This contains: Gang violence, weapons, substance abuse, sexual content, toxic relationships, dark humour, infidelity, manipulation, emotional abuse, corruption, sexual harassment, mature language, death, alcohol abuse, overdose, objectification, misogyny, bullying, obsession, torture, abuse of authority, coercion, power imbalance, mentions of sexual violence.
NOW YOU KNOW DAMN WELL I WILL 😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹😹
The ones waiting for the tokyo rev fic, it will drop soon but I got a little writer block.
This is a smut oneshot, I think its porn w plot? I‘m not quite sure. My first smut writing✌️ idk how korean prisons work btw.
Can you tell I half assed it at the end?
Warnings: Mentions of violence and blood. Masturbation(M), riding. Idk nothing too crazy
After beating the shit out of the other inmates in the yard, some larger in mass, some who looked like they could take him but couldn’t— Gun was escorted back to his cell by an officer. The smell of blood and sweat still clung to his blue jumper and his skin.
But Gun still didn’t feel satisfied. He felt bored, and something else he couldn’t quite name. Excitement, maybe. Or missing [Name]. He kept thinking about you, and it was an unpleasant feeling.
It’s not that he hated you, it’s just that every reminder of you reminds him that his only way of avoiding boredom is by “sparring” with the inmates. And all of them are so easily beaten by him. It’s sad.
And what’s even more irritating is that writing in his notebook isn’t helping him ignore the growing bulge in his pants.
The cause? [Name].
‚Pathetic.‘ he thinks as he runs his calloused hand through his black hair. Getting hard off nothing but memories, he considers that pathetic.
Yet he doesn’t stop himself from lying back on the floor of his cell, closing his eyes, stretching his legs out and letting his other hand slide across his clothed torso, down to his bulge.
At first his hand just rests on it. Gun is a disciplined man, he won’t jerk off the moment his dick acts up.
But then he remembers-
The car was parked in some underground parking lot, surrounded by parked vehicles. Gun had no issue getting his dick wet by you in his car and cleaning it up afterward.
It was just that you were nervous about it and panicking sometimes. „What if people notice?“ You‘d ask. He‘d just tell you his windows are tinted and that he saw it as irrelevant.
It was right after karaoke with Goo. The blond had gotten drunk, and Gun noticed the way he kept undressing you with his eyes.
Goo didn’t say anything out of line or touch you inappropriately, he only teased you casually, the way he did with Gun. He kept it respectful, but his gaze kept dragging over your body, the way the pants hugged your ass, your tits in that shirt.
The pants were supposed to be casual, not tight, but your ass and thighs filled them out just enough to show your silhouette. The shirt was simple, but the cut was meant to be fitted.
The “White Ghost” just waited until the night was over. As soon as you got into the car, Gun didn’t waste time. He pulled you in and kissed you, tongue sliding over yours, and now it had led to this.
Your pants were tossed aside, your heels thrown somewhere on the ground, and your shirt pushed up, your bra torn off by him. You soft tits squished against his chest through the open shirt.
„F- Fuck!“ The sound of your uneven voice reached his ears as your warm breath spilled against his neck. „Gun- I want m- hah!“ You couldn’t even get the words out without a moan escaping your throat.
Your thick, soft thighs bracketing his hips felt good to Gun. Your legs lay useless across the backseat of his car.
Gun exhaled through his nose „Try again,“ he muttered into your ear, his voice rough and quiet. His words made you tighten around his thick cock.
His big hands kept a firm, almost rough hold on your hips, his thumbs settling into the fold between your thighs and hips.
He forced your hips to jerk into his as he grinds up into yours. His cock kept sliding along your soft, wet heat, dragging and pressing into those sweet spots it had you going crosseyed.
„Shit!“ you choked out as his fat tip hit that spot again, your fingers were tangled in his black hair. You lifted your face, trying to kiss him, but Gun turned his face slightly.
He caught the brief confusion on your face, it didn’t last. His hand quickly left your hip and struck your ass sharply. You jolted against him hard enough to make the seat creak, your breath caught in your throat as your fingers pulled at his hair. Gun cursed under his breath.
He felt your cunt squeezing and trying to pull him in more, your soft thighs quivered. Gun‘s grip stayed at your ass, roughly kneading the flesh.
„You need more attention?“ He muttered near your ear. „That‘s not enough for you?“ Gun grunted, he knew you were too fucked out to respond as his pace picked up, rougher now. The wet sounds only grew louder in the cramped car.
„You‘re gonna cum.“ he stated, his white irises staring into yours. His cock already had a sticky white ring around the base just from your juices.
Gun watched you nod. He slowed down abruptly, making you stay put on his cock as his hips kept moving in tight circles.
„Pathetic.“ He muttered, his own breathing started to get uneven. He watched you whine in frustration at the sudden change in speed. „Just from that blondie looking at you?“
Gun knew you were trying to grind on him. He slightly tightened his grip on your ass quickly, not letting you move the way you desperately needed to. Your stretchmarks shifted faintly beneath his fingertips.
Your thighs, hips and waist were already painted red by his handprints. „N- No!“ you corrected quickly, stuttering. „It‘s your- your cock making me cum!“
„Whose cock?“ Gun asked again, almost amused as his pace slowed to practically nothing. He saw the frustration on your face and grinned slightly.
„Your dick, Gun! It’s you!“ you almost shouted. Then, more needy and breathless „Please, I have to ride you,“ Gun‘s hands suddenly left your ass, only for his thick arms to lock around your waist.
Gun pushed himself farther forward in the seat, dragging you with him as he spread his legs wider. The cramped car and his pants tangled around his ankles barely gave him room. The sudden sounds of wet skin slapping filled the car as Gun held you tightly, pounding into your welcoming cunt.
His cock kept burying itself deeper into your pussy if that was even possible. Every harsh exhale, every grunt, every little whimper near your ear made you tighten around his cock. So predictable.
The car was cramped, but he didn’t care. What mattered were your reactions, the sudden tightening of your abdomen, the way your thighs trembled with each thrust, the way you moaned for him.
‚Too fucking tight.‘ he thought.
His hand slid up to your throat without warning, fingers closing around it until your breath hitched. Your throat felt warm under his cold hand, pulse hammering against his palm.
“You liked his attention?” he asked, voice low and strained, his brows pulling together slightly.
You shook your head, your hips grinding against him suddenly. Gun bit back a moan when he released your throat, both hands settling back onto your hips. His cock was twitching as it leaked into you.
He felt your arms automatically tighten around his neck as he began to use you like a fucking toy, leaving both of you a mess. You were already a mess before, now it’s just getting out of hand. His balls are drenched as well as his thighs. He knew you were creaming on his cock already.
His thighs flexed and he felt his stomach tighten repeatedly as his hips slowed, his cock jerking as he spilled his creamy load into your pussy.
His arms loosened around your waist. One hand moved slowly between your bodies, his thumb moving in slow circles over your sensitive clit.
„W- wait- I, I came! Baby!“ Your voice sounded wrecked now, rough from everything he’d pulled out of you. Gun’s expression barely changed, save for the slow heaving of his chest. „You let him look.“ His thumb did not ease up on your clit.
„You liked that?“ he added.
“No!” you cried, trying to pull back. “I-I’m gonna squirt if you don’t stop!” Gun ignored the warning completely. Ruin his shirt. He’d replace it tomorrow anyway.
Gun snaps back into reality, when did his hand go under his pants? He can’t recall. It doesn’t matter anyway.
He pulls his hand out, only to see it covered in his cum. He was so absorbed in the memory that he didn’t notice how he fucked his hand to it.
The ones waiting for the tokyo rev fic, it will drop soon but I got a little writer block.
This is a smut oneshot, I think its porn w plot? I‘m not quite sure. My first smut writing✌️ idk how korean prisons work btw. Gun is lowkey hard to write
Can you tell I half assed it at the end?
Warnings: Mentions of violence and blood. Masturbation(M), riding. Idk nothing too crazy
After beating the shit out of the other inmates in the yard, some larger in mass, some who looked like they could take him but couldn’t— Gun was escorted back to his cell by an officer. The smell of blood and sweat still clung to his blue jumper and his skin.
But Gun still didn’t feel satisfied. He felt bored, and something else he couldn’t quite name. Excitement, maybe. Or missing [Name]. He kept thinking about you, and it was an unpleasant feeling.
It’s not that he hated you, it’s just that every reminder of you reminds him that his only way of avoiding boredom is by “sparring” with the inmates. And all of them are so easily beaten by him. It’s sad.
And what’s even more irritating is that writing in his notebook isn’t helping him ignore the growing bulge in his pants.
The cause? [Name].
‚Pathetic.‘ he thinks as he runs his calloused hand through his black hair. Getting hard off nothing but memories, he considers that pathetic.
Yet he doesn’t stop himself from lying back on the floor of his cell, closing his eyes, stretching his legs out and letting his other hand slide across his clothed torso, down to his bulge.
At first his hand just rests on it. Gun is a disciplined man, he won’t jerk off the moment his dick acts up.
But then he remembers-
The car was parked in some underground parking lot, surrounded by parked vehicles. Gun had no issue getting his dick wet by you in his car and cleaning it up afterward.
It was just that you were nervous about it and panicking sometimes. „What if people notice?“ You‘d ask. He‘d just tell you his windows are tinted and that he saw it as irrelevant.
It was right after karaoke with Goo. The blond had gotten drunk, and Gun noticed the way he kept undressing you with his eyes.
Goo didn’t say anything out of line or touch you inappropriately, he only teased you casually, the way he did with Gun. He kept it respectful, but his gaze kept dragging over your body, the way the pants hugged your ass, your tits in that shirt.
The pants were supposed to be casual, not tight, but your ass and thighs filled them out just enough to show your silhouette. The shirt was simple, but the cut was meant to be fitted.
The “White Ghost” just waited until the night was over. As soon as you got into the car, Gun didn’t waste time. He pulled you in and kissed you, tongue sliding over yours, and now it had led to this.
Your pants were tossed aside, your heels thrown somewhere on the ground, and your shirt pushed up, your bra torn off by him. You soft tits squished against his chest through the open shirt.
„F- Fuck!“ The sound of your uneven voice reached his ears as your warm breath spilled against his neck. „Gun- I want m- hah!“ You couldn’t even get the words out without a moan escaping your throat.
Your thick, soft thighs bracketing his hips felt good to Gun. Your legs lay useless across the backseat of his car.
Gun exhaled through his nose „Try again,“ he muttered into your ear, his voice rough and quiet. His words made you tighten around his thick cock.
His big hands kept a firm, almost rough hold on your hips, his thumbs settling into the fold between your thighs and hips.
He forced your hips to jerk into his as he grinds up into yours. His cock kept sliding along your soft, wet heat, dragging and pressing into those sweet spots it had you going crosseyed.
„Shit!“ you choked out as his fat tip hit that spot again, your fingers were tangled in his black hair. You lifted your face, trying to kiss him, but Gun turned his face slightly.
He caught the brief confusion on your face, it didn’t last. His hand quickly left your hip and struck your ass sharply. You jolted against him hard enough to make the seat creak, your breath caught in your throat as your fingers pulled at his hair. Gun cursed under his breath.
He felt your cunt squeezing and trying to pull him in more, your soft thighs quivered. Gun‘s grip stayed at your ass, roughly kneading the flesh.
„You need more attention?“ He muttered near your ear. „That‘s not enough for you?“ Gun grunted, he knew you were too fucked out to respond as his pace picked up, rougher now. The wet sounds only grew louder in the cramped car.
„You‘re gonna cum.“ he stated, his white irises staring into yours. His cock already had a sticky white ring around the base just from your juices.
Gun watched you nod. He slowed down abruptly, making you stay put on his cock as his hips kept moving in tight circles.
„Pathetic.“ He muttered, his own breathing started to get uneven. He watched you whine in frustration at the sudden change in speed. „Just from that blondie looking at you?“
Gun knew you were trying to grind on him. He slightly tightened his grip on your ass quickly, not letting you move the way you desperately needed to. Your stretchmarks shifted faintly beneath his fingertips.
Your thighs, hips and waist were already painted red by his handprints. „N- No!“ you corrected quickly, stuttering. „It‘s your- your cock making me cum!“
„Whose cock?“ Gun asked again, almost amused as his pace slowed to practically nothing. He saw the frustration on your face and grinned slightly.
„Your dick, Gun! It’s you!“ you almost shouted. Then, more needy and breathless „Please, I have to ride you,“ Gun‘s hands suddenly left your ass, only for his thick arms to lock around your waist.
Gun pushed himself farther forward in the seat, dragging you with him as he spread his legs wider. The cramped car and his pants tangled around his ankles barely gave him room. The sudden sounds of wet skin slapping filled the car as Gun held you tightly, pounding into your welcoming cunt.
His cock kept burying itself deeper into your pussy if that was even possible. Every harsh exhale, every grunt, every little whimper near your ear made you tighten around his cock. So predictable.
The car was cramped, but he didn’t care. What mattered were your reactions, the sudden tightening of your abdomen, the way your thighs trembled with each thrust, the way you moaned for him.
‚Too fucking tight.‘ he thought.
His hand slid up to your throat without warning, fingers closing around it until your breath hitched. Your throat felt warm under his cold hand, pulse hammering against his palm.
“You liked his attention?” he asked, voice low and strained, his brows pulling together slightly.
You shook your head, your hips grinding against him suddenly. Gun bit back a moan when he released your throat, both hands settling back onto your hips. His cock was twitching as it leaked into you.
He felt your arms automatically tighten around his neck as he began to use you like a fucking toy, leaving both of you a mess. You were already a mess before, now it’s just getting out of hand. His balls were drenched as well as his thighs. He knew you were creaming on his cock already.
His thighs flexed and he felt his stomach tighten repeatedly as his hips slowed, his cock jerking as he spilled his creamy load into your pussy.
His arms loosened around your waist. One hand moved slowly between your bodies, his thumb moving in slow circles over your sensitive clit.
„W- wait- I, I came! Baby!“ Your voice sounded wrecked now, rough from everything he’d pulled out of you. Gun’s expression barely changed, save for the slow heaving of his chest. „You let him look.“ His thumb did not ease up on your clit.
„You liked that?“ he added.
“No!” you cried, trying to pull back. “I-I’m gonna squirt if you don’t stop!” Gun ignored the warning completely. Ruin his shirt. He’d replace it tomorrow anyway.
Gun snaps back into reality, when did his hand go under his pants? He can’t recall. It doesn’t matter anyway.
He pulls his hand out, only to see it covered in his cum. He was so absorbed in the memory that he didn’t notice how he fucked his hand to it.
synopsis: what comes after the secret you’ve been keeping all your life — that you’re in love with your best friend, manjiro — is revealed in the most unexpected way?
part one
pairings: racer!sano manjiro x fem!reader
content warnings: mature themes, 18+, ns/fw, M.D.N.I.
Dread fills your bones, making your whole body go still on the edge of your bed while the last message sent by Manjiro keeps replaying in your head.
"Let's talk, y/n."
In an instant, it’s like your world crumbles beneath you, stripping away everything that protects you and leaving only your naked, embarrassed self. You didn't expect a situation like this to come — and yet, it arrives when you are at your most defenseless. Nothing could be worse than this.
You feel shameful. Pathetic, even. The tears keep flowing down your face because there’s no way to undo it now — not when the evidence is spitting right in your face: that he answered the call while you were touching yourself, he heard you screaming his name, he listened to you falling apart with him on your mind, and then he texted you, asking to talk. And goddamn, what does any of this mean if not that you have feelings for him?
You thought you could keep your secret locked in a vault for years, only for it to be revealed in the most careless way possible. Now, you can’t do anything but cry, your mind overflowing with the fear that you’ve stained the only connection you have with him — your friendship. The one thing that will now surely meet its end, all because of your selfish desires and the feelings he never asked for.
Weeping eventually leads you to falling asleep. The endless thinking drowns you so deeply that you don't even notice the time passing. You simply fall asleep out of pure exhaustion, and only wake up when your phone alarm goes off.
Just when you thought it was all a dream, you open your phone to turn it off, only to be met with the reality you’ve been living in.
Manjiro's text is still there. As real as everything that happened last night.
You press your palms into your face as a fresh wave of worry sinks in. What now? you think. What are you even supposed to do now that everything is out in the open?
You stare at Manjiro’s last message. He hasn’t followed up, and that somehow makes it worse. The silence feels heavy, loaded with everything you’re afraid of: a disappointed man sitting on the other end, betrayed and disgusted, just waiting for you to finally say it out loud so he can be done with you.
The moment you roll out of bed, you decide you won't face him. Not yet. You tell yourself you need to distance yourself first, that you need time to sort everything out before you can face him.
But deep down, you know that's not it.
The truth is, you're just a coward. And the only thing you can bring yourself to do right now is avoid him completely, at all costs.
So that's what you'll do.
Using every bit of strength you can muster, you prepare yourself for work. Your mind hasn't drifted from thoughts of Manjiro even for a second, but you do everything you can to drag yourself out the door anyway. At least at the office, the pending tasks and deliverables can pull your focus away from him even just for a little while.
But you're wrong about even that.
The moment you step inside, your closest colleagues, the ones who know about your connection to the famous racer, immediately corner you to ask about his performance on the track. Manjiro's wins have been all over social media since last night, so of course they knew, and of course they had to bring it up. You nod along, give them short polite answers, and get to work.
By the time the day ends, it's clear that trying to distract yourself was never going to work. For most of the day, you've been sneaking glances at your phone, waiting for a message from him that never comes. You don't know whether to feel relieved that you haven't heard anything from his side, or more worried because of it. Either way, the dread never leaves your body and you come home that night more exhausted than ever.
This carries on for two days straight — the distance you've put between you and the silence on his end. It starts affecting your performance at work badly enough that you find yourself considering filing for a leave just to sort your head out. But every time you come home to your apartment and are met with nothing but quiet, your thoughts grow louder than anything else — you'd rather exhaust yourself fixing mistakes at work than spiral alone through endless overthinking.
However, this whole avoidance has to end eventually. Whether you are prepared or not, you must face the consequences of your actions, and Manjiro makes sure of that on the third morning when a notification from him finally pops up.
Your heart starts to pound as you unlock your screen with trembling fingers.
Fr: Jiro
y/n…
Are you busy?
That isn't what you were expecting. You were bracing yourself for something devastating, something that would confirm every worst fear you’ve spent two days constructing in your head, not this. However, the innocent message does nothing to ease your mind, and before you can even process it, your phone begins to ring.
He's calling.
The panic hits so fast that instead of answering or declining, you turn your phone off entirely. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your palms against your face.
What are you doing? you think. What are you doing, what are you doing, what are you doing…
And the coward wins again. Instead of facing him after he finally reaches out, you decide to keep your phone off.
You tell yourself it’s just for a few hours, enough time to breathe and figure out what to say. But those few hours become the whole morning, and the morning bleeds into the afternoon. Before you know it, you’re back home, the sun is gone, and your phone is still a dark weight in your hand.
You stare at it for a long moment. Then, you turn it back on. Your heart tightens as the screen instantly floods with notifications.
Fr: Jiro
10:47 AM: I was busy with training, I didn't get to message you.
11:06 AM: Still no reply? Stop ignoring me, please.
11:10 AM: Emma’s birthday on friday. It would be just the usual circle, nothing big. Come, okay?
Before you can even think, your fingers hover over the keyboard and start typing.
To: Jiro
I’m not sure…
The moment you hit send, regret sinks in. It’s too late. Manjiro’s response comes immediately, the notification dinging before you can even look away.
Fr: Jiro
Why? It’s emma’s birthday.
Are you avoiding me…
The familiar nervousness tugs at your heart so sharply you almost drop the phone. His last message sits there like a quiet accusation. Your chest tightens as you spiral: Why is he asking the obvious when you both know what happened that night? Is this a test? Is he waiting to see if you’ll finally be honest, or if you’ll run again?
You stare at the screen for a long time. Then, you lock it.
You can’t reply. Not when your mind can only offer two things: excuses you’re too tired to sell, or a confession that will surely end everything. So, you say nothing. You set the phone face down and stare at the ceiling instead, trying to force your heartbeat to slow down.
It doesn’t.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. Then, your phone dings again. You pick it up slowly.
Fr: Jiro
I didn't hear anything, y/n.
The air leaves your lungs. You read it again. Twice, thrice. You search those four words over and over, looking for a hidden meaning.
He didn't hear anything…
Whether he meant he didn't hear your response to his message or he didn't hear anything on the phone that night, you aren't sure.
You aren't sure of anything anymore.
In the crushing quiet of the night, the only response you can muster is a silent sob.
"I didn't hear anything, y/n."
The words echo in your head, a lifeline and a threat all at once. You have to face him now, whether you are ready or not. You have to find out if he truly heard you. You have to see if you are capable of telling the truth, or if you’re just going to fall apart.
Friday arrives before you're ready for it.
You stand in front of the mirror, face adorned with makeup — your best attempt at hiding the exhaustion that five days of sleepless nights have carved into you. Five days since that night, and not once have you had a real moment to think anything through.
You’re still caught in a haze of embarrassment and dread, but the world doesn’t care if you’re ready to face him. Time moves forward, and if you want any hope of returning to a sense of peace, you have to move with it. Even if "peace" means confessing your biggest secret — that you are hopelessly in love with your best friend — and watching it ruin everything you’ve ever known.
You take one last look at yourself in the mirror, grab your bag, and go.
You step into the hotel where Emma's birthday is being held. Somewhere inside that private dining room, Manjiro is already there.
Waiting.
You smooth down your dress, take a deep breath, and walk in.
As expected, the birthday party is an intimate affair. For a moment, seeing the familiar faces of your mutual friends settles the frantic beat in your chest...
But the relief is short-lived.
Your heart begins to thump again the second you spot members of the race team. You know Manjiro's right there. He couldn't be far, and if you just let your gaze wander a little further, you’d find him.
You keep your gaze carefully ahead, focused on nothing, avoiding the edges of the room where you know he might be standing. But before you can blend into the background, someone catches your arm and pulls you into a sudden hug.
"I thought you weren't going to come, y/n! You’ve been radio silent lately!"
It’s Emma. She’s her usual bubbly self, pulling you into a hug so tight it almost forces the air out of your lungs. Your heart slowly eases as you return the embrace, clinging to her just as tightly.
"As if I’d miss your birthday, silly. If I did, you’d never let me hear the end of it" you chuckle. But even as the words leave your mouth, you’re reminded of how close you actually came to staying home, of how you almost disappointed her just because you couldn't face her brother.
You let the thought slip away and focus on Emma, who pulls back from the hug first, beaming at you.
"You know me." She giggles. "Though I really wouldn’t have minded if you were busy. We could always celebrate another day — it's not like there's a law against it."
You squint at her, searching for the lie in her statement, and she laughs at your skeptical expression. "Come on, I’m telling the truth!"
You sigh, a gentle smile tugging at your lips. "Just be thankful I'm here."
You reach out and hand her the gift you've been holding. "Happy birthday, Emms."
Emma beams, clutching the gift to her chest. "Thank you, y/n! And thank you for actually coming. I was lying when I said it would be okay if you stayed home."
The two of you burst into shared laughter, and for a fleeting second, the weight pressing down on your chest vanishes. You bask in the giggles, feeling almost normal again.
Then the laughter slowly fades, and Emma's eyes drift across the room.
"Honestly, I could accept it if you didn’t show up. But you know who wouldn't?" Her gaze lands on someone specific. Even without turning around, the frantic skip of your heart tells you exactly who she’s looking at. "Mikey would have definitely thrown a tantrum. Have you talked to him yet?" she asks, her delight suddenly tinted with a quiet worry.
You don't respond, letting her continue.
"Draken told me he's been kind of off lately. We figured it's the new training — the sponsors have been watching closely with the championship coming up. I think the pressure's getting to him more than he lets on."
The bitterness settles on your tongue before you can stop it. He's out there pushing himself through rigorous training, carrying the weight of an entire season on his shoulders, and here you are, about to add to it. About to walk up to him and drop something that has nothing to do with racing and everything to do with ruining what you have.
Right then, without so much as glancing in the direction of his sister's gaze, you make up your mind.
Not tonight.
"Talk to him, okay?" Emma says, her voice gentle. "He's your best friend. He'd tell you if something was wrong."
You smile at her, small and tired.
He would. But the problem he doesn't know about yet...that's you.
Tonight, like every night before it, you choose to keep your distance.
You immediately try to lose yourself in the room, weaving into casual conversations and forcing yourself to look busy. But despite your best efforts, a restless energy claws at you. A prickling sensation on the back of your neck that tells you you’re being watched.
You aren’t wrong.
A sudden, accidental sweep of the room brings you face-to-face with the source of your unease.
Manjiro is standing beside Takemichi, his gaze fixed directly on you. You catch the slight widening of his eyes when your stares collide. He looks just as caught off guard as you are.
You look away first as the tension rises slowly up your throat, settling there and making itself impossible to ignore.
"You alright?" The voice cuts through the noise as a hand grasps your elbow. It’s Kazutora.
You look at him and quickly clear your throat, trying to find your voice.
"Y-yeah. Of course."
He nods, and the conversation folds back around the two of you like nothing happened. Because to everyone else in the room, nothing did. You are the only one coming apart on the inside, thread by thread, behind a perfectly composed face.
Needing to steady yourself, you excuse yourself to find a drink, desperate to wash down the lump in your throat.
You walk over to the small bar counter and grab a glass of champagne. You down the first one instantly, the sharp bite of the alcohol doing its best to steady your nerves. You reach for a second, but just as you bring the flute to your lips, your eyes traitorous as always, drift across the room on their own. And land on Manjiro.
He’s moving now, weaving his way through the crowd, his eyes locked onto yours. You realize with a jolt of panic that he’s walking straight toward you. Your grip tightens around the glass.
In a frantic attempt to look natural, you set the flute down and pivot, walking away from the bar to lose yourself among your friends again. You let the group crowd you, using them as a human shield.
It’s a game of cat and mouse that lasts the entire night. The moment you find yourself isolated for even a second, Manjiro is there, instantly trying to close the distance between you. His stare never wavers. no matter where you move, you can feel the weight of his gaze.
And you can tell he's growing frustrated. The crease between his brows deepens every time he watches you slip away again, every time you choose a crowded corner over facing him.
The guilt eats at you too. It carves into you steadily the same way it has been for days. But what can you do?
What can you really do?
It's not as if you wanted any of this. But the idiocy had to happen, and now here you are — trapped in this constant, exhausting battle with yourself. If only you could have said it on your own terms. A confession born from courage and not from the embarrassment of being caught, not from something as humiliating as what happened that night.
But could you have, really? Would you have confessed if the circumstances were different? Would you have done it at all?
You doubt it. Because you are a fucking coward.
And you would have kept it buried forever if not for that one mistake over a phone call.
So, for the hundredth time tonight, you bury yourself in the crowd so Manjiro can't get to you.
Then Emma's birthday cake is brought out and everyone gathers to sing. You try to steady yourself, dropping your messy thoughts for her sake. It's the least you can do after spending the better half of the night dodging her brother.
You finally lower your guard, giving Emma the attention she deserves and sing along with the rest.
You don't notice the body that slips in beside you.
Emma blows out her candles just as the last note of the song fades. The room erupts. Clapping, cheering, greetings overlapping from every direction. And in the middle of all that noise, while your guard is still down and your attention is still forward, a hand closes around your wrist.
You're being pulled before you can register it.
Everything blurs. The steps are fast, the crowd falling away behind you, and it's only when the cool air of the balcony hits your face that you understand who has been pulling you all along.
Manjiro releases your wrist and turns to face you.
There is no crowd to hide in. No conversation to slip back into. No way out.
You can’t fucking escape this one.
On the balcony, the crowd you used to hide in is suddenly out of grasp. Even though you’re isolated now, you still don't dare look up. You can’t bring yourself to meet the eyes that have been burning holes through you all night and are now fixed intently on your bowed head.
You swallow and wait for the first blow to land. It doesn't take long.
He lets out a heavy sigh, the sound of someone who has finally run out of patience.
"y/n"
You don't respond but your eyes move. Not toward him. Just anywhere that isn't him.
You’re painfully aware of the relentless beat of your heart. It feels powerful enough to rip through your chest if it keeps up this frantic pace. But you stay still, waiting for him to say the words that will end everything once and for all. Soon, you’ll be left with nothing but your ruined self and a friendship stained beyond repair.
You hear him shuffle, his slow footsteps approaching where you stand. He stops abruptly, just a few feet away, and lets out another sigh.
"Why are you avoiding me?" His voice is leveled, not nearly as cold as you deserve for what you’ve done.
You know that staying silent won't help you escape this. You have to respond, even if your brain refuses to give you the right words.
"I…" you exhale slowly, the sound shaky in the cold night air. "I don’t know what to say. I really don’t."
That's all you have. The only words you could pull from the wreckage of your thoughts.
You still haven't looked up at him but you can feel something radiating off of him in the silence. Something restless. Frustrated, maybe. Or dreading this just as much as you are.
"You don’t have to force yourself to say anything. I understand" he pauses, like he's choosing his next words carefully. "Just… would you stop avoiding me, y/n?"
That’s the cue. You finally find the strength to look up and meet his eyes.
There they are — his midnight irises that have haunted your imaginations, now staring at you, stripped of their usual light and replaced by a hollow, drained expression that almost makes you crumble on the spot.
"What do you mean… I don’t have to say anything?" your voice trembles. You search his face, desperately trying to find the meaning behind his words. Because there’s something underneath them, there has to be. But he doesn't flinch. He just stands there, his gaze fixed on you.
"What do you mean, Manjiro?"
For someone who spent the entire night chasing you, he chooses this exact moment to go silent. He looks away, his jaw tightening as he stares out at the dark horizon instead of at you. The sudden wall he’s built up agitates you, the uncertainty sparking a frantic need for an answer.
Because what is he trying to say? You don't have to say anything? After all of that and this?
"Manjiro, please" you call out again, your voice rising and shaking. He inhales sharply, the sound suggesting that whatever he’s about to say pains him just as much as it does you.
"I didn’t hear anything, y/n."
His words land like a match dropped into gasoline.
"That’s bullshit!" your voice comes out sharper than you intended. "I was wailing like a mess in there — chanting your name over and over and you were on the other end of that call for a full two minutes. Two fucking minutes, Manjiro! And now you're standing here telling me you didn't hear anything?!"
"What was I supposed to fucking do then?" he snaps in return. The unreadable mask he wore minutes ago is gone, replaced by a raw frustration that matches his voice. "You’ve distanced yourself from me for days. You wouldn’t even talk to me. The only thing I could think to do was tell you I didn’t hear shit, just so you’d stop running away—"
"But you did." It comes out barely above a whisper. The fight drains out of you as quickly as it came.
"You heard everything."
You don't wait for him to fill it. You push forward, even as you shake trying to pick up the broken pieces of yourself in front of him.
"And I was so—" you bite your lip as your vision blurs, tears threatening to spill at any second. "I was so embarrassed."
"y/n—"
"I—" You shake your head, cutting yourself off before he can reach you with your name.
Across from you, Manjiro goes still. His expression torn open, caught between something you don't have the clarity to name right now. He looks like he wants to reach for you. His foot shifts forward as if to close the gap but he stops himself abruptly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
"I didn't mean for any of it to… I mean, I never—" you bite your lip hard, almost drawing blood to ground yourself and stop your flowing tears.
He says your name again. Softer this time, like he's afraid the wrong pressure will destroy you completely. And that's exactly what undoes you.
Because you feel it rising the moment his voice gentles — that familiar pull of retreat. The same cowardice that has kept you silent for years rises in your chest, already building the excuses, already forming the words: It’s fine, forget it, pretend I said nothing.
Maybe you can salvage this without saying another word and just apologize for the mess you’ve caused. Maybe you could choose to believe his lie. Maybe you could convince yourself that you don’t need to confess. You could take the exit he’s giving you and continue living your life, even if the secret would eat you alive day by day.
Maybe that's enough. Maybe it has to be.
But before the retreat can fully form on your tongue Manjiro speaks.
"We can…" He pauses, his gaze dropping to the floor between you.
"If you want, we can forget this. All of it. I can pretend… if that's what you need."
The most generous thing he has ever offered you and somehow, the most devastating. He is giving you exactly what the coward in you always wanted: an exit. A way back to "before." A way to keep him safely as just your best friend.
But you’re so tired.
You’re exhausted from keeping everything hidden away. You're tired of loving him only in your mind — the only place where you could do so without restrictions, without the feeling of crossing a line, without staining or ruining anything.
You can't have that anymore.
"But I can't."
It feels as if a vault has finally been forced open, the words you’ve tried to bury acting as the key. The feelings you thought would never see the light of day are finally laid bare before him.
"I can’t do the 'pretend' anymore."
"Not when I’ve spent years feeling this way."
Every word feels like blood being spat from your mouth. It makes you shake, but it would be more painful to keep it in than to let it out. You continue, even as your voice breaks. Even as your heart does, too.
"Not when I’ve already crossed every line — willingly, Manjiro. All of it, willingly. Just so I could at least feel like you could finally see where I am."
Tears continue to spill, blurring your sight until he’s barely more than a shape in front of you. You pull a split second of bravery to look directly into his eyes as you spill your heart out. Cowardice be damned. Let him see you break. He already heard you at your highest and it shattered you even more after. What difference does it make if he witnesses you at your lowest, standing here as the same shattered self?
"Turn around and see me, Manjiro...I was here. I still am...I'm in love with you."
And you finally break.
You cover your face, the sound of your own wailing sending a violent shiver down your spine. It's terrifying to hear yourself cry this loudly. To feel the raw, unfiltered sound of your heart breaking in the open air. Your legs feel hollow, and you’re certain that at any moment your knees will give out and you'll stumble.
But before you can fall, you feel a sudden, firm tug at your wrist.
And then you're moving.
No words. No warning. Manjiro pulls you back through the balcony doors and into the hall and you don't have the strength to resist. You don't have anything left. You just follow, face still hidden behind your hand trying to hold whatever remains of yourself together.
You’re being led through the crowd, still sobbing openly, and you feel the suffocating weight of every eye in the room following your every move. You’re powerless to shield your messy, broken self from the sudden spotlight. Manjiro’s eager, relentless pace doesn’t break until he reaches the table where Emma and his inner circle are sitting.
Emma's face shifts the moment she sees you. The smile she was wearing dissolving first into confusion, then into something closer to alarm when her eyes find yours.
"Mikey, what happen—"
But Manjiro is already moving. He steps in front of you, catches Emma by the shoulders before she can reach you, and holds her steady.
"Mikey, is y/n alright? What's going on—" Emma’s voice is rising toward panic, but Manjiro reaches out and squeezes her shoulder firmly, grounding her.
"I’ll make it up to you. We have to go now" he says.
He presses a swift, apologetic kiss to his sister’s temple before pulling you away again. He offers no explanation to the confused crowd — not to Emma, who tries to follow, nor to the rest of the guests. Only Draken catches his eye, sending a silent, knowing look Manjiro’s way. The raven-haired man simply nods in return, an unspoken understanding passing between them.
Everything follows in a dizzying blur. Cold city air. The sharp ding of an elevator. Until the world finally stops spinning.
Before you can even process the shift in atmosphere, the heavy doors click shut, and you’re being led inside his penthouse.
Maybe it's resignation settling into your bones that keeps you from responding properly to any of this. It all feels like a fever dream. The avoidance. The confession. Him pulling you through a crowded room without a single word of explanation, and you following without resistance. You don't fully return to the reality until you feel Manjiro's grip tighten around your hand.
The gravity of the situation hits you like a physical blow to the chest.
You confessed. You actually did it.
You told your best friend of years that you are in love with him. For all the time you spent locking that truth away in the deepest part of your soul, convinced it would stay a secret you’d take to the grave, it only took one moment of weakness to bring you here. Standing in his room, the door locked behind you.
Across from you, Manjiro's face gives nothing away. Not anger. Not relief. Not even surprise. Just focus as he reaches up to shed his jacket, then moves to step out of his pants, like this is any other night. Like you didn't just crack yourself open in front of him twenty minutes ago.
Your mind begins to spiral, even as your body makes no effort to move. You stand paralyzed in the dark with him, your head filling with questions that make your skin crawl. Why did he bring me here? Why is he undressing? Why isn’t he saying he doesn't love me?
Why won’t you just push me away?
Before your head can split open from the weight of it, the words slip free on their own.
"Manjiro…" It comes out so soft. The way you utter his name isn't a call for attention. It’s a plea for him to end the silence before it destroys you.
Manjiro catches it. His head snaps toward you, and that focused expression dissolves replaced by something uncharacteristically soft. Almost meek. He waits for you to continue.
"Why are we here? What are you doing?"
He avoids your gaze, turning to sit at the edge of the large bed. Stripped down to only his shirt and boxers, the barrier between you finally feels thin.
In the dim light of the room, he looks reachable. He would almost feel safe if you weren't so paralyzed by the confusion of his actions.
"Why did you bring me here—"
"I just need you to rest, y/n"
"And you think I can? After everything that happened — everything I’ve said? Manjiro, we need to address this."
"We can, yeah? We can" he says, his voice low. "But let’s just rest first. You need it. We both need it, y/n."
He stands to approach you and you instinctively step back. A flash of pure hurt crosses his face when you retreat, but he continue reaching for your elbow. Maybe it's the exhaustion. Maybe it's the deep, aching want to just be held, to stop carrying all of this alone for one moment. Either way, you don't step back a second time. You let him pull you toward the bed.
He pulls you down, laying gently beside you. The proximity silences the frantic noise in your head, replaced only by the steady rhythm of his breathing. He wraps his arms around you like a vice, clinging to your body as he buries your face against the heat of his chest.
"Jiro." His name comes out muffled against his shirt, and you're almost grateful for the fabric between you.
Your voice has started to shake again. "I can't think anymore. I can't think about anything."
"Then don’t think. Just rest" he murmurs. You push slightly against him to look up, only to find him staring directly back at you.
"I'm not going to fall asleep and pretend none of this happened. We can't just—" The words die in your throat as fresh tears spill over.
A flicker of what looks like agonizing pain crosses Manjiro’s eyes. Seeing him look at you like this, a devastating thought takes hold: He’s doing this to compensate.
He’s holding you now because he knows he has to let you go later. This is the last kindness he can offer because he won't return your feelings, and what’s been said can never be unsaid.
So, you don't speak anymore. You just cry.
He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin to muffle your sobs. His hand moves in slow, soft caresses across your back, your waist, and your arms. He doesn't say another word and he just lets you weep.
He stays there as a silent anchor, listening to every broken sob and jagged breath as the night bleeds away. The weight of your grief and the heat of his body slowly drain the last of your strength, making your limbs feel like lead.
Just as the darkness of sleep begins to pull you under, you feel the ghost of lips against your forehead — a pressure so soft it feels like a dream.
"Just so you know" a raspy whisper brushes against your skin. "I’m not going anywhere. Not anymore."
The morning after is a montage of moments you can't quite grasp. You wake up in his bed, and the flashbacks of the night come crashing down with a force that almost sends you into a fresh panic, only for the air to settle the moment Manjiro re-enters the room.
The next thing you know, he is driving you home because you insisted on going. The drive is filled with nothing but silence, but every time Manjiro brakes, he quietly reaches for your hand. He doesn't look at you when he does it. He just finds your fingers with his, squeezing briefly before the light turns green.
But what seals everything into one big knot of confusion is the way Manjiro kisses your forehead as he leaves you at your door. It’s a kiss that lingers, so long and so heavy, that you can still feel the ghost of his warmth on your skin even after he pulls away.
And then he leaves without a word. There is no rejection, but there is no acknowledgment of the confession you made at the party, either. He just disappears back to his car, leaving you standing there with the weight of everything unsaid pressing against your chest.
You're not stupid enough to miss the shift in him. You know something changed. But the only thing stopping you from leaning into those more hopeful thoughts is the massive question mark still hanging over your head. Two terrifying possibilities and you're caught right in the middle of both.
Did Manjiro do all of this out of guilt — his way of softening the blow before he cuts you off? Or does he feel something too?
That doubt turns the full-blown panic of last night into a tight, suffocating knot of overthinking.
What does any of this mean?
And somehow that question leads you here, to your current predicament — lying in bed, checking your phone every few minutes, waiting for a message that may never come.
Would he text you? Or was that kiss on the forehead the end of it?
You wait and wait until the exhaustion of your own thoughts pulls you under without warning. You fall asleep without meaning to, and when you open your eyes again, the sun is already setting outside your window.
You rub your eyes and reach for your phone to check the time...and find three unopened notifications from him.
Fr. Jiro:
What are you doing?
Just took a break from training. You busy?
Can I come over to yours after my training?
Your heart suddenly remembers its existence. It starts to beat again, but it dances to a different rhythm this time. It’s no longer following the frantic steps of panic, instead, it moves to a slow, hopeful sway of excitement.
You:
sure
And as if he's been waiting on the other end this whole time, the reply comes immediately.
Fr. Jiro
I have something to tell you..
Also, I miss you.
Though your heart is still racing, the heavy weight of that massive question mark finally dissolves. It is replaced by a soft, blooming heat for the man you hope will finally answer your yearning and longing.
You barely have time to prepare yourself when you hear the revving of a motorcycle outside your house. It’s a sound you’ve heard a thousand times, but tonight, it makes your stomach flip in a way that’s entirely new. You don’t have to look outside to know that it’s him.
It doesn’t take long before you hear the steady knock on your door. You exhale, readying yourself for another night of facing Manjiro. You hope, god you hope, that all the silent pining, the wishful thinking, and the secrets whispered into the quiet are finally going to be answered, once and for all.
You pull the door open. There he is — the man who haunts every crevice of your mind, the one you secretly call "mine" every chance the quiet nights give you. Your best friend stands there, looking at you with a soft, knowing smile that feels both familiar and brand new.
"Hey," he says, his voice low and steady.
"Hey," you respond, the word catching slightly in your throat as you look at him.
"Can I come in?"
For years, Manjiro has drifted into your space without a second thought, inhabiting every corner of your life as if he belonged there by birthright. But this sudden hesitation, this soft request for permission, is the cue that the old rules no longer apply.
It is the beginning of something entirely new. And as the weight of the day’s anxiety begins to lift, you find yourself feeling lighter, though your heart still hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
You don't answer and simply pull the door wide open. He pauses for a second and stares at you, then he finally steps inside.
He stands in the middle of your living room, eyes still lingering on you. You, on the other hand, avoid his gaze as you make a beeline toward the kitchen.
"Uh... have you had your dinner yet? I can coo—" You hear his soft footsteps following you as he calls your name.
"y/n."
You shut your eyes tightly, your back still facing him. You want to slap yourself for acting this way again, you really do. But you can't help the awkwardness that clings to you like a second skin.
There's no running anymore, though. Right? Please.
"Hmm?"
"Let's talk."
He utters the same words that ripped your heart apart the night he called you — but this time, you don't feel that same dread settling in your chest. What you feel instead is nothing but anticipation. Maybe it's the way he let those words slip out with a quiet, almost imploring tone, as if to say that this is not like that night. He wants to talk, but in a way that won't make you feel like you need to put yourself out of his reach again.
So with a gathered courage, you turn around and face him. You exhale.
"Okay. Let's talk."
Manjiro's expression remains calm as he begins.
"I heard it." His eyes search your face, catching for any small expression that might slip through.
You remain steady, even as you force down the tension rising in your chest from his words. You already knew it — but he had to lie because you yourself weren't ready to accept it. Hence the days of avoiding him. Yet hearing the truth come directly from his own mouth is an entirely different wave to weather.
"I heard it, y/n. All of it" Manjiro shifts his weight, his eyes never leaving yours. He looks as though he is physically weighing the next words to say.
But you beat him to it. Before he can find the right way to piece his thoughts together, you find your own voice. You don't let the silence stretch any longer. You throw the question at him, the one that has been burning in the back of your mind since the night of the party.
"Then why didn’t you say anything further than that? I know you had to lie because I couldn’t face you, and the truth. But why—"
The rest of the question dies in your throat, the air suddenly too thin to carry the words. Manjiro nods, his gaze softening as if he finally understands the tangled mess of your thoughts without you having to finish the sentence.
He takes a step closer, closing the gap as if the distance itself is a barrier to being understood. It is so different from the night of the party. That night, he was afraid to cross an invisible line, and you were in a blind panic at his proximity while you poured your heart out. But tonight, that fear is gone — replaced by a magnetic pull, a shared itch to be closer. And so you stay rooted to the spot, letting him enter your space.
"I couldn’t say anything more than that because I didn’t know what to tell you anymore that would not make you run away again," he confesses as his stares level yours. "I only brought up excuses to forget, if that’s what you wanted, because I don’t want you to run away anymore. That’s all it was."
His eyes search yours, looking for any sign of the flight instinct that usually takes hold of you. But for the first time, you aren't looking for the exit. You’re looking at him.
"But why… why don't you want me to avoid you?" The words come out sounding more like a flicker of hope than a real question.
"Why do you need me to stay close, when everything I’ve done shows that I no longer see you as… a friend?" You shakily inhale, feeling the lump rise in your throat. And as the silent seconds follow, the tears in your eyes start to well. "Why Manjiro?"
That is his cue. He cuts the little distance left between you, fully invading your space. He reaches out, his thumb catching the first stray tear as he caresses your cheek before finally letting his forehead fall against yours.
"Why do you think, baby?"
Hearing that endearment directly from his lips is the final blow to the charade you have both been maintaining. It is a single word that dissolves years of careful distance, revealing the raw truth of what you truly feel for each other.
"I’ve been a fucking idiot for a long time, y/n" He pulls away to stare down at you, as if he is memorizing every inch of your face, as if it were the first time he has been given a chance to look at you this closely.
In his abyss-colored irises, you are the only one reflected, from before until now.
"If only I focused on what you were feeling rather than focusing on mine… I should have known earlier. I should have told you sooner. I should have loved you more sooner."
Your heart finally beats in a way that doesn’t tell you to run away; instead, it pulsates with elation, a damn neon sign that tells you: finally.
The kitchen, with its humming fridge and dim light, feels like the safest place in the world. Manjiro’s hands are steady on your face, his thumbs wiping away the salt of your tears, and for the first time in your life, you don't feel like you have to find an exit. You are exactly where you belong. In his arms.
"I’m sorry it took me this long."
You immediately shake your head in disagreement, reaching up to cup the handsome face that you love so much. He closes his eyes, basking in the warmth of your hands, and then he says,
"But I’m here now."
And then he kisses you.
A sharp gasp leaves your throat as his lips press firmly against yours. For a heartbeat, you stay frozen, the shock of the contact vibrating through your chest. But as he begins to slowly move his lips, the tension in your shoulders finally dissipates.
You close your eyes. Your hands slide from his cheeks, to wrap around his neck and pull him closer. You arch your back slightly, closing every inch of the gap between you, and begin to move your lips in sync with his.
Manjiro’s hands tighten on your waist, his grip firm and grounding, as he pulls you flush against him. You let out a shaky breath into the kiss, finally surrendering to the heat of him.
When he pulls back, he opens his eyes to gaze at your face, feeling his heart rate quicken at the sight of your dazed expression. He bites his lower lip before leaning in once more to press a few soft pecks to your lips. Then whispers against your mouth.
"Let me stay with you tonight"
It doesn't sound like a request despite the rasp in his voice, but more like a certainty. Like something already decided. And you know —you've always known, that there isn't a version of yourself that would ever turn him away.
The way your fingers are already curled tightly into his shirt is answer enough. But he waits patiently and gives you the space to say it.
So you look up at him. You hold his gaze. And you breathe.
"Please."
Manjiro doesn't waste another second. His arms sweep under you, lifting you off the floor in one fluid motion, and he moves toward your room with a certainty that makes your breath catch. The same room that once witnessed everything you ever did with him only in your mind.
And as he lays you down and hovers above you, you realize, this is the same room, the same mattress, and the same sheets that once held only your longing and your guilt and your secret.
But this time, your fatal fantasies are finally and irrevocably about to be real.
You feel it snap. You watch it fade in real time — the invisible line that once connected you to a world you built in your head, the one where you could have him all to yourself.
You would still believe this was a lie, another trick of your mind, if not for the way Manjiro is currently stealing the very breath from your lungs. If he had given you even a few more seconds before leaning down to snatch the air from your lips, you might have basked in the sweet reality of it. You might have finally processed that this isn't just another vision playing against the back of your eyelids.
But Manjiro doesn't give you time to think. His actions echo his words: he has waited long enough.
You both have.
And so, he effectively destroys the final thread of your imagination by kissing you roughly, his tongue sliding deep to explore the heat of your mouth. He devours the sound of your gasp, his tongue tangling with yours in a messy, desperate rhythm.
There is no such thing as reverie anymore. Not when your fingers thread through his hair to tug him closer, eliminating the space between you until you can feel the heavy press of him against your skin. You open your legs wider, finally accommodating the body you once prayed would ride you instead of his motorcycles. You lock your ankles behind him, tethering him to you, making sure he cannot pull away even if he wanted to.
Settling perfectly between your legs, Manjiro doesn’t waste a second. He grinds his groin hard against you, the sudden pressure punching a sharp whine from your lips. It is a fleeting relief from the restriction of his pants, but a delicious ache to your already pulsating heat.
Driven by a sudden spike of impatience, you grind back against him. Manjiro lets out a low, guttural groan and instantly breaks the kiss. He lifts his head just enough to stare directly into your eyes, his gaze dark and blown wide with raw hunger.
He bites his already red and swollen lower lip, his gaze roaming over your face and your body, taking in how completely undone you look beneath him. His left hand moves from your hair to your face, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. You can’t help but let out a shaky sigh at the contact.
"Do you think everything you did in this room... everything you thought about... I can't make it happen?" His voice is raspy, quiet but tinted with confidence. It’s a challenge.
A shiver immediately runs down your spine as his gaze grows even darker. It is a telltale sign that he isn't going to hold back and whatever you imagined before, he is going to make the experience more and better.
Your hand shifts to caress his face, and he turns his head slightly to press a kiss into your palm. "Say it, y/n. I want to hear it from you."
"Make it happen, Jiro," you whisper, the words coming out breathless and desperate.
"Please, baby... do me."
He dives back into you, his mouth clashing against yours as if your air is the only thing keeping him alive. His left hand roams downward, sliding from your cheek to the curve of your neck before dropping to the swell of your chest. He catches you in a firm, desperate squeeze.
A sharp moan escapes your lips as Manjiro continues kneading your clothed breast, his palm heavy and insistent. His kisses shift from your lips to your cheek, trailing down the line of your jaw until he buries his face in the crook of your neck. He focuses his mouth there, his teeth grazing your skin as he marks you.
The temperature rises as Manjiro continues his ministrations, and you are helplessly responsive. You arch your back to meet his lower body, trying to grind against him again, but Manjiro pins you down with the full weight of his frame.
"J-Jiro..." you whine, the sound trapped between your teeth.
You feel Manjiro smile against your skin. He lifts his head to look at your face, stealing one more kiss before trailing his mouth down your chest. Even through the fabric of your clothes, the heat radiating between you is suffocating.
Manjiro’s hand slides beneath your shirt, his fingers roaming with practiced intent until he finds the lock of your bra. He unclasps it with a sharp click. Moving with a sudden surge of energy, he lifts himself up to pull both your shirt and bra over your head. Once you’re undressed, he goes silent, his gaze burning as he stares at your naked body.
The one who had haunted his dreams as well.
You have no time to be embarrassed, not when you feel the painful throbbing between your thighs. You are pulsating with a desire that only Manjiro can ease, and your body aches for him to finally focus his attention lower. But he isn't in a hurry; he is in a trance of his own, as if it would be a sin not to give every part of you the appreciation it deserves.
He starts with your breasts, massaging the weight of them as if he has done it a thousand times before. You arch your body further, offering yourself to him, and he crouches down to meet you. Manjiro sucks your left nipple, and you let out a sharp whimper at the sudden, wet heat of his tongue circling the tip. Your hands immediately fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands to pull him even closer, pinning him to your chest. His right hand finds your other breast, molding and squeezing the flesh at a pace that matches the rhythmic pull of his mouth.
"Jiro—ah!"
He gives your nipple an experimental tug with his teeth, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core before he shifts his attention to the right, giving it the same ruthless treatment. You keep squirming beneath him, but Manjiro doesn’t allow an inch of space between his mouth and your chest; he buries his face deeper, sucking and biting and licking at you as if he can’t get enough of the taste.
Manjiro finally lifts his head to look at you. You are breathless and damp with sweat from the ministrations he just performed. He licks his lower lip, taking in your completely fucked-out expression.
"Baby, you’re not getting exhausted on me, right? At least, not yet."
He smirks when you can’t find your voice to answer him. You can only whine as your hands reach for your own chest, massaging your skin right in front of him in a desperate attempt to ease the ache.
"Please, Jiro... please..."
Something raw and predatory settles in Manjiro’s eyes. The second your hands paw at his shirt, he’s already stripping it off, ripping the fabric over his head and throwing it to the floor. He doesn’t wait for you to ask about his pants, he rids himself of them in one fluid motion while his gaze never leaving yours. You follow suit, kicking off your shorts too.
Manjiro settles between your thighs again, leaning down for one brief, bruising kiss before he starts his descent. His hands stay busy, roaming and squeezing your curves as he moves. You brace yourself, your breath hitching as you watch him trail kisses down the valley of your breasts, over the sensitive skin of your stomach, and finally to the place where you need him most.
You’re still wearing your underwear, but Manjiro can already smell the sweet scent of your arousal. He doesn't waste another second. He presses his mouth directly against the fabric, sucking the sensitive nub of your clit through your panties. The initial contact sends a shock through you — your head falls back, eyes rolling as a ragged gasp escapes you.
"You have no idea what I would have given just to have you like this."
His words make your head spin, but he doesn't give you a moment to recover. Manjiro hooks his fingers into the edge of your underwear, pulling the lace aside to dive in. His tongue finally meets your wet, gushing pussy, tasting you for the very first time.
You swear you see lights flashing behind your eyelids as you throw your head back. You start babbling, the sounds of pleasure incoherent as you feel his tongue continuously swiping between your puffy lips. The sensation makes your toes curl and you close your legs unconsciously, but Manjiro doesn’t let you. He holds your thighs firmly, his grip bruising as he slots his head further between them. He forces you open, giving you no chance to hide from him as he continues his relentless assault.
The pleasure he’s giving you is becoming overwhelming, but he is nowhere near finished, not when he can feel you getting wetter and slicker against his tongue by the second. His eyes lift from your pussy to look at you and watches you squirm as you moan his name. He can’t help the surge of pride. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He knows he’s making you feel incredible, and he’s savoring every frantic move you make.
"Jiro—baby! Ah… nghh… please"
Manjiro pulls away just enough to slide a finger inside you. He bites his lower lip the moment he enters, his expression tightening when he feels your walls instantly clench around him. It gives you another sensation to scream about and if you thought you were the only one electrified by the pleasure, you were wrong. Manjiro is already humping against the mattress, a low groan vibrating in his throat as he finger fucks you while sucking your clit.
"Fuck… I could stay down here for hours," he rasps. He gives you a hard, demanding suck followed by a slow lick, all while his finger relentlessly pumps in and out of you. "Tastes like a fucking dream, if you ask me."
The pleasure is so overwhelming that you don’t know whether to hold on tight until you cum or push Manjiro’s head away because it’s simply too much. But you know yourself, that if you push him away now, you’ll definitely cry. You make a conscious decision to reach for Manjiro’s head, your fingers tangling in his hair to bury him deeper against you. You start to grind small, desperate circles against his mouth, forcing the stimulation even further.
Manjiro lets out a guttural sound against your skin. He continues to swipe his tongue against you until you scream the moment his finger hits that one particular spot. You start to shake, your entire body vibrating with the force of it.
"Ah—Jiro, yes... right there... r-right there—"
Manjiro doesn’t waver. He lets his finger hit that spot again and again, coaxing scream after scream from your throat until the shaking turns into a violent tremor. He knows you’re about to break. Your breath comes in shallow, ragged pants; your vision blurs and your toes curl so tight they feel like they might snap. Then, with one final, deep curl of his finger and an insistent swirl of his tongue, you scream.
Manjiro drinks you in through the spasming, holding you open until your body finally goes limp against the mattress. Once you’ve settled, he begins his slow ascent, kissing his way back up your body until he reaches your face. He peppers your face with soft, loving kisses, his hands now gentle as they stroke your hair.
Your eyes slowly flutter open to see him. Half of his face is drenched, and his jet-black tresses are messy, but his eyes have lost their predatory edge, replaced by a familiar, heavy softness.
"You tired now, baby?"
You push yourself up and kiss him, tasting yourself on his mouth. He kisses you back with the same intensity, only stopping when he feels your hand creep between his thighs. He raises an eyebrow at you as you start palming him through his boxers.
"Not yet. Not when you still have this to give me" you say, your voice raspy from all the screaming. You wouldn't mind letting out a few more cries if it meant Manjiro giving you this one last piece — the last thing he has to give to be fully and completely yours.
Manjiro removes his boxers immediately, his cock springing free from the confinement. He gives himself a slow stroke, staring down at you as you discard your panties and start playing with your pussy.
If Manjiro doesn’t have enough strength, the sight of you, so raw and so goddamn beautiful, might make his knees buckle. If you ever thought Manjiro’s best look was the one he wore after a race, you were wrong. He is the prettiest when he’s above you like this: strong, handsome, and unruly.
And if the world suddenly reverses and forces you to return to the moments where you had to hide and keep everything in, you’re willing to go through all of it again, as long as you’re promised to end exactly where you are now: underneath him, with only his eyes on you.
Bracing his weight on his forearms, he leans down to press his forehead against yours, and you instantly wrap your arms around his neck. He reaches down, his hands steady as he finds the place where you meet. With slow, unwavering pressure, he guides his length into you. You let out a sharp gasp as you feel the slow, heavy breach of the entrance, but neither of you looks away. Manjiro doesn’t rush, despite the heavenly sensation starting to cloud his mind. He wants to feel the pulsing, delicious clench of your walls as he ensures you feel every agonizingly slow inch while he slides deep inside.
You know that when he finally pours everything he has into you, he is in this for the long haul. No more fantasizing. No more imagining. No more looking from afar.
He is yours, from the beginning until however long you want him.
Manjiro kisses your forehead, your nose, and your lips. Against your mouth, he whispers the words that were once allowed only in your mind:
"I love you."
Then, he finally sinks himself fully inside you.
The roar of cheers erupts all over the circuit as the blurring streaks of motorcycles blast through the final lap. As much as you want to close your eyes and pray, the deafening noise is impossible to ignore, and this is not the time to miss the chance to see who reaches the checkered flag first.
The only thing you can do is clasp your hands tightly, your eyes glued to the large display screens that show the play-by-play. It shows that it isn't just one person pulling ahead; there are several frontrunners driving at the same punishing pace. Your heart thumps and nervousness rises when you catch a glimpse of the familiar red and black bike banking to increase its speed, trying to outdrive the motorcycles beside it. It’s the championship race, and everyone knows a win here is a step toward becoming undefeated — a chance to conquer the world.
But you’re not mostly worried about whether Manjiro wins this race, it’s the fact that he’s using critical techniques and pushing his bike to its absolute limit. The risk of an accident is what makes your stomach lodge in your throat.
You can’t help but pry your eyes away from the LED for a second, unable to handle the anxiety that eats at you. But that one second of missing the run is what makes the blonde girl beside you holler. Emma screams at the top of her lungs and starts jumping, pointing at the large screen.
"Mikey! Mikey!"
Your eyes immediately return to the screen to see Manjiro pushing ahead at a terrifying speed — a predatory surge that leaves the other motorcycles behind to eat his smoke. You and Emma face each other and scream in unison, your voices blending with the frantic spectators. Your nervousness instantly fades, replaced by pride as the commentators rain praise down on the crowd’s favorite.
"And look at the inside line! The red and black is screaming through turn four! Sano Manjiro isn't just riding, he’s hunting! He’s pulling away from the pack like they’re standing still — nobody can match that pace, and there it is! There it is!"
The crowd becomes a singular, deafening wave of sound when he crosses the line.
First.
The world seems to blur for a second, the roar of the engines replaced by the sound of your own jagged breathing as the reality sinks in.
"Undefeated! Untouchable! The king of the race track has reclaimed his throne! Sano Manjiro! What a performance!"
You and Emma exchange a tight embrace, both of you shedding tears from the overwhelming excitement. When you pull apart, you pause to watch the screen as Manjiro hops off his motorcycle. The crowd doesn’t falter, erupting further when the camera zooms in on his face. Your heart remains relentless as you watch Manjiro remove his helmet, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He turns the helmet in his hands, pressing a lingering kiss directly to the elegant, bold letters painted on the side before holding it high toward the sky. The camera follows the movement, focusing on the gear to reveal the painted letters Manjiro just kissed.
You cover your mouth in shock, eyes brimming with tears.
It’s your name.
In his helmet, like a victory charm to kiss and raise after a win, and for thousands of people to see.
You don’t have to turn to Emma to see her smiling wildly. You don’t have to hear the questions rising from the crowd, wondering who he dedicated this win to. You don’t even have to watch the screen to see Manjiro being lifted up, his hand still holding the helmet with your name on it high above the world.
You only need to listen to your heart as it screams one thing:
synopsis: you’re in love with your best friend, manjiro, but it’s a secret you’re willing to keep buried in the furthest corners of your mind. however, when the lines between fantasy and reality start to blur, you realize some secrets are too loud to keep hidden.
pairings: racer!sano manjiro x fem!reader
content warnings: explicit sexual content, mature language, 18+, MDNI
You think that if you clasp your hands tightly enough and squeeze your eyes shut, the frantic cheers booming across the circuit will finally fall into silence. The only thing you want to hear in this moment is your own silent prayer, a desperate plea for the racer you are rooting for to cross the finish line first.
It is impossible, however, when the crowd is already going wild. Not to mention the very woman beside you is practically vibrating, shouting at the top of her lungs. Emma Sano, caught in the middle of her own hollering, turns toward you and catches sight of your silly little act.
"Come on, stop that! It's already the final lap--closing your eyes won't make him go faster. Just watch!"
Emma gives your shoulder a frantic shake before she goes back to screaming. Exhaling, you finally open your eyes, only to see a blurring streak of motorcycles tearing across the track. Your chest thumps with a heavy nervousness, the speed is so dizzying that you can't even tell who is in the lead.
You turn to Emma, who is now bouncing on her toes. "I can’t keep track, Emm! I’m too nervous… who’s out front?"
The blonde quickly faces you, her smile wider than ever, as she points toward the ahead of the track.
"It's Mikey!!"
You pause for a second, a slow smile creeps onto your face, mirroring hers as you grab her hands and both of you scream in unison. The nervousness you felt fades in seconds the moment your eyes lock onto the glint of a familiar red-and-black helmet, now pulling ahead of the rest.
"See?! Mikey will win this--he's a cocky bastard who hates losing!"
Emma's voice is barely audible over the deafening mix of chanting and the screech of motorcycles, but the confident gleam in her eyes says enough.
"No prayers needed--it's Mikey. He’s got this."
It becomes a glaring fact when the already wild spectators on the trackside erupt even further. You immediately whip back to the track just in time to witness Sano Manjiro of Top of Manji blur past everyone like a streak of light to reach the checkered flag first.
The stands fall into absolute chaos. Even Emma, who was joyfully cheering only a second ago, is now messy-crying while chanting her brother’s name. You give yourself a few seconds to process it--your best friend just won another race. You can hardly believe your eyes, caught between shock and pride. It’s only when the play-by-play commentator announces the winner that reality finally sinks in. You pull Emma into a fierce embrace, tears prickling your own eyes.
"Crossing the finish line first--it’s Sano Manjiro! Like there was ever any doubt, folks! The man is untouchable!"
After you and Emma exchange hugs, she yanks your arm and drags you through the still-cheering spectators. You have easy access courtesy of the pit pass dangling from her neck, and soon you arrive at the front rail at the edge of the trackside. Pressing closer to the pit barrier, you can finally see the racer and his team up close.
From here, the scene sharpens.
Standing there proud, Manjiro removes his helmet. His hair and skin are damp with sweat, glistening under the bright sun. He rests his right hand on his hip, his chest heaving from the adrenaline, but the thrill of the win is written all over his face as his eyes drift to his team. His smile widens when Draken--his lead mechanic and other best friend dashes toward him first and hoists him up.
"Look at you, you asshole!" Draken barks with a grin.
Manjiro’s laugh grows louder as the rest of the team rushes in to crowd him. From your spot at the barrier, every detail is now visible: the glint in his eyes, the subtle smirk tugging at his lips, and that almost imperceptible bite of his lower lip that makes your chest tighten.
You’re caught in the moment until Emma starts shouting again, snapping you back to reality.
Even though he couldn't have known who called him amidst the deafening cheers, Manjiro snaps his head around, searching for the source of the shout. He taps Draken’s shoulder, and his mechanic sets him down immediately.
When his eyes finally land on the familiar figures of his sister and you, his face changes. He points toward the barrier where you’re standing, prompting Draken to turn and look at you and his wife. The taller gives a knowing nod, and Manjiro doesn't waste another second.
He rushes toward you. The closer he gets, the faster your heart hammers against your ribs. Seeing him like this: clad in his racer suit, glistening with sweat, and wearing a triumphant smile while locking his dark irises onto yours, is almost more than you can handle.
You have to clear your throat, a desperate attempt to fix yourself, as your best friend finally stops right in front of you at the edge of the barrier.
The adrenaline hasn't fully drained from his eyes as he grins up at you, crossing his arms and tilting his chin with a cocky edge. "Well? What did I tell you?"
You can't help but roll your eyes. You know exactly what he's getting at -- fishing for you to admit he was right about some arrogant promise he made before the race.
"You didn't tell me shit" you retort.
His eyes widen for a second before he pouts. "I did so! If you forgot, that’s on you. But I won, so…"
You both hold each other's gaze for a heartbeat, the silence between you stretching just a second too long before you both break into a laugh.
"Yeah, you won. Congrats, Jiro!" you say, bending down to reach him. To make it easier for you, he leans in closer, close enough for you to reach over the barrier and ruffle his damp hair. And Manjiro, the cockiness finally fading, just smiles at you with his eyes.
That's when you retract your hand, subtly avoiding his gaze as the heat of the moment starts to feel like too much. Thankfully, Emma steps in to grab her brother's attention.
"You have an after-party later. Ken already told you, right?" she reminds him. "We’re just going to go get ready and then we'll head there. You better be there--it’s your party, after all."
"Yeah, yeah. I'm going back to the guys first," the ravenette says, gesturing toward his team still waiting for him. But before he turns away, his eyes linger on you for a few seconds longer than necessary. One last smile, and then he turns his back.
You expected the celebration to be packed, but you didn’t expect the night to be this star-studded. Since you and Emma arrived earlier to get settled, you’ve had time to watch the room fill with famous names--you could swear a top model and a renowned designer just strutted through the area--and it’s only now that it truly sinks in just how big of a deal your friend is.
The atmosphere shifts the second Manjiro finally arrives at the hotel. Following the mandatory congratulatory surprise at the entrance, the crowd immediately swarms him. From your spot across the room, you watch as waves of people from every direction flock to his side, forcing him to stay at the center of the chaos. You stay back, allowing him to bask in the appreciation for his exceptional performance on the track.
You find yourself standing alone as even Emma and her husband are pulled into separate circles of conversation. You use the moment to find a chair where you can sit, the sheer scale of this much attention is enough to make your head spin.
The attention on the raven-haired racer doesn’t lift even after thirty minutes. The crowd continues to pour in, forcing the Sanos, especially Manjiro, to work double-time to greet and entertain every guest. You, on the other hand, have already eaten, greeted a few close friends, and chatted with some mutual acquaintances. Now, you find yourself sitting at a round table with a champagne flute in hand, idly talking with Takemichi, Kazutora, and Chifuyu.
You hear the scrape of the empty chair to your right being pulled back and look up to see Emma. A tired expression is clearly growing on her face, but what makes your eyebrows furrow is the champagne flute she’s holding.
You eye the glass as she sets it on the table before looking back at her.
"You’re not trying to get drunk, are you?" you whisper to your friend. "Did Draken even give you the green light for that?"
"My throat is getting dry from all this entertaining. I might as well moisturize it for a bit. Besides, Draken approved" Emma says, raising her glass with a cheeky smile.
You shrug, letting it go. "Just make sure you don't actually get tipsy. I can only handle one messy, drunk Sano at a time."
As soon as the words leave your mouth, you subtly sweep your eyes across the crowd to find the specific Sano you haven’t been able to spend a single second with tonight.
Emma giggles, setting her glass back down. "Well, if you’re going to have to handle a messy Sano today, it’s not me." She gives you a light tap and gestures with her chin toward her brother.
Manjiro is still surrounded, a smile still etched on his face and his enthusiasm apparently locked in as he engages with the circle around him. But you know better than that. You know every fiber of Manjiro Sano’s being, and simply staring at him tells you everything you need to know. The way his eyes are slightly mellow and unfocused as he speaks is the giveaway.
He’s already had a few tonight.
"He’s been accepting shot after shot since we arrived. If he gets his hands on five more, he’s going to be absolutely trashed" Emma mutters. Her focus shifts to her husband, who just sat down beside her, while your gaze remains anchored to where Manjiro is standing.
You consider for a moment whether you should intervene, but this night is about him. You don't want to be nosy and stop him-- you're not his girlfriend, not the one who gets to nag. Just a good friend on the sidelines looking out for him quietly. And that's exactly the position you need to maintain tonight, especially with so many eyes around.
The last thing you need is to be caught berating a famous racer and end up on tomorrow's headlines. The public outrage alone would eat you alive, his fangirls especially would make sure of it. Or worse, you'd come across as an overprotective woman with no place to act that way, giving everyone exactly the ammunition they need to speculate. That yeah, maybe you like Manjiro a little too much to be just a friend.
And you do.
So it would be worse.
To reveal your biggest secret on the very night you should be burying it deeper, the truth of what you really feel for your closest friend....yeah, there is nothing more disastrous than that.
So you choose to stay out of it. Let him be free, because it's his night. You'll take care of him after, like you always do. Because as you said, you can only handle one messy Sano a day.
And it would always be him.
Just as you are about to pull your gaze away to focus on the friends at your table, Manjiro catches your eye. You watch as he murmurs something to the people he’s talking to, giving them a slight, polite bow before stepping away. He doesn't break eye contact for a second, and it suddenly becomes clear that the only reason he left that conversation was to come to you.
As he approaches, his state becomes more obvious. Though he still looks sharp, his slow smile and heavy-lidded, mellow eyes are more prominent now, a clear indication that he’s tipsy. You don't know if it's because of his leisurely pace, but the world seems to slow down as you watch him weave through the crowd toward where you’re sitting.
You don't know either if it's already the champagne coursing through your veins but hell, the closer he gets, the harder your chest starts to pound.
He dips his head slightly as he walks, maybe watching where he's headed, maybe watching his own footsteps. You don't know. But the moment he lifts his gaze back to yours, you realize one thing...
Sano Manjiro looks like a daydream.
You thought seeing him post-race was enough to make your heart ache, but seeing him now in his dark leather jacket, softened by the alcohol, walking past the eyes that blatantly follow his every move just to get to you… it's enough to stretch your heart beyond its limit. It rattles in your chest so hard it almost hurts.
Upon reaching you, Manjiro immediately pulls out the empty chair to your left and sits down. You start to turn toward him to ask if he’s still okay when his head suddenly falls onto your shoulder, while his other hand grips the back of your chair. You stop breathing for a second.
You gently reach for his shoulder, trying to ease him upright but Manjiro refuses to budge. If anything, he only shifts to press his face further into your shoulder. You feel the eyes of everyone at the table settle on the two of you. It would be fine if it were just the usual circle-- they're used to Manjiro's clingy, childish tendencies when he's had too much. But there were other people here too, people who could easily color his actions with a different kind of meaning.
You try once more to gently straighten him up, leaning closer to his ear to whisper "Jiro, there are still a lot of people here. Sit up properly, we don’t want any issues coming out after tonight."
He doesn't move. But you feel the vibration of his voice against your skin when he whispers back.
"What issues?"
"That you couldn’t handle your liquor. We don’t want headlines saying a certain famous racer was a messy drunk at his own victory party" you joke, though you aren't sure if you can even laugh--not when Manjiro’s hand, the one on the back of your chair, slowly slides down to your waist, pulling you slightly closer.
"I'm not drunk"
Oh, how you wish he were, because you don’t want to be like the onlookers--you don't want to read into his actions. But how can you not? Not when the man himself unconsciously begins drawing slow circles against your skin.
"Mikey--"
He stops immediately and lifts his head, a gentle smile already plastered on his pretty face. "Everything is getting a bit blurry."
You only stare at him, your heart hammering in your chest. Manjiro stands and straightens his clothes casually, but before he can go anywhere, Draken calls out to him.
"Stop with the alcohol, Mikey. We know you're weak as shit. Sober up a little, we still have visitors arriving soon."
Manjiro only pouts and huffs in annoyance at Draken, who responds by rolling his eyes and drilling even more advice into his thick skull. The racer announces that he’s heading out for some air to clear his head, but he’s stopped again--this time by his sister.
"Mikey, take y/n with you. She can look out for you since you’re already wasted--"
"I said I’m not drunk!"
"Yeah, yeah. At least let y/n accompany you so she can keep an eye on you. Go, now."
You find yourself unable to refuse as Emma nudges you to stand up. With Manjiro already on the move, you follow close behind, though you can’t shake the heavy feeling in your chest. Is it hesitation? But why? You shrug it off immediately as you exit the function hall and step onto the balcony, feeling the cold air bite harshly against your skin.
Manjiro stops at the balcony and turns to face you, one of his eyebrows arching slightly as his gaze sweeps over you. You, meanwhile, are doing everything in your power to steady your racing heart and push the memory of what happened at the table out of your mind as you slowly approach him.
Like you always do, you act as casual as possible. "I should’ve brought a jacket with me, it’s cold out here" you say, palms rubbing your arms to try and coax some heat back into your skin.
The moment you reach his side, Manjiro doesn't say a word--he simply begins to pull off his leather jacket.
"Here." You expect Manjiro to just hand it to you, but instead, he steps in front of you and drapes the jacket over your shoulders himself. He leans in close, tucking it properly around you to seal out the cold. Now that you’re outside and the air is fresh, his scent hits you even harder. The familiar, sweet mint of his perfume mixed with the slight edge of alcohol becomes prominent as he lingers in your space.
You feel the warmth of his breath against your hair when he speaks again.
"There. I don't need it anyway, the alcohol's keeping me warm enough."
"Sure you're not drunk?"
"Surely not. It's just alcohol and its after effects."
"Uh huh. And being drunk isn't an after effect too?"
He chuckles and turns away to face the dark night.
For a few seconds, neither of you speaks. The only sounds that resonate around you are the cold air bustling through the nearby trees and the distant honks of cars from the busy street.
Manjiro leans both arms on the balcony railing, his head tilting slightly upward as his eyes trace nothing in particular above. The city lights below flicker against his features, softening the sharp edges of his jaw. The wind lifts his jet-black hair slightly, and you find yourself staring again--just like you always do when he isn’t looking.
Then he speaks, his voice lower now, the earlier enthusiasm from the party stripped away by the cold and the quiet.
"Why were you looking at me like that earlier?"
You blink. "Like what?"
"Like you were about to scold me" he answers, but there is no teasing in his tone this time. Just quiet curiosity. "Or like… you were worried."
When he turns his head to look at you, it is your turn to gaze forward. Whether you are avoiding those dark irises or you simply haven't had enough time to collect yourself to face him head-on, you have no idea. You only know that the right thing to do is to not look at him right now.
"You taking shot after shot when you have shit tolerance for alcohol... it just made me worry, ’s all."
You hear a low chuckle from him. "You always worry, y/n."
"Someone has to, Jiro."
You don't know who moves first, or if neither of you moves at all and it is simply the cold pushing you both closer, but you suddenly become aware of the warmth of his arm pressing against yours along the railing.
You should have shifted away.
You don't.
Then his hand--the same one that had traced idle circles on your waist at the table moves without announcement. He reaches over to adjust the jacket on your shoulders. You could tell yourself he’s just worried the oversized leather might slip off, but the closeness speaks otherwise.
He is so close you can feel his breath fanning against your face.
"You're always taking care of me."
Your throat tightens.
Always.
You have always been there. After losses. After wins. After breakdowns. After reckless decisions. You are the constant in his life. And maybe that is exactly the problem.
"What would I do without you, y/n?"
There is no hint of his usual playfulness in his voice. It is so serious that the coward inside you decides not to look at him. It’s the same cowardice that tells you never to confess your feelings to your best friend.
No matter how difficult it is to hide, and no matter how tempting it is to let it all out, you choose the safety of your precious friendship. Your coward self knows she couldn't handle the weight of rejection, so you decide right then that you will not face his midnight-colored eyes tonight.
"Well, I don’t know what you’d do without me. Maybe we should try me being gone for a while?" You try to joke, despite the nervousness that is about to swallow your voice whole.
"No way" he says immediately, his voice dropping an octave as he pulls you against his side. His arm wraps around you tightly, anchoring you to him. "You’d be bored out of your mind without me to look after. Who else is going to keep your life this interesting?"
"I think I’d manage just fine, Jiro. I might actually get a break for once" you retort, trying to keep the playfulness alive even as your pulse quickens at his proximity.
"Liar" he whisper, his chin coming to rest on top of your head. The teasing disappears as quickly as it came, replaced by a weight in his words that makes your breath hitch. "You wouldn’t go anywhere. I won't let you."
"And why’s that?"
"Because you’re important to me. You know that, right?"
You close your eyes, letting the darkness of your eyelids hide the way your heart is breaking.
"I know."
Because I’m your best friend.
You stay like that for a moment longer than you should, his warmth bleeding through the jacket and his hand absentmindedly rubbing your shoulder as if it is muscle memory.
It probably is, for him.
For you, you are memorizing it.
Because this, this is the closest you are ever going to get. And you know it. So you stand still. You breathe him in. You let his weight anchor you even as it slowly, quietly, ruins you.
When Draken’s voice finally calls from inside, Manjiro pulls back with a small groan, his hand leaving your shoulder as if it were nothing.
"Duty calls" he mutters, already turning away. He pauses once, glancing back at you with that slow half smile.
"Don’t lose my jacket."
And then he is gone, back into the noise and the crowd and the constellation of people orbiting him, leaving you alone on the balcony with his leather jacket wrapped around your shoulders and the ghost of his touch.
You stand there for a long moment.
Then you exhale.
Long, and slow, and shaking.
You are in so much trouble.
Long before the party reaches its peak, you decide to head home. Though your friends insist it’s too early to leave--offering you rides later just so you’ll stay a little longer, you stand by your decision. You give a reason valid enough that even Manjiro doesn't insist on driving you back himself.
"You sure? I can drive you--you just have to wait a little bit" a small frown tugging at his lips.
"Don’t worry, I drove here. I’ll be fine."
"You’re not drunk, right?"
That forces you to finally meet his eyes, your eyebrow arching in a challenge. "I’m not like you, Manjiro. I can hold my alcohol just fine, and I can drive, thank you very much."
That earns a genuine laugh from him. He reaches up, his fingers lingering as he brushes a stray lock of hair behind your ear.
"Message me when you get home."
That last interaction with him was the final nail in the coffin. The moment you step into the sanctuary of your bedroom and the lock clicks into place, the strength drains from your body. Your knees finally give way, a soft wobble sending you leaning back against the cold wood of the door as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
All the carefully built walls and practiced casualness you maintained around Manjiro are stripped away in the dark. Here, in the quiet, you are finally allowed to free yourself from restraint and yearn for a man as off-limits as your best friend.
It is the only place where you can love him freely, in the only way you know how. No inhibitions. No cowardice. Just the heavy, rhythmic thud of your heart and the lingering scent of mint and leather that follows you like a ghost.
You thought hitting the bed would be the signal to finally breathe easy, believing you’d found the comfort your body craves. But it isn’t like that. As you lie on your soft mattress, the interactions between you and Manjiro replay like a fever dream, and you realize the only "comfort" your body knows is exhaustion.
All those feelings you suppressed during those moments are crumpled into a tight ball inside you, and the second your hand slowly reaches between your thighs, it feels like they are finally about to explode.
Your fingers start slow, massaging through your clothed pussy with mindless friction. You just want to feel the tension begin to ebb, until it lifts you high enough to reach the thoughts you usually keep buried in the furthest corners of your mind. Thoughts centering around your one and only love--your dearest, your best friend, Sano Manjiro.
As the lid of that forbidden chest creaks open, the first things to flood your mind are his "meaningless" touches. You remembered earlier--the way he draped himself over your shoulder, how his arms coiled around you as if he’d never let go, as if you belonged to him. You imagined those same hands holding you steady as you tried not to crumble, those same strong hands pinning you down as you shook, cumming so hard and so fast.
Your fingers work faster, and when you feel the dampness of your lace, you finally hook the fabric aside. You feel the heat of your own skin directly against your fingertips as well as the cold air from the AC that blows against it, while your mind spirals into even more forbidden thoughts.
When your middle and ring fingers slide through the folds of your swollen clit, you can’t help the moan that escapes your lips. It is breathless, almost raspy, and you wonder if Manjiro would love to hear that sound as much as you love his laughter.
You repeat the motion, forcing your back to arch as you spread your legs wider. Your mind flashes back to earlier again--how the ravenette’s thumbs had traced idle circles on your waist. Would his fingers do the same here? Long, steady fingers drawing circles against your cunt, or maybe even spelling out his name on it, since he is the sole reason you are pulsating like this.
The mental image of his fingers grazing your womanhood is the final trigger. You don't wait any longer. With enough slickness to accommodate the two-digit intruder, you push them inside, and there is no point of return.
The slip of your fingers guarantees you fall into a maze only you know. You heave out a choked sigh--what a fucking way to die, really. But this is only the start of seeking what you want in this never-ending labyrinth of pleasure, as you also start to recall all the things you never did with Manjiro.
The beginning of fatal fantasies.
The slow rhythm of your fingers against those spongy walls gives you permission to dive shamelessly deeper into your reverie. The edges of your bedroom blur until the walls dissolve entirely, replaced by the flickering light of a film only you are allowed to see--a white projector screen blooming in the dark of your eyelids. Reality bleeds out and the movie begins.
Manjiro hovered over you. His jet-black tresses were a mess, a casualty of your hands roaming and tugging through them as your lips battled his minutes before you both fell back onto the bed. You were trapped beneath him, caged by the strength of his powerful arms. Shifting your gaze from his unruly hair, you looked into his eyes. Those abyss-colored depths mirrored the same intensity reflecting in your own--a volatile mix of lust, longing, and perhaps, love.
Unable to endure the weight of his stare, you dropped your eyes to his lips. They were perfectly shaped and swollen from the way you had been sucking on them just moments ago. Those were the same lips that could start a war inside you if he ever chose; you had always believed his eyes were his most powerful feature, but it was his lips that truly had the power to wreck you--or make you.
The same lips you were staring at slowly quirked into a smirk.
"Are you okay?"
The way he asked made it feel like he was testing you, probing to see if you could truly handle what was coming next. You didn’t answer, instead, you simply reached up to cup his face. Despite his cocky tone from moments ago, he closed his eyes and leaned into the warmth of your palm against his skin, his guard dropping the second you touched him.
"Jiro…"
You start to feel the blazing of your sheets as your digits pump faster in and out of your sticky, swollen cunt. It’s throbbing, painfully so, and you understand that your own fingers aren’t enough to provide the fullness you need or chase the pleasure as fast as it’s rising. But this is enough, because your imagination can compensate for the lack of Manjiro’s length inside you.
Rolling your eyes back, you dive into your mind once again.
This time, your love was sucking your exposed chest. Your nipples were rigid and red from the way he kept switching between them, his mouth relentless. His hand, calloused from years of gripping motorcycle handlebars, massaged your other breast while he was busy devouring the other.
In your physical world, you do the same thing. Your other hand creeps up to your chest, fondling yourself with the same intensity Manjiro uses in your mind. Now that both hands are occupied, your mind has to work even harder to keep up.
Manjiro lifted his head from where he was buried in your chest, his eyes dilated from the ministrations he just performed. He bit his lower lip when he saw how breathless and sweaty you had become under him.
"You’re not getting exhausted on me just yet, right, baby?"
You’re getting delirious as your back arches off the mattress. You can feel the skyrocketing temperature of your body as your own touch overwhelms your senses. You don't even notice your surroundings anymore. You aren't even sure if the ringing of your cellphone, tossed onto the bed the moment you arrived, is just another part of your imagination.
The only physical reality is the fleeting vibration against your skin--the phone screen flaring to life beneath your elbow before the buzzing abruptly stops. You don’t even notice the silence that follows as you shift your weight to anchor yourself.
But you couldn't care less anymore. Not when you’re thrusting your fingers in as deep as they can go, over and over, until you are finally reaching for what you need. You bite your lip hard, trying to keep yourself from whining too much, but it’s impossible. Not when you feel it--the blinding lights you can almost taste at the tip of your fingers.
"Ah.. ah...ah M-manjiro--ah, fuck, please...hmph"
And the friction below matches the rhythm in your mind...
You chased the same reckless high as Manjiro rode you like his beloved motorcycle, leaning into every curve of your body. He was kneeling between your thighs, your legs circled tightly around his slim waist. His abs flexed as he plowed into you continuously, coaxing moan after moan from your lips.
"Ji-jiro, ah... please... I-I want--"
"What do you want, y/n?" he rasped, his own breath hitching as he maintained that relentless pace. "Tell me… I’ll give it to you… just say it. Tell me it's me."
"Please... baby, please."
He lowered himself without faltering in his thrusts, just to bury his face in the crook of your neck. You latched your arms around his sweaty frame, hands roaming over his broad shoulders. One particular thrust drove you to claw at his skin, making him groan.
"Fuck! ...fuck! ...I’m about to finish, baby" he groaned, lifting his head from your neck to hold your face. He turned you toward him, as gently as your mind could possibly create, and when you did, he crashed his lips against yours.
Against his lips, you felt it--the pressure that was about to burst. As you embraced him tightly to anchor yourself from the blinding rapture that was finally within reach, you swore you heard it. Him whispering in your ear...
"I love you."
And you are suddenly dragged back to the reality of your own room as your climax rushes through you. It’s shattering, almost stifling, but euphoric in a sense--a feeling that makes you chase it again and again, even if it guarantees total exhaustion afterward.
Your chest heaves with every jagged, shallow breath, your lungs struggling to keep up with the frantic pace of your heart. Your body is still trembling, muscles twitching with the lingering electricity of the release, while the cold air of the AC hits your sweat-slicked skin with a biting chill. You lay there completely undone, staring at the ceiling as the phantom weight of Manjiro vanishes from the mattress.
But the euphoria is fleeting. The moment you pull your fingers from between your thighs, the tears finally begin to overflow, streaming down your face in the silence of the room.
The pleasure you felt moments ago is washed away immediately by the guilt creeping into your chest. That feeling is always there, lingering in the shadows, but every time you touch yourself while your best friend occupies your mind, it makes itself known with a vengeance.
The guilt that lingers for loving Sano Manjiro.
The only man you want in this life, yet the one who is strictly forbidden. You can’t stop yourself, especially when he is the one providing the very things that demand deep thinking and sleepless nights. Those meaningless words and touches from him become the raw materials for your meaningful feelings. You just love him so much it hurts.
After the moans come the sobs, bouncing off the four walls of your room. You never feel dirty doing this, but you feel hopeless every single time. Because every moment of blinding pleasure comes with a price: a never-ending longing for him.
You don't feel dirty touching yourself to the idea of him. It's only in your mind, so it couldn't truly be deemed a sin… because you didn't even touch his skin, right?
But you still feel guilty for asking for something that might never be given to you--for him to love you back.
When you finally come to your senses, you sit up, briefly glancing at your body, now half-naked, and the room cluttered with your discarded things. The purse you threw aside, the pillows scattered across the floor, and Manjiro’s jacket--about to slide off the bed. You grab it and bring it to your face, burying your nose in the fabric. You inhale his familiar scent and hug it tightly to your chest, closing your eyes as fresh tears gather along your lashes.
You will choose him… and only him, again and again.
After crying until you can breathe properly, you decide to go to the bathroom to clean yourself up. You take your time, not noticing that it’s already dawn by the time you're done. Now that you’ve stepped out, the exhaustion finally catches up to your body. You don't even bother getting dressed; you just want to collapse back into bed when your eyes land on your phone.
Suddenly, you remember what Manjiro said--that you should message him once you got home. Knowing him, if you didn’t, he would start to worry and call you repeatedly to make sure you actually made it. But you didn't hear your phone ring… or did it just slip your mind?
Regardless, you pick up your phone and turn it on. Missed notifications and unread messages greet you, all sent an hour ago. Your heart starts to pound as you open the log, not knowing what to think or feel when you finally read them.
Fr. Jiro
Did you arrive home, y/n? Message me when you do.
Missed call.
Fr. Jiro
Message me, okay?
(Sent an hour ago.)
An hour has passed.
Call from Jiro — answered. Duration: 2:04.
Your heart stops. A cold dread sinks into your stomach as you stare at the screen, the pixels nearly burning into your retinas. But the words don't change: you answered the call.
The air leaves your lungs in a sharp gasp. Your knees give out, forcing you to sink onto the edge of the bed as you realize the truth. He didn't just call--he listened. He heard the gasps, the frantic rhythm of your breath, and his own name falling from your lips in a way a "best friend" should never say it.
And how fucked up it is to realize that the moment you finally let yourself love him in your mind, he was on the other line--real and bearing witness to your undoing.
pls pls pls tell me if some things written contradict with the other chapters, tbh I kinda forgot what I wrote and I never write down what I’m actually planning for the fic💔
<< Chapter 5 >>
2nd of December.
It’s been a solid week since Emma’s birthday.
Well, ‚solid‘ isn’t really the best word to describe your past week. You’ve gone silent, for the most part. To word it better, you’ve been tiptoeing around everyone. Of course, you texted back “I’m doing good” whenever someone reached out.
Kokonoi was the first to text: “Hey, I heard what happened. How are you doing? Do you need something?”
And then it was Takemichi: “[Name], are you well? Please call me!”
And after Takemichi, it was Baji: “I punchet the shit out of him. Hope u doing good tho.”
You remember smiling at his message, he still has flawed grammar.
Draken texted you too, asking if you were alright, asking if you needed anything, asking if you’re mad at him. You’re not.
Mitsuya messaged you as well, and so did Izana.
Except Izana only said: “You really had to be this dramatic and divert the attention from Emma? Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
You wanted to leave him on read, but then you recalled how Izana backhanded Shion one time for ignoring his texts. ‚But Shion is in his gang, I‘m not‘ You thought.
„ok“ You texted him back.
Emma hasn’t texted you yet. It did surprise you, but you don’t really care for some reason. Well, maybe because you’re still trying to process the fact that you got drugged. You’re aware it was Rindou, but you can’t be sure if Izana was involved in it.
You didn’t text Mikey about his hoodie or to say thank you. You know it’s not particularly nice not to do that, since he drove you home, gave you his hoodie, and apparently tucked you in. But you can’t seem to find the courage to do so. He didn’t text you either.
Maybe you‘ll text him later.
Yes, you did go to the doctor a week ago, even if you told Hinata you didn’t want to. You were instructed to pee into a cup, which you proceeded to do. You’re still waiting for the results, they should probably come in today.
Right now, you’re standing in line at the pharmacy. You need painkillers for your head and abdomen. ‚Fucking cramps,‘ you curse in your head. The beeping of the sliding door when people come in isn’t enough to pull you out of your thoughts.
SOMEWHERE ELSE, THE BASEMENT OF A STRIPCLUB
Shinichiro is perched on the monobloc chair, a small “table” in front of him. It’s not really a table — just wooden pallets stacked on top of each other, barely reaching Shinichiro’s black-clothed knee. His outfit absorbs the light. It’s plain and not colorful: black T-shirt, black pants, and black penny slippers.
On the rundown “table” in front of him lies a pack of cigarettes and his gun. Nothing more.
Takeomi stands in the shadow behind Shinichiro, his hands hidden in his pockets. The cool air of the basement brushes his cheeks. He shivers slightly, despite being dressed in a black overcoat brushing his ankles, with a striped black-and-yellow suit underneath and a yellow tie.
‚How the hell is this man not cold?‘ he thinks, not even glancing at Shinichiro. He’s watching the other two men in the basement instead.
Izana and Mikey stand motionless in front of Shinichiro, who is looking up at them with a very annoyed expression. Both men know it’s never good when Shinichiro is annoyed.
Mikey shuffles a bit, the dirt on the ground parting as his shoe brushes it aside. He is in a plain black hoodie; his white shirt peeks out from under his hoodie and over his black pants. He doesn’t look like a gang leader.
Izana side-eyes his younger brother ‚Fucking bitch.‘ Izana is dressed better than Manjiro, at least, that’s what he thinks. It’s just a black leather coat reaching his knees, a black button-up shirt with a few buttons undone, showing his collarbone, black pants, and black penny slippers. Let’s not forget his precious hanafuda earrings dangling from his ears.
„So,“ Shinichiro begins, „which one of you dumb little children is going to tell me what happened at Emma’s birthday party in my club?“
There’s a thick silence, the kind of silence where you’re debating if you should answer or let your sibling talk.
Mikey opens his mouth. „I’m not a ch-“
„Shut the fuck up,“ Shinichiro cuts in fast. His gaze sweeps from Mikey to Izana.
‚Mikey could be mistaken as a kid with that height’ he thinks, slightly disapproving of his brother’s height. It’s irrational, he’s aware.
The air feels colder than before. Takeomi decides to lazily glance away from the brothers.
Izana knows Shinichiro’s gaze means he’s waiting for an answer. Izana calculates how far he can go; he decides to say the obvious.
„Rindou laced her drink,“ he answers without much care.
Shinichiro raises a brow. „That’s it?“
„No.“
Izana quickly comes to realize he made a mistake with his responses.
Shinichiro irks. „Izana, I’m not in the mood for the mysterious shit. Either you tell me exactly what happened, or I’ll beat both of you up.“
Both men tense — though they don’t show it. They know how Shinichiro gets if he feels like he’s being played with, even if he’s not currently. Shinichiro, despite being a nice man, is, after all, one of the biggest criminals in Japan. He does stuff that may not be mentioned at family tables, but it’s obvious. People around him, those who have done him wrong in the slightest, have the tendency to disappear without a trace.
Mikey decides to open his mouth again, a little unsure. When Shinichiro is mad, Mikey feels fifteen again.
„Rindou tried to give her vodka, she declined though. But then-“
„But then I made her drink it. I didn’t know it was laced with Liquid Ecstasy. Rindou told me what it was laced with after I hit him,“ Izana casually cuts in. His face stays blank. It always does when Shinichiro is mad. No reason for it.
Izana continues, as he didn’t get an answer from Shinichiro. Usually, that means ‚continue.‘
„[Name] isn’t a drinker, nor a druggie like-“ Izana glances slowly at Mikey, „-some specific ones.“
There’s a silence that makes Mikey look at Izana in slight confusion. ‚Does he mean me?‘
„I don’t take that shit,“ Mikey answers in slight defense.
Izana blinks, a slow smile tugging at his lips.
„I mean your people. Sanzu is a crackhead, Chifuyu nearly died, and that pervert you have there? What’s his name again- Makoto? Oh, and let’s not forget sweet Senju-“
Takeomi cuts in, he sighs. „I know my siblings are junkies, but you don’t gotta mention it, man.“
Izana shrugs. He shifts his weight back and leans against a dark grey wall. „Truth hurts, right? Anyway, [Name] was quickly knocked out. The little hero in Toman tended to her. The girls went to the dance floor. Mikey took her home. Baji punched Rindou.“
The awkward silence again.
Shinichiro sighs. He runs a hand through his black hair. He stands up slowly, takes his cigarette pack, puts one cigarette between his lips, and lights it. Shinichiro puffs out smoke. None of the men in the room dares to speak.
„Izana.“
There’s a slight pause. Shinichiro is in thought, deciding how to word his question.
Fuck it, he doesn’t care.
„Are you an actual leader, or are you just a clueless bitch?“
Izana doesn’t answer, despite looking very annoyed at the jab. Shinichiro doesn’t give him time to answer anyway.
„You let your dog, Rindou, lace someone’s drink, and not just anyone’s drink. The drink of a girl who’s known Mikey since she was twelve and you were fifteen. She’s basically family. At least, to me. Explain to me why Rindou thought it would be okay, with no consequences, to just lace someone’s drink without asking you?“
Izana’s lips part slightly in astonishment, or maybe it’s irritation and shame building within his chest the more he listens to Shinichiro.
Shinichiro continues while his burning cigarette rests between his index and middle finger. It only adds to the tension in the air, or perhaps it’s just in Izana’s and Mikey’s heads.
„When did you declare [Name] as your property, Izana?“
Izana’s brows crease slightly. He takes a small step forward, about to protest.
„I never-“
„Be quiet.“ Shinichiro’s words slice through, louder than intended. He takes another puff from his cigarette.
„Manjiro.“
Mikey tenses, maybe not noticeably to a stranger, but Shinichiro, as his older brother, sees it.
„Control your dogs,“ Shinichiro orders coolly.
The smaller man nods. A small moment of silence passes between the four men. Shinichiro hasn’t dismissed them yet. Just as he’s about to raise his hand, Izana asks:
„What about Emma?“
Shinichiro pauses momentarily before flicking his cigarette away.
„What about her?“
Izana shrugs, acting clueless, probably to cover the feeling in his chest. „The fact she and the others left [Name] alone?“
Shinichiro blinks. „Izana, Emma is not the topic. Are you trying to get me to-“
Izana casually cuts his older brother off, flicking his wrist lazily. „I’m just saying, we’ve been spoiling her rotten, and now she even left her supposed friend and DJ alone as soon as she saw [Name] was drugged. I’m not the only one fucking up.“
Manjiro’s black eyes slide to Izana’s side profile. He shifts his weight again. „You’re not actually trying to get Shin to yell at Emma, are you?“
Izana doesn’t acknowledge Mikey. „Shin, I’m not surprised she’s acting that way. Most women are fake, anyway. But she’s been hanging with Senju a lot lately. Maybe that crackie isn’t a good influence on our baby sister, hm?“
Shinichiro sighs. He shakes his head and sits back down in that white chair. „Enough of your bullshit, Izana. You two go home. Do whatever you need to do. Don’t bother me again.“
AT A CAFE
In a secluded corner of a rather tiny café, Emma and Draken sit at a table. Draken’s tank top, underneath his patterned jacket, stretches across his chest. His elbows rest on the backrest of the bench he’s sitting on. His eyes briefly track the people coming in and out of the café, even if it’s a small number of people.
„—That’s why I think you being mad at me is just irrational!“ Emma quietly complains as she finishes her reasoning. Her fingers wrap around the glass; she lifts the drink, probably a latte macchiato or whatever, and presses it to her lips.
Draken sighs through his nose, his chest falling as he exhales. „So, because it was your birthday, your party, and because you wanted to dance and not have any responsibility over the night, did you think it was okay to just walk away from [Name]?“
No answer. Emma is stubborn. She continues to sip her drink.
„Drugged [Name]?“ Draken emphasizes. His glass isn’t touched. It’s just water, he didn’t want anything, but Emma forced him.
„You never did that when ol’ Senju was drugged-“
„That’s different!“ Emma snaps. „Senju didn’t even want to take that much, Hanma and South kept giving her drugs. And its not like [Name] was completely alone, Takemichi was there!“
„Senju is a drug addict, and [Name] is not. She doesn’t do drugs. She doesn’t even drink alcohol,“ Draken calmly lays out. „Emma, I’m mad because, one, you pulled Hinata away from [Name]; two, you willfully ignored the state [Name] was in and didn’t even check up on her; and three, you haven’t even texted her-“
„Because she ruined my birthday-“
„Three, you’re not being reasonable,“ Draken finishes, his brows slightly raised. „And your birthday wasn’t even ruined. It went on as if nothing happened.“
Emma parts her lips again. Draken scoffs before her words make sound. „It was my birthday. I wanted to dance. I didn’t even notice her state, and to be honest, [Name] kinda overdid it with her response to it, but Mikey drove her home, so what’s the problem? She wasn’t hospitalized or anything.“
Draken stares at her in disbelief. He doesn’t acknowledge the people coming in — not after the bullshit he just heard. „That’s your argument?“
Emma rolls her eyes. She’s had enough of this discussion. Emma adores [Name], really, she does. But it’s not the first time [Name] was a topic between Draken and Emma.
Emma didn‘t respond to Draken‘s words, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back into her chair. „You always defend her..“ She murmured.
„What?“
„I said, you always defend her.“ Emma repeated, the slight disheartened tone in her voice not lost on Draken‘s ears.
„Sweetheart,“ Draken began, speaking as gently as he could. „I said that [Name] is like family to me.“ Emma nodded.
Draken continues „I introduced her to all of you, I‘m not prioritizing her above you, I just don’t want any drama between the people I hold dear.“
„That includes you and [Name].“
„Yeah, I know.“ Emma responded.
BACK TO YOU
Back at your beloved home, the feeling of your leather couch beneath your back slowly lulled you more and more into a peaceful slumber. But as much as you wanted to fall asleep under the sunlight peeking through your curtains, with the TV glowing with your favorite show, you couldn‘t.
Mikey is coming over to get his hoodie.
He texted you a few minutes ago, saying something along the lines of needing his hoodie back because it’s cold outside.
First time he texted you in months.
Funny how you’re still wearing his hoodie, it’s freshly washed and dried. The hoodie is warm, made out of cashmere, and smells good. ‚Smells like Mikey‘ You think, ‚of course it does, it’s his hoodie.‘
As you lie there on your couch, curled up in his hoodie like a heartbroken girl, you feel a bit nervous. Anxious might be the better word.
The reasons are simple: you haven’t been alone with Mikey for 6 months. You did not even talk to him properly. You had a friends-with-benefits arrangement with him. He broke one rule— and your heart.
Your mind began to fill with memories of Mikey. Sweet ones like him taking you out on his beloved CB205T, his “babu“. He would always put the helmet on your head first.
Or him crawling onto your soft bed, wrapping his strong arms around your waist and burying his face between your tits.
Or him sleeping over for the night at your cozy place and waking you up in the morning with his warm tongue circling your clit and his scarred hands gripping your plush thighs tightly.
Your loud doorbell ripped you out of your memories before your honeypot could heat up.
You quickly got up, took the hoodie off, and stumbled your way to the door. You’re just going to ignore how your face nearly kissed the floor of your apartment.
‚I need to clean my floor, too much dust.‘ You thought.
To your own surprise, or disappointment. You can’t really tell what you’re feeling right now, did you actually expect Mikey to show up?
„Pah-Chin?“ You said the chubby man’s name out loud. He stood in front of you, but the man himself didn’t seem to be so interested.
„Mikey told me to get his hoodie or something.“ He explained, his hand is already outstretched.
You stared for a moment. A small pause before you nodded. „Yes, of course“ You handed him the hoodie that was originally in your hand.
Pah-Chin rubbed his neck with the other hand as he took the hoodie, it was a bit awkward. „Are you still sick?“
„No, I‘m not sick.“
„That’s good.“ He said his goodbyes and disappeared into the stairwell.
He comes in second as the best boyfriend, first place being Kakucho. The guy who allowed an innocent girl to be killed. The guy who shot his childhood friend. The guy who is willing to follow a person he knows is bad, even to hell.
When that's your competition the bar for being a good boyfriend let alone a good person is literally in hell.
The only thing that would set him apart from them would be the slightest bit of morality.
Also for the people that can't understand how Ran isn't a green flag too, siblings can be different people.
