❝every gangster needs a little love...❞
kings of the streets, they carry reputations that speak for themselves: terrifying, untouchable, and etched in violence. the kind of men even the toughest fear to cross. no one can break them... until you. or how these gangsters soften up and drop their guard when you're around.
characters: sano shinichiro, imaushi wakasa, hanma shuji, sanzu haruchiyo, haitani rindou, haitani ran
cw: fem!reader, blood, guns, mention of drugs, violence, murder.
"i don't care if you run the streets, as long as you're coming home to me."
↬ Sano Shinichiro
Word on the streets is that the leader of Black Dragons is a charismatic and respected man. The followers he's gathered and the gang he's founded--now the biggest gang in Tokyo, are enough evidence to prove these aren't just hearsays whispered in alleyways.
He really is that man.
Sano Shinichiro is that man.
The roar of engines cuts through the busy avenue of Tokyo, making people part for them like waves. Whispers from the sidelines along with worried expressions from spectators blur past the members of Black Dragons as their motorbikes tear through the middle of the street like they own it.
And at the front of this sea of black uniforms rides none other than Shinichiro--ever so magnetic, his black tokkofuku flaring behind him, embroidered with words that scream who he is and what he represents: commander.
Takeomi smirks, looking at his friend who he thinks is farming way too much aura in this gang parade. He cracks a joke. "You look so cool asserting your dominance in this part of the city, boss!"
When Shinichiro hears it, a cocky smile immediately creeps across his face. "Gotta keep the legend alive!"
The lower members catch their commander’s shout and roar in agreement, making his words ring out like a battle cry.
Wakasa, Benkei, and Takeomi exchange a knowing look, shaking their heads in unison. (He’s bragging again… Yeah, as always… Let him… Ugh.)
The whole gang trails behind Shinichiro, pride and smoke drifting confidently through the air. Without warning, he slows his pace and lifts a hand to signal the group.
Everyone freezes.
"What's up?" Benkei scans the road for anything wrong. They aren't in enemy territory yet nor are there any suspicious people lingering around ready to attack them. But they've specifically stopped in front of a shotengai.
Shinichiro hops off his bike and walks toward the shopping district.
"I'll be right back."
"Oi, Shin!"
His vice commander grunts, tilting his head for the two captains to follow their commander.
"All of you, stay back!" Takeomi shouts over his shoulder. "We’ve got business to take care of."
The rest of the BD members’ eyes gleam as a shared thought flickers among them. Maybe this is the point of the parade--to prove they’re strong enough now to start claiming territory and money of their own.
"Yo, are we asking for protection money now?" "Holy shit, we're really turning into yakuza!" "Shinichiro-san is so damn cool!" "Tch, that's why he's the boss. No one else could pull that off."
A few yards away, the reality is a far cry from what the rest of the gang is picturing. There the three of them stand, bored out of their minds, waiting for their leader to wrap up his business.
"Uh-huh. we really stopped for this..." Wakasa mutters, giving the hyakuen shop a flat look.
"I'm just wondering what the others think we're doing--"
"They probably think we're shaking the place down," Takeomi interrupts dryly. "Moving up to yakuza status as we speak."
Their heads turn as Shinichiro finally steps out, that same legendary confidence radiating from him as if he’d actually just extorted the poor shop owner.
If it weren't for the small paper bag and the crinkled receipt in his hand, they might have believed it, too.
"Looking at him like this... it's just stupid," Benkei grumbles.
Takeomi snorts, knowing full well what their boss actually bought.
When Shinichiro and the others rejoin the group, the Black Dragon members erupt in a unified roar, celebrating what they assume was a successful ‘business deal.’ Shinichiro swings a leg over his bike and revs the engine, prompting the entire line of delinquents to howl in victory behind him.
For the rest of the parade, Shinichiro’s presence never wavers. He leads the gang with a cocky confidence that sends everyone’s adrenaline through the roof. He lives up to every word whispered on the streets--a living legend who commands fear without ever needing to demand it.
But the moment the meeting concludes and he pulls his bike up to a specific house, the energy shifts.
The smirk he’s worn like armor all day vanishes the second he knocks on the door, replaced by a bashful, boyish smile. The man who radiated power while riding through the city now stands there looking almost shy, clutching a small paper bag in his hands.
When you open the door, a smile is already on your face as you look up at your boyfriend.
"You're late."
"Sorry, baby. Forgive me?" Shinichiro asks, pulling a teddy bear from the paper bag. It’s soft and brown, sporting a tiny red bow tie. Your smile grows wider--so sickeningly sweet that Shinichiro swears he might actually die from the sugar rush. He can feel his heart thudding against his ribs just looking at you.
"Hmm, what’s this? A bribe?" You tease him, though you’re already pulling the bear into a tight embrace, letting the soft fur brush your cheek.
Shinichiro pouts, making a smooching sound with his cheeks puffed out. "No kiss? Aren't I a good boyfriend for buying you a gift?"
You burst out laughing, the sound a bit breathless. How is it possible for a gang leader to be this pouty? If the Black Dragons saw their "ever-charismatic" leader acting this mushy, they’d probably double over in shock. Takeomi, Benkei, and Wakasa on the other hand, would look on with pure, unadulterated disgust.
But this is your Shinichiro, not theirs. He can be clingy, pouty, and cheesy for you, and you love him just the same--maybe even more than the people who follow him.
With you, he isn't the legendary leader; he's a loving, sometimes cringy boyfriend, eyes soft and warm in a way no one else ever sees.
He pulls you into a tight embrace, your bodies pressed together as he leans down to peck your nose. "I missed you today" he admits softly. "That’s why I stopped at hyakuen. Consider it a bribe for being late… and for missing you more than usual."
"Silly. I understand you're busy with your… gang stuff," you murmur, nuzzling against him while still clutching the bear. "Though I did hear a lot of motorcycles earlier. Was that you guys making all that racket?"
"Maybe," he admits, his grin turning sheepish. "But hey, if they're afraid of us, they'll leave you alone. I just want you to be able to walk freely, baby." His fingers graze yours, the gesture holding more weight than his lighthearted tone suggests.
He lets out a low chuckle when you hit his shoulder. Cheesy.
"Let's go inside, Shin. It's cold, and I know you're tired and hungry."
"Alright, baby." But before stepping through the door, he leans down to claim the kiss he’s been craving all day. It’s soft and lingering, enough to make your heart skip a beat.
You’re breathless when he finally pulls away, your cheeks flushed warm despite the biting winter air.
And if his members saw him like this--completely loving and utterly whipped, he wouldn't be embarrassed for a second. Because as proud as he is to lead his gang, nothing compares to the pride he feels when he’s standing at your side.
↬ Imaushi Wakasa
Despite his high-impact moves during gang wars, Imaushi Wakasa is the type who rarely runs his mouth. His nonchalance and laid-back nature make it seem like he’s barely trying--an attitude that, unfortunately, makes him a target for those who don't know any better.
But anyone who has witnessed him in his prime--forged in clashes and street fights, knows better than to fuck with him. Because as much as he doesn't feel the need to talk, he loves conversing with his fists.
Even in the heat of a brawl, Wakasa remains completely unfazed, his expression so disinterested that his friends often find themselves wondering if he’s actually bored.
His unflappable nature doesn't just scare his opponents--it unnerves his own members. He is truly an unbothered king. So, when he casually announces to his inner circle after a meeting that he has a girlfriend, the silence that follows is nothing short of comical.
"What do you mean you have a girlfriend, Waka?" His commander-slash-friend nearly chokes on his smoke, coughing the words out in disbelief.
"I have a girlfriend." Simple. Calm. Unbothered. As if that three-word sentence explains the universe. But knowing Wakasa, those few words are enough. He says exactly what he needs to, and not a syllable more.
He isn't asking for an opinion. He’s stating a fact, and that’s that.
Shinichiro glances at Takeomi, who looks just as confused, though he quickly drops his eyes to the ground as if it owes him a detailed explanation. Benkei, on the other hand, is staring at the three of them.
They aren't looking at each other, but the same thought runs through all their heads.
How?
Wakasa is a good-looking man, undoubtedly. He’s had countless women confess to him over the years--girls who practically throw themselves at his feet but he never pursues them. None of them have ever piqued his interest. Maybe it’s because he’s too detached and unreadable. He barely speaks, and no one has ever managed to scale the wall he’s built around himself. It is cold and fucking impenetrable.
So how?
"How?" Thank you, Benkei.
The question hangs in the air as Shinichiro and Takeomi nod in frantic agreement. They lean forward, desperate for an explanation, for anything.
If they expect Wakasa to elaborate, they’re dead wrong.
"Fuck y'all."
The news is massive but the conversation dies right there. He has a girlfriend. His friends don't believe him, he doesn't care, and he dips.
Little does he know after his announcement, the three of them decide to tail him just to see if he's lying. And maybe witness what the great Imaushi Wakasa looks like in a relationship.
They give it a few days, waiting for the perfect time Wakasa goes somewhere that isn't gang-related. And when he finally mentions he has somewhere to be, that's the signal for the three of them to spring into action.
Determined to catch him in the act, they tail him as discreetly as three high-ranking delinquents can. They soon find themselves standing in front of a backstreet café none of them even knew existed. Tucked between two looming buildings, the place is practically invisible unless you know exactly where to look. A faded sign creaks above the door, and a soft, warm light spills from the windows, inviting and quiet.
"He'd meet his girl in some hidden café like this?" Takeomi mutters, sneaking a glance at the door Wakasa just entered. "You sure he's not meeting one of his yakuza buddies here?"
"Yeah, and this is yakuza territory too," Shinichiro adds. He crosses his arms, squinting at the café like it might reveal its secrets.
Either way, they slip inside the café as quietly as possible, sneaking glances around to track down their friend. It doesn't take long before they spot him, sitting alone by the window looking as calm and uncaring as ever.
"Look at that fucker," Takeomi whispers. "Knew it. He was lying out of his ass. Bet he's here to spend the money he extorted. Fancy motherfucker."
Shinichiro starts to chuckle. "Or maybe he’s going to--"
Benkei nudges his shoulder, gesturing toward the table just as a woman begins walking up to where Wakasa sits.
"Oh, shit."
Wakasa’s eyes track your approaching figure. You’re dressed simply, clean and effortless--a stark contrast to the grit of the world he usually inhabits. His expression remains unreadable at first but the moment you stop in front of him and take your seat something shifts.
The man known for being as cold as ice lifts the corner of his lips into the softest smirk any of them have ever seen.
"Hi, pretty."
He leans over the table, bridging the gap to catch your cheek in a soft, lingering kiss. There is no rush in his movements. He captures your hand, thumb idly stroking your knuckles--a habit born from a deep, quiet familiarity.
"I haven't ordered your drink yet. Want some cheesecake?"
His soft gaze doesn't waver as he waits for your answer.
To the rest of the world, Wakasa is a man of silences. But with you, the words come easily, almost hurried, as if he can't wait to share his thoughts. He speaks in a register reserved solely for you, his voice dropping into a tone that no one else is ever permitted to hear.
You squeeze his hand, giving it a playful tug to bring his attention back from his own thoughts. "Did you wait long, baby?"
Wakasa can't help it anymore. A genuine smile creeps across his face, wide enough to make his eyes squint.
Unbeknownst to both of you, a chorus of gasps and muffled curses erupts from a table not too far away, where three very wide-eyed men are silently losing their minds.
"I didn't. I just came here straight after the meeting. Let me order first, then we'll talk about your uni, yeah?"
You smile and nod, and he gives your hand a final, tender caress before standing up. He leans over one more time, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering just a second too long before finally pulling away.
You watch his back as you are pulled into your own thoughts.
A delinquent and a university student isn't an ideal story to tell, but it's the world you currently live in and love. It isn't unusual to hear others question your decision to be involved with him, their words stringing together like accusations, urging you to let go of his hand.
"Why him? He's a delinquent!" "You're going to destroy your future!"
But none of that matters. The only words that truly resonate are the promises he’s whispered during those silent nights--words you choose to believe in above all else.
Wakasa is yours, just as you are his.
The clink of a cup on the table brings you back to the present.
"Here's your order, pretty."
He sets the coffee down in front of you--the order he’s memorized by heart. He knows how you cling to this specific drink whenever you’re pulling an all-nighter for school.
As detached as he is during his gang activities, with you, he notices everything. Every little detail about you is something he remembers and engraves into his memory as if it were the most vital information in the world.
Once again, he captures your hand, his soft gaze pinned on you as his rhythmic, gentle caresses begin to ease your mind.
"Tell me about your uni, baby?"
"Oh, you know… same hell," you sigh. "I'm currently working on a strategic plan for a hypothetical business...identifying its threats, strengths, and target markets. It’s exhausting, really."
"Poor baby," he murmurs, tilting his head with a playful glint in his eyes. "What if we tried executing your business in real life so it wouldn't be so hard on you? What do you say, pretty?"
You pinch the back of his hand, making him let out a low, amused chuckle.
"And?" you challenge with a smile. "Where exactly would we get our capital?"
A soft smile lingers on both of your faces as he leans closer, his fingers reaching out to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear.
"Baby, I have ways."
It’s a joke, but you know deep down that if you ever truly asked, Wakasa would move mountains for you. For a man who rarely speaks, whose internal barriers are nearly impossible to pierce, the fact that you chose him is reason enough for him to do anything for you, legal or otherwise.
He loves you with that kind of intensity.
"Well, let's try your ways when I quit university and choose to be your fulltime girl"
And you love him just the same.
Both of you lean in, closing the distance until your lips finally meet in a soft, sweet kiss. Your hearts seem to beat in unison as the moment lingers, neither of you willing to pull away just yet. You can’t help but smile into the kiss, which coaxes a matching one from him, and soon you're both quietly giggling against each other’s lips.
You’re the first to pull away and sit back properly, while your boyfriend chases after you for one more lingering kiss at the corner of your mouth before finally settling into his own seat.
For a moment, everything feels perfect. It’s just the two of you in your own little world... right up until a loud, hacking cough cuts through the quiet café, followed by a sharp curse.
"Ow, fuck! Why is this so hot?! Are they trying to kill someone?"
Wakasa closes his eyes, letting out a long, weary sigh. "Uh-huh… couldn't they be any more obvious?"
"Waka?" You stare at your boyfriend for a moment before your gaze drifts to the three men seated not too far from your table. They're huddled together, desperately pretending to study a menu while very obviously burning holes in your direction. Your eyes dart from the strangers, to him, and then back to them again.
Wakasa quietly watches the gears turn in your head until the flicker of realization finally hits you.
"…They're wearing the same uniform as you."
"Unfortunately" he mutters.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "These idiots..."
Wakasa stands up, finally deciding to continue your date somewhere else. It isn't because he’s embarrassed to be seen with you, but rather to end this stupidity once and for all.
He isn't about to let these dumbasses ruin his time with you just because their nosy asses wanted to catch him off guard. They never will. His nonchalant persona and the softer version he shows only to you are both real--he’s simply more natural when you're around.
In truth, you're the only person in the world who actually has the power to catch him off guard.
He reaches out and gently tugs you up. "Let's continue our date somewhere else."
"Why--"
Before you can finish, he’s already walking toward their table with you in tow, his hand holding yours tightly. The three of them freeze mid-motion as you both come to a halt right in front of them.
"This is my girlfriend," he says flatly, his tone suggesting that talking to them is the most boring chore in the world. But the moment he turns back to you, that soft visage returns instantly.
"And these," he gestures lazily toward the three wide-eyed men, "are the idiots i told you about."
"Hi" you say with a polite smile, giving them a little wave.
The three of them just stare, unable to bridge the gap between the man they know and the one standing before them. The reality that his girlfriend actually exists is one thing, but the genuine look on Wakasa’s face is another entirely. Shinichiro’s jaw is tight, his silence loud, while Takeomi and Benkei simply go still, watching the scene unfold in stunned disbelief.
Before they can even find their voices, your boyfriend guides you toward the exit, leaving them completely dumbfounded.
It takes a moment for the reality to sink in, but they eventually snap out of their daze. "O-oi, Waka!"
"Pay for our coffee! Bye!" he calls back over his shoulder.
Once you’re both outside, a low, genuine laugh finally breaks from Wakasa’s chest. You stare at him, confused at first, but his amusement is so infectious and unfiltered that you can’t help but join him. The rare sound of his laughter fills the air, leaving a lingering warmth in your chest.
"You're terrible!" You laugh, swatting his shoulder.
His shoulders are still shaking as he tugs you closer, wrapping his arms securely around your waist. "They're more terrible for stalking me. They didn't believe I actually had a girl."
You return his embrace as he slowly begins to sway you back and forth, as if you’re dancing to music only the two of you can hear. "Maybe it's because you didn't explain it to them?"
His gaze softens as he leans down, his voice dropping into a low whisper. "No need. You're the only one who matters."
If your heart skips a beat, it’s a secret shared only between the two of you. Because just as you are his entire world, Wakasa is the only heartbeat that matters in yours.
"Let's go to your dorm, baby," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. "I wanna keep kissing you all day."
And even if no one believes that your Wakasa is entirely different from the man who rules the streets, it doesn't matter. They don't need to see the side of him that only exists behind closed doors. Because he’s yours. Entirely yours.
↬ Hanma Shuji
If most people saw twenty-plus grown men in all-black suits walking down the street, the encounter would be nerve-wracking--terrifying, even. These men are armed and known for destroying anything in their path. They’re exactly the kind of people you’d avoid at any cost.
But right now? These same dangerous men are the ones trembling.
Sitting in front of them is another man in a pinstripe suit, a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips. His stare is sharp enough to serve as a final warning: one wrong move, and he will raise his pistol without a second thought to put a bullet through someone's skull.
The men can't even swallow, let alone allow the sound of their own breathing to be heard.
Because Hanma Shuji… is pissed as fuck.
Everyone in the damn room knows he's one snap away from going on a killing spree, and no one wants to be the first body to drop.
The smoke from his cigarette curling around his dark expression.
"You had one job, you pieces of shit. One fucking job!" He snarls.
No one dares to speak, breathe, or even blink. Any normal human action could get them killed. Act like a corpse if they must, just so long as their boss doesn't raise his gun or stand to beat the shit out of them. Even then, there's no guarantee of salvation.
He inhales sharply, his jaw clenching and unclenching with visible tension. "What is so hard to fucking understand? No one leaves until we have what we need! And you… you were so damn stupid that you let the cops tail you. Fucking morons."
Hanma lets the words hang in the air, the room already suffocating under the weight of his gaze. Everyone knows better than to move, but as with every tragic comedy, there is always one idiot who mistakes a pause for an opportunity to speak.
Hands twitching and sweat trickling down his neck, the man gulps, daring to lift his eyes to meet his boss lethal gaze.
"B-but b-boss, w-we-"
Gunshot.
In the blink of an eye, he crumples to the floor, a bullet lodged in the center of his forehead, blood pooling around him like crimson ink.
Don't rest in peace, idiot.
The ringing of the gunshot echoes across the room. If they've been stiff from the start of this execution (meeting) they're now completely paralyzed. Hearts pound harder than ever. Even if they don't pray aloud their minds are filled with desperate litanies, hoping they won't be the next to get shot.
Hanma Shuji stands, menacing aura unfaltering despite the kill.
"Why the fuck are you trying to piss me off even more, huh?"
He begins to prowl toward them, paying no mind to the blood seeping onto his leather shoes. He spits his cigarette at the feet of the men in the front row, a gesture of pure disgust. Looking down at them now, he isn't a god--he’s a true reaper deciding which soul to harvest next.
Hanma raises his pistol once again, the barrel shifting slowly toward the man on his right. The man goes rigid but the fast, shallow breaths rattling in his chest betray every ounce of terror he's trying to hide.
He's next. He's gonna die. HE'S NEXT.
Everyone holds their breath, bracing for the final moment of their lives...
until a phone rings inside Hanma’s pocket.
His jaw remains set as he pulls the phone from his pocket. Without glancing at the caller id, he presses accept, his other hand steady with his finger still hovering over the trigger.
He’s ready to snap at whoever dared to interrupt him, but the words die in his throat the moment a familiar voice carries through the line.
"Hi, baby."
The whole room remains locked in a deathly silence, making the voice from the phone loud enough for everyone to hear. It is a sweet, melodic voice, speaking with an endearment that only she has the right to use for a man as fearsome as him.
Yet, the men feel no relief. Instead, some close their eyes in a desperate prayer as the Reaper turns toward them, a single plea screaming in their minds:
"Whoever is the goddess on the other line... please, fucking save us from him."
Hanma lowers his gun without a word and strides back toward the table, the phone still pressed to his ear. When he turns to sit, the expression that had nearly eaten them alive begins to melt.
First, it shifts into something cold and unreadable... and then he tongues the inside of his cheek as his eyes slowly crinkle with delight.
"Hi, pretty baby," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave into something dangerously sweet. "Why are you still up?"
To say the men are shocked would be a massive understatement--they can't believe their fucking eyes. Hanma Shuji--the man who reigns over the streets with terror and is feared even by his own kind is seconds away from smiling genuinely, all because of the woman on the other end of the line.
It is a well-known fact within the underworld that Hanma Shuji has a girlfriend. Some of the men have even met you, and their immediate thought was always the same: how unfortunate you were to be involved with a man like him. To them, you are young, beautiful, and tragically unlucky--doomed to be with a man who will eventually destroy everything he touches.
Little do they know, the gangster is wrapped tightly around your finger, and he’s there willingly. He is chained and devoted, with absolutely no place he would rather be than right where you want him.
"I'm trying to finish this new scarf I've been crocheting and suddenly thought of that milky donut we passed by the other day. I'm kind of craving it--wait, are you busy? I'm sorry, Shu--"
Shuji can’t help the smile creeping onto his face. He tries biting his lower lip to suppress it, but the joy is too infectious to fight.
When his useless subordinates see that wholesome expression tugging at the corners of his mouth, they finally dare to exhale. They are still in disbelief, but they cling to the sliver of hope his change in mood provides. Their boss smiling means, at the very least, they might live to see another day.
"Don't tell me you used that ugly color for my scarf--"
"Excuse me! Who said this scarf is for you?!"
That earns a roaring laugh from your boyfriend, the sound echoing through the stifling room as he pictures your indignant face. His eyes gleam, his voice dropping to a low, amused hum. "Come on now, baby. I know it’s for me."
Hanma lounges back further into his chair, the gun mindlessly tapping against his temple as he continues to bite his lower lip.
How amazing it is--to see a man capable of terrifying an entire group of hardened thugs turn into a smiling idiot just because his girl called.
It's a sight to see, really, and it could be a comforting one…
If only they were assured that after this call, he'd stay in a good enough mood for the rest of the night to spare them from Hanma's rage and carnage.
"Whatever you say, Shu."
There is a brief pause on your end, and Hanma tilts his head slightly, listening intently. He can hear faint shuffling, the rustle of fabric, and then something lightly clattering to the floor.
"Oh, shit!" Your voice suddenly grows distant and distracted.
Hanma immediately drops his feet from the table, his posture sharpening in an instant. His men stiffen in unison, fearing the shift in his body language is a sign that the execution is back on but Hanma’s attention is glued entirely to the phone.
"Baby?" he calls out, the irritation from earlier thinning into a sharp, focused curiosity.
More sounds filter through the speaker: the jingle of keys, a door clicking shut, and the soft, hurried tap of your heels against the floor. Hanma’s brow arches, amusement flickering in his eyes as he leans back into his chair once more, his grin curling lazy and wide.
"Baby… where are you?"
"H-huh? Ah--I'm crocheting your scarf--"
"You said it wasn't mine--"
"Shut it. J-just get my milky donuts before you come home, okay? Love you, take care!"
And then the line goes dead.
Hanma stares at his phone for a second longer, his grin stretching even further. But the moment the screen goes dark, the shift is instant. The boyish boyfriend fades, and the crime lord slips back into place like a second skin.
The room freezes all over again. The comfortable breaths some of them dared to release earlier are pulled right back into their lungs. Every man feels the same dreadful thought sink deep, like a stone dropping into cold water:
The call ended. We're fucked. See you in hell, boys. Damn.
Hanma stands up with a low groan, his hand sliding back onto his gun. He raises it casually, almost lazily, paired with a glare sharp enough to slice the air.
"If I'm gonna rid one stupid among a bunch of stupid, might as well rid them all, ain't it?"
These men accept their fate the moment they bow their heads. It's a sign of defeat, a silent confession that they're useless gangsters who fucked up their operation big time. If it weren't for their boss taking immediate action, they would've all been in jail by now.
And honestly, maybe they deserve to be scythed by the Reaper himself rather than be tortured by cops desperate for information.
Hanma doesn't say another word, fully prepared to let the ricochet of his gun do the talking.
But the split second before he pulls the trigger, the door swings open, allowing a faint floral scent to cut through the heavy, metallic air.
"Hi! Is Shuji here?"
Everyone witnesses the way Hanma’s eyes widen in genuine shock, his gun lowering instantly. The mere sound of that familiar voice is enough to make the criminal boss’s threatening countenance wobble a bit.
His girlfriend is here. His baby.
Hanma points firmly at the dead body on the floor, signaling his men to cover the bloody scene. He then frantically turns away from the table and hurries toward where you stand. His men immediately press themselves together, forming a human wall to block your view of anything beyond their backs as their boss reaches you.
"B-baby!... What are you doing here, huh?"
The collective movement that blocks what's in front of you makes you roam your eyes and tiptoe to see what they're trying to hide. But Hanma catches on fast and smoothly blocks your view by towering over you.
"What brings you here, doll? Isn't it a bit late for you to be wandering outside?" He holds your elbows softly, his touch gentle as he tries to guide you to turn around and leave this blood-scented room.
Hanma has never been nervous a day in his life. He has always chased the thrill of danger, so the concept of fear isn't in his vocabulary. But the thought of you barging in and seeing the grisly work he’s just finished is enough to make him panic.
"Were you surprised?" You look up at him, smiling so genuinely, as if your little stunt were both brilliant and sweet.
It is, certainly, but it’s in the entirely wrong place.
Hanma doesn't dare turn his head to see how his subordinates are handling the cover up. Instead, he keeps his focus entirely on you, fighting to push down the panic clawing at his throat. To distract you, he pecks your lips, his hands sliding from your elbows up to your shoulders to keep you anchored in place.
"Yes, baby, I am surprised," he murmurs. "Now, don't do it again."
You giggle, reaching up to caress his sharp jaw and gently pinch his cheeks. "Silly! It was supposed to be a surprise, Shuji."
You are so, so sweet that he can’t help the twitch of his lips, but he also can’t ignore the chaos clawing at his insides. He doesn’t care if his men can feel the frantic tension he radiates, or that he’s practically putty in your hands as he tries to steer you away from the carnage he orchestrated.
He isn't embarrassed to be seen like this, however he would be deeply unsettled if you witnessed another blood-stained scene especially when he promised, the day he asked for your hand, that you would never have to see one.
As dangerous as he is, he never lets you be at the center of his chaos.
And you? You knew the moment you let him into your life that danger would be inevitable and a common occurrence but you didn't care. Being with him is the only thing that makes you feel complete. Ironically, being in the arms of the most dangerous man in the room is exactly what makes you feel safest.
You love him as a whole, as much as he loves your everything.
"You could have told me. I should've picked you up--"
"Then it wouldn't be a surprise anymore!" you counter with a playful smile.
The soft smile you display makes Hanma's tension finally break. Unable to resist the smirk any longer, he pulls you to his chest and leans down, burying his face against your jaw as he peppers it with little bites and kisses.
"You missed me that much that you had to come here and surprise me? What a damn shame," he teases, though his grip on you says otherwise.
Your laughter echoes through the once-dreaded room, and you are entirely unaware that it isn't only your boyfriend who is eased by the sound. His men who had been facing the scythe of death only moments ago, feel the relief wash over them as well.
Still lost in your own world, the two of you don't notice his subordinates slowly embracing a rare sense of security. They finally dare to believe they might actually be safe from the hands of their boss--all thanks to you.
"Yeah, what a shame," you retort, rolling your eyes. "As if I’m the one clinging like a koala right now. In the presence of your men, really, Shuji? How embarrassing."
Shuji finally pulls away from your neck to look at your pretty face--full of smiles and adoration. He could return the tease, but instead he uses those seconds to appreciate how you immediately calm him.
"They could die for all I care."
You scrunch your nose. Fucking adorable.
"Please don't."
And somewhere among the gangsters huddled together, you swear you hear a sigh of relief. You have no idea what you did, but the gratitude radiating off their backs makes you think that maybe… you did something for them.
"Well, the reason I'm here is like what I told you over the phone. I'm craving that milky donut we passed by the other day. I want it as hot as possible… and I guess I missed you too."
You murmur the last part, your hands lingering to caress his suited chest. He catches your hands in his, pressing a lingering kiss to your fingers before turning toward his men abruptly.
"Clean that shit up and fucking scram after."
Before you can hear the collective breath of relief and chorus of gratitude, your boyfriend is already pulling you out of the room.
The night air hits you both as Hanma guides you outside the building, his hand firmly intertwined with yours. The tension and rage that filled him earlier are completely gone now, replaced by a softer, gentler version of him--one that only exists when you're around.
"So" he drawls, glancing down at you with that signature lazy grin "milky donuts, huh?"
You nod eagerly, squeezing his hand. "Hot and fresh. You promised you’d get them before coming home, anyway."
"Oh, did I now?"
He pulls you closer as you walk down the street, his arm wrapping around your shoulders to shield you from the cold wind. "Guess I have to follow the boss's orders."
That elicits a bright laugh from you, and for a moment, Hanma Shuji can only look at your face. He traces the way your eyes sparkle under the streetlights and the way you lean into him so naturally, so trusting.
The criminal lord wouldn't trade this moment for any thrill the streets or the underground could give him.
Because you're the most exciting part of his life. And even if he's a lawbreaker, a feared man, the Reaper, none of those titles give him a more fulfilling, satisfying feeling than being your man.
He's just Shuji.
The man who is wholly, utterly, and completely yours. Your Shuji.
"Let's go, baby. I don't want you getting grumpy if you don't get those donuts tonight."
He presses a kiss to your temple--a silent assurance and a promise kept.
↬ Sanzu Haruchiyo
Like a feral wolf fresh from a fight, he staggers toward Bonten's conference room, each breath coming in ragged gasps. It isn't just his labored breathing that shows the rough expedition he's been on, but also the blood splattered across his pinstripe suit and the bruises and busted skin scattered here and there.
Sanzu Haruchiyo has just returned from the front lines.
As an underboss of the most powerful criminal syndicate in the country, his days are perpetually fueled by threats and gore--nothing unusual for him. However, at this time of year, their enemies are particularly agitated. Challenges to Bonten’s authority have begun to pile up, resulting in weeks of grueling, back-to-back missions.
If his normal days are loaded with violence, these moments are defined by something else entirely: straight-up savagery.
When he slams the conference door open, the men inside expect hell in human form, and they aren't wrong. The executives watch in silence as the bloody second-in-command stalks into the room, drags a chair back with a screech of metal, and props his long legs onto the table.
Kokonoi Hajime, the only one who dares to linger his gaze on Sanzu for more than a second, knows better than to speak. Based on the feral look of his superior's eyes, it is clear that any word, no matter how small, might be the one that triggers an explosion. It’s better to leave him the fuck alone.
Sanzu still radiates a strong viciousness. His eyes twitch, an attestation of the adrenaline still surging from his kills. His right hand keeps alternating between gripping his gun and tapping it against his head, and there are little sniffs here and there.
The pinkette is still riding a high from the bloodlust, his nerves frayed and electric. No one in their right mind should trigger him now.
Hoping to de-escalate the tension, Takeomi--Bonten’s advisor and Sanzu’s brother attempts to mellow him out with a simple offering. He pulls out a pack and gestures.
"Smoke?"
Takeomi darts his eyes toward his brother, who is now lazily swinging his swivel chair left and right, his long legs still propped arrogantly on the table.
"Fuck off."
Understood.
The executives know better than to try their luck with Sanzu in his post-murder state, but someone(cue: Haitani) knows there is another wave of missions he has to address. It needs to be said now, because this next task is bigger and far more terrifying.
"Is this your last order for today?" Rindou is the second one to break the silence.
Unlike the advisor, who sought only to placate Sanzu, the younger Haitani’s voice is laced with a sharp, subtle teasing--as if he holds the one secret that could knock the mad man off his feet.
Sanzu bores his shaking, bloodshot eyes into Rindou. His movements are sluggish, yet he still manages to point his gun directly at him. "I said fuck off."
Rindou should take that as a final warning, but what is a Haitani if not a professional provocateur? If his voice earlier held a hint of a tease, his face now displays full-blown smugness as he prepares to drag Sanzu back to earth.
"Ah, hah… I just thought you’d appreciate a little briefing before your next 'mission.' That’s why I’m asking if that was your last order. Guess I’ll just let you stay fucked up then." Rindou’s words are laced with the fakest concern imaginable, yet he remains brave enough to meet Sanzu’s glare head-on.
Everyone in the room knows the number two is a single snap away from slipping back into feral mode. However, this is Bonten, and Sanzu going ballistic is a familiar, everyday sight. It is dangerous, certainly, but for others it is quietly entertaining.
And when it comes to entertainment, who would dare miss out? Certainly not the Haitanis.
That’s when the older brother, Ran, interjects. His voice snapping the tension between Rindou and the mad dog just before his younger brother gets bitten.
"When was the last time you went home, Sanzu?" Ran asks, straight to the point. He’s trying to gauge a different reaction from the pink-haired gangster, but to no avail. Still half-lost in his own head, Sanzu lazily redirects his aim, pointing his gun toward Ran.
"Why are you fucking ganging up on me, huh? You two motherfuckers know I'd beat the shit out of you, so fuck off--"
The almost slurred threat only makes Ran giggle like a little devil. He knows what's coming, and judging by the subtle shifts in Kokonoi and Takeomi’s expressions, they know too. They know exactly where this is headed.
"Just askin'. If I were you, I'd fuckin' straighten up and prepare."
"Hell yeah," Rindou chimes in from the back, sounding far too amused for his own good.
"What the fuck do you mea--"
"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," Ran interrupts.
Sanzu clearly doesn't understand what the fuck Ran is talking about. He's a joke, always was. But the mention of the word woman makes him stop swinging his chair. The gun stills mid-play between his fingers.
And just as the realization is about to hit him, the door slams open.
A woman stands in the threshold, draped in black from head to toe. The thin, delicate lace of a veil covers her face, obscuring her expression entirely. Despite her silence, her attire speaks for her--and everyone in the room knows exactly what it implies.
Funeral.
It’s as if Sanzu Haruchiyo’s brain is lagging, delayed in signaling that the woman who just entered is none other than his own.
He still looks the same, bloodthirsty. But when the sound of your heels clicking against the floor echoes through the room as you slowly step inside, it's like liquid poison slithering into Sanzu's crevices, exposing a crack in his visage.
You come to a stop just a few feet from his chair. Even though he can’t see your eyes behind the thin, dark lace of your veil, he can feel your gaze burning through him.
Your voice cuts through the silence, calm and razor-sharp.
"I thought you were fucking dead."
The silence in the room is absolute. Even the Haitanis, who would normally find this shit laughable, don't have the breath to let out a single snicker. They know exactly who you are, and more importantly, they know how far your brand of crazy can go.
Bonten is an organization run by the deadliest men in the country--men who command fear and respect with nothing more than a glance. They thrive on blood and build their empires on death. They are, by every definition, lethal. But all their power and ruthlessness pale in comparison to a woman neglected and denied of love for weeks.
That specific brand of fury burns hotter and sharper than any underground war. In this room, everyone knows it--especially your boyfriend.
"I even felt bad for not bringing a flower..."
Your right hand lifts the veil from your face, slowly setting the dark lace onto the table. Your eyes, cold and focused, finally lock onto his.
"Only to find out you're alive and kicking. How disappointing."
Your words act as a trigger, and Sanzu’s expression shifts instantly. The hell in human form who stormed into the room just moments ago pauses, a faint narrowing of his eyes betraying a flicker of realization.
The gun he's been spinning between his fingers slows, hovering for just a moment as he slowly drops his legs off the table. Just for a heartbeat, the relentless predator looks slightly off balance but undeniably aware.
As he's about to rip the words out of his throat, maybe to defend himself or maybe to assert his dominance, he feels the heat of a palm press against his cheek.
"Fuck you, Haruchiyo! You should've told me you didn't want me anymore instead of never coming home, you asshole!"
And just like that, you storm out of the conference room.
The impact of the slap seems to have forcibly awakened Sanzu. His bloodlust is gone, replaced by a frantic, jagged sort of desperation. He shoots to his feet immediately, his instincts kicking in as he scrambles to follow you without a second thought.
"Fuck! y/n!"
The doors swing shut behind him, and the moment he is gone, the executives left behind finally exhale. The tension that had been suffocating the room snaps, replaced by the sound of the Haitanis snickering like it's the funniest show they've ever seen. Ran is doubled over, while Rindou doesn't even bother hiding his grin.
The others simply shake their heads in disbelief at the sheer absurdity of the scene they just witnessed.
"That fucker actually got hit in the feels," Kokonoi mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"y/n come on! Goddamn it!"
"Stop following me, or I swear I'll bash your head into a wall. Don't test me, Haruchiyo!"
Your voice drips with acid, each word sharp enough to cut. It isn't an empty threat, and Sanzu knows it. He knows you like the back of his hand. Every edge, every breaking point. And yet, he wouldn't be himself if he didn't try to provoke you anyway.
You're furious and unhinged, but he's worse. Crazier. Madly, irreversibly obsessed with you.
"I told you, didn't I? I was on a fucking mission--"
"Does that require completely forgetting you have a girlfriend?" you snap.
No matter how hard he tries, he can't match your pace. The more you storm ahead, the more ridiculous it looks. The feared mad dog of Bonten reduced to something almost pathetic.
Lost in a stream of mumbled curses, you don’t notice how quickly the pink-haired gangster closes the gap. In a snap, a hand clamps around your wrist like a vice, and suddenly you’re being dragged in the opposite direction.
"Get off! I don't want to go with you--fucking let go! I'm breaking up with you!"
"Like hell you are!" Haruchiyo snarls back.
His grip tightens as he tugs you toward the nearest door he can find. You retaliate immediately, slapping his arm in an attempt to make him release you. When that doesn't even make him flinch, you resort to pinching him instead.
"Haruchiyo--"
He shoves the door open and drags you inside with enough force to make you stumble, his grip on your wrist never wavering. The sudden jolt makes your rage falter, though he’s too focused to notice.
When he finally spins around to face you, he freezes. He's taken aback by the look on your face, because while anger still burns in your expression, your eyes are glossy and wet, threatening to spill over as they lock onto him.
"There's no point in talking. I'm so done with you."
You try to yank your hand free, but the more you struggle, the tighter his grip becomes. He stays rooted in place, staring at you like something is turning over in his head, like gears grinding against each other.
"Let me go, Haru--"
"I don't want to. We're fucking talking here." he bites back.
He drags you again, this time toward the wide office table. When he lets go of your wrist for a split second, it’s only to slide his hand immediately to your waist. With a surge of effortless strength, he lifts you and sets you down on the edge of the mahogany table. He steps in close, boxing you in, leaning down just enough to force you to look at him while bracing both hands at your sides.
"What part of I have multiple orders didn't you fucking understand?" he growls, his face inches from yours.
"You could've started with an apology, you fucking psycho," you snap back, refusing to be intimidated even as you sit perched between his arms.
You watch as he closes his eyes, his jaw tightening as his patience visibly thins. But instead of making you back down, it only ignites your fury further. How dare he look like the victim when he's the one at fault? How dare he act like this is exhausting for him, when you're the one who was left waiting, neglected, and grieving a man who wasn't even dead yet?
The moment you accepted Haruchiyo's affection (obsession) you knew it came with a heavy price. He isn't some normal man with a clean job and a respectable title. His name alone carries a weight that makes even the most hardened criminals falter.
Sanzu Haruchiyo is a difficult, violent man, yet when he offered you his blood-stained hands, you took them without hesitation.
Trusting.
You were introduced to the chaos of the life he leads, grew familiar with the shadows he inhabits, and even learned to turn a blind eye to the horrors he commits. You did it all because you learned to love him, and you realized a long time ago that loving a man as insane as Haruchiyo would eventually compromise your own sanity as well.
Sanzu groans, eyes closing as he lets out a sigh. That's your cue. Whatever you're asking for is just as ridiculous to him as the slap you delivered in front of his colleagues.
Impossible. He won't apologize. He never will.
You place a hand against his chest, the fabric of his suit still warm and smelling faintly of iron, and try to push him away. "Get off. This talk is useless. Just let me go home."
The acid that laced your voice moments ago has softened into a controlled whisper. It sounds tired--surrendering. Because, as you’ve realized, this conversation is a dead end. Not after witnessing just how far gone your boyfriend is today. His bloodied, relentless state says it all. There is no room in his head for remorse or the gentle "sorries" of a normal man. You have to accept that.
However, Sanzu has other plans.
Instead of letting you push him away, his hands tighten around your waist, pinning you in place. He leans in closer, invading your space until he buries his nose against the curve of your cheek, breathing you in.
"Let me go--"
"We'll go home after this," he murmurs against the apple of your cheek, punctuating the promise with a sharp, possessive nip.
"No. Let me go home--to my own house, Haru." Your voice finally cracks, a small, broken sniffle slipping out as the tears you’ve been holding back finally well in your eyes.
You're so, so mad at him that the slap hasn't been enough. You want to claw at his skin, pull his hair, bash his head into a wall just like you promised. But the betrayal of your own heart is the worst part. How can one kiss, one touch, make all that righteous anger start to melt away?
When Sanzu feels the wetness glide down your cheek, he pulls back slightly. He looks just like he did earlier: stuck. Those internal gears visibly grinding as he tries to process your grief. Subconsciously, as your tears continue to fall, his hand reaches up to brush them away.
"Stop."
"Wh-what?"
"Stop crying."
"Then fucking apologize! I thought you were dead because there were no updates from you! You told me you would call! or at least message me so I'd know you were still fucking kicking!"
Your anger flares again, reignited by the memory of silent nights spent waiting. Waiting for your man to come home in one piece. Even bloodied, wounded, or high--at least he'd return alive.
"Or you could've at least ordered one of your men to tell me you were still breathing and just busy slicing people! Haru, i was waiting!"
You wail through your words, and Haruchiyo continues wiping your tears as he listens. You don't notice that the more venom you spit at him, the calmer his expression becomes.
"And you're still not apologizing. I'm so sick of you." you whisper, exhausted.
Once he’s satisfied that your cheeks are dry, he leans in again, his face hovering dangerously close to yours.
"You know I can only bring burner phones during errands--"
"Then you could've ordered your men to update me--"
"I don't want any bastards near you."
It's the only explanation you're going to get--a possessive, irrational truth. But then he closes the final gap, kissing your lips roughly as if you’re the very air he needs to survive.
And for the first time that day, pressed against your mouth, the monster finally calms.
"H-haru--"
He doesn't stop. He refuses to let you speak another word, sealing your mouth with his and catching the gasp that escapes you. He takes the opening to deepen the kiss, his tongue mingling with yours in a way that is as demanding as it is desperate.
You taste a mix of sweetness and bitterness, maybe from the soda he always drinks before errands, or from whatever illicit medicine he's taken but it's familiar. It's something you've grown used to, something you love.
You press your palms lightly against his chest, a silent plea for air. Haruchiyo doesn't protest, but he doesn't pull away either. He only gives you enough distance, just an inch, so you can breathe, but close enough for his words to fall straight against your lips.
"You're always in my mind, y/n."
It isn't an apology. It’s a confession of his obsession. But the raw fervor dripping from his voice is enough to finally settle the storm inside you.
You accepted long ago that apologies are impossible for him. A man in his position will never humble himself over his wrongdoings. This is the path he chose and the life he lives.
Still, Haruchiyo has his own way of compensating: through his devotion and constancy. Even if he can't contact you for days, weeks, months, or even years, you will always be the center of his obsession. His own poisonous sweetheart.
"I don't know if I should be flattered by that," you mutter. "Imagine you slicing someone up and thinking about me."
He pecks your lips twice before nosing along your cheek, lingering there until his scarred lips brush your ear. His voice drops to a lower octave as he whispers,
"Keeping you on my mind is what makes me finish the job fast…"
You grip his shoulder when you feel his hands tighten around you once again, pulling you closer and closer until he settles firmly between your thighs.
"…I rush through it all just so I can come back to you."
You grab his hair and pull him off you to smash your lips against his. The kiss turns heated within seconds, both of you rushing to steal each other's breath like it's the only thing you know, like it's the only reason either of you exists.
Sanzu groans when you tug harder. You want him closer, close enough to crawl into his skin if it were possible.
You pull back just enough, breath ragged against his swollen lips.
"Let's go home now," you whisper. "Baby, please. Let's go home."
"Anything for you."
He hoists you off the table, and you immediately lock your legs around his waist. Without breaking his stride, he turns and bolts for the door, hauling you out of the office as fast as he can.
Because even if every corner of that office, that building, and every Bonten executive has witnessed how crazy the two of you can get, they will never know the madness you share behind the four walls of your room.
Oh, how love can be this insane.
↬ Haitani Rindou
Years of dominating gang fights in their youth and a growing tally of kills in adulthood have solidified a formidable reputation for the Haitani brothers.
Terrifying, merciless, and vicious.
Those three words define the infamous duo of Roppongi. Yet, while they are cut from the same cloth of violence, subtle cracks in their unity reveal the distinct traits that set them apart. Their kill counts may be nearly identical, but the methods they use to reach those numbers are fundamentally different. It is this divergence in style that truly defines them, even as they stand together on the same side of a blood-soaked field.
For instance, the older brother, Ran, can take a life while wearing the nastiest of smiles. He moves as if murder is nothing more than a pleasant pastime. That smile is charming--even genuine, and is often enough to fool an enemy into lowering their guard. Usually, they don't realize they are being led to their deaths until their own blood is already splattered across his Giorgio Armani leather shoes.
But every coin has two sides, and the Haitani name is no exception. Flip it over, and the image that stares back is something entirely different.
The younger brother--Haitani Rindou.
Word in the underground scatters that the younger Haitani is colder than his aniki. Though they are both sadistic by nature, Rindou is the definition of cold-hearted and ruthless. His expression in almost every endeavor is impassive, and if someone or something manages to draw a reaction from him, it is almost always followed by a cold-blooded execution.
In short, if some believe they can work around Ran before he kills them, others know to walk on eggshells around Rindou.
That is their main difference, and the men in suits are about to experience it firsthand as they wait for the arrival of the said gangster. They know exactly the kind of person they are about to deal with, hence, they maintain a stiff and calculated act despite the blaring music that shakes the room.
Rindou wanted this negotiation to happen in a club.
They couldn't say no. What power do they have to refuse? They are here to negotiate, and the least they can do is offer their best impression of submission, hoping that he might, just might--consider their deal.
"Is he coming? Or did we arrive at the wrong club, boss? It's been an hour."
The man in the suit, clearly a subordinate, leans closer and whispers to his superior--a man in a brown three-piece suit who has been seated in the VIP section for over an hour now.
While the stress doesn't show on his face, it is beginning to pile up beneath his calm exterior. It’s true, an hour has passed and there is still no sign of the man who owns this club.
Still, showing impatience would be the worst possible move. It is safer to appear compliant, to sit still and wait, than to risk being noticed for the wrong reasons. Any sign of irritation could be reported back to Rindou, causing him to walk away from the deal, or worse--ensuring the man ends up with a gun pressed to his skull.
"Let it be," he replies evenly, his voice steady despite the tension. "Mr. Haitani must have matters to attend to. He is simply late."
The subordinate bows his head once more before stepping back to his position, leaving his boss alone with his thoughts. The man focuses on the rim of the glass in his hand, fear slowly mixing with worry as the minutes drag on inside the deafening club.
The environment irritates him. The thumping music and flashing lights strain his eyes, sending a dull ache pulsing through his head. But showing even the slightest discomfort will do him no good, not when the entire couch is surrounded by Bonten's men
After a little while, the guards stationed around the VIP section shift.
It’s subtle, almost imperceptible but practiced. They scatter just enough to acknowledge a presence that has arrived, their bodies aligning to create a clear path for the man everyone has been waiting for. And despite the pounding music and the chaos of the club, the air seems to fall into a heavy silence the moment Bonten executive Haitani Rindou steps into view.
A posh young gangster. That is the first thing the other party notices when Rindou appears. But beneath the expensive exterior is an aura that screams full-blown, cold-blooded criminal. His face is a mask of detachment. He remains unsympathetic and untouched by the noise and bodies pressing in around him.
The boss, though nerve-wracked by the gravity of meeting a Bonten higher-up for the first time, calmly stands to greet him.
"Good evening, Mr. Haitani. Thank you for sparing us your time."
Rindou doesn't spare him a glance.
He simply sits down across from them, his posture relaxed and his gaze fixed anywhere but on them. The boss remains standing, stiff and uncertain, as if waiting for Rindou’s permission to sit. Instead of speaking, the mullet-haired gangster lifts his hand in a lazy gesture, and a subordinate immediately steps forward to pour his drink.
Only then does Rindou flick his eyes toward the man.
That is the cue.
The boss sits down at once.
"I’m giving you thirty minutes" Rindou says calmly, his voice flat and uninterested. "If I find your deal trash, I’m killing you for wasting my time."
It isn't a threat. It is a deadly promise. Everyone on that couch knows his words are absolute. No cheesy smile or kissing up his ass will ease the younger one unless the conversation comes with a clear purpose.
The boss starts immediately. Though his facade of calmness is beginning to crack, he does his best to straighten his back and clear his throat. "M-Mr. Haitani, we’re here to propose a partnership. A supply route."
Rindou doesn’t react. He leans back against the couch, one ankle resting over his knee and his eyes drifting elsewhere as if the man speaking isn’t worth facing yet. The glass in front of him remains untouched.
The boss continues, "We have access to ports in Yokohama and Chiba. Clean entries. No paper trail. We can move goods in bulk without customs interference."
Despite his nervousness, the boss finds himself searching the young one's face for any sign that his words have offended or provoked him. But all he notices is Rindou’s unwavering gaze fixed on the crowd below, as if he is watching something.
Guarding it.
Still nothing. No nod, no change in expression, just that same impassive stare until Rindou finally breaks the silence, his voice flat and detached as he asks
"What kind of goods"
"Firearms. Pharmaceuticals. Whatever Bonten requires," the boss answers too quickly. "We can guarantee discretion and efficiency."
This time, Rindou finally spares him a glance. The movement carries a hint of irritation--not because of what the boss said, but because Rindou has been pulled away from whatever he was watching below.
"You came to me.....with routes I already own?"
The air tightens.
Everyone on that couch feels it, especially the opposing party. Even though they've come prepared not to displease the younger Haitani, no one can truly predict how this ordeal will end.
The boss’s pretense of calm finally cracks under the weight of that silence. He stumbles for words, his mind racing to find an explanation that won’t further infuriate Rindou, but nothing comes. Not while the executive is staring him down with a deadly, focused intensity that feels like a physical threat.
"N-not ownership, Mr. Haitani. Coverage. Expansion. Y-your men control Roppongi…"
As the man tries his hardest to save face, Rindou’s scowl deepens, though his attention is already drifting away. His eyes snap back down to the chaotic crowd below, searching for the one thing he had been guarding, only to find that the space is empty and whoever he was watching is gone.
"…but these routes extend further. We're offering reach--"
Before the boss can even finish his stuttered explanation, Rindou’s eyes lock onto a sudden movement at the base of the VIP stairs.
A figure ascends toward the section, weaving effortlessly between the guards who part for her without a single question.
A woman.
Clearly tipsy by the way she sways as she walks and the soft flush of red coloring her cheeks. There is a lightness to her, a sense of genuine happiness that feels entirely out of place in this room, yet she is heading straight toward the center of a deadly negotiation.
Towards them.
Every man on that couch turns to watch her approach, waiting for the moment she comes to her senses and realizes that this part of the club isn't meant for her. To the other party, she looks like nothing more than a lost girl who has wandered too far, a silly, pretty distraction looking for a rich man to latch onto for the night. The boss’s face hardens with visible irritation, feeling disrespected by such an amateur interruption as he prepares to gesture for her to be dragged away.
However, despite the breach of protocol, Bonten’s men don't move. They stand like statues, offering no resistance as the woman reaches the booth and suddenly drops herself onto the leather cushion beside Rindou, latching onto his side with a playful familiarity.
The boss smirks to himself, oh hell no. He waits for the young executive to snap her neck or throw her to the floor, certain this woman is about to find out exactly whose arm she’s clinging to. Until--
"Hey, handsome~"
You trace Rindou's sharp jaw with your manicured finger, feeling the faint stubble you had helped him shave just that morning.
"You busy?"
Your words slur, followed by a soft laugh you can't help as your touch wanders from his jaw down to his chin, eventually ghosting over his lips. His expression doesn't waver until, without warning, he turns his head and bites your finger.
"I'm in the middle of business, y'know."
The bystanders don't know what to process first. The club continues to pound with life, but the atmosphere within the booth shifts the moment Rindou reacts. The once cold, impenetrable gangster--a man whose expression was nonexistent just seconds ago is now displaying a side they never imagined seeing. Yet, even as the unbelievable scene unfolds, no one dares to interrupt the unnamed woman at his side.
Scolding him for his behavior, you poke your finger into his cheek. Rindou lets his head tilt slightly with each poke, neither stopping you nor offering much of a reaction at all. While his face remains largely unreadable, his patience is unmistakably reserved only for you.
He catches your elbow as you lean closer to his ear, his grip firm but careful.
"And if you're in the middle of business," you murmur, voice low and teasing, "why do you keep eye-fucking me down below, huh? Mr. Haitani."
That does it.
Rindou lets out a roaring laugh--the first real emotion he has shown all evening. It is in that moment that everyone seated on the VIP couch realizes the truth: the power is no longer in the hands of the young executive.
It is in yours.
One look at your boyfriend tells you everything you need to know. The business he came here for has already slipped to the back of his mind. Given the choice, he would gladly choose you over this deal without a second thought.
His hands, always itching for violence, only soften when they wrap around your waist to pull you firmly against his side. The smile remains etched on his lips as he noses your cheek, his voice dropping into a private whisper.
"I’m just looking out for my girl. Can't have any asshats thinking you're available, can we?"
"In your own damn club?" You scrunch your nose. "They'd have to be really stupid to even dare, babe."
They really would be. Everyone knows who you belong to, and even though being with a Haitani--a high-ranking criminal executive comes with a constant shadow of danger and envy, you know it's worth it.
Because it’s Haitani Rindou who has you, and for him, you'd take every risk.
"Have you seen yourself, doll?" he murmurs, his eyes dark with a possessiveness he doesn't care to hide. "Some bastards would risk eating lead just to get a taste."
Even though you’re already tipsy from the alcohol, you find yourself getting drunker on his words, knowing they are a luxury reserved only for you. The Haitani Rindou everyone else knows--the cold, manipulative, and ruthless bastard is nothing more than a flirty boyfriend in your arms, one who craves you relentlessly.
Suddenly, the VIP section vanishes, leaving the two of you in your own world. You trade filthy, flirty whispers, ignoring the fact that he is in the middle of a high-stakes negotiation. Neither of you gives a fuck--not when he sits at the top of the food chain in this territory, and certainly not when you're the one who has him wrapped around your finger.
Rindou’s hand slides up the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear as he leans in to nip at the sensitive skin there. He feels the way you shiver against him, narrowing his focus down to the heat of your body. You respond by tracing the line of his jaw, your fingers caressing the sharpness of it. When he's about to lean closer to kiss you, you touch his lip, making him stop just inches away.
"Baby, you should focus on your business now--"
"Hm?" His eyes shift towards the nearest exit. "You wanna go home?"
"Rind--"
"E-ehem."
The stiff, nervous voice cuts through your bubble, trembling with a mix of fear and desperation.
"Apologize f-for interrupting you, M-Mr. Haitani, but--"
Rindou pulls away slightly, his hands still anchored to your skin. The indulgent warmth he was showering on you vanishes in an instant, replaced by his usual sharp, clinical edge.
The boss immediately feels the temperature drop. Nervousness climbs up his throat until he is incapable of forming proper words, his body instinctively reacting to the danger radiating from the couch.
"Yeah," Rindou says flatly, "You should fucking apologize."
His tone is calm, but it's more than enough to send everyone on the other side a clear warning--they're on fucking thin ice.
Sweat beads along the boss’s temple as he tries to humble himself, his posture breaking in front of the purple-haired executive.
Hands trembling, he stammers "I-I apologize again, Mr. Haitani. I-I didn't mean to interrupt. I--"
He scrambles for a way out but none exists. Rindou’s silence alone feels like a death sentence no matter what excuse follows. You watch the man struggle to save his own life, desperation written across his face. It’s uncomfortable to witness, especially since you know this predicament started the moment you wandered into their meeting.
To compensate, you gently tug on your boyfriend’s suit lapel.
"Rin… I’m exhausted. Can we go home now?" you whisper, the words meant only for him.
That is all it takes. Rindou cuts his death glare from the trembling man and shifts it to you. The change is subtle. The way his eyes soften from a predator's gaze to something gentle, and you are the only one in the room who would ever notice it. He doesn't speak, but his eyes ask a silent question: Are you sure?
You nod, offering him a reassuring smile.
Rindou stands abruptly, tugging you along with him. The boss remains bowed, not daring to lift his head or meet the eyes of the man who holds his life in his hands. Everyone in the VIP section holds their breath, waiting for a command that might end in blood.
But Rindou doesn't spare them another glance. The meeting is already a complete waste of his time. His arm wraps securely around your waist as he guides you away from the couch. Then, with the fatal desperation of a man who has already lost, the boss suddenly shoots up.
"M-Mr. Haitani, about the deal--"
"There’s no more fucking deal," Rindou cuts in coldly "You get it?"
The man stiffens.
Rindou doesn't even bother to look back as he speaks, his voice echoing with a dark authority. "Be thankful my girl spared your life tonight. You should be kissing the streets she walks on."
He leaves them dread-filled and shaken, deciding that not another second should be wasted on this pathetic company. As he leads you out of the club, a giggle slips past your lips and it doesn't stop until you reach the cool air of the parking lot.
Only then does he turn to face you. "What’s funny, hmm?"
Your giggle turns into a full laugh as you sway his hand, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in your eyes. "I just realized something. You only speak in longer sentences to other people when it’s about me. I wonder…" You poke his chest teasingly. "If you have a crush on me."
His expression shifts into the one he only ever wears for you: stubborn, boyish, and soft in ways no one else will ever see.
"You’re telling gang bosses to kiss the streets I walk on," you add, grinning. "Damn, you’re whipped."
Rindou rolls his eyes, but the smirk curving his lips betrays him completely. He reaches out, his hand sliding to the back of your neck to pull you into a kiss. Despite his rough reputation, his mouth is gentle and unhurried against yours. When he pulls away, he bites your chin lightly before pressing three soft kisses to the spot.
"Keep teasing me," he murmurs against your skin, "and I’ll put that mouth to good use."
A daring smile plays on your lips as you lean back just enough to meet his gaze. "Can't wait, Rin. Use it. It's yours to begin with."
Rindou’s response comes not in words, but in the way he collapses the small distance between you to claim your lips once again. The kiss is torrid and hungry--a desperate promise of exactly what will happen the moment you are both behind closed doors.
Haitani Rindou may certainly be the coldest of them all, but you will never feel that chill. Not when he only burns for you. You are the only one who keeps him warm in this cold-blooded world he has built. And if you ever asked him to burn it all down for you, he would. Gladly.
↬ Haitani Ran
"Enough, Ran… aniki. That’s enough. I said enough, nii-chan."
Haitani Ran’s bloodied hand, white-knuckled around a metal pipe, freezes midair. It is as if a sudden light has cut through the suffocating darkness of the room the moment he hears his brother’s voice calling his name. Though his grip remains firm, the harsh tension around his eyes begins to loosen, and the blinding rage that had consumed him eases away little by little.
Finally, Ran lowers his hand and stares down at the mangled, lifeless body beneath his dress shoes before carelessly tossing the pipe aside. The heavy metal clatters against the concrete, a sharp sound in the sudden quiet. He spits on the ground and nudges the corpse with the tip of his leather shoe, his voice raspy as he mutters, "This one was fucking tough."
He steps back, seemingly oblivious to the state he is in--bruised, wounded, and covered in a mixture of his own blood and theirs. The adrenaline that had been masking the damage finally ebbs away, allowing the pain to catch up to him all at once. His knee buckles, sending him into a near-collapse, but Rindou is already there, catching him and looping an arm securely over his shoulder.
"Man… fuck this shit," Ran hisses through grit teeth. His hand clenches around Rindou’s shoulder for support while his other presses firmly against the blooming heat of a wound at his side.
"You didn’t look affected by your injuries while you were beating those assholes to death earlier," Rindou notes, his voice steady despite the weight of his brother.
Ran turns to him, his breathing remaining ragged and shallow as they begin the slow, limping trek toward his parked car. "It was a surprise ambush," he exhales, his voice heavy with a mix of exhaustion "Didn’t know there were that many of them. Fucking bastards."
The hostility that had almost drained from his face rushes back the moment he remembers the situation he had been in just minutes ago.
Bonten Executive Haitani Ran had been ambushed.
It is a reality he has long since accepted. He knows that at any second of any day, someone is trying to drag him six feet underground.
To the authorities, taking him down represents a win for the system. A chance to lower crime rates and perhaps earn a medal or two. But for those who live in the same filth of the underground, killing a Haitani means something else entirely. It is a grim honor, a quest for prestige and bragging rights soaked in blood. Ran understands that every second of his life is spent walking on a blade, his very existence a target for anyone looking to make a name for themselves by toppling a powerhouse.
However, even for a man used to the shadows, he hadn’t expected the attack to be this bold. No matter how prepared he is to fight to the death, he cannot escape the physical toll of the encounter. His anger flares, not at the audacity of his enemies, but at the vulnerability of his own body.
Haitani Ran, whose life has been forged and surrounded by the blood of others, finds himself hesitating when it comes to his own. It isn't the pain that gives him pause, nor the looming possibility of death, rather it is the knowledge that someone is going to see him like this.
For Ran, the thought of her seeing him broken is worse than the ambush itself.
"So… are you going home in that kind of state, aniki?" Rindou asks, handing Ran a cigarette along with a lighter.
Despite the pain screaming through every fiber of his body, Ran refuses to get inside the car just yet. Instead, he remains standing by the hood, one hand braced against the metal as if he needs the support to anchor his racing thoughts.
"That’s exactly what’s got me fucking pissed," Ran mutters, his fingers steady as he lights the cigarette. "How am I supposed to go home looking like this? She’d probably let hell loose."
As he inhales, the smoke curling around his bruised features, his mind drifts through every possible way to mask the damage. Not going home isn’t an option; even if he dreads the scolding that inevitably comes from letting his skin split and bruise like this, his need to be in his woman's presence is stronger than his worries.
"Clean the gashes up. Make them less… you know, visible," Rindou suggests, his eyes fixed on his older brother. "Then wear something that can cover the bigger ones."
Ran lets out a long, painful sigh. Leaning back against the car he decides
“Let me shower at your penthouse first. I’ll think of excuses on the way home.”
He flicks the finished cigarette to the ground and limps toward the passenger seat, silently surrendering the wheel to Rindou. He sinks into the chair, needing to rest his aching body for a moment while his mind races to figure out how to hide the blood before he faces the woman who terrifies him more than death itself.
Ran is as fresh as he was when he left for work this morning.
He stands now in front of your door, wearing the crisp, ironed dress shirt and slacks he borrowed from his younger brother. There are no visible wounds--only the small scratch on his eyebrow he’s carefully taped and the faint, blooming bruise along the side of his jaw. He no longer smells of copper and violence, now he only carries the scent of his favorite cologne, the one you bought for him. With his appearance restored, he feels he can finally face you and hope you won't notice anything amiss.
Ran keys the door and steps inside. "y/n?"
His eyes scan the living room, searching for any trace of you. Usually, you would be sprawled on the oversized couch watching TV while waiting for him, but the screen is dark and the spacious room is empty.
"I'm home! Where are you, sweetheart?"
Despite his hobbled gait, Ran hurries to find you. After only a few steps, his breath turns ragged. Every inhale sends sharp pain shooting through his sides, particularly where the heaviest blows landed. Then, a sudden clanging sound echoes from the kitchen.
"Baby?" he calls once more, his voice tight with a mixture of pain and relief.
"Ran, are you there? I'm here in the kitchen, baby!"
He calms down at the sound of your voice and tries his hardest to wipe away any evidence of difficulty from his face and posture before heading straight to you.
Displaying his boyish smile, Ran leans against the doorframe just as he spots you bending down in front of the refrigerator. "I really don't mind this view--"
"Oh my god!!"
You almost drop the strawberry syrup, your breath catching as you steady it with a sigh of relief. You straighten and turn to the counter where your freshly made pancakes sit, courtesy of your late-night cravings. As you put the final touches on them, you sneak a glance at Ran, who is still leaning against the doorframe watching you.
"Don't sneak up on me like I'm your target," you say, shaking your head with a small smile. "You're late, baby. How was wor--"
That's when you realize it.
You set down the syrup and turn to face him fully. Ran, meanwhile, straightens to his full height and starts moving toward you. He looks normal enough as he makes his way over, doing his best to appear casual, but he doesn't know that the furrow in his brow, his careful steps, and the almost unnoticeable shortness of breath give him away.
"Hmm? What'd you make, sweetheart? Late night cravings again? Can I have some? I'm starving--"
"What happened, Ran?"
Ran stops. Only a short distance separates the two of you, but he goes completely still, searching your face as if weighing his remaining options.
He wonders if he should tell you the truth, or if he can keep up the pretense long enough for you to let it go--long enough for you to drag him to the couch, feed him your pancakes, and cuddle him. But that second option feels more impossible by the second as your expression shifts from soft concern to sharp realization.
"Ran--"
"I'm fine, sweetheart. Let's just go to the couch, yeah? And eat--"
You abandon both the staring competition and the pancakes, turning swiftly to the nearest cabinet to grab the medical kit. Ran just stands there watching you, his mind still racing for an out, still contemplating another lie. But the moment you grab his hand and lead him toward the living room, he knows better than to keep up the act.
You set the kit down and settle Ran onto the couch, the movement making him stiffen as his injuries protest.
"Baby, come on," he tries one last time, his voice a little thinner now. "It's really not that serious--"
"It's not that serious until you come home missing one of your limbs, or your eyeballs, or your head. Tell me, Ran, when would it become serious, huh?"
Your voice appears sharp, but the slight shake of your breath doesn’t go unnoticed by your boyfriend. That is enough for him to stop protesting, and he finally lets his hands fall limp at his sides.
He can accept the scolding because he knows it comes from a place of love. He can watch you unleash hell, knowing that’s how you care for him. What he can’t afford, though, is to see you crumble at the sight of him in pain.
Like now. Like how your hands shake as you pull wound cleansers and solutions out of the box. Like how, even though your words are as sharp as the stone he’d used to bash someone’s head earlier, your face is softened with a deep, aching worry.
When you finally look up at him, your eyes are brimming with unshed tears.
"y/n...."
His hands reach for your face, but you turn away, focused on the task at hand. Your fingers work to pull his long sleeves up, an order he obeys without hesitation, and the sight that greets you makes the tears finally spill over. There, fresh bruises and angry red gashes bloom across his pale, inked skin. You don't even want to think about the damage to the bones underneath.
"R-Ran… oh my god…"
You’re frozen, torn between dabbing the cotton on his wounds or simply reaching out to caress him. But Ran beats you to it. He gently grabs your hands, pulling them toward him as he begins kissing whatever his lips can reach,--your knuckles, your wrists, your fingers. He’s trying to soothe you, to tell you that even if he isn't fine physically, he is whole emotionally.
Because you are here.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. It's not that I wasn't careful during the fight, it's just that--"
He can't form any more words to ease your mind because the tears won't stop falling. All he can do is touch you as gently as possible, wiping away the salt from your cheeks and pressing kiss after kiss against your skin.
You accepted Ran for exactly who he is, even though the life you chose with him offers no promise of constant safety. For the sake of loving him with every breath you have, every dangerous and chaotic moment is deemed worthy.
Because it’s him. It’s Haitani Ran, and for you, that is enough.
You grab his jaw, moving carefully to avoid the bruise blooming there, and press a soft kiss to his chin. "I know… It’s just, how can I not let you get wounded and bruised every time you go outside? Baby, please, I don’t know what to do…"
It rips his heart to pieces. He knows that even though he is stronger and more brutal than you, even though he can take all the world's danger on his own shoulders while keeping you in the safest part of the town, in the comfort of the home he built for you, you are still searching for ways to keep him safe.
You are the only one who can rattle him like this.
"Just trust me, alright? I will always come back home to you. Alive and kicking."
Because you are his home. And he will always come back to you, just to hear you call him baby and ask if he’s alright.
Ran pushes you slightly so he can crouch down and bury his face against your chest.
Still hiccuping, you set aside the cotton and wrap your arms around his head, minding any hidden wounds that might be tucked beneath his hair.
"Please, please be extra careful next time, okay? If you must, don't engage in a fist fight. Just pull your gun to spare yourself from any injuries."
It isn't the right moment, but Ran lets out a chuckle. You just suggested gunning someone down in the softest, hushest voice. You're so fucking adorable.
"...and to spare them from their suffering," he adds playfully.
"Yeah, to spare them from suffering... or call Rindou to break their bones instead."
God, he loves you so much. You feel his hand creeping up to your chest, squeezing you gently. You let him. You know this is his way of grounding himself, of feeling that you're real and right here with him.
"Let's get you cleaned up, baby, before your hands do more and my pancakes get cold."
Ran sits up properly and faces your now-smiling face. He wipes the dried tears from your cheeks and pulls you in close, peppering your face with soft, lingering kisses. He kisses your forehead, each of your eyelids, and the tip of your nose, moving with a tenderness that seeks to erase every trace of your worry. Finally, he finds your lips in a kiss that lasts for several heartbeats before he pulls away to whisper,
"I'm home, baby."
Regardless of the pain, he is thankful because in your arms, he is finally home
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