HMMMM yakuza!kiyoomi using his guns on u solely bc he feels like it đ„ș if heâs feeling extra nice maybe heâll let u cum, but only from his guns đ„°đ„° extra points if hes meaner than usual <3
PRRRRRR YAKUZA?? OMG IMAGINE THE TATTOO
hed have you kneeling in front of him, stuffing his gun down your throat just because he thinks it looks good. its not much about getting himself off but the he loves having all this power over you. having you almost cream yourself just from sucking his loaded gun or stuffing your tiny cunny with the barrel. watching you beg for your life is so cute too. the way you babble for more and to replace it with his cock. and if hes feeling nice he will give it to you or let you cum on his gun. but most days he leaves you squirming and crying, either ruining your orgasm or not letting you cum.
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summary: john isnât happy with where lincolnâs staying. lincoln isnât happy at all.
notes:Â an old mafia fic i found in my drafts. tried to clean it up best as i could, but itâs inherently very ooc. mainly donovan/lincoln, with some past giorgi/lincoln. itâs not great but i didnât have it in me to delete so many words.
ao3: link here.
Lincoln shuffles slowly into the kitchen, daring himself to get up and boil his own water. Coffee sounds good. A hot towel against the pulse in the side of his head sounds better. Sure, his hands are grasping onto every surface he can hold onto, but he does it; his palms eventually colliding flat against the kitchen counter. When he lets go, there are two large sweaty prints left behind. He sighs and his vision blurs - he smells burning.Â
Itâs too hot, too humid. If he didnât know any better, heâd say was back in Nam. But heâs in America; home, in New Orleans. But then thereâs the fact heâs been shot in the face. Sounds like Nam. Like some sick joke.Â
Fucking Giorgi.
That stings like holy hell all over again. And he tries to think past it all over again, a pattern quickly forming since the moment he woke up. The rage and upset sitting neatly under the seared skin on the side of his skull. Seeing John at the foot of his bed with a hand resting an inch away from his own, it was hard not to think of Giorgi. Not that he felt that he had betrayed John in anyway â it had been a few months since they last spoke, and Lincoln assumed he was a busy man, like he always was. And maybe he wanted to leave Nam in Nam. That old CIA way, perhaps. And Giorgi wasnât John, not one bit.
Instead, itâs the memory of Giorgi scraping his fingers across the side of Lincolnâs face, pulling him close, and his other hand gripping so tightly onto him that it burns. Laughing at the job they pulled, drinking to it and locking themselves away. The memory of after, sitting in his bed and smoking cigarettes after cigars while he complained about his father. Lincoln would listen distantly, eyeing the way the muscles of his jaw worked. Turns out it didnât matter that much if he was willing to put a bullet to him if his dad gave the word. It stings like Giorgiâs fingers scratched jagged lines across his cheek. Oh, but if only he had killed him. Couldnât even look him in the eye when he did it and the sonofabitch actually missed the kill-shot. He couldnât even get the aim right enough to take those memories away. So, itâs drinks and laughs and then. Giorgi looking over him and blood and Sammy falling to the ground while the flames ate Ellis up. The heat â the fire. On loop.
His head fucking hurts and maybe this wasnât a good idea.
Thereâs a clean, empty pot on the stove which he takes to the sink. The water splashes against the bottom, loud and aggressive at first, calming down slowly as it fills up. It takes him a little more effort to carry it back over to the hob than heâd like, and it slams down a little louder than he intended, the water spilling slightly over the edge. He takes the matchbox from where he knows they are â second drawer to the right â and he delicately pushes it open, grabs a match and strikes it.
But it doesnât light. He strikes it again, and it doesnât light. He strikes it again. It doesnâtâ His hands shake more, and his vision gets blurrier, head throbbing so hard it feels like it'll break the scar right back open. Then, thereâs a hand gripping his wrist as gently as it could, suggesting that he stop trying. Lincoln sucks in a deep breath, and when he opens his eyes the tears are gone.
âEasy, Lazarus.â
He lets John take the matchbox and the match out of his hands. John puts them down on the counter and Lincoln wants to tell them thatâs not where they go.
âSit down, will you?â John says, equally concerned and annoyed. He would resist if he had it in him. But he lets John take him to the dining chair, putting his hand on his shoulder and John wrapping his arm around Lincoln. The chair creaks underneath him. John goes back to the stove.
âYou shouldâve just asked me,â he says in some sombre tone that betrays him. Annoyed wouldâve suited him better. But then again, it is just him and Lincoln here.
âFather James isnât home,â Lincolnâs voice is low, and the words slur slightly. John strikes the match. âYou were asleep.â
âYou shouldâve just asked me,â he says again, annoyed this time. He turns around after lighting up the stove and looks at Lincoln. âWeâll get Marcano,â his voice softer now, âbut that means we have to get you back up on your feet. And I can still help with that, too.â
Lincoln hasnât changed much since he first met him, and heâs seen his wounds heal over before. But nothing â no one â ever came close to killing him. Now, he gets the front row seat to seeing how a bullet wound to the head is cleaned and bandaged over. He gets to see Lincolnâs hair and beard grow out while he lay there, nearly dead. Because he supposes Lincoln was always a miracle in some way. In Vietnam, it was otherworldly to see him emerge out of the heat and the smog, the aftermath, with just scrapes and scratches and the determination to go again. He never did it for John â whether it turned into that, no one can say for sure â but he knows what heâd do for Lincoln. John never told him, but it drove him frantic when he came out a second too late. In tents and the grottiest hotel rooms the C.I.A. could muster, his touch would be gentler than humanly possible and yet could somehow tear him apart, drive him frantic in other ways. He learned to say Lincoln's name like a prayer. Saint Lincoln Clay, out of the gunfire and dirt, with his eyes on him.
âWatch out, Donovan. I might think you care,â Lincoln smirks up at him and it sends a shooting pain up to his temple â he looks back down at his feet. John grabs another chair and puts it opposite Lincoln where he sits, one of his legs knocking between Lincolnâs.
âIâm here, arenât I?â he smiles, bringing one of his hands to rest on Lincolnâs knee.
âYeah,â regretting the stupid joke â should leave those to Donovan â but his hand meets Johnâs anyway. âYou are.â
âDamn straight,â and his tone shifts into the John Donovan that Lincoln knows. âI got all the gear I need and Iâm set up in a shitty motel in Delray Hollow. The Blue Gulf. Sal and Giorgi have got no fucking idea what's coming for 'em,â he laughs then but itâs tinged with something else. He pulls his hand away, leaning back in the chair and running his hand through his hair once. âYouâre going to scare them to death.â
âHaunt the shit out of âem,â Lincoln slurs out. Donovan brings his hand back on top of his, and they stay that way for a minute. The waterâs boiling. But Donovanâs hand moves up to the side of Lincolnâs face, palm soft against his beard and fingers gingerly stroking his temple. Lincoln canât help but close his eyes and lean into it, and it isnât as painful as he expects it to be. The horrible throb of agony ebbs away into a dull ache against the touch.
âMaybe, you could keep the beard,â Donovan says out of sheer curiosity, but saves it with a grin. He drags his fingers through it all the way down to his chin, feeling Lincoln's voice through the contact.
âIn your dreams,â Lincoln laughs and winces all at once. âFuck.â
At that, Donovanâs hand goes back up his cheek. Lincoln looks at him, his eyes teary and bloodshot. Johnâs got that furrow in his brow going on when heâd usually be looking up at him, searching for the parts of him his anger was working so quickly to stifle. Those times he told him things werenât his fault; that it was a war zone and it was just the way things were, but he knew that anyway. John just said it and he'd actually want to hear it. He could tell him the same thing now. Maybe there wasnât enough good bourbon in the entirety of New Bordeaux for him to get a word in. What the fuck. He'd be here with him for as long as it took.
A door clicks open; Lincoln looks down and Donovan pushes back in his chair and swiftly moves back to the pot of water.
âDonât you fucking worry, Lincoln,â Donovan says firmly and loudly. âSal Marcanoâs gonna regret ever being born,â and Lincoln can just about make out the sly twitch of his mouth.
***
It takes a few more weeks before Lincoln doesnât need anyone to lean on to make his own way around the house. At the chance, he leaps to trim his hair and get rid of his beard while Donovan watched him in the bathroom mirror, pulling faces at him and talking about the âtremendous lossâ. Lincoln jabbed his elbow in his direction, and told him if he kept distracting him, he was going to end up cutting himself. John laughed back and lit a cigarette, holding it out for Lincoln to share. Lincoln's lips brushed against his fingers every single time.
John had gone to Sammyâs while Lincoln was still out. It smelled of charred wood and flesh, and he swore it still felt hot. But maybe that was just the weather. The fire burned anything and everything, and although there was nothing to be salvaged, he still had to go. It was his job, after all. Miraculously, the buildingâs still standing, but inside itâs a nightmare. And thereâs no evidence, no police tape, fucking nothing. He probably stays a few minutes longer than he needs to, imagining the scene play out in front of him; Lincoln above the moon, his arm wrapped tightly around Giorgiâs shoulders. The moment he lets go is the moment heâll probably regret.
So when Lincoln asks to be dropped off at Sammyâs, Donovan doesnât realise whatâs going on until he parks up.
âDonât you think this is a little morbid, Lincoln?â
âWhat?â
âThis,â he gestures to Sammyâs. âYouâre not seriously staying here.â
Lincoln is already getting out of the car.
âHey,â John follows him. âHey, asshole. Youâre not staying here.â
âIs that an order?â Lincoln is already at the door, standing broad and tall. But he doesnât open the door just yet. Instead, his voice turns low and dark, quiet and all-business. âWe need to get to the underbosses first â thereâs no way I can go straight for Marcano, as much as Iâd fucking like to get my hands on his pale fucking neck.â
Donovan, now by his side, knows this rhythm, and he walks right into it.
âIâm way ahead of you. Number of civvies around here were willing to give me what I needed with the right kind of pressure. No shock to you that Marcanoâs henchmen arenât really the most well-liked around these parts. But youâre right, only thereâs a good number of âem we have to get to before Sal starts feeling the heat. I got all the intel you need to get started back at my room. I stole thââ he's broken off by Lincoln's dry laugh.
Lincoln turns to him and squints. John fucking Donovan, always sealing the deal and closing all the exits. He was good that way, having everything covered and all the questions answered. Always there when Lincoln called. But he was never one to leave himself this open, to let Lincoln see the pressing concern and desperation etched onto his face right now.
âThis is where I need to be,â Lincoln says. John shifts on his feet and really looks up at him now, staring right into him.
âWith all due respect, no, it isnât. Lincoln, this isnât your fault. You donât need to go in there,â he takes a step closer, making to get in between of Lincoln and the door. âIt's not like you need the fucking guilt to burden yourself with.â
âWhat I need right now is for you to point me in the direction of the person I need to kill to start this thing. This is where Iâm staying. Donovan,â he says before John can open his smart mouth, âIt is my fault. I let Giorgi in. I had fucking lunch with Sal Marcano and his son and I let them in. We got drunk, and I turned my head and the whole thing is burning to the fucking ground. So, it is my fault. And Iâm taking Marcano down, even if I have to go down with him. Justâ Just fucking help me.â
Thereâs a silence after that and he realises that he was talking a little too loudly. Glancing around him, the street looks empty enough. And then John in front of him is mimicking the way his jawâs tensed up, hearing the effort it takes to keep his voice level and clearly failing. He probably has something to say, but he lets the moment sit like that. Lincoln's anger starts to dissipate and settle until his blood isn't running as hot.Â
âLincoln,â he says maybe a minute later. âThinking like that isnât going to get us anywhere.â
They lock eyes again and the last of Lincoln's rage turns, and sure it leaves behind the profound melancholy and guilt of losing your father and brother to the man you slept with and his Mafioso father, but for now, he lets Donovan bring him back down to earth. He tells him it isnât his fault again, and this time he considers it. Only considers it. Because when it's John, he's willing to listen.
âYouâll believe me once you mull it over with the good whiskey I have,â Donovan tries, smiling up at Lincoln. âI got everything you need, because you asked for me and Iâm the fucking best. And weâre gonna take him down. You donât think I owe you this?â
âYou donât owe me anything, John,â Lincoln replies, earnestly.
âMaybe. Maybe not. But donât forget that I might actually care about you, Corporal,â and Johnâs classic shit-eating grin appears across his face and Lincoln is possessed with the urge to taste it. Instead, he laughs and slaps his hand a little too hard on his arm. "Easy, or I won't be able to drive us there," he says, rubbing his arm.
âWell, whereâs the fucking whiskey?â
âThatâs more like it.â
They both climb back into the car. John starts the engine before Lincoln says;
âJohn.â
âYeah?â he looks back at him, genuinely confused. For once, Donovanâs caught off-guard and Lincoln likes the way it looks on him.
âI hate your fucking suit.â
John takes a beat, looking down at himself before scoffing and looking back at Lincoln, open-mouthed.
âCanât all be as handsome as you,â he puts his hands on the wheel. âIf itâs got you so damn wound upââ
âShut up and drive, gorgeous.â
***
And of course, the air conditioning in Johnâs room is broken. It doesnât stop them from pouring out the drink and working over the details of their plan. They donât leave a space for failure, and John has thirty back-up plans for everything and Lincoln memorises them all as they fall out of Johnâs lips. An hour later, when the sun sets and the sky grows dark, he chases the whiskey off of those same lips and hears his name come out as a choked sob. God, how they've missed this, but neither will say it. For some brief moments Lincoln forgets which country heâs in, but it doesnât matter because Johnâs there with him and thatâs the only anchor he knows. And even later, when the sun starts to rise again and the humidity sets right back in, John traces his fingers across all of the scars on Lincoln that he already knew, and then risks acquainting himself with the freshest one. When it stirs Lincoln awake, he pulls away and tells him itâs time to get to work.
Camila Cabello's a classy, elegant lady--as well as a mafia boss. She's the most driven, determined, and harshest mafia leader. Many look up to her. Many are afraid of her. No one dares compete with her.
Except Ally Hernandez, another Hispanic mafia bo$$. Wealthy, mysterious, and short, Ally steals Camila's customers and fear--and also her heart.