[kinsau]

you can call me Kins i guess.. library +_= twenty. profic, black mexican-american ✲ leaving feedback on fics i ♡, ↻ tagged by character, series (media), and rating (sfw, nsfw) for easy searching

main ♡ @webangl

[poisonshelves]

fairytale

[fairycourts]

"that was some telepathy!" "you're the best, monster!"

[romiiarts]

them sillies ♡

[iyawiyaz]

yutamaki!! lowk their outfits remind me of mordetwi

[kinsau]

i love headcanoning characters as being awful partners and/or people! i think we should do it more actually!

[isaut]

barou really coffee-tea-breakfasts you in the morning. you’re on cloud nine— last night had been exceptional (dinner, dessert, bedroom) and now this? he always goes above and beyond when you come and visit, since you’re on such short time normally, but this takes the cake.

the pancakes are pillowy soft, he’s made these delicious sugared strawberries that you know go against the diet he’s on that he doesn’t dare mention to you.

you’ve finished breakfast and are on your second cappuccino when shoei looks over at you, worry coating his features.

“princess.”

with a hum, you look over at him. black hair tied back in a messy bun from cooking, a mug of milky tea in his hands. he reaches out to take one of yours.

“what’s up, baby?”

he clenches his jaw. grinds his teeth a bit. “i think we should go see a gynecologist today.”

that brings you to a halt. suddenly, you’re on cloud four. after all, you’re in italy, but there’s a bucket of cold water that’s been dumped on you from the left.

with a furrow of your brow, you regard shoei, puzzled.

“last night when we were making love,” your heart flutters in your chest at the romantic and old school way he talks about sex, “i was rubbing up against a bump.”

you blink at shoei. “a bump?”

he nods. “i think we need to get it looked at.”

“well, it’s not going to be smooth like a flesh light, baby.”

shoei wrinkles his nose. “and i’m not saying it is, but i’m saying that there was something there that isn’t normally there. it’s been a few months since we’ve seen each other.”

“what, do you think i’m cheating on you?” you sputter, sitting up straighter. “shoei—”

“what? no, no, it’s just, it was hard and you’re soft. soft and squishy. inside. and there was something hard and it’s got me concerned and i think we need to take a look at it.”

we. his repeated use of we nestles a soft spot inside of you.

“i’ll get it looked at when i’m back in the states, yeah?” you compromise, taking a sip of coffee. “nothing we should worry about right now.”

shoei frowns. “i think a mysterious bump anywhere is important to get looked at as soon as possible. you’d get your breasts looked at as soon as possible, wouldn’t you?”

that quiets you down a bit. looking down at your coffee, you sigh. “i don’t want my spring break ruined by a medical thing.”

“maybe it’s nothing,” shoei adds. “and we’re just being precautious. if it’s nothing, i’ll make it up to you.”

“and if it’s something?” there’s a sheen of nervousness to your words.

“i think you’ll owe me lots of rest and following what the doctor says for catching it,” shoei says, glint in his eyes. “anyways, i made an appointment for you already. it’s at noon. we can get sushi after, how does that sound?”

a little mortified, you nod. “sushi after is the least you can do.”

[isaut]

𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔— f!reader x barou shouei, 5.4k. ao3.

you haven't been doing well. shouei is worried. tw for disordered eating, body image issues, depression, anxiety, etc. anyways this had to get out of my docs!!! please enjoy <3 (divider by @/saradika-graphics)

When Shouei shows up on your doorstep, you’re not expecting him. 

There’s a worried expression painted on his face—dried there, too. He’s got on athletic wear, joggers that are barely loose around his thighs and a sweatshirt to brace against the small nip in the air. You keep the door closed tight around your body so he can’t see in. 

“What are you doing here?” You ask. 

“I haven’t heard from you in a week,” Shouei says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I got worried.” 

Has it been a week? You suppose it has been– the days blend together when you’re struggling to stay afloat. 

“Why aren’t you in Italy?” You ask. His presence is almost a mirage. Have you forgotten to take your medicine in the whipping passage of time? 

“I booked a flight to see you.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I haven’t heard from you. You haven’t texted back, you haven’t called, you haven’t updated your Instagram story. I’m worried about you.” 

You have to bite your bottom lip because you can feel it start to tremble. Still, your chin wobbles a bit. 

“You came all the way here to check in on me?” You ask, voice quiet and meek. 

Shouei nods. “And I took care of the spider by the stairwell.” 

“Really?” Tears well up in your eyes. 

“Yeah, he’s down in the bushes now,” Shouei says, gesturing towards the parking lot of your apartment complex. “Can I come in?” 

You shake your head. It’s not that you don’t want him in, it’s because he can’t come in. The place is a mess and you know how Shouei feels about messes. You’ve been using a dirty cutting board to slice up the store-bought pre-cooked chicken for the past however many days. Onions, too. And strawberries. You rinse the knife off between uses. You don’t remember the last time you cleaned out the litter box. When you made your bed. There’s a pile of now-wrinkled clean laundry on it that you’ve been sleeping next to. 

“It’s really bad,” you say. Glasses riddle your coffee table with straws stuck to the bottom remnants of morning coffee. Dishes sit unwashed in your sink, there are a few clean bowls in the dishwasher. 

“I know,” Shouei says gently. “Let me in, baby.” 

“It’s so bad,” you repeat, voice thick. 

“I’m not here to judge,” Shouei assures you. 

Pressing your lips together, you nod. You slowly move back from the door, and welcome Shouei into your apartment. 

He dips down first, however, to grab a few grocery bags. Reusable ones, ones that look brand new. He sets them just inside your door to the left, by where your shoes are. Then, stepping into the threshold, he wraps one big arm around your shoulders and pulls you in close for a hug. The other arm quickly circles around your waist, and you can’t go anywhere but into him. 

“My cats–” you begin to say, but he’s already closing the door with his foot. When you don’t have anything to further add, so your body relaxes for you against Shouei’s broad form. 

And then it’s tears. You press into his chest and his other arm wraps around you. His cologne and deodorant and aftershave and soap runs over you like a waterfall. Each inhale brings comfort and more tears— he’s here. His shirt dampens with them. And he rubs your back and rocks you side to side through it, cheek on the top of your head. 

“Gonna make it all better, baby,” he promises, voice water over rough stone.

Tiring yourself out is easy. You come to a finish with a sigh, a few more tears, and then embarrassment. Hiding your face in his chest, you can’t bear to make eye contact with him as you mumble out: 

“Please don’t break up with me.” 

“Not doing that,” Shouei says into the top of your head before leaving a kiss there. “I’m here to help.” 

Of course he wouldn’t. To buy a ticket on such short notice, to show up with open arms— of course he wouldn’t. 

When you pull away, Shouei moves some of your hair away from your face. He cups you, delicately, thumbs on your cheeks. You get a fresh wave of his cologne when he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead. 

“Let me start with giving you somewhere nice to sit. Where do you want to be?” He asks. 

“On my couch,” you murmur. “My bed is too messy.” 

With a straight expression, Shouei sets forth tidying. He removes all the cups from the coffee table, he folds the throw blankets, folds your weighted blanket like it’s nothing. You watch, standing to the side and playing with the fat of your lip. 

He straightens up the books on the coffee table and removes the opened, half eaten bag of chips. 

“You still eating these?” He asks. 

You shake your head. He throws them away. He throws a lot away, actually. The bag of chips, the candy wrappers, the soda cans. His eyes land on the way there’s a big sticker placed over the nutrition label of the can, but he doesn’t say anything. 

He fluffs the pillows on your couch, including the stuffed animal you use as a pillow, then goes over to his grocery bags and pulls out a tub of Clorox wipes. He wipes down the coffee table and the end tables, reaching behind them to grab a can that one of your cats must have knocked over. He even gives the remote a wipe down.  

“Have a seat, baby,” Shouei says, throwing away the wipe. 

“That took you so little time,” you say, a little embarrassed. 

Shouei shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I’m happy to do it.” 

You watch as he pulls out another cleaner and some paper towels. As he wipes down the TV, taking months of dust off it. He’s also sure to get the table, with all the cat hair. All you can do is rub your hands over your face. 

“Hey,” Shouei says, coming over to you. He places a hand on your shoulder, slowly moving it down your arm in a firm, reassuring pass. “Have a seat. It’s okay.” 

“But there’s so much to do,” you pout. 

“And it’s nothing you have to worry about now.” 

He leads you over to the couch, to your side of it. Unfolding a throw blanket, he drapes it over you and hands you the remote to the TV. 

“Like I’m not even here, okay?” There’s so much assurance in his tone, trying to mitigate your embarrassment. 

“Can I have the weighted blanket too?” You request, slipping to lay down. 

Shouei nods and drapes the heavy fabric over you, and you relax under it almost immediately. 

Then he sets about the rest of your space. He starts a load of laundry with your stripped bedsheets, putting your only other set on. You don’t enjoy these as much, they’re jersey instead of linen, but they’ll manage for now. He collects all the glasses out of your room, pleased that it seems the worst of your depression has at least hit you in the living areas. 

When he emerges back into the kitchen, you’ve got the TV on with reruns of your favorite reality show. Shouei grabs one of his bags, pulling out a few of the snacks he had bought you. He finds the stash of black Sharpies you keep in the kitchen and scribbles out the calories on the bags. The snacks find a home dished out onto a little plate: dark chocolate covered pretzels, apple slices with a little package of caramel, and lemon Oreos. 

He comes back to the living room and sets the tray on the table, along with a glass of water. Crouching next to you, and tucks some of your hair behind your ear. 

“Doing okay?” He asks quietly. 

You nod, hand slipping out from under the blankets to hold his wrist. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” you admit. 

“I wasn’t lying when I said I was serious about you,” he says. 

Sighing, you nod and nuzzle your head further into your pillow. Shouei leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek. 

“I’ll be quiet until I have to vacuum,” Shouei promises. His tone urges you to fall into the slumber of a nap. That would be so nice… the blanket is so heavy and Shouei is so close… 

When you wake, it’s to Shouei scooping you up off the couch. You blink awake as you’re nestled against his chest. He always lifts you like you weigh nothing. 

“Just moving you to your bed,” Shouei murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “‘M gonna vacuum.” 

“Will you bring me my cats?” You ask. 

“If I can find them,” Shouei says. He sets you on your bed, cupping your face in one big, broad hand, “You know they’ll find their way to you. Once they realize you’re in their favorite spot.” 

Your smile is a little watery. “And then will you come join us?” 

Shouei nods, though he has other plans. Ordering in food, probably sushi, getting you to take a shower or a bath, going for a walk around the apartment complex. 

He presses another kiss to your forehead before heading back out to the living room. There’s a bit of commotion as he gets out the vacuum, knocking it against the wall as he wrestles with the long nozzle of it and his broad frame in the tight hallway. 

You lay there, awake, scrolling on your phone. Video and video pop up and you don’t watch them through all the way, no, being alone with your thoughts is too much to manage. The constant beginnings of songs or greetings or directives drowns out the sound of the vacuum. 

Vacuuming takes a while. You have two cats in a small space— hair piles up. Sinks into the rugs. It takes multiple passes over the same spots to suck up all the hair. Shouei should just get a cleaner to come back twice a week for you, there’s no reason you need to be living like this. 

Stupid, he should have gotten you one a long time ago. Too little too late. 

He empties the vacuum for the nth time, finally pleased with the lingering result. Pleased, he heads into your bedroom, sighing softly through his nose at the sight of you glued to your phone. He remembers the summer you met, where when he would take you out and leave to go to the restroom, he’d come back to the table to see you on your ereader, phone forgotten. 

He comes over to the side of your bed, gently tucking some of your hair behind your ear. 

You put your phone down for him. The same video plays on loop. 

“Just coming to check on you,” Shouei says softly. “How are you doing?” 

You hum, shrugging. 

“Do you want to take a bath? I’ll blow dry your hair for you when we’re done,” he suggests. 

“My bathroom is a mess,” you mumble. “I don’t want to sit in my tub.” 

“I’ll clean it,” Shouei offers immediately. “Clean it all up, light a candle for you. How’s that sound?” 

You nod, closing your eyes. Exhaustion rests all over you. Shouei leans down and presses a kiss to your temple. 

“You want me to put on a show for you? The living room is all clean and vacuumed, your cats are on the couch.” 

“I don’t feel like moving.” 

“I’m here, I’ll carry you.” 

You give Shouei a big, pitiful look. Nodding, you halfheartedly push off your blankets. 

Shouei scoops you back up, squeezing you tight. He carries you back out to where your cats are in fact lounging about. He has to set you upright to avoid them, but you don’t mind. You wrap your arm around one of them and cuddle up behind him, pressing your face against his soft fur. 

Her merps and adjusts against you. 

Shouei stands with the remote in one hand and other on his hip. He flips through the apps, selecting your comfort show and putting it on without any question. 

Then he sets about the bathroom. First, he clears off the counter. He puts anything that is mostly empty into a box for you to deal with later, or for him to repurchase. Anything dusty goes in another bag for you to look at later. Everything gets thoroughly cleaned and wiped down and rinsed. You don’t own a mop so he swiffers the floors thrice. 

Shouei pats back out to your living room to grab a candle— they’re all scented similarly. He picks one that’s almost finished and grabs a lighter, heading to the bathroom. With the candle lit, he begins to run the bath, using the last of some epsom salts and a bath bomb he found tucked away. The water turns a comforting milky color. 

He sets up a few things in the bathroom, including an ice cold soda for you to enjoy. He’s not sure how this is going to go— he wants you clean but he wants you to relax too. A fresh pair of pyjamas sit out for you, along with a fresh towel. 

When he comes to get you, he almost doesn’t want to disturb you. You’re focused on the show, cats nuzzled against you. But he needs to. You deserve to be clean and smell like oats and honey. 

“Is it time?” You ask, slowly pulling your gaze away from the television. 

He nods, holding out his hands to you. You sigh and use them to pull yourself up. With his hands on your hips, he leads you to the bathroom. It smells delightful; warm, comforting, clean in the best way. Shouei helps you out of your clothes, placing them in the hamper. There’s a big bruise on your hip and thigh that draws his attention immediately. 

“I wore some yoga pants that were too tight for me,” you explain as you climb into the bath. It’s hot, but in the best way. 

“Did you put them somewhere to get rid of them?” Shouei asks. 

You’re quiet for a moment as you sink into the water. 

“They’ll fit again.” 

Shouei doesn’t say anything. It’s not a battle to fight right now. He offers you the glass of soda that you happily take, sipping it. 

“When’s the last time you went to the spa?” Shouei asks, pulling the stool over to sit on beside the tub. He looks comical there, knees practically to his chest. One of his hands dips into the water, gently bringing the hot water up your chest. 

“A while ago. I just don’t have time for it,” you murmur. “And it’s so busy on the weekends, I get so anxious.”

Shouei nods. His broad hands come to your shoulders, your traps, gently massaging into the underused muscles. 

He doesn’t speak, just lets you sit there and soak for a bit. He massages your hands for you, gently rolling your wrist to open it up, gently cracking your knuckles and massaging all the pressure points. 

He scrubs you down the best he can. Had you been any less vulnerable, it would have been humiliating. Had you been any less exhausted, you would have insisted you could do it yourself. But Shouei is diligent. He gets your body, washes your hair. Massages your scalp. It feels so good, you let out a sigh of relief. 

He rinses your hair out with the shower head, carding his fingers against your scalp. He clips your hair up out of the water, giving you the opportunity to sink deeper into it, up to your chest. 

Shouei checks the time on his watch. His stupidly nice watch. 

“It’s just about dinner time,” Shouei says. “We should order something in. What would you like?” 

You hum. “I’m not hungry.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

With a sigh, you shrug. “I don’t know.” 

“Want some sushi?” Shouei asks. 

“Just sashimi,” you murmur. 

“Rice won’t kill you,” Shouei says. His fingers dangle in the water. “You don’t want a spider roll? Spider roll and a Diet Coke…” 

It’s tempting. You loll your head to look up at Shouei with a little pout. 

He doesn’t want to ask when you ate last. 

“I love you,” Shouei says, cupping your cheek. 

Resting the full weight of your head against his hand, you nod a bit. 

“Love you too,” you murmur. 

“Is that a yes for sushi?” Shouei asks. 

“Yeah.” You can’t ignore the gnawing in your stomach. “As long as we can watch something on TV.” 

“Of course we can,” Shouei says. “What do you want to watch?” 

“Anything.” You close your eyes. “I’m almost out of lotion.” 

“I’ll scrape it out for you. Do you want to shave?” 

You stick a leg out of the tub and rest it on the edge. Suds collect against your shin and calf, on the hair there. 

“Yeah. But I’ve got no shaving cream.” 

“We can find something,” Shouei assures you. He reaches back to one of the boxes, plucking an almost empty tub of hair mask up. He cracks it open, then finds your razor. 

Your face heats up. Yes, you didn’t want to shave but wanted to be shaved. Yes, Shouei would do it for you without asking. Somehow, the prospect of him doing it has your mind reeling. 

“Stop thinking,” Shouei says, rubbing a hand along the side of your thigh. He lathers your leg in the mask, before starting on his work. He’s soft and kind the entire time, more careful than you are. As he shaves, one of your cats paws at the closed bathroom door and meows with his broken heart. 

Shouei ignores it, in favor of bending your knee slightly to shave over it. As he’s shaving, he’s thinking through the rest of the evening. Finishing laundry, eating. He wants to ask you to move in with him, but now doesn’t feel like the right time. Moving you to Italy is like a proposal, you deserve to be wined and dined outside of your depression apartment. 

Maybe he can start leaving seeds. Just here and there. Talk about how he wants to provide for you. More than he already does. Wants you to wake up in his bed. You could go on walks in the morning. 

The two of you should probably go on a walk tonight. Maybe between drying your hair and when the food comes. 

Shaved and wet, Shouei helps you out of the bath and into a dry towel. He pats you down, lotions you up, combs your hair. 

You stop him with a hand on his side as he reaches for the blow drier. 

“I can’t handle that sound right now,” you admit. 

Shouei looks at the old, orange device. He could get you a quiet one, he just got a quiet one for his sister. She gets overstimulated too easily, easier than you do. 

It cost what used to be an arm and a leg. But it’s worth it. 

“Okay,” Shouei says. He doesn’t want you walking around outside with wet hair. He takes the towel in his hands, turns you back to face the mirror, and gently scrunches your hair to pull more water from it. 

Your ‘jams are this soft, waffle knit off white. You had been so excited to find them at TJMaxx. Shouei wraps you up in another Maxx find, a soft blanket, on the couch. He grabs his phone from where it rests on the kitchen counter, coming to sit beside you. He lights the candle in the middle of the coffee table. 

Settling back, he opens up the food delivery app on his phone. One of your cats immediately makes himself at home on you. You slump to rest your head on his shoulder. 

“I’m going to order a variety of things,” Shouei says. He rests his hand on your thigh. “You don’t have to worry about it at all.”

Humming, you shift a bit more to rest your head in Shouei’s lap. 

“How many Diet Cokes do you want?” He asks. 

“Two,” you murmur. 

Shouei nods. Three Diet Cokes for his princess. The TV clicks on, and with it comes reruns of Hell’s Kitchen, which are white noise by this point. 

Shouei leans over and places his phone on the coffee table. He cards his fingers through your wet hair, lulling your eyes closed again. 

“I think I want to quit my job,” you whisper softly. “I’ve spent my past few therapy appointments complaining about it.” 

Shouei’s ears pick up and he fights the urge to turn down the volume on the TV. If you quit your job you don’t have to find another, your full time job can be as his partner— pampered and loved. 

“What’s going on, baby?” Shouei asks, trying to keep his voice steady. 

You sigh softly, gently squeezing his knee. It doesn’t hurt, thankfully. “Just being run ragged. I’m not smart enough for what I’m doing.” 

“You’re plenty smart,” Shouei says immediately. “You’re the smartest person I know.” 

You sigh softly. “Not really, not if you saw me…” 

Shouei gently shushes you, continuing to play with your hair. “That’s not true.” 

With a soft sigh, you nod. “I think I’m burnt out.” 

You are. It’s obvious. Shouei could tell from the state of your kitchen, from the way you hadn’t messaged him back. It’s the ADHD too, what’s out of sight is out of mind. And unfortunately, he’s fallen victim to that. 

“What’s been going on?” Shouei asks, but he thinks he knows. “Is it the preps?” 

“Yeah,” you exhale, turning your head to face Shouei, the rest of your body following. “I just don’t know if I can do it.” 

“It’s nothing you can’t handle,” Shouei says, trying his hardest to comfort you. 

You laugh, a little wet, a little self-depriciatingly. “That’s what my coworkers say.” 

“They’re right,” Shouei says softly. 

“I know,” you bemoan, “I wish they weren’t.” 

“You don’t mean that,” Shouei says. His fingers find their way to the back of your head, where he scratches ever so gently. You’re probably just hungry, he wants to say, but he doesn’t want to stoke what seems to be a sore subject at the moment. 

All you have for him is a sigh. That concerns Shouei a bit. 

“Do you want to watch something that’s not reality TV?” He suggests. 

Another sigh. “What, do you think I’m rotting my brain?” 

“I do, actually,” Shouei says bluntly. He reaches over and grabs the remote, exiting out of the show. He scrolls for a bit, flipping around before landing on what he knows is your favorite TV show. 

He doesn’t miss the way you relax further against him. 

With the sushi spread out on the coffee table, you and Shouei sit on the floor around it. There’s still your show playing in the background. Shouei has a Coke Zero with his meal, to make sure you don’t feel alone in having a soda so late into the evening. 

“You know, I’m looking to buy a place in Italy,” Shouei says casually. He’s been renting for the longest time. “I’m thinking that I want an in-home gym of some sort. There’s the villa I’ve been looking at… it’s got this spare bedroom that faces south so the sun is always really pretty in it. I think it could make a really nice place for you to paint.” 

“I’m not a real artist like that,” you murmur, using your chopsticks to play with your wasabi. 

“Well, not right now,” Shouei says. The words slip out: “But you’d have time if you moved in with me.” 

You pause your playing. “What?” He must be joking. Though, upon further inspection, his face is dead serious. Not that Shouei jokes often, anyways. 

“Just something to think about.” He reaches for his phone, pulling up the photos app and handing it over to you. “It’s got a hot tub and a wine cellar.” 

You accept the phone and flip through the photos. The sunlight is amazing in each one, and the main living area is almost open concept, with big, wide arches that give an illusion of separation. 

“There’s a nice nail salon and a yoga studio within walking distance,” Shouei continues. “And a sushi place, and a park. There’s enough space that you could have a little studio and Mom and my sisters could have rooms too. They wouldn’t live with us, but they’d be able to visit.” 

“Shouei, I can’t just quit my job and freeload off of you,” you say, still swiping through the pictures in disbelief. 

“Who’s to say you’re freeloading?” Shouei asks, leaning back against the couch. He sets his chopsticks down and reaches over to place a hand over your free one. He manages to make eye contact with you, still serious as can be. “Did I say you were freeloading?”  

“Well, not exactly, but that’s what it would be, wouldn’t it?” 

Shouei shakes his head. A face framing strand has fallen out from his bun, and he tucks it back behind his ear. 

“Absolutely not.” 

You bite your bottom lip and hand the phone back to him. The worst crosses your mind: “What if we break up, Shouei?” 

“Are you planning on breaking up with me?” He asks. 

“No,” you respond quietly. 

“I’m not planning on breaking up with you. Ever.” 

You play around with your food, removing a piece of fish off the rice it sits on and eating it. Fuck it tastes so good. Your stomach rattles against you, desperate for more. 

“It’s just something to think about,” Shouei says. “You don’t have to make a decision right now.” 

You want to, though. Italy? Milan is gorgeous. Shouei is already pretty vocal about how he wishes you could come to his away games, how no matter which way the game turns, he just wants to see you. And if you weren’t working… 

But God, the world needs teachers, don’t they? And you’re in such a good position, where you aren’t reliant on your measly paycheck because you scored big with your boyfriend after years and years of claiming you’d marry right. 

Well, you and Shouei aren’t married yet, but…

Shouei doesn't interrupt the mental battle that you appear to be fighting. He knows at the end of the day, you love your job. Stupid kids over stupid adults. But what if there was no more stupidity? Granted, Shouei could be plenty boneheaded himself, but…

“What about my cats?” You ask. You use your fingers to disrobe a piece of nigiri and break the salmon in half, giving one side to each of your fluffy, four legged boys who have been eagerly hovering and sniffing. 

Shouei watches with careful eyes and you rid yourself of a piece you would have to eat. “They could come with you, of course.” 

You hum. He knows how much they mean to you, paying for a good cat sitter that comes and sleeps over with them when you’re visiting him. 

“South facing windows… imagine all the good sunlight they would get to lay in…” Shouei says. 

You smile softly at that. “Falling asleep every night with you is already convincing enough.” 

Shouei’s eyes light up. “Yeah?” 

Putting your chopsticks down, you nod. “Yeah.” 

Shouei leans over to place a kiss to your lips. He certainly hasn’t kissed you enough since arriving. A gentle hum leaves your lips at the contact, which you automatically flutter your eyes shut and lean into. One of Shouei’s big, broad hands cups your cheek, deepening the kiss for only a moment before pulling away. 

Slowly. So, so slowly. Just so he can flutter his eyes open and watch as your eyes slowly open. 

“Oh, I’ve missed kissing you,” you whisper. 

Shouei smiles at that. “I’ve missed you.” The long distance is taking a toll on him. It’s nothing he wants— love is best shared close by. His family is already so far away and you’re even further. It’s not fair. 

You hum softly, disbelief on the notes. 

“What’s that?” Shouei asks, furrowing his brow. 

“I don’t know.” You don’t make eye contact with him. Instead, you’re focused on his knee. 

With a gentle hand, because that’s all Shouei is to you, a gentle giant, he tilts your head back to force eye contact. 

“I missed you,” he says firmly. When you shift your gaze to the left, he follows it. Slightly hunched over, eyes meeting yours, a serious expression on his face. “I missed you because I love you. I love hearing from you, I love spending time with you, I love being in your presence. I missed you.” 

You swallow so thick that Shouei feels it on his bent knuckle beneath your chin. 

Tears well up in your eyes at the declarations. Shouei presses a kiss to your forehead, before shifting to open up his arms. 

“I just want to cuddle on the couch,” you murmur. 

Shouei’s eyes bounce to your takeout tray, which has a few pieces remaining on it, including the pat of rice from the nigiri piece you gave to your cats. 

“Alright,” he says, putting his hands behind him so they rest on the couch and hoisting himself up effortlessly. He looks over at you, where you’re still sitting on the floor. “Do you want me to spend the night?” 

“Yes,” you reply instantly, nodding. You shift on your knees and rest your temple against his thigh. His hand comes to gently scratch at your head, through the still-damp tresses. 

“Do you want to sleep here, or at the hotel room I got?” Shouei asks. 

The hotel room seems tempting. Anything to get you out of the apartment. But your cats…

“I’m already in my ‘jams,” you say. 

He smiles softly. “Why don’t you come walk with me to the car so I can get my ‘jams on?” 

Soon, you’re by the door slipping into your outside slippers. You hold Shouei’s hand as you head towards his rental car. 

“Maybe tomorrow we can go on a walk?” Shouei suggests as he shoulders his bag. “Just a quick one.” 

“I’ve been walking,” you say defiantly. 

“But what about with me?” Shouei rounds the car to grab his water bottle out of the cupholders. You trail behind him. “We could go downtown, to the coffee shop you like. Walk around a little bit there.” 

Once he closes the car door, you turn to walk into your apartment. Shouei now follows behind you, but quickly falls beside you to take your hand. 

“No?” He asks. 

“Maybe,” you say. “I don’t have anything cute to wear.” 

“I’ll finish your laundry tonight, before we go to bed,” Shouei says quickly. “Put it away and everything.” 

“Do you want to see the updates I've made to my Animal Crossing island?” 

“I do,” he says.

The two of you cross back into the threshold of your apartment, and it feels so good. All clean, with Shouei behind you. 

Your man helps you get comfortable on the couch again, this time with your Switch controllers in your hands and a mug of tea on the coffee table. He cleans dinner up, does another load of laundry. He folds your clothes while you show him around your island. 

It only takes him a few trips to put your clothes away and change into his own ‘jams, then he’s settling in beside you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. He presses a soft kiss to your temple. 

“Wanna play something with me?” You ask, blinking up at him. 

“Yeah,” he says. “What are you thinking?” 

Humming, you close out of Animal Crossing and open up Smash instead. Shouei chuckles and you can feel the rumble of his chest from where you lean against him. 

“Let me get a mug of tea, too. I get too competitive playing this,” he says good naturedly, standing up. 

“Okay!” You chirp, watching him go into the kitchen. “Maybe tomorrow we can go shopping? I think buying new underwear will make me feel better.” 

“Whatever you want, princess,” Shouei says. “You want anything else?” 

Humming, you turn back to the screen. “I’m sure I do.” 

Shouei comes back and sits on the couch once more. He accepts the pastel controller from you, which his dwarfs in his hands. 

Look, he wants to say, look how happy you are when you’re with me.

You’ll listen one day. 

[lorelune]

first bite

yoichi isagi x reader || M || vampire isagi + blood drinking || wc: 5.6 || ao3

You have become an auctor at the well-regarded blood house, Bastardpunkt . Isagi is your first client.

a/n: god i love vampires. i love vampires so much. vampire ya was my literal actual gateway to becoming a writer at all and therefore i will be hopelessly endeared to the genre always. please enjoy some vampire isagi!! this is a snippet from a larger blood house-verse (kaiser centric but shhh). huge thank you to @suguwu for beta reading!!! enjoy loves!!!

tags: blood drinking, author-brewed vampire lore, vampire isagi, human reader

"Have you done this before?"

You shake your head. "N-No, it's my first time.

Isagi is pouring some tonic into a polished silver... well, you can only call it a chalice. It gleams in the lowlight of the room, all warm and full despite the dark red and black tones of the room. Bastard’s Point— Bastardpunkt— is full of these gothic aesthetics. It lines the halls and grand rooms like flesh inside a body.

Isagi doesn't fit it well, at least not now. He’s wearing well-tailored black trousers, a white dress shirt, and a cool-toned blue sweater vest. He looks more like a schoolboy, really, a man about to go to a university lecture and not a vampire who is more than likely several times your age. His appearance, oddly, puts you at ease.

You’ve seen the other vampires of the coven that runs Bastard’s Point. Zweiter Herr Kaiser wears garish outfits, high-waisted pants with ruffled shirts with cravats, glittering stones on shining silver bands wrapped around his fingers. Herr Ness prefers to be draped in long fabrics, favoring maroon and violet velvet. Herr Noa, the sire of the coven, you believe, looks more like a business man, always in fine suits and ruby cufflinks that catch the light like they're glowing.

Isagi is so normal looking by comparison. You can see why the attendant at the fine stone reception desk placed you with him, rather than someone more intimidating and voracious-looking. He’s rather tame by comparison 

"Ah, I see." Isagi hums. "I saw that in your chart, but some folks fib in order to add some perceived appeal to them. I'm glad you were truthful, it's better to be honest here."

You nod. You're a little too nervous to speak.

Becoming a blood auctor— sanguinarius, if one is to be archaic— at Bastard’s Point is quite a process. It required you to be vetted by two coven-based vampires. You needed blood testing to check for disease and hemoglobin levels. A background check was completed and you think a private investigator may have been hired to tail you for a few days. 

Not that they would've found much if your hunch is correct. Your day-to-day is quite dull. You have your part-time work at the bakery from early morning until early afternoon, and after, you usually return to your studio apartment to rest and make a paltry meal in the evening. 

All of the hoops to jump through to get here should be worth it. The contract that you signed had a bonus attached, to be awarded after your first feeding takes place. Not to mention that each individual feed has a handsome fee that will go, more or less, into your pocket, beside the percentage Bastard’s Point takes off. Bachira had told you that vampires often tip as well. And this is merely what is included in your current, starter contract. If you establish a regular client who wants exclusivity, modifications can be made. More money secured. 

You’re getting ahead of yourself. It's only your first time, after all.

And despite the promised funds, you're still apprehensive. Nervous at the prospect of being drank from, even though auctorship is a rather common side hustle these days, given how much regulation and reform that there has been in the last few decades. It's a safe profession, especially at an established, above-board blood house like Bastard’s Point. Such knowledge should quell your anxiety.

But, it doesn't really. Not when you're settled on a firm velvet couch with a throw pillow in your lap.

Isagi looks kind as he approaches from a long counter and assorted shelves in the corner. There are plenty of snacks and refreshment stocked, even in their standard rooms like this one. You know the tonic in his hands is meant less as a tasty treat and more for nourishment. You read up on them prior to arriving. They’re quite miraculous little tinctures. Bastard's Point is known for their stock, in variety and quantity, as well. 

Isagi sets the chalice on a side table and looks you over. You meet his gaze, or attempt to, even as his slides over your form.

You dress as you had been instructed to. Loose pants that can be pushed up past your knee if required with a soft, oversized shirt that can be shoved this way and that, depending on the bite preference of the vampire that you're serving. You feel very dressed down like this, vulnerable and soft-bellied, even though Isagi isn't looking all that hungrily at you. 

There is a calculating sheen to his eyes. It's not cruel, but it's intense to be under. He seems to catch your spiking anxiety, probably due to his acute hearing and the way your pulse is undoubtedly thumping a little harder than it was a few minutes ago.

He sits beside you, though a few feet away. "There's no need to be nervous. They placed you with me because I go easy on the newbies."

"Do you have that reputation?"

Isagi nods. "I don't have a consistent auctor, so I'm frequently available to take fresh blood— ah, I’m sorry, that probably sounded insensitive."

"No, no, it's fine. That's what I am, right?" You laugh, a little too high and tittering. 

Isagi looks at you with undisguised sympathy. "It's okay to be uncomfortable. You can back out at any time, okay? I won't take any offense and you certainly wouldn't be the first."

It provides you some comfort. Isagi doesn't seem like the type to force you into anything, not to mention your contract has quite heavy penalties if a vampire were to take from you without your consent. A proper blood house protects its stock and all.

"That's good to know." You fiddle with the tassel trim from the throw pillow over your thighs.

Isagi reaches out and squeezes your knee. 

"Do you have any preference for where I bite?"

You’ve thought about this. It would be better to not have any lingering marks visible for your day job, but that leaves your ankles and thighs as the most optimal spots. However... that seems quite intimate for a vampire that you only met in the last thirty minutes. Your wrist is another coverable-option, but you read online that that can lead to soreness that affects one’s motor function temporarily, even with proper treatment and replenishing tonic. Your neck, by proxy, may be the best option. You purchased a mock neck in preparation for today, just in case, though you left it at home, air drying on your petite balcony following its first washing. 

"I think," you swallow. "My neck— may be preferable. Do you have any favorite spots?"

Isagi smiles again, a little sharper, but not mean. "Ah, for first timers, I usually go for a wrist or forearm. But post-defloratio, I prefer—" He looks a little shyer. It's cute— he's quite cute, isn’t he? "Upper thigh, mainly."

"S-So my neck doesn't work?" You had some plan in your mind for how this would all go. You planned for your neck to be bitten, and the seeming lack of that option sends you into a minor panic, a weird threat of uncontrollability cascading down the back of your neck.

Isagi shakes his head, waving his hands in front of him. "No, no! Your neck is totally okay. It can just be a lot, for the auctor. Are you prepared for that?"

"Yes, I am." you say, though a good part of you wishes that a bite on the wrist was less risky. "I n-need my hands for work."

He looks at you thoughtfully. "Your file said you work at a bakery, right?”

"Mhm,” you nod. “I can't lose dexterity for the day job, you know?"

"Kneading a lot of dough?"

"Yes— and I decorate our pastries, and it requires a steady hand."

"I see," Isagi squeezes your knee again. "Well, we’ll be sure to keep your hands intact then. Your neck is perfect. Would you like to be thralled?"

Yes, is your immediate response, but you don't voice it yet.

You’ve read plenty about thralls. Both in online forums offering first hand accounts of the experience, and the most romanticized notion of them, plucked from the vampira amor genre of books that folks are so enamored with these days. It's less absolute than vampiric compulsion (a rare skill, though you've heard rumors that at least one of Bastard's Point's vampires has the ability.) But, it renders you highly suggestible, sedated in a supernatural way that makes the process of bloodtaking more pleasant. Some vampires don't like a thralled victim, they like the cortisol in their prey's— auctor's— blood.

You don't know Isagi's preference.

"... What would you prefer, zweiter Herr Isagi?"

You stumble over his coven title. It’s not required, not at all, for as ancient an establishment as Bastard’s Point is, a mortal human using only a vampire’s given name is more than acceptable. If anything, it’s a bit odd that you’d use it in the privacy of an auctory suite. Your use of his full title is more a form of avoidance. A diversion, maybe. A poor attempt, all things considered.

Isagi examines you. The pit of his gaze feels endless. It’s critical, unveiled in its intensity. He’s drinking in every breath you take and every slight twitch of each individual muscle of yours. You’re like a poor insect, pinned by thin needles for his analysis. He’s taking you apart in a way that feels rending. He probably has been this entire time, Isagi just has been wearing a kinder cloak up until now. He’s a disarming type of man, a dangerous type of vampire when he shows this side of himself, too.

You understand why he is Bastard Point’s second— zweiter Herr. 

Your nervousness, in contrast, is apparent. Your attempt at a verbal diversion is easily cast aside by Isagi, ever even-keeled, it seems. You 

"Thralling is my go-to, especially considering this is your first time being fed from. It really tamps down any pain from the bite. And, if we’re lucky, it will feel pleasurable to be fed from, rather than painful."

You feel a little silly for trying to divert Isagi from your own fractiousness, but he doesn’t seem put off by your attempt in doing so. He seems forgiving. It does 

"Would it hurt, without a thrall?"

You know the answer already, but you want to know how Isagi will respond.

"It would, yes." Isagi says. "Quite badly, too. I've drank from a few auctors who preferred the barebones, no thrall at all, and it’s quite painful.”

Of course it would be. One is getting a bite from an iron-jawed vampire to your jugular.

"That makes sense." You tug the pillow to your chest and hold it tight against your sternum and ribs. 

You’ve been dragging out the preamble, avoiding the inevitable.

Isagi must notice. You won't look at him anymore, fixated on the light-catching fabric of the pillow. You know you're hunched over a bit, shielding your core. It's only instinct, really, one that you don't know how to quell. You’ve willingly put yourself in private quarters with an apex predator, intent on your drinking your blood from the vein. It’s only natural that your hindbrain is screaming at you, and your response to said screaming is to retreat into yourself, away from the source of your fear.

You could walk out. You could leave without consequence. Your contract has such a clause, built in for your comfort and safety. And yet, you don't move to exit. 

(You need the money. Your cat had an emergency vet visit a few weeks ago, and rent is due in a few days. The bakery has been cutting your hours, little by little. Your purse is more empty than you’d like it to be. Despite this, even as you have spent the last few months being vetted to be a sanguinarius here, you're still a little terrified.)

"Hey, can you look at me?" Isagi implores you. You take a big breath, being so very brave, and turn to him. He's a little closer, but not cloyingly so. He smiles, brightly and kindly, that calculating side of him washed away. "There you are."

"Sorry," you apologize. "I’m just nervous."

"That's alright, we'll take things slow. We can stop and be done at any point, okay?"

You nod, only a little assured. "... And you won't take too much?"

"No, no. promise. I've got good self-control, no need to worry about that. Though, you may be dizzy and a little nauseous regardless, but that's what I pre-poured that tonic for."

Ah, it's nice that he's so prepared. You appreciate his thoughtfulness. It puts you a little more at ease.

"Okay." you say, sounding smaller than you mean. "Thank you."

"Of course." his thumb rubs circles on your knee. "Would you prefer to have me drink from you here, or in bed?"

Ah, bed. The room feels like a parlor, but there is a queen sized mattress in a sub-room, just feet away. It's more hidden from the room’s entrance than the couch. You're exposed here. But, the bed itself is on a four poster frame with gossamer drapery. The sheets look fine and soft. It feels like a more... intimate setting. 

"Can you choose?" you reply.

Isagi looks... contented at that, almost like he's breathing a sigh of relief. You feel similarly. You don't know if it's presumptuous to want him to take the reins on this experience at this point, but whatever silly little plan you constructed prior feels more and more frail each second. 

"Of course. I'll take the lead." He says. "Let’s stay here and get comfortable. 

You nod— that's more than fine. A couch feels less like you're about to fuck than the plush-looking bed.

Isagi shifts. "Trust me from here, okay?"

You nod again, a little dumbly as he moves closer. In a flash of motion, all vampiric speed, he is kneeling on the ground before you. He taps your knees and you spread them without thinking. He shuffles closer and you can feel heat rising in your cheeks.

"Herr Isagi—"

"Trust me, remember?" He braces his hands on the inside of your knees, sliding them to your thighs, kneading the tense muscle.

You swallow audibly. Isagi's gaze shifts from the give of your thighs to your throat in an instant. He swallows too. He must be— he must be thirsty.

His touch moves on from thighs. His hands ghost to your wrists, squeezing, before tracking up your arms. He rises from his kneel to a more upright position on his knees. Like this, he's a little taller than you. It’s a good vantage. You look to your lap, unable to meet his eyes, whether they are pitying or hungry.

His fingers tips brush over your collarbones. You shiver.

He drags the backs of his fingernails around your jaw, lingering there. Back and forth, with a rhythm that's gentle, almost musical. He does it long enough that your pulse stops racing quite so quickly. You dare to look at Isagi directly.

He’s— pretty. He really is. His jaw is sharp but his cheeks are soft, especially for a vampire. His hair looks soft too, like it would be nice to put your hands in and musse up. His teeth are white, his canines sharp and a little too long, in that unnatural way that vampires are. Your throat bobs.

"Not so bad, right?"

You nod and Isagi looks pleased. He looks kind now. You understand why he is placed with new auctors like yourself. You’re unsure that most vampires would take so much time with their meal, ensuring their comfort in this particular way, so intentionally. 

His palms cup your cheeks. He's cold to the touch. Not like metal left in snow, he's better fed than that, but still too chilled to be human.

"Just relax for me," Isagi says softly, hushed, barely loud enough to hear.

His eyes are all soft-polished lapis, deep in hue like how an old sea is on a calm day. You feel— absorbed by them. The color is in your throat, smooth and cool, but warming too, somehow. Like a heavy blanket. You feel your eyelids droop.

You feel like you're being pulled and pulled and pulled—

Belatedly, you realize that this is his thrall. Panic climbs in your throat.

It’s unnatural for a human to accept a thrall. For how many tens of thousands of years has falling prey to such a sensation meant certain death? There are some twitchy impulses that can't be quelled with gentle words, and this is apparently one of them.

You push where there is pull. You tense where you’re urged to loosen. You blink, rapidly, tears forming in your eyes.

Isagi shushes you, thumbing over your cheeks. "Don't fight it, love. It’ll only make this harder."

You can't nod, you're too ensnared for that. You whimper instead, mouth falling open like you're going to speak, but how could you? The world is glassy, far too smooth to hold onto. The thing pulling you back and back and away from your panic is so warm and inviting. Like a blanket of calm against your own maelstrom. It’s so lovely that it’s disquieting. 

You choke and jolt away, but Isagi's grip doesn't waver. He tightens his hold on your face, following your motion.

"Don't resist it, dear. I promise, it'll be alright. Just let go."

No. You shouldn't. The bulb of a brain at the top of your spine ignites like a spark on brush. You warble out some helpless sound, eyes stinging. You can't make out Isagi's expression, your vision is ringed at the edges, hazy in the center.

You do feel Isagi brush a thumb under your eye. "Be good and relax, I know you can."

Be good, be good, be good. 

His words hit like a sedative directly into your veins. A noise gets caught in the back of your throat, and the pull feels easier to acquiesce too. The rigidity in you collapses like wobbly stones stacked atop one and other.

Isagi swoops you up. You dully feel yourself settled against the back of the couch. The weight of the pillow in your lap is suddenly gone. 

"There we go." Isagi sounds so soothing. He's so warm-sounding, so easy to sink into. He smells nice, too. He did earlier, but you hardly made note of it. Now, his cologne is like a pleasantly-scented cloud that you're misted with.

His hands don't leave your face, you don't think so any way, but there's a shift of... something. Your vision is darker and for a moment, you think you've closed your eyes without meaning to. Thinking is hard, so difficult. It takes you a moment, and a weight settling over your thighs, to realize it's Isagi who has moved, eclipsing the light of the room.

His thighs are sturdy around your own, another heat source. Pleasant warmth begins to feel a little hotter, like the burn of liquor on the back of your tongue, sinking into you.

"You're doing so well, not fighting me at all." Isagi's voice is sweet and sticky like honey stirred into tea. It soothes any burn. You want to cling to it, get stuck in it and never move. "Just take what I give you from here, and you'll do well."

You can't nod, wordlessly or otherwise, anymore. Your hands twitch at your sides. You wish you could grab him, but you don't trust your body to respond to your thoughts in your intended way.

Isagi's hair brushes your neck— it is soft. His lips ghost along the line of your throat. You jump with the pressure, even thralled. A little noise escapes you, watery in your ears.

"So sensitive." His voice is so close. You're going to drown in it. "You are fresh. And you smell so wonderful."

You feel him inhale against your skin. It feels indulgent of him, but you’re not in any place to refuse his greed, nor would you want to. Isagi presses his lips firmly against your throat. The pressure is dull, but there. So soft, too. His lips are soft. He really is so soft, especially for a vampire.

He  keeps his lips on you, dotting them from spot to spot. You could almost call it kissing. Maybe it is— if you weren't thralled, maybe you could tell definitively. Instead, it's all a wash of sensation. Heated and lovely and warm warm warm.

"You'll feel a little pressure, then you should feel good, maybe really good, if you're lucky." Isagi whispers. "Keep being good for me."

It's less of a request, more of a command. Your mind is too slow to catch all of the intention behind it though, especially as Isagi's jaws loosens and you feel two points against your throat.

Ah—

He bites.

His fangs sink into you. Beneath the thrall, it's a wash of sensation. Heat, a tinge of a sharpness that's balmed by a gentle suck almost immediately. It's hard— hard to catch all his motions. You think he removes his fangs from the wound and pulls away a little, just enough to fit his mouth over the punctures and suck.

That you feel, vibrantly beneath the thrall.

It's good. It's good, it's good, it's good— you're lost in how pleasurable it feels to have him sucking at the wound on your neck. There's a weight on your hips, holding you down, but still you arch into him, you feel yourself do it. Isagi gives a longer, deeper suck, a wet noise echoing into your ear. It doesn't disguise the groan from him that follows. Isagi shudders, you think. Or maybe, you're just vibrating where you sit.

He drinks to his heart's content. You're lost in the sensation of him, taking his fill of you with each slippery noise that slips from the seam of his mouth and the fragile skin of your neck. It’s— it's hot. It's so hot and not just in the way your skin is lighting on fire where he touches. It’s molten in a way that sends liquid desire pooling between your thighs.

You’re not sure how, but you managed to raise your hands. One grabs his sweater vest at his back, the other lands shakily into his hair. You don't intend to tug, but you do, holding him there. He outright moans into your skin.

You can't tell if it's him who rocks forward into your center, or you who grinds up into his.

Isagi pauses.

He isn't sucking anymore, just holding his mouth over the wound, inhaling and exhaling with enough force to feel like a strong gale. He's scenting you through his mouth, maybe? You heard most vampires can do that, like how cats do.

"Fuck." Isagi curses, pulling himself back.

You whine at the loss, at the way the heat retreats aside from the weight around your thighs and the hand of his that's still on your cheek.

"I have to," Isagi pants a little, "play it safe, baby. Can't take too much."

He hasn't taken too much, you want to tell him. He can have as much as he wants. He can drown on you, on all the blood from your veins that he wants. He can take and take and you'll give and give and give. You’d let him crush you down, even, for him to consume in your entirety.

He rubs over your cheek, settling back over your thighs.

The haze subsides, but the heat remains.

Your head is tilted to the side, you realize. It’s a better angle for him, but you hadn't even noticed that you'd been arranged in such a way. You blink, slow and unsteadily. Your chest is rising and falling in a way that almost hurts in its intensity. The side of your neck is wet. Isagi brings up something to hold against the wound there. It's soft, high quality linen. When you attempt to get a better look at him, not even moving your head, just your line of sight, your vision swims without any pleasant warmth.

You whimper behind your teeth and clamp your eyes shut. Dizziness rocks you, like you've drank too much yourself.

"Light-headed." Isagi says, rather than asks. He stretches and grabs the chalice with tonic. "I’m putting a few drops of my blood in it to help the bite clot, okay?"

Fear shoots through you, all animal again. "Noo—"

"Shh, it's okay." Isagi holds the cup, so cold, against your lips. You’re so cold, aren’t you? In your flesh. "I would need to take a lot more blood from you and feed you significantly more of mine to trigger any change."

You choose to trust him, if only because he is Bastard Point’s second, and making a fledging of fresh blood would reflect poorly on him in a multitude of ways. He tilts the glass, just enough for you to get a reasonable mouthful of the tonic. It's metallic on your tongue, like you're licking a coin or a rod of grey metal. You grimace.

"It tastes bad, I know, but it'll help you to feel better. Bear it just a little longer." Isagi urges you.

You take only two more mouthfuls before you, painfully, wrench your head away from it. You still feel dizzy. However, there is something grounding about the cloth on your neck and Isagi's weight over you. Still on your thighs, in your lap— still holding you down and preventing you from collapsing away.

Isagi seems content with your consumption and busies himself with patching up the side of your neck. He carefully tilts your head forward once he does. The gauze and medical tape adhered to your skin feel far less nice than his careful touch.

You open your eyes, finally.

Isagi looks— ravished on top of you, really. He's still panting still. Your blood is smeared around his mouth, like he got a little messy during the feed and barely had time to wipe it away before tending to you. His own chest is heaving a little. You— you think you see a vague outline of something in his trousers. You don't linger there for long, but still blush rises in your cheeks.

"It's— normal." He attempts to excuse. You know this, you read about it online. Vampire feeding usually results in arousal for the vampire, a product of blood entering the vampire's body and going to the parts— all parts— where it regularly belongs and has been deprived of.

"S'okay." you slur. God, you're tired, actually. Fatigue settles like lead in your bone marrow. You blink up at Isagi slowly. "Did I taste good?"

You know the answer, but maybe, since Isagi's fed on you and some pretenses can be dropped after such an affair, you feel a little bolder.

Isagi must notice, his eyes narrow and he grins. "You tasted lovely."

"Did... Did you take too much?"

"No, you'll be alright." He assures you. He climbs off your lap. You mourn the loss of him as your hands fall heavily to your side. You try and brace yourself to push up off the couch and follow him as he flits off, but you almost immediately crumple back down—

Isagi has an arm wrapped around your waist before you can even blink. That unnatural speed of his jars you, all you can do is blink at him. He furrows his brow, looking more concerned than upset.

"You need to move slowly, you're going to feel ill for a while. Let me fetch you a blanket, alright?"

Half of you wants to ask if Isagi would help you hobble to the bed across the room, but the couch is much closer, and not that uncomfortable. You don't think he spilled any blood on it either, though you assume that's a common casualty given the nature of your suite.

You relent and lay down on your side on the couch, your beloved throw pillow finally serving its intended purpose. You close your eyes once more. Your vision still feels a little rocky, and it's easier to manage in darkness. You understand why Bastard's Point keeps its lighting so minimal even when there are plenty of humans in its halls. It's far easier to cope with the lingering effects of vampire saliva and blood loss in the dim lighting.

A heavy blanket is settled over you. It's soft and knit, you can tell. It smells nice, like a good, herbal detergent. You know that some blood houses focus on cleanliness above all, and make a point to keep their halls smelling like the alcohol and other cleaning agents they use. You appreciate that Bastard's Point does not. It feels more homey. Even  if that homey feeling comes from a building in the shape of a gothic fortress.

A hand slides into your hair, rubbing over your hairline gently. You crack your eyes open to Isagi kneeling, once more, beside the couch. He looks more settled, clean around the mouth and boyish all over. There's a flush in his cheeks and his eyes don't seem to vacuous anymore. He needed a good meal, clearly.

"How long do we have the room?" You ask.

"As long as we'd like. We don't rush off humans after a feed, especially not fresh ones, like you. We don't want you stumbling out onto the street half-drained."

"I suppose it would be a bad look for the coven." You sigh.

"Well, that, and," Isagi chooses his words carefully. "We’re selective with our stock, here. We'd rather have happy humans who are frequent auctors within our walls, rather than a larger catalogue who are less well kept that are here less regularly."

"Hence all the vetting?"

"That’s part of it, yes." Isagi nods. He scratches the back of your neck. You feel a bit like a pet kitty, but you don't tell him to stop. You wonder if a thrall has any lingering effects. You feel— too shy to ask, now. You’ll comb some forums when you get home.

"That makes sense." you let your eyes drift shut again. Blood loss still has you feeling off kilter. You want to rest and not move. "Will you leave?"

"Right now?"

"Yes."

"No, no. I like to make sure whoever I feed from is on their own two feet with bright eyes before I depart. I'll walk you to the main doors too."

"Thank you."

"It's the least I can do." You dare say that Isagi sounds a little indignant. "How did it feel for you?"

"... Being fed on?"

He hums an affirmative. 

You shift deeper into the blanket and a roll of nausea hits you again, but it subsides quickly. "It wasn't so scary, once the, uh, thrall hit. I'm sorry I fought you to get there."

"It's alright." There's a notable pause. He sounds softened. "It's only natural."

"I suppose." you don't disagree. You wonder if relenting to a thrall's gravity gets easier. "Otherwise, it was... good. It felt good. Does it always feel that good?"

"Depends." Isagi covers what could only be a delighted laugh. "On the vampire and their flavor of thrall. And the auctor themselves."

“It varies that much?”

“Indeed.”

"Have you been given such rave reviews before?"

"Like I said, they give newbies to me for a reason."

It reminds you that Isagi is... a 'starter' of sorts. Next time you come in, two weeks from now per your contract, you will more than likely be assigned to a different vampire, unless Isagi requests you specifically. Based on what you were told by the initial attendant and Isagi himself, it doesn't seem like something he really does.

"Sad," you say, words round in your mouth and misshapen. "I’d like to see you again."

(You want to feel that good again.)

(There is a specific clause in your contract that clears consensual intercourse around a feeding if desires are made known--)

"Who says you won't?"

"Mister newbie, the vampire in front of me, I think." You force your eyes open and flash him a smile. "I’ll be alright, I'm sure."

Your eyelids are so heavy. They close again and Isagi doesn't reply. But, his hand doesn't leave your hair, not until it tracks lower. Over your shoulders, to your back, where he rubs and scratches. It feels good, even if the sensation prickles a little bit as your body remembers itself and its blood, piece by piece.

A quiet envelops the room. The only sounds are the ambient ones from the building itself. The distant sound of voices and the thrum of footsteps on the polished stone floors that lay the castle. There's maybe a drip from the sink across the room. Isagi doesn't stop petting you. You don’t want him to. 

Isagi interrupts the quiet with a conviction that makes your heart drop and leap, all at once.

"Nothing bars me from taking what I want." Isagi says. His tone forces you to look at him. He's closer than before, pupils large and eclipsing. "And you tasted very good, you know that?"

You swallow, your throat dry and your mouth tasting like the replenishing tonic.

"So you say."

Isagi leans forward, nosing into your cheek. You let him, lacking any thrall.

“I mean it." Isagi’s lips drag a path that's hot like fresh embers. “And I'm at liberty to take another taste if I should request you, aren’t I?”

"I suppose you are."

And whether you mean too, or it's some animal in you that's been warped by a single feeding, you bare your throat to him. You hear his breath catch. And though he doesn't dare to bite you in your condition, you know that he watches your jumping pulse with nothing but interest, desire—

And the undying hunger that only an undying being can have.

[mononijikayu]

you know i’m no good — higuruma hiromi.

“I sat on your lap.” you say, as if presenting evidence. His gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes, you did.” “You got hard, didn’t you?” The bluntness would have shattered a lesser man. Hiromi’s jaw tightens. He bites the inside of his cheek, a habit you remember from years ago. The physical act of swallowing words he refuses to let exist. “You already know that.” he says.

GENRE: alternate universe - modern au;

WARNING/S: r18, angst, explicit, smut, romance, fluff young love, exes to lovers, second chance romance, divorce, toxic relationship, slandering, pet names, complicated, protective, possessiveness, mutual pining, cursing, crossing boundaries rekindled romance, emotional baggage, whirlwind romance, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, reputation, scandal, trauma, smoking, cheating, alcohol, explicit sexual content, naked bodies, office sex, desk sex, oral sex, female receiving oral, fingering, creampie, morning after, p v sex, different sexual positions, rough sex, dominance, praising, dirty talk, size difference, unprotected sex, pregnancy, remarriage, actress! reader, lawyer! higuruma;

WORDS: 16k words.

NOTE: this got delayed yesterday because i didn't think it was okay and now here we are with such a long fic......but thats okay i guess, since today is valentines day anyway. that being the case, i hope everyone has a good valentines day. i have nothing to do and no one to spend it with, but im glad im able to give yall something to make you all have some enjoyment with me!!! anyway, i'll see you for nanami's tomorrow. i love you all!!! happy valentines!!!

main masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

buono san valentino, 2026;

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” was the first thing he says to you after all these years, and you can’t pretend you didn’t expect it. He has always been brutally honest. Even back then, he had been too quick to strip a moment down to its barest truth, no matter how it cuts. You did not expect anything other than that now.

Even so, the question lands quieter than he means it to, the edges worn rough by disuse. He sounds like a man unused to speaking your name, to shaping words meant only for you. It almost felt like something so foreign to the tongue that mastered it all.

And despite himself, he leans toward the warmth that lingers in your proximity. Once, you had an open door, it was as though spring was waiting on the other side. And it frustrates him to no end. He thought he had left that all behind. 

Yet, how wrong he was. For you were just waiting, waiting in what felt like a door sealed for years and years, now forced open all at once with your tender palms, letting that same youthful season rush back into his life whether he wants it or not.

Divorce lawyer Higuruma Hiromi no longer resembles the man who used to fall asleep on open law books and wake with ink smudged across his cheek in your dormitory late Friday night, clumsily whispering what he had learned even in his sleep. 

He was the man who argued with every footnote, who treated precedent like holy scripture, and yet, the same man who still let you doodle in the margins of his case files because, he said, the law should remember it was written by human hands. 

Hands soft enough, you used to joke, to strangle him gently every night with such passionate conundrums that can rival every argument in the law books. You had giggled at that thought so viciously, almost so innocently, unsure about what he was saying. Yet you were no fool. And neither was he.

Now he looks like a verdict.

And you expected that, too.

Ten years have carved themselves into him. 

His tie hangs loose, collar unbuttoned, his body folded into a leather accent chair that probably costs more than your first apartment. You could remember, the one with the flickering kitchen light and the neighbor who played ballads at two in the morning.

The office is dim, lit only by the city bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows. Tokyo Metropolitan could only hum with humble extravagance beneath you both. The neon blazing, sirens wailing, headlights crawling like arteries carrying the restless.

He looks tired to you. But not the soft kind that invites sympathy. Not the kind you once soothed with cheap takeout and your feet in his lap while he read passages you pretended to understand, pouting as his fingers drifted absently through your hair.

This is a different exhaustion.

The kind that calcifies into bone.

You think in some ways he did not change at all.

You lean against the doorframe like you own the building. As though you had the right to own the night. You stand there daringly, as though the tabloids haven’t spent three weeks dissecting your marriage like carrion birds. 

Each and every time, they foolishly, cleverly, disgustingly followed you about. They were picking up the spectacle of your smile, your rings, the way your husband stopped touching you in public months before anyone noticed. You were sure they’re writing about this moment now.

You take a drag of your cigarette, slow and deliberate. "Haven't you heard?” you whisper, blowing the nicotine into the room, a smirk curving your mouth like a blade. “I’m getting divorced.”

The smoke curls between you like a dare. It was like the ghost of every almost-confession you both buried under timing, under unruly, shameless pride. Under the simple cruelty of choosing other people. People who offered advances, advances that Hiromi could not offer to you. 

He exhales through his nose, long and measured, as if filing the statement under expected disasters. Of course you would arrive like this. Of course you would burn your life down and come to him for the ashes, to feed it to him until he was choking in it.

“Well, congratulations.” he whispers back, starting to straighten, vertebra by vertebra, as though assembling himself for court. He finally meets your eyes. “What do you want me to do about it, [name]?”

The way he says your name in that flat, careful, tone sends shivers down your spine. It was like evidence he refuses to mishandle words and tones he chooses with intent to underpin the other party. You let the smoke enthrall you whole, for the childish feeling comes and goes, his words  land harder than the headlines.

You push off the doorframe. “Well, one simple thing, really.”

He raises a brow, that same precise arc that once dismantled a witness in under three questions. “And that is?”

You step fully into the office, heels silent on polished wood. The city lights catch on your fine gold rings, your glistening watch, the immaculate tailoring of a suit chosen to look effortless and cost a fortune. Armor, tailored. War paint in neutral tones, the red lipstick sharper than anything man had ever known.

“Settle my divorce.” you whisper, mirth flickering in your eyes like something dangerously close to relief. “And destroy my husband.”

Silence.

A long, echoing, courtroom kind of silence echoes in the room. The kind where truth stands up slowly, adjusts its cuffs, and prepares to ruin everyone and everything in its path.  His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps.

“……Are you fucking kidding me?”

The laugh breaks out of you before you can stop it. Almost too bright and unrestrained Something that sounded more reckless than a confession to a murder. But you were certain that it was more authentic than anything you had let out in these ten years.

You think that you had portrayed so many people that you found yourself unsure what sort of laugh you truly had now. And it would seem that this is all that was left. After playing the part of a happy wife, there was nothing left but this. This grating, irritating, disgusting guttural laugh  of a pitiful woman like you. 

You cross to his desk, set the cigarette into his ash bowl like you’ve done it a thousand times before. He watches your every move, eyes dilated. It was like the years between never existed, Everything about it felt like muscle memory to you. 

In that instant, it was as if it could resurrect entire versions of yourselves that never got to live, versions of yourselves that had long been forgotten. Yet it did not come naturally. Instead, it came in a cage. Before he can move, you close the distance and sit squarely on his lap.

His entire body goes rigid.

Not with desire.

At least not yet.

With restraint.

“[name], this is—”

“Why not?” you murmur, fingers sliding up his tie, smoothing the crooked knot, the gesture intimate in a way that has nothing to do with skin. “Can't the best divorce lawyer get me out of this trouble?”

His massive hands, those massive familiar hands that were once all over you, now hover in the air beside you, suspended between instinct and refusal. Almost as though he’s forgotten what they’re for. 

Almost like the law has finally presented him with a case he cannot argue without perjuring his own heart. Almost like the act of touching you is a crime he’s already been convicted of, and a crime he cannot know if he wants to flee or stay for.

His voice, when it comes, is lower. Far too careful for its own good.  “You don’t need a lawyer to destroy your husband.” he says to you. “You married him, you were with him for ten years. Certainly as his wife, you already know where he’s weakest.”

A beat.

A frown.

He expected that.

“And you…..” he adds, eyes searching yours with a precision that used to feel like safety. “You don’t come to me unless you’re already bleeding.”

Your smile falters, just for a second. A crack in the verdict. “Do you find that insulting?”

“No.” He says far too quickly than he should. “I find it foolish. But then again, foolish decisions are the antithesis of the better.”

He still hasn’t touched you.

And that, somehow, is the most intimate thing of all.

Your fingers remain at his tie, smoothing a crease that no longer exists. A nervous habit masquerading as control. Up close, you can see the faint shadow along his jaw where he forgot to shave, the tiny scar near his chin from the time he slipped on courthouse steps during a downpour and laughed while you scolded him for bleeding on legal documents.

He doesn’t laugh anymore.

At least not as he used to.

Not to you, most especially.

“Get off.” he says quietly.

Not harsh. 

Not pleading.

Judicial.

You tilt your head, studying him like you’re trying to remember the exact moment he stopped being yours to ruin. “You used to like it when I ignored your instructions.” you murmur.

His eyes flicker somewhere. Not to your mouth, not to your hands but to the window behind you, to the city lights smeared across the glass like fingerprints. He’s looking for distance. For precedent. For anything that isn’t you, warm and breathing and sitting in his lap like a closing argument he cannot object to.

“That was before you decided to marry up for the contacts.”

There it is.

Not jealousy. Not accusation.

A fact entered into record.

“I told you that was my managers—”

“Well certainly you still did it.” he whispers to you, his eyes intently away from you. “Just because you did it with someone else’s intentions, does not mean it was not your actions.”

You inhale, slow. The cigarette smoke clinging to your hair mixes with the clean, dry scent of his office. paper, leather, something faintly medicinal. He has built a life that does not require you. You can feel it in the geometry of the room. Everything was too precise, too deliberate, ever so impersonal.

And yet you are here. 

On his lap, like you used to be.

Disrupting the symmetry.

“Still….I didn’t come here for nostalgia.” you say.

“Good to know.” he replies. “because i don’t practice it.”

But his hands are still hovering.

Not pushing you away.

Not pulling you closer.

Waiting for a ruling.

You lean in just enough that your forehead almost touches his. Your voice drops, stripped of performance. “He’s going to bury me.”

The confession lands between you like broken glass. You feel it in the way his breath changes. It was a quiet hitch, quickly suppressed. In the way his fingers curl slightly, like muscle memory trying to remember the shape of your waist and stopping just short of treason.

“Financially?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No, he can’t steal my money. That’s secure, in some way.”

“Then in what way?”

“Reputation. Custody of everything, of my pets. Everything that can’t be itemized.” you say to him. “And….you know that he’s a big shot in the industry. He’s going to make sure I never get roles or work again.”

His eyes sharpen. The lawyer is back now. At that moment, you were not with a man. You were with a sphinx. This version of him is dangerous in a different way. He was focused and surgical, merciless to systems and the people who weaponize them against everyone else. He knew best how to do it. You know that too well.

“Did he hit you?” he asks.

The question is so blunt it knocks the air from your lungs. “No.”

A pause.

“He didn’t have to.” you whisper, your eyes lowering. “He can’t use me if he breaks my face.”

Something in his expression fractures. At least not outwardly, not enough for anyone else to notice. But you see it. You’ve always seen the microcracks first. The tightening at the corners of his eyes, the way his molars press together when he’s holding back fury that has nowhere to go.

His hands finally move.

At least not to hold you.

To grip the arms of the chair.

Control, reasserted.

“Get off my lap, [name].” he says again, softer now. “Go on and sit like a client.”

You search his face for a trace of the man who once let you steal his fries and his sleep and his carefully constructed boundaries. You find him. He’s the one refusing to touch you. You pursed your lips in a tight line.

Slowly, you slide off his lap. The loss of contact is immediate, a draft where warmth used to be. You take the chair across from him, almost like a stranger in that client’s chair. A little further, a little lower. Deliberately so. The distance is obscene.

He adjusts his tie where you smoothed it, fingers lingering for half a second too long. He was starting to reset. No, he was certainly doing more than that. He was armoring. “Go on and start from the beginning.”

You almost laugh. There are too many beginnings. The first lie. The first headline. The first time your husband introduced you as if you were an acquisition. The first time you realized love, in his hands, was a transaction with better lighting on the sound stage.

Hiromi Higuruma listened to the details of your life he had not been privy of with focus. He tried to settle himself in that role of an outsider, as a lawyer and not that man he was. Not the man he still was who gets angry, emotionally overblown when it comes to you.

“He filed first.” you say to him, a second cigarette now on your lips. “It was a sealed motion. Allegations I can’t respond to without violating the injunction.”

His brows knit. "On what grounds?”

“Irreconcilable differences, apparently.” you say, a humorless smile ghosting your mouth. “And with such audacity, moral instability.”

Silence once more.

He sits more straight.

Then, very quietly, he repeats it.

 “Moral instability.”

You nod. “Yes.”

“He has photos. Messages taken out of context. Staff willing to testify to things they were paid to misunderstand.” Your fingers lace together in your lap to stop them from shaking. “He’s building a narrative against me. I’m the unfaithful, erratic wife. He’s the patient, dignified husband forced to protect his legacy.”

“And the truth?” he asks.

You hold his gaze.

“I was lonely and I was isolated.” you say with such a morose look. “And he knew it. He orchestrated it… No one could be my friend, or my confidant unless he approved of them. How could I….I could be the one at fault if he’s doing this to me?”

The admission sits heavy in the room. Not infidelity. Not denial. Just the small, devastating truth of neglect. His jaw flexes again. This time he doesn’t look away. “Do you want to win this case?” he asks softly. “Or do you want to survive?”

The question startles you. “Aren’t they the same?”

“No.” His voice is iron. “Winning is a spectacle. Surviving is silence. The law can give you one, it takes good framing. But of course, your choices determine the other.”

Outside, Tokyo Metropolitan’s lights flicker as if the city itself is holding its breath. You lean back in the chair, studying the man across from you as smoke releases from your lips. This was the one you didn’t choose, the one you left, the one who still looks at you like you are both evidence and wounded.

“I want him to never do this to anyone again.” you say to him more honestly. “For him to pay for every bit of those ten years.”

You did not beat around the bush. You said something colder. Something far more cleaner in the dirt you surround yourself with. His eyes soften even more, perhaps just a fraction. But it was echoing with approval. Still every bit of him seemed reluctant. Yet ever so ready to be dangerous.

“Then we don’t destroy him.” he says in reply. “Instead, we document him.”

“Document him?”

“You have the money to drag it along. Why not? Let's make the truth so boringly precise…..” he adds as he narrows his gaze. “That no one can look away.”

Your throat tightens. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed someone to believe you without spectacle. “Does this mean….you’ll take the case?” you ask.

He studies you for a long moment. He was not searching for who you were, but measuring who you’ve become against the cost of letting you stand here again. Many things rush in his head, things he could not comprehend yet, things that he cannot say yet. But he does not move. Nor does he speak.

The office is too quiet once more. Even the city feels distant, muffled by glass and altitude. He looks at you like a man standing at the edge of a familiar cliff, aware of exactly how far the fall goes because he survived it once.

“There are a dozen reasons to refuse you.” he says at last.

Your chest tightens, but you hold his gaze. “And?”

His jaw shifts. “None of them change the outcome.”

You don’t breathe. “Is that so?”

“This is a conflict of interest, between us.” he says.

Your stomach drops anyway. The words are procedural, expected and still they land like loss. “Then—”

He doesn’t look away. “I have prior…involvement.”

Your laugh comes out thin. “We dated in our twenties, Hiromi. You’re not going to lose your license over bad timing and worse decisions.”

“That’s not the involvement I’m referring to.”

The air changes. Perhaps not in the way you would have expected. It came so quietly. There was nothing dramatic about it. There was no thunderclap, no cinematic revelation. Instead, it was just a subtle pressure shift, like a courtroom before a verdict is read.

You go very still. He wasn’t talking about who you used to be to each other. He’s talking about the way his voice lowers when he says your name. About how his hands refused to touch you, certainly not because he didn’t want to, but because he did.

Hiromi cannot let it be. He lets it fester, especially about the fact that you came here first, before the statements, before the damage control, before the world could tell you what your marriage was worth. Your pulse trips over itself.

“Are you refusing me?” you ask, quieter now.

He leans forward, forearms resting on the desk. Not close enough to touch. Close enough that you can see the faint crease between his brows, the one that only appears when he’s choosing restraint over instinct.

“No, not really.” he says. “I’m…merely setting terms.”

“Terms?” you repeat, tasting the word.

His gaze flicks briefly to your left hand. Your expensive ring is still there, still gleaming under city light like a lie with excellent marketing. Then it lifts and returns to your eyes. You could feel your heart skip a beat.

“If I take this case, [name]...you know what I’ll do.” he says, each word placed with deliberate care, “I will dismantle him. Methodically. Publicly if necessary. There will be no ambiguity when it’s over. No narrative he can hide behind.”

The promise is not cruel.

It is precise.

It was why he was good.

“And when it’s done….” he continues, softer now, “There will be nothing left tying you to him. Not legally. Not socially. Not in the quiet spaces where people pretend vows still echo.”

Your throat tightens. “I know.”

“But you don’t walk out of that clean.” he adds.

You blink. “What?”

His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.“You don’t get to burn your life down and pretend you’re untouched by the smoke. If I do this, you lose the version of yourself that survived by smiling beside him. You lose the safety of being misunderstood.”

A pause. 

“And you don’t come back here….” he finishes quietly to you. “Unless you’re prepared for the possibility that I will ask for something you can’t litigate.”

The words settle between you, heavier than any threat could be. It is not a threat. But it certainly wasn't a confession either. It’s a door that was closed, but not locked. It was with the understanding that opening it will cost you both the illusion of restraint.

“I sat on your lap.” you say, as if presenting evidence.

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes, you did.”

“You got hard, didn’t you?”

The bluntness would have shattered a lesser man. Hiromi’s jaw tightens. He bites the inside of his cheek, a habit you remember from years ago. The physical act of swallowing words he refuses to let exist.

“You already know that.” he says.

No denial.

No apology.

Just a fact.

You turn away first, not in retreat but in consideration, letting the cigarette die in the porcelain ashtray. The ember collapses inward, a soft surrender. Smoke curls up, thin and fading, like the last excuse either of you had.

When you face him again, you don’t return to the client’s chair.

You close the distance.

Slowly at first.

More animalistic now.

More deliberately.

You kneel in front of him. Not submission, not performance, but proximity stripped of pretense. The city light spills across the polished floor, catches in your hair, turns your eyes bright in a way he hasn’t seen in years. Not since before careful smiles and strategic silences replaced whatever this was.

Hiromi’s throat tightens. You see it in the movement of his swallow, in the way his fingers flex once against the arm of the chair before going still again, as if he’s afraid of what they’ll do if he lets them move.

“I thought about finding you again.” you say softly. “Years ago. Even when I was married.”

The admission lands like a dropped glass. It was not loud, but irreversible. His brow furrows. “Was I meant to be your secret, then?”

You shake your head immediately. “No. Never that.”

Your lips curve. Perhaps not into a smirk, not into cruelty but into something tired and honest. “You would’ve been as visible as his mistress.” you say. “An open scandal. No shadows to hide in.”

He exhales, a quiet, disbelieving sound. “Then why didn’t you?”

You look down at your hands, at the faint tremor you can no longer disguise as poise. “Because I wanted to believe I was better than him….That if I stayed, endured, kept choosing the respectable ruin, I could pretend I took the higher ground.”

Silence stretches between you. 

Not empty nor was it depraved.

Instead, it was full of the lives you didn’t live.

“But I’m lucky, aren’t I?” you add, lifting your gaze back to him. “Now I don’t have to pretend.”

Your hands come to rest lightly against his thighs. You were not grasping, not pulling. Your palms were simply there, the contact almost formal in its restraint. You feel the tension in him, coiled and controlled, the rigid discipline of a man who has built his entire life on not reaching for what he wants.

“And besides….you know I’m no good.” you smiled at him. “But still….you want me anyway.”

“[name], you shouldn’t—” he begins.

You huff a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. Your other hand settles opposite the first, mirroring the contact, a balance he cannot misinterpret as accidental. “Let me make it up to you, Hiromi. Let me love you.”

Hiromi’s hot breath catches in his throat as your hands settle on his thighs. The contact is light, almost innocent, but the implications are anything but. He swallows hard, his eyes locked on yours as he tries to process your words.

"You don't know what you're offering to me, [name]." he says hoarsely. "What I want from you." His hands twitch, hovering just above your shoulders as if he's fighting the urge to pull you closer. 

"I've waited too long for this. If we start down this path, I won't be gentle. I won't hold back." He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "I'll take everything you're willing to give and then some. Are you sure this is what you want?"

His voice is low and intense, filled with a hunger that has been building for years. You could feel your heart beating harder and harder against your chest second by second. You meet his gaze steadily, your own eyes filled with a determination that matches his intensity.

"I'm sure." you say quietly to the man you left ten years ago. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life. "You lean in closer, your lips brushing against his as you speak. "Take me, Hiromi. Take everything I have to offer. I'm yours."

Your words are like a match to gasoline, igniting the desire that has been simmering between you for so long. Higuruma Hiromi's control snaps. With a growl, he pulls you onto his lap, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he kisses you with a ferocity that steals your breath.

He stands abruptly, lifting you easily as if you weigh nothing. He carries you to his desk, sweeping the papers and books onto the floor with a single swipe of his arm. He sets you down on the edge of the desk, stepping between your legs as he continues to ravage your mouth with kisses.

Hiromi’s big hands roam over your body, squeezing and kneading your flesh through the fabric of your clothes. He tugs impatiently at your shirt, popping buttons in his haste to bare your skin to his hungry gaze.

He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the swell of your breasts, his tongue darting out to taste the soft skin. His fingers hook into the waistband of your dress skirt, pushing it up around your hips as he steps closer, pressing his hardness against your core.

You can feel the heat of him even through the layers of clothing, and it sends a shiver down your spine. Hiromi’s cold lips trail up your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. He finds a particularly tender spot and bites down hard enough to leave a mark.

"You’ve decided but I decided on something too…." he growls against your flesh. "The only payment I’m taking is you.”

Your eyes widen at his words, a mixture of shock and arousal coursing through you. A while ago he was ruminating with the past, with the spring of your youths and the distance that was left behind. Yet it was as if the door had been fully opened. 

The implication is clear. 

He's not interested in money or any other form of payment. The only thing he wants is you. After a decade, it was still you he wanted. Even when you had abandoned him and made his life a misery and lonely desert, he still wants you to blossom in it. 

Your heart races as you consider the implications. This is more than just a one-night stand or a fleeting affair, you were aware of this. This is Higurama Hiromi, your ex-boyfriend, the lawyer you just acquired to defend you in your divorce, was now claiming you as his own, demanding your complete surrender.

"And if I refuse?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Hiromi chuckles darkly, his hand sliding up your thigh and beneath your dress skirt. "Then I'll just have to convince you otherwise." he says, his fingers brushing against the lace of your panties. "I can be very persuasive when I want to be. And I want you.  More than anything."

His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging them aside as he seeks out your most intimate flesh. You couldn’t help but release a gasp as he finds your clit, circling it with a gentle touch that sends shockwaves of pleasure through you.

"See how wet you are for me already?" he murmurs to you. "Your body knows who it belongs to, even if your mind is still resisting." He slips a finger inside you, pumping slowly as his thumb continues to tease your clit. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me to take you right here on my desk. I need to hear you say it."

His voice is low and commanding, leaving no room for doubt. He's not going to stop until he gets what he wants, not until he hears the words from your own lips. He has waited for so long for spring to come. He was not going to let it go.

You bite your lip, torn between desire and hesitation. The rational part of your mind screams at you to stop this, to push him away and walk out the door. But the ache between your legs is impossible to ignore, and the way he's touching you feels too good to resist.

"I...I want it…I want you." you whisper finally, your voice barely audible. "I want you to take me. Right here. Right now."

As soon as the words leave your lips, Higuruma Hiromi's control snaps in its entirety. With a growl, he lifts you onto his desk, sweeping the remaining court documents, other papers and all those law books onto the floor with a single swipe of his arm.

Higuruma Hiromi doesn't hesitate. He lowers his body, his hands gripping your thighs and pushing them further apart. He leans in without hesitation, his breath hot against your core as he inhales deeply.

"You smell so fucking good, you always have." he murmurs to you. "I bet you still taste the same."

He doesn't wait for a response before burying his face between your legs. His tongue slicks through your folds, teasing and tasting as he explores every inch of you. He finds your clit and sucks it into his mouth, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bud in a way that makes you see stars. 

Your hands all but fly to his darkened hair, gripping tightly as you grind against his face, chasing the pleasure he's giving you. Hiromi’s masterful tongue delves deeper, the nostalgia of pleasure hitting you as you scream.

He keeps plunging into your entrance as he fucks you with his mouth. His hands grip your ass, lifting you closer to his face as he devours you. He can feel you getting closer, your walls fluttering around his tongue as he pushes you towards the edge. 

He pulls back suddenly, his lips and chin glistening with your juices. "Come for me, [name]."he commands. "Come on my tongue like a good girl."

He expertly dives back in, his tongue circling your clit rapidly as he slides two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spot that makes your eyes roll back in your head. It only takes a few more strokes before you're crying out his name, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Higuruma Hiromi doesn't let up, continuing to lick and suck through your climax until you're a trembling, boneless mess on his desk.

You do not remember much after that.

But you knew that you felt good, far too good.

You hadn’t felt like this in a long time.

WHEN YOU WAKE, IT ISN’T BECAUSE OF THE SUNLIGHT GLEAMING IN. It’s to the low murmur of a voice you know by muscle memory. For a moment, you don’t move. Your body is warm everywhere, especially down there where his cum dwelled ceaselessly. 

It was still heavy with sleep everywhere, with the dull, satisfying ache of muscles used and reused, with the unfamiliar safety of not being alone when you open your eyes. The air smells faintly of tobacco and paper and the ghost of your perfume clinging to borrowed cotton.

You’re wrapped in a blanket. Not tucked. You were fully wrapped, securely. With intention to keep you comfortable. Beneath it, a long dress shirt drapes over your skin, the fabric soft from years of laundering, the cuffs hanging past your wrists. It smells like him in a way cologne never could. The starch, smoke, and something clean and dry, like old books and winter air.

You are naked underneath.

The realization arrives without panic.

Only memory.

Dawn, filtered through half-closed blinds. His name in your mouth is like a verdict you chose.The way restraint finally broke, not with the ardent violence that could have been, but with the quiet, tender inevitability of something deferred too long.

You turn your head.

Hiromi Higuruma sits at his desk, backlit by the pale gray of early morning leaking into the city. His upper body is bare, dress shirt discarded somewhere out of sight, tie gone, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. A cigarette rests between his lips, forgotten more often than smoked, its ash grown long and precarious.

He looks like he hasn’t slept.

Not in the frantic, unraveling way you’ve seen in tabloids and courtrooms, but in the deliberate stillness of a man who chose wakefulness over vulnerability. The kind of sleeplessness that comes from watching the shape of a life shift in real time and refusing to blink.

“…No, we have to do it immediately.” he says into the landline, voice even. “Go and file the response by noon. We’re not contesting jurisdiction and I am not arguing more about something ridiculous.”

A pause. He listens, eyes flicking briefly toward you. Somehow not surprised to find you awake, as if he’s been aware of every shift in your breathing. He takes a moment to look at you, taking in the sight of you before he ends up talking back to the other line.

“No, that’s not important.” he repeats, quieter. “And there will not be a statement. That’s not advised right now. That’s it. Yeah.”

Your chest tightens.

Not she.

Not the client.

Not your name.

Just a boundary placed between you and the world. 

He exhales, finally taking a drag from the cigarette, the ember flaring briefly before dimming again. Smoke curls upward, dissolving into the dim office air. You find how perfect this sight of him was. How focused he was about his craft, about your business. It made you feel something wanton.

“…Because there is nothing to clarify about it.” he says into the receiver. “The filings will speak for themselves, as they usually do. Fine, yes. Goodbye.”

He hangs up with a soft click. Silence returns in the room. Yet this time, it was not empty. But rather it was dense. Delicately layered with everything that happened between midnight and dawn, everything that still hasn’t been said.

You push yourself up slightly, the blanket slipping enough to reveal your shoulder. The shirt shifts against your skin, cool where it’s lost your warmth. He notices. You can tell by the way his gaze drops for a fraction of a second before he deliberately looks back at the paperwork in front of him. Restraint, reassembled.

“You’re up.” he says. It’s not a question. His voice is rougher than usual, worn at the edges.

“You didn’t sleep.” you reply.

He stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray without looking. “I had calls to make.”

You study him more closely. You could tell the tension in his shoulders, the faint marks at his collarbone you don’t remember leaving but know you must have, the way he sits perfectly straight despite the hour, as if posture alone can impose order on what you’ve done.

“What time is it?” you ask.

“Six twenty-three.”

Too early for the world. Too late to pretend this was a dream. The realization settles over you with the slow certainty of daylight creeping through the blinds. The thin, pale bands stretching across the floor, the couch, the edge of his desk. Morning makes everything real. Night allows for ambiguity. The morning files it into record.

You gather the blanket closer, the wool warm but not warm enough to quiet the awareness of bare skin beneath borrowed fabric. His long shirt hangs loosely on your frame, the hem brushing your thighs, cuffs swallowing your hands. 

It smells like starch and smoke and something unmistakably him, a scent that feels more intimate than anything that happened before dawn. You could feel nostalgic, remembering when you were much younger. How he would always smell so good, full of smoke and old oak scent.

Daylight makes you aware of the consequences.

Everything about you two is easily fractured.

You hadn’t realized how fragile this quiet is.

But then again, you had left him to boost your career.

Everything about this is going to be fragile.

“You covered me, huh?” you say.

Your voice is soft, rough with sleep, carrying across the immaculate stillness of the office. Shelves of case files stand in perfect order. The city hums faintly beyond glass. Everything here is controlled, except the space between you.

“Cleaned me a bit…” You attempt a smile that doesn’t quite land. Honesty has made a habit of slipping past your defenses in this room. “But not down there—”

The words hover, intimate and absurd in equal measure. Across the room, Higuruma Hiromi stills. It’s subtle to you. The pause of ink on paper, the faint tightening along his shoulders. But you’ve always noticed the small fractures in his composure. His pen hovers over the document as if the next word suddenly requires more care than the law usually demands.

“I was still inside for quite a while.” he says.

The statement is delivered in the same tone he uses to cite statute. Every bit of it is factual, unembellished, yet just as much impossible to misinterpret. You could feel your ears turn red. He sets the pen down with deliberate precision.

“I didn’t have the heart to see my hard work disappear.”

The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself. It is the closest thing to humor he’s allowed this morning. It is also not entirely humor. Heat rises beneath your skin. Not embarrassment, not shame, but the quiet recognition of care expressed in a language that borders on claim and stops, deliberately, at respect.

He finally looks up. There’s a faint flush high on his cheekbones, barely visible in the cool morning light. The cigarette in the ashtray has burned itself into a thin column of ash, forgotten mid-thought.

“You were asleep for a while, though,” he adds, quieter now. “You looked…peaceful.”

The word sits strangely in the air, as if it does not belong to a room built for litigation and controlled ruin. It sounds unfamiliar in his mouth, like something he rarely permits himself to witness, let alone protect.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

Outside, the city continues its orderly ascent into the day. The morning trains gliding into stations on the minute, crosswalk chimes repeating their polite insistence, the low murmur of a million lives resuming their scheduled negotiations. Tokyo does not pause for private upheavals. It absorbs them, files them away, moves on.

Inside, your chest tightens with the weight of what he’s admitting without saying. He chose to let the night remain intact. He chose not to erase you from it. And more than ever, he wants more of it. Not wholly in the reckless, devouring way of midnight, but in the dangerous quiet of morning, where wanting becomes a decision.

Your fingers tighten on the blanket, knuckles whitening beneath the wool. “You could have woken me up and sent me on my way, Hiromi.” you say again. “My driver is downstairs.”

The reminder lands between you like a line drawn in chalk: escape is available. Logistics are intact. The world you built, the one with schedules, staff, and careful exits, is still waiting at the curb. You were certain you even had a schedule to fulfill today. 

His gaze lifts to you, steady, searching. Not pleading. Not apologizing. Simply present. “Dl Yes.” he says. “He is.”

Not was. Not might be. He knows. Of course he knows. He noticed the car idling before dawn, the silhouette in the front seat, the quiet discipline of a driver trained not to ask questions. He leans back slightly in his chair, the movement measured, buying himself distance without retreat.

“I could have woken you, like I used to do, when you had auditions.” he continues. “Ensured you left before the building filled. Before anyone could speculate. Before this became… complicated.”

A pause.

“I did not.”

The admission settles into the room like dust in sunlight, still visible, yet so inescapable. You swallow. “Why?”

He studies you for a long moment, as if weighing which truth will do the least damage and finding none that qualify.

“Because you were not a problem to be managed.” he says at last. “You were someone who finally stopped running…At least that’s how I took last night.”

The words land somewhere deep.

You were bypassing your practiced defenses.

Outside, a train departs. Inside, you feel very still.

“And…I know you would have left and discarded it.” he adds, voice lower now. “Sending you away would have made it easier to pretend this was a lapse.”

The words settle into the space between you. It was not accusatory, nor was it pleading. The way you heard it, you think it was simply a truth he has carried long enough to recognize on sight. Many things can be real at the same time. He will see the truth differently from you, most of all because you were sure you had jaded him as much as his profession had.

You purse your lips, the instinct to deflect rising like muscle memory. “You wanted to cage me.”

His gaze holds yours, steady and unflinching. “You caged me first, sweetheart.” he says.

“I know.” you whisper, wanting to look away in shame.

No heat. No bitterness. Just facts laid bare. “You did so ten years ago. And I still am now. What do you think I feel?”

The question lands harder than any raised voice could. The city hums beyond the glass, indifferent. Inside, the air feels thinner, as if honesty has displaced the oxygen. You open your mouth.  You wanted to argue, to dismiss his words, to reach for the practiced defenses that built your life and find none of them fit.

“I know and I just—” Your breath catches.

It was not a lapse. You couldn’t even call it an accident. Not even a moment of weakness you could file under is regrettable but necessary. His eyes do not leave yours. He is not rescuing you from the sentence. He is waiting to see if you will finish it.

Your throat tightens. “It wasn’t.” you try again, softer now. “And that’s the problem.”

The admission changes the shape of the room. His shoulders ease at your words. Perhaps not even in victory, but in recognition. As if a tension he’s held for a decade has finally been named aloud. You think you hold your breath for a long time, transfixed in his gaze.

“You think I wanted to cage you.” he says quietly. “I wanted you to choose me.”

The simplicity of it steals the air from your lungs. So plain and so simple. The boring truth you thought to yourself long ago could not be enough. That safety you had risked for this starlight on the stage. Yet they were words you think you were more fond of hearing now. 

“I did choose you.” you whisper. “Once.”

“Yes, you did.” he says to you, as you find yourself standing to move towards him. “And then you chose a life that required you not to. After all, the glamor was tempting, wasn’t it?”

Your fingers curl against the edge of his desk. “You think I didn’t feel it? Walking away like I’d amputated something and calling it maturity?”

His jaw tightens.  “I thought you were relieved to see your dreams come true.” 

The words are so quiet you almost miss them. You stare at him. “Relieved?”

“You didn’t look back,” he says. “Not once.”

Because if you had, you might have stayed.

Because if you had, you might have ruined him.

Because if you had, you might have ruined yourself.

Both of you would have been miserable, you think.

“I couldn’t.” you say, the truth scraping on its way out. “If I looked back, I would have run. Because I would have been miserable….if I didn’t get to enjoy the life I lived—”

“I know.” Hiromi affirms your words as you stand before him, his clothes pooling over you, hiding nothing but the upper half of your body. He lifts your head, your chin tight in his fingers. You were forced to meet his eyes. 

“But now you don’t have that excuse.” He speaks to you, a small smile on his lips. 

“No, no…I do not.”

YOU DON’T SEE HIGURUMA HIROMI FOR A COUPLE OF DAYS. But he doesn’t disappear at all like he did many years ago. Instead, he takes the time to tell you about many things happening with the divorce proceedings.

He updates you thoroughly, yet all the while still finding it to be brief and concise, polished to the point that you wonder if he’s talking to you more like a client and not the person he seems to be infatuated with. He sent at odd hours, the kind that suggest he drafted them between hearings or long after the office emptied.

Filed motion to expedite proceedings. Opposing counsel acknowledged receipt. Estimated timeline shortened by two weeks.

No emojis. No pleasantries. No mention of that night.

You appreciate it more than you can say. The efficiency. The care hidden inside professional language. He’s using his reputation, his firm, his time to make this easier for you in a quieter, faster, cleaner way. A kindness disguised as procedure.

You type thank you more times than you send it.

Because what are you supposed to say to a man whose life you walked out of once, a decade ago, in pursuit of a future you weren’t sure would love you back? What do you say to the man you reappeared before, all the sudden, so desperate and distressed, asking for help dissolving a marriage you built in the aftermath of leaving him?

What do you say to the man you slept with in his office, as if ten years had folded in on themselves, as if the versions of you that never happened were trying, briefly, to exist? And worst of all, what do you say after confessing the things you should have told him ten years ago?

That you were terrified of staying.

That you loved him in a way that made you feel small and enormous at once.

That you chose your dreams not because they mattered more but because you were afraid you would disappear if you didn’t try.

You had watched the words land in his silence, heavy and irreversible. Now there are only his messages. Far too efficient and distant for your liking. But you supposed it was your karma now. You did break up with him.

Work fills the space where he used to be. You went ahead with a coffee in your hand to the early call times, ate some good instant ramen at the late-night shoots, the mechanical repetition of lines you’ve said so often they no longer feel like yours while drinking bourbon. 

Wardrobe racks being brought to your trailer, the beam of the harsh lighting on your skin, the directors and staff calling your name. You move from film set to soundstage, from one role to the next, slipping into other lives so you don’t have to sit too long with your own.

It’s easier that way. On set, you are decisive, luminous, untouchable. You hit your marks. You deliver tears on cue. You fall in love with co-stars beneath artificial rain and forget them the moment the director calls cut.

No one here knows that your phone lights up with legal updates from the man you once almost built a life with. No one here sees you stare at his name until the screen goes dark. No one knows that you are starting to become more fond of him again.

It’s easier than thinking about the last time you saw him. His office lights dimmed, case files pushed aside, the city lights glowing through the windows behind him. Easier than remembering how his hands hesitated before touching you, like he was already bracing for the consequences. Easier than the quiet afterward, when neither of you said what you were both thinking to each other.

This changes everything.

But the world doesn’t stop for complicated feelings. Contracts are signed. Scenes are shot. Your manager reminds you of schedules. Your lawyer reminds you of dates. You could feel your  phone buzzing from your trailer table again.

Court confirmed hearing date.

You stare at the message for a long time. The sound behind you disappears into nothing. You try your best to think of something. All the sudden your heart skips a beat. Your thumbs hover over the screen, the cursor blinking in the empty reply field like a pulse. 

You type: Thank you for doing this.

Delete.

You type: I’m sorry.

Delete.

You type nothing.

You groan aloud, frustrated.

“You okay, [last name]–san?”

You looked up, feeling a bit embarrassed being caught in the moment. “Y–yes….I’m fine. Just some updates on the divorce.”

“Oh, that’s right!” The staff gasped. “I’m so sorry that this happened to you, [last name]–san. It’s really rough to leave a marriage that lasted that long.”

Not really. You think to yourself. I already slept with my ex turned divorce lawyer….

“Uh…thank you.”

Before long the days passed.

The weather changed.

All of a sudden, you were in court.

The courthouse looms ahead in stark gray, all sharp lines and unforgiving symmetry. You arrive early, sunglasses on. You don’t do it for the press, even when they get your best side of the face in the shot. Instead, you do it for the illusion of distance. 

Your heels echo against the marble floors as you step inside, each click too loud in the cavernous lobby. First hearing. Divorce proceedings. Routine, procedural, impersonal. You tell yourself that’s all it is. You can get through this.

And then you see him.

He stands near the courtroom doors, dark suit immaculate, posture straight in that way that always made him seem taller than he is. Higuruma Hiromi looks exactly as he always does in court. 

He looked handsome in his suit, standing with severe composure. But you notice the details no one else would: the faint crease between his brows, the way his fingers tighten around the folder in his hand, the fraction of a second he freezes when his eyes meet yours.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him since that night.

For a moment, the courthouse noise fades. The murmur of other cases, the shuffle of papers, the distant echo of a gavel. There is only the space between you, heavy with everything unsaid. You wonder if he regrets it. You wonder if you do.

He inclines his head in a small, formal greeting, the kind reserved for colleagues and opposing counsel. Not for someone whose name he whispered like a confession just days ago.

“Good morning.” he says, voice even with professionalism.

Your throat tightens anyway. “Good morning.” you reply, matching his tone.

You compose yourself as he does. You know that the courtroom doors are opening and the world is watching, and whatever you were in his office cannot exist here. Not for anyone else, not for the press and not even for him. Not today.

He steps closer, stopping at a careful, neutral distance. But it was close enough to speak without raising his voice, far enough that no one could mistake the interaction for anything but legal. You found your lips in a tight line.

“What is it?”

“I received confirmation from the clerk.” he says, eyes flicking briefly to the folder before returning to you. “The judge assigned is known for efficiency. If both parties remain cooperative, this should proceed without delay.”

You nod. “That’s…good.”

A pause. He studies you for a fraction too long, gaze softening in a way that would be imperceptible to anyone else. “You look tired.” he says quietly, then, as if catching himself, adds, “Filming schedule?”

You almost laugh at the awkward correction. “Something like that.”

Another pause stretches between you both, something so thin and fragile. You see him taking a breath as he nodded. “I hope you get some rest soon then.”

“I hope this ends and settles itself, so I can get some rest.”

“I reviewed the financial disclosures. You were not lying.” he continues, voice returning to its measured cadence. “There are no irregularities. Your interests are protected.”

“My interests, huh.” you repeat, the words tasting strange. “Thank you.”

He gives a small nod. “It is my responsibility.”

But you both hear what he doesn’t say: I would have done it even if it wasn’t.

The courtroom doors open wider at that moment. You could tell that the people interested in this entire clown affair had begun filing in. He shifts his weight slightly, as if preparing to step away, to return to the role the world recognizes.

Instead, he says, very quietly. “Did you sleep at all?”

The question lands like a dropped glass. You meet his eyes. “Did you?”

A beat passes. He smiles. “No.” he admits.

The honesty sits between you, raw and unfiled, with no legal language to contain it. Footsteps approach. Voices echo. The world resumes. He clears his throat, the sound soft but decisive. “We should go inside.”

You nod. “Of course.”

He gestures toward the courtroom with professional courtesy, allowing you to enter first. As you pass him, you catch the faint scent of his cologne. It was the same, you think to yourself. Everything about it was achingly familiar. 

For one reckless second you are back in his office that night once again, the endless beam of Tokyo Metropolitan’s city lights burning behind him, his hand hovering at your waist like a question he already knew the answer to.

Inside the courtroom, you take your place at the table. He sits beside you, close enough that your sleeves almost touch, yet separated by a distance far greater than the width of polished wood. He leans slightly toward you, voice barely audible.

“We will get through this.” he says.

You whisper back. “I can only hope so.”

The courtroom doors close with a heavy, final sound that reverberates through your chest. You sit beside Higuruma Hiromi, your tender hands folded too tightly in your lap, exhausted eyes fixed on the polished wood of the table as people settle around you.

You could hear the loudness of the papers shuffling, the chairs scraping, the loud yet quiet murmurs filling the air like static. You tell yourself to breathe. Then you feel it. Anxiety flooded through you at that moment.

A presence across the aisle. Familiar in a way that makes your spine go rigid before you even look. Your ex-husband is there, even when he said that he wasn’t going to attend, to focus on a new movie he was working on.

He looks older than the last time you saw him. He was already older, yet this time, he was older beyond his years. Grey everywhere, somber in all of his skin. His shoulders are tense beneath an expensive suit that fits like armor. 

His jaw tightens when his gaze lands on you, then flicks. It was brief yet  sharp and it was towards the man sitting at your side. To Hiromi. The realization hits him in real time. You see it in the narrowing of his eyes. The way his mouth presses into a thin line. The way his attorney leans toward him, whispering something urgent that he doesn’t seem to hear.

Your pulse roars in your ears. Beside you, Hiromi doesn’t move. But you notice the subtle shift in his posture was evident. You could see how his chest puffed. His shoulders squaring, presence sharpening, like a blade quietly unsheathed.

“Do not look at him.” he murmurs, voice low enough that only you can hear.

But the warning came too late. 

You already have.

And it made you both sad and angry.

This was the man you married.

A pitiful shell of a man who took advantage of you.

Your ex-husband’s gaze locks onto yours, and for a moment you are dragged back into the life you are trying to leave. The arguments that looped without resolution, the silences that lasted days, the texts and calls with the other women and so much more.

The slow erosion of something that once felt unbreakable came to you, more and more. He glances again at your strident dark haired lawyer. Recognition dawns. Not personal per say. You think it was more professional.

Higuruma Hiromi was a famous high-profile attorney. He has always had a reputation for ruthless precision. A man who does not take cases he cannot win, and pushes forward without a care in the world, so long as his clients are satisfied.

Your ex leans toward his lawyer, whispering sharply. The lawyer’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly before schooling their expression. You swallowed as you found your gaze towards Hiromi who seemed to not be fazed by it all.

“This is going to get messy, isn’t it?” you whisper.

Hiromi’s reply is calm, measured. “It was always going to be.”

The judge enters. Everyone rises. You barely register the formalities. The case number is read, then the names, then you got lost in all the procedural language. It goes on and on, until your ex-husband’s attorney stands.

“Your Honor.” she begins to say. “My client has concerns regarding the accelerated timeline and—” her gaze flicks toward you, then to Hiromi himself. “—potential conflicts of interest.”

The words land like a slap. "Of course he’ll bring it up.”

Hiromi doesn’t look at you. His eyes remain forward, expression unreadable. “Anticipated.” he murmurs. “Not a worry.”

Your ex-husband stands abruptly. “I’d like it on record at this moment.” he says, voice tight. “My wife’s attorney has a prior personal relationship with her.”

The courtroom stills. Every sound seems to vanish into the high ceiling. Heat floods your face. Your hands go cold. Higuruma Hiromi confidently rises slowly beside you, unhurried, composed. He looks at your ex-husband before focusing on the judge.

“Your Honor, this is not a concern.” he says, voice clear and steady. “I disclosed all relevant professional history to opposing counsel. There is no legal conflict that impairs my ability to represent my client.”

Your ex lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Professional history, huh?” he repeats. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

Your chest tightens. “Please—” you start, but your voice falters.

Hiromi’s hand shifts slightly on the table, not touching you, but close enough that you feel the steadiness of it like a barrier between you and the storm. “There is no conflict. I am her legal representative here, not anything else.”

The judge’s gaze sharpens. “Sir, you will address the court with decorum. There is no conflict here. Mr. Higuruma is a lawyer. The record shall state nothing.”

Hiromi nodded at the judge. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

Your ex’s eyes return to you, and for a moment the anger fractures into something rawer. “Him?” he says, quieter now. “You replaced me with him?”

The question is not legal. Not procedural. Not appropriate for a courtroom. It is personal. It always was. Yet it was more than likely a wound for him, even if he had been cheating first. Regardless of whether he knows you slept with Hiromi or not, he knew that Higuruma Hiromi was your ex-boyfriend. That was worth a bleed. Your throat closes.

Hiromi speaks once again  before you can. “My client’s personal life is not on trial.” he says, each word precise. “We are here to dissolve a marriage that has, by both parties’ admission, irretrievably broken down.”

Silence hangs heavy for a moment, broken only by the shuffle of papers and the quiet clearing of throats as the attorneys prepare. You glance at your ex-husband. He’s sitting straighter now, jaw tight, hands clenched over the table. There’s a dangerous tension in his shoulders, like a coiled spring that’s only waiting for the right trigger.

The judge clears her throat again. “We will proceed with the matters relevant to this hearing.”

Chairs creak as everyone settles. But the usual rhythm has come and gone with all of its  legal formality and its endless procedural monotony. You feel it in the way your hands tremble in your lap, the faint pulse in your throat. 

You stare down at the polished table, seeing the reflection of your own face. You were someone caught between past and present, between two men who know different versions of you. Yet you do not want more of the past, even when one of the past sat beside you. You just wanted to move forward.

Beside you, Higuruma Hiromi leans close enough that only you can hear him. His breath is calm, measured, a quiet anchor. “Stay with me here, okay?” he murmurs. “This is going to be a bit long.”

You lift your head, meeting his eyes. There’s something in his gaze. He was firm with it, almost  protective, a silent warning. “I know that.” you reply, forcing a steady tone. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The judge’s gavel has barely settled when the clerk begins the session. “This is the first mediation session regarding the divorce petition filed by the petitioner. Today, we will discuss division of assets, spousal support, and any other matters requiring mutual agreement. Please provide statements as necessary.”

You swallow hard, your hands still trembling slightly in your lap. Across the aisle, your ex-husband sits rigid, jaw tight, fists clenched. The air between you is sharp, charged. It was not welcoming. You don’t expect it to be when he wasn’t done with having more influence with you. 

The mediator gestures to your ex. “Please begin.”

Your ex rises abruptly, voice taut. “I…I don’t accept the terms of this divorce!” His gaze fixes on you, fiery and wounded. “I don’t agree with any of it!”

You brace yourself, fingers tightening around your own notes. Hiromi leans close, his voice low. “Stay calm. Answer only when necessary.”

But your ex isn’t listening. He stands taller, chest puffed with a dangerous energy. “You can’t just walk away! You can’t—”

Before he finishes, he lunges toward you. Your body freezes. Hiromi reacts instantly. He steps in, positioning himself between you and your ex. Your ex’s momentum carries forward, and instead of hitting you, he collides with Hiromi. 

The impact thuds sharply against Hiromi’s chest, but Hiromi doesn’t stumble or falter. Instead, he shifts his weight, steadying your ex-husband without letting him fall, his darkened eyes hard and commanding.

“Sit down. Now, sir. Or we’ll be having these procedures with a criminal assault case too.” Hiromi says, voice low but unyielding. Every word carries a precision that makes your ex pause mid-motion.

Gasps echo through the courtroom. The attorneys snap to attention. The mediator’s pen hovers in midair, but Hiromi doesn’t flinch. Your ex stumbles back, chest heaving, glare still locked on you. He mutters incoherent threats, but Hiromi’s calm presence is unbreakable.

You exhale shakily, hands pressed to the table. “I…I just wanted—”

Hiromi’s hand gestures slightly, firm but subtle. “You will speak only when addressed by the court. Go back to your position, sir.”

Your ex glares, mutters under his breath, but slumps back and this time, remains seated. His lawyer seems apologetic to all of you and to the judge. Hiromi sighs as he gathers his composure before going back to his seat.

You lean slightly toward Hiromi, whispering, “Thank you. I…I don’t even know what would’ve happened if you weren’t here.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he slides a document slightly closer to you, the corners brushing your fingers. It’s neat, precise. It was the summary of the points the court will discuss today, written in Hiromi’s careful hand.

“Focus on what matters, okay?” he murmurs, voice low enough that only you can hear. His eyes flick briefly to your ex, sharp and calculating. “Answer only what is necessary. Don’t give him more than he’s entitled to.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “I…I’ll try.”

He gives the barest tilt of his head in acknowledgment, eyes softening just enough to remind you he’s not just your lawyer today. He’s a shield. And just as much, he’s a man that cares for you above all else.

The mediator calls the session back into order. “We will begin with a review of joint assets. Please provide an account of your holdings.”

Your ex-husband leans forward immediately, voice sharp, venomous. “I should be entitled to more than half! She—she’s hiding things! She thinks she can walk away with everything while I—”

Hiromi’s eyes flick to him, icy calm. “Your Honor, if I may?” he interrupts smoothly. “My client has disclosed all joint accounts, investments, and property. Allegations of undisclosed assets are unsubstantiated.”

The ex’s face flushes red. “I—this isn’t fair! After everything—after what she did—”

You stiffen. He thinks he has moral leverage, but Hiromi’s presence is steady, unwavering. “Sir, you cannot argue with the law.” Hiromi says, voice firm but controlled. “And the law does not reward infidelity. Any personal grievances are irrelevant to the division of property. The petitioner is entitled to exactly what the law grants her.”

The courtroom falls silent. Your ex sputters, muttering under his breath, “I can’t believe this… she—she cheated me…”

You feel a flush of anger, your chest tightening. Hiromi leans slightly toward you, whispering, “Ignore him. Stick to the facts. We protect only what is yours. Nothing more, nothing less.”

You nod at him. You took a breath, letting the control of the situation settle in. When asked to provide information about your finances, you answer calmly, factually, leaving nothing out but adding nothing extra.

Your ex grows more frustrated. “And what about the house? The savings? I—she can’t just—”

Hiromi interrupts, smooth and precise. “Your Honor, the petitioner has already offered her fair share for the jointly owned home, as according to the law. Further demands are without legal basis.”

“Without legal basis?” Your ex’s voice rises. “I earned half of everything while she—while she—”

Hiromi’s gaze snaps to him, unflinching. “Your Honor.” he says, voice low and deadly calm. “The petitioner’s entitlement is calculated according to law, regardless of any personal misconduct by either party. Attempts to claim more than legally entitled are not permitted.”

Your ex freezes, jaw tight, caught between fury and impotence. He mutters something incoherent and sits down, defeated for the moment, the tension around him simmering but contained.

The mediator continues, going step by step through assets, savings, the main residence, and potential spousal support. Hiromi handles every challenge, keeping your ex’s arguments firmly grounded in reality. Each time your ex tries to exaggerate or claim more, Hiromi counters calmly, legally, without a trace of emotion.

By the end of the session, partial agreements are reached. The joint assets are divided according to law, the house’s status is clarified, and once it is sold, you share the profit. The spousal support is conceded, because your ex-husband had cheated. He has nothing beyond what the law allows and certainly nothing more.

You lean back slightly, a fragile sense of relief washing over you. The chaos through these many hours, the ceaseless verbal attacks, the endless grasping, the bitter attempts to punish you, has been neutralized for now.

Hiromi leans slightly toward you as you gather your bag, his voice quiet but firm. “Today went exactly as it should. You protected everything you’re entitled to. He won’t take more than the law allows, don’t worry.”

“I know that but I worry.”

“He cheated first. He has no moral ground here, either.” He tells you straight. “Don’t worry about how everyone will react. You are the victim here.”

You exhale slowly, feeling the tension finally begin to drain. “I…I couldn’t have done this alone.” you whisper.

“You didn’t have to.” he replies simply. “That’s why I’m here.”

THE MEDIATIONS COME AND GO, ONE AFTER THE OTHER AND YOU ATTEND EACH AND EVERYONE. Your ex-husband stops attending altogether. At first, it was excuses, vague claims of work obligations, illness. Whatever the reason, the court accepts them, and the sessions proceed without him. 

When he does attend, he always causes nothing but grievances to you. The most you would say was bringing the woman he had cheated on you with, as “his most ardent support” in the proceedings. That had caused  you much anger, and a verbal match ensued. 

It wasn’t long before you started to become infuriated with each and everything he has said, especially with the things he had done. You asked the judge to put a stop to his attacks and the judge all together barred him from his own divorce proceedings. 

With every mediation that passed, your ex-husband’s absence became the new normal. Hiromi and you were left alone at the table with his associates, the court mediators, and the procedural formalities, but no one challenged you directly. Your answers remained calm, precise, factual. There was no room for him to maneuver, no way for him to manipulate the process.

Hiromi’s presence beside you made all the difference. His posture, calm and unflinching, his voice low but firm when speaking on your behalf. Every motion, every word, seemed measured to protect you while keeping things efficient. 

What should have been tense, exhausting, and emotional hearings had become almost mechanical under his guidance. You began to rely on that steadiness, letting him take the weight of confrontation while you followed his lead.

Eventually, you noticed something strange happening. The tight knot of anxiety you used to carry before each session began to loosen. Sitting across from him, listening to his calm explanations, watching him handle lawyers and mediators alike, you realized you were…calm. Comfortable, even.

It wasn’t just the court. It was everything about being with him. His patience with you in everything was impeccable. In every question, every fear, every irrational worry, it was everything to you.

And it was not limited to the courthouse. It extended into private conversations, even into the quiet moments between you in his apartment, or in the rare times when you found yourselves together at his place after long days. Even in bed, his patience never faltered. 

There was no judgment, no rush, no pressure. It was just a steady, patient understanding of you. Wanting you, in ways that your ex-husband never had the patience or desire to desire. Perhaps that was what made it even more beautiful to you.

You let yourself realize, finally, that the divorce was no longer the storm it had once been. The documents, the court dates, the ex-husband’s fleeting threats. All of them existed, but they no longer defined your sense of stability. You were protected. You were in good hands. In Hiromi’s hands, most of all.

And yet, a different worry began to creep in. A worry of a more trivial, but no less real kind. You glanced down at your phone during a lunch “meeting” that everyone assumed was strictly professional. 

Hiromi reached across the table to push a menu closer to you, his fingers brushing yours for just a second too long. He didn’t look up from the documents in front of him, but you felt it. You felt the warmth that had long belonged only to you.

A notification popped up on your phone: a journalist’s account of a photo snapped from outside the restaurant. Someone had caught a glimpse of you and Hiromi leaning toward each other over papers and coffee, captions speculating about more than just legal discussions.

You groaned softly. “Great. Just great. We’re officially the courthouse power couple now.” you muttered, not looking up from your phone.

“Maybe outside of the courthouse too, but well. Besides the point.” Hiromi glanced at you over the top of his folder, eyes sharp but amused. “Are you worried about what they think?” he asked, voice low, calm, and entirely too knowing.

“I can’t help it, I suppose.” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Half the time, we’re pretending this is all strictly ‘lawyer and client’ for the world to see but…everyone can see us now. They’re going to assume the wrong things.”

He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth tilting in that way that always made your pulse skip. “Let them assume. We know the truth, don’t we?”

You exhaled, realizing he was right. No matter the whispers, the photographs, the attention, you and Hiromi knew what was real. That was all that mattered. Only the truth you both hold matters. 

Still, you couldn’t help glancing at the phone one more time, thinking to yourself, if someone got a good photo of the two of you laughing over lunch, leaning a little too close, sharing the same umbrella after a drizzle, it would be chaos. But maybe, just maybe, it was a chaos you didn’t entirely mind.

By the time the next formal hearing arrives, something has changed. The courthouse lobby is buzzing with life. A few journalists linger near the entrance, cameras discreetly aimed at the front doors. Then there were more in other places within the facilities itself.

Many people all but flooded in the corridors and the hallways and they all whisper as you walk past them with your bodyguards and your entourage. It’s not that you did anything public, at least, not intentionally.

But your previous relationship with Higuruma Hiromi, the story of your messy, public divorce, and the glimpses of your closeness during mediations came to light, this has also made you both figures of fascination in the public eye. 

“Seems we’ve become the courthouse’s most talked-about case.” Hiromi murmurs as you ascend the steps, his tone dry but amused. He adjusts his tie with that effortless composure that always makes him look taller, sharper, untouchable. “It’s been a while since I have had a cult following.”

You glance at him, smirking despite the nerves prickling your skin. “Cult following, huh? Because we’re…efficient?”

He shoots you a look, one corner of his mouth quivering. “Not because of efficiency. And you know that. I know you see the edits on the internet.”

“They’re not exactly what I think of every time we’re together.”

He pauses, his eyes narrowing, getting darker. “Then what do you think about?”

“Something else.” you say almost too confidently, looking at him, and then his body. “You know what I like.”

“Your professionalism wavers easily, it would seem.”

“So does yours.”

Inside the courtroom, the atmosphere is different. Everyone in the room started to glance toward you as you entered, a murmur of recognition passing quietly through the gallery. Some nod politely, others whisper behind their hands. Your presence here, once private and procedural, now feels performative, almost the same as it usually was when you were on the film set.

You slide into your seat, Hiromi beside you as always. His tender, caring hand brushes briefly against yours, not in a claim, but a grounding touch. You notice the slight tightening of his fingers, subtle enough that only you would feel it.

“Focus.” he murmurs, eyes forward. “They’ll stare, they’ll whisper. It doesn’t matter.”

You nod, though your stomach twists. Every eye in the room seems to measure the distance between the two of you, the ease of your closeness, the quiet familiarity that’s impossible to ignore.

The mediator calls the session to order, but the whispered attention doesn’t fade. Your ex’s absence is glaringly obvious now. His chair remains empty. The judge raises an eyebrow, but neither you nor Hiromi flinch. You are the center of the room, the story. You are the ones in control.

Hiromi leans slightly toward you, voice low. “Remember what we’ve done. All your assets, your reputation are secure. He can’t touch anything anymore. This is just…noise.”

You let out a small, almost humorless laugh. “It feels like we’re celebrities in a soap opera.”

He glances at you, expression unreadable. “If it keeps your ex from showing up, I’ll allow the end of the soap opera.”

For a moment, the tension lightens. The eyes, the whispers, the cameras. They are distractions, nothing more. But you feel it, a strange thrill: you and Hiromi, together, untouchable in the eyes of the court, and impossible to ignore.

The hearing begins. Questions are procedural, predictable. But every time your ex’s name comes up, the emptiness of his chair resonates like a victory to you. Hiromi answers calmly, legally, flawlessly, leaving no room for dispute. Every asset, every account, every legal right you have is protected.

As the session wraps, the judge nods. “The court will continue the remaining matters on the scheduled date. This hearing is adjourned.”

You rise, gathering your papers, your bag, your composure. Hiromi stands beside you, close enough that the press and onlookers can see the subtle connection between you. Nothing overt, nothing staged but undeniable.

Outside the courtroom, whispers follow you down the marble steps. People notice the way he walks beside you, the ease of your closeness, the quiet strength in your interactions. He takes your hand in his. Your eyes widened slightly.

Hiromi leans slightly toward you as you exit. “They’ll talk, either way. Close or not, holding hands or not, it’s the same.” he murmurs. “Let them all talk. It changes nothing here.”

You squeeze his hand, fingers curling instinctively around his, feeling the warmth and quiet strength radiating through the simple touch. For a moment, the chatter, the flashing cameras, the whispers, they all fade.

You are acutely aware of the weight of his presence beside you leaning closer at each moment, steady enough to ground you, entirely willing ot be yours in that small moment, as everyone's eyes, everyone's lenses turned to th two of you.

“I…” you start, unsure what to say, your voice low. “I didn’t expect—”

Hiromi gives a small, knowing smile, eyes forward. “That you’d notice? Or that you’d care?”

“Both, I suppose.” you admit, your throat is tight. “It’s……weird. Being seen like this. Everyone is staring. And yet, it doesn’t feel wrong.”

“It shouldn’t, it never should have.” he murmurs, tightening his grip just slightly, enough to anchor you without drawing unnecessary attention. “They can talk all they want. None of it changes what’s real. None of it changes us.”

You glance down at your joined hands, the simple act carrying a weight far beyond its size. The world may have spun stories around you, assigned motives and imagined scandals but here, on the steps, walking away from the courtroom, you feel a rare, quiet certainty.

“Do you think they’ll follow us?” you ask, a wry note creeping into your voice despite the tension. “The reporters, the whispers, the courthouse gossip?”

Hiromi shrugs almost imperceptibly, a small, controlled movement that somehow carries both amusement and warning. “Let them. This isn’t about them. We’re not performing, we’re…here.”

“They’ll call you no good.”

“Then let them.” Hiromi smiles at you. “We’re happy. That’s all that matters here, isn’t it?”

His words settle into your chest like a promise. Amid the chaos of everything that had been happening in that short amount of time, there is a clarity, a center you never thought you’d have.

With Higuruma Hiromi beside you, even a hand held quietly in public feels like armor as much as his words were in the courthouse. It was everything and more.

A flash from a camera catches the corner of your eye. You instinctively glance at the crowd, then back at him. Hiromi’s gaze meets yours, steady and unwavering. There’s a subtle challenge there, but also a quiet reassurance.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. “Ready.”

And together, you walk down the steps, hand in hand, letting the whispers follow behind you. The courthouse fades in the distance, the world is still watching, still talking but that doesn't matter. Not when you are happy, not when he is happy. You were aware you were no good, but so is he. But that’s better, because you can be the same together.

THE SUN WAS TOO BRIGHT. You moan aloud, the sound tearing itself free before you can think to stop it. On this day of all days, the day the divorce was officially granted, you find yourself trapped in Higuruma Hiromi’s embrace, his body pressing against yours with a weight that is both grounding and consuming.

The world outside doesn’t exist. The courthouse, the whispers, the cameras, the lingering traces of your ex-husband’s attempts to claim what was never his, everything was gone. They all dissolve into nothingness the moment Hiromi’s harsh, yet careful hands settle over you.

Skin slides against skin, slick with the heat of desire and the rawness of emotion. Every movement is charged, urgent, yet precise, a reflection of the man beside you who has guided you, protected you, and understood you in ways no one else ever could.

You arch into him instinctively, clinging to the familiar strength of his body, feeling the steady, deliberate rhythm of his control. He keeps you close, almost cruelly, his hands tracing paths over your curves with a confidence that borders on domination.

“Today…” you gasp, voice trembling. “Fuck….…I can’t…not think of you.”

Hiromi’s lips brush against your neck, his voice low and husky. “You don’t have to think. You only need to feel. Here. With me.”

He had decided earlier that morning that attending court was a waste of time, especially getting out of bed when you were underneath his sheets, tainted by his touch. One phone call led to his underlings being able to handle the paperwork and formalities. 

All that mattered that special morning was claiming you, marking you as his own once again. His hands gripped your hips tightly, pulling you onto his cock with each snap of his hips. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts of pleasure.

"Fuck, fuck…." Hiromi growled freely. "You feel so good. So tight around my cock."

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss as he continued to pound into you relentlessly. He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck as he bit and sucked at the sensitive skin. He knew he was leaving marks, claiming you in the most primal way possible. 

But he didn't care. Let the whole world see that you belonged to him now. He felt your walls starting to flutter around him, signaling your impending orgasm. He reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles around it.

"Come for me, sweetheart.” he demanded. "Come on my cock like a good girl."

His thrusts became erratic, his own release barreling down on him as he chased yours. His thumb pressed hard against your clit, pushing you over the edge. You screamed his name as you came, your pussy clamping down around him like a vice. That was all it took to send him spiraling into his own orgasm. He buried himself deep inside you with a roar, filling you with his hot seed as he shuddered above you.

Even as he emptied himself inside you, Higuruma Hiromi knew he wasn't done. Not by a long shot. He had waited too long for this for a long time, dreamed of this moment with you in his bed for years and years. He wasn't about to let it end so quickly. He rolled his hips, grinding his still-hard cock against your sensitive flesh as he felt himself starting to swell again.

"I'm not done with you yet, sweetheart," he murmured again, voice rough and low, vibrating against your skin. "I'm going to take and take, push and push. We have something to celebrate, after ten years, after all."

You shivered violently, breath hitching. Your hands clutched at him, pulling him closer, needing every inch of his body. "Hiromi… please…" you gasped, words breaking into moans, incoherent, but full of longing.

He didn’t answer with words. He pulled out slowly, watching as his cum leaked out of your well-used hole. Then he flipped you over onto your stomach and entered you from behind in one hard thrust, setting a brutal pace that had the headboard slamming against the wall.

He just moved closer, pressing into you with a fierce, unrelenting rhythm that stole your breath. Every thrust, every movement sent sparks through your nerves, and your body melted against his, all thought and restraint vanishing.

You moaned loudly, arching into him, lost. Lost in the heat, lost in the feel of him, lost in the sensation of being wanted, claimed, worshiped. “Ah… I can’t… can’t hold it…”

"Don't hold back, sweetheart. Keep screaming, keep meeting me half way." Hiromi growled against your ear. "I want to feel you come apart on my cock. I want to hear you scream my name."

You do as he says, screaming loud as his gruff hands gripped your hips tightly, pulling you back onto him with each thrust. The heat makes you feel like you could pass out at any moment. You feel drool pouring out the corner of your lips as he starts kissing you, his tongue pushing deep into your throat as you moan.

The more he pushed deeper, the faster he went, the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room with echoes that were sure to be more thunderous than before. Your hands on his hair, his lips now kissing your neck, as much as he started sucking and biting.

Your pleasures were mingling with your moans and his grunts of pleasure. He could feel your walls starting to flutter around him once again, signaling your impending orgasm. He reached around, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles around it.

"Come for me, pretty sweetheart." he demanded of you, this time more hoarse than before. "Come all over my cock like the good babe you always have been."

Your body obeyed his command, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. You screamed his name over and over, losing the tone as it cracks in the flood of pleasure, your pussy clamping down around him like a vice as you came undone.

Hiromi followed you over the edge, his own release hitting him hard. He buried himself deep inside you with a roar, filling you with his hot seed as he shuddered above you. He collapsed onto you, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

Your body trembled beneath him, still shivering from the intensity of your climax, each pulse of pleasure leaving you weak and raw. Hiromi’s weight pressed you gently against the sheets, grounding you even as your mind spun from the aftermath. 

You could feel the lingering warmth of him inside you, the heat of his release, and it anchored every shiver, every quiver. He stayed there, chest pressed against yours, breathing heavy, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the thin layer of skin between you was intoxicating. 

His fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns across your shoulders, down your arms, lingering in places meant only for him. “I love you. I love you more than I could ever describe. Even when you’re no good, I want to be with you.”

Your breath hitched at his words, the raw honesty in his voice sending a shiver straight through you. “Hiromi…You don’t have to…” you whispered, voice trembling. You…you don’t have to say that. You…you’ve given me everything already.”

He lifted his head slightly, eyes locking with yours, dark and unflinching. “No, no.” he said firmly, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “I have to say it.”

“Hiromi—”

“Because if I don’t, you might think—” His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin. “—that any of this is just physical. That any of what I feel can be contained by words, by touches, by…this.”

Your chest tightened. “I…I don’t deserve you sometimes, I hurt you. I broke your heart and I….” you admitted, voice breaking. “After everything—after the mess with him, after—” You stopped yourself, not trusting your voice.

Hiromi shook his head, pressing another kiss to your forehead, soft and grounding. “Stop it, okay?” he murmured. “Don’t apologize. Don’t justify. You’re not ‘no good’ to me. You’re human.  You wanted a life and I just….things are different now. Nothing can prevent us from being together.”

You felt overcome with emotion at his confession. “Hiromi….”

“And I…I want every part of you. Every flawed, beautiful, messy part. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I stayed.”

You felt tears prick the corners of your eyes, a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and the lingering thrill of what had just passed between you. “I’ve never…felt this safe with anyone. Only you. Even back then….” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper

Hiromi tightened his hold, pressing his body closer. “Good.” he breathed. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. You don’t have to worry. You don’t have to carry the weight alone. Ever again.”

“Hiromi.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” He whispers to you, pressing a kiss on your cheek, then to your lips. He smiles. “Let me love you.”

You tilted your head, pressing a kiss to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “I…I love you too, Hiromi. More than words could describe.” you whispered, letting yourself finally melt into the warmth of him. “I’ve been waiting…I’ve been holding back for so long, and now…I can’t anymore. I just…”

“You don’t have to say more, okay?” he interrupted softly, nuzzling into your hair. “I know. Every look, every touch, every time you let me in…it tells me more than words ever could.”

You rested your head against him, chest rising and falling against his, shivers still running through your limbs. “Thank you.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head, smiling wider. “Thank you.”

epilogue

A few months later, the same courthouse that once echoed with the hollow finality of your long suffering marriage in divorce now buzzed with a different kind of anticipation. It wasn’t exactly the same fanfare, but it was everything to you. 

The Tokyo District Court was reserved compared to the grand hall wedding you had with your ex-husband. But even with all fluorescent lights, polished floors, and quiet authority, this was probably a better wedding to you than the first one. 

The last time you stood there to declare your wedding after the glamorous ceremony, your hands had trembled as the clerk stamped the final page. The air had felt heavy, like something irreversible had just been carved into stone. This time, your hands were steady.

The clerk recognized you. Her brows lifted almost imperceptibly before her professional composure returned. Papers were placed in front of you again. A pen slid across the desk. Beside you stood the infamous divorce lawyer Higuruma Hiromi.

He looked as he always did. Dashing in his immaculate suit, tie aligned with near-mathematical precision, expression composed enough to intimidate a courtroom. Yet there was something unmistakably softer in his gaze when it turned to you. His hand rested at the small of your back, firm and grounding, as though the world itself might tilt without his steadying touch.

“I suppose this is ironic, isn’t it?” you murmured, glancing at the very bench where you once sat alone.

“The law is not concerned with irony. It records conclusions and beginnings with equal neutrality, sweetheart.”

You smiled faintly. “And what is this?”

His fingers intertwined with yours. Warm. Certain. “A new precedent….One I intend to uphold for the rest of my life.”

There were no sweeping violins. No dramatic audience. Only a quiet exchange of vows that felt far more binding than any spectacle could offer. Your voice wavered only once, not from doubt, but from the overwhelming clarity of knowing you were choosing again. This time, without any intention to let go.

When the final signature was placed and the declaration made, the sound that echoed in the hallway was not the hollow stamp of loss. It was your laughter. You stepped out of those courthouse doors no longer carrying the weight of something broken, but the certainty of something rebuilt.

“I’m very happy to call you my wife.” Hiromi whispered against your skin, pressing a kiss on your cheek. 

You giggled. “I’m very happy to call you my husband too.”

It caused quite a stir. But of course it would. He was your long time ex-boyfriend, the one who represented you in your divorce and now after just mere months of reconnecting, you were both getting married like nothing happened. Yet that was just life.

Life was as unpredictable as the weather. But this unpredictability was more than welcome to you, to him. It was all you both could have ever strived for after such a long time being apart, suffering in the silence of your own respective chaotic worlds.

But now things made sense.

Being together made sense.

Being happy made sense.

Months later, the world was louder. The red carpet stretched endlessly beneath your heels, a river of crimson beneath flashes of white light. The premiere banner of your new film towered behind you, your name emblazoned in gold. 

Reporters called out questions in overlapping waves. Microphones extended toward you like reaching hands. And beside you, as he had been since that quiet courthouse a few months ago, stood Higuruma Hiromi, your husband.

He wore a tailored black tuxedo now, the severity softened by the unmistakable pride in his posture. His hand never left your waist, ever so protective and careful. Your own hand, where your gleaming wedding band shone, rested instinctively against the gentle curve of your stomach.

You were pregnant.

You both were happy about it.

And certainly, it seems everyone is too.

The news had broken hours before the premiere, it was the right time, seeing as you were already far along. Headlines called it shocking. It was so sudden, so unexpected. It was the effect of that beautiful whirlwind romance that people did not even expect. 

The internet, as always, had opinions. People always had something to say about things. But none of that noise reached you the way his quiet voice did when he leaned closer. He was all that mattered to you, as much as you were all that mattered to him.

“Are you tired?” he asked, low enough that only you could hear.

“I’m fine, sweetie.” you assured him. “I have a very capable attorney ensuring my safety.”

A faint smile ghosted across his lips. “But I’m not just your attorney now, no?”

You giggled happily. “No, no. You’re also my equally very capable husband.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” he whispers to you, kissing your lips, which makes you giggle even more.

A reporter shouted, “How does it feel to be newly married and expecting while starring in the most anticipated film of the year?”

“It’s amazing! It’s everything that one can dream of, after a long long winter.” you tell them, smiling and waving at everyone. The cameras flicker even more. “I’m with someone that makes it all easier.”

Hiromi’s gaze looked at you lovingly before it flicked toward the cameras, measured and calm. “Life rarely adheres to strict timelines. But when events align in one’s favor, it would be unreasonable not to express gratitude and contentment.”

You laughed softly, the sound warm despite the chaos. “He means we’re very happy.”

The flashes intensified even more as your husband smiled and kissed you again, everyone eager to capture every angle of that kiss. Before long, you both moved along, but even then, everyone was crazed in capturing more of you two.

The protective curve of his arm around you, the way he adjusted his pace to match yours, the softness in his eyes that only ever appeared when he thought no one else was looking. It would be on the front page of every newspaper, article and social media site before the end of the night.

Once, that courthouse had marked your ending.

Now, it was merely a footnote in a far greater story.

You leaned toward him as photographers called for one final shot. “Marrying you in that building might be my favorite plot twist.”

Hiromi glanced down at you with happiness, nothing else mattered now. “Then let us ensure…..that every chapter that follows from here on out surpasses it.”

You smiled. “Of course.”

[wadigrove]

he is winter and blade and blue light—

༘⋆🤍˚ .❄️₊˚ෆ

Christmas with Kaiser is always different. 

It never arrives quietly.

It is Christmas, yes—but it is also his birthday, which means the day carries twice the weight, twice the attention, twice the expectation. Double gifts. Double affection. Double eyes on him. And no matter how many years pass, it is still something his body doesn’t quite know how to receive. His childhood did not teach him how to be celebrated. There were no soft mornings with wrapping paper and laughter, no gentle songs hummed under breath, no certainty that the day itself would make space for him. Celebration, to Kaiser, is still something unfamiliar—almost suspicious.

And yet.

He is ferocious. Cruel in the way a cornered animal is cruel. Contradictory down to the bone.

He bites. He scowls. He snips at you with sharp words meant to keep you at bay. He makes fun of you when you’re too soft, when you lean too close, when your love shows itself too clearly. And then—without warning—he kisses you. Laughs. Pulls you in. Lets himself be held for a breath too long.

Despite all of it, you remain tender with him.

You still touch him. Still smooth your thumb over his knuckles. Still love him the way a mother loves her cub—fierce, protective, forgiving. The way a lover loves her lover—wanting, devoted, choosing him again and again even when it hurts. You have learned that loving Kaiser means holding two truths at once: that he will wound you, and that he will never mean it the way it feels.

The blue of his eyes clashes violently with the white light of winter outside the windows. It feels like standing inside a snowstorm lit by electricity—cold and brilliance colliding all at once. The Christmas tree lights scattered through his penthouse catch in his irises, make them glow sharper, brighter, almost unreal. They track the vase of roses on the coffee table first—red petals pale in the glow—before shifting to the neatly arranged presents you’ve laid out.

(He notices everything. He always does.)

When you shuffle closer, he scowls instinctively, rolls his eyes like affection is something embarrassing, something that must be resisted. But he doesn’t move away. He stays exactly where he is, shoulders squared, gaze flicking between you and the gifts.

“What’s this?” he asks, suspicious.

You smile and lean forward, resting your chin on your knees, smaller somehow in front of him. Softer. “Double presents.”

His eyes narrow—not in anger, but in defense. You know that look. You know what it costs him to receive anything. Gifts make him uneasy because they demand a response he was never taught how to give. Gratitude feels too close to vulnerability. Joy feels like something that might be taken away the moment he admits to it.

He clears his throat, posture stiffening, and then a smirk appears—forced, performative. “Did you get me something expensive?” he teases, voice light, careless.

You know better. Kaiser doesn’t care about expensive things—not really. He wears designer clothes and polished watches because he can, because money is power, because it keeps people at a distance. Luxury is a shield, not a desire.

You shrug. “Maybe.”

He scoffs, muttering something under his breath, but his hand reaches for the nearest present anyway. He rips the paper open with too much force, as if daring it to disappoint him. Inside is a small box, no bigger than the palm of his hand. He opens it.

And inside is something small. Something stupid, by most measures. Something unmistakably yours.

A cola bottle keychain.

It isn’t grand. It isn’t sentimental in the way people expect love to be. It isn’t expensive or symbolic in a way that demands emotion. It is playful. Personal. Rooted in something real—something he actually likes. It says I see you, not I want to impress you.

He stares at it longer than he means to.

His jaw clenches. A faint pout pulls at his mouth before he can stop it. He huffs softly and closes his fist around it like he’s afraid someone might take it away.

“So dumb,” he mutters.

But he doesn’t put it back in the box.

Instead, he stuffs it into the pocket of his hoodie with careless precision, like it belongs there. Like it’s staying. Like it’s already part of him.

(You don’t say anything. You don’t tease him. You let him have the words he needs to say, because you know what he can’t.)

The next present waits quietly between the others, understated in the way he understands instinctively. No bright wrapping. No unnecessary flourish. Just weight. Purpose.

You slide it toward him, and he eyes it with suspicion before picking it up. It’s heavy in his hands—a high-quality leather training journal, dark and smooth, the kind of leather that warms under touch. Minimal. Serious. The cover bears his initials pressed cleanly into the corner, subtle enough that only someone looking closely would notice. And beneath it all, embossed into the leather like a shadow that only appears in the right light: thorns. Not decorative. Intentional. Something that feels earned.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He never does when something lands too close to the truth.

His fingers trace the imprint slowly, following the raised lines with a care he pretends not to have. He opens it carefully—far more carefully than he opened the others. The pages are thick, clean, waiting. They smell faintly of leather and ink and possibility.

“For planning,” you say softly, shifting closer without thinking, knees brushing his. “Tracking. Plays. Workouts. And… whatever you actually want to write in there.”

He scoffs immediately, reflexive, defensive. “I don’t need something like this.”

But he doesn’t close it. He flips a page. Then another. His thumb lingers at the spine like he’s testing how it will hold up under use, under wear, under time. You know him—you know he’ll use it. Not all at once. Not openly. But it will end up in his bag, dog-eared and marked and lived in. That’s how he is. Hot and cold. Rejecting things with his mouth while accepting them with his hands.

And then—finally—you slide the last thing toward him.

It’s small. Almost unassuming. Just a key. A single piece of metal with a simple leather tag looped through it. No engraving. No explanation. Nothing to guide him.

He frowns, turning it over in his fingers, brows knitting as he tries to place it. You can see him working through the puzzle, fitting memory to object, object to feeling.

And then you speak.

“It’s from the cabin,” you say quietly. “From the first time we went away together. When you took me into the snow.”

The real key. Not a copy. The original. Because the place isn’t rented anymore. Because it doesn’t exist in the world the way it used to—only in memory.

It devastates him in silence.

A key is not a promise. Not exactly. But it is access. It is return. It says this place mattered. It says we mattered there. It says this exists because we existed together.

You remember it vividly—the snow piled high against the windows, the warmth inside pressing against the cold, the drinks steaming in your hands. The sex, yes, but more than that: the way his walls had lowered without ceremony. The way he had been just Mihya with you. No audience. No performance. Letting you see inside him, letting you step into a private dimension where it was only the two of you, suspended in time.

“You getting domestic now?” he teases, a smirk tugging at his mouth like a shield snapping into place.

You don’t answer.

He scoffs again—too quickly. And then he freezes. Just for half a second. Enough for you to see it. Enough for the truth to slip through.

“…What am I supposed to do with this?”

You shrug, small and careful, like you’re setting something fragile down rather than offering it up. “Whatever you want,” you say softly. “I just… wanted you to have it. A piece of that time.”

Your hand moves before you can overthink it—fingers curling gently around his. For a split second, you brace yourself. You expect the recoil, the snap, the wounded-animal response you know so well. You expect him to bare his teeth and pull away, to remind you that closeness is dangerous territory.

But he doesn’t.

He stays still. Too still.

He watches you with something unfamiliar swimming behind his eyes—something yearning, raw, almost unguarded. It unsettles him. You can tell by the way his jaw clenches tight, by the way he turns his face slightly to the side as if giving himself permission to endure this moment rather than flee from it. Like he’s allowing you near him the way one might allow sunlight into a room that’s been shut for too long.

You don’t waste it.

You shift closer, slow and deliberate, like approaching something skittish. You curl into him, fitting yourself against his side as though your body remembers the shape of him better than your mind ever could. Your arms slide around his neck, gentle, not demanding. You press a kiss to his jaw, then his cheek—soft, reverent, unarmed.

“Happy birthday,” you murmur, breath warm against his skin. “And merry Christmas.”

The words are simple. They don’t ask for anything. They don’t expect anything back.

His response isn’t verbal. It never is.

Instead, his arm curls around you—not tight, not loose, but exact. Protective without being possessive. Heavy with intention. He pulls you into the warmth of his body like he’s drawing a boundary around you, like you now exist inside the quiet universe he rarely lets anyone touch. The gesture keeps you at bay from the world while holding you close to him, and you understand the paradox immediately—this is how he loves.

You tuck yourself under his arm, heart pressed against his ribs, listening to the steady rhythm there. He doesn’t move you away. He doesn’t mock you. He doesn’t ruin it.

(It’s a quiet, wordless, weighted answer.)

A mercy, not spoken.

—and you are the hand that reaches anyway.

[wadigrove]

✦ hands to myself — michael kaiser

[ nsfw ] — smut (18+) ; michael kaiser x reader

word count: 8,107 — read on ao3

tags: shameless smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, explicit language & sexual content, dirty talk, angst, slight hurt/comfort, toxic relationship dynamics, possessive behavior, marking/bites, overstimulation, rough-ish sex, slight aftercare, mdni!

summary:

You love him. You want him. You want to hand him your heart and hope he doesn’t break it; hope his hands—capable of cruelty, capable of brilliance—learn how to carry it. Maybe you are a fool for that. But if loving Michael Kaiser is foolishness, then you’ll wear it proudly.

Or, in which you try to let go, only to be pulled back to him again and again, tangled in roses, thorns, and everything in between.

notes:

was in the mood for something smutty and angsty and thought, “hey, you know who’d be perfect for this? mr. mommy-issues kaiser who has no idea how to handle affection.” so… here you go—it’s my first time writing for him, so i hope it isn’t ooc! enjoy :p

He’s there. 

Right in front of your apartment building like he’s been waiting all along. His frame propped lazy against a sleek car that probably costs more than your entire lease. Arms folded, posture casual, sunglasses still perched arrogantly on his nose even though the sky is the color of wet cement and the light barely filters through.

He looks ridiculous. He looks handsome enough to ruin you all over again.

Your chest tightens. Your throat burns. It’s so stupid how you still feel the tug when you see him—your body recognizing him like muscle memory even when your mind begs you to keep walking.

So you try. You square your shoulders, let your eyes roll, force your feet forward. If you don’t look at him, maybe you’ll survive this.

But then—

“Oh? Ignoring me?” Kaiser’s voice slices through the air, smooth and dangerous, velvet wrapped around steel. “Since when did you get the courage to start doing that?”

You freeze. Your fingers curl around the strap of your bag. That voice always finds the soft part of you, the unguarded part.

“What do you want?” You snap, your tone sharper than you feel.

He lifts his chin, lips tugging into that insufferable smirk. “You weren’t at my place.”

“Because I don’t want anything to do with you.”

He makes a noise low in his throat, amused. “Oh?” He tilts his head, sunglasses slipping down just enough for you to catch the gleam of blue. “Really?”

“Really.”

His laugh comes sudden and cruel, the sound curling under your skin like smoke. It scrapes at you, yet somehow you hate yourself for loving it—for remembering the way it used to rumble against your ribs when he laughed into your mouth. “You’re acting like a child.”

Your jaw tightens. “I’m acting like a child?”

“Yes.”

“Me? Not you?”

“Yes, you. I’m not stupid.” He pushes off the car, his strides lazy but precise, like a predator who knows he’ll catch his prey. “Don’t act so immature. All this because of this morning?”

The memory slams into you, sharp and fresh.

(You press a kiss to his cheek when you wake, whispering good morning against his skin, your face tucked into the curve of him like maybe—for once—you can believe in softness. You nuzzle into his warmth, still tasting him, still feeling his fingerprints branded into you.

But he scowls. His whole body goes rigid, shutting you out in the span of a heartbeat. The tenderness, the heat, the pull of last night evaporates like it never happened.

He shrugs you off like you are nothing. Mumbles something irritated under his breath. Leaves you standing there, heart aching in your chest while his shadow walks out the door.

You should know better by now. The hot and cold. The way he lets you in only to slam the door shut when you step over the threshold. The cruel orbit of being in his life.

But you never learn.)

You don’t answer him now. Silence is safer. Silence is all you can give without crumbling.

He notices. Of course he notices. His grin stretches wider, eyes narrowing with a flicker of something playful, taunting. “Get in the car,” he says, jerking his head toward the glossy machine behind him.

“No.” 

“Don’t be like that—“

“I don’t want to get in t—“

“Just come a—“

Your voice wavers, but you try to step around him. “Leave me alone, Micha—“

He moves faster. So fast. He’s always been quick—on the pitch, in a fight, in your life. It only takes one step, one shift of weight, and he’s in front of you again. In your space.

His voice drops, low and rasping, brushing against your skin like sandpaper. “Get in the car.” It’s not a suggestion. It’s a warning. A command.

Your breath stumbles out. Up this close you can smell him again—the clean spice of his cologne, the metallic tang of the chain he wears, the faint hint of leather from his jacket. And stupidly, achingly, you think of home.

You can see the scatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the glint of copper-gold in his irises where the grey light touches him. He’s beautiful in a way that should be illegal. Beautiful in a way that only hurts.

He raises his brow, silent, waiting for you to defy him. You swallow hard, pulse skittering, and change course. Not because you have to. Not because he’s making you. But because—God help you—you want to.

He knows it. He smirks like the devil.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and his hand lands sharp and deliberate on the curve of your ass.

Your whole body jolts at the contact, shame and heat flaring in your chest.

You hate him. You hate him so much.

The drive to his place takes on average thirteen minutes and fifty-eight seconds. You know because you count them—each second, each breath, each red light flickering against the windshield. Numbers keep you steady. Numbers drown out the low hum of his voice, the way he sings under his breath with the radio. It’s infuriating—soft, lazy, threaded with that smug tone even when he isn’t trying.

Another three minutes and seventeen seconds to park. He kills the engine, smooth and practiced, before reaching across you without asking, pressing the button that unlocks the car door. His cologne lingers—clean, sharp, threaded with something darker that feels expensive.

The elevator ride feels worse. He curls an arm around your shoulders like he owns the air around you, tugging you against the muscle of his body—sculpted, unforgiving, carved like the statue of some arrogant god. His touch burns.

“Honey,” he croons, voice low and mocking while your pulse stumbles, “you can’t even look at me? Damn. And here I was hoping for something more. Maybe even a little kiss...” His grin widens, devil-sharp. “I might have to steal it.”

You glare at him from the corner of your eyes, jaw tight. His sunglasses slide up into his hair with a practiced flick, revealing eyes so blue it hurts to look at them. He leans in anyway, smiling against your cheek before stealing a nip at your skin.

You jolt, heat rushing through you, and shove at his chest, huffing. It doesn’t budge him. It never does. He only leans more of his weight against you, purposefully pressing down like he’s trying to rile you up, to make you fight back, because that’s very much his game.

The elevator dings, doors sliding open, and only then does he let some of his weight shift off you. But his arm doesn’t move. His grip stays iron at your shoulders, steady, as if he knows—better than you—that you’ll never run when he’s holding you like this.

His place looks the same as when you left it this morning: slightly messy but clean in the way that screams wealth, not effort. A watch left on the counter. A glass still rimmed with water. The faint smell of leather and espresso still clinging to the open space.

You walk in with a trudge in your step, making it clear you didn’t choose this. Which is half true. Maybe more than half.

But the skyline from the floor-to-ceiling windows catches your attention first, as it always does. You can’t stop yourself. It stretches wide, glittering towers and clouds so close it feels like you could touch them if you pressed your hand hard enough against the glass. It makes you feel both impossibly small and terrifyingly large, like you could dissolve into insignificance, or like you could fall and destroy yourself entirely.

And somehow, being here with him feels the same.

“Don’t tell me you’re still impressed,” Kaiser drawls, tossing his keys onto the counter while simultaneously shrugging off his jacket, his voice thick with amusement. He watches you, leaning casually against the wall like he hasn’t just dragged you here against your better judgment. “Every time you look at it like you’ve never seen it before.”

You don’t answer him. You don’t have to. He can see it on your face, in the way your eyes linger on the horizon.

Kaiser smirks, steps closer, sliding behind you until his chest hovers near your back. You feel the heat of him before he even touches you.

“You like it here,” he murmurs, his tone softer now but no less dangerous. His hand skims up your arm, slow, deliberate, like he’s testing how far you’ll let him go before you snap. “You like being here with me.”

You want to argue. You want to tell him he’s wrong, that you hate the way his world pulls you in, that you hate the way you keep coming back. 

“You know I do,” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can bite them back. Your eyes flick up to his, and the moment you see the way his gaze drops to your lips, the slow curl of his grin like he’s already decided what’s his, panic flares in your chest.

You step away. Put distance between you before the gravity can pull you under again.

Kaiser only raises a brow, unbothered, his smirk sharpening into something dangerous. “I wanted to steal my kiss,” he says, sing-song, as if you’ve robbed him of a prize he was already pocketing.

The sound of your sigh feels too loud in the silence of his penthouse. You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to hold yourself together, voice raw when you whisper, “Mihya… what do you want from me?”

It takes everything to say the next part, to let the words fall like stones in the space between you. “I’m tired. I’m tired of this—of not knowing how to act around you, of doubting myself all the—”

“You’re being dramatic.”

There it is. The knife you’ve felt too many times.

Your hands drop, eyes flashing. “You always say that!” Your voice cracks, spilling into the room louder than you mean it to. “Y-You always tell me I’m being dramatic or that it’s not a big deal, but it is. It is, a-and you’re such an asshole about it—”

Kaiser rolls his eyes, casual, dismissive, like your hurt is nothing but background noise. It makes your blood boil, heat licking up your spine until you want to scream. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He wants you angry; it’s easier for him to hold your hatred than it is for him to hold your love.

“God, you’re insufferable,” you spit, pacing a step like you might combust. “You push me and pull me and then act like I’m crazy when I don’t know what the hell you want. Do you even know what you want?”

Something shifts. His jaw ticks, a muscle feathering near the hinge. His eyes narrow, and for a fleeting second the smirk falters—just a crack, just long enough to show the brittle edges underneath—before he pastes it back on like armor.

“I don’t think you do,” you snap, the words breaking out of you sharp and ragged. “You just like to torture me. You push and push and push and you’re so contradicting and cruel and I hate you—” your breath hitches, tears burning the backs of your eyes—“but I don’t, and that’s the worst part—”

“Do you want dinner or something?” he cuts you off, like the bastard he is, tone lazy and dismissive. “My head’s starting to hurt with all your rambling. I haven’t eaten since I left the club.”

Your mouth shuts. Just like that. Your throat goes tight, your chest hollow. And you’re trembling now—you can’t tell if it’s from the fury, the humiliation, or the way it’s always him who reduces you to this raw, shaking state.

“I’m leaving.” The words scrape past your teeth as you spin on your heel, desperate to get away, desperate for distance.

But of course, he’s faster. He’s always faster.

Fingers catch your arm, firm, unyielding. You feel the twitch of muscle under his skin as he reels you back around like you weigh nothing at all. His grip burns, flexing against your flesh until you’re forced to meet his gaze.

“Let me go!” you snarl, shoving at him, fists pounding against the iron wall of his chest. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Instead, his lips twist. “Liar.”

The single word guts you. Fury detonates, and you hit him harder, fists landing with no real damage, just enough to sting your palms. Your vision blurs, tears sliding hot and helpless down your face, and still you fight him, clawing at his chest like maybe if you break skin he’ll finally understand what he’s doing to you.

And then—

His hand snaps up, curls tight around the back of your neck. Hard. Possessive. Dominant. The gesture makes your breath catch, the room spinning, your body betraying you even as your heart rebels.

He drags you into him and crushes his mouth against yours. Hard. Rough. Bruising. The kiss sears through you, all teeth and hunger and punishment, swallowing the sound you make in protest.

You wrench back, hand flying up to slap him, to leave something on him the way he leaves everything on you—but he only grins wider, feral, predatory. Primal.

You should’ve known better; violence is his language. Always has been.

It’s the only way he can translate love without choking on the word. Scraping, clawing, colliding like animals, leaving each other marked and breathless by the end—that’s his form of an honest conversation; that’s how he says stay.

“Gods, you turn me on when you treat me like that,” Kaiser rasps, grin sharp enough to cut as he closes in again.

This time his mouth crashes against yours hungrier, needier, like he’s been starving all day and you’re the only thing that will satisfy. 

“Fuck you,” you hiss against his mouth, breathless, biting the words into him like you mean to wound.

He chuckles, low and smug, his breath hot against your lips. “That’s what I’m planning.”

Your back slams against the nearest wall as his hands grope shamelessly at your breasts, squeezing until your breath stutters. His mouth finds your throat, teeth grazing, tongue dragging, lips sucking marks into your skin like he wants to brand you where everyone can see.

God, you hate him. You hate him. You hate him. You hate him. You could knee him in the balls, spit in his face, walk away for good.

But you don’t. You can’t. Instead, your body betrays you—you arch into his touch, chasing it, melting.

Your hands fist in his hair and then lower, your lips pressing into the side of his neck. You kiss along the ink etched into his skin, over the thorned blooms twining up his throat, and you leave your own marks there—red blooming over blue. Your mouth turns his roses bloody, and he smiles against your skin, sharp and victorious.

“Aw,” he croons, pulling back just enough to see your flushed face. “Already can’t get enough of me?”

“You’re so annoying,” you spit, voice ragged.

He answers not with words but with another bruising kiss, smashing his lips to yours like he can silence you, claim you, consume you.

You stumble together, desperate and clumsy, half-laughing and half-growling into each other’s mouths as you kick shoes off without care. Your fingers claw at his shirt, curling into the fabric and tugging, frantic to get him bare.

“So eager,” he teases, voice muffled against your lips, but his hands are just as impatient, ripping at your blouse with rough pulls until the buttons scatter across the hardwood.

You gasp. “Michael—”

“You’re acting like I don’t get you new shit whenever I ruin the old,” he shoots back, unrepentant, before devouring your mouth again. His arms hook under you, lifting you off your feet like you weigh nothing. He kicks the bedroom door open with a sharp snap of his foot and tosses you onto the mattress, the bounce knocking the air out of you.

He strips his shirt in one fluid movement, tugging it up and over his head by the collar. The fabric catches briefly at the back of his neck before he flings it aside.

And then—there he is.

Broad. Cut. Carved like something that belongs in marble, not in your bed. His chest ridged with muscle, his torso mapped with the faint scattered freckles and scars you’ve kissed a thousand times. A body like the Bavarian Alps—jagged, imposing, impossible not to worship. You’ve mouthed every line of it before. You’ll do it again.

His jeans strain at the outline of him, already thickening, already hard.

He looks at you then—down at you sprawled in just your bra, jeans still clinging to your thighs, your chest heaving with each ragged breath. His gaze sharpens, predator-clear, his smirk a blade you can feel against your skin.

“I don’t think we’re surprised we ended up back here,” he says at last, voice dripping with satisfaction.

You’re not. Of course you’re not.

And then he moves—quick. Too quick. It’s like his body shoots out from nowhere, a blur of muscle and precision, and suddenly his hands are locking around your ankles. He drags you down the mattress in one smooth, brutal tug until your hips are hanging right at the edge of the bed. The air leaves your lungs in a gasp, your whole body jolting with the force of it.

It feels like you’ve been yanked into orbit, the speed dizzying, and then he’s there—right in your face again, grinning like the devil at the flicker of fear across your features.

His fingers trail higher, curling into the waistband of your jeans. He yanks them down with one impatient pull, the denim snagging on the curve of your thighs. You make a startled, high-pitched noise as he gives another rough tug, the sound only making his smirk widen before the fabric pools around your ankles. A second later, the jeans are ripped off completely and tossed carelessly onto the floor.

His own pants are next—unzipped, shoved down, stripped away with that same careless urgency. His boxers cling tight, doing little to hide the thick imprint straining against the fabric.

But then his gaze sharpens, zeroing in on one of the last barriers you wear—your bra.

He crawls up between your legs, his presence filling all the space, his body moving with a predator’s surety. His fingers find the clasp at your back with practiced ease, and with a flick, the band gives. The cups fall away, and your breasts spill free with a soft bounce he tracks with hungry eyes.

Lightning-quick, his hands are on you. He palms the heavy flesh, squeezing, kneading, claiming, and then his mouth is there too—lips wrapping around your nipple, tongue lashing, teeth catching. The sting makes you moan, your body arching toward him despite yourself. Pleasure laced with pain, sharp and sweet.

He bites at the swell of your breast, dragging his teeth just enough to sting before sucking at the underside, hard, like he wants the mark to stay. His groan vibrates against your skin, raw and greedy, like this is the only place he ever wants to be. Then he moves to the other side, giving it the same merciless attention, wet and hot and overwhelming.

You can feel him harder now—pressing, grinding against your inner thigh, the heat of his cock radiating through the thin cotton of his boxers. Every rut of his hips makes your skin burn hotter, your breath shorter.

He nips at your nipple until you jolt, a helpless whimper breaking free as you try to scramble higher up the bed, trying to escape the intensity. But it only fuels him.

One hand holds your breast firm, the other slides down—bold, unyielding—finding the heat between your thighs. You’re still covered by your panties, but the fabric is damp, clinging, betraying you. His palm presses flat against your cunt, grinding slow but firm, right over your clit.

“Fuck—” you gasp, hips jerking against the pressure.

He pulls off your nipple, lips red and swollen, and looks down at you like he’s savoring the sight. His grin widens, eyes flashing with cruel amusement.

“So wet,” he drawls, his voice a velvet blade. “How cute…”

You can only moan as he presses harder, circling his palm over your clit with relentless ease. The sound of it, the sight of you unraveling under him, makes his grin stretch sharp enough to cut.

He doesn’t stop grinding his palm against your cunt until you’re nearly sliding up the bed, your spine bowing as the pillows catch against your shoulders. Your breaths come in short, uneven bursts, and only then—only when you’re exactly where he wants you—does he pull away.

His fingers hook into the hem of your panties, tugging them down slow this time, deliberate. His eyes stay fixed on you as though the act itself is a ritual, as though peeling you bare inch by inch is something he wants to savor, to brand into his memory. The damp fabric clings briefly to your skin before sliding free, and he flicks it aside with the lazy flick of his fingers, like it’s nothing—like you’re everything.

And then it’s there again—that look. Predatory. Consuming. His gaze sharpens, blue eyes zeroing in on the slick heat between your thighs. He shifts lower, crawling like a panther until his broad shoulders slot neatly between your legs, until his hands lock firm around the backs of your thighs, keeping you wide open for him.

You feel the brush of his breath before his nose nuzzles into your mound, inhaling deep, savoring the scent. A low, guttural moan escapes him, vibrating against your skin, before his tongue drags a long, slow strip from your entrance to your clit. The moment he reaches the swollen bud, he latches on, sucking it into his mouth with obscene pressure.

You gasp, sharp and high, your thighs trembling as the sound of him—slurping, moaning, messy and unrestrained—fills the room. He eats you like he’s feasting, lapping through your folds with abandon, burying himself in the slick heat of you as if it’s the only thing that’s ever satisfied him.

“Mihya—” Your voice breaks around his name, your hands flying to fist in the sheets.

His response isn’t words but action. You feel the deliberate prod of his middle finger, slick with your arousal, pressing at your entrance. He doesn’t rush. He pushes in slow but sure, the stretch immediate as his finger slips knuckle-deep inside you.

Your toes curl, your mouth falling open in a silent gasp as his tongue doesn’t relent—circling, sucking, flicking—while his finger curls inside you, seeking the spot that makes you jolt. He moans into your cunt like he’s drunk on it, like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

One of your feet lands on his shoulder in a desperate attempt to push him away, to kick him off, to claw back even a shred of control from the overwhelming pleasure coursing through you. It’s too much—the drag of his tongue, the relentless suction, the steady curl of his finger inside you. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and your body doesn’t know whether to run or to beg.

But Kaiser doesn’t even flinch.

His hand snakes up, strong and unyielding, fingers curling around your ankle in a grip that makes your stomach flip. Instead of pushing him away, you’re caught—pinned in place, your leg spread wider as he anchors you against him.

“Trying to run, hmm?” he murmurs against your skin, voice muffled by your slick, his breath hot against your cunt. His smirk is audible. “Not happening.”

And then he doubles down. His tongue presses harder, flicking fast against your clit before sucking it into his mouth again, obscene and hungry. His finger sinks deeper, curling with practiced precision until you’re whimpering, your hips jerking helplessly.

The sound that leaves you is high and broken, shame and pleasure tangled together. You try to push against his shoulder again, but his grip only tightens around your ankle, holding you closer, forcing you open for him.

Your thighs tremble. Your chest heaves. The sheets twist in your fists as you fall apart under him, every nerve burning, every gasp of his name torn from your throat feeding the fire in his grin.

It’s only when you finally come down from your high—body trembling, lungs shuddering as you try to push him away again—that he relents, pulling his mouth off your cunt. Not before dragging his tongue up one last slow, wet stripe from your entrance to your clit, savoring the way you jolt beneath him.

His finger slips free of you with an obscene sound, coated in your slick. Without hesitation, he brings it up to your lips, his grin sharp and smug as he presses it against your mouth.

“Go on,” he croons, voice dripping with mockery. “Suck.”

You should slap his hand away. You should curse him out. Instead, heat floods your cheeks as your lips part, shame curling inside you even as arousal burns hotter. You glare at him while your mouth closes around his finger, sucking your own release off his skin. The taste is humiliating, intoxicating, undeniable.

He watches you with a hunger that makes your stomach twist, his eyes heavy-lidded, the corners of his mouth twitching in satisfaction. When he pulls his finger free, a string of spit stretches between your lips and his skin, snapping wetly with a pop. And then, like the bastard he is, he smears the mess across your cheek with lazy cruelty, rubbing you raw like you’re nothing more than a cloth for him to wipe his fingers on.

You swat his hand away with a huff, glaring, but your chest heaves, your thighs already quivering with need.

Then his boxers come off. He shoves them down and kicks them aside, his cock springing free, flushed pink, thick, and already glistening at the tip with precum.

It’s pretty. Unfairly pretty. Too pretty for a man like him. The sight alone makes heat curl in your belly, makes your cunt clench even though you just came, makes you hate yourself for how quickly you’re ready for more.

His hand slides back between your legs without warning, fingers finding your folds with practiced ease. He presses firmly against your clit, rubbing circles that make your body betray you—your hips twitching, your breath hitching, your glare faltering.

“Sto—” you try to gasp out, pushing weakly at his chest, your palms against the warm plane of his skin.

“You don’t want that,” he interrupts, snorting as if you’ve told him a joke. His tone is amused, taunting, and his touch only grows more deliberate. He applies more pressure, rubbing harder, coaxing a helpless sound from your throat—a broken, needy mewl that betrays you completely.

He knows exactly how to play you. He always does. He’ll let you fight it, let you pretend to resist for a few more seconds, just long enough to savor that spark of rebellion in your eyes. And then, with all the arrogance in the world, he tilts his head and claims your mouth again.

The kiss is messy, rough, all teeth and tongue. You bite down with extra force, giving him more teeth than he deserves. He groans into it, not deterred, the sound dark and low as his fingers move faster against your clit. The sharpness of your kiss only spurs him on. He loves it when you fight back, loves the sting, loves the way your defiance collapses under his touch.

Your hand betrays you too, curling around the thick length of his cock almost without thinking. Your fingers tighten, stroking him in a firm pull upward, and the reaction is instant. He moans into your mouth, the sound half-groan, half-laugh, shivering down your spine. His hips twitch forward into your grip like he can’t help himself.

“See?” he rasps against your lips, the words cutting between kisses, breath hot on your skin. His teeth sink into your neck next, not gentle but claiming, biting hard enough to bruise. “You don’t want me to stop.”

He’s right. You don’t.

Your glare falters, your body arching into him, caught between fury and need. His cock throbs in your hand, his fingers merciless on your clit, and you know you’ve already lost. You always lose with him.

Your moan gets caught in your throat when he pulls his fingers away, leaving you aching and empty. Before you can even protest, his palm presses flat against your sternum, pushing you back down firmly against the mattress. His weight pins you there, commanding, unyielding.

He grabs your legs next—big hands curling under your thighs as he lifts them with ease, folding you until your feet rest on his broad shoulders. He holds your legs tight to his chest, caging you in, forcing you open. You feel small like this, vulnerable, completely trapped beneath him.

And then he slides forward. Slow. Deliberate. The blunt head of his cock finds your folds, the heat of him sending a shiver straight through you. He taps at your clit with cruel precision, again and again, watching the way you jolt, the way your feet tremble against his shoulders. Then he drags the thick length of him through your slick folds, coating himself in you, teasing you with what you already know is coming.

Finally, with a push that steals your breath, he nudges inside. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, his girth stretching you open, filling you deeper and deeper until his hips are flush against yours.

You whine, the sound high and broken, your legs trembling against his chest. Kaiser groans low, head tipping back briefly, his voice rough as he moans at the feel of you gripping around him. You can’t breathe, can’t think, every nerve ending lit on fire as your head falls back against the pillow and your eyes flutter shut.

But he isn’t having any of that.

A sudden sting makes you yelp—the sharp nip of his teeth against the delicate skin near your ankle. Your eyes fly open in shock, and when you look down at him, he’s already grinning. Sharp. Self-satisfied. His teeth gleam in the low light as he growls, “Eyes up here.”

And then he moves.

His hips pull back just far enough for you to feel the drag of his cock leaving you empty—before he slams back in with a mean, sharp thrust that knocks the air straight from your lungs. The force of it punches a gasp out of you, your whole body arching, trembling beneath him as his grin widens like this is exactly what he wanted: you, wide-eyed, undone, held completely in his grasp.

He fucks you like he plays—like he’s back on the pitch, all finesse and speed and unrelenting skill. Every thrust lands with the precision of a strike, his entire weight driving into you, hips snapping forward like he means to bury himself in the very core of you. And it’s good. God, it’s so good it makes your head swim, your body clenching around him with every stroke.

“Mihya…” you moan, his name breaking from your throat as his body presses closer. He leans forward, shifting his angle just enough that his cock grinds into that perfect spot inside you, the friction dragging a cry out of your chest. His lips capture yours before the sound can spill too loud, swallowing your moans, devouring you like he can’t get enough.

His mouth drags down your jaw, your throat, teeth grazing, tongue burning hot against your skin. He grits his teeth as he groans against your pulse, the sound low, rough, primal. “Mine,” he mutters, again and again, broken and insistent. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

Kaiser is vocal—he always has been. And with him, it starts the same way it always does: that semi-demeaning edge, the way he twists his words into a weapon to remind you where you stand beneath him.

“Fuck,” he growls, pulling his face out of your neck, sweat-slick hair falling into his eyes. His forehead presses against yours, his grin too wide, too smug, too sharp. “A-Always so wet for me—always. We—we play this damn game, every single time, but we always—s-shit… we always end up right here.”

His voice cracks around a moan, but the arrogance never falters. He’s proud of himself, impossibly proud, impressed with his own ability to run his mouth while he pounds into you like he’s trying to ruin you from the inside out. He revels in it, revels in the way your eyes flutter but he forces them back open with a rough thrust and a command burned into a kiss.

“Why?” he taunts, his grin flashing devilish as his hips grind deeper, as his hand curls around your throat with just enough pressure to make your breath stutter. “Because you’re mine. Only I know what you want. Only I know what you need. Only I do.”

Your brain feels like it’s short-circuiting, scrambled from the relentless pace of his cock, the sting of his teeth, the demand of his words. It’s too much, too consuming. You can barely think, can barely speak, but you manage to choke it out between moans, the truth spilling from your lips before you can stop it.

“Only you,” you gasp, eyes glassy, body trembling. “Only you.”

Because it is only him. It has always been him.

You need only him—want only him—nothing else matters but the man above you. You crave everything that makes him unbearable and irresistible in equal measure: his touch, his cruelty, his jagged way of needing. The strange, fractured language of love that Michael Kaiser speaks without ever using the word itself. That damaged persona he wears like armor—mocking, sharp, impossible—and yet beneath it all, a soul that has tethered itself to you whether he admits it or not.

Your hands rise, unable to resist. You drag them over the corded muscles of his arms, tracing the ridges of strength you’ve memorized, the warmth that sears your palms. You linger at the tattoos that crawl over his skin—the black thorns inked into his left arm, winding like the chains that bind him to your heart. Your fingers trail higher until your arms loop around his neck, curling tight, tugging him down. Closer. Always closer.

You want to feel him fully, to drink in this intimacy while you can—because you know him. You know the moment tenderness slips through, it makes him recoil, makes him shut down and shove you away like he doesn’t deserve it. You want to take it now, revel in it, before he ruins it with that cruel defense of his.

So you kiss him.

The kiss is needy, desperate, but it isn’t just lust this time—it’s love, raw and unguarded. You pour it into him with every parting of your lips, with every scrape of your teeth, with every sound you let him steal from your throat. It terrifies him; you can feel it in the way his body stiffens, the way his groan turns ragged, the way control slips from his grasp. Love is a sickness to him, and you’re the only one who can infect him with it.

Your mouths break apart, slick and swollen, and the rhythm of him takes over again—the sharp thrusts of his hips pounding into you, the bed creaking under the strain, the filthy plap, plap, plap of his cock sliding deep into you.

And between it all, your chest heaving, your voice threads through the dark like something forbidden, something sacred. Barely a whisper, barely daring:

“I love you.”

For a moment—just a moment—you think he might freeze. That he’ll scoff, roll his eyes, dismiss you the way he always does when things tilt too soft.

But then he grins.

Too wide. Too sharp. Teeth gleaming like a wolf catching its prey. A grin that looks like it wants to swallow you whole.

His hips slam harder, faster, punishing and claiming all at once. He presses himself closer, chest to chest, pinning you to the bed as though he wants to mold you into him, fuse you together until there’s no space left to breathe.

The possessiveness in him roars to the surface, primal and unstoppable. He fucks you harder, his moans spilling against your ear, words rough and uneven, torn from him as his body demands what his heart won’t admit.

You realize that this is his answer.

Not soft words, not tender promises. But speed and force and need. The brutal worship of his body claiming yours, as if by fucking you into the mattress he can silence the terror that love brings, as if he can prove that no one else will ever have you the way he does.

Michael Kaiser doesn’t know how to say I love you. 

So he devours you instead.

You don’t know how many rounds you go. 

You lose count somewhere after the third when the lines between one orgasm and the next blur into a haze of sound and skin and his name ripped from your throat. All you know is that it’s a lot. More than you thought you could handle. He wrings you out until you can’t think, can’t taste, can’t smell anything but him; Kaiser above you, Kaiser under you, Kaiser at your back. Kaiser everywhere.

By the end, you look ruined. Mutilated in a way that only he could make beautiful: your skin littered with hickeys, with bites that sting every time the sheets drag against them, your body damp with sweat and trembling, your chest heaving with the effort of just breathing. Your eyes sting with the tears that have slipped down at some point, your muscles twitch and quiver, and between your thighs you’re sticky and sore, your cunt filled with him, spent but still pulsing.

And still—he looks insatiable. His hair damp, plastered to his forehead, chest rising and falling with exertion, but his eyes gleam with hunger like he hasn’t had nearly enough. Like he’ll never have enough. He leans over you again, his broad shoulders eclipsing the glow of the city lights through the window, a wall of muscle and need. His mouth dips to your chest, tongue darting out to lick at your nipple before nuzzling deeper against your body like he’s burrowing into you.

You whimper, fingers trembling as you push at his head, too sensitive, too raw. A quiet sniffle catches in your throat, filling the silence.

“Oh? Can’t handle it anymore?” His voice drips with mockery, velvet-edged cruelty. “And here I thought maybe we’d have some more fun.”

It feels like he’s laughing at you, and it makes your chest tighten. You muster what little strength you have, shoot him a shaky glare. “Don’t be so smug,” you tremble out, your voice frayed at the edges.

But that only makes his grin stretch wider.

And then—he surprises you. Instead of another sharp bite or cutting remark, he simply drops his cheek against your breast. Right above your heartbeat. His grin softens, fading into something quieter as he nuzzles into the curve of you, pressing his face into your skin like he’s seeking refuge.

His arms slip around you, pulling you into him with a firmness that brooks no argument. The weight of him settles over you, heavy, solid, his entire body pressing you into the mattress until you can hardly breathe.

“Get off,” you mumble weakly, pushing at his shoulders. But your arms are too tired, your body too wrung out. And when you try, he only leans harder, his grin returning as he rubs his face into your chest like a cat marking its territory.

“I’m good right here,” he murmurs instead, his voice low and rough, muffled against your skin.

And then he kisses your nipple—soft, too soft, so gentle it doesn’t fit him at all. The tenderness of it makes your breath hitch, your heart flutter in your chest. For once, it isn’t possession or cruelty. It’s something else, something that feels dangerously close to love.

Your hand lifts, shaky but sure, and finds the ink on his neck. You trace the roses there, the blue blooms etched into his skin, your fingertips ghosting over the petals you’ve kissed a hundred times. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t push you away. He lets you touch him.

You both stay there, sweaty and sticky and exhausted, caught in the quiet of the come down. Just existing, pressed into each other, contradictions and all.

And then, a moment later, he ruins it—like he always does.

He crawls up your body, slow but unrelenting, until you’re face-to-face, until you can see every fleck of blue in his eyes. His nose nudges against yours, his grin curling at the corners of his mouth as he murmurs, sing-song and sharp, “So you love me, huh? You get butterflies in your stomach when you see me? Turn into a putty little mess?”

You know what he’s doing. You know the script. He expects you to roll your eyes, to bite back, to meet cruelty with cruelty until it spirals into laughter or fire or both. That’s the game he knows how to play.

And normally, you would. Normally, you’d swing right back at him. But tonight, you’re tired. Not just tired from the sex, from the ache in your bones and the soreness between your thighs. Tired of him; of the endless loop, the way he demands affection but mocks it when it appears, the way tenderness is always turned into a joke.

So instead, you just whisper, “Yes.”

Because it is true.

You love him. You get butterflies in your stomach when he walks into a room, when he tips his sunglasses down to look at you, when he grins like he owns the world. You turn into a putty mess when he kisses your cheek, when he calls you honey in that mocking voice that never fails to melt your insides. You like play-fighting with him until you’re both laughing so hard your ribs ache. You like sleeping beside him, humming softly while you trace the ridges of his knuckles, listening to the quiet rumble of his snores. You like showering with him, washing his hair, scrubbing his skin, and watching him scowl when he realizes he’s squeezed out too much soap again.

You love him. You want him. You want to hand him your heart and hope he doesn’t break it; hope his hands—capable of cruelty, capable of brilliance—learn how to carry it.

Maybe you are a fool for that. But if loving Michael Kaiser is foolishness, then you’ll wear it proudly. Because a man like him—raw, sharp, burning like a flame and cutting like glass—was always going to be loved by fools.

It is an echo in your ribs, his name reverberating there like a hymn. It is a hollow that only he can fill. It is the constant, quiet thrumming of a heart that refuses to sleep.

And for a moment, you see it—the flicker in his face. The way his grin falters, too quick. The way something vulnerable and unprepared flashes through his eyes. Like he expected you to bite him back with hatred, not offer him affection so raw it borders on ruin.

You’re afraid, just for a breath, that he’ll scowl. That he’ll pull away. That the tide will recede again and leave you stranded, empty, foolish. Because tenderness terrifies him, and rawness makes him bleed.

It’s like you’re the shoreline worn down to sand, aching for the moon-pull of his complicated gaze. You know he never stays—but still, you can’t help wanting.

So you act before you can think.

You tilt your head, close the gap, and press your lips to his. A soft kiss. A whisper in the wind. A plea disguised as affection. When you pull away, your eyes lock onto his, holding him there, daring him not to run. You do it again, slower this time, gentler, like a prayer.

“I love you.”

And it’s the truth of you. You would unravel every thread of yourself if it meant knotting just one to him, if it meant anchoring yourself to his impossible storm. You would give yourself to the collision, brutal and bright, the kind that only broken things know how to survive.

Because this want you have for him is not gentle. It is hunger; it is theft. It is the desperation of having known the shape of him—and knowing you would let everything else in the world fall away, if it meant keeping even the smallest part of him for yourself.

He doesn’t give you a clear answer. He never does. You don’t even think he ever would—because words like that are foreign to him, sharp edges that cut his tongue when he tries to shape them.

Instead, he does what he always does when your tenderness corners him. He hides in the only way he knows how: by pressing closer, by burying himself in the heat of your body like he can disappear into you.

His arms tighten around you, heavy and unyielding, locking you to him as though you might vanish if he loosened his grip. His breath rasps against your collarbone, hot and uneven, the sound betraying more than he’ll ever let himself say. You kiss his cheek, soft, chaste, and he doesn’t scowl this time. Doesn’t pull away. He just lets you.

Your fingers trace down the planes of his back, smoothing over the ridges of his muscles, the tension strung tight under his skin. You pet him like something half-wild, running your hands over him slowly, as if you’re trying to remind him that he’s more than the cruelty he hides behind. He sighs at the touch, barely audible, a sound so small it almost doesn’t belong to him.

In a way, that’s answer enough.

Because Kaiser doesn’t need to say it aloud. You feel it in the way he clings like a drowning man clings to a shoreline, in the way he lets himself be held, in the way he allows you to pour softness into him when he swears he doesn’t deserve it. His silence is not empty; it’s heavy, thrumming with all the words he can’t speak but refuses to let you doubt.

So you hold him. And he lets you.

And yes—he’ll be cruel in the morning. You know it as surely as you know the shape of his smile. He’ll pull away from you with that sharp, practiced scowl, distant again, armored in mockery and carelessness. He’ll make some half-hearted jab to remind you that tenderness doesn’t belong in his world. He’ll run from the affection you try to give him, because to accept it would be to admit he wants it, that he needs it.

But somehow—that’s okay.

Because tonight, he stays. Tonight, he doesn’t shove you off or laugh in your face when your arms circle him. Tonight, he lets you hold him. Lets you kiss his cheek, run your fingers along his back, press your love into the very skin he’s tried so hard to make untouchable. Tonight, he tucks his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like you’re something safe, even if he’ll deny it by sunrise.

And in his own way—quiet, wordless, fractured—he holds you back.

If that’s all the gods will grant you, then you’ll take it gladly. Because a night like this, with Michael Kaiser in your arms, warm and unguarded, is worth more than the mornings where he scowls and flees.

So you close your eyes, and you let the silence stretch. You let the weight of him press you into the mattress. You let the tide of his contradictions pull you under. And you think—if this is all you’ll ever have, if he’ll never give you words, never give you certainty—then you’ll take this small mercy as enough.

For tonight, he is yours.

And for tonight, that is everything.

notes:

thank you for reading! <333

[clearglassmeadow]

Aaand another wip

[beybuniki]

uncle duties

[pab10n]

Puppy wants a treat, but he has to do a trick first

[kinsau]

[kinsau]

I was like plug this plug slang what does plug mean in fiction and boom plug pictures like wow ok why don't you want me to know what it means. It makes so much sense now..... Even though I'm trying to figure in vain why that would be the word for someone that sells drugs ...... not everything has to make sense ik.......

i’m no etymology expert but if i had to guess, its probably got something to do with actual plugs and how they connect to power supplies. like your drug “plug” gets you connected to a supply type thing. etymology nerds please don’t execute me i’m just Guessing