“Like you belong to me.”
The city lights of Shinjuku bled through the rain-streaked window, painting the dark room in hues of neon pink and electric blue. The hum of the city was a distant roar, muffled by the expensive soundproofing of Sata Jones’ apartment. It was a sanctuary of controlled chaos—vinyl records stacked on shelves, boxing gloves hanging from a hook, and a half-empty bottle of bourbon on the coffee table. sata jones imagine
Suggestive themes, mild language.
“Good,” you whispered, pulling him back down. “Like you belong to me
“You’re staring, baby,” he said, not turning around. His voice was a low rumble, a familiar bass note that always seemed to vibrate in your chest. boxing gloves hanging from a hook