venomaera

[venomaera]

Laced in Ink and Blood

Keiji Akaashi x Reader

Warnings: Violence, possessiveness, sexual tension, implied NSFW, blood, mentions of past trauma, power imbalance, slight dubcon vibes, reader is not helpless but Akaashi is very in control.

⸻

It always started with the sound of a lighter clicking in the dark.

You didn’t know his name the first time. Just a silhouette on the far end of the club — all black suit, silver rings, and an expression carved from glass. You’d seen plenty of men with money and power pass through the Red Lantern, but he was different. There was a quiet to him. Dangerous. The kind that didn’t need to raise his voice to kill you.

The first night, he watched you from the shadows. Second night, he tipped you without a word. The third night, he spoke.

“You shouldn’t work here.”

His voice was soft. Polite. But the threat bled through like wine on silk.

You tilted your head. “You shouldn’t be here either, pretty boy.”

His lips barely curved. “That’s not what they call me.”

⸻

His name was Akaashi.

And he ran half the city.

Rumor said he was the brain behind a web of blood-soaked business empires—legal on the surface, rotting underneath. The other half of the city called him “the ghost”—no fingerprints, no records, no past. But he had eyes. Everywhere. Even on you.

You had no idea why he wanted you, of all people. A dancer with good legs and bad luck, working your way through the underbelly one night at a time.

But he made himself known.

The first time he touched you was in the hallway behind the club. You were still in costume, fishnets torn, makeup smudged, your perfume clashing with smoke and sweat. He backed you into the wall like he had every right to. Like he already owned the building, the city, your heartbeat.

“I don’t share,” he murmured, pressing his palm against your jaw, thumb grazing your lips. “Understand?”

You shouldn’t have liked how he said it.

But you did.

⸻

Two Weeks Later.

You’re in his penthouse now.

Not his house. His penthouse. Top floor. Glass walls. Too clean for someone who’s likely buried men with his bare hands. But his bedroom smells like books and blood. The shelves are lined with rare editions, all organized alphabetically — everything about him is tidy, perfect, pristine. Except when he’s looking at you like this.

Like you’re the one thing he’s allowed to ruin.

“You disobeyed me.”

He’s calm. That’s the worst part. His tie is loosened, but his voice hasn’t cracked once.

You meet his stare. “I went for drinks with a friend.”

“Another man.”

“I’ve known him for years.”

“You won’t know him tomorrow.”

Your stomach clenches — with fear or desire, you can’t tell anymore.

He stalks forward, slow, calculated. Fingers around your chin, tilting your head.

“You like testing me, don’t you?” he whispers, voice dark silk. “You want to see how far I’ll go before I break.”

His thumb slides over your lower lip. “Let me show you.”

⸻

He doesn’t kiss you soft.

There’s no gentle prelude, no hesitation. Just heat. Teeth. Hands pinning your wrists above your head as he presses you into Egyptian cotton sheets that cost more than your rent.

His mouth trails down your neck, biting into your pulse, bruising skin like he wants to brand it. His voice rasps against your throat:

“I see you let them look at you. In that dress.”

His hand slides up your thigh, under silk, fingers teasing. “But only I get to touch, princess. You remember that?”

You nod — or try to. He punishes you with a sharp nip to your collarbone.

“Say it.”

Only one word will do.

“…Yours.”

“Louder.”

His fingers slide inside — slow, commanding, relentless.

“Yours, Keiji—fuck—yours.”

That’s when he smiles. Dark. Possessive. Beautiful.

⸻

You were still trembling when he came back from the en suite, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes stormy with restraint.

His hair was a little messy now. You did that.

He set the glass of water on the bedside table and sat next to you, silent. You were half-sprawled across his bed — skin marked with blooming bruises, legs still shaking, mind a fog of sensation. But your smirk was intact.

“You gonna punish me again?” you teased, voice hoarse.

Akaashi didn’t answer at first. He just looked at you — really looked. Like he was trying to memorize every part he had broken. Every inch he’d made his.

Then he leaned in, brushing a kiss over your shoulder.

“I should,” he murmured. “But then I’d forget to worship you.”

Your laugh caught in your throat.

Worship. The way he said it — like prayer and prophecy, like he meant to sacrifice something.

And he did.

⸻

You don’t know how long he was between your thighs.

Long enough to have you sobbing. To have your hips twitching, throat raw, fingers in his hair as he whispered filth and praise against your slick, overworked skin.

“So sweet for me…”

“You take it so fucking well.”

“This pussy’s mine. Say it.”

“Good fucking girl…”

His fingers were bruising your hips, his mouth relentless. Every time you thought he was done, he’d start again — slower, deeper, more reverent. It wasn’t just hunger. It was obsession. Worship through destruction.

And when you came the third time, his voice turned low and ragged:

“That’s it. That’s my perfect fucking girl. Come for me. Ruin my mouth.”

He moaned into it — like he was the one being wrecked.

And maybe he was.

⸻

He doesn’t degrade you like you’re beneath him.

He degrades you like it hurts him to need you this much.

“Look at you,” he growled when he finally thrust into you — thick, deep, unrelenting, the head of his cock dragging against your walls like a weapon designed for ruin. “Dripping for me. You like being used, don’t you?”

Your legs were shaking. You were too far gone to answer.

“Say it,” he hissed, fucking harder. “Say it before I lose what little self-control I have left.”

“I—fuck—yes—Keiji, I like it, I love it—”

That was all he needed.

He fucked you like it was the last thing he’d ever do. Hand around your throat, other gripping your thigh, snapping his hips into you with vicious reverence. Like you were a relic, and he the priest. Not just taking you — offering himself.

He pressed his forehead to yours as he pounded deeper.

“I’d kill anyone you smiled at. You know that, right?”

You moaned, nails raking down his back.

“I’d burn cities for this cunt,” he breathed, hips stuttering. “For you.”

You clenched hard, and he choked on a groan — the first sound he couldn’t control.

⸻

After, you lay against his chest, covered in sweat and bite marks. Your body was humming — used, satisfied, cherished. Akaashi’s fingers played lazily with your hair as his heartbeat slowly calmed beneath your ear.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.

You tilted your head. “You think I didn’t choose this?”

His jaw clenched.

“I chose you,” you said again, slower, and kissed his throat.

And for once, he had no answer. Just silence.

And arms wrapped tight around you like you were the only softness he’d ever known.

⸻

The first time he made you wear his ring, he slid it onto your finger like a collar.

A heavy, platinum thing — engraved on the inside with his family crest. Not that you’d ever seen his family. Or known their names. Or if they were still alive.

But the crest mattered. The weight mattered.

It was a symbol.

A warning.

You wore it on your index finger at first — until he caught you.

“No,” he murmured against your neck, voice low with command. “Left hand. Ring finger.”

You stared at him, heart thudding.

“That’s not what this is,” you challenged.

His fingers tightened around your hips. “Isn’t it?”

⸻

The ring burned like iron.

At the next club gala — dark-lit, drenched in smoke and sin — it gleamed under the lights as you sipped your drink. You felt every eye on you. But none of them dared touch.

They knew what it meant.

Belonging. Claimed. Untouchable, not because you were innocent — but because you weren’t allowed to be touched by anyone but him.

Still, one man tried.

Big mistake.

⸻

BANG.

The silence after the gunshot was louder than the music.

Blood pooled across velvet. Screams. Scrambling bodies. And Akaashi stood calm and collected, gun lowered, his eyes locked only on you.

“Did he touch you?” he asked, voice quiet as sin.

“No,” you whispered. “He just looked.”

That was enough. His hand cupped your jaw gently, lovingly. Thumb over your bottom lip.

“Good girl,” he said, softly. “Mine.”

⸻

He took you right there — in the back room, adrenaline thick between your thighs.

Bent over his desk. Face down, ring flashing as your hands braced against polished oak.

“God, look at you,” he groaned, dragging his cock through your soaked folds. “So fucking perfect. Always ready for me.”

You moaned as he pushed in deep — agonizingly slow, making sure you felt every damn inch.

“That’s it. You take me so well. So proud of you, sweetheart.”

His voice was velvet around razors, unraveling you.

“You were made for this. For me.”

Every thrust drove you higher — deeper — until you were a mess of whimpers, legs trembling, tears in your lashes. He didn’t degrade you with words. He worshiped you like a sinner. Called you divine, angel, his redemption—right before he ruined you.

“You wear my ring,” he panted, lips pressed to your spine. “You wear my name. Say it. Say who owns you.”

You gasped, back arching. “Keiji! Yours—yours—yours!”

“Good fucking girl,” he growled, gripping your throat gently, pulling you up to kiss your temple. “You make me so proud.”

And then he spilled inside you, holding you so tight you thought your bones might remember his shape.

⸻

Later, in his private suite, you watched him clean blood off his knuckles. The suit jacket was gone. His shirt half-unbuttoned. Gun tucked neatly on the nightstand.

You were wearing only one of his dress shirts — the ring still on your hand.

“Someone put a hit on me,” he said quietly, without looking at you. “And it wasn’t that drunk bastard.”

Your stomach tightened.

“They came for you,” he added. “To send a message.”

“…What kind of message?”

He finally turned to face you — eyes shadowed, mouth grim.

“The kind that says they know exactly how to destroy me.”

And his gaze settled on you like a vow.

Like a threat.

⸻

The warehouse was cold.

Not just from the lack of heating — but the way everyone went still when Keiji Akaashi walked in.

You were on his arm. His girl. His mark. His fucking weakness — and he made sure they knew it.

You shouldn’t have worn that skirt.

But you wanted him to snap.

He didn’t say a word when his hand slid down your thigh on the car ride over. Didn’t even look at you. Just kept reading the manifest with one hand, fingers toying with the lace of your panties like it was an afterthought.

“You’re playing with fire,” he murmured, finally. “And you want to burn.”

⸻

The deal was tense — rival gangs, too many guns, too few loyalties.

You were supposed to wait in the back.

You didn’t.

You slid onto his lap in the corner of the meeting room like it was your rightful throne — thighs spread over his expensive slacks, your heat pressed against the bulge in his pants.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t even flinch.

He just unzipped, with calm precision — and pressed the tip of his cock against your dripping entrance.

You gasped, breath catching, trying not to moan right there as he pushed in. Slowly. Deeply.

Until he was buried inside you.

Fully. Without moving.

⸻

Cockwarming.

In public. During a meeting.

With armed men at the table and death in the air — you were stuffed full of him, clenching down around his cock, nails digging into his shoulders to stay silent.

And he? He stayed perfectly still.

One arm around your waist, one hand casually flipping pages. His voice smooth, detached, as he spoke to the men across the table.

“Ten crates. All clean. Inspected by my second.”

His hips didn’t move — but he flexed inside you. Just enough to make your thighs twitch.

You whimpered softly against his neck.

“Hmm?” he murmured, low and dark. “Something to say, baby?”

You shook your head fast.

But he leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Can’t handle being this full, can you?” he whispered. “So needy. So fucking greedy for me.”

You clenched again, helpless — and his cock twitched in response.

The others didn’t even notice.

That made it worse.

Hotter.

More dangerous.

⸻

Fifteen minutes.

That’s how long he made you stay like that.

Every subtle shift of his thighs made your insides flutter. Every deep breath sent shivers down your spine. You were slick and stuffed and trembling, barely biting back whines as your orgasm teased the edge.

He knew.

[venomaera]

Stay

John price x reader

(Breeding k!nk, biting k!nk, smut, slight degradation)

———

“Stay with me tonight,” his voice was gravel and honey, deep and soft as he pulled back the covers.

The room smelled like him — cedar, smoke, soap. Clean now, but still masculine. You stepped in from the small bathroom, steam curling behind you, wrapped only in one of his shirts. It swallowed you, but the way his eyes raked over your legs, the curve of your hips beneath the fabric, you may as well have been wearing nothing at all.

Price sat on the edge of the bed, hair still damp and curling a little at his nape, beard glistening faintly. He looked up at you like you were something holy, something he hadn’t realized he needed until this exact moment. “C’mere, love.”

You went to him.

His hands were rough, callused, still warm from the water — and from you. They found your hips, pulled you between his legs. He pressed his forehead against your stomach for a second, just breathing you in, like he needed to center himself. The weight of the mission, the blood and dust and adrenaline — all of it stripped away here. With you.

“Didn’t think I’d get to come back to this,” he murmured. “Didn’t think I’d come back at all.”

You combed your fingers into his hair, threading them through the short curls. “But you did. You always do.”

His eyes lifted — stormy blue, shadowed but burning. “Not always, sweetheart. But I will, if I know you’re waitin’ for me.”

Then he kissed you.

It started slow. The kind of kiss that says everything — thank you, I missed you, I need you, I’m yours — all in the gentle press of lips. But the tension had been simmering for days. It turned hungry fast. His hands gripped your thighs, lifted you with practiced strength, and you gasped as he laid you back against the mattress, crawling over you, his body heat pressing into yours.

You clutched at his back, the muscle flexing beneath your fingers. His beard scraped your jawline as he kissed down your neck, trailing heat and need in his wake.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growled into your skin. “All mine. Gonna make sure you feel it for days.”

His teeth grazed your collarbone, not quite biting — yet — and you arched beneath him, breath catching.

———

You felt his breath against your skin before you felt his teeth — warm, steady, then a sharp bite just beneath your jaw.

You gasped, and his hand slid up under the hem of his shirt — your shirt now — palm rough as it skimmed your bare waist.

“You like that?” he murmured, lips against the mark he’d just left. He licked over it, slow, like an apology that wasn’t quite one. “Can’t help myself. You’re just too bloody sweet, love.”

His voice was thick with heat. Desire. That deep, rumbling tone that shot straight through you and made your thighs tense around his hips.

You felt the heat of him, all of him, even through his boxers — heavy, insistent, pressed right between your legs. And he was still holding back.

You looked up at him through your lashes, heart hammering. “Then don’t hold back.”

His gaze locked with yours, wild and soft all at once. One hand cradled your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip.

“Careful what you ask for, sweetheart.” A teasing grin, half-cocked. “I’ve been thinkin’ about this since the day we met.”

You whimpered as he rolled his hips into you, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Thought about you ridin’ me when I was lyin’ in the dirt,” he whispered, voice breaking into a snarl. “Wanted to fill you up so good, mark you so deep you wouldn’t forget me even if I didn’t come home.”

His words hit like a jolt of fire to your stomach — filthy and desperate and full of that deep-buried fear he never let anyone see. But you did. You always did.

“I want that,” you whispered, fingers digging into his back. “Want you to give me everything. Leave me aching for you. Yours, John.”

He groaned — deep, guttural — and suddenly he was kissing you again, hard and breathless. His hips rocked against you, slow but hungry. The tension was unbearable now, your body clenching, needing, begging silently for more.

Then he broke away just enough to look at you, and the heat in his eyes could’ve set the room on fire.

“Gonna put a baby in you, love,” he said, hand sliding down to grip your thigh and pull you open. “Wanna see you swollen with me, marked up, full of my bite and my name and my blood.”

You moaned, head falling back against the pillow, your body already rising to meet him.

“Do it,” you begged. “Breed me, John. Make me yours.”

He growled, low and primal, and bit your neck again — this time hard enough to make you cry out — then licked it, soothed it, kissed it like worship.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped, pushing your shirt up over your breasts, hands roaming like he needed to memorize every inch. “You’re mine. Mine to love, mine to bite, mine to ruin.”

And then he pressed into you.

Slow, claiming, every inch of him dragging fire through your core. You cried out, clutching at him, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. And he groaned, deep in your ear:

“That’s it, love. Take me. Gonna fill you so good, you’ll still be drippin’ me come morning.”

———

Your moan echoed off the walls as Price buried himself fully inside you, stretching you to the edge of pleasure and pain. He stilled, chest heaving, arms braced on either side of your head like he was barely holding himself back.

“So tight for me,” he rasped, voice strained with restraint. “Like you were made for me, weren’t you?”

You could only nod, breathless — but he wasn’t satisfied with that.

His hand came up to your throat, fingers resting gently, thumb tracing your pulse.

“Answer me, sweetheart.” That voice — commanding, low, and laced with dangerous tenderness. “Tell me whose you are.”

“Y-Yours,” you gasped, the pressure of his hand just enough to make your head swim. “I’m yours, John. Only yours.”

His growl was pure possession.

Then he moved.

His hips drove forward, hard and deep, dragging a cry from your throat as your body clenched around him. Every stroke felt punishing — a perfect rhythm of rough dominance and aching need. He held you in place like you were fragile, but fucked you like he was trying to brand you from the inside out.

“That’s it, love. Take it,” he grunted, his lips at your ear. “Takin’ me so well. You want this, don’t you? Want me to break you open, fill you up, ruin you for anyone else?”

You whimpered, nodding frantically as his hand slid under your thigh and hiked your leg up, changing the angle — hitting just right.

“Say it.”

“I want it,” you cried. “Want you to breed me, mark me, ruin me—please, John—please!”

He bit your shoulder then, hard enough to bruise, and you gasped — but the pain only sent another wave of heat rolling through your gut. His mouth was on you everywhere, biting, sucking, owning. Every mark he left said mine. His hips snapped faster now, the slap of skin on skin loud in the dim room, his breathing ragged and heavy.

“You feel that?” he growled, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand. His grip was iron. Unrelenting. “That’s me claimin’ you. Every inch. Gonna keep you like this — needy, wrecked, full of me.”

You couldn’t speak. You could only feel — the stretch, the heat, the overwhelming sensation of being completely dominated. Completely his.

Then his free hand slid between your bodies, and he rubbed tight, fast circles — and you shattered.

Your whole body arched, crying out his name like it was the only word you knew. He didn’t stop — not even as you clenched around him, twitching, shaking, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. He just held you down, fucked you through it, growling in your ear:

“One more. You’ve got another in you, love. Give it to me.”

You sobbed his name, and he kissed you hard, swallowing every sound as his rhythm turned erratic — desperate. And when he slammed into you one final time, he bit down on your neck again and roared your name.

His release was searing — hot, thick, and deep. You felt him pulse inside you, your body trembling as he held you close, his arms wrapped tight like he couldn’t let you go even if he tried.

And when he finally collapsed on top of you, still inside, both of you breathless and soaked in heat, his voice was soft again. Raw.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, kissing the bruises he’d left, gentle now. “And I’ll never let you go.”

———

He didn’t pull out right away.

Instead, he stayed there — buried deep inside you, his weight half on top of you, face buried in the crook of your neck. His arms had gone slack around you, but not in a way that meant he’d let go. He was still holding. Still trembling. Still trying to breathe you in.

You could feel his heartbeat where your chests were pressed together — hard and fast. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Didn’t mean to be so rough,” he murmured, voice thick, almost hoarse. “Was thinkin’ about you for days. Couldn’t stop. Couldn’t slow down.”

You cradled his head, fingers weaving through his damp hair. “You don’t have to be careful with me. I wanted it. I wanted you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you — his eyes so soft now, a world away from the heat that had consumed them earlier. “I know. I know, love. Just—” He exhaled sharply, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re too damn precious. Scares me sometimes.”

Then, slowly, he started to move again — not to leave, not to chase another release. Just… moving. Gentle. Deep. A slow, lazy roll of his hips that kept you full, overstimulated, sensitive enough to flinch.

You gasped, clinging to him again, thighs twitching.

“Easy,” he whispered, kissing your cheek. “Just wanna feel you a little longer.”

Each thrust now was soft, almost reverent — more about staying connected than chasing another climax. But the slow drag of him inside you, the way he kissed you with aching tenderness between every breath, made your body start to respond again. Your walls fluttered around him, still stretched and sore, but hungry. And he groaned softly, burying his face against your chest.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured, smiling against your skin. “Sweetest bloody thing I’ve ever touched.”

You could feel him pulsing again, not quite hard, not quite soft — just present. His cum still warm inside you, leaking with every movement, slicking the insides of your thighs. The mess didn’t matter. The ache didn’t matter. You were together. Safe. Held.

He reached down between your bodies again, but this time it wasn’t rough — just a soft touch to your clit, barely brushing, coaxing instead of taking.

“One more for me, love,” he whispered, lips against your ear. “Just one. Let me feel you again.”

Your body obeyed him without thought.

The climax was quieter this time. Slower. A trembling, aching bloom that left you shaking as you came, crying softly against his shoulder. And when he felt you pulse around him again, he followed, hips twitching, gasping your name like it was the last thing he’d ever say.

After that, he finally stopped. Kissed you. Everywhere. Your cheeks, your eyelids, your mouth, your throat — every bruise and bite he’d left, worshipped like they were priceless.

He pulled out gently, wincing as you both flinched from the sensitivity. Then he slipped away just long enough to grab a warm towel, clean between your thighs, and press a long kiss to your knee before crawling back beside you.

Price wrapped himself around you like he never wanted to let go.

“You ruined me, y’know,” he said quietly, brushing your hair off your face. “I was fine before you. Cold. Controlled. And now all I think about is waking up with you.”

You turned to face him fully, curling into his chest. “You’ve always been more than that, John. You just didn’t let yourself feel it.”

He closed his eyes, breathing in your scent. “You’re the only thing that’s ever made me feel safe. And I’ve been through hell. But you—” He paused, swallowed. “You’re home.”

The silence stretched, full of warmth and things unspoken. And then:

“I meant it,” he said, voice softer than ever. “Want to give you everything. A life. A future. Hell, if you’ll have it… even a family.”

You smiled into his chest, eyes misting, heart full.

“I want that too. With you. Only you.”

And in the quiet of the room, his breath finally slowed. His body relaxed around yours, arms tightening one last time.

“Good,” he whispered, brushing a final kiss to your temple.

“Then I’ll never let go.”

[venomaera]

something borrowed, something blue masterlist

john price, head of the price mafia family, needs a wife. luckily, simon riley has an unmarried sister and a need for resources. only problem? prices and rileys don't exactly mix well...

AO3 LINK

the proposal

the meeting

wedding week

the wedding

the honeymoon

a week of friendship

a bookstore in the making

mended bonds

an almost fresh start

past dreams and current nightmares

snitches and rats

found you

baby steps

a new chapter

this is an enemies to lovers, arranged marriage mafia au! john price x f!reader. reader is simon's half sister. all of our four boys will be featured (eventually). the "enemies" part is mutual disdain, not life or death enemies. lots of cheeky banter here. it is medium burn, since the lines of "hate" and passion can be easily crossed. the rileys are a smaller manchester gang and the prices are in charge of london's biggest mafia. i am american so some places/slang/logistics might be not be right!! don't hate me! i am googling manchester/london slang but if you have some recs, feel free to comment. more to come <3

tag: fic: sbsb mafia price

taglist is closed, pls turn on notifs <3