Aurelia namu @aurelianamu - Tumblr Blog

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༉‧₊˚. episode 19: planets in rebellion.

preview:". . . although you recognized that some might consider this the bare minimum, you didn’t get this from a certain tattooed-man. The most you got was waking up to an empty bed. "

cw: heavy nsfw warning, oral (m and f receiving), semi-public s*x, dirty talk, themes of stalking. word count: 11,6k (whew)

༉‧₊˚. note: i wanna thank my bestfriend @aurelianamu for being my beta reader, for giving me ideas through the second quarter of this fic. enjoy reading:)!!

༉‧₊˚. comments + reblogs are appreciated!

༉‧₊˚. Hanma & Taiju by @aurelianamu

A light-blue Tupperware sits on the kitchen counter, steam fogging the lid. The red sauce peeks out from the top, garnished with a few fresh basil leaves. Beside it, a plastic bottle of cold orange juice glistens in the kitchen light. You reach for a paper bag from one of the drawers and carefully place the items inside. Turning to Chifuyu, you offer a soft smile as you hand him the bag.

“Here. I can’t let you leave without dinner.”

“You really didn’t have to,” he says, but the grin tugging at his lips betrays his appreciation.

After your tense encounter with the dark-haired man earlier, the two of you spent the past hour on the couch, talking and laughing. The conversation meandered — memories from your teenage years, Chifuyu’s latest mischief as one of Toman’s higher-ranking members. You laughed until your stomach hurt, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. He watched you make dinner earlier, perched on a stool, telling another one of his endless stories. For a little while, everything else melted away.

You were quietly grateful that Chifuyu hadn’t pressed you about the Hanma situation. The moment he sensed the tension in your shoulders, he made it his mission to pull you out of whatever dark spiral was creeping in. That didn’t mean he wasn’t worried. It wasn’t hard to connect Hanma’s unpredictable behavior to your anxious state — Chifuyu knew the kind of man Hanma was and the dangerous things he was capable of. Putting you through this much stress wasn’t out of character for him.

As he moves toward the door, Chifuyu glances back at you, a small, reassuring smile on his face.

“Call me if you need anything, okay?”

You nod without hesitation. “I will.”

The door creaks as you close it behind Chifuyu. As he steps into the hallway, he doesn’t move immediately for the stairs or the elevator. Something tells him to linger — instincts honed from years with Toman. Quietly, he leans against the wall, listening. A faint smell drifts down the corridor: cigarettes — sharp, unmistakable. Chifuyu’s eyes narrow, but he stays still, ears straining for any clue. The soft hum of the elevator doors opening and closing carries down the hall. The ding of it moving past — downwards — he finally moves.

He slips toward the stairwell, moving silently, descending the concrete steps two at a time. By the time he reaches the ground floor, his dark sedan waits under the dim streetlight. Leaning casually against it, cigarette dangling from his fingers — Hanma.

His golden eyes flick up as Chifuyu approaches. The smoke curls lazily around him.

For a heartbeat, neither man moves. The air between them tastes sharp with unspoken threats, familiarity, and control. One wrong step, and the delicate balance could shatter.

“Move.”

Chifuyu presses the key fob, and his car unlocks with a soft click. Hanma hums, eyes flicking to the dark-haired male briefly.

The obsession in his gaze is unmistakable, Chifuyu thinks, being the target of someone like Hanma, unstable and relentless — he can only imagine how it feels.It makes the hairs on his neck prickle.

Surprisingly, Hanma obeys, sliding off Chifuyu’s car before heading toward his own. No words are exchanged, but the message is clear: his fixation on you isn’t subtle anymore. His obsession is starting to override any shred of restraint, and it’s only a matter of time before it turns reckless.

—

An hour had passed. The quiet of your apartment had settled like a heavy weight, but instead of comfort, it only sharpened the edges of your unease. Your fingers hovered over the lock, twisting it once, then twice, as if that simple motion could anchor you to reality. The kitchen’s warmth offered a small comfort, but the openness of the living room pressed against you, and anxiety coiled around your chest like a live thing.

Nights alone weren’t new to you — you had done it countless times before — but not like this. Not with what had unfolded earlier, now sleep felt impossible. Your phone buzzed on the coffee table, a sudden noise in the suffocating quiet. Your socks drag against the wooden floor as you cross the space in a few strides, bending down to pick up your phone. A smile stretches across your lips when you open the message and find that Taiju had sent you a picture.

[Photo]

Trains are humbling.

A chuckle escapes past your lips. The picture was from a couple of days ago, you find it amusing that the man documented his experience on the train. Then your thumbs start to type away a response.

They are.

I thought you were more of a car type of guy

If Taiju was next to you, this would’ve earned you a smack on the ass.

Haha, very funny.

After about ten minutes, your phone starts buzzing in your hands and you smile before picking up.

“Yeah?”

It is unusually quiet on the other line, safe for the sound of footsteps. “Ya think you’re so funny, huh?”

“The funniest,” you nod as though the blue-haired man can see you, then a chuckle erupts from the back of his throat. “Are you almost here?”

“I actually don’t know.” His response throws you off, your body going still. “I can see a door mat… it’s pink.”

Pressing the phone to your ear, you look back at the door and hum back. “God, what an awful color for a door mat.”

Your hand hovers over the lock, sliding the peephole cover to the side. You hear footsteps on the other side of the door, a huge shadow appears in the hallway before strands of blue-hair are covering the peephole.

“Fucking hideous,”

You quickly make work of the lock and swing the door open, the smell of smoked cedarwood and leather overwhelming your senses. Your heart tugs at the sight, but the show must go on. A frown settles deeply on your face, slowly lowering your phone.

“You think my door mat is hideous?”

Taiju holds his ground, inhaling deeply as his gaze lowers to the ground. A few seconds pass before his head snaps up, nodding at you.

“Ugly.”

You swat at his chest with a small smile before stepping aside. As he walks in, the air feels different — heavier, steadier — and your apartment no longer feels cold or exposed. As expected, Taiju heads straight for the kitchen after washing his hands. You drift into the living room instead, picking up the remote and turning on the TV. You pull up the show you’d recently started together, then set the remote back down on the coffee table.

The left side of the couch is still indented — a quiet reminder of the visitor who’d just left. Your head snaps up when you hear Taiju make a sound of disapproval in the kitchen. Golden eyes flicker your way, a look on his face that spoke volumes about how disappointed and slightly betrayed he was. You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Said I’d make dinner.”

“You always make dinner,”

“Yeah, I’m the cook in this relationship.” He taps his chest with his finger before pointing at the pot. “This is insulting.”

“It’s food, and it’s because I really like taking care of you.” You walk around the coffee table before approaching the kitchen counter. You prop your elbows on the surface before resting your face in your palms. “Don’t you want me to take care of you?”

Taiju doesn’t miss a beat before adding. “Ya already do that in other ways.”

That earns him a smack to the shoulder and a huff. “Pervert.”

“Yer acting like ya don’t like it either.” Taiju smirks as he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His scent and warmth are intoxicating, overwhelming your senses in ways that have your brain nearly shutting down. You blink at him slowly, wrapping your arms around his neck as your fingertips graze his nape. It’s a small gesture, one that shouldn’t have such an effect on Taiju, but the way you were staring at him has the man nearly stumbling forward.

The pendant around your neck catches the light from the hanging lamps, glinting and drawing his attention for a brief moment. His thoughts flicker toward a certain lavender-haired man, but before he can dwell on it, your nose nudges his as you rise on your tiptoes. Taiju leans down to meet you, capturing your lips in a deep, pulling kiss.

He leans you against the kitchen counter, feeling your arms snake around his neck. He hums softly in response, letting you guide his hands down to your hips, where he gives a firm squeeze. But before things can go any further, Taiju pulls back from the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as he catches his breath.

“Let’s eat.”

“And then?” You whisper, pecking his lips one last time. The gesture threatens to unravel Taiju’s self-restraint, but the man keeps his composure.

“Then we try not to break that tiny bed of yours.”

—

The restaurant roared with life — the sharp clang of pans colliding in the kitchen, bursts of laughter from packed tables, the hiss of the grill rising above the low hum of overlapping conversations. Every seat was filled, a small line beginning to spill toward the entrance, yet Taiju stood calmly at the center of it all. As the owner, his focus stretched further than a single dish or being stationed behind the stove, he moved through the area with authority, pausing at tables to greet regular or exchange firm nods with suppliers near the entrance. He would adjust reservation issues, leave a quiet word to a server here, and a hand signal toward the kitchen there.

Every so often, he would step through the swinging doors to oversee. His sharp eyes scanned plating, timing, and the rhythm of the line. A short comment to the head chef, sometimes a reminder about pacing. Then he was back on the floor, ensuring the workflow never faltered.

Years of discipline meant that crowds didn’t intimidate him, it made chaos seem almost irrelevant — owning a restaurant meant constant responsibility, constant decision-making, constant motion. It tested his endurance every single day. And Taiju thrived on it.

He lingers by the host stand with a tablet in hand, scrolling through the night’s reservations and projected revenue. His thumb pauses when he notices a delay in table turnover. He lifts his gaze, calculating silently, already adjusting staffing in his head. Until he feels a presence behind him. He is slightly confused when he sees the manager’s face, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Yeah?”

His manager’s eyebrows are drawn together as he stammers. “Uh, someone’s requesting you.”

Taiju’s eyebrows pull together even further. “Who is it?”

“I’m not sure, but he’s institing.” His manager was a reliable person, someone who wouldn’t push on a matter unless needed. He senses the urgency in the man’s tone before nodding.

“Which table?”

“Table nine.”

Taiju’s face instinctively whips to the left, eyes squinting through the crowd before landing on it. Table nine. Whoever was occupying it was hidden behind another client, the blue-haired man sighs deeply before approaching the table. He could already guess the topic of the conversation — a brand deal, proposing a new menu, things that Taiju did not ask for. Having to stay polite through it all had to be one of the most difficult parts of this job.

Yet as he approaches the corner, Taiju’s face morphs into a scowl. He sees the legs first — tall and imposing, spread on the chair in ways that don’t suit a place like a restaurant. The grey suit clings to the man’s thigh, then he sees the cigarette dangling between his fingers. And the familiar swirls of ink etched on the back of his hand. Taiju stands in front of the table, hovering over the man. The restaurant was packed, it was way too crowded for him to cause a scene. After the last incident with the creep who kept harassing one of his workers, Taiju has made it his mission to deal with this kind of thing within the privacy of his office.

“Third menu.” Hanma exhales, smoke curling inward like a gray veil across his face. His golden eyes lock onto the page. “And a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.”

He slides the menu across the table toward Taiju. “That’s all.”

“Ya can’t smoke.” Taiju’s words cut through the haze, his sunlit eyes burning into Hanma. Flat, controlled, yet threaded with warning.

Hanma chuckles, leaning back, the cigarette dangling between his fingers. “Ya seem different,” he says, his golden gaze narrowing dangerously, as if daring Taiju to react. He draws in another drag, and as the smoke twists around him, his nose twitches. “Professional.”

Taiju’s jaw clenched. His fingers hovered over the menu before he lifted it carefully, repeating each word with measured precision. “Smoking’s not allowed.”

Hanma’s lips curved into a slow, almost approving smile. “Not bad,” he murmured, tapping the cigarette out on the table and pausing just long enough to meet Taiju’s eyes. “Oh. Sorry.”

Taiju doesn’t flinch as he responds. “I’ll just put it on your tab. Money can’t buy taste but at least it’ll pay for your bullshit.”

A smirk stretches across Hanma’s face, as he continues to dig the cigarette into the table. Taiju draws in a long sigh before exhaling. “Sauvignon Blanc doesn’t go with menu 3”

Yet it’s obvious that nothing else holds his interest but you.

“Did ya tell her I said hi?”

Of course Hanma had come to Taiju’s restaurant just to needle him. Part of it was his pride, his inability to accept defeat, but another part was genuinely unsettling — the lengths he might go to just to prove a point. That he was truly unable to process that you had chosen Taiju over him.

“Do I look like a fucking postman?”

His tone cuts through the tension, amber eyes sizing up Hanma before scoffing.

Hanma’s jaw tightens, crushing the cigarette against the table. He sniffs, nose twitching and eyes boring back into Taiju’s. The silence stretches, until a waiter approaches the table, unaware of the tension between the two.

“Sir?”

Taiju gives a single nod in response, curt and unreadable, before casting one last look over his shoulder. His sunlit eyes linger on Hanma for half a second longer than necessary — non reactive, unprovoked. Just controlled and measured.

“I got it.” Taiju waves at the waiter, his palm wraps around the back of the chair across from Hanma, the legs scrape loudly against the floor as he pulls it back, the sound grating against the already suffocating silence between them. He lowers himself into it with a quiet huff, wood creaking faintly under his weight.

The tension was so thick it could be sliced with a knife, Taiju leaned back in the chair with his legs spread, golden eyes never leaving Hanma’s. Hanma’s jaw goes slack for a second before he scoffs.

“What’s up with the gifts?” Taiju nods toward him, unimpressed. “You feelin’ generous all of a sudden, or what?”

Hanma hums, lips stretching into a lazy smirk as he taps a cigarette from the pack. “Something like that.” He slides it between his teeth, gaze flickering up through his lashes.

Naturally, Taiju reaches for the pack, snagging a cigarette for himself. He scoffs under his breath. “Shit brand,” he mutters, but lights it anyway. The smoke curls between them for a moment, thick and lazy.

“Ya got sacked, or something?” Taiju’s expression doesn’t shift. His arms fold slowly over his chest. “Too much free time?”

The chair creaks as he leans forward, staring at Hanma. “They throw ya away again?”

Hanma’s smirk widens. “Nah, just thought I’d see for myself.” His golden eyes flicker towards Taiju, dangerous. “What the hype is about.”

An involuntary chuckle escapes Taiju, he leans back into his chair. “You’ve been seeing plenty.”

“Mmm, she likes being watched.” Hanma waves the cigarette around, before exhaling cigarette smoke. “She ever told you that?”

But Taiju doesn’t budge, he doesn’t blink nor react. Hanma continues.

“Yeah, bent her over her kitchen balcony.” He throws his head back, hissing sharply. “Fuck, should’ve heard how she sounded.”

He opens his eyes, lowering his head before locking eyes with Taiju. “Like a fucking angel.”

Silence follows, Taiju doesn’t blink or move — but a smirk slowly stretches across his face as he draws a long drag from the cigarette, before exhaling in Hanma’s face.

“Ya tried being her boyfriend?” his nose twitches as he casts Hanma an unimpressed look. “That turns her on a lot more.”

Hanma’s jaw tightens, his teeth sinking into the cigarette, bending the filter slightly. The restaurant noise continues around them — clinking glasses, low music, muted conversations — but their table feels isolated. Tense.

Taiju taps his cigarette on top of Hanma’s crushed one as the silence stretches, then he stands slowly, chair scraping against the polished floor loud enough to draw a few glances from nearby tables.

“Anyway, call a waiter or something when yer ready to order.”

And with that, Taiju returns to the host stand.

—

The moment Hanma steps out of the restaurant, Taiju retreats to his office and only then does the composure crack. He exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tightening as he drags a hand down his face, his other fist curls at his side and his knuckles go white.

The tattooed-man had walked into his restaurant — his space, just to test him. To see if he could get under his skin. But Hanma hadn’t, not in the way he wanted. Taiju doesn’t care like that — not about petty taunts, or about mind games played across tables. But the audacity of it, the arrogance. That was what truly got under his skin.

Taiju’s gaze shifts to his desk, expression darkening, something colder settling beneath the irritation. He straightens slowly, composure rebuilding as he grabs his phone.

If Hanma wanted to play, Taiju knew exactly how to win.

Got plans this weekend?

—

A slow smirk curves along Taiju’s lips as he watches you slip off your coat. The club lights catch against your skin, washes of deep blue and violet sliding over you in pulsing waves. Each flicker of neon makes the faint shimmer on your skin come alive — tracing your shoulders, skimming along your collarbone, lingering just long enough to make it hard for him to look away.

“Fuck me, ya look stunning.” He leans down, lips pressed against your ears as he whispers the words. The coat check attendant grabs yours from your hands, head ducking as though to shield his eyes from the scene unfolding before him.

Heat spreads across your face as you roll your eyes at the taller man, but you lean into his touch nonetheless. Taiju’s arm settles firmly around your waist as he guides you past the host stand, where a nod is enough for the receptionist — no list, no questions.

The private elevator awaits. Its polished steel doors slide open silently, and you step inside, your brows drawing together.

Akasaka meant different money, different rules.

Your eyes flick over the interior as the doors slide shut: marble floors with faint veins of gold, dim lighting that hides more than it reveals, staff in crisp black suits moving with quiet precision. Nothing chaotic, nothing flashy, but everything expensive. Too clean, too controlled — like someone who wanted it perfect.

You notice the subtle cues instantly. A waiter’s hand hovers near the pocket where a communication earpiece hides. A patron laughs a little too loudly, immediately cut off by a glance from the man across the table. The music is soft, jazzy, but the bass hums in a way that presses against your chest and you can’t shake the feeling that the club itself is watching.

Your mind ticks, counting costs based on the little clues you know from Roppongi. Rindou had taught you well; Private elevators? Bottle service without sparklers? Seven figures, minimum, and that’s before the hourly fee. You remember him mentioning top-tier floors, exclusive bottles, about “don’t even ask the price” tables. This place fits the bill — and probably surpasses it.

Upstairs, the VIP booth hovered above the crowd — half-hidden behind tinted glass and soft shadows. A crescent of velvet seating hugged the wall, cushions piled in excess. The lights were dimmer up there, tinted gold instead of neon, casting everything in a softer glow. It was close enough to feel the bass beneath your feet — far enough to pretend you were alone.

Taiju sinks into the velvet cushions, legs spread lazily, one arm draped along the backrest. The low amber light catches along the sharp line of his jaw, casting him in shadow and gold. Your heart stutters as you approach the cushions, your hands tracing the dress Taiju had specifically asked you to wear.

It was a Velvet, mini dress, deep jewel tones shifting between burgundy and midnight blue each time the lights change. It clings softly to your frame, plush and rich, the fabric catching along the curve of your waist before dipping just enough at your shoulders to reveal smooth skin under the dim glow.

From where he sits, stretched back against the cushions, you look almost unreal. The velvet doesn’t reflect the light — it drinks it in. It’s soft, and perhaps a little dangerous for his heart. Taiju’s eyes move slowly, deliberately — not rushed, or hungry — appreciative. It makes your skin prickle under his gaze. While you’ve seen him turned on before, in states where the pleasure was very heightened, you have never felt quite as nervous as you did now.

The dress molds to you when you shift, the color deepening as you approach him before slowly sinking next to him on the cushions. Your bare thigh brushed against his knee, resting a leg over the other. Taiju’s eyes flicker down to your bare leg, down to your ankle. The high heels are a deep burgundy color, his hand naturally finds itself tracing your skin down to your calf then slowly up to your bare thigh.

You shiver at touch, but he still doesn’t say anything. The smirk at the corner of his mouth fades into something heavier — quieter. His fingers grip the skin gently at first, testing the limits of what you were okay with, and his jaw tightens when your smaller hand rests on top of his. The sheer size difference makes the man look at you, finding your eyes. And when he does, Taiju doesn’t waste his time before capturing your lips with his.

The kiss starts slow, measured — restrained in the way he leans into you, like he’s still holding something back. His grip around your thigh loosens briefly, fingers easing as if he’s reminding himself to stay controlled. But then your touch changes. Your fingers trace up his forearm, slow and deliberate, following the line of muscle to his shoulder before sliding up to cradle his face. And that’s when something in him shifts. Taiju exhales softly against your lips, his restraint thinning. His hand slides from your leg to your hip, settling there with firmness — his teeth graze your bottom lip, a smirk briefly dancing on his lips when he hears your gasp. You lean further into his touch, pushing yourself off the cushions and guiding his hand to rest on your ass.

“Why did you bring me here?” You finally decide to address the unusual situation, Taiju’s sudden need to book a reservation at a luxurious club has your eyebrows furrowing. But you couldn’t deny the thrill of being here — above the crowd, making out with your boyfriend. Maybe doing more. Heat pools between your thighs at the thought.

In response, Taiju captures your lips in another searing kiss. This time, both of his hands rest on your ass as he manhandles you to straddle his lap. A surprised noise erupts from the back of your throat, one that Taiju swallows into his mouth as you brace yourself with your hands on his shoulders. When he pulls away, your chest is heaving and your eyes are half-lidded — it’s a sight to see, one that Taiju suddenly feels possessive over. His jaw tightens, hips bucking up slightly beneath you, letting you feel it. Feel him.

“We needed a change,” he admits, his hands gripping your ass. “Never seen yer spoiled ass at a club either.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ve never been to one.” You mumble, half-offended. Taiju chuckles before leaning in, the cushions shuffling beneath him as he kisses the pout away.

“I never said that.” Taiju bucks his hips again, deliberate, and the heat pools low in your stomach, thick and consuming. “Just never seen ya like this.”

“You like it.” It’s not a question. His hard-on presses insistently against your core, and you already know the answer. But you want to hear it out loud, to feel it — to know how much you affect him.

You swallow as he leans in, lips brushing against yours, teasing, claiming.

“Fucking love it.” His voice is low, a growl against your lips. His hands hook under the hem of your dress, sliding upward, hungry. “Makes me wanna fuck you right here.”

Your lips part in surprise, but your body is ready. You lift your hips, giving him access, letting him glide the fabric up to reveal the black thong clinging to you.

“In front of everyone?” you whisper, hands trailing down to his belt.

“No one can see us,” Taiju murmurs, teeth grazing your shoulder. “No one will know how good I can fuck you.”

A whimper escapes you, tiny and needy, and that’s all it takes. He pushes you down onto the cushions, knees spreading your thighs, his hands parting your legs with ease. He hikes up your dress, revealing your bra. His fingers then yank the bra down, letting your boobs spill out — soft and full in the dim light. Your fingers fumble at his belt, a whine slipping past your lips.

“Hurry,” you whimper again.

“I spoiled ya.” His lips trace along your jaw, brushing your ear as he aligns his fingers with your wet folds. “Spoiled ya fucking rotten, didn’t I?”

You nod, brainless, helpless, before he even pushes his fingers in. Your hands grip his shoulders as he slowly sinks in, nails biting into his skin as his muscles flex, precision and force crashing into your lustful state.

“It’s your fault.” Your hips lift, pressing against him, begging. “Didn’t ask you to spoil me.”

Taiju chuckles at your words, before leaning down to press a soft, wet kiss to your neck. You sigh at the touch, craning your neck to allow him more space and he continues to pepper kisses along your skin, down to your boobs. You inhale sharply when you feel his lips wrap around your nipple, his eyes flickering up to find yours. Heat crawls up your neck, burying your fingers in his hair.

“Like ya leave me a choice, baby,” he mutters against your skin, slowly sliding off the couch as his lips trail down your skin. Your breath stutters when you feel his lips press against the area above your pussy, throwing your head back when you feel his touch travel lower.

“Taiju”, you exhale, spreading your thighs to accommodate him. His lips then trail down to your inner thighs, peppering kisses there. His mouth slowly approaches your clothed cunt, hovering over it before sliding your thong to the side.

“Love spoiling ya,” a gasp leaves you as he presses a kiss to your clit. “Love spoiling this messy cunt.”

Your face burns at the filth falling from his mouth, heat pooling low in your stomach when you glance down — golden eyes fixed on your cunt, dark with lust.

You brace yourself on your elbows, breath hitching as he leans in, the first slow stroke of his tongue against your folds, dragging up to your clit making your spine arch off the sheets. It’s deliberate, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. He repeats the motion, steady and relentless, until your arms begin to tremble beneath you. Your head tips back, lips parting as the tension builds, every drag of his mouth sending another sharp pulse through you.

When his lips close around your clit, firm and possessive, your thighs jerk instinctively.

“O-Oh—”

The sound tears from your throat before you can swallow it.

His hands tighten on your legs, holding you open, pinning you there. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even let up. The pressure coils in your stomach just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. Your hips try to move — to escape, to chase it, you don’t even know — but he keeps you pinned in place with nothing but his grip and that unwavering focus.

“Taiju—” you gasp.

The pleasure gets too strong, it crashes over you in a sharp wave that makes your back arch and your fingers clutch at the sheets. Your body trembles in his hold. Slowly, he pulls back, breath warm against your wet folds. There’s a faint smirk on his lips — satisfied.

“I got you,” he murmurs, voice lower now as he moves over you, one large hand sliding up your stomach in a steady, grounding touch. “Breathe.”

You feel the cushion dip beneath your and Taiju’s combined weight, jaw going slack as you feel the head of his cock brush against your folds. You bury your fingers into his hair, trying not to tug too hard at the strands. But his movements were dizzying, intoxicating — you can feel every vein on his cock, the size overwhelming you to the point of tears. No matter how much Taiju fucked you, you could truly never get used to him.

Every bit of self-restraint in Taiju’s body evaporates the minute he feels your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer to you. Deeper. The man has to brace himself for a moment, trying to catch his breath as he pulls back to rest on his heels. However, your needy state doesn’t allow that — a huff escapes you as you plant your heels to the cushions, bucking up your hips to fuck yourself against him.

“D-Don’t stop,” you beg breathlessly, your fingers trembling as they find his chest. “Please.”

Taiju finally snaps.

All of your previous worries about someone potentially hearing you or walking in on you having sex with Taiju evaporate into thin air — your legs curl around the bigger man, barely fitting around his frame as he continues to plow into you with an inhuman force. The sounds you are emitting no longer sound human, a mixture of whines and pleas for him to do something — anything, to make the coil in your stomach snaps.

When you look up, Taiju looks just as wrecked as you — face flushed, hair clinging to his damp forehead, and a fire in his eyes that says everything about how determined he is. To make you come around him. To watch you fall apart.

A surprised gasp slips from your lips when he suddenly lifts you off the couch, your feet barely finding the floor before he’s moving again. You cling to him instinctively, arms wrapping around his neck as you stare up at him.

“Wha—”

He grips you beneath your arms and carries you toward the glass window. Cool air brushes your overheated skin just before your front presses against the glass, the temperature shock making you shiver.

You glance back over your shoulder. “Taiju—”

“Look at them,” he orders.

His hand fists into your hair, forcing your gaze downward to the city below. Your eyes squeeze shut for a second before you force them open.

“If they look up, they’ll see me fucking you,” he murmurs darkly against your ear. “They’ll see me splitting ya open on my cock.”

He pushes his thick cock back into you slowly, deliberately, making sure you feel every inch. His grip on your hair loosens, sliding down until his hand wraps around your throat instead — firm, possessive. “They can’t see how this sweet pussy’s sucking me in,” he mutters.

He wets two fingers with his tongue before reaching around your body, sliding them down between your legs. When they find your clit, he starts rubbing it in messy, relentless strokes.

“Oh fuck!”

“Fuck, that’s it.” His hips snap violently against yours, his fingers continuing their relentless stroke on your clit. “Cum for me baby. Do it.”

It takes a couple of strokes to your clit for the coil in your stomach to finally snap.

Your orgasm hits you like a truck, washing over you in strong waves as your body shudders and trembles in Taiju’s hold. You throw your head over his shoulder, body trying not to melt against him as you let him chase his own orgasm before spilling into you with a loud groan. You take a few seconds to catch your breath, coming down to earth as you feel his giant hand caress your stomach, down to your thighs. A drunken smile stretches across your lips, as you look over your shoulder at him with heart-eyes.

“Nothing hurts?” He asks, voice carefully measured. Tension loosens its grip around his shoulders when you hum in response.

All he needed to do was to clean you up, order some food and the two of you would be ready to head home.

—

The night at the club keeps replaying in your mind like a scratched record. A giddy warmth spreads through you every time you remember — the tension, Taiju’s intense stare, the way he took care of you. For a moment, you almost forget you’re supposed to be tidying up your apartment. You can’t afford to get distracted, not with Hanma making it impossible to live a normal life without feeling watched at every turn.

A sigh escapes your lips as you clutch the vacuum, pausing every few minutes to glance at the door, then the fire escape in your room. You’ve been going over the living room carpet for ten minutes, and it still isn’t done. Dinner needs to be made. Kenta’s food has to be prepared. And then there’s the shower. At this rate, you’ll still be cleaning long past midnight.

A sharp knock at the door jolted you upright. Your stomach dropped. Delivery? You weren’t expecting anything. You creep toward the door, heart hammering. “Who is it?” you call, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Package for you,” a young delivery guy answers behind the door, voice hesitant.

You open the door just enough to grab the box, hands shake slightly as you sign for it. The guy’s eyes lingered a little too long as you closed the door behind you. Not a word exchanged beyond ‘thank you’ and ‘have a good day’. Chills run down your spine.

You close the door behind you, once — then twice. Just for good measure, you remind yourself. Then you press your ear to the wood, trying to hear if the delivery man lingered. Nothing, just the buzzing sound of overhead lights in the hallway. Finally, you let yourself breathe. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you set the box down on the kitchen counter, the tape feels heavier than it should. Your fingers fumble at the flaps, heart thudding.

When you see what’s inside, your stomach drops further.

It was tiny, meticulously crafted, and wearing the same deep jewel-toned dress you’d worn at the club. A barbie doll, one that eerily resembles you — resting at the bottom of the box — no packing peanuts to cushion it, nothing. Next to it is another doll, unmistakably Taiju, down to the details of his jacket and the prominent vein on his forehead.

And then a card, pale and heavy in your hand. The handwriting is angry, messy. It makes you feel unsafe in your own house.

— did you have fun? moaned his name like a

Your hands shake when you see the rest of the card is scribbled, clearly not wanting to finish his sentence. Hanma, of course only he would do something so personal, so controlling. Only he would let his possessiveness consume him, finding the need to remind you and Taiju that he was still watching, that he had eyes everywhere. No matter how safe you thought you were, Hanma he could reach inside your life — that much was very clear.

Your pulse races. Your apartment suddenly feels smaller, the walls closer. You glance at the door again, and for a split second, you swear you hear the faintest click from outside — but the hallway is empty. Still, you double-check the locks twice. And then you stare at the dolls, heart hammering and mind spinning.

Hanma’s jealousy had become physical, and now it was in your home.

You couldn’t let this go on forever.

—

“What do you say we go out for dinner this weekend?”

The digital clock in the corner of your monitor flips to 3:00 PM, the numbers blinking faintly before settling. Friday afternoon drapes lazily over the office floor — not quiet, but not alive either. The low hum of computers blends with the distant whir of the printer, keyboards clicking in uneven rhythms, someone laughing faintly near the break room while the coffee machine goes off one last time for the day.

Before you can fully process the question, a chair squeaks across the polished floor.

Misaki rolls herself toward your desk, red hair swaying over her shoulders as she nudges you with her elbow. Her perfume — something sweet and citrusy — cuts through the smell of paper spread across your desk and the stale air of the office.

“We haven’t hung out outside of work in so long!”

“There was that Christmas party,” Aya points out, twirling her pen between her fingers before pressing the cap thoughtfully against her lips. The overhead fluorescent lights catch in her brown hair.

“I agree though,” you say, eyes still fixed on your screen as your fingertips glide over the keyboard. The glow of the monitor washes your face pale blue, a frown settles deeply on your features. “We haven’t properly hung out in a while.”

“Yes!” Misaki throws her arms up in exaggerated victory, nearly bumping into a stack of folders on your desk. Her chair rolls back an inch with the movement. “Okay then, tomorrow. Six PM?”

You finally glance away from your screen, stretching your fingers briefly before folding your arms on the desk.

“Okay, but where?” Aya asks, and Misaki hums for a moment.

“There’s this cute restaurant,” you say, leaning back slightly. “It has a rooftop — like, a cozy hangout space with string lights and heaters. We could try it out?”

Aya hums softly, tapping her pen against her chin as she considers it. “Mmm, okay then.” She nods once, decisive.

Misaki claps her hands together, already buzzing with excitement, her chair spinning slightly in place. Your lips tug upwards, then your eyes flicker towards the computer screen again.

The day was almost over, Taiju was planning on picking you up from work so that the two of you could buy some snacks for the weekend. You managed to successfully hide the dolls from him, burying them in a box before shoving it deep under your bed. However, that didn’t mean that the tall man didn’t notice your tense shoulders and paranoid eyes when you let him into your apartment that day.

Still, you insisted nothing was wrong. You brushed it off as work stress, even blamed the lock on the window for being loose. Anything but the truth and Taiju didn’t push.

You ended up curled against him on the couch — a piece of furniture that barely accommodated his size. His broad frame took up most of the space, one arm braced along the backrest while the other wrapped around you, leaning you up against his chest. The cushions dipped beneath his weight, forcing you closer, your legs tangled with his without much room to spare.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. Normally, you would’ve been listening for every sound — the elevator shifting, footsteps in the hallway, the faintest creak near the fire escape. Sleep would’ve hovered just out of reach, your mind refusing to shut off. But Taiju was there and his warmth bled into you steadily. His breathing was slow and even against your temple. Every so often, his hand would drag lazily up and down your back, grounding you. Taiju felt solid — he felt safe.

The tension in your shoulders loosened without you realizing it and your thoughts slowed, forcing the tight coil in your stomach to loosen. Eventually, sleep found you.

You drifted off tucked beneath his chin, fingers curled lightly into his shirt — and later, when your body went slack and your breathing deepened, Taiju sighed softly to himself. The couch was too small, your neck at an awkward angle. Carefully, he slid one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you as if you weighed nothing at all. You stirred but didn’t wake, instinctively leaning into him as he carried you to your bed.

He laid you down gently, adjusting the blanket over your shoulders.

That was the best sleep you had in a while.

You realize how much Taiju brings into your life, that despite things being tough recently, his presence manages to keep your sanity at bay. A bright future doesn’t feel out of reach, a healthy relationship doesn’t feel impossible to attain. You don’t beg for growth or self-discovery, Taiju allows you to be yourself and grounds you when you feel yourself slipping. Mistakes don’t feel catastrophic, life feels like a bundle of books you sit down and read through.

You are grateful for Taiju, more than he could ever imagine.

“What are you daydreaming about?”

Aya’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. You blink, startled, and turn toward her. When you glance at the clock in the corner of your monitor, a few minutes have passed without you typing a single word. Your fingers are still hovering over the keyboard, frozen mid-thought. You must’ve been staring at the screen this whole time.

“Dinner ideas,” you reply with a soft chuckle, though you’re suddenly very interested in your monitor again.

Aya narrows her eyes slightly. “Is that the look?”

You finally look at her. “What look?”

“The ‘I’m in love’ look.” Aya gasps dramatically, pointing her pen at you like she’s made a groundbreaking discovery. “Are you in love?”

“I’m not —”

“If it’s that restaurant owner, I get it,” Misaki groans, throwing her head back against her chair. Her red hair spills over the backrest as she sighs. “He brings you flowers to work.”

“That was different,” you try to deflect, but you can feel warmth climbing up your neck.

“But he did it,” Misaki presses, rolling her chair closer. Her hair swings over her shoulder as she leans toward you conspiratorially. “You two have so much chemistry. I was genuinely shocked he wasn’t already your boyfriend when we met him that night.”

Aya hums in agreement, studying your expression like she’s waiting for a confession. And the more they stare, the harder it is to keep your face neutral.

“We’re taking things slow.” You clear your throat, refusing to show any emotion. You find yourself digging into your drawer for nothing in particular — anything to avoid the incredulous look on their faces.

“Coward.”

“Hey!”

—

The outfit is laid out neatly across your bed like it was the night before Christmas. Dark against pale sheets.

A fitted black turtleneck. Soft, sleek, the kind that hugs your waist and smooths over your curves without looking like it’s trying too hard. Beside it, a short black skirt — simple, just long enough to be classy and just short enough to promise something more. Sheer tights clung to your legs, you smoothen the fabric once more. You stand in front of the mirror, brushing your hands down the black turtleneck as Taiju watches from the bed.

He’s reclined against the headboard, one arm propped behind his head, the other resting lazily over his stomach — but his eyes don’t move from you. The skirt sits high on your waist, the sheer tights turning your legs into a silhouette of shadow beneath the light. When you bend slightly to zip up the thigh-high boots, the leather molds to your legs like it was made for you.

The coat goes on last, Taiju’s amber eyes continue to follow your every move.

You slide your arms through the sleeves, rolling your shoulders once. The beige wool falls clean — it’s elegant. Taiju exhales through his nose — neither a sigh nor a laugh, but it catches your attention.

“Remind me again what it is?” he asks, voice low, knowing.

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Rooftop hangout.”

His gaze drags slowly — from your boots, up your legs, over your waist, lingering at your throat before finally meeting your eyes.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That explains the coat.”

He knows exactly what’s under those layers — he’s seen it more times than he can count. That doesn’t stop him from staring. The sheets shift as he moves, the mattress dipping under his weight. He swings his feet to the floor and straightens, spine rolling into place with an audible stretch. Then he makes another low sound — not quite a sigh, not quite a groan — and this time it grates on your nerves.

You turn toward him. “Do you have a problem with what I’m wearing?”

You try to keep your tone even, but your shoulders are tense and your brows pull together just enough to make him pause.

“What?” he shoots back, frowning.

“You keep making those noises,” you say, throwing your hands up before letting them fall. “And that look on your face—” You gesture vaguely toward him before crossing your arms over your chest. “If you don’t want to drive me, just say that. I can call an Uber.”

The room goes quiet. Your pulse pounds in your ears, heat creeping up your neck and into your cheeks. The longer he just sits there staring at you, unreadable, the more your irritation curls tighter in your chest.

Then he rises to his full height. His feet hit the wooden floor with a heavy thud, and suddenly he’s towering over you. The space feels smaller. You hate that he makes you feel small like this — but you refuse to look away.

“If I look like I don’t want ya to leave,” he says, voice low and rough, “it’s because ya look too good, it’s kinda unfair.”

The words knock the air out of you.

“Not because I’m controlling,” he continues, stepping closer, gaze steady. “And not because I don’t wanna drive you.”

Your composure falters despite yourself. Warmth spreads through your body, betraying you.

“…you couldn’t have just said that?”

A chuckle escapes Taiju before he can control it, dipping down to press a kiss beneath your ear. “What happened to being a fan of body language, huh?” The way he whispers fills your body with tingles, and you find yourself giggling as you place your hands on his chest.

“Go away. You’re insufferable.”

Taiju pats your butt over your coat before dragging himself out of your room in slow, lazy strides. “Come on, let’s go or you’ll be late.”

—

The elevator doors open, and the cold greets you first, sharp enough to remind you that it’s winter. Taiju had barely said goodbye when he dropped you off. Just a look — lingering — and a low, “Text me when you’re done.” It still lingers in your body as the elevator doors slide open.

The rooftop is half-enclosed with glass panels that cut the wind, but the night air still slips through in thin drafts. Overhead, strings of warm lights glow against the dark sky, casting everything in soft gold. Outdoor heaters stand like sentinels between seating areas, their flames flickering inside metal cages.

Your breath fogs faintly when you step out.

“There she is!”

Misaki’s voice carries across the space, her red hair is bright even in the dim light, and Aya lifts a hand in greeting from a cushioned booth tucked close to one of the heaters.

You shrug off your coat once you reach them, but only halfway — leaving it draped over your shoulders instead of fully removing it. The outfit beneath earns you a slow, impressed sound from Misaki.

“Okay. I see you.”

Aya smirks. “Wonder what the boyfriend thought.”

“Who cares!” Misaki makes an exaggerated sound, but she does turn to you with a look. “But what did he think?”

You chuckle, cheeks warming up. “He liked it.”

You slide into the booth, the cushions cool at first before the nearby heater begins to warm your legs through the sheer tights. Aya immediately tosses a folded blanket toward you.

“Use it before you start pretending you’re not cold.”

You roll your eyes but accept it, draping it over your lap. The warmth settles slowly, mixing with the faint sting of winter air against your exposed skin. The city stretches out beyond the glass — Tokyo glittering, distant and alive. Music hums softly from hidden speakers, the sound of glasses clinking, laughter rising in bursts from nearby tables — you feel good.

Your drink arrives warm — and the heat seeps into your palms as you wrap your hands around the glass. The first sip burns pleasantly down your throat. Conversation takes over after that.

Work stories, teasing, Misaki dramatically reenacting a terrible date. Aya’s dry commentary makes you nearly spill your drink and you lean closer to hear them over the wind, shoulders brushing, laughter coming easier than it has in days. The cold keeps you aware of your body — the brush of air against your thighs, the warmth at your back from the heater, the weight of the blanket over your lap.

But for once, you’re not tense.

And for a little while — under golden lights and an open sky — Hanma slips from the forefront of your mind. You’re enjoying a hot drink, a cozy hangout with co-workers with Taiju waiting to pick you up when you’re done. Perhaps life wasn’t that bad.

When it’s time to order food, a waiter comes to take your orders but he approaches you first with something in his hands. He’s smiling as he leans down to talk to you.

“Your boyfriend left this at the reception, he said she forgot them.”

It’s a pair of soft, leather gloves. A deep burgundy color, a pair you didn’t own. Your eyebrows pull together in confusion before the host adds. “He also gave me this for you.”

When you notice the note, your stomach drops. You thank the waiter, trying your best to ignore the playful noises both Misaki and Aya were making.

— your hands get cold fast.

It’s the same handwriting, not sloppy this time. The smell of the marker reaches your nostrils, and your lips are tight as you fold the paper before shoving it in the pocket of your coat.

“He’s so sweet.” You admit, but refuse to wear the gloves. Aya immediately points it out.

“Oh come on, he came back just to give them to you! Wear them!”

“My hands are warm!” You laugh, trying to brush off the discomfort coiling in your stomach. “I’ll wear them when it’s time to go.”

You’re grateful your excuse sounds convincing enough for them to drop it. But the shift is immediate. The rooftop no longer feels cozy, the string lights overhead don’t glow — they glare. The open skyline that felt freeing minutes ago now feels exposed, like there’s nowhere to hide. The glass panels seem too thin, laughter around you too loud. Too unaware.

Your pulse starts to climb. You slip a hand into your coat pocket and pull out your phone, angling it subtly beneath the table. Your thumbs move quickly over the screen.

come pick me up in 30?

The reply comes almost instantly. The vibration in your palm makes you flinch.

OK.

You swallow, locking your phone and forcing your shoulders to relax. Thirty minutes. You can handle thirty minutes.

You look back up at Misaki and Aya, who are mid-conversation, blissfully unaware. You nod at the right times. You even laugh when Misaki says something dramatic. You continue to sip your drink. And you try — really try — to act like you’re still having fun.

Until Taiju gets there.

—

The car engine is still warm when Taiju parks near your place. The street is quiet, a few distant headlights pass every so often, but mostly it’s just the soft hum of the idling engine and your breathing. Taiju turns toward you first.

His hand comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, too fast. He studies for you a second longer, before leaning in.

His mouth is warm. Familiar and firm without being rough. His hand slides to your waist, pulling you across the console so you’re half in his lap. You melt into him automatically, fingers tangling into his shirt. You kiss him back, but Taiju feels that you’re not fully there.

Your mind flickers— leather gloves, the folded note — your hands get cold fast.

Taiju deepens the kiss, his hand pressing against your lower back, grounding you. “You’re thinking,” he mutters against your mouth.

You blink at him, hands tightening around his shirt. “No.”

“Yes.” His tone sharpens slightly, eyebrows drawn together in faint annoyance. “You are.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. You hate that he can read you like this.

“It’s nothing,” you insist, but the way you avoid his eyes makes him press further.

“That’s the third time you’ve said that tonight.”

Your shoulders tense before muttering under your breath. “Why are you making it a thing?”

“I’m not making it a thing,” he shoots back. “I’m asking why ya feel somewhere else when I’m right here.”

The words sting because he’s right, you force your eyes to look at him. Taiju exhales sharply as he leans back in his seat, jaw tight. He runs his fingers through his hair, before placing a hand on the small of your back.

“If ya don’t wanna sleep over at my place—”

“I do,” you cut in quickly. Silence settles heavy between you.

The streetlight outside flickers through the windshield. Your chest feels tight, heart roaring in your ears. You didn’t mean to ruin this, you don’t want him to walk away. You rub your hands on his chest — a gesture meant to ground you more than Taiju. And he notices, his expression softening for a second when your gaze drops to his lap.

“Talk to me.”

And that’s when your anger drains. You shake your head, swallowing. “I’m just on edge lately. It’s not you.” your voice drops, eyes flickering up to his face. “I’m sorry.”

He reaches for your hand this time, lacing his fingers through yours. “You don’t gotta apologize for being stressed,” he mutters. “Just don’t shut me out.”

You nod. You allow him to pull you back into the kiss — slower this time, there is no need to rush. He kisses you with so much care, grounding you with every move of his lips against yours. His hands rest on your waist instead of wandering, and when he feels you lean into his touch, he pulls away just enough to mutter.

“Lemme feed Kenta food. Then we can leave, okay?”

You freeze for a split second, the realization settling in — it means being alone in the car for a while. The thought tightens something in your chest. But you don’t want him to notice the hesitation or read into it. So you force yourself to nod, keeping your expression neutral, and quietly slide back into your seat.

When Taiju leaves, you press your back against the seat, trying to make yourself small. The car smells faintly of his cologne mixed with the lingering scent of the leather seats. Every little sound — the creak of the door, the distant bark of a dog, the hum of a passing car — makes your stomach twist tighter.

Your eyes keep flicking to the alleyway, half-expecting someone to be watching. Maybe it’s paranoia. Maybe it’s the way your heart races whenever he’s nearby, every time a shadow moves behind the dumpster, you flinch and glance back, forcing yourself to breathe.

The silence in the car isn’t comfortable. It’s heavy, almost pressing. You tug at your sleeve, imagining a way to make the moment less tense, but the words die in your throat.

“Just a few more minutes.” you murmur under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, but the sound of your own voice makes you cringe.

Minutes stretch, each second feeling longer than the last. You catch your reflection in the rearview mirror — your fingers fidgeting, your eyes darting. You want to tell yourself to relax, but the thought of being alone here, with him, keeps a low, gnawing tension buzzing in your chest.

Then, a faint sound. Footsteps on the pavement outside and your head snaps toward the window just as the car door opens and Taiju steps back inside. Relief floods through you, and you let your shoulders slump, even if just slightly, pretending like you were never tense at all.

He places a duffle bag on your lap before breaking the silence. “Got ya pajamas and underwear.”

You nod as you unzip it, smiling at the man. “Oh thank you—” you pause when you notice the lingerie he had slipped inside and turned to him with a deadpan look. “Wow, you dug deep huh?”

But Taiju shrugs, shameless. “Never seen ya wear that one.” He leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “How about tonight, hm?”

You roll your eyes, but a smile betrays your face.

“Only because you begged me.” You tease the man but he doesn’t budge, simply shrugging his shoulders.

“Why not?” he turns to you, amber eyes glinting with something dangerous. “I beg now, ya beg me later.”

Your face flushes and you force your eyes on your lap. “You’re… unbelievable.”

“Ya like that.”

–

The lobby of Taiju’s building is too quiet. Marble floors, soft recessed lighting and a faint scent of something clean and expensive in the air. Your high heels click against the polished ground as you walk ahead of him, the sound echoing more than it should. You can feel him behind you, solid and heavy as a warm hand rests on the small of your back. Your car ride to his place was anything but quiet — laughter, playful comments and sexual tension lingered in the air, and the more you approached his place, the more nervous you felt.

You’ve done this before, you’ve spent the night at his place countless times — but there was something different about this time. Your conversation with your co-workers, Aya’s comment echoed through your mind since the moment she said it — you couldn’t deny that you took her words into consideration. With how well Taiju was taking care of you, the way he would always show up when Hanma’s erratic behavior would become too much — your body tingles when you feel Taiju’s hand slide a bit lower on your back.

The elevator ride is worse, the doors slide shut with a muted chime, sealing you inside the mirrored box. You turn to look at him, gazing through your eyelashes with a bashful smile. He returns the look, more confident and certain about what was unfolding between you two. The tension was palpable, you wanted him to kiss you breathless in the elevator, but the longer you stared at him — his chiseled jaw, his broad frame, his strong arms; the harder it was for you to think of anything but showing him the extent of your gratitude towards him. The silence stretches as the elevator hums upward, and the hand that rests on the small of your back brings you closer to him. Pressing your body flush against his, you place your hands on his chest and smile.

“You’re really handsome,” you whisper at him, genuine and in awe at his beauty. Taiju seems caught off guard for a split second, but he masks it with a soft huff of amusement through his nose. His gaze shifts to the elevator’s glowing floor display, jaw tightening just slightly.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm, very strong too.” You wrap your arms around his neck, lips grazing his jaw.

Taiju’s eyes flicker down to your face, and he raises an eyebrow. You see his ears turning red but don’t comment on it. “Ya like that?”

“Are you kidding?” Your eyebrows pull together for a moment before you press another kiss to his jaw. “It’s so attractive.”

As the elevator doors slide open, your hand grips the hem of his jacket as you drag him out. A smile dances on your lips as you lead the way to his apartment, and watch as he unlocks the door before pushing it open. You are on Taiju as soon as the door closes.

The two of you are a mess of limbs and clothes tossing to the floor, and for the first time, Taiju allows you to take the lead as you push him back on the couch, the cushion dipping beneath his weight. He raises an eyebrow as he watches slowly sink to your knees, your eyes locking on his golden ones.

“Let me?” Your hands reach for his belt, unbuckling it slowly while maintaining eye contact with the tall man. And Taiju seems to be enjoying it — leaning back with his legs spread. He helps you by lifting up his hips, letting you slowly free his cock from his underwear.

You are shameless with showing your appreciation for his cock, your hands reaching down to massage his balls. Your lips brush against the tip of his cock, already hard and leaking and begging for attention. Taiju’s hiss makes you smile, leaning back on your heels to admire him — his blouse unbuttoned, his chest flushed. It makes you lick your lips in anticipation. Because Taiju has been so good to you recently — he has been taking such good care of you, being such an amazing boyfriend. The moment from the club replays in your mind, how he ate you out and the way he fucked you senseless against the window. He pulled two amazing orgasms from you, ordered food for you then drove you home. And although you recognized that some might consider this the bare minimum, you didn’t get this from a certain tattooed-man. The most you got was waking up to an empty bed.

You take a deep breath as your lips part, trying to take all of Taiju’s cock. His hips buck up, glancing down at you. Saliva coated all edges, and you used your hand to stroke the parts your mouth couldn’t reach. You flatten your tongue against the shaft, trying to keep your eyes open as sweet praises spill out of Taiju’s lips.

“Fuck, yer so sweet f’me,” he slurs, eyes rolling back and a sigh leaving his lips as your hand squeezes the base. You stroke him eagerly, watching with intent eyes as his head rolls back then rests on the back of the couch. The muscle of his arms flex, hand twitching and a part of you hopes he would just grip the back of your head and force you to take all of him. A moan vibrates around his cock when you see his arms flex again, it drives Taiju insane.

“Fuck!”

His eyes shoot open when you start to bob your head, using both hands to stroke his cock up and down all whilst twisting. Taiju tries to sit up properly, his hands resting on your shoulders as profanities spill from his mouth — he is desperately trying to control the shakes in his thighs, unable to prevent the filthy noises spilling out of his mouth. You continue with the motion, feeling him finally fuck into your mouth and eyes tearing up everytime the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat — but it didn’t matter.

Not when you were making Taiju cum.

“Fuck yeah, just like that—” his words are encouraging, it makes you squeeze your thighs. He cums with a loud string of profanities, emptying himself down your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut, the living room is filled with breathing sounds as Taiju tries to catch his breath. He leans back, locking eyes with you right as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

You smile up at him, proud and face flushed.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Taiju chuckles in disbelief, unable to wrap his head around what had just happened.

“That’s good?” You ask, your hands caressing his thighs with a proud smile. Slowly, you straddle his lap before purposely sitting your ass on his dick. You grin when he hisses, bracing yourself with your hands on his shoulders.

“Fuck,” Taiju throws his head back, his hands squeezing your hips. “Wanna go again?”

“Mmm,” you lean down, your lips brushing against his ear. “Let’s finish what you started in my room.”

—

The lobby is quiet when you push the door open, the soft hum of the fluorescent lights greeting you. Morning sunlight filters through the glass panes, catching dust motes floating lazily in the air. You shoulder your bag and take the stairs up to your floor, ignoring the elevator — it feels faster this way, and besides, you’re still a little groggy from last night.

The hallway smells faintly of floor polish and the lingering scent of someone else’s breakfast. You step over a loose thread in the rug, humming a little tune under your breath. A small smile tugs at your lips as you think about the night at Taiju’s — he truly knew how to take you to heaven and back. You still feel the remnants of his touch on your skin — rough yet gentle, controlled yet messy. He had you unraveling beneath him with embarrassing ease, you try to fight the blush traveling up your neck.

Your heart sinks the moment your gaze drops. There, crumpled on the floor just beyond your doorway, lies a torn piece of paper. Its jagged edges and faint crease tell you it’s been ripped from something larger. Tentatively, your fingers hover over it, dread pooling heavily in your stomach.

When you pick it up, your breath falters. The handwriting is unmistakable — yours.

Carefully, you unfold the page, the paper crackling softly under your fingers. The words are familiar, intimate, something you’d only ever written for yourself:

"I had so much fun with Shuji today. I hope we’ll always be close like this!”

Your chest tightens, and a cold realization slides down your spine. The words you had written in secret — years ago, locked away in the safety of your childhood diary, a book you had buried in a box and shoved beneath your bed in your childhood room — they are here, in someone else’s hands.

Then your eyes flick to the note lying beside it. The handwriting is sharp, deliberate, with a weight behind each stroke:

— way to keep your word, doll.

Your fingers tighten around the paper..

A surge of panic claws at your throat. Your mind races, piecing it together. This isn’t just a coincidence. He went through your things, he found your diary. He knows. He knows what you wrote, what you felt, what you’re trying to hide from everyone — including him.

Your pulse roars in your ears. The hallway suddenly feels exposed, too open. You snatch the sweater and the note, fumbling for your keys. The lock clicks once — too loud. You shove the door open, slip inside, and slam it shut behind you. You lock it again, twist once and then again. You jiggle the handle just to make sure, before dragging a chair across the floor, the scrape sharp as you wedge it beneath the knob.

Your fingers are trembling so badly you almost drop your phone when you pull it from your bag. The screen lights up, too bright in the dim apartment. You type quickly, backspace, type again.

Your thumb hovers over the send button, hesitating for a second. If you press send, it becomes real. If you allow this message to get to the person intended, another person will know about Hanma’s antics. Tears well up in your eyes as you choke out a sob, then you finally press send.

hey, can you do me a favor?

The relief that washes over you when you get a response immediately is temporary, but it distracts you from the tightening in your chest. The device buzzes and lights up, and you stare at the screen.

Sure. What’s up?

Somewhere in Roppongi, Rindou leans against the floor-to-ceiling windows of a penthouse, the city lights stretching below him like a river of gold. The soft hum of the high-rise is punctuated by the occasional distant siren, but the apartment itself feels insulated — quiet, polished, impossibly expensive.

He holds his phone to his face, eyebrows furrowed as he scrolls through your messages. His thumb hovers over the screen, unsure.

“Where are you going?”

Ran’s voice cuts through the quiet, casual but sharp, his gaze fixed on Rindou.

“Just meeting up with someone,” Rindou says, keeping his tone even.

Ran narrows his eyes. “A girlfriend?”

Rindou scowls. “No. Just someone.”

The space between them stretches, tense but controlled. Rindou’s phone vibrates in his pocket again — you’re texting him incessantly, and he resists glancing at it. Ran notices the subtle distraction but doesn’t comment, just leans back against the plush leather couch with a shrug.

“Bring food with you,” he mutters, voice casual but slightly commanding.

Rindou rolls his eyes, pockets his phone, and mutters under his breath. “Sure.”

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