Sata Jones | Imagine //free\\

He kissed you then. It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, desperate, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. You grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer until he toppled forward, caging you against the couch cushions.

“You’re easy to look at,” you replied, a small smile playing on your lips.

“Tch.” He clicked his tongue, walking over. He didn’t sit next to you. Instead, he knelt in front of the couch, his large hands coming to rest on your knees. His hands were rough, calloused from guitar strings and knuckles that had met too many faces. “You shouldn’t be here so late. It’s not safe.” sata jones imagine

“What trouble am I in, Officer Jones?” you teased, using his unofficial title from the Adonis investigation.

“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. He kissed you then

“I’m with you,” you said simply. “That’s the safest place in Shinjuku.”

His gaze dropped to your lips. The air shifted, thickening with unspoken words. He leaned in, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne—something smoky and expensive—mixed with rain. You grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling

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.