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yakuza!suna/escort!reader part 5 - set in the morning after part 2, everybody give a warm welcome to the yakuza universe miya twins, tw yandere behaviour red flags series masterlist

You wake to the clanging sound of pots, pans, and the rush of running tap water—the telltale sound of cooking, you realize, the closer to consciousness you drift.

Slowly, you rouse from your slumber, blinking against the soft light that diffuses through the curtains along the vast wall of windows at your bedside.

No, not your bedside.

You push yourself up, a tenderness in your limbs that makes them wobble under the meagre effort to lift your own body from the soft swaddle of sheets. The gauzy curtains in Suna’s bedroom have rendered the daylight down outside into something gentle, but the face of the digital clock on his bedside table tells you that it’s almost midday, and life in the city outside is already in full-swing. You should have left hours ago. You shouldn’t even have spent the night. 

In truth, you’re not quite sure where your memories from the day before end. You don’t feel particularly well rested, which makes you think you probably haven’t been asleep for very long. What foggy recollection you do have from the very early hours of the morning tell you that there’s a good chance that you’re right.

You look down suddenly.

You don’t have any clothes on.

Your skin doesn’t feel sticky though, you remark as you drag your fingertips gently along your bare thigh. There’s no trace of grime, or sweat, or any other unmentionable mess that you can detect clinging to you—just tender aches that you know are fresh bruises forming underneath the outermost layer of your skin. You lift your forearm up to your nose, sniffing yourself lightly. You smell like soap. Nice soap. The same soap you smell on Suna when you mouth along his throat. He must have cleaned you up before he put you into bed, you realize.

You purse your lips in a pensive little pout.

Outside the bedroom—Suna’s bedroom—the clattering noises continue.

The sounds of activity in the kitchen only grow louder as you pad quietly out from the bedroom, approaching the edge of the second floor landing to peer down to the main floor. There’s not a particularly clear view to the kitchen from the upper level, but you see a pair of hands reaching for a knife from the chopping block in the island, so you know he’s there.

“Suna,” you call down quietly, your voice still hoarse from sleep and possibly overexertion the night before. You step cautiously down along the first few steps of the staircase, conscious of a dangerous weakness in your knees, clinging to the railing as you descend.

The sounds in the kitchen halt—save for the sizzle of something cooking on the stove.

You hadn’t been able to find your clothes in Suna’s bedroom, so you’re still naked—not that you have any particular reservations to nudity, given your line of work. 

You reach the bottom of the staircase and look up.

“Do you know where my clothes a—“

It is not Suna that you find in the kitchen.

In fact, it’s not even someone that you recognize.

The dark-haired man on the other side of the apartment is frozen with his eyes wide, staring at you like he’s just as shocked as you are to be standing there.

In the living room, a little bit closer to you, a head of blonde hair peeks up over the back of the sofa with an identical look of surprise.

Literally identical.

“You’re not Suna,” you remark rather flatly, though it really doesn’t need to be said.

“No ‘m definitely not,” the man in the kitchen nods, averting his stare. As though to preserve your modesty, he picks up a container of orange juice and holds it up in front of his eyes. It’s so unsubtle that you can’t help but think it’s kind of cute.

The guy on the couch shows no such chivalry. 

“Who are you?” he asks, a cheeky smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“’Tsumu at least stop starin’ at her, ya pig,” the guy in the kitchen snaps, and the blonde rolls his eyes before making a big show of holding his hands up to cover his gaze.

(You’re pretty sure you still spot him peeking through his fingers.)

“I, uh,”—the dark haired one clears his throat a bit awkwardly—“I’ve got a hoodie over here if ya need somethin' to put on.”

You don’t know who these two are, but they seem to be right at home in Suna's apartment, so you don’t feel as though you’re in any great degree of danger. You consider this for a moment, and then approach the kitchen tentatively.

The man hidden behind the orange juice is gesturing vaguely to what you’re pretty sure he thinks are the barstools along one side of the kitchen island, but is actually a bowl of fruit—but you find a soft black sweatshirt all the same, tugging it quickly on over you’re head.

“I’m decent,” you remark, letting the gentleman in front of you know it’s safe to lower his citrus shield now that you're all covered up.

“Yeah you are,” the blonde in the other room mutters appreciatively under his breath, and you toss an unamused look over your shoulder in his direction. He slumps back onto the sofa, avoiding your gaze.

“Sorry 'bout him,” the man in front of you says with a long sigh that gives you every impression that it’s not the first time he’s had to apologize on the other’s behalf. “He’s like a dog.”

You hum, glancing over at the blonde again. He’s looking your way but quickly busies himself with his cellphone when he sees you turn in his direction.

“He needs better training,” you note, and the dark haired man laughs, loud and sincere.

“I don’t disagree.” 

The man in front of you can at least meet your eyes now that you’re covered up, and he bows politely in your direction to finally greet you properly.

“I’m Osamu,” he says. 

You dip down slightly to do the same. “Yua.”

“What are ya doin’ at our Sunarin’s place, Yua-chan?” the blonde on the couch calls over to you, but you don’t bother sparing him a glance—or offering him any kind of reply.

“That’s my brother, Atsumu,” Osamu explains, and you nod a little—having pieced at least that bit of information together on your own. 

“I see you inherited all the charm,” you remark, and Osamu smiles a little shyly, chuckling to himself.

“Yeah, but I got all the looks.” Suddenly, Atsumu sidles up alongside you, and you startle at his unexpected nearness. You blink up at him in surprise, all at once realizing just how big these twins are—tall, broad, visibly strong frames nearly identical between them. He smiles down at you, dipping closer to your face and batting his eyelashes sweetly. “Dontcha think?”

You don’t have time to tell him what you think, as it turns out, because a figure steps into view on the other side of the kitchen that serves as a distraction.

“What are you doing in my house?” 

Suna’s expression is severe as he takes in the scene before him, though his eyes seem particularly focused on Atsumu at your side.

“There he is,” Osamu remarks lightly, and there’s a lilt of something in his voice that seems like anticipation—like he knows how this is all about to play out.

“We were ‘sposed to meet here after the meeting this morning, remember?” Atsumu says, turning to the man on the other side of the room. He slings an arm around your shoulders, tucking you against his side. “Ya didn’t tell us you’d have company, Sunarin.” 

“Get out.”

You’ve never heard Suna’s voice so cold in all the time you’ve known him.

Impassive, yes. Irritated, on occasion. 

Never so hostile.

Atsumu opens his mouth as if to complain, but his brother doesn’t give him the chance.

“You heard the man, Tsumu,” he says, rounding the kitchen island and closing that gap between him and his brother in two long strides. He grabs Atsumu by the scruff of his t-shirt and drags him towards the door, passing Suna as they go.

You spot the unmistakable glimpse of a tattoo on Atsumu’s back as his brother tows him along by his collar.

Ah.

That explains it.

“Sorry, Suna,” you hear Osamu mutter as the two of them pass the man standing there watching them go.

“Wait,” you call, suddenly finding your voice. 

All three men flinch at the sound, pausing to look at you.

“Your sweater,” you say, holding up your hands where the sleeves of his hoodie have them swallowed.

Osamu smiles stiffly, dipping his head ever so slightly in a nod. “You keep that fer now, I’m not too worried about it.”

You let your hands drop, and the twins disappear from view. You hear a bit of bickering, and then the sound of the front door closing behind them.

Suddenly it’s just you and Suna, all alone.

It’s preternaturally quiet once the twins are gone, their absence acutely noticeable like a storm once it recedes. It makes you shift your weight from one foot to the other nervously.

You glance into the kitchen where there’s still something cooking on the stove—seemingly abandoned in Osamu’s haste to flee. 

“He was cooking something,” you remark quietly. Suna makes no move to tend to it, so you round the kitchen island and take the overcooked eggs off the heat, setting the skillet on an unlit burner and extinguishing the one it had previously been resting on. 

You turn back towards the living room, and find Suna has approached you in the time your back was turned to him, closer now than he has been since he arrived home.

“I thought it was you,” you explain quietly after a moment, fiddling with the sleeve of the sweatshirt on your frame. “I heard noises when I woke up so I just thought…”

Suna catches your hand in his own, his eyes fixed to the hoodie that you wear.

“I couldn’t find my clothes,” you explain, sensing what’s making the unhappy little expression tug at the corner of his mouth.

Suna’s eyes flicker up to meet yours.

“I took them to be dry cleaned,” he replies, glancing over to the counter. He’d been carrying a few things when he came in, but you hadn’t paid them much attention. There’s a garment bag resting across the marble, and a shopping bag from a familiar store on top.

A lingerie store.

“Well, I took whatever could be salvaged anyway,” Suna murmurs, tugging you into his chest and nosing at your ear. 

Your cheeks feel warm.

Suna’s hands slip up underneath the sweatshirt, peeling it slowly up off of your body. You let him do so without complaint, watching as he tosses it aside haplessly into the living room once he’s fully removed it. 

“Better?” you ask him dryly as he peers down at you.

He smiles a little, leaning down so his mouth is poised just over your own.

“Much.”

In between needy, feverish kisses, Suna lifts you up to sit atop the kitchen island, slotting himself in between your parted legs.

“Suna,” you mumble as he mouths his way down your throat, your lips kiss-bitten and stinging. He ignores your call of his name, running his tongue along your clavicle before nipping at it gently. You grip gently at the hair of his nape, tugging a bit. “Suna.”

He pulls away, his expression hazy and his breaths coming fast.

“I should go,” you say to him quietly, and you’re sure the regret you feel is evident in your words. “I have to go home. I have to work tonight.”

Suna’s expression changes, hardens a bit, he tucks his face back into the crook of your neck.

This time when he bites it isn’t gentle.

You moan at the feeling of his teeth pressing into your skin, your legs tightening where they're wrapped around his waist, your hands holding him to your neck a little tighter where they're tangled in his hair. He presses a series of kisses to the spot he’s just marked, soft like an apology.

A chiming sound from the end of the counter tears your attention away from the ache of your throat.

Your head turns towards the sound, but Suna is quick to guide your face back towards his, kissing you sweetly. He leans you back until you're flat against the counter, his broad frame hovering over you like he's shielding the rest of the world from view.

It almost works.

“Did you take my phone with you this morning when you left?” you ask him, panting the question out against his beseeching mouth.

Suna pulls away slightly.

“I took your purse by accident,” he explains. “I didn’t realize until I went to pick your clothes up from the dry cleaners. They set it aside in a separate bag.”

You purse your lips, letting your head loll to the side and turning your face away from him.

“I didn’t expect you to wake up so soon,” Suna insists, pressing a kiss to the edge of your jaw. “I had to go somewhere for work, and I didn’t know it would take me as long as it did.”

He places a chaste peck to your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your mouth.

Your eyes search his, but you can’t seem to find any guilt behind them.

You soften after taking a moment to mull over his apology, wrapping your arms around his neck, and he pulls you upright on the counter.

“Let’s get you home,” he says, running his hands along your thighs, kneading his thumbs into them every so often. 

“If you pass me my phone, I’ll call the club. They may have a driver they can send for me,” you say, glancing towards the pile of your things at the other end of the island. 

“Don’t worry about that,” Suna says, and you tilt your head to the side as you turn to face him again.

He fishes a set of car keys out from the pocket of his joggers, and they jingle as he twirls them around his finger.

“I can take you home myself.”

You pause, hesitating.

He picks up instantly on your reluctance.

“Or I could call the driver from last night,” he assures you, his tone even and obliging. He presses another featherlight kiss to your lips. “It’s entirely up to you.”

Your fingers twist in the material of his sweatshirt, considering it for a moment. You fiddle idly with the strings of his hoodie, twirling them around our fingers until the blood flow starts to slow, deprivation prickling in the very tips.

You’ve never let a client drive you home before.

Never even let a client know what neighbourhood you live in.

But this is Suna.

And Suna’s different…

“Yeah, okay,” you murmur, peeking up at him shyly. “You can take me if you want.”

… Isn’t he?