Mona Reading Suna - Tumblr Posts

tags: pls look away, inspired by this art by @/iinoruu, yakuza!suna/escort!reader

The first thing you recognize as you stir from the loosening grip of slumber is that your body hurts.

An ache, tender and warm, has rooted itself deep in your muscles. Your back. Your thighs. Your hips. Just rolling over under the soft cotton sheets exacerbates the pain, makes it throb a little hotter underneath your skin.

The second thing you recognize is the familiar smell of smoke.

"You should quit, y'know."

At the window of the hotel room, Suna stands. He's half-dressed now, silhouetted by the breaking day beyond the pane of glass beside him, his trousers on but his button-up still unbuttoned—it leaves just the faintest curl of the ink that spans his arm and his back on display, a sliver of black swirling next to the divot of his collarbone, as well as the design that spans the column of his throat. He looks at you with the burning cigarette still held to his lips, and you watch as the cherry flares brighter on his inhale.

You're not supposed to smoke here. Not in a hotel this nice. But you doubt anyone will be complaining to him, or will even say anything at all, given his particular influence and his reputation in his line of work.

"I should?" he replies in his usual low tone. The corner of his mouth is ever so slightly turned up, and a wisp of smoke rushes out along with his question.

He pauses for a moment, and then stamps the mostly-unfinished cigarette out in the ashtray on the table in front of him—where it came from in a room you're not supposed to smoke in to begin with, you can't be completely sure.

You push yourself up in bed, wincing at the pain such a simple movement causes. You rub at your eyes a little, still bleary from sleep. "It's bad for you."

Suna hums.

"I didn't realize you cared."

You bite your tongue from letting a comment slip out that could get you into trouble. Instead, you flop back down into the embrace of soft cotton and feathers that the plush hotel bed provides.

"Do what you want, then," you say quietly.

He's good at that, after all.

"What I want?" you hear him ask, and let your head loll to the side against the pillows just in time to see him approach the bed. His movements are slow, unhurried—like a predator as it stalks in the night.

You don't offer him any substantial reply, just a breathy, affirmative sound.

You're lucky to have this job. Lucky to be the one that Suna Rintarou calls for so often. Of all the girls that work at the club, you seem to be the only one that's caught his eye as of late. You know that if you do something to mess that up it might cost you more than just the thick stack of crisp bills you leave the hotel with a few times a week.

You've never been the most successful girl at the club, nor the least. Your performance and popularity has always been relatively middling, comparatively unremarkable. You're not bad at the job by any means, you know what to say and do, the line you have to walk, the fantasy you have to satisfy when duty calls.

Lately that line has proven harder to toe with him.

Suna kneels at the edge of the wide mattress, leaning across the bed towards you. His shirt falls open as he angles his body nearer to your own, revealing more of the tattoo that's etched into his skin. It's always a stark, indelible reminder of just who and what he is.

"It's pretty bold of you to assume to know the things I want," he murmurs, holding himself over you on one of his arms. His other reaches down to the top of the sheet that covers you, peeling it gently away to reveal your skin.

On instinct, you grab for it, rushing to cover yourself. You realize quickly it's not your place to hide yourself from him, that it's not what he pays you for, and you let your grip on the sheet slacken, looking away as a shameful heat crawls up your throat.

He doesn't try to pull the blanket away again.

"You woke up too early," he says quietly, still hovering over you. "You should sleep, you're still sore."

You watch as his eyes trace your face in the dim light of the hotel room.

"Are you leaving?" you ask.

That same little smile appears, lifting the edge of his lips ever so slightly. This expression always confuses you, though he makes it often. There's no real joy behind it, it's a drier, almost sardonic twist of his mouth, like he knows something you don't.

"Work," he says, though he owes you of all people no explanation. "I'll leave the cash on the table by the door as usual, I won't short you for any of your time."

You nod slightly. You hadn't been thinking about payment at all.

The corner of Suna's nose twitches. It's a movement so slight that if you weren't so terribly close you might not notice it at all. There's something behind his perpetually heavy-lidded eyes that makes you nervous.

His hand, the one that had just reached for the blanket, comes up to cup your cheek. You can still detect the scent of tobacco that clings to his skin, and you've never liked the smell but for some reason you don't mind it so much anymore. He dips down, your cheek cradled in his palm, and slots his mouth against yours.

His kiss isn't innocent—no one kisses a whore chastely—but there's something about the way he's holding you that feels different. Something in the gesture that's wholly and completely him.

He pulls away, and his warm breath fans across your mouth and catches in the slickness of your lips. Your eyes flutter open to look up at him.

Something aches in your chest, different from the way the rest of your body has been left tender but no less his fault.

Maybe Suna isn't the only one with habits that are bad for him, after all.

tags: p.2 to THIS DRABBLE but can be read alone i think, yakuza!suna/escort!reader

It took you a long time to learn how to walk in heels.

It didn't come to you naturally like it does for some, the movement instinctively fluid and swanlike and effortlessly simple. You had to practice at it, starting with shorter heels and smaller steps and a slower pace, before eventually working your way up to any degree of grace.

The process wasn't without its failings, to be sure. Not without stumbling or blisters or icepacks that you had to press to your aching feet at the end of a long day. But you got the hang of it eventually, it just took a bit of time.

It feels like a lifetime ago now as your steps click across the marble floor of the lobby with an easy, steady gait. You listen to the rhythmic noise each meeting of your heels make against the tile and remember the girl you were all those years ago, in much shorter heels, with a whole lot less life under her belt.

She'd never be able to walk in these shoes.

Especially not in this place.

The day had started out like any other, showing up to the club in the evening and getting yourself ready in the little room you'd been assigned to for the day. It was neither particularly luxurious nor notably shabby, the same as the rest of the suites that line the hallway at the back of the members only club at which you're employed—each close to any average hotel room, though perhaps a little more sterile. First you showered in the adjoining washroom, and then you changed into the outfit you'd brought with you for that evening. You were just in the process of styling your hair when a knock at the door interrupted you.

Your eyes flashed to the clock hanging on the wall, a little startled—you still had almost 25 minutes to the start of your scheduled shift, so no one ought to be calling on you so soon.

"Come in," you'd called out, though your voice sounded a bit confused.

Your manager's face appeared around the edge of the door once it creaked open, and your confusion only grew.

Kaito has never been someone you like. He isn't far from your age, from what you can tell, but he's a man who errs perpetually on the wrong side of sleazy—what with his over-gelled hair, his tastelessly flashy suits, and his sharp, insincere smile that always has the infallible effect of setting your own teeth on edge.

That day was no different.

"You're out today," Kaito said as you dipped your body in his direction in greeting. You froze, still hunched in your shallow bow.

"What?" you asked him as your head popped up in shock, your tone cold.

You'd checked your schedule at least three times that day. You were sure you'd been on the schedule to start at 7, and the guy manning the front desk had given you the key to this suite when you checked in, so clearly when you'd arrived half an hour prior he'd seen your name there too.

"Change of plans. You were requested." Kaito shot you a particularly implicative look you didn't like, and you cared for the way his gaze slipped down to the dip of your neckline even less. "You've been so popular lately."

"Who called for me?" You questioned him, clearing your throat pointedly as Kaito's canine caught his lower lip in a subtle bite. His eyes flickered up to meet yours after another moment of appreciating your tits.

"Who do you think?" he asked you as his brows lifted tauntingly.

Heat flared in your face at his words, and at the sudden prospects they implied.

"A driver will pick you up in half an hour," Kaito added dismissively before stepping back towards the door to leave.

"Why can't Toma take me to the hotel?" you asked, referring to the club's driver who usually took you to your calls out.

(You're fond of Toma—a quiet man in middle age who always treats you kindly. Just knowing that he'll be there waiting to pick you up at a scheduled time always feels like a quiet reassurance on nights like these.)

"They've been nice enough to send one of their own tonight, and you're not going to the hotel," Kaito paused to explain.

Not going to the hotel?

"Inarizaki has been incredibly good to us, you know." Kaito's voice suddenly lost the affectation of charm that he usually laid on thick. The mere mention of the name was enough to make goosebumps raise along your skin. Still hesitating in the doorway, Kaito glanced over at you—and for a moment you wondered if the look you were seeing behind his eyes was insistence or worry. "Just... be sure to return the favour, yeah?"

You're not sure where you were dropped off by the driver.

It's not that you find yourself in some remote place on the edge of town—you're in the heart of the city's centre, on a street you've travelled a hundred times—the high rise just isn't one that you've ever frequented before. As you step across the threshold, you can't help but think the sumptuous interiors remind you more of a luxury hotel than a complex of condominiums like the sign says outside.

There had been a note waiting for you in the back of the sleek black car that had picked you up at the club, though all that had been written on the piece of paper was an apartment number and a code—which you could only assume was for a door. It's tucked away in your pocket now, out of sight, and you've committed the code to memory.

As your heels click against the marble while you cross the glistering lobby towards the elevators—the tap, tap, tap counting out your pace metronomically—something squirms in the pit of your stomach.

Up on one of the highest floors of the towering building, your fingers shake slightly as you type in the code to the keypad outside the specified door. You pause and fight to steady them after you begin to press the six digits into their corresponding keys—no one likes a girl who's trembling, after all—and after a few breaths you manage to get it right: the light on the upper right hand corner of the automated lock blinks green three times, and you're able to turn the knob of the door.

It's quiet when you step inside, which surprises you.

You half expected to be walking into a party, or an orgy, or the former that would eventually lead to the latter. But instead, you're met with a perfectly still, and pristinely tidy, living space.

You hesitate for a moment as the front door swings closed behind you, processing the shock, and then you bend down to slip your shoes off of your feet. If he wants you to put them back on later, you'll do so without complaint—but for now you don't want to make any presumptions. Next you shuck your thin coat, folding it over your arm, and you tiptoe across the threshold of the genkan—creeping further into the home as quietly as you can.

Your pulse is thrumming under your skin unpleasantly, the unfamiliarity of the place setting you on edge.

"Hello?" you call out weakly in the condo, but you receive no answer back.

You're alone.

Or you seem to be, at least.

You pause in the middle of the expansive living space, next to a long L-shaped sofa in the centre of the room with a square table in front of it. Along one side of the high ceilinged home is a kitchen so sparkling you can't help but think it's never been used. There's a broad dining table with eight chairs poised before a wall of windows not far from you too, with a remarkable view of the city just beyond the glass. Along the opposite side of the space to the kitchen is a set of stairs that passes more windows, leading to a second level that you can't see much of from your place on the first floor, but can only assume is where the bedrooms are found.

The place is gorgeous, you make no effort to deny it. You just don't know where the hell you are.

You rest your hand on the back of the sofa as you stand beside it, and the leather is buttery-soft under your touch. You run your fingers along it to appreciate it for a moment.

"Oh, you're here."

Your eyes snap up to the top of the stairs, in the direction of where you hear the words originate.

Suna stands at the landing of the second floor with a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips and a towel around his neck. His hair is wet, seemingly fresh from the shower if the droplets of water clinging to his tattooed neck and chest are anything to go by, and he's got one hand ruffling through it with the edge of his white towel. He peers down at you, his usual secretive little smile on his face.

"Hello, Suna-san," you greet him with a polite little bow.

"I wasn't expecting you here so soon," he remarks, letting his towel drop to rest around his neck again and shuffling towards the staircase's railing. He leans over it, peering down at you. "Have you been waiting long?"

"No, I only just arrived. Thank you for sending a driver for me," you say quietly, averting your eyes down towards the coat still looped over your arm. You bite the inside of your cheek as you gather up the nerve to say more. "There's really no need for you to go out of your way like that. I'm more than happy to be escorted by the club's—"

Suna clicks his tongue, interrupting you before you can finish your thought. You don't even have time to be frustrated, because his reply is so perplexing. "No can do, unfortunately. This place has to stay just between the two of us."

Your gaze snaps up to him again in surprise, and you catch the way the corner of his mouth curls up more noticeably. Even from the opposite side of the grand room you see the flash of mischief behind his eyes, warm and mirthful. He lets his long arms dangle over the railing, leaning his body further out across it.

"I wouldn't want just anyone knowing where I live, after all."

Your heartbeat is still racing in your throat, but it feels less threatening now—a hum of anticipation singing underneath your skin. You swallow over the knot of your pulse.

"You live here?" you ask him, your voice sounding a little higher than you intend it to—the surprise you feel evident in the tone even in spite of your efforts to conceal it.

He hums, pushing himself back from the railing and descending the staircase at a lazy pace. Once he reaches the last step, and eventually the main floor, that hammering of your pulse kicks up in intensity again.

"What do you think?" he asks, looking around at the home—his home—around you.

You glance around, though you barely register anything you're looking at, too overwhelmed to take anything in. You clear your throat a little before replying, "It's very nice."

Suna tilts his head to the side, a look of quiet confusion on his face as he considers you. He approaches you slowly, his eyes fixed firmly on you all the while.

"You're nervous," he remarks.

He reaches up, his fingertips brushing against the skin of your shoulder—not dissimilarly to the way you'd been appreciating the smooth leather of his sofa a few moments prior. You shiver at the gentle touch.

"I'm not nervous," you say, a lie if you've ever told one. But you shouldn't be nervous. You've been doing this job for too long to get so rattled over a simple change of scenery.

But the change of scenery isn't simple. Nothing about Suna Rintarou is, after all.

It's not lost on you just who the man you stand before is. Just what he does that affords him such a beautiful home. Why it's imperative that the address be kept secret.

Suna Rintarou is a dangerous man, even as he stands at your side running his fingertips along the ridge of your clavicle with the ends of his hair still dripping wet from the shower and hanging in his deceptively sweet eyes.

But it's not his profession that you fear might bring you harm, it's the little smile that shows his teeth which spreads across his face when he catches how you shiver under his touch, and the way it makes your heart knock against your ribs when you see it that scares you more than anything.

"Okay, you're not nervous," he says quietly, but there's a knowing, placating lilt in his low voice. He reaches up and takes your coat from your arms, laying it over the back of the sofa. Next, he catches your wrists in his large hands, his touch slipping slowly along your arms until he uses his hands to guide them up around his neck. You let him move you how he wants to—obliging, just as you were trained to be—and in one easy movement he wraps an arm behind you and hitches you up to his waist.

You cling to him tightly, your lips hovering a hairsbreadth away from his own. The hem of your dress has crept up in the movement, now rucked up around your hips like a belt. You can feel the heat of Suna's skin radiating through the thin lace of your panties where your core is pressed against the firm plane of his lower abdomen, and it makes your breath hitch in your throat when the sensation registers.

Suna groans a little at the soft sound you let out, pulling you even more firmly against him as his mouth descends upon your throat. The hand he's not using to support your weight cradles the crown of your head, tipping it back slightly so your neck is bared to him more openly. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses right over the place when your pulse is beating most violently.

"I planned to give you a tour," he murmurs into your skin, and your fingers tangle in his hair as you feel the brush of his teeth against the sensitive little spot where your throat slopes down into your shoulder. He pulls away, staring up at you with eyes heavy-lidded with desire. "I think it's gonna have to wait."

Suna carries you over to the massive dining room table on the other side of the room, but keeps his mouth pressed to yours all the while, his tongue sliding noisily against your own. Your head is spinning so terribly as you try to match his pace that you hardly even realize what's happening before he lays you down flat against the cool marble tabletop, and you hiss as the stone meets your heat-flooded skin.

Suna pulls away and stares down at you from above, your legs still wrapped around his waist. The weight of his gaze is overwhelming, and you turn your face away as you fight to catch the breath that evades you. The cityscape lit beyond the glass makes you pause for a moment, even prettier from up close than it was on the other side of the room. Suna's hands slip up your thighs, inching towards the delicate waistband of your underwear.

"This view is nice," you comment breathily, and in the faint reflection that you can make out in the window's pane you see Suna glance in its direction only briefly.

"Oh, yeah?" he asks, before taking your chin in his hand and tipping your face back up in his direction to kiss you again. You whimper against his lips as you feel his fingertips dip beneath the lace between your legs, and he pulls away from your mouth only far enough so he can mutter a final, rasping "I've seen better."

tags: yakuza!suna/escort!reader the prequel(ish), icymi here's PART 1 + PART 2

The car pulls up along the back of the club just past ten o’clock.

It had rained earlier in the evening, though you'd fortunately missed most of the shower. The world passing outside the windows of the car is still soaked with it, and puddles pool in the divots of the road as the water trickles slowly towards the storm drains that line the street.

“Thank you, Toma,” you say to your driver as you reach for the handle to let yourself out, and in the front seat the kindly man dips his head in response.

“Would you like me to wait to drop you home?” he asks, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror positioned along the highest centre point of the windshield. “I haven’t got another ride for a half an hour.”

“I have to drop my take-home off to the office and get my payout, and the trains are still running, but thank you,” you assure him with a shake of your head. You smile at him in the rearview mirror as you pop the door open. You hesitate just before you slip out, leaning up towards the front seat. “Drive safe tonight.”

You have to step around puddles as you approach the staff entrance to the club, the water collecting every few steps along the craggy surface of the alley. You hear a voice filtering down the dingy alleyway from up ahead, and it makes you slow ever so slightly. It’s familiar, and as you round the corner to the door, you recognize why.

Kaito stands just beside the metal door with ‘STAFF ENTRANCE ONLY’ emblazoned across it peeling white paint. He’s ditched the suit jacket you’d seen him wearing earlier in the evening, left in his black dress shirt with the first few buttons undone and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The flickering light above the door catches on the garish chain he wears around his neck, glinting at you as Kaito holds his cellphone up to his ear, lost in his conversation.

“Of course, sir. I understand,” he says, and though his voice is as insincerely pleasant as ever, his face is contrastingly grim—the affectation of charm extending only to that which the caller on the other line is able to witness. You watch as Kaito pushes a hand through his carefully-styled hair in frustration, tousling the dark strands, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s not last minute at all, I’ll make sure our very best girls are available once he arrives.”

You pause upon overhearing that particular snippet of his phone call, your heels clicking to a stop on the unevenly cobbled path, and Kaito’s eyes crack open once he senses your approach.

“Very well, I’ll be sure to be at the entrance to greet him myself. Have a good evening, sir.”

Kaito ends the call, his eyes still on you.

“You’re back,” he remarks, acknowledging you once he tucks his phone into the pocket of his dress pants—his voice is so different now to what it had been only seconds prior that he may as well be a different person entirely. He plucks out the cigarette tucked behind his ear and holds it to his lips, fishing a lighter out from his pocket. “Early, isn’t it?” 

“Right on schedule, actually,” you reply, snapping out of your momentary stupor and approaching the door as the lighter clicks to life. “I was meeting with Suzuki-san this evening.”

Suzuki is one of your longest-standing regulars: a successful businessman in his mid-60s whose wife passed away a few years prior, and whose children have all grown and moved away. He takes you to dinner once a week, and your appointments are never anything more than that. He’s lonely, you realized quickly after meeting him, and the way his face lights up when you arrive at whatever restaurant he’s reserved for the evening makes your stomach ache a little too much to ever really enjoy the food.

“That old sucker?” Kaito’s eyes widen, the corner of his mouth twisting upward in an almost cruel way. “Still paying you to play footsie with him at dinner after all this time.”

You frown, shooting Kaito a withering look as you reach for the staff door to step inside. He ignores your glare, and you watch with a feeling of abject dread as an idea comes to him.

“Hey,” he says, his hand suddenly coming to rest against the peeling paint and forcing the door closed before you can properly open it. The acrid smell of his cigarette smoke is overwhelming with him this close to you, and it makes your nose scrunch up. “You should stay late tonight.”

“Can’t,” you reply flatly, angling your body away from his. “I’m just here for payout.”

Kaito huffs at your immediate refusal. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he tries again.

“I can’t,” you repeat yourself, holding firm.

He narrows his eyes, and you watch as he considers how he should reply. He rolls his eyes a bit and eventually backs off, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Whatever.”

You open the door and step inside without any further words passing between you.

In the main office, you hand in the envelope of cash Suzuki-san had pressed into your palm after walking you back to Toma and the waiting car outside the restaurant. The disinterested man in the office—you never manage to keep track of who’s who with how frequently the faces change around here—takes the cash and counts it in another room, even though you'd already triple checked for yourself on the drive back to the club. You wait there with your arms crossed over your chest for him to bring you back a slip of paper that would outline how much you’d earned that week and what was deposited directly into your bank account, and your heel taps against the dingy tile as the minutes tick past.

The back office of the club is far less flashy than the interiors of the lounge a few hundred metres and some staircases away. In fact, the interiors tend to deteriorate in luxury the further outwards you move from the epicentre of activity—the club and the private rooms that are attached to it are the height of luxury, the suites that line the south end of the building slightly less impressive in their quality, and finally the administrative rooms and various other spaces that only the staff ever visit like this one are completely unremarkable. Looking around the shabby, disorganized office you wouldn’t even know the kind of business it’s running.

Maybe that’s the point, you can’t help but think.

As you wait for the nameless man to return with your pay stub, you hear a sound from the hallway outside the open office door. It’s slight, but familiar—the sound of a sniffle. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

It’s not unusual to hear a woman crying around here.

You quickly turn your back to the door, trying your very best to ignore it. That’s what you’ve learned to do over the years, after all. But the sobbing becomes less ignorable, more noticeable, and before you can think better of it you’re stepping out of the office towards the sound.

Around the corner from the office, next to a supply closet, you find a small girl hunched in on herself in a sparkling pink cocktail dress.

It’s Mini—at least, that’s the name she goes by around here since the girls rarely use their real names in this place, for good reason.

She’s young, maybe 20 if you had to guess generously, and had only been working at the club for a few week as a server mostly: circling the busy floor of the bar area and bringing patrons their drinks. She’s a bright, bubbly girl, and she’s taken a shine to you for whatever reason after only a few shifts where your paths have crossed. 

“Hey,” you call to her, and it seems to startle her a bit, jolting when she hears the sound of your voice.

Her mascara is running down her cheeks as she lifts her face to look up at you, and her nose has gone bright pink even underneath the layer of makeup she wears. At the sight of you, she starts to cry harder, crushing herself unexpectedly against your chest. You’re not sure what to do, so you pat a little awkwardly along her back in a vague attempt to comfort her.

“What’s wrong?” you ask her, hoping your voice isn’t quite as stiff as the rest of your body is.

“K-k-kaito just pulled m-me off the f-f-f-floor,” she wails, the final word drawing out in a warbling little cry.

Your jaw sets as she struggles to compose herself, pulling herself away from you after another moment of tears.

"Why?"

“He told me”—Mini swipes at her running nose with the back of her hand, sniffling wetly—“told me there’s a private party coming in. He’s rounding up as many girls as he can for it and sending them into one of the private lounges.”

Mini hasn’t been at the club long, and has never worked a private party. You both realize what it means for her, without it needing to explicitly be said. Evidently the premise has her frightened.

You really have no right to be as angry as you are, but that doesn't change the fury you feel rolling in the pit of your stomach.

Or stop you from doing what you do next.

You find Kaito in his office on the other side of the building.

“Who’s this private party?” you ask him once he answers the sharp rap you land against his door and he calls you in.

Kaito glances up from his desk. He’s got his suit jacket on again, and he’s fixed his hair—back to his usual self. He looks a little surprised to see you standing in his office doorway, especially as pissed off as you are.

He quirks a brow. “What’s it to you?”

You bite the tip of your tongue in an attempt to temper the flare of irritation searing through you. 

“I don’t think Mini’s ready to work a private party.”

“Who?” he asks, and the worst part is you know he means it, leaning back in his chair. His brow furrows as you stare at him.

 Your lips part to explain, but he cuts you off before any words come out.

“Doesn’t matter anyway,”—he waves his hand disinterestedly—“I need girls and she’s on shift. We’ve got a very important patron coming in who needs a selection to choose from, and half our best girls are already booked out tonight—or refuse to stay late.”

He tacks on that last part just for your sake.

Your teeth clench.

“So you’re just gonna send a bunch of rookies in there?” you ask him. “What kind of impression is that supposed to make to this very important patron?” 

He shrugs. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

You’re not sure who the beggar in this situation is supposed to be.

You grind your heel into the tile of his office floor as you sift through your thoughts.

“How many girls do you need?” you finally ask him, the question hissing out through gritted teeth.

He grins, seeing the cracks forming in your armour even from the other side of the room. 

“Depends,” he replies flippantly.

“On what?” you ask him flatly.

He leans forward across his desk with a sharp smile pulling at his lips. 

“On if I’m going for quantity or quality.”

In the end, Kaito agrees not to send any of the inexperienced girls into the private room. Instead, there will only be five girls, all relatively experienced, who this unexpected guest that Kaito seems so insistent on catering to will get to choose from. 

You agree to be one of them.

You touch up your makeup in one of the dressing rooms before heading towards the designated lounge. It’s one of the nicest private rooms in the building: large, quiet, and with it’s own small mini-bar that’s kept well stocked to minimize any interruptions—another testament to just how keen Kaito is to pull out all the stops for this mystery patron.

You’re not dressed how you usually would be a lounge shift like this—much less a private booking. The dress you’d worn to dinner with Suzuki-san is a little too tasteful for the role you’re about to assume. Mini had kindly offered to let you borrow one of the spares she’d brought to work with her after she found you freshening yourself up (and conveyed her relief at being spared the private party,) but you declined—not least of all because of your very different body types. Your quiet hope was that you’d get there, pale in comparison to one of the other girls who were better suited for the occasion, and ultimately be able to continue home like you ought to have already been by now, this whole situation an unfortunate—but only momentary—road block.

The other girls are already gathered in the room when you arrive, with drinks in their hands and glossy lips and beautiful, skin-tight dresses on their frames. You greet them quietly, accepting a glass of champagne that’s placed into your hands by one of the girls you’re closest to—a tall, stunning woman who goes by the name of Yuki.

“Any idea who this high roller is that Kaito’s kissing ass for tonight?” she asks you as you take a sip from your drink. Yuki had cut the drink with soda water, you realize it right away as the muted taste of effervescent wine reaches your tongue. It’s a welcomed trick that you yourself have been known to employ of many occasions, a tactic used to keep your wits about you without seeming like you’re turning down a drink while you work a long shift.

You can’t help but lament the fact that you really could use a proper drink right about now.

“No,” you tell her quietly, fiddling with the thin stem of the champagne flute between your fingers. “He didn’t say.”

“Must be someone good,” Sakura, another working girl whose long hair is tinted a pretty shade of pink that suits her name, chimes in from the other side of the room where she’s draped across the tufted sofa. 

You wonder if she’s right about that, because an unpleasant feeling creeping over you is telling you the opposite.

The girls chat quietly amongst themselves as you all wait for the arrival of the much-anticipated guest, and you continue sipping your watered down champagne as you rest perched on the arm of a chair along one side of the room.

You should already be home by now. Should already have scrubbed the day from your skin and slipped into a pair of soft cotton pyjamas. You should be sitting on your sofa watching a movie, or reading the last chapter of the book you’d had to tear yourself away from to come to work that afternoon, or even be curled up in your bed asleep. You’re bitter to still be within the walls of the club, to still be maintaining the character you’re paid to play, and you chew the inside of your cheek as you stew in this resentment—so much so that you almost miss the door to the lounge swing open.

Your eyes flicker up as the rest of the girls stand in greeting.

You’re the last to rise from your seat.

Behind Kaito is a man you’ve never seen before, his apathetic stare sweeping lazily around the room as Kaito rambles on about something you don’t care to listen to. The guest doesn’t seem to either.

He has dark hair that reaches a little longer than the top of his ears, and an expression on his face that doesn’t seem to imply that he’s any happier to be here than you are. He has a bandage on his cheek, the skin around it still red enough to imply the injury is fresh, and a cut on his lip that looks like it could bleed again at any moment. He’s dressed in black—a turtleneck, under a long coat, over a pair of trousers, all in the same shade. His hands are shoved into his pockets to complete his general air of indifference.

His eyes land on you just as you make it up to your feet, and the way his attention lingers on you for a moment longer than it had the rest of the girls makes you want to curse under your breath. Your attempt to go unnoticed has already started off on the wrong foot, and the man isn’t even fully across the threshold yet. 

Your eyes meet—properly meet—and for a moment you hold your breath.

“Ladies,” Kaito says, that saccharine, ingratiating tone you hate so much the thickest you’ve ever heard it in his voice. “This is Suna Rintarou”

The man’s eyes are still on you.

“I’m sure you’ll see to it that he has a very memorable evening.”

yakuza!suna/escort!reader part 4: the prequel(ish) continued..., tw alcohol, reader goes by a stated pseudonym for her work (Yua) but is otherwise unnamed, this part immediately follows PART 3 and here are PART 1 + PART 2 icymi!! series masterlist

“You.”

The sound of the man’s voice—low, smooth, and unmistakably pointed—makes you freeze.

The room goes terribly quiet in the wake, like no one is quite sure how to respond.

Kaito’s eyes snap towards you, a flash of something close to panic momentarily slipping through the facade of his gregariousness. He composes himself quickly and looks back to this new guest, his brows lifted in surprise as his eyes narrow into crescents thanks to how his mouth lifts in an easy smile. “Who, sir?”

“Her.”

All eyes in the lounge turn to you, but somehow you only manage to meet one pair.

Your grip on the champagne flute in your grasp is so tight you worry that the thin stem might snap between your fingers.

Kaito laughs a bit, but the sound is stiff and doesn’t fit his usual tone. He reaches up and places a friendly hand on the man beside him’s shoulder. “Why don’t you take a while to acquaint yourself with the girls, then you can—“

The man—Suna-san as he’d been introduced to you all just a few moments before—turns his face to look at him. You watch as his eyes flicker down to the hand resting on his arm with a look of disdain.

“Is there a reason you’d question my choice?” he asks flatly, a chill in his tone that makes your stomach feel uneasy. “I was told these girls are your best.”

“Of course,” Kaito assures him with an easy, obliging smile. You can’t help but notice how he quickly drops his hand. “You’ve made an excellent decision.”

The other girls and Kaito quietly leave, once the manager waves them out following a terse snap of his fingers. There’s a sense of disappointment that you detect from some of the girls as they bid the guest goodnight as they step past him, having scarcely had the opportunity to spend time in his company at all. Yuki meets your eyes as she glides past you towards the door, a curious—if not concerned—look passing between the two of you.

The door to the lounge closes behind Kaito once the last girl has filed out, and then it’s just the two of you.

You watch as Suna walks to the chair on the opposite side of the room, directly across from you, sticking close to the very edge of the wall and giving you a rather wide berth. It’s strange. Most men in these situations make their way right for you, or at least beckon you to come to them— especially ones as forthright as he’d been. Instead, he gestures for you to take your seat, nodding towards the chair you’re still standing beside. In spite of your relative confusion, you oblige him. On the other side of the room he does the same, slumping down into his seat with his legs spread wide.

You sit at the edge of the upholstered chair with your hands crossed primly atop your lap.

He watches you for a while, and under his heavy stare you find yourself resisting the urge to fidget. 

“What’s your name?” he asks you after a while.

You blink slowly, as though you’re processing the question he’s asked—though it’s anything but a difficult one.

“Yua.”

It’s not your name, of course. You’re sure he knows that too. It’s not even one that you’d chosen for yourself, in truth. There had been a girl working at the club before you started who’d used it as her pseudonym, and when she left and you arrived to take her place, it was easier just to inherit it than come up with a name of your own.

The kanji used spell out binding love.

The irony isn’t lost on you.

It doesn’t seem to be something Suna-san misses either, because there’s a little pull at the corner of his mouth that indicates a sort of wry recognition of the fact.

It goes quiet again.

You being to worry things are getting awkward. You can’t let that happen.

“Would you like something to drink?” you finally ask him, shooting him a warm smile before looking towards the mini bar.

His eyes flitter to the empty glass in your hand. “What are you drinking?”

“Champagne.” You stand and approach the bar, running your finger along the bucket where the half-empty bottle sits in ice. “But there’s plenty to choose from, no matter your taste.”

“What do you like to drink?” It’s the same question as before, more or less, but this time he poses it differently.

You glance at him over your shoulder, and find he’s watching you intently—still torpidly reclined back in his seat.

“I’m not very picky,” you answer with a little laugh. You reach for a bottle of whiskey off the bar. It’s a nice one. Expensive. You hold it up so he can see it, turning around to face him. “Would you like a highball?”

He cocks a brow. “Will you join me?”

“Of course,” you agree with a smile, and then you set to work.

Highballs are easy cocktails to make. Calling it a cocktail seems undeserved, sometimes, but the quality is in the ritual. 

First the ice goes in, and you stir it for 30 seconds using a long barspoon to chill the polished glass. The ice clinks against the edge in a delicate little noise as you go.

The room is weirdly quiet. Unnaturally so. 

The private lounges are mostly soundproof, for many reasons, but it means that none of the usual thrum of activity or music from the rest of the club seeps into the little space you occupy. It leaves a stagnant, almost uncomfortable silence stretching in between you while you work.

You drain the water from the bottom of the glasses carefully. 

Next you add the whiskey.

You’re partial to a stronger highball—somewhere closer to a 2:1 ratio of soda to spirit, but you know not everyone enjoys their drinks so potent. You opt instead for a 3:1 ratio for the evening, letting the whiskey spill down into the waiting glasses below. You stir it precisely 13 and a half times clockwise in each glass.

Last is the soda, which you allow to trickle down the rivulets of the bar spoon so it doesn’t lose its effervescence. Each drink is then garnished with a delicate twist of lemon.

You swallow, steeling your nerve before you turn to face your patron once more.

“Would you like to listen to music?” you ask cheerfully as you bring his drink towards him. 

There’s a sound system throughout the room controlled by a tablet, you’re trained to make the offer just as you had been to prepare the drinks.

“Not really,” he replies from below you once you arrive next to his chair. He reaches up to take the glass you offer him from your hand, and your fingers brush as the drink passes from your grip into his own.

His touch is warm.

Most men would pull you down into their lap at this point in the exchange, or otherwise grope you in some way, but save for that gentle pass of his fingertips along your own, he doesn’t make any attempt to touch you. 

You perch on the couch beside him, a little bit perplexed.

This man is not what you’d expected. 

He’s young, handsome, and above all strange.

Especially how he watches you—his gaze heavy-lidded but surprisingly impassive. You’re fully dressed but the way he watches you makes you feel terribly bare.

He lifts the drink to his mouth and takes a sip.

“Is it to your liking?” you ask him coyly.

He nods.

Since he’s taken his first sip, you’re now free to do the same. This drink is far sharper and stronger than the watered-down champagne you’d been sipping earlier. You savour how the heat of the whiskey sears its way down to your stomach. Part of you is relieved to finally have a proper drink in your hands.

Beside you, Suna sighs. He leans forward and sets his glass on the low table in front of him, and you watch as a bead of condensation drips down the edge of the polished glass.

Your eyes flicker over to him curiously. He meets your gaze.

“I’m not much of a drinker,” he admits with a little shrug.

“If you don’t drink and you don’t like music,”—you prop your elbow up on the armrest of his chair and rest your cheek in your hand, batting your eyelashes demurely—“this seems like a strange place you’d choose to spend an evening.”

Suna’s eyes flicker down to your lips, and he leans towards you.

“I don’t think anyone is coming here for the atmosphere.”

There’s a flutter in the pit of your stomach that erupts in the same place the whiskey had just warmed. For a few petrifying moments, only the span of a few heartbeats, you wonder if he’s going to kiss you.

As a general rule, you prefer not to kiss newcomers. It might seem an arbitrary place to draw the line, but some forms of intimacy just feel unnatural with a stranger, even in your line of work. Some of your regulars don’t even get to do that. 

For a confusing, startling moment, you can’t help but think you’ll let him if he tries.

But he doesn’t.

Instead he leans back in his seat once more, his long legs still spread before him.

“It wasn’t my choice, anyway,” he says.

You make a little sound of confusion from the back of your throat, quenching your sudden thirst with another long sip of your drink. You’re not quite sure what he means.

“Coming here tonight,” he explains, sensing your uncertainty. “I just got into a bit of a… scrape at work. My boss sent me to blow off some steam.”

He wouldn’t be the first man who used this place as a means of stress relief. Though you wonder who his boss might be to have had Kaito scrambling the way he was.

“I see,” you reply quietly. Slowly, you reach forward and set your glass atop the table next to his own, the difference in how much you’ve each consumed more stark when your glasses rest side by side. You pull yourself upright again, and turn to face him with your lip caught gently between your teeth. You let it slip out to quietly murmur, “I’m happy to help with that, if you’d like.”

Suna’s head tips back against his seat as his eyes close, and he lets out a breathy little laugh towards the ceiling.

Just above the neckline of his high-necked sweater, along the column of his pale throat, you see the faintest edge of a mark. 

A tattoo.

Without thinking, you reach out for it. Just before your fingertip can touch the enticing tendril of ink, his hand catches yours in a tight grip.

You jump slightly at the unexpected contact, and your eyes flash up to his face, only to find that he’s watching you again—more alert now than you’ve seen him since he arrived.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize meekly, your entire face suddenly feeling hot. You're not sure what possibly possessed you to think touching him like that was okay.

He’s still clutching your hand, but after a moment his grip eases—his touch slipping down to your wrist. His long fingers circle it easily, and something about the sight makes you feel strangely small. Breakable even. 

His hold is different now, gentler. More delicate.

Slowly, he takes your hand and guides it to his cheek.

“Your hands are cold,” he remarks as his eyes slowly close again, and you realize the chill of your touch must feel nice against his injury. His cheek is radiating heat as he holds your hand to it.

You cup your hand to cradle his face in your palm, but he still holds fast to your wrist.

“It’s from making the drinks,” you reply quietly to his comment, your thumb reaching out and ghosting over the cut on his mouth without thinking. Other than the wound, his lips are incredibly soft under the pad of your finger.

He hums, leaning into your touch. After a few moments his eyes flutter open and meet yours, but they’re heavy lidded again. His gaze hazier now. More disarming, somehow. Your thumb is still pressed to the swell of his bottom lip.

“You’re good at this,” he whispers softly, like you’re not supposed to hear it at all, and you’re confused by what he means. He tilts his face and presses his lips to the heel of your palm in a hot, open-mouthed kiss. Next his lips slide down to your wrist, mouthing at you there too.

“Pardon?” when you finally manage to speak, you find your voice is fluttery and unlike yourself.

“I really had no intention of fucking you,” he murmurs into your skin. “You just looked so miserable when I walked in that I thought it might be fun to bother you a little bit.”

Your heart is suddenly hammering in your chest, and you wonder if he can tell as his tongue sweeps out against your pulse point.

He smirks against your skin, his unfairly long eyelashes fluttering as he peeks over at you once more—his stare is just as electrifying as it had been the first time he turned it on you.

“I underestimated you,” he says, and his words sound like commendation.

Your head tilts to the side, not quite knowing what he means, but your confusion only heightens as Suna takes your hand and guides it to his throat. He holds it there the same way he holds you in his gaze—firm and unwavering.

“I didn't think you’d be so good at seducing me.”

yakuza!suna/escort!reader part 5 - set in the morning after part 2, everybody give a warm welcome to the yakuza universe miya twins, tw yandere behaviour red flags series masterlist

You wake to the clanging sound of pots, pans, and the rush of running tap water—the telltale sound of cooking, you realize, the closer to consciousness you drift.

Slowly, you rouse from your slumber, blinking against the soft light that diffuses through the curtains along the vast wall of windows at your bedside.

No, not your bedside.

You push yourself up, a tenderness in your limbs that makes them wobble under the meagre effort to lift your own body from the soft swaddle of sheets. The gauzy curtains in Suna’s bedroom have rendered the daylight down outside into something gentle, but the face of the digital clock on his bedside table tells you that it’s almost midday, and life in the city outside is already in full-swing. You should have left hours ago. You shouldn’t even have spent the night. 

In truth, you’re not quite sure where your memories from the day before end. You don’t feel particularly well rested, which makes you think you probably haven’t been asleep for very long. What foggy recollection you do have from the very early hours of the morning tell you that there’s a good chance that you’re right.

You look down suddenly.

You don’t have any clothes on.

Your skin doesn’t feel sticky though, you remark as you drag your fingertips gently along your bare thigh. There’s no trace of grime, or sweat, or any other unmentionable mess that you can detect clinging to you—just tender aches that you know are fresh bruises forming underneath the outermost layer of your skin. You lift your forearm up to your nose, sniffing yourself lightly. You smell like soap. Nice soap. The same soap you smell on Suna when you mouth along his throat. He must have cleaned you up before he put you into bed, you realize.

You purse your lips in a pensive little pout.

Outside the bedroom—Suna’s bedroom—the clattering noises continue.

The sounds of activity in the kitchen only grow louder as you pad quietly out from the bedroom, approaching the edge of the second floor landing to peer down to the main floor. There’s not a particularly clear view to the kitchen from the upper level, but you see a pair of hands reaching for a knife from the chopping block in the island, so you know he’s there.

“Suna,” you call down quietly, your voice still hoarse from sleep and possibly overexertion the night before. You step cautiously down along the first few steps of the staircase, conscious of a dangerous weakness in your knees, clinging to the railing as you descend.

The sounds in the kitchen halt—save for the sizzle of something cooking on the stove.

You hadn’t been able to find your clothes in Suna’s bedroom, so you’re still naked—not that you have any particular reservations to nudity, given your line of work. 

You reach the bottom of the staircase and look up.

“Do you know where my clothes a—“

It is not Suna that you find in the kitchen.

In fact, it’s not even someone that you recognize.

The dark-haired man on the other side of the apartment is frozen with his eyes wide, staring at you like he’s just as shocked as you are to be standing there.

In the living room, a little bit closer to you, a head of blonde hair peeks up over the back of the sofa with an identical look of surprise.

Literally identical.

“You’re not Suna,” you remark rather flatly, though it really doesn’t need to be said.

“No ‘m definitely not,” the man in the kitchen nods, averting his stare. As though to preserve your modesty, he picks up a container of orange juice and holds it up in front of his eyes. It’s so unsubtle that you can’t help but think it’s kind of cute.

The guy on the couch shows no such chivalry. 

“Who are you?” he asks, a cheeky smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“’Tsumu at least stop starin’ at her, ya pig,” the guy in the kitchen snaps, and the blonde rolls his eyes before making a big show of holding his hands up to cover his gaze.

(You’re pretty sure you still spot him peeking through his fingers.)

“I, uh,”—the dark haired one clears his throat a bit awkwardly—“I’ve got a hoodie over here if ya need somethin' to put on.”

You don’t know who these two are, but they seem to be right at home in Suna's apartment, so you don’t feel as though you’re in any great degree of danger. You consider this for a moment, and then approach the kitchen tentatively.

The man hidden behind the orange juice is gesturing vaguely to what you’re pretty sure he thinks are the barstools along one side of the kitchen island, but is actually a bowl of fruit—but you find a soft black sweatshirt all the same, tugging it quickly on over you’re head.

“I’m decent,” you remark, letting the gentleman in front of you know it’s safe to lower his citrus shield now that you're all covered up.

“Yeah you are,” the blonde in the other room mutters appreciatively under his breath, and you toss an unamused look over your shoulder in his direction. He slumps back onto the sofa, avoiding your gaze.

“Sorry 'bout him,” the man in front of you says with a long sigh that gives you every impression that it’s not the first time he’s had to apologize on the other’s behalf. “He’s like a dog.”

You hum, glancing over at the blonde again. He’s looking your way but quickly busies himself with his cellphone when he sees you turn in his direction.

“He needs better training,” you note, and the dark haired man laughs, loud and sincere.

“I don’t disagree.” 

The man in front of you can at least meet your eyes now that you’re covered up, and he bows politely in your direction to finally greet you properly.

“I’m Osamu,” he says. 

You dip down slightly to do the same. “Yua.”

“What are ya doin’ at our Sunarin’s place, Yua-chan?” the blonde on the couch calls over to you, but you don’t bother sparing him a glance—or offering him any kind of reply.

“That’s my brother, Atsumu,” Osamu explains, and you nod a little—having pieced at least that bit of information together on your own. 

“I see you inherited all the charm,” you remark, and Osamu smiles a little shyly, chuckling to himself.

“Yeah, but I got all the looks.” Suddenly, Atsumu sidles up alongside you, and you startle at his unexpected nearness. You blink up at him in surprise, all at once realizing just how big these twins are—tall, broad, visibly strong frames nearly identical between them. He smiles down at you, dipping closer to your face and batting his eyelashes sweetly. “Dontcha think?”

You don’t have time to tell him what you think, as it turns out, because a figure steps into view on the other side of the kitchen that serves as a distraction.

“What are you doing in my house?” 

Suna’s expression is severe as he takes in the scene before him, though his eyes seem particularly focused on Atsumu at your side.

“There he is,” Osamu remarks lightly, and there’s a lilt of something in his voice that seems like anticipation—like he knows how this is all about to play out.

“We were ‘sposed to meet here after the meeting this morning, remember?” Atsumu says, turning to the man on the other side of the room. He slings an arm around your shoulders, tucking you against his side. “Ya didn’t tell us you’d have company, Sunarin.” 

“Get out.”

You’ve never heard Suna’s voice so cold in all the time you’ve known him.

Impassive, yes. Irritated, on occasion. 

Never so hostile.

Atsumu opens his mouth as if to complain, but his brother doesn’t give him the chance.

“You heard the man, Tsumu,” he says, rounding the kitchen island and closing that gap between him and his brother in two long strides. He grabs Atsumu by the scruff of his t-shirt and drags him towards the door, passing Suna as they go.

You spot the unmistakable glimpse of a tattoo on Atsumu’s back as his brother tows him along by his collar.

Ah.

That explains it.

“Sorry, Suna,” you hear Osamu mutter as the two of them pass the man standing there watching them go.

“Wait,” you call, suddenly finding your voice. 

All three men flinch at the sound, pausing to look at you.

“Your sweater,” you say, holding up your hands where the sleeves of his hoodie have them swallowed.

Osamu smiles stiffly, dipping his head ever so slightly in a nod. “You keep that fer now, I’m not too worried about it.”

You let your hands drop, and the twins disappear from view. You hear a bit of bickering, and then the sound of the front door closing behind them.

Suddenly it’s just you and Suna, all alone.

It’s preternaturally quiet once the twins are gone, their absence acutely noticeable like a storm once it recedes. It makes you shift your weight from one foot to the other nervously.

You glance into the kitchen where there’s still something cooking on the stove—seemingly abandoned in Osamu’s haste to flee. 

“He was cooking something,” you remark quietly. Suna makes no move to tend to it, so you round the kitchen island and take the overcooked eggs off the heat, setting the skillet on an unlit burner and extinguishing the one it had previously been resting on. 

You turn back towards the living room, and find Suna has approached you in the time your back was turned to him, closer now than he has been since he arrived home.

“I thought it was you,” you explain quietly after a moment, fiddling with the sleeve of the sweatshirt on your frame. “I heard noises when I woke up so I just thought…”

Suna catches your hand in his own, his eyes fixed to the hoodie that you wear.

“I couldn’t find my clothes,” you explain, sensing what’s making the unhappy little expression tug at the corner of his mouth.

Suna’s eyes flicker up to meet yours.

“I took them to be dry cleaned,” he replies, glancing over to the counter. He’d been carrying a few things when he came in, but you hadn’t paid them much attention. There’s a garment bag resting across the marble, and a shopping bag from a familiar store on top.

A lingerie store.

“Well, I took whatever could be salvaged anyway,” Suna murmurs, tugging you into his chest and nosing at your ear. 

Your cheeks feel warm.

Suna’s hands slip up underneath the sweatshirt, peeling it slowly up off of your body. You let him do so without complaint, watching as he tosses it aside haplessly into the living room once he’s fully removed it. 

“Better?” you ask him dryly as he peers down at you.

He smiles a little, leaning down so his mouth is poised just over your own.

“Much.”

In between needy, feverish kisses, Suna lifts you up to sit atop the kitchen island, slotting himself in between your parted legs.

“Suna,” you mumble as he mouths his way down your throat, your lips kiss-bitten and stinging. He ignores your call of his name, running his tongue along your clavicle before nipping at it gently. You grip gently at the hair of his nape, tugging a bit. “Suna.”

He pulls away, his expression hazy and his breaths coming fast.

“I should go,” you say to him quietly, and you’re sure the regret you feel is evident in your words. “I have to go home. I have to work tonight.”

Suna’s expression changes, hardens a bit, he tucks his face back into the crook of your neck.

This time when he bites it isn’t gentle.

You moan at the feeling of his teeth pressing into your skin, your legs tightening where they're wrapped around his waist, your hands holding him to your neck a little tighter where they're tangled in his hair. He presses a series of kisses to the spot he’s just marked, soft like an apology.

A chiming sound from the end of the counter tears your attention away from the ache of your throat.

Your head turns towards the sound, but Suna is quick to guide your face back towards his, kissing you sweetly. He leans you back until you're flat against the counter, his broad frame hovering over you like he's shielding the rest of the world from view.

It almost works.

“Did you take my phone with you this morning when you left?” you ask him, panting the question out against his beseeching mouth.

Suna pulls away slightly.

“I took your purse by accident,” he explains. “I didn’t realize until I went to pick your clothes up from the dry cleaners. They set it aside in a separate bag.”

You purse your lips, letting your head loll to the side and turning your face away from him.

“I didn’t expect you to wake up so soon,” Suna insists, pressing a kiss to the edge of your jaw. “I had to go somewhere for work, and I didn’t know it would take me as long as it did.”

He places a chaste peck to your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your mouth.

Your eyes search his, but you can’t seem to find any guilt behind them.

You soften after taking a moment to mull over his apology, wrapping your arms around his neck, and he pulls you upright on the counter.

“Let’s get you home,” he says, running his hands along your thighs, kneading his thumbs into them every so often. 

“If you pass me my phone, I’ll call the club. They may have a driver they can send for me,” you say, glancing towards the pile of your things at the other end of the island. 

“Don’t worry about that,” Suna says, and you tilt your head to the side as you turn to face him again.

He fishes a set of car keys out from the pocket of his joggers, and they jingle as he twirls them around his finger.

“I can take you home myself.”

You pause, hesitating.

He picks up instantly on your reluctance.

“Or I could call the driver from last night,” he assures you, his tone even and obliging. He presses another featherlight kiss to your lips. “It’s entirely up to you.”

Your fingers twist in the material of his sweatshirt, considering it for a moment. You fiddle idly with the strings of his hoodie, twirling them around our fingers until the blood flow starts to slow, deprivation prickling in the very tips.

You’ve never let a client drive you home before.

Never even let a client know what neighbourhood you live in.

But this is Suna.

And Suna’s different…

“Yeah, okay,” you murmur, peeking up at him shyly. “You can take me if you want.”

… Isn’t he?

yakuza!suna/escort!reader part 6 - takes place the night following part 5, tw the girlies are fighting (literally), tw mention of blood, happy belated birthday yakuza!shinsuke i want you to step on me series masterlist

The Inarizaki compound is an immaculately maintained estate.

The grounds are vast, tucked away in a quiet corner of Hyogo, just distant enough from the city to feel private. The buildings on the property are old, and traditional in style, but they were built to last and have been cared for to ensure it. The compound is as imposing today as the day it was first built, a truth diligently seen to over the years as its care has passed between hands from one head of the family to the next. It stands as a testament to the power and the influence of those who inherit and inhabit it; a reflection of them built in timber and stone.

Nothing on the property is out of place or unkempt. Every shrub, every blade of grass, every flower in the garden is carefully reared and pruned. Every floor diligently swept. Every surface cleared of any trace of dust. Every window polished to a spotless shine that reflects the sun that looks brightly down upon the sprawling plot of land. 

And underneath the Inarizaki compound—in the labyrinthine system of corridors and dim, damp rooms where the sun doesn’t reach—the same diligence, the same control, exists too.

“Well, well, well—would ya look who it is.”

On a ratty leather sofa in one such room, deep below the well-tended grounds, Atsumu lays sprawled with his head tipped back lazily over the arm rest. On the other side of the wide room, a figure stands before him after just stepping through the door—though, given the blonde’s current orientation, he’s upside-down in his line of sight.

Suna’s expression is notably flat—his mouth drawn into a tight, thin line—regardless of whether or not it’s viewed from the right way up.

“How nice of ya to finally join us,” Atsumu continues, picking himself up off the sofa so he’s sitting upright. He turns in his seat to glance over at his brother who's slumped down into a chair not far from him, fiddling with one of his favourite knives. Atsumu snort a little to himself. “‘Specially after ya kicked us outta yer place this mornin’.”

Suna says nothing in response.

The blonde twin smirks, peeking over at him again. 

“So, how’s our little Yua-chan?” 

If looks could kill, Osamu’s long-held dream of being an only child would have come true a hundred times over in an instant.

“Enough, Tsumu,” his twin grunts, flicking the butterfly knife in his hands closed. “Yer bein’ a slimy little fuck, ’n I’m not patchin’ ya up if he kicks yer ass.”

Atsumu huffs, a look of mild betrayal twisting at his features.

“My own brother,” he laments, a hand melodramatically clasped to his chest. Osamu flips him off with a roll of his eyes, scarcely paying him any attention at all.

With a laugh, Atsumu pitches himself back onto the sofa, snuggling down into the worn old leather to make himself comfortable. His head lolls to the side and his gaze travels once more to the man on the other side of the room who still has yet to venture much further beyond the doorway. 

Osamu tucks his knife into the breast-pocket of his button-down shirt before reaching down beside his seat to grab one of the cans of beer he has resting at his feet in a plastic convenience store bag.

“Too bad ya didn’t bring her along, Sunarin. We could really use somethin’ nice to look at around here.” The blonde sighs almost wistfully, but the subtle curl at the corner of his mouth is unmistakably nefarious. “Pretty thing like her could be a huge boost fer morale. ‘Specially with those tits.”

Suna’s hauling Atsumu off the sofa before Osamu even has time to crack the tab on his drink.

“Get off’a me, ya psycho!” the blonde yelps as he hits the cold cement floor, but his cry falls only on deaf (or otherwise completely uncaring) ears.

In an attempt at defence, Atsumu throws a wide, flailing punch, but it doesn’t land. Suna’s got his shirt-collar tightly wrapped around his fist, and with one strong tug he drags his unsuspecting opponent forward, flipping Atsumu onto his chest on the ground. The blonde lets out a pitiful, wheezing grunt as Suna drops a knee to his spine, keeping him pinned, and takes a fistful of his peroxide locks in his hand to roughly draw his head back.

“Just wait," Atsumu grunts, as he tries to free himself from Suna's hold. "I’m gonna fuckin’ kil—“

Osamu opens his beer. The hiss of carbonation only vaguely mutes the sound of fist meeting flesh.

After all these years, the younger of the two Miya twins has learned that when his sibling picks a fight, it’s usually better just to let nature run its course. Sure, he intervenes sometimes if it’s really needed. After all, it’s still his brother—and Osamu’s not one to shy away from a good fight either, though he prefers that they be justified. But if Atsumu gets himself into a scrap, particularly when it comes to infighting like this, Osamu’s generally pretty happy to let him get knocked around a bit.

Not that he’ll ever learn a lesson from it.

Plus, Suna rarely ever gets this fired up. There’s a bit of fun to seeing Atsumu get his ass handed to him by the characteristically apathetic brunette. Osamu’s seen what Suna’s capable of plenty of times, and knows his particular handiwork well, but in the thick of a fight he doesn’t ever really have time to appreciate the distinctly feral way that Rintarou fights—the placid-faced brutality of it—so for once he just sits back and settles in to enjoy the show.

He’s not even halfway through his beer when he hears the sound of footsteps approaching on the concrete floor of the corridor outside, leading towards them. He pauses with the can held to his lips as two figures step into the room, silhouetted in the doorway by the harsh fluorescent light flooding in from the hallway behind them.

The skirmish in the centre of the room stalls upon the newcomers' unexpected arrival—both parties panting raggedly as they shove the other away, separating from the lock of their brawl.

“Get up.”

Neither of the men fighting dare to question the order, nor the man that it comes from.

Suna and Atsumu both stand from the floor, quietly adjusting their rumpled clothes. They keep their eyes averted under the heavy, disappointed gaze of the man who approaches them in unhurried, measured steps. With their gazes downturned, a pair of neatly polished shoes is all they can see when he comes to a stop in front of them.

“What’s all this about?” 

When neither of the guilty parties opt to speak up in the wake of the question that was posed, the silence in the room sours.

The man sighs.

He turns on his heel towards Osamu, and the dark-haired Miya struggles to meet his gaze.

“Atsumu started it,” the younger man finally mutters, taking another long, much-needed swig from his beer.

“Rat,” his twin hisses under his breath from across the room.

“Quiet.”

Kita doesn’t yell.

He doesn’t even lift a hand.

Atsumu flinches all the same at the command.

The slighter man, dressed in a nice, neatly-pressed suit, looks between the two battered men in front of him.

“Someone gonna tell the boss what happened here, or what?” Aran remarks from the other side of the room, his tone dry and unenthusiastic—it’s far from the first time he’s broken up one of Atsumu’s squabbles, after all. He's leaning leisurely now against the metal frame of the heavy, industrial door as he watches everything unfold—having not even bothered crossing the threshold into the dingy little space that serves as a makeshift lounge of sorts. He knew his involvement was unlikely to be needed.

He's outranked by his company, after all. 

“Suna went nuclear ‘cuz I made a little joke about some girl,” Atsumu complains, ready to talk now it would seem, as blood drips down his philtrum from his nose.

Kita’s eyes flicker to Suna, still slouching indolently at Atsumu’s side with his eyes directed away.

“A girl?” Shinsuke remarks thoughtfully. “What girl?”

“Just some girl Suna’s fuck—seein’,” Atsumu quickly alters his word choice in favour of something less profane when Kita’s eyes meet his. “Samu and I ran into her at his place this mornin’, naked as the day she was born.” As though he simply can’t help himself, like one final swing in the fight, the blonde tacks on one last pointed: “Interestin’ sight to say the least.”

Suna’s face is as expressionless as ever when he finally looks up to meet Kita’s stare, having avoided it for as long as he possibly could. The highest ranking member of the Inarizaki syndicate meets his eyes, his own expression pensive.

“Not the same one ya came to speak with me about this morning, surely?” 

Suna’s nose twitches slightly.

Osamu stills, half-way through the motion of lifting his drink to his lips again, his thirst forgotten in the wake of the remark.

Atsumu seems surprised too, somewhere under all the reddish-swelling on his face.

Even Aran's curiosity seems to be piqued.

“This girl’s makin’ ya behave rashly,” Kita comments. The judgement is conversational in tone but still biting—even-tempered and just but somehow all the more damning.

Red flushes into the tips of Suna’s ears.

“I’ll make myself clear, ‘cause it seems like I didn’t in our earlier conversation. It’s neither my place nor my desire to get my hands dirty in the personal matters of yer life. Those affairs are no concern of mine,” Kita says calmly, his eyes fixed so raptly to Rintarou’s face that anyone would be unnerved, much less a subordinate. The older man pauses then, as though thinking quite seriously about what to say next. 

Kita does this often: prolonged silences not unusual in the middle of his conversations, as he considers the information available him and his path forward. It’s reminiscent of a man playing go, taking time to carefully choose his next move. 

“However,” Kita finally adds, the lines of his face hardening as he comes to his decision, “what is my concern is this family, and it’s my responsibility to intervene when somethin’, or someone, jeopardizes it.”

Suna’s eyes drop to his feet as he nods stiffly, his gaze lowered in shame.

“Suna,” the Oyabun’s voice is low and gentle, which in many ways makes it worse. “You owe yer heart a debt for the way it’s served you ’til now, for the things that it’s helped bear, and I don’t claim to deny that. But don’t forget what debt you owe to this family. What obligation ya have to yer brothers. You can’t allow a temporary novelty to confuse where yer priorities lie.”

The dingy, dank room is quiet for a moment, and then Kita sighs, turning on his heel towards the door. Before he steps away, he glances towards Suna again.

“Go home, Rintarou.”

Everyone in the room freezes.

Suna’s eyes snap up in confusion, a complaint on the tip of his tongue as his lips part to free it. One look at Kita’s face silences him, and any protest he may have wanted to voice dies out before it’s given breath. The elder turns away once more.

He crosses the room towards Aran, and his Wakagashira pushes himself up off the doorframe as he approaches, pulling himself upright as the two prepare to take their leave. Meanwhile, Atsumu and Osamu share a look across the room, communicating their shock—and relative confusion—wordlessly between themselves.

Just before he steps across the threshold to exit, Kita pauses once more. He doesn’t turn around, but there’s no question in anyone’s mind who he’s speaking to when he says:

“Not to that club. Not to that girl. Home.”

PERFECT STRANGERS SMAU

synopsis: after buying a book goes extremely wrong, suna rintarou takes it upon himself to somehow befriend the pretty bookseller. little does he know, the bookseller has connections to him in more ways then one.

- suna x fem!reader

- genre: smau, crack? fluff also tiniest bit of angst .

- status: ongoing

- taglist: open

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

yn | suna

: ̗̀➛ 1. first meeting

: ̗̀➛ 2. number

: ̗̀➛ 3. first text

: ̗̀➛ 4. pictures

: ̗̀➛ 5. music

: ̗̀➛ 6. pretty girl

: ̗̀➛ 7. miss you

: ̗̀➛ 8. party

: ̗̀➛ 9. …missing?

: ̗̀➛ 10. fight?

: ̗̀➛ 11. promise

: ̗̀➛ 12.

@starlitami @coquettemaiden @alienvarmint @buggy-cj @noideawhothatis @wooasecret @userwithlotsoftime @kawaii-desv @bomjug @tsukibaby1 @sunarots @m3gitsune @yuminako @13-09-01 @saiewithakatana @idkanymorebuthere @suna-rintired @efam @kenmaslov3r @lovejunz @baramii @ast4rg1rl @tenaciouswritersheep @omismicrowave @jeonsfizz @coco-cat @shotenvinsoot @camicocom1a @kodzuchim @kawaii-angelanne @buns-inhiding @iamapotat @thebrownemo @haruskatana @camille-1019 @aimno256 @seiamor @coldcigarette @enloveriu @nicerthanu @a-listaire @ilytrinsworld @heeseungenhypensblog @selarina @fairywriter-oracle @iuspired @tsukiran @wolffmaiden @shoyohinatasgf @d-lia @deadfish714 @kodzu-ken @rory-cakes @rntrsuna @adangerousbalance @wyrcan @sukunasrealgf

cant tag bold

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ match my freak !!

ᝰ.ᐟ the two of you are private not secret, but when the media starts to speculate that the two of you are no longer together, neither of you are too happy. the best way to get everyone to stop with the breakup rumors? posting something a little bit nasty to the feed to satiate everyone's curiosity. (fem!reader)

featuring tobio kageyama, atsumu miya, tetsurou kuroo, wakatoshi ushijima, tooru oikawa, rintarou suna content contains breeding kink (atsumu, wakatoshi), pregnant reader (wakatoshi), famous!reader (changes depending on scenario), creampie (tetsurou), hatefucking (not really, you + kuroo just like to antagonize each other but the attraction is there), scratches on his back (tobio), hickeys (tooru), wet n messy (rintarou), possessive!character x possessive!reader (the two of you are obsessed with each other ok), social media references lol author's notes i'm definitely doing a blue lock version, i'm just seeing if this is a popular premise lol <3 based off this original concept !! these are just silly little drabbles for me to warm up to the idea of writing again haha

౨ৎ TOBIO KAGEYAMA

your fans are speculating: that you and kageyama have broken up. fans are recording footage from you on your latest tour and claim that you're "clearly disassociating" and "somewhere else mentally" when it comes to singing your iconic love songs. you and kageyama have always kept your relationship private because he's not a very open person to begin with, and you don't want to give the media more material to misconstrue. you know that kageyama hates when some random person will annotate your verses on genius lyrics and try to make the claim that your innocent metaphor is you wanting to jump ship and leave kageyama. and you hate how it's your own fans who are making wild accusations of you no longer being with the man all your love songs are about.

you posted: kageyama, with his back turned to the camera so all that fills your camera is the surprisingly broad expanse of his muscular back and shoulders. he's not even flexing, and it's obvious that he's a world-class athlete. he's facing the closet, trying to find a shirt to put on, and it would be a semi-innocent photo, the pinterest-perfect photo inspo for every private not secret relationship out there, except for the fact that there are clearly faint, red lines — scratches — running down his back. you caption the photo with a "monday morning 🤍" (your insane fans spam the comment section to exclaim how they knew you two were still a thing... and to speculate that this photo is somehow an easter egg for an upcoming song/album. well, they're right: you two will always be a thing, and tobio dicked you down so good last night that you could write him a whole album.)

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"fuck," the word slips through his gritted teeth, and you can tell that your tobio is still upset about how your fans seem divided. half of them claim no one could ever make them hate tobio (you find those fans to be absolutely adorable), and the other half...

well, the other half are making slideshow posts to audios that go "some boys take a beautiful girl and hide her away from the rest of the world" and the ones that seem to go viral are always the ones that feature you and tobio.

"not hidin' you away." he mutters, never slowing down his thrusts. he admires the expression on your face as he fucks into you, his ego pleased with how receptive you are to his every movement. he has you speared on his cock, your tight little cunt full of him, your eyes getting so adorably teared-up because he's just a little bit too much for you to handle. tobio isn't good with words; he thinks you're the most beautiful girl to exist, but he can't verbalize it. so he just takes in your sweet, fucked-out face, the reaction only he's capable of drawing from you, and it all gets so overwhelming for him.

he has to bury his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet scent of your body wash as he continues to bully his cock into your soaked pussy. "why's it bad if i want to keep you all to myself?" he's practically whining, and you think this would be so cute if only you weren't currently chasing after your release. or rather, tobio's forcing you to cum, whether you want to or not. it's not like you can stop him; tobio devotes himself to always ensuring that you finish before him. he likes the satisfaction of knowing only he can take care of you, and he especially likes the way his cock looks with you creaming all over it.

when he gets like this, all you can do is cling to him, your arms wrapped around his muscular build. when he gets rough with his thrusts, when his body gets just the slightest bit sweaty from the exertion (evidence of just how much work he puts into fucking you), you have to dig your manicured nails (the set he paid for) into the skin of his toned back. otherwise, you'd lose your grip, and your hands would slip off.

tobio relishes the slight stinging pain of your nails scratching down his skin. but the scratches aren't enough. he needs to make you cum. when you get so caught up in your climax, you start clawing at him as you lose control. he loves the scratches you leave on him; it's proof that he's yours just as much as you are his.

౨ৎ ATSUMU MIYA

haters are saying: that you're just using atsumu for content. you're a gold digger. you're not genuine. you're not "wifey material." spectators are claiming that atsumu is playing worse than before because he's too "pussywhipped" for you. well, he likes to cheekily admit to you that he is addicted to your pussy, but they're wrong about everything else. obviously. however, the haters are feeling very vindicated whenever they see atsumu hasn't been posting you as much. (you're traveling for a new vlog series on your page, but no one knows.)

he posted: a mirror selfie. which isn't breaking news. atsumu miya always breaks the internet when he posts a mirror selfie because the only thing worse than a hot guy is a hot guy who knows he's hot. no one is a stranger to the sight of a post-workout, sweaty, shirtless atsumu, who flaunts his tight abs and muscular thighs with a steamy mirror selfie. but this photo? this one is going triple platinum. it's going down in history. this selfie is taken in dim lighting; the curtains in the background are drawn shut, he's got one hand gripping his phone (making the phone look tiny in his big hand), and he's got one arm wrapped around you. it's not an innocent hug, though. he's cupping your ass, and the phone in front of his face does nothing to shield his satisfied smirk. you're clad in nothing but lacy lingerie from a designer who loves to sponsor you, and you're clinging to his side, almost like you can't even stand without his support. it's clear that the two of you definitely were... appreciating the work your favorite designer put in when they created that lacy set.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"what do you think?" you're smiling at him, knowing damn well what he's thinking.

atsumu looks up at you, reflexively licking his lips as he takes in the sight of you wearing a new set of lingerie that you just got delivered. it leaves little room for imagination, and the material looks so delicate, atsumu is already thinking about how he'll have to apologize to the designer for ripping it off of you.

"i think I'm the luckiest man alive right now." atsumu is shameless in the way he's admiring you, the way the setting sun still peeks through the curtains, enveloping your body in a delicious golden glow as you inch closer and closer to him.

in a matter of seconds, he's pulling you on top of him, placing wet, sloppy kisses over any centimeter of your skin he can reach. when you make a move to slip off the panties, he protests.

"leave 'em on f'me, baby. please?"

he fucks you with you still wearing the lingerie set. your breasts are spilling out of the bra, and all he did was move your panties to the side so he could stretch you out with his cock.

"fuckin' idiots, tellin' me you're not good enough to marry. i'll show 'em what a good girl you are, right? gonna put a ring on your finger, and make you my wife." he's fucking his cock into you, making sure that your cute cunt knows who it belongs to. "gonna fuck a baby into you, sweetheart. no one's gonna say shit about our family, huh? 'cause i won't let 'em."

your cunt clenches up so nicely with every comment he makes that atsumu knows he has to make all those pussydrunk promises come true.

౨ৎ TETSUROU KUROO

the tabloids are posting: paparazzi photos of you — the socialite daughter of the man who owns the msby black jackals, and jva's promotion division's golden boy, tetsurou kuroo. it's late at night, and the two of you are clearly leaving a party celebrating the success of another eventful volleyball season. you're wearing the iconic ysl heels with a black mini-dress that honestly should be called a micro-dress. your hair is a mess, you're walking like your knees are struggling not to wobble, and walking three steps behind you despite his longer stride is kuroo; his tie is crooked, his cheeks are flushed, and he has a grin that says something like i just fucked one of the richest bratty heiresses in japan, and i left her wanting more. the amount of blind items that are allegedly alluding to you and kuroo are being spread all over tiktok. one reads, "this sports club heiress was seen exiting a party with this semi-known marketing mastermind who works in the sports industry. apparently, they couldn't keep their hands off each other, and no one can recall seeing them together during the party; everyone only caught glimpses of them running away from the festivities together."

you posted: a photo slideshow on instagram of your absolutely iconic outfit from the party, only these photos were clearly taken before the party. your hair is done, your makeup is perfect, and your caption states don't believe everything you read. the last slide is a screenshot of an online headline speculating about your "new man" with a photo of a grinning kuroo from that night. the reason why this makes everyone go insane is because you're no stranger to a scandal — this is, however, the first time you've ever addressed a headline.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"hurry up," you hiss, your eyes darting from left to right as you make sure no one is nowhere near the secluded corridor kuroo somehow managed to find.

"y'know, i thought girls were supposed to like guys who don't blow their loads prematurely." even when he's bullying his cock into your slicked up cunt, savoring the way your sensitive walls are clenching around his dick, tetsurou has a very annoying habit of still sounding entirely in control. for someone who can't keep his hands to himself when it comes to you, he's irritatingly great at playing nonchalant.

but he's just a man, after all. he might tower over you, his large body shielding you from any prying eyes, and he might know your body so well that he can bring you to completion twice (once with his fingers curling against that special spot of yours, and another one so rudely wrung out from you when he slid his cock in your orgasm-recovering, overly sensitive pussy) in just the fifteen minutes he's been toying with you tonight, but you know that he must be feeling something. you saw him shift his pants the moment his eyes met yours from across the room, when his eyes travelled down your body and followed the way your dress emphasized the curvatures of your body.

"if you don't finish right now, i'm not going to let you cum inside." you threaten him, trying to steady your voice as you bite back a moan. it'd be a major issue if the two of you got caught, with the volleyball association's golden boy being buried balls-deep inside a sports team owner's bratty daughter.

with every sharp snap of his hips, kuroo is only forcing more slick to come gushing out of your pussy. he can't even take the time to admire the white ring you left around his cock; he's too focused on chasing after his release because he didn't get to where he's at by not being opportunistic.

"if i cum inside, you have to keep it in your panties the whole night. you wouldn't want that, would you?" he sounds a little breathless now, his pace quickening as his thrusts get sloppier. he's smiling at you, that damn annoying smile that makes you want to roll your eyes or insult him. but your body betrays you. his grin only widens when your pussy tightens up at the idea of having his cum soaking in your panties while you interact with people at this party. a dirty little secret shared only between you two.

he lets out a breathy chuckle at your body's betrayal. "okay, princess. since you want it so badly, i guess i better give it to you."

you could practically cum again the minute you feel the warmth of him finishing inside of you. you're a spoiled brat who gets what she wants, and while you refuse to admit it, you want him. all of him.

and he's going to give it to you.

౨ৎ WAKATOSHI USHIJIMA

the media is going crazy over: the fact that ushijima is the type of person who doesn't clarify anything because he just assumes that everyone can read his mind. he's blunt, sure, but he's not really the type who does much explaining. after the first game of the season, an interviewer asks him if he enjoyed spending the off-season with you, his girlfriend and one of the most beloved, fan-favorite WAGs of all time. ushijima stares straight into the camera as he states in his usual deep, flat rumble of a voice, "the off-season was successful, but she isn't my girlfriend anymore. thank you." and then he just walks off, like he didn't just drop the most insane piece of information ever?

he posted: a photo of an ultrasound that was clearly taken out of his wallet since it's thrown on the table in the background. he's holding it in his left hand, and the overhead lighting is reflected from the silver wedding band he's wearing. now that he's off the court, he's able to wear it. in typical ushijima fashion, there is no caption, but a picture is worth a thousand words. you're not his girlfriend. you're his wife, and soon to be mother of his child.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"mmph — 'toshi!" you squeal out, your calves burning from the stretch as your beloved wakatoshi has your legs bent and spread for him. he's just so big that you'd never be able to handle all of him, and yet, here you are, bent into a mating press every night since the two of you have gotten married. you try to beg him to slow down, but words escape you as he buries himself into your pussy, letting out a deep, guttural groan as the warmth of your cunt coats his cock. there's no better feeling than this.

even if you could request for him to slow down, it wouldn't have mattered or made much of a difference. your husband has a one-track mind. when wakatoshi is set on a goal, it's hard to break his focus until he sees it to the end. and right now, wakatoshi's goal is to fuck a baby into you, to see you round with life because of the seeds he planted.

he's hunched over you, abs tightening and flexing with every sharp inhale of breath he takes. he's gonna fuck himself empty, going to keep filling your cunt with his seed 'til he's shooting blanks. his eyes glance at the ring he put on your finger before returning to admire your blissful expression and the way your body seems to have gone boneless from all the fucking he's had you endure.

"just a little bit longer." he manages to say, before forcing his cock in even deeper. "just have to make sure it takes."

౨ৎ TOORU OIKAWA

everyone is claiming: long distance relationships never last. when oikawa makes the shocking announcement that he is no longer a japanese citizen, everyone immediately wondered what that meant for the future of your relationship. does that mean it's over? officially? if oikawa is leaving behind his hometown, then by default, is he leaving you behind too?

he posted: a photo slideshow, only most of the images were clearly taken by you. the first one is of him driving; the two of you are in his convertible, and he's wearing a white button down with most of the buttons undone. on the stark white of the shirt are kiss marks; the imprint of your lips lined with cherry-red lipstick are all over the material of his shirt and on his freshly-tanned skin. the other photos are of what you two ate for dinner, the sunset from the beach, and a selfie of you two looking more in love than ever. fans are quick to point out the massive hickey on your neck, and tooru tags you in a reply to the top comment that points it out, and he's saying "you missed a spot babe." you reply back, "i ran out of concealer because you gave me too many to cover"

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"i missed you," your boyfriend mumbles into your soft skin. tooru can get so clingy when he goes long periods without seeing you, and you indulge him because he's tooru. he's got his face buried in the space between your shoulder and neck, and his breath is warm against your skin as he speaks.

"everyone is saying i'm abandoning you, but that's not true." he whines.

"i know, baby. i don't care." you laugh softly, absentmindedly playing with the soft strands of his hair. he settles into you, and it's almost sweet, until he starts nipping at your skin.

"tooru, what are you doing?" you can't find it in yourself to chastise him too harshly, but you do have to restrain yourself from pulling back.

"jus' want to show everyone that you're still my girl." he peers up at you, licking his lips. "you'll let me do that, won't you?"

tooru bites and sucks at your skin, sharp canines grazing your soft flesh. he sucks at your most sensitive areas while he works his fingers in and out of your gushing cunt. when he pulls his fingers out and holds them up, so the sunlight can shine and really highlight how much of your juices is coating his digits, he smiles. his girl gets this wet just from him marking you up?

as he sucks on his fingers, relishing in the way you taste, he can't help but be happy to know that no matter how far away the two of you are from each other (for now), you're still his girl.

౨ৎ RINTAROU SUNA

your fans are telling you: suna doesn't care about you. suna doesn't put forth any effort into your relationship. suna literally streams on twitch during the off-season yet he can't seem to ever post you?? suna doesn't deserve you. suna—

suna is a lot of things, but nothing like the deadbeat, ashamed boyfriend allegations. in fact, all your well-meaning fans are so far off on how he treats you that you and him get a good laugh from the outrageous conclusions they've jumped to.

you posted: a photo of rintarou with his head on your lap, and you've got your fingers playing with his hair. it's a sweet photo, really. except for the fact that you decided to pair it with an audio that's a snippet of a song that goes "he's so pretty when he goes down on me" and a caption that reads this song is so relatable 🤍

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

anyone who thinks rintarou is a selfish lover, a lazy lover, someone who merely tolerates you or is ashamed to be with you... they clearly don't know either of you very well.

because even when he's exhausted from practice, rintarou comes home craving you. craving your sweetness, your warmth, your love — and your pussy. he's obsessed. rintarou suna loves to eat you out, and he does it with such passion, such enthusiasm, that it's hard to refuse him, even if he's been going at it for the past hour.

your juices are leaving a stain on the bedsheets, and your slick is coating your inner thighs. it doesn't help that rintarou is messy with his technique. he needs your legs spread for him, granting him easy access for him to just dig in. he's still in his practice jersey, and when he feels your grip loosening from the strands of hair you're tugging at, he'll slow down his pace, calming down to just tiny kitten licks while he peers up at you.

your head is thrown back in pleasure, and your hips have a mind of their own as they still jut forward, as if trying to bring your cunt impossibly closer to him. no need for that, really, seeing as how he craves to bury himself in your warmth, to suck on your cute little clit and have you humming all over his tongue.

"rinnie." you whine out, still subconsciously bucking up your hips. he smiles before resuming his original ministrations, gluttonous and greedy with how sloppy and hungry he is with you. if you're still capable of talking, then you're not too fucked out to not allow him to get his fill.