Unfriendly reminder that i’m not a product manufacturer, i put alot of thought, time and effort into my pieces and refuse to post them till i’m satisfied which means i will take my sweet ass time making them. So if you’re gonna follow me do it because you truly like my work instead of expecting me to shit out a new piece every couple of days. Thank you.
While i’m at it, don’t repost my work?? It’s hard as it is to get people to notice my art, i don’t wanna deal with people stealing or claiming it.
Reach me through email for inquiries & commissions at : [email protected]
Jujutsu kaisen character design commissions: check the #jjk character design for commission examples
Hey there! Not to be mean but seriously where is @slttygeto ??? Is she lost?? She hasn't posted anything in like uhh 2 months. Im sorry if you feel offensive by this but since you're the most closest person to her,I needed to ask you. Please reply!!
Hi, idk how this is supposed to be mean unless you think she owes you a chapter or smth, if you’re just concerned then i think it’s sweet.
and to answer you she’s well and alive, just busy, she’ll comeback soon .
I don’t like posting about myself cause i feel like my art should do the talking but i’ve been a bit distant from my own creative process .
I barely draw or paint and when i do i find it so difficult, as if i never was an artist to begin with. I’ve been having doubts if i was ever destined to be one, and considering letting it go, but lately i randomly get replies or comments on my works , admiring them, especially ones like right hand of hades or my satosugu pieces. I’ve forgotten the passion i had while making them. I don’t think such emotions were a phase. I’ll always love art. I simply need to find my hunger again , to prepare the meal rather than sit at other people’s tables.
So thank you to everyone who comments on my work, i really appreciate you. I’ll come back better inchaallah.
A gift for Beanie, one of my incredible discord moderators! They requested something with critters and something spaced themed, so it naturally followed that I had to draw space raccoons.
synopsis: for most of suguru’s life, the foul bitterness of cursed spirits was something no one else could truly understand. but now, his greatest fear isn't being alone with it — but someone else sharing it.
tags: 2k words, slight angst, fluff, suguru is a teacher in jujutsu high, your husband and a father. brief mention of what happened in 2007, fem!reader, you're briefly described to have long hair, you have twins, the depressing reality of being a jujutsu sorcerer.
The living room was lit only by a small lamp tucked into the corner, its glow stretching long shadows across the walls. The couch dipped beneath Suguru’s weight as he sank deeper into it, the cushions swallowing him whole. His throat felt tight — bitter, as if the taste lingered there again. His shoulders were drawn up, stiff with tension, one knee bouncing restlessly against the coffee table.
His eyes drifted to the clock above the television. 2:03 a.m. and sleep refused to come.
He had tried everything — chamomile tea steeped too long, melatonin tablets dissolving uselessly on his tongue, a late-night walk beneath the quiet hum of streetlights. Nothing slowed his thoughts, nothing quieted the noise in his head.
A soft creak brings him back to the present. Suguru’s head turns slowly toward the staircase, shadows dancing as you descend in your sleep dress, hair loose, eyes heavy with sleep.
“Suguru,” your voice is soft as you call out his name, worry laced in your tone. He already knows what your face looks like before even looking at you — furrowed eyebrows, a frown etched so deep on your features that he wants to wipe it away. Suguru sighs as he throws his head back, running his fingers through his hair. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
But Suguru doesn’t respond. Not at first, not for a good minute. You walk down the stairs, round the couch before sitting across from your husband — you squeeze your thighs together, pulling at the hem of your sleep dress as you place a hand on Suguru’s moving knee. He stops momentarily, raising his head to glance at you, then his gaze moves forward again.
“Hey, talk to me.”
“She’s got my technique.” There’s a rasp to his voice when he finally speaks up, but it’s still measured. Controlled. Like he’s fighting whatever’s holding him down.
She was one of your twins — the softer one, the more sensitive of the two. But both of his girls were his entire world, his light in the dark.
Becoming a father had never been part of the plan. Hell, after what happened in 2007, he never thought he’d marry at all. But time passed. Satoru found him again — reached into the dark and pulled him out. Neither of them would ever say it out loud, but Suguru knows he owes his life to him. And Satoru made one thing painfully clear: no one was coming to save him. If Suguru wanted to live, to return — he had to choose it for himself. So he did.
When Suguru walked back into Jujutsu High, he felt the weight of it immediately — the countless eyes tracking his every step. The higher-ups, the students who only knew the rumors. The ones who remembered what happened. Each stare carried something different. Hatred. Resentment. Curiosity. None of it was unfamiliar to him.
Then you came along — bright-eyed, hopeful. You graduated a few years after he left, and you chose to return after witnessing the relentless cruelty of the world. You were taught what most people would never see: where cursed energy comes from, how it is born from human emotion. Fear, grief, hatred and regret — all of it pooled together until it took shape. Left to decay, those emotions become cursed-spirits. Where tragedy is heavy, where crowded stations are thick with anxiety, cursed spirits gather there. Your first mission with Suguru was at an abandoned hospital, Yaga had paired up the two of you for reasons he chose not to disclose to the raven-haired male. But as Suguru watched you exorcise the cursed-spirits, the understanding in your voice as you faced what would be the byproduct of someone’s despair, he realized just how relentless you were.
Even after particularly brutal missions, when the air still tasted bitter with residual cursed energy and your uniform was stiff with dried blood, you found yourself offering explanations — for the victims, for the broken systems that created them.
You wanted to save people. You insisted on seeing the good in them, even when it was buried deep beneath layers of resentment and despair. Where others would have turned away, angry and bitter, you stayed. When the missions were brutal, when the cursed energy lingered in the air like smoke, when the weight of the world pressed down too heavily for anyone to bear alone.
And whenever things became too much — too suffocating for Suguru to breathe — you were there. First as a co-worker, dependable and present when needed. Then as a friend, someone he could sometimes lean on without fear. Then, eventually, as a lover, the one who could reach the parts of him he had thought no one would ever find. And now, as the mother of his twin daughters, Shizue and Miru, you are the light that anchors him.
—
When Miru fell, Shizue was always there to pick her up. The contrast between the two girls was subtle but striking, and both you and Suguru couldn’t help but laugh at it. When Miru cried, Shizue would hand her a pacifier, a doll — anything to chase the tears away. And when it was Shizue who was upset, Miru would wrap her tiny arms around her sister, crying along with her, completely oblivious to the reason behind the outburst. They were two peas in a pod, born with built-in best friends in each other.
Suguru remembered the first time his daughters learned to ride their bikes as if it were yesterday.
“Look at me!” Shizue had picked it up quickly — a few scrapes on her knees and elbows, teary eyes, flushed cheeks, but she would get up every time, running to her father and asking for help again.
“Papa, band-aid!” she insisted, pointing at her tiny wounds. Suguru chuckled as he carefully tended to her.
“Of course,” he said, smiling.
By the seventh attempt, Shizue was riding around the neighborhood like a pro.
Miru, on the other hand — not so much. Suguru was aware of his daughter’s crybaby tendencies — the instant her knee scraped the pavement, tears poured down like a waterfall, and she would leap straight into his arms.
“I don’t wanna!” she wailed. Suguru softened at the sight, cradling her gently.
“But baby, look at your sister — she’s doing so well!”
But Miru shook her head stubbornly, clinging to her father. She wouldn’t learn to ride properly until a year later. She was more fragile, more sensitive — so much so that her own sister remarked on it in the car on the way to visit relatives. Miru had dozed off, her tears dried after Suguru had refused to adopt a second cat she spotted on the road. Shizue glanced at her, then blurted out:
“She cries a lot.”
Suguru snorted, but he couldn’t disagree. You turned to Shizue with a playful smile.
“Doesn’t she?” you said softly, caressing Miru’s knee before cupping Shizue’s face.
“I don’t like it when she cries,” Shizue admitted.
Suguru raised an eyebrow. “It annoys you?”
Shizue shrugged, eyes on her sister. “No… is it normal?”
“To cry a lot?” you clarified.
Shizue nodded. You smiled warmly. “Some of us are more sensitive than others. And that’s okay.”
“Sensitive…” Shizue repeated the word thoughtfully, filing it away. Her sister was sensitive. “Okay,” she said, finally satisfied.
—
No matter how tightly he closed his eyes or how firmly he covered his ears, Suguru couldn’t erase the image of his daughter’s face the first time she swallowed a curse. The way she sobbed afterward, the broken, desperate look she turned toward him with — it was seared into his memory. He had always feared the day he would discover which of his daughters had inherited his cursed technique, yet a quiet, hopeful part of him had prayed it would be Shizue.
He truly believed that the signs were there: Shizue was always the first to notice cursed spirits in a room, the one who asked him endlessly what it felt like to absorb them, curious and fearless in ways her sister wasn’t.
Shizue had inherited your cursed technique, while Miru carried his.
The realization should not have hit him so hard — watching smaller, weaker cursed spirits gravitate toward her, he could have pretended to be fine. At first, he did, even joking that she would surpass him one day. But he had never been able to prepare for the moment he would have to watch her swallow a curse, the raw fear and pain etched across her face, and the helpless ache that engulfed him in that instant.
The taste of a cursed spirit — something he had once believed no one else could ever know — now belonged to her too. Like swallowing a cloth used to wipe up vomit, Suguru couldn’t help but feel guilty. He had passed on this burden to his daughter.
—
The clock kept ticking in the living room, each second hammering against Suguru’s chest like a drum he couldn’t escape.
“I did that to her.” He breaks the suffocating silence, guilt brimming in his brown eyes. “Fuck, you should’ve seen her face.”
“Suguru,” you said softly, pushing yourself to sit beside him and resting a hand on his back. “Don’t say that.”
He shook his head, leaning forward, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t, I—” He raises his head, wiping his face. “She hated it.”
Not once do you interrupt. You stay silent as he pours out the horror of swallowing cursed spirits, describing the way the taste overwhelms the senses, foul, clinging to every nerve. You don’t tell him that you know what it feels like — it would be cruel, almost mocking, to claim understanding when both of you know the truth. He hates that his daughter has to go through the same thing.
You were there when Miru swallowed yet another cursed spirit. Standing near an abandoned building, you watched as tears prickled at the corner of her eyes, her lips trembling as she parts them a couple of times.
“It tastes like a used up rug.” She muttered under her breath, you don’t miss the way Suguru’s body stiffened. You walk away, and Suguru’s eyebrows draw together, confused. He slowly approaches Miru to comfort her.
“Can’t even drink water, it makes it worse.”
Suguru’s heart sinks to his stomach. It had been the same for him, water does make the taste worse. It intensifies the bitter aftertaste, and makes you all too aware of what you had just swallowed. Suguru sighs as he pulls his daughter towards him, her head resting on his chest — a huge part of him was grateful that his daughter had remained affectionate through her teenage years.
“What’s in Mama’s hand?” Miru asked, lifting her head from Suguru’s chest.
Suguru followed her gaze, brow furrowed, watching as you held something out to your daughter.
“Here,” you said gently, offering the small object. “This should help.”
Chocolate milk. Miru’s favorite drink since she could hold a cup on her own.
The pout that had tugged at her lips moments ago vanished instantly. Her hands shot out to grab the bottle, twisting the cap open with practiced ease. The shift in her mood was immediate — her eyes sparkled as she glanced between the two of you, bright and alive once more.
“I don’t taste it anymore!” she exclaimed, holding the bottle out proudly before turning her full attention to you. Without hesitation, she threw her arms around your waist, pressing her face against your chest.
“Thank you!” she murmured, muffled but sincere.
“You’re welcome, baby,” you whispered, your hand resting on her back, gentle and reassuring.
Suguru didn’t move. His eyes stayed on you the entire time, watching as you kissed and caressed Miru’s head. You tell your daughter to head to the car since she was done, before turning to face your husband. The small, intimate moment between you and your daughter — his wife and the mother of the children, and the one person who knew how he felt. Something in Suguru’s chest tightened, a mixture of awe and the faintest twinge of longing which didn’t make sense — how could he long for something that was already his?
Suguru doesn’t have the answer, but he doesn’t think it’s so necessary to find one right now. You approach him carefully, reaching to wrap your warm hand around his. It brings him back to his senses and he blinks. The smile on your face is immediate once you feel the coil in his shoulders melting away.
“Are you okay?”
“Mmm,” Suguru’s chest aches, and he hopes that pure adoration is pouring from his eyes as he holds your gaze. Despite years of marriage, you find yourself looking away as he pulls you against him. You brace yourself with a hand on his chest.
“I don’t know what it feels like to swallow cursed spirits,” you finally speak up, patting his chest. “But I’ll do anything to make it even a little less horrible.”
A thick lump forms in Suguru’s throat, and he finds himself inhaling deeply as he looks down at you. He feels you soften beneath his touch as he presses his lips to your forehead — protective, loving. His heart threatens to leap out of his chest, something warm and overwhelming swelling inside him.
He had told you, once — in bits and pieces at first — about how horrible it was to consume cursed spirits. About the taste that clawed at his tongue and refused to fade, about the way it lingered in the back of his throat no matter how much he rinsed his mouth, how it felt less like swallowing something and more like forcing down something that had rotted. He had expected pity, disgust perhaps — but you never pretended to understand.
You never claimed you knew what it felt like, never offered hollow reassurances. From the very day you met him, you simply stayed. You handed him water when the bitterness wouldn’t leave, and when he had told you that water makes it worse, you would search for anything that would help wash down the taste. You pressed something sweet into his palm without comment, rubbed his back when the nausea set in. And now you were doing the same for his daughter.
Suguru swallows hard, his hand lingering at the back of your head as if grounding himself. He had always believed the burden of that taste was his alone to bear. But somehow, you had found a way to lighten it — without ever claiming it as your own.
༉‧₊˚. LISTEN TO THE PLAYLIST WHILE READING! + browse the menu
༉‧₊˚. episode 20: stardust on our skin.
preview:". . . “We’re meeting up today.” you speak, your voice sharp, edged with controlled anger. “Not even a hello?” - Your jaw tightens, but you keep your voice steady. “Same time as last time. And don’t be late, or I will leave.”
cw: heavy nsfw warning, oral (f receiving), shower s*x, dirty talk, themes of stalking. word count: 10,2k.
༉‧₊˚. note: thank you to my bestfriend @aurelianamu for being an absolute angel and proofreading/correcting everything. couldn't have done it without her!!
༉‧₊˚. comments + reblogs are appreciated!
༉‧₊˚. Hanma & Taiju by @aurelianamu
“Oh my god, what happened to you?!”
Your heart roared in your ears, pounding like it wanted to escape your chest. Mitsuya stumbled into your bedroom, clutching his side, the soft scrape of his jacket against the carpet echoing in the stillness. The only light came from the soft glow of the streetlamp outside your window, slanting across the floor in thin, golden-orange lines. Dust floated lazily in the beams, and you could smell the faint metallic tang of blood mingled with the worn leather of his jacket.
He chuckled, a low, strained sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes, trying to brush off your panic. “It’s nothing, my love. I just—” He inhaled sharply, a soft hiss escaping his lips, and pressed a hand to his side.
“I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.”
In his hands, he held a diary, small and carefully made for you. Your name glittered across the cover in delicate script, and tiny jewels caught the dim light like scattered stars. Your eyes widened, your hands trembling slightly as they reached for it.
“I know your brothers probably got you something fancier,” he said softly, voice rough, “but I hope this one sticks with you for a long time.”
Tears welled up, glossing your vision as you took in the cuts and bruises marking his face. Your fingers trembled as you cupped his jaw. He flinched at your touch, letting out a soft hiss, but you leaned closer anyway, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips. The warmth of him made your chest tighten, a knot of worry and tenderness coiling together.
“You’re… you’re too good to me,” you whispered, voice breaking slightly. “But… please tell me.” Your hand caresses his face, careful not to hurt him.
Mitsuya exhaled slowly, a long, low sound, and settled onto your bed with a soft groan, the mattress creaking under his weight. You moved quickly, scanning your room for the first-aid kit, your fingers brushing the edges of the shelf, the faint antiseptic smell mingling with the lingering scent of pine from your small Christmas tree, its lights casting tiny, dancing reflections across the walls.
“Do you remember Hakkai?” he murmured, voice quiet, almost distant.
“Yeah?” You turned toward him, confusion knitting your brows. “He did this?!”
“No, no,” Mitsuya said, chuckling softly, though the sound was roughened by pain. “Taiju, his older brother did”
Your stomach twisted, and you knelt beside him, careful not to get carpet burn. “So what happened to him?” you asked gently, trying to keep your voice steady.
“Oh… Mikey took care of him,” Mitsuya said, a proud, faint smile tugging at his lips. “He lost it a little bit, but I could see that he regretted his actions.”
“Taka—”
“I know, I know,” Mitsuya interrupted softly, tilting his head toward you. His hand rose, brushing against your jaw in a careful, almost protective motion. “But he had it rough growing up.”
“You think that justifies doing this to you?” you asked, frowning, voice tight.
Mitsuya shook his head, serious now. “Nothing justifies it, but I know he regrets what he did. Especially to his family.” He winces when you gently dab his cuts with an alcohol swab.
But when the scowl on your face refuses to soften, a quiet chuckle slips past his lips as he cups your jaw once more.
“Don’t scowl like that bunny, wouldn’t want you to get wrinkles at a young age.” he teased, voice softening as he watched your expression.
“I don’t care,” you muttered under your breath, leaning back on your heels before looking up. “You’re too nice sometimes.”
Mitsuya shrugged, calm despite everything. His bruised face softened with patience as he said, “You don’t think he can redeem himself?”
“Not really,” you huff, unimpressed.
“Mmm,” his hand caresses your cheek, voice tender. “What happened to that big heart of yours, huh?”
“Does it matter?” you whispered, eyes dropping.
He studied you for a second, his lavender eyes tracing your face — the worry in your eyes, the slight scrunch to your nose, the pout of your lips. Mitsuya inhales deeply before gently grabbing your hands, forcing you to put the first aid kit aside. Your head snaps up at him, confused.
“Wha— Takashi!” You nearly squealed when you felt him pull you up on his lap, your hand covering your mouth when you saw him wince with each movement. “I’ll hurt you!”
“Nonsense,” he hissed, adjusting you on top of him so that your knees were pressed against his thighs. You stare at him, warmth spreading across your face when you feel his hands grip your hips.
“I came here to celebrate Christmas with my girlfriend, not to argue with her.”
You frowned slightly, raising your hand to cradle his face carefully. Your thumb caresses his cheek, eyes flickering across his face before landing on his lips. The room settled into quiet after that, the soft hum of the heater and the distant glimmer of streetlights outside the window filling the space. Your touch featherlight, he watches you with that steady warmth that always makes your chest ache. “Let me kiss you,” he murmured as his hand rested on the back of your head. You leaned closer to him, until his lips brushed against yours — the room felt small and safe. Suspended in time.
Then it comes as a jolt — a wash of green across his face, the hum changes and the warmth disappears. A horn blares somewhere close, forcing you to blink.
“Huh?”
Your skin feels the leather first — then the cool air, and a low controlled growl of an engine. Somehow, you find yourself in the passenger seat of a black Porsche Panamera, its interior sleek and shadowed. Roppongi’s neon sign bleeds across the windshield in streaks of pink and blue. Beside you, Rindou taps his fingers against the steering wheel as the traffic light changes to green. You realize that he’s addressing you.
“I said, why do you suddenly wanna go?” he repeats, eyebrows faintly furrowed. His lavender eyes flick toward you, sharp and assessing. You blink again, grounding yourself.
“I left some things there,” you reply, looking down at your lap, pretending to busy yourself with your phone. “Thought I’d grab them.”
“Like what?” he presses.
You sigh, turning toward him. “I didn’t know this was an interrogation room.”
“Do you want to walk there?” Rindou deadpans — you immediately go quiet. A triumphant smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he adds. “That’s what I thought.”
The car moves smoothly through Roppongi, gliding past towering glass buildings and newly built luxury complexes, their polished facades reflecting light across the hood of the Porsche. And then it comes into view — your old apartment building
“I left some photographs there,” you mutter under your breath. “I want to put them up in my apartment.”
“Mmm,” Rindou hums, finally letting it go. He doesn’t look at you again, but you can tell he’s thinking.
The dream lingers faintly at the edge of your mind — warmth, soft light, Mitsuya’s voice. You inhale deeply as you reach for the pendant around your neck, holding tightly onto it. As Rindou turns onto a quieter street, the architecture shifts. The buildings here are older — heavier concrete, darker stone, black metal balconies instead of seamless glass. Still expensive and guarded, just not new anymore.
Rindou’s car hums smoothly as it pulls into the circular driveway of the Haitanis’ building — a high-rise of dark stone and tinted glass, understated but unmistakably expensive. A suited doorman bows slightly when he recognizes the car, both you and Rindou nod back.
He parks in the private underground level, kills the engine, and the silence inside the vehicle feels heavier than it should. He doesn’t get out immediately, instead, he looks at you intently.
“You still haven’t told me why this couldn’t wait,” he says casually — too casually.
You unbuckle your seatbelt, still refusing to meet his eyes. “I did.”
“Photographs,” he repeats, watching your face. “You dragged me across Roppongi for photographs.”
You reach for the door handle before looking over your shoulder. “And you answered. I told you, I remembered that I kept them in my room and I just don’t feel comfortable letting them stay there.”
His lavender eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t move.
“You’ve been weird,” he says quietly, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. You force a chuckle.
“Right, and we’ve only met up, like what — once?”
“And whose fault is that?” He retorts and you exhale deeply before stepping out of the car, Rindou following you suit.
You walk ahead, the soft sole of your shoes thumping against the concrete, eyes flicking to every shadow, every corner. Rindou falls in step behind you, quiet. He notices the way your head tilts slightly at each noise, the subtle tightening of your shoulders, the way your hand brushes the edge of your coat. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t comment — just follows, how your gaze flickers to the walls every now and then. You reach the far end of the lot and spot the elevator doors, pressing the button, you step closer, and Rindou watches you. His expression is unreadable, no words pass between you.
The elevator hums as the doors slide open, and together you step inside. The ride up is silent.
When the doors open, the familiar private corridor greets you — soft lighting, plush carpeting, discreet security cameras in the corners. You remember the mornings where Ran would hold you back in the hallway, straightening your school uniform, scolding you for messing up your hair which he spent twenty-minutes fixing up. The image is vivid in your mind — the scowl on his face that softens into a proud look once you step onto the elevator, and Rindou’s hand waving at you from behind the wall.
Yet you also remember the last time you walked down these corridors — with your suitcase in hand, and none of your brothers aware that this would be the last time you would ever reach out to them. Your heart tightens at the memory.
You hear Rindou unlock the door, and you snap back to reality. The scent of expensive incense and polished wood hits your nostrils, and you realize that it is just as you remember.
The entrance is wide, with a smooth stone floor that glimmers under soft lighting. A built-in closet with sleek chrome handles lines the left wall, its doors perfectly flush with the wood paneling. To the right, a small changing room and a marble-finished bathroom. The hallway stretches ahead, long and deliberate. On the right is the second toilet, then Rindou’s room — door closed, perfectly neat. On the left, Ran’s room — equally immaculate.
As you round the corner, the large mirror takes up the space, its frame a dark wood that gleams under the ceiling lights. Past the mirror is the wine area, bottles arranged like trophies in temperature-controlled racks, followed by the kitchen — marble counters, chrome faucets, high-end appliances. Everything looks new, expensive, and controlled.
The living room opens into a vast space with low designer couches arranged around a black lacquered coffee table, a single chaise angled toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. A DJ station sits in the corner, sleek and modern, and a massive flat-screen TV dominates the opposite wall. Beyond the glass, the balcony stretches long, lined with planters, ending at a discreet fire escape.
But as you move past the kitchen toward your room, your stomach drops. The door is ajar, and cold air drifts in from the open window. Quickly, you turn to Rindou who was still standing near the bathroom, his hands buried in his pockets.
“I’ll grab my things and then we can leave.”
“Why is the door open?” His tone leaves no room for arguing back. You try to downplay the anxiety that grips you, the way his glare made you feel small — like you were a kid all over again.
“I don’t know, Rin. Maybe someone left it open.” You look away before he can notice the sweat gathered on your upper lip, how tense your shoulders were. Your eyes close when you hear his approaching footsteps.
“Ran locked it last time he came,” and the more he approaches you, the harder it is to breathe. You decide to be a bit dramatic.
“I don’t know— I want to grab some clothes, okay?” You stand in front of the door, blocking the view. If Hanma left the door open, you can only imagine the mess that was inside.
“Move.” Rindou’s voice is low but firm. Before you can respond, he moves alongside you, his hand brushing lightly against your shoulder. You stiffen at the touch, and Rindou’s eyes flicker to your face. “What the hell are you hiding?”
“Rin—” you start, but he shakes his head, stepping closer.
He doesn’t shove, one strong hand presses gently to your upper back, just enough to shift your weight slightly to the side. You stumble forward a moment, letting him pass.
Inside, your room is violated — drawers pulled open, clothes tossed, books and papers scattered. Rindou stands there, staring at the mess in front of him. When he turns to look at you, he follows your gaze to the bed — where your diary lies open, a page torn out and a folded note clutters to the floor.
— you can’t avoid me forever.
Rindou’s expression darkens instantly as he takes it in, eyes flickering to your face. “You knew.”
Your breath hitches as he grabs the folded note, almost crumbling it in his hand. “You brought me here because you knew something had happened.”
“I didn’t know,” you murmur. “I just… had a feeling.”
He narrows his eyes, scanning the room — the balcony then the fire escape. “A feeling? What are you, a fucking witch?”
“I don’t know, Rin! You’re making things really difficult right now!”
“I’m making things difficult?” He shoves the paper in your face, and you force your gaze away. “You bring me here knowing damn well that someone broke into your room, and you don’t wanna tell me who did it, but I’m making things difficult?!”
“I wanted someone else to know!” You finally snap, feeling your face heat up. “There, I said it. I wanted you to come here with me because I can’t tell anyone else about it!”
Rindou stands there, his expression softening for a second before he looks at the mess before you.
“You know this person.”
“You can say so.” you reply weakly.
“Do I know them?” His eyebrows are drawn together in confusion. You nod and sigh as you walk around the mess, grabbing the stuff on the floor. And the more Rindou stares at the mess, at the note in his hand and then towards the fire escape, the easier it is for him to piece things together. His lips part for a moment before he looks at you.
“It’s Hanma?”
Watching you stiffen at the mention of his name was everything Rindou needed to know. He continues.
“How the fuck did you start talking to him again?”
“He found me.” You turn to Rindou, sensing the accusing tone. “It was a coincidence.”
“Yeah, I can tell.” He sighs before rubbing his temples with his fingers. “Okay, so you dated him—”
You sigh, wiping your face with your hand. “I didn’t date him—”
Rindou’s eyebrows raise before he crosses his arms over his chest. You can feel him almost slip into big brother mode, and you have to remind him to tone it down.
“Newsflash, I’m an adult woman?” Whatever worry you had evaporates as you stand in front of him, your hands on your hips.
“I thought you had a boyfriend—” Rindou realizes that he slipped and quickly shuts his mouth. Your eyes narrow for a moment, then you tilt your head as you point at him.
“...how do you know that?”
The room falls into a silence so thick it feels like it’s pressing against your ears — the kind where even a breath sounds intrusive, and a single pin hitting the floor would echo like a gunshot.
“You stare at your phone a lot.” He points at the device in your bag. “You did that with your first boyfriend.”
But you’re still not buying his explanation, crossing your arms over your chest. Rindou shifts his weight, gaze flicking toward the window, then back to you. A shrug rolls off his shoulders.
“It’s not exactly classified information,” he mutters.
“It’s my life, Rindou.” you say, stepping closer. “How do you know?”
It’s silent for a moment before Rindou exhales deeply. He waves a dismissive hand as he walks towards the window, closing it before checking the broken lock. “Whatever, we sent you all those gifts and not once did you think how do they know what I like?”
When you’re quiet for too long, Rindou turns to you with wide eyes. “You’re that stupid?”
“Hey! I did not check what you guys got me!” You snap your fingers at him, walking around your bed towards him. “And don’t change the topic—how do you know?”
“We hired someone.”
“You mean Ran hired someone.” You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest.
Rindou sighs. “You still don’t want to talk to him?”
You shrug your shoulders, unsure. You avoid eye contact, even choose to look away entirely at the mention of reconnecting with your oldest brother.
Rindou watches you in silence for a long beat — the way your jaw sets, how your eyes flatten, the little downturn to your mouth when you’re trying not to react. It’s both heartwarming and sad how you don’t seem to be aware of it — how you carry yourself with the same composure, the deadpan stare, the cutting glare and even the faint pout tugging at your lips when you’re displeased with something. You look exactly like Ran, behave just like him, that it makes Rindou exhale slowly. He tilts his head to the side before giving it a small shake.
“You two are too similar.”
You hum in response, still eyeing the mess. Rindou senses your silence, the way you’re secretly worried about what all of this meant — whatever dynamic you had with Hanma must’ve been intense for him to take things this far. He slowly approaches you, his tone softer.
“I can help you.” He starts, pointing at the mess around you. “Move this stuff to a safer place.”
But you refuse to let it affect you to the point of changing the way things are supposed to be. You shake your head, glancing at Rindou. “No, it’s okay.”
Rindou’s warmth feels overwhelming — familiar. You miss being around him, bickering with him. As he stands close to you, you can feel his arms twitching by his sides and you slowly uncross your arms.
“You sure?”
You nod. “Yeah, I appreciate it.”
Neither of you moved at first, both of you staring down as if the carpeted floor became interesting. The silence stretches until Rindou finally gives in and steps forward, pulling you into him without a word. Your head settles against his shoulder, his hand firm on your upper back. You don’t resist — instead, your arms slowly slide around his waist, holding on just as tightly. No words are exchanged — but the way you cling to each other says enough. You had missed each other more than either of you cared to admit.
—
Chifuyu remembers the heavy air of the office, the controlled vibe of it — it didn’t necessarily stick out to him, but something felt different that day. He was sitting across from Kisaki, a large desk separating the two, the latter speaking in his usual academic tone.
The soft rustle of paper fills the air as he speaks, his gaze fixed in front of him. “I read your report from the last mission, and I have to say—” His eyes flicker up to find Chifuyu’s. “I’m impressed.”
All Chifuyu gave in return was a nod and a polite bow. Even if he hated to admit it, he needed to show respect to his boss.
“Next time, you should—”
The door slammed open before Kisaki could finish his sentence. Hanma stumbled into the office, catching himself on the doorframe with a crooked grin. His eyes found Kisaki first, before landing on Chifuyu, his head tilted and amusement twinkling in his golden eyes.
Chifuyu rolled his eyes at that, turning to stare at Kisaki.
“We’re in the middle of something.” Kisaki said calmly, trying to suppress the irritation from being interrupted.
The dark-haired male remembered feeling it — the shift in the weight beside him as Hanma dropped to the chair, without an invitation and sprawling like he was here for entertainment. He reached for his pocket, extending a leg with a grunt before pulling out his phone and flashing the screen to Kisaki.
“Ya called me.” He leaned back, putting his phone on his thigh. “I don’t have time. Make it quick.”
Instead, his request was met with silence from Kisaki. The latter pushed his chair back, bracing his hands on the surface of the desk as he stood on his feet. He eyed Hanma for a moment, glancing towards Chifuyu as if he was weighing his options — then he spoke up.
“The conversation was supposed to be private.” Kisaki adjusted his glasses with a precise push at the bridge of his nose.
Chifuyu remembered the way Hanma’s brows had lifted at that — almost mocking the insinuation.
“Private? Ain’t shit private when it’s work and ya know that.”
“I’m giving you an out,” Kisaki had replied, glancing at his watch as though this were a scheduled inconvenience. “The meeting with Chifuyu should be done soon.”
Hanma had spread his legs wider, impatiently dragging a hand down his face.“Just spit it out, fucking hell.”
Kisaki slowly sat back down, fingers interlaced on the desk. “I want you to take a break.”
That was the moment Chifuyu remembered most clearly — the subtle shift. Hanma straightened up slightly as the grin faltered for just a fraction.
“A break? Fuck does that mean?”
“It means I’m asking you to hop off my fucking dick.” Kisaki had opened his drawer and slid out a sheet of paper, presenting it like a formal notice. “A month with no missions, no assignments. Fuck off.”
Hanma had stared at the paper, then back at him. The room had felt smaller somehow.
“Ya gotta be fucking kidding me, right? The fuck did I even do?”
“Bursting into meetings unannounced, arriving late, killing unnecessarily.” Kisaki’s tone hadn’t changed, but Chifuyu had felt the restraint in it — like he was holding back from exploding. “I’m suspending your activities for a month. Go home.”
The silence after that had been sharp, Hanma’s breathing became ragged, uncontrolled. He chuckled as he wiped his face with a hand, his lips stretched into a crazed smile.
“Yer gonna fucking regret it.”
“Sure,” Kisaki had replied, dismissing him with a lazy wave. “See you in a month.”
And then Hanma left the office, slamming the door behind him. At the time, Chifuyu hadn’t thought much of it — just another power play, with Kisaki tightening the leash. But the next time he saw Hanma, it wasn’t at headquarters — it was near your apartment building.
And remembering the look in his eyes from that office — that split second when the grin slipped — Chifuyu couldn’t shake the feeling that the “break” had never really been about discipline at all. He exhales slowly, leaning back into the driver’s seat, the engine idling beneath him as the mission site looms just beyond the windshield. When his phone vibrates in his hand, Kisaki’s name flashing across the screen, he doesn’t hesitate to send a message back, letting him know that he was about to go in. He shuts the engine off, pushes the door open, and steps out into the still air. The abandoned building stands ahead of him, its broken windows dark and hollow. The unease that radiates off of it settles into his bones, and yet it felt familiar all at the same time.
But right now, all he could think about was you — how you were holding up, whether Hanma was hovering around you again, and why he suddenly couldn’t seem to stay away. He sighs and walks towards his mission site.
—
Roppongi in late afternoons always felt different from nighttime itself. The glass towers still caught the sun, but the streets were quieter now. Salarymen heading home, café chairs scraping against pavement and the hum of the city faded into something peaceful.
The park sat just beyond the main road, a stretch of grass and carefully trimmed trees. But past a cluster of low shrubs and beneath a maple tree whose leaves whispered in the wind, that’s where you dragged him. The soil was darker there, the skyline still peeked through the branches above.
You looked like a child on Christmas standing next to him.
“All done!” You exclaimed once you finished writing the date on the polaroid picture, turning to Hanma with a huge smile. “This way we’ll remember the date.”
He leaned back on his palms in the grass, cigarette resting between his fingers, watching you like you were on something.
“Can’t believe ya expect to wait ten years for this shit.”
You ignored him, of course. You always did when you were excited. The polaroid slid into the box, tucked neatly over ticket stubs, a cheap ring, folded notes written at three in the morning. You were humming again — that same song you’d looped all week, the one he pretended to hate but now knew by heart. Your eyes sparkled when you snapped the lid shut.
“Here!” You held the box out toward him triumphantly, eyes sparkling as you pushed it further in his hands. “Take it, Shuji!”
He blinked. “So you weren’t even listenin’ to me.” He pulled the cigarette from his mouth, smoke curling lazily into the warm air.
“Now, you go dig a hole.” You turned around, stepping away from the soil while staring at the shoes Ran had recently purchased for you. “I’ll wait here.” You lean against a tree, a smile dancing on your lips.
Hanma raised an eyebrow. “I go dig?”
The look you sent him — sharp and entitled, such a spoiled brat — he thought, made him snort.
“Did I stutter?”
He huffed, low and amused, pushing himself up. “Nah, doll. Ya sure didn’t.”
He slowly lowered himself to his knees, rolling his shoulders once as he crouched near the base of a ginkgo tree. He flicks his cigarette, pressing his fingers into the soil and it gives very easily.
“I feel like a fucking dog.” He muttered under his breath, fingers digging into the soil as you stood against the tree with your arms crossed over your chest. The warmth that engulfed you, the way your heart stuttered as he turned to you to show you his work. You smiled at him, pretending to hover near the area where he dug with a contemplative hum.
“You’re not being careful enough.”
Hanma scoffs, glaring up at you. “It’s a fucking tin box, not a kitten.”
You huff at his response, turning on your heels. “You’ll regret that in ten years.”
“Will ya even remember it?” Hanma wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, resting on his heels. “Ten years is a long time.”
“Of course I will.” You mumble, and Hanma looked up at you to find you pouting.
“I’ll try to remember it, doll.”
Hanma’s lips curved into a smile — small, hesitant, almost as though it wasn’t meant to be seen. His golden eyes land on you — open, unguarded. Like he wasn’t calculating the moment. And when you finally smile back, he quickly looks away.
“Yeah, you better.”
Hanma presses his palm flat over the freshly turned soil again, packing it down with pressure. The golden ginkgo leaves tremble overhead, sunlight flickering across your face as you beam at him like this is something sacred. The leaves rustle louder, the sound stretches, thinning into something hollow. The warmth of the sun cools against his skin and the scent of soil fades, replaced by something sterile. He presses his palm down again, but the ground isn’t soft anymore, it’s flat.
The golden color drains from the world first as the tree blurs at the edges. Your face flickers, your smile still frozen in place as if the moment refuses to move forward. Then you’re gone. Hanma inhales sharply, then his eyes snap open to darkness.
His ceiling stares back at him, unfamiliar in its stillness. The air is cold — settling into the sheets that haven’t been disturbed in days. The space around him feels untouched. He doesn’t move at first. There’s no warmth beside him, no soft breathing. Just the low hum of a refrigerator somewhere down the hall and the faint buzz of streetlights bleeding through the curtains. He rarely sleeps here.
The bed feels too large, the sheets too crisp and the room carries none of the lived-in heat of another body — no presence, no warmth. Nothing, just an emptiness that makes Hanma sit up in his bed with a sigh. He drags a hand over his face slowly, staring at the rest of the room as the last trace of golden leaves dissolves from his mind.
The dream lingers heavier than it should.
—
When Taiju suggests taking you out for lunch, you rack your brain over the many options — Sarabeth’s, The Great Burger, Bubby’s — all of which were near the Shinjuku area. Your phone vibrates in your hand as you run down the stairs to the lobby, holding onto your bag. You are excited to see him, get to spend some time with him.
Yesterday was a busy day for the restaurant, which meant he couldn’t pick you up from work or make it to dinner. True to who he is, Taiju had an Uber take you home and arranged for food from his restaurant to be delivered to you at your apartment. And, though words aren’t exactly his forte, he attached a note with the food that read:
— Sorry about tonight. I’ll make it up for you.
A shiver of excitement ran through you at the note.
“I can see you,” you huff over the phone, reminding yourself to be careful since you were wearing heels. You spot Taiju’s car parked outside your work building, sleek and shiny in the sunlight, the passenger seat window rolled down so he can look at you.
A small smile tugs at your lips, your hand reaching for the door handle, then you pull it open. You quickly shove your phone in your bag, sliding into the seat before pressing a kiss to his cheek. When you finally sit down, you stare at him with a huge smile.
“Hi.”
Taiju chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek as well.“Someone’s excited.”
You hum, buckling your seatbelt. “Mmm, I am.”
“You got an hour?” He asks, checking the watch on his wrist.
“Yup.”
Taiju nods, and the engine hums and then roars beneath him. “Perfect.”
He ends up choosing a brunch place with tables spilling out onto the pavement, metal chairs set beneath wide umbrellas that barely shield the afternoon sun. Conversations overlap in waves, coffee cups clink against saucers, waiters walk between tables with plates balanced on their arms. It’s lively and open and reminds you of him.
You try to brush it off at first — try to sink into the warmth of the afternoon sun. Winter has been merciless this year, and you tell yourself you deserve to enjoy something gentle for once. But the openness unsettles you, it reminds you of that conversation, of the way he sat down across from you — not beside you. Facing you like it was a game, like you were something to study. You remember how quiet you’d gone and the loud scrape of his chair against the concrete, slow and deliberate. The lazy tilt of his head, that smirk just slow enough to make your stomach tighten. It wasn’t affection. The way your pulse thudded in your ears, how thin the air felt, how surreal it felt to see him in front of you —
“Hey,”
You blink, dragged back by the sound of Taiju’s voice. The present rushes in clumsily, he's speaking to the waiter, ordering for both of you — something you usually like — but you haven’t processed a single word. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the table without you realizing it, and nod at him when he repeats your order to the waiter.
Taiju’s attention shifts fully to you when the waiter leaves. “You good?”
“Yeah,” you answer too quickly. “Very long morning,” you squint as you look at the sky, shielding your eyes with your hand. “But it’s sunny today, hasn’t been like this in a while.”
Taiju’s gaze moves over your face, studying you, your posture and the way your shoulders are slightly hunched as if bracing for something. You force a small smile, reaching for your water as if the movement alone can distract you from what’s brewing inside. You curl your hand around the cool glass, letting the cold bite gently at your skin.
But Taiju isn’t convinced. He leans back slightly in his chair, broad shoulders casting a shadow across the table. One hand rests against the edge of it, fingers tapping once — slow. He still doesn’t say anything, but you feel his gaze on you. Your eyes find his, and you force a chuckle as you tilt your head.
“What?”
Taiju shakes his head at first, then caves with a sharp inhale, leaning forward to brace his elbows on the table. “Ya know ya can talk to me, right?”
You purse your lips, nodding at him but you glance away, and the movement makes Taiju tilt his head to find your gaze.
“Mhm, I know.”
“Then why aren’t you?” His hand slides across the table until it finds yours. He laces his fingers through yours and gently tugs, drawing you closer until you have no choice but to meet his eyes.
“Talk to me.”
“You don’t have to worry.” You reassure him, your thumb brushing lightly over the back of his hand. But in that moment, the gesture is meant to distract you more than it is to soothe him. You glance away, pretending to watch a couple across the street laugh over their drinks. “I’m just tired. Nothing serious.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. That silence is worse than if he had pulled away, it stretches between you. A muscle in his jaw tightens as he exhales slowly, gaze steady on you.
“We can’t have a proper relationship if you’re gonna keep things surface level.”
The words land heavier than you expect. Around you, laughter erupts from another table — a fork clatters against a plate, someone calls out for the check. Life goes on, bright and ordinary for anyone else — but at your table, the sunlight doesn’t feel bright anymore. Just exposing.
But you push through it — through the discomfort coiled tight in your stomach, through the ghost of the past threatening to unravel everything you’ve tried so hard to bury.
“I’m fine.”
Taiju has no choice but to let the conversation drop. When your food arrives, he releases your hand, but even as you begin to eat, his amber eyes keep drifting back to your face. It’s the distance in your expression — the way you seem just slightly out of reach. He can’t shake the feeling that you’re somewhere he can’t follow — that no matter how tightly he holds on, you’re already pulling away.
—
The day was finally over. You felt a twinge of disappointment that Taiju wouldn’t be able to make it home tonight, given how busy the restaurant had been, but you were grateful he’d sent an Uber to get you there. You’d asked him to drop you off at the grocery store and texted him to let him know.
“Have a good day!”
Stepping out, you thanked the driver before turning to take in the sliding doors of the store. The elderly couple who ran it were already behind the counter — the older woman waving at you even before you stepped inside. You smiled and waved back, then pushed the doors open and walked in.
You grab a cart at the entrance, the metal handle cool beneath your palms, before pushing it down the aisles. The polished floor reflects the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, and the scent of fresh bread and simmering soup from the small deli counter drifts toward you, mixing with the faint tang of ripe produce. It’s comforting — a little pocket of normalcy in a week that’s been anything but.
As you approach the register, something catches your eye. A basket sits on the counter, brimming with snacks — your favorite ones. Not the usual, run-of-the-mill chips or candy, but the brands you always lingered over, the ones you’d grab if you splurged just a little. Your brow lifts.
“Oh…” you murmur, stepping closer with a smile. “This is really nice!”
The elderly couple behind the counter smile gently. The woman shakes her head with a quiet chuckle. “It’s yours, dear!”
Your eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Mine?”
The older woman nods. “Yes. A tall gentleman left it for you about an hour ago. Bought everything himself.”
Your chest lifts slightly, and for a second — you feel a flicker of something that coils your chest. You already know the answer to the question, yet you still ask; “Did he have blue hair?”
Her husband chuckles softly but shakes his head. “No, not blue… it was dark with streaks of yellow. He didn’t really say much, just handed us the basket, paid and left.”
The warmth you felt only moments ago fades into something tighter and sharper. You clutch the basket a little too tightly, your knuckles whitening around the woven handle. The smell of the snacks — the faint chocolate, the spiced crackers, the familiar fruit gummies — suddenly, you don’t know how to feel. This was different from anything he had done — and although you acknowledged that it was still weird, you didn’t know what to do with the basket.
“Thank you.”
You step out of the grocery store, the bag of groceries swinging lightly at your side, and make your way back toward your apartment. The late evening sun warms your face, but your steps are still hurried, heartbeat thudding in your ears. Once inside the building, the familiar hum of the elevator doesn’t calm you; you press the button, and the small space feels almost claustrophobic as you ride up. When the doors slide open, relief washes over you — nothing has been left at your doorstep.
You unlock your apartment door and step inside, the click of the lock echoing a little too loudly in the quiet. You double-check, locking it twice, before setting the bags of groceries and the basket of snacks on the kitchen counter. That’s when you notice it — a small piece of paper peeking out from between the snacks. You frown, picking it up and unfolding it.
— haven’t seen you buy snacks in a while, doll.
Your first instinct is to roll your eyes. You crumble the note and toss it in the trash, brushing it off as harmless — but your gaze drifts back to the basket, and you pause for a moment, staring at the familiar brands. A scoff leaves your lips, and you shove the thought aside, heading toward the bathroom to wash your hands.
Cold water splashes over your palms, a sharp contrast against the warmth of the room, and for a brief second, you catch your reflection in the mirror. Your eyes flicker away immediately, landing on Taiju’s extra belongings lined neatly on the shelves behind you. You sigh, stepping out of the bathroom and heading toward your room to grab clothes for a shower.
The lunch date with Taiju hadn’t been that good, you recognize that your mind was elsewhere the entire time and it was starting to frustrate you. The man had been nothing but understanding and loving, so the fact that you couldn’t be mentally present during your date felt quite unfair to him. You stand in front of your closet for a while, mind raking over the many ways you could apologize to your boyfriend. You bend down to grab your bag, tossing your clothes inside before stepping out to the living room.
—
A jingle of keys echoes through the quiet apartment before the door is pushed open. The tall man steps inside with a tired sigh, toeing off his shoes by the entryway cabinet while balancing his phone between his ear and shoulder.
“Leave the binder on my desk. Lock the door before you leave.” Taiju’s voice is worn thin with exhaustion. He presses two fingers to his forehead when the manager keeps talking. “Whatever it is, just leave it on my desk.”
He hangs up, exhales slowly, then shrugs off his coat and hangs it neatly in the closet. With heavy steps, he moves deeper into the apartment, tossing his phone onto the kitchen counter. A low groan slips past his lips as he opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of cold water. But when he shuts the fridge door, something makes him pause. There’s a pot sitting on the stove, it clearly wasn’t there this morning.
His eyes narrow slightly as he steps closer. He lifts the lid, and a wave of warmth rolls out — thick with garlic and butter, rich enough to make his shoulders loosen despite himself.
Inside, pasta rests beneath a pale cream sauce, steam rising in soft spirals. Flecks of black pepper and parsley break up the white, and slices of grilled chicken sit between the folds, golden at the edges. It smells indulgent, careful — made for him.
His gaze flicks to the watch on his left wrist: 12:30 a.m.
He lowers the lid gently and makes his way toward the hallway. A single light glows from the bathroom, dim and warm, drawing him in. Then he catches the scent — soap, lavender, and the faint trace of jasmine and white tea from the candle Yuzuha bought him months ago. His fingertips rest against the wooden door before he pushes it open — the sight inside tightens something in his chest.
Fresh towels hang neatly on the rack. The bathtub is filled with warm water and thick bubbles, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling. You’re kneeling beside it, adjusting something near the faucet. When you look up, the heat has made strands of your hair cling to your forehead, but you beam at him.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” you say, rising to your feet and walking over. “Welcome home.”
You approach him, opening your arms to engulf him in your embrace. Taiju’s eyes lower to find yours, a hum escaping his lips.
“Did you get an Uber?” The question hangs in the air momentarily as he lets you wrap your arms around his waist, resting your chin on his chest. You nod in response.
“Mmm. I didn’t want to walk at night.”
One of his hands slides to the back of your head, fingers threading lightly into your hair, while the other cups your cheek. “Good.”
But his gaze drifts to the bathtub — the candle, the bubbles, the careful arrangement. It’s thoughtful and intimate. His eyes lower back to yours, and you find yourself tilting your head, smiling at him.
“What? You’re not the only one who knows how to spoil someone.”
Taiju hums softly and pulls you closer until there’s barely space left between you.
“What’s the occasion?”
You don’t answer right away. Your eyes drift to his chest, his shirt is partially open, tattoos peeking through the gap. Your fingers find the buttons instinctively, undoing them one by one, slow and deliberate, your gaze fixed on the exposed skin beneath.
“There has to be an occasion?” you murmur, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against his chest. You feel Taiju shudder at the touch, and it urges you to continue until the last button slips free. You push the fabric off his shoulders, and it falls soundlessly onto the warm tiles. He lets you, watching you with intent eyes — yet, he is still not convinced.
His hands slide down to your hips, firm and grounding, pulling you flush against him. You steady yourself against his shoulders, a soft sigh leaving you.
“You went out of your way to take me on a date this morning,” you say quietly, your hands come up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. “And I kind of ruined it.”
He stays silent, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly as you continue.
“I’m really sorry.”
For a moment, the only sound in the bathroom is the faint crackle of the candlewick and the soft shift of water in the tub. Taiju’s thumb drags slowly along your hip, then one of his hands goes to your face where he cradles your jaw between his thumb and his index finger. He tilts your face up so you have no choice but to look at him, and when your eyes find his face — his expression is soft, searching. You nearly melt against him.
“I already said, ya don’t gotta apologize to me.” His other hand leaves your hip, sliding up your back instead — broad palm warm against your spine, fingers spreading as if to anchor you there. “But stop shutting me out.”
He leans down, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your skin feels warm beneath his lips, and you sigh softly at the touch. Your hands guide his face closer until your lips hover just beneath his. Then you close the distance, gently pressing your mouth to his as your body leans into his.
The kiss is soft and intimate at first, neither of you rushing to deepen it. Your hands remain steady against his face, thumbs brushing slowly over his skin. You feel his hand slide lower along your back, settling possessively at your waist, while the other trails upward, his fingers resting lightly at the side of your neck — not tight, just warm and grounding.
You pull back after a moment, breath mingling with his. Through your lashes, you look up at him, your gaze drifting between his eyes and his lips, lingering there as if you’re already tempted to close the distance again.
“I hope you haven’t eaten yet. I had to stop by the grocery store to pick up some things for dinner.” Your voice barely rises above a whisper, afraid that speaking any louder might shatter the moment. Your eyes flicker down to the tattoos on his chest again, and you wet your lips slightly. Taiju seems to notice, letting out an amused hum.
“Nah, I’m hungry.”
“Me too,” you murmur, tapping your fingers lightly on his chest as you look up at him. “But… the water will go cold.”
Taiju hums in response. “Right, but we can heat up food.”
“Yeah,” you reply softly. “After the bath?”
“After the bath.” He echoes, his gaze flickering toward the shower cubicle. “We should rinse off first.”
Instead of answering him, you take a small step back, creating space between the two of you. Your fingers reach for your blouse, undoing the buttons one by one. Taiju’s gaze flickers between your eyes and the slow reveal of your skin, struggle written in the taut line of his jaw. When the last button comes free, you shrug the blouse off your shoulders, exposing a dark red lace bra. Your hands glide down your stomach, tracing the curve of your hips until they rest on the zipper of your pencil skirt. You tug it down deliberately, letting the movement linger just long enough for him to fight against his restraint. A teasing smile curls your lips as the skirt falls to the floor. You peel off your pantyhose next, leaving yourself standing before him in your matching dark red lingerie, goosebumps rising along your skin.
Taiju closes the distance without hesitation, his strong chest pressing against yours in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. You feel small under his intense gaze, even more so as he remains in his pants. One of his hands rests against your back, over the lace of your bra, while the other slides just below the waistband, fingers teasing along your skin.
“Is this the one I picked out last time?”
His voice is rough with need, pupils blown wide with lust as they lock onto yours — your skin prickles, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks. You nod, eyes dropping to your own body. No matter how many times he had seen you naked, Taiju always had a way of making your stomach flip. Butterflies erupt inside you as your hands slide up to rest on his shoulders, grounding yourself against him.
“You like it?” You bat your eyelashes, wetting your lips again. It seems the gesture is enough to unravel his self-restraint, as his jaw tightens and his hand fumbles with the clasp of your bra.
“Fucking tease.”
You gasp when you feel a smack on your ass cheek, jolting forward. Your hands tighten around his shoulders, lips parting in shock. A whine escapes you when you feel his hand connect to your ass again.
“Taiju,” it’s a breathless sound, one that urges Taiju to yank your bra off of your skin. As your boobs spill out, the taller man doesn’t waste a single breath as he lowers himself to his knees to capture a nipple with his lips. You gasp at the touch, your fingers sliding down to bury themselves in his hair as he continues to flick the sensitive bud with his tongue, alternating between both boobs. His hand then slides from your back, down to your ass — switching between groping both cheeks and spanking them, his ministrations turning you into putty in his hands.
Taiju releases your nipple with a ‘pop’ — he raises to his feet, towering over you with so much ease. His hands grope your ass, pulling you flush against his hard on. You could feel your panties getting damp, warmth flooding your cheeks as you swallow thickly.
“Get in the shower.” His voice is low, commanding — a loud smack echoes through the bathroom, your gasp following. A pout forms on your lips and it makes Taiju chuckle as he leans down to kiss you again. Then you pull the glass door open and step inside.
The faucet feels cold against your hand as you reach for it then twist it, hot water cascades down in steady streams from the wide, square showerhead mounted above your head. You shiver at the initial contact, goosebumps forming all over your skin — and when you hear Taiju join you in the shower, your body feels hotter than before. Before you can even process his presence behind you, or the fact that his pants had come off, Taiju grabs your shoulders and turns you around before capturing your lips in a searing kiss.
The tiles are cold against your back as Taiju pins you to the wall, your fingers tangled in his wet hair while he devours your mouth like he can’t get enough. You slide one hand down to cup him, and he groans against your lips, hips jerking forward at the touch. When you finally break apart, you’re both drenched and breathless from the kiss. Your pulse stutters as he slowly lowers himself to his knees in front of you, golden eyes dark and intent. He slides his fingers under the waistband of your panties, pulling them down until the cold air hits your glistening lips, then he tosses the panties to the side.
“Fuck,” he mutters, pressing a firm kiss just above your pussy before lifting his gaze to meet yours. “God, thank you.”
Your heart lurches, your head falling back as his tongue drags in a slow stripe over your clit, pulling a sharp breath from your lungs. A strong hand holds the back of your thigh, lifting it to rest on his shoulder and gives him more access to you — the position has you feeling exposed to his lustful eyes, your body stuttering as he continues to lick and suck on your clit.
“Feels good,” you whisper to him, fingers trembling as you hold back from pulling at his hair. The praise pulls a hum from the back of his throat, and the vibrations go straight to your core. Your eyes widen, body jolting when you feel his lips wrap tightly around your clit — then, he pushes two fingers into you and curls them upwards.
“Oh fuck!” The combination of him sucking on your clit and fingers curling up to find the sensitive spot in you has you seeing stars — something in your stomach coils and tightens, it threatens to have tears spilling out of your eyes with how determined Taiju was to make you cum.
Wet sounds fill the shower, your slick sliding down Taiju’s fingers all whilst he continued to finger-fuck your soul out of your body — it becomes all too much when he tries to add a third finger, stretching you beyond your limit. With a broken cry and a pathetic attempt to moan his name, you cum all over Taiju’s fingers, your body nearly giving out as he continued to finger-fuck you.
You take several moments to catch your breath, your hands resting on Taiju’s shoulders as he raises to his feet. He chuckles at the blissed-out look on your face, pressing a kiss to your warm cheek.
“Wow.” You whisper out, head resting on the wall behind you. Taiju hums in response, bringing his fingers to his lips — then he sucks. The action makes you flush, covering your face with the back of your hand as you swat at his chest. “You’re killing me.”
“ ‘s that so?” He leans down, teeth grazing your collarbone — for a moment, you worry that whatever love bite he might leave would show. But it is winter, and you can easily hide in turtlenecks until the hickey fades away. So you let him sink his teeth into your skin, a gasp leaving your lips as you wrap your arms around his neck. Then your lips part when you feel him align himself with your wet folds.
“Fuck, you’re so wet.” Taiju groans against your skin, peppering kisses there as he continues to brush the tip of his cock against your folds, sliding up to your clit. You raise your leg to wrap it around his waist, and Taiju takes it as a sign to pin your leg there as he slowly pushes himself into your warm and wet walls.
Your jaw goes slack at the intrusion, eyes barely able to stay open as you brace yourself on his shoulders. The stretch is almost painful given the sheer size of him, but you tell yourself to breathe and relax and soon enough, you could feel almost every vein on his cock. You start to rock your hips forward, whining to the taller man to move.
“Please, do something—” You gasp when he pulls out, only to slam fully into you. You throw your head back, tears prickling in your eyes. He was nuzzled against your sensitive spot, his pelvis brushing oh-so-nicely against your hard clit — it all feels too much. It feels overwhelming.
Inhaling sharply, a moan is ripped from the back of your throat with each slam of his hips against yours, his cock hitting that sensitive spot every time without fail. The combination of your moans spilling out, Taiju’s groaning and the wet sounds coming from your pussy is nearly pornographic. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders, and you lean forward, desperately searching for his lips.
The kiss is wet and messy, Taiju’s pace picks up when he feels your pussy clenching around him. He reaches his free hand down to rub at your clit, eyes twinkling at the fucked-out look on your face.
“That feels good, huh?” There’s a slight tremor in his voice, and Taiju’s jaw is taught when he feels you squeeze him harder. “Fuck, you’re so tight—”
“Yeah!” You cry out, pressing your forehead against his. Your eyes squeeze shut at the pleasure, his fingers rubbing circles around your clit has you nearly seeing stars. “Oh my—fuck!”
Within seconds, the coil in your stomachs snaps and your orgasm washes over you in harsh waves. Your body stutters and trembles against Taiju’s, and the man can barely hold himself back as he buries himself to the hilt before spilling into you.
You take a moment to catch your breath, and Taiju slowly lets you lower your foot onto the floor before scooping you in his arms. The feel of his skin against yours grounds you, his arms wrapped tightly around you making you feel safe and secure, and when you press your ear to his chest, the quick rhythm of his heartbeat makes your eyes flutter closed for a moment.
“Ya can’t fall asleep here,” the playful tone of his voice makes you chuckle, and you shake your head.
“Even if I tried, that would be impossible.” You murmur. You feel him reach behind you for something, and a moment later the soft press of a loofah grazes your back.
“Let me clean ya up, then we can think of using that bathtub. Okay?” He studies your face, eyes searching for an answer, but instead of speaking you lean in to press a soft kiss to his shoulder before giving him a quiet nod.
—
The night ended up being longer than you had intended — you were able to put the bathtub to good use, it allowed Taiju to relax a little. But soon enough, you were taking things to his bedroom where round two, three and eventually four happened. You were a mess of tangled limbs by the morning, with Taiju’s lips pressing gently against your forehead until you dozed off. However, by the time 11AM rolled around, his phone started vibrating and you knew what that meant.
You lay in his bed as Taiju leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before grabbing his phone.
“Don’t give me that look.” He warns, tone laced with amusement.
“What look?” You ask, voice thick with sleep. “I’m just staring at you.”
“Mmm, I’ll have breakfast delivered here.” He pats your hair, before heading to the door. “Just call if ya need anything, okay?”
“Alright,”
And with that, you went back to sleep for the next hour and a half, the quiet stretching lazily around you in the warmth of Taiju’s apartment — until a sudden barrage of loud knocks rattled the door. You flinched awake with a groan, brows knitting together in irritation, ready to tell the delivery guy some manners on knocking on someone’s door. You sit up on the bed, the knocks getting louder — you slip on Taiju’s shirt, it hangs loosely over your shoulders but it’s enough to cover you.
When the knocking finally stops, your movements halt in the middle of the hallway. Something felt off. Still, you push yourself to walk forward, toes brushing the floor as you approach the front door. Your hand hovers over the doorknob, you slowly twist before pulling it open.
“Yes?”
And that’s when you see it — a familiar shape on the doorstep. Lying at Taiju’s doorstep, folded neatly with a note tucked inside. Your heart skips a beat, confusion and dread twisting together. You were expecting the delivery he had mentioned, breakfast as he said. But not this.
You bend down, carpeted steps muffled, and pick it up. The material, the pattern — your chest tightens as recognition hits. The sweater you had hidden away in your Roppongi room, the one gift from Mitsuya you’d thought was safe, now sitting here, just for you. You unfold the note:
— how does it still smell like you after so long?
A shiver runs through you, your fingers tightening around the fabric. You glance around instinctively, half-expecting him to be waiting somewhere nearby, but the hallway is empty, silent. Pressing the sweater to your chest, you retreat back into Taiju’s apartment, your footsteps loud in your own ears.
Your mind races. Snacks, small notes — then this. This was somehow beyond anything you'd imagined. He had found the one thing you'd hidden for so long, and decided to use it against you. Inside, your hands are trembling as you fish your phone out of your bag, the device hot against your skin. Your thumb hovers over a contact. A moment of hesitation, then you press call.
The phone rings once, twice — it hasn’t done so in months. You nearly jump when a soft click answers on the other end.
“We’re meeting up today.” you speak, your voice sharp, edged with controlled anger.
“Not even a hello?”
Your jaw tightens, but you keep your voice steady. “Same time as last time. And don’t be late, or I will leave.”
Click, then the line goes dead. You’re left staring at the sweater in your hands, a mix of anger, disbelief, and a strange, uneasy flutter coiling in your chest as the room around you feels smaller, heavier, impossibly still.
Bro I can't be the only one that thinks hanma catches colds easily and has a weak immune system 😭😭 like in the Christmas showdown he was freezing while wearing a coat, meanwhile the others were unbothered while wearing lighter clothes.
Ngl I've always assumed they were all cold and Hanma was just being loud about it but I like this explanation too! Him being a bit weak towards the cold despite being a pretty strong guy.
not to be annoying ☝🏻 but it could also be because he barely had any warm clothes as a teenager (notice how kisaki’s coat still has a bit of a thick material around the collar area?) so he carried that weak immune system with him into his adult years and let’s just say when he gets sick, he looks like hes about to die
Bro I can't be the only one that thinks hanma catches colds easily and has a weak immune system 😭😭 like in the Christmas showdown he was freezing while wearing a coat, meanwhile the others were unbothered while wearing lighter clothes.
Ngl I've always assumed they were all cold and Hanma was just being loud about it but I like this explanation too! Him being a bit weak towards the cold despite being a pretty strong guy.
not to be annoying ☝🏻 but it could also be because he barely had any warm clothes as a teenager (notice how kisaki’s coat still has a bit of a thick material around the collar area?) so he carried that weak immune system with him into his adult years and let’s just say when he gets sick, he looks like hes about to die
༉‧₊˚. LISTEN TO THE PLAYLIST WHILE READING! + browse the menu
༉‧₊˚. 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.”