Sata Jones Imagine //top\\ -

“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.

You were sitting on his leather couch, your legs tucked beneath you, watching him. He stood by the window, the low light carving sharp lines into his jaw. He wasn’t wearing his usual flashy stage clothes, just a plain black tee and grey sweatpants. His dreads were pulled back, exposing the corded muscles of his neck. sata jones imagine

He scoffed, but his thumbs traced small circles on your legs. “Flattery won’t get you out of trouble.”

“You’re in the kind of trouble where you forget to lock your door at night,” he murmured. “The kind where you walk down dark alleys looking like that .” “Like you belong to me

Outside, the X-Day countdown continued. The world was falling apart. But here, in the devil’s hour, tangled up in the arms of Shinjuku’s most dangerous man, you had never felt safer in your life.

“I’m with you,” you said simply. “That’s the safest place in Shinjuku.” You were sitting on his leather couch, your

Suggestive themes, mild language.