♡ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴍᴇ: Okay I'm a little guilty of using my Tumblr blog as a digital scrapbook... where I post random stuff, thoughts, and inspiration that cross my mind!
But, you know what? I've realized that's what makes it so special! It's a reflection of my eclectic personality and creativity.
So, if you're looking for a space where art, music, quotes, and musings all collide, then my Tumblr blog is the place to be! Follow me for a daily dose of randomness and inspiration!
Please be kind and respectful in our interactions! If I make a mistake, I'd love it if you could correct me nicely. No need to be rude or harsh - a simple "hey, I think you meant..." or "actually, I've found that..." goes a long way!
If you disagree with me and you're going to be rude about it, I'm blocking you. This is my blog, and I want it to be a positive space where people can share ideas and have respectful discussions. I love hearing different viewpoints and constructive criticism, but there's no place for negativity or insults here. If you can't keep it civil, the block button is right there, and I won't hesitate to use it.
I understand that not everyone will agree with me, and that's totally fine but if you don't like what I have to say and feel the need to be rude about it, this might not be the right place for you. Let's keep things friendly and engaging for everyone involved!
Please don't slide into my DMs with threats. It's not cool😂
This blog is all about entertainment, and that's where it's staying. No politics, no heavy stuff.
There might be 18+ stuff in this blog so yeh💀 (MiNoRs PlEaSe Do NoT iNtErAcT)
If you're not a fan of dark memes, consider this your exit cue 💀. But if you thrive on the edge of humor and like your memes a bit twisted, then buckle up and enjoy the ride!
Just a heads up—I don’t have a set schedule for posting my art. Life can be a bit crazy sometimes!
☆ sum. you’re a pampered girl from a wealthy background, with everything handed to you on a silver platter—private school, designer clothes, the latest gadgets, and more. meanwhile, umemiya hajime is an ordinary boy raised in an orphanage, leading a life completely different from yours. here’s a glimpse into what it’s like being his girlfriend.
warning. established relationship au, (n)sfw, mention of blood, injuries, public place sex, cunnilingus(s), fluff(s), light/heavy angst(s), fighting, fingering, unprotected/raw sex, suggestive conversation, spoiled! fem-reader, etc.
(S!) : NSFW | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!
🖇️ YOU WILL BE BLOCKED! IF YOU’RE SPAMMING LIKE WITHOUT REBLOGGING!
SPOILED, SO ROTTEN (S!)
☆ sum :
you hate— no, you fucking love it— how umemiya hajime always gives you attention, especially when he gives you that bento lunch box you love so much that you have to throw it at him, so in return for you to ruined his plant, he has to fuck you in furin rooftop.
OH, SADLY?
☆ sum :
your boyfriend ignoring you for a whole day only for you to find out that he’s fighting against choji from shishitoren and come to your room all beaten up— not really.
MY CUTE LITTLE GARDEN-FAIRY
☆ sum :
you’ve been nothing but a princess in your entire life, never doing anything for yourself, always having anyone to do things for you. with that information your boyfriend, umemiya asks you— forces you more likely— to garden with him.
NASTY FEVER
☆ sum :
you’ve been mia since yesterday, making your boyfriend worried. when umemiya comes to your bedroom, he finds you unable to move from your nasty fever.
— the gardener, the brat, and the murder of the roses
feat. umemiya hajime
summary. you didn’t ask for much. just peace, a date that didn’t involve dirt, and maybe your boyfriend not co-gardening with a girl who thinks liking plants are a personality trait. instead, you got a rooftop garden, a jealous spiral, an emotional support driver on standby, and one (1) very patient boyfriend who had to learn that jealousy don’t mix well with spoiled brat.
triggers/warnings. this story contains heavy sarcasm, unfiltered cursing, emotional chaos disguised as romance, and one (1) spoiled princess with a god complex and a soft spot for her boyfriend. jealousy, brat behavior, and more verbal violence. expect a gentle boyfriend trying to survive a meltdown. light emotional manipulation via pout, clinginess used as a weapon, and an unapologetic amount of delusional affection. suggestive make-up kissing, ridiculous banter, and general proof that love sometimes looks like “i’ll forgive you but i’m still right.” proceed with caution if you’re allergic to spoiled behavior, sarcasm, or men who say sorry by pulling you close and ruining your lipstick.
it’s one of those afternoons where the sunlight feels too sharp for comfort, the kind that spills like liquid gold across the rooftop and makes the air hum with lazy warmth. from where you sit, the bofurin rooftop stretches wide and open—patches of green everywhere, umemiya’s small garden spread out like an organized chaos of soil bags, pots, and stubborn flowers trying to survive under his care. there’s a faint scent of mint and wet soil that mixes with the faint sweetness of whatever he planted last week, and you can hear the buzz of city noise far below—horns, chatter, wind tangling through metal fences.
you’re sitting on the long wooden bench tucked under the white canopy he set up just for you, because apparently, “my princess can’t melt under the sun like sugar.” the fabric flutters softly, shading you from the daylight, and the breeze moves enough to lift strands of your hair now and then. your legs are crossed neatly, one heel dangling lazily, tapping against the bench in quiet impatience. your outfit screams money even in a place that smells like dirt—you’re in a short cream sundress with thin straps, a delicate lace cardigan slipping off one shoulder, and your feet are wrapped in glossy designer sandals, the kind that cost more than half the plants in his garden combined. a tiny gold chain rests against your ankle, glinting every time you shift, the perfect little reminder that you don’t belong anywhere near mud.
and yet here you are, because your boyfriend—sweet, gentle, annoyingly persuasive umemiya hajime—had the nerve to text you this morning saying “come watch me garden, it’ll be fun.” which, apparently, translates to “sit here and slowly lose your mind while i roll around in dirt and pretend i’m not taunting you.”
he’s in front of you now, stretching his arms above his head while he adjusts the strap of his gardening overall, the kind made from some thick, plasticky fabric that looks half-functional and half-insane in this heat. he’s got gloves tucked between his teeth for a moment while he ties the straps, and you can see the smirk starting before he even opens his mouth.
“you look like you’re attending a funeral,” he says finally, voice dripping with amusement as he glances your way. “what’s with that face, baby? i said watch, not suffer.”
you narrow your eyes at him, resting your chin on your hand, elbow on the bench’s armrest. “you dragged me up here to sit in a literal dirt museum. what did you expect my face to look like, hajime? pure joy?”
he laughs, soft but loud enough to fill the quiet rooftop, that deep, warm sound that never fails to crawl under your skin and make you want to punch him and kiss him at the same time. “come on, it’s not that bad. you’re just dramatic,” he teases, reaching for a watering can. “look at you, sitting there like royalty on her throne, glaring at the peasants.”
“if the shoe fits,” you mutter under your breath, crossing your legs tighter, one foot tapping impatiently again. “you should be thankful i even came. do you know how many people would kill for me to sit and watch them garden?”
he glances over his shoulder, half-grinning, eyes catching the sunlight just right. “oh yeah? who? your little fan club that couldn’t tell a rose from a weed?”
“don’t test me,” you warn, squinting at him through the lazy afternoon glare. “i could replace you in a heartbeat.”
“sure you could,” he says easily, turning back to the flowerbed, voice thick with sarcasm. “but would anyone else look this good in a pair of gloves while they’re elbow-deep in dirt? didn’t think so.”
you groan, flopping back against the bench. “god, you’re insufferable.”
he hums, not missing a beat. “and yet you’re still here.”
“barely.”
he chuckles again, shaking his head. “don’t act like you’re not enjoying watching me work. i can feel your eyes on me, sweetheart. or maybe you’re just mad you can’t touch me right now—don’t want to get your precious hands dirty, huh?”
you give him a flat look. “you’re disgusting.”
“mm, maybe,” he says, turning back toward you now, wiping his hands on the side of his overall and walking closer. “but i’m your disgusting boyfriend, remember?”
he stops in front of you, shadows from the canopy cutting sharp lines across his chest, and you tilt your head just slightly to avoid meeting his smug gaze. his hair’s tied back but a few strands have fallen into his face, and you hate how good he looks like that—half-sweaty, sunlit, with that grin that always promises trouble.
“you could’ve stayed inside,” he says softly this time, kneeling in front of you. “but you came up anyway. all dressed up just to complain.”
“you told me to come,” you hiss, tugging your dress lower out of habit, even though he’s already too busy staring at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
“yeah,” he murmurs, leaning his arm on your knee, resting his chin there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “and you listened. that’s what makes you so sweet sometimes. you act all spoiled but you still show up for me.”
you roll your eyes, but your throat tightens anyway. “don’t say that. it’s embarrassing.”
he grins again, eyes soft now, voice teasing but warm. “what, that i think you’re the best part of my day? yeah, real embarrassing.”
“you’re so full of yourself,” you mumble, trying not to smile.
“maybe,” he says, smirking, “but you love that about me.”
“no, i really don’t.”
“sure you don’t,” he whispers, and before you can respond, he leans forward, presses a kiss to your knee—quick, playful, and just annoying enough to make you shove at his shoulder.
“stop doing that,” you scold, your voice breaking halfway between anger and laughter.
“what? appreciating my spoiled little princess?”
“go plant your stupid flowers.”
he laughs again, rising slowly, stretching his back. “as you wish, your majesty.” then, just to be an ass, he winks. “try not to miss me too much while i’m over there.”
you throw your empty water bottle at him—it misses by inches—and he only laughs harder, voice echoing across the rooftop as he goes back to his plants, humming under his breath like you didn’t just threaten his life five seconds ago.
and somehow, despite everything—the sun, the dirt, the smell of earth, his constant teasing—you can’t help but watch him anyway. because there’s something about the way umemiya hajime moves when he’s happy, something about how every word he says drips with that mix of mischief and warmth, that makes the world feel less boring.
and maybe, just maybe, that’s why you’re still here.
you keep watching him, pretending not to, even though your eyes follow every damn move he makes. the way his shoulders flex when he bends over, the way his hair falls into his eyes when he looks down, that stupid little smirk that twitches on his lips every time he catches you staring—it’s infuriating. he knows exactly what he’s doing, and worse, he’s enjoying every second of it.
he glances up again, wipes sweat from his jaw with the back of his arm, and smirks like he can read your mind. you groan quietly, slumping into the bench, muttering just loud enough, “at least he could kiss me if he’s gonna act like this.”
his head tilts like he heard you, that slow, smug grin spreading across his face as he sets down the trowel. “what was that?”
you roll your eyes, refusing to repeat yourself. “nothing.”
he wipes his hands on his overall, walks closer—too close—and the sun catches the sweat on his collarbone, makes it worse, makes him worse. “didn’t sound like nothing,” he says, voice lazy, like he’s got all day to mess with you. “say it again, sweetheart.”
“i said—” you drag the words out, slow, deliberately testing him, “if you’re gonna keep looking at me like that, the least you could do is kiss me.”
“that so?” he asks, amused.
“yeah,” you say, feigning boredom. “but don’t touch me with those filthy glove-ass hands. i don’t want gardening residue on my skin.”
he laughs, short and low, his head dropping for a second before he looks back up through his lashes, and you know that look—it’s trouble. “filthy glove-ass hands,” he repeats, mocking your tone. “you’re lucky i like the way your mouth runs.”
“you’re lucky i let you near me,” you shoot back, but the words start to melt halfway through because he’s already moving.
and then—like some dramatic movie scene he thinks he’s starring in—he hooks his thumb under the glove and pulls it off with his teeth, slow, deliberate, eyes locked on you. the plastic shifts with a soft crackle, and he spits it out onto the floor like he’s doing something holy instead of stupidly sexy. it’s the kind of move that should look ridiculous, but somehow, on him, it doesn’t. it’s unfair.
“happy now?” he says, voice all lazy drawl, stepping closer until his knees bump yours.
“barely,” you answer, trying to sound unimpressed even though your pulse betrays you.
he leans down, placing his hands on either side of you, gripping the bench, boxing you in without touching you. the wood creaks faintly under his weight, and he smells like sun and soil and a hint of mint from whatever he’s been planting. you tilt your head back to meet his eyes, pretending like he doesn’t make your breath stumble.
“you said i could kiss you,” he murmurs, the words brushing your cheek like static, “not touch. i remember.”
“good,” you whisper, fingers twitching against your lap. “follow directions for once.”
he hums low, that sound that sits somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “you always talk too much before a kiss.”
“then shut me up.”
his grin widens, but he doesn’t move—he waits, eyes heavy, teasing. you finally reach up, pinching his jaw between your fingers, not too hard, just enough to make him tilt his head toward you. he lets you guide him, lets you think you’re in control, and the way he hums under his breath tells you he’s enjoying every second of your bratty little display.
when his lips finally meet yours, it’s warm and slow, a drag of heat that builds too quickly. you pull at his jaw to keep him close, lips brushing and parting, tasting faintly of sunlight and salt and something unreasonably soft. he kisses like he talks—lazy, deliberate, with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what buttons to push.
he doesn’t deepen it, though; he stays there, hovering, keeping that thin line of tension just to mess with you. his mouth moves against yours just enough to keep you wanting more, and when you try to tilt your head and chase him, he pulls back a breath, smiling against your lips.
“what happened to not touching?” he whispers, eyes half-lidded.
“this doesn’t count,” you murmur back, voice low.
“no?” he teases, brushing his lips against yours again, barely there. “then what does?”
you tug his jaw again, rougher this time. “shut up.”
he hums, biting back a laugh, and kisses you properly this time—slower, longer, until the world narrows to the sound of his quiet breathing and the faint creak of the bench beneath you. his breath hitches when you drag your nails down his neck, not enough to scratch, just to make him twitch.
“you’re impossible,” he mutters against your mouth, but the smile in his voice betrays him.
the kiss is still hanging there between your mouths, lazy and a little greedy, when the sharp metallic groan of the rooftop door cuts through the heat. it’s the kind of sound that makes your stomach drop—slow, dragging, impossible to ignore. you freeze first, lips still parted, breath still shallow. hajime groans like he’s the one being punished.
“no, no, no—don’t you dare—” he mutters against your lips, chasing you forward as you instinctively lean back, tilting your head to see who’s interrupting. except the movement just gives him a new target. the kiss lands hot against the side of your neck instead, his mouth pressing there once, twice, while he laughs softly through his nose.
“hajime,” you hiss, pushing at his chest. “someone’s coming.”
“yeah,” he hums, lips brushing your skin again, “me.”
you shove him harder this time, laughing despite yourself. “not funny, dumbass—your friends are here.”
he pulls back with a low groan, eyes rolling like the universe just personally wronged him. sure enough, when you look over his shoulder, the door swings open all the way, and a cluster of familiar chaos spills through.
“yo, hajime!” hiragi shouts first, way too loud for someone just entering. behind him, kaji waves lazily with a popsicle in his mouth, and tsubaki’s already half-carrying a bag of drinks like they’re invading the place. but it’s the unfamiliar girl beside them that makes you straighten a little, the one with perfectly brushed bangs and that cautious little squint when her gaze lands on you—on you and hajime, who’s still standing far too close.
he curses under his breath, quiet but sharp enough that you bite back a laugh. “perfect timing as always,” he grumbles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s been caught mid-crime.
“what?” you whisper, smirking. “didn’t plan on giving them a show?”
he glares down at you, half-embarrassed, half-annoyed, but mostly caught between wanting to kiss you again and not wanting to give his friends more material to torment him with later. “you think you’re so funny, huh?”
“i know i’m funny,” you say, tilting your head, voice dripping sweet and cruel. “but please, go greet your audience before they start clapping.”
he lets out a heavy sigh, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like i hate my life, and straightens up, stretching his back like this is all just an inconvenience.
you stay seated, watching as he turns around, shoulders squaring, voice slipping into that easy tone he uses with them. “you guys really don’t knock, huh?”
“knock? on a rooftop?” hiragi says, grinning. “bro, you were just making out under a canopy—what, you want a doorbell too?”
kaji laughs so hard he almost drops his popsicle. “look at him blushing. didn’t think i’d ever see the great umemiya hajime flustered.”
“shut up,” hajime mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “you guys can’t read a room for shit.”
tsubaki snickers. “we read it just fine. you’re the one who turned it into a romance novel.”
the girl—still silent—just smiles, small and polite, but her gaze flicks to you again, curious, a little sharp. you can already feel the judgment in her once-over, that quiet so that’s the girlfriend look, and something about it makes you want to smirk wider.
you cross one leg over the other, fixing your dress, calling out lazily, “if you’re gonna stare, at least say hi first. it’s rude to gawk.”
that earns a quiet snort from hajime, even though he’s trying to hide it. he glances back at you, his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a grin. “behave,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.
“make me,” you whisper back.
he exhales sharply through his nose, mutters another curse you can’t catch, and turns back to his friends with a resigned smile that screams kill me now.
“guys, this is my girlfriend,” he says finally, and the way his voice softens on that last word doesn’t escape you. “she was just… keeping me company.”
“oh, we noticed,” tsubaki says with a smirk.
“you’re dead,” hajime says flatly, but his tone is too lazy to sound convincing.
you can’t help it—you laugh. soft, rich, bright, unbothered. the sound bounces across the rooftop, and hajime glances at you over his shoulder, shaking his head with that half-exasperated smile that never hides the fondness underneath.
you mouth the words you’re welcome, and he mouths back you’re impossible, which, of course, just makes your grin wider.
and when his friends finally turn away to start unpacking whatever they brought, he shoots you one last look—a warning, a promise, maybe both—before muttering quietly, “you and i are finishing that later.”
you hum, leaning back on the bench again, voice soft but laced with amusement. “oh, i know we will.”
you stand up, slow and lazy, like a cat stretching after a nap, the air warm and smelling faintly of soil and mint and him. your heels click against the rooftop tiles as you move closer, sliding your arm around his from behind, chin brushing the edge of his shoulder. he glances down immediately, that small flicker of surprise before the smirk catches up, his hand twitching like he wants to hold you but remembers you’re still surrounded by his friends.
you feel the shift in the air before you even look—the girl, standing a little apart from the others, her hand resting on her hip, her gaze not subtle in the slightest. there’s a glimmer in her eyes that feels too practiced, too deliberate, the kind of sparkle people wear when they think they’ve already been noticed. she’s watching him, not even pretending to look elsewhere, her stare sticky and sharp and sweet all at once.
you lean closer, lips barely grazing his shoulder, voice low enough that only he can hear. “who’s that?”
he hums, not even looking up. “that?” his tone is lazy, teasing. “that’s misaki. she hangs around sometimes. helps with the plants.”
you hum back, soft and unimpressed. “she looks like she’s about to help herself to your entire soul.”
he laughs quietly, tilting his head down toward you. “why, jealous?”
“of her?” you scoff, eyes narrowing as you watch misaki’s gaze trace the curve of his jaw. “please. i’ve met garden pests with more subtlety.”
he chuckles, low and warm, leaning a little into you like he can’t help it. “she’s just looking.”
“yeah,” you say dryly, “and i’m just thinking about taking her eyes out if she keeps doing it.”
he hums again, that amused, dangerous little sound he makes when you’re getting worked up for his entertainment. “mh. maybe she just can’t help it. maybe she thinks i’m pretty.”
“maybe she should start thinking from a safer distance,” you mutter, tightening your grip on his arm until he laughs under his breath.
“baby,” he says, that mock-warning tone, the one that usually means he’s about to kiss you into silence, “behave.”
you lift your chin, pouting but refusing to look at him. “you can’t tell me what to do.”
“sure i can,” he says softly, “i just don’t expect you to listen.”
you roll your eyes but the edge in you starts to crack, because that tone—lazy, fond, half-smiling—is the one that makes everything in your chest go stupid. “fine,” you mutter, quieter this time. “then give me a kiss and i’ll think about behaving.”
he doesn’t even hesitate. leans in, presses his lips against your forehead, warm and lingering. his breath fans against your skin and you almost forget the audience—until a shrill, high-pitched voice slices through the quiet like a paper cut.
“oh my god, look!” misaki chirps, voice bubbling with way too much excitement. “our plant’s blooming!”
the words hit you like cold water. you blink, tilt your head slightly, still resting against hajime’s shoulder. “your what?”
he stiffens for a second beside you, just enough for you to feel it.
you turn your head, watching her point eagerly at a small pot sitting on the far edge of the rooftop garden—a cluster of red roses, deep and glossy under the sunlight.
“what plant?” you ask, your tone light but your jaw tight enough to crack.
he opens his mouth, probably about to explain, probably about to say something harmless, but he doesn’t get the chance.
misaki beats him to it. “it’s the one we planted together!” she says, smiling too sweetly, her eyes flicking between you and him like she’s tossing bait into the air. “remember, hajime? i told you i wanted to see how red roses would grow here—and look, they actually did. our roses.”
she laughs, the sound airy and stupid and sharp all at once, and it lands somewhere ugly in your stomach. the way she says our isn’t just casual—it’s deliberate, pointed, smug, like a hand dragging down glass just to make you flinch.
you don’t blink, don’t move, just tilt your head a fraction and smile, sharp as broken crystal. hajime’s quiet beside you, shoulders tense, his jaw tight, and you can feel the shift in him—the low hum of frustration, the awareness of the storm about to form right next to him.
you keep your voice soft, almost sweet. “oh,” you say, staring at the roses like they’re something worth stepping on. “your plant, huh.”
she smiles wider, like she thinks she’s won something.
and hajime exhales slowly through his nose, his hand tightening once on your arm—gentle, grounding, warning.
you don’t look at him. not yet. you just watch her, eyes half-lidded, smile unchanging, while the air between all of you starts to hum with something dangerous. and you think, very quietly, this girl better hope those flowers are the only thing getting buried today.
it starts small, harmless, like a mosquito that won’t stop buzzing in your ear. first, it’s the rooftop again — her laughter floating in the background when you come to bring hajime coffee, the sound of her voice saying his name like she’s trying it on for size. she’s there, kneeling in the dirt next to him, pretending to listen while he talks about soil acidity or whatever plant bullshit he’s into that week. you try to stand there, smile polite, pretend you’re not plotting horticultural homicide in your head.
then it’s the café. your café. the one you told him was your spot, where the barista knows your name and he always sits across from you with his chin in his hand like he doesn’t see anyone else. except this time, she’s there too. standing behind him, leaning over his shoulder like she has the right, asking something about fertilizer ratios while you’re stirring your drink so hard the spoon almost snaps. she doesn’t even sit down, just exists too close, her perfume too floral, her voice too bright, and you want to pour your coffee on her goddamn shoes.
and it doesn’t stop there. somehow she’s everywhere—like she crawled out of the damn flowerpot and followed him home. when you meet him after class, she’s at the gate. when you pass by the park, she’s sitting on the bench next to him with a notebook open, pretending it’s about plants. once, when you went to grab ice cream, she waved from across the street like this is some kind of competition you didn’t sign up for.
every single time, she finds a way to talk about plants. the weather? plants. food? plants. love? fucking plants. it’s always the same, that high-pitched laugh and the way she pushes her hair behind her ear like she’s auditioning for the role of “background nuisance in someone else’s relationship.” and hajime, bless his dumb, gentle heart, doesn’t even notice the way she clings, doesn’t see the way she looks at him like she wants to bloom right there in his damn shadow.
you tell yourself it’s fine, you’re fine, until you’re not. until the next time you show up at the café and she’s already sitting at your table, her hands wrapped around his mug, nodding at whatever he’s saying about “root structure” like it’s poetry. and you stand there, staring at her, then at him, and the words come out before you even think.
“wow,” you say, voice sugarcoated and sharp. “didn’t know we were hosting a gardening seminar today.”
hajime looks up, startled for a second, then that lazy, infuriating smile creeps in. “hey, baby. you’re early.”
you slide into your seat across from him, not bothering to hide the glare you throw at the girl. “didn’t know you brought company.”
she laughs, that fake polite kind of laugh that makes your skin itch. “oh no, i was just asking hajime about pruning techniques—”
“yeah,” you interrupt, smiling with all teeth. “seems like you’ve been real interested in trimming lately.”
the silence stretches just long enough for hajime to sigh and say it, the way he always does when your tone gets sharp. “baby,” he murmurs, that warning laced with amusement, “behave.”
you turn your head slowly, meeting his eyes, voice flat. “i am behaving. this is my polite voice.”
he chuckles, leaning back in his chair, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. “uh-huh. and what happens when the polite voice goes away?”
“depends,” you say, stirring your drink again, metal clinking against glass. “how many limbs do you think she’d miss?”
“jesus,” he mutters under his breath, though he’s fighting a smile, eyes warm and stupid and amused. “you’re unbelievable.”
“and yet you’re still sitting here,” you hum.
he laughs quietly, shaking his head, then turns back to whatever pointless conversation the girl’s trying to resurrect. you zone out halfway through it, staring out the window, trying not to imagine every possible way to remove her from the narrative of your life.
by the time you’re walking back to the car, he reaches for your hand like everything’s normal, fingers brushing yours. you let him, but the irritation simmers under your skin, crawling up your throat.
“you didn’t tell her to back off,” you say finally, the words tasting bitter.
he sighs, looking down at you with that same gentle expression that makes you want to both kiss and strangle him. “she’s harmless. don’t waste your energy.”
“oh, i’m not wasting it,” you reply sweetly. “i’m saving it. for later. maybe when she tries to touch you again, i’ll show her just how harmless i can be.”
he laughs, a soft breath of disbelief. “you’ve got to stop threatening my friends.”
“she’s not your friend,” you mutter, but the rest gets swallowed by his low chuckle and the way his thumb strokes your hand absentmindedly, like he’s trying to calm you down without saying it out loud.
and somehow, that only makes it worse. because he’s still smiling. because she’s still everywhere. because no matter how hard you glare, she’s always there first—too sweet, too close, too damn loud.
and all you can think is how easy it would be to plant her right next to those stupid roses and see if she still smiles when you water her.
you watch the city roll past the car window, reflections sliding across the glass like water. the afternoon sun paints everything gold—terraces, storefronts, people moving too fast—and you sit in the backseat with your legs crossed, chin resting against your hand, pretending you’re not waiting for your phone to light up with a message from him. your driver doesn’t say much; he never does, just hums lowly to the sound of the traffic, and you appreciate the silence. it’s a soft kind of torture—the quiet before the storm, before the test of whether hajime umemiya actually keeps his promises.
he said he would. last night, when your voice was sharp and your patience had already started to crack, he reached across the couch, hand warm over your knee, and said, “i’ll stay away from her. i swear.” and maybe it wasn’t even the words—it was the look, the way his voice softened when you got quiet, the way he smiled like he still thought you were being dramatic but loved you for it anyway.
so now you’re here, in the backseat, hoping—no, praying—that you won’t see that girl’s face today. misaki. the name feels bitter in your mouth, like coffee that’s gone cold. one sight of her and you’ll probably walk right out, maybe throw a drink for good measure. but not before you look good doing it.
you’re wearing your favorite dress, the one that makes you feel like trouble wrapped in sweetness—a blue-and-white gingham print that hugs your waist and flares at your thighs, light enough to move when the breeze does. the neckline dips just enough, the sleeves puff slightly, the skirt short and unapologetic. your hair falls in soft curls that catch the sunlight when you tilt your head, and your shoes—bright, red, and shiny—match the lacquer on your nails. you don’t dress for him, not really, but you love how his eyes light up when he sees you. how he always leans back, looks you over like you’re the only thing worth staring at, and says something low and slow like, “you’re gonna ruin me, you know that?”
that’s what you want to hear today. that’s what you’ve been waiting for all morning.
the car slows as you pull up in front of pothos, the small corner café that smells like roasted espresso and lemon glaze. it’s warm inside when you step out, the little bell above the door chiming softly. the air smells like cinnamon and butter, and kotoha is there behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine, her apron tied too tight, her smile genuine.
“oh my god,” she says as soon as she sees you. “you look so pretty today.”
you grin, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “i know,” you reply, voice light, teasing. “but thank you for noticing.”
she laughs, rolling her eyes affectionately before going back to work.
you glance around, eyes sweeping the room—the cozy tables, the soft hum of conversation, the warm light spilling through the big windows. sakura’s at the bar with a few of hajime’s friends, loud and laughing, waving when they spot you. they know who you are, of course. everyone does. hajime’s spoiled princess, his temper in heels, his soft spot in a short skirt. it’s not an insult, not really—it’s just what they say when they think you can’t hear.
you nod at them, polite but detached, not stopping as you move deeper into the café. the world narrows to the back booth, the one tucked beneath the big hanging plant that hajime likes because he says it makes the sunlight softer.
and there he is.
hajime sits with his back to the window, one arm resting across the booth, his hair slightly messy, his sleeves rolled up. you almost smile when you see him—almost—until your eyes shift to the other side of the table.
misaki.
of course. fucking misaki.
sitting across from him like she belongs there, hands folded neatly over the table, that same too-sweet smile plastered across her face. she’s leaning forward just slightly, the sunlight catching the gloss on her lips, her eyes soft and full of something that makes your stomach twist.
for a second, everything goes still. you don’t even blink. just stare, expression calm, too calm, like the kind of silence that comes before a storm shatters the sky. your heels click against the floor as you take another step forward, the sound cutting through the air sharper than the hum of conversation around you.
and hajime—poor, dumb, beautiful hajime—looks up just then, eyes catching yours, and his smile falters for half a heartbeat.
and that’s when you think—yeah, someone’s going to bleed for this.
you can feel the tension long before you reach the table — the kind that makes your pulse slow instead of quicken, that eerie calm that comes right before you start smiling like someone about to commit a small, beautiful crime. your shoes echo against the floor, the soft thud of each step deliberate, measured, and you hold your bag in one hand like a weapon, your phone in the other, grip tight enough to crack the case.
misaki looks up when you’re close enough to see her expression shift — that polite mask slipping for a split second before she pastes on something almost human. her smile twitches, her jaw stiffens, and her eyes flick from your face to your legs to your neckline and back again, calculating. you can see it, that urge she’s fighting not to roll her eyes, not to look away, and it makes your own smile sharpen like glass.
and then there’s hajime.
he look at you like the sun just clocked in for overtime, grin stretching wide, the corners of his eyes creasing, the kind of smile that makes everyone else in the room fade out. you catch the way his gaze slides sideways for a second — to misaki — just long enough to make a silent point before coming back to you.
“you look so pretty,” he says, voice low, full of warmth, the kind that slips under your skin before you can stop it.
you blink at him, that half-smile never leaving your lips. “do i?”
“yeah,” he murmurs, hand already finding your waist like it’s instinct. he tugs you closer, guiding you down beside him with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times before, his thumb brushing slow circles against your hip.
you murmur a small thank you, tone sweet but your eyes never leave misaki. she’s sitting stiff now, back straight, her bitter smile doing a bad job of hiding the jealousy that’s practically humming in the air. hajime leans in, presses a soft kiss against your cheek, and the sound — that quiet, affectionate little moment — feels louder than the espresso machine, than the chatter, than anything else around you.
you tilt your head slightly, still holding her gaze, smiling like you’re both in on a joke she doesn’t understand.
“you look… nice,” misaki says suddenly, her voice dipped in sugar, sarcasm leaking through like poison. “but don’t you think that dress is a little too revealing? i mean—” she glances at hajime, all faux innocence and fluttering lashes, “if i had a boyfriend like him, i’d never wear something like that. i wouldn’t want to disrespect him by dressing for anyone else’s eyes.”
there it is. pick-me poetry.
you can hear your own blood thrum in your ears, the way your smile doesn’t falter but your grip on hajime’s arm tightens. he glances down at your dress — slow, deliberate, tracing the curve of the fabric like he’s cataloguing every reason he disagrees — before looking back at misaki.
“nah,” he says simply, shaking his head once, that lazy grin sliding back into place. “she can wear whatever she wants.”
misaki blinks, like she didn’t expect him to answer at all. “but—”
he cuts her off with a shrug, still smiling. “it doesn’t matter. she’s not dressing for anyone else. i know that. she likes looking good. i like seeing her happy. that’s it.”
and then his tone dips, casual but with that rough edge of finality. “besides, if someone ever got stupid enough to think they could say something about it, they’d figure out real quick who they’re dealing with.”
you hum low in your throat, turning your head slightly toward him, voice just above a whisper. “you’re so romantic when you’re threatening people,” you tease, lips curling.
he chuckles, leaning closer until your shoulder brushes his chest, his breath warm against your temple. “you like that, huh?”
“mm.” you hum again, eyes cutting back to misaki, who’s staring at you both like she just swallowed glass. “lucky for you,” you say softly, a wicked tilt to your mouth, “you’re not his girlfriend.”
her expression twitches, that polite smile cracking for half a heartbeat.
you rest your chin against hajime’s shoulder, fingers idly tracing patterns along the inside of his wrist. “see, the thing is,” you continue, tone syrupy, cruel in the prettiest way, “he actually likes it when i look this good. can’t stop touching me when i do.”
hajime lets out a quiet laugh, low and breathy, his thumb slipping under the hem of your dress just slightly — not enough to be scandalous, but enough to make a point. “don’t start,” he murmurs, voice quiet enough for only you to hear.
“what?” you whisper back, grinning. “i’m just helping her understand the curriculum. she clearly didn’t do her homework.”
misaki exhales through her nose, eyes narrowing just slightly before she pastes her smile back on, all polite poison. the air between you three stretches thin, sharp, almost fragile.
you just lean in closer to hajime, your perfume mixing with the scent of coffee and tension, your voice a lazy drawl against his ear. “see?” you murmur, just loud enough. “i told you she’d still be around.”
he sighs, half amused, half resigned, and presses another kiss to your cheek. “yeah,” he says softly, “but now she knows where she stands.”
and you smile, small and slow and devastating, because he’s right — she does.
misaki doesn’t know when to quit — or maybe she does and just enjoys testing the limits of your patience, poking around to see how far she can stretch before you bite. she tilts her head when she speaks, voice all honeyed sugar, the kind that sticks to your skin in a way that makes you want to scrub it off.
“you know,” she starts, pretending it’s casual, eyes flicking to the edge of your dress again, “with the way you dress, you probably don’t like to get dirty, huh?”
the words come out soft, almost playful, but you can hear the undertone, the spoiled little princess echo that hides underneath. she keeps going before you can even respond, smiling so sweetly it hurts. “i mean, i get it—clothes like that must cost, what, hundreds? thousands? they don’t really belong anywhere near mud.”
you can feel your jaw tense, but your smile stays, slow and deliberate. you glance at hajime, who’s sipping his drink, watching the exchange with the look of a man who’s both entertained and deeply aware that he might need to stop you before you start a fire.
“you’re probably right,” you say finally, tone bright enough to be dangerous. “they don’t belong near mud. or weeds.”
her smile falters for half a second, but she catches it, leaning forward with mock sympathy. “that’s what i thought. i just find it a little sad, you know?” she says softly, voice laced with fake pity. “that hajime has to do all that work himself. must be tiring. it’d be nice for him to have his girlfriend—” she drags out the word, lets it hang there, heavy and possessive, “—help him sometimes. gardening together sounds kind of romantic, don’t you think?”
hajime’s hand twitches under the table, probably because he can already feel the murder rising off you in slow, steady waves.
misaki isn’t done, of course. she smiles, all gentle and pure and nauseating. “but don’t worry,” she adds, her tone the perfect imitation of care. “you don’t have to stress yourself about it. i’m always there, so i can help him. really, it’s no trouble at all. you don’t even need to come to bofurin anymore. i’ll be there for him.”
it’s the for him that does it. the way she says it like it’s a promise, like it’s a shared secret you’re intruding on. she’s smiling like she’s already won, like this is her territory now, and it’s so infuriating you can practically hear the blood rushing in your ears.
you inhale slowly, turn your head toward hajime with the calm of a woman one wrong word away from an arrest record. “you hearing this?”
he hums, noncommittal, hand slipping a little higher on your thigh under the table — a silent warning, or maybe a prayer.
you tilt your chin toward misaki, the edges of your lips curling. “that’s sweet,” you say, the sarcasm so smooth it sounds almost sincere. “but i’m a little too pretty for that kind of thing. dirt doesn’t really go with my skin tone.”
she blinks, confused, and you continue, your voice low and syrupy. “i like looking good for my boyfriend. spotless. perfect. he likes when i do too. right, hajime?”
he lets out a quiet breath of laughter, squeezing your leg gently. “yeah,” he murmurs, eyes flicking between you both. “i do.”
“see?” you say, smiling wider. “i’m not built for shovels and dirt and… bugs. i’d rather make sure i look like this every time he looks at me.”
misaki’s smile is starting to crack now, but she still tries to hold on, her tone softening again, fake and trembling. “i guess not everyone’s like that,” she says. “some of us just don’t mind getting our hands dirty. it’s about… effort, i think.”
you tilt your head, grin sharpening. “oh, i don’t mind effort. i just put mine into things that actually get results. you wouldn’t understand, though.”
she frowns, a tiny twitch, and you lean in closer, eyes half-lidded, voice dipping just enough. “you don’t have a boyfriend, right? that’s why you don’t get it. it’s a different kind of work, keeping someone’s attention.”
her mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. hajime’s quiet laugh slips between the tension, low and husky, his fingers tracing slow circles against your thigh like he’s both calming you and holding himself back from clapping.
“behave,” he whispers against your ear, and you hum softly, smiling at him without breaking eye contact with her.
“i am behaving,” you murmur. “just letting her know the dress code for my relationship doesn’t include mud.”
she exhales through her nose, and for the first time, her smile doesn’t return. you can see it—the faint flicker of irritation, the moment she realizes she lost the rhythm of her own game.
you lean back against hajime, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulder, your expression the picture of satisfied calm. “see?” you say sweetly, voice dripping in victory. “everything’s easier when people know their place.”
and hajime, ever the patient, lovestruck fool, just laughs quietly into your hair. “you’re gonna get us banned from this café one day,” he mutters.
you grin. “worth it.”
misaki looks at you like you’ve just thrown a glass of wine in her face. her smile collapses into disbelief, eyes darting between you and hajime as if she’s waiting for someone to back her up, to rescue her from the humiliation you’ve just gift-wrapped and handed over with a bow. when no one speaks, she laughs once under her breath, sharp and hollow. then she turns her attention fully to him.
“hajime,” she says, voice all brittle sugar, “you’re seriously going to let her talk to me like that?”
he blinks, frowning slightly, genuinely confused. “like what?”
“disrespectfully!” she snaps, sitting up straighter, eyes wide. “she’s been rude this entire time and you just sit there like—like it’s okay!”
you raise an eyebrow, leaning back against him like the show’s gotten good. his arm stays around you automatically, his hand resting warm at your hip, while you watch her unravel piece by piece.
“disrespect?” you echo softly, smiling just enough to sting. “that’s a big word for someone who told me i’m not girlfriend material five minutes ago.”
she glares at you, breath catching. “see? that’s what i mean. you twist everything. i was just being honest. you can’t even take a little advice without acting superior.”
“oh, don’t flatter yourself,” you say, voice calm, almost sweet. “i don’t act.”
hajime sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s been dropped in the middle of a storm he didn’t see coming. “misaki,” he starts, gentle, trying to smooth it out, “come on, you kind of started—”
she cuts him off before he can even finish. “i didn’t start anything! i was being nice. i was trying to have a conversation and she—” she gestures at you, voice rising—“she keeps insulting me, mocking me, twisting everything i say like i’m the problem!”
you tilt your head, resting it against hajime’s shoulder, watching her spiral. she’s not yelling yet, but her tone’s slipping—too high, too shaky, the sound of someone who knows she’s losing ground but can’t stop digging.
“you are the problem,” you murmur, but you don’t say it loudly. it’s soft, almost a purr, and it makes her freeze.
“what did you just—”
“misaki,” hajime tries again, quieter this time, glancing around because now a few of his friends at the bar have started to notice the shift in tone, the way the air’s getting thick. “hey, relax. look, i get you didn’t mean anything, but she’s—”
“stop defending her!” misaki snaps, the words hitting harder than she probably meant them to. she pushes her chair back, the legs scraping against the floor, eyes glassy with anger. “you always do this—she says whatever she wants, and you just laugh like she’s some kind of joke. she’s mean, hajime. she’s—”
he leans back, posture still calm but his expression tightening. “she’s my girlfriend,” he says simply. “what did you expect me to do?”
she falters. for a moment, the silence stretches. you can see the exact second she realizes there’s no saving this, that the conversation’s already over. her lips tremble with another retort that never comes out, her pride forcing it back down.
and then she laughs again—loud, awkward, brittle. “fine,” she says, voice cracking just slightly at the edge. “whatever. i hope you two are happy together.”
and with that, she grabs her bag, turns sharply, and storms out of the café, the door swinging hard enough behind her that the bell jangles out of tune.
you watch her go, the corner of your mouth twitching upward, and hajime just sits there beside you, hand still on your thigh, staring after her like he’s watching the last petal fall off a dying flower.
you watch the door swing shut behind her, the bell still jangling out of rhythm, and you can’t help it—your mouth moves before your brain does. “god, she walks like a toddler who just got told santa isn’t real,” you mutter, leaning back in your seat, swirling your drink lazily like you didn’t just watch a girl’s ego disintegrate in front of an audience. “if she tripped on the way out, i’d call that divine justice.”
hajime lets out a soft sound beside you, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and when he says your name—baby—it’s low and warm, but threaded through with that gentle warning you know too well.
you turn to him, frown tugging at your lips. “what?”
he’s looking at you, shoulders still relaxed but eyes soft, a kind of calm you find both grounding and infuriating. he exhales, long and quiet, rubbing a thumb over the back of your hand before speaking. “don’t do that.”
“don’t do what?” you snap, more defensive than you meant to.
he leans back, expression patient, too patient. “that thing where you start tearing people apart when you’re mad. i get it, she pissed you off, but—”
“but what?” you interrupt, voice sharp enough to slice the air. “she started it. i didn’t even do anything until she decided to play saint mary of the mud pit. if anyone should’ve been told to shut the fuck up, it’s her, not me.”
he doesn’t raise his voice—he never does—but his hand catches yours mid-gesture, fingers wrapping around your wrist in that steady, grounding way that makes your heartbeat skip. “i know,” he says, quietly, like he’s been waiting for you to stop fighting long enough to listen. “i know she did. but sometimes you can be mean, baby.”
you freeze for a second, the word mean hanging in the air, heavy and dangerous. he must see the spark flicker behind your eyes because he adds quickly, “which i like, don’t get me wrong. i love that about you. i love that you don’t take anyone’s shit. it’s one of the reasons i—” he stops, half-smiling, thumb brushing slow circles on your knuckles. “i just wish you’d try a little harder with my friends. that’s all.”
you stare at him, incredulous, before scoffing and yanking your hand out of his grip. “wow,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “unbelievable.”
he blinks, confused but still calm. “what?”
“i do get along with your friends,” you shoot back. “i’m nice to hiragi. i laugh at tsubaki’s stupid jokes. i even let him call me princess without throwing my drink at him. i get along great with kotoha, too, by the way—maybe because she doesn’t try to fuck you over a flowerpot.”
hajime’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile, which only makes you more annoyed. he opens his mouth, probably to say something level-headed, but you cut him off before he gets the chance.
“are you seriously blaming me right now?” you ask, voice dropping low, sharp enough to draw blood.
his brows lift slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that angle. “no, i’m not blaming—”
“because it sounds like it,” you say, tone flattening. “it sounds like you’re saying it’s my fault she lost her mind, that i should’ve been nice while she was sitting there basically volunteering to be your emotional support gardener.”
he groans quietly, running a hand through his hair, the gesture slow and tired. “that’s not what i said.”
“then what are you saying?” you demand, leaning forward, eyes narrowing. “that i should’ve smiled and held her hand while she told me she’ll take my place? you wanted me to what—thank her for her fucking charity?”
his eyes soften again, that gentle patience you both hate and love returning. “no,” he says, voice low. “i wanted you to not let her get to you.”
you snort, looking away, your reflection catching faintly in the café window. “too late for that.”
he hums quietly, and even though he doesn’t reach for you this time, you can feel his gaze lingering, the air between you stretching thin—frustration, affection, and something you can’t quite name humming underneath.
you cross one leg over the other, arms still folded tight, pretending you don’t care, pretending you’re not waiting for him to say something that’ll make you soften.
but he doesn’t. not yet. he just watches you, eyes calm, lips curved in that small, maddening smile that always makes you want to kiss him and punch him at the same time.
you look away, staring hard at the window like it did something wrong. the reflection of your face blurs in the glass — angry, tight, too quiet. your chest feels like it’s caving in, the kind of ache that’s more fury than sadness but still burns the same. your jaw tightens, lips pressing together, and you bite down on the inside of your cheek just to keep it from trembling. you can feel the heat pooling in your throat, that humiliating sting behind your eyes, the kind you’d rather choke on than let fall in front of him.
you hate it. hate that he gets to sit there so calm, like he’s the reasonable one, while you’re trying to swallow every ounce of frustration that’s clawing up your ribs. he’s been letting that girl flutter around him like some fucking stray cat for weeks, smiling through it, saying “she’s harmless.” harmless. sure. until now she’s made you look like the jealous one, and somehow, somehow, you’re the problem.
your arms stay crossed tight, so tight your nails dig half-moons into your skin. the air between you is heavy, the silence thick enough to taste. hajime shifts beside you — you can feel the movement, that careful lean forward, the way his shoulder brushes yours, cautious.
“hey,” he says softly, and it sounds too gentle, too forgiving for the mood you’re in. you don’t move, don’t look at him, eyes locked on the glass. “baby, look at me.”
you don’t.
“come on,” he murmurs, fingers brushing your wrist, testing. “don’t do this. i’m sorry, alright? i didn’t mean to make you feel like i was blaming you.”
you scoff quietly, the sound sharp and bitter. “yeah, sure you didn’t.”
he sighs, trying again, his hand moving to uncross your arms, his touch slow, coaxing. “hey, stop. don’t shut down, okay? we’ve got the whole afternoon—remember the date? you’ve been talking about that damn reservation since yesterday.”
you yank your arm out of his reach, turning your head away, refusing to meet his eyes. “yeah, well,” you mutter, voice low but laced with venom, “i don’t really feel like playing happy couple after you just fucking blamed me.”
his head snaps up slightly at that, eyes narrowing in disbelief, but his voice stays low. “i didn’t blame you.”
you laugh once, sharp and humorless. “you basically did.”
“no, i didn’t.”
“you did.”
he groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose, frustration bleeding through his calm tone for the first time. “you’re twisting it.”
“am i?” you shoot back, finally looking at him, eyes burning. “because it sounded a hell of a lot like you telling me i’m the problem. like i’m supposed to just let her run her mouth and behave while she calls me spoiled to my face.”
he opens his mouth to argue, but the words die on his tongue when he sees your eyes glisten. his expression softens instantly, like watching glass crack. “hey,” he says again, quieter now, voice almost tender. “don’t cry. please.”
“i’m not crying,” you bite out, even though your throat betrays you, voice warbling just slightly. you turn your head again, blinking fast, furious at yourself for even letting the tears threaten to fall. “i’m just… so fucking mad right now.”
he exhales, slow, deliberate, leaning closer until his shoulder presses into yours, his hand hovering near your knee but not daring to touch again. “i know,” he says softly. “i know you are.”
you shake your head, jaw tight. “no, you don’t. because you’re sitting here all calm and reasonable like it’s not a big deal, like i’m overreacting. but she’s been hanging all over you for weeks, hajime. and you’ve just been letting her.”
he looks down, jaw ticking, but doesn’t interrupt. you push on, the words tumbling out, hot and bitter. “and now she finally gets what’s coming, and somehow, somehow, i’m the one who needs to behave? unbelievable.”
his hand moves again, reaching for yours, but you pull back before he can touch you, crossing your arms tighter, legs turning toward the aisle. the motion is stubborn, childish, maybe even cruel, but you don’t care.
he sighs again, that long, weary kind of sigh that says he’s trying to pick his words carefully. “i didn’t blame you,” he repeats, slower this time, his tone softer. “i just… wanted to calm things down.”
you don’t respond, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the window again. outside, people move in and out of the café, laughing, holding hands, their lives simple and oblivious. you sit there in silence, the ache in your chest tightening with every second, your anger too raw to hide and too tangled to untangle.
you can feel him watching you, though. his gaze heavy, patient, worried. and you hate that, too — the way he still looks at you like he loves you through all the mess, like your anger is just another thing he wants to take care of.
you don’t even bother wiping your tears — they slip down your cheek slow and angry, hot with humiliation, and the worst part is that he still looks soft. he still looks calm. like you aren’t seconds away from burning the café to the ground. you can’t stand that gentle tone, the way he’s trying to fix it with warmth, as if warmth will make you forget how small you felt two minutes ago.
“i want to go home,” you mutter, voice cracking halfway through, sharp but trembling, the kind of voice that comes from holding too much in for too long. you reach for your bag, your phone, your composure that’s hanging on by a damn thread. “you can go on your little date with fucking misaki. i’m done.”
“hey—hey, baby, no,” hajime says immediately, his voice panicked now, eyes wide as he leans closer. “don’t say that, please. come on, don’t do this. i’m sorry, alright? i didn’t mean it that way.”
you ignore him, unlocking your phone, scrolling through your recent calls, your tears dripping onto the screen and smudging your mascara. you sniff, wipe at your face with the back of your hand, and press the call button before he can reach you.
“you don’t have to call your driver,” he says quickly, trying to sound soothing but failing miserably. “i’ll take you home myself, okay? just put the phone down.”
you shake your head, refusing to even look at him, the phone pressed to your ear, telling your driver to pick you up. “no. you can take misaki home,” you bite out after, hiccuping mid-word, the sound making you even angrier. “go drop her off, give her a flower crown, plant your fucking feelings next to your little rose bush and watch them wilt together.”
he blinks, startled, almost choking on his own breath. “what—what the hell does that even mean?”
“it means you can go play gardener barbie with your emotional support earthworm, hajime!” you snap, sniffling hard, your voice breaking into something half-hysterical and half-furious. “you two can water your trauma and compost your self-awareness for all i care. maybe you’ll grow a backbone next season.”
“jesus, baby—” he starts, but you keep going, eyes glassy and wild.
“no, i’m serious! go teach her how to hold a shovel properly, maybe she’ll finally dig herself a personality. you guys can post about it too—#couplegoals, #rootboundidiots, #photosynthesisandchill.”
he groans quietly, running both hands through his hair, clearly torn between laughing and throwing himself off the booth. “you’re insane.”
“good,” you hiss, still hiccuping, wiping your nose with a napkin like your anger’s leaking out of every pore. “then maybe i’ll finally be immune to watching you play horticultural therapist for every girl with a trowel fetish.”
“what the fuck is a trowel fetish—”
“look it up!” you snap, voice too loud, your pout deepening until it hurts. you sound like you’re scolding him and begging him all at once, and it drives you even crazier.
he reached forward, trying to grab your wrist, trying to ground you again, but you pull away sharply, clutching your bag to your chest like a shield. “don’t touch me,” you warn, voice shaking. “go touch your plants. or her. or whatever living organism wants your attention today.”
he exhales, long and low, dragging a hand down his face, and when he looks at you again, it’s that same damn softness that makes you want to scream. “i’m not taking misaki anywhere,” he says firmly, trying to meet your eyes. “i’m taking you home.”
you glare at him through your tears, the kind that don’t fall gracefully but roll down hot and angry, pooling at your chin. “bullshit,” you sniff, snatching a tissue. “you’ll probably drive her to bofurin after i’m gone and plant matching sunflowers or something, then she’ll post about it with some stupid caption like ‘growth is beautiful’ and you’ll fucking like it.”
he presses his lips together, shoulders shaking slightly like he’s biting back a laugh, and it only makes your chest burn hotter.
“don’t laugh at me,” you warn, voice wobbling.
“i’m not,” he says quickly, even though he is, his thumb rubbing at his temple, his tone patient and tired but fond in that way that makes you hate him more. “you’re mad, i get it. but you know i’d never pick her over you.”
you scoff, wiping your face again, pouting so hard it aches. “you shouldn’t even have to think about picking, hajime. you should’ve uprooted that bitch the second she started growing near you.”
he blinks, then lets out a soft, helpless laugh, the kind that makes your lip tremble all over again. “baby,” he says quietly, reaching for you again even though you’re still trying to call your driver, “you’re the only person i’d ever want to plant anything with.”
“stop being cute,” you mutter, voice small, angry, hiccuping, as you jab at your phone screen again, refusing to look at him. “i hate you.”
“you don’t,” he says softly.
and that only makes the next hiccup come out louder, meaner, messier, because goddammit, he’s right — and that’s what hurts the most.
he keeps talking — god, he won’t shut up — and every word feels like sandpaper dragging across a bruise. you’re staring down at your lap, nails digging into your palm, phone still in your grip, and hajime’s sitting there beside you looking like a man drowning in guilt and desperation.
“baby, please, listen,” he murmurs, voice low and soft and frantic at the edges. “i’m sorry, okay? i’m a fucking idiot. i didn’t mean to upset you, i swear. i was trying to make it better, not worse.”
you don’t move, don’t even blink. you’re done. the silence between you is sharp and heavy, like it could slice through skin.
he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, the strands falling into his face. “look at me,” he says, gently tugging your chin, but you turn your head, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the café window instead.
“i fucked up, okay?” he mutters, voice thick with regret now. “i didn’t think before i spoke. i said something stupid, and now my gorgeous girlfriend’s crying on the day we were supposed to have our date.”
you let out a humorless laugh, low and bitter, your lips trembling from how hard you’re biting them. “oh, you think?” you hiss, your voice tight, dripping sarcasm. “wow, someone give you a phd in emotional awareness.”
“baby—”
“don’t ‘baby’ me,” you snap, cutting him off. “you’re lucky i’m not throwing this drink in your face. i’ve seen dogs handle loyalty better than you today.”
he flinches slightly, breath catching, but still doesn’t stop. “you’re right,” he murmurs, still trying to reach for you, still gentle like an idiot who doesn’t know when to quit. “you’re right, i was a dumbass. i’m sorry. please, don’t cry anymore, okay? you’re too pretty for that.”
“oh, fuck off with that line,” you spit, still not looking at him. “if i had a dollar for every time you used ‘you’re too pretty for that,’ i’d buy a better boyfriend.”
his lips twitch — maybe in pain, maybe amusement — you don’t care. you’re done pretending you’re fine. you hear him sigh again, long and ragged, his thumb brushing a tear off your cheek before you slap his hand away.
“stop touching me,” you mutter.
he does, finally. he leans back, defeated but still watching you, his knee bouncing restlessly under the table.
“i just—fuck, i hate this,” he mumbles. “i hate making you cry. i hate that you’re mad at me. it’s the fucking worst feeling in the world.”
“good,” you snap, wiping another tear away. “maybe next time you’ll think before you decide to be a spineless, clueless, misaki-apologist piece of shit.”
his mouth opens like he wants to argue, but your driver appears outside the glass door before he gets the chance. hajime spots him first, his head jerking up in relief like he’s been waiting for divine intervention.
“wait, no—don’t go yet,” he says quickly when you stand, reaching for you again. but you’re already grabbing your bag, shoulders squared, expression cold enough to frost glass.
you don’t even look at him when you walk past. he rushes up anyway, long legs closing the distance easily. he gets to the café door before you do and pulls it open, stepping aside.
“baby, come on,” he murmurs, his voice breaking just a little. “don’t do this. not over this.”
you walk out without a glance, heels clicking against the pavement, the weight of your anger holding your chin higher. hajime follows, trailing a few steps behind, still muttering apologies under his breath like a prayer.
“i’m sorry,” he keeps saying. “i’m sorry, i’m a fucking idiot, i know i am. i didn’t mean to make you feel like shit. please—hey, stop walking so fast—”
you stop right by the car, turning to him with a glare sharp enough to gut a god. “don’t fucking please me,” you hiss, your voice trembling with the effort of holding back another wave of tears. “you can take that tone and use it on your little gardening partner, maybe it’ll make the weeds grow faster.”
his shoulders sag, his breath shaking, but he still steps forward, reaching out like he’s going to hold the door for you.
“i’ll take you home,” he says, softer now, almost pleading.
you laugh—dry, cruel, beautiful in that venomous way. “no thanks,” you say, snatching the door handle before your driver can even move. “you can take misaki’s ass home. maybe you two can plant a fucking family tree while you’re at it, carve your initials in the trunk and die under it together like the two dirt-souled lovebirds you are.”
he winces, opening his mouth to say something, but you’re already ducking into the car, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “hell, maybe you can name your kids after fertilizer brands. that way, every time someone says ‘shit,’ you’ll think of her.”
“baby, stop—”
“don’t call me baby,” you snap one last time, your voice thick and trembling and furious, “you don’t get to call me that after defending that potted-plant enthusiast.”
he grips the top of the door, knuckles white, his other hand reaching for you again like he can still fix it. “please,” he whispers, but you won’t look at him.
you sniff hard, shaking your head, and mumble, “go water your conscience, hajime.”
and then the driver starts the car, the sound of the engine swallowing whatever apology he tries to mumble next, the world blurring as the café disappears behind you — him standing there, hands in his hair, looking every bit the idiot you just called him.
and umemiya hajime tries everything—calls, texts, paragraphs that could qualify as love letters if they weren’t just him apologizing seventeen different ways. every few minutes, another ping lights up your phone, his name glowing like he’s haunting you. you see them. you just don’t care. let him sweat.
because for all his patience and warmth, hajime can’t stand one thing in this world—his girlfriend angry at him. it eats him alive, that quiet space where you don’t talk to him, where your voice is replaced by silence. he can handle a punch, a slap, a full-blown tantrum. but your silence? that’s his apocalypse.
so by eight, he shows up. no call, no warning. the housekeeper must have let him in, because the next thing you hear is the deep, hollow creak of your bedroom door being pushed open. your room is massive—big enough to echo the sound of his shoes on the marble. the kind of big that makes his apartment feel like a closet. he pauses by the door for half a second, taking it all in, that soft, low whistle under his breath that he doesn’t even realize he makes.
you’re on the bed, sitting against the headboard, your knees tucked up, silk pajamas hugging you like a whisper. the balcony doors are open, letting the night air drift in, your hair moving slightly in the breeze. you don’t even look surprised. just annoyed. pretty and annoyed—a deadly combination he’s learned to fear and adore.
“what the fuck do you want?” you say, voice low and sharp, not even turning fully to him. “i thought i made it clear i didn’t want to see your piece-of-shit self tonight.”
he doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch. the insult rolls off him like water off glass. he steps inside, shuts the heavy door behind him with a soft click, then locks it. you glare at him for that, but he doesn’t care. he hums, hands sliding into his pockets as he walks deeper into your room, his lips twitching at the corner like he’s trying not to smile.
“yeah,” he says quietly, stopping at the edge of your bed before sitting down. “i’m a piece of shit.” his tone is steady, but there’s a flicker of guilt in his eyes that gives him away. “so why don’t you tell me exactly why?”
the challenge hangs in the air between you, thick and dangerous. you finally turn your head, eyes sharp enough to kill. “you really want me to spell it out?”
he shrugs lightly. “might as well hear it from the source.”
you scoff, the sound short and mean. “fine. you’re a piece of shit because you’ve got the emotional intelligence of a rock and the situational awareness of a traffic cone. because you let some over-perfumed, photosynthesis-obsessed charity case orbit around you for weeks while she looked at you like she was about to hump the hydrangeas.”
his jaw tightens slightly, but he stays quiet. you keep going.
“you’re a piece of shit because you sat there like a golden retriever on standby while she called me spoiled, and you didn’t even blink. because instead of backing me up, you told me to behave—like i was the one who needed manners. newsflash, hajime, i wasn’t raised in a barn.”
you lean forward, eyes flashing. “you’re a piece of shit because you keep acting like your niceness makes you some kind of saint when really it just makes people think they can walk all over you—and by extension, me. and i don’t get walked on. not by some chlorophyll-brained pick-me with a shovel and definitely not by my boyfriend who should’ve told her to fuck off the second she batted her eyelashes.”
you exhale sharply, chest rising and falling, your anger so thick it hums. “there. that’s your summary. congratulations. you’re the human embodiment of a doormat with biceps.”
he stares at you for a long beat, jaw slack, breath caught halfway between a sigh and a laugh, eyes glassy from how hard he’s holding it in. you know that look—the one he gets when you’re being cruel and brilliant at the same time.
and when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, low, wrecked and fond all at once. “okay,” he says softly. “that’s fair.”
you’re not done. not even close. your voice sharpens again, that lethal edge returning, each word slicing clean and deliberate. “and you know what else?” you hiss, glaring at him like the very sight of him is offensive. “you’re a piece of shit for letting her ruin my day. the day that was supposed to be ours. our date. the one you promised would make up for all the bullshit this week.”
you sit up straighter, arms folding over your chest, chin lifting high like a queen about to announce someone’s execution. “you’re a piece of shit because you let that girl get in between us like she fucking belonged there. you sat there—smiling, nodding, pretending she was part of the conversation—while she pissed all over the mood i built, and you didn’t tell her to shut the fuck up. you didn’t even blink. you just let her talk, and talk, and talk—like some possessed lawn decoration who didn’t realize she wasn’t invited to the goddamn picnic.”
hajime exhales softly through his nose, but you’re on a roll now. your tone slides from sharp to venomous, your words slick with sarcasm. “you should’ve told her the only thing you and her were growing was a distance, not some fucking roses. a stupid, tragic, half-dead bush that’s probably crying for help under her fake nails. i hope the thing dies, by the way.”
you pause just long enough to give him the kind of look that makes men rethink their entire life choices. “you know i love roses. you know that. they’re my favorite flower, hajime. and now—” your voice cracks, just a little, the anger melting into something raw, “now i have to find something else to like, because every time i see a rose, i’ll think of your dumb ass playing gardener with that chlorophyll-chasing, dirt-scented freak.”
he opens his mouth, but you keep going, your words picking up speed, your sarcasm dripping like honey turned acid. “i can’t even look at roses now without imagining you two standing there with watering cans, smiling like idiots, pretending you’re in some fucking cottagecore commercial for heartbreak. oh, look at us, hajime and misaki, the love story nobody asked for, sponsored by miracle-gro and emotional negligence.”
you laugh, short and bitter, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “so yeah, congratulations. you ruined roses for me. do you have any idea how dramatic that is? who the hell ruins a flower for someone? that’s psychotic behavior.”
you gesture vaguely toward him, voice trembling from equal parts fury and heartbreak. “and don’t you dare try to fix it with one of your sorry smiles or your stupid soft voice. i don’t want to hear ‘baby’ or ‘sweetheart’ or any of that crap. you’re not charming your way out of this one. you killed my favorite fucking flower, hajime.”
his shoulders drop, and for a second, he looks genuinely stricken. like he knows exactly what he’s done but can’t find the words to climb out of the grave he dug himself.
you sniff, crossing your arms tighter, looking away toward the balcony. “piece of shit,” you mutter, quieter this time, but the venom still there, thick and deliberate. “next time you decide to plant something, plant your sense of boundaries. maybe it’ll bloom faster than your fucking stupidity.”
he lets out a shaky breath, and though you’re not looking, you can feel it—the guilt, the way it weighs heavy on him, pulling him forward, pulling him closer.
but you don’t move. not yet. you just sit there in your silk pajamas, glowing under the soft light, furious and heartbroken and beautiful, like the kind of mess only someone stupidly in love could make.
he lets you talk, lets you spill every bit of poison sitting behind your teeth. when you finally run out of words he exhales, eyes flicking between your face and the balcony door.
“okay,” he says quietly, almost hoarse. “you’re right. i let her get near you, i let her get near us. i should’ve shut it down the first time she opened her mouth. i thought she was just harmless noise, but i see how it looks now. it’s on me.”
you don’t answer, still watching him like you’re deciding whether to throw him off the balcony.
he keeps going, voice soft but frantic underneath. “i’ll fix it. i’ll get rid of the fucking roses—hell, i’ll rip the whole bed out tomorrow if it makes you feel better. i’ll plant something else, something just for you. lilies, orchids, daisies—whatever you want. i’ll bring you every damn flower in the city if that’s what it takes.”
you snort, leaning your head back against the headboard. “oh wow, a floral apology tour. maybe you can get a discount card—buy ten bouquets, get your girlfriend’s forgiveness free.”
he smiles a little at that, but it’s weak, guilty. “i mean it,” he says, reaching out. his palm catches the side of your face, thumb brushing the line where your cheek’s still damp. “i’m sorry, baby. she can keep those roses for herself, i don’t give a fuck about them anymore. she’s not coming near you again. not at the garden, not anywhere.”
“good,” you mutter, still not looking at him. “because if she did, i’d turn her into mulch and send her to her own funeral in a flower pot.”
he huffs a laugh, forehead falling forward till it touches yours. “you really scare me sometimes.”
“you should be scared,” you whisper, your voice all sugar and steel. “you’re the one who thought sharing a hobby meant adopting a parasite.”
his shoulders shake with a quiet chuckle, and he leans closer until his nose brushes your temple. “no more parasites. just you. i promise.”
you hum, still pretending you don’t care, even though your hand’s already in his hair, tugging once like punishment. “you better, or next time i’ll be the one planting something—and it’ll be your dumb ass six feet under.”
“deal,” he says softly, kissing the corner of your mouth before you can say another word.
he kisses you like a man desperate for forgiveness, soft at first—testing the waters, lips brushing your jaw, the edge of your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth—each one a quiet apology shaped like warmth. it’s annoying how good he is at this, how every gentle touch feels like he’s rewiring your anger cell by cell. you’re still mad, still seething, but your body betrays you, leaning into the familiar scent of soap and soil and him.
his thumb strokes your chin; another kiss lands just under your eye, another on the tip of your nose, and he murmurs something stupid like “i’m sorry, baby” between each one until your brain starts to blur around the edges.
you groan, half irritated, half drunk on his breath. “you think you can just mouth your way out of this?”
he grins against your skin. “maybe,” he says, voice rough, hopeful.
“yeah, well, don’t get too excited,” you mutter, pushing a hand against his chest though you don’t really mean it. “tomorrow i don’t want to see those stupid fucking roses ever again. burn them, drown them, sell them to a funeral home—I don’t care. just make them disappear before i develop a rash from secondhand betrayal.”
he laughs, low and nervous, the sound vibrating through his chest. “you really hate them that much?”
“hajime,” you say slowly, looking him dead in the eye, “if i see one more petal, i’ll start a bonfire big enough to roast your guilt on. i want that bush gone. dug out. i want the soil salted like we’re closing off a cursed graveyard.”
he presses his forehead to yours, trying not to laugh, but you can feel it—the soft shake of his shoulders.
“i’m serious,” you add, poking his chest hard. “you let that chlorophyll homewrecker touch my favorite flower. you think i can look at a rose now without hearing her voice? please. that plant’s tainted. it’s basically a botanical crime scene.”
he hums, still grinning. “alright. no more roses. i’ll get rid of them tomorrow.”
“good,” you whisper, eyes narrowing. “because if i see a single leaf left standing, i’ll personally rent a bulldozer and flatten that garden myself. and maybe your ego while i’m at it.”
he laughs properly this time, head dropping to your shoulder, the sound rumbling low against your skin. “you’re insane,” he says softly.
you smirk, fingers slipping into his hair as you pull him closer. “yeah, but at least i’m your problem.” and he kisses you again, the kind of kiss that tastes like surrender, like he’s already planning the funeral for those damned roses.
it doesn’t take long for the anger to start crumbling—not completely, not all at once, but enough that your shoulders stop shaking, enough that the edge of your voice softens. hajime’s always been good at this, at quiet apologies that sound like promises, at letting his warmth do the talking. his hands are steady against your jaw, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin, and every time he says something low and soft, you can feel the fight bleeding out of you.
his voice does that thing again—deep, patient, with that tiny tremor that always sounds like he means every word. “hey,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against your cheek, “breathe, yeah? i’m right here.”
you sigh, half in frustration, half in surrender, your fingers finding the hem of his shirt, tugging lightly. “i hate how you sound so calm,” you mutter, voice muffled. “it’s like your voice was made for manipulating me.”
he laughs quietly, his breath warm against your ear. “i’d call it soothing, not manipulating.”
“whatever,” you say, leaning closer until your forehead rests against his collarbone. your anger’s still there, simmering somewhere in the background, but it’s mixed now—with exhaustion, with affection, with that stupid ache that always shows up when you’re too close to him for too long. you murmur it before you can stop yourself, soft and tired, “i miss you.”
he stills for half a second, then hums, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “missed you too,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “and i’m sorry again, sweetheart. you must’ve been really upset if you missed me this much.”
you tilt your head up, glaring weakly. “don’t get smug about it.”
he chuckles, his hand sliding down your back, slow and careful. “not smug. just… relieved you still want to see me at all.”
“please,” you snort, swatting his chest. “i wanted to see you so i could yell at you again. don’t flatter yourself.”
he grins, that soft, stupid smile that makes your heart twitch even when you want to punch him. “fair enough. but you’re calmer now, right?”
“barely,” you mutter, though your hand’s already tracing the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “you owe me.”
his brows lift. “yeah?”
“yeah,” you say, lips twitching. “you better plan another date. and i don’t mean one of your boring, coffee-shop, let’s-hold-hands-and-watch-you-pretend-to-be-a-gardener kind of dates. i want something nice. something expensive. something that doesn’t involve dirt or that woman’s cursed aura.”
he laughs, low and soft, tilting his head until your noses almost touch. “so… spa day, dinner, rooftop champagne?”
“keep talking,” you murmur, smiling against his mouth. “and maybe i’ll let you live.”
he grins, brushing his lips over yours again. “deal.” you hum, satisfied, closing your eyes as you let him kiss you again, the taste of apology and warmth and just enough smugness to remind you why you fell for the idiot in the first place.
you stay quiet for a long time, tracing the seam of his shirt between your fingers, the air heavy and warm from all the things you threw at him earlier. it sits there between you both—your anger, your guilt, your pride—like a ghost that doesn’t know when to leave. hajime keeps running his thumb along the back of your hand, like he’s waiting for something to shift, like he’s scared you’ll pull away again.
finally, you sigh. not the soft kind, the world-weary, dramatic, “fine, i surrender but only halfway” kind. your head stays against his chest, voice muffled and small but still sharp enough to sting. “i was mean,” you mutter. “like… really mean.”
he tilts his head down, kissing the crown of your hair. “mm.”
“and i said some fucked up things,” you continue, twisting your fingers into his shirt, “about you, not about her. i don’t regret any of the shit i said to her. she deserved every syllable. if anything, i wish i’d used bigger words.”
he laughs quietly, low in his throat, the sound vibrating under your ear. “noted.”
“but you…” you pull back enough to look at him, eyes still narrowed but softer now. “you didn’t deserve all of that. maybe eighty percent, tops. i might’ve… gone nuclear when a regular slap would’ve done.”
he hums, pretending to think. “so i’m only eighty percent a piece of shit now? progress.”
you glare, but the corner of your mouth betrays you. “don’t push it.”
his grin widens. “you’re apologizing. that’s new.”
“don’t get excited,” you warn, flicking his collar. “this is a limited-time offer. i’m still mad, i just feel bad for calling you a spineless gardening simp and comparing your emotional awareness to a traffic cone. that was… maybe too creative.”
he bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “i liked the creativity part.”
“yeah, you would,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “you’re lucky you’re hot. if you looked like a thumb, i’d still be screaming.”
he smirks, leaning closer, his breath brushing your cheek. “you’re forgiving me because i’m hot?”
“no,” you correct, voice dripping with sarcasm. “i’m forgiving you because i’m merciful. the hotness just makes it easier to look at your dumb face while i do it.”
he chuckles, kissing the tip of your nose, his hands coming up to cup your jaw again. “i’ll take it.”
you tilt your head, pretending to think. “but just to be clear, i’m only apologizing for being mean to you. not the rest. not the part where i threatened to salt your garden or to start a bonfire with the roses. that’s still on the table.”
he laughs against your skin, the sound so warm it almost makes your chest hurt. “deal.”
“good.” you tug at his shirt, voice softening just slightly. “now start planning my damn date before i change my mind and go back to hating you again.”
he smiles, that stupid, gentle, hajime smile that always makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room. “already on it, princess.” you hum, resting your head back against him. “yeah, you better be. and it better not include a single fucking rose.”
you stay where you are for a bit, your head on his chest, heartbeat steady under your ear, the air thick with warmth and that faint post-argument stillness. his thumb keeps tracing the curve of your waist, the rhythm almost hypnotic. after a while you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes skimming his face — that maddeningly perfect symmetry, the soft smirk that always looks one breath away from trouble. you try to fight the grin tugging at your mouth, suck your lips in like you’re hiding something, but he catches it instantly.
he raises a brow, knuckles brushing your cheek. “what’s that look for? you plotting something? or you’re about to say something perverted, aren’t you?”
you laugh, short and low, the sound melting into the quiet between you. “you wish,” you mutter, smacking his chest with a lazy slap that makes him chuckle.
“nah,” he says, smiling like he already knows what’s coming. “you’ve got that evil sparkle in your eye. that’s your danger zone face.”
you roll your eyes, drawing a little circle on his collarbone with your fingertip. “fine,” you whisper, voice slipping into a mock-serious tone, “you wanna have make-up sex?”
his reaction is immediate: a sharp inhale, a burst of laughter that fills the whole room, head tilting back as he grins like an idiot. you giggle too, the tension cracking open between you.
“jesus,” he laughs, still catching his breath. “you’re unreal. a whole menace wrapped in silk.”
“oh, please,” you snort, leaning closer until your lips brush the edge of his jaw. “you act like i came up with this all by myself. you’re the one who trained me for chaos, remember? i was a perfectly innocent girl before you showed up with your stupid voice and your stupid hands.”
he hums, grinning. “so now i’m the bad influence?”
“oh, absolutely,” you say, fingers curling into his shirt as you tug him closer, until he’s hovering over you. “you built this monster. now deal with it.”
he laughs again, lower this time, the sound rougher around the edges as he shifts his weight, letting you guide him down with that smug little pull. you fall back against the pillows, his body leaning over yours, the mattress dipping with the familiar gravity of him.
“god, you’re trouble,” he murmurs, voice half-amused, half-breathless.
“and yet,” you whisper, smirking, “you’re still here. congratulations on your poor life choices.”
he doesn’t answer. he just kisses you — slow at first, like he’s savoring the taste of forgiveness, his lips brushing yours once, twice, before deepening the kiss. it’s the kind that feels like an apology without words, a quiet ache that makes your chest twist. his mouth is warm, soft, a little desperate; you can feel the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor of relief underneath all the heat.
your hand slides up to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and he groans softly into your mouth, his laugh ghosting over your skin when you bite at his lip just to be annoying.
“still mad?” he murmurs between kisses.
“ask me again in five minutes,” you mumble against his lips, smiling when he laughs quietly, his breath catching at the sound.
he moves lower, tracing kisses along your jaw, down to the curve of your throat. the world shrinks to the sound of his breathing, the slow, steady drag of his lips against your skin. he lingers there, just under your jawline, his mouth open enough to leave warmth that makes you sigh, your fingers threading into his hair as he works his way down.
“you’re ridiculous,” you whisper, breath uneven, though your tone still carries that familiar sarcasm. “you think kissing my neck’s gonna fix your entire PR disaster?”
he hums, lips brushing the spot just below your ear. “working so far,” he says, the words a low vibration against your skin.
you laugh quietly, a sound that melts into a sigh when he kisses you again, slower this time, longer — lips dragging lazily against the curve of your neck, his breath warm and steady. the scent of him fills everything: soap, coffee, and something faintly floral that makes you roll your eyes mid-blush.
“you smell good,” you whisper.
he chuckles, the sound muffled against your throat. “i showered. i’m trying to smell like redemption.”
“try harder,” you murmur, your hand fisting in his shirt.
he tilts his head, kissing higher, slower, until your breath catches again. his thumb traces the corner of your mouth, the motion tender, almost teasing.
“better?” he whispers.
you hum, pretending to think, even as your heart’s beating too fast. “you’re getting there,” you say finally, your lips twitching. “if you keep going, i might even forgive you by sunrise.”
“i’ll take my chances,” he murmurs, pressing one last kiss just below your jaw before lifting his head, eyes meeting yours with that stupid, boyish smile that always ruins you.
and you sigh, pushing his hair back from his face, the sarcasm softening just a little. “fine,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “maybe i’ll keep you around.”
“oh, lucky me,” he teases, grinning.
“don’t push it,” you mutter, but you’re already pulling him down again.
the next day, the sun’s already too bright for your mood, and you’re still halfway convinced hajime dragged you out just to test your patience. you’re in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, your attitude set firmly to don’t talk to me unless it’s praise or apology. he’s humming to himself like an idiot, that calm little smile on his face that always looks suspiciously like he knows something you don’t.
“you’re being shady,” you mutter, swirling your straw. “you have that face. that ‘i’m about to do something dumb but it’s romantic so she can’t kill me’ face.”
he glances at you, laughing softly. “you’ll see.”
“if you brought me somewhere near dirt again, hajime, i swear to god—”
“you’ll see,” he repeats, obnoxiously patient, and keeps driving.
by the time you’re standing on the bofurin rooftop again, you’re seconds away from throwing him off it. the sun hits hard, the air smells faintly of soil and humidity, and you’re ready to start your usual speech about how this place is your personal hell on earth—until you look around.
no roses.
not a single one.
the corner where they used to bloom in arrogant little clusters is now spotless, the soil turned, fresh, bare. no sign of red, no smug petals staring back at you like a reminder of your temporary insanity. just dirt, clean and unbothered.
you hum, slow and satisfied, the sound low in your throat as you fold your arms. “well, well, look who actually listens for once in his life,” you say, smirking at him. “did you kill them yourself or did you outsource it to someone with emotional stability?”
he grins, leaning against the fence, hands in his pockets. “i did it this morning.”
“oh, how poetic,” you deadpan. “nothing says devotion like early morning floral homicide.”
he chuckles, stepping closer, his eyes soft even as yours gleam with smug triumph. “you’re welcome.”
“damn right i’m welcome,” you mutter, squinting at the empty patch of soil. “good riddance. those roses had bad energy. smelled like insecurity and pick-me perfume.”
he laughs louder this time, shaking his head. “you’re unbelievable.”
“no, i’m traumatized,” you correct, turning toward him. “do you know how cursed those things were? every time i saw one i could practically hear her voice talking about root systems and sunlight exposure. i had flashbacks, hajime. actual horticultural PTSD.”
he covers his mouth with his hand, clearly trying not to laugh, but the sound still slips out.
“go ahead, laugh,” you say, pointing at him. “but if one rose dares to regrow here, i’m calling an exorcist. i’ll sage this whole fucking rooftop and hang garlic like it’s a vampire nest.”
he grins, stepping behind you, his arms wrapping loosely around your waist. “no roses,” he murmurs against your ear. “just us.”
you hum again, smug as hell, tilting your head back against his shoulder. “as it should be. you and your dirt patch—romantic in a tragic, redemption-arc sort of way.”
“you really can’t just take the win, huh?” he teases, his voice warm, brushing against your skin.
“oh, i’m taking it,” you say, reaching up to pat his cheek lightly. “i’m taking it, framing it, and engraving ‘i was right’ in gold letters.”
he laughs, his breath against your neck. “you’re something else.”
“yeah,” you murmur, glancing over the empty garden with a self-satisfied smile. “something better than a rose.”
and you catch the way he looks at you when you say it—like he agrees, like he’d tear up the whole garden again just to prove it.
Bangladeshi students are going through horror right now.Students are getting killed brutally just for standing up against the government pray for Bangladesh. Help us. We are getting killed brutally. Police , Student League they're killing us off. We need international Support. Help us to spread the information worldwide. We just want our rights.
'•.¸♡BUY ME THE MOON࿐ྂ
SANO "MIKEY" MANJIRO x f!READER
TWO — ribbons in my hair
chapter summary: your world collides with Manjiro's in the shadows of your father's mansion in the woods, where 'innocence' meets cruelty in a dangerous dance
chapter warnings: dark content 18+, inaccurate depiction of politics and political climate, unreliable narrator(reader), corruption, objectification, threatening, loneliness, isolation, gang violence, use of weapons(guns), murder, blood and gore, slight infantilization, kissing, making out, cheating, fingering(f), mentions of masturbation
word count: 9842
masterlist | previous | chapter 3
His voice, deep and gravelly, sends shivers down your spine as it reverberates through the silence of the night. The way he says "princess" makes your heart skip a beat, a rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. You're acutely aware of the heat emanating from his body, the scent of his cologne mingling with the smoke from the bonfire below. It's intoxicating and overwhelming, and you find yourself utterly captivated by this enigmatic man standing before you.
But even as desire flares within you, a voice in the back of your mind whispers a warning. This man, Sano Manjiro, is dangerous. You can see it in the way he carries himself, in the aura of power and authority that surrounds him like a cloak. He's not someone to be trifled with, not someone you should be getting involved with. And yet, there's a part of you that's drawn to him like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the magnetic pull of his presence. But as a cool breeze card through your hair you realize that you've been caught, not just observing the scene below, but also caught off guard by this unexpected intrusion into your secluded world. You try to summon some semblance of composure, but your heart is racing, and your mind is racing even faster, trying to come up with some explanation for why you were spying on the bonfire. "Who are you?" you manage to squeak out, your voice barely above a whisper, even though you know exactly who this man is
Sano Manjiro doesn't answer, just continues to stare at you with those intense eyes of his, as if trying to read your thoughts. You swallow hard, feeling the weight of his gaze like a physical presence pressing down on you. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he speaks, his voice low and rough, sending shivers down your spine. "What are you doing out here, princess?" Manjiro asks, his tone laced with a hint of amusement.
You bristle at the condescending nickname, but you force yourself to maintain your composure. "I could ask you the same thing," you retort, trying to inject some semblance of authority into your voice.
He smirks, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Touché" he says, his grip on you loosening slightly.
You take the opportunity to straighten up, pushing away from the railing and crossing your arms defensively across your chest. "So, are you going to tell me what's going on down there?" you ask, nodding towards the bonfire below. "Or am I just supposed to guess?"
He chuckles, the sound sending a strange fluttering sensation through your chest. "Let's just say it's a little... business venture" he replies cryptically, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
You raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite yourself. "Business venture, huh? Looks more like a midnight ritual to me," you quip, unable to resist a bit of sass.
He laughs a deep, throaty sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "Well, you're not entirely wrong," he admits, his smirk widening into a grin. "But I'm afraid that's all you're going to get out of me, princess. Some secrets are better left untold."
You straighten your shoulders, watching as his eyes scan you. He does so quickly as if to not let you know he was checking you out but you catch him anyway. "You didn't tell me what your name is and uh... How do you know today's my birthday...?"
Manjiro walks back inside, scanning the inside of your room. "I have all eyes on Japan, [y/n]. Of course, I know who you are" He picks up your Miffy plushie off your bed "I'm Sano Manjiro..."
His voice trails off as he lifts the plushie, examining it with a faint smirk playing on his lips. You watch him warily, unsure of what to make of this enigmatic man who's suddenly invaded your secluded world. His presence is both intoxicating and intimidating, a dangerous combination that sends your heart racing and your mind spinning. "Sano Manjiro" you repeat, the name rolling off your tongue, feigning disbelief
You know him obviously but earlier you just had to pretend not to know who he was just by glancing at his face. Everyone in Japan knows him. He was the leader of Bonten, the most powerful gang in the country, a man feared and respected in equal measure. And now, he's standing in your bedroom, holding your plushie like it's the most natural thing in the world. You shake your head slightly, trying to shake off the surrealness of the situation. "What do you want?" you ask, your voice coming out sharper than you intended.
You're not used to feeling so out of control, so vulnerable. But with Manjiro, it's like he's stripped away all your defences, leaving you exposed and powerless. Feeling like that is something you do not like because money can't fix it. Manjiro's gaze flickers up to meet yours, his eyes dark and unreadable. "I want to talk," he says simply, his voice low and gravelly. "I want to know why the president's daughter is spying on my men."
You bristle at the accusation, feeling a surge of indignation rise within you. "I wasn't spying," you protest, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I was just... curious."
Manjiro raises an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. "Curious, huh?" he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Well, you certainly have a strange way of satisfying your curiosity, princess."
You flush even deeper, feeling a surge of frustration at his patronizing tone. "I'm not a child," you snap, your voice coming out sharper than you intended. "And I don't appreciate being talked down to."
Manjiro's smirk widens, a hint of challenge flashing in his eyes. "Is that so?" he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Well, forgive me for assuming. After all, you are the president's little secret, aren't you?"
You bristle at the mention of your status as the president's hidden daughter, feeling a surge of anger bubbling up inside you. "That's none of your business," you snap, your voice tinged with defiance. "And neither is what I do in my own home."
Manjiro's gaze darkens, his expression unreadable. "Everything that happens in Japan is my business," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Including what goes on in the president's secret mansion."
You swallow hard, feeling a surge of fear coursing through your veins. You know you're outmatched, outgunned. But you refuse to let Manjiro intimidate you. You may be the president's secret daughter, but you're no pushover. Fuck, Sano Manjiro isn't supposed to know who you are. Nobody is. It's the first time in your life that someone knows who you are and it's damn scary. You don't like this at all no matter how hot Sano Manjiro is. "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you," you say, your voice trembling slightly. "But I have nothing to say to you."
Manjiro's smirk widens into a full-blown grin, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "We'll see about that," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "We'll see."
You watch as he tugs at the ears of your plushie. "You're not supposed to know who I am..." you say after a moment of silence
It's right then that his smile fades. His demeanour turns cold. Manjiro carelessly throws your plushie back on the bed and steps closer to you once again. He's close, too close in your personal space. "Your father is president now, [y/n]."
His words hang heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the dangerous game being played. Your pulse quickens, fear and anger warring within you. "What does that have to do with me?" you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.
Manjiro's eyes narrow, his gaze piercing through you. "It means you're a valuable asset," he replies, his tone icy. "And in my world, valuable assets are either protected or exploited."
You feel a chill run down your spine at his words. The reality of your situation crashes down on you, the weight of your father's position and the danger it brings now painfully clear. It's only about 12:35 am, 35 minutes since your father became president and this hot motherfucker is already threatening you. "are you threatening me?" you ask him
Perhaps the rush of emotions you had earlier quickly faded after realizing that this situation is something that you shouldn't be in no matter how much you fantasize about it— no matter how much you've romanticized Sano Manjiro. Earlier when he had you pressed against the dark railing of your balcony, you were no better than those girls online fantasizing about Bonten and the rest of its top executives. But perhaps you were the lucky one to be able to see Sano Manjiro's face in person since there is not one picture of him online. Manjiro's gaze hardens, his eyes narrowing as he studies you. "Call it what you will," he says, his voice cold and indifferent. "But remember this, [y/n]. You may be the president's secret daughter, but you're not untouchable. You're not invincible. And if you think you can hide away in your little mansion and pretend the world doesn't exist, you're sorely mistaken."
His words cut through you like a knife, a harsh reminder of the harsh reality you've been trying so hard to ignore. You may have grown up sheltered and pampered, but you're not naive. You know the world is a cruel and unforgiving place, especially for someone like you, someone caught in the crosshairs of power and politics. "I've invested a lot of money in your father," he says "I know you're so clearly Saimori's favourite which is why he'll probably continue to let you off the hook but now that's he's president I don't want any kind of slip-ups from you. Stay hidden just like you have before"
"I know that already" You mutter
You're infuriated by him. You don't like the way Manjiro is treating you. It's not the usual admiration or jealousy you're used to by your peers at university. You don't like that he's not kissing the damn ground you're walking on or that he's not seething in jealousy at your perfect appearance. You hate it and you want Sano Manjiro so fucking bad but he's not reacting to you in the way you want him to or in the ways you're used to. Why the hell is he treating you the same way as Kaya?
Like a stain?
A mistake.
You completely change your tone. "You have nothing to worry about, Mr. Sano," You say formally and cross your arms over your chest
Manjiro's expression remains impassive, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. "Is that so, princess?" he says, his voice laced with a hint of skepticism.
You nod, trying to keep your voice steady despite the racing of your heart. "Yes," you reply, your tone firm and unwavering. "I assure you, I have no intention of causing any trouble for you or your... business ventures."
Manjiro studies you for a long moment, as if trying to gauge the sincerity of your words. Finally, he nods, a hint of approval flickering in his eyes. "Good," he says, his tone softer now, almost... gentle. "Because if you did, well..." He trails off, leaving the threat unspoken but hanging heavy in the air between you.
You swallow hard, feeling a knot of fear tightening in your chest. You may have put on a brave front, but deep down, you know you're no match for someone like Sano Manjiro. He's dangerous, powerful, and utterly unpredictable. And now, you're caught in his web, trapped between your father's position and Manjiro's influence, with no way out. But despite the fear and uncertainty swirling inside you, there's also a strange sense of... excitement. You may not like the way Manjiro is treating you, but there's no denying the magnetic pull he exerts, the intoxicating allure of danger and power. You may be sheltered and naive, but you're not blind. You can see the appeal of someone like Sano Manjiro, someone who defies convention and rules with an iron fist. And deep down, beneath the layers of fear and anger, there's a part of you that's drawn to him like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the pull of his dark charisma.
But for now, you push those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. "If there's nothing else, Mr. Sano, I think it's best if you leave," you say, your voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside you.
Manjiro nods, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he turns and heads for the door. "Until next time, princess," he says, his voice a low murmur that sends a shiver down your spine.
And with that, he's gone, leaving you alone in the darkness of your room, your heart still racing and your mind spinning with a thousand questions. What does Manjiro want from you? And more importantly, what are you going to do about it?
One thing is for sure though, another item has just been added to your shopping cart.
When you woke up the next morning the living room is filled with multiple gift boxes no doubt sent by your father. But it's one that catches your eye. The rest of the boxes are all wrapped in pink wrapping paper with bows but one small box is wrapped in black wrapping paper. You pick that one up first and unwrap it. It's a Vivienne Westwood box. You open the box and find the exact necklace you had been looking at last night, the same that lays idly in your cart because you didn't have enough energy to get up last night and get your father's credit card. It's the Valentina Orb pendant with gold hardware. The red gem in the center glimmers back at you. There is a note in the box too. You unfold it and read:
Happy Birthday Princess
—SM
Sano Manjiro's initials are at the end of the note. A surge of conflicting emotions washes over you as you hold the necklace in your hands, the glint of the red gem catching the light. You're both touched and infuriated by the gesture. On one hand, it's a beautiful gift, something you've been eyeing for weeks now. On the other hand, it feels like a reminder of last night, of the encounter with Sano Manjiro that left you feeling shaken and vulnerable.
You toss the note aside, unable to bear the sight of Manjiro's initials staring back at you. Instead, you focus on the necklace, running your fingers over the smooth metal and admiring the intricate design. It's exquisite, a perfect reflection of your Manjiro's wealth and your own desire for luxury.
But as you slip the necklace around your neck, fastening the clasp with trembling fingers, you can't shake the feeling of unease that lingers in the pit of your stomach. What does this gift mean? Is it a peace offering from Manjiro, a way to smooth over the tension between you? Or is it something more sinister,?
You push those thoughts aside, forcing yourself to focus on the present moment. You have enough on your plate as it is, what with your father's newfound presidency and the looming threat of Manjiro's influence. You can't afford to dwell on what-ifs and maybes, not when there are more pressing matters at hand. With a sigh, you turn your attention to the other gifts scattered around the room. There are designer handbags, expensive perfumes, and even a few pieces of jewelry, all carefully selected by your father to celebrate your birthday. But despite the extravagance of the gifts, there's a hollow emptiness that lingers in the air, a reminder of the loneliness that pervades your secluded existence.
You're celebrating your birthday all alone while your father is out their celebrating his win.
It's fine though.
You just turned 20, it's no big deal— not as big as a deal of becoming president.
It's fine that you're alone. You were an introvert anyway and you liked being by yourself. As you survey the lavish gifts spread out before you, a sense of resignation washes over you. It's not the first time you've spent your birthday alone, and it likely won't be the last. You've grown accustomed to the solitude, to the emptiness that pervades your secluded existence.
But even as you try to convince yourself that you're fine with being alone, a small part of you can't help but feel a pang of sadness. Birthdays are supposed to be a time for celebration, a time to be surrounded by loved ones and showered with affection. Yet here you are, surrounded by material possessions but devoid of any real connection.
You shake your head, banishing those thoughts from your mind. You refuse to let yourself dwell on the loneliness, not when there are more important things to focus on. With a sigh, you begin to tidy up the gifts, carefully placing each one back into its respective box. You may be alone on your birthday, but that doesn't mean you can't enjoy the gifts your father has bestowed upon you. After all, you deserve to treat yourself every now and then, even if it's just to fill the void left by the absence of genuine companionship.
But there was no time for self-pity right now. The next time your dad came to see you, you had to talk to him about Sano Manjiro and why the hell he knows you exist. He's not supposed to know. No one is. Your father would no doubt be too busy to answer the phone so all you can do is wait.
It was okay though. Nothing would happen to you. Your father won't let that happen and you know it.
For now, you smile to yourself as you plan your weekly getaway.
You were about 13 the first time you left the mansion for a purpose that wasn't to go to school. The guards, although fucking huge and strong, were stupid as hell and didn't notice you leaving on your bicycle. You live there and know the locations of all the cameras and the blindspots, of course, you know how to get away undetected.
Every Saturday night, you'd slip out through the back garden, where the dense foliage provided perfect cover, and make your way to the small town beyond the mansion's sprawling grounds.
Today was no different. You pull on a black hoodie, baggy blue jean shorts, and white Nike Air Force 1s, the casual attire starkly contrasting to the designer outfits and silk pyjamas that filled your wardrobe. With your phone and some cash tucked into your pocket, you head for the garden. The cool nighttime breeze fills your lungs as you navigate the familiar path, your heart beating with the thrill of escape. The road to the town from the mansion is empty. No one has any reason to come down that way. Both sides of the road are filled with dense forest with the occasional street light. You have your own little light on the front of your bike too so you're not too afraid of the dark. You were grown up and the dark was the last thing you had to fear.
As you ride your bike, the wind whips through your hair and you smile. You've been doing this for years and it was fun(sometimes you wonder how much more fun these bike rides would be if you had a few friends with you like in those coming-of-age movies). The thought of friends joining you on these clandestine escapades lingers in your mind as you pedal harder, the landscape blurring past. It's a fantasy you've entertained more than once, imagining a group of friends laughing and riding alongside you, sharing stories and secrets under the cover of night. But for now, the solitude of your solitary journey brings a strange sense of freedom and peace.
Tonight for some odd reason, the town seems... empty. Of course, it usually was empty anyway considering there was nothing else ahead for miles except for forestry but, it was a little odd. It was never this quiet all the years you had been coming here. Oh well, you shrug and get off your bike, locking it into the bike rack you usually do. You push the odd sense of emptiness from your mind and continue towards your destination—a small, noodle place that stays open late. It's your usual spot, a place where you can blend in with the locals and enjoy a moment of normalcy away from the confines of the mansion. As you walk down the familiar streets, the quietness feels almost eerie, but you convince yourself it's just your imagination playing tricks on you.
You approach the noodle place, the warm, savoury scent wafting out as you push open the door. The small bell above the entrance chimes, a familiar sound that always makes you feel welcomed. Despite the unusual quietness outside, the inside of the noodle shop feels just as cozy as always. You slide into your usual booth by the window, glancing around to see only a few patrons scattered throughout the restaurant. As you wait for your order, you watch the steam rise from the bowls of ramen being served to other customers, the sound of quiet chatter and clinking utensils creating a comforting ambiance. You pull out your phone, absentmindedly scrolling through social media while your mind drifts back to the events of the previous night. Manjiro's unexpected presence, his cryptic warnings, and that beautiful necklace that sits on your clavicle all swirl in your thoughts.
It's about at that time the door chimes again and this time a bigger group enters. You pull the hood of your hoodie over your head and slouch a little in the booth just in case it is some of your father's men. You don't turn around to look at the group nor do you make it seem you're out of place. You simply sit there silently. It wasn't like they'd recognize you without your fancy pyjamas or clothing anyway. The group behind you laughs loudly, acting rowdy as all men do.
A bowl of hot ramen is placed in front of you, snapping you back to the present. You thank the server and dig in, savouring the rich flavours and the simple pleasure of a meal enjoyed in peace. The warmth of the broth and the familiarity of the routine help ease some of the tension that's been building up inside you.
As you finish eating it is then you hear a familiar voice that makes the whole group shut up. "his first daughter is a snake, the illegitimate one is nothing more than a spoiled puppy"
Oh.
Oh shit.
It wasn't your father's stupid 2-brain-celled men. It was Sano-fucking-Manjiro and his men. That should be nothing to worry about but there is this voice deep in your head telling you that you couldn't get caught by him— that it would prove to be fatal. You pull out a black medical mask you always kept in your pocket for emergencies and put it on then tug your hood further down. You had to be careful and be quick. "ready for the bill, dear?" the owner asks as you walk over with the empty bowl
You nod as the elderly woman takes the bowl and sets it aside for the men washing the dishes. You silently pull out the wad of cash in your pocket flick through it for the amount and hand it over to her. Just as she's about put it in the register, yelling from Sano Manjiro's group starts and you hear a click, that makes the entire group and noodle shop go silent. Hesitantly, you turn your head in the direction of the sound and that's when you see a gun pressed to Sano Manjiro's temple.
Your breath catches in your throat, and you instinctively shrink back, trying to make yourself as inconspicuous as possible. The tension in the room is palpable, the air heavy with the threat of violence. Your heart races as you watch the scene unfold, your mind whirring with a mixture of fear and disbelief. Manjiro's reaction is unsettlingly calm. His expression remains neutral, his eyes cold and calculating as he stares down the barrel of the gun. The man holding the weapon is clearly nervous, his hand trembling slightly as he tries to maintain his composure.
At that moment, a fight breaks out. The owner grabs you by the arm and pulls you behind the counter, shielding you with her frail body. You try to protest but she just hushes you and holds you tighter. The man washing the dishes also ducks as the first bullet goes off. You're shaking and ears are ringing at the loud bangs. You huddle behind the counter, your heart pounding in your chest as the chaos unfolds around you. The sound of gunfire reverberates through the small noodle shop, mingling with the shouts and screams of the patrons. You can feel the elderly woman's grip tighten on your arm. Peeking out from behind the counter, you see Manjiro moving with a predatory grace, effortlessly disarming his attackers and turning the gun on them. The man who had dared to threaten him is now at his mercy, barely alive on the floor as Manjiro towers over him, his expression as cold and unyielding as ever. "Pathetic," Manjiro spits, his voice low and menacing. "You think you can challenge me and live to tell the tale?"
The man's response is a choked sob, his bravado completely shattered. The shop has blood splattered on the walls and multiple men either dead or barely alive. The other paterons in the shop are under tables, trembling, fearing for their lives. The atmosphere in the noodle shop is charged with fear and tension. You remain crouched behind the counter, the elderly woman still clutching your arm, her frail body shielding you from the violence erupting around you. Your mind races, grappling with the sudden turn of events and the realization that you are in the presence of Sano Manjiro, a man far more dangerous than you had ever imagined.
Manjiro's men quickly subdue the rest of the attackers, efficiently neutralizing the threat. The sound of gunfire ceases, replaced by the heavy breathing and muffled cries of the wounded. You feel a surge of relief as the immediate danger passes, but it is quickly replaced by a new wave of anxiety. You know you need to escape before Manjiro notices you, but the fear of drawing attention to yourself keeps you rooted to the spot. "alright boys, round up the witnesses" A smooth deep voice says
You put a hand over your mouth to keep yourself from letting out a sound. shit. "oh c'mon stop crying" Another voice says "we ain't gon' kill ya'. Just gonna have a nice talk"
Your heart races as you hear the voices of Manjiro's men, their footsteps approaching the counter where you're hiding. The elderly woman holding you trembles, her grip tightening as she whispers, "Stay still, dear. Don't move."
Panic surges through you, but you force yourself to stay calm. You can hear the men moving through the shop, pulling out the other patrons from their hiding spots. Your mind races, trying to think of a way out. The door to the kitchen is just a few feet away—if you can make it there, you might have a chance to slip out the back and escape. Just as you're about to make your move, the counter above you is abruptly yanked away, and you're staring up into the cold, dark eyes of one of Manjiro's men. He grabs your arm, yanking you to your feet and pulling you out from behind the counter. The elderly woman cries out in protest, but she's quickly silenced by a sharp glare. "Look what we have here," the man holding you says, a smirk playing on his lips. "A little mouse hiding in the shadows."
You struggle against his grip, but it's no use. He's too strong, and your attempts to break free only make him tighten his hold. The man has slightly feminine feautres downturned droopy lilac eyes and his hair is fashioned in a striped pattern dyed in the colors of purple and blond tied back in a ponytail. He tugs at the medical mask and rips it off your face. "huh. Everyone else here is old except you" The man murmurs then calls out "Mikey, what do we do with the depressed university student"
Manjiro was probably behind you. He hasn't seen your face yet. Maybe you had a chance to get out of this without him seeing you. "Wakasa, that's my depressed university student" Manjiro says in a nonchalant tone
Or not...
You freeze at the sound of Manjiro's voice, your heart pounding in your chest as you slowly turn to face him. His gaze pierces through you, cold and calculating, as if he can see right through the facade you've carefully constructed. Panic surges through you, but you force yourself to maintain a calm exterior, refusing to let him see how rattled you truly are. Wakasa releases his grip on you, allowing you to step away from him. You keep your eyes trained on the floor, avoiding Manjiro's penetrating gaze as you silently curse yourself for getting caught in this mess. You should have been more careful, more vigilant. Oh you shouldn't have even come here tonight, birthday or not. Shit shit shit. Manjiro grabs the front of your hoodie and you stumble forward, a choked gasp leaving your lips. "you guys finish up here" Manjiro says to his men and literally drags you out the shop by the front of your hoodie
Your heart races as Manjiro pulls you out of the shop, his grip firm and unyielding. You stumble forward, struggling to keep up with his long strides as he leads you away from the chaos behind you. The cool night air hits you like a slap in the face, a sharp contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside the noodle shop. You can feel Manjiro's eyes boring into you, his gaze burning into your skin as he assesses you with a scrutiny that sends shivers down your spine.
You're acutely aware of the danger you're in, the precariousness of your situation now that you're alone with Manjiro. But even as fear courses through your veins, there's also a strange sense of exhilaration, a rush of adrenaline that heightens your senses and sharpens your awareness. You know you should be terrified of him, should be doing everything in your power to escape his grasp. And yet, there's a part of you that's drawn to him like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the magnetic pull of his presence. As Manjiro leads you further away from the noodle shop, you can't help but wonder what he plans to do with you. Is he going to interrogate you, threaten you, or worse? The possibilities swirl in your mind, each one more terrifying than the last. But as you steal a glance at his profile, you can't help but notice the faintest hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips, as if he's enjoying the thrill of the chase.
You push those thoughts aside, forcing yourself to focus on the present moment. You need to stay alert, stay composed, if you have any hope of getting out of this alive. With a steadying breath, you square your shoulders and meet Manjiro's gaze head-on, refusing to show any sign of weakness. He leads you to a sleek black car parked just down the street, opening the door and gesturing for you to get in. You hesitate for a moment, the instinct to run screaming at the back of your mind. But you know there's no escaping Manjiro, not now. With a resigned sigh, you slide into the backseat of the car, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as Manjiro settles in beside you. "what are you wearing?" Manjiro asks after a moment of silence
There's no one else in car. Just the both of them. The windows are tinted so no one can look in. "clothes" you manage to say, sucking in uneven breaths as your heart refuses to calm itself
Honestly speaking, it made sense for Manjiro to be asking that question. Manjiro leans over and pulls your hood off your head. "[y/n]" he murmurs your name, the look on his face cold "what the hell are you doing out here?"
"I... I just needed some fresh air," you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper. "I... I didn't cause any trouble... I was having noodles"
Manjiro's eyes bore into yours, his expression unreadable. "Do you think I believe that?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous. "You know the risks, and yet you still choose to sneak out in the dead of night."
You swallow hard, trying to steady your breathing so you don't lash out at him. Sano Manjiro is not one of your father's guards so you can't yell at him as you please. "I do this every week... I... Nothing has ever happened and it's literally a 20-minute bike ride away from the mansion!"
Manjiro's gaze does not soften at all neither does his grip get any looser. "Your father's position makes you a target," he says, his tone still commanding, making you feel sick "Do you have any idea what could happen to you if the wrong people find out who you are?"
"I know," you admit, your voice barely a whisper. "But no one has. Not here. I've been coming here since I was 13!"
Manjiro releases your arm and leans back, his eyes never leaving yours. "Freedom comes with a price," he says after a moment of silence "And right now, you can't afford it."
You feel a surge of frustration and defiance rising within you. "What about you?" you retort, your voice gaining strength. "You talk about risks and dangers, but you live your life on your own terms. Why can't I?"
Manjiro's expression hardens again, a flicker of something dark and intense passing through his eyes. "Because I'm not the president's daughter and I am supposed to exist unlike you"
The silence that follows is heavy and oppressive, the weight of his words settling over you like a shroud. ow ow ow. Your chest hurts. You don't like the way he's talking to you or the way he's looking at you. It's not fucking fair that he's being like this when you couldn't stop thinking about him all day. Why is he being so mean? Suddenly you're 5 years old again at your mother's funeral, silently listening to 10-year-old Kaya spew bullshit to you, saying things like "You should've died with her", "Daddy would have been happier if you were gone too", "my mommy says you're a mistake... not supposed to exist"
You look right at Manjiro with eyes full of anger. "You don't get to talk to me like that"
Manjiro's eyes narrow at your defiant words, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. The car's confined space feels even smaller as you both lock eyes, each refusing to back down. He lets out a low, humourless chuckle, leaning in closer until his face is just inches from yours. "Oh, I don't?" he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Then who does? Your father? Those guards who barely pay attention to what you're doing? You think you're invincible because you've gotten away with it so far. But you're playing a dangerous game, [Y/N]."
You're about to open your mouth to say something but he cuts you off once again. "I know more about the world you live in than you ever will. Your father's position, the enemies he has, the threats you face—none of it is a game. You think sneaking out and playing at being normal is harmless, but it's not. It's reckless. And if someone were to figure out just who you are, do you have any idea the chaos it would cause?" Manjiro hisses angrily "All of my fucking money, all my years of hard work down to fucking waste
You bristle at his words, the unfairness of your situation crashing down on you. All Sano Manjiro cares about is his stupid ass money— the money he invested into the election. Nothing else. You still have no idea just why your father would even tell this man the location of the mansion and why he became 'business partners' with him when there were so many other rich men in Japan. Your father was a very charismatic man so he wouldn't have any trouble getting investors. So why the hell did it have to be Sano-fucking-Manjiro? Oh man did you have a bone to pick with your father. "So what am I supposed to do?" you snap. "Stay locked up in that mansion forever? Pretend like I don't exist? Is that what you want?"
Without missing a beat he responds "Yes"
Your heart aches even more. The word hangs heavy in the air, its simplicity carrying the weight of your predicament. You clench your fists, feeling the sting of tears behind your eyes but refusing to let them fall. You won't give Manjiro the satisfaction of seeing you break. "Why are you even here?" you demand, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and frustration. "Why do you care what I do? You said it yourself, I'm just a spoiled puppy."
Manjiro's expression shifts slightly, a flicker of something almost imperceptible passing through his eyes before his steely mask is back in place. He leans back in the seat, his gaze never wavering from yours. "I care because your father and I have an understanding," he says finally, his voice calmer but no less authoritative. "Your safety is part of that understanding. If anything happens to you or people find out you exist, it creates problems neither of us can afford."
You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. "So it's all just business to you," you mutter, more to yourself than to him. "Just another transaction."
"Everything in our world is a transaction," Manjiro replies coldly. "But don't mistake that for a lack of concern. Your father's enemies would use you against him in a heartbeat. Keeping you safe isn't just about protecting his interests—it's about protecting and hiding you from becoming a pawn in a much larger game."
Your chest tightens with the weight of Manjiro's words. You want to scream at him, to tell him how unfair this all is, but deep down, you know he's right. The reality of your situation, the fragility of your existence, is something you can't ignore. You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. "Fine," you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'll stay out of trouble. Just take me back home."
Manjiro studies you for a moment, his gaze searching your face as if assessing your sincerity. You expect him to call one of his men over to drive but instead, he says "You're upset..."
"I'm not" You deny, just wanting this to be over already
You press yourself against the door, wanting to make some space between you and Manjiro and look out the window. You don't like how this night turned out. Moving your gaze from the window to your sneakers, your eye twitches at the sight of blood splattered on the white material, probably from stepping in a puddle of it inside the shop. If you weren't annoyed and irritated before you sure are now. You look back outside the window. As the car remains still, the quiet between you and Manjiro grows tense. He lets out a sigh, perhaps sensing your genuine frustration and sorrow. His demeanour shifts slightly, the hard edges of his persona softening just a touch. He moves in closer, sitting on the center seat. "hey, look at me" Manjiro doesn't give you much of a choice as he grabs your chin and makes you face him and his grip, while firm, isn't as rough as before.
You find yourself staring into his eyes, those dark pools that hold so many secrets and dangers. His expression is softer now, almost gentle, and for a brief moment, you glimpse the boy behind the ruthless facade. His dark eyes trail down your face to your neck and settle on the piece of jewelry you're wearing. Very briefly, a look of surprise flashes over his face. It was like he hadn't expected you to wear the necklace he gifted. There's a flicker of something in his eyes, a hint of confusion or perhaps curiosity before his features once again settle into their usual mask of composure. You feel a surge of self-consciousness under his scrutiny. "I didn't mean to make you so upset, sweet girl" He murmurs and suddenly he's too close
Manjiro's hand slides up from your chin to your cheek, cradling it in the way you've been wanting him to from the beginning. Finally, finally, he's looking at you the way you want and not the way Kaya and her mother look at you. Oh, fucking god did it feel good. It felt so good you were tearing up. Tears blur your vision, and you hate how vulnerable you feel in this moment. But there's something in Manjiro's touch, something almost tender that makes it impossible to pull away. His thumb gently brushes away a stray tear, his touch surprisingly soothing. "so how'd you get all the way here, hm?" Manjiro asks, his voice low but no longer sounding cold
Your hands tremble in your lap. Finally, Manjiro is talking to you the way you wanted him to. "I-I rode my bike..." you say and Manjiro smiles
"oh you did?" he murmurs as his thumb rubs against your cheekbone "The mansion is far from here. How long did it take you?"
"20 minutes"
He's speaking to you in this oddly condescending tone but for some reason, it sounds nice. You like it. It's 100 times better than the way he was speaking to you earlier. "20 minutes? oh poor baby, hm. You rode your little bike this far just to get away from that house..." Manjiro whispers and now you can feel his breath against your cheek
Your lips quiver. He's close, really close. "were you lonely?" He asks softly "You didn't want to spend your birthday locked away, did you?"
Your lips quiver. He's close, really close. "Were you lonely?" he asks softly. "You didn't want to spend your birthday locked away, did you?"
The words sting because they're true. You swallow hard, trying to find your voice. "No... I didn't," you admit, your voice barely a whisper.
Manjiro's hand moves to the back of your head, fingers tangling gently in your hair. "You should've told me," he says, his breath warm against your skin. "I would have come to get you."
You close your eyes, leaning into his touch. "I don't have your number"
He chuckles and the sound makes your stomach drop in the same way it would when a rollercoaster goes down. "I put my number on the back of the note, sweet girl. You didn't see it?"
Your eyes widen in realization. The note—how had you missed it? You shake your head, feeling foolish and more vulnerable than ever. "I-I didn't... I didn't see it," you stammer, the words tumbling out in a rush.
Manjiro's chuckle is soft, almost affectionate, as he continues to cradle your head in his hand. "Well, now you know," he says, his voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. "Next time, you can just call me."
The promise in his words, the implication of a next time, fills you with a strange mix of relief and anticipation. You nod, unable to find the words to respond. Manjiro's touch, his presence, is overwhelming in the best way possible. He's no longer being mean, no longer talking to you in the same way Kaya and your stepmother do and you feel so much better. "I'm sorry for getting mad at you, sweet girl... I had no reason to talk to you like that. You just came here to eat" Manjiro whispers, his voice sounding so soft it tugs at your heart "Instead you saw some... unsavoury things... I'm sorry"
He was talking about the people that died in the shop. You hadn't even paid attention or even remembered what just happened in the shop. You had been too focused on him after all. "let me make it up to you, hm" And before you know it, his lips are on yours
You've been kissed before— many times actually. Mostly in middle and high school though. A very memorable kiss was in 10th grade when you kissed the crush of a girl that was trying to spread rumours about you. The kiss itself hadn't been memorable but the look on the girl's face after you pulled away from her crush was priceless. This kiss, however, is memorable. The way Manjiro cradles your face like you're something precious, how his lips lock with yours— so memorable.
The kiss is electrifying, sending shivers down your spine and igniting a fire in your veins. It's a slow burn, filled with a tenderness you hadn't expected from someone like Sano Manjiro. His lips move against yours with a skill that speaks of experience, but there's something gentle and tentative about the way he kisses you as if he's afraid of breaking you. You respond eagerly, your hands reaching up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as you deepen the kiss.
Time seems to stand still as you lose yourself in the sensation of his lips on yours, the world outside the car fading into insignificance. All that matters is this moment. It feels like a lifetime since you've felt this close to someone, this seen and understood. And as the kiss deepens, the heat between you building with each passing second, you realize that you never want it to end.
With absolute ease, Manjiro slides his tongue into your mouth and you think your head might explode or already did. His tongue slides against your and you practically fall slack against the car door you were leaning up against. Manjiro tilted his head and deepened the kiss further, licking into your mouth, groaning in satisfaction.
Manjiro's mouth captured your full lower lip, sucking it into his mouth before his teeth sunk into the bruised pink flesh. The sting of the bite drew out a delicious whimper from you but Manjrio wasn't satisfied with stopping there. He pressed on immediately, licking into your mouth with filthy flicks of his tongue, devouring any stray sound that escaped. So caught up in the feeling of his mouth against yours, you hadn't even realized Manjiro had unbuttoned your jean shorts and was already slipping his hand instead after undoing the zipper. Due to your shorts being a bit baggy, he has a lot more room to move his hand around than expected. You don't even realize that Manjir's got his hand down your shorts till his fingers brush against your pubic bone. "h-hm?" your eyes fly open and he pulls away slightly from you
"shhh~" Manjiro simply hushes, pressing a kiss to your cheek, and his middle finger brushes against your clit making your hips jolt "Lemme make it up to you baby"
His fingers dip lower to your already wet hole and you feel his lips stretch into a smile against your cheek. Oh, this was slightly embarrassing you had gotten wet from simply making out with him. His finger dips slightly into your entrance before coming back up to your clit and coating the sensitive bud in your slick. You whimper weakly, eyes falling shut as he rubs little figure 8s on your little nub. "w-wait Manjiro" you choke out weakly
"yeah, baby?" He asks, lips still pressed against your cheek
A single finger dips inside your hole and you gasp at the feeling, hand scrambling to hold onto something— anything. It's right when your hands grasp at his biceps you remember "I-I'm a virgin"
To your surprise, Manjiro laughs softly. "Hmm? No wonder you got wet so easy baby"
A second finger slides in and your eyes fall shut again. You're gasping, whimpering and moaning out his name and Manjiro just watches all your expressions intently as his fingers work in your hole and on your clit. You've never felt this way before. Yes, you have touched yourself but it has never felt as good as this. When you touch yourself your simple goal is getting off and having that release you need. Manjiro on the other hand, was going slow compared to your fast needy movements when you're on your own. His fingers feel different too. They're thicker and longer than yours and for some reason, the roughness of his skin feels so good too. "Ma-Manjiro" you whine softly
Oh, you wanted to beg him to go faster but you have a feeling he wouldn't even if you did. "feels s'good doesn't it?" Manjiro murmurs as you open your eyes, meeting his
You nod frantically, crushing the material of his suit jacket in your hands. "f-feels g-good"
He's stroking your clit so slowly it's almost torturous but it feels so good that your eyes roll back. "Oh it does feel good" Manjiro croons, his fingers inside you curling upwards and your hips jolt again
You're breathing heavily, muscles tensing and relaxing constantly as he's slowly bringing you over to the edge. "Manjiro~" you whimper out again, unable to stay still
Your head tips back against the glass and Manjiro takes that chance to press kisses along the column of your throat. You sigh, whimpering out his name over and over like a prayer. You've never been touched like this before and you sure as hell haven't touched yourself in the same way he is right now. A coil tightens in your lower belly as after what feels like hours you're brought to the edge. "'Jiro... 'm gon' cum" You whine, thighs trembling and eyes shutting tight
"go ahead, sweet girl," Manjiro says "Come for me"
Your back arches against the door of the car and a choked sob leaves your lips. Your vision turns a blinding white as his fingers keep stroking your clit, drawing out your orgasm till you're gasping and whimpering from the slight pricks of pain that start. Manjiro is murmuring encouraging words into your ears, guiding you through the fog in your head as you come down from your orgasm. "there we go... felt good, didn't it?"
You don't answer as he slides his hand out of your shorts. You're breathing shaky and heavy as he's zipping your shorts back up and buttoning it up again. He pulls away from you and reaches over to the front and gets a tissue, wiping off his fingers. You're still shaking, thighs twitching. First time in your life you've come so damn hard. "hey, you 'kay?" Manjiro asks as he fixes your hair
It feels like your skin is overheating now that you've come down from the afterglow of your orgasm. You nod weakly, unable to really get your words out. His hands come up to run through your hair, fixes the messy strands before they come down to the end of your hoodie. "let's get this off" he says "you're burning up"
You shake your head no. "'m not wearing anything under it"
Manjiro's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his lips curling into a mischievous grin. "Is that so?" he says, his voice low and teasing. "Well, isn't that interesting?"
Heat rushes to your cheeks, embarrassed by your own admission, but the look in Manjiro's eyes makes it hard to feel anything but anticipation. There's a playful glint in his gaze, a hint of something more that sends a shiver down your spine. You feel even hotter now. "don't worry, sweet girl, we'll turn on the air conditioner and take you home... It's been a long night"
You exhale, feeling a mix of relief and disappointment at his words. Manjiro's hands remain steady at the hem of your hoodie, his touch grounding you in the present moment. "You sure you don't want to take it off?" he murmurs, his voice still carrying that playful tone.
You shake your head again, feeling a strange blend of shyness and defiance. "Not here," you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.
Manjiro chuckles softly, his fingers gently trailing up your sides, sending a shiver through your body. "Alright, alright," he concedes, his touch lingering for a moment longer before he finally pulls away. "We'll save that for another time, then."
He tugs you into his side and then pulls out his phone. You don't see who he texts but as soon as he does, the car doors unlock and two men enter, both sitting in the front seats. Instinctively you press yourself into his side, wanting to hide away from them. "Sanzu turn the air conditioner on" Manjiro's voice turns back to a cold tone as the pink-haired man in the driver seat starts the car
"will do boss, little princess probably needs it" The man, Sanzu, says and your face heats up even more
Manjiro's arm tightens around you protectively, a silent assurance that you're safe with him. The car's engine hums to life, and soon the cool air of the air conditioner washes over you, providing a much-needed relief from the heat that had built up in the cramped backseat. You glance up at Manjiro, his expression now a mask of calm and control as he gives instructions to the men in the front. His demeanour has shifted, the playful teasing replaced by a serious, almost authoritative air. It's a reminder of the world he operates in, a world you're only just beginning to understand.
You feel exhausted, so sleepy after Manjiro touched you like that. Your eyes fall shut and before you know it, you fall asleep.
There are a lot of things you want to ask Manjiro, a lot of which you know you will get no answers to. However, there is one thing you have figured out just from his obvious distaste of your outfit.
He likes you better with ribbons in your hair.
[END SCENE]
"she doesn't know..." Kakucho says lowly as he looks back at your sleeping form in Manjiro's arms in the back seat
Manjiro furrows his brows. "about what?"
"About you and Kaya being engaged," Kakucho continues, his voice quiet but firm.
He glances at Manjiro, the weight of the words hanging heavily in the air. Manjiro's expression hardens for a moment, his jaw tightening. He looks down at you, peaceful and oblivious in your sleep, nestled against him. The contrast between the tenderness he feels for you and the cold reality of his arranged engagement to Kaya is stark. He hadn't wanted to think about it, hadn't wanted to acknowledge the complications that come with his world, but now it's staring him in the face. "She doesn't need to know," Manjiro says finally, his voice monotonous as usual "Not yet, anyway."
"and here I thought you couldn't get any worse" Sanzu says with a grin as he turns onto the secluded road up to the mansion "You're engaged to her step sister and you just got frisky with her in the backseat"
Manjiro’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t respond immediately to Sanzu’s taunt. Instead, he gently strokes your hair, his expression a look of contemplation. "It's complicated," he finally mutters, more to himself than to anyone else.
"Complicated?" Sanzu snorts, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. "That's one way to put it."
Kakucho sighs, adjusting his seat to get a better view of both Manjiro and you. "are you using her to get a better hold on Saimori?" He asks
"that would make sense if you were" Sanzu continues Kakucho's words "fuck around with his favourite daughter. It's pretty obvious why he got you engaged to Kaya and not... this spoiled puppy"
Manjiro's grip on you tightens momentarily, his jaw clenched as he listens to Sanzu's words. The accusation hangs heavy in the air, and for a moment, it feels like the weight of the world is pressing down on him. He knows the truth behind his engagement to Kaya, the political motivations, the alliances it's meant to secure. "Partially" Manjiro confirms "It's partially that"
Sanzu lets out a low whistle, shaking his head in disbelief. "Well, ain't that just peachy," he mutters, his tone laced with sarcasm "My mass murderer childhood friend with the country under his boot likes a spoiled puppy"
Manjiro's gaze flickers with a hint of irritation at Sanzu's words, but he remains composed, his focus shifting back to the road ahead. "Watch your mouth, Sanzu," he warns, his voice low and dangerous. "You know what happens to those who disrespect me."
Sanzu chuckles, unfazed by the threat. "Relax, boss," he says, his tone light despite the tension in the air. "I'm just calling it like I see it."
Kakucho leans forward, his expression serious. "Mikey, you know this can't end well," he says, his voice a low murmur.
Manjiro simply holds you tighter to his side. "We're playing a bigger game now. We've got the president under our thumb and she's just extra precaution. A safety net. If Shinichi Saimori tries something, things will fall on his daughter that isn't supposed to exist"
Manjiro's words hang heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the ruthless world he navigates. The implications of his actions, the weight of his choices, are a burden he carries with a stoic resolve. As the car winds its way up the secluded road to the mansion, the silence between them is thick with unspoken tension. Kakucho watches Manjiro closely, concern etched into his features. "You're playing a dangerous game, Mikey," he says, his voice filled with a mix of caution and apprehension. "Bringing her into this... it could end badly."
Manjiro's jaw tightens, his gaze fixed ahead as he steels himself against the doubts that threaten to surface. "I know what I'm doing, Kakucho," he replies, his tone clipped and unwavering. "I can handle it."
Of course, they believe him. It's been years. They know Manjiro could handle it.
You, he knows what to do with, he's still yet to decide how to handle his hoe of a fiancé.
notes: oof well... I hope this chapter was better than the first. I was fighting for my life writing that sad excuse of a smut scene 😭
I hope you enjoyed tho.
check here for progress on the next chapter. Also if the content warnings for the next chapter are already up on the series masterlist, that means that chapter has already been written. Dates that I plan to post chapters are on the series masterlist as well.
likes, asks, comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡
I would like to be the representative of winbre fangirls and I want to say how everyday, I am so grateful for winbre writers. Y'all deserve the whole world. Y'all don't know how it brings more than a smile to my face. Idk how to describe the joy y'all give. I probably would accend to the sky after reading y'all work.
'•.¸♡BUY ME THE MOON࿐ྂ
SANO "MIKEY" MANJIRO x f!READER
ONE — house of glass
chapter summary: a 'sheltered girl' living a somewhat secluded life, hidden away from the public eye as the secret daughter of Japan's president, celebrates her 20th birthday alone. Meanwhile, Sano Manjiro, the man with the country under his boot, helps the president win the election and gets engaged to his oldest daughter.
chapter warnings: DARK CONTENT 18+, mentions of prostitution, car accidents, spoiled!reader, inaccurate depiction of politics and political climate, infidelity, cheating, implications of abortion, character death, sexism, isolation, violence, corruption, objectification(not reader)
word count: 3377
masterlist | chapter 2
The world is unfair. You realized that pretty quickly when you were young. That's why every day you're thankful your dad is disgustingly rich and loves the smile on your face more than he loves being a good person.
You were the daughter of a prostitute and a politician. Odd combination, yes, you know. Years ago, your dad made the drunken decision to cheat on his current wife and there, low and behold, the story of your birth. Surprisingly, your father wanted your mother to keep you.
Your filthy rich politician dad buys your mother a mansion hidden away from the public in the woods. It's there you are born and there that your father's first wife finds out about you and what your father had done.
Saimori Shinichi was no good man and perhaps his wife, Saimori Kanoko should have known that the man would cheat. But what she hadn't expected was for him to keep you, an illegitimate child he looked at more fondly than he's ever looked at Kaya, his first daughter. You personally do not understand the reason for your father's blatant favouritism but you could care less.
Shinichi keeps his cheating under wraps and Kanoko is forced to go along with it. After all, what is more disgraceful than being cheated on with a prostitute? You are kept hidden away from the spotlight. No one knows of your existence except for a few of your father's bodyguards, Kanoko and Kaya.
When you turn 5, your mother passes away in a car accident.
You can't say you were... sad. You felt something but it wasn't like you got along with your mother when your father wasn't around. Your mother wished you were born a son but Kaya tells you she's thankful you aren't a boy or else she would have hated you more.
There were both good and bad things in life and it seems for Kaya, a good thing for her was that you were not only illegitimate but also a girl like her.
A good thing for you? Daddy's money.
Over the years, your father climbed up higher and higher in the social ladder and became a candidate for president.
You, on the other hand, were his hidden daughter, a current university student majoring in fashion design. You spend most of your time buried in books and fabrics, dreaming up designs that would never see the light of day. But that was okay, because the world outside was a scary place, and your cozy mansion provided all the safety and comfort you needed. You went to class and came back. You had no reason to make any friends. Friends were a security issue and you couldn't have that. It wasn't like you needed anyone else anyway.
On the eve of your 20th birthday, you wake up to the same routine. A luxurious breakfast prepared by the house staff, a solitary stroll in the mansion's sprawling gardens, and then back to your room where you lose yourself in the world of sketches and swatches. Birthdays were just another day, after all. But this birthday feels different, a subtle shift in the air that you can't quite pinpoint. Maybe it's the loneliness that settles heavier on your shoulders today, the absence of any real connection beyond the opulent walls of your prison. Or perhaps it's the nagging feeling that there's more to life than what your father's money can buy. But that's a stupid thought.
You sit in a room of the mansion on the floor with your laptop in front of you and an embroidery hoop in your hand. This specific room was set up by your father so you had your own space to store fabrics and other things you needed. But it wasn't really needed. You were the only one who lived in the mansion anyway. Kaya and your stepmother lived in Tokyo with your father. After all, they had to make it seem to the public that they were a happy family.
You thread the needle through the fabric in the hoop as you listen to what is being said on the news. It's about 11:30 pm. You're watching the live results of the election playing. The winner will be announced at 12 am. For this election, your father was one of the candidates.
As the clock ticks closer to midnight, you can't help but feel a sense of anticipation mingled with dread. You're supposed to be happy, right? After all, your father's victory would secure your comfortable lifestyle for the foreseeable future. But deep down, you can't shake the feeling that something about this whole situation is wrong.
The television screen flashes with the latest updates on the election results. Your father's face appears on the screen, his usual charming smile plastered across his features as he shakes hands with supporters. But behind that facade, you know the truth. You know the lengths he's gone to secure his victory, the shady deals and underhanded tactics he's employed.
You sigh, focusing back on your embroidery, the needle moving rhythmically through the fabric. Your phone buzzes beside you, startling you out of your reverie. It's a text from your father, a rare occurrence in itself.
"Victory assured. Be ready" it reads. Short and cryptic, as always.
You roll your eyes, setting the phone back down without replying. Be ready for what? Another party you won't attend? Another parade of false smiles and empty promises? You continue stitching, the repetitive motion soothing your restless mind.
As the clock strikes midnight, the news anchor's voice crescendos with excitement, announcing your father's victory. Your father's face is back on the screen, victorious and gleaming. For a moment, you let yourself imagine what it would be like to step out of the shadows, to be acknowledged as his daughter, to be part of the life you can only watch from a distance. But then again, you remember all the unnecessary scrutiny Kaya goes through on a daily and wonder perhaps it was for the best that you weren't out in the spotlight like her.
Almost like the cameraman heard your thoughts, the screen changes to Kaya who is hugging your father with a huge smile on her face. Her hair and makeup are done perfectly and her outfit is without a wrinkle in sight. You smile. She looks pretty. Now, you would probably text Kaya that but you don't get along with her. She doesn't like you and you don't like her. It's as simple as that. Telling Kaya she looked pretty would upset the fragile balance you've maintained with her and psychological warfare was more fun. So instead you text:
[12:04 am]
cute outfit
but is that a white hair I see?
You giggle to yourself and put your phone down. However, your smile quickly fades realizing you were spending your birthday alone. You just turned 20 and here you are, in one of the rooms in the mansion in the woods, surrounded by colourful fabrics and a laptop on the floor. The mansion is eerily quiet as the celebration rages on in Tokyo. The only sounds are the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees outside. You look out the window, at the dark, moonlit forest surrounding the mansion. Sometimes you wonder if this isolation is a curse or a blessing. Your world is so small, confined to the mansion's walls and the occasional trips to your university. There's an almost suffocating security in your routine, a predictability that keeps you anchored. But tonight, the loneliness feels more palpable, more oppressive.
You didn't want to seem ungrateful or spoiled. After all, your father always gave you whatever you wanted and loved you a lot. You know he did and he showed it as well. The only thing was that he didn't acknowledge you in public and couldn't talk about you. It wasn't like you were really complaining about it. It was just that you felt really lonely right now.
Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a car approaching. It's unusual for anyone to visit the mansion at this hour, especially on election night. You set your embroidery hoop aside and move to the window, peering through the curtains. A sleek black car pulls up to the front entrance then a few more and then a truck. Your heart skips a beat. Who could it be at this hour? Your mind races through possibilities, none of them comforting. You consider calling your father, but dismiss the idea just as quickly. He wouldn't appreciate being disturbed during his victory celebrations. But then you realize that perhaps it's nothing as you watch security lead the cars to the side which was direct entry to the backyard. Maybe it was nothing.
The mansion was extremely secure and security very loyal. Your father paid them well and was actually pretty nice to them. They had no reason to sell your father out so, these new people arriving were not anything alarming. Perhaps your father was increasing security now that he was president. You shrug and pick your laptop off the floor, leave the room and head to your own bedroom. That was enough stitching for tonight.
You settle onto the plush bed in your room, laptop on your lap and start to do some online shopping. The rhythmic movements of your fingers on the keyboard and each new item you add to your cart help soothe your frayed nerves, but you can't shake off the curiosity about the late-night visitors. It's not unusual for your father to have secretive dealings, but the timing feels odd. You mentally list all the possible reasons for the visit, each one more unlikely than the last.
Oh well, you think and open up Viviene Westwood.
"Stupid brat" Kaya mutters as she closely examines each strand of her black hair in the mirror of the private bathroom in the president's office
After you sent her that text about white hair she couldn't help but internally panic. Kaya glares at her reflection in the mirror, running her fingers through her hair, searching for any sign of a stray gray strand. Of course, there isn't one, but your message has done its job: she's flustered and annoyed. She was on TV just moments ago with her father and the thought of the entire country seeing a damn white hair on her head makes her sick.
There was a lot resting on her now. She was the daughter of the fucking president and that came with responsibilities. Kaya takes a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside her. She can't afford to let her facade crack, not now, not when she's so close to achieving everything she's ever wanted. She splashes cold water on her face, letting the shock jolt her back to reality. She adjusts her perfectly tailored suit, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. Everything about her has to be flawless, and impeccable, a reflection of the prestigious position she holds as the president's daughter. She can't afford any slip-ups, especially not now when the media's eyes are trained on her every move.
But despite her outward confidence, there's a gnawing sense of insecurity that never quite leaves her. It's always been there, lurking beneath the surface, a constant reminder of her status as the second-best daughter. She hates that you, the hidden daughter, exist. She hates that you're a constant reminder of her father's infidelity, a stain on their perfect family image.
But what she hates most of all is the fact that you seem to revel in your position as the favoured daughter, even though you're nothing more than a spoiled, sheltered brat. But Kaya refuses to let you get under her skin. She's worked too hard and sacrificed too much to let some spoiled princess steal her thunder. She'll do whatever it takes to maintain her status, even if it means playing dirty. She's learned from the best, after all. She tosses her phone onto the vanity, the screen lighting up with a text from her fiancé, Sano Manjiro.
Kaya found it dumb that her father even suggested this engagement. Sano Manjiro and the rest of Bonten were no normal businessmen. They were fucking snakes, criminals. Kaya hated her father for setting her up with a damn criminal like Sano Manjiro but at least he's hot and has money. Kaya scoffs at the message, her lips curling into a smirk. She knows Manjiro's just another pawn in her father's game, a means to an end. She doesn't love him, and she's sure as hell he doesn't love her either. Their engagement is nothing more than a business transaction, a way for her father to solidify his ties with the underworld. But Kaya isn't stupid; she knows how to play the game. She'll use Manjiro to further her own ambitions, to climb even higher up the social ladder.
But even as she revels in her own cunning, there's a part of Kaya that can't shake off the feeling of unease that's been gnawing at her ever since she received your text. She knows you're up to something, knows you're not as innocent as you pretend to be. And that terrifies her. Because if there's one thing Kaya can't stand, it's being outmaneuvered.
She glances at herself in the mirror one last time, adjusting her expression into one of poised elegance. She can't let anyone see the cracks in her facade, can't let them see the insecurity that's been eating away at her from the inside out. With one last deep breath, she squares her shoulders and steps out of the bathroom, ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead.
As she exits the bathroom, her eyes flicker to the closed door of her father's office, where he's no doubt celebrating his victory with his cronies. She knows she should join them, should bask in the glory of her father's success. But right now, all she can think about is you, the mysterious girl hidden away in the mansion in the woods, the one who threatens to unravel everything she's worked so hard to achieve.
With a determined set to her jaw, Kaya strides towards the door, her mind already racing with plans and schemes. She may not be able to control everything, but she'll be damned if she lets you ruin everything she's worked so hard for. You may be the president's secret daughter, but Kaya is the president's daughter, and she'll be damned if she lets anyone forget it.
She glances down at her phone remembering she hadn't responded to Manjiro's text. But then again, she also has no plans to respond to him. She rolls her eyes before responding with a quick, "Busy. Later." She had plans for this evening with a pretty boy she saw at the rally tonight.
Little does she know, Manjiro has his own plans for the evening.
You smell something burning. You narrow your eyes, push your laptop off your lap and get off the bed, heading for your balcony. You push open the double glass doors and the smell gets stronger, the acrid scent filling your nostrils as you step onto the balcony. The night air is cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from the source of the smell. You follow the scent, your gaze sweeping over the sprawling grounds of the mansion, searching for any sign of smoke or flames.
And then you see it.
A bonfire?
There are a few men standing around it with large boxes nearby. You furrow your brow in confusion, wondering what could possibly be going on. This isn't a normal occurrence at the mansion, especially not at this hour. You watch in silence as they throw sheets of paper into the fire, emptying out box by box making sure none flies away. Your curiosity piqued, you lean forward slightly, trying to get a better view of what's happening down below. The men seem to be completely absorbed in their task, their movements swift and purposeful. You can't make out their faces in the darkness, but their silhouettes dance against the flickering flames of the bonfire. "hmm..." you murmur when you see a flash of pink
As your eyes adjust to the darkness you notice the bright hair colours on a few of the men. Purple, white and pink. The rest have black hair. Your eyes focus on a few men in particular, laughing and smoking while the rest empty the boxes into the fire. You squint your eyes and notice the two men with purple hair have matching tattoos on their throats, the same design that the guy with the long white hair has on his scalp. With bated breath, you continue to watch from your vantage point on the balcony, trying to piece together what's happening down below. The men seem to be finishing up their task, the last of the boxes emptied into the roaring flames of the bonfire. "what..." You mutter trying to figure out exactly what is going on
With your focus being on the bonfire below you in the backyard, you don't hear your bedroom door opening. Before you can even blink, your body is forcefully turned around. Your heart leaps to your throat as you're suddenly spun around, your back meeting the balcony railing with a jolt. You gasp in shock, your eyes widening as you find yourself face-to-face with a man you've never seen before. He's sort of tall, but still somehow intimidating, with sharp features and piercing eyes that seem to bore into your soul. His hair is a striking shade of white, a stark contrast to his dark clothing and the darkness of the night.
But it's not just his appearance that sends a shiver down your spine; it's the aura of power and danger that surrounds him like a cloak. This man is no ordinary stranger; he's someone to be feared, someone to be respected. However, your eyes light up in interest. Oh wow. He may be scary but he's gorgeous. His arms are muscular, you can tell by the way his shirt creases while he keeps you caged in place against the railing. He's not huge though. He's lean and it's damn attractive. Your pulse quickens as you take in his intense gaze, feeling a strange mix of fear and exhilaration coursing through your veins. You've never encountered someone like him before, someone who exudes such raw power and authority without even saying a word. And yet, there's something undeniably captivating about him, something that draws you in despite your better judgment.
His eyes, sharp and calculating, seem to bore into your very soul, assessing you with a scrutiny that makes your skin prickle with awareness. You're frozen in place, unable to tear your gaze away from his, feeling as though you're trapped in some sort of unspoken standoff. But despite the fear that courses through your veins, there's also a strange sense of... excitement. It's pretty quickly you realize who this is as you think about the tattoos on the men around the fire.
Your mind draws back to your laptop, to all the tabs of designer brands open and the things in your cart. You can't help but compare this man to all the expensive items you've been eyeing online—the sleek leather handbags, the luxurious silk dresses, the designer heels. He exudes the same air of opulence and exclusivity, a rare gem in a world full of imitations. But unlike those material possessions, there's something inherently dangerous about him, something that sets him apart from the rest.
You remember your father's words, him always telling you he could buy you whatever you wanted. You were about 6 or 7 when you asked him for the moon. Your father told you he couldn't but it's always been a childish wish of yours.
However, it seems that Sano Manjiro is the closest to that moon you've always wanted.
His hand comes up and brushes a strand of your hair behind your ear, the tips of his fingers rough and calloused. "Happy Birthday, princess"
notes: welcome to Buy Me the Moon :)) I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Yes, I know it was uneventful and short but this is also the introduction chapter. I promise the next chapter will have more... spice. lol.
check here for progress on the next chapter and other works
It’s really troubling to see that state toppers in India, who should be celebrating their hard work and achievements, are instead becoming targets of cyberbullying.
What's the deal? You may ask.
State toppers are those students who score the highest in their board exams. They work incredibly hard and deserve their moment in the spotlight. Unfortunately, this recognition sometimes comes with a dark side: online bullying. Jealousy and resentment from others leading to nasty comments, threats, and harassment on social media and other online platforms.
Imagine working so hard and then being bullied for it.
It’s not just about feeling bad, it can also mess with their confidence and affect their studies.
Everyone deserves to feel safe and appreciated, especially students who are excelling in their studies. By working together – students, parents, teachers, and policymakers – we can help stop cyberbullying and create a supportive environment for all students.
Let’s celebrate our state toppers and ensure they feel proud and secure in their achievements!
