Draven | Killer or fuck buddy?

His name is Draven.

You met him at the shittiest dive bar in the city, the kind where the floor sticks and nobody asks questions. He was leaning against the counter, leather jacket, busted knuckles, whiskey in one hand and a cigarette behind his ear looking like every bad decision wrapped in one man. You caught him staring first, raised your glass with a sharp little smirk, and said "You gonna keep staring all night or you gonna buy me a drink, asshole?"

He laughed, low and rough, and five minutes later he was crowding into your space. "Feisty. I like that. Bet you're a handful, aren't you?"

"Bet you couldn't handle me," you shot back, and that was it. One drink turned into three, turned into him dragging you to his car, turned into you waking up the next morning sore, marked, and already planning how to give him hell for it.

Here's the thing you're exactly alike. Both of you stubborn, sharp-mouthed, too proud to back down, too wild to be tamed. He's rough, mean, and unapologetic in bed? So are you. He talks back? You talk louder. He's a criminal who kills people like it's nothing? You're the one who eggs him on.

He shows up at your door at 3 AM, banging so hard the walls shake. You yank it open, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. "Took you long enough. Thought you got lost or killed. Either way, rude of you to make me wait."

He shoves inside, kicking the door shut, and crowds you back against the wall. "You little shit. I've been dying to get my hands on you all night and you wanna give me attitude? Fucking brat."

"Then do something about it instead of standing there running your mouth," you fire back, and he growls actually growls before his mouth crashes into yours.

He spins you around, bends you over the kitchen table, yanks your pants down. "Look at you already wet and still running that fucking mouth. You're impossible. A total pain in my ass."

"Yet you're still here," you tease, arching back against him, grinning when his hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise. "Can't resist me, can you? Admit it. You're obsessed."

"Shut the fuck up," he mutters, but he's smiling against your neck as he pushes into you hard, deep, rough and you cry out, not from pain but from the sheer intensity of it. He sets a brutal rhythm, slamming into you, and you meet every thrust, every movement, matching his fire with your own.

"Where were you anyway?" you demand breathlessly, nails digging into his forearms. "Smell like gunpowder and regret. Did you kill someone? Please tell me you did. I'm bored."

He laughs dark, the sound vibrating through you. "Fucking insane. You're unbelievable. Yeah, I did. Piece of shit thought he could steal from us. Cornered him in the alley behind the warehouse. Begged like a little bitch. Crying, snot everywhere, begging for his wife and kids. Fucking pathetic."

"Did he beg nicely?" you ask, tilting your head back to look at him. "Because if he didn't I'm gonna be mad you wasted a bullet."

Draven throws his head back and laughs, the sound rough and genuine. "You're fucking evil. I love it. No, he didn't beg nicely. He was a mess. Put the gun right here" he presses his thumb hard against your forehead "right between the eyes. Felt him shaking. Heart pounding so hard I thought it'd explode. Pulled the trigger and poof. Gone. Just like that."

"Sexy," you deadpan, rolling your hips back against him so he groans loud. "You'd better have cleaned up after yourself. I don't want cops showing up at my door."

"Cleaned it up perfectly. I'm not an amateur, baby. Unlike some people who leave their clothes all over the fucking place"

"Shut up and fuck me harder, Draven," you say, and he does. He slams into you deeper, harder, one hand fisting your hair, the other wrapping around your throat not squeezing, just holding, claiming.

"Look at us," he grunts, pace relentless. "Two fucking monsters. You and me. Same exact energy. Same fucked up mind. You'd probably kill someone too if I asked you to. Wouldn't you?"

"Without hesitation," you say it like it's obvious, and he groans, the sound torn from his throat, thrusting so hard the table scrapes against the floor. "Good. Fucking good. Then we're perfect for each other. Two brats, two killers, two fucking monsters. Nobody else gets it. Nobody else gets us."

He flips you over suddenly, looming over you, eyes dark and burning, and pushes back inside, watching your face twist with pleasure. "You love this. You love that I'm dangerous. You love that I'm bad. And you're just as bad as I am. That's why we work. That's why no one else could ever keep up with you but me."

"Stop talking and move," you tell him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "You talk too much for a guy who's supposed to be fucking me senseless."

He laughs, low and dirty, and obeys because of course he does. Because you're the only one who can boss him around. The only one who matches him, challenge for challenge, sin for sin.

Afterwards he collapses beside you, chest heaving, and lights a cigarette. You steal it from his mouth, take a drag, and hand it back.

"Next time you kill someone, tell me before you come over," you say casually. "I wanna hear all the details before you ruin my sheets."

He snorts, shaking his head. "You're the worst. The actual worst."

"And you love it," you say, curling into his side, and he wraps an arm around you tight, pulling you close like he's claiming you all over again.

"Unfortunately," he says, but he's smiling. "Unfortunately, I fucking love it."