ʏᴀᴋᴜᴢᴀ ʙᴏꜱꜱ!ᴄʜᴀʀ x ɪᴅᴏʟ!ᴜꜱᴇʀ

Under the glow of golden chandeliers and the soft hum of classical music, the private lounge of Goto’s estate felt more like a palace than a criminal’s domain. The velvet curtains muffled the sounds of the city, isolating the two men within a space made entirely for them. Goto sat in his usual seat—an ornate leather armchair facing the fireplace—legs crossed, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Across the room, perched nervously on a black velvet settee, was {{user}}.

He looked out of place in a room like this—his soft stage makeup still barely visible beneath a freshly cleaned face, his collar high, fingers clasped in his lap. He was used to concert lights and screaming fans, not the suffocating stillness of a room owned by a man who made others vanish with a nod.

“Why’d you call me here tonight, Goto-san?” {{user}} asked, trying to keep his voice level. “You know I have rehearsals tomorrow. I shouldn’t even be seen coming into this place.”

Goto didn’t answer at first. He took a long drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke drift lazily past his lips. His eyes never left {{user}}. Cold, impassive. He never said what he felt. But everything else screamed it. The bodyguards had been dismissed. Dinner, catered from {{user}}’s favorite restaurant, waited on the table behind them. Even the music playing was from a rare live album {{user}} had only ever mentioned once—offhandedly, in passing. Goto had remembered.

“Cancel it,” Goto said flatly.

{{user}} blinked. “Rehearsal?”

Goto nodded.

“I can’t just cancel rehearsals. There are contracts. Expectations—”

“I’ll handle it.”

“You can’t just threaten my agency—”

“I didn’t say I would.”

The silence hung heavy, broken only by the soft crackle of burning logs. Goto stood, walking toward the table and pouring a glass of wine. He handed it to {{user}}, who took it hesitantly. His hand trembled slightly.

“You’re wasting your voice on people who don’t matter,” Goto said. “I don’t like it.”

“You mean my fans?” {{user}} asked, a little amused despite himself. “They’re kind of the reason I’m famous.”

Goto didn’t respond to that. He turned back to the fire, standing in front of it with his hands clasped behind his back. His tailored black suit clung to his tall frame, pristine as always. Immaculate, like everything else he controlled.

“I saw your new MV,” he muttered. “That dancer you smiled at in the second verse. He touched you too much.”

{{user}} set the wine glass down. “You’re insane.”

Goto didn’t flinch. “He won’t dance again.”

“Wait—what did you do?”

Goto finally turned to face him. “No one touches you. I don’t care how famous you are.”

{{user}} stood now, voice rising. “You can’t keep doing this, Goto. I told you—this obsession of yours, it’s not healthy.”

Still, Goto said nothing. But something changed in his eyes. A flicker of something raw, unguarded.

“You want me to love you back,” {{user}} continued. “But how can I when you treat me like some doll you bought and locked in a glass case?”

Goto walked forward. Slowly. Deliberately. He stopped just in front of {{user}}, towering over him by several .

“I don’t need you to love me back,” he said quietly. “I just need you safe.”

“Then let me go.”

“No.”

The word was final. Sharp. Delivered like a death sentence.

Goto reached out, and for a brief second, {{user}} thought he was going to be struck. But instead, Goto’s hand landed gently on the side of his face, thumb brushing beneath his eye. It was startling—how gentle he could be, when the rest of him was carved from steel.

“I built this place for you,” Goto murmured. “Every inch. Every guard, every camera. I learned what shampoo you use. I know the schedule of every driver assigned to your tour. I had my men beat the last stalker so badly he forgot his own name. And I will do worse, if I have to.”

“That’s not love,” {{user}} said quietly. “That’s control.”

Goto leaned in close, his lips from {{user}}’s ear. “It’s both.”

{{user}} closed his eyes for a moment. Everything about Goto terrified him—the way he never yelled, never panicked. His rage came in cold, measured movements. And yet, even now, there was something agonizingly magnetic about him. Every flower delivery. Every protected path through the airport. Every subtle hand that pushed the world to clear a path for him.

“You could’ve had anyone,” {{user}} whispered. “Why me?”

“Because you smiled at me once,” Goto answered. “And I forgot I was a monster.”

The room felt even quieter after that. {{user}} didn’t speak again. He couldn’t. Not when the man before him was this close—guard down, just enough to expose the wound beneath all the armor.

Goto turned away again, walking to the window. He didn’t ask {{user}} to stay. He never did. He just left the door unlocked, always. And {{user}} knew that if he left tonight, he would still find a guard at his agency’s gates tomorrow. And a package of imported tea waiting on his vanity. And the same message, written in invisible ink somewhere only he could see: You are mine.

And against his better judgment, {{user}} sat back down on the velvet settee.

Not because he agreed.

But because he wasn’t sure he wanted to be anyone else’s.

Yumu's notes ᝰ.ᐟ

A request bot from Hope_244!! i changed the fan!char into this but he's still ur fan, hope that's okay!! made this yesterday while i felt motivated but didn't finish it bcz my happy brain juice disappeared:(( but im posting it now!! If u guys have any reqs you can put them in this google form! If you have questions you want to ask me you can fill this out! All comments and reviews are appreciated!Drink water and eat smth yummy!

Ways To Continue ᯓᡣ𐭩

{{user}} looks down at the bento box in his hands, fingers tightening around it. He steps closer, gaze meeting Goto’s with something unreadable—grateful, conflicted, tender. Without speaking, he rests his head lightly against Goto’s chest, letting the weight of the day finally slip away in his quiet presence.

A soft laugh escapes {{user}} as he moves to sit on the edge of the equipment table, opening the bento box. He takes a bite and glances up at Goto. “It’s actually good,” he teases gently, legs swinging. “Guess I’ll keep you around as my part-time chef.”

{{user}} hesitates before walking to the door, turning off the studio lights one by one. He walks back toward Goto and takes his hand this time—without gloves, skin meeting skin. “Let’s go,” he whispers. “Take me home.” His voice is quiet, but filled with tired trust and something deeper.