I've seen a lot of posts over the years about accidentally staying up until 3 AM reading a slow-burn fic on AO3 just waiting for them to touch pinkies, but I never see posts about my AO3 experience, which is going to bed tired and falling dead asleep in the middle reading of the most intense unhinged dick-slobbering ass-pounding fuckfest imaginable. Is that just me?
Summary: You’ll just keep him around until graduation and then pull off a clean break. After all, a notorious delinquent doesn’t exactly belong on your resume forever.
Warnings: Threats of violence, graphic depictions of violence, power imbalance, forced relationship, forced kissing.
Author's Notes: N/A
You are dating Ran Haitani.
The sentence sounds absurd, no matter how many times you think it. Yet, it’s the exact rumor currently keeping the back row of the classroom occupied, growing a little more exaggerated with every passing week. Did you hear? She’s dating Ran Haitani.
People stare, of course. You can’t exactly blame them. Everyone in the district knows what he is, even if they only dare to say it when his back is turned.
Some say he belongs to some famous gangs. Others swear he used to run half the city with his younger brother before he was even old enough to drive. Though you aren’t entirely sure of the specifics. Ran doesn’t volunteer the details of his evenings, and you have never been inclined to press him for them. Whenever you ask where he disappeared all weekend, he smiles and says, "Out."
When you ask with who, he answers, "People."
Maybe ignorance really is bliss.
To be fair, Ran was the one who pursued you first. Around Roppongi, he and his younger brother, Rindo, are known as the most stylish delinquents you could ever encounter. You still remember the afternoon he showed up outside the school gates, leaning against a polished motorcycle. He had these ridiculous, heavy earrings that caught the sun every time he tilted his head, looking completely out of place against the drab brick of the building.
Amidst a sea of a hundred identical school uniforms, Ran stood out entirely. When he walked straight through the crowd and stopped in front of you, you actually looked behind yourself to make sure, as the bewildered stares of your peers prickled against your back.
You have been making questionable decisions ever since.
It's not as though dating him is miserable.
Ran remembers your favorite snacks. He waits outside after class when it rains. He complains whenever you refuse to let him carry your bag, then carries it anyway. But he is far from an ideal, textbook boyfriend. He is still a reckless teenager with a life full of secrets. He completely forgot your three-month anniversary, showing up three days late without a single clue until you brought it up. Sometimes he just vanishes entirely for days at a time, leaving your texts on read. When he finally resurfaces, he acts like no time has passed at all, casually returning with a random little trinket that he completely refuses to explain,
Dangerous people, you've learned, don't have to be cruel to be dangerous.
There are rumors, too—darker ones that don't quite fit the glossy magazine image of him. You know he spent time in juvenile detention when he was younger. Though you don't know the reason why—you just assume he got into a bad street fight. Rebellious teenagers do things like that all the time, right?
_
During attempts at sneaking out, your hands shake so badly that you nearly drop your phone while trying to text him. You ease your bedroom window open and discover, to your horror, that Ran has somehow already climbed halfway up the tree beside your house.
"Are you insane?" you whisper.
"A little," he winks, entirely unbothered by the height.
The latch on your window has been loose for years. Your father keeps saying he'll fix it whenever he has time. Apparently, Ran has noticed, he pushes it open the rest of the way and motions for you to climb through.
"There is no way that this is safe," you hiss.
Ran lets out a low chuckle. "Look on the bright side. It’ll be funny if you fall."
"You are the worst boyfriend imaginable," you glare at him, swinging one leg over the windowsill anyway.
The moment you look down, the dark ground suddenly looks miles further away than it did from the safety of your room. The cold night air bites at your bare ankles. You hesitate, your fingers locking onto the window frame in a sudden wave of panic.
Ran tilts his head, a knowing smile tugging at his lips as he looks up at you. "Don't tell me you're backing out now? You trust me, don't you?"
"...Yeah."
The answer leaves your mouth before your brain can even voice a protest.
You let go. For one terrifying second, as the wind rushes past your ears, you are certain you've made the worst decision of your life.
Then a pair of arms catches you around the waist before your feet ever reach the ground. Ran steadies you, waits until you're balanced.
"Told you," he flashes a wicked grin and taps his fingers against your hip.
Your heart is pounding hard enough to qualify as a medical emergency.
He parked his motorcycle a few blocks away, fully aware of how loud the engine is and determined not to wake your parents. He takes your hand, pulling you along the quiet sidewalk.
When you reach the bike, you notice he already has your helmet resting on the seat. He bought it weeks ago after deciding that borrowing one from Rindo was "gross." You meet Rindo from time to time when they hang out, and even the younger brother is nice to you, occasionally tossing a playful, teasing comment your way.
You scoop the helmet up, then notice he isn't moving to grab his own.
"Aren't you wearing one?" you ask, crossing your arms and planting your feet.
Ran just chuckles, tossing his long braids over his shoulder as he swings a leg over the motorcycle. "Don't have one."
"You absolutely have one."
"I absolutely left it somewhere," he says, flashing an innocent smile that convinces exactly nobody.
"So I'm not getting on until you wear one."
He sighs dramatically, slouching over the handlebars. "You've become really bossy lately. You know it messes up my hair—"
"Ran."
You don't budge, holding his gaze until he groans. Reaching into the side compartment, he pulls out the hidden second helmet and straps it on over his braids.
"So you did bring one," you say.
"I was hoping you'd forget."
"You've known me for six months."
Ran clicks his visor down, his eyes curving into a crinkle. "I keep hoping."
Once you climb on behind him, the quiet night shatters. Ran guns the engine and races through the empty streets, the city opens around the two of you in streaks of red brake lights and glowing convenience stores, late-night restaurants spilling laughter onto the sidewalks, apartment windows shining like stars stacked on top of one another. He purposely drives a little too fast, taking the sharp turns that force you to squeeze your arms tightly around his waist, burying your face into his back.
"Ran! Slow down!" you yell over the wind.
"I am!" Ran laughs, the vibration of his chest rumbling right against your hands as he speeds up just a fraction more to tease you.
"You absolutely are not!"
The wild ride ends when he pulls up to a massive arcade in a bustling, sleepless district of Tokyo. Inside, the atmosphere is loud and entirely washed in brilliant, flashing neon lights.
Ran is an incredibly attentive date. Before you can even suggest a game, he buys a ridiculous, heavy cup full of tokens and hands it over to you. He says if you both don't use them all then you’ll lose trying.
You spend the next hour doing exactly that.
You lose spectacularly at basketball.
You somehow finish last against a group of twelve-year-olds in a racing simulator.
Later, you challenge him to a racing game, sitting side-by-side in the plastic arcade seats. You end up losing terribly, your virtual car crashing into a wall on the final lap. Ran throws his head back and laughs, completely delighted by your frustration, before dropping another token into your slot to let you try again when you glares at him.
Then he wanders over to a claw machine.
"Pick one," he says, tilting his head toward the colorful prizes inside.
You glance at the tangled heap of plushies. "Don't bother. They're rigged."
"So?" Ran scoffs softly, already dropping a token into the slot. On his very first try, the claw grabs a ridiculously oversized lavender rabbit and drop it into the chute.
"There you go." He retrieves it and places it into your arms like a trophy. "That was almost too easy."
"You cheated," you say.
"I didn't, some of us just have actual talent," he says, nudging your shoulder as the arcade lights dance across his grin.
You hug the rabbit a little tighter and decide not to answer. Of course, you aren’t entirely stupid. You know this little arrangement carries a certain degree of risk. Your family would harbor a collective stroke if they ever saw him, and your noisier relatives would spend the next three major holidays dissecting the disaster of you associating with someone so clearly tied to gang affiliations.
Even your cousins, who think getting a tattoo behind your ear counts as rebellion, would suddenly discover the value of family tradition.
Gang members don't settle down.
Gang members don't have futures.
Gang members bring trouble to your doorstep.
Perhaps that's why you've never told them.
You will keep him around until graduation. Let him serve as the thrilling backdrop to your final year of youth, and then you'll thank Ran for the memories, wish him well, and quietly disappear into a future with internships and office jobs and respectable people. After all, a notorious delinquent doesn’t exactly belong on your resume forever.
Around midnight, the heavy crowd inside the arcade finally starts thinning out. You and Ran step back out into the cool night air and head toward the parking lot. You yawn as you follow Ran toward the rows of metal bicycles, the lavender rabbit tucked beneath one arm. Your throat feels completely parched from the heat of the machines and talking over the loud music.
"I'm freezing," you mention, shifting the plush prize in your arms, "and I'm getting so thirsty."
He glances sideways at you. "Want a drink?"
"If they have melon soda."
"They better," he says, already scanning the aisle for the vending machines.
The vending machines inside the arcade greet the two of you with rows of empty shelves. Everything worthwhile has already been bought by students and couples lingering long after curfew.
"Wait by the bike," Ran says, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. "There's another set of machines just around the corner. I'll be right back."
You nod and keep walking toward his motorcycle. He doesn't seem worried. Why would he be?
You're standing under bright lights in a public parking lot attached to a busy entertainment district. Security cameras and people are wandering in and out, nothing bad happens in places like this.
At least, that's what you tell yourself.
You lean against a railing and absentmindedly squeeze the stuffed rabbit's oversized ears.
The lot empties little by little, leaving vast stretches of dark asphalt between the flickering streetlamps. That's when you notice a group of three or four guys has been loitering near the edge of the lot. They wear mismatched streetwear and look thoroughly disheveled.
Sensing an easy target, they move in.
"Hey there," the guy in the front says, a nasty grin spreading across his face. "You're out pretty late."
"I'm waiting for someone," you say, offering a polite smile that doesn't reach your eyes.
"Yeah?"
The tallest one glances around the parking lot.
"Looks like you're alone."
Hearing that, you take a cautious step backward, your stomach does a sharp, ugly flip.
Almost instantly, the shadows shift. Another guy steps sideways, his laughter cutting through the quiet air. They quickly fan out, blocking your path to the motorcycle and cutting off your route back to the bright entrance of the arcade.
"Come on, we're just talking," another say. "That's a pretty nice bike you're leaning on. Your boyfriend leave you behind?"
Your fingers tighten around the plush rabbit. You tell yourself to stay calm, they're probably just trying to scare you.
You open your mouth to shout, but before you can find your voice, a force suddenly hits the leader from behind.
There is a loud—hollow crack of metal meeting a skull. The guy doesn't even have time to scream; his eyes roll back, and his body collapses instantly onto the asphalt, completely unconscious and limp.
The remaining three guys gasp, spinning around in absolute panic. Standing in the dim light of the streetlamp is Ran.
His eyes are half-lidded, yet his expression completely blank as he looks at the group. In his right hand, he holds a silver telescoping baton that glints under the neon light.
His gaze drifts from the unconscious boy to the others, then to you. "You okay?"
Your voice refuses to cooperate, but you nod anyway.
Only then does he look back at the remaining boys. Recognition spreads across the leader, his face goes entirely pale.
"M-Haitani..." the leader stammers, his confidence evaporating into pure terror. "We didn't know—"
"They’re with me," Ran interrupts, tossing the drink bottle lightly in the air and catching it.
The guys start backing up, raising their hands in frantic apology, desperately trying to defuse the situation. But it is already too late.
Before the leader can even turn to run, Ran moves with terrifying speed. The heavy metal baton strikes the man's collarbone with a horrific, splintering sound. The man drops to the asphalt, screaming, but Ran doesn't stop. He swings again, the metal cracking against ribs and jaws.
The other two try to run, but Ran already catches one by the collar, dragging him backward and slamming his head repeatedly into the brick wall of the arcade until the man slides down, leaving a smeared trail on the masonry. The final thug falls to his knees, sobbing and covering his face, but Ran simply stands over him, methodically bringing the baton down again, and again, and again.
You stand frozen by the motorcycle, while Ran keeps striking long after the man stops moving, long after the whimpering dies down. The brutal reality of the violence knocks the breath straight out of you.
As the groans of the barely conscious men echo across the empty parking lot, you stare at blood and tooth spray across the concrete, utterly terrified of the person you've been dating.
The sound of metal striking bone finally stops.
Ran stands over the bodies, breathing easily as if he had just finished a light workout. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he collapses the bloody baton back into its compact size and slips it away. When he turns around to look at you, his eyes instantly soften, the terrifying vacancy disappearing as he spots the plush prize lying in the dirt.
He steps toward you, lifting a plastic convenience store bag. "Hey. I got your drink, and—"
You take a violent step backward, your entire body shaking. Your breath hitches, your chest heaving as you stare at his fingers—fingers that are dusted with a light spray of someone else's blood.
Ran freezes. His hand hovers in the empty air between you as he registers the horror in your expression. For a split second, a flash of something unreadable cuts through his usual calm, but he forces his face back into a reassuring expression. He takes a slow step back, giving you space.
"Woah, easy. Look at me," he says, his voice incredibly soft, dropping down to that low, soothing tone he uses when he's teasing you. "It's just me. It's Ran. I'm not going to hurt you. I would never, ever hurt you. You know that, right?"
You can barely nod. Your jaw is locked tight, your knees shaking so violently you feel like you might collapse into the dirt alongside the discarded plush prize. Ran notices the terror locking up your joints. He doesn't push it. Instead, he carefully picks up the fallen stuffed animal, dusts it off with a clean corner of his jacket, and gently sets it on the seat of the bike.
It takes a long time for your breathing to slow down. You let him guide you back onto the motorcycle, though you hold onto his jacket with stiff, trembling fingers this time, keeping your eyes strictly averted from the dark stains on the pavement.
The ride away from the arcade is a total blur. He drives slowly this time—painfully so—and neither of you says a word. You don't even realize you're trembling until you notice the vibration in your own hands.
Ran notices first. At the next red light, he reaches back as though to squeeze your arm.
You flinch.
His hand stops dead in midair. Then, he withdraws it without a sound, his fingers slipping back onto the handlebars just as the traffic light changes to green.
Eventually, the motorcycle pulls into a tiny neighborhood park squeezed between apartment buildings. Ran leads you to a wooden bench, silently handing you the cold bottle of your favorite drink along with a small plastic cup of ice cream. It's ridiculous. He's treating you like a kid who just fell off a bicycle, completely ignoring the fact that he just fractured three men's skulls a block away.
You don't drink it. You just stare at the melting ice cream, the plastic spoon heavy in your hand, entirely unable to swallow a single bite. Neither of you talks for a long time, until Ran suddenly reaches toward you again. This time, slowly. Giving you every opportunity to pull away.
When you don't, he wraps both arms around you and draws you against his chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck, holding you as if you might vanish if he lets go.
"Ran?" you whisper against his shoulder, your voice small.
"I'm sorry..." he murmurs, his grip tightening.
You blink against the dark fabric of his jacket, confused by the sudden vulnerability.
"I'm sorry for leaving you all alone. For letting those idiots get close to you..." His voice cracks slightly, filled with a terrifyingly genuine guilt. "I'm sorry."
He holds you tighter, his chest rising and falling against yours. "Next time, call my name out loud. I promise I'll come to you right away."
Looking at him now, the monster from the parking lot feels like a distant, bad dream. You want to believe this version of him. You want to believe that the danger is something he can just switch off when he’s with you.
Slowly, you reach your hands up, cradling the back of Ran's head, letting your fingers slide through his neat braids as you lean heavily against him.
"I'm sorry, too," you whisper.
Ran pulls back just an inch, looking down at you with a curious expression. "For what?"
You consider the question.
For dragging him into your life. For making him worry. For being afraid of him. For wishing you had never seen what happened in that parking lot. For knowing that nothing feels quite the same anymore—-
Instead, you mumble, "I don't know."
Ran blinks, the gravity of the moment instantly evaporating. His lips twitch into an annoyed pout. He even makes a ridiculous, exasperated face, entirely ruining the tragic romance of the mood.
"...Seriously?"
"It sounded better in my head," you shrug.
Ran scoffs, rolling his eyes as he lets go of you just enough to lean back against the bench. "Here I am, pouring my heart out, and you're making jokes? You are completely heartless."
"You're the one who made it weird," you tease back weakly.
Ran huffs, but the easy, lazy smile quickly slides back onto his face. He reaches over, playfully flicking your forehead. "Yeah, yeah. Eat your ice cream before it turns into soup, brat."
For the next ten minutes, the terrifying edge of the night completely melts away. You tease him about his dramatic apology, and he shoots back with his usual mocking banter. It works, too. Ran is so effortlessly charming when he wants to be that you actually find yourself laughing until the knot in your stomach completely unties itself. To anyone passing by, they’d just see a couple of normal, stupid teenagers flirting in the middle of the night.
It’s an incredibly nice illusion; you almost convince yourself that you can just ride this out. But then you look at his eyes. Even while he's laughing at you, the violet is completely cold. You know, with certainty, that if those guys walked into this park right now, Ran would do it all over again without blinking.
You really need to break up with him.
_
You pace back and forth across your bedroom floor, staring down at your phone until the screen blurs. Your heart thumps against your ribs. You have been fighting with yourself for the past hour, rewriting the same text message a dozen times before you finally find the courage to hit send.
The message is painfully short.
Are you busy?
You stare at the screen afterward, immediately regretting it.
Maybe this is a terrible idea, asking him to hang out one last time before ending things is unnecessarily cruel, instead of just ripping the bandage straight off.
Your thumb hovers over the message, wondering if deleting it would somehow erase the fact that you sent it.
Your phone vibrates.
No. Want to go somewhere?
You blink, the reply came so quickly that it almost feels automated.
You type back before you can overthink it.
Sure.
You figure you have at least an hour to prepare yourself while you wait for a reply mentally. But less than ten minutes later, the distinct rumble of a motorcycle engine vibrates right outside your house.
You scramble down the stairs, and when you open the front door, Ran is already idling at the curb. He looks effortlessly sleek, leaning back against the seat with one hand on the handlebar.
"Ran? Wow, you got here fast." You jog over to him, nervously adjusting the strap of your bag. "I didn't mean to drag you out so abruptly. You weren't busy, right?"
Ran shifts his head, giving you a lazy smile through the open visor of his helmet. "For you? Never. I have all the time in the world."
Right on cue, his phone starts buzzing furiously inside his jacket.
Ran sighs, a faint flicker of annoyance crossing his face before he pulls the device out. Instead of putting it to his ear, he hits the speaker button. Instantly, Rindo’s voice completely explodes through the line, so loud and angry it cuts right through the rumble of the motorcycle engine.
"Ran, you absolute idiot! Where the hell did you go?!" Rindo yells, sounding completely out of breath and incredibly stressed.
"I'm outside," Ran says, calmly moving the phone an inch farther from his ear.
"I know you're outside! We're in the middle of a meeting, you can't just leave!"
You open your mouth to tell Ran he needs to go back to Roppongi, but Ran doesn't look remotely guilty.
He stares straight ahead at the road, presses the power button on the side of the phone, and holds it down until the screen goes completely black. He slides the dead phone back into his pocket, turns his head back to look at you, and gives you a reassuring nod.
"...Anyway, what do you want to do today?" he says.
"...That's it?" You stare at him. "You just hung up on your brother."
"He'll get over it," Ran waves a hand dismissively.
He swings one leg over the motorcycle and offers you the spare helmet. "So? Where are we going?"
"I haven't decided." You take the helmet automatically, forcing a stiff, awkward laugh as you climb onto the back of the bike.
"Good, we've got all day."
As you wrap your arms around his waist, you squeeze your eyes shut. You need to make this afternoon completely perfect. If you can just keep him in a great mood, keep things fun, and let him down easy, everything will go smoothly. It has to.
You do not notice the way Ran glances back over his shoulder, studying your expression for a heartbeat longer than usual.
He doesn't say anything.
You pull him toward the high-end streetwear district, a bustling maze of sleek glass storefronts and trendy boutiques. Since your ultimate goal is to soften him up before the final blow, you throw yourself into the role of the attentive girlfriend.
Ran is entirely in his element—he loves fashion, and it shows. You spend the next hour steering him from one window display to another, nodding eagerly as he critiques the latest seasonal drops and points out pieces he thinks would look good on you.
"You'd look cute in that knit," he muses, leaning his shoulder against a pristine glass pane, his violet eyes tracking your reflection. "Maybe we should go inside and buy it."
"No, no, just looking today!" you say quickly, forcing a bright, airy laugh that feels a little too loud in your own ears.
You are working hard to keep this mood flawless. Normally, you’d roll your eyes at his arrogance, but today you find yourself smiling until your cheeks literally ache, hold his hand whenever he offers it, and make sure to laugh at every single one of his comments, even the ones that aren't funny.
But underneath the performance, your nerves are completely frayed. Your stomach is knotted in a tight, agonizing ball, and your skin feels hyper-sensitive. Every time your fingers brush against his, they are trembling slightly. Whenever he looks away, your smile instantly drops, your eyes darting nervously to your phone to check the time.
Finally, you decide you can't stretch the afternoon out any longer. The designated hour has arrived.
You stop on the sidewalk, smoothing down your clothes and looking up at him with the most casual expression you can muster.
"Hey, I'm kind of hungry," you suggest, gesturing down the street. "There's a really cute, crowded bakery just around the block. Let's get a coffee."
"A bakery?" Ran repeats, his eyes narrowing just a fraction in an unreadable expression before his easygoing grin slips back into place. He reaches out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear with a touch so gentle it makes your heart stop. "Sounds perfect. Lead the way."
The air smells warmly of sweet vanilla and fresh pastry, a sharp contrast to the cold knot of dread tying itself in your stomach. The space is completely packed with chattering couples, students studying, and families buying bread. You picked this spot on purpose. It is public, and it is crowded—a built-in safety net. There is a zero percent chance Ran would ever try to do anything reckless with fifty witnesses staring directly at him.
You rehearse the speech in your head over and over until the words lose all meaning. You’re grateful for everything, let's end things while both still happy.
You discard every version. They all sound fake.
Ran sits across from you in the booth, casually swirling an iced coffee with his straw. He reaches across the table and steals half your pastry.
"That was mine."
Somehow, despite everything, you still glare at him.
"I know," he shrugs, popping the piece into his mouth without a shred of regret.
You almost laugh. But then you remember exactly why you are sitting here, and the laughter dies completely before it can even reach your mouth.
"Graduation is next week," you started, your voice slightly tight as you tried to ease into the conversation. "Have you actually thought about what comes next? You’ll eventually have to get a real job, you know. Settle down after high school. You can't just run around the streets forever and blowing off your brother's gang meetings."
Ran didn't look annoyed by the suggestion. Instead, he looked genuinely, deeply amused by the entire concept.
"A real job?" he murmured, wiping the sugar from his fingers and tilting his head. "And miss out on all the thrill? Please. The straight and narrow is far too boring for me."
Hearing those words, the final thread of your hope snapped. It was the ultimate confirmation that it wasn't a rebellious trend he was going to outgrow or leave behind for university.
The knot in your stomach tightened until it physically hurt. You couldn't stretch this out for another minute.
"I think..."
Taking a deep breath, your fingers tightly gripping the edge of your seat, you finally say the words.
"I think we should break up."
The noise of the bakery continues around you.
Ran doesn’t look angry at that. Instead, that smile just stretches across his lips, completely calm. He sets his coffee down with a soft click against the wood.
"A breakup?" Ran repeats. He glances around the loud bakery, taking in the close proximity of the families at the next table, before fixing his eyes back on you. "Well, it’s a bit too noisy to talk about something that serious here, don't you think? Let’s go somewhere a little more private. There’s a quiet alley right around the corner. It's just a small walk."
Panic floods your chest like ice water. Your breath hitches. You chose this place precisely to avoid being alone with him.
"Ran, no, let's just—we can talk right here," you say, your voice cracking slightly as you try to force a casual laugh. "It's fine, we don't need to go anywhere—"
"A quick conversation?" Ran cuts you off softly.
As you look at him, you catch a look in his eyes that you have never seen before. The playful warmth he always reserves for you is utterly gone. His violet eyes are completely flat, dead, and freezing cold—the exact same dead expression he had right before he shattered a man's jaw with his baton.
"You’ve been acting weird the entire day. Did you really think I didn't notice?" he asks, his chuckle quiet and entirely devoid of warmth. "Get up, we're taking that walk."
He slides his chair back, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the floor. He stands up, his tall frame instantly blocking out the warm bakery lights, casting a long shadow over your table.
Before you can even protest, he tosses a few bills onto the table to cover the drinks and waits for you. Your legs feel like lead as you stand up and follow him out the door.
The walk down the sidewalk is excruciating. Ran steps at a leisurely pace, his hands tucked casually into his jacket pockets, looking for all the world like a boyfriend enjoying an afternoon stroll.
"Ran, wait," you stammer, scrambling to keep up with his long strides, your voice rising in a panicked rush. "I-I was just kidding, okay? It was a joke. I just wanted to see your reaction! You know how I am. I didn't mean it, I swear. Let's just go back inside and get some cake, alright? Ran?"
You keep rambling, throwing out every excuse you can think of. Ran doesn't interrupt you. He just keeps walking, occasionally humming in mock understanding, letting you dig yourself deeper and deeper into your own terror.
Finally, he turns a sharp corner, guiding you out of the afternoon sun and into the dim, narrow shadows of a brick alleyway.
Ran stops walking and you nearly walk into him. For several seconds, neither of you moves.
Then he turns around, looking down at you. "Tell me something... why did you think my brother and I went to juvenile detention?"
The question catches you off guard, you nod uncertainly.
"I... I heard you got into a bad street fight. With a rival gang."
Ran lets out a chuckle that sends a violent shiver straight down your spine. He looks upward for a moment, studying the slice of gray sky between the buildings.
Then he speaks again.
"I killed someone."
The sentence lands so softly that your brain refuses to process it.
You stare at him, waiting for the punchline, for the grin and him to say he got you. But none comes.
"When we were younger," he continues, closing the distance between you, "there was a fight between gangs, my brother and I caught the leader of the rival faction."
He reaches out, his thumb gently, almost tenderly, tracing the line of your jaw.
"It got out of hand. And I beat him so badly his skull fractured under my hands."
The alleyway goes completely silent.
Your breath hitches as you instinctively try to twist your face out of his hand, your palms coming up to push at his chest.
"I didn't want you to find out like this," he sighs quietly. His voice is so calm that it almost tricks you into forgetting what he just admitted.
Your thoughts become tangled. You don't know whether to apologize, to cry, or to run. To pretend none of this happened.
Instead, you whisper, "I think I should go home."
Ran’s gentle demeanor drops in a second. His grip on your jaw instantly tightens, squeezing your jawline hard enough to bruise, completely locking your head in place.
With his other hand, he reaches into his leather jacket. There is a sharp clack, and the silver telescoping baton extends. He slowly presses the cold, heavy metal cylinder directly against your collarbone, right over the racing pulse at the base of your neck.
"Let’s make one thing perfectly clear, then," Ran murmurs, his violet eyes wide and unblinking. "I love this pretty face of yours too much. It would be a terrible shame to see it bruised up... or worse. Do you understand me?"
He leans in closer, the suffocating scent of his cologne filling your nose as his gaze locks onto your trembling lips.
"Oh, you have no idea how much I adore you," he continues, his voice dropping into a soft, reverent whisper that makes your skin crawl. "I think about you constantly. I look at you and I just want to keep you safe in my pockets forever. I’m completely obsessed with you. You understand that, don't you?"
He pulls back just enough to look into your panicked, tear-stained face, his thumb softly wiping away a stray tear. "So, let's try this again. You love me, right? And we're going to stay together for a very, very long time."
Your eyes sting. You don't know whether you're about to cry or simply stop breathing.
Finally, barely above a whisper, you answer.
"...I love you."
Slowly, the crushing pressure on your jaw eases. You hadn't even realized how tightly your own fingers had closed around his until now. Ran collapses the baton with a smooth flick of his wrist and tucks it away.
Before you can pull away, he cups your face once more. He leans down and presses his lips to yours in a deep kiss.
When he pulls back, his fingers return to being uncannily gentle, smoothing over the red marks his grip just left on your skin, entirely uncaring of the pain he caused. He even reaches down to fix the collar of your shirt, patting it flat.
"There you go," he says, his voice returning to that lazy, cheerful purr. "You shouldn't make up silly jokes like that anymore. It makes me think I'm not taking good enough care of you."
He steps back, clearing your path out of the shadows, and extends his hand to you. "Now, let's go finish our date."
Your entire body is trembling. Your jaw throbs, and the phantom sensation of cold metal still lingers against your throat.
Swallowing down the bitter taste of tears, you slowly raise your shaking hand and place it in his.
Ran’s fingers immediately close around yours, locking your hand in a tight grip. He pulls you along as he casually strolls back out into the morning light.
In an instant, you are back on the bustling main street. The sun is shining warmly, the cheerful bell of the bakery is ringing in the distance, and normal high school students are laughing on the sidewalks.
Ran looks down at you, swinging your joined hands playfully between you as you walk. "So, what do you want to do next?"
You force your lips to curve upward. You swallow the terror in your throat and force a small, compliant smile, nodding along to his words.
That night, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the soft carpet of your bedroom. You’ve just closed the window, letting the cool night air drift away. Suddenly, your phone vibrates on the wooden nightstand, breaking the stillness and pulling your attention to the screen.
Warnings : TRIGGER WARNING!!!!! this is important, the sexual scenes in this fic could be considered scary and or dangerous to some people, PLEASE READ TAGS BEFORE YOU READ THE FIC!!! Reader is described as having a vagina and boobs aswell as being generally Fem presenting. i'm too much of a chud to count the amount of words, all i gotta say is that this is decently long! (and smutty.) This fanfic should technically be read in parts. Like.. if you can get this fanfic done in one sitting congrats to you honestly cuz it took me FOREVERRR
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- This fanfic includes - (make sure to read!!!)
- General smut.
- Angst.
- epilogue inclusion.
- clark Imagined his wife to some extent during sex
- Clark is MANIPULATIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!! super fucking manipulative!!!!!!!!!!
- Inebriated sex. (Via Clark)
- We doing ts RAW. (Make sure to wrap it before you ride it irl)
- THE SEX IS EMOTIONAL!!!!!! (if it makes sense, this is really important btw!!! this fanfic is mostly emotional snd talks about the characters feelings during sex instead of the straight physical aspects)
- To some extent this could be classified as hate sex. (even tho clark kinda has a crush on reader 🥹✌️)
- Clark is similar to the movie, but maybe more flirty (it was hard to write him being romantic because we have never seen that. So idk)
- Clark degrades reader during smut.
- Clark is lowkey rude asf but he finds reader endearing.
- Pretty big age gap, Clark and Reader feel guilty about it but they get over it.
- Messy confession but it ends well 👀
- Hair tugging
- Angry clark!
- Lowk reader is awkward asf and doesn’t talk a lot.
- I wrote this with the idea that the backrooms has some sort of allure, this is written BEFORE the backrooms movie but I feel the need to say that the backrooms has some sort of pull twords the reader. Like they are almost attracted to it, even though reader doesn’t know it exists.
- Sex is confusing and this is KINDA a slow burn in the sense that Clark kinda sorta forgot how to do it after his wife.
Clark was tired, really.
He was tired of his everyday job, and making shitty commercials using shit he got from a goodwill — A wooden leg made out of chair parts and scrapped together with duct tape.
After his wife left him he had been at a loss, nowhere to live; really. No freinds, no family he could rely on to bear the burden.
All he had was a shitty therapist and a couple of 20 year olds he hired off of facebook.
That was until you showed up to his department store.
———————————————————
A woman, looking for a job. He didn’t understand why exactly you wanted to work for him of all people; especially in this shithole he tried so hard to promote; but you were persist that you could work and “do a real good job on the place, trust me!” He, obviously was inclined too. There was nobody else working here anyway, extra help was needed.
And so, another random 20 year old entered his life.
—
You had been working with him for months now. He had grown quite fond of you. Your strange awkward jokes and the way you would shuffle your feet against the floor when you had no customers (which was, all the time.) You were an enigma in his boring life. Something strange he dote on while he was fumbling with the broken furniture.
He enjoyed your company, you were quiet; funny; awkward and compassionate; you seemed to actually care about him and his business. You would clean, and you would plop on the beds and lay down on them sometimes; he found that amusing; and you would make posters and staple them places and in bars he didn’t even know about.
You never seemed annoyed by him, or his paranoid habits (or his drinking, albeit frustrating..He wasn’t a nuisance) You seemed to like having him around. He wondered sometimes if you had a life outside of this; i mean you did. but he wanted to know more about it, he wanted to know more about you.
It was closing hours; it’s not like the closing hours made any difference compared to the other times of day; but nonetheless you were exhausted and he was too.
You had started packing up your lunch and things, grabbing your usual backpack full of stuff and smacking it right down on the bed. You plop and lay down on the bed like you usually did; only this time it was his bed. You didn’t know that he lived here, really. He walked up the stairs from down in the basement.
He began undoing his tie and sighing loudly enough so that you could hear it. It echoed slightly through the empty large room; You glanced up from your position on the bed before sighing back at him and groggily sitting up.
You look up through your eyebrows and raise a brow. Before you actually look up at him, he’s standing directly infront of him and your face to face with the top of his belt; you actually look up at him, his gaze looking down at you with an amused look; he looks like he was trying to hide it. Clark stands infront of you, his eyes staring down at you with a look of exhaustion as he pulls a flask out of his pocket and swirls it around for a moment.
“You have to go..it’s past closing time.”
You sigh extra loud at that. Rolling your eyes before looking back down again, your face to face with his belt again. You stared at the buckle, it was silver. You looked back up at him again and lightly sighed, before looking outside.
You could see the parking lot outside, your car was a dark red and could barely be seen. You didnt want to go back home. For some reason you wanted to stay here. It was stupid — who wants to stay at their job 24/7 ??? But this wasn’t really a job for you, I mean it was but it just felt good to work at a place like this, like it had a sort of pull that kept bringing you back in, this job was the only place that you were happy to work at without any worries and bouncing around the store while getting paid.
He swished the liquor around in his mouth aimlessly for a moment, his cheeks puffing out with liquid.
He sets his empty glass down on a nearby crate with a soft clink. He looks down at you, a faint, tired smile on his face. "Alright, kiddo," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Time to pack it up. you've got to get home."
Hearing him call you "kiddo" and tell you to leave stings a little, you felt like a child being forced to leave a candy store, You don't say anything, but your shoulders slump, and you cross your arms, looking away with a tiny, frustrated pout. You wanted to stay around him just a little longer.
He lets out a soft, huffing laugh.
"What's that face for?"
He asks softly, his tone completely shifting from a boss to someone who genuinely dotes on you. He finds you entertaining — maybe even an attractive person?
"Are you actually annoyed with me for sending you home?"
he drops his weight, leaning down until he is directly face-to-face with you. He plants his hands firmly on his own knees to steady himself, his shoulders completely blocking out the rest of the dim lighting of the empty store. He stares at you, his gaze stiff and unmoving.
You can smell the sharp, warm tang of the liquor on his breath, mixed with the faint scent of his cologne. Up close, you can see the slight bloodshot edge in his eyes, but right now, those eyes are locked entirely on yours.
You lick your lips lightly and purse them. A slow, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He can see how flustered you are, how your chest rises and falls a little faster now that he’s in your space. He knows exactly what kind of power he holds as your boss, and he’s leaning into it, enjoying the sudden rush of control. And so, he asks again,
"What's that face for?"
“Nothing-“
“Oh- cmon now. What is it?”
His smirk falters just a fraction. Up close, looking at your quiet face, a sudden wave of hesitation hits him. He’s older, he’s your boss, and his life is a fractured, messy fuckin’ wreck . . .he shouldn't be doing this. He would bring you down with him, keep you in this shit hole.
He doesn't pull away, though. He is too tired, too lonely, and too desperate for the comfort you give him just by existing. He likes that you look at him without demanding he change. The possessive edge creeps right back into his gaze, pinning you to the edge of the mattress. "Well?" he murmurs, tilting his head just an inch closer. "I'm waiting."
A heavy, intoxicating pool drops straight to the bottom of your stomach, a dizzying mix of intense guilt and sheer anticipation..lust? maybe. You know this is wrong. He is your boss. He has all the authority in this tiny, boring world, but as he leans down, your heart hammers violently against your ribs, a hot feeling swells your face assume your red like a looney toons cartoon.
You weren’t glowing red, obviously. It sure felt like it though.

“I-I just. . . I guess I just want to stay. “
“Stay? you want to stay?”
“Yeah- here. I want to stay here- well it doesn’t have to be here . . . but- i mean y’know..”
Clark freezes. The implication hits him like a physical blow. It’s not about the store, and it’s not about going home at night. It’s about him. He felt cocky, really. Smitten was the right word. He liked being flattered like this.
“I don’t know, actually. Tell me; why do you actually want to stay here?”
his frame completely crowding you on the edge of the mattress as he stares at your awkward face.
our heart does a sudden, panicked flip. Flustered by the proximity, your hands blindly look for a distraction. Your fingers reach up, nervously locking onto the edges of his loosened, wrinkled work tie. You grip the fabric tightly, a silent, desperate way to anchor yourself, you lightly tug on it,not enough to pull him down, but just enough to show him you aren't letting go.
"I mean I don't care about the store, Clark,"
You whisper, your voice cracking slightly on his name. It’s the first time you’ve ever called him anything other than boss or sir, and the word feels heavy, almost illicit, hanging in the dark space between your faces.
"I mean- I do care i just sorta- i-i . . . I just... I want to stay here. I guess. With-wit”
“Me?”
“Yes. Yeah- with you.”
He pauses for a moment, his breath hitches and he seems to stumble over his words.
"Jesus,"
he mutters, a rough, gravelly sound that is half-sigh and half-growl.
His fingers are rough and clumsy as they slide up, his grip tightening firmly around your jaw. His palm is heavy and demanding, his thumb pressing hard against your chin to tilt your face up, forcing your shy gaze to lock completely with his bloodshot, exhausted eyes.
"You have no idea what you're asking for,"
He barks out, his voice sharp, brittle, and completely lacking any sort of gentle romance. He knows he’s a cynical, bitter man who should be sending his twenty-year-old employee home; but he doesn’t want to. He refuses to.
A slow, cynical smirk tugged at the corner of Clark’s mouth. He let out a soft, amused huff, his hot breath brushing against your lips. He was irritated by your school girl crush on him, but god, he was flattered. A broken, divorced guy sleeping on a bed he didn’t even really own, and here was his pretty, young employee, looking up at him like he hung the stars. It was a massive ego stroke to his battered pride.
“You really are a stubborn little thing- aren’t ya?”
he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He didn't pull away from your grip on his tie. Instead, he leaned into it, intentionally letting his chest press closer against yours, testing how much of his weight you'd take.
Behind his drunken exterior, the darker, uglier gears in his head started turning.
You were right here. Completely helpless, totally infatuated, and practically begging for it.
“A quick lay wouldn’t hurt.”
He thought to himself, He was lonely, he was horny, and it would be so incredibly easy to just take what you were offering to numb the pain for a night.
"You shouldn't be holding onto me like that. You don't... you don't have any idea what you're messing with right now.”
Clark whispered. His thumb dragged heavily across your lower lip, sending a sharp shiver down your spine.
"I’m a desperate man, You're... you're making it really hard for me to be professional with you. Is that what you want? You want to see me lose it?"
Before you could even draw a breath, his hands slipped away from the sides of your face. And locked onto your shoulders, gripping you with a bruising force that pinned you flat against the bed. The sudden weight of his body crowded over yours, knocking the air right out of your lungs. He leaned down and slammed his mouth onto yours.
Your lips seemed to intertwine in a way, your salvia engrossing and coating your lips as he aggressively made out with you. His hands were on the sides of your neck, his fingers lightly grazing the pressure points. His gaze lowered — not completely closing his eyes yet but still lidded enough you could notice his eyes rolling.
The display mattress creaked loudly beneath you as the stiff showroom plastic crinkled under the sheets, catching your weight as you ended up flat on your back. Clark was clumsy, his movements uncoordinated from the cheap liquor and the fact that he hadn’t been sexually active (other than jerking himself off) since his wife walked out a year ago. He stumbled slightly in the dark, losing his footing before half-flopping, half-leaning right on top of you.
“Fucks sake..”
He angrily huffs out, his knee bumped awkwardly against your thigh as he tried to figure out where to put his limbs. For a second, he just lay there breathing heavily against your neck, his forehead pressed into your shoulder while he tried to stop the room from spinning. He had forgotten how good it felt to have someone softer underneath his body.
His hands fumbled as he grabbed your waist, his grip tight and insecure, just wanting to hold onto the one thing that made him feel alive. His grip was haphazard.
He snaked his hands in between your body and unbuckled his belt, yanking on it and pathetically tossing it to the floor. With the other hand he tugged down on your pants. You got the memo and undid your pants, Letting them falling to the floor and pooling around your ankles.
“Fuck... hold still. Just—goddamnit, let me..."
He fumbles slightly and huffs his own words out like he’s frustrated. your legs spread wide, cunt stretched open and aching for him. the first inch pushes past your entrance and your body clenches around him immediately, sucking him in with a wet, squelching noise that makes his whole body jolt.
"o-oh,fucking shit!” He practically claws out.
His dick forces your walls to stretch around him, slippery and tight, and he's biting his lip hard to keep himself from rutting deeper too fast. the air's full of heat and moans, your gasps high and breathy while his are low, cracked, almost angry.
He pins his elbows right next to you. Staring right down at your face angrily huffing out his words. Each shaky thrust was another huff of frustration coming out of his mouth.
His eyes meeting with yours never left, only now the alcohol makes his vision swim, blurring your features in the shadow of the mattress.
For a terrifying second, he isn’t looking at you at all. He’s looking at her. The sharp, judgmental curve of his ex-wife’s mouth, the eyes that always looked at him like he was nothing.
As he pushed deeper into your pussy, pinning your wrists above your head with one heavy, unyielding palm, his eyes suddenly glazed over completely.
He stared down at your face, but as the shadows shifted across your features, his expression twisted into something deeply ugly, bitter, and resentful.
"Look at you,"
he growled, his voice thick with a venom that made your stomach drop to the floor. His fingers twisted tighter into your hair, forcing you to look straight at him.
"So quiet now. You weren't so quiet when you were packing your bags, were you? You had plenty to say about me then. You think you can just play with me? You think you're so much better than me?"
A cold shock of realization hit you, a sharp, emotional ache that hurt far worse than his rough grip. He thought you were her. You opened your mouth to protest, to anchor him back to reality, you broke your moans for a moment to speak.
“C-Clark, it's me, it's—“
"Shut up,"
He snapped, his palm instantly moving from your wrists to press flat against your mouth, muffling your words into a useless whimper against his skin, He began to yell.
"Don't say my name like that. You don't get to look down on me anymore. You think I'm a failure? Huh? Look where you are. You're right under me. You're nothing without me. You're all the fucking same."
.
.
.
WHAM !!
Clark bottoms out, His hands grasp your hair and intertwine with it pathetically like he’s grounding himself.
His thrusts pick up speed, you bounce pathetically in the bed; and it doesn’t nearly get less gentle.
You swallowed hard, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of it. . the rough fabric of his work trousers was scratching against your skin, and the suffocating scent of liquor was making your head spin. But your deep, months-long crush and your naturally shy submission froze you completely. You let him move your limbs like a doll, your trembling hands resting uselessly against his tense shoulders.
Clark seemed to stare at your quiet, unmoving form on the mattress, and a sharp, sickening jolt of shame hit his gut. He hated how small you looked. He hated that he had done that to you. But more than anything, he hated the idea that you might pity him now.
"Don't look at me with those sad eyes. You're the one who wanted to stay, remember? I told you to go home. You're a grown girl, you knew what you were doing when you grabbed my tie."
He closes his eyes. He feels your lips on his one last time before he,
breaks?
explodes?
falls apart?
falls together?
Something like that.
He collapsed heavily against you. His broad shoulder pinned you into the mattress, his face buried deep in the crook of your neck. For a long, suffocating minute, the only sound in the dark showroom was the ragged, alcohol-laced wheeze of his breathing. He didn't move. He felt like dead weight, a broken man hiding from the wreckage of his own mind.
You let out a small, trembling sob beneath him, and Clark flinched as if he’d been struck.
The illusion of his wife vanished, leaving him staring down at your tear-stained, bruised face. A sickening jolt of raw shame hit his gut.
“Fuck,"
he muttered, scrambling backward off you so fast he nearly lost his balance on the edge of the bed. He wouldn't look at you. His hands shook violently as he grabbed his wrinkled trousers, pulling them up with frantic, agitated movements.
"Fuck's sake... get up. Get your clothes on."
You sat up slowly, shivering in the cold air of the warehouse, clutching your torn shirt to your chest.
"Clark...?"
“Don't,"
he snapped, his voice rough and laced with a defensive panic. He kept his back turned to you, aggressively rubbing his face with both hands.
"Just... grab your things. Your car is in the lot, right? You need to go home. It's past closing. You shouldn't be here."
your fingers trembling so hard you could barely grip the straps. Hearing you struggle, Clark cast a sharp, tortured look over his shoulder. Seeing you look so small, so broken, and so entirely compliant under his harsh words made his chest ache with a sudden, desperate guilt.
He hated what he had done. But more than that, he hated that you were witnessing him like this.
He grabbed one of his older his heavy wool work jacket from a nearby crate and aggressively shoved it into your trembling hands.
"Take it,"
he muttered, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rumble, refusing to meet your eyes.
“It's freezing outside. Just... go home, kiddo. Drive safe. We’ll look at the inventory ledgers tomorrow. Just go."
You felt used, confused, and entirely discarded.
You reached for the cold metal handle of the door.
“Wait."
His thumb drifted up, carefully wiping away a stray, dried tear from your cheek. His touch was so gentle it made your throat ache with fresh tears. He wanted to kiss you . . . you could see the desperate, hungry tilt of his head, but the sheer weight of his own shame held him back. He couldn't bring himself to do it.
"Go home,"
Clark murmured, his gaze drifting down to your lips one last time before he stepped back into the shadows of the unsold furniture, completely swallowing himself in the darkness.
"I'll see you tomorrow morning. Don't be late."
EPILOGUE.
By the next month, the routine had solidified into an inescapable ritual. You knew when the front doors would lock, when the sharp sting of liquor would fill the air, and exactly how to be quiet and compliant underneath his heavy, desperate weight.
Until Tuesday morning.
You arrived early to a warehouse charged with a frantic, erratic energy. You found Clark in the deep rows of unsold furniture, covered in chalky white drywall dust. He was holding a tall, worn wooden stool like a grand trophy, his eyes wide and flashing an excitement you had never seen out of him before.
He didn't try to hide it. Instead, a breathless laugh tore from his throat, and he set the stool down with a heavy thud right in front of you.
“Look at this,"
he whispered, his voice trembling with a desperate pride.
"I found it, kiddo. I actually found it. Mary keeps telling me I'm stuck, that I'm just rotting here... but my therapist doesn't know anything. Nobody knows what's on the other side of that wall."
"Clark...? What is that for? Where are you going?"
He leaned in closer, his gaze tracking something invisible in the air.
"It's yellow,"
he breathed, a terrifying, reverent whisper.
"Millions of miles of it, just waiting for me. I'm going to prove them all wrong."
Clark suddenly froze.
He looked down at your worried, awkward face, and the manic wildness in his eyes softened into something incredibly raw and desperate.He didn't pull away this time. Instead, his large, dust coated hands reached out, gripping your hips with a sudden, bruising intensity that pulled your frame flush against his chest.
Before you could even gasp, he leaned down and kissed you, his chapped lips tasting faintly of copper and sweat. It was a desperate attempt to anchor himself to the only good thing he had left before he leaped into the dark.
"Stay here today,"
he murmured against your lips, his forehead resting heavily against yours for one fragile, bleeding second.
"Be a good girl for me. Wait for me."
He let go of your hips just as quickly as he had grabbed them. Turning on his heel, he picked up the stool and strode into the darkest, most isolated corner of the warehouse wall, entirely consumed by his new obsession.
You stood frozen in the aisle, your lips tingling, your heart hammering violently against your ribs. You knew something was completely wrong. But you walked back to the front counter and settled into the quiet comfort of the routine anyway.
You watched the clock slowly tick closer to five o'clock. You knew that soon, the twilight would fade outside. And you convinced yourself that no matter what strange, yellow world he was digging into back there, he would eventually come back out to find you. The doors would lock, his heavy hands would find your jaw, and you would do it all over again.
———————————————————————-
Okay it’s like one in the morning now that i’m finishing this, i’m exhausted and my fingers hurt from typing so much, i’m not joking when i say this was the funnest fanfic ive ever wrote bc like i love doing research on this movie😭✌️ i hoped you guys liked it!!!!!! (also If you came from tik tok where i posted about this, HIIIIIIIIII !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
PART TWO: https://www.tumblr.com/sweetbabyhazel/818618351076196352/the-yellow-walls
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