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capricornlevi · 2 years ago

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fine lines & sunflowers - bokuto koutarou x reader

summary: you really should have known better than to make a bet with kenma -- now, you have to face your worst fear: getting a tattoo. To make matters worse, the artist - bokuto, your friends inform you - is apparently renowned for being unforgiving and harsh to newcomers. you need to see for yourself if he lives up to that reputation. timeskip bokuto!tattoo artist AU x reader.

cw: explicit sexual content, reader has a phobia of needles (not discussed in detail, but mentions of the phobia in the context of getting a tattoo), alcohol consumption (all sex is sober & consensual)

NSFW, 18+ - MDNI - MINORS and AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT!

wc: 8.2k

a/n: this is a birthday gift for my wonderful friend sofia @brainrot329 who is the world's most dedicated bokuto simp & also the most incredibly kind person i know ! happy birthday sofia !

___

The first thing you notice about the Black Jackal Tattoo Shop is how the neon sign above the entrance is so bright that it hurts your eyes.

It’s late in the evening, the sun having set fully just over an hour ago, and the pavement is bathed in a bright purple glow that outshines any of the streetlights. It’s distracting, so much so that you wonder how their neighbours haven’t complained about it – but glancing at the bustling bars and liquor stores nearby, you can’t imagine they much mind.

The second thing you notice is just how busy the place is. Even at this hour, every single one of the tables is occupied and there’s a line of people at the far end of the shop clearly awaiting their own turn. This was the last slot they had available and so you knew they were in high demand, but this goes beyond your expectations.

It’s just fifteen minutes before your appointment and so you hope that the queue will have thinned out by the time you head in. Obviously, you don’t mind waiting for a short while, but you don’t want to be here all night – more time spent queueing means more time to overthink.

More time to start panicking.

More time for you to chicken out or bolt away from the shop as though your life depended on it.

Even now, your legs threaten to buckle underneath you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, every shaky breath takes a great deal of effort. You’re terrified at what awaits you.

But a bet’s a bet, and you lost it. You need to get this tattoo in order to face your friends with your head held high.

And so it’s with a great deal of relief that the third thing you notice about Black Jackal is its obvious cleanliness. You swear you can see the floors sparkle from your vantage point on the other side of the street. The walls seem freshly painted - a nice dark blue colour, covered with golden-framed pictures of various intricate tattoo designs - and the artists are all sanitising the tables thoroughly when switching clients.

Of course, you can’t tell all that much about a place from outside their door, but they certainly present themselves very professionally – nausea-inducing neon lights aside.

You feel your phone buzz in your pocket. Reluctantly, you fish it out and check the notification despite knowing exactly what it will say.

Kenma: No backing out!

Kenma: But good luck <3

You wince and swear under your breath. Your long-time friend can be profoundly annoying at times like this, but you still type up a quick response to sate his curiosity – he’s probably waiting at his apartment with Kuroo and the others to see if you’ll actually follow through.

You: I’m waiting outside, I’ll text proof when it’s done

Three dots appear followed by a near-instantaneous response.

Kenma: Yay! Just don’t piss off Bokuto lol

You sigh as you slip your phone back into your pocket and head to the nearby chain café to kill some time.

In hindsight - perfect, glorious hindsight - you probably should have known better than to bet a professional streamer that you could beat him at Mortal Kombat. But in your defence, you’ve been playing the game since childhood and have won almost every single time - your win-to-loss ratio is somewhere in the region of ten to one - and it was far from Kenma’s favourite game, he rarely streamed it, so you figured you stood somewhat of a chance.

And then one night, after far too many homemade cocktails served by Kuroo and Kenma in their shared apartment, you issued a challenge to the latter: the long-awaited Mortal Kombat tournament, best two out of three, and the rest of your friends would act as judges to ensure all rules were being followed.

If Kenma lost, he had to shave his head live on stream. His worst nightmare.

You, on the other hand, have always had a very vocal fear of needles and so you both quickly came to the same conclusion; if you lost (and you figured it unlikely), you committed to facing your own nightmares by getting a tattoo.

To the shock of only you, Kenma won easily.

You sat in horrified silence for about a half-hour, only speaking up to accept the consolation shots of straight liquor that your friends diligently provided.

You were just about to knock back yet another tequila when Kenma softened the blow just a little.

“You can pick the design, y’know,” he pointed out with a smile that only betrayed a hint of smugness. “I won’t make you get anything embarrassing.”

You scoffed, setting the empty shot glass down on their battered old coffee table. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Heard that Black Jackal place across town is decent,” Alisa piped up. She’d been in your corner for most of the bet, so you took her opinion to heart.

The next day, once the worst of the hangover had passed, you messaged the shop on Instagram.

“ Hey!” you’d begun, wondering if they could sense your nerves through the screen. “ Just wondering if you have any upcoming slots for a small fine line?”

You already had an idea in mind for the design, having spent the morning browsing online with Anisa; firstly, it had to be the tiniest tattoo physically possible. Secondly, in an area that didn’t hurt that much – you picked your forearm, where the websites rated it on the low-medium scale for pain (though you had your doubts).

You also had a fondness for sunflowers (as evidenced by the heavy-handed decor in your bedroom), so you spent hours perusing the “small sunflower tattoo” tab on Pinterest.

You had narrowed it down to three or four possibilities which you promptly screenshotted and forwarded along with your message to Black Jackal, receiving a reply a short while later. You partially wished they’d just ghost you so you could put it off a bit longer, but unfortunately, they were very enthusiastic to help.

“ Absolutely! We have a slot with Bokuto at 8.30 on Friday?”

Begrudgingly, you agreed.

You informed your friends of your plans the next day, announcing it over dinner with everyone in attendance as proof of your dedication.

Once you read the reply aloud, Kuroo inhaled sharply.

“ Bokuto ?” he asked, incredulous. His tone of voice concerned you deeply.

“Yes?” you answered slowly, scanning the room to see everyone’s expressions. “Why? Is there something wrong?”

Kuroo winced. “Nothing.”

Obviously, you weren’t too convinced.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Your friend started to worry his lower lip between his teeth. “It’s just …he’s … renowned for having, uh, very high standards, basically. Kinda has a scary reputation.”

“What do you mean?” you frowned, mind already conjuring up an image of this apparently terrifying Bokuto.

“I think I heard something like that … he takes the craft very seriously,” Lev piped up, sympathy written all over his face. “He’ll call you out if you’re too nervous or shaky.”

“And if you faint …” Kuroo trailed off uncomfortably and your blood ran cold in your veins. “My sister got her ankle tattoo there and nearly ran out in tears.”

You had scowled then, rolling your eyes to act as though you didn’t care, but your heart started to race at a thousand miles an hour.

“Just behave like you know what you’re doing and you’ll be fine,” Kenma interjected, at least trying to be helpful. “You’ve nothing to worry about. You’ll be in and out in like twenty minutes.”

You nodded half-heartedly, lifting your fork to your mouth and grimacing at the sudden cardboard-like texture your meal had taken on.

Half an hour. How bad could it be?

Now, standing at your original spot on the pavement with a warm latte cupped in your shivering hands, you start to think you weren’t half as scared then as you should have been.

A tattoo. A tattoo. On your body, forever , and they do it with needles.

And to top it all off, your tattoo artist is apparently a cranky perfectionist who scoffs and jeers at newbies. Wonderful.

You check the time and see you’ve about five minutes to go before you’re due inside. You knock back a large swig of your coffee, surmising that the extra shot of espresso will be of help rather than hurt.

Once the cup is empty and you feel your legs are stable enough to carry you, you cross the street.

Approaching the entrance step by step, you feel the neon light wash over you as you reach for the handle. The mahogany door is surprisingly light - or maybe your adrenaline has given you superhuman strength - and before you’re even aware of what’s happening, you’ve closed it behind you and floated across the tiled floor to reach the front desk.

The receptionist seems to be finishing up a call and so you idle by the desk, trying to force something resembling a poker face.

As she starts to take notes while speaking on the phone, you can’t help but notice the incredible sleeve of black-and-white designs all up her right arm – you’ve seen them before on Black Jackal ’s online portfolio. If memory serves, Bokuto was tagged as having done most of the work.

After about thirty more seconds she politely hangs up the phone, fixes the claw clip holding back her dark hair, and scribbles something on a piece of paper before looking up at you with a bright smile. Her enthusiasm seems so genuine that, for a moment, it takes the edge off your fear.

“Hi, I have a slot at 8.30?” you say, clearing your throat. “With Bokuto?”

Recognition dawns on her face. She says your name as a question – you nod, confirming.

“I was the one talking to you on Instagram!” she beams, gesturing for you to take the consent forms, “Bo took a look at the pictures you sent on and has a couple of stencils ready for you if you want to take a look while you’re waiting?”

You force a smile and nod again, accepting the additional papers she hands you. She asks if you need to hang up your jacket; you shrug it off, the cold air making the bare skin on your forearms prickle with goosebumps.

As if it’s necessary, she follows up by gently asking; “is this your first tattoo?”

“Yes,” comes your choked reply.

She leans in to take your jacket, giving your shoulder a quick reassuring squeeze as she does so.

“You’ll be fine, I promise! If the discomfort was that bad, I wouldn’t have gotten all these,” she holds out her arm for you to get a closer look at the gorgeous patterns. “The hardest part is getting in the chair, and you’ve pretty much done that already!”

Her smile reaches her eyes and you feel immensely grateful to have her in your corner if you do faint on Bokuto’s table.

“Thank you,” you reply sincerely, heading over to one of the benches at the end of the room to start perusing the forms.

It’s all fairly standard for a disclaimer. None of the potential complications listed on the sheet gives you any cause for concern since you’ve stocked up on all the products you’ll need for aftercare.

Plus, it’s not the after part that scares you. It’s the during part, with the buzzing and the needles and the judgmental glances you’ll get if you let out a yelp -

“Hey! How’re you doing?” a resoundingly cheery voice calls out above you. “You nearly done with the waivers?”

The unexpected greeting shocks you so much that you nearly drop the clipboard. You look up to see a very tall, very broad man grinning down at you expectantly, tattoos covering his arms except the parts obscured by his white t-shirt and black gloves, a shock of silver hair held back with a metal hairband to keep it from falling into his eyes as he works. Something on his mouth catches against the light, glistening – a silver ring on the right-hand side of his lower lip, shifting as his smile widens.

He seems … different than you expected. More animated, more enthusiastic.

“I’m Bokuto - Bo, if you prefer - and I don’t know if Kiyoko mentioned it, but I did up a few stencils … ah, you have them there, great!”

You sit there, blinking up at him and then flickering your gaze over to the door as if mapping out your exit strategy in case this interaction turns sour.

Maybe the mean part comes later. Maybe it only starts when you’re up on the table.

“Anything you want me to go through with you first?” he asks when you don’t reply, a thick brow arched in anticipation of your answer.

“Uh, nothing on here,” you reply, cool as you can manage, holding out the consent form for him to take back to Kiyoko. You hadn’t had a chance to look at his designs yet, but you don’t think you really need to; the one at the top of the pile matches your mental image perfectly. “And I think I’ll go for, uh, this one … here . If that’s okay.”

You hold out your chosen design and he takes it, somehow still smiling despite your demeanour being flighty at best.

Frosty and rude, at worst.

“Great! My favourite too. I know we’re not supposed to say that - client is always right, ‘course - but I was hoping you’d pick that one! Wanna get started?”

He gestures to one of the middle tables before snapping off the gloves.

“These are just the ones I use to clean up,” he answers your unspoken question once you’ve gotten up from your seat and glanced at his tattooed hands. “I’ll sanitise fully before we start.”

You weren’t looking at the gloves. You were looking at the intricate art covering what seem to be strong and giant hands, but you see no point in telling him that.

You slowly approach the table as Bokuto goes to deliver your forms.

Turns out, what you saw from the street didn’t even do the place justice; the area is surgically clean, not a speck of dirt of to be seen, and the plush surface of the table looks as close to comfortable as you could have hoped for. The ceiling is covered with grey tile and the overhead lighting complements it, bright enough for the artists to have visibility but not glaring to the point it gives you a headache like the street lighting did.

The framed pictures on the wall are even more beautiful up close.

The art by Bokuto’s station especially .

You hop up and sit at the edge of the table, hands clutching the side of the cushion for dear life as if falling off could kill you.

The artist at the table to your right glances over, his face impassive even through the black medical mask that he’s wearing. When you turn your head, the artist to the other side does the same, casting you a look that’s entirely neutral except for his dark brows which seem to be permanently furrowed.

Their behaviour is closer to what you expected Bokuto’s to be like; not quite rude, not quite mean, but so professional and deadpan that you can’t help but feel your inevitable breakdown would inconvenience them greatly.

“So, you decided on the placement?”

Somehow Bokuto’s voice startles you again, having been too fixated on his coworkers’ reactions, but you hide your surprise better this time. You don’t jump, just lift your head and look at him; true to his word, he’s putting the final touches on the sanitisation process before starting any other preparation.

“Hm?”

He grins, not too bothered at having to repeat himself once more. “Have you picked where it’s gonna go? Because I might have to make some changes depending on your decision.”

“Oh, the inside of my forearm” you blurt out, holding it out to show him.

Your brusque and sudden response means it’s his turn to look up in surprise, but there’s no judgment on his face when he does so. Instead, it softens, golden eyes taking on a hint of sympathy.

“You nervous?” he asks, more quietly this time.

“ No, not really, ” but your answer comes far too quickly, your face heating as the words leave you. The vice-like grip that you have on the table only further disproves your answer.

He chuckles knowingly as he pulls on a fresh pair of gloves. “You wouldn’t be the first, y’know.”

“I’m not that nervous,” you object futilely. “Really.”

Bokuto takes his seat and pulls it closer to you; partly because he seems to think eye contact will help (it does) and partly to shield you from any eavesdroppers at the tables next to you (he does so successfully).

“Seriously,” he says, quieter again. “You have absolutely nothing to worry about. If it’s too much, we stop. If you need a break, we stop. If you have any questions, I am more than happy to answer. Anything at all, no matter what. That sound okay?”

You nod instinctively but find yourself meaning it. He has a surprisingly calming presence, intimidating reputation aside.

Maybe Kuroo isn’t a great judge of character.

“I’ll walk you through it, ‘kay? Just so you know what to expect,” he starts, and another nod from you shows you’re ready to hear the rest. “Firstly, since you want it here,” he leans over and points to your inner forearm, “we’ll need to have you lying on your back with your arm held out – we could do it sitting up, but this is more comfortable for us both since it’ll minimise any shaking.”

The table is quite comfortable. You’re with him so far.

“Then,” Bokuto continues, business-like but still kind in his delivery, “we’ll sanitise your arm and make sure the skin’s ready to be tattooed - it’s only a small area, so it shouldn’t take too long - and then we pop the stencil on. If you’re happy with it, I’ll get the last of the equipment ready and you just hold still for a while – it’ll be over before you know it. Sound good?”

The way he spells it out is a lot less intimidating than some of the resources you’ve read. He’s not being condescending, either, which is a huge plus – you know what you’re getting into, you’re not a child who needs to be consoled, but you’d just prefer for someone to speak to you like a human and just lay it out so you can mentally prepare.

Which Bokuto just did. Perfectly.

So in lieu of an answer, you lay down in the position he described, and try, for the first time, to return a smile.

He seems delighted as he pushes his chair back out to double-check the supplies. “Alright! Let’s get this started!”

Staring up at the ceiling, you try to count the tiles to keep your mind occupied. Bokuto’s hands are gentle as he cleans the skin and applies the stencil but your arm still tenses under his touch.

He notices. “All okay?”

“Yep,” you murmur, starting your counting again.

One tile, two, three -

“This look okay to you?” he inquires, and you pull your eyes away from the ceiling to check the design.

To his credit, it’s perfect. A bit bigger than you expected, but you can see now that changing the size would mean losing out on some of the detailing.

It’s better than any of the ones you’d seen on Pinterest and you tell him as much. He laughs heartily, with such sincerity and energy that it’s almost contagious.

You rest your head back down and start focusing on counting the next set of tiles.

No panicking. Not now. You’re nearly there.

Four tiles, five, six, seven -

Bokuto makes a few small adjustments. Your breath quickens.

It’s so close to being over. Just grin and bear it.

Eight tiles, nine -

The needle starts to whirr.

It hits you all at once: a gut-wrenching burst of panic so strong it feels as though it could stop your heart from beating, and you bolt upright before the needle makes contact with your skin, already shaking like a leaf.

Everything’s too much now. The lights, the sounds of buzzing needles, even the low mumbling of the people conversing at the tables next to you – it all mixes into a terrifying cacophony that overloads your senses.

But contrary to what Kuroo and the others had told you, Bokuto doesn’t scold you. He doesn’t laugh, either. He doesn’t even look disappointed. He’s pulled back a little - just enough to give you some breathing space - but other than that, he’s the same. A soft smile, kind eyes, and it gives the impression that he has all the time in the world to help you.

As nice as it is, it somehow adds to your humiliation.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you whisper, still trembling. You cover your face with your hands. “I’m sorry . I just … need a moment.”

“Why are you sorry?” he asks, genuinely puzzled. He sets the needle down in its place. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

What does he mean? He just saw your reaction, how is he so unbothered by it?

“Well, mostly sorry for … for that, ” you answer with a humourless laugh, finally moving your hands away from your face. “For freaking out, for losing it just there … god, I nearly jumped off the damn table .”

He huffs out a short laugh. “And? You wouldn’t be the first, that’s for sure – not the first today, even.”

You rub your eyes forlornly. “I just - it got very real all of a sudden. Too real. I’m sorry.”

He waves off your apology kindly but firmly.

“No more sorry, alright?”

Adrenaline still coursing through your veins, you find it in yourself to agree quietly. No more apologising. That much you can do.

“And just so you know,” he continues. “I’m not in the business of tattooing people against their will. If you’ve changed your mind, that is absolutely and completely fine – can’t stress enough how fine it would be. We can even try another day, I can get this stencil off you-”

“No, no,” you interrupt, your mind clearing just enough for you to object. All things considered, you actually really, really liked the look of the stencil on your skin. You want this tattoo. You want to be able to go back to your friends with your head held high. You want to do this for yourself. “I want to do it today.”

“Okay,” he notes in agreement, meeting your gaze. “Then how are we gonna make this work?”

It’s quiet for a moment as you consider your next step. You wonder if Bokuto knows just how much this eye contact is helping to keep you from dying of embarrassment.

You start to explain your fear in a way that hopefully sounds more articulate than the vague screaming that’s going on in your head.

“I don’t know if this makes sense, but it’s not the pain that bothers me so much as the needle. All my life, it was never the shot itself that freaked me out, just the sight of the needle coming towards me.”

“I get it. Pain isn’t the issue, really, but looking at this ,” he gestures to the tattoo gun, “isn’t helping you get your mind off things?”

You swallow thickly. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Well, how about you tilt your head the other way? Akaashi’s about to clock out so you won’t be looking at his mean face for too long,” - at that, the man next to you stops cleaning the table and scowls - “and if you want, I’ll just keep talking so you’re not just staring at the wall for half an hour and you’re not focusing on the sound of the needle. If I need you to check anything - linework, shading - I’ll ask, and try and keep the needle out of the way for you. Whatcha think?”

Maybe it’s just the surge of intense emotion starting to subside, but the offer could just bring you to tears. There’s no pressure, no judgment. Just support and encouragement.

You can do it. You know you can do it.

“Sounds doable,” you answer after a slow, steadying breath. You lay down and tilt your head, seeing the tables next to you now clear. “Let’s do it.”

And this time, you don’t so much as flinch.

The tattooing itself doesn’t really hurt at all. It’s not the most comfortable sensation in the world, but it’s not painful by any measure, likely helped by the fact that you don’t catch sight of the needle for most of it.

Bokuto talks to you, and you find yourself chatting back with increasing casualness. The topics vary; work, family, how Akaashi used to be equally frightened of needles even though he vehemently denies it. It helps keep your thoughts clear.

You ask him the tattoo questions that you weren’t able to find the answers for on Google, knowing his reply will be honest.

He tells you a few college stories. One or two of them sound eerily familiar, but you don’t question it.

He asks you about your friends and about the bet that led you here. You give him the condensed version, explaining that the result was actually a lot closer than your friends had said and that if you had gone for best three out of five, you might’ve just won it.

You ask about his lip ring, if it hurt to get it done. He says it didn’t.

Your anxiety ebbs and flows throughout, but you don’t let it surface. Every time you feel panic surge through your chest you just ask Bokuto another question, letting his deep voice carry you away from the fear.

Just as you’re about to chime in with another question about his first tattoo, he interrupts first.

“ And … all … done.”

It feels as though only two or three minutes have passed, so thick shock envelops you as you ask incredulously, “ done ?”

“Done,” he confirms, setting the needle down and starting on the aftercare. “If you’re happy with it, that is?”

You glance at your arm and can’t hold back a gasp at what you see. It’s as though Bokuto reached into your mind and recreated your idea perfectly.

You spend a few minutes admiring it as he cleans up, chatting excitedly as the thrill is yet to wear off, and you feel a strange disappointment knowing it's time to part ways.

Still, you don’t let it show, thanking him and tipping generously when it's time to settle up, saying your goodbyes to Kiyoko too before collecting your jacket.

Once you’re out the door, you snap a picture of your outstretched arm with the perfect tattoo in centre frame and send it into the groupchat, riding the high of your achievement.

You: Told ya <3

Seconds pass before the replies start to flood in.

Kenma: Holy shit you actually did it, I’m impressed

Lev: And she delivers! 👏

Alisa: ^^^^^ shut UP we knew she’d follow through

Alisa: it looks amazing ahhhhh!!!!!

Kuroo: who’s “we” in this scenario

Alisa: shouldn’t u be saving this energy for twitter fights tetsuuuu

___

To commemorate you successfully facing your fears, the gang all make plans to go for drinks the next day. In fact, Kenma’s so impressed that you followed through on the bet that he agrees to pick up the tab – Kuroo is delighted with you as a result.

The table is reserved for the entire night and Alisa, Lev, and Yaku are driving separately there so you’re able to travel in one cab. Kuroo and Kenma spend the entire journey inspecting your tattoo, fully visible with the short-sleeved dress you chose for the evening since the protective wrap has been removed.

“Holy shit, it’s real, ” Kenma mutters, peering closer at the sunflower design.

You laugh a little, taken aback at the continually disbelieving attitude he has towards it. “Yeah? Lots of people have tattoos - Lev has one. Alisa has four. ”

“Yeah, but,” Kenma answers with a shake of his head. “It was your worst fear. I would have never shaved my head, y’know? Over some little bet, are you kidding?”

“Oh, you would have,” you grin, glancing over at Kuroo’s knowing expression. “We might have needed to be a bit persuasive, though . ”

Out of respect and perhaps just a bit of fear, he’s the first to leave the taxi once it’s parked and he makes a beeline to the counter to get your first drink.

The bar is busy but not too crowded, typical for this early in the night in this part of town – close enough to Black Jackal, come to think of it, and you could probably see the purple neon lighting if you peered out one of the windows.

You let yourself enjoy the buzzing atmosphere as Alisa and Yaku take you out back to go dancing. The hours trickle by without you noticing.

Once you’re teetering at the edge of being out of breath, you decide it’s best to get another drink. The others all join you, with Kenma going first to make sure the tab’s still open.

The queue by the bar counter has thinned a bit since most people have made their way to the open floor to dance and chat. It’s relatively peaceful, so you tell yourself that’s the reason why you’re able to pick out the familiar head of silver hair with such alarming quickness.

There are about six or seven people standing between you, most of whom seem to be other artists from the tattoo shop, but Bokuto’s the only one you zone in on.

It makes sense that you’d bump into him in this place. Obviously, he’d come here after finishing work since it’s so close by. You’re not sure how you didn’t expect it.

You’re also not sure why you feel a sudden and peculiar sensation brewing in your chest, radiating out in waves, intensifying every time you think you’ve caught his eye.

You grab Alisa’s arm, pulling her to the side to inform her of the sudden development.

“Bokuto’s here,” you whisper into her ear, sounding almost startled for some unknown reason. Your own tone of voice takes you by surprise.

“What?” she calls out as she leans in closer, unable to hear you over the music. “ Whatcha say? ”

“Bokuto’s here, but I need a moment before I go say hi, ” you whisper louder this time, almost at regular volume. You can only hope that nobody but Alisa understands the implications of what you’re saying.

But naturally, Kuroo picks up on your conversation with relative ease.

“Bokuto?” he asks far too loudly, glancing around in an entirely unsubtle way. “Where? Did you know he was coming?”

Heat floods your face and neck. “ Yes, Bokuto,” your scowl deepens, “and no, I didn’t know he was coming, you utter-”

Kuroo raises his hands in defence, a mischievous smirk etched on his face. “Hey, just asking! Maybe you took a shine to each other, how was I supposed to know?”

That hits a nerve for reasons you don’t quite understand. You keep your face as impassive as possible to avoid detection – you don’t really want to explore these feelings in such a public setting since you don’t even know what they are. Residual nerves, maybe?

“Why would you think that, Tetsu? You’re the one who expected I’d faint on the table.”

Kuroo has an immediate answer to your question.

“I kinda figured you’d get along, to be honest,” he admits with more than a little smugness. “So wouldn’t be too surprised if you had invited him.”

You baulk at his suggestion. “No, you didn’t! You said he’d be a dick!”

He laughs heartily, throwing his head back as he does so, and you start to piece things together.

“Do you - do you know him?”

“Yep!” Kuroo chirps. “Played volleyball with him in college.”

Your eye twitches. If you hadn’t been friends with Kuroo since your schooldays, you’d probably hurl your drink at him out of sheer frustration.

Even as it stands, the jury’s still out on the drink-throwing.

Hearing Kuroo’s howls of laughter, the others have now made their way into the conversation.

Wonderful. You’re starting to worry the loud music won’t be enough to obscure the conversation from the parties concerned.

“I was messing with you!” Kuroo clarifies, though it’s not really necessary at this point. “Bokuto’s a good guy. You probably could’ve spontaneously combusted with fear and he would’ve been the one to apologise for stressing you out.”

“You what?” Alisa gasps. She was out of the loop up until this very moment; her indignation on your behalf is quite satisfying.

“I thought you all knew!” Kuroo replies after knocking back half of his beer, cheeks flushed from the alcohol. As if his tongue needed to get any looser.

You scoff. “I didn’t! Nobody ever knows when you’re messing with them!”

“And how did Kenma and Lev know what you were talking about?” Alisa asks, throwing an accusatory look at her brother.

Kenma shrugs, answering on Lev’s behalf too. “There are a few artists down there with a reputation for being harsh, and I assumed from Tetsu’s reaction it was Bokuto … but I actually was thinking of someone else, I guess. A friend of a friend with a bad case of resting-bitch-face? A - Akaashi something?”

You glance at the surly-looking man standing next to Bokuto and it all finally falls into place.

“So I acted like a complete freak for no reason?” you ask despairingly.

With a grimace, you remember your monosyllabic answers to Bokuto’s initial questions, how you acted like a deer in headlights at every step of the process, how it took intensive intervention on his part to even get you back in the chair.

Your friends jump to your defence.

“You weren’t a freak- ”

“I’m sure you weren’t that bad-”

“Tetsu, you can be the actual worst- ”

It seems as though the rest of the group were about to settle into scolding Kuroo when you catch sight of Bokuto approaching, grinning as usual, lip ring glinting in the low lighting.

It takes a second for you to actually comprehend he’s heading towards you and not Kuroo.

Mercifully, the rest of your friends seem to realise it as soon as you do; they start to collect their drinks and get out of your way, Kuroo stopping for just a moment to greet his old friend - you still can’t believe you hadn’t figured it out earlier - before whispering something in his ear that makes Bokuto’s gaze flicker over to you.

Oh, if he’s told something embarrassing, you’ll actually kill him. Before you can react to whatever Kuroo’s said, he turns and gives you a quick wink before joining the rest of the group on the dancefloor.

“Hey!”

Bokuto’s greeting is cheery and bright, which should be encouraging were it not for the fact that it seems to be his default setting.

His hair is loose now, the metal hairband clearly only for work purposes, and the silver strands that frame his face seem so impossibly soft you have to fight back the urge to run your hand through it.

Here.

At a bar, in front of everyone.

Oh, so that’s what that feeling is.

“Hey!” you try to return his enthusiasm, ignoring the twisting in your gut from the looming realisation that you have a crush on the man you were terrified of not twenty-four hours ago.

And he knows you were terrified of him, too. Probably still thinks you are.

“So, Kuro was just telling me you know each other?” Bokuto beams. “Shoulda let me know! Could’ve told you a few embarrassing stories about him from college … and I probably did, come to think of it, but didn’t give any names yesterday. More than happy to now, though?”

A frazzled laugh slips out in spite of everything. “Yeah, we’ve been friends since we were little kids.” You pause for just a moment, considering his words. “But I’ll definitely take you up on that offer if it’s still open.”

“Oh, it absolutely is. Do you have about six hours spare to hear them all?” he hesitates for a split-second, looking more nervous than you think you’ve seen him. It passes soon, however, when he gets the words out; “... maybe over a drink?”

Oh .

Okay.

So it’s not just you who feels like this.

Relief hits you first. Then a little gleeful sensation that you haven’t felt in a long while, followed by a burst of anxiety – but you’re not going to overthink this part, you assure yourself. There’s no point. It’ll just get you as worked up as it did yesterday, and then you’ll be filled with something worse than fear or embarrassment: regret .

Besides, Bokuto seems just as he did during the session yesterday. There’s no impatience, no ‘ oh god I have to calm down this random person who’s gotten themselves stressed out for no reason’, no sign that he’s feeling anything other than enthusiasm at getting to have this conversation.

And so you happily add two more drinks to Kenma’s tab.

“By the way … Kuro never actually told me that he knew you ,” you explain finally, once Bokuto’s finished one of his college stories. You’re not drunk, barely even tipsy, but the glass of wine has definitely made it easier for you to flirt back. “If I’d known, I probably would’ve tried to put on a braver face yesterday.”

“Are you kidding? You took it like a champ.”

You roll your eyes without any malice. “ No , I didn’t.”

“You did!” he insists.

“I didn’t. ”

“Yes, you did.”

You scoff. “Well, if I did, it’s thanks to you .”

His eyes glint as they scan your face. “Whatcha mean?”

“You kept me sane. Couldn’t have done it if it weren’t for you, honestly.”

You lift a hand and rest it against his tattooed forearm, surprised at the taut muscles that flex under your touch.

Brave. You can be brave for the second day in a row.

“You up for another?”

___

After you buy two more drinks, things move so quickly that neither of you even gets to finish them.

You’re not sure who made the first move - it might have been him, with the way his eyes sought out your lips at every possible opportunity; or it might have been you, with the way your hand didn’t budge from its place resting against his arm - but all that’s important is that one of you did make it.

Or maybe both of you did.

But it doesn’t matter, because now you’re outside the bar with your back pressed up against the cool stone wall, making out like a couple of desperate teenagers.

Despite the cold air surrounding you, everything feels hot; Bokuto’s lips crushing against yours, his tongue tracing against your kiss-swollen mouth, his hands on your waist as they pull you closer.

Your skin almost burns under his touch. You get lost in it.

It’s only when he pulls away, expression torn as though it pains him to do it, that you manage to collect your thoughts into some coherent order.

You’ve long moved past the tipsy sensation you felt earlier, but your head spins for a different reason as you brace yourself against his strong shoulders, feeling light-headed in the best way possible.

“Wanna-” he begins, pausing as if worried you’ll say no. You’re already nodding before he even finishes the sentence, and he laughs before leaning in to kiss you again.

“Where do you live?” you ask, pulling back a millimetre or two, and he answers. “My place is closer,” you explain then, tugging him away towards the street to flag down a taxi.

In the cab, you check your phone as Bokuto rests a hand on your thigh, hoping to fire off a quick text to Alisa to let her know where you’ve gone.

Instead, you see that Kuroo, obviously having felt a little guilty from earlier, has sent you a couple of messages expressing his remorse.

Kuroo: You okay?

Kuroo: Sorry for messing with you. Bo’s a good guy. he won’t give you a tough time about anything

Kuroo: I think you’ll really like him

You grin. He has no idea.

You: All fine, and all is forgiven

You: Your peer pressure paid off for once

You: Just don’t do it again or I’m pretty sure Alisa will kill you :)

With that, you slip your phone back into your pocket and rest your hand over Bokuto’s.

The very moment you pass the threshold of your apartment, his mouth is on you once again; the cool metal of his lip ring contrasts with the heat of the kiss, sending pulses of desire through your core. Your flick against it with your tongue and his eyes darken delightedly, pupils blown out with desire matching your own.

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to reach the bedroom, shedding clothes down the hallway as you do so - a shirt tossed here, a pair of shoes thrown there - and soon you’re collapsing onto your bed in a messy tangle of limbs and bitten-off moans.

After a few moments, lifts his head up and grins, eyes travelling around your room. Your head rests against the pillow as you try to follow his gaze to see what exactly he’s looking at.

“Makes sense,” he mumbles fondly. “The design for your tattoo.”

Glancing at your sunflower-covered bedspread, the pressed petals framed on the wall, and the various other splashes of sunny yellow decorating your room, you accept his point with an airy laugh.

However, you’re not willing to dwell on it for too much longer – there are more pressing things at hand. Finally, you lift a trembling hand and tangle it in his hair, finding that it’s somehow softer than you even imagined.

You move your lips to this throat to kiss and suck and bite, and without you having to ask, he tips his head back to allow you more room, whispering your name in a heated and desperately low voice. He hisses as your pecks against his skin turn a little firmer, knowing there’d be a mark left were it not for the tattoos trailing up his neck. Now that he’s not wearing anything, you see the design trails down the broad expanse of his chest, over his firm pecs, further down until -

He pulls you up into his lap and you let out a startled yelp that quickly turns into an almost pitiful mewl of pleasure. You rock back and forth against one of his impossibly thick thighs, marvelling at the solid muscle of his body as he takes your hips in his hands and guides your movements.

You spend the next few minutes like this, grinding helplessly against him as tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, with him just watching you with an expression that can only be described as awe-struck. He pays no attention to bulge in his own underwear, even though it’s so hard it looks almost painful – he is fixated on you, on your reactions, on the movements that draw desperate little breaths from you and the ones that make your back arch further.

“Feel good?” he asks, almost dazed, hands running slowly up and down your thighs as you fuck yourself against him.

“Mmhmm,” you answer – redundantly, given the other sounds that flow from your lips, “need more, though, p-please.”

He doesn’t need any further instruction, flipping you to lie flat on your back and going to spread your thighs which part easily for him.

Turns out he’s more than talented with his tongue as well.

After what seems like hours of him taking you apart - of you gasping when the lip ring grazes against your sensitive flesh, of you begging for his fingers which he angles just right, of him voicing his own approval at your moans and taste and the way your thighs tighten around his face - he finally sits back on his haunches and gives you a look that you instantly recognise.

Eagerly, you roll onto your side and fetch a condom from the box in the nightstand. When you hand it to him, he finally, finally, slips out of his underwear - you can’t help how your eyes widen at the sight - then only just about manages to put on the condom before you hook your legs around his lower back and pull him on top of you.

Although he lets out a chuckle at your enthusiasm, he angles you so carefully, and you realise with a soft ache in your chest that he’s trying his best to avoid touching the still-raw skin near your tattoo.

“It’s fine,” you whisper breathily. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

He replies by raising your arm so it’s resting by your head on the pillow. “Still, if you need to take a break or stop, just say, ‘kay?”

You agree without hesitation.

Then, he brings his hips down until they’re flush against your own, his cock slowly and tantalisingly pushing through your folds to allow the anticipation to build (and for you to adjust to his size). But after how long he’s spent preparing you, he’s met with absolutely no resistance – on the contrary, you find yourself mumbling incoherent, slurred words that sound an awful lot like begging.

“Can - can you-”

He kisses your jawline, the sensation of the ring making you shiver once again. “Can I what, hm?”

“Can you please-” a short, shallow thrust has you gasping mid-sentence, “ please fuck me?”

You almost cry out when he starts to thrust in earnest, slowly at first and then quicker and quicker once he fully surrenders to his own desperation. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin mixed with breathy moans and gasps start to echo around you, along with the tell-tale banging of your headboard against the wall.

His thrusts grow hard, almost punishing, but the way he cups your face tenderly in his hands shows that his intentions are not to overwhelm but to give you what you need; you hadn’t realised it, but your hips had started to cant up to meet his every stroke.

He praises you, too. Tells you how good you feel, how well you’re taking him, how he could do this forever. Every word out of his mouth makes you grip him tighter, your nails undoubtedly leaving marks against his shoulders.

It doesn’t take long for you to come for him again. He doesn’t stop or slow down his movement; he lets you whimper and cry out against his muscled chest as you come down from your high, holding you close as his thrusts turn sloppy and erratic.

He curses through gritted teeth as he comes, letting out a low moan that sends aftershocks through you. He thrusts deep and stays there; his face in that moment, so blissful and fucked-out, is one of the most gorgeous things you think you’ve ever seen.

You stay like that for a while, boneless and utterly content, before he goes to remove the condom and wash up as you catch your breath.

When he returns, there’s no awkwardness. No overthinking. You ask for him to stay the night, and he does. He sleeps soundly in your bed with his arms wrapped around you.

It’s a strange sort of comfort you don’t often find with people, let alone someone you barely know. But he makes it easy to get to know him, and you’re all too delighted to learn more.

He stays for a while the next morning. He cooks breakfast, you make the coffee.

Things are much more straightforward from that point on.

___

You get your second tattoo exactly a year later.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t still a little nervous at the prospect of a needle so close to you, but it pales in comparison to the anxiety of your first one. This time, you find yourself looking forward to it more than you do worry.

“Ready for round two?” Bokuto asks, pressing a kiss to your forehead before starting to get the station set up. The shop is closed, the manager having let you stay late for the occasion, and the peace and quiet only add to your newfound level-headedness.

Just you and Bokuto. You can do this.

You nod without hesitation, lying back on the table as though you’re a seasoned veteran. “No freaking out this time.”

He rolls his eyes in mock annoyance but the affectionate laughter cuts through it. “Still think I’m scary, huh?”

You shrug. “Not as much anymore.”

“Well, guess I can live with that.”

When the needle starts to whirr, it doesn’t make you jump. There’s no feeling of panic or dread.

This tattoo is over quickly, like the last one, but it’s far more meaningful – you like sunflowers, sure, but you like this one better. You didn’t need to over-analyse the design since you can see exactly what it looks like on someone else.

Bokuto has an identical one freshly tattooed on his ring finger.

#bokuto x reader #bokuto kotaro x reader #bokuto koutarou x reader #timeskip bokuto #timeskip bokuto x reader #hq #haikyuu #may tries to write

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devilstruly · 5 months ago

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Mafia and florist/tattoo artist au for the selfship ask game!!

god mafia aus always make me weak

i always feel like kuroo would be mr. big bad boss and i would either work for him or be hired to spy on/kill him no in between

the sexual tension is no joke

now the florist/tattoo shop one i'm not particularly big on

BUT

hear me out - tattoo artist sakusa

i would be weak in the knees

he can get any flower he wants

and anything else he wants fr

#ask game #moots <3 #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #self ship

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pinkysweartoe · 1 year ago

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Hiiiii, so like im looking for a haikyuu fanfic smut book on wattpad. My friend and i have looking for for so longgg. One of the one shot chapter their was reader x kuroo x bokuto. The setting was the reader was getting a tattoo at kuroos tattoo shop, kuroo was a tattoo artist and bokuto pierces. After the tattoo got done they were getting a little spicy and bokuto caught them? Or maybe he was invited? And then they had a bisexual threesome, bokuto topped kuroo, kuroo topped reader. Please help me find this!!!

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hoeneymilktea · 4 days ago

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deciphered ✧ tooru oikawa chapter 10 | daikokufuto race

Your cousin, Hajime Iwaizumi—whom you haven't seen in a long time, invited you to support him at the largest street racing event in Tokyo. He told you he was a part of the Seijoh Brawlers, one of the notorious top five gangs affiliated with the underground street racing scene. Once he introduced you to his leader, Tooru Oikawa, a.k.a. Cypher—your interest piqued, curiously wanting to understand the true meaning behind his alleged nickname.

✧ pairing — tooru oikawa / afab reader ✧ genre — erotica/smut, action romance, crime romance, dark romance (absolutely no dv/sa), psychological thriller, crime/detective mystery ✧ rating — very explicit, 18+ mdni ✧ chapter word count — 17.5k ✧ content warnings — violence, street racing, references to drugs, explicit sexual content, heavy angst. see below break for chapter specific warnings ↴

author's note — This fanfic is inspired by the beautiful and amazing fanart of Street Racer AU Tooru Oikawa. Artist is @aikk00. disclaimer — I do not condone the romanticization of the yakuza or the reality of gang life as I intended not to portray that kind of interpretation, nor promote the activity of illegal street racing. Do not seek out these types of experiences as this work is just a piece of fiction. Please remember to read at your own risk.

backseat lovers ⇠ daikokufuto race ⇢ my letters to you

✧ chapter specific content warnings: smoking, unfortunate events, blood, violence

You watched the sunset go down along the Tokyo skyline, the orange hue penetrating behind Oikawa’s side profile. His eyes shifted towards yours, the ends of his mouth curling up while he placed his left hand on your thigh.

“Are you excited?”

Smiling back, you gave him a quick chuckle and turned your head back onto the road. The tall bridge suspensions flashed forward as Oikawa pressed on the accelerator, taking his hand off your thigh to switch gears. Immediately, he placed his fingers back on your leg, tracing his index finger up and down the inseam of your pants.

You looked up into the rearview mirror and saw Iwaizumi’s white Subaru WRX STI following closely behind; Kuroo and Leia to your left in another lane. Once the engine of his red Nissan 350Z caught up next to Oikawa’s vehicle, their tinted windows rolled down. Kuroo exposed the same dragon tattoo on his right arm while the contradicting black sunglasses worn only at night rested on the bridge of his nose.

He gave a salute with two fingers towards Oikawa, revving his engine as he sped up in front of him. You heard a lighthearted chuckle to your left before feeling the transmission shift, the car pulling forward to catch up.

Oikawa was wearing his infamous Seijoh Brawlers bomber jacket again, white and shiny from the reflection of the sun. With his hand placed firmly on your thigh, you looked down at his long fingers—a dagger on his index, a cross on his middle, and the words “with God” written above his knuckles in kanji.

It was the beginning of April, where the start of Spring and the night of the Daikoku Futo car meet and underground street race took place. The one a few months ago where you met Oikawa was in the heart of Downtown Tokyo, a long trip away from the small wharf island you both were headed to. A couple of weeks ago, Oikawa had taken you out there to drift—and to do other things as well.

The trip down was familiar, recognizing all the landmarks and bridges along the way. This time, Oikawa was the one driving as you relaxed back into the seat, fixating your eyes on the bright sunset dropping down into the water. With the windows rolled down, you felt the cold and crisp Spring night air against your cheeks as the roar of Oikawa’s RX-7 echoed in your ears.

When you arrived at Daikoku Futo, the parking lot reeked of gasoline and loud music—the place packed to the brim filled with all kinds of cars, racing gangs, and people, all there to catch a glimpse of the races happening later. You recognized the same gangs as before from the Downtown Tokyo race; the sleek colored bomber jackets resting on the shoulders of the Fukurodani Squad, Karasuno Killers, and Nekoma Crew members.

The parking lot was crowded with regular car enthusiasts, all of whom were just there to show off their creative expression—large body decals and neon LED rim lights attached underneath their side skirts and bumpers. Most cars were just domestics, until you saw a crowd of people around a dark blue 1967 Ford Mustang with two white stripes down the middle—something you’d only ever find in older western movies. Old American imports were rare to find, so it was no surprise people were taking interest just to get a glimpse of it.

“Admiring Rambo’s ride?”

You looked back at Oikawa smiling to himself, his attention focused on finding a parking space large enough for all of the Seijoh Brawlers to settle down in—The Brawlers’ Pit, as they like to call it. He turned his head for a second, the smile remaining on his face.

“Who?”

“Wakatoshi Ushijima. It’s his first race back after a while.”

“Huh.” You placed your hand on the car window, leaning your head inward as you spotted a group of men in dark purple bomber jackets around the Ford Mustang. “First race back? What happened?”

“He went AWOL a couple years back when the Shiratorizawa Saints were actually considered in the top five before the Karasuno Killers picked up their feet.” He looked straight at an empty parking space, large enough for the Seijoh Brawlers to reside in as they followed closely behind him.

“His nickname’s Rambo?” You questioned, placing your left hand on the car door armrest as you reclined back into your seat. The Inarizaki Bois were only a few cars away, staring intently at Oikawa and the rest of the Seijoh Brawlers back-in to a few parking spaces, rear side facing inward. “That’s kinda funny-sounding.”

“Well, no one actually calls him Rambo except for the Red Devil himself.” Oikawa explained, placing his foot on the clutch as he shifted into first gear, pulling up the emergency brake. “It’s because he’s built like Sylvester Stallone in the Rambo Movies. Though, in my opinion, Stallone would have been a better nickname. Fits in with the Mustang he drives.”

He turned off the engine and leaned over to your side, grabbing your chin with his left hand to face him. Within a second, he pressed his lips against yours, giving you a soft and sensual kiss. Before pulling away, he gave you his infamous smirk—his eyes hooded down, and the left side of his mouth curled up. Yet, this time, you noticed there wasn’t a mischievous intention behind it.

“My love.”

You smiled, looking up into his eyes before grabbing the door handle to open it slightly—just for Oikawa to pull you in for another kiss. He placed his left hand on your face as his lips smashed into yours, swaying his mouth open while his right hand grasped your forearm, yanking the door back in. When he pulled away and opened his eyes again, he exhaled softly against your lips; his hot breath trickling against your chin before tilting your head and placing two kisses against your jaw, whispering in your ear.

“You know how I feel about you opening the door by yourself. Let me.”

Even after a couple months of dating, you’ve never once opened the door for yourself. You kept wondering if it was because he didn’t want you to touch his car handles, but Oikawa laughed and reassured that it wasn’t the case. He genuinely believed it was a basic gesture for treating his girlfriend with respect.

Like always, Oikawa turned off the ignition before stepping out of the RX-7, shutting the driver’s side door closed before walking over to your side and swinging yours open. His tall figure stood over; taking off his white Seijoh Brawlers Bomber jacket and handing it over for you to wear.

Underneath, he wore his Off-White open button up shirt; the fit slightly oversized atop a teal short sleeve, showing off his lean and toned body. He extended his arm out, offering his hand to help you up from your seat.

Leia helped you pick out an outfit to dress according to the car meet standards—nothing too complex or intricate where it made you stand out like a sore thumb, but also nothing too basic or comfy compared to her specified taste. In the end, you had nothing similar to what she wanted, so she forced you to go shopping and wear the exact same outfit just with different jackets—hers, DK’s red Nekoma Crew bomber while yours, Oikawa’s white Seijoh Brawlers bomber.

She always stuck to her basics, skin tight black cargo pants with a black mock neck long-sleeved sheer top, almost exposing a lacy black bralette underneath, the same one from when you first met her. DK’s Nekoma Crew bomber jacket rested over her shoulders eloquently while you had on the exact same outfit—matching down the same black boots she lent you. She loved the idea of “twinning with her bestie” and “showing these other basic bitches at the meet what you two were made of”.

Although it was something out of your comfort zone, both Leia and Oikawa reassured you looked “absolutely smoking hot” in the outfit, raising your confidence to an appropriate level. Oikawa kept touching you more than usual, grazing his hands along your waist and up and down your thigh—not a single moment passed where at least one of his fingers wasn’t on your body.

You stepped out of the car dusting off your tight black cargo pants, the boots on your feet reaching the ground. The street lights surrounding the Daikoku Futo parking lot shined bright against all the cars, the night sky already up in the air. In the distance, you saw Leia and Kuroo walking towards you, waving their hands from side to side.

Leia yelled out your name as she started running towards you, her work boots clicking against the asphalt. Her and Kuroo had on their black sunglasses, always confusing you as to why they wore them strictly at night. “My bitch!”

You smiled and waved your hands up in the air as Oikawa shut the car door behind you, pressing the lock button twice on his car keys. Kuroo followed closely behind Leia, both of his hands placed firmly into the pockets of his red cargo pants. He nodded his head up at Oikawa, shooting him a smirk before placing a hand on Leia’s shoulder.

“You look so hot, I know a bad bitch when I see one.” Leia winked, lightly slapping your ass with her left hand. You jolted forward, surprised by her actions as you rubbed the back of your thigh.

“I agree.” Oikawa chimed in behind you, placing another slap on your ass right after Leia.

“Okay, okay. Tetsurou’s still here, calm yourselves.” You exhaled, slightly embarrassed but still nervously chuckling along with the both of them. They gave you a cheeky smile before Leia linked her arm under yours, bringing you closer to her body.

Kuroo cleared his throat as he looked away, visibly disturbed. He noticed Kita hopping off the hood of his Nissan Silvia, a cigarette placed firmly in between his lips with his hands shoved into his pockets. He had on a brand new Inarizaki Bois hoodie, probably replacing the one that got slashed and tarnished a couple weeks earlier.

Kita really did live up to his nickname because the second you saw him hop off his car, he instantly popped up next to Kuroo without a trace from in between. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaled a cloud of smoke, placing it in between his fingers as he flicked away the ash on the tip.

“Evening, fellas.” Kita piped in, focusing the attention on himself as he brought up the cigarette to his lips again, inhaling another drag of smoke.

“Sly.” Oikawa nodded his head, placing both of his hands in the pockets of his black jeans as Kita offered the cigarette in his direction. He raised his hand up, shaking his head in rejection before pulling out his own e-cigarette and inhaling vapor off the little bar.

“No thanks, I’ve switched to this instead.” Oikawa exhaled the opaque clouds through his teeth, wisps of vapor ascending up and dissipating into the night sky.

“Damn. What happened to the three of us smoking Sakanoshita’s cigars like the good ol’ days?” Kita cocked an eyebrow as he itched at the bandaid on his cheek. His eyelids remained hooded down as he dragged his clipped fingernails along the right side of his neck, where his infamous Inarizaki Bois snake tattoo remained. He turned to Kuroo, offering the lit cigarette in his direction.

“Sure. I’ll take a hit, why not?” Kuroo extended his arm out as Kita placed the cigarette between his fingers, handing it off to him. He shoved the filter in the middle of his lips, inhaling the smoke before his eyes shot wide open, coughing profusely as he dropped the cigarette on the ground. Placing his fist against his mouth, he hacked up a dry heave while crouching over.

Kita laughed, placing his hands in his pockets to pull out his box of cigarettes and a zippo-style lighter coated in a black-colored gunmetal. “I need a goddamn blunt, I can’t keep relying on these little fuckers anymore.”

As the three of them conversed within themselves, you caught up with Leia. You looked over your shoulder and noticed Iwaizumi and the rest of the Seijoh Brawlers propping open the hood of their cars, inspecting each and every part—making sure they were all ready to race. You then turned your head into the opposite direction, looking over at the brand new gang you haven’t seen before. You leaned towards Leia, pointing your finger at the man you saw earlier with the 1967 dark blue Ford Mustang.

“Who’s that guy?” You recalled, not bothering to remember what his name was despite Oikawa already explaining earlier.

“Oh, Wakatoshi Ushijima, my ex?” Leia cocked her eyebrow at you, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Ex?” Your eyes widened, your head slightly tilting towards her. Leia shifted her body forward, leaning off Oikawa’s RX-7.

“Yeah, ex-boyfriend. I used to date him when my brother was still alive. I met him through Keishin, actually—back when he used to go by Ukai and race for the Karasuno Killers.” Leia pouted her lips as she looked directly at Ushijima talking to a man in a dark purple bomber jacket with the moniker “Red Devil” on the back.

The nickname clicked familiar in your head, recognizing when Oikawa mentioned Ushijima's status from a couple years ago. “Tooru said he goes by Rambo.”

“Yeah, no one really calls him that though. Personally, I always called him Stallone. It’s actually what everyone calls him anyways.” Leia smiled and placed her hands inside her cargo pants. Oikawa mentioned that before; saying he thought it was a better fitting nickname for him.

“The Shiratorizawa Saints were known for never racing dirty because Ushiwaka’s father was a cop, that’s why he has that old American beauty—it used to be his dad’s. They actually were the top street racing gang even before the Nekoma Crew or the Seijoh Brawlers were ever formed.”

You looked back at Ushijima, a stoic expression plastered on his face as he talked to another man with grey hair and his eyebrows tilted down, a look similar to Iwaizumi’s aloof gesture. “Tooru also mentioned he went AWOL. Is that true?”

“Yeah, he went missing a few years ago, no one knew where he went. After his disappearance, they fell from the top five. Behind their backs, everyone started calling them the Shiratorizawa Sinners because they lost their best racer, diminishing their gang down to the bottom.”

You turned your head back at Ushijima, his big and tall figure towering over the men he was talking with. The dark purple bomber jacket on his shoulders looked small compared to his torso, just barely fitting past his long arms. It seemed Leia had a type—first Ushijima and now Kuroo, only going after men with large muscular builds.

“Some people said it was because of him, the Red Devil.” Leia pointed at the man with spiky red hair and a long, ominous grin on his mouth—the ends of his thin lips reaching from ear to ear. “But Tetsurou and I found out that wasn’t the case.”

“Really?” You lifted both of your eyebrows, not taking your eyes off the crowd surrounding the Shiratorizawa Saints.

“Yeah, it’s a long story though. I’ll tell you later about it.”

None of the racers in their gang had matching car colors like the Seijoh Brawlers, Nekoma Crew or Inarizaki Bois. All of their members had their own unique car color and model; noticing the guy with grey hair previously talking to Ushijima leaning against a black 1999 Acura NSX-T. He crossed his arms over his chest, the back of his dark purple bomber jacket labeled “Shadow”.

“Is this (y/n)?” Kita chimed in, pointing his index finger nonchalantly at you. He gave you a reassuring smirk, one that was different to Oikawa’s or Kuroo’s.

“Yeah, that’s her!” Leia grabbed your arm, pulling you up from RX-7. She leaned in close to your face, whispering into your ear. “Introduce yourself.”

You grabbed Kita’s cold and bony hands, shaking his palm delicately. He had his hood over his white hair, dark eyebags forming underneath his bottom lashes. A bandaid rested against his left cheek, a few scars up above on his right eyebrow and underneath his chin. He stood just a little shorter than both Kuroo and Oikawa, but nonetheless just as intimidating.

“Shinsuke Kita of the Inarizaki Bois, but you can call me Sly Fox. I work with Cypher and DK sometimes.” A few cigarette ashes stained the tips of his fingers as he released his grip on your hand, placing it back into his front pocket. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Sly Fox.”

He gave you a smile before looking down at his feet, leaning over his body. In an instant, he turned around, looking back at the Inarizaki Bois vaping e-cigarettes and smoking joints. The smell of marijuana clouded your nose, infiltrating all throughout the parking lot. Kita whipped his head back, the same sly smile remaining on his lips. “Say, are you hungry?”

Leia chimed in, grabbing your shoulders and digging her fingers into your skin as you both jolted forward.

“Yeah, she’s hungry. I am too.” Her voice sounded rushed and impulsive, begging for food.

Kita chuckled, pointing his thumb back at the Inarizaki Bois. “One of my boys, Ghost, owns a shop called Onigiri Miya. You can go over and get some for free if you’d like. Just tell them Sly Fox sent ya.”

Leia excitedly chuckled against your ear, patting your shoulders roughly three times. “Go on, go get some for me.”

“What? Why don’t you come with me?” You asked as she took Oikawa’s bomber jacket off your shoulders, exposing your sheer top. Leia rolled her eyes and placed her hands right underneath your shoulder blades, pushing you forward in the direction of the Inarizaki Bois.

“Look, Atsumu Miya is over there. I fucking hate that prick because he fucked up my car a while ago. I can’t be near that fucker, he’s just gonna piss me off.” She pushed you forward again, Oikawa’s bomber jacket slipping entirely off your arms. “Don’t be shy, you’re a bad bitch, remember?”

Your boots dragged along the asphalt as she pushed you further towards the Inarizaki Bois before stopping in place. Looking back, you saw Leia cover her head with Oikawa’s bomber jacket, trying to hide herself behind Kuroo from Atsumu Miya. Oikawa leaned forward and yanked his jacket from atop her head, to which she swung a fist in the air, punching the side of his arm in return.

You turned back around, fixing the top of your cargo pants before placing your hands into the two main pockets. While looking around, you spotted the small shop stand in the corner, a few racers lining up and paying for the small rice balls on top of a long table. The man handing out the food and taking orders wore a black cap and a fitted black shirt, the exact same snake tattoos Kita had on his body imprinted on the side of his neck.

What was left of his short hair peeked out under the cap, a few strands of dyed gray locks resting against his ears. The line was long, and you were quite keen for food—in addition, Leia was waiting for her portion as well. You didn’t want to take too long, and wondered if it was appropriate to just go up to him instead, cutting the line. Sly Fox said it was okay, right?

The end of the table had premade onigiri, all wrapped in plastic with the pull tabs and everything. As you passed the section containing the Inarizaki Bois and their cars, smoke infiltrated through your nose, instantly slicing through the opaque clouds of marijuana and cigarettes. A few eyes laid on you—one of them you recognized as Atsumu Miya, leaning against the front of his car.

His arms crossed over his black Inarizaki Bois hoodie, dressed exactly the same as Kita from head to toe. On the back of his hoodie in a slanted font with all capital letters, the moniker “Thrasher” was plastered across from one side to the other. In the corner of your eyes, you saw him give you a sly smirk, similar to Kita’s. It must have been an Inarizaki Bois quirk because when you turned your head back to the onigiri stand, Osamu was giving the exact same one as well.

You looked back in the distance—watching Oikawa, Kuroo and Kita have a deep conversation together as Leia placed DK’s bomber jacket over her head while leaning over the RX-7, patiently waiting for you to grab food. Shoving both of your hands into the front pockets of your cargo pants, you exhaled through your nose and walked up to the front of the line.

You approached the edge of the table, raising your right hand up to speak to Osamu. The same snake tattoo rested on the left side of his neck, just like the rest of the Inarizaki Bois. An intricate black and white fox tattoo rested on his right arm, trailing all the way up his bicep. He fixed all of his attention on his long line of customers, not even noticing you cutting the line.

“Uh, hello?” You cleared your throat, waving your hand to get his attention. He continued to pack the premade onigiri into plastic bags, handing them out to car enthusiasts and street racers. Not trying to be rude, you raised your hand again and reiterated your greeting. “Uh, hello, excuse me. Sly Fox sent me here.”

Osamu didn’t notice your attempt to communicate and continued to pack the onigiri into bags. Irritated, you grabbed a few plastic wrapped rice balls into your hands without saying a word. The onigiri felt warm against your palm, the inside of the plastic forming droplets of condensation from the freshly cooked rice and seaweed. You looked up at Osamu again, his attention everywhere else except on you.

“I’ll just take these if that’s okay,” you raised your voice, backing up from the stand, waving a rice ball in the air.

Just as you were about to turn around, two rough hands grabbed onto each of your arms behind you, digging their rings into your skin. Instantaneously, you whipped your head back, only to be greeted by another tall man in an Inarizaki Bois hoodie—a bandaid resting on the side of his jaw and the same snake tattoo on the left side of his neck.

You looked up, noticing his thin, foxlike green irises—the whites of his eyes strained and red in color. He furrowed his eyebrows, half of his middle part slicked back against his dark brown hair and the other part wisped over his forehead. In the corner of your eye, you looked at your left shoulder, noticing a joint rested in between his index and middle finger—the crutch digging down into your skin while the tip emitted a trail of smoke next to your ear.

“You know you have to pay for those, babygirl.”

His croaked voice was dark yet soft-sounding, his breath smelling like marijuana. You winced at the nickname he called you, scrunching your nose and curling down the ends of your mouth. Placing the bundle of onigiri closer to your chest, the man leaned in, tightening his grip on your shoulders as his silver rings grazed against your sheer top.

“We have a policy here to punish thieves.” He smirked slyly, the same one you saw on Kita, Atsumu and Osamu.

“Uh, I was sent here by Sly Fox,” you jolted your head back when his face got a little close for your comfort. “He said I could get some food for free.”

You pointed over at Kita behind the man, his legs spreading slightly in the straight-fit black jeans he was wearing. Sly Fox was displayed on the back of his hoodie in a slanted and sliced font as he stood firmly on his feet. The man in front of you looked over his shoulder straight at Kita, exposing his own racer nickname on the back of his hoodie.

Enigma, it read. A name with a similar meaning to Oikawa’s own Cypher.

He released his grip on your shoulder, bringing his right hand up to his face as he brought the joint right up in between his lips. The man inhaled a large hit, the tip of the blunt burning red from his long drag. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth, letting all of the smoke escape past the front of his teeth. After exhaling the rest into the air, a whiff of his marijuana breath infiltrated your nose.

He cocked an eyebrow and handed you the joint. “How important are you to know who Sly Fox is?”

Although you weren’t against the idea of smoking marijuana, you turned down his offer because you didn’t accept any kind of drugs from strange men, especially ones that you’ve never met before. “Uh, who are you, first of all?”

“Rintarou Suna. People here call me Enigma.”

The infamous Inarizaki Bois smirk grew across his face as he brought his left hand up to his forehead, running his fingers through his left middle part while pushing his bangs back. “And who’re you, babygirl?”

“Please don’t call me that, I have a boyfriend.” You snapped back as your eyelids thinned, still wincing at him. Suna chuckled, placing his hand inside his pocket.

“Relax, I just wanted to know your name.” Nonchalantly, he nodded his head up while peering down at you. The redness in his eyes made him a lot more intimidating than he should have been, the blood vessels in his sclera almost ready to burst right next to his irises.

Your eyes thinned just like his, hesitant to give him your name. Nonetheless, you mumbled out your first name, watching his expression lighten up.

Suna’s eyes widened as the right side of his mouth curled up into a smirk. He placed the joint from his fingers in between his lips, extending his right hand out to greet you. Mumbling through his teeth, he sucked in a breath of air through the crutch of the joint, letting out another exhale. “Oh, thee (y/n). Indigo’s cousin.”

You brought the onigiri closer to your chest, the warmth of the rice feeling hot against your black sheer top. Shaking his hand, you felt the grip of his multiple silver rings digging into your fingers. Confused about his statement, you raised your eyebrows and titled your head down. Indigo sounded familiar, but you ultimately forgot which racer that nickname belonged to.

“Who?”

“You don’t know your own cousin’s nickname? Interesting.” Suna dragged his fingernail against the inside of your palm, slightly tickling your skin as he let go of your hand. Pursing your lips, you gave him an uncomfortable expression before he placed the joint in between his fingers again. “Kinda figured; you look nothing like him. Are you sure you’re his cousin, or are you lying to me?”

“Watch your fucking mouth.” You instantly retracted your hand back, wiping your palm on your cargo pants. A scowl formed on your face, the corners of your lips turned down while your eyebrows cinched in. Irritated as you were, Suna chuckled—a slight cough erupting from his lips.

“Ooh, feisty. Playing hard to get, I see. I like that about you.”

You winced, a visible expression of discomfort resting on your face. Clutching the onigiri closer to your body, you tried your best to move him out of the way—shoving his right shoulder to the left. “Um, okay? Bye.”

Suna grabbed your forearm, restricting you from moving any further. He smiled straight at you again, despite the uncomfortable expression on your face. “Relax, I was just teasing.”

The silver rings on his fingers pressed cold against your sheer top, your skin able to feel the touch of the metal as he tightened his grip around your wrist. Just before letting go, Suna placed his fingers up to his lips again, inhaling another hit off the joint. He released a cloud of smoke through his nose, elucidating that he wasn’t done speaking.

“Anyways, you seem pretty cool—I wanna smoke you out.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard what I said, I wanna smoke you out. We can sit in my car, light another joint and listen to Biggie. Maybe even Tupac or Ice Cube, if you’re into that.”

It seemed almost too peculiar; his attitude and behavior almost mimicked Oikawa’s when he first met you up to a certain point. Immediately, you could tell Suna was a cassanova—he had a cool, calm and collected demeanor while simultaneously still being an asshole. Why were all the street racers flirtatious? Was that a common thing for people, specifically women to experience in a car meet? Who did this guy think he was?

You slowly shook your head, declining his offer. “Listen, I’m sure that seems fun and all, but like I said, I have a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, and that boyfriend is me.” A familiar voice popped behind Suna, belonging to no other than the leader of the Seijoh Brawlers himself.

Suna turned around with the joint in between his lips, only to be met with Oikawa glaring straight into his eyes. He jolted back a bit as Oikawa lowered his eyelids, the bags underneath his lashes growing darker. A deep guttural sound emitted from the bottom of his throat as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Enigma, stop flirting with my girl.”

He scoffed before sucking his cheeks, inhaling a long drag from the filter. As he exhaled, he placed his left hand on Oikawa’s shoulder, patting his fingers against the bomber jacket fabric. “So she’s your girlfriend? You scored a pretty one, Cypher. You’re lucky you got to her first before I could.”

“Get lost, Enigma.”

“You’re on Inarizaki Bois territory, Cypher.”

Suna chuckled as he flicked the ash off the tip of his joint, placing his left hand inside his pants pocket before turning around in the direction of the Inarizaki Bois, walking away. He whipped his head to the side, the same smirk growing across his face. “Maybe I’ll see ya again sometime soon, (y/n). Don’t bring your boyfriend next time.”

Without looking back, Suna placed the filter in between his lips again, taking a long drag. Oikawa grabbed your forearm and kept your body close to his, guiding you back to the Brawlers’ Pit. You still carried the onigiri in your arms as he dragged you away, quickening his pace as he took long strides against the asphalt.

“Tooru, slow down, I still have a bunch of onigiri in my hands,” you requested, digging the bottom of your boots against the asphalt. Oikawa quickly turned around and gripped your shoulder, leaning his head close to yours. He kissed your cheek before sliding his lips towards your ear, loudly whispering against your helix.

“Don’t ever talk to him again, he’s dangerous.” He leaned back, dragging his hand down your arm while intertwining your fingers together, pulling you forward. You let go of your hand to hold up the rest of the onigiri against your chest, the food now feeling cold.

“What?! So are you though?” You raised an eyebrow, confused on how he could think Suna was dangerous. You wondered what he could have done, or what his reputation was amongst the underground street racing scene. “Who is that guy anyway?”

Oikawa shifted his eyes to the right, looking into the direction of the Inarizaki Bois. He made eye contact with Suna again, watching him place the joint back between his lips. While grabbing your arm, he pulled your body forward, forcing you to follow him back to his car.

Once you both were far from Osamu’s onigiri shop and the rest of the Inarizaki Bois, Oikawa leaned in close to your face, staring straight into your eyes. You could tell he was upset; the same eyes filled with rage and fury back when he rescued Kita that one night.

“That’s Rintarou Suna. He’s the best marijuana dealer in all of Tokyo.” Oikawa brought you closer to your chest as he looked over throughout his surroundings, checking to see if anyone could hear him.

“That’s it? You do the exact same thing.” You mumbled against his chest, squishing the onigiri in your arms.

“He threatens my business.” Oikawa removed his bomber jacket, placing it over your shoulders. “He’s too good at it. I can never get a single fucking clue about him or who he’s dealing to. He reminds me too much of myself.”

“Is that why you’re jealous of him?”

“Not jealous—afraid.”

The ends of his mouth shifted to the left, his eyebrows pinching close together. He released a guttural sound in the back of his throat, obviously irritated just by talking about Suna.

“Look, you need to stay away from him—or any of the Inarizaki Bois, for that matter. Including Sly Fox, even though he’s my business partner. They cause nothing but trouble.”

He slid his hand down to your waist—gliding his fingertips across your back against the sheer fabric of your top. In an instant, you felt his hand slip into the back pocket of your cargo pants, bringing you closer under his arm as you bumped into his side. “Also, he was flirting with you. Nobody fucks with my baby.”

Oikawa mentioned that before the Inarizaki Bois were formed, Suna used to be a frequent customer of his, coming almost weekly—one time, daily—for his regular dosages of a few grams. Once Kita initiated him in, Suna immediately dropped Oikawa as his plug. Within a few weeks, Oikawa saw him dealing his own corner—with nonetheless Kita himself.

Suna was the absolute best marijuana dealer out of all the Inarizaki Bois. He raked in big money for them; and drugs was his specialty, specifically the infamous green plant. It pissed off Oikawa; his business slowly diminishing until he only relied on the one source that never failed to make him the most money—cocaine.

Suna reminded Oikawa of himself—rising up to the top so fast, straight out of nowhere, just like when he was still in the Kitagawa clan back in Osaka. He especially became concerned when Kita would mention how well Suna was doing on his own when dealing with snitches, thieves and rival gang members. He remembered when he was still a quiet and observant guy—not knowing he was becoming more ruthless by the day.

It even scared him when he found out Suna was being called Enigma by the Inarizaki Bois—the nickname rooting off of his own, Cypher. He kept that same cool, calm, and collected yet mysterious, hard-to-crack demeanor—the exact same reason why Oikawa was nicknamed Cypher in the first place.

Kita and the rest of the Inarizaki Bois always had that aura to them. Kita created the Inarizaki Bois after he met Kuroo, suggesting he should form his own car club. At first, it really was only that—consisting of Aran Ojiro, a buddy of his growing up and a pair of twins that he introduced to Kita; Atsumu and Osamu Miya.

Just like Suna, the two of them were absolute beasts on the road, both almost just as good as Kita himself. While Suna followed a more tight knit regimen closer to Kita’s style of racing, Atsumu and Osamu had their own special technique—a completely unique form of driving compared to anyone else’s. It could only be performed with two people, and the Miya twins pulled it off extremely well.

Somehow, the underground racing scene didn’t like how Atsumu and Osamu had the exact same car—color, model, year, modifications—anything. It was almost impossible to distinguish one from the other. To restrict their privileges, they either allowed them to each get their own unique car, or only be counted as one racer all together—meaning if they win a race, only one of them gets counted, no prize money doubled either.

This led to a loophole formed by Atsumu himself—their special racing technique called the Twins’ Quick Attack. While racing, they both come up to their designated target; Osamu on the left and Atsumu on the right. They both would keep a constant speed, leveling up with the driver until Atsumu is able to catch them in a vulnerable spot. That’s when he would yank the wheel, ultimately thrashing into the side of their target’s car. He would do it a couple of times until it caught them off-guard, letting Osamu quickly maneuver through like a ghost, winning the race for the both of them.

Although being business partners with Kita led to them settling their differences, Oikawa always felt threatened by the Inarizaki Bois. They were always a hassle to deal with when racing, especially Suna. Back at the Downtown Tokyo race a few months ago, Iwaizumi explained that Suna would have almost won if he hadn’t pushed himself hard enough—it was the first time he saw you in a decade and he didn’t want to disappoint, nor make a fool out of himself.

Suna was in the lead until Iwaizumi remembered he still had a little bit of nitrous oxide left in his car’s system, ultimately pushing the WRX to the fullest extent towards the end of the race. He might have wrecked the engine and burned out his exhaust, but it was all worth it—he won the million yen and saw a smile on your face.

When Oikawa knew that Suna was giving Iwaizumi and the rest of the Seijoh Brawlers a hard time, that was when he knew he’d always be a threat, no matter what. Suna crossed the line when he started flirting with you—knowing exactly how he persuaded women to sleep with him. It was similar to the way Oikawa would get women to sleep with him too in the past—playing the “bad boy” façade, manipulating their perception of him just so it would be easier to get into their pants.

Unfortunately, he used that exact same tactic to get with you as well—playing the bad boy façade; using his past to manipulate your perception of him; making you feel sorry for his trauma and thinking he was someone different than he actually was. Little did he know, you truly cared for him; showing complete empathy to the false version he created of himself. It made him rethink his decisions and contemplate on his true intentions, completely regretting ever lying to you in the first place.

You both walked back over to Leia, Kuroo, and Kita, who were conveniently talking with three more people. You recognized them all, the one with spiky grey hair was Kotarou Bokuto; the one whose Mitsubishi Eclipse got wrecked in the Downtown Tokyo race.

The man standing right next to him in a grey bomber jacket with black hair was Keiji Akaashi, his expressionless yet intense stare reminding you of Iwaizumi. Finally, you recognized the same guy with his hair tied back into a small bun standing next to Kuroo—Kenma Kozume, the one who handed Oikawa the two million yen.

“Cypher, my dude!” Bokuto exclaimed enthusiastically with a large smile on his face, reaching out to do a basic handshake with two hand slaps and a fist bump. “Whaddup?! Been a long time, no see!”

“Nice to see you too, Blackjack.” Oikawa turned his head to greet Akaashi and Kenma with one head nod each—both of them returning the favor without saying a word. He pushed you in the direction of Leia before grabbing onto Kita’s forearm, pulling him away from the group.

As you were left to socialize, Oikawa dug his fingers into the fabric of Kita’s hoodie, his nails sinking deep into his skin. When they walked far enough; with all of his force, Oikawa pushed Kita back against a random car before grabbing onto the front of his Inarizaki Bois hoodie, grasping all of the thick fabric into his hand. Shoving his face close to his ear, Oikawa whispered an ominous threat—one that made Kita’s pupils constrict and slightly widen, an eyebrow cocked up to the side.

“Watch your fucking boys, Sly. Especially Enigma.”

His voice sliced through like a knife, animosity brooding behind his words. That was the first time Kita experienced Oikawa becoming aggressive with him. Usually he kept his cool, calm, and collected attitude—but in it of itself, that was just as frightening. You never knew when, where or with whom he would unhinge the treacherous and violent side of his personality. It all depended on what pissed him off and Kita knew exactly what—or who made that happen.

“Cypher, relax.”

Oikawa’s eyebrows furrowed before letting go of his grip, belligerence seeping out of his pupils. Kita swallowed hard, a stinging sensation forming in the back of his throat. He smelled like cigarette smoke and marijuana, the putrid scent of his clothes infiltrating through Oikawa’s nose. He glared back down at Kita before immediately turning around and walking back towards the group, his hands placed firmly into the pockets of his bomber jacket.

In the distance, he heard Bokuto’s boom of laughter erupt from his throat, loudly laughing in the middle of everybody. He had an energy drink in his right hand, sloshing the black and yellow container as he explained a story.

“…Yeah it fucking sucked dude, we had to bust out the shop loan to fix everything!” Bokuto maneuvered his hands all over the place, using his movements to speak more than his words.

“If only he knew how to drift.” Kuroo turned his head to Akaashi, who only shrugged in response.

“Hey! I do know how to drift, Spades has been teaching me!” Bokuto refuted, placing his left hand on his hip. His bomber jacket moved back a little bit, almost too small of a fit for his large figure. He turned to Akaashi for reassurance, for which all he responded with was an expressionless stare.

“Anyways,” Kuroo turned towards you, placing a large slap on Kenma’s back. He jolted forward, the tool belt around his waist sliding down his slim figure. “(y/n), this is Kenma Kozume, or formally known as Snake Eyes. Pretty sure you guys have heard of one another.”

Kenma softly smiled at you with his eyes hooded down. A bandaid rested across the bottom of his chin, a similar dragon tattoo situated on the right side of his neck, just like Kuroo and Oikawa. He extended his arm out, his slim and nimble fingers caressing against your palm as you shook his hand.

“Nice to finally meet you.”

“Same to you, Snake Eyes.”

You noticed Kenma’s right arm was decorated with intricate snake tattoos with their eyes wide open, similar to the design on Kita’s neck and the rest of the Inarizaki Bois. In his left hand, he carried a small half-eaten bag of chips, a few crumbs left over on the side of his cheek. He pulled his arm back before opening the bag and popping a few in his mouth, snacking on the chips while he faced Kuroo.

“Anyways, Snake Eyes here is going to be racing in for the Nekoma Crew this time.” Kuroo placed his arm around Leia, leaning back on Oikawa’s RX-7. She unwrapped the onigiri in her hands, taking a large bite out of the rice ball.

“Oh? I remember you guys mentioning he doesn’t race, though.” You crossed your arms, giving him a smile.

“I only race when it’s necessary,” Kenma pointed in the far distance towards the bundle of red and maroon cars in the opposite corner of the parking lot, a shiny red 2015 Toyota GT86 parked in the middle with a large black modified wing attached to the rear. “I also brought my eighty-six today, wanted to give her a spin tonight—you know, show her off and whatnot.”

You nodded as you looked at his car, admiring how the paint shined underneath the street lamps and how the drifting tires were thin with sleek black rims, dark as night. Kenma popped another chip into his mouth, a muffled crunch erupting from the back of his teeth as he chewed quickly on his snack.

Kenma fixed his eyesight on the figure behind you, nodding his head up to Oikawa as he continued to munch on his chips. “Cypher.”

“Snake Eyes,” Oikawa responded as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in close. You continued to eat the onigiri in your hand as he reached down and grabbed one from your arm, unwrapping it in front of your face.

“Excited to race you.” Kenma wiggled his eyebrows up, popping another chip into his mouth.

Oikawa shoved the rice ball through his teeth before he could respond, shaking his head as he chewed. You heard him rush a swallow, covering back the half-eaten onigiri in his right hand. “Oh, no. I’m not participating in the second race. I only go with the thirds.”

You remembered Iwaizumi mentioning a couple months back how the third race was always reserved for the best and only the best—Oikawa, Kuroo and Kita always being the main participants in them. It was also the one that held the largest cash prize, the money coming from the underground street racing community pitching into the pot. Oikawa never bet larger than half of what he could, always gaining and never losing.

“I’m making Indy race instead,” Oikawa brought his right arm up again, placing another large bite into the onigiri. You scratched your head as you questioned to yourself who Indy was again, forgetting if he was referring to Iwaizumi. You recalled him always watching the American Indy 500 races on television with your father whenever they were on, sitting a little too close in front of the TV, cheering on for his favorite racers. “I’m sure you can handle him.”

Kenma crunched on another chip, intensely staring back at Oikawa. They locked eyes for a moment, an underlying tension between the both of them every time they had an interaction.

Nodding his head, Kenma copied the same cocky smirk Oikawa gave him. “Oh, we’ll see.”

“…But I wasn’t planning on racing tonight.” Iwaizumi rested his hands on the edge of Kyotani’s 1995 white Toyota MR2, the hood propped up while he scanned his eyes throughout the interior.

“Just do it, okay? I already told Snake Eyes you were racing.” Oikawa slipped his right hand through the back pocket of his black jeans, reaching in and grabbing the e-cigarette out of his pocket. Iwaizumi turned around and furrowed his eyebrows, glaring back at Oikawa with his gloved hands placed firmly on either side of his hips.

“Now, why would you do that?” Iwaizumi sneered, crossing his arms in the process.

“Because you’re the second best.” Kyotani peeked his head out from the driver’s side, his car door already wide open—hearing every bit of their conversation. “Hate to admit it, but you’re the best fit to race on their level.”

“Why don’t you race instead, Mad Dog?” Iwaizumi cocked an eyebrow, shutting the hood of his MR2. Kyotani chuckled as he revved the engine, hearing the cyclic gears grind as they tested the RPM speed.

“Fuck no,” Kyotani popped his head out again, looking directly between Iwaizumi and Oikawa. “I heard Thrasher and Ghost are participating too. Ya think I’m gonna fucking win against them?”

Iwaizumi scoffed, rolling his eyes to the side as he watched Oikawa take in a large hit off his e-cigarette, letting the thick, opaque cloud of vapor trickle out through his lips. He exhaled all at once, the smell of caramel and smoke exhaust penetrating through the air. Iwaizumi looked back across the parking lot over at you, Kenma, and Leia conversing with one another against the side of Kenma’s GT86, eating chips and onigiri while laughing.

“…So when I first started drifting, Kenma was trying to teach me instead of Tetsurou. When I tell you, the LOOK on his face when we were spinning, this bitch seemed like he was going to shit his pants!” Leia clutched her stomach and threw her head back, laughing up into the air.

“You’re almost as reckless as DK.” Kenma rolled his eyes, popping another chip into his mouth. Leia placed her right hand on his shoulder and leaned back against the car alongside him, both of them facing you. She forcefully placed her hand into his chip bag before Kenma pulled away, an annoyed expression forming on his face as Leia quickly popped the chip into her mouth.

“Get your own shit, Princess.” Kenma growled, crossing one foot over the other.

“Princess?” You smiled, crossing your arms and tapping your foot along the asphalt. “Is that your nickname here?”

“Yeah, Princess Leia, once the daughter of the Underground Tokyo King himself.�� She placed her hands into the pocket of Kuroo’s bomber jacket, closing her eyes. “Tetsurou nicknamed me that.”

“That’s really cute,” You chuckled, turning your head towards Kenma. “How’d you get the nickname ‘Snake Eyes’, Kenma?”

“DK also gave me that nickname.” Kenma looked up into the street light underneath his car, rolling the empty bag of chips up into a tight fold, slipping it into one of the pockets of his red cargo pants. “I don’t usually race, I spectate. I’m usually the one behind the scenes and observing the race.”

“He was also the brains behind the operations DK, Cypher and Sly Fox would go on. The logistic mastermind, per say.” Leia closed her eyes for a while, leaning her head back against the GT86.

“I guess you can refer to it that way.” Kenma moved his left hand from his pocket in order to tuck the front strand of his dyed blond hair back against his ear, letting the other still dangle in front of his eyes, framing the edge of his cheek. He chuckled softly while staring at the ground before looking back up at you, his golden irises constricting into a tight oval—realizing to yourself his pupils really did look like snake eyes.

“If you’re usually the spectator, why’d you plan on racing tonight?” You nonchalantly asked as Kenma straightened his posture, his arms crossed over his chest while he flexed the dragon tattoo on his bicep.

“Leia was originally supposed to participate, but she asked me to take her place instead. Like I mentioned, I only race when I have to. She made it seem like it was urgent for me to replace her in the second race.” He tapped his right foot on the concrete, nodding his head along to the beat of the song playing in the distance—all on the speakers of the Nekoma Crew Pit. You recognized it as “rockstar” by Post Malone, with 21 Savage’s verse just finishing up.

Leia opened her eyes and shot you an expressionless look, wiggling her eyebrows up and down. You kept your mouth shut; not sure of whom she’s told already about her pregnancy. To your knowledge, only you and Oikawa were the only ones who knew, not even sure if Kuroo knew himself.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, a text message appearing across your lock screen. As you adjusted the brightness of the backlight, you noticed it was from Iwaizumi asking for you to come over and meet him at the Brawlers’ Pit. Quickly texting with one hand, you acknowledged his message and placed your phone back into your pocket.

“I gotta go, Hajime calls,” you exclaimed, looking up to scan the parking lot, searching the familiar white and teal colors. Leia and Kenma gave you a nod without saying a word, waving goodbye as you began to walk.

You took in a deep breath, letting out an exhausted sigh. Placing your hands into the pockets of Oikawa’s bomber jacket, you walked throughout the busy parking lot—the car meet packed with enthusiasts, car clubs and gang members. Music blasted throughout the air, a song sampled from the 80’s mixed with Memphis rap vocals and a heavy bass drop booming in your ears.

You passed through the Shiratorizawa Saints again—watching the man with spiky red hair talk to Ushijima. The man with grey hair and “Shadow” written across the back of his bomber jacket came up to the both of them, handing a wrench to the man who you assumed was “Red Devil”. He had his hands placed on his hips, a white bandage wrapped around his fingers as he accepted the tool.

Turning your head back into the direction of the Seijoh Brawlers, you raised your eyebrows the minute you saw Iwaizumi lean back against his car, scrolling away on his phone. You couldn’t help but notice the faint dragon tattoo on his right arm—the exact same one Oikawa had, except the head of the dragon was not on his neck. Never noticing it at first, you pinched your eyebrows together and sucked in your cheeks.

“Nice tattoo you got there,” you interrupted, walking up Iwaizumi with a smirk on your face. “Fresh ink?”

“Stop teasing. You already know it.” Iwaizumi chuckled, nudging your left shoulder as you both laughed with each other. You poked the ink on his bicep, gliding your finger down his arm as he flinched.

“Hey! Stop that!” Iwaizumi exclaimed, obviously irritated by the tip of your nail tickling his skin. “You know I’m ticklish.”

“Always have been, huh?” You shot him a reassuring smile, heavily missing the fun times you had with him back in the day.

When Iwaizumi was younger, he had a hard time at school—never able to focus clearly on his studies, reading books or solving arithmetic problems. Some may say he wasn’t intelligent; that was, until one day while visiting your house, he sneaked into the garage watching your father fix up his car. He peeked out the door, intently observing him sit on a stool as he placed a jack underneath the front side skirt.

It was like primitive Anthropocene humans discovering fire for the first time—a bright light igniting within his soul. At such a young age, Iwaizumi already knew what he wanted to be when he was older—someone who loved to fix and race cars, nonetheless a street racer. Your father noticed him at the door, a reassuring smile on his face while he called Iwaizumi over to come watch.

“Here, son. I’ll teach you something.” He gave Iwaizumi a small pail to sit on, plopping himself down as your father went through the steps to change a tire by hand. He let Iwaizumi try for himself, almost taking him his entire body weight to unscrew a lug nut from the lock. It was almost natural for him to know about cars, the information instantly sticking to his brain.

You remembered being jealous of the passion Iwaizumi had for cars as he assisted your father on his Mitsubishi Evo, his desire driving him to become a great mechanic later on in life. He had a bright future ahead of him, and being able to work alongside Oikawa and the rest of the Seijoh Brawlers doing something he’d always loved doing—it was basically a dream come true. Iwaizumi wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

“Ey,” Oikawa nonchalantly came up behind Iwaizumi’s WRX, scaring the both of you for a second with his sudden greeting. He gave you a smile, crossing his arms over his open white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Don’t do that, you scared us.” Iwaizumi punched Oikawa in the arm before closing his eyes and sighing to himself. “Did you tell her?”

“Tell me what?” You raised an eyebrow, fixing your attention on Oikawa.

Once again, he pulled out the e-cigarette from his pocket, placing it in between his lips and inhaling a large puff of vapor into his mouth. It never bothered you how much he smoked, but you always wondered how much nicotine he really consumed in a single day.

“Iwaizumi is participating in the second race.” As he spoke, wisps of vapor sliced through his teeth before he exhaled a full breath of smoke.

“Oh?” You raised both of your eyebrows while crossing your arms, pouting your lips. “You told me you weren’t gonna race tonight.”

“That’s what I thought too, but your shitty boyfriend here insisted I should.” Iwaizumi leaned back against his car door, placing his hands inside the pocket of his dark wash jeans. He wore the same teal shirt Oikawa was wearing, indicating they both were members of the Seijoh Brawlers to other car clubs and gangs at the meet.

“Don’t be so rude, Indy.” Oikawa closed his eyes, taking in a series of quick hits off his e-cigarette.

“Your nickname, I presume?” You nudged his side with your elbow twice before Iwaizumi nodded.

“Homage to no other than my uncle.” Iwaizumi smiled softly at you, your face reminding him of the man that helped him become the person he was today. Besides helping out your dad with his car, you remembered he always watched the American Indy 500 races while on International cable. He recalled it being one of his favorite pastimes spent with your father.

“Well, I wish you good luck, Hajime. But I assume you won’t be needing too much of it since we all know you’re gonna win.” You winked at him, giving him an encouraging and supportive smile.

“Do you think your dad would like me?” Oikawa chimed in, smirking confidently to himself. Both you and Iwaizumi looked at each other, cocking up an eyebrow on both of your faces before chuckling and simultaneously saying the exact same thing.

“No.”

You both laughed at Oikawa getting offended, scoffing to himself as he questioned exactly why your father wouldn’t like him. For the rest of the time being, all three of you bonded well and laughed at jokes before the start of the second race. Unbeknownst to all you, it ended up being the last time the three of you had happily conversed without any complications.

You all were interrupted by someone announcing on the speakers that the racers should line up and those who wanted to spectate should go up to the platform soon. Iwaizumi gave you a quick hug, rubbing the top of your back before hopping into his car and taking off to the start of the race.

Sooner or later, you, Oikawa, Kuroo, Kita, and Leia jogged up the stairs that connected the parking lot to the observer deck, leaning against the railing up on the spectator platform. It was busy on the deck—almost everyone from the meet including family and friends, car enthusiasts, and the members of the street racing gangs all crowded around just to get a view of the racers.

Leia got her own snacks, lightly munching away at the leftover onigiri and Kenma’s favorite chips. Kuroo had his elbows on the railing and looked down at Kenma’s GT86 rumbling against the starting line, giving the blond haired man a smirk and a Nekoma salute. Kita quietly smoked another cigarette in between his fingers, the filter resting on his bottom lip as he let out an exhale of smoke.

With your left hand placed on the railing, Oikawa rested his right hand on top, curling his fingers down to intertwine with yours. He gave you a reassuring smile, the cool wind bristling through his locks as the tail end of his white button up shirt flowed back. Leaning in, he quickly kissed your cheek, whispering “my love” into your ear before fixing his eyes back at the starting line.

Down below was the view of the racers, six cars all lined up at the start of the base. From descending order, first in line was Yuu Nishinoya, a.k.a. Rolling Thunder of the Karasuno Killers. He drove a modified 2000 blood orange Subaru Impreza, the night sky almost making it look red in color. His nickname derived from the loud popping noises erupting whenever he revved his engine, the fuel burning out of his exhaust sounding like thunder every time.

Second in line was Iwaizumi himself in his 2006 white Subaru WRX. You could see him through his slightly tinted windshield, grasping the top of his wheel tightly with his right hand as he revved his engine, the loud revolutions of the motors churning underneath the hood of his car. A scowl was placed firmly across his face; you weren’t sure if it was from his determination to win the race, or his anger at Oikawa for making him participate.

Atsumu and Osamu Miya, a.k.a. Thrasher and Ghost of the Inarizaki Bois were directly in the middle, each one having the same sleek black 2002 Nissan Skyline GT-R 34—no one ever knowing who was who in which car. The only difference was a small sticker labeled “Cobb Tuning” laid across the side skirt of Atsumu’s car—a souvenir from a famous American Tune shop that specializes in GT-R Skylines.

Kenma stood second to last on the line descending down, his red 2015 Toyota GT86, the newest—and dare say best looking—car out of all the racers. A street light shined underneath Kenma’s car, revealing him wearing black shades despite the moon shining up in the night. You wondered if it was a Nekoma Crew thing; wearing black sunglasses in the dark. You thought it seemed contradictory, but nonetheless they always looked effortless and unbothered while wearing them.

Last but not least was Satori Tendou, a.k.a. the Red Devil of the infamous Shiratorizawa Saints. His 1999 red Nissan 240SX rumbled along with the wheels, the body of his car lowered close to the ground. Tendou was well-known for being the Shiratorizawa Saints’ second best racer, right after Ushijima himself.

He was also comparable to Iwaizumi; an excellent mechanic and a very skilled racer. Red Devil derived from his spiky red hair and the monstrous power his engine held—but it wasn’t until Ushijima went missing awhile back where people started to develop a new meaning to his nickname, the Red Devil who made the Saint disappear.

All of the racers revved their engines, the sound booming throughout the air as the people of the spectator platform from above and down below on the sidewalk cheered. The flagger was a woman with black hair and glasses in an orange tube top and black booty shorts, her long thigh-high boots clicking against the concrete as she walked up to the middle of the street.

Nishinoya whistled out of his window, waving his hand out to the woman. She ignored his catcall and swung the orange flag in the air, catching the attention of all the racers. It sounded like their engines roared louder than before, the noise echoing throughout the air as it pierced through your eardrums. As the woman started counting down, the crowd behind you cheered wildly, screaming the nicknames of the racers they bet would win.

Five. Tendou made sure to turn down the music in his car, patiently waiting to hear the rest of the countdown.

Four. Nishinoya’s exhaust popped furiously into the air, fuel burning out as the noise mimicked a thunderstorm.

Three. Kenma adjusted his mirror and placed his hand back on the wheel, making sure everything was aligned in sight.

Two. The Miya brothers looked at each other through their tinted windows, giving a sly smirk before focusing back on the road.

One. Iwaizumi lightly pushed down on the accelerator and revved his engine, staring straight down the long street stretching a distance away.

Just as the woman motioned “GO!”, the screech of the racers’ wheels penetrated through the air, the noise almost sounding painful to bear up close. White smoke filled the area, each of the cars disappearing into the night until none of them remained at the starting line. The woman’s hair flew back as she covered her ears, looking over her shoulder at each of the cars already far down the road.

From the spectator view, you could see every part of the track and know exactly where the racers were. The wharf wasn’t too small nor too big, but nonetheless remained one of the most popular spots for street racing. It was far from downtown Tokyo and you needed to pay a toll bridge to enter, so law enforcement would have a hard time trying to get through in the first place.

Your heart pounded through your chest, the adrenaline pumping throughout your body despite only being a spectator on the observer’s deck. Car enthusiasts and other gang members cheered behind you, their screams and hollers echoing throughout the night as you all watched the racers drift the first tight round corner.

Kenma led first, his drifting skills almost comparable to Kuroo and Oikawa. Although he wasn’t the fastest racer, Kenma was the most skilled out of all of them. This helped him to an advantage; knowing exactly when and where to drift his car on the tight turn so he wouldn’t leave even the smallest scratch on his car. The rear of his GT86 swerved back to the left as he yanked his wheel to the right, not even a skid mark left on the asphalt.

Followed by Kenma was Iwaizumi, just barely catching up to him from behind. There was little distance between the front bumper of his car to Kenma’s rear, his headlights flashing directly on his license plate. Kenma cursed to himself, pressing down on the clutch before shifting the car into a higher gear, accelerating his speed. He looked into the rearview mirror; the determined expression on Iwaizumi’s face glaring back at him, concentrated on taking the lead.

From the other side, Nishinoya’s Impreza zoomed past both of them, sparks flying out of his exhaust as he drifted to the left, his steering wheel oscillating back and forth. He left multiple tire marks on the road, scraping the rear bumper of his car against the barrier of the street. Reckless as he was, Nishinoya used up all of his nitrous oxide, the turbo power maxing out from the engine.

Although he led first for a brief second, Kenma and Iwaizumi passed him directly after, avoiding his bashful swings left and right. Nishinoya slammed his hand on the top of his steering wheel, cursing to himself as both the Miya twins in their Skylines passed him as well—dropping him down to fourth place. It shows that a lot can happen and change in a matter of time; Nishinoya placing first and then dropping back down to fourth all within seconds.

Tendou couldn’t believe he was in last place despite the improvement changes he made to his car. Unlike the rest of the racers, his car was almost a half a ton heavier. This impeded his abilities to place first with all the extra weight, dragging him down to last. Although he was on the tail end of Nishinoya, it didn’t matter if you won by an inch or a mile—winning was winning, and last place meant last place.

In a matter of seconds, Iwaizumi surpassed Kenma while they both drifted to the right. The rear ends of their vehicles swerved all the way out of line with the street, only Iwaizumi’s tires skidding across the asphalt. The side of Kenma’s car was dangerously close to Iwaizumi’s driver side, for which he had to slow down a bit to refrain from scratching his precious GT86. Racing meant nothing if his car was scratched in any sort of manner.

Kenma’s hesitation left him vulnerable for Iwaizumi to lead in first, another curse under his breath as he slapped his left hand on the wheel. Speeding down through a tunnel with the underground lights zooming through, Kenma pushed the bridge of his sunglasses up his nose. Wind flowed through his hair, little strands of his dyed blond locks coming undone from his small bun tied in the back of his head.

From the observer’s deck, a wave of excitement erupted from the crowd with you cupping your hands against the side of your mouth, cheering for Iwaizumi taking the lead. A whoop erupted from the bottom of Oikawa’s throat, clapping his hands together as he leaned over the railing. A smile formed on his lips, showing how proud he was of him. You let out another cheer as the crowd roared again, all the racers drifting another tight corner to the left.

“Go Haji!” You screamed out, even though you knew he couldn’t hear you. Whistles and cheers from the rest of the Seijoh Brawlers dispersed throughout the crowd as you saw Kuroo grip the handle of the railing, a tensed expression on his face.

“Come on, Snake Eyes! Stop worrying about your fucking car, damn it!” Kuroo boomed as he watched Kenma trail behind Iwaizumi, knowing exactly why he always refrained from racing.

Kenma has a copious amount of exotic cars imported from the United States and Europe—the Audi R8, the McLaren 720s and the Porsche 911—all sleek and red in color, sitting pretty in the Nekoma Shop garage never to be raced against even though it would smoke out any competitor. Kuroo always thought it was ridiculous of him to never even drive it out onto the street, afraid to even get a little scratch on his precious and expensive toys.

From the corner of his eyes, Kenma looked up into the rearview mirror to see both of the Miya brothers speeding up behind him, neck in neck with each other. His pupils constricted, knowing what was to come because of their reputation. He stomped down on the clutch with his left foot and quickly pressed the break with the tip of his right toe before blipping the throttle, quickly downshifting to match his revolutions.

As Kenma slowed down the RPM of his engine, Atsumu and Osamu zoomed past him with ease, trailing behind both of their Nissan Skylines. He couldn’t tell who was in which car as their windows were tinted to the darkest setting legally possible. Kenma heard their engines speed up as they crept up behind Iwaizumi, both of them now in second place. He pressed down on his accelerator again, intently watching behind the twins.

Iwaizumi’s confidence exuded off his skin, adrenaline pumping throughout his body. He saw the black Skylines tailgate behind, forcing him to press down harder onto the accelerator. A growl erupted from the back of his throat as he saw one of the Skylines disappear out of the rearview mirror. Immediately looking over both of his shoulders, he noticed no one was there, only one of the Miya twins flashing their bright headlights directly behind.

Atsumu revved his engine loudly, spurs of the cyclic gears grinding against one another, taunting Iwaizumi. He swerved to the right, immediately catching up side by side. Nervously looking over his shoulder, Iwaizumi tried to focus his attention onto the road while also being cautious of Atsumu as a tight hairpin turn approached on the road ahead.

Instantly, Iwaizumi yanked the wheel to the left, kicked the clutch, and pulled the emergency brake, holding onto it tightly as he balanced his right foot on the throttle. Atsumu did the same; drifting side by side with only a paper thin difference in length between their car doors, just barely scratching the paint. They both immediately yanked their wheels back to the right, the rear ends of their vehicles swerving to the side as their tires skidded the asphalt.

The crowd behind you watched intently, their focus solely between Atsumu and Iwaizumi. Your eyes trailed on the both of them as they approached another hairpin turn—the one right underneath the observer’s deck attached to the parking lot. While leaning over the railing, the wind rushed through your clothes, feeling the crisp night air tickle on your skin. You crossed your arms over each other before Oikawa linked his pinky finger with yours, scooching closer to your body as the crowd roared again.

Iwaizumi’s heart raced; sweat dripping down his forehead as the wind from his open windows sucked into his vehicle. Atsumu was right there next to him, revving his engine loudly to catch him off guard. He couldn’t tell if it was Atsumu or Osamu in the car, but he quickly found out once the black Skyline swerved to the right before yanking the steering wheel back to the left, ultimately thrashing into the driver’s side of Iwazumi’s WRX.

He felt the jolt of impact, losing the grip on his wheel as every organ in his body shifted to the left. In the corner of his eye, he saw Osamu’s car sneak up on the other side of him—Iwaizumi now realizing he’s being targeted by the Twins’ infamous Quick Attack. He tried his best to rev match back down to fourth gear, balancing his right foot between the brake and throttle—yet, it was too late.

Atsumu rolled down his window, a smirk forming on his pierced lip as he gripped the handle on his steering wheel and yanked it to the left again. The passenger side of his car collided with Iwaizumi’s WRX, ultimately thrashing straight into him once again. The force colliding with the side of his car caused him to spin out of control, losing any grip on the wheel. He tried his best to brake, but the speed on his dashboard already passed over 120km/h.

The last thing Iwaizumi saw before his car flipped over onto the road was a maniacal laughter erupting from Atsumu’s mouth as both the Miya twins zoomed past his car, now taking first place.

Your heart dropped down to the pit of your stomach the moment Iwaizumi’s car flipped over. The air felt dense, making it hard to breath as your eyes diligently watched the wheels fly out, the body of his car tumbling against the asphalt as he crashed into the barrier of the street. Your pupils constricted, not a muscle in your body moving as a painful chill ran down your spine, almost making you feel sick to your stomach. No thoughts in your mind processed through as you were left in complete shock, peering down at the WRX utterly wrecked with glass shattered all over the road.

The crowd behind you screamed as his car collided with the barrier, the shrill noise of their panic piercing through your ears while the boom of the crash erupted from down below. Time slowed down for you, but it wasn’t the same way you would have expected it to.

It felt like everyone around you disappeared, your surroundings completely dissipating into an abstract empty bright white room, no quantum definitive measurement of how long it stretched. You tried your best to move a muscle as your eyes looked down at your hands, waiting for it to start trembling.

Kita stopped breathing for a second, holding in the smoke within his lungs as he dropped the cigarette from his fingers onto the ground below. Only shock ran through his body as he reflected on the situation; Kita never once witnessed Atsumu cause a crash before. Usually, their Quick Attack only ever damaged the side of their targets’ cars—never intending to flip them completely over and collide with the road barriers. His jaw hung low as a trail of smoke escaped his mouth, his hand still in the same position as when had a cigarette in between his fingers.

Kenma’s eyes widened, watching the whole thing unveil. Stepping on the accelerator, he immediately zoomed past Iwazumi’s wrecked car, instantly drifting in a half moon circle as smoke erupted from his exhaust. His vehicle swiftly parked parallel to the middle barrier of the road, the front end of his GT86 perpendicular to the crash site. He gasped abruptly, seeing the accident and Iwaizumi’s body hanging upside down in his car up close felt all too real for him.

“INDIGO!” Kenma screamed, quickly shifting his car in first gear before pulling up the e-brake. He didn’t even take his keys out of the engine before swinging his door open and rushing straight to Iwaizumi, discarding his black sunglasses over his shoulder.

Blood quickly rushed through his veins as he looked underneath the car, Iwaizumi’s unconscious body upside down in his seat with his hands hanging below his head. All the windows were shattered over the concrete, glass shards displaced in a scattered and random pattern. Kenma didn’t care if he injured himself while crawling down onto his knees, pulling Iwaizumi out from under the driver’s seat. A pain winced through his forearm as a large metal scrap protruded out from the side of the window, piercing through his skin as he dragged out his body.

“Fuck! Indigo, hang in there!” Kenma pleaded, his hands placed underneath Iwaizumi’s armpits. Blood was scattered all over his face and clothes, soot and dirt plastered all on the right side of his cheeks. He dropped down onto his knees as he cradled Iwaizumi’s head onto his lap, leaning his ear down to his busted lip. Kenma couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

He placed two fingers to the right side of his jugular vein, feeling Iwaizumi’s carotid artery pulse against the tips of his fingers. Taking in a huge breath of air, tears formed in the corner of his eyes. He shot his head back up, peering straight into the observer’s deck. Locking eyes with Kuroo, Kenma’s pupils constricted—a panicked and anguished expression formed on his face as he let out the loudest scream possible.

“CALL AN AMBULANCE, FUCKING DAMN IT!”

The crowd behind you screamed, running in all sorts of directions—back to their cars to avoid law enforcement, scrambling to find their friends and family or quickly dialing the 119 emergency number. Kuroo quickly took out his phone, his fingers stumbling to press down on the pads. Kita exhaled the smoke from his lungs, coughing profusely as tears formed from the corner of his eyes. Leia and Oikawa held you close on either side, checking to see if you were okay.

It felt like your soul sunk down to the ground as your eyes widened, your body completely left in shock, unable to process any information. Your hands trembled on the railing; your lungs having a hard time breathing in air. When Leia grabbed your right hand, you slowly turned your head to her—your eyes watering profusely down your cheeks, your lips quivering with a babbled noise.

“NO! HAJIME!” You screamed, gripping your hands on the cold metal bar before leaning all of your body over the observer’s deck, your feet placed on the base of the railing. You gritted your teeth, letting out another scream of shock while looking down at Kenma stabilizing Iwaizumi’s head on his lap. Tears dripped down your eyes, scattering onto the road down below.

Oikawa grabbed your waist and wrapped his arms around your body, pulling you back onto the observer’s deck before you could hurt yourself. You felt his heartbeat pump loudly against his chest, adrenaline also running throughout his veins. It felt hard for Oikawa to breathe as shock infiltrated his body, his mind ruminating to make quick decisions.

Oikawa didn’t know what to feel at the moment; not knowing if he should have felt dismayed over the crash or infuriated over Kita’s negligence over the Miya Brothers—nonetheless, what topped both of those emotions was the overwhelming feeling of remorse.

Seeing the anguished expression on your face, feeling your body trembling against his, and hearing the wails of agony erupt at the bottom of your lungs—it felt like every bone inside him collapsed, completely crushing every aspect of his mind and soul.

“LET ME GO! HAJIME!” You flung your legs in the air, desperately prying open Oikawa’s hands off your waist.

“NO! Stop it!” Oikawa tightened his grip around your body, trying his best to prevent you from doing anything rash and impulsive.

You began to sob uncontrollably, your tears staining the fabric of your clothes. The whites of your eyes became red, your vision blurred with the street lights and neon signs of the shops surrounding nearby. A pain formed in the back of your head, the pressure of your sinus spreading all throughout the front portion of your face. Every muscle in your body felt weak, yet the rush of adrenaline kept you awake.

The minute Oikawa let go of your waist, the heels of your boots touched the ground—your legs immediately moving, your body furiously running down the steps of the observer deck. Oikawa, Leia, Kuroo, nor Kita couldn’t even chase after you as your silhouette quickly disappeared, rushing past the crowd to Iwaizumi’s aide. Your first priority was being by his side, desperately wanting to know if he was still alive. He has to make it, you thought.

‘Don’t fucking die on me. Not right now.’

Tendou and Nishinoya had already blocked the road on both ends with their cars, making space for the accident. Kenma remained on the ground, clutching Iwaizumi’s unconscious body with his hands defiled with blood, dirt, and grime. He didn’t even know him that well, nor even spoke a word to his face before—yet, every voice in his mind was telling him to help. He could have taken off into the night just like the Miya brothers, all of the Inarizaki Bois except for Kita disappearing from the scene in fear of law enforcement.

Kenma screamed the moment he saw you run up beside him, tears dripping from his eyes. He was relieved to see you, but also guilty he couldn’t help much further. Watching the tears stream down your face as you mumbled out incoherent words, he couldn’t even imagine how much pain you were feeling. It wasn’t like him to be sympathetic, much less empathetic—but experiencing it up close with the bloodied body of a fellow racer on his lap, Kenma knew that could have easily been himself instead.

“Is he still breathing?!” You hovered your hand over Iwaizumi’s mouth, trying to feel the soft and shallow exhales escaping from his lips.

While pressing your hand over his carotid artery, you felt slow but consistent pumps of blood patting against the bottom of your fingertips. The tense and tight feeling in your chest released, knowing Iwaizumi was still alive. Yet, you knew the time for him was ticking, the critical condition of his body fighting between a gamble of life and death.

“We need to get him to a fucking hospital, now!” You screamed through your teeth, looking down at his body. The teal Seijoh Brawlers t-shirt he was wearing was now drenched in blood—a large red stain on the right side of his torso. Bruises covered all over his arms, neck and face; his eyes shut from the swelling of his busted eyelid. He was missing a shoe, the bottom half of his jeans ripped to the seams.

In the distance, the sound of two engines roaring broke through the crowd’s barrier, people rushing to the side of the street as Oikawa’s Mazda RX-7 and Kuroo’s Nissan 350Z sliced through the air. The tires of the familiar white car skidded across the road, spinning in a perfect circle before stopping right in front of you. Oikawa rolled down the windows, a petrified look on his face as his eyes fixated on Iwaizumi’s helpless body on your lap.

“Get in, now! We don’t have much time!” Oikawa growled through his teeth, revving the engine twice.

You turned your head to Kenma, your tears flying off your face and hitting the asphalt. He stared back at you, his own tears dried up against his cheeks filled with soot. “Help me carry him into the car!”

Kenma wasted no time and grabbed the base of his ankles, touching the lacerations all over his calves with his dirtied hands. Iwaizumi’s body caved in like a folded piece of paper as you both struggled to lift up his body, only barely making it to the passenger side of the RX-7. Oikawa already had the door swung open, reclining the passenger seat all the way down. A grunt escaped your lips as you heaved yourself into the car first, your body squeezed up against the back of Oikawa’s seat.

Once Kenma dropped Iwaizumi’s body onto the passenger seat, the back of his head collapsed onto the headrest—blood still dripping down from his forehead with his eyes swollen and his lip busted open. Another tear dropped out from your eyes; seeing him in this state made you sick to your stomach. Kenma tucked in Iwaizumi’s legs, shutting the door.

Oikawa pressed down on the accelerator, the tires underneath squealing against the asphalt. Kuroo and Leia followed closely behind in the 350Z, both of their cars speeding down the street as the sound of their engines roaring echoed into the night. A gust of wind flew past Kenma, the strands of his long hair unraveling from his bun as it grazed against his cheeks. He placed the back of his left hand on his forehead, releasing a shaky exhale from his lips.

More tears dripped from his eyes, questioning to himself why he was crying. He looked down at his bloodied and stained hands, grime and soot scattered all over his forearms. Grazing his hands on the front of his cargo pants, he dropped down onto his knees. Kenma couldn’t process what had happened in the last few minutes; cursing to the universe why time changed so fast. He looked up at the night sky, praying to the God he didn’t believe in that Iwaizumi would be okay.

Oikawa pressed down on the clutch while upshifting gears, the sound of his engine growing louder and louder in your ears as he sped down the street. Wind rushed through your face, feeling the sharp and cold gust of air along the surface of your skin. Looking down, you caressed Iwaizumi’s face, some of your tears dripping onto his cheeks. Your body rocked back and forth from the turbulence of the car, trying your best to keep yourself steady squeezed behind Oikawa’s seat.

Only the roar of the engine and your silent sobs could be heard in the car; not a single word exchanged between the both of you. Oikawa tried his best to distract himself as he sped down the highway, entering the bridge that connected out of the wharf. He tightened his grip on the wheel, trying his best to not think about Iwaizumi’s unconscious body in the passenger seat of his car.

You looked up into the rearview mirror and saw a scowl plastered across Oikawa’s face, watching intently on the road ahead. Looking straight out the windshield, you saw the Tokyo skyline in the distance—yellow, red, and blue lights flickering all over the place. Holding onto Iwaizumi’s right palm, you placed your other hand on top of his, warming up his bruised and battered fingers.

A whimper escaped your lips as more tears fell from your eyes, reaching down to the corners of your mouth. You tasted a bitterness on your tongue, the chemical formula of stress diluted into your tears stinging and burning onto your cheeks. Your face became itchy, a desire to scratch all over your body overwhelmed your mind.

Panic. Aguish. Remorse.

Those were the three emotions you could only feel.

Panic. Anguish. Remorse.

Those were the three emotions Oikawa wished to feel.

He kept repeating those words in his head over and over again, trying his best to feel them one at a time—yet, nothing came to mind. In truth, Oikawa couldn’t feel anything. Just like everything traumatic he had experienced before, his brain instinctually buried all of his emotions down into the depths of his subconscious—his own body’s way protecting himself from the grief and sorrow that was to be expected later.

Oikawa desperately wanted to feel something, anything. No emotion or thought ran through his mind; only the instinctual movements of his body driving the car keeping him sane. He felt a tightness in his chest, the air around him feeling dense. Again, he ran through the three emotions he wanted to experience in order to feel normal.

Panic. Anguish. Remorse.

Pain.

Oh how he wished to feel pain.

Kuroo followed closely behind, flashing his high-beams at Oikawa to signal he was right there next to him. They both exited off the highway, entering through the Kohoku Ward, traveling in the direction of the Yokohama Rosai General Hospital. Although it was far out of reach, it was the only hospital open at the time—one that could take in Iwaizumi’s critical condition and treat him immediately regardless of the hour.

Oikawa stepped on the gas, the engine booming once again throughout the night. You pressed the back of Iwaizumi’s hands on your forehead, silently weeping to yourself. Muttering small murmurs of hope through your lips kept you alert, despite the lack of energy you felt throughout your body. Your fingers trembled holding up his right hand, a painful shiver running down your spine.

Nothing but pain could be felt in your heart. Your tears were running dry, constantly wiping your face with the back of Oikawa’s bomber jacket sleeve. His vitals were dropping every second of the way to the hospital, Oikawa increasing his speed as quickly as he could.

While staring down at Iwaizumi, you couldn’t help but think back to all the times when you two were younger—a bright smile on his face while he called your name, riding on the back of his bike while he pretended it was a car and you were his passenger. Fast forward to more than a decade later, you remembered seven months ago when you saw him again for the first time at the street race—his figure swallowing you in a giant hug with Oikawa standing right beside him.

As more memories flooded your mind, you sobbed profusely thinking back to a couple of hours ago when you had just conversed with him about the future and his plans to finish university. Iwaizumi dreamed of going back to California to open his own mechanic shop, naming it after your father—the man that helped him discover the one thing he loved doing most. A sharp pain formed in your chest as you clutched his right hand with both of yours, absolutely crushed by the thought of knowing these would be the last moments you spend with him if the worst happens.

Oikawa approached the front of the hospital, the squeal of his tires catching the attention of a few patients and staff members outside. The 350Z rolled up behind him, Leia rushing out of the vehicle and into the building screaming for help. Kuroo ran up to the passenger side door and swung it open, placing his right hand underneath Iwaizumi’s shoulder blades while his left scooped under his knees.

Effortlessly lifting his heavy body up from the seat, Kuroo exhaled a large breath before carrying Iwaizumi over to the building in front of him. You climbed through the passenger seat, clutching onto the headrest as you placed one foot out first before completely hopping out. Oikawa exited the car and jogged right behind Kuroo, furiously panting out large breaths of air as they both dashed through the entrance of the hospital.

“WE NEED A DOCTOR, NOW!” Kuroo kicked open the doors, all his energy dropping by the second.

Leia came out through the corner with a rush of trauma and emergency staff members wheeling in a stretcher trolley, oxygen ventilators and cardiac monitors—all helping Kuroo place down Iwaizumi’s body onto the bed before pushing him away in the opposite direction.

They hooked him up onto the machines, cutting his Seijoh Brawlers shirt down the middle to expose the wounds all over his chest. Blood dripped onto the sheets of the stretcher, the wheels squeaking against the floor as they rolled him away. Just before they turned back into a corner, one of the nurses exclaimed, “His left lung has collapsed, he’s hypoxic and hypotensive.”

Kuroo ran a hand through his hair, pushing back his bangs as he let out the heaviest exhale—still feeling that burdening weight on his shoulders. He turned around and faced Oikawa; a desolate and confused look across his face. Looking down at his shoes, Kuroo inhaled another breath, sweat dripping down his forehead. He wished he could have done more to help—he couldn’t bring himself to call the ambulance earlier.

Back on the observer platform, Kuroo just stood there staring at his phone’s keypad—his eyes shifting towards the one and nine buttons, but not having the strength to push them down. Just like everyone else, only shock ran through his body—his hands trembling while his breath hitched. Everything was rushing so fast, he didn’t even have time to stop and comprehend the situation. Kuroo felt guilty that he didn’t call the ambulance immediately, debating to himself if he cost everyone the valuable time.

Leia came rushing to your side, holding you in her arms as you placed both of your hands to your face, continually sobbing into your palms. She stroked the back of your head while your knees buckled inwards, your whole body shaking from panic and sorrow.

“Hey, hey. He’s going to be alright, they’re treating him right now.” Leia cooed, trying her best to console you. She didn’t know how to comfort others, never learning compassion or empathy from her parents—yet she knew when the situation called for it, especially when her best friend needed a shoulder to cry on.

Oikawa took in a sharp and painful inhale through his mouth, feeling his lungs cave in. His heart pounded through his chest, adrenaline and shock igniting all throughout his body. Looking around the hospital emergency room triggered a flashback to Osaka—the ambulance sirens blaring in his ears, dead bodies surrounding him in every direction, the taste of bitter blood on his lips.

His pupils constricted as he looked at you on your knees, bawling your eyes out over the floor while Leia held you close. All of the emotions he wanted to experience earlier came flooding in—instantly regretting his desire to feel them all, one at a time. They rushed in like the blood flowing through his veins, infiltrating every crevice of his mind while taking over his consciousness.

His vision blurred and swayed left and right—it almost felt like he was looking through a black and white kaleidoscope. Oikawa grabbed the nearest doctor by his shirt, shoving his face close to theirs. He growled through his teeth, his eyes filled with panic. “Is he going to be okay?!”

The doctor beneath his grip shook in fear, his skinny legs quivering against each other. He dropped the clipboard from his hands, trying his best to not look at Oikawa in the eyes as he turned his head away. A whimper escaped from his lips, begging for him to let go. “I don’t know! I’m just an intern!”

Oikawa looked down at the man’s white coat, the name of the anxious doctor in front of him plastered on the left side of his chest—Ittetsu Takeda.

He immediately let go, Takeda stumbling onto the floor as he crawled away. As he stared down at his hands, he watched his fingers tremble in fear; sweat and grime covered all over the surface of his palms. Looking over his shoulder, he felt the atmosphere of the room grow dark. The patients in the waiting room all stared at Oikawa in fear—a terrorized look on their faces as they cowered in the corners, clutching the handles of their chairs.

‘People are afraid when I walk into a room because they know who I am and what I’ve done.’

Oikawa lifted his right arm up and looked at the tail end of his dragon tattoo, twisting his wrist back and forth. He took in a shallow breath, panic running through his mind. He was crumbling; coming to the realization of the truth—Iwaizumi might die, and it would be all his fault.

Oikawa thought that should have been him; he should have been the one to race instead. Guilt ran through his mind, internally torturing himself on what could have happened if he wasn’t acting out on his own selfishness. Iwaizumi was fighting for his life on the hospital bed, and Oikawa knew it was all because of him.

A boom pierced through the building from the outside, a familiar black Nissan Silvia rolling up to the side of the hospital. You looked out the window behind you, Kita’s red tail lights flashing in the distance. Kuroo whipped his head to the side, sweat running down his forehead. Leia placed her hands on your waist, helping to lift your crouched body up from the floor.

A chill ran down Oikawa’s spine, a contrasting feeling to what rage was building up inside of him. How dare Kita show up to the hospital, knowing it was his own kin that caused the accident in the first place? An infuriated expression formed on Oikawa’s face, his teeth gritting against each other as a deep guttural sound erupted from the bottom of his throat.

He rolled up his sleeves, marching out the glass doors of the hospital entrance. Kuroo dashed through the doors as well, trying his best to reach out to Oikawa before he acted out on his impulses again. Leia followed Kuroo as you both chased after all of them, tears still falling from your eyelashes.

The minute Kita shut his door, he turned around to Oikawa furiously sprinting up to him—the rage and violence in his eyes speaking louder than words itself.

“Cypher, I’m sorry—”

Oikawa quickly punched the side of Kita’s face, landing a hard blow to his left jaw. Kita stumbled back against his car, scrambling to find the car door handle before Oikawa hit him again with the edge of his knuckles, imprinting a mark on his cheek. Dropping down to the ground, Kita felt the back of his head collide with the hard surface of the sidewalk—the bottom of his palms scraping against concrete.

Oikawa straddled his body, repeatedly punching him in the face as Kita spat blood onto the floor. He couldn’t control himself knowing what Kita had allowed the Miya brothers to do to Iwaizumi. He was the leader of the Inarizaki Bois—ultimately responsible for whatever his gang did, including paying the price for the repercussions of the accident.

“Why did you let those Miya fuckers get away with it! WHY?!” Oikawa screamed down at him, the back of his hand slapping across Kita’s bruised and bloodied face.

“CYPHER, STOP!” Kuroo ran up behind him, grabbing onto Oikawa’s waist as he tried to pull him off Kita. “Sly Fox had nothing to do with this!”

Kuroo could sense him slipping back into his old ways—the same confused, angry, and violent side of Tooru Oikawa taking over his actions again. It was exactly like when he first met him back at the Tokyo Freight Terminal over three years ago, Oikawa’s gun pointed directly between Kuroo’s eyes. He remembered he had his hands up in the air, begging for him not to shoot as he dropped onto his knees.

That day, Kuroo was sent by Mr. Sakanoshita to pick up a large shipment of pure uncut South American cocaine, coming straight from the United States, distributed nationally through Japan by the Kitagawa clan. He was instructed to pay the transporter three billion yen, all stuffed well into a suitcase resting in the passenger seat of his car. When he arrived, all he saw was a man with short brown hair and the same dragon tattoo as his imprinted on his neck—his slightly tanned skin glowing under the sunset, a prominent scowl on his face.

At the time, he didn’t know it was Oikawa.

Kuroo handed over the suitcase, gulping down a hard swallow as he watched him open up the locks. A calm yet enraged expression formed on Oikawa’s face as he pulled out a gun from underneath his pants, cocking back the slider before pointing it straight at Kuroo’s face. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“What do you mean?! I was instructed to only give you three billion!” Kuroo’s hands trembled as he raised his arms high, showing he genuinely didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Where’s my other two billion?”

“I don’t—”

Without letting Kuroo finish his sentence, Oikawa shot him in the shoulder, a piercing affliction to his axillary nerve. He remembered gripping his right shoulder in pain, a loud cry erupting from the back of his throat for him to not shoot any more than he needed to. Oikawa loomed over his aching body on the floor, an expression on his face Kuroo would never forget.

At the time, neither of them knew it, but Mr. Sakanoshita had purposefully swindled both of them short of two billion yen—a payback to Oikawa’s boss in the Kitagawa clan. He wanted Oikawa to kill Kuroo that day, using them both as pawns in his own fucked-up game of chess. Kuroo realized it after Oikawa had shot him, a bullet scar forever remaining on the right side of his arm in memory of that day.

A cold and painful shiver ran down Kuroo’s spine as he looked back at Oikawa—the exact same violent and aggressive expression on his face filled with rage and animosity as when he first met him. That face merged in with the present Oikawa, mercilessly beating up Kita below as he swung both of his arms down into the ground.

Both you and Leia stayed far back, your hands placed over your mouths as the three men rumbled with each other. You didn’t know why you couldn’t stop sobbing—for the past half-hour only bitter tears shed from your eyes, dehydrating your body out until there was none left to cry with. Your wet hands felt cold, the sleeves of Oikawa’s bomber jacket defiled with the stains of your tears.

You didn’t notice when several police cars rushed to the front entrance of the hospital, men dressed in law enforcement gear and bullet proof vests hopping out from the flashing vehicles. Leia gasped, catching your attention when you saw red lights shine through the slits of your fingers. The cops pulled Oikawa and Kuroo off Kita’s beaten body, restraining both of their arms behind their backs.

“Let go of me, I didn’t do anything!” Kuroo screamed, thrashing his body from left and right as they handcuffed his wrists together.

They pinned Oikawa to the ground, his right cheek pressed up against the rough concrete of the sidewalk as they kept both of his hands behind his back. The policemen tightly handcuffed his wrists, the cold metal slicing through the surface of his skin. With one eye peeking open, he felt nothing but pain all throughout his body when he saw a shocked and desolate expression on your face, both of your hands covering over your mouth.

You wanted to scream his name and beg for them to stop—but Leia held you back, shaking her head as she knew it would only make things worse than it already was. The policemen held back Kuroo, shoving his body up the side of a police car as trauma and emergency staff members surrounded Kita. They lifted his body up into a gurney, placing a manual ventilator around his mouth as they rushed him into the hospital entrance.

Out of a black car, an old man dressed in a dark navy suit stepped onto the hospital sidewalk with both of his hands placed inside the pockets of his trousers. His white hair slicked back as he furrowed his thick eyebrows, taking out his law enforcement badge as he flashed it towards the both of them—Lead Detective, Tanji Washijou.

“Tetsurou Kuroo and Tooru Oikawa,” Detective Washijou gave a distasteful scowl, shoving his ID badge back into the pocket of his blazer.

“You’re both arrested for the murder of Nohebi Clansmen leader, Suguru Daishou.”

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#haikyuu #haikyuu deciphered #hq x reader #oikawa x reader

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come-on-shitty-boys · 10 months ago

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// There's A Snake In My Shop! inked 05. //

prev << 05 >> next

*The nature of this series may be not be appropriate for all readers. Content warnings include: vulgarity, heavy swearing, and implications of adult relations. Due to these themes, this series may not be suitable for readers under the age of 16. Reader discretion is advised.*

“Well, well, well. Looks like the rumors were true, huh, alley cat?”

Kuroo could hear that damned smirk in his voice and it took everything in him to not growl at that snake that dared to enter his shop.

“Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of,” Kuroo snarled, amber eyes narrowing towards the door.

Daishou Suguru just smiled, raising his hands in surrender, but even the veil of nicety didn’t keep him from stalking towards Kuroo like he was just a piece of prey. “Hey, I’m not here to start shit. I just wanted to see if you had actually done it. Y/N told me that you took them on, but hell, I didn’t believe them. Said, ‘No way Kuroo Tetsurou would ever grow the balls to take an apprentice.’ But here you are! And here Y/N is!”

Kuroo’s eyes snap to you. “You know this piece of shit?”

“I’m pretty sure I told you that and I’m pretty sure that you just told me to shut up,” you say, crossing your arms.

“I think your exact words were, ‘Keep that snake bastard’s name out of my shop,’” Akaashi offered, turning back to his computer as if this entire encounter were a perfectly normal situation. As if Daishou wasn’t sizing Kuroo up like he was his next meal, as if Kuroo didn’t look like a wolf ready to attack at the first wrong move.

Daishou’s mouth twitched into a smirk as he shifted his weight to lean against the counter next to you. “We met when Suguru was still in law school,” you shrug.

*It had been close to over three years at this point, that day when you met that disheveled 1st year law student in the library, nose not pressed in some boring law textbook, but hands gracefully working over one of the most stunning realism portraits you had ever seen, face smudged in charcoal from one wrong swipe of his brow, pristine collared shirt now coated in the dust, but he hadn’t seemed to care as he just pushed up his sleeves, buffing out edges into seamless blends.

You had stopped, completely absorbed in the way that he worked. That in and of itself was a masterpiece alone, but it was the way he looked up at you, catching your stare that had your face heating in embarrassment. But he hadn’t sneered at you or made you feel like you were some creep for watching him, he just stared back as if he was in a daze, high from the feeling of creating.

“Hi.”

He’s staring, studying your face, eyes tracing over your features to take everything in, like he’s trying to remember the gentle sweep of your face and the soft curve of your lips. And you must’ve narrowed your eyes at him in confusion because he awkwardly clears his throat, holding out his hand to you. “Daishou Suguru.” But you just stare at him, eyes darting between his charcoal covered fingers and his face, black dust buried under his nails, tucked into the creases of the pads on his fingers. There’s an embarrassed smile on his face as he retreats his hand away from you. “Right. Sorry about that.”

“You’re an art student.” It wasn’t so much a question as it was an observation, so his bright laughter took you by surprise. The way that his head leaned back and his eyes shut in the purest form of joy broke your face into its own smile.

“I’m in law school,” Daishou paused, taking in the confused look on your face as you eye the portrait in front of him. “I’m apprenticing at a tattoo shop, get a little bit of an extra income to put me through school, you know?”

“You’re amazing,” you breathe, moving closer to further take in his piece. The faint highlights against the eyelashes in white charcoal, freckles dotting over the nose, the sure swipes of black that faded into the soft greys of the hair.

He’s grinning up at you, moving his back from the seat next to him, wordlessly inviting you to sit. “Thank you. I’ve always loved realism work. There’s just something really incredible about how this one little stick,” he says, holding up the stump of charcoal, “can recreate reality so beautifully.”

And you can’t help but smile at the man with perfectly swept hair and neatly pressed khaki pants, he would be the picture of business professionalism if it weren’t for the smears of artistry on his hands, just as you can’t help sinking into the chair next to him.

But, oh, that was only the beginning.

What started as study sessions in the library turned into long evenings in your studio as you both work in quiet company, offering critiques and easy conversation. It was laying on the couch in his apartment as he drew simple flash designs across your arms in Sharpie, whispering soothing words to you as if he were actually giving you a tattoo, an excuse to practice his bedside manner he had said. And then Sharpie tattoos turned into late night dinners in the tattoo shop, bringing him dinner on his long nights of learning his craft. Laughs shared over Lo Mein and egg rolls, the gentle swipe of his thumb over your lip, the thumb that had lingered there a moment longer than it needed to, just to wipe away that drop of sweet and sour.

Months of longing and strictly platonic cuddle sessions only escalated by one too many shots at a bar to celebrate the end of another semester. Too many shots that had you both stumbling over one another, giggling the entire way back home, arms wrapped around the other as if that would help keep the other from falling. A red light at a crosswalk had you turning in his arms to stare up into those eyes that you had come to know all too well, but it was the way that his hands slid to your waist and the slip of your fingers up his torso, gripping the front of his shirt that had you pulling him down to your level, lips pressed together in breathless wonder, the slightest nip of his teeth to elicit that gasp from your throat. You don’t remember the rest of the walk home, but you do remember the desperation, the need, that reflected your own emotions as clothes were pulled off the minute the door clicked shut behind the two of you. You remember the feeling of his mouth leaving open-mouthed kisses down your neck, trailing down your chest, your stomach –

“Just this once,” you whispered, fingers tangling in his hair. Daishou said nothing. Just humming a response against you, sending shivers up your spine and a sigh from your lips.

Just this once.

You lost count of how many times you each had whispered those words to the other. They were said every single time and you both believed it. At least for a while. Until his phone buzzed at 11 p.m., begging for him. Until he attached a scandalous pic to his good morning text, an unvoiced invitation.

Daishou now smiles down at you, bumping you with his shoulder. He’s still the picture of that boy you met in college, the perfectly put-together hair, the overly professional outfits, stains of his craft on his skin. Except now he runs his tongue over the twin piercings in his lips when he’s nervous and there’s the faintest hint of a tattoo peeking from his collar, just one of many. But you can still see that snake that curls from his collarbone to his bicep, the tail cuffing around the muscle, a path that your fingers, your mouth, have traced more times than you can count.

“How are you liking it so far?” He asks, snapping your thoughts back to this damned shop.

You don’t even get the opportunity to answer before Kuroo cuts in, that same lazy stare that made you feel so small that first day only made Daishou smile in amusement, giving you a side-eyed glance.

“We’re fine,” Kuroo states flatly.

“I’m pretty sure I wasn’t talking to you, alley cat, but thanks for sharing. Y/N,” he says, turning his back to Kuroo to fully face you, physically cutting him from the conversation. “Like I was asking before we were so rudely interrupted, how are you liking your apprenticeship so far?”

“Oh, you mean how do I like being his personal maid? It’s glorious,” you snort as your eyes roll.

Kuroo’s scoff takes you both out of your conversation, Daishou casting him an annoyed glance. “What, alley cat?” He drawls.

“He’s always in a mood. Just ignore him,” you mutter, nudging Daishou back towards you.

“Listen, pip squeak. If you want to keep this apprenticeship, you better learn to watch your mouth. I’m not going to put up with you telling this fucking snake to ‘just ignore’ me in my own damn shop, got it? And if that’s going to be a problem for you, then you can both get out,” Kuroo hissed, stalking between you and Daishou to stare down at you.

Daishou let out a low whistle. “Someone’s got his whiskers in a bunch. I’ll get out of your hair, alley cat. I was just stopping by to make sure that you were taking care of my old friend, but it seems that I have overstayed my welcome,” he says slowly, beginning to walk towards the door.

“You weren’t even welcome to begin with.”

“And yet, you always let me in the door. Sounds like you don’t hate me that much.” Daishou’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Later, Kuroo. Oh, and hey! Have you noticed that your sign outside says ‘Kink’? You might want to get that changed before someone thinks you’re running some kind of sex dungeon.”

“Get out!”

Daishou hisses a laugh, sticking out his tongue at his rival. “I’ll see you tonight, Y/N.”

And then he’s gone, the tension in the air being the only sign that he was ever there in the first place.

Kuroo slowly turns to look at you. “He’ll see you tonight? You’re hanging out with that snake?” His amber eyes are narrowed to you, not even a twitch of amusement on his features.

You simply raise your brow at him, shooting him an incredulous look. “Why do you care? I’m pretty sure that you were the one who said that we weren’t friends. I can hang out with whoever I want after hours.”

“Well, yeah. But, him?! Are you serious?! He’s the fucking worst!”

There’s a laugh bubbling in your chest. All of his previous annoyance has given away to this dramatic show. If he wasn’t behaving like a teenager throwing a tantrum, maybe you would’ve given a little bit more stake to his words, but how could you when he was dramatically running his hands down his face to truly express the anguish that the mere thought of Daishou was causing him.

And it was that sound, that choking laughter that had Kuroo’s eyes finally finding your face, peering at your between fingers. “And just what are you laughing at?”

“I didn’t know that you could be such a drama queen,” you tease, smirking up at him.

“Excuse you,” he starts, wagging a single finger at you. “I am not a drama queen. I am appropriately dramatic for the situation. He’s a nuisance!”

You simply shake your head, turning towards the stack of worksheets that had been left on the counter. “He’s a good guy. I don’t understand what your problem with him is,” you say, taking a few sheets and feeding them into the 3-hole punch.

“I don’t have the time to get into all of that bullshit right now,” he huffed, checking his watch. “I have a client in 20 minutes. Get that in the binder and you can get out. I don’t need you hovering for the rest of the day.”

Kuroo turns his back to you, beginning to retreat until you interrupt his muttering to himself. “Can I watch?”

“Watch? Watch what?” He’s taken aback, staring at you in confusion.

“Watch you tattoo. If you won’t let me try, then can I at least watch?”

Your mentor is sighing, pushing his fingers through his hair. “Not today, kid. I’ve told you. Get your technique down and then we start talking technical stuff. It’s not going to do you any good if you don’t have a machine in your hand to know what the hell I’m talking about. So, I’ll see you tomorrow and have fun on your date.”

“It’s not a date!” You shout, but he’s already pushed the curtain aside, disappearing from the front of the shop.

“It’s totally a date,” Akaashi mutters, thumbing through his book of crosswords.

Fuck.

You forgot about him.

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#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #kuroo #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo tetsuro x reader #x reader #inked #tattoo artist kuroo #haikyuu au

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eialectric · 9 days ago

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i just got my cherries pierced and now i cant stop thinking abt tattoo shop au!haikyuu like imagine like artists!kageyama and oikawa being known for being great artists w limber fingers n incredible technique... piercer!kuroo telling u to breathe before he pierces u... down bad

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heartkaji · 6 months ago

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★ 𝐒.𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐒 ── 𝐌𝐀𝐏𝐒 !

❨ smaus ❩

⭒ headcannons ・ drabble ⭑

୨ৎ 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑

sugar boy — umemiya hajime

⁠girly girl — togame jo

french — togame jo

lose it — hayato suo

sucker — ren kaji

cherry red lipstick — suo hayato

fresh peaches — sakura haruka

winbre boys + thirsty tweets — various

winbre boys + couple tiktoks — various

alvin and the winbre boys — various

boy scout — umemiya hajime

tattoo artist — ⭒ kiryu

teenage dirtbag — ⭒ various

chupa chups — ⭑ ren kaji

hungry — ⭑ mitsuki kiryu

villain ! suo — ⭑ hayato suo

syrupy sweet — ⭑ kiryu

sharks — ⭑ ren kaji

999 okinawa — endo yamato

୨ৎ 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊

poppies — isagi yoichi

2O women vs 1 egoist — various

teen romance — various

baby blue — nagi seishiro

gone, gone / thank u — itoshi sae

atlanta lock — various

୨ৎ 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐊𝐘𝐔𝐔

gloss — suna rintaro

superman — ⭑ kuroo tetsurou

my girl prettier — ⭑ suna rintaro

୨ৎ 𝐌𝐇𝐀

tarantula girl — dabi

sneaky link — katsuki bakugo

really not that deep! — ⭑ katsuki bakugo

୨ৎ 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂

skin — rayne ames ( mashle )

heart-eating spider boy — kinich ( genshin )

tie me up — kinich ( genshin )

#navigate.

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miyababes · 2 years ago

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kyoutani kentarou.

long fics. (5k+)

back to life by kyovtani [ tattoo artist!kyoutani ] [ nsfw ]

; [ part two ]

fics. (2.5k+)

of cigarettes and love confessions by kyovtani [ bad boy!kyoutani ] [ nsfw ]

short fics. (1k+)

how you like it by saetyrn9 [ nsfw ]

mutually assured destruction by hornime [ nsfw ]

drabbles.

playing with fire by hornime [ nsfw ]

when you pass out at practice by etherrreal (+ tsukishima, aone) [ sfw ; comfort ]

headcanons.

timestamps.

series.

smau.

responding to you texting them 'you hurt my feelings' after a fight by toru-oikawas-milkbread (+ oikawa, iwaizumi, matsukawa, hanamaki, kunimi, kindaichi, kuroo, kenma) [ sfw ]

smau series.

#masterlist

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emmyrosee · 7 months ago

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POOKIE BEAR!!!!! there are so many im working on yall STRAP IN

Requests ❤️

Tattoo!artist sukuna w/ anniversary tattoos

baby!yuji and sukuna and reader beach day

Osamu meet cute

Baby!yuji and sukuna x reader argument angst

smacking sukuna's butt

sukuna saying feral things

sukuna not taking reader seriously

drunk!reader and sukuna

sukuna prom angst

Kiyoomi photobooth

Sukuna comfort

hq! setter dad au

kageyama hc

kuroo and his pregnant wife

osamu angst to fluff

oikawa morning routine

cutesy morning w/ tsukishima

sneaking glances w/ kageyama

sharing a bed w/ yamaguchi

sick days w/ kyotani

song fic w/ kiyoomi

cooking w/ osamu

kenma fluff

suna tickles you (thats a weird way to describe that PFFFF-)

dad!atsumu and uncle!samu and breast milk

bakugou angst

Drabbles ✨

Suna cringey piece

2 bugging Kiyoomi pieces

song fic w/ sukuna (angst)

Geto sandwich fic

affections w/ kiyoomi

mario kart w/ sukuna

dad!suna

more dad!suna but with ✨angst✨

bad singer reader x atsumu

Progress Halted!! 🥺

Can't Stop DNA (osamu angst- too sad to continue!)

Bakugou fight fic (suuuper long, mapping out story!)

body dysmorphia w/ osamu (inspo comes and goes)

kiyoomi anxiety fic (too real, got worried no one would like it lol)

kiyoomi x miya!sister fic (mapping out story)

sakusa angst (mapping out story!)

sukuna angst (mapping out story)

Gojo, Geto x Reader angst (mapping out story)

gojo angst (mapping out story)

jealous kiyoomi (changing plot too many times)

fight in car (character unspecified, mapping story)

sneaking glances w/ meian (mapping out story)

Smut 🫣 (no details bc these are for adult audiences only!)

kuroken x reader

roommates! geto and gojo x reader

ushijima

sukuna (6 pieces)

sunarin (3 pieces)

tsukki

osasuna x reader (2 pieces)

sakusa, osamu, atsumu hc's

osamu (6 pieces)

sakusa (2 pieces)

choso (but its mine so it may be deleted idk PFFFF-)

satosugu x reader (2 pieces)

sakatsu x reader

atsumu (2 pieces)

bokuto

imma be a busy giwl NDNDJSNSN-

IF UR READING THIS YOURE TAGGED SHOW ME YOUR BEAUTIFUL WIPS!!!!

wip title tag game

RULES: Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it!

Delicate

TBD

How helpful is f/o in the kitchen

Pairing: Buuhan x Reader

Untitled - “The people say you are cruel and you do nothing to change their minds. You…give them a reason to speak of you unfavorably.”

In Another Lifetime II - Shige

Untitled - There was an envy of you among the other parents in the school district.

Untitled - “Hello again. Sweetie.”

My Future is With you

Saiyans going to Black y/n's family cookout

CHAPT 2. CORRUPT

Thigh Sex. - Shinjuro Rengoku

Sex Pollen. - Xeno Trunks

Swan Song

Radship week

Over a beer bottle

Untitled - "I don't get it. I did everything right, I got you to love me. Y-You love me."

In Another Lifetime II - Paras

Taint and Ravage

Neither Goku, Nor Vegeta II

I wanna feel you in my bones.

Spoils of War

no-pressure tags: @dreadsuitsamus @yeowangies @actuallysaiyan @beneathstarryskies @vegeta-bananabluish @emmacornell @loki-love @vampcubus and anyone other writers interested in participating! ♥

#I JUS A GIWL #A SILLY GIWL #also there are a few i have yet to start so #WHEWWWWWWWW yall stay tuned

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hoeneymilktea · 4 days ago

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deciphered ✧ tooru oikawa chapter 14 | under the red ink

✧ pairing — tooru oikawa / afab reader ✧ genre — erotica/smut, action romance, crime romance, dark romance (absolutely no dv/sa), psychological thriller, crime/detective mystery ✧ rating — very explicit, 18+ mdni ✧ chapter word count — 5.7k ✧ content warnings — violence, street racing, references to drugs, explicit sexual content, heavy angst. see below break for chapter specific warnings ↴

only time can tell ⇠ under the red ink ⇢ the suicide plan

✧ chapter specific content warnings: needles, the experience of tattooing

September 21st — one week before Iwaizumi’s initial consciousness

The autumn equinox approached, letting the sun set earlier within the dusk of the evening. It was around the twentieth hour of the day, where the luxe of the bustling nightlife began. The night sky encapsulated the city in its darkness, noting the neon lights in the distance being the only source of light within the streets of Tokyo.

You sat in the passenger seat of Leia’s pink S2000 once again, this time driving down the Shuto expressway with Kenma and Kita following behind. Their headlights flashed in the rearview mirror, noting they were in proximity on the freeway. The destination was a mystery as you leaned your left elbow against the crook of the car door, resting your cheek upon your hand.

Neither of them had mentioned where you were heading as Leia called you around dinner and asked if you were free. You didn’t even notice Kenma and Kita were driving right behind her until they all pulled up right under your apartment building, the echo of their engines rumbling into the night, waking up half of the elderly residing in your neighborhood. It was a miracle none of your neighbors called to complain.

American hip-hop songs played on the stereo of Leia’s car, hit by hit. The majority of the artists were female, rapping to the heavy beat of the bass. The particular song playing at the moment was labeled “B.I.T.C.H.” by Megan Thee Stallion, with Leia singing along to the English lyrics. Somehow, it fit the atmosphere of the city night life with the wind rushing through your hair and slicing the edge of your skin—all with the car top down and the volume turned up to the max.

You didn't ask about the destination as your mind was occupied by the thought of the narcotics meeting with Suna from the beginning of the month, unsure how to formally play out the situation without getting anyone else involved. He had asked you to “keep it on the down-low” and to not tell anyone about the deal, mentioning it wasn’t anyone else’s business except yours and his.

You thought of mentioning it to Leia as you two were now in charge of the business left from Kuroo and Oikawa, perhaps wondering if she had any insight—but for now, you kept the information to yourself, figuring out a plan on your own terms. You knew what happened when confidential information spread quickly, and you weren’t hoping to be on anyones’ hit-list if you had gossiped.

From the deal with Suna, you had brought the original receipts of the decades-long protection deal from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department to the Sakanoshita clan—all scanned and copied with the insurance files left at your apartment, all in preparation for the worst possible outcome. Leia brought the receipts from the Sakanoshita end, linking both original sides of evidence to confront them with.

Sooner or later, Leia slowed her speed in the middle of downtown near Kabukicho, around thirty minutes from your tiny elderly apartment neighborhood on the outskirts of Shinjuku. It was a completely different setting than where you were driving from nearly five minutes ago; noting the flying trash amongst the alleyways and the huffed-up men in yakuza tattoos walking along the sides with cigarettes in their mouths.

All eyes stared at the four of you pulling up in a tiny alley surrounded by red neon lights, all in a queue parked along the side of a red brick building. It was uncomfortable to have unwanted attention while hesitantly maneuvering out of the passenger seat, but rest assured; Leia, Kenma, and Kita couldn’t have cared any less of their stares.

Kenma turned off his red Toyota GT86 and hopped out, stepping his combat boots into a small puddle of rain on the asphalt. Kita followed suit, clicking the lock button on his car while the four of you congregated in front of Leia’s car.

“Do you know if he’s in there?” Kita questioned, placing both of his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

“Definitely,” Leia exhaled before twirling the ring of her keys around her index finger, placing them firmly into the back pocket of her booty shorts. She checked the time on her phone before placing it back into the pocket of DK’s red Nekoma Crew bomber jacket around her figure, the clock just striking at the twenty-first hour. “He just opened up for business.”

She walked towards the red brick building where there was a small entrance under an all-black shoji screen portiere, hidden away from the main road leading into the alleyway. There was a small yellow neon sign labeled “Sabbath” in English above the door frame, followed by a kanji character you couldn’t recognize at first, meaning “ink” or “printing”.

Kenma and Kita followed right behind her, lifting up the curtain that covered the entrance and walking straight in. You stayed behind holding both of the manila folders close to your chest, trying to get a peek inside the place before stepping in.

The small hidden room was not so hidden after peeking in, noticing traditional Japanese painting scrolls hanging from the walls. The place was kept clean and pristine without any sign of dust or dirt in sight, and the neon fluorescent light up on the ceiling illuminated the place to be larger than what it seemed from the outside.

Kita turned his head back to you, noticing you hadn’t stepped in through the portiere. He kept his hands in the pockets of his oversized hoodie, a cigarette dangling from the edges of his lips. “You coming in, or…?”

You realized you had been staring from the outside like an observer, hugging the manila folder close to your chest the whole time. While shaking your head, you placed one foot in and joined the rest of them in silence, situating yourself right behind Kenma.

The room was awfully quiet as you all stood there in the middle of the studio with the traditional Japanese paintings on the walls staring directly at you. There was a client chair and a cushioned table against the wall with a tattoo machine resting on a steel cart, noting the owner must have been some sort of tattoo artist.

Tattoo shops were very rare within Japan—nonetheless in Tokyo, all for its pejorative association with the yakuza. It would have made sense, given the sort of underground business you all were dealing with, but your question still remained with what the owner of a tattoo shop had to deal with Kenma.

Leia had her arms crossed around her chest over her baby bump peeking out from her pink crop top, looking up at the ceiling while tapping her foot on the concrete floor. Kita was resisting the urge to take out another cigarette from his pocket, scratching at his neck to the point he could’ve made a wound. Kenma took his phone out of his pocket and quickly dialed a number, clearing his throat before the line on the other end picked up.

“Sabbath,” he mumbled while placing his left hand in his front trousers pocket. Kenma made direct eye contact with Leia, then Kita, and then finally at you before nodding his head. “Keep it holy.”

After he said the signal, a rustle came from the back of the room, past another black shoji screen. Within a second, a shadow figure emerged from the darkness, peeking out a hand to slide open the portiere. Out came a tall man with black wavy hair and a black surgical mask around the bottom half of his face.

He was wearing a black jacket that shrouded his figure and black latex gloves on his hands, carefully shutting the portiere behind him quietly. A small eyebrow piercing rested on his left eyebrow, right across the two moles above his right eyebrow. His eyes were dark and serious, meticulously making eye contact with every individual in the room for a few seconds—all before landing on you last.

“Snake Eyes,” he quickly fixed his attention towards Kenma and walked towards him before unzipping his own jacket. “I didn’t think you would be bringing company.”

“I told you we garnered evidence, so I assumed you knew I was bringing everyone.” Kenma replied, nonchalantly leaning back on his left leg with both of his hands in the pockets of his red Nekoma Crew jacket. He tilted his head to the right, cocking up his left eyebrow. “Why, is there a problem?”

“No, no…” the man reassured, slowly taking off his black jacket one arm at a time, revealing a sleeve of colorful traditional Japanese tebori tattoos, covering both of his arms. It was very similar to the tattoo sleeve Oikawa had on his left arm, usually indicating yakuza affiliation. “I’m just cautious of how many people track in mud since it’s raining. You know how pristine I like it.”

Although you were taught that staring was rude, it was impossible to keep your eyes off the man’s tattoos. Underneath his black shirt were entire stories of old Japanese fables tattooed on his arms; from serpents, foxes, koi fish, and hannya demon masks all intricately woven into the foundation of his skin. It wouldn’t surprise you if he mentioned he was part of the yakuza as well.

He caught you staring at him and fixed his attention towards you, specifically eying the Manila folder labeled ‘classified’ tucked under your arm. He raised an eyebrow, pointing his gloved hand in your direction. “Are those the receipts?”

“Yeah,” you looked down and grabbed the top of the Manila folder in between the side of your chest and your bicep, sliding it out. You passed it over to Kita, who then handed it to Kenma on the way. “Dating all the way back from the late eighties.”

He stepped out from behind the counter space containing the register and walked over to the steel cart containing the tattoo machine, grabbing gloves for himself to put on. Before collecting the Manila folder containing the receipts between the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department and the Sakanoshita clan, he walked up to you while taking off his surgical mask.

“Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself.” He offered his right hand to shake while holding his mask and a pair of latex gloves in his left. “My name is Kiyoomi Sakusa, but everyone in Tokyo knows me as Sabbath.”

You recalled the neon sign on the outside, labeling the place as “Sabbath Printing” as a decoy business name for the tattoo shop. On the wall above the register, there was a tapestry displaying the real name of the place, written in brush stroke ink, “Sabbath Tattoo”.

You accepted his handshake, noticing the soft and delicate skin on the back of his palms. They surprisingly were well kept, despite his occupation of constantly using his nimble fingers. You nodded your head and introduced yourself to him as well, stating your first name loud and clear. Right after shaking your hand, Sakusa bowed his head and reached to grab some sanitizer from his pocket, rubbing his hands together quickly.

He placed his mask back on his face and the latex gloves he was carrying one by one on his hands, snapping the rim against his wrist before gesturing to Kenma to give him the manila folder. With one quick ease, Sakusa opened the metal clamp, unfolded the flap, and slid out the large stack of printed receipts between Mr. Sakanoshita and the TMPD.

“Mmm…” Sakusa hummed, eyeing the first few pages directly. He was quick to flip pages so easily, skimming through the more recent years of transactions.

“See anything we can compare?” Kenma tilted his head, hands still in his pockets. “Are these legit?”

“Oh they’re real,” Sakusa commented, still flipping through the large stack of paper. “Are you sure these are copies? They have the official Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department stamp on each of these receipts. They look like originals to me.”

Kenma’s eyes widened before walking over next to him, looking at the stamp. Sakusa handed him a random receipt, to which he inspected the crimped edges of the stamp and the dark red ink they used on each one. This particular stamp had been from 1995, over two decades prior.

“Wow, we literally have all the evidence we need,” Kenma grabbed another document, inspecting the legitimacy of the stamps. “I think we actually have a shot of getting them out with this much blackmail.”

Hearing those words come out of Kenma made the huge cloud of anxiety over your head finally dissipate, releasing you into a wave of reassurance. With the small glimmer of hope that both Oikawa and Kuroo could have a chance of getting out of prison, the whole plan made all of this worth it.

You also noticed Leia’s facial expression changed when Kenma mentioned the chance of breaking them free, as Kuroo would finally be present for the birth of his child. She cradled her stomach and sighed in relief, smiling down at the baby forming in her womb.

“Are you sure you can get this out to the media?” Kenma inquired, walking over to Kita to show him the stamps and the rest of the receipts.

“Reassured,” Sakusa crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back against the counter, and nodded quickly. “The Itachiyama clan has it all under control.”

Kenma nodded in response, reorganizing the receipts back in chronological order. You looked between the two men, wondering what kind of plan they were scheming without your knowledge. Neither Kenma, nor Leia or Kita had mentioned any plans regarding informing the media, nonetheless planning public blackmail against the TMPD.

“Wait, what are we doing here?” You interrupted, slightly agitated with the lack of clarity and consensus. “We’re taking this to the media?”

“No, not us.” Leia turned to you as she sat on top of the padded table, taking a rest from standing too long. “Sabbath will handle all that, along with the connections through the Itachiyama clan.”

“Who are the Itachiyama clan?” You asked, alternating your attention between all four members of the room.

Sakusa chuckled a bit before adjusting his posture, opening his hands out to you. “You’re looking at him.”

Your eyes widened with your expressionless face, still unsure about the identity of the Itachiyama clan, or Sakusa’s relation to them.

“The Itachiyama clan isn’t necessarily renowned in Tokyo like the Sakanoshita clan,” he continued while pointing a hand alongside Leia to his right, acknowledging her affiliation to her late father’s legacy. “But we’re known nationwide amongst the yakuza in all of Japan. We’re the largest syndicate right behind the Sakanoshita.”

“Ahh,” you exclaimed, nodding your head. You pointed your finger towards Kenma and then back at Sakusa, tracing the connection. “So how do you know Snake Eyes?”

Kenma chuckled lightly, making you presume he had planned ahead for this question. He reached into his pocket, grabbing a stray hair tie before loosely pulling back his hair into a bun. Just like Sakusa earlier, he turned his back towards you and slipped his jacket off his shoulders, one arm at a time before aimlessly throwing it on the counter.

Your eyes widened instantaneously at the sight of Kenma’s fair skin painted with all kinds of colors along the nape of his neck, trailing all the way down past his elbow, just stopping right before reaching the middle of his forearms. It was an intricate traditional Japanese tebori design with snakes, flowers, clouds and ocean waves. It all connected to the tattoo plastered on his back piece, blocked by a black tank top.

His hands reached over and behind his head to grab at the hem of his tank top collar, pulling and scrunching up the fabric until it unveiled the detailed and intricate portrait of a traditional warrior with a hannya demon mask, holding a sword. Your eyes could not look away from the work of art Kenma had the privilege of wearing on his body.

“Sabbath here has been a renowned yakuza tattoo artist for years. He’s basically the only tebori artist in all of Japan to tattoo yakuza members, which makes him known all across the nation.” Kenma explained as he showcased his back piece. “This is the piece he did on me recently that took a little under a year to complete.”

“I see,” you rested your chin upon the crook of your hand, tapping your cheek with a finger. “Do you tattoo everyone in the street racing scene?”

Sakusa closed his eyes and nodded his head slowly, resting his bodyweight behind the counter. “All the guys you’ve met in racing gangs or the yakuza, guaranteed I tattooed them.”

“Sabbath tattooed my koi fish a year ago too,” Leia moved her long black hair out from covering her left shoulder, showing the colorful orange and blue hues of the ink. It had the same stylistic technique you saw on Kenma’s back piece, as well as Oikawa’s arm sleeve of the sakura blossoms.

“He did my snake and fox tattoos as well,” Kita rolled up his sleeves to show his tattoo consisting of the traditional kitsune spirit mask, decorated in red ink. He pulled down the collar of his hoodie and displayed the head of the snake tattoo, which also had the same stylistic technique Sakusa used on all of his works.

“He knows everyone in the underground street racing scene.” Kenma mentioned as he turned around and pulled down his black tank top, quickly tucking it into his red cargo pants. “He was willing to do the Fukurodani Squad’s tattoos, even though they’re not yakuza affiliated.”

“That’s also why he’s helping us out to bust Cypher and DK out without charge.” Leia winked at Sakusa and clicked her tongue, forcing a wince out of him while he rolled his eyes.

“You’re lucky it would have been chump change for me.” He mumbled while adjusting his posture, placing the manila folder on the counter while he crossed his arms.

You turned your head towards him, your eyebrows slightly raised. “You know Tooru?”

He closed his eyes and nodded his head slowly, lifting his head up to the fluorescent ceiling light while opening his eyes once again. “Cypher and I go way back to Osaka when he was still a part of the Kitagawa-Daiichi.”

The Kitagawa-Daiichi. The yakuza clan Oikawa used to be a significant faction leader in. He hadn’t elaborated or mentioned his past with them to you, so it still remains a mystery of what his life back then had been.

Sakusa’s gaze soon trailed to yours while you both locked eyes for a second. His pupils were dark and void of any shine from the light; a sight you’ve seen many times before in Oikawa when he wasn’t telling the truth. “We met five years ago when I tattooed the large dragon on his neck and arm. It had been a few years until I saw him recently to do his sleeve.”

It became easier to decipher between his cryptic speech patterns as it was something you’ve been through before. Although Sakusa mentioned he hadn’t seen Oikawa for years in the time between, it was apparent that he meant more to him than he made it out to be. You assumed he wouldn’t be the type to help out a patron if he had only met twice, so there had to be more to the story.

You broke the uncomfortable gaze between you two, switching the subject to something else. “So you’ve tattooed everyone in the street racing scene?”

Sakusa did the same, shifting his attention elsewhere around the studio. “Mmhmm. All over Japan.”

“So you’ve tattooed Hajime? The dragon tattoo on his chest is your work?”

Sakusa cinched his eyebrows and looked up to the ceiling, trying to recall the client you mentioned.

“Sorry, I meant Indigo,” you corrected yourself, forgetting that Iwaizumi was known by his racing moniker in the world of the underground. “…of the Seijoh Brawlers.”

Once you mentioned his nickname, Sakusa nodded his head and clicked his tongue like he struck eureka. “Ah! Yes, Indigo. Cypher introduced me to him and suggested he should get my work tattooed on his skin. Why do you ask?”

“He’s my cousin. I saw the tattoo you did on him a while back at the last race.” The volume of your voice started to taper towards the end, remembering the physical state the daikoku futo race left him in. “Unfortunately he’s in the hospital right now due to a coma.”

“I am aware of that situation,” Sakusa replied as he stopped leaning on the counter. “I know how that event led to Cypher and DK getting arrested unprovoked. This is why I’m here to help.”

“I guess everyone in the racing scene knows of the situation.” You folded your arms across your chest, blankly staring into the floor as your mind spaced out. Flashbacks of the incident started to resurface, almost putting you in a halt to your thoughts.

“My condolences for your cousin. I hope he recovers without any troubles.” Sakusa interrupts, giving you a break from thinking about what had happened that fateful day.

A silence followed within the room for a brief moment until Kita received a phone call, for which he stepped out of the studio to take. It was perfect timing for him, since he hadn’t had the chance to smoke for a while. In fact, it might have been the longest you’ve seen Kita abstain from popping a cigarette in his mouth.

Sakusa watched Kita walk out meticulously, almost as if he was waiting for him to leave the room. A brief “This is Sly Fox” from the outside proceeded with a blend of noise bustling from the streets, leaving the four of you to talk instead. When the coast was clear, Sakusa sighed heavily and took off his mask.

“Ugh, Snake Eyes. Why did you have to bring him?” Sakusa’s demeanor completely flipped, realizing he was trying to be civil earlier around Kita, despite his aversion to him. “He’s partially responsible for the actions caused by that hellspawn Thrasher. Mind you, he also reeks of cigarette smoke. That’s why I thought you were coming alone.”

“He’s part of the rescue team,” Kenma shrugged, trying to defend Kita. “Also just because he’s the leader of the Inarizaki Bois doesn’t mean he can control every action his boys make. That decision was all on Thrasher and Ghost.”

“I detest Thrasher,” Sakusa walked over to sit on the stool next to the tattoo station, pinching the bridge of his nose in between his eyes. “Ever since Kyoto, I’ve never trusted him. Now after the race in Daikoku, he can’t be forgiven, and neither should Sly Fox.”

Kyoto, you wondered. What happened in Kyoto?

“That was before Sly Fox initiated him in. Don’t blame it all on him,” Leia stepped in, raising her voice. “That’s enough, Sabbath. We came for one thing—and one thing only.”

Sakusa held his right hand into a fist, turning his knuckles white. You could tell the past he shared with Atsumu Miya, a.k.a. Thrasher of the Inarizaki Bois, was not so light-hearted. The grudge he carried for years upon the mentioned Kyoto incident must have had a lasting impact.

He released his fist and pulled his black wavy hair back with both of his hands, letting out a heavy sigh. Sakusa stood up and dusted his pants, placing his hands on his hips. “I sincerely apologize for letting my personal emotions disrupt the meeting.”

His eyes met with yours again before bowing in front of you. “I apologize for causing a scene, I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

You placed your hands in front of you, waving them in a crossed motion. “Oh, you’re fine, there’s no need to apologize.”

“I only accept apologies for free tattoos.” Leia interrupted, smirking at Sakusa from the other side of the studio.

Kenma placed his hand over his mouth to contain his laughter, but small chuckles still escaped out in sound. Sakusa cinched his eyebrows over to her, crossing his arms over his chest. She was sitting on top of the counter while swinging her legs back and forth, leaning back on her left hand to ease the pressure of the baby on her stomach.

Leia tilted her head to the side and smiled mischievously. “I’ll take a red spider lily on my back, thank you very much.”

“You’re eight months pregnant.” Sakusa responded in a monotonous voice, squinting his eyes at her.

She puckered her lips, still swinging her legs. “So?”

Sakusa gave Leia a bemused expression, squinting his eyes. “I have policies against tattooing women who are pregnant for their safety.”

“How about you tattoo (y/n) instead?” Kenma chimed in, pointing a finger over in your direction. “It’d be her first tattoo.”

Somehow, the conversation shifted to you again, which made you uncomfortable in the hot seat. You had your feet glued to the same spot you were standing the whole time, all with your hands linked together behind your back.

Your lips pursed to the side while you swallowed a gulp. “Umm…”

“…Well,” Sakusa sat back down on the stool next to the tattoo station while putting on a fresh set of black gloves. “Would you like a tattoo?”

Surprise wasn’t the first reaction you had, but rather confusion. Receiving a tattoo tonight was definitely not on the list you had planned for tonight. An hour ago, you didn’t have a clue where you were headed to when hopping into Leia’s car, but here you were, in the Kabukicho district of Shinjuku, asked by a tebori artist legend if you wanted one anyway.

You shrugged your shoulders and raised your eyebrows, giving a sheepish answer. “Who’s paying? Because I sure don’t have the money to afford it.”

“I can pay for it,” Kenma piped in, not even looking up from his phone while he leaned against the wall. “Cash or crypto?”

“No, no, it’s on the house.” Sakusa responded, declining Kenma’s offer. “I don’t have any patrons tonight anyway. One tattoo can’t hurt.”

You were still hesitant, squinting your eyes and sucking in your cheeks. On one hand, a tattoo by the nation renowned tebori artist was a big deal, and to have him offer his time and skills for free to you was one in a million. On the other hand, it would be your first tattoo, and from what works you’ve seen of his, Sakusa does not do anything smaller than the size of your hand. You would have to be sitting there for a long time, enduring a lot of pain.

You looked towards Leia, whose expression seemed to urge you to agree. She crossed her arms and cocked her eyebrow up, almost like she was signaling a treat. “Bitch, you better say yes.”

One word from Leia and you immediately turned your head back to Sakusa and nodded. “Sure, I’d love to.”

Getting a tattoo was no joke. Depending on the person’s pain tolerance, the experience could be like a light pinch, all the way to having your skin feeling like it’s ripping off. The pain for yours—albeit being your first tattoo, was just somewhat painful; irritable, but vaguely tolerable.

Your skin was bare against the leather bound cushioned flat table, with your top missing and a bandeau wrap around your chest. The fluorescent ceiling light became blinding to your vision, your eyes focusing on Sakusa preparing the ink within his tattoo machine.

He was gentle with your body; making sure you were laying on the cushioned table in a position you could hold for a few hours before he pinned you down and got right to work. His hands were all over your bare shoulders and back, caressing the section of where you wanted him to pierce.

“Are you ready?” He asked you before turning on the tattoo machine, wiping away everything off your skin except the stencil.

You winced, expecting to feel nothing but pain. “Yes.”

Once the needle made contact with your skin, you were able to endure the pain. In fact, it almost felt painless for a minute or two, all until the adrenaline subsided and the pain began to increase gradually. You tried closing your eyes and calming your mind down, but the loud whir of the tattoo gun restricted you from meditating. It was hard to find peace when there was a constant aching pain lingering in your body, as well as the screech of the machine irritating to your ears.

You ended up settling on a piece conjured up by Sakusa, according to what you vaguely wanted on your skin. Per usual, it was a big piece that was planned to be stretched throughout your upper body; a large Sakura branch that spanned from the top of your chest, winding through your left arm and the back of your shoulder, all the way down to the side of your ribcage.

Although you wanted to keep the tattoo minimal to just a sakura branch along your left collarbone to the top of your sternum—Sakusa insisted on going bigger, in which he proposed for the branch to extend to the side of your ribs. Although it wasn’t a beginner-friendly spot, he promised to be gentle, because in the end, “it would be all worth it”. In addition, any other night he would have charged you full price, but he was feeling generous at the moment.

He mentioned that the most painful part would be the major outline of the branch, where he would use the tattoo machine. Though, when Sakusa did color his tattoos, he preferred to do the traditional tebori method, using a stick and poke to produce a richer and deeper color. It was surprisingly less painful than using a tattoo machine, which to his liking, wasn’t producing color that matched the vibrancy of his traditional Japanese style.

“In my opinion, it’s not a proper traditional yakuza tattoo unless it is done using tebori,” Sakusa mentioned as he repeatedly pushed the end of the stick into your skin around the bottom of your collarbone.

It didn’t hurt as much as the tattoo machine, as per Sakusa’s words. The ends of the stick were short thick needles in a line formation, feeling like it was massaging your skin rather than piercing it. It was almost relaxing as he began to carve the dark brown color into the top of your chest, forming the branches of your sakura tattoo. He finished the section atop your collarbone, wiping away any excess ink.

He reached over to his cart station and grabbed a small mirror, in which he handed it over to you with a smile on his face. “Take a look.”

The minute your eyes gazed upon the sakura flowers imprinted on your skin, your mouth dropped, admiring the vibrancy of the pinks, magentas and slight reds. You almost wanted to caress it, but restrained yourself.

“It’s absolutely beautiful,” you proclaimed, gazing into the mirror as you continued to look at the tattoo. Even on your skin tone, the color pops out vivid and saturated.

“It’s probably my best work of flowers I’ve done on anyone,” Sakusa mentioned while he began to dip the tebori stick into the vibrant pink ink, motioning you to turn over onto your right side. “What made you decide to choose sakura flowers?”

There was only one answer, and it was Oikawa.

You closed your eyes and remembered one of the last intimate conversations you had with him before the incident at the daikokofuto race. It was around the beginning of April when the cherry blossoms were still blooming, the sun clear in the sky while you two were having a small date around Tokyo.

You had the idea to stop by Kinuta Park within the residential neighborhood of Setagaya City to have a small picnic, just grabbing some sandwiches and bento boxes from nearby convenience stores and casual restaurants. The park wasn’t busy with plenty of grassy areas to set down a blanket under a sakura tree to have your lunch.

Oikawa held on to the bag filled with sandwiches and your bento boxes as you dragged him across the grass, deciding which tree to sit under. He wanted a one with scatters of cherry blossoms across the grass, while you wanted one with a picnic table underneath it.

“Come on!” You exclaimed, pulling Oikawa’s arm through the long fields of Sakura trees to find the perfect one. “How about this one! It has a picnic table!”

Oikawa smiled at your enthusiasm to sit at a wooden bench table when he just wanted to lay under a smaller tree with shade. “I’m hungry already.”

“Ok, well hurry up then!” You dragged his arm even more, trying to pull his weight.

The weather that day was chilly, despite the sun shining through that early afternoon. There were only two or three other couples in the large park, doing the exact same thing you two were doing; eating lunch together and enjoying the cherry blossom blooming season.

Once you two had decided on a tree to settle on, Oikawa laid out the picnic blanket on the edge of the tree trunk, covering some of its smaller roots. He wanted a tree large enough for him to sleep under, for which he was planning to after eating his bento box. It was his day off from working at the Seijoh Tune Shop, leaving Iwaizumi in charge while he was gone for several days to be with you.

You wore a beige peacoat over a loose thin white turtleneck sweater, taking it off before neatly folding it in half. Oikawa dropped the food on the picnic blanket, quickly sitting down and relaxing behind the chosen sakura tree while taking off his Seijoh Brawlers bomber jacket. Sometimes you wondered to yourself if he ever wore anything other than that.

He rolled up the sleeves of his white button up shirt and began to take out the food from the plastic bag, reaching for the bento boxes first. You grabbed a tonkatsu sandwich buried in the bag, leaning against the tree with him as you two enjoyed the food.

The sun was shining down through the branches of the sakura trees, leaving pockets of light scattered around the picnic area beneath like mosaics. There was a slight breeze in the air, letting the cherry blossom petals scatter through the air. It was a peaceful afternoon, the way you had intended.

You two spent all afternoon just laying under the one sakura tree, admiring the leaves that fell down during the late blooming season. Your stomachs were full, the cool breeze through the air, and the golden sun shining down felt just right for a relaxing day out. Oikawa was laying down on the picnic blanket with his eyes closed and his hands behind his head, using your lap as a pillow.

You began to stroke your fingers through his hair, feeling his brown locks in between the pads of your fingertips. His hair was so soft, almost silky smooth to the touch. Your hands caressed his face, admiring his natural beauty under the rustling sakura branches. So many flowers began to trickle down and cover the grass that a few small petals landed on top of your blanket and over your clothes; with one landing straight on Oikawa’s cheek.

You chuckled and brushed it away, caressing the edges of his cheeks with your thumb. His eyes fluttered open with his brown eyes glistening, his smile growing soft. You could tell his eyes were full of love; sinking within the sunlight.

“You know,” he smiled up at you, his eyes halfway open. “You remind me of cherry blossoms.”

“How so?”

Oikawa took a deep breath in, shifting his position on your lap. He stretched his legs out, placing one over the other.

“The beauty of the sakura season is symbolic to the start of a new year,” he spoke, looking straight up at the falling leaves. “Which means you brought a brand new start to my life.”

You couldn’t help but smile back at him.

“Your beauty is ever existing. Even when you’re no longer with me, your presence remains here. You will always be remembered, and missed until the time comes again.”

“Quite the poet you are,” you chuckled, thinking he might have recited a line from a book.

“I read a few books here and there,” Oikawa laughed alongside you, shifting the position of his head on your lap. “You and DK aren’t the only book smart people around here.”

Your left hand continued to stroke Oikawa’s hair behind his ears, brushing your fingertips along the edge of his cheeks. He grabbed your hand and placed it in between his, cradling it so gently to warm up your cold fingers.

“Both of our lives are short lived, just like these cherry blossoms. Yet, you bring a full passion to my love, giving me a sense of worth, making my ever so short life meaningful.” Oikawa tilted his head back to look up at you, a sense of resonance deep within his eyes. “You are my cherry blossom.”

Your heart torn asunder thinking about that memory, knowing that Oikawa was no longer with you. That day, although he might have been talking about you; he unintentionally became your cherry blossom, with his presence still lingering even after absence, making more of an impact with the people closest to him than anyone else could have in his place.

Sakusa gently placed his hand on your other shoulder, signaling for you to sit up on the cushioned table. He was almost finished with the tattoo, with the time being almost close to three in the morning. He started the session at thirty minutes past the twenty-first hour yesterday, making it almost six hours into the session. For such an intricate tattoo, Sakusa worked extremely fast; albeit that the design is very simple and not too large in area.

He was almost done, just needing to finish the connecting branches behind your shoulder. Your upper body ached; the skin where the ink penetrated through was throbbing, slightly raised above the rest of the area. Sakusa was taking a slight break, getting up from his seat and stretching his legs and arms, something he recommended for you to do as well.

There was a giant mirror in the corner of his tattoo studio, in which you plopped your feet down on the floor and walked to, stretching your arms out and walking towards it. Leia, Kita, and Kenma all went back to their residences, with Kenma promising to pick you up and drop you back off to your place once you’re done. Apparently, he was usually up all night, so it wasn’t that big of a favor for him to do for you.

Your chest was still covered with bandeau tape, ripped around the section Sakusa tattooed over around the left side of your ribs. The dark brown—almost black ink wrapped around from the top of your left chest, up and behind your shoulder, linking down your ribs to the root of the tree around your waist. Sakusa had the back of your shoulder to complete, coloring in the final cherry blossom flowers on the tips of the branches.

Sakusa came back from the back of the studio and walked up behind you, offering a bottle of water. You accepted, snapping open the bottle cap seal and gulping down the cold liquid. It was refreshing, something you had forgotten you needed after experiencing an energy taxing activity.

After drinking the water, you put back the cap and held the bottle in your hands, looking straight at Sakusa.

“Tooru,” you mentioned out of the blue. “He’s the reason for the tattoo.”

“I see,” Sakusa placed his own water bottle down on the same cart he kept his supplies, letting out an exhale. “You must really love him, don’t you?”

You closed your eyes for a brief moment and nodded your head, also setting down your water bottle near a flat surface. He sat in his chair again, motioning for you to sit back down on the cushioned table, facing away from him so your back shoulder was exposed.

“I can’t blame you, Cypher really is a good guy,” Sakusa’s words contrasted the way Oikawa felt about himself. You only wished he could see the way his peers thought about him and the impacts he made, instead of dwelling too deep within the past. “It’s just nice to see someone care for him the same way he cares for others.”

More time had passed, with Sakusa continuing to finish the final touches of the tattoo. Since it was just both of you within the studio, you two got to know each other more, furthering past just mutuals of others to newly forming friends. He told you about how he actually used to be a street racer as well back in the day, driving a black ‘94 Toyota Celica. That’s how he met most of the people within the underground street racing scene, as well as developing his future clientele.

You mentioned what you were doing in your own life; studying at the University of Tokyo in biochemistry, working part time as a lab assistant for one of your professors. He asked where you lived, and you mentioned your quiet outskirt neighborhood in Shinjuku that’s actually a building complex designed for senior living. You said your grandparents used to own the apartment you were staying at, so the rent was not an issue you had to worry about.

Sakusa actually mentioned that his father used to tattoo as well, and where he learned the tradition of tebori from. One of his clients lived in the same apartment complex you lived at, but he was long retired from the yakuza. Apparently, that man was Mr. Nekomata, your elderly neighbor that had been looking out for you since you were young and your grandparents were still around.

Everything almost started to make sense the more you learned about the inner smaller connections within the city, discovering your life was basically surrounded by street racing and members of the yakuza—past and present, all while not actively being part of it.

Sakusa also mentioned as a day job, he used to be a reporter for one of the largest newspaper companies in all of Tokyo, the Asahi Shimbun, all before joining the yakuza and immersing himself within the underground street racing scene. That was how he was able to provide connections to the major news outlet media, knowing it would be an extremely big tabloid title for the public to consume and ruin the reputation of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.

“Where did you acquire such pristine documents?” Sakusa asked again, wiping away all the excess ink off your skin, cleaning up the tattoo before placing the transparent adhesive barrier over half of your body for healing.

“I was just given it,” you responded nonchalantly, watching him place the plastic sheet over part of your tattoo covering the front of your chest.

“What do you mean by ‘you were just given it’?” He raised an eyebrow before looking at you straight in the eye. “Those files were most likely originals, with the stamp seals still crisp, kept confidential for years under mass security. How were they just given to you?”

“Well, I didn’t really do anything. I was asked to meet Enigma, and he gave the files to me.”

“Who is ‘Enigma’?”

You froze in place and gulped down a knot in your throat. Surely, you had thought Sakusa would know him.

“Rintarou Suna, he’s in the Inarizaki Bois,” you clarified, lifting up your arm for him to wrap the part of your tattoo on your ribcage. “He has the same snake and fox tattoos as Sly Fox, so I assumed you had tattooed him as well.”

Sakusa looked you straight in the eye. You could tell just by the expression on his face that he truly did not know who you were talking about.

“I don’t know who that is.”

“He’s well known in the underground street racing scene,” you tried to recall, convincing yourself there was a misunderstanding. “He was there at the daikoku futo race—”

Suddenly, you remembered that you actually hadn’t seen Suna during that particular race, only at the one in downtown Tokyo. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen that day.

“I have tattooed all of the Inarizaki Bois—Sly Fox, Thrasher, Ghost, Hannibal, etcetera—but I don’t recall meeting anyone named Rintarou Suna.” Sakusa’s tone remained serious, garnering a wave of apprehension. “I remember every single client I’ve tattooed, even from my early years of apprenticeship.”

Confusion was the only thing running through your mind. Sakusa, who had tattooed literally everyone in the underground street racing scene and several hundred members of yakuza, did not know who Suna was. The information wasn’t aligning within your logic and what you had presumed.

If Sakusa claimed to have tattooed everyone in the Inarizaki Bois, then how did he not remember tattooing Suna? If he truly had never met him, then how did Suna receive the exact same snake and fox tattoos literally every single Inarizaki Bois member has? Was Suna even a member of the Inarizaki Bois? How did he even have access to those receipts? Was he even telling the truth? Who is Rintarou Suna? More importantly, who exactly is Suna claiming to be?

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