette into the snow, where it hissed and died in a wet, gray smear. "But Iâm here now, arenât I?"
Y/Nâs fingers twitched toward his face before she caught herself. "Shit, Zanaâthatâs a nasty scar," she breathed, her voice cracking halfway through. The wound was fresh, still pink and puckered, trailing down his temple like a jagged lightning bolt. She could smell the faint tang of antiseptic under the smoke, bitter and medicinal.
Izana tilted his head away, his sneakers scuffing against the cracked concrete as he started walking. "Eh. Itâs nothing." He shrugged, too casual, too practiced, but his jaw clenched when her fingertips grazed his sleeve. The alley swallowed them whole, shadows licking at their ankles like hungry strays.
Y/N ducked in front of him, forcing him to stop. "So how come youâre so busy?" Her voice was sharp, but her fingers curled loose around his wrist, thumb pressing against the raised veins. "Too good for me?" She said it like a joke, but something bitter lined the edges. The wind snatched her breath away, turning it into a ghost between them.
Izanaâs lips twitchedânot quite a smile, more like heâd bitten into something sour. "Ainât that the question," he muttered, low enough she had to lean in. His breath smelled like tobacco and winter, warm against her cheek. Then, softer, almost lost in the howl of the wind: "Y/N." Just her name, rough and worn smooth at the edges, like heâd been turning it over in his mouth all night.
She huffed, rolling her eyes. "Izana," she mocked back, pitching her voice lower, rougher, until it was a near-perfect imitation of his.
He just sighed and grabbed her hand, fingers rough and warm against hers, hoping the contact was enough to satisfy her. The pads of his fingers were calloused, jagged edges scraping against her skinâlike heâd been clenching his fists too tight for too long. Y/Nâs breath hitched, but she didnât pull away. Instead, she curled her fingers tighter around his.
The bench was cold beneath them, flecked with peeling paint and the faintest dusting of snow. Izana slumped down, stretching his legs out in front of him, boots scuffing against the pavement. He tilted his head back, staring at the flickering streetlamp like it held some answer he couldnât find. Y/N sat beside him, close enough that their thighs pressed together, the heat between them sharp against the biting wind.
"IâŚIâm sorry I stood you up." The words came out rough, like heâd dragged them over gravel. He swallowed hard, jaw working before he forced out the rest. "Iâve been busy with the gangâŚand all." A muscle in his cheek jumped. "Still, I should make more time for you." It sounded like an admission, something pried loose from deep insideâugly and raw.
Y/Nâs breath caught. The hope flared hot and sudden, curling in her chest like smoke. She turned her face toward his, searching the sharp angles of his profileâthe way his lashes cast shadows over his cheekbones in the flickering light. His fingers tightened around hers, almost painful.
Izana exhaled sharply through his nose, finally turning to look at her. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his thumb traced a slow circle over her knucklesâthe barest admission. "And I guess Iâm serious about you," he muttered, voice rough as gravel. The words hung between them, almost drowned out by the distant wail of a police siren.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Y/Nâs pulse stuttered. She leaned in, close enough to count the faint scars along his jawline, close enough to taste the nicotine on his breath. "Serious enough to leave?" she whispered. The question hovered, fragile as the ice crystals forming on the bench beneath them.
Izana frowned. Leave? He looked aroundâat the graffiti-streaked walls, the busted streetlight flickering like a dying heartbeat, the empty lot where he gave her her first cigarette after she begged him for one. Leave where? His grip on her hand went slack for a second, fingers twitching like he was already reaching for something she couldnât see. "The fuck you mean?" he rasped, but there was no heat in itâjust the jagged edge of something unraveling.
Y/N swallowed hard and leaned closer, until their foreheads nearly touched. The wind howled through the alley, tearing at their clothes, but she barely felt it. "You know what I mean," she said, softer now, pressing her thumb into the pulse point of his wristâfast, too fast. "Not you alone. I meanâ" Her breath hitched, and she squeezed his hand tighter. "Leave with me."
Izana blinked, slow, like he was processing her words through syrup. His exhale curled between them, white and fleeting. "Like marry you?" he asked, voice flat, but his fingers flexed against hers like he was testing the shape of the words in his mouth.
"No, not marry me." Y/N scoffed, but her ears burned. She flicked her thumb against his pulse point againâtoo quick, too alive. "Just⌠sounds fucking stupid butâ" She swallowed, her throat clicking. "You know, run away with me?" The words tumbled out half-formed, raw as a fresh scrape.
Izana stared at herâdead-eyed, unreadableâbefore his lips twitched. Then he started laughing, shoulders shaking with it, sharp and sudden like a misfiring engine. He shook his head, the motion rough enough to dislodge snow from his hair. "Oh, the look on your face, y/nâŚ" He exhaled, still grinning, reaching into his jacket for another cigarette. "Itâs adorable, really." The lighter clicked, flame carving shadows into the hollows of his cheeks.
Y/N recoiled like she'd been slapped. "See? I knew you wouldnât take me seriously!" She shoved at his shoulderâhardâbut he barely budged, still chuckling as he exhaled smoke through his nose. Her chest burned, raw and hollow, nails biting crescents into her palms. "Fuck you," she spat, voice cracking. "You think this is funny?"
Izana's grin faltered. He watched her through the haze, cigarette dangling between his fingers, the amusement draining from his face as she stood abruptly, snow crunching under her boots. "Look," he murmured, catching her wrist before she could storm off, thumb pressing into the frantic flutter of her pulse. "I donât know why youâre getting all worked up." His voice was softer now, rough at the edges like worn leather, and his grip wasnât tightâjust enough to keep her there.
"Because I hate this stupid fucking place!" Y/N wrenched her arm free, voice cracking against the brick walls. "Bunch of fucking assholes!" She kicked at a crumpled soda can, sending it skittering across the ice with a metallic clatter. Her breath came in sharp bursts, fogging the air between them. "You donât get itâevery goddamn day, itâs the same shit. The gang, your stupid turf wars, lying to my face about where youâve beenâ"
Izana blinked, slow, deliberate, like he was deciphering code. "Wait," he interrupted, voice low and rough. "So this is about me?" His cigarette hovered forgotten between his fingers, ash crumbling onto his boot.
Y/N's breath hitchedâsharp, wetâbefore she spun away, pressing the heels of her hands hard against her eyes. "Fuck," she muttered, voice cracking down the middle. The streetlamp flickered again, casting her shadow long and jagged against the graffiti-smeared wall. "Yeah, Izana, itâs about you." Her shoulders hunched, like she was bracing for impact. "You say youâre seriousâyou say youâre sorryâ" A ragged inhale. "Bullshit."
She took off without waiting for his reply, boots crunching through slush and broken glass. The alley blurred at the edgesâfuck, she wasnât cryingâbut her ribs ached like sheâd swallowed shrapnel. Behind her, Izana swore under his breath, the bench screeching as he shoved to his feet. "Y/Nâ" His voice was closer now, rough with something she couldnât name.
A hand closed around her elbow, dragging her back so hard her shoulder blades hit his chest. His breath was hot against her temple, uneven. "Stop." His thumb dug into the soft skin of her inner armânot painful, just urgent. "Justâfuckâwithout the screaming," he rasped, voice cracking on the last word. "Tell me what you mean."
She swallowed, throat clicking. The wind bit at her damp cheeks, but she didn't pull away. "Thereâs more for us," she whispered, the words barely audible over the distant wail of a train whistle. Izana's grip loosened slightly, fingers twitching against her sleeve like he wanted to let go but couldn't. "We can be more." Her voice was steadier now, edged with a quiet ferocity that made his breath hitch. "Youâre like the only person Iâve ever talked toâreally talked toâand honestly IâŚ" A pause, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. "I want something more out of this."
Izana let out a slow breath, nose brushing against the shell of her earâclose enough that she could feel the shudder that ran through him. "More," he repeated, voice dull, like he was tasting the shape of it for the first time. It wasnât a question. His fingers tightened again, pressing crescent moons into her skin. "Youâre fucking insane," he muttered, but his lips grazed her templeâaccidental, or maybe not.
Y/N just looked up at him, tears pricking her eyes, cold air turning the moisture to icy pinpricks before they could fall. His hair matched the snow behind himâthat same stark, unnatural white, catching the weak light like frosted wire. And his eyesâthose fucking eyesâwere special in the worst way: pupils blown too wide, swallowing the orchid until there was nothing left but a ring of bruised color. She wrenched free, shoving him back hard enough to make him stagger.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
She didnât wait to see if he followed. The soles of her boots slapped against wet pavement, slipping once on black ice before she caught herself and kept running. The ache in her chest wasnât just angerâit was something sicker, something rotting. Sheâd hoped, hadnât she? Stupid. Behind her, the scrape of boots on concrete stopped. He didnât follow.
Her apartment door swung shut with a bang that rattled the cheap frame. The bedsprings groaned under her weight as she collapsed face-first onto the mattress, fingers twisting into the threadbare sheets. The tears came hot and ugly, stinging her cheeksâshe wiped furiously at them, smearing snot and salt across her skin. Fuck him. Fuck his stupid laugh, his rough hands, the way heâd looked at her like she was speaking in tongues when she asked him to leave with her. Sheâd known better than to trust a delinquentâs promises.
The streetlight outside her window flickered, casting jagged shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Y/N rolled onto her back, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes until colors burst behind her lids. Her friendsâ voices echoed in her skullâwarnings about boys who swore they were different, who swore theyâd change, only to vanish when things got messy. Sheâd rolled her eyes at them, smug in the certainty that Izana wasnât like that. Stupid.
Morning came too soon, gray and bitter through the blinds. She pulled her uniform jacket tighter, knuckles brushing against the cigarette burn on the sleeveâhis, from weeks ago, when heâd tugged her too close and the ember had caught. The burn had left a hole, edges curled inward like a hungry mouth. She shoved her hands into her pockets and walked faster.
The school day blurredâteachersâ voices droned behind her like distant radio static, friendsâ laughter splintering against her ears like glass. Someone nudged her shoulder at lunch, teasing about the circles under her eyes. Y/N forced a grin, bit into her sandwich too hard, and pretended like the whole thing didnât taste like ash. The bell rang. She walked home slow, dragging her boots through the slush just to hear it crunch.
And then she saw itâhis bike, chrome gleaming dull under the flat afternoon light, parked haphazardly in front of her apartment building like heâd thrown the kickstand down mid-stride. The sight alone punched the breath from her lungs. But it wasnât just the bike that froze herâit was Izana himself, slumped against the wall beside her front door, hands shoved deep in his pockets. No gang colors, no leather jacket, just a thin black hoodie and ripped jeans. He looked⌠smaller somehow, stripped of his usual armor, hair unstyled and falling into his eyes.
She stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, heart hammering against her ribs. Izana looked up at the sound of her footsteps, his expression raw, unguardedânothing like the sharp-edged smirk he wore like a second skin. His lips parted, but nothing came out; instead, he just pushed off the wall, slow, deliberate, like he was afraid any sudden movement might make her bolt. The silence between them was thick enough to choke on, broken only by the distant wail of a train whistle.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Y/N clenched her fists, nails digging half-moons into her palms. "Why are you here?" she hissed, voice trembling with something too jagged to be anger alone. "How many times do I have to tell you that my parentsâ"
"Yeah yeah. Your parents are strict and all that shit." Izana waved a hand dismissively, his usual smirk absent. He exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping like the words were dragging him down. "Listen, I thought about what you said." His voice was low, rough, stripped of its usual bravadoâjust raw syllables hanging between them.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, tapping one loose before tossing the pack aside like it was suddenly useless. "Iâve got an extra helmet," he muttered, nodding toward the bike, his fingers flexing around the cigarette like he wasnât sure what to do with it now that he had it. "My friend owns this shitty little beach house. Told me I could use it if I want." His eyes flicked up to hers, dark and unreadable. "So⌠yeah."
Y/Nâs breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the straps of her bag until the cheap plastic dug into her palms. The wind howled down the street, carrying the scent of snow and gasoline, and for a second, she wondered if sheâd imagined the words. "Youâre joking," she said flatly, but her pulse was wild, erraticâlike a cornered thing.
Izana tilted his head, cigarette dangling between his lips, unlit. "Do I look like Iâm joking?" His voice was rough, sandpaper-soft, but his eyesâthose fucking eyesâwere wide, almost pleading in a way sheâd never seen before. He gestured vaguely toward the bike, the extra helmet balanced precariously on the seat. "Itâs got a heater. Probably."
Y/N swallowed hard, throat clicking. The apartment behind him loomed like a prisonâher motherâs shrill voice still ringing in her ears from this morningâs fight about whatever the fuck, about responsibility, about how she was throwing her life away. Her fingers trembled. Twenty in three months, and what did she have? A shoebox room, all the shit she shouldâve but never got to experience as a teen haunting her and Izanaâs stupid, beautiful face waiting like a dare.
She exhaled sharply through her nose. "So what do I doâpack a bag?" Her voice cracked on the last word, half-laugh, half-sob. The absurdity of it hit her like a punchâhow many times had she fantasized about this exact moment? The running away, the reckless abandon, the way his hands would feel under her shirtâbut now that it was here, her legs wouldnât move.
Izana shrugged, flicking the cigarette away unlit. "The biggest one you got. Pack multipleâIâve got room." His fingers twitched toward his pocket again, like he wanted another smoke but knew better. Instead, he jerked his chin toward her apartment. "Fifteen minutes," he said, voice low. "Or I leave without you."
Y/N didnât hesitate. She shoved past him and threw open the doorâher motherâs screech from the kitchen barely registeredâand bolted straight for her room. She grabbed the duffel bag stuffed in her closet, dumping textbooks onto the floor with a thud. The zipper screamed as she yanked it open, and then she was shoving clothes insideâjeans, sweaters, underwear still warm from the dryerâin messy handfuls. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it wanted out.
The bathroom was next. She knocked over a bottle of perfumeâher motherâs favorite, some floral shitâand watched it spill across the countertop with a sick satisfaction. Razor. Toothbrush. The half-used tube of strawberry lip gloss Izana had once smirked at before kissing it off her mouth. She stuffed it all in, along with the crumpled bills from her emergency jar The duffel bulged, straining at the seams.
Izana was straddling the bike now, engine idling, the extra helmet dangling from his grip. Snowflakes caught in his lashes, melted instantly where they landed on the scar above his eyebrow. He didnât smile. Just held out the helmet.
She tossed the duffel at himâhardâbut he caught it one-handed, fingers curling tight around the canvas like heâd been waiting his whole life for this exact weight. The duffel looked stupid slung across his chest, bulging with the jagged shapes of her desperation, but he didnât even glance down at it. Just jerked his chin toward the seat behind him.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Y/N hesitatedâheart hammering, knuckles white around the helmet strapâbefore swinging her leg over the bike. The vinyl seat was icy through her skirt, the metal frame vibrating under her thighs like something alive. Izana twisted his wrist, throttle roaring to life beneath them, and she barely had time to loop her arms around his waist before they lurched forward.
The city blurred pastâstreets sheâd walked her whole life shrinking into smears of neon and concrete, the wind howling in her ears until it drowned out everything but the pulse of the engine and the heat of Izanaâs back against her chest. She pressed closer, nose buried in the worn fabric of his hoodie, inhaling gasoline and snow and the sharp musk of his skin. His muscles tensed under her grip as they leaned into a turn, the bike tilting dangerously close to the asphalt, but she didnât flinch. Five minutes? Fifty? Time dissolved into the hum of tires on wet pavement, the occasional brush of his thumb over her wrist where it gripped his stomachâsmall, secret reassuances.
Then the ocean hit her like a slapâsalt and rotting seaweed, the metallic tang of storm-churned waves crashing against jagged rocks. The beach house crouched at the end of a cracked, weed-choked driveway, its peeling blue siding bleached gray by years of sun and salt spray. The porch sagged drunkenly to one side, littered with crushed beer cans and the charred remains of a bonfire pit. One shutter hung by a single nail, clattering in the wind like a broken bone.
Izana killed the engine, and the sudden silence rang in her ears. The cold sank into her bonesâdeeper than winter, deeper than the wind howling off the waterâas he dismounted with a grunt, tossing the duffel onto the warped steps. "Fuck," he muttered, breath curling white between them. "It's colder than I thought." His fingers trembled slightly as he fumbled with the rusted lockbox where the key was supposed to be, swearing under his breath when it yielded nothing but a spider's nest.
Y/N exhaled sharply, watching her breath plume in the air. The keyhole was crusted with salt, the knob loose in its socket, and Izana's frustration bled into the way he jammed his shoulder against the doorâonce, twiceâbefore it groaned open with a splintering crack. The darkness inside yawned, smelling of mildew and stale beer. He hesitated on the threshold, fingers tightening around the broken knob like he was reconsidering.
"Tadaa!" he muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm as he gestured grandly into the gloom, the wind whipping his hoodie into frantic flutters. "Isn't it fucking great." The words were jagged, but his grin was sharp, half-hidden by the shadows creeping over his face. Behind them, the surf roared, relentless.
The house smelled like old cigarettes and the ghost of spilled bourbonânothing like the crisp salt air outside. The floorboards groaned underfoot, sticky under her shoes in places where beer had dried into tacky puddles. A single moth-eaten armchair slumped in the corner, its stuffing erupting like grey innards, and the kitchenette was just a hot plate and a mini-fridge crusted with something unidentifiable. The whole place felt like the carcass of a party that had died violently years ago, the walls still vibrating with the echoes of someone else's bad decisions.
Y/N dragged the duffel toward the bedroomâif you could call it that. The mattress was bare, its stained surface cratered from years of neglect, and the single grimy window let in just enough light to highlight the dust motes swirling like plankton in murky water. She bit her lip, peeling off her jacket to use as a makeshift dust rag, scrubbing at the sill until the fabric came away gray. It was stupid, this compulsion to cleanâlike polishing a sinking shipâbut she needed to do something with her hands before they started shaking again.
Izana appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim hallway bulb, holding out a battered suitcase with a jagged gash along one side. "Brought a couple blankets," he muttered, flexing his fingers where the broken handle had bitten into his palm. They were the cheap kindâthin polyester with fraying edgesâbut he shook them out with exaggerated care, draping one over the bed like it was fucking satin. "Better than nothing," he added gruffly, avoiding her eyes as he tossed the second blanket at her feet.
Y/N caught it mid-air, fingertips grazing the scratchy fabric. The question burned behind her teethâhow many nights would they huddle under these ratty squares, listening to the sea gnaw at the cliffs outside?âbut the way Izana's shoulders tensed told her he didn't have an answer. Or didn't want to give one. She pressed her lips together, watching him jam the broken suitcase against the door to keep it shut, his movements sharp with a restless energy that made the cramped room feel even smaller.
The drawers stuck when she yanked them open, their warped wood screeching protest as she dumped armfuls of clothes inside. The vanity mirror was clouded with grime, reflecting her fractured image back in streaksâdark circles under her eyes, hair wild from the ride, lips chapped raw from biting them. She swiped at the glass with her sleeve, smearing the filth into greasy arcs. "A week?" she ventured, voice too loud in the hollow space between them. The strawberry lip gloss clattered onto the chipped surface, rolling toward the edge before she caught it. "Or just until your gang stops looking?"
Izanaâs fingers paused on the zipper of his hoodie, knuckles whitening. The wind howled through a crack in the window frame, fluttering the thin curtain like a ghostâs breath. "Itâs not about the gang, y/n." His voice was low, rougher than the sea outside. He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the pulse jumping in his throat, the way his eyelashes cast spidery shadows down his cheeks when he blinked. "Itâs about you." His breath hitchedâbarely there, but she caught it. "And us."
She froze, fingers curling into the blanketâs frayed edge. The heater groaned to life somewhere deeper in the house, pipes rattling like old bones, but the cold in the room had nothing to do with the temperature. Izanaâs gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered, then flicked away as he turned toward the door. "Iâll go fix the heating," he muttered, already halfway out. "You get comfortable." The suitcase-blocked door creaked as he shoved past it, leaving her with the sound of his retreating footsteps and the too-loud thud of her own heart.
Y/N exhaled sharply, kneeling beside the battered suitcaseâhisâand flipping the latches with trembling fingers. The hinges groaned open to reveal a mess of folded shirts and crumpled jeans, half-stuffed around a chipped ashtray and a dog-eared paperback. She lifted a sweatshirt, holding it up to the dim light; the fabric smelled like gasoline and Izanaâs cheap cologne, sleeves frayed at the cuffs from where heâd chewed them absentmindedly. A stray bullet casing rolled out from between the folds, clattering onto the floorboards. She stared at it, throat tightening.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Without thinking, she grabbed a fistful of his socksâmismatched, all black, his boxers and white wife beatersâand stuffed them into the bottom drawer beside her own underwear and night clothes. The act felt stupidly intimate, like she was carving out space for him in this rotting house, in her life. His toothbrush clattered into the cracked plastic cup next to hers, handles knocking together like they were conspiring. The bathroom mirror reflected the pair back at herâhis bristles splayed from being jammed into his pocket, hers still pristine with its pink cap. Something hot and jagged lodged behind her ribs.
Y/N dumped the suitcase upside downâsending stray guitar picks and crumpled receipts fluttering to the floorâand froze. At the bottom, half-hidden beneath a torn concert ticket, sat a lime green iPod nano, its scratched surface sticky with old soda residue.
The bullets came firstâthree of them, rolling across the warped floorboards with a dull clatter before she caught one between her fingers.
Then came the iPod, its lime-green surface flashing as it tumbled from the suitcase, landing with a plastic thud near her knee. The condoms followedâa half-crushed strip of Trojans still in their foil wrappers, the expiration date barely visible under the dust. Y/N stared at them, pulse hammering against her ribs, before snatching them up so fast the air hissed between her fingers.
The memory hit like a backdraftâhis room smelling of sweat and damp laundry, Izana's teeth catching her earlobe as his fingers fumbled with the wrapper, both of them too frantic to be graceful. That first disastrous attempt flashed hot behind her eyelids: his frustrated groan vibrating against her inner thigh, the unforgiving stretch that had left them panting and sore-fingered, his muttered "fuck" against her collarbone when she'd winced. They'd laughed afterward, shaky with adrenaline and failure, mouths sticky with each other's spit.
Now, her fingers trembled around the condoms, the foil crinkling ominously in her grip. The iPod's cracked screen blinked up at her like an accusationâshe'd spent weeks after that night scrubbing her thighs raw in the shower, jumping at shadows whenever she crossed paths with any of Izana's gang members, terrified they'd smell his fingerprints on her skin. Even now, her pulse stuttered at the phantom sensation of his hands gripping her hips too tight, pulling her onto his lap with that stupid smirk like he knew exactly how wrecked she'd been.
She exhaled sharply through her nose and chucked the strip of Trojans onto the left nightstandâhis sideâwhere they landed with a soft tap against the warped wood next to his half-empty bottle of Axe body spray. The iPod clattered onto the right one, her side, beside the tube of stolen strawberry lip gloss. There. Boundaries drawn. Lines in the sand. No more desperate fumbling in alleyways or hurried trysts in unlocked storage roomsâif they were doing this, they were doing it right.
The heater finally wheezed to life somewhere in the walls, sending a shudder through the ancient pipes. A gust of warm air swirled the dust motes into frantic spirals above the bed. Y/N stared at the condoms, teeth digging into her bottom lip until copper bloomed on her tongue. She could already picture the way his fingers would curl around the wrapperâslow, deliberate, those calluses catching on the foilâand the thought alone sent a hot pulse between her thighs. Stupid. She grabbed a stray sock and flung it at the nightstand like it offended her. It missed, of course.
Footsteps creaked in the hallwayâtoo heavy to be anything but his. Izana lingered in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, grease smeared across his knuckles from fiddling with the heater. His gaze flicked from the scattered contents of his suitcase to her flushed cheeks, then to the Trojans gleaming mockingly on his nightstand. A slow smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. "Whatâre you doing?" he drawled, voice soft with amusement.
Y/N startled, nearly knocking over the cracked plastic cup holding their toothbrushes. "Shit! U-uh just putting away our stuff," she stammered, shoving a crumpled t-shirt back into the drawer with unnecessary force. His socks were still tangled in her fingersâone black, one navy, the elastic worn loose from being tugged off in haste too many times.
Izana exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders rolling under his damp hoodie. "Heaters fixed," he muttered, wiping greasy hands on his jeans before realizing they were just smearing the stains deeper. "We should, uh, be set for the night." His voice sounded oddâtoo tight, like he'd swallowed something bitter. The words hung between them, stiff and awkward as the unfamiliar space.
Y/N snatched her sleep tee off the bed, fabric slipping through her fingers twice before she got a proper grip. "I'm gonna go⌠um, change," she blurted, already sidestepping toward the bathroom. The door groaned shut behind her, latch clicking with finality. The mirror reflected her rapid pulse in the hollow of her throat, the way her fingers trembled as they yanked her sweater over her head. Cold air hit her exposed stomach, raising goosebumps despite the heater's distant rumble.
Izana exhaled sharply through his nose, peeling his damp hoodie off in one rough motion. The fabric caught on his elbowâstill tender from last week's fightâand he swore, tossing it toward the corner where it landed with a wet slap. His fingers hesitated at the hem of his shirt before dragging it up, revealing the jagged scar above his ribs where Y/N's name would be tattooed if he believed in permanence. The joggers hung low on his hips as he knelt to rummage for socks, fingers brushing the condoms instead. The foil crinkled under his touch, warm from her grip.
He just blinked and knocked on the doorâthree sharp raps that rattled the flimsy woodâbefore realizing how stupid it was to knock on his own damn bathroom door. His knuckles hovered mid-air, pulse too fast for the soft "Yeah?" muffled through the plywood. The sink squeaked off, water dripping into the rust-stained basin. He could picture her there, bare legs against the cracked linoleum, sleepshirt clinging to the damp hollow between her shoulder blades where she'd scrubbed too hard.
"Get out," he rasped, pressing his forehead against the doorframe as the scent of spearmint toothpaste leaked under the gap. "I need to brush my teeth." The lie tasted staleâhis toothbrush was still jammed in his backpack by the bed, forgotten in their frantic unpacking. But he needed an excuse, any excuse, to see her emerge flushed from the steam, to catch the way her sleepshirt rode up when she stretched to grab the towel.
The door creaked open before he could retreat. Y/N stood there with damp tendrils of hair clinging to her neck, lips shiny from the lip gloss sheâd reapplied out of habit. His gaze snagged on the smear of pink at the corner of her mouth. "Your turn," she murmured, stepping past him with deliberate slowness, her bare arm brushing his chestâwarm, damp, smelling of generic hotel soap and something faintly sweet.
She just sighed and plopped down on the bed, the ancient springs groaning under her weight as she flopped backward, limbs splayed like sheâd been dropped from a great height. The hem of her sleepshirt rode up, revealing the sharp jut of her hipbone and the faded stretch marks along her inner thighâproof of a body that had grown too fast in all the wrong places. The ceiling above her was water-stained in the shape of a screaming face, peeling plaster threatening to collapse if someone breathed too hard.
Izana emerged from the bathroom with his toothbrush hanging from the corner of his mouth, foam dripping down his chin as he surveyed the wreckage of their temporary livesâher duffel gaping open like a gutted fish, his socks strewn across the floor like roadkill. "Jesus fucking Christ, Izana," she yelled from the bed, voice cracking on his name as she flung an arm over her eyes. "We have to find an apartment or something!" The last word dissolved into a groan as a chunk of plaster chose that moment to land on her stomach with a soft thud.
He spat into the sinkâmissing spectacularlyâand wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, watching her pick plaster crumbs off her shirt with an expression caught between exhaustion and something hotter. "You wanna test the bedsprings before we commit to property damage?â
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
She kicked out blindly, bare heel connecting with his thigh. âFuck are you talking about?â The mattress groaned when he caught her ankle, calloused thumb pressing into the delicate tendon as he dragged her toward the edge. His knees hit the floorboards with a thud that shook the nightstand, sending the condoms skittering closer to the edge.
Izana exhaled sharply through his nose, breath warm where it ghosted over her inner thigh. âYou put âem right where Iâd see âem.â His teeth grazed the stretch marks she hated, blunt and punishing. âLike you wanted me to.â The accusation vibrated against her skin, his grip tightening when she tried to twist away.
Y/Nâs breath hitchedâtoo loud in the hollow quiet between them. Sheâd shoved them on the nightstand like a challenge, like she wasnât still half-convinced this would end with another round of frustrated fumbling and bitten-off curses. âNo, no. I didnâtââ Her protest dissolved into a gasp when his thumb hooked under the waistband of her panties, dragging them down just enough to expose the flutter of her pulse. âI donât know where youâd usually put them so Iââ
Izanaâs laugh was dark, vibrating against her skin as he pressed a kiss to the crease of her thigh. âBullshit.â His tongue darted out, tracing his hand along her sides, and something hot and shameful coiled low in her gut. The foil crinkled when he snatched the condom packet, tearing one off with his teeth like heâd done it a thousand times. Maybe he had. The wrapper gleamed in the dim light as he rolled it between his fingers, watching her chest rise and fall too fast. âYou wanted me to see.â
Y/N swallowed hard, fingers twisting in the scratchy blanket as he hovered over her, knees bracketing her hips. His gaze burnedânot playful, not teasing, just raw and hungry in a way that made her pulse stutter. The condom landed on her stomach with a soft tap, cold against her overheated skin. âDo you wanna do this orââ His voice cracked, rough as the waves outside, ââor are we gonna keep pretending?â
She exhaled sharplyâhalf a sob, half something worseâand turned her face toward the water-stained wall. Nodded once. Hard. The mattress groaned as Izana shifted, his exhale ruffling her hair when he leaned down to press his forehead against her shoulder. His fingers trembled against her hipbone as he tugged her panties down.
"Wait." Y/N shoved up onto her elbows, heartbeat slamming against her ribs. The condom slipped from her stomach onto the sheets. "I wanna be on top." She darted out from under him before he could protest, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thighs. Her fingers shook as she snatched the foil packet, ripping it open with her teeth. The latex smelled bitter, unfamiliar in her hands as she rolled it down his lengthâtoo slow, too clumsyâbut Izana didn't laugh even though he wanted to. His hips jerked when her thumb brushed the tip, a punched-out breath escaping through clenched teeth.
"Are you sureâ" He caught her wrist, fingers tight enough to bruise. His pulse jumped under her fingertips. "Since you're not as experâ"
"Yes." She pressed the word into his collarbone, teeth scraping skin. The condom stretched tight when she rolled it downâtoo tightâbut she didn't stop until it hugged his base, her knuckles brushing wiry hair. Her knees dug into the mattress as she straddled him properly, heat pooling where their bodies barely touched. "I'm sure."
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
The shirt came off in one sharp motionâcotton catching on her elbows before she shoved it away, not daring to meet his gaze. Goosebumps prickled across her bare stomach, pebbling her nipples in the damp air. His breath hitched when she rocked forward.
She sank down with a gaspâtoo fast, too muchâher inner thighs trembling where they bracketed his hips. The stretch burned, sharper than she remembered, her muscles clenching reflexively around him. Izanaâs fingers dug into the soft flesh above her knees, blunt nails leaving crescent indents as she bottomed out. A ragged sound tore from his throat when she twitchedâher involuntary flinch from the unfamiliar fullnessâbut he didnât move.
His gaze tracked her every hitch of breath, every flutter of her lashes, like she was some chemical reaction he couldnât predict. The wood paneling bit into his shoulder blades where heâd been shoved against the headboard, but the discomfort barely registeredânot with her heat strangling him, slick and tight in a way that made his pulse stammer. She shifted experimentally, her thighs quivering as she lifted herself halfway up before sinking again, slower this time.
"AhâIzanaâŚ" His name fractured against her lips, her fingers scrambling for purchase on his sweat-slick chest. He barely recognized his own groan, rough and punched-out, when she rolled her hips in a tentative circle. The friction sparked hot up his spine, his hands jerking from her knees to her waist, fingertips pressing into the soft give of her skin until he was sure sheâd bruise.
She whimperedâhigh and desperateâleaning forward to brace her palms against the headboard, strands of hair sticking to her flushed cheeks. The shift in angle made her gasp, her back arching sharply as her thighs trembled. He could feel her pulse thudding where she clenched around him, her breath coming in short, wet bursts against his collarbone.
Izanaâs grip slid up to her ribs, thumbs pressing into the soft underside of her breasts. âGo fucking faster,â he growled, voice wreckedânothing like the mocking drawl he used on the streets. His hips jerked up to meet her next slow grind, forcing a choked cry from her throat. The mattress springs screamed in protest as she obeyed, her movements turning jagged and uneven, her nails scraping grooves into the peeling head board.
She was babblingâhalf-formed pleas and broken syllablesâas sweat slicked the space between their bodies. âI waâI wanna d-ah-do it!â The confession tore loose between gasps, her hips stuttering as she chased the friction. The words werenât coherent, werenât even fully formed, but he understoodâthe raw need in her voice, the way her thighs shook with the effort of keeping rhythm.
Izana barked a laughâsharp, raggedâas his fingers dug deeper into her waist. âDo what?!â he mocked, voice hoarse with strain. His thumbs dragged rough circles against her ribs, pushing her to the brink of oversensitivity. âUse your fucking words, sweetie.â But the taunt lacked its usual biteâhis breath coming in uneven bursts against her throat, hips jerking up to meet her erratic movements.
She tried to hold his hips down by pressing on his stomachâpalm flat against the scar tissue above his navelâbut his abdominal muscles flexed violently under her touch, twisting away from her attempt at control. Instead of pinning him, her fingers slipped across sweat-slick skin, nails catching on the ridge of his hipbone as she lost balance.
Izana's hands shot up to catch her wristsâtoo fast, too roughâslamming them against the headboard with a crack that shook loose more plaster. The sudden impact made her gasp, her legs tightening around him reflexively, pulling him deeper with a wet sound that had his teeth baring in a silent snarl. But she didn't let goâjust dug her nails into his rough jaw, thumbs pressing into the hollows beneath his cheekbones until his head stayed exactly where she wanted it.
The drag of him inside her was slower nowâachingly deliberateâas she rolled her hips in tight circles, reveling in the way his breath hitched when she clenched around him. His pupils swallowed the last flecks of violet in his irises, his lips parting around a silent curse as his grip on her wrists loosened. "Fuck, justâ" His voice fractured, hips twitching helplessly beneath her as she leaned forward to bite his earlobeâhardâher tongue swiping over the sting before she pulled away.
The scent of their sweat mingled with the salt-rusted air, the distant crash of waves punctuating each ragged exhale. She dragged her nails down his chest, watching the red welts rise in their wake, his muscles jumping under her touch like a live wire. His hands found her hips againânot guiding, just holdingâas she lifted herself almost entirely off him before dropping back down with a wet slap that echoed off the rotting walls. The sound alone nearly undid him, his thighs trembling beneath her.
"I-I'm close," Izana choked out, voice shattered beyond recognitionâfinally the one moaning, writhing, unraveling beneath her instead of the other way around. His eyelids fluttered, lashes casting shadows on his flushed cheeks as he fought to keep them openâto watch her fall apart even as he teetered on the edge. His fingers flexed against her skin, blunt nails biting crescents into the soft flesh of her waist. "Fuckâfuck, don't stopâ"
She felt hers approaching too, the coil in her belly tightening unbearably, and let out a sharp cryâlouder than intended, louder than she'd ever daredâas she dragged her hands up his throat. Her thumbs pressed into the hollow of his Adam's apple, her fingers wrapping around the column of his neck, squeezing just enough to feel his pulse hammering against her grip. His breath hitched, lips parting around a silent gasp, but he didn't push her awayâjust tilted his head back further, baring his throat in shameless surrender.
The tension snappedâher muscles clamping around him like a vise, wave after wave of pleasure crashing through her as his hips jerked once, twiceâthen stilled. His groan was ragged against her palm, his fingers digging bruises into her hips as he followed her over the edge, his release shuddering through him in hot pulses beneath the condom's thin barrier. Y/N slumped forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder as she gasped for air, her limbs trembling with exhaustion and the lingering aftershocks of pleasure.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Izana's hands slid up to her wrists, fingers wrapping around hers where they still loosely encircled his throat. His breath was hot against her knuckles as he pressed a rough, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her wrist. "Fuck⌠youâŚ" he panted, voice wrecked and hoarse, his lips brushing against her pulse point. "You choked me." The accusation lacked any real bite, his fingers tightening around hers in silent approval even as he said it.
She just giggledâquietly at first, then louder when his brows furrowed in exhausted confusionâand slid down his torso until her face hovered just above his softening cock. The latex clung stubbornly to his skin when she pinched the base and rolled it down slowly, watching thick ropes of cum ooze out onto his stomach with fascinated curiosity. Her tongue darted out before she could second-guess herselfâjust a quick swipe across the tipâsalty and bitter and unexpectedly addictive. His hips jerked violently beneath her, his thighs tensing as a ragged groan ripped from his throat.
Izanaâs hands flew to her shouldersâhalf to push her away, half to drag her closerâas she licked another stripe up the underside where the condom had stretched tightest. His fingers tangled in her hair, tugging hard enough to make her gasp when she took him into her mouthâjust the tip at first, lips stretched tight around the headâbefore sinking down further until her nose bumped his pelvis. His breath hitchedâa sharp, punched-out soundâwhen her tongue probed experimentally at his slit, tasting the remnants of his release mixed with the lingering latex tang.
The mattress creaked as he twisted violently beneath her, his hips stuttering upward before he forcibly stilled them. âSt-stopââ His voice cracked on the word, fingers tightening in her hair until her scalp burned, ââyouâre gonna fucking kill me.â But she didnât stopâjust hollowed her cheeks and sucked harder, humming when his thighs trembled against her ribs. His groan cracked into a whine as she pulled off with a wet pop, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before collapsing onto his chest, their sweat-slick skin sticking together instantly.âĄ
âŽâËPairings: Husband!mikey x wife!reader. (this is the last timeline where he's a racer and has his black hair btww)
ËâŽâËWarnings: Mentions of pregnancy (like a lot of it), domestic themes, established relationship, kitchen sex; on the counter (kind of disgusting cause shes surronded by dirty dishes), mocking, slight crying, unprotected sex/breeding
âŽâËGenre: smut
ËâŽâËRequests: open
ËâŽâËWord count: 4043
Minors don't interact
A/n: kmssss i have school today arghhhhh anyways...ao3 version
"And I shouldn't cry, but I love it, star boy"
âť â II ⡠âş
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
The pipes groaned as Mikey twisted the faucet shut, steam clinging to his bathroom mirror. Water dripped from his black hair onto bare shoulders, tracing down his neck. Heâd forgotten a towel againâŚ
Y/n was elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing a stubborn spot off a dinner plate. A low hum vibrated in her throatâsome half-remembered lullaby Emma had sung to her newborn baby Miori earlier that afternoon. The melody was soft, almost lost beneath the clink of porcelain and rush of tap water. Her fingers moved automatically, thoughts still lingering on the tiny fingers that had gripped hers so fiercely.
"Y/n! Can you hand me a towel? I forgot to bring one!" Mikey's voice echoed down the hallway, rough-edged and playful. The sound made Y/n's spine prickleânot just the suddenness of it, but the warm familiarity. She could almost see his reflection in the misted bathroom mirror, droplets tracing his jawline. He hadn't changed much since they'd married three years agoâstill leanly muscled from racing, eyes glinting with mischiefâbut lately, a strange intensity simmered beneath it. Ever since they'd visited Emma and Draken, and Mikey had held baby Miori⌠Y/n sighed softly. "Just give me a sec, Jiro!" she called back, rinsing soap bubbles off her hands.
She grabbed the worn navy towel hanging by the sinkâan oversized thing Mikey favoredâand padded toward the bathroom doorway. Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of cedarwood shampoo and Mikey himself. His silhouette shifted behind the fogged glass panel: shoulders flexing as he combed wet hair away from his face. "Thanks," he murmured, voice deeper now as the door cracked open. Y/n froze mid-step. The dim hallway light spilled past her, catching the curve of his hipbone, the damp trail of water disappearing beneath the towel carelessly knotted low on his hips. Her breath caught. The flicker in his eyes wasn't gratitudeâit was raw, possessive heat.
"Youâre staring," he stated, not moving from the doorway. One brow arched, daring her. A droplet traced the ridge of his collarbone and plunged downward. Y/n swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the towelâs terrycloth. She hadnât realized how deathly quiet the apartment had becomeâno clinking dishes, no humming pipesâonly the frantic rhythm of her own pulse pounding in her ears. The soap scent on her skin felt suddenly childish compared to the musk clinging to him.
"Oh sorryâŚ" she stammered, thrusting the towel forward blindly. "I-Iâll be down in the kitchen if you n-need anythingâŚ" She forced her eyes away from the hypnotic line of his hipbone, the suggestive slant of the towel knot. The cold tiles bit into her bare feet as she scrambled backward, her retreat jerky, uneven. Every instinct screamed to flee before he saw the flush spreading down her neck. The unfinished dishes waited, a mundane shield against this scalding intimacy.
"AlrightyâŚ" Mikey muttered low, almost to himself, as he caught the towel mid-air. He didn't wrap it immediately. Instead, he deliberately dragged the rough terrycloth across one pectoral, then the other, the friction leaving faint pink streaks on his damp skin.
Y/n fled back to the sink, plunging her hands into the lukewarm, soap-scummed water. The clatter of plates resumed â louder, clumsier than before. Her focus shifted inward: the memory of baby Mioriâs tiny snuffling breaths against her shoulder, the impossibly soft weight cradled in her arms.
Mikey cleared his throatâa rough, purposeful sound that sliced through the humid air like a knife through steam. It wasn't a casual noise, but a deliberate punctuation mark that made Y/n flinch. She kept her back turned, scrubbing furiously at a plate long since clean. Water sloshed over the rim as her knuckles whitened.
"Dunno why you ran off like that," Mikey murmured, his voice a low vibration that traveled across the tiles. He leaned against the doorframe, the towel still loose around his hips. "Like you don't see me naked almost every other dayâŚ" The observation hung there, weighted with something beyond teasingâan unspoken challenge wrapped in velvet.
Y/n froze, sponge clenched tight. Her knuckles pressed against porcelain. "Didn't⌠didn't run," she managed, voice thin as steam. The faucet dripped once. Twice. Each drop echoed like a clock ticking too loud.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Mikey shifted. His bare foot slapped softly against wet tile. "Then why're you scrubbing that plate raw?" The towel's loose knot shifted dangerously low as he leaned forward. Cedarwood and chlorineâhis racing teamâs locker room scentâswirled with the humid steam drifting past her. She felt it prickle her neck before she heard his next words, barely above a whisper: "Was thinkin' 'bout Mioriâs little face today. How it puckered when she cried."
The sponge slipped from Y/nâs grip. It hit the water with a wet slap. Her hands trembledânot from cold, but from the phantom weight of that fragile newborn skull against her palm earlier. Mikeyâs sigh ghosted over her shoulder blade. Close. Too close. "Spent half the drive home imaginin'âŚ" His calloused thumb brushed her spine through her thin cotton shirt. A shiver tore through her.
"Imagining what?" The question rasped out. She didnât dare turn. Steam curled around them, thick with cedarwood and the sharp bite of soap scum. His breath hitched. She felt itâa tremor vibrating into her skin where his fingertips still rested.
"You knowâŚ" Mikey murmured, voice impossibly low and rough against her ear. His other hand slid around her waist, pulling her back flush against the damp heat radiating from his bare chest. The towel knot dug into her spine. "Imagining you⌠all round with my baby." The words weren't whispered; they were deliberate, carved into the humid air. His hand flattened possessively against her lower belly, fingers splaying wide as if testing the soft curve beneath her shirt. She felt the solid press of his hips behind her, the hard proof of his building fever. "Carrying it." The hand on her belly slid lower, knuckles grazing the waistband of her sleep shorts. "Growing it."
"M-manjiroâŚ" Y/n choked out, the name catching on a gasp as he buried his face against the frantic pulse point beneath her jaw. His lips weren't gentle. They were hot, insistent, branding a path up the straining tendon of her neck. Each kiss felt like a brandâwet, claiming, punctuated by the scrape of teeth against her overheated skin. Her head fell back instinctively, hitting his shoulder as his exploring hand dipped lower still. Her knuckles were white on the sink's edge, the forgotten plate submerged in greasy water forgotten. "A-a baby's⌠a big responsibilityâŚ" The protest was weak, half-strangled, lost beneath the slick sounds of his mouth on her throat and the thundering echo of her own heartbeat. She trembled, caught between the cool steel of the sink against her palms and the inferno at her back. His fingers hooked into the band of her shorts, tugging insistently downward.
"Responsibility?" Mikey rasped, breath searing her ear. His palm pressed flat against her lower belly, fingers spreading wide like he was tracing the phantom swell he craved. "Imagine itâŚ" He rocked his hips against her, a deliberate grind that made her gasp and arch against him. The rough towel rasped against her spine, the knot biting into flesh. "Right hereâŚ" His thumb circled lazy, possessive arcs over her softness, dipping dangerously low beneath her shorts. "All tight skin⌠stretchin'âŚ" His voice dropped to a ragged whisper, thick with lust and longing. "âŚcurves everywhere⌠hips wide enough for me to hold ontoâŚ" He punctuated each word with another slow, grinding thrust against her backside, his bulge a hard ridge beneath the towel. She could feel the damp heat of him seeping through the thin cotton of her shirt, smell the cedarwood and clean sweat mingling with the steam. His hand slid up, cupping her breast through the fabric, squeezing roughly. "âŚand tits⌠god, swollen heavy⌠aching, fuckin' leakingâŚ" He pinched her nipple sharply through the cloth, pulling a sharp cry from her lips.
Suddenly, his wet hands plunged into the soapy sink water beside hers, fingers wrapping like steel bands around her wrists before she could brace. He hauled her arms up violently, water sluicing off her skin in heavy streams. Porcelain clattered violently against porcelain as plates shifted beneath the surface. "Enough scrubbin'âŚ" he growled, voice thick and low. With a single powerful wrench, he spun her bodily around, slamming her back against the wet countertop.
Shock froze her protest in her throat. "Jiro, we can't just have a baby right now! You're⌠you're being rash!" The words tumbled out, frantic and breathless. "Let's just talk about fi-" Her plea choked off into a sharp gasp as his fingers hooked savagely into the waistband of her thin sleep shorts. He didn't hesitate. With a harsh jerk, he ripped them down her hips in one fluid motion, the fabric catching around her thighs like a flimsy barrier.
"No panties huhâŚ" The words weren't spoken; they were a low, triumphant rumble vibrating against the shell of her ear, thick with satisfaction. His gaze didn't lift to hers. Instead, it burned a possessive trail down her exposed body, lingering on the smooth skin between her thighs. She felt the scrutiny like a physical touch, hotter than the steam clinging.
Before Y/n could stutter a defense about laundry day, Mikey's hands clamped onto her hipsâwet calloused palms biting into soft fleshâand he hoisted her bodily onto the slick countertop.
Dirty dishes scattered violently: a greasy frying pan clattering to the floor, a coffee cup spinning wildly before shattering against tile, soapy water sloshing over chicken-stained plates forgotten mid-scrub. The chaos mirrored the frantic pulse pounding behind Y/nâs ribs as Mikey stepped flush between her thighs. Cedarwood shampoo and chlorine filled her lungs when he growled, "Now," and released his towelâthe navy fabric pooling silently at his feet. Steam curled around his bare silhouette, catching the rigid lines of his arousal in the humid air. She tasted panicâmetallic and sharpâas her palms slid backward on the wet granite, knocking over a forgotten bowl of congealed ramen broth.
"Fuck, Jiro!" Her voice cracked, sharp against the drumming of her own heart. She recoiled instinctively, heels digging into the cupboard door below. "Can't we at least do it upstairs? It's filthy here!" Her gaze flickered to the spilled broth oozing toward her bare thigh, the slick grit of old food scraps under her knuckles. The kitchen smelled suddenly overwhelming: stale grease, sour milk from an unrinsed glass, the heady musk of Mikey's damp skin heating the air. She jerked her leg away just as the viscous liquid touched her skin. "The counter's soaked, thereâs broken glass everywhere, and I⌠I literally just cleaned the floors!" The protest felt pathetic, thin, drowned out by sheer proximity. His hips pinned hers against the cold granite edge, trapping her trembling legs wide open. She felt the slickness between her own thighsâa traitorous, undeniable heatâmingling with the damp chill seeping through her thin shirt.
"So what?" Mikey growled, the sound vibrating against her throat where his teeth had grazed moments before. He kicked aside the sodden towel at his feet, grinding his bare sole deliberately into spilled noodles and shattered porcelain. A sharp crunch echoed underfoot. "We've fucked on worse." His calloused palm slid up her inner thighârough against her sensitive skinâpushing her bent leg higher against his hipbone. The movement shifted her hips forward, exposing her completely. Cold granite bit into her spine. "Remember Shinichiroâs filthy shop mattress?" His thumb traced her slick foldsânot exploratory, but possessiveâmeasuring her wetness before entering his middle finger inside without preamble. Her gasp choked off into a ragged whimper as he curled that wicked finger deep, stretching her. "Grease stains thicker than your fingers." He added a second digit, scissoring brutally. "Springs busted." He twisted his wrist, knuckles grinding against her swollen clit. "Smelled like stale engine oil and cheap cigarettes." He leaned close, his breath hot and wet against her ear as he pumped his fingers relentlessly. "You screamed loud enough to drown out the trains."
The protest died in her throatâa strangled sound swallowed by the steam and the slick, rhythmic noise of his fingers working her. Her head thrashed back against the water-stained cupboard door. "W-wasnât screamingâŚ" she gasped out, nails scraping uselessly at his slick forearm as he pinned her leg open wider.
"Wasnât screaming?" Mikeyâs laugh was a low, mocking rumble against her damp shoulder. He leaned in, breath hot and damp on her ear, his voice dropping into a breathy, exaggerated falsetto. "You were likeâ" He mimicked her, a high-pitched, shuddering gasp cracking through his throat. "'Jiro! Oh fuck, Jiro! Right there!'" His imitation was grotesquely accurate, capturing the desperate hitch in her breath. His fingers twisted deeper inside her, curling to brush that sweet, dizzying spot that made her hips jerk violently off the counter. "Sounded like a kitten caught in a blender. Fucking pathetic."
Y/n choked on air, mortification burning hotter than desire. Her cheeks flamed crimson as she squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to look at the raw triumph gleaming in his eyes. She felt utterly exposedânot just physically, spread open on the grimy countertop amidst spilled broth and shattered glass, but stripped bare by that mocking mimicry.
"Now⌠dear," Mikey murmured, the sudden shift from mocking to dangerously soft slicing through the humid tension. He withdrew his brutal fingers slowly, slickness glistening in the harsh overhead light. His calloused thumb brushed her cheekbone, forcing her teary gaze back to meet his. "That's no way to talk to the future mother of my children, hm?" His dark eyes held hers, intense and unwavering, noticing the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath her jaw, the way she looked away flustered, breath catching in little hitches. He leaned in, pressing a shockingly tender kiss to her trembling lipsâsoft, lingering, a stark contrast to the possessive grip still pinning her thigh against his hipbone.
"I love you so muchâŚ" The words spilled out raspy, rough-edged, yet surprisingly vulnerable. His gaze dropped momentarily to her damp shirt clinging to her heaving chest. "âŚdunno what I'd do without you." His voice thickened, the arrogance momentarily dissolved. It wasn't a whisper; it was a raw admission carved into the steam-filled air between them. He felt her shudder beneath him, sensed the shift in her breathingâthe panic momentarily stalled.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Then, slowly, deliberately, Y/n lifted her trembling arm. Water droplets traced paths down her elbow. Her fingers tangled into the still-damp strands of his black hair at his nape. It wasn't a gentle touch; it was a firm anchor, pulling him closer, forcing his face inches from hers. "Oh, ManjiroâŚ" The name escaped on a breathless sigh, thick with a blend of exasperation, surrender, and a desperate affection that cut deeper than any blade. Her nails dug lightly into his scalp, a silent command amidst the chaos of spilled broth and broken crockery. Her eyes locked onto his, wide and dark, reflecting the harsh overhead light and the frantic heat simmering beneath the surface. "Shut up⌠and do itâŚ"
A slow, predatory grin spread across Mikey's face. It wasn't just amusement; it was pure, unfiltered triumph, sharp and possessive. The tenderness of moments before evaporated, replaced by an electric charge that crackled in the humid air. His gaze locked onto hers, holding her submission, savoring it. Without breaking eye contact, his hands slid from her hips down the outside of her trembling thighs. His palms were rough, calloused from years gripping handlebars, contrasting violently with the soft skin beneath. He pushed firmly, spreading her legs wider against the cold granite countertop. Her breath hitched sharply at the sudden, vulnerable exposure. The movement was deliberate, unhurried, forcing her thighs apart until the muscles strained, opening her completely to his hungry gaze and the imminent invasion. Steam clung to their skin, the scent of cedarwood now mingling with the sharp tang of her arousal and the stale remnants of dinner.
He leaned forward, his damp chest brushing against her thin shirt. The heat radiating from him was immense, a furnace against her cooler skin. His arousal pressed hot and hard against her inner thigh, a blunt, demanding promise. At first, he teased her entrance with the slick head of his cock, a slow, maddening glide through her wetness, tracing her folds without penetrating. His eyes never left hers, watching every flicker of anticipation, every involuntary twitch of her muscles. Then, with a low groan that vibrated deep in his chest, he pushed forward. Not violently, but with undeniable, relentless firmness. The initial stretch was intense, a deep, burning pressure as he breached her, inch by deliberate inch.
He buried himself to the hilt in one smooth, claiming thrust, forcing a sharp gasp from Y/n. Her fingers tightened painfully in his hair, anchoring herself against the overwhelming fullness, the shock of sensationâcold granite biting into her spine, hot granite hardness filling her core. Mikey froze for a heartbeat, savoring the tight clench of her around him, the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath his thumb still resting on her jaw. Steam condensed on his skin, mingling with a fine sheen of sweat already gathering on his brow. The kitchen air was thick with the scent of their mingled arousal, spilled food, and the damp remnants of his shower. His breath hitched, ragged and hot against her lips.
"Fuck⌠fuck, Y/n," he groaned, the sound scraping against his throat like gravel. He pulled back slowly, deliberately, dragging friction that sparked whimpers low in her throat, before driving back in with possessive force. His hips snapped forward again, pressing her deeper into the counter's unforgiving edge. His gaze dropped from her wide, dazed eyes, trailing down her flushed neck, over the damp shirt clinging to her trembling chest. A faint, familiar pattern caught his eyeâa small, innocuous calendar magnet clinging crookedly to the fridge door beside her head. His rhythm faltered for a fraction of a second, a predatory grin twisting his lips as he recognized the small red circle pencilled around todayâs date. "Saw you were ovulating on the calendarâŚ" The words weren't tender; they were a low, guttural growl punctuated by another hard thrust that stole her breath.
Y/nâs moan tore free, sharp and ragged against his throat where his pulse hammered wildly. It wasnât just pleasureâit was a surrender, thick with hopeful desperation. Her hips arched off the filthy countertop to meet his next savage thrust.
"Fuck, yeahâŚ," Mikey snarled, his gaze locked onto her flushed face, the triumph blazing hotter than the overhead bulb. His hips pistoned relentlessly, the wet slap of skin echoing off the tiles amidst the chaos of shattered dishes. "DeepâŚfill you up." Another brutal snap forward slammed her spine into the granite. "Get you swollen⌠heavyâŚ" His thumb found her clit, rubbing rough circles that stole her breath. "Hopefully weâll get you pregnant on the first try, huh?" The growled words vibrated against her sweat-slicked temple, possessive and raw.
Y/n couldnât take it anymore. The visceral hunger in his voice, the crude promise vibrating against her skinâit overwhelmed her. Panic flared alongside the coil tightening low in her belly. Her hand shot up instinctively, palm smacking hard against his mouth, muffling the next filthy vow. Fingers splayed wide, digging into the line of his jaw, pressing his lips shut against further declarations. Her nails bit into his cheekbone. "Shut up, Manjiro!" she gasped out, voice a ragged mix of desperation and command. Her hips bucked involuntarily against his thrusts, undermining her own order.
But it was too late. His groan vibrated against her palm, wet and muffled, yet somehow louder than the slick slap of their bodies. The sensationâhis lips moving against her skin, the scrape of his teeth beneath her fingersâwas the tipping point. The coil snapped. Her hips jerked forward against his, meeting his next thrust with frantic urgency, then jerked backwards, rolling against him in a sharp, seeking arch. It was instinct, primal and unthinkingâher body riding the wave of his relentless pistoning hips, grinding backwards against the solid heat of him as she chased the cresting pressure. Her throat seized. The sound that escaped wasnât a moan; it was a choked, guttural cry ripped from deep within, echoing off the grease-stained tiles as her vision fragmented into white sparks. Every muscle clenched, locking around him impossibly tight.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Her thighs clamped violently around his hips, trapping him deep as she shuddered through the peak. Her spine bowed sharply against the counterâs edge, muscles straining to the point of trembling. She couldnât breathe, couldnât moveâcould only feel the overwhelming pulse radiating from her core, spreading outward in fierce, uncontrollable waves. Her fingers spasmed tighter against his jaw, nails digging furrows into his damp skin, pinning his face against her palm even as her hips pressed back harder, grinding against him, milking every convulsive pulse. Broken plates dug into her back, forgotten beneath the roar in her ears and the frantic hammering of her own heart. The scent of sweat and sex and spilled broth filled her lungs, thick and suffocating. Tears blurred her visionânot sorrow, but sheer sensory overload, the raw intensity of release igniting every nerve ending.
Mikey ripped her hand away from his mouth, teeth grazing her knuckles as he crushed her against the countertop. His hips bucked onceâa brutal, uncontrolled thrustâbefore freezing deep inside her. A low groan tore from his throat, raw and shuddering, as he buried his face against the frantic pulse in her neck. His arms locked around her waist like steel bands, hauling her impossibly closer until her ribs protested. She felt him throb, thick and urgent, spilling hot against her inner muscles with each ragged pulse. His breath hitched against her skinâwet, open-mouthed gaspsâas he pressed his brow hard against her collarbone, hips grinding instinctively deeper as he rode out his own climax. Steam curled around them, heavy with the musk of their mingled sweat and the sharp tang of his release.
Y/n slumped against him, boneless and trembling, her own aftershocks still rippling through her veins. Every breath felt raw, scraped from her lungs. The cool granite beneath her thighs contrasted violently with the scorching heat radiating where their bodies were welded togetherâslick with sweat, and something thicker. Mikey didnât move. His weight pressed her into the counterâs unforgiving edge, his breathing still ragged gusts against her damp shoulder. His fingers traced lazy, possessive circles over the small of her back beneath her shirt. "FuckâŚ" he rasped finally, voice thick and shattered. "ManjiroâŚ" The name escaped her on a sigh, barely audible, soaked in bone-deep exhaustion and a stunned, spreading warmth low in her belly. "Felt⌠so⌠goodâŚ" The admission was a fragmented whisper against his damp hair, her fingers trembling as they tangled weakly in the strands at his nape.
He just breathed her inâcedarwood shampoo tangled with the sweet musk of her skin, the sharp copper tang of blood from his cheek where her nails had dug deep, and underneath it all, the potent, unmistakable scent of sex and hope. His thoughts weren't coherentâjust flashes: her flushed skin under harsh light, the choked desperation of her cry echoing louder than shattered porcelain, the yielding softness beneath him holding his seed. Later, he thought hazily, picturing her stomach swelling under his hands, round and heavy with his child. Soon. The image burned brighter than the ache in his hips or the sting on his jaw. He nuzzled deeper into the curve of her neck, inhaling slowly, dragging the scent deep into his lungs.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his head. His gaze wasn't tender; it was scorching. It traced the tear tracks drying on her cheeks, the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath the delicate skin of her throat, the tremble still vibrating through her slack jaw. Below, his softening cock twitched against her thigh, still buried deep within her heat, stirring back to life against the slickness coating her inner thighs. A predatory stillness settled over him, sharper than before. His thumb brushed her swollen lower lipâa silent question etched into the rough pad of his calloused skin. "Round two?" The words weren't spoken; they were a thick, guttural rumble vibrating against her damp collarbone, low enough to feel deep in her bones.âĄ
Ë đŚšÂ°âAnimes:
â§Tokyo Revengers (I've only written fics for tr so they are the main series I write for)
â§Haikyuu
â§JJK (i dont remember jack shit for the anime cause i've only watched the first season like five years ago, but i know what the characters are like)
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Things I don't write:
.đĽ Ý ËExterme kinks (for exempel scat play, incest, piss, etc.)
.đĽ Ý ËSmut without a storyline (i like a dynamic/scenario before the smut bit so i guess smut without plot is kind of difficult for me to write)
.đĽ Ý ËNo ageplay
.đĽ Ý ËNo underaged characters (only of age or aged up versions)
Things I can write for but I'll maybe struggle with:
.đĽ Ý ËViolent themes (yandere, dubcon, guns, drugs, mild torture)
.đĽ Ý ËFemale characters x reader (ive never written a fanfic with female characters but i could try)
.đĽ Ý ËMale/gn reader (ive only written for f!reader but i could try)
.đĽ Ý ËReally big age gaps (if its like an acceptble age gap then sure)
.đĽ Ý ËDaddy/mommy kink
.đĽ Ý ËI'm not really good at writing headcannons or drabbles
Things I absolutely can write for:
.đĽ Ý ËSmut, angst, comfort, romance, honestly any genre any dynamic
.đĽ Ý ËI can write for pretty much any kink as long its not the ones i don't write
.đĽ Ý ËSub/dom dynamic
.đĽ Ý Ëslow-burn!! i love a good slow burn
.đĽ Ý Ësafe sex, consent
.đĽ Ý ËMental health themes
DNI: minors (especially when it comes to my smut fics and suggestive content, i can't control who reads my fics but they are meant for adults), bigots, racsist, homphobes, zionists, MAGA's
If you are requesting, please tell me:
.đĽ Ý Ë What gender you want reader/y/n to be
.đĽ Ý ËA prompt is very helpful, the more detailed the better, but if it's simple that's perfectly fine too
.đĽ Ý ËYou can message me or preferbly use my ask box
.đĽ Ý ËAny specific arc, era, or version is much welcomed but it's not a must
.đĽ Ý ËAlso I just wanna say I absolutely love adding lyric quotes to my fics, as you can see, so if you want a specific lyric quote i'll add it, if not i'll add my own
.đĽ Ý ËPlease don't hesitate to request, it's very helpful to me since i'm constantly stuck in writers block and my mind goes blank when i try to come up with something
.đĽ Ý ËAlso it's fine if you spam my ask box or pm, if you wanna chat or ask me anything i'm down to reply, i love talking to people
.đĽ Ý ËPlease be patient with me since I have school and other things keeping me busy, it doesn't mean i've forgotten about your request it just means i'm busy
.đĽ Ý ËI write mostly on weekends if i'm not busy
I'm gonna eventually make a post where i keep track of all the request i'll fulfill,
anyways that's all! Bye-bye, lovely people!!
Gangsters (all of them)
Red blush
I love love love the color green
Video games: gta series, acnh, rdr2, sally face, fnaf series, franbow, omori, parappa the rapper, online dress up games, etc
Films: Possession 1981, There will be blood 2007, May 2002, Come and see 1985, Pearl 2022
Young Al Pacino in distress
Fashion and accessories: baby doll dresses, colored tights, mary janes, grillz/tooth gems, gold jewlery
Long hair on men
Criminology
Farm animals
Ragdoll kittens
Noel Gallaghers 2000's era
The sopranos
Cherry and green apple flavored candy
Violence in media
All of the gorillaz members
Serial Experiments Lain
Damon Albarn
Disturbing and scary videos
Nice girls
The morute aesthetic
green characters
I LOVE LIZZY GRANT
anyways i love u too
ââšPairing: Hanma Shuji x F!Reader
ââšWarnings: cusswords, having sex for the first time (on y/ns part), oral (Fem receiving), fingering, protected sex, idk thats honestly it
ââšGenre: smut, slow-burn
ââšWord count: 5180
ââšRequests: open
Minors DON'T interact
A/n: Howdy! thank you lovely people for liking 'n reblogging my fics means a lot to me <3 also i'm working on writing my masterlist, request rules, about me, and characters i write for, i'm struggling with it but im gonna eventually post them
ao3 version
"Iâm stronger than all my men, except for you-"
âť â II ⡠âş
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
The apartment smelled like wet concrete and cheap air freshenerâchemical lemon masking something worse. Sheâd picked the place precisely because no one in their right mind would live there longer than a month. The walls were thin enough to hear every argument two doors down, and the shower only ran cold after midnight. Perfect. She cranked the volume on her speakers until the bass vibrated through her ribs, watching the peeling wallpaper shudder in time.
Next door, Kisaki Tetta was yelling again. His voice cracked mid-sentence, furious, followed by the sound of a chair skidding across linoleum. She pressed her ear to the wall, grinning as his lackeys scrambled to placate himâsomething about "Hanma" and "deadline" and "who the fuck authorized this?" A gang, probably. She wasnât stupid. and Kisakiâs plans were sloppy, loud, and deliciously predictable. Like clockwork, his meetings dissolved into threats by 9 PM.
Then came the knock. Not on her doorâon the wall. Three deliberate thumps, shaking dust from the ceiling. She froze. That wasnât Kisakiâs rhythm. The wallpaper split further as another knock landed, then silence. She exhaled sharply through her nose. Hanma. That name. It slithered through Kisakiâs rants every Thursday night, hissed between teeth like a curse or a prayer. Sheâd pictured him a hundred ways: a scarred brute, a grinning liar, maybe just another suit with shaky hands.
Her fingers hovered over the speaker volume, but she cranked it higher instead. "FUCK OFF!" she yelled over the distortion, voice raw. The bassline pulsed against her throat. Something moved outsideânot footsteps, but the creak of leather, slow. The doorknob turned. Locked. Then came laughter, low and unhurried, vibrating through the doorframe. "Cute," drawled a voice sheâd never heard but instantly recognized.
She killed the music. Silence pooled in her ears. The peeling wallpaper fluttered as someone leaned against the other side, the drywall bowing slightly under their weight. "You listen well," Hanma continued, conversational, like they were discussing the weather. "Kisakiâs losing his fucking mind." A cigarette lighter clicked. She smelled smoke curling through the cracks. "Wanna know why?"
Her fingers twitched toward the deadbolt. Curiosity warred with the instinct to grab the kitchen knife taped under her coffee table. "Why the fuck are you outside my door?" she demanded, jerking it open before she could reconsider.
Hanma Shuji lounged against the doorframe, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette. His smirk faltered for half a secondâjust long enough for her to catch the flicker of surprise in his eyes as they raked over her. "Oh," he exhaled, smoke curling from his lips. "Well. Hi there." His grin returned, wider now, like heâd stumbled onto something far more interesting than Kisakiâs meltdown.
She crossed her arms, hip jutting against the splintered doorframe. "You gonna answer my question?" The hallway reeked of mildew and his cigarette. His shirts collar was stretched, revealing a sliver of collarbone, the back of his hands tattooed. She forced herself to meet his eyes instead. "Or did you just come to stare?"
"My mistake," Hanma chuckled, tapping ash onto the carpet. His gaze lingered on her bitten-down nails, the fading bruise above her knee. "Thought you'd be taller." He took a slow drag, exhaling sideways. "But yeahâturn that shit down." He gestured lazily toward her speakers with his cigarette.
She slammed the door, splinters flying. The lock clicked. Silence. Then his muffled laugh through the wood, darkly amused. "Real mature." His shadow shifted under the doorframeâleather boots scraping concrete.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
He kept appearing. Leaning against the fire escape at 3 AM, cigarette cherry bobbing as he watched the alley below. Perched on Kisakiâs windowsill like some deranged gargoyle, swinging his legs while the his best friend screamed into a phone. Once, she caught him staring up at her fourth-floor window from the sidewalk, hands in pockets, grin sharp enough to cut glass.
She started dreaming about his handsâthe way his fingers curled around his cigarette, the tendons flexing when he flicked ash off his sleeve. Woke up sweating, thighs pressed together, furious at herself. It wasnât attraction. It was morbid fascination, like watching a car crash in slow motion.
She needed fresh air. The clock blinked 8:03 PM. She kicked off the tangled sheets and grabbed her jacket, fingers shaking as she zipped it up. The apartment smelled like stale smoke and her own panic.
Outside, she didnât bother looking aroundâjust leaned against the building, letting the brick dig into her spine.
âSo you do leave your house.â Hanmaâs voice cut through the alleyâs hum like a switchblade. She flinched hard enough to smack her elbow against the wall. âJesusâfuck you scared meââ she hissed, whirling to find him crouched on the dumpster lid, forearms balanced on his knees. His grin was all teeth in the flickering streetlight.
âWhat the fuck are you doing down here?â she managed to say, heartbeat punching her ribs. He exhaled a slow plume of smoke, watching it curl toward the sky. âHe kicked me out,â Hanma shrugged, flicking ash onto the pavement. âGot mad at me.â
She snorted despite herself. âYeah, heâs always mad, isnât he?â Her chuckle was soft, involuntaryâsomething about Hanmaâs lazy shrug, like Kisakiâs fury was just another Tuesday. The streetlight buzzed overhead, casting his lashes in shadows as he tilted his head.
Hanma tapped his cigarette, watching the embers scatter. âYou know,â he mused, voice low, âhe thinks youâre listening in.â Her pulse stuttered. His grin widened.
She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, fingers brushing the cold metal of her keys. âListening in?â she echoed, forcing a scoff. âYouâve seen the walls in this place. Me and Kisaki are basically roommates.â
Hanma chuckled, rolling the cigarette between his fingers before bringing it back to his lips. âYeah guess so,â he murmured, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes flicked to hers, and there was something unreadable thereâamusement, maybe, or the ghost of something sharper. âStill. Kinda funny, isnât it? You, tucked up against the drywall, catching every little secret.â He leaned forward slightly, the dumpster creaking under his weight. âBet you know more than you let on.â
She just hums. "Do you have a boyfriend?" he asks, exhaling smoke through his nose, watching her reaction like a scientist observing a lab rat. The streetlight flickers again, casting his face in jagged shadows.
"No. Never had one reallyâŚwhy?" She narrows her eyes, shifting her weight. The question throws herâtoo personal, too pointed. Her fingers dig into her jacket pockets until the fabric strains. "Weird fucking thing to ask a stranger in an alley."
Hanma exhales sharply through his noseâalmost a laughâand crushes his cigarette under his boot. "Youâre no stranger," he murmurs, stepping off the dumpster with a thud that echoes between the brick walls. "Asking âcause this isnât a safe place for lonely girls." Heâs closer now, close enough for her to catch the scent of leather and nicotine clinging to his collar. His gaze drops to her mouth, lingering just a second too long. "But you already know that, donât you?"
She doesnât respond to that. "So youâve seriously never had a boyfriend. I find that hard to believe." His voice is lighter now, teasing, but his fingers flex at his sides like heâs resisting the urge to reach out.
"Believe whatever you want," she snaps, but her breath hitches when he steps closerâclose enough that the toe of his boot nudges hers. The alley suddenly feels narrower, the brick at her back colder. "Like I said, weird fucking question"
Hanma just hums, fishing another cigarette from his pocket. The lighter's flare illuminates the smirk playing at his lips. "Here," he says abruptly, pressing the cigarette between her fingers before she can protest. His thumb brushes her knuckle, calloused and warm. "Call me when you get tired of listening through walls." He drops a crumpled receipt into her palm, numbers scrawled in hasty ink. Then he's gone, boots echoing down the alley until the darkness swallows him whole.
She didn't call. Not when her neighbor's sobs seeped through the vents at 2 AM, not when Kisaki's voice rose to a fever pitch about shipments gone wrong. The receipt lived taped to her fridge like some morbid art piece, numbers blurring from steam every time she boiled water for ramen.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
But three weeks later, she jolted awake at 3:17 AM with her thighs slick and her sheets twisted around her waist, Hanmaâs name still clinging to the back of her teeth. The dream had been too vividâhis mouth on her neck, his fingers hooking under the waistband of her underwearâand now the apartmentâs winter chill couldnât touch the heat crawling up her spine. She kicked off the damp sheets, pressing her forehead against the frosted windowpane, breath fogging the glass.
The alley below was empty except for a stray cat picking through garbage. She exhaled sharply through her nose, fingers tapping against the cold sill. Pathetic. She ripped the receipt off the fridge, the tape tearing flecks of paint with it. The numbers were smudged but still legible. Her thumb hovered over her phoneâs cracked screen, pulse thudding in her throat.
"Yeah?" Hanma answered on the second ring, voice rough with sleepâor maybe sheâd woken him mid-fuck. The thought curled hot in her stomach. Static crackled between them. She could practically hear him smirking through the silence. "Whoâs this?" he drawled. A lighter clicked. She pictured him sprawled across some shitty mattress, cigarette dangling from his lips, tattoos stark in the dim light of a streetlamp.
"UhâŚitâs me," she muttered, gripping the phone tighter. The words tasted stupid in her mouth. "Wanted to ask if you wanted to hang out or something." Her pulse hammered against her ribs. Somewhere below her window, a bottle shattered against pavement. Hanma exhaledâa long, slow drag of smokeâbefore chuckling low in his throat. "Hang out," he repeated, savoring the syllables like they were some inside joke.
The silence stretched taut between them. She clenched her teeth, debating whether to hang up when his mattress creakedâloud, deliberate. "At three in the morning?" His voice dripped with amusement. She heard the rustle of fabric, the whisper of skin against sheets. "You know what people usually mean when they say that, right?" His tone curled around her, warm and dangerous. A flush crawled up her neck.
She pressed her forehead harder against the window, the glass biting into her skin. "Iâm notâthatâs notâ" Her breath fogged the pane in uneven bursts. Another creak, closer now. His exhale crackled through the receiver, smoke and static. "Then whyâd you call?" The question was a challenge, wrapped in velvet.
She swallowed around the dryness in her throat. "Because Kisakiâs been screaming about severed fingers for an hour," she blurted. The lie tasted thin. Hanma laughedâsoft, disbelievingâand she imagined his teeth catching his lower lip. "Uh-huh," he murmured. A lighter clicked again. "And you thought Iâd help? Sweetheart, Iâm the one who delivered them." The mattress creaked ominously.
Her fingers tightened around the phone. The stray cat below had frozen mid-step, ears pricked toward her window. "W-well, I just wanted to talk okay!?" she snapped, voice cracking like a teenagerâs. Hanma exhaled sharplyâalmost a sighâbefore the line went silent for three agonizing seconds. Then: "Doorâs unlocked," he said, so casually it took her a moment to process. "Apartment 4B." The call died with a soft click.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
She stood there clutching her phone until the screen dimmed, staring at her own warped reflection in the glass. The pressure in her chest wasnât panicâit was something older, heavier, like a stone sinking through honey. She turned on the shower faucet so hard the pipes groaned, stripping off her sweat-damp shirt with a sharp yank. The water scalded her shoulders pink, but she barely felt it. When was the last time sheâd actually hung out with someone? Her best friend had canceled last month for a date, and her cousin was always buried in hospital shifts now. Her shampoo bottle was crusted shut.
The alley was slick with rain when she stepped outside, the fire escape dripping like a broken faucet. She hadnât bothered with makeupâjust tugged on a stolen hoodie and finger-combed her hair into something resembling order. Her socks were already soaked through by the time she reached 4Bâs landing, her breath coming too fast. The door was slightly ajar, just like heâd said. A sliver of yellow light cut across the hallwayâs peeling linoleum. She nudged it open with her knee, pulse hammering in her wrists.
Hanma was sprawled across a ratty couch, one arm slung over his eyes, the other dangling a cigarette over an overflowing ashtray. The apartment smelled like stale beer and wet leather. A single lamp cast long shadows across his collarbones, the tattoos on his knuckles shifting as he flexed his fingers. "Took you long enough," he drawled, not bothering to lift his arm. His shirt was rumpled, riding up to reveal a strip of skin above his waistband. She swallowed hard.
He sat up and patted the spot next to him, the couch springs groaning in protest. The gesture was casual, like he was inviting her to share a bag of chips, not perch on the edge of his disaster of a life. His grin was lazy, but his eyes tracked her every movementâthe way her fingers twitched at her sides, the nervous swallow she couldnât suppress. "Relax," he murmured, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. "Not gonna bite. Unless you ask."
She scoffed, but her pulse kicked up another notch. "Real funny," she muttered, plopping herself down next to himâleaving a careful six inches between them. Hanma stretched his legs out, his knee brushing hers. She didnât pull away.
The apartment was a disaster. Empty beer bottles lined the windowsill like trophies, and a half-eaten pizza box was wedged under the coffee table, grease seeping into the carpet. The TV flickered silently with some late-night infomercial, casting eerie blue light across Hanmaâs sharp features. His fingers drummed against his thighâslow, rhythmic, like he was counting down the seconds until she cracked.
âYouâre very desperate, you.â He finally broke the silence, pulling out a cigarette and rolling it between his fingers before lighting it. The flame illuminated the smirk playing at his lips. âCalling me at 3 AM, showing up soaking wetââ His gaze dragged down her damp hoodie, lingering on her bare legs beneath the hem.
She stiffened. The way he said âsoaking wetâ didnât feel like he meant the rain. âDunno,â she muttered, picking at a loose thread on the couch. âIâm just bored, Hanma. Nothing wrong with being boredâŚ?â The sentence came out clumsy, half-formed. She didnât know how to articulate the restless energy coiling in her gutâhow the dream still clung to her skin like sweat.
Hanmaâs smirk softened at the edges, something almost contemplative flickering behind his eyes. He tapped his cigarette against the ashtray, watching the embers scatter. âPleaseâcall me Shuji,â he said, quieter than sheâd ever heard him. His knee pressed more firmly against hers, warm through the thin fabric of her sweatpants. âYou know, at first I didnât believe it for one second. The âyouâve been single your whole lifeâ thing.â His thumb brushed the inside of her wristâjust once, fleeting. âBut nowâŚâ
She kicked him in the shin, hard enough to make him grunt. âStill on about that? Yeah, Iâve never been in a relationship. Yeah, Iâve never had sex. So fucking what.â The words tasted bitter, like old coffee grounds.
Hanmaâno, Shujiâjust grinned wider, his fingers trailing up her arm to pluck at the damp hoodie sleeve. âSo fucking what,â he echoed, voice lilting with amusement. âThatâs adorable.â His thumb grazed the soft skin of her inner elbow, and she realized with a jolt that he was counting her pulse.
She yanked her arm back, but her breath hitched when he leaned in, close enough that she could taste the nicotine on his exhale. âIâm a bit sick of it, to be honest.â The words slipped out before she could bite them back, raw and unguarded. His grin turned predatory, slow and satisfied. Sheâd handed him the knife, and he knew exactly where to twist it.
His fingers tangled in the damp fabric of her hoodie, tugging her forward until their knees knocked together. âAnd?â Shuji prompted, voice dropping lower.
"A-and?" she repeated, hating how the stutter betrayed her. His exhale was warm against her cheek, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers.
Shuji's grin sharpened. "And you want to get fucked." The words weren't a questionâthey were a verdict, delivered with the same lazy certainty as his smoke rings. His free hand slid up her thigh, calluses catching on the fabric of her sweatpants. "That's why you called." His thumb pressed into the soft flesh above her knee, just shy of where the dream had left her aching.
She opened her mouthâto protest, to lieâbut he cut her off with a sharp "Shh," pressing two fingers against her lips. The taste of tobacco and salt flooded her mouth. His smirk softened into something almost gentle as he stood, pulling her up with him by the wrist. "C'mere," he murmured, leading her toward the bedroom without waiting for confirmation. The hallway walls were paper-thin too, swaying slightly when she stumbled against him.
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Shuji parked her on the edge of the mattress with a firm hand on her shoulder, then stepped back to loom over her, peeling off his shirt with deliberate slowness. The dim light caught the ripple of old scars across his ribs, the ink twisting over his collarbones. "Do you want to fuck?" he asked again, voice rough but impossibly clearâno tease, no games this time. Just the question, hanging between them like smoke.
She dug her fingers into the mattress, the springs groaning under her weight. "When you put it like thatâ" Her voice cracked, the words tangling with the memory of his hands in her dream. Shuji exhaled sharply through his nose, crouching until their faces were level. His palm settled hot against her throat, thumb nudging her chin up. "Answer me," he demanded, fingers flexing. "Yes or no?"
Her sigh shuddered out of her, shoulders slumping as she nodded. "Yes, butâ" The protest died when his grip tightened, her pulse hammering against his fingertips. "I havenât prepared or anything, Iâ" Shuji shushed her again with a rough press of his thumb against her lips. "Iâll take care of it," he murmured, already peeling her sweatpants down her thighs with his free hand. The cold air hit her skin first, then the heat of his palm sliding up the inside of her leg. "All of it."
He stripped off the rest of his clothes with practiced efficiencyâno fanfare, just the whisper of fabric hitting the floor and the creak of the mattress as he knelt over her. The streetlight through the blinds painted stripes across his collarbones, his ribs, the dark trail of hair leading down. His hands were everywhere at onceâtilting her chin up, skimming her waist, skating over her hipsâuntil he finally cupped her face, his thumbs dragging slow circles under her jaw. "Kiss me," he ordered, voice rough but impossibly soft, like he was giving her permission to break something between them.
She closed the distance before she could second-guess it, pressing her mouth to his with too much teeth, not enough finesse. His lips parted under hers, warm and yielding, but when she pulled back, he just laughedâa low, rasping sound that vibrated through her ribs. "Fuck. That fucking sucked, y/n," he teased, but his fingers curled into her hair, tugging her closer like he wanted her to try again. The flush crawling up her neck had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way his grin turned molten when she bit his lower lip in retaliation.
He backed her up toward the headboard with slow, deliberate presses of his hips, knees bracketing her thighs as he crawled over her like something feral. The mattress groaned under their combined weight, springs protesting as she sank deeper into the thin mattress. His breath hitched when she dragged her nails down his ribsânot hard enough to mark, but enough to make his muscles jump under her fingertips. "Easy," he warned, though his voice was wrecked already, rough around the edges like he'd been the one screaming into pillows all night. His hands found her wrists, pinning them above her head with effortless strength. "You're gonna ruin this for yourself."
She whimperedâhalf frustration, half something else entirelyâwhen his teeth grazed her pulse point, sharp enough to sting but not enough to break skin. His knee nudged her legs apart with lazy insistence, the rough denim of his discarded jeans still tangled around his ankle scraping against her inner thigh. "Shujiâ" His name dissolved into a gasp when his free hand slid between them, fingers dipping lower with agonizing slowness. "I told you," he murmured against her throat, the vibration of his voice sending heat pooling low in her stomach, "it doesn't work like that." His thumb circled her clit with practiced precision, just onceâjust enough to make her back arch off the mattressâbefore retreating entirely.
"Fuckâ" Her hips jerked forward, seeking friction against empty air, but his chuckle cut through her frustration, dark and pleased. "Patience," he chided, though his own breathing had gone uneven, his grip on her wrists tightening fractionally. His fingers traced the wetness smeared across her inner thigh, gathering it slowly before pressing one into her with a curl that had her toes digging into the sheets. "There. Thatâs it." The praise was gruff, almost reluctant, but his pupils swallowed his irises whole when her hips lifted to meet his hand.
His second finger joined the first with a slow twist that made her breath hitch, his thumb rubbing lazy circles against her clit as he worked her open. "See?" His lips brushed the shell of her ear, the words thick with something dangerously close to tenderness. "Just relaxâŚIâll stretch you out easily then." The promise coiled hot in her stomachâhalf threat, half reassuranceâas his fingers crooked deeper, dragging a whine from her throat. The stretch burned in the best way, his knuckles pressing against sensitive flesh with every deliberate stroke.
Then his mouth was on her, hot and wet against her ribs, trailing down her stomach in slow, open-mouthed kisses that left her skin tingling. His breath ghosted over her hipbone before his tongue flicked against the crease of her thighâonce, twiceâjust to feel her tremble. "Shujiâ" His name shattered into a moan when his lips finally closed over her clit, sucking gently before swirling his tongue in tight circles. The wet heat of his mouth was dizzying, his fingers still working inside her in counterpoint to each flick of his tongue.
She braced herselfâpalms flattening against the mattress, thighs tensingâbut it wasnât enough. The orgasm hit her like a live wire, sharp and sudden, her back arching off the bed as she gasped his name. White-hot pleasure crackled through her nerves, lighting up every inch of her skin until she was shaking with it, her fingers tangled in his hair without realizing sheâd reached for him. It was stronger than any orgasm sheâd ever given herselfâmaybe because it was his mouth on her, his fingers curling just rightâor maybe because sheâd never let anyone close enough to wreck her like this before.
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Shuji grinned against her thigh as she trembled, pressing open-mouthed kisses up her abdomenâslow, deliberateâgiving her no time to recover before his lips found the hollow beneath her ribs. "Fuck, youâre so delicious," he murmured against her skin, the words vibrating through her bones as he traced the curve of her breast with his teeth. His tongue flicked over her nipple, just once, just to feel her gaspâthen again, harderâuntil she was arching into his mouth with a broken noise that would have embarrassed her if she could think past the static in her head.
His fingers curled tighter in her hair, tugging just enough to sting when she tried to sit up. "Shujiâw-wait," she managed, voice cracking as his hips settled between her thighs, the hot length of him pressing against her without preamble. "Condomâ" The word dissolved into a whine when he rolled his hips, the friction sending sparks up her spine. He exhaled sharply through his nose, his smirk faltering for half a second before he leaned down to nip at her earlobe. "Got it," he muttered, reaching blindly toward the nightstandâknocking over an empty beer bottle in the processâbefore fumbling a foil packet from the drawer.
The condom crinkled between his fingers as he rolled it on, his breath hitching when she tentatively wrapped her fingers around him. "Fuckâ" His hips jerked into her touch involuntarily, his grip tightening on her thigh when she experimentally stroked him once, twice, just to feel the way his muscles jumped under her fingertips. He caught her wrist before she could continue, pinning it above her head with a low growl. "Don't," he warned, voice raggedâless a command and more a pleaâas he lined himself up. "Iâm in controlâŚ"
She barely had time to nod before he pressed into herâslow at first, achingly slowâthen all at once, burying himself to the hilt with a groan that vibrated through her ribs. "Fuckâ" His forehead dropped to her shoulder, his breath hot against her collarbone as he stilled inside her, trembling with the effort of holding back. She could feel every inch of himâthe stretch, the heat, the way her body clenched around him instinctivelyâand when she whimpered, it wasn't from pain, maybe a little, but from the overwhelming fullness of him, the way he filled her so completely she couldn't think past it.
"So fuckingâŚtight and wetâŚ" he moaned against her skin, the words slurred with pleasure as he rolled his hips experimentally, dragging another gasp from her throat. His hands slid under her thighs, hiking her legs higher around his waist, tilting her pelvis until the angle had her seeing stars. "Shujiâ" His name dissolved into a broken sob when he pulled out almost entirely, only to thrust back in with a snap of his hips that stole her breath. "Look at you," he rasped, his grip bruising on her hips as he set a punishing rhythm, each stroke punching a moan from her lips. "Taking me so wellâŚ"
Her nails raked down his back, leaving angry red trails in their wake as she arched into him, her thighs trembling with the effort of keeping up. The stretch burned in the best way, the friction igniting every nerve ending until she was writhing beneath him, her heels digging into the small of his back. "Fasterâ" The plea tumbled from her lips before she could stop it, her voice ragged with need. Shuji chuckled darkly, his breath hot against her ear as he obliged, his pace turning brutal, the slap of skin echoing off the peeling wallpaper. "Greedy," he taunted, but his voice was wrecked, his rhythm stuttering when she clenched around him on purpose this time.
He moaned at the feeling, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. "Stop squeezing me so tight, doll, fuck!" The words were half-growled, half-groaned, his fingers biting into her hips hard enough to leave bruises. His control was unravelingâshe could see it in the way his pupils swallowed his irises, in the sweat beading along his collarbones, in the ragged hitch of his breath when she tightened around him again. "Youâ" His voice cracked, his thrusts turning erratic, desperate. "You're gonna make meâ"
She dug her fingers into his shoulders, nails scraping over damp skin as she arched into him. The drag of his cock inside her was unbearable now, the friction sending sparks up her spine with every snap of his hips. His fingers pressed harder against her clitâtoo much, not enoughâand she choked on a sob when the pressure crested suddenly, white-hot pleasure ripping through her so violently her vision blurred.
Shuji sworeâfilthy, brokenâhis rhythm faltering as she clenched around him. His hips jerked erratically, his breath coming in ragged gasps against her throat. "Fuckâgonnaâ" The warning was barely coherent, his fingers digging into her thigh hard enough to leave marks as he spilled inside the rubber with a groan that sounded punched out of him. He collapsed against her, his sweat-slick chest heaving against hers, his lips brushing her collarbone in something dangerously close to tenderness.
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For a long moment, the only sound was their panting breaths and the distant drip of the fire escape outside. Then Shuji shifted, rolling onto his back with a grunt, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes like he'd just survived a war. His ribs rose and fell rapidly beneath the ink swirling across his skin. "Fuck," he muttered again, voice hoarseânot smug now, just dazed. His fingers found hers on the mattress, tangling briefly before he let go like he hadn't meant to do it.
He peeled the condom off carelessly, tying it with a practiced twist before chucking it vaguely toward the trash canâmissing spectacularly. It landed with a wet plop on the carpet somewhere near the beer bottles. He didn't seem to notice. Or care. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing against the sweat-damp column of his neck. "That," he announced to the ceiling, "was not what I expected."
She stared at the water stain above his bed, limbs still trembling, mouth still dry. The words wouldn't comeânot when her pulse was still hammering in her throat, not when her thighs were still clenched around nothing, still remembering the brutal stretch of him. Shuji rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one hand to study her with lazy amusement. His smirk was all teeth. "Can't even speak now, can you."
She shook her head slowlyânot in denial, just in overwhelmed surrenderâas he reached past her for the mangled pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. He shook one loose with a flick of his wrist, the filter tapping against her lower lip before she could protest. "Here," he murmured, already lighting his own with the same match, the flame jumping between them. "You look like you need it more than I do." The smoke curled from his lips as he watched her fumble with the lighter, his grin widening when she coughed on the first drag.
His fingers closed over hers, adjusting her grip with exaggerated patience. "No, dipshitâlike this." He guided her hand up, tilting the cigarette at the angle he preferred. His thumb brushed her lower lip when he adjusted the position, lingering a second too long. "Don't inhale yet. Just taste it." His voice was rougher than usual, the words sticking in his throat like he was fighting not to laugh at her. But there was something else there tooâan unfamiliar warmth beneath the teasing, like he enjoyed this part almost as much as what came before. âĄ
Pairing: ex bf! Shion Madarame x ex gf! Y/n.
Warnings: a little bit angsty, fighting in public, angry sex, bathroom sex
Genre: Smut
Wordcount: 3334
Requests: Open
Minors DON'T Interact
A/n: happy new years everybodyyy!! i hope this year will be a wonderful year for you all mwah mwah thanks for all the love!!! Ao3 version â¸(ď˝ĄË áľ Ë )â¸âĄ
"You act like fucking Mr. Brightside when you're with all your friends - But I know what you're like when the party ends."
âť â II ⡠âş
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Shion leaned against the sticky bar counter, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against a half-empty beer bottle. The party noise buzzed around himâlaughter, shouting, the thump of bass bleeding through the wallsâbut his attention kept snagging on the girl near the kitchen doorway. Y/N. Her hair was different now, her posture sharper than he remembered, like she'd shed the softness he used to know.
Across the room, one of his buddies elbowed another, nodding toward Y/Nâs group. "Them," he said, grinning. "Bet theyâre all fucking prudes." Shion smirked, pushing off the bar. "Nah," he drawled, loud enough for the words to carry, "just one of 'emâs got a stick up her ass." His gaze locked onto Y/N as her shoulders tensedâjust a fractionâbefore she turned, slow and deliberate, to meet his stare.
Her friends stiffened beside her, but Y/N just tilted her head, lips curling in a lazy, knowing smile. "Sounds like someoneâs still bitter," she called back, voice slicing through the din. The guys around Shion erupted into laughter, egging him on, but he felt his jaw tighten. She hadnât changed that muchâstill quick with her tongue, still making him feel like the punchline.
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By midnight, the party had blurred into a mess of spilled drinks and half-hearted dancing, and somehow, Shionâs friends had migrated toward Y/Nâs group like magnets. He watched from the edge of the crowd as one of his buddies leaned too close to her friend, slurring something about wasted potential. Y/Nâs fingers twitched around her cup, but she didnât rise to it. Instead, she caught Shion staring again and raised an eyebrow, daring him to say something smarter this time.
His throat went dry. He hated that she could still do thisâmake his pulse stutter with just a look. Fuck it. He grabbed another beer and forced himself into the fray, bumping shoulders with his friends like nothing had happened. "Oi, Madâ," one of them jeered, "you just gonna stand there? Câmere." He laughedâtoo loudâand let himself be pulled into their circle, but the back of his neck burned like her gaze was still pinned there.
Y/N rolled her eyes, turning back to her own drink, but something about the way she shifted her weight screamed irritation. Shion remembered that, tooâthe way her spine would go rigid when she was pissed but refusing to let it show. He wondered how sheâd react if he walked over and yanked her hair like he used to, just to see her snap. His fingers flexed around the bottle. Not a smart fucking idea.
Instead, he leaned into the nearest guyâs ear and pitched his voice loud enough to carry. "Yâknow, I fucked her once," he announced, grinning when heads swiveled his way. "She was all desperate about itâbegged me to stay after. Like, damn, take a hint." Saying it tasted sour, but the laughter it sparked was worth itâuntil he caught Y/Nâs face in his peripheral. Her lips parted, just for a second, before she scoffed.
"Says the guy who always fucking cried when he came," she shot back, tipping her drink toward him. The words landed like a grenadeâsilence rippled outward as Shionâs friends gaped, then erupted into howls. His ears burned. Heâd forgotten how mercilessly she could dismantle him with the truth, how effortlessly she could turn his bullshit against him.
The crowdâs laughter twisted into something sharper, feeding off the tension between them. Shionâs grip on his bottle tightened until his knuckles ached. "Yeah?" He stepped forward, voice dropping low enough that only sheâd catch the venom. "Least I wasnât the one begging for it back after you cut me off. What was it againââfocus on your futureâ?" He mimicked her voice with a sneer, watching her lips press into a thin line. "So much for focusing on yourself, you look like youâve been starving for it."
Y/Nâs laugh was sharp, brittle as shattered glass. "Oh, please," she said, tossing her hair over one shoulder. "If I wanted pathetic, Iâd justâ"
Shion didnât let her finish. He stepped in close, close enough to smell the cheap vodka on her breath, close enough to see the flicker of something raw in her eyes before she steeled herself. "Funny," he murmured, voice thick with malice. "Because last I checked, you were the one who couldnât fucking handle being alone." Her breath hitchedâjust onceâbut it was enough. He smirked. "You know what your problem is? Hey everyone! Since this fucking bitch-"
"âYo, Mad', chill the fuck out," one of his friends hissed, grabbing Shionâs wrist before he could finish his sentence. Another clapped a hand over his shoulder, leaning in with a nervous chuckle. "Not worth it, man. Letâs get another drink." The laughter around them had died into something uneasy, half the crowd glancing between Shion and Y/N like they were waiting for blood. Shion jerked his arm free, but the interruption had already fractured his momentumâhis words hung in the air, unfinished, poison dripping from the edges.
Y/N watched him struggle for control, her expression unreadable. Then she stepped forward, close enough that her next words were for him alone. "You wanna know what my problem is?" Her voice was soft, almost tender, like she was pitying him. "I outgrew you." The words landed like a knife between his ribs, precise and devastating. "And youâre still here, choking on it." His breath stuttered. She didnât raise her voice, didnât need toâthe truth of it was worse than any insult she couldâve screamed.
Because it was true. The first time theyâd slept together, heâd cried after, furious at himself for how desperately heâd clung to her, how small and stupid heâd felt when she smoothed his hair back like he was some kid who didnât know better. And she had known betterâalways had. While heâd been posturing, trying to mimic the older guys he idolized, sheâd been the one actually thinking ahead, packing condoms when he forgot, rolling her eyes at his bravado but never calling him out on it until he pushed too far. Like now.
And he had pushed. And now he was walking away, shoulders hunched like heâd already lostâwhich he had. Y/N watched him go, the hollow ache in her chest familiar as an old bruise. His friends followed, tossing half-assed apologies over their shoulders like they didnât matter, and she let them. But Shion paused at the hallway, just for a second, fingers flexing at his sides like he was fighting the urge to turn around. She wondered if he still bit his tongue when he was angry, if he still ran hot and reckless until someone yanked him back.
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The music pulsed around her, too loud suddenly, the smell of sweat and spilled beer thick in her throat. Her friends were talkingâasking if she was okay, if she wanted to leaveâbut their voices blurred into static. Because she remembered the first time sheâd seen him cry, sixteen and furious at the world, how heâd scrubbed at his face like he was ashamed of it. Sheâd kissed him then, impulsive and stupid, and heâd clung to her like she was the only real thing in his shitty life. And now here they were, years later, still tearing each other apart because neither of them knew how to stop.
Five minutes. She counted them in the uneven throb of the bassline, in the way her nails dug half-moons into her palms. Then she stood, tossing a careless "bathroom" over her shoulder before weaving through the crowd. The hallway was dim, the air cooler where the party noise dulled to a murmur. She didnât look backâdidnât need toâbecause she could feel it, the way his attention trailed after her like a physical touch.
The lock clicked shut behind her, and she exhaled sharply, perching on the closed toilet lid. The mirror reflected a version of herself she barely recognized: smudged eyeliner, lips parted like she wanted to say something cruel. Or fucking beg. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the cold glass. Ruthless? Disrespectful? That was Shion, alrightâstill swinging fists at everything that scared him, still pretending he didnât care when his hands shook. But the worst part wasnât his words. It was the way her body had reactedâthe traitorous heat pooling low when heâd crowded her, when his breath hitched like he wanted to bite more than just insults out of her.
Outside, footsteps scuffed against the tile. Then silence. Too heavy to be anyone else. Y/N didnât move, didnât breathe, until the door handle rattledâonce, twiceâbefore the lock gave with a sharp click. Shion filled the doorway, his silhouette blocking the light from the hall, his chest rising too fast. No smirk. No jokes. Just raw, unfiltered fury. "You think youâre so fucking clever," he said, voice rough. "Running your mouth like you donât remember how it feels."
She didnât flinch. "Get the fuck out before I embarrass you even more." The words tasted like gasolineâshe could practically smell the spark before it caught. His laugh was jagged, humorless. "Embarrass me?" He stepped inside, toeing the door shut behind him. "Youâre the one shaking." She wasnât, not until he said it, not until she felt the tremble in her own fingers pressed against the sink edge. His gaze tracked the movement like a predator. "Still lie when youâre scared, huh?"
Y/N curled her lip. "Scared? Of you?" She shoved off the sink, crowding into his space so fast he had to tilt his chin up to hold her stare. "Youâre nothing." His nostrils flared, the vein in his temple pulsing. "Then whyâre your tits heaving like that?" She wanted to knee him in the groin. Wanted to claw that smirk off his face. But his breath was hot and uneven, his pupils blown wide, and god, she fucking hated how her body rememberedâhow her thighs tightened at the husk in his voice.
"Go fuck yourself," she spat, but he was already moving, backing her into the wall with a thud that rattled the mirror. His hands clamped over her wrists, pinning them above her head. "Nah," he breathed against her mouth, "youâre gonna do it for me." The words curled around her like smoke, thick with the promise of ruin. She jerked her knee up, but he caught it with his thigh, grinding against her so hard she felt the ridge of his cock through his jeans. "Thatâs it," he goaded, voice dropping to a growl, "fight me. Bet youâll come faster."
The knock came like a gunshotâthree sharp raps against the door. "Y/N?" Her friendâs voice, muffled but urgent. "You good in there?" Shion froze, his breath hot on her neck, his grip tightening like he was debating whether to let her answer. Y/N swallowed the moan building in her throat.
She opened her mouthâto scream, to lieâbut Shionâs thumb brushed her pulse point, slow and deliberate. His smirk was gone, replaced by something darker, something that made her stomach flip. "Tell her youâre fine," he murmured, lips grazing her ear. His teeth nipped the lobe. "Unless you want an audience."
Y/Nâs breath hitched. "Fuck you," she whispered, but her voice wavered. The door rattled again. "Iâm fine," she called out, sharper than she meant to. "Justâgive me a minute." Silence. Then footsteps retreating.
Shion exhaled through his nose, pressing his forehead against hers. "See?" His voice was rough, but his grip loosenedâjust enough for her to feel the tremor in his fingers. "You still know how to lie." His knee nudged hers apart, and she didnât stop him. The bathroom light flickered overhead, casting shadows that made his expression unreadable. Or maybe she just didnât want to read it.
He tilted her chin up with his free hand, thumb dragging over her bottom lip. "Listen," he said, low and deadly calm. "Youâre gonna walk out there and apologize for fucking embarrassing me like that." His fingers tightened briefly, reminding her of his hold. "You know how much those guys mean to me." The words were brittle, like he was admitting something ugly.
Y/N laughed, the sound wet and ragged. "Mean to you?" She twisted her wrists against his grip, relishing the sting of friction. "You just used them as props to puff up your fucking ego." His nostrils flaredâthere it was, the rage he could never quite hide. She leaned in, teeth grazing his earlobe. "Youâre such a fucking pussy. Always wanting validation from boys who wouldnât piss on you if you were on fire."
That broke him. Shion slammed her harder into the wall, the impact rattling her teeth. "God fucking damn it, Y/N, stop fucking doing this" His voice cracked like shattered porcelainâraw, uneven, slipping into that fractured register she knew too well. No tears fell this time, but she recognized the tremor in his jaw, the way his breath hitched like he was swallowing glass.
His grip tightened, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her wristsâhard enough to bruise, hard enough to make her gaspâbut the moment the sound escaped her lips, he froze. His pupils dilated impossibly wider, drinking her in like she was the only thing left in the room worth seeing. Then his mouth crashed down onto hers, biting, relentless, stealing the breath from her lungs as if he wanted to consume her whole. She tasted ironâeither from her lip splitting or hisâand the metallic tang only fueled the fire licking up her spine.
But then his lips softenedâjust slightlyâslowing into something devastatingly familiar. The way he used to kiss her in stolen moments between classes, like he was trying to memorize the shape of her mouth. Y/N whimperedâhalf-protest, half-pleaâher fingers twisting uselessly against his hold. "Fuck⌠donât," she whispered against his lips, voice breaking. "Donât kiss me like that." Because she remembered. Remembered how it felt when he kissed her like she was something precious, like he wasnât just marking territory but worshipping it. And that was worse than anything else he could do to her.
Shion pulled back just enough to smirk, his breath ragged. "Regret it yet?" he taunted, grinding his hips against hers in a slow, filthy roll. The friction dragged a moan from her throat before she could choke it back. His grin widened. "Yeah. Thought so.â
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
The sinkâs porcelain bit into Y/Nâs palms as he yanked her hips back, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs. The mirror rattled with each thrust, their reflection fracturingâher lips parted around a gasp, his teeth bared like a feral thing. Cold metal pressed against her cheek, her breath fogging the glass as he fucked her harder, deeper, like he was trying to carve himself into her bones.
She remembered the first timeâhis clumsy thrusts, the way heâd trembled afterward, whispering apologies into her collarbone. Now his cock stretched her mercilessly, the drag of him almost too much, the stretch bordering on pain. His body was different tooâbroader shoulders, rougher handsâand when he wrapped an arm around her throat, she felt the power coiled in his muscles, the threat in his grip.
Shion bit down on her shoulder, growling when she arched against him. "Still tight as fuck," he rasped, voice thick with something like awe. The words shouldnât have made her clench around him, but they didâher body betraying her, remembering every filthy thing heâd ever whispered in the dark. His breath hitched, fingers spasming against her hip. "Fuck, youâyou feel even better than I remembered." The admission slipped out raw, unguarded, and she hated how it made her throat burn.
Behind her, she felt the smirk she couldnât seeâthe arrogant tilt of his lips against her nape as he slowed his thrusts to a torturous grind. "Bet you thought about this," he murmured, dragging his tongue up her spine. "Bet you fucking touched yourself pretending it was me." She gasped when his fingers slid between her legs, rubbing rough circles that had her thighs shaking. "Admit it." His teeth scraped her ear. "Admit you missed me."
Y/N clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfactionâuntil his thumb pressed down hard, sending sparks shooting up her spine. A broken moan tore free, and Shion laughed low in his throat, triumphant. "Knew it," he breathed, nipping her earlobe. "Bet you were rubbing your pussy like this"âhis fingers mimicked the motionâ"thinking about how bad you wanted me to wreck you again." She hated how her hips jerked into his touch, how her body burned with the truth heâd dragged out of her.
The memories surfaced like bileâhow heâd mock her in front of his friends back in high school, calling her frigid when she refused to sneak into the janitorâs closet with him, laughing when she tripped in the hallways. But then heâd pull her behind the school gates after class, pin her against the chain-link fence, and murmur, "Youâre so fucking pretty when youâre mad," before kissing her stupid. The duality had driven her insaneâthe way heâd humiliate her in daylight only to worship her in shadows. And now here he was, doing it againâhis fingers slick with her arousal while his words cut just as deep.
Shionâs hips stuttered, his rhythm faltering as he choked out, "Fuck, fuckâ" before slamming into her one last time, his groan muffled against her shoulder. The warmth flooding her was familiar too, that stupid little noise he made when he cameâhalf-growl, half-whimperâlike even his body couldnât decide if he was a predator or prey. Y/N wanted to laugh, to scream, to claw his eyes out for how predictable he was, how easily he gave in to her even while pretending he owned her.
But then she felt itâher own thighs clenching around nothing, her stomach tightening with a wave of heat that crested too fast, too violently, as if her body had been waiting for this betrayal all along. A strangled sound escaped her lips, her nails scraping against the sink as pleasure ripped through her, ruthless and unrelenting. She hated itâhated how her hips rocked back against him greedily, how her cunt pulsed around his cock like it was thanking him.
Shionâs laugh was rough with satisfaction, his teeth dragging down the nape of her neck. âYeah, thatâs right,â he muttered, voice slurred with exhaustion and victory. âKnew youâd come for me by the end of tonight.â His fingers slid between her legs again, collecting the slick mess heâd left behind before pressing two fingers against her parted lips. âTaste it,â he demanded, and she didâbit down hard enough to make him hiss, her tongue swirling around his fingers just to watch his pupils dilate.
Outside, the party had dulled to a distant throb of bass and slurred voices, but the bathroom still smelled like themâsalt and sweat and the acrid tang of vodka. Y/Nâs legs trembled as she slumped against the wall, the cold tiles biting into her overheated skin. Shion exhaled sharply, his forehead pressing against hers as he caught his breath. His fingers twitched against her waist like he wasnât sure whether to push her away or pull her closer.
"Dirty fucking girl," he muttered, voice hoarse. The words werenât an insultânot really. They curled around her like smoke, thick with something she didnât want to name. His thumb swiped lazily over her hipbone, smearing the mess heâd left there. "You take it so good." The praise tasted bitter, but her body arched into it anyway, her traitorous pulse skipping when he chuckled. "Look at you," he murmured, lips grazing the shell of her ear. "Still fucking mine."
Y/N shoved his chestâhardâforcing space between them. "Keep dreaming," she spat, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand like she could erase the taste of him. "Just because I let you fuck me doesnât mean shit." His grin faltered for half a second, just long enough for her to twist the knife. "You still came first," she reminded him, flicking her gaze pointedly downward. "Like always." âĄ
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.đĽ Ý ËPairing: final timeskip! Draken x F!Reader, kind of a boss-employee thing
.đĽ Ý ËWarnings: infidelity; draken is married to emma and they have a kid, age gap; reader is 19 & draken is 29, i think i tried to portairt reader as kind of a bimbo or at least very flirty, unprotected sex (he pulls out), cursing, some alcohol
.đĽ Ý ËGenre: Smut, Slow-burn
.đĽ Ý ËWord count: 7063
.đĽ Ý ËRequests: Open
Minors DON'T Interact
.đĽ Ý ËA/n: Felt kind of illegal to write this...sighhh, Ao3 version
"I know your wife and she wouldn't mind."
âť â II ⡠âş
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
The wrench slipped for the third time, slicing Drakenâs knuckles open. He sucked in a sharp breath, tossing the tool onto the greasy shop floor with a clatter. "Damn piece ofâ"
The garage door screeched upward, flooding the dim space with blinding afternoon light. A figure stumbled in, tripping over the threshold, arms flailing like a cartoon. "Hiya! Iâm sorry Iâm late," the girl panted, shoving a tangled mess of hair out of her face. "Jesus Christ, itâs so hard catching the bus." She smelled like cheap body spray and the stale heat of public transit.
Draken didnât turn around. He pressed a shop rag against his bleeding hand, shoulders rigid. "You were supposed to be here two hours ago," he muttered, voice low and rough. The words werenât sharpâjust weary, like a man whoâd long since stopped expecting anything different.
Y/n dropped her bag onto the rickety chair by the tool bench, the clatter of loose lip balms and crumpled receipts spilling out as she dug through it. "Yeah, well," she sighed, pulling out a cracked phone charger and a half-eaten Nesquik bar, "itâs so hard waking up this early. Like, Iâm usually up at three, but now I have to be up at nine? And I have to go to bed earlyâzero alone time for myself, yâknow?" She didnât wait for an answer, just kept talking, voice bouncing off the oil-stained walls.
Draken exhaled sharply through his nose, still facing the bikeâs exposed engine. The rag on his hand was soaking through, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the sharp oil fumes. He didnât rise to her bait. "Clock in," he said flatly, nodding toward the dusty punch card machine in the corner. "You havenât been here enough to get fired yet."
She rolled her eyes but sauntered over, hips swaying a little too deliberately in her cutoff shorts. The machine whirred as she slammed her card in. "I mean, you totally get it, donât you, Kenny?" she said, voice dripping with faux sympathy. "That wife of yoursâEmma, right?âand God, that kid." She leaned against the tool bench, picking at her chipped nail polish. "The kid's cute or whatever, but cries a lot, no?" Her grin was sharp, predatory. "Must be exhausting, coming home to that every night."
Drakenâs hands stilled on the bikeâs engine, knuckles white around a bolt. The shop rag slipped from his grip, hitting the floor with a wet slap. He didnât turn. Didnât reactâexcept for the slow, controlled breath he dragged in through his nose. "Y/n," he said, voice low, "your brother asked me to do this. So either clock in and grab a goddamn mop, or get out."
She let out a laugh, high and brittle, like shattered glass. "Ohhh, Iâm sorry?" Her fingers trailed along the edge of the tool bench, nails scraping against rusted metal. "Did I strike a nerve?" She tilted her head, watching the way his shoulders tensed beneath his grease-stained shirt.
He didnât dignify her with a response. Just grabbed the wrench off the floor and went back to work, the clang of metal echoing louder than necessary. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant hum of traffic outside and the occasional drip of oil from the bikeâs engine onto the concrete below.
Y/n sighed dramatically, tossing her hands up. "Fine, fine, Iâll go, Iâll go," she said, voice dripping with exaggerated reluctance, like she was doing him some grand favor. She sauntered over to the punch clock, hips swaying in that deliberate way she knew made his jaw tightenâthough he refused to look. The machine whirred as she slammed her card in again, harder than necessary, the sound sharp in the tense air.
Draken kept his focus on the bikeâs engine, tightening bolts with more force than needed, his grip leaving no room for mistakes. He could practically feel her gaze burning into his back, the weight of it like the oppressive summer heat pressing down on him. She reminded him of Emmaâback when they were teenagers, before responsibilities and diapers and sleepless nights. Emma had been brash, too, all sharp edges and careless confidence. But Emma had grown up.
Y/n was still stuck in that reckless limbo, fresh out of high school, her brotherâs desperation clinging to her like perfume. Heâd begged Draken to take her inââJust give her a job, man, sheâs gotta learn somehow,ââas if a grease-stained garage could fix whatever was broken in her. Draken had seen the way her brotherâs shoulders sagged when she wasnât looking, exhausted by the weight of her aimlessness. The apartment heâd rented for her was barely more than a shoebox, walls thin enough to hear her pacing at 3 AM, music thumping through the floorboards.
Then sheâd shown up late on her first day, tripping over the threshold, her eyes catching his for half a second too long as he wiped his hands on a rag. Something in her expression had shiftedâlike sheâd expected another dead-end job handed to her out of pity, but instead found him rolling up his sleeves to tighten a carburetor, forearms flexing under the dim garage lights. Her lip had twitched, halfway between a smirk and something else entirely. Draken knew that look.
Now she was perched on the stool by the workbench, lazily polishing a set of new wrenches with a grease-blackened rag. The rhythmic squeak of metal against cloth filled the quiet garage, punctuated by the occasional sigh as she tossed her hair over her shoulder. Her fingers moved slow, deliberate, dragging the rag over the chrome with unnecessary pressureâpurposefully making the task last longer than it needed to. Draken caught himself watching the motion from the corner of his eye, the way her fingertips lingered on the curve of each tool before moving to the next. He tightened his grip on the bikeâs throttle cable.
"Youâve been polishing that wrench for almost thirty minutes now," he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion. The words came out sharper than intended, edged with something he didnât want to name.
Y/n paused mid-swipe, her fingers curled around the handle. She turned her head just enough to catch his reflection in the chrome surfaceâhis broad back hunched over the bike, grease smeared across his forearms like war paint. A slow grin spread across her lips. "So you have been watching me," she purred, dragging the rag down the toolâs shaft with exaggerated slowness. "Hmm. Cute."
Drakenâs jaw flexed. He tightened the throttle cable with a sharp jerk, the bolt squealing in protest. "Iâm fucking serious. Those are new toolsâyou donât need to be polishing them." The words rumbled low, a warning. "Besides, you were up to this shit yesterday. And the day before that." He finally turned, wiping his hands on his stained jeans, eyes dark under the garageâs flickering fluorescents. "Maybe pick up a fucking mop."
Y/nâs grip tightened around the wrench. Her nails dug into the rag, knuckles paling. "Youâre so goddamn condescending, I donât even wanna fucking work here..!" The words exploded out of herâhalf-shout, half-snarlâbut her voice cracked on the last syllable, betraying the anger for something else entirely.
Draken exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You think I didnât notice?" His voice was low, rough. "That old guyâthe one who used to work the night shift? Heâd been here fifteen years. Your brother pulled every favor he had just for this." He stepped closer, the scent of motor oil and sweat clinging to him. "And you show up late. Every goddamn day."
Y/n threw the wrench down, chrome clattering against the concrete. "Then why donât you just fucking fire me!" She stormed out, the garage door rattling violently in its tracks as she shoved it open. The afternoon sun blinded her momentarily, but she didnât stopâjust kept walking, her breath coming in short, furious bursts. She didnât look back, didnât see the way Drakenâs hands clenched at his sides, fingers digging into his palms hard enough to leave crescent marks.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
He just stood there breathing in and out. And continued on with his work. The bikeâs throttle cable needed adjusting, the bolts tightened. Methodical. Familiar. His hands moved on autopilot, grease smearing across his knuckles, the sting of the cut long forgotten. The garage felt heavier without her thereâthick with oil fumes and the ghost of her cheap perfume clinging to the air. The wrench sheâd thrown lay abandoned near the door, chrome glinting accusingly under the fluorescents.
Two days passed. The space where Y/nâs bag usually slumped against the chair remained empty, save for the faint outline of dust where it had been. Draken didnât mention it. Neither did Emma, though she noticed the way he lingered by the shopâs grimy window when he thought she wasnât looking, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. The silence stretched, taut as a wire.
Then his phone rangâa shrill, insistent bleat that shattered the quiet of their bedroom at 2:03 AM. Emma stirred beside him, hair mussed from sleep, as Draken fumbled for the device, the screen casting a harsh blue glow across his face. Y/nâs brotherâs name flashed like a warning. He exhaled through his nose before answering, voice graveled with exhaustion. "Yeah?"
There was a pauseâlong enough for Draken to register the background noise of a dive bar, glasses clinking, laughter too loud to be genuine. "Hey, Ken," her brother finally said, the words slightly slurred, tension coiling beneath them like a live wire. "Got a minute?"
Draken swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet hitting the cold floorboards. Emma mumbled something incoherent into her pillow, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. He rubbed a hand down his face, the scrape of stubble rough against his palm. "Itâs two in the fucking morning," he muttered, voice low.
The line crackled with static, the distant clink of ice cubes settling in a glass. Y/nâs brother exhaled sharply. "YeahâI know. But she hasnât been answering my calls for two days now." The words were too casual, like he was commenting on the weather and not the fact his sister had vanished into Tokyoâs neon sprawl.
Drakenâs fingers tightened around the phone. "She hasnât been at work," he said, voice flat. The admission tasted bitterâlike heâd somehow failed at something he hadnât even signed up for.
Her brother laughedâa jagged, hollow sound. "Jesus Christ, this girl," he muttered, the words half-drowned by the barâs din. "I leave the fucking city, she can barely breathe on her own." A glass clinked sharply in the background, followed by a hissed curse. "Iâm sorry, Ken⌠thank you for helping me. I⌠Iâll visit you when Iâm back from Osaka." The line went dead before Draken could respond, leaving him staring at the darkened screen, the ghost of that apology hanging in the air like smoke.
He kissed his teeth and tossed the phone onto the nightstand. The sheets rustled as he lay back down, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Emma shifted beside him, her breath steady and deep, her warmth pressing against his side. But his thoughts slithered back to Y/nâher fingers tracing chrome tools slower than necessary, the way her shorts rode up when she bent over to grab a dropped bolt. His jaw clenched. He shouldn't care. Not when Emmaâs scentâvanilla lotion and baby shampooâstill clung to the pillow case.
His arm slid around Emmaâs waist, pulling her closer. She sighed in her sleep, nestling against his chest without waking. Draken buried his face in her hair, breathing her in like a drowning man gasping for air. His fingers traced the familiar curve of her hip under the thin fabric of her nightgown, reminding himself of the stretch marks from childbirth, the way she still winced sometimes when she picked up their kid. Real. Solid. His. But the ghost of Y/nâs laughâsharp and mockingâechoed in the back of his skull anyway.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
The garage clock ticked louder than usual that afternoon, its second hand jerking forward with agonizing slowness. Draken wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, grease streaking across his forehead. He kept glancing at the door, half-expectingâhalf-hopingâit would screech open any second. But the hinges stayed silent, rusted in place by the oppressive June humidity. The wrench Y/n had thrown lay untouched where itâd fallen, chrome dulled beneath a thin film of dust. He kicked it under the work bench.
By the time the shop closed, Draken was pacing the grease-stained floor like a caged animal. He snatched up the employee file heâd shoved to the back of the drawerâY/nâs messy scrawl filled out the address section with crooked lettering and a stain that smelled faintly of bubblegum. The apartment complex was a twenty-minute bike ride away, nestled in a part of town where the streetlights flickered like dying fireflies. He didnât text Emma. Didnât call. Just revved the engine louder than necessary, as if the growl of pistons could drown out the unease coiling in his gut.
The stairwell reeked of mildew and stale cigarette smoke, the fluorescent bulb on the third floor buzzing erratically. Drakenâs knuckles hovered inches from Y/nâs doorâchipped red paint, a sticker half-peeled off that read âGO AWAYâ in bubbly font. He could hear music thumping through the thin walls, bass vibrating the floorboards beneath his boots. Thenâglass shattering. A muffled curse. His fist connected with the door before he could stop himself, the impact rattling the frame. "Open up," he growled, voice rough enough to scrape paint.
She swung it open. Her hair was up, face clear and glowing from whatever product she used, and she was in a pajama set that matched the shade of her cheeks. She looked peacefulâexcept for the shattered tumbler at her feet, amber liquid pooling between her bare toes. "Oh," she breathed, blinking up at him like he was a hallucination. The scent of bourbon clung to her exhale. "Kenny." Her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip, slow and deliberate. The pajama shorts rode up her thighs as she shifted her weight, fabric straining against the curve of her hips.
Drakenâs jaw locked. The apartment behind her was a disasterâclothes strewn across the couch, takeout containers stacked precariously on the coffee tableâbut somehow, impossibly, she looked put together. Her gaze flicked down to his grease-stained shirt, lingering on the way the fabric stretched across his chest. "Shouldâve told me you were gonna pay me a visit," she murmured, voice husky with something that wasnât quite amusement. "Wouldâve cleaned up." Her fingers toyed with the hem of her shirt, lifting it just enough to expose a sliver of bare stomach. The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken words.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, resisting the urge to shove past her. "Your brother called," he muttered instead, eyes scanning the dimly lit apartment. A kettle whistled faintly from the kitchenette, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling. The scent of chamomile mixed with bourbonâan unsettling combination. "Said you werenât answering your phone." His fingers flexed at his sides, itching to grab her, shake her, demand to know why sheâd vanished. But he didnât move.
Y/n leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms beneath her chest in a way that made her shirt ride up further. "Aw, were you worried?" she teased, lips quirking into a smirk as she stepped aside. "Come inside. I made tea."
Draken hesitatedâhis boots planted stubbornly on the thresholdâbut the scent of chamomile curled around him, dragging him forward like a fish hooked through the ribs. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in the cluttered warmth of her apartment. The music had been turned down to a low hum, bass vibrating through the soles of his shoes like a pulse.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Y/n gestured vaguely toward the couchâa two-seater draped in fluffy pink blankets, wedged between a retro TV and a leaning tower of laundry. "Itâs a bit small," she murmured, fingers twisting in the hem of her shirt again. "But you can sit there." The invitation hung between them, weighted and deliberate. The bourbon puddled at her toes reflected the dim lamplight, casting fractured gold across her bare ankles.
She came back with two mugsâone chipped at the rim, the other pristineâsteam curling into the already humid air. "Chamomile," she said, pressing the chipped one into his hands. Her fingers lingered against his knuckles for a heartbeat too long, skin warm where the grease hadnât crusted over. The scent of bergamot mixed with chamomile, cloying and sweet. Her knees pressed against his thigh as she settled beside him, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her bare skin. The tea sloshed dangerously close to the rim when she crossed her legs, pajama shorts riding up higher.
Draken set the mug down on the coffee tableânext to a half-empty bottle of bourbonâwithout drinking. "He said you werenât answering," he repeated, voice rougher than he intended. The couch groaned under his weight as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced tight enough to ache. "Thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere." The lie tasted bitter. Her brother hadnât said thatâhadnât needed to. The implication had been clear enough in the way his voice cracked halfway through the cityâs name.
Y/n snorted, tossing her head back against the cushions. "God, I wish heâd just let me fucking be, you know?" Her fingers drummed against her thigh, restless. The pajama fabric slid higher with each agitated movement. "Every single dayââDid you eat? Did you sleep? Did youââ like Iâm some fucking toddler." She snatched up the bourbon bottle, tipping it toward her mug with a careless slosh. The chamomile darkened, swirling like poison. "I keep telling him Iâm grateful heâs paying my rent, but he was the one that kicked me out." Her laugh was sharp, brittle.
Drakenâs fingers tightened around the mug. The porcelain was hot enough to burn, but he didnât pull away. "He didnât kick you out," he said, voice low. "He got you an apartment." The words tasted like ash. He shouldnât be hereâshouldnât be listening to thisâbut the couch groaned beneath him, sinking deeper under their combined weight. The bourbon-soaked chamomile scent clung to his throat.
Y/nâs fingers curled into fists around her mug, knuckles whitening. "And do you know why?" Her voice was venomous, cracking on the edges like broken glass. "Itâs 'cause of his bitchy fucking girlfriend. Complaining and complaining and whining and bitchingâ" She slammed the mug down, tea sloshing over the rim, pooling on the coffee table like spilled blood. "I just wish I could fucking chop her head off!" The words tore out of her, raw and jagged. "And my brotherâunder this love-sick spell and for what? For some pussy?" She laughed, high and manic, nails digging into her thighs.
Drakenâs jaw tightened. He could see it nowâthe way her chest heaved, the flush creeping up her neck, how her pajama top clung to her collarbones with sweat. The air smelled sour with bourbon and rage. "Youâre drunk," he muttered, voice rough. But she wasnât. Not completely. There was something sharper beneath the slur, something calculated in the way she leaned in, her breath hot against his ear.
Y/nâs fingers dug into the couch cushions, nails scraping fabric. "Youâd hate it too," she hissed, voice dropping to a whisper that skittered down his spine. "If some stranger moved into your placeâtook your spot at the table, fucked your brother in your childhood bedâ" Her knee pressed harder against his thigh, a silent challenge. The chamomile mug tipped over, tea bleeding into the wood grain like a confession.
Drakenâs fingers twitchedâtoward her throat, her wrist, anywhere to shut her upâbut she caught his hand before he could pull away, her grip unnervingly steady despite the tremor in her voice. "What," she breathed, lips brushing his knuckles, "he asked you to check on me?" Her thumb traced the grease-stained crescent of his nail, slow and deliberate. The bourbon on her tongue smelled sweet, cloying. "Or did you come here yourself?"
The admission clawed its way up his throat before he could stop it. "Iâm sorry I yelled at you," he muttered, barely audible over the hum of her apartmentâs faulty AC. His hand flexed in hers, calluses catching on her softer skin. "Shouldnât have said all that shit." The lie tasted like chamomile and regretâher knee still pressed against his thigh, a brand through denim.
Y/n exhaled through her nose, slow and deliberate, lips quirking at the corners. "Itâs alright, Kenny," she murmured, thumb stroking the pulse point of his wrist. Her other hand lifted, fingertips ghosting over the grease smeared along his jawâa mechanicâs war paint. "Thank you for apologizing." The words dripped honey-sweet, but her nails dug crescent moons into his palm. "Means a lot." The unspoken liar hung between them like the bourbon-soaked steam rising from their abandoned mugs.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Draken swallowed hard, Adamâs apple bobbing against the sudden tightness in his throat. He could smell herâcheap strawberry shampoo, chamomile gone bitter, the salt-sweet tang of sweat where her pajama top gaped at the collar. Her fingertips traced the line of his stubble, pausing at the corner of his mouth. His breath hitched when she dragged her eyes down to his lips and back up to his eyes, pupils blown wide despite the lamplight. The air between them crackled, thick with chamomile and something far more dangerous.
She leaned in firstâjust barely, a whisper of movementâbut it was enough. His hand tightened around hers, pulling her closer before he could stop himself. Her breath ghosted over his mouth, warm with bourbon and the phantom taste of regret. He could still turn away. Could still hear Emmaâs laugh echoing in the back of his skull, the babyâs cries from down the hall. But then Y/nâs teeth scraped his bottom lip, and the last thread of restraint snapped.
The couch groaned beneath them as he lifted her into his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips, the fabric of her pajamas impossibly thin. Her fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping his scalp as she ground against him, the heat between them stifling. The scent of chamomile and motor oil mingled in the sweat-slick space where their foreheads pressed together, breaths ragged. "Fuck," she gasped, arching into him as his teeth found the pulse point of her throat. The word sounded like surrenderâor maybe a challenge.
Drakenâs hands tightened on her waist, fingers digging into soft skin beneath the bunched fabric of her shirt. He could taste the bourbon still clinging to her tongue, sweet and poisonous, drowning out the memory of Emmaâs vanilla lip balm. She whimpered when he bit downânot hard enough to bruise, but enough to make her hips jerk against his, the friction unbearable. Her fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, knuckles brushing against the strained denim beneath. The metal clicked open like a gun cocking.
He caught her wrist before she could slide the leather free, pinning it against the armrest with a force that made her gasp. His other hand yanked the belt loose himself, the sound of leather sliding through loops deafening in the charged silence. Y/nâs breath hitched, watching the way his knuckles flexed as he tugged it freeâslow, deliberateâbefore letting it drop to the floor with a heavy thud. Her pulse rabbited under his grip, throat working around a swallow when his thumb pressed into the fragile bones of her wrist. "Kennyâ"
"Fuckâwe canât do it here," Draken growled against her throat, the couchâs cheap springs shrieking under their combined weight. His fingers bit into her hips as she rocked against him, the friction maddening through layers of fabric. "Whereâs your bed?" The words came out ragged, more demand than question, his grip tightening when she arched into him with a breathless laugh.
"On your leftâŚthe futon," Y/n gasped, nodding toward the corner where a crumpled nest of blankets lay half-folded, sheets tangled from restless nights. The dim glow of streetlights bled through the thin curtains, casting striped shadows across the disheveled beddingâa mess of tossed pillows and the faint indentation of her body still pressed into the mattress. Draken didnât hesitate. He hauled her up, her legs locking around his waist as he carried her the few stumbling steps, their mouths crashing together in a clash of teeth and bourbon.
Her fingers fumbled at the hem of his shirt, nails scraping his stomach as she tried to shove the fabric up. Draken caught her wrists, wrenching them away with a roughness that made her gaspânot in protest, but in something hotter, darker. He released her just long enough to drag the shirt over his head himself, the fabric catching briefly on his chin before he tossed it aside. The air between them crackled with the sudden exposure of skinâhis chest heaving, sweat glistening along the ridges of old scars and fresh grease smudges. Y/nâs breath hitched, gaze raking over him with a hunger that bordered on reverence.
"Fuck," she whispered, fingers hovering over the swell of his pectorals like she was afraid to touch. Her throat worked around a swallow. "Iâve⌠never been with a guy like you." The confession spilled out raw, unguardedâher usual smirk dissolving into something almost vulnerable. Drakenâs stomach clenched at the admission, her words igniting something primal in the pit of his belly. He knew what she meantânot just his build, not just the ink curling over his ribsâbut the way he carried himself, the unspoken violence coiled beneath every movement.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
His hands found the hem of her pajama top, yanking it over her head in one rough motion before she could finish her sentence. The fabric caught on her wrists, tangled briefly in her hair, and then she was bare before himâskin flushed pink, the faintest tremor running through her shoulders as his gaze dragged down her torso. Draken exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening on her waist as he hauled her closer, her bare breasts brushing against his chest. The contact sent a shudder through them both, her nails scraping his shoulders as she arched into him.
She gasped when his teeth grazed her collarbone, her hips jerking forward instinctively. "Please," she breathed, the word cracking halfway throughâless a plea than a dare. Drakenâs hands slid lower, rough palms scraping the sensitive skin beneath her ribs, down to the waistband of her shorts. He hooked his fingers into the fabric, wrenching them down her thighs with a single sharp tug. The elastic snapped against her skin, leaving red marks in its wake as the shorts pooled at her ankles.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, gripping tight enough to sting as he lowered her onto the futon. The thin mattress sagged beneath their combined weight, springs groaning in protest. Draken hovered over her, his shadow swallowing her wholeâthe dim light catching the sweat-slick planes of his chest, the way his jaw clenched when she hooked a leg around his waist. She watched himâreally watched himâthe way his pupils swallowed the amber of his irises, the way his breath hitched when she dug her heel into the small of his back. No hesitation. No guilt. Like Emma didnât mean a damn thing in this moment.
"KennyâŚ" she whispered, her voice ragged, hips canting up against his straining zipper. "I wanna ride you." The words spilled out raw, unfilteredâher hands sliding down his torso to fumble with his belt again, fingers trembling with something that wasnât fear. Draken caught her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand, his other dragging down her thigh to hook behind her knee. He hauled her leg higher, spreading her wider, his calloused fingers branding her skin.
"No. Fuck no." His voice was gravel, low and dangerous, the kind of tone that shouldâve sent her scrambling. Instead, she arched into him, a broken noise escaping her throat when his thumb brushed the soaked fabric between her thighs. "You donât get to call the shots here." The words werenât a warningâthey were a promise. Her breath hitched as he leaned down, lips skimming the shell of her ear. "You donât get to disappear for days, then come back and think youâre in fucking control."
Her pulse fluttered under his grip, her nails biting into his palm where he held her wrists pinned. The streetlight bled through the curtains, painting stripes across the sweat-slick dip of her waist, the rise of her chest. "Was only two," she muttered, already dumb with itâthe heat, the pressure, the way his teeth dragged along her jugular. Her hips jerked when his free hand hooked into the waistband of her underwear, tearing the fragile fabric with a sharp rip. The sound hung between them, filthy and final.
Drakenâs breath seared against her collarbone, lips tracing the frantic jump of her pulse. "Say it," he growled, fingers tightening where they gripped her thighâhard enough to bruise, hard enough to make her whimper. "Say you wonât disappear again." His thumb swiped through the slick heat between her legs, rough enough to make her back arch off the mattress. The accusation in his voice tangled with something darker, something desperate.
Y/nâs laugh fractured into a gasp when his teeth sank into the soft flesh of her inner thigh. "Why does it matter?" she taunted, voice trembling despite the smirk curling her lips. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, knuckles white. "You got a wifeâgot a kidâ" The words dissolved into a moan as his tongue replaced his thumb, dragging a slow, torturous stripe up her core. Her hips jerked involuntarily, seeking friction that wasnât there.
Draken pulled back just enough to watch her squirm, his breath hot against her damp skin. "Oh, now it fucking matters?" he growled, grip tightening on her waist to still her desperate movements. His smirk was sharp enough to cut. "When you got me where you wanted?" His thumb circled her clit with deliberate, mocking slownessâjust enough pressure to make her gasp, not enough to let her come.
Y/n's fingers clawed at his shoulders, nails biting through grease and sweat. "Bullshitâyou'll go home to her tonight," she panted, voice cracking as his free hand yanked his belt loose completely. The leather hissed through the loops like a snake shedding skin. "Kiss your baby's forehead, fuck your wife like none of this happenedâ" Her words dissolved into a whimper when he gripped himself, stroking once, twice, the head slick with precum glistening in the dim light.
Draken exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening around her thigh. "Yeah," he admitted roughly, aligning himself at her entrance without pushing in. The tip caught on her heat, teasing. "And I'll forget all about you." The lie tasted like chamomile and motor oilâher scent already seeping into his pores, her gasp ringing in his ears louder than Emma's voice ever could. He watched the way her throat worked around a swallow, the way her pupils swallowed her irises whole.
Y/n's laugh was breathless, jagged at the edges. "Liar," she whispered, hips canting up to meet himâonly for him to pull back just enough to deny her. Her fingers twisted in the sheets, fabric straining under her grip. "You'll remember this every time you change a fucking tire." Her voice cracked on the last word as he finally thrust into her, one brutal snap of his hips that punched the air from her lungs. The futon creaked violently beneath them, the sound swallowed by her choked moan.
He was so bigâstretching her in a way that bordered on pain, the burn of it sharp enough to make her toes curl. Draken groaned through clenched teeth, his fingers digging into the meat of her thigh hard enough to bruise. "Fuck," he gritted out, the single syllable rough with restraint. His hips rolled experimentally, dragging himself almost all the way out before slamming back inâdeep enough to make her see stars behind her eyelids. The rhythm was punishing from the start, each thrust jolting her up the mattress until her shoulders hit the headboard.
Y/n gasped, her fingernails scraping against his scalp as she dragged his mouth back to hersâall teeth and tongue and bourbon-bitter desperation. She arched into him, meeting each snap of his hips with a roll of her own, the slap of skin echoing off the bare walls. The futon creaked violently beneath them, protesting every movement, but she didn't careâcouldn't careânot when he was filling her so completely, not when his sweat dripped onto her collarbones like rain.
Draken groaned against her throat, the sound raw and unfamiliar even to his own ears. EmmaâEmma was soft sighs and whispered endearments, slow kisses and careful touches meant to cradle, not consume. This was differentâfrenzied, filthyâher thighs clamping around his waist like a vise, her teeth sinking into his shoulder hard enough to bruise. The pain sparked something feral in his gut, his hips stuttering as she clenched around him, tight enough to steal his breath.
The futon groaned beneath them, their sweat-slick skin sticking to the wrinkled sheets. It was unnervingly domesticâher fingers carding through his hair when he caught his breath between thrusts, his lips brushing her temple as she arched beneath himâlike they'd done this a thousand times before. Like this bed was theirs, like the morning light would find them tangled together with no guilt, no lies. The illusion shattered when Y/n suddenly dug her nails into his back and hissed, "Harder, Kennyâor are you too fucking old for this?" Her grin was sharp, mockingânothing like Emma's sleepy smiles.
Draken snarled, flipping her onto her stomach with a rough jerk of his hips, her gasp muffled by the pillow. He pinned her wrist between her shoulder blades, the angle brutal as he drove into her deeperâno finesse, no tenderness, just raw friction that burned. The sound she made was half-sob, half-laugh, her free hand scrabbling at the sheets as he bent over her, teeth grazing her earlobe. "Old enough to know you're fucking begging for it," he growled, the words vibrating against her sweat-slick spine.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Her rhythm fractured completely, hips jerking erraticallyâno control, no teasing, just desperate hunger. The futon groaned under their combined weight, springs protesting as he hauled her up onto her knees, her back arched like a bowstring. His fingers tangled in her hair, yanking just hard enough to make her gasp, the sting mingling with the relentless drag of him inside her. She could feel the moment he snappedâhis breath hitching, grip tighteningâbefore his pace turned punishing, each thrust knocking a broken noise from her throat.
"FuckâKenny, I'm closeâ" The words spilled out in a shattered whisper, her fingers clawing at the sweat-slick sheets beneath her. His answering groan vibrated against her spine, one arm wrapping around her waist to pull her flush against him, his other hand sliding down to circle her clit with rough precision. The dual sensationâhim filling her to the hilt, his calloused fingers working her oversensitive fleshâsent white-hot sparks skittering up her thighs. She choked on his name, her vision blurring at the edges as her body coiled tight.
He didnât stop. Couldnât. Every snap of his hips was a brutal punctuation mark, each thrust dragging her higher until her breath came in ragged, punched-out gasps. His grip on her hipbone would leave fingerprints, but she welcomed the acheâwanted the bruises as proof this wasnât some whiskey-soaked fantasy. His rhythm stuttered, the wet slap of skin growing erratic, his teeth sinking into her shoulder as he chased his high with single-minded focus. The air smelled of sex and sweat and something darkerâregret or recklessness, she couldnât tell.
When the climax hit him, it was with a hoarse groan that sounded more like pain than pleasure, his body locking up behind her as he buried himself to the hilt one final time. Y/n arched back against him, her own release cresting just as he wrenched himself out with a violence that startled herâlike touching her a second longer would scorch him. The sudden emptiness was a shock, cool air replacing the heat of him as he jerked away, his breath coming in harsh, uneven bursts.
Hot stripes painted her stomach, each erratic pulse marking her skin with viscous streaks that gleamed under the dim streetlight. She watched his faceâjaw clenched, eyes squeezed shutâas if he could erase the moment simply by refusing to see it. The silence between them was thick, broken only by the wet sound of his hand working himself through the last trembling aftershocks, his knuckles brushing her hipbone with accidental intimacy.
It wasnât until he stumbled backwardâhis knees hitting the edge of her discarded shortsâthat she realized sheâd collapsed onto her forearms, cheek pressed to the sweat-damp sheets. Her thighs trembled violently, muscles liquid and useless. She couldnât move if she wanted to; could only blink up at him through the haze of her own release, vision tunneling around the way his Adamâs apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. The belt buckle gleamed on the floor between them like a dropped weapon.
"Didnât think I could get fucked this good," she rasped, voice wrecked, tongue thick with the aftertaste of bourbon and him. Her laugh was a breathless, jagged thing, nails digging into the sheets as she pushed herself onto shaky elbows. "Iâll give you that." The words landed too sharp, too rawâa challenge wrapped in surrender. Drakenâs jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides like he was resisting the urge to wipe her scent off his skin. The streetlight caught the sweat beading along his collarbone, the way his chest rose and fell like heâd just finished a fight.
Y/n lunged before he could step awayâall wiry strength and bourbon-loosened limbsâher fingers tangling in his belt loop to yank him down beside her. The futon groaned under their combined weight, springs protesting as she rolled half atop him, her bare thigh draping over his hip. She pressed her face into the hollow of his throat, inhaling deepâmotor oil, salt, the faintest trace of Emmaâs floral detergent clinging to his skin beneath it all. Her teeth found his pulse point, not biting, not yetâjust resting there, a silent threat. "You smell like me now," she murmured, lips brushing his Adamâs apple. Her knee nudged between his thighs, insistent. "Bet sheâll notice."
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Drakenâs exhale shuddered through him, hands hovering at her waistânot pushing away, not pulling closerâjust trembling there, caught between instinct and guilt. The air smelled of sex and spilled bourbon, Y/nâs shampoo mixed with the musk of their sweat. He stared at the water stain on her ceiling, the shape of it blurring as his vision tunneled. His fingers twitched against her ribs, recalling the give of her flesh beneath his grip, the way her breath hitched when heâd pinned her wrists. Something dark and hungry uncoiled in his gut at the memory.
Her small breaths lulled him to sleep. The warmth of her sprawled half on top of him was suffocating, yet he couldnât bring himself to shove her off. The weight of her leg over his, the way her fingers curled possessively into the waistband of his jeansâit shouldâve repulsed him. Instead, it anchored him, the steady rhythm of her breathing syncing with his own exhaustion. The streetlight bled through the curtains, painting stripes across her bare shoulder, the curve of her spine. He traced them with his gaze, counting them like seconds until dawn.
The headache came first. Then the stiffness in his neck, the ache in his lower backâthe kind that screamed old injuries and shitty futons. Draken blinked against the gray morning light, his tongue thick with the stale aftertaste of bourbon and regret. Her scent clung to himâthat cheap floral shampoo undercut by something muskier, something unmistakably her. He wasnât in the moodânot for this, not for the way her thigh slid against his as she stirred, not for the slow, sleepy smile curving her lips when she found him awake.
"Hi, Ken," she murmured, voice raspy with sleep and last nightâs screamed obscenities. Her fingers ghosted down his chest, tracing the scratches sheâd left thereâred and angry like brands. Draken caught her wrist mid-stroke, yanking it away with more force than necessary. She gasped, thighs tightening around his waist instinctivelyâas if her body remembered before her brain did. He ignored the pang low in his gut at the friction, rolling her off him with a jerk of his hips that sent her sprawling into the rumpled sheets.
His shirt lay crumpled beside her torn underwear, the pink lace stark against his grease-stained cotton. The sight hit him like a punchâgarish proof of what theyâd done tangled with the mundane evidence of who he was supposed to be. He snatched the fabric up, the movement too sharp, too desperate.
Y/n propped herself on one elbow, watching him dress with hooded eyes. The sheets pooled at her waist, her torso littered with marks that mirrored his own. âGuess Iâll see you back at work, boss,â she drawled, dragging a fingertip along the bite mark on her collarbone. The words curled like smoke between themâequal parts promise and provocation.
Draken didnât answer. The belt buckle clinked as he cinched it tight, his fingers remembering the leatherâs slide against her thighs. The elevator ride down smelled of stale takeout and bleach. His reflection in the scratched metal doors was a strangerâ
âand then suddenly he was home, standing in his own hallway, Emmaâs perfume clinging to the air like an accusation. The baby monitor hummed static. He rubbed his knuckles over his mouth, tasting copper where sheâd bitten him. The bathroom light flickered when he flicked the switch. The sink ran cold as he scrubbed, soap foaming pink where her nail marks welted his wrists. The water couldnât touch the grease under his nails.
Emma stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her robe, her shadow stretching long across the tiles. "I canât fucking believe you, Ken," she whispered, voice shredded from crying. The baby whimpered down the hall. He knew how to calm herâknew the exact pressure to rub her back, the way to murmur against her temple until her breathing evened. But his hands still smelled like Y/nâs sweat. He turned the faucet hotter. âĄ
ÝPairing: Ran Haitani x Rindou's ex gf! Y/NË
Warning: technicallly not cheating but i guess betrayal, cussing, doggy style, missionary, oral: f receiving, y/n is kind of pressured by ran but hes caring, caught in the act
Genre: Smut, Slow-burn
Word count: 4063
Requests: very much open
A/n: hii hope yall like this one <3 u can find it on my ao3 here
Minors DON'T interact
"You said I was- the most exotic flower."
âť â II ⡠âş
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
The knock echoed louder than she expected. Y/N pulled her hand back like the wood had burned her, staring at the chipped paint on the doorframe where Rindou had accidentally slammed it too hard last summer.
Inside, the house smelled like leather and something faintly metallicâgun oil, maybe, though sheâd never asked. Her throat tightened when she heard footsteps, but they were too heavy to be Rindouâs. Ran leaned against the doorframe, shirtless, one eyebrow raised. "Heâs not here," he said, like it was an observation, not a warning.
She swallowed hard. His presence filled the hallway, all coiled muscle and quiet intensity. "I just came to collect my things," she managed, gripping the strap of her bag until her knuckles whitened. "If thatâs okay." The words sounded small, even to her. Ran didnât move, just studied her with those unsettling violet eyes, like he was deciding whether to let her in or slam the door shut.
The silence stretched too long. She shifted her weight, hyperaware of the way his gaze tracked the movement. Sheâd never talked to Ran alone beforeânot really. Even when sheâd been with Rindou, Ran had always lingered just outside their orbit, a shadow with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Now, without Rindou as a buffer, she felt exposed, like prey under a predatorâs scrutiny.
âCome in,â he finally said, stepping aside just enough to let her pass. The invitation wasnât warm, but it wasnât hostile eitherâmore like a test. She hesitated, then slipped past him, her shoulder brushing his bare chest. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through her. His skin was warm, almost feverish, and she caught the scent of sweat and something darker, something she couldnât name.
The room was exactly as she remembered, down to the pile of laundry in the corner and the faint smell of weed clinging to the sheets. Rindouâs bed was unmade, the pillow still dented from where heâd slept. Y/N clenched her jaw, refusing to let the memories surface. She moved mechanically, grabbing her hairbrush from the nightstand, the sweater sheâd left draped over the chair. Every movement felt too loud in the silence, her breath hitching when Ran leaned against the dresser behind her, arms crossed.
"So, Y/N," he said, voice low, almost conversational. "Howâve you been holding up?" The question wasnât gentleâit was a challenge, like he already knew the answer. She could feel his eyes on her back, tracing the tension in her shoulders. The air thickened between them, heavy with things unsaid.
She swallowed, fingers curling around the soft fabric of her sweater. "You know itâs hard," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "But Iâm surviving." The words tasted bitter, like she was confessing to a crime. She expected him to laughâto scoff at her weaknessâbut instead, she heard him exhale, slow and deliberate.
Ran pushed off the dresser, moving closer. "Rinâs been off lately," he murmured, almost to himself. "Quieter than usual." The way he said it made her ears perk upânot out of concern, but because she recognized the edge in his voice, the same one Rindou got when he was circling something dangerous.
She folded the sweater into her bag too neatly, avoiding his gaze. "Yeah, well. He wasnât quiet when he told me it was over," she muttered. The memory surged backâRindouâs cold dismissal, his hands shoved in his pockets like she wasnât worth the effort of pulling them out. Ran let out a soft huff, almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it.
"Youâre a good kid, Y/N," he said, reaching past her to pluck a stray hair tie from the nightstand. He twirled it around his fingers, the elastic snapping taut. "Iâm sure some guyâll come along. Treat you right." The words shouldâve been comforting, but the way his thumb brushed the inside of her wrist as he handed the tie back made her pulse stutter.
She didnât respond. She grabbed her skirt from Rindouâs closet, the fabric still faintly smelling of his cologne. Her hands shook as she folded it, pressing the pleats too hardâlike she could smooth out the creases Rindou had left in her life. Ranâs reflection watched her from the mirror across the room, his expression unreadable.
âYou think thatâs what I want?â she finally said, voice thick. The question hung between them, raw and jagged. Ran didnât answer immediately, just tilted his head slightly, watching her like she was a puzzle heâd only just noticed.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
She tossed the skirt into her bag with more force than necessary. âYou donât know shit about what I want.â The words tasted like defiance, but her hands betrayed her, fumbling with the zipper. Ran exhaled through his nose, slow, like he was savoring the tension. âYeah?â He took a step closer, crowding her against the dresser. âThen tell me.â His breath ghosted over her earâwarm, tinged with nicotine. âWhat do you want, Y/N?â
The proximity shouldâve made her shrink back, but instead, heat prickled under her skin. She turned sharply, meeting his gaze head-on. âNot pity,â she snapped. His lips curled, not quite a smileâmore like heâd caught her in a lie. âWho said anything about pity?â His thumb brushed the hinge of her jaw, calloused and deliberate. The touch was electric, startling her into stillness.
âItâs so obvious youâre pitying me,â she muttered, but her voice wavered. His thumb stilled, pressing just hard enough to make her gasp. âOkay,â Ran murmured, leaning in until his nose grazed her temple. âMaybe I do pity you.â
The admission shouldnât have stungânot after everythingâbut it did. She jerked her head away, only for his hand to slide into her hair, fingers tightening just shy of painful. âBut not because you got dumped,â he continued, voice dropping to a growl. âBecause youâre still hung up on the wrong fucking brother.â
Her breath hitched. The words slithered between her ribs, sharp and venomous. âRan, what the fuck are you talking about?â she spat, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her. His grip tightened, tilting her head back until all she could see was the violet of his eyes, dark with something she couldnât name.
âRin likes them loud,â he mused, thumb tracing the frantic pulse in her throat. âBright. Annoying.â A humorless chuckle escaped him. âYouâquiet, fucking carefulâyou were always mine.â The claim reverberated through her, igniting a wildfire under her skin. She tried to shove him back, but he caught her wrist, pinning it against the dresser with a clatter of cosmetics.
Her knee jerked up instinctivelyâRan blocked it with his thigh, pressing her harder into the wood. âYou guys were a weird fucking pair,â he muttered against her temple, breath scorching. âLike watching a tiger play house with a rabbit.â The analogy was cruel, but it cracked her open, exposing the raw truth sheâd buried: Rindou had devoured her in chunks, never noticing she was already half-gone.
Ranâs teeth grazed her earlobe, sharp enough to sting. âHe doesnât know what to do with a girl like you.â The words dripped with condescension. âAnd every time you fucked, I could tell.â Her stomach twisted.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
"You heard usâŚ?" The realization punched through her, hot and humiliating. The thin walls of the house, the way Ranâs bedroom shared one with RindouâsâGod, heâd heard everything.
Ranâs grin was all teeth. "Every fucking time." He dragged his tongue along the shell of her ear, voice dropping to a whisper. "Youâd moan like it hurtâtoo high, too sweet. Fake as hell." His free hand slid down her side, rough fingers catching on the hem of her shirt. "But I liked it anyway."
She stiffened, breath stuttering. All those nights, all those soundsâhe'd been listening, cataloguing her failures like a scientist dissecting a flawed experiment. "You liked them?" she asked, genuinely curious despite the humiliation coiling in her gut. "Really?"
Ran breathed out in a chuckle, low and dark, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Oh, Y/N," he murmured, voice dripping with something between amusement and cruelty. "You think I cared about the sounds?" His fingers tightened in her hair, tilting her head back further. "I liked knowing you were lying."
Her pulse hammered against his thumb where it pressed into her throat, betraying her. "So you didnât like the way that I sounded?" she shot back, voice cracking halfway through.
Ran exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip shifting lower to trace the column of her neck. "Y/N," he murmured, lips grazing her jaw, "I donât know what you really sounded like." The confession hung between them, heavy with implicationâheâd only ever heard her performance, the hollow echoes sheâd crafted for Rindouâs benefit. His teeth scraped her skin, testing, like he was daring her to prove him wrong.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders on instinct, fingers digging into the hard planes of muscle thereânot pushing him away, not pulling him closer. Just holding on, like she was caught in the riptide of his words. His breath hitched when her nails scraped his back, the sound raw and unguarded. It was the first real reaction sheâd ever pulled from him, and it sent a thrill through her.
Ran pulled back just enough to smirk down at her. âSo,â he drawled, thumb hooking into the waistband of her jeans, âwhere does Rin keep his condoms?â The question was crude, deliberate, designed to make her flinch. Instead, she let out a shaky breath, staring up at him. âTop drawer,â she admitted softly, nodding toward the nightstand. âLeft side.â
Ran didnât move, just watched her with those predatory eyes, waiting. âRan,â she whispered, fingers flexing against his shoulders, âI donât think we can do this⌠I still love Rin. I shouldnât be fucking his brother.â
His laugh was rough, rolling over her skin like gravel. âY/N, youâre being neglected.â His hand slid down her spine, pressing her flush against himâso close she could feel every ridge of muscle, every hitch of his breath. âI know my brother. Heâs not very experienced with stuff like this⌠sweet girls like you.â The words were silk-wrapped venom. âYou ever really come with him?â
She shuddered, fingers tightening in his hair. âYes, I have,â she said, too quickly. His smirk widened, sharp enough to cut. âListen, Iâm flattered you think Iâm a sweet girl,â she breathed, âbut donât you feel shameful? Itâs your brotherâI donât want to break that bond.â The protest sounded weak even to her own ears, drowned out by the hammering of her pulse where his thumb traced circles on her hip bone.
Ran leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. âHe wonât find out.â His voice was rough, edged with something darker. âAnd if he doesââ His teeth grazed her earlobe, sharp enough to make her gasp. ââheâll have to learn that he canât go around neglecting girls.â The threat hung between them, thrilling and terrible.
She gave inânot with teeth and desperation like she had with Rindou, but with something softer, slower. Ran kissed like he fought: deliberate, calculated, each movement designed to dismantle her defenses. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, coaxing rather than demanding, and she opened for him with a shudder. It wasnât sweetnessânot reallyâbut the contrast was dizzying, the way he could make surrender feel like victory.
Her back hit the mattress with a muffled thump, Ranâs weight settling between her thighs like he belonged there. His fingers worked the button of her jeans with practiced ease, the drag of denim against her skin almost painful in its slowness. She arched into the touch, gasping when his palm slid under the waistband of her pantiesânot tentative, not curious, but assured, like he already knew every inch of her. âWait,â she breathed, but her hips canted up anyway, betraying her.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Ran paused, fingers flexing against the damp fabric. âProblem?â His voice was rough, but his eyes were sharp, watching her like he could see the war raging behind her ribs. She swallowed hard, fingers twisting in the sheetsâRindouâs sheetsâthe same ones theyâd fucked on countless times before. The realization hit like a bucket of ice water: she could still smell him here, his cologne clinging to the pillowcases. âNot here,â she whispered, shaking her head. âAnywhere but here.â
He exhaled through his nose, slow, deliberate, before dragging his tongue along the inside of her thigh. The contact burned, his lips pressing into the sensitive skin with a tenderness that contradicted everything she knew about him. âRanââ His name cracked halfway out of her throat when his teeth grazed the same spot, sharp enough to make her jolt. âRelax,â he murmured against her skin, the vibration making her thighs tremble. âYouâre not doing anything wrong.â
Her breath hitched when he hooked his fingers into the lace of her panties, sliding them down in one fluid motion. The air was cold against her exposed skin, but his hands were hotterârough palms tracing the curve of her hips before settling beneath her thighs. He spread her open with an almost clinical precision, his exhale warm against her center. The first swipe of his tongue was slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the taste of her hesitation.
Ran moaned quietly into her clitâa soft, breathy sound that trembled against her skin. Unlike Rindou, who had always rushed through this part with the same impatient energy he applied to everything, Ran took his time. His tongue circled her in lazy, practiced arcs while his knuckles brushed her inner thighs, coaxing her legs wider apart. She gasped when his nose bumped her clit, the sensation sharper than expectedânot pain, but something dangerously close to it. "You okay?" he murmured against her, lips slick with her arousal. The question was perfunctory, but the pause in his rhythm wasnât; he waited for her shaky nod before continuing.
Her breath came in short, uneven bursts, fingers twisting in the sheets as he worked her over with a patience that bordered on cruel. Every flick of his tongue sent sparks up her spine, her hips jerking involuntarily when he sucked lightly at her clit. The sound she made thenâhigh and desperateâstartled her. It wasnât the practiced moan sheâd perfected for Rindouâs benefit; this was raw, unfiltered, embarrassingly real. Ran chuckled against her, the vibration making her shudder. "There she is," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. "Thatâs the sound I wanted."
His handsâsoft in a way she hadnât expectedâtraced idle patterns on her inner thighs, calloused fingertips ghosting over the sensitive skin just shy of where she needed him most. When he buried his face deeper, his hair tangled against her thigh, brushing the damp skin there in a way that made her twitch. The contrast was maddening: the rough scrape of his stubble against her, the feather-light drag of his fingers, the dark strands of his hair catching on her sweat-slicked skin. She whimpered, thighs trembling around his head, her nails biting into her own palms.
Ran pulled back just enough to smirk up at her, his lips glistening with her slick. âFuck,â he murmured, thumb circling her clit with agonizing slowness. âLook at youâalready shaking.â His voice was rough, darker than sheâd ever heard it, and the sound alone sent another wave of heat pooling low in her stomach. She gasped when his fingers slid inside her, curling in a way that made her back arch off the mattress. âRanâ!â His name ripped from her throat, ragged and desperate, nothing like the controlled sounds sheâd practiced for Rindou.
It shocked herâhow easily he unraveled her. How one deft twist of his fingers could drag a sob from her chest, how his smirk widened when she came apart under his touch. Sheâd spent months molding herself into Rindouâs idea of perfect, smoothing out her edges until she fit neatly into the hollow of his hands. But Ran didnât want her polishedâhe wanted her raw, trembling, gasping his name like a prayer. His fingers crooked inside her, pressing against something that made her vision blur. âThere you go,â he purred, watching her fall apart with something akin to reverence. âThatâs it.â
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
When he finally withdrewâslow, deliberateâshe whined at the loss. He opened Rindouâs drawer and reached over for the condom pack, the foil crinkling in his grip. âHow do you want me?â The question wasnât gentleâit was a challenge, his violet eyes dark with promise. Without waiting for her answer, he hooked his thumbs into his black joggers, shoving them down his hips. The lack of underwear wasnât a surpriseânothing about Ran was coyâbut the sight of him, fully hard and leaking against his stomach, punched the air from her lungs. He tore the condom open with his teeth, the plastic splitting with a sharp snap.
She stared, transfixed, as he rolled it down his length with practiced ease. His cock was roughly about two-three inches longer Rindouâsâshe wouldâve recognized the measurement anywhereâbut thicker, the veins more pronounced under taut skin. The tip was darker, flushed almost purple where pre-cum beaded at the slit. âWhat do you meanâŚ?â she uttered, distracted by the sight of him, her mouth watering despite herself. Ran smirked, palming himself lazily. âOn top of you? Behind you? Under you?â Each option dripped with implication, his voice roughened by want. âHow.â
Y/N swallowed hard, eyes flickering to the mirror across the room. The angle would be perfectâthe reflection would capture everything. Her pulse stuttered at the realization: Rindouâs mirror, Ranâs hands on her, the wrecked flush of her skin. The thought sent liquid heat pooling between her thighs. âBehind,â she murmured, turning onto her stomach before she could second-guess herself. The sheets smelled like Rindouâs detergent, crisp and familiar, but the weight of Ran settling over her was entirely newâhis knees bracketing her hips, his chest pressing against her back.
She gasped when his cock brushed her entrance, hot and insistent, the latex catching slightly against her damp skin. He paused there, teasing, his grip tightening on her ass as he angled her hips up. âRelax,â he murmured against the nape of her neck, the words vibrating through her. His breath was ragged, betraying the control he clung toâjust barely. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her thighs, spreading her wider as he pushed in with one slow, unrelenting thrust. The stretch burned in the best way, her body yielding inch by inch until he was fully seated inside her.
Ran groaned, low and guttural, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades. His balls rested against her clit with each shallow rock of his hips, the contact electricâjust enough pressure to make her gasp but not enough to tip her over. She arched back into him instinctively, seeking more friction, more him, and he chuckled darkly.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
His hands slid around her waist, fingers splaying possessively over her stomachânot guiding, not forcing, just anchoring her. âTake what you can handle,â he rasped, the words rough against her spine. The encouragement sent heat pooling low in her belly; she could feel him watching every stuttered breath, every minute tremble of her thighs as she adjusted to the stretch. His cock twitched inside her when she rolled her hips, the drag slow and maddening.
Y/N bit her lip, rocking back onto him with careful precision, letting the head of his cock catch deliciously against that sensitive spot deep inside her. She couldnât take him fullyânot yetâbut the shallow thrusts sent sparks skittering up her spine, each movement deliberate, controlled. Ran exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening fractionally. âFuck,â he muttered, hips jerking involuntarily when she angled herself just right. âLike that.â
She groaned, pushing her face into the sheetsâpartly to muffle the sounds threatening to spill from her lips, partly because the scent of Rindouâs detergent was suddenly overwhelming. Ran took it as surrender, his chuckle vibrating against her spine as he pressed her deeper into the mattress. âThatâs it,â he murmured, teeth grazing the shell of her ear. âNo more pretending.â His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
She choked on a moan, back arching as he filled her completely, the stretch bordering on pain. Her fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles whitening, but Ran merely hummed approvinglyâas if heâd been waiting for this exact reaction. âThere she is,â he growled, pulling back only to slam into her again, the force knocking her breathless. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, his rhythm relentless.
The sweetness from before was gone, replaced by something darker, more carnal. Each thrust sent his balls slapping against her oversensitive clit, the dual stimulation almost too muchâpain and pleasure blurring into one dizzying sensation. She gasped when he angled his hips just right, the thick head of his cock grinding against that spot inside her that made her vision blur. âRanâ!â His name shattered into a sob as her thighs trembled, her body tightening around him involuntarily.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Ran growled low in his throat, fingers digging into the backs of her knees as he wrenched her legs over his shoulders in one rough motion. The stretch burned, the new angle forcing him even deeper, her body yielding with a slick, obscene noise. âFuck, I need to see you,â he gritted out, his pupils blown black with want. The shift in position had her pinned completely, her hips canted up at a brutal angle that left her gasping for air. His hand fisted in her hair, forcing her to meet his gaze as he snapped his hips forward againâharder this time, his smirk widening at her punched-out moan.
She couldnât hold back the sounds nowâthey spilled from her lips unchecked, raw and ragged, each thrust punching another gasp from her chest. Ran watched her with rapt fascination, his grip tightening as her thighs trembled around his waist. âThatâs it,â he panted, his rhythm stuttering as she clenched around him. âLet me fucking hear you, darling.â His thumb found her clit, pressing down in rough circles, and she sobbed, her nails scrabbling uselessly against the sheets. The pleasure coiled tight in her belly, molten and unbearable, every nerve ending alight.
The front door clicked open downstairsâsubtle, distant. Ranâs head snapped up, his smirk widening as he recognized the familiar cadence of footsteps on the hardwood. She was too lost in sensation to notice, her back arching beautifully as he drove into her harder, deeper, the bedframe creaking under their combined weight. His breath hitched when she keened, her body fluttering around him in warning. âFuck, youâre close arenât you,â he rasped, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips. âGo on, then. Cum for me.â
She shattered with a muffled cry, her thighs clamping around his waist as pleasure ripped through her. The bedroom door swung open just as Ranâs hips stuttered, his groan low and guttural against her sweat-slicked skin. Rindou stood frozen in the doorway, his grip slack on the doorknob, eyes wide with disbelief. The silence that followed was deafeningâbroken only by Y/Nâs ragged breathing and the slick sound of Ran pulling out. He didnât bother covering them, just met his brotherâs stare head-on, his expression daring Rindou to react.
ŕ¨ŕ§ âââââĄââââ ŕ¨ŕ§
Ranâs fingers slid from her jaw to her throat, his thumb pressing lightly against her pulse as if to remind her who she belonged to now. Y/N couldnât look away from Rindouâs shattered expression, his lips parting soundlessly before twisting into something raw and ugly. The crumpled condom wrapper on the nightstand caught the light, its crinkled foil glinting mockingly between them.
She just blinked at him, horrified. âRin, Iââ The door slammed before she could finish, the force rattling the mirror on the wall. Ran exhaled through his nose, almost bored, his grip tightening possessively around her waist as she scrambled to pull the sheets up over herself. âYou knew,â she whispered, nails digging into his forearm. âYou fucking knew he was home.â
Ran merely hummed, rolling onto his back and stretching like a satisfied cat. The condom glistened obscenely when he tugged it off, tossing it toward the trash bin with lazy precision. âShh, sweetheart,â he murmured, fingers trailing idly down her spine. âRest up.â His voice was syrup-thick with amusement. âĄ