One Of My All Time Favourite Stories!!!

𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐎 ⋮ 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈.

bakugou is six when you confidently tell him you’ll marry him, a giggly little toothy grin on your face as you hand him a flower.

“kacchan, one day we’ll get married,” you announce, and then you lean in, planting a soft kiss to his cheek.

he thinks his world just about stops for a moment.

but then he hears a snicker from the behind, and then another, and another—and suddenly he remembers his friends that are watching, a scowl quickly painting over his face as he grimaces.

“gross,” he grumbles, “i’m not marrying you,” he huffs, swiftly turning around and leaving you on your own.

he pretends like he’s forgotten the flower in his hand is still there, that he doesn’t hear you yell, “oh yes you will!” after him as he fights off the blush dusting across his face.

——————————

“you know, i do hate to say i told you so, but—”

“don’t,” bakugou grumbles, cutting you off. and something in his tone tells you he already knows what you’re going to say.

a small part of him is fond of the little memory, happy that things turned out just as you predicted—another part hates you’re about to tease him mercilessly.

“—but i did tell you so,” you grin, staring at the ring on your hand happily, wriggling your fingers to watch it glimmer in your dimly lit bedroom as moonlight pours through the window. you feel the rumble of his chest under your cheek as he grunts, shuffling closer as you lay your ring clad hand on his sternum.

“you never fuckin’ stop talking, do you?” he mutters, but his arm curls around you tighter.

bakugou thinks he’s spent the greater part of his life trying to get better, to be better—he almost forgets that sometimes, he can be just enough as is. and he thinks he always has been with you, worthy of your six year old hand in marriage even as he left you all alone at the sandbox, worthy of your saccharine smile and melodic laugh even as he pushes past you for years and years on end.

and sometimes, when the weight on his chest becomes too much, he almost forgets you’re all he really needs to breathe.

“i would never pass up a chance to tell sir dynamight ‘i told you so’,” you giggle, poking his cheek as he groans. he flicks your forehead, but there’s a slight wobble to his lips as he fights back a fond grin.

“quit callin’ me that, you sound like an idiot,” he scoffs. your finger traces a small heart across his cheek, and he snorts at the cheesiness. “marrying you’s a bad fuckin’ decision,” he sighs.

“hey,” you pout, “that’s rude. we haven’t even been engaged for a full day yet.”

“i don’t know if i’ll make it a full day as your fiancé.”

“aw, katsuki,” you drawl, planting a loud, wet kiss to his jaw, pinching his cheek as he swats your hand away with a scowl, “you can’t wait a whole day, huh? wanna get married that fast?” you tease through wriggled brows.

he wonders what prompted him to buy the ring in the first place.

“don’t flatter yourself,” he huffs flatly.

“well, we can’t elope,” you hum, and by now, your finger has settled for tracing meaningless patterns over his chest, gently running over the skin as his heart beats under your touch. “your mom would kill you if she didn’t get a wedding.”

“hate to break it to you, babe,” he smirks, pinching the tip of your nose playfully as he chuckles, “but marrying me means you’re apart of the bakugou family—so now you gotta feel the old hag’s wrath too. just like the rest of us.”

“nuh uh, i’m too cute,” you argue. it’s silent, and then he lets out a snort before he rolls his eyes, pressing a soft peck to your forehead—and it’s almost his silent way of agreeing.

“you’re trouble ‘s what you are,” he mutters. you hum, smiling thoughtfully, soft, gentle.

he wonders if he’ll ever fully deserve it.

“are you excited?” you murmur, cheek pressing further against his chest as you shuffle closer.

bakugou swallows for a moment. and it should be an easy question to answer—he doesn’t think he’s ever been more excited for something in his life before. not graduating, not going pro, not starting his agency, not even your first date (and you both still pretend he didn’t accidentally blow up the stems of the flowers he got you through sweaty palms.)

he feels his chest grow heavy, the weight of his emotions too much for him to comprehend, and he finds he’s still tumbling down the road of getting better—of being better. but then you kiss his chest under your cheek, and it’s easy to breathe again.

and he’s enough as is—always has been, always will be. your hand, the same hand that you promised him marriage with at six years old, grabs his and entwines your fingers together, and he thinks maybe being better shouldn’t be hard if you walk with him down the road right by his side.

“six year old me would throw a fit,” he mumbles instead, but he knows you have your answer when you giggle.

“six year old me would also say i told you so.”

“‘course you would,” he snorts, and then he tilts your jaw up and kisses your lips like he means it.

and bakugou katsuki, as his thumb runs over your cheek softly, like he’s holding the world in his hands and standing with the sun under his feet, can’t wait to kiss you on your wedding day.

© hanmas do not plagiarize, repost, translate to other sites, or recommend on platforms outside tumblr such as tik tok

𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞

— bonten!sano manjirou x reader x haruchiyo sanzu

contains smut ((🔞)) and dark themes || 7k+ wc.

tw violence/gore, drug use, yandere undertones, noncon, degradation, dacryphilia, toxic/unhealthy relationships, physical violence/choking, hair-pulling, exhibitionism, size kink, facefucking, mild corruption kink, lmk if i missed anything

// mikey keeps you around because he loves you. he thinks you’re the epitome of undeniable purity, with pretty angel wings like ivory — soft and dewy, most naive to the touch and begging to be held and cherished. but it’s too bad, really, because he only knows how to take.

// you think he’s got you on borrowed time; haruchiyo thinks he knows what’s best for his dearest leader.

note: please read the warnings carefully! this is a whole lot darker than what i usually write ๑´ ³`)ﾉ it’s the first part of a multi-part series i’m planning on writing, idk just seeing where this goes at the moment

if you read for mikey there’s a lot of smut, if you read for chiyo there’s just… a lot of him hating on you <3 but it won’t stay that way hehe

snapshot ;

Have you heard of this saying? Only a diamond can cut another diamond. Mikey glances at your doll-like face and figures there are two stuffed right inside your eye sockets — those ‘pretty eyes’ that Haruchiyo warned would one day be gouged out — to match the toughened gem of his heart. People think of him as the grim reaper with that malignant glint in his eyes, the last sight ghosting behind their eyelids before their lives were extinguished without a care or a hint of sanity; but truth be told, even the grim reaper has his soft underbelly.

∗

His body prickles all over and the only way Haruchiyo knows to fix it is to destroy destroy destroy — but when he settles for his unsuspecting victim for the night, a young maiden that looks suspiciously similar to you, he can’t help but imagine that it’s your face that he ruins beyond recognition, your cries that flutter like a sweet melody in his ears —

He has all the time in the world.

Your lover, the untouchable Sano Manjirou, is a little rough around the edges.

But if you were to paint a picture of his heart — a vivid, true-to-life picture of his ticking heart — you’d splay every inch of the canvas with brilliant watercolours; make it shine and glimmer pretty, like a chatoyant, tear-shaped crystal sitting numbly in your palm.

And criss-crossed and braided like a twined thread into its crystalline lattice, is a rich rich crimson.

The kind of crimson that’s thick and sticky and warm and won’t go away no matter how many times you put it through the washing machine. Unsalvageable — like the red that flows through every blood vessel in his body, jagged icicles branching out like vines under his skin — promising to one day burst, to splinter his bones and tear his innards to ribbons, should he forsake those dark dark desires of his. And all for what?

To hold him hostage. To shred. To make sure that he stays broken in a world where beauty will only be tarnished.

You can tell that much, because you’ve seen it happening in slow motion, unfurling right before your wide eyes; the gentle, excruciating, deconstruction of a paper crane — the way he fell apart gradually, slowly, the bird’s delicate feathers all crumbling to dust in the wind. That is how he has come to be the indisputable king, the very top of Japan’s worst criminal organisation to date, with his roots dug deep into a life of treachery. That is how you ache, deep and painfully, from the very core of your being, because no matter what you did, it had been inevitable.

He knows them like he knows you — the little voices leeching off the back of his mind whispering tiny, macabre yearning. He used to fight them, used to have outbursts in the middle of the night screaming back at them, used to be so disgusted with himself that he couldn’t even bring himself to confide in your panicked pleas to tell me what’s wrong.

Until the day he got too tired to pluck the little fuckers off, so he left them to thrive on his raw, puckered skin.

Now the soft, beating tissue exists no longer. You’re the only one who’s ever seen his heart in the flesh, despite the rumours that he was born without one. Because he, now rising twenty-seven and no longer the tender boy you once knew, wears apathy like a crown atop his pretty head — cold eyes flickering like a dying flame whenever he blows lightly at the smoke rising from a loaded gun, slinking away in silence only to leave a mangled corpse slumped in the corner of a nondescript alleyway. Left to bleed out. Left to rot.

It’s not rare that he comes home caked in that sticky red that you hate so much. A frown ghosting over his lips, his hair all mussed from the day’s work. Some of the blood’s his, some is not. He looks like a zombie, with a body that’s been hollowed out entirely of its internal organs.

The scene of him stumbling through the doorway has your heart leaping to your throat.

Thin fingers grasp at air, like tendrils stretching across the open space, feeling around until they make contact with your stiffened shoulders. He pulls you in, cages you in his arms without a word, clutching your head in a vice grip and breathing heavily through his mouth — and you’re too scared to ask what happened. No one ever told you how icky blood feels when it’s pressed right up against your cheek or how nauseating the smell of iron can be, he simply let you find out for yourself.

You force your muscles to lean into his touch, nuzzling your head into his chest and fighting the urge to wince. You tell him in a shaky voice that the bath’s ready and he must be tired, isn’t he? and let him stay like this a little longer, squeezing your eyes shut and swallowing hard, so you can tune out his heartbeat pounding so desperately against your head like a dizzying metronome.

So you can somehow pretend that everything’s fine and okay, even though his body count will never stop rising and rising and rising like the swelling summer tide. As if each life stolen by his hands is merely a drop in the ocean of a malice that knows no bounds, knows no satisfaction, no fulfilment.

You wonder, off-handedly, as his nails dig into your scalp, when the time will come when he decides to turn you into one of them.

But what can you do?

You let him caress your cheek, with a bloodied thumb and a hollowness shadowed in those familiar eyes. Somewhere in there is the man you’ve loved since your high school days. You love him. So when he bleeds, so do you — when he bleeds, you’re the only one who’s left to cauterise the wound, the one that never heals, the one that hides beneath the thick membrane of his skin.

But it’s truly a shame he doesn’t bother to pull wool over your eyes anymore. Doesn’t clean up before stepping into the penthouse. Doesn’t make excuses for the chip on his shoulder dripping scarlet. Doesn’t tell you which disobedient pawn he shot in the head today either — but you’ll find out on the news real soon.

∗

Sinking into the porcelain bathtub, you don’t bring up the fact that he’s spoken less than three words to you tonight — even as you rub his back and slather him with the intoxicating scent of lavender and pink roses, little fingers coasting over his pale skin in an effort to coddle him. Your thighs straddle his hips as you massage small circles over the tiny cuts that litter his forearm. He doesn’t get hurt often; only does so on purpose when he feels particularly sadistic and wants to watch his prey struggle before their last breath.

Iridescent bubbles pepper along the curve of your shoulders and reddish bathwater laps at your thighs, with your bare body glistening in the dancing candle light. It’s almost muscle memory at this point — you dip your hands into the water, letting the impurities dissolve into the murky foam soaking your bodies, then squeeze a portion of sweet-smelling soap on your palm, smearing it all over his scalp as your fingers comb through his damp hair. Rinse and repeat — until all visible proof of his bloodlust liquefies into a translucent pink.

The smell of iron hits the air but it’s easier to ignore when the soap bubbles quickly drown it out. Something strange is brewing under his tepid gaze, and you’re none the wiser. Something lurks underneath the shallowness of his breaths, as you lovingly knead your fingers through his silver tresses, and you’re nothing if not oblivious.

You can’t help but hum a little as you reach over to unclog the bathtub, your voice melding with the sound of rushing water and echoing off smooth marbled porcelain walls. Pink and red swirls down the drain like a cyclone; you smile a little as you start to douse him in lukewarm water flowing from the tap, delicate hands coasting over his slick skin. Your movements are natural — doting.

Something is wrong.

He feels an unnameable emotion creeping up on him. Feels his skin start to prickle like fire everywhere your soft fingers ghost over. Feels a compulsion — fed by your little form hovering over his body, bare skin shining with droplets of water, so perfect and so vulnerable, ripe for the taking — so horrible it makes his jaw clench.

He watches you bend over the tub to reach for a towel and feels the raw, aching need to break something.

∗

Your vision has been plundered, stolen — you know this to be the irrevocable truth.

He used to hoist you up in his arms and promise you the world; and you’ve got the world alright. But at what cost? You can only view it through a foggy lens of your own creation — through the mist-soaked glass precipitated from the memories that you will eternally hold of a time when he was sweeter. Gentler. Now he isn’t, not ever. Not unless his praise and his affection is dipped in sleet and rolled over in filth first.

When he drags you by your hair, still dripping and damp from the shower, past the pristine hallways and all the way to his lush bed, you’re sure this little game is about to come to an end.

“You’re so fucking pathetic, you know? I could kill you right now.” He’s livid, eyes clouded with fury when he shoves you onto the pillowy mattress. Why?

“Gonna let my fingers curl ‘round your pretty little neck, so fragile that it’ll snap in a second. You’ll let me, won’t you? Let me take that precious, pathetic life of yours?”

But he wouldn’t. Would he? No. You know he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t — h-he wouldn’t.

“It’s all you’re good for anyway, being my little toy.”

But even so, even so you can’t help the wetness pricking your eyes, the broken sobs that escape from your quivering lips — the cherry red lips that he bites and punctures until they bleed. Why? Why is he being like this? He pushes your knees to your chest, his lithe body bathed in the silver sheen of moonlight. He wastes no time with prep, wrenching a deep cry out of you as his cock breaches your folds painfully, his eyes reduced to cruel slits like rifts cut from a pitch-black void. When he sees the teardrops beading at your lashes his scowl only widens.

Why, why, why?

Stupid and naive — because you were stupid and naive to think that you could be strong for him. You wanted to be strong, stronger than anything, so that you could be his strongest pillar to rely on when the waves came crashing down; so that he didn’t have to rely on hurting others just for his own amusement, so that he could come to you instead — you, who promised him the world as long as he stayed in yours.

But now you see. Through that hideous, fogged-up lens, you see.

It was the vestiges of sentimentality clinging onto his heart, telling him to bide his time before disposing of you for good. Just to use up every single last drop of you. See if your puny life could ever amount to anything worthwhile in his eyes. After all, how could someone like you possibly hold his genuine affection? How could he stare at you with such contempt in his eyes and hiss at you with a tone laden with such coldness, and —

How could he rut his hips against yours so deep it hurts, and still call you his lover?

“The hell you crying for? Thought you loved me enough to take it, huh?” he snarls with his fangs bared, fingers grabbing fistfuls of your hair. When he pulls out and rams back his thick cock back in it feels like he’s snatching the breath away from your very lungs, pulling strangled sobs from you as you’re left helpless to stop him. And no, oh no, since when has his roughness left you feeling so hot? So reciprocative as he grunts a string of insults, so aroused as his rough hands come to pinch at your hardened buds?

Oh no, he’s got you all messed up too, hasn’t he?

But he always fills you up so good — always makes sure you cum so hard that you’re dizzy and drooling onto the silken bedsheets; makes sure that your speech is diminished only to screams and whimpers and cries of his name, pussy ruined with buckets of thick cum oozing out — all messed up for him, just as you should be.

“T-too much too much too much,” you whimper, tiny hands pawing and beating at his chest in a feeble attempt for mercy, only to be slapped away with a deep deep snarl. “‘S too much, Mikey—”

Why can’t you see? Why can’t you see that he needs you? He’s seething when his hand cinches around your throat, fingers wringing volumes of air out of your dented windpipe as you cry out. His nails burrow into the unmarred skin, leaving crescent-shaped indents in their wake. It hurts like hell and your vision’s gone blurry with tears and when you try to claw at his hand he only pins you down with a growl and everything’s gone blurry. Everything about him hurts like hell.

“Whiny little bitch.”

His grip wanes, if only to let the smallest amount of oxygen reach your lungs, as if dead set on squeezing the very life out of your body. His brutal thrusts are unrelenting, cockhead penetrating to a near painful degree the gummy walls of your womb, again and again igniting a rapid heat in your core that only serves to make you spiral further into scatterbrained madness. Everything’s spinning and tunnelling into hues of black and white — if not because of his hand seized around your neck then because he’s fucking you way too good than you deserve.

Your heart feels like it’s about to give out, about to burst into shreds right in front of him, but your body is honest. Gossamer strands of your juices coat his length when he pistons into you, sickening squelches that echo in the room reminding you of your own depravity. When your mouth drops open to moan only raspy cries claw their way out of the sandpaper stuck to the back of your throat. He’s got you trapped by his thighs, locking you in a position that has his cock ramming incessantly against the tiny opening of your cervix, a decadent gleam flashing across his maniacal eyes as he towers over your abused body.

You love him.

Even though he’s not gentle at all. Even though he thinks you’re prettiest when you’re battered and bruised by his hands. Even though he spits in your face when you gasp for air and let out strangled pleas, grinding against your clit harder when you cry in overstimulation and hot tears streak non-stop down the apples of your cheeks.

You’re getting close, and the harder your body thrashes, the harder your walls clamp down on his girth, the meaner he gets. The more he gnaws and tears at your supple skin with his teeth. The faster his twisted affection rears its ugly head, in the colour of withered roses carved like permanent brandings into your body. His body.

“Christ—so fucking tight, baby.” His chest heaves, beads of sweat glittering under the moonlight. “A-ah, fuck—you’re mine, all fucking mine. Say it. Say it, fucking whore.”

“Y-yours, yours, all y-yours,” you rasp, mouth gaping wide as you fight to draw in breath after breath. He bends your boneless, pliant body to his will, forcing your knees to press up further against your shoulders, rutting into you so hard you feel like snapping in half.

One hand relinquishes its grip holding down your wrists only for him to force his fingers through your drool-slicked lips, tracing the ridges of your canines and hooking against the roof of your mouth until they’re drenched in saliva. You wheeze around his digits, letting out gargled cries when his fingers flatten against your tongue.

“All sloppy and wet for me, aren’t you? Should’ve—known—you’re such a whore for my cock. C’mon, say ah, baby. You like this, don’t you? You little whore,” he grates, each word accentuated with a snap of his hips, fingers prodding forcefully at the back of your throat just enough to make you gag and cry harder. You whine and mewl into his fingers, babbling faint agreements as trails of saliva dribble out the edges of your mouth.

Your head’s been stuffed with bales of cotton, clouded with lust-filled haze and a syrupy, golden, animalistic desire to fuck yourself stupid on his leaking cock. He’s panting lightly and silvery strands of hair stick to his forehead and neck, and even in your half-lidded, teary euphoria you’re still captivated by his beauty.

Pretty, pretty, pretty — even when fractured into diluted shards of glass, tiny reflections staring back at you in each one, he’s still the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen on earth.

“Gonna fucking ruin you, and you better enjoy every second of it,” he snarls, flexing his fingers on your neck. You choke on a moan as his grip tightens and tightens, feeling more tears welling up and tumbling down your cheeks. Stop, please, please. You can’t — you can’t take any more! — you’ll snap! you’ll —

Frenzied thoughts rush to fill bottomless gaps in your mind — buzzing like static electricity in your eardrums when your head strains to break free from his iron grip. But the more you struggle the darker your vision gets, the faster you tumble headfirst into sweet excruciating asphyxia, and he revels in it, with a sick sick glitter to his eyes, the same one he gets just before slicing the throats of his wriggling victims.

The bedroom spirals into varied tones of black — you can’t make out his face anymore even as you desperately try to fight off the heaviness shackling your every limb, body thrashing to no avail, your choked cries filling the room as you scour for any sliver, any morsel of air that can scrape through your cinched throat. It’s no good.

He stutters and lets out a long, drawn-out groan, and with a heavy thrust, his warm seed bursts and spills into your insides, filling you up with ropes of white-hot cum. Your eyes roll to the back of your head in response, toes curling as lurid colour flashes behind your eyelids. You’re cumming, you think — there’s so much liquid gushing from your abused cunt that you can’t stop trembling from head to toe, muscles spasming as shadowy blotches start to cloud your vision.

Then it stops.

His cruelty fades obscurely into non-existence. He relents his serpent’s chokehold on your fragile neck. You cough and splutter loudly as at long last your lungs flood with sweet oxygen, grappling to retrieve each and every one of your senses even as the world continues to flicker in and out of view. Every fibre of your body seizes, your fingers twisting the sheets, the abused muscle on your neck contracting and throbbing, with a familiar purple bruise blooming in the shape of his fingers — it won’t be going away in the morning.

His taunts ring upon deaf ears as your hands fly up to clutch your neck in pain. Jagged coughs rack your chest, legs still quivering in the afterglow of your orgasm, whitish fluid marking an irreparable mess between your thighs. A thumb swipes at the tears still cascading down your cheeks in multitudes, and a tight grip on your hand tethers you back to reality. Slowly, in a mockery of gentleness, he peels your hands away from your neck, lacing your fingers with his instead.

You feel fuzzy. All you hear is shrill ringing and your blood pumping in your ears until he calls your name.

“Hey. Look at me,” he says, tapping your cheek, when the sharpness in his gaze has dulled to a low, biting flame. When the fire has quelled and all that’s left is the saccharine ivory that burns exposed, licking gently in spurts at your stinging wounds — in his hand smoothing out your still damp tresses, his fingers wiping away your tears and snot and saliva, and his lips pressing a fleeting kiss to your temple in what feels like a quiet descent into mourning.

Your laboured breathing brings a hazy smile to his face. He traces the line of your jaw and brings your panting mouth to melt against his. Forceful, like always, but tenderly so.

“You’re okay, sweetheart.”

That’s right. You’re okay, you’re breathing. You can breathe. You’re okay because you think you know what he really means — I love you, laced in the way his fingers still latch onto yours, his lips ghosting over every tender wound he has left tonight, until your breathing stills and your eyes flutter shut with exhaustion. You’re okay.

“Don’t die on me yet,” he mumbles, when he thinks you’re half asleep. You think you know what he means.

Wishful thinking.

∗

His fingers pause halfway when they’re threaded in your hair. All you hear is his warm breath brushing against your ear, not a single moving muscle in his thighs where you’re seated pretty on his lap. The uneasy feeling in your gut hardens into lead at the possibility of having said something wrong — like the crushed-up petals of a hydrangea flower, glued like thick sludge to the back of your throat, absorbing wholly whatever noise that tries to escape from within.

Why haven’t you killed me yet? — you asked.

Sometimes when you’re both alone in his oversized office he likes to reward you with soft kisses to your ear, nibbling on the tender cartilage and whispering if it’s okay to let your husband play with your pretty hair for a little while. You always say yes — you wouldn’t be caught dead refusing an offer of his affection. It’s rare, so rare, akin to trapping a single lightning strike in a glass bottle. When you’re alone he is painfully gentle, even with his insults that cut superficial on your heart — because you think you know what he really means.

But sometimes the hesitant truth can spill out where there is even the tiniest of openings, cutting a clear stream through the muddled fog of your inhibitions.

Not you. Never you — his answer doesn’t come out, because he is still as stone.

A hand steals out to rub against your cheek. You force down the snarling urge to incline your head into his touch as he presses his fingers to the soft skin. He coos your name hoarsely, as if he thinks it’s utterly ridiculous what you’ve just asked him — and the sound of his voice, how it drops a tired little octave, flits around in your ears like the flutter of a dove’s wings.

There’s a thud at the door; your body stiffens. Your eyes dart to the source of the disturbance — two short thumps, ones that belong to someone you recognise immediately from the curt sound. Mikey’s eyes narrow, though it’s not like you can see, and he growls something under his breath before issuing the order to come in. (You’re a little disappointed that the conversation was cut short.)

It’s his second-in-command. He strides through the towering, gold-embellished doors with an air of indifference, bowing with a polite greeting before beginning to recite a well-rehearsed report on Bonten’s shiny new project. One that involves a boatload of cash and a landfill of body bags, you surmise with a frown. You push down the fluttering unease in your belly, dropping your gaze and hyper-focusing on Mikey’s grip around your waist, his fingers toying with a strand of your hair as he listens with impeccable silence.

Today he has you clad in his favourite babydoll. It is ravishing as it is expensive, adorned with pretty white lace that flows just perfectly like fine silk along your soft curves, but it’s also thin and skimpy and barely leaves enough for the imagination — and you rarely get through the day without having it ripped from your body, so that his hands are free to wander between the silken skin of your thighs during every important meeting, playing with your little nub to hear your kitten-like whimpers as his placid executives collectively avert their gazes.

Whatever shred of modesty you possessed, he’d forced you to abandon. Now all that’s left is the pliant, submissive doll that he’s moulded to fit his every need, obey his every beck and call — his perfect girl.

His fingers toy with the hem of your nightgown, your breath hitching as he nudges your legs apart with a jerk of his knee. His hand starts to gravitate to where you dread the most — where your heat pulsates the most. Goosebumps feather up on your skin as he brushes his knuckles against your clothed cunt and you let out a tiny noise of surprise, eliciting a breathy chuckle from the man. Haruchiyo looks increasingly disgruntled as his boss merely replies with non-committal grunts to his words, attention being focused solely on you writhing on his lap.

And another thing, Haruchiyo clears his throat, it’s just the slightest bit unprofessional, what he’s doing. His executives may be desensitised but the other, newer business associates are not. Keeping a woman, a fucktoy, in such confidential quarters, where every twist and convulsion in the underground network surrounding Bonten is buried to the hilt, is not exactly a good idea. Not to say that he doesn’t respect Mikey’s wishes, he does, but given your… weak nature, there’s no telling when some other rival crime boss (like there are any, Mikey rolls his eyes) will swoop in and kidnap you — torture you, wring every single important, fatal secret out of your pretty eyes as they gouge them out one by one.

(That’s just a shame, isn’t it?)

Fucktoy. Weak. His words cut deep in your chest, especially when your supposed husband does nothing to refute them. Smirks, even. You can hear it in his voice.

“Don’t, fucking, care. If anyone tries, I’ll have their head on a platter.” He pushes your panties aside, scraping the pad of his finger against your clit idly, drawing breathy pants from you as you start to squirm on his lap. “Anything else before you leave? Or do you wanna keep talking my fucking ears off.” Haruchiyo’s eyes reflect red as he regards you, perched all whimpering and cowering on his King’s lap, with a cold stare that you only recognise as pure, unadulterated scorn.

“No, my king,” the subordinate grits through clenched teeth, straining a bow. “I shall leave as you wish.” He turns and heads for the door, the soles of his shoes thudding against carpet and clicking against glossy marble. You don’t miss the way his scarred lips are curled into a sneer just as he takes one final look at you, fingers stretched taut over the golden door handle. You swallow down a choked cry, feeling an unspeakable fear penetrating deep into your bones, but Mikey merely raises a brow.

“Well? Quit starin’,” he says, low and grating. Voided eyes belying unspoken wrath as his arm tightens around you unconsciously. “Unless you want me to put a hole in your damn head.”

∗

God, does he fucking hate you.

Haruchiyo doesn’t think he’s an evil person. Aggressive and the tiniest bit sadistic, yes, but after all; everything he does, everyone he kills, he does so in the name of his indisputable king — his raison d’être. If Mikey were to order him to slaughter every single living soul in the fifty-storey building he would gladly do so without a tremor of hesitation. He’s fucking unhinged where his dedication is concerned.

How evil could he be, then, to want to strip his king of all his weaknesses? So that he’d be guaranteed absolute control — stay at the very top forever, overseeing his inferior subjects with a bloodied, unyielding fist? (Ah, the thought might just send shivers down his spine.)

There was no reason for him to let you live, he deduces.

He knew this for a fact since the first time he laid his eyes upon your meek form. You were more timid back then, dainty little legs dangling off Mikey’s lap where he held you on display, your fingers twisted into his shirt with his jacket hanging off — no, engulfing — your shoulders, burying your head into his chest to shy away from sharpened gazes though it was obvious that you alone held the centre of attention in the room.

His king barely betrayed any emotion, merely ran his fingers up your jaw and ordered you to lift your head. Looks like you have an audience, he said, and even then, as Haruchiyo watched you quiver and avert your gaze anywhere but them, he felt a strange sensation welling up from beneath his outer layer of skin.

There was something about the way you often clung to his king as if he were your lifeline, something about the panicked, fearful gleam in your eyes whenever they met his by accident, in the scarce moments when you passed him in the halls without Mikey for once, that plucked and tore at his nerves in a disgusting, wretched way — like a bitter spat accumulating clump by clump on his stomach lining.

When he leaves the office (or rather, gets kicked out) his teeth grind on instinct. It’s been years and still, the answer is left far out of his reach. What is it about you that has his boss wrapped right around your finger? You’re weak as hell the way he sees it, no one could give a shit if you died — because he knows, no one has come searching for you in the four years you’ve been roaming the Bonten building like Mikey’s shadow.

He jabs his finger at one of the elevator buttons, biting back a hiss at the immense throbbing at the back of his skull. Doesn’t know where he’s headed but he doesn’t care as long as he gets out of these suffocating walls. Something is tingling like a bluish flame — something under his skin is itching like an old scab and it’s near unbearable like always. He reaches into his breast pocket, feels around for the little pills that he adores so much, and breathes a long, heavy sigh.

Slender fingers toy with a pretty two-toned capsule. He flicks it between his thumb and forefinger, eyeing the puny little thing before plopping it into his mouth, swallowing it dry.

Let it be known that his loyalty is written in blood; he would have your silky entrails littering the spotless hallways of the sprawling establishment if it were up to him.

He has plenty of time to get rid of you, he thinks, as the elevator dings and he’s stepping out the doors with a putrid scowl on his face. For now he plays the waiting game, merely seeking to chase the bubbling desire surging through his veins; the one that tempts him in a sultry voice to watch the decay of butchered skin on bleached bone.

His body prickles all over and the only way Haruchiyo knows to fix it is to destroy destroy destroy — but when he settles for his unsuspecting victim for the night, a young maiden that looks suspiciously similar to you, he can’t help but imagine that it’s your face that he ruins beyond recognition, your cries that flutter like a sweet melody in his ears —

He has all the time in the world.

∗

Have you heard of this saying? Only a diamond can cut another diamond. Mikey glances at your doll-like face and figures there are two stuffed right inside your eye sockets — those ‘pretty eyes’ that Haruchiyo warned would be gouged out — to match the toughened gem of his heart. People think of him as the grim reaper with that malignant glint in his eyes, the last sight ghosting behind their eyelids before their lives were extinguished without a care or a hint of sanity; but truth be told, even the grim reaper has his soft underbelly.

And if there ever is a modicum of doubt, he’ll gladly admit it. When he made you see stars for the first time, cumming so hard on his cock and begging so prettily that his world began spinning in colourised euphoria, he knew then how it felt like to have every semblance of control pried from his scarred, shaking fingertips, hurtling him headfirst into an addiction worse than any drug — love.

Love is written in the way he adores to fuck you within an inch of losing your sanity. Love is sprinkled into his callous quips of how fucking useless you are without him, how much you depend on him — so much so that he couldn’t leave you for a second lest you run off and die by yourself. Love is every ounce of taking and taking as it is giving, but even when he’s giving he expects to be repaid a hundred times more.

And it’s too bad that, no matter how much you beg, no matter how much you cry for him, there will never be a happy ending, filled with conventional love and softness, for either of you.

His fingers retract from your head.

“On your knees,” he commands softly, and all he has to do is count to three in his head before you’re snapping out of your daze, scrambling off his lap and onto the floor, dropping to your knees like the obedient little pet you are. Like the pet he made you to be. He feels an odd pride well up at your complete lack of hesitation, a sick satisfaction that you no longer flinch when he slides his hand comfortably around your bruised neck.

“Did I do something wrong?” Your voice is barely above a trembling whisper, sending soft vibrations drumming against his fingers. He looks into your wide eyes, brimming with fear, and almost wants to coo in condescending adoration.

Oh, how could he tarnish something so pure? How could he desire, from the very depths of his soul, to pluck from its very stem, the most delicate flower there exists, only to rip off every single glistening petal? To tear you apart again and again, yet convince you that you’re absolutely nothing without him?

He loves you, that’s how.

Neither Haruchiyo, nor any of those repulsive ‘business associates’, can ever begin to comprehend this simple fact. They will never comprehend, with those golf-ball sized brains they have encased within their thick skulls, because he’ll have them all in cardboard coffins by the time the thought crosses their minds to lay even a single finger on a strand of your hair.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong, darling. Nothing at all.”

He smiles down at you, giving your neck a soft squeeze, and it’s genuine, you think. Like a sliver of sunlight, refracted by his crystalline heart. Your shoulders relax a little as you reciprocate a tiny smile; his eyes soften.

This is love.

He rubs his heel against your calf in a silent prompt. You take the hint almost immediately, trembling fingers reaching towards the growing bulge in his pants, cheeks flushing bright red as you palm his cock lightly. “C-can I…” You look to him shyly for permission, fluttering lashes framing your pretty eyes, and he almost feels his heart melt.

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” he purrs, a hand reaching down to engulf the back of your head. You swallow the lump in your throat and nibble on your lip, before unbuckling his belt and tugging down the waistband to reveal his hardened length.

“Think you can take me whole?” he coos, fingers digging into your scalp, coaxing you forward. It feels more like a statement than a question now; your tongue darts out to wet your lips at the sight of whitish precum beading at the tip, your head inching closer to give it an experimental lick.

He groans, a deep and breathy sound that has you feeling giddy with joy, but he can only be so patient. With a sudden force his fingers are shoving you face-first into his cock, paying no heed to your surprised squeals to slow down as he presses you deeper into your warm mouth. The back of your throat burns at the jarring intrusion, bringing a fresh onslaught of tears rolling down your cheeks as you gag violently.

Your jaw struggles to widen to accommodate his thick length — you’re breathing heavily through your nose as his movements increase in fervency, not once giving you a moment of respite. Drool trickles down the sides of your mouth; you let loose a string of muffled moans and choked mewls as his cockhead juts roughly against the back of your throat.

Hands twisting into your hair for leverage, he forces your lips to continue dragging in and out from the base of his cock, gruffly ordering you to use your tongue and your hands. You fight to whimper a small ‘yes’, palms cupping his balls and massaging softly, your tongue trying hard to swirl at the tip whenever he pulls out — just the way he likes it.

“God— you were made for this.” His fingers tense and shakily press you in further as his hips buck up ever so slightly, mouth dropping open and heady groans hitting the air. “Taking me—real good, my little cockslut—fuck—that’s it, babe.”

He’s dead set on chasing his own high, muffling you against his dick unabashedly, as your stomach churns heavy with anxiety. Anyone could walk in and catch you now — catch you red-handed, with your mouth stuffed full of their boss’ cock, whining so lewdly and drooling so messily it drips all over the designer carpet. You have no idea if the spotless walls are soundproof — almost everything about Bonten and its headquarters is kept from you (that, or you’ve just gotten extremely good at tuning out every single tedious meeting), but if there’s anything you’re sure of, you’re certain that everyone knows better than to disrupt Mikey’s alone time with you.

He throws his head back, allowing you the gorgeous view of his sharp jaw, tiny beads of sweat glimmering like shards of diamonds down his neck. “Fucking hell, princess,” he breathes shakily, and you know that he’s close. His thrusts get sloppy, fingers trembling ever more furiously, and before you know it the muscles of his thighs are flexing and tensing before he’s letting out a deep groan, fisting your hair as thick spurts of cum spill into your throat.

“Don’t you dare waste a drop,” he rasps, fingers sliding to the base of your neck to hold you down. Your mouth is flooded, the salty fluid overwhelming your tongue as you hold your breath, clenching your eyes shut as you try your hardest to swallow around his length. His cock slides out with a small ‘pop’, and you’re slapping a hand over your mouth to stifle a hiccup, dried tears streaking your cheeks.

“Show me.”

You force the remaining spurts of cum down your throat, before opening your mouth as wide as you can for him to inspect, doe eyes looking expectantly at him until he nods in approval. His big hand descends upon your head of hair, patting softly as another smile spreads across his face. Your heart twists. Twice in a day — you must’ve been good then. He wouldn’t smile so much otherwise.

∗

You scan briefly through the recesses of your mind, faint memories of him trashing the penthouse in a fit of blind rage rushing back to you, but no, you realise with a frown, even considering those times, never have you ever seen him this pissed.

At times the reigning king of Bonten can have a temperament akin to the calm before the storm. In his irises there’s a permanent hollowness etched into a bottomless black — but still, a deadly edge sewn into that piercing gaze.

Today there is nothing short of fury burning behind that emptiness.

The Haitani brothers share a look; Takeomi’s jaw locks though his gaze is fixed straight ahead. Haruchiyo is silent for once but his fingers toy with the cap of a tiny pill bottle, flipping it on and off with his thumb in a repetitive fashion — a nervous tick, you suppose. The others don’t look too good as well; the tension in the air is so thick that it’s enough to wedge a coarse lump in your windpipe. It’s oppressive. No one dares speak up, not after the news was dropped like a bombshell within the confines of the meeting room. They all know.

They know that in Bonten, there is only one supreme ruler — and whatever Mikey wants, he will make it happen.

If he wants to keep you by his side like his own personal lapdog, he will. If he wants to rule the whole of Japan with this lapdog tending to his every need, he will. If he wants to bring his lapdog along to that god-fucking-awful ‘errand’ they have to take care of for two whole days, he fucking will.

The only problem is, he can’t.

(If you really cared about her staying alive, you’d let her stay here.)

Takeomi didn’t say it, but he sure as hell implied it. It’s an unspoken duty that he’s been appointed with — spitting out the cold hard truth when it meant it was the best course of action. In this case it’s because Mikey is too fucking stubborn a boss to get through. Perhaps if he were thinking with his head instead of hormones he’d realise that you were more of a hindrance to keep around — but that’s a talk for another time, Takeomi thinks (but doesn’t dare bring up). Of course, his steady voice was almost enough to belie his uneasiness.

Under the hesitant scrutiny of his subjects the king lets out a deep, guttural groan.

A scowl materialises on his face, screwing up his pretty features into an expression that you hate so much. Your head is tilted up to look at him from your spot on the floor by his side, and you tug at the cloth of his pants ever so slightly. He tears his eyes away from his advisor to catch your worried gaze — and almost as if it were magic, you think you see a flicker of longing in his eyes, his frown thinning out just the slightest as he wordlessly observes your face.

But then he’s clenching his eyes shut, obscuring your view of those pretty irises, and putting a hand firmly on your head before sinking back into the plush of his chair, puffing out a long, defeated sigh.

He looks to his executives, gaze as steely as ever, and utters two things — a begrudging acceptance, along with an absolute order that has both your and Haruchiyo’s stomach dropping to the floor.

“This is final,” he emphasises, “don’t wanna hear you fucking complain. I’m pissed enough as it is.” His grip tightens on your scalp as he shoots daggers at his second-in-command. Oh, if looks could kill, Haruchiyo would be disintegrating on the spot right now.

But is it just you, or is he oddly unfazed? After the initial shock tapers off, you swear you notice the corners of his scar-ridden mouth twitch.

A chill runs down your spine when the rosy-haired man cocks his head curiously, his sapphirine gaze flickering towards your frozen form. As if eyeing up and down a fresh slab of meat — a milky sheep, made to be present for a bloody slaughter.

You don’t have time to ponder about what’s swirling inside those pretty blues, though, because when Mikey’s ordering them all to get out (and they do), he doesn’t wait for the doors to finish closing before lifting you by your waist, and slamming you onto the lean desk.

“Not—leaving—you—” He grunts sloppily into your neck, teeth sinking like needles into the pliant skin. His breaths are heavy, his eyebrows are scrunched together in frustration and he’s pinning you down like a snarling animal. “Never. Never.”

“Never,” you echo his words softly, breathlessly, lips parting just as he licks at the fading bite marks down the skin of your nape, already eager to leave new ones. Your hands caress the back of his neck, little fingers edging him closer ever so slightly.

No, he will never leave you. Physically he has to, but before you know it, he’ll be back to you like always.

Until then he has to bite back his fury and let Haruchiyo look after you. Because who better to trust than his right-hand man?

pt. 2 coming soon (ง ˃ ³ ˂)ว ⁼³₌₃⁼³

Aberration - Chapter 8

MHA!Various x Fem!Reader

Thriller/Horror/Drama

Criminal!AU

Words: 3.2k

A/N: AIGHT FINALLY CHAPTER 8 IS DONE. I HOPE YOU ALL LIKE IT, I’M NERVOUS.

Warnings: Yandere Themes, Mentions of murder, torture, abuse, blood, felonies, bullying, swearing. More to come.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of MHA, just this story. In no way does this reflect the characters, writers or VAs of the show/manga. MINORS DNI.

~~~

Aberration Masterlist

~~~

Sitting at your desk, your notes lay open, as if mocking you. Your chin is resting in your hand, mind wandering back to yesterday’s events.

~flashback~

“Now Kitten, Kiss me.”

You let out a tiny whimper, unable to move or resist. As you inch closer to the psycho, your mind wanders back to what Aizawa said. Since his quirk is currently suppressed, you should be able to get out of it on your own.

Trying to push past the fogginess in your mind, you focus on the feeling of your fingers. Breaking through that fog was hard but you were finally able to grab hold control of a single finger. That’s when you pointed it at your side and flicked it towards you. It activated your quirk, causing your pen to fly at you and stab you in the leg, breaking hold of Shinso’s quirk.

You stumble backward as you snap out of your chance, whimpering at the pain in your leg. Your gaze shoots up, a mixture of hatred and fear adorning your features. That’s when the door to Shino’s cell bursts open and three guards come barging in. Two grab hold of Shinso as the third carefully escorts you out. But not before you hear a few final words from the psychopath.

“Oh my, kitten. You are as strong as I hope you’d be. I can’t wait to make you mine!”

~end of flashback~

Keep reading

Responsibilities (4/?)

bestfriend!Nanami x Reader (SMAU)

Masterlist

Nanami takes an interest in your date

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

A/N: Hi everyone! We continue with our favorite best friends. With the weekend coming it also means I’ll have more free time to make more chapters, I don’t want this series to be too long so it will probably be less than 10 chapters as I want to do more SMAUS with the other guys. You're welcomed to send me an ask with any comments, questions, etc., you have on this. 😊

If you like the story please interact: reblogs, likes and comments go a long way. Feedback is always appreciated! Feel free to message me about it.

Taglist

@ermbehindyou @totallygyomeiswife @ash4ree @lov3vivian @namjooningera @sleepykittyenergy @silllly-jokesterr @shigarika @7haze @lizzie3d2y @jaybirdluvr73 @sweetdreams-inumimi @anuncalledbridge @troyesivanfrl @lavenderdaydream97

mafia au kuroo x f!reader

a/n - daddy kink, authority issues, d!kuroo, s!reader, lifestyle dom kuroo and reader brats for a second before giving in, praise degradation, good girl, he manhandles you, throws u around a bit, breeding but only a smidge. if you're ever interested in the context of this lmk

minors and ageless blogs dni

“My honor has limits.” He watches you struggle trying to unzip your own dress, watches you twist your back around trying to get it without asking for his help. Adorable. “Stop that, please.” To his delight, you freeze and he comes up behind you slowly, resting his hands on your waist for a moment before unzipping it for you. "You'll have to get used to asking me for help with things." Your mouth goes dry.

“I, I can try.” You say softly, feeling his breath on your neck. He slowly, carefully, starts to slip you out of your dress, you can feel every brush of his fingertips on you, cool against your burning skin.

“You’ve got goosebumps, sweetheart.” He breathes, leaning down to speak directly in your ear, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you want me.” The dress is bunched around your waist now, and you can smell his cologne, sharp and masculine. He moves very slowly, as if he’s waiting for you to stop him. Kuroo pushes it down, hooking  his thumbs in the soft material, pushing it down farther until it moves past your hips and crumples to the floor. He takes them in his hands, pulling you against his body. He’s still fully dressed but you can feel his muscles through his thin shirt, and his erection tents his pants, rubbing against your ass. You feel his lips on your neck and you moan softly, “Tell me,” he says, “Tell me you want me to stop, kitten,” 

“I, um,” you start, your voice pitched oddly, senses overwhelmed. It had been, a very long day. “Oh, god,” you say, stomach dropping when you feel his teeth on your neck, yelping a little when he bites down, hard. "Kuroo!"

“What are you supposed to call me when we're alone?” he purrs, moving his hands up your body, palming your breasts through your bra. “You’re barely breathing.” He says, a teasing edge to his voice. “Tell me to stop and I will, baby.” It takes a moment, but you shake your head. “No, you don’t want me to?” You nod, unable to look up at him. “Use your words.” He commands, still kind but there's an authoritative edge to his tone. 

“Don’t stop.” you breathe, turning around to look at him. “Please. I don't want you to-” He picks you up and throws you on the bed, you squeal as you fly through the air, completely caught off guard. You bounce on the mattress for a second as he tugs his tie off with one hand. He tears out of his clothes in seconds, and then he dives on top of you, devouring your neck, sucking and biting bruises into your skin, and  you’re moaning and grinding your hips up against his. 

“You’re so fucking pure.” He taunts. “You don’t even steal? Isn't that right?” You go to bite back and gasp when he bites you particularly hard.

“It’s, it’s wrong.” You manage. He laughs, a harsh mean sound. 

“I think," He says, unclipping your bra in one smooth movement, “You act like terrible brat, with a bad attitude,” you moan, loudly when he closes his mouth over one of your nipples, tweaking the other with his hand, "But deep down, you were hoping this would happen, weren't you,” 

“Oh, oh fuck,” you cry out as he bites down on your nipple, 

“Hoping I'd give you a reason to let down those walls hm?” He growls, “Fuck you’re little sounds are driving me fucking insane,” He dives back to your neck for only a moment and then leans back, slipping a hand underneath your panties, “You’re fucking soaked, god, you’re dripping.” You shift uncomfortably and then gasp when he slips a finger inside of you, your back arching, as you cry out. “Yeah, do you like that baby, come on slut, say my fucking name, who’s making you feel good, who is it?” he presses against that spongey spot inside of you, and you cry out again, 

“Daddy, please, please,” he growls in satisfaction, “Daddy, fuck me, fuck me please,” you beg, “I want it, I’ll be good.” He practically rips you out of your panties, but you can't bare to be that far from him, sitting up and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He smirks a you for a second before he flips you over and takes a fistful of your hair forcing your back into a harsh arch, 

“Are you sure kitten,” He rubs the head of his cock against your folds, with the patience of either a saint or a madman, you're not sure which, “Only good girls get fucked, are you sure you’ve been good enough?” 

“Please daddy,” you say, desperately, unsure of what combination of degradation and submission will unlock his mercy, “I’ve been good, I’ll keep being good, I promise.” He hums a kind of low growl, it's almost a satisfied noise but it stutters to a gasp as he eases inside you. He leans over your back, letting out a sharp breath at how good you feel, tight, and warm, and soft.

‘Such a good girl, baby, your pussy is so fucking wet for me, and warm, fuck,” He growls, “Fuck, baby,” he starts to fuck you at an easy pace, releasing your hair and grabbing handfuls of you as he arcs his hips into you. 

“More, please,” you beg, “I want it harder, please daddy.” You ask and he chuckles and slaps your ass hard before obliging, picking up the pace and bottoming out on every thrust. 

“You know not to cum without daddy’s permission, right bitch?” He asks and you let out a whimpered confirmation.

“Yes, yes I know.” 

“Good fucking girl.” He growls, taking your hair again and pulling you back so that you can’t support yourself with your hands on the bed anymore. Your hands flail in the air for a second before he snaps, “Behind your back.” And you immediately oblige, keening for him as he bottoms out in you. He slaps your ass with his free hand, then loops it around your waist, pinning your back to his chest.

“I need to cum,” You beg, and the words spill from your lips before you've even fully thought them, “Please, I-” He almost sounds surprised when he responds. 

“Not yet.” He somehow picks up his already brutal pace, and you can feel him hitting your cervix with every thrust, sending waves of pleasure across your whole body. 

“Daddy please,” You beg again, feeling yourself tremble under his hands, the coil in your stomach tightening, “Please I’ll do anything you want please let me cum,” you feel his lips on your shoulder, he takes another beat before responding.

“Go ahead, baby,” he coos, “Cum all over daddy’s cock, kitten, cum for daddy.” You let the coil in your stomach go and your whole body spasms. He curses violently, feeling you clench around him, he fucks you hard, riding out your orgasm and following seconds later. You don’t even think about the fact that you’re not on birth control as he finishes inside you and then lets go of your hair, both of you collapsing onto the bed, chests heaving. You’re crying softly and he holds you close to him, curling your quivering form into his bare chest.

"Still mad at me?" He asks in the silence, rubbing your back. You shake your head. "That's what I thought."

[♡] #4 ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION !

MASTERLIST | PREV | NEXT

[♡] DIRECTOR’S CUT !

— kenma calls them all by their first names which i think is cool (if he didn't in the previous chapters, yes he did)

— terushima and kuroo were poking fun at each other's sex lives because they are the prominent whores of the group. teru started the inside joke that kuroo has erectile dysfunction which he obviously don't and their sarcasm was so on point that bokuto started believing it. pls he was just so confused it slipped unintentionally and it started a very quick lived rumor which may or may not be revived.

— kuroo added hearts to bokuto's contact name after this conversation.

guys commenting part two without reblogging is really not the compliment you think it is haha

fracture IV

ran x reader w bonten sprankled in

summary: bonten attempts to earn your trust. you learn a bit more about ran's philosophy on life, and he rails you into oblivion.

cw - drugs, smut, guns, murder, praise, degradation, dub!con, reader is a sex worker w a sick brother. ran likes you!!! likes you a lot!! too much probably, probably far too much. a/n extra long because i made you wait.

minors dni

prev

Ran doesn’t stir with you tucked against him, doesn’t dream. Not with your head on his chest, your breathing soft, your arms wrapped around him. Even if you wanted to, you don’t dare move, your fingers laced with his. He sleeps through the night, and you notice, as your pain pokes through your own slumber and wakes you, that he stays fully in place until midday, when his phone nearly vibrates itself off his nightstand. He groans loudly, picking it up without opening his eyes and throwing it hard across the room. You watch the screen shatter and the contact picture light up. 

“It’s Mikey.” You whisper. 

“Don’t care.” He mumbles, rolling onto his side and nestling you into his chest. “Too comfortable.” His chest is bare, his skin warm from being under the blankets, and you press your lips to his collarbone. He runs his hands down  your body and you realize for the first time the pain doesn’t make tears spring to your eyes. He hums again, a soft, deep sound, pressing   his lips to your cheek. “Wanna get high?”

“Mhm.” You breathe, not able to imagine any sweeter bliss than being able to escape your body for a moment, or several hours. 

“Drawer on the right,” He yawns, “Roll me something, sweetheart.” You struggle your way out from under him and scoot across the soft sheets, digging in the drawer for ziplock baggie and a tin. It’s already ground, of course it is, and you painstakingly arrange it on the expensive looking lavender rolling paper. Ran wraps his arms needily around your waist, it’s raining outside, the water hitting the paynes of glass in his bedroom window distort the image of the city. You gingerly roll it up, licking the paper and setting it on the bed, before taking his heavy silver lighter from the drawer. He releases you and flops on his back. You struggle with the lighter mechanism, though, and after a few futile flicks he snatches it from  your clumsy hands and lights it himself, holding the flame to the end of the joint, the smell of weed, smoke, and lavender filling the air. He inhales, and holds it, tossing the lighter on the bed with the cap on, and pulling the joint from his lips, beckoning you downward. 

You know what he’s asking for, and you kiss him, getting a lungful of smoke as he breathes out into you, his free hand holding your face in place, thumb sinking into the plush of your cheek as dizziness overtakes you. He holds you there for a few seconds, and then pulls away, watching you hold it as long as you’re able to, before you cough the lightly floral smoke out and he laughs, running his fingers through his hair. 

“You have to relax,” he coaches, picking the lighter back up and taking another hit, “Try again.” You watch him hold the smoke in his lungs again, completely maintaining eye contact with you, as his consciousness gets light and floaty he starts to get distracted by details of your beauty, the curve of your jaw, the shadow your eyelashes cast on your cheek. He holds the joint between two fingers and takes your face with both hands, kissing you hard as he blows the smoke into your mouth. He watches your eyes water, and lets his own flutter shut. “Good girl,” he murmurs, watching you struggle to hold it, but reads the desperation to please in your eyes. “Let it out slow,” he murmurs, mouth finding the valley of your collarbones, he tosses the joint on the floor, and you have one panicked moment about the rug before his teeth sink into your skin and you gasp in surprise, then cough. “Shhhhh,” he breathes, feeling the way your chest spasms and sputters, “Shhh, baby.” He kisses up your jaw. 

“Sir,” you get out, the word breathy and spent, and he chuckles, you feel the vibrations of his voice on your skin. 

“Nah,” he manages. “Something else, somethin’ else right now.” His mind is spinning, it’s been ages since he’s had time to relax like this, to spend the morning in bed with someone, to put his guard down. He feels your back arch up off the mattress and slips a hand underneath it, wanting to encourage the posture, and feels that some of your swelling has gone down around your ribs. His lips find yours, heavy lidded and with clumsy hands you kiss like teenagers, the occasional click of teeth, the pulling away when you’re breathless. 

“Please,” you try, body warm and tingly, arching your back up off the mattress, grinding your hips against his. 

“Hmm,” he hums against your lips, pushing a leg in between yours, feeling you grind against it. “Try again.” 

“Please,” you think as hard as you’re capable of, rifling through titles, he was so formal, he slept in designer underwear, it couldn’t be-, “Daddy,” the word slips from your mouth and he lets out a low growl, squaring his weight above your own, hands in your hair. 

“That’s my girl.” He kisses you again, in no rush, lips trailing down your body, pulling the t-shirt he’d lent you up over your tits, burying his face in between them with a loud groan, before kissing up to your nipple, taking it in his mouth, letting you feel the flash of pain with his teeth before the soothing flick of his tongue. You reach for him but he shakes his head. “Stay still.” he orders softly, and you obey, trying your hardest not squirm as he kisses your stomach, the inside of your thighs, licking a stripe right up your core. He hums softly, and you feel his breath on your skin before you feel his tongue, nudging your clit out of its hood, starting with the most gentle stimulation you’ve ever felt. 

You’ve been eaten out before but this, this is different, his violet eyes locked to yours as he teases you, providing just enough pleasure to make your back arch up, to change the rhythm of your breathing. He moves so slowly, so deftly, pushing one finger inside you, then two, that you can’t believe how quickly the pleasure starts to become overwhelming, starts to have you moaning loudly, squirming despite his orders, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets. 

“I’m gonna,” you choke out, before realizinig, “I mean, please, please can I, daddy, I need to-” 

“M mm,” he shakes his head, the vibrations from his voice sending you up into a dizzying high, “You cum on my cock,” he lifts his head, but keeps fingering you, you whimper at the loss of  stimulation, “Nowhere else, understand?” You whimper an affirmation and he chuckles, wiping his face and climbing on top of you. He kicks his briefs off, and you have exactly one second of apprehension when you feel him press the head of his cock to your swollen and throbbing clit. He hums again, watching the thoughts melt from your brain as he eases inside, ready to tease you before he feels the way your softness is wrapping around him. “Fuck,” he breathes, shocked, looking down at you. 

“W-what?” You manage, staring up at him, and he doesn’t respond, just slams his hips against yours, filling you so quickly it’s like the air is crushed from  your lungs, your vision completely whites out. 

“Feel so good, baby,” he growls, at odds with his previously lightly stoned blissed out demeanor, no, now he’s kissing you hungrily, groaning every time he bottoms out inside you, pinning your wrists to the bed as he pulls sharp music from  your lips with every thrust. 

The heavy slap of his body against yours is a steady rhythm, and his hand moves from your wrists to lace his fingers with yours, it’s oddly intimate even as your mind floats outside of your body, the sound of his groans becoming deadened by the pleasurable, blissful high. You hear something, after a few minutes, and Ran must too because his hips stutter, and he swears under his breath. 

“Fuck off,” he calls loudly and then leans down, kissing you softly, pressing his forehead to yours with his eyes closed. 

“Oh god,” you murmur, “M’so close, I’m so, please, please can I come, daddy,” you suck in a sharp breath, 

“Shhhhhh,” He breathes, “Shh baby, be quiet and ‘n cum for me,” you let go of your orgasm like you’ve been released from a teather, flying forward as you hear him groan in your ear, feel his lips on your cheek, when you hear the sound again, raised voices in the living room. Before you can do anything, Ran pins you to the bed, one fist closing around your neck almost lazily as the door to his bedroom swings open and his brother physically recoils. 

“Jesus christ,” Rindou swears, covering his eyes. 

“I know that when we lived together you’d knock,” Ran drawls, but there’s a dark undercurrent to his tone as you struggle underneath him, he’s choking you in earnest as you cum beneath him, evidently far more affected by the weed than he was. “Maybe I should forcefully reacquaint you with the habit?” 

“Maybe you should let her breathe?” Rindou snaps, but Ran only tightens his grip, reducing your gasps beneath him to gurgles. 

“She breathes when  you tell me why the fuck you’re here?” He says coolly. 

“Shions dead!” Rindou blurts angrily, “Mikey’s been calling you all morning.” Ran releases your throat and you suck in a deep breath, hyperventilating to catch up, still only mostly aware of what’s happening around you. 

“Get the fuck out of my room.” Ran says, but there’s less of an edge to it. “I’ll be out in a sec.” Rindou nods, and Ran pulls back from you, dazed and dizzy on the mattress. You’re still catching your breath and he spares you a glance as he reflects. “Sorry, baby,” He says after a moment, gathering you in his arms, sitting you up against his chest. “Daddy got angry at Rin and he took it out on you, he’s sorry.” You whimper softly, pressing your face against his chest. “Do you forgive me?” He asks, and instead of the low voice, laced with a threat that you were used to, it sounds almost, vulnerable. You nod immediately and he presses his lips to your forehead. “Sweet girl.” He murmurs. 

“Did you know him well?” You ask, and Ran gives you a gentle squeeze before standing, and yanking on a pair of pants, muttering about blue balls, before turning to you like he’d barely heard your question, you watch him process your question in real time. 

“Yeah.” Ran says, he sounds a bit distracted but you watch him physically shake it off, “Get dressed honey, big day for us.” You rub your eyes. 

“I’m so high.” You mutter, and it’s the closest thing he’s heard to a complaint since he picked you up off the floor of your bedroom in the brothel. 

“C’mon dummy,” he throws something at you and you realize it’s a dress, “I had them getcha some shit.” It’s white, and it doesn’t dip too low between your breasts, but as you wriggle into it you see that it’s not exactly modest or warm, cutting squarely across the top of your chest and ending mid thigh. It’s tight, but you can move in it. 

“Do I get a gun?” You ask, and he considers, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and garbling his speech. 

“I’ll think about it.” He yanks you into his bathroom and passes you a bottle. “Wash your face and put sunscreen on.” He orders, before spitting his toothpaste in the sink. He hurries you through a morning routine, smoothing your zipper in the back of your dress before pulling you out into his living room. Rindou is standing with his arms crossed, Yuuta and Isami are waiting for you. 

“Mikey’s pissed.” Rindou says, but Ran doesn’t look concerned, his shattered phone now in his suit pocket. 

“Mikey’s always pissed,” Ran rolls his eyes, and you follow the two of them through the building, down in the elevator and out into a sleek black escalade that Isami drives. They wait to discuss details, bickering until the car door closes and the engine hums to life. “So what happened?” Rindou sighs. 

“Went looking for Daito, found Shion.” 

“Fuck.” Ran pulls his Juul out of his pocket and takes a puff. “You don’t think Daito had shit with Shion, right?” 

“I dunno,” Rindou shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I got a tip from someone by the docks, coulda been a bad one.” 

“If Shion’s dead it’s more likely the tip was a trap.” Ran decides, resting one hand on your bare thigh, squeezing it.”You find the guy who gave it to you?” 

“Nah, he’s in the wind.” Rindou scowls, looking out the window. “Message wasn’t to us by the way, written in blood over Shions head it was, “More to come, Mikey-kun.’” 

“Mikey-kun,” Ran repeats, blowing out a puff of cotton candy scented smoke. “Who the fuck calls Sano Manjiro Mikey-kun.” 

“Not me.” Rindou shivers, and you feel his eyes flick to you. “Any chance that’s what he likes to be called in bed?” You shake your head. 

“God.” You confirm. “The girls I knew who’ve slept with him called him God.” Ran chokes on his own spit, coughing in the seat. 

“Shit, that’s hilarious, of course he does.” He shakes his head. “Nah, good to know it’s not just us, interesting that when one of them got to her they threatened me, though,” he rubs his chin again, “I gotta dig into this myself, fuck, I fucking hate actually havin’ to do work.” 

“We know.” Rindou says dryly. “There’s a meeting when we get to the offices, you gotta leave her outside.” 

“All good,” Ran puts his Juul away, “She wants to nap anyway,” he reaches over and boops your nose, “She did like two hits and suddenly she’s an invalid.” You pout, unable to control your reactions, you were used to alcohol, and the prescription drugs had made you so out of it that you’d completely folded in on yourself. It had been ages since you’d smoked weed, and the lightness of your head was making the fast paced conversation grating. “Adorable.” Ran gives you a squeeze and light pain blooms in your chest, a reminder that you’re still recovering. 

You tune out the rest of their conversation, fiddling with your phone, texting your brother that you love him and then burying your face in Ran’s arm, he stops mid sentence to look down at you. 

“C’mon,” he says, glancing at Rin, “You don’t want something like this?” Rindou sighs. 

“I don’t want to talk about this with you.” He says, pointedly looking out the window. “What I like is-” 

“Stupid.” Ran cuts him off, a huge grin on his face. “You want someone who pushes you around-” 

“I do.” Rindou says coldly. “I’m sure you’ll come calling when she gets tired of you and you’re too soft to put her in her place.” 

“I don’t need to spank baby,” Ran coos, cupping your face in two huge hands like you’re some kind of doll. “She’s so good for me, isn’t she?” You pout further and nod. Rindou rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not going to let you mock me for this.” Rindou says stiffly. “You want to care for something helpless,” You frown at that, burying deeper into Ran, who chuckles, “And I’m sure that’s admirable on some level but I’m not interested in that.”  

“Are you helpless,” Ran elbows you, still baby talking, “Or did you shoot two grown men through the heart in cold blood a few days ago?” You wince, but he just smirks. 

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” Rindou says, as the car pulls to a stop in front of the offices. You hide behind Ran, who leaves you somewhat reluctantly with Isami and Yuuta in his office, before striding into the conference room where everyone is waiting for him. Mikey looks thunderous but Ran ignores him. 

“Haitani.” Mikey’s eyes narrow. 

“Sano.” Ran quips, flopping heavily in a chair. “Have I ever answered a phone call before 11AM?” There’s a silence. “Ever, in the history of the organization, anyone, anyone who’s called me, have I picked up the phone between the hours of 4AM and 11AM?” 

“No.” Sanzu answers, as if he’s just come to this realization. 

“You need to answer your phone.” Mikey snaps, eyes narrowed and bloodshot. “The girl is a distraction.” 

“With all due respect,” Ran says, absolutely neutral, ice cold, “I’ve done more work since acquiring the girl than I’ve done in months.” He cracks a grin then. “Think she’s motivating.” 

“You need to answer your phone.” Mikey repeats, but he just sounds tired, letting Ran off the hook, changing the subject. “Kakucho, what do we know?” 

“Group formed at the docks, around thirty men tops, no international connections, calls themselves the silver dragons.” Kakucho says, and the meeting moves forward, with Kakucho walking through the known members and identities, until Ran clears his throat. 

“Should we ask her if any of these guys were the one who tried to kill her?” He reaches over and takes a sip of Kokonoi’s coffee and makes a face. “Why is there so much fuckin’ cream in here jesus Koko?” Kokonoi swipes the cup back and scowls. 

“Get your own fucking coffee.” He snaps. “It’s your own fault you showed up late and it’s cold.” 

“Actually,” Mikey says, cutting in, “We have to talk to you about the girl.” 

“Shoot.” Ran says, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. 

“She’s loyal to you,” Mikey explains, “But we need her to be loyal to us.” He scoots forward, resting his elbows on the table. “She’s killed for us, which means she’s earned her tattoo but I don’t want to give it to her until she’s really a part of this.” Ran’s brow furrows, he nods slowly. 

“You wanna do a traditional initiation?” He asks, and then answers his own question. “I dunno,” he rubs his chin. “She’s wily, but I think any guy we put up against her would put her back in the hospital. She was barely alive for the first few days after that guy broke into her place. Plus she’s still got broken ribs, not to mention any man who lays a hand on her I’m probably gonna maim, I’m old fashioned like that,” he drawls, and Sanzu glances at him but Ran doesn’t turn to meet his eyes, “Depending on how I’m feelin’ that day.” Mikey waves the idea away. 

“I don’t think a traditional initiation fight would be productive for her. Kokonoi had another idea about how to ‘earn’ her loyalty.” Mikey pauses, studying the executive who remains unreadable. “You know the new group cutting in on our arms sales in the south of the city.” Ran nods. 

“Small time problem, big time headache.” He says, shrugging. “I’m familiar.” 

“We need to draw them out,” Mikey explains, “Koko suggested we use her as bait, and then rescue her.” He keeps his eyes on Ran, who doesn’t react. After a moment, he stretches, yawning. 

“Well, if you were waitin’ to see if I’d betray my brothers for a bitch I just met you’ve got your answer.” He says, pulling his Juul out of his pocket. “Where does she have to be, and what time am I picking baby up?” 

“Actually,” Rindou pipes up. “We think she’s plenty loyal to you. We think it might be better to have one of us who is less familiar with her execute the rescue.” Ran doesn’t balk, shrugging. 

“Cool.” A little smirk flits across his lips. “Probably shouldn’t be Kokonoi, though.” 

“No,” Mikey agrees, and then his eyes narrow, “Wait, we were thinking I’d do it, or Kakucho would, but why not Kokonoi?” 

“Oooh,” Ran’s smirk widens, “You wanna tell ‘em why she might not want to trust you?” 

“She offered.” Kokonoi says stiffly, looking away. 

“He put a cigarette out on her hand.” Ran blows out a cloud of cotton candy scented smoke. “So I think that ship’s sailed.” 

“She offered.” Kokonoi crosses his arms over his chest, most of the executives don’t react but Mikey’s eyes narrow a single degree. 

“Does this mean I stop getting shit for fucking her while she-” Sanzu starts. 

“No.” Ran and Mikey say at the same time, then Mikey scowls, and clears his throat. 

“No.” Mikey repeats, rubbing his eyes. “Listen,” he eyes the group, “You’re all used to treating women like they're disposable, and you can’t,” He pinches the bridge of his nose, “She isn’t. All you have to do,” he turns to Ran, “Is bring her with you down to investigate the docks, you’ll get separated and I think I should be the one to,” he catches Ran’s expression and trails off. 

“Rin should lose her.” He says, leaning forward, “She wouldn’t believe that I’d let her go, I’ve been carrying her everywhere for a few days, plus there’s a chance she gets my gun and shoots whoever tries to pull us apart, less of a chance of that with Rin ‘cause she doesn’t know where he keeps his.” Mikey turns to Rindou who shrugs. 

“Fine.” He says, and Ran stands. 

“I’ll grab her?” He says. 

“Go ahead.” Ran strides out into the hallway, heart beating uncomfortably as the door closes behind him, but shoves the feelings down as he goes to his office. You’re nestled on the couch, wrapped in his suit jacket as you sleep on the bed. He touches your shoulder and you blink up at him. “You got work to do sweetheart,” he grins. “Can’t just lie on your back all day anymore.” You groan softly, but stand, grateful to be in the light dress and shoes he’d given you instead of virtually naked in his shirt as you follow him down the hallway. He opens the door to the office and you feel all of their eyes on you immediately. Your palms break into a sweat but you maintain composure. 

“Do you recognize any of these men?” Kakucho asks you, handing you his phone. “You can flip through the pictures.” You scroll through his phone, pausing on one. 

“He came to see me pretty regularly,” You hand the phone back to Kakucho, showing him a broad man with blue in his hair. Kakucho sits straight up in his chair, snatching the phone from you and putting it straight up on the table. “Maybe um, once a week?” Your hand drifts towards Ran, who takes it, rubbing circles in your palm. “But he’s not the person who um, who I stabbed.” 

“We know him.” Kakucho said, brow furrowing. “That’s Taiju Shiba.” You nod. “You saw him regularly?” You shiver. 

“None of um, none of the other girls could,” you pause, choosing your words carefully. “He was particular, and after he’d always lose his temper, half with me, half with himself, but he never hurt any of us badly enough to get kicked out.” 

“How the fuck is Taiju Shiba getting in and out of a place I’m in charge of without anyone calling me,” Ran snaps, already pulling his phone out of his pocket, “I’m breaking someone’s knees.” Mikey nods, and you can practically feel the waves of malevolence rolling off of him. 

“Sounds like you know what you’re doing today,” He says, and Ran nods, already pulling his phone out and starting for the hallway. 

“You’re with Rin.” Ran says quickly, giving you a quick pat on the head before disappearing around the corner, his voice carries, his tone is pure ice. “Yeah, hi this is Haitani Ran, I need to speak with whoever the fuck thinks they’re running this place.” A few men stand, Rindou included. He gestures towards the door. 

“Hope you’re not too used to being carried everywhere.” He says gruffly, and you shake your head, nearly sober, dutifully and silently following him out. You can hear Ran when you pass his office, but barely. He’s not shouting, he sounds so calm that a shiver runs up your spine. You hold your head up, following Rindou out of the restaurant, and into a car. 

“Where are Yuuta and Isami?” You ask finally, when the two of you slide into the backseat and Rindou starts checking his email on his phone. 

“Busy.” Rindou says without looking at you. You don’t speak again for another fifteen minutes, a light snow starts to fall outside the car. You’re stuck in traffic. Rindou clears his throat. “How’s your brother?” 

“Oh.” Your head snaps to his, attempting to gauge the sincerity of his request. “I um, we texted this morning.” You let out a little breath. “Chemo sucks.” Rindou nods. 

“So I’ve heard.” You turn away from him again, staring out the window at the little white clumps falling from the sky when he speaks again. “You don’t, you don’t really understand what’s happening to you, do you?” 

“A lot of things have happened to me.” You don’t turn to him, still watching the snow. “I either land on my feet or I don’t. So far I’ve been lucky.” 

“Look at me when I speak to you.” He says sharply, and you immediately turn around, eyes wide, holding his gaze. “Thank you.” He says more stiffly, “And I mean, you don’t understand who we are, and what we do.” 

“Your brother moves product into the country, manages illegal brothels,” You shrug, “He covered up murders.” Rindou nods. “So I have an inkling, I’m not a fawn in the woods.” He sighs and rubs his eyes. You realize he looks exhausted. “Can I,” you cock your head at him, “Can I do anything for you?” He blinks at you, you tentatively reach across the seat, moving quite slowly, slow enough so that if he wants to bat your hand away or tell you to fuck off that he can. “It’s,” you pick up one of his hands, it’s large enough to swallow your own, so you take it with both of yours. “It’s alright, you’re doing your best.” The words are empty, meaningless, but he softens anyway. 

“Is that what you’d do for men?” He asks, examining your hands wrapped around his. “Validate them?” You don’t answer his question, scooting closer to him on the seat, following your instincts. 

“Do you dislike it?” You ask, and he sighs again, leaning against you. He squeezes your hands, letting his eyes close. 

“Just stay where you are.” He murmurs, and it’s about a minute before you feel him fully relax against you. His breathing is soft and even, and he’s heavy and warm in a way that’s comforting and not overwhelming. You drive like that, with him sleeping on your shoulder for nearly half an hour longer, he wakes when the car pulls to a stop. He jerks his hand out of yours, not looking at you as he hops out of the car and holds the door. 

“What are we doing here?” You ask, shivering, Ran’s suit jacket was large but not quite warm enough for the winter weather. 

“I have a meeting.” Rindou says, without looking at you. It’s not a nice neighborhood, with uneven sidewalks and sloping cracked streets, covered in dead weeds that must have fought their way to the sun during the summer only to be choked by the frost. The warehouse you’re in front of seems fully functional, with smoke billowing from a chimney. “We’re meeting Mikey after.” You nod, moving carefully behind him. He pushes the huge metal door open and you’re hit with a familiar smell, the salt, the sea, and fish. You wrinkle your nose as you step inside the small fishpacking plant, and then jump at the heavy thud of someone slicing right through a frozen fish with a cleaver. Rindou frowns at you, offering you his arm. “Does it bother you?” He asks quietly, leading you through the side of the warehouse, “The blood?” You look at the concrete floor, stained with red. 

“Yes.” You say as quietly as possible, well aware of the stares the two of you are drawing. He doesn’t respond, leading you up a metal staircase to a small upper bridge where there are a few offices. You hear the heavy slap of fish hitting the conveyor belt, and shrink a little into Rindou, who stiffens. 

“Needy.” He mumbles, and you swallow, looking away. He knocks on one of the office doors and a man in a suit opens it. 

“Leave your bitch outside.” He growls, looking over at you, eyes dark and beady. Rindou sighs.

“I’d hate to think you’d insult someone so high up in our organization.” His eyes flash. “Care to try again.” 

“Bitch waits outside.” The man says. “S’Chome’s orders.” Rindou raises his eyes and you read a micro expression of genuine surprise on his face. He sighs. 

“She doesn’t like the blood,” He explains impatiently, “Is there another room for her?” You wonder why they’re suddenly making allowances for you, and wonder if what Rindou had said was true, were you now high up in a criminal organization, high enough up to deserve respect? You find out a second later when the man steps out of the room, nodding and grabbing your arm. 

“Don’t touch her,” Rindou hisses, ice in his tone. “She belongs to Bonten.” 

“Whatever.” The man jerks you towards him, you crash hard against his chest and bite back a cry of pain. Rindou pulls his gun like lightning, there are shouts on the floor below. 

“Return her.” Rindou says, hand steady. “Or I’ll shoot you.” 

“Fuck off.” The man snarls, and you’re completely blindsided by a loud crack as Rindou fires his weapon. The man stumbles backwards, blood pooling at his shoulder. 

“C’mon,” Rindou grunts, grabbing your wrist and yanking you down the stairs. You follow, glancing over your shoulder as there are shouts on the factory floor. He starts sprinting, holding onto you tightly. You clatter down the stairs, and make a break for the exit. 

“Why,” you get out, “Why did you-” 

“Don’t fucking talk to me when we’re running!” He says, pulling his phone out of his pocket, elbowing the heavy metal door open just as the men chasing you catch up. One of them goes to grab you, and Rindou drops his phone, fist connecting with the man's jaw, you hear a sickening crunch. You squeak and dash past him out the open door, and the second you’re outside you hear a gun fire several times, and Rindou comes tearing out of the building, somehow looking calm. “What the hell are you doing,” he rolls his eyes, plucking you off your feet and taking off running with your body cradled to his chest, “I let you go, you were supposed to run?” 

“I wasn’t going to leave you!” You cry out, and for one moment, for one split second, he’s not there, running through with warehouse district carrying some prostitute. He’s sixteen, and it’s summer, he’s standing in an alley behind a convenience store. 

“I,” the girl in front of him is fidgeting, “I brought you this.” She’s small, smaller than him, and shy, she passes him a package of band aids. “I see you around, and sometimes, um, you’re a bit banged up, and I thought, um,” she takes a step backwards from him. “I thought you could use these.” He quirks an eyebrow. “I’m um, I’m gonna go-” She’d said, and re remembers now that she’d tripped, and he’d caught her, dropping the bandages on the ground as his hands had flown to her waist, righting her body. 

“Do you want,” he’d said, unable to think of anything else. “Do you want to ride on my bike?”

 He remembers now, the feeling of something small, and vulnerable, the feeling of protecting someone, of having something worth protecting, had it really been since that summer that he’d felt this feeling? He tightens his grip on your body, ducking behind a dumpster, hearing gunshots ping against the metal. He sets you on the ground, reloading his gun. 

“You should have,” He says curtly, lifting his head up and firing a couple rounds before ducking back down, “You should have run away, and hid somewhere. That would have been normal,” He grunts, firing just once this time before returning his attention to you, measuring your sincerity to the best of his ability. He’d checked up on your story, out of an abundance of caution, while you were asleep on his couch, and paid off your medical debts personally when it turned out you’d been telling the truth. Still, it had been hard to imagine the way you’d been clinging to Ran wasn’t theatrical, despite the circumstances. Here, in this moment, as little white tufts of snow begin to fall from the sky, he sees what Ran sees when he looks at you. Your eyes are wide, and he watches you inhale before taking a step forward, and somehow, later he’d claim you must have been filled with adrenaline, you reach out and knock him behind you, snatching the gun from his hand and firing three times in quick succession. Rindou rips his gun back from you and swears violently. All three of the men who’d been chasing you are lying on the asphalt. 

“I got their legs,” you say urgently, and Rindou detects a slight self congratulatory note in your voice. 

“I liked this gun,” He grumbles, “C’mon.” He pulls you forward and the two of you run through the warehouse district, well aware that essentially nothing had gone as planned when by some miracle, a huge black escalade pulls up in front of you just as you hear the shouts in the distance getting closer, and sirens. The door opens and Mikey hops out, not giving you time to get in, throwing you over his shoulder and getting back in, barely letting Rindou leap in after you before the tires squeal on the pavement and the car starts to tear out of there. 

“What the hell happened,” Mikey slides you off his shoulder, holding you partially on his lap as you squirm. 

“You tell him.” Rindou’s already pulling his Juul out of his pocket. “I’m fucking exhausted.” 

“One,”  you manage, “One of them grabbed me, Rindou um, Rindou shot them and then we ran.” 

“No,” Rindou says sharply, “That is not what happened.” He blows out a cloud of cucumber melon scented smoke, Mikey’s hand drifts a little lower on your hip. “What happened is I let her run, and she didn’t fucking run.” 

“I wasn’t going to leave you.” You repeat, and feel the Bonten leader’s grip on you tighten. “I, I’m not sure you even told me to go.” 

“I didn’t think I had to,” Rindou says, exasperated. “They were shooting and you didnt have a fucking gun.” 

“I never would have left you there.” You say, and it’s the closest any of them have heard to you raising your voice since they’ve met you. There’s a beat of stunned silence, you nearly vibrate with fear, realizing you’d just snapped at a man, who not only has a gun, was clearly keen on using it. 

“Don’t talk to him like that.” Mikey says softly, adjusting the way you’re half in his lap so tha you can look him in the eyes. “Do you understand?” You nod, swallowing. “I want you to say out loud that you understand,” and fear erases all your indignation. 

“Yes god,” you whisper, and Mikey breaks into a wide smile. “I understand.” 

“Jesus.” Rindou takes another puff on the juul. “I’m gonna tall Ran his bitch bites.” Your eyes shoot open. 

“Please,” you beg him, twisting in Mikey’s lap, “I’m so sorry, I just, I would never ever,” you take a deep breath, “I would never ever leave you behind.” Rindou reaches out, patting the top of your head, remembering the girl with the band aids. 

“Yeah, yeah you’re a good girl.” He shakes his head, watching you brush off the praise. Mikey gives you a squeeze, tucking you into his chest, and giving Rindou a confused look, asking him to elaborate. Rindou shrugs, and then glances meaningfully at you. You stay tense, ears ringing, disliking how you were starting to get used to the gunfire. 

“Are you afraid?” Mikey tries, trying to see what of his plan could be salvaged. You shake your head.

“No.” You mumble, then lift your head. “Not now.” 

“Good.” Mikey presses his lips to the top of your head. “Good.” Rindou pulls his phone out of his pocket, wincing at the shattered screen. 

Ran: she okay?

Rindou: yeah. 

Rindou: you give a shit if Mikey’s got his hands all over her?

Ran: depends

Ran: does it seem like she likes it? 

Rindou resists the urge to sigh out loud, and effortlessly maintains a blank expression as he inspects you, the way you’re not holding Mikey back, the way your eyes keep flicking to the door. 

Rindou: Nah 

Ran: that’s my girl. 

Rindou: I’d be a shitty brother if I didn’t say if Mikey wants her she’s Mikeys 

Ran: Mikey only wants her ‘cause she’s new 

Ran: he’ll get bored

Rindou: and you? 

Ran: baby needs me. 

Rindou: and you like that, to be needed. 

Ran: yeah it’s validating. You don’t feel the same way? 

Rindou: I get it, it’s not for me. 

Ran: lame

Ran: baby’s gonna cook for me, and clean, and hide a glock in the rice sack in the pantry.

Ran: the perfect woman does exist. 

Rindou: *can be bought

Ran: same difference. I’m not gonna let anyone else have her.

Mikey rubs  your back, the three of you ride in silence across the city. He taps the bridge of your nose when you start nodding off, producing something from his pocket, a small blue pill. 

“Open.” He orders, and you do, letting him place it on your tongue. He looks down at you, not understanding why you’re still looking up at him, tongue out, and then realizing you’re waiting for him to tell you, “Close.” He murmurs and you do, burying your head in his chest as it dissolves, a heavy warmth washing over your body. You’re in and out for the rest of the drive, unaware until you feel the blistering cold, the day darkened in twilight, as Mikey carries you upstairs. You wait to be deposited with Ran, but instead find yourself alone in what you imagine is Mikey’s office. It’s cold, and you’re so high the world blurs, you can’t focus on the map on his wall, on the dark wood of his desk, on the snow falling outside his window. You take a fistful of his soft shirt for stability and feel his lips on your head again. 

“God,” you murmur, and he responds. 

“Hm?” 

“Is um,” you blink up at him, “Am I in trouble?” He shakes his head, not all had gone as planned, he thinks, but he’d rescued you and you’d wounded the enemy. “Can I ask you for something?” He hesitates, wondering if it’ll be money, revenge, a purse, if you’ll show your true colors now when your vulnerable, he wants to smack himself, of course Haitani wouldn’t notice if you were a gold digger he- “I want to move my brother to a hospital in Tokyo.” His head stops spinning, and you droop a little. “He’s at one in Hyogo,”  you mumble, no longer able to maintain eye contact, focusing on the pattern on the rug. 

“I can have someone look into it.” He says. “Why haven’t you done this yourself?” You swallow. 

“I couldn’t afford it.” You whisper. “No matter how much I worked.” Several things click into place in that moment, the way you’d take Taiju as a client even if the other girls were scared of him, how much you’d naturally deferred to them, desperate for approval, all of it to earn more money for your brother, none of it for you. And more troublingly, none of it out of a sense of loyalty to Bonten. 

“So that’s why,” he says, moving you, so that you have to hold eye contact with him, he sees how dilated your pupils are. “That’s why you’re so good for us, hm? For your brother?” He watches you struggle, and then shake your head. 

“I’m,” you swallow, clearly struggling to for sentences, but when you speak you reframe it a bit. “I’m good for you because you’re good to me. I um,” you rub your eyes, trying to focus, remembering something you’d heard years ago. “I think it’s about what we owe to each other.” He nods, processing slowly, rubbing your back. 

“We’ll take care of it.” He says, deciding in the moment. “I assume you’ll want to move him yourself, one of the executives can take you when we have business in Hyogo.” You reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, letting out a long breath. 

“Thank you,” you manage, “Thank you so, so much.” 

“You belong to us now.” He says, and feels you nod. “Do you have any tattoos?” He asks, and it takes you a beat, mind still moving slowly, before you realize why he asked.  

“No,” You whisper, not moving. He hums softly in response. You’re not sure how long he holds you on his lap, working quietly. You don’t feel like you can ask about Ran, not when Mikey’s agreed to give you this, but you find your mind wandering to him, wondering if he knows where you are, if he’s worried. It’s late when you squirm eventually, drawing Mikey’s attention from his computer. 

“I’m supposed to,” you sigh, “I’m supposed to be accompanying Mr. Haitani to his meeting.” Mikey balks internally, but isn’t quite ready to spread his cards on the table. 

“Go.” He says, letting you get up and stumble to the hallway, legs pins and needles. Your chest still aches, your face still throbs, but for the first time in a few days you feel like movement isn’t an ordeal. The hallways are empty, you pad across the soft carpeting, pausing at Ran’s door, knocking softly against the glass panel. 

“Come in.” You hear, and push it open just enough to fit your body through, closing it behind you. Something in his chest warms as he watches your face light up at the sight of him, and his lips curl into a little smile. “Hey, sweetheart.” 

“Hi.” You walk quickly over to him and then hover at the side of his desk, unsure where you should sit, he watches you decide between climbing in his lap and pulling a chair out, one hand hovering above the back of his leather backed guest chair, sitting at a slight angle next to his desk, your eyes flicking around nervously. “I,” you say, sitting quickly, having made up your mind. “You have a dinner appointment.” 

      “That I do.” He says, standing. “Heard you were a bit of trouble.” He watches the fear flood your face and chuckles. “Relax, I think it’s funny that you snapped at Rin.” He adjusts his suit jacket, today it’s a pale blue, “Besides, we’ll need to get you cleaned up a little,” he smirks, “Can’t take you anywhere, can I?” He reaches out and cups your face, you feel him rubbing at something and when he pulls his hand away you see the blood staining his fingers. “We’ve got time,” he strides towards the door, “C’mon, dinner’s at 11.” 

You’re whisked back to the apartment, Isami and Yuuta are back with little explanation, Yuuta driving you home, Isami grunting a half greeting to you as he holds the car door. Ran scrolls through his phone, keeping one hand on your bare thigh, glancing at you. You’d volunteered less information than he’d hoped for, even given his brothers reassurance. He waits until you’re alone to question you, until Isami is standing outside his penthouse door, and Yuuta is leaning against the cabinet in the kitchen. He’s patient enough to wait until the second the bedroom door closes, and not an inch more. 

“How was your day?” He asks, and you don’t catch the edge to his tone with your mind, it doesn’t arouse suspicion, but something deep in your emotional instincts bristles without interpreting the feeling. 

“Ah,” you start, and then decide it was better to tell the truth. “I was afraid.” You look down at your hands, Ran stops unbuttoning his shirt long enough to catch the genuine expression on your face. It’s dark in his room, the sun had set quickly behind the clouds, he leans over and flicks the light on, but it only means your face is set in deeper contrast, the shadow of your form more stark on his white wall. He watches you fidget, and then look at him again, and resists the urge to comfort you, to wrap you up in his arms. No, you needed to choose him, and he needed to condition you to do it as much as possible. “I was glad Rindou was there.” You say eventually. 

“And Mikey?” Ran says, nearly too quickly, just controlled enough to keep the tone casual. You shrug.

“Mikey’s been very kind to me.” And that’s it, that’s when you reach for him, right on fucking schedule, he accepts, taking your hand and gently holding you against his chest, “But I just feel safer with you.” You mumble, and fuck, he has to remind himself that you’re not lying that he knows you’re not lying, that he’s seen you broken, and drunk, and high, and even at your most vulnerable you kept reaching for him. He rubs your back. “If that’s okay to say, I don’t want to get you in trouble.” You feel his lips on the top of your head. 

“We can just keep that between us for now,” he gives you a squeeze and you wince, he ignores it. “Our little secret.” You nod. “C’mon. Let’s shower.” 

_____

“You were supposed to lose her,” Mikey snaps, pacing in front of Rindou. They’re still at the office and Rindou is draped over a chair while Sanzu arranges neat lines of cocaine on the coffee table. 

“I mean, you got what you wanted?” Rindou shrugs. “Seems like she trusts you a fuckton more now, you saved her, shame we didn’t get to spend more time in the office before that guy got aggro with me-” 

“Didn’t he get aggro with her?” Sanzu pipes up and Rindou shakes his head. 

“Nah, he was pushing me around. He was just using her.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Listen, Mikey, you’re not gonna get her attached to all of us the way she’s attached to my brother overnight.” Mikey stops pacing, his shoulders drooping a degree. “We don’t need her that bad,” Rindou continues, “She’s a nice to have. Not a need. In time, she’ll trust us. Ran was the person who picked her up when she was fully dissasociated and broken, twice, and I mean that literally. I’m sure there’s some chemical shit to traumabonding.” 

“Trauma bonds are weak.” Mikey mutters. “Temporary. I’d know.” Rindou wonders if he’s thinking of Izana, of Shinchiro, or someone else he’d lost. “Fine, you’re right though. She’s a nice to have. Get her tattooed and figure out which one of us should help her move her brother down to Tokyo.” 

“Will do,” Rindou stands, and stretches. “Can I,” he stops himself. “Mikey if you wanna fuck her you can fuck her. It’s just a cunt, you can afford it.” Mikey presses his lips together, Sanzu watches with eyes like saucers. “What you can’t do, is fuck her when she gets serious with my brother.” Rindou says, eyes darkening a little. 

“I know.” Mikey says, meeting his gaze. 

“For the good of this family,” Rindou says, shrugging. “That’s what you told her, that her and her brother are family now.” 

“I know.” Mikey repeats, fumbling in his pocket for cigarettes. “Get out.” 

“Cool.” Rindou says, flashing his palms and walking out of the room. Sanzu waits until the door closes to giggle. 

“He’s wrong,” Sanzu laughs, “You can fuck her whenever.” Mikey shakes his head. 

“I can’t.” 

“Why?” Sanzu shrugs. “It’s good pussy for sure.” Mikey sighs. 

“I want her to want it.” He rubs his eyes, “It’s fucking me in the head, I want her to want it so fucking bad.” Sanzu shrugs before leaning forward and doing a line.

“When I want something,” he says, panting, wiping his nose. “I just take it, you know?” 

“I know.” Mikey repeats for a third time, and Sanzu keeps talking but Mikey’s mind is gone, reaching within his ribcage for the last soft parts of himself, trying to remember what he’d been like when he’d been able to make girls like you blush and giggle, and not cower in fear. 

“I mean,” Sanzu says. “You could just kill Haitani.” There’s a pause. Mikey’s back is to Sanzu, facing the city, glimmering in the darkness. 

“No,” Mikey sighs. “No I couldn’t.” 

___

You and Ran are in the car, speeding across the city when his phone rings. The screen’s still shattered, it matches Rindou’s now, but when his brother’s face flashes across the screen he picks up. 

“Hey, dummy.” Ran says, slipping an arm around your waist. “Someone else get shot?” Rindou shakes his head, alone in his office with the door closed.

“Does it ever bother you?” Rindou asks, watching his brother take a puff on his juul. “Taking orders from Mikey?” Ran doesn’t miss a beat. 

“Not at all.” He shrugs. “What’s up?”  

“I’m asking because I feel it sometimes,” Rindou stumbles his way through the sentence clumsily, “Feel like that instinctual fuck you, who the fuck are you to tell me what to do? I mean, we used to run shit, we didn’t take orders from anyone.” Ran shakes his head. 

“That’s cuck shit, anway.” He straightens his shoulders. “Listen, I already did what Mikey’s doing, we already did it. And we did it without guns, without a gang, without makin’ too many threats.” A ghoulish smile flickers on his face, you shiver next to him. “And it was work, it was hard, and I thought to myself, after all that shit with Izana, how can I hold onto the parts of this I like, and get rid of the shit I don’t. Now, I follow Mikey, he tells me what he wants me to do, but I get rich, I get high, and I get the girl.” He shrugs. “What’s to dislike?” 

“You think leadership is cuck shit?” Rindou practically sputters. Ran gives you a squeeze.

“All I know is I woke up in bed with a beautiful woman, spent the morning gettin’ high with her, and then fucked her brains out. Mikey hasn’t gone to bed since last night at least, maybe longer,” Ran glances out the window at the snowy city. “And he started his day at his desk, worried about a dead body in a warehouse. There’s nothin’ there for me, or you, to be jealous of.” In his office, Rindou rakes his fingers through his hair.

“You’re so fucking confusing sometimes.” Rindou mutters, shaking his head and Ran laughs lightly. 

“Listen,” he says, “Kakucho said this shit to me once, that the only things in life that matter are the things that bring you happiness. I like the girl, so I’m keeping the girl.” A small spark burns in your chest as he speaks.  “I like Mcallan 25 so I drink Mcallan 25. I like my  Bentley, I like my penthouse, I like workin’ hard but not too hard. Youover complicate things,” he wrinkles his nose at the very idea of it. “You,” he says, “Get stuck between duty, and happiness, and expectation, which, is a fuckin’ minefield considering our line of work.”  Ran shrugs. “Me, I just go with the flow.” The car slows to a stop. “I gotta go have dinner with a beautiful woman and talk a bit about drugs over the best bolognese in the city. Try not to get your panties in an existential twist, maybe try finding some of that bratty pussy you like so much.” 

“Ugh.” Rindou groans. “Call me when you’re done.” 

“I won’t.” Ran grins, reaching for the door. “But you can call me. You can always call me.” Years flash in Rindou’s eyes, Izana, Juvie, their last halcyon days in Roppongi. 

“I know.” Rindou says. “I know I can.” 

For those who don't know, the Nigerian government have basically waged war on civilians in response to their protest to #EndSARS which is police brutality

This shit isn't acceptable anywhere else and it sure as hell won't be acceptable in Nigeria

Fuck the president for killing peaceful protesters and just know Nigerians are fed the fuck up and absolutely no good will come to this man for his crimes against humanity

#EndSARS #prayfornigeria🇳🇬

help, my boyfriend has no sex drive! (3)

Pairing: Kenma x Reader (f)

Genre: smut, fluff

Contains: smut; thigh highs; semi-clothed sex; unprotected sex; oral sex (f receiving); fingering; cum eating (?); creampie; virginity kink; established relationship; forgotten homework ):

Word Count: 4.1k

Part 1 || Part 2

“Fuck, it’s cold!” 

You curse under your breath as you rub your legs together underneath the blanket, desperate for any semblance of warmth in the freezing apartment. With the arrival of winter, Tokyo has steadily gotten colder and colder each day. Despite wearing your thickest pair of fleece pajamas and cocooning yourself in a bundle of thick blankets on the couch, you feel gooseflesh lining your slightly trembling legs. Each time you accidentally brush your feet against your shins underneath the blankets you recoil from the frostiness of your own toes. 

At your limit, you snatch your cell phone off the coffee table to open the Amazon app, intending to buy a pair of thermal tights to be express shipped. 

Instead, your eyes land on a conveniently placed advertisement on the home page. 

Extra Warm Fuzzy Thigh High Stockings 3 Pack for Women

Immediately enticed by the words “extra warm” you click on the image. The page loads to reveal a variety of colors to choose from along with some product information about the material and a satisfaction guarantee. You scroll down to read a few reviews, almost all citing positive experiences and expressing surprise to find how “cozy and warm” the stockings are despite their low price.

Thoroughly persuaded, you quickly select a set of versatile colors before using the one-click “Buy Now” feature. 

Just as you receive the notification of an order confirmation email, you hear the front door of the apartment open before your boyfriend tiredly shuffles inside. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Kenma murmurs, slightly struggling to shrug off his thick puffer coat. “Yoshida-san wanted to talk again…”

You laugh at that, recalling just how talkative the elderly lady from two doors down tends to be. Once the woman finds someone willing to listen to her rambling, she can go on for hours about topics ranging from her own life story to what types of seasonal fruit her grandchildren like. You can very clearly picture your awkward boyfriend, feeling too guilty to interrupt as Yoshida-san complains about the local markets increasing the price of eggs for thirty minutes. 

“You need to be more selfish, KenKen,” you chastise playfully as you hop up off the couch to help him with removing the complicated layers of winter outerwear from his person. 

“Tell people what you want to and don’t want to do. Yoshida-san would understand; you’re a full-time student and eboy, you’re busy.”

Kenma shoots you a disgusted look at your favorite way to refer to his streaming career to which you only cackle. With a few calculated tugs, you manage to remove his coat and hang it on the rack beside the door.

“Anyway, I’ll go ahead and call for dinner—I was thinking we could get sukiyaki and watch a movie for tonight,” you suggest, already making a beeline for your phone.

“Okay.”

The rest of the night is spent comfortably for you two, cuddled up on the couch while you both eat warm soup and watch a fantasy movie Kenma picked out. You hardly have any interest in the contents on the screen but you relish in the warmth provided by both the food and your boyfriend.

You all but forget about your Amazon order until two days later when Kenma comes home with a cardboard box in his hands.

“It says it’s for you,” Kenma says simply, handing the box over to where you sit on the couch. 

Your brows furrow in confusion for a moment before the realization hits and you nearly tear the box apart in your excitement to open it. Kenma lingers to the side, seeming curious about what could garner such a reaction from you. With your university student budget, it is rare that you buy anything outside of necessities and an unhealthy amount of take-out, so you are unsurprised by Kenma’s apparent curiosity. 

You grin as you pull the neatly folded pile of multi-colored soft material from the opened box, holding them in the air for him to see.

“It’s my new thigh highs! I was tired of feeling like I was in danger of getting frostbite in our own apartment.”

You drop all but a pair of striped pink ones back into the box and quickly shift to try them on, oblivious to how Kenma’s curious gaze has morphed into something akin to mild horror. The material glides easily up your bare legs, stopping just above mid thigh. 

“Ooh—they’re so soft,” you cheer, standing up to test their slipperiness on the wooden floors. Kenma swallows thickly from his post, eyes lingering on where your plush thighs slightly spill over the tops of the stockings. 

He nearly goes into cardiac arrest when you lift your right leg in his direction, toes unintentionally mere centimeters from his crotch. 

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