Ran Haitani X Y/n - Blog Posts

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I'm creaming so hard like it felt GOOD OML got mah toes curlin n shit type good, tingles all over my body type good

breakfasts with haitani ran

Ran Haitani X Reader / one-shot

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/ one-night stand, morning after / 20-yr old ran, or somewhere in his early 20s (not bonten, you get the picture) / NSFW/suggestive themes & language, blushing ran, kinda crack, i’m cracked

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Ran doesn’t know what hit him but he wakes up in his own bed with a jolt—that subtle, peculiar sensation of unease prickling his skin at the semi-awareness of another person in his own place. Like someone just entered through the kitchen. His consciousness catches up to his limbs a second too late, however, and as he props his head up with his elbows planted on the bed, he blinks once, twice, startled by the sunlight’s forced entry through his blinds, before his entire room finally takes shape around him almost all at once along with the memories from last night.

Speaking of which—

He groans, suddenly realizing the empty space beside him. Great, she already left. Nobody ever ditches Haitani Ran just like that. Never in his entire life has he ever had a one-night stand with the girl leaving him, and whatever happened to courtes—oh, but then he sees your clothes still scattered all over his room: your unclasped bra on the floor on his side of the bed; your shoe at one end of his couch; another piece of clothing by the door (your skirt, he knows, because that’s where he had you first the moment the door was shut: standing up, you against the wall); heck, your phone is still on the bedside table. You can’t have just gone leaving your clothes behind. He scrunches his forehead; you’re probably in the bathroom then.

He gets up and foregoes his shirt—not that he can find it anyway—and decides to walk to his kitchen in just his sweatpants. As soon as he enters the small kitchen alley though, he sees a figure already in the room and he let out an uncharacteristic, unattractive yelp of surprise.

“What the fuck—“

His hand is clutching the doorframe.

Almost at the same time, you give a short scream—just as surprised as him—which you muffle with one hand right away, the bedsheets on your other hand almost dropping to the floor. His bedsheets. You’ve been standing at the end of the room by the door, peeking through the small window that led to his laundry area. On your tiptoes, in his t-shirt that stopped above your knees.

You blink at him multiple times, not knowing what to say.

“Uhm—“

“What are you doing?”

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