Aug 17
Pablo Schreiber as Ray Merrimen in Den of Thieves (2018)
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from Russia
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Argentina
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Netherlands
seen from Australia
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Vietnam
seen from United States
Pablo Schreiber as Ray Merrimen in Den of Thieves (2018)
PABLO SCHREIBER as RAY MERRIMEN Den of Thieves (2018) | dir. Christian Gudegast
Gerard Butler
Den of Thieves 2: Pantera Press Tour
Den of thieves (2018)
LOL at everyone asking why I retumbled that table-flipping mblr earlier.
You know I've got Evan Dahm's originals from the Harrowing of Hell of this scene hanging in my apartment, right?
Scream King - Gerard Butler
Requested by Anonymous
The Storm and the Homecoming.
Ray Merrimen x Latina.
WARNING : 18+ ONLY. S M U T. I had this idea stuck in my head the other night so i got to tippy tappin. there is a part 2 to this so LMK if yall like it.
The prison gates groaned open, steel grinding against steel, and the night air rushed in sharp and cold.
Ray Merrimen stepped out first — broad shoulders squared, jaw locked, stride steady like he owned the ground. Prison hadn’t broken him. It had sharpened him. He carried himself like a man who had been caged too long and was ready to take back everything.
You were waiting. Parked across the road in the black Charger he loved, the one you’d kept spotless, even when it hurt too much to see it in the driveway. Your fingers drummed the wheel, your chest tight, and then — there he was.
The sight of him stole the breath from your lungs.
Ray walked out like a storm wrapped in flesh, eyes scanning, jaw flexed, a paper bag of belongings in his hand. But when his gaze found you, just for a second, the steel cracked. His stride didn’t falter, but his eyes softened in a way no one else would have noticed.
You got out of the car. Gravel crunched under your boots.
And then he was in front of you, tall and broad and heavier with years, his chest rising deep. His hand twitched at his side like he was fighting the urge to grab you too fast, too rough.
“Baby,” he rasped, his voice raw.
“Ray,” you breathed, and your body moved before your mind could catch up.
He crushed you to him, arms banding tight, face buried in your hair as he inhaled you like oxygen. You clung to his shirt, your throat tight, tears burning hot.
“Missed you,” he muttered into your neck, words ripped out of him.
“Siempre,” you whispered back. Always.
The Charger roared down the highway with Ray behind the wheel, one hand heavy on the leather, the other heavier on your thigh. His thumb tapped once, twice, a restless rhythm betraying the cage of energy coiled under his skin.
“You held it down,” he said finally, not a question.
“I told you I would.”
His thumb pressed harder, squeezing your thigh, his eyes cutting sideways, sharp. “We’ll talk about the shit you did while I was gone.”
Your pulse skipped. He didn’t know yet — about the piercings, about the late nights alone, the ways you’d kept sane. He would.
He made one stop before home.
The bar was loud and low, neon buzzing, smoke curling out with every slam of the door. Inside, his crew waited, voices rising, drinks half-drained.
When Ray walked in, the whole room shifted. Conversations cut. Heads turned. He carried command like a weapon strapped to his back.
“Look who the fuck it is,” one of the boys grinned, standing to clap him hard on the shoulder.
Ray smirked, sharp, pulling you closer at his side. “Miss me, or what?”
The table erupted, laughter, noise, glasses raised. But his hand never left your hip. Every laugh, every story, every toast — his eyes cut back to you, burning, like he was already counting down the seconds until he got you alone.
When he drained his glass and stood, the boys groaned.
“Ray—”
“Tomorrow,” he said flat, final. “Tonight’s not for you.”
His hand slid lower on your back as he steered you out, his stride calm but his jaw tight, his silence louder than a shout.
The storm was already building.
When you pulled up to the house, it looked the same, but the air wasn’t. Ray stepped through the door like a king reclaiming his throne. The keys hit the table, his bag thudded to the floor, and before you could blink, his mouth was on yours.
He slammed you against the wall, kissing you like punishment, like years of hunger spilling out at once. His hands roamed rough, grabbing your ass, hauling you up until your legs wrapped around his waist.
“Mine,” he growled against your lips.
“Yes,” you gasped. “Always.”
His mouth tore down your throat, biting, marking, reclaiming. His hands shoved your shirt up — and froze.
Silver glinted in the low light.
His gaze dropped, locked, burning. The piercings.
The air snapped taut.
“What the fuck is this?” His voice was low, dangerous.
You swallowed. “A surprise. For you.”
Ray’s jaw ticked. His thumb flicked one piercing hard enough to sting, and your back arched with a gasp.
“For me?” His voice roughened, caught between fury and hunger. “You put holes in my property while I was gone?”
“Ray—”
But he was already dragging you to the bedroom, belt clinking, shirt ripping over his head. His chest heaved, tattoos shifting with every breath.
“You don’t make changes without me,” he snarled, throwing you onto the bed. “You don’t touch what’s mine without permission.”
His hand came down on your ass, sharp, punishing. The crack echoed. Again. Again. Until your skin burned, tears pricked your eyes.
“Yes, Daddy,” you choked out, voice breaking.
His snarl broke loose. He shoved inside you, hard, relentless, his hand wrapping around your throat, squeezing until your vision blurred.
“You think anyone else could fuck you like this?” he growled.
“No!” you screamed, the pain and pleasure colliding. “Only you, Ray! Siempre tuya!”
His roar shook the room as he drove harder, faster, years of rage pouring out of him until he stilled, buried deep, his chest heaving against your back.
Slowly, his grip loosened. His mouth dragged over your skin, softer now, his hand sliding from your throat to trace your chest, his thumb brushing the sting of the piercings.
“Reckless girl,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Drive me insane, and I still can’t let you go.”
When your knees buckled, he caught you, hauling you against his chest. He carried you to the couch, dropping down with you sprawled in his lap, his arms iron around you.
“Got you,” he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.
For a long time, he just held you. No rage, no punishment. Just the weight of his body wrapped around yours, his breath steady in your hair.
“I didn’t think I’d make it back here,” he admitted finally, voice raw. “Thought about you every night. What you’d look like. Who you’d be with. If you’d still be mine.”
You tilted your head, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Siempre.”
Ray’s eyes flicked over your face like he was memorizing it. He kissed you again, slower this time, reverent.
“Don’t forget it,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours. “Don’t ever fuckin’ forget it.”
And for the first time since the gates opened, Ray Merrimen looked at peace.
The days blurred.
He held you like he couldn’t believe you were real, like every second apart had carved scars into him. Some nights he was rough, taking out every caged-up ghost on your body. Some nights he was soft, touching you like he needed proof you were still his.
But by the third night, the storm had quieted. He touched you slower, deeper, thrusts measured, kisses lingering. His thumb stroked your jaw as you came undone beneath him, his voice rasping your name like a prayer.
That night, when you confessed — whispering that you had touched yourself while he was gone, imagining his hands, his voice — his eyes darkened.
“You show me,” he ordered. “Show me how you survived without me.”
Your body obeyed before your mind caught up. Sprawled in the sheets, your fingers slid between your thighs, every moan spilling into the quiet while Ray sat back, watching. His breathing grew harsher, his jaw tight, his fists clenching on his knees as you writhed for him.
“Fuck,” he muttered, low, reverent. “Pretty girl. Even when I wasn’t there, you were still mine.”
When you trembled on the edge, his control broke. He shoved your hand away, his mouth replacing it, tongue and teeth dragging you into release so violently you screamed his name.
And when he finally sank into you, it wasn’t punishment anymore. It was claiming.