Hiii!!! Can I request a girlfriend Rindou reader, where Tenjiku doesn't even know he has a girlfriend like Ran doesn't even know, and so she meets Tenjiku, and she can fight really really good and she's like PRETTY PRETTY and like how...? Did RINDOU EVEN GET HER? And she stars to catch other members eyes ;)
ᥫ᭡ for haitani rindou and tenjiku, WAREHOUSE ROMCOM.
in which you insist on meeting your boyfriend's current gang and fuck, you definitely just knocked out one of their captains.
𔘓 it's my first time writing for some of these guys so i'm sorry if they're ooc D: you used she/her and mentioned girlfriend so i'll be using those for this fic :] around 3.1k words of chaos.
“rin, how come i’ve never met any of your friends?”
the timing doesn’t allow for a deep conversation. rindou’s too busy messing with his laptop, one earbud immersing him in whatever program was running. meanwhile, a catalog resting on your lap took half your attention.
as expected, the question is around the fifth priority in rindou’s head. “buncha smelly thugs, you wouldn’t like ‘em.”
“and you’re not in that demographic?” you idly munch on some snacks you scavenged from his pantry.
“no, i’m not.” rindou scoffs like you just spat on his entire bloodline. “i’m your handsome boyfriend who you love very, very much.”
oh, this sweater has a really nice discount. “what about your brother? i've never seen him either, i’m starting to think you’re actually an only child.”
he’s gonna pretend like his comment going ignored didn’t sting a little.
“you should be grateful, once you meet ran you’ll be cursed with a killer headache for the rest of your life.”
somehow it doesn’t seem as bad, nor does it deter you in the slightest. whine all he wants, rindou loves his brother. he knows it, and so do you.
“rinnie.” a vein could very well pop out his head at the dumb nickname. “are you embarrassed of me?”
(you know rindou would kiss the floor you walk on. still? good leverage).
his typing halts, left earbud joining the right to hang around his neck. a thousand times of the same coercion tactics should have prepared him better. should have. be as it may, rindou’s heartbeat stops for a minute.
you’re the one good thing he’s got going on, why would he ne embarrassed of you? no, never, he loves you too much.
not like he’d willingly admit to it, though. “a little” his typing resumes, this time a little more attentive to the situation. safety measures and all that.
seems he’s not budging. the playful banter turns into a bitter taste in your mouth. “rude.”
rindou doesn’t like your sudden silence. it cuts at his facade like the dullest of knives—painfully slow.
he can’t win against you. if there's one more thing he hates more than sweaty gym equipment is getting on your bad side.
“i’m not embarrassed, you’re just too pretty for them.” it’s not a lie.
“flattery won’t save you from sleeping on the couch.”
he’s in his own home, it's his couch and bed. “if i take you to meet them once,” rindou emphasizes the word, “will you be pleased?”
you would, “a little.”
works for him.
rindou groans like the sore loser he is, yet hands you an earbud. “whatever, don’t come cryin’ when you realize they're actually lame."
secretly, he prays you don't like them better than him.
"they're your friends—or gang, i'm guessing—i would never think bad of them."
aren't you just a godsend? rindou breathes a chuckle, pressing play. whatever wrinkles remained on his face washed away when you bobbed your head to his mix. he forgives you for being a pain in his ass.
everything’s fair in love and war; you came and conquered with ease. as implicit as he fights to keep it, rindou's a big softie for you.
you lean over to kiss his temple, maybe you’ll buy that sweater you saw for this special occasion.
just this once, punctuality would be the death of you.
the only street light a couple meters away flickers every two minutes, you’ve got no service, and the run-down warehouse you’re leaning on is the shadiest spot rindou’s asked you to meet at. seriously, what’s his issue?
“little late for someone like you to be out alone, isn’t it?” couldn’t have said it better, voice you've never heard before.
..wait.
with a gulp, you turn to meet whoever was talking to you. it’s not the least comforting when you have to look up to see his face. tall, weird eyebrows, and overall menacing.
for once in your goddamn life, think!
“yeah—i mean, it must suck to be alone in the dead of night.” you laugh nervously, as if to quell the goosebumps rising in your arms. “not me though, nope.”
mochi squints his eyes. you can’t be serious, right? there’s no one else in the entire block. “‘s that so?”
one gulp to hush your anxiety. “yup, my boyfriend’s waiting for me, if i don’t show he’ll come looking,” great, now you’re shaking.
he’s not gonna buy it. this is the end, death by two hands the size of your head. truly tragic.
“only a shitty boyfriend would leave you all alone like this,” he huffs. it’s true, part of him wants to wait and chew out whoever this man is.
safe to say, you have to agree. rindou is a dead man as soon as he shows his face, and it won’t be at the hands of this monster of a guy.
blame it on your current hyperfocus on every little thing (something’s gotta make up for your obvious lack of fight or flight) you can’t help but notice he’s wearing all red—is that a gang uniform?
funny how hope goes out as quick as that.
rindou’s uniform is most definitely not red. the fight bound to unleash is already brewing inside your mind, you’re not even sure if rindou can take a hit from this guy. if he ever gets here, only one of these two would walk away.
you have to act, fast.
“it’s not safe, what’s a thing like you gonna do if—”
he makes the mistake of looking into your eyes. they’re wide, like a deer caught in headlights; innocent.
mochizuki’s second mistake is not noticing the right hook you swing.
the light flickers again, and one of tenjiku’s heavenly kings falls unconscious.
it goes without saying you fucking panic.
“i didn't mean to—shit!” you’re kneeling beside his body, checking for pulse. of course there's still a pulse, there’s no way you could actually kill a guy like that. “i’m so, so sorry.”
he didn’t even try to hurt you. are you the monster here?
initially, you were worried rindou would be the one to start a fight if he saw you cornered by the guy. never would you have thought the culprit would be none other than yourself.
quickly, your sweater becomes a makeshift pillow—the least you could do for knocking the living daylights out of him. though you do cringe when the brand-new fabric soaks up all the dirt on the ground.
it’s okay, surely once he wakes again you can explain you didn’t mean to hit him. you were aiming for… a fly? a mosquito? those can carry deadly diseases. sure, let’s go with that.
kakucho doesn’t know what he just walked into.
there’s a stranger kneeling beside mochi whispering in a fret to herself, something about the last recorded case of dengue fever in japan. right, he was also unconscious.
soon, you notice him too. particularly his red uniform.
there’s a brief pause in which you just stare at each other.
come to think of it, you’d probably kick the bucket in these clothes, and you wouldn’t mind. dying with these on would be something you can live with—or die, rather? idioms are dumb. point is, you picked a really nice outfit for your supposed date with rindou.
rindou haitani, who somehow managed to be late enough to miss you picking a fight with another gang member.
the silence is deadly.
“you’re… his friend, right?” cautiously, you’re the one to break it. “i figured he'd appreciate a pillow to enjoy his nap.”
so why was his cheek painted a raging red? god, that’s a nasty bruise.
kakucho blinks twice. then, he looks around, trying to discern any other lifeform in close vicinity. any possible culprit. anything to explain what the fuck is going on.
“are you alone?” the question is courtesy, he already knows the answer.
“no.” maybe he didn’t know after all.
he narrows his eyes, and you rush to fix whatever mistake you made. “my boyfriend—and friends, so many friends, are waiting on me. they’ll know if i don’t show up.”
you’re nervous. kakucho steps closer, and you’re quick to jump on your feet. “you’re right, i should probably go—”
“did you do this?”
“do what?”
as if it wasn’t obvious, he waves his arm at his fallen friend. “this.”
it’s been a long night. you’re frustrated, terrified out of your goddamn mind, and you can’t help the panic tears that start to form.
“i’m so sorry!” you bow, trying to hold back from outright sobbing in front of the delinquent. “he—i was alone, and he came around and-and started talking to me and i just, i got scared!”
kakucho blinks, again.
“i didn’t mean to hurt him, i’m sure he’s a great guy, i was just jumpy, and fuck i didn't mean to cause any trouble.”
tears run down your cheeks, mourning both your sweater as a breeze rolls by and your wasted last moments of youth. great, you’re making it awkward.
sometimes instincts take over, and kakucho is unsure why he’s shrugging off his tenjiku coat. neither does he have an answer as to why he reached to drape it over your shoulders.
“c’mon, just breathe.”
you do. you take a deep, deep breath, and your problems start to lessen. not actually though, the other gang member is still very much on the ground. however, it's nice not feeling in immediate danger anymore.
kakucho settles down next to mochi, and pats the ground next to him. “sit.”
last thing he tasked you ended up helping, so you decide to listen once more. a respectable distance away from him, you sit.
he’s not sure where to start. there’s so many questions he needs the answer to.
(how did you take out mochi? how did you know the exact warehouse where the higher-ups were meeting tonight?)
but he keeps quiet.
either way, any explanations coming from you would be interrupted by hiccuping, and he didn’t want to risk any more crying from you.
“am i in trouble?”
the answer should be obvious. kakucho knows you’re aware of the mess you’re in now. still, there must be something missing. “i can count with one hand the people who’ve been able to take mochi out.”
so that’s his name. your gaze lands on him, peacefully resting. it’s a nice name.
“so i need you to be honest,” kakucho tries his best to speak gently. “did you do this?”
he takes in a sharp breath when you nod.
“...how?”
the strained chuckle that leaves your lips makes his heart skip a beat or two. “i just, y’know, hit him.”
“but, how?” the mere thought is baffling to him.
“i can show you if you want.” you bite back. it’s playful. now you can cross-out befriending a random delinquent from your bucket list.
“never thought i’d see kakucho flirting.” a new voice enters the array. “didn’t know he had it in him.”
white hair flows freely, unfazed by the unresponsive commander beside the two. his presence exudes commands without diction. explain, now.
kakucho’s posture stiffens, and he’s quick to get back on his feet. “i arrived and mochi was knocked out, seemingly by,” he pauses to look at you. “uh, what’s your name?”
you match his movements, standing up and completely ignoring his question. “i’m really sorry about that, i didn’t know he was—”
izana interrupts the meaningless spiel, “your name, what is it?"
shivers crawl up your spine. a phantom would be more merciful with the frighten. so you answer his question.
and just like that, poor mochi is forgotten. "i like your name, it's nice on the ears."
you know better than to grimace at the compliment (was it really?) "i should get going, i don't want to be in your hair any longer."
izana follows your every movement with violet eyes. not a word is uttered, just a plastered, quite unsettling smile on his face as acknowledgment.
right, your idiot boyfriend. one quick glance at the no signal on your phone serves as a reminder you're stranded.
a jingle brings you back to reality. it's izana, tilting his head. "what's wrong?"
well, you're certain all trains back home stopped doing rounds about half an hour ago, and there’s no way you can catch a ride from either of these two.
(the guy with the scar would probably do it, he seems kind. the urge to squish his cheeks like a grandma would is intense.)
"actually," an awkward laugh makes up for the nerves rattling within. "i.. can't leave, not yet."
his patience is wearing thin, you presume. "is that so?"
from behind you, kakucho shifts. would they even go for a one on two? when you're the one wearing heels?
"i told kakucho—" you glance back to confirm you remembered his name correctly, biting back a smile when he looks surprised. "—i was waiting for my friends and boyfriend, specifically at this exact, dirty warehouse."
izana doesn't look satisfied.
"half of that was a lie, it's just my boyfriend i'm supposed to meet." this doesn't seem to be getting any better.
he's thinking about something.
"i know i shouldn't have lied, but it's basic street smarts! can't blame me for that."
he steps closer, seemingly having resolved whatever idea was brewing in his head.
you're close to going on another rant on street safety, or maybe going for another swing, but izana makes you stop dead in your tracks. "do you wanna be kakucho's girlfriend?"
smelly thugs was cutting it short, this guy was bizarre as fuck.
kakucho is grateful you don’t have eyes on the back of your head. tenjiku’s number two, overwhelmed with a barrage of embarrassment and murderous tendencies for his one and only king.
(was he that obvious? were his fleeting glances that easy to notice?)
izana on the other hand had only just begun his career as a salesman. “kakucho here is a great guy—the definition of a gentleman and a picture-perfect servant.”
odd way of selling someone for a boyfriend. you’d have a few pointers and even additions to his pitch, except you literally have a boyfriend, and you’ve told him so.
you check for the hour. maybe you’ll consider his proposal if kakucho isn’t horrid with meeting on time. “go on.”
two heavenly kings have yet to show their faces, another is knocked out, and the last is close to digging himself an early grave.
“so you’ll date kakucho then?”
has he heard a single word you’ve spoken? “i have a boyfriend.”
“it’s a yes or no question, preferably yes or yes.”
it’s better if you ignore the vague implication of a threat behind his statement. “rain check?”
that seems to please him. “i’m izana,” he offers his hand for a handshake. “pleasure doing business with you.”
“cool.” you’re absolutely sure he’s missing a screw in his head, but it’s funny.
“too late to join the roster?” to absolutely no one’s surprise, it’s a new voice joining this sick joke of a night. you’re amazed at the fact four men have managed to show up unannounced to your date, and none are the one you're actually going out with.
izana turns to meet the new addition, eyebrow raising at the fact it’s only half the duo.
“he’s finding a spot to park, sent me to check on that one over there.” one hand points to you, the other toys with a dual-colored braid.
he’s clad in a black uniform—just like rindou’s. everything's even more confusing now, hurray you!
kakucho, who’s more than grateful to leave the past conversation behind, begins to process the situation. “you know ran?”
“ran?” puzzle pieces are slowly coming together. “as in haitani? ran haitani?”
the man himself lets out a low whistle. “sorry man, only been here for at least half a minute and i’m already takin' the spotlight—nothing personal.”
that’s not how you meant it at all. “no-”
“kakucho gave her his jacket.” izana you are not helping.
“that has nothing to do with this.” kakucho pleads to everything under the sun for his boss to just, shut up. just this once.
“ran, where’s ri-”
“see? already reeling back to me, i think i've got more game than you.” rindou was right, he’s a living headache.
izana tugs at your blouse. “you already said yes on kakucho, no take backs.”
“that never happened.” kakucho, angel on earth, everyone.
something boils from within. "i have a boyfriend."
“you’re too pretty for him.” he blurts without an ounce of hesitation in his body. it’s amusing how ran said the same thing as rindou—they really are family. still, no. does he even know you're dating his brother?
the situation is getting out of hand, your patience is being tested, and you just want to go home at this point.
at this rate you’re sending ran home with half his braids in your fist, izana is getting his arm put in a cast if he utters another word, and kakucho is getting his jacket back and a pat on the head.
there are a few reasons you’re dating rindou haitani. among the perks lies the telepathic bond you two have—whatever you think, rindou is already doing. which is exactly why ran is suddenly getting his braid damn near ripped out by gloved hands.
“wanna say that again?” rindou holds the hair tightly in a fist, he’s fuming. “c'mon, don’t pussy out now.”
the three of you gawk at the scene. kakucho and you in shock, izana in awe. the man of the hour arrived, and everything took a turn for the worse.
the youngest haitani has always followed his older brother like a best friend and inspiration. it’s a relationship based on respect for the other and no one else. sure, they have disagreements, but rindou admires no one more than ran.
the haitani brothers, joined at the hip by crime and blood, now tearing each other apart in the pettiest of ways.
ran, tallest, oldest, arguably strongest, hisses in pain by the harsh tugging. “why dontcha rip it out while y’re fucking at it? whatever got into you?”
izana pokes a finger into your side for the second time. “you know rindou?”
your eyes are glued on the brothers. ran keeps whining, rindou is professing his undying and very much ongoing love for you. “yeah, we’re dating.”
a pause. a long one at that.
“...why?” he sounds puzzled.
rindou screams insults at ran and soon drags his hair-stylist through the mud too, for some reason. “what do you mean by that?”
izana blinks at you like the answer is obvious. “is he like, forcing you or something?”
“what?”
kakucho, who’s been silently witnessing the convo fights to stifle his laughter. it’s of no use, not when you’re throwing his jacket back at his face to shush him. it’s a strong throw, sending him backwards a step or two.
izana thinks you’re funny, too. “you are too pretty for him.”
𔘓 first post on this account! also happy bday mikey! (post christmas showdown)
“this is your idea of quality time?” the words leave your mouth with an amused chuckle. there’s no malice behind the question, it’s genuine.
mikey only hums in agreement, head buried in your chest. he hasn’t budged for a good hour now, slipping in and out of sleep ever since he came through your door.
no further questions dare to manifest outside your thoughts. the concerns aren’t voiced verbally, though you do wonder why he came in so late, face littered with cuts and a busted lip as a christmas gift. you want to know why he hasn’t muttered a word—normally he would eagerly chat your ear off about whatever ken did earlier, or the disastrous wardrobe takemichi has.
he shifts, allowing you to at least get more comfortable on the couch. “your heart’s beating, it’s nice.”
you’re.. pretty sure you’re aware of that.
gently, you run your fingers through his hair. “yours is beating, too.” you take one of his arms from your waist, hand wrapping around his wrist. “see?”
mikey moves his face from your chest, opting for nuzzling in the space between your shoulder and neck. it sends shivers down your spine. “stay, please.”
“i’m not going anywhere.” you feel like he needs to hear it. “never will.”
he’s a ghost against your neck, leaving behind a trail of phantom pecks on the skin. there’s the mischievous blonde you know, holding you down to control your squirming. “i like your laugh, too.” and he gets plenty of it, tickling your sides for good measure as well.
“mikey—sano manjiro quit it!”
your demands go ignored, he even starts chomping on your neck.
what is sanzu to do when his waging rampage is met with a boot to the face? answer's simple: wag his tail.
⠀⠀⚠︎⠀⠀bordering on dark! graphic descriptions of blood, violence, suggestive themes, like one sex scene if u squint, y'know how it goes. ooc sanzu because idfk either. like 4.8k words.
“i’m not your superior, haruchiyo,” tensions rise with a simple roll of the tongue. the waters have been tested, they seem to be riddled with piranhas. “yet, i can’t say im loving this death stare of yours.”
if you’re not careful, he might just eat you alive. sanzu is not above murder, if your forerunner is anything to go by. his stare is cold, calculating, mapping out your body of weak points.
“manjiro tasked me with you, but i’m not a babysitter.” that got half his attention, the mention of mikey piquing his interest. “my job is to make sure you’re useful to him.”
like food thrown to a starving animal, his full focus now preys on you.
sanzu has beautiful eyes, you notice. they widen at your words in utter disbelief. perhaps he’s a sleeper agent, ‘sano manjiro’ being the only whisper necessary to kick him into overdrive.
sanzu is an exquisite asset, isn’t he?
ever the shrewd character, you’re quick to notice his change of nature isn’t desperate. sanzu haruchiyo is not some helpless schoolgirl chasing after manjiro. there’s layers, a bond that transcends time itself.
he is loyal, just not valuable enough; and that breeds desperation.
“useful—” sanzu clears his throat, “useful how?”
he can’t remember the next minute very well.
the first two seconds he wastes time blinking, the fourth is spent in a panic—you’re no longer within his field of vision. mark the fifteenth second, you reappear. one moment you were staring him down, sitting on piled up boxes, the next you’re beside him.
at the twentieth, his instincts go into overdrive. there’s no escaping the inevitable now.
sanzu is agile. sufficiently lithe to brace for impact before you slam him into the wall. his ears ring, and there’s warm liquid seeping out of his ear. he’s agile enough to survive a hit from you, perhaps that’s better than most.
the alleway starts to spin, and the remainder of the minute is spent trying to stay afloat. it’s useless though, soon enough his legs give out and he kisses the ground hello.
there’s a sizeable dent in the concrete where you absolutely smashed him into. it reeks of danger—thrill.
“am i gonna have to teach you manners, too?” you click your tongue. “you live up to the fame, aren’t you the cutest rabid mutt?”
sanzu feels your fingers on his chin. he can’t fight back against the grip, not when he can’t tell if there’s really two of you or if that’s the work of a concussion. “rule number one, haruchiyo. you only speak when it’s something worth wasting breath on.”
he’s going limp. “is that clear?”
in all the two minutes he’s known you for, sanzu’s learned better than to go against your word. or words, he’s starting to hear double.
“yes.”
you make a mental note of his impeccable survival instinct. “good.”
RULE NO. 2: do as you’re told.
“you’ve already ditched the mask once, i don’t know why you backtracked on it.”
sanzu remains motionless. your voice may as well have been a specter the way it goes ignored. and yet, his actions (or lack thereof) are not countered with another pummel on the drywall.
your line of work dictates a healthy dose of studying enigmas. speech, actions—none speak louder than the subconscious fidgets that compose body language. sanzu’s straightened back, clasped hands behind, and distant, firm gaze communicate enough.
he’s awaiting approval to voice his thoughts.
and that earns him another mouthful of dirt.
“i’m not your superior, haruchiyo. did i really need to repeat myself?” he looks helpless on the ground, breathing a string of curses into existence at the strain of his muscles.
his hands curl into the ground below, nearly pulling out the grass within his grip in frustration.“no, there was no need.”
sanzu does try to get up, overworking the already-sore body left from your strenuous training. (why you were expecting him in his kitchen first thing in the morning, only to drag him out to do fucking burpees, he’ll never know).
however, once again, his efforts are fruitless. muscles fail to respond, and sanzu is left to lay on the ground. pathetic. the sudden pressure on the back of his head doesn’t allow for much struggle either. it’s heavy, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that’s your boot on him.
there’s not much left for sanzu than to succumb to your weight. it’s not pleasant, not in the slightest. nothing about impotence is.
“i’m going to make you into the best right-hand man. you’ll follow some rules, but you’re free to act however you wish. i’m not-”
“my superior.”
that seems to please you.
sanzu breathes a sigh of relief when your footing no longer uses him as floor. he dares peek at the sky, but your figure blocks the sun from blinding his eyes. so why does he squint, still? your sole presence burns just as fiery.
“this is the second rule. if you plan to become useful,” suddenly he’s listening closely, attentive. “then you best honor commands, right now they’ll come from me, soon they’ll be your precious king’s own.”
sanzu bites back a scoff, draws blood from his cheek to cut any rash thoughts short. he could do this all by himself. obedience runs deep within his veins, preaches every demand as a devoted knight would to a throne; no different than a sunflower in pursuit of sustenance light years away.
he doesn’t need you.
“i understand.” so why does he follow you, no second questions asked?
a smile blesses him from the depths of hell, though your eyes don’t squint in the slightest. scary. you raise a finger to your cheek, tapping the skin twice.
sanzu proceeds to discard the black face mask without a single word of protest. it makes your lips stretch farther up.
the same boot crushing his head mere minutes ago nudges his body, sanzu now lies on his back. there’s no escape from your words, stare ever so omnipotent. “the difference between mucho and i is simple.”
is it? you’re both equally sliceable, nothing more than cartilage and bone. maybe next time you make an appearance he’ll cut you into pieces.
regardless, you’re slippery (maybe the polarity lies in that, sanzu muses). you stood proud one second, the next make of his abdomen a seat, cold hands cupping his face like he’s fine china and you, an avid collector.
“i love my hounds as they come,” you get closer, dangerously so. “snarly, scarred—they’re all the same to me.”
turquoise eyes are left to watch his destiny play before him. snap his neck, take a bite out his neck and tear the skin apart, anything could go with you.
“let’s change the second rule, haruchiyo.”
sanzu‘s breathing rags, your hands increase the pressure, and you might go for the alternative of crushing his head like a can. effortlessly.
“rule number two, you do as you’re told, but my word comes above everyone else's.”
your fingers travel north past his cheekbones, resting just below his eyes. he’s alert. you wonder what kind of canine would quiver the same way he does right now.
“is that understood?”
woof. “yes.”
RULE NO. 17: if you’re not useful, you’re out.
“don’t you get fuckin’ tired?” sanzu all but groans, drop of sweat joining the hundreds more pooling down his shirt. “surely sittin’ around while i do all the damn work wears you out.”
his words are poison, the katana in his hands is deadly, and yet, you giggle. “nah, keep doing your thing.”
there’s a fleeting thought to ditch this fight and have your head instead. although admittedly, he’d rather learn some spanish before fleeing to nicaragua with your body in five different plastic bags.
another nameless thug lunges, and it makes for another squirming body on the ground. “when you said we’d be taking care of business i thought you meant toman business.”
you know, mikey business?
sanzu bites his tongue after the sentence rolls out his mouth. as much as you’d grown accustomed to his character, he’d be sure to join the rest of motionless, bleeding goons if he disrespects you.
“toman’s dead, lost cause.”
that makes him stop the slashing. “fuck’s that mean?”
you’re satisfied with the fight for the evening, glock in hand shooting the last of targets. one bullet per head, not a single wasted. “we’re here on business to make sure there’s a place for you in the close future. bills are also due this week, two birds, one stone, yeah?”
“elaborate, “ sanzu actually growls.
“haruchiyo.”
the calling of his name makes sanzu’s shoulders roll back, back straightening out. it’s reflex now, really.
“tokyo manji is child’s play, you can’t possibly think i’m training you for them, right?”
“no, of course not,” what are you hiding? what do you really know?
your boot steps on too many limbs to reach his position, fresh blood joins the old on your sole. “correct! you’re so smart!”
sanzu misses his face mask. with it, you would be oblivious to his sneer when your hand comes up to ruffle his hair. it’s demeaning, probably intentional on your end. makes him seriously reconsider whether you’d look best with a sword through your chest.
“if you complete your training well-enough you could rule tokyo.” your eyes bore holes into his own. “wouldn’t you say all of kantou is more appealing?”
“sure?”
you turn away from him. sanzu can finally stop holding his breath.
“you don’t sound too convinced, haruchiyo.” only a fool would fall for your fake distress and pouty face. you’ve lost your stoic facade—deep down you’re but a childish merc with enough brute force to rival an elephant.
two fingers are raised over your shoulder, follow.
“i’m only interested in-”
“manjiro, i know.” you’d heard this story a thousand times. mikey, mikey, mikey. “and what’s gonna happen when he starts going for bigger fish? delinquency is a slippery slope into the world of crime—a rich one, too.”
sanzu can hardly picture mikey, in all his glory, waving a gun around. “you don’t know anything about him.”
you stop in your tracks.
he stops too, a good meter from you.
“this isn’t about tokyo manji, it’s about sano manjiro.”
“they’re one in the same,” sanzu bites back. you’re not his superior, he can do as he wishes.
“haruchiyo,” your gaze is cold. “sit.”
he kneels, swallows his pride for the hundredth time.
the abandoned warehouse breathes death and rot. there’s barely moonlight dropping from the ceiling to light his path of carnage. whatever job this was had nothing to do with mikey. it makes sanzu boil over with rage. you’re wasting his time.
“what good are you to toman if there’s no mikey?” you step closer, sanzu leans forward to meet your hands. they’re cold, caressing the diamonds carved by the latter. “how are you going to serve if you’re useless?”
he avoids your stare. “i am useful.”
one of your hands moves from his cheek to stroke his hair, gently freeing the locks from his ponytail. “you are, look around.”
sanzu can distinguish around four men crawling for their life, the rest a mess of broken bones and mangled slashes. “if mikey needs to take a life, you’ll be more than prepared to strike.”
he thinks back on mucho. the thrill that kill brought him made it hard to function the rest of the day. now it’s second nature; sanzu bites and rips apart with no hesitation, takes life as if it was never there to begin with.
“listen, haruchiyo,” your hands are clean from all ichor, and he hates how good they feel on his scalp. “think of it like a mechanism.”
eyelashes flutter prior to closing, isolating his sense of sight to fully indulge in the rest. the smell of blood, sound of your analogy, a gentle caress on his face making him wish he didn’t enjoy it as much. sanzu wishes you were dead.
“a machine with bolts, springs and wheels, synced together, with purpose.”
he pictures a shrine, lost in the midst of a sea of faceless pawns. fifth farthest from commander, or founder. he pictures kids playing; a toy plane; the first command he’s ever received—he knows things are meant to be.
“those who can't be a cog in our wheels are just scraps.”
as with any commandment you dictate, sanzu engraves the saying in his mind. carves each letter, memorizes every syllable, savors all implications.
“are you scrap, haruchiyo?”
“never.”
“good,” you coo, leaning down to graze his forehead with a kiss. the devil’s touch. “good.”
RULE NO. 99: know your place.
sanzu has come to the conclusion you’re a fucking parasite.
autumn witnessed development from cowering at our very presence, winter tied a ribbon to the unlikely friendship, and spring arrived with you at his doorstep every other day.
you’ve become the first thing he sees in the mornings (somehow you’re always dressed by the time his eyes flutter open, janking his blankets to drag him to train: “let’s go for a walk, haruchiyo!”)
every single evening would be devoid of any personal space. whether it’s his couch being invaded, to his kitchen becoming an absolute mess with whatever recipe you’re trying to put together. no, it’s not the thought that counts, even if the heart-shaped burnt cookies were for him anyway.
the nights were probably the worst.
sanzu had long-forgotten his closet being only halfway full, nor does he know when you had practically moved your entire wardrobe into his. there’s not enough space for the two of you, and he absolutely despises how everything smells like you now.
“haruchiyo, bathtub’s ready.”
you’ve somehow achieved the impossible by making bubble baths the worst thing he can come to think of. hates the thought of getting dragged to it, absolutely detests how he tosses and turns in bed whenever he doesn't have one with you.
there's a nice scented candle on the counter serving as the lone light source within his bathroom. an obscene amount of foam clings to your hand as you test the temperature. save for the swoosh of the water, it seems sanzu might be granted the miracle of having a relaxing moment of silence in his bubble bath.
you stand, "turn around, 'm taking these off."
never fucking mind.
begrudgingly, sanzu complies. he starts to discard of his own clothes, too. his hands barely make it to the hem of his shirt before a piece of fabric lands perfectly on his head. god, you're gonna make him pop a vein.
"i'd love for you to not throw your underwear at me," sanzu has half the mind not to throw them back at you, opting for hooking a finger in the undergarment and throwing it as far away as possible.
"my bad," you're not in the least sorry. the water is too perfect to dwell on past mistakes. "c'mon, chop chop."
soon his body enters the water too, bubbles parting way as his skin kisses the still water. sanzu leans back on your body, not minding in the slightest the feel of your naked skin against his own; your body warmth rivaling the water's own.
(okay, maybe he minds a little)
"isn't this nice?"
"no," sanzu doesn't miss a beat. "have i ever told you how much i hate you?"
a good amount of shampoo is combed through his scalp by your fingers, gently massaging the area. "a couple times, yes."
let's make it thrice then: "well, i really fuckin' hate you."
what's most thrilling about sanzu haruchiyo is the double-edged blade his persona holds. failure comes with crystal clear dangers of getting diced alive, success offers a never ending supply of amusement.
you push his head further into the water to rinse the shampoo off. there's no struggle from sanzu, you could very well drown him right now and there'd probably be no fight coming from him.
"you're seriously useless, i don't need you tellin' me what to do to appease mikey."
"close your eyes for me."
he follows your demand without missing a beat, basking in the water you pour on his face to rid the last bits of foam. "i want you dead."
early are the mornings your movement would be restricted by a pair of arms, late are the nights you'd walk home from a hit only to see his room's lights go off as soon as you enter the building.
"you gonna leave me to shrivel like i’m raisins? get on with it."
you reach for the soap, "aren't you needy, haruchiyo?"
sanzu groans, this would seem like the perfect moment for a meteor to strike his building. rather than feeding into your delusion he keeps quiet. it’s better than talking to the wall you are. teasing, threading the rope that is his patience for you.
hands travel across his skin, tending to it with soap that’s gonna leave sanzu reeking of your strawberry soap. “you’re funny, haruchiyo.”
it’s a shame there’s no sharp objects within his reach. “can’t wait for the day you slip and die.”
his half-empty threat procures a giggle from you. “see!”
“or the long fuckin’ awaited night you get stabbed and dumped in an alleyway.”
your laughter reverberates and bounces off the walls, and yet sanzu can’t tell if it’s sincere or genuine.
banter ends at that, and soon he is clean. though there’s no change in position to allow for sanzu to even attempt to wash you, too. strange as it is, the peace and quiet are both rare enough, perhaps the universe has been kind enough to grant him this one moment of silence.
“but really, you are funny — i get the impression you’re all bite no bark,” enough instances of carnage and gargling on metal could easily refute this observation. you don’t care. “you whine, cry, complain, and yet you never ask for anything.”
just this morning he asked you to do the dishes (which you never did: “can’t make me”). perhaps dementia was knocking on your door a good thirty years too early. however, it’s implied you're not referring to such superficial instances.
“haruchiyo,” your body draws him impossibly closer, “what is it you wish most for?”
he tilts his head back, leaning on your shoulder. the new position allows for a better view of your face. momentarily, perchance a slip of character, his eyes wander. glance at your lips, the bubbles hugging your body from his view, squint to see what the water hides. “hell if i know.”
a hum is enough reassurance that you won’t contest his blatant lie. “okay.”
a splish, splash, and overflowing water hitting the tile, sanzu is now the one kneading at your hair, soap lathering and cleaning. intimacy at its finest. delectable sweetness as you lean back, and take a nibble of his jugular. it earns you a pinch on your hip.
“say, you in the mood for a new addition to the rulebook?”
“not in the slightest.”
his honesty is met with a splash of water to his face, “too bad, take note.”
sanzu rolls his eyes, cost of opportunity heavy with regret since, of course, he forgot to carry a toaster into the bathroom to finally take you out.
“know your part wherever you are—learn when to be the hanged, and when to be executioner.”
it’s random. it’s ironic. “if we’re playin’ like that, then your authority’s worth jack shit to me.”
“is that so?”
once again, the question is left unanswered. hung and forgotten.
“i think your act and place should always be by my side” you muse. it’s custom you add a rule to the list and immediately reform it.
a phantom feeling tugs at his throat, like a collar being yanked. hands that operate under your every order move to rest on your thighs. underwater, there’s no hierarchy; nudity knows no ruler from subject. “and if i say no?”
“you won’t.”
a horrifying realization dawns on sanzu haruchiyo that night. as his fingers inch dangerously higher, and higher, as the water turns cold, carelessly splashing outside the bathtub. as his teeth sink everywhere and two become one, sanzu haruchiyo comes to a gut wrenching conclusion.
‘you won’t.’
it’s true. maybe words can’t ever describe what he wishes for, but it’s easy to cross out what he doesn’t want.
sanzu knows he doesn’t want to stop. doesn’t wish for your hand to ever release his bicep from that deathly grip, or for you to stop making those noises, nor does he want anything but your warmth once it’s all said and done.
sanzu knows he doesn’t wish for you to ever leave, and maybe that’s enough.
RULE NO. 275: forget everything i've taught you.
"..what?" sanzu is beyond confused.
"yeah, you're good to go, no need to follow anything i've said anymore."
the room was empty. manjiro had long since left, the eldest haitani had grown bored of your mongrel staring him down with every flirt he shot your way, and the rest of kantou manji had simply shown themselves out for their own various reasons that no one truly cares for.
the gears are still turning on his head, cerebrum working overtime to decipher the new mandate, or lack thereof? schrodinger's rulebook, perhaps?
“you look good in white, you know.” as if you hadn’t just nuked everything he’s ever known, you lean forward to adjust his collar. your favorite pretty boy, dearest psychopath. “let me tie your hair for you.”
“what the fuck do you mean?”
he hates the feigned confusion you present him with. hates the tilt of your head so much he actually unsheathes his katana, blade steady and barely a few inches from your neck. it further irritates him your obvious lack of response, not even a flinch.
any other day you’d play the clueless game, but there’s really no one paying you the hour anymore. “it was fun while it lasted, wasn’t it?”
“why are you acting like you’re,” sanzu bares his teeth, disgusted at just the thought of the word, “like you’re ditching?”
interesting phrasing. not ‘leaving,’ that would imply abandonment, a cry of weakness. ‘ditching’ pins blame from the moment it is vocalized, like whatever you’re doing, actions sanzu is still trying to decode, is irrevocably your fault.
steel kisses your neck, close enough to feel the cold, and the lack of wavering. you’re proud of haruchiyo, really. “gonna miss me?”
“you don’t leave a gang.” there’s the helpless child in disguise.
“manjiro took you in as vice,” you don’t bother with swatting the katana away, instead moving close enough to feel his hitched breath on your lips. arms thrown over his shoulders, fingers combing and threading to jail his locks into a ponytail. “i’d say my work is done.”
triads of protest die in his throat. shackles finally dissipate into thin air, long were the solstices he prayed for this day to come. yet sanzu feels himself floating away at the lack of grounding. he’s gonna be sick.
for once the silence is suffocating. overwhelming. unwelcome. the katana slowly scurries back into hiding, desperately like an animal rolling over to flaunt it’s belly; a last ditch effort of submission.
“aren’t you excited?”
he can finally kill you. he can finally roll over in bed and not find you there. he can finally return to being alone, and the strongest, and-
sanzu doesn’t do as he’s told.
“you finally have what you want.”
sanzu isn’t useful.
“you’ve been acknowledged.”
sanzu doesn’t know his place.
“you’re finally free.”
sanzu shoves you with enough force to stumble back onto the wide table in the meeting room, it’s surprising how it doesn’t shatter. there’s not enough time in a second to allow a reaction, not when he overpowers you for the second time, back slamming against the wood, sanzu’s body nestling between your legs. you can let him have this.
sanzu is stiff. he’s not used to being the one to leap first when it comes down to your dynamics. it feels unnatural to cage you like this, for your legs to wrap and pull him closer, like you’re mocking him. “you’re not my superior.”
one of your hands trail up his arm. “that’s correct.”
“then you’re my enemy.”
you tug him down, lips finding themselves naturally drawn right under his jaw. there’s no verbal answer to his introspection.
“then i’ve beat you — i’m stronger than you.”
sanzu most certainly did not miss the floating sensation your attacks give him. by all means, physically, he should be stronger. so, physically too, it’s odd when your hand pushes his weight effortlessly, and your leg locks on to successfully beat his ass and pin him down. it sucks feeling a concussion in the brewing.
he’s always looked prettier under you. “now that you’re on your own, haruchiyo, prepare to make mistakes.” his hands instinctively fly to your waist, “learn from them.”
sanzu groans, he himself doesn’t know if it’s the pain speaking or the built up frustration, “‘s that a new rule?”
the juxtaposition of slamming sanzu on the table and the gentle hands that come to tilt his head is a little funny. his skin smells of strawberries as you ghost your lips across it. “they’re parting words.”
it’s by no means a new position he’s found himself in. and yet he feels stumped. helplessly watching as the fire crackles its last sparks, as the last train starts to close its doors. even your body starts to feel like a distant whisper.
"haruchiyo, i want you to remember me." you're positive even the idea is far-fetched. the way his muscles tense and eyes narrow at your every call is automatic now. "memorize how my fingers feel on your jaw."
sanzu nearly purrs at the contact, and it's pathetic. he could never forget the grip, your hand looks best when it's on his face.
"memorize my voice, you must."
it goes without saying he already has. plenty were the nights he woke up in cold sweat, hallucinating you in every shadow and crevice; many more he’s coped by turning in bed and found the warmest embrace in your arms.
he can't live without you.
"haruchiyo, what else can i do for you to remember me, forever and always?"
'what is it you wish most for?'
he remembers the seventeenth rule, remembers the day you promised him a reward far beyond being an asset to mikey. sanzu had reflected on it far too long. what could he possibly ask from you?
power is all he ever wants. being of importance, too. both are things he could never have from you.
you have it all. you best him in every way possible.
maybe, in just one thing, he can overthrow you. "a kiss."
sanzu has come to the conclusion there's no healthy middle when it comes to you. his mind splits between wanting your head on a stick and fighting urges to leap and bite at your lip until blood is drawn.
perhaps an impulse to prove himself useful so you stay. a test of courage, his mouth wherever you need it most, whatever it is that will make you forever forget the thought of leaving him to fend for himself like a mutt.
"a kiss?" you've never looked more inviting than now, leaning back to stare him down, slowly blinking, a stray lock of hair falling out of place.
you’re making him feel real stupid. a small fraction cringing at his request, as if he had been reading the mood wrong and just completely ruined the moment (as if you straddling and leaving a mark or two on his neck could mean anything else).
eyes never once stray from his stare. sanzu really is funny.
you lean back down, unamused with the shit-eating grin that’s stretching across his face. first comes the corner of his lips, a fleeting brush of your lips, a ghost to acknowledge his diamonds. sanzu’s fingers dig onto your hips as, painfully slowly, you align with his lips.
sanzu haruchiyo, akaashi haruchiyo, your pride and joy. only way to commemorate would be by taking a bite out of him, how could you not?
your teeth sink mercilessly on his bottom lip. sanzu fights a choked cry, it hurts, and you don’t pull away until he’s left bleeding, panting, and so very dissatisfied. unfulfilled. bested again.
“find me again,” as a treat, you kiss the half of his lips, stealing the red drops for yourself.
“money,” you kiss his cheek. “power,” he seeks your lips again, struggling for his wish. “influence,” you pull back.
sanzu grumbles a protest or two, flailing in a last ditch effort to claim what was his. your hand on his neck kills any hope of that.
a finger swipes his bottom lip, teasing the lack of prize right in his face. “become someone with all three under his sleeve and you’ll find me again.”
the frustration is building back up. murderous desires. the need to fight you for control.
Hello!☺️ Can you do a Yandere Rindou? So like Ayano is Rindou and the senpai is The reader, like the roles. The role of Rindou is Ayano but the role of senpai is The reader.
It's like Yandere simulator! :)
ᥫ᭡ for haitani rindou, OBJECT OF OBSESSION
⚠︎⠀yandere themes; explicit descriptions of murder, blood, obsession, stalking, all that. he's in his last year of high school for plot purposes
★ ⋆ . ⠀YANDERE! RINDOU, who starts acting weird
he says tenjiku rendezvous got tedious. swears up and down with a sneer that his time is precious, and there are more pressing matters to attend.
ran likes to think he knows his brother well-enough to know truth from lie. although it is pretty odd rindou’s bottom drawer now has a lock, or he rarely leaves his laptop in their living room anymore; doesn’t allow for prying eyes into his life.
perhaps it’s odd, but they’re old enough to not be joined at the hip twenty-four seven.
so the oldest haitani doesn’t think too much of it. it’s none of his business.
a little his business when he finds rindou to go missing for entire mornings and evenings. very much ran’s business when he starts showing up late to meetings and there’s a need to convince izana not to splat rindou’s brain matter on the sidewalk next time he shows his face.
ran makes the conscious decision to shrug his new behavior off.
whatever’s gotten into his younger brother can’t be worse than anything they get up to together. rindou much prefers to operate as a duo whenever there’s violence involved. his sudden change of attitude surely couldn't lead to anything that bad.
right?
⠀
★ ⋆ . ⠀YANDERE! RINDOU, who at first is convinced you’re a stalker.
let’s rewind a couple months back.
hard as he tried, rindou haitani is unable to pinpoint the exact moment you started to bleed into his days.
in the mornings your footsteps would be so loud outside his apartment. desperation was not a good look, there were better ways to get his attention (note, you were just walking to school, minding your own business).
on evenings your saccharine voice would always get his attention when walking to the liquor store (second note, you were just trying to power through your part-time job in that same street).
and during nights, after exhaustive hours of branding a uniform and doing the dirty jobs on occasions, your presence in his dreams would be very hard to ignore.
dreams where your lips would explore his own endlessly, charm forever sealed in his grasp. mewls that cried for each inch of skin he’d inspect. reveries where you’d be his. nightmares where rindou would be witness to someone else tasting what’s his.
you were stalking him, weren’t you? there’s no other explanation to your sudden prominent standing in his life.
the only sensible course of action was to tail you, too. just to make sure you’re not something he needs to be concerned about, of course.
⠀
★ ⋆ . ⠀YANDERE! RINDOU, who for the first time in years, sat through an entire lecture.
it took rindou about two hours to assemble all the pieces to his old uniform in one same place. some were under trash bags, others shoved deep inside his closet. a good clean later and he was ready to carry out an operation to find out what your true intentions are.
once upon a time the brothers had to enroll into a local high school to scope territory. never would rindou have guessed he’d be back doing rounds through the same halls, eyes scanning through each classroom.
it was nauseating. so many people breathing the same air as him. unforgivable.
barely a couple seconds before he snapped someone in half, rindou caught wind of it. your light footsteps, a cheery giggle, an imaginary trail of thorns and roses in your wake.
you.
rindou haitani was presented with two options. the schoolyard was spacious, so much to the point of a table having the perfect view to your classroom. staking out your every hour would be easy, and the risk of getting caught would be close to none.
“oh, are you new?” your voice tastes even sweeter when it’s directed to him. when your words belong to rindou the world feels right. “i didn’t know we could get transfers this late in the course—i can help you catch up if you’d like.”
the smile you flash at him is better than any bone he’s dislocated with his bare hands. better than anything he’s had.
everything about you is dangerous. from your clear intentions to captivate him, to the way you’re fucking good at it.
it’s a shame rindou’s better though. he’ll just have to stick around advanced calculus to have the upper hand and observe you from up close.
⠀
★ ⋆ . ⠀YANDERE! RINDOU, who surprisingly caught word of a confession before you did, and saw red.
rindou’s come to the conclusion you’re not a threat. perhaps it’s everyone else he should be concerned about.
the wake-up call comes as a letter with a red stamp, left behind by some forgettable classmate with unbelievably clammy hands.
a stupid move for an amateur. clearly someone who doesn’t even deserve five minutes of your time if he was unheeding to the point of not knowing thursdays are the days you’re around fifteen minutes late to first period. wednesdays are laundry days, leaving you in a frenzy to collect your unfolded laundry from the day before, consequently delaying your usual routine (wake up, shower with lukewarm water, hygiene, clothe, repeat).
only an idiot would also leave a confession letter behind when rindou haitani was present.
it’s bothersome having to stand and throw the piece of paper away. so much that rindou feels like he deserves to at least see what the idiot had to write. unfolding carefully wasn’t something that existed in his head. the letter is ripped open, if not to satiate his urge to do the same to your daft suitor.
the letter is emptier than he’d imagined, only a vague request to meet after class on the rooftop adorned the white sheet.
“rin?” the paper is quickly tucked away in his pocket, though you’re ever oblivious to the movement. “i know i said we could go over some stuff before class, i really didn’t mean to be late!”
rindou scoffs, fixing his glasses. “if i fail it’s on you.”
the annoyance in his tone enters one ear and leaves through the other, rindou’s sass no longer fazes you. “let me make it up to you, how about a study session at my place after school?”
“and your parents are okay with a criminal in your own house?”
they’re out of town.
you shrug, “they’re out of town, plus i’m sure they’d be fine since we’re gonna be working.”
“should you really be telling that to strangers?” rindou is convinced you’re a danger to yourself.
“you’re not a stranger,” and the way you say it makes him believe it for a moment. the invitation is all-too tempting. voice luring him like a starved man, eyes making him feel like he owns the world.
a grim reminder rests in his pocket. “i can’t, i have stuff to do after class.”
somehow the hurt flashing across your face is something he can’t get enough of. a new emotion to add to his catalog. “is it gonna take long?”
rindou grins, “you’re cute when you’re desperate.”
it doesn’t hurt when you smack his arm, or when you call him mean—doesn’t sting because he is, and because rindou already knows you don’t mean it.
“i’ll wait for you so we can go, okay?”
guess he’s gonna have to make it quick.
⠀
★ ⋆ . ⠀YANDERE! RINDOU, who knows everything’s fair game as long as you don’t get caught.
“pathetic,” screams are silenced by rindou’s hand, muffled before they could ever alert another wretched soul. fear-stricken, twisting, and writhing like an animal at a slaughterhouse.
“gross,” it’s a messy crime scene. blood, exposed cartilage, and bone. unrecognizable by the time rindou is done.
“stupid,” this morning there were two people after your heart. now, only one remains, along with a mangled sight of student and cruor.
rindou haitani doesn’t care much for the pained wheezing coming from your suitor. he doesn’t savor it like every other injury he inflicts. this wasn’t anything but an execution, it would be unrealistic to even call him competition.
there was never a rivalry. not even a chance for contesting an award rindou gained long before you came to meet him. it will be a cold day in hell before he allows anyone else to even indulge in such fantasy. kill count forever rising, roppongi home to bloodshed until there is an understanding that whatever he wants will inevitably he his, and only his.
an annoyed sigh is all that accompanies the dead. irritation overpowering the nonexistent guilt of taking a life. something primal begs rindou to leave the rooftop as is, it would be a good warning for anyone with underlying intentions to follow the same steps.
sadistic in nature, methodical in practice—he opts for cleaning instead.
two trash bags, a mop washing away sin, and spare change of clothes is enough erase all trace of murder. not a spot is left in his wake; nothing to indicate there was ever a dent or obstacle between the two of you.
forever forgotten are the days where he’d only allow himself to witness from afar. no longer will rindou have to do rounds through empty streets just to wait for your nightstand’s light to gift him your silhouette.
he won’t have to worry for getting caught, not when you’re waiting for him a couple floors down; and most certainly not when the other fool chasing after your heart doesn’t even have blood pumping to his own any longer.
⠀
★ ⋆ . ⠀YANDERE! RINDOU, who is gonna go mad.
“i thought you were gonna take longer.”
rindou rolls his eyes, mindlessly reaching for your bag to carry. sarcasm in his intonation: “surprise.”
as much as his impudence is unwarranted, you can’t be mad. tutoring rindou is learning rindou, and he speaks through actions. there’s no other option than to bite back a smile when he’s already at the door, barking at you to hurry up.
a small detail makes you stop dead in your tracks. rindou raises an eyebrow, you simply stare.
it’s a small stain. easy to overlook, yet suddenly so prominent from the corner of his eye. rindou has no explanation for his erratic heartbeat.
all evidence was carefully disposed of, how could he have missed blood on his glasses?
such an obvious mistake. he’s already blocking the entrance to cut your escape route short.
“oh, rin,” your innocence speaks volumes as you lean over, hands coming to grip his glasses. “let me clean them for you.”
he really, really can’t explain the tint crawling up his face.
your movements are delicate, gentle as they cup his face. soft as you blow on the glass. hypnotizing as you tug on your shirt; white, pure, to clean the red smudge. effectively ridding any proof rindou is a threat by your own volition.
rindou feels his sanity slipping, the line between a careful plan blurring with his buried urges.
victim to dimorphous expression, rindou slips.
your wrist meets his own hand, grip so vicious for a moment you fear it intends to harm. chin raised by a single finger with way more force than truly needed.
as if seeking an explanation as to why the distance between your back and the nearest wall was completely erased within seconds, all you find is rindou’s own eyes. you swear they’re twitching—fighting something you were previously blind to.
“rin?”
rindou is gonna go mad. you’re stupid, so, so incredibly naive. ingenuos to all his advances and ties to crime, so unaware of the decomposing inside different plastic bags. you’re addicting in the purest sense of the word.
so when he leans in to kiss you, and you meet him halfway, rindou swears he’s already gone insane.
closing shifts at the pet store are always nice. no, you don’t work there, but chifuyu has always been kind enough to let you hang around between lectures.
(you remember his words, he thought he was slick: “if studying for your finals ever gets too hard, you can clean the cat cages! it’s therapeutic!”)
the reason why closing shifts are so pleasant is because you get to see your boyfriend in his natural habitat. kazutora’s eyes are always wide, scanning every other shelf while taking inventory. he’s careful with every task he does, skillful hands go a long way.
“i’m almost done,” kazutora’s tone is gentle, exhaustion barely discernible. “how’re you holding up?”
he looks back to the counter, blinking at the empty spot behind it. kazutora could’ve sworn you were there a second ago—
“i’m bored.” your voice comes from behind, part of him died at the scare. “plus, you look too huggable, so don’t mind me.”
kazutora has come a long way with hugs. your heart warms, he doesn’t tense at the contact anymore. he melts into it, rather. like a cat, adorably. your arms wrap him in a hug, hands slipping into his apron pockets.
the simplicity makes it all more intimate. “love you, ‘tora.”
kazutora closes his eyes. he pockets his hands in the apron as well, interweaving your fingers together. an i love you, too.
closing shifts are nice, because you do everything but the chores.
(“in my store? really?” chifuyu’s ready to fling himself out the window. “even after i went out my way to get beers for all of us? you’re both officially uninvited to my place.”
he’s so dramatic, as if he had walked into something utterly horrifying.
you can’t help but snort, chifuyu’s still holding the door open for you anyway. “we’re on our way!”)
⚠︎ this is so self-indulgent and a vent in disguise; sad & heavy themes, demotivation, self-deprecating jokes; r/meirl, this is just comfort and sap. heavily unedited lol.
rindou swears god picks favorites.
an endless barrage of rain accompanied him through the entire ride to your place, a treacherous journey mostly completed out of sheer spite at the shitty weather. and maybe the slightest of concerns.
now, at your very own home, the eye of night greets him from her spot in the cloudless sky. not a hint of storm, but constellations and even fucking jupiter.
"you made it," you skid out your door in pajamas not meant for the outside. among your disaster of a get-up he can spot a shirt he grew out of years ago. faded, worn out.
rindou revs the engine. maybe he would pick favorites too.
that is, until you lock the door and fling your keys, never to be seen again under the scrutiny of dusk.
any previous infatuation is overridden by complete confusion, "the hell?"
"take me somewhere far."
"what does that even-" rindou stops himself mid sentence. "do i look like a taxi?"
your eyes are lost, clouded with the weight of nothingness. "you act like one—came as soon as i texted you."
driving around the precinct with no set destination is but a common occurrence between you two. a duo of youthful spirits taking the streets by sheer negligence of anyone else in the world.
just yourself and rindou haitani.
the smudged makeup bleeding across your face and eyes says little about high-spirits and more about despondency, though.
"fuck's wrong with you?" somehow it spoke more concern than insult through tone.
"you don't ask questions, you drive."
"you're not even on the bike, smartass."
one blink, the dark streets no longer captivates you enough to keep staring. a second blink and you're now facing rindou, soaked to the bone and missing his frames.
drowned out complaints barely reaching your ears say a thing or two about vexation. his shivering shoulders tell a tale of annoyance. rindou's downturned eyes are a dead giveaway of violet concern.
"seriously, do i need to call someone to come screw your head open?" he's about done with his words going through one ear and leaving right the other.
in a third blink his face meets your palms in a gentle cup. a home made of freezing fingertip walls, weak flooring of grip, a shaking born from unstable foundation.
"you're one of the prettiest things i own," one of your hands slide down his face to the pocket where rindou keeps his glasses dry against less than favorable weather. "i think i like you."
his breathing came to a momentary halt. with skipped heartbeats it's a surprise rindou's facade remains untouched. just get on the bike"
never does his stare stray from your face, never do you meet his eyes. careful not to stain the glass or poke his sides, you slide the frames into place.
"so you admit to being something i own?"
he allows the engine to wake again, making the vehicle slide forward in the slightest and nearly making you kiss the concrete hello. "keep fuckin' playing, just you see."
the motor roars for a great number of infractions. reckless driving, endless exits ignored as the highway extends before you.
it's one of the few times you're sat in front, caged by his arms.
("i can't trust you not to fly away if you ride back right now")
you don't care though, the wind parts at your fingers and that's all that matters. care not for the obvious obstruction you cause the driver, an arm extends to grip at nothing past the bike.
(it took an nth number of complaints before you acknowledged his concerns: "who cares if you can't see shit when i do this? don't you trust me?"
back then rindou accelerated after your accusations, breaching the speed limit by an obscene amount. "not in the slightest.")
the breeze is fierce. if you tried less, could you fly away too? you hum, rindou just does his job of driving in silence.
maybe this is what they meant by being infinite. nothing has ever felt so timeless.
mundane, unique.
a juxtaposition of solitude in the presence of each other.
"kill the engine."
rindou nearly swerves you both to your deaths.
"i'm not gonna ask."
ruler of roppongi, terrified at the prospect of delving into the turmoil that's become of your thoughts.
"then i won't answer, sounds fair."
another set of five minutes is thrown away in pure silence, the rest of the precinct sane enough not to drive at such hours of night.
eternity unshattered.
until it wasn't. "there's gotta be somethin' wrong for you to drag me out like this without talking my ear off."
silence.
rindou tries again, "you're not even wearing shoes."
the pavement is so unkind to your soles. you've decided to ignore the pricking of stray rocks.
"being in silence s'fine with me, just tell me you're actually okay."
chatter, irritation. "i wanna go for another drive."
not bothering to meet his eyes, you take pained steps to ride the bike again. ready to take off wherever else— earthly desires no longer influential in your decision making. merely an urge to be everywhere and nowhere.
rindou blocks your path, bracing you from falling at the sudden collision with his body. "you can't be fucking serious right now."
"i am, let's go."
"i'm not taking you anywhere else," there's an invisible flag which warns of a high tide. a possibility of confrontation and risk of shark infested riptides.
rindou haitani faces them all with just a slight ounce of uneasiness. "not until you tell me what this is all about."
silence, the knot of anguish is bound to slip if you were to open your mouth again.
rindou's fingers come to grip your chin. you didn't know they were capable of such gentleness. "c'mon pretty, let me in your head."
a sniffle warns of the high hazard waters bound to wash over.
opening your arms to embrace his figure would take too much energy you simply don't have. it's stiff just leaning against his chest, but it'll have to do.
"how… how do you manage?"
there's a pause from the man, an unspoken request for elaboration.
"every single day i swear you're seconds away from taking the world by storm with a lift of your finger, fuck, you make it look easy."
a knot claws past your trachea, pushing to be reborn as wails from your heart. "i can barely get out of bed each day, or even muster enough willpower to keep this—this shit cluster of a routine."
you're sure to be victim to early hair loss by the vicious grip your fingers trap your hair in; a single inconvenience away from ripping it all out. "i can't keep up—i'm so tired, rin."
hesitant, careful arms wrap around your back slowly. his gaze lost somewhere far from your figure—pleading for the night's own missionaries, ursa minor, cepheus; any and all, to just give you a breather for once.
"i know, i know."
anyone else getting tears all over his clothes would easily be found in a suitcase within the next few business days. not another single soul has such privilege to stain rindou's jacket and live to tell the tale.
rindou squeezes your shaking shoulders. he can forgive it this one time.
"why would i ever want to have the world if i already have you?" a rhetoric whisper breaks the silence. "that just sounds redundant. "
you can't help but cry harder.
"c'mon," rindou acts quick as your legs grow weak, wrapping them around his waist seconds before they gave out.
were you not concerned for not drowning in sorrow you'd complain about the gesture. a buried fear of inconveniencing rindou having to wait in queue for the fifty-six other problems also awaiting their turn.
("rindou quit it!" you'd squeal, fighting against his arms as they lift you from the ground. "'m too heavy, stop it!"
rindou would always scoff at your stupid claims, as he'd so kindly put it.
"i can bench press three of you—maybe you should come witness that.")
it's good you don't get to voice any complaints. rindou wouldn't know how to put into words the burden you carry weighs more than any physical manifestation of life.
his neck feels like the home you've sought this whole time. even with puffy eyes and a congested nose, it feels right.
blonde and blue strands of hair cling to your wet cheeks. everything might just be okay.
("can we go home now?"
"you threw your keys away, stupid."
"fuck," you whine with elongated vocals, fist pounding on his chest, "why'd you let me do that?")
⚠︎ angst! and really really depressing thoughts in some! please proceed with caution. also, they're all set in bonten timeline except for shinichiro bc. :skull:
⠀◉⠀SANO MANJIRO
the love he can't have
it’s quiet in the entirety of bonten’s headquarters for once.
the brothers had long-since left to check on one of their clubs, more to find someone to warm their bed than to oversee transactions. mochi clocked out soon after, followed by sanzu with a glock in his hand and his car’s keys in the other. naturally, takeomi trailed after his narcotic brother, a wave for goodnight as he departed. lastly, kakucho called it a night following mikey’s permission, ever the subordinate offering his boss a ride home.
only the treasurer and number one remained in the building.
a simple glance at his calendar made mikey’s stomach churn. out of nervousness? dread? he’ll never know. the date ridiculed him from its place on the wall, february twenty-ninth. it’s a leap year, meaning at around three in the morning, when everyone’s left, kokonoi knocks on his door four times.
laptop and manila folder tucked under one arm, a bottle of wine on the other.
mikey doesn’t bother to greet his executive. he never does on nights like these. nights where phantoms dig around his ribcage for whatever semblance of a heart he’s got left. february twenty-ninth, the date on which kokonoi and manjiro do a little digging into their past regrets.
“seems ryuguji owns the bike shop now, they both work with him now.” kokonoi takes a seat, busying himself with opening the bottle of liquor. “would’ve never guessed they were interested in working as a mechanic.”
you never were. in fact, mikey can recall endless afternoons where you’d whine over whatever the fuck a muffler was. the only time your interest aligned with tuning his bike was to brand the manji symbol on it.
artistic doesn’t line up with engineer, but neither do his past aspirations and the tattoo on the back of his head. you reap what you sow.
mikey turned to face kokonoi, exhausted stare settling on the folder. a brief thought crosses his mind, something about cats and their unfortunate deaths when indulging in curiosity. too bad he cared too little. manjiro made a move to open the folder, but was stopped by another hand. hajime slid him a glass of wine—maybe curiosity killed the cat, maybe the cat just needed a drink.
“inupi’s name is on the lease along with ryuguji’s,” had he had a heart, mikey would empathize with the burning ache seishu’s name left on koko’s mouth. one finger taps the pictures inside the folder. it's you, dash of grease adorning your cheek. “they aren’t formally employed though, i checked the records.”
mikey stared at the close-up images inside the folder, golden ring on your finger blinding him enough to drown out the treasurer's words.
twelve years ago, mikey made an oath to himself. a promise to safeguard the future of everyone he’s ever loved and cared for. twelve years ago, mikey also gave up on the only person who’s managed to quell the murk lurking within. around a hundred and forty-four months have passed since sano manjiro gave up on his other half.
shinichiro would ruffle his hair, of all people he would know there’s always more fish in the sea. emma would call the eldest sano stupid. true love is prized—meant to be, despite the hardships.
both of his siblings could argue endlessly over love and whether it’s best to chase after it or move on. yet, surprisingly, it was manjiro who knew the best out of the three.
he couldn’t be selfish, not when he chose to pave this path himself. not when you cried, screamed in absolute terror the day he pummeled every single ex-toman member. not when that fateful evening, mikey saw you flinch away from him, in fear you were next.
be as it may, it hurts. twists his organs and drowns his trachea with a knot of flowers. it hurts because he has tokyo within his palm (probably a few other cities in his wallet, too), and yet he can’t have who he truly desires.
why can’t he just have one thing?
sano manjiro was a wretched criminal with a bleeding heart. daffodil chokehold, never-ending february.
the next picture in the folder made his void of a mind stop for a moment. subsequent, mikey finally nursed the glass to his lips, sipping domaine romanée conti’s finest glasses of wine. once, twice, thrice, until the bottle was no more.
he can’t be selfish to allow himself to love, he reflects while closing the folder. and it’s okay, because you and kenchin had cute kids anyway.
⠀◉⠀HANEMIYA KAZUTORA
the love he allows to wither and shrivel
"you're unbelievable, way to ditch last minute.” he doesn’t miss the whispered asshole that slips past your lips when you end the call. kazutora flicks ash off his cigarette, wide gaze lost on your figure.
observing, scrutinizing, analyzing—it’s all in the syllabus of his day-to-day. every little gesture of yours is a buoy kazutora holds dear. months of pining have granted him enough knowledge to know you’re not actually mad at chifuyu, dead man who just skipped on movie night with the two of you. he knows you’re anxious, if the fiddling with your phone case is anything to go by. breathing patterns, foot taps—there’s something on your mind.
“sometimes i get the feeling chifuyu does this on purpose,” as you speak, kazutora wonders if your voice is anything but a symphony. “leaving us alone ‘n that.”
he knows that’s always been chifuyu’s intention. so do you.
truthfully, hanemiya kazutora is madly in love with you. the shine you exude when there’s a new kitten to nurse, the grin that stretches your face when you’re drunk and telling an awful joke. infatuation, obsession, no word will ever truly capture how he feels.
you’re oxygen for a man who’s been breathing methane his entire life. forbidden fruit, temptation in the flesh.
“‘tora,” god, he wants nothing more than to be the only man who gets to hear his name reverb in your voice. “we can still watch those shitty blockbusters, it’d just be us though.” alone, you purposely forget to add.
when your eyes meet his, kazutora’s breathing pauses. his smoke keeps burning, time doesn’t halt. “sounds like a plan?”
the cigarette meets his lips for a long drag. kazutora is madly in love with you, and for that same reason, he swore to never tell you.
everything about yourself equals heaven on earth; lips that can express so much with a simple twist and grin, touch so familiar and comforting you might as well be his home; gaze ever-so loving.
… but he can see his reflection in your eyes. inevitably, every single time you grip his arm for balance, or tuck stray hair behind his ears, everything you encompass becomes corrupt. hanemiya kazutora is evil, poison for your soul.
his hands weigh two lives, yours are eros incarnate. whatever salvation you have to offer isn't something he deserves. not now, not ever.
so kazutora does what he knows best. eternal solitude tastes salty, like sumberging into the very trenches of the ocean each time the bad thoughts win. bound by chains of sano ichor, cuffs of baji. evil forever sealed to not hurt anyone else ever again. an apologetic smile is the best he can offer without overstepping his own punishment. “sorry, forgot i had plans with hanagaki.”
you visibly deflate. kazutora is a liar. “have fun third wheeling his dinner date, today’s his anniversary with tachibana.”
sharpened diction barely nick kazutora’s heart. he can live with you hating him as long as there’s a happy ending for you. between white and gray lies, the cost of preserving your innocence is worth every trial; every frown he wants to wipe to save you from early wrinkles; every pout he can only wish to kiss away.
ash gathers on his smoke again. it’s okay to break your heart mercilessly than to subject you to losing it entirely by his side. he flicks it away, nescient for the flares it sends flying.
a stray spark landing on your skin is collateral damage you’re too familiar with. no longer is there a need to hiss in pain, or even let kazutora know he’s hurting you in more ways than one. you’ve played this game.
not an admission of guilt, nor an apology. simply silence. years of putting up with the dual-colored enigma have taught you better than to blow up and light the sky with endless quarrel. rather, you burn, slowly. smolder the same way a long-forgotten candle can’t go out without a final blow. it hurts.
it hurts because when it’s just the two of you, hanemiya kazutora treats you like a stranger. eats away at your soul, burns the endless cigarette that’s become your friendship.
you turn to look at kazutora, wondering for a moment how fate could be ever-so cruel to hand someone like him your devotion, heart, and unrequited affection. do you not deserve love, too?
“whatever.”
he doesn’t protest when you rip the smoke from his fingers, or when you take it with you. he doesn’t lament when you walk away in silence, leaving only the tragedy that’s become of his mind to fend for itself in the dead of night.
kazutora can only hope, in his next life, he finds you before his torment finds him again.
⠀◉⠀SANO SHINICHIRO
the love that gets turned down
“shin-nii, are you a loser?” izana grimaced at the wrench barely missing his older brother’s foot. it’s pure curiosity which formulates the question. izana would never think anything ill of shinichiro, but word has it sano shinichiro is a hopeless lovefool.
word spread by you, ever the loving instigator. “look at him ‘zana, take a good look and tell me he isn't.”
the fact his own sibling laughs at your joke stabs a knife on his back. betrayed by both people he holds impossibly dear in his heart, such a tragedy. shinichiro scoffs, “i’m not, don’t let this asshole fill your head with lies.”
his poor excuse of a defense only sends the duo into another spiral of giggles, mocking both his stuttering and pink shade of embarrassment. it’s a domestic scene; you’re putting together screws and bolts for some repair shinichiro asked for your help with, and izana is sitting on some stray tire inside the shop. sure, you’re both pointing fingers at every one of his mishaps, but it’s still a nice evening in the repair shop.
(there’s no such thing he needs your help with, he just wants your presence next to him—each piece you assemble will be extra work to disassemble when you’re gone.)
both your careless smiles are gifts he’d fight tooth and nail for. shinichiro takes one last drag from his smoke before putting it out. “y’know, it’s a little unfair to poke fun at something you could very well fix.”
your giggles briefly simmer to make way for his remark. “what are you even talking about?”
with his signature grin, shinichiro turns to you. there’s an inevitable sense of dread when you see it. back when he’d still bear the cross as captain of the black dragons, the smile would only mean one of two things: one, he was about to charge in without a second thought of his inept battle skills, or two, shinichiro sano was about to say the most stupid of things.
“seriously, what's stopped us this entire time?” sweat and elbow grease frame his face until his arm comes to wipe them off. he’s dumb, you think, now his arm clads the very same stains. “let me take you on a date and prove i’m not just some loser.”
the knot in your throat recoils. your movements halt.
endless nights you’ve spent by his side. not in bed or merging into the other, but driving, extending your arms as if the stars would come closer and kiss your fingertips—existing in each other’s company. shinichiro is a great friend, from the way his heart always has spare room for everyone he meets, to the smell of tobacco that has long-since burnt the word love in your mind. it makes your stomach turn and coil in itself. makes you sick.
“say, izana,” your movements return to their previous pace. assembling mindlessly, over and over again. it’s a vicious cycle. “why dontcha fetch us some of those buns you like so much?”
both sano brothers stare as if a second head had sprouted from your shoulder. izana is the first to question your sudden craving, “like, right now?”
you waste no time tossing the kid your motorcycle’s keys, “knock yourself out.”
there’s no missing the stars in izana’s eyes as he bolts out the shop. once upon a time he would ask shinichiro for permission before going out, especially when you’d ask him for something. now you hold the same authority as his older brother—as if you’re already part of his small family. silence overtakes everything within the walls as izana’s footsteps patter further away.
shinichiro feels small under your eyes. “what’s wrong?”
how quickly your mood turns sour. the power this man has over you is a little concerning. you don’t stare in anger or disgust—crestfallen, heart gutted while still beating. “did you mean it?”
shinichiro is grateful his mind worked faster than his tongue this time around. a question of what you’re referring to quickly dies before it’s voiced. he retraces steps, movements, words, any clue as to what could have disrupted the haven within the shop. “the date thing?”
your silence answers his question. shinichiro takes a deep breath, “yeah, yeah i did.”
he hates the way your shoulders slump. he absolutely despises the ragged sigh that slips past your mouth.
had he done something wrong?
“i thought we had a good thing, shin.” memories of shibuya at its most vulnerable hours, empty streets, distant lights blurring into comets from shinichiro’s bike. the way one hand would sneak to caress yours during red lights. “why’d you have to go ruin it?”
shinichiro can feel the strings tugging at his heart. it’s a familiar sensation when it comes to rejection, but never had they been so harsh. shinichiro stays silent.
“come,” you ask of him, and he obeys like you’re holding his heart in your very own hand. in a way you are. shinichiro walks the tightrope, pulse quickening under your unforgiving stare. “closer.”
for a brief moment warmth equals love. your hand cups his cheek and it’s the most comforting heat he’s felt in his life. white noise fills his ears at each of your breaths, he’s close enough to feel their warmth, too. it’s not long until it evolves into an uncomfortable burning, nothing about your frown equals love.
“nineteen times i’ve mended my heart watching you run from girl to girl, today makes the twentieth.” you trace figures on his face, no longer able to meet his coal eyes. not when they’re looking for answers, not when there’s heartbreak and confusion in them. “you swing and miss, then forget the next week.”
shinichiro wants to protest. they’re not the same as you. it’s different, he swears it’s different. a finger to his lips hush every thought he wants to voice. any defense is repealed.
“shinichiro, how long until you tire of me, too?”
“i won't-” he feels helpless as everything falls apart. “it’s not like that, i really do like you.”
you hum. shinichiro is a hopeless fool when it comes to love, and it hurts you’re next on his list. from strangers, to companions, to friends who hold hands and whisper secrets under the stars, to a faceless crush.
“i think i loved you yesterday,” you breathe the words, only for his ears to hear like a confession. “i don’t know about today, or tomorrow.” or ever again.
his eyebrows furrow. shinichiro can’t fight when you slip away, cheek already missing your touch. everything crumbles, all from a mindless declaration. he wonders how it all went wrong, wonders how something so mundane in his head could equal such anguish for you.
sano shinichiro wonders if he loved you the same way you loved him.
𔘓 mentions of blood and needles! just the usual sewing struggles. prompt is "caressing your partner's hand."
mitsuya considers himself skillful.
skillful, precise, and—not to stroke his ego—essential. if he's not the backbone in toman then he's more than happy to leave them running around naked in battles (he keeps them spoiled with custom-made uniforms, doesn’t he?)
mitsuya is skillful when sewing.
"shit."
but sometimes he really just misses the mark.
the grunt wasn’t quiet enough to go unnoticed. “you okay there?”
it’s too late to be working, dim lighting in the makeshift studio barely sparing brightness in these trying times. with enough sweet-talking, and promised snuggles later, mitsuya had been let off the hook. but now? he was gonna have to promise you all the stars in the sky to escape your worries.
“don’t worry, s'nothing.” mitsuya is quick to mouth the sewing pins in his hand, toughing out the familiar sting.
he’s nearly an expert at feigning calmness, but enough years by his side proves to reveal what’s behind the smoke curtain. mitsuya’s fatal flaw (if any, he seems to be a godsend) is being a hard-worker, no matter the cost.
“c’mon, hand it over.” you kneel beside his chair, hand extended and awaiting his own palm.
mitsuya blinks once, was it exhaustion, or had you always been this endearing? the second blink comes with a smile and defeated sigh, yes, you’ve always been too kind to him.
somehow the idea of being looked after is more comforting than he'd give anyone credit for. he doesn't hesitate to hand you his wounded hand.
once upon a time, mitsuya would fight back tears when handling needle to fabric. now it’s a regimen of dedication, proof of hard work. thorns in a sea of petals can be hardly considered a war wound.
"your hands are calloused,” gently, you run your fingers through each line of his palm. "even so, i don't think they're all roughed up from fighting."
mitsuya watches your movements carefully. heartbeat erratic, awaiting the next move. not weary, intrigued. indulgent in the love.
"no, they're calloused from care. you care too much."
his chuckle is soft, a sliver of mock in his tone to mask the bubbly feeling brewing inside. "i do hand out my fair share of punches with 'em, though."
the joke doesn't quite land, making him all the more skittish. he’s not quite used to being on the receiving end of care. a lifetime of giving never prepared him for receiving. is this what love feels like?
fortunately, it doesn't dent the moment. "takashi, i think you show love with your hands."
memory brings you back to his sisters. "they look after so many people."
another thought highlights the cloth on the table. "they create beautiful things, most out of nothing."
then you think of him. mitsuya takashi, eldest brother, second division captain. "your hands are scarred in a good way—the same way kindness is your strength."
he keeps quiet this time.
"do they ever hurt?"
he thinks, pauses for a moment. "yeah, sometimes they do." sometimes he does.
you hum. "that's okay, that's why i'm here."
and it's true. he patches everything up, be it of fabric or breathing. he protects so many with thread and prowess. "i'm here to make sure they don’t hurt when they don’t need to."
it's unrealistic. impossible. you can't stop them from bleeding from silent turmoil or a needle going astray. and yet, mitsuya believes each word you say. preaches them like the ultimate truth.
"you’re a sap." still, he pulls you up, offering his leg as a seat.
you bring his knuckles to your lips. "and you need glasses."
maybe he does for late night projects. "what if i just need you?" the question holds more weight than he realizes. runs deeper than a simple prescription to treat myopia.
"then you're in luck, i happen to have a thing for men with pretty eyelashes."
