hi everyone!!! i'm doing an event to celebrate breaking 100 followers. as a new blog, your support has been incredibly encouraging! i'm hoping to start a series soon, so i hope this can be writing practice and a good way to get to know some of my followers in the process!
tanabata (七夕), also known as the "star festival" is a japanese summer festival originating in chinese legend and culture (qixi festival). according to legend, star-crossed lovers orihime and hikoboshi, represented by the stars vega and altar, are only allowed to reunite once a year on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month, their love otherwise forbidden by orihime's father and separated by the cosmos. at the tanabata festival, individuals often write wishes on pieces of paper and hang them on bamboo trees.
as you traverse the busy festival streets with your fingers interlaced with your lover's, you hold your wish close to your heart and think maybe– maybe– yours just might come true tonight.
RULES 彡 ⁺˚⋆｡°✩
⊹ you must be following me. priority is given to current followers. ♡
⊹ you must send your request OFF ANON and have your age in your bio. please no blank or ageless blogs!!! i won't reply. :/
⊹ i will accept submissions until august 19th
⊹ regarding completion timeline, please don't rush me or i will not write for you– there's a reason i don't take requests. i get overwhelmed with deadlines and have a hectic schedule... just know that if you submitted something and i confirmed it with you, i am working on it ദ്ദി╥ ᴗ ╥)!!!
⊹ TWO/SEVEN SLOTS! first come, first served.
TELL ME ABOUT YOU... what is your name and pronouns? what are your hobbies, your interests? what irks you? who do you absolutely NOT want to get shipped with? what are some dealbreakers for you? how do you style your clothes– something absolutely necessary to carry with you at all times? what's your most toxic trait, and what's something you admire about yourself? vices and virtues? what are some romance tropes you love (and some you hate)? the more information you give, the more accurately i can match you!!
IN RETURN, you'll receive your match and relationship headcanons for your festival date based on your answers ♡
彡★ i hope you enjoy... happy wishing & thank you for all your support 🙇♂️
Warnings: Content intended for adults over 18 years of age. High toxicity.
Characters: Haruchiyo Sanzu, Chuuya Nakahara and Mihael Kheel (Mello).
Haruchiyo Sanzu (Bonten)
You gave a slight jolt in your chair at the sound of the internal parts rattling. The cylinder spun on its own axis until he stopped it with two fingers; he set the piece on the table and slid it forward elegantly with his index finger. The matte grip pointed toward your chest, and your hand emerged, trembling, over the edge of the worn table.
You grabbed it by the base to observe it; the pressure of your fingers left marks on the upper sides. You pressed the barrel against the base of your jaw while your quivering finger searched for the trigger. Upon brushing it, you closed your eyes; your eyelashes were already wet and your defeated eyelids could no longer hold back the tears.
"See what you make me do?!" he accused you. He stood up and leaned toward you. He lowered his voice. "Do you like seeing me like this?"
You shook your head desperately and pulled the weapon away from your jaw for a few seconds, until a slam against the wood forced you to return it to its place. You opened your eyes carefully and begged for forgiveness. Your wrist faltered as you held the gun, threatening to drop it due to the weakness of your cold fingers. You whispered, for the last time, to forgive you.
"Don't you dare!" he yelled, pointing a finger at you. He walked around the table and yanked you by your hair, exposing your neck. "I trusted you, you bitch."
His breath clashed against your cheek. The scent of whiskey washed over you. He snatched the gun from you and dug it more violently into your skin. Then, he pulled the hammer back with his thumb. The clock on the wall seemed to tick slower; the sound of vehicles morphed into a distant echo. You looked at him out of the corner of your eye and tried to beg, at the cost of your closed throat.
"You're going to die, beautiful," he declared, nodding with resignation. "This is as far as you go. There are no more chances for you."
The clock ticked heavily; the second hand jumped from line to line with agonizing slowness. The minute hand, motionless, seemed made of iron. The sounds of soles outside struck the floor vigorously, but the noise faded before it could cross the walls. A fly landed on your nose; its tiny legs pressed against the dormant surface. It flew toward the lightbulb, which flickered above your head.
He toyed with the trigger, holding his breath.
The doorknob turned. A heavily built man peeked through the door and asked for permission to enter. He closed the door behind him upon receiving authorization. His posture gave him away: feet together, shoulders rigidly aligned, hands hidden behind his back, and eyes glued to the floor. He took three steps forward and left a folder on the table. He nodded, turned around, and left with a firm step.
Once alone, he engaged the safety and placed the weapon back in its holster. He picked up the folder with apathy; he flipped through the pages with a bored gaze. When he finished, he slammed it shut and let it drop to the floor. He stared at it with a bitter grimace, letting out an indignant laugh. He rubbed his hands over his face, while his foot tapped restlessly against the floor. He glanced at his watch; they had already been interrogating you for three hours.
He walked slowly toward you, his head down, hands on his hips. He sat on the armrest of your chair and tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. He sighed, rubbing his temples. He laughed at the end.
"Wow!" he exclaimed. He rested his arm on the back of the chair. "These idiots and their false intel. I'll kill them all, you know?"
He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you against him; your head rested on his chest. You sobbed, staining his purple suit. You clung to his body and wrapped your arms around his waist; your nails dug into the fabric. He stroked your hair and brushed his ring along your jawline, possessively.
"You weren't a backstabbing bitch," he admitted. He lifted your chin and planted a firm kiss on your stiff lips. "Don't reject me now."
"I-I'm sorry." You wiped your cheeks and dried the moisture from your hands on your pants. You left your hands clasped in your lap, avoiding his gaze.
He stood up. He dragged your chair back by the headrest, pulling you away from the table. He crouched before you and took your hands. His blue eyes swept over your face; your lips, your pink cheeks, and your eyes red from crying. He smiled faintly, a thin, brazen line.
"I knew you were mine," he whispered, nodding. "I knew you wouldn't do this to me."
You scanned the room: deteriorating walls, dusty corners, the cheap wood of the chair, and the scratched door. You stared at him, holding back your tears. He was lying.
"Let's go home," he ordered as he stood up and extended his hand for you to take. "To your home."
You intertwined your fingers with his. You just hoped it would take longer for the next bout of paranoia to hit.
Chuuya Nakahara
On the table, a cluster of messy banknotes caught your attention. To the side, expensive wines and brilliant jewels complemented the hundreds of possessions of dubious origin. The counting had stopped; it was too much money. Time passed, but the hours moved differently for you two. Death breathed in your ears every day, a sentence signed in fire.
"Do you want to count that today?" he joked, leaning back against the Italian sofa and crossing his legs.
"Sure," you replied sarcastically, shaking your head. You stood up and walked toward the table, defiant. You sat directly on top of it, crushing the wads of cash and smiling wickedly. "If I don't die first."
A grimace of distaste formed on his face. He watched you thoughtfully, scrutinizing your features, before letting out a heavy sigh. He leaned toward you, defeated by a small, resigned smile.
"Over my dead body," he promised, caressing your cheek with his knuckles. "Not while I'm taking care of you."
"You can't say that," you corrected softly, seeking the warmth of his hand with tenderness. "If I die, at least I will have known you."
"You won't die, idiot," he denied, raising his voice, an authoritative tone taking over as he cradled your face. "I won't allow it. Not when you've put yourself at risk because of me."
"It's not your fault," you whispered close to his lips, resting your forehead against his. "I could never hate you."
He kissed you softly as you both closed your eyes in unison. He positioned himself over you, laying you back delicately against the money. You took a moment to look at each other, marveling at his devoted blue eyes. He calmly unbuttoned your shirt with a smoothness that flushed your bare torso. You pressed the nape of his neck with a delicate grip, tracing patterns along his collarbone. He opened your shirt completely and gazed at you, from your throat to the bottom of your torso.
He knelt down and grabbed your thighs over the denim of your jeans. Your eyes were fixed on the crystal chandelier above your head. He unzipped them, pulled off your pants, and tossed them to the side of the table. He pressed his lips between your legs, leaving a wet trail down to your knees. He bit the soft flesh with pure need, as if he wanted to carve out a piece of you for himself. He sank his teeth into the hem of your underwear and slid it down to your calves; his warm breath traveled the length of your legs. He parted them further, exploring your groin with the tip of his nose while you gripped the edge of the table with one hand, letting out a trembling sigh.
He buried his face in your center, licking your folds to taste you. You moaned his name, dragging the syllables so they floated in the air. He suckled you and buried his fingers inside your entrance, probing deep. You gasped raggedly; your mind clouded by the jolt that electrified you as you felt his fingertips strike your walls. Suddenly, he pulled away, leaving you empty, while a draft of cold air rushed to claim your heat. He pulled out a bottle of wine and removed the cork.
He poured the liquid over you; the drops slipped down your pelvis until they fell onto the rug. He let another generous amount fall and tasted the flavor straight from your intimacy. The sophisticated taste of the wine sweetened his palate, prompting him to suck with more hunger. Your legs weakened at his dedication; a spasm ran through your stomach, and you let out a small cry at the sensation of a spiral unraveling in your belly. You grabbed his hair, pulling him closer to you while you let out muffled moans. The dollars scratched against your neck. The table wobbled so much that the jewels tumbled onto the gleaming tile, shattering against the material. He continued patiently, waiting to consume you completely. When he pulled back, he wiped his mouth and gave your hip three gentle pats.
He straightened up, hovering over you. You weakly wrapped your legs around his waist. He pushed down his leather pants and entered you slowly so as not to overstimulate you; you closed your eyes in response and clung to his back. He moved sweetly inside you, slowing his thrusts as he stared intently at your expressions.
"I can't conceive of anything without you," you confessed between sighs, opening your eyes to face his reaction. "Thank you for being here with me."
He paused, resting his forehead against yours, fighting the involuntary movement of his hips.
"Don't say that," he ordered with his usual commanding voice, though his eyes were shining. "I'm the one who should be thanking you."
Before you could answer, he thrust deep and silenced you with a kiss. The ice bucket crashed to the floor, shattering the ice inside it. He picked up his pace, joining the material chaos you two were causing. But none of that mattered to him. There wasn't a single luxury in the underworld that could satisfy him more than you, your love, your stability, and your loyalty.
Mihael Kheel (Mello)
He slammed the door shut, took off his leather jacket, and tossed it onto the armchair. He sank his teeth into the chocolate and, in one swift motion, snapped it, applying pressure from the aluminum-wrapped base. His boots echoed against the dusty tile. He lifted his head, and his proud eyes rested on your figure: rigid shoulders, still wrist, and the pencil held between your fingers hovering over the page.
"And what about you?" he snapped, sitting down across from you. "Are you afraid of me now?"
"No," you answered as you went back to writing in your notebook. "Bad day?"
"Leave it alone," he huffed, lowering the wrapper of his chocolate. "How could you possibly understand?"
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" you blurted, letting the pencil roll across the table.
He dragged your notebook toward his chest, rested his elbow on the armrest, and examined your writing, holding the pad at eye level. His eyes darted horizontally, hurried. When he finished, he tossed it back onto the table and readjusted himself in his seat. He watched you through his blue eyes.
"Mediocre," he declared, standing up immediately before pacing the room. "Everyone is mediocre!"
"What?!" you responded indignantly, kicking the table out of the way with your foot. You stood up straight and confronted him, a hand on your hip. "Don't provoke me."
"Excuse me?" he challenged, walking toward you with his head tilted, stopping mere inches from your face. "Are you threatening me? You don't have the power to face me. Don't be ridiculous."
"Maybe not," you conceded, nodding a couple of times. "But I can turn you in. Don't play with my loyalty."
"Are you loyal?" he doubted, gripping your jaw with his gloved fingers. "Then shut up. Be quiet."
He released you roughly. He immediately walked away from you, grabbed his jacket, and crossed the threshold of the door with confident strides. He stopped when he heard your voice.
"You really don't care, do you?" you inquired, keeping your voice steady even as your throat felt heavy. "Not about my writing, not about my questions, not about me."
Mello left his jacket and the chocolate on the table. He approached you with a hand dangerously close to the gun holstered in his pleather pants. He studied your expression. Your lips and your neck were rigid. With his other hand, he grabbed the back of your neck. The smell of chocolate hit your nose.
"Do you want me to read your stories and tell you that you're the next writer of the century just to make you happy? You have no real talent," he provoked in a low, intimate voice. Then, he flashed a mocking little smile and added, "If you think I'm wrong, push yourself, but don't ask me to feed you lies."
You swallowed hard. He noticed your teary eyes and your trembling chin. You pushed him weakly, but he didn't budge. You breathed for a few seconds before lifting your face and giving him a firm smile.
"You want us to speak the truth?" you confronted, removing his hand from your neck with a strong grip.
"Speak," he snapped, letting his arm drop sharply. "And make it quick, I don't have all day."
"You treat everyone else as mediocre because deep down, you feel like one," you murmured, pressing your chest against his. "And you know the worst part? It was too obvious! You have it written all over your damn forehead."
He breathed heavily, narrowed his eyes, and moved his hand away from the gun. In one swift motion, he shoved you and pinned your hands against the wall. You let out a small cry, turned your head away, and closed your eyes.
"You think you're pretty smart, don't you?!" he exclaimed, brushing his nose against your cheek. "Face me, coward."
You looked at him, face to face, raising an eyebrow. Your eyelids, much like your feet, were shaking; but as you let your head rest against the wall, you had made a decision.
"Say it again!" he ordered, shaking his head to clear the rebellious hair from his face. "To my face. Not hiding like a rat."
You pressed your forehead against his. He frowned and anchored you harder against the wall; he glanced sideways in both directions and, finally, his gaze stopped on his weapon. You smiled, surrendered. He turned his head minimally, without pulling away, and his pupils locked onto the pocketknife on the table. You just laughed and relaxed your limbs.
"I think you believe everyone is mediocre, because you feel like one," you repeated, your voice soft, brushing your nose against his.
He lifted his thumb off your right wrist, slowly. He looked at you; his eyes gleamed with murderous fury. The gun was in his right pocket. Your muscles remained calm, and your lips only offered him a thin, sad line.
"But you aren't mediocre," you whispered with a sweet voice, leaving a kiss on his lips. "He isn't like you; he never had to fight the way you do."
He opened his eyes and parted his lips. His thumb returned with a guilty slowness. He straightened up and scrutinized you. He sighed and stepped away from you. You rubbed your wrists where he had gripped them, ignoring the reddish marks he left behind.
"I'm not mediocre," he confirmed, with a commanding voice. "It's good that you know that."
Before leaving for another room, he grabbed his chocolate bar with desperation and took three bites in a row. He forgot his leather jacket.
the grip tokyo revengers had on me back in 2021-2022 needs to be studied fr cuz like... why tf did i have ten potential fics ready with graphics LMAOOOO
I personally headcanon that Hanma has never really had a reliable roof over his head, so he spent a lot of his years couch surfing and staying in motels and sometimes even having to sleep on the street. It never really bothered him per say but he's secretly sentimental so he would always take pictures of the places he stayed and the people he stayed with (he definitely has a bunch of photos of the inside of Kisakis house and some unflattering candids of Kisaki, even one where he's asleep lmao).
I think that really fits with Hanmas overall chaotic energy and with him becoming a freelance photographer in the final timeline. No rules, no restrictions, just movement and freedom.
This is also why I imagine that when you and him finally start dating, he takes a million candid photos of you and always carries some of them with him. He'll definitely try to get you to go on one of his photography road trips with him because what's better than always having pictures of you on hand? Always having you on hand. He's an ass and a menace to everyone else but you get to see his secret, soft, sentimental side.♡
-Size kink unless the character is actually huge (Looking at Taiju and South👀).
-Tangentially related to the last thing, I will not write for short/petite/smol uwu reader.
-Incest
-Watersports or scat
-Rape or abuse
-Highly specific OCs
-College, Office, Coffee shop AUs. Other AUs may be hit or miss.
I WILL WRITE ->
-Marriage and domesticity, to a point lol
-Creampie
-Marathon sex
-BDSM
-Noncon/dubcon
-Yandere
Characters I won't write romantic scenarios for -> Takemitchi, Draken, Peh-yan, Pah-chin, Osanai
If you're wondering about something I haven't listed here,
Everything under Will Not is non negotiable, but if it's not in either list feel free to ask!^^ The worst I can say is no I will not use my mind beam on you I prommy
18+ MDNI, Bonten!Mikey, brat reader, HardDom Mikey, punishment, choking, spanking, he's like MEAN. and really really angry. Possessive!Mikey. There's a creep but Mikey breaks his wrist before he touches you.
THIS HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY DRAFTS SINCE SEPTEMBER OF 2023. I AM FREEING IT.
When Mikey punished you for misbehaving, it actually set you straight for a good few months. You didn't act out often because his punishments, while they turned you on and made you whimper.... were just the fucking worst. His spanks were painful. But that should be a no brainer.
What did you expect from a leader of a criminal organisation?
And normally, just him being him was enough for people to be scared. But, you didn't have that survival instinct in you to fear him. You're certain he would never hurt you. Why?
Because you're cute.
Weak argument but its been 3 years and he kept you around.
Did he voice his love for you? No.
Did you believe that he loved you? You sometimes had your doubts up until he rested his cheek on your chest and fell asleep. Or he ate you out like he's insatiable.
You got ansty at times, believed the lies in your head that said that Mikey didn't care about you enough. That he was bored of you. That no matter what you do, he wouldn't bat an eye---
This lead to you doing something stupid to get his attention, like what you were about to do.
Now, clubs weren't your thing...they never were. The most you really did in them was sit next to Mikey when he had a meeting in one of the clubs bonten ran. And you're pretty sure he's in at the moment. So you decided to doll up for the night, making a very deliberate effort to cover up the bonten tattoo that sat in the middle of your chest. It acted like a mark that signalled a very clear sign of "stay away, she belongs to someone dangerous". And you always wore low cut dresses and shirts when you did have to enter these clubs, as a surefire way that no one messed with you. It was a rule set by Mikey, a layer of protection over you when you were in his domain.
So you coming into one of Bonten's clubs with a dress that covered your tattoo, was already a beacon that would get his attention.
Look, you weren't planning on going up to a guy and flirting with him. That's an immediate death sentence for him. And a lot of people, the regulars and staff, knew who you were without the tattoo. So your plan was to just go and sit at the bar, order a drink that was always on the house and wait for a staff member to notify him of your presence. What would you do with his attention on you? What would it prove? You weren't really sure, maybe you just needed attention and wanted to be brat about it.
It wasn't like you did anything wrong, you came and ordered a drink with a tattoo covered. There wasn't gonna be any major consequences to your decision. The bartender probably already informed someone and Mikey would come get you any second-
"Hey there."
You didn't expect a drunken fool with bad breath and an ugly sneer to actually come and flirt with you. He even offered to buy you a drink and rather than saying 'do you think I ever have to pay?', you put your chin on your palm and watch him try to impress you.
"What's a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this? You know they're a lot of bad men out here."
"Oh?"
"Yup, don't you think it's better if I took you home and kept you safe?" His eyes darted at your lips and lingered. You wanted to snort so bad.
Now, you were a bit annoyed because no one had come and pulled you towards the back of the club where you knew Mikey sat. The air was tense near the area and you even peaked to see his white hair.
He didn't keep you near him or tell you off for keeping your tattoo hidden. Ran didn't even come to tell you that "fucking around with the boss like that will bite you in the ass".
Stubborn. Impulsive. Touch starved. It made sense you were those things if you decided to be with someone like Mikey.
And so your normally Introverted, quiet self decided to make your eyes doe like and flicker at his gross greasy lips. You tried to play it up as much as you could, despite the disgust settled in you.
"Tempting but if my boyfriend hasn't stepped in yet then he must really not care anymore. So I'll stop playing around now, because I'd rather not end up anywhere near you. No offense."
You were impulsive and honest and hated other men touching you. You also didn't like people in general so the mental energy it would take for you to force yourself to flirt with him was a bit much.
The dude's face turned into an ugly scowl, and you could see his hand coming to grab your shoulder.
Your view was blocked; the sound of a snap followed by a blood curdling scream.
"Sanzu, do what you want to him."
The thing blocking your vision was Mikey's back, his white hair and tattoo glaring at you.
Oh.
Fuck.
You were so happy that you didn't get touched.
"Keep him alive for me. I'm leaving."
Mikey turned and you knew you were fucked.
Your sobs echoed against the walls of your bedroom, another smack ringing close to the last one. Your face was mushed against the mattress, hands under you and body pinned down.
It hurt so much.
Your voice was faltering, broken and leaving your throat sore. You didn't think you could scream anymore until Mikey's hand landed right in the middle of your ass. The pain bloomed and you tried spouting weak sorries as if he had any reason to show you mercy.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" You wailed out, squirming in Mikey’s grip as he rained hits on your bare ass.
"Shut the fuck up."
He slammed his hand against a place that had taken too many spanks, making you choke on a sob. But your thighs closed against each other, pussy so thoroughly wet that they became slippery. Your spine tingled, nerves alive and frantic.
"I should keep you on a fucking leash if you're gonna go around acting like that. You want to get fucked by another guy that bad, huh?”
“No,” you gasped out, trying to plead your case, against your better judgement, “no no no. On-only you. Jiro---”
A hand came to grab a fistful of your hair to push your head into the mattress. The tug on your hair sent a shock from your skull to your spine, a shock that felt so painfully good that it made your back arch.
If he went along your back it would---
Mikey's nails scraped along your spine, a barely there touch that made your back run away from it. It felt so good that it was painful, a feeling you couldn't escape because there was no room to escape. And Mikey knew this, knew your nerves were fried and hyper-sensitive. He knew that he could torture you like that for hours.
He leaned over to your ear, and you could sense every inch of his body, breath hitting the back of your neck.
“You're going to tell me why you did what you did and you're going to tell the truth, or I'm going to make this so much worse for you.”
Mikey knew. You knew that he knew. He knew everything about you, your intentions and your fears and the thoughts at the back of your head. He wanted you to say it out loud, though. He wanted you to feel the shame.
The silence from you that followed was five seconds too long before you were flipped on your back, ass so sore that it made you flinch.
Mikey's hand wrapped around your throat, his cold dead eyes staring at you, a warning behind them. Your hands jerked to reach for his but they settled when you realised that it was not a good move.
The part of you that wanted to be a good girl came out so fast.
“I….wanted your attention, sir. Baby….baby missed you. ‘m sorry. Don't--please no more….h-hurts.” You tried to keep eye contact but tears had made his face blurry, to your benefit.
You didn't see his hand move lower, didn't register what was happening till his palm was pressed up against your soaked pussy, adding pressure to it no matter how much your hips tried to run.
“Do you know what's going to happen to you now?” Mikey's voice dropped a little bit and your brain was too empty to focus on anything but that.
“nuh-uh” You whimpered out, thighs twitching in an effort to not close.
“I'm going to edge you and edge you and edge you until you cry and cry and cry. And when you think I'm done, I'll edge you again--” He felt your hips move and your pussy throb, only adding more pressure to keep you still.
“--and then I'm going to go shoot the fucking cunt that talked to you.”
When you first show him the positive pregnancy test, he goes completely still.
He doesn't cheer. He doesn’t cry. Hell, he doesn’t even move.
He stares at the test for a full five minutes in silence. You might think he’s upset, but in reality, he's calculating every sin he's ever committed and wondering if he even deserves something so pure.
He then looks at his own massive, scarred knuckles and then at your stomach. The first words that come out of his mouth are: "I need to reinforce the front door.”
Once the news finally sinks in, Mocchi’s protective instincts, which were already at an 11/10, will go completely off the charts.
He knows that he is a high-ranking criminal and that reality weighs heavily on him.
He’ll try to keep the pregnancy a secret from the more unstable members (like Sanzu) for as long as possible. He doesn't want his child associated with that chaos.
He won’t quit Bonten (he can’t). But he’ll start looking for ways to distance himself from the front lines. He’d wanna be the guy who handles the logistics from a distance so he can come home to you without blood on his suit.
If any of the other executives do find out, Mocchi makes it very clear: If you even breathe in the direction of my family, there won't be enough of you left to bury.
Now, Mocchi is someone who does things halfway.
If he's going to be a dad, he's going to be the most over-prepared dad in all of Tokyo.
You will not be allowed to go anywhere alone. You will not be allowed to move a chair. You won't even be allowed to carry anything heavier than a TV remote.
He once saw you reaching for a high shelf on a stool and almost had a heart attack. He then physically lifted you by the waist to help you out, then banned you from the kitchen for the next 9 months.
At home, he won’t just cover the electrical outlets. Oh no, no. He'll have professional contractors come in to soften the corners of every piece of designer furniture. If a rug is too slippery, it's gone. If a chair is too wobbly. Gone.
He’ll install the highest-grade security systems. No one, not even the other Bonten executives, gets the door code to the nursery without his explicit permission.
He’ll spend three hours reading the car seat manual because he didn't trust it was "sturdy" enough. He eventually tested it by putting a heavy weight in it and shaking it with his full strength. It passed. Barely.
He doesn’t care if it’s raining or if he has a Bonten meeting in four hours. If you get a craving at 3 AM, he’s already in the car.
Seeing a 6'3 Bonten executive standing in a convenience store at 3 AM, intensely focused on which brand of pickles is "the most organic" is a sight to behold.
He'll even start reading parenting books in the Bonten office. If Sanzu or the Haitanis try to make fun of him, one look from Mocchi, the look of a man who has something far more important than a gang to protect, will shut them up instantly.
He refuses to buy pre-assembled furniture. He wants to build the crib himself to ensure it is structurally sound. Watching this massive man, someone who could benchpress a small car, hunched over a tiny, wooden slat with a screwdriver is both hilarious and heart-melting.
He’ll even start buying tiny tracksuits and sneakers that match his own. When you tease him about it, he just grumbles, saying they are just practical for a kid’s movement.
Initially, he’s embarrassed to talk to the bump. But when he thinks you’re asleep, he’ll rest his giant hand over your stomach and, in a rumbling voice, he’ll whisper to your belly: "You better behave in there. Don't give your mom a hard time."
When the baby kicked for the first time, Mocchi actually paled. He’s been in a hundred street brawls, exexuted countlesz traitors, but feeling a tiny foot hit his palm? It’s the only time you’ll ever see his eyes widen with shock and awe. Eventually it'd become too much that he hides his face in your lap.
You might start calling the bump "Mini Mochi," and while he pretends to hate it and huff, "Don't teach the kid that," you catch him whispering to your belly when he thinks you're asleep: Don't worry, Mini Mochi. I've got you.
As your due date approaches, the stoic wall he's built around himself begins to crumble. He'll spend hours with his head resting on your lap, letting you stroke his hair, promising to protect you and the baby even at the cost of his own life.
When it came to picking a name for the baby, he wanted something that sounded "strong," but he secretly agreed to whatever "cute" name you suggested because he can't say no to you while you're carrying his mini-me.
During the course of your pregnancy, he went from being a man who feared nothing to a man who was suddenly afraid of everything–germs, stairs, sharp corners, a wobbly stool–all because he loved you and the baby more than his own life.
So when the day finally came, and the nurse handed him the baby, he held his breath for so long he nearly passed out. He held the infant with such extreme care that it looked like he was holding a precious bubble.
That’s when he realized that his industrial baby-proofing was useless against his own heart.
notes: ugh there's something I love sm about super causal sex sometimes and this is it. really excited that this one was next in line on the list cause I'm really feeling this today.
wc: 3k
tw: unprotected sex, little bit of infidelity (by reader), in a vanilla way reader has all the power and likes it, implied offscreen incest, adjusted timeline toman was formed 18+
A knock on the front door interrupts your minor breakdown over which shirt you were going to pick to meet your date.
You take one last look at the skirt you'd chosen, flirtaciously short and flowy, before grabbing randomly from the options spread over your bed and pulling it over your head as you pad down the hallway.
You know it's not him, because you told him explicitly that you'd meet him out.
A peek out the peephole gives you a clear view of fake blond and shining blue eyes, and you sigh as you undo the lock and pull the door open.
"Takemichi-kun?"
"Is Draken here? I gotta talk to him," the first division captain asks, giving you a smile and shy once over.
"He's out with Mikey I think."
"Is it cool if I wait for him? It's important."
Your smile turns pained. If he mentioned to your brother that you left while he was here, Ken might ask him where you went and that's the last thing you need. But if you turned him away, you'd get in trouble for being rude to one of the captains.
"Yeah, come in." Trying to hide your grimace, you back up to let him in and make your way down the hall. You send a text letting your date know that you might be a little late.
A message pings your phone as you pad into the kitchen and you pause to read it, a small genuine smile forming on your face.
You tap out a response, unaware of the shadow at your shoulder.
"Does Draken know about your boyfriend?" Takemichi asks curiously, reading over your shoulder.
You whirl on him, grabbing his face and shoving it away. He yelps as he stumbles back.
"No! And you better not tell him, you hear me? Nii nii says it's not allowed."
"Nii nii?" Takemichi looks bewildered to hear the term, his cheeks pinking up the longer he looks at you. "I've never heard you call him that before."
You feel your face heat up at your mistake. "Don't, it's just a habit. I've called him that since I was little. He doesn't want me saying it around the others so I don't."
"It's really cute," he admits shyly.
"Shut up! That's exactly why he told me not to. Forget you heard it." You glare at him, doing your best to keep the petulance out of your tone. "Just wait in the living room. I don't know when but he'll come back at some point."
"Alright then."
You sigh as he ducks his head and shuffles back the way you told him. He's been here before so he knows where to go. You're trying not to feel bad for snapping at him. It's his fault anyways, he shouldn't have been so nosy.
Takemichi looks up in surprise when you flop down on the couch next to him, shoving a can of soda into his hand.
"What're you—"
"I'll sit with you 'til N— 'til Ken comes home. Don't make a big deal of it," you mumble, tucking your legs beneath you as you lean on the arm of the couch.
"Okay." He grins at you, and you sniff, turning away from him and hiding yourself in your phone again. Stupid brat. You're only hanging out cause you're bored, no other reason.
You hear the tab hiss open and hide a smile, sending another text before turning on the TV to make things less awkward.
But one show turns into two, then three and you feel yourself getting antsy. Every now and then you hear him get a series of texts, feel him glance at you repeatedly. It's hard not to wonder why he doesn't just call your brother.
You're conscious of his eyes on you as you get off the couch and disappear down the hallway.
The phone rings slowly as you stand by, leg bouncing impatiently, waiting for your brother to pick up. There's the telltale click as he picks up the phone but you don't give him the chance to talk.
"Nii nii, when are you coming home?"
"Huh?" He sounds distracted, and you can hear the sounds of shouts and chatter in the background.
"When are you coming home? There's—"
"It might be a bit. We're still finishing up."
"You don't know when?" There's no point in hiding the disappointment in your tone. Your brother will think it's because you miss him, and of course you do, but it also means that you'll have to sneak out tonight if you want to meet your boyfriend to avoid pesky questions of what you're up to. That's a task that's way harder than it sounds. As hard as it is to sneak out, you're an even worse liar, at least when it comes to Draken.
"'M sorry, it's one of those things where we won't know we're done 'til we're done, so I don't know. Could be soon, could be late, 'K sis?" he sighs.
"Okay… at least let me know when you figure it out. Takemichi—"
"Oi, Draken! That your little sister? Let me say hi."
There's a chorus of laughter, muffling the sound of your brother growling and an aborted shout before you hear your brother give you a gruff goodbye and the line goes silent.
You stomp back into the living room, the blond's eyes tracking your movement.
"Ken's gonna be awhile," you inform him grumpily. "You might have better luck going out and looking for him."
"I'll wait just a little longer."
"Suit yourself."
Trying to cover your not so subtle sulking, you turn your attention back to the TV. It's not that you don't like Takemichi—it's just that with him here, you can't go anywhere. You've spent enough time with the first division captain to see why everyone likes him, even if you don't know him super well. Your brother talks highly of him at least, but teases him just as much. And it's always a good thing when your brother teases someone, it means he cares.
Another hour passes and you wonder how much longer his 'little longer' is going to be. You're starting to get more than bored.
"So, um…"
You turn hopefully to see blue eyes flash away from you just as quickly.
"So you've—Uh, I mean—" he stutters before trailing off, the tips of his ears turning red.
"What?" You stare at him expectantly, bemused. What's his deal?
"Nevermind, I shouldn't be asking," he mutters sheepishly, scratching at his neck.
Well now you feel curiosity digging its claws into you. You spin on the couch to face him, eyes narrowed. "Spit it out, Takemitchy-kun."
His eyes widen, caught off guard by your demand. "I just, in the kitchen, your texts," he stammers softly.
"So?" Your head tilts curiously, trying to remember what was on your screen at the time.
"I just saw that you guys don't use condoms," Takemichi spits out in a rush, looking painfully embarrassed.
"Huh? Yeah we do." You deny resolutely, cheeks burning as you hope he hadn't seen enough of the texts to know what you'd been planning.
"But—" Takemichi protests loudly, "you told him not to bring them 'cause it's a safe day' didn't you?"
Damn it. You didn't want him to know that, in case he ever did break and run his mouth to your brother. You know it's stupid, but on your safe days you like to skip the condoms. It feels good; you like the messy warmth, being able to feel the heat of your boyfriend's dick. He’s the only one you can talk into skipping them.
"That's only sometimes, okay? We usually use them," you mutter, self-conscious. "I'm not stupid."
"O-oh, that's not what I meant. Sorry."
Takemichi looks a little dejected so you sigh, and he glances up, perking up a little when he sees you're not mad. "I was just curious. What it's like I mean."
"What do you mean, what it's like?" You parrot back at him scooching closer to him as he laughs nervously. "Are you a virgin, Takemitchy?"
"No!" He says it so swiftly that your eyes narrow but his eyes widen earnestly, blushing at the turn of the conversation. "Really, I'm not. When me and Hina were still together, we did it."
"Oh, okay." You nod, remembering hearing some of your brother's friends talk about her. You remember hearing about the break up too, but you don't remember the details. Ken said not to pry about it.
"So what did you mean then?"
Takemichi clears his throat uncomfortably. "I've never not used a… you know."
"Ohhh." Understanding finally dawns your features. "You've never gone raw."
He sputters at your bluntness before taking a breath.
"Hina always wanted to use condoms, before," he mumbles, looking away embarrassed. After a beat his head snaps back towards you, his words tumbling. "Not like I mind though, if it's what she wanted! I'm just curious, that's all. Always wondered what it feels like."
Takemichi freezes as you crawl closer to him on the couch, your eyes suddenly filled with interest.
"Do you want to find out?"
You're being impulsive like always; your boyfriend is a fling at best, a fun thrill for you. If Draken ever found out about him, that'd be the end of that, so you didn't really get attached. You never promised him exclusivity either, not like you could with your brother and all. But it's your body and the way things are looking, you're not going to make it out tonight so why not play around?
"You wanna have sex with me?" He blinks at you, dumbfounded. There's a sparkle of something unreadable in his gaze. Something like guilt, or maybe relief.
"No," you snort, grabbing his hand and placing it on your thigh. He looks frightened and eager all at once as you inch his fingers under the hem of your skirt. "But you can use my pussy if you really want to know that bad. It won't be like sex, I'm just letting you see what it's like."
Takemichi swallows. He knows this is dangerous, but your thigh is so warm and soft under his palm, and as you shuffle closer, your sweet scent creates a crack in his self-control. He can already feel his dick getting hard.
"What do you say?" You whisper.
Your hand ghosts over the bulge of his pants, forcing a groan past his lips and sending him tumbling into his own temptation. He's nodding before he can even think about it.
"Yeah, okay." He leans forward, his breath on your lips.
You giggle and put your hand over his lips, pushing him back. "I didn't say you could kiss me, though."
"Right, yeah…"
He watches, licking his lips as you lay back on the couch and pull your skirt up, exposing the simple blue cotton panties beneath. You had planned to change into something cuter before you left, but oh well. Takemichi doesn't look like he seems to mind—he's watching raptly as you rub at your clit over the fabric.
Takemichi looks like he doesn't know what to do with himself, still staring as the damp patch on your panties grows bigger and bigger. His dick is throbbing in the confines of his pants, palming over it to soothe the ache.
Finally you give a little sigh that makes his pulse skip, and reach to slide your panties down your legs, before spreading them. "Whenever you're ready, Takemitchy-kun."
He stands quickly and undoes his jeans, pushing them down and pulling his dick free from his boxers, situating himself carefully between your thighs. He grips it at the base before pumping his fist over it a few times, squeezing the precome from the tip almost reflexively and coating it over the shaft. It's pretty, smooth save for the single thick vein on the underside; you're pleased to see it's average in length and girth, you didn't really want to stretch yourself or have him do it either.
Takemichi shivers as he rubs the tip through your folds, the sticky warmth making him feel like he might be in over his head. He looks at you again, blue eyes shining with a mixture of longing and conflict. "Are you sure this is okay?"
"Mhm. You can stop if you want, I'm not gonna make you."
"N-no, I wanna feel it," he mumbles, a deep flush appearing down his neck. He ruts against your pussy again before taking a deep breath before pressing the blunt tip at the entrance of your dripping pussy and starting to push in.
"Oh."
He moans at the tight, wet heat that envelops his length, feeling like the warmth is going straight from his dick to his gut. A shiver works up his spine as he pushes deeper, sinking in slowly until his hips meet the soft back of your thighs.
You watch him, feeling a tingling rush of pleasure at the dumbfounded look on his face. He feels nice but it's nowhere close to overwhelm you, just a comfortable pressure in your slick walls. His eyes have fallen closed, his lips parted, his eyebrows pinched together—it's so cute, but you stomp down the urge to giggle, knowing that wouldn't be good for him right now
"Feel nice?"
"Uh huh," he breathes, his eyes blinking open to stare down at you. It's like he's seeing you in a whole new light. He rocks into you experimentally, moaning softly. "It feels amazing. You're so warm n' wet. Can—" His mouth closes and he stills within you. You almost feel like you can feel him pulsing in you.
"What?"
"Can I… is it okay if I keep going?" Takemichi whispers, looking strained.
You reach for your phone, unlocking it. "You can do what you want, Takemitchy-kun. You're using me, remember? I don't mind."
"Thank you."
He says it so quietly you almost don't hear it, but you have to bite back a moan when he starts to thrust into you, slowly at first, before he finds an even pace that soon has him moaning every other breath. His hands are clenched into fists on either side of your hips, pressing hard into the couch cushions, his glassy eyes locked on where you're connected.
You can't deny that he sounds pretty, and he's not half bad at this. He feels good, not mind melting or anything, but you told him to use you and he is. He's focusing on his own pleasure, but as you scroll through your texts, you start to wonder what it'd be like if you'd said otherwise. He said he'd only ever been with Hina, but how often? You glance at the time, noting that he's at least lasted several minutes.
A small sigh escapes your lips as his dick throbs inside you, hiding a smile behind your phone at the whimper tugging at his throat.
The fact that he liked this, getting off on you ignoring him and letting him use your pussy for his own pleasure—you can't help the way it's getting you hot. You feel powerful. The way he's feeling right now is only possible because you're letting him.
The added danger of not knowing when your older brother is coming home is making things even better. Who knows how mad he'd get if he found out you were letting his subordinate defile you like this.
You wonder who'd be in more trouble.
A shiver runs up your spine, your breath shortening with the thrill.
"F-fuck you keep getting tighter—" Takemichi's voice breaks as you peek up at him.
"I can make it even tighter if you want, I've been trying to relax so you wouldn't finish early."
Takemichi chokes as you give an experimental clench, his hips stuttering to a halt as he feels the tight squeeze of your walls. You've been making a conscious effort not to clamp down on his dick, not wanting him to think you're paying him much mind.
"No it's okay," he breathes, his voice half an octave higher. He repositions his legs, spreading yours a little wider as he begins sliding in and out of your pussy again. "It's okay, this is good. Feels so good I—I don't wan'ta come yet."
"Doesn't it feel better like this though?" You smile at him sweetly as you do it again and his grip tightens on your thighs, surprising you.
"Yes." He hisses the word through gritted teeth, blue eyes desperate as you rhythmically clench around him each time he pulls out, your pussy sopping now. He doesn't slow down this time, his thrusts getting quicker, wet sounds getting louder as your juices coat his groin. "Fuck, but if you don't ah stop, I'm gonna ahn g'na come—"
Takemitchi shakes his head when you keep it up, and you watch with a thrill as the resignation of pleasure crosses his face, unable to stop the squeak that escapes your lips as he pulls your hips into his thrusts now. You're resisting the urge to reach down and play with your clit as pleasure starts sparking under your skin, and he's chanting curses under his breath as his eyes flutter closed, fucking you hard and fast before he stiffens, the light muscle tone of his stomach tensing and rippling as he comes undone.
You almost regret that you don’t get to cum—almost.
As he coats your walls with several thick ropes of white, Takemichi's stuttering groans overpower the sharp sound of the front door unlocking.
But the unmistakable sound of your brother's voice coming down the hall, and more than one pair of footsteps, has you both frozen in terror.
