(Manjiro “Mikey” Sano x Rival!Reader)
❤️✨🖤Welcome To The Show Masterlist🖤✨❤️
Synopsis: you’re planting seeds of doubt in Mikey’s head about his band manager.
Warnings: alley way makeout session. 😏
The house lights are up, drinks half-finished, the crowd Athinning like smoke after a fire. It’s the dead hour after a show, where the glamour fades and the only people who are still around are finishing their drinks from last call, and hoping to catch an artist and talk to them, like they don’t leave out a different door.
You drape yourself in the doorframe of The Revengers’ green room, one manicured nail twirling the fringe of your cropped jacket. The room smells like sweat, stage fog, and expensive cologne. Most of the band has scattered, only Mikey’s left, sitting on the beat-up leather couch with a bottle of water and that usual air of ghostly detachment.
You watch him for a moment, then make your move.
“Hey, rockstar.” Your tone is honeyed, with just enough edge to stir interest… or alarm. “Got a minute?”
Mikey looks up, blinking slow. “Hey,” he echoes, bland as ever.
You step inside like you belongs there, heels clicking softly against the floor. “Your scary manager’s not here to bite me, is she?” You tease, casting a mock glance around the room.
Mikey shrugs. “Ari’s in a meeting.”
You hum. Your hips swing a little too much as you walk past him to the mini fridge, grab a bottle, and spin the cap off with a practiced flick. You lean back against the counter, sipping slowly, all coy smiles and half-lidded eyes.
“Oh?” You say, letting the syllable drip slow and sweet. “With Kisaki?”
Mikey’s brow lifts just a fraction. “Yeah.”
You giggle, but it’s sharp underneath. “Again?”
You don’t look like you’re digging, and you don’t sound accusatory. But the way you glance at Mikey… innocent, doe eyed, slightly pouted lip, says you’re not just making conversation.
Mikey doesn’t answer right away. He’s still, unnervingly so. Eyes dark. Something shifts between them in the atmosphere.
And that’s all you need. To place a seed of doubt.
Because tucked in your ear, hidden beneath a fall of sleek hair, the receiver is live.
Outside, in the corridor where the hall turns sharp toward the manager’s office, Ran and Rindou are already moving. Slipping through shadow, smooth and silent, like wolves scenting blood.
“Showtime,” you murmur under your breath, then flash Mikey a smile that’s all teeth.
“So. Since your calendar’s suddenly free, wanna keep me company for a bit?”
The second your voice purrs through the shared line- “Oh? With Kisaki? Again?” - your eldest brother is already moving.
He cuts a glance to Rindou from across the hall, gives a small, precise nod. No words needed. You all have been doing this since you were kids, reading each other’s body language, filling in each other’s blanks. Crafting a well maintained plan to keep all three of you safe constantly. If you’re setting bait, it’s for a reason.
They slip down the narrow service hallway behind the club’s main offices, where the air’s heavier, still thick with the thrum of bass through the walls. The real VIP rooms are back here, the kind with soundproofing, no cameras, and a keycard lock system that’s been conveniently glitched thanks to a favor Ran called in two nights ago in hopes of this exact moment.
They don’t knock. They don’t breathe too loud.
Ran stops by the vent outside the manager’s office. It’s old. Rusted. The screws are loose because he made sure they would be.
He crouches. Tilts his head. Rindou slides in beside him.
Ari’s first- low, tense, too practiced to be casual.
Then Kisaki, oily-smooth and just loud enough to make Rindou’s jaw tighten, with how slimy he seems.
“It’s simple, really. A dinner. Maybe a hotel. You wear something nice. Smile for me.”
“Or I reshuffle the lineup. Let your precious boys open again. Let someone else headline for once. Maybe the Haitani’s finally get that slot. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Ran raises an eyebrow. His expression is unreadable, but his fingers tap once, twice against his thigh. Not a fidget. A tell. And Rindou nods.
Kisaki keeps talking. And Ari… Ari doesn’t answer for a beat too long.
“You think they’d follow you if they knew, think you’d still be managing? Mikey? Baji? Your little Ryuguji name’s not enough anymore, sweetheart. You need me.”
Rindou’s eyes flick to Ran’s, hard with something boiling beneath the surface.
“You recording?” he murmurs low, almost soundless.
Ran shows him the discreet mic clipped inside his jacket sleeve. Of course he is.
“You’re threatening me.” Ari comes off again
“No. I’m offering you a very elegant solution.”
Rindou leans back, jaw tense. “He’s pressing harder than before.”
“Desperate,” Ran mutters. “Means he’s not in control. Yet.”
They exchange another glance. Unspoken decision made.
They’re not just eavesdropping anymore, They’re gathering evidence.
War is coming- and the Haitani’s just pulled the first thread.
The Revengers are mid-set.
Stage lights slash gold and red across the club, catching on sweat-slick skin and glinting jewelry. Mikey’s center stage, as always, calm in the chaos, face unreadable as his voice cuts through the air like a blade.
Back by the bar, the Haitani siblings watch, occasionally greeting a fan for a moment, but mostly they watch.
Rindou’s nursing a drink, leaning against the rail, one headphone half-on. Ran stands beside him, smoking despite the signs, because who’s going to tell him not to?
And you’re perched on a velvet barstool, long legs crossed, glass of something dangerous in hand. Your eyes are watching Mikey.
Specifically, the way Mikey keeps glancing offstage. Quick flicks of his eyes. Subtle, but not subtle enough. His usual indifference has a crack in it now. A tension he’s not great at hiding, not from someone who knows what to look for.
You sip your drink slowly, mouth curved in the barest smile.
Baji’s hammering the drums like a man possessed, Chifuyu and Takemichi weaving their guitars together in something that sounds almost like prayer, the rest of the band where they’re supposed to be, but Mikey’s distracted. You can feel it.
And sure enough, when the set ends and the lights drop low, he doesn’t go backstage with the others.
He hops off the stage, and heads straight toward you. Ignoring the fans that try to talk along the way.
You watches him come with all the patience of a spider. No smugness, just calm, calculated charm. You lifts your chin as he stops in front of you, with black boots and tightly wound restraint.
“Something on your mind?” You purr, smiling the tiniest bit.
Mikey doesn’t sit. Doesn’t fidget. Just looks at you with that cool, sharp gaze of his.
“You said something the other night,” he says. “About Ari. About Kisaki.”
“Mm?” You tilts your head, lashes fluttering. “Did I?”
Ran and Rindou don’t move, but the energy shifts. They’re listening.
You lean back slightly, letting your knee brush Mikey’s leg, not flirtatious now. Just casual. Casual enough to be disarming.
“I just thought it was interesting,” you says airily. “They meet a lot. Late. Alone.” You sips your drink. “You’d think Kisaki would be too busy running his club to have *constant* meetings with your manager. I know Ran doesn’t meet with him that much,”
Mikey’s expression darkens just a hair, and you dont flinch.
“Funny thing about power, Mikey,” you murmur, voice smooth as silk. “People like Kisaki? They only want it if they can hold it over someone else’s head.”
He doesn’t answer. But you can feel it, something slotting into place behind those cold, sharp eyes. One more crack in the trust he holds for Ari. One more step toward the storm.
You set your drink down gently, brushing invisible dust from your thigh.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” you say, too sweet. “But if it’s not… well. Wouldn’t you want to know?”
You stand then, slow and elegant, and brush past him with just the faintest ghost of your perfume lingering.
Mikey is quick to follow.
Ran exhales a plume of smoke. “He’s gonna ask questions.”
Rindou grins, all teeth. “Good.”
The club’s door slams shut behind them, muting the music like a switch flipped.
Outside, it’s cooler. Damp air clings to the bricks. Trash bins. Smoke from half spent cigarettes. The alley’s lit only by a single flickering bulb and the blood-orange glow from Mikey’s lighter as he flicks it on, then off, then on again.
You lean against the wall, one heeled boot propped behind her, arms folded. You’re not in a rush. You’re not nervous.
Mikey doesn’t smoke, but he continues to toy with the lighter anyway. tension twisting under the surface, a visible twitch in his jaw. He looks at you like he’s still trying to decide if he wants to hear what you have to say… or shut you up.
“Why are you stirring shit up?” he asks flatly.
Your lip curls. “You think I’m lying?”
“I think you like attention.”
You snort. “And you don’t?”
Not by much. Just enough that the flame in his hand lights your face in flashes, your glossed lips, your sharp cheekbones, the glitter at the corner of your eyes. Your expression doesn’t shift.
“You dragged me out here to accuse me of lying?” You say, voice silky but low. “Or did you want me alone for another reason?”
Mikey watches her like a puzzle. He’s never known what to make of You. loud, beautiful, confident, dangerous in a way that’s hard to pin down. All glitter and tease, always orbiting him like a problem he doesn’t have time to solve.
Tonight you got in his head, and he hates that.
“I think you know something,” he says. “Something about Ari and Kisaki.”
You tilt your head, playing at innocence. “What if I want something in return?”
Mikey’s patience snaps like a rubber band.
He surges forward and slams his palm against the wall beside your head, not touching you, but close enough that your breath catches.
“You think this is a game?”
Your lips part. “Isn’t it?”
It’s not romantic. It’s not sweet. It’s teeth and heat and tension that’s turned physical, the kind of kiss that feels more than it really says. His hand fists in your hair, yours finds the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer like you’re trying to win something.
You kiss back like you wants to draw blood.
Your teeth clash. Your leg hooks around his hip, his other hand sliding to your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise. It’s messy and breathless and soaked in everything unsaid… hate, suspicion, attraction, ego.
When you both finally pull apart, both of you are panting.
Mikey’s eyes are dark, his voice rough. “What the hell was that?” He questions like didn’t just initiate it.
You smirk “Rivalry, maybe. Or foreplay. You decide.”
And before he can say anything else, you slip out from under his arm and disappears back into the club, lip gloss smeared, pulse still racing, the taste of him still hot in your mouth.
Mikey stays behind, alone in the alley.
Lips parted, Mind reeling, And the suspicion in his gut burning hotter than ever.
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