lilac on raw skin
tw: drunk reader, physical/emotional abuse, sexual content
what if you're piss drunk at the Haitani's club and Izana just so happened to take a bathroom break while you're in desperate need for some friction—but luckily! Rindou's warm thick arms are open and waiting for you to collapse into.
"You're practically fucking her Rin"
A deep snicker came from the corner of the booth, Ran's airy lazy tone somehow slices through the thick bass of the song playing earning a couple chuckles from the other men at the table. Though Rindou was to focused on the bathroom door to notice what anyone thought—in fact, he was subconsciously biting his tongue, thinking of excuses, all the while his heart throbs in his chest thinking about how his boss was going to catch his girlfriend humping him.
Meanwhile he silently prayed you were too drunk to notice his growing cock rubbing against your ass through his pinstripe trousers.
A mixture of drunken giggles and high whines easily eliciting such a reaction from him, your hips viciously crashing into his own—off beat to the song that just came on. You can feel the pulse of the music vibrating through your body as you bite your lip, lost in the rhythm, the liquor in your system amplifying your confidence. Splotches of vibrant hot pink and deep violet swirl around you, creating a dizzying kaleidoscope that dances in your vision. The air is thick and heavy, saturated with the intoxicating blend of musk, swirling smoke, and the occasional waft of perfume from the scattered strippers who weave through the club like fleeting shadows.
Through those shadows was no other than Izana, approaching slowly, draining the color from every other executive's face as he crept towards the table from behind.
You could feel it—his presence commanding attention from not just your booth but others. Lilac accompanied by feathered cream eyelashes narrowed at the sight, his posture laxed—hands in his pockets as he asked you oh so casually.
"And just what are you doing?"
His voice alone almost shocks you into sobriety. Your entire body seemingly shuts down—hips frozen in place, matching the body language of the other men at the table—their smirks and snickers turning into fine lines. You turned your head, slow and cautious, like prey catching wind of a predator—getting an eyeful of sin in a tailored suit. And of course that being the only look you got before his large hand buried itself into your hair, rough finger nails scraping your scalp as he pulled your drunk ass down to the cold dirty floor—curls wrapped around his knuckles.
Your hands instantly shot up to his wrist—clawing at his palms—your acrylics popping off, knees scraping against the tiled floor in the process.
But to no avail.
"Call the car, Kakucho." he exhales, laced with complete disinterest and a touch of disappointment. Your glossy eyes flicker to the men sitting down, they aren't even acknowledging you anymore—the taller man turning his head discreetly as he makes a quick phone call.
Izana turns on his heel, dragging you along past other club members and strippers, who halt what they're doing to gawk at you mortified while an endless chant of "please" and "I'm so sorry!!" falls on deaf ears.
The last thing your teary eyes can make out is Rindou's face—pity in his eyes, guilt in the way he doesn't move. He looks back once, just once, before the pull on your hair reminds you exactly who you belong to.
Cold air slaps your skin as the doors swing open. The night outside is quieter, but no less cruel. Izana doesn't stop. Not for the crowd. Not for your sobs.
The car is already waiting. Sleek. Silent. The back door swings open with a practiced click, like it's done this before. He shoves you inside like luggage, and then follows, calm as ever, the door closing behind you with a finality that feels like a coffin lid.
"I-Iza-"
"Shut up."
You're silenced. He can't even fucking look at you right now—the veins in his neck twitching, locked jaw, and eyes glued to the windshield was already enough of for you to slump in your seat and shut the fuck up.
With each blink, the car ride was mere seconds, Tires hummed against the road, streaks of amber and neon red paint themselves across the window, the only sound was your breathing, uneven and rattled. Finally, the car slows, tires crunching softly on gravel, then a door—his door unlatched.
Your hand instinctively wraps around the handle to open your door but to your surprise, boney fingers curl around your bicep and yanks you out of the car with little to no effort.
His smooth strides and your untimed stumbles pass right through the lobby, into the golden mirrored elevator where you can get a good look at yourself.
And, well... you looked like shit. Your dress bunched up around your waist—the dress barely hanging onto the wiring of your bra, makeup smudged and streaky. You looked cheap—really cheap. That familiar sting crept behind your eye, triggering a hard blink. Your throat tightens. But it's no use, the tears come down anyway—thick, hot, and heavy—dragging a wobbly breath and trembling lip along with them.
Izana doesn't spare you a glance.
Your reflection, your shaking—your whole little sobfest—might as well be background noise.
Consider it part of your punishment. For humiliating him. For making a scene in front of his executives. For forgetting who you belonged to. Especially after begging—pleading with him, "Oh please! pleaseee! I haven't been out in ages!!" and you do this? It's fucking disrespectful that's what it is.
He exhales slowly through his nose, jaw flexing once, twice. Never loosening that grip on your bicep as the elevator jerks, slowing beneath your feet.
He'll show you. That's certain.
Ding!
Rough nails meet silky threads of satin, small rips widening the expensive sheets with each jerk of your body from the impact of Izana's strikes. Anticipation rising as you desperately bite down on the nail of your thumb.
And then crack.
A sharp pain shoots through you while his palm lands hard on the curve of your ass, sharp and unrelenting—air leaving your lungs in a choked gasp.
Then again.
And again, until he was satisfied by the shape of his hand painted into your burning flesh, ruptured blood vessels spiderwebbed across both ass cheeks in an angry red. Lilac lingers a bit, gently tracing the outline while listening to your strained semi-repressed wails before rolling your limp body off him with ease.
He stands—not caring that your battered and bruised ass meeting the cool marble caused a less than subtle reaction from you, just simply readjusting his cuffs like the past hour was just a chore crossed off his to-do list.
"Fix yourself." Complete uninterest rolls off his tongue, his sentence punctuated by the door hitting the frame softly, the finale.
Silence coated your ears as you stared at that door, looking through spiked lashes as your mouth hung open slightly. That was it..right? Wasn't your punishment over? A couple more empty minutes pass, and then you realize.
No, your punishment was in fact not over. It only just begun.
Because while Izana knew the burning sensation on your ass defined the physical aspect of your punishment, it was nothing compared to the emotional turmoil of longing for his presence. Not knowing when he'd be back would eat away at your mind with each hour that passed. If he truly was out on business or entertaining one of the many sluts throwing themselves his way would do way more damage emotionally than anything he could do physically.
And he was right. Limbs dangling at your sides as if they're filled with bags of wet sand, throat too tight to swallow the lump stuck inside. You sit there, replaying the events of tonight, over and over.
That was your punishment.
what a mess..(つω`｡)
