Trying to steal from someone like The Mad Dog of Bonten is nearly impossible, but attempting it is an honor you'll tell your friends about... if you live to do it.
Sanzu just get in the car after getting his burger while Y/N was sitting quietly watching him smiling, just before he started eating his burger she tapped his shoulder asking him for a kiss but He laughs, low and rough, rubbing the spot where you hit him like it actually hurt.
he leaned for her lips but she passed him and attacked his burger to get a bite from it and locked in at the burger not backing off.
He freezes mid-lean, lips still slightly parted, looking at her like she just committed the highest act of betrayal in Bonten history.
“…you little thief,”
he mutters, voice low but curling with that dangerous amusement. His icy eyes dart from her face to the burger now in her hands like it’s a hostage situation.
He leans back slowly, resting one arm lazily over the steering wheel, the other drumming on the window as if calculating her punishment.
“You know,”
he drawls,
“I was gonna give you the kiss. Now? You just started a war.”
Before she can take a second bite, he suddenly lunges—one arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her against his chest in the cramped car seat, his other hand trying to wrestle the burger away while his lips brush deliberately against her ear
“Gimme the damn thing, baby. Or I swear, I’ll make you pay in ways you won’t be able to complain about.”
His tone is playful, but his grip says *you're not leaving this car alive with my food*
She started laughing but keep fighting back wrestling over the burger and bit again, But the second her teeth sink into it again, his eyes widen like she just stabbed him in the heart.
“Ohhh, you’re dead,”
he hisses, grinning like a lunatic now.
He abandons all pretense of subtlety—one arm snakes fully around her, practically dragging her sideways across the console, while his other hand pries at her fingers with ruthless precision. She's laughing, trying to twist away, but he’s relentless, his breath warm against her cheek.
“You think you can rob me in my own car?” he growls, voice breaking into that manic edge.
“I run the streets, baby, but you—”
he jerks the burger just enough to make her squeal—
“you think you can run me?”
She bite again out of pure defiance, and he freezes for a second, staring like she has just declared war on his soul. Then—without warning—he shoves the remaining piece into his own mouth, chewing slow and smug while still holding her trapped against him.
“Game over,”
he mumbles around the bite, smirking. “And you still owe me that kiss.”
She collapsed on the passenger seat laughing, sauce smudge on her lips
"How did you eat it all in once, you're going to die"
He’s still chewing, eyes narrowed in that mock-dangerous way, one corner of his mouth curling up as he swallows.
“Because I’m a professional, baby,”
he says, leaning over until his face is inches from hers, voice low and smug.
“And if I die—”
his gaze flicks to the smear of sauce on your lips
“—I’m making damn sure I take you with me.”
Before she can move, he catches her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up. He doesn’t even bother with a napkin—just leans in and licks the sauce from the corner of her mouth, slow enough to make she forgets the burger ever existed.
Sanzu:
“That’s mine too,”
he murmurs, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip possessively before he smirks and sits back.
“Now… are you still laughing, or should I give you another reason to choke?”
She stopped like someone hit pause on her then shoved her head towards him blushing and hit his arm
"Perv"
He laughs, low and rough, rubbing the spot where she hit him like it actually hurt.
“Perv?”
he echoes, feigning innocence as his icy eyes glint with pure mischief.
“Sweetheart, I was just… cleaning up. Can’t have my girl walking around looking like she’s been attacked by a cheeseburger.”
His hand slides from the steering wheel to rest on her thigh, squeezing just enough to make her blush deepen.
“You’re lucky I didn’t pin you to the seat and really make sure it was gone,”
he adds with a wicked grin.
“But, hey… call me a perv again, and I might just have to prove you right.”
He turns back to the road like nothing happened, but the smirk on his face says he’s enjoying every second of watching her flustered.
"Oh my goodness, now my stomach hurts from laughing"
She wrapped her arms around her stomach laughing again and whining
He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, smirk softening into that amused, almost fond look he gets when she's too busy being adorable to notice.
“Yeah? That’s what happens when you wage burger wars with me,”
he says, steering one-handed while his free hand reaches over to tug her gently toward him.
“C’mere, clown.”
He pulls her against his side, her laughter still shaking through her, and rests his chin on top of her head.
“You’re lucky I like that stupid laugh,”
he mutters, voice low but warm. “Otherwise I’d have tossed you outta the car miles ago.”
When she whines dramatically, clutching her stomach like she has been mortally wounded, he chuckles, rubbing lazy circles against her hip.
“Breathe, baby. Or I’ll have to give you mouth-to-mouth… and we both know I’m not doing that to save your life.”
She started laughing again
"Quit perverseness"
He snorts, that low, dangerous kind of laugh that means he’s about to double down instead of back off.
“Quit perverseness?”
he repeats, mocking her phrasing with a dramatic tilt of his head.
“Baby… that’s like telling the sun to quit shining.”
His arm tightens around her waist, pulling her closer until she's half in his lap, the car swaying slightly as he drives one-handed.
“You started this,”
he reminds her, voice dipping into that teasing growl.
“You stole from me. You laughed at me. And now you’re telling me to behave?”
He leans down, his breath brushing her ear.
“Cute. Real cute. But you’re mine, and I’m never polite with what’s mine.”
Then he kisses the side of her neck deliberately slow, just to make her squirm, before leaning back like nothing happened—smirk plastered across his face.
:: Love and hate relationship with SANZU HARUCHIYO on a LIVESTREAM , SFW — more on sanzu’s pov, 2,259 words
HARU is LIVE !
[UserName]:: Donated X,XXX || Out to waste everyone’s time again, I see.
you watched as emerald irises flickered towards the secondary monitor, an irk mark surfacing on his forehead as one brow arched — debating whether to be amused or to be offended by your comment.
this grudge had gone on for far too long.
all it had taken was one careless remark from him, and ever since, it’s as if you had made it your mission to torment him every livestream.
he would ban your account without a second thought, only his moderators — the haitanis, to quietly lift the ban minutes later. your donations are just far to huge for them to ignore; moreover, keeping the chats amused by the reactions you elicits from the streamer.
he used to hate it — the huge sum that appears on his screen. it makes his stomach churn. every generous donation felt less like support and more like pity, as though strangers believed they could ease his burdens with numbers on a screen.
so it was unusual; for SANZU HARUCHIYO to accept a donation, amused.
“Geez… they’re still hung up on what I said a week ago?” sanzu scoffed, idly scratching the back of his neck.
[UserName]:: Donated X,XXX || Maybe I’d let it go if you learned how to shut that mouth.
again, his eyes flicked from the dashcam to the monitor, eyeing your comment — placed above the rest, pinned there by the generous donation.
He snorted. “Then you’d have nothing to watch.”
he pushed himself out of his chair, leaning toward the camera. his thumb and index finger caught his chin, tilting his head from one side to the other, a brow arched in quiet amusement.
“Be honest,” he drawled. “You’re just staying because you like this face, aren’t you?”
the corner of his mouth tugged into a crooked grin as another comment flashed across his screen the moment those words left his mouth. out of the thousands racing through the chat, his eyes found yours without hesitation, dismissing every other message as though they didn’t exist.
[UserName]:: Donated X,XXX || Disgusting. Take my money and buy yourself a new personality.
he laughed in amusement, falling back into his gaming chair, one hand clutching his stomach.
“I knew it.” still grinning, he leaned forward again, his hand returning to his mouse.
“They said to buy a personality,” he mused, emerald eyes flickering toward the chat, “not a new face.”
he waited for a response — silence settled over the room as his emerald eyes skimmed through the endless stream of messages, no even bothering to reply to one.
the pinkette’s grin slowly returned when your username failed to appear among the flood of messages. humming to himself, he propped his chin against his hand, emerald eyes lazily scanning the chat.
“Don’t tell me you finally decided to shut up.” a taunting grin tugged at the corner of his lips — a bit too confident he’d catch a reaction from you.
“That’ll be disappointing.”
[UserName]:: Donated XX,XXX || Transferring a huge amount of money takes time.
[UserName]:: Donated XXX,XXX || I hope this is enough to get a new face.
the color almost drain from the streamers face, a bright red notification consuming his screen, displaying the donation amount so absurdly large. he shot to his feet, his mouth fell slightly agape as his eyes darted over the string of digits again, recounting the numbers repeatedly.
“…The hell?” he murmured under his breath, scarcely louder than a whisper. he wasn’t holding that cheeky grin anymore — eyes landing back on the camera, brows drawing together.
“Hey… Hey, hey, hey…”
his eyes flicked back and forth between the camera and his screen; he pointed a finger at the notification.
the amount you’d normally been sending was already outrageous — and now you had sent him three times… ten times… maybe even twenty times that amount.
[UserName]:: Donated XXX || Definitely worth it to get that reaction, LOL. }
[UserName]:: Donated X,XXX || Can’t wait to watch the next stream with the new face. TBH, I’m kinda getting tired of ur current face.
reading the paragraphs in, the mullet-haired streamer snapped back to his senses, a vein protruding from his forehead.
“‘Current face’?” he echoed, letting out an exasperated groan as he rolled his eyes. “I should’ve just banned you earlier.”
he clicked his tongue, shooting the camera a look.
“Always showing up to disturb my stream…” he let out a dry laugh.
“You don’t have to throw money at me just to get my attention.” a smug grin spread across his face.
“If you’re that desperate, just hop into my DMs. Maybe I’ll entertain such a great sponsor.”
again, his gaze drifted toward the chatbox, anticipating another barbed remark. yet it was only silence that engulfed the room — the passing minutes stretching into something unbearably long for him, each one eroding the smugness from his expression.
“Tch…” he clicked his tongue. “What? boutta transfer another huge sum or something?”
his brows drew together, a vein subtly surfacing at his temple as irritation seeped through his composure. fingers raked through his pink hair, tousling the strands in quiet frustration when no reply ever surfaced.
“You know what?” he muttered, exhaling sharply. “This is pissing me off.”
his hand settled over the mouse, hovering above the end stream button before casting one final glance toward the scrolling chat.
“I’ll hop out before that walking-bank-account decides to throw another fortune at me out of pity.”
LIVE ended. Thank you for watching HARU !
“Haah…” throwing his head back, the latter let his eyes settle on the ceiling — mind wandered back through every exchange the two of you had shared, replaying each word and rethinking whether it was too offending in your stake. had he gone too far?
It wasn’t as though he’d asked you to throw that kind of money at him. every donation had been your decision, not his. right?
“…Ah, fuck.” he dragged a hand down his face before letting out a humorless scoff. “I really hate them.” a bit too lost in thoughts, he snapped his neck to his right when he heard a movement.
“That person really has you on a leash, don’t they?” the younger haitani quipped, pushing his glasses back into place while absentmindedly mashing the buttons on the controller in his hands.
“Hah! On a leash?!” Sanzu barked out a laugh as rose from his seat, settling into the couch beside the blond, he sprawled comfortably, knees parted and one arm slung over the backrest as though he owned the entire sofa.
“Wasn’t it you and your brother who kept undoing my bans every damn time?” he clicked his tongue, eye landing on the screen the haitani was playing at. “Not to mention, you guys said to entertain them.”
“…And you’re way too invested,” rindou said flatly, orbs never leaving the game. “You’re doing too much.” a short pause,
“At this point, people are gonna think you’re secretly lovers.”
the pinkette’s head snapped toward the bespectacled man almost instantly, his denial coming a touch too quickly.
“What? No fucking way. It doesn’t even look like that!”
“If not,” rindou replied in the same deadpan tone, irises peeking lightly on his side to catch the streamers reaction. “then why are you so flustered?”
sanzu let out a long, defeated sigh before sinking back into his seat, dragging a hand over his forehead — pushing his hair back to clear his face.
“…It’s not like that.” a short pause, “I just really hate them.”
“Yeah. Whatever you say.” rindou muttered, gaze flicking back to the game.
the topic dissolved into silence, replaced by the steady clatter of controller buttons and the faint buzz of the television. whatever tension had lingered was quietly swallowed by the routine of the evening.
“…Where even is the braid-head?” sanzu attempted to break the silence, gaze lingering across the room.
“Who knows. Probably doing livestream works for you again.”
HARU is LIVE !
several streams. several streams without your chats — without the banter, the incessant bickering, or your presence.
it hadn’t been the same for the pinkette. everything felt unbearably dull.
rindou’s words lingered in the back of his mind far longer than he’d care to admit. every time the familiar chime of a donation echoed through his room, his eyes snapped toward the notification almost instinctively — only for disappointment to settle in the pit of his stomach when it belonged to yet another wealthy viewer he convinced himself was merely throwing money at him out of pity.
each stream slipped back into the same monotonous routine. no snide remarks. no outrageous donations laced with insults — just an emptiness he stubbornly refused to acknowledge.
“This is better… right?” he’d mutter beneath his breath, more to convince himself than anyone else. getting rid of you had been exactly what he wanted — or so he kept telling himself.
yet every time the donation chime rang, his gaze betrayed him, instinctively searching for your username before his mind had the chance to stop it.
every stream, he’d catch himself pausing over a message, thinking, ‘They would’ve said something like that.’
every joke that fell flat left him expecting your sarcastic retort. every silence felt just a little too loud.
only then did the realization creep in, quiet and unwelcome. it had never been about the money — it had never even been the arguments. somewhere between the insults, the incessant donations, and the daily back-and-forth, your presence had become part of his routine.
and routines, he realized with a grimace, were far harder to break than people.
LIVE ended. Thank you for watching HARU !
“Another boring live?” rindou remarked, watching the pink-haired man tilt his head back and empty a bottle of water in one long swig. “They still haven’t shown up?”
at the mere mention of you, the streamer’s expression dulled into a distant glaze.
“…Mind your own business.”
a weary sigh escaped the younger haitani as he leaned against the countertop, arms folding across his chest.
“You’ve been awfully short-tempered lately.” his gaze lingered on the stream statistics still displayed across the monitor. “Your views are dropping.”
rindou read the room, allowing the silence to fester for a moment before finally breaking it.
“You even refuse to speak while streaming. Who the hell do you think would stick around and watch you?”
sanzu didn’t answer right away. he twisted the cap back onto the bottle, his gaze lingering somewhere across the kitchen before a quiet, humorless murmur escaped him. “…Yeah. Right.”
the words sat between them, stripped of their usual bite. he himself doesn’t even know; why does he keeps on doing this?
the views, donations, recognition? none of it carried the same thrill anymore. the streams had become routine, an obligation he refused to abandon despite hating every second of them.
every time he went live, a stubborn part of him still glanced at the chat before it even loaded, wondering if your familiar username would appear among the first messages. wondering if the notification had reached you. wondering if, just this once, you’d come back.
maybe it was nothing more than false hope that kept him holding on.
the silent longing — clinging to the last sliver of hope that one day, the screen would light up with your name again.
a few days without facing his screen, the streamer finally settled back into his chair. eyes lingering — mind debating whether to click the live button or leave the screen exactly as it was.
before he could decide, his irises caught the past notification bloomed in the bottom-right corner of his monitor.
unread messages flooded the screen the moment his cursor hovered over the pop-up, stacking one after another until they blurred together.
Steam :: Summer Sale ends in 3 days. Your wishlist items are now discounted. 20 minutes ago.
Windows Security :: Protection history: Threats successfully removed. Your device is secure. 2 hours ago.
System Update :: A cumulative update is ready to install. Restart required outside active hours. 4 hours ago.
Discord Server :: 13,239 unread server messages. 1 unread private messages.
yet among the flood of notifications, his gaze instinctively found the one message he’d been waiting for without ever admitting it to himself.
Twitch :: [UserName] sent you a whisper. || 2 days ago
his cursor lingered over your name. fingers stiff, he hesitated, an unfamiliar mix of shyness and nervousness settling in his chest before he finally clicked the message.
[UserName] :: Fucking asshole. Did you just banned me for weeks?
[UserName] :: Do you have no conscience??
[UserName] :: Not even a thank you for the hundreds of thousands? >://
the moment he read your messages, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding slipped past his lips. a laugh — small, quiet, escaped. you were still the same.
still foul-mouthed, dramatic — still asking for a fight. somehow, it unraveled the knot that had been tightening in his chest for weeks. you weren’t cold, distant nor angry.
relief soon passed, his brows slowly knitted together as he reread the first message.
his cursor froze, he hadn’t even touched the moderation logs in weeks longer. the realization refused to settle, replaced instead by bewilderment as he scrolled through the messages again, trying to make sense of what you were accusing him of.
HARU :: What?
HARU :: Still blabbering nonsense even after not reaching out for weeks?
the furious clatter of his keyboard echoed through the room as he fired off one reply after another, his eyes never straying from the chat window, waiting far too eagerly for your response.
• • •
the appearance of the typing indicator made his eyes flicker with anticipation, his entire focus narrowing to those three blinking dots.
[UserName] :: You did, dumbass.
“Hah?!” his eyes darted across your messages again, lingering far longer than he’d care to admit as he searched his memory for any recollection of banning you.
sure, he’d hated you once — but that was before. before he realized the silence you left behind was far louder than your incessant donations.
before he found himself waiting for your name to appear every time he went live.
his thoughts tangled into a restless mess, each possibility colliding with the next; his mind then drifted back to the notification he’d brushed off earlier.
Discord Messages :: ##Ran { Unbanned [UserName] from your stream. Can’t bear watching you loose viewers & a great sponsor. I’ll loose job at this point. } 4 days ago.
his expression hardened. he let out a long, exasperated groan, recalling times the older haitani failed to show his face.
HARU :: Some idiot messed with my moderation settings.
HARU :: I was wondering where the hell you went.
he didn’t know why his stomach tightened the moment he hit send. it was a strange, unfamiliar feeling — one that left him oddly restless. all he’d done was tell the truth.
yet somehow, admitting he’d been wondering where you’d gone felt far more exposing than he cared to admit — almost like a confession.
[UserName] :: Made sense. I heard you’ve been sulking on your streams.
[UserName] :: Life’s been boring without me? I bet you’ve missed me too.
“Pft.”
the sound came out softer than he intended. a smile, small but unmistakable, found its way onto his lips as his hands settled over the keyboard once more.
what a pain.
days of uncertainty, countless thoughts of walking away, all unraveled by a handful of messages from the one person he couldn’t seem to let go of.
HARU :: As if.
@makies all rights reserved. Please refrain from reproducing, translating, adapting, or redistributing this work without prior permission.
TOKYO REVENGERS LIST — read more of the author’s works.
sanzu "I love my wife" haruchiyo who has been hopelessly devoted to you since the two of you were children. no matter how ugly life got, you stayed - you stayed when his own brother was treating him like shit, you stayed through toman, through tenjiku, through kanto manji, and now through bonten. every version of haruchiyo knew one thing for certain - you would still be there waiting for him. he kept you a secret almost all his life so you would never have to deal with his messed up life. only mikey knew.
sanzu "I love my wife" haruchiyo who accidentally lets bonten discover the one secret he's kept from everyone after an attack at his apartment. expecting to find a furious, bloodied sanzu, the executives are left speechless when the front door opens to a sleepy woman in one of his oversized shirts, a wedding band resting on her finger. ran forgets how to joke, rindou genuinely thinks they're at the wrong place, koko immediately notices the ring, and kakucho can only stare. before anyone can say a word, sanzu appears behind you, bruised but immediately pulling you behind him, gently checking your face for injuries before even acknowledging the others. the room falls silent. nobody can believe the same man who'd slaughter people without hesitation has a wife he'd hidden for years.
sanzu "I love my wife" haruchiyo who buys you flowers so often that every room in your home smells fresh. roses one day, peonies the next, lilies because they reminded him of your perfume, tulips just because he walked past a flower shop and thought about you. sometimes you wake up before him and find a small bouquet already sitting on your nightstand with a tiny note written in his messy handwriting that simply says, "saw these. thought of my wife."
sanzu "I love my wife" haruchiyo who slowly lets go of the drugs because of you. not because anyone ordered him to but because one night you held his face so gently and whispered that you wanted to grow old together. the idea of dying before he got wrinkles beside you suddenly became unbearable. still, there are bad days, sleepless nights, moments where his hands shake and his patience disappears. but every time he's close to giving in, he remembers your sleepy smile waiting for him at home.
sanzu "I love my wife" haruchiyo who can go from ordering someone's execution over the phone to asking if you want strawberries cut into heart shapes five minutes later. everyone in bonten fears him. they hear the coldness in his voice, see the blood on his hands, and avoid looking him in the eyes. then he walks through the front door, slips off his shoes, wraps his arms around your waist from behind, buries his face in your shoulder, and asks if you've eaten yet.
sanzu "I love my wife" haruchiyo who is embarrassingly clingy the second he's home. he'll complain if you don't greet him with a hug, dramatically asking if you've stopped loving him because you were folding laundry instead of running to the door. he follows you from room to room like a cat, resting his chin on your shoulder while you cook, sitting on the bathroom counter while you do your skincare, lying across your lap whenever you're trying to read.
sanzu "I love my wife" haruchiyo who never gets tired of calling you his wife. every conversation somehow circles back to it. "my wife likes this." "my wife made dinner." "my wife hates when I skip breakfast." even people who have never met you know exactly how obsessed he is. the executives exchange tired looks every time he brings you up for the hundredth time that week, but he couldn't care less. he waited his entire life to call you his wife, and now he plans on reminding everyone that you're his every chance he gets.
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.
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
PART III. 18.9k words
Haruchiyo Sanzu is a menace. A relentless, goddamn menace. You never thought your day would end like this: chest heaving, lungs burning, and the icy river clutching your limbs as you fight to outswim him.
The water is like knives against your skin, each stroke of your arms a battle against the current's merciless pull. Your muscles scream for relief, but you push forward, desperation outweighing exhaustion. The river churns around you, a cold, chaotic force, but it's nothing compared to the chaos pounding in your chest.
Behind you, Sanzu moves through the water like a shark, a deadly predator with no intention of letting you escape.
You don't feel bad about what you did. No, not in the slightest. If anything, there's a flicker of pride burning beneath your fear, a stubborn satisfaction at the thought of his precious katana now rotting at the bottom of a dumpster. That cursed blade—sleek and gleaming, a symbol of everything twisted about him—had haunted you for years. Its absence from his side feels like a small victory, even if it might cost you your life.
"You really think you can fucking outrun me?" Sanzu's voice tears through the air sharply, even over the roar of the river.
The sound chills you more than the water ever could. But you don't stop. You can't. Every ounce of strength left in your body is channeled into moving forward, even as water splashes into your mouth, making you choke. Your legs are heavy, your strokes weaker with every second, and deep down, you know he's gaining on you.
You feel it then.
Fingers tangle in your hair, wrenching your head back with brutal force. Pain explodes across your scalp, and your scream is cut short by the river's icy grip as you're dragged under for a moment. You thrash and kick, limbs flailing uselessly, but his hold is unyielding. Sanzu pulls you closer with the ease of someone completely at home in the water, his grip like iron and his strokes deliberate.
"You've got some nerve, I'll tell you that," he growls, his breath hot against your ear despite the freezing water. "But not enough brains."
"Stop it!" you gasp, twisting in his grasp, but it only makes him tighten his grip some more.
"Stop? Now you want to stop?" he echoes, mocking, each word laced with venom. "You started this. Don't tell me you're giving up already."
His fingers release your hair, but before you can lunge forward, his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you tight against him. His chest presses against your back, solid and immovable, and you feel the steady beat of his heart, infuriatingly calm.
"Fuck this! Let me go!" you shout, desperation in your voice, but Sanzu only laughs, the dark sound of his laughter reverberating through your body.
"Keep squirming," he murmurs, his lips close to your ear. "It's cute how you think that's going to help."
The chill of the river feels distant now, overshadowed by the heat of his body pressed against yours. His chest rises and falls with controlled, steady breaths, while you struggle just to keep yours from hitching in fear.
Sanzu drags you through the water effortlessly, like you're nothing more than a ragdoll. Even when your feet finally scrape against the muddy riverbank, you feel no relief. Only dread. He doesn't release you. Instead, he hauls you out of the water with a terrifying ease.
Before you can think to run, he's on top of you, pressing you down against the earth, his knees digging into the dirt on either side of your body. The ground is cold, but it's nothing compared to the heat radiating from him. Water drips from his pink hair, his soaked clothes clinging to his lean, muscled frame.
"Oh, you thought you could escape me, did you?" he mocks. "You underestimate me too much."
Your chest heaves as you glare up at him, defiance flickering in your eyes despite the ache in your limbs and the bruising grip of his hand.
"I could've—" you retort, "if you weren't such a lunatic."
Sanzu's lips curve into a smirk, a dangerous spark flickering in his teal eyes. His cold fingers, brush against your jaw, forcing your face upward. You flinch at his touch, but he holds you still, his thumb grazing the pulse beating rapidly beneath your skin.
"Careful now," he murmurs. "You've already pissed me off. Don't make this worse for yourself, sweetheart."
Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms to stave off the rising wave of panic. Every nerve in your body screams at you to shove him away, to fight, to do something. But his solid weight presses down on you, pinning you in place.
Deep down, you know there's no escaping Haruchiyo Sanzu today.
And judging by the wicked grin that spreads across his face, he knows it too.
"So what?" you snap, but the sharpness of your tone falters as his unrelenting gaze bears down on you. "You gonna strangle me? Threaten to kill me again?"
"Threaten?" His smile widens. "What makes you think I won't kill you for real this time?"
The threat hangs in the air like a blade poised to strike. Sanzu dips his head lower, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, the heat of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.
"I did warn you." His voice is low, almost a whisper. "I can end anyone—you're not an exception. A flick of my wrist, and you're gone. Don't ever forget that."
You flinch at his words, your breath hitching as the reality of them settles over you. You're painfully aware of how easy it would be for him to make good on his threat. This isn't bravado. It's the cold, unyielding truth. Sanzu doesn't bluff.
"—And to think I actually showed you pity," he continues. "Gave you comfort, even, while you were bawling over Mikey."
The mention of Mikey's name hits like a sucker punch, dragging air from your lungs. Sanzu watches you, his eyes glittering with that familiar sadistic delight, as though your pain is just another game for him to toy with.
But even as your chest tightens, anger starts to simmer beneath the surface. You snort, the sound bitter and jagged, tearing its way free despite the tremor in your body. It's involuntary, absurd, like every other moment with him.
"Comfort?" you echo, the word dripping with disbelief.
A flicker of confusion crosses Sanzu's face, but it's gone as quickly as it came. Irritation hardening his features. His eyes narrow, sharpening like twin daggers, locking onto yours.
"Yeah, comfort," he snaps, his tone defensive, like the very suggestion that he's in the wrong offends him. "What? Need me to spell it out for you?"
Your stomach churns, anger bubbling inside you. His twisted sense of comfort, the smugness in his tone—as if he'd done you some noble favor—it's enough to make your blood boil. You lean forward without thinking, every ounce of rage clawing its way up your throat, refusing to let him have the upper hand.
"You call that comfort?" you spit, the accusation landing between you like a grenade.
Sanzu doesn't flinch. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't look away.
"You gave me drugs, Sanzu," you continue, your voice rising with every word. "That's your idea of comfort? Dulling me down? Making me numb? How the hell is that comfort?"
At that said, you see his teasing smirk vanish entirely, wiped away like a smear of paint, and what's left is a man unhinged. Without warning, his hand shoots up, his fingers curling around your jaw with bruising force.
"Shut your mouth," he hisses, leaning closer until his face is inches from yours. "You were a fucking mess. Sobbing. Falling apart. I did you a fucking favor. You hear me? I fixed you."
Your heart pounds against your ribs, each beat echoing in your ears. The rushing sound of the river fades into the background, leaving nothing but his voice and the weight of his hand on your face.
But even as fear twists in your chest, rage burns hotter.
"You didn't fix me," you corrects. "You ruined me."
His eyes flash, a dangerous glint sparking in their depths. He doesn't let go, his fingers digging into your skin as though he's trying to imprint his version of the truth onto you.
"You were already broken. I just made it easier for you to handle. Don't act like you didn't need it."
You glare up at him, defiance flaring despite the way your pulse races beneath his hand. "I didn't need you," you snap, spitting the words like venom. "And I never will."
His grip continues to tighten painfully, making you wince. For a moment, you think he might snap entirely from the intense way his dark eyes bore into you, his expression a mask of barely suppressed violence. You can almost feel the heat radiating off him, a pure, unadulterated rage.
But then, from the shadows, a voice cut through the silence.
"Sanzu."
The single word carries no urgency, no anger, but it's laced with authority. Calm, controlled, and utterly commanding.
Sanzu's grip loosens just slightly, his head snapping toward the sound. His entire demeanor shifts in an instant, the manic edge in his eyes flickering and fading. You turn your head too, your breath catching as you catch sight of him stepping out of the darkness.
Mikey.
He stands a few feet away, his expression unreadable. His dark eyes flicker between you and Sanzu, assessing the situation in a glance, the faint frown on his face betraying a sliver of displeasure.
The sight of him hit you like a physical blow, your chest tightening painfully. How long has it been since you'd last seen him? Since the day you'd walked away? Time blurs in the aftermath, but now, with him standing there, it feels as though no time has passed at all.
Sanzu's grip on your jaw loosens, but he doesn't release you immediately. His fingers linger, teal eyes flicking back to yours, scanning your face as though searching for something. You can't tell what—fear, defiance, or maybe something he doesn't even understand himself.
"Late, as always," Sanzu mutters. His tone sounds casual, but the tightness in his jaw betrays his unease.
Mikey doesn't waver. "Let her go."
Sanzu doesn't move at first. His fingers remain curled around your jaw, the pressure a subtle reminder of his power over you. Before slowly, he releases you, his hand falling away as he straightens.
You gasp for breath, your hand flying to your sore jaw as you scramble to sit up. Your limbs tremble, but you can't bring yourself to meet Mikey's eyes. Not yet. The weight of his presence is too overwhelming.
"She's lucky I didn't kill her," Sanzu says, shoving his hands into his pockets as he steps back.
Mikey's eyes linger on you for a moment longer before shifting back to Sanzu. His expression remains impassive, but the silence between them is heavy, crackling with unspoken tension.
"Leave us," Mikey says finally.
Sanzu raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint sneer, but he doesn't linger.
"As you wish, Boss." With a mocking salute, he turns and strides off into the shadows, leaving you alone with Mikey.
The silence that follows is deafening.
You stay on the ground, your breathing uneven as you try to steady yourself. The ache in your jaw is nothing compared to the storm raging inside you.
And for the first time in a long time, you realize you don't know who scares you more: Haruchiyo Sanzu, the unhinged and dangerous man who just walked away, or Manjiro Sano, the boy you once loved who now looms over you like a stranger cloaked in darkness.
Haruchiyo Sanzu's presence makes it impossible to focus. You're back at the café where, just hours ago, you'd seen Mikey with his wife. Now, Mikey sits in front of you, his familiar gaze fixed on your face, while Sanzu lingers in the periphery, leaning casually against the wall. You can feel his teal eyes on you even when you're not looking.
"You're okay?" Mikey's voice cuts through your train of thought, snapping your attention back to him.
The truth hovers just below the surface. Of course, you're not okay. How could you be? His concern, once something you found so grounding, now feels like salt in an open wound. It's like he's still trying to play the role of your savior when he was the one who let you fall.
"Never better," you reply sharply, the sarcasm laced so thick it almost chokes you.
It's not a lie. Not entirely. Never better because you've finally been forced to stand on your own, but never worse because Mikey—because he's Mikey—makes it impossible to forget what you lost.
Mikey sighs quietly, the sound so familiar yet so infuriating. It's the same sigh he always gave when he thought you were being unreasonable, and it only stirs your anger further.
"Look, I still care," he begins but then pauses, swallowing back the rest of the sentence. His jaw tightens, and he adjusts his words like he's afraid of what he might say next, "I've always had your back, even now. That hasn't changed."
You almost laugh, the bitterness rising in your throat. Had my back? If that were true, would you even be here, unraveling piece by piece? His words are like a knife, and he doesn't even know he's holding it.
"I heard you moved out of your old apartment," he adds, as if that's what matters right now.
Our old apartment, you correct silently, the words bitter on your tongue. The place where Mikey used to hold you through restless nights, where laughter once filled the air, and where you'd built your life together. But now, it's just a place you couldn't bear to stay in, a graveyard for everything you thought would last.
"If there's anything I can do to help—"
"Like what?" you snap, your words cutting through his sentence. "You think I can't survive without you?"
Mikey doesn't answer right away, and the silence that follows only worsens the sting. His hesitation is maddening, but worse is the look that settles on his face. Soft, almost pitying. It makes your blood boil.
You know you're digging your own grave. You've relied on Mikey since you were sixteen, leaning on him for support in every way that mattered. It's obvious you've survived this long because of him, but that doesn't mean you can't start now. That doesn't mean you need him anymore.
Still, his silence gnaws at you, and when he finally speaks, his voice is measured, like he's walking on eggshells.
"I know you can," he says gently. "You're strong, capable, and I admire that. But if you ever need someone to lean on, I'm here for you. You can depend on me."
His words should feel like a lifeline, but instead, they feel like chains. Because you know what he's really saying. He's offering help, but it's the kind that comes with the knowledge that you'll always be just a little weaker than him.
That you'll always need him.
"Depend on you?" you repeat incredulously. "That's rich coming from someone who left. You're the one who fucked me up, Mikey!"
Your words hang in the air. Heads turn toward you, curious eyes flicking your way, but you don't care. Let them stare. Let them hear every word, every ounce of pain he left behind. It's either your voice rises, or your dam breaks. And you'd rather be seen as crazy than weak.
Especially in front of him.
Mikey's face tightens, his hands curling into fists on the table, but he doesn't interrupt. His silence only fuels your rage, pushing you closer to the edge.
"I don't need your help," you continue, your voice rising. "I don't need you. I don't need anyone! I've been fine these past months—"
Lies. All lies.
You haven't been fine. You've been living in survival mode, barely holding yourself together. Nights spent staring at the ceiling, choking on the weight of your own heartbreak. The fragile pieces of your heart held together by sheer will.
"—And honestly, I'd rather trust a lunatic like Sanzu than you. At least he'd be honest about being a monster."
As soon as the words leave your mouth, you know Sanzu's eyes are on you, boring into the side of your head. You can feel the weight of his gaze even as you refuse to look his way. He's going to kill you for that, for calling him a monster, but you're too angry to care.
Across the table, Mikey lowers his gaze to his hands, his expression shadowed. He has the audacity to look ashamed, whether it's of himself or of you, you don't know. And you don't care anymore.
The weight in your chest feels unbearable now, pressing down on you like it's trying to crush the air from your lungs. You rise to your feet abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. Without a second glance at Mikey, or anyone else for that matter, you storm out of the café.
Sanzu is standing by the door, but you don't even look at him as you pass by. You can still feel his gaze on you, following your every step.
Outside, the chill bites at your skin, but it's nothing compared to the storm inside you. The world feels too bright, too loud, and too indifferent to your pain. The tears that blur your vision now are hot, a stark contrast to the cold air brushing against your cheeks. You wipe them away furiously, but they keep coming, spilling over like water from a broken dam.
And then you see her.
You freeze.
It's her. Mikey's wife.
The source of your pain, your heartbreak, your sleepless nights.
She's standing across the street, radiant and serene, as if she belongs to another world entirely. A world without heartbreak, without sleepless nights, without you. The sight of her punches the air from your lungs. You can't look away, even though every fiber of your being screams at you to turn around, to run.
Her beauty is effortless, the kind of beauty that doesn't try but still outshines everything. She moves with the grace of someone who knows exactly where they belong, her confidence unshaken by the storm she's left in her wake. You feel the cracks in your resolve widening with every step she takes, every smile she offers to her bodyguard as he opens the car door for her.
She steps into the sleek black car with the kind of ease that feels like mockery. It's just another perfect day for her, another moment where her life glides forward without a hitch. And here you are, standing on the sidewalk with your heart shattered into pieces so small they might never come back together.
Your knees feel weak, your vision swimming as the tears threaten to consume you entirely. The world spins, a dizzying blur of faces and voices, and for a moment, you think you might collapse right here. Let the concrete catch you, let the city swallow you whole. Anything. Just to escape this unbearable weight.
Then all of a sudden, you hear that familiar deep, gravelly voice.
"Get in the car. I'm sending you home."
You don't need to turn around to know who it is. The voice and the aura, it's unmistakably him. He's followed you out of the café, his presence as persistent as the evening's chill.
You slowly turn, and there he is. Sanzu.
The car near you beeps as he unlocks it, slipping his keys back into his pocket with a flick of his wrist. His movements are smooth, controlled, and yet there's an underlying tension that makes the air between you feel heavy. He steps closer, his smirk sharp, but his eyes—those teal eyes—are watching you too closely, betraying something deeper beneath his casual façade.
"You're a mess," he says. "But I guess that's not exactly breaking news, is it?"
You glare at him, the tears still hot on your cheeks. "And why the hell do you care?"
Sanzu's smirk twitches and almost falters, but he catches himself. He leans in slightly, close enough that you can see the fading scar near his lips, the faint gleam of sharpness in his eyes.
"Care? Oh, sweetheart, don't flatter yourself," he drawls, his voice dripping with condescension.
"I'm only here because Mikey asked. Said you were gonna embarrass yourself if I didn't get you off the street. And, well..." He tilts his head, his grin widening just enough to make your blood boil some more. "He's probably right."
Your hands curl into fists at your sides. "Go to hell," you say, turning to walk away. "I don't need a babysitter, least of all, you."
But you don't make it far before his voice cuts through the air again.
"You really think I'd let you walk around like that?" he says, the implication stopping you in your tracks.
You turn back to face him, and this time, his expression has shifted. The smirk is still there, but it's quieter now, his eyes narrowing as they study you.
"You've got tear stains on your face, your hands are shaking, and you just screamed at my boss loud enough to wake half the city," he continues. "So tell me, princess, what's your grand plan? Walk until you fucking collapse? Or maybe you're hoping someone worse than me will pick you up?"
You swallow hard, his words cutting deeper than you want to admit. But you refuse to let him see how much they affect you.
"I'll be fine," you bite out, lifting your chin defiantly. "I don't need anyone."
Sanzu laughs, a deep, humorless sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "Yeah, that's cute. Real cute. But here's the thing: I don't give a damn what you think you need right now. You're getting in the car."
You shake your head, your anger rising again. "You don't get to decide—"
His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to make you freeze. His gaze locks onto yours, and for the first time, the mask he wears cracks just slightly.
"Listen," he says quietly, his voice losing its usual edge. "You're not fine. And I'm not about to let you spiral because you're too damn stubborn to admit it."
The unexpected hint of concern catches you off guard. You stare at him, searching his face for any form of an explanation, but all you find is that same unreadable look he always gives you.
He lets go of your wrist, stepping back. "Do us both a favor," he mutters. "Quit wasting my time and get in. Or do you want Mikey to think you're this pathetic?"
The mention of Mikey's name is enough to make your blood boil all over again, and you storm past Sanzu, sliding into the passenger seat with a huff. You slam the door shut, refusing to look at him as he rounds the car and slips into the driver's seat.
The engine roars to life, and as the car pulls away from the curb, you can feel his gaze flicker toward you. He doesn't say anything else, but the silence between you feels heavier than words.
You glance out the window, your chest still tight, your mind racing. You don't know what's more unsettling: the fact that Sanzu came for you, or the fact that, for all his mockery and death threats, a part of you believes he might actually care.
Haruchiyo Sanzu confuses you. He always has.
The memory of your first meeting lingers in your mind, a thorn that never dulls. His hair was its natural pale blonde back then, the soft strands a stark contrast to the sharpness of his features. Most of his face was hidden behind that ever-present black mask, as if he wanted to stay hidden even in plain sight. But his eyes—the way they raked over you, cold and unwelcoming—made it clear enough that you were an outsider.
"Can't believe Mikey's letting some chick walk all over him like that," he had said the first time he saw you. "The bitch got him wrapped around her little finger. It's pathetic."
He didn't bother lowering his voice, didn't care that you were within earshot. To him, you weren't someone worth sparing. You were an anomaly in Mikey's meticulously crafted world. A fragile thing, bound to break and take Mikey down with you.
It hadn't hurt back then, not the way it might now. At the time, Haruchiyo Sanzu had been nothing more than an arrogant, brooding boy. He was a shadow that simply clung too closely to Mikey. A boy with a fervent, almost fanatical loyalty that bordered on obsession.
Even then, though, there had been an unshakable truth about him: Sanzu would do anything for Mikey.
You hadn't realized how much weight that truth carried until the day you were forced to rely on him. Mikey had been surrounded. Dozens of enemies closing in, their shouts echoing in the air like a war drum. You'd known Mikey could handle himself. He always could. But something primal, something terrifying, had clawed its way into your chest, leaving you breathless and desperate.
And so, against your better judgment, you'd turned to Sanzu. You still remembered the way he had looked at you like you were dirt on his shoes, something insignificant and beneath him.
"Scram, you little brat!" he'd snapped, his tone laced with warning. "You're out of your league here, so fucking get lost!"
But despite his words, he went. Without hesitation, without question. You'd stood frozen, watching as he moved, his katana gleaming like liquid silver, cutting through the chaos with terrifying precision. Blood sprayed, painting the air with crimson streaks, and the sound of steel meeting flesh rang in your ears.
Sanzu had been merciless. Efficient. Unstoppable.
Mikey was the same, you knew that. But Mikey never let you see that part of him. He was careful with you, always holding something back, as if he didn't want to shatter the image of the boy you thought he was.
But Sanzu? He never cared about sparing you.
You'd always been an outsider in his eyes.
And yet, now, years later, after everything—after all the threats, the hatred, after your messy, heartbreaking breakup with Mikey—you find yourself sitting in Sanzu's car, the hum of the engine the only sound between you.
It feels wrong.
Haruchiyo Sanzu isn't the type to care, to go out of his way to help someone. Especially not you. And yet, here you are, gripping the edge of your seat as he drives you home.
The streets blur past the window, streaks of gold and crimson from the setting sun spilling across the world outside. You catch his reflection in the glass. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his lips press into a faint scowl even when he's relaxed.
He doesn't speak. He doesn't glance at you. But his presence fills the car like a storm cloud, heavy and inescapable.
Your gaze drifts to his hands, one on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. His long fingers tap a slow, absent rhythm, betraying a restless energy he won't let show anywhere else. The tendons shift under his skin, his movements deceptively delicate for someone who wields death so easily.
The light hits his face just right as you glance at him. The gold of the sunset softens the hard lines of his features, catches in his pink hair, and makes it glow like a firelight. For a fleeting moment, he doesn't look like the Haruchiyo Sanzu you know.
Not the lunatic you've always known. Not the monster who once strangled you while high, forcing your first pill down your throat under the pretense of "comfort." Not the Haruchiyo Sanzu who swings his katana without a second thought, who laughs at the chaos he creates.
No, this version of him—silent, calm, almost serene—feels like someone else entirely.
The thought unsettles you.
You shake your head, trying to banish it. This is Sanzu, you remind yourself. The lunatic. The monster. The man you have every reason to hate.
But even as the words repeat in your mind, they sound weaker than they should.
The car rolls to a stop outside your apartment, and for a moment, neither of you moves. The silence stretches, heavy and taut, until it feels like the weight of unspoken words might crush you. But he doesn't speak. He never does when it matters.
You step out of the car, the door closing with a soft click behind you. The evening air bites at your skin, but you barely feel it as you turn back to watch him. His face is unreadable, eyes fixed straight ahead, his fingers still tapping that absent rhythm on his thigh.
The car pulls away, his taillights vanishing into the distance, leaving you standing there, alone and more confused than ever.
Haruchiyo Sanzu confuses you.
And tonight, as the memory of his quiet presence lingers, you hate that he does.
Actually, scratch that.
Haruchiyo Sanzu is a damn petty bastard.
For a brief, fleeting moment, you'd thought the two of you might've reached some unspoken understanding. Sure, no words were exchanged, and yes, all he did was drive you home. But still, there had been a quiet truce in the air. A rare moment of something that almost resembled civility.
Clearly, you were wrong.
The realization hits you the second you step into your apartment.
Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you're frozen in place. The space you've spent months trying to make your own sanctuary is now unrecognizable. Empty.
Gone is the couch where you spent lazy afternoons staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Gone are the shelves, once filled with books and little trinkets that held pieces of you. Your bed, your safe haven after long grueling days, is nothing but an empty outline on the floor now. Even the faint scent of lavender, your ever-present diffuser, has vanished, replaced by the sterile smell of nothingness.
Your footsteps echo as you take a cautious step forward, the sound bouncing off bare walls, mocking you. The knot in your stomach tightens, your mind scrambling for explanations that don't exist. For a brief, desperate second, you think maybe there's been some mistake.
But the truth—the infuriating, maddening truth—is instant and undeniable.
The only person who knows your new address is Haruchiyo Sanzu.
Your chest tightens as fury ignites in you, searing hot and fast. Of course it's him. Who else would have the audacity? The lunacy?
You think back to last week, to the moment you thought, stupidly, that he might've been capable of a shred of decency. The way he'd driven you home without a single cruel jab. The way he'd let you leave his car without some biting remark to twist the knife. You'd wanted to believe there was some humanity lurking beneath the madness.
How naive.
This empty apartment, this gutted wreckage of your life, is his grand fucking statement.
He'd sent you home just so he could rip it all away again.
You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms as fury courses through you. It's not hard to figure out why he did it. Beyond the fact that he's a complete lunatic, this has revenge written all over it. He's still pissed about you dumping his precious katana into the dumpster like the trash it was. This is payback. The emptiness surrounding you is proof of that.
How fucking petty.
Your gaze sweeps over the barren apartment, landing on the empty space where your coffee table used to be. Fury roils in your chest, spilling out in waves, hotter with every passing second. If you'd known it would come to this, you wouldn't have stopped at tossing his katana.
No, you'd have gone for the jugular.
You'd have stolen his entire stash of pills, the ones he guards like a feral dog. The ones he pops like candy, always chasing some chemical peace he'll never find. Or better yet, burned down his condominium entirely.
No. You'd evacuate everyone first, of course. You're not a monster.
But Sanzu? You'd leave him there. Trapped. Let the fire consume everything he holds dear. His overpriced furniture, his meticulously curated wardrobe, his godforsaken colorful pills. You can almost picture it: flames licking at his skin, his screams swallowed by the roaring inferno.
The image is so vivid, so satisfying, it almost makes you smile. Almost.
You shake your head, trying to push the thought away. No. You're not a murderer.
You're not him.
But standing here in this gutted shell of your home, your hands trembling with barely restrained rage, it's hard to hold onto that truth.
Sanzu has this way of dragging you down to his level, of twisting your emotions until the unthinkable feels reasonable. He pushes and prods and poisons until there's nothing left but anger and the quiet hum of violence that he wears like a second skin.
And right now? Right now, you've never wanted to kill someone more in your entire life.
Sanzu.
That goddamn petty bastard.
"Haruchiyo Sanzu! Go to hell!"
Your scream tears through the bustling city noise, sharp and furious, loud enough to make heads turn. People stop mid-step, startled by the force of it, but you don't care. You're standing at the edge of the footbridge, your fists clenched so tightly that your nails dig into your palms. And there he is, walking casually along the road below you like he hasn't turned your entire life upside down.
Sanzu stops in his tracks, turning slightly to glance up at you. For a moment, his teal eyes widen in genuine shock, as if he can't quite believe what he's hearing.
Good. Let him be shocked. Let him know exactly what's coming.
The fire inside you burns hotter as you storm down the bridge. It's been raging ever since you stepped into your empty apartment and realized he was behind it. You hadn't even stopped to think before running to his condominium.
For thirty minutes, you'd pounded on his door like a lunatic yourself, your voice hoarse from shouting his name. Your rage was loud enough to bring out one of his neighbors, a sour-faced old man who only stepped outside to inform you, with no small amount of irritation, that Sanzu had left ten minutes ago.
You'd muttered an apology to the neighbor before taking off again, your rage fueling every step. You'd searched the streets near his condo like a woman possessed, the thought of spending the night on a cold, hard floor making you see red.
If anyone's sleeping uncomfortably tonight, it'll be Sanzu. Preferably on his deathbed.
And now, after all that, you've found him. Walking casually toward his sleek black car. He looks calm. Relaxed. Like he doesn't have a care in the world. Like he hasn't just uprooted your life for the sake of some petty, calculated revenge.
Your shout stops him, but only for a second.
He blinks, his momentary surprise melting into something unreadable. Then, without a word, he turns away and keeps walking, as if nothing happened.
The audacity.
Your feet move before your brain catches up, propelling you forward with reckless speed. The world around you blurs. Faces, voices, none of it registers. Passersby step aside, startled by the sheer force of your determination, their wide-eyed stares sliding off you like water off glass.
All you can focus on is Sanzu.
He's climbing into the back seat of a sleek black car now, his movements calm, unbothered. Pretending he doesn't see you, pretending he didn't just hear you scream his name moments ago.
He doesn't even look at you as he settles in the back seat, his long fingers gripping the edge of the door. His lack of acknowledgment feels like a slap to the face, stoking the fire in your chest until it threatens to consume you.
Not today.
You slam your palm against the car door just as he begins to close it, the force of it rattling the frame. The sound echoes through the air, startling even you with its sharpness.
"What?" you demand, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. "Running away now?"
Sanzu looks up at you with maddening calm, his teal eyes catching the glow of the streetlights. For a split second, you think he might actually take you seriously. But then it happens, that smirk. That insufferable, smug curve of his lips that makes your anger spike higher. It's the kind of smirk that tells you he's been expecting this, that he's been waiting for you to find him.
And worse? He's enjoying it.
"Oh, no, sweetheart," he says smoothly, leaning back against the seat with an air of infuriating nonchalance. "I never run away from a fight."
The deliberate ease of his tone feels like gasoline on the fire. His teal eyes glint with amusement, and that smirk of his widens just enough to make your fists itch.
"But," he continues smoothly, as if he has all the time in the world, "as much as I'd love to finish this and remind you of your place, I've got a meeting in ten."
He taps his watch, feigning impatience. "So, unfortunately, I'm not exactly in the mood to entertain your whining."
Whining.
The sheer arrogance in his tone makes your vision blur for a moment, your nails digging into your palms as you clench your fists. He's doing this on purpose, you realize. Poking at your anger, stoking the flames, and loving every second of it.
"Don't fucking test me, Sanzu!" you snap, your voice sharp with barely restrained fury. The effort it takes to keep yourself from grabbing him by the collar is monumental. "Return all my things now!"
Sanzu tilts his head slightly. "Your things? You're gonna have to be more specific than that."
You take a step closer, narrowing your eyes at him. "You know exactly what I'm talking about," you growl. "My apartment. My furniture. Everything's gone because you took it. All of it."
"Oh, that." His smirk deepens, and he shrugs like it's the most inconsequential thing in the world. "Yeah, that stuff's gone."
"Gone?" Your voice rises, your frustration boiling over. "What the hell does that mean? Gone where?"
Sanzu chuckles. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on his knee as he looks at you with the arrogance of someone who knows exactly how much power they hold.
"That," he says smoothly as if he's savoring every moment of your frustration, "is for me to know and for you to find out."
The smug satisfaction in his tone makes your skin prickle, and for a moment, the entire world narrows to just the two of you. The bustling city, the distant car horns, the faint hum of streetlights. All of it fades away under the weight of his words.
"You think this is funny?" you hiss, your voice trembling with barely restrained rage.
He leans back again, stretching out like a king on his throne, his smirk never faltering.
"Hilarious, actually," he replies, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "The look on your face right now? Worth every second."
You want to scream, to claw that smirk off his face, to make him understand just how far he's pushed you. But deep down, you know that's exactly what he wants. Sanzu thrives on chaos and control. And right now, he has both in the palm of his hand.
So you force yourself to take a deep breath, though it does little to calm the storm raging inside you. Losing your temper won't get you anywhere. The only way to deal with someone like Sanzu is to stay rational, no matter how impossible that feels.
With that thought, you grab the front of his shirt and yank him toward you, your fingers curling into the expensive fabric. You lean against the car door, bending slightly so you're face-to-face with him.
For the first time, his smirk falters.
It's subtle, but it's there. A flicker of irritation in his eyes. He doesn't like to be handled this way, that much is obvious. But you're too angry to care.
"Fine," you hiss. "Since you're incapable of being civilized, I'll be civilized enough for both of us."
Your glare sharpens, and you tighten your grip on his shirt, tugging him closer. "That stupid katana. I'll pay you back. Name a price, and stop with this bullshit."
The silence that follows is heavy, crackling like static between you. He doesn't smirk, doesn't quip. For once, he seems caught off guard, or maybe he's just letting the moment stretch to keep you guessing. His teal eyes pierce into yours, unreadable, and you wonder if you've finally managed to throw him off his game.
But that fleeting moment vanishes as quickly as it came. His hand moves—a blur—and clamps around your wrist.
"Sanzu—"
You barely manage to gasp his name before he yanks you forward with an aggressive tug. The force of it throws you off balance, and you stumble, landing unceremoniously on his lap.
The sharp sound of the car door slamming shut beside you snaps like a gunshot in your ears, reverberating through the tense air. You freeze, your breath catching as the suffocating closeness of the car settles over you like a vice.
Panic surges in your chest, but Sanzu doesn't give you a chance to react. He shifts slightly, leaning forward to address the driver, someone you hadn't even noticed until now.
"Drive," Sanzu orders.
The car lurches into motion, and you instinctively reach for the door handle, your heart racing. "What the hell—"
Your fingers barely graze the metal before Sanzu's hand catches yours in an iron grip.
You whip your head toward him, fully intending to glare, to demand answers, to fight. But whatever words you had prepared dissolve the moment you meet his gaze.
He's too close.
Your face is mere inches from his, so close you can make out every detail: the pale green of his eyes flecked with grey, the sharp arch of his blond eyebrows, the jagged skin at the corners of his mouth. His cologne envelops you, spicy, woodsy, intoxicating in a way that makes your pulse stutter.
Your hand, trembling with adrenaline, presses against his chest, and you curse inwardly as you feel the steady, unnervingly calm beat of his heart beneath your palm. He's not rattled, not even a little. Meanwhile, your own heart feels like it's trying to break free from your ribcage.
His body is solid and lean beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. Every subtle shift of his frame feels deliberate and controlled, as if, even in this chaos, he's still the one pulling the strings.
Sanzu tilts his head slightly, his lips curving into the faintest trace of a smirk. Not the full, insufferable grin you're used to, but a softer and sharper smirk, and infinitely more dangerous.
"You said you'd pay me back," he murmurs. "So why don't you sit back like the good girl you are, and we'll have that civilized conversation you wanted so badly."
Your cheeks burn with a mix of anger and something else you refuse to name.
With a sharp exhale, you tear yourself away from his intense gaze, shoving off his lap and planting yourself on the seat beside him. The car's leather feels cold against your palms as you adjust your clothes, every movement sharp and jerky, as if regaining control over your body could somehow rein in the storm inside you.
"Great," you bite out, refusing to meet his eyes. "How much?"
Sanzu doesn't answer right away. Instead, he stretches leisurely, his arms draping over the backrest, like he's savoring the moment. His smirk widens, and you know instantly he's about to say something outrageous.
"¥100 billion."
The numbers hit you like a slap.
You turn to him so quickly that your neck protests. "What?"
"You heard me," he says smoothly, as if the absurdity of his statement is nothing out of the ordinary.
For a moment, all you can do is stare, disbelief crashing over you in waves. Your mouth falls open, but no words come out.
"Is that a joke?" you finally manage, shaking your head. "Because there's no way—"
"Oh, yes fucking way," Sanzu interrupts mockingly, as if your protest is the funniest thing he's heard all day.
He leans back further, his teal eyes gleaming as he continues, like a professor lecturing a particularly slow student. "That sword wasn't just some hunk of metal. It was art. History forged in steel. Do you have any idea what you actually threw away?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. Of course he doesn't. Sanzu loves the sound of his own voice too much.
"It was forged by master smiths. Wielded by legendary warriors. Passed down through generations. And you—" His gaze sharpens as he lazily points a finger at you, his smirk turning razor-sharp. "You tossed it into a fucking dumpster."
Your teeth grind together as his words sink in, and your fists curl against the leather seat.
"And that's not all," he continues, his tone suddenly turning wistful as he places a hand over his chest, like he's recounting a personal tragedy.
"The emotional distress I went through when I found out? Priceless. The cost of my time? Immense. The sentimental value?" He exhales theatrically, shaking his head. "Incalculable."
You know he's mocking you, but that doesn't stop your stomach from twisting in frustration.
"That sword was a part of me," he finishes. "A piece of my soul, if you will. So, yeah. ¥100 billion. Generous, considering you ripped out a piece of me."
"You're insane!" you shout, your voice trembling as anger begins to creep into the edges of your panic.
You can feel the weight of the number crushing you, impossible to comprehend, let alone repay. It's absurd, and you know he's doing this on purpose.
Sanzu's smirk deepens. "Oh, sweetheart, I am insane."
He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "But don't worry, I'm not that heartless."
You narrow your eyes at him, suspicion flickering alongside your disbelief.
"I've taken the liberty of assessing your belongings," he continues, gesturing vaguely with one hand like he's discussing the weather. "To offset the cost of your little stunt, of course. Let's say those furniture pieces are worth, oh, I'll be generous again, ¥10 million."
You gape at him, your stomach sinking as he raises a finger, feigning thought.
"So, that leaves you with a cool ¥99,990,000,000 to pay back."
The number hangs in the air, a death sentence delivered with the kind of smug satisfaction that makes your stomach churn.
You blink at him, your chest tightening as your mind races, trying and failing to find a way out of this nightmare. The number is still incomprehensible. Impossible.
"Better start saving, sweetheart," Sanzu says, his grin stretching wider as he watches the horror bloom across your face.
"Go to hell," you snarl, the words tearing from your throat as your voice trembles with suppressed fury.
Sanzu doesn't even flinch. Instead, his smile widens, a flash of teeth that feels more like a wolf baring its fangs.
He leans back casually, his sharp gaze flicking over you with infuriating nonchalance. It feels like he's dissecting you, stripping you down to your most vulnerable parts just for fun.
"Considering your lame little job, I guess you'll have no choice but to work your ass off for me for the rest of your life."
You swallow hard, fighting against the rising tide of frustration and helplessness that threatens to pull you under. You feel the familiar sting in your eyes, the burning ache of tears you refuse to let fall. Not again.
Your fists tighten in your lap, nails digging into your palms as you bite down hard on your lip, grounding yourself in the sharp sting of pain. Anything to keep from breaking down in front of him.
But Sanzu notices. Of course, he notices. He always does.
"Oh, don't look so down now," he says, his voice lilting with faux encouragement. "There are plenty of jobs that can make you quick money. I'm sure we can think of something."
You turn to him sharply, hope flickering despite yourself.
He looks at you mischievously, like a cat about to pounce on a cornered mouse. "Let's see. We've got human trafficking, prostitution..."
Your glare is immediate, your hope snuffed out as quickly as it came. You clench your teeth, realizing with a sinking heart that he's doing this on purpose, pouring salt into the wound, twisting the knife, reveling in your frustration.
"Fine," you bite out, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you refuse to let him win. "I'll become a prostitute then—"
The smirk vanishes from his face instantly. His eyes narrow into slits, and his jaw tightens as a sudden wave of cold fury washes over his features.
"Don't be fucking absurd," he snaps. The words crack like a whip, laced with something you can't quite name. "You wouldn't last a day sucking off dicks."
The abrupt shift in his demeanor leaves you momentarily stunned. He was the one who suggested it, yet now he looks furious, his glare sharp enough to pierce steel.
"What the hell am I supposed to do then?" you demand, your voice laced with frustration and desperation. "You know I don't have that kind of money. I'll never be able to pay you back."
Sanzu's gaze flickers toward you, and for the briefest moment, his expression softens, barely, but enough to make your heart stutter.
"Then stay indebted to me."
Your breath catches at the quiet finality of his statement, but he isn't done.
"Work with me," he continues, leaning closer, his gaze piercing through you with unnerving precision. "Work for me. For the rest of your life."
The words settle over you like a shroud, suffocating and inescapable. You search his face desperately, clinging to the hope that this is another one of his twisted jokes. But there's no laughter in his eyes now, no trace of the smug expression you've come to expect. Instead, he is calm. Too calm, even. Serious in a way that leaves no room for doubt.
Realization sinks its claws into you, unrelenting.
This was never about the blade. It was about control. About binding you to him, inch by inch, until there's nothing left of you to call your own. You feel like a mouse cornered by a cat, every escape route meticulously cut off.
Disbelief turns to anger, burning hot in your chest as the truth becomes clear.
"You must be out of your mind," you say, your voice trembling with equal parts of fury and defiance, "if you think for a second that you can enslave me with a ridiculous debt."
His eyes narrow slightly, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his features, but he remains silent, watching you with that unsettling calm.
"You're pathetic. Is this what you've been reduced to? Tricking people into staying by your side because you're too useless to stand on your own?"
That gets a reaction. His jaw tightens, and his smirk falters, his composure cracking ever so slightly.
But you don't stop.
"You think you're all that," you continue, your tone laced with venom. "Always playing these stupid little games, acting like you're untouchable. But here's the truth, Sanzu—you're nothing but a coward. You're a joke. You hear me? A sad, pathetic joke."
The words hit their mark.
The air in the car grows heavy, oppressive, as silence stretches taut between you. Sanzu doesn't move, doesn't speak, but you can feel the shift in him. His hands tremble faintly where they rest on his lap, curling into fists so tight his knuckles turn white. His breathing is measured, deliberate, like a man trying to hold himself together by sheer willpower.
But his teal eyes burn with a fury so intense it makes your stomach churn.
"Stop the fucking car," he says finally, his voice low, quieter than you've ever heard it. It carries with it a promise of violence, and you can feel the driver tense at the words.
The car slows, and your heart races, dread pooling in your stomach as you realize you've pushed him too far. But you don't regret it. Not yet.
As the vehicle comes to a halt, the door on your side unlocks with a soft click. You glance out the window in confusion, your surroundings barren and unfamiliar. The road stretches endlessly into the dark, illuminated only by the pale glow of distant streetlights. Shadows dance across the pavement, eerie and unfamiliar.
"Get out."
You whip your head toward him, confusion and disbelief flashing across your face.
"What?" you stammer, your voice trembling as the situation sinks in. "Here? In the middle of nowhere?"
He doesn't look at you. He doesn't need to. His teal eyes are fixed somewhere in the distance, his body unnaturally still except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. The controlled rhythm of his breathing is the only indication that he's holding himself back. Barely.
"I said get lost," he growls, like the rumble of a storm building on the horizon. "Before you make me do something I'll regret."
The threat isn't loud, but it's deafening all the same, hanging heavy in the air between you. A thin, frayed thread of control keeps his rage tethered, but you can see it unraveling, piece by piece.
For the first time, fear creeps into your resolve. You glance out the window again, the cold night air creeping in through the slight crack. The barren road offers no solace, no comfort. Just endless darkness and isolation.
But you refuse to let him see your fear. Not like this.
"Fine," you say. "I'll get lost."
You reach for the purple suit jacket he'd carelessly tossed onto the seat between you earlier, the luxurious fabric soft beneath your fingertips. "If you're dumping me out here in the middle of nowhere, I'm taking this."
You grip the jacket tightly, your knuckles turning white. The familiar scent of his cologne clings to it, invasive and suffocating as you clutch it to your chest.
"It's the least you can do, right? Since you're so generous."
His jaw twitches at your words, a faint movement that betrays the storm brewing beneath his stoic exterior.
"You think that's going to bother me?" he says, his voice flat, but the edge is unmistakable. His eyes finally meet yours, pinning you in place like a predator sizing up prey. "Hell, burn it for all I care. It won't make a difference."
His dismissive words hit like a slap, but it's the look in his eyes that burns. You've seen him cruel before, smug and taunting, but this is different. This is detachment, a wall slamming down between the two of you as if he's willing himself not to feel anything at all.
The silence stretches, a battlefield with no clear victor. You push the door open and step out, the gravel crunching beneath your heels as you clutch the jacket tighter.
The door slams shut behind you, the sound echoing in the empty stretch of road. You turn, half-expecting him to say something. Anything.
But Sanzu doesn't even look at you.
His gaze remains fixed ahead, and within seconds, the car lurches forward, speeding off into the darkness.
You stand there, frozen in place, the silence deafening as the taillights vanish into the night.
For a moment, all you feel is rage coursing through you like wildfire. Your grip tightens on the stupid jacket, the fabric crumpling in your fists. Then, with a scream of frustration, you hurl it to the ground.
The jacket lands in the dirt, and without thinking, you stomp on it with your heels, over and over, as if punishing it might somehow lessen the weight in your chest. Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them back, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as your fury runs its course.
Then, slowly, reality sets in.
Your chest heaves, the cold air biting against your skin as you glance down at the crumpled jacket beneath your feet. Its once-pristine fabric is now smeared with dirt, but it still carries the faint, lingering scent of Sanzu.
You crouch down, your fingers trembling as you pick it up.
You throw it over your shoulders, the warmth of the material doing little to comfort you. The anger in your chest simmers, but now, something else creeps in.
Regret.
You're furious at Sanzu, but a part of you is furious at yourself too.
You shouldn't have said those things. You shouldn't have let your words cut so deep, shouldn't have hit him where you knew it would hurt the most.
It wasn't your place to say those things.
But it was your anger that drives you to lash out in the only way you knew how. You wanted him to feel it too, to understand the sting of your own hurt. And for a fleeting moment, you'd seen it in his eyes: the crack in his armor, the way your words had struck him.
But instead of satisfaction, all you feel now is emptiness.
You wrap the jacket tighter around yourself, its weight heavy on your shoulders as you start walking down the deserted road, the cold night air biting at your skin.
Alone.
With nothing but his stupid jacket and the lingering ache of words you can't take back.
Haruchiyo Sanzu feels like a distant, sour memory now, something that lingers unwelcome at the edges of your mind, like a taste you can't quite wash away.
Weeks have passed since he left you stranded in the middle of nowhere. You still remember the icy sting of that night, the wind gnawing at your skin as you trudged along desolate roads, his suit jacket wrapped tightly around you. Its scent, unmistakably his, had clung to you like a curse, as if mocking your every step. You'd made it to the bus stop just in time for the last ride home, your legs aching, your spirit raw and splintered.
But that was then.
Your days now have grown quieter. The chaos of Bonten, once an ever-present storm on the horizon, has retreated. No Sanzu. No Mikey. Just silence.
It's a fragile kind of peace, tenuous and uneasy, like walking on a tightrope suspended over the void. The ache of it all—Sanzu's threats, Mikey's betrayal, the hollowing-out of your life—still lingers, but it's beginning to heal. Slowly, piece by piece. You've started finding solace in small things: the warmth of sunlight spilling through your window, the steady rhythm of your breath at night.
Still, there's no denying the shadow that lingers. The specter of Bonten hangs over your life like a storm cloud, distant but menacing. You've learned not to let yourself get too comfortable, knowing full well how easily your peace can be ripped away.
Your apartment reflects that unease. You've stopped trying to rebuild the life Sanzu tore apart. The furniture he took has gone unreplaced, leaving the space sparse and functional, like a temporary refuge rather than a home. A futon rests on the floor instead of a bedframe. Your fridge is nearly empty, your meals taken outside to avoid the suffocating stillness of your own walls.
You live like someone waiting to run. As if, at any moment, you might pack up the few belongings you have left and disappear without a trace.
Some days, you consider leaving Japan entirely.
But today, it's not Sanzu or Mikey who disrupts your fragile peace. It's her.
Mikey's wife.
You see her before she sees you.
You're in the convenience store near your apartment, standing in the narrow aisle of instant ramen. Your hand hovers over a cup of miso-flavored noodles when your gaze shifts, and lands on her.
At first, you think your eyes are deceiving you.
Her long, dark hair frames her face delicately, though there's her expression is tired, worn at the edges. Her features are familiar, painfully so, but it's the swell of her belly that catches your breath.
She's pregnant.
A cold wave crashes over you, bringing with it all the pain and bitterness you've been trying so hard to forget. The heartbreak, the betrayal, the way Mikey had slipped through your fingers and into her world, it all rushes back with a vengeance, leaving you reeling.
What is she doing here? Why is she here?
You don't stick around to find out. Gripping your bag tightly, you turn on your heel and walk away, hoping to slip out unnoticed. You tell yourself she doesn't know you, that she won't recognize you. That you can pretend this never happened.
But then she calls your name.
Your heart stops.
Her voice is soft, lilting, and utterly devoid of malice. But it hits you like a punch all the same. Slowly, reluctantly, you turn to see her walking toward you, her smile bright and warm. One hand rests lightly on her swollen belly, while the other lifts in a friendly wave.
"I've been looking forward to meeting you!" she says, her voice sweet and full of enthusiasm.
You blink, caught completely off guard. "W-what?"
She stops a few steps away, her eyes shining with a sincerity that twists the knife even deeper. "You're a friend of Mikey's, right?"
Friend?
The word rings hollow in your ears, absurd and suffocating. You blink at her, unable to mask your disbelief.
"No," you manage to say, though your voice sounds far weaker than you intended. "I wouldn't really call us friends. It's... a bit more complicated than that."
"Oh, I know." Her voice is soft, breezy, as though she's speaking about something mundane. "You two were a thing back then, right? But don't worry. I'm not holding it against you."
Were a thing?
At her casual remark, you feel the air shift around you, your stomach twisting uncomfortably. She looks so bright, so radiant. Her presence glowing with an effortless kind of beauty that feels impossible to touch.
And then there's you.
Rusted, dark, barely held together by fraying threads.
She's standing there in a designer dress you recognize instantly, the kind you'd once dreamed of wearing when your life still had a semblance of stability. Everything about her exudes grace, her polished demeanor so far removed from the vulnerable edges you've been living with.
And you? You're standing in sweatpants and a tank top, fresh from the gym, your hair tied up messily, your skin still faintly damp. You feel the faint sting of sweat clinging to you, the sharp contrast between her pristine elegance and your disheveled state making your insecurities roar to life.
If you'd known you'd run into her, you would've worn something else. Anything else. Something that could at least mask the gnawing inadequacy rising like bile in your chest.
"So," she continues, her voice light, unbothered, as if she hasn't just turned your world upside down. "You live around here?"
"Yeah," you reply hesitantly, shifting on your feet. "Sort of."
"Ah, I see." She smiles warmly, like she's genuinely happy to see you. "I'm actually up in the hills with Mikey. We just moved in. You should swing by sometime."
The bile in your throat sharpens. She says it so casually, so invitingly, like she's unaware to the wound her words inflict. Doesn't she know? Doesn't she understand what's happened between you and Mikey; that you're not exactly on speaking terms?
Or is she playing dumb?
Your thoughts spiral downward, dark and tangled. Maybe she's doing this on purpose, flaunting her position, rubbing it in your face. Maybe this is all part of her plan to remind you exactly where you stand—or don't stand—in Mikey's life.
You hate that your mind goes there, hate the negativity clawing at your insides. But how could it not? After everything you've been through, every betrayal and heartbreak, how could you expect anything else?
"There's a lot I've wanted to say to you." Her voice pulls you from the storm in your head.
"I've been meaning to thank you, honestly," she says warmly, as if her words hold some unspoken sincerity you can't begin to understand.
"Thank me? For what?"
"For letting him go," she replies, with no malice or spite, just a matter-of-fact honesty.
The bile rises higher, threatening to choke you, as she adds quickly, "Look, I'm not trying to be rude, but..."
She glances down, one hand resting on her swollen belly, the gesture so natural yet so deliberate it feels like another blow to your already fragile composure.
"I didn't have a 'responsible father' growing up. My family basically sold me to the Sano when I was a teenager just to cover my father's debt. Shin—Mikey's brother—was the one who took me in. He promised I'd marry Mikey someday, even though we weren't exactly close back then," she says, her gaze distant now, fixed somewhere beyond you.
"So when I realized I was pregnant, I was terrified. I thought, what if Mikey can't love this child? What if he just... doesn't care? But then you left. I couldn't believe it, but... it made everything so much easier, you know?" She pauses, looking back at you with a faint, tentative smile.
"Mikey is going to be a great dad to this child. So... thank you. Really."
You feel like the ground has crumbled beneath you.
Your mind is a whirlpool of emotions, dragging you down deeper and deeper as her words replay in your head. Thank you for letting him go. The phrase loops endlessly, echoing louder each time until it drowns out every other thought.
What are you supposed to feel? Regret? Jealousy? Relief?
Instead, all you feel is guilt.
It sits heavy in your chest, acidic and biting, as you force yourself to meet her gaze again. She's glowing, radiant, full of life and hope. Her hand rests protectively over her belly, her smile soft and warm, as though she hasn't just gutted you with her words.
You wonder if she can see it, the way your heart is breaking all over again, piece by piece.
Because as much as you hate to admit it, she's right.
You feel like a villain in your own story, selfish and blind. If you hadn't let go, if you'd kept clinging to Mikey, what would you have done to her? To that child? How much pain would you have caused, all for the sake of holding onto something you knew deep down was already gone?
The realization sits heavy in your chest, twisting your insides with guilt and self-loathing.
You force a polite smile, the corners of your mouth trembling as you nod numbly. She's still talking, but her words fade into the background, drowned out by the roaring in your ears.
When the encounter finally ends, when she walks away with her glowing smile and radiant presence, you remain frozen in place, staring blankly at the rows of snacks and drinks in front of you.
The world around you feels dimmer now, the air heavier, as if everything has shifted just slightly out of focus.
You don't even notice the tears slipping down your cheeks until you taste the salt on your lips.
Haruchiyo Sanzu always made it clear where you stood.
"You don't belong here," he'd sneer, his voice dripping with disdain, "not in Mikey's world, and definitely not in Bonten."
He was never wrong. You didn't belong in their world. You were the outsider, the one thread that never quite wove into the fabric of their lives. You knew it, and he made sure you never forgot it. His words stung more than you'd admit. Not because they were untrue, but because of the way he said them. Dismissive. Like you weren't worth the air you breathed in his presence.
But you stayed. Out of loyalty to Mikey. Out of defiance. Maybe you wanted to prove Sanzu wrong, or maybe you just wanted to prove something to yourself.
Still, deep down, you hated that world.
The violence. The chaos. The constant, suffocating tension. You didn't understand it, and you didn't want to.
The thing about violence is how loud it is. How it drowns everything else out. It used to make you tremble, used to keep you up at night. Over time, you thought you'd grown numb to it. Spending years with Mikey and his friends, and later meeting the men of Bonten, you believed you'd built up a tolerance.
You were wrong.
Now, standing in the dim light of your apartment, you feel that old dread creeping up your spine. The sound of fists pounding on the door reverberates through the space, loud and relentless.
"Open up!" a voice slurs, rough and angry. It's followed by another harsher, louder voice yelling something you can't quite make out.
You press your back against the wall, clutching your phone in trembling hands. The door shudders under the force of the blows, the wood groaning as if it might splinter any second. Through the peephole, you catch flashes of them. Three, maybe four men. Their faces are rough, unshaven, their clothes stained and worn. Not like Bonten's polished soldiers. These men are desperate, frayed at the edges, their anger wild and unrestrained.
Your breath comes in short gasps, panic clouding your thoughts. Your first instinct is to call the police, to beg for help. Your thumb hovers over the screen, but you hesitate.
Don't call the cops.
The rule rings in your head like a mantra, drilled into you after years of being with Mikey. Police attention meant danger, not safety. Danger for him. Danger for Bonten. Calling them now feels like a betrayal of everything you promised to leave behind.
But this isn't Bonten. This isn't their problem. This is you, alone in an apartment that feels smaller with every second, trapped with no escape.
Your mind flickers to Mikey. You can almost see him now, stoic and composed, walking through that door with the kind of calm that could silence a storm. Whenever things got bad, you called him, and he always came. No questions. No hesitation.
But that Mikey doesn't exist for you anymore.
The memory of his wife slices through your thoughts like a blade. Her glowing face, her soft laugh, the way she spoke of him like he was hers, and hers alone. He isn't yours to call. Not anymore.
The pounding grows louder, the door rattling violently on its hinges. A voice yells, "We know you're in there! Open the damn door!"
Your legs buckle, and you slide down the wall, your knees drawn up to your chest. You grip your phone tightly, every instinct screaming at you to do something. But you don't know what.
The fear is suffocating. It wraps around your throat like a noose, tighter with every second. You've spent so long trying to convince yourself you're stronger now, that you could stand on your own two feet, that you've learned how to survive without anyone's help.
But here you are, knees to your chest, tears streaming down your face, and the truth is like a knife twisting in your gut.
You can't.
The pounding on the door grows louder, the wood splintering under the relentless force of fists. Angry voices bleed into one another, demanding, mocking, hungry. You flinch with every thud, the sound rattling through your bones. A muffled sob escapes you, and you clamp a hand over your mouth, biting back the noise.
This isn't the first time you've felt this kind of fear, but it's the first time you've been truly alone. There's no Mikey to call, no Bonten soldiers to sweep in and erase the threat with brutal efficiency. There's only you.
A shudder wracks your body, and your trembling hand brushes against the edge of the clothing rack beside you. The soft rustle of fabric draws your attention, and your eyes fall to the floor.
The purple suit jacket.
It lies crumpled and forgotten, a remnant of a night you've tried desperately to push from your memory. It doesn't belong here, much like the man who owned it.
Your gaze lingers, and then you see it. A small white card slipping from the pocket. It flutters to the floor, landing face up, the bold logo of Bonten catching the dim light.
You don't think. You don't breathe. You just move, reaching for it with trembling fingers.
The card feels heavier than it should as you turn it over, your eyes scanning the crisp lettering.
Haruchiyo Sanzu.
Beneath his name is a series of numbers, printed in sharp black ink. A phone number.
Your heart stutters.
The voices outside grow louder, their words blending into a cacophony of threats and anger. The door creaks ominously under the next blow, and your grip tightens on the card.
This is insane. Calling him is insane. You haven't spoken to him since that night. Since the night he left you stranded, drenched in rage and despair, clutching this very jacket like it was some kind of armor.
But the desperation burns hotter than the fear now, a frantic, clawing need for survival.
Your fingers fumble as you pick up your phone, the screen shaking in your grasp. The numbers blur as tears spill over your lashes, and it takes three tries before you can type them in correctly.
The first ring feels endless, each second dragging you deeper into doubt.
The second ring is faster, sharper, and the sound cuts through the fog of your panic.
For a moment, you think he won't answer. You think this was a mistake, that you're as alone as you feared—
But then his voice crackles through the line.
"Who is this?"
It's deeper than you remember, edged with a steel-cold annoyance that sends a shiver down your spine. Your lips tremble, and you purse them tightly to hold back the sob threatening to escape. You don't understand why hearing his voice makes you feel like crying even harder, but it does.
"Speak up," Sanzu snaps, his tone edged with irritation.
"S-Sanzu," you finally manage, barely able to get the words out. "It's me."
The heavy silence that follows feels like an eternity, like he's holding back a storm on the other end of the line. You brace yourself for his anger, his mockery, but it doesn't come. Instead, the pause stretches, his silence daring you to say more.
Before either of you can speak again, a loud bang on your door startles you, and you jump violently. Your sobs break free, audible now as you stare helplessly at the door. It rattles in its frame as another fist slams against it, followed by more shouting from the men outside.
Sanzu's voice turns sharp on the other end of the line. "The hell's going on there?"
You try to speak, to explain, but the words choke in your throat, tangled with fear. All you can do is breathe raggedly, as the chaos outside intensifies.
"Oi!" he barks, louder this time, his tone laced with urgency. "Answer me! Where are—"
Another deafening bang.
This one is so forceful it feels like the door might splinter. The phone slips from your grasp, tumbling to the floor with a hollow clatter. You scramble to pick it up, but the noise outside grows louder, drowning out his voice on the other end.
The pounding at the door is relentless now, each blow reverberating through the room like the ticking of a doomsday clock. Panic grips you in its iron claws, your movements clumsy and frantic as your survival instincts take over.
You abandon the phone.
Your body moves on its own, propelling you away from the front door and down the narrow hallway. Your breath comes in short, desperate gasps, your vision blurring with tears as you throw yourself into your bedroom.
The door slams behind you, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of the room. Your hands shake as you fumble to turn the lock, your fingers slipping over the cold metal. When it finally clicks into place, you collapse against the door, your back pressed to the wood as if your weight alone could keep the intruders out.
It feels like the walls are closing in, the air too thin and heavy. You clutch at your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but the panic has its claws in you now, dragging you deeper into its suffocating grip. You don't know how long you stay rooted like that. Minutes passed. Maybe even hours, you're not so sure anymore.
Then, suddenly, silence.
The world feels like it's holding its breath, the oppressive silence louder than the chaos that preceded it. The pounding has stopped, the shouting gone, leaving behind a void so deafening it presses against your ears.
It's almost worse than the noise.
Time stretches and warps, each second dragging by as your mind claws for clarity. Summoning strength you don't think you have, you push yourself up on trembling legs. Every step feels heavy, your movements jerky and uncoordinated as if your body doesn't quite belong to you anymore.
You unlock the door with a faint click.
The hallway beyond is eerily still, the dim light from your living room casting long, distorted shadows. You step out, and your breath catches in your throat.
The door to your apartment is wide open.
Your eyes widen as you take in the scene. Blood mars the pristine white of the door, streaked across the floor in grotesque smears.
Then you see him.
Sanzu stands there, framed by the dim glow of the streetlight outside, his silhouette sharp and unnerving. You notice the blood on his clothes, streaked across his shirt and jacket in violent, haphazard smears. It stains his hands, dripping from his fingertips onto the floor.
Your gaze shifts downward.
A body lies crumpled at his feet, its face obscured by shadow. The man's arms are bent at unnatural angles, his chest motionless. The viscous pool of blood spreading beneath him glints faintly in the light.
Sanzu's face is calm, almost eerily so, as he stares down at the lifeless figure. His expression is unreadable, his teal eyes cold and devoid of emotion. Slowly, he wipes the blood from his cheek using the back of his hand, smearing it across his pale skin like war paint.
You should feel fear. Any normal person would. The violent scene before you, the lifeless body, the blood painting your once-pristine apartment, it should terrify you.
But all you feel is relief.
It crashes over you in a tidal wave, drowning out every other thought or emotion. Relief that it's him standing there. That he's here. That the nightmare outside your door is over.
He came. For you.
The realization is enough to blur the edges of the world around you, your vision swimming with unshed tears. Your breathing hitches as you take a hesitant, shaky step forward. Then another.
The space between you feels unbearable, suffocating, as if every step is a battle against an invisible force pulling you back.
Before you even realize what you're doing, you're running.
"Hey—"
Sanzu's voice breaks the silence, startled, but it barely registers.
You throw yourself at him with all the force you can muster, not caring about the blood, the chaos, or the consequences. His arms come up instinctively to catch you, but the sudden impact knocks him off balance. The two of you stumble, falling to the floor in a tangled heap.
The world around you fades to nothing.
Your arms wrap tightly around his neck, clinging to him as if letting go would mean being swallowed whole by the darkness again. You bury your face into the curve of his shoulder, breathing him in despite the metallic tang of blood that clings to him. Beneath it, faint but familiar, is his scent—spicy, woodsy, unmistakably him.
It grounds you. Anchors you.
The fear, the helplessness, the bone-deep panic that had consumed you moments ago. All of it begins to dissipate, replaced by a sense of warmth and security. You sob against his neck, your tears soaking into his skin, clinging to him as though he's the only thing holding you together.
The way his body stiffens beneath you is unmistakable, his muscles rigid and tense, as though your touch burns. His arms hang awkwardly at his sides, like he's never held someone like this before, or never wanted to.
But you don't care.
Your world is too fragile and broken, for that to matter now. You're too overwhelmed by the fact that he came, that he's here, standing in your wrecked apartment, blood on his hands and violence in his wake, for you.
Despite the tension that always seemed to push you further apart. Despite the fights, the sharp words you've thrown at each other like knives. Despite the threats and the violence that define him, the very things that have always made you hate him.
He came.
When you thought no one else would.
You'd told yourself you could survive on your own, that you didn't need anyone. You'd convinced yourself that being alone was easier, that it hurt less. But the truth is, the loneliness had been unbearable, suffocating. You'd felt like you were drowning in it, your chest caving in under the weight of your isolation.
And now, his presence makes it easier to breathe. The sting of everything eases, just slightly. Just enough for you to feel something other than despair.
Sanzu doesn't hug you back, doesn't move to comfort you in any way. He doesn't need to.
Because for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel comforted. Safe.
And for now, that alone is enough.
Haruchiyo Sanzu had promised you those men were still alive.
But as you replay the scene in your mind—their broken bodies crumpled on the floor after they dared to put up a fight with him—you can't help but question how true that promise really was. The way they had groaned, barely conscious, with limbs bent at unnatural angles... it seemed more like Sanzu had spared them out of boredom rather than mercy.
"Those punks are from a rival gang, always stirring shit with Bonten," Sanzu had said indifferently, as if this was nothing more than routine. "They're probably after you 'cause of your history with Mikey."
The words sting, cutting deeper than you'd care to admit. Your connection to Mikey has always been both shield and curse, dragging you into a world you never wanted to belong to.
You'd braced yourself for the mockery, the sharp smirk, the inevitable I told you so. Sanzu had always taken a perverse pleasure in throwing your choices back in your face, a constant reminder of your naivety.
But this time, the mockery never came.
Instead, he brought you to his condominium. No biting remarks, no sneering comments, just quiet efficiency as he led you through the sleek space with its minimalist decor and faint scent of antiseptic, like he'd tried to scrub something clean but couldn't quite erase the stains of who he was.
Now, lying on his impossibly soft bed, you stare up at the ceiling. The faint sound of the shower hums in the background, a stark contrast to the chaos you've just escaped.
You shouldn't feel safe here. You know this, deep down, because Sanzu is the embodiment of destruction. He's everything you've spent years trying to avoid, a warning etched into flesh and bone. But here you are again, wrapped in the cocoon of his world, and worse, you aren't afraid.
The last time you came here to treat his wounds flashes through your mind. Mikey had been furious with Sanzu for hurting you while he was high, and the fallout had been brutal. You'd bandaged him, your hands trembling with a mix of sadness and pity as he winced under your touch. That same night, you'd drifted into a haze of his pills, craving escape, and woke up tangled in these sheets.
Back then, you hadn't noticed the subtle scent that clung to the fabric, hadn't let yourself linger on the details of him.
But now, as you curl into the comforter, pulling it closer to your face, it's unmistakable. It's a scent you've grown used to over the years, on his clothes, lingering in the air whenever he was near. You've never stopped to think about it before, but now, it feels oddly significant.
You bury your face in the soft material, inhaling deeply as a strange feeling stirs in you. You don't know when it started, this unusual awareness of Sanzu, or why it feels so heavy now.
You squeeze your eyes shut, frustrated with yourself. Why are you even thinking about this? About him?
But no matter how hard you try to push it down, you can't ignore the quiet realization blooming inside you: Haruchiyo Sanzu is starting to feel... different.
Your gaze wanders aimlessly around the room, searching for a distraction. It lands on a bottle of white pills sitting on the nightstand. They're different from the ones you've seen him take before, or the ones he'd offered you.
You wonder what they're for. Did he take one recently? Are they for sleeping? For calming his mind? Or are they for something darker, something that's keeping him tethered to the edge he so often seems to teeter on?
The curiosity gnaws at you until you can't resist. You reach out, your fingers hovering just above the bottle—
"Keep your hands off things that aren't yours."
His sudden voice startles you, and you insctinctively pull your hand away from the bottle. Your head snaps around, and there he is, standing in the doorway of the bathroom.
Steam billows faintly behind him, curling around his silhouette like a ghostly aura. He's clad in a loosely tied bathrobe, the fabric hanging open enough to reveal his bare chest and the faint scars that mar the otherwise smooth skin. His damp pink hair clings to his forehead, water droplets trailing down his temple, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before disappearing into the hollow of his collarbone.
The sight of him, raw and unguarded like this, hits you harder than it should. He looks so effortlessly attractive, his usual sharp-edged chaos softened by the intimacy of the moment. You feel the heat rushing to your face, your stomach twisting in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
You force yourself to look away, to focus on anything else. The steam in the air, the quiet hum of the ceiling fan. But it's no use. His presence fills the room, leaving no space for anything else.
"What're they for?" you ask.
Sanzu's lips quirk up into a knowing smirk. "You really wanna know?"
The way he says it, low and teasing, sends a shiver up your spine. He strides toward you slowly, like a predator closing in on its prey. Your instincts scream at you to run, to flee, but you remain frozen, your breath caught somewhere between anticipation and dread.
You nod, your throat dry, unable to look away as he closes the distance between you. You watch as he reaches for the bottle on the nightstand, his long fingers curl around it with practiced ease. He shakes it lightly, the sound of pills rattling against plastic breaking the tense silence.
Sanzu slides one pill into his palm, holding it delicately between his fingers. His gaze then flickers to yours, and there's a challenge, a dare, a twisted sense of amusement in his eyes.
"Since you're so interested... go ahead. See for yourself." he says as the smirk on his lips widens, daring you to take the bait.
Your gaze fixes on the pill, a small and harmless-looking thing, yet charged with so much temptation.
You don't stop to think.
As if in a daze, your hand reaches out toward it.
You're not entirely sure why you're doing this. Maybe it's the strange comfort you've started to feel in Sanzu's presence, the way he makes you forget how to think rationally. Or maybe it's the recklessness he brings out in you, the way he makes you want to let go of the rigid control you've always tried to hold onto.
But just as your fingers are about to touch the pill, Sanzu pulls his hand back, holding it out of reach.
"Look at you, so eager," he drawls. "Someone offers you a little something, and you're all over it."
You glance up at him, startled by his words.
"Can't resist a little escape, can you?" he continues, his teal eyes gleaming with malicious glee. "Just want to float away and forget everything. But when it all blows up in your face, I'll be the first to blame, right?"
The accusation hangs in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating.
His voice, laced with scorn, dredges up memories you've tried to bury, of the riverbank, when you snapped at him, accusing him of ruining you. You'd been furious at him then, seething at the way he had introduced you to the blissful oblivion of drugs, at the way he seemed to revel in watching you fall apart.
But now, that same temptation claws at you, an unbearable ache. The pill in his fingers feels like a lifeline, a reprieve from the pain and fear that have consumed you for weeks. You want it. You hate that you want it.
And Sanzu knows.
When you don't answer, he steps closer. His hand rises, his fingers cool against your skin as they tilt your chin upward, forcing your eyes to meet his.
"Be honest. You want it."
His eyes bore into yours, a teasing light dancing in their depths as though he's savoring every second of your internal struggle. "Admit it. I won't blame you. After all, I'm the one who showed you how good it feels, aren't I?"
The words are a taunt, a challenge, and yet there's a flicker of something else beneath his teasing tone. An edge of bitterness? Of longing?
You can't tell, and it only makes the weight of his gaze all the more unbearable.
After weeks of living like a hollow shell, aimless and haunted, the thought of surrendering to the haze again feels like relief. Sweet, blissful relief. And the man standing before you—dangerous, unpredictable, impossible Sanzu—is the only one offering it to you.
He saved you.
You can't shake that truth. The same hand that gripped a gun mere hours ago, ensuring your safety with a ferocity that left no room for doubt, is the same hand holding your chin now. The same man who once inflicted pain is offering you solace, even if it's in his own twisted way.
Your mind screams that this is wrong, that Sanzu is wrong, but your body betrays you. You don't want to fight anymore. You're so tired of fighting.
The thought of letting go, of releasing the crushing weight you've been carrying, feels like salvation.
"Sanzu," you whisper finally, his name tumbling from your lips in a voice that's barely audible, deliberately weak.
The sound of it pulls a reaction from him. His smirk falters, if only for a fraction of a second. It's fleeting, almost imperceptible, but you catch it.
"I want it. Please."
His smirk deepens at your admission. Slowly, Sanzu raises the pill, holding it between his fingers like an offering, but instead of giving it to you, his teal eyes glint with a wicked promise that this moment won't be as simple as you think. Without breaking eye contact, he raises the pill to his lips, sliding it between them in one fluid motion.
Your breath catches.
The small gesture feels electrifying, almost obscene. You can't look away. Not from the pill nestled between his lips, not from the curve of his mouth as it closes around it.
Before you know what you're doing, you lean forward, closing the small distance between you until your lips meet his.
Sanzu stiffens, his body going rigid as your lips brush his.
Your tongue grazes his lips, catching the pill and pulling it away. It should end there. That's all you meant to do. But your lips linger, longer than they should.
His lips are soft, impossibly soft, a jarring contrast to everything else about him. The sharp edges of his jaw, the cold steel in his eyes, the danger that clings to him like a second skin.
A part of you doesn't want to pull away. That part wants to stay here, to push further, to find out if there's anything else about him that could be soft, gentle, human.
But the logical part of your mind, faint as it is, reminds you of who this is. It reminds you to move, to inch back.
Or at least, you try to.
Before you can move far, Sanzu's hands shoot up, gripping your shoulders with a force that borders on bruising. Your eyes widen, surprise flashing through you. You open your mouth to speak, to ask him what he's doing, but the words die in your throat when his lips crash into yours.
The kiss isn't soft. His lips move against yours with a hunger that leaves you frozen, caught off guard by the sheer intensity of it. His hand slides to your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, leaving no room for hesitation.
The pill lies forgotten on your tongue, its bitterness seeping into your mouth. The taste should ruin the moment, but it doesn't.
Instead, it sharpens everything.
His lips, his touch, the way his tongue slips into your mouth, claiming every inch of you, it's overwhelming in the best possible way.
You remember feeling his lips on yours before, when he forced the first pill down your throat. Back then, the kiss had meant nothing to you, just another cruel moment in a long string of chaos that defined your relationship with him.
But now?
Now it feels different.
Your hands, hesitant at first, clutch at the fabric of his bathrobe, shyly curling around it as his hands move through your hair. His fingers rake gently against your scalp, sending shivers down your spine.
How can someone like Sanzu, so violent and chaotic, feel this soft, this gentle?
And the kiss, it doesn't just feel good.
It feels perfect. He feels perfect.
His hand slides to your back, pulling your body closer until there's no space left between you. You're flush against him now, every inch of you pressed to his, but it still doesn't seem to be enough for him.
He keeps pulling you closer, as though he needs more, as though he needs all of you, to consume you completely, to make you a part of him.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel held.
Until suddenly, he pulls away.
The cold rushes in unforgivingly, knocking the breath from your lungs. You feel the loss acutely, the absence of his lips on yours, his warmth, his touch. It leaves you empty, aching, a hollow space where he'd just been.
Then you notice it. The pill is gone from your tongue.
Confusion flickers across your face as you look up at him, and your gaze catches on the pill now nestled between his teeth. Before you can process what's happening, he tilts his head and spits it out. It hits the floor with a faint tap, rolling once before disappearing under the edge of the bed.
You blink, stunned, your thoughts scrambling to make sense of what you've just seen. Did he really just do that? Did he really just spit out the drug? His drug?
Sanzu's pills have always been his obsession, his crutch. You know how much possessive he's always been about them. And yet here he is, spitting it out like it doesn't matter at all.
"What—" you start, your voice faltering as you struggle to piece together your thoughts. "Why did you—"
Your words are cut off as he suddenly shoves you backward. You lose your balance, falling unceremoniously onto the mattress. The world shifts around you, and when you blink, he's already straddling your hips.
Your breath hitches as his weight presses you into the bed. The dim light plays tricks on his face, casting shadows that make him look darker, more menacing, and yet impossibly alluring. His teal eyes pierce through the gloom, burning with an intensity that sends your pulse racing, and you're certain he can hear the way your heart pounds against your chest.
"Why'd you do that?" you demand despite the tremor in your voice. "I said I want it."
Sanzu's eyes sweep over you with a clinical appreciation, as if he's taking in the rise and fall of your chest, the way your body fits beneath his.
"Later," he murmurs. "You can have all the drugs you want later. But right now... I need you to stay sober."
The rasp in his voice, the quiet command behind his words, leaves you momentarily speechless.
You blink up at him, confusion creasing your brow. Sober? Now? From the man who thrives on chaos and indulgence, the demand feels out of place. But before the words to question him can form, he's on you again, his lips crashing into yours with a force that makes your thoughts scatter.
His tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming you with the same hunger that leaves you trembling all over again.
This time, your hands move instinctively, wrapping around his neck and pulling him closer. Your lips grow swollen under the intensity of the kiss, but the need between you only builds.
His hands roam down your sides, exploring every curve of your body. When they finally brush against the bare skin of your stomach, a shiver runs through you. The warmth of his touch is stark against the cool air, making your body arch involuntarily.
You know what he's doing.
He's testing you. Teasing you. Giving you every chance to stop this, to pull away, to say no. But you don't.
You can't.
Instead, your back arches further into his touch, your body betraying you, seeking him out. His smirk curves against your lips, and you can feel the triumph in it, the silent acknowledgment that you've given him exactly what he wanted.
This is why he wants you sober, you realize then.
He wants you to feel everything. To be aware of every touch, every sensation. If you were high, you'd miss it, you'd drift into oblivion, the sensations dulled, the memory blurred. But not like this.
Sanzu wants you here. Present.
This isn't just about him taking from you; it's about you choosing to give.
The realization swells in your chest, unexpected and overwhelming.
Your fingers tighten around him instinctively, pulling him closer, as though the connection between you isn't close enough. Your hands slide up into his damp hair, threading through the soft pink strands. The texture surprises you, softer than you expected, almost delicate against your fingertips.
His breath catches in his throat at the contact, and you feel it. The subtle tremor in his body, the slight hitch in his movements.
It sends a jolt of heat rushing through you.
You push further, emboldened by his reaction. Your other hand slips beneath the loose folds of his robe, brushing against the heated skin of his back. His muscles tense under your touch, but he doesn't pull away.
Instead, he groans softly, the sound low and rough, vibrating against your lips.
It's intoxicating.
The sound he makes, the way his breath stutters under your touch, it sends a sharp spike of desire straight through you, pooling low in your belly.
He likes it.
And God help you, it's turning you on.
You feel the thick haze of desire wrapping around you, pulling you deeper into him. Every touch, every kiss, every sound between you feels amplified, like the rest of the world has melted away, leaving just the two of you.
You want more.
Your hand trails lower along his back, exploring the warmth of his skin, the tension in his body, the way he seems to hold himself back just slightly, like he's afraid to lose control.
But then, a sharp, piercing sound cuts through the moment. The shrill ring of a phone.
Reality crashes back into you like a tidal wave.
You freeze, your lips still against his, your hands still tangled in his hair and pressed against his back. For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the lingering heat of the kiss, as though the sound doesn't belong to this moment, to this room.
You pull back just slightly, gasping for air, your chest heaving as your eyes meet his. The sight of him leaves you momentarily speechless. His teal eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, his pupils blown wide with desire. His cheeks are flushed, his lips red and swollen, glistening from your kiss.
He looks... undone.
You wonder in that instant if you've ever seen him like this before. If anyone has ever seen him like this before.
You bite your lip, hesitating, your heart hammering in your chest as a question rises to the surface of your mind. You don't know why you need to ask. Maybe it's the intensity of the moment, the vulnerability you see in his eyes. Or maybe it's your own vulnerability, the way you're letting yourself fall deeper into him than you ever thought you could.
"Sanzu," you whisper. "Do you have feelings for me?"
The question hangs in the air, threatening to break under the weight of what it means.
But Sanzu doesn't flinch.
"Feelings, huh..." he murmurs quietly, as though he's tasting the word for the first time.
His gaze dips lower, lingering on your lips. You watch as his tongue darts out, wetting his own lips, the movement slow, calculated, and maddeningly hypnotic.
"Even if I tell you my answer, would it change anything?"
Your eyes widen in confusion, your mind scrambling to make sense of what he means. You part your lips to respond, to ask, to demand clarity, but before the words can leave you, the sharp trill of the phone cuts through the air again.
The sound is jarring, slicing clean through the tension between you, leaving it to collapse into nothing.
Sanzu's expression hardens, the vulnerability you thought you saw fading in an instant. He pulls away from you with a harsh sigh, his body shifting as if to distance himself. The absence of his warmth hits you immediately, a sharp ache settling in your chest. The space between you grows colder, as though he's taken all the heat with him, leaving you with nothing.
Without meeting your gaze, he reaches for the phone on the nightstand, his fingers brushing against it almost angrily. You watch him, eyes scanning his face, desperate for any sign that might explain the shift, the sudden barrier now standing between you.
When his gaze flickers to the screen, you catch it. The briefest reaction. His eyes widen, just for a fraction of a second, but it's enough.
Whatever he sees there, it rattles him.
He clears his throat, his voice sharper now as he answers the call.
"Yes?" His tone is clipped, professional, a far cry from the low, intimate murmur he'd just been using.
You sit up slowly, watching him closely.
The shift in his demeanor is jarring. Whatever softness you'd glimpsed in him just moments ago—the tenderness in his touch, the vulnerability in his kiss—vanishes as if it had never been there. In its place is the Sanzu you're more familiar with, the one who wears his toughness like armor, his emotions locked tightly behind a smirk or a sharp edge.
Your mind drifts back to his words. Would it change anything?
What had he meant by that?
It was a simple question, wasn't it? One he could have answered easily, yes or no. But the weight of his response, or lack thereof, lingers heavily in the air, making you doubt its simplicity.
Unless...
Unless it's not as simple as you want it to be.
Sanzu's teal eyes snap to yours suddenly, cutting through your spiraling thoughts, and you jump, startled by the intensity of them. Without a word, he holds the phone out to you, his expression unreadable.
"It's Mikey. He wants to talk."
Your heart sinks.
Of course.
How could you forget who Sanzu is in your life?
He's not just Sanzu, the man who saved you, the man whose touch made your heart race. He's Haruchiyo Sanzu, Mikey's loyal second-in-command, his soldier, his shadow.
And you?
You're the ex-girlfriend, the woman who once held Mikey's heart but shattered her own in the process.
You reach for the phone hesitantly, your movements slow and cautious, as if taking it will solidify something you don't want to confront. Your fingers brush against Sanzu's as you grasp it, a fleeting touch that feels like an entire conversation.
For a moment, neither of you moves. You can feel the heat of his skin against yours, a whisper of the intimacy you just shared. But when you meet his gaze again, it's like looking into a storm that's already moved on, leaving only destruction in its wake.
You press the phone to your ear, swallowing the lump rising in your throat.
"...Hello?" you manage, your voice barely more than a whisper.
Your name comes through the line in that voice you once knew so well, and the sound of it knocks the air from your lungs.
Mikey.
It's been so long since you last heard him say your name, and yet it feels like no time has passed at all. The sound of it sends a shiver down your spine, a reminder of all the things you've tried, and failed, to bury.
You don't answer him right away. Your eyes remain locked on Sanzu as he climbs out of the bed.
His movements are slow, unhurried, but there's tension in every step he takes. The way his shoulders set, the subtle clench of his jaw, it's as if he's forcing himself to leave.
You feel the loss of his presence like a wound reopening. The further away he gets, the tighter your chest feels, until it's almost unbearable.
You want to call out to him.
To tell him to stop. To stay.
But how can you?
Mikey's voice is still in your ear, grounding you to a past you thought you'd left behind, pulling you back into a world that no longer feels like yours.
Sanzu reaches the door, his hand hovering over the handle for a fraction of a second. It's subtle, almost imperceptible, but you see the hesitation. For the briefest second, you think he might turn around.
He doesn't.
The door clicks softly as it closes behind him, and the sound feels deafening in the silence that follows.
You're alone now.
Alone with Mikey on the other end of the line, his voice saying your name again, softer this time, as though coaxing you back into a conversation you're not ready to have.
And yet, your heart continues to ache. Not for the man on the phone, but for the one who just left.
< part III ends >
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Summary; Tom Riddle was born hungry, his stomach churning for food, his chest aching for comfort, his eyes burning for love. he grows up learning to stop asking for any of it. but he meets someone that gives it to him without having to be asked.
Tom angst, i have alot of feelings for Tom when he was young, he fascinates me. OOC Tom, maybe, who knows. Tom gets to enjoy comfort and food and gets spoiled.
Tom had grown up hungry.
Tom had grown up ravenously hungry, and alone, and without comfort.
He’d grown up without a mother, who died the day she gave birth to him, without a father—who ran the moment he could, without any care beyond feeding and changing him from the orphanage caretakers.
Once he was old enough to learn there was no point in asking for any sort’ve affection, he stopped. Stopped hanging onto skirts, or holding his arms up for a hug—because that’s what he saw other little boys do.
It was always the same; a shove, a glance, and neglect.
They only fed him because they were paid to do it, only housed him because they got money from the government per child. Tom grew up starving, for more than just food. Starving for affection, starving for comforts beyond his itchy thin bed, starving for anyone to look beyond his oddities and see a boy who still needed a guiding hand, even if he didn’t act like it.
Tom gave up on asking for affection when he was 6 and thrown into the basement for breaking a vase over Billy’s head. He hadn’t meant to do it, he just got so angry at Billy—who’d ripped up Tom’s book that he’d gotten for his birthday. The vase had moved on its own, Tom had repeated—over and over—begging for anyone to listen.
No one did, and Tom spent the night in the dark damp basement with the rats, who didn’t care about him either—and nibbled at his clothes and hair as he slept curled up in a corner near the boiler.
He stopped trying after that night. There was no point. There was no comfort in the halls of Wool's orphanage, no love for a devil child like him, as they called him.
Tom grew up cold, and alone. Many nights wondering if he wouldn’t wake up as the winter chill pierced the walls—the thin blanket Tom wrapped around himself not doing much. He wondered if it would be the end as bombs dropped from the sky and rattled London, sitting huddled in a shelter with so many others, his hair dusted grey from debris.
He feared it. Death. Because what if he died before getting to feel warmth? What if he died before feeling full? What if he died before ever lying in a warm comfortable bed? What if he died unknown, just another body in the piles that he was forced to help dig through.
He didn’t want to die.
=
The first glimmer of hope, of a different life, a better one, came when a strange man came to the orphanage. Tom was on the defensive as always, fearing it to be another doctor to take him away from the orphanage and throw him into a cell to spend his days in a madhouse.
They’d tried it before, the caretakers, to have doctors come diagnose him with madness, it never worked. Tom knew how to act.
But this strange man said he was a professor, from a school for witches and wizards. Tom hadn’t believed him, not until the man set his closet on fire—with no lighter or even movement. Tom watched with wonder, his mood dimming as the man told him that stealing was prohibited at Hogwarts.
Tom didn’t steal. He took things from those who didn’t deserve it, took from those who were mean to him without reason. But he returned the items, scared he’d not be allowed to Hogwarts if he didn’t.
He needed to leave, to escape, to find a path to greatness.
And so, he went on his own to Diagon Alley—he didn’t need any hand-holding—feeling awe for the first time as he stepped into a world all his own. Everything on his list for school cost something however, so he crept into Gringotts, handing over his note from the headmaster of Hogwarts, allowing Tom to take a stipend from the Hogwarts fund vault to buy his wand, textbooks, cauldron, and new robes.
Well, new was being generous. Everything he bought had to be second-hand just so he could afford everything, though he stared longingly at the golden cauldron that sat inside the potions shop. He couldn’t get himself an owl, he couldn’t afford it and knew the orphanage wouldn’t let him keep it, nor could he get any other pet.
Tom stepped into the final shop, Olivander's Wand shop, he sneezed, dust falling over his face as a stray spell hit the shelves above him and made wand boxes and dust fly.
“Sorry!” a squeal came from ahead, and Tom squinted open his eyes to see a girl, who looked to be around his age, eyes wide as she held a wand—which was quickly taken back by Olivander(Tom could only assume that’s who he was.)
“Definitely not that one,” Olivander said quietly as the girl pouted. Tom sneezed again, and when he looked up—the girl was offering an apologetic smile and a handkerchief.
He narrowed his eyes at her, untrusting of such a…kind action, but when the girl does not give up, and he sneezes again, he takes the handkerchief and cleans his face. “thanks,” he mumbles, handing the soft square of fabric back to her.
The girl smiles brightly. “you’re welcome! You’re new to Hogwarts too, right?” she asked, striking up conversation all too easily and Tom shuffles on his feet, his eyes darting from side to side.
“Yes,” he strains out, unused to such…positive attention. This girl was magical, like him. she wasn’t going to think he was a devil, or strange, weird maybe, but not evil. She smiled at him, turning as Olivander handed her another wand and it was taken from her before she could even try it out.
Tom frowned—why did the old man keep taking wands from her? he thought before the girl seemed to know why he was frowning and spoke. “Wand chooses the wizard apparently,” she grumbled as Olivander went to find a different wand for her to try.
Tom let out a short hum, watching as the girl went through several wands before she took one that seemed to hum with her. She beamed, holding her new wand close. She grabbed her wallet, handing over 5 galleons and skipping out of the store—but not before wishing Tom luck.
He watched her leave the wand shop, she did not reunite with any parents, but continued down the angular street on her own. Tom turned back, meeting eyes with the strange old man named Olivander, who began the usual routine of matching new young wizards with their wands.
=
He meets the girl again on the train; she was alone, like him, pushing the trolley full of baggage and a cage of an owl through a solid brick archway—going right through. Tom’s eyes went wide, he double-checked to make sure no one saw that, and somehow, no one had.
Tom swallowed hard, looking down at his ticket. Platform 9 and 3/4ths, and he stood in front of the archway between the two platforms. Tom took a breath, taking his trolley and running forward towards the brick, clenching his eyes shut as he met the wall—and passed right through.
“Woah,” Tom murmured, looking behind him at the brick wall, and then back at the newly appeared platform, seeing all the wizarding families around, and the grand scarlet train; the Hogwarts Express.
He follows another families lead to have his luggage loaded onto the train, and hops on—walking down the train corridor alone until he finds a compartment, sitting alone for maybe only four minutes before the girl from the wand shop pops in, smiling.
“Hi! Uh, can I sit with you?” she asks, nervously, and Tom slowly nods, one of his new textbooks in his lap—watching the girl intently as she sits in front of him, smiling still.
They stare at each other for a long moment, before she speaks. “I'm (y/n), by the way,” She said, holding out her hand. Tom stares, before taking her hand, responding quietly.
“Tom, Tom Riddle,” he muttered.
(y/n) smiled, so unguarded and in such a way Tom had never been smiled at before…
That it made him uncomfortable.
=
(y/n) lingered even after they’d been sorted and the chaos of school made itself known, somehow she’d been sorted into Slytherin with him, even if—with her personality—she was more of a Hufflepuff, but as the weeks went on, Tom had a feeling stereotypes of each house didn’t ring true.
Gryffindors could be cruel to anyone of the Slytherin house; Slytherin house was quite cruel to anyone of ‘lesser blood’ as Tom had overheard while holding back a scream as fake trolls blood mixed with gravy dripped over his head and down his back.(he spent hours scrubbing the blood out of his 2nd hand robes, holding back tears.)
Hufflepuffs were fine, he barely interacted with them, and Ravenclaws were haughty—in the way Tom was, self-assured in their mind and hungry like him.
He liked the green, but perhaps he would’ve been better suited in blue.
And (y/n) lingered.
She smiled at him when he was sorted a little bit after her, sitting two spots down from her, she sat beside him in all their classes and sat beside him in the common room when he sat in the comforts of the giant plush chairs by the lake windows.
He didn’t talk much at the start. (y/n) did that for him, chattering away about how wonderful everything was, how cool magic was, how fun potions was and so much more. Tom stared over the edge of his book, still wearing his uniform even if everyone else had changed out into their casual wear.
Tom only had his orphanage uniform, and if his second-hand robes had caused some bullying, he could only imagine what his shoddy, all-grey-colored uniform would bring.
Impossibly, (y/n) noticed his lack of wardrobe, how his book bag(stolen from Billy) was straining to keep together even with all the repair charms Tom tried to cast on it—desperation pulling at his throat as the threads plucked apart by the hour and threatened to break completely with each book piled into it, and how starved he always seemed, hording anything and everything he could get his hands on and keep.
It was weeks before Christmas, during the chaos of holiday exams for the end of terms, when Tom’s bag broke at the strap and seam—his books and papers flying everywhere in the chaos of the hallway. Many didn’t notice; a lot just walked around him as Tom dropped to the ground and frantically tried to grab everything—yelping as his hand was stepped on.
He glared up, watching as a 4th-year Hufflepuff kept walking on, not even caring he’d stepped on a 1st year. A blur of someone joins him on the floor, and he turns his burning eyes to (y/n) as she sets her pout to his books and papers, helping him pick everything up, yelling at anyone that steps too close—and surprisingly everyone listens to the 11-year-old girl that isn’t very scary but is very loud.
She hands him his papers and carries his books to their next class, and does this for the next two classes until Slughorn takes pity and gives Tom an old but not bursting-at-the-seams bag to keep carrying his stuff.
“Thank you,” Tom grumbled beneath his breath to (y/n) as she carefully slides his papers into his bag, making sure nothing was crushed—he doesn’t know why she's being so detailed, but he knows this is genuine kindness. He doesn’t understand it, but he sees it.
(y/n) smiles—bright and wide.
He gets a new, not fancy, sturdy bookbag for Christmas, and he holds back the ache in his throat. His first Christmas gift, and its thoughtful. The bag is detailed, rich dark leather with dragon embroidery all over and its dorky and sweet and Tom hugs the book bag.
Its his, all his, his first gift, something meant for him with thought put into it, and Tom holds it close—his hair a mess, he woke up 10 minutes ago; he hadn’t expected anything for Christmas but some other first year had yelled across the room for him as the rest sat under the tree.
He had a present, and he loved it.
His eyes caught (y/n)’s, she smiled at him and he—for the first time—offered a wobbly smile back. She’d gotten him a gift, for no reason at all beyond childish kindness and too much money that one would know what to do with.
He sits with her at Christmas dinner, and they both talk for the first time since (y/n) had begun to hang around him.
=
By 4th year, they’re attached at the hip. (y/n) was an orphan like him, but she was half-blood, like him, but she’d ended up with wizarding relatives and a massive inheritance after her parents died from the black cat flu. She shared everything with him and he was…still getting used to it.
He stopped needing the Hogwarts stipend by the start of 2nd year, (y/n) was determined to take care of him for some reason, and Tom was nothing but hungry and greedy, thankful still, but greedy.
Even if most of the time—he had no clue how to respond to her generosity.
But he craved it, for the first time—since he was born—he was being fed. More than just the comfort of warm food, more than just a warm bed and thick bedding, more than just the warmth of magic.
No it was the comfort of another person, the warmth of her beside him, that he felt full for the first time.
=
He got sick in 3rd year, he didn’t have any vaccinations for any sickness, so he went down with a scarlet fever for weeks on end, delirious, feverish, and locked away in a private room to make sure it didn’t spread.
He caught it early on, a mere week after 3rd year started, probably got it from some kid at the orphanage and now Tom was miserable in a medical bed, unable to even focus on reading as classes went on and he was stuck in the damn hospital wing.
Tom coughed, harsh and rough, groaning as his throat burned with relentless pain, sluggishly reaching out to grab the numbing honey tea Madam Tegner had given him. It helped, as much as it could; he was just glad he was at school sick—where potions and spells kept him comfortable and the risk of him passing in the middle of the night wasn’t possible.
(y/n) was vaccinated and wore a mask to visit him every day, teaching him everything from their shared classes—she even took the same electives as him, minus care for creatures—he didn’t care for that.
Her hand in his was a welcome distraction as he listened to her read to him from their 3rd year DADA textbook, notes piling high on the beside table as he sniffles and breathes though the heat in his throat while (y/n) stubbornly makes him a cup of tea that her grandmother swore by was best for scarlet fever—or as the wizarding community called it, phoenix fever.
He understood the logic, he felt like he was going to burst into flames from his fever.
(y/n) doesn’t get sick, and she takes care of him every day.
He saves her some tiramisu, her favorite—yet rare—dessert that only appears once a month when a particular house elf felt especially happy. Everyone always devoured it too quick for (y/n) to get a slice, leading to pouting lips and heavy tears that made Tom feel out of balance.
She hugs him, and Tom cannot explain the warmth in his face and the feeling in his belly that’s hungry for more of that.
=
He starves for her.
He starves for her hand in his, her head on his shoulder, her hair tangled in his fingers, he starves for her warmth. The way her laughter curls in his chest and makes it easier to breathe, the way her smiles loosen the noose around his neck that has been there since the day he was born, the way she somehow fits beside him like a missing puzzle piece.
The way she sneaks into the secret student kitchens within Hogwarts and makes him a warm plate of homemade pasta when he’d gotten sick of the same Hogwarts meal every day.
He nearly cries; it's flavorful and warm, the pasta so full of love that he didn’t know one could imbue into it.
“Are you crying?” (y/n) asks with a laugh. It's 5th year, she's wearing a flour-dusted apron, yolk smeared on the back of her hand, staring at him with an incredulous gaze as his eyes water and his mouth is tasting the best thing it's ever had.
“Shut up,” Tom croaked, hording over his plate—devouring the meal she so lovingly made. He didn’t know how much he was craving something like this, not just food, but food made with the intent to be for someone adored. He wipes his eyes as he finishes the plate, asking weakly; “Can I have some more?”
(y/n) smiles and makes him another plate of alfredo tortellini, and makes garlic bread a week later when he ‘subtly’ asks for more handmade pasta.
Tom discovers he loves Italian food. Especially when it’s made by (y/n), who tells him her grandpa taught her how, her family was from Italy, and had immigrated to England and America a generation back.
He spends the summer with her, at a beach villa her grandparents own, and Tom’s cheeks are bruised by the end of the first day. Her grandma loves him, and Tom gains weight for the first time in his life since starting Hogwarts.
Tom doesn’t starve anymore, he’s still hungry, he’s still greedy, he still wants everything owed to him and so much more—he wants to hoard and protect and carve a place for himself in the world.
But he doesn’t starve, not when (y/n) feeds him. not when she holds his hand, not when she plays with his hair during late night study sessions in the common room, not when she spoils him with new dress robes for the Malfoy yule ball that he gets invited too after his Slytherin ancestry is revealed, not when she kisses him beneath the mistletoe and he devours her whole.
Tom was born starving, born without comfort, born to starve to death.
Tom no longer starves, he hungers still, for everything he was deprived of when he was young, but he’s no longer grasping for the smallest things, he’s no longer afraid to take and ask and receive.
He kisses (y/n), eats her food full of love just for him, and feels full.
Tom Riddle, finally felt full.
-End-
Yaaaaaaaay, I finished it! My mom flew down from Georgia so I really wanted to finish this before I lost access to my computer, and we’re going to Disneyland on Friday!(which I have no money for…yaaay :c)
Uh, I hope you guys enjoooyed, I just really needed Tom, starved for everything, to finally feel full. byyye
Would love a request based off the meme you made of "why does rollo flamme call you babygirl"
Untapped comedic potential i think
omg who could have sent me this .... I have no idea .....
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ princess treatment
summary: NRC students react to rollo sweeping you off your feet
type of post: headcanons
characters: rollo, then ace, deuce, leona, azul, and malleus being jealous asfuck
information: romantic, reader is yuu, reader is gender neutral (despite the title), 'rollo is a sweetheart' propaganda
When Rollo Flamme transferred to Night Raven College after the disastrous fire lotus ordeal, they'd been expecting chaos. Vitriol, hatred, fights, magic sparks flying, and definitely a lot of arson.
The Night Raven College students greeted him with magic pens drawn, a subtle warning: try it again and you're done for.
But Rollo Flamme is, in reality, a perfectly pleasant classmate when he's not trying to uproot the way of the world. A bit introverted, maybe a little cold and impersonal, but he wouldn't so much as sneer at the Night Raven College students in passing, and so all was forgotten (or, at least, put aside).
That was, until...
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Heartslabyul
Ace and Deuce didn't like the thought of you sharing a dorm with that guy, not one bit!
It took a lot of talking (and cherry pie bribery) to get them to come around, and when a few months had passed with no incident to tell, they mellowed out
...Then, suddenly, you're inviting Rollo on all of your outings, and your trio (not including Grim) became a quartet
Tolerable until Ace and Deuce realized Rollo had not one bit of interest in them, and would only make pleasantries out of politeness, likely for their beloved Prefect's sake (he never leaves your side)
What's worse is that Rollo is doing all the gentlemanly stuff that they never bothered to- holding doors for you, pulling out your chair, offering to carry your things... why didn't they think of that!! He makes them both look like Grade A jerks without even glancing their way
Noble Bell College is all about manners and formalities, after all
They try to bounce back by doubling their gentlemanly behavior, but somehow always end up fighting about which one of the two gets to link arms with you while crossing the street, or give you his coat when it's cold
...Then Rollo goes ahead and does it anyway while they're busy bickering with one another
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Savanaclaw
Leona didn't have any interest in Rollo to begin with
Listen, he wasn't at the masquerade ball. He never broke his back weeding fire lotuses, never singed off his eyebrows while battling in the bell tower (sorry, Azul), and in Leona's world, this meant they had no personal beef, thus he had no reason to care about the strange new transfer student
He wasn't even bugged that Rollo was being a perfect gentleman for you- in fact, he thought it was a good thing. Someone has to look out for you around here
It wasn't until he spotted you walking with him in the botanical gardens, when Rollo held out an arm to stop you mid-step
Leona narrows his eyes- trouble?
...But Rollo only points out that your shoelaces have loosened, and he kneels to tie them for you without thinking twice
Something about the gesture (and how CASUAL it is) makes Leona's eye twitch
He'll have to keep a better eye on that Rollo guy...
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Octavinelle
Azul didn't like Rollo to begin with, but now he's REALLY gotten on his nerves
The once kind, helpful Prefect, always willing to lend a hand (or an arm, or a leg, or a vital organ) to a fellow poor, unfortunate student, no matter the cost to themself?
...Suddenly saying no
Azul's art of the deal falls flat when Rollo is around, who delivers that steadfast and ready "No, thank you, good day," and whisks you away before Azul can even get a word in!
Not even the tweels are convincing- Rollo always makes you stand behind him when Floyd is around, and he refuses to even look at Jade
But it's not only that the Prefect is no longer an unpaid intern because of Rollo's intervention, it's that you actually listen to him
His judgments? His decisions? His muttered comments? You respect him enough to heed his warnings without question. You must think very highly of him...
...Azul can't help but feel a little jealous of that
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Diasomnia
Malleus was ready to put that nasty fire lotus business behind him
What? You thought he would be angry, vengeful, and possessive? Have you MET the guy? He takes no pleasure in hatred, violence is only a potential necessity, and, in all honesty, he was excited to have a member of the gargoyle studies club besides himself and the Prefect
...Maybe he puts too much faith in people, sometimes
Because Rollo Flamme maintained exactly zero interest in befriending, or even tolerating Malleus Draconia, and instead prefers following in your shadow, keeping his eyes pointed at potential threats to the magicless student he so adores
Malleus had never been particularly envious of your friendships with fickle, foolish boys, and besides that, your happiness was his happiness
...But this feels like Rollo is overstepping a boundary that Malleus didn't even know was there
He suddenly feels a great urge to have you closer, to impress you, to catch your attention
His displays of magic become even grander, his acts of chivalry even more dramatic, his kindness pushed to its limit (Sebek would kill hundreds to be in your position, but he was told to hold his tongue on the matter for the time being), and yet, still, you stay at Rollo's side
Malleus doesn't quite understand it. Cold, curt, and with more interest in old traditions than magical ingenuity, he seems like the very last person that you, of all people, would get along with
...And, yet...
Rollo walks you through the courtyard with linked arms, he always lets you have your first pick of the pastries he gets shipped from home, and he's sure to wrap an arm around your waist when he feels tension in the room, as if his first priority is always and forever keeping you safe
He speaks to you in that soft tone (reserved only for you, when he thinks no one is listening), and calls you dear Prefect
It would have angered Malleus, if it were anyone else- but this is someone he's beaten in battle before.... just on a different playing field
You thought it'd be funny to make a little joke about sleeping with both Boothill and his boss, but for some reason the cowboy decides that he'd actually quite like to see that. Now you're being put to the test, trapped between a cyborg cowboy with limitless stamina and a gluttonous detective with an insatiable appetite.
♥︎ content - ashveil x fem!reader x boothill. everyone is a bisexual switch in this fic LOL. no plot whatsoever, just a whoooole bunch of smut (MDNI). teasing. vaginal sex. vaginal fingering. oral (f/m receiving). come eating. cuckolding. mild dacryphilia. masturbation. mating press. prone bone. orgasm denial. double creampie. biting. choking. aftercare. written prior to 4.1 update. AO3 link.
a/n - y'all… don't look at me oh my god, this is so self-indulgent i'm a bit embarrassed to be sharing it pfft— it's not at all related to ashfayehill (like my first post about it implied) and was purely written for x reader purposes. i fear their fic would have been way too complicated and long-winded LOL. anyway, i hope you enjoy !! i may be a pervert, but my heart is full of love and whimsy ♪
♥︎ wc 9.8k
The golden sun dips below the city's skyline, stretching its amber rays gracefully between the harsh, rigid edges of the many commercial buildings that comprise Dovebrook district. The remaining arcs of light cling like honey to the pale walls of a dimly lit hotel room as you and Boothill embrace in comfortable — almost romantic — silence.
Boothill sat at the edge of the massive, king-sized bed that lay parallel with floor-to-ceiling windows and centered against the room's eastern wall. He held you close, arms wrapped securely around your waist and ribcage, as you straddled his sturdy, leather-clad thighs. You were hanging from his shoulders with your face hidden against his neck, breath soft and shallow. You seemed tense.
Though, truthfully, anybody in your position would have their stomach in knots. After all, you had agreed to a trial of sorts. One that involved the man you had met only a few weeks ago. And one that you never could have fathomed becoming your reality. All you did was confess to Boothill that his "boss" was quite the looker, joking that you wouldn't mind sharing a bed with two rangers if given the chance. You really didn't mean anything by it — it was only a joke! But Boothill had other ideas and put everything into motion. Mostly as a courtesy to the lonely, old wolf, but also because he was genuinely curious where things could go from here.
Now you were sat in his lap, steeling yourself for the appointment that was rapidly approaching as Boothill mistook your silence for apprehension. Placing soft kisses into the crook of your neck and along the exposed skin of your shoulder, the cowboy does his best to calm your nerves. Completely oblivious to the possibility that his actions would only serve to set you further on the edge.
"We can call it off if you like," Boothill reassures. "You know I won't force ya to do anything you don't want to. Just say the word, sugar, and I'll send him on his way."
Only a moment passes before you raise your head, leaning back to look Boothill in the eye as you shake your head in gentle disagreement.
"I'm okay, love. It's just… a little nerve-racking. I've never done anything like this before." Despite being the truth, your reply comes out sounding a little too uncertain to his ears. This sets a pout on your cowboy's face.
"Just promise me you'll holler if ya change yer mind?"
"I promise," you coo at him, sounding much more self-assured this time while giving him a sweet smile.
"Good," his warm breath fans your lips as he nuzzles his nose against yours, causing you to giggle.
Your response was one he was willing to accept, reminding himself that he could trust you to tell him the truth. Your comfort and safety are of utmost importance to him, and he refused to have it any other way. He pecks gingerly at the corner of your mouth before he pulls back to get a good look at you, practically purring at the sight that he'd already seen just moments prior. Heck, he even watched you get dressed and still behaved like he was just seeing it for the first time.
Perched on his lap and squirming under his searing gaze, you wore a thin, silken nightgown with a lacy trim. Creamy and off-white in color, it framed your figure perfectly, emphasizing the curves and slopes of your body in a way that engaged the imagination. Invigorated the appetite. He would never tire of basking in your beauty, draped in delicate fabrics.
He could only hope that tonight's new participant would also share this same appreciation.
Sudden knocking at the door breaks Boothill from his reverie and makes you jump slightly in his grasp. Your awaited guest has finally arrived.
You wait in silence, now alone on the bed as Boothill had left to draw the curtains and welcome the visitor at the door. The main room is deafeningly quiet as you listen closely to the greetings being exchanged between the two men; however, you couldn't quite make out their words. They were only moments away from entering your bed and you couldn't control the ceaseless flow of sinful images that were conjured in your mind. Your head was spinning, thighs instinctually pressing together, impatient and needy, the longer you were forced to wait.
After what felt like an entire amber era, Boothill reappears, sauntering back into view with his crosshair eyes locked onto you. Following close behind is none other than Ashveil. His approach is more timid than the cowboy's, clutching his brimmed hat to his chest as if it could calm the beating of his heart. When his silver eyes finally meet yours, his cheeks immediately bloom with a rosy, red hue — the esteemed ashen detective can't possibly be this adorable!
"Detective," you address him smoothly, having successfully subdued the urge to pounce him right then and there. Part of you wants to see him melt into a puddle of embarrassment, and the other wants to see if there's something else hidden beyond those innocent, blushing cheeks. Something greedy, ravenous, or starved of intimacy.
When he doesn't immediately respond, you begin to suspect that the former would be the most probable outcome.
"C'mon boss! No point in getting shy now," Boothill nudges at Ashveil's arm teasingly. "It'd be awfully rude to leave this beauty hangin'."
The detective sputters briefly before collecting himself, brows furrowed and face burning as he sucks in a grounding breath.
"M-my apologies," he shifts his bashful gaze from you to Boothill, and then back to you. "I suppose I'm just a bit out of practice. You really must forgive me."
"Well…we can help you with that," Boothill smirks, flashing you a glance that tells you everything you need to know. He's given you an opening, and you're taking the bait.
The two of you close in on the detective, like wolves upon a defenseless lamb.
Boothill frees Ashveil's hands of his hat and cane, nimbly removes his outer coat, and sets them all neatly to the side. From the edge of the bed, you take Ashveil's hand and gently guide him to your side, making sure to not rush him on his bad leg. Once he's comfortably seated on the bed beside you, he allows himself to take a proper look at you. You follow his gaze as it travels lasciviously across the exposed skin of your body, at the suggestion of form beneath your loosely fitted garment.
For several seconds, he does nothing but take in the sight before him, and while that's all well and good, it isn't what you've set out to do. Emboldened by the way he's devouring you with his eyes, you take his gloved hand into yours.
"Don't worry, detective. This isn't a crime scene." Serving as his guide, you place his hand in the space just below your breasts. "You can touch me as much as you want."
A shaky breath escapes his lips as you encouragingly press his hand further up your body. It was honestly shocking how inexperienced and shy he was under your instruction. A man as beautiful as him was sure to have many admirers vying for his attention, so why are his movements so restrained and unsure?
Boothill takes his place behind you and interrupts your train of thought.
"Wouldja like a demonstration? I can show ya how she likes it," the cowboy drawls. His familiar cockiness riling you up and sending heat straight to your gut even without seeing the devilish smirk that's undoubtedly plastered to his face.
Ashveil's eyes leave your body for the first time to acknowledge Boothill's offer. "Please," is all he says. A brief nod and the withdrawal of his own hand to further indicate his answer.
Boothill chuckles at the gesture and suddenly he's leaned over your shoulder, hands reaching around you to grope your breasts. You sigh needily, but his touch is fleeting as they travel upward to grab hold of the lacy straps of your gown. With deft fingers, he drags the straps down your shoulders until they hang by your elbows, leaving the remaining fabric to just barely cling to the mound of your chest. He's deliberately moving at a snail's pace, making sure to breathe hot against your neck and ear, wanting to tease both you and his audience of one. And unfortunately for you, it's working exceptionally well.
Boothill delights in the way Ashveil looks at you. Attention unbroken, lips slightly parted, and an increasingly obvious tent in his slacks. You've definitely noticed it too. You swallow thickly at the thought of him getting aroused just from looking at you. Your folded legs begin to shift restlessly beneath you, barely able to withstand the tension that's building between the three of you — it's almost tangible, thick and viscous as it deprives your lungs of oxygen.
After deciding you've been patient enough, the cowboy follows through with his task and pulls your gown's neckline down to pool below your now exposed breasts. He fulfills your silent pleas for contact by cupping them in his hands while his lips latch onto the sensitive skin of your shoulder. You gasp at the initial chill of his metallic fingers, but they quickly inherit your warmth as he begins kneading your tender flesh. You were soft and pliant under his hard and unyielding touch.
You can't help it when your lungs begin to falter. Boothill knew exactly where your sweet spots were, and he didn't plan on playing fair. But what made everything feel so much more intense was the all-consuming gaze of Ashveil. He hadn't even done anything to you yet, but his presence alone was enough to heighten your senses. A whine escapes your lips, and it's clear that you want more.
Boothill's lips withdraw from your shoulder to press against the shell of your ear, his hands continuing their motions: massaging, pinching, pulling.
"What's the matter, darlin'?" The huskiness of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. "If ya want somethin', just say it. Otherwise, this old wolf might get stuck as an observer all night."
Understanding that Boothill is referring to him, Ashveil flushes an even deeper red. "Don't mock me," he warns, but it lacks any danger.
A rumble of laughter erupts from Boothill's chest and subsequently dampens the spot between your legs.
"I'm only pullin' yer tail. But you'd best do somethin' quick before I decide I want her all to myself." Upon delivering his advice, he licks sloppily into your ear, ripping an uncontainable moan from your throat as a means of spurring his senior into action.
And it does.
Ashveil, having finally mustered the courage, shifts his seated position until he can comfortably lean closer to you, hovering mere inches from your face.
"May I kiss you?" He asks for your permission, appearing determined and almost apologetic in his advances. The contrast between the behaviors of the two men bracketing you makes your mind fuzzy, and arouses you to no end. You can hardly form a coherent thought in your current state of impatience, so you opt to respond with your actions instead.
You quickly close the gap between your lips, crashing into him with unabated fervor. His lips are remarkably soft and plush against your own, and you can feel yourself become instantly addicted to the sensation. You're all too eager to deepen the kiss — dying to keep your mouth and tongue occupied while Boothill continues toying with your breasts — and Ashveil does his best to keep up with your pace. You part your lips to let him in, allowing him to lap at your open mouth as he slowly begins to realize his own growing appetite.
Your tongues mingle hastily, saliva now dripping past your lips, clinging to your chin, and the sound is downright filthy. Ashveil's hand had found its way to rest on your jaw at some point, but you've only just become aware of it because his grip has tightened. Holding you firmly in place, he nips and sucks at your lower lip, drawing out various moans and whines; some of which were his. The sound of his arousal sends blood rushing to your cheeks. It's hot and heady, and appears to have an affect on both you and Boothill.
The numerous lewd sounds have gotten to the cyborg behind you, and he becomes aware of his own waning patience. He'd simply been waiting for the cue that would allow him to take things to the next level, and when he hears Ashveil moan into your mouth, he knows it's time. He hurriedly drops his hands to where the hem of your garment sits and gathers the fabric between his fingers as he hikes it up to sit around your waist. Without preamble, his fingers dips below the waistband of your panties, desperately seeking out your dripping core.
A bolt of electricity shoots through your body when he finds it; smooth, silver fingers drag slowly between your folds, coating themselves in your slick. You gasp into Ashveil's mouth, jolting in his grasp as his junior strokes at your cunt.
The detective's eyes open to see your lashes fluttering in ecstasy. He pulls back from your parted lips to peer down between your legs, and what he finds there snaps the final thread of humility and self-restraint he'd been clinging to. He watches for a moment as Boothill's hand maneuvers steadily beneath the lacy material of your underwear; as your stomach flexes and trembles with pleasure; as your hands scramble for purchase among the sheets; as your mouth hangs open with pretty, airy whimpers spilling from your lips.
"Fuck," he utters under his breath. His eyes have darkened considerably, and his once shy demeanor is now slowly melting away.
But you don't hear nor see this. Your head is thrown back over Boothill's shoulder, eyes shut as you concentrate on the movement of his fingers. You're hungry for his attention, but he's still holding back. He does nothing but repeat the same slow and languid strokes with no intention of speeding up. He's really only aiming to cruelly string you along until you're begging for more.
Before you can even verbalize your annoyance, your eyes shoot open at the feeling of Boothill's hands leaving you only to then see your nightgown being recklessly torn from you body, followed quickly by your panties. The men seem to have reached a silent agreement when you weren't looking as they haul your body to the center of the bed, where you now lay with your back against Boothill's chest; bare and ready for Ashveil's taking.
"Since yer the guest of honor, I'll let you dig in first," Boothill says coolly. He hooks his hands under your knees and spreads you wide for his senior. Your face is burning up with embarrassment at being presented in such a compromising manner, but you don't resist it. You want this. Your cunt clenches around nothing at the sight of the fully dressed detective lowering himself in front of your naked body, an appreciative sigh leaving his chest.
"Aeons you're gorgeous," he breathes against your inner thigh. "And already so wet. Did you really want this that badly?" His hands steadying himself on the backs of your thighs — careful not to poke you with the seal-binding nail that protrudes beneath his right wrist — as he brings his face within a hair's breadth of you. You swear you're already dripping onto the sheets below when he inhales your scent deeply, his hot exhale against your most sensitive spot making you squirm in Boothill's vice-like grip.
You've been so distracted, observing him in painful expectancy, that you had completely forgotten about his question. He has to nip at your thigh with his sharp canines to bring you back to your senses, shooting you a dark and demanding look from between your legs. "Is this what you want, pretty girl?"
"Yes," you breathe, exasperated. You've got the most pitifully needy look on your face and it stirs something within Ashveil's chest. "Please, I can't wait any longer."
And with that, he eagerly obliges.
He dives in, flattening his tongue against the entirety of your cunt before licking a thick stripe up to your clit; a hungry groan vibrates against you. You cry out, finally getting closer to the feeling you've been chasing. Your hands immediately tangle in his dark hair, pulling him close enough to smother him, but he doesn't mind it. In fact, he revels in it. His mouth obediently suckling at your sensitive bundle of nerves and messily drooling all over your weeping folds. He moans when he laps at the juices that leak from your slit — the flavor heavenly on his taste buds. He whimpers when you tug at his hair after he's buried his tongue between your walls. He's diligent in his deduction of what gets you going, cataloguing each of your reactions in the back of his mind for safe keeping.
The way he's slurping at you is pornographic. Wet pops and guttural groans fill the cool, conditioned air of the room and you swears it's begun to spin. He's eating like a man starved; gulping down your essence like you're the last oasis in an endlessly sun-scorched desert.
Boothill is straining against your lower back at his point, his silicone prosthetic testing the stretch of the black leather that confines him. He wets his parched lips when he notices you're getting close, envying Ashveil's position. Your legs are shaking in his hands, hips bucking against Ashveil's rapacious mouth on instinct. He wants to be the one to drink you down, but he can learn to share if it means he gets to watch your face twist in pleasure.
"Go on, sweet girl. Cum for us. Give the boss a good taste of ya," his voice comes out gravelly, teetering on the edge of a growl.
This rapidly ushers you to the precipice of your release when, without warning, Ashveil presses a gloved digit into you, curling to repeatedly graze your g-spot with terrifying precision. And with that, you're sent instantly spiraling. A broken moan tears from your lungs as you convulse against the solid chest and hands of the cowboy as he licks and nips at your ear, studying the shift in your expression when the rolling tides of your first orgasm wash over you.
The man between your thighs continues his steady ministrations, but begins to reluctantly ease up the pace. Only when you start to whine from the encroaching overstimulation does he withdraw his now drenched finger. He places one last open-mouthed kiss to your twitching lower lips, trailing lighter pecks along your inner thigh before gently biting you. When you whine in response, he has to grapple with himself to overcome the animalistic urge to sink his teeth even further. Unwillingly, he lets your supple flesh escape his jaws as he pulls back from you.
Breathless, you go limp against Boothill. Your eyes shut as you're left reeling from your devastating high before you're gently shifted to lay on the plush comforter of the bed. You feel the bed dip with Boothill's departure from your side, but his destination remains unclear to you.
Your heart leaps into your throat when you hear the rustling of clothes being undone; the familiar jingle of a belt buckle coming loose. Curiosity gets the best of you as your eyelids flicker open, but what you don't expect to see is the two rangers now undressing each other. Boothill greedily tongues at Ashveil's mouth, chasing the lingering flavor of you on his lips and your jaw nearly drops through the floor at the filthy scene you're witnessing. It's so unbelievably hot that your body instantly perks up again; desire burning anew.
Their lips part, a string of their saliva mixed with your slick stretching between them as Boothill pulls Ashveil's compression shirt up and over his head, revealing one of the most alluring torsos you've ever seen — perhaps even rivaling Boothill's. His large, muscular chest tapers down to an obscenely slim waist that disappears beneath his high-waisted pants. But the thing that catches your eyes is the blackened skin of his right side. It consumes all of his right arm and shoulder, interrupted by winding streaks of silver along his forearm; it cascades down his chest and onto his stomach, vanishing into his waistband. You wonder just how far it goes. If it would feel any different against your skin.
You watch them with intense focus, heart hammering in your chest as they continue making out, hands fumbling with each other's buttons and zippers, desperate to shed the layers that separate them. Ashveil is the first to succeed in freeing Boothill; his proud, silicone cock finally springing from its restraints. You suck in a steadying breath, eyes glazing over at the sight of your lover's deliciously sleek curvature. Saliva pooling around your tongue with the eagerness to feel him filling your mouth.
Boothill tuts against Ashveil's lips when the latter tries to push his leather pants further down his steely legs, nudging his hands away while breaking their kiss for the last time. In one continuous movement, Boothill removes his own pants and tosses them across the room with no decorum, leaving his body completely bare. And instead of returning to stand in front of the detective, he drops to a kneel between his legs before turning to catch your eyes, knowing you had been watching their every move — ever the showman.
"C'mere sweetheart, I'd like yer help with somethin'," he calls sweetly to you.
You obediently crawl to where Ashveil stands with the backs of his legs against the bed, taking a seat just off to his right while holding Boothill's gaze the whole way. He gives you a sharp-toothed grin before taking your hand in his.
"Could ya take care of this fer me?" He brings your knuckles to his lips to kiss them lovingly. It's so gutwrenchingly sweet that your heart skips a beat; pure, unabashed adoration filling your senses regardless of what he just requested of you. But he doesn't even need to ask, you'd do anything for him.
You hum warmly in response, love blossoming in your chest as your hands find their way to the front of Ashveil's pants. Lifting your gaze from Boothill, you seek out Ashveil's to gauge his reactions to the favor you're about to fulfill. He's currently looking at your hands where they rest teasingly along his waistband, his swollen and glistening lips parted in anticipation. Spontaneously deciding you'd like to bully him just a little, you drop your hands to the spot where he's most pent up.
He stiffens, biting his bottom lip to silence a whimper as your hands work at his clothed boner. You snicker deviously beside him when his hips start to twitch, but not wanting to keep Boothill waiting too long, you return to the task at hand. Your fingers are nimble as you unbutton, unzip, and tug his pants and underwear down his thighs, graciously releasing him from his confines. You grin wickedly when his eyebrows furrow at the sudden chill of the room, his member already leaking with excitement.
"Have a seat, detective," you instruct seductively. He obeys without hesitation, the bed dipping from his weight as he sits next to you. Boothill takes it upon himself to free the rest of Ashveil's legs, the discarded pants joining the rest of the clothes that lay strewn about the room.
With his body now completely nude, you follow his altered, black skin down below his waistline. You note how it continues to descend on a jagged path past his right knee. Your inquisitiveness urges your hands forward to drag along his side and you're shocked to discover that it's smooth — unnaturally lacking imperfections. It's similar to how wounded flesh never fully returns to its natural state, but in a way that doesn't feel quite human. But you're not at all unsettled by this; it only piques your interest further. Your hands continue their survey as they drag along his chest, shoulder, back, and finally his arm where your fingers meet the bits of silver that wind around his forearm.
The contrast is stark. From smooth black to solid silvery planes that jut slightly from the surface of his skin. They remind you of the steel panels of Boothill's body, but they bend and curve with him as though they're one with his organic flesh.
You notice that he's begun to tremble beneath your touch and you're suddenly struck with a realization: this could very well be an injury and your inconsiderate touch might be causing him some degree of discomfort.
"Does it hurt?" You lift your eyes to his face again, but he doesn't meet your gaze nor answer your question. Instead, he seems entirely focused on something happening below him.
Guided by his line of sight, you see it.
Boothill has Ashveil's cock grasped in one hand as his tongue travels from the base to the tip. His glowing red eye is honing in on every minute change in Ashveil's countenance, but briefly shifting to lock onto you as you join the action. Your cheeks burn under his piercing gaze and the air is stolen straight from your lungs. Fuck. You've never experienced penis envy as severely as you do in this moment.
But you also wouldn't mind being in Boothill's place either. Ashveil looks absolutely delectable as your lover continues to lick stripes along the underside of his shaft, lathering him in spit.
For a moment, you live vicariously through both of them, pressing your chest into Ashveil while the heat swirls in your gut again. The needy, breathy whines from Ashveil; the slurping and dragging of Boothill's lips. They're both so intoxicating and you can't just sit back and watch for long.
With Ashveil resting most of his weight on his arms, he's leaned back just enough to allow you some wiggle room. You bend down, the side of your head resting against his lower stomach as you come face-to-face with Boothill, mouth full and eye lidded. The angle is awkward and a bit uncomfortable, but you don't want to be anywhere else.
Boothill frees his lips with a pop before he smirks at you. "Come to get a taste, princess?" He asks, but it isn't a question.
Leaning around the member that divides you, he plants a wet, open-mouthed kiss to your expectant lips. His tongue is salty when it slides against yours and you moan into his mouth. You're desperately licking further into his wet cavern when he slowly guides you back to where Ashveil stands, waiting and twitching at the thought of two tongues working at him while simultaneously working at each other. The two of you part just enough for his tip to slot itself between you again and the scene is utter debauchery.
You can feel Ashveil's abdomen tighten against your temple when you and Boothill begin licking in tandem, moans muffled against his cock as his intoxicating taste and smell overwhelm your senses. He is quickly unraveling above you, his chest heaving and breath staggering as he fights to contain himself for even a second longer. He doesn't want to finish yet.
But he can't help himself when your tongue bullies the sensitive spot just below the upper ridge of the head. One of his hands tangles roughly in your hair to hold you in place as he shudders, white ropes of his release erupt between your lips and fall messily against your cheek. You let him grind himself along your parted lips as he rides out his orgasm, your eyes hooded and glassy as they remain locked with Boothill's while he licks away whatever is left on the tip.
When Ashveil's hips have stilled and his hand leaves your hair, you slowly return to your seated position, licking your lips clean of his salty, sweet essence.
Boothill ogles you as some of the stickiness drips from your cheek and onto your lap, your hair mussed and cheeks rosy. You look absolutely divine and he's going to ravage you next. He doesn't even waste a second before he's on you. His mouth licks your thighs clean of Ashveil before he moves to do the same to your cheek. The substance gathers on his tongue before he presses it into your mouth, your lashes fluttering shut in response, accepting his advances in earnest and without protest. Arms come up to encompass his neck as you cling to him.
Within a few seconds, he's corralled you back to the center of the bed, never interrupting your kiss until he's resting between your legs. You can feel him pressed firmly against you — in the place where you need him the most — and before he even has the chance to do anything about it, you're whining like a bitch in heat.
"Boothill, please, inside… I need you inside me, now." You beg without even being told to and he chuckles at how good you behave for him.
"Patience, sweet girl. Let me get prepared first," he coos reassuringly. His fingers come up to rest against your bottom lip, waiting for admittance when he breathes a command. "Open up."
You obediently take his fingers into your mouth and begin lathering him with spit, licking between each silvery digit and coating him generously. When he deems them wet enough, your arms drop to your chest as he sits back on his heels and brings his hand down to pump at his erection. He does his best to transfer your saliva from his hand to his length, but decides that he'd best be thorough for the sake of your comfort — or at least that's what he convinces himself to believe, free of ulterior motives.
To get the extra lubrication, he lays the underside of his cock flat against your soaked pussy and grinds on you. The slippery squelch that rings through the air makes you whimper. He drags himself through your wetness once, then twice, and then again and again. Your hands have taken hold of his shoulders and your nails scrape at his metal. You're trying so hard to suppress the suspicion that he's purposely dragging this out longer than he needs to just to piss you off, but he incriminates himself when he smirks at you with that damned cocky glint in his eye.
Bastard, you think as you chew at your bottom lip, doing your best to endure his torment for a little while longer.
Boothill takes great pleasure in the way that your eyes narrow at him, how your eyebrows quiver as they struggle to decide whether to be satisfied or upset. He'd absolutely love to give you a chance to cuss him out, to wrestle pointlessly against his immovable body, but he can hardly endure another moment of his own teasing. He needs to feel you swallowing him whole.
Just as you're about to open your mouth to get bratty with him, he pulls his hips back, a hand to steady himself as he presses against your entrance in earnest. Not once does he break eye contact with you as he slips past the threshold with astonishing ease; a line pinched between his brows, his pupil starts to glow red again with every inch that gets buried within you. The overwhelming warmth of your walls is familiar and yet it still drives him wild each time he sinks to the hilt, breathing out sighs of satisfaction at how perfectly you squeeze him.
Your hands have begun running along the grooves of his perfect, steel body. The one you've come to know by heart from the seconds, minutes, hours you've spent admiring his immaculate form. A soft moan dies behind your lip as you continue to hold it firmly between your teeth.
"That won't do, sweetheart. Let us hear you," Ashveil chimes in.
He'd been observing you and Boothill being sweet on each other for some time now, only needing a moment to recover before deciding he's ready to get a closer look. Settling by your side, he nuzzles his nose against your ear sweetly before cruelly mirroring what he saw Boothill do to you earlier in the night. His tongue darts from his lips and swirls lewdly in your ear, and just like before, the sensation, combined with the feeling of Boothill's completely engulfed shaft, tears an unbridled moan from your lips.
"Good girl," he praises and has you moaning again with only the sultry husk of his voice in your ear.
After hearing you announce your pleasure, Boothill is propelled into action. His hips start a steady pace, pulling back until only the tip remains before leisurely sinking back into you until he's fully engulfed again; each drag of his cock along your walls has him moaning back to you, but he only allows you a moment to re-acclimate to the stretch before he's craving a deeper angle, wanting you to suck him in even further. He momentarily interrupts his own rhythm to draws yours knees up to your chest, resting your ankles against his shoulders as he kisses affectionately at the skin of your calves.
You mewl at his blatant display of affection while he's completely buried in your cunt, absolutely savoring his sweetness despite there being no shortage of it.
Once he's had his fill of body worship, Boothill leans down, arms planted firmly at your side, to capture your lips in a searing kiss. Your mouths fit together like puzzle pieces and your tongues converse like old friends. Your hands comb through his black and white hair before they take hold at the back of his neck, rubbing and scratching pleasantly at his skin as if to beckon him closer. Without needing to adjourn the kiss, Boothill begins to thrust into your heat again, moving with purpose and intent as he strives to give you everything he has to offer. The new pace that he sets isn't rough by any means, but it still has you crying into his mouth at the sheer pressure of him in your gut.
Always so observant, Ashveil had halted his singular attack on your ear to fully witness what was unfolding before him. He could see just about everything from where he lay at your side and he grew hard at the sight of Boothill folding you into a mating press; which gave him a clear view of your point of connection. His mouth watered when he saw Boothill disappear into you, your body so eager to envelop him over and over again. His pulse and temperature rise exponentially as yours and Boothill's combined moans and the wet sounds of separation ring through his ears. Being part of the lonely audience is driving the detective crazy with need, and if he doesn't find something to distract himself soon, he fears he might spontaneously combust. To remedy himself, he decides to resume his previous activity and attaches himself to your ear again.
Your ears have always been especially sensitive, so the abrupt attack from Ashveil has you babbling, moaning, and whining incoherently into Boothill's mouth. The complete and prolonged bombardment by these two men spells your imminent undoing as you fight to remain coherent in spite of their onslaught. The relentless plunge of Boothill's hips as he effortlessly hits the right spot, the overwhelming sound of Ashveil licking and sucking at your ear, it all becomes so oppressive that tears begin rapidly building at your lash line. They stream down your cheeks when you squeeze your eyes closed, thinking to yourself that maybe if you can't see anything, you would be able to reel yourself back to safety; to ground yourself and minimize the damage of the earth-shattering climax you're about to experience. But Boothill won't let you.
"Look at me, baby," his voice is so soft and pleading against your lips that you comply without question — or without much thought at all —, effectively sealing your fate when you see that he's looking at you with hearts in his eyes. His expression is so utterly lost in pleasure, in the feeling of you, that you're instantly done in at the first sight of him.
The tether snaps and you're sent hurtling across space and time with no lifeline in sight. You thrust your head back into the pillows beneath you as your mouth hangs open in a silent scream, body shaking and hands gripping at Boothill's roots as though they could anchor you to reality. He groans in response and your walls spasm violently around him, innately seeking to wring him of everything he's worth. Your second orgasm rips through your body, igniting every inch of your nervous system and setting your skin ablaze. Finally, your voice returns as broken, shaky cries escape you.
Boothill grits his teeth when he feels his own peak closing in on him, grunting and groaning in concentration to keep himself from expiring too quickly. Only when your moans begin to regulate does he let himself go. With a long, drawn out moan, his hips stutter against you. Pumping one last time with his full range of motion before he's spilling, hot and sticky, into your womb. He goes rigid, breathing heavily as your cunt swallows up all that it can from his leaking member.
Tears continue streaming from the corners of your eyes, past your temples and into your hairline, as Boothill kisses them away and rocks into you steadily to ride out both of your highs. It takes a while for your tense muscles to relax again, your body no longer trembling, but still occasionally jolting in response to his gentle movements. You can feel his excess dripping from your folds each time he moves against you, only to push what remained deeper into your core. Your cheeks burn at the thought.
When your breathing returns to normal, Boothill pulls out, the most obscene squelch announcing his departure. You whimper at the sudden emptiness, but are grateful for this moment of rest when he removes your legs from their inclined position at his shoulders. He slumps at your side, opposite of Ashveil, as he cuddles into you; kissing at your shoulder, jaw, and cheek before settling to nuzzle into your hair.
"I love you," he whispers. Your heart fluttering innocently as you turn to him and respond in kind.
"I love you too."
At some point during your climax, Ashveil had withdrawn from you to address his own arousal. He'd been pumping incessantly at himself to no avail. He needed something more to sate his appetite, but he's polite enough to give you time to recover and canoodle with your lover. Instead of outright stating his need and requesting your immediate attention, he opts to mouth and nibble at your shoulder, hoping you'll turn his way sooner rather than later.
Only about a minute had passed before you turn to look at him, suddenly feeling guilty for having left him unattended for so long. You're still a bit spacey, but you've never struggled with stamina or want before; even with a cyborg, built for power and endurance, as your partner. Perhaps you could be labeled a nymphomaniac, but you didn't care.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, detective," you coo as you fully turn your body to face him. "Can I help you with anything?"
Your voice is soft and breathy, body heavenly as you lay tantalizingly pressed into his chest. One hand rests at his collarbone while the other strokes lightly at his jawline. He clenches his teeth to calm the beast within him that wants to devour you.
"I want to feel you… please, use me however you like. I just need to feel you on me." He sounds a bit pathetic, but in a way that makes you want to ruin him. You want to make him beg and cry and whimper for more, so that's exactly what you'll do.
You sling your leg around his waist before hoisting yourself upright to straddle him, your hands planted on either side of his head and trapping him where he is. Remnants of Boothill drip onto his lower stomach and his hardened shaft nudges at your ass. You smirk at how he's already biting back a whine.
"You're so polite. I suppose I do owe you a reward for being so well-behaved," you ponder aloud as you lean down to press your chest against his. "But be warned, I don't play very nice from up here."
His eyes widen at your threat, but instantly shut when your lips collide. You bite and tug at his bottom lip before shoving your tongue into his mouth. He moans against you and his hands fly to your hips as he bucks into you on instinct, but this earns him a particularly harsh nip to his lip.
"Careful, wolfie," you warn. "You're not the one in charge here…"
He whimpers like an abandoned puppy, if he had wolf ears they would have flopped to the side of his head in defeat.
"If you keep up your good behavior, I'll let you take over when I'm done," you bargain with him and suddenly his make-believe wolf ears perk up again.
Your lips return to his, licking and prodding at him as you please. You let him squeeze at the flesh of your hips as you drown yourself in his plush kisses. The sounds he makes as he works to maintain focus are so infuriatingly sexy that you can no longer ignore the way you're pulsing with desire again. Only able to last for a few minutes against his whiny lips, you lift your hips and grasp his throbbing cock in your hand, parting from the kiss.
He nearly cries out at your tight hold on him, but successfully bites it back behind his canines. His gorgeous incisors pressing brutally against his lower lip. When you hold him directly to your entrance his eyes screw shut, his toned abdomen hardening beneath you as he readies himself for what's to come.
"Open your eyes," you demand. When his pretty lashes flutter open again, you immediately collapse onto him, burying him within your walls in a split second. Fortunately for you, being on top gives you more control and thus improves your resolve substantially. You can toy with him like this without worry of succumbing to the pleasure too quickly.
Ashveil moans loudly, unable to bite it back this time. His nails dig into your hips as he struggles to get used to the tight fit; the nails of his prosthetic fingers leave red half-moons in your skin when he slowly starts to loosen his hold. However, he can't quite catch his breath, and you aren't considerate enough to let him return to baseline before you repeatedly raise and drop your hips on him like a tamping rammer.
Boothill watches, amusedly, from the sidelines. He loves it when you get like this, though he pities the man under you as he's laboring tremendously just to breathe. He didn't realize the boss was so high-strung. Even if he hasn't taken anyone to bed in a while, surely he couldn't have gotten this pent up, right?
The cowboy simply wasn't aware of how wrong he was. The broken-legged wolf hasn't had the time nor energy to lay with someone — much less court someone — in the last several decades. When he isn't on a case, eating his delivery meals, or out drinking with his old buddies, the detective is busy hibernating in the cryotherapy refrigerator that sits in the corner of his cramped office. He hasn't felt the touch of a lover in Lan knows how long. One could only imagine how much the voracity within him aches to be fed.
Tears begin to well up in his eyes, threatening to slip past his lashes. The clap of your ass against his lap is wicked, and he wants so badly to match your rhythm from below. But he remains bound to your agreement, hanging onto the deal you struck like it's the only undeniable truth left in this world. He reminds himself that the payout will be well worth the hell of idleness that he must endure. His tears fall as his moans become ragged, chest heaving while he ogles your breasts while they bounce tauntingly in front of him.
"Tell me what you want," you demand.
Without so much as a thought, he whines breathlessly. "Please. I want to fuck you. Please. Please let me fuck you."
"Fuck. Be a good boy, and I will," you chew at your bottom lip to calm yourself as best as you can; you hadn't expected such a quick and easy answer. His unabashed response took you by surprise and honestly made it really difficult for you to remain stoic in your endeavors.
His needy sobs fill the air, punctuated by the moist slap of skin and your breathy sighs. He's obeying you so thoroughly and crying so prettily that your authority is beginning to falter. Since the silent acceptance of your pact, he hasn't acted on his instincts at all, save for his hands that claw at your skin. He wants this badly.
As you approach your third, you're beyond ready to pass him the torch. With a few final bounces, you clamp down on him and moan as you hit a shallow, but satisfying peak.
You crumple against his chest, face pressed into the crook of his neck and realization settles in his stomach. He swallows thickly at the thought. It was finally his turn to take control.
"Is… that all?" He inquires jokingly between puffs of staggered breaths.
"Can it, mutt," you cover his mouth with your hand, an utter lack of heat in your words.
He grins against your palm, collecting himself with a few steadying inhales before he laps wetly into your hand. You squeal at his offense, but before you can tear your hand away from him, his fingers firmly encircle your wrist. He holds you still as he starts to playfully nibble at the space between your pointer and thumb.
"Well, I hope you're ready. You've only made my hunger worse," he noses at your fingers. "And I'm playing by your rules, so don't expect me to be gentle."
The last bit comes out as a low growl, his teeth bared and grazing your palm. Your heart drops in your chest. A chuckle rumbles through him when he feels you clenching in response.
With a huff of air through his nostrils, he rolls over to trap you beneath him, still completely sheathed. Finding your second wrist, he raises both to pin them above your head in a single, vise-like grip. His eyes are dark as they scan your frame, a dangerous grin splayed on his lips as he comes into his dominance. He dips his head to lick a thick stripe along the center of your chest, pausing at the space where your clavicles meet.
"There's only so much bullying an old wolf can take," he sighs, mostly to himself, but loud enough for you to hear it.
You're about to open your mouth to apologize to him, but your words instantly die in your throat when he inhales deeply against your jugular, his eyes closed as he hones in on your scent. You suddenly feel like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. His nose drags along the exposed skin of your arms and chest, stopping at seemingly random points along their route to simply sniff, like a bloodhound on a trail. The uncertainty of his intentions makes your breaths shallow, your heart stuttering in your chest as you go completely still to let him continue searching without interruption.
Boothill is looking on in awe at this point. He knew his senior wasn't someone you should take lightly, but this side of him was completely new to him and honestly had the cowboy a bit on edge. He wasn't entirely sure of where this was going, so he makes it a point to keep his guard up in the event that he has to step in. His eyes constantly darting between your face and Ashveil's to get a proper read on the situation.
When Ashveil's nose halts at your breastbone, you hold your breath as you await his verdict.
A final breath heaves from his chest, as if letting himself off a leash, when his eyes meet yours. His once silvery orbs have disappeared and given way to something much darker. They're abyssal, but his pupils have a reddish-pink glow. They no longer look like they belong to the shy detective who couldn't even meet your gaze without blushing. The man above you felt like an entirely different person, but you're not given time to ponder any further when he bares his beastly fangs and engulfs one of your breasts without warning. You yelp out in shock — your heart nearly leaping out of your chest — at the sudden pressure as he holds you between his sharp teeth and swirls his thick tongue across your supple flesh. His hips begin moving again, establishing a brutal pace while his free hand clutches at your unattended breast.
You scream and strain against Ashveil's unshakeable hold, the sensations too abrupt and profound for you to really process what is happening. But you do know one thing with absolute certainty: you're really fucking excited. The apprehension had morphed into a morbid arousal when you realized that there was, in fact, something frightening lurking beneath Ashveil's mask. Something voracious.
Your cowboy is just about ready to pull the plug on your behalf when he hears your initial scream, but pauses halfway when it turns into strangled moans. He blinks at you, leaning in closer and thoroughly studying your countenance to better gauge your current state. He notes that your eyes are screwed shut, brows creased, and face impossibly flushed as your mouth hangs open in overwhelming satisfaction. A huff of relief leaves his lungs, understanding that you're doing perfectly fine despite how rough Ashveil is being. For the time being, he decides to settle closer to your side, silently keeping a close eye on you.
Ashveil, not noticing Boothill's proximity, releases your breast and moves on to leaving bite marks across the expanse of your chest. His pace hasn't wavered, his cravings far from being satisfied as he continues to ram into you. You're scrambling to catch your breath and your arms are still wrestling for freedom, but he doesn't care; entirely focused on marking your chest to his liking. The only thing that catches his attention in the end is your body signaling to him that you're on the brink of yet another climax. He raises his hungry gaze to watch your face as he gets you painfully close to the edge before cruelly withdrawing from you.
A labored sob escapes your lips and your eyes fly open to look at him as he leaves you high and dry. Your hips buck uselessly in search of him, only to earn a predatory chuckle from the perpetrator.
"Ashveil," you whine, voice going hoarse from all your screams and gasps. "S'no fair!"
"You started it, dear. Now turn around," he commands as he releases your wrists.
Hardly comprehending his request, you blink cluelessly at him; your mind still reeling from his prior mistreatment. Your inaction seems to agitate him as he impatiently tugs and pushes you into his desired position: flat on your stomach.
While reorienting yourself, you're met with Boothill's comforting visage as he lay propped up on an elbow beside you. Your teary eyes are captivated by his familiar beauty as he leans in to kiss you.
You sigh longingly when he breaks the kiss to speak. "Ya farin' alright?" He asks and to which you nod the affirmative.
However, your moment of respite is cut short when Ashveil bullies his way back into your cunt from behind. The weight of his body pressing into your back as he bottoms out with an animalistic groan. You gasp at the sheer fullness you feel — not just between your legs, but all the way up to your lungs and throat.
The starving beast on top of you picks up where he left off, his hips snapping ruthlessly against your rear as he fucks you deeper into the bed below. Your mind goes blank as he hammers into you, using your body as a means to an end. If you could form any coherent thoughts, you'd be going wild over the idea of being used by such a pretty man. Instead, you're fucked senseless and left with your eyes rolled back and jaw hanging open in a silent "oh".
When Ashveil's peak is finally within reach, he lets you know by biting down on your shoulder hard. It isn't quite enough to draw blood, but you'll definitely be bruised in the morning. You scream out in protest, but your inner muscles tighten violently around him; constricting him as he chases after his high. In one swift movement, his arm snakes up the front of your body to capture your throat in his claws. Your lashes flutter as he squeezes at your jugular, restricting the flow of blood to your brain.
His growls are fragmented against the aching flesh of your shoulder and his thrusts have become desperate and erratic. He's huffing exasperated breaths through his nostrils and into your hair when suddenly he stalls, hips jerking sporadically when he empties into your already filled womb. He mixes shamelessly with Boothill at your core.
Feeling the hot mess oozing from your cunt, onto your thighs and the sheets below, sends you over your own edge. Boothill, having watched over every second of this encounter, recognizes your approach and kisses at your gaping mouth, trailing across your lips and along your jaw. He soothingly talks you through it with repeated encouragements like: just like that, you're doing so well, you're perfect, and don't hold back.
Your final release is rapturous as you choke on your moans, mind fuzzy from the lack of blood flow and the severe dichotomy between the actions of the two men before you. The sheets below you are sure to be soaked through as you gush around the cock that remains buried to the base. Ashveil had finished, but he continued to grind against your ass to let you revel in your high for a while longer.
Loosening his hold on your neck and releasing your shoulder from his maw, having returned to a state of clarity, the sated wolf licks apologetically at the indents left by his teeth. He feels a bit guilty for letting himself go to such an extent, but your quivering body and soft mewls calm his anxieties. When your sounds subside and devolve into stable, heaving breaths, he removes himself from you and collapses at your side. A hand remaining at the small of your back to rub affectionate shapes into the damp skin.
Boothill continues peppering your face with kisses when you fall into the pillows below you. He brushes your hair behind your ear, looking at you adoringly before he leans in to nuzzle and kiss at your moist temple. "You alright, love?"
You don't open your eyes, still absolutely wrecked, but you hum pleasantly in response.
With one last kiss, Boothill shifts to leave the bed. In a few moments he's returned to your side with towels and a bottle of water. He breaks the seal on the bottle, but leaves it closed near your hand while he busies himself with wiping you down. You sigh contentedly at his gentle strokes across your forehead and cheeks.
Ashveil recovers himself and aids Boothill in cleaning you up. They work together to delicately maneuver your body, treating you like precious porcelain and making sure they don't miss a single inch of your skin. Occasionally they'd pause to press their lips against your figure in an act of reverence. By the time they've completed their self-imposed assignment, you've recuperated enough to take a couple of sips from the water bottle Boothill had left you.
The two excuse themselves briefly to take care of the residue left on their own bodies before they reunite with your sides; Boothill on your right and Ashveil to your left. Both of them nestle against your neck, breathing in your scent. Boothill pulls a fresh blanket over your bodies before his arm wraps around your ribcage, resting just below your breasts as his hand rubs soothing circles into your skin. Ashveil intentionally remains outside of the covers, but his arm rests at your hipbone, massaging you through the blanket to the best of his ability. Tranquil silence hangs over all of you like a gossamer canopy, filling the spaces in-between with intimate breaths.
Ashveil is the first to break the silence.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he whimpers, his warm breath fanning your jugular. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I completely understand if you never want to see—"
You interrupt him before he can finish his rambling. "I'm okay, Ashveil. You don't have to apologize."
A small sound escapes him when you bring your hand up to pet at the side of his head. He sniffles lightly under your reassuring touch, so relieved that he's moved to tears.
You giggle when you realize he's crying for the second time tonight. "Y'know, for such a powerful man, you really are quite sensitive." This earns you a weak grumble as he buries his face deeper into the crook of your neck. "I think it's cute."
"He is pretty cute when he's being a crybaby," Boothill chimes in. "Though I must admit, ya really threw me for a loop when ya got on top."
The detective, knowing Boothill is addressing him, raises his head to look in the cowboy's direction. A look of genuine concern on his face. "Why didn't you stop me?"
"She was enjoying it," he answers plainly.
Your cheeks burn at how his statement leaves his lips with such nonchalance. You don't add anything to the conversation as you hide your face in your hands.
"Aw sweetheart, feelin' shy even after everything's been said and done?"
Ashveil is also left speechless, a flush on his cheeks as he processes what's been said.
"Oh c'mon, why're ya both bein' so bashful all of a sudden?" The cowboy continues to poke fun at you two.
But you can't handle anymore of his taunting and clap a hand against his lips to shut him up. "Leave us alone!"
He laughs warmly against your palm before kissing into your fingers.
"I'm just joking, baby."
The three of you continue to bicker and joke for some time before you start to doze off between them. Perfectly comfortable in their combined embrace. You didn't have to say it, but each of you knew that this wouldn't be the last time a meeting like this would take place.
♡ afterword - oh hey, 'ppreciate you for making it this far. hope my bootveil likers enjoyed the lil bit of early game action ehehe. i would honestly have leaned even harder into the bootveil moment, but i wasn't sure if there was any demand for that LOL is bootveil nation out there? do they exist? please welcome me into the gates of heaven, i am so fucking desperate, PLEASE !!
anyways, thank you sm for reading !! (˶>⩊<˶)
Pairing: Ray x F!Vigilante!Reader
Tags: Maybe found family (??), undercover
Note:
I really like this game, and I love RayRay so much that I want to write something for him. One of the things I enjoy most about the game is how some of the things the in-game MC says really make me question what’s going on in their mind and how they arrive at those conclusions. It gives the MC a sense of imperfection and realism that feels very human, something I don’t see often in many games nowadays, especially for main characters rather than love interests.
Masterlist
<next chapter>
You were a vigilante. At least, that’s what people called you, wasn’t it? Because truthfully, you weren’t even sure which category you fit into.
You lived at the edge of the law. You never really crossed paths with those heroes on the news, but you were not exactly allied with villains either.
You worked on your own, flying solo most of the time, taking on outsourced jobs. Whoever paid you handsomely or offered the better deal, you worked for them.
Yes, you weren’t loyal, because you had no one to be loyal to. But you had a reputation to uphold, didn’t you? This was business, after all. So if you accepted a commission, you would do everything in your power to complete it. If you couldn’t, you would refund the commissioner.
But across your entire line of work, you had never failed a single job. So it was safe to say you were doing well for yourself. At the very least, you were comfortable enough to live for quite some time without taking on any new commissions.
Then one day, a particular request caught your interest.
It was a commission to find someone. An anonymous one, to be more precise, as you scrolled through the list of requests.
This person has lost contact with a close friend and is requesting your help to locate them.
Budget: negotiable.
They claimed they would accept any price, as long as you could find their missing friend.
You were skeptical at first. Most missing person cases you had taken, especially those with high payouts, ended badly. The person was often already dead, or if you did manage to find them, they were in such a terrible situation that there was nothing you could do to help or save them.
But the request was only to find the person, not rescue them. That still counted as a “success” in your line of work, which was exactly why you rarely accepted these kinds of cases.
They were not good for your mental state. And the amount of effort and resources you had to pour into them was rarely worth the money, if you were being honest.
But what made you pay attention to this particular commission was the fact that you knew the person who was missing.
It was your old mentor.
You had lost contact with him a long time ago, after the two of you went your separate ways. It did not end on bad terms or anything like that. You simply had very different ways of seeing the world, and your philosophies did not align. In the end, he let you walk your own path.
And stubborn as you were, you would have done that anyway. It was not like he could control your life.
Still, you never imagined he would go missing to the point that someone had to commission you to find him.
That was what truly caught your attention.
You knew your mentor had been involved in plenty of shady work, even back when you were still with him. But he had kept you in the dark most of the time. That was also one of the reasons you left him for good. He always treated you like a child, never trusting you enough to share his burdens.
So what exactly happened to him? What kind of trouble had he gotten himself into and who was most likely involved?
You did not know.
It had been years since you had last spoken to him or even seen him.
Still, you took the commission.
You started by digging through whatever information you still had about him from back then. Then you returned to the last place you had met, hoping to find some kind of clue. But nothing turned up, nothing useful, at least.
You even tracked down some of his old acquaintances but they gave you nothing. None of them knew where he was. Even worse, they did not even know he was missing.
Damn. What kind of life had he been living?
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The last trace you had of him led you to a city you eventually had to move to. You took up a job as a journalist at a small editorial office. It was not anything big, but it was the kind of job that made it easier for you to snoop around without raising suspicion in the area.
Unfortunately, your boss was terrible. He was always breathing down your neck, constantly demanding more news and higher numbers.
He was so demanding that it felt like your brain was about to jump out of your head. Even when you already had plenty of stories prepared for the paper, you still had to go out and gather news the “normal” way if you did not want to stir anything beneath the surface.
Because, unfortunately for you, this city seemed to be crawling with heroes. Either the place was such a mess that it constantly needed supervision, or the heroes were so active that no villain even dared to set foot here.
Either way, it was not a good sign for you.
You were not exactly a villain, but a lot of what you did was not exactly legal either. And the heroes here had a rigid mindset. They were not as flexible as the vigilantes you had encountered before.
So it was better for you to lay low and do your work the old fashioned way if you did not want them breathing down your neck just like your boss did.
Which was how you ended up in your current situation.
You had been trying to dig up some information about a celebrity in town, but you were accidentally discovered by security. That mistake quickly turned into you running through alleys and cutting across buildings while they chased after you.
Fucking hell. These bastards were relentless, chasing you like wild dogs.
As you turned into another alley, you saw that it was blocked by a grille gate. It looked rusty and covered in dust, slightly crooked as if it had been neglected for years. You did not think much of it. You jumped, grabbed onto it and hauled yourself over without slowing down.
You landed on the other side and kept running into the dark alley, taking turn after turn at each building corner in the hope of shaking them off. However, as your footsteps echoed louder in the narrow space, you could hear another set of footsteps behind you.
Were they actually dogs? How the hell were they still on your tail when you had already led them into a dead end earlier?
As you burst out onto a street, you realized you had reached the downtown area. The alleys here opened into a livelier part of the city, packed with bars and clubs.
There were a lot of people around, and that worked in your favor.
If the crowd was thick enough, you could blend in and disappear.
You quickened your pace and slipped into the street, where people were walking, talking, and laughing. Voices overlapped, laughter filled the air, and music pulsed faintly from nearby clubs. The noise and movement wrapped around you like a shield.
Once you were in the middle of it, you slowed down just enough to catch your breath, trying to look as normal as possible.
But even then, it did not take long before you noticed them.
From a distance, you could already see several tall, broad men forcing their way through the crowd. They were speaking into their surveillance headsets, scanning the area as they moved.
You almost groaned out loud at the sight.
So you kept moving, slipping through the crowd before turning into the back alley of a random club. You took corner after corner without thinking, just trying to put distance between you and the men chasing you. At this point, you had no idea where you were anymore. The streetlights grew dimmer with every turn you made, their glow fading until the darkness almost swallowed the alley whole.
Then you walked straight into someone.
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A smoky scent filled your lungs as you instinctively looked up, only to meet the gaze of a blond man. You could not see his face clearly in the darkness, but his presence was solid. From the distance, you could still hear loud voices shouting.
Those bastards were getting closer.
You reacted immediately and you shoved the man back a step, quickly pulling off your coat and bag before tossing them into a nearby trash can. Then you grabbed him by the front of his loose sweatshirt. He seemed caught off guard by your sudden actions, not even managing to say a word.
“Sorry, sir. Can you help me out for a bit?”
You did not wait for an answer. You pulled him closer by his shirt, pressing yourself back against the stone wall behind you. Your grip tightened, and he stumbled slightly with the force of your movement. His hands came up instinctively, bracing on either side of your head as his tall frame loomed over you, effectively shielding you from view.
The dim light flickering at the corner of the alley only made everything feel more tense. The voices were getting closer.
You tried to press yourself further into the wall, as if you could somehow melt into it and disappear.
Your heart was pounding hard in your chest, a mix of nerves and adrenaline. Your breathing was uneven and heavy, and your eyes darted around, searching for any sign of danger.
Then you felt the man in front of you lean down slightly.
His face moved closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. The faint smell of nicotine lingered in the air as he finally spoke.
“They will hear you if you keep panicking like that.”
His voice was low and deep, the words barely above a whisper as they brushed past your ear.
Your gaze shifted from the alley to him, and finally meeting his eyes.
Even now, you could not make out much of his face. Most of his features were hidden in shadow as he looked down at you.
You were about to respond, but he moved first.
He stepped closer, closing what little distance remained between you. His chest nearly pressed against yours, and only then did you fully realize just how tall he was. Even leaning down this close, he still towered over you by nearly a foot.
“Shh.” He did not say anything further as one of his arms pressed against the wall behind you, shielding you completely from the scene outside.
His body blocked whatever faint light had been reaching you earlier, and for a moment, it felt like the only thing you could hear was the rhythm of his heartbeat, steady and close to yours.
“Wrap your hands around my neck.”
His words left you momentarily stunned.
“What?” you asked, your tone filled with confusion.
“Trust me.”
His voice was more reassuring than it had any right to be and before you could question it further, you heard footsteps approaching the corner.
You did as he said.
Your palms were damp with sweat as your hands reached up and wrapped around his neck. His hair was slightly long and you could feel the soft strands slipping between your fingers.
His face leaned in close, but you had no time to think about that. Your heart was racing, panic clawing at your chest as the fear of being caught settled heavily over you.
Then the men reached the corner.
From their perspective, all they saw was a couple pressed together in the back alley of a club, locked in an intimate moment.
They hesitated and clearly caught off guard by the scene, and you heard one of them curse under his breath.
The man in front of you, however, seemed completely at ease, as if he had done this a hundred times before. He moved so naturally and effortlessly playing the part.
He lifted his head slightly, as if annoyed at being interrupted, and turned just enough to glance back at them.
Meanwhile, your hands tightened slightly against him, your breathing faltering.
“What can I help you with?” he asked, his tone slow and casual, yet carrying a weight. There was authority in it, edged with a quiet warning.
Even you felt a slight shiver at the shift in his voice. It was nothing like the low whisper he had used with you earlier.
The men exchanged awkward looks before one of them spoke, explaining that they were chasing a girl and asking if he had seen anyone run through.
“No, I’m afraid I can’t help with that,” he replied and a low chuckle slipping into his voice. “As you can see, I’m a bit occupied.”
His other hand moved then sliding down to your waist. His large palm hovered briefly before settling lightly against your hip. The touch was minimal, but it still made you tense, your body reacting before you could stop it.
To the men watching, it only reinforced the image. It looked like the person in his arms was reacting to being interrupted in the middle of something private.
The men cleared their throats awkwardly, muttering apologies for the disturbance. Within seconds, they turned and walked away, continuing their search for someone who was no longer there.
When they were finally gone, you let your hands slip away from the man’s neck. You were about to step back, to finally put some space between the two of you, when his hand closed gently around your wrist, stopping you in place.
“They haven’t gone far yet.”
You looked up at him, confusion flickering across your face. From where you stood, there was no way to tell how far those men had gone. You could not hear their footsteps anymore nor their voices.
Yet he sounded certain, as if he could still track them beyond what your senses could reach.
You hesitated,m but you did not pull away. Instead, you stayed where you were, forcing yourself to trust his judgment.
His head remained slightly turned toward the alley’s entrance, his attention still fixed there as though he was quietly observing something you could not see. Only after a few more seconds passed did the tension in his posture ease. His fingers loosened around your wrist before he let go completely.
He stepped back and you immediately took the chance to put distance between you.
You turned toward the trash can and reached inside to retrieve your coat and bag. The moment you pulled them out, the smell hit you hard.
Great. Now they smelled like dead rat and sewer.
You muttered a quiet curse under your breath, giving them a small shake even though it did nothing to help. When you glanced back at him, he had not moved at all.
He was still standing where you had left him, half hidden in the shadows.
There was something strangely unreal about the way he stood there. The dim light barely touched him, leaving most of his figure swallowed by darkness. For a brief moment, it felt as if he did not quite belong to the scene, like something that might fade away the second the light shifted.
You looked away, focusing on your things instead.
“Thank you for helping me back there,” you said, your voice still carrying a trace of adrenaline.
He did not respond right away. You slipped your bag back over your shoulder and adjusted your grip on your coat.
“You’re bleeding.”
His voice came calmly and almost casually, yet it made you pause. You followed his gaze down to your hand and finally noticed the blood. It had spread across your palm, dark and sticky liquid, slowly trailing down your fingers.
Right. That grille gate.
You must have scraped yourself while climbing over it. The metal had looked old enough to fall apart, so it was not surprising.
Still, it was nothing serious. You had dealt with far worse than this.
“I’m fine. It’s just a scratch,” you said, trying to brush it off as you shifted your weight, ready to leave.
But he stepped forward before you could take another step.
This time, he moved fully into the reach of the faint streetlight, and you finally saw him properly.
His hair fell to his neck in straight strands, a pale blond that almost seemed to catch what little light there was. Up close, it was clearer now that it was not as soft as it had first felt beneath your fingers earlier. It had a natural weight to it, the kind that shifted slightly when he moved, though it still held its shape neatly.
The shadows still lingered across parts of his face, but they no longer hid him completely. His features were sharp in a way that felt unusual, as if every line had been carved with intention. His eyes, though under the dimly lit, held a steady focus when they settled on you, giving you the strange sense that he was paying far more attention than he let on.
“You asked me to help,” he said, his voice low and even, carrying a quiet confidence that did not feel forced. “I should see it through to the end, don’t you think?”
There was a small smile resting at the corner of his lips, subtle enough that you might have missed it if you were not looking directly at him.
For a moment, you did not know what to say.
Then something else crossed your mind, and your expression shifted.
“Wait… I think I got blood on your hair.”
You stepped closer without thinking, reaching up instinctively to check. But he moved just slightly, not in a way that felt abrupt, just enough to keep the back of his head out of your reach.
“It’s fine,” he said, the faint smile still there, as if it had never left. “You’re worrying about the wrong thing.”
His gaze dropped briefly to your hand before returning to your face.
“You should take care of that first,” he continued, his tone softer now but still steady. “It doesn’t look deep but leaving it like that isn’t a great idea.”
He did not reach for you this time, but the way he stood there and waiting, made it clear he was not about to simply walk away and leave you to deal with it alone.
It sounded less like a question and more like a quiet decision he had already made for the both of you. You found yourself watching him, caught in the way his gaze met yours without hesitation.
Up close, his eyes looked darker than you first thought, deep enough that the light could not fully reach them, yet they still held a faint reflection. His lashes were long, casting soft shadows that blurred the line between light and dark across his expression. There was a gentleness to the curve of his smile, something subdued and almost distant, like a portrait left untouched for years, its colors softened but its presence still lingering.
In the low light, there was something about him that felt difficult to grasp. It's not unsettling but elusive. Strands of pale blond hair fell loosely around his face and brushing against his cheek. Even without much brightness in his eyes, you could still see yourself reflected there.
You did not even notice when you gave a small nod.
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That was how you ended up sitting on a worn bench at a bus stop while he took care of your hand.
You had told him more than once that it was not necessary, that you could manage it yourself, but he did not seem the type to back down once he had decided something. There was a quiet insistence in the way he carried himself, enough that he had gone out of his way to stop by a nearby convenience store to pick up basic supplies.
Now you sat beside him, turned slightly in his direction, your injured hand resting in his grasp.
His hands were noticeably larger and his fingers steady as he worked. He cleaned the wound with care, making sure the disinfectant reached every part of the scrape before wrapping a clean bandage around your palm. Each movement was measured and carried out with an ease.
There was a softness in the way he handled you, something unfamiliar and disarming to you. At the same time, his pace remained efficient, he never lingering longer than necessary, as though he had done this countless times before.
“You’re good at this,” you said, your voice quieter.
He did not look up, his attention still fixed on your hand as he adjusted the bandage.
“It comes with what I do,” he replied, his tone easy and some what offhand.
A few strands of his hair slipped forward as he lowered his head, catching the dim streetlight and giving them a faint glow.
You tilted your head slightly, trying to place him. Someone in the medical field, maybe or something close to it. But there was something about him that did not quite fit that image.
Now that you could actually study him under the streetlight, more details came into focus.
His skin was fair, though not pale in a fragile way. There was a subtle warmth beneath it, a natural tone that softened the overall look and gave him a more grounded presence. It complemented his height and the broadness of his frame, making him seem both composed and solid in a way that was hard to ignore.
Scattered across his skin were small beauty marks, very noticeable when you looked closely. They added texture to his appearance, something real beneath the otherwise polished impression he gave.
As if sensing your attention, he lifted his head once he finished securing the bandage. His gaze met yours again, and this time the smile on his lips deepened slightly, no longer as distant as before.
You cleared your throat, suddenly aware of how long you had been looking.
His nose had a distinct structure, the bridge slightly raised with a subtle dorsal curve that gave his profile a sharper and more defined character. It was the kind of feature that naturally drew the eye and stayed in memory. His eyebrows were thick and well shaped, framing his eyes with a certain intensity, yet when he smiled, they softened just enough to ease the sharpness of his expression.
It was only now, seeing him this close, that it truly registered.
He was not just noticeable. He was striking in a way that did not rely on effort, the kind of presence that revealed itself more the longer you looked.
“Is there something on my face?” he asked, a quiet chuckle slipping into his voice.
The sound alone made you want to sink into the ground.
“Nothing,” you said quickly, then paused before deciding not to take it back. “I just think you’re very handsome.”
The words came out more bluntly than you intended but it only earned a deeper laugh from him.
It was warm, the kind of sound that lingered. It reminded you of something comforting, like honey stirred into tea, leaving behind a softness that settled in your chest.
A smile suited him. It changed his whole face in a way that made it hard to look away. Even when he had been indifferent earlier, there had already been something appealing about him. Maybe it was simply because he fit your type a little too well.
It did not matter anyway. You said it because you believed you would never cross paths with him again.
He was just a stranger who happened to help you. Nothing more, nothing less.
His gaze shifted slightly and for a brief moment, you thought you imagined it, but his eyes seemed to darken just a little before he spoke again.
“Can I ask why you were being chased like that?”
His tone was gentle, touched with something that sounded like concern, yet there was a faint edge beneath it that you could not quite place. It was subtle but it lingered enough to make you notice.
You leaned back slightly, resting your arm behind you on the bench as you tilted your head with a faint and exaggerated sigh.
“I’m a journalist,” you said, offering him a small, somewhat troublesome smile.
“And you probably know how that goes.”
You did not bother explaining further. Most people understood the moment they heard it. Some even distanced themselves the second you introduced your job.
You could not entirely blame them. People did not like the idea of being observed, of being turned into a story without knowing how it might be used. Still, it would be nice if they showed a bit more respect for the work.
The man in front of you, however, did not seem bothered at all. Instead, his lips curved into a small, knowing smile.
“Tough job,” he said, more like a quiet observation than a question.
“You could say that.” You lifted your bandaged hand slightly in his direction and the two of you let out a small laugh. “But it’s not always bad. I get to enjoy the thrill sometimes.”
Sometimes?
More like most of the time.
Still, you were not sure what kind of person he was or what he did, so you chose not to go into too much detail.
He listened closely, more than most people would, and there was a certain attentiveness in the way he watched you, as if he was picking up on more than just your words.
“Figured you wouldn’t be out this late for nothing,” he said, his tone casual, though there was a hint of curiosity beneath it. “Looks like you managed to get yourself into trouble over something you picked up.”
You let out a quiet groan and buried your face in your hand. The faint sting of disinfectant still lingered beneath the bandage as you spoke.
“Well, if my boss didn’t keep nagging me, I wouldn’t even be out here.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Why were you telling all of this to a stranger?
The answer was simple. Because he was a stranger. He did not know anything about you and there was a very low chance you would ever see him again. That made it easier to talk, easier to let things out without worrying about consequences.
“They wanted you to get something for a story?” he asked.
You nodded, a helpless sort of agreement.
“New numbers, new series and even if I manage to get something, it’s never good enough. Too boring, not eye catching, not dramatic enough. I can already hear him going on about it.”
You almost mimicked your boss’s voice as you spoke, the irritation slipping naturally into your tone.
“And now I’ve run out of ideas on what to even chase next.”
You pressed your face into your palm again, letting out a tired sigh, heavier than you intended. It was only then that you noticed how quiet he had become.
“Sorry… I think I’ve been talking too much,” you added, a bit awkwardly.
He only smiled.
“It’s fine. I understand,” he said, carrying a note of quiet amusement. “I’m not exactly a fan of my work either.”
That caught your attention.
You tilted your head slightly, curiosity taking over. “Oh? What do you do?”
His smile lingered as he answered, almost as if he found your reaction amusing before it even happened.
“You could say it’s… somewhat related to law enforcement.”
You nearly jolted in your seat, your eyes widening as you stared at him. He let out a soft laugh at your reaction.
“What’s with that look?”
Your mind immediately started running through possibilities, one after another, none of them quite fitting. You shook your head, trying to piece something together that made sense.
“You just… don’t really look like someone who works in that kind of field,” you said carefully, choosing your words so you would not come off as rude.
He only chuckled and unfazed by your words.
“You’re not the first person to say that.”
So you were not the only one who thought that.
A cool breeze passed through the bus stop, carrying the chill of the night with it. It brushed through his hair, lifting a few strands away from his face. For a brief moment, it revealed a small piercing at his earlobe, a detail that somehow made him seem even less like the type to sit behind a desk arguing legal cases.
No, he definitely did not give off the impression of a lawyer.
If anything, it only made you more curious.
What exactly did he do?
Your thoughts took a sharp turn and your eyes widened slightly again.
Don’t tell me he’s some kind of undercover cop.
The idea hit you so suddenly that you almost reacted out loud. Considering how often you had run into trouble with undercover agents, it was the last thing you wanted to deal with right now.
He let out another quiet laugh, clearly catching the shift in your expression.
“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably not that,” he said, his tone slow and teasing.
You straightened slightly, trying to compose yourself.
“I’m not jumping to conclusions,” you said, though it sounded more like you were defending yourself. “It’s just… hard to connect the dots.”
He simply smiled, as if he found that answer more entertaining than anything else.
“Well, you seem a bit stuck right now.”
His sudden shift in topic caught you off guard for a second. You blinked then let out a quiet sigh as you followed along.
“Yeah… you know how it is. Without connections, it’s really hard to survive in this industry.”
You lied through your teeth.
It was not like you had no network. If anything, yours was more like a tangled web, built from years of moving through places most people would never step into. Still, that was not something he needed to know. This man was just a civilian. There was no reason to drag him into that side of your life.
“All the nepo babies already have their positions secured, so people like me have to work twice as hard for goals we’re not even sure exist.”
You said it with a small, self aware smile.
Half of what you were saying sounded lame even to your own ears. It was the kind of complaint most people would tune out after a few sentences. Yet he listened and his attention steady, as if you were telling him something far more interesting than it actually was.
“Oh? What do you usually write about?” he asked.
You tilted your head slightly before answering.
“Celebrities, public figures and… heroes.”
The last word left your tongue slower than the rest. It carried a weight you did not quite expect, settling somewhere in your chest and tightening your throat just a little.
“Not a big fan of heroes either, I take it.”
The way he said it made you look up.
His gaze had shifted again. It felt deeper somehow and more focused, like it was trying to read something beneath the surface rather than just your expression.
His tone was still calm and even gentle, but there was something else layered underneath. Something that felt cold, though it never fully showed itself.
“Either?” you repeated, catching onto his wording.
He smiled but it did not quite answer your question.
“What do you think about heroes?”
The question came so suddenly that it left you momentarily blank.
What did you think about heroes?
You had never really sat down and thought about it before. Most of your life had been spent dealing with more immediate concerns, things that demanded your attention right away.
Heroes were just… there.
Most of them had abilities that set them apart, something that made them different from ordinary people. Some would even call them “abnormal”.
But then again, what counted as normal anymore?
If being different made someone abnormal, then did that not mean most people were, in their own way, abnormal too?
You fell quiet, actually considering the question instead of brushing it off. It lingered in your mind longer than you expected.
“I’ve never really thought about it,” you admitted honestly.
That was the truth. Most of the time, you avoided heroes whenever you could. Crossing paths with them usually meant trouble. Maybe not the kind they reserved for dangerous criminals but enough to make your life difficult. After all, what you did was not exactly clean either.
“What about you?” you asked, tossing the question back to him.
He looked at you for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line as if he was weighing his answer.
For once, he did not respond right away.
“I think most of them probably have PR writers.”
His answer caught you off guard and a laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
“Yeah, not just most. Probably all of them,” you corrected, your smile widening just a little.
He returned it with ease.
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
There was something in the way he said it that tugged at your attention, though you did not linger on it for long before he continued.
“So… why don’t you write more about them?”
“Heroes, you mean?” you asked, just to make sure.
He gave a small nod.
“Well, mostly because it’s a hassle,” you admitted, letting out a quiet breath as you leaned back against the bench. Your shoulders sank into it, the tension in your body finally loosening. “One article about them can bring in a lot, sure, but it’s not easy to land an interview.”
Your gaze drifted upward, following the faint glow of the streetlight above.
“They’ve got more important things to deal with than standing around answering questions from reporters,” you went on, your tone turning a little dry. “And honestly, the pay isn’t even that great unless you manage to get something exclusive.”
He listened with steady focus, his attention never wavering as you spoke.
“Would you want one?” he asked.
You blinked and momentarily thrown off.
“An exclusive interview,” he added, as if to make sure you understood.
You paused and actually considering it this time.
“Well… it would definitely make things easier for me,” you admitted, ạ selfbaware smile forming on your lip. “But a small editorial office like mine doesn’t really stand a chance. There are plenty of bigger, more reputable companies already lining up for that kind of opportunity.”
He fell quiet after that.
His gaze stayed on you, but there was a shift in it, subtle yet noticeable, as though his thoughts had wandered somewhere else entirely. The silence between you stretched, it’s not heavy but present enough to make you aware of it.
A light breeze passed through the bus stop, brushing against him and stirring his hair. The strands lifted and fell again, softer now under the streetlight. In that moment, the details of his appearance stood out more clearly.
The pale blond of his hair carried a muted sheen under the dim light, each strand catching just enough brightness to give it depth instead of washing it out. It framed his face in a way that felt unintentional yet fitting, some pieces falling close to his cheek before slipping back with the movement of the wind.
His eyes seemed more defined now. The shadows no longer hid them completely, allowing you to see the quiet focus in them, the way they remained fixed on you even when he said nothing. His expression had softened again, the faint curve of his lips returning as if it belonged there naturally.
You glanced down at your watch and realized how late it had gotten.
You had work tomorrow.
“I should get going,” you said, pushing yourself up as you gathered your things.
He shifted as well, rising from the bench at an unhurried pace.
“Thank you… really,” you added, your voice quieter now, more sincere than before. “And sorry for dragging you into all of this.”
“It wasn’t any trouble,” he replied, a low chuckle following his words as he slipped his hands into his pockets. “Not every night I get to meet a cute journalist.”
Heat crept up your face at how casually and directly he said it. You could only offer a small smile in return, unsure of what else to do with that kind of comment.
Soon after, the two of you parted ways, heading in opposite directions.
As you walked back to your apartment, you pulled out your phone, absentmindedly checking the time again. It was only then that a thought struck you.
You did not know his name.
Not once had it come up and you had not even thought to ask.
Maybe it was better that way. Fair, in a sense. He did not know your name either.
Roommate!caleb and non mc reader teaching each other’s their regional recipes after each caught the other cooking something and was interested in each other cooking.
Omg Nonnie!!! You are absolutely cooking with that idea!!!! (Heheh see what i did there 👁👁)
Also you asked perfectly in time because i just got home too and i miss my mom's cooking hehe
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You are homesick, and work's been stressing you out lately. You just got off from a phonecall with your mom and it makes you even more homesick. So you resort to the next best thing - imitating her cooking. Sure the taste is a little different but it's your comfort food and brings you a semblance of home.
Roommate! Caleb who just got home from work too and is greeted by the scent of perfectly blended aromatics wafting in the air. He walks towards the kitchen and he sees you in the most comfiest pair of shorts and shirt he has seen you in. You are humming to yourself, mixing some soup in the pan.
"That smells great... " His voice almost makes you jump. He chuckles at your reaction before rounding the corner and stands beside you. You don't really notice how close he is, or that his arm is slung over your waist. You bring the laddle to your lips to taste. It's perfect. You blow the steam from the soup a few times before bringing it near his lips. He absentmindedly pulls you by the hips and slurps everything in the laddle. It's a new taste, sure but it's not bad, he genuinely like sour food too!
He tells you if he can eat it with you and the smile you let out almost makes him melt. You eagerly turn off the stove and proceed to gather both of your soup bowl. You tell him how you used to eat it -- with rice (preferably the ones left overnight) but you offer him a fresh batch. You tell him about elementary lunch breaks as a child, you tell him about found memories. You tell him about home.
He eagerly copies the way you eat it and his eyes light up, he understand why you like it and you both realize that you have the same food taste.
Roommate! Caleb who wakes you up the next weekend with scent of his cooking. You just wokeup but the clanking of pans and whatnot intrigues you. You hop down your bunk only to be greeted by the glorious scent of his cooking. You are hen greeted by an equally glorious view of his bare back -- that shit wakes you fully. It's almkst as if he senses your presence. He slightly turns (and smirks) to you before turning back to his cooking. You ask him what's he cooking and he tells you it's his favorite, one of his grandma's secret recipes. He tells you how she trusts him more than his little sister, kitchenwise. And this is his hometown's signature dish.
He reaches his arm over to your general direction and almost lifts you to make you scooch closer to him (his skin is warm) he takes a meat chunk with a fork and you almost audibly gasp by how tender it is. He blows on it, testing it on his lips first before bringing it to yours. Healmost laughs at how big you open your mouth. The taste is so good you get away from his grasp only to bring your own plate over. You gesture for him to put more. He gestures to the table -- two plates and two mugs of fresh coffee.
"Lazy weekend? " He invites.
"Lazy weekend. "
The box of handwritten recipes in both of your handwriting grows each week.
Synopsis : After two years of a secret affair with the Federation's High Marshal, Caleb, he betrays you by marrying your sister, the Empress, under the guise of securing peace. Heartbroken, you turn to Khaosi's sovereign Sylus to exact your revenge.
Pairing (brief): Caleb × Reader (non-MC), later Sylus × Reader (non-MC), featuring MC
Content: The Empire, the Federation and Khaosi are all enemies. MC is only mentioned (not the main character). The reader’s name is Luna, MC’s younger adopted sister. Evol exists in this universe.
TW: Alternate Universe (AU), angst, mention of sexual intercourse (no explicit smut until later parts)
a/n: This is my first time writing a fanfic, not just Love and Deepspace-related, but fanfiction in general. The story is inspired by Caleb’s card Imperial Thronesong and Sylus’s card Primordial Chaos from the multi-banner Throne of Eros. If you haven’t seen them yet, I recommend checking them out before reading this.
Word count: 1,096
Ongoing (part 2 of X)
Part 1
REVENGE OF THE HEART
Part 2
The journey to Khaosi is a treacherous one, thanks to the magnetic field interference surrounding the galaxy. Wave after wave of turbulence sends your spaceship lurching violently. Lights flicker erratically. Warnings blur across the console advising you to turn back.
You rely on a steady hand fueled by anger as you push through. Thank the Gods you spent so many years honing your piloting skills in an attempt to impress Caleb and win his favor. Not to mention the countless trips you made across the galaxy on Empire business.
You land your ship. The airlock kicks up red sand as you step out. Despite your spacesuit you can feel the scorching heat burning against your skin. The whole planet looks like a desolate wasteland desert.
The ground shakes beneath your feet. You look up to see planets colliding and exploding overhead, fragments crashing down through the sky. The thunderous noise makes your ears ring. Through your helmet visor, you scan the surrounding landscape. In the distance, you spot Khaosi’s inhabitants collecting erythrostones. The stones produce a heatwave mist that withers nearby vegetation and leaves the inhabitants covered in corrosive wounds. The planet’s surface is truly nothing more than chaos and destruction.
Since you’ve arrived during an erythrostone shower, the capital is currently underground. A floating platform carries you into darkness, descending for what feels like an eternity before light finally appears.
You’re greeted by dozens of soldiers, all very kindly pointing their guns at your head.
Not bothered in the slightest, you remove your helmet and with a firm raised voice declare, “I am Lady Luna of the Galactic Empire and I seek an audience with your sovereign.”
Nobody speaks.
“Someone can either lead me to him,” you continue, “or I’ll find my own way.”
You’d think you would at least have one bullet in your head as you casually walk past the herd of soldiers, but instead they remain frozen in place - as if someone or something were controlling their movements like puppets on strings.
You swing your leg over a nearby hoverbike and ride off toward the center of the city. The sovereign’s residence is impossible to miss, marked by a dragon-shaped erythrostone emblem glimmering at the highest point.
The elevator chimes as you reach the highest floor of the residence. Having encountered no soldiers you are not surprised to find a dark figure waiting, back turned as he gazes out through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.
What you didn’t expect was for your breath to hitch and your pupils to widen as the figure, known by name as Sylus, slowly turns to face you.
Back at the Empire, you had made it your sole priority to know everything there is to know about everyone and everything, believing knowledge to be the ultimate power. Khaosi was no exception. Yet no description of Khaosi’s sovereign could have done him justice. He stood nearly two meters tall, with broad shoulders tapering to a slim waist, chiseled features, and a sculpted physique. Silver strands of hair fell across his forehead, framing red ruby eyes that seemed to pierce directly into your soul. If one word could describe him most would say 'terrifying'. For you, it would be 'mesmerizing'.
For a brief moment, you notice one of his eyes glowing more intensely. At first you think you’re imagining it, until you realize he has an aether core embedded in his right eye. Fascinating. Aside from yourself you have never met another being with an aether core. An aether core is the most potent type of protocore, a source of unlimited energy, something one is never simply born with. Your own diamond-shaped aether core with a deep purple hue, rests visually at your sternum.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, my lady?” Gods, even his voice is alluring.
“I am not here on behalf of the Empire, but merely as myself. I wish to form an alliance with Khaosi.”
“Oh? And for what purpose?” Sylus’s tone carries a hint of curiosity.
“As I’m sure you are aware, the Empire and the Federation have joined forces, sealing their so-called unity and peace via marriage. I believe this to be nothing more than deception.” You pause, letting the weight of your words sink in. “The Federation and the Empire have been at each other’s throats for decades. The Federation consists of those dissatisfied with the Empire’s rules - in other words, traitors. Only a fool would believe decades of war could be soothed over by a marriage pact. The Federation plans to get close, catch us off guard, and overthrow us from within. I will not allow it.”
“And what is it you need Khaosi to do?” Sylus asks.
“What the Empress and all her predecessors failed to accomplish: bring the Federation to extinction. It should never have grown into such a powerful adversary. And what better strength to help me achieve that than Khaosi?”
Sylus lets out a rich laugh. “As much as I would like to see the Federation kneel, that is no more than a fantasy now, especially with their union with the Empire. I may be ruthless, but I am not suicidal. Such a task is a one-way ticket to an early grave.”
You move to take a seat in an armchair, crossing your legs.
“As far as I recall, Khaosi is the only nation with erythrostones, making all weapons indestructible. Combine that with my knowledge and I’d say we have a fair chance of success.” You tap the armrest with your nails. “Deal with the Federation and its High Marshal as you see fit. I only ask that no harm comes to my sister.”
“Negotiations always come at a price,” Sylus smirks. “What exactly can you offer?”
“With the Federation gone, the Empire will be open to a new partnership. You may fool others but I know the real reason you seek the Empire. Each day, Khaosi edges closer to destruction. The Empire is your refuge.”
“The Empire is not yours to give,” Sylus replies bluntly.
“My sister may wear the crown but she is merely a symbol. Her kindness is her downfall. She avoids conflict like the plague, choosing compromise over strength. I am the one who truly commands the Empire - a guiding hand acting from the shadows.” A smug smile curls across your lips.
Sylus steps closer, towering over you like a mountain. He takes your hand, pressing a feather-light kiss to the back of your palm. You mentally curse yourself as your heart skips a beat.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
titsay
amandla
