THIRD ACT of five | Read act one here | Read act two here | Masterlist
Ran Haitani x TattooArtist! F! Reader
Synopsis: You share a drink and learn a few things.
Content & trigger warnings: Modern AU, Present AU, by default dark content, situational dubcon, sexual dubcon, alcohol, knives, anxiety, moments of misogyny, mentions break up, mentions alcoholism, mutual masturbation, praise, reader calls Ran a slut, teasing, unrealistic situations, unprotected sex (don’t be like them), swearing, penetration, nipple play, slight sub/dom dynamic (dom reader and sub reader eventually), smut.
Word Count: 7910
This is dark content. Please pay attention to the content warnings. This is fiction.
20+ ONLY // UNDER 20, MINORS, & AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT
If you click read more or keep reading, you imply that you are not a minor, are 20 years or older and consent to read this content.
Whiskey like honeyed fire flows in a secret song against the twin glasses.
Ran’s lips are neutrally parted in concentration, and his eyes are wide as a young doe’s, but he emits a perpetual calm. You watch him lift the crystal spout upright and set the bottle on the low and rounded walnut table. In joggers that are just too fitted, and a woolen hooded sweater that is unmistakably designer, Ran joins you and lowers his seat to the couch. He balances two very full glasses in both hands.
Somewhere you heard that following a river would lead you to civilization, so here you are, at the damn tributary, where you branch and rush toward other lost lives and braided fates. It’s late and you’re tired, so you let the current sweep you into Ran’s celebratory toast. The roar washes over your ears as you resign to your thirst and inevitable drowning.
Rare, expensive, imported liquor. Courtesy of trafficking heroin, molly, of course marijuana and the like; also sexual exploitation; and imposing on the lives of your community. It’s the cost of doing business, you guess, but do you really think you’ll work here and get away with all your limbs in tact? Sure, your portfolio bolsters now, and apparently your pockets will too, but your stomach pits like a black hole and bends beneath the fact that this house is built on blood.
You smack your lips in unison as the spirited stream bites you with an antidote against the vigor of the last twenty-four hours.
“Smooth, Haitani.” You throw your host a crooked smile.
Settling into an alcoholic abyss is all too easy after a day of frenetics and severity.
Ran drawls, “She likes whiskey, then.” His eyebrows arch in amusement.
You turn your head sideways but keep your body facing the stone hearth. “Whiskey, wine, tequila, shine, whatever.”
“Mmhm,” Ran hums into his glass before he sets it on his knee. His predatory grin reveals two canines, “You’re too pretty to be a lush, love.”
The compliment rolls off your shoulders, stinging you all the way.
“There’s nobody but me to support the habit. Besides,” You wedge your glass between your legs, the bottom rests on the couch, “It’d be bad for my hands. Anything bad for my hands is bad for my work.” You flip your wrists and flex your fingers for emphasis before you wave them to the table. “What’s this bottle worth? Two-hundred yen?”
“Wow, most people just drink, ah?” Ran’s eyebrows are so high that you wonder if he is in the habit of relaxing them.
The more you drink, the less your taste buds sever. The smoky remnants remain, and you rasp, “I’ll probably enjoy it more.”
“Your guess is probably as good as mine.” Ran crosses his calf over his knee, forming a triangle. “I haven’t been here in a while. I don’t remember.”
You nod and find your lips grow heavy along with your limbs. Strong stuff. Ran listens to your breaths, and you focus on the burning candle wicks before you.
“Can you afford to be here?” He’s having a hard time understanding just how someone like you found their way all the way out and in a place like his. There’s too much to you, he thinks. Talent, affection, care— you’re far too gorgeous that Rin’ and Sanzu are paying attention, made more apparent by the vibrating cell phone that shakes his pocket.
Can he afford you to be here?
“Well, that depends on what kind of stakes we’re talking about.”
Ran hums, “Surely Yui tells you about her clients before you’re expected to cover for her?”
The implications behind Ran’s question extinguish your flirty flame, and fear freezes your insides. You swallow the spit that begins to collect at the base of your tongue and muster some sort of reply, “Oh yeah…”
He’s familiar with the ways cornered animals people borrow words and time. You’re a textbook example, but the language you return to him makes up for your delay. “I know enough about you—,”
Royal, the word crosses your mind as soon as you meet his violet stare. Fallen.
“Work is work, you know that.” You narrow your eyes as soon as you remember how your informal behavior might backfire. The alcohol whisked away any filter for your flailing hand and expanding gestures.
Your neighbor grunts and loosens his neck muscles side to side, then lets his sinew stretch as he rests his temple to his outstretched bicep atop the couch. He speaks toward the empty room. “You know enough about me, huh?”
When you’re charged with a ritual of skin, you don’t miss the myriad scars that cross and contrast flesh.
“Enough to know that I shouldn’t ask questions.” You douse a desperate need of a chaser for each of his layers you unearth.
He follows you with a shovel, but not with his eyes. “We’ll make it worth your while.”
You study the pronounced middle part of his iridescent hairline and admire the complementary gold hoops that grace his earlobes. “I hope so.”
Obsidian. You want an obsidian stone and serif font.
He lets the booze blanket his brain and relax his muscles. “You got a man? Lady? Family? ‘They know what you’re up to?”
It's a more tipsy effort to frown, and your brow creases. You stick with the truth and vie for the eye contact you won’t receive. “My ex moved out, uh,” you need to take a gulp of the stale air, “recently.” Your exhale streams long out your nostrils.
There you go, now that your bleeding heart’s on the table, you can tattoo it on him too.
Crossing and capturing Ran’s sightline, you learn forward and set your glass beside your halved and bloody organ. “So I’m trying to make ends meet.” Desperate times, desperate measures. “I’d like to keep this opportunity professional.”
Professional means something entirely different in Ran’s line of business, but he likes your work, so he’ll bite: over talks of tattoos, conventions, and preferred practices, Ran feeds your ego and your fire. It burns brighter than your perceived future ever did. Marriage? Not in the cards, you guess. What’s dating anyway? There’s food to put on your table and a roof to keep over your head, not to mention all the other costly facets of being self employed.
So you tend to your little beacon, making the most of what you’re dealt, and if that means cozying up to big bad Bonten, then you’ll just keep a low profile.
You’ll keep a low profile tomorrow.
Because tonight you’re halfway done with a poured glass, terribly warm, but you somehow meet Ran in the middle, even when you started on opposite armrests.
Several sips into the half hour, and you’re sighing into Ran’s shoulder, settling into the nook of his armpit, and his extended arm is wrapping your shoulder to swipe and stroke the other side of your neck. The tickling is tolerable, thanks to your taste.
His steady breaths are of relief. The beast is at ease, and you’re not going anywhere.
You could be scared. What are you doing here anyways?
You could have bolted out the door as soon as you applied his bandage.
You could use your big girl voice.
“Did you want something, Ran?”
Ran smirks. Whatever you’ll spare him, actually. Whatever it takes— he’ll continue to unearth your deepest treasures, one by one, day by day, week by week, he figures.
This week, Ran continues his sneak tactic, and yes, he is still unaccustomed to extending any warning to his opponents. You’re either a comrade or an enemy. Artist or not, there’s no in between.
Ran hums again, this time he’s softly serious. It’s time to see just how loyal you’re willing to be. He grunts in his exhale as he faces his chest to yours. When he blinks, it’s in slow motion, and you wonder about moths. The tops of your cheeks tickle.
“Can I kiss you?” His question washes over your face with faint and liquored aroma.
Your subtle gasp sticks and freezes to the edge of his eyeballs. He watches you shake your head no.
“Professional, remember? Besides, I don’t kiss on the first date.” Your eyes are unconvincing.
Ran cracks more smiles over the rim of his whiskey glass. You’re awfully inspiring when you’re flustered and full of hope.
Hope of what? Hope of getting paid? Hope that your car will start tomorrow? Hope of getting out of this alive, right?
He follows your lead and adjusts to his monotonous false neutral. “We don’t have to kiss.” Ran shoves his unoccupied hand into a front pocket and runs his thumb over his folded knife. After years of handling, it’s smooth against his thigh.
Ran handles things. He can handle you with his caress across the slope of your shoulders. He’ll sweep his fingers in transition to tenderly scratch the curve behind your ear. “You ink me, I pay you.” He finds something funny in there, but you’ll never know as you’re far too captivated by his caramelized laugh and the proximity of the plush line of lips that home and hone over his sharp chin. He leads you through his line of thinking, “You mark me, I mark you.” His sweeping fingers are the driving argument to his point, and you wonder if you actually hate it, or if you’re just greedy.
“Are you really going to pay me, Ran?”
You fight against the pull of your lashes and strain your eyelids in a show of tenacity. Ran ignores his knife and reaches for his phone snug beside the folded blade. It’s his favorite sheepsfoot.
“Don’t worry, little lamb.” He swipes his thumb across the screen.
If you’re ovine, you’re one to slaughter. After a few years of your grind across society’s tiers and the entire Tokyo landscape, you hold a specific awareness when it comes to getting paid for your talents. What Ran doesn’t understand is you’re a black sheep and apparently you need to know if his killing blade has teeth.
“Are you paying me now?”
As soon as you understand your directness, panic washes over your ears, and for a moment it’s only a roar that negotiates between the twin shores of a battered heart and pummeled mind. The route is chosen for you and it only leads you to this couch, the carpet, or beneath the floorboards.
The plush tufted floor cradles sand and clay beneath Ran’s planted and bare foot. His knees are apart, his other foot tucked below him. The furrow in your brow creases and you refuse to move an inch. His lap is open so you have the clearest view of the rise and fall behind the fabric that covers his obviously awake dick.
Check his eyes.
They’re slightly irritated but softened along his lash line. The alcohol and post-ink exhaustion begin to meld his expression slightly upright.
You can do this. The panic pulls your lips into a pout, and it’s almost glued to your face, even as you sigh and roll your eyes away from Ran’s.
“Since this is a date, you wanna sit on my lap?” With closed eyes, you tilt your head sideways so your ear and temple rest over his extended bicep. Your whispered breaths fan the crook of his neck.
Ran hears the playful key in your query. His slight inebriation lets him consider for an extra beat.
Then, his jaw moves against your forehead, “Yeah, how do you want me?”
The go-ahead automatically strikes you dumb, but your pussy’s a force against that brain nonsense. “The only way you’ll fit is on your knees.”
Ran snorts and shakes his head, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” The way his tongue laps between his lips directs your hand to the front of his sweater. You claw your hand into the fabric at his chest and pull just enough to inspire the possibility of stretched cotton.
Now that he’s closer, you can let go to obtain a better grasp of his broad shoulder. “If I sit on yours, I’ll fuck up your tattoo.”
His stoic smolder wanes as he cranes to understand you through his self-inflicted haze.
You hold your coated tongue as he resolves to straddle your lap in one fell swoop across the couch.
Ran’s hovering image haunts you by the candled glow and the faint light down the hall, and you’re struck by the semblance of a portrait by Caravaggio himself. His composition towers over you in a graceful hunch, drawn so his arced eyelids and scalloped cheekbones fill your vision. The dark sin of his blown pupils show as he crouches and negotiates his weight. You’re locked in a false Eden, entirely of your own will. Ran shifts and snakes through his commitment to heaven, grazing his appled and heavy balls against tops of your thighs.
This lost paradise favors expensive, designer leather and dry cleaned fur throws. Large, expensive candles line the stone and wood surfaces at the corners of the room. A felted blanket scratches across your nape and the back of your shoulders. You lean your crown further back into the couch.
Ran hums hot over your roots and into your hairline, “Don’t look down.” His palms settle at the top of the cushions, plush under his pressure.
Your elbows rest over his knees that settle into the couch behind you. Ran hisses as you run your palms along his thick and straining thighs.
Without warning, your hand flies to his shirt hem, pulling it over his skin and the clear bandage wrap over his freshest notching.
Your hushed response rises defensively. “It’s your blood. Don’t waste my time.”
Even if you’re feeling light as a feather, your emotions and nerves weigh against you.
For Bonten’s second at large?
Tomorrow? Not in two weeks?
What about your bed?
Why is yes in your vocabulary?
You essentially agreed to spending another night in the wolves’ den, having served your intended purpose and even after takeout, you are hungry. Pack dynamics catch on.
You’re snagged, you could probably make it out of the poisoned ivy alive, and you know better than to cry wolf.
You can handle this.
Ran’s royal study finds your zipper, where your bodies meet, then where they start to part, up your relaxed stomach and over your exposed neckline. His height has him towering, and it’s startling to have this man, at the mercy of your glare, on your lap and doomed to stay there if he ever has a choice.
There they are: the whites of his eyes, blinding and honest when they make a lunar appearance.
You continue once he obeys. His body weight renders your lower body mostly useless.
“Once you’re truly in my lap like a good boy, I want a kiss.” You tap your cheek and your wink is perfectly timed.
“‘Thought you didn’t kiss on the first date.” Ran interjects and settles in his seat with a steady rock of his hips.
Your tired muscles, tense from a day of its kind, are tender and sensitive to the undulating man.
You’ve been holding your breath and so you let it out in a thickened puff of a sigh, because, well. Who gave him the right?!
As a practicing tattoo artist, you understand the human ritual and take it’s evolution seriously. Even so, this stumble-and-fall into the world of organized crime was never your first intention. Sometimes you liked to think your work contributed to a robust modern culture, despite its sharper, diabolical challenges. Are you now a symptom of the biological instinct to survive? When did you take a turn away from potential and growth?
It’s simple. Your side of the bay was becoming more expensive to call your neighborhood by the day. The instant deposit of several thousand would ensure your security for the coming winter.
So if you’re going to err on the dangerous side of life for a bit, you may as well face your demons when they take the fortunate form of this handsome and deadly Bonten man and maimer; forever clandestine.
This particular devil is fierce and feline with good skin and ridiculously healthy hair that flowers just past his shoulders. Several shades of black and lilac petal each strand.
A shudder vibrates through Ran’s body and his thick eyebrows arch and furrow.
You guess he doesn’t receive this kind of touch everyday, and what could possibly go wrong if you give him a go?
Well, there’s the beautiful column of his neck, and his scarred and elegant hands could easily snap yours.
You admire the shape of his bejeweled ear and the line of violet sweat pea blooms, behind his ear and hidden by his hairline. You wonder how Bonten approaches torture and if Ran’s ever sliced an ear.
Ran’s silky and satin hair falls over his cheekbones, and you find the suggestion of a widow’s peak. He’s most likely a widow maker.
Without a coherent answer, you reach into Ran’s pants and swipe at the elastic barrier. “Did you touch yourself, Ran?” Your clearest question makes the hairs on his forearms rise over goosebumps.
A luxurious candle glows bergamot and orange across your senses, exuding calm and carrying comfort. You appreciate the halo that encompasses his form. You wonder about the illusion that covers Ran’s edges in a faint luminescence, so you reach your hands out to touch it where it gathers and gleams at his hip. The elastic of his pants and boxer briefs serve as your last obstacle for pulling out his willingness.
Your grasp is cool to the touch and you give his hottest muscle a few assessing squeezes.
Under the moon’s only shadow, his irises glow in overwhelming ardor. “Shit—, that’s good, yeah.” His lips strain and bare his teeth, and his eyes flex so ecstatic that his face is almost sours as he pants.
You know a falling man when you see one.
Your husky voice surprises you, but your captor’s affirmation is far more important. “Is this what you wanted, Ran?”
He’s gone quiet on you, and it’s not like you can find your answer in his eyes— they’re hidden, as his head hangs back and over his shoulders, chin toward the heavens and throat vulnerable and yours for the taking. Enraptured by your severe hold, Ran’s cock pulses, radiating heat and melting away the ice of your stranger.
“What’s on your tongue?”
He swallows back said slither, and his nostrils flare as he fights a devilish deep urge.
“I asked you to speak, Ran.” Your hand has other ideas and starts to pump and fondle his leaky length.
Ran hangs his head and croaks, “I think I want this if you do.” His nails dig into his all too empty fists, afflicted and ready to shove one down his pants. His bare hips roll at the thought and his cock aches without the salivated balm he craves.
Your eyes narrow in glee and at the girthy need hovering above you. After years of human figure studies and lost time to your former lover, you can’t say you’ve never seen a dick so pretty, but you can admit you want it.
He’s bucking as soon as you pick up your pacing, harsh skin slick by your additional glob of spit cascading over his swollen head.
The dual moans of your passions are strained like a smooth wine.
His abandon breaks yours free and it’s serious when you purr your low command, “Tell me when you’re gonna come.”
Ran pants through balancing on his knees and maneuvers for the perfect angle. His delivery is even, if frantic. “Ungh” His hip bones crash at your ribs, just short of your tits, as he undulates and bruises you. He steadies himself so he can savor your dark stare and stern sex.
You nod and your sigh contrasts with his volume. “Fuck yourself with my hand, honey.”
Ran winces pretty at the pet name that produces a scalding lick of lava that flows over his spine. His feet start tingling at lack of circulation and lack of flow besides and beyond his overwhelming cock. Without words, he hums in the key of ghosts and euphoria.
You like him like this, but there’s more to Ran than how he chooses to appear.
The halt of your handling hits Ran like a fucking landslide. His eyes are clouded with an angry storm, and his insides and outsides scatter in shaky protest, “What—“
With his knees far apart and on either side of your lap, he humps his hips in brief bursts, an attempt to fuck himself with your hand. Blood brushes rose over his finery, and you can tell he’s more than warmed up. You don’t think you’ve had enough, but once the couch slightly tilts with your intensities, it’s finally time to reel him in.
Your other hand seizes downward, over his tailbone, and pushes his pelvis deeper and down against your hot, clothed cunt. The rougher stimulation has Ran seeing outer space out the window in the roof above you. His groans catch the flaming startails behind your eyes, so you hook your thumb and forefinger around his cocktip to coax his entire and sticky meteor shower.
From the corner of your eye, you see the sob bubbling its way from Ran’s Adam’s apple. “Into my mouth, pretty boy.”
You swallow Ran’s groans with a kiss that starts sultry, but it quickly begins to fall apart as Ran’s head jolts and splutters in his ecstasy.
A growl escapes up your throat, and Ran nips your lip in wanton reflex. With one hand you hold him by the nape of his neck and dig your fingertips into his hair, plundering and plucking sweet moans off his tongue. You savor his taste and alcohol. It’s enough to have him pulse violently within your unforgiving grasp, and pump him just before and past his threshold, overstimulated and spent.
Ran’s coda ghosts over your lips, “Hngh, fuck, fuck, agh,” He doesn’t notice your pleased lip curl at his last sighing notes.
With your free and tacky hand, you’re sure to comb a faint layer of precum in his strands, and if he’s lucid enough to endure the mess, he’ll understand the slight and respond at your neck with luscious noise.
“Shut up for me.” You apply the briefest slaps against Ran’s slack and used up expression— a dropped jaw, a pouting brow, a fortunate groan.
He grunts into your shoulder. When did he even get here?
From down the hall, Emi or Jaz’s faint whines answer and echo.
The drum of his heart bounds against your chest. Together you sink into the sofa and sweat in your disheveled, sodden clothes.
The skin he bares from his hard abdomen and past his prominent vee warms your belly, while the rest of your body begins to run cold. Alcohol and Ran cuts off your circulation. He groans and cages your shoulders with his hands at the cushions behind you. You lazily raise your attentions to find him blissful and beaming, a little drunk off your fuck and very tipsy from the liquor. “Wanna cig?” He slurs through his offer and reaches his long arm behind him to feel for the pack of camel reds on the table.
You shake your head, no.
With a flick of his thumb, he focuses on the tobacco stick between his fingers, wondering if he truly wants it.
You interrupt his distractions, “What time is Sanzu coming?”
Sanzu’s enough reason for Ran to smoke. “Usually nine. We can start at ten.”
The sweat between your thighs begins to cool as soon as Ran shifts on your lap.
Let’s see how far your influence will take you. “Make it eleven.”
Ran’s eyes are careful, but the pull of a smile warps his neutral demeanor. He’s an addict. Already, are you causing the winds to blow him out of his valley all the way to yours. Your exhales gust your final decision, placing Ran at your care. He nods. He won’t argue with those deep and dark lakes in his eyes.
“‘Can’t wait to work on him.” Your throat begins to run raspy, but this piece of information is so vital to relay, “We’ll get him all eager and worked up.”
Ran’s jaw drops slightly, his lower lips uncurl, and the corners of his eyes crease and fall. He grins and his eyelashes flutter in complete recognition of your tenacity. “Okay.” He saves the cigarette for later and relaxes his torso against yours.
You shiver in his embrace, and he actually holds you together in his reflex.
He affirms with a soft nod into your hair, “Yeah.” but he’s actually at a loss for words and this time he doesn’t act out against it. His undergarments stick to his skin, the fabric melds with his sac, and the interior lining smears with cooling cum.
Ran’s long thighs scoot off and back from your lap. He sighs into the chill that whispers over his chest and belly. Without eye contact, he’s powerless, and even though you know this, you meet his stare, and you remember the position and place in the universe you occupy. Uh oh, you could actually (!) be in trouble.
So you stand to meet your fate, but find Ran absolutely still with a far-gone look in his eyes. As you give into the faintest longing to hold him, you wrap your arms around his back, hands reaching toward his spine. He’s a little wobbly to support, so you give it a minute. Heavy for anyone, but his shivering lets up in quick recovery. The couch remains behind you both.
As you support such a man, you speak into his shirt, “Do you want to sit down?” His dick twitches from your attention.
His large embrace finds you before he settles his big hands to brace the tops of your shoulders. His tired answer to your question is another question. “You want to sit with me for a minute?”
It’s serious or simple.
“Sure, Ran.” You oblige him and slowly lower yourself to the couch.
He follows beside you, and settles into the pillows. Goosebumps run up his evil forearms and dot his killing biceps. He’s wetting his lips as he’s letting his neck tilt slowly in your direction. Lavender eyes continue to cue color without meaning, until his relaxed lips shape a weary smile.
“Can I touch you?” You shift in your seat with knees knocked sideways, feet off the floor and a supporting hand at your chin.
Ran nods and clears his throat through his “Uh huh.” He lets his eyes rest. His feet are planted wide apart and along the low coffee table, and from this angle, they look less tense, but large and strong enough to stomp you literally out of existence.
You lean into the candle glow and observe his resting lashes up close. His hairline is sharp and silken with traces of a lightsweat. You’ve found his eyes dilated by the dark, and in the depths there’s desire.
His tight teary stare follows agonizing whimpers shared between you.
Here is the violent Haitani, pinned and looking utterly compromised.
“Where do you want to be touched, Ran?” Twisting your wrist, you lift your veins skyward as you run your fingerpads up his nearest arm and over his shoulder to trace the faint carotid that pops and strains beneath your touch.
He grunts and lets his neck relax in his recline.
“Is this okay?” You have to know if you’re to continue from his cheek.
Ran leans into your palm and cradling fingers. The shocking tenderness lulls him toward relaxation, and his torso into yours. “Mmhm.” There’s more to it, though, indicative of his eyes that flash open wide.
You gasp at the intensity of his straining stare. His dick jumps and dishevels the tacky mess in his sweatpants. Even as he comes down, Ran adores the sight of your surprised, even empty lips.
His next suggestion barely shakes his chest but slithers into your belly.
“Sit on me.”
Without manners, he earns the squeezing grip you apply to his jaw. He’s revealed enough for a first encounter without terms and even a safe word.
You lean your knees onto the seat cushion and move to throw a leg across his lap.
As you settle on top of Ran’s lean and weakened legs, you undoubtedly smush the creamy mess between and now over his thighs. Your clit rests against his half-hardened dick, nerves tightening for some sort of signal, stimulation and sex to compliment your weeping hole. His big hands settle on your knees.
Lust and horror drags your deepest core, pulling at your breasts and elongating your heavy pulse. “Uhh—.” And now you don’t know what to say, so you tilt your gaze up to check on your partner. He’s slack-jawed with a side of an amused lilt, with big eyes darting to find and dig into your stare.
If he digs deep enough, maybe you’ll swallow him whole.
“Let me check your tattoo, then.”
His purr distracts you. “Be my guest.”
Your gulp is audible as you reach your hands for his hem. Before you can lift his shirt, the candle flame behind you reaches the end of its wick. The dark engulfs your ongoing attempt, while sudden hands grope your ass, sending your hips spasming and your panties soaking.
“I can’t ah—see, shit —ah— the… light!”
Ran smirks at your delirium and notices the way you won’t stop gyrating your clothed cunt against him.
Yeah, you’re a little wet and it’s a little too late to take back the day. So, with a luscious and languid roll of your hips, you seize the night. Your groans sing in unison as you both go without sight, eyes knocking to the back of your skulls.
Ran’s hands roam across your back as he hugs your torso beneath your outstretched arms. He wants your taste in his mouth again, so he presses your spine, effectively pushing your candied lips to his waiting tongue.
Your fingers comb through his roots, coaxing his kisses to follow the lead of your tidal waves, flooding his braised brain, and building like a landing hurricane. Ran crashes into you nippy, and you allow his ferocity at your lips, but only because weather events are teachable moments.
With the work of your maker hands, you pluck at his covered nipples once, causing him to gasp into your mouth, twice, he moans, and his expansive eyelids flutter shut.
It’s the perfect opportunity to gather his wrists in your hand and spring forward, up, and over this unrelenting creature. Ran’s powerful hips chase your departure and heave his erection up toward your hovering mound, the crumbling vestiges of his sanity sliding away.
You square your grip and his jaw with your hand, “Greedy boy, what’s my name?”
A devil hides behind his tired smirk. “Angel.”
Your hold on his wrists tightens and tugs, accentuating your focus and your frown. “Excuse me? When would you ever call me that?”
Ran starts with a murmur, “Angel,” You roll your eyes so he knows you enjoy it, “when I ah-,” he swallows his distaste and it shows on his face, “When I’m a good boy.” He follows with an exhale as his blood boils.
You let your tongue swipe over your teeth, a sensual gnashing. He draws his terms while you shape the frame. “And when you’re a bad boy?”
He sucks in his next breath, “When I’m a bad boy your name is Mistress.”
The motherfucker’s too lucid to withhold his hard humor.
Your hum is an indication of your satisfaction. “Your safeword is fidelity.”
Ran’s lashes lower and he frowns at the concept.
“Tell me your safe word.” Your careful voice lowers.
He grins once he realizes how far he might run with you. “Fidelity.”
“Good.” You drop his wrists and his hands swipe your sides before they settle on your knees, and you wonder when the burn marks will show.
You begin to rock your hips and glance toward the dual entryways to the living space. “Can you tell me the likelihood of ah— company?” Your covered labia finally drag over Ran’s clothed dick.
Ran shrugs and hisses, “Depends on the sound.” His eyes snap shut.
“Do you want me to ride you?”
What did you just say?
Ran purses his lips before he beams in understanding. He nods and his longest tresses sway.
Everything’s a choice.
“Use your words.”
“Please—“ Ran remembers himself as he retracts his claws back from their itch they can’t scratch— he removes his hands from your hips and lays them limply beside his thighs. “Use me.”
“Good Idea Ran,” Your lips hover beside his ear and you waver over your hipped connection. You purr, “I think you deserve something nice.”
With a twist of your wrist, your fingertips slide along his hot, exposed happy trail, sensing heat and feeling for his sticky root. You hook the firm head barely with his waistband and reveal his strong, long, and an indignant ochre cock. Once free, it slaps his belly.
The fumbled movements are free of grace, with Ran helplessly holding his sticky base. His exposed trim is messy, smeared, dried and sparkling in the moon rise. You hurry and scramble out of your garments, lifting one leg at a time and shucking your pants to gravity.
You exchange soft giggles throughout your last clumsy fumble to disrobe each other. Ran lifts his ass so you can finish the job of tugging his pants down past his knees behind you.
Your pussy is magnetic, pulling Ran polar so that he’s helpless and mindlessly nudging his dick forward. It scalds your thighs before it prods your core. Your instinctual response widens your hips, so your partner has an easier time dragging his sensitive tip across your weepy slit. He exhales through grit teeth.
“Uh huh, mm, I’m gonna sit on your cock, okay?” Maybe if you say it out loud, you’ll remember what you’re doing here.
Ran nods eagerly, wearing a grimace like he’s in pain and his brows take the brunt. “You’re so wet.”
“That’s right, dove, my pussy is good for you.” Animal instinct urges your fluttering walls over Ran’s rigid vitality. Your exclamation ends as a whimper, “When you’re good for me.” You bite your lower lip in anticipation. “mmmf!—,” You pant through sparks of pleasure as you bury Ran inch by veined inch before your hilt stops him. “Ah, ah—”
Ran forgets to breathe as he observes the space between your bodies, overwhelmed and forever insatiable by the image of his cock as it splits your ripe and dripping fruits.
So tight. He feels the heartbeat between your legs and twitches within you. He groans and you coo, “Ooh good boy, ah,” Fuck, he feels even thicker than you had hoped.
The praise is his passion. Ran’s bulbous cockrim scrapes perpendicular to your opening as he fucks up into you. Lustful punches warn your spine.
Where are you again? Oh right, the fucking Haitani estate at the edges of nowhere. Who are you again? Does it matter? All you know is you’re rocking and rolling your hips, swallowing Ran’s cock repeatedly as he attempts to meet you with desperate gripping and digging into your hips. Still, his delivery is far too slow for your liking.
“Make it happen, baby.” Your kneeling stance collapses and Ran’s dick impales you as you fall to your ass, cheeks rippling against his tensing thighs.
One hit, and he’s addicted. Now his every wish is under your command, so he whispers his allegiance, “Fuck yes.” Ran drives his hips up to spur your rocking.
Who are you to question exactly how wishes come true? Is it money? Power? Blood?
Tonight you’re fulfilled by your talents alone and oh yeah, Ran’s deadly dick.
Behind you, adroit fingers carefully spread your ass cheeks apart, punctuating every desperate bounce and rise to the deepest dream possible— if this is a drunken day dream, then together you sleep less abysmal and more moist and cavernous.
“Shit—,” Ran plants his soles to the carpet and engages his angriest drivers through your sloppiest waves that crest with his rough waters. You’ve asked him to give you all he can, so he hurls you further out to sea.
With one steady hand on his shoulders, your other holds his jaw to your heart. He puffs and moans heatedly, moistening the cotton that does little to conceal your pert nipples. His hand comes up to paw and squeeze your other tit.
“S-so good ah—,” Your encouragement remains hushed, but your wits smack you with a coherent thought for once— your rocking ride falters and you gasp into Ran’s ear, “Don’t you dare come. I—“
Everybody knows Ran can’t keep anything to himself, so his cursed whine sits deep before he sighs your given name. You’ll let it slide up your collar, over your shoulders and down your spine to settle deep inside you, just beyond his bullying cock.
Your airy laugh overscores your glee, “Fuckin’ me so so good!” Your ragged breaths paint his neck, your head resting at Ran’s shoulder. “Oh you’re doing so well, baby.”
“Ugh!” His lashes tickle your skin and flutter at your praise, which sparks his speed, and you feel his fullness and the ends of the Earth in your throat, but oh how he wishes he could drink you all at once. He wants all of you, your cunt and your care. You’ll only give him what he’s earned, and for now that’s the mess of your coating cream, an opaque ring painting and pulsing with every viscous pulse.
Ran will bust if he keeps this angle, but he won’t let you down. And he’ll certainly flip you over.
With a fraction of his strength, Ran moves his hold to your ass and slowly lowers you backwards to the carpet and next to the coffee table legs. The furniture almost serves as a wall against the wandering eyes of others’.
Your voice strains and you are unbearably full, moreso as the two of you shift your thrumming bodies. “Oh? Where are you taking me, baby?”
The luxurious touch of the rug meets your shoulders. Its pile is plush and high end.
You giggle when Ran doesn’t stop his rut. He’s pleased and prettily incoherent when nestling in your cunt, wearing a satisfied smile as he’s helplessly hovering and sweating over your tits. His moans remain deep yet restrained as he gives you more than what you asked for because he’s eager to prove that he can be good. He just might only be good to you.
“Shit! Ahh-ha,” He’s driving you almost to the opposite chair and feet across the floor, “Yes, mm, my good boy,” Your cooing wavers, and the pleased, dulcet tears you shed match Ran’s desperate rain.
His fucked gaze darts down to your bleary and half-lidded eyes.“‘m gonna make you come, yeah.” He tilts his forehead so it holds your hairline, and he puffs his exhales over your lips. His hips are moving on their own accord, answering to the primeval calling between your bellies and the melding of your human, evident beneath the mix of arousal that slicks and sticks to your skins.
Words are failing you, but he must keep quiet. You’re not about to let another soul see you beneath Ran Haitani. If anyone was to bear witness, you’d prefer they find you with Ran’s long, lean and ink patterned legs over your shoulders and his pretty, run-off mouth fucking gagged.
Your frustration and mounting climb causes your heels to crash from around Ran’s chiseled waist to meet the carpet.
He doesn’t need to be told even once, and scoots his hips back, drawing his cock out of your drippy, swollen walls, ensnaring a low moan from your throat. After he readjusts his feet to the leverage of herringboned wood, he hooks your knees beneath his elbows and lifts them so they rest over his shoulders.
This is the moment when he discovers just the right angle and pace to answer your beck and call. This is the time when he returns to you furious and slow, his abdomen rippling as he feeds your fires in your lower back and hips. This is the only time he pulls a hiccup from your throat. This is the one, inevitable time, that you think—
“You’re so big, baby” A precedent for when you won’t tell him.
Ran’s wide eyes migrate behind his upper lashes with a puffed exhale.
Instead of pushing him away, you gather his hair from the base of his head and use your ecstatic desperation to pull the all-too elegant bundle.
Ran’s moan rips from his throat, his Bonten mark now exposed by his arched neck. Pleasure radiates down his spine, emerging in blooms and stemming to his grasping fingers. He holds on to your calves for dear life and leverage.
A harsh yank bursts the dam and out streams his song, low and liquid moans cracked with his grunts and all too suggestive and loud.
With a firm and biting hand at Ran’s crown, you push your nails into his scalp, dragging his onyx roots and smashing his lips to yours. He joins you in aggressively tonguing and swallowing his noises, smacking lips and clashing teeth paint the quiet night.
The closer and quicker you climb to reach your climax, the harder it becomes for you to control yourself, let alone Ran. Before you can dwell on the tenuousness of your newest dynamic, Ran’s long torso breaks through your beautifully parted legs and he buries himself impossibly deeper.
Still, you can’t afford to let him get any of the best that remains of you. You move your fingers over his hairline and over the rounded tip of his nose. Down, your fingers glide to the part between Ran’s heart-sickening and slick lips.
“Dirty boy’s a drooler, huh?” You bite your lip when your obedient boy opens his mouth to reveal his tongue laying flat. Your muted discovery whispers in irony and amusement, “You’re a little slut, huh?”
The heavenly king doesn’t remember the jolt of lust conjured from any former derogatory naming. His hips stutter only for a beat, as hot white overtakes his brain and his vicious mouth envelops your knuckles. The little villain adorns your fingers in salivated rings.
It works both ways because you’re losing your cool too, allowing yourself to get utterly fucked in more ways than one, as you’ve now learned several serious facts about a top Bonten-bad-man. Your heart swells as you watch his eyes shut in a familiar bliss over the furious sucking of your fingers.
You’re without any half thoughts, and all you have is Ran’s life source and then some, burning you badly and licking you better. His cock falls away and loops nearer, hips swinging repeatedly so your walls drag and slosh apart. He subsequently plunges inside, forcing a final rip from you, so you’re entirely split and vulnerable to his dedication.
His last ascent is capped by a silent swear of fealty— you lock gazes in mutual confidentiality.
You warn through gritted teeth, “Don’t you dare stop.”
Oh, it’s urgent, and Ran wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t crack a smile even as he rode you to crash and bang oblivion.
Don’t you deserve to get there? You’re already so close.
“Don’t—don’t stop!” Your nails tear into his scalp tell him you mean it.
Ran rasps, “Fuckkk— do that again—,”
You don’t need to be told twice, if at all, but your combined fervor takes precedent before a coherent lesson in dominance. As you indulge in his roots, you find a new treasure in the breathy cries that spill across your collar.
It’s everyone for themselves in this house, and if you can have some fun, then more power to you. Euphoria paints your quieted cries and has you clamping over Ran’s stem, rooting you to your bloom. Your spasms flex deliciously through the warm abyss of your highest hour.
In menace and health, Ran forgets himself, which sends his incisors down and across your plight and plunging fingers. A master in the art of spite, his bite sparks whatever spit is left in your orgasm.
As you fly in your recovery, your beast growls on, and you’re mindful of the rare opportunity to shape the first mark of your newfound relationship. Client or not, you understand your responsibility to determine what’s best for Ran.
Your swollen tissue tears aftershocks across your skin, but you proceed to wiggle Ran out of your aching cunt.
“Ah…” He steadies your seat with his palms behind your ass and hums low once you settle.
Thirst drives his tongue behind his lips and you watch his mouth flesh protrude from up close. On your knees, you lean forward to rest your cheek on his shoulder. “That was— shit, you did so well.”
Ran closes his eyes at ease. There you are, under his skin, in his veins, marking him redeemable and satisfied for these brief moments of post coital equanimity. He knows you have high standards for your creations and he wants you to be so happy with him. He won’t question it as it comes.
Appearances matter, but actions matter more. You apply this truth to your next moments, blinking owlishly and squaring your features. “I need to check your tattoo, dove.” Ran nods through your ardor and takes more time to catch his breath.
By the light of your cell phone, you apply concerning and tender touches to his obliques. With your tongue in your cheek, the task is sort of serious. From what you can make out, the transparent bandage only shows a healthy markup.
You relax your posture to match Ran’s slouch. “Remove the bandage tomorrow and wash it with soap and warm water, okay?” The glance you spare him will forever serve the burn of your memory: A picture perfect, pouting brat who was evidently this close to coming in your pretty cunt.
Ran anticipates your hand at his thigh, but your reach veers to his left. Your pants are spread across the throw pillow.
You feel the rake of his studious eyes, turned up to roll as he tilts his chin. “You’ll know if I don’t.”
He’s acting out.
You’ll deal with him another time. And if there’s another time, you’ll remember his transgressions, just like he does when he delivers a damned debtor's prize of an early grave.
“Dove, huh?” Ran’s quiet is not to be mistaken for displeasure, and it’s the hardest choice for you to turn away.
More like brat.
“Good night.” You pad across the room to leave him to enjoy your subsequent showers apart.
Your walk down the vaulted hall is far too slow for the razored butterfly wings that burn up your belly. The agony presses you forward, and by your sixth step, Ran accepts the yearning for your ankles over his shoulders. He sighs as he pulls his briefs from the floor and beside his feet. He decides he hates the way you leave.
20+ ONLY // UNDER 20, MINORS, & AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. I will block.
36 notes · View notes