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angelaiswriting · 3 years

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Confessions | Vladimir Ranskahov x fem!reader

[Photo by Marta Dzedyshko from Pexels]

✏️ Pairing: Vladimir Ranskahov x fem!reader

✏️ Summary: in which a love confession sometimes has to go wrong before it goes well.

✏️ A/N: ... or how I suck at writing summaries lmao BUT! Did I just come back with some Vlad juice? 🧃 @kind-wolf gave me this prompt a couple nights ago and the scenario had to be turned into a fic 🤭 this Vlad is also a bit different than how I usually write him, but 🤭 enjoy! 💛

✏️ Warnings: slight angst, 18+ only (vaginal sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, mentions of drugs, I guess mentions of illegal activities and of a gun, mentions of sex with a huge-ass age gap and of sex being used for intel -- idk guys, let me know if there’s anything else, I’m a bit hot and bothered atm lol)

✏️ Word-count: 9,481

✏️ Pretend like the text in italics is in Russian 🥰

“You shouldn’t.”

Vlad says it quietly and yet, those two words ricochet in his mind the same way a gunshot would. And probably a gunshot would be easier to bear; less compromised than her shattered expression makes him feel—her eyes on him, and then suddenly anywhere but his face, escaping his judgment and his gaze, the words still hanging from his lips.

Her lower lip doesn’t quiver the way he’s almost unconsciously expected it to in that fraction of a second after his sentence and before the reaction it met on her part. Maybe he’s expected for her to be a different kind of fragile—almost crystal-like: shatter her, and her pieces will go flying everywhere. But the realization that she’s not seems to slap him across the cheek and the corner of his mouth, and he’s the one unexpectedly holding his breath.

As if he’s not the one who’s added another fracture to her heart.

As if he’s not the one who’s just told her she shouldn’t, that she should go to someone else. Find someone else and stay there—he doesn’t say those words, but they’re there nonetheless.

When she nods her head once, he feels his chest open and he can breathe again. Her eyes meet his, and this time he’s the one who’d rather look away; who’d rather escape her judgment and blame.

Good night, Vladimir.

Vladimir. Not Vlad. Not Vova.

Months spent opening up—or trying their best to—flushed down the drain in the matter of a minute or less.

He closes the door of his apartment when she turns on her heels—blood-red stilettos she’s worn to Sergei’s birthday party just three weeks ago and that she wore for a job tonight as well—and he doesn’t linger by the door to try and eavesdrop on the soft ding! of the elevator’s door sliding open.

She doesn’t come to the garage for a week after that one-a.m. encounter. Her phone is reachable, but she doesn’t pick up the calls—he doesn’t phone her, but some of the guys do.

Where is she?

And

Did something happen?

And some more endless questions bound to remain unanswered. He hears them all from his office, or when he walks down to the garage to check some papers or talk to Tolya or give orders to go back to work, fucking idiots!

But Sergei clocks into his night shift on Friday night and unpromptedly tells Vladimir he’s seen her—She’s alright, saw her get home with the groceries. Why’s she not picking up the phone? I was this close to ringing her doorbell.

Sergei talks for a while. He’s never been a man of many words; he keeps quiet, does his job, studies people; learns more in silence than from words. But with her, it’s different. She’s crawled her way underneath their skin, one way or another, during the almost two and a half years she’s worked for and with them. Sweet and caring, but also unfaltering with a gun in her hand when the times call for that. She makes you open up, even just a crack, and you find yourself being a thirty-seven-year-old former boxer and present criminal talking your heart out to your boss because you were so worried about some chick that you had to see her get home in full health to quieten your uneasiness.

Vlad, on the other hand, doesn’t open up. If anything, he dives deeper into work. He stays for longer hours, and at some point his men must start realizing something’s up—he hasn’t pulled extra hours in the last seventeen months, after all. His hair gets unrulier, and there’s more vodka in his coffee than there is coffee. The door to his office is perpetually closed, and inside those four walls all he can think about when he has some ten free minutes is that maybe he’s the one who shouldn’t have fallen in love with her.

When she walks through the door of Veles Taxi on Monday morning at five thirty on the dot, she has bags under her eyes and hair not as in perfect order as they used to be two Fridays ago. It makes him think of how it looks like after they have sex, after she’s tried her best to give it some dignity, but he’s too disappointed in everything to be thinking about that now. He’s pissed on it by now, so you either face the consequences of your actions—or words—or you go home. And he doesn’t go home; he stays and squares up to his shit.

“It’s been a week,” is the first thing he tells her. Not hello or good morning or d’you have my coffee or do I have to detract your forgetfulness from your check? And although there are a few other men in the main room of the garage just organizing their rides, only Piotr actually turns his head to look. They all listen, though, ears strained to try and see what their boss will do to his chick, the one he’s too afraid to claim—or be claimed by.

“Your job took me some more fucking around,” she replies—sternly, but… at the same time, not exactly. There’s more tiredness than anything else wafting towards him, mixed with the clashing combination of the first shower gel she’s found in God knows whose bathroom and her usual perfume.

There’s a storage unit key with a label hanging from the keychain in his hand when she takes a step back and turns on her heels—sneakers, this time—no need for fancy attire when you work in some godforsaken Russian taxi garage that’s clearly a front activity of the mafia.

“I’ll be going over your taxes. Don’t bother me.”

He’s thinking that maybe he should just fuck her up already. Rub the disrespect out of her mouth with soap and then just forget about her. Forget about the way she’s made him feel one too many times. Forget the way he’s found himself opening up in more ways than one with her soft moaning in his ear and her nails raking down his back.

But then, as he and Tolya are rummaging through some old fuck’s shit in that storage unit to whose keys she’s managed to fuck her way, it hits him. That his thoughts have been unjust. That it’s not her fault; if anything, he’s the one who deluded her into believing that they was something that somehow had the chance to be. So maybe he is the one who should get his mouth washed clean. And maybe he shouldn’t apologize for being sincere, for telling her the truth—that she just shouldn’t love him. But he feels like he should tell her about the way he feels at the thought of the shape he’s helped the universe mold her into.

And suddenly he realizes that she’s had to fuck that old rich fuck who apparently left the political scene with nothing more valuable than some golf club mementos and safari trophies he’s never even hunted himself. And it makes him feel small and insignificant in that black suit of his, pristine white shirt underneath and polished black leather shoes—she’s had to smell old-person scent and suck on a wrinkly cock, probably pump him full of vitamin v just so that she could ride said cock.

It makes him gag in the back of his throat and when he looks down, he realizes his hands have turned clammy in his gloves and there’s a slight tremor to them he has no clue where it even came from in the first place. He holds onto that vintage desk lamp, perfectly preserved and spotlessly clean—the old fuck’s wife still comes around to dust everything off every once in a while—and all he feels is the sudden, blinding need to throw it against the wall at the opposite end of the unit.

“Vlad?” Tolya’s still going through some folders, quickly leafing through the different pages in search of something—anything, they could use. “The fuck are you doing?”

On Wednesday night, before anyone could notice its absence, the key is back in the front right pocket of the old man’s raincoat—some expensive piece of luxury Vladimir Ranskahov could afford if he weren’t so stingy or if it fit his style.

He waits in the parking lot at the corner of the hotel—some fancy five-star thing that has no business standing all proud and mighty in Hell’s Kitchen, but here we are anyway. He sits in his car, one hand gripping the wheel tighter than necessary and the other holding his cigarette, and he watches as the old man opens his black umbrella and crosses the street with a dumb smile stretching from ear to ear.

Maybe if he hadn’t told her You shouldn’t, he would have found someone else for this dirty job.

He sits and waits for almost an hour before she comes out of the hotel and runs barefoot towards his car, blood-red stilettos in one hand and the other clutching the plunging deep neckline of her dress closed. She’s positively soaked when she throws the passenger’s door open, jumps inside, and slams it closed.

“I hate this,” she says, staring out of the windshield and at a bolt of lightning firing up the night sky while one hand shoots out to steal his cig. “I fucking hate this.” He watches as she takes a drag. And then another. She never turns toward him, not even when she says, “the next eighty-year-old man you make me fuck, I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“We all gotta do our part,” is what he says when he revs the engine and lights himself another cigarette before pulling out of the parking lot.

“You’re a fucking piece of shit, Vladimir.” Her voice is raspy, and he somehow knows she’s trying her damnedest not to break down. “Next time, you go fuck some old skunk just to have nothing of value to use. Spare me the alcohol, and spare me the Viagra-allowed sex. You fucking piece of shit.”

He thinks that maybe he deserves it. Even without maybe. He wouldn’t enjoy shagging some decaying-old woman, even pumped full of alcohol or drugs. He thinks he’d rather puke his guts out—and it’s not hard work to guess she did indeed throw up in that fancy hotel room of hers, right before taking a shower to scrub the dirt and sweat and bodily fluids off her skin like some sort of sickening mold.

“I fucking hate you,” she grumbles at the first red light, shivering underneath his suit jacket as she fumbles with the heater settings, her cigarette dangling ashes from her lips and onto her ripped nylon tights.

He chuckles and if it weren’t for the fact that she’s too busy trying to warm up and complaining under her breath, she would punch him square in the face, send his head to bounce against the window to his left. “We both know that is not true.”

He doesn’t elaborate on that, but she still sends a glare his way, blood-shot eyes trying to focus on his through the smokey fog of burned shit and tobacco, barely finding an escape out the one-inch opening of his slightly rolled-down window.

Maybe he should let her love him, he thinks when he drops her off at her place. She wouldn’t have to open her legs for anyone but him, then. And maybe it’s sick, but he does want her to still want him because then if she confesses again, then maybe he wouldn’t tell her what to do. He’d just let her do it.

She doesn’t come to work until Monday morning. Again. Nobody at the garage wonders why, this time. They all know—rumors go round, and while still remaining in a closed circle, the people that gotta know do find out. They don’t make teasing jokes when she comes in through the door and slides her worker badge in the clock card machine and they don’t comment on the exhausted expression on her face. They simply smile at her, one or two send a quick glance Vlad’s way, and then they go about their day.

“Had a good weekend?” Vlad inquires as she just struts by, walks into his office, and slams the door closed behind her back.

But then they’re both tipsy that night. He shows up at her door with a bottle of vodka to share—his best vodka, capable of knocking out a horse if that were possible, because he reasons she deserves some good shit to forget. He brings alcohol and cigarettes, and he knows she can add anything to the mix—coffee, leftovers, or maybe some Chinese takeout from two streets over, it’s a quick delivery and the delivery kid could walk this way with his eyes closed by now, after all.

So, they’re tipsy. Not enough to be dumb as shit, but still enough to have his hands underneath the t-shirt of her pajama as they make out on her gray couch, pelvises rubbing together in search for more—friction or contact, it doesn’t matter: Vlad knows he’ll have it, and she knows he’ll give it to her—not as timidly as the first time he slept with her, but hard and deep, just how she needs it to rip the feeling of her last job from every inch of her body.

“I want to fucking slap you,” she groans when she pulls away, right hand going straight for the almost empty bottle of vodka to down the last two inches of liquid fire, now burning down her throat and forcing her eyes to drop closed as she makes a face.

“Then do it,” he absentmindedly replies, brain somewhere else entirely as he pulls the neckline of her shirt down by hooking index and middle fingers into it to peek in-between her breasts.

But then he looks up and they stare at each other in stunned silence for a moment before she slaps him across the face, hard enough to make both the skin of his cheek and that of her palm sting.

“You were fucking right.” But she’s not sitting still: her hips grind down against his hard-on and a moan slips past her lips when she rubs just right against the fly of his pants.

“Da, I often am,” he chuckles against her neck, one hand squeezing her tit from underneath her shirt and the other gripping her hip. “What about this time?”

“I shouldn’t love a fucking piece of shit like Vladimir Ranskahov.” But her voice is soft, and there’s an uncertainty to it that makes Vlad smile as he sucks a hickey into her skin. He doesn’t usually mark his territory when it comes to women—after all, he hadn’t been with one for years before she came along, so unwilling to open up to others as he was—but he figures that this time he should. That if he sucks bruises into her skin, then maybe she’ll forget about the past couple of weeks; then maybe she’ll stop calling him a fucking piece of shit.

She pulls him out of his musings, palms on both sides of his face, and she cancels the space between them. The kiss is a clash of teeth and lips, and they’re both panting and groaning against each other, unaware that the delivery guy has been downstairs for the past three minutes, ringing the bell without getting as much as a peep in response. He’ll leave in four minutes, go back to his parents’ restaurants without money and with a box of cold food.

“He’s too stubborn for you, Solnyshko,” he agrees in a mumble, lips brushing against hers as his hands tug on the hem of her oversized t-shirt. “Should probably kick him in his balls.”

She chuckles breathlessly into his ear when he sucks on a mark he’s left earlier. “Sounds like the first thing I’ll do tomorrow morning.” She doesn’t say tonight she has better use for what’s between his legs, but it’s still right there, as clear as day, and Vlad finds himself bucking his hips up into hers, almost making her lose her balance as she pulls her t-shirt off in one fluid motion.

There’s a sharp inhale on his part before his mouth is on the column of her neck, lips kissing and tongue licking down her skin and onto her collarbones, fingertips pressing hard into the plush flesh of her ass as he pulls her lower body closer. And she’s moaning above him, hands in his hair, tousling it as she tugs on the strands when his lips wrap around a nipple and he gently scrapes the sensitive skin with his teeth.

“God— fuck—” She wriggles in his lap, inevitably grinding down against him, and he can feel himself throb in the confinement of his own clothes.

“Think I can make you come just by playing with your tits?” he wonders, looking up at her with a grin on his face just to find her with her head tilted backward, eyes closed and teeth biting into one corner of her lower lip to try and keep quiet.

He pulls on a nipple when she doesn’t answer and the sound she lets out is something halfway between a groan and a moan, and all he wants to do is rut into her to remind her he’s not just a piece of shit.

“I asked you question.”

She rolls her hips into his, slow and teasing this time, as she smirks down at him through half-lidded eyes and tugs on his hair hard enough to make him tilt his head back. “Maybe you should just shut up and try, Ranskahov.”

It gives him renewed purpose and after another messy kiss, he leans her back just enough to comfortably kiss and bite the skin of her chest. His left hand is splayed out on the middle of her back, supporting her, and the other is giving attention to the nipple his lips aren’t tending to.

Her hips start slowly rolling against his all over again, and he finds himself scooting forward with his ass a little so that she can grind down better—and he can feel her weight on him better. When his hand moves down her body and slips into the waistband of her panties, he finds her wet already, her arousal hot and sticky against the calluses of his fingertips.

“Fuck,” she gasps when his middle finger brushes against her clit just right and his mouth moves onto her other nipple. “Just make me come.”

She only rarely begs. Vladimir Ranskahov knows fully well how to be a dick, but they both also know that when it comes to her, he finds himself following orders more than he gives them.

He slips a finger inside her, massages the spongy front wall of her vagina with the pad of his finger the way he knows she likes it, and then bucks his hips up into her and against his own hand. The sensation makes her gasp again, and when he moves his mouth back onto her neck and her noises rise in volume, he knows she’s done for. Some more massaging her clit and she’s gone right in his lap, one hand in his hair and the other on his shoulder as she crests the waves of her orgasm, hips unable to stay still.

She’s hot to watch, and a sick part of him wonders what her expressions are like when she’s on some job of his, gathering intel for him. Does she fake it? Does she not even bother?

A slap to his other cheek brings him back to the here and now, and he pulls his finger out of her panties and makes her suck it clean.

“What was that one for?” He pouts—he finds he’s much more playful when he’s with her. It’s taken some time to get to this point, but now that he’s reached it, he can’t but think that he actually enjoys letting himself go with her; that he enjoys giving himself a break.

“Because I felt like it,” she shrugs as her fingers shake and fumble with the first buttons of his shirt. “And because you always make me fuck people just to then crawl back between my legs.”

“I don’t crawl,” he scoffs, sitting back and watching as she struggles to focus on her task at hand, her hips still absentmindedly rolling into his.

“Oh, yes, you do. You don’t need to make me a slut to have sex with me, you know?” And when she comes to terms with the fact that her brain is still half blissed-out, too much for her fingers to take care of those buttons, she tears his shirt open and sends the tiny culprits flying everywhere. “Although I still like it when you fuck me just right.” Both her words into his ear and her breasts pressing against his bare chest, her soaked core pressing right against him, make him groan low in his throat as he mock-bites the skin of her neck.

“Then go take fucking condom,” he encourages her as both of his hands slap down onto her butt cheeks. He’s so far gone now that he’s reverted back to Russian, and the mere thought of how she always feels around him is enough to make his lungs squeeze and his cock throb in anticipation in his now-too-tight pants.

It gets to a point where he just stands up and strides up to her just as she’s carefully tearing the condom wrap open.

“Quick, Solnyshko,” he mumbles in her ear, pressing into her back with a hand on her abdomen as he takes the rubber with the other.

When she turns around, she’s already smirking, hands trailing down to his belt to quickly unbuckle it. She unbuttons his pants and pulls the fly down, and all the while she never breaks eye contact. It drives him nuts. He wants to fuck her with her eyes open, struggling to remain open as he hits her deep enough to make her toes curl.

He bucks into her hand when she wraps her fingers around him to pull him out of his boxers and pants.

They’ll be fully naked later, now all they need is a quick fuck to get things going—and to get other things out of their systems.

Her last escapade.

His fucking stubbornness.

Her I love you and his You shouldn’t.

She chuckles when he picks her up, almost expecting to be dropped onto the couch instead of having her back meet the cold surface of the kitchen table. It makes her arch up into him, her knees hiking up higher and pressing into his sides as he presses his erection against her panties-covered core.

“I’ll eat you out later,” he promises, voice strained as his face hides into the crook of her neck before he presses his forehead on her sternum, right above her tits, and looks down between them to the way he gives his dick a slow tug.

He groans—at the sensation, at the sight, at the way her legs wrap around his waist and her fingers tug on his hair to pull his head back. To face him—and the already-gone look in his eyes. And the kiss-swollen lips, their chapped skin reddened by their previous make-out session.

Fuck—

But the thoughts die in his head and his words die on his lips when he pushes her panties to the side and slowly but steadily thrusts into her. He knows she can take it; knows the stretch makes her sight tingle.

She arches her back and into his chest and unbuttoned shirt the deeper he goes, and when he’s finally flush against her, she lets out a whimper that trembles against his lips when he leans back down. Her grip on him is like a vice, almost makes his eyes cross with the way her walls are gently spasming around his girth.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles against her lips before his hips pull back. His lips meet hers in a kiss and although he’s on top, she’s the one holding the reins of the kiss—only broken momentarily when his hips slam back into her and her neck arches, head pressing into the clean surface of the table, and a groan tears its way up her throat.

He wants to fuck his way to its back as well, he thinks in the spur of the moment, after he gives her nipple a suck before standing up straight.

Hands on the plush of her hips, his momentum picks up. The muscles in his legs contract. His head tilts back for a moment before that one gasped-out moan of hers brings his focus back on her.

Her right hand is squeezing her right breast, and the fingers of her left are toying with the nipple of the other. Her hips try to buck against his, to follow and match his rhythm, but his hold on her is too strong and all she can do is lie there, with the edge of the table almost digging into her low back, as the table squeaks and moves under the assault of Vlad’s deep thrusts.

His rhythm is unhurried, albeit not slow, and the way she’s looking—or trying to, eyes too heavy to not droop—at him makes him wish he were able to fuck her like this for the rest of his life. Probably not as long a time as some would like, but he’s always been here for a fun time, not a long one.

The possibility of her neighbors coming to knock on the door to demand they lower the volume—like they did the last many times Vlad’s fucked her silly in her apartment—doesn’t even cross his mind. Nor does it hers.

He pulls on her panties so hard the lace on one side tears, and now his access to her clit is not hindered by some flimsy piece of cloth anymore. His thumb comes down on it, and with a gasp, one of her hands shoots out to grab a hold of his wrist when he starts drawing circles on her clit.

She clenches around him, breathless, and the fingers of his left hand dig deeper into her thigh as he hooks it up a little higher, leans forward a little more, and he’s hitting her sweet spots just right—so right her grip around him makes his eyes squeeze shut, a focused frown settling between his eyebrows. His mind goes silent, and for the next few minutes all he can hear is the pleasure she’s moaning into his cheek and he into hers, and the squeaking and sliding of the table legs against the tile floor.

She goes silent when she comes, head thrown back and breasts pressed into his chest, and all Vlad manages is a quick glance to where he’s still thrusting in and out of her, the buckle of his belt biting into her thighs, before he comes into the safety of his condom. And for a couple of minutes he just can’t stop those sloppy and non-rhythmic thrusts as she whimpers her overstimulation against his lips, clouded eyes looking into his as her manicured nails almost draw blood on his back, underneath his suit shirt.

For a moment the masochist part of his brain thinks that if he gave her the chance to actually love him, then maybe he wouldn’t even mind finding out how deep those fingers can scratch as he rearranges her guts. The heartbeat later, however, he’s pulling out of her, one hand securing the condom to the base of his dick as he shushes her hiss with a sloppy kiss to her cheek.

He stands there for a moment then, doing his best to catch his breath as his eyes lock in between her spread legs.

“You came all over the floor,” he hums, swiping two fingers upward between her labia before pushing them into her pussy. He’s much gentler now—he always allows himself to be when her heart beats crazy wild in her chest and she’s panting in exertion.

“I thought you’d break the table,” she chuckles breathlessly, lifting her head for a moment to look at him standing there, surprisingly half-hard again in his fist.

“I don’t need a table to eat in your house when I can drink coffee and vodka standing,” he shrugs, pulling her up slightly into a kiss. “And when I have something else—” he adds while tapping his cock against her entrance— “to eat out.”

Her hum turns into a chuckle. Her breath tickles the back of his ear when she teases his earlobe. “Living off of caffeine, alcohol, and pussy—I wonder how you reached this age.”

It’s not a common occurrence, but Vladimir Ranskahov does know how to laugh. And he laughs now, as he picks her up, wraps her legs around his waist, and gives her ass a hard slap that makes her squeak. “Careful when you tease the boss,” he teases, mock-biting the sensitive skin in the crook of her neck as he walks her to her bedroom.

She laughs at that—they both know she only needs a boss on paper. “Maybe I should teach you a lesson or two.” Her lips press a kiss against his neck before she sucks a mark into his skin, just in time before he drops her onto her undone bed.

“Someone thinks she’s cheeky,” he muses, grabbing her ankles and pulling her closer to him, still standing at the foot of the bed.

“She also thinks you’re overdressed,” she nods her head once, looking him up and down with an amused smirk on her face.

He pretends to think for a moment, giving her a slow once-over with an amused expression somehow etched into his features. “And here I thought I had fucked all thoughts out of her…”

A shrug on her part. “Whoops, try again I guess. I think I fucked old men that did it better…”

It makes him laugh, and for a minute he’s too lost in the moment to realize she’s tugging his pants and boxers down.

“What are you laughing at?” she complains, pushing herself up on her knees to grab him by the collar of his shirt. “The things you do for your boss…”

His smile is apologetic when he stops her from shaking her head by taking her face in his hands. He presses a kiss to her pursed lips and it catches her off-guard, makes the air puff out of her nose and against the skin of his face. Her hands slip from the collar of his shirt to his pecs, thumbs brushing against his sternum before a hand trails up his neck and cups the back of his head.

“I’m sorry about that,” he murmurs against her lips some minutes later. “That was the last one.”

She hums before sliding her hands underneath his shirt to prompt him to take it off. “Now get out of this and ‘fuck all thoughts out of me’,” she teases, parting from him to lie back down in the middle of her bed.

He’s like a hawk, keeping his eyes on her every move as he bunches up his shirt and throws it to the side. Her legs are spread open and her hand is teasing between them, fingers sliding through the slickness at her entrance before reaching up for her clit and then back down, a couple of times, before a finger disappears inside her.

“I don’t remember saying you could touch yourself.” He crawls up her body, lips and teeth teasing along her skin. When his erection bumps against the back of her hand, there’s no holding back that low groan and the slight thrust forward of his hips.

She grins, and before he has the chance to pick up on what’s going on, he’s lying flat on his back with her straddling him, the underside of his cock resting snugly between her labia.

“And I don’t remember the last time I followed your orders outside of work hours,” she whispers in his ear, her lips nothing but a feather-like touch against his skin as she rolls her hips against him. It makes her moan and his eyes roll back in his head for a moment, his hands an iron grip on the back of her thighs.

“Smartass,” he bites back, punctuating his switch back to Russian with a two-hand slap on her ass. It’s something he enjoys—slapping her ass, watching it jiggle as the harsh impact of the skin-to-skin tears breathy gasps and moans from her lips. “Always fighting back.” He gives her backside a squeeze that’s anything but gentle—but he knows he can go a little rough on her without hurting her. It’s probably what made him fall for her in the first place. And she probably enjoys a bit of manhandling as well, seeing how—without fail—it makes another moan slip from her lips and in-between his, eyes full of surprise staring right into his.

But then she smirks, plants her hands on his chest to pull herself up into a sitting position, a finger tracing the underside of his cock’s head. A shiver runs down his spine, countless spider legs tickling their way to his very core.

“You love it, though,” is her reply, a smug smile stretching on her lips as she shifts her weight on her knees to raise herself up, her hand wrapped around the base of his reddened dick, before sliding down on it. “That’s the reason why you’re always coming back to me.”

She doesn’t move at first, and he watches as she simply sits there, stretched open by his cock. It’s a sight he loves—his eyes just zero in on where they’re connected, on the skin of his pelvis glistening in her previous orgasm. And all he can focus on is the way she feels around him, and he deep inside her—all snug and hot, and he just wants to buck his hips up into her, make her lose her balance, and then fuck her just right one more time. On this bed, and then on the couch, and for good measure, one last time in the shower, so that he can pump the memory of a wrinkly-old man out of her and he can pretend like that’s enough a way to apologize to her—and not just for the fact that he sometimes makes her open her legs for people she’d rather keep them closed for.

But then her knuckles press down into a bruise he has on the side of his chest, and he can only wince.

“What happened here?”

“I had a meet-cute mo—” but then he groans when she interrupts him by pressing down on that tender and sore spot, her not-so-gentle way of interrupting him and cutting his shit short. “A ‘client’ pissed me off and Serzh helped me with it.”

She shakes her head, and when his hands travel up her sides and his thumbs brush the underside of her tits, she swats them away, the movement making her momentarily clench down around him harder.

“I should really hook you up with a therapist for your goddamn anger issues.”

“Hey!” He bucks his hips up this time, and the action catches her off-guard, makes her close her eyes and let out a whiny moan as she grinds back and forward against him a couple of times. “Mudak deserved it. My anger is perfectly under check.”

Her only reaction to that is a quirked eyebrow as she stares down at him, hips still slightly and slowly undulating against his pelvis. He knows what she’s doing—feels her body’s response to her rubbing her clit just right from right inside her, and that knowledge makes him throb.

“I saw you leash out at Vanya because he misplaced a wrench, so I’m not really sure about that.”

“Vanya’s always misplacing shit.”

“Not good enough a reason to give him a black eye and a bloody nose.”

He scoffs. “He has nothing to complain about when he had you nursing him. Dumb kid still wanna have you.”

A chuckle—and then a deeper roll of her hips that cuts her breath short. “So were you mad at him because of a stupid wrench or because he wants to dick me down?”

He grits his teeth; it’s clear to him now that she can see right through him. Maybe she’s always been able to; maybe that’s why he started going after her since day one, and why he’s never stopped ever since. Maybe that’s why he told her she shouldn’t love him, because then he’d have no way to hide his secrets.

“Oh.” Her smirk makes him press his fingertips harder into her thighs, his blunt nails just barely pressing crescent moon shapes into their flesh. “It’s the dicking-me-down part, then. Big, bad boss can’t stand anyone looking at the woman he wants all to himself. What a peculiar way to let her know he’s the only one who can fuck her when he whores her out to the first motherfucker he wants to rob naked.”

Her way of punctuating her reasoning is by lifting herself up and then slamming herself back down, making pleasure shoot its way up both their spines. Her head tilts back in the heat of the moment, so she misses the way he looks at her—her expression and her body and the way her tits jiggle with her movement—and he’s all wolfish and hungry—and a bit mad that she truly does see right through his dumb-ass schemes.

“Maybe I should fuck Vanya as well, just to see how he does it. See if he can fuck me better than said boss.” A moan slips past her lips when the fingers of a hand start teasing a nipple and those of the other move down to her clit. Her walls flutter around him, and although all movement on her part is reduced back to that slow undulation of her hips rubbing against his, it still robs his mind of any thought.

“You wouldn’t—”

“I know for a fact even Seriozha would be down to do me.” If that’s retaliation for his mistakes, then he doesn’t want it. But Vlad still doesn’t dare move, for he knows she’s the one calling the shots right now and if she wants to leave him there alone and with his dick hard, she’ll have no problems tying him to the headboard and do just that.

So he grits his teeth, his hands giving a short pull on her thighs. He’s still her boss after all. Revenge or no revenge, he can still make her limp tomorrow morning. “Watch it, Solnyshko.”

“Oh, what’s up, big boy?” She bounces on his lap once, hands on both breasts almost as a way to keep her balance. “You’re not mine and I’m not yours, after all, no? Why so pissy if I go for one of your friends?”

Throwing his caution to the wind, he leaves another slap on her ass. Its skin is now reddened and a bit sore, and the spank makes her gasp out a moan as she starts moving slowly, lifting herself up just a few inches before coming back down and repeating the movement.

“You are mine,” he replies, bucking his hips up as one hand crawls its way up to the base of her throat. He just leaves it there—a reminder for her of how he can turn the tables and still make her feel good. “I’m the one fucking you.”

“Oh, is that so?” She tuts at him, a hand moving over his as she leans forward a bit to make it cover the front of her throat. “Surely doesn’t look like it right now. Maybe I should fuck the stupidity out of you; remind you that you are mine.”

He smirks, briefly pressing his fingertips into the sides of her neck. “And yet, you’re still talking about other men when it’s my cock the one that’s buried deep inside you.” He gives another thrust up into her. “C’mon, kitty, get your claws out.”

It’s like a challenge; it sets off something in her brain and puts an end to her endless teasing. And—Vlad thinks—it is about time. Cumming inside her without her even moving—like a fucking teenager—is not something he enjoys that much doing.

So, he lets her fuck him. She bounces on his dick, moans getting more and more breathless the more his dick drags along all her sweet spots, and he loses himself in the sight and sounds of her. His hands on her hips help her in her movements, and the more she fucks herself on him—spurred on by his grunts and hushed praises that never fail to get to her—the closer he pushes her towards her orgasm.

When he leans up to suck on one of her nipples, she clenches hard around him and as she whimpers loud above him, his eyes cross and close. He sucks a bite into the side of her breast—teeth and lips unforgiving as he marks her as his—and the volume of her ecstasy rises even more. It drives him the best kind of nuts, but he still grabs the back of her neck and pulls her down in a bruising kiss, teeth gently nibbling her lower lip as he looks into her drooping eyes.

“Shh, sexy,” he murmurs, bucking up into her despite knowing it will only have her to go louder. “Wouldn’t want to wake the neighbors up.” He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about her neighbors waking up to his cock buried so deep inside her it’s pulling her sanity out of every fiber of her being, but he does enjoy the sight of her as she tries to do as he says. Much for not following his orders when she’s not working—but he doesn’t point that out; he never does; he knows she has him wrapped around her finger—or pussy around his cock, right now—and he doesn’t mind that one bit.

“Vova.” It’s whimpered right against his lips—the first time she’s called him Vova in almost three weeks, although it almost feels like three thousand years.

Her movement loses momentum the closer she gets to the knot in her belly snapping, and he coos at her, hips picking up his speed as he pulls her closer. He hugs her against him, chests so close he can almost feel her heart race against his chest. And focusing on not orgasming right here and now is hard when she’s moaning his name like a prayer right into his ear.

“I know,” he groans when she calls his name again—a drawled out Vova that dies into nothing before the last sound, her voice almost hiccupping in the back of her throat when the head of his cock hits that one spot inside her that always makes her see entire galaxies. “I can feel you,” he goes on, one hand coming down hard on her ass again. She jolts in his arms, voice going up again as she tries to wriggle her way away from him, panting into his sweaty skin and the fresh hickey on the side of his neck. “I want to feel you come.”

She struggles with her breath—groans and grunts and whimpers, and it all tugs on the right strings inside him. And the sound of his hips slapping against her is loud in the room, and he can feel the way she’s clenching down on him and the way his balls seem to grow heavier. And hear the way the only thing she’s able to say is his name, moaned so many times he could almost feel it sink into his skin.

“With me,” she manages to breathe out against his earlobe, “please.”

But he doesn’t want to come yet; he knows she has another one in herself, and he can hold this one orgasm of his back just long enough to pull a third one out of her. So he promises her, “next one,” his hips not once relenting their drilling.

He barely hears the sound of someone knocking on a door, but then she’s coming apart right there in his arms and he’s sure he must have misheard.

His thrusts slow down—the rhythm just enough to ride her orgasm out but not enough to stop completely. And with them, her moans and whimpers quieten down as well. They don’t go silent, but they still tickle his skin. Her saliva trickles down the crook of his neck, where she almost bit down in an attempt not to be too loud, before she sobs his name once more.

“One more I promised,” he grins, although his voice is strained when he pulls out of her.

She gasps out a no and a yes and a please, body and mind at war against overstimulation as he maneuvers her to kneel on her bed, head down and ass up right at his hip level.

He knees her legs apart, pulls her hips up when she almost collapses back onto the mattress, and trails middle and ring finger of a hand right between her folds and the messy slickness of her arousal.

“Can you do that for me?” He knows she can—they’ve gone for longer than this in the past—but he still always asks.

The skin of her back breaks out into gooseflesh when he teases her entrance with his cock as he slides it between her lips. Her breath shudders and her legs trembles, and he almost misses the way she weakly nods her head.

“Yes,” she groans when he taps his dick against her to catch her attention. He’s okay with her nodding when they haven’t fought, but when things aren’t as peachy, he’ll only take words from her. “Please, one more.”

He briefly catches sight of the alarm clock on her bedside table, barely comprehends how it’s nearing half-past one on a morning he has to show up at the garage at five. But then he’s sheathing himself into her heat again and everything else loses meaning when her walls wrap him in a vice that forces his eyes closed shut.

“Fuck,” is what he manages to choke out, hands tightening their grip on her hips, bruising her skin.

It surprises him, the way she grinds herself against him despite the fact that she’s spent, body still shivering and head completely empty if not for the way he makes her feel. Pissed off and angry at times, he’s sure, but also stretched full right now, with the remnants of her orgasms still tickling her skin.

And when he pulls his hips back and slams back into her, he can hear the exhaustion in her whimpers. Pleasure and overstimulation mix together as he keeps on fucking her, rutting into her from behind as he’s trying to get a grip on himself despite how close he is to his finish line and how tight his balls somehow feel.

Her moans are jumbled-together nonsense, or that’s how they fall on Vladimir’s ears when he bends forward over her, one hand moving from her hip to her clit.

The only thing he can consciously pick up on is her strangled-out “Vlad—” as she chokes on a moan, flames of pleasure rekindling deep inside her core as he fucks her and circles her clit.

He wants to tell her he’s right there behind her—literally and metaphorically—but all words die on his tongue with the way her walls convulse around him. Fighting with her is not something he enjoys, although you’ll never catch him saying that out loud, but he does enjoy the sex that comes after that. His eyes squeeze shut and there are sparks going off behind his closed eyelids, and he can barely feel the frown of concentration between his brows when he tries his best to come at the same time as she.

“No more shit after this,” he somehow manages to grunt out into her ear when he pulls her up on her knees, her back pressed flush against his chest. His right hand is on her throat, arm lodged between her tits as the other’s wrapped tightly around her waist.

The nodding of her head is unexpectedly vigorous, and for a brief moment he wonders if she understood what he said or if his words sounded just like nonsense moaned out in the spur of the moment.

“C’mon, I want you to come with me.”

He can’t hold out much longer. His head is quickly emptying, and he can feel the first licks of his orgasm creeping up on him. One of her hands comes up to cover the one he has firmly planted on her throat, turning her moans a bit breathless, when the rhythm of his fingers on her clit picks up.

She’s back with her head on the mattress when he can’t keep her up any longer, and his face hides in the crook of her neck, mouth alternating between sucking some more lovebites and licking over them and her sweaty skin.

Both his grunts and her moans rise in volume, and then everything seems to go silent when the band snaps and he comes with a badly contained cry. He’s not even fully aware of his hips still thrusting into her when he starts coming back to his senses, nor is he of her whimpers, nor of the way he’s basically lying on her.

It takes him a while before he can trust his legs not to fail him when he pulls out of her—both of them groaning in sync—and then sits back on his haunches.

“You made a mess on the sheets,” he pants, rolling the rubber off his cock before tying it close and letting it drop on the floor.

She grunts a complaint in response but then, when his fingers tease her fucked-out cunt, she squeaks, “Dick.”

“Yeah, my dick did that,” he grins, not even hiding the pride bubbling up in his chest at the way her pussy and his pelvis glisten in her release.

The knocking on the door registers in his ears, then, and he becomes aware of the fact that they’re knocking on her door. He doesn’t have it in himself to give a fuck, but he also wants them fucking gone—wants to bask in his post-orgasmic bliss and maybe have her cockwarm him as they both fall asleep. So, he stands up and walks out of the door.

He doesn’t answer when she calls his name, exhaustion clearly laced in her voice. The whimper that follows makes him smirk, though—a sign that she’s probably turned around to see where the hell he is going and to understand how the fuck he is still standing on his legs after all that fucking.

His hands automatically grab the packet of cigarettes from the counter as he passes by it, and on the way to the door, he picks out a cig and the lighter before throwing the packet back on the table he fucked on earlier.

The door swings open and as he stands there, unbothered, he lights himself his cigarette.

“— fucking two in the goddamn morning. There are children trying to sleep and—”

The couple at the door shut up when they take in Vladimir’s appearance—nothing on his body, he’s simply sporting his birthday suit and a cock so stubborn it’s trying to get hard again. He doesn’t think he has another round in himself, but the neighbors don’t know that.

“And?” he asks, puffing out smoke as he stares them down. “Let kids sleep. How is that my problem?”

The man grits his teeth, but the wife’s eyes wander over his tattoos and then down his chest, following the V-line of his hips until it reaches what’s between his legs.

“You’re being too loud.”

“I ask again.” He takes a step forward, unbothered as he now stands in the corridor of their floor. “How is that my problem?”

“You should keep it down.” The dude has some balls, stupidly enough—Vlad owes him that much, although he never owes anyone shit if they’re not his woman.

He pretends to think about it as he smokes his cigarette to its end, unhurried, almost as though he has all the time in the world to stand right there, butt naked, with the eyes of someone else’s wife glued to his cock.

“Okay,” he huffs at the end, turning around with his cigarette butt still between his fingers. “Let me apologize for annoyance.”

He presses the cigarette butt into the ashtray on the coffee table and fishes a hand underneath his suit jacket. When he comes back to the door, he has a gun in his hand and he makes sure the mudak takes in its sight.

“Go to sleep,” he says, voice flat and tense. “Or neighbors fucking will be least of your problems.”

The door clicks shut and he turns around with a grin on his lips, walks back to the couch and puts his gun back into its holster.

“What the fuck?” She’s standing in the doorway, matching him in her birthday suit, a hand on the wall keeping herself up. “D’you want me evicted?”

He shrugs. “There’s bed at my place, too,” he replies, walking up to her and pulling her closer by her hips. She stumbles forward, but he definitely doesn’t mind her stumbling into him. “Big enough for both of us. And I don’t have neighbors.”

There’s a frown on her face when she pulls her head back and stares at him. But there’s also a smirk growing on her lips as her hands interlace behind his neck. “You’re a dick,” she chuckles.

“I have big one, too. Fucked you so well earlier you can’t even stand without support.” He nips the skin of her neck, a hand trailing up her back and the other reclaiming its rightful place on her asscheek with a squeeze.

“First you tell me I shouldn’t love you, then you imply asking me to move in with you,” she shakes her head, amused. Probably still salty about the way he turned her down that night, but she still lets him kiss her breath away now, so Vlad figures life’s not going that bad.

“Maybe I figured a thing or two out,” he mumbles with a shrug of his shoulders.

“You?” Her cackle makes him smile—a genuine smile, one that tugs at the corners of his mouth just as much as it does his heart. “Didn’t know you had something behind those blue eyes.”

“Watch it,” he teases, making her walk backward and toward her bedroom. “Or I might have to teach you who you belong to one more time.”

“Such a gentleman.” The smile doesn’t leave her lips, but it does falter for a second when he picks her up suddenly and she squeaks, the sound drowned out by the slamming shut of the door.

Fuck the neighbors, he seems to imply.

“Always,” he replies instead, sucking on the tender skin of her neck when he lays her down on the mattress.

“I love you,” she says in a sigh, a hand coming up to tame his post-sex hair. “I don’t care if I should or not.”

He presses a kiss to her lips and for a moment he allows himself to close his eyes. “I know. I wouldn’t ask you to move in if I didn’t love you, too.”

She grins, hands pressing into the muscles of his back and shoulders before they take his face between them. “Oh? I don’t remember you asking me.”

He scoffs against her lips before sucking on her lower lip. “Maybe I truly should teach you another lesson,” he muses, more to himself than to her. But then he pulls up on his elbows and nuzzles his face in the crook of her neck. “What would you say to that?”

“Yes,” she says in a heartbeat. “But I wanna hear you say you love me one more time.”

He laughs at that, but then he tells her. And he shows her. In fact, he spends the rest of the night showing her. And the next morning her neighbors won’t be the only ones they’ll hear complaints from.

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regrettablewritings · 7 years

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All the Write Words, Pt.V (Library AU!Vladimir Ranskahov x Reader)

Prologue Part I Part II Part III Part IV

Since his humiliating secret had nearly been caught by his brother, Vladimir made it a goal to work on his assignments once he was in the privacy of his room in the apartment he shared (read: took up residency as it was under Anatoly’s name alone). The problem with this could mostly be traced back to the fact that he and Anatoly tended to work late often or wind up heading out for drinks with the rest of the men at the end of a particularly uneventful or sometimes stressful shift. Either way, Vladimir’s pre-homework ritual would include him scrambling to do his work or mentally groaning that he had waited until last minute to do it. It reminded him way too much of his school days and he wished he could avoid those as often as possible but alas, no prevail. To be honest, the only thing keeping him from giving up altogether was his pride: the pride he managed to grasp and maintain as a man who was never afraid to back away from a fight. He especially refused to back away from the fight currently being presented by some 5′2″ poofy-haired pipsqueak who willingly dressed like a bum.

To be perfectly honest, however, there was another reason Vladimir kept doing the work even when he was often too tired or feeling too drunk to really want to try. And he discovered it the very next day he was due to work at the library, right after the occurrence with Anatoly in the office.

“ – like so,” (Y/N) chirped. Vladimir gave an obligatory hum of understanding when in reality he couldn’t care less. (Y/N) was showing him how to set up the Kid’s Corner for whenever the library was hosting a storyteller’s visit. The storyteller wasn’t scheduled for another week but today had been particularly slow enough for (Y/N) to decide that Vladimir needed to know the very minor ropes. Personally, Vladimir couldn’t comprehend why it mattered which way he did it: preparations for storyteller time just meant dragging a large, worn velvet seat (the kind you saw in old movies where an old man would blabber on from), placing it by the large tree-shaped bookshelf (“Atmosphere,” was all [Y/N] explained), and surrounded it with numerous seats and beanbag chairs for the snot-nosed little brats to plop their asses in.

Then you had to set up a table nearby and fill it with some juice boxes and granola bars but the rest of its contents were totally up to the idiotic soccer moms who thought their kid should only ingest organic snickerdoodles or some crap. This last part, of course, was seen through Vladimir’s point of view but (Y/N) more or less hinted that that was what was to be expected. But then, every thought of Vladimir’s seemed to go in a similar fashion: filled with boredom, disgust, anything and everything exhibited by a king forced to interact with such squalor. It was for this that hearing (Y/N) suggest they look over his first workbook assignment came as a split-second blessing; emphasis on the split-second.

A small grim feeling bubbled in the man’s gut as they reached their usual spot in the faculty lounge. Vladimir had never been a good student. Even when he was surrounded by his more approval-seeking classmates as a small child, the blond’s mind would wander elsewhere – any elsewhere, really, so long as it wasn’t in school. He had the potential, or so he had been told. But it just never set in well with him. Maybe he found it too boring, maybe the teaching methods didn’t suit him? Whatever it was, nobody ever found out and soon enough, nobody cared to. Not when they had Anatoly to depend upon.

“Oh, my little Tolya,” their mother would coo. “Such wonderful marks”, “Such lovely diction”, “My son could write the next opera if he so wished it”, blahblahblah. Anatoly never was forced to sit in a dusty old library and learn how to read like a stupid child. Anatoly never had to hand to any of his teachers a colorful workbook made for small children because that was the easiest he could read. Anatoly ‘s teachers didn’t look at his work the way (Y/N) looked at his. Anatoly’s teachers never hummed like that, grabbed a red pen, and made that many check marks alongside circles –

Wait. Vladimir’s brows furrowed, for once out of confusion rather than dismay. Did he see that right. A small smile grew between (Y/N)’s cheeks and it made Vladimir’s stomach unsure of what to do; his teachers never smiled at him whether he failed or he did decently on his work but then (Y/N) could’ve been more openly sadistic. When she turned the quickly-graded sheet towards him, he tried to make sense of what was making the little demon smile. With her red pen, (Y/N) had made five checkmarks, coupled with a few choice circles. The circles were always on letters that looked alike (facing a certain direction or tails in the wrong place). Was that a good thing?

His muddled mental state translated to his physical state undoubtedly. It made (Y/N) smile even more.

“The checks are good, circles are things that need work,” she explained. That was all Vladimir needed for his brows to become unknitted and raise ever so slightly. There were no bones about it: There were slightly more checkmarks than there were scribbled circles. He . . . did okay?

“You did great, especially for your first time!” (Y/N) beamed. She got up from her chair at the circular table and stood by the taller being. Vladimir felt a small hand give him gentle, pleased pats on his back. “I’m proud of you!” And that did it.

Immediately Vladimir tensed up. “Proud”? But . . . But that term was for Anatoly. “I’m proud of you” was never directed at Vladimir. Usually, it was Anatoly raking in the praise and approval. Even during their rougher years when the eldest Ranskahov brother accompanied the younger on heists and trades, Anatoly seemed to get somewhat less of a scolding than Vladimir himself. It felt wrong, it felt strange, it felt completely misplaced, it felt . . . good. And it felt completely different than the feeling of being proud of oneself as he had become accustomed to.

Like a tickling in the heart. Or soul. Somewhere inside that Vladimir hadn’t acknowledged or brought up the existence of in ages if ever. It was during the slight daze of slight shock from the words that Vladimir began to recognize another feeling pride came with: his face felt like it was burning. It felt tightened, like the skin was being both tugged and squished together all at once.

“Uh . . . You okay there, Vlad? You’ve been awfully sil – Oh! You’re blush – You know what? You want a cold cup of water?” And just like that, the small, warm presence of a hand that Vladimir forgot was even there vanished. It was replaced with a small coldness near the small of his back.

He glanced up at (Y/N) to see her pulling a dixie cup from a dispenser on the cooler. Surely she had some idea of what she’d just done? But judging by the coy, closed-mouthed smile she wore when she handed him the cool-down cup, she had no idea. And for once, Vladimir trusted that that’s what one of her smiles actually meant.

It had been about a week or so since Vladimir’s first fix of approval. Seven days or so that had gained some peculiar hybrid existence as both agonizing yet brief. Not quite schoolesque, not quite relieving. His eagerness for the approval-fix had become quite a motivator, if he would allow himself one moment away from the denial of just how much he was working for it. He still certainly made more of an effort to do his assignments at home. And while he groaned at the workload (Y/N) would assign him four times a week, he found himself more surprised at how often he waited for that moment where (Y/N) would pull a pen out of her pocket (or curls), give the occasional hum, make a mark or circle here and there, and say those words: “Good job!” or “I’m proud!”

The assignments where he had fewer checkmarks than circles would be initially met with disdain and slight, licking flames of anger. At any other point in his life, he would have probably thrown a temper tantrum worthy of the five year-old that may or may not have inhabited his mind and body. But by the time Vladimir would reach home and the sanctity of his bed, the flames would give way to tamed fire, ready to fuel his determination to do better and prove himself capable. It was a rush in all kinds of ways.

It had become slightly easier to get Vladimir to do things as well, such as sitting him down to read. Which, to the staff of the S. Lee Library, was a trickle of a blessing at this point – it was storytelling day and the last thing anyone needed was for a bunch of nervous mothers to take one good look at the 6’, scarred Russian with the mug of a hellhound and immediately yank their child out of the building, calling off books that didn’t come from her tablet. Really, (Y/N) had confidence that Vladimir wouldn’t even care about people coming in enough to want to interact with them. But to be safe, she shoved a small pile of books into the man’s arms. Each one was rather thin and bore a seal with a funky-looking cat wearing a tall, striped hat. He was instructed to spend the next hour and a half reading them as (Y/N) manned the front desk (of course, he was to sit behind the desk so that she could assure he was actually reading and not slacking).

It was about an hour and a half, maybe two hours later and Vladimir was still slumped on the floor, book in hand, back against the counter. He had managed to finish three books already: one about the same cat with the striped hat making a mess of two children’s house; one about the ABCs; and one about a man who could make cow noises. That last one had a few words that puzzled Vladimir and he found himself surprised at feeling guilt for deciding to move on but for the most part, he felt accomplished.

He was just starting to read a story titled Hop on Pop when he heard that all too familiar giggle of (Y/N)’s, yanking him back to reality. But upon arriving back, Vladimir noticed that (Y/N) was no longer beside him. And the giggle came from somewhere else in the library. He faintly recalled (Y/N) saying something about going over to clean up after the storytelling hour.

As strange as (Y/N) was in his eyes, however, Vladimir highly doubted there was anything humorous to be found as one cleaned up empty dixie cups and sticky granola bar wrappers. And indeed, the Russian was right – because (Y/N) wasn’t laughing at cleaning, and she certainly wasn’t laughing alone. Upon rounding the corner, Vladimir found his mentor in the Kid’s Corner, sitting a small chair made for children, positioned next to a young man about her age who was sitting in the storyteller’s chair.

He had brownish-red hair combed in a lax manner that still managed to portray an air of certainty. It didn’t matter that his eyes were shielded behind a pair of strange, red, round-framed glasses; they were probably just as warm and welcoming as the smile he wore. Basically, he was everything Vladimir wasn’t: closer in age to (Y/N), warm, and smiling. Vladimir had to seriously consider whether or not to throw up in order to catch (Y/N)’s attention.

Fortunately for the carpet, he didn’t have to; the brunette stopped laughing and turned to his general direction.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Were we being too loud? I understand that it’s a library, quite unprofessional . . .” Vladimir’s eye twitched slightly. His voice was low and warm. Like hot cider. Was every person who stepped into this goddamn place so pleasant and gushy? It was at this point that (Y/N) finally managed to stop laughing and turned her attention to her protégé.

“Oh, hey, Vladimir! I was wondering if you’d ever drop by,” (Y/N) smiled. “Hey, look, most of the kids’ mothers wouldn’t let them eat too much sugar or whatever so we got tons of leftover sugar cookies and chocolate chip granola – help yourself!” But Vladimir’s eyes remained fixed on the shades-wearing man before him. He wasn’t sure how to feel about him: part of him wanted to give his usual glare. “Oh, sorry, uh – Vlad, this is –”

“Matthew Murdock. Er, Matt. I’m not so much a formal person,” Matt said, offering his hand in Vladimir’s direction. However, it wasn’t as direct as it should have been. Vladimir wasn’t certain what to do besides inch closer to hesitantly take it. He did it only out of obligation and the knowledge that not doing so would summon a lecture from (Y/N) on rudeness. But that didn’t stop him from thinking: Maybe if this idiot would take off those stupid glasses, he could see. Must all Americans be so arrogant? Hell, why do peasants feel the need to be unnecessarily flashy?!

“Uh, I’m blind . . .” Matt threw in, as if he were reading Vladimir’s mind. It was only after he said that and when he pulled back that Vladimir noticed the white and red stick by the man’s side. Oh. Well.

“He’s real philanthropic, comes to read to the kids every so often. You know, when he isn’t abandoning us for that ‘big lawyer student life,’” (Y/N) beamed. But Vladimir was hearing none of what she was saying, only how she said it: That tone she used; it was shining, bright. That same gold-colored tone she used whenever she told Vladimir she was pleased with his work. Subconsciously, his fists balled and his jaw clenched. He didn’t like sharing golden things; no king should ever have to worry about sharing with a goddamn peasant.

“—and we specially order books in braille just for him and he reads, like, Harry Potter and all that good stuff in braille! It’s a great way to introduce diversity to the kids and teach them that anything is possible no matter what comes their way. Isn’t that great!” (Y/N) affectionately nudged Matt’s shoulder, earning a bashful, crooked smile from the man.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. I just like giving back to the community,” Matt insisted. “Hell’s Kitchen is a shit place but that doesn’t mean it always has to be. Besides,” he shrugged, “the kids seem to like the fact that their storyteller can’t see them and tell them to stop wiping their boogers on the carpet.” The snide comment earned yet another shared laugh. Just the two of them, of course. Vladimir shifted uncomfortably, fist flexing on and off. He didn’t like this. Shit was too weird and somewhat invasive somehow.

“Oh, hush, Matty, and just lemme praise you a bit,” (Y/N) cooed. It was that sentence that made Vladimir sharply inhale and tense. His mind began to fill with familiar sentences, all of which came in the form of his mother’s voice: “Hush, Anatoly, I must brag about your marks to Mrs. Romanova, she will be so jealous!” It was in Russian, of course, but pride knew no language barriers.

“And guess what!” (Y/N) almost seemed to vibrate in her chair, the excitement rolling off in waves. “Matt’s even offered to teach me some braille – for the heck of it! I mean, he ought to teach me for free . . .”

Matt waved his hand as if to ward off the indications. “Just think of it as a something from friend to friend.”

“So sweet,” the woman gushed. If her curls could project her emotions, they would have curled and bounced ecstatically. It unnerved Vladimir to hell and back.

“But man, Vlad, his fingers just move along the bumps so quickly! I doubt I’ll ever catch up, y’know?”

Matt’s crooked smile returned. If Vladimir were a different kind of person, he would have allowed himself to admit that it was a lovely smile. How fitting that a lovely smile would belong to a lovely-looking young man. “It just needs time and you need practice. Don’t feel bad about it. Hey, if it makes you feel any better, at least you’re not stuck with Punjabi like a certain someone we all know.”

The last part of the sentence was delivered slightly louder than at first and was quickly followed by a “Screw you, Matt!” being whisper-yelled by Foggy from a few aisles down. Matt and (Y/N) shared yet another laugh; Vladimir just clenched his teeth.

“Seriously, though, it’s not too hard. For example . . .” Vladimir watched in silence as he saw Matt take (Y/N)’s small, brown hand into his own larger one. He guided it to a bump-riddled page in the book on his lap. “There’s six potential dots per grid, so every letter is just a combination of those six dots. When I was a kid, I told myself that it’s just as important to feel for what isn’t there as it is for what isn’t.” (Y/N) nodded as she hung on to every word even though she knew Matt wouldn’t see it. Vladimir’s eyes narrowed, however. (Y/N) was a good student: comprehending, focused. A little too focused in his own opinion, though.

To get a better feel for it, (Y/N) closed her eyes. She allowed herself to become vulnerable and left completely at the mercy of her teacher. Matt appeared to appreciate and take the opportunity to guide her hand about the page, inspecting letters with every progression. Matt guided her hand upwards, Vladimir couldn’t help but notice that the gesture inherently made the woman inch closer. Their shoulders rubbed together. The further her hand was guided, the more she leaned in. And the more she leaned in, the more the underside of her breasts came close to brushing against Matt’s left hand, which was still sitting on his lap. Oh, hell no.

“So this dot in this corner? That means it’s an ‘M.’ And this one . . .” Once again, the blind man guided (Y/N)’s hand only this time they ventured downward. Under Vladimir’s unnerved and growing eyes, the woman’s little hand came too close for comfort to Matt’s groin.

“Judging by the positions, this is most definitely a ‘D.’” Oh, fuck that.

“And how long have you been learning?” Vladimir coughed. Matt and (Y/N) simultaneously stopped their little lesson and looked up at the Russian. (Y/N) could see him shuffling and thought nothing of it; she simply assumed that his presumed social awkwardness was the cause of his apparent discomfort. But Matt could hear the shifting; could hear the heartbeat behind it. There was something else and he knew it.

“Uh . . . We’ve had only had about two other lessons . . . Matt doesn’t come in too often, what with schooling and all. Well, they’re not lessons so much as him giving me pointers; it’s a work in progress sort of deal,” (Y/N) answered.

“Yes,” Matt pressed. He wanted to see where this would go. “And with further lessons, she’ll be just as good as me.” He threw in as innocent of a smirk as he could give. He could hear the grit of skin rubbing against each other in Vladimir’s balling fist.

“Well, she cannot,” Vladimir’s thick accent uttered. Matt’s smile faltered slightly but his eyebrows cocked in an almost taunting manner.

“I’m sorry. May I inquire why?”

“Because . . .” Vladimir’s mind frantically grabbed at air, grabbing at all the floating ideas and hoping for a winner. He found one. Unfortunately, it was only when he delivered the excuse that he realized his most grievous error: “Am going to teach Russian. And is time-consuming.”

Both (Y/N) and Matt wore surprised expressions. (Y/N)’s was because she was excited. She was finally breaking through, he was becoming more comfortable with her, and he was going to teach her Russian – triple whammy!

But Matt’s was out of something completely different: the fact that judging by Vladimir’s palpitations, this claim was the truth.

#i didn't feel like editing this #can you tell?#vladimir ranskahov x reader #vladimir ranskahov imagine #vladimir ranskahov imagines #daredevil imagine #daredevil imagines #all the write words #regrettablewritings

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