truenuisance

[truenuisance]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧 .ೃ࿐

𝐩𝐫𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨!𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮 𝐱 𝐩𝐫𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 2.4k words; aphrodisiac accident, explicit smut, no reader pronouns but “pussy”, “clit” and “cunt” are used, pussy slapping, slight overstimulation, some plot, some fluff

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: first full one-shot! bakugou seemed like the right choice since his birthday just passed. manga cap colored by moi ( ᐛ )و plspls tell me what you think of my writing! i’ll really appreciate you!

𝐒𝐨 stupid.

You can’t believe you had forgotten to update such critical information—paperwork you had filled out nearly ten years ago that you simply never thought to return to, never remembered to return to.

Now your reminder has arrived (too late) and is standing in front of you with a deep frown etched into his features as he examines you from across the hospital room.

“M’sorry,” you breathe heavily, “you don’t have to stay.”

Bakugou doesn’t move aside from crossing his arms over his chest and making his quintessential mocking “tch.”

Dabbing your forehead with the wet rag you’ve been clutching for dear life, you try again. “No, it’s okay, I’ll be fine.” Nevermind the fact that it feels like your skin is on fire, and your blood is bubbling with need.

Fucking aphrodisiac quirks. Every hero knows to beware of them despite how rare they are, but after avoiding such a quirk for years, the warning turned into more of a myth in your head, even with the waivers and emergency contacts you’ve filled out in the past—one packet while you were still at UA (in which you listed your best friend as your ‘rescue partner’) then again at your first real agency job.

“Just list me, I don’t care,” the Dynamight had waved off. “Those quirks are so fuckin’ rare you’ll probably never run into one.”

So you put your fucking boss down on the paper like an idiot, and he scribbled his messy signature like an idiot, and then you both promptly forgot about the exchange until right this moment.

“Don’t be stupid,” Bakugou huffs in front of you, finally walking to you and snatching the rag out of your hand to wet it with colder water in the sink.

It’s been a couple years since you’ve seen each other in person aside from tense, fleeting moments during missions. He’s still attractive as ever, still gives you butterflies like when you originally worked for him, like when you used to ogle him through the TV in your early teen years.

He’s in his thirties now, and though his hero costume hasn’t changed much over the years, he fills more of it out—specialty spark-proof shirt sticking to every dip and curve of muscle, gauntlets looking less humongous where they hang under impressive biceps. He slips said gauntlets off and gently sets them on the stiff hospital couch then moves back to you and places the wet rag on the back of your neck.

If you weren’t so distracted, you’d be surprised at his composure, especially since you didn’t actually leave his agency on the best of terms. There had been a… disagreement about a promotion that resulted in you packing up your desk and storming out, not caring about the bridges you would burn by doing so. To add insult to injury, you ended up at one of his best friend’s agencies working under Chargebolt.

You expect Bakugou to bring it up and get mad, scold you for making such a rash decision (like he doesn’t do the same thing), but he doesn’t. All he does is sigh and mumble, “how’d you even get in this mess, ya’ dumbass?”

It makes you laugh which makes you cramp and throb between your legs. You aren’t sure how long you’ll be able to stand the small talk, though the cool water dripping down your back helps alleviate some of the heat.

“Seemed like a typical smash n’ grab,” you tell him, clenching your jaw when you feel his bare fingers graze your hairline. “Was not typical, it turns out. Guy got away with a bunch of jewelry and I got away with…”

“A need to fuck?” Bakugou snorts.

Your run your hands down your face while whining, “don’t say it like thaaaaat,” because it’s embarrassing.

“Why? That’s what it is? You got hit with a quirk that makes ya’ need dick.”

His tone is amused but it still goes right to your pussy.

“I don’t need dick,” you argue. “The effects will wear off on their own.”

“Yeah, but it’ll probably take longer.”

You watch as he bends at the waist to unlace his boots and take them off. He unbuckles his belt next, unbuttons his pants, and you’re swallowing excess saliva at the thought of what will happen next.

It’s Bakugou. Murder God Dynamight. Your old boss who you sort of fucked over. The idea of being so vulnerable with him nauseates you, but… he’s here, and he’s undressing, and he’s peering at you like he has no qualms whatsoever.

Your head is screaming at you to shoo him away, but your cunt is leaking with arousal, insides pulsing in time with your heartbeat, and you just don’t have the willpower to deny yourself the relief that he will surely grant you.

“Fine. Just know that I know this is a dumb idea.”

“You’re the one who didn’t fill out new paperwork,” he reminds while peeling off his shirt. “Take your clothes off, idiot.”

You roll your eyes but also obey without protest. “I see you’re still sweet as ever.”

All of your clothes are damp with sweat as you take them off and fling them somewhere. At this stage of a hookup, you're usually a little shy, wanting to cover yourself back up, but you’re not operating at full capacity as of now. There’s no room for shyness.

A lot of pro heroes have merchandise that goes far past t-shirts and keychains, and Dynamight is no exception. You don’t know how many “replica” dildos you’ve seen online and in sex shops, and though many of them are appealing, none come close to the real thing.

Bakugou has a fat cock, mushroom-shaped head leaking with translucent precum. A vein pops and curves up the side like a river that accentuates his girth. A gradient from pale to angry pink, it might be the prettiest dick you’ve ever seen, though that could be the aphrodisiac quirk talking. His is the kind of cock you want to suck, the kind you’d happily let bully your throat open. More than that, though, you want it inside of you. You want it to make you cum.

You reach out to grab him, but Bakugou steps just out of reach with a wicked smirk on his face.

“Nuh uh,” he shakes his head. “Gotta show me that pussy first.”

Your vision tunnels from the lust that overwhelms you, and you throw yourself onto your back hastily, shamelessly spreading your legs in both display and invitation. You don’t have to see yourself to know how pathetic you look, sweating and panting, thighs already trembling as slick leaks from your hole in thick globs. You’ve never felt this kind of desperation before, and now you truly understand why heroes are warned so heavily about these quirks.

“Fuck me,” Bakugou exhales, sliding to his knees and bending forward to press his face between your legs. At first all he does is breathe in deeply. You would blush if you weren’t in such a state, but the action only turns you on more.

A tongue traces from your hole to your clit, parting your lips and gathering your arousal with each pass.

“Bakugou,” you whimper, wiggling your hips wantonly.

“Shh, lemme make you feel good,” he rumbles.

Tears pool behind your closed eyelids, and you plead with him, “wanna feel good with your cock, pleeease.”

You feel his derisive exhale more than hear it, but as he rises and gets on the bed you definitely hear the words, “greedy brat,” leave his mouth.

Your back arches like your possessed when Bakugou guides his thick cock into your hole, gummy walls sucking him in until his tip is kissing your cervix. You need to be fucked now, need him to fuck you and fill you with his cum over and over again, “please, Kat…” you sob, falling into old habits of when you considered each other friends.

“I’ve got ya’, sweetheart,” he promises, slowly thrusting. “M’right here.”

He feels so good, sliding in and out of you and making a home of your insides. You feel him in your stomach, in your chest, and your heart starts beating too fast when you lock eyes with him.

“Ready for more?” he asks.

“Yeah, yesyes, please.”

Without any further warning, Bakugou manipulates your legs so that they’re pressed to your chest, knees parallel to your ears. Your eyes roll with the new angle, spongy tissue massaged in just the right way, and when Bakugou realizes he’s hitting the right spot, he starts snapping his hips harder and faster.

You’re full-on crying now, a steady stream of tears dripping from your eyes, but you’re smiling, begging, thanking whatever god there is that Bakugou is here and taking away your pain.

Your pussy squelches with every thrust, wetness splashing between your bodies, creating a tacky mess all over thighs and pelvises.

“Feel good, baby,” he tells you, and his own eyes are cloudy, lips parted and just asking to be nipped. So you lean up as well as you can, grabbing him by the hair at the back of his head, and kiss him sloppily.

Bakugou groans, rhythm faltering as he shoves his tongue in your mouth. It feels like you can’t breathe anything but him. He’s filling every inch of you, invading every sense. He smells like gunpowder, tastes like caramel, and feels like a body of divinity.

“S’your pussy always this creamy or is it just for me?” he growls, letting go of one of your legs so he can slide a finger alongside his cock, thoroughly coating it in your juices then pulling it out to show you.

“Quirk,” you gasp. It has to be, right? You can’t be this out of your mind for Bakugou, can you?

“Oh yeah?” he starts tapping your clit with his fingers, growing a little more aggressive with each hit until he’s slapping your swollen bud.

“Just the quirk, huh? This pussy squirting ‘cause of the quirk too?” He rubs over the slick bundle rapidly, overstimulating you until your body pushes out a geyser of squirt that soaks Bakugou’s toned chest. He resumes slapping your pussy, making you jerk beneath him, and keeps up the ruthless cycle until the bedsheets are drenched and you’re babbling a confession, “it’s you, always you, wanted you for so long, Kat…”

“Yeah, that’s what I wanted to hear,” he tells you approvingly as he starts fucking into you again.

Your walls swell around his cock, spasming with an impending orgasm. Bakugou keeps drilling into you, spewing filth right in your ear, breath hotter with every taunt.

“You wanted this cock so bad, yeah? That why you left me?”

You shake your head, jaw falling open as your climax builds.

“Wanted me to fuck your little pussy but didn’t know how to ask? Well, I am now,” he continues, “finally gonna fill you up like I’ve wanted to.”

Your breath is pushed from your lungs in a long moan when it hits you, puffy cunt gushing around Bakugou and milking his own orgasm from him, hot cum painting your insides and slowly oozing from your loosened hole.

You’ve heard that with many aphrodisiac quirks it takes more than just one sexual cycle to get it all out of your system—multiple phases of excitement, multiple plateaus, multiple orgasms, and multiple resolutions.

But sometimes one is enough. If the cycle is strong enough and your body releases enough…

“God, I feel so much better,” you say, chest rising and falling with each deep breath. “Thank you.”

Bakugou pulls out and rolls onto the bed next to you, also breathing heavily. Though still hard, you know his cock is spent, slowly softening where it glistens with the mixture of fluids. He doesn’t say anything, just nods.

You figure he’ll catch his breath then get up and leave, remind you to change your emergency contact.

But after several minutes of post-orgasm bliss, he pipes up in his gruff voice, “so why did you leave like you did?”

It’s not really what you feel like talking about, but you kind of owe him. Plus, the answer is pretty simple.

“You already know. I was angry about being passed up for the promotion,” you sigh. “I thought I was doing pretty well as an intermediate sidekick, but… guess not.”

“Nah, you were doin’ great. You did well with me and all the other pros.”

You glance over at him with narrowed eyes. “Then why’d flaming pubes get the promotion?” you think back to the new sidekick bitterly.

Bakugou opens his mouth but immediately closes it again. Sits up, hunches forward, drags a hand down his face.

“Kat… why?”

“Cause I didn’t want you on crazy fucked up sites,” he tells you, voice too loud. “I’d seen you cry during rescue missions and didn’t like it, and you split your fuckin’ head open on the Dark Shot mission, and I didn’t like worrying about you!”

You stare at him in bewilderment. He was… trying to protect you?

“You would rather some freshly graduated sidekick die than me?”

“I don’t want anyone to die, but least of all you.” He heaves a shaky breath, hands shooting out like they’ll help him explain himself better. “You were a distraction for me! If I could keep you even a little bit safe, I could keep doing my job right.”

Your head is clearing. You’re still foggy from your orgasm, but at least you’re no longer sex-crazed.

“So, what are you saying exactly?”

“Dude, don’t play stupid,” he snarks, but you can see the plea in his crimson gaze: don’t make me say it.

Fighting a smile, you decide not to tease.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I was distracted the entire time I worked for you. Crushing on your boss is hard.”

A faint blush reddens his cheeks as he mutters, “yeah, so’s crushing on your god damn employee. Felt like some school boy bitch.”

“Is that why you saved me today then? Get what you used to think about all the time?” you smile.

“No. I saved you ‘cause I signed my name on a legal fucking document.”

The very beginnings of disappointment rise in your chest, but before they can fully bloom, Bakugo leans over and kisses you. Much softer than what you had initiated while in the throes of passion. His lips are gentle, moving in sync with yours. There’s no tongue, no urgency, just pure satisfaction and contentment that makes you melt.

“Getting to do that is a pretty big plus, though.”

2023 ©️ shidou-x. Please don’t plagiarize or repost my works to other platforms.

#bakugou x reader #wow

[truenuisance]

if the world ended and we were overrun by zombies, what would we do to one another?

#and then he killed him

[truenuisance]

not somebody in my asks mad about tags I used in 2020- comate mi culo

[truenuisance]

Title: What’s Taking A Life or Two? (If It Means Getting to Keep You)

Pairing: Hanma Shuji/Female Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: MDNI. Physical and gun violence, assault, blood, murder, minor character death, arguing, gunshot wounds. There may be some bloody gruesome death things people don't enjoy but it's par for the course with this series lol

A/N: thank you to my sweet emme for literally always reading/betaing this series

Part 15 (prev) / Master Post / Part 16 (here)

It must be the early hours of the morning at this point. You’re freezing, exhausted, and the ringing in your ears hasn’t gone away. Sasori cut you out of your restraints a while ago, but you couldn’t stand right now even if you wanted to. Not with your body littered with lacerations, broken skin, and rapidly forming bruises. Everything ached. Your hair is tacky, pieces almost matted to the back of your head due to one solid hit to the skull. Kisaki didn’t want the blood in his office, so instead they took you back to the ground floor, and let the blood stain the concrete there. Your hands are dyed a deep red, dried from holding the blood back to no avail. You even crawled your wait into a secluded corner covered by wooden crates for some peace. You’ve no clue how you haven’t passed out.

Sasori finds you, coming around with a bowl of water and a large cloth. “Kisaki said t’ clean you up.”

You look at him with your back propped up against a nearby cement pillar as he crouches down in front of you.

“I’ll do it.”

“Nonsense,” he says, voice mocking as he dips the cloth into the bowl. “This is my order to see through.”

When he presses the cloth to the cut on your head, you jolt. There’s a burning caused by the liquid even as he drags the rough texture against the wound. It’s clear that the bowl isn’t filled with water, but alcohol.

Sasori smirks. “That hurt?”

“You know it did.”

You close your eyes with a grimace and try to take the sting along with the rug burn sensation from the cloth. 

“Kisaki tossed you around like a rag doll, huh?” You peek one eye open to see him evaluating the state of your body. “He wants the biggest reaction out of Hanma.”

“Should just get it over with,” you sigh. The ache is shifting into something sharper and your stomach churns. “Am I allowed t’ sleep or will I get my ribs broken for that?”

Sasori grabs your chin, tilting it up so your heavy-lidded eyes can still see him. “If he got it over with, Hanma wouldn’t have anything to fight for. Kisaki wants the desperation, the fight. He wants Hanma to remember who he was.” You don’t respond, closing your eyes instead. He releases your chin and says, “Sleep. You’ll be kicked awake when the main event begins.”

There’s something sinking in Hanma’s chest and he isn’t sure if it’s the nausea from the head wound or the thought that he will have to kill his only childhood friend in order to save you.

“We’re sticking to the plan.”

Hanma looks over at Mochizuki. “What?”

“The plan,” he sighs, remembering that Hanma ignored the entire meeting where they discussed the plan with everyone. “We surround the area. If she’s in a building–which we know she is now–we infiltrate the back of it. The goal is to find her.” Hanma nods, fingers twitching in his lap. “We shouldn’t go in guns blazin’.”

“And if we do?”

Mocchi shrugs. “We fight like we always have.”

Hanma chuckles quietly. “Then we burn the place to the ground.”

“Exactly.” With the warehouse up ahead, Mocchi turns off the headlights. “She’ll be fine–always been a survivor. She won’t stop now.”

When the car comes to a stop down the road, Hanma takes stock of what they’re walking into. The warehouse is illuminated on the inside, but its perimeter is dark and unassuming. The warehouse doors are hardly guarded. Three men stand with their faces in their phones, the white light on their faces giving away their positions.

“Mocchi, is anyone else here yet? He checked his clip was full of bullets before stepping out of the car as his companion did. 

“The Haitani’s are at the back with Kakucho. Sanzu’s comin’ with Mikey and Kokonoi.” Gravel crunches underneath their shoes as they approach carefully. Mocchi checks his phone. “The rest of the men are just behind us. Five minutes out, they’ll be surrounding the exterior and following us in on command.”

“Alright,” Hanma clicks the safety off on the gun and adjusts his grip. Its weight is heavier than usual, but he pays that no mind. “I’m gonna put a bullet right between the eyes of that dumpster fire looking mother fucker.”

They loop around the building, coming up to Ran who’s got a cigarette held loosely between his lips while unscrewing a silencer from his pistol. Rin is cleaning his hands with a handkerchief while Kakucho stacks two bodies in the taller grass behind them.

“Already, huh?” Mocchi tilts his head to the side as Sanzu walks back over to them, wiping his own hands on his pants. His hair’s pulled back, and he’s got a speckling of blood across his left cheek. “Only two were walking the perimeter?”

“Only two we’ve run into,” Ran says, face narrowly illuminated by the warehouse's dim inner lighting. “If we wait, I’m sure more will funnel out looking for those two.” He throws his thumb over his shoulder. “They went down easily,” he chuckles. “Tried to snatch Rin by his hair, though.”

Rindou rolls his eyes. “Fuckers always go for the hair first ‘n they’re always surprised when I bust their face open afterward.”

Hanma gets a closer look at the bodies, squinting to see their faces, and can recognize one as part of the group that took you. “You killed one.”

“There are two there, Hanma.” Ran’s watching him, the end of his cigarette brightening as he inhales. “Get hit on the head a bit too hard?”

“He means one of the guys we killed was there during the kidnapping.” Rin says, offering context.

The night comes to life in the brief pause, crickets chirp in the nearby grass and the rush of the wind glides around them. As if with a burst of anger, Hanma drills his leg into one of the dead bodies. Knocking them off of the other as they flop over with the force. He doesn’t stop kicking and stomping until the crunch of bone and the squelch of escaping blood are heard by the others.

When he’s finished, he’s huffing with the effort. Dusting off his clothes and rolling his shoulders back.

“Could you be any fuckin’ louder?” Rindou chides in a hushed, exaggerated tone.

Hanma doesn’t look at him. His face is neutral despite the outburst. “I want them to burn along with this place. If you kill them before that, make it fuckin’ painful.”

Ran snubs the last of the cigarette into the ground and he’s grinning widely as he claps Hanma on the shoulder.

“The Reaper’s finally reared his head again!”

“Hey.” Kakucho, observant as always, clocks the pulsing vein in Hanma’s forehead. The way his jaw is set and the tension between his brows. “You’ll get her back.”

Hanma looks between him and Ran. “You’ll all have to deal with how insufferable I’ll be if I don’t.” He flicks his bangs out of his eyes, sporting a sharp smile, canines glinting in the moon’s light. “I’ll burn this fucking city to the ground and one of you will have t’ put me down.”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that. Everyone’s here,” Mochizuki interjects. “They’re comin’ up the same way we did. It’s good for us to head in.”

“Finally,” Rin sighs. “We haven’t been able to have this much fun in so long.”

“Leave Kisaki to me,” Hanma starts towards the back entrance of the warehouse. “I’ll be the one to deal with him.”

“Sure,” Mocchi agrees. “But I’ll crack his skull open myself if you end up hesitating.”

“‘s fine.” Hanma steels himself with a deep inhale. He’s killed people close to him before. He followed and executed plans without morality sitting outside his door, so why was he so nervous now? “We’re supposed to go in quietly, right?”

“That’s the plan.” Rindou confirms. 

“Sounds fucking boring.”

“Hanma,” Mocchi’s tone is gruff. “Don’t—,”

“I’m ending this the same way I started it!” Hanma turns back to the Haitani’s, Kakucho, and Mochizuki with his arms held out to his sides. His expression is wild: eyes ablaze and a face splitting grin. “In a fucking bloodbath!”

Hanma blazes through the warehouse like a classical dance. He hasn’t felt this focused in so long and with the others at his side, serious, yet laughing as bodies drop around them is the kind of adrenaline high he’s missed. The rush of watching life leave someone who holds the intent to kill. Someone charges him with a knife and he dodges easily, side stepping them quick enough that they stumble and he’s able to pull the knife from their grip.

“No slow,” he smiles. “Maybe next time.” Then slits their throat.

“So messy,” Ran chuckles on his left. “You’re gonna make it harder for us to remove all the evidence.”

“Well, shoot them faster and I won’t have to cut them open.”

There’s a shout to their right, and Rindou lifts his arm to look at the area a bullet grazed him. He shoots the man three times, twice in the chest and once in the throat. “This was one of my favorite dress shirts.”

“Last time I did this alone,” Hanma muses, remembering the blood spilt on these same floors. “Should’ve known it would’ve been more fun with people just as insane.

“Hey!” Kokonoi shouts nearby, snapping someone’s neck like it’s nothing. “I resent that. I’m not insane!”

Hanma scrubs a hand over his face, grin too wide to contain. “God, this is so fucking fun!”

True to his word, Sasori kicks you awake. It’s a rude, gasping awakening. Your eyes fly open as his hand comes down on the top of your head, twisting his fingers into your hair and yanking you up to your feet.

“The party’s started, sweetheart!” He’s dragging you out of the corner. You’re too weak to fight, too disoriented from the blood loss. “Your boyfriend’s here!”

Once the pounding of your heart leaves your ears, you hear the shouting alongside thundering footsteps and gunshots. People are scattering like cockroaches around the two of you, most of them left bloody in the aftermath of those dying around them.

As Sasori pulls you closer to the heart of the bloodshed, you see bodies sprawled across the concrete.

A loud, bellowing shout rattles the warehouse. “Kisaki!”

You lift your head against Sasori’s grip, recognizing the voice as Shuji’s. Instinctively, you say his name, half in relief, half in fear. Despite the pounding pain, you remember what the plan was supposed to be; covert, under the radar. This—your eyes flick around once more to the array of bodies and spilled blood—is far from what was supposed to happen.

Shuji’s eyes meet yours. He’s a mess, decorated in splatters of blood, hair wild and sticking to his forehead, his glasses long gone. Last, there is a volcanic fury simmering behind his eyes. He snarls, lifting his gun and aiming right at Sasori.

“Easy!” Sasori laughs, stopping at least eight feet away from Hanma before he forces you to your knees. “Easy, easy. She may be in worse shape than we found her in, but she still works.”

The commotion from the rest of the warehouse comes to a halt with one last wail. You suspect the rest of Bonten stayed behind to take care of stragglers, to keep things from bleeding outside of the warehouse's walls. Quick footsteps approach and your head is wrenched further back. 

“Tell the other psychos to stay where they are.” Sasori sneers as he presses a blade to the top of your throat. “Or I’ll carve my name into her skin.”

“God, you’re so fucking unoriginal.” You complain, remembering exactly how Hanma first found you. All of this becoming one large, dreadful sense of déjà vu.

Sasori digs the tip of the blade under your chin. “You’d think you would know to shut the fuck up by now.”

Hanma tells the others to keep back. He looks at you, takes in the extent of the damage done and holds up his arm that’s still in a splint. “You’re just as busted as me, baby.”

You let out a strained laugh. “You should see the back of my head.”

“You two are,” Sasori slides the blade a couple of centimeters up your chin. A bead of blood blooms out of the cut. “So fucked up.”

“Look,” Hanma sighs, pulling his clip out of his gun and tilting it towards the light to check how many bullets he has left. “I’m not here for you. I don’t give to shits about you and your poor fuckin’ hair choice—,”

“What—,”

“—but you took my little housewife,” he slaps the clip back in the gun and gestures to you, “and now she looks like a bruised piece of fruit. So, you’re gonna die for that.”

Hanma lifts his gun, moving it around different parts of Sasori’s body like he’s trying to decide where to hit him first.

Sasori cackles dryly. “You’re batshit crazy! Is everything a fuckin’ joke to you?!”

“A joke?” His brow furrows even as he smiles. “I assure you, I’ve never been more serious about something in my life, you fuckin’ fire hydrant.”

“Fire hydrant?!” Sasori balks at the dig. “Stand up.” He uses your hair to pull you to your feet. “Put down the gun or I’ll slit her fucking throat right here and make you watch her bleed out!”

“Sweetheart,” you see Hanma calmly pull the hammer back on his gun. “Remember what I said it felt like to kill someone?”

You take a deep breath, ignoring the sharp pain in your ribs. “It’s exhilarating.”

Hanma’s smile is wolfish. “It is.”

He pulls the trigger, hitting Sasori in the bicep. With a shout, he drops the knife and, in a flurry of movement, you snatch up the knife. Sasori tries to raise his arms to protect himself, but he’s not fast enough. You grab his hair like he did yours, yank it back to expose his neck, and shove the blade directly into the side of it. His eyes are wide as they bore into yours, his hands desperately clutching at your shoulder as he gapes at you. You pull the blade out, letting the blood flow like a river before releasing his hair. 

You smile and drop the knife. “It makes you feel like God and Death all in one.”

“That’s my girl.” When you look over at Hanma, he’s smiling and closing the distance between you. Before you collapse, he’s got an arm around your waist. “Kinda felt like the day we met, didn’t it?”

You chuckle. “It’s why I said he was unoriginal, he—,”

Another gunshot rings out, breaking the moment, and you both jump, heads snapping in the sound's direction.

Rindou, with his gun raised, looks over at the two of you and lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “His hair pissed me off.”

You glance down at Sasori on the floor, only to see another bullet wound in the side of his cheek.

Ran and Mocchi come in after him, all of them looking disheveled.

“Where’s everyone else?” You ask.

“Outside.” Rindou answers. “Kakucho headed out there to inform them we’ve got everything covered here.”

Mocchi steps forward, a frown forming as he inspects you. “Bastard really put you through the ringer, didn’t he?”

“Sasori didn’t do this,” you exhale, resting your forehead against Hanma’s neck. “It was Kisaki.”

Hanma tensed. “Have any of you seen him?”

“They wouldn’t.” A voice from higher up answers. “No one came looking for me.” Kisaki is standing at the top of the steps leading to the office he beat you in. His own gun is already drawn. “I was getting pretty lonely, actually.”

As he comes down the steps, it feels as if the air has shifted to something frigid. Shuji pushes you behind him and mutters for you to go stand by the others.

“No,” Kisaki says, getting to the last step. “She stays or I kill her as she leaves. The others, though,” he looks over at them. “They aren’t necessary.”

Hanma knows this game. Kisaki would always make side alleys and escape plans for himself if things went south. Buying him time to get away was what the two of them did best together. Until he went and got his own hands dirty. He looks at you, no longer in arm's reach from him, but nowhere near close enough to Rindou so you can run.

“Leave,” you tell the others. They’re obviously opposed to the plan, but you double down. “Leave before he decides a murder suicide is the best immediate course of action.” Kisaki chuckles and goosebumps pebble your arms. You don’t look at him. “Come back if there’s gunfire.”

It isn’t until they leave you wish you’d have a gun yourself. This distance from Kisaki, to Hanma, to you is much too wide for you to feel any sort of safety.

Kisaki scratches the side of his face with the barrel of his gun. “She changed you.”

You can’t see Hanma’s expression, but he tightens his grip on the gun.

“What does it matter to you, Tetta?”

This visibly angers him, the scars on his face pulling taunt against his grimacing features. “You forgot about me–left me to rot in a hospital bed. I had no one!”

“I forgot about you!?” The statement wounds Hanma. Angers him, even. “You have no fucking clue what I went through! You were the only friend I had. I believed we could rule the world together, Tetta. I wanted to!”

“You’re a liar!” Kisaki yells, visibly shaking. “If you did, you would have looked for me!”

“You sound fucking insane!” Hanma shouts back even louder. “You can blame this on me and think that I left you behind in some twisted, fucked up version of this story, but ‌you died that day! Do you remember!?” His voice is strained by emotion. You’re sure there are tears welling in his eyes. Anger and sadness churning inside of him like a whirlpool, ready to swallow him. “That truck twisted you up in ways that a child could only believe you were dead. The fucking truth of the matter is, you didn’t come find me. Once you left the fucking hospital, did you stop to think about the friend who stood by you through everything!?” He actually waits for an answer, but Kisaki is too busy glaring at him to come up with a reason or an excuse for not seeking Hanma out. “I had to survive, so I joined Bonten and I fucking flourished!”

“But I’m here!” Kisaki reasons, desperate himself to prove a point. “I am standing right here in front of you and yet you’ve done nothing but cast me aside, and I know it’s because of her!” 

“You hand delivered her to me!” Hanma shakes his head and a mirthless laugh leaves him. “Your immeasurable desire for vengeance did this, not her. If you’d never kept your survival a secret, if you hadn’t used Bonten’s guns to arm your men, then I would have never wiped this place out and I would have never found her.”

“Then I’ll fix it.” Kisaki nods, he’s openly weeping. It looks like devastation and heartbreak. Well over a decade's worth of repressed emotions spilling over the surface during this exchange. Kisaki raises his gun, arm shaking and tension high. “I could do it right now. I’ll kill her and–” Shuji raises his own gun as soon as those words leave his mouth. His face drops at this before a grin splits across Kisaki’s face. “I knew it,” he mutters, laughing. “There’s only one way this can end.”

“You’re right.” Shuji agrees, nodding as he firms his resolve. “There’s no use in talking.”

Shuji squeezes the grip, its texture imprinting itself into his palm, and he feels the pressure of the trigger against his index finger. He hesitates, thinks of thirteen-year-old Tetta at his side, laughing about random bullshit and discussing their plans for the future, then sees the older version of him now and his frown deepens. Wonders what his life would have been like if Tetta had never been hit by that truck, if his parents hadn’t hidden him from his friend. If the coma hadn’t kept him asleep for so long or if Tetta had tried to find him. What would have become of them?

Shuji hesitates, and then he sees a quick movement from Kisaki, a flash of metal and, on instinct, a trigger is pulled. Two gunshots ring out.

There’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears. Hanma doesn’t hear or feel anything for a solid minute. It isn’t until Kisaki stumbles backward, laughing even though the bullet hit him in the chest, that sound finally reaches his eardrums.

The rest of Bonten storms in, as promised, at the sound of gunfire. In the split moment of confusion, no one can tell who, if anyone, was hit.

“You hesitated!” Kisaki shouts. “Shouldn’t have,” he’s having trouble getting air in his lungs, “shouldn’t have wasted time.” Kisaki catches himself from falling face first into the concrete as blood blooms across the fabric of his clothes. At the sight of him, Hanma feels empty. “Now,” Kisaki laughs a wet sound, “now you’ll really be all alone, Shuji!”

The statement brings a furrow to Shuji’s brow, but then he hears your voice, just barely among the rest of the commotion, and sirens blare in his head. He whips around to see you on the floor. That pretty face of yours has gone ashen and pinched with pain. He develops tunnel vision. You are the only thing that exists. He can hear Kisaki yelling at him, blood gargling his name, but there is only you.

Shuji runs, shoes slipping on the concrete enough that he nearly falls before catching himself. He collapses to his knees in front of your crumbling form, and mutters your name.

“Hey, hey,” his good hand is shaky as it roams over you. “Haitani!” Hanma roars with the depth of his vocal chords, its sounds echoing through the warehouse. “Rindou, get the fuck over here!” The harsh urgency is night and day to the gentle way his voice tilts as he turns back to you. “Where did you get hit, sweetheart?” You hiss as you lean into him to pull your shirt up, showing him the wound. “Fuck, fuck.”

“‘s fine,” you huff, looking at him with eyelids fluttering. “It’s ok,” you try your best to scan over him. “You okay?”

“Me?” He laughs. The sound is high pitched, just near the edge of hysteria. “Not a fuckin’ scratch on me.”

You frown, reaching up to touch the split in his eyebrow that’s still healing, the bruising around his orbital bone, and his splint covered wrist. He tries to ignore the acute realization that the wetness he feels on your fingertips as you touch him is your blood. Rindou appears in a rush with someone’s shirt and presses it to the gunshot wound.

“Hanma,” Rindou snatches his hand and forces him to hold the fabric. “Hanma, we gotta get her outta here.” He turns to the rest of the group that’s dealing with a dying or already dead Kisaki and the burning of the warehouse. “Mochizuki!”

“Rin,” Ran calls across the warehouse, gas can in hand. “We’re burnin’ this place to the fuckin’ ground! Let’s go!”

Rindou smacks Hanma on the back twice. “Mocchi’s gonna carry her. We have t’ get outta here. We’ll meet them at the hospital!”

You can smell gasoline and smoke. They’re already lighting the place up from the inside out. You remember the plan. Ran jokingly called it a Norse Funeral. 

“I’ll be alright,” you say to Hanma, trying to smile. “Go, I’ll be right behind you.”

He nods, but his eyes have gone blurry and he looks like he’s not all there. As if his brain is having an entirely separate internal conversation with the rest of him.

“Hanma!” Rindou tugs at his collar when Mocchi finally runs up to grab you. “Come on!”

Without another thought, Shuji hastily ducks down and kisses you. It’s messy and tastes like iron, but if it’s the last thing you get of him, you’ll savor every second. 

“I love you,” he says, chapped lips dragging across yours. “I love you, so you can’t fucking die.”

Rindou, having had enough, rips him away from you and pulls him towards the warehouse’s exit.

After all this fucking time, you think, he chooses now–when the world is about to burn around you, and there’s the possibility you might not make it out–now is when he would tell you he loves you.

“Hold the shirt if ya can, kid.” When Mocchi lifts you, and even though he tries not to jostle you, it still hurts like hell and you shout. “Sorry, sorry. It’s gonna be rough,” you hear the crackling roar of flames, “we gotta run.”

“Fine, whatever, just,” you squeeze your eyes shut and turn your head into his shoulder, “just get us out of here.”

Tagging: @heroineofcolor @touyasside @onlyshinji @pansexualproblemchild @boogeysmoth @510hz @yamat0 @sin-and-punishment @n30kulttech @alex-waddles @bbylime (can't tag you im sorry </3)

[truenuisance]

The Devotion of the Girl in the Mirror

Chapter 4 >> Chapter 5 >> Masterlist

✣ Pairing: Rindou x AFAB fem!Reader w/ a chapter cameo of reader/yuzuha

✣ Warning: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI

✣ Series: part of the In the Belly of the Beast fic universe

✣ Chapter CW: bdsm play feat. reader/yuzuha (gasp!), bondage, overstim, vibrators, exhibitionism, group BDSM feat. 2 other subs getting masturbated (one fem!AFAB and one fem!AMAB, idk crowd jeers, a little bit of degradation, bad communication & angst, drinking)

✣ Story CWs: BDSM dob/sub relationship; sex (oral, ptv, pta, etc.); genre typical drug use, alcohol, smoking

✣ Synopsis: A story of two lonely people find love for better or worse. Or, dom!Rindou is sweet on his girl. Or, on paper, you and Rindou have nothing in common. But sometimes chemistry defies logic, and with every conversation, you find yourself more bewitched until all you see, smell, or hear is Rindou.

✣ Word Count: ~8.5k

The black dot may have been nothing but a circle, a representation of the sun or an eye, except it is written, which makes it punctuation. As a symbol of punctuation, it may have been a period at the end of a sentence, except there are three, which makes it part of an ellipsis. As an ellipsis, it may have indicated a trailing off of a thought except it accompanies a blank space on his screen, an auto-generated signal from his phone, which means you are still typing, as you have been for the last five minutes with no message yet in response to his text.

It should not take this long to respond to an invitation to dinner.

With every minute that passes, his ire rises higher.

Rindou strains through another set of lat pulls, refusing to let you and your silent treatment slow him down. Opposite him, Benkei deadlifts a stunning 300 kg. When the bar hits the floor, the clang echoes off the mirror-lined walls.

There is a gym in the basement of his apartment complex, guaranteed to be empty in the early pre-dawn hours, which he prefers for the privacy it offers. Wakasa’s gym is never empty. Fighters practice boxing, MMA, and jujutsu with retired pros morning and night. Most of the customers sport tattoos from one syndicate or another, and Rindou often recognizes the guys on his own payroll by the free weights or sweating in the saunas. Rindou only started returning to Wakasa’s gym for the occasional practice bout or strength training session in the last few months. Wakasa’s been filling his ear with the idea of taking you and his girl on a double date, a vacation to the mountains when your semester wraps, and Rindou has been coming by to talk the details.

A text finally lights up his screen, and Rindou forces himself to ignore it for a solid minute while he finishes his set even as his eyes dart back against his will.

I can’t do dinner. Plans with Naoya. But I could do drinks.

Wakasa lopes forward, hands in his pockets, before Rindou can answer. It’s his turn to leave you with the ellipsis of anxiety and doom. He locks his phone and tosses face-down on a bench.

“Wanted to tell you we got the goods through Nagoya yesterday,” Wakasa says tonelessly. “Ushioda’s really come through. My guy says customs not only didn’t check, they agreed to decrease security personnel during offboarding. Ran is going to be a menace about being the one to make this happen, but he’s worked his magic on this.”

Rindou matches Wakasa’s subdued attitude beat for beat, but in his mind, he runs through a month’s worth of memos and emails to recall if he knew about this plan. “You sent a shipment of girls through the port? That’s fucking brazen.”

“Mochi wanted to test the limits early with something cheap before we put our expensive shit through there,” Wakasa said.

According to Takeomi, Ushioda begged on bended knee for clemency for his son. It was hard to say whether love or shame drove the father, but the outcome was the same. Acme Corp would smuggle Bonten contraband through the Port of Nagoya, so long as they streamlined into their regular shipping schedule to avoid setting off any alarm bells.

This was the second shipment received through the port after moving a little marijuana through a few weeks earlier. Rindou tries to keep his expectations in check as operations continue smoothly, but his hopes rise against his better judgment.

“Mochi says he wants to do a few more runs, but that you should start thinking through where you could source the heroine,” Wakasa relays.

They could source through the triads as the Chinese and Russian gangs already have inroads with the producers, but they would each take their cut and ruin Bonten’s margins. The drug would be new on the market. Rindou doesn’t want to price high outright. Start cheap and once the clientele can’t live without their fix, then drive the prices up. They could run a deficit to start, but that would mean Koko up his ass. Cutting the triads out completely isn’t an option either as they would need to ship out of China, but if they could build their own supplier network, they could negotiate a better rate.

“It’s gonna be too obvious if we have guys coming in and out of Afghanistan all the time. They don’t even run direct flights out of Seoul. We’d get picked instantly. I’m thinking we could get away with sending someone through to Turkey though. With a little palm greasing, they can cross into Iran without getting their passport stamped. The IRGC run the heroine trade through Afghanistan, so we could develop our own connections from there,” Rindou says.

Wakasa nods along at what he already figured. “Who you gonna send?”

“Not me if that’s what you’re thinking. I hate plane rides,” Rindou says.

“Of course, not you. We need you. I was thinking Hanma.”

Rindou groans. “I fucking hate that guy.”

“We all fucking hate that guy. But that’s why he’s good at this shit. He’s done great work in Hong Kong. Send him over there. He knows how to make the coldest man sweat,” Wakasa suggests.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll think about it.”

He finishes another set of lat pulls, while Wakasa and Benkei chat away about the insipid rise of Peloton. Endorphins rush to his brain, and he feels magnanimous enough to finally shoot you a reply.

See you at 5.

If he has anything to say about it, Naoya will be eating dinner alone tonight.

--

Two people could not be dressed more oppositely. Fresh from his post-workout shower, Rindou wears nothing but a pair of sweats. Droplets of water scatter across his bare shoulder blade as his long, wet hair drips freely. Strong chest and arms still pumped from muscle training great you at the door. You, meanwhile, dressed for an Arctic exploration in a floor-length parka, bulging in all the wrong places, a fluffy scarf wound three-times round your neck, and an equally fluffy, fur-lined hood. A mask completes the look, so the only skin he can see is a sliver of your forehead and your narrowed eyes.

“Just looking at you makes me feel cold,” you scowl.

“Just looking at you is making me cold.”

You barge right past him into his apartment. The heater works overtime to keep the entire complex a toasty 23 degrees. Past the entryway, where you slip out of your boots, the dining room table is lined with boxes of Chinese takeout; Unsure what you’d want to eat, Rindou opted to order a smorgasbord of options.

Beneath the unflattering coat, you wear a black dress. The long sleeves and tasteful length contrast a daring vee that dips down to show off the swell of your lovely, little breasts. You’re packaged like a delicious gift for the unwrapping, and Rindou can’t resist planting a soft kiss to the back of your neck as you hang your coat. He expects the battle tonight will be a long and painful one, but still you dressed up for him.

“Good to see it’s you under there. For a second, I thought it might be an assassin,” Rindou jokes.

“Easy for you to laugh all warm in here! It’s freezing outside. They’re calling for snow tonight into tomorrow, which sucks. I can’t miss class at this point in the semester,” you complain.

“Well, I’ve got everything you need to warm up,” Rindou says. He gestures at the table laden with food, and then, more critically, brandishes the bottle of wine bought just for tonight. “And if the weather’s too bad tomorrow, I’m sure they’ll cancel. You can just hang out here all day.”

“My professors are all sadists. I wouldn’t put it past them to host class as they get double-bypass surgery. They’d have the surgeon right there in the lecture hall,” you grumble.

Rindou half listens as you launch into a prolonged rant about your upcoming finals. His attention is understandably split as he searches your lively expressions for the ugly shadow of jealousy. Behind every word, he hunts for double meanings.

The look of pure betrayal on your face when he ran into you yesterday in Chiba will not soon leave his mind. It colored his scenes yesterday with Mayuri, turning him mean and unmerciful as he bound and belted her ass red. She deserved his full attention after putting her trust in him, but Rindou twice almost walked away to call you. Had you answered, he might have berated you for daring to look at him like that, like you’d caught him fucking your mother or murdering the family pet. Like he’d done something unforgivable to you.

Now, as you gripe about exams, every bit the picture of the beleaguered uni student, your words ring false. Like you are filling time and space to put distance between the you of yesterday, so judgey and offended, and the you of today. You tell him how exams are two months out, and like a good student, you are already studying in earnest in the pits of what you dub “flashcard hell” as Kii has taken to posting flashcards over every expanse of wall in her apartment, springing prep questions on unconsenting listeners, and crying periodically about how she should have spent fewer hours sleeping and more time reading the supplementary materials. Rindou hums in sympathy in all the right places, and he almost, almost begins to relax into the conversation. Like an idiot.

“Are you feeling the dumplings or the pork?” Rindou asks, plating up a hearty helping of food for himself.

“Neither. I can’t eat, remember?” you say.

“Oh, come on. Stay the night. It’s too cold to be going out.”

“True, but I promised Naoto. We’re going to this really fancy curry restaurant, and he said he’d pay, so I’m planning to go all out and get dessert,” you say.

Noticing his wine glass is running low, Rindou drains the last dregs and pours himself a healthy portion. This will be easier drunk. He debates pouring you more as well, wondering if a little tipsiness would make you spunkier or mellow the worst of your impulses. Because he senses the fit approaching, the moment you break your pretense that everything is fine and well and force a confrontation.

“You know, I don’t like playing games,” he says.

 “I don’t like playing games either.”

“Then, don’t.”

Rindou says it shortly, definitively. The barest hint of command reinforces his voice, and he watches the way you receive the order, squirming in that delightfully submissive way of yours before you reject your inclination to obedience. You set your jaw.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say.

Rindou sighs. He expected you would be difficult but not passive aggressive. Not like this.

“You have dinner plans with Naoto? Seriously?”

“Yes?”

“Bullshit,” Rindou snaps. “I expected you to be immature about what happened yesterday, but this? You’re better than this. Forget your conveniently timed dinner plans, and let’s act like adults. Then, we can have a nice night.”

“It’s a work event. Naoto was nervous about going alone, so he asked me to come with him. This was planned weeks ago. I just forgot until he reminded me,” you insist, standing up from your chair, like the added height will strengthen your lie.

“Convenient,” Rindou sneers.

In the six months you’ve been together, you have never had a genuine fight or even argument. Seeing your smiling face typically puts Rindou in too good a mood, curbs the worst of his temper, so he is slow to pick fights. You, meanwhile, listen so well, adapting your behavior without him having to utter a word. Bickering typically becomes flirtatious banter in a matter of minutes, the kind that ends with your panties in his pocket.

So, Rindou doesn’t know what to expect from you in a real fight. He half expected you to fold at the slightest correction. You are still young, so he doesn’t write off the possibility of some kind of petty manipulation either, the silent treatment maybe, or more probably breaking into a mess of tears, the kind that bring so many men to a panic; Unfortunately for you, Rindou doesn’t capitulate to a woman’s cries or begging, going cold at any miserable attempt to manipulate his emotions.

Faced with you now, the tendons in your neck pulse as you square of against him without any sign of crumbling. You worry your lower lip between your teeth until it is red and swollen. It is the only sign of anxiety. Otherwise, you stand strong.

“If you feel like I’m somehow attacking you, it must be a guilty conscience. Because I haven’t said or done anything to you.”

“What do I have to feel guilty about?” Rindou demands coldly.

“You’d have to tell me. Because I thought about it all day and night –”

“See, I knew you were wound up about yesterday –”

“I thought about it all day and night,” you raise your voice to drown him out. “And, yes, it was weird to see you with someone else. Yes, it hurt. It was so unexpected. But, if you think I’m trying to punish you over it, you’re out of line because my eyes are wide open. You’re not my boyfriend –”

“No, I’m not. Which is why you shouldn’t –”

“I know, I know. How can I be hurt or angry when you’re not my boyfriend? You didn’t cheat on me or break any promises. I have nothing to be upset about.”

“Right.”

Confused and more than a little wary, Rindou sits back down at the table. He has held conversations like this a few times in his life. Most subs understand the importance of negotiation implicitly and take him for what he is. There have been a handful of in the past, however, usually inexperienced women like you, who struggled to work through the limitations of their relationship with him, crashing futilely against the boundaries of what he offered.

Because he doesn’t do relationships. Blame it on the dangers of his work, the secrecy inherent in the lifestyle, or some intrinsic flaw in his makeup. Regardless, he never plans to tie himself down to one woman. All that road offers is the erosion of his freedom.

“Since you wanted to talk about it so much though, bringing it up and all, I would like to ask about what I should expect,” you continue. “Because I didn’t realize you were seeing other people, and that raises questions. Like, are you practicing safe sex with these women? Have you been getting tested for STDs? Should we be using condoms? And, are you looking for more long-term subs? How would you even fit in another sub? Would we have to see each other less, so you could make time for a new one? What should I expect going forward?”

Each question is too reasonable to deny, so Rindou answers plainly, “You’re the only person I see regularly, so I use condoms with everyone else and get tested on the first of every month. If you want to use condoms together, that is entirely your decision. I’ll accept whatever you decide. I’m not looking to train anyone else right now. If I found someone that suited my tastes, I might consider it though, and yeah, that would mean adjusting my schedule around because I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you would not be open to training together.”

“No!”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Rindou says.

“How many women have you been with since we got together?” you demand.

There is no good answer, and Rindou groans, “Seriously? Don’t start overreacting now.”

“I’m cool! I’m being so cool. Just answer the question,” you smile, but it is a mockery of your normal, gleaming smiles. Teeth clenched tight together, it is more like an animal baring its fangs.

“No! I don’t owe you a fucking itemized list of every woman I’ve fucked. Just like I don’t run around town telling them about you. I haven’t cheated on you. I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“I just wanna know how and when you’re finding time to meet other people.”

Rindou rolls his eyes. “Because that’s rational. You don’t actually want to know the answer to that.”

“I just don’t know where you’re possibly finding the time to meet all these women –”

“Again, you’re exaggerating. Not all these women. Some, like Mayuri, I knew before you. Some I meet through work. Straightforward stuff.”

“Mayuri is the woman from yesterday?”

“I think we’re done with this conversation now,” Rindou says tightly.

A shininess blurs the color of your eyes then, and Rindou sighs. He wants to wrap you up in his arms and praise you for being such a strong, beautiful girl because despite all your tough words, this isn’t easy for you. If he could be a better man for you, he would consider it, but there is only so much he can offer, and the burden of accepting that is on you.

“Thank you for being honest with me. I really do need to head out and meet Naoto, but I’ll think about the condom thing,” you murmur.

“Baby, don’t leave like this,” Rindou tries. There is no more fight in your stance and now that the threat of conflict is ended, he finds the energy draining from his whole body.

“I’m fine! We’re fine. Seriously, Rindou. I’m not going to overreact or stamp my foot at you like that might change something. My eyes are wide open like I told you. I understand where you’re coming from completely. We can hang out soon,” you say.

Rindou doesn’t like the idea of you leaving when your foundations are so shaken, wants to stuff you full of gone-cold Chinese food and cuddle on the couch until you fall asleep on his shoulder. Even if neither of you yelled or descended into insults, he feels like he fought a war, and the only way to recover is in your arms.

He follows you to the entryway.

You redon your winter gear in a hurry. The puffy coat is plush and cozy as he pulls you close and kisses you long and slow. You return the kiss with wind-chapped lips not fighting him at all. The heat that always explodes between you blazes, and he cups and caresses you through the barrier of the coat.

He wants you to stay.

You break the kiss after only a minute and smile.

“I’ll call you, ok?”

And then, you are gone.

--

When Rindou sleeps, he dreams of shopping malls built like mazes, window shopping displays of the finest goods, and he understands without knowing that to obtain even one miraculous product from these stores would spell his salvation; But whenever he tries to enter one of the stores, the maze shifts, redirects him until he is walking forwards again, searching. Still searching. During the slippery seconds between sleep and waking, that liminal space where dreams and life converge, he stews in resentment for what he can’t possess. That resentment often follows him into the day, though he tries not to dwell on it. The recurring dream started sometime in his early twenties. He remembers that dream joining him in sleep on at least a monthly basis, but for all he knows, he dreams it every night only to forget with the rising of the sun.

The weeks that follow the lingerie incident remind him of that dream only there is no supernatural force reworking the architecture of time and space to prevent him from entering the store. It feels like he’s piloting a plane headed straight for a cliff. There is still time to push the emergency button and eject to safety if he is only willing to abandon the plane to its solitary, fiery fate. But, he is a pilot, and the plane is all he’s ever known, and the longer he goes without pushing the button, the slighter his chances of escaping unscathed.

Because you are not fine.

The three weeks that follow pass at a crawl. Time reshapes itself into molasses around the giant you-sized absence in his days. It is easy, at first, to deny the obvious as you offer such convincing excuses to blow him off. After all, your friends do often lean on you for emotional support, and finals are drawing close, and your mother does deserve a break. So what if you leave his texts on read for hours at a time?

On the fourth day, he calls you in the free period he knows falls between your Wednesday lectures. When you answer, Rindou mistakes your sing-song hello for the voicemail you have relegated him to recently. You apologize for not having time to talk, squeezing more words into a breath than humanly plausible as you explain your packed study schedule. You promise to see him soon before you hang up.

You sounded fine on the phone. The same voice, light and airy like spring personified, that Rindou knows so well.

But you are not fine.

The ice wall between you thaws a little in the second week when Rindou reminds you that he bought tickets to the Inaba/Salas tour. Again, you surprise him by joining as planned at the stadium. Throughout the concert, you smile and cheer along, and the open delight on your face as you groove to the music invites him to join in the fun. At the end of the night, he drives you home to where you swear your mom is waiting. He kisses you breathless in the front seat of his car. You sigh hot and sticky into his mouth, notched into the crook of his shoulder like you have carved a space for yourself there, and whisper “Sir” with more fervor than a prayer. Everything seems fine.

But you are not fine.

Only a few days later, you agree to a date. The familiarity as he texts you details and soaks up your liberal usage of emojis relaxes him into thinking all is well. He takes you ice skating at Tokyo Midtown Gardens. With your little gloved hand in his, you half carry each other around the rink, equally graceless without the surety of solid ground. Rindou laughs more than he has for two weeks. You both fall again and again, Rindou toppling each time so as to shield your body from the worst of it. As you sprawl on top of him, padded from head to toe in winter wear, you promise to kiss his purple bruises better and call him your hero. Back at his apartment, you do just that, licking and kissing every part of his body, losing track of time. The trains stop running, so you sleep where you belong in the cradle of his arms. He wakes up at 6AM to the sound of you shuffling, halfway out the door citing an early start to the day. You would have left without a goodbye, but at his groggy inquiry, you tell him you are fine.

But you are not fine.

Rindou wants to confront you about the change. He hates playing stupid games more than accusations or tears and would rather have it out at this point. But, whenever you visit, he never broaches the subject. Because you are so singularly you! And fuck it. He misses you. The contrast between seeing you fives time a week and this drought is stark. Now, when you leave, you don’t send him dumb memes or answer his calls to talk about your day. You don’t rush to make plans to see him again either, and Rindou knows he can’t accept your lame excuses anymore. Something is fundamentally broken.

For the first time in maybe ever, Rindou throws himself into his work. The timing is convenient with recent developments, so he offers to take the meetings outside the perimeter of Tokyo when before he might have dragged his feet. He personally briefs Takeomi every day. When Kakucho mentions a security threat in passing, Rindou volunteers to help even though it falls well outside his purview. Anything to keep the body active.

You had come to fill up the hours of his day, to be the dessert he could look forward to after a meal of veggies. Rindou can’t comprehend how he used to fill the interminable hours between six PM and sleep without your assistance.

So, he works, and he tries not to think about anything much at all.

The plane soars onward without any assistance on his part. The details of the exposed cliff face, jagged and unforgiving, grow clearer by the hour. There will be no escape. When he crashes, Rindou knows he is going to explode.

--

Ran once said all of Bonten has PTSD in one form or another. Overexposure to high stress, life-or-death situations puts too much stress on the adrenal system, so now half the executives drop to their stomachs when a car misfires, stand with their backs flat to the nearest wall in every new room, avoid crowds like some people avoid traffic tickets. Rindou considers himself free of this affliction, but on the road, hands flexing on the steering wheel and eyes split between mirrors like a car might strike out into his lane at any moment, he is every bit as activated.

The hour is late, creeping towards midnight when Rindou pulls onto the expressway. There are predictably few passenger cars sharing the road. Semitrucks kick up a mist of rain that obscures his windshield.

To fill the sleepless hours, Rindou is developing all kinds of new habits. Driving, brain preciously blank to all but the threat of traffic, is one of them. So is going to the office. Just today, he went to the Ueno office of all places rather than watch the hours of the day tick by in his apartment. There is no email unanswered, directive unissued, or memo unread to keep his brain occupied. He wishes there was because his apartment holds as little allure now as it did this this morning.

A notification lights up the display. It’s a reminder that the BDSM club in Roppongi – the one where you first met – is open for play tonight. Rindou palms his cock, and it feels like an animal, a dead one, in his pants. Not even a stir. His mood is too black and distracted to responsibly dom anyone, so he dismisses the notification.

Screeching the tires, Rindou almost misses his exit. He brakes hard down the ramp until he shoots out on a quiet street. At the drab buildings, he does a double take, recognizing the north entrance to Nakano Station.

He has driven straight past his real exit and an extra twenty minutes without noticing to arrive in your neighborhood.

Rindou feels drunk despite not taking a sip of alcohol all day. He pulls into a gas station and refills the tank. While it pumps, he pops his contacts out of sore eyes. Everything blurs like a photograph in soft focus. He closes his eyes against a headache and breathes deep for 120 torturous breaths. Back in the car, he unearths his glasses from the glove compartment. They’re the same style, though a stronger prescription, that he wore as a teen. Catching his reflection in the rearview, Rindou sees the boy he once was. Just as lost, letting things happen around him without a thought, only leaping to action when stronger powers (namely Ran) prompted). Someone who watches as life happens.

Nothing is in his control.

The BDSM club is five minutes closer to Nakano than his apartment, a negligible difference, but after the driving mix-up he changes course. Nostalgia takes the wheel to lead to where you first met, where he has not visited since.

The ticket takers at the theater don’t recognize him, hesitating until he points at the tattoo on his throat. He looks unkempt: hair ratty and unbrushed, jacket slung over his shoulder and button-up crumpled at the ends, and his glasses highlight the eyes of a man who has barely slept in days. It is no surprise that subs don’t flock to him when he enters. He doesn’t look like the all-powerful dom tonight. Best he sits back and watches.

Rindou pays for a full bottle of bourbon, served neat and hard on the taste buds. The club is busy as it’s Saturday, and couples and groups clog the four stages. There are no tables left close enough for a view of the action, so Rindou stands in the corner, taking heavy swigs straight from the bottle until his stomach cramps.

There is little variety on stage. Three doms whip, cane, and flog their subs. All older man with younger women. They are impersonal, showing perfunctory delight at the infliction of pain. These are the kinds of scenes that bore him when done without finesse.

On the fourth stage, he recognizes Lady X, a domme he knows from many shared nights spent just like this, bringing women to their knees. Lost in his memories is Lady X’s real name. Yuzu something…Yuzuriha? Yuzuyu? In the clubs, she always goes by her alias or is called simply Lady, but Rindou remembers her vaguely as the sister of the tenth gen leader of the Black Dragons.

Lady is the antithesis of Rindou as a dom.

If Rindou finds control in manipulating a pliant body and acceptance in a sub’s embrace of his touch, whether it offers pain or pleasure, Lady finds release in giving her subs what they want. Where Rindou hoards women’s orgasms like precious jewels, flaunting his ownership of them only to hide them away again, Lady distributes them like cheap birdseed, doling out orgasm after orgasm to her thankful subs. Eventually said thanks turns to pleading, as one orgasm becomes four and the pleasure twists to something monumental. Lady then ups the vibrator or nips the woman’s clit with blunt teeth because, as she told Rindou once over a drink at this very bar, her goal in every scene is to create a world where her subs’ worst problem is the existence of too much pleasure, not its absence, nor its inverse, pain.

Tonight, Lady commands the largest audience of patrons. No surprise there as she strikes quite the picture herself, tall and lovely in a pencil skirt as she brings three subs on stage to piteous tears. Rindou slides closer to her stage for a better look.

Suspended in a harness of ropes, the first sub weeps wretchedly. There is a hitachi wand held to her clit. The setting must be high because the buzz travels from the stage to his ears. The woman cries but does not beg for mercy. There is the sheen of the acolyte behind her eyes, like she might commit unspeakable acts if they only bring her back here to Lady’s ropes and generous toys.

A second sub at her side stands restrained but not suspended. Her arms are tied above her, so that she can do nothing while Lady strokes her cock. Lady’s little hand smears messily over the tip, which is an inflamed red. There is a puddle of cum on the floor from the woman’s past orgasms. Little drips of semen harden on her legs. Every touch must hurt, but Lady keeps playing with the tip, forcing her back to hardness whether she likes it or not.

The third sub is just an ass in the air. A perfect ass at that.

Bent over a wooden block and shackled at the ankle, so that her legs are to the audience, the sub’s pussy is spread wide around a vibrator taped to her clit. Her feet kick ineffectually against her restraints, little trembles jiggling her thighs.

Rindou enjoys watching Lady work, so self-assured, so competent at bringing her subs to the brink and past. His eyes stray again and again to the pretty ass in the air. A stir in his pants makes him question his decision to abstain tonight. It has been over a week of his own hand.

After fifteen minutes of more of the same, Lady releases the first two subs from their ropes and cuffs. They are felled heaps on the stage, panting in puddles of their own slick and cum. Lady rounds to the third sub, leaning toward that hidden face in private conversation. Then she stands, and sighs for the audience’s benefit.

“Here I am being so generous, telling this slut to cum as many times as she wants, and she hasn’t cum once! What to do?”

Lady answers her own question by crouching down in front of the sub’s spread pussy and burying her whole face in it. There is a lull in the music, and Rindou can hear just how lewdly Lady laves that pussy with her tongue. Her fingers stretch the sub’s hole at a brutal pace. The woman keens loudly and kicks her feet again. Everything from her little naked toes to canting hips look beautiful in the throws of overstimulation.

Of course, Rindou knows without knowing. A presentiment colors the scene. He leans forward with interest, compelled toward that wet cunt, not wanting to miss a moment of the action, but his stomach sickens too. He ignores the sensation, blames the bourbon warming its way down his belly.

Lady tuts as the sub continues to hang on the precipice without teetering over.

She turns to the audience and says, “Little slut is having a hard time coming without permission from her old dom. Isn’t that the most pathetic thing you’ve ever heard? Why don’t you let her know she has permission to cum? Tell her to squirt all over my hand.”

Eager to join in more actively, the crowd of about thirty hoot and holler in encouragement, mixing in obscenities about the sub’s wet cunt and place beneath Lady’s toys. Rindou claps along.

Four fingers slam in and out of that sloppy hole, and the time between shakes and cries from the sub evaporates until she is blubbering at the stimulation. Lady yanks her up by the hair to gift her the added sting at her scalp, and it pushes the sub over the edge.

Correction: it pushes you over the edge.

Because Rindou knows that ass, and he knows those toes, and even at a distance with the lights too bright and a row of people in front of him, he knows that pretty pussy, too. That pretty pussy now clenches around Lady’s fingers in an orgasm far too long and powerful for your overstimulated body.

Rindou watches your face screw up in pain and tears, an expression just as familiar to him. It is an expression that should belong solely to him.

All three subs follow Lady dutifully off stage after your orgasm finally settles. She bundles you all in blankets, heaping compliments and affection down on you as is your due after such a trying scene. Rindou hovers within earshot as Lady pets your head and rubs a tear from your check. Twenty minutes elapse as you come out of subspace, during which time Rindou drains half the bottle of bourbon.

“I look like a racoon. I’m gonna head to the bathroom and fix my makeup,” you laugh, pointing at the streaks of mascara that paint your cheeks.

You replace the blanket with an overcoat to shield your nakedness then weave your way through the crowd. Compliments on your performance rain down from all sides. Rindou shadows your step. Not far from the bathroom, you drop your phone. When you turn to pick it up off the floor, Rindou is there, already scooping it off the ground.

“Rin – Rindou!” you yelp.

“Not trying to scare you,” Rindou says immediately, defensively, and he passes the phone back to you without even scanning the lock screen for a peek at your messages. “Just saw you and wanted to say hey.”

“Well, hey…um…”

“You might wanna fix your makeup. You’ve got…” Rindou gestures at the cakey residue you already know is there, and you curse.

“Yeah, sorry. I need to go to the bathroom and deal with this.”

“I’ll come with you,” Rindou says, opening the door for you.

“Rindou, you can’t come in here with me,” you whisper.

He almost tells you it’s his club and he can do whatever he wants, but Rindou wears his secrecy like a second skin and only smirks at your worries before following you into the women’s bathroom. It is a six-stall affair with a wall mirror above the sinks. He can hear a woman pee behind the door of one stall, but he ignores the stranger’s presence as you ignore his, turning to the mirrors.

“You did good up there. Looked like you had a lot of tension to work out, which isn’t surprising considering all the studying you’ve been doing. Didn’t you have a paper due this week?” Rindou prompts.

You rub dry fingertips against your cheeks. When that doesn’t work, you wad up three paper towels, wet from the sink, and scrub.

“Yeah, I had a paper on Bashō’s references to music and instrumentation in his poems, which was due on Thursday. It could have been a lot worse honestly. I like the subject, and I thought my first draft was good for once. Of course, I had a complete breakdown on Wednesday after dreaming that the paper was really supposed to be about Nishiyama Sōin and that I’d miscited every source in there, but um, I managed to calm myself down.”

“Good. I don’t know why you always have nightmares about your papers. You always get an A.”

“Not always,” you say darkly.

The woman in the occupied stall hurries out, casting a few curious glances Rindou’s way as she washes her hands. She doesn’t dry them, leaving little splatters of water on the counter. Then, they are truly alone.

“Are you planning to stick around now that you finished your scene? Can’t imagine you wanna do another after that? It looked intense.”

“You really watched that?” you ask.

“Most of it,” he confirms. “You did good.”

“Thanks,” you say without looking at him. You dry your hands while staring at your now streak-free reflection in the mirror.

“If you don’t wanna stay, I could take you home. Or, if you’re hungry, I know a 24/7 breakfast place not far from here. You never eat enough after a scene,” Rindou says.

“Um, I’m good…Have you been coming here often?”

“No, it’s my first time in forever. You?” he asks in a tone that just misses casual.

“It’s my second time in the last two weeks. I’m kind of trying out stuff right now,” you say.

“Trying out stuff…” he tests the words.

“Are you okay? You look a little tense.”

Normally, Rindou chooses his words with precision, but he finds himself unable to process his surroundings. He exists somewhere outside his body, outside his brain, outside this room entirely. He peers down on the scene almost like a security camera, removed and distant. No, rather more like footage from a security camera, viewed days after the fact in a little room by someone who neither knows nor understands the context of the scene. Trying to think through the likely consequences of his words or choosing an alternative phrase, he finds his thoughts vaporous and ungraspable. So, he simply speaks.

“I didn’t like it.”

“Like what? Watching me with someone else?” you say quickly.

He grunts because that’s easier than searching for any kind of answer.

“You said we could fuck other people.”

“I know. You didn’t do anything wrong,” Rindou agrees. It is the correct and automatic response, but he can’t resist tacking on the truth at the end. “I didn’t like watching.”

“Well, that’s flattering at least,” you mutter.

In a different reality, one where he sent you up there with a pat on the ass, he might have liked watching Lady work your cunt up to a waterfall before returning you to him, still hovering on the precipice, edged and needy. He might have liked teasing you all night with the possibility of an orgasm. But he did not like watching you cum for someone else. Not without his permission. Even with a filmy gauze slowing down his brain from the half bottle of bourbon, he knows that much.

“We’re not okay, are we?” Rindou asks.

“No, Rindou. We are not okay.”

“Well, can we talk about it?”

“I don’t know. Can we talk about it without you making me feel like a complete idiot?” you snap.

A woman pushes open the door to the bathroom, but upon hearing the direction of your conversation, she turns right around, leaving you to a privacy tinged by history. The door creaks back into place with a choked slam.

“Like a…? You’re not an idiot?” Rindou insists.

“I know I’m not an idiot! I have spent the last few weeks going back and forth between feeling so sad and then so goddamn angry with you! Because I know that I could not have been more chill about things if I had a lobotomy to remove my frontal cortex first! I was so cool about everything, so understanding, so kind, and you treated me like, like some fucking bother you had to get out of the way!”

The first feeling to reemerge from the confused pit you dumped him in is embarrassment at himself as he is admittedly slow on the uptake, stuttering out, “Wait…this isn’t about…? This is about our conversation at my apartment?”

“Yes!” you hiss, hands flapping emphatically and voice echoing off the tile. The overcoat swallows you whole, a sea of black fabric trailing the floor, but somehow you stand tall within it. “Yes! I came that night so prepared to listen to your side of things and be reasonable and empathetic and all the rest, and you treated me like I was a hysterical child that you had to manage. Far be it from me to criticize the great Rindou! Not that I even did criticize you before you were jumping down my throat. I am not unreasonable. I am not hysterical. And I am not a child. I did not appreciate being treated like I was.”

Rindou remembers back to the hours before you arrived at his apartment that day. How he’d been so sure you would accuse him of cheating or play mind games to negate your own jealousy. The whole time you were there, he maintained that sureness even when you acted contrary to those expectations.

It, he admits, hadn’t been fair.

Worse, it may have been patronizing.

He groans, not at you but at the memory, and rubs a hand over his face. “Fuck, yeah, yeah, you’re probably right. I see that. I didn’t want you to blow things out of proportion, so I tried to shut you down before you could. But I guess I acted like a prick.”

“A prick might be understating it. I came to you to have a conversation in good faith, and you made me feel so…small. Insignificant. Like, I’m just this easy thing to you. Like you could use and discard me, so I better shut my mouth before you throw me away.”

Rindou opens his mouth to give a rebuttal-like reassurance that you are wrong about your supposed disposability to him, but you plow forward, pointed finger punctuating every word, which is a welcome distraction from the look of raw pain on your face. It is like the sun. Too painful to look at directly.

“I know what that feels like, Rindou, because I’ve been treated that way before. I’m young and people call me sweet, and that means people think I’m stupid or superficial, but I’m not. I’m capable of dealing with the hard things and having the hard conversations, and I do not deserve to be treated like I’m too naïve to know how things work.”

There is a layer of grime on his tongue. He focuses on how foreign it feels in his mouth rather than the thumping organ in his ribcage. The way his heart races and the room feels too small is not dissimilar to the sensations he feels when someone fires a gun, when his life is momentarily suspended. A kind of physical panic that quickly settles into alertness.

He breathes deep, calming. Rindou smells the antibacterial soap and weak air freshener blowing from the vents. The colors of the room appear saturated, more contrast and more details accessible to the eye. Most importantly, he sees you clearly. The veins of your throat strain as if bursting with tension your body can’t contain. There are new smudges at the edges as tiny tears wet your eyeline. There is every emotion in those eyes from disgust to anger to sadness, but most of all, there is a question lingering there as you silently beg him to answer: where can we go from here?

“I have never thought of you as some easy thing. I fucked up. I don’t know what was going on in my head that day, but you’re right. I wasn’t seeing you. I should have shut my fucking mouth and listened. I’m sorry.”

Relief warms your eyes.

“I accept your apology,” you say.

“Really?” Rindou asks. After weeks of brewing resentment and your impassioned speech, he didn’t expect a speedy turnaround no matter how many pretty speeches he made himself.

“Yeah, I don’t like being angry. It takes a lot of energy,” you half laugh.

The abrupt about face from anger to laughter throws into stark relief that the is very drunk and very tired.  Beneath that, Rindou recognizes a more abstract emotion, too: happiness.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say something sooner. I didn’t realize what you were upset about,” Rindou says, and then he adds helpfully. “Because I’m stupid. Thanks for forgiving me.”

“Yeah, you are stupid, but I figure you deserve a little grace because this was the first time in six months that you disrespected me. So long as you never treat me that way again. Seriously. My mother taught me to never put up with that from anyone,” you say.

“On my honor,” Rindou vows. “So, can I buy you something to eat now?”

The happiness explodes out like a shaken soda bottle. One second, he’s filled to the brim with it, and the next it’s gone, bubbling to nothing on the tile because you don’t say yes. Instead, you stare grimly at the wall, all traces of reconciliation gone as you clutch the sleeves of your overcoat tight.

He wonders if his apology is not enough, if he might prove his sincerity to you in some other way. If you were Mikey, he would cut off his pinky. He would gladly gift you the ring, index, and middle fingers of his left hand, too, if you demanded them. But fingers out of the question, he has nothing to give you to prove himself, and you don’t say yes.

“Rindou…I do accept your apology for insulting me, but that’s not all…The truth is, I tried to be cool about it, but I’ve had weeks to think, and…I’m not okay with things going back to how they were if you are dating or hell, sleeping with other people. I’m jealous and hurt. And I can’t accept it,” you say.

“It’s normal to be jealous,” Rindou tries, tone bracing and supportive. “I got jealous today, but I worked through it. I’ve been a dom since I was nineteen, and I’ve never been tied down to one person before. It’s not the way I know how to do things. That’s why I didn’t make any promises when we got together. I didn’t cheat on –”

“Please don’t start that again! I know! I know you technically didn’t do anything wrong. And I know that I can’t make you stop seeing other people. It’s your relationship, too, and you can have your boundaries, but…”

“But?”

“But if I can’t ask you to stop seeing other people, then you can’t ask me to keep loving you.”

You clap a hand to your mouth as if shocked by the confession, or like you might herd the words back into your mouth where they will remain unspoken. But it is too late. He can count on one hand the number of times anyone has told him they loved him, and he will not forget this.

“Baby…” Rindou tries to reach for you, but you scramble away, and now tears fall down your cheeks.

“I’m sorry, but that’s the problem, ya know? It hasn’t just been sex or hanging out for me. What we were doing, for me at least, was love, and it hurts too much to love someone who…I tried to take a step back, just have fun with you every once in a while, but there’s no medicine for falling in love, and every time I saw your stupid face, my heart started doing backflips. It doesn’t listen to me when I tell it we shouldn’t love you anymore. And that’s why…”

Your face blurs. It takes Rindou several confused seconds to realize his eyes are wet and blink the moisture away. When you reappear, you have steeled your nerves for the finishing blow.

“That’s why I don’t want to see you anymore. I need space and time to get over you, so um, please just stop calling and texting and all the rest. Just stop.”

Your face blurs again, and this time Rindou knows it’s because his eyes are watering. He blames his stupid glasses. He needs a stronger prescription.

There is no such excuse for your tears that drip past your chin to land on your collar. You wipe fruitlessly at the leakage, too slow to stimmy their fall.

If you say anything after that, Rindou doesn’t hear you over the ringing in his ears. Three women enter the bathroom arm-in-arm and immediately jabber at him about how he isn’t welcome, like three harpies sent to drive him away. Rindou doesn’t fight them as they push him out the door with their words.

Outside in the club, in the dark and music, far from the bright quiet of the bathroom, Rindou feels like he’s stepped onto the surface of Mars. Like he’s planets away from where you are, and he might as well be.

He doesn’t know how to find his way back to you because he stands now amid the wreckage, engine on fire, wings cracked. The plane has finally crashed.

A/N: entering my villain era

"'I was always watching you.' This could have been a breathless declaration of love or a final farewell." - Yōko Ogawa, The Diving Pool: Three Novellas

#my heart aches #i feel physically ill #rindou haitani #tokyo revengers smut #rindou x reader smut

[truenuisance]

so no one was going to tell me there was a chapter added to the haikyuu manga in April 2022?????

#haikyuu!! #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu headcanons

[truenuisance]

scenes I desperately need animated

#haikyuu #haikyuu!! #msby x y/n #msby black jackal #shoyo hinata #kiyoomi sakusa #kotaro bokuto #tsukishima kei #ryuunosuke tanaka #daichi sawamura #ashai azumane #astumu miya #tobio kageyama

[truenuisance]

I definitely think the same, it’s our imagination anyways 😭

to everyone who has written about hinata and the rest of them boys being rich and famous… have you searched the annual income of a professional volleyball player in japan? those boys are BROKE

#haikyuu #haikyuu!! #msby

[truenuisance]

to everyone who has written about hinata and the rest of them boys being rich and famous… have you searched the annual income of a professional volleyball player in japan? those boys are BROKE

#haikyuu #haikyuu!! #msby #msby x y/n #msby sakusa #shoyo hinata #sakusa kiyoomi #atsumu miya #suna rinatro #kageyama tobio #tsukishima kei #kotaro bokuto #haikyuu x reader

[truenuisance]

I really like that when I refresh the for you tab on here it just rearranges the same 10 things I have been looking at all week

#tumblr

[truenuisance]

the animation change really benefited bokuto GREATLY

#haikyuu #haikyuu!! #kotaro bokuto #bokuto

[truenuisance]

tumblr for you tab needs a lot of work, I have never searched or interacted with most of the things in there, like what have I done to give this app the impression that I’m a toji fucker :/

#I am NOT #toji fushiguro #megumi fushiguro #yuji itadori #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru

[truenuisance]

wtalot chap 15 tidbit

#how could you do this to me #hanma shuuji #hanma x reader #hanma shuuji x reader

[truenuisance]

that’s next 🫡

finally seeking serious mental health treatment (rewatching haikyuu season 2 training camp arc)

#haikyu #haikyuu #haikyuu osamu #haikyuu!! #astumu miya #miya osamu

[truenuisance]

finally seeking serious mental health treatment (rewatching haikyuu season 2 training camp arc)

#haikyuu #haikyu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! #hinata shoyo #kageyama tobio #tsukishima kei #oikawa tooru #kotaro bokuto #akaashi keiji #kuroo testuro

[truenuisance]

a cat in rabbit’s clothing

[truenuisance]

remember that you're white before you're anything else and this impacts every single way you interact with the world compared to poc