#if someone can doodle Dia doing the sankaku-jime on Kanan pls thx

[athyrabunlord]

Tattoos

A/N: Here’s a blip to flesh out the dynamic/relationship between Dia and Kanan from [Mafia AU], as voted on my twitter. I had fun writing it XD Words: 1,946 Characters: Dia and Kanan (with implied KanaChika and DiaRiko)

Dia Kurosawa tightened her high-ponytail before hopping onto the ring. She had properly warmed up earlier with the punching bags and was more than ready to try her mettle against a moving opponent. It had been a few weeks since her rib injury had suspended her duties, far too long to confine someone in idle restlessness let alone the kumichou of the Kurosawagumi.

“You sure?” Her trainer and her confidante asked, though the rhetorical question was a jab to rile her up. Kanan Matsuura was a woman of few words when she wanted to be, but she had a certain way with them that caused whichever effect she desired.

“I make my own kills,” Dia said evenly, “I have been warming the bench for too long.”

Kanan let out a gruff chuckle, agreeing to her inactivity in past two grand missions. “Then come at me, and I’ll decide whether you’re ready or not.” She placed her orange-tinted glasses on a nearby table and pulled off her dress shirt, leaving only a black tanktop on. Her violet eyes had a gleam of amusement as she rolled her shoulders and cracked her knuckles. “I wouldn’t want Riko to get angry. Oh definitely not.”

“The infamous Twilight Tiger is scared?” Dia also shrugged off her yukata so she was only clad in her sports bra and shorts. The cool air felt pleasant against her exposed skin, especially around her injured area. It was always a good idea to allow a wound to breathe, and any bouts of pain were inconsequential.

“Of Riko? Of course. It’d be unwise not to,” Kanan smiled. It was just a playful jest since nothing could faze her, but no one wanted to be under the scrutiny of the underboss’ lone chilly eye, not if they could avoid it. Even the Family’s ace assassin was no exception.

The mild humor then vanished just as quickly and Kanan gave her a curt nod.

There was no winning a raw fistfight, not against the best fighter of the Family, though Dia still enjoyed sparring and pushing her limits. She clenched her fist tightly under the training bandages and charged, her muscles coiled like springs. In her younger years, she had been scrawny, mostly bone and skin, but intense training had toughened her body. Sinewy muscles flexed and stretched under her pale complexion, making her jabs quick and powerful. Her legs, though not much of an asset in terms of power, gave her all the leverage she needed to swerve and outpace her opponents. She dodged most of the punches and kicks Kanan threw at her.

“You’re still favoring your left side,” the assassin grunted just before sending a powerful jab at her. Dia saw the attack coming but couldn’t react fast enough to dodge or parry it. Kanan’s fist rammed her middle, causing her to stagger but she bounced back up without as much as a grimace. The impassive expression in spite of the pain had Kanan smirking, like she always did whenever she approved of something. Even back in Russia, she never made accolades to a job well done simply because it was expected to happen. In their line of work, failure meant death, or worse, the safety of the Family.

Dia returned to her stance after rolling her shoulder, the yakuza-style tattoos flowing over the joint and deltoid like breathing water. She had earned every single one of those artworks, each worth a life snuffed, an enemy killed. She remembered the first she had gotten, back when she was sixteen. She just returned to the States then, a fiery youth ready to fight for her inheritance and her family’s legacy. That single sakura emblem had been joined by a myriad of other effigies since then; on her back, shoulders and right arm. The eight-headed Orochi and the immortal phoenix were typically reserved for higher profile kills; she didn’t get any of those until well into her nineteenth year. But being the heart and soul of such operations meant that those high profile targets were reserved only for her, and she had earned them well as the heiress of the notorious Kurosawagumi.

Emerald eyes spied similar artwork on her sparring partner’s body, which teemed with markings from her vicious upbringing. The muscular woman’s style depicted her origin, symbolic and predominantly inked in black. An eight-pointed star was inked in bold under her clavicle, a symbol for thievery of the highest caliber. She remembered Kanan telling her once that she earned that tattoo by stealing a minister’s daughter and all his riches right under his nose. As Dia dodged another punch to her right, she saw the white claws of a Siberian Tiger on Kanan’s shoulder blade, a symbol for the old regime in which authority was bestowed only to the strongest. Though mostly hidden by her tanktop, Dia knew that, under the beast’s jaw, were human skulls crushed by ruthless fangs, denoting the wearer’s high proficiency for murder. A myriad of stripes, interlaced with other motifs, climbed up her entire left arm for each and every single brutal kill for the Family.

Indeed, the phantom Twilight Tiger was their trump card, her presence indomitable. Even in the ring, and despite Dia’s own skills, Kanan was difficult to take down. She had always been a fortress, any strike a juggernaut, but the kumichou was nothing but patient and tenacious. She would chip her down, brick by brick if she must.

Her opportunity came when Kanan suddenly lunged at her in a reckless tackle. Dia leapt and hooked her legs around Kanan’s shoulder and neck, using the momentum to shove her opponent down. As soon as they crashed on the ground, Dia swerved to the side and tightened her thighs around Kanan’s neck in a triangle choke.

Anyone else would have already lost or would soon lose consciousness by this point. Alas, Kanan managed to avoid the brunt of the submission and wrestled out of the maneuver with one arm wrapped around Dia’s waist. One abrupt lift and slam later, Dia found herself sprawled on her back and wheezing.

“You shouldn’t have done that, especially in your injured state,” Kanan rasped, looming above her. “And against me.”

“I should have known better, yes.” Despite the slight prickle to her pride, Dia knew to acknowledge her mistakes. It was near impossible to get past Kanan’s guard, so she should have realized it had been a bait the moment she landed a chokehold on her.

“Aw, you’ll always be better at katana than me,” Kanan chuckled, not to console her but to invite her to another round.

Dia narrowed her eyes and smiled defiantly, accepting her friend’s offered hand to help her get up. The sparring match resumed for the better part of the hour with heated intensity. Punches made way for real blades; combat knives, short swords, and katanas. Their exchanges were as vicious as if they were out to slit the throat of a target. They have always trained like this because neither saw a point in training with toys.

It was also sign of utmost trust that could only be built from a lifetime of camaraderie, indomitable faith in each other’s abilities to dodge potentially fatal strikes. Besides, it was always better to learn and practice how to dodge since failing to do so would result in a stab wound or worse, than play along and get killed in action. Such training also taught restraint and precise movements, key skills for assassins and professional criminals.

“If only you weren’t still recovering,” Kanan grinned even as the tongue of the katana slid perilously against her jugular. “That was beautiful.”

“Naturally,” Dia could feel the cool steel of the switchblade pressed against her abdomen, its lethal fang ready to bite into her flesh at any moment. “You still went easy on me.” It was not an accusation but a statement, and Kanan neither acknowledged nor denied it.

They held each other’s gaze for a moment, both taking controlled breaths as the adrenaline steadily ebbed away.

“That’ll do.” Kanan’s stance relaxed, prompting both combatants to lower their weapons and putting them away. “You were able to hide the obvious weakness on your right after a while. If you can keep that up, I don’t see why you can’t join us in the next mission.” A teasing chortle left her lips then. “Not that my verdict mattered - you intend to go back to your duties anyways.”

“Of course. It has been far too long and I grow restless.” Dia flicked her disheveled ponytail to rid herself of the strands that stuck to her sweaty skin, embittered by the reminder of her rare fumbles. She had miscalculated in a skirmish almost a month prior, and in order to dodge a bullet, she threw herself off a bridge onto a speeding truck, injuring her side in the process.

“I would just chill and laze about if I were you.” Shrugging, Kanan wiped at herself with a towel and began to clean up the mess they had created in the ring.

Dia merely gave her a withering look.

Kanan shrugged again.“Well, then don’t let such injury happen again.”

“It shall not.” A soft, yet icy voice, spoke from the edge of the ring. The kumichou looked over her shoulder and found Riko Sakurauchi standing there with a towel in one hand, while her iconic cane was held in another. Her lone eye held no warmth, only the abyssal chill that Dia knew well. Her faithful right-hand was displeased with their spar it seemed.

“Ah, busted~ Welp, since I’ve already ticked you off...” Kanan lit up a cigar and took a long, slow drag as if to savor it. Grinning at Riko’s murderous expression, she exhaled the smoke away from her direction and held up her hands in a playful gesture of surrender.

“You’re incorrigible.” Riko tapped her cane on the ground once, a quiet but menacing sound, though Dia could tell that the younger woman wasn’t as vexed as she appeared to be. “There’s a mess in the bar. Go clean it up.”

Kanan laughed. Her partner, Chika Takami, must have fallen asleep in the Family’s private lounge after celebrating the success of last night’s mission. The stab-happy assassin would have to be manually relocated, a feat that could only be done by the other Twilight Tiger, if they wanted to avoid unnecessary casualties.

“Gladly. Excuse me then, and good luck, boss~”

Slinging her scrunched-up shirt over one shoulder, Kanan eagerly hopped off of the ring and strolled towards the exit, her ponytail bouncing with each step. On her nape was a small symbolic mikan tattoo, inked personally and zealously by her lover upon such a vulnerable spot.

The sight never failed to appease Dia, to see her oldest friend enjoying life to the fullest, to be the best killer for the Family without losing her humanity. Once Kanan was out of the door, Dia approached the second command of the Family, who wordlessly wiped at the sweat and grime off of her face. Riko’s finger fleetingly brushed over the ridged skin beneath Dia’s left eye, and the subconscious gesture had her smiling faintly.

That scar was perhaps the most significant tattoo she had above all others. Her choice, her anchor.

“You are not going to reprimand me.”

Riko’s lips quirked at that, the frost melting in her lone gaze. “What’s done is done. I’m just relieved to see you recovering well.”

“I am more than well.” Dia shrugged her yukata over her shoulder before leaving the training room in confident strides, knowing the underboss will soon be right next to her.