◇ Cry For Me

you place one foot in front of the other on the curb before you, the toe of one shoe meeting the heel of the next. you move slowly, repeating the motions as you step a little further along the raised edge of concrete.

the air outside is cool, the breeze lifting the gauzy hem of your dress as it brushes past, and you can still hear the music from the party inside--close enough to the building not to feel as though you're entirely apart from it, but distant enough to catch your breath a little bit.

"you're gonna twist your ankle."

you look up and see issei slouched against the brick wall of the building, half-hiding in the night's shadow. his voice is gentle enough not to startle you, but you still pause when you notice him. you watch as he flicks a bit of ash off the end of his mostly-burned cigarette, and then takes another drag with his eyes still on you.

"am not," you counter indignantly, taking another careful step to spite him.

issei pushes himself off the wall, letting his cigarette drop to the ground and be crushed underfoot, and approaches where you're walking along the curb like a balance beam.

in spite of your confidence, when he's within arms reach you find yourself stumbling slightly; you teeter in your heels on the narrow strip of cement, and your hands fly out to balance yourself. mattsukawa catches your hands in his--warmer, larger than your own--and steadies you without missing a beat.

"told you," he says smugly, and your face scrunches up in annoyance.

he doesn't let go of your hands.

issei walks along with you, hands clasped in his, as you continue your tight-rope walk.

"so," he says as you step along, a little more surely now that he's there to guide you. to catch you on the off chance you should fall. "why aren't you inside?"

you hum contemplatively, fingers tightening around his for a moment when your heels wobble over a crack in the curb. "just needed a breather."

issei nods, like he understands. "lotta bodies in there, huh?"

"who would have thought oikawa and iwa even know so many people?" you echo his remark.

"who knew so many people like them enough to come all the way to miyagi just to see them get married," issei counters with a wry smile. you laugh, nodding in agreement.

"well, iwa i can understand, but tooru?"

mattsun chuckles, dipping his head in a affirmative nod.

you finally make it to the end of the curb, no more concrete left stretching ahead for you to travel, and issei stands before you with your hands still held in his own.

you blink up at him.

"i'm kind of annoyed you're still taller than me even in heels and on a curb."

he smirks. "get taller heels."

your lip curls at the corner, though it's in disdain rather than smugness. "shrink."

he laughs again, a real one this time. the kind of laugh that shows all his teeth. the one that makes your tummy pang a little bit.

once his laughter subsides, he fixes you in a look that feels out of place. too intimate for two people who are standing just outside of their best friends' wedding. too intense for people who aren't supposed to look at each other like that anymore.

"you look really pretty tonight," he says softly, as gentle as the evening breeze. it makes goosebumps prickle across your skin in the same way too.

"thanks," you say with a commensurate lightness.

"new dress?" he asks, letting his eyes wander down to trail over the garment you have on. you don't mind the way his gaze feesl as it traces over you.

"no," you say, your voice still barely above a whisper. his eyes flicker back up to yours.

inside the party, you hear the song change. it's an older tune, one that was popular when you were all in high school, high energy and electronic. there's a cheer from the partygoers as you assume they're all flocking to the dance floor. it's nostalgic. makes you think about your life when the song was still on the radio. listening to it through one headphone while issei listened through the other.

"we should get back inside." you pull your hands out of issei's grasp, stepping down from the curb and past him towards the door to the event venue.

issei's hand catches yours again just before you can retreat. you pause with your feet coming together, your arm stretched behind you towards him, your eyes still on the door.

"save a dance for me, okay?"

you force down the little smile that threatens to appear, swallowing back the butterflies in the pit of your stomach.

"alright," you reply, and then you peek back over your shoulder, "only if you make sure i don't twist my ankle."

he smiles, and lets your hand drop once more.

"yeah, i can do that."

Unmistakably Yours - G.S.

Synopsis. In which the strongest bends space and time - literally - after coming back from deatḣ, to do what he’s always wanted to do - you.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, best friends to lovers, Satoru goes a little (very) INSANE, oral (fem receiving), fíngering, manga spoilers, use of jujutsu powers, unprotected, créampie, spitting, overstim, féral Satoru, heinous things, happy ending, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 4.5k

A/N. Yeahhh that poll was cooking up something devious heheh. Gege give me back my man.

Gojo Satoru was going to kill someone.

He was going to kill someone and it didn’t matter who. It didn’t matter how. It didn’t even matter if he had to haul his broken body - scarred and barely-healed - out of this stiff infirmary bed, because the great Gojo Satoru awoke and the world shook.

Because you weren’t here.

“Ah. The oh-so deadest one, I see you’re awake.” Satoru flinches at the sharp, exhausted drawl from his left. 

Slowly, he blinks away the haze in his aching eyes, desperately trying to adjust to the cold room. Shoko’s voice was too loud. The lights too bright. His waiting arms too empty - where were you? 

With a low hiss, Satoru’s body is moving before his mind, sitting up like a man possessed. Goosebumps prickle his skin as the thin blanket falls off his shoulders. Temples throbbing because the world was spinning and spinning and you-

“Calm down, Satoru.” Shoko sounds almost panicked now - as much as she could, anyway. Uselessly trying to push him back onto the mattress. “I don’t care if you’re the ‘strongest’. Sukuna did a number on you and you have to rest-”

“Where is she?”

---

It was the final nail on your coffin - that slight, steady rumble beneath your feet. So fleeting that you’d written it off as your weary brain, too goddamn tired from today. Heaving out a sigh, you rub your eyes in frustration, so fucking alone in this too-large penthouse. 

Fingers jittery, you rifle through your best friend’s closet for his box of blindfolds, because you knew he’d be complaining about the sensory overload at the infirmary if- when he woke up. Though, you think that was more an excuse for Shoko to send your wrecked self away than anything. 

Grabbing a few more than necessary, your heart lurches as you eye that dusty framed photo by his bedside. A much younger Satoru, Suguru, Shoko, and you - probably the last time any of you smiled so carelessly. 

One dead and the other just on the cusp of it.

He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. He’s the strongest, right?

Swallowing heavily, you try to put your mind to something - anything - other than the memory of that battlefield and the blood. So much blood. Everywhere. 

God, you should’ve stayed. What if Satoru-

That was when you felt it. 

The tight, uncomfortable feeling of atoms standing at attention all around you. The air was so stagnant and heavy that it was almost hard to breathe. 

You don’t know how you realize what it is - but you don’t get the chance to wonder about it either. Because the thought has barely even crossed your mind before everything else is thrown at the window at those two words. 

Hoarse, and whispered, voice ever-so-slightly cracking at the end. One you recognized, one you knew you always would.

“My love?”

Satoru.

It was a miracle that you didn’t get whiplash from how fast you whirled around to face the doorway - and it was an even bigger miracle that you didn’t trip at how your legs were carrying you to that tall, familiar flash of white hair without a second thought. 

Hell, you don’t think you’ve ever run this fast in your life, and it still wasn’t quick enough when Satoru engulfed you in his arms. Letting out a soft sigh as he hugs you tight enough that it hurt, like he never wanted to let go. 

All familiar warmth and a rapid heartbeat that matched your own. 

A shiver runs down your spine at that scent of the infirmary, tinged with something so dangerously metallic, miles away from the usual hints of pine and candy. But you only pull Satoru closer - not even realizing the tears staining his snug t-shirt, nails digging into his sculpted back. 

“S-Satoru?” you murmur wetly, as if you still couldn’t believe it - even when you were in his strong arms. 

It killed you to pull away, and Satoru wasn’t any better, pulling you firmly to his heated body with a guttural grunt as soon as you showed any signs of shifting away. Grip almost bruising, fingers tight on your hips. But you didn’t mind, why would you? 

Because the strongest was nothing under your will - he always was. And it’s only once you break the embrace just a fraction of an inch that you confirm that this actually was Satoru - your Satoru. 

“You’re here.” you breathe out unsteadily, not knowing where to look first - his heaving chest, as if he’d run all the way here, or those faint scars along his exposed skin. Jagged, running down his pale skin like he was too impatient - too distracted - to let them heal properly. Satoru’s face was scarily blank, pretty lips set in a tight grimace like every second you weren’t locked in his arms killed him. 

He doesn’t answer - like he didn’t know himself. Nervously, you raise your eyes to meet his and-

Oh, Satoru, he was here. Alive.

Looking like he was ready to make sure that no one else was.

You just wondered where they’d pile all the casualties. Too many to bury at Jujutsu High if those tiny blue flickers of lightning at the corners of Satoru’s eyes were anything to go by. 

Gaze hooded, pupils blown, he didn’t look at you with that usual warmth. No, he looked at you like a man that had crawled back from death just to rip you apart. And you had half the mind to wonder whether this was some special grade curse that had just come disguised as your best friend. 

“Are you okay?” you try again, raising a hand to cup his cheek. “Toru?”

Oh, you might as well have just signed your own will, because no sooner are the words out of your mouth before Satoru’s jolting. Like the mere sound of that stupid little nickname from high school was enough to shock him to his very core. 

Electrify him just enough to finally look at you like it was the first time. Like he was seeing you after a thousand years. “My love.”

There it was again, that quiet, strained little mantra. 

Followed very closely by the deafening slam! of the door behind him, so hard that you spy one of the hinges rattling off. Startled, you look over Satoru’s broad shoulders just to catch a glimpse of the single, large handprint charred into the wood, slight steam wafting from his hand.

Shit. He’s lost it.

Almost like the strongest has forgotten his restraint - or didn’t care about it either way. Heated, you wondered what this boded for you. 

Will you be lucky number one on his kill list? You wonder, as Satoru presses his mouth right above your pulse. Racing. Dangerous. Feeling the rapid thump! thump! thump! under his lips.

Breathing you in, dragging his nose up, up, up- He mutters into your skin, “Y’can kill me if you don’t want this.” Will you go down - if there’s anyone left to remember, that is - as the casualty that surely and officially signaled the honored one’s descent into madness? Only the second best friend he had to kill?

Or, Satoru pulls away slowly from his little haven, breath ghosting your lips as he gasps out a shaky, “No God can take me away without doing this.” Will it be something else entirely?

And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him. 

Because fuck, how could you not? This is Satoru, and this is all you’ve ever wanted since those late night convenience store runs in high school, hand-in-hand and teleporting away from a furious Yaga.

The same Satoru that had cockily winked at you goodbye before facing Sukuna - leaving you crying with nothing to hold onto but those cold, cold hands and wishes that you’d have just fucking kissed him before. Maybe even put aside your pride to just tell him.

But none of that mattered now, because Satoru was so desperate - drinking you in like you were the last breath of air on Earth. Like it hurt more to part with your lips than it was to be cleaved in half.

Such a mess of teeth and saliva, and you were addicted. Drunk off his sweet taste - like candy, almost, and those cheap mochi he always got from downtown - and the electricity pricking at you each time your skin grazed against his.

It almost hurt - but it hurt so good.

Gasping, you pull away for air - impossible with the way Satoru was like a madman, kissing your swollen lips again and again and-

“Toru!” you squeal, muffled through his lips. “Aren’t you-” His mouth drops into a soft oh! at the delicate strings of saliva snapping in the non-existent space between you two. Surging forward like he couldn’t help himself. “Battlefield- mmpf- now?”

With a pained grunt, Satoru finally halts, just a hair’s breadth from your lips. And if you were in any better state of mind, maybe you’d have noticed the brief flicker of blue lightning all over his body. The way the lights flicker. 

“Special curtain.” he pants against your open mouth, a muscled thigh shoving between your weakening legs. “Time barely passes in here.”

You don’t know what your head is reeling more from his words or his hands - hands that kill - caressing you like a lover everywhere. Unable to decide between your hips, to your ass, to your pretty pretty face. Kiss-bitten lips uttering, “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

“So?” Satoru lets out a humorless laugh. About an octave higher than usual, like he was at the end of his rope now. Eyes hazy and glowing, looking as if it took everything in him to not just tear off that uniform and take you right now. 

“But-”

“Shut up and let me ruin you, my love.”

Your back is hitting the mattress before you can even start to wonder what the fuck is happening. One second standing at the doorway and the other all sprawled out on Satoru’s bed.

Besides yourself, you blurt out, trying to make sense of the situation to both of you two. “Did- did you just teleport us?”

“Don’t know.” he answers. And Satoru sounded like he genuinely didn’t know, as bewildered as you were. Powers acting before him - way, way before he can think - as he fists your shirt in his hands. “Don’t care.”

And you half wondered whether Satoru was even aware of what he was doing as he pulls, down, down down. 

Rip!

It tears through the air - both the sound, and the way he’s just pulling your shirt to shreds. All depravity and no repentance as Satoru throws it behind God-knows-where. Buttons hitting the floor at a maddening little rhythm to which he was slowly losing his sanity. 

He was kissing you like he was angry - taking it out on your poor clothes. Because before you know it, he’s pulling your bra off. Fingers searing on your skin, skirt just tatters on the floor. 

“Waited too long.” he groans, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “Always wanted to do this.” And once he started, it was like Satoru just couldn’t stop, rambling into the valley of your breasts, “Ever since I first saw you and oh-”

That was it - only one look at your panties, all flimsy and drenched - and you’re back to wondering what Satoru’s kill count would be. You shudder as his eyes widen, letting out a strangled gasp from some deep, primal part of himself. Voice so broken and starved as he muses, “-can’t believe I waited this long.”

Shit. You weren’t making it out alive.

Immediately, Satoru’s dropping further down the mattress, easily pushing your knees up all the way till they were at your breasts. 

And it was so unfair. 

Unhair how he was still fully clothed, while you were spread so shamefully. Unfair how he was sliding his underneath your panties up and down, grazing your swollen folds. Up and down, up and down up and- Pooling your sweet sweet juices on his fingertips before pulling, marveling at how sinfully soaked they were. 

And it was like something snapped - maybe his whatever restraint he had left, probably you by the end of this. Because just a split-second later, Satoru’s tearing right through your panties. Not even taking a second to breathe before burying his pretty face into your dripping cunt. 

Unfair how you were liking it so dangerously. Being so used. 

And Satoru knows - he thinks, with whatever rationality he has left intact - that he wants to admire your pretty lil’ cunt. To finally drink in what he’s been dreaming about for years all these lonely nights. But, no, that’s for later - for a different Satoru, one that didn’t feel like he was going to fucking die if he didn’t taste you right now. 

“Ah! Hngh- T-Toru-” you arch into his hot tongue, as he licks erratically up your folds, long, sloppy movements of his tongue all the way from your base to your swollen clit. Lapping at your juices like he couldn’t stop.

“Tha’s right.” words muffled into your cunt. Throwing your legs over his sculpted shoulders. “Gimme more, use me. Use me- fuck fuck fuck- yeah.”

He sounded as delirious as you were already, flinching with each word spat into your sensitive cunt. Drunk off your pussy and so messy, like he was well and fully intent on ruining you. 

And it’s all you can do to sob so needily as he swirls his tongue around your sensitive clit. Seemingly unable to decide between sucking on it harshly and dipping into your sloppy hole. In and out. Wanting everything. Anything. 

“Fuck. S’too deep. Sh-shit.”

“Oh yeah?” he’s grinning, a cruel, cold little grin. You can feel it as he rolls his tongue against your clit over and over. “S’not deep enough.”

You pathetically try to close your legs around his head in shock, as the tips of his long fingers spread open your pussy further, teasing your entrance. 

But who were you against the strongest? The one that got everything handed to him on a silver platter since birth? Except you - until now, that is.

Because Satoru’s swatting thighs back open like it was a mere inconvenience, and feel your cunt clench in- fear? Anticipation? as you realize how gently he was throwing you around like a ragdoll, in comparison to that door from earlier. 

“No.” he sounds absolutely wrecked, babbling around your throbbing clit. “Need this- need you.”

And then he’s plunging knuckle-deep in your plushy pussy, so greedily that your slick is trailing down his wrist. Drinking in your pretty gasps of his name as he roams for that one spot he knows will have you seeing stars - only the best for his girl, right? The only thing on his mind right now, like a predator starved.

You can only tug on his hair and buck wildly underneath him, inching Satoru closer to where he was desperately searching for. Close - so close. 

“Toru-” you moan, like a prayer. 

But it wasn’t fast enough. 

Not for Satoru, at least.

Even through the haze in your eyes, you could make out that brief flash of electric blue in-between your legs, eyes widening as ah-

That cheat. 

You wondered if he even knew he was using his powers right now. Or whether Satoru was too far gone at this point. Way too smug with the way he hits that one spot. Hard. 

Ah, you quiver as something so dark sparks in his eyes. Looking like a man starved, that had finally come across his favorite meal. Moving with frightening accuracy as he pumps his fingers in and out, hitting it each and every time. 

“Shit, ngh-” you let out a shrill moan, “It’s too good. You’re so fucking-” 

One hand was so messy toying with your dripping entrance - the other digging into your hips. Dragging your sloppy pussy senselessly all over his mouth. 

Hard enough that you were sure it’d leave marks for tomorrow. If you even made it that long, that is, if the tiny shocks of electricity at his fingertips told you anything. 

Desperate. Violent, even.

So it only makes sense that your orgasm was the same. “Fuck- m’cumming m’cumming, fuck fuck fuck-” You’re shaking as you cum, crying out Satoru’s name and delirious little moans that you’d otherwise be embarrassed of. 

And he doesn’t stop. Not when you’re blinking your vision back. Not when you’re shying away from his tongue, the stars behind your eyes too much with each flick of his tongue. 

“S’too much- too- fuck, sensitive, Toru.” you whine, big fat tears clinging to your lashes. 

Ah, there it was again. Just when Satoru was beginning to think that he might just be veering into a state of mind that could be considered sane - you have to call him that goddamn nickname again. And it’s only driving him wild. 

Well, he muses, fumbling with the hem of his t-shirt, it’s really on you then. 

You let out a fucked-out little whine as Satoru finally takes his shirt off, revealing such milky, toned skin. All sharp curves and dips like he was sculpted so meticulously, going down, down, down and- Your breath hitches at the large, pink scar standing out of his torso, so uneven and fresh that you feel a fresh wave of tears - different ones, this time. 

You take a steadying breath, eyes unmoving from the injury. “Satoru-”

“No.” Satoru’s tone is firm, so different from the metallic tinkling of his belt. He was moving now, shifting in between your legs to kiss those tears away. “Need this. Need you. Need you need you need you so bad-”

“But your…” you trail off. The words catch in your throat as he finally unbuckles his belt, pulling down his pants just enough that his throbbing cock springs out, hitting his sculpted abdomen. Red, and so so angry, soaked in precum. 

He was so…massive. Now, you expected your best friend to have a big dick, but this was ridiculous. He was so intimidatingly long, thick enough that you could feel the slick beading out of your sloppy hole already.

Yeah, you definitely weren’t making it out alive. 

Satoru sees it too, of course, because his cock twitches furiously. A low hiss leaving those pretty pink lips before he’s spitting on your quivering cunt. Once. Twice. 

And you know that if this shameless bastard could use six eyes to find your g-spot, then he could’ve done the same for this. But, no, he lets some of it miss, splattering against your inner thigh, smearing all over as Satoru thumbs in his saliva with your slick. 

God, he was treating you like some object. Wordlessly throwing your legs over his shoulders, dragging his weeping tip down your swollen folds. So fucking filthy. 

And then you feel like you’re been split apart - because Gojo Satoru was unforgiving. As was his aching cock. He’s barely even pressing through the first ring of muscle, and you already feel like he’s pushing all the way into your lungs. 

“T-Toru.” you yelp, glancing down at the way your pussy was stretched so lewdly around his thick cock. Quivering as he keeps pushing and pushing and- no mercy. Absolutely none at all. “Can feel you so deep inside ngh- I don’t think I can…” 

“No no no no no-” he’s panting into your open mouth. Fucking into your heavenly cunt in mindless, shallow little thrusts just to squeeze deeper inside. “Need this. Want this. Always did. God, fuck fuck fuck, you can do it-”

“But-”

God, Satoru can’t help but kiss you - to shut those cute lil’ whines up more than anything, he’s sure he’ll cum right there and right now if he didn’t. 

Because Satoru wasn’t any better. Body bowing into yours, eyes rolling to the back of his head, mouth falling into a delirious oh! as he finally bottoms out. Balls smacking your ass too hard, your pussy too tight, you too beautiful underneath him. 

Blindly, he reaches for the headboard - white-knuckling it so hard that it’s a wonder it doesn’t break. 

It does - and later you’ll find a pile of splinters behind the bed. It’s just that neither of you notice. Too high off the feeling of Satoru’s cock pushing inside you. You’re clawing at his back now, gasping for air. Letting him fold you in half to filthily lick away the tears pooling at your cheeks. 

“Shit- y’got this, my love. You gotta- ah- Breathe-” he can’t even speak properly, sharp tongue so heavy. Eyes glowing with such insanity as he rocks his hips harder into yours.

He was right - you needed to breathe. To finally wrap your head around the fact that this was Satoru - your best friend - the same one that binge-watches sappy rom-coms with you after every breakup. Every. Single. One. Somehow, you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Both of you were barely-lucid at this point. And he was out of control now.

Funny, how in all his dreams when you were screaming his name - Satoru was always suave, methodical, playing with your pretty pussy like a fine instrument. Right now, he was anything but. Sloppy - like he didn’t have enough time, never would, even in this room where time slowed.

“Don’t you run away.” he grunts at the way you’re so adorably torn between running away from his cock and bucking for more more more- “Waited twelve fucking years for this. N’ m’gonna take it.”

You almost sob at the pressure as he laces his fingers on top of your head to slide you impossibly deeper. Down, down, down. “S’too good, Toru. Wan’ more-”

“More.” Satoru breathes, more to himself than anything. Eyes widening almost comically, a fucked-out smile spreading all over his face. “Y’want more even when you’re filled to-” He traces an invisible line halfway down your tummy. “Here?”

“Yes.” you gasp as he reaches down to toy with your throbbing clit, drawing tight, frenzied little circles. Balls smacking your ass so painfully, thumb pressing down right where his tip was hitting your cervix - as if he used six eyes to see. “Always wanted more. Always have, Toru.”

And you swear you could see something physically snap inside Satoru. Because his eyes glaze over, grin dropping instantly from his face. 

If you weren’t so cockdrunk maybe you’d have caught the way the bedroom lights flicker, the one down the hallway bursting. 

“Always, huh?” he’s muttering, grip on your body tightening like a vice. “Wanted more like me?” Rocking into you so sloppily, cock twitching so painfully as he speeds up. Fingers just as desperate - as depraved as his hips.

And this time, he doesn’t even have to use six eyes to find that one spot. Knowing your body well enough to hit it over and over until you were sobbing. “More more more more- fuckin’ take it then.”

At this point you didn’t know whether Satoru was always this ruthless in bed or you’d just broken him. It felt so good that it was almost scary. And your delirious mind wandered into the thought that maybe the bed would break - and your bones to follow. 

Well, they would have if Satoru hadn’t been using reversed cursed technique. But you didn’t need to know that just yet. 

“Satoru-” you squeal as he only gets more erratic.  “I’m…”

“Close?” Satoru’s grunting, smacking his lips against your own.

It’s laughable, really, that muffled question - because Satoru knew you were close. Losing his fucking mind, actually, at how you were squeezing so hard around him. Balls squeezing so painfully right now, but he wanted you to cum first - needed you to cum first.

“Yeah, so close. Wan’ cum- Ah! Please-”

“Then cum. Fucking cum, wan’ed this so bad.” he’s babbling deliriously. Little sparks of lightning visible even to your glassy eyes, fingers humming with a dangerous little energy that stimulated you so good. “Yeah, yeah yeah yeah fucking cum, wanna hngh-”

And then you are. So sudden and hard that you don’t even realize it at first. Just that you’re seeing stars behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears. Rocking your hips into Satoru’s like such a slut. 

Oh, if heaven was really then the part of Satoru that can still form coherent thoughts thinks this just might be it. 

Because only the sight of you creaming all around his swollen cock and he’s cumming and cumming so hard that it hurts. Thick, hot ropes of cum that he can’t seem to stop. Doesn’t want to stop, and God he thinks he could cum until you beg and beg and beg it’s too much. Until you’re yelling for-

“Mercy!” you moan, head spinning with how fucking overfilled your pussy was. “Please, Toru-”

Satoru lets out a slight gasp, “Mercy?” Chuckling so cruelly at your dazed nod, “No mercy, my love. None at all.”

And God, it was so fucking hard to look at him too - eyes half-lidded and miles away, flushed and looking like he was anywhere but laid out on a hospital bed just a few minutes ago. In fact, Satoru looked like he was in heaven on Earth as he only milked his painfully hard cock on your snug pussy.

Pretty. Always so fucking pretty. 

And he kept whispering that, over and over in your ear as you both ride out your highs. Oh how he loved you.

Your eyes fly open, and Satoru knew he’d said that out loud. Shit. But, well, with the way you were immediately pulling him to collapse into your arms, he thinks he really doesn’t mind.

“Love you, love you. Love you so much. Always did, always wanted to love you- to fuck you.” You barely even notice him marking down your neck, sharp canines digging into the flesh like he wanted to break something. Hard enough that you distinctly wondered whether he was out for blood. “To ruin you.”

It was oozing out of you, both Satoru’s cum - dribbling down your legs in thick globs, pooling on the overpriced sheets below - and his power. Jolts of electricity running down all the way from your poor, abused cunt to your hazy mind. 

“So do it.” The air was crackling - crackling with intensity and the smell of jujutsu. It was in your veins, in your words as you whisper, “Ruin me. You’re the- ngh- only- one f’me, Toru. Always was.”

The lights go out. All of them - all across Tokyo, in fact. Shining so bright that it was blinding, until they burst. The last thing you see are his eyes - electrified with blue lightning, burning into your brain. 

And then it’s black. 

---

“I’ll be back before ya know it, my love.” he whispers against your forehead, cooing at the way you stir sleepily. “Gotta pest to take care of.”

Taking down that curtain wasn’t the hard part, the hard part was actually fucking regaining his senses enough to do so. 

And now, all cleaned up and fucked to sleep on his bed, you were looking so unbearably delectable that it made some part of Satoru just want to stay behind this curtain. To forget the waiting sorcerers on the battlefield. Saving the world be damned.

Well, no matter, Satoru had time. He was the strongest, right? After all, how could he give you the world if there was no world to give?

“N’ when I’m back, m’gonna kiss ya to death till you go out with me. Till everyone knows you’re unmistakably mine.”

A/N. GET IT - that unmistakable bit from the panel? 

Plagiarism not authorized.

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WICKED THRONE — S. MANJIRO

note: this chapter contains character death, descriptions of decapitation + torture + violence + panic attack. this is my fave chapter out of all the published chapters in wicked throne. what happens here is the sole reason i have ever been inspired to make this a series in the first place. please enjoy and lmk your thoughts! thank you for the feedback, memes, asks last chapter! 8.4k wc. + listen to icarus by phildel while reading the last scene.

[ 𝐢 ] — f!reader x s. manjiro. royal!au. rebel!au. enemies-to-lovers. ooc!manjiro i write him the way i want to idc. romance. heavy angst. fluff. slow burn. character deaths. eventual smut. violence & slight gore. tragedy.

+ playlist. | masterlist.

CHAPTER XX: PENITENCE. 

Everything Manjiro Sano had learned since witnessing Shinichiro’s slaughtered body had turned to ash beneath his feet. Aenar’s teachings of the tenets and principles that a king should live by had been reduced to clouded phrases in his mind. Never before had he felt so sick as he did now, under the starless skies, with the moon’s judging eyes staring at the goblets strewn on the table beside him.

He had forgotten the taste of a fistful night’s sleep, let alone one free of betrayal, bloodshed, and tragedy.

Would he have perfected the ways to bear the gilded weight of the crown if he had known that it would cost the lives of his entire bloodline? Would he have devoured those books, their pages already yellowed to the edges, if he’d known that lusting for such power would leave him alone and without family?

How many deaths does it take to numb someone?

Manjiro wished he was paralyzed. He wanted not to feel a thing. However, feelings that were sheltered with painstaking effort were meant to bear fruit in the end. If he were to forget this pain, who would avenge and seek retribution for the death of his loved ones? 

He had to pick his feet up and remind them of his position on this land. A crown was heavy, yes, but it was his greatest weapon. He must utilize its strength to conquer the one thing he needed most: lay chaos upon his enemies. Chaos that would leave them with nothing but burned dreams and deadened hearts.

But there was one problem. Or perhaps someone. This someone was like ice to his fire, putting out his ability to burn everything in his path. And if it hadn’t been for the agony of realizing that he had to burn this someone along the way, the deed would’ve been done already. 

You: his fatal flaw, his incurable weakness. 

Keep reading

instead of buying the bighit water please consider donating the same amount it’s worth ($25) to charitywater.org 💜 even if you’re not considering buying and you can afford it please consider donating anyway to help end the water crisis. i definitely will next week when i get payed

𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞

— bonten!sano manjirou x reader x haruchiyo sanzu

contains smut ((🔞)) and dark themes || 7k+ wc.

tw violence/gore, drug use, yandere undertones, noncon, degradation, dacryphilia, toxic/unhealthy relationships, physical violence/choking, hair-pulling, exhibitionism, size kink, facefucking, mild corruption kink, lmk if i missed anything

// mikey keeps you around because he loves you. he thinks you’re the epitome of undeniable purity, with pretty angel wings like ivory — soft and dewy, most naive to the touch and begging to be held and cherished. but it’s too bad, really, because he only knows how to take.

// you think he’s got you on borrowed time; haruchiyo thinks he knows what’s best for his dearest leader.

note: please read the warnings carefully! this is a whole lot darker than what i usually write ๑´ ³`)ﾉ it’s the first part of a multi-part series i’m planning on writing, idk just seeing where this goes at the moment

if you read for mikey there’s a lot of smut, if you read for chiyo there’s just… a lot of him hating on you <3 but it won’t stay that way hehe

snapshot ;

Have you heard of this saying? Only a diamond can cut another diamond. Mikey glances at your doll-like face and figures there are two stuffed right inside your eye sockets — those ‘pretty eyes’ that Haruchiyo warned would one day be gouged out — to match the toughened gem of his heart. People think of him as the grim reaper with that malignant glint in his eyes, the last sight ghosting behind their eyelids before their lives were extinguished without a care or a hint of sanity; but truth be told, even the grim reaper has his soft underbelly.

∗

His body prickles all over and the only way Haruchiyo knows to fix it is to destroy destroy destroy — but when he settles for his unsuspecting victim for the night, a young maiden that looks suspiciously similar to you, he can’t help but imagine that it’s your face that he ruins beyond recognition, your cries that flutter like a sweet melody in his ears —

He has all the time in the world.

Your lover, the untouchable Sano Manjirou, is a little rough around the edges.

But if you were to paint a picture of his heart — a vivid, true-to-life picture of his ticking heart — you’d splay every inch of the canvas with brilliant watercolours; make it shine and glimmer pretty, like a chatoyant, tear-shaped crystal sitting numbly in your palm.

And criss-crossed and braided like a twined thread into its crystalline lattice, is a rich rich crimson.

The kind of crimson that’s thick and sticky and warm and won’t go away no matter how many times you put it through the washing machine. Unsalvageable — like the red that flows through every blood vessel in his body, jagged icicles branching out like vines under his skin — promising to one day burst, to splinter his bones and tear his innards to ribbons, should he forsake those dark dark desires of his. And all for what?

To hold him hostage. To shred. To make sure that he stays broken in a world where beauty will only be tarnished.

You can tell that much, because you’ve seen it happening in slow motion, unfurling right before your wide eyes; the gentle, excruciating, deconstruction of a paper crane — the way he fell apart gradually, slowly, the bird’s delicate feathers all crumbling to dust in the wind. That is how he has come to be the indisputable king, the very top of Japan’s worst criminal organisation to date, with his roots dug deep into a life of treachery. That is how you ache, deep and painfully, from the very core of your being, because no matter what you did, it had been inevitable.

He knows them like he knows you — the little voices leeching off the back of his mind whispering tiny, macabre yearning. He used to fight them, used to have outbursts in the middle of the night screaming back at them, used to be so disgusted with himself that he couldn’t even bring himself to confide in your panicked pleas to tell me what’s wrong.

Until the day he got too tired to pluck the little fuckers off, so he left them to thrive on his raw, puckered skin.

Now the soft, beating tissue exists no longer. You’re the only one who’s ever seen his heart in the flesh, despite the rumours that he was born without one. Because he, now rising twenty-seven and no longer the tender boy you once knew, wears apathy like a crown atop his pretty head — cold eyes flickering like a dying flame whenever he blows lightly at the smoke rising from a loaded gun, slinking away in silence only to leave a mangled corpse slumped in the corner of a nondescript alleyway. Left to bleed out. Left to rot.

It’s not rare that he comes home caked in that sticky red that you hate so much. A frown ghosting over his lips, his hair all mussed from the day’s work. Some of the blood’s his, some is not. He looks like a zombie, with a body that’s been hollowed out entirely of its internal organs.

The scene of him stumbling through the doorway has your heart leaping to your throat.

Thin fingers grasp at air, like tendrils stretching across the open space, feeling around until they make contact with your stiffened shoulders. He pulls you in, cages you in his arms without a word, clutching your head in a vice grip and breathing heavily through his mouth — and you’re too scared to ask what happened. No one ever told you how icky blood feels when it’s pressed right up against your cheek or how nauseating the smell of iron can be, he simply let you find out for yourself.

You force your muscles to lean into his touch, nuzzling your head into his chest and fighting the urge to wince. You tell him in a shaky voice that the bath’s ready and he must be tired, isn’t he? and let him stay like this a little longer, squeezing your eyes shut and swallowing hard, so you can tune out his heartbeat pounding so desperately against your head like a dizzying metronome.

So you can somehow pretend that everything’s fine and okay, even though his body count will never stop rising and rising and rising like the swelling summer tide. As if each life stolen by his hands is merely a drop in the ocean of a malice that knows no bounds, knows no satisfaction, no fulfilment.

You wonder, off-handedly, as his nails dig into your scalp, when the time will come when he decides to turn you into one of them.

But what can you do?

You let him caress your cheek, with a bloodied thumb and a hollowness shadowed in those familiar eyes. Somewhere in there is the man you’ve loved since your high school days. You love him. So when he bleeds, so do you — when he bleeds, you’re the only one who’s left to cauterise the wound, the one that never heals, the one that hides beneath the thick membrane of his skin.

But it’s truly a shame he doesn’t bother to pull wool over your eyes anymore. Doesn’t clean up before stepping into the penthouse. Doesn’t make excuses for the chip on his shoulder dripping scarlet. Doesn’t tell you which disobedient pawn he shot in the head today either — but you’ll find out on the news real soon.

∗

Sinking into the porcelain bathtub, you don’t bring up the fact that he’s spoken less than three words to you tonight — even as you rub his back and slather him with the intoxicating scent of lavender and pink roses, little fingers coasting over his pale skin in an effort to coddle him. Your thighs straddle his hips as you massage small circles over the tiny cuts that litter his forearm. He doesn’t get hurt often; only does so on purpose when he feels particularly sadistic and wants to watch his prey struggle before their last breath.

Iridescent bubbles pepper along the curve of your shoulders and reddish bathwater laps at your thighs, with your bare body glistening in the dancing candle light. It’s almost muscle memory at this point — you dip your hands into the water, letting the impurities dissolve into the murky foam soaking your bodies, then squeeze a portion of sweet-smelling soap on your palm, smearing it all over his scalp as your fingers comb through his damp hair. Rinse and repeat — until all visible proof of his bloodlust liquefies into a translucent pink.

The smell of iron hits the air but it’s easier to ignore when the soap bubbles quickly drown it out. Something strange is brewing under his tepid gaze, and you’re none the wiser. Something lurks underneath the shallowness of his breaths, as you lovingly knead your fingers through his silver tresses, and you’re nothing if not oblivious.

You can’t help but hum a little as you reach over to unclog the bathtub, your voice melding with the sound of rushing water and echoing off smooth marbled porcelain walls. Pink and red swirls down the drain like a cyclone; you smile a little as you start to douse him in lukewarm water flowing from the tap, delicate hands coasting over his slick skin. Your movements are natural — doting.

Something is wrong.

He feels an unnameable emotion creeping up on him. Feels his skin start to prickle like fire everywhere your soft fingers ghost over. Feels a compulsion — fed by your little form hovering over his body, bare skin shining with droplets of water, so perfect and so vulnerable, ripe for the taking — so horrible it makes his jaw clench.

He watches you bend over the tub to reach for a towel and feels the raw, aching need to break something.

∗

Your vision has been plundered, stolen — you know this to be the irrevocable truth.

He used to hoist you up in his arms and promise you the world; and you’ve got the world alright. But at what cost? You can only view it through a foggy lens of your own creation — through the mist-soaked glass precipitated from the memories that you will eternally hold of a time when he was sweeter. Gentler. Now he isn’t, not ever. Not unless his praise and his affection is dipped in sleet and rolled over in filth first.

When he drags you by your hair, still dripping and damp from the shower, past the pristine hallways and all the way to his lush bed, you’re sure this little game is about to come to an end.

“You’re so fucking pathetic, you know? I could kill you right now.” He’s livid, eyes clouded with fury when he shoves you onto the pillowy mattress. Why?

“Gonna let my fingers curl ‘round your pretty little neck, so fragile that it’ll snap in a second. You’ll let me, won’t you? Let me take that precious, pathetic life of yours?”

But he wouldn’t. Would he? No. You know he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t — h-he wouldn’t.

“It’s all you’re good for anyway, being my little toy.”

But even so, even so you can’t help the wetness pricking your eyes, the broken sobs that escape from your quivering lips — the cherry red lips that he bites and punctures until they bleed. Why? Why is he being like this? He pushes your knees to your chest, his lithe body bathed in the silver sheen of moonlight. He wastes no time with prep, wrenching a deep cry out of you as his cock breaches your folds painfully, his eyes reduced to cruel slits like rifts cut from a pitch-black void. When he sees the teardrops beading at your lashes his scowl only widens.

Why, why, why?

Stupid and naive — because you were stupid and naive to think that you could be strong for him. You wanted to be strong, stronger than anything, so that you could be his strongest pillar to rely on when the waves came crashing down; so that he didn’t have to rely on hurting others just for his own amusement, so that he could come to you instead — you, who promised him the world as long as he stayed in yours.

But now you see. Through that hideous, fogged-up lens, you see.

It was the vestiges of sentimentality clinging onto his heart, telling him to bide his time before disposing of you for good. Just to use up every single last drop of you. See if your puny life could ever amount to anything worthwhile in his eyes. After all, how could someone like you possibly hold his genuine affection? How could he stare at you with such contempt in his eyes and hiss at you with a tone laden with such coldness, and —

How could he rut his hips against yours so deep it hurts, and still call you his lover?

“The hell you crying for? Thought you loved me enough to take it, huh?” he snarls with his fangs bared, fingers grabbing fistfuls of your hair. When he pulls out and rams back his thick cock back in it feels like he’s snatching the breath away from your very lungs, pulling strangled sobs from you as you’re left helpless to stop him. And no, oh no, since when has his roughness left you feeling so hot? So reciprocative as he grunts a string of insults, so aroused as his rough hands come to pinch at your hardened buds?

Oh no, he’s got you all messed up too, hasn’t he?

But he always fills you up so good — always makes sure you cum so hard that you’re dizzy and drooling onto the silken bedsheets; makes sure that your speech is diminished only to screams and whimpers and cries of his name, pussy ruined with buckets of thick cum oozing out — all messed up for him, just as you should be.

“T-too much too much too much,” you whimper, tiny hands pawing and beating at his chest in a feeble attempt for mercy, only to be slapped away with a deep deep snarl. “‘S too much, Mikey—”

Why can’t you see? Why can’t you see that he needs you? He’s seething when his hand cinches around your throat, fingers wringing volumes of air out of your dented windpipe as you cry out. His nails burrow into the unmarred skin, leaving crescent-shaped indents in their wake. It hurts like hell and your vision’s gone blurry with tears and when you try to claw at his hand he only pins you down with a growl and everything’s gone blurry. Everything about him hurts like hell.

“Whiny little bitch.”

His grip wanes, if only to let the smallest amount of oxygen reach your lungs, as if dead set on squeezing the very life out of your body. His brutal thrusts are unrelenting, cockhead penetrating to a near painful degree the gummy walls of your womb, again and again igniting a rapid heat in your core that only serves to make you spiral further into scatterbrained madness. Everything’s spinning and tunnelling into hues of black and white — if not because of his hand seized around your neck then because he’s fucking you way too good than you deserve.

Your heart feels like it’s about to give out, about to burst into shreds right in front of him, but your body is honest. Gossamer strands of your juices coat his length when he pistons into you, sickening squelches that echo in the room reminding you of your own depravity. When your mouth drops open to moan only raspy cries claw their way out of the sandpaper stuck to the back of your throat. He’s got you trapped by his thighs, locking you in a position that has his cock ramming incessantly against the tiny opening of your cervix, a decadent gleam flashing across his maniacal eyes as he towers over your abused body.

You love him.

Even though he’s not gentle at all. Even though he thinks you’re prettiest when you’re battered and bruised by his hands. Even though he spits in your face when you gasp for air and let out strangled pleas, grinding against your clit harder when you cry in overstimulation and hot tears streak non-stop down the apples of your cheeks.

You’re getting close, and the harder your body thrashes, the harder your walls clamp down on his girth, the meaner he gets. The more he gnaws and tears at your supple skin with his teeth. The faster his twisted affection rears its ugly head, in the colour of withered roses carved like permanent brandings into your body. His body.

“Christ—so fucking tight, baby.” His chest heaves, beads of sweat glittering under the moonlight. “A-ah, fuck—you’re mine, all fucking mine. Say it. Say it, fucking whore.”

“Y-yours, yours, all y-yours,” you rasp, mouth gaping wide as you fight to draw in breath after breath. He bends your boneless, pliant body to his will, forcing your knees to press up further against your shoulders, rutting into you so hard you feel like snapping in half.

One hand relinquishes its grip holding down your wrists only for him to force his fingers through your drool-slicked lips, tracing the ridges of your canines and hooking against the roof of your mouth until they’re drenched in saliva. You wheeze around his digits, letting out gargled cries when his fingers flatten against your tongue.

“All sloppy and wet for me, aren’t you? Should’ve—known—you’re such a whore for my cock. C’mon, say ah, baby. You like this, don’t you? You little whore,” he grates, each word accentuated with a snap of his hips, fingers prodding forcefully at the back of your throat just enough to make you gag and cry harder. You whine and mewl into his fingers, babbling faint agreements as trails of saliva dribble out the edges of your mouth.

Your head’s been stuffed with bales of cotton, clouded with lust-filled haze and a syrupy, golden, animalistic desire to fuck yourself stupid on his leaking cock. He’s panting lightly and silvery strands of hair stick to his forehead and neck, and even in your half-lidded, teary euphoria you’re still captivated by his beauty.

Pretty, pretty, pretty — even when fractured into diluted shards of glass, tiny reflections staring back at you in each one, he’s still the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen on earth.

“Gonna fucking ruin you, and you better enjoy every second of it,” he snarls, flexing his fingers on your neck. You choke on a moan as his grip tightens and tightens, feeling more tears welling up and tumbling down your cheeks. Stop, please, please. You can’t — you can’t take any more! — you’ll snap! you’ll —

Frenzied thoughts rush to fill bottomless gaps in your mind — buzzing like static electricity in your eardrums when your head strains to break free from his iron grip. But the more you struggle the darker your vision gets, the faster you tumble headfirst into sweet excruciating asphyxia, and he revels in it, with a sick sick glitter to his eyes, the same one he gets just before slicing the throats of his wriggling victims.

The bedroom spirals into varied tones of black — you can’t make out his face anymore even as you desperately try to fight off the heaviness shackling your every limb, body thrashing to no avail, your choked cries filling the room as you scour for any sliver, any morsel of air that can scrape through your cinched throat. It’s no good.

He stutters and lets out a long, drawn-out groan, and with a heavy thrust, his warm seed bursts and spills into your insides, filling you up with ropes of white-hot cum. Your eyes roll to the back of your head in response, toes curling as lurid colour flashes behind your eyelids. You’re cumming, you think — there’s so much liquid gushing from your abused cunt that you can’t stop trembling from head to toe, muscles spasming as shadowy blotches start to cloud your vision.

Then it stops.

His cruelty fades obscurely into non-existence. He relents his serpent’s chokehold on your fragile neck. You cough and splutter loudly as at long last your lungs flood with sweet oxygen, grappling to retrieve each and every one of your senses even as the world continues to flicker in and out of view. Every fibre of your body seizes, your fingers twisting the sheets, the abused muscle on your neck contracting and throbbing, with a familiar purple bruise blooming in the shape of his fingers — it won’t be going away in the morning.

His taunts ring upon deaf ears as your hands fly up to clutch your neck in pain. Jagged coughs rack your chest, legs still quivering in the afterglow of your orgasm, whitish fluid marking an irreparable mess between your thighs. A thumb swipes at the tears still cascading down your cheeks in multitudes, and a tight grip on your hand tethers you back to reality. Slowly, in a mockery of gentleness, he peels your hands away from your neck, lacing your fingers with his instead.

You feel fuzzy. All you hear is shrill ringing and your blood pumping in your ears until he calls your name.

“Hey. Look at me,” he says, tapping your cheek, when the sharpness in his gaze has dulled to a low, biting flame. When the fire has quelled and all that’s left is the saccharine ivory that burns exposed, licking gently in spurts at your stinging wounds — in his hand smoothing out your still damp tresses, his fingers wiping away your tears and snot and saliva, and his lips pressing a fleeting kiss to your temple in what feels like a quiet descent into mourning.

Your laboured breathing brings a hazy smile to his face. He traces the line of your jaw and brings your panting mouth to melt against his. Forceful, like always, but tenderly so.

“You’re okay, sweetheart.”

That’s right. You’re okay, you’re breathing. You can breathe. You’re okay because you think you know what he really means — I love you, laced in the way his fingers still latch onto yours, his lips ghosting over every tender wound he has left tonight, until your breathing stills and your eyes flutter shut with exhaustion. You’re okay.

“Don’t die on me yet,” he mumbles, when he thinks you’re half asleep. You think you know what he means.

Wishful thinking.

∗

His fingers pause halfway when they’re threaded in your hair. All you hear is his warm breath brushing against your ear, not a single moving muscle in his thighs where you’re seated pretty on his lap. The uneasy feeling in your gut hardens into lead at the possibility of having said something wrong — like the crushed-up petals of a hydrangea flower, glued like thick sludge to the back of your throat, absorbing wholly whatever noise that tries to escape from within.

Why haven’t you killed me yet? — you asked.

Sometimes when you’re both alone in his oversized office he likes to reward you with soft kisses to your ear, nibbling on the tender cartilage and whispering if it’s okay to let your husband play with your pretty hair for a little while. You always say yes — you wouldn’t be caught dead refusing an offer of his affection. It’s rare, so rare, akin to trapping a single lightning strike in a glass bottle. When you’re alone he is painfully gentle, even with his insults that cut superficial on your heart — because you think you know what he really means.

But sometimes the hesitant truth can spill out where there is even the tiniest of openings, cutting a clear stream through the muddled fog of your inhibitions.

Not you. Never you — his answer doesn’t come out, because he is still as stone.

A hand steals out to rub against your cheek. You force down the snarling urge to incline your head into his touch as he presses his fingers to the soft skin. He coos your name hoarsely, as if he thinks it’s utterly ridiculous what you’ve just asked him — and the sound of his voice, how it drops a tired little octave, flits around in your ears like the flutter of a dove’s wings.

There’s a thud at the door; your body stiffens. Your eyes dart to the source of the disturbance — two short thumps, ones that belong to someone you recognise immediately from the curt sound. Mikey’s eyes narrow, though it’s not like you can see, and he growls something under his breath before issuing the order to come in. (You’re a little disappointed that the conversation was cut short.)

It’s his second-in-command. He strides through the towering, gold-embellished doors with an air of indifference, bowing with a polite greeting before beginning to recite a well-rehearsed report on Bonten’s shiny new project. One that involves a boatload of cash and a landfill of body bags, you surmise with a frown. You push down the fluttering unease in your belly, dropping your gaze and hyper-focusing on Mikey’s grip around your waist, his fingers toying with a strand of your hair as he listens with impeccable silence.

Today he has you clad in his favourite babydoll. It is ravishing as it is expensive, adorned with pretty white lace that flows just perfectly like fine silk along your soft curves, but it’s also thin and skimpy and barely leaves enough for the imagination — and you rarely get through the day without having it ripped from your body, so that his hands are free to wander between the silken skin of your thighs during every important meeting, playing with your little nub to hear your kitten-like whimpers as his placid executives collectively avert their gazes.

Whatever shred of modesty you possessed, he’d forced you to abandon. Now all that’s left is the pliant, submissive doll that he’s moulded to fit his every need, obey his every beck and call — his perfect girl.

His fingers toy with the hem of your nightgown, your breath hitching as he nudges your legs apart with a jerk of his knee. His hand starts to gravitate to where you dread the most — where your heat pulsates the most. Goosebumps feather up on your skin as he brushes his knuckles against your clothed cunt and you let out a tiny noise of surprise, eliciting a breathy chuckle from the man. Haruchiyo looks increasingly disgruntled as his boss merely replies with non-committal grunts to his words, attention being focused solely on you writhing on his lap.

And another thing, Haruchiyo clears his throat, it’s just the slightest bit unprofessional, what he’s doing. His executives may be desensitised but the other, newer business associates are not. Keeping a woman, a fucktoy, in such confidential quarters, where every twist and convulsion in the underground network surrounding Bonten is buried to the hilt, is not exactly a good idea. Not to say that he doesn’t respect Mikey’s wishes, he does, but given your… weak nature, there’s no telling when some other rival crime boss (like there are any, Mikey rolls his eyes) will swoop in and kidnap you — torture you, wring every single important, fatal secret out of your pretty eyes as they gouge them out one by one.

(That’s just a shame, isn’t it?)

Fucktoy. Weak. His words cut deep in your chest, especially when your supposed husband does nothing to refute them. Smirks, even. You can hear it in his voice.

“Don’t, fucking, care. If anyone tries, I’ll have their head on a platter.” He pushes your panties aside, scraping the pad of his finger against your clit idly, drawing breathy pants from you as you start to squirm on his lap. “Anything else before you leave? Or do you wanna keep talking my fucking ears off.” Haruchiyo’s eyes reflect red as he regards you, perched all whimpering and cowering on his King’s lap, with a cold stare that you only recognise as pure, unadulterated scorn.

“No, my king,” the subordinate grits through clenched teeth, straining a bow. “I shall leave as you wish.” He turns and heads for the door, the soles of his shoes thudding against carpet and clicking against glossy marble. You don’t miss the way his scarred lips are curled into a sneer just as he takes one final look at you, fingers stretched taut over the golden door handle. You swallow down a choked cry, feeling an unspeakable fear penetrating deep into your bones, but Mikey merely raises a brow.

“Well? Quit starin’,” he says, low and grating. Voided eyes belying unspoken wrath as his arm tightens around you unconsciously. “Unless you want me to put a hole in your damn head.”

∗

God, does he fucking hate you.

Haruchiyo doesn’t think he’s an evil person. Aggressive and the tiniest bit sadistic, yes, but after all; everything he does, everyone he kills, he does so in the name of his indisputable king — his raison d’être. If Mikey were to order him to slaughter every single living soul in the fifty-storey building he would gladly do so without a tremor of hesitation. He’s fucking unhinged where his dedication is concerned.

How evil could he be, then, to want to strip his king of all his weaknesses? So that he’d be guaranteed absolute control — stay at the very top forever, overseeing his inferior subjects with a bloodied, unyielding fist? (Ah, the thought might just send shivers down his spine.)

There was no reason for him to let you live, he deduces.

He knew this for a fact since the first time he laid his eyes upon your meek form. You were more timid back then, dainty little legs dangling off Mikey’s lap where he held you on display, your fingers twisted into his shirt with his jacket hanging off — no, engulfing — your shoulders, burying your head into his chest to shy away from sharpened gazes though it was obvious that you alone held the centre of attention in the room.

His king barely betrayed any emotion, merely ran his fingers up your jaw and ordered you to lift your head. Looks like you have an audience, he said, and even then, as Haruchiyo watched you quiver and avert your gaze anywhere but them, he felt a strange sensation welling up from beneath his outer layer of skin.

There was something about the way you often clung to his king as if he were your lifeline, something about the panicked, fearful gleam in your eyes whenever they met his by accident, in the scarce moments when you passed him in the halls without Mikey for once, that plucked and tore at his nerves in a disgusting, wretched way — like a bitter spat accumulating clump by clump on his stomach lining.

When he leaves the office (or rather, gets kicked out) his teeth grind on instinct. It’s been years and still, the answer is left far out of his reach. What is it about you that has his boss wrapped right around your finger? You’re weak as hell the way he sees it, no one could give a shit if you died — because he knows, no one has come searching for you in the four years you’ve been roaming the Bonten building like Mikey’s shadow.

He jabs his finger at one of the elevator buttons, biting back a hiss at the immense throbbing at the back of his skull. Doesn’t know where he’s headed but he doesn’t care as long as he gets out of these suffocating walls. Something is tingling like a bluish flame — something under his skin is itching like an old scab and it’s near unbearable like always. He reaches into his breast pocket, feels around for the little pills that he adores so much, and breathes a long, heavy sigh.

Slender fingers toy with a pretty two-toned capsule. He flicks it between his thumb and forefinger, eyeing the puny little thing before plopping it into his mouth, swallowing it dry.

Let it be known that his loyalty is written in blood; he would have your silky entrails littering the spotless hallways of the sprawling establishment if it were up to him.

He has plenty of time to get rid of you, he thinks, as the elevator dings and he’s stepping out the doors with a putrid scowl on his face. For now he plays the waiting game, merely seeking to chase the bubbling desire surging through his veins; the one that tempts him in a sultry voice to watch the decay of butchered skin on bleached bone.

His body prickles all over and the only way Haruchiyo knows to fix it is to destroy destroy destroy — but when he settles for his unsuspecting victim for the night, a young maiden that looks suspiciously similar to you, he can’t help but imagine that it’s your face that he ruins beyond recognition, your cries that flutter like a sweet melody in his ears —

He has all the time in the world.

∗

Have you heard of this saying? Only a diamond can cut another diamond. Mikey glances at your doll-like face and figures there are two stuffed right inside your eye sockets — those ‘pretty eyes’ that Haruchiyo warned would be gouged out — to match the toughened gem of his heart. People think of him as the grim reaper with that malignant glint in his eyes, the last sight ghosting behind their eyelids before their lives were extinguished without a care or a hint of sanity; but truth be told, even the grim reaper has his soft underbelly.

And if there ever is a modicum of doubt, he’ll gladly admit it. When he made you see stars for the first time, cumming so hard on his cock and begging so prettily that his world began spinning in colourised euphoria, he knew then how it felt like to have every semblance of control pried from his scarred, shaking fingertips, hurtling him headfirst into an addiction worse than any drug — love.

Love is written in the way he adores to fuck you within an inch of losing your sanity. Love is sprinkled into his callous quips of how fucking useless you are without him, how much you depend on him — so much so that he couldn’t leave you for a second lest you run off and die by yourself. Love is every ounce of taking and taking as it is giving, but even when he’s giving he expects to be repaid a hundred times more.

And it’s too bad that, no matter how much you beg, no matter how much you cry for him, there will never be a happy ending, filled with conventional love and softness, for either of you.

His fingers retract from your head.

“On your knees,” he commands softly, and all he has to do is count to three in his head before you’re snapping out of your daze, scrambling off his lap and onto the floor, dropping to your knees like the obedient little pet you are. Like the pet he made you to be. He feels an odd pride well up at your complete lack of hesitation, a sick satisfaction that you no longer flinch when he slides his hand comfortably around your bruised neck.

“Did I do something wrong?” Your voice is barely above a trembling whisper, sending soft vibrations drumming against his fingers. He looks into your wide eyes, brimming with fear, and almost wants to coo in condescending adoration.

Oh, how could he tarnish something so pure? How could he desire, from the very depths of his soul, to pluck from its very stem, the most delicate flower there exists, only to rip off every single glistening petal? To tear you apart again and again, yet convince you that you’re absolutely nothing without him?

He loves you, that’s how.

Neither Haruchiyo, nor any of those repulsive ‘business associates’, can ever begin to comprehend this simple fact. They will never comprehend, with those golf-ball sized brains they have encased within their thick skulls, because he’ll have them all in cardboard coffins by the time the thought crosses their minds to lay even a single finger on a strand of your hair.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong, darling. Nothing at all.”

He smiles down at you, giving your neck a soft squeeze, and it’s genuine, you think. Like a sliver of sunlight, refracted by his crystalline heart. Your shoulders relax a little as you reciprocate a tiny smile; his eyes soften.

This is love.

He rubs his heel against your calf in a silent prompt. You take the hint almost immediately, trembling fingers reaching towards the growing bulge in his pants, cheeks flushing bright red as you palm his cock lightly. “C-can I…” You look to him shyly for permission, fluttering lashes framing your pretty eyes, and he almost feels his heart melt.

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” he purrs, a hand reaching down to engulf the back of your head. You swallow the lump in your throat and nibble on your lip, before unbuckling his belt and tugging down the waistband to reveal his hardened length.

“Think you can take me whole?” he coos, fingers digging into your scalp, coaxing you forward. It feels more like a statement than a question now; your tongue darts out to wet your lips at the sight of whitish precum beading at the tip, your head inching closer to give it an experimental lick.

He groans, a deep and breathy sound that has you feeling giddy with joy, but he can only be so patient. With a sudden force his fingers are shoving you face-first into his cock, paying no heed to your surprised squeals to slow down as he presses you deeper into your warm mouth. The back of your throat burns at the jarring intrusion, bringing a fresh onslaught of tears rolling down your cheeks as you gag violently.

Your jaw struggles to widen to accommodate his thick length — you’re breathing heavily through your nose as his movements increase in fervency, not once giving you a moment of respite. Drool trickles down the sides of your mouth; you let loose a string of muffled moans and choked mewls as his cockhead juts roughly against the back of your throat.

Hands twisting into your hair for leverage, he forces your lips to continue dragging in and out from the base of his cock, gruffly ordering you to use your tongue and your hands. You fight to whimper a small ‘yes’, palms cupping his balls and massaging softly, your tongue trying hard to swirl at the tip whenever he pulls out — just the way he likes it.

“God— you were made for this.” His fingers tense and shakily press you in further as his hips buck up ever so slightly, mouth dropping open and heady groans hitting the air. “Taking me—real good, my little cockslut—fuck—that’s it, babe.”

He’s dead set on chasing his own high, muffling you against his dick unabashedly, as your stomach churns heavy with anxiety. Anyone could walk in and catch you now — catch you red-handed, with your mouth stuffed full of their boss’ cock, whining so lewdly and drooling so messily it drips all over the designer carpet. You have no idea if the spotless walls are soundproof — almost everything about Bonten and its headquarters is kept from you (that, or you’ve just gotten extremely good at tuning out every single tedious meeting), but if there’s anything you’re sure of, you’re certain that everyone knows better than to disrupt Mikey’s alone time with you.

He throws his head back, allowing you the gorgeous view of his sharp jaw, tiny beads of sweat glimmering like shards of diamonds down his neck. “Fucking hell, princess,” he breathes shakily, and you know that he’s close. His thrusts get sloppy, fingers trembling ever more furiously, and before you know it the muscles of his thighs are flexing and tensing before he’s letting out a deep groan, fisting your hair as thick spurts of cum spill into your throat.

“Don’t you dare waste a drop,” he rasps, fingers sliding to the base of your neck to hold you down. Your mouth is flooded, the salty fluid overwhelming your tongue as you hold your breath, clenching your eyes shut as you try your hardest to swallow around his length. His cock slides out with a small ‘pop’, and you’re slapping a hand over your mouth to stifle a hiccup, dried tears streaking your cheeks.

“Show me.”

You force the remaining spurts of cum down your throat, before opening your mouth as wide as you can for him to inspect, doe eyes looking expectantly at him until he nods in approval. His big hand descends upon your head of hair, patting softly as another smile spreads across his face. Your heart twists. Twice in a day — you must’ve been good then. He wouldn’t smile so much otherwise.

∗

You scan briefly through the recesses of your mind, faint memories of him trashing the penthouse in a fit of blind rage rushing back to you, but no, you realise with a frown, even considering those times, never have you ever seen him this pissed.

At times the reigning king of Bonten can have a temperament akin to the calm before the storm. In his irises there’s a permanent hollowness etched into a bottomless black — but still, a deadly edge sewn into that piercing gaze.

Today there is nothing short of fury burning behind that emptiness.

The Haitani brothers share a look; Takeomi’s jaw locks though his gaze is fixed straight ahead. Haruchiyo is silent for once but his fingers toy with the cap of a tiny pill bottle, flipping it on and off with his thumb in a repetitive fashion — a nervous tick, you suppose. The others don’t look too good as well; the tension in the air is so thick that it’s enough to wedge a coarse lump in your windpipe. It’s oppressive. No one dares speak up, not after the news was dropped like a bombshell within the confines of the meeting room. They all know.

They know that in Bonten, there is only one supreme ruler — and whatever Mikey wants, he will make it happen.

If he wants to keep you by his side like his own personal lapdog, he will. If he wants to rule the whole of Japan with this lapdog tending to his every need, he will. If he wants to bring his lapdog along to that god-fucking-awful ‘errand’ they have to take care of for two whole days, he fucking will.

The only problem is, he can’t.

(If you really cared about her staying alive, you’d let her stay here.)

Takeomi didn’t say it, but he sure as hell implied it. It’s an unspoken duty that he’s been appointed with — spitting out the cold hard truth when it meant it was the best course of action. In this case it’s because Mikey is too fucking stubborn a boss to get through. Perhaps if he were thinking with his head instead of hormones he’d realise that you were more of a hindrance to keep around — but that’s a talk for another time, Takeomi thinks (but doesn’t dare bring up). Of course, his steady voice was almost enough to belie his uneasiness.

Under the hesitant scrutiny of his subjects the king lets out a deep, guttural groan.

A scowl materialises on his face, screwing up his pretty features into an expression that you hate so much. Your head is tilted up to look at him from your spot on the floor by his side, and you tug at the cloth of his pants ever so slightly. He tears his eyes away from his advisor to catch your worried gaze — and almost as if it were magic, you think you see a flicker of longing in his eyes, his frown thinning out just the slightest as he wordlessly observes your face.

But then he’s clenching his eyes shut, obscuring your view of those pretty irises, and putting a hand firmly on your head before sinking back into the plush of his chair, puffing out a long, defeated sigh.

He looks to his executives, gaze as steely as ever, and utters two things — a begrudging acceptance, along with an absolute order that has both your and Haruchiyo’s stomach dropping to the floor.

“This is final,” he emphasises, “don’t wanna hear you fucking complain. I’m pissed enough as it is.” His grip tightens on your scalp as he shoots daggers at his second-in-command. Oh, if looks could kill, Haruchiyo would be disintegrating on the spot right now.

But is it just you, or is he oddly unfazed? After the initial shock tapers off, you swear you notice the corners of his scar-ridden mouth twitch.

A chill runs down your spine when the rosy-haired man cocks his head curiously, his sapphirine gaze flickering towards your frozen form. As if eyeing up and down a fresh slab of meat — a milky sheep, made to be present for a bloody slaughter.

You don’t have time to ponder about what’s swirling inside those pretty blues, though, because when Mikey’s ordering them all to get out (and they do), he doesn’t wait for the doors to finish closing before lifting you by your waist, and slamming you onto the lean desk.

“Not—leaving—you—” He grunts sloppily into your neck, teeth sinking like needles into the pliant skin. His breaths are heavy, his eyebrows are scrunched together in frustration and he’s pinning you down like a snarling animal. “Never. Never.”

“Never,” you echo his words softly, breathlessly, lips parting just as he licks at the fading bite marks down the skin of your nape, already eager to leave new ones. Your hands caress the back of his neck, little fingers edging him closer ever so slightly.

No, he will never leave you. Physically he has to, but before you know it, he’ll be back to you like always.

Until then he has to bite back his fury and let Haruchiyo look after you. Because who better to trust than his right-hand man?

pt. 2 coming soon (ง ˃ ³ ˂)ว ⁼³₌₃⁼³

GOOD AND PLENTY; K.B

witchy tip

➤ scattering basil around the house will attract money into your life

1. super tenaci

m.list

LITTLE DARK AGE

haitani ran x fem!reader x haitani rindou

summary: eight years later, you finally return to tokyo and find yourself caught in the middle of a violent gang war between the two most ruthless criminal organizations of tokyo’s underworld, forced to choose between blood and love.

genre: bonten timeskip, angst, forbidden romance, childhood friends -> strangers -> lovers, 18+ MDNI

warnings: fem!reader, gang violence, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, explicit smut, polyamory, profanity, MCD, unedited, MTBA

previous chapter -> masterlist -> next chapter

CHAPTER Ⅹ. OH, HOME, LET ME COME HOME...

TWELVE YEARS EARLIER. 

Rindou felt anxious. Rindou felt anxious and he hated it--he did not ordinarily feel anxious, it was an uncommon and unwelcome feeling, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not push it away. His throat was tight and his eyes flickered back and forth between the elevator that led into the penthouse and Ran, who was sitting next to Rindou, stiff and unamused as he glared at the elevator. 

There was something wrong with you. Okay, that sounded bad, he acknowledged. There wasn’t something wrong, wrong with you, but you were acting different and Rindou didn’t like it, Ran even less so even though he was trying to hide how much it was bothering him.

You asked them to stop picking you up from school two weeks ago. And they had tried to convince you otherwise but you had gotten angry at them--genuinely angry at them for the first time since they met you five years earlier. Rindou had never heard you yell before until you were shouting at them for being overbearing and smothering and ‘never giving you a fucking break.’

It had hurt. It had really fucking hurt. Ran had lost his temper right back at you, and the whole situation had only spiraled from there. Miss Yua offered to talk to you on their behalf, mentioning that it was probably just a phase, ‘girls get quite difficult in high school,’ she claimed, but evidently she had not gotten through to you. 

You had not spoken to them since the argument. 

And Rindou tried, he really, really did. He pushed away the hurtful words you had spat at them to try to make amends--even though he really had no reason to be apologizing. You ignored him. You ignored him every single time, brushing him off and walking to your room without a word, locking the door behind you.

Rindou was tired. You were acting like Ran did whenever Ran got all in his head about something and Rindou hated it when Ran did it and he hated it even more when you did it. He wasn’t sure what had even caused the change and it made him sick to his stomach.

Maybe you didn’t want them around at all anymore, the thought that had been eating at him for the past week rang loudly in his head. No, he tried to convince himself, that couldn’t be true because you would never think something like that. 

But he couldn’t help but remember the genuine anger in your eyes when you yelled at the two of them that day, how you refused to even look at them for nearly two weeks now. 

He bit down on his bottom lip, trying to stop it from trembling, and he let his gaze flick back up the elevator, anxiety growing as the numbers began rising higher and higher, closer and closer to the floor of the penthouse.

“Ran,” Rindou began, worry seeping into his tone.

Ran clicked his tongue as the elevator stopped on the floor, “Relax, I’ll handle it,” he said, but that only made his nerves grow worse because that was exactly what Rindou was fucking worried about.

The doors to the elevator slid open, Ran rose to his feet, Rindou briefly shut his eyes, throwing up a short prayer to whatever god would listen to him as you stepped into the penthouse, a frown on your lips and brows furrowed.

You were already irritated about something. This would not go over well. 

Rindou wanted to cry. 

Ran called your name. 

You ignored him. 

Ran called your name again, sharper this time. Rindou could see the way Ran’s fists tightened at his sides, and he could see the way his nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply, trying to contain his temper. 

“I’m talking to you,” Ran said sharply, “Look at me.”

You ignored him. 

“Hey!” Ran said loudly. You jumped at how he raised his voice, the only sign of acknowledgment of the two of them that they had received from you in nearly two weeks. “Stop acting like a fuckin’ child.”

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” you spat out so viciously that Rindou physically drew back at your words. His lips parted to speak, to say something, but he didn’t even know what to say, and any word he thought up died on his tongue before he could force it out.

They were losing you. 

No, he told himself immediately, trying to convince himself of the matter. There was no way. Something else had to be going on. 

“Leave you alone?” Ran hissed, “We’ve left you alone for two weeks, what the fuck is going on? Why won’t you talk to us?”

“‘Cause it’s none of your business,” you shouted, shoving at Ran’s chest when he got too close to you. Ran didn’t budge, of course, it would take a lot more than a shove from you to push him off-balance. You went to push him again, brows furrowed, tears pooling in your eyes, and Rindou’s chest felt like it was caving in, “Leave me alone, leave me alone! Why won’t you just leave me the fuck alone?”

His lips parted in shock as he stared at you, as he watched your lips tremble and your hands shake from where they were slamming against Ran’s chest over and over again. 

Okay, he thought to himself, this is more than just them pissing you off somehow. Something else is definitely going on. 

Ran seemed to realize it too from how his anger seemed to wash away and his lips turned down. And Rindou truly did feel ill because he had never seen you this distressed before and it really didn’t sit well with him. 

Ran murmured your name quietly, grabbing your wrists, stopping you from hitting him again and Rindou’s breath caught in his throat, one of his hands reached out toward you, eyes narrowing in on your arms, or more specifically, the discolored purple bruises lining up your arms--fingerprints embedded deep into your skin. 

“What happened?” Rindou asked, his voice was low, steadier than he expected and you looked thrown off, following his gaze down to your arms. He watched the panic shoot across your face. You looked at your shoulders, as if you were looking for something… oh. The jacket you started wearing nonstop a few weeks ago.

Have you been…

“Nothing,” you snapped, “It’s none of your business.”

“None of our-” Rindou hissed, eyes ablaze but he cut himself out, desperately trying to calm himself down--the sight of the bruises marring your skin awakening a sort of primal rage that he didn’t know he had in him. “Don’t try to brush this off, tell us what happened.”

“You and Ran come home with bruises all the time,” you said loudly, your voice was shrill, your eyes were wild. You were panicking and Rindou was getting angrier because he didn’t know what you were hiding from them, and he didn’t know why you were hiding it from them. 

“We come home with bruises so you don’t fucking have to!” Ran shouted, stepping closer to you, but you only stepped back, breath quick as your eyes darted around like a cornered animal. “Tell us what the fuck’s going on.”

He should have expected it but Rindou did not react fast enough when you darted between them, taking off down the hall. Rindou moved to chase after you but Ran grabbed his arm, stopping him. 

“Ran, what-” he began angrily but Rindou faltered when he caught the distressed look on Ran’s face. “Ran-”

“Don’t chase after her, you’ll only push her further away,” he said quietly. “She’s not gonna say anything now. We’re gonna have to figure this out ourselves.”

---

“The fuck is your guys’ deal?” Shion complained, wiping the blood off of his cheek as he looked over his shoulder at Rindou and Ran. Rindou rolled his eyes, lips turned down as he looked away, “You guys aren’t usually this boring.”

“Fuck off, Shion,” Ran said sharply, exhaling a puff of smoke as he shot a withering glare at the younger boy, “Not in the mood today.”

Honestly, they hadn’t been in the mood for a while now. Rindou and Ran both have had severely shortened tempers ever since you started with your bullshit a few weeks ago, and he was sure that they had noticed it from the way they started holding Rindou and Ran at arm’s length 

“You haven’t been in the mood for two weeks now,” Shion countered, voicing Rindou’s thoughts, turning around and leaning back on his heels, “What crawled up your ass, huh?”

“I said fuck off,” Ran said and Rindou did not like the tone that edged at his brother’s voice--it was dark, threatening, and from Shion’s narrowed eyes, he caught the implications of it too. Ran, Rindou wanted to plead, let’s not do this right now. 

Rindou had no issue fighting if it came down to it--he had thrown hands with Shion before and would do it again--but right now… His eyes darted to Mochi and Mucho lingering by Shion, gaze shifting between them, and then to Izana, who was lounging on a nearby box watching the scene with interest.

“Somethin’ up with your girl?” Mucho, ever the calm one of the group of them, asked curiously, blue eyes flicking between him and Ran, waiting for a response. 

Ran bristled but Rindou spoke up before Ran could snap something at Mucho, which would undoubtedly go over poorly. Shrugging, he said, “She won’t tell us shit. Asked us to stop pickin’ her up from school ‘n we figured she’s talkin’ to some guy and doesn’t was us to scare him off. Now she’s comin’ home with fuckin bruises all over her arms.”

And Rindou genuinely would have preferred that you were talking to some rich boy that spent his weekends on yachts over this--no matter how much the thought of you getting close with another guy made his stomach turn and his head hurt. Because at least then you weren’t getting hurt for whatever reason, and at least then they weren’t worried sick over what was going on.

“Bruises?” Mucho’s brow furrowed and Rindou noticed that Ran’s rising temper seemed to dim a bit at the genuine concern in Mucho’s voice. “What you mean bruises?”

Rindou motioned helplessly to his arm, “Fingerprints ‘n stuff, up ‘n down her arms, we tried to ask her but she started yelling, getting defensive, then she ran off,” he said.

“You couldn’t chase her down? Let the girl juke you out like that?” Mochi snorted, mocking them and Rindou scowled. 

“It’s not that simple,” Rindou snapped, talking down on him as if he wouldn’t have made that very mistake had Ran not stopped him, “You would know if you ever spoke to a girl before. They get all riled up and angry and then they get silent. We wouldn’t’ve gotten anything outta her.”

Mochi scowled at the dig, opening his mouth to retort, but Mucho was speaking again, “And she’s coming home from school with it?” Mucho asked.

“Yeah, think so. Doubt she’d be getting jumped on the way home from school, we own those streets. No one would dare, not to her,” Rindou muttered.

Shion stretched, fastening his brass knuckles back onto his fist, “Let’s go check it out then, we already fucked up these guys anyway. They’re no fun anymore. I’d like to get my hands on one of those prissy little trust fund babies. Bet they’ll squeal just like their pig parents,” Shion jeered, snickering to himself before looking back at Izana, “What’dya say?”

Rindou followed Shion’s gaze to where Izana was still sitting on the box, watching them all curiously.

Izana’s eyes focused on Ran, seemingly uninterested with the topic, “She goes to that prep school by the National Art Center?” Izana asked, and Rindou and Ran shared a look, unsure of how he knew that because they were pretty sure they had never mentioned it.

“Yeah,” Ran agreed.

Izana’s eyes lit up oddly, a sort of interest swimming in them that had Rindou on edge because he had never seen Izana look so… excited for something before.

“Let’s go then.”

—-

“This is completely unnecessary,” you repeated for what seemed like the millionth time as your eyes darted around the side alley right next to your school, trying to figure out what the fuck you were supposed to do. “Please just get out of my way.”

It was your own fault, really, for prioritizing time over safety. You had thought cutting through the side streets to get home faster would be better than taking the long route and risking them catching up to you but you hadn’t even considered the fact that they’d have set up around the side streets to corner you there. 

It was your own fault, and you were sure you were going to pay for it. 

“Shut the fuck up,” a sharp voice snapped back immediately and you felt ill, breath shaky and trembling fingers shoved in your pocket to try to hide your growing anxiety.

It wasn’t your fault, you tried to convince yourself, it was your fucking uncle’s. 

And it was--anger brewed in you as you remembered how quickly your already shitty social life had fallen apart after your uncle had started his relentless pursuit of Izanagi’s expansion a few weeks back, tearing down some of the other major businesses run by the parents of the kids in your school just so Izanagi could get a few steps ahead. It had been ruthless, and it had annihilated the wealth of even some of the objectively powerful, old money families of Tokyo, including some of whom had kids that went to your school.

And there was no way for them to get back at your uncle. Their parents were stuck trying to manage the fallout of what he had done and the kids were suffering the repercussions--the attention of the tabloids and all of the mocking articles, the shame of having lost the majority of their wealth, paparazzi and reporters had been outside the school for days now--and the only way to ‘get back’ at your uncle, in the eyes of the other kids, was through you.

Two weeks of nonstop harassment and you had no one but your uncle to blame. He had to have known what targeting the parents of kids that went to your school would do to you but he had gone through with it anyway.

Selfish. So fucking selfish, you felt tears prick your eyes as you took another step back and Sato stepped forward, closer to you. His parents had been the most affected by your uncle and he, in turn, has been the most aggressive with you. 

And it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t like you told your uncle to do this, and it wasn’t like you supported it. You barely even fucking spoke to him. And now you were the one getting punished?

“Sato, this isn’t going to do anything,” you pleaded, giving it one more shot, “I’m not-I didn’t-Just let me get home-”

“Fuck you,” Sato spat, “Fuck you and fuck your douchebag uncle too.”

You grimaced, swallowing thickly as you tried to figure out what you should do. Maybe you should have told Ran and Rindou what was going on, you thought weakly as your eyes darted around the group of kids whose families had been ruined by your uncle. But you dismissed the thought immediately. 

If you had told them what was going on, even before this started getting physical…

They would fucking kill them. You knew that. Ran and Rindou were protective over you, Ran had already killed someone for threatening you before. Knowing you were getting harassed at a place that was supposed to be safe--the one place they couldn’t make safe for you… They would lose their minds and they’d be sent to juvie again, except this time they would have a target on their backs because even though these kids’ parents lost the majority of their wealth and power, they still had powerful friends and those powerful friends had a lot of influence and they could spell trouble for Ran and Rindou, both in juvie and out of juvie. 

And it wasn’t fair for you to rely on them for everything--and yeah, you knew they didn’t care, if anything they preferred it but… you didn’t like it. All your life you had been relying on other people for help--your parents, your uncle, Miss Yua and Mister Ayato, and now them--you wanted to handle one thing on your own and you wanted to cry because you knew you failed.

You always fucking fail unless someone else steps in. 

Your eyes blurred, you pressed your lips together tight to try to hide the way they wobbled. 

“Sato,” your voice came out weaker than you would have hoped, pleading, and you were embarrassed because the older boy immediately mocked you, taking another step closer. You matched him with a step back, and in your panic, you didn’t notice how Sato had paused in his movements toward you, and you didn’t notice the way some of the other kids started going wide-eyed.

You stiffened when you felt someone’s chest pressed against your back, fear taking over just for a moment until their right arm wrapped around your waist and you caught sight of the tattoos decorating it.

Rindou.

You were relieved. 

For a second. 

Then realization dawned on you and the fear returned for another reason. 

Rindou.

You looked up at him, eyes wide, but his eyes were narrowed and trained ahead, jaw clenched tight.

“Rin,” you said quietly, and he finally looked down at you, lavender eyes sharp and searching yours just for a moment before he shook his head and shifted you behind him, taking a step forward. 

Your heart sank, “Rin!” you called louder, but he ignored you as he took a step forward, body tense. You tried to take a step after him to grab his arm but a hand curled around your shoulder before you could. You froze, gaze darting to the side and your mouth went dry when your eyes met vacant purple ones, bright in contrast to tanned skin.

“Who are…”

Your voice trailed off when you noticed that Rindou had not come alone. Ran, the boy who grabbed you, and three other vaguely familiar boys had all entered the side street you had gotten cornered in with him. Your brows furrowed as you tried to remember where you had seen them before until your mind was drawn back to the day at the car shop when you had found Rindou and Ran hanging with that group of boys.

The white-haired boy watched you curiously, “Kurokawa Izana, you must be y/n.”

You didn’t get the chance to respond as Ran was moving forward in an instant, face twisted in a sort of fury that you’d never seen on him before. “Ran!” you called after him, voice pleading but Izana’s grip on your shoulder tightened, holding you in place as Ran swung forward hard with his baton before Sato could react.

You flinched at the sickening crack that rang through the air as Ran’s baton connected with his jaw and your breath caught when Sato crumpled immediately.

No, nononono, “Ran, stop!” you cried out but Ran ignored you, reeling his arm back before driving the baton right against the back of his head, “Ran!”

“Fuckin’ piece of shit,” one of the other older boys from your high school spat, moving forward quickly, leaning down to swipe a scrapped pipe on the side street, aiming right for Ran, who was still preoccupied with Sato, who was trying to push himself off the ground.

“Stop it” you shouted, eyes wide, “Ran, look out!”

Rindou was on the other boy in a second, grabbing the pipe mid-swing with one hand and driving his fist into his face with the other. 

Your heart felt like it was in your throat as the rest of them moved forward once Rindou got involved too. 

“Ahh, this gonna be fun,” a boy with a tattoo on the side of his head crooned, “Wonder if blue blood tastes any different from ours.”

Madarame Shion--you recognized that one from Rindou, other than Ran, he was the one that Rindou was closest to in that little group, he was also the one that Rindou bitched about the most. The grin on his face was half-feral as he played with the brass knuckles adorning his left hand. 

Fuck, you thought, eyes wild as you tried to figure out what to do. If it escalated, it wouldn’t be good for them. They’d run home and tell their parents, their parents would get the cops on the case and-

“Guys, stop,” you called louder but you knew it was futile, Ran was too far gone and Rindou wouldn’t listen while Ran was in danger and there was no way their friends would listen to you. You knew enough from Ran and Rindou that all they cared about was violence and bloodshed. 

“They’re not gonna stop,” Kurokawa Izana confirmed your fears, “Let them do their thing.”

“If they kill them, they’ll-” your voice was panicked, your breath was quick.

“They won’t,” a new voice said firmly and your eyes caught sight of a tall boy with blonde hair and an even taller, broader boy with black hair. “We’ll stop ‘em before it gets that far.”

They didn’t wait for you to respond, only following after the three brasher members of their group--the Haitanis and Madarame Shion. Your jaw was slack as you watched the blonde haul one of the boys on Shion off like a garbage bag, flinging him hard into the brick wall on the side street. There was another disgusting crack as his head hit the wall and he fell limp to the ground. 

What the…

Izana did not join them and your hands shook as you watched the fight continue to escalate. Ran was still beating the shit out of Sato while Rindou took care of anyone that tried to approach the two of them.

Your lips parted to call out to them again, they were outnumbered but… 

But you knew the boys from your high school didn’t stand a chance. You physically flinched as you watched blood splatter against the ground when Shion’s brass knuckles drove into one of the boy’s faces and he dropped limp against the concrete.

You glanced up at Izana and you swallowed thickly at the thin smile that tugged at his lips and the cold look in his eyes as he watched Ran and Sato. 

“Stop him,” you said, and you thanked god that your voice was firm and steady. Izana’s eyes flickered down to you, surprise visible in them for a split second before the cold, calculating look returned. He was evaluating you, for something, you just didn’t know what.

Finally, he let out a quiet hum of agreement, “Ran,” he called, voice sharp and demanding. Instantly, Rindou and the three others drew off who they were fighting.

Ran did not.

Izana’s lips twisted down, an unpleasant expression on his face as he let go of your arm to move to Ran.

Rindou was in front of you, taking his place in an instant. His hands curled around your forearms, lavender eyes meeting yours—he was angry, you could tell, but his lips twitched down in concern as he looked over you.

“Why-“ his voice was loud, heated. He took in a shaky breath, forcing himself to calm down. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Can’t we talk about this later?” you said, “I don’t-“

Your voice faltered as you caught sight of Shion licking at the blood on his brass knuckles, a bored sigh escaping his lips as he stretched, “No different.”

“I don’t want to do this here,” your voice was quieter, so only he could overhear, “And I don’t wanna say it more than once.”

Rindou’s lips parted to respond but he was interrupted.

“Oi, you,” Shion called and your gaze drifted to the side, frowning when you noticed he was staring directly at you. “I wanna see the fancy place where Rindou ‘n Ran are always staying at.”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Rindou said, turning his attention to Shion. 

“I’m not asking you, shuddup,” Shion said, keeping his attention on you. “C’mon, we just came all the way out here to beat the shit outta your pathetic bullies. Least you can do is offer us some food.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” you said pointedly, but frowned when Shion only raised his eyebrows. Your shoulders slumped, and you glanced at Rindou, catching the warning glare he directed at you. At least you’d be able to delay the inevitable argument for a little while longer, “Fine,” you said.

Rindou scoffed in frustration, Shion looked absolutely delighted, tossing an arm around your shoulders and tugging you toward him, “Knew you were better then them fuckin’ lame asses,” he grinned.

Rindou called your name sharply, you looked at him from the corner of your eye, “You’re not getting out of this conversation,” he said.

“Yeah,” you said quietly, “I know.”

—-

PRESENT. 

“Can’t you drive any faster?” you demanded, voice panicked, breath quick as you looked up at the front of the van. Mina glared back at you through the rearview mirror and you glared right back, although you were pretty sure that the glare came off as rather pathetic considering your vision was blurry with tears.

“If I drive any faster, we’re gonna fuckin’ get pulled over, and I’d like to see you try to talk your way out of that one. How you gonna explain to them why we’ve gotta Bonten executive in the back of our van? Not to mention it’s fuckin’ pouring.”

His words didn’t even register as Ran let out another low groan, shifting in your lap. Your attention was drawn back to him, heart in your throat as you brought your hand to his face, cupping his cheek. He instinctually leaned into your touch and a whimper built in your throat as his long lashes fluttered back open, unfocused lavender eyes searching your face.

His bloody lips parted, as if to say something, but before he could try to push out whatever words were on his tongue, his head lolled back again, passing back out. A cry of frustration bubbled at your lips as you cradled Ran’s head to your chest, arms tightening around him. 

He’d been like this since you broke him out of there, fading in and out of consciousness, skin getting paler and breath getting shallower. 

“Mina, drive fucking faster,” you shouted, voice cracking as your words split into a sob, “Fuck, fuck, drive faster!” 

“Y/n, I can’t fuckin’ drive any faster,” Mina boomed, “Getting pulled over by the cops is as good a death warrant for him.”

The cops…? But-

“The fuck you mean?” you asked, “The cops? Wha-How would they even know-”

“Bonten got outed,” Takuya said quietly from the passenger seat, “All of its executives, some time between right after the explosion and now. I saw it on one of the headlines before we got him out of there.”

The world stilled around you, breath catching as you stared down at Ran, slowly processing Takuya’s words. “What?” you breathed out, “Outed? But how?”

“Don’t know,” Takuya admitted, “It’s not looking too good though. Yamagishi still keeps tabs on what goes on regarding this stuff. He says Bonten’s being forced underground. Half of their warehouses have been raided by the PSIA and TMPD.”

Fuck, you wanted to scream, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck why were you just receiving bad news after bad news? Why couldn’t you get a break?

Why couldn’t you get a fucking break?

You were having trouble breathing. Control yourself, you pleaded with yourself desperately, Ran’s labored breaths and the sound of the rain beating against the top of the van was causing you to spiral, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

But it was hard. God, it was so fucking hard with Ran slowly dying in your arms and Rindou out there alone, hunted by the cops and feds and… reckless, Rindou was always so fucking reckless when it came to Ran and-

You couldn’t even finish the thought. You felt sick and exhausted and guilty, so fucking guilty. Every time you looked down at Ran you swore that your chest was tearing apart, that the anchor on your ankle dragged you down even deeper into the murky depths of the sea. This was all your fault.

All your fucking fault.

Your regrets were endless. You’d been recounting every single moment you went wrong in your life since you woke up from the explosion--every little lie, every time you distanced yourself from them, every time you snapped. You regretted leaving. You regretted losing contact with them. You regretted coming back to Tokyo and you regretted not staying with them the night you had met them at the club. You regretted driving them away at the auction. You regretted everything.

Everything. 

No. Not everything. You did not regret stopping to help them that night all those years ago. You didn’t regret meeting them, you never would. You were sure of that. 

Weren’t you?

Tears of frustration built in your eyes as Ran’s body shuddered in your arms, his breath was ragged and his body was limp and shaky, his weight heavy on your lap. You buried your face into his hair, rocking him back and forth as you tried to muffle the sob that fell from your lips against the top of his head. 

I’m sorry, you wanted to scream, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.

“We’re almost there,” Takuya said quietly--his words didn’t register but the streets around you did. You felt ill as you caught sight of the old playground that you and Rindou used to visit all the time, the streets that the two of you had chased Ran down when he had dumped a bucket of water on you and Rindou’s head while the two of you were plotting a prank on him, the alley that you had met them in.

You felt sick and dizzy.

You could see the building the penthouse was located in the distance, vision blurry, breath coming out as near wheezes as you tried to calm yourself down. And you were grateful for Takuya and Mina because neither of them acknowledged your ongoing breakdown, you knew if they did, it would only get worse.

“You should let one of us go in with you,” Mina’s voice was as tense as his hands were around the steering wheel, “You won’t be able to get him in on your own.”

“No,” you forced out, “No, you have to get Takuya to a safehouse, they’ll be coming after us as soon as they realize what’s happened. Staying in Tokyo right now is too risky, this is too risky but I have nowhere else and no one else that can help him. I’ll get in contact with you after. I promise.”

“Y/n,” Mina began but you shook your head.

“No, Mina,” you snapped, “I said no. Get yourself and Takuya out of here. If one of us doesn’t…” your voice broke and you squeezed your eyes shut. Calm down. Breathe in, breathe out. “If one of us doesn’t make it out of here, we lose. I’m not losing anyone, not again. You guys are-you’re my family.”

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Mina insisted, “If any of Sugawara’s guys catch up to you, how the fuck are you going to defend both of you and get out of there at the same time?”

“I won’t be alone,” you said firmly, “I-”

“You don’t know if he’ll show up,” Takuya said quietly, “Bonten’s gonna need all hands on deck, they’re-”

“He’ll come,” you said firmly and Takuya quieted down immediately. “I know he will.”

He had to.

You shut your eyes again as Mina began to pull up to the building, letting out another shaky breath as you pressed your lips to the top of Ran’s head, “I’ve got you,” you whispered for the millionth time that night even though you knew he couldn’t hear you, “You’re gonna be okay.”

Pulling back, you tapped his cheeks several times, watching as his eyes fluttered open, dazed and confused, “Ran, you gotta work with me for the next few minutes, okay?”

He wasn’t registering what you were saying. You could see it from how his eyes didn’t acknowledge your words, from how his brows just barely furrowed. Your throat tightened, “Ran,” you repeated, “We gotta get inside, okay, we’re gonna stand you up.”

After a few moments, he nodded, and you let out a relieved exhale, shifting on the seat to help him to his feet, kicking open the back doors of the van, helping him down off the back as best as you could, grimacing when you steadied him as he swayed on his feet, gasping in pain. 

Takuya climbed over the console into the back of the van, crouching at the edge. He called your name and you turned back to look at him. Concern was etched on his face and guilt ate at you when you noticed the heavy bags beneath his eyes--realizing that he probably hasn’t slept in almost a week now.

“Be careful,” he murmured, “please.”

“I will,” you promised, “I’ll see you guys soon.”

Takuya let out a short breath as he nodded, shutting the van doors. You wrapped an arm around Ran’s waist, letting him lean his weight onto you as you helped him to the main entrance of the building. 

You winced as the rain beat against your skin, angled under the overhang, pricking your skin, “I’ve got you,” you repeated again, vision blurring with tears and because of the rain as Ran let out a low groan, nearly crumpling under the pain, “I’ve got you.”

“L/n-san! Where have you-oh god,” a familiar voice called. Mister Botan’s name was on the tip of your tongue, and it hurt having to bite it back. The new doorman’s face was ashen as he caught sight of Ran’s state. 

“Call up to Miss Yua and tell her we need her assistance,” you said sharply, grateful that your shakiness didn’t show in your tone. The doorman only stared at the two of you and anger hit you so hard and so suddenly that you couldn’t even control it, “Now!” you roared and that started him out of his shocked state as he nodded, bowing hastily.

“Of course, l/n-san, I’ll call up immediately.”

And your heart hurt, you barely were able to stop the sob that was rising to your lips as your mind drew you back to the first night you met them. Rushing ahead to the elevator as Ran carried Rindou, Ran’s aggression and defensiveness, everything had been simpler then, even if at the time it felt like the world was ending. 

“I’ve got you,” you told Ran again, and you weren’t sure if you were trying to reassure him or yourself as you pressed your face into the side of his shoulder as you waited for the elevator, “I’ve got you.”

The elevator dinged and you helped him in, pressing the button to the top floor, and it took all you had in you from losing control as Ran leaned onto you, face pressed against the top of your head, breath weak and unsteady, one arm draped around you. The arm you had around his waist tightened, and you grabbed his hand with the other, holding it in yours, trying to breathe in and out slowly to keep yourself calm.

“I’ve got you, I promise,” you said again, desperately trying to blink away the tears, “I promise.”

“I know,” his voice was hoarse, barely audible and this time you couldn’t hold back the sob and Ran’s hand tightened around yours, if only barely--just enough to show he was still with you. 

“I’m sorry,” the words spilled from your lips before you could stop them, “Ran, I’m so sorry.”

And you weren’t even sure what you were apologizing for at the moment--maybe everything, you realized dully. 

You swore it felt like eternity until the elevator binged again, signaling that you had reached the top floor--you were at the penthouse. You couldn’t tear your eyes from Ran’s lidded, barely conscious expression as you half-dragged him forward.

“Miss Yua!” you called, voice shrill and panicked, “Miss Yua!”

“Relax, child,” Miss Yua said sharply, her face was tight as her eyes landed on Ran, gaze worried, “Bring him to my office and then go get changed out of that mess. Understood?”

You opened your lips to protest--there was no way in hell you were leaving Ran’s side yet--but Miss Yua’s gaze narrowed and you swallowed thickly nodding as you helped Ran to the backroom. 

Miss Yua grabbed your arm, eyes softening, “He’ll be okay,” she said firmly, “I’ll make sure of it.”

---

Sixty-five. Eighty. Ninety-five. One fifteen. One thirty.

The speedometer kept ticking up. Rindou’s grip was tight on the handlebars of his bike as he tore down the empty streets of Tokyo. How he hadn’t gotten pulled over yet was a mystery that baffled him--or well, maybe it didn’t. He supposed the cops were too busy raiding all of Bonten’s warehouses to care for someone speeding down the streets.

One forty. One fifty-five. One seventy.

The rain started falling faster and Rindou knew he should slow down, that it was dangerous for him to keep up at this speed in this type of weather but instead, he leaned forward on the bike, speeding up. His breath was shaky and his arms were tense as he turned down another street, closer and closer to the building he had considered home for years, and as he drew closer, the anxiety he had felt upon receiving your message only amplified. 

“If it’s a fuckin’ trap, we’re not getting you outta there, you or your brother. We can’t spare the resources right now. Be fuckin’ smart, Rindou.”

His chest tightened, his lips pressed together tight as Sanzu’s words rang through his ears. And he knew that he was right--he was being dumb, rushing head first into what could be his death because of a shady message from you that he didn’t even know was legit or not. 

02:34 Penthouse. Ran. 

No explanation, no telling him if Ran was okay or not, no anything. Just those two words and when he had tried to respond, the message hadn’t gone through. That was all you had sent. 

Or, well, he assumed it was from you. 

It was from an unknown number that he assumed was you.

That he had no reason to think was you. 

He could be driving to his fucking death. It could so easily be a trap set up by their enemies--it was more likely a trap set up by their enemies than it was you fucking coming through for them. You had given them zero reason to believe in you, zero reason to trust you so then why the fuck was he-

He cut his own thoughts off, pushing away the doubt and steeling himself as the building of the penthouse came into sight, he slowed down the motorcycle, stopping at the front entrance hastily, not even bothering to turn off the motorcycle as he ripped off his helmet and sprinted inside of the building, hand curled around the grip of his gun, safety off, finger ready on the trigger.

He went right for the elevator, grateful that it didn’t take as long as it usually did to get to the bottom floor. He tossed Miss Sara a silent apology when he heard her call out after him in surprise, pressing the doors closed and the button for the top floor.

It was slow. Just as it always had been. And Rindou wanted to punch the fucking wall as doubt began to creep in again. Bonten was falling apart. All of their warehouses had been fucking searched and raided, their faces were all over the news. Sanzu and Kakucho were scrambling trying to protect what little resources they had left and Rindou was here, risking himself for something he had no reason to trust.

He let out a heavy breath, leaning forward as his eyes darted back up to where the floors were binging upward. His clothes were drenched, his hair wet and hanging in his face. His body burned with stress and nerves. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push it away. 

What if it’s a trap?

His grip tightened around the gun, finger locked on the trigger. 

He knew the answer to that question. 

A sick feeling stirred in his stomach, his throat felt tight, his eyes felt wet.

Please don’t be a fucking trap. 

He readied the gun in front of him as the elevator doors slid open to an empty room. The lights were on and the television was running in the background on the news station. Rindou grimaced as Sanzu’s face flashed on the screen, as live footage from one of their warehouses played in the background. 

Fuck.

“Rin.”

Rindou’s gaze snapped to the side, eyes wild as he shifted on his feet, gun raised in the direction of where your voice had come from--at the entrance of the hall where your bedroom was located, and where theirs used to be. You didn’t flinch, even as his arms trembled and his finger twitched on the trigger.

A part of him told himself to pull it. Bile rose to his throat as soon as the thought crossed his mind.

“Where’s Ran?” he forced out, and he hated how his voice cracked, how he choked over his own words. He pointed the gun at you more insistently, “Where the fuck is he, y/n?” 

“Miss Yua is patching him up,” you said, and he hated how steady your voice was compared to his, even with a gun aimed at your head. “You know how she gets when we interrupt her, I-”

“I don’t care,” Rindou hissed, stepping closer, he pressed the barrel of the gun to your forehead. You didn’t flinch. Your eyes met his. “Turn the fuck around and bring me to him or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off. For all I know this is a fuckin’ trap, just like the fuckin’ auction.”

“Rindou, look at me,” your voice was tight, “Does it look like I am dressed to fucking set you up for a trap right now?”

Rindou’s eyes dropped at your words, lips tightening when he realized you were dressed in a simple cotton tank-top and loose shorts. Pajamas, you would always wear something like that to sleep. And for a moment, just a moment, he could picture you standing in front of him as you argued for a horror movie over one of his ‘dumb action movies.’ Except instead of a gun pressed to your forehead, it was his hand as he forcibly shoved you back down onto the couch before you could change the channel. 

What the fuck was he doing?

He felt sick.

“Boy, put that gun down before I shove it up your ass,” a familiar, rough voice demanded and Rindou’s eyes widened, gaze flicking up to where Mister Ayato was standing at the other end of the hall, eyes cold, lips twisted down. 

Rindou’s hand dropped limp to his side. 

You turned your head to the side, “You shouldn’t be out of bed,” you told Mister Ayato, “You’re still ill. Go lay back down.”

Mister Ayato looked disgruntled, shooting a suspicious look between you and Rindou, and Rindou felt guilt eat at him as Mister Ayato’s eyes narrowed back in on the gun at his side. Rindou’s fingers were shaky as he holstered the gun back at his side, turning the safety back on. 

Satisfied, Mister Ayato turned back into his room, but not before tossing Rindou one last dark look. 

Your name left his lips, little more than a whisper, and he hated how weak he sounded.

“It’s okay,” you said, and he was grateful for the fact that he didn’t need to verbally apologize for you to understand what he was trying to say. “I get it.”

Rindou’s lips tightened and he looked away, “Is he okay?” he finally asked after a few moments. 

“Miss Yua said he would be fine,” you responded and Rindou’s tense shoulders slumped, relief hitting him like a truck because…

“She never says anything she doesn’t mean,” he murmured, and a soft, amused puff of air escaped your lips.

“No,” you agreed, “She doesn’t.”

There was another pause where neither of you spoke. Rindou grit his teeth as he braced himself to speak again, “I want to know the truth,” he said, and next to him, you tense. “The whole truth. From the beginning. You’re not fucking running away this time.”

You didn’t respond, Rindou looked back over at you, catching the way your lips were just barely wobbling, the sheen on your eyes. 

“Promise me,” he insisted. “I want you to-”

“I promise,” you said. Your voice cracked, and Rindou’s eyes darted down, noticing how your fingers were trembling like a leaf in the wind. He let out a long breath, anxiety pooling in his stomach as he wondered what could possibly have you this fucking spooked to tell them. Without thinking, he reached out, taking one of your hands into his, fingers curling around your shaky ones. You tensed for a moment and Rindou’s jaw clenched, waiting for you to pull away, but instead your grip on his hand tightened, and a warm feeling passed over him that he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. “I promise, can we just… I don’t want to say it twice, Rin.”

His eyes met yours again, a pleading expression on your face that he had never quite seen you wear before, and he relented, shutting his eyes briefly as he looked away. 

“Fine,” he said quietly. “We’ll wait for Ran.”

—-

wordcount: 8k

REBLOGS N FEEDBACK GREATLY APPRECIATED

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Taglist for Brothers Conflict

Reblog this post if you would like to be added to the taglist for this story.

◈ Summary: Your father marrying, and you suddenly having to live under the same roof with seven step brothers was a royal mess or so you had thought, Because them falling in love with you was so much worse. Or was it?

◈ Genre: Romance, Fluff, Humour, Smut and maybe a little angst. (PG-18) (step brother AU) (They are all adopted, I do NOT support incest, this work is inspired by the popular anime/manga Brothers Conflict)

◈ Pairings: OT7 x Reader (final pairing: will be decided by readers, could also be ot7)

chapter one

masterlist (all chapters can be found linked there)

TANGLED IN YOUR TRANCE • part one

𖤐 MASTERLIST 𖤐

Warnings: mentions of divorce, reader’s clothing described, use of “big brother” and “little sister”, little to no suggestion because we are not there yet

Word Count: 1.5k

Note: pink dividers by @/adornedwithlight! chapters will be longer after this one. Consider this a little introduction. Also, I’ve been asked to start a taglist, so let me know if you want in on that <3

You’re seventeen when your parents get divorced and eighteen when they remarry within two months of each other. Your dad bags a lady who’s closer to your age than his, and your mother finds herself a man who loves living in luxury as well as in debt from his uncontrollable gambling addiction.

It causes your relationships with your parents—all four of them now—to grow tense, causes you to slam doors and spit curses and cover your ears with expensive headphones (courtesy of the stepfather trying to win your affections).

The only, only good thing about your dysfunctional family dynamic is your new step brother, Toma, who you don’t actually see very much, but whatever. You’d been an only child your entire life, lived with a very specific type of loneliness that is impossible to describe, and now suddenly you have an older brother. It’s weird, but there’s an unspoken solidarity between the two of you right off the bat. The marriage between your mom and his dad is absolutely fucked from the start; you know it, and Toma knows it. Just like you both know you’ll be the ones that’ll have to deal with the inevitable fallout.

Every week you pick who you want to stay with, the lesser of 2 evils entirely based on your mood. Do you stay with your father and his irritating wife who only knows how to bond through mani-pedis? Or do you brave the big house full of fake smiles, embellished anecdotes, and late night arguments that echo through the halls?

Usually, it’s the latter that wins out. At least you can seclude yourself in your room there and no one will pester you to go shopping or get your hair done. (The new wife means well, you know deep down. She’s just so fucking annoying.)

Staying with your mom and stepdad also gives you the chance to maybe see Toma if he’s not on tour, at practice, or giving guitar lessons at the nearby music store.

He’s kind of intense, deep frown permanently etched onto his face, popping pills like candy. Usually dressed in perfectly tattered T-shirts and leather pants, his hair is bleached and spiked, one of his eyebrows is pierced—looks like he plays guitar in a metal band.

Which he does.

He isn’t your best friend. You’d barely call him an acquaintance. But every once in a while, you find yourself alone with him in the kitchen or the den. He asks simple questions to make shitty small talk, but it eventually leads you to ask about his band, which always ends in the two of you sharing opinions on music, newly dropped albums, etc.

It’s about the closest you ever get to bonding those first couple years, but it’s good enough for you, makes you feel like you’re not totally alone in the household.

The first time you find a burnt CD on your nightstand happens the same night that Toma sticks up for you at the dinner table. He’s been off tour for a couple weeks, and despite still not knowing him super well, you can tell that the stagnancy is making him cagey.

So, when your stepdad makes an offhand comment about your aesthetic—the skirts and fishnets and combat boots, it doesn’t go over well.

“All that black isn’t exactly inviting, sweetheart. You won’t find a man leaving the house looking like you’re ready to beat someone up.”

You’re used to it by now, spent most of your adolescence listening to your mom and dad bitching about the hair you let cover your face and the gory graphics on your T-shirts. This isn’t anything new to you.

However…

“Why the hell would you even say something like that?” Toma gruffs, fork gripped just a little too tightly in his hand. “The way she dresses ain’t got nothin’ to do with you, so shut your trap about it.”

“Toma—” your stepdad tries to defend.

“No. And why are you so concerned about her looking inviting? What the fuck does that even mean? You tryin’ to marry her off or somethin’?”

All your stepdad can do is get red in the face and grumble an apology, obviously out of his depth.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Keep your shit opinions to yourself, old man.”

You flash Toma a weak but grateful smile, nods in return, and that’s that.

It’s only when you’re winding down for the night that you spot it, the clear case and the bright blue disc within. His handwriting is surprisingly legible, all caps spelling out PLAYLIST #1 followed by each track in smaller print.

You’re only a little nervous when you knock on Toma’s bedroom door. You’ve never been inside before, all the way at the end of the hallway with the door perpetually shut. Your step brother doesn’t intimidate you, exactly, you just don’t have the best read on him yet.

When Toma opens the door, he’s the most dressed down you’ve ever seen him, wearing a t-shirt full of holes and a pair of black sweatpants. His hair is down and damp, barefoot as he steps to the side, and the chain he never seems to take off is missing from around his neck.

It’s strange seeing him like this: no tough guy exterior, just a dude in his early twenties living with his parents.

That’s not to say you look like you’re ready to hit the town. Sporting an oversized Hello Kitty shirt and little pajama shorts, you were ready to crawl into bed before you found the CD. The difference here is that while you’re taken off guard by Toma’s relaxed appearance, he doesn’t even seem to notice yours. And why would he?

You hold up the disc with a raised eyebrow, “a gift?”

Toma shrugs, lifting his arm high enough to let you walk under it and into his room, shutting the door behind you. Around any other guy, an action like that would have made your stomach flip in anticipation, but not this time. Definitely not this time.

“A few of ‘em are from bands we’ve toured with, but most of it is just shit I’m into that I think you might like.”

All you can reply with is a lame, “cool, cool,” too distracted with glancing around his room.

“I’m guessin’ you haven’t listened to it yet?”

You shake your head, eyes landing back on him as he sits at an old desk, a guitar laid out in front of him. From the looks of it, he’s restringing it.

“Not yet. Saw it and just… came to say thanks, I guess.”

He nods toward the stereo system up against one of the walls and tells you, “pop it in, then. I can give you my, uh, expert commentary.”

“Wow, lucky me,” you joke, ejecting the disc that’s already in the player to replace it with yours. You hope your dry tone is enough to cover up the buzz of excitement you feel at the prospect of getting to know him a little better.

For the next hour, you halfway listen to the tracks, more interested in what Toma has to say about each of them. Some of his ‘commentary’ is about the musicality of each song, but he also tells you about how he stumbled upon the the more underground bands and what it was like to play with the ones he toured with.

You use this as an opportunity to explore his space, or the space he allows you to see. You’re not snooping in his closet or anything, but you aren’t subtle as you look over the bulletin board full of tickets and peruse his little bookshelf–music theory, some biographies, a couple of psychology books (one about gambling).

When you pick up a model motorcycle from a shelf, Toma snorts, mutters, “you really are a little sister, aren’t ya’?”

“Huh?” you put the little bike down and turn to him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean rifling through my shit is a little sister thing to do.”

“I’m not rifling through anything,” you tell him, sucking your teeth, “–rifling would be if I was, like, going through drawers or something. I am simply… cataloging.”

He snickers, shrugging broad shoulders, and for some reason you feel the need to add, “I’m not actually that much younger, ya’ know.”

“Three years.”

“Two and a half,” you immediately correct, which, granted, is a little childish, but you can’t help yourself. The last thing you want is for Toma to see you as a baby as someone he has nothing in common with, someone he’d be embarrassed to introduce his friends to.

“Fine,” he concedes, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “two and a half.”

You shouldn’t care what he thinks or how he perceives you. It doesn’t matter. He only just recently entered your life—a new, hastily written chapter in an eighteen-year-long story.

There’s a part of you, though, bigger than you’d like to admit, that desperately wants him to like you, to approve of you–just a little sister’s desire to be loved by her big brother.

𖤐 NEXT 𖤐