Really love Mochi and Mitsuya's insulting compliments they give to each other. It's like they hate each other as enemies but there's this sort of mutual respect for each others strength. Generally think they were both having fun with this fight.
fem!reader. established relationship (married). very suggestive at the end. so very sweet. rindou is SO sweet. the love i have for this man omgâŚvfvfjbweruhbfio1b
it's late into the night when rindou sleepily topples over your body in bed.
you welcome him into your embrace, lazily throwing the thick blanket to cover your bodies, creating a warm and snuggly atmosphere in bed, and god, you swear you could hear soft purrs coming from the big, big man who's currently on the verge of falling asleep on top of you.
"long day?" one of your hands reach up to tangle your fingers around his purple locks and he simply hums in response. a strong arm wraps itself around your waist and the other moves to peel away your phone and throw it aside. "go to sleep."
with me, he wants to say.
i know, you want to reply.
rindou thinks it's so romantic to fall asleep together.
a soft chuckle escapes your lips as you move around in his arms to get comfortable, with a simple question floating around in your mind and its words on the tip of your tongue while you think about how to approach your very sleepy husband with the topic.
just when you were about to open your mouth, rindou's deep voice fills your dimly lit bedroom. "whatcha thinkin' bout?" his words were slightly muffled, probably due to his entire face being mushed into your chest and he's seriously about to fall asleep, and yet you still heard him loud and clear. and that's what you like most about him; after years of being together, he's always managed to read you like an open book, so you two have rarely ever struggled with communication because rindou always knows what you want and what you want to say and only aims to understand your point instead of belittling and arguing (and vice versa). in this case, he knows there's something you want to ask.
"just thinkinâ,â you softly reply. he hums for you to continue, and you do.
"what typa girls do you like?" and it's just a mindless, silly question, really. you weren't jealous or insecure or anything, nah. rindou has never made you feel any way like that; you were only curious and extremely ready to tease him for whatever he answers to your silly little question, and you also would have never expected your husband to react the way he does.
rindou places himself on both his elbows, his face hovering on top of yours and your big glossy eyes stare up at him. a few strands of his mullet tickles your jaw and you simply move them away by combing and tucking his hair back. rindou's got his million dollar smirk plastered on his lips while he's slowly inching closer to you, and you can't help but let a shy smile grow on yours.
"why?" he teases, and you can feel his hot breath fanning over your cupid's bow. you manage to stutter out a response, "jus' askin', s'all."
breathing irregular and bpm increasing rapidly, how silly.
he leaves a small peck on the corner on your lips and you start to flush - your cheeks' a bright red - still seemingly affected by his antics after years of being together. "if i tell ya, what do i get in return?"
you pretend to ponder.
"hmm, probably a kiss or something, dunno."
rindou purses his lips, "that don't seem fair enough." ". . . how about two kisses?" he raises an eyebrow. "fine, five." "deal."
slowly, you feel many, many rough and calloused fingers slide up your body under the thin camisole you don as he eases his body between your legs, face resting in the crook of your neck.
"so . . . ?"
"i like girls who asks dumb questions and are like, crazy fuckin' hot. like you."
you bite your lip and giggle, lightly scratching your freshly done acrylics against his broad back that only you get to touch and feel and he sighs comfortably. he always does this, you think - how he never fails in making you feel like you're on top of the world. (he is your world, and you want to be on top of him right now.)
"yeah? what else?"
"ân i like girls who suck at mario kart too." he says, referring to how he'd beat you in a game of mario kart earlier (you did not win a single cup) and couldn't stop making fun of you for a good twenty minutes. "hey! now that's mean." rindou feels a hand swat him on the back and he laughs into your neck, "you're such a sore loser, baby." he kisses your collarbone and you pout harder, "it's not that i suck, yer' jus' too good at it." he says nothing more and starts rubbing your hips affectionately, softly inhaling your sweet scent. you used his body wash today, he realises.
"anyway . . . here's your reward." nonetheless, you were happy enough with his answers, moving to kiss him five times as you promised but he stops you by cupping two large palms on your warm cheeks, squeezing a little. "before that . . .â his gaze moves down to your glossy, puckered lips before meeting your eyes again. "what typa guys do you like?" you see the growing bit of lust hiding behind those beautiful, dreamy purple orbs and you're starting to see where this is leading to.
"if i tell ya, what do i get in return?" you decide to be bold and mimic his choice of words. he only smirks, staring deep back into your eyes with now a loving gaze, "iâll love you forever."
your eyes widened just a bit, shocked at how he just openly stated his affection for you (he rarely does that, but when he does . . . oh boy, you get so shy), and rindou feels his palms on your cheeks get warmer with each millisecond that you don't answer. but you're quick to pull yourself together, not wanting to back down from this harmless bicker which you started, so you reach for his face with both hands and pull him down for a quick smooch.
"i really like guys who are fit. ya know, like those strong 'n really buff guys at the gym. you should take some pointers, actually." with a scrunch of a nose, you make sure to emphasise on the last sentence, knowing how much of a gym bro your husband is and how much of a reaction you're gonna get from him.
rindou raises his eyebrows after reluctantly pulling away from your lips, "i'm not buff enough fa' ya?"
you shrug, "could be a little more buffer."
now you've done it.
he nibbles on your earlobe and you gasp softly, "well, ya see . . . i've got hip day tomorrow," he pecks the sensitive spot just below your ears, "but i could always do it ahead of schedule." and he says that all while gripping your left thigh to hook it around his waist in a swift motion and good gracious, could you feel his growing hard on rubbing against your core. you let out a soft whimper and push your head back deeper into the pillow beneath you.
rindou kisses your temple and whispers carefully,
"gonna help me with it? i sure love a good exercise."
⣠Warning: 18+, minors DNI; unhealthy relationships & dark content
⣠Chapter CW: DUBCON (oral gun play, ptv sex, rough sex), Assault (slapping, gun in mouth), revenge porn, descriptions of derealization/mental break, APPROACH WITH CAUTION
⣠Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; smut (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, stalking, torture (not of y/n), murder, dubcon & abuse in c13, discussions of trauma and abuse, drug use, and more
⣠Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but youâre not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that youâre both attracted to each other doesnât hurt either.
⣠Word Count: 6.5k+
Slipping into your bedroom, a haze of unreality deepens the shadows cast by what little furniture you own.
During the half hour walk here from Roppongi, Hanmaâs dress shoes ripped holes in his heels, which he hardly noticed as his imagination fixated on what he would do once he arrived here, repeating the details again and again until they crystalized in his mind. The scene became real to him, closer to the fixed certainty of memory. The way you would wake to the death rattle of Amani Takashi as he choked on his own blood. In the absolute darkness, you wouldnât recognize the reaper hovering above you, not until his hands, familiar as only a loverâs could be, closed around your bare throat and squeezed. As he choked the life from your body, you would realize the immensity of your mistake in betraying him, and oh, the weight of his satisfaction would be nearly sensual as you gargled out your apologies, your aborted pleas that would have no power over him in the dark, where he canât see your eyes. It would be all over when those once seductive eyes closed forever.
The scene in his imagination is so vivid that upon entering your room and finding the details differ, a sense of derealization dizzies him. Itâs like returning home after an earthquake to find all the furniture shifted almost imperceptibly to the left. Or, like heâs entered one of those childrenâs puzzles, where you spot the differences between two nearly identical pictures, the eye tripping over itself.
He catalogues each difference precisely as if to anchor himself.
The curtains are wide-open, letting in a blue-toned light that illuminates the bed where you sleep, alone. Your oh-so-lucky boyfriend is nowhere in sight. Tucked in tight with the covers pulled up to your chin as if shielding your throat, you dream the dreams of the innocent, peaceful and nearly glowing in the slight light.
Where he expected predatory excitement or at least the faint hum of purpose fulfilled, Hanma feels nothing but an emptiness, a hole. A vortex writhes within him, the chaos of feelings and impressions no quieter than before, but it sucks away all surface thought and feeling, all warmth, so entirely that he doubts theyâll ever be returned to him again. Suddenly, he feels the chill of winter upon him, those long nights returned to swallow him whole. He realizes his artificial buzz is gone. Heâs left tired and dopamine deprived.
He watches you sleep for several long minutes until he fears heâll lose what little soul he has left to the frostbite. Only once heâs reconciled the differences between the supposed ârealityâ of the scene with what he pictured in his head does he approach you and the bed with slow steps.
You donât stir when he peels the blankets back to expose your throat and chest. Your nipples harden beneath your tee-shirt, delectable even now after everything. The bed dips under his weight as he kneels above you, a knee on either side of your waist, but you donât even murmur, perhaps used to Takashi coming home late.
Again, heâs struck by your sleeping face, how you sleep with lips gently parted, trusting, like a woman with no secrets to condemn her. Many nights heâs watched you sleep just like this. All of his emotions are clogged down, muted, so that he doesnât know if his feelings for you have changed, but the old instincts â to shield you from harm, to protect your precious sleep, and keep you closeted away somewhere, undeniably his â remain unsullied.
Bottom lip plush and glistening, your mouth beckons to him, and he wants to gently push a finger between those lips, past the blunt teeth and into the heated crevice of your mouth, the heart of you. But, those days are over. He knows this with the same detached certainty he knows when to shift gears when driving or when a piece of meat is chewed enough to swallow. Instead of his finger, Hanma taps the entrance of your mouth with his gun, and then, slides it inside.
For a brief moment, your expression morphs into disgust as you taste metal, but then the sleep recedes from your eyes and panic erupts there. You flail inelegantly against the intrusion, and then, more purposefully, as you recognize who looms above you and what has housed itself inside your mouth.
Hanma subdues you quickly by kneeling on your arms and seating himself on your chest. As you try to question him, mouth widening, the gun pushes its way in deeper, and the words come out an indistinguishable garble. You try to speak regardless, slobbering around the gun as your eyes beseech him, asking for some reassurance or explanation that is not fast in coming. There is nothing in his heart, nothing in his eyes or soul to comfort you. Just the cold.
For a moment, neither of you tries to speak.
Then, as if on autopilot, Hanma recites the words he imagined saying a hundred times already.
âIâve been thinking about what you call a therapist when there is no patient confidentiality. And then it came to me. You call her an overpriced whore, who doesnât know when to stop running her mouth.â
Itâs as if heâs not the one speaking these words, watching himself from a distance, like an actorâs been hired to act out the part. Itâs a rerun. He knows how this ends. Yes, heâs seen this one before.
Except, heâs not supposed to see your eyes. They disturb him, the way they peer up at the him whoâs not him, squinting in confusion and protest. They lie for you better than the dialogue written in the script. Tears well along your lash line, and, when you blink, the tips of your eyelashes come away wet.
âI spoke to your friend today, Haitani Ran. Ah, see, there goes the innocent act,â the actor-Hanma sneers, while the real Hanma observes the understanding dawn on your face. âI wonder how much he had to give you to tell all my secrets. Iâm always curious just how little people value their lives. How about it? How much was your life worth? Whatâs the number?â
Whatever you try to say in response is lost around the barrel of his gun.
It too looks strange in your mouth. Plastic, instead of cool metal, like a toy. It feels heavy like always in his hand, the weight of a murder, but what he sees doesnât match. His brain argues that such a measly hunk of plastic could never be the thing that dims your eyes, now brimming with unshed tears, for good.
The scene simply isnât right. Something needs to be done.
Breaking free from the script, Hanma decides to let you defend yourself a bit. He battles the actor-Hanma back and pulls the gun away.
âI didnât!â you cry out immediately, the words slurring in your haste. âShuji, I swear. I didnât tell him anything. He cornered me and made me an offer, but I never ââ
The barrel of the gun emits a jarring clanging sound as it rams into your front teeth. He wonât listen to you lie to him. Within the maelstrom of impressions that have been too loud to make out, one feeling floats free, taking on a familiar shape: anger.
Hanma canât fathom how much you could have cost him. Had Haitani used the intel you slipped him to move against Toman, buggering the HKJ deal, he would have lost his shot at Mikey. In the aftermath, Kisaki would have had him killed for his role in it. No second chances. Youâd be whacked, too, of course, for knowing too much, for being a liability. And, all that easy intimacy that you had built together over the last many months would be snuffed out as some no-account Toman lackey pureed you, entering you again and again with their knife, until your corpse was so mangled only dental records could hope to identify you someday.
You risked too much, stole too much, and his anger tastes like acid, coating the inside of his mouth.
Around the foul taste, Hanma â or maybe itâs the actor again? â spits the words, âDo you know how many stupid fucking corpses tried what you did in the past? Tried to use their bodies to get close, get my secrets. And it never fucking worked. Thereâs only one punishment that fits the crime when someone betrays Toman, betrays me, and you knew that when you took this job.â
The hand tattooed with the kanji for punishment pushes the gun deeper, unbothered by the way your soft palette rises on instinct as if you have any hope of choking him out. He forces through the resistance until you swallow his gun all the way to the trigger guard and the tip of the barrel knocks decisively against the back of your throat. Memories of past times when he broke through that same resistance echo, and his cock twitches. If he pulled the trigger at this angle, it would blow a hole clean through your trachea, not a quick and easy death.
Manipulative tears spill down your cheeks as you try to work out a blubbering sob. He wonders if you would have cried for him too had feeding Haitani secrets led him to the noose.
Thereâs no silencer to dampen the gunshot. It resounds in his ears, throbbing like a declaration.
Hanma doesnât see the damage until sickly red blood floods your white pillowcases, forever staining them, and then mixing with your hair. You gurgle helplessly as you try to breathe around a compromised trachea, hands flying to your throat like you might massage it back to usefulness.
Condemning eyes glare at him. Theyâre like an ocean of blood, the waters slowly rising, until the whites of your eyes are gone and nothing but bloodred accusation stares back at him.
He blinks and the blood is gone.
The safety is still engaged. Your eyes are filled with translucent tears, hands still caged by his knees.
He shakes his head a few times. The force knocks his glasses around.
Of course, he didnât shoot you through the neck. Earlier he strangled you with his own hands. No guns involved. When you died, it was like falling asleep, peaceful and lovely as he cradled your slowing pulse between his palms.
In your final moments, Hanma knows you didnât spare a thought for Takashi, gut like a pig beside you.
Yes, youâre dead already.
He strangled you to death hours ago. Or minutes ago. Or.
HeâŚor actor-HanmaâŚor.
No.
Hanma looks to the right where Takashiâs body should be and sees the empty space, the undisturbed blankets and half remembers. Thatâs right, Takashi wasnât here when he arrived.
He hasnât killed you yet. Youâre still alive.
Unsure if up is down or down is up, Hanma giggles. In this twisted dreamscape, he thinks he could do anything, fuck the consequences. He can always change the outcome in the post-edit. Heâs the director, actor, and audience.
Surreal as this scene may seem, the knowledge of his control over it fills him with an acute sense of power, enough to continue, unfettered by worries about what is or isnât real.
âLucky your boytoy isnât here, right now. Think Iâd have killed him first, so I could take the edge off. I want to take my time with you.â
He remembers â No! No pictures â how you would react to Takashiâs unceremonious demise. The corpse would serve as a dire warning, but you wouldnât waste your tears on him. No, Takashi means nothing to you. Just a body even in life.
Except, Takashi too is still alive.
Every time Hanma blinks, he sees something else, like heâs peering into one of those optical illusion pictures, where if you cross your eyes, a hidden message appears and disappears. He is seeing doubles, triples, but he canât make out whatâs the hidden message underneath and whatâs real anymore. He swallows and swears he tastes blood.
âWhere is Takashi anyway?â Hanma says, hoping your answer â or lack of answer if you are really, truly dead â will anchor him.
At your gurgle, Hanma remembers the gun and pulls it out.
âShuji, I swear, I never ââ
He slaps you. Barely a love tap by the situationâs standards, but his palm connects with a crack, and your head snaps to the side, burying into the pillows, where you stay, chastened and too scared to try to speak lest he do it again. Breathing heavily, Hanma rewedges the gun between your lips. Heâs sweating. Bullets of sweat plummet from his brow to plop on your neck, where the bones are so fragile they peek through the skin.
The tears behind your eyes dry up. The fear is gone in an instant. Hanma lowers his face until youâre nose-to-nose, staring directly into your eyes, looking for the fight, the will to live, but there is nothing. Only resignation.
Is it so hard for you to play your part? After all, actor-Hanma is doing his best to stick to the script even as these changes keep tripping him up.
Youâre supposed to fight and plead for your miserable life, not throw it away for some cheap payday or perish without complaint in your bed. Where is the will, the wanting, that he nurtured inside you these last several months? Where is the woman heâŚ
He hates seeing you like this. Hates it more than Haitaniâs smug, smiling face, more than Kisaki barking orders at him like heâs nothing but a leashed dog, more than a listless weekend sunrise when the sleeping city threatens to drown him in boredom.
He loathes seeing you like this enough to spare you.
âThis could only ever end in one way,â Hanma says, releasing the safety and cocking the gun. He aims the gun higher, so that when he shoots, the bullet will make a home in your brain, a cleaner, faster death. There is mercy in freeing you from this indignity as quickly as possible.
From the small space where your lips stretch obscenely, your tongue darts forward and laves the underside of the slide. The sight of it, incongruously pink on stainless steel, draws him up short. He watches as if hypnotized as you lap at the length of the gun not disappeared in your mouth with long, wet strokes. Craning your neck forward, you can just stretch your tongue to the trigger guard. Where his finger rests on the trigger, he can feel your breath, that wet heat that envelops him so completely.
His pulse ricochets, three beats a second drumming in his cock. Hanma doesnât want to shoot you with a hard cock. Even by his standards, the idea is too perverse. He tries to will it down, but his blood rushes south like a dam breaking, and he is hard and aching before he can stop it.
Maybe it shows a lack of imagination on his part, but heâs never rammed his gun down a hot throat before. Like so many things in his life, this belongs to you and you alone.
You donât break eye contact as you push your head forward until your throat restricts around the gun again. Delicious choking noises follow.
Itâs faint, but as you suck off his gun, Hanma swears he sees a glimmer of desire warm your dead eyes. The life there, the personality, suits you better, and he lets out a long breath as if finally taking off a pair of shoes two sizes too small.
He still wants to hurt you. He wants to hurt you and, by proxy, the entire world. But, painfully hard as he is, he canât imagine never feeling the heat of your mouth again, never enjoying the best pussy of his life again. A body like yours was made for him to enjoy. There will be time to make you suffer later.
Because once he pulls the trigger, youâll go cold. The little life in your eyes will leech away by degrees. Your tongue will swell, stiff and useless in your slack maw.
Itâs not fair that you would steal even this from him.
He wonât let you.
Hanma takes control. Not bothering to reengage the safety, he fucks in deeper, positively battering the back of your throat, so you spasm with each collision. It is brutal, harsher than any pounding heâs ever delivered with his cock, and tears and drool alike spill down your cheeks to coat his wrist. Intoxicating as the visual is, itâs the glugging noises that tumble helplessly from your throat that really spur him on. He rides high on the line between his pleasure and your pain, until the ache of his trapped cock spikes into a hurt that demands immediate relief.
A long, thick strand of spit connects your mouth to his gun when he pulls back to strip. You gasp and cough as if you just survived a waterboarding, debauched and pathetic as the drool settles on your chin. By the time he throws his jacket and shirt to the side and pulls his cock out of his fly, you have only just caught your breath.
The detached, dead-eyed gaze returns.
âDo whatever you have to do to get this out of your system, Shuji. Use me to get it out,â you whisper huskily, throat too sore to try anything louder, but he hears you as clearly as if youâd shouted.
He could do anything he wants to you now. The invitation is unnecessary. But itâs there between you now regardless. Through your words, he grants himself the permission to possess your cunt one last time, too selfish to deny himself the pleasure.
Things move quickly after that.
Hanma flips you onto your belly, ripping your sleep shorts and panties down the swell of your thighs, so they keep your legs pinned together. In this position, your ass and puffy pussy are perfect. Everything presses together as if to signal just how tight you feel on the inside. He canât resist spanking your ass, harder than heâs ever hit you before, so that you shriek in pain and the flesh rebounds in his hand. It is a good reminder for you both â when the rush of lust threatens to envelop you and wash away all recollection of your betrayal â and so, he does it again on the other side for good measure.
Slipping one finger inside your cunt, he groans to find you soaked. It is a flood between your thighs, the kind of wet he usually only achieves after hours of edging you with his tongue.
He canât wait.
Despite the wetness, you arenât prepped enough for the stretch of his length in this position, so you emit pained whines as he forces his cock inside you. Every centimeter he pushes deeper is a struggle as your body fights against him, but eventually, your cunt yields to the pressure, and he sinks all the way to the balls, the tip battering your cervix cruelly in the process. And isnât the cruelty half the point? He fucks you brutally, using his arms to leverage as much force as possible into each thrust, making sure to grind in as deep as your body can accept him.
There is a blissful annihilation in this, the mechanical thrusting of hips, the heat of your cunt hugging him, like a fire that burns away his every brain cell. He forgets about you altogether, uses your body like a cheap cocksleeve for his frustrations. One forceful thrust after another, and his brain empties and his balls unload. He moans as he fills you up.
The usual sensitivity follows; but to his surprise, his cock doesnât go limp, remaining half hard. Like an agoraphobe refusing to go outside, clinging to the walls as his doctors try to force him out the door, his cock doesnât want to leave this paradise.
Euphoria from his orgasm softens everything else around him, dulling the sound of his breathing, muting colors and smudging the lines of his vision. Hanma peers down on where your face is buried in the pillows as if youâve been crying, and he feels sorry for you.
Itâs his fault in a way, isnât it? He should have taken better care of you. If heâd insisted on paying your bills sooner, you wouldnât have been so easily tempted by Haitaniâs offer.
And, if heâs honest, isnât this part of what he loves so much about you? The way you continuously surprise him, never letting life grow dull?
The many days and nights that make up your torrid affair return to him. He remembers how sometimes, when you think he isnât paying attention, you look at him with a softness that borders on reverence. On that night at the beach, when he got you high and took you dancing, you couldnât have faked that openness, couldnât have falsified the sincerity when you called him âDaddyâ for the first time. Every moment was real for you.
There is no way you would have knowingly risked hurting him. Haitani must have manipulated you, convinced you that it was a win/win situation for all involved. You didnât want to destroy him. Youâre a brilliant woman, but sometimes, the stupid, greedy girl you buried and denied for so long wins out, thatâs all. What you need is someone to teach you, to take care of that little girl with a firm hand.
Everything is his fault really.
Hanmaâs thoughts eventually turn to marveling at how small you are in comparison to him. He could positively shroud you with his body if he chose. The space you take up in his life is larger than your body, larger than the shadow you cast when the sun is at its highest.
Hanma rolls to the side, bringing you with him, so you nestle into the give of his body. From where your calves rest against his thighs, up to where your cunt still spreads for his cock, and further up to where your head shelters in the crook of his neck, there is not a shred of space between you. Body-to-body, there is no space remaining for anger or betrayal either.
The heat of your body is a brand against him. He runs his fingers tenderly down the slope of your hip, fascinated by the way you can shiver as if from a chill. When he cradles your breasts, your nipples are tight stones against his palms. It should be impossible for you to feel the cold when your cunt burns him from the inside. The ache of winter nights spent dreaming of relief and sunshine feels like a distant memory. Inside you, with you, he doesnât believe heâll ever feel cold again.
The flesh between your thighs is slick when he spreads the lips of your hungry pussy. His fingers slip through the leak, almost unable to find your clit in the mess. It is the first time heâs not made you cum during a round of sex, and so he carefully manipulates your body until he hears your first whimper of pleasure.
Not immune to the sounds you make when your hungry pussy is still clenched around him, Hanma hardens once more inside you. The gentle hug of your cunt coils and tightens until it is a vice that grips him, and he can no longer resist. He wraps both his arms around your chest, crushing your breasts against his forearms, and just rocks against you. Eyes closed, he doesnât think about anything but how wonderful you feel around him, how the only feeling better in the world is that same cunt squeezing rhythmically as you cum. It wonât be long now either. Between his fingers, your clit grows more engorged, your whimpers more frequent.
Patiently, he coaxes the orgasm out of you, but when you finally cum with a small cry, it is you who leads him right over the edge, so that he dumps a second load into your tired body.
They call it post-nut clarity for a reason, Hanma realizes because in the aftermath, everything once obscured appears so clear, like he had been trying to look at a painting through a dirty glass thatâs since been cleaned.
Hanma is not willing to part with this for anything. What you did or might do in the future, your motives and feelings, theyâre all irrelevant. Since he started fucking you, he hardly ever wakes up wishing a meteor would strike his building, just for a little novelty. He no longer smiles at the thought of a sinkhole opening up beneath his feet or an overdose slowing his heart to a halt, the kind of ignoble deaths he rejects on principle but would sometimes glitter seductively during lifeâs most boring moments. Knowing your set of pretty holes are waiting for him gives him a reason to get out of bed every day. And he is not going to let you take that from him over some irrelevant bullshit.
He will set you up in an apartment he owns, shower you in gifts and luxuries to ensure youâre a well-kept woman, happy and eager for his nightly visits. Nothing needs to change.
A frown darkens his face, and he inadvertently tightens his arms around your chest, hard enough to sting, when he realizes thereâs still one remaining threat to his plan. Haitani knows you betrayed Toman and has already snitched on you once. If Haitani decides to run his mouth to the others, to Kisaki, you are dead regardless of what Hanma wants.
With his date with Mikey looming around the corner and promising to make the whole matter superfluous, Hanma considers leaving it to chance, but then decides against it. He should probably deal with Haitani. One last hunt before he shuffles off his mortal coil. He doesnât pretend he wonât enjoy it.
You recover from your orgasm slowly. The pulse at your neck is skittish. Hanma can smell the sweat at the back of your neck. Your breathing takes minutes to return to something remotely steady. He enjoys holding you through these changes, wonders if youâll fall asleep in his arms.
Kissing your back, Hanma tells you that he forgives you. Sincerity drips from his voice. He means it. Itâs a blanket pardon for everything you have done until now. There are only so many days you have left to spend together.
You donât answer immediately, but when you do, itâs to ask to use the bathroom in a small voice. Rolling aside, Hanma watches you free your body from his clutches and limp from the room, his cum leaking down your thigh. A long time passes. He hears the shower turn on and dozes off, still half-dressed atop your sheets.
Hyper-sensitive to danger, he blinks awake the moment you reenter the bedroom. Water clings to your hair, which dries freely, before puddling in your wake. A lemon-yellow towel wraps tightly around your form, and he wants to rip it off you, so he can watch your naked body strut about as you rifle through your dresser. If he had to put a name to it, heâd call his current feelings âproprietary.â This was a final test, and he controlled himself, and now, as his reward, he gets you. Heâs a fair bit impressed with himself.
âIâm going to meet with my realtor tomorrow to tell him to move forward on the Ueno apartment. Iâll transfer it directly to your name, so you donât need to worry about rent or what happens when I die. Iâm free the day after next if you want to go shopping together, too. I donât give a fuck how you want to decorate, but since Iâll be spending a lot of time there, I want to make sure the furnitureâs comfortable at least. I swear half the chairs in this country are too short for me,â Hanma drones, pausing, annoyed, when you pull a massive sweatshirt, large enough to belong to a man, over your body. âYou just need to dump that Takashi twat already. Heâs not welcome in my apartment.â
You donât respond. In fact, you havenât said a word in the better part of an hour.
Looking more carefully â no longer with the distorting eye of a proud lover â he notices a shake to your hands as you tug on a pair of sweatpants. You stand nearly pressed to the door, like you might need to flee at any moment. Youâre terrified.
Hanma sighs, regretting how harshly he dealt with you, though youâd left him no choice. Despite a few front row demonstrations of his business, you are mostly unexposed to the violence that characterizes his life, always discussing it in the abstract. If you were more yourself, heâs sure youâd tell him that itâs psychologically healthy to have a physiological response to eating a gun. All those months ago when you played Russian Roulette, your reaction was a lot more fun, but he supposes, special though you are, you are still a civilian, and this kind of response is to be expected.
Still, he doesnât prefer you hurt or scared. It makes his brain itch.
The bed creaks when he stands. Approaching with slow steps, Hanma notices you literally shrink away from him, leaning more of your weight against the door.
Like soothing a spooked horse, Hanma stretches out an upturned hand, but you slap it away. Heat blazes behind your eyes. No different than a cowering animal, you lash out.
âDonât touch me!â
This time, Hanma expels a very different sigh, a sigh of irritation at your overreaction. Given the nature of your betrayal, he could have done far worse and been justified. Comforting you is tedious, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to try.
âI forgive you, okay, Doc. You donât need to worry. Iâm not going to shoot you or anything else. I forgive you. Youâre still my girl.â
âOh, fuck you! Iâm not your fucking girl!â you seethe, gnashing your teeth at him, like you might truly bite him if he comes closer.
Hanma patiently tries again, âI forgive you ââ
âYouâre actually insane to think Iâm leaving Takashi â my loving, stable boyfriend â to play house with you in some shitty apartment. Iâve heard all your little hints about leaving him, and guess what? I havenât! I didnât leave him before you showed up in the middle of the night spewing baseless accusations and stuck a gun in my mouth. Now? You clearly need to find a new therapist because youâve grown delusional to think Iâd choose you over Takashi!â
Cold tendrils creep down his spine. He actually tries counting backwards from one hundred, like that useless technique first suggested to him in elementary school has ever helped him control his temper before.
As he fights down the beginnings of a rage to rival his anger when he first arrived tonight, you keep going in a voice like reinforced steel, âI thought about it in the shower, and the more I thought, the less I understood what you even bring to the table. Takashi is one hundred times the man you will ever be. Do you hear me? All you have going for you is good dick, and frankly, I can live without it. Iâm firing you as a patient, effective immediately. Iâm obviously not suited to help you as Iâm just aâŚwhat did you call it? Overpriced whore? And for the record, Iâm not interested in being your whore either, soâŚâ
Your lips continue to move as you spit invectives at him, but Hanma tunes out the words. He canât ignore escape your tone, how the heat slowly dampens, and you grow colder, the unfeeling mask you often wore when you first met returning. The heartless, robotic delivery is somehow more venomous, and the weight of your disdain washes over him like the sea, dragging him down, down, down into its bottomless depths.
 With what little presence of mind heâs regained, Hanma knows that if he fights with you now, it will undo everything he accomplished. Heâll hurt you if he stays. And even if his knuckles strain against his closed fists with the desire to do just that, another stronger part of himself does not want to hurt you at all.
He â and you by virtue of being his therapist â deserve a goddamn medal because instead of lashing out at you, Hanma decides to leave.
âI canât talk to you when youâre like this,â Hanma grits out. âItâs been a long day for us both. Get some sleep, and Iâll call you in the morning with what the realtor says.â
His feet drag like theyâre stuck to the carpet, but step-by-step, he manages to walk towards the door, where you plaster yourself backwards to avoid the merest brush of his body against yours. Alone in the hallway, the pictures of you and Takashi stare down at him, smiling and false.
It is quiet as the grave on your little residential street. The sky is a deep grey, the faintest hint of light illuminating the world as the sun just begins to peek through the clouds. Sunrise is within the hour.
Only now, free from the oppressive shadows of your apartment, does Hanma acknowledge the miracle that you have somehow survived this night.
Hanma is too tired to hope for anything more. With his thoughts in a frenzy, he walks home. He is not ready for tomorrow, not yet.
--
Growing up, Hanma heard people joke that behind every real estate broker in this city, there hid three yakuza: one to hand out bribes, a second to threaten tenants, and a third to lap up the profits. Another version of the joke boasted that if the government ever nationalized real estate, the yakuza would dry up within the month.
In 2018, the yakuza have diversified their business ventures. The Kokonois of the world have dragged them into the twenty-first century, operating more like billion-dollar conglomerates than classic criminal syndicates. Itâs the age of shell companies and tax shelters, stock shorts and corporate espionage. Still, Hanma holds a soft spot for the classics, and there is no shortage of realtors comfortably living in Tomanâs pocket.
So, with Tomanâs resources, Hanma fast-tracks the procurement of his new apartment, signing on the dotted line before lunch.
He calls it an apartment, but your new home is really only four units housed within a two-story building, squat and bookended by two larger apartment towers on either side. The realtor reassures him that the building meets both of Hanmaâs requirements: itâs less than a fifteen-minute walk to your office and the quiet street is several blocks from any major thoroughfare, meaning little foot traffic.
The only complication arrives when Hanma asks about buying out all four apartments. Since he plans to spend much of his time in your apartment, he is willing to considerably drain his personal savings for the luxury.
The realtor, a paunchy, balding man despite not yet reaching forty years of age, named Obara, informs him that two of the other apartments will be simple enough to obtain. He remembers placing both families within the last five years and is confident theyâre the reasonable sort who will jump at a generous offer. The problem is Itoh-san in unit four. Widowed for the better part of three decades, she has stubbornly clung to this apartment and the memories it houses. She will not be easily moved.
Your apartment will be on the first floor, unit two, while the old womanâs is directly above. Obara assures Hanma that she rarely leaves the house these days except for a weekly trip to the market or one of her many doctorsâ appointments, so she probably wonât even notice his coming and going. But, if Hanma prefers absolute privacy, Obara gently suggests Hanma might send a few men from Toman around the following evening for a âproductive conversation.â
Ten years into his real estate career, Obara is well accustomed to working with yaks. He doesnât so much as blink as he suggests Hanma chase this little old lady out.
There is no need to make a decision just yet. Hanma tells Obara to make offers to the other residents and move forward with the paperwork. He will sleep on Itohâs fate.
As he dials your number, Hanma reflects that heâs been damned generous of late.
The phone rings six times before clicking to your voicemail. Your voice is cool and impersonal in the recording as it encourages him to leave a message. Hanma foregoes the suggestion and texts you instead.
Hours pass. He pushes his body to the brink at the gym, fighting opponent after opponent until he can no longer recognize where one bruise ends and the next begins. He scalds his skin to a glowing cherry color in the shower and then sweats his brains out in the sauna. He places a few bets on the horses.
Between each activity, he calls you and is met by your voicemail.
Eventually, he canât keep up the pretense any longer, acknowledging the growing ire inside him.
He pounds back shot after shot of tequila at a dingy izakaya, where heâs one of only two customers and the bartender knows better than to ask questions. As Hanma drinks, he thinks about how fucking entitled you are. After everything he has done for you, sparing you the punishment anyone else would have suffered, you reject him. He tries to remember that youâve pulled these disappearing acts before and always been easy to lure back with a few false promises, but whenever he remembers your trembling hands, he knows this time is different.
The way you waxed poetic about Takashi yesterday infuriates him. Youâre shrinking back into the prison you erected around yourself and called safety before he met you. Only he knows how to provide for you, help you make a real life in this world, rather than wasting away behind unlocked doors, too afraid of your own shadow to try the handle, to want anything.
One last chance, he vows to himself. Heâll give you one last chance to respond and after that, heâll show you the same consideration you have shown him. None.
He calls your number.
When the fourth ring goes unanswered, he doesnât bother waiting for your voicemail. He closes out the call and flips straight to his photo gallery, scrolling to the âhiddenâ folder. There are dozens of photos and videos of you here. Covertly taken, they capture you taking his cock in nearly every position, cockdrunk and desperate for it. He pauses to enjoy one where you lie on your back, neck extended off the bed, while he pushes his cock into your throat, slow and steady, hypnotized by the gush of spit that strings down your chin.
Hanma selects all the videos in the gallery and adds them to a text message with a recipient he knows only by memory.
He hits send.
As the electrical signals race from his phone to his recipientâs, Hanma sighs. This time, itâs a sigh of satisfaction. He honestly feels a lot better.
âŁÂ Pairing: Rindou x AFAB fem!Reader w/ a chapter cameo of reader/yuzuha
âŁÂ Warning: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI
âŁÂ Series: part of the In the Belly of the Beast fic universe
âŁÂ Chapter CW: ptv sex, oral (blowjobs & eating out), choking, degradation and praise, cock worship, edging and orgasm denial/control
⣠Story CWs: BDSM dob/sub relationship; sex (oral, ptv, pta, etc.); genre typical drug use, alcohol, smoking
âŁÂ Synopsis: A story of two lonely people find love for better or worse. Or, dom!Rindou is sweet on his girl. Or, on paper, you and Rindou have nothing in common. But sometimes chemistry defies logic, and with every conversation, you find yourself more bewitched until all you see, smell, or hear is Rindou.
⣠Word Count: ~10.8k
A great clenching of his bowels catapults Rindou into consciousness. Nausea and the certainty that he is going to puke chases soon after. Rindou stumbles to his feet in the direction of the bathroom only to discover the door is not there. The pressure in his head increases, a high vibrancy of pain accompanied by a vertiginous warping of his vision and equilibrium.
He vomits right on the carpet.
When his stomach is empty, Rindou takes stock of his surroundings. He is shirtless, wearing an unfamiliar pair of YSL sweats. The bedroom is twice as large as his with a sitting area opposite the bed and subdued paintings of hunting dogs and long-dead kings peering down from the walls. By the puddle of bile seeping into the fibers of the carpet, a meowing British Shorthair pokes around curiously until Rindou shoos it away.
This is Ranâs bedroom.
Regaining his bearings, Rindou makes his way to Ranâs bathroom. He helps himself to Ranâs toothbrush and drinks water straight from the tap until his guts gurgle miserably and he vomits again, this time into the toilet. The process repeats itself one more time before his hangover recedes enough to risk leaving the bathroom. He grabs a hand towel to throw over the mess he left on the floor in a quick detour before he hunts for his brother.
It is some indiscriminate hour of the day. The curtains are drawn tight in every room, blocking the sun or moon from view, and Rindou canât find his phone in the master bedroom where he slept, which should concern him more, but he is too disoriented to worry. Ran isnât in the kitchen or dining room, his study or living room, so Rindou checks the guest bedroom.
A long, thin lump shaped more like a body pillow than a man though much too tall, hides beneath the comforter in the guest room. A grandfather clock with the chimes removed shows the time to be near one, presumably in the afternoon. Too early to wake Ran without a fight.
âOi, whereâs my phone?â Rindou barks. He wants to ask why heâs here because somewhere between vomiting the second and third time, Rindou realized he has no memories of how he came to sleep in his brotherâs bed. He remembers the sight of your teary face in the bathroom â itâs crystal clear unfortunately â remembers finishing the bottle of bourbon in the car, remembers driving â oh fuck and he should not have been driving black out last night. Shit. The memories grow glossier as the hours progress, the scope of his mental vision shrinking like a burning photograph, until eventually there is nothing but emptiness left.
He wants to fill in the blanks of his hazy memory, but admitting to Ran that he blacked out like a sorority girl after her third vodka cranberry is too harrowing, so Rindou asks after his phone instead.
The lump that is his brother groans and shifts but does not emerge from beneath the covers. Rindou grips the railing at the foot of the bedframe and gives it a weighty shake until Ranâs head pops out. His eyes are covered by a sleep mask, hair a mess.
âPhone. Where is it?â Rindou says.
âGo away,â Ran hisses, or at least thatâs how Rindou interprets the garbled words as Ran burrows back beneath his blankets.
âI need my phone now, dickhead. Come one, where is it?â
Only Ranâs arm appears this time, feeling around on the bedside table until he finds a paperweight, which he promptly flings at Rindouâs head. It is well-aimed and thrown with enough force to knock him unconscious but too slow by half, and Rindou easily dodges aside.
âRan â!â
âCoffee! Coffee first!â Rindou tries to interrupt but Ran talks right over him. âCoffee!â
Resigned and more than a little annoyed, Rindou returns to the kitchen and brews a pot of instant coffee. No sugar, no milk. Exactly the way he knows his brother hates. While rifling through Ranâs cabinets for a mug, his stomach flips again, so Rindou decides to eat a late breakfast.
Thirty minutes later, Rindou sits, chowing down on a fried omelet, leftover onigiri found in the fridge, and a bowl of steamed rice when his brother finally emerges from his den. Ran beelines to the coffee and drinks the first cup without pause before pouring a second. This one, he bothers to treat with milk and gomme syrup for taste. Ran follows Rindouâs example then, starting on his own breakfast, expertly carving up a grapefruit as the first caffeine blast hits his system. Rindou can see the moment sleep fully leaves his brotherâs eyes.
âWell, good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty,â Rindou scoffs.
âI wouldnât be so quick to mock. I did, after all, let you sleep in my bed last night. Youâre welcome for that.â
âOh, yeah. Thanks. I threw up on your floor by the way. Probably want to deep clean that,â Rindou returns.
Ran cranes his long neck heavenward as if searching for divine intervention. âLittle brothersâŚthe gift that never stops giving.â
âAnyway, Iâm gonna head out. Just hand over my phone,â Rindou says.
âCan I trust you with this?â Ran asks seriously, unearthing the phone from the pocket of his silk pajama pants.
âUhâŚyeah?â
âConvincing,â Ran grimaces, but he tosses the phone Rindouâs way anyway. âShe didnât call or text by the way.â
Rindou ignores this unasked for information in favor of scrolling his notifications: a few nonurgent business emails, a call from Mochi he should return, and an update on an MMA match he follows. When he flips to his calls log to check what time Mochi called, he sees a slew of outbound calls, 34 to be exact, all to your number. He slumps in his seat and groans.
âDonât tell me you blacked out,â Ran sneers, missing nothing as he watches Rindou over his cup of coffee.
âPiss off.â
âI gave you so much advice last night, too. Some of my best work, and you went and forgot it. Well, donât think Iâm going to repeat everything for your benefit now. Youâll have to settle for the Cliff Notes version.â
âI donât need advice,â Rindou snaps.
âOh, donât you? Why donât I fill you in on what you forgot? I got home from work this morning around 7 AM, and what did I find? My baby brother sleeping on my front step. No idea how long you were there by the way. I figured, okay, he just needs to sleep it off. But, oh no, you spent the next two hours talking my ear off about your girl problems. Crying intermittently, I might add. Really moving stuff if youâre the type for it. I had to take your phone after the ninth time you tried calling her. It was getting pathetic.â
The timestamps on his outbound calls show the last attempt was logged at 7:45 AM true to Ranâs accounts. If anyone but Mikey blew up his phone that much, he would block them on principle. Considering the lack of reply, you probably did just that.
Rindou doesnât remember any of it.
âThe long and short of my advice, by the way, call her. Today. Tell her youâre so sorry and want to be with her, just her. No wait, tell her, youâre sorry, and that you just got scared because youâve never felt this way about a woman before. Tell her you love her and that you want to be with her and only her. That no woman can compare! That sheâs more beautiful than Lady Kiritsubo, sexier than Kyoko Fukada and Naomi combined, more bewitching than Lady Murasaki, that you would not stop at the murder of 130 men but would fell 10,000 if only to look upon the moon of her face. Are you writing this down? This is good stuff,â Ran says.
âIâm not saying any of that stuff,â Rindou groans.
âFine, not sure why. That sweet girl of yours would just about cream herself if you compared her to all those literary figures, but whatever. For some reason, she likes you, so Iâm sure whatever you say will move her,â Ran allows.
âIâm not going to say anything to her.â
The knife contacts the cutting board with a sharp knocking sound that rings out in the otherwise silent kitchen. Juices from the grapefruit drip off its serrated edge. The British Shorthair, whose name Rindou remembers is Tortoiseshell, leaps onto the counter and winds her bushy tail along Ranâs arms in an affectionate gesture, like she can sense Ranâs growing ire, neck going red and heat rising higher by the second.
âAnd why the hello not?â
âBecause she told me not to call her,â Rindou says simply.
âSure didnât stop you yesterday,â Ran says, but Rindou waves that away with the excuse that he was drunk. Ran sights like his personally pained by Rindouâs stupidity. âWhen she told you not to contact her, she meant donât waste my time. I promise you, she did not mean, donât call me and give me everything I want and am asking for. Tell her youâre a one-woman man from here on out, and it should work out just fine.â
âBut Iâm not. Iâve never wanted to be a boyfriend or whatever. Thatâs not what this was, and she understands that,â Rindou says.
âSo, you donât want to be with her?â
âOf course, I do.â
âThen, you want to be with her but not as much as you want to be with other women? Thereâs something other women are giving you that she canât?â Ran tries.
âNot necessarily.â
âThen, what? Because Iâm getting mad like Iâm the girl youâve been stepping out on. Youâre not making sense. She does all the freaky stuff youâre into. Sheâs the best lay of your life,â Ran says, brushing aside Rindouâs threatening glare. âThese are your words, Rin. Not mine. You said so last night. You also said that she loves you and that you love her.â
This time, when his stomach flips, Rindou knows better than to blame it on his hangover. He almost accuses Ran of lying, but he can read Ranâs facial tics and mannerisms as clearly as directives in an instruction manual, all concise, clinical language and the steps in sequence. There is no lie hidden in Ranâs hands as they wave about, punctuating this or that point, only frustration at Rindouâs stubbornness in the tilt of Ranâs chin.
He remembers the track of your tears down your face. How they stubbornly clung to your jaw line, refusing that final plummet until new tears slid down and forced them away. Overcrowding. The memory is so clear in the way memories can be, meaning it is false and true at the same time. In his memory, there is only the facsimile of a public toilet, and the edges fade to black like they do on film. The counters of your face are so familiar to him, so easy to trace, but an aura of white, hot light shines around you, transforming you into an angel, the kind built for Godâs bloodiest wars. The details of your hair and clothes are wrong, but not the tears. Those are clear enough that he can imagine wiping them away with his thumb here and now.
As Ran carries on, Rindou downs an entire bottle of water without coming up for air as if by blocking one sense, he might drown out whatever Ran says next. The words â about how Rindou pledged his love for you last night â reach him regardless.
Neither brother speaks for several minutes. Both busy themselves in their respective breakfasts and eye the lined marble of the tabletop like its trajectory of cracks map to the elixir of life. Rindou tries to deaden his mind, to ward off thoughts second and feelings first.
Eventually, Ran sighs and sits down at the counter opposite him. All that remains of the grapefruit is the sticky rind and guts clinging to the forgotten knife.
âDo you remember our time in family court before we went to juvie?â Ran asks. âI was so pissed they were locking us up. I didnât wanna leave Miki behind or what weâd built in Roppongi, but I was so damn pleased when we walked into lockup that first day. You and I together. Felt like it was just another neighborhood, just another street war, and we were going to win it.â
Rindou smiles faintly at the memory. He remembers their first days with less fondness, but he also left nothing behind when they were sentenced away. All he claimed in the world was his brother and his own body, and they couldnât take either away from him. It was hardly a punishment at all.
âI never told you, but Izana said something to me a couple months in. Something I never forgotâŚHe asked me why I didnâtâŚwhy I didnât tell them it was all me. Try to take the fall for everything and get you off,â Ran says.
âWhat are you talking about? They had us on everything. With witnesses. You couldnât have gotten me off.â
âProbably not,â Ran admits dully. âBut maybeâŚmaybe I could have told them that you never wanted any of it. That I was kicking your ass at home and forcing you into the gang life. Maybe they would have believed it, been lenient.â
âNo one would have believed that,â Rindou scoffs.
âMaybe. Probably not. But the point isâŚthe point is I didnât even try.â Ran lets the words sit between them for a long moment, eyes on his plate but mind turned inward to the sins of his past. âBecause it had always been you and me. We didnât need a gang so long as we were together. And thatâs exactly how I wanted it. Us against the world. Iâve lost things. But I chose this, all of it, for better or worse. You? I watch you sleepwalking through life, and I canât remember if you ever really chose anything, or I just dragged you along behind me. I wonder if youâre just on a bullet train, and itâs moving too fast for you to get off, and youâve been on it so long, you figure you might as well ride it to the final destination, just speeding along, doing what youâve always done.â
When Rindou tries to swallow, all the moisture in his mouth evaporates, and his throat stutters over a rough, empty path to his gullet. He struggles to even look at Ran. His entire being shrinks away from his brother only to find that sentiment waits for him wherever he retreats. Ranâs sincerity, the power in these hypnotic, never before spoken words, cows him into submission. He breaks free only through an extreme display of will.
âYouâre telling me I should quit? Settle down with a wife and kids and become what? A salaryman?â
âFuck no! No, you donât up and quit. Weâre in this for life,â Ran says, flicking his fingers in Rindouâs direction as if to signal that he finds his brotherâs lack of intelligence exhausting. âIâm saying that you have a chance to make a choice and change things for yourself right now. Iâm saying that opportunities like this donât come around all that often, get rarer every year we get closer to the grave, and Iâm saying that if you let this chance pass you by, Iâm going to blame myself forever.â
âIâm never drinking again,â Rindou groans because it is easier than searching for a grain of sincerity to match Ranâs earnest sermon.
Thankfully, Ran depletes his stores of sincerity in the same moment, tossing his parting words over his shoulder, âIâm going back to bed. Your clothes are in the dryer. You puked on them, too, by the way. You really are the greatest house guest. Canât imagine why we donât do this more.â
Ran disappears back into the dark, tunnel-like halls for a few hours of much deserved sleep. Rindou stays at the table for another long half hour, not thinking. In fact, he uses every ounce of his brainâs considerable powers to avoid thinking altogether. By the time he leaves, he is an expert at meditation.
--
In the days that follow the explosion of your relationship â less plane crashed into the side of a mountain and more nuclear holocaust â Rindou descends into his own nuclear winter. The days are short as snow blankets the city. It weighs down telephone lines and cartwheels down slanted roofs. Pipes burst from the cold. Rindou foregoes his car and walks to the store, no gloves or hat, hands wind-chapped and roughened to hewn wood. Boots left to dry in the entryway, he steps into puddles of melted ice whether he comes or goes.
The roads clear quickly, and he returns to work. Then, he returns home.
Amidst the wreckage, Rindou wiles away the hours with thoughtless labor. His bottom line thrives. Not that anyone but Kokonoi notices enough to comment on his newfound dedication. All the inroads he made with his fellow executives in the last several months dry up, the waters of goodwill between them polluted by the radioactive dust typical of any nuclear fallout. He finds his colleagues too loud, too vulgar, too happy, too miserable, too much, too much, too much. And so, he avoids them entirely.
He goes through the motions, relying on pure muscle memory to wake his empty husk of a body in the mornings, to carry it to the gym, to navigate rush hour traffic, to feed it just enough to survive. Little else reaches him. He does not touch another human being.
The days repeat with so little variation that when Rindou lies down to sleep at night, he struggles to remember what he did that day. He tries to retrace his steps and form something coherent from the detritus, but the effort exhausts him, and he often falls asleep without making any progress.
Like he is bunkered down in a fallout shelter, he lives but does little else.
Weekends pose the most harrowing challenge. He sleeps as many hours as his body will allow, which for the first time since adolescence means half the day. When he blinks awake to a messy bedroom in the evenings, he turns to video games to pass the time. Music irritates him. The notes are discordant and false. Sometimes, he reads. Not your books, never those, kicked into a dusty corner under his bed, but books on dinosaurs, the deep sea, space, anything long ago or far away from here.
In one chapter on Newtonâs second law of motion, he reads about the earliest understanding of âinertia,â how scientists billed it as the resistance to motion, assuming that stillness was the natural state of any object. He reads that the word âinertiaâ is derived from the Latin âinertem,â meaning, amongst other things, inactive, helpless, and weak.
He notices his foot has fallen asleep, that he has not sat up from his slump on the couch in hours.
Yet another weekend, he surrenders himself to the authority of the television. He skips past sitcoms with their long-married couples, dramas with their tender romances, sports with their screeching optimism, and finally settles on documentaries. Despite his sleep-saturated body, he drifts off to one, waking up to a scientist crooning to his captive jellyfish. The scientist explains that the jellyfish he raises are biologically immortal, that after reaching sexual maturity, they are able to regenerate to the polyp stage once again, return fresh and renewed. They could continue forever and ever this way. The documentarians fawn over the jellyfish as an elevated being, their cells key to humanityâs future immortality. He half-hallucinates, half-images the documentarians talking to him from the screen, promising him that there will be no end to this, that they will inject him with jellyfish venom and return him to this purgatory again and again and again.
He turns off the TV and dreams of drowning.
The temperature rises as March dawns, the sun beating heat down on the back of his neck for the first time in as long as he can remember. And thatâs not all. He remembers the child throwing a tantrum outside the konbini as he walks to work, he remembers a joke Sanzu tells to no laughs before a meeting, he remembers the taste of a cold beer breaking on his tongue.
Spring draws near and winter thaws, and with it, Rindou lets himself feel for the first time in nearly three weeks. He misses you terribly.
The memory of you is a blistering wound, barely healed enough to touch, but he tries, remembering every time he made you laugh, every time you made him laugh in turn. He remembers soft flesh yielding in his hands when he gripped your waist and the equally soft flesh of your inner thigh. He remembers your bottomless appetite for new experiences, how you wanted to experience the world with him at your side. He remembers until the past and present merge into a stagnant stream, until the only thing he canât remember is why he refused monogamy so insistently when it means an eternity without summers.
There is no autopilot, nothing natural at all about texting you after so long apart, but he chooses to anyway. His fingers move key by key, every word carefully considered and chosen, and then he chooses to push send. He moves.
It is as simple a message as he could manage: Can we talk?
That night, for the first time in a long time, Rindou does not dream.
--
Rindou is well-acquainted with the exterior of your apartment block. It is a relic from when architecture built out rather than up. Each apartment has its own front door and step. The building is an ugly white block of cement and plaster, but the neighborhood has planted symmetrical stripes of shrubbery between each apartment to liven it up, and you say that in the spring when the flowers bloom, the block is transformed in a vibrant display of every imaginable color: soft blue nemophilas and sickeningly yellow canola flowers, plump purple tulips and tender pink plum blossoms. Now, with the frost barely thawed, the flower beds lie dormant.
A minute passes after he knocks on your door, and he wonders if he dreamed your response last night when you invited him over to talk. At his feet, a cat meows. Rindou makes eye contact, and the cat flees into the bushes that separate your stoop from your neighborâs. He watches for some sign of the cat, but the bushes donât so much as rustle on your quiet street.
Maybe he dreamed the cat, too.
Just as Rindou decides to shoot you a text, the door opens, and then there is you. You, just as he remembered, all light and life and color. A lifetimeâs worth of tension plummets off his shoulders at this measly, first sight of you.
Voice clear and lovely and unavoidable as the chiming of a temple bell calling him home, you usher him inside, past the entryway and up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. You chatter away about how you are in the middle of laundry, and would he mind if you do chores while he talks?
Under normal circumstances, he would closely observe your childhood home, looking for clues to the person you once were in the wear of the tatami and pictures framed on the wall, but the mere nape of your neck enthralls him and fixes his gaze. You shine like a beacon, the kind of light that doesnât merely attract but blurs and blends the shadows until he can see nothing else.
Your clothes hang drying on the balcony, which is too cramped for two to stand comfortably, so he opts to hang back in the attached living room, while you fold your clothes into a basket. Rindou realizes that the task gives you the perfect excuse to avoid eye contact, which you have gracefully evaded since he arrived. It is a worrying sign perhaps, but it means he can study your face shamelessly as you work. There is a layer of grease atop your scalp and no makeup to cover the shadows that border your eyes. He looks no better, of course, but at least heâs been sleeping, and he frowns at these signs of neglect. Even so, he could get drunk on watching you unhindered like this.
The tension of all that is left unsaid writhes until you canât help but break the silence, always the first to snap.
âSo, what did you want to talk about?â you ask.
âI know you asked me to leave you alone, but I donât want to. I miss you.â
âI miss you, too,â you confess quietly.
Something stronger than relief blooms where there has been so much pain, and Rindou spits out his response, words tumbling into one another without pause.
âThen what are we doing? Let me take you out!â
âRindou, we canât just go back to how things were,â you sigh. âI donât mean that I wonât. I mean that I canât. When things started between us, I thought I was just down for the ride, and I had no expectations of you or us, but thenâŚeverything just kind of snuck up on me, and when we were together, I felt so safe and cared for, like I never have before, and it was wonderful. Then, with a snap of your fingers, all of that just went away, and I was left with nothing, and it sucked. Trust me, Iâve thought about calling you a hundred times a day because itâs been so hard. But if I break now, Iâm going to have to start moving on all over again from scratch, and I canât do that. I need to justâŚget it over with.â
âWell, I donât want to just get over it.â
The sun beats down on his brow through the glass, and a base sheen of sweat bursts from beneath his skin. The way you express yourself, honest and eloquent, as if inviting him to truly understand you, will never not amaze him, never not leave him scrambling for something half as true to share with you in turn. Words have never been his weapon of choice; he leads with his fists, his wits if pressed, the allure of fresh banknotes, but never his words, and now, they are the only thing that may save him. He had hours to prepare something to convince you to give him another chance, but the words sounded so stupid in his mind that he threw out every option as fast as he could imagine them. His memory has been shaky lately or he would recite the speech Ran wrote for him verbatim. His brother had been right. He should have written it down.
So, it is with no plan and with brains scrambled like a cracked egg that Rindou continues, âYouâre not the only one who things snuck up on. Youâre the best part of my day. Even now, as shitty as things stand between us, youâre still the best thing in my life. I never wanted to be a boyfriend. But Iâve had lots of time to learn that I want to lose you even less. A lot less. If you need me to give up seeing other women, to commit, or whatever else, then Iâll do it. If it means you can feel safe with me again, Iâll do it.â
âIâm not trying to trap you, or change you,â you sigh.
âToo late! Iâm fucking trapped! And I donât care. I want you way more than I want my freedom.â
Finally, you turn away from the laundry, back to the horizon, and look at him. You are guarded, no fake smiles to reassure or disarm. You are, however, listening, and Rindou lets himself hope that somehow, somehow, he has found the words powerful enough to undo the damage he wrought.
âThat all sounds really nice,â you admit, âBut you obviously donât want to be my boyfriend, or we would have had this talk a while ago. It took you weeks to realize you want me.â
For such a smart woman, you could say the stupidest things, and Rindou is incensed enough at the very idea of not wanting you that he tells you as much. A spark of fire, something finally more impassioned than dull resignation sparks in your eye at the insult, but he plows forward before you can snark back.
âI knew I wanted you from the moment I first saw you. And I always miss you the second you leave my side. What it took me weeks to admit wasâŚwell shit, that I canât live without you because I love you.â
A gust of wind weaves its way between the taller buildings that flank your apartment to blast past the balcony just as your fingers fumble removing a white tee-shirt from the clothesline. The shirt flies out on an updraft. As if dancing with the wind, it whirls in tight circles just out of reach of your outstretched hand, a brief white flag before the wind dies down and it plummets to the street.
You lean over the balcony, like you might leap to follow it, but finding no escape in that direction, you turn to face Rindouâs love confession head-on, just as he once faced yours. He had expected the words, âI-love-youâ to hurt, to tear open his throat on their journey out and to ache like a rotting tooth. After all, people lost their minds for love. They died for love. And when love was gone, they cauterized the wound, all decayed flesh and mindless bumbling through the motions, like living zombies. Love hurt or some shit, right?
Yet, he doesnât regret telling you now, even as you stand quietly without returning his feelings. A million possibilities for heartbreak manifest in front of him, but Rindou feels stronger than he has in weeks. There are so many secrets that still divide you, but this one fundamental truth is undeniable, unretractable. Never again will he be able to claim heâs never loved. This love will forever be a part of his history, and Rindou embraces the fixedness of the path that lies before him, one that is forever imprinted upon by your shared love.
âYouâre making it nearly impossible to refuse you,â you sigh out.
âGood. You shouldnât,â Rindou agrees.
The screen door squeaks as you close it behind you, stepping close enough that he can faintly sense your body heat and lavender scented detergent emanating from the laundry basket. You stand together at a precipice. Your mouth twists to the side in what he recognizes as fear.
âIâm scared,â you whisper. âIf we do this, and I get hurt againâŚI canât ââ
âDo you remember our first date, when you told me all about your favorite story? The one with the girl whose brother kills her?â Rindou blurts out. He doesnât know where he is going with this. Inspiration hovers three steps ahead of his brain.
âA Smiling Deathâs Head?â you ask uncertainly.
âYeah, you said you hated that one version of it because the woman dies for a man who wonât choose her in return. You like the one where the woman is brain and risks everything â her honor, her familyâs honor, her life even â for love, and the man she loves is willing to do the same. Iâm thinking, thatâs us right now. Iâm here, baby, and Iâm choosing this even though you might hurt me now. I donât care what shit there is down the road, Iâm choosing you, and I want you to do the same. Be brave like the women in your books and take this leap with me, please.â
Like a sunflower to the sun, your whole body leans in his direction as you say, âThat might be the most romantic thing Iâve ever heard.â
âIâd tell you not to get used to it, but who knows? This is the first time Iâve ever been in love. Maybe I am a romantic. Youâll have to choose me to find out.â
Pure joy knocks you off balance and tumbling into his arms. In seconds, you are tangled together. Your thighs clamp tight around his hips and your chin tucks into the notch between his neck and shoulders. His nose buries into the crook of your exposed throat, breathing in the balmy scent of sweat and sun. Just as naturally, your arms wrap around his waist as he holds you aloft. There is no space between your bodies. Nothing has felt more right since he first drew breath upon entering the world.
He has made his choice, and now you have made yours.
Rindou carries you into the open kitchen, sitting you on a high countertop, where neither of you need loosen your grip on the other. In fact, as he no longer needs to support your weight with his hands, he is free to tighten the embrace, wrapping two big arms around your back to clutch you even tighter to the heat of him.
Together like this, you both breathe through what feels like two blissful eternities that make the time spent apart seem like the passing of a few errant seconds. Time stops when you are gone, and it races when you are near. Rindou doubts heâll ever return to the days of idly passing the time again. Not so long as he has you.
It is one of the happiest moments of his life. Not the happiness of a victory, but the absolute relief of a stay of execution, a sparing of the hangmanâs noose. You are so unbelievably warm and soft as you cling to him. Little noises escape your mouth and get lost against his chest. It takes him a moment to recognize those sounds are words: âI love you. I love you. I love you.â
The fabric of his shirt sags from the weight of your tears as you weep, and he hates to imagine how exhausting the last several weeks have been as you ran yourself into the ground to avoid your heartbreak. He promises to care for you even when you canât, or wonât, care for yourself. And now is as good a time as any to get started.
âNo more tears,â Rindou cajoles, loosening your embrace just enough to draw your head up and look into those pretty eyes.
âI know Iâm being ridiculous,â you hiccup-laugh. âIâm just so happy.â
He pinches the fat of your cheeks between his fingers, squishing your face into an adorable pout that stops the tears in their tracks.
âNow that Iâm back, youâre going to be a good girl and listen to me, right?â he coaches.
You attempt a nod around his grip on your face, an eager half bob at the command.
âGood. First things first, youâre going to tell me everything Iâve missed while we were apart. And, I mean everything, baby. Whatâs going on with school, your mom, your friends. I want to know how Naotoâs work event went, how things are at the library, what youâre reading. If you read the nutritional information off a cereal box, I want to know about it,â Rindou orders.
âYes, sir,â you slur through his fingers, and somehow you manage to sound perky and enthused despite your pinched lips and bloated cheeks.
âAnd youâre going to start taking care of yourself now that Iâm back. No more all-nighters or studying until you collapse. You get seven hours of sleep every night minimum. You eat three meals a day. And you take at least one hour every day to do something fun, I donât care what.â
âBut sir!â you protest.
âThatâs an order. Blink twice if you understand me.â
As your wet lashes bat down twice, Rindou notices the dreamy film that descends over your eyes, that recognizable, sleepy slide towards subspace as you relax your brain and surrender entirely to his will. All it took was the sound of his voice to affect you. And thatâs not all. When the fingers of his other hand, the one not manipulating your cute little face, shift slightly on your neck, not even a full caress, you suck in a powerful breath like the touch might shatter you to pieces.
He vows to never take this, the power he commands over you, for granted again. Because as ardently as you react to his slightest touch, he is just as devoted in the hunt for those same reactions. He drinks up your sighs and pleasures and delicious little nose scrunches like an alcoholic at an open bar.
The sun filtering into the room is dimmer now, lighting up the dust mites as they float past the window. Rindou massages the base of your neck with a firm hand. Like a kitten, you purr and cant into the touch. He could stay like this until nightfall, until forever. Based on the little shivers that wrack your spine, the pathetic whimpers you canât suppress, you are less contented, calves winding around his hips in a suggestion he only pretends to ignore.
âI have to tell you something,â you murmur, lips trailing his neck until they reach his ear. âI have to tell you, I was bad while we were apart.â
Rindou hides his smile in the base of your neck, continuing to stroke you like a beloved pet, âWere you now? I find that hard to believe.â
âI was, Sir. I came three times without permission. Twice on my own and once at the club,â you report.
Technically, you had his permission at the club when you came on Ladyâs fingers as he nodded along with the audience, but he doesnât tell you that, too amused by the eager way you tattle on yourself in the hopes heâll spank you clean through a dry orgasm, thighs flexing around his waist as you imagine it. And he might punish you yet, but not today. Not when the weight of you in his arms feels like returning home after an odyssey, and unlike Odysseus, Rindou would have forgiven you anything â any infidelity, any betrayal, any treason â in his relief to find peace here once again.
âHmm, you have been bad,â Rindou plays along. âAnd what do you think I ought to do about that?â
âWhatever you think best, Sir,â you offer, trying and failing to perform meekness as your excitement grows.
Rindou untethers you from his body, making sure you are seated securely on the counter beside an overflowing drying rack before he slides down, down, down to the floor, dragging your sweatpants along with him. You loom over him like a mountain in your half-naked glory, built like you were hand-crafted by a divine power for his enjoyment, designed to be worshipped. He belongs on his knees.
He lifts a foot to his mouth, tongue teasing past the toes, where he knows you are most ticklish, and pressing steady kisses to the arch. Slowly, he laps higher, passing your ankles, laving the muscles of your calves, and dedicating special attention to the sensitive skin behind your knees. An unstoppable giggle breaks free at the tickle, but your eyes warn him this is no laughing matter. His descent is achingly slow. Every centimeter he rises on your left leg must be repeated on his right before he will go higher, drawing out the torture until your breath goes shallow. It is an unhurried kind of worship that relaxes as well as arouses. There is a voluptuous surrender in the way he lingers on your legs, ignoring where you most want him as if time presents no obstacle to his exploration. All the while, he maintains eye contact, violet eyes transfixing you in place.
At your inner thighs, Rindou canât resist, and he sucks twin hickeys onto each side. Itâs the silken softness of your skin there, where you are never exposed to the sun. Itâs the way your cunt smells, so close to his face as he marks you. You havenât shaved in a few days, but the fine hairs hardly detract from the pillowy flesh. His cock aches for you.
Your panties join your sweatpants on the floor. For a solid minute, Rindou can do nothing but stare at your pretty pussy, so familiar and so missed. His hot breath dances over the sensitive skin, and you squirm, begging for the return of his mouth.
He smothers your cunt and himself in the process with open mouth kisses. Wet trails of his spit glisten in the wake of his lips. He uses his fingers to pinch at your hood until your glossy, little clit peeks out for him. The kisses he lays there are purposeful, devotional.
âRindou, sir, please,â you whimper.
âYou want me to eat this pretty pussy the way my pretty girl likes it?â Rindou asks.
You nod eagerly, and Rindou makes a show of considering it. The kisses he just gifted you were merely playful, a pantomime of what you really needed. Even as he toyed with your clit, your hips bucked greedily against the anchor of his hands at your hips, begging for more pressure, more, more, more.
âI was going to reacquaint myself with this perfect body from your toes to your eyelids. If I get distracted here, who will play with the rest of your body? Who will play with your pretty tits? Do you still want me to lick this cunt?â
âYes, sir,â you answer swiftly.
âWell, since youâre being so polite,â Rindou hums, rubbing a firm hand up your inner thigh until you arch. âIâll do it, but only if you play with your tits just the way you know I would. Youâll have to be my hands, baby.â
It is an uncharacteristically kind decision, but Rindou canât summon up the will to call you belittling names or deny you too badly. You may be a pathetic, needy cockslut, but he is the one who couldnât survive three weeks without the hug of your cunt, so what does that make him? At least, for today, he is simply too drunk on your body to degrade you the way you deserve.
Even without his firm hand, you are still an obedient little thing â one of the things he loves most about you â so you hasten to show off, tugging your tee-shirt up over your breasts and grabbing handfuls of your own flesh. He loves the way your fingers leave marks from how hard you grope and squeeze them. Rindou slips a hand in his pants, so that he can thumb at the head of his cock, watching the way you touch yourself. The foot he previously licked plants right on his shoulder to keep you spread open for him. Then, he dives back into your pussy.
With his tongue, Rindou laps out the wetness that collects at your entrance and smears it up to the top of your mound. It is messy. You practically flood his mouth at first contact, and he relishes that familiar tang. He buries everything â from his tongue to his nose â between your folds, lapping and sucking until your thighs quiver. With your clit, he is merciless, all pressure and speed as it has left the defenses of your clitoral hood and now beckons to him, an engorged button for him to tweak and nudge and suction into the hot wetness of his mouth.
You express your approval of his efforts by overenthusiastically abusing your tits. When you pinch your nipples, you tug that extra amount until theyâre sore. When you squeeze them, you grope your tits like a pervert, hard and merciless. When you caress the undersides, you follow up with a stinging slap to the center that alights your nerves and brings tears to your eyes. It is masterful, a work of pure artistry, for an audience of one. And what an appreciative audience! Rindou shucks off his jeans, so he can palm the head of his cock as he watches the student become the master. He taught you this, this brutality, this unrestrained use of your body, and he wonders whether you spanked your ass raw in his absence, pretending your little hand was larger, meatier, his.
The toes on his shoulder clench, and he knows you are going to cum. All of those signs particular to you and your pleasure are committed to his memory and on display now as he worries your clit with his tongue.
So, of course, Rindou pulls back from your cunt, breaking a strand of spit that connects him to your pussy with his hand.
It is adorable the way your hips arc, humping at air like that might give you the stimulation you need to fly over the edge. As soft as he feels towards you in the new dawn of your shared love, Rindou canât help but laugh at the pathetic display. It is easy to bat your hand away when you move it towards your own pussy, funny how the pitiful moue of your lips trembles at being denied. You must be out of practice to think for a second he would let you rut yourself to orgasm without permission. An out of practice needy hole in need of discipline. He canât even feel disappointment. Itâs simply too pathetic. Too pathetic and too intoxicating.
Nothing in his long life of vice compares to the knowledge that your pleasure belongs to him. His to control, his to provide. Like a headrush, a heady sense of his own power and gratitude for it stuns him into stillness. Rindou has always liked this power, enjoyed the needy pleas of the women he fucked and the way they would surrender beneath his hands, hoping, praying, that he might let them cum. He would snicker and mock their desperation even as the blood rushed to his cock. But there is an opposite side to the coin as well, a kind of self-flagellation because even as he denies you, he is simultaneously denying himself. Because the only sight better than your miserable cries at an edge is the glorious sight of you coming undone, brain blitzed and tongue heavy and breasts heaving and stomach clenching andâŚ
âI didnât tell you to stop abusing those tits,â Rindou warns.
He simply watches and you spring back to action, drawing the meat of your breast as high as it will go to try to tongue at your own nipple. When you arenât satisfied, you spit and use the slick to rub aching little circles over each nipple. Your neck arches back at the feeling. Rindou can see when a zap of pleasure rolls through your body in the way your throat swallows, in the way your untouched hole spasms around nothing. He jerks his cock rapidly, splitting his attention between your performance and that clenching hole.
Two minutes pass after your first edge before Rindou decides he can safely return to your clit without immediately sparking an orgasm. Rindou licks his fingers, messy and thorough, before guiding them to your entrance. There is a nudge of resistance as he sinks two fingers inside as itâs been weeks since he last used you here, and he imagines that same tight pressure massaging his shaft, suffocating him at the root.
Sunk inside to the second knuckle, Rindou maneuvers until he finds your front walls, and then he plunges his fingers repeatedly into that spot as you shake and moan. He doesnât even need to touch your clit now as it all but vibrates at the internal stimulation. One hand plants on your belly to hold you in place as he picks up speed, fingering your tiny cunt expertly until your squeals are as loud as the wet gushing from between your thighs and the sound of blood pounding in Rindouâs head.
Rindou works a third finger inside you, so that you wonât shatter when his cock breaks you open later. Then, he kisses up and down your stomach to where your cunt is stretched open by his fingers and only just grazing your clit with his passing tongue. Your head lolls like a broken doll, waist twitching one way then the next. Your twitchy little hole tells him that you will cum soon, fluttering like a vice around his fingers. He leaves it to the last possible second, so that he almost worries his mistimed it before abandoning your pussy again.
This time, you donât try to alleviate the ache but bite down on your own fist in a childish cry of grievance at what is taken from you. He can literally see your hole clench around nothing, an enticing invitation for his neglected cock. An invitation he has ignored long enough.
Rindou stands, lifting you off the counter and depositing you knees-first on the cold tile. His cock hovers at face level, hard, demanding, weeping from missing you too long.
He smacks the meat of your cheek with his cock. A few heavy blows that bounce the head off your lip, leaving it stained with his essence. Whenever Rindou jerks off, he is vicious with his prick. His hand would blur from how fast he jerks it, but in contrast, you are always so delicate to start, all kitten licks and starry eyes at his cock like it is a rare book or something equally valuable to you. It is not so different from the worshipful way he learned your body. He craves that show of devotion from you, its own kind of commitment ceremony more powerful than swearing oneself in front of a priest or signing some stupid papers. He wants to see you pledge yourself to him in the basest ways imaginable.
âNo hands. No tongue. No mouth,â Rindou says, voice too tight for the command to land as one, but you listen anyway. You are perfect like that.
The skin of your cheek is soft as you rub yourself against him like a cat. You twist under his cock, so that it rests heavy across your pretty features. A fan whirs overhead, but Rindou can clearly hear the deep breath you take through your nose as you soak in the smell of him. Laid out like this, his cock is nearly as long as your face.
Despite the limitations he imposed, you find a way to shift his cock, so it stands to attention between his stomach and your face, which you then rub up and down in time to his heartbeat. You have eyes only for his cock, so close to your nose that it crosses your eyes. The understimulation combined with your debauched face is the worst kind of torment. He has known hell in broken ribs, in a childâs empty belly, in the devastation of the drug trade he peddles. He has known hell. But he has never known a hell that lived so close to heaven as this.
âGo ahead and add your hands and tongue. Still no mouth,â Rindou urges.
Your hand is gentle when it grips him at the base and strokes. His skin stretches forward as you skim up, up, up the length of him. He jumps when slim fingers ghost over the head.
Both hands begin to work in tandem, stroking in opposite directions, different rhythms, so that every centimeter of him is caressed. Like you want to tempt him to sink into your mouth, you open wide and let his tip sit on your tongue. The pink little muscle writhes against the underside where he is most sensitive. Too often when he uses your mouth, he chokes you on the length of him until you flounder, wild-eyed and proud in your accomplishment. This, letting you take the lead and showcase all your skill and study of him, may become a guilty a pleasure for him though. As you trace your tongue up the vein lining his shaft, he realizes you know his body every bit as well as he knows yours.
âPlease, can I suck it, sir? I want to make you feel good,â you plead.
âYouâre already making me feel good. And besides, you look too pretty like this,â Rindou murmurs, gliding a hand down your spit-stained cheek.
âLike this, sir?â
There is nothing submissive, sweet, or innocent in the way you lick a wet streak from base to tip. So terribly slowly that by the time you kiss the plump head of him, his eyes have rolled back in bliss.
Then, like a secret, you whisper into his cockhead,â I love you, sir.â
By you, he is undone.
Most likely, Rindou thinks, he lowered you gently to the ground then, but this is pure speculation as one moment you are on your knees, and the next you are on your back, legs wound his waist, and his cock bullying its way into your pussy.
It is like coming home when your hips meet with a loud smack, as close as two people can be, cock pressed up and into your stomach. He is gentler when he pulls out, making sure your walls can accommodate him. Your heels dig painfully into his ass at the slow slide. They tighten as if to keep him there when he sinks back in deep.
The only way he could possibly fuck you after everything you shared today is deep. Not too hard or fast, but penetrating, inescapable thrusts that make you wail when he bottoms out.
A cunt is a cunt, he always thought. There is only so much variation in depth, in tightness, in slickness, in heat from one woman to the next. And thatâs true of yours, too, except when heâs inside you, heâs not only feeling your walls massage his cock, heâs also smelling the natural perfume that emanates from your neck and thighs. Heâs tasting the sweat off your delicious breasts. Heâs soaking up the cries and moans that you offer him like a votive. Â Yes, you are deliciously obedient and hot, but you are also just you, and that is manifold times more addictive than the drugs he sells for a living.
His balls draw up, and Rindou is shocked to realize he could cum already. He empties his mind, counting his breaths until the urge to fill you ebbs away to more manageable levels. Still his balls ache fiercely.
You fare little better as each thrust breaks you open. His hips grind into yours, pressing him tight to where you folds spread open, where your clit is engorged and primed. Your hands rub through layers of sweat on his back to press him even closer. Nose-to-nose, so you trade breaths and groans through open mouths.
âPlease, can I cum, sir?â you ask.
âYou wanna cum?â Rindou grits out.
You grasp his wrist, the one not supporting his bodyweight off the floor, and guide his hand to your bared throat. Instinctively, his fingers curl around your pretty neck, not pressing, just there, like a favorite necklace.
âMake me cum,â you say.
Your hand folds over his own and flexes until he begins to squeeze, cutting off your air supply. A little smile of pure contentment curls your lips as you ease into the sensation of being choked. Without air, your brain panics, the cock digging its way to your center begins to feel less welcome, less safe, more startling and therefore unignorable. And then, your brain slackens, and his grinding cock becomes the center of your universe. Just feeling remains and nothing else.
It is a wonder you still trust him enough to let him do this.
A wonder. Thatâs what you are.
âCum for me, baby,â Rindou prays, lips to your ear. âCum as hard as you can.â
His hand loosens to allow a windfall of air to flood your lungs and short circuit your brain. The sudden relief compounds the way he speeds up his thrusts, so that your cunt is filled just the way he knows you need it.
You start to cum sometimes on the second stroke. The little bit of slack he had to maneuver inside you disappears. It is a vice that wraps around his cock. Your pussy pulses haphazardly, like a clenching fist, and he floods your womb with cum.
Lips meet in a messy kiss. Off-center and desperate. But neither of you have the brain power for artistry. His cock is too busy with the aftershocks, managing seven hot spurts into the haven of your cunt after the initial torrent. And you are practically crying into his mouth; a short but obliterating orgasm that wracked you to your core and left you devastated in the aftermath.
This must be what people call âmaking love.â
--
Sometime in the aftermath, Rindou remembers that you share the apartment with your mother, and that he cannot make a bed here on the kitchen floor with a soft cock buried in her daughterâs cunt. First, impressions count after all.
On autopilot, he takes you to the shower, where you both clean up, bodies limp against one another. At no point do you stop holding hands. Even when you pee after. You remain tethered to each other every step of the way.
Your mind wakes up just enough to direct him to your bedroom afterward. The bed is only a twin, but he prefers it, the way it forces you both to stay wrapped up entirely in each otherâs arms. You practically lay across his thigh as you both fall into a deep sleep.
An hour or two after judging by the angle of the sun seeping through your window, Rindou wakes up. Vaguely, he notices for the first time his surroundings. The duvet on your bed is threadbare and patchy, but the sheets are surprisingly soft. The room is mostly neat with dirty clothes tucked away in a hamper and clean clothes folded away, though the desk in the corner is piled haphazardly with books and looseleaf notes. A pen must have rolled off your desk earlier because the wheel of your desk chair is lodged atop it. The walls are painted a delicate eggshell yellow, and there are no embarrassing childhood posters there but rather tacked-up photos of you and your friends, you and your mom, you and him.
Rindou finds it hard to swallow when he sees the photos, looks away.
âMorning,â you rumble sleepily into his skin.
He kisses you soundly before correcting you that it is sometime in the early evening. It doesnât matter either way. Time has abdicated its power. Whether itâs six in the evening or six in the morning, he will stay in this cramped bed, holding you. Short of the police breaking down the door or a zombie apocalypse, nothing could compel him to stop.
âI didnât dream it,â you murmur to yourself.
âNo,â Rindou confirms simply. He has never been a man of many words and now that the time for speeches has passed, he finds himself exhausted of them. He prefers to listen anyway, missed your songbird voice in his ear.
âAnd youâre not going to regret it?â you say.
Rindou shakes his head.
âI can introduce you as my boyfriend now?â you question.
âMmmhmm,â Rindou hums, placing a delicate kiss to the crest of your ear.
Your fingers curl tightly around his hand, and you say urgently, âPlease donât cheat on me. I think itâll kill me.â
âShh, stop worrying. I wonât even look at another woman again, okay?â Rindou promises.
This little bout of insecurity passes, unable to survive the absolute security of his deep-voiced assurances. Then, you proceed to tell him all about your time apart. Rindou hardly speaks a word, soaking up the way you effortlessly create a full-bodied narrative of details and characters and feelings. You talk mostly about schoolwork and the library, your friends weaving in and out of the periphery of your stories. Occasionally, he asks a question, sparking new stories that outrun the clock until the sky is dark outside and your voice scratchy from overuse.
It takes Rindou by surprise when you say seemingly out of the blue, âEarlier, when you said you would never even look at a woman againâŚI donât think you have to take it that far. I mean, unless you want to, but Iâm not asking you to.â
âThanks, that would have made leaving the house kind of hard,â Rindou laughs lowly. âBut seriously, I wonât touch anyone but you. You have my word.â
You squirm out from the cocoon of his arms, and he unconsciously chases your body heat. Once you are sitting up, sheets tumbling over your peaked nipples, you say, âI donât mind if you do, a little.â
Now it is Rindouâs turn to sit up.
âYou donât mind if I touch other women a little?â
âOh, this is so embarrassing,â you groan at the disbelief in his voice. âI just mean, when we first met and you flogged that womanâŚI thought that was so hot, watching you. And I could see us wanting to go to the club again sometime, as a couple, and it would be okay with me at least, if you wanted to umm, do a scene with someone else. I think I might even like it. Or, umm, so long as itâs not sex, I think it would be fine even if Iâm not there so long as you tell me all about it,â you say.
âWhat does sex mean to you?â
You think about it for a moment. âAnything that gets your dick wet.â
A beat later Rindou starts to laugh. He laughs until his stomach hurts, while you beat your fists into his shoulder and insist itâs not funny. But it is funny! It is funny that he wasted so many weeks thanks to his stubborn pride when you werenât even demanding his forever faithfulness, leaving the door wide open to all kinds of sins and debauchery so long as he what? Maintained open communication?
All you ask is that he gives up sticking his dick in other women and in exchange he getsâŚeverything. He gets everything.
When Rindou finally catches his breath, he eyes you like the marvel you are and says, âI really donât know what I did to deserve you.â
âFunny, I feel the same way,â you smile. âSo, I donât want you getting your dick wet with anyone else, and I want to know what you do with other people. I may change my mind down the road, but I actually thought about it a lot after everything that happened, and I think thatâs my boundary. So, until I do change my mind, thatâs the rule. What about you? What boundaries do you have for me?â
Rindou has put little thought into it, assuming a vanilla-style definition of monogamy would be your future together, but half the answer comes instantly, âI control your orgasms. No cumming without my permission.â
âI like that,â you agree.
âAnd no dating anyone else. Watching you with Lady was fucking hot, and I wouldnât mind sharing you with other doms if you are interested down the line, but no cumming and no going out with them.â
âOh, no dating for you either! No dating and no falling in love. And you canât do scenes with the same woman over and over without me. I donât want you developing feelings for anyone. I didnât think of that,â you say.
Rindou nods. âIt sounds like weâll both have to work out the details as they come along. But Iâm open to changing the rules as we go because all that really matters is that weâre together, and youâre happy.â
âYouâre going to make me happy?â you tease.
You smile beatifically, an angel on earth. A sun to his sunflower, a planet to his moon sucking him into your orbit. Rindou never believed he could make anyone happy, but he knows now that he is going to try until thereâs no fight left in him.
âIâm going to make you very happy,â he vows.
It is a rebirth, and it is a start. And you both think in that moment that you hope there is no end to the bright future that lies in front of you.
This is love.
A/N: editing this was a saga, so sorry if i missed anything!
Easing in her
slender forearm
for a pillow
- Matsuo BashĹ
Title: Whatâs Taking A Life or Two? (If It Means Getting to Keep You)
Pairing: Hanma Shuji/Female Reader
Word Count: 4.2k
Warnings:Â MDNI. Physical and gun violence, assault, blood, murder, minor character death, arguing, gunshot wounds. There may be some bloody gruesome death things people don't enjoy but it's par for the course with this series lol
A/N: thank you to my sweet emme for literally always reading/betaing this series
Part 15 (prev) / Master Post / Part 16 (here)
It must be the early hours of the morning at this point. Youâre freezing, exhausted, and the ringing in your ears hasnât gone away. Sasori cut you out of your restraints a while ago, but you couldnât stand right now even if you wanted to. Not with your body littered with lacerations, broken skin, and rapidly forming bruises. Everything ached. Your hair is tacky, pieces almost matted to the back of your head due to one solid hit to the skull. Kisaki didnât want the blood in his office, so instead they took you back to the ground floor, and let the blood stain the concrete there. Your hands are dyed a deep red, dried from holding the blood back to no avail. You even crawled your wait into a secluded corner covered by wooden crates for some peace. Youâve no clue how you havenât passed out.
Sasori finds you, coming around with a bowl of water and a large cloth. âKisaki said tâ clean you up.â
You look at him with your back propped up against a nearby cement pillar as he crouches down in front of you.
âIâll do it.â
âNonsense,â he says, voice mocking as he dips the cloth into the bowl. âThis is my order to see through.â
When he presses the cloth to the cut on your head, you jolt. Thereâs a burning caused by the liquid even as he drags the rough texture against the wound. Itâs clear that the bowl isnât filled with water, but alcohol.
Sasori smirks. âThat hurt?â
âYou know it did.â
You close your eyes with a grimace and try to take the sting along with the rug burn sensation from the cloth.Â
âKisaki tossed you around like a rag doll, huh?â You peek one eye open to see him evaluating the state of your body. âHe wants the biggest reaction out of Hanma.â
âShould just get it over with,â you sigh. The ache is shifting into something sharper and your stomach churns. âAm I allowed tâ sleep or will I get my ribs broken for that?â
Sasori grabs your chin, tilting it up so your heavy-lidded eyes can still see him. âIf he got it over with, Hanma wouldnât have anything to fight for. Kisaki wants the desperation, the fight. He wants Hanma to remember who he was.â You donât respond, closing your eyes instead. He releases your chin and says, âSleep. Youâll be kicked awake when the main event begins.â
Thereâs something sinking in Hanmaâs chest and he isnât sure if itâs the nausea from the head wound or the thought that he will have to kill his only childhood friend in order to save you.
âWeâre sticking to the plan.â
Hanma looks over at Mochizuki. âWhat?â
âThe plan,â he sighs, remembering that Hanma ignored the entire meeting where they discussed the plan with everyone. âWe surround the area. If sheâs in a buildingâwhich we know she is nowâwe infiltrate the back of it. The goal is to find her.â Hanma nods, fingers twitching in his lap. âWe shouldnât go in guns blazinâ.â
âAnd if we do?â
Mocchi shrugs. âWe fight like we always have.â
Hanma chuckles quietly. âThen we burn the place to the ground.â
âExactly.â With the warehouse up ahead, Mocchi turns off the headlights. âSheâll be fineâalways been a survivor. She wonât stop now.â
When the car comes to a stop down the road, Hanma takes stock of what theyâre walking into. The warehouse is illuminated on the inside, but its perimeter is dark and unassuming. The warehouse doors are hardly guarded. Three men stand with their faces in their phones, the white light on their faces giving away their positions.
âMocchi, is anyone else here yet? He checked his clip was full of bullets before stepping out of the car as his companion did.Â
âThe Haitaniâs are at the back with Kakucho. Sanzuâs cominâ with Mikey and Kokonoi.â Gravel crunches underneath their shoes as they approach carefully. Mocchi checks his phone. âThe rest of the men are just behind us. Five minutes out, theyâll be surrounding the exterior and following us in on command.â
âAlright,â Hanma clicks the safety off on the gun and adjusts his grip. Its weight is heavier than usual, but he pays that no mind. âIâm gonna put a bullet right between the eyes of that dumpster fire looking mother fucker.â
They loop around the building, coming up to Ran whoâs got a cigarette held loosely between his lips while unscrewing a silencer from his pistol. Rin is cleaning his hands with a handkerchief while Kakucho stacks two bodies in the taller grass behind them.
âAlready, huh?â Mocchi tilts his head to the side as Sanzu walks back over to them, wiping his own hands on his pants. His hairâs pulled back, and heâs got a speckling of blood across his left cheek. âOnly two were walking the perimeter?â
âOnly two weâve run into,â Ran says, face narrowly illuminated by the warehouse's dim inner lighting. âIf we wait, Iâm sure more will funnel out looking for those two.â He throws his thumb over his shoulder. âThey went down easily,â he chuckles. âTried to snatch Rin by his hair, though.â
Rindou rolls his eyes. âFuckers always go for the hair first ân theyâre always surprised when I bust their face open afterward.â
Hanma gets a closer look at the bodies, squinting to see their faces, and can recognize one as part of the group that took you. âYou killed one.â
âThere are two there, Hanma.â Ranâs watching him, the end of his cigarette brightening as he inhales. âGet hit on the head a bit too hard?â
âHe means one of the guys we killed was there during the kidnapping.â Rin says, offering context.
The night comes to life in the brief pause, crickets chirp in the nearby grass and the rush of the wind glides around them. As if with a burst of anger, Hanma drills his leg into one of the dead bodies. Knocking them off of the other as they flop over with the force. He doesnât stop kicking and stomping until the crunch of bone and the squelch of escaping blood are heard by the others.
When heâs finished, heâs huffing with the effort. Dusting off his clothes and rolling his shoulders back.
âCould you be any fuckinâ louder?â Rindou chides in a hushed, exaggerated tone.
Hanma doesnât look at him. His face is neutral despite the outburst. âI want them to burn along with this place. If you kill them before that, make it fuckinâ painful.â
Ran snubs the last of the cigarette into the ground and heâs grinning widely as he claps Hanma on the shoulder.
âThe Reaperâs finally reared his head again!â
âHey.â Kakucho, observant as always, clocks the pulsing vein in Hanmaâs forehead. The way his jaw is set and the tension between his brows. âYouâll get her back.â
Hanma looks between him and Ran. âYouâll all have to deal with how insufferable Iâll be if I donât.â He flicks his bangs out of his eyes, sporting a sharp smile, canines glinting in the moonâs light. âIâll burn this fucking city to the ground and one of you will have tâ put me down.â
âHopefully it wonât come to that. Everyoneâs here,â Mochizuki interjects. âTheyâre cominâ up the same way we did. Itâs good for us to head in.â
âFinally,â Rin sighs. âWe havenât been able to have this much fun in so long.â
âLeave Kisaki to me,â Hanma starts towards the back entrance of the warehouse. âIâll be the one to deal with him.â
âSure,â Mocchi agrees. âBut Iâll crack his skull open myself if you end up hesitating.â
ââs fine.â Hanma steels himself with a deep inhale. Heâs killed people close to him before. He followed and executed plans without morality sitting outside his door, so why was he so nervous now? âWeâre supposed to go in quietly, right?â
âThatâs the plan.â Rindou confirms.Â
âSounds fucking boring.â
âHanma,â Mocchiâs tone is gruff. âDonâtâ,â
âIâm ending this the same way I started it!â Hanma turns back to the Haitaniâs, Kakucho, and Mochizuki with his arms held out to his sides. His expression is wild: eyes ablaze and a face splitting grin. âIn a fucking bloodbath!â
Hanma blazes through the warehouse like a classical dance. He hasnât felt this focused in so long and with the others at his side, serious, yet laughing as bodies drop around them is the kind of adrenaline high heâs missed. The rush of watching life leave someone who holds the intent to kill. Someone charges him with a knife and he dodges easily, side stepping them quick enough that they stumble and heâs able to pull the knife from their grip.
âNo slow,â he smiles. âMaybe next time.â Then slits their throat.
âSo messy,â Ran chuckles on his left. âYouâre gonna make it harder for us to remove all the evidence.â
âWell, shoot them faster and I wonât have to cut them open.â
Thereâs a shout to their right, and Rindou lifts his arm to look at the area a bullet grazed him. He shoots the man three times, twice in the chest and once in the throat. âThis was one of my favorite dress shirts.â
âLast time I did this alone,â Hanma muses, remembering the blood spilt on these same floors. âShouldâve known it wouldâve been more fun with people just as insane.
âHey!â Kokonoi shouts nearby, snapping someoneâs neck like itâs nothing. âI resent that. Iâm not insane!â
Hanma scrubs a hand over his face, grin too wide to contain. âGod, this is so fucking fun!â
True to his word, Sasori kicks you awake. Itâs a rude, gasping awakening. Your eyes fly open as his hand comes down on the top of your head, twisting his fingers into your hair and yanking you up to your feet.
âThe partyâs started, sweetheart!â Heâs dragging you out of the corner. Youâre too weak to fight, too disoriented from the blood loss. âYour boyfriendâs here!â
Once the pounding of your heart leaves your ears, you hear the shouting alongside thundering footsteps and gunshots. People are scattering like cockroaches around the two of you, most of them left bloody in the aftermath of those dying around them.
As Sasori pulls you closer to the heart of the bloodshed, you see bodies sprawled across the concrete.
A loud, bellowing shout rattles the warehouse. âKisaki!â
You lift your head against Sasoriâs grip, recognizing the voice as Shujiâs. Instinctively, you say his name, half in relief, half in fear. Despite the pounding pain, you remember what the plan was supposed to be; covert, under the radar. Thisâyour eyes flick around once more to the array of bodies and spilled bloodâis far from what was supposed to happen.
Shujiâs eyes meet yours. Heâs a mess, decorated in splatters of blood, hair wild and sticking to his forehead, his glasses long gone. Last, there is a volcanic fury simmering behind his eyes. He snarls, lifting his gun and aiming right at Sasori.
âEasy!â Sasori laughs, stopping at least eight feet away from Hanma before he forces you to your knees. âEasy, easy. She may be in worse shape than we found her in, but she still works.â
The commotion from the rest of the warehouse comes to a halt with one last wail. You suspect the rest of Bonten stayed behind to take care of stragglers, to keep things from bleeding outside of the warehouse's walls. Quick footsteps approach and your head is wrenched further back.Â
âTell the other psychos to stay where they are.â Sasori sneers as he presses a blade to the top of your throat. âOr Iâll carve my name into her skin.â
âGod, youâre so fucking unoriginal.â You complain, remembering exactly how Hanma first found you. All of this becoming one large, dreadful sense of dĂŠjĂ vu.
Sasori digs the tip of the blade under your chin. âYouâd think you would know to shut the fuck up by now.â
Hanma tells the others to keep back. He looks at you, takes in the extent of the damage done and holds up his arm thatâs still in a splint. âYouâre just as busted as me, baby.â
You let out a strained laugh. âYou should see the back of my head.â
âYou two are,â Sasori slides the blade a couple of centimeters up your chin. A bead of blood blooms out of the cut. âSo fucked up.â
âLook,â Hanma sighs, pulling his clip out of his gun and tilting it towards the light to check how many bullets he has left. âIâm not here for you. I donât give to shits about you and your poor fuckinâ hair choiceâ,â
âWhatâ,â
ââbut you took my little housewife,â he slaps the clip back in the gun and gestures to you, âand now she looks like a bruised piece of fruit. So, youâre gonna die for that.â
Hanma lifts his gun, moving it around different parts of Sasoriâs body like heâs trying to decide where to hit him first.
Sasori cackles dryly. âYouâre batshit crazy! Is everything a fuckinâ joke to you?!â
âA joke?â His brow furrows even as he smiles. âI assure you, Iâve never been more serious about something in my life, you fuckinâ fire hydrant.â
âFire hydrant?!â Sasori balks at the dig. âStand up.â He uses your hair to pull you to your feet. âPut down the gun or Iâll slit her fucking throat right here and make you watch her bleed out!â
âSweetheart,â you see Hanma calmly pull the hammer back on his gun. âRemember what I said it felt like to kill someone?â
You take a deep breath, ignoring the sharp pain in your ribs. âItâs exhilarating.â
Hanmaâs smile is wolfish. âIt is.â
He pulls the trigger, hitting Sasori in the bicep. With a shout, he drops the knife and, in a flurry of movement, you snatch up the knife. Sasori tries to raise his arms to protect himself, but heâs not fast enough. You grab his hair like he did yours, yank it back to expose his neck, and shove the blade directly into the side of it. His eyes are wide as they bore into yours, his hands desperately clutching at your shoulder as he gapes at you. You pull the blade out, letting the blood flow like a river before releasing his hair.Â
You smile and drop the knife. âIt makes you feel like God and Death all in one.â
âThatâs my girl.â When you look over at Hanma, heâs smiling and closing the distance between you. Before you collapse, heâs got an arm around your waist. âKinda felt like the day we met, didnât it?â
You chuckle. âItâs why I said he was unoriginal, heâ,â
Another gunshot rings out, breaking the moment, and you both jump, heads snapping in the sound's direction.
Rindou, with his gun raised, looks over at the two of you and lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. âHis hair pissed me off.â
You glance down at Sasori on the floor, only to see another bullet wound in the side of his cheek.
Ran and Mocchi come in after him, all of them looking disheveled.
âWhereâs everyone else?â You ask.
âOutside.â Rindou answers. âKakucho headed out there to inform them weâve got everything covered here.â
Mocchi steps forward, a frown forming as he inspects you. âBastard really put you through the ringer, didnât he?â
âSasori didnât do this,â you exhale, resting your forehead against Hanmaâs neck. âIt was Kisaki.â
Hanma tensed. âHave any of you seen him?â
âThey wouldnât.â A voice from higher up answers. âNo one came looking for me.â Kisaki is standing at the top of the steps leading to the office he beat you in. His own gun is already drawn. âI was getting pretty lonely, actually.â
As he comes down the steps, it feels as if the air has shifted to something frigid. Shuji pushes you behind him and mutters for you to go stand by the others.
âNo,â Kisaki says, getting to the last step. âShe stays or I kill her as she leaves. The others, though,â he looks over at them. âThey arenât necessary.â
Hanma knows this game. Kisaki would always make side alleys and escape plans for himself if things went south. Buying him time to get away was what the two of them did best together. Until he went and got his own hands dirty. He looks at you, no longer in arm's reach from him, but nowhere near close enough to Rindou so you can run.
âLeave,â you tell the others. Theyâre obviously opposed to the plan, but you double down. âLeave before he decides a murder suicide is the best immediate course of action.â Kisaki chuckles and goosebumps pebble your arms. You donât look at him. âCome back if thereâs gunfire.â
It isnât until they leave you wish youâd have a gun yourself. This distance from Kisaki, to Hanma, to you is much too wide for you to feel any sort of safety.
Kisaki scratches the side of his face with the barrel of his gun. âShe changed you.â
You canât see Hanmaâs expression, but he tightens his grip on the gun.
âWhat does it matter to you, Tetta?â
This visibly angers him, the scars on his face pulling taunt against his grimacing features. âYou forgot about meâleft me to rot in a hospital bed. I had no one!â
âI forgot about you!?â The statement wounds Hanma. Angers him, even. âYou have no fucking clue what I went through! You were the only friend I had. I believed we could rule the world together, Tetta. I wanted to!â
âYouâre a liar!â Kisaki yells, visibly shaking. âIf you did, you would have looked for me!â
âYou sound fucking insane!â Hanma shouts back even louder. âYou can blame this on me and think that I left you behind in some twisted, fucked up version of this story, but âyou died that day! Do you remember!?â His voice is strained by emotion. Youâre sure there are tears welling in his eyes. Anger and sadness churning inside of him like a whirlpool, ready to swallow him. âThat truck twisted you up in ways that a child could only believe you were dead. The fucking truth of the matter is, you didnât come find me. Once you left the fucking hospital, did you stop to think about the friend who stood by you through everything!?â He actually waits for an answer, but Kisaki is too busy glaring at him to come up with a reason or an excuse for not seeking Hanma out. âI had to survive, so I joined Bonten and I fucking flourished!â
âBut Iâm here!â Kisaki reasons, desperate himself to prove a point. âI am standing right here in front of you and yet youâve done nothing but cast me aside, and I know itâs because of her!âÂ
âYou hand delivered her to me!â Hanma shakes his head and a mirthless laugh leaves him. âYour immeasurable desire for vengeance did this, not her. If youâd never kept your survival a secret, if you hadnât used Bontenâs guns to arm your men, then I would have never wiped this place out and I would have never found her.â
âThen Iâll fix it.â Kisaki nods, heâs openly weeping. It looks like devastation and heartbreak. Well over a decade's worth of repressed emotions spilling over the surface during this exchange. Kisaki raises his gun, arm shaking and tension high. âI could do it right now. Iâll kill her andââ Shuji raises his own gun as soon as those words leave his mouth. His face drops at this before a grin splits across Kisakiâs face. âI knew it,â he mutters, laughing. âThereâs only one way this can end.â
âYouâre right.â Shuji agrees, nodding as he firms his resolve. âThereâs no use in talking.â
Shuji squeezes the grip, its texture imprinting itself into his palm, and he feels the pressure of the trigger against his index finger. He hesitates, thinks of thirteen-year-old Tetta at his side, laughing about random bullshit and discussing their plans for the future, then sees the older version of him now and his frown deepens. Wonders what his life would have been like if Tetta had never been hit by that truck, if his parents hadnât hidden him from his friend. If the coma hadnât kept him asleep for so long or if Tetta had tried to find him. What would have become of them?
Shuji hesitates, and then he sees a quick movement from Kisaki, a flash of metal and, on instinct, a trigger is pulled. Two gunshots ring out.
Thereâs a high-pitched ringing in his ears. Hanma doesnât hear or feel anything for a solid minute. It isnât until Kisaki stumbles backward, laughing even though the bullet hit him in the chest, that sound finally reaches his eardrums.
The rest of Bonten storms in, as promised, at the sound of gunfire. In the split moment of confusion, no one can tell who, if anyone, was hit.
âYou hesitated!â Kisaki shouts. âShouldnât have,â heâs having trouble getting air in his lungs, âshouldnât have wasted time.â Kisaki catches himself from falling face first into the concrete as blood blooms across the fabric of his clothes. At the sight of him, Hanma feels empty. âNow,â Kisaki laughs a wet sound, ânow youâll really be all alone, Shuji!â
The statement brings a furrow to Shujiâs brow, but then he hears your voice, just barely among the rest of the commotion, and sirens blare in his head. He whips around to see you on the floor. That pretty face of yours has gone ashen and pinched with pain. He develops tunnel vision. You are the only thing that exists. He can hear Kisaki yelling at him, blood gargling his name, but there is only you.
Shuji runs, shoes slipping on the concrete enough that he nearly falls before catching himself. He collapses to his knees in front of your crumbling form, and mutters your name.
âHey, hey,â his good hand is shaky as it roams over you. âHaitani!â Hanma roars with the depth of his vocal chords, its sounds echoing through the warehouse. âRindou, get the fuck over here!â The harsh urgency is night and day to the gentle way his voice tilts as he turns back to you. âWhere did you get hit, sweetheart?â You hiss as you lean into him to pull your shirt up, showing him the wound. âFuck, fuck.â
ââs fine,â you huff, looking at him with eyelids fluttering. âItâs ok,â you try your best to scan over him. âYou okay?â
âMe?â He laughs. The sound is high pitched, just near the edge of hysteria. âNot a fuckinâ scratch on me.â
You frown, reaching up to touch the split in his eyebrow thatâs still healing, the bruising around his orbital bone, and his splint covered wrist. He tries to ignore the acute realization that the wetness he feels on your fingertips as you touch him is your blood. Rindou appears in a rush with someoneâs shirt and presses it to the gunshot wound.
âHanma,â Rindou snatches his hand and forces him to hold the fabric. âHanma, we gotta get her outta here.â He turns to the rest of the group thatâs dealing with a dying or already dead Kisaki and the burning of the warehouse. âMochizuki!â
âRin,â Ran calls across the warehouse, gas can in hand. âWeâre burninâ this place to the fuckinâ ground! Letâs go!â
Rindou smacks Hanma on the back twice. âMocchiâs gonna carry her. We have tâ get outta here. Weâll meet them at the hospital!â
You can smell gasoline and smoke. Theyâre already lighting the place up from the inside out. You remember the plan. Ran jokingly called it a Norse Funeral.Â
âIâll be alright,â you say to Hanma, trying to smile. âGo, Iâll be right behind you.â
He nods, but his eyes have gone blurry and he looks like heâs not all there. As if his brain is having an entirely separate internal conversation with the rest of him.
âHanma!â Rindou tugs at his collar when Mocchi finally runs up to grab you. âCome on!â
Without another thought, Shuji hastily ducks down and kisses you. Itâs messy and tastes like iron, but if itâs the last thing you get of him, youâll savor every second.Â
âI love you,â he says, chapped lips dragging across yours. âI love you, so you canât fucking die.â
Rindou, having had enough, rips him away from you and pulls him towards the warehouseâs exit.
After all this fucking time, you think, he chooses nowâwhen the world is about to burn around you, and thereâs the possibility you might not make it outânow is when he would tell you he loves you.
âHold the shirt if ya can, kid.â When Mocchi lifts you, and even though he tries not to jostle you, it still hurts like hell and you shout. âSorry, sorry. Itâs gonna be rough,â you hear the crackling roar of flames, âwe gotta run.â
âFine, whatever, just,â you squeeze your eyes shut and turn your head into his shoulder, âjust get us out of here.â
Tagging: @heroineofcolor @touyasside @onlyshinji @pansexualproblemchild @boogeysmoth @510hz @yamat0 @sin-and-punishment @n30kulttech @alex-waddles @bbylime (can't tag you im sorry </3)
this is actually me. i talk to the point of losing followers over how much i hate the commercialization and merchandizing of tokyorev and the effect i believe it had on the ending of the manga. first point being that i believe the whole âsave mikeyâ arc wasnât supposed to happen and was a product of wakui being forced to continue the series by the publishers after the success of the first anime season. second point being, in order to make all of these merchandising deals, the series had to be more palatable and less problematic for brands to want to be associated. japan is unbelievably proficient at snuffing out crime. bosozoku essentially donât exist in current times except for lone riders or posers. i have a feeling the government censorship agencies probably stepped in to make sure this series wouldnât cause another wave of bosozoku to arise, as well as making âsuggestionsâ so that the series wouldnât glorify youth violence. you can already see it in the first chapter of the manga versus the anime:
how they changed takemichi from someone who still has delinquent tendencies to a pathetic schleb who has bad things happen to him, because they can't market a main character who commits petty crimes. there is no doubt in my mind that there were editors breathing down wakui's neck while creating the final arc and ordering him to make changes for the sake of profit and appeasement.
âŁÂ Pairing: Rindou x AFAB fem!Reader w/ a chapter cameo of reader/yuzuha
âŁÂ Warning: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI
âŁÂ Series: part of the In the Belly of the Beast fic universe
âŁÂ Chapter CW: bdsm play feat. reader/yuzuha (gasp!), bondage, overstim, vibrators, exhibitionism, group BDSM feat. 2 other subs getting masturbated (one fem!AFAB and one fem!AMAB, idk crowd jeers, a little bit of degradation, bad communication & angst, drinking)
⣠Story CWs: BDSM dob/sub relationship; sex (oral, ptv, pta, etc.); genre typical drug use, alcohol, smoking
âŁÂ Synopsis: A story of two lonely people find love for better or worse. Or, dom!Rindou is sweet on his girl. Or, on paper, you and Rindou have nothing in common. But sometimes chemistry defies logic, and with every conversation, you find yourself more bewitched until all you see, smell, or hear is Rindou.
⣠Word Count: ~8.5k
The black dot may have been nothing but a circle, a representation of the sun or an eye, except it is written, which makes it punctuation. As a symbol of punctuation, it may have been a period at the end of a sentence, except there are three, which makes it part of an ellipsis. As an ellipsis, it may have indicated a trailing off of a thought except it accompanies a blank space on his screen, an auto-generated signal from his phone, which means you are still typing, as you have been for the last five minutes with no message yet in response to his text.
It should not take this long to respond to an invitation to dinner.
With every minute that passes, his ire rises higher.
Rindou strains through another set of lat pulls, refusing to let you and your silent treatment slow him down. Opposite him, Benkei deadlifts a stunning 300 kg. When the bar hits the floor, the clang echoes off the mirror-lined walls.
There is a gym in the basement of his apartment complex, guaranteed to be empty in the early pre-dawn hours, which he prefers for the privacy it offers. Wakasaâs gym is never empty. Fighters practice boxing, MMA, and jujutsu with retired pros morning and night. Most of the customers sport tattoos from one syndicate or another, and Rindou often recognizes the guys on his own payroll by the free weights or sweating in the saunas. Rindou only started returning to Wakasaâs gym for the occasional practice bout or strength training session in the last few months. Wakasaâs been filling his ear with the idea of taking you and his girl on a double date, a vacation to the mountains when your semester wraps, and Rindou has been coming by to talk the details.
A text finally lights up his screen, and Rindou forces himself to ignore it for a solid minute while he finishes his set even as his eyes dart back against his will.
I canât do dinner. Plans with Naoya. But I could do drinks.
Wakasa lopes forward, hands in his pockets, before Rindou can answer. Itâs his turn to leave you with the ellipsis of anxiety and doom. He locks his phone and tosses face-down on a bench.
âWanted to tell you we got the goods through Nagoya yesterday,â Wakasa says tonelessly. âUshiodaâs really come through. My guy says customs not only didnât check, they agreed to decrease security personnel during offboarding. Ran is going to be a menace about being the one to make this happen, but heâs worked his magic on this.â
Rindou matches Wakasaâs subdued attitude beat for beat, but in his mind, he runs through a monthâs worth of memos and emails to recall if he knew about this plan. âYou sent a shipment of girls through the port? Thatâs fucking brazen.â
âMochi wanted to test the limits early with something cheap before we put our expensive shit through there,â Wakasa said.
According to Takeomi, Ushioda begged on bended knee for clemency for his son. It was hard to say whether love or shame drove the father, but the outcome was the same. Acme Corp would smuggle Bonten contraband through the Port of Nagoya, so long as they streamlined into their regular shipping schedule to avoid setting off any alarm bells.
This was the second shipment received through the port after moving a little marijuana through a few weeks earlier. Rindou tries to keep his expectations in check as operations continue smoothly, but his hopes rise against his better judgment.
âMochi says he wants to do a few more runs, but that you should start thinking through where you could source the heroine,â Wakasa relays.
They could source through the triads as the Chinese and Russian gangs already have inroads with the producers, but they would each take their cut and ruin Bontenâs margins. The drug would be new on the market. Rindou doesnât want to price high outright. Start cheap and once the clientele canât live without their fix, then drive the prices up. They could run a deficit to start, but that would mean Koko up his ass. Cutting the triads out completely isnât an option either as they would need to ship out of China, but if they could build their own supplier network, they could negotiate a better rate.
âItâs gonna be too obvious if we have guys coming in and out of Afghanistan all the time. They donât even run direct flights out of Seoul. Weâd get picked instantly. Iâm thinking we could get away with sending someone through to Turkey though. With a little palm greasing, they can cross into Iran without getting their passport stamped. The IRGC run the heroine trade through Afghanistan, so we could develop our own connections from there,â Rindou says.
Wakasa nods along at what he already figured. âWho you gonna send?â
âNot me if thatâs what youâre thinking. I hate plane rides,â Rindou says.
âOf course, not you. We need you. I was thinking Hanma.â
Rindou groans. âI fucking hate that guy.â
âWe all fucking hate that guy. But thatâs why heâs good at this shit. Heâs done great work in Hong Kong. Send him over there. He knows how to make the coldest man sweat,â Wakasa suggests.
âYeah, yeah. Iâll think about it.â
He finishes another set of lat pulls, while Wakasa and Benkei chat away about the insipid rise of Peloton. Endorphins rush to his brain, and he feels magnanimous enough to finally shoot you a reply.
See you at 5.
If he has anything to say about it, Naoya will be eating dinner alone tonight.
--
Two people could not be dressed more oppositely. Fresh from his post-workout shower, Rindou wears nothing but a pair of sweats. Droplets of water scatter across his bare shoulder blade as his long, wet hair drips freely. Strong chest and arms still pumped from muscle training great you at the door. You, meanwhile, dressed for an Arctic exploration in a floor-length parka, bulging in all the wrong places, a fluffy scarf wound three-times round your neck, and an equally fluffy, fur-lined hood. A mask completes the look, so the only skin he can see is a sliver of your forehead and your narrowed eyes.
âJust looking at you makes me feel cold,â you scowl.
âJust looking at you is making me cold.â
You barge right past him into his apartment. The heater works overtime to keep the entire complex a toasty 23 degrees. Past the entryway, where you slip out of your boots, the dining room table is lined with boxes of Chinese takeout; Unsure what youâd want to eat, Rindou opted to order a smorgasbord of options.
Beneath the unflattering coat, you wear a black dress. The long sleeves and tasteful length contrast a daring vee that dips down to show off the swell of your lovely, little breasts. Youâre packaged like a delicious gift for the unwrapping, and Rindou canât resist planting a soft kiss to the back of your neck as you hang your coat. He expects the battle tonight will be a long and painful one, but still you dressed up for him.
âGood to see itâs you under there. For a second, I thought it might be an assassin,â Rindou jokes.
âEasy for you to laugh all warm in here! Itâs freezing outside. Theyâre calling for snow tonight into tomorrow, which sucks. I canât miss class at this point in the semester,â you complain.
âWell, Iâve got everything you need to warm up,â Rindou says. He gestures at the table laden with food, and then, more critically, brandishes the bottle of wine bought just for tonight. âAnd if the weatherâs too bad tomorrow, Iâm sure theyâll cancel. You can just hang out here all day.â
âMy professors are all sadists. I wouldnât put it past them to host class as they get double-bypass surgery. Theyâd have the surgeon right there in the lecture hall,â you grumble.
Rindou half listens as you launch into a prolonged rant about your upcoming finals. His attention is understandably split as he searches your lively expressions for the ugly shadow of jealousy. Behind every word, he hunts for double meanings.
The look of pure betrayal on your face when he ran into you yesterday in Chiba will not soon leave his mind. It colored his scenes yesterday with Mayuri, turning him mean and unmerciful as he bound and belted her ass red. She deserved his full attention after putting her trust in him, but Rindou twice almost walked away to call you. Had you answered, he might have berated you for daring to look at him like that, like youâd caught him fucking your mother or murdering the family pet. Like heâd done something unforgivable to you.
Now, as you gripe about exams, every bit the picture of the beleaguered uni student, your words ring false. Like you are filling time and space to put distance between the you of yesterday, so judgey and offended, and the you of today. You tell him how exams are two months out, and like a good student, you are already studying in earnest in the pits of what you dub âflashcard hellâ as Kii has taken to posting flashcards over every expanse of wall in her apartment, springing prep questions on unconsenting listeners, and crying periodically about how she should have spent fewer hours sleeping and more time reading the supplementary materials. Rindou hums in sympathy in all the right places, and he almost, almost begins to relax into the conversation. Like an idiot.
âAre you feeling the dumplings or the pork?â Rindou asks, plating up a hearty helping of food for himself.
âNeither. I canât eat, remember?â you say.
âOh, come on. Stay the night. Itâs too cold to be going out.â
âTrue, but I promised Naoto. Weâre going to this really fancy curry restaurant, and he said heâd pay, so Iâm planning to go all out and get dessert,â you say.
Noticing his wine glass is running low, Rindou drains the last dregs and pours himself a healthy portion. This will be easier drunk. He debates pouring you more as well, wondering if a little tipsiness would make you spunkier or mellow the worst of your impulses. Because he senses the fit approaching, the moment you break your pretense that everything is fine and well and force a confrontation.
âYou know, I donât like playing games,â he says.
 âI donât like playing games either.â
âThen, donât.â
Rindou says it shortly, definitively. The barest hint of command reinforces his voice, and he watches the way you receive the order, squirming in that delightfully submissive way of yours before you reject your inclination to obedience. You set your jaw.
âI donât know what youâre talking about,â you say.
Rindou sighs. He expected you would be difficult but not passive aggressive. Not like this.
âYou have dinner plans with Naoto? Seriously?â
âYes?â
âBullshit,â Rindou snaps. âI expected you to be immature about what happened yesterday, but this? Youâre better than this. Forget your conveniently timed dinner plans, and letâs act like adults. Then, we can have a nice night.â
âItâs a work event. Naoto was nervous about going alone, so he asked me to come with him. This was planned weeks ago. I just forgot until he reminded me,â you insist, standing up from your chair, like the added height will strengthen your lie.
âConvenient,â Rindou sneers.
In the six months youâve been together, you have never had a genuine fight or even argument. Seeing your smiling face typically puts Rindou in too good a mood, curbs the worst of his temper, so he is slow to pick fights. You, meanwhile, listen so well, adapting your behavior without him having to utter a word. Bickering typically becomes flirtatious banter in a matter of minutes, the kind that ends with your panties in his pocket.
So, Rindou doesnât know what to expect from you in a real fight. He half expected you to fold at the slightest correction. You are still young, so he doesnât write off the possibility of some kind of petty manipulation either, the silent treatment maybe, or more probably breaking into a mess of tears, the kind that bring so many men to a panic; Unfortunately for you, Rindou doesnât capitulate to a womanâs cries or begging, going cold at any miserable attempt to manipulate his emotions.
Faced with you now, the tendons in your neck pulse as you square of against him without any sign of crumbling. You worry your lower lip between your teeth until it is red and swollen. It is the only sign of anxiety. Otherwise, you stand strong.
âIf you feel like Iâm somehow attacking you, it must be a guilty conscience. Because I havenât said or done anything to you.â
âWhat do I have to feel guilty about?â Rindou demands coldly.
âYouâd have to tell me. Because I thought about it all day and night ââ
âSee, I knew you were wound up about yesterday ââ
âI thought about it all day and night,â you raise your voice to drown him out. âAnd, yes, it was weird to see you with someone else. Yes, it hurt. It was so unexpected. But, if you think Iâm trying to punish you over it, youâre out of line because my eyes are wide open. Youâre not my boyfriend ââ
âNo, Iâm not. Which is why you shouldnât ââ
âI know, I know. How can I be hurt or angry when youâre not my boyfriend? You didnât cheat on me or break any promises. I have nothing to be upset about.â
âRight.â
Confused and more than a little wary, Rindou sits back down at the table. He has held conversations like this a few times in his life. Most subs understand the importance of negotiation implicitly and take him for what he is. There have been a handful of in the past, however, usually inexperienced women like you, who struggled to work through the limitations of their relationship with him, crashing futilely against the boundaries of what he offered.
Because he doesnât do relationships. Blame it on the dangers of his work, the secrecy inherent in the lifestyle, or some intrinsic flaw in his makeup. Regardless, he never plans to tie himself down to one woman. All that road offers is the erosion of his freedom.
âSince you wanted to talk about it so much though, bringing it up and all, I would like to ask about what I should expect,â you continue. âBecause I didnât realize you were seeing other people, and that raises questions. Like, are you practicing safe sex with these women? Have you been getting tested for STDs? Should we be using condoms? And, are you looking for more long-term subs? How would you even fit in another sub? Would we have to see each other less, so you could make time for a new one? What should I expect going forward?â
Each question is too reasonable to deny, so Rindou answers plainly, âYouâre the only person I see regularly, so I use condoms with everyone else and get tested on the first of every month. If you want to use condoms together, that is entirely your decision. Iâll accept whatever you decide. Iâm not looking to train anyone else right now. If I found someone that suited my tastes, I might consider it though, and yeah, that would mean adjusting my schedule around because Iâm going to go out on a limb and assume you would not be open to training together.â
âNo!â
âYeah, no kidding,â Rindou says.
âHow many women have you been with since we got together?â you demand.
There is no good answer, and Rindou groans, âSeriously? Donât start overreacting now.â
âIâm cool! Iâm being so cool. Just answer the question,â you smile, but it is a mockery of your normal, gleaming smiles. Teeth clenched tight together, it is more like an animal baring its fangs.
âNo! I donât owe you a fucking itemized list of every woman Iâve fucked. Just like I donât run around town telling them about you. I havenât cheated on you. I donât owe you an explanation.â
âI just wanna know how and when youâre finding time to meet other people.â
Rindou rolls his eyes. âBecause thatâs rational. You donât actually want to know the answer to that.â
âI just donât know where youâre possibly finding the time to meet all these women ââ
âAgain, youâre exaggerating. Not all these women. Some, like Mayuri, I knew before you. Some I meet through work. Straightforward stuff.â
âMayuri is the woman from yesterday?â
âI think weâre done with this conversation now,â Rindou says tightly.
A shininess blurs the color of your eyes then, and Rindou sighs. He wants to wrap you up in his arms and praise you for being such a strong, beautiful girl because despite all your tough words, this isnât easy for you. If he could be a better man for you, he would consider it, but there is only so much he can offer, and the burden of accepting that is on you.
âThank you for being honest with me. I really do need to head out and meet Naoto, but Iâll think about the condom thing,â you murmur.
âBaby, donât leave like this,â Rindou tries. There is no more fight in your stance and now that the threat of conflict is ended, he finds the energy draining from his whole body.
âIâm fine! Weâre fine. Seriously, Rindou. Iâm not going to overreact or stamp my foot at you like that might change something. My eyes are wide open like I told you. I understand where youâre coming from completely. We can hang out soon,â you say.
Rindou doesnât like the idea of you leaving when your foundations are so shaken, wants to stuff you full of gone-cold Chinese food and cuddle on the couch until you fall asleep on his shoulder. Even if neither of you yelled or descended into insults, he feels like he fought a war, and the only way to recover is in your arms.
He follows you to the entryway.
You redon your winter gear in a hurry. The puffy coat is plush and cozy as he pulls you close and kisses you long and slow. You return the kiss with wind-chapped lips not fighting him at all. The heat that always explodes between you blazes, and he cups and caresses you through the barrier of the coat.
He wants you to stay.
You break the kiss after only a minute and smile.
âIâll call you, ok?â
And then, you are gone.
--
When Rindou sleeps, he dreams of shopping malls built like mazes, window shopping displays of the finest goods, and he understands without knowing that to obtain even one miraculous product from these stores would spell his salvation; But whenever he tries to enter one of the stores, the maze shifts, redirects him until he is walking forwards again, searching. Still searching. During the slippery seconds between sleep and waking, that liminal space where dreams and life converge, he stews in resentment for what he canât possess. That resentment often follows him into the day, though he tries not to dwell on it. The recurring dream started sometime in his early twenties. He remembers that dream joining him in sleep on at least a monthly basis, but for all he knows, he dreams it every night only to forget with the rising of the sun.
The weeks that follow the lingerie incident remind him of that dream only there is no supernatural force reworking the architecture of time and space to prevent him from entering the store. It feels like heâs piloting a plane headed straight for a cliff. There is still time to push the emergency button and eject to safety if he is only willing to abandon the plane to its solitary, fiery fate. But, he is a pilot, and the plane is all heâs ever known, and the longer he goes without pushing the button, the slighter his chances of escaping unscathed.
Because you are not fine.
The three weeks that follow pass at a crawl. Time reshapes itself into molasses around the giant you-sized absence in his days. It is easy, at first, to deny the obvious as you offer such convincing excuses to blow him off. After all, your friends do often lean on you for emotional support, and finals are drawing close, and your mother does deserve a break. So what if you leave his texts on read for hours at a time?
On the fourth day, he calls you in the free period he knows falls between your Wednesday lectures. When you answer, Rindou mistakes your sing-song hello for the voicemail you have relegated him to recently. You apologize for not having time to talk, squeezing more words into a breath than humanly plausible as you explain your packed study schedule. You promise to see him soon before you hang up.
You sounded fine on the phone. The same voice, light and airy like spring personified, that Rindou knows so well.
But you are not fine.
The ice wall between you thaws a little in the second week when Rindou reminds you that he bought tickets to the Inaba/Salas tour. Again, you surprise him by joining as planned at the stadium. Throughout the concert, you smile and cheer along, and the open delight on your face as you groove to the music invites him to join in the fun. At the end of the night, he drives you home to where you swear your mom is waiting. He kisses you breathless in the front seat of his car. You sigh hot and sticky into his mouth, notched into the crook of his shoulder like you have carved a space for yourself there, and whisper âSirâ with more fervor than a prayer. Everything seems fine.
But you are not fine.
Only a few days later, you agree to a date. The familiarity as he texts you details and soaks up your liberal usage of emojis relaxes him into thinking all is well. He takes you ice skating at Tokyo Midtown Gardens. With your little gloved hand in his, you half carry each other around the rink, equally graceless without the surety of solid ground. Rindou laughs more than he has for two weeks. You both fall again and again, Rindou toppling each time so as to shield your body from the worst of it. As you sprawl on top of him, padded from head to toe in winter wear, you promise to kiss his purple bruises better and call him your hero. Back at his apartment, you do just that, licking and kissing every part of his body, losing track of time. The trains stop running, so you sleep where you belong in the cradle of his arms. He wakes up at 6AM to the sound of you shuffling, halfway out the door citing an early start to the day. You would have left without a goodbye, but at his groggy inquiry, you tell him you are fine.
But you are not fine.
Rindou wants to confront you about the change. He hates playing stupid games more than accusations or tears and would rather have it out at this point. But, whenever you visit, he never broaches the subject. Because you are so singularly you! And fuck it. He misses you. The contrast between seeing you fives time a week and this drought is stark. Now, when you leave, you donât send him dumb memes or answer his calls to talk about your day. You donât rush to make plans to see him again either, and Rindou knows he canât accept your lame excuses anymore. Something is fundamentally broken.
For the first time in maybe ever, Rindou throws himself into his work. The timing is convenient with recent developments, so he offers to take the meetings outside the perimeter of Tokyo when before he might have dragged his feet. He personally briefs Takeomi every day. When Kakucho mentions a security threat in passing, Rindou volunteers to help even though it falls well outside his purview. Anything to keep the body active.
You had come to fill up the hours of his day, to be the dessert he could look forward to after a meal of veggies. Rindou canât comprehend how he used to fill the interminable hours between six PM and sleep without your assistance.
So, he works, and he tries not to think about anything much at all.
The plane soars onward without any assistance on his part. The details of the exposed cliff face, jagged and unforgiving, grow clearer by the hour. There will be no escape. When he crashes, Rindou knows he is going to explode.
--
Ran once said all of Bonten has PTSD in one form or another. Overexposure to high stress, life-or-death situations puts too much stress on the adrenal system, so now half the executives drop to their stomachs when a car misfires, stand with their backs flat to the nearest wall in every new room, avoid crowds like some people avoid traffic tickets. Rindou considers himself free of this affliction, but on the road, hands flexing on the steering wheel and eyes split between mirrors like a car might strike out into his lane at any moment, he is every bit as activated.
The hour is late, creeping towards midnight when Rindou pulls onto the expressway. There are predictably few passenger cars sharing the road. Semitrucks kick up a mist of rain that obscures his windshield.
To fill the sleepless hours, Rindou is developing all kinds of new habits. Driving, brain preciously blank to all but the threat of traffic, is one of them. So is going to the office. Just today, he went to the Ueno office of all places rather than watch the hours of the day tick by in his apartment. There is no email unanswered, directive unissued, or memo unread to keep his brain occupied. He wishes there was because his apartment holds as little allure now as it did this this morning.
A notification lights up the display. Itâs a reminder that the BDSM club in Roppongi â the one where you first met â is open for play tonight. Rindou palms his cock, and it feels like an animal, a dead one, in his pants. Not even a stir. His mood is too black and distracted to responsibly dom anyone, so he dismisses the notification.
Screeching the tires, Rindou almost misses his exit. He brakes hard down the ramp until he shoots out on a quiet street. At the drab buildings, he does a double take, recognizing the north entrance to Nakano Station.
He has driven straight past his real exit and an extra twenty minutes without noticing to arrive in your neighborhood.
Rindou feels drunk despite not taking a sip of alcohol all day. He pulls into a gas station and refills the tank. While it pumps, he pops his contacts out of sore eyes. Everything blurs like a photograph in soft focus. He closes his eyes against a headache and breathes deep for 120 torturous breaths. Back in the car, he unearths his glasses from the glove compartment. Theyâre the same style, though a stronger prescription, that he wore as a teen. Catching his reflection in the rearview, Rindou sees the boy he once was. Just as lost, letting things happen around him without a thought, only leaping to action when stronger powers (namely Ran) prompted). Someone who watches as life happens.
Nothing is in his control.
The BDSM club is five minutes closer to Nakano than his apartment, a negligible difference, but after the driving mix-up he changes course. Nostalgia takes the wheel to lead to where you first met, where he has not visited since.
The ticket takers at the theater donât recognize him, hesitating until he points at the tattoo on his throat. He looks unkempt: hair ratty and unbrushed, jacket slung over his shoulder and button-up crumpled at the ends, and his glasses highlight the eyes of a man who has barely slept in days. It is no surprise that subs donât flock to him when he enters. He doesnât look like the all-powerful dom tonight. Best he sits back and watches.
Rindou pays for a full bottle of bourbon, served neat and hard on the taste buds. The club is busy as itâs Saturday, and couples and groups clog the four stages. There are no tables left close enough for a view of the action, so Rindou stands in the corner, taking heavy swigs straight from the bottle until his stomach cramps.
There is little variety on stage. Three doms whip, cane, and flog their subs. All older man with younger women. They are impersonal, showing perfunctory delight at the infliction of pain. These are the kinds of scenes that bore him when done without finesse.
On the fourth stage, he recognizes Lady X, a domme he knows from many shared nights spent just like this, bringing women to their knees. Lost in his memories is Lady Xâs real name. Yuzu somethingâŚYuzuriha? Yuzuyu? In the clubs, she always goes by her alias or is called simply Lady, but Rindou remembers her vaguely as the sister of the tenth gen leader of the Black Dragons.
Lady is the antithesis of Rindou as a dom.
If Rindou finds control in manipulating a pliant body and acceptance in a subâs embrace of his touch, whether it offers pain or pleasure, Lady finds release in giving her subs what they want. Where Rindou hoards womenâs orgasms like precious jewels, flaunting his ownership of them only to hide them away again, Lady distributes them like cheap birdseed, doling out orgasm after orgasm to her thankful subs. Eventually said thanks turns to pleading, as one orgasm becomes four and the pleasure twists to something monumental. Lady then ups the vibrator or nips the womanâs clit with blunt teeth because, as she told Rindou once over a drink at this very bar, her goal in every scene is to create a world where her subsâ worst problem is the existence of too much pleasure, not its absence, nor its inverse, pain.
Tonight, Lady commands the largest audience of patrons. No surprise there as she strikes quite the picture herself, tall and lovely in a pencil skirt as she brings three subs on stage to piteous tears. Rindou slides closer to her stage for a better look.
Suspended in a harness of ropes, the first sub weeps wretchedly. There is a hitachi wand held to her clit. The setting must be high because the buzz travels from the stage to his ears. The woman cries but does not beg for mercy. There is the sheen of the acolyte behind her eyes, like she might commit unspeakable acts if they only bring her back here to Ladyâs ropes and generous toys.
A second sub at her side stands restrained but not suspended. Her arms are tied above her, so that she can do nothing while Lady strokes her cock. Ladyâs little hand smears messily over the tip, which is an inflamed red. There is a puddle of cum on the floor from the womanâs past orgasms. Little drips of semen harden on her legs. Every touch must hurt, but Lady keeps playing with the tip, forcing her back to hardness whether she likes it or not.
The third sub is just an ass in the air. A perfect ass at that.
Bent over a wooden block and shackled at the ankle, so that her legs are to the audience, the subâs pussy is spread wide around a vibrator taped to her clit. Her feet kick ineffectually against her restraints, little trembles jiggling her thighs.
Rindou enjoys watching Lady work, so self-assured, so competent at bringing her subs to the brink and past. His eyes stray again and again to the pretty ass in the air. A stir in his pants makes him question his decision to abstain tonight. It has been over a week of his own hand.
After fifteen minutes of more of the same, Lady releases the first two subs from their ropes and cuffs. They are felled heaps on the stage, panting in puddles of their own slick and cum. Lady rounds to the third sub, leaning toward that hidden face in private conversation. Then she stands, and sighs for the audienceâs benefit.
âHere I am being so generous, telling this slut to cum as many times as she wants, and she hasnât cum once! What to do?â
Lady answers her own question by crouching down in front of the subâs spread pussy and burying her whole face in it. There is a lull in the music, and Rindou can hear just how lewdly Lady laves that pussy with her tongue. Her fingers stretch the subâs hole at a brutal pace. The woman keens loudly and kicks her feet again. Everything from her little naked toes to canting hips look beautiful in the throws of overstimulation.
Of course, Rindou knows without knowing. A presentiment colors the scene. He leans forward with interest, compelled toward that wet cunt, not wanting to miss a moment of the action, but his stomach sickens too. He ignores the sensation, blames the bourbon warming its way down his belly.
Lady tuts as the sub continues to hang on the precipice without teetering over.
She turns to the audience and says, âLittle slut is having a hard time coming without permission from her old dom. Isnât that the most pathetic thing youâve ever heard? Why donât you let her know she has permission to cum? Tell her to squirt all over my hand.â
Eager to join in more actively, the crowd of about thirty hoot and holler in encouragement, mixing in obscenities about the subâs wet cunt and place beneath Ladyâs toys. Rindou claps along.
Four fingers slam in and out of that sloppy hole, and the time between shakes and cries from the sub evaporates until she is blubbering at the stimulation. Lady yanks her up by the hair to gift her the added sting at her scalp, and it pushes the sub over the edge.
Correction: it pushes you over the edge.
Because Rindou knows that ass, and he knows those toes, and even at a distance with the lights too bright and a row of people in front of him, he knows that pretty pussy, too. That pretty pussy now clenches around Ladyâs fingers in an orgasm far too long and powerful for your overstimulated body.
Rindou watches your face screw up in pain and tears, an expression just as familiar to him. It is an expression that should belong solely to him.
All three subs follow Lady dutifully off stage after your orgasm finally settles. She bundles you all in blankets, heaping compliments and affection down on you as is your due after such a trying scene. Rindou hovers within earshot as Lady pets your head and rubs a tear from your check. Twenty minutes elapse as you come out of subspace, during which time Rindou drains half the bottle of bourbon.
âI look like a racoon. Iâm gonna head to the bathroom and fix my makeup,â you laugh, pointing at the streaks of mascara that paint your cheeks.
You replace the blanket with an overcoat to shield your nakedness then weave your way through the crowd. Compliments on your performance rain down from all sides. Rindou shadows your step. Not far from the bathroom, you drop your phone. When you turn to pick it up off the floor, Rindou is there, already scooping it off the ground.
âRin â Rindou!â you yelp.
âNot trying to scare you,â Rindou says immediately, defensively, and he passes the phone back to you without even scanning the lock screen for a peek at your messages. âJust saw you and wanted to say hey.â
âWell, heyâŚumâŚâ
âYou might wanna fix your makeup. Youâve gotâŚâ Rindou gestures at the cakey residue you already know is there, and you curse.
âYeah, sorry. I need to go to the bathroom and deal with this.â
âIâll come with you,â Rindou says, opening the door for you.
âRindou, you canât come in here with me,â you whisper.
He almost tells you itâs his club and he can do whatever he wants, but Rindou wears his secrecy like a second skin and only smirks at your worries before following you into the womenâs bathroom. It is a six-stall affair with a wall mirror above the sinks. He can hear a woman pee behind the door of one stall, but he ignores the strangerâs presence as you ignore his, turning to the mirrors.
âYou did good up there. Looked like you had a lot of tension to work out, which isnât surprising considering all the studying youâve been doing. Didnât you have a paper due this week?â Rindou prompts.
You rub dry fingertips against your cheeks. When that doesnât work, you wad up three paper towels, wet from the sink, and scrub.
âYeah, I had a paper on BashĹâs references to music and instrumentation in his poems, which was due on Thursday. It could have been a lot worse honestly. I like the subject, and I thought my first draft was good for once. Of course, I had a complete breakdown on Wednesday after dreaming that the paper was really supposed to be about Nishiyama SĹin and that Iâd miscited every source in there, but um, I managed to calm myself down.â
âGood. I donât know why you always have nightmares about your papers. You always get an A.â
âNot always,â you say darkly.
The woman in the occupied stall hurries out, casting a few curious glances Rindouâs way as she washes her hands. She doesnât dry them, leaving little splatters of water on the counter. Then, they are truly alone.
âAre you planning to stick around now that you finished your scene? Canât imagine you wanna do another after that? It looked intense.â
âYou really watched that?â you ask.
âMost of it,â he confirms. âYou did good.â
âThanks,â you say without looking at him. You dry your hands while staring at your now streak-free reflection in the mirror.
âIf you donât wanna stay, I could take you home. Or, if youâre hungry, I know a 24/7 breakfast place not far from here. You never eat enough after a scene,â Rindou says.
âUm, Iâm goodâŚHave you been coming here often?â
âNo, itâs my first time in forever. You?â he asks in a tone that just misses casual.
âItâs my second time in the last two weeks. Iâm kind of trying out stuff right now,â you say.
âTrying out stuffâŚâ he tests the words.
âAre you okay? You look a little tense.â
Normally, Rindou chooses his words with precision, but he finds himself unable to process his surroundings. He exists somewhere outside his body, outside his brain, outside this room entirely. He peers down on the scene almost like a security camera, removed and distant. No, rather more like footage from a security camera, viewed days after the fact in a little room by someone who neither knows nor understands the context of the scene. Trying to think through the likely consequences of his words or choosing an alternative phrase, he finds his thoughts vaporous and ungraspable. So, he simply speaks.
âI didnât like it.â
âLike what? Watching me with someone else?â you say quickly.
He grunts because thatâs easier than searching for any kind of answer.
âYou said we could fuck other people.â
âI know. You didnât do anything wrong,â Rindou agrees. It is the correct and automatic response, but he canât resist tacking on the truth at the end. âI didnât like watching.â
âWell, thatâs flattering at least,â you mutter.
In a different reality, one where he sent you up there with a pat on the ass, he might have liked watching Lady work your cunt up to a waterfall before returning you to him, still hovering on the precipice, edged and needy. He might have liked teasing you all night with the possibility of an orgasm. But he did not like watching you cum for someone else. Not without his permission. Even with a filmy gauze slowing down his brain from the half bottle of bourbon, he knows that much.
âWeâre not okay, are we?â Rindou asks.
âNo, Rindou. We are not okay.â
âWell, can we talk about it?â
âI donât know. Can we talk about it without you making me feel like a complete idiot?â you snap.
A woman pushes open the door to the bathroom, but upon hearing the direction of your conversation, she turns right around, leaving you to a privacy tinged by history. The door creaks back into place with a choked slam.
âLike aâŚ? Youâre not an idiot?â Rindou insists.
âI know Iâm not an idiot! I have spent the last few weeks going back and forth between feeling so sad and then so goddamn angry with you! Because I know that I could not have been more chill about things if I had a lobotomy to remove my frontal cortex first! I was so cool about everything, so understanding, so kind, and you treated me like, like some fucking bother you had to get out of the way!â
The first feeling to reemerge from the confused pit you dumped him in is embarrassment at himself as he is admittedly slow on the uptake, stuttering out, âWaitâŚthis isnât aboutâŚ? This is about our conversation at my apartment?â
âYes!â you hiss, hands flapping emphatically and voice echoing off the tile. The overcoat swallows you whole, a sea of black fabric trailing the floor, but somehow you stand tall within it. âYes! I came that night so prepared to listen to your side of things and be reasonable and empathetic and all the rest, and you treated me like I was a hysterical child that you had to manage. Far be it from me to criticize the great Rindou! Not that I even did criticize you before you were jumping down my throat. I am not unreasonable. I am not hysterical. And I am not a child. I did not appreciate being treated like I was.â
Rindou remembers back to the hours before you arrived at his apartment that day. How heâd been so sure you would accuse him of cheating or play mind games to negate your own jealousy. The whole time you were there, he maintained that sureness even when you acted contrary to those expectations.
It, he admits, hadnât been fair.
Worse, it may have been patronizing.
He groans, not at you but at the memory, and rubs a hand over his face. âFuck, yeah, yeah, youâre probably right. I see that. I didnât want you to blow things out of proportion, so I tried to shut you down before you could. But I guess I acted like a prick.â
âA prick might be understating it. I came to you to have a conversation in good faith, and you made me feel soâŚsmall. Insignificant. Like, Iâm just this easy thing to you. Like you could use and discard me, so I better shut my mouth before you throw me away.â
Rindou opens his mouth to give a rebuttal-like reassurance that you are wrong about your supposed disposability to him, but you plow forward, pointed finger punctuating every word, which is a welcome distraction from the look of raw pain on your face. It is like the sun. Too painful to look at directly.
âI know what that feels like, Rindou, because Iâve been treated that way before. Iâm young and people call me sweet, and that means people think Iâm stupid or superficial, but Iâm not. Iâm capable of dealing with the hard things and having the hard conversations, and I do not deserve to be treated like Iâm too naĂŻve to know how things work.â
There is a layer of grime on his tongue. He focuses on how foreign it feels in his mouth rather than the thumping organ in his ribcage. The way his heart races and the room feels too small is not dissimilar to the sensations he feels when someone fires a gun, when his life is momentarily suspended. A kind of physical panic that quickly settles into alertness.
He breathes deep, calming. Rindou smells the antibacterial soap and weak air freshener blowing from the vents. The colors of the room appear saturated, more contrast and more details accessible to the eye. Most importantly, he sees you clearly. The veins of your throat strain as if bursting with tension your body canât contain. There are new smudges at the edges as tiny tears wet your eyeline. There is every emotion in those eyes from disgust to anger to sadness, but most of all, there is a question lingering there as you silently beg him to answer: where can we go from here?
âI have never thought of you as some easy thing. I fucked up. I donât know what was going on in my head that day, but youâre right. I wasnât seeing you. I should have shut my fucking mouth and listened. Iâm sorry.â
Relief warms your eyes.
âI accept your apology,â you say.
âReally?â Rindou asks. After weeks of brewing resentment and your impassioned speech, he didnât expect a speedy turnaround no matter how many pretty speeches he made himself.
âYeah, I donât like being angry. It takes a lot of energy,â you half laugh.
The abrupt about face from anger to laughter throws into stark relief that the is very drunk and very tired. Â Beneath that, Rindou recognizes a more abstract emotion, too: happiness.
âIâm sorry I didnât say something sooner. I didnât realize what you were upset about,â Rindou says, and then he adds helpfully. âBecause Iâm stupid. Thanks for forgiving me.â
âYeah, you are stupid, but I figure you deserve a little grace because this was the first time in six months that you disrespected me. So long as you never treat me that way again. Seriously. My mother taught me to never put up with that from anyone,â you say.
âOn my honor,â Rindou vows. âSo, can I buy you something to eat now?â
The happiness explodes out like a shaken soda bottle. One second, heâs filled to the brim with it, and the next itâs gone, bubbling to nothing on the tile because you donât say yes. Instead, you stare grimly at the wall, all traces of reconciliation gone as you clutch the sleeves of your overcoat tight.
He wonders if his apology is not enough, if he might prove his sincerity to you in some other way. If you were Mikey, he would cut off his pinky. He would gladly gift you the ring, index, and middle fingers of his left hand, too, if you demanded them. But fingers out of the question, he has nothing to give you to prove himself, and you donât say yes.
âRindouâŚI do accept your apology for insulting me, but thatâs not allâŚThe truth is, I tried to be cool about it, but Iâve had weeks to think, andâŚIâm not okay with things going back to how they were if you are dating or hell, sleeping with other people. Iâm jealous and hurt. And I canât accept it,â you say.
âItâs normal to be jealous,â Rindou tries, tone bracing and supportive. âI got jealous today, but I worked through it. Iâve been a dom since I was nineteen, and Iâve never been tied down to one person before. Itâs not the way I know how to do things. Thatâs why I didnât make any promises when we got together. I didnât cheat on ââ
âPlease donât start that again! I know! I know you technically didnât do anything wrong. And I know that I canât make you stop seeing other people. Itâs your relationship, too, and you can have your boundaries, butâŚâ
âBut?â
âBut if I canât ask you to stop seeing other people, then you canât ask me to keep loving you.â
You clap a hand to your mouth as if shocked by the confession, or like you might herd the words back into your mouth where they will remain unspoken. But it is too late. He can count on one hand the number of times anyone has told him they loved him, and he will not forget this.
âBabyâŚâ Rindou tries to reach for you, but you scramble away, and now tears fall down your cheeks.
âIâm sorry, but thatâs the problem, ya know? It hasnât just been sex or hanging out for me. What we were doing, for me at least, was love, and it hurts too much to love someone whoâŚI tried to take a step back, just have fun with you every once in a while, but thereâs no medicine for falling in love, and every time I saw your stupid face, my heart started doing backflips. It doesnât listen to me when I tell it we shouldnât love you anymore. And thatâs whyâŚâ
Your face blurs. It takes Rindou several confused seconds to realize his eyes are wet and blink the moisture away. When you reappear, you have steeled your nerves for the finishing blow.
âThatâs why I donât want to see you anymore. I need space and time to get over you, so um, please just stop calling and texting and all the rest. Just stop.â
Your face blurs again, and this time Rindou knows itâs because his eyes are watering. He blames his stupid glasses. He needs a stronger prescription.
There is no such excuse for your tears that drip past your chin to land on your collar. You wipe fruitlessly at the leakage, too slow to stimmy their fall.
If you say anything after that, Rindou doesnât hear you over the ringing in his ears. Three women enter the bathroom arm-in-arm and immediately jabber at him about how he isnât welcome, like three harpies sent to drive him away. Rindou doesnât fight them as they push him out the door with their words.
Outside in the club, in the dark and music, far from the bright quiet of the bathroom, Rindou feels like heâs stepped onto the surface of Mars. Like heâs planets away from where you are, and he might as well be.
He doesnât know how to find his way back to you because he stands now amid the wreckage, engine on fire, wings cracked. The plane has finally crashed.
A/N: entering my villain era
"'I was always watching you.' This could have been a breathless declaration of love or a final farewell." - YĹko Ogawa, The Diving Pool: Three Novellas
âŁÂ Series: part of the In the Belly of the Beast fic universe
âŁÂ Chapter CW: cockwarming, rough blow jobs, orgasm denial, light asphyxiation, mention of weight gain treated as negative, clumsy assignation of Japanese pet names by English speaking author (I tried đđŠ)
⣠Story CWs: BDSM dob/sub relationship; sex (oral, ptv, pta, etc.); genre typical drug use, alcohol, smoking
âŁÂ Synopsis: A story of two lonely people find love for better or worse. Or, dom!Rindou is sweet on his girl. Or, on paper, you and Rindou have nothing in common. But sometimes chemistry defies logic, and with every conversation, you find yourself more bewitched until all you see, smell, or hear is Rindou.
⣠Word Count: ~6k
The gamy smell of cooking beef floods the space under your tongue. Your eyes track your mother as she turns down the heat to a simmer and tosses a few extra slabs of beef into the pot. For once, youâre home to eat a proper dinner with your mother, and sheâs made a special occasion of it, springing for pricey cuts of meat to make sukiyaki.
âThe tofu is a nice color,â you comment, hoping to hurry along to the part where your mother serves you a heaping bowl. All you ate today between classes was a granola bar and banana.
âGive it another minute. I swear! Youâve never had any patience,â your mother scolds.
âNot where my stomach is involved,â you agree.
âHave you been eating well? I worry with you always running out the door.â
âIâve been eating too well. Iâm afraid to step on a scale at this rate. Iâm not sure thereâs a restaurant in Roppongi I havenât tried at this point.
âRoppongi? Why are you spending so much time there?â
There is no conspiracy to keep your mother out of the loop when it comes to Rindou. Unlike most of your classmates, you always considered your mom more a friend than a strict parental figure. Days and nights alike took your mother out of the house to man cash registers, stock shelves, iron suits, and mind other familiesâ children as the opportunity presented itself; so, in her stead, you took on the mantel of de facto mother to your little sister, of homemaker for your older brother. Rare nights with your mother at home were often spent debriefing her on the goings on of the household, which created a uniquely female solidarity between you both, a kind of perverse equality that warped the boundaries of parent and child.
You told your mother about your first heart break, first kiss, and every other milestone, so when she asks about Roppongi, you remind her that youâve been seeing someone and offer up a few details: what he does for work (export/import), where he lives (Roppongi), how you met (a lie about a coffee shop).
âI recognize that look in your eye,â your mother says. âYouâre in love.â
âOh, because Iâve been in love so many times before?â you scoff.
âExactly because you havenât been in love before. This look is different. New. But Iâve seen it on other women far too many times. Tell me, what is it about this boy that has you falling in love?â
You slurp your udon, stalling not because you need time to think of an answer but because the answer is too readily available.
All your great heroes are writers, yet you never reckoned yourself one until recently when you started a journal. Great, heaping emotional confessions splay out across the pages as you unburden yourself of the too-big-feelings you harbor for Rindou. His every advantage and grace is captured on those pages, and the only trouble is translating the truth into something less scandalous for your motherâs ears. Because you may be close, nearly friends, but you cannot tell your mother that when Rindou chokes you, in the space between thinking and emptiness, you could make yourself a home.
âWell, heâs always there for me. Even when heâs busy. I know I can rely on him when itâs important,â you say.
Translation: Rindou works without making it his life, placing it lower in the balance of his priorities than time with you. It is a privilege to commit to lovers or even family over work. Your motherâs chapped hands, reddened from nights doused in dish detergent remind you of her sacrifices every time she stirs the pot. Rindou, free from those worries and hardships, strikes you as a fairytale prince.
Only a few weeks ago, he dropped everything to come to your side in the middle of a workday.
You normally answer texts within a matter of minutes, so five weeks ago, when half an hour passed with Rindouâs message left on read, he called you. Brave face on, you tried to answer like nothing was wrong, but sniffling tears warped the words, and Rindou forced you to admit what had happened.
âItâs not a big deal. I just got a really bad mark on my last essay. The professorâs comments areâŚharsh, yeah, harshâŚbut Iâm okay,â you blubbered.
âWhat an asshole. Tell me where you are, and Iâll come pick you up,â Rindou said.
âNo, no, no, no, no, no, no. Seriously, Iâm just being a baby. Itâs not like I failed the class. From here on out, I just need to get Aâs on all my assignments,â and here you drew a shaky breath as all Aâs would be a near miraculous feat, âto pass the class. You work hard, and Iâll see you tonight.â
âForget that. Tell me where you are now.â
âYou said you had an important meeting with investors ââ
âDonâtâ be a brat,â Rindou warned, and your jaw clicked shut and stayed there. âYou think I give a fuck about this meeting? Compared to you? Hereâs whatâs going to happen. Youâre going to find the closest froyo or ice cream shop. Go there and drop me your location. Then, buy every flavor with every topping you can imagine wanting. I donât care if there are twenty bowls, and you take one bite from each. Buy every kind you like. Once Iâm there, Iâll cheer you up, baby, but until then, treat yourself on me.â
The day played out exactly as Rindou commanded. You nursed a stomachache that night as Rindou listened to you talk through your anxieties. He treated you so softly as you cried that you couldnât remember what you were so worried about when morning dawned. He never once checked his phone for messages from work, all his attention on you.
âWhat else? Heâs a great listener. He doesnât talk as much as me, and before you say it, Mom, yes haha, who out there talks as much as me? Youâre hilarious. But, um, he isnât just not talking, but heâs really listening even when I donât think he is,â you say.
No translation needed for this one.
Slumped in his seat, eyes hidden by his bangs, sometimes you worry you are talking to a wall when you tell Rindou about your day. The problem is especially painful over the phone, where you canât search his body language for any clues, and his affirmative noises come few and far between.
You told yourself that he cared, but sometimes, when you were at your lowest, it was hard to believe.
All your lingering worries were relieved shortly after New Yearâs, when you broke the seal on staying over at Rindouâs place and began joining him several times a week at his apartment for nights of long, dirty sex. Times not spent in bed together usually found Rindou playing video games or listening to music, while you did your homework in a pile of blankets on his heated floors.
You thought you knew Rindouâs apartment inside and out until one day you dropped an earring on the floor. You lazily tapped around with your feet, but when it didnât turn up, you dropped to your belly to look under the bed. Your earring shone gold and unmistakable, but your greedy eyes glossed over it to latch onto a pile of books. There were only a couple books in the stack, but as browsing other peopleâs libraries was one of your greatest pleasures in life, you crawled out from under the bed with the humble bounty in tow.
The first book compiled the short stories of Edogawa Rampo. The paper cover looked uncracked. New book smell oozed off the pages when you pressed your nose against them. You traced the titles on the back, picking out a few favorites like âThe Human Chairâ to read later.
Impressed as you already were by Rindouâs taste as you long enjoyed Rampoâs uncanny valley explorations of 20th century new Japan, you were equally surprised to find Kani by KĹno Taeko as the next book. You remembered mentioning her work to him a few months ago as something you hoped to make time for outside your studies because while you loved 19th century literature, you also enjoyed the modern classics when time allowed.
The next book after that weighed heavy in your hands, and when you saw the title, you dropped it hard on the floor. Hakkenden. Rindou was reading Hakkenden. A bookmark saved his spot on the nineteenth of ninety-eight chapters.
You had been working your way through the epic behemoth, one of the longest in world literature, for the better part of two years and often brought it up in conversation. Rindou would sit stone-faced and seemingly bored as you talked about the most recent chapter. Yet here was the book. And now that you thought about it, youâd mentioned Rampo to him as well.
âWhy are you on the floor?â Rindouâs voice came from behind your shoulder.
âYouâre reading the books I talk about!â you squealed, holding the massive tome up in accusation.
Rindou scratched the back of his neck. âWell, yeah, but not all of it. I wanted to read everything you mention, but you read too fast for me. I got through Kani pretty fast in between meetings, but Hakkenden slowed me down way more than I thought. You werenât kidding about that thing.â
âBut just because I mention it doesnât mean youâre going to like it. I could make better recommendations tailored to your tastes,â you said.
âThatâs not the point. Iâm reading them so we can talk about them,â Rindou said.
Heat swelled in your chest, and you understood for the first time why ancient peoples believed the heart was the source of all love. You dropped your books to the floor and took Rindouâs hand.
âRindou, baby, sit down on the bed. Iâm going to suck your cock now.â
âOh, are you?â Rindou scowled, but his voice was light and unoffended, just the hint of the thwarted dom peeking through.
âYeah, just this once, shut up and let me,â you said.
And maybe he understood how your heart pulsed in your chest, or maybe he just wanted his dick sucked because Rindou didnât argue. He had, after all, proven he knew how to listen.
Face hot at the memory of what happened next, you fan yourself, hoping your mother will think itâs from the heat of the sukiyaki. Your mother, for her part, nods wisely.
âListening is good. You do like to fill a silence. But understanding is something else. Some men seem like good listeners but truthfully they just have nothing to say,â your mom says, sage advice stemming from a decade plus of caving to the glorified fuck boy masquerading as a man that was your father.
âNo, I know,â you agree. âBut I do think he understands. When I dated Sensyuu for a bit â remember him? The guy from the factory? The one with the goatee â well, I thought he was so experienced and smart because he was in this thirties, but I know now that he was an immature idiot. With RindouâŚit feels like heâs so intuitive. Like thereâs so much about the world and people that he understands and could teach me.â
âWait, how old is this boy again?â your mother asks.
âRelax, Mama. Heâs only twenty-eight,â you reassure her.
âAnd youâre turning twenty-two in a few weeksâŚI suppose thatâs reasonable. About the same as your grandparents,â your mother allows.
Relieved by your motherâs approval, you take a meaty bite of beef, chewing slowly to savor the flavor. Rindou never fashioned himself as some great teacher with you the pupil. Yet, you do learn so much when youâre with him. Not facts or even opinions, but about yourself. From his example, you discover a confident way of moving through the world, unapologetic of making a scene or breaking some social more that no one could justify in the first place. He shows you how to have fun outside of books, to take risks. And, oh how deliciously he teaches you about the limits of your own body.
Fucking Rindou teaches you about the pleasure of anticipation. Obliterating and ossifying as an orgasm may be, you learn to relish the ascent to the pinnacle, the delights of the journey. Discover that stretching the moments leading to the fall, finding new ways to lengthen that coiling rope inside your tummy, not only intensifies the descent, it is the very point.
Thus, every moment you spend with Rindouâs hands on your skin becomes a kind of pre-climax, like snacking on sweet grapes before a swish of white wine.
Because you are always listening to him, for his words and the subtle language of the body. If he nudges you with a thigh, you leap to correct your position. To his word, you follow. Such ecstasy in obeyance. And in every moment that passes without his direction, you wait and enjoy the act of waiting.
One time, a work emergency popped up, a problem with customs at the shipyard holding up a barge of goods. The call came right as Rindou promised you could cum after an hour of teasing cruelty. Your body was bowstring tight, ready to fire, when cursing to himself, Rindou unwound from your body and set to work. It went without saying that you did not dare cum then.
You tried to regain his permission, petting his arm, thumbing at your own pussy, and crying to soften the coldest of hearts, but Rindou didnât even discipline you for the brattiness, too focused on his work.
Annoyed when your attempts didnât let up, Rindou gave you a task of your own, pushing your head into his lap, your throat swallowing up the full length of him, and keeping you still with a submission hold.
Now, you cried in earnest, not just because of your needy pussy but the ugly obstruction that blocked your throat. Intellectually, you recognized that you could breathe through your nose, but your body insisted it couldnât, that you would die here, suffocated on his dick. And for the next half hour, as Rindou made phone call after phone call, thatâs what you did. You choked and whined and cried until your tears mixed with the steady stream of drool that streamed past your overstretched lips and down his balls. The details of Rindouâs phone call went straight over your head as your mental faculties busied themselves with restraining your hands and feet, both of which wanted to kick and claw for survival.
Finally, Rindou hung up the phone. The work crisis handled.
Thrusting up, he managed to choke you on the bare centimeter of his dick not already buried in your wet mouth. A few bruising pumps, and then his cum rushed unimpeded down your throat. Thick and rich, he came with more spurts than heâd ever gifted you before, and your body quivered with it.
Only then did Rindou dip one finger down to your clit and tap. Tiny inconsequential nudges, yet your edged and desperate body answered that knock by throwing open the door of your orgasm. You came like your own personal rapture, sending you first to hell and then to paradise as your body spasmed uncontrollably. Then, Rindou reincarnated you with a kiss to the cheek, and you were whole once again, staring into those velvet eyes.
âWell, it sounds like young love,â your mother says, and you nearly choke on a mushroom as her voice rips you violently from torrid daydreams. âJust remember that no matter how much you love this boy, you should never let him push you into doing something you donât want. If he threatens to leave, let him. Benefit from my mistakes. Donât go repeating them. Donât ever make yourself small for a man.â
These words are delivered blithely as your mother pokes at the simmering pot with a chopstick. Yet she touches her wrinkling neck as if on reflex. You remember once staring up at then supple and unmarred skin with the uncomplicated, admiring gaze of an infant or small child. You were young when you came to see your mother as a tragic heroine, a sympathetic one sure, but one doomed by her narrow choices or maybe by the lessons learnt from her own mother and her grandmother before that. Because there was no shepherding hand to guide her away from unloving men, no strident lessons woman-to-woman about the need for her own money, to never empty her pockets with the trust that some man would fill them. When other girls went through the stage where they became hypercritical of their mothers, picking at faults and laughing at the sad repetitions in their lives, you continued to look at her with that childâs loving eyes. You drink up the words of concern and advice as if she delivers the scripture.
You feel pride in your relationship with Rindou as you can put your mom at ease without telling a single lie.
âThe best thing about him, Mama, is I know he isnât treating me like some easy thing. He never makes me feel silly or inconsequential. He shows me how important I am through his actions, but not just that, he lets me set the tone of things, too. He doesnât push against my boundaries or pigeonhole me in some box set aside for a girl. I know that he wants me to feel important and safe when Iâm with him. And I do.â
A few nights ago, you hooked a calf over his while lying in bd. Half a dozen pillows stacked behind you supported your chest, so you wound your sweaty, just-released lower bodies together. The sex had been intense but not too rough, and he had let you cum, so your brain was half way to shutting down for a deep sleep when you turned to look at him speculatively.
âI think we should come up with pet names for each other.â
Rindou cracked one eye open from where he lounged in his own post-sex haze. âYou want me to call you more pet names?â
âWe should have ones just for us.â
âHereâs an idea. You can call me Sir, and Iâll call you slut, whore, cocksleeveâŚIâm tired but I promise to come up with some more in the morning,â Rindou yawned.
You poked him in the side, right below his ribs where his chest hair ended.
âA pet name we can use in public.â
âIâm more than happy to call you a slut in public.â
âA cute one! LikeâŚIâm thinking I could call youâŚTanuki-chan,â you said.
Just like that you felt the full weight of Rindouâs attention as he rolled onto his side to stare you down. Rindou exclusively operated on one of two modes: inscrutable stoicism or searing intensity. As he weighed his new nickname, his observation carried the weight of the universe.
âTanuki-chan?â
âYes, I thought it fit because of the dark circles under your eye and your two-toned hair. Plus, itâs just cute!â you explained.
Rindou sighed, âFine, but if you call me Tanuki-chan instead of Sir while weâre fucking, Iâll belt you.â
âOh, good to know,â you murmured, like you just might try it. Rindou cursed under his breath, rolling over to serve you his back. The thick trapezius muscles there flexed, and a stirring lust rose in you that shouldnât have been possible so soon after you last took him inside you. âDonât go to sleep! You have to give me a nickname, too!â
No response came and soon after, you heard his grumbling snores. Only a little piqued, you followed him into sleep.
The next morning, you scrubbed your toothbrush â a second bought just to live on the sink in Rindouâs apartment â against the overnight scum on your teeth, when Rindou entered the bathroom, wrapped two arms around your waist and whispered in your ear.
âGood morning, Mozu-Mozu.â
Peppermint fluoride slipped precariously down your throat as you struggle to respond through a mouth full of toothpaste. âWhereâd that come from?â
âYou wanted a pet name, right? Well, I thought about it all night. Since you made me a tanuki, I wanted to go with an animal for you, too, and I couldnât stop thinking you would be a bird because I love waking up to that beautiful voice in my ear. So, what better than the hundred songs bird?â Rindou said.
You spit in the sink.
âYou stayed up all night thinking about that?â
âI took my time with it. Wanted to choose the right one.â
True to his word, Rindou slips Mozu into your texts and softer moments now, caressing the word with his tongue like itâs something sinful and secret just for your ears. No man has ever taken you half as seriously.
Your mother has nothing to worry about. Nothing.
--
Bicycles meander past the shop fronts barely faster than the pedestrians who lazily stroll the street. Shopping in Ginza is intimidating on a studentâs budget. The names of the high-end brands fall clumsily off your tongue. Even the Japanese ones taste like a different language.
Hair hastily thrown back with a tie and sneakers tattered from stomping the streets on many a rainy day, you know you stand out in the boutique lingerie shop. The women manning the front of the store appear airbrushed. Poreless and unfairly tall, they tower in watch at the front of the store like Cerberus guarding the gates of Hades.
Akane â one of your closest university friends â flings yet another bra onto the pile in your waiting arms. You asked Akane to join you, yes, but the plan was simply to make a return and then visit the bookstore, not play her personal shopper as she tries on a hundred bras she could never hope to afford.
The lingerie set in your bag consists of a sheer teddy, bite-sized thong, and bra with crisscrossing straps all in the most delicate crème colors. When you wear the outfit, you look like a virginal sacrifice, all contradictions and enticement. But, the bra digs into your chest and leaves ugly red marks in its wake, so you decided to return it.
Rindou has gifted you more than a dozen similarly priced and fine outfits at this point. The gifts make you nervous as you were taught to never trust a man who trades in love for money, but you do trust in Rindouâs eyes when he sees you in a chosen negligee or strip of leather. Trust that these gifts are a treat for him, turning you into a feast for the eyes, rather than an attempt to own you with his wealth.
âWould I look cute in this, you think?â Akane questions, holding up a corset top and matching panties.
âAnyone would look good in that. Youâd shouldnât try it on though. Better not to know how good you would have looked in it,â you say.
âI could spoil myself just this once,â Akane wheedles, like any underwear, no matter how sexy, could be worth a full weekâs worth of wages.â
Set on leaving your friend to her bad decisions, you mindlessly scroll Twitter, liking any post that remotely catches your eye. The jangle of the bell announces new customers entering the store. You hope the gorgeous shop attendants might stop staring you down if there are other customers to assist.
âHey, isnât that Rindou? Rindou!â Akane calls out, bumping you in the side. âWait, but who is that?â
Excitement and exasperation compete as you turn to follow Akaneâs pointing finger, figuring if Rindou is in a lingerie shop, it is to buy you yet another unnecessary pantie set. He looks particularly debonair, dressed for the office, in a turquoise three-piece suit and matching vest. The color sets off the garish purple of his hair nicely. He looks like the kind of man who can afford to shop in stores like this.
So too does the woman at his side.
Both of them notice you at the same time, following the call of Akaneâs voice in the quiet store. Rindou wears a neutral mask, revealing no particular care in running into you out and about on a Wednesday afternoon. The woman at his side, on the other hand, looks genuinely interested.
You scan her up and down. The graceful arc of her body drops to an ironed skirt and towering high heels, everything obviously designer or at least expensively made. She wears her hair in a chignon that would take you an hour to get right, which frames a delicate neck. Tasteful makeup on an already beautiful face completes her daunting impression.
Unsure what to think of Rindouâs appearance with such a beautiful, far more sophisticated woman, you wave. Rindou barely reacts causing your stomach to flip over. Twice.
âAre you good to try on this stuff alone? Iâm going to go return this,â you say, shoving the stack of hangers at your friend. She doesnât argue at all, eyes glued to the other woman.
As you approach, Rindou whispers something in the other womanâs ear. You watch eagle-eyed at the way his mouth nears her skin, how his breath dislodges a loose tendril of hair. They donât touch, but their bodies are too close as they commune. Then, the woman struts off to browse a section of the store you already know contains high-end fetish wear.
Rindou turns his attention to you only when the other woman leaves his side. His face is blank.
âHey, I um, didnât expect to run into you here,â you greet him. Normally, you would kiss his cheek, nuzzle into his neck, unable to stand any physical space after time apart, but now you keep your distance. Rindou doesnât reach for you either.
âYeah, you donât normally shop here,â Rindou says, voice low. His eyes scan over your head like heâs looking for something, or maybe heâs just avoiding looking at you.
âI just came here to make a return. That set with the teddy doesnât fit. But then, Akane insisted on shopping around, so Iâm keeping her company until sheâs ready to leave. I keep telling her she canât afford this place, but you know Akane,â you explain.
âYouâll have to tell me how it turns out later,â Rindou says.
âRight, yeah, and youâll have to tell me about your friend.â
You deserve awards for the even tone you manage as you circle the question, like it isnât driving you crazy to wonder why your lover is in a lingerie shop with an attractive woman. You can feign casual; youâve done it before with other men. Granted, you didnât love those men like you love Rindou, but your muscle memory is good as you affect perfect nonchalance, hand on your hip and reassuring smile on your face.
Or, more likely, you radiate awkwardness, but at least thatâs better than jealousy and suspicion.
âNot much to tell,â Rindou shrugs, and you wish he would stop speaking before the next words even leave his mouth. âSheâs one of the subs Iâve done scene work with for the last few years. She moved to Kobe, but sheâs back in town for a bit, so I promised to spoil her for the day.â
âSpoil her? What does that entail?â
âListen, Iâll call you tomorrow. Itâs rude to keep her waiting, and you should go back to Akane,â Rindou says, and the clear dismissal of what youâre feeling somehow hurts worse than the awful, fantastical images that dance through your mind: Rindou zipping this woman into a naughty maidâs outfit, Rindou spanking her in the dressing room, Rindou kissing her with those red lips that should be yours.
âCool.â
As you return to Akane, who does not argue at all when you insist you leave immediately, return completely forgotten, you donât feel remotely cool. Not. At. All.
--
Over winter break, you and your university friends drank shochu until you reached a spectacular level of drunkenness. You swore lifelong loyalty to one another, crying at how thankful you were that fate tied you together in the same major. Somehow, a dirty napkin became the site of an official friendship contract that included provisions for favors. Things like, a friend must assist in helping one of the others move apartments given a weekâs notice, or a friend must always pick up a fellow friend from the airport. More importantly, it included a clause instituting that all prior commitments short of finals and family funerals must be dropped if an emergency friend meeting is called.
Now definitely constitutes an emergency.
Two hours after Rindou blows you off in Ginza, you snuggle up beside all your friends on the couch in Akaneâs apartment, tipsy on wine coolers and completely losing your mind.
âI say you just break up with him. Heâs no good for you,â Naoto says for the dozenth time since heâs arrived.
âYou should have seen her! She was freaking gorgeous, like Iâd have wanted to hang her picture on my wall as a kid gorgeous,â you moan.
âI disagree. You are ten times cuter,â Akane lies.
âCute? Cute?â
You stuff your face into a throw pillow and scream. All your friends trade concerned glances. Unsure what to do, they settle on pushing another wine cooler your way. You guzzle until your throat burns on the acidic drink.
âI think weâre jumping to conclusions, and you should give him a chance to explain. He said he was spoiling his ex-girlfriend, and yes, that does sound like he meant to buy her underwear, but that doesnât mean he wants to see her in it! Maybe she has blackmail material on him. Or, maybe they broke up because he sees her as a sister? You should wait for him to explain tomorrow,â one of your friends, Tsumugi, offers.
Himeka, another friend, scoffs uncharitably. âNo man buys underwear for a woman unless he intends to see her in it. Letâs get real. Heâs a dog. I canât believe I liked that cheater! I gave him half my scone at brunch!â
You skipped over the background info about doms and subs when regaling your friends with the story. You told them instead that the other woman was an ex-girlfriend rather than a scene partner. Much like you skated around the truth of your relationship with Rindou all this time.
âI mean, itâs not technically cheating,â you admit ruefully. âWe never said we were exclusive. In fact, we basically said the opposite when we first started dating. I just thoughtâŚitâs been almost six months! Six months of seeing him like five days a week. How does he even have time to see other people? I sure donât!â
âHe probably doesnât! Like you said, when would he even find the time? He probably just met up with this woman because of nostalgia or pity, and heâs going to realize he made a mistake and come crawling back. For sure,â Tsumugi says.
âThen, why hasnât he texted? He knows the impression he left on her. He should be blowing up her phone right now. Besides, husbands find ways to cheat on their wives all the time, and they live together,â Himeka, ever the pessimist, insists.
âAkane, what do you think?â you ask, turning big, pleading eyes towards the only witness of todayâs incident.
âI meanâŚit doesnât lookâŚgood,â Akane stutters, face beet red as she delivers the death knell to your heart. âBut like you said, you arenât official. So, if you have a problem with him seeing other people, you should communicate that. I wouldnât trust any guy to stick to one woman if heâs not even asked to. For all he knows, youâve been seeing all kinds of university guys behind his back, too. So, you should communicate with him, and see what he says.â
âI wouldnât need a woman to ask,â Naoto mutters. As the only guy in the room, he is tasked with bearing the burden of men everywhere.
The tick tock of the wall clock in Akaneâs kitchen sounds like a countdown to your personal misery. Rindou promised to call tomorrow, and the anticipation blurs into anxiety. Tomorrow may well be the end of your relationship, and you donât think you could bear that. But in the same vein, Akane could be right, so you should wish time brought your reconciliation even sooner.
You bite your fingernails as you think through your options.
âWhat do we even know about this guy? He knows everything about you, but he keeps you at armâs length from his life. Youâve never met his friends or work colleagues, except for his brother that one time. For all you know he could have a harem of women all over Tokyo. And, you have to admit, he looks fishy. The neck tattoo? The money? The hair? He isnât some upstanding citizen,â Naoto says heatedly.
âSee, thatâs your problem, Naoto,â Tsumugi says. âYouâre a police officer now. You canât go around with these discriminatory attitudes assuming anyone who dares to dress like an individual is a bad guy. I honestly expected more from you.â
The two argue back and forth for a few minutes, but their words donât reach you. A self-defense mechanism slides into place. It empties your brain, protects you from any thoughts that may churn your guts. The wine coolers are doing a good enough job of that already.
âEnough! Nobody cares,â Himeka lectures them before turning to you with solemn eyes. âIf you talk to him tomorrow, and he says, yes, I am seeing other women, and Iâm going to keep seeing other women. Thereâs nothing you can do about it. What are you going to do?â
You want to evade the question, but Himekaâs narrow eyes follow yours, and stop you from fading into nothingness. Itâs a good question, which is what makes it so uniquely cruel.
âI donât know.â
âYou donât have to break up if he is. I mean, you were okay not being exclusive before,â Akane points out.
âWouldnât that make me, I donât know, pathetic?â
âIt would only make you pathetic if you let him sleep around with as many women as he wants while you wait for him to call like a good little housewife. I say go out and have some fun of your own. You are young and smart and beautiful, and guys are going to line up to take you out. So, why not let them? That way, youâre even,â Akane advises.
The idea of someone elseâs touching your body with foreign hands makes you shudder. Yet, Rindou shows no signs of the same revulsion. He can stomach a womanâs hand wandering down his chest, tracing his thighs, palming his cock, and who knows what else? Maybe he even lets them sleep in his apartment, curled up like true lovers, like the two of you. The thought sours the sweet wine in your mouth.
âWeâre getting ahead of ourselves. I justâŚneed to talk to him. Yeah, Iâll communicate with him, and Iâm sure everything will just work itself out. No reason to worry.â
Looking around the circle of sympathetic faces, not a single one of your friends looks like they believe it. And neither do you.
A/N: So be honest guys...am I completely evil?
âIn order to induce the process of decay, water is necessary. I think that, in the case of women, men are water.â â Natsuo Kirino, Grotesque
âIs it not because women are so trusting that they are constantly being deceived by men?â â Natsume SĹseki, Kokoro
⣠Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; smut (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, stalking, torture (not of y/n), murder, discussions of trauma and abuse, drug use, and more
⣠Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but youâre not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that youâre both attracted to each other doesnât hurt either.
⣠Word Count: 12k+
Water fills his mouth but not his lungs. The wave ushers him forward like a motherâs hand at his back, worrying him along so he doesnât fall behind the other children. Hanma doesnât fight at first. Submerged, everything is quiet, like God has coated over all the noise and chaos with a cool blue paintbrush. Then, the undertow attacks his legs. Lost in the rip current, Hanma doesnât know up from down. His brain screams and lungs burn, and Hanma knows this feeling. Knows that he must keep fighting the crushing vortex even if spots dance behind his eyelids and the other side beckons.
Just keep fighting.
Channeling every ounce of strength into his legs, Hanma kicks his legs along in the same direction of the current. The black behind closed eyes lightens and then with a break, he surfaces to an overcast sky and grey seawater. The surfboard pops up a few seconds later to his right. He tugs on the rope attached at his wrist to bring the board close.
A smaller, but no less respectable, wave reaches him before the board. Hanma dives beneath this one, lets it break harmlessly above his head. He keeps his eyes wide open against the salt and sting.
Reemerging, Hanma catches his breath, and the moment he does, he laughs and laughs and laughs. The ocean will not beat him. Not today.
He climbs on top of the board, stomach flat to the waxy surface and paddles. The instructor sits nearby on his own board, shouting instructions and ideas for when to try and catch another wave. Hanma ignores him.
The baby waves that break sleepily on the shore bore him. The kind that a beginner is supposed to attempt. A little palm greasing convinced the instructor to leave Hanma to his own reckless devices, which meant he would wait patiently, an animal in wait, for the telltale swelling that signaled an approaching behemoth.
Because thatâs the point. Man versus sea. Man versus nature. Hanma faces an opponent who will never run from the fight, one who will never cower in fear. It squares off against him again and again over the course of a long hour, roaring its frustrations to drown out Hanmaâs own shouts at the sky. And it beats him down over and over, until his body is sore and limbs heavy from the fight.
When you surprised him at the station with a wetsuit and hired instructor, Hanma mourned you. Games! You thought games would be enough to staunch the brutality that leaked as if from his pores into an unsuspecting world. He was going to play a game you never forgot. Watch the guilt enter your eyes as the instructorâs blood dyed black sands muddy red.
Neither you nor the instructor suspected the danger as he practiced the basic footwork on the beach, movies of the manâs death and your tears playing out in his brain.
And then, he paddled out to sea. And the ocean squared up for a fight that Hanma didnât realize was on the card for the afternoon.
Hanma surfs for hours with only breaks to suck down a pint of water or catch the warmth in the huddle of blankets you prepared. After the first two hours, the instructor tires, watches from the shore, safety protocols be damned. Hanma knows you are watching from the sands because you cheer when he rides his first wave to completion.
The sun is low in the sky, and Hanma thinks heâll never be warm again when the last of the dayâs aggression drips out of him, dispersing to nothing in the oceanâs vast forgetting. Chattering teeth and blue lips join him as he uses the last of his energy to fight for solid ground and collapse in a heap on the black sands.
A shadow looms and you smile down at him, âFeeling better?â
âYou should charge a million yen an hour,â Hanma pants. âSeriously, Kisaki should be paying you your weight in gold for every minute. Holy fuck!â
âWant to get something to eat?â
âFuck yes!â
Twenty minutes later, Hanma is showered and dressed in his clothes again, hair damp and tracing wet lines onto the collar of his shirt. He sips a milkshake as he waits for his hamburger and fries. There are little cuts on his lips and mouth, reddened by salt and sand, and he sighs in relief as the cool ice cream soothes the agitation. The American-style restaurant is busy with fellow surfers. The privacy of his surf lesson was rented at great coast as just around the shelter of a cliff-face, serious surfers flocked to the good waves inâŚwellâŚwaves.
Neither of you speak much, too exhausted by the day, but every few minutes, you shoot him a smut look, the smile of long nights of brainstorming finally vindicated. Only after heâs eaten his hamburger and half of yours does Hanma have the energy to think like a normal person again.
âSo, I take it that surfing is an excellent alternative when youâre spiraling,â you say.
âEven a broken clock is right twice,â Hanma bluffs.
âMmhmm, but what was it you said? I should be paid my weight in gold?â you shoot back. âI started watching documentaries about adventure-seekers. I figured there were some similarities between adrenaline junkies and your situation because you both look for the same chemical release. I didnât think hang-gliding or bungee jumping would be very accessible hobbies, so thatâs when I came up with surfing. Just a few more lessons and good weather, and youâll be able to come out whenever you need to. Itâs the perfect hobby.â
âIâve never had a hobby before,â Hanma muses.
You smile beatifically. âIf you prefer, you could call it treatment or medicine because thatâs what it is. Iâm prescribing you an activity to stimulate your brain and release certain chemicals. Much better than losing it on some strangers in a bar. What does that do? You walk away frustrated because the strangers didnât put up enough of a fight? And then, you have to pay the bribes and never go to that bar again. Itâs too much trouble for too little payoff.â
âDone with this little victory lap?â
With the clarity only possible when the body is tired and the mind is well-fed, Hanma observes that you look healthier than when he saw you last at the hot springs. Your cheeks are plump and full again, smile not longer a grimace. The biggest sign of your recovery is your voice, no longer rasping and trailing off at inopportune moments like you lack the energy to so much as finish a though. No, now your lungs burst with oxygen.
He's glad he resisted crushing all that good health to nothing today.
âWell, if youâre so keen to get into it. Letâs. Iâve never seen you so angry beforeâŚâ
âWas it scary? Seeing me like that?â Hanma asks hopefully.
âNot really. I havenât seen you angry, but Iâve seen you when you wanted to hurt me, and I think thatâs worse,â you say.
Hanma doesnât know if he wants you to lose your fear of him, but he is intrigued by the possibilities. Without fear in the way, what new emotions might you unlock. What new games might he play with you.
He watches you twirl a fry through your milkshake and wonders at your choice to ruin a perfectly good fry. Skeptically, he dips the tip of one of his own into the dregs of his milkshake, takes a little nibble. Bleh. The sweetness of the vanilla dampens the delicious salts ands spices. He drops the whole fry into the milkshake in disappointment.
âYouâve never mentioned anger as a trigger before. What set you off? Howâd it make you feel?â
âAngry. Homicidally angry.â
âWas your first response homicidal anger, or is there some transitionary reaction in there? What I mean is, do you feel immediately homicidally angry at the thing upsetting you, or are you getting homicidally angry at your own feelings?â you ask.
âYou know, you ask a lot of a man. If I knew all that, Iâd be a fucking motivational speaker or the prime minister! How the hell am I supposed to know? All I can tell you is that I get mad, and when I do, I want to watch someone bleed.â
The clinical question is matched by an equally detached persona, one of your well-worn masks. Itâs difficult to place what exactly changes, but your role of therapist hardens you, stills fidgeting hands or minute facial expressions until you are a piece of granite, unyielding before him. When you sit there, more stone than woman, your only tell is your eyes. They cant left, always thinking, picking apart his responses and framing your next verbal traps.
Hanma doesnât mind that your brain spins ahead, circling his every answer and gesture, but he loses you in these moments. The woman dissolves into something hazy despite your solidity, shimmers in and out of sight no matter how carefully he watches.
Impulsive, what Hanma wants or feels changes with the rising of the sun. If he canât answer your questions, itâs because heâs in transition, metamorphizing before your eyes. But you! He thinks your mind is made up already. And yet, you couldnât answer the simplest questions as you hide from your true nature.
What do you want?
There is a question worth asking.
âIt doesnât have to be violence against the person who angered you though, right? You said you might hurt me on the phone, and I hadnât done anything,â you continue.
âA couple people pissed me off, and I couldnât hurt the one in front of me, orâŚI could, but I didnât want to exactly. I did. But I didnât. So, I left, and then it was just inside me. This fucking feeling, and I knew that I couldnât sit with it another second. I had to do something about it,â Hanma says.
You stare off into space, somewhere to your left, thinking hard. âYou keep equating what you want when youâre angry to violence, but the surfing calmed you down, and thatâs not violent. Could it be that youâre just looking for an adrenaline rush to replace what youâre feeling? And the easiest way is to pick a fight?â
âItâs not the adrenaline. I donât really get that rush from picking a fight with just anyone. Not anymore. I used to, but itâs not enough now. If you hadnât called, I was probably going to hunt down the first person stupid enough to talk to me, beat his brain in, yeah. But thatâs just a Tuesday. Without the threat of a good fight, Iâm not going to get an adrenaline hit from that. No, what I need is to stand opposite someone and fight. Win or lose doesnât matter. Just to stand my ground and throw my whole body into it,â Hanma voices this thought slowly as it's new territory, surprised by how it tunnels out from his core with the ring of truth.
âAnd surfing gives you the same feeling?â
âYes,â he answers emphatically. âBecause itâs me versus the sea, and the sea never gets tired, never backs down. As long as Iâm willing to fight, itâs willing to meet the challenge. It was exhilarating. A hundred times better than knocking down some dick who wonât bother getting back up.â
Hanma rips a glug of water like a bong hit through his straw, realizes that heâs completely sober and has been since he woke up to a disaster this morning. He canât remember the last time he made it from dawn to dusk without glazing his brain over with something to make the powers pass easier.
âI should have knownâŚof course it would be an adversarial thrill. Thatâs so you,â you mutter under your breath.
âIt sure explains why we get on so well, huh, Doc? You versus me in a war of words! I always thought a therapist was supposed to coddle their patient, give them a safe space, but youâre a confrontational little thing when you want to be.â
You have the good humor to look embarrassed as you say, âWell, youâve required anâŚunconventional treatment style.â
âThatâs been my favorite part. I should leave a review: âDoctorâs unconventional treatment style entails lots of screaming, but she really lets you in all the way, deep as you can go, and by the time you leave, youâll feel drained, like sheâs sucked the essence right out of you. Ten out of ten experience!ââ
âLeave euphemisms on my review page, and Iâll Kisaki your recommended treatment is to be in bed by eight PM every night.â
You look good as you sit there, not just healthy like he noticed earlier. The only concession you made to the beach is a pair of sandals, which show off slim toes and red polish. A flowy, short-sleeve dress shirt and slacks shield your skin from him, but that only draws the eye to the vulnerable, expanse of your throat. If he licks your skin, he will come away with the taste of salt and woman. You unpainted lips could stand to be redder, worried and bloodied by teeth and tongue.
Blood could still spill tonight. The night is young. Plenty of time to fix you to his liking.
âSo, how have you been, Doc?â Hanma asks. âI thought for sure Iâd have managed to break you and that pitiful boyfriend up by now. What was his nameâŚAkashi? Takasu? Doesnât matter. What does matter is I canât imagine a girlfriend going missing for a whole day and night, cellphone off, without a word to her poor boyfriend at home. If he had any balls, he should have packed his bags or at least tied you to the bed by now.â
âI see what youâre doing,â you say with an eyeroll for his benefit. âTakashi was pretty angry, yes. Of course, he was. Says he almost called the police when two AM rolled around, and I still wasnât home. Naturally, he jumped to cheating, so he just about ripped our apartment apart looking for some kind of evidence, but there is nothing to find. Itâs not like Iâm having an affair. And ever since, heâs beenâŚwell, more interested, I guess? More around. He wants to know who Iâm meeting, where weâre going, about my patients, which obviously I tell him I canât share. He acts like thatâs more suspicious, but he knows I canât divulge anything without breaking patient confidentialityâŚSo, yeah. You caused some real problems for me. Thanks.â
âIâd be happy to have a conversation with him. If it would help.â
Hanma isnât surprised that you reject his offer. Not when he canât master a treacherous grin. Respect for other peopleâs relationships is the kind of bourgeois, stale thinking he rejects along with any respect for the sanctity of life.
Unsure if it would be more fun to stomp your relationship into pieces underfoot or continue to cuck your small dick boyfriendâ small just because he knows Takashi isnât giving it to you right â Hanma decides to test the situation.
âSeriously, Doc. How are you with that pencil pusher? Iâd have slit my wrists ages ago if I were you. When was the last time he really fucked you? Hard and deep like that pussy was meant to take. Whenâs the last time he made you cum on his tongue like I can?â
You give a half-defense of Takashi, something about him being busy at work these last few months, but Hanma can smell the dissatisfaction on a woman, a kind of sweetness that signals she is ripe to be plucked. You stink of the desperation that comes with little orgasms, ones that vibrate like a doorbell and then die before the knock. Takashi may make you cum, but he canât make you cum, and Hanma knows it.
âYou have to want more than that, Doc,â Hanma prods.
âStop avoiding my question. Tell me why you were so angry today,â you counter. âWas it something to do with the HJK? With that man you were hunting? What was itâŚHaitani?â
Just the mention of Haitaniâs name inflames him, and Hanma can taste phantom blood between his teeth â Ranâs or his, he isnât sure. Todayâs fiasco represents the most successful on Toman in half a decade, and it happened on Hanmaâs watch. Somewhere in this city, probably lounging in a private suite and sipping cognac worth an average manâs rent, Ran is surely laughing at them, at him.
Hanma remembers the way Ran would lord his wins over the heads of others with a smirk that somehow out screamed the cicadas. He can see those violet eyes screwed up in a mien of false sympathy at Hanmaâs failure, the way if confronted, Ran would offer up his help in cleaning up Hanmaâs little mess. The taunt is no less effective for existing only in his imagination.
âThere are some things, Doc, that if I told you, Iâd have to kill you.â
âNaturally, but I trust in your ability to tell me in a way that doesnât end with me dead,â you snort. âIâm not asking for names, dates, or a signed and sealed confession. Just tell me what made you so angry.â
âYou know your curiosity about the sordid underbelly of this city is probably my least favorite thing about you. Of all the things to want! Itâs all soâŚpedestrian,â Hanma drawls.
You prompt him to explain with a raise of your eyebrow, but Hanma lets you sit in the insult, stretches his legs out beneath the narrow booth to crowd your space. Instinctively, you retract backward and then stop before you cede too much ground. You remain still, letting the sole of his sneaker rest on your bare ankle, where he can feel the blazing heat that emanates from your crossed legs.
âEveryone wants to know what goes bump in the night. Here, with the lights on, when you feel safe,â Hanma stops to gesture at the half-full restaurant, all potential witnesses who might slow his trigger finger. âYou want to know just what the bad guys get up to. Why? Because knowing makes you feel safer. Because thereâs something salacious, isnât there, in knowing? You get to feel a naughty thrill, but ultimately, you leave feeling more secure than ever. Itâs boring.â
âYou think I view these conversations like a horror movie? That Iâm seeking catharsis?â your head casts to the side as you consider. âItâs not a bad theory. A little pop psychology, but I see why you landed on it. Still, youâre wrong. I donât care what the yakuza do. I care how they get away with it. No matter what the authorities do, the criminals bounce back, like weâre stuck in one of those infernal carnival games. What are those called? Whack-a-mole! Like whack-a-mole, only instead of a mallet, the government has 40,000 trained police officers, the best surveillance technology, the best weapons, the smartest minds, and the full authority of the government of Japan, and yetâŚitâs not just a new mole that keeps springing up. Itâs the same mole, Toman, popping up again and again, stronger than ever. How do you outsmart or outmaneuver an enemy that much stronger? Thatâs what I wonder when we talk about your job, not whether or not I might get mugged or raped or trafficked. After all, Iâm never in more danger than when Iâm with you, and I choose that willingly.â
âThe problem is in thinking of it as yakuza versus the government. Because the governmentâs just the biggest criminal syndicate in the country. Just as violent, just as greedy, just as intrusive. They just get to call it execution not murder, imprisonment not kidnap. Whether the boot is state mandated or not, your neck is still getting crushed. So, when you think of them as just another gang, it all makes sense. We have our territories, they have theirs, and itâs all maintained by treaties and histories that make those lines very clear. Transgress the line and there will be consequences, just like any gang war. But, we donât want to rid the city of each other. We work well together as things stand, each serving one purpose or another. Thatâs why they fail. Because they donât want to succeed.â
â40,000 officers and what is it? 20,000 civilians in the police force? And none of them want to abolish you?â
âOh, plenty do. But the government is its own monster. You can cut off all 60,000 heads like a hydra, it will just grow more. No matter what the heads think, the monster remains the same.â
âHmm, depressing. Anyway, no need to apologize for calling me pedestrian. You can just answer the question instead,â you say.
Hanma canât help it. He smiles. His smile is always close when he talks to you, like it dangles off the string of a kite at his wrist. No matter his mood, he finds his lips spreading and lifting around either viciousness or amusement at the speed of your banter, the clarity of your rejoinders. You take the bait just enough to keep him interested in spite of himself.
A waiter approaches the table, doling out refills of water and soda, a delightful quirk of the American theme. The impression of peach lipstick staining your straw is replaced by a clean one, unblemished for now.
The little imprint of your lips on plastic taunts him as the waiter walks away. He doesnât want to wait any longer. He wants to fuck you.
âTell me about the first time you killed someone,â you suggest, distracting him only partially from his thoughts. âHow did you feel compared to how you feel now? Feel free to be as disgusting as you like. I know you canât help yourself when you have the chance to shock.â
âMy first time, huh? Youâre making me blush. I remember it well as every man does,â Hanma giggles.
You arenât wrong. He does love a chance to tell a story.
âToman started as just your typical BĹsĹzoku gang. The way things usually work, the gang disbands when the leadership ages out or passes it down to a younger guy. Most of the guys then go straight, but some join the rank and file of the yakuza families. But Mikey wasnât a typical leader. You should have seen him back then, the effect he had on people. He was too strong, too charismatic. People followed him as if by reflex, and once he paired up with Kisaki, who knew how to direct that power, and Koko, who could practically print money, it was inevitable we were going to evolve. We didnât wait until we were adults either. It was late 2006, when we decided to expand into trafficking and expand our territories in Shibuya. Naturally, there was no empty territory, so that meant going up against a real gang for the first time: the Haisha. They were a mid-size group, just about eighty members. It was our best possible matchup because we outnumbered them, and they didnât have any major outside pull, but there was a big problem that we ran into on day one. Can you guess what that was?â
A fest tempo song warbles from the ceiling speakers. All your attention focused on his question, you donât notice that you tap along to nit, nails playing the linoleum like a piano. Sharp little things that would look good digging into his ass. He likes that you take the question seriously, that you think about it.
âI suppose not everyone would be equally on board with the transition. You might lose some guys, especially as the risk grew greater,â you muse.
âNot a bad guess. Lots of the original guys did struggle to accept the way we began to do things. That was an internal battle that lasted years, but they were worried about how we dealt with civilians, not how we handled other gangs. So long as the other side was confirmed scum, they would follow Mikey to the death and revel in it.â
âThen, what was the problem?â
âThey had guns.â
Your eyes flicker to his waist, where you know a gun is tucked out of sight except for a tell-tale bulge.
These days, Hanma feels naked without one. He holsters his gun in the mornings before he reaches for a shirt. Strange to remember those early days when half their meetings were preoccupied on the question of how they could acquire something he now takes for granted. The most outlandish schemes were proposed and rejected as they fixated on that one shiny relic of legitimacy. They didnât dream of a gun for every member or even every officer. All Hanma wanted was to put a gun in Kisakiâs hands. He would know where to point it.
âWe had scuffles, some battles, where we gained ground, but all it took was one of their enforcers showing up, waving a gun around, and we would take off running. It was frustrating. By early 2007, we had all the pieces in place â the fronts, the people, the supply â but we couldnât unseat them. As frustrated as we were, they were twice as pissed though. Angry that punk kids kept causing trouble for them. So, they figured, letâs show these kids this isnât a playground game. Letâs show them what it means to pick a fight with the yakuza.â
You barely breath as you listen intently, so your question slides out quiet and unsupported, âHow did they retaliate?â
âOne of our executives at the time had kid sisters. The oldest was barely in middle school and the other still in elementary. They picked them up on the way home from school, slapped them around a bit. Broke a finger. That kind of thing. Honestly it could have been a lot worse. Lucky they were so young.â
âI bet your executive didnât like that,â you say.
âThatâs not the half of it. Mitsuya had always been a fence-sitter until then. He didnât love the direction we were headed, but after that? He wanted blood. We had a meeting when it happened, and one of our old execs, Draken, told Mitsuya that it could have been a lot worse, which of course, Mitsuya did not want to hear. They were squaring up to fight when I had an epiphany.â
âWhat?â
âThey couldnât have done worse.â
Hanma catches the eyes of a woman at a table nearby. Just a half-second before theyâre darting away with too much agitation to be accidental. Itâs not the first look heâs noticed from her or her two male companions. Whenever the radio dips between songs, his tales of bloodshed carry to the table where the young people pick at their French fries.
Knowing the murder confession is approaching, Hanma directs his full gaze to the woman, lets his eyes slide up and down her body, linger at the hollows of her throat where his thumbs might make a home and squeeze. She colors. Frantically, she looks to her two male companions but canât help returning again and again to the predator studying her every breath. They stand, gather their things, and move to the door, their food forgotten.
Amused, Hanma leans his chair as far as it can go, arms fully extended, so he can nick a fry from their table. The salt stings a little on his tongue.
âItâs one thing to have a gun. Itâs another to use it,â Hanma says, weaving you back into the story after the interruption. âThink about the times before Toman. How often did you hear about gang-related killings on the news? Pretty rare, huh? The Yama-Ichi War â that big war everyone still talks about â only thirty-six dead in four years. Thirty-six! Thatâs less than one a month. The Haisha could talk big all they wanted, but they didnât just go around murdering people. They didnât want to land in jail. And it was hot in 2007. That was when the shit with the Sumiyoshi-Kai and the Yamaguich-gumi was going down. The police, the politicians, everyone was up the asses of the yakuza, big pressure not to cause a stir, promises of harsh sentencing. It would only be a year later that the anti-Yakuza amendment passed in retaliation. It wasnât a good time for the Haisha or anyone else to be murdering school kids. But there was nothing stopping usâŚâ
âWouldnât all that apply to you, too?â you ask.
âWe were all minors,â and here, Hanmaâs mouth expands in a grin that could swallow the whole world. âCry in family court about what they did to poor Mitsuyaâs baby sisters, pretend things got out of hand, downplay the organized gang part, and any one of us would be on a fast track to a year or two in juvie. Meanwhile, if the Haisha fired on us, they could ring in their hundredth birthdays in prison. The public would have called for their heads if they killed a kid in 2007.â
âSo, you decided to fight the guys who did it?â
âNo. I decided to kill the guy who did it.â
No one contested his decision. Once the decision was made, the only conversation was about how they would pull it off. Luna, a sweet little girl, managed to id the man who jumped her by his tattoos, distinctive even by yakuza standards. For weeks after the girlsâ beating, they cased out the Haishaâs operations and gathered intel, so it was easy to place the guy, easy to develop a plan.
The enforcer was on the racket, touring the businesses that sought âprotectionâ from the Haisha once a month with a hand out to collect. There was an office furniture wholesaler that was almost always empty on the first Wednesday of every month when the asshole and his partner would swing by. The target would take a piss in the back, while his partner waited to collect the cash.
You could set your watch by it, which was gloriously stupid. Routine is the number one killer in their industry.
âSo, I showed up an hour before he usually arrived. Big store crowded with furniture, easy to sneak past the owner. The customer bathroom was a lockable room with a light switch. Always dark unless someone was using it. I spent the better part of an hour standing beside the door. Waiting. Across the street, Hakkai was posted. His only job was to text me when he saw the guy arrive, so that I didnât accidentally jump the office manager trying to take a piss. Well, I got the text. Then, ten minutes later, like planned, my guy comes strolling into the room. He couldnât see me in the dark, but I could see him. My eyes had adjusted. So, I kicked him right in the balls to make sure his hands wouldnât go for his gun first. He sank to his knees, and I was there with a garrote wire around his throat before he could scream. I tried not to slice up his neck too badly because of the blood, strangled him instead until he dropped. Then, I crept through the back before his partner even knew he was missing. But not, of course, before I relieved him of his gun. He wouldnât be needing it anymore, and I had better uses for it.â
âWas it different than you expected?â
âEh, a little. I had always thought my first kill would be overkill. You know? Iâm beating some poor bastard up and donât stop until his head is scrambled on the sidewalk. I expected a hit wouldnât be like that, but it wasnât. He didnât just drop. He fought to the last breath. My arms were numb the next day from having to hold on so long. But I didnât feel bad if thatâs what youâre asking.â
âIt sounds like a well-researched planâŚbut, still so much could have gone wrong. What if he managed to call out before you silenced him? What if he took too long and his partner came to check? What if you did accidentally jump the wrong person? Most people would have been afraid,â you point out.
âI donâtâŚâ Hanma stumbles, unsure for once how to verbalize something he long suspected. He finds his voice after a minute of staring past your patient expression. âWhat other people call fear, Iâm not sure if thatâs something I feel. It does such different things to me. When something is dangerous, I feel the rush that other guys describe, but it just makes me want to run faster into danger, not away from it. Itâs exhilarating.â
âAdrenaline junkie,â you nod.
Hanma snarls his next words, grating at how predictable heâs become to you, âSo, no, I wasnât afraid. I was excited to start the next chapter, to be the first guy in Toman to kill someone.â
Greasy wrappers litter the table as the last of the food is long gone. You silently scrape aside the baskets and debris to clear a straight path between the two of you. All the while, he can see the gears whirring in your brain. When you look up at him, it is with a peculiar smile.
âHanma-san, your memory of that first time is impressive, but can you tell meâŚwhat was the manâs name?â
Funny, how when heâs with you, he finds new ways to surprise himself. Because as Hanma wracks his brain, he is stunned to find youâre right. He canât remember.
âClever, Doc. Real clever.â
âClever enough that youâll stop evading and tell me what had you so murderous this morning? Did it have to do with Haitani? The HJK? What has you so stressed out?â you repeat.
âThatâs what you want? For me to tell you?â
âYes,â you assert.
Itâs the opening heâs been looking for.
âLook at you asking for what you want like a good girl. Iâm almost proud of you,â Hanma leers.
âOh, shut up.â
âNo, no, Iâm serious, Doc. Itâs a rare thing to hear you ask for what you want. Iâd like to hear more of it. Hey, hereâs an idea! If Iâm going to satisfy one desire, I might as well satisfy all of them. How about I give you whatever you want for the rest of the evening? It could be like a game,â Hanma says. Every word drips with the sinister promise that this game will somehow end with him getting everything he wants instead.
âYeah, sure, fine,â you bluff.
Hanma waggles a finger in your face. âNow, come on. Itâs not that easy! We both know you wonât just tell me what you truly want. You need a little help opening up, Doc. And I have just the thing.â
Without a care for the patrons who might be watching, Hanma removes a plastic baggie from his wallet. He tosses it onto your plate, a splatter of ketchup staining the wrapping. Hastily, you fling a napkin on top, glancing around to see if anyone noticed.
âWhat is this?â you ask.
Hanma contemplates the likelihood that youâve maybe experimented with drugs in some long-lost party girl past and then rejects the idea entirely. You arenât the type. Most people take drugs to escape something or find it, and you are too settled in your personal brand of misery to ever consider improving it. You wonât know your marijuana from your MDMA.
So, he gives you just enough of the truth to lure you in but not scare you, âJust a little upper. Something to lower your inhibitions, so when you tell me what you want, Iâll know you really mean it.â
âI canât justâŚâ
âWhy not? I promise not to take advantage. You get to dictate everything. Where we go, what we do, when we leave. Iâll answer any of your questions. Itâs honestly an uneven game. Iâm giving you the world on a silver platter, and all you have to do is be honest for a few hours.â
âYouâll tell me why you were so angry?â
âTake the pill, Doc.â
Thereâs no water left in your glass, so you dry swallow the little tab, coughing as it squeezes past the tight ring of your throat. Sweat trickles down your forehead as you wait for your first high like a prisoner waits for the executioner to swing.
Knowing it will be sometime before you really feel it, Hanma decides to take mercy on you and take your mind off it.
âBecause Iâm sick of hearing you nag, Iâll tell you why I was pissed. Iâve been monitoring Haitani for weeks not because I suspect heâs going to undermine our deal with the HJK and this morning, there was an information leak. One that could mean trouble if we donât contain it. The timing is too suspicious, and I think heâs behind it.â
âWhy do you think that? Do you have proof?â
âIf I was the HJK and wanted to undermine Toman, Iâd go to Haitani. Heâs got the resources, the location, the history. And I just know heâs been waiting for his chance ever since Toman rejected him. Haitani would never be stupid enough to act alone but with the HJK backing him? Itâs the perfect timing.â
âAnd you were angry becauseâŚ?â
âBecause I donât like to lose! Not like this. Not from someone skulking in the shadows too afraid to face me like a man. When I lose, itâs going to be face-to-face, the fight of the motherfucking century. Not this subterfuge bullshit,â Hanma snaps.
âKisaki-san must be angry,â you say.
Hanma scoffs and unlocks his phone, shows you the notifications for 37 unread texts and 12 missed calls. All day heâs ignored Kisaki â from some angles an act of disobedience, but Hanma views it as the ultimate loyalty as the distance is all that kept Kisaki safe as he worked off his aggression.
âHmm, that tracks with what I know of him,â you murmur, and then more sharply. âI understand why Kisaki-san is angry, but why are you?â
âWhatâdya mean?â
âYouâve said it all yourself. You donât feel any real loyalty towards Toman. Youâre just along for the ride, so what does it matter to you if the empire burns? Itâs not self-preservation because you have a bit of a death wish, and itâs not fear, because well, you donât experience that either. If Haitani Ran is gunning for you, thatâs something new and ostensibly exciting. Why, then, are you so angry?â
Hanma wants to burrow into your brain for just a moment, to see himself through those bright eyes. So like him in the way you capture and catalogue the nuances of your subject, and yet so very different. Because Hanma studies to strip bare, to reduce his subject to their base components, to see a path to their ruin. You watch him just as closely, and yet, seem to do the opposite, seem to build a man detail by detail as if thereâs a simulator in your head. It would be fascinating to pick apart what you have uncovered about him, what parts of himself still remain a mystery.
âMy death should be the great climax of my life. Everything culminating in a moment of perfect ecstasy, and then nothing. Itâs not death itself that I want. And at this point the downfall of Toman and my death are one in the same. Unless Iâm the one to destroy Toman, itâll mean by annihilation,â Hanma tells you. âAnd this shit with HaitaniâŚheâd take that from me. The cyberwarfare, the skulking in the shadows, how am I supposed to have my perfect death there? Itâs so impersonal, like getting caught on tax or mail fraud. And, I canât even assume heâll give me a death! No, the way heâs fighting, itâs prison, and that is not how it ends for me.â
âDo you fear prison then?â
âYou tell me, Doc. How would I fare in prison? Routine, sobriety, no real man to challenge me to a fight, no hope for release? Some men like it in there. Find that they can live like kings if they have power and money on the outside. But me? Iâd kill myself before the sun rose on my first night there.â
âYou donât like constraint,â you agree.
âNo, I donât,â Hanma says, remembering Kisakiâs tight grip on the leash that morning. The anger not at being insulted but at being controlled, denied the vengeance that sang so sweetly in his blood.
âThe way youâre talking. You must really think Haitani has a chance to tear down Toman. Why is that? It canât be the first threat to Toman youâve faced.â
âIt was different in the early days. I knew there was a bullet with my name on it and it might be coming from any gun, any direction, any time. The world felt so wide back then. Only, the bullet didnât come. We won again and again and again, no matter the obstacle. And, somewhere along the line, people started to whisper that Mikey wasnât human at all. He was the dark god of the underworld, unkillable. And if he was a god, we must be his demons. Grab a random thug, and he wonât admit as much, but deep down, most guys think weâre immortal. They donât expect the bullet to hit, so it doesnât.â
âBut Haitani is different?â
âHaitani knew us before the early times, from the very beginning. He knows if weâre demons sent to roam the earth, heâs no different. Iâve known for some time now that my downfall will come at the hands of someone from the early days. Itâs part of why Kisaki has killed so many of the early executives. Weâre our own greatest enemy.â
Like a trick of the light, one moment you watch him with clear eyes and the next the pupils blow wide open, swallowing the iris up into its abyss. Trembling hands grip the table for stability and sweat weeps down your brow.
Wicked anticipation builds as he watches your descent into abandon.
He tells you a bit more, just to whet your appetite and pass the time. The length between your questions, comments, and mhmms of understanding grow longer as your brain glazes. Hanma knows the feeling, like a simultaneous loosening and sharpening of the mind, the picture grows blurrier, but the details are brought into sharp relief as the brain fixates on that which pleases or terrorizes it.
As his words lose their allure, your mouth slackens, and eyes track the motion of his long fingers as they gesture and flex. Hanma figures youâre just about ready to get started.
âWhat do you want to do with my fingers, right now?â
âLick them.â
There is no hesitation as you blurt the words out, but the realization catches up with you fast, and you clap a hand over your mouth. Itâs too late though. The time for reminiscing on the past is long over. There are new memories to make tonight.
The small table is nothing compared to Hanmaâs height, and he covers the distance by leaning forward, bringing his face within centimeters of yours. His fingers close the rest of the distance and trace the back of your hand, where your lips are hidden, coaxing your shield down, until he can reach your pretty mouth. He traces your lips just as gently. They are soft, somewhat tacky from ChapStick, and wet where they part.
You shake your head, but your tongue darts out anyway, like there are two people of competing minds manning your body. His fingers must be salty from the sea because after the first tentative lick, you lift his hand entirely drawing it straight to the furnace of your mouth, suckling and licking the flavor off.
He forgets sometimes, when heâs jerking his cock to the idea of your hot mouth sucking him off that you havenât yet. In his memories, the whore at the club all those weeks ago becomes you, swallowing him down a well-trained throat and mouthing his balls like a devoted slut. But that wasnât you, and the tongue that curls around the tip of his finger now is less experienced in the art of the tease, though no less devoted to consuming him whole.
Hanma wants to learn the differences, to fuck your mouth until you cry, but tonight is not about what he wants.
As you suckle at his fingers, he says, âDo you remember watching me get head? Rubbing your cunt raw at the sight? I wanted it to be you, but it was so hot having you watch, knowing you wanted to trade places, too.â
Small noises of desperation hum around his fingers as you give one last long suck. Itâs too loud in the restaurant, echoing in the transition between radio hits, and Hanma catches the eye of a father with young kids. The man begins to stand like he means to confront him or get a manager or otherwise stop the shockingly obscene display, so Hanma shrugs off his jacket to allow his bare arms and the tattoos there to shine. The message is clear, and the man immediately sits back down, shaking his head at his wife, who whispers in concern for their kidsâ innocent little eyes.
Few things would be funnier than taking advantage of your inebriated state, turning you on until every inhibition fails you, and you beg him to fuck you here on the table amid screams and curses from the peanut gallery. The anger of the onlookers mixed with the promise of your later mortification would make him cum like a geyser, butâŚbut. There are other ways to play tonight, ones that wonât ruin the lesson he is kindly teaching you.
âItâs about time we leave, Doc. Where do you want to go next? Just say the word,â Hanma says.
âCan we go to the club? With the dancer from before?â you murmur, eyes hazy with the memory.
Hanma strokes your cheek with wet fingers. âWe could, but weâre two hours out of Tokyo. I know a club thatâs closer though. Itâll have music, dancers, and a VIP room just for the two of us, or a third if you want the company. Does that work, baby?â
âYeah, yeah, I want to go dancing with you,â you agree.
âWell then, letâs go.â
Whenever he speaks, you shape the words out under your breath, struggling to understand as your brain is busy rolling on a different plane. Dumb looks almost as good on you as smart and conniving. Then again, you have to be a fucking idiot to trust him in the first place. His dumb, trusting little therapist. He could just eat you up.
--
Reflexively, Hanma catalogues the exits, the position of the bouncers, ideal locations to duck for cover with eyes trained to adjust quickly in the dark. The club in Chiba pays dues to Bonten but is not run by their organization, and on a Tuesday, the clientele is less university party girls and twenty-something laborers looking to pull, and instead the cityâs grime: low-level thugs, working girls, alcoholics with nowhere to report Wednesday morning.
A proprietary hand at your back leads you into a wonderland of pleasures. The overhead lights are switched off entirely, flashes of illumination, first green, then red, then yellow alight sporadically on the writhing bodies on the dance floor. Reliant on those brief flickers to see the next step ahead, the effect is complete disorientation, an almost blindness. The music, the pounding of the bass that vibrates up the floors through the feet, climbing the legs, winding its way up the torso, and shaking the brain becomes the north star that guides the dancers forward onto the dance floor.
You whimper a little at the onslaught of sensory data. The cornucopia of lights and sounds would be unsettling for anyone, but with the pills mellowing your brain, the sensation takes on a darker edge, like monsters might lurk behind any corner. It is Hanmaâs job to show you that pleasure lurks behind every corner, too.
âDo you still want to dance?â he breathes into your ear.
At your nod, Hanma leads you into a pulse of bodies, sweat-slicked cleavage and too-tight trousers, heavy breathing and the smell of perfume gone stale. The crush of the crowd forces you both close, and Hanma winds his arms so that youâre back to chest, your cute ass tight to his thighs as he towers over you with the full advantage of his height.
The clubâs second-rate weekday DJ changes the track to some dubstep throwback, and the crowd writhes with the changing beat. Hanma sways mildly along to the beat, hands at your hips. He expects you to grind against him, to whip your hair about, to put on a show, and let him just stand there to feel the press of your body, but you donât.
You sway a little, off-rhythm. Feet firmly in place. Head on a swivel to observe the other dancers.
Hanma realizes with a flicker of surprise that this might be the first time youâve ever danced like this before. Uptight princess with her head in the books, you would have returned to your tower every night, preferring the safety of the dragon â your beastly mother â to the risk that comes with complete abandon in a dark room.
Slouching a little, so his groin connects with your ass, Hanma guides you back into a slow grind. Your movements hitch, not quite on beat, but with his hands gripping your hips, you find the rhythm, matching his motions. When heâs confident you wonât lose the rhythm, Hanma trails ticklish fingers up your inner arms, drawing them high into the air, where they tangle around his neck. If you werenât dressed, he could slip right inside your tight sheath from this angle.
Too tempting to ignore is your throat, bared to the side as you dance. He licks a stripe right up the path of it, nipping your ear at the finish line. He tastes salt and groans.
Chest pushed forward and back arched alluringly, Hanma canât resist pawing at you. One heavy hand gropes your left tit as the other anchors your hips against his hardening cock. He likes the weight of you in his hand, the way you shiver when his fingers dance lightly along the neckline of your shirt and hiss when he squeezes your breast unforgivingly. He finds your nipple buried under layers of shielding fabric and pinches and prods until your hips start to dance to their own rhythm again, this time not because you canât find the beat, but because you are writhing along to the demands of your own pulse.
He wishes you wore a skirt because he would take his cock out here on the dance floor and rut it between your thighs, tease your twitchy clit with the head until you squeal. Blow his load here all over your thighs and the floor for some poor bastard to clean up later.
He likes the idea of you marked up with his cum. Likes it enough that he bites you instead, there at the juncture of neck and shoulder. He doesnât break skin, just worries your flesh with his teeth a little, but your hands tighten in his hair, like it hurts all the same.
âWhat do you want?â he murmurs right into your ear as the music lulls for a moment between songs.
âI wantâŚI want toâŚâ the words are garbled around a dry mouth, and Hanma decides to help you a little.
âDo you want to keep dancing? Or do you want to go to the VIP lounge upstairs?â
âVIP,â you answer immediately.
One flight of stairs and a little money exchanged, and you enter a private VIP room just for the two of you. Glass walls overlook the main dance floor, where Hanma can see the mass of dancers is much smaller than it felt when circling the nucleus of the dance floor. Pulling the curtains closed, separates you both from prying eyes, from the world of the club.
âSo what do you want, Doc?â Hanma asks, pouring himself a glass of the complementary champagne.
You splay across the couch, loose limbs spread haphazardly and back slumped into the little couch. The position doesnât look comfortable, but you donât seem to mind it as you stare up at the ceiling, disco ball reflecting little diamonds of yellow light down on your heads.
âI wannaâŚkill my mother,â you say.
Hanma smiles as the champagne slips cool and bubbly down his throat. âIâm sorry you didnât get a chance to. You deserved to kill her.â
âYeahâŚshe really sucked. I wanna kill my dad too, for leaving me with her. Deserves to die,â you mutter.
âDo you want me to try to find him? I could, you know. Not fast enough for you to kill him tonight, but I could track him down if you give me time.â
Your head darts up, âYou think you could find my dad?â
âIâve found harder people than that. Unless you think your dadâs like the head of a triad or something, I donât see why not,â Hanma says.
âThat would be much appreciated, Hanma-san. IâŚI donât think you realize how much that would mean to me,â you say.
Your button up dangles off your shoulder, revealing a smattering of dark freckles or moles, but otherwise, you are shockingly present, a level of clarity in your eyes that surprises him after your stumbling hedonism on the dance floor.
âConsider it done,â he waves off, âBut do me a favor, enough with the Hanma-san shit. Weâre past that, arenât we, Doc? What do you want to call me?â
âWell, what about you? What do you want to call me?â you counter.
Hanma laughs. âI already call you whatever I want. I like calling you Doc. Like remembering who you were to me when we first met. But if I wanna call you baby, sweetheart, slut, whatever, I will. Donât need your permission. You on the other handâŚCome on, tonightâs about what you want. Give it a try.â
Chipping at a bit of mauve polish leftover on your pinky nail, you avoid looking at him as you answer, âWell, Shuji.â
âSee thatâs not so ââ
âAnd, I guess, Daddy. Sometimes too.â
Oh, if his cock wasnât already hard from the heat of your body on the dance floor, it is now. Hanma shifts on the seat to reposition his cock down his thigh where his pants are looser. Wishes to forget this whole âmake you ask for itâ plan, so he can have a little air here and now.
âDaddy? And here you were just talking about committing patricide. Should I be worried, baby?â Hanma coos.
âIt doesnât make sense because youâre dangerous, but sometimesâŚsometimes you make me feel safe, too. And I like that. IâŚI want thatâŚfor you to take care of me a little,â you admit even as the shame burns you alive.
Hanma leans back on the couch, legs spread impossibly wide and arms thrown out as if to give a harem of kneeling women access to his chest. Spread like this, thereâs nothing to conceal the bulge that strains against his zipper. Despite your shame, your eyes trace every centimeter of his body, taking in the way he offers it to you without limits.
âWell, then, what does Daddyâs little girl want now?â Hanma asks huskily.
âNever mind. This is too embarrassing ââ you protest, rising inelegantly from the couch. The blood must rush to your head because you stumble, feet tangling on the carpet, and you topple onto the center table. One of the complimentary glasses of champagne breaks, glass shattering everywhere and champagne staining your pants. Blood beads a thin line down your forearm from the contact. You move your hands towards the table as if to push yourself back to your feet with your hands buried in glass, so Hanma leaps to your rescue. He pulls you up safely, kicking the table out of the way and drawing you to the âsafetyâ of his lap as you apparently canât be trusted to stand without his help.
âNow, show Daddy where it hurts,â Hanma commands.
The whole exchange happens in less than thirty seconds, and you look around dazedly like you canât understand his words, how you moved from the table to his lap so quickly. A little gasp escapes your lips as you notice the cut on your arm for the first time.
Hanma tuts as he turns your arm this way and that, enjoying the way you look to him for next steps, like you donât know how to handle a little broken glass. The cut is shallow barely breaking skin except at the crease of your elbow where he plucks an embedded piece of glass from your flesh.
âBarely a scrape,â Hanma announces.
Knees couched on either side of his thighs, your center hovers appealingly above him. Your attention is limited to the trail of red on your arm, so Hanma takes the opportunity to push upwards slowly until heâs sure the ridge of his pants notches against your clit. Without hesitation, you lower yourself to more fully seat yourself on his cock. Each arm winds around his neck, which presents your tits to his mouth too. A tasty little morsel plated up just for him.
âDo you want Daddy to make it better?â
This close, he can see the pores on your nose, the fine hairs at your temples, and the down of your chin. He can see your lust in your slackened mouth, the battle waging behind your eyes, followed by the haze as your thoughts trip over each other in a sensory high. He can see everything.
Eventually, you see him too, returning his gaze with an observation that is both steadfast and purely instinctive. Thoughts donât govern you, not now. Itâs almost too much to bear. Makes him itch.
âI want you to kiss me,â you say.
Before closing the distance, Hanma hastily tosses his glasses to the side. Relief at not having to meet your unflinching study lasts only a second because then he is swallowing up your soft lips. The kiss is a caress. No tongue or teeth or clichĂŠ battle for dominance. Just the gentle press of his lips as yours yield like a flower in bloom.
It is you who eventually breaks the trance by darting your pink tongue out to the seam of his lips in a kitten lick that drives straight to his cock. He alternates between melting kisses and sucking your lower lip puffy. Your hands comb through his hair, past his shoulders, and down his sides, clutching tighter with blunt, little nails when he sucks on your lip. He likes when you return the favor, the almost pain reminding him of when you bit into his lips like a feral cat and refused to release him, that blatant display of ownership over his body turning him on as much as the feeling of wetness leaking through your pants onto his as you puddle in his lap.
Eventually, you chase down his tongue in a tangle of hot breaths, and the tempo rises further. He grips your round ass in both hands, squeezes in time to how you suck at his tongue. He spreads you ass cheeks open, and heat blazes from your cunt.
Unsteady fingers struggle with the buttons of his shirt. Wherever one opens, your fingers are not far behind, tracing the muscled planes of his chest and the veins of his throat. Dipping into his clavicle, a ticklish sensation jitters down his neck, and Hanma bucks in response, cock humping you and pushing your chest further into his. Hard nipples flatten against him.
All the while, he doesnât stop kissing you, doesnât stop giving you exactly what you want.
Not with words but actions, you next ask him to pet your pussy, dragging his heavy hand down to the front of your pants, past the clasped button and lacy panties, to where your curls are damp and skin hot. Hard and twitching, he finds your clit immediately, and toys with it with little strokes that end deep in your panties where youâre wettest. You mewl delightedly and break free of his mouth.
âSee, baby. See what happens when you ask for what you want? This feels nice, right?â Hanma coos.
You bury your face into his neck, the words muffled. âYes, Daddy. Feels so good. So nice.â
âI want you to remember this,â Hanma says, and heâs not role-playing, completely serious as he rubs your clit. âThereâs no prize for self-denial. Desire is the thing that separates us from the plants and the trees, what makes life worth living. Embrace what you want, honor it, feed it. Because look what happens when you do? You get cradled like a sweet girl, get to soak my hand, get to feel alive. If nothing else, listen to what your cunt tells you because at least itâs always honest.â
Lately, the way you ignore everything from your basic wants to deepest learnings has chafed at the edges of his mind. The way you let a soulless schedule dictated by society, one that chewed you up without a second thought, dictate your every action. It bothered him to see anyone so alienated from the hedonistic bliss that he long ago discovered for himself, but he usually wrote those people off as idiots, NPCs sleepwalking through life. But not you. Not you with your brain and insight and pretty, pouting mouth. You should know what it means to feel.
Imagining a version of you whoâs completely embraced desire, whoâs surrendered to the pangs of your cravings â whether for delicious food or delicious cock, whether for rest or play, whether for companionship or vengeance â fuels his jerkoff sessions.
The angle of his wrist isnât right, caught on the waist of your pants, so he can only dip a finger into the slick hole waiting for him, can feel the little tremors as it tightens on his fingertip but not test the hug of your gummy walls. Unbuttoning your pants and lowering the zipper helps. It leaves enough room for his whole hand to disappear into your panties, palm hot and heavy against your clit, and you start to writhe at the inescapable feeling. His hand is so much bigger than yours. Left, right, up, down, it doesnât matter, his hand presses sinfully where you are most vulnerable.
Hanma thinks you have to be getting close to cumming with the way he works you, but you donât descend into writhing helplessness. Instead, you bite into his throat. Kisses meant to mark and hurt just a little bit. The pinpricks of suctioning pain are tempered by the wet swirl of your tongue, his skin tingling at your touch. When you finish sucking must be a vicious red bruise into his skin, you move a few centimeters to the side and begin again. The finished pattern will loop his neck, like a collar, like your calling card, and he moans obscenely without a care for how loud he is at the thought. No one will hear over the blaring music anyway.
Suddenly, the biting stops. Your lips stays fixed to his neck, but now your mouth is open, hot air blasting into him as you pant. Your thighs clamp down harder around his legs. Your pussy pulses, wet and trembling. You cum.
Hanma resists a laugh at the pathetic sounds you make as you quiver through it. He likes making you cum, likes how stupid your face looks all screwed up and helpless. Likes that your reflexes and brain processes slow, and he could do anything to you in those ensuing moments without the slightest resistance.
Where is your pride as you grind against his hand? Where is your precious caution as you whimper in the arms of a murderer? Where is that discipline you claim in the bright light of day as you let him handle you like a needy slut?
He wants to bring you lower. Imagines a world where every last piece of you has been stripped, examined, and discarded. No more loser boyfriend, no more patients, no more dignity, no more independence. You can stay by his side, wet and plugged with cock until he bores of you, and only then will you realize how much you gave up for a taste of him.
The fantasy tastes like victory.
When your iron grip on his shoulders loosens, Hanma murmurs, âHowâd that feel, princess?â
âSo goooood,â you slur. âLike a normal orgasm, but brighter, more. I feel like I can read your mind.â
Hanma laughs, sincerely doubting you sensed the direction of his thoughts. One of the side effects of the Ecstasy he gave you is a flood of serotonin to the brain, which can create an artificial sense of emotional closeness and trust between the user and anyone they encounter. It serves you up to him, willing like a lamb to the slaughter.
âDo you want to feel even better?â Hanma coaches. His balls ache.
âYes,â you say eagerly, looking to him as if for direction.
âEh, eh, eh, you have to ask Daddy for what you want,â Hanma tuts, and when you look lost, he adds, âDonât you think it would feel good to be full, to stretch that tight pussy around something big? Donât you want to give your sore little clit a break? Tickle that spot deep inside you instead? I bet youâd cum so hard on a fat cock right now, but itâs up to you. Maybe you donât want that.â
You arenât completely braindead and understand what heâs driving at even if you are too addled to recognize the patronizing tone to his voice as he manipulates you into taking his cock.
âI want you to fuck me, Daddy,â you plead, like he might say no, like the decision rests on whether you widen your eyes and pout your lips. Like the decision isnât predetermined by his rioting cock. This, too, is victory.
Hanma stands, toppling you off his lap and to the side. Before you can resituate, he flips you onto your belly. Your face and torso rest on the couch, but your legs dangle off to the ground. He rips your pants down, dragging the damp panties with it, and kicking them out of the way. From between the cheeks of your cute, dimpled ass, your pussy winks at him. His own clothes follow. The room is sweltering, the HVAC failing to combat the heat of the clubâs many dancers, and his naked body is already shiny with sweat.
Manhandling you up again with an arm around your chest, Hanma drapes you right over the back of the couch, knees planted wide on the cushions. He is done waiting.
There is resistance when he presses the blunt cockhead against your little hole. He must be bigger than poor Takashi. It doesnât matter though. Not when your pussy drips with your last orgasm, not when Hanma has no mercy left in him. You will take every centimeter whether you like it or not.
With what feels like a pop, your cunt stretches enough for his head to slip inside, and after that he drives nearly half the length inside in one thrust. You squeak and scramble against the cushions to stay upright against the force of him, and Hanma giggles. Heâs barely started, barely used any force at all yet. He knew you needed a man to show you what a true dicking down felt like.
The soft lining of your pussy massages his cock head, makes the middle of his shaft tingle. He barely pulls out, loathe to part with your little piece of paradise, before driving in even deeper, head thrown back and neck bobbing at how delicious your cunt hugs him to the base of his cock. You manage to take every centimeter just like he knew you would, thighs shaking at how deeply he lodges himself. His own brow beads with more sweat at the grip of the furnace between your thighs.
To manyâs surprise, Hanma doesnât exclusive fuck hard. He enjoys caressing and teasing a lover, likes to let a woman take the lead, likes slow and steady strokes on a lazy morning.
But he has wanted this specific cunt for too long.
He wants to make you scream.
The pace that follows is equally punishing for both of you. Hanmaâs muscles ache as he pounds into your hole, hands spreading your ass cheeks wide, so he can watch the way you swallow him. Meanwhile, the moans that fill the room are half-pained as he beats into the deepest parts of your body. Sometimes your hips reflexively jerk away, as if to spare yourself, but he follows, coating your body with his own and humping you mercilessly until you stop trying to escape, start mewling with a building orgasm instead.
Because cruel as his thrusts may be, he angles his hips upward just right every time to punch your g-spot. Because he stretches you so wide you arenât capable of human speech anymore. Because his balls slap heavy and hard into your puffy clit each time.
You clamp down hard when you cum, milking him in long, rhythmic pulses which feel even better than drugs and booze and violence. A flood of juices drench the hairs at his groin. Pussy too tight to accommodate him any longer, Hanma pulls out to the tip, and strokes up and down your back, lets long fingers caress the undersides of your breasts.
Turning your neck, Hanma sees your makeup streaked, tears dripping down to your chin. Wrecked. Destroyed. Worshipful.
Exactly what a good fucking does to a good slut.
Hanma smiles wide at your pitiful face and then fucks right back in again. This time, he plants his own knees onto the couch, folds you back to press your back to his chest. It creates a tighter cock sleeve for him to enjoy and gives his hands free reign to grope and slap your tits. You keen at the first slap, but donât protest, so he does it again and again until your skin burns hot under his hands. Itâs fun to watch the way your tits swing when he slaps them, the way your pussy shudders at the impact and stays tight at the anticipation of the next blow.
His thrusts are slower now, less brutal. All his aggression finds an outlet in slapping your pretty breasts, so that he can focus his good feelings into the twirl of his hips. He promised to play your Daddy after all, and Daddies take care of their little whores.
Balls drawing tighter and tighter, Hanma knows heâs going to blow his own load any minute, but he wants to make you cum one last time. Wants to see your eyes roll back this time.
âWhere do you want me to cum, baby girl? Wherever you want?â Hanma murmurs in your ear.
âI donâtâŚI donâtâŚâ
âItâs not that hard a question, Doc. Come on. Use that brain of yours!â Hanma says cruelly. âHere, Iâll make it a multiple-choice question. Do you want me to cum on your ass and back? Flip you over and cover your tits? Want a pretty pearl necklace? How about down your greedy throat? Or maybe you want it inside, huh? On birth control and want to feel me deep inside?â
Itâs madness, but Hanma loves to fill up a woman to the brim, keep her plugged full and sitting in his cum. Probably has a kid or two somewhere in the city, who heâll never acknowledge. He doesnât care about the risk, just the feeling of a milking pussy flooded hot with his cum.
So when you donât answer, Hanma makes the decision for you. He slips his hands between your legs, so slippery down there now that he struggles to find purchase, and rubs your sore clit back and forth until your head starts to whip back and forth and you bite his other wrist to contain the scream that comes from deep inside you.
This time when your cunt milks him, Hanma surrenders to it. Itâs like firing a gun, one blast of pure power, only itâs pleasure that blacks out his vision and senses so that for a moment he lives, breathes, sees only the hug of your cunt. And then, he returns to himself, spasms of painful pleasure continuing as his cock releases a few weak spurts of cum to join the much bigger load he deposited into you in his brain fog.
When he pulls out and collapses back onto the couch, there is nothing to hold your limp body aloft, so you crumble into a ball at his side. He twirls his fingers through the sweat on your thighs, tracing the kanji of his name into your skin as he watches his cum drip onto the leather cushion. He lights a cigarette and the nicotine does more to slow the erratic beat of his heart than sitting still could.
âSo, Doc, what do you want now?â Hanma asks, voice far clearer than it has any right to be.
You donât answer beyond a pitiful groan, and Hanma laughs as he knows well the feeling. For the first time ever you have reached the ground floor of your wants, the feeling when youâve done everything you want and thereâs nothing left. It makes him want to kiss you. Makes him want to congratulate you.
⣠Warning: 18+, minors DNI; unhealthy relationships & dark content
⣠Chapter CW: hanma has violent thoughts
⣠Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; smut (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, stalking, torture (not of y/n), murder, discussions of trauma and abuse, drug use, and more
⣠Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but youâre not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that youâre both attracted to each other doesnât hurt either.
⣠Word Count: ~2.5k+
Sometimes an emergency looks like a crowd. The troops marshalled, bodies colliding like pinballs in a machine. Then, other times, an emergency looks like this.
A quaint pre-war house far from Tomanâs usual haunts. The kind of neighborhood where everyone properly separates their recyclables lest the neighborhood grandmothers raise their quiet version of hell. The kind of neighborhood that only hears sirens when an old man falls in the shower and shatters his hip. Decorated with bric-a-brac and greenery, amid a dozen identical houses is the home of Kisakiâs maiden aunt, a sixty-something widow who favors her left-side because she canât hear so much as a shout into her right ear.
Here, in the early pre-dawn hours, Kisaki calls together the men he trusts most, the inner circle of the inner circle. Paranoid as he is, that circle consists of only Koko and Hanma. The three men sit in the windowless basement, fending off the auntieâs many attempts to serve them breakfast as they discuss the morningâs leak.
It happened like this.
On the stroke of midnight, an unknown poster released a zip file titled âTomanâs Secrets_2018â onto a dark web brokerage site. The contents were locked behind a paywall, but in a good faith gesture, the poster released unredacted hundreds of emails between Kisaki, Koko, and Inupi from the last two weeks. The website advertised that the rest would be released to the highest bidder with the auction starting at ÂĽ15,000,000.
The post was live for four minutes before it pinged an alert to Tomanâs cybersecurity team. Twelve minutes later, the entire site crashed along with any archive of the post.
In the sixteen minutes that passed from start to finish, eighty-five visitors saw the incriminating post.
âThe problem is that fucker, Inoshita,â Kisaki rants. âHow much do we pay him to keep us safe? Seriously, guess how much? Almost a hundred million yen a year! And what does he do? He lets us get hacked. Doesnât notice â fucking Kokonoi had to realize something was up â and then, he lets it get posted on the fucking internet for anyone to see! If I didnât know any better, Iâd say this was an inside job.â
Kisaki paces the length of the basement like a firefly trapped in a jar, flinging himself recklessly against his cage. His jaw twitches between breaths, a paranoid tick that when partnered with the glint of mania shining off his glasses makes him look truly deranged. A haunted insomniac, Kisaki wastes the nights as his mind supplies the worst-case scenarios, the ones where heâs betrayed, arrested, shot, strung up, laughed at. Now, he can hardly tell if heâs awake or lost in one of his bad dreams.
âIt could be the HJK. Weaken our position before the final negotiations in the hopes to sweeten the deal. We talked about this, knew it might happen,â Koko suggests reasonably. Seeing someone else panic always mellows him out, like he can outsource his own fretting.
Of all of them, Koko has the least to worry about anyway. At the first sign of trouble, he probably moved all his money to the Virgin Islands and chartered a jet on standby to whisk him away. There are dozens of wealthy men â the kind who supposedly built their fortunes on the straight and narrow â who would love to conscript Kokonoi to inflating their own bank accounts. Heâs in no danger.
Kisaki, on the other hand, has reason to be paranoid.
âDoesnât mean Inoshita wasnât their mole on the inside,â Hanma offers.
âItâs not the HJK. They want this deal as much as we do. Weakening us is one thing, but this could be a killing blow. What if the police get their hands on those files? Weâre flat on our asses if that happens,â Kisaki snaps.
âWas anything incriminating in the email previews?â Hanma asks.
Koko shakes his head. âEverything we write is coded. Neither of us would ever say anything incriminating in an email. You could get a sense of some of our operations and use that to set up a sting, but nothing that would hold up in court. If you got the whole thing though? Youâd be able to track the money, and thatâs where things get real bad for us.â
While they sit with their thumbs up their own asses, the guy behind this is somewhere laughing. Hanma should be out there, hunting, sniffing out the fucker and acquainting him with the taste of fear. Instead, heâs hunkered down in a room with no windows, listening to the thumping footsteps of a batty old lady overhead. He tells Kisaki as much.
âOh, youâd find the guy behind this, huh? Like you found out what the Haitanis were up to when I asked? I didnât realize Detective Galileo was on the case, excuse me. Iâm so relieved now. Problem solved! Tell me, Shuji, what the fuck have you been up to the last few weeks? Other than wasting our time and leaving us vulnerable. Tell me!â
Hanma could kill him, both of them, Kisaki and Koko, before either could fight back. A bullet to Kisakiâs temple. Koko would dive to the ground, go for his own gun, but there is no cover in the wide-open basement the old lady uses for laundry. And, Koko isnât much of a shot. Heâs only gunned someone down once. Meanwhile, Hanmaâs gun would already be drawn. He could turn it on Koko before the other man has a chance to take aim. The old lady upstairs wouldnât hear the bullets. He could put her down nice and humane without her ever realizing what was happening and be on his way.
The only evidence of this vivid fantasy is the twitch of Hanmaâs forefinger. Three flicks. One for each gun shot.
âWhere would you even start?â Koko asks.
âIâd kill two birds with one stone. Haitani! Iâve been saying it from the beginning. Heâs our guy. I gun him and his runt kid brother down, and then, youâll see there will be no more leaks, no more posts. It dies with them,â Hanma says.
âYou havenât found any evidence to tie them to the HJK,â Kisaki says doubtfully.
âExactly! Iâve found fucking nothing. There should be something. A little scheme here or there. No ways those fuckers are keeping their hands out of our territories entirely, but they come up like ghosts when I look. Your auntieâs less clean than they are!â
Hanmaâs conviction that Ran was up to no good strengthened with every day that passed. He never underestimated the man, remembered the way he lorded over Roppongi through his own strength, remembered searching for the boy after his release from juvie, fascinated to stare into the face of a murderer. What he found when he searched that face was pure ambition, unmitigated ego, power.
The version of Ran that Hanma constructed through word of mouth in the last month is to be despised, a label-whoring, double-talking golem with no blood in his veins. Just a smirk as he evades Hanmaâs every attempt to find him out.
Itâs enough to drive a man crazy.
âYou canât just off the Haitanis. Theyâre too big. It would be an obvious hit, and there would be a massive investigation. Our people on the inside are saying that the body countâs too high lately. You keep killing people, and it fucks up the cityâs murder stats. The police will have to do something soon, and the Haitanis could be the final straw. Theyâll write in the papers that thereâs a turf war, get the public all in a panic, the politicians will foam at the mouth, and weâll have a team of auditors up our asses for the next decade,â Koko argues.
âWho cares about that?â Hanma snaps.
The problem with Koko, of course, is that he, like Haitani, lacks blood in his veins. He replaces with shiny coins and foreign currencies.
âI care! I care about the future of my fucking empire. And, Iâm not gonna let you burn it to the ground just because youâre having a tantrum,â Kisaki hisses.
 Kisaki points a finger in Hanmaâs face, close enough that Hanmaâs breath could fog up his glasses. Kisaki is shorter and weaker, but as he glares up at Hanma, it is the glare of a god who knows his power.
Quietly, but no less venomously, Kisaki continues,â You, Shuji, are a dog. A dog. You can whine and bare your teeth and bark all you like. Why? Because you arenât going to bite anyone unless your master tells you. Iâm your fucking master, Shuji. Me. I tell you who to bite, when to bite, how fucking hard to bite. And Iâm telling you to tuck your tail between your legs and lay low until this blows over, or, so help me, Iâll put you to sleep myself.â
The nail of Kisakiâs pointer finger is trim and clean as it waves in Hanmaâs face. Hanma could bite it clean off at the tip before Kisaki finishes his speech. He debates it, imagines the taste of blood and gristle, how heâd swallow down Kisakiâs howl alongside it like a wine pairing.
Violence permeates from his skin, a smell that only the initiated would recognize. As it settles in his bones, Hanma has no choice but to obey, to serve it up blood. His whole being demands it.
So, itâs important he leaves, here and now, or his decade long friendship is going to end with the boss man dead on the floor. A sad downfall to the grand empire they once built together.
âFine,â Hanma seethes. âI will leave the fucker alone for now. And you can cry from your jail cell how you should have listened to me. Sound good, Master?â
âGood boy,â Kisaki says, but his eyes glaze as they rescan the screenshots of the nightâs post. Already, distracted, like Hanma is merely an obstacle to handle.
Hanma stomps up the stairs, ignoring the sympathetic smile that Kokonoi tries to give him. Rage is blinding, and the edges of his vision are blurred with it. It obscures time and logic, too, so that Hanma returns to himself some time later, not knowing where he is or how he got there.
He takes stock of his surroundings.
The roar of a subway train as it speeds by beneath his feet tells him heâs at a station. A sign overhead reveals itâs Tokyo Ginza. Men and women with pressed hair and suits, backpacks and briefcases, rush by every few seconds, so enough time must have passed for the start of the morning commute. In front of him is a line of pay-by-the-hour lockers, and his hand is held around a small, plastic square inside an open locker.
Yes. His phone. Kisaki made them lock up their phones in storage to avoid the risk of a trace. Heâs returned for his phone.
The sharp return to the material world doesnât quell the murder in his heart at all. He is well-versed in waking up from blackouts in strange surroundings. If anything, the disorientation only heightens his need to take action.
There is time to return to Kisaki, to crack his skull in sacrifice to the demand for retribution that roils his guts. Or, he could find Haitani. He could reclaim his free will, figuratively kill Kisaki and the yoke of control he claims over him and have the satisfaction of obliterating a sword enemy off the map. Or, he could disappear into the dingiest streets of Tokyo, prowl for a fight, leave an abundance of broken bodies â not dead so as to spare the policeâs precious murder rates â but hurt enough that Hanma can wash clean the violence that possesses him.
Hanma takes a step towards an oncoming train, half an idea already formed in his head, when the phone rings. Your name lights up the screen.
Today is meant to be his first real session in weeks after things went off track at the horse races. Heâs seen you, but not in the clinical setting of your office. He had been looking forward to it, imagined that guilt would eat you alive when you fucked him in your office. There would be no denying your culpability then, the reality of your choices, no way to forget that he is your patient first. Hanma thought that would be a delicious comeuppance for you, a little game.
But nowâŚ
âI canât come in today,â Hanma says before you have a chance to greet him.
âWhat? You want to meet somewhere else?â
Your voice is delicious. A little raspy, like maybe this is the firs time youâve spoken this morning. Such a little thing, but with his heart already pumping with fury, he hardens in his slacks. Wanting to fuck doesnât even slightly decrease the violence in him.
âNo, I canât see you today,â Hanma says. âIf I see you, Iâm going to hurt you.â
No answer, just your heavy breaths, like maybe youâre lifting something heavy or moving quickly. Hanma doesnât hang up. Just listens.
âAre you losing control right now?â you finally ask.
âHmmm, Iâm completely in control,â Hanma drawls, breaking into a giggle that is decidedly out of his control. âI mean, Iâm going to enjoy every minute of what I do next.â
âAre you bored?â
âNo, Doc. Iâm not bored. Iâm fucking pissed.â
âIs there a difference between when you lash out when youâre bored versus when youâre just angry?â
âHmmâŚIntention. Itâs the difference between eating a good meal you ordered and a good meal you cooked yourself. Iâm going to eat well today.â
His feet take him deeper into the belly of the city as he takes the escalators two steps at a time. Two trains roar into station and drown out your next response. Hanma has to ask you to repeat yourself. Two minutes until his train arrives.
âLet me help you!â you shout to be heard.
âHelp me?â
âYes, help you!â you shout. âYou asked me before how I intend to divert you when youâre losing control. Let me show you! Give me the chance to show you how you can control it.â
âYou donât want to see me right now, Doc. If I see you, Iâm going to hurt you.â
âIâm asking you to trust me. Meet me at Shidoshita Beach in two hours. If youâre still feeling this way when weâre done, I wonât stop you from doing whatever you need to do. But give me this chance,â you plead.
âAnd if what I need to do, I do to you?â
âIâm trusting you, too, Shuji. Meet me at the station. Two hours.â
The phone beeps twice to signal the end of the call as his train pulls into the station. And he doesnât move a muscle as he debates where to head next.
Summary: This mini-story spin-off takes place in the middle of WTALOT with Hanma. It follows Rin and his Chairwoman whoâs in charge of his business and books. Sheâs also his favorite fuck buddyâexcept heâs very obviously starting to catch feelings.
Word Count: 4k
Warnings: it gets steamy a little, but thatâs really it tbh and some adult language bc weâre all adults here :)
A/N: this occurs after chapter 13 of Whatâs Taking A Life or Two?
Part One (prev) / Master post / Part Two (here)
Rindou, two days after the gala, and after he leaves the quick-shot princess with her rogue prince, shows up at your door. Itâs late in the evening. The backlight on his phone highlights the shadows on his face as he checks the clock: 11:13pm. Although meeting with you at this kind of time isnât new, he feels a little guilty having not called ahead.
Still, you open the door to him and youâre in a black oversized sweatshirt and the tiniest, thinnest cotton shorts heâs ever seen. Youâve even got the cutest set of reading glasses perched on your nose.
âNot even a phone call, Mr. Haitani?â
He shakes his head, hair disheveled from constantly running his fingers through it. âNo, I saw your light on, though.â He takes a step forward, not looking away from you. âFigured you wouldnât mind if I stopped by.â
âI never really have a choice now, do I?â Thereâs a speck of grin on your lips and Rinâs eyelids grow heavy.
âNo,â he breathes, reaching out until his fingers find your hip. âAre you gonna let me in or do I have to go through you?â
You chuckle and the hairs on the back of his neck stand.
âWhat, are ya gonna body check me or somethinâ?âÂ
Rindou pushes you backward, stumbling as he does. He kicks the front door shut with his foot and before youâre able to protest, his hands are gripping the back of your thighs and hoisting you up. Instinctively, you wrap your legs around his slim waist.
Your eyes are wide and heâs sure if he were to press his tongue against the pulse point in your neck, heâd feel its hammering beat.
âSee?â He grins, âPiece of cake.â
Thereâs a hint of surprise in Rindouâs features at the ease with which you accept being in his arms. Your eyes flicker across different points of his face before settling on his eyes. You push his bangs back, nails raking lightly over his scalp before your hands come back around to settle at his jaw.
âYou spent too much time at the hospital, didnât you?â Rindou walks forward until your back is pressed up against a wall. You settle against it, but donât release him. Thereâs a hint of annoyance in the twitch of his upper lip and the crease between his brow. âCome on,â you sigh, exasperated. âDid you think I wouldnât know you saw her? What is it you want so badly, hm?â You push yourself closer, breasts pressed up against him as you roll your hips and his fingernails dig into your thighs. âShow me,â you whisper, inching closer to his lips. âShow me what you want but canât have.â
Rindou surges forward, mouth ravenous against yours as he devours you whole. Your glasses are knocked off in the frenzied movement and readjustment of limbs. Clothes are pulled, yanked off in a heated rush as he pulls you from the wall and takes the familiar path to your bedroom. Heâs fucked you on every surface of your own home. He knows it better than his own at this point. The warmth of being inside you, heavy breathing, and wanton moans. The desperation in which your limbs cling to him, begging him for more, harder, please.Â
He tosses you on the bed, watching as your body bounces against the sheets. Youâre disheveled now, hair as wild as his, lips spit slick and⌠all he wants is to sleep.
âHow pissed would you be if I told you I didnât want to fuck right now?â
Outside of each other's slightly labored breathing, the room is quiet for a long minute. He half expects you to be annoyed, to make a comment about him turning up at your place for basically no reasonâto disturb your evening and not even make you cum.Â
Yet you sit up on your elbows, and you stare. Watching for something, but he isnât sure what.
âAre you okay?â You ask, and it almost startles a laugh from him.
âOf course I am,â but he wonders if you can hear the nervous uptick of his heartbeat. âIâm fuckinâ exhausted, though.â
âAlright,â you pull yourself up onto your knees, waving him closer. âCome âere.â
Rindou steps to the very edge of the bed as you undo the buttons of his suit. As if this is something normal for you, he waits patiently. Allowing you to push off his vest, undo his tie and untuck his dress shirt.
âDo you want to do the rest yourself?â Your eyes briefly flicker up to him as youâre undoing the last two buttons of his shirt. âOr are you enjoying this?â
âI enjoy watching my cute little secretary take my clothes off.â
âSecretary?â You balk, âYouâre lucky I donât stab you for that.â His belt comes next, and when you pull it out of the loop, he gives a low whistle. âFor someone who didnât want to have sex, ya sure are pushinâ it, Haitani.â
Rin doesnât say anything. He simply continues watching you pull each article of clothing off one by one until heâs just down to his underwear. You even take off his watch and pull out his earrings, moving to set them on the bedside table. His heart stirs in his chest and he suddenly wants nothing more than to tip up your chin and kiss you senseless, letting his hands roam over the curves of your body.Â
When you step off the bed to look through a drawer, Rin follows. âI bought sweatpants for you and some undershirts for you to wear.â
It surprises him. âYou what?â
With the clothes in your hand, you turn to him, holding them out. âYou come here too often and sleep in your underwear. Itâs cold. I bought you pajamas.â
He stares at you like youâve grown an extra, very attractive head. âMaybe I do want to bend you over the bed.â
âOh, my god,â you roll your eyes and shove the clothes into his bare chest. âChange your clothes! Iâm going to go turn the lights off in the other room.â
Rindou watches you leave in a huff with a brief grin on his face. He loves winding you up, pushing your buttons until youâre fed up with him. He also knows you donât believe him when he tells you he doesnât want Hanmaâs girlfriend. How youâre sure Rindou seeks you out, agitated and on edge whenever heâs been too saturated in their relationship. Except he wonât tell you why. Even as he pulls on these sweatpants that fit just right, but tucks the shirt back into your drawer because heâd much rather feel the heat radiating off of you on his bare skin. Yet he doubts youâd actually allow him to sleep in the same bed as you.
Mr. Haitani.Â
You come back and heâs still standing there, awkward, unlike himself, but finding himself lost in this⌠oddly vulnerable moment. You drape his clothes on the dresser, telling him theyâll be sent out for dry cleaning with your own delicate and expensive articles of clothing.Â
It isnât until you turn off the light and get into bed yourself that he speaks.
âAre we sleeping in the bed?â He doesnât do this. You donât do this. Neither one of you has ever actually slept in the same bed, despite how long youâve been having sex. âTogether?â
The stoic mask you try to always maintain in his presence slips, and in the soft light of the moon coming in through your blinds, he sees a sudden flash of worry crease your features. Youâre almost nervous.
âIsâdoes that make you uncomfortable?â You sit up, comforter bunched around your waist. âI have a guest room if youâd rather use that.â
âNo, I,â heâs suddenly unable to speak properly and the dumbest shit slips out. âI didnât want it to be weird. Iâm your boss.â
The worry evaporates off your face and you say, âYour dick is literally inside me on a regular basis, Rindou,â you throw back the comforter, âget in bed.â
Not a minute is wasted for his response. âA permanent basis would be nice.â
âNever mind, the couch is plenty for you.â
In the morning, he finds himself cold and alone in bed. Itâs a Saturday, he thinks, as he stretches in the soft sheets and warm light of the window, meaning thereâs no actual work to do in the office. You should still be in bed despite the unfamiliar intimacy of the night before. He calls your name, itâs sound steeped in early morning gravel, but you donât answer. Slowly, he pulls himself out of bed, shaking the chill of your absence off of him as he rakes his hand down his face.Â
Rindou pulls on sweatpants before making his way out of your room. The kitchen is empty, but there are traces of you left behind. A plate lays unwashed in the sink, most likely from breakfast. Thereâs another, filled with food, covered with a plastic wrapping and a note that says, âmake sure you eat.â The living roomâs television is on, but youâre absent from the couch displayed a short distance away.
His phone goes off in his hand and Rindou grimaces. Ranâs ringtone is a piercing shrill in the home's quiet.
âWhat is it?â
A chuckle greets him on the other end. âGrumpy this morning?â
Rin sighs, briefly giving up his quest to find you, and unwraps his food to place it in the microwave. âIâm about to eat breakfast. Did something happen?â
âI canât call my little brother unless something happens?â
âRan,â he looks at the clock on the stove and 7:32 flashes back at him. âYou never call this early.â
âFair point.â He can hear the smile in Ranâs voice. âI wanted to talk face to face, but you arenât home.â
âMm,â Rin doesnât offer him an explanation. Merely hums his acknowledgment of Ranâs statement and thereâs a large sigh in response.
âAnyway, Sanzu received intel that Kisaki has people monitoring the hospital.â Thereâs a shuffling of papers, then the distinct flick of a lighter. âDonât go back there without your usual entourage, alright?â
âThink I canât handle myself without you?â Rindou grins and pulls chopsticks from a nearby drawer, then settles at the table.Â
âTwo is always better than one,â he chuckles. âSomeone to clean up the mess you leave behind, at least.â
âAny idea when Hanma will be out?â
âNo, hm,â the pause is awkward, unnatural for Ranâs usual motormouth. âWeâre getting updates from Mocchi. No oneâs speakinâ to Princess.â
âEspecially you,â he snorts, practically hearing his brother roll his eyes. âHeâll be fine.â Out the window, Rindou sees your car is still there, parked next to his, just like it was the night before. âThey both will.â
âI know,â he sighs. âWhat about you?â
With a spoonful of rice in his cheek, Rin asks, âWhat abouâ me?â
Ran comes out and says it. âYouâve always been softer, little brother.â Rin groans, but Ran keeps going. âI know for a fact youâre not buried balls deep in some random bitch because I canât hear her squawking,â they both laugh, and Rin nearly choked on his food. âTaking refuge at your little secretaryâs place?â
âShe,â he taps his chopsticks against the edge of his plate. âShe takes my mind off things.â
ââCourse she does,â he chuckles, âsweetest little pussy youâve ever had, huh?â
âDamn straight.â Thereâs a jiggling at your front door and Rin tells his brother heâs got to go. âIâll text you if anything happens on my end, alright?â
You come through the front door, wisps of baby hair slick with sweat on your forehead, and your skin glistening. Ran says his goodbyes as Rin lays his phone back on the table. The sports bra youâre wearing is efficient in its support and Rin tries not to imagine the scene of your breasts falling out of its hold.Â
âMorning,â he digs back into the food to distract himself, briefly seeing you flash a small smile his way as you pull earbuds out. âWent for a run?â
âYeah.â Your eyes flicker down to his plate. âSurprised you stayed to eat.â
Rin raises an eyebrow. âWhy? You made me food. I was hungry.â
You shrug, beginning to walk off to your room. âYou always have more important things.â
âNot today,â he reassures, suddenly a little nervous when you stop in your tracks to look at him. âIf,â he twists his neck to the side, a tick heâs picked up when anxious. âIf youâre open to it, can I stick around?â
Thirty seconds of silence roll by before you answer, processing the soft ask your boss has just asked you.
âStick around for how long,â you question softly, navigating this delicately. âToday orâŚ?â
Rindou hasnât thought that far, though. It wasnât a question heâd prepared for, but one he thinks he knows how he wants to answer. Instead of being honest, though, he scratches the back of his neck with a smirk.
âHowever long youâre willing to let me mess around with you, angel.â
Rindou is acutely aware that the man in front of you isnât the Haitani you know. This isnât the man who tells you to be in his office waiting atop his desk with your pussy wet and legs spread open because heâs been away on business and needed something familiar, not easy. He asks, and he demands, but heâs never unsure of his authority. Right now, he wonders if you can see right through him.Â
âFinish your food,â you reply, turning back towards your bedroom, but not before pulling your sports bra over your head. âThen join me in the shower.â
The office is oddly quiet, and the tapping of your pen against the desk pierces the silence. The analog clock ticks, showing that itâs 2:43pm on a Tuesday, and not one person has come to bother you about something other than work. Not a text from Rindou or a vexed essay from Kokonoi about someone spending more than what their pocketâs worth.
Standing up from your desk, your black patent leather pumps clack across the tiles and out into the hallway that leads to an array of desks. In the distance, you can hear the quiet conversations from the workers, and you follow the voices as they get louder. Each employee you pass in the hallway stops to acknowledge you, nodding their head in respect or standing at attention as if you were a general of war.
Takeomi is standing at his brand new assistantâs desk, walking her through the things she needs to do, like itâs his job to train her. Thereâs a ruddy color high in her cheeks and wrapped around the tops of her ears.
âOmi,â you call, smiling as he turns to face you. âI didnât know you were in the office today.â
He takes a step back and gestures to the bashful woman in the chair. âIâve got a new assistant that needs to learn the ropes.â
She glances up at you nervously, smiling softly with a gentle âhiâ. You hold up your hand in a wave and point at Takeomi. âDo you mind if I borrow him for a minute?â
Takeomi follows you into a nearby conference room and closes the door behind the two of you.
âWhatâs goinâ on?â
âI havenât heard anything from Haitani or the rest of the group.â You cross your arms over your chest. âIâm just worriedâ,â
Takeomi looks smug, teasingly chuckling as you stare at him and your concern bleeds into annoyance. âWorried, huh?â
âShut up.â
âNah,â he laughs. âHeard he ran off to your house after leaving the hospital a few days ago.â
âWhatâs your point, Omi?â
He shakes his head. âNothing, Iâm just waitinâ to see which one of you breaks first.â One of your phoneâs buzzes, but neither of you makes a move to look. Youâre staring at one another, like squabbling siblings. âIs it gonna be the pastel pusher, or is it gonna be Miss Jimmy Choo?â
You scoff, letting your arms drop as you shake your head and look away. âNeither. Iâm fairly certain heâs infatuated with the groupâs Princess.â
âAh, well,â Takeomi shrugs and reaches out to brush imaginary dust off of your shoulder. âEven if thatâs true, who gives a shit? Not like heâs got a chance in hell with her.â
Bits of hair that were tickling your cheeks are dashed away in exasperation. âMoving on,â you clear your throat. âWhy are things suddenly quiet? I havenât heard a single thing from anyone. Thatâs why I was surprised to even see you here.â
âKisaki Tettaâs got people watching the hospital. We donât know how many or if he plans on tailing Hanma back to his place.â Takeomi shakes his head and finally pulls out his phone to check his messages. âMikeyâs got âem all on high fuckinâ alert. Think heâs also got a soft spot for Princess,â he puffs out a laugh thatâs followed by a sigh. âShe reminds him of Emma, I think.â
âAh,â that breaks your heart. âThat, yeah, I could see how heâd want to help keep her safe then.â
âFamily,â Takeomi supplies with a tight smile. âThatâs what heâs started to see her as. Um,â he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, âanyway, theyâve been transported back tâ their place. I handed off a package for Hanma to your boss, so thatâs probably where heâs at.â
Ignoring the nauseating somersaulting of your stomach, you smile tightly at Takeomi and thank him for the information. He walks out of the conference room, but not without leaving you with a very important piece of insider information.
âHe only wants what they have.â A cig now bobs between his lips and the flicking of a lighter is a distant sound in the back of your mind. âBut I bet heâs fuckinâ terrified of going through all the bullshit they do.â
The door shuts with a puff of air and youâre alone again in a much too quiet room. It occurs to you that the Haitaniâs have truly only ever kept each other close. Until recently, Ran and Rindou only ever had one another. Ran now had someone other than his brother to care for, while Rin still fought through life with his elder brother as his top priority.
âWhat if,â you mutter to yourself in the empty room. âWhat if I was the one that terrified him instead?â
Images of Hanma covered in his own blood flash through your mind. The tear tracks youâd seen on his womanâs face, yet with eyes of a raging tiger and blood stains across the material of her evening dress. Situations like that are happening more often. Is that what terrifies Rindou? Is the idea of having one more person to worry about too heavy to carry?
Hand on the door handle, you grip it tightly and set your jaw. Maybe for the good of Haitani Enterprises, it was time you drew a line in the sand.
âFuck,â you mutter under your breath. Throwing the door open hard enough causes the people scuttling around to jump. You pay them no mind, mood turned foul as your head spins ideas of how youâll get this done and how Rindou will take it.
Long legs take quick, wide strides back to your office. Thereâs a presence behind you, someone that fell into step with you. You donât turn around again until youâre at your desk, settling heavily into its cushioned body. To your surprise, Kakucho is the one standing in the doorway of your office.
âSomeone piss you off?â He asks, stepping further in once youâve acknowledged him. The door shuts firmly behind him. âYou came in here with fire on your heels.â
âDetermination, Kaku. Nothing but fiery red determination.â He doesnât seem to buy it, but he lets it be. You smile sharply at him once he comes to a halt at your desk. âWhat can I do for ya, handsome?â
âIâve got a request.â You sit up, brow arched and shoulders squared. âAnd I need it to stay between the two of us, even if you refuse to do it.â
âKakuchoâ,â
âI know,â he sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, then leans on the desk. âI know, Rindou doesnât like secrets, blah blah blah. This isnât about him, though, or his company.â Kakucho would never come to you asking to keep something a secret if it wasnât important, you know this. Keeping things from Rindou wasnât the easiest thing to do though. âItâs about Princessâah, I mean-,â
You hold your hand up. âNo need to explain, I know who she is and I know the nickname you all call give Hanmaâs girl. Iâm sure she loves that.â
He shrugs even as your eyes roll. âHavenât heard a complaint yet.â
âMm, I doubt it would have been a topic of conversation.â Dismissing the chatter, you wave your hand in front of you. âAnyway, what is it? Whatâs going on with her?â
Kakucho seems nervous. Biting the skin of his lip and adjusting his posture once again by crossing his arms in front of his chest. âShe uh, she wants to meet with Kisaki Tetta again.â
âWhat?â You shout, bewildered. âWhy the fuck would she want to meet with him? And so fuckinâ soon afterâ,â you shake your head adamantly. âNo, no. Absolutely not! Kaku, are you kidding? Not only will Hanma have my fuckinâ head, but Rindou and all the other execs are smitten with her, Iâ,â
âNot Sanzu and, and I think Ran and her are frenemies or something.â
âShut up, this isnât funny ha-ha. Kakucho, this is serious. Whatever the hell sheâs got planned, you need to shut it down. Now.â
âI get it, alright, but you donât think I tried to talk her out of this shit already?!â His arms are thrown out at his sides before collapsing back down. âI told her this was a bad idea! I tried, but she wouldnât listen!â
You throw your own hands up, exasperated at the fact he thought coming to you was even a good idea. For as much as Rindou and Mikey seem to like her, helping her out on a foolâs errand would put your own life in jeopardy.
âObviously not fuckinâ well enough if youâre here asking for bullshit favors!â You stand up, marching towards the door to let Kakucho out. âTakeomi just told me Mikey thinks of her like a sister, that she reminds him of Emma, and you want me to help get that woman in front of the man who is actively trying to murder her?!â You wrench open the door. âI think the fuck not.â Kakuchoâs body language is that of an exhausted, broken down middle aged man. Except heâs a decade too young for being middle aged. âItâs time to go, Kakucho. I canât help either one of you. Iâm sorry.â
Kakucho, still standing by your desk, grabs a notepad and pen, and jots something down. Slowly, he makes his way to you. âJust hear what she has to say. You can tell her no yourself. I donât feel like doinâ it.â
He leaves without another word and you let the door close after him. As you walk back to the front of your desk, you flip around the notepad to find a phone number scribbled on it. Exhaustion creeps up your bones as you look over at the ticking clock for the second time today. 3:28pm, hardly any time has passed.
You contemplate what could occur if you decided to call the number. You could convince her whatever plan she was cooking up was asinine, a suicide mission, and she should quit while sheâs ahead. Or, you could hear her out. Figure out what it is she needs you to do and find a way for this to work in your favor or the groupâs. Regardless of how this would play out, there was already a migraine pounding behind your eyes.
Your fingers drum against the numbers looking back at you. Your phone is at the corner of the desk, laying there silently and just within reach.
âShit,â you snatch up the phone and dial the number. âShit, shit, shit.â
She picks up on two rings. âHello?â
You sigh. âCuriosity killed the cat.â
Thereâs a soft chuckle on the other end. âBut satisfaction brought it back.â
âYeah, well, letâs hope it brings this cat back.â The sharp pain from the migraine pulses. âAlright, sugar, shoot. What kinda self-sacrificing bullshit are ya tryinâ to execute?â
⣠Story CWs: BDSM dob/sub relationship; sex (oral, ptv, pta, etc.); genre typical drug use, alcohol, smoking
âŁÂ Synopsis: A story of two lonely people find love for better or worse. Or, dom!Rindou is sweet on his girl. Or, on paper, you and Rindou have nothing in common. But sometimes chemistry defies logic, and with every conversation, you find yourself more bewitched until all you see, smell, or hear is Rindou.
⣠Word Count: 12.5k+
âDescribe your perfect day,â you murmur.
It is a sleepy command, the heat of the bath leeching what little energy you both have left, and yet loud as the tiny bathroom is an acoustic masterpiece, echoing the words back to him.
Rindou lies with his back propped in the bath, knees bent to fit the tub and thighs spread to fit your body. Your back nestles into his chest, the crown of your head even with his lips. He canât resist taking big breathfuls of your scent as the clean shampoo smell drifts up to his nose. There is no place for his hands to rest other than your supple body, and he casually holds your breasts in each palm, just enjoying the weight of them and the way your nipples pebble in the cool air.
âMy perfect day, huh?â Rindou muses. âIt would have to be a day off, I suppose.â
âNaturally.â
âAnd, youâd be there,â Rindou hums into your ear.
âEven more naturally,â you agree primly.
Rindou tweaks your nipple, and you squeal. Water sloshes over the rim and drenches the bathmat as you squirm in his unrelenting hold.
âWhat a cocky brat,â Rindou says mournfully, but internally he marvels for the nth time at how seamlessly youâve carved out a place in his life, how quickly youâve become the best part of his day, his week. It defies everything he understands of women, of himself, and yet here you are, nuzzling into his chest like a prized cat and whispering sweet nothings into his ear. âMy perfect dayâŚI guess Iâd want to get out and see as much of the city as possible, do as much as possible. Maybe start with a walk at Yoyogi Park, get breakfast from a street vendor, take you to a flea market and buy you whatever you want.â
âIs this my perfect day or yours?â you laugh, and the vibration of your chest shifts your tits in his hands.
âHmm, actually, letâs go back a step. First, Iâd wake you up with my cock in your cunt. Just lazy spooning until I fill this pussy up,â Rindou says. His fingers dance to your mound, twirling through the short hairs there and gliding through the seam that blocks your pussy from him. It parts easily at the slightest pressure.
âAgain, is this my perfect day or yours?â
âAnd, then Iâd take you out. Wherever you wanted to go, an art gallery, coffee ââ
âA bookstore cafĂŠ,â you interrupt eagerly.
âSure, a bookstore cafĂŠ and ââ
Before he can continue, you interrupt again, âAnd would I have taken a shower that morning, sir? Or would you be showing me off around the city while my pussy is filled with cum?â
Rindou groans, for one moment utterly at your mercy as he pictures your stained thighs, skirt so short that anyone who looked carefully would know what a mess he made of your drippy cunt. He would let you wear panties, just to guarantee you kept his cum close for hours.
He canât resist rubbing touching you, heavy palm slowly waking your clit up from its slumber as he rubs around it.
âNaughty little slut. Of course, Iâd keep you dripping with me. Nothingâs free either. Everything I bought you would cost you, too. One belt against this hot ass per.â
You strain back into him, your ass sinking into the crease of his thighs, and gasp, âYes! Iâd try to buy everything!â
âI know. A pain slut like you would earn her whipping,â Rindou agrees. He feels your clit peak through your hood and redirects his fingers to your slick mouth, wetting them thoroughly against your velvet tongue before returning to tease slow circles around your it. With your hips canted up, the waters donât quite reach the height to wash away your spit.
âAfter shopping?â you moan.
âHmm, I think weâd go right home. Youâd need to pay for your frivolous purchases. Wasting my money like that? Iâd have to teach you a lesson. Iâd bend you over standing, right in front of a mirror, so you can see what a whore you are when you take my belt, and then Iâd whip your ass black and blue.â
âWould I cry?â
âOf course, slut. Youâd be sobbing before I was done.â Your nails scramble desperately up and down his arm, sparking little pinpricks of pain. âDonât you dare cum! Greedy bitch.â
âNo, sir!â you gasp, but he can see by your tensed thighs that you are fighting your way back from the edge of oblivion. To be mean, he rubs a little directly over your clit, and you keen but donât cum. Your head thrashes back and forth, almost bucking into his nose, but you donât cum.
Since you started seeing each other, you have cum five times without permission, each one an accident you dearly regretted even before your punishment. And punish you he did. Each second of pleasure was paid back a hundred-fold, for the first in orgasm denial, for the second in bruises to the back of your throat, for the third bruises to your tits and thighs, and for the fourth stripes to the back. The last time, he took a different approach. Tying you to a vibrator at the highest-setting, Rindou left you for hours until your tears ran dry like a desert, your brain foggy, and your clit numb to anything for a week. You have behaved since.
Stirring with pride at your continued restraint â the restraint he taught you â Rindou kisses your quivering cheeks and slows his fingers.
âAfter, weâd do this. Exactly this. Iâd hold you in the hot water, soothe your welts, kiss away every pretty tear.â
âThis is nice,â you agree, and when you present your lips for a kiss, he canât resist giving you several, darting around the edges of your mouth until you are smiling.
The blanks of his so-called perfect day fill in readily, and Rindou continues, âThen, youâd need to rest up, so Iâd put you in bed for an hour, while I go to the gym ââ
âSo, this is the part where you come up with a way to get rid of me. I see how it is,â you say.
âOh, suddenly interested in weightlifting? In MMA? You wanna come to the gym with me?â Rindou challenges.
âWell, no. I think Iâll enjoy my nap,â you concede.
The ghost of a smile lingers on the corner of your lips. You know just how funny you are, never quite bratting as you obey all commands without argument, but playfully teasing him until he puts you back in your place. Rindou enjoys your teasing almost as much as he enjoys showing you exactly where you belong.
âAfter the gym, weâd go out clubbing, somewhere so loud and so crowded we canât hear ourselves think. And weâd dance until the club closes. Iâd dress you up in something nice and slutty, so that I can get a hand on this ass whenever I want, so that when I grind into you, you feel every part of me. Youâd be so sore still, wincing whenever I rubbed you the wrong way. I could just reach over and pinch you at any moment, bring tears back to your eyes.â
Rindou resumes his fingers on your clit, amping them up faster and faster until you shiver. Your lower lip is ripe and red from where you bite into it. A screamer always presents a lot of fun, and you scream as loud as anyone heâs ever met.
âWeâd be all but fucking by the time we leave the club. I wouldnât be able to keep my hands off you,â Rindou murmurs, breath tickling the shell of your ear. âAnd when we got back, I wouldnât. Iâd fuck you face down, ass up, while you begged to cum until you were hoarse. Iâd put my hands around your throat, squeezing just right so you canât breathe, canât think, can hear your pussy pounding so loud. Iâd drag you around by your hair, manhandle you like my little fucktoy.â
âSir!â you gasp, scrambling.
Peering at you sideways, Rindou notes the wildness in your eyes. Ever atom of your body is poised for the fall, taut and trembling with the strength it takes not to cum. Your nipples are so tight and chewable. He canât resist tugging on one cruelly, and now you shriek.
âPlease can I cum, sir? Please, sir. Please!â
âOn my perfect day, I would let you cum if you begged me prettily enough,â Rindou says conversationally, above the desperate pleas that spill forth from your lips. âIâd let you cum, but then I wouldnât stop. Iâd rub your clit for hours, make you cum again and again until you were begging me to deny you. Maybe Iâd use up all your orgasms for the whole year. Whenever you begged to cum in the future, Iâd be able to remind you how many times Iâd let you cum already. Only a greedy whore would beg for more.â
âIâm begging, sir. Iâm begging!â
Your fat clit pulses between his fingers, and Rindou draws it side to side. He watches the panic in your eyes with cruel pride. As desperate as you are to cum for pleasureâs sake, you are twice as desperate to earn his permission before you fail. You can only stay at the precipice so long, lacking the years of orgasm denial and control that seasoned subs could boast, and soon, you will cum regardless of whether he grants you permission.
Yet, you donât want to disappoint him. You so badly donât want to disappoint him, in fact, that you draw your own arm to your mouth and bite down into the fragile skin. It breaks and little beads of blood run down into the waters you share and dye them pink. A stupid move from a stupid little pain slut. Your hips buck. If anything, the pain only brings you closer to the edge.
Rindou laughs down at your pitiful face, decides maybe you deserve a little mercy if only because you are so pathetic.
âDo you really want to cum so badly?â he asks.
âPlease, sir,â you slur around the blood in your teeth.
âGo ahead and cum then, slut,â Rindou coos.
He rubs circles onto your clit for a few more seconds until your body is tight as a rubber band stretched to its limits. You snap. Your orgasm starts to unwind from your cunt, and Rindou removes his fingers, removes his hands, removes his lips from your neck. He leaves you entirely empty and untouched.
Ruined.
You scream.
Quickly, he pins your arms with one hand and keeps your thighs separated with the other. Your body fights him, trying with everything it has to get some friction, but all you can do is writhe in his unforgiving hold as your orgasm is ruined. The pathetic, aborted orgasm falls to nothing, the memory of almost pleasure making the denial even more brutal.
âAww, arenât I so generous? Giving a greedy whore a ruin when she hasnât even earned one. What do you say?â Rindou taunts.
Something incomprehensible escapes your lips, a little angry but mostly broken and agonized. Rindou smiles at the rictus of pain on your features and prompts you a second time.
âThankâŚyouâŚsir,â you pant through gritted teeth.
âAww, any time baby,â he says.
The serenity of your bath is broken now, the romance disintegrated by his games, but he feels closer to you than ever as your body instinctually clings to his for comfort. He kisses your hair and runs strong hands up and down your sides. The water is long cold, so he drains the tub and wraps you in a fuzzy towel. Life returns to your eyes as he warms you up.
Later, as you both get dressed, he feels your eyes on his back. You keep your silence for several minutes, rare for you.
Finally, you say, âHey, RindouâŚIs that really your perfect day?â
He isnât lying when he answers, âYes, sweet girl. Thatâs my perfect day.â
--
If he fakes an asthma attack, will the others finally take his complaints about their incessant smoking seriously? Or will they just laugh as he heaves?
Safe Heaven, like always, is wreathed in smoke. It circles upwards until it disappears into the vents to be recirculated into their weary lungs in an endless, cancerous loop. If he coughs up phlegm on Mochiâs paunchy face, Rindou thinks the man may finally take him seriously about those smelly cigars.
While never intended to become Bontenâs go-to-place for casual meetings, Safe Heaven has become unavoidable. It is Ranâs domain, a gentlemanâs club where the girls are discrete and the drinks top-shelf by default. Mochi loves it here. He especially loves the pink-haired darling, appropriately named Candy, who works up front and giggles at his every joke like heâs George Carlin reincarnated. Mochi eats that shit up. And since Mochiâs smuggling operation canât be disentangled from Rindouâs domestic drug trafficking, he finds himself regularly seated in one of the soundproofed backrooms to discuss business.
As the smoke clings to his lungs like crud, Rindou swears he feels the years sliding off his lifespan.
All of the usual suspects gather around the table â Ran, Mochi, Rindou â plus the less common but not unheard of Takeomi, Sanzu, and Wakasa. Tonight, they have caught a big fish.
The fish â one Ushioda Junichi â cries alone in Ranâs office. At twenty-two years old with a degree from Tokyo University, everyone would agree heâs a fine young man from a fine young family.
Yesterday when he hit the town and one of Bontenâs clubs with his friends, his life was a wide open plain of possibilities, every day promising something better than the last. Tonight, after waking up from a bender with the blood of his girlfriend drenching his hands, Ushioda still believed he might have a future once he got his story straight. Then, Ran found him, showed the security footage of just how brutally he beat the life from his girlfriend in the alley outside the club, reminded him of the sentence for murder. Now, his wracking cries are louder than the sound proofing, his life shrunk to the size of a tick.
Rindou almost feels bad for him. He knows what itâs like to be out of options. But he watched the video too and knows the scumbag deserves to rot.
Kicked back on a leather sofa with a cigarette burning to nothing in his hand, Ran updates the group on the opportunity Ushioda presents, âFrom what I could gather, Ushiodaâs daddy is the kind of man who would jump out of a window before he saw the family name shamed. He built their family up from nothing. Heâll leap at the chance to cover up what the kid did.â
âDoes he like the kid?â Mochi asks.
âPiece of shit burns the manâs entire life down in a blackout? Of course, he doesnât like him,â Sanzu guffaws.
âPoor men who grow rich always hate the kids they raise. They resent them,â Wakasa wisely intones.
âNot necessarily ââ Takeomi argues. The image of his kids, spoiled and spared the horrors of the street, probably flashes before his eyes.
âMaybe not,â Ran interrupts, returning them to the subject at hand. âBut he loves him. Heâs his only son.â
âSo, he loves the kid and will play ball to cover it up. What does that mean for us?â Rindou asks.
âUshioda Shotaro is the Senior Vice President of Operations at Acme Corporation, which means heâs ultimately responsible for supply chain and manufacturing of their semiconductors. Acme Corporation is one of the few companies manufacturing their semiconductors in Japan, and they import the base components through the Port of Nagoya, mostly from China,â Ran explains.
âAnd that is a windfall opportunity for us,â Mochi grunts, sounding sober for once as this is his area of expertise. âSince 2005, freight shippingâs been a pipedream for us as far as trafficking. Customs is clenched down tighter than Takeomiâs asshole. But thatâs not the case for the mega corporations. Customs barely glances at what theyâre importing, and if they ask to expedite, they are greenlit without a second thought. We use Acme as a front to ship through all the meth we got from the Chinese. We donât have to worry about our mules getting picked up at the airports, no risky line back to us, no lost merchandise. And we can move a lot of it.â
âWe talking about one big shipment, or are we trying to slip it in every shipment for months? If so, weâd need a whole new operation in Nagoya,â Rindou says.
âThink we need to meet with Ushioda to know, but Iâm hoping we can wring this guy dry. Could be our path to heroin,â Mochi says.
Everyone sucks in a breath at the prospect.
Heroin is a money-maker, the drug that could catapult Bontenâs revenues from the tens of billions to the hundreds of billions. There is no domestic market for it. Yet. But Rindou knows how they will introduce it, has studied the proliferation in the US and knows that once people get a taste, theyâll come back for more, and theyâll find Bonten, raising the prices higher and higher.
Rindou doesnât consider himself very ambitious, the jobâs a bore, the moneyâs good but it makes no difference to him if they grow or stagnate, but even he gets goosebumps imagining this windfall.
The only person who remains dull eyed at the thought is Wakasa. Everyone knows that cousin of his is an addict, lost somewhere with a needle in her arm. She stays far away from Tokyo where Wakasa might find her and throw her into rehab. She hasnât been seen in a few years. Sharp-eyed, Rindou catches how Takeomi looks to Wakasa first at Mochiâs announcement, puts business second to Wakasaâs personal life.
Like he knows everyone is waiting, Wakasa speaks next, âWell, what are we fucking waiting for? Letâs tell the pig to take us home to Daddy.â
Sanzu doesnât need more encouragement. He throws open the door to the office with a cackle and the sound of cracking knuckles. Heâs high, brimming with violence. Ushioda should be crying. More measuredly behind him, Takeomi follows.
Given how this opportunity may mean major changes to his operation, Rindou almost stands to follow, but then his phone lights up with a notification from you. Once he dreaded the buzz of his phone, but lately he feels a littleâŚpleased when it flashes because it may be a text from you.
Youâre constantly sending him the dumbest shit heâs ever seen: cats racing on treadmills, squealing gifs of anime girls, obscure references to books he doesnât understand. He doesnât know how you find these memes or how to go about sending one back. All of Rindouâs knowledge of emojis come from Sanzu, who texts in hieroglyphics because he says itâll be harder to use as evidence. Sanzu favors the vomit emoji, which so far, Rindou has avoided sending to you. The whole thing makes him feel like an old man.
Checking his phone, he sees you havenât sent him a new meme but a link to a movie playing in Shinjuku next weekend. Theyâre reshowing Kurosawaâs The Seven Samurai, a movie you know he canât resist.
It would be your second movie date. Rindou regularly revisits the memory of that first, how you clung to his arm as he played with the settings on the vibrator in your pussy, quiet enough that no one could overhear, but loud enough that you didnât realize they couldnât, shuddering in fear at the threat of discovery. In the dark, there was no one to see you squirm when he sucked a line up your throat or caressed your inner arms. The whole time, you stared straight forward, never cumming like the good little edge slut he promised to train you into. What shocked him most was after, when you called one of your friends and recited the entire plot of the movie, character names and all, without missing a detail. Despite his best efforts, you enjoyed the movie to its fullest.
âLook at that grin! Whoâs making little Rinny smile like that?â Ran coos.
The phone is locked and in his pocket in the span of a second.
Not for the first time, Rindou wishes there could be something on the ceiling, so he could pretend a distraction. His favorite strategy, faking a canât-miss email, is out of the question given the circumstances. If he had a lighter, maybe he could set off the fire alarm? Maybe, he thinks, everyone smokes because it gives them an excuse to do something with their hands.
âNothing,â he grunts. âWanna bet how long it takes Sanzu to break him? I think weâll hear screams in two minutes.â
No one takes the bait.
âNothing? You were grinning at your phone like it just told you youâre going to be a father, and congratulations, itâs a boy,â Ran says.
âI thought you said it was good news,â Wakasa snarks, just as Mochi chimes in with his own attempt at a witticism, âOr like it just promised you a blow job.â
âItâs your mom. She sent nudes,â Rindou snipes back at Mochi, though the man is too busy smirking over at Ran in mutual glee to care.
âSo, who is she? The girl who makes my brother smile,â Ran pesters.
âThere is no girl.â
Trading places with Ushioda would be preferable to standing the guysâ bullshit. They all take the piss out of each other constantly, but Rindou finds himself in the hotseat more than anyone else because Ran lives to put him there.
His pocket vibrates twice with yet another message from you, but Rindou doesnât dare check it. Instead, he affects the patented youâre-full-of-shit eye roll that heâs been using against Ran for nearly three decades and loosens his tie.
âReally, RinâŚâ Ran shakes his head.
âMaybe itâs not a girl,â Wakasa volunteers. âMaybe heâs addicted to thoseâŚwhat are those perverted games otaku are always playing? Where you like roll to own a pair of tits?â
âGacha games,â Ran volunteers happily.
âYeah, those. Benkeiâs addicted to âem, and when he plays, heâs always smiling like a demon at his phone,â Wakasa says.
Behind the shag of his bangs, Rindouâs face conveys nothing but yawning boredom. Ran can get a rise from him, but no one else. As no more than Machiâs top goon, stuck on the miserable human trafficking gig that no one else wanted, Wakasa is beneath Rindouâs notice. Mochi too, though it is slightly more annoying as Mochi can egg Ran on to greater heights of sibling pettiness if he tries. Those two always make each other laugh.
âDonât tell me youâve gotten into V-Tubers, Rin. We can get you a real girl if youâre struggling,â Ran says, and immediately Rindouâs composure breaks.
âOi! Sanzu! Hurry it the fuck up!â Rindou shouts, banging on the wall a few times for good measure.
Pissing Rindou off has its shelf-life like any diversion and eventually, reluctantly, the others move onto new topics of conversation.
They never hear Ushiodaâs scream because he faints at the first suggestion of threat. When he comes to, he calls his father without argument. Ran arranges a neutral location for the meeting, and Takeomi schedules it for later that night. Takeomi, Sanzu, and Mochi will take it from here.
The hour is late, and Rindou wants to squeeze in one last workout before the dawn saturates the sky with color. As he stands to leave, Ran follows. Together they walk into the brisk night air.
Even on a weeknight, a steady stream of patrons come in and out of Save Heaven. It caters to trust fund brats that have never woken early for a hard dayâs work in their life, boys with popped collars and starvation-sharp collar bones. In the day, these boys rule the world with daddyâs money, but here, outside Safe Heaven, with the moon a beacon in the sky, they give Rindou and Ran a respectful berth, nodding a little as they pass without daring to eavesdrop lest they learn something unlearnable. None of them would guess the two intimidating yakuza are discussing their love lives.
âHey, you know I think itâs good, right? That you have a girlfriend,â Ran says.
A large crack splits the sidewalk, and Rindou toes the crevice with the tip of his boot, wondering if he can widen it large enough to escape this conversation altogether.
âI donât have a girlfriend,â Rindou insists.
âSure, sure. Whatever you say. I just think it sounds like a good thing for you. And I wanna meet her when youâre ready,â Ran says.
âYou are not meeting her!â
âUh-huh,â Ran sings with the shit-eating grin of a professional shit-eater. âSo, there is a her, huh?â
âIâm seeing a girl right now, yeah. But sheâs not my girlfriend. Itâs not a big deal,â Rindou says.
âIt is a big deal,â Ran protests. âYouâve never had a girlfriend before!â
âFirst of all, yes I fucking have. Second of all, am I going batshit? Or did I not just say she is not my girlfriend?â
âIn middle school! Honestly, at your age itâs just too embarrassing to count that.â
This is what Ran does best, gets him stuck on some garbage side point, wasting all his energies arguing something that doesnât matter, so he is defenseless when Ran returns to the real subject. Usually, Rindou is a master at evading Ranâs every strategy, but tonight he is easily baited. He takes a deep breath, reminds himself to slow down and stop reacting to start thinking.
âWhatever. Iâm just saying, Iâm not Mikey. Itâs not like I never see the same woman twice. I have seen lots of girls before. No need to make it some big thing,â Rindou says.
âMaybeâŚbut if a woman can make you smile like that, Iâd like to meet her,â Ran says quietly, with a voice far too sincere for a night when there are no shadows to take the brunt of his fraternal attack, just too brothers standing together.
Unable to stay angry when Ran is serious, Rindou feels his teeth unclench, his shoulders loosen. Something streaks across the sky, and Rindou thinks for a split-second it is a shooting star, feels the soaring hope of a child, and then realizes itâs nothing more than a Chinese satellite. He is too old and has seen too much to believe in fairytales.
âSheâs a nice girl,â Rindou admits quietly. âEven if I wanted to bring her around âŚshe doesnât belong in this world. Doesnât know what I do, and I canât tell her.â
âNot necessarily ââ
âYou of all people know how it works,â Rindou interrupts.
The specter of Miki, a love long dead stirs between them, and Rindou almost feels guilt at nudging that old wound. It is scarred over, yet somehow still bleeds whenever Ran thinks too long about the only woman heâs ever loved. A woman who staring down the barrel of an uncertain and violent future, picked up and left, leaving Ran behind with the memories to haunt him.
You would do the same. Worse, because at least Miki was game for a while before she changed her mind. Rindou knows you would run home to your motherâs apartment, your childhood bed, your young and lively friends at the first suggestion of the truth. So many of the things he likes most about you â your softness, your smiles, your honesty and freely given trust â couldnât survive the word he lives in.
There are only three options for men like them. They can live like Mikey with a sporadic array of one-night stands, like Mochi with a few chosen whores that playact a real relationship for the right price, or like Takeomi with a marriage built on a foundation of deceit. He wonât turn you into the latter option.
âIf you wanna use Miki, then at least get it right. Yeah, Miki made a choice, but she made a choice because I gave her one. I wasnât a coward. I didnât piss away true love because I was too scared to look it in the eye,â Ran says, voice hard, though Rindou knows that Ran must still be feeling affectionate towards him or heâd be on his back with a black eye for daring to mention Miki like this.
He claps Ran on the shoulder, a half-baked apology. Stands there as his brother smokes yet another cigarette and doesnât even complain as the wind whips the smoke in his direction.
As they linger on the curb, the cityscape sounds competing with the thundering bass of the club inside, Rindou wonders where everyone got the idea youâre some great love.
He doesnât believe in that fairytale shit.
Youâre a cute girl, but he doesnât love you.
He doesnât.
--
Fucking you is like biting into a ripe peach. The hint of pressure, a squeeze, and juice dribbles on his tongue, a smearing mess made of your thighs. Sometimes, Rindou presses his nose into the center of your panties and breathes. He can smell the wetness deep inside you. All that fresh, tangy cum that you relinquish only at his command.
Like a peach, you bruise easily too. You walk away from every date covered in his marks. Fingerprints brand your hips, purpling welts cling to your ass, flames on your tits.
Rindou makes a habit, at the start of every date, of spanking your ass just once. Itâs like a greeting. The flouncy, darling skirts you wear flip up at his nod, and then he delivers a quick smack to the center of your quivering cheeks. Hours later, when you finish your meal â or movie or dance or walk in the park, or any of a dozen other dream dates made reality â and he shepherds you to a love hotel, he will bend you over and there will be the mark of his handprint, still visible and impassioned on your cute ass.
The sight makes him burn for you.
One day, he lays newspaper on the bathroom floor and orders you to lie still for him. There, he traces each bruise and mark of your lovemaking with a calligraphy brush. Big, black strokes of ink memorializing the places where he marked you.
The paint is cold and the bristles coarse. Good girl that you are â and he never met anyone who earns this praise so easily â you follow his instructions not to move, but canât help but flinch, a spasm of your lips and feet whenever the paint twirls across your navel. The breathiest sighs escape your lips whenever he leans close to blow cool air along his work, drying out the paint and beckoning goosepimples to rise along your arms.
He saves the photos he takes of you that day in his phone gallery, flips to them whenever there is a lull in his workday. They are hardly pornographic, kind of artsy thanks to the dim lighting, and yet something else. With your honest beauty, no one could mistake you for a professional model. Your eyes project too much raw vulnerability. A submission that haunts and entrances him. Since the night he met you, those eyes have owned him.
Finding places to meet, poses a challenge from day one. You require neutral, fertile ground.
There are dangers that lurk in the shadows of Rindouâs life, so his apartment is out of the question. Meanwhile, your mother looms like a vengeful dragon over the suggestion of yours.
So, like so many other young lovers, you make a home of love hotels.
In the sanctuary of the many love hotels around the city, you fuck and play like animals.
Through your eyes, he rediscovers the love hotelâs charms, the fun of it. With the right attitude, they become a kind of adult playland. The mirrors mounted on the ceiling can be a playful voyeur not just to sex but to a dance party; the karaoke machine is a must-try on every visit â watching your cute furrowed brow as you labor over what to sing before always going back to Alicia Keys, the English masticated on the already butchered notes you can never quite hit; the massagers are worth every yen when applied to stiff joints (and can double as makeshift vibrators with a little ingenuity); and you might as well take advantage of the free condoms, shoving extras in your pockets before leaving.
In each hotel, you always insist on a bath. You explain your mother taught you to never leave a hotel without at least trying the bathtub. Sometimes he joins you, but sometimes he watches from the bed as if you are a siren of shallow bath waters, hypnotized by the view of your elegant neck, the peak of a breast, the arm slung haphazardly over the rim to cool.
The seediest rooms turn glistening when you enter, like you can cleanse the dirt of the world and replace it with something new and shining. He forgets about the hairy couples that occupied the room before, about the outside world, and submits to the taste of your lips.
He loves the rare still moments, when he lays his head in the bony cradle of knees and thighs, closes his eyes and drifts off into a strange half sleep. Your songbird voice drifts over him as you recite the poetry of men and women long dead or from across a sea you never once crossed yourself. The emotion of the poems sweep you up like a song, and you rush through some lines to reach the emphatic point, voice pitching deep and low when you find a phrase particularly powerful, and jabbing aggressively, like a pen digging through paper to emphasize key lines.
He could listen to you talk for hours.
The smallest things excite you. And when excited, your voice rises in volume. You are loud in your pain, louder in your pleasure, and somehow louder still when your clothes are on, and you are talking up a storm. They receive noise complaint after noise complaint until Rindou gets into the habit of greasing the hand of the front desk clerk as they check in.
Friends and family must coddle you because you never realize. He wonât be the first person to hurt your feelings by revealing this flaw. In his estimation, itâs not much of a flaw anyway and he would hate if you clammed up because now, the world is wide open to you. Every day you learn something new, whether from class or the internet or your friends in passing, and you are so bright-eyed in your eagerness to share with him.
On days when you canât meet in person, in the twilight hours when the city sighs out its last breaths, he calls you. You tell him about your day, about what youâve learned, about who youâve met, what you watch on TV or read in the pages of a book.
Through you, he learns what itâs like to be a university student: the late nighters to finish a paper, the argumentative study sessions when friendships strain over erudite nonsense before they repair over shared bottles of beer, and the uncontainable joy of finding a hundred yen note on the street because it means one more vending machine coffee before your bank account hits zero.
Another student could never teach him these things. Because you were nearly denied your collegiate opportunity, you embrace every day like a gift, and the mood is infectious.
One night, he stays on the phone with you for four hours. The time slips away unnoticed as you vent about your friends. An affair between two of your classmates, both of whom were in relationships with other members of your friend group, promises a schism that you assure him will make the breakdown of the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox churches look like childâs play.
Rindou smiles as you passionately advocate in defense of your wronged friends. So easily you adopt the moral position. If reconciliation is impossible, the traitors ought to be excised from the group, the victims preserved. Nothing else would be fair. He admires your naivety even as he cautious you against being too loud or hasty in your judgment because he knows full well how often the villains come out on top.
One of your friends, Naoto, is another endless source of drama. Even though he isnât a fellow student, already a suit-wearing graduate, he is a steady member of your friend group. Lately, heâs been prying into your comings and goings, like he doesnât believe you are mature enough to make your own choices you complain. Your new relationship is an especial source of contention.
Twice now, Rindou joined your friends for brunch, meeting Naoto amid the sea of undergrads who fawned over him. He remembers Naoto as quiet, thoughtful, beneath his notice. Ever since, you say Naoto always wants to know where you are going, when you are meeting, what you talk about.
Rindou thinks Naoto has a fat hard-on for you but knows better than to say so. It will only make you angry, and you are cuter when you smile.
He starts looking for ways to make you smile. Your whimpers and tears are precious in the bedroom, but elsewhere, he likes to spoil you with the riches you never experience. Nothing too luxurious, but a locket here, a trinket there, a book you mentioned signed by the author, or a bottle of wine worth six weeks of your old salary. Each offering is met with a pretty kiss to his cheek, a whispered thank you, and then a screamingly denied orgasm before the night ends.
Right before the Christmas break, you call him amid squeals and screams so high-pitched they break the sound barrier. He pulls the receiver a few sparing centimeters from his ear and asks you to repeat yourself.
âI got the job! The library, Rindou! It doesnât make any sense. Like, I literally canât believe it. I am not qualified. I was already putting in applications at restaurants around campus, but now I donât need to because I got the job!â
âCongratulations,â Rindou murmurs warmly.
âIâm going to hyperventilate. Iâm so excited!â you shout. âI mean, even in my wildest dreams, I was hoping to get hired for the new term in April, but they say they have a sudden opening, and now I donât have to wait! Can you believe it?â
The depth of your gratitude and excitement is the best Christmas present he could receive. He knows exactly how the sudden opening appeared at the library as he personally arranged it. He paid for a kidâs rent for the next year just so he would resign and recommend you for the job. Itâs a happy Christmas for everyone involved.
âIâm going to take you out to dinner when I get my first paycheck. Just you wait!â you promise joyfully.
âHmm, Iâll get the most expensive thing on the menu then.â
âYes, whatever you want, baby! Iâve got it!â you are giggling madly, and he wishes he was there with you to sweep you up in the circle of his arms and swing you about until you collapse dizzy to the floor.
Making you happy is addictive but also reciprocal. Without seeming to try, you make him happy too.
--
The new year dawns with a sunny sky, so unerringly blue without clouds or gradation that itâs impossible to stare into it without seeing a world washed clean. New beginnings.
The first day of the year is meant to unfold as follows: wake up, work, waste time around the apartment, join Ran for an obligatory meal in celebration, back to the apartment and a YouTube rabbit hole.
You told him weeks ago that you would be out of commission until the end of the holidays. For the first time since he married, your brother, his wife, and kids are staying over. Every time Rindou scrolls your social media, you greet him with a new picture where you smile to outshine the sun, surrounded by people who share the same arched eyebrows and dimpled cheeks. Beyond a goodnight text, he hasnât heard from you in nine days.
Rindou misses you in ways he canât articulate even to himself.
Because he misses you, Rindou jumps when his phone rings and your name flashes across the screen. You should be deep in the midst of familial bliss right now. When he answers, you tell him that your brotherâs family returned home early because the baby is colicky. Meanwhile, your motherâs arthritis has flared up, and sheâs gone to the hospital, insisting you not join her lest you be cursed for the rest of the year. Rindou sprints to his car before you can even ask him to come over, having to circle back because he forgets his coat in the rush.
Two hours later, Rindou stands in line at Sensoji Temple, your little gloved hand warming his and the vendors hawking souvenirs at the captive audience echoing down the busy street.
Temple visits were a tradition he loathed back when his grandparents would force him along. Like most of their neighbors, his grandparents observed Buddhist rituals only when a holiday and good meal came attached. The hypocrisy would drive him crazy, and Rindou would sulk, cold-chapped hands buried in his pockets and Ran talking his ear off as the hours of waiting in line limped by.
Itâs different waiting with you. All the jokes and observations you stored up for the past week pour past your lips. You recount story after story about your family reunion â about losing your bed to your brotherâs children, crawling onto your motherâs mattress like you were a little girl again, and how she snores just as loudly as you remember. And how your brother desperately tries to offload his kids on anyone foolish enough to agree to watch them. You think he and his wife had sex on your bed when everyone was busy in the kitchen, and you share this information with the scandalized screech of a betrayed virgin. The low point of the trip is your sister who could not make it, but she joins every night by facetime, her role in the family harmony uncontested.
The line moves slowly, but Rindou doesnât feel the passage of time. Heâs frozen in place, exactly where he wants to be with you by his side.
He buys you red bean manju from a food stall and warns you not to spoil your appetite for dinner. He promises it will be a feast.
Naturally, unthinkingly, heâs invited you to dinner with Ran of all people. He wants to take it back or at least cancel on Ran, but you clap in delight, unshed tears glistening as you admit your heart broke at the idea of not eating osechi-ryori this year, your first ever holiday without. Rindou doesnât like your moue of disappointment when you describe your anxiety at missing out on this tradition and doesnât retract the invite.
SoâŚyou meet Ran.
Ran never left Roppongi, but he did leave behind their shared apartment above the laundromat in favor of a five-bedroom house on a quiet side street lined by Japanese dogwoods that bloom pink as a promise in the spring.
The outside is unassuming, but the inside is striking. Most of Ranâs free time for the better part of three years has poured into appointing his house in a Baroque style. No counterspace is left empty. No furniture is left unadorned. Vases, winding statues of frolicking angels, and baskets of fruit stand proud in the sitting room, resting on gilded commodes and low desks painted with cherubs. There is always a fire crackling merrily in the living room, adding an orange glow to a room already rich with browns, reds, and purples.
You marvel at the decorations, and Ran is impressed by your taste, so used to unappreciative yakuza who can only ask how much his furniture is worth rather than after its artistic merit. Ran insists on giving you a tour, pleasantly pointing to each piece and detailing the great pains he took to acquire it. Rindou trails a few steps behind as you eagerly soak up the history lesson.
âI can understand why you love this so much,â you say, reverently quiet, like this is a church or sacred place you shouldnât disturb. âItâs a remarkable period when you think about it. Europe starts 1600 with Hamlet and Shakespeare and Cervantes not long after and ends it with the novel about to take off. And it was the same here. The birth of the haiku, of BashĹ, and by the end of the century, we had Saikakuâs proseâŚso much innovation, so much art on opposite sides of the world.â
âIt was the same in Europe and Japan. We can thank money for all of it. Here we had the rise of the middle class, finally peace after the wars, trade with the Dutch, and in Europe, they had new lands to rape and pillage for profit. All that chaos, and from it?â Ran spreads his arms wide to gesture at the beauty of the rooms he slaved over. âArt!â
You stare up at a painting wide as your arm span of sailors in a storm, fighting the elements to secure the mast. Even as their faces scream, ravaged by threat, there is something hopeful in the piece, a promise that together they will right the ship and sail off to calmer seas. Rindou can see why you like it. It isnât baroque, an eighteenth-century anachronism in the otherwise themed room.
Towards the end of the tour, Ran recounts a dramatic auction where he won a bust of Frederick the Great out of the greedy hands of an Australian businessman.
It is only the hundredth time Rindou has heard this heroic tale from Ran, and he could supply it word for word at this point. Theyâre nearing the part where the Australian businessman kicks a wall in a fit of pique at being outbid and breaks his big toe â the climax â when you bring the story to a crashing, off-script halt.
âWait, eight million yen!â you cry.
ââŚyes,â Ran says blankly.
âFor that statue?â you point accusingly at the head of Frederick the Great like youâre questioning whatâs so great about him to justify an eight-million-yen price tag. It is intricately carved, the polychrome wood painted white for dramatic effect, but it does not appear to shit gold, so you struggle to understand its value.
âItâs a bust not a statue,â Ran says snidely, forgetting himself for a moment in his irritation before he says more kindly, âAnd itâs an artefact. From the right artist, Iâve seen pieces go for much more. It may just resell for even higher. Thereâs a lot of money to be made in art investment.â
âThatâs just a lot of money.â
âWhat can I say? Business has been good to us,â Ran says.
âExport-import,â Rindou barks out quickly.
âYes, theâŚexport-import business has been good to us,â Ran repeats, taking up the story with a roll of his eyes that goes right over your head. Youâre too busy tucking your elbows and glaring at the furniture like it might leap out and shatter on your body at the slightest provocation. Youâre barely breathing in fear of breaking something.
âWait,..,â you say, coming back to the conversation after a moment of buffering. âYouâre in business with Rindou? And youâve made this much money? Oh, oh no! Iâm so sorry. That was so invasive and rude. Please forgive me!â
âRin! Why does your beautiful friend think youâre poor? Please tell me youâve not been making her pay for dates! I taught you when you were younger that a gentleman always pays,â Ran tuts, ignoring your apologies. When Ran is at his most spiteful, he smiles, and his lips quirk now with malicious glee.
âOh no ââ you try to protest, but Ran is on a roll, apologizing to you now on his âshameful little brotherâs behalf.â
Rindou is going to stab him.
âI pay for our damn dates!â
âHe does!â you agree with a vigorous nod of support. âI just thoughtâŚwell, I thought you had nice dinner twice a week money not bust of Frederick the Great money.â
Pleading eyes turn to Ran as you beg him to believe you. It reminds Rindou of how sweetly you beg him for forgiveness when he overstimulates your clit or squeezes your nipples to a bruise. Damned cute. Ranâs lips curve indulgently in spit of himself at your expression.
Rindou thinks that his brother isnât half bad at all. At least he has very different taste in women, taste that does not include you.
The dining room is every bit as unconventional as the rest of the house with a tall wooden table large enough to seat eight and high-backed chairs that demand perfect posture much to Rindouâs chagrin. In contrast, Ran serves a traditional osechi ryori meal neatly separated into lacquered containers.
With so many options to choose from, everyone sets in on a different dish first. Rindou gravitates to the crunch of kazunoko, the juicy Satoimo potatoes, and the snackable baby anchovies. You giggle a little as you munch on a sweet omelet roll, and when Rindou asks why, you whisper that everything heâs eating symbolizes fertility. He quickly uses his chopsticks to try the buri, which he recalls symbolizes a more general kind of success.
âThis is delicious,â you offer Ran warmly. âDid you cook all this yourself?â
Rindou snorts, and his brother gives him one of those quelling looks that used to reduce him to knocking knees and hiding in closets. Ran rarely hit him beyond normal brotherly playfighting, but he would chase him with that baton for blocks when angered.
âNo, there was no need this year. A friend was kind enough to cook for me,â Ran says.
âRan is a menace in the kitchen. If it was left to him, weâd be eating plain bread.â
The quelling look grows sharper.
âOh, thatâs not so bad. Iâm not much of a cook either,â you say politely.
âDonât play so nice with the guy. Iâm not saying heâs not a chef. Iâm saying he couldnât figure out how to cook a grilled cheese or boil some noodles.â
âWhy would I want to eat a grilled cheese?â Ran demands.
Rindou stabs his chopsticks in Ranâs direction, a lifetime of culinary wrongs powering his spite. âThatâs what Iâm saying! The problem is that Ran has the palette of a fucking prince. When we were kids, weâd have no money, no adults to help, and Iâd find him trying to cook a whole duck and setting the kitchen on fire. When that happened, Iâd have to make noodles. He just flushed our grocery money down the drain every week.â
âTo be fair, I stole the duck,â Ran sniffs.
A candied chestnut pelts Ran in the forehead, a bullseye for Rindou who would strangle his brother if he were within reach. The bastard knows not to mention their criminal activity around you. Rindou looks nervously to you and your reaction but finds your eyes alight with curiosity.
âHow the hell does a child steal a duck?â
The tense atmosphere lifts, and Ran leans forward with a grin to answer, âA child doesnât. Two children, however? One to fake an asthma attack and draw all the adults and one with an empty backpack? Those two children could steal a duck no problem.â
âWhat a little criminal mastermind!â you laugh.
âGood thing I went straight when I did, or Iâd be running the cityâs underground today, huh?â Ran smirks.
Against Rindouâs will, he finds himself drawn into a long recounting of some of their greatest childhood misadventures. None are violent or hint at future gang activity. Instead, they recount shoplifting, stealing out into the late hours of the night, and outwitting their teachers. None of it scandalizes you, and Rindou relaxes just an iota.
Because itâs dinner with Ran and they canât help themselves, the brothers bicker every other word, but sometime after your third glass of wine, you stop hiding your laughter. You treat it like a sideshow to a good meal, one you could watch a hundred times.
Having you here doesnât feel unnatural at all.
As the final bites dwindle to nothing, you say, âThank you really for inviting me. I was dreading spending New Years without family for the first time, and well, being here with you didnât feel all that different.â
Everyone pretends not to notice the beading of tears on your lash line. Your sincerity is so at odds with their usual attitudes that neither brother quite knows how to react. Rindou settles for squeezing your hand tightly in his, but it is Ran who finds the perfect words.
âI propose a toast. To 2017. And to hoping that we welcome the next new year together, too.â
--
Just as, possessed by your infectious holiday cheer, Rindou didnât think before taking you to Ranâs house, Â he unthinkingly brings you back to his apartment, too. It is the first time youâve come over.
His apartment is less impressive than Ranâs museum of a house. The space is mostly decorated with sleek, standard furnishings with only one bedroom for guests. If anything stands out, itâs the fancy gadgets: big screen TV, gaming computer set up, topline speakers in every room.
For the first hour, you piece through his record collection. He answers your questions about different artists, shows you how to position the needle. You land on a rock album thatâs all bass. It shakes the vinyl shelf with every pulse.
Satisfied with your choice, you invite yourself to root through his dresser drawers. You strip in front of him without an ounce of embarrassment. The apartment runs chilly, so your skin is only bared for a few seconds before you scramble into a pair of his sweatpants, a tee-shirt that hangs low past your hips, and the thickest socks you can find.
You look all ready for bed, so thatâs where you go next. The short hairs that curl at the base of your neck are baby chick soft, and he twirls the strands absently around his fingers while your head makes a pillow of his chest.
Everything feels strange. Not bad, just strange.
Rindou has lived in this apartment for nearly four years, slept in this bedroom most nights, and somehow he doesnât recognize it. Here, with you in his arms, the room is transformed. The bed is warmer, and he discards the heavy comforter he uses in the winters; the taste of flowers fills his nose whenever he breathes, drifting up from that body lotion you slather everywhere in the mornings; he lies on his back, noticing the water stains on the ceiling for the first time ever, instead of flopping to his stomach and falling into a dead sleep the moment his head hits the pillow. Youâre the first person, besides him, to ever enter this room.
âThanks for inviting me tonight,â you murmur. âI was so sad when I woke up this morning and everything happened, but you cheered me right up.â
âThanks for calling me. I was bored out of my mind,â Rindou counters.
âYouâre too sweet sometimesâŚIt was really nice to meet your brother, too. Ranâs an interesting guy. Heâs like some nineteenth century dandy. Like, heâs a character on TV not a real person. So different from you except when he gives you a hard time. Then, itâs like a switch flips, and I can see the resemblance. It reminds me of my brother, giving me a hard time just to show he can.â
âOlder brothers,â Rindou says with only half-hearted disgust. Without Ran to push him, to teach him to stay on his toes, he would probably be moving furniture in some warehouse not trading in peopleâs life savings over morning coffee.
âIt was fun,â you repeat. âAnd I feel like I understand you even better now.â
âOh yeah?â
âYeah, like I learned how you get away with having such ridiculous hair. I always wondered what kind of business could overlook that, but youâre rich. Plus, your brotherâs hair isnât much better. At least itâs short, I guess, but pink?â
âYou should have seen our hair when we were younger. Ran used to have longer hair than you. Heâd wear two braids with blonde highlights. Back then, mine was neck-length, but blue and blonde,â Rindou says. At your raised eyebrows, Rindou opens his personal phone to find an old photo.
âLike a Squirtle,â you whisper.
âLike a what?â
âDonât worry about it.â
âAnyway, pretty much all our executives have dyed hair,â Rindou admits. âRanâs not even the only one with pink.â
âI wish I could show you off to my middle school homeroom teacher. She used to say we wouldnât get good jobs if we so much as double pierced our ears and look at you! Successful and tattooed and dyed! Weâve really become a modern country, huh?â
âIâll introduce you sometimeâŚOur CFO, Koko is the smartest guy Iâve ever met, and his girlfriendâs the second. I think youâd like them. Maybe we can double date,â Rindou says.
Two days ago, Rindou was still intent on keeping you as far from his work life as possible, building up steel walls that wouldnât break no matter how much pressure you or his colleagues applied. But what canât be knocked down can still be unlocked, and here Rindou is, key in hand, throwing open the doors with no excuse or explanation.
Maybe if he hadnât built the damn wall in the first place, he could have seen you throughout the holidays. He could have met your mother, fucked you in your twin bed while the memories of your childhood peered down in judgment, and tried your home cooking.
âI learned something else about you from Ran, too,â you chirp.
âOh yeah?â he repeats.
âYeah, I learned why you donât âsuffer brats.â
Rindou laughs. âOh yeah because Ranâs brat enough for the rest of my life.â
âNo, because behind closed doors, youâre the big brat!â
Your gleeful giggle turns into a yelp as Rindou harshly pinches your nipple, hand dipping through shirt and bra to find gold.
âWant to repeat that?â
âIâm just repeating what I saw. Where your brother is concerned, you act like a big braâurgh!â
Your plush, hot little mouth is a source of hours of pleasure, but sometimes you talk too much. With it wide open around your nonsense, it makes an easy target. Three of Rindouâs fingers force their way past your lips, tongue, and teeth. He can feel the place where your throat closes up in instinctive panic, a hard barrier that with a few pushes will break.
âBlink twice for green, once for yellow, and none for red,â Rindou says seriously.
Two quick but emphatic blinks answer him as you gaze up with absolute trust. Rindou sits up to tower over you, strands of his hair dangling down to brush your quivering cheeks.
âIf you want to act like a fucking brat, Iâll find other ways to put your mouth to use. Open the fuck up.â
Under his insistent prodding, the barrier of your throat relaxes, and he pushes in as deep as his fingers are long. Your mouth stretches wide, obscene and red as you swallow around the obstruction. His fingers canât bully you as well as his cock, so you manage the intrusion with minimal gagging. He pets along the ridges of your throat, remembering how the ribbing feels sliding up and down his dick when he throat fucks you.
The memory is tempting. He loves the way you tear up when he stuffs his cock deeper than you think you can manage. Then, you choke and whine and learn to regret mouthing off to him, but thereâs no need to teach you a lesson. It is not a brat that tries to suck the fingers lodged in the back of her throat, but his good little slut, the one who tries so hard to please him.
Slowly, Rindou pulls back from your mouth, letting you suckle needily in the retreat.
âSpit,â he orders, holding out his open palm.
You demur. Only a discrete amount of spit lands in his hand. With the way he toyed with your throat, you should have more than that to offer him. He should be drenched in ribbons of it.
Slap.
The wet hand meets your cheek hard, snapping your head to the side. Rindou likes the look of it. Little strands of spit cling to your hot cheeks. He decides you could be even messier.
Rindou purses his lips and hocks a glob of spit directly into your face. It lands on your cheek, near the corner of your mouth. You yelp and turn accusing eyes to him, more aggrieved by this than the initial slap. Those eyes quickly close as Rindou smears a heavy palm across your whole face, making sure your spit covers you from chin to eyelids.
âI think you look prettiest like this slut,â Rindou says. You whine in the back of your throat, a noise of dissent and not passion. Rindou relishes it. Itâs rare for you to show anything but easy submission. âNo? You donât like looking like a little drool slut? Well, then you shouldnât have acted like such a brat, huh, baby? Good girls get to swallow, but bad girls have to spit all over themselves. Thatâs what youâre going to do until I decide youâre good and messy enough. Youâre going to drool all over your face and tits. No swallowing. Give me a color and let me know you understand.â
âGreen,â you whisper. âAnd yes, sir. I understand.â
To accompany your words, you let a glob of spit dribble past your lips. It doesnât have much momentum, landing on your chin, where its shine draws the eye like shiny jewelry.
When you look shame faced, dribbling and pathetic and hanging on his every word, is when Rindou wants you most. His cock twitches to life against his thigh at the mess he made of you.
He wants to see more. The tee-shirt is ripped to the ground as he attacks your tits with his mouth and tongue. The proud nipples rise to greet him, and he mouths at them desperately.
For hours at time, heâs subjected you to his systematic exploration of your chest. He knows exactly what to do to eek a response from you, and he employs all of that knowledge now. He circles the nubs gently with his tongue, knowing every hair on your body will stand at attention. When he sucks at just the right amount of pressure, you sigh like he intended. Then, he increases the pressure, and right on schedule, your hands dig into the shag of his hair, not pulling away but anchoring yourself, as the pleasure pain assaults you.
There is a flogger in the bottom dresser door perfect for burning your tits red which he considers, but he doesnât want to separate from your body for an instant. Your soft belly feels so right beneath the hardness of him, and when he cants his cock into the crease of your open thighs, the friction leaves him lightheaded.
He plumps up your breasts instead, leaving fat hickeys wherever his mouth lands. His hands squeeze to the beat of the drumming bass, and you start to hump your hips in time with him.
All the while, he hears you spitting pathetically above him.
The time between each spit lessens as he continues. Lust conquers shame, and you grow eager to impress him, drooling like a bitch in heat. You should be running out of saliva, but when that happens, he hears yours coughing gags as you fuck your fingers deep into your throat just so you can earn more precious spit.
Itâs pathetic, really, how desperate you get for him, how much you need him to take you in hand, show you what a whore you are.
Alongside the speed of your spitting, the distance increases as well. Soon drool lands on your tits, globs falling near his mouth, sometimes pelting his cheek or sticking to his hair. He eagerly laps it up, uses his mouth to smear it all over your breasts. He can barely find purchase, slipping and sliding through the valley of your lubed up tits, so wet and hot they remind him of your pussy.
It has been over a week since you last fucked, and Rindou thinks you must be drenched, drooling just as much down your thighs. He needs to know for sure.
Rindou doesnât stop caressing your nipples with his lips as his hand dips into your sweatpants. Sticky panties cling to your folds, and he struggles for a moment to separate them enough for his fingers to find your soaked little pussy.
âDid you control yourself and not touch this cute cunt while you were gone?â Rindou asks.
âI didnât, sir. I swear. I didnât touch myself at all. Didnât cheat and find some other way to cum either,â you plead as if he didnât already know the answer.
âHmm, maybe youâre not such a bad girl after all,â Rindou muses as his fingers rub through your folds, circling the entrance that drools so eagerly at his proximity. âDo you know why girls like you only cum with permission?â
âBecause all my orgasms belong to you, sir,â you sigh as if that is a helplessly romantic prospect.
âNo. Itâs because stupid sluts canât be trusted to know whatâs good for them. You have to trust me to tell you when to cum, and when to ruin, and when to go no touch because otherwise, youâd waste away. If no one was there to look out for you, youâd spend all day toying with this clit and fucking this little hole, and then what would happen?â
You gurgle happily at his words.
Rindou likes to talk during sex, loves it even, but he finds himself calling out every filthy thought when heâs with you because your pussy clenches so tight at a simple word of praise, even tighter at an insult. He can see your hole flex now, and he wants to feel it. He wants to be inside you.
Off go the sweatpants and panties as well as his own clothes. Cock in hand, he strokes himself while looking at the swollen folds, wet like morning dew. When he slides up your slit, that wetness clings to him.
He glances at your face for the first time in minutes only to find you absolutely wrecked. There is not a dry space on your neck, chest, or chin. All of it glistens with multiple coats of spit. Several long strands tangle together as they drool out of your mouth.
âWho told you to make such a mess, slut?â Rindou snaps, slapping one of your tits hard enough to bounce.
You gape at the sudden change. Every time you fuck, you try to stay on top of his whims, to answer his every desire before he can think to articulate it, never understanding that it is a Sisyphean task. He would not be a good dom if he didnât rip your attempts at power out of your hands, disrupt the scene, and leave you scrambling in that subspace that makes your eyes go foggy and mouth fuzzy.
Rindou shakes his head in faux disappointment even as he taps his cock against your puffy clit. âWhat should I tell the housekeeper tomorrow when she finds my sheets stained. Should I tell her a little drool slut decided to make a mess of herself and the bed? Should I tell her that some whores have so little dignity they drool all over their tits on command? Maybe I should take a video, so she can see just how much you wanted to be used like a tight little cocksleeve.â
The degradation makes you wild, and your hips start bucking like they answer to something separate from your brain, making your point as effectively as your babbling mouth. âPlease, sir, yes, please use me however you want. I can make you feel so good. I wanna make you feel so good.â
âThen, show me.â
Rindou manhandles you roughly, yanking you down the mattress and then flipping your legs back. They fold almost to your ears. It brings your pussy close to your own mouth, and an idea hits him like a bullet at close quarters. He spreads your pussy lips wide with his fingers.
âGet that hole wet for me,â he orders.
You spit straight onto your cunt. Again and again until you get the aim right. Rindou joins you. Soon, you are flooding over with the combined juices of your body. Your hole sucks at air, so desperate to be filled, and some of it is slurped straight into your pussy.
It has been too long.
âItâs been a while since you had anything in this hole. It may hurt at first in this position,â Rindou warns, as if you have any say in positions outside using your safe words.
âPlease give me your cock, sir,â you chant eagerly. âI can take it. I promise!â
His cock slides through your slippery folds so easily that he wonders if heâll ever go back to normal, unlubed sex again. The ring of your pussy is tight when the head breaches it, but so wet too. So very wet. Itâs immediate ecstasy.
Thereâs nothing like that first penetration. Snug, warm, your pussy molding to embrace his cock. Pure paradise lays between your thighs.
In a single thrust, he slides halfway in.
You hiss through gritted teeth. Another three centimeters disappear into your body, and you start to moan. He doesnât force himself further at first, instead rocking back to start fucking you open all the way.
Squatting over you, his balance is precarious, so Rindou grips the fat of your thighs for support. The skin dimples where his fingers dig in. He can fuck you so good at this angle, can angle his hips to slam into your ass so it claps to temporarily drown out the squelch of your slick pussy.
It only takes a few heavy thrusts to break you open the rest of the way. Now, when he slides out, the ridged walls caressing every centimeter of him as he draws away, he can then thrust back to the hilt. Deep, hard, and slow, thatâs how he fucks you. The furthest reaches of your pussy are at his mercy, and he taps your cervix every couple thrusts, enjoying the way his tip tingles and nerve endings alight. When he batters your cervix, you donât cry out but embrace the pain and shudder into the pillows like an addict.
Just as hot for him is the way his balls slap into your ass when he bottoms out each time, sending little sparks of pleasure dancing through his brain. He doesnât know how to think when heâs inside you. Every sense is focused on the need to fuck you to oblivion.
As he pounds into you, your calves dangle somewhere between his ears and yours. They start to shake as he punches the breath from your lungs over and over again. When he angles his hips so they smack hard against your clit on a downward thrust, they quake out of your control.
He watches your eyes to see the way they dart out of focus. Your face is so expressive, he can watch as you experience every thrust like a miniature earthquake to your senses. So pretty how they glaze over with lust.
The song changes on the record playing. Now, something fast and heavy blares out, sex on speed. He pumps his hips faster to time it to the music, lets it take over what little thought remains. And with it comes every dirty word heâs been holding back.
âIf thereâs one thing a greedy whore like you can do, itâs take a fucking dick. Just look at how you swallow me up. Filthy girl with her legs spread so she can get used and abused,â he huffs through short breaths.
Rindou yanks your hair hard, folding your body into an even smaller and tighter sleeve for him and positioning your face parallel with your cunt. You stare dumb and desperate at the space where his cock disappears inside you. Little mumbles of nonsense tumble out of your mouth.
âAww, baby canât think. Thatâs okay. All you need to do is keep that cunt tight and fucking. Take. This. Fat. Cock.â
The final words are punctuated by hard thrusts that batter your cervix cruelly. Your pussy clamps down in a frantic squeeze, and panic breaks through your fucked out haze.
Now, he can understand the words as you cry, âWait, sir! Oh, no! Sir, can I cum! Oh no, oh no, oh no!â
There is going to be no stopping it, not when your cunt has been neglected for so long. Knowing how tightly youâre going to squeeze down, Rindou doesnât want to deny either of you the feeling, not today.
âGo ahead. Squirt all over my cock, slut. Cum as much as you want.â
You do â or maybe you donât squirt. Itâs hard to say when your pussy is already a river. Regardless, you do seize up, calves spasming, cunt coiling, eyes crossing. Itâs an absolute avalanche of sensation, and you donât stop screaming your pleasure for a solid minute after the first warning quivers.
Rindou loses himself in the feel of you. Each pulse against his cock is a shot of pleasure and a new challenge. Instincts tell him to pound deeper into your defenseless body, make his home here in the heat of you. When he fucks to your cervix, he swears he wonât find the strength to pull out, but he does, if only to feel that bliss again when he shoves his cock inside you.
He starts to imagine just how wet you will be when he cums. If he thinks youâre wet now, imagine once he fills you up with four daysâ worth of buildup, cum heâs saved just to paint you white once again. Itâs where his cum belongs. In fact, he almost hates you for denying him your pussy for these last days, days where his cum died ignominiously on his stomach or shower floor when it should have been flooding your cervix.
His heart races, and then Rindou cums hard. Vision blacked out, brain empty, muscles dead. Hard.
For five seconds, he spasms and grunts as his cum shoots out of you. Itâs so overpowering, he almost doesnât notice that you start to shake around him once again, your pussy growing tighter and tighter and your little fists beating into the sheets as a second orgasm sucks all his cum deep into your belly.
The endorphins hit, and Rindou mellows like heâs just smoked a joint. Hazily, he realizes the way you twitch and cry beneath him. He pulls out and watches as streams of liquid slide right out of your hole and down your thighs.
Uncaring of the mess, Rindou collapses to his side and pulls you into the crook of his body. Heâs not sure which one of you needs the aftercare after that. It was so intense that his brain still isnât formulating thoughts. Your head nestles near his heart, breath darting across his navel, and he pets your hair in encouragement.
He feels like a fucking king.
Several minutes pass before you speak again.
âIâve missed you,â you whisper, and when you say it, it sounds like a confession.
⣠Warning: 18+, minors DNI; unhealthy relationships & dark content
⣠Chapter CW: oral sex, kidnapping, daddy kink
⣠Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; smut (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, stalking, torture (not of y/n), murder, discussions of trauma and abuse, drug use, and more
⣠Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but youâre not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that youâre both attracted to each other doesnât hurt either.
⣠Word Count: ~8k+
Someone is dying. Painfully. They wail and thrash as a hacksaw dismembers the body.
Your body slides to the left and then right.
Fighting a film of crud from your eyes, you blink awake. There is a moment of disorientation as your hindbrain understands what your conscious brain does not. This is not your apartment, not your bed, you are in danger.
Familiarity arrives fast. You recognize the sensation of driving in a car, the glide around turns. A heavy metal song blares on the radio. Nothing is dying except your faith in the value of music. To your right is Hanma, quiet and focused in the driverâs seat.
Like he is the last clue to a puzzle, the events of a few hours earlier click into place.
Streetlamps illuminated your balcony, so it must have been before dawn, but after 6 AM as your bed was empty of Takashi when Hanma shook you awake. You almost cried at the sight of him when all you craved was a few extra moments of sleep. After a day and a half of chores and forays into the world, your body was rebelling, the fever rising once again and bringing with it a headache to decimate rational thought. You needed rest but Hanma insisted you follow him out of your apartment and into a waiting car. Your memory pitters to nothing then as you must have fallen asleep in the passenger seat on impact.
Now, the sky is gloomy and grey, but unmistakably early afternoon. Tall, dignified trees sail by as the car drives ever forward. They cluster together, thick like a forest. This canât be Tokyo.
âWhere are we?â you croak out.
âGood morning,â Hanma sings, turning the radio down a notch. âGlad to see you up and moving.â
âWhere are we? Where are we going?â
âAkita, and weâre almost there.â
âAkita!â you fly upright but the drastic shift in elevation makes your blood pressure skyrocket, grey fuzz crowding your vision. Grappling around, you find a bottle of water and chug it gratefully to relieve your dry throat. âWe canât be in Akita!â
The furthest north you ever travelled was Miyagi for a school trip. You try to remember the distance to Akita and estimate it must be nearly six hours outside the city.
Terrible, yawning suspicion opens up inside you as you pat around and realize your phone is missing. Dragged from your house in nothing but your pajamas and autumn jacket with no phone, no one knows where you are. It is the ideal scenario for a hit.
âThis is kidnapping,â you say, half reproach and half testing the truth of the words and hoping they ring hollow.
âNot legally,â Hanma says. âYou did follow me out the door willingly.â
Only three days ago, this man bathed you like a newborn. Only two days ago, you entertained selling him out to an enemy.
Your fingers graze the handle of the car door. You wonder whether you might roll out before Hanma stops you, but what then? Wounded and cut up on the side of the road, you would be easier to hunt than livestock. The road signs signal that Akita is another ten miles out. No help is in sight.
âI need to text Takashi, let him know where I am. Heâll worry when I donât answer the phone,â you try.
âYou want to call the boyfriend and tell him youâre on a romantic vacation with your lover? Bold move, Doc. I like it. Feel free,â Hanma laughs.
âAnd thatâs what this is? A romantic getaway?â
âJust wait.â
âDoes this have something to do with your business last week? When we went to that strip club?â you venture, and the words summon a flash of memory: neon lights, Hanmaâs cock, and the obscuring smile of Haitani Ran.
âYou really donât like surprises, do you?â Hanma snorts.
You look out the window at the passing landscape. A stark cliff face careens down to a black blue sea on your left, still almost like itâs yet to awaken from slumber. A train rattles over a red suspension bridge. Its whistle doesnât break the peace but somehow adds to it, the rare human noise blending into nature. Behind it all, you have a spectacular view of the mountains, wooded and green as far as the eye can see. Not bad as far as last views go, and you can now say you have been to Akita. A final cross off the bucket list before Hanma offs you.
Funnily, fear for your life is secondary to the needs of the body. Your stomach rumbles loudly and your bladder screams for relief.
âWhen will we stop? I need to freshen up,â you say.
âSoon. Weâre almost there. When was the last time you ate anyway?â
Try as you might, you canât remember consuming anything but tea and water. âI had some okayu I think? When was that?â
Hanma slants his eyes in your direction. âI cooked that for you, Doc. That was three days ago.â
âOh, I guess Iâve been preoccupied.â
âIâd say,â Hanma hisses, and his fingernails dig into the steering wheel, leaving a testament to his irritation in supple leather. âSick as a dog, and you still found time to wander all over Tokyo. I swear you checked more miles than a tour guide. You just had to swing by your office, and the notary, and the post office, and did you seriously go to the gym yesterday, too?â
âDid you have me followed? That breaks one of our rules, Hanma-san! We canâtâŚyou canâtâŚâ
âOh, give it a rest. Weâre past all that now.â
Actually, you are very much not past the rules instituted a mere week prior, but panic sticks in your throat. The invasion of privacy is a small concern compared to the likelihood that he or one of his men witnessed your rendezvous with Haitani. From what you can gather, both men were having you followed. Twin stakeouts outside your apartment, maybe sharing snacks and shooting the breeze to pass the boring hours until you go outside? You can only hope Hanma gifts you the opportunity to explain, some chance to spin a redeeming tale.
âI can ââ
âExplain? Oh, I bet you can. But save it. Weâre here anyway.â
The care idles to a stop, and you spin in your seat, expecting to see an isolated grove or a mining shaft perfect for unwanted corpse removal. Instead, a traditional building with a sloping roof and walls of pine greets you. A boundary of pruned trees surrounds the courtyard driveway before yielding to untamed forest. There, by the entrance, stands two smiling figures, a man and a woman.
âYou are going to get some damn rest today if I have to tie you to the chair and drug you to sit still,â Hanma swears.
Your hysterical laugh echoes into the lip of the almost empty water bottle. Today is not the day you die. Today is the day you relax in what looks like luxury. This is hot springs country. Hanma was not joking when he dubbed this a romantic vacation.
Led by a proprietary hand at the small of your back, you and Hanma approach the greeters. One glance is enough to confirm they are in Hanmaâs line of work. With the adrenaline still racing in your veins, you canât help but catalogue every detail like it might be a matter of life or death.
The woman is young and beautiful with thick blonde hair and arched eyebrows that draw her otherwise lovely face into a mask of vigilance. She is dressed tastefully, perfect for the sticky hot season and yet revealing nothing of her figure. The man dwarfs her and everyone else â including Hanma â though he wears his height awkwardly. The long neck cranes down and a touch of scoliosis curves his back into the start of a comma. His blue hair is buzzed close to his scalp, some strange curling shape shaved to the pale skin beneath, and he is dressed in a slouchy white suit better suited for shaking down debtors behind a pachinko parlor. When he yawns widely, a gold tooth glints and a vertical scar bisecting his lips stretches obscenely.
âWelcome! Weâre so glad you could just us. How was the drive? My name is Shiba Yuzuha,â the woman greets. Her tone is the perfect balance of warmth and impersonality that much be rehearsed a hundreds to be achieved such that you know she must work in customer service.
You bow slightly and introduce yourself in turn. The man doesnât introduce himself until Shiba elbows him in the ribs at which point he says, âWeâve already met. Shiba Hakkai.â
âOh, yes. Over the phone,â you say.
Hakkaiâs disembodied voice left a particular impression on you. He struck you as too goofy, too affable for the yakuza. Here in his unkempt, oversize suit, he proves you wrong.
âIt doesnât count as meeting someone if itâs over the phone. You still have to introduce yourself. I swear I taught you better manners,â Shiba Yuzuha chides. âHanma told us you havenât been feeling well, which is just perfect. There is no better place to rest up and recover. We closed the inn for repairs a few weeks ago and donât officially reopen for another three days, which means the inn is all yours to enjoy. There wonât be any staff on sight unfortunately, but the repairs are complete, so you neednât worry about any disruptions.â
âIs this your establishment, Shiba-san?â you ask.
The ryokan is a multi-story behemoth with a winding front porch. Once autumn comes and the trees that drape it on all sides turn orange and yellow, it will make a perfect postcard, the kind used to lure tourists to cross sky and sea. It is not a typical starter business for a woman who hasnât seen thirty yet.
âPlease call me Yuzuha. Itâs too confusing otherwise,â Yuzuha offers, and if your eyes widen at the forced familiarity and you donât offer the same courtesy in turn, Yuzuha doesnât comment on it. âMy little brother bought me this place â what? â three years ago now? Itâs been a learning experience for sure, but you canât beat the fresh air here. Itâs like nowhere else in the country.â
A yakuza-run onsen? You think there is a joke buried in there. Your brain helpfully supplies a mental image of fat forty-somethings bedecked in full-body tattoos enjoying the facilities as traditionalism shakes her fist at their backs.
âWhich brings me back to how glad I am that Hanma asked to bring you. Did he not tell you we would be here?â Yuzuha continues.
âHanma kind of kidnapped me out of bed this morning. I had no idea where we were going,â you admit.
âDudeâŚâ Hakkai grumbles.
You peek at Hanma from the corner of your eye, but he is in his own world far from these niceties. His hand lingers on your back, a boyfriendâs solid and marking grip. Your fever felt like a long dream, and now you wake up to find the world has fundamentally shifted with you none the wiser. Hanma is playing a new game with you now, and you slept right through the rules.
âIf you follow me, Iâll take you to your room and then the spa. Thereâs no staff today, but we have everything we need for DIY facials. If I know the boys, they can find something to keep them busy without us. We can meet up again closer to dinner,â Yuzuha suggests.
She takes command so easily you feel helpless but to nod along. Unthinking, you might follow this competent woman straight off a bluff and to your death.
Hanma has other ideas, interrupting to say, âShe needs to eat now. She hasnât eaten yet.â
âOh, of course! Hakkai can whip something up for lunch. Just bring it to the west garden rooms,â Yuzuha instructs.
âWhy me?â Hakkai whines. Literally whines. A yakuza crying as his sister barks orders at him!
âDonât be embarrassing! Because I said so,â Yuzuha snaps, and then more gently to you, âThe cook is off today, too. But please, donât worry. Hakkai knows his way around the kitchen.â
An insistent hand sporting long, even nails slicked in gold polish tugs you towards the entrance and away from the men. You cast a look back at Hanma as Yuzuha ushers you inside. He doesnât watch you go, listening to Hakkai tell a story about his own drive down with an unreadable expression.
Yuzuha shows you to your room, offering amiable commentary about the history and amenities, as if she has given this tour a hundred times. The sliding door shuts definitively and Yuzuha all but jumps you. There is no remainder of the customer service smile as she grips your shoulders.
âJust say the word, and I will find a way to get you out of here,â she says.
âWha-what?â you stutter.
âIf heâs holding you against your will, hurting you, anything, just tell me! It wonât be easy, but Hakkai would protect me even if I dropped a bomb on Tomanâs headquarters. Seriously, I can find a way to help you.â
âHeâs not. Iâm fine,â you say.
âYou said he kidnapped you out of bed.â
Defending Hanma to an outsider is strange. Other than your initial intake with Kisaki, you have never discussed Hanma with anyone. Itâs impossible to say you feel safe with him when you donât. He breaks your trust constantly, stealing into your apartment, firing a gun at your head, poking a manâs eyeball out in front of you. Hanma is too erratic, and you should feel decidedly unsafe in his company and yetâŚ
âThank you,â you say as sincerely as you know how, holding eye contact until Yuzuha looks away. âI am looking forward to today though. I think heâs right that it will be good to unwind and take the fresh air.â
âSo long as heâs not hurting youâŚâ Yuzuha says.
âHeâs not.â
As you follow Yuzuha out the room, you honestly donât know whether your should add this to your long list of lies and deceptions.
--
Earlier that year, the UN released updated population estimates for every major urban center in the world. You scanned the article on your phone, the picture of the Tokyo Skytree proudly announcing your cityâs dominance, the number one.
Somedays itâs hard to believe that many souls live so closely together. Tokyo is sprawling, its population spread out, so that you can walk down a street in the early morning with the illusion of complete aloneness. You know that behind every closed curtain is one, two, who knows how many bodies, but out of sight, out of mind. You mistake that for freedom.
Never again.
Lunch is hearty and lively, the kind of event where every word is a joke, and where the creases of your mouth hurt from smiling. In another life, Hanma and Hakkai might have embraced their callings as a manzai comedic duo. Between Hanmaâs cold antagonism and Hakkaiâs affable front as a tough guy, the jokes write themselves. It is surreal to watch Hanma like this: funny, which you already knew, but without the innuendo, the lurking bite. This is Hanma in repose, not pacing and wild as he searches for his next surge of adrenaline.
You worry to Yuzuha when they leave again about how Hanma will pass the time, but she dismisses your barely concealed fears.
âOh, theyâll be fine. We own the whole property, and Hakkai installed a track for dirt bike riding. Iâm sure weâll see them scraped and bruised come dinner.â
She leaves to run errands in town with the promise to return for facials, surrendering you to the whims and histories of the empty inn. You can almost hear the building sigh to be alone with you.
Uninhibited, you investigate the rooms, searching for their hidden secrets. Each room is largely the same, rich finished wood paneling, warm orange tatami, cabinets discretely built into the walls, low tables, unlit lamps, and enough space to spin about with your arms spread, air whipping up through your fingers, without ever bumping into an obstacle. What differentiates one room from another are the views. The balconies cheat out on the surrounding greenery. The trees blend deceptively together, but as you study one after another, you come to know their character. From some rooms, you can see the hot springs bubbling merrily beneath. Others stare into the depths of the forest.
Having the run of the ryokan is something out of a childâs fantasy, like waking up to find all the adults gone and the candy unguarded. There is no one to watch or judge. You can shout into the wilderness, and no one will shout back. You can pick your nose. You can cry.
So, you do. All of it and more. With each expansive act, you feel as if you take a piece of this place for yourself, feel it slowly reshaping to fit into your pocket.
By the time Yuzuha returns from town, you are hypnotized by your own powers of individuality. You stretch out without a care on the zaisu, legs akimbo and decorum abandoned. A green clay mask dries on your face, marking you like some kind of wicked witch, and red polish glistens like blood on your fingernails and toes.
More delicately positioned on a legless chair, Yuzuha keeps you company while her own mask sets. Rather than disrupt your carefree adventure, Yuzuha seamlessly slots into the magic. She fills the hours with her light chatter. Not once do you grow bored of her sly observations or easy oversharing. She insists on an immediate intimacy with you, which would feel embarrassing if you werenât so lonely from the last several days trapped in your illness. It feels natural for Yuzuha to detail the minutiae of her life, her struggles with staff retention, her vacation plans, her kidney stones.
You have known women who talk the hours hoarse before, but Yuzuha defies their type even as she does just that. She is not a wide-eyed innocent, the bubbly kind that men fawn over, who chitter with the confidence of someone never before scolded. Nor is she the calculating socialite, like Miyasato, who tries to force a faux closeness on everyone.
As you listen to Yuzuhaâs smoky voice, she strikes you as simply comfortable with herself and, by proxy, you.
After twenty minutes, you wash away your face mask. Twisting this way and that, you marvel at how bright and clean your skin looks in the mirror you hold. You smell like a eucalyptus tree, a memory of sick beds, yet you look fresh as a summerâs day, healed.
âYou really are beautiful. I wish my bare face looked half as good,â Yuzuha sighs. You rush to reassure her that she is just as beautiful, more so, but she waves you off. âI know Iâm gorgeous. The Shiba skin is just a curse. Iâve been at war with my genetics since I was thirteen. Iâm winning the battle for now, butâŚâ
âI think your skin is lovely,â you repeat. You canât remember the last time you complimented another woman this way. This ritual of female friendship is one you have observed from the outside, but rarely directly, so the genuine compliment tastes like rust on your tongue as you try it out.
âYou met my brother today. How old do you think he is?â
âUmm, maybe a bit older than meâŚmid-30s?â you guess.
âSee, thatâs my point!â Yuzuha cries. âHeâs only twenty-seven. Twenty-seven and wrinkling like a prune!â
âIs that why you opened this place? You wanted to run a spa? Itâs unusual to have one in a place like this.â
âKind of. I mean, itâs not like it was my dream to move out here and run an onsen, but Hakkai bought it for me, and well, Iâm kind of suited for it. If I had to move out of the city, I knew at the bare minimum I deserved to get a pedicure every once in a while.â
âWhy did you move out of the city?â you pry.
âOh, Hakkai loves to spoil me to make up for how hard things were growing up. Heâs very protective. He said it was just a present, a way to clear some money, but I think he mostly wanted to get me out of Tokyo and away from his enemies. I just about threw a fit when he first suggested it. I didnât want to leave, but I came around on it. I mean, this is paradise, isnât it?â
A few meters away, the window steams from the heat rising off candy blue waters. Through the steam, you can still see how nature thrives here. Cedars shoot up tall and noble from the pliant earth; Japanese Maples grow closer to the ground, vibrant and so green, you almost canât believe their leaves are born to wither and die. How lucky to share in this bit of paradise that surely belongs just as much to the wagtail stirring on a nearby tree, then streaking by as it hunts for prey or freedom. No doubt thousands of birds, sables, and tanuki call this forest home. For a city girl, itâs like staring out into the land of fairytales.
The air is crisper here, and you savor each draw of breath. The rotten scent of sulfur somehow doesnât offend you. Not here. Here, it is something to desire and embrace.
âParadise, huh? I could get used to it,â you agree.
âYeah, I really do love it. The only downside is itâs hard to maintain real friendships here. Obviously, I get to meet all the customers, and itâs a lot of fun to entertain them and learn their stories, but theyâre transient connections. They all leave in a few days,â Yuzuha says wistfully, and then she turns to you, face startling behind a grey-green mask. âThatâs why I was so happy when Hanma asked to bring you. I hoped we could be friends, and I can already tell we will be. Fast friends.â
Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, when facing an overture of friendship, or even just interest, you clam up. All the composure and self-respect you gained in adulthood disappears, and you become that lonely child again. The specter of your mother lurking behind your shoulder, the reminder of those lonely, empty rooms, where you were told not to make a sound. You were always so cold then, and you turn cold once more whenever someone tries to truly see you.
But this, this is the one out of a hundred times, when you donât seize up. Maybe it is the undisrupted peace of your surroundings, the easy confidence of Yuzuha. Or maybe your brain is still addled by days of fever? Who can say? All you know is that for once, you donât feel ice slip through your veins, donât squirm at the kindness. Instead, you say the right thing.
âI could come back and visit sometime. I would love to see you again.â
âI can come visit you in Tokyo, too!â Yuzuha offers eagerly. âOr we could sometimes meet in the middle if the drive is too much.â
âI donât have a car, but I can figure something out,â you agree.
âNah, Iâm not worried about that. Hanma can drive you,â Yuzuha says.
âMaybe.â
âOr better yet, why donât we start working on him now. Between the two of us, I bet we could get him to buy you your own inn. We could be neighboring competitors!â Yuzuha jokes.
âStop, I might start salivating,â you say. Youâve read that property is a great investment for security.
âNot at the ostentatious gifts stage yet? Just wait and know your worth. Heâll be showering you in jewels before the year is out.â
You flinch from a panic you canât quite place. Then, like you so often advise your clients, you follow that emotion, tracing your own thoughts backwards until you can find its origins, and realize with a start, that you are scared to hear someone associate you with Hanma. She isnât supposed to know. No one is.
Since this strange, out-of-character dalliance with Hanma began, your only confidante in the matter has been Hanma himself. The atmosphere of secrecy has a reinforcing effect. When Hanma hurts or scares you, you sit with that pain or fear, until he returns, helps you process what happened, and then offers you some new feeling to nourish instead: lust, companionship, comfort. Always, there thrums the low buzz of anxiety as you let him guide you closer and closer to the precipice, but you have no one else to strip back the curtain and show you the game. Just Hanma.
But here sits Yuzuha, who offers you friendship, who knows Hanma. It is an opportunity you canât pass up.
âEarlier, when you were worried about me and Hanma, why was that? Has he done something before that made you worried?â you ask.
âIâm sorry about that. Total overreaction,â Yuzuha grimaces. âI donât have any real reason to be so suspicious of Hanma, I swear. Heâs never even introduced Hakkai to a woman before. I just know how powerful men can be, and I donât wish that upon anyone. When you said he kidnapped you, I misinterpreted. But now that Iâve seen you two together, Iâm sure you have a great relationship.â
âWeâre not reallyâŚin a relationship,â you say.
Yuzuhaâs eyebrows are far too expressive, containing the power of a thousand smirks with one knowing arch. She subjects you to one such eyebrow quirk and says, âIâm not trying to be all high school, âoooh is he your boyfriendâ or anything, but from the outside looking inâŚIâd call whatever you two have a relationship.â
âI donât know if weâre anything to each other to be honest. I mean, heâs playing some sort of game with me, but I donât know what he wants from it. Just to pass the time, maybe? All this, him being sweet and doting on me, thatâs brand new.â
âI donât know what game Hanma may be playing, but what do you want?â Yuzuha asks.
She poses the question like nothing could be simpler. Spending time with Hanma is like dancing on a sinkhole, the ground constantly shifting underfoot and always you feel the risk of the collapse. Every minute with him the risk grows. How can you want anything but survival?
And yet, you donât run away from the danger. If anything, you dance closer.
âI want to make obscene amounts of money, fuck you money, so I never have to worry another day in my life,â you answer.
âOh, I can cheers to that. I think that calls for a toast,â Yuzuha agrees. Opening a wood-paneled cabinet, she reveals a mini-fridge and a sweating bottle of champaign for just such an occasion.
âWhat do you want?â you challenge her.
âI want to meet a tender, soft man or woman, whoâs always laughing, who loves animals and dotes on their family. Someone who doesnât hold me, but rather, we hold each other. Thatâs what I want.â
âThatâs your ideal type, huh? Have you met anyone like that yet?â you smile.
âNo! But I know I will,â Yuzuha says. âItâs the power of positive thinking.â
She laughs as she uncorks the champagne. It jolts her whole body, and a small trickle rains down onto the tatami. The mess is left for another time. The afternoon glows with pleasure and excess. By the end of the night, maybe youâll be licking champagne up from the floors.
âYour turn. What else do you want?â Yuzuha says, making a game of it.
âUmâŚâ you hesitate as long as you can before the strain grows ridiculous and you blurt out the first thing you can think of. âIâd like to live by the beach. I think itâd be nice for the first thing I hear every morning to be the waves.â
âOh, totally. I grew up in the city, and I had no idea just how damn loud it was until I moved out here. You wonât believe it when you go to sleep tonight,â Yuzuha says, and then, âI guess itâs my turn again. I want to ring in my thirtieth birthday with a huge party here with every person I love, and I want to have made a dozen new close friends by then, too. A whole week of partying and relaxation in the hot springs that no one will ever forget.â
âCheers to that,â you say.
There are no glasses and Yuzuha doesnât want to hunt them down from the kitchens, so you chug straight from the bottle. The lip is cold, the champagne colder as it glides down your throat. A shiver of pleasure follows it. Youâve barely parted from the bottle before Yuzuha is grabbing it for her own swig, spilling more champagne down her chin. You both laugh like much younger girls.
You settle back into the chair cushion, passing the bottle back and forth as Yuzuha continues to detail the things she wants out of life, from the minute to the grand. You didnât know it was possible to want so many things. The easy way she summons these desires is even stranger to you, but you find yourself hoping that she gets everything she wants and more.
âGoing back to the beginning though, what is it you want with our Hanma?â Yuzuha teases.
At a loss, you sigh, âItâs just not that easy. I donât know what I want. All I know is what I donât want. I donât want him to hurt me, or blow up my life, or put me in danger. I guess that means I donât want him at all, huh?â
âWhy does that mean you donât want him?â
âBecause heâs incapable of caring about another person. Heâs like a sadistic butterfly collector. He may admire me for months and still, one day, pluck my wings off because he got bored,â you explain.
âSo you decide to clip your own wings before he can?â Yuzuha says, her eyebrows arching down somehow more severely than ever before. âYa know, Iâve known Hanma for ten years, since we were practically kids. And, I donât think youâre being fair to him.â
âYou said it first. You know dangerous men, and heâs one of them.â
âOh, heâs definitely dangerous, butâŚâ and here Yuzuha takes on the look of a haunting, eyeline somewhere above your head, peering out of this room, this paradise, and into a past she would rather but could never forget. âIâve known men who are like a black hole. They are hungry, so very hungry, and nothing will ever fill them. So, they suck up everything around them, and once they have you, they crush you into nothing.â
âThat sounds like Hanma,â you interrupt.
Yuzuha shakes her head. âNo, no it doesnât. I donât know if he can ever be satisfied either, but Hanma doesnât need to destroy everything around him. He cares about people in his own way.â
âThe only reason heâs not destroying everything around him is because he has ulterior motives. Trust me. He doesnât have it in him to care,â you disagree.
âSorry, but I canât. Iâve seen it with my own eyes. I know heâs gotten a bit harder in the last couple years, but you didnât know him when he was young. He used to be so happy all the time. Maybe life has disappointed him, made him harder, butâŚhere let me tell you a story,â Yuzuha says.
A part of you wants to beg her to keep her peace. Whatever humanizing tale she spins will only confuse you. But another part says this is homework. Painful but necessary. Whatever she shares could be applied to your treatment strategy.
Still, you stare out the window rather than meet Yuzuhaâs eyes, let her voice wash over you like a child hearing a bedtime story. No one has to take a bedtime story to heart.
âThis would have been maybe eight years ago? Somewhere around then, we were all hanging out at one of Tomanâs warehouses. Theyâd finished up business, and we decided to play hide and seek in the rows. I know, silly right? But back then, we still had a lot of fun. There was money and danger and all the bad stuff, too, but we were kids and acted like it. Sometime while we were playing, Hakkai realized he had lost the chain he wears around his neck. On it, he hangs our momâs wedding ring. She died when we were little, and it is the only thing he has to remember her. He loves that ring. So, heâs looking all over for it, and itâs not turning up, and Hakkai is so panicked heâs almost crying. It gets awkward, so the game is over, and everyone just starts leaving, telling Hakkai theyâre sorry and theyâre sure itâll turn up. But not Hanma. He stayed. He stayed, and he helped us tear that warehouse apart for the next three hours. I mean, we looked everywhere for that thing. And Hanma never complained, didnât try to beg off, he just stayed and helped.â
âWhere did you find it?â
âPfft, it was in the idiotâs pocket the whole time. I could have strangled him when he realized,â Yuzuha laughs. âBut I never looked at Hanma the same after that. I mean, he had nothing to gain out of looking with us. He didnât demand a favor or bully Hakkai over it. He just wanted to help becauseâŚwell, I donât think he liked seeing Hakkai so upset, and itâs not the only time Iâve seen something like that. When it comes to Hakkai or Kisaki, Iâve seen him go out of his way to help them, and I think he does it because he justâŚcares. He cares.â
Chugging straight from the bottle, you swallow so much champagne it feels like drowning. Nothing about Yuzuhaâs story matches with your understanding of Hanmaâs capacity to empathize with others. You know him to be intuitive, insightful, deep in his connection to his own feelings, but you have never met this generous, caring man.
Except, of course, you have. You hardly remember him because you were delirious with fever, but once Hanma stroked you so tenderly, held you so securely, chastised you so lovingly.
Your head spins.
âAnyway, maybe he is dangerous, and maybe only a crazy person would pursue a relationship with him, but whatâs wrong with being a little crazy? I mean, you canât live life playing it safe. Youâll be safe in the grave and not a minute sooner,â Yuzuha continues, oblivious to your inner chaos.
âI think I drank too much too fast,â you mutter. âI should eat something to settle my stomach.â
âSure thing, we can go to the kitchens,â Yuzuha says.
Her hand supports you as you stand. The irony of being steadied by the very woman who knocked you off balance doesnât escape you.
âIâll stop butting into your business now,â Yuzuha says, that pretty smile that made you immediately warm to her on her lips. âI just couldnât help myself. I havenât seen him smile like he did this afternoon since we were young. It reminded me of good times.â
Good times, huh? Youâve never known them.
(You want to.)
--
Since you were too small to reach the stove dials, you have loved going to the market, peering up at fresh veggies, the colors changing along with the season, scenting the hot peppers preserved with vinegar and the fermented kimchi. The fish heads didnât frighten you. Their eyes didnât seem dead, didnât seem like eyes at all, but shiny buttons sewed onto a doll.
Your mother would move quickly through the market, while you lost yourself among the rows. Sometimes you lost her. You learned to keep one eye on the vendorsâ delights and another on your motherâs retreating perm. Market days always ended too soon.
Years later, you learned about the tea ceremony and kaiseki dining in elementary school. You salivated at the prospect of all those fresh ingredients plucked straight from earth, sea, and sky.
When Yuzuha regretfully informs you that, without a chef, youâll have to settle for some atypical ryokan fare, you beg her to reconsider. There is a freezer stocked with ingredients, a dog-eared cookbook, and years of knowledge rattling around in your brain.
The hours wile by while you acquaint yourself with the kitchen and its contents. Yuzuha sits on the countertop, constantly scooting out of your way as your dishes stack higher and higher, sipping glass after glass of plum wine, and regaling you with stories about the early days of Toman, when these feared gangsters were mere boys with acne scars and cracking voices.
By the time the table is set, the sun is only a distant memory. Candle-lit lanterns glow, casting the overflowing table and its dishes in ambient orange. The table is so aesthetically pleasing it steals your breath. Foods of every variety â sizzled, steamed, and grilled, sweet, bitter, and savory â representing the delights of Akitaâs countryside line the table.
Hanma doesnât join you for dinner, but Hakkai troops up from the woods, face scratched up from collisions with branches and a belly rumbling from the exertion.
He and Yuzuha eat heartily, tasting every dish in order and singing your praises. You can barely take a few bites from each plate, drinking copiously instead and watching the way the Shibas devour your meal. You catch it all, the way their jaws work around a piece of sashimi, the grimace of pleasure at a rich bite, the deep sigh as soup warms them from the inside out.
For years you have cooked all kinds of delicacies in your apartment kitchen, sampling and experimenting to hone your skills. But you almost always eat the final meal alone with the news as your only company since Takashi never eats dinner in the house. To share a meal with someone who appreciates it feels unreal.
You think if either of the Shibas ask you to bury a body tonight you might ask how deep.
Sleep blurs behind your eyes after the meal. It should be impossible after you slept the morning away, and the day before that, but whenever your brain tries to focus on any one thing, it vibrates, and you are lost.
Yuzuha points out that you havenât enjoyed the onsen yet. She yawns through directions to the womenâs baths. Red as an apple, she can barely keep her head off the table, and Hakkai promises to deliver her safely to bed.
There is no need for her directions. You follow the lead of your own instincts, nose sniffing out the open air. The trees bow to you as you walk. Their leaves, plump and wet, the green of erotic love, beguile you. They beg you to enter their foliage, to trust in the safety of the forest. As you rinse off at a shower station, a gauzy haze settles over your brain. Your tongue remembers the taste of plum wine and good food.
In this sensualistâs mood, you enter the womenâs baths.
It feels inevitable to find Hanma there, lounging against smooth stone.
Unaware, or perhaps unbothered by your arrival, you drink in the uninhibited view of him: the virginal flush of his skin, the pronounced Adamâs apple as his throat tips back, the colored strands sticking wet and limp to his neck. The water rises only to his rib cage, and you enjoy the voluptuous strength of him, the unexpected curve of his chest and blue blood veins on his arms. His glasses lie folded on his equally folded towel a few meters away.
âAre you just going to stand there or join me?â Hanma purrs without so much as twitching an eyelid. He maintains his stillness like he knows his body is a statue to be admired and enjoyed.
âYou just want me to come closer because youâre too blind to see me from here,â you hazard. Itâs meant to sound dry, accusing, but your voice lilts in playful tease, revealing your true feelings.
Hanma peeks one eye open, sees through the rising steam, and trains onto your body. âI can see just fine.â
âLiar.â
The hot spring scalds as you lower one calf and then another into the shallow pool. That is the secret to its powers, you think. You have to burn away the rot to be truly clean.
Each muscle greets the sulfuric water gaily, unlocking and relaxing until you are pliant and yielding. Fully immersed, the water rises to your shoulders.
You settle opposite Hanma on the other side of the pool, where you maintain the illusion of being out of reach. Two simple strides would eliminate the distance, but you are fast and sharp and confident that he will not touch you unless you will it. Thatâs part of the magic of the night.
âDid you rest up? You look better,â Hanma says. Despite his earlier claim, you know he can only now see the details of you, and he inspects your exposed flesh with a doctorâs intensity.
âYeah, Yuzuhaâs great. I feel like a whole new woman,â you answer, quiet even though no one is there to disturb because you feel the onsen itself demands this respect.
âGood. You need to take care of yourself, or Iâll have to do it for you,â Hanma says.
âSounds good to me,â you say because itâs honest and true, and right now, you canât remember why you would ever bother being anything else. âI havenât been on a vacation in forever. Itâs nice to get away. I should thank you.â
Hanma grunts a laugh. âYou should.â
âI should,â you agree.
There can be no quiet on a night like this when the cicadas sing the song of summer, and the hot spring gurgles in harmony. The world is in commune with itself. You are content to merely listen and feel as it sings.
After fifteen minutes, Hanma joins the choir and asks, âWhat do you want, Doc?â
âEveryone keeps asking me that.â
âMaybe if you answered, theyâd stop.â
âAm I really that hard to figure out?â you counter.
âDonât challenge me, Doc. You know I canât resist a challenge,â Hanma smiles.
You do know, and maybe that is what keeps you both guessing. You say you want security, yet you make your home with your head in the mouth of a lion, trusting in its continued mercy and the postponement of the chomp.
âWell, you and me both,â you admit. âI donât know the first thing about what I want. And even if I did, I donât think Iâd know how to ask for it.â
âHmmm, I can almost commiserate,â Hanma says. âI didnât understand it before, but the more weâve talked, the more itâs made sense. I just donât experience the world like other people, do I? So when I try to explain myself, what I want, how I think, most people look at me like Iâm speaking gibberish. They misunderstand me on purpose, pretend Iâm joking because my perspective is too scary. Thatâs what makes you different, isnât it? You always understand.â
Sliding deeper into the pool, your chin burns raw in the hot waters. There is nowhere to escape except down, into the waterâs depths and you arenât ready to die.
âSince I always understand, tell me. What do you want?â
Hanma prowls forward. The water ripples and redirects to make room for him as he crosses the pool and crowds you deeper into hard stone. A pointed rock digs into your shoulder blade when you take a breath, so you stop breathing altogether.
âI want to spread your thighs and drink you dry,â Hanma says.
Thighs, arms, brain, all loosen and float in the water, waiting for his embrace. He lifts your pliant body from the hot springs and lays you down on the stony ground, legs dangling so your ankles dance in the pool. Sudden cold makes your nipples tighten and teeth clamp shut. Anticipation makes your blood warm and clit twitch.
There is nothing but stars above you as Hanma forces your legs wider and wider apart until they house the breadth of his shoulders. He licks the wet from your thighs, groaning at the metallic taste. Chapped lips follow in his tongueâs wake, abrading smooth skin. His breath is as hot as the volcanic water.
Blowing cool air directly onto your pussy, Hanma wakes you to a world just to the left of the one youâve always occupied. A world where every synapse fires and chases pleasure with singular purpose, a world that once tasted forever poisons you to the other world of the mundane.
The teasing touches that worship your thighs build you into a nervous frenzy, which somehow possesses Hanma too. He seizes your hips and thighs to roll you back and into the cradle of his arms. The red mouth descends on your cunt, tongue pushing your thighs open and digging into the ripe center of you. You wither and cry as he enjoys the taste of you. His chin drips with your cum.
âHow do I taste?â you ask, your voice coming from far away, somewhere outside yourself.
âSharp,â Hanma groans, a long slurp follows as if the word magnifies the flavor. âItâs just like you. Almost sweet, but thereâs a bite.â
Hanma doesnât use his fingers except to part your folds like a flower. Holding you open, he paints the entirety of your cunt with wet strips of his own tongue as if he wants to replace the taste of you with his own. He likes to rink from the center of you but, as he speeds up, your juices flow messier and messier until there is virtually no difference to where he tongues, all of it a wet and tangy river for his pleasure.
Your sensitive clit pulses temptingly in his face. It draws him back with the hypnotic power of a bullseye. Hanma controls his tongue as dexterously as he controls any weapon, and he nudges your clit in every direction, always perfectly timed and with the exact right pressure. The stars above you are as white as obliteration.
There is no warning before Hanma slaps your clit. Your cunt vibrates with it, the imagined sound louder than your yelp. He does it again to watch you squirm. You try to meet his eye, to question the turn, but Hanma is speaking directly to your cunt, in his own universe.
âThere we go, jumpy little pussy. Just keep squeezing out more juice for Daddy.â A couple more spanks, each one sparking and cruel, and then his fingers dip inside you, and they are longer than you imagined possible. âLook at you tightening up around my fingers at the sound of my voice. Too tight and youâre going to hurt yourself. And so messy too. Messy little bitch dripping all over Daddyâs hand. Making him crazy for a taste, huh?â
Shame at potentially dirtying the crystalline waters canât compete with the pleasure as Hanmaâs fingers bully the weakest spots inside you. In answer to his degrading words, you moan and cry into the symphony of the night.
âGonna cum, baby? Gonna cum on my hand? Give it all to me, slut. Come on,â Hanma orders.
Fiercely, you deny him, glaring up from a craned neck. âNot without your mouth.â
Hanma smiles, wicked, like your defiance tastes better than your obedience ever could.
âWhatever baby wants.â
Then, his mouth dives back into your cunt. While one hand spreads you wide and the other pumps two fingers into your slickness, his taunting lips seal over your clit and suck like he wants to draw the soul from your body. Again, you collapse back into the ground, and find the starry sky looming like a promise above you. Your hands cling to his hair and hold him in place.
Right there.
You may cum screaing. You may cum with a breathy sigh that disappears into the night. You may cum with a laugh, a groan, a bark, a song.
Whichever way, you wouldnât know because your ears blow open as blood roars through your head and pounds through your cunt.
Robbed of half your senses, no hearing, vision blurred and uncomprehending, you can only feel as your body tightens and floods, as it breaks itself apart again and again at Hanmaâs command. You â the doctor, the girlfriend, the woman â donât exist in this moment. Just the body, and it is hungry and grieving.
It is an annihilation.
You come back to yourself slowly. Pleasure still sparks in your lower body, little electric zings darting straight to your clit. You know who you are again, can make out the individual outlines of the stars, no longer a blotted mass in the sky.
Fingers still inside you, gripped tight with the strength of your body, Hanma watches your every reaction. He is steady and calm. There is the hint of sated ego in the curve of his lips, but his eyes are mild like your orgasm exhausted him too.
Jelly elbows shouldnât be able to hold you up, but somehow they do, and you rise back to a sitting position. You tower over Hanma. He is beautiful as he stands there all dripping chest and gold eyes, but also somehow silly with his erection peeking through the waters.
âLet me return the favor,â you say hoarsely, lowering yourself toward the water and the shape of his cock. Before you can, Hanmaâs hands knock you aside.
âYouâll get Daddyâs cock soon, baby. But only when you know itâs what you really want.â
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