#hit x reader

-While seemingly impossible, Hit does have a soft heart under his cold exterior.

-He would be particularly fond of someone who was more cheery, contrasting his normally dark self, but he wouldn’t mind someone more similar to him.

-Dating Hit can sometimes be a bit difficult, mostly because he tends to disappear from time to time, but he’ll do his best to let you know before he heads out.

-He’d rather you stay away from his job, not wanting to risk you getting hurt. However he’ll be more than willing to spar with you, even if he has to hold back due to his normally overwhelming strength.

“Hmph… You’re pretty good…”

-Don’t expect dates in the traditional sense, but he does enjoy giving you gifts and going on walks (usually late at night).

1 - Masturbation - Prince Vegeta

2 - Kidnapping - Hit

3 - Alien abduction - Turles

4 -Hypnosis - Goku Black

5 - Finger sucking - Bardock

6 -Outdoor sex - Goku

7 - Blindfolds - Raditz

8- Webcam - Gohan

9 -Shibari - Piccolo

10 - Punishment - Android 17

11 - Somnophilia - Tien

12 -Kneeling - Yamcha

13 - Dildo/Strap-on - Caulifla

14 -Choking - Hit

15 -Sex pollen - Granolah

16 -Remote control - Bulma

17- Service kink - Zamasu

19 - Creampie - Gohan

20 - Mirror sex - Turles

21 -Monsterfucking - Perfect Cell

22 - Gunplay - Bardock

23 -Praise kink - Kale

24 -Anal sex/Pegging - Raditz

25 -Impact play - King Vegeta

27 - Hair pulling - Future Trunks

28 - Needle play - Goku

29 -Omorashi - Vegeta

The city’s alleys swallowed you whole, your heartbeat pounding faster than your feet could carry you. The rhythmic slap of shoes on concrete echoed in your ears, lungs straining with every desperate gasp. You knew running was pointless, but instinct screamed louder than rationality.

Then it happened. Bam! 

A single strike. Your body jerked forward, the wind knocked out of your lungs. Rope cinched tight around your wrists, the burn biting deep. His strength overwhelmed you in an instant. No struggle, no contest. The utter helplessness of your predicament sent a shiver through you that wasn’t entirely fear. 

When you woke again, the room was heavy with shadows. You shifted, disoriented, ropes holding you steadfast, heart hammering even as a strange, sick anticipation curled in your stomach.

The ropes bit into your wrists and ankles with every movement, a constant reminder of your vulnerability. Your eyes darted around, straining to make out shapes in the darkness, but only the outlines of furniture and crates emerged from the gloom. Every small sound: the creak of a floorboard, the rustle of your own clothing, felt amplified, echoing in the quiet. Your pulse raced in your ears, and with it came a heat you couldn’t ignore, a nervous thrill that mingled uneasily with fear. Even in the haze, you were acutely aware of the presence in the room, of someone watching, waiting. The realisation sent a shiver crawling up your spine. 

A gloved hand slid beneath your chin, tilting your face upward. You froze, breath hitching as the dim light finally revealed your assailant. Tall, broad, crimson-eyed– you knew who. The legendary assassin. 

He stared down at you, expression unreadable, gaze cutting through every tremble of your body. His hand lingered against your jaw, the cool leather burning hotter than fire against your skin. Your pulse spiked. Not from terror, but from the sheer weight of his attention.

Your lips parted, breath uneven, but no plea came. Instead, you found yourself leaning fractionally into his touch, every nerve alight at being held in place by someone so beyond you. 

He noticed. Of course he noticed. His eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating, the faintest trace of curiosity threading through his stare.

Then his boot nudged at your thigh, and you gasped softly, unable to mask the spark that shot through you.

“Why are you enjoying this?” he said coolly. 

Your throat went dry. Heat rushed through you, shame and want tangling together until words broke apart on your tongue.

“I…I can’t help it.”

The words slipped out, barely above a whisper. You half-expected him to respond, to scold or tease, but he said nothing.

Silence.

He held your chin in place, his crimson eyes locked on yours, studying. The weight of his stare alone made your breath falter. He didn’t need words, his stillness spoke louder, his presence wrapping around you like a coffin, suffocating and cold. 

Slowly, he shifted his hand, the gusset of his glove sliding along your skin until his palm cupped the side of your face. The touch wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t harsh either: firm and controlled. Your body stiffened, almost unsure of how to feel. The danger of being trapped, bound, utterly at his mercy, with the heat of his presence so close. You were so ashamed of how wet your panties suddenly were.

You leaned into him without thinking. The ropes bit into your wrists, the cold floor pressed against your legs, and yet the threat only heightened your senses. Every touch, every subtle shift of his weight made blood hot, your nerves tingling with arousal. The forbidden thrill that rooted itself in the precariousness of the moment had also taken you captive. 

You strained forward, chasing more remnants of his touch. You could feel the strength in him even when he didn’t move: every muscle held in precise restraint, as if crouched in silence, yet choosing not to strike.

And then something softened. Just. His thumb brushed the curve of your cheek again, slower this time, lingering as though savouring the shape of your face. The faintest, comforting warmth bled through the glove, a contrast to the cold air around you. 

You blinked, startled when he tilted forward. His lips pressed firmly, not against your mouth, but to your forehead. A steady, silent kiss, affectionate and protective. 

The sudden tenderness stole your breath more than the earlier dominance had.

“...You’re shaking,” he murmured softly, the assassin’s mask now gone. “You’re too deep in it.” 

The ropes gave way with a sharp flick of his wrist, falling loose. Before you could even catch your bearings, his arm had circled around you, drawing you against the solid muscles of his chest. The danger dissipated like smoke, leaving only him.

“That’s it. Come back to me.” His deep voice vibrated against the side of your face. 

You sagged into him with relief, forehead still tingling from the kiss. “You never break character,” you whispered, breathless.

His eyes softened at the edges, his silence no longer suffocating, but familiar. “You wanted it real,” Hit replied simply. And though his tone remained calm, the arm he held you with tightened just slightly, “I gave you real.”

You smiled, nuzzling your cheek against his chest. 

The sheets were cool beneath your naked skin, but they did nothing to calm the heat pooling in your stomach. You lay on your back, chest rising unevenly, knees bent slightly as Hit hovered above you, a pillar of calm precision. Even in the comfort of your bedroom, there was danger in his presence, a quiet, suffocating kind that made every nerve in your body hum.

He didn’t speak immediately. He simply moved closer, gloved fingers brushing against your jaw. The touch was light at first, but it carried authority. You shivered, unconsciously pressing toward the warmth of him, and he allowed it, thumb sliding along your pulse.

“Breathe,” he murmured, voice low, calm, lethal even in its gentleness.

You did. Shaky, uneven, your lungs filling against the barrier of his hand. The sensation made you shiver, a thrill spiralling through your chest.

His thumb stroked the line of your pulse. “Too fast,” he said, his voice calm, clinical. “You’re already anticipating. Slower”

You parted your lips to speak, but the words caught when he tightened his grip. The world narrowed instantly, your eyes glazing over slightly as your airflow was reduced to a thread.

Panic, adrenaline and desire tangled together in your veins.

He tilted his head, studying you with that same unshakable composure. “Focus. Don’t fight it. Trust me.”

Your body obeyed before your mind did. You stilled, surrendering into his hold. The strength in his arm was immense, enough to break you without effort, and yet every movement was measured. Precise. He gave you just enough to feel the danger, never enough to truly harm.

When he eased up, air rushed back into your lungs. You gasped, dizzy, chest heaving. His eyes softened a fraction. “Good. That’s better.”

Your wrists flexed uselessly against the bed, your body leaning unconsciously closer to him. His other hand came up, gliding over your cheek, grounding you even as his grip at your throat firmed once again.

This time, his spare hand slipped downwards, tracing a tantalising trail down to your sex. His frame hovered above yours, like a hunter cornering his prey. The pressure at your throat increased in pulses—firm, then easing, firm again—forcing your breath to stutter. 

“Stop trying to suck them in. Hold onto your breath after you exhale.”

His red eyes remained fixed on you, smoldering with affection hidden behind hunger as he started to play with your wet clit. Your fingers curled into the sheets with each small, slick circle of his gloved fingers, but he remained unfazed. 

Every nerve screamed with sensation, the limited circulation of blood to your brain only igniting your pleasure further. It were as if he’d poured gasoline on your lust, stoking and feeding the flame of your arousal, letting the fire rage. 

“Stay with me,” he ordered quietly, eyes locked on yours.

You nodded as best you could, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes from the intensity. The sound of your own heartbeat roared in your ears, each throb amplified by the hand controlling your air. 

Then, just as your vision began to fuzz, he loosened his hold. You dragged in a desperate breath, your chest arching up toward him. His smirk was almost imperceptible, but it was there. His fingers did not leave your pussy. You squirmed. 

“You come apart so easily,” he said. Not mocking, not amused, as if merely stating fact, pocketing another detail about you the way he might a target. 

Your lips trembled, forming his name, but before the sound left your mouth, his hand flexed again, cutting you off. Your voice strangled into silence, eyes going wide as heat surged low in your body. Maybe it was the lack of oxygen, or maybe it was because he pressed two fingers past the tightness of your entrance. You couldn’t tell anymore. All your senses blended into a singularity: his hands, his touch, his control. 

He languidly thrust his fingers in and out of your heat, relishing the way your juices clung to the fabric of his gloves. You wanted more, so much more. But you couldn’t plead. Not with his hands wrapped your throat. 

He leaned closer, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You asked for this, didn’t you?” he murmured. The calm certainty in his tone was more intoxicating than any growl or shout could have been. “So take it.”

Your hips shifted unconsciously, searching for friction, every cell in your body alive with frantic, helpless need.

He pressed harder, not hurting you, yet, but enough that your sight started to dim. The lack of air was dizzying, intoxicating, pulling you higher and higher until you couldn’t tell where fear ended and euphoria began.

Your body shuddered against him, every nerve screaming as his fingers continued their slow, deliberate rhythm. Your head was swimming, your chest rising in ragged, shallow pulls. Each pulse of pressure at your throat, each calculated movement of his fingers, pushed you further toward the edge.

You wanted to beg, wanted to throw yourself into him completely, but the hand at your throat silenced every word before it could form. All you could do was move against him, your lower half shifting desperately, stomach knotted tight with need. Heat seared your skin, radiating up your spine, consuming every one of your thoughts. 

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice low, warm against the side of your neck. The words weren’t praise, not exactly, but they made your muscles clench tighter. “Just a little longer. You’re doing so well.” 

Your ears started to ring, chest heaving, but no breaths came.  Every inch of you was attuned to him, the weight of his hold, the glide of his fingers, the constant, quiet dominance of his presence. The edges of reality began to crumble as your perception was reduced purely to sensation. 

And then, without warning, his thumb pressed against the sensitive spot behind your ear, a subtle adjustment that made your entire body arch instinctively. Your breath hitched, lungs straining, and each nerve in your body sung. 

His fingers moved with unerring precision, brushing past your tightness, curling just enough against your soft front wall to elicit whimpers and gasps. Your hips bucked involuntarily, body seeking release even as your mind fought to hold on.

“You’re close,” he whispered, voice calm, velvet-thick. “I can feel it.”

Your nails dug into the sheets, shoulders trembling. The combination of pressure, friction, and the hypnotic steadiness he played with you drove you past any thought, any control.

Then, finally, he allowed you the smallest bit of freedom. His fingers pressed just right, his thumb easing slightly from your throat, and the tension snapped. The heavy, hot knot of desire inside you unraveled in a rush so intense you couldn’t even form a sound at first. Your body spasmed against him, trembling, each of your senses utterly overwhelmed. 

Hit held you through it, steadying you with the sheer weight and control of his presence, letting the aftershocks wash over you. His lips brushed your temple, just a ghost of a kiss, and the firm press of his palm at your hip grounded you even as your body continued to shudder.

“You did well,” he murmured, voice low, careful. “You took it exactly how I wanted.”