You first met Shinichiro Sano because of a broken bicycle chain.
At least, that’s the version he knew.
The real version was far more embarrassing.
You had known of him long before that day. Everyone around the neighborhood did. The legendary former leader of Black Dragon. The guy everyone respected even after he retired from gang life. The idiot who smiled too softly to look intimidating despite his reputation.
You saw him for the first time when you were fiveteen.
He was outside his bike shop laughing with a customer, sunlight catching the silver rings on his fingers while he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.
And like the absolute disaster you were, you developed the biggest crush of your life instantly.
Which would’ve been fine.
If he wasn’t ten years older than you.
At first, it stayed harmless.
You’d walk past the shop too often. Sit at nearby vending machines pretending to do homework while secretly watching him work on motorcycles. Sometimes you’d hear stories from local delinquents talking about him like he was some kind of retired war hero.
“He’s scary when he’s serious.”
“He’d beat anyone for his friends.”
“He got rejected again.”
That last one became your favorite.
Because somehow the terrifying former gang leader was painfully bad with women.
Over time, Shinichiro started recognizing you.
“The stalking’s getting concerning,” he joked one afternoon when he caught you sitting outside the shop for the fourth day in a row.
“I live nearby,” you lied.
You absolutely did not.
He tossed you a canned coffee anyway.
You kept the can for three months.
Things got worse after that.
Or better.
Depending on how delusional you wanted to be.
You started talking regularly. Small conversations at first. Then longer ones. You learned he stayed up too late, forgot to eat when busy, and acted confident while actually being ridiculously insecure.
And he learned the version of you that you carefully created.
Older.
Smarter.
Safe.
You changed little things at first.
A different age.
A fake story about graduating early.
You avoided specifics whenever he asked questions about school or family. Shinichiro wasn’t suspicious because he respected privacy too much to push.
Honestly, lying to him should’ve been harder.
But he trusted people so easily.
Especially people he cared about.
That was the problem.
He started caring about you.
It happened slowly enough that neither of you noticed immediately.
Late-night conversations at the garage.
Sharing convenience store meals.
Him calling you whenever he fixed a bike because “you’re weirdly good luck.”
You memorized the sound of his laugh.
He memorized your favorite drink order.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, your harmless crush turned into something dangerous.
Because Shinichiro looked at you differently now.
Not like a kid hanging around his shop.
Like someone he wanted beside him.
The first time you realized it for sure was during a rainy night at the garage.
The power had gone out, leaving only the sound of rain against the windows while you sat together under emergency lights.
“You know,” Shinichiro said quietly, “you’re kinda the first person who makes this place feel less lonely.”
Your chest nearly stopped working.
You stared at him.
And he smiled at you with that soft, honest expression that made lying feel unforgivable.
You should’ve told him then.
Instead, you asked quietly, “What would’ve happened if we met earlier?”
Shinichiro laughed. “Earlier? You probably would’ve hated me.”
“No,” you whispered before thinking.
His eyes flickered toward you.
The silence after that felt different.
Heavy.
Careful.
Real.
And when he walked you home that night, his hand hovered near yours the entire way without touching.
That was the moment everything became impossible.
Because now it wasn’t just a crush.
Now you were hurting someone genuinely good.
Still, you couldn’t stop.
Selfishly, horribly, you wanted just a little more time before reality ruined it.
So you kept lying.
Even while guilt slowly ate you alive.
Until the night in the garage when you finally admitted the truth.
And watched the exact moment Shinichiro’s heart broke along with yours.
_______
Idk should i make this into chapters or nah 👻
I'll make it into a chapters if this does good so leave a heart and comment bby 🫰
in which your heartbreak over Mikey pulls you into the dangerous and irresistible orbit of Bonten's Number Two, Haruchiyo Sanzu.
warnings. sanzu haruchiyo is his own warning, graphic violence, substance abuse, toxic & manipulative relationships, explicit sexual content, depression & self-destructive behaviour, strong language.
tags. female reader insert, bonten au, tsundere!sanzu, ex-boyfriend!mikey, angst with a happy ending, slow burn, heavy pining & yearning.
masterlist
SPECIAL PART. 8.8k words
Haruchiyo Sanzu knew exactly where he stood in this fucked-up world.
Life, to him, was like a game of chess. The pieces, every last one of them, were expendable, existing solely to protect the king. Pawns were fodder, their only worth measured in how far they could march before being struck down. But Haruchiyo didn’t see himself as a mere pawn, weak and replaceable. No, he was the knight, the unpredictable force leaping over obstacles, carving his own jagged path through the board. His moves were calculated chaos, impossible to predict, lethal to anyone foolish enough to cross him.
And for Haruchiyo, there was only one king: Mikey.
The one who didn't demand respect because it was already his by default. The one whose mere presence could still the air, suffocating lesser men with the weight of his gaze. Mikey was strength incarnate, a force of nature, the eye of a storm Haruchiyo would gladly lose himself in. To serve Mikey wasn't just loyaly, it was purpose. It was identity.
So, when it came to protecting Mikey, hesitation wasn't in Haruchiyo's vocabulary. Even as the vice president of the Kanto Manji Gang, commanding men who would have spilled blood for him without question, he had walked into an enemy trap alone.
Fourteen men against one.
It was a calculated sacrifice. A massacre.
Haruchiyo had fought like a demon unleashed, his katana moving with a ferocity that turned the narrow alley into a butcher's den. Flesh tore, blood sprayed, and screams rose like a choir of agony in the night. For every cut he delivered, though, another fist found its mark. A bat slammed into his ribs. A knife grazed his body. Yet he didn't stop. Every movement, every ounce of pain, was fuel for the fire that burned him.
By the time the last man fell, Haruchiyo was barely standing.
Now, sprawled on the street, his breath came in wet, ragged gasps, each one an effort that felt like swallowing glass. The katana he'd fought so fiercely with had slipped from his grasp, its one-sharp edge dulled and stained crimson. A knife wound in his side pulsed with pain, the searing ache radiating outword with each shallow rise and fall of his chest. His blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the filthly street like a grosteque offering.
The world around him began to twist and blur, a kaleidoscope of dim streetlights and distant, faceless silhouettes. People were there; he could hear the hurried shuffle of their feet the murmurs of unease carried on in the wind. But none of them came closer. Their figures remained hazy and indistinct, heads turned away as if acknowledging his existence was an act too heavy to bear.
And maybe it was. He didn't deserve their pity. He didn't want it. What use did a knight have for mercy?
His hand slipped slightly, the strength draining from him faster than he could summon the will to move. A part of him recognised the truth: he was losing too much blood.
It was fine. This was how it was supposed to end, wasn't it?
Haruchiyo had always been a piece on the board, a knight thrown into battle again and again without hesitation. He was meant to break, to shatter, to be discarded when his usefulness ran out. As long as the king stood tall, untouchable, his sacrifice was nothing more than a necessary loss. And so, as the void began to reach for him, he let his mind drift, accepting its cold embrace with the faintest hint of a smile.
Until your voice jolted him awake.
“Are you alright?”
It was soft, hesitant, and so out of place in the blood-soaked reality he lived in that it made his eyes flutter open, despite the overwhelming exhaustion.
At first, he could only make out the shape of you, standing in front of him, your figure illuminated by the dim orange glow of a nearby streetlight. His gaze shifted, struggling to steady, until he caught sight of your school uniform. A pristine, ordinary thing that looked so absurdly out of place amidst the blood-soaked chaos. And then there was your face: wide-eyed and paled with worry, as you stared at him like you couldn't quite believe what you were seeing.
You shouldn't have been there.
Someone like you—a stranger, so normal, so untainted—had no business stopping for him. You should have turned away, just like everyone else. You should have kept walking, left him there to bleed out and vanish, just another nameless casualty swallowed by the night.
And yet, you hadn't.
You were holding out something to him. A handkerchief embroidered with flowers. It looked laughably small in your hands, the kind of thing that belonged neatly folded in a school bag. How could that delicate thing possibly fix the mess he was in?
When he didn’t move, didn’t say anything, uncertainty flickered across your face, and your hand lowered slowly.
“I just called the ambulance,” you said, your voice was steady, but he didn’t miss the way your fingers trembled. “They should be here any minute.”
Your gaze darted to his wound, and he saw the way your lips pressed into a tight line as if you were debating whether you should be doing more.
“I… I can’t stay long,” you added, almost apologetically. “I’ve got an important test to get to. But I didn’t want to just…”
You trailed off, biting your lip as though the words felt inadequate, as though you were ashamed of even thinking of leaving him.
His chest ached at your concern.
It wasn’t pity though. Your voice didn’t carry that patronizing weight. It was genuine. The kind of thing he hadn’t encountered in what felt like a lifetime.
He wanted to tell you to leave.
That your kindness was wasted on him. That people like him didn't deserve help, didn't deserve saving. That the world would be better off if he bled out here, just another piece sacrificed for the king's game.
But the words wouldn't come.
All he could do was lie there, his breathing ragged, his body a leaden weight against the cold asphalt. His eyes, hazy yet piercing, locked onto yours, as if searching for an answer he didn't know how to ask.
Then you knelt in front of him, holding out the handkerchief once more.
The mechanical mistrust ingrained in him since childhood roared to life. His instinct flared violently, screaming at him to shove you away, to guard himself. His hand shot out before he could stop it, knocking yours aside with more force than intended.
You froze mid-motion, your hand lingering in the air, your eyes widening slightly. A moment of silence passed, and he anticipated the usual response: fear, disgust, even hatred.
But your gaze softened instead.
"I'm not going to hurt you," you said gently as though you were speaking to a frightened animal. "I just want to help."
Help.
He stared at you, his chest tight with disbelief. The concept felt alien, as if you'd spoken a language he'd never learned. People didn’t help without wanting something in return. Not in his world. Not in the life he’d been swallowed by since the day Mikey pulled him out of the gutter and gave him a purpose.
Still, your hand came forward again, slower this time, the handkerchief trembling between your fingers.
The soft fabric brushed against his cheek, and he froze. Every muscle in his body locked, the instinct to recoil roaring in his mind, but his body betrayed him, rooted in place. Your touch was gentle, so impossibly careful, it felt like you were afraid of breaking him.
Breaking me? The thought almost made him laugh, if he weren't already choking on exhaustion. But I'm already broken.
His life had been a series of fractures, cracks spreading deeper with every betrayal, every fight, every sacrifice made in Mikey's name.
And yet, your touch, your gaze, your voice, scraped at a forgotten part inside him, a hollow space he'd long since buried beneath rage and violence. A part of him he didn't recognise anymore.
For that fleeting moment, Haruchiyo let you clean the blood off his face. The warmth of your touch soothed the sting of his wounds, both seen and unseen, you presence anchoring him a way he didn't understand and didn't want to question.
Then the panic set in.
"Don’t," he snapped, the word tearing from his throat, as he jerked your hand away again.
Letting someone in, even this much, felt like a crack in his armor, and the vulnerability clawed at him like a living thing.
You sighed in response, your frustration flickering across your face, but there was no genuine anger. “Fine, I’ll stop.”
You tucked the handkerchief away.
Haruchiyo watched silently as you pulled out a notepad from your bag, scribbling something quickly before tearing the page free. You folded it neatly in your hands and held it out to him.
"I really need to get going now," you said, straightening to your full height. Your schoolbag shifted on your shoulder, a reminder of the normal life you'd be returning to—a world so far removed from his.
"But if you need anything, call me. Please. I mean it."
Haruchiyo stared at the paper, but he didn’t take it.
You hesitated for only a second before bending down and slipping it into his hand yourself. Your fingers brushed against his briefly, but the contact was enough to send a jolt through him, one he didn’t know how to process.
He stared down at the paper now crumpled in his hand, the faint imprint of your touch still linegering on his skin. His mind raced, torn between the instinct to throw it away and the inexplicable urge to hold onto it like a lifeline.
You.
Someone who had stepped into his world, this twisted hell he lived in, and hadn't turned away. Someone who didn't treat him like he was nothing more than a lunatic, a dog loyal to its master.
Someone who looked at him and saw a man worth saving.
He didn't understand it. He didn't trust it. But he couldn't bring himself to reject it.
You turned to leave, but paused a few steps away, glancing back over your shoulder with a small, uncertain smile.
"Don’t forget," you said softly, "you can call me, okay?"
And then you were gone, your figure swallowed by the chaos of the city.
Still, he didn’t move. The sounds of the world around him—the distant hum of traffic, the wail of approaching sirens—blurred into static. His heart pounded, erratic and uneven, a thundering rhythm he couldn't control. He couldn't explain it. Why his chest felt tight, why his throat burned, why this small, stupid piece of paper felt heavier than the katana he'd wielded mere hours ago.
For the first time in his life, Haruchiyo Sanzu didn't know what he was supposed to do.
And it terrified him.
Haruchiyo Sanzu couldn’t get you out of his mind.
It was infuriating.
Days had passed since you left him on that bloodstained street with your naive kindness and a flimsy promise tucked into his hand. Days spent staring at white ceilings, surrounded by the antiseptic stench of the hospital Mikey had sponsored. Mikey hadn’t even bothered to visit, and part of Haruchiyo expected that. The boss was angry.
Not that Mikey’s silence stung. It did.
But the truth was, Mikey had done enough. He’d kept the whole ordeal from reaching the police, hidden the mess Haruchiyo had made in his reckless attempt to protect the king. That was Mikey’s way: decisive and clean. Still, the absence of his leader left Haruchiyo restless, trapped in a limbo of recovery and idleness.
And then there was you.
Your voice, your face, the warmth of your touch. They haunted him. Haruchiyo scowled as he pulled the crumpled note from his pocket, smoothing the creases with his thumb. Your number, still smudged with his blood, stared back at him like a challenge.
“Don’t forget, you can call me, okay?”
He hadn’t called you.
Not even once.
He told himself it was for the best. You were a normal girl, innocent, untouched by the filth of his world. It would be irresponsible to drag you into the dark. But no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, the selfish, traitorous part of him wanted to see you again.
The knock at the door snapped him out of his thoughts, and Haruchiyo shoved the paper back into his pocket just as it creaked open.
Ran Haitani sauntered in like he owned the place, a shit-eating grin on his face, and dark Kanto Manji Gang uniform hanging perfectly off his tall frame. His signature braid dangled over his shoulder, swaying with every step.
“You look like shit, man,” Ran quipped as he stopped at the foot of Haruchiyo’s bed.
Haruchiyo shot him a glare, his lips curling in irritation. “If you’re here to waste my time, get lost.”
Ran didn’t budge. Instead, he leaned against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, as if he owned the place. “Relax. I’m only here as a messenger. Boss sent me.”
At that, Haruchiyo’s eyes narrowed, his posture stiffening despite the ache it caused. “What does he want?”
“He’s pulling you out of the gang for a while. Says you’re supposed to rest.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Haruchiyo pushed himself upright, ignoring the sharp pain that lanced through his side. “Bullshit. Mikey wouldn’t say that.”
Ran shrugged indifferently. “Believe what you want, but those were his exact words.”
Haruchiyo clenched his jaw, his fists balling in the sheets. “There’s no one who can protect Mikey like I can. He knows that.”
At that, Ran’s smirk faltered, his violet eyes narrowing just slightly. “That’s the problem, Haru-chan. You think you’re the only one who can do shit? Like the rest of us are just for show?”
“Because you are,” Haruchiyo snapped. “None of you understand what Mikey needs. What it takes to keep him safe. You’re all just playing at loyalty.”
The room grew tense, the air thick with unspoken challenges. Ran straightened, his easygoing demeanor shifting into a chilling coldness.
“And you think kissin’ his ass makes you better than us? Newsflash, Mad Dog. Just because we don’t worship him the way you do doesn’t mean we’d hesitate to kill for him.”
Haruchiyo opened his mouth to fire back, but before he could get a word out, Ran’s fist connected with his face.
The punch wasn't hard enough to cause any real damage, but the impact jerked Haruchiyo’s head to the side. The sting was enough to leave him momentarily stunned, his fingers flying to his cheek as his eyes snapped back to Ran, blazing with fury.
“—The fuck?!”
Ran shrugged, a lazy grin spreading across his face as if he hadn't just signed his death warrant. "I’ve always wanted to do that. Figured now's my best shot since you're, y'know, bedridden."
Haruchiyo’s hands clenched into fists, his entire body vibrating with restrained rage. "You want to die, Haitani?"
"Not today," Ran replied smoothly, raising his hands in mock surrender. But there was no fear in his eyes, only that infuriating glimmer of amusement.
“Anyway, Boss got another job for you.”
Haruchiyo scoffed, his anger momentarily eclipsed by disbelief. "What job?"
"You're going to guard someone."
Haruchiyo frowned. Guard duty? That wasn’t his style. He wasn’t some babysitter.
“Who?”
Ran’s grin widened, and his next words came as casually as a bomb dropping.
“Mikey’s girlfriend.”
Haruchiyo’s body stilled, his mind whirring as the air seemed to shift around him. “What? Mikey’s girlfriend?”
“Surprise, surprise.” Ran chuckled. “Turns out Boss is a ladies’ man. Figures, huh?”
Haruchiyo said nothing. His expression was carefully blank, but his chest tightened with a foreign, unpleasant feeling. Mikey, his king, had a girlfriend? He’d never heard anything about her before.
The thought churned in his gut like acid, his loyalty and jealousy clashing violently. Who the hell was she? What kind of girl could hold a place in Mikey’s heart that wasn’t reserved for the gang; wasn’t reserved for him?
Whoever she was, Haruchiyo doubted she deserved him.
“She’s important,” Ran said, turning to leave. “So don’t screw this up, Haru-chan. If you do… well, I’ll have another reason to smash your face in.”
Haruchiyo didn’t respond, his mind already spinning as the door clicked shut behind Ran. He leaned back against the pillows, his head swimming with questions.
His fingers brushed against the paper in his pocket, its edges worn and stained. The burning question lingered like a curse: Who the hell was she?
And why did he already feel like he was losing something he never even had the chance to claim?
Haruchiyo Sanzu leaned casually against his superbike, its black frame gleaming beneath the afternoon sun. His presence alone drew a crowd, as it always did. Dressed in a loose black turtleneck and fitted jeans, with his pink hair pulled back into a ponytail, he cut a figure both intimidating and impossibly attractive. The all-girls school gate was abuzz with murmurs and giggles as students streamed out, whispering and glancing in his direction.
But Haruchiyo ignored them.
He wasn’t here for them.
Today, he had a job to do. A job he wanted no part of. Guard Mikey’s girlfriend. The words alone made his blood boil. He knew this wasn’t about trust; this was a punishment. Mikey was pulling him away from the gang, away from what Haruchiyo lived for, because he’d disobeyed. Charging headfirst into enemy territory was reckless, and Mikey knew it wasn’t just about protecting him. Haruchiyo enjoyed the fight. The blood. The chaos.
And this? This assignment was meant to tear that from him, to leash him like a misbehaved dog. Worse still, Mikey was entrusting him with someone weak. Someone unworthy of a king.
His phone buzzed in his hand, breaking him from his brooding thoughts. He glanced at the screen before answering lazily, holding the phone to his ear.
“Is that you with the bike? I’m right in front of you!”
The feminine voice rang through the line, soft, sweet, familiar. Haruchiyo frowned, his gaze lifting instinctively to search the dispersing crowd.
And then he saw you.
You were waving a hand above your head, your phone still pressed to your ear as you caught his eye. Your face lit up when you spotted him, a bright, cheerful smile gracing your lips as you walked toward him.
His breath caught in his throat.
You.
The girl who had stopped for him. The girl who’d knelt beside him on that blood-soaked street, her voice soft and kind, her hands unshaking as she wiped his face. The girl who had called an ambulance and disappeared, leaving him with nothing but a crumpled note and a memory that had been haunting him ever since.
What the hell is going on?
Haruchiyo stiffened, his hand tightening around his phone as he stared at you approaching. He felt the ground shift beneath him, felt a sharp and painful twist in his chest. The warmth he’d felt in that moment you saved him—the unspoken gratitude he refused to admit—curdled into a dark and bitter emotion.
“Hey,” you said as you stopped in front of him, lowering your phone. “You’re Sanzu, right? Mikey’s friend?”
He stared at you, his teal eyes wide in disbelief. “You…” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “Who the hell are you?”
You blinked, clearly confused by the question.
“I’m Mikey’s girlfriend,” you replied, the words light and cheerful, so matter-of-fact that you might as well have driven a knife through his chest.
Haruchiyo’s stomach dropped. The blood drained from his face, leaving him cold.
Mikey’s girlfriend.
The truth hit him with all the subtlety of a freight train. His mind reeled, a thousand thoughts crashing into one another. You’re Mikey’s? The girl who had stopped for him, the girl who had shown him kindness he didn’t deserve, you were Mikey’s.
A hot, suffocating mix of anger and jealousy roared to life in his chest. It confused him, rattled him to his core. Jealous of Mikey? Jealous of you? He couldn’t tell anymore, but the fury was there, blinding and undeniable.
“Y-you’re Sanzu, right?” you asked again, your voice hesitant now as you took in his silence.
He ignored your question entirely. Turning away sharply, Haruchiyo pulled a helmet off his bike and tossed it at you without warning. You barely caught it, stumbling back as it hit your hands clumsily.
“Get on,” he ordered coldly, already swinging his leg over the bike and settling onto the seat.
“Oh… alright,” you said softly, your tone unsure, as if you’d finally realized he wasn’t the friendly face you’d expected.
Haruchiyo felt your weight shift behind him as you climbed on, the awkward shuffle of your movements pressing against his back. He didn’t give you a moment to settle. He twisted the throttle, and the bike roared to life, lurching forward so suddenly you were forced to cling to him.
Your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if he were the only thing keeping you upright. He could feel your body against his, your warmth seeping into him, and it only made the ache inside him worse.
The ride was silent.
Haruchiyo’s mind was anything but.
The cold wind whipped past him, but he barely felt it. All he could think about was you. The girl who’d saved him. The girl who’d smiled at him, looked at him like he wasn’t just a weapon, wasn’t just Mikey’s loyal dog. That brief moment of kindness had lingered inside him, burning like a flame he couldn’t snuff out.
And now you belonged to Mikey.
Of course you did. Mikey got everything. Every ounce of respect, every shred of loyalty, every good thing this world had to offer. And Haruchiyo? He was just the knight on the board, meant to protect the king. Nothing more.
But the worst part—the part that clawed at him like a splinter lodged deep in his chest—was the fact that you didn’t remember him.
To you, he was just Sanzu Haruchiyo. Mikey’s friend. A stranger on a bike.
Not the broken, bleeding boy you’d knelt beside.
Not the one you’d saved.
As the city blurred past him, Haruchiyo tightened his grip on the throttle, pushing the bike faster, as if speed could drown out the storm raging in his head.
But no matter how hard he tried, the bitterness wouldn’t go away.
You were Mikey’s.
And Haruchiyo Sanzu hated it.
Haruchiyo Sanzu leaned against the wall, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his expression blank. Or at least, he hoped it was blank. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to catch the storm brewing beneath the surface.
“Can’t believe Mikey’s letting some chick walk all over him like that,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.
You froze mid-step, your head tilting slightly as his words registered.
“The bitch got him wrapped around her little finger. It’s pathetic.”
The words were entirely uncalled for, but Haruchiyo couldn’t stop them from spilling out. He told himself it was necessary as a reminder to himself, to you, that you were unworthy of Mikey.
And for a moment, he thought he’d feel better for saying it.
But then he saw the look on your face.
It was so fleeting that anyone else might have missed it, but Haruchiyo caught it. The flicker of hurt in your eyes was like a dagger straight to his chest.
His heart clenched, his stomach twisting painfully. Guilt began creeping in slowly, wrapping around his throat like a noose. He wanted to say something, to take the words back, to apologize, but his pride slammed the door shut before he could.
Instead, he turned away, ignoring your gaze as he stalked off, every step heavier than the last. His heart thudded against his ribs as he tried to ignore the pang of regret gnawing at him. He didn’t know where he was going, but anywhere was better than standing there, looking at the pain he’d caused.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Haruchiyo didn’t know how to deal with this; how to deal with you. You weren’t supposed to matter. You weren’t supposed to be anything more than an assignment Mikey had handed him, one he’d reluctantly accepted out of duty.
You’d been targeted lately by bullies, opportunists, people who thought messing with Mikey’s girl was a shortcut to provoking him. Mikey had ordered Haruchiyo to guard you, along with a few other trusted gang members, and Haruchiyo had obeyed without question.
But obedience didn’t mean he had to like it.
Your presence made him feel unsteady, like the ground beneath his feet was shifting constantly. He’d tried to shake it off, to focus on the task at hand, but being alone with you was unbearable.
So instead, he dragged you around the others, tossing his so-called responsibility to them under the guise of laziness. Kakucho, Ran, Mochizuki. Hell, anyone else could do it. As long as he didn’t have to be alone with you.
But no matter where you were, his eyes always found their way back to you.
Ran’s voice broke through his thoughts. “What’s with the face?”
“What face?” Haruchiyo replied flatly, not bothering to look at Ran. His eyes were glued to you, watching as you chatted awkwardly with Kakucho.
“That face,” Ran drawled, a teasing lilt in his tone. “You look like you’re about to stab her. Or Kakucho. Maybe both.”
Haruchiyo didn’t respond. His grip tightened in his pockets as he watched you giggle at something Kakucho said. The sound of your laugh was like a dagger twisting in his chest.
You were Mikey’s girl. You should only be laughing like that around Mikey. Or… him.
Before he could spiral further into his thoughts, the distant, throaty growl of Mikey’s Street Hawk sliced through the air like a warning bell. The familiar sound carried weight that silenced the room in an instant. Every head turned toward the door.
Haruchiyo’s spine straightened instinctively, his eyes flicking toward the door as the door swung open to reveal Mikey, calm and collected as always.
And then you moved.
Haruchiyo watched as your face lit up the second you saw Mikey. That radiant smile—blinding, unfiltered, genuine—was a sight he hadn’t seen you give to anyone else all day.
“Mikey!” Your voice was filled with warmth, the kind Haruchiyo hadn’t realized he craved until it wasn’t directed at him.
Before anyone could process it, you were already rushing toward Mikey, throwing your arms around him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Haruchiyo’s stomach churned, the knot of emotions in his chest tightening until it felt like he couldn’t breathe. Mikey’s hand rested lightly on your back in return, his expression unreadable. But Haruchiyo knew Mikey. He knew how rare it was for Mikey to show affection so openly.
The casual intimacy between you and Mikey clawed at him, a sensation so raw and uncomfortable that he had to bite the inside of his cheek just to keep himself in check.
He didn’t even realize how hard he was staring until Ran’s voice slid into his ear again.
“Careful. You’re staring holes into them. People might start thinking you’ve got a thing for her.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Haruchiyo snapped.
Ran smirked, clearly enjoying the reaction. “Relax, Haru-chan. She’s just doing what girlfriends do. It’s not like you’ve got a shot anyway.”
The words hit their mark, and Haruchiyo snapped his glare toward Ran, his sharp eyes practically daring him to say more. But Ran, ever the provocateur, just chuckled and walked off, leaving Haruchiyo stewing in his own fury.
He tore his gaze away from you, but it was too late. The image of your arms wrapped around Mikey was already burned into his mind.
The jealousy bubbling in his chest was scorching, suffocating. And the worst part was, he couldn’t tell who he was jealous of.
Was it Mikey? Mikey, who had everything Haruchiyo had ever wanted: respect, loyalty, and now, you?
Or was it you? You, with your radiant smile, your soft laugh, your ability to draw out a side of Mikey that Haruchiyo hadn’t seen in years.
The lines blurred until all Haruchiyo could feel was a searing hatred for the way you made him feel.
Hatred, because he couldn’t stop thinking about you.
Hatred, because he couldn’t stop looking at you.
And hatred, because no matter how much he told himself you didn’t belong in their world, a selfish part of him wanted you to stay.
Haruchiyo Sanzu knew exactly what he wanted.
He was a man of sharp edges, carved by desire and driven by instinct. When he reached for something, he never hesitated. Women were no exception. Most of them fell for his dangerous charm, entranced by his striking pink hair and the unshakable confidence he exuded. But you? You were different.
Because you weren't just unreachable.
You were Mikey's.
That fact alone made every lingering thought about you unbearable. Every smile you gave to Mikey, every laugh that lit up your face, each one was a taunt, a reminder of the invisible line Haruchiyo couldn't cross.
And yet, you haunted him.
Haruchiyo had tried to convince himself that his infatuation with you would fade, that the strange ache in his chest every time he saw you with Mikey would eventually dull. He sought distractions, found fleeting thrills, and buried himself in the chaos of the gang’s world. For a while, he believed he had it under control.
The ache didn’t lessen, but he’d learned to hide it. He’d trained himself to stop flinching when you smiled at Mikey, to ignore the way his stomach twisted when you laughed, to dismiss the pang of jealousy that gnawed at him when he saw the way you looked at Mikey.
Then, one day, it all unraveled.
You came to him, tears streaming down your face, your voice trembling as you pleaded for his help.
“Mikey—he’s surrounded! There are too many of them. Please, you have to save him!”
Your words hit him like a knife to the chest, but it wasn’t just the message that cut him. It was the sight of you with your tear-streaked cheeks, your swollen red eyes, the desperation in your voice.
“The fuck are you doing here? You tryna get yourself killed?!” His voice cracked like a whip, making you flinch.
His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his katana, the metal trembling with the force of his grip. Rage rolled off him in waves, but beneath it bled a deeper emotion, fear, desperate to be disguised.
He hissed through his teeth, voice dropping low. “Just… get the fuck out of here before you end up a corpse at my feet.”
Your tearful gaze wavered, lips parting as if to speak, but Haruchiyo had already turned away, jaw locked tight as though he couldn’t bear to look at you any longer.
You don’t belong here, he thought bitterly, his jaw clenching as he strode forward. Why the hell are you even involved in this mess?
He knew the answer: because of Mikey.
It was always Mikey.
The realization only stoked the fire inside him, the bitter lump in his throat making it harder to breathe.
By the time he found the enemies, Haruchiyo was already seeing red. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to consider his actions. The first swing of his katana was precise and brutal, and the rest followed in a blur of blood and chaos.
His mind was blank, his body moving on instinct. He didn’t even register Mikey’s presence amidst the fight; didn’t notice his boss standing off to the side, silent and watchful.
All Haruchiyo cared about was eliminating every single threat.
When the last body hit the ground, Haruchiyo Sanzu stood amidst the carnage, chest heaving, blood dripping from his katana. He didn’t know whose blood it was anymore—his or theirs—but it didn’t matter. The red painted across his skin and clothes told the same story: violence and rage.
He turned to you.
You were still standing there, frozen, your hands trembling at your sides. Your wide eyes met his, but they weren’t filled with relief or gratitude.
They were filled with fear.
Haruchiyo’s stomach twisted painfully, but it wasn’t the trembling in your figure that drew him closer. It was the smear of blood on your cheek, stark against your pale skin, that compelled him forward.
Without thinking, he stepped toward you, his boots crunching against the blood-soaked pavement. His hand rose unsteadily to wipe the blood from your face.
You flinched.
The sharpness of your movement cut hit him like a freight train, forcing him to stop mid-reach. His breath hitched, the sting of rejection settling deep in his chest.
What the hell was he doing? Trying to wipe your cheek like he was someone who could comfort you? Like he was someone who deserved to touch you?
His hand didn’t retreat. Instead, it lowered, wrapping gently around your throat.
There was no pressure, no intent to hurt. Just his palm resting against your skin, feeling the rapid pulse beneath it. The warmth of your neck spread through him, grounding him in a way he didn’t understand.
For a moment, he let himself believe a lie.
That your quickened heartbeat wasn’t from fear but from something else. That it matched his own racing pulse, fueled by the same feelings coursing through him.
“Sanzu… Have we met before?”
The question jolted him.
He blinked, his grip loosening slightly as he stared at you.
“You were that boy,” you continued, realization dawning in your wide eyes. “The one I saw bleeding on the street.”
A bitter sneer twisted his lips, baring his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “What about it?”
Your words faltered, dying in your throat as his fingers flexed against your neck. His gaze bore into yours, searching, desperate to find something other than fear in your eyes.
But it wasn’t there.
The crunch of footsteps behind him made Haruchiyo freeze.
Your eyes snapped past him, locking onto the source of the sound. Relief washed over your features, softening the fear that had been etched there moments ago.
Mikey.
Haruchiyo didn’t need to turn around to confirm it. He could feel Mikey’s presence, like a weight pressing down on his shoulders.
Your gaze darted back to him, uncertain, as if you weren’t sure whether to plead for him to release you or to run.
Haruchiyo almost laughed at the absurdity of it.
“Run,” he muttered.
And you did.
You swatted his hand away, stepping back before turning on your heel and running straight to Mikey.
“Mikey!” Your voice cracked with emotion as you clung to his arm. “Are you okay?”
Haruchiyo didn’t move. His hand hung limply at his side as he stared at the empty space where you’d stood just seconds ago. The warmth of your skin lingered against his palm, but it did nothing to quell the cold sinking into his chest.
He sighed, his shoulders slumping as he took a moment to recompose himself.
When he finally turned, his gaze met Mikey’s.
You were holding onto Mikey’s arm, your tear-streaked face pressed against his shoulder. Your sobs were quieter now, but the sight of you leaning on someone else, stung in a way Haruchiyo didn’t have the words to describe.
The weight of his guilt, his jealousy, his unspoken feelings pressed down on him, and Haruchiyo couldn’t breathe.
He dropped to his knees in front of Mikey, bowing his head low.
“Boss,” he murmured.
Mikey’s dark eyes flicked to Haruchiyo, unreadable as always. “Akashi.”
Haruchiyo Sanzu had spent years pretending he didn’t feel anything for you.
But he wasn’t stupid.
He knew what it was. This thing clawing at his chest every time you smiled at Mikey. He knew it when you clung to Mikey’s sleeve back in school, when you cried into his arms, when you looked at him—Haruchiyo—as though he was just a shadow standing in Mikey’s light. That hollow weight in his chest wasn’t hate. It was hunger.
Obsession.
He told himself it didn’t matter. That it would pass. That you’d go away or Mikey would grow tired of you. That he would grow tired of you.
But you didn’t. Mikey didn’t. And Haruchiyo never did.
He tried to drown it out. He tried. Even now, years later, with Bonten inked into his skin and blood on his hands, he was still haunted. Haunted by the shape of your mouth, by the way your voice rose when you were angry, by the way you existed without even trying, and drove him fucking insane while doing it.
The nightclub owned by the Haitani brothers became his escape.
Most nights, he’d end up in that dim, smoke-filled private room on the third floor, neon lights flashing like a heartbeat through the glass. Music pounding against the walls. Lines of white spread out neatly across the glass table, a lighter flicking on and off between his fingers. There were always women around—girls who giggled too loud and touched him too much—but they were nothing.
They weren’t you.
They didn’t sneer the way you did when you were pissed. They didn’t challenge him, didn’t call him a lunatic like it was a curse and a promise all at once.
They didn’t burn.
And so, Haruchiyo stopped pretending. He sent the girls away. He drowned himself in pills, crushed and bitter on his tongue, chased with whiskey that burned like guilt. The drugs numbed the rage but not the ache. Not the way your name still hovered in the back of his throat like smoke he couldn’t cough up.
Most nights, the Bonten executives left him alone. Too many bad nights. Too many broken bottles. Too many holes in the walls and bruises blooming across people’s faces when they touched him wrong.
He was too much when he was high, they said.
But alone, that’s when the worst came.
The drugs hit fast, coating his mind in a blissful, detached haze. Everything slowed down. Everything softened.
Except you.
You were always there. In the corner of his eye. In the phantom weight on his lap. In the echo of your voice curled around his name like a noose.
And fuck, it wasn’t fair.
Why did it have to be you?
Why was it only you?
He sank deeper into the couch, one hand running down his face, the other sliding beneath the waistband of his pants. He didn’t even hesitate anymore. Didn’t bother closing his eyes, didn’t need to. Your face was already there, so vivid it made his chest hurt.
His breath stuttered as his fingers wrapped around his length. He was already half-hard just thinking about your voice, sharp and angry, soft and breathless. He imagined you straddling him, fists in his shirt, cursing him through gritted teeth while your body told a different story. He imagined the way you’d glare at him when he made you beg.
Haruchiyo’s hips bucked into his palm.
A sharp breath. A curse. His grip tightened.
He shouldn’t be doing this. Mikey would fucking kill him if he knew. If he ever knew what Haruchiyo thought when he looked at you; what he did when he thought about you.
But he couldn’t stop.
He wanted you too much.
He stroked faster, chased the edge like a man starved, his mind spinning, your name the only coherent thing in the chaos. You, sneering. You, crying. You, moaning. You, screaming his name like it meant something.
The orgasm hit hard, like a wave crashing over him, dragging him under. His breath hitched. He groaned, slumped further into the couch as the aftershocks rolled through his trembling frame.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Just his heartbeat, pounding like a war drum in his ears.
And then—
Disgust.
It crept up slowly. Sour and shameful. He stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth like it could somehow take the moment back.
He felt sick.
Not because of the drugs. Not because of the high.
But because you didn’t deserve this.
Because he didn’t deserve you.
And maybe that was the worst part. That even now, after everything, he still wanted you. Still craved you. Still wanted to be close, even if it meant seeing you in someone else’s arms.
Haruchiyo Sanzu didn’t believe in love.
But if he did… it would look like this.
Like obsession. Like hunger. Like madness in his veins.
And your name in his mouth.
Haruchiyo Sanzu rubbed a hand down his face, dragging the heel of his palm across his mouth like it could erase the memory of what he’d just done. His other hand trembled faintly, twitching with the remnants of the high, though whether it was the drugs or you, he couldn’t tell anymore.
Suddenly, a shrill, high-pitched ringtone shattered the silence, stabbing through the haze in his skull.
His head snapped toward the phone vibrating violently on the table.
That phone. Only one reason it ever rang.
Work. Mikey.
He scrambled, wiping his hand on the nearest towel and snatching the phone up with a speed that nearly sent the table crashing.
The screen flashed: “King.”
He took one shaky breath and answered.
“Yo, Mikey.”
His voice was too casual. Too light. He forced it through his teeth anyway, trying to slap the familiar crooked grin into his tone. Trying to sound like he hadn’t just been stroking himself raw to the image of his boss’s girl.
There was a long pause on the other end. Then, finally, that cold, detached voice: “Come to my office, Akashi.”
Mikey’s voice was never loud. He didn’t need to be. The silence after his words was always enough to fill the room.
Haruchiyo’s mouth curved into something halfway between a smirk and a grimace.
“‘Course I’m comin’, Mikey.”
He hung up before his voice could crack.
The ride to Bonten was a blur of neon lights and roaring engines. His superbike carved through Tokyo’s streets like a blade, wind tearing through his open jacket, smoke still clinging to his clothes. The night air helped clear the static from his head and sobered the crawl of chemicals in his bloodstream. But it didn’t stop your name from echoing in the corners of his mind.
By the time he pulled into the underground lot, his hands were steady again.
Mostly.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime as he stepped into the heart of the beast.
Bonten headquarters was too silent. At this hour, only ghosts and executives moved through its marble halls. But tonight, the usual stillness had a different weight.
Haruchiyo’s boots clicked down the marble corridor until something caught his eye. Mikey’s office door, left ajar.
That never happened.
A muscle in Haruchiyo’s jaw ticked as he pushed it open.
Mikey sat slouched behind his desk, paperwork scattered around him. His silver hair was mussed, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves shoved up. He looked… frayed. Not weak, but not the untouchable king Haruchiyo bled for either.
Haruchiyo smirked faintly, out of habit more than anything. “Boss?”
Mikey didn’t look up right away. When he did, his voice came flat and detached, like he was announcing the weather.
“I’m getting married.”
The words cut clean through the air.
And Haruchiyo knew instantly.
Married. To someone else. Not you.
It was instinct. He could tell from the absence of warmth in Mikey’s voice. Because Mikey wouldn’t sound like that if it were you. If it were you, the words would’ve carried something. Anything.
Haruchiyo’s chest caved in around the realization, bitter heat flooding his veins.
His brain, trained on bloodshed and chaos, refused to accept what it had just heard. He should’ve felt triumphant. Hell, maybe even smug. Mikey letting go of you meant you were free now. No longer wrapped around the king’s neck like a noose. No longer the soft spot that Haruchiyo resented you for.
But the image that bloomed in his mind wasn’t one of relief.
It was you, shattered. Eyes glassy. Lips trembling. Voice cracking around a scream you wouldn’t know how to let out.
Because you loved Mikey. You loved him in that all-consuming, sacrificial way. Haruchiyo had always thought it was stupid. Weak. But now the image of your heartbreak wouldn’t stop clawing at the inside of his skull.
His jaw clenched until it ached.
“The fuck you sayin’, Mikey?” Haruchiyo’s voice came out hoarse, barely restrained.
Mikey didn’t even flinch a muscle. “I’m getting married next week.”
Same flat tone. Same dead-eyed delivery. Like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t detonating every part of Haruchiyo that still felt.
Haruchiyo’s hands trembled. He wasn’t even high anymore, and still his control was already slipping.
He took a step forward.
“What about her?” he hissed. “You just gonna toss her aside like trash?”
Mikey didn’t answer. His eyes remained empty and unreadable.
The silence sliced through Haruchiyo like a wire pulled taut. He shouldn’t care this much or be this angry. Mikey was his king. His god. If Mikey decided to marry some no-name woman to fulfill some ancient wish, it wasn’t Haruchiyo’s place to say a goddamn thing.
But you—
You would be ruined.
And Haruchiyo couldn’t stop seeing it.
“It’s what Shin wanted,” Mikey said at last, gaze drifting away. “It’s the least I could do to honor him.”
The words sounded noble. But they felt like betrayal.
Haruchiyo’s eyes flared wide, fury swallowing any logic left in him. He slammed his hand against the desk hard enough to make the papers scatter.
“And what about her, Mikey?” he growled again, louder now. “What the fuck about her?!”
Mikey’s eyes snapped back to his, a flicker of irritation flashing in that black void of a stare.
“You don’t question me, Akashi. I’m the boss here,” he said coldly.
Haruchiyo froze, just for a beat. The cold weight of his boss’s tone pressed down on him. But it wasn’t enough. Not when his gut was on fire, not when the image of your broken face was clawing at him.
“Then maybe you should fuckin’ act like one,” he spat, venom dripping from every word. “Not some coward hiding behind his dead brother’s ghost!”
That did it. Mikey moved. Fast.
A blur of movement, fist crashing into Haruchiyo’s face with a sickening crunch. His head snapped sideways, blood exploding from his nose as he staggered back, nearly knocking over a chair. The taste hit instantly, metallic, warm and humiliating.
But he didn’t fight back. He looked up instead, with split lip and racing pulse, and saw something that made his breath hitch.
Mikey’s expression had finally cracked.
He looked like a mess, heartbreak bleeding through his carefully built mask. The edges of his mouth trembled. His brows pinched. And in his those empty, abyssal eyes, was the unmistakable glint of pain.
Haruchiyo faltered.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
Mikey wasn’t letting you go because he wanted to. He was burying you. Just like he buried Shin. Draken. Emma. Baji. And every piece of himself he couldn’t carry anymore.
The weight in the room was unbearable. Grief hung in the air like smog.
Slowly, Haruchiyo stood straight.
He looked at Mikey. At the man he worshipped. The man who had ripped him from the jaws of death and made him a monster.
Then, in one fluid motion, Haruchiyo dropped to his knees. “Please… don’t do this to her.” His voice was low. Strained. Like it had been ripped straight from his lungs.
“You can fucking kill me. You can burn the world if you want. But don’t hurt her, Mikey.”
The room was silent. Not even the lights buzzed now. Only the soft rustle of scattered papers. The heavy sound of two broken men breathing in a room that had no god left.
Mikey didn’t speak.
And for the first time since he was a boy, Haruchiyo Sanzu didn’t know if the man he knelt before was still a king…
…or just another corpse waiting to rot.
Haruchiyo Sanzu’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The pills rattled against his palm before he shoved them into his mouth, swallowing them dry. His throat burned, his chest ached, and the familiar static began to crawl at the edges of his vision. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
The Haitani nightclub pulsed like a living beast. Heat, sweat, perfume, alcohol, the roar of bass so heavy it felt like it was cracking his skull in half. Girls draped themselves over men like ornaments, and one had slithered her way beside him now, giggling, her nails grazing his thigh in a way that should’ve distracted him.
But nothing could tear his gaze away from you.
Not when you were in the back room.
Not when Mikey was there with you.
Not when he watched the moment your face shattered.
The scene carved itself into him like glass. Mikey’s calm and empty voice, telling you he was getting married to someone else.
He saw the disbelief in your eyes dissolve into something worse. Betrayal. The way your body folded in on itself as though trying to contain the pain, the way your tears spilled before you could catch them. Mikey gathered you against him, wrapping you in those arms you once believed could hold up the whole world. He kissed the crown of your head like it was mercy.
Haruchiyo felt his stomach heave.
But it wasn’t jealousy. Not this time.
It was hollow. It was ruin.
He’d begged Mikey earlier. Like a fool, he’d begged.
Don’t leave her behind. Don’t abandon her. Even if you’re marrying someone else, don’t you dare let her stand alone in this fucked up world.
The words still burned his throat. He hated himself for it. It was pathetic and weak. It wasn’t loyalty to Mikey anymore, but a was weakness for you. All these years he’d told himself he was protecting you from this world, keeping you alive, keeping you safe. But now? Now he couldn’t bear the thought of you gone. Of you not here, within reach, even if it meant watching you cry in another man’s arms.
The girl beside him shifted, pressing closer, her perfume suffocating. She murmured something sweet and meaningless, her hand on his leg, tugging for his attention. And for once, Haruchiyo let her. His arm came around her shoulder, pulling her flush against his side. The gesture was too intimate for him, who never touched women like this unless it was transactional. Her breath caught in surprise, flustered.
But his eyes never left you.
Not when he tilted her chin and pressed his mouth against hers.
The kiss was hollow, mechanical, his lips moving against hers, his tongue tasting nothing but the bitterness of his own obsession. And when his gaze slid past her face and found yours—
That was when it hit.
You were staring. Through the tears clouding your vision, through the brokenness twisting your features, you were staring at him. The corner of your mouth trembled. Then your glare cut sharp, searing through him like fire before you turned away, burying your face into Mikey’s shoulder.
Haruchiyo almost smiled against the woman’s mouth.
It was pathetic. Twisted. Ugly. But it was something.
If all he could take from you was your hate, your disgust, your rage, he’d take it. He’d hoard it. He’d carve it into his chest like scripture. Because even when it hurt like hell, it meant he still existed in your world.
Even if it was only as a shadow.
He pulled away from the woman, his pupils blown wide, the pills buzzing in his bloodstream, and he whispered into her hair like it was meant for you:
“I love you.”
And he did. In his own ruinous way, he loved you. Loved you even when every gift you’d ever placed in his hands was pain. Loved you enough to bleed himself dry just to watch you smile at another man.
Bruce swears he’s “not overprotective,” yet every one of his daughters has a custom tracking device that also monitors heart rate, air quality, and nearby threats. He calls it “safety.” Alfred calls it “excessive.”
He learns how to do hair. Perfect ponytails, braids, buns—he practices on mannequins at 3 a.m. after patrol. Jason once walked in and has never emotionally recovered.
His daughters sit in the Batcave on a rolling chair, pressing buttons they absolutely shouldn’t. Bruce pretends not to notice because hearing them laugh down there heals something in him.
If a villain so much as mentions one of his girls, Bruce’s voice drops an octave and the fight ends in under thirty seconds.
He keeps every single drawing they make. Yes, even the crayon one of Batman that looks like a demon. It’s framed. In the Batcave.
Bruce is awkward with feelings, so instead of saying “I’m proud of you,” he upgrades their gear, buys obscure books related to their interests, or quietly fixes problems before they even notice.
Sleepovers at Wayne Manor are legendary. Alfred makes themed snacks, Bruce installs a temporary security perimeter, and the Batmobile may be shown off “accidentally.”
When they’re scared after a nightmare, Bruce sits on the edge of the bed until they fall asleep. He stays longer than necessary. Sometimes all night.
Dating rules are simple:
1. Be respectful.
2. Be honest.
3. Don’t lie.
4. Don’t hurt her.
On patrol nights, he always leaves a note:
“Back soon. Be brave. I love you.”
Even when they’re old enough to pretend they don’t need it.
Damian Wayne was beautiful in a cold way. Too sharp for his age, like he'd been carved from something meant for war, not childhood. You wanted to make him laugh, or at least smile for real, just once.
He clearly didn't like you.
That was okay. You were patient.
Still... it stung when he looked right through you like you were just glitter and lip gloss.
You weren't stupid - you just liked pretty things. People always mixed that up.
---
Damian Wayne had faced assassins, monsters, and Gotham at its worst yet somehow you managed to get under his skin more than any of them.
You walked into the manor in pink platform heels, glitter lip gloss catching the chandelier light like you belonged there. You were loud, sweet, and always smiling - the kind of girl people underestimated with a glance. Damian dismissed you as shallow within ten seconds.
Damian, though? He scowled every time you spoke.
You were visiting because you'd become friends with Duke and Stephanie through school. You adored them - and they adored how your sunshine cut through Gotham gloom like neon.
Your smile was so bright it almost hurt to look at directly. You called Alfred "Alfie" - he didn't even mind.
They’re all already used to hanging out at the manor
Damian feels out of the loop and jealous, but lowkey tries to act like he doesn’t care,
__
All pink and perfume and glitter, stepping into the foyer like a glossy magazine ad.
Damian decided immediately: shallow, unserious, a distraction.
So he kept his distance. Watched you from across rooms, arms crossed, scowl standard.
But you were everywhere - chatting with Dick about pets, laughing with Duke, doing hair with Steph. Like you'd always been part of the manor.
You even tried to talk to him.
He shut you down every time.
And yet...
Every time you smiled - especially at him - something small and terrifying twisted behind his ribs.
Stephanie had once described you as “a Barbie with the brain of a golden retriever and the heart of a Disney protagonist.”
You took it as a compliment.
It was just another afternoon in Wayne Manor. Steph stole half your gummy bears, Tim stole the other half, and you let them — mostly because they were cute when they argued over flavors.
You were sprawled on the couch painting Steph’s nails (pastel purple today), while Tim sat on the floor leaning back against the couch, laptop open, scrolling through case files.
You twirled the nail polish brush, humming, heels kicked off and sparkly socks wiggling in the air. “Do you think I should dye a streak in my hair? Maybe pink? Or baby blue? Or like… both? Like cotton candy!”
Tim didn’t even look up. “You’d rock it.”
Steph nodded. “You’d rock anything.”
You grinned wide. Compliments filled you like sunshine.
Then Damian walked in.
He froze at the doorway like he’d stepped on emotional Legos. His eyes flicked from you — to your hand holding Steph’s — to Tim leaning comfortably against your legs.
Something in his expression sharpened.
Jealousy looked subtle on Damian — tiny, but lethal.
The way his brows pinched. The way his jaw clenched.
The way he crossed his arms like he needed somewhere to put his hands before they acted without him.
He cleared his throat. “Drake. Brown.”
You waved enthusiastically. “Hi Dee!”
Damian’s eye twitched. “It’s Damian.”
Tim looked up, fighting a smile. “She’s called you worse.”
You gasped. “That was one time! And ‘Dami-cakes’ was cute!”
Steph cackled.
Damian looked personally offended. “It was humiliating.”
You pouted. “I wasn’t trying to humiliate you. I just thought it sounded sweet.”
Your tone was genuine, soft.
Damian looked away quickly, like eye contact was dangerous.
Or addictive.
He approached the couch, standing beside Tim, but he didn’t join. He never joined.
He always chose the opposite corner of the room, like closeness was a trap.
You resumed painting Steph’s nails, humming. Tim leaned back more, head nearly touching your knee as he typed lazily.
And Damian watched.
Subtly, but not subtle enough.
“Why are you here?” he asked, too casually.
The question was normal — the tone wasn’t.
Steph snorted. “She’s here every Friday. You know this.”
You nodded cheerfully. “Movie night later. I brought popcorn with glitter inside!”
Tim blinked. “Edible glitter, right?”
You paused. “…It’s glitter.”
Steph: “...We’ll check it first.”
Damian’s shoulders eased slightly. You didn’t notice, but he did.
He took a seat in the armchair. Not far — but definitely not close.
Still, closer than usual.
You reached to grab your polish bottle and accidentally brushed Tim’s hair. He laughed, leaning into the contact without thinking.
Damian’s gaze snapped to the movement.
Something dark flickered.
He spoke—fast, sharp. “Drake, don’t you have your own room to work in?”
First time on Tumblr, so excited!
Also my first time making a meme animation!
My English isn't great, so everything's machine-translated!
The drawing's messy, the animation's rough, and there are tons of bugs—please forgive me!
I haven't figured out how to set a video cover yet, so I'll just post them separately!
So happy to make memes for Pierrot! Of course, I love the other circus members too!
Looking forward to the game's future storylines! I'll try to keep making these memes.
The girl stirred awake on the couch, the last threads of uneasy sleep clinging to her. The sugar on her lips was gone, dissolved in her mouth, leaving only the copper taste of blood.
Something heavy pressed against her sides. She shifted, and the weight shifted with her.
Her wings.
They weren’t feathers, not like a bird’s. They were skin and sinew stretched taut over bone, like a bat’s, folded now against her arms. Dark, leathery, scarred from alleys and broken bottles. They clung to her like a second skin, like a secret she never wanted seen.
But Joker had seen.
He sat across from her, elbows on knees, chin in hand, grinning wide. His green hair hung limp in the dawn light, and his eyes glittered with the same delight he gave firecrackers and knives.
“Well, well, well,” he purred. “What’s this little party trick, hm? My beastie’s hiding a set of curtains under her skin.”
Her shoulders hunched. Instinct made her pull the wings tighter around her arms, trying to vanish beneath them.
Joker laughed, high and sharp. “Ohhh, don’t be shy! Show ‘em out, kitty-bat! Let me have a look.”
He lunged forward before she could recoil. His gloved hands caught her wrists, not cruelly, but with a strength that pinned her in place. With a flourish, like opening a magician’s cape, he pulled her arms wide.
The wings snapped open.
They unfurled with a leathery whisper, stretching from fingertip to fingertip, a ragged span wider than her body. The dawn light poured across them, revealing scars, veins, holes chewed by rats. They stank faintly of the alleys — of mildew, and rot.
Joker’s grin widened until it seemed his face would split.
“Ha! Look at you! Batman’s bastard cousin! A flying rodent straight out of the gutter!” He twirled her once, forcing the wings to flap awkwardly in the air. “Ohhh, Batsy is gonna love you, ha ha! You’re like his reflection in a broken funhouse mirror!”
The girl bared her teeth, hissing through her laughter. She didn’t like being handled, didn’t like the feel of his grip, but she froze all the same. She’d learned in alleys that fighting back could get you killed.
Joker finally released her, shoving her gently back onto the couch. He stepped away, clapping his hands like a delighted child.
“Ohhh, the stories we’ll tell, Beastie. The posters we’ll print! Joker and his Winged Wonder! The Rotten Robin! The Carny Bat!” He doubled over, cackling. “Oh, it writes itself!”
From the side, Harley’s voice came
“Stop it, puddin'”
Joker spun, still grinning. “What, can’t a proud papa admire his girl’s… accessories?”
“She ain’t your girl,” Harley said, stepping into the room, arms crossed. Her eyes flicked to the child — to the wings now folded tight again. Pity softened her voice. “She’s scared. You’re scarin’ her.”
Joker waved her off. “Scared? Ha! She’s a natural headliner, Harls. Born for the big top of Gotham’s freakshow. You can’t teach wings like that.”
He turned back to the child, crouching low again, eyes gleaming. “Ohhh, Beastie. You and me, we’re gonna make Bats mad.”
The girl curled tighter, wings wrapping around her like a cloak.
But under the leather folds, in the secret hollow of her chest, something stirred.
Not fear.
Recognition.
For the first time, someone wasn’t disgusted by her wings. Someone didn’t run. Someone didn’t call her monster and throw rocks.
He called her his.
And for a girl who had nothing, that was enough.
---
The room was still, save for the low drip of rain through a leaky skylight. Dawn had burned away, leaving only the pale gray light of Gotham squeezing through the cracks. The girl’s wings still trembled from yesterday’s jump, folding tight against her sides, but Joker’s eyes never left them.
“Look at ’em,” he whispered, circling her like a predator examining a prize. “Stretchin’ wide, catchin’ the air… reminds me of something.”
She flinched.
“Bat cape,” he said, softly at first, then louder, almost reverent. “Big, dark, sweeping… flappin’ over rooftops… trying to scare people. Trying to be… perfect.”
The girl’s fingers tightened on the edges of her wings. Perfect? She had never heard that word directed at her. She had heard “freak,” “rat,” “monster,” but never “perfect.”
Joker crouched, eyes level with hers, grinning like a mad angel.
“See, Beastie… Batman hides behind his little cape. Pretends he’s untouchable, untamed, mysterious. But you? You don’t hide. You are the wings. You are the chaos.”
He tapped one of her wings, gently, almost experimentally, watching how the membrane quivered under his finger.
“Imagine it,” he continued, pacing again, voice dipping into that theatrics-only-he-could-own. “You, swoopin’ over Gotham at night. Gotham’s little caped crusader—ha! Batman’s shadow has nothing on you! Ohhh, the laughter, Beastie! The fear! The headlines!”
She shifted, still trembling, unsure if she was supposed to be afraid or… proud. He was smiling at her. Looking at her wings like they were art.
He leapt onto the table beside her, crouching low so his face was inches from hers. “You know why I love them?” His finger traced the outline of the wing’s bones. “They’re yours. Not borrowed. Not stitched from someone else’s nightmare. Yours. Batman’s cape is a lie. It’s fabric. It’s pretending. Yours… yours is blood, pain, survival. Wings made from the alleys and the gutters.”
The girl swallowed. Her teeth dug into her lip. She didn’t speak. Words weren’t ready yet, but a small, flickering ember of… something… stirred in her chest. Pride? Belonging? Fear and pride tangled together.
“Can you imagine,” Joker continued, now pacing with one hand dragging across the furniture like a conductor, “Batman sees you gliding across the rooftops, his cape flapping behind him like some dull echo of your glory, chasing you, but never catching you”
He snapped his fingers. “Ohhh, yes! You will break him, Beastie. Not with fists, not with gadgets… but with laughter, with terror, with wings spread wide like a living nightmare.”
Harley, lurking in the shadows, felt the cold press of reality. She had always known Joker loved chaos, loved beauty in destruction, but this… this was different. He was grooming her, yes, but not just as a killer. As a reflection—an anti-Batman, a grotesque parody, a heir to the madness he worshipped.
Harley swallowed hard. The girl was trembling, but not with fear alone. She was listening. Learning.
Joker crouched, then slowly rose, wings unfurling themselves in a slow, deliberate demonstration. “Spread ’em, Beastie. Show me how Batman’s cape looks when it’s alive.”
The girl’s fingers hesitated on the edges of her wings. Then, carefully, painfully, she pushed them out.
The leathery expanse stretched wide. Scars glimmered in the dim light. Veins pulsed faintly. The sound of membrane stretching in the still room was almost musical.
Joker gasped. “Yes! That’s it! Gotham won’t know what hit ’em! My little beast is ready to fly!”
He spun her once in the air, forcing the wings to catch the light fully. The girl felt dizzy, unsteady, wawing her wings attached on her arms rapiddly, but for the first time, she felt… something other than terror.
Belonging.
Joker clapped his hands, spinning in place, eyes wild with delight. “You see, Harls? She’s not just some alley rat with claws. She’s… art. She’s a flying nightmare in Batman’s shadow. He’ll see those wings, and he’ll know… he’s been outdone."
The girl’s laughter grew. She was still trembling, still unsure, but it was real. The wings twitched involuntarily, spreading wider with each breath, each motion, each heartbeat.
Joker’s grin stretched impossibly wider. “Spread those wings, Beastie. The night is ours.”
This is a bit shorter ik but im thinking about making the next chapter 2-5k words at least
Anyways leave a like if you like it and think i should continue this 🫵
The carnival had been dead for years, but it still smelled of burnt sugar. The air hung thick with the ghosts of cotton candy and frying oil, with rust and mildew layered on top like a second skin. Rats had chewed through every booth and every banner, carrying away the last scraps of joy in their yellow teeth.
Beneath one broken stall, under the warped plywood where the rainwater dripped steady as a metronome, a child crouched.
She was little more than a shadow herself — ribs sharp beneath bruised skin, bare feet scabbed from broken glass, hair snarled like old rope. She had no name, only hunger. She had been born in an alley and left in an alley, and the city had eaten her like it ate everything else.
The only reason she had lived this long was because she was smaller than most, and faster, and willing to bite when cornered. She knew no lullabies, only the hiss of steam vents, the screech of subway rails, the shouting of drunks. When she dreamed, she dreamed of scraps of food she had seen but never touched.
Tonight, she dreamed of nothing. She only hid.
The city was shaking. Somewhere above, laughter thundered — not human laughter, but something jagged and metallic that bent the air. Then came the gunshots. Screams that cut off quick. The sound of fire eating something fragile.
She pressed herself deeper into the dirt, fingernails digging furrows. Her heart was loud in her chest, but she knew how to be quiet. Quiet was survival.
But the laughter got closer.
It rolled through the broken carnival like a brass band out of tune, swelling and echoing until it seemed to come from everywhere. A song only one man was singing.
The girl curled into a ball. She thought if she made herself small enough, the sound would pass over her.
Then a shadow fell across the booth.
The wreckage groaned, wood creaking as weight shifted above it. She held her breath. Dust rained down on her matted hair.
And then—
“Peekaboo.”
The voice was a knife drawn across a balloon, high and sharp. A pale face leaned through the splintered roof, eyes glowing green like wet glass. His grin was red paint stretched wide, wider than a grin should go. His teeth were small, square, too white.
The girl bared her own teeth back. It was all she knew. She hissed like the cats in the alleys, daring him to come closer.
The man only laughed.
“Ohhh, look at you,” he crooned, tilting his head. His hair was the color of poison, slicked back with grease and rain. He smelled of gunpowder and ammonia and something sweet rotting. Then he noticed the unusual Appearance she had, Surprised he squinted at the little creature then smirked “Tiny little beast. Tiny teeth, tiny claws. My kind of monster.”
He dangled a purple-gloved hand down through the gap, fingers twitching in invitation.
She didn’t move. Her eyes darted from the hand to his face to the street behind him. She saw bodies sprawled in the shadows — carnival workers, maybe, or gangsters, or strangers who had wandered too close. Their faces were painted with red smiles that weren’t smiles.
Her stomach twisted. She had learned long ago that grown-ups never offered hands unless they wanted something back.
The man’s smile grew wider. He wagged his fingers. “Come on, kitty-cat. Don’t scratch. I don’t bite. Well—” he snorted, eyes rolling like dice, “that’s a lie, but tonight’s not your night.”
The girl pressed herself harder into the corner. The rain outside tapped faster, like a drumroll.
Something in the man’s eyes shifted. He saw her refusal, her suspicion, and instead of turning cruel, he lit up like she’d told him the best joke in the world. He slapped the wood of the booth, cackling.
“Ohhh, she doesn’t trust me! Ohhh, that’s rich! A little beastie with instincts, ha ha! You’ve got more brains than the whole lot of these stiffs!” He kicked at one of the bodies outside, sending an empty popcorn bucket rolling.
Then his laugh died, quick as a candle. His eyes fixed on her again, cold and bright.
“Still. You’re mine now. Whether you like it or not.”
The hand stayed outstretched.
The girl’s chest heaved. Her claws of fingers twitched against the dirt. And for the first time in her small, feral life, she felt something stranger than fear: she felt seen. Not as trash, not as a pest, but as a joke worth telling.
Her stomach roared. Her arms shook. She reached out — slow, like an animal to bait — and placed her dirty little hand in his.
He yanked her up in one motion, strong as a trap snapping shut, and suddenly she was in the open air, rain slicking her hair to her face. The world reeled, bright with fire and broken lights.
The man twirled her once, like they were dancers in a grotesque waltz, then plopped her on his shoulder.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he roared to the dead carnival, to the shadows, to the city itself. “Introducing the star of our next act — my little beast!”
The girl clung to him, nails digging into his coat. She was trembling, but the warmth of his body cut through the cold rain. His laughter rang in her ears, and for the first time in forever, she wasn’t hidden. She wasn’t starving. She wasn’t nothing.
She was something.
And that was enough.
They walked through the wreckage together. His boots crunched over broken glass, through puddles blackened with ash. The girl bounced on his shoulder with each step, clinging like a parasite.
Now and then he paused to kick a body. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, sweetheart. They were boring. Boooooring! Can’t have an audience that doesn’t laugh at the right time. Am I right? Am I right?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t know how.
He patted her ankle absentmindedly, like a man with a dog perched there. “Not much of a talker, huh? That’s all right. I like the strong, silent type. Adds mystery. Suspense! The audience loves a good mystery.”
They passed a shattered mirror propped against a wall. For the first time, the child saw herself reflected next to him. Her face streaked with dirt and blood, lips curled in instinctive snarl. His face painted in its eternal grin, eyes alight with feverish joy. Together, they looked less like man and child, and more like predator and cub.
For a moment, her heart swelled with something she couldn’t name.
---
They didn’t walk far before another voice cut through the night.
“Puddin’.”
A woman stepped from the alley shadows, the red-and-black of her costume muted in the rain. Her blonde hair hung limp, her eyes sharp with something between suprise, jealousy and sorrow. She looked from Joker to the girl on his shoulder, and her mouth twisted.
“What the hell is this?”
The man spread his arms, nearly tipping the child off his shoulder. “Our new headliner, Harls! Straight from the gutter! No ticket required!”
The woman frowned. “She’s a kid.”
“She’s a beast!” Joker corrected. He reached up to pinch the girl’s cheek. She flinched, but didn’t let go. “See the fangs? See the claws? The wings? Oh, Harley-girl, she’s a scream. A real knockout. Gonna bring the house down.”
The woman crossed her arms. Her voice was tight. “This ain’t funny.”
The Joker’s grin didn’t falter. He twirled in place, the girl clinging desperately as the world spun. “Everything’s funny, Harls. Everything. That’s the point.”
The child didn’t understand their words, but she understood the woman’s eyes. She recognized pity. It burned worse than hunger.
She hissed at the woman, lips curling back, teeth bared.
The Joker cackled, delighted. “See? She likes you already!”
The woman flinched, just barely. Then her gaze softened, like she saw through the snarling mask to the shivering creature beneath. She shook her head, turned, and walked away into the rain.
The Joker snorted. “Can’t please everybody.” He patted the girl’s ankle again, affectionate in his own grotesque way. “But you? You’re gonna be a real star.”
The girl pressed her face into his shoulder, shivering. For the first time, she let herself believe him.
The Joker whistled as he carried her through the wet skeleton of the carnival, a thin tune that started sweet but twisted sharp, wrong notes dangling like knives. His boots struck puddles, splashing mud across his trousers, but he didn’t care. He swayed her left and right with every step, like he was parading a prize on his shoulders.
The girl clung tighter. She had not been touched in years except to be shoved aside or struck. Now she was lifted high, carried as though she weighed nothing. Her small hands curled into the folds of his jacket. The fabric smelled of smoke, iron, and a sour cologne that made her nose sting.
“Big night for you, Beastie,” Joker crooned. “One minute, you’re just another alley-cat. Next minute, you’re on the shoulders of Gotham’s funniest man alive. Talk about upward mobility!”
She didn’t understand all the words, but his voice slid into her ears like music anyway. She stared at the ground passing beneath them: puddles reflecting neon signs, bits of trash swirling in the gutters, the pale shapes of bodies cooling in the rain.
Her throat tightened. She had survived among corpses before, but always at a distance. Now they surrounded her, painted with bloody grins like they’d all been part of a joke she hadn’t heard yet.
“Don’t you worry about them,” Joker said, noticing her stare. His tone was sing-song, casual. “They just couldn’t take the punchline. Happens all the time. Poor audience, wrong crowd. But you? You’re different. I can smell it. A beast after my own heart.”
He tapped her nose with a gloved finger. She flinched, but she didn’t let go.
---
They turned a corner, into an alley where the carnival lights gave way to Gotham’s usual glow — buzzing streetlamps, the red smear of neon signs, windows alive with flickers of televisions. Rain poured in sheets now, drumming off the rooftops.
The Joker hummed louder, oblivious. The girl shivered, half from cold, half from something else. She wanted to climb down, to scuttle back into her hiding place — but his grip on her ankles was firm, and part of her… part of her didn’t want to.
She had never belonged to anyone. Tonight, she belonged to him.
From the shadows behind, footsteps echoed. The woman — Harley — had followed them after all.
“Puddin’, where’re you takin’ her?” Her voice was sharp now, edged with something dangerous.
Joker spun halfway around, nearly unseating the girl. “Home, of course! Where else does a good clown take his little monster? Gotta start training her somewhere, don’t I?”
Harley stopped in the rain, arms crossed tight. “She ain’t a puppy, puddin' She’s a kid. Look at her — she’s scared half to death.”
The girl hissed again, baring her teeth like before. Her chest rattled with the effort, but she forced it out. She wanted the woman to stop looking at her like that. She wanted to show she wasn’t weak.
Joker howled with delight. “Ha! Hear that, Harl? That’s the sound of potential. That’s a battle cry! That’s music!” He thumped his chest with one hand. “She’s not scared. She’s ferocious! That’s why she’s mine.”
Harley’s jaw clenched. Rain streaked her mascara, making black rivers down her cheeks. She looked at the girl again, and her face softened in spite of herself.
“She’s a kid,” she repeated, quieter this time.
The girl stared back, trembling, but she didn’t look away. She wouldn’t give Harley the satisfaction of pity. She wouldn’t.
Joker clicked his tongue. “Harls, Harls, Harls. Always worrying about the wrong things. You want me to be a better man? Well, look! I’m a father now! Responsibility, commitment, stability — all those boring things you yap about. And my little beast here is gonna grow up strong. Stronger than Batman, stronger than you.”
He gave Harley a grin so wide it cut through the night.
She shook her head, rain dripping from her pigtails. “You’re gonna break her.”
“Of course I am!” Joker barked, gleeful. “That’s how you make ‘em strong.”
The walk stretched long. Gotham’s alleys opened before them, each darker than the last. The girl lost track of turns, of streets, of time. Her hunger gnawed deeper now that adrenaline ebbed, and her body sagged heavier against his shoulder.
Joker noticed.
“Ohhh, tired already? Poor little alley-cat.” He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a melted candy bar, wrapper half torn. He held it up to her mouth without stopping. “Here. Daddy’s got you covered.”
The word hit her ears strangely. Daddy. She had heard it screamed in the mouths of other children once, in the brief moments before they were dragged away. She had never had one. She didn’t know if it was supposed to taste like candy or like blood.
She hesitated.
He pushed the chocolate closer, smearing it against her lips. “Go on. Eat. Or do I gotta chew it for ya, baby bird?”
She bit.
The sugar exploded on her tongue, sticky and rich. Too much, too fast. She coughed, but she swallowed greedily, eyes wide.
Joker laughed, clutching his stomach. “See? She loves me already. Every kid loves candy. It’s biology!”
Harley’s footsteps scraped behind them, slower now, weighed down. She didn’t argue anymore. She just stared at the two of them — the monster and his little beast, vanishing deeper into Gotham’s night.
---
They arrived at a building crouched between factories, its bricks soot-stained, its windows boarded. Joker shouldered through a side door, dragging the scent of smoke and rain inside with him.
The lair was cluttered with the chaos of his life: stacks of cash scattered with playing cards, furniture painted in garish colors, walls scrawled with graffiti. Weapons gleamed among toys. A half-finished bomb ticked in the corner beside a broken jukebox.
The girl’s eyes darted everywhere at once. She had never seen so much color, so much mess, so much life.
Joker dropped her onto a sagging couch. She sank into it like quicksand, hands fisting in the fabric.
He crouched in front of her, elbows on his knees, grin unshaken. “Well, Beastie. Welcome to the family.”
The girl didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her throat was dry, even with chocolate stuck between her teeth.
But her eyes stayed locked on him, wide, waiting.
And Joker — for the first time that night — didn’t laugh. He only smiled, softer, almost proud.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’ll make a monster out of you yet.”
Like if you like it and think i should continue this 🫵
