asimpfor-2-dmen

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

Note: The orange-colored text is the characters' inner feelings/monologues during or after certain events. The blue-colored text is used to provide additional context or information—it’s not part of anyone's internal monologue but helps clarify the scene or character dynamics.

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Content warnings: unhealthy/toxic attachments, toxic mindsets, power imbalances, predator/prey dynamics, pet names, cursing, some canon divergence, workplace harassment, inappropriate thoughts (suggestive + explicit), dubcon touching (almost noncon)

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PART 20

You landed with a soundless gasp, the air knocked from your lungs.

In his lap.

Not like in the dream. 

But worse.

You were facing away, back pressed flush against his chest, his thighs spread beneath yours—a cage of muscle and heat from which there was no escape.

His arm—his fucking arm—was already around your waist, cinching you tight, pulling you deeper into his embrace.

A slow, deliberate inhale ghosted your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

“Well, well, well…” His voice was a low, rough purr, right against your neck, vibrating through your entire body.

“Look who decided to drop in.”

You froze. Completely. Your heart hammered against your ribs, and your legs tensed, desperate to move—but there was nowhere to go.

Nowhere that didn’t involve brushing against places that were already pressed far too close, far too intimately. His palm splayed across your stomach, slow and sure, fingers curling possessively, branding you with a silent, undeniable stay where you are.

“Y’know,” he whispered, his voice like silk soaked in gasoline, burning and smooth, “You fit here like you were made for this.”

Your brain simply stopped working. You could feel the inferno of him at your back, his chest rising slowly, steadily, unbothered. Like this was totally normal.

Except, it wasn’t. It was the end of your world and the beginning of his. Your breath hitched as every inch of skin ignited—your hands hovered uselessly in the air, trembling. Your thighs ached with tension where they pressed against his.

You weren’t seated. You were pinned.

You tried to rise—you really did—a desperate, clumsy surge of defiance. But he didn’t let you.

Not yet.

The hand around your waist tightened, just a whisper of pressure, just enough to make you pause. One of his thighs shifted, a deliberate, almost lazy movement, and you felt it.

Hard. Warm. Dangerous.

“Relax,” 

His lips were brushing your temple now.

“Don’t want you tripping again, do we?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. 

You stiffened and tried again. Your hips lifted—barely—a panicked, awkward attempt to flee the heat, the pressure. But his hand flattened across your stomach and drew you right back down. 

Every inch of him was behind you, under you, wrapped around you.

He didn’t thrust. He didn’t grind. He didn’t need to. His mere presence was enough.

“Careful,” he said again, lips ghosting your hairline. “You keep shifting like that, and I’m gonna think you did this on purpose.”

Your heart stuttered. Your breath caught. 

You felt your entire body seize—every instinct screaming to flee, but you were trapped beneath the overwhelming weight of him. Of his voice curling around your spine like silk-threaded wire.

You tried again—tried to rise, tried to escape—but your body wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t listen. Because his hand held you too firmly. His thigh was in the way. His chest was pressed too close.

You couldn’t run. Your lashes fluttered. Your vision swam.

And then, your voice cracked.  It left your lips without thought—a broken, quiet plea.

“Please…let go.” 

Not demanding. Not defiant. Just… meek. 

It slipped out like it hurt to say.

And still—he didn’t move. 

He pressed his face to the crook of your neck and breathed you in, slow, deep, like the scent of your panic and heat was feeding him.

His hand slid up—not obscene—but bolder now. Fingertips tracing the slope of your ribs, feather-light,  dipping just beneath the swell of your chest.

Too high to be safe. Too low to be clean.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered, almost reverent, the last word coiling down your spine like venom wrapped in honey.

You whimpered. 

Actually whimpered. 

And he simply exhaled—satisfied, controlled, but shaking just slightly under the restraint.

His fingers curved tighter against your ribs. His chest rose behind you, slow and deliberate. Like he wasn’t breathing air. He was breathing you.

You tried to think. To speak. To breathe. 

But then his voice dropped—softer than before, meaner somehow in its sweetness.

“Tell me something first.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your throat was too tight, your limbs locked with tension.

“In that dream of yours…” he prompted, his voice a silken thread. “What was I doing?”

You jolted—just a little—but his arm held you flush, right where he wanted you.

His other hand—the free one—rose slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world to savor this moment. 

Your skirt, disheveled from your earlier, frantic struggle, had ridden up slightly, revealing the soft curve of your knee, veiled only by the delicate cling of your sheer stockings. His gaze dropped—and lingered.

Then his hand landed.

Not over your skirt.

On your knee.

Warm, heavy, possessive—his fingers splayed over the silken-covered skin like he’d just claimed it. His thumb flexed, brushing a lazy arc over the stocking where it clung to the delicate curve of your knee. 

Your breath hitched. Your legs shifted, instinctively pressing together, a desperate attempt to deny him access.

His fingers moved again—agonizingly slow, deliberate in their intent, each motion a silent promise of what was coming. They slipped beneath the hem of your skirt, coaxing the fabric higher with every pass, exposing more than they concealed.

His palm slid up over the sheer silk of your stocking, warm against the cool, taut fabric—until it reached the edge. His fingertips brushed the bare band there—that delicate strip of lace where the stocking ended and bare, vulnerable skin began.

"Was I touching you..." he purred, the words velvet and razor blade all at once, dragging across your nerves, "...here?"

His thumb pressed in, drawing a slow, burning circle on the softest part of your thigh, right where you were most sensitive, most unguarded. 

The air seemed to thicken. Your whole body lit up like he’d dropped a lit match.

"Or..." his voice dropped lower, more gravel than silk now, "...higher?"

His hand drifted slowly upward, dragging the fabric of your skirt with it. 

Just enough to expose, not enough to fully uncover. 

Every deliberate sweep of his palm against your bare skin, was slow and merciless, like he was savoring your unraveling. Each touch carved an unspoken vow into your body: you’re not walking away from this untouched.

Your eyes widened. Your lips parted. But nothing came out.

“Was I holding you like this?” he murmured, low and dark against your ear.

The arm around your waist flexed—tight, unrelenting—crushing you back against his chest until your spine arched and your body curved into him, helpless and burning. Your head tipped, your thoughts scattered. 

You could feel everything—the press of his thigh against yours, the slow roll of muscle as he shifted, the heat of his breath ghosting over your cheek like a threat.

You shook your head—barely, weakly—a silent no, or maybe a plea. 

You just couldn’t take it anymore.

The hand on your thigh stilled. 

Then he chuckled. Low. Dangerous.

“No? Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

And he did. 

The hand that had been resting just beneath your ribs slid higher.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Every button on your blouse might as well have been undone by the way he skimmed the slope beneath your chest, fingers tracing the soft curve beneath the fabric.

You went stiff. Your breaths came out shallow and fractured, as his palm glided up, stopping just under the swell of your breast.

Not touching it. Not quite. Just….. Testing. Just pressing against the spot right beneath it, his thumb brushing along the seam of your bra like he was considering it. Like the idea of what came next was almost better than the act itself.

“Did I touch you here?”

His voice—velvet-wrapped cruelty—spilled over your shoulder.

His thumb then started moving—slow, unhurried, claiming—tracing lazy circles just beneath the underwire, barely grazing the sensitive skin between your breast and ribs. 

Your spine arched instinctively, hips squirming—not in invitation, but in sheer panic.

And that—that—only made it worse.

Because he liked it.

His hand at your waist anchored you down again.

Firm. Final.

“No?” 

 A beat. 

Then his mouth dipped, brushing along the curve of your jaw.

“That's okay, I’m just getting started…”

The hand that was on your thigh lifted—this time to your collar. His fingertip settled on the first button, right at the top. 

The blouse—buttoned neat and high, like armor—stood no chance.

Your chest tightened. 

The pad of his finger rested against the cool plastic of that single, unforgiving button. The one that kept everything together.

A slow, dark chuckle erupted in his throat.

“You wore this knowing you’d be in the same room with me?”

Then—without permission—he undid it. Just the top one.

The sound of thread slipping through plastic was obscene in the silence.

Your blood ran cold. Air swept in, sharp and cool, licking over your skin.

You reached up instinctively to cover it—panicked, shamed.

But he caught your wrist before you could.

Held it. Light, but firm.

“Don’t.”

His voice was soft. Too soft.

Not a suggestion. A command wrapped in silk.

His fingers returned, grazing over your now-bared skin, just above your clavicle—slow, sensual strokes down the side of your throat. Over the pulse fluttering beneath.

“There we go…,” his voice a reverent hush now, like this was worship.

“You always hide this from me…” 

His voice was low, frayed at the edges, as if it cost him everything not to press his mouth right then and there, “...like you don’t know what it does to me.”

He dragged the backs of his knuckles along your jawline, slowly, until his palm cupped the underside of it. Not forcing you to look—just holding. Measuring your silence.

“Did I kiss you here?” his voice was thick with heat.

Then he leaned in—just enough—and brushed his lips against the hollow of your throat. Just enough to let his breath coat your skin. To let you feel the shape of his mouth hovering like a promise.

You trembled.

“Did I have your neck in my hand?” his words curling hot against your skin.

“Were you moaning while I squeezed it?”

His voice roughened—thick, dark, like it scraped the edge of restraint.

“Did you beg me for more or...?”

Then, impossibly gentle, he let his fingers trail upward to your jaw—thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip from behind. Like he wanted to feel what it looked like when you broke.

“This mouth,” he hummed, gaze fixed on it. 

“What did it say?”

You couldn’t say anything. You barely shook your head. 

And he chuckled—low, knowing, cruel.

His hand shifted then, just slightly—fingertips trailing down, slipping beneath your chin, coaxing your head to tilt back just a little further against his shoulder. The exposed line of your throat arched, bare, trembling under his gaze.

But he wasn’t finished.

His hand moved again—this time pressing gently to your jaw. Coaxing. Turning.

Making you face him.

Not fully—just enough to tilt you sideways in his lap. His arm still cinched firm around your waist, but now your cheek was angled toward his. His mouth. His eyes.

You didn’t dare look.

Your lids fluttered shut, lashes brushing your cheeks. A soft tremor rolled through your body.

And then—

His lips hovered right next to yours.

Not touching.

Just close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath. Close enough that if you moved—just barely—you’d be kissing him.

He didn’t move either.

He let the space between you throb with tension. Like he wanted you to imagine what would happen if you gave in.

“Did you call me sir?”

He whispered, voice low and viciously pleased,

“Or was it Haru-kun by the end?”

His hand slid down from your jaw, settling over the base of your throat—right where your pulse fluttered, frantic and exposed.

Warm. Heavy. Unforgiving.

He felt it. The way your heart was beating wildly beneath his hand.

“Fast,” he breathed, lips against your skin again.

“Even faster than when I asked about your thighs.”

He laughed—quiet and sharp, like he couldn’t help himself.

“You're falling apart so sweetly.”

His lips didn’t touch yours. But they remained only a breath away.

His thumb returned to them—tracing them now, almost absentmindedly.

And that’s when he said it,

“Things would be so much easier…,” he breathed, thumb still pressed to your mouth, his lips within a whisper's reach.

“If you’d just accept the truth.”

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Sanzu's Inner Monologue

After you fell into his lap

You fell into him like it was meant to happen.

No warning. No resistance. One soundless gasp—barely a breath—before you landed squarely in his lap.

His lap.

Back to his chest. Thighs spread over his. Body soft and warm, tucked into his. Like you'd been made to fit there.

Like you belonged there.

His arm was around your waist before you could even register what was happening. 

Tight. Final.

Pulling you closer. Pulling you deeper.

Fuck.

The way you felt against him—pressed down like that, shaking and stunned—

He could’ve groaned. He didn’t.

He just breathed you in. Slow. Deliberate.

Your scent—like skin, and nerves, and something sweeter he’d never quite put his finger on—flooded his lungs and flipped a switch deep in his gut.

“Well, well, well…”

He let the words drip from his lips, low and close to your ear. He wanted you to feel them.

“Look who decided to drop in.”

He didn’t need to look at your face to know you’d frozen. He could feel it. Every muscle locked. Every nerve sparking under your skin like live wire. Your heart was going insane—he felt it through your spine, all the way to his palm on your stomach.

You tried to move. Barely.

A pathetic little twitch of your hips. Enough to brush against his cock, which was already heavy and pulsing from the second you landed on him.

He didn’t let you go.

His hand splayed wider across your stomach, possessive, anchoring.

Stay.

He could feel how your body screamed to get away. How your thighs tensed.

But the way you moved—you couldn’t go anywhere without rubbing against him.

And he loved it.

“Y’know…”

“You fit here like you were made for this.”

Your breath hitched. He heard it. Felt it.

Good.

Let her squirm. Let her try to rise.

Let her pretend you didn’t want this.

Your hips shifted again, clumsy, desperate, trying to get away from the pressure. From him.

But his hand pressed down again, dragging you right back. Pinning you.

He didn’t have to move. Didn’t need to grind or roll his hips.

He was already winning.

“Relax.”

“Don’t want you tripping again, do we?”

You whimpered.

Oh, fuck.

That sound did something rotten to him.

He could feel you trembling now. Every inch of your body radiating panic and heat. Your chest rising too fast. Your thighs clenched tighter.

But you couldn’t fight. Not really.

You were still in his lap. Still in his arms. Still his.

You tried again. Another pathetic attempt to lift your hips.

And he rewarded you with the barest shift of his thigh beneath her—just enough to remind you exactly what was beneath.

Your gasp was sharper this time.

His hand dragged up slowly—over your ribs, stopping just beneath your chest. Not groping.

Not yet.

But close. Too close to mistake.

“You’re so warm…” 

You whimpered again. This one softer. Shakier.

He exhaled—steady on the outside, like he had it all under control.

But inside?

He was fucking feral.

Because all he could think about—all he wanted—was to flip you around, gentle and firm, like you weighed nothing. To guide your hips with his hands. Set you down on him—slowly, intentionally, completely—and just watch.

Watch your knees press into either side of his thighs. Watch the way your skirt rode up around your waist, nothing between you and him but heat and wet and want.

He’d sit back in his chair, legs spread, cock out and flushed, already leaking against his stomach.

And you’d be right there, hovering over it.

Fists clenched in his shirt. Eyes blown wide. Face flushed red. Trembling from just the idea of what was about to happen.

He wouldn’t even need to say a word.

You’d feel it.

That deep, heavy press of his cock nudging against your entrance—thick and hot and so fucking ready. He’d hold you by the waist. Not to rush you. 

Just to guide you. To feel you as you started to sink down.

Inch by inch.

Tight. Hot. So fucking snug he’d groan through gritted teeth just trying to hold back.

And you’d moan.

God, you’d moan.

That broken, desperate little sound you’d make the moment his tip pushed past her, the way your thighs would shake from the stretch.

He’d let you go slow.

The first time.

He’d whisper filth in your ear while you lowered herself—praising her, teasing her, telling you how fucking tight you were, how divine you looked taking him.

“Look at you, angel” he’d rasp, voice dark and low against her throat. “Taking me so deep already, like you were made for me…”

He’d let you ride him.

He’d let you move at your own pace at first—hands on his shoulders, panting into his mouth, hips rocking shallow and needy while your body got used to being full. Stretched.

And once you got going?

Oh, he’d fucking lose it.

Because once you started bouncing—once you got brave, needy—he’d meet every single grind of your hips with a slow roll of his own. Letting you chase the friction, the pressure, the rhythm that made you cry out.

He’d let you fuck yourself on him until your thighs burned.

Until you started to fall apart.

Until you whined into his neck and clenched around him, slick and pulsing and just barely keeping yourself together.

And then?

He’d take over.

Grip your hips harder. Pull you down deeper. Grind up from underneath—slow, deep, mean. Hold you still and fuck into you until you gasped his name like a prayer that turned into a scream.

He wouldn’t stop.

Not when you started to shake. Not when you came. Not even when you came again.

He’d keep you there, impaled on him, overstimulated and dripping, moaning like you didn’t know whether to pull away or beg for more.

And when your voice broke into those little sobs, when you whimpered his name and clawed at his shoulders?

That’s when he’d lose it.

Bury himself deep, spill inside you with a filthy growl, hold you close and whisper all the things he wanted to do next.

Because one orgasm?

Wouldn’t be enough.

Not when you felt like that. Not when you moaned like that. Not when you looked down at him from his lap, flushed and shaking and wrecked for him.

No.

He’d lift you again.

And ride it out.

But not yet.

No—this was better.

This was so much better than fucking you.

Because right now?

He had you locked in place, burning up, heart punching your ribs while his hand dragged slow, measured heat across your body.

And you couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

The way you stiffened under his touch. The way your breath hitched in your throat, sharp and panicked. The way your body—God, ypur body—listened to him like it already knew who it belonged to, even if you didn’t want to admit it.

That was better than any orgasm. Almost.

He leaned in—closer, lips brushing the shell of her your, not a kiss but worse—because it was a promise. 

A threat. A prelude.

“Tell me something first…”

“In that dream of yours… what was I doing?”

You jolted.

Oh. There it was.

He smiled—slow, vicious, knowing.

Gotcha.

Because he knew—fuck, he knew—you’d thought about him.

And now you were in his lap, squirming over his cock, and trying to pretend you hadn’t imagined him like this—with his voice in her ear, his breath on your throat, his hands everywhere.

His free hand moved—not rushed, not greedy.

Savoring.

Your skirt had hiked up during your little struggle. You hadn’t fixed it.

And now?

Now that exposed thigh was his to touch.

His palm settled on your knee—warm and heavy, like gravity, like claiming.

Not forceful. Just inevitable.

"Was I touching you here?"

His thumb stroked a lazy, dirty arc against the silk of your stocking.

You squirmed.

Fucking hell.

That twitch—so subtle, so subconscious—was enough to make his cock throb beneath you. Because you didn’t even know what you looked like right now. Didn’t know how fucking perfect you moved when you were trying not to.

He slid his hand up, inch by inch, over silk, past the lace band.

And there it was.

Bare skin.

Hot. Soft. Shaking.

His.

"Or...higher?"

He shoved your skirt up more, deliberate and slow, dragging the fabric with him like he had all the time in the world to peel you open.

Your breathing was shallow. Rapid.

Like you were about to fall apart from just his fingers on your thigh.

You pressed her legs together, instinctively.

But it didn’t matter.

You were still in his lap. Still right on top of his cock. Still trembling from a voice in your ear and a hand on your skin.

And he hadn’t even kissed her yet.

Not on your mouth. Not your neck. Not between those thighs that were slowly parting again like they knew what he needed.

He curved his arm tighter around your waist, forcing you even closer—until you were molded to his chest, until he could feel every damn beat of your heart like it was syncing to his.

“Was I holding you like this?”

Your body reacted before your brain did.

You arched—spine curving, chest rising in shallow gasps—and his cock pulsed hard at the feel of it. 

Pressed against him. Rubbing through layers. Every twitch of her hips was one mistake away from getting him wet.

You shook your head.

A denial? A plea?

Didn’t matter.

It wasn’t a no.

And even if it was?

Your body was telling a different story.

He chuckled. Quiet. Dangerous. Dripping with promise.

“No?”

A pause.

“Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

And fuck, he would.

The hand resting beneath your ribs slid up again stopping right beneath the swell of your breast.

Not touching. Not yet.

But close enough to give you what you were too afraid to ask for.

He let his thumb graze the edge of your bra. 

Just the edge.

A tease. A test.

“Did I touch you here?”

The words were a weapon. Coated in silk. Delivered like a sin.

You arched again. Your hips twitched forward this time.

Not because you’re afraid of the contact—but because it was too much.

You thought I’d be rough, didn’t you, baby? You thought I’d slam you into this chair and ruin you. 

But no. That’s not how I break you. I take my time.

His fingers traced your pulse. Your collarbone.

He opens just one button. And it’s better than a strip show.

Because it’s not about what he sees. It’s about what you give him.

One inch of exposed skin. 

One stuttered breath. One little whimper.

She doesn’t even know she’s offering it. 

She’s submitting in pieces. And I’m collecting every one.

He wanted to press his lips to the back of her neck. To bite.

Wanted to grind his cock up between your thighs until you gasped—until your hips rocked down on their own-until you were so wet it stained the chair, and you finally admitted the truth.

But no. Not yet. Not fucking yet.

Because restraint is its own kind of power.

He wonders what would happen if he whispered:

Touch yourself for me.

Would you freeze? Would you cry? Would you obey?

He’s not sure which he wants more.

And that—God, that—made his restraint fracture.

Not break. Not yet.

But close enough to taste.

He could feel your heat—all of you—radiating, pulsing, soaking straight through your panties and into his lap like you was already aching for him to be deeper.

Filling you. Stretching you. Ruining you.

His cock throbbed beneath you—hot, flushed, leaking—held back by sheer force of will and the sick thrill of you not even knowing how close he was to being undone.

And the wildest part?

He hadn’t even started yet.

He hadn’t told you the filthy things he wanted to do to—hadn’t whispered them slow and mean right into your ear until your thighs squeezed together like you could stop the rush.

Hadn’t made you say you wanted it. Hadn’t made you beg.

Hadn’t kissed your mouth. Hadn’t tasted your neck. Hadn’t even touched your pussy.

And still—you were coming apart.

Already whimpering. Already squirming. Already melting for him with nothing but words and pressure and the weight of his hand on your body.

He smiled—slow, dark, devastating.

You didn’t even know it yet…

But you were going to fall apart for him.

Completely. Utterly. Loudly.

And when you did?

He’d be inside you.

Deep. Unrelenting.

And nowhere near finished.

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6    PART 7   PART 8    PART 9   PART 10   PART 11   PART 12   PART 13   PART 14   PART 15   PART 16   PART 17   PART 18   PART 19   PART 20   PART 21   PART 22   PART 23   PART 24   PART 25  

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

Synopsis:

The sky had wept that afternoon, a sudden, merciless downpour, but amidst the chaos, you found him. A solitary figure, drenched and shivering, lost in the storm. You met Haruchiyo Sanzu then, on that rainy afternoon. You, a shy flicker of empathy in a world too harsh, offered him your umbrella. In return, he gave you something he guarded fiercely from everyone else: a quiet, unyielding, stubborn kind of loyalty.

But you were just children. And that tender, fragile closeness was never meant to survive the kind of scars he was destined to earn. Not when Mikey began to systematically break him, piece by agonizing piece. Not when Haruchiyo, with eyes that pleaded even as his lips twisted, told you to get lost, he didn't mean it. Not when you, shattered and heartbroken, actually did.

Twelve years later, the world had spun on. You were just trying to keep your head down, navigating the quiet monotony of a job within a club that felt strangely out of sync with everything. You sought normalcy, anonymity.

But fate had other plans, and you met him again.

No warning. No explanation. Just the sudden, brutal presence of him. The same haunting eyes, sharper now, colder, holding the depth of a thousand unspoken cruelties. The same scarred mouth, a brutal testament to the horrors he’d endured and inflicted. And a voice that, despite the years, claimed nothing had changed.

Because in his twisted, unwavering mind, you were still his. You always had been. After all, you had been the first and only person who ever made him feel truly wanted.

And Sanzu Haruchiyo, the walking embodiment of relentless loyalty and brutal obsession, simply couldn't let go of what was his.

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🩸 Bonten! Sanzu Haruchiyo x f! Reader | Slow-burn | Yandere themes | Psychological tension | Eventual smut

⚠️ Content warnings included at the beginning of each part.

💌 First fic ever posted—hope you enjoy it! Reblogs, comments, and stalking encouraged 💋💋

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PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6    PART 7   PART 8    PART 9   PART 10   PART 11   PART 12   PART 13   PART 14   PART 15   PART 16   PART 17   PART 18   PART 19   PART 20   PART 21   PART 22   PART 23   PART 24   PART 25 

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

Note: The orange-colored text is the characters' inner feelings/monologues during or after certain events. The blue-colored text is used to provide additional context or information—it’s not part of anyone's internal monologue but helps clarify the scene or character dynamics.

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Content warnings: unhealthy/toxic attachments, toxic mindsets, power imbalances, predator/prey dynamics, pet names, cursing, smoking, some canon divergence, workplace harassment, inappropriate thoughts (suggestive+explicit), unlawful surveillance, stalker behavior,

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PART 19

The pre-dawn light slipped through your curtains like a blade, slicing into the still-trembling shell of your body. You were stiff, sweat-soaked, and feverish where the phantom weight of his body had lingered.

You could still feel it—the brush of his tongue, the possessive grip on your waist, the invading taste of his mouth. It was a perversion, a nightmare crafted from your deepest fears and your own mind's sickening betrayal.

His voice still echoed in your head.

“Relax… I’m not gonna bite.”

But he had.

He did.

Your dream betrayed you in the most carnal, horrifying way—and you completely melted for him. On his lap. Hands fisting his shirt, and mouth parting for his tongue like some needy thing.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the images away, willing the heat from your cheeks.

How could you? How could your subconscious conjure such... such filth?

The anger, sharp and self-directed, gnawed at you. You were disgusted with yourself, humiliated by a dream no one knew but which felt exposed on your very skin. You covered your face with your pillow and screamed into it.

“What the hell is wrong with me?”

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Every movement was an effort. Your limbs felt heavy, weighted down by a leaden dread. You dragged yourself into the shower, scrubbing at your skin with almost violent fervor, as if you could scour away the lingering phantom sensations of his touch, the memory of his mouth on yours. The soap seemed to leave an invisible film, a constant reminder.

You dressed in clothes meant to make you disappear. You chose dull, formless things to armor yourself in anonymity, but your reflection still gave you away. Your lips were still a little swollen. Your eyes were still too haunted.

The commute was a blur of heightened senses. With every block, the dread intensified, a suffocating knot tightening in your chest. You were walking into the lion's den, not just with the terror of his presence, but with the searing humiliation of your own traitorous mind.

The polished lobby of the building loomed, cold and gleaming, reflecting your panicked face. You took a shuddering breath, forcing your feet forward. The elevator ride was agonizing, the ascent a slow crawl to your impending doom.

As the doors to his room slid open, you kept your gaze fixed resolutely forward, on the distant wall.

Don't look. Don't breathe too loudly. Just get to your desk. Just get through the day. You could feel the hum of the executive floor, the familiar scent of wood polish and disinfectant, now irrevocably tainted by his presence.

You were halfway to your desk when his voice, low and smooth, cut through the quiet hum of the office.

“Not even a good morning, boss? ”

His voice was casual, playful, but something in it curled deep into your gut. That silk-over-blade purr. The one that said, I know things. The one your dream self had moaned to.

You didn’t turn. Couldn’t. Your fingers clenched, nails digging into your palms.

“Good morning,” you managed, your voice a reedy whisper, barely audible even to your own ears.

A soft, almost silent chuckle drifted across the space, raising goosebumps on your arms. You could feel his gaze, a physical weight on your body, dissecting every tremor of your posture, every flush of your skin.

The silence that followed your strained "Good morning" was thicker than the pre-dawn dread that had followed you from home. You sat stiffly at your desk, every muscle screaming with tension, acutely aware of his unwavering gaze on you. You focused on the cold screen of your computer, willing it to ignite, willing yourself to disappear. The air in the office felt impossibly thin, laced with the metallic tang of his presence. You couldn't breathe.

And, just when you thought the oppressive quiet might shatter your composure entirely, the low, rhythmic click of his lighter broke it.

Click.

Click.

Flick.

The sound of his lighter, slow and deliberate. Then, the soft scrape of a chair across the polished floor. He was moving. Towards you.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird desperate for escape. Don't look. Don't flinch. Pretend he isn't there.

A ceramic mug, still warm, appeared in your peripheral vision, settling with a soft thud on the corner of your desk. Your eyes, wide and startled, finally flickered towards it. Steam curled lazily from the dark liquid inside. Coffee. Black. 

"You looked like you needed it," Sanzu drawled, his voice pitched low, closer than it should be.

He hadn't moved back. He was still standing right beside your desk, his scent—burnt sugar, clean leather, and something darker underneath—filled your nostrils, assaulting your already frayed nerves.

You swallowed, your throat dry and tight. He was right. You desperately needed it. The caffeine might be the only thing keeping you from collapsing. Your fingers shook as you took the mug. You could feel the warmth where his hand had touched it—the same hand that had gripped your waist in sleep and dragged you into his lap.

You still didn't meet his eyes, focusing instead on the swirling depths of the coffee.

You brought the mug to your lips, the bitter warmth a small comfort against the icy terror clenching your gut. You took a careful, fortifying sip, the rich liquid burning a soothing path down your throat.

And then, his voice, casual, almost conversational, yet razor-sharp, sliced through the fragile calm.

"You're acting weird," he observed, the words a low hum. "Weirder than usual."

You froze, the coffee-filled mug halfway to your desk. Every nerve ending screamed.

"Rough night, sweetheart?" he mused, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. "What? You dream about me or something?"

The question, delivered with such unnerving precision, struck you like a physical blow. The coffee, still in your mouth, went down the wrong pipe. Violently. You choked, a harsh, ragged gasp tearing from your throat, coffee spraying from your lips and splattering across your desk. Your body convulsed, desperate for air, tears springing to your eyes from the sheer force of the choking fit.

He didn't move away. He didn't even flinch as droplets of coffee splattered onto the pristine white of his own shirt sleeve. He just stood there, watching your struggle, his silver eyes gleaming.

The sheer, violent force of your choke was beyond even his usual expectations of your reactions. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his face, quickly replaced by an intense, predatory satisfaction. That could mean only one thing—he had hit the bull's-eye.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh, white handkerchief, offering it to you. Your eyes, wide with panic and humiliation, made a frantic grab for it, desperate to wipe away the evidence of your collapse.

But just as your fingers brushed the fabric, he leaned in, impossibly close, his breath warm against your ear.

“Sooo,” he drawled, his voice low and utterly knowing, "you did dream about me."

The whispered words, a direct confirmation of his suspicion, were the final blow. They shattered whatever remained of your composure, leaving behind only raw, burning shame and self-loathing. You jerked back like you’d been struck. Your chair scraped violently across the floor.

"I need to clean up!" you gasped, the words bursting from you in a desperate, strangled plea for escape. You didn't wait for a response, didn't spare him another glance. You bolted, sprinting past him, out of the office, towards the dubious sanctuary of the washroom, leaving a lingering scent of spilled coffee and absolute humiliation in your wake.

************************************************************************

No one: Literally no one:

You, when Sanzu leans in and asks if you dreamt about him xdxd

************************************************************************

The bathroom door slammed shut behind you. You turned the lock with shaking hands, braced both palms on the sink, and stared down.

The cold porcelain was a welcome anchor. You were certain if you looked in the mirror, you'd see it etched across your face—the panic, the heat, the shame.

You were trembling.

Not from fear. Not really.

From remembrance.

Sooo...you did dream about me.

Voice like a whisper dragged down your spine. Breath ghosting your cheek. Closer than he should’ve been.

You splashed cold water on your face, but it only made the tingling worse. Like your skin remembered his presence too vividly—his scent, that mix of spice and metal and something darker. The same scent you’d dreamed of, inhaled against his neck in that filthy, unreal dream.

Humiliation curled inside your gut like fire—hot and crawling and insistent. He’d guessed it. Not just guessed—it was like he knew the second he saw you this morning. Like he saw your sleep-drunk guilt painted across your face and thought: perfect.

You whispered to your reflection, barely daring to meet your own eyes.

“He can’t know. He doesn’t know. He was guessing. Just teasing. That’s all he does.”

But that smirk.

That slow lean-in. That predator's stillness.

He wasn’t guessing. He knew.

And your reaction was all the confirmation he needed.

And somehow, that made it worse—and better—and you hated that part the most.

You pressed your knees together tighter, clenched the sink.

How could you go back out there?

************************************************************************

Sanzu watched you run out, a low, satisfied chuckle rumbling in his chest. The faint scent of her panic still lingered in the air, a delicious aftertaste.

He glanced down at the coffee droplets on his sleeve, then at the splattered mess on her desk. A small price to pay for such an exquisite display.

You choked.

You literally choked.

Not just some weak cough or a blushy freeze. No—you sputtered like he’d pulled a gun on you. Like his words had hit something raw and deep inside you. Which, of course, they had.

You dream about me or something?

He’d simply cast it like bait, not really hoping for a bite.

But you bit so hard that he could still feel the tension vibrating through the line.

Now you were gone.

Bolted. Like a spooked animal.

Sanzu leaned back in your chair, crossing one ankle over the other. He didn't smile. Not really. Not yet.

His pulse was a slow, steady rhythm. His eyes—sharp, lazy, hunting—trailed the faint splash of coffee you'd left behind on the desk.

And then, the cup. Half-finished. Still faintly steaming. Your lip print etched in moisture along the rim.

He leisurely picked up the coffee-stained mug and took a deep, deliberate inhale of the mug's contents, the rich coffee scent mixing with your faint lingering aroma. He took a sip—slow, intentional—from the exact spot where your mouth had been. The warmth slid down his throat, but the flavor was entirely secondary.

It was about the imprint. The proximity. The intimacy she hadn't consented to—yet—and that made it better. 

He placed the mug back down, his fingers tapping idly beside it, a silent invitation.

Then, the switch flipped. He hated messes.

With a faint wrinkle of his nose, he rose smoothly to his feet, reaching into the top drawer of your desk. Of course, he knew where the disinfectant wipes were—he'd made sure the entire office had them stocked to his exacting standard.

Clean hands. Clean surfaces. Complete control. 

Sanzu peeled one out, his expression returning to that eerie stillness as he meticulously began to wipe the desk. Every drop of coffee. Every streak. He scrubbed with calm precision, not violently, but thoroughly. Like he was erasing the aftermath of her chaos, resetting the space to what it should be: clean, sterile, undisturbed.

He wiped the mug too. Not fully. Just the handle. His lips had been on it now. Yours had been first. He’d let that part stay.

He tossed the used wipe in the trash. Pulled out a fresh one. Cleaned his sleeve.

And then he sat back down. In your chair, again. Legs spread. Fingers drumming softly on the now-spotless surface.

You couldn’t stay in there forever. You had a job. Deadlines. Tasks that would require you to return to this very desk, to the mug he’d sipped from, the surface he’d cleaned…and the space he’d claimed.

And when you did, he’d be waiting.

Waiting with that look that stripped you bare without ever touching you. Waiting like he already knew the ending—like you were the one stalling.

He’d keep whispering into your days, curling around your thoughts, until you didn’t know which ones were yours anymore.

Until even silence sounded like him.

After last night, he already owned a part of you. Not just your body. Something softer. Something deeper. Something worse.

And today?

If you so much as looked at him wrong—

Too long. Too soft. Too needy—

He might make you admit it.

Out loud.

With your hands.

Maybe on your knees.

************************************************************************

The ache still hadn't faded, but your body felt oddly hollowed out, a strange, numb aftermath settling over you. You had pressed cold paper towels to your face until your skin was raw, until your eyes stung and your breathing, finally, slowed.

But the humiliation? That stayed. It was a searing brand, deeper than any physical mark.

That dream… that thing your subconscious had conjured—it was still in your blood. Still behind your eyelids. Still soaked into your bones.

And Sanzu…

He knew.

You could see it in the smirk that hadn’t touched his eyes. Hear it in that question wrapped in silk.

You dream about me or something?

And when you choked?

The look on his face told you everything—

You were a walking tell. Your reaction had screamed louder than any confession.

And now you were hiding in the washroom like a child.

You pressed your forehead against the mirror, the chill biting into your skin.

You couldn’t stay in here forever.

You had a job. Commitments.

And a man outside who could read your body like a script he'd written himself.

And just as the thought flickered across your mind, a sharp knock cracked the silence.

A soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap came again. Almost... playful.

No. No. Please not—

Then his voice filtered in through the thin door. Far too casual. Far too amused.

“Helloooo,” he called, in a sing-song voice so dripping with false innocence it made your blood run cold.

“Paperwork's not gonna do itself, ya know. I got documents that need to be checked... reports that need to be typed." 

You clapped your hands over your face, muffling the groan of pure mortification.

He knows. God, he knows. He’s making sure you know he knows.

Another pound, harder this time, vibrating through the flimsy wood. 

“You coming out? Or should I come in?”

Your blood turned to ice.

You swallowed hard, reached for the paper towels again, trying to blot the heat from your cheeks, the sweat from your palms. You stood slowly, trying to wipe your face with the least tear-streaked part of your sleeve. You smoothed your hair, checked your reflection—not for vanity, but for damage control.

You looked flushed. Flushed and cornered. 

You swallowed hard and unlocked the door.

The second it opened, he was already there.

Leaning casually against the washroom doorway, one hand buried in his pocket, the other pressed flat to the frame above his head—just enough to make you feel cornered without him even stepping inside.

His body blocked the exit like it was an accident. But nothing about him ever was.

That lazy, predatory grin was already pulling at his scar in a way that should have terrified you. His eyes roamed your face, noting the pink at your cheeks, the dampness near your lashes. But he didn’t mention it.

He just clicked his tongue and said—

“Took you long enough.”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but his hand rose and gently flicked the tip of your nose with his finger.

“Careful next time,” he said softly, almost like a warning. "Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you were… avoiding me.”

His gaze lingered on your mouth for a second too long.

And then he turned. Didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t look back.

Walked away like he hadn’t just shattered you in a hallway.

And of course, you followed him.

Because what else could you do?

You trailed behind him down the corridor like a marionette on invisible strings, every step echoing with the knowledge that he wasn’t chasing you.

He never had to.

Because he had already decided how this story ends.

************************************************************************

You returned to your desk with mechanical steps, legs stiff and throat still raw from choking. Your skin burned under invisible eyes, but you didn’t dare look to the side—where you knew he sat.

Where he watched.

What you found had shocked you.

The desk… was clean.

Spotless, in fact. Not just wiped—disinfected. You knew Sanzu was meticulous, but this was surgical. The faint scent of citrus still clung to the surface. The coffee droplets were gone. Your keyboard was realigned. Even your pen had been replaced in its little tray.

And then, there was the mug.

Still sitting there, half-full.

You stared at it like it might grow teeth.

Your lips parted, then closed again. 

It wasn’t just coffee anymore. Not after everything that had just happened. Not after the dream. Not after his voice in your ear, teasing, knowing, lethal.

It simply sat on your desk—innocent, warm, threatening. The scent curled upward in lazy tendrils, taunting you. Your hand hovered on top, unsure.

“You just gonna stare at it all day?”

His voice broke the silence—smooth, lilting, entirely too amused.

You stiffened.

You didn’t answer.

"That’s not very nice," he murmured, voice laced with theatrical pout, though his eyes said something else entirely.

"I brought that for you, y’know."

A pause—the smile thinning, turning sideways. Then, like sweetness curdling on his tongue,

"It’s not good to waste food."

Another pause.

"Makes me wonder what else you’d just...throw away."

You said nothing. Your fingers just curled tighter around the handle. And because your body betrayed you before your brain could stop it, you drank.

Slowly. Cautiously. The ceramic pressed to your lips like a confession. The taste hit your tongue. Bitterness. Heat.

You didn’t know he’d already drunk from that rim. That your lips now aligned perfectly with his.

That he was watching you, pulse heavy, eyes low, and thinking about your mouth wrapped around his in a hundred other ways.

************************************************************************

Sanzu's Inner Monologue

As you drink the coffee

Good girl.

You drank it. Drank him, and didn’t even know.

"It’s not good to waste food."

He’d said—and it wasn’t a lie.

You were eating up his affection now. His attention. And you’d just licked the same place he had, swallowed from the cup he’d already tasted.

His lips were tingling.

He wanted to lean in and murmur it right against her neck:

“Guess we’ve already kissed, huh?”

But not yet. She didn’t need to know.

Not now. Not while she was still busy being obedient.

************************************************************************

The minutes passed like hours.

You sat at your desk, spine straight, eyes locked to your monitor as though you could will the Excel sheet to swallow you whole.

Numbers. Deadlines. Client codes. You clung to the routine like a life raft.

Anything to feel normal.

The coffee cup sat just to the right of your keyboard—empty now. You hadn’t dared move it. It still felt warm against your memory. Heavy with implication.

Sanzu hadn’t said a word since.

And somehow, that was worse.

You could feel him there. A quiet pulse in the room. Seated at his desk diagonally across the space, tapping intermittently on his tablet, eyes flicking through data—or maybe something else.

You hadn’t dared to look.

The silence was… manageable. Fragile, like thin ice, but it held. You focused on the screen. You made notes. Your fingers moved fast, steady. The sound of your typing filled the office, sharp and rhythmic.

Click-click-click. Tab. Click.

You risked a glance at the clock.

Only ten minutes had passed.

You exhaled slowly and reached for a folder—case notes for a shipping invoice—but your fingers brushed paper instead of plastic.

A small pink sticky note sat on top.

You hadn’t seen him get up.

You’re quieter when you’re trying to ignore me. Cute.

Your breath stuttered. Not fear, not panic—just that hot flush that started at your throat and settled low in your belly. You pushed the note aside. Refused to react.

A moment passed.

He hadn’t said anything in a while. Just… quiet amusement. He didn’t get up. Didn’t approach. Just returned to his screen, flipping another page.

It was strange, this lull.

You typed.

He read.

You drank water.

He tapped his pen.

And for a brief, surreal moment, you were just two professionals in a quiet office, surrounded by too much marble and tension.

But your skin still tingled. Your mouth still remembered the rim of the mug. And you still couldn’t shake the sense that this calm wasn’t mercy.

It was patience.

And patience meant he was waiting.

************************************************************************

Sanzu's Inner Monologue

While you are "trying" to work

You’re trying to be good again.

He thought, resting his chin on one hand while flipping through a document he wasn’t reading.

Trying to bury it in your work. So fucking cute.

You had no idea he’d been watching you type the wrong figures into the spreadsheet three times in a row.

No idea he could see the little tremor in your wrist every time you reached for your mouse.

No idea that when you pressed your lips together and frowned—like you were focusing—it made his cock twitch under the desk.

Mmm. Focus harder, sweetheart. Pretend I’m not here. Pretend I didn’t already have my mouth on yours through that cup.

He stared at the empty mug beside your keyboard. His mug now. It was a claim, not a kindness. He hadn’t brought it to help you. He brought it to mark you.

Watching you drink it, oblivious to where his mouth had been—it had made him feel high.

You hadn’t licked the rim. Not exactly. But you’d sipped slowly, carefully. And he could swear you’d shivered when you swallowed.

He wanted to get up.

Wanted to lean down and whisper,

"How’d I taste, baby?"

But no. Not yet. Not now.

You were working. Trying so fucking hard to pretend everything was fine. And that was so much hotter than fear.

You’re pretending this is still just a job.

You think the silence means he’s lost interest.

God, you’re so adorable when you lie to yourself.

He reached for the sticky notes on his desk and peeled one off. Scribbled in his looping, lazy scrawl.

You’re quieter when you’re trying to ignore me. Cute.

He dropped it on your folder like a knife wrapped in ribbon. Then sat back. And waited.

You read it. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look at him.

But he saw your jaw tighten. Saw the way you swallowed hard and reached for your water like it might rinse him out of your system.

Too late, sweetheart. I’m in your mouth. I’m in your dreams. I’m under your fucking skin.

He didn’t speak again. Didn’t move. But every page he turned was deliberate. Every pen tap, paced.

He was calm. But it wasn’t mercy.

It was control.

He was letting you think the worst had passed. That may be the air was clear again. Maybe you were safe again.

You weren’t.

You never would be.

Let her breathe a little longer.

He thought, his lip twitching faintly into a crooked, almost-smile.

Let her feel the quiet.

Then I’ll remind her exactly who’s in her mouth, her head, and her goddamn soul.

************************************************************************

It was too quiet again.

You tried to focus on your screen—tried to pretend your legs weren’t trembling under the desk, that your thoughts weren’t crawling with his voice, his scent, his heat.

You failed miserably.

So when Sanzu spoke, smooth, lazy, and sudden—your body tensed before your mind could catch up.

“Hey. File drawer—far shelf. Blue folder. Code starts with ‘HTX’.”

You blinked. The far shelf. You knew the one. It was the high unit behind his desk. Directly behind his chair.

Your blood turned to static.

You didn’t move.

Not fast enough, anyway.

“You hear me, sweetheart?”

His tone was amused. Sweet, even. But the undercurrent buzzed with warning.

“Or did I knock your hearing out too when I broke your brain this morning?”

You stiffened. A small twitch. A tell. You could feel his grin without even looking.

Still, you rose.

What else could you do?

Each step was torture. The closer you got, the tighter your throat became. His desk was pristine, minimalist. But he wasn’t behind it.

He was in front.

The chair was slightly turned. Legs spread. Watching. Waiting.

You knew where the folder was. You just had to reach.

But the positioning was cruel.

The shelf was just a bit too high for your current angle. And Sanzu, in his infinite wickedness, didn’t move. Just turned his chair slightly, not to help—but to watch.

You hesitated. Not visibly, but inside, it hit like a shockwave.

You reached.

You stretched your arm, balancing awkwardly, trying desperately not to brush him, not to feel his heat against your side, not to smell the faint trace of cologne and clean linen that always clung to him.

Just avoid any physical contact at all costs. 

The folder was almost there.

You leaned in just slightly, trying to shift your weight. And that’s when it happened.

Your balance slipped.

Gravity snatched the floor from under you.

Your breath caught in your throat—but you never hit the ground.

Because in a flash, his hand wrapped around your arm.

And he pulled.

************************************************************************

Next part, I'm gonna turn the heat up 🔥

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6    PART 7   PART 8    PART 9   PART 10   PART 11   PART 12   PART 13   PART 14   PART 15   PART 16   PART 17   PART 18   PART 19   PART 20   PART 21   PART 22   PART 23   PART 24   PART 25  

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

Note: The orange-colored text is the characters' inner feelings/monologues during or after certain events. The blue-colored text is used to provide additional context or information—it’s not part of anyone's internal monologue but helps clarify the scene or character dynamics.

************************************************************************

Content warnings: unhealthy/toxic attachments, toxic mindsets, power imbalances, predator/prey dynamics, pet names, cursing, smoking, some canon divergence, workplace harassment, inappropriate thoughts (suggestive but not explicit), unlawful surveillance, stalker behaviour, spicy dreams but nothing explicit

************************************************************************

PART 18

The cool air of your apartment did little to dispel the heat that still radiated from her skin. You slammed the door shut, the click echoing too loudly in the sudden silence, and leaned against it, chest heaving. It was over. The day was finally over.

Except… it wasn’t.

Not really.

Because he was still there—on your skin, in the way your breath hitched when you remembered the heat of his hand on your waist, the way his voice had wrapped around you like silk dipped in gasoline.

You pushed yourself up, stumbling towards the kitchen. A glass of water. Something cold. Anything to rinse the bitter taste of helplessness from your tongue. The ice clinked too sharply against the rim, each sound a hammer blow against your frayed nerves.

You tried to distract yourself. Change into comfortable clothes. Put on some music. Anything to fill the silence that felt heavy with his presence. But every quiet corner, every shadowed space in your small apartment, seemed to hold the echo of his voice, his smirk.

“Feeling better?"

“You keep reacting like that, and I’ll start thinking you missed me.”

Your knees almost gave way just from the memory. Your hands flew to your hair, tearing at the ties, pulling it free. You began to pace back and forth across the living room like a caged animal. The stark memory of the moved desk, angled deliberately towards him, made your stomach clench. Every task, every casual instruction had forced you closer and closer, until you could feel the warmth of his knee against yours and the brush of his expensive suit against your arm.

It wasn't accidental. None of it.

His hand. On your waist. 

The memory hit you like a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. His hand, landing so casually, so possessively, on the curve of your waist as you bent. The phantom pressure lingered, a scorching brand on your skin. You pressed your own hand against the spot, as if to erase it, but the sensation only intensified.

“Relax,”

“I’m not gonna bite.”

The words, replaying in your mind, brought a fresh wave of panic. He had said it so calmly, so knowingly. Like a promise whispered into a nightmare.

You started to pace faster, a desperate, silent dance. Your breath hitched, short and shallow.

And then, as if summoned by your terror, another, more potent memory slammed into you. Not the waist touch. Something far more intimate.

The exit. The door. His body, caging yours. The terrifying calm in his eyes.

The kiss. Not even on your mouth.

But the one just under your ear, slow and wet and possessive, his lips dragging like he owned the skin beneath it.

Your hand flew to the spot again, fingers pressing hard, trying to scrub away a phantom heat that pulsed deeper than skin-deep. You could still feel it. The soft, unsettling touch of lips—it was so vivid, so real, you could almost feel his breath on your skin, hear the soft, almost imperceptible sound of his inhale before he tasted you.

A strangled sound escaped your throat. You stumbled, tripping over your own feet, your mind a frantic maelstrom of panic and a terrifying, unwanted awareness of his presence. You started to walk faster, then faster still, a frantic prance around the confined space of your living room, pulling at your hair, clutching your head.

“Clock out all you want."

"But you’ll still hear me when your head hits the pillow. I’ll always get louder when you’re trying to be that good little girl.”

You clutched at your chest as if to rip it out. You were going crazy. He was making you crazy.

************************************************************************

Miles away, in his dim office, Sanzu Haruchiyo leaned back in his leather chair, a half-empty glass of amber liquid in his hand.

The irritation from the Haitanis still simmered, a faint, unpleasant residue under his skin.

Ran’s snide comments, Rindou’s cutting observations. They had seen too much, poked too deeply. A lesser man might stew, plotting immediate retribution.

But Sanzu knew better. They weren't worth the mental real estate.

His attention, his focus, was far better spent. It was due. It was owed.

His eyes were fixed on the large screen embedded in the wall opposite his desk.

A live feed. His gaze, heavy with intent, pinned the small, frantic figure visible through the window across the street. 

He watched her. Her frantic pacing. Her wild gestures. The way her hand flew to her jaw, then clenched at her hair. He didn't need sound to interpret the scene; he could almost feel the strangled sounds escaping her throat, even through the silent feed.

The sheer, unadulterated distress radiating from her was a potent intoxicant, better than any drug he'd ever consumed.

A slow, satisfied smirk stretched across his lips. It wasn't the usual manic grin, but something deeper, more possessive, a silent purr of absolute triumph. He took a slow sip of his drink, the ice clinking softly in the quiet room, a counterpoint to the silent chaos unfolding on screen.

He saw her stumble, clutching her head, her movements becoming more desperate, more unhinged. She was unraveling, just as he knew she would. Every frantic step, every trembling hand, was a testament to his success. Her disarray was a symphony for his senses, a raw, beautiful masterpiece painted in desperation, and he devoured every single tell.

He knew.

Of course, he knew.

He’d meant every move. Every look. Every brush of skin. And now, even alone, you still couldn’t stop trembling for him.

"That’s it," he purred to no one but himself, his voice soft, almost a caress, a secret shared between only him and the writhing figure on the screen. His gaze intensified, devouring her frantic movements.

“Good girl.”

He toasted the screen with a soft clink.

"Fall apart for me."

************************************************************************

Eventually, exhaustion, heavy and oppressive, began to drag at your limbs. You couldn't pace forever. Every muscle screamed, every nerve ending hummed with a frantic energy that had nowhere to go.

There was only one escape left. Sleep.

No more thinking. No more replaying the day’s events. Just oblivion. You stumbled towards your bed, the room a blur. You just fell onto the bed, pulling the duvet over your head as if to smother the chaos in your mind.

Sleep. Just sleep.

And for a while, the blackness claimed you. A blessed, dreamless void.

But Sanzu wasn't one to allow such simple escapes.

************************************************************************

The hum of the office was gone, replaced by a deep, resonant vibration that seemed to emanate from the very air around you. You were in his office. Or perhaps, it was your office now, impossibly large, impossibly intimate. The dim light, the scent of metal and burnt spice, clung to you like a second skin, intoxicating and overwhelming.

He was there. Always there. Not across the room, but impossibly close. His legs, spread wide, were a barrier. You felt trapped, but this time, the fear was different. It was laced with a strange, unbidden heat that coiled low in your belly.

He leaned in, his signature half-lidded gaze burning into you, stripping every thread of composure. You tried to look away, but you couldn't. Your eyes were drawn to him, mesmerized, just as he wanted.

“You keep reacting like that,” his voice purred, low and thick, a sound that bypassed your ears and vibrated directly through your bones, “and I’ll start thinking you missed me.”

This time, your hand reached out, not to push him away, but to touch. To admire his adult features. To trace the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scars on the corners of his mouth. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just watched, his smirk widening as your fingers found purchase. A silent invitation.

Then, his hand was on your waist, not a casual brush, but a firm, possessive clasp. It didn't just pull you closer; it tugged, insistent, until you were no longer standing but on him, straddling his lap, the hard planes of his thighs beneath yours. His arm was around your waist. His hand was already gripping your hip, grinding you closer, just enough to feel the solid heat beneath layers that suddenly felt too much. Your gasp was swallowed by the sudden, electrifying intimacy.

“Relax,” he murmured, his breath hot against your neck, “I’m not gonna bite.”

But even as the words left his lips, you felt it. The slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, moist and searing, from beneath your earlobe, down the sensitive curve of your jaw. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, desperate and dazed. Every nerve ending sang with a desperate, dizzying pleasure. Your head tilted back, offering him more; your throat arching, a silent invitation you couldn't control. You felt a soft suck at your pulse point, a claiming mark that sent shivers, not of fear, but of raw, electrifying need, coursing through you. Every suckle left behind a mark—imagined or not. You felt completely owned.

“Let me hear it,” he said, against your throat. “That little whimper I love.”

Then, his mouth, still warm and damp from your neck, found yours. It wasn't gentle. It was a hungry, dark, possessive claiming. His lips pressed, demanding, parting yours with a soft insistence. You tasted him—burnt spice, something metallic, and the deep, unsettling flavor of absolute control. Your own lips, unbidden, parted further, a soft moan escaping as his tongue swept inside, a slow, sensual invasion that left you breathless and utterly consumed. The feel of his thigh between yours. The voice, low and dark, purring filth against your ear.

“You like being on top, don’t you?”

You were trembling, consumed, your body arching into his touch, lost in the overwhelming, illicit sensation.

He chuckled, a dark, rich sound that echoed in the cavernous space, reverberating through your chest as he pressed you against him. And then, his voice was everywhere, not just in your ear, but inside your head, coiling, sliding, demanding, even as his mouth still claimed yours.

“This is where you belong. Every last bit of you.”

************************************************************************

Sleep had offered no solace—only his touch, revisited by your subconscious like a punishment. You jolted awake, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat, ripping through the suffocating silence of your room. 

The room was dark, silent, but your body was alight. Every nerve ending shrieked with a phantom echo of sensation. Your skin burned, clammy with sweat, and your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs, threatening to explode. For a horrifying moment, you didn't know where you were.

The office? His lap?

The chilling intimacy of the dream clung to you like a shroud.

You could still feel him. Taste him.

The kiss. The grind. The filthy words he whispered like prayers.

Your hand flew to your jaw, fingers splayed over the spot beneath your ear, pressing hard. You could still feel the phantom wetness, the ghost of his tongue, the phantom pressure of his lips. Then, driven by a sudden, overwhelming rush of conflicted emotion, your hand flew to your mouth. You rubbed at your lips—too hard, too fast—as if you could scrub away the heat of him, the echo of something you weren’t ready to name. You could still feel the pressure, the warmth, the deep, possessive sweep of his tongue.

No. No, no, no, no!

You scrambled off the bed, stumbling blindly, tripping over the duvet. The sheer, overwhelming shame, the burning embarrassment, and a fierce, self-directed anger at your own mind for conjuring such a perverse, illicit dream, mixed into a potent, dizzying cocktail.

He had been in your head. He had touched you even in your sleep, defiling your last sanctuary. Your body, utterly out of your control, had responded to him, even in a dream.

You wanted to escape your own skin, to shed the horrifying truth that your subconscious had betrayed you in such a depraved way. You began to spin, disoriented, a frantic, desperate whirl in the dim light of your apartment. Your breath came in ragged sobs, sharp and broken. You hit the wall, sliding down to the floor in a heap, knees drawn to your chest, head buried in your arms. A low, keening sound escaped you, the sound of utter humiliation.

He had gotten inside. He had claimed even your dreams. There was no escape from him, or from your own treacherous mind.

"How am I gonna face him now?" you whispered, the words a raw, terrified question into the cold, silent air.

Because no matter how far you ran, he was already inside you.

And he wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6    PART 7   PART 8    PART 9   PART 10    PART 11   PART 12 PART 13    PART 14  PART 15   PART 16 PART 17 PART 18 PART 19 PART 20 PART 21

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

Note: The orange-colored text is the characters' inner feelings/monologues during or after certain events. The blue-colored text is used to provide additional context or information—it’s not part of anyone's internal monologue but helps clarify the scene or character dynamics.

************************************************************************

Content warnings: unhealthy/toxic attachments, toxic mindsets, power imbalances, predator/prey dynamics, pet names, cursing, smoking, some canon divergence, workplace harassment, inappropriate thoughts (suggestive but not explicit), unlawful surveillance, stalker behaviour

************************************************************************

PART 17

The morning after your day off

The second you stepped into the office, you knew something had changed.

At first glance, it looked the same—sterile, cold, glass walls catching too much light. The low hum of electronics. The rhythmic tapping of keys from the outer floors.

But as you stepped into the executive wing, something... shifted.

Your desk was closer to his than usual.

Much closer.

Pushed slightly forward, no longer against the partition. The chair was different too—sleeker, newer. The armrests extended farther than they should’ve, slightly angled toward his side of the office.

Subtle.

Intentional.

Your pulse tripped. Your throat felt tight.

Maybe it was cleaning. Reorganization. Efficiency.

But then you saw him.

Seated already. Legs spread. One arm draped along the back of the leather sofa, head tilted just enough to watch you walk in.

That signature half-lidded stare was already there, not surprised, not curious.

Waiting.

“Morning,” Sanzu said, voice low and amused.

You didn’t meet his eyes.

“Good morning.”

You’re still not sure what to call him, so you avoided addressing him altogether.

“Feeling better?”

You didn’t answer.

But that smirk—you could picture it without even looking.

You just made it to your desk—no, his desk now, if you were being honest—and began turning on the computer. Your hands trembled as you typed in your login.

The air was thick.

You could feel his eyes. Feel him watching.

Feel the smugness resting behind his teeth, like he knew every thought passing through your head—and was waiting for the one that would make you crack.

But you wouldn't.

You were going to pretend everything was fine.

But that was exactly what he wanted.

************************************************************************

The day passed in molasses.

Nothing was asked of you beyond the usual—but somehow, you had less room to breathe.

Every task required proximity. Every report was missing just enough that you had to step closer. Every document was placed right beside him instead of in the tray like always.

Close enough to brush his knee. Close enough to smell his cologne—something warm, dark, and sharp like burnt spice and metal. 

Once, when you leaned over to pass a file, his fingers brushed yours.

Definitely not by accident.

He didn’t move away.

“You keep reacting like that, and I’ll start thinking you missed me,” he said, his voice soft—almost too soft to hear.

You yanked your hand back, breath caught in your throat, ears ringing. He didn’t laugh, but the grin was unmistakable.

************************************************************************

Lunchtime came and went.

You never left your desk.

You couldn’t.

Because every time you tried to create space, he erased it.

At one point, he asked you to bring a file over to the couch where he lounged—phone in one hand, while his other arm stretched lazily over the backrest, long legs splayed just enough to make the space between his knees a threat.

You handed it over, careful not to get too close.

He didn’t reach for the file.

“Put it down,” he said, voice calm. “On the table. Next to me.”

You hesitated.

Then stepped closer. Careful. Cautious. Avoiding contact at all costs.

As you bent down—careful, careful—you felt it.

His hand.

Landing on the curve of your waist.

Lazy. Soft. Yet, dangerously possessive.

As if it had always belonged there.

Your breath stalled. The air caught in your throat. You froze.

“Relax,” he murmured, “I’m not gonna bite.”

You stood too fast, heart hammering, hands slick.

He didn’t look at you. Just flipped the file open with one hand like nothing had happened.

************************************************************************

You made it through the rest of the day. Barely.

He didn’t touch you again. He didn’t need to.

His voice, his silence, his smirk—it all pressed against your skin like heat under your clothes.

And now, finally, the clock had turned.

You stood.

Grabbed your bag.

Didn’t look at him. Didn’t breathe too loud.

You had made it. Almost.

One step. Two steps.

Then—

“Clock out all you want,” he drawled.

You froze. The blood in your veins didn’t move.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t turn.

Behind you, silence stretched.

Then the soft creak of leather—he was leaning back now, smug and slow.

 “But you’ll still hear me when your head hits the pillow. And I’ll always get louder when you’re trying to be that good little girl.”

Your fingers clenched around your bag strap.

White-knuckled. Trembling.

There was no laughter in his voice. No teasing.

Only a low, electric hunger—slow and certain, like it had been burning a long time.

He wasn’t guessing.

He was stating.

His chuckle—dark, lazy, and hungry—was the last thing you heard before the door shut behind you.

You bolted.

Out the door, down the hall, not stopping until the cold of the elevator hit your face.

And still, his voice was there.

Coiled behind your ribs. Sliding lower.

************************************************************************

Sanzu's Inner Monologue

During the events above

He heard you before he saw you.

That soft tread he’d recognize anywhere.

Still cautious. Still trying to disappear into the floor. Some things never change.

You stepped into the office, and he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just sat there, legs spread, arm thrown across the back of the couch like he hadn’t spent half the night picturing this exact moment.

Let’s see how long you can pretend you’re not affected. Let’s see if you’ll pretend at all.

Your eyes flicked to the desk first, and he watched it happen.

The way your brow twitched, the small furrow in your lip.

You noticed.

Good.

It was subtle. The shift. Just a few inches.

Your chair angled toward his. The new armrests. The missing partition.

Intentional. All of it.

Let’s get you used to being closer. Let’s see what you do when there’s nowhere left to retreat to.

“Morning,” he said, voice deliberately low and casual, like he hadn’t been waiting for you to walk through that door since 6:17 a.m.

Call me by name. Call me Haru-kun. I dare you.

But you didn’t. Of course not. You avoided it—like the coward he knew you’d be.

He smiled anyway. Sharp, private.

You’ll say it again. I'll make sure of it.

“Feeling better?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Your hands were trembling as you typed. Shoulders stiff. Eyes everywhere but on him.

Yeah. You remember. You feel it too.

The rest of the day stretched like hot tar. He didn’t have to do much. Just sit. Watch. Adjust small things.

One missing figure here. One vague instruction there. And every time, you had to come closer.

Closer to his desk.

Closer to his body.

He could feel your nerves spike every time you passed by.

Every breath. Every stammer.

God, he missed this.

Missed how small you look when you’re holding it together with both hands and a paperclip.

Then came the file.

You leaned over.

He reached out—accidentally, of course—and his fingers brushed yours.

You flinched like he’d touched your spine.

“You keep reacting like that, and I’ll start thinking you missed me.”

And fuck, he meant it.

Not as a joke. Not even as a warning.

He hopes you did. He wants you to admit it. He wants you to burn with it.

Later. He calls you over to the couch—

Not because he needs you there. Because he WANTS you there.

You move like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. Your eyes won’t meet his.

Good. He likes the way you fold when he’s too close.

“Put it down,” he said. Calm. Like it’s nothing.

But when you lean in? He touches you. Finally.

Not harsh. Not threatening.

Just… claiming.

His hand on your waist—gentle, almost lazy—but you freeze like he dragged a blade across your skin.

You need to remember what he feels like.

“Relax,” he whispers.

No one would believe how hard it was for him not to just pull you into his lap and take you right there.

But no.

Not here. Not yet.

Not where you can lie to yourself about what this is.

You bolted upright like he burned you.

Heart hammering. Breath too fast.

And him?

He doesn’t look at you.

He just flips open the file—bored, unbothered.

But inside?

He is high.

High on your scent, your panic, the way you refuse to meet his eyes like they might pull you under. Which they would.

You still think you’re in control.

Still clinging to routine, professionalism, your little mental fortress of denial.

Let’s see how long that lasts, sweetheart.

Just watch. Wait.

Push just enough…

To make you start thinking about what it would feel like if he didn’t stop.

************************************************************************

You couldn’t breathe. You had to get out of the room before you combusted.

Your pulse still hadn’t settled—his voice still ghosting under your skin, that last sentence burned behind your ribs like it belonged there.

The elevator doors were just beginning to part—salvation within reach—when you collided with something solid.

Someone.

You gasped, stumbling back on reflex, only to find yourself blinking up at a tall figure, expression unreadable behind pale-lashed eyes.

Rindou Haitani.

The hallway—already too bright, too sharp—seemed to tilt. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you.

Really looked.

Eyes flicking from your flushed face, down to the death grip on your bag, to the slight tremble in your shoulders you hadn’t realized was still there. Your ears burned.

His gaze lingered a half-second too long—sharp, calculating.

Your mouth opened before your brain could stop it.

“I—I’m sorry.”

He didn’t move. Just tilted his head slightly, lips twitching at the corners.

You straightened your spine like it would help, trying to conjure professionalism out of thin air. You couldn’t even remember how to blink.

“I’m Sanzu Haruchiyo’s personal assistant,” you said quickly—too quickly—voice tight and high.

“Please, go right ahead.”

You tried to smile. It came out more like a grimace.

Then you practically leapt into the elevator, smashing the close button at least five times before the doors could glide shut on his mildly intrigued expression.

Rindou watched the numbers blink above the frame.

He just stood there, still staring at the polished metal long after it closed.

“..... PA, huh?”

He ran a hand through his hair, then turned, sauntering toward the executive door.

Something—curiosity, maybe—flickered behind his eyes.

Because that wasn’t just a flustered assistant.

That was someone trying very hard to pretend she hadn’t just come from the lion’s den

And the red still blooming along her ears?

That wasn’t office air.

He was in front of Sanzu's door now. He should’ve gone in already. But something tugged at him. A memory. 

The warehouse job.

Sanzu had been off.

Unhinged was normal. Loud, reckless, plain cruel — that was baseline.

But Bored? Unreactive? Uninterested?  

That was different.

And then Ran had said it—half-laughing, half-testing, all teeth. Tossed a few careless words over the broken bodies and grinned when they landed.

“What kind of reward’s waiting at the end of this little speedrun?”

A joke. Nothing new. Nothing outside of their usual banter.

But the wrench dropped. The room went still.

And Sanzu?

“You wanna keep that tongue, Haitani?”

Rindou had heard Sanzu threaten before. Hell, he’d seen him snap.

But that?

That wasn’t a flare-up.

That was a warning.

And at the time, Rindou hadn’t known what Ran had meant. What nerve he had struck.

But now…

Now he thought about the girl who just bumped into him. Red-faced. Breathless, voice cracking as she stammered,

“I’m… Sanzu Haruchiyo’s PA.”

And suddenly, the warehouse made a hell of a lot more sense.

So she was the reward.

Sanzu wasn’t rushing for fun. He wasn’t losing interest.

He was working through it. Fast. Violent. Focused.

Because his mind was somewhere else.

Stuck on someone else.

Rindou’s lips curved slightly—not a smile, not really. Just the grim satisfaction of a pattern finally completing itself.

Then he reached for the door handle, the curiosity in his chest sharpened to something colder.

He was going to see what happened next.

************************************************************************

The office was dimmer now—blinds half-drawn, the last of the evening sun bleeding gold across the floor.

Sanzu didn’t look up when Rindou entered.

Just clicked his lighter once, twice, then let the flame die.

“You forget how phones work?” Rindou asked, dropping into the chair across from him.

Sanzu leaned back in his seat, legs wide, head tilted with that practiced laziness.

“Nope.”

Rindou raised a brow, “Seven missed calls.”

Sanzu shrugged. “I was busy.”

The lie was immediate, effortless.

Rindou didn’t comment. Just pulled out a folded folder from his jacket and dropped it on the table between them.

“Warehouse payout cleared. Second shipment hits next Friday. Kakucho wants it silent—no street noise, no bodies.”

Sanzu flipped open the folder, eyes scanning—or pretending to. His fingers tapped against the edge of the desk in an off-beat rhythm.

“Fine,” he said. “You handle the drop. I’ll send backup.”

“Already requested,” Rindou replied smoothly. “You sure you’re good to handle point next week? Or should I loop in Kakucho?”

Sanzu didn’t even blink.

“You loop Kakucho into my job and I’ll loop your jaw into the curb.”

Rindou smiled, just faintly. There it was—that edge. The real Sanzu. Sharp when threatened. Cruel when crossed.

But not… twitchy.

Today he was too still.

Too calculated.

And Rindou had a theory.

He leaned back slightly in his seat, gaze lingering on the open folder—casual, disinterested—before saying, almost offhand:

“Met your assistant outside.”

Silence.

Not total—the hum of the building was still there, a buzz beneath the tension—but the air stopped.

Sanzu’s fingers paused mid-tap.

Barely. A heartbeat. But Rindou caught it.

Sanzu didn’t look up. His voice, when it came, was flat, devoid of inflection.

“She’s a PA. You didn’t need to.”

“Didn’t plan to,” Rindou replied, his tone infuriatingly even. “She ran into me while I was coming in. Literally.”

Still no eye contact from Sanzu. Just the low flick of a page turning, the faint rasp of paper, like he wasn’t listening.

But he was.

Rindou watched him—not the smirk, not the words—just the posture. The way Sanzu’s shoulders sat lower now, jaw tighter. A muscle in his neck began to tick, almost imperceptibly.

“She introduced herself really politely,” Rindou added, his voice still maddeningly neutral. “Little flushed, though.” 

Sanzu let out that low, humorless laugh—sharp and flat, like rust cracking down steel.

A warning. Rindou didn’t echo it.

He just leaned back in his seat, expression unreadable, hands folded loosely over one knee. Letting the sound fade.

And then, after a beat too long:

“She's not your type.”

Quiet. Factual. Not meant as an insult—more like an observation dropped on the table like a knife between ribs.

Sanzu didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Rindou kept going.

“No fake tan. No cherry-gloss lips. No five-inch stilettos or baby-voiced giggles.”

He paused. Just long enough.

“Didn’t smell like nightclub sweat or designer lies, either.”   

His eyes flicked back to Sanzu.

 “Not like the ones you usually keep around.”

The smirk on Sanzu’s face twitched—just barely. His grip on the armrest tightened, the expensive leather groaning faintly under the pressure.

Rindou knew what he was doing. He didn’t come in to provoke—that was Ran’s game—but the quiet ones? The ones who watch?

They were worse.

Because they saw too much.

And Rindou had seen it.

Had seen her.

Rindou tilted his head slightly, voice still maddeningly even.

“She looked nervous. Terrified, almost. Like a cornered rabbit.”

A silence descended, thick and suffocating. Sanzu’s hand, which had been resting loosely on the desk, curled into a fist, knuckles white. For a second too long, he didn’t speak. He just stared—not at Rindou, but through him. The kind of stillness that came before the snap. 

Then—smooth as silk, deceptively calm, “What are you implying, Haitani?”

Rindou met his gaze. Unblinking.

“Nothing.”

A long pause.

Then.

“I’m wondering.”

Sanzu smiled. It was slow, stretched, and almost convincing—if not for the glint in his eyes, the tick at his jaw.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the quiet one.”

“I am,” Rindou said, standing now. “Just not blind.”

He reached for the file he’d dropped earlier, tucking it neatly under his arm. But before he turned to leave, he added—tone almost bored, yet sharp enough to cut

“Although, I must say, it's unusual to see you so… invested....in something so seemingly plain."

There. There it was.

That flicker. That flash in Sanzu’s eyes—too quick to catch unless you were watching for it.

And Rindou was.

Sanzu's smile never changed, but something behind his expression curdled, like whatever leash he was keeping on himself had just barely held.

Rindou didn’t push. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t jab.

He just nodded once, polite as ever. “See you next week.” And walked out.

Behind him, the office stayed quiet. Too quiet. But Rindou didn’t need to hear the wrench drop or the glass shatter to know:

Someone had gotten under Sanzu Haruchiyo’s skin.

And for once, it wasn’t Mikey.

************************************************************************

His gaze drifted to the now-empty chair across from him. Then, slowly, to the space where her desk was—closer now, angled subtly towards his. He felt the faint, lingering scent of her, subtle and clean, not like the synthetic perfumes Rindou had so scornfully described.

Terrified, almost. Like a cornered rabbit.

The words echoed in his head. And that final jab from Rindou—

Although I must say, it's unusual to see you so… invested....in something so seemingly plain.

A low, almost imperceptible growl vibrated deep in Sanzu’s chest. His smile, the one that had been stretched thinly across his face, finally shattered. He stood abruptly, sending his chair scraping loudly across the polished floor.

Rindou had seen too much. And Ran. He remembered Ran's snide comments from the 'day off'.

They saw it. They saw her. And that was unacceptable.

Sanzu walked to the glass wall, looking out at the city lights. His reflection stared back at him, eyes glowing with a feral intensity. 

And the Haitanis might just have signed their own death warrants for noticing.

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6    PART 7   PART 8    PART 9   PART 10    PART 11   PART 12    PART 13    PART 14 PART 15   PART 16 PART 17 PART 18   PART 19   PART 20 PART 21

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

Note: The orange-colored text is the characters' inner feelings/monologues during or after certain events. The blue-colored text is used to provide additional context or information—it’s not part of anyone's internal monologue but helps clarify the scene or character dynamics.

************************************************************************

Content warnings: canon-typical violence, use of weapons, Sanzu unaliving traitors, unhealthy/toxic attachments, toxic mindsets, power imbalances, predator/prey dynamics, pet names, cursing, smoking, some canon divergence, workplace harassment, inappropriate thoughts (suggestive but not explicit), unlawful surveillance, stalker behaviour, fluff at the end

************************************************************************

PART 16

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

And when your eyes finally opened, it felt less like waking up and more like surfacing—from something thick and suffocating, like tar.

For a few seconds, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling.

Your body felt stiff. Not from sleep, but from tension left behind. A residue of yesterday still clung to you—in your muscles, your breath, and your skin.

You hadn’t dreamt, but the weight was still there.

His voice. His breath. That kiss behind your ear like a curse you hadn’t managed to scrub off.

You sat up slowly, each movement tentative, like your body still remembered the trap of his proximity. A cold sweat clung to your back.

The logical part of you knew you had to go to work.

You had a routine. A job. Deadlines.

But your hand hesitated halfway to the closet.

What if he—

No. No.

You weren’t doing that. You weren't going to overthink. You were an assistant. He was your boss. You could get through another day.

Probably.

Maybe.

You exhaled slowly, already bracing for the moment you’d have to see him again. Those eyes. That voice. That—

Ping.

The sound shattered the quiet of your apartment like a gunshot. Your breath caught in your throat, your body jerking violently at the sound. Your heart skipped, then slammed back into rhythm.

Your phone screen had lit up.

One new message.

And even before you picked it up, you already knew who it was.

Haruchiyo Sanzu.

The name looked too sharp in the morning light. Like it didn’t belong there—like he didn’t belong there.

You tapped the notification with numb fingers.

Haruchiyo Sanzu:

Take the day off, sweetheart.

You stared at the words.

Once. Twice.

Your fingers tightened around the phone.

What?

There had been no discussion of a day off. Your schedule had been full. You were supposed to handle three reports and an afternoon call with a "client."

But now—just like that—you were dismissed?

You swallowed.

No explanation. Not even a follow-up.

Just like that.

Was it a warning? A kindness? A trap?

You didn’t know.

And somehow, not knowing was worse than any threat he could’ve sent.

You turned the phone face down on the bed.

But it was too late.

The silence that followed felt louder than the message.

And just like that, the distance you’d tried to build overnight—

Collapsed.

************************************************************************

On the other side

The morning began with a sour taste that had nothing to do with the cheap coffee he usually tolerated. The call had come through just as he was contemplating the exact moment he’d arrive at the office, the optimal time to catch you off guard.

But Mikey’s voice had been clipped, decisive.

"Traitors. Koko found them. Deal with it."

A sigh. Not an audible one, of course. Sanzu wasn't prone to such trivial displays of frustration. But the thought of a day spent in stale warehouses, wading through pathetic pleas and lukewarm blood, instead of orchestrating the slow unraveling of his obsession… it was a profound annoyance.

He had plans. Subtle plays. The meticulous enjoyment of her flustered reactions. This was an inconvenient, messy disruption. But of course, he had to do it. After all, he couldn’t disobey his king.

The warehouse

Sanzu stepped into the warehouse, the heavy metal door groaning shut behind him with a final, echoing clang that seemed to seal away the outside world. He moved with a practiced, almost bored grace, his boots barely disturbing the dust on the concrete floor. The air inside hit him immediately—a thick, cloying blend of stale sweat, the metallic tang of fresh blood, and the unmistakable, sharp scent of pure fear, clinging to the shadows like a shroud. His eyes, usually scanning for threats, already held a weary familiarity with the grim tableau before him—

Three bodies slumped in chairs, heads bowed, wrists bound tight behind them with zip ties and wire. Cheap suits soaked through with panic. Their faces were already pale from what they knew was coming. One was quietly crying. Another kept glancing toward the exit. The third was still trying to hold eye contact, trying to look defiant.

Kokonoi stood off to the side, arms crossed, silver chain glinting under his jacket. Calm. Controlled. He had the detached calm of someone who’d already run the numbers on these men’s lives and found them worthless.

"Morning, Haruchiyo," Koko greeted, his smirk deepening as he eyed Sanzu's almost-too-eager stride towards the first bound man. 

Ran and Rindou flanked the other side of the room. Ran was sucking on a lollipop. Rindou was already tapping on his phone.

And Sanzu—

Sanzu just grunted, grabbing a heavy wrench from a nearby toolbox.

Usually, he'd relish this.

The screams.

The intricate dance of pain and information.

The slow breaking of a man's will.

Today, however, he just wanted it over. This was supposed to be fun. It usually was.

Mikey had given the order himself:

“Clean house.”

Kokonoi found the leak—three guys from the transport arm skimming product and passing intel to a rival faction.

Betrayal. Classic.

This would normally be the part he enjoyed—dragging things out. Cutting slowly. Making them understand exactly how much time they had left and how long that time could be stretched with the right kind of pain.

He loved dragging it out.

But today—

He just wanted it done.

He swung once—hard—and the first man’s kneecap shattered like ceramic. The scream was sharp and immediate, echoing through the space. Sanzu didn’t even smirk. 

Rindou winced.

“Damn. Not even foreplay today?”

It wasn’t a question.

Sanzu didn’t look at him.

“No use wasting time.”

Kokonoi stepped closer and tilted his head slightly.

“You’re not... savoring it today.”

Sanzu shrugged.

“They’re boring.”

Another crack of the wrench—this time to the side of the second man’s ribs. He doubled over in his chair, wheezing, blood on his lips.

Sanzu didn’t care. 

But Ran, always too entertained by everything, leaned lazily against the wall and blew a low whistle.

“You’re awfully efficient this morning, Haruchiyo. No mind games? No slow peel? What? You in a hurry to get back to... something else?”

Sanzu’s grip on the wrench tightened. Another swing. More screaming. The third man started begging. 

But Ran, he only grinned wider, biting down on his lollipop like it was a challenge, his tone too casual to be innocent.

“Or maybe someone?”

That was it.

Sanzu turned his head just slightly—the smallest movement—but his stare locked on Ran like a blade unsheathed.

Kokonoi looked between them, eyes narrowing slightly. Even he found it a little strange.

“No singing, no skinning. Just straight to the bones today?”

He didn’t sound accusatory—more curious. Like he was watching something unfold beneath the surface and couldn’t quite decide if it was amusing or dangerous.

“What, did someone put a timer on you?”

Ran, dying to twist the knife, twirled his lollipop between his fingers, eyes tracking the blood pooling beneath the second man’s chair.

“Really makes you wonder...," his grin widening like a wolf's, "...just what kind of reward’s waiting at the end of this little speedrun?”

The sound of the wrench dropping to the floor echoed louder than it should have.

Sanzu stepped forward, too slow to be casual, too calm to be safe.

His voice was flat when it came.

Cold. Smooth. Controlled like a lit fuse.

The sound rang out sharp and final. A warning.

“You wanna keep that tongue, Haitani?

Ran raised his hands in mock surrender, but the look on his face was pure smug provocation. He’d hit something. He knew it. His grin didn’t fade. If anything, it widened.

He tilted his head lazily to the side.

“Touchy.”

Because he knew Sanzu never rushed unless something had cracked his rhythm. And unfortunately for Sanzu, Ran figured out exactly what it was. 

Sanzu didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t need to.

The work was done. The bodies were still. And he’d already decided—

He was done here.

************************************************************************

The cleanup happened quickly after that.

Faster than usual.

Three bodies, broken and silenced. Blood pooling beneath them. Orders already dispatched for disposal.

Sanzu wiped his hands with a stained rag, his mind already drifting away from the scene, away from the screaming, away from the way Ran had looked at him like he knew something he shouldn’t.

He walked out of the warehouse, sunlight too bright against his skin, phone buzzing faintly in his pocket.

He didn’t check it.

He already knew it wasn’t from her.

She wouldn’t text.

Not yet.

But he was thinking about her anyway.

Whether she stayed home. Whether she was curled up on her bed with that look still in her eyes—that confused, shaken, deliciously raw look he had carved into her the night before.

His mouth twitched, the barest hint of a smile. 

He can’t wait. 

************************************************************************

Rising suspicions

Sanzu didn’t say another word.

Just dropped the rag with a wet slap against the concrete, stepped over the bodies without so much as a glance, and walked out of the warehouse — all sharp, clean movement and coiled violence. The heavy metal door slammed shut behind him.

The sound echoed.

And then… silence.

Kokonoi stubbed out his cigarette with the heel of his boot. “Well,” he said flatly, “that was faster than usual.”

Ran watched the door for a second longer, eyes glinting with that usual spark of mischief — except this time, it was tinged with something quieter. Something a little too satisfied.

He let the silence hang for a beat longer, then tucked the lollipop back between his teeth.

Rindou, still seated on an overturned crate, finally spoke without looking up from his phone.

“What was all that about?”

His tone wasn’t shocked. Just vaguely tired — like he was hoping the answer wouldn’t be as obvious as it felt.

Ran didn’t look at him. Just shrugged, slow and loose.

“I was just poking the hornet’s nest. Seeing if he’d sting.”

Rindou raised a brow. “You always do that. This was different.”

Ran chuckled softly.

“Was it now?”

He turned then, finally meeting his brother’s eyes. Something smug curled at the corners of his mouth — not malicious. Just playful. Like he knew a secret and wasn’t planning to share it.

Rindou frowned. “He looked like he was one comment away from cracking your ribs.”

“Probably,” Ran said with a shrug. “Would’ve been worth it though.”

Kokonoi, who had wandered a few feet toward the blood-spattered wall, paused and looked back at them over his shoulder.

He didn’t smile.

“You might wanna pick your moments more carefully,” he said quietly.

“Sanzu’s acting off lately. Keep poking him like that, and he’s gonna snap.”

Ran gave a low hum, like that thought didn’t bother him at all. He turned his face up toward the overhead light, let it catch the edge of his cheekbone.

“Wouldn’t be any fun if he didn’t.”

Rindou just sighed. “You’re gonna get your throat slit one of these days.”

Ran grinned wider. “Not today.”

************************************************************************

Back at your apartment

It was too quiet.

You’d made coffee. You didn’t drink it.

You’d picked up a book. The words never sank in.

The quiet, once a refuge, had turned dense and suffocating — like the air itself was pressing on your shoulders.

You’d spent most of the morning pacing between tasks that didn’t need doing—folding clean laundry, wiping down already-pristine counters, rearranging your bookshelf in alphabetical order just to undo it twenty minutes later.

Every few minutes, your hand drifted to your phone, not to check for a message. Just to touch it.

You didn’t know what you were expecting.

He gave you the day off.  A rare luxury. A full day of no tasks, no reports, no calendar pings — just silence and time to breathe.

And you hated it.

Because you weren’t built for stillness anymore. Like your body didn't know what to do without a task. Not after years of working like the world might fall apart if you didn’t keep it stitched together.

And worst of all-he was still there.

In your head.

Like a stain.

You didn’t want to think about the office. Didn’t want to think about him.

So why did your thoughts keep circling back to the heat of his breath against your ear, the press of his body at your back, the venom-laced silk in his voice? Back to the fact that you still didn’t understand what he’d become.

He wasn’t violent with you. Honestly, he never was. The only time he ever lost control was twelve years ago—when you told him you were leaving town. Even then, in that moment of desperate fury and perceived abandonment, he never laid a hand on you.

But something in him had fractured that day. Slowly, silently, it splintered into someone colder. Quieter. Harder to reach.

Would he be the man he is now if you hadn’t left?

You let out a frustrated sound and flopped down on the bed, burying your face in your hands.

Enough. Stop thinking about him. He’s in your head at the office. You’re not giving him this space, too.

You hated how much all this bothered you.

You were just supposed to work. Keep your head down. Do the job.

How did things end up like this?

You sat in that thought for a while.

Then, finally, you stood.

You needed to do something. Something quiet. Something grounding.

Your fingers hesitated over your bookshelf before trailing to the corner drawer of your shelf — and there it was.

Your old sketchbook.

You didn’t draw often anymore. You barely had the time.

But your hands remembered the weight of the pencil like it was a missing limb.

You sat by the window, sunlight creeping across the floor like warm fingers, and flipped through blank pages until instinct took over.

Lines formed.

Curves.

You didn’t think—you just let your fingers follow the image in your mind.

When you finished shading the top edge, your heart caught in your throat when you recognized it.

A tree.

That willow tree.

You blinked at it, breath catching slightly.

It was the old one. The one behind the fence, back near the rusted lot at the edge of your childhood block—tucked behind where the houses ended and the cracked pavement gave way to wild overgrowth.

A patch of land that didn’t belong to anyone. Forgotten by adults, claimed by children.

You used to sit under it every summer afternoon, drawing crooked birds and paper flowers.

And he—he would lie beside you, arms folded under his head, eyes squinting through the leaves above.

The shade always fell just right there. Breezy, quiet. It had felt like a secret pocket of the world. Like the chaos couldn't follow you into that space.

You hadn’t thought of it in years.

Your hand slowed. The pencil paused just above the page.

A small, quiet smile curled the edge of your lips—the kind that belonged to another life.

For a second, the apartment felt lighter.

Warmer.

Serene.

You didn’t even realize you’d exhaled until your chest loosened.

And for the first time that day, you didn’t feel like you were unraveling.

***********************************************************************

Sanzu's Inner Monologue

After warehouse incident

The warehouse was silent now. Blood rinsed. Trash burned. Orders handled.

He should’ve been satisfied.

Instead, he was watching the feed again.

Your apartment.

You didn’t know the camera was there. Hidden in a plant across the street, angled just right through the second-floor window, right into your bedroom.

He’d installed it himself.

At first, it had been practical. You were soft, and soft things attracted vultures. Someone had to watch you.

But now?

Now he just liked knowing where you were.

What you did.

How you looked when you thought no one was watching.

He had been studying you, as always, noting the unconscious tells; the minute adjustments of your posture, the way your gaze darted to the clock every few minutes, the almost imperceptible tapping of your fingers against your elbow.

Every subtle shift spoke volumes to him.

Hence, he didn't miss how you’d been restless all morning.

You’d been pacing nonstop, bouncing between odd little tasks like you were trying to keep your thoughts from catching up.

Cute.

He watched you mutter something to yourself and flop onto your bed, clearly annoyed.

Then you froze.

Something shifted.

Then came the sketchbook.

That surprised him.

Curious.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

Your posture changed.

Your brows softened.

You started drawing—fast, confident, like the motions came from muscle memory, not thought.

He couldn’t see the page, not from this angle.

But he didn’t need to.

Because when you finished and tilted your head—smiling in that faint, faraway way people do when they’re somewhere else entirely—he saw it in your eyes.

You’d gone back. To something old. To something that had nothing to do with the present.

And that smile?

He remembered it.

From years ago.

He hadn’t thought about that version of you in years.

Hadn’t thought about that version of himself in even longer.

Before the scars.

Before the pills.

Before everything in his head turned sharp, red, and broken.

You hadn’t smiled like that for him.

Not for this version of him.

But you had smiled because of him, once.

And today—unknowingly—maybe you had just done it again.

It was small. Unshowy. Gentle in a way that made his chest go uncomfortably still.

He froze.

And, for the first time all day, he didn’t feel in control. Didn’t feel like the one watching.

He felt like the ghost.

You remember that tree, too, don’t you?

And something in him — something rarely touched—went quiet.

Not soft. Not gentle. Just still.

He didn’t shut off the feed.

He just stayed there.

Watching you sketch in the sunlight, like the world hadn’t changed.

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6    PART 7   PART 8    PART 9   PART 10    PART 11   PART 12    PART 13  PART 14 PART 15   PART 16 PART 17 PART 18   PART 19   PART 20 PART 21

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

Note: The orange-colored text is the characters' inner feelings/monologues during or after certain events. The blue-colored text is used to provide additional context or information—it’s not part of anyone's internal monologue but helps clarify the scene or character dynamics.

************************************************************************

Content warnings: dubcon-ish (reader is overwhelmed and confused), unhealthy/toxic attachments, toxic mindsets, power imbalances, predator/prey dynamics, pet names, cursing, smoking, some canon divergence, workplace harassment ??, inappropriate thoughts (suggestive but not explicit), noncon kissing

************************************************************************

PART 15

The rest of the day, remarkably, passed in a dull hum of routine. You tried to immerse yourself in tasks, to pretend that the air wasn't still crackling with unspoken words, that his presence wasn't a constant, unsettling weight.

By the time the late afternoon light bled through the windows, you felt raw, exposed. The hours passed in an agonizing crawl of silence and subtle glances. But you didn’t take the bait. Until just before the end of the day.

The wall clock read 8:23. Your head throbbed, your muscles ached from perpetual tension. You typed the final sentence of your last report, a sense of desperate exhaustion washing over you. This was it. You could finally escape.

You clicked 'save,' closed the document, and began to shut down your computer, every movement deliberate. You could feel his eyes on you, tracking your every action. You didn't glance his way. You wouldn't. Your bag was already packed. You just needed to stand, walk, and leave.

You pushed your chair back, the soft scrape loud in the suddenly oppressive silence. You stood, picked up your bag, and turned towards his desk. You didn’t look at his face, kept your eyes on his desk, you spat out, the words stiff and rehearsed, as if you had recited them a hundred times in your head, “All of today’s reports are done, I’ll be taking your leave now.” 

Before he could utter a single word, you swiftly turned and walked towards the door, your steps quick and determined. Your hand reached for the cool metal of the handle, a desperate prayer forming on your lips for escape, when suddenly—

A large, solid arm shot out past your head, slamming against the doorframe. The muffled thud reverberated through the wood, jolting you. Pale fingers splayed casually against the wood, cutting off your exit like a guillotine in slow motion.

Your breath hitched. How did he get there? He was just at his desk. You hadn't even heard him move. Was it even humanly possible for someone to be this fast?

Your entire body went rigid, all hope of freedom instantly dissolving. You were instantly, utterly trapped. You didn't dare turn, but you felt him—a solid wall of heat and dangerous intent, pressed impossibly close behind you. The subtle scent of his cologne, sharp and clean over the lingering, metallic tang of his presence, filled your nostrils, suffocating you. You could feel the warmth of his chest against your back, the brush of his expensive suit fabric against your sensible blouse.

He was so close, too close.

His head lowered, and you felt the faint brush of his hair against your temple, then his lips, impossibly soft and warm, just barely grazed the sensitive skin of your ear. A shiver, involuntary and profound, tore through you.

"Trying to sneak out ay?" His voice was a low, mocking murmur, a dangerous purr that vibrated through your bones. "After all your hard work today? Trying, and failing, to pretend I didn't exist?"

He chuckled softly, a sound of pure, unadulterated amusement. Then, you felt him inhale deeply, his nose brushing against your neck, drawing in your scent. The intimacy of it was shocking, invasive, and electrifying. His breath was warm against your skin, sending goosebumps erupting over your arms.

"You really tried to be professional today, didn't ya?" He whispered, his lips practically caressing your ear, his voice dripping with condescending sweetness. "All that stiff posture. Those downcast eyes. And that desperate little focus on your screen."

You froze, like you even forgot how to breathe. He leaned his head, his smirk widening into something utterly chilling, utterly feral.

"But you were never really good at pretending, were you?" His voice was now barely audible, a dark secret just for you. 

And then—

A sound. Soft. Wet. Close.

Mnnhk

You didn’t even realize it until it landed.

Not your cheek. Not even your neck.

A kiss—Right beneath your ear.

Where your pulse throbbed the loudest. Where your skin was thinnest. Where even the suggestion of a touch could ripple through every nerve in your body like electricity.

But this wasn’t a brush. This wasn’t fleeting.

This was deliberate.

His lips descended slowly, like silk being drawn across open flame. They hovered first, hot breath ghosting your skin—a warning. And then they touched—warm, plush, with a control so agonizing it felt sinful.

No rush. No pressure.

Just that devastating, intimate press of mouth to skin, right where your jaw met your neck, as if he were imprinting himself into your bloodstream.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was a brand. A promise.

And God—you felt it everywhere.

Down your spine, across your entire body like sparks of electricity.

Your breath hitched, sharp and broken, lips parting around a sound that never made it out. Your knees almost buckled, a tremor wracking your legs so violently you had to clutch the doorknob harder just to stay upright.

Your whole body locked.

You went still, partly from fear, but mostly from the sheer, paralyzing heat of it.

Every synapse in your brain misfired. Your thoughts collapsed like dominoes. There was no coherent language anymore.

Just sensation. Just him.

Behind you, his breath lingered against the wet imprint he left, lips grazing the curve of your jaw before pulling back just a fraction. The whisper of air against your skin was nearly cruel.

Your pulse was roaring in your ears, your mouth was dry, and your heart was hammering like it wanted to break free from your chest and run.

And then—his voice. Low. Velvet-wrapped and lethal,

“Now that... felt a little more honest.”

The words slid down your spine like silk-draped blades—smooth, luxurious, and lethally precise—trailing fire and goosebumps in their wake. Each syllable curled against your skin, warm and intimate, like he’d wrapped his tongue around the sound just to leave it burning on your flesh.

It wasn’t just a sentence. It was a stroke made of sound. And it left you trembling.

And then, just like a ghost, he was gone. You could hear the soft click of his shoes on polished marble as he turned, unhurried, walking away like he hadn’t just set you on fire. 

Halfway back to his desk, his voice cut through the tension like a blade wrapped in silk,

“See ya tomorrow, kitten.”

That voice — low, lazy, and dripping with triumph — was the final nail in your composure.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t need to.

You could feel his smirk in every syllable.

The office door in front of you blurred. Your skin still burned where his mouth had been. Your knees still ached from how close they’d come to giving out. Your body had stopped obeying you the second he’d whispered in your ear — and now?

Now you couldn’t move.

Not because you were afraid.

Because you knew — somewhere deep in the molten wreckage of your thoughts — that this wasn’t over.

He had just begun.

************************************************************************

Sanzu's Inner Monologue

During the events above

The rest of the day was just a slow bleed.

He didn’t speak much after that. Just let the silence do the work. Let you stew in it. Let you feel him every time he shifted in his chair, every time you had to reach across him, every time his scent clung to the air and made you falter.

He didn’t need to flirt. He didn’t need to push.

You were already falling apart. All he had to do was wait.

By 8:23, you were breaking.

You thought you’d made it. Thought you were free. The way you packed up your things—sharp, efficient, forced—was all the confirmation he needed.

Your little escape act. The clipped goodbye. That pathetic, brittle dignity still hanging by a thread. The way you delivered your final line without looking at him, like a robot reciting a farewell.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

You turned. You moved. You reached for the handle.

And then—strike.

He was at your back in a blink, his hand slamming against the doorframe beside your head.

The way you jolted—sublime.

You froze. Didn’t dare move. He stepped in close, so close that his chest grazed your back, that his breath hit the soft curve of your neck, so close that he could smell the nervous sweat.

“Trying to sneak out, ay?”

The fear. The heat. The way your fingers tightened on the doorknob like it was your only lifeline.

He leaned in, nose brushing your skin, inhaling deeply, slowly.

You shuddered.

Good.

He whispered again, slower this time, letting each word drag against your skin,

“All that stiff posture. That desperate little focus on your screen.”

His lips were so close, you must’ve felt every syllable like it was sinking into you.

And then, the final blow:

“But you were never really good at pretending, were you?”

And that was when it hit him—hard.

I could take you right now. Right here, against the door.

His hand twitched.

His other one itched to slide up your waist, to thread into your hair, yank your head back and whisper—

You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.

His lips hovered by your ear.

And for a second, he forgot himself.

Forgot his plan. Forgot the pacing. Forgot the long game he’d so carefully crafted.

He wanted you.

All of you.

Right. Now.

But then—

You shivered.

And that tiny tremble—so fragile, so human—pulled him back from the edge.

No.

Not yet.

If he broke you now, you’d shatter into pieces too small to hold.

And he didn’t want pieces.

He wanted you whole—sobbing, desperate, aware—when you finally gave in.

So instead of taking, he gave you something: a kiss.

Not rushed. Not greedy.

Just one slow, calculated, perfect press of lips to the tender spot just below your ear.

A kiss that wasn’t a kiss—a signature. A claim. One you’d feel every time you tried to sleep.

He felt you crack in real time—the tremble, the gasp, the way you nearly collapsed if not for the doorknob clenched in your fist.

He stepped back, satisfied.

And as your system melted down—completely overloaded and paralyzed—he whispered the last line like a man sealing a letter with wax,

“Now that... felt a little more honest.”

He pulled back, and he swore—for one heartbeat—he felt his own pulse racing.

Almost lost it there, Haruchiyo.

He turned before you could see it in his eyes.

Walked away. Unhurried. Unbothered.

His shoes tapped softly on the floor, the only sound in the room.

And just before he sat back down, without looking over his shoulder, without letting you see how close he’d come to throwing everything away, he dropped his final word like a leash across your throat,

“See you tomorrow, kitten.”

************************************************************************

You couldn’t move.

The door in front of you was blurry, indistinct. Your hand still gripped the handle like it might shatter if you let go. Your knees trembled so badly, you could barely feel your legs.

The warmth of his breath still clung to your skin.

The place where his lips had pressed below your ear pulsed like a bruise—invisible, but scorching.

And behind you—

Nothing.

He was gone.

His footsteps had faded. The space behind you was empty. Cold.

But your body hadn't caught up. You were still frozen.

Still wired for danger, for tension, for him.

You heard the echo of his voice in your ears.

“Now that... felt a little more honest.”

And then.

“See you tomorrow, kitten.”

Your lungs finally remembered how to work, pulling in a shallow, broken breath that sounded like a sob. You blinked once, twice, and reached for the doorknob again.

Your fingers missed the grip on the first try.

************************************************************************

You don’t remember walking into the elevator. Only the cold, sterile silence when the doors slid shut behind you.

The floor numbers ticked down in jerky increments, a flickering countdown to freedom.

But there was no freedom. Not from this.

Your back hit the mirrored wall.

You stared at yourself in the reflection.

You looked... normal.

You looked like you had just finished a normal shift.

Tired. Pale.

But your body told the truth.

Suddenly a choked sound escaped you—some awful thing lodged between a gasp and a swallowed whimper. Your hand flew to your mouth, like you could catch the sound and stuff it back down where it wouldn’t betray you.

You didn’t understand what was happening inside you.

You felt sick.

Hot. Dizzy. Violated.

You wanted to scrub his voice off your skin. You wanted to scream at him, shove him away, and tell him to never, ever do that again.

And yet—

You also wanted to fall through the floor and vanish.

Or worse—run back to him and demand to know what the hell that was.

The thought made your stomach flip.

God, what’s wrong with you?

Your mind reeled, replaying it on a loop. The weight of his chest against your back, the silk-drenched murmur of his voice in your ear, the kiss—

You bit your lip hard, trying to erase it. But your body had already betrayed you. Your skin still tingled, your heartbeat still thundered, and there was a slow, sinking pressure low in your belly that you did not want to acknowledge.

It wasn’t like that. You didn’t want that.

You didn’t…

You pressed your back to the elevator wall, eyes wide, breathing shallow, willing the rising heat in your body to die down.

But it wouldn’t.

Because the worst part was:

You hadn’t said no. You’d just frozen.

And that small, shameful part of you—the one buried so deep you barely recognized it—wasn’t afraid because he’d crossed a line.

It was afraid because a tiny, traitorous voice whispered,

If you hated it so much, why didn’t you stop him?

The thought crashed over you like ice water—sickening, impossible, and yet… it echoed louder than your denial.

You clenched your eyes shut. You didn’t want to feel this.

But you did.

And that terrified you more than anything.

************************************************************************

Your apartment was too quiet.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, everything you’d held together—every ounce of composure—unraveled.

It didn’t just crack. It collapsed.

Your bag slipped from your shoulder with a dull thud. Your coat slid from your arms but never made it to the hanger. You just stood there.

Frozen.

Your hand still tingled from gripping the doorknob like it could anchor you. Your back still burned where the heat of his body had pressed against yours.

You could feel it, even now, like his presence hadn’t stayed at the office, like it had followed you home and clung to your skin.

And behind your ear—

You lifted trembling fingers to it, slowly, like you were afraid to touch it.

There was nothing there.

No mark. No wound.

But it still felt—

Branded.

Not with pain. Not even pleasure.

Just weight. Heat. Confusion.

And a horrible, echoing awareness. 

You sauntered to the bathroom. The mirror didn’t help either.

You splashed water on your face until your skin stung, gripping the porcelain sink like it might split apart beneath your hands. Your reflection looked pale. Wide-eyed. Not scared exactly. Not angry, either.

Just—

What the hell was that?

That was the question that kept clawing at the back of your throat, stuck behind your teeth.

What was that?

And when had he changed so much?

The boy you remembered was quiet. Slightly awkward. Always trailing behind the others, as if he didn’t belong. A little rowdy, but never this bold. He’d never so much as looked at you like that back then. Not even once.

But today?

Today he had cornered you—boxed you in like a predator who already knew the ending.

He hadn’t hesitated.

He hadn’t asked.

He hadn’t needed to.

He kissed you like it was routine. Like it was already his right.

You turned away from the mirror, suddenly too hot.

************************************************************************

Later, in bed, you didn’t even pull the covers up.

You were still in your work clothes, the fabric clinging to your body in all the wrong places. His scent lingered faintly in your collar, your sleeves. You tried not to notice it. Tried to block out the phantom feeling of his breath tracing your skin. But your body wouldn’t let you forget. Every nerve still hummed with aftershock.

Disbelief.

Embarrassment.

Shame.

Your heart wouldn’t slow down.

And your thoughts—

Your thoughts didn’t make sense. They spiraled too fast, colliding with themselves before you could even form words.

Why did he do that? What did he want? What if someone had seen? Why didn’t you say anything?

You didn’t have an answer for any of it. You weren’t even sure what the right answer would look like.

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6    PART 7   PART 8    PART 9   PART 10    PART 11   PART 12    PART 13    PART 14    PART 15 PART 16 PART 17 PART 18   PART 19   PART 20 PART 21

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

Note: The orange-colored text is the characters' inner feelings/monologues during or after certain events. The blue-colored text is used to provide additional context or information—it’s not part of anyone's internal monologue but helps clarify the scene or character dynamics.

************************************************************************

Content warnings: unhealthy/toxic attachments, toxic mindsets, power imbalances, predator/prey dynamics, pet names, cursing, smoking, some canon divergence, workplace harassment, inappropriate thoughts (suggestive but not explicit), unlawful surveillance, stalker behaviour, noncon/dubcon touching (real + in fantasy)

************************************************************************

PART 14

The silence of your apartment was a stark contrast to the oppressive quiet of Sanzu’s office, yet it offered no real solace. The day’s events—Ran’s intrusion, Sanzu’s chilling possessiveness, and the dizzying exchange over his phone number—replayed in a relentless loop behind your eyelids. You couldn't sleep. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw his smirk, felt the phantom brush of his fingers as he took your phone, and heard his final, insidious command.

"Next time, try not to wait 'til you’re falling apart to come to me."

You pushed yourself up, pulling your knees to your chest on the bed, the only light in the room coming from the muted glow of your phone. Your thumb hovered over the screen, drawn to the 'Contacts' icon. He was there now. Haruchiyo Sanzu. Saved under 'Emergency Contact,' just as he’d demanded. It felt like a live wire, humming with unspoken power, a direct line to the man who now seemed to permeate your very thoughts.

How ridiculous. How utterly terrifying. This was a professional relationship. A boss and his assistant. So why did having his number feel like holding a secret, dangerous key? Why did the casual tilt of his head and the languid curve of his lips haunt you with such a visceral intensity?

You traced the outline of your phone, the cold glass a poor substitute for the heat of his skin. You were exhausted, physically and emotionally drained, yet your mind spun in a frantic, unyielding spiral.

You stared at his contact details, the very simplicity of his name stark against the bright screen. His number. His. You wondered what he was doing right now. If he was thinking of you. The thought was beyond absurd, yet it lodged itself stubbornly in your mind.

Then, just as the quiet seemed to press down on you, heavy and suffocating, the screen flickered.

A new message. Not from a familiar contact. It was from the number you had just been staring at.

Your breath hitched. Your heart, already a frantic drum, jolted violently. The phone vibrated, a soft, insistent hum that felt deafening in the silence.

Haruchiyo Sanzu: Miss me?

Your entire body convulsed. Your breath caught, a choked gasp escaping your lips. The phone almost slipped from your trembling fingers.

Miss me?

The audacious, utterly arrogant question ripped through your precarious composure, shattering it into a million frantic pieces.

He knew. He knew exactly the effect he had on you. The casual audacity of those two words, delivered in the dead of night, was a punch to your gut.

Your mind reeled, a thousand panicked thoughts colliding:

How? Did he plan this? What on earth did he expect you to say?

A cold sweat broke out on your skin. You wanted to scream, to throw the phone across the room. But all you could do was stare at the glowing words, trapped in a terrifying spiral of fear, indignation, and an undeniable tremor that had nothing to do with cold. He had just called your bluff without you even realizing you were playing a game.

And now, you were truly, helplessly, falling apart.

************************************************************************

What you didn’t know was that Sanzu was witnessing your meltdown unfold—from the comfort of his luxurious office, legs propped up, a twisted smile pulling at the edges of his scarred mouth.

He had been watching you through the discreet feed on his tablet, the soft glow from your apartment window a beacon in the night.

There you were, curled on your soft bed, knees drawn up to your chest. Your phone clutched in your hands like a lifeline, or perhaps a bomb about to detonate. He zoomed in, just enough to catch the subtle tremor in your fingers, the way your eyes were fixed on the screen. He didn't need to read the pixels to know what you were staring at.

His number. His contact. The 'Emergency Contact' you'd dutifully, nervously, saved.

A slow, satisfied smirk stretched across his face, a private, vicious triumph that tasted sweeter than any drug. He watched you for a long time, enjoying the show. The restless shifts, the way your brow furrowed in that anxious, fragile way. You couldn't sleep. You couldn't escape. Not even in the supposed safety of your own home. He had seeped into your silence, curdled your peace.

He'd known you wouldn't sleep. He’d seen the tension coiling in your shoulders even as you walked out, desperate for escape. And his last words to you—

"Next time, try not to wait 'til you’re falling apart to come to me."

—he could practically feel them echoing in your skull right now. You were falling apart, alright. He could almost smell the frantic energy emanating from you, even through a screen.

Cute little thing. So easily rattled. So wonderfully real.

He reached for his own phone, fingers dancing over the keys. He didn’t hesitate. He knew exactly what he wanted to see. He knew exactly what would shatter that fragile peace you clung to. A flick of his thumb, and the message was sent, sailing through the network, a digital tendril reaching out from his world to yours.

He watched your screen light up, saw you jolt, and saw the sudden, raw fear that flashed across your face before you could even process the words. He watched your body go rigid, the phone nearly slipping from your grasp. God, you were exquisite when you broke like that.

His lips curved into a wider, more feral grin. There it is. The terror. The spiral. He lived for it. This was the true payoff. Not just getting you to ask for his number, but making you feel the weight of having it. The weight of him. Always. Everywhere.

He knew you weren’t really missing him. Not yet, at least. Not in the way he wanted you to. But he was going to change that. It was just a matter of time. This was just the first string. There were so many more to pull. He settled back, eyes still glued to the screen.

Let the show begin, kitten.

************************************************************************

The cold dread of the previous night had solidified into a fierce, brittle resolve by morning. You hadn't slept well, Sanzu's text a phantom vibration under your skin, his Miss me? echoing in the quiet of your apartment.

But as the sun reluctantly crept into the sky, you made a decision. Today, you would be strictly professional. Unflappable. You would ignore the insidious glances, deflect the blatant flirtations and pet names, and focus solely on your work. At the end of the day, you would bid a polite goodbye and escape.

That was the plan. A simple, foolproof plan.

You dressed in your modest, business-like attire, pulling your hair back severely, as if the severe lines could somehow protect you. Your phone remained tucked deep in your bag, its glowing screen from last night a memory you actively tried to suppress.

No more spirals. No more falling apart.

You were an assistant. He was your boss. Nothing more.

Stepping into the office felt like entering a different dimension. The air, usually just air, seemed to hum with his presence. Sanzu was already at his desk, as always, silhouetted against the city skyline. He didn't look up immediately, giving you a fleeting, foolish sense of relief. You walked to your desk, every movement precise, deliberate, a shield against the unspoken.

You turned on your computer, the familiar whir of the machine a welcome distraction. You kept your head down, focused on the monitor, fingers moving with practiced rhythm over the keyboard. Reports, schedules, invoices. Anything but him. You immersed yourself, forcing your gaze onto the screen, refusing to acknowledge the man sitting mere feet away.

You wouldn't notice the way he lounged in the chair across from you —too casual, too comfortable—eyes fixed on you like you were some puzzle he’d already half-solved.

You didn’t look up when he tapped his pen twice. You could still feel his eyes on you, a constant, heavy weight, but you wouldn't react. Not you. Not today.

The first test came subtly. A file was set down beside your keyboard, his hand resting there just long enough for you to notice. You flinched, but kept your eyes glued to your screen, reaching out a hand to retrieve it without turning. Your fingers brushed his as you took the folder. He didn't move his hand away immediately, his fingertips lingering for a beat too long against yours, a silent, electric connection that sent a jolt up your arm. You pulled your hand back as if burned. He made no sound.

You forced yourself to focus, annotating the document, your heart hammering against your ribs. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until his voice, low and silken, finally cut through it.

"Got a headache?"

You froze. For a moment, your composure almost broke. But you manage to keep your gaze fixed on the report, fingers tightening around your pen.

"No. I’m...." You cleared your throat. “ I’m fine."

Your voice was steady, unbelievably so.

He chuckled, a soft, dry sound.

"Just checking. You look a little... wound up."

You ignored him with all you had. Nothing he said was going to affect you. You were steel today. Locked down.

However, minutes later, a fresh cup of coffee, steaming gently, appeared beside your mouse, nudging your elbow. You hadn't made it. You hadn't asked for it. Hell, you were so engulfed in your work that you didn’t even notice when he put it there.

You had no choice but to look up, finally, forced to meet his gaze. He was leaning back in his chair, a familiar, predatory smirk playing on his lips. His eyes, silver and sharp, raked over your determinedly professional posture.

"Thought you might need it," he drawled, his voice pitched just for your ears. "You seem rather... distracted. Couldn't sleep last night?"

The casual insinuation, the direct reference to the "Miss me?" text, hit you like a physical blow. You bit your bottom lip, a furious heat creeping up your neck. He had seen right through your attempts at normalcy, and he was enjoying every second of your discomfort.

"I... I slept fine," you stammered, betraying your resolve immediately.

He laughed, a low, satisfied rumble.

"If you say so," he purred, the words drawn out in a low, mocking sing-song that sent a shiver down your spine. 

You squeezed your eyes shut for a fleeting moment, willing yourself not to combust. This was his game. This was the Sanzu who never made anything easy, who saw your vulnerability and savored it. And the day had barely begun. You knew, with a sinking certainty, that this would be the longest day of your life. And bidding goodbye at the end of it would be anything but professional.

************************************************************************

Sanzu's Inner Monologue

While tormenting you in the office xdxd

You didn’t look at him when you walked in.

Not once.

That alone was hilarious.

The hair — tight, severe. The clothes — boring, safe. The posture — stiff and defensive.

Like you thought you could armor yourself against him with linen and resolve. Cute how you thought you could lock him out with fabric.

He didn’t move. Didn’t look up. He let you pass him in silence, let you perform your little ritual of composure. But his eyes never left you — not really.

He watched you through his lashes, through reflections on glass and polished marble. Every twitch. Every breath. Every crack in your paper-thin resolve.

You thought you were in control today.

And that — that was the best part.

You kept your head down, fingers flying across the keyboard like you might outrun the tension. You wouldn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t need you to. He could feel you. Could feel the way you flinched when he tapped his pen. The way your fingers paused when he moved in his seat. The way your breathing shifted — just slightly — every time his chair creaked.

You’re slipping, aren’t you, little one?

The file was the first test.

He placed it on the desk slowly, like setting bait.

You flinched — just a flicker — then reached for it. Your fingers brushed his, and instead of retreating, he let his touch linger. Soft. Thoughtless.

Except it wasn’t.

He felt the jolt it sent up your arm. Saw it ripple across your shoulders.

You yanked your hand back like you’d been burned.

Excellent.

He said nothing. Just leaned back in his chair and watched you pretend nothing happened.

And that was the first moment of the day where he almost — almost — reached out and grabbed your wrist.

He could already picture it: pulling you up, dragging you into his lap, hands on your hips, lips in your throat.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

“Got a headache?”

He dropped the line lazily, watching you tense like a violin string. Your voice — flat, forced — came back too quickly.

“I’m fine.”

He smiled.

You were lying.

He could see it in your hands, in the too-careful posture, the strain around your mouth. You were coiled so tight he could practically hear you fraying.

The coffee was just to twist the knife.

He placed it beside your mouse without a word. Didn’t rush. Didn’t look at you.

And then he waited.

Waited for you to look up.

When you finally did, when your eyes met and you had no more distractions left to cling to — that was the moment he’d been hunting all morning.

Your lips parted. Your face flushed. He watched the heat crawl up your neck like a confession. He smiled wider.

“You seemed rather... distracted. Couldn’t sleep last night?”

He knew exactly what you were remembering — the text, the smirk, the way your body had gone stiff with tension on your bed in the dark. After all, he had watched it. Planned it.

You stammered. Bit your lip. Tried to lie again.

"I slept fine."

Stop. You’re embarrassing yourself.

“If you say so,” he murmured, voice low and smug.

And when you shut your eyes, just for a heartbeat, like you were praying for the floor to open up beneath you —

That was when he knew you were his again.

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6 PART 7   PART 8   PART 9   PART 10 PART 11   PART 12  PART 13 PART 14

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

Note: The orange-colored text is the characters' inner feelings/monologues during or after certain events. The blue-colored text is used to provide additional context or information—it’s not part of anyone's internal monologue but helps clarify the scene or character dynamics.

************************************************************************

Content warnings: unhealthy/toxic attachments, toxic mindsets, power imbalances, predator/prey dynamics, pet names, cursing, smoking, some canon divergence, workplace harassment, inappropriate thoughts (suggestive but not explicit), mention of drugs/weapons, unlawful surveillance, stalker behaviour

************************************************************************

PART 13

The office air, after Ran’s forced exit, didn’t lighten. If anything, it became denser, colder, and charged with the lingering threat of Sanzu’s silent fury.

He hadn't uttered another word about the incident, nor had he offered any explanation for his sudden appearance or the raw aggression he’d radiated. Instead, he simply returned to his desk, sinking into his chair with that familiar, predatory ease. But the careful nonchalance was a thin veneer.

You felt his gaze on you like a physical weight. Every shift in your chair, every quiet rustle of paper, and every soft tap of your fingers on the keyboard felt amplified and scrutinized.

He rarely looked directly at you for long, content to watch you from the periphery of your vision, a phantom presence that stole your breath and made your skin prickle. You tried to focus on the numbers dancing on your screen, the mundane columns of data that now felt utterly meaningless. But your mind spun, caught between the terrifying image of Ran’s retreating figure and the chilling stillness of the man across from you.

He’s angry, you thought—a cold knot tightening in your stomach. His anger felt like a physical chill radiating across the room, settling on you.

But why?

The question spun uselessly in your head. Was he mad at Ran, or... at you? Did he want an apology? An apology for what, exactly? You hadn't "let" Ran in—he had simply appeared. You hadn't encouraged his comments, hadn't leaned into his presence, and hadn't advanced any of his responses.

Yet your mind raced, desperately trying to pinpoint an offense, but came up blank, lost in a swirling fog of confusion. Yet, his warning, "Careful... with me," echoed in your ears, a constant, chilling reminder that his scary aura, his unsettling stillness, was a threat wrapped in protection, and it made you utterly, terribly worried.

Sanzu hummed a low, tuneless melody, the sound grating against your oversensitized nerves. He scrolled idly on his tablet, his movements languid, almost bored, yet beneath it, you sensed a coiled tension, a simmering, feral energy. He was punishing you, you realized, in his own twisted way. This suffocating silence, this relentless scrutiny, was his method of reminding you of his control, of the consequences of straying even an inch from his expectations.

A shiver ran down your spine that had nothing to do with the office air conditioning. You found your own eyes flicking to him, drawn despite your fear, trying to decipher the unreadable depths of his silver gaze.

He was a force of nature, unpredictable and utterly compelling, and you, caught in his orbit, felt a sickening blend of fear, confusion, and a strange, bewildering pull. Why were you even here? What was going on inside his head, behind those unblinking eyes? It left you feeling utterly exposed, hyper-aware of every breath you took, every shift of your weight, as if under a constant, invisible spotlight.

As the afternoon dragged on, endless and heavy, a chilling certainty settled over you: the office air, once familiar, had irrevocably shifted. The sterile quiet was now charged with a pervasive tension, and the man across from you, the boy who once accepted your umbrella, was now a profoundly unsettling presence, watching, waiting.

The work you were supposed to do seemed secondary, almost irrelevant. Everything, suddenly, felt centered around him.

************************************************************************

The office air had solidified into a heavy, oppressive quiet as the evening deepened. Hours had passed since Ran Haitani's unwelcome visit and Sanzu's chilling display, yet the tension lingered like a cold hand on your spine.

Sanzu remained at his desk, a silent, watchful presence, occasionally tapping on his tablet or signing a document with a decisive, almost violent flourish, but his presence was a constant, sharp awareness that permeated every corner of the room.

You tried to lose yourself in the reports, the mundane numbers a desperate anchor, but your mind kept replaying the morning's unsettling silence. He hadn't been in. No one had told you if he was coming, or what to do. You'd sat there, paralyzed, unsure whether to begin work, whether to wait, or whether you were doing something wrong by simply existing without his explicit direction.

The minutes had stretched, heavy and uncertain, until he finally arrived, bringing with him not reassurance, but a new, terrifying edge to the already precarious atmosphere. Could the whole incident with Ran have been avoided if you had just called him? Asked him about what you should do in his absence? 

Now, as the clock edged past your usual departure time, that memory pricked at you again. How ridiculous was it that you, his direct subordinate, working in his private office, had no way to reach him? No number. No direct line of contact outside these walls. You'd never asked, too timid, too unsure of the boundaries. He'd certainly never offered.

A strange ache pulsed low in your ribs, a knot of confusion and a profound sense of unpreparedness. It felt like being adrift, without a compass in a sea of unspoken rules. Your phone lay useless in your hand, cold and silent, a stark reminder of the missing link.

You knew he wouldn't tell you to leave, not until he was ready. And you couldn't just go. You two hadn’t uttered a single word after he fiercely stated, “Tell them to keep their hands—and their eyes—to themselves.”

So, the thought of simply walking out, breaking the unspoken vigil, sent a fresh wave of anxiety through you. No. You should ask for his number. This bizarre, unnerving dependence meant you needed that basic line of communication. Yes, that was it. This was a professional need. You definitely weren’t trying to re-establish communication with your boss-slash-childhood crush.

Taking a slow, shuddering breath, you pushed your chair back, the soft scrape echoing in the hushed room. Sanzu's head tilted, just a fraction, acknowledging your movement without looking directly at you. You walked towards his desk, each step feeling impossibly heavy, your palms damp. 

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. "Um…Do you have a minute?" Your voice came out as barely a whisper, thin and apologetic. 

He didn’t look up until you were standing just a few feet away, casting a subtle shadow over his work. Then, slowly, deliberately, his silver eyes lifted.

"Yes?" he drawled, his voice a low, even purr. The sound, usually so flat, now seemed to ripple with a dangerous curiosity.

"I… I’m sorry for bothering you, but…it’s just that…. I don't have your contact number." You gestured vaguely at your phone, held tight in your clammy hand. "Just in case… something comes up, work-related. Or if I, um, need to know what to do when you’re not here.”

For a long moment, Sanzu just looked at you. His eyes, usually unreadable, seemed to gleam with a sudden, predatory light. A slow, almost imperceptible change came over his features. The grim tension that had settled around him since Ran’s visit finally dissipated, replaced by something entirely different. A corner of his scarred mouth lifted, slowly, almost lazily, into a smirk. It was the first time he'd truly smiled all day, a sight that was both victorious and utterly unnerving.

He had won.

"What, you finally gonna admit you were dying to text me?" he purred, his voice dropping, laced with a shameless amusement that made your face burn crimson. He pushed back his chair, leaning across the desk, his gaze pinning you in place. "Could’ve just said so.”

Your jaw tightened. Every instinct screamed to protest, to explain it was just for work, but the words died in your throat under the scorching heat of his gaze.

And before a single word could come out of your mouth, he simply extended his arm and took the phone from your fumbling hands. His fingers, long and elegant, brushed yours for a fleeting second, sending an electric jolt up your arm. He barely glanced at the screen before his thumb expertly navigated to your contacts. He typed with a fluid ease, his expression unreadable once more, save for that lingering smirk. He was enjoying this way too much.

As he finished, he leaned in, lowering his voice until it was a low, intimate rumble that vibrated through your chest.

"There." His eyes, sharp and glinting, met yours.

"Just make sure you put me under..." His thumb hovered over the screen, then decisively tapped. "... emergency contact."

He straightened, a dangerous glint in his eye as he handed the phone back to you. The weight of it in your hand felt foreign.

"You’ll need it," he murmured, his smirk widening into something utterly feral.

You clutched the phone, your heart still hammering against your ribs. It was still warm from his touch. You didn't dare look at the screen, but you knew his number was there now, just waiting.

But seeing an opening, however small, you took a hesitant breath. "Um.. the reports for today are done... so is it ok if I leave?” Your voice was barely audible by the time you finished that sentence. 

Sanzu's smirk tightened, his gaze sweeping over you with unnerving slowness. He didn't answer immediately, letting the silence stretch, savoring your visible discomfort. Just when you thought he might deny you outright, his head tilted, his eyes glinting with a sharp amusement.

"Go on," he drawled, a languid wave of his hand dismissing you. His smirk widened, now edged with pure, unadulterated satisfaction.

Just as you turned to take your bag, “Oh, and sweetheart—”

His voice curled around you like smoke, stopping you dead mid-step. You turned, pulse stuttering. He was still lounging in his chair, gaze heavy, voice thick with amusement.

“Next time, try not to wait 'til you’re falling apart to come to me.”

Your cheeks flamed crimson. You didn't dare utter another word. You nodded stiffly and practically fled back to your desk, grabbing your bag without looking back. Now, with his direct contact in your hand, you had, in a terrifying way, just cemented your place within his orbit.

************************************************************************

What does Sanzu actually do on his tablet?

Let's be real here—Sanzu isn't the type to give a damn about business. Unlike Kakucho, he'd rather be out there chopping heads than looking at quarterly reports. Even as a Bonten exec, he’s more chaos enforcer than corporate shark. So in the fic, when I mention him using his tablet, here’s what he might actually be doing:

Surveillance & Tracking (Cameras, GPS, Social Media Scraping): Sanzu's tablet is a window into his obsession, allowing him to maintain constant, unsettling surveillance. He's likely hooked into the security footage of Bonten properties, watching other important Bonten members (especially Mikey), VIP guests, and subordinates with a hawk-like intensity. He's meticulously checking GPS trackers he's planted on cars or, more disturbingly, on phones—especially yours. Every movement you make, every location you visit, is meticulously logged. He even has a camera installed discreetly next to your apartment, allowing him to see you at home, capturing glimpses of your private life that he shouldn't have. And the times when he's not focused on you, he'd be watching clips of Mikey’s fights or public sightings over and over, a chilling, almost devotional ritual that feeds his twisted loyalty.

Sanzu's Digital Playground: Sanzu's tablet also serves as a portal to his inner chaos, manifested through the games he plays. He might be engrossed in ultraviolent mobile games, indulging in gory survival shooters or intricate strategy-crime simulators where he can virtually dismantle societies. Alternatively, he might fixate on repetitive, mindless tasks within games—endlessly farming levels, grinding through gambling mechanics, or engaging in other compulsive actions—all designed to quiet the incessant noise in his head. His choices often lean towards games with anarchy themes, where he can build his own digital gang, seize control of a city, or watch it burn, reflecting his destructive tendencies in a simulated environment.

Sanzu's Dark Web Fixations: Sanzu's tablet also serves as a portal to the grimy underbelly of the internet, perfectly aligning with his canon persona of erratic behavior and heavy drug use. He'd often browse encrypted networks for drugs or scout for black-market weapons. Beyond illicit shopping, his screen is likely filled with violent videos—raw gang footage, brutal underground livestreams of fights—which he consumes with a chilling, almost academic interest.

Sanzu's Digital Shrine of You: He'd definitely have a folder named /y/n/ or something equally cryptic, containing thousands of images that form a horrifying visual timeline of your life, especially during the twelve years you two were apart. These would include screenshots from long-deleted social media, photos you don't remember posting, blurry distant shots taken without your knowledge, even pictures from your middle and high school yearbooks, sourced through unknown means. The folder would also include a detailed background check, a copy of your résumé, details of all your previous workplaces, and pages of timestamped notes about your routine.

I personally think he'd spend most of his time doing the last one, especially after reuniting with you. Like, he wouldn't just archive your life like some deranged collector; he would actively try to "experience" it secondhand, as if he had been there all along. He wouldn't be scrolling through that folder passively. Instead, he'd be watching a three-second video of you brushing your hair like it was a shared memory, reading your job updates or Instagram captions as if you'd told them to him yourself, and zooming into your smile from old photos, whispering "I remember that day"—even though he wasn't there. This chilling digital reconstruction was his way of filling the hole you left, a perverse attempt to bridge twelve years of silence with a manufactured reality.

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6 PART 7   PART 8   PART 9   PART 10 PART 11   PART 12  PART 13 PART 14

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

Note: The orange-colored text is the characters' inner feelings/monologues during or after certain events. The blue-colored text is used to provide additional context or information—it’s not part of anyone's internal monologue but helps clarify the scene or character dynamics.

************************************************************************

Content warnings: unhealthy/toxic attachments, toxic mindsets, power imbalances, predator/prey dynamics, pet names, cursing, smoking, some canon divergence, workplace harassment, inappropriate thoughts (very suggestive but not explicit), jealous Sanzu, Ran Haitani being a charming menace

************************************************************************

PART 12

You closed the apartment door behind you like you were afraid the hallway might hear your thoughts.

It clicked shut.

Silence. Your world went still.

The soft hum of the refrigerator. The faint creak of pipes. The street noise, muffled by double-pane windows. Your keys dropped into the dish by the door like they always did. You took off your shoes. Put your bag on the side.

Everything was normal.

But you weren’t.

You walked into the kitchen on autopilot. Tap on. Glass under. Water. Sip. Repeat. You weren’t thirsty. Just... stalling.

Because the backseat still clung to your skin.

You closed your eyes.

He hadn’t said much in the car. Barely a few words.

But he didn’t need to.

You could feel everything he didn’t say in the silence. In the way he sat, just a breath too close. In the way his arm stretched behind you on the seat, not quite touching, but god—it had felt like it.

Your breath shook.

You hadn’t said anything back. Hadn’t looked at him for the rest of the ride. But God, you’d felt him.

The heat, the weight, the way his knee brushed yours like he meant to undo you cell by cell.

You pressed the cold rim of the glass to your lips. Tried to pretend your skin wasn’t still buzzing.

Tried not to think about how close he’d been.

You somehow make it to the bed. Clothes peeled off like shedding memory, one piece at a time. The skirt. The blouse. The stockings. Each layer was still humming with phantom touch. Each thread soaked in everything he hadn’t done.

You stood there in your underwear, the cold air hitting your skin. You quickly put on an oversized T-shirt. 

You sat on the edge of your bed and dropped your head into your hands.

“You good?” He had asked at the time.

You weren’t.

Not at all.

You weren’t used to this version of him. Older. Rougher. Unfiltered.

You pulled your legs up, curled into yourself like you could make your body forget.

“You can look. Just know—I always notice when you do.”

A sound escaped you. Quiet. Unsteady.

You turned over, burying your face in your pillow.

It was fine. You were fine.

You’d walk in tomorrow, and it would all be fine.

Just a job. Just a ride.

Just a man you definitely hadn’t been thinking about for the past twelve years.

Nothing more...

...Right?

************************************************************************

The morning light spilled in cold and gold through the wall-length windows, illuminating the sharp glass corners of the office like they were part of a museum exhibit. Clean. Precise. Silent.

Too silent.

You walked in expecting the usual: cigarette smoke curling in the air, the faint click of Sanzu’s tablet as he scrolled with that slow, elegant carelessness he wore like cologne. Maybe a low hum of music playing through his phone, something with too much bass and not enough lyrics.

Instead, nothing.

No Sanzu.

Just your own reflection in the glass—nervous, uncertain, completely alone.

You stood there awkwardly, hands still clutching the strap of your bag, unsure if you should sit at your desk or wait for him to materialize like he always did—sudden, sharp, inevitable.

Should you be doing something? Starting reports on your own?

You should ask him. Yes, just give him a call.

But suddenly, the realization made your stomach twist. You didn't even have his number.

Like, how ridiculous was that? You worked in his office. Reported directly to him. Shared cars and office space and entirely too much tension—and yet…

No number. No line of contact.

You’d never asked. And he’d never offered.

A strange ache pulsed low in your ribs—somewhere between confusion and… something else. It was like being caught in a dream where you were supposed to be prepared but had forgotten the most basic thing. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and realizing you had no idea how deep it went.

Your phone sat useless in your hand. Cold. Silent.

Did he forget? Was he testing you?

You shook the thought off and stood up. Began pacing quietly near your desk, hands fidgeting with your sleeves as you tried to recall your onboarding documents. Your chest felt too tight. Your thoughts were too loud.

Where was he?

And more importantly, why the hell hadn’t he told you how to reach him?

What you didn’t know is that Haruchiyo Sanzu already had your number. Had it memorized. Had your full file tucked away in encrypted folders—your school transcripts, family tree, job history, medical records, your relationship history or lack thereof, even the name of your childhood goldfish. He was simply waiting. Waiting for the day you’d squirm enough to finally ask. Because when you did, he’d smile like the devil getting exactly what he wanted.

************************************************************************

You told yourself not to panic.

He was probably just late. Or maybe busy. Or maybe—dead in a ditch?

No. NO. You shook the thought from your head. Don’t be dramatic.

Still, you didn’t know what your tasks were. Didn’t know if you were supposed to go through the reports from yesterday or wait for something new. The desk felt colder without him at it. The whole room did.

You were pacing. Just a little. Slow, hesitant steps over the soft rug between your desk and his. You weren’t even thinking. You just needed to move. Needed to do something other than check the clock every ten seconds.

So when the door opened behind you, you didn’t hear it.

And you bumped into someone.

A warm chest. A slight grunt. A tall figure.

You gasped and stumbled back, eyes flying up to meet a pair of amused violet ones.

“Oh?” the man said, a smirk already blooming across his face. “Didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart.”

You blinked. Stared.

Tall. Sharp. Pretty in the way that spelled danger. His hair, slicked back in deliberate waves, faded from black to a soft lavender, the color catching faintly in the city lights. Violet eyes, unreadable and half-lidded, tracked the world with lazy disinterest. Expensive suit. Lazy posture. A glint of something silver on his fingers and a knowing look in his eyes, like he was used to being stared at—and liked it.

Ran Haitani.

You’d seen him before. Briefly. Around Sanzu. Always lingering in the background like a shadow with better lighting.

“I—uh—sorry,” you stammered, stepping back, mortified.

“Don’t be.” His gaze flicked up and down. Not in a rush. Not even pretending to be polite. “Didn’t know Sanzu had company so early.”

You blinked again. “I—I'm his PA. He’s not… here. Umm....yet. I mean—I don’t know where he is, actually.”

Ran raised a brow. “Really?”

You nodded, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “I was just… waiting.”

He smiled like he knew exactly what kind of waiting that was.

“Is that so?” The smile on his face shifted—still charming, but sharper now. “Huh. Must get boring. All alone up here, with no one to talk to.”

“I—”

He stepped closer.

Not close enough to touch. But enough to set off every alarm in your spine.

“You look a little tense,” he said. “Has Sanzu been working you too hard?” His tone was casual. Too casual. Like he was testing the air between you just to see what would spark.

You took a breath. Tried to step back.

But he followed—just a little. He let his gaze drift over her, slow and deliberate.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was hiding you.”

“I—I don’t think—”

He laughed—low, slow, like he enjoyed the way you flinched. “Easy,” he drawled. “I’m just teasing.”

His gaze dipped to your mouth, lingered a second too long, then dragged down to your collarbone like a threat wrapped in silk. “Well… mostly.

He stepped even closer. His hand reached out—maybe to touch a strand of your hair, maybe not. You couldn’t tell. Your body had frozen. He was close enough now that you could smell his cologne—something darker than Sanzu’s, heavier, spiced with trouble.

And that’s when you heard it.

The door.

It didn’t slam.

It didn’t need to.

But the air changed.

Thickened. Shifted.

You turned.

Sanzu stood in the doorway.

He was still wearing his black coat, draped open like a threat. His hair was damp. Hands bare. No cigarette, no tie, no warmth.

But his eyes?

Silver. Sharp. Blisteringly cold.

They didn’t even glance at you. They were locked on Ran.

Ran didn’t move. He just smiled slowly, like he’d been caught doing something innocent.

“Yo,” he said, casual as ever. “Was looking for you.”

Sanzu didn’t respond.

Didn’t blink.

And for a second—just one—

You saw it.

The flicker in his jaw. The flex of his fingers. That silent rage that always sat just under his skin like a wire waiting to snap.

His eyes dropped—slowly—to where Ran stood just a little too close to you.

Then he finally spoke.

Voice low. Velvet. Venom beneath.

“Move.”

A pause. Then quieter—deadlier.

“Now. Before I make you.”

You barely heard the words. But your skin felt them. Every syllable hit like a blade to the spine.

Because it wasn’t a request.

It was a promise.

And Ran?

He just chuckled—softly—but he moved. Raising his hands in mock surrender like a man who knew he’d been caught brushing against something sharp.

“No harm done,” he murmured, backing off.

You felt your stomach twist.

And Sanzu?

He still hadn’t looked at you.

But his silence screamed.

************************************************************************

The door had barely clicked shut behind Ran before silence came crashing down again. But this time it wasn’t empty.

It was full. Thick with it. Suffocating.

Your heartbeat pulsed like it was trying to outrun the silence.

You didn’t know if you were supposed to speak, move, or even breathe.

Sanzu still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t looked at you. He just stood there in the threshold, coat dark and open, hair drying in uneven waves from whatever hell he’d crawled back from.

You swallowed hard and then tried to speak.

“…I didn’t know where you were. You weren’t—”

He cut you off. Not with words. But by finally turning his head.

And looked at you.

Not a glance. Not a flick. He looked at you like a man dragging a cigarette after starving for one all day.

Slow. Seething. Hungry.

Your words dried up instantly.

His eyes slid from your face—down your throat, past the nervous twitch of your fingers, to where Ran had been standing just moments ago. Too close. Far too close.

Then Sanzu laughed.

Not the soft kind. Not the dangerous, teasing one you’d come to recognize.

This one had no humor in it.

Just heat. And sharp edges.

“You looked comfortable,” he said at last.

You blinked, caught off guard. Then, immediately, you scrambled for an answer—

“W—What? I—I wasn’t—he just—he was looking for you, I didn’t—”

Sanzu took a step forward.

Just one. But it was enough.

The way he moved—slow, predatory, with the confidence of someone who had never been denied a single thing he decided to take.

“Funny.”

His voice was low. Measured. Icy enough to burn.

"Didn’t know I started letting strays wander in."

You blinked. Your pulse was climbing now, your spine trying to decide if it wanted to stand taller or collapse entirely.

He took a step forward.

One. Unhurried. Soundless.

But something behind his eyes had shifted.

“Ran’s bold,” Sanzu murmured. “I’ll give him that.”

Another step. His boots quiet over the rug, but somehow it felt like thunder.

“Walking into places he doesn’t belong. Touching things that aren’t his.”

He tilted his head—just slightly. Not smiling. Not blinking.

“You let him in?”

“I didn’t—he just—came in asking for you, and I—”

“Huh.”

One syllable. Flat. Deadly.

He was close now. Not touching you—but every line of his body was loaded. His coat shifted with his breath, sharp shoulders beneath heavy fabric.

"Didn’t look like you minded his company."

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t answer—not when he was looking at you like that.

Sanzu’s gaze dropped—slowly—to the space beside your hip, where Ran had leaned in earlier. His expression didn’t change, but the tension in the air twisted like wire pulled too tight.

“Was he funny?” His voice was flat, sharp. “Did you laugh for him?”

You shook your head. Fast. Too fast.

He hummed—just once. A sound with no melody.

Then he leaned in.

Not much. Just enough that his words slid across your skin like a knife dragged flat over your throat.

“Careful,” he simply said.

Your brows drew together.

“With him?”

His eyes met yours—finally.

“With me.”

The warning in it wasn’t loud. Didn’t have to be. It pulsed beneath the surface like something hot coiled just under his ribs, waiting to strike.

And then—without touching you—he pulled back.

“Start the reports,” he said, already moving toward his desk.

But just before he sat, right as your heart tried to settle, he looked at you once more.

A flick of his eyes. Just enough to cut.

“Next time someone walks into this office…” his voice dropped—low, lethal.

“Tell them to keep their hands—and their eyes—to themselves.”

Then he sank into it—legs sprawled, coat falling open like a crown of thorns.

And the tension?

It didn’t leave. It just settled into your bones, warm and electric and very, very alive.

************************************************************************

Sanzu's Inner Feelings

After the Ran incident

He didn’t kill Ran. That was restraint. Because he wanted to.

God, he wanted to.

The moment he opened the door and saw you—your eyes wide, voice small, that bastard standing a breath away from you like he’d earned the right to be near you—

Every instinct went black.

You were standing in his office. And someone else was looking at you like you weren’t already spoken for.

He hadn’t claimed you. Not yet. But that didn’t mean you were free either.

Not to stand there and take it. Not to let him stare like that without saying a word. Not to let Ran fucking Haitani look at you like you were a dessert on someone else’s plate.

You didn’t laugh. He knew that.

You weren’t flirting. You never would.

But you let him get close. Let him breathe your air.

And for someone like Sanzu, that was enough.

His jaw ached from how tight he’d clenched it. His fingers still curled like he was holding a blade. The ghost of Ran’s smug voice rang in his ears.

"If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was hiding you."

Of course he was. And Ran had the fucking nerve to say it out loud.

Sanzu’s eyes cut toward you, nervous at your desk now, typing like your life depended on it.

You looked guilty. Good.

Because this? This was your warning.

He hadn’t touched you. Hadn’t pinned you to that desk like he should have. Hadn’t made you scream his name with your legs wrapped around his waist and your shame forgotten on the floor.

Not yet.

But next time? Next time someone walked in and looked at you like that again—like you were available, like you weren’t already his—

They wouldn’t walk out with their hands intact.

Because you were in his office. Under his roof. Wearing his silence like perfume. And even if you didn’t know it yet—

You were already his favorite sin.

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6 PART 7   PART 8   PART 9   PART 10 PART 11   PART 12  PART 13 PART 14

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

The orange-colored text is the characters' inner feelings/monologues during or after certain events. I took inspiration from YOU, where Joe Goldberg constantly narrates his feelings and observations in a similar way. But obviously Sanzu won't be so subtle and poetic 😜😜

************************************************************************

Content warnings: unhealthy/toxic attachments, toxic mindsets, power imbalances, predator/prey dynamics, pet names, cursing, smoking, mention of drugs, some canon divergence, workplace harassment, inappropriate thoughts (suggestive but not explicit)

************************************************************************

PART 11

You were supposed to be working. Supposed to be reviewing quarterly reports from one of the front-facing companies. Numbers. Names. Memos. A sea of clean black ink on a white digital canvas. The cursor blinked at you, waiting patiently on the screen. Unlike your brain—which had very much wandered off.

Your thoughts were tangled somewhere between the past and the present—drifting like dust motes through time, landing where they didn’t belong. Somewhere behind your eyes, you were still sitting cross-legged in the shade of the willow tree, watching a lanky, sharp-eyed boy sulk over his bento.

Twelve years ago, you used to split your sandwiches with a boy who never smiled unless he thought no one was looking. Haruchiyo, back then. Quiet. Sharp. Always looking like he was ready to either cry or kill someone. The cuts on his hands back then had been clumsy, angry things. His clothes never fit right. His smile had been broken even before his mouth was.

He never talked much. But when he did, he spoke like someone who didn’t expect to be heard.

You thought of those days far too often.

And now, here you were. Sitting just a few feet from him, but in a different world entirely. One that felt sleek, sharp, and far more dangerous than anything you were prepared for.

Your eyes slid across the room again, despite yourself.

Sanzu Haruchiyo. Haru-kun, as you once called him.

He didn’t look like a boy anymore.

He was leaning lazily in his chair, one leg stretched out, fingers scrolling through his tablet while the other hand held a smoldering cigarette between ink-stained fingers. Now he sat across the room in a tailored navy suit vest, the vest buttoned to the middle, and suit pants hugging his hips like a sin. His sleeves were rolled up, veins flexing with every tap of his fingers on that obsidian-black tablet. Your eyes traced the curve of his throat where his collar sat open—messy, careless, expensive. He was all edges now—scarred lips, a jawline like glass, and long fingers stained faintly with cigarette smoke and ink.

The pink of his hair had grown out into uneven layers, framing his face like he’d cut it himself in a frenzy and just decided to roll with it. It fell in messy waves, brushing against the sharp edges of his jaw, softening nothing. One side was tucked carelessly behind a pierced ear, the glint of silver catching the office lights like a promise and a threat.

And that scar. That savage, stitched smile carved into his face like some deity's cruel joke —

It should’ve repelled you.

But instead, it… anchored you. Like you couldn’t look away.

The man was a weapon dressed like wealth.

And you were staring.

Not just looking—but locked. Chin tilted, mouth slightly parted, eyes fixed as if trying to understand how the scrawny boy with bruised knuckles and broken smiles had become this.

So when his head lifted—slow and sharp—and those silver-gray eyes landed on yours—you couldn’t look away fast enough. It was too late.

A beat passed.

And then that smirk unfurled. 

The slow, lopsided kind that made the scar twist with menace and mockery all at once. Something smug curled at the corner of his mouth, deep and dangerous.

He stared at your face, and his eyes—gray and glinting—were predator-still. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. Just tilted his head slightly, watching you like a wolf watching a trembling hare.

“Like what ya see?”

Your entire body stiffened.

Your hands flew back to the keyboard with the speed of guilt. “I—I wasn’t—I mean, I was just—”

“Mmm.” He hummed, unconvinced. “You always were a bad liar.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, like he’d already won something you hadn’t realized was a game.

“Were you staring at my hands?” he asked, casually. “My face? Or was it the vest? People usually get stuck on the vest.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your ears were already burning.

And before you could scramble together another excuse, you heard the chair shift. The soft creak of leather. The unmistakable sound of approaching steps—measured and slow.

Your stomach dropped.

Sanzu stopped behind your chair, then leaned in without a word.

You could feel him. Heat radiating through your back. One hand came down to rest on the edge of your desk, the other on the back of your seat, brushing your shoulder—not enough to touch, just near enough to burn.

His mouth was at your ear now, breath teasing your skin.

“If you’re gonna look at me like that,” he whispered, “you could at least have the guts to keep looking when I catch you.”

You swallowed. Hard.

Then—God help you—you decided to open your big mouth.

“…M-Maybe if you didn’t look like that while you worked, it’d be easier to focus,” you muttered without thinking, voice barely above a whisper.

For a second, the silence stretched. Then—

A low laugh rumbled from his chest, dark and amused. You could feel it—like a vibration in your spine.

“Ohh? So now it’s my fault?” His voice dipped lower, each word coiling like velvet smoke. “That’s rich.”

He leaned closer, lips grazing the shell of your ear. Your breath hitched.

“I could take it off, you know. The vest. The shirt. Hell, the whole suit. Would that help you focus, princess?” 

You choked on nothing. Your whole body locked up like a system error.

“Just kidding,” he said, but his tone said otherwise.

Not kidding. Not even a little.

You turned your head, only to find his face much closer than expected—his expression unreadable, but his eyes blazing with something far more dangerous than teasing.

“You got questions?” he asked with a smirk.

Your lips parted, but no sound came. All you could do was dumbly stare at him.

“S’okay,” he muttered, leaning in so close your skin lit up like a wire. “You can look. Just know—I always notice when you do.”

And then—like he hadn’t just undone your spine with a handful of words—he pulled away, straightening, sauntering back to his desk like a man who knew he’d already won.

“Eyes on the screen, sweetheart,” he called over his shoulder. “Unless you want me to give you something better to focus on.”

Your hands shook as you returned to the keyboard.

The screen flickered.

And your heart—twelve years older, but none the wiser—still hadn't learned how to handle him.

And behind you?

Sanzu was still watching. Still thinking. Still planning.

Because now he knew something for certain.

You could pretend that you didn’t want him.

But your body would never lie to him again.

************************************************************************

Sanzu's Inner Thoughts

After he caught you staring

Ohh, sweetheart. You have no idea.

You think you’re the one staring? Watching me like I’m some puzzle you’re trying not to solve? Cute.

Because if you had any idea how many times I’ve looked at your mouth today alone—how many times I’ve imagined exactly what it would sound like gasping under me while that proper little skirt is bunched around your hips…

You wouldn’t be able to look me in the eye at all.

Every time you bite your lip? I think about biting it for you.

Every time you cross those legs like you’re trying to stay modest in this goddamn office—I think about dragging that chair back and seeing how fast I can ruin that composure.

You're trying so hard to be good. So proper. But you’re watching me like you want to sin. And fuck, I’d let you.

When he is behind your chair

God, you’re right in front of me.

I could have you if I so much as breathed wrong. You’re wound up so tight I can smell the tension on your skin.

And you’re still pretending this is just a job. Still playing that little role behind your desk like it means something. Sweetheart, I could have you on top of it before your screen even goes to sleep.

I bet you’d say no at first. All shy. But your hips wouldn’t lie. Your thighs would open like they already know who they belong to.

I’d be gentle at first. But only until you begged. And you would.

You always were so soft. And now you’re mine to press into, piece by fucking piece.

Final thoughts while walking away

You’ll think about this tonight. Bet on that.

You’ll lie in your bed, pretending it’s not me you’re imagining pressing you down.

But I know you. I’ve always known you. You’ll use that sweet little memory of my voice in your ear—and then walk in tomorrow pretending nothing happened.

And I’ll let you pretend.

For now.

************************************************************************

The day was over, yet your mind clearly hadn’t gotten the memo. You were now going down the elevator, but the ride down felt longer than usual.

You clutched your bag tight, heart still fluttering from whatever that was upstairs—those words in your ear, that goddamn smirk. You thought the silence of the night might cool the fire still simmering in your chest.

It didn’t.

The driver nodded as the car door opened, the familiar black vehicle like a shadow waiting to swallow you whole. You ducked in and exhaled slowly.

And then—another door clicked open.

And he got in, too.

You turned, startled. “Oh—Uhhh—What are you doing here?”

Sanzu didn’t look at you. Just slid in smoothly, one hand tugging the door shut, the other already pulling out his phone. “Relax,” he muttered, voice low and lazy. “Got places to be. And it’s on the way.”

You froze.

Still, you nodded like an idiot, heart racing under your blouse as the car pulled into the night. The city lights streaked past the tinted windows like static. You tried not to stare. You tried not to think about how close he was sitting.

But God. He wasn't making it easy.

You were trying to take up as little space as humanly possible. Knees drawn inward, ankles crossed, bag hugged to your chest. Your whole body curled up small. Contained. Like if you could just occupy less space, you’d feel less… exposed.

You hadn’t expected him to get in.

The car had always been yours alone—his order, his rule, his driver—but when Sanzu slipped into the backseat beside you tonight, something shifted. You didn’t even know if he told the truth, but you didn’t dare question him.

His thigh was inches from yours—legs spread wide like he owned the space, arm stretched across the backseat. And then it happened. His leg grazed your knee, slow and unbothered, like it wasn’t even worth noticing.

But you noticed. Hell, you nearly gasped when it happened. It was just for a moment. Just a graze. But it was enough to set your nerves on fire. You held still, heart hammering.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move again. Just sat there like nothing happened. One leg still splayed open, hand still resting behind you.

You shifted your legs again. Your fingers tangled in your lap. Your breaths came shorter.

Then suddenly, his fingers brushed the edge of your shoulder—maybe accidentally, maybe not. He smelled like smoke and something colder underneath. Like metal. Like midnight.

You bit your lip and pressed your thighs together even tighter.

From the corner of your eye, you can swear you saw him smirk.

Just a flicker—there and gone—but it curled low in your stomach all the same.

He continued scrolling idly through his phone with one hand, thumb tapping slowly, but his gaze flicked up. Once. Twice.

You felt it every time. The weight of it. Like he wasn’t just looking—like he was deciding.

And you wondered, again—

Why is he here?

You kept your eyes on the window. On the streetlamps, blurring past like ghost lights. You tried not to breathe too loudly. Tried not to notice the steady thrum in your chest or how his scent was crawling into your lungs like it belonged there.

The silence was unbearable. Not cold. Not awkward.

Tense. Electric. Charged.

You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat. You wondered why he was here tonight. You wondered—yet again—what you were even doing in his world.

You were nothing special. Nothing polished. Just a quiet girl trying to survive, tucked into a skirt from the clearance rack and a job that made your stomach twist with questions you were too afraid to ask.

And yet—here you were. And there he was.

You moved slightly, just enough to pull your legs in even tighter.

Smaller. Quieter.

Maybe if you made yourself invisible, you’d stop thinking about the heat of his thigh two inches from yours. Or the way his breath subtly changed when you moved.

You didn’t dare look at him.

But he looked at you.

You felt it again. That stare. But this time, it was lingering. Dragging across your profile like a touch he was holding back. The phone stilled in his hand. His body shifted.

And then—

“You good?” he asked, leaning in just slightly, voice pitched low—too low, like it wasn’t meant for anyone but you.

You startled. Turned your head instinctively. His eyes were already on you.

Big. Knowing. Predatory.

You blinked. “I—yeah. Just—a long day.”

“You’re awfully quiet,” he murmured, like he wasn’t trying to tease—just observing. Reading you. Watching you squirm without ever laying a hand.

You nodded again, eyes darting back to the window, cheeks burning. “Umm… Just… tired.”

It was the safest lie you could come up with. The easiest.

You didn’t dare admit the truth.

Not that your pulse was racing. Not that the skin on your shoulder still tingled where his fingers had grazed it. Not that you could still feel the phantom warmth of his leg against yours.

And definitely not that his voice—low and intimate and close—was still echoing somewhere beneath your ribs.

You sat with it, trying to breathe around the weight of it, pretending it hadn’t unraveled something inside you.

The rest of the ride was quiet, but not peaceful.

You kept your eyes fixed on the blur of streetlights and neon, pretending you couldn’t feel his gaze brush over you every few minutes, assessing and amused, like he was waiting to see how long you could keep pretending you weren’t affected.

You didn’t move again. You didn’t trust yourself to.

Every nerve in your body was drawn tight. Every inch of space between you felt like it might combust.

The city outside passed in silence.

And then the car slowed.

When it finally pulled up outside your building, you fumbled with the handle like your fingers weren’t working.

“Thank you,” you murmured, barely meeting his eyes.

Sanzu didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. Long. Unblinking.

Then he spoke.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart.”

His voice wrapped around you like sin.

And you stepped out—legs barely holding—wondering how you were supposed to walk into your apartment like your skin wasn’t still buzzing.

************************************************************************

Sanzu Inner Monologue: His POV

After the car ride

I told her it was on the way. It wasn't. Not even fucking close.

But I didn't feel like sending her off tonight. I told myself I was just getting in the car to watch. No harm. No touch. No games. Just a twenty-minute ride so I could see her in a space she couldn't run from.

But now? She was fucking killing me.

Sitting there like that—so small. So tight. Like she was trying to disappear into the leather. All curled up like a secret. Knees tucked, arms folded. Eyes locked on the window like I was a wild animal and she was hoping I'd forget she existed. She was practically vibrating. So prim. So stiff. Hands folded tight in her lap like that would save her. Cute. Cruel. Completely addictive.

Every breath she took was shaky. Every shift of her body sent a shiver up my spine. And every time she moved—just slightly—I saw it. The outline of her thighs through that skirt. The hint of her neck when her hair shifted. The way her bottom lip tucked in, trying not to tremble.

Shit. She didn't even realize what she was doing to me. She thought this ride was harmless. But if she knew the kind of thoughts running through my head? If she had any idea how many times I'd already imagined pulling her into my lap, right there in this backseat—head tipped back, voice wrecked, thighs shaking?

Fuck.

Look at her. All curled up like I was gonna bite. She didn't even know the half of it. She probably thought that if she made herself small, quiet, untouched, I'd stop wanting her. It was the opposite. Every inch she hid made me want to peel her open and see what was underneath. Every curl of her spine said come closer even when her mouth said nothing.

And I will. I promise. Just not yet.

I let her squirm. Let her wonder. Let her crave it. I could have reached over. Right then. Slid my fingers beneath her chin and made her look at me. Make her see the way I was looking at her. But I didn't. I let the tension wrap tighter. Let her shrink further into that corner like prey trying to pretend it wasn't in danger. Except she was. Not from me hurting her. From me wanting her. Badly. Relentlessly. Desperately.

This was me holding back—barely.

My phone was in my hand, screen dimmed long ago. I wasn't even scrolling anymore. Not reading. Not even pretending. Just watching. Thinking.

I shifted slightly. Let my knee brush hers—barely. She jolted. She still didn't look. And it thrilled me.

You feel that, baby? That was the line. And next time, I won't stop at the knee.

I shifted again. Sprawled wider. Just to remind her of the space I took up. Let my hand drape along the back of the seat, and this time, I brushed my knuckles against her shoulder. She didn't flinch. But her breath skipped. I felt it. I wasn't even touching her, and she was already coming apart.

If she so much as turned her head… If her eyes met mine for more than five seconds… I'd ruin her. Slowly. Messily. Completely. With her skirt rucked up and her voice echoing off the leather. But not tonight. Not yet. I wasn't done watching her squirm.

I flicked my gaze sideways. She was biting her lip now, blinking hard like she could will the tension away. She didn't even realize she was giving herself away.

I leaned forward a little, my voice low. "You good?"

She startled. Looked at me. Big eyes. Uncertain. Innocent. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep myself from grinning.

"You're awfully quiet."

She nodded. Her eyes darted back to the window. "Umm… Just… tired."

Liar. I wanted to lean in and murmur what she really was. Not tired. Not calm. But wound up. Flushed. I wondered if she knew. If she felt it too. If she went home and closed her bedroom door, she'd remember my breath on her neck.

I didn't move when the car turned, and her shoulder brushed mine. Neither did she. Good girl. For a second, I almost forgot the plan. Almost reached out. Almost ruined the quiet by telling her exactly what I was thinking. It took everything in me to stop myself from doing that.

In the end, I had to watch her go. Didn't lean out. Didn't say more. Just let her feel it. The burn. She was going to think about this all night.

And me? I was going to dream about what it sounded like when she finally broke.

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6 PART 7   PART 8   PART 9   PART 10 PART 11   PART 12  PART 13 PART 14

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

In a twist no HR policy could’ve predicted, you end up as Sanzu’s personal assistant. But with a man like him—obsessive, unhinged, and always two seconds from making you moan or cry—this won’t be your normal office romance. Not even close.

************************************************************************

Content warnings: unhealthy/toxic attachments, toxic mindsets, power imbalances, predator/prey dynamics. mention of drugs, some canon divergence, workplace harassment ?? inappropriate thoughts??

************************************************************************

PART 10

You eased into the sleek leather chair, fingers trembling on your lap. The desk was too pristine. Too perfect. You weren’t sure if you were meant to touch anything at all. The desk in front of you gleamed, polished to a mirror finish. Your hands hovered above it, unsure of where they belonged, finally returning to your lap. There was no computer, no papers, just a small notepad. Just silence, smoke, and the hum of tension threading through the air like a taut wire.

Sanzu didn’t look at you at first.

He lounged like sin incarnate behind the desk—legs crossed at the ankle, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He scrolled lazily through his tablet, cigarette perched between two fingers, exhaling smoke like he’d invented the act. The soft tick of his watch was the only sound in the room beyond your own heartbeat.

You were almost relieved he wasn’t watching you.

Almost.

Then his voice cut through the quiet like a blade dipped in honey.

“You forgot your pen.”

You blinked. “I….ah…—what pen?”

He reached into his desk drawer without looking and flicked a silver pen across the table. It landed beside your hand with a soft clink. “PA,” he said with a smirk. “Personal assistant. Take notes.”

You stared at it like it might bite.

He leaned back again, head tilted like he was enjoying the view of you squirming in your seat, trying to play office while sitting in the lion’s den.

You picked up the pen—cool and heavy in your palm. Like it belonged in the hand of someone who actually knew what they were doing.

Your fingers curled around the cool metal, brushing over the engraved logo—some finance group you half-recognized from a commercial or a billboard. One of those faceless corporate names that sounded too important and said nothing at all.

It probably wasn’t fake. But it wasn’t clean either.

Even you weren’t that stupid.

None of this felt normal. A job this vague, in a tower this tall, an office this lavish? It didn’t take a genius to know that there was more to it.

However… there were no flashing neon signs. No threats. No locked drawers—at least not yet. Just sleek surfaces. Heavy glass. And Sanzu, watching you like he already owned the air in your lungs.

"You'll help me coordinate between the holding companies," he continued lazily. "Keep track of appointments. Run checks on our investment groups. You’ll forward me press briefings, client summaries. Oh—and if anyone from PR calls, you tell them I’m in a ‘closed-door board session’ with someone important.”

He looked directly at you then, eyes sharp behind the smile.

“That’d be you, by the way.”

Your mouth went dry. You nodded, mechanical and unsure.

You understood the words.

But the job? The rules? The lines you were already blurring by simply being here? Not really.

Because whatever this company was—whatever these investment groups and holding companies were—it wasn’t simple.

It wasn’t clean.

But you weren’t about to ask.

Not when it came to him.

Because deep down, you knew: Sanzu wouldn’t ever give you straight answers.

He didn’t need you to understand.

He just needed you to stay.

And something in you—something soft and stupid and soaked in memory—had already said yes.

So you wrote. Took your notes. Played your part.

And you tried not to think about what might be behind the doors you weren’t allowed to open.

************************************************************************

The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, casting long bars of light across the polished marble floor. You’d stayed behind after lunch, finishing off a typed summary of Sanzu’s “calls,” your fingers moving cautiously over the keys.

The door opened with a soft click.

You looked up—and stilled.

A tall figure entered the suite, dressed in a dark, immaculately tailored suit. He moved like someone who didn’t need to rush. Authority clung to him without trying.

His expression was unreadable—placid, composed. But his eyes, one pale and one shadowed by a faded scar, scanned the room like a hawk.

Kakucho.

You didn’t know his name yet. But the weight of his gaze made it clear: this was someone important. Important enough that the tension in the air shifted the moment he stepped in.

Sanzu, by the floor-to-ceiling window, barely moved—but you noticed the subtle shift in his posture. Like a wire pulling taut.

Kakucho surveyed the suite with methodical precision, as though mapping the territory.

Your pulse picked up.

“Haruchiyo.” Kakucho’s voice was even, respectful.

“Kaku.” Sanzu smiled—without warmth.

That simple exchange carried more history than you could understand.

Kakucho turned to you. His eyes swept across your desk, your posture, your trembling fingers. Not invasive—just… efficient. Like he was mentally logging your existence.

“So, you’re the new assistant?”

You nodded, trying not to shrink under his gaze.

“Yes, sir,” you said quietly.

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly—whether it was approval or acknowledgment, you couldn’t tell. He glanced at Sanzu again, his tone sharp beneath the calm.

“You trust her?”

“Wouldn’t have brought her here if I didn’t,” Sanzu’s smirk was lazy.

“That’s not what I asked.”

There was a pause. Something flickered in Sanzu’s eyes—something unreadable—but he let it pass without a fight.

“She’s solid,” he said, quieter now.

Kakucho’s gaze lingered on you again. Not unkind, but firm—calculating. You felt exposed under it.

“You sit straight. Listen well. That’s a start.”

Your throat tightened. He stepped closer—not invading your space, but close enough that you could smell the clean sharpness of his cologne, could feel the sheer pressure of his presence.

He wasn’t complimenting you. He was simply noting that you passed — for now.

“Make sure she stays in the lane you’ve carved. No detours,” Kakucho said, turning to Sanzu.

“She’s already there,” Sanzu reassured him with a faint smirk.

Kakucho paused at the doorway. He looked at you one last time.

“Keep it clean. No mistakes.”

And then he was gone. The door closed with a soft finality.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Sanzu exhaled smoke, finally moving from his post near the window. The sound of his shoes against the floor was the only thing grounding you in your chair.

“Not bad,” he said, smirking half to himself. “You didn’t faint in front of him.”

He strolled over, flicking the ash from his cigarette into a tray.

You tried to steady your breath. But there was something in the way he moved that made your stomach twist, anticipation tangling with dread.

“And you called him sir.”

Your stomach dropped. He stopped in front of your chair, too close. Close enough that you could smell the faint smoke and spice on his clothes, could feel the heat radiating off him in waves.

He leaned down slightly, his grin curling further.

“What, no ‘sir’ for me?”

You blinked. You didn't know how to respond.

“I mean—I didn’t know if you wanted—” you stammered out, awkward.

He stepped closer—too close—and braced one hand on the armrest of your chair, boxing you in without touching you. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes — all lazy venom and something far more dangerous beneath the surface.

“Wow,” he said, mock-offended. “No respect for your employer. The guy who dragged you out of that dead-end life. Got you this pretty view. And you go all ‘Yes, sir’ for Kakucho?”

You bit your lip. You felt guilty. In a trembling voice, you whispered, “I’m sorry… S-Sir.”

He grinned. A real one. Slow, wolfish, maddening.

“Oooh. That sounds nice.”

He leaned in closer.

“Again.”

“Sir.”

This time it came out steadier. Barely.

He chuckled, low in his throat, pleased and unhinged in equal measure. Then he leaned back, arms crossing loosely over his chest.

“Just kidding,” he smirked.

But his voice was dark velvet and smoke, and the heat of him didn’t move away. You didn’t believe him for a second.

Then, as suddenly as he’d approached, he was gone—back to his desk, back to his tablet, ike he hadn’t just short-circuited your nervous system.

“We’ve got a call in fifteen minutes,” he said casually. “Start taking notes.”

And just like that, the world spun on.

You sat frozen in your seat, skin flushed, throat dry, every nerve buzzing like you’d been struck by lightning.

He didn’t look at you again as he picked up the tablet. But his grin lingered in your mind like smoke on your clothes.

And all you could think was:

“That was definitely not a joke.”

************************************************************************

The office had grown quiet.

The sun had long since dipped behind the skyline, casting the floor-to-ceiling windows into a reflective black. City lights blinked like distant stars. The tablet on your desk had gone dim, your notes neatly organized, your tasks—at least the ones Sanzu had given you—completed.

You glanced at the wall clock. 8:42 p.m. Far later than any normal assistant should still be at work.

You hesitated, then rose from your chair, smoothing your skirt as you approached the massive desk where Sanzu still sat—half-lounging, a cigarette balanced between two fingers, his attention idly on a glowing screen.

“…Um.” You cleared your throat gently.

“I finished everything you asked for. I was just wondering…” your voice trailed off as he looked up, slow, deliberate. His eyes glinted faintly under the low office light.

“…Is there a time I should usually… leave?”

There was a beat of silence. A long one. Then he smiled.

Not wide. Not manic. Just a slow, small curve of the lips. But it carried a weight you couldn’t define.

“Sick of me already?” he asked softly. A light tease. But the air… shifted. Thickened.

Your stomach dropped. “N–no, I just meant—”

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, resting his chin lazily against the back of his hand. Watching you.

“Relax.”

A chuckle, low and amused. “I'm messing with ya.”

You forced a nervous laugh, even though the heat prickling under your skin told you this was anything but casual. You glanced toward the elevator.

“So… I’ll just—head out, then?”

He exhaled smoke, tipping his head back. “Take the car.”

Your steps faltered. “That’s okay. I can manage. It’s not far, and I know the way now, you don't have to—”

He sat up.

“No trains,” he said simply. “No late-night walks. No trouble.” The smile was gone now. Not angry. Just… flat. Final.

“But I—”

“ you’ll take the car.”

Your breath caught.

There wasn’t violence in his voice. Nothing overt. But it coiled around your ribs all the same. You swallowed.

“…Okay,” you murmured. 

Sanzu smiled again, but it was quieter this time. Private. Like something had just been won.

He reached for the phone on his desk. “Driver’ll be downstairs in five. Stay here till he calls.”

You nodded stiffly, retreating back to your desk like you needed distance just to breathe.

Behind you, Sanzu’s voice floated lazily back across the room.

“It’s cute you thought you could still take the train.”

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6 PART 7   PART 8   PART 9   PART 10 PART 11   PART 12  PART 13 PART 14

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

************************************************************************

Content warnings: unhealthy/toxic attachments, toxic mindsets, power imbalances, predator/prey dynamics. mention of drugs, some canon divergence (in the manga, Sanzu is always seen with Mikey, but in this fic, he isn't with him all the time)

************************************************************************

PART 9

You sank onto the edge of your bed, the soft mattress barely comforting against the storm raging inside your chest. The faint imprint of Sanzu’s fingers still burned on your cheek, a ghostly touch that refused to fade. Your skin prickled where his thumb had traced, and every nerve in your body seemed to hum with a confused mix of fear and something darker—something dangerously close to… anticipation.

What kind of job was this? The words replayed in your mind like a cruel whisper, “It’s my job you’re coming to.” The meaning twisted and turned, refusing to settle. A private job? For him? Your thoughts tumbled, clashing between dread and curiosity, your breath coming faster than you could control.

You tried to steady yourself, to will away the flurry of feelings flooding your veins—the raw heat of embarrassment, the prickling sting of powerlessness, and the undeniable, forbidden pull that his presence seemed to exert on you. The contrast between the man who could so easily command and terrify and the boy whose gentle touch still lingered in your memory gnawed at you.

You ran a shaky hand through your hair, your fingers trembling as the weight of everything pressed down on your chest. What was he going to do to you? What did he want from you? The questions were suffocating, but no answers came.

Sleep, when it finally claimed you, was restless and fragmented. Shadows shifted in the corners of your room, the faint hum of the city outside unable to drown out the cacophony in your mind. Every distant sound—a car door slamming, a footstep on the stairs—made you startle, heart racing as if Sanzu’s shadow still lurked just beyond your walls.

In the dark, your thoughts circled back to his eyes—the cold, unblinking stare that seemed to strip you bare, and the rare, flickering softness that made the danger feel almost... human. How could one man embody both terrifying darkness and something so achingly familiar?

Morning loomed, inevitable and cruel. You closed your eyes, willing your body to rest, but your mind refused to let go. Tomorrow was coming, whether you were ready or not.

************************************************************************

The car ride back was silent.

Sanzu sat motionless in the backseat, the city lights strobing through the tinted windows and painting fractured shadows across his face. His fingers tapped restlessly on his thigh, not out of impatience—but to keep from reaching into his coat and pulling out a pill. He wanted the edge. He needed it tonight. The burn. The ache. The crawl of thoughts against the inside of his skull.

He didn’t want to numb this.

Because tonight, for the first time in twelve fucking years, something had snapped back into place.

You.

You, with your wide eyes and shaking hands, standing in that dingy apartment like you’d never left his orbit. Like the universe had finally stopped playing with him and dropped you right back where you belonged. And you, you still looked at him like he was still Haru-kun. As if all the blood on his hands, the scars, the madness—none of it had erased who he used to be to you.

It made his stomach twist.

He'd wanted to hurt you—he really had. When he first saw you at the club, a ghost walking around like nothing had happened, he felt something in his chest splinter. You were supposed to be gone. A relic of a weak boy with a bleeding heart and a dream that someone might choose him first. You were the soft part of his memory, the fragile tether he'd buried under violence and pills and loyalty to Mikey like a fucking sacrament.

And yet.

The moment he saw that bastard’s hand on you—heard your panicked breath, saw the way your eyes widened in fear—everything in him detonated. His body moved before his mind caught up, not just out of anger, but something worse. Possession.

He had buried you, but you were never dead.

That sketchbook on your table. The incense in front of your parents’ photo. The way your voice cracked when you told him about the accident. You still carried your grief in the soft, neat corners of your home. You still carried him—in the way you trembled, the way you remembered him. You flinched… but you didn’t run.

And that tore at him.

He thought time had made him immune. He'd slept with enough women to know the difference between need and nostalgia. But nothing—not sex, not drugs, not Mikey’s approval—could touch the place in him that still remembered your hand in his, your hesitant laugh, the way you’d once seen him. Before the madness, before the scars.

You were the last piece of softness he remembered owning—and now that he had you again, no one was going to take you away.

Not the world. Not your fear. Not even you.

He laughed then—quiet, rough, almost bitter. His permanent smile stretched too wide, cracked with something ugly and euphoric.

You didn’t know it yet. But the moment you looked back at him in that club… You sealed it.

He didn’t need to break you to have you. You were already broken—by life, by loss—and he’d just make sure that from now on, all your fractures pointed toward him.

************************************************************************

You didn’t sleep.

You tried. Curled beneath your thin blanket, staring at the ceiling until your eyes ached. But your mind wouldn’t quiet. It spun in endless circles around the night before—around him. Sanzu.

The boy you once knew, who used to scowl when you shared your lunch with him under the willow tree. The boy who had smiled like it hurt, even back then.

Now a man carved in scars and danger. And he had reentered your life like a storm—no warning, no mercy.

You sat up at dawn, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, heart already pounding with anxious anticipation. His words echoed in your head: “Be ready in the morning.” “Don’t be late.”

You didn’t even know what ready meant. He hadn’t said. He hadn’t needed to.

So you dressed carefully, choosing something modest: a long charcoal-gray skirt, soft but structured. A pair of warm black stockings. A fitted, cream-colored turtleneck—clean lines, nothing showy. You brushed your hair, twisting it into a low bun at the nape of your neck. 

You didn’t want to look too plain.

But you didn’t want to look like you were trying, either.

By 8:45, you stood by the window, hands clasped in front of you, your apartment unnaturally quiet. The incense stick in front of the photo frame had long since burned out.

At exactly nine o’clock, a black car rolled up.

Your breath caught.

Same sleek body. Same tinted windows. Same suited driver, stepping out without a word to open the back passenger door.

Your heart beat faster as you slipped into your shoes and grabbed your small bag. The walk down the stairs felt heavier than it should have. Every step felt like it was carrying you away from something—your old life, your anonymity—and into something far more dangerous.

The car door clicked shut behind you, and the hum of the engine replaced your heartbeat in your ears.

No words were exchanged during the ride. The city blurred by in quiet grays and golds. The traffic lights, the morning rush, the world moving as if nothing had changed.

But everything had.

The car purred to a stop in front of a sleek high-rise in the heart of the city—glass and steel climbing like some godless monolith, casting long shadows over the street. The door opened before you even reached for the handle, the suited driver offering no words, only a slight incline of his head.

You stepped out, your long skirt brushing your ankles, the wind tugging gently at the hem. Your stockings felt suddenly too warm, your turtleneck too constricting. This wasn’t just a real job. You knew that the moment his fingers brushed your cheek last night. This was a summons. An invitation into something inescapable.

The lobby was all cold marble and silence. Not a receptionist in sight. Just two more men in black flanking the private elevator—expressionless, built like statues. You were led through a private elevator, the suited man giving you only a brief, unreadable nod before tapping a floor code and stepping aside.

Your heart is banging so hard. You just have to breathe, be calm, and act normal.

Soft ambient music played in the background, but somehow it made the air feel heavier.  You swallow and press your lips together. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the glass panel—turtleneck smooth, skirt straight, but your reflection looks raw, unbalanced: dark circles, pale cheeks, eyes wide with panic.

Each floor ticked by in sterile silence. You gripped your purse tightly, palms clammy. Just a job, you reminded yourself. Just a job…

The elevator rose smoothly. Floor after floor of tension. Then—

Ding.

The doors opened into a high-ceilinged private office suite, the scent of expensive leather and faint cologne hanging in the air like a warning.

You opened the door, and there he was.

Sanzu.

He sat behind a massive desk of dark-stained wood, sprawled like a bored king in a leather chair, long legs crossed at the ankle. A tablet in one hand, a cigarette smoldering in the other. The light from the wide, floor-length windows pooled across his figure, illuminating his features with a surreal softness that clashed with the man himself.

His hair was much longer than you remembered—now pastel-pink, almost silver in the harsh daylight, falling in uneven layers around his face and collarbones. It looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in days and yet somehow framed him perfectly, like chaos obeyed him.

Those steel-gray eyes—sharp, unreadable—locked onto you the moment you stepped through the threshold. They didn’t blink. Didn’t waver. As detached as winter ice, but colder still. He looked at you like he already owned you. Like he was just waiting to see how you'd wear it.

The scar, that ghastly Glasgow smile, twisted the corners of his mouth into something cruel, yet eerily… beautiful. Unsettling. The kind of face that could both charm and crush you in the same breath.

His suit was tailored but muted—no tie, just an open black collar under a dark charcoal blazer with leather trim at the lapels, hinting at luxury beneath the quiet menace. Utterly composed.

He looked... maddeningly at ease.

When he saw you, he didn't rise. He just grinned—wide and slow. That same scarred, nightmarish grin that should’ve frightened you. But instead made your chest tighten with something far more confusing.

"Not bad," he said, voice gravel-worn, eyes trailing shamelessly down your form. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

Sanzu exhaled smoke, leaned back, and tossed the tablet onto the desk with a casual flick of his wrist. 

"Welcome to your new job," he said. "You're my personal assistant now. Congratulations."

You blinked. It took you a minute to process the words. Then you blinked, again.

"P–PA?" The word stumbled out of you like a misfire. "But I don't— I mean, I don’t have experience—"

He waved a hand lazily, as if experience were a detail only mortals worried about. "You’ll pick it up. Schedule things. Handle my calls. Take notes. Keep me from stabbing people in meetings (you didn’t know whether or not he was joking). You know—assistant stuff."

“And yes,” he added, without looking up, “you’ll be compensated far better than that dump you called a job before.”

Your throat felt dry. Your fingers curled tighter around your purse strap. You opened your mouth, the beginnings of a protest trembling on your lips.

"I really don’t think I—"

He finally lifted his gaze. His smile widened, eyes glinting with something darker. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, voice dipping low and sweet like poison in honey. “This isn’t something you can say no to, by the way.”

You swallowed hard, pulse skittering in your throat.

Sanzu stood then, slow and deliberate, walking around the desk until he stood inches from you. His gaze never left yours as he reached out—not to grab, but to fix a twisted fold in your turtleneck, smoothing it with gentle precision. The brush of his fingers lingered just a beat too long on your collarbone.

His voice dropped, rough and low, so close it melted against your skin

“Tell me you get it, or just nod.”

Your breath hitched. Your chin dipped before your brain could catch up—a silent answer, born of instinct and fear and something far more dangerous.

His gaze darkened with satisfaction, his lips curling just so as he leaned a little closer.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the words a velvet knife. Not absentminded. Not distracted. Deliberate. Drawn-out. Heavy with meaning.

"Soooo….. For your first task," he murmured. "You’re gonna sit at that desk—" he tilted his head toward a sleek setup near the corner window, "—and make sure I don’t miss my 11 a.m. call with Haitani."

He turned back toward his chair, but glanced over his shoulder once more, lips twitching.

"Oh—and don’t look so nervous," he added with a wink. "You’re the only assistant who’s seen me cry, y’know. That’s gotta count for something."

And just like that, he was behind the desk again, like the last twelve years were nothing but an extended lunch break.

You stood there, still trembling slightly, the door closed behind you, the desk in front of you, and your new reality settling around your shoulders like a noose—or a collar.

************************************************************************

Sanzu's Inner Monologue: After Reader Enters The Room

She walked in like a ghost from a past life he’d buried under a hundred bodies and twice as many pills.

Still soft. Still skittish. Still fucking his head sideways just by breathing in the same room.

Sanzu didn’t move right away. Didn’t stand. Didn’t blink. He just watched her.

Every inch of her was like a whisper he’d forgotten how to hear. That long skirt—too proper. Stockings? Christ. She didn’t have to try to get his attention; she already had it the second she existed again. The turtleneck clung just right to her neck—his fingers itching to grab it. No cleavage, no skin. Didn’t matter. The modesty made it worse. A tease wrapped in innocence she didn't even realize she wore.

As if she hadn’t already let him back in the moment they met again.

He let her look around the office, let her take it in—the view, the size, the danger humming in the walls. He wanted her to feel it. Every inch of this place was a net, and now she was caught.

His desk groaned faintly as he leaned forward, dropping the tablet with a little flourish. He let his voice curl around her like smoke.

"You're my personal assistant now. Congratulations."

She flinched like he’d slapped her with it. Cute.

"I mean, I don’t have experience—"

He almost laughed. Like this was ever about qualifications.

The protest was sweet, almost nostalgic. The girl he remembered had always been like that—hesitant, full of little sorrys, little fears. And he’d loved that about her. Hated it, too. That gentle spirit that never matched the chaos brewing in him.

And now here she was. Still trying to say no like it was an option.

He stood, slow and careful, savoring the panic that flared in her eyes when he rounded the desk. Not fear of violence. Not yet. But fear of what came next. That fine line between uncertainty and obedience.

He was close enough to feel the warmth of her skin. Close enough to see the way her lashes fluttered with each breath. His fingers grazed her collarbone under the excuse of fixing her top. He barely touched her, but it was enough.

She stiffened.

Good.

“Tell me you get it. Or just nod.”

And she nodded. Just like that. Silent and shaky, but obedient.

Like she knew she belonged to him, even if her mind hadn’t caught up yet.

“Good girl.”

He said it slowly. Intentionally. Let it sink in. Let her hear it in her bones.

Not a compliment. Not a reward.

A fact.

She was already his. Had always been his. 

It took a big man to admit his mistakes. His mistake was letting her go twelve years ago. Letting her slip away when she still saw something human in him. He could’ve had this—her—before the scars, before the blood, before Mikey’s shadow swallowed him whole.

But now? Now she was in his world. In his office. In his reach. And this time, she wasn’t getting out.

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6 PART 7   PART 8   PART 9   PART 10 PART 11   PART 12  PART 13 PART 14

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

************************************************************************

Content warnings: unhealthy/toxic attachments, toxic mindset, cursing

************************************************************************

PART 8

Just as the bizarre intimacy of the moment threatened to overwhelm you, the sound of heels clicking rapidly down the corridor broke the spell. The model from before appeared, her pout now more pronounced, her eyes searching for Sanzu. After finally spotting him, she approached, her hips swaying, her eyes fixed on Sanzu. Completely ignoring your existence, she hurried to his side, latching onto his arm with a practiced ease.

"Haruchiyo, baby, there you are!" she purred, her voice sickly sweet. "I was getting worried. Where did you disappear to, leaving me all alone?” she continued. “Weren't going to keep me company tonight..." She was practically falling over him, her gaze sliding over you as if you were part of the wall.

You flinched, shrinking back, suddenly embarrassed and intensely self-conscious. The cold words of others echoed in your mind: "A new one every day... just a dime a dozen to someone like him." Your brief, terrifying moment of connection with Sanzu evaporated under the weight of her presence and your renewed feelings of insignificance. You took a step back, wiped the tear stains with your sleeve, and were about to move to leave them alone. 

But, to your utter surprise, Sanzu merely tensed under the model's touch. His eyes, still fixed on you, flickered with an almost imperceptible annoyance at her interruption. He didn't even glance at her. With a sharp, sudden shrug, he dislodged her hand from his arm.

"Go away," he rasped, his voice flat, dismissive.

The model blinked, momentarily stunned, clearly unaccustomed to such a brusque rejection. "Haruchiyo, what...?" she started, her voice laced with confusion. “What are you talking about? You promised to stay with me tonight! What do you eve-”

Sanzu's patience snapped. His eyes flashed with pure, unadulterated menace. "Fuck off!" he barked, the word echoing harshly in the quiet corridor, making the model recoil as if struck. She stumbled back, her face paling, then turned and scurried away without another word, her pride and ego seriously hurt.

The raw shock of Sanzu's actions slammed into you. This was Haru-kun, the boy who'd clung to your presence, now a terrifying force of nature. To see him so utterly dismissive, so brutally cutting off someone who clearly desired him, was beyond anything you'd anticipated. The model, beautiful and confident, had been reduced to a cowering shadow with two sharp words, her polished demeanor shattering under his raw contempt. The casual cruelty with which he'd dismissed her, a woman so polished and clearly desirable, sent a jolt through you. This was not the indifferent playboy you'd been warned about; right now, this was a man whose focus, for some unfathomable, terrifying reason, was singularly fixed on you.

He turned his full attention back to you, his gaze intense, a predator's focus. "You won't work here anymore," he stated, his voice low and final, cutting through the humid air as if the entire discussion was settled, a decree from on high.

You stared at him, your tears momentarily forgotten, replaced by a fresh wave of ice-cold dread. He was firing you. Just like that. The thought sent a jolt of panic through you, far outweighing the recent terror from the customer. What would you do? How would you pay your bills, your rent? "A-are you f-firing me?" you stammered, your voice trembling, barely a whisper. "Please don't, Haru-kun! I'm so sorry about what happened, but I need this job. I truly do. I don't have anything else." You pleaded, desperation raw in every syllable.

A strange, almost predatory glint entered his eyes, like a cat toying with its prey. He reached out, his long fingers, surprisingly gentle yet undeniably firm, hooking under your chin. He tilted your face up, forcing your gaze to lock with his. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in, invading your personal space until his scarred mouth was unnervingly close to your own. His breath, smelling faintly of alcohol and something distinctly metallic, ghosted across your lips, a chilling caress.

"You'll have a job," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly promise that sent shivers down your spine. It was a sound that mingled command with a twisted possessiveness, a promise that thrilled and terrified you in equal measure. "A more personal one. Just for me." The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Your cheeks flushed a furious, uncontrollable red, a wildfire spreading across your skin. Every fiber of your being screamed in alarm, a primal instinct to flee, yet a strange, terrifying heat ignited deep within you, blossoming in your chest. The implications of his offer were chillingly unclear, yet utterly possessive. You were trapped, not just by his power, not just in his dangerous world, but ensnared in the suffocating web of his warped, obsessive desire. There was no escape from that.

************************************************************************

The air in the corridor crackled with the lingering intensity of Sanzu's words. "A more personal one. Just for me." The chilling promise hung between you, heavy with implication. Before you could fully process the furious blush that consumed your face or the terrifying pull of his gaze, Sanzu's hand snapped out. His fingers, firm and possessive, closed around your wrist once more, a non-negotiable claim.

He pulled you along, not towards the main club floor, but towards the same discreet service exit. The night air was cool against your heated cheeks as you emerged into the alley. A sleek, expensive black car, a stark contrast to the grimy surroundings, idled silently at the curb. The tinted windows hid its interior, making it an inscrutable void. One of his burly men in a dark suit was already holding the rear passenger door open. Sanzu didn't release your wrist until you were both settled inside the plush leather, the door clicking shut with a heavy thud, sealing you into a private, luxurious prison.

The driver, another silent, imposing figure, glanced in the rearview mirror, awaiting instruction. Sanzu, however, didn't immediately give an order. He simply turned his head to you, his eyes burning with an unblinking intensity, his scarred smile unreadable.

"Your address," he finally rasped, his voice cutting through the suffocating silence.

You hesitated, your mind a frantic jumble. What was he thinking? What did he mean by "personal job"? Was he going to send someone to your apartment? Follow you? The questions spun in your head, but his gaze offered no answers, only a cold, absolute expectation. You swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper as you rattled off your address.

The car glided smoothly into the night traffic. The drive was a terrifying silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the frantic beat of your own heart. Sanzu sat perfectly still beside you, his presence a suffocating weight. You dared not look at him again, your gaze fixed on the blurred city lights, unaware of what was to happen next.

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The expensive car pulled up to your familiar apartment building, the sudden stop jarring you from your terrified stupor. This ordinary place, small and a bit worn, stood in stark contrast to the opulent vehicle and the heavy presence beside you. The driver quickly got out and opened your door. Sanzu, without a word, held your wrist and you both came out of the car.

You were about to walk towards your home, but you turned, timidly gesturing in the direction of your apartment. "Do... do….ah….do you want to come inside?" you asked, the question feeling absurdly polite and out of place given the circumstances.

Sanzu's permanent smile seemed to stretch, a glint of dark amusement in his eyes. "Lead the way," he rasped, his voice carrying a note of smug triumph as if you had just invited him into his rightful domain.

And you did, your legs heavy, up the familiar, slightly creaking stairs to your apartment door. Sanzu followed, closely behind you. You fumbled with your keys, your hands shaking so badly you almost dropped them. The lock clicked open. As you pushed the door inward, the familiar scent of your small, lived-in space – old books, a faint trace of coffee, the lingering perfume of your laundry detergent – hit you like a wave of normalcy that was about to be obliterated.

Sanzu simply stood at the entrance for a while, observing, his presence utterly dominating the small space. He finally crossed the threshold, his gaze sweeping over the small, cheap apartment. It was a space that had always felt cozy to you, but now, under his assessing stare, it seemed to shrink, highlighting its modesty. He took in the slightly overflowing bookshelf, the clothes draped over a chair, and your art scattered across one wall – various sketches and paintings, some abstract, some raw, expressive portraits that depicted emotions rather than precise faces. The room was a bit messy, lived-in, a stark contrast to the sterile perfection of his world.

Without a word, he moved further into the living area, his eyes still taking in every detail. He walked with a casual, almost proprietorial air as if this was merely a new territory to be claimed. His gaze lingered on your sketchbook lying open on a low table, then drifted to a small, worn photo frame on a nearby shelf. It was a picture of your parents, younger, smiling widely, their faces full of life. In front of the frame, a tiny, lit stick of incense burned, its faint, sweet smoke curling upwards – a quiet, constant memorial.

Sanzu picked up the frame, his rough thumb tracing the edge of the glass. His eyes, though still holding that unhinged glint, seemed to soften almost imperceptibly as he looked at the photograph. He turned his gaze from the picture to you, standing frozen by the door. "Your parents?"

You flinched slightly as he held the photo, the sudden focus on such a tender, painful part of your past unsettling. His question, devoid of his usual madness, felt strangely heavy in the quiet room.

"They... they died," you said, your voice soft, almost a whisper. You hugged your arms, a familiar ache blooming in your chest. "It was an accident. A car accident, a few years ago. I was seventeen." Your gaze drifted to the small incense stick, its smoke a silent prayer. "It was... sudden." You didn't elaborate; the grief was still too raw, too personal to lay bare. You simply watched him, wondering what he saw in the faces of the people who were your entire world.

Sanzu's gaze remained fixed on the photograph for another moment, then slowly, he lowered the frame, placing it back precisely where he'd found it. His unblinking eyes then returned to you, taking in your posture and the lingering sadness in your expression. His gaze then returned to the picture, his mind cataloging the faces, committing them to his unsettling memory. He was absorbing every visual cue, every personal detail, building a mental map of your quiet existence that he had so abruptly invaded. This was Sanzu, not just present, but observing everything, missing nothing, collecting pieces of you.

The silence between you stretched, heavy and charged, until Sanzu finally broke it with that slow, deliberate movement only he could master. He stepped closer, the dim light catching the angles of his scarred face, making his grin seem both dangerous and maddeningly charming.

His voice dropped to a low, teasing rasp that felt like a caress and a threat all at once. “Be ready in the morning,” he said, eyes locked onto yours with unnerving intensity. “A car will come for you..”

The vagueness of the command made your pulse quicken. Ready for what? Your mind scrambled, but his sharp gaze left no room for questions. The smug, almost predatory tilt of his lips suggested he enjoyed the confusion, the uncertainty—like a cat toying with a trapped mouse.

“You’ll want to look your best,” he murmured, stepping so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. “After all, it’s my job you’re coming to.”

You swallowed hard, cheeks burning as his voice dipped even lower, his breath brushing your ear in a feather-light whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. His closeness was overwhelming—too close—yet you couldn’t bring yourself to step back.

His hand reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, lingering a moment longer than necessary. The rough scarred pad of his thumb traced a slow, possessive path along your cheek. His voice lowered even further, the words barely more than a whisper, but sharp enough to cut through your nerves, “Don’t be late.”

Then, without another word, he turned sharply on his heel, the soft swish of his leather shoes punctuating his departure. The door closed behind him, leaving you alone in the heavy silence, heart pounding like a frantic drum.

You pressed your hand to your flushed cheek, still tingling where his touch had lingered. Your mind spun—confused, terrified, and inexplicably stirred. The promise of a new job, wrapped in his dark, unsettling possessiveness, hung in the air like a shadow.

Tomorrow would come whether you were ready or not.

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6 PART 7   PART 8   PART 9   PART 10 PART 11   PART 12  PART 13 PART 14

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

Sanzu himself is a trigger warning xdxd but I love him

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Content warnings: toxic mindset, toxic/unhealthy attachments, possessiveness, objectification, mentions of violence, drug/alcohol use, playboy tendencies

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PART 7

The subdued lighting of the corridor felt heavy and suffocating. You continued to babble, desperate to fill the silence, to find a sliver of the old Haru-kun beneath the terrifying veneer. "I... I've been working hard. You know, just... trying to make ends meet. This job came up, and I took it. The club's really busy tonight, though. Must be a good night for business, huh?" Your words trailed off, thin and pathetic in the face of his utter stillness.

Sanzu didn't move. He didn't even blink. His eyes, fixed on you with an unnerving intensity, seemed to burn right through your forced small talk. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his throat, a sound of raw, suppressed emotion.

Then, he spoke. His voice was a low, cutting rasp, devoid of any warmth, yet laced with an unbridled accusation that shattered your composure. "You left me."

The three words hit you like a physical blow, cutting through the years, through the fear, through everything you'd tried to build. The air left your lungs in a ragged gasp. Tears, hot and uncontrollable, immediately welled in your eyes, blurring his scarred face. It wasn't just anger in his voice, but a deep, festering wound, a profound sense of abandonment that had clearly never healed.

"Haru-kun... I—" You choked out, your voice trembling. "I'm so sorry. I really am." The regret that had silently gnawed at you for years now spilled over, raw and overwhelming. "I didn't want to. It wasn't... it wasn't my choice. My father lost his job, and then... then there was so much debt. We lost everything." Your voice cracked, the raw memory of that time still sharp. "He said we had no choice but to move to a cheaper city. To escape it all. I didn't know how to explain, how to even begin to—" Your voice broke, unable to finish, the tears streaming freely down your face.

You braced yourself for his response, for rage, for contempt. But Sanzu simply stared at you, his eyes unblinking, his scarred mouth stretched tight. The unhinged glint in his gaze didn't soften but intensified.

Then, he finally moved. His hand, once pulling you, now slowly lifted. You flinched, bracing for impact, but his fingers, unexpectedly cool, came to rest on your cheek. His thumb brushed gently against your cheek, catching a tear that traced its way down your skin. It was a ghost of a gesture from childhood, but now, it felt less like comfort and more like a possessive claim. His thumb, rough with hidden scars, smeared the tear across your skin, then lingered, his touch feral, needy, asserting his presence over your raw emotion. His own scarred lips remained unmoving, stretched in that permanent, unnatural smile.

"You're still the same," he rasped, his voice a low, dry murmur that sent shivers down your spine. It wasn't a compliment but a statement of eerie fact, as if he'd expected you to change beyond recognition. His eyes, holding yours captive, glinted with a possessive satisfaction that twisted your stomach. "Always worrying. Always a little mouse.

His grip on your jaw tightened just perceptibly, asserting his claim not just with words, but with a chilling, tangible force. He wasn't interested in your small talk, your new life, or the years that had passed. In his twisted mind, you were simply a continuation of the past, a possession he had merely been separated from, and now, he had reclaimed you. 

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Sanzu's Inner Feelings

The years following your departure were a maelstrom for Sanzu, a brutal testament to the void your absence left behind, even if he vehemently denied its existence. When you vanished, taking with you the last vestige of his pre-scar self, his fragile world, already teetering, finally shattered. He had screamed at you and called you worthless, but those words were a shield, a desperate attempt to sever a connection that felt like both a comfort and a terrifying weakness

Initially, he spiraled. Your absence, the abrupt severing of his "anchor," plunged him into a period of unleashed, rabid instability. He became more violent, more unpredictable, consumed by a raw fury he couldn't control. It was a self-destructive descent until Mucho, with his harsh, unyielding discipline, stepped in, giving Sanzu's frenzied devotion a new, terrifying focus. He became the efficient, terrifying enforcer, but beneath the honed brutality, the wound of your leaving festered.

Sanzu was in profound denial about your importance. To admit that a mere "cowardly little girl" could affect him so deeply and leave such a gaping hole would have been an unbearable weakness. He had Mikey, his absolute king, his singular purpose. He told himself Mikey was all he needed, all he wanted. He threw himself into Mikey's shadow, becoming the unhinged fanatic, the Mad Dog, convinced that unwavering devotion and inflicting chaos were his only truths.

But the quiet corners of his mind, the ones he brutalized into submission, still held echoes. He tried to fill the void, not with genuine connection, but with fleeting, superficial pleasures. Yes, he slept with hundreds of women, models, club-goers, and those drawn to his dangerous allure. He indulged in every vice the Bonten empire offered. He sought out the rush of drugs and alcohol, the fleeting warmth of nameless bodies, the roar of violence, anything to drown out the insidious quiet that only your presence had ever truly filled.

Yet, none of it brought him any real joy. The women were interchangeable, faceless distractions that offered no unique solace. The vices numbed, but never truly satisfied. Each encounter was hollow, leaving him feeling even emptier and more agitated. He would wake from these nights not with pleasure but with a restless fury, a gnawing dissatisfaction that he couldn't name but which always circled back to the memory of a timid girl who simply was.

Because while he was Mikey's most loyal dog, his most devoted servant, you were for Sanzu what he was for Mikey. You were his quiet constant, his silent witness, the peculiar, gentle anchor that paradoxically stabilized his volatile nature. You were the only one who had seen him, truly seen him, before the scars and after. You were the only one who had loved him in your own quiet way, despite the monster he was becoming. And losing that, even if he refused to acknowledge it, had driven him deeper into the very madness he now wielded with terrifying precision. Your absence didn't diminish his power; it distorted it, fueled it with a desperate, unspoken longing that manifested as pure, unadulterated rage and a terrifying, unfillable void.

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6 PART 7   PART 8   PART 9   PART 10 PART 11   PART 12  PART 13 PART 14

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

Reader and Sanzu meet again after twelve years. What could possibly happen 😏😏😏

Also, from now on, I might include segments that would reflect the unspoken feelings of the characters during or after certain events. The headings will be "Inner Monologues," and the text will be orange color-coded. I had to add them separately because in some cases, I wasn't sure how to seamlessly insert them into the main story as dialogues :P

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Content warnings: canon-typical violence, catcalling, eveteasing

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PART 6

Twelve years. Twelve years had passed since you last saw him, since his angry, broken words had shattered your world and sent you fleeing to a new life. The quiet, timid girl who drew under a willow tree was long gone, replaced by a woman who navigated the world with a guarded quietude. You built a career, a semblance of routine, but the phantom ache for Haru-kun and the chilling memory of his final words never truly left. You tried not to think about what had become of him, of the darkness that had consumed him. Of course, you wanted him to be safe, but decided to keep him a haunting memory rather than a terrifying reality.

Life, however, demanded continuation. After years of struggling, the soaring cost of living had led you to a peculiar, ironic twist of fate.

Without warning, the fragile stability you had meticulously built collapsed. The small real estate company where you worked as a receptionist had suddenly shut down—an economic downturn, rumored mismanagement, whispers of fraud. You were laid off with no severance, no warning, just a terse email and a locked door.

You started job hunting again—frantically this time. The rent was due. Food was running low. The predictable rhythm of your life shattered, plunging you back into the desperate, familiar struggle for survival. You scoured online listings, growing more desperate with each rejection.

Then you stumbled upon a listing: “High-end lounge seeking front-of-house staff. Discretion and presentation are required. Excellent pay.”

You applied without hesitation, not knowing what kind of place it was or what "discretion" truly entailed. You just needed the money. You needed a lifeline. And against all odds, you got the job.

So, with limited options and a growing pile of bills, you found yourself working as a waitress in one of the city's most opulent, yet subtly menacing, nightclubs. The pay was decent, the hours long, and the clientele a blur of the city's elite and its darker figures. You focused only on the clinking of glasses and the rush of orders, carefully avoiding asking too many questions about the owners.

One particularly bustling night, the club was alive with a vibrant, almost suffocating energy. The air thrummed with music and laughter, but suddenly, a hush fell over a section of the VIP area. All eyes turned. A group of men, radiating an undeniable aura of power and danger, entered. Your breath hitched.

And then you saw him.

He was standing slightly behind a man with long, golden hair, his own distinctive hair, now pink, falling around his face. His eyes, though colder and sharper, were undeniably the same shade of grey. And the scars. The horrific, permanent "Glasgow smile," stretching his mouth into a perpetual, grotesque rictus, confirming the memory you had tried to bury.

A wave of overwhelming, disorienting relief flooded you. After all these years, here he was. Haru-kun. The pain, the fear, the abandonment, all momentarily forgotten in the sheer, impossible reality of his presence. Your heart pounded with a desperate need to reach him. He was here. He was real. You had to talk to him; you wanted to ask him how he’s been, just for a moment.

Ignoring the tray of drinks in your hand, you took a step, then another, drawn by an invisible current. Just as you were about to move towards his section, your manager, a sharp-eyed woman with a permanent scowl, grabbed your arm.

"Where do you think you're going, Y/N?" She hissed, her voice low and stern. Her gaze flickered to the VIP section, then back to you, filled with a mixture of awe and warning. "That's Mr. Sanzu. He's one of the owners of this club, and he's not to be disturbed. Ever."

Before you could fully process this, your manager leaned closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially, laced with a cynical admiration. "And believe me, darling, don't even think about it. He's a total playboy, a real connoisseur. There's a different doll draped over his arm practically every night, the kind of girls who are actually in his league. Girls like you? You’re just background noise." She finished with a dismissive shrug, entirely missing the knife she'd just twisted.

The words had struck you like shards of ice. The sheer absurdity of your earlier joy crashed down on you. How could you have been so incredibly foolish? Your heart, which had soared with a desperate, childish hope, now felt pathetic. A decade, more, had passed. How utterly ridiculous to think that he would remember you, the timid girl from the park, when he had become this. A powerful, terrifying man who commanded reverence, who owned this place, who had a parade of women at his beck and call. The thought that your shared past, your bond, was utterly insignificant to him now, if he even recalled it, hurt more profoundly than you could have ever imagined. It was as if your entire history with him had never existed, except in your own aching memory.

You paused, your hand clutching the tray, its weight suddenly unbearable. The distance between you two wasn't just physical anymore; it was a chasm of power, of memory, of broken dreams.

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The words of your manager and the whispers of other waitresses, confirming Sanzu's terrifying new reality and your pathetic insignificance in it, had left you reeling. The vibrant thrum of the club now felt like a mocking roar in your ears. Your heart ached with a dull, crushing pain, yet the tables still needed clearing, and the drinks still needed serving. Numbly, you pushed through the crowd, plastering on the practiced, vacant smile of a seasoned waitress. You were a ghost in the neon glow, invisible to everyone but your own private torment.

You navigated through the labyrinth of laughing faces and clinking glasses, finally reaching a dimly lit corner booth. A lone, corpulent man sat there, his eyes overly bright, a lecherous smirk twisting his lips. You approached cautiously, your internal alarm bells beginning to clang.

"Another drink, sir?" you asked, your voice automatically polite, your gaze fixed on the table.

He chuckled, a wet, unpleasant sound. "Not yet, sweetheart. But I'll take a closer look at that pretty face of yours." His eyes raked over you, lingering in a way that made your skin crawl. "Such delicate hands for a working girl, eh? What else can those hands do?"

You felt your cheeks flush, a familiar wave of nausea rising. You tried to step back, but the booth was narrow, trapping you. "Sir, please. I-I just need to know about your order."

His smirk widened, growing uglier, revealing a flash of yellowed teeth. "Oh, I think I've already placed my order, darling." His voice was a low, oily purr that made your stomach churn. He reached out, his plump fingers snaking across the table, unexpectedly grabbing your wrist in a tight, clammy grip. His thumb began to rub unsettlingly against your pulse point, a slow, intimate violation that made your skin crawl. "Come on, don't be shy. A pretty thing like you, working in a place like this... you're practically begging for a little fun, aren't you? You know how to show a man a good time, don't you, sweetie?" His eyes, already too bright, seemed to bore into you, stripping you bare under his predatory gaze.

Panic flared, sharp, and cold. You yanked your hand, but his grip was surprisingly strong. Your tray wobbled, a few ice cubes clattering to the floor, drawing a ripple of annoyed murmurs from nearby tables. The music, though loud, couldn't quite drown out the commotion. The man's laugh grew louder, more mocking, as he held you captive.

Across the vast, pulsating room, in the exclusive VIP section, Sanzu was laughing too. A chilling, detached laugh barely moved his scarred lips as a model draped herself over his arm, whispering something suggestive. But then, a flicker of irritation crossed his face. The sudden break in the club's rhythmic hum, the rising murmur of a scuffle, it was an annoyance. He hated disturbances. His gaze, razor-sharp, cut through the crowd, pinpointing the source of the irritating noise.

With a barely perceptible sigh of irritation, Sanzu slowly pulled his arm from the model draped over him, “Be right back, doll”. His eyes still narrowed as he assessed the commotion. The subtle glow of the VIP section left the corner booth in a deeper shadow. He began to cut through the throng, his initial intention simply to silence the bothersome disruption. As he got closer, his eyes sharpened, the general annoyance giving way to recognition of a familiar figure struggling. Her back was partially turned, her hair catching the ambient glow, but he saw the distressed slump of her shoulders, the way she was trying to pull away.

Then, she twisted slightly, her face momentarily turning in desperation, her eyes wide with fear as she tried to free herself from the man's grasp.

Recognition hit him, and in that instant, the world fractured. The cold, assessing glare in Sanzu's eyes vanished, replaced by an instantaneous, chilling shift. His permanent smile seemed to stretch impossibly wider, no longer just a scar, but a horrifying, predatory grin that reached his eyes. The casual disdain he'd worn moments before evaporated, replaced by a pure, unadulterated fury that pulsed around him like a physical force.

Without a sound, he covered the remaining distance. His movements were a blur of lethal intent. Before the perverted guest could even register the incoming threat, Sanzu's fist, propelled by years of unhinged violence, slammed into the man's face with a sickening crack. The impact was brutal and precise. The man reeled back, a strangled gurgle escaping him, his grip on your wrist immediately gone as he crumpled into the booth, blood gushing from his nose.

Sanzu didn't even spare a second glance at his victim. His eyes, blazing with an unhinged madness, immediately fixed on your face, taking in your wide, terrified eyes, your trembling hand where the man had held you. He had found you. And he was losing it.

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The club's frantic pulse seemed to stutter, the music momentarily fading into the stunned silence left by Sanzu's sudden, brutal act. The perverted guest lay slumped, a spreading stain on the pristine white of his shirt. But Sanzu didn't spare him a second glance. His entire terrifying focus was now on you.

His hand shot out, not to harm, but to claim. His fingers, surprisingly gentle yet undeniably firm, closed around your upper arm. You gasped, more from shock than pain, as he yanked you from the booth, pulling you past the unconscious man, ignoring the growing circle of gawking patrons and the frantic whispers of the staff. He moved with an unsettling speed and purpose, pulling you through the crowd as if you weighed nothing. His grip on your arm remained iron-tight, his eyes fixed straight ahead, cutting a path through the throng. The music swelled again, trying to reclaim the club's atmosphere, but the tension around you was a palpable thing, like a storm cloud moving through a sunny room.

He led you through a discreet side door, away from the pulsating main floor, into a much quieter corridor lined with service entrances and muted light. He didn't say a word, didn't look at you, just kept pulling until he reached a secluded alcove near a fire exit. Then, as abruptly as he'd taken hold, he let go of your arm.

The sudden release made you stumble, but you quickly regained your footing. The silence in this hidden corner of the club was heavy, broken only by the distant throb of the music. You stared at your wrist, then at the floor, anywhere but at him. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You needed to say something, anything, to break the suffocating tension.

"H-Hey, Haru-kun," you stammered, the old honorific slipping out instinctively, a desperate plea from the past. You risked a quick glance at him. He stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on some unseen point beyond the wall, his scarred face unreadable. You quickly averted your gaze. "It's been... It's been so long. You sure are a big shot now, huh? Owning a place like this..." You tried to inject a semblance of normalcy, a desperate attempt to bridge the terrifying chasm of twelve years and his brutal transformation.

He didn't move. He didn't speak. His silence was louder than the club's bass. His eyes, however, slowly, meticulously, began to rake over your face, taking in every detail. There was no warmth, no recognition of shared history in their depths – only a chilling, analytical intensity, like a predator examining its prey. It was as if he was committing your adult features to memory, comparing them to a deeply buried image. The silence stretched, a suffocating weight that made your lungs ache. He said nothing, his scarred face unreadable, his eyes still holding that terrifying, unblinking intensity. He let go of your arm, but the lingering imprint of his fingers felt like a brand. You instinctively rubbed the spot, your mind reeling. The fight, the sudden rescue, and now this eerie silence – it was too much. You stared at your feet, unable to meet his gaze.

Sanzu stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on you, unblinking. Outwardly, he was a statue of controlled menace, but beneath that chilling facade, his mind was a maelstrom. Twelve years. Twelve years, he had forced himself to forget the quiet girl, to deny the gnawing void she left. He'd rationalized her absence as betrayal, as weakness, a pathetic escape from the destiny he'd embraced. He'd tried to fill the emptiness with noise, with violence, with the fleeting oblivion of a hundred faceless women. None of it had worked.

Now, here you were. Real. Tangible. The same soft hair, the same eyes that held that quiet, worrying empathy he'd both hated and desperately craved. The sight of that other man's hand on you, a dirty, unauthorized touch on what was his, had ignited a primal, unthinking rage. But now, that rage began to warp into a terrifying, possessive relief. He hadn't known how profoundly your absence had fractured him until this very moment, until the sight of you, unharmed and within his reach, slammed into him.

A whirlwind of raw, conflicting emotions tore through him: fury at your past abandonment, a chillingly possessive triumph at finding you again, an almost desperate relief that you were safe, and a deep, unacknowledged ache for the peculiar comfort you represented. His permanent smile, typically a mask of madness, felt tighter, almost painful, as he wrestled with the sheer, overwhelming reality of your presence. He craved to assert his dominance, to brand you as his, but a sliver of something else – perhaps the ghost of that long-lost yearning – made him pause, observing you, re-acclimating himself to the anchor he'd rediscovered.

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6 PART 7   PART 8   PART 9   PART 10 PART 11   PART 12  PART 13 PART 14

[asimpfor-2-dmen]

Claim Me, Keep Me

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Content warnings: mention of canon-typical violence, PTSD, hurt/no comfort

This is basically a chapter about the aftermath of their fallout and how Sanzu's and the reader's lives continue after the incident.

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PART 5.5

Sanzu's Life

The words he spat at you—"coward," "worthless," "pathetic"—sliced deeper than any blade. You fled the park that day, not just from his cruel words, but from the terrifying stranger Haru-kun had become. The memory of his face, contorted in rage, the permanent grimace stretched into something truly monstrous, would haunt you for years. You left the city soon after, a small, heartbroken ghost of a girl, carrying the shattered remnants of your love and a profound, silent grief for the boy you'd lost.

Sanzu watched you go, his body rigid, his eyes burning with a furious, unhinged betrayal. He had yelled, he had cursed, but as your figure disappeared from sight, the rage did not dissipate. Instead, it festered, turning inward, then outward, consuming him. His anchor, his peculiar constant in a world spiraling into chaos, had been severed.

Without your quiet, grounding presence, Sanzu's already fractured mind descended further into madness. He became more rabid, more volatile than ever before. His loyalty to Mikey hardened into a fanatical, almost desperate obsession, devoid of any genuine joy. He embraced the darkness Mikey unintentionally brought, convinced it was the only truth. His fights grew more brutal, his movements more frenzied, his eyes holding a wild, desperate gleam. He thrashed through the days, a raw nerve exposed, lashing out at anyone who dared to question Mikey or, worse, anyone who reminded him, however subtly, of the quiet connection he'd so vehemently, yet desperately, severed.

His behavior became uncontrollable, a danger even to those within Toman. It was during this period of unleashed, rabid instability that Mikey handed him over to Mucho. Mucho, observant and stern, recognized the untamed, destructive force Sanzu had become. He saw the potential, but also the self-destruction. He took Sanzu under his wing, not with kindness, but with a harsh, unyielding discipline that Sanzu, in his broken state, paradoxically craved. Mucho gave him a new structure, a new focus for his unhinged devotion, channeling his frenzied energy into unwavering, disciplined loyalty. It was a brutal tutelage that ultimately shaped Sanzu into the terrifying, efficient enforcer he would become, a direct consequence of your absence and his inability to cope with the loss of his "anchor."

Your departure, though meant to protect you, had inadvertently pushed Sanzu deeper into the abyss, solidifying his role within Toman's dark underbelly and forever sealing the fate of the boy you once called Haru-kun.

(The next events follow the timeline in which he becomes the unhinged mad dog of Bonten, so I'm not gonna write that :P)

Reader's Life

The city you moved to was a blur of new streets and unfamiliar faces. Far from the park with the weeping willow, far from the unsettling presence of Sanzu, you tried to build a new life. But the ghost of Haru-kun, and the chilling memory of his final words, clung to you like a second skin.

The initial years were marked by a profound sense of grief. You carried a silent ache, a heavy weight in your chest that no one else seemed to understand. Sleep offered little escape, often haunted by fragmented images: a scarred smile, eyes blazing with a terrifying rage, Mikey's shadowed face. Your art, once a vibrant escape, also became a reflection of your turmoil. You rarely spoke of him or the world you'd left behind. How could you explain the terrifying metamorphosis of a boy you loved or the terrifying love you still harbored for him?

Sometimes, a fleeting image in a crowd—a flash of light hair, a certain way someone moved—would make your breath catch. News from your old city rarely reached you, and when it did, it was usually generic. But the name "Toman" would occasionally surface, whispered in hushed tones on news reports about escalating gang violence. You'd freeze, your heart hammering, a chilling certainty forming that he was undoubtedly involved.

But as you grew older, the intensity of the raw pain dulled, but the scar on your own psyche remained. You became more guarded, your natural timidity hardening into a quiet vigilance. You found it difficult to form deep connections, always holding a part of yourself back, wary of the unpredictable cruelty the world could inflict, wary of forming bonds that could be so brutally severed. Every new friendship was approached with caution, every moment of genuine warmth tinged with the memory of how swiftly joy could turn to fear.

You learned to live with the echoes. The sweet innocence of your childhood had been violently cut short, leaving you with a complex tapestry of grief, fear, enduring love, and lingering regret for a past that was irrevocably broken. You moved forward, but a piece of your heart remained forever under that willow tree, waiting for a Haru-kun who would never return, and mourning the one you had left behind.

You tried to move on; you really did. You always wanted to go to art school. It was a childhood dream, nurtured in countless sketchbooks filled with vibrant colors and quiet afternoons lost in the flow of charcoal on paper. Art was your escape from reality, from your sorrows. But during your final year of high school, life, with its brutal indifference, dealt you a devastating blow. Your parents died suddenly in a horrific car accident, their absence ripping a gaping hole through the carefully constructed world you knew.

With no extended family or safety net, you were forced to grow up overnight. The acceptance letters to art programs, once cherished dreams, never came. The meticulously crafted art portfolio, a testament to your aspirations, was simply boxed away, a painful reminder of a future that had violently evaporated.

You had to leave the family home, parting with most belongings just to afford a deposit on a tiny, one-bedroom flat that felt less like a home and more like a temporary refuge. The initial years were a relentless grind. You took multiple jobs right after graduation—waitressing shifts that stretched late into the night, exhausting delivery runs, and mind-numbing part-time retail. You were always tired, always counting pennies, always pushing forward.

Eventually, after years of relentless struggle, you managed to land a more stable job as a receptionist at a small, unassuming real estate agency. The job paid little, but it was predictable, offering a fragile semblance of routine. You started breathing again, the suffocating pressure easing just enough for you to stand upright.

Twelve years had already passed since you last saw him. And, despite the fear, despite the cold, cutting words he'd thrown at you, a part of you still loved him. The first love you had ever experienced. It was a twisted, complicated love, forever intertwined with the pain he caused and the brokenness he embodied. You couldn't reconcile the gentle boy who'd sat beside you with the rabid stranger he became, yet the memory of both versions haunted you. You often found yourself wondering if leaving was the right choice. Was he truly better off without you, or did your absence just push him further into the abyss? What had become of him? Is he okay? A deep regret settled in your heart, a nagging question of whether you could have, should have, stayed. Could your quiet presence have truly been the anchor he needed? Did you abandon him when he needed someone most, even if that someone was terrifyingly unstable? Did he still hate you for leaving? And the worst feeling—the one that made your throat clench every time you thought of him—was the question you couldn’t bear to ask: did he even remember you?

PART 1   PART 2   PART 3   PART 4   PART 5  PART 5.5   PART 6 PART 7   PART 8   PART 9   PART 10 PART 11   PART 12  PART 13 PART 14