#take a shot every time i compare sanzu to a dog

[guav]

ᥫ᭡ for sanzu haruchiyo,

⠀⠀⠀⠀DISCIPLINE

what is sanzu to do when his waging rampage is met with a boot to the face? answer's simple: wag his tail.

⠀⠀⚠︎⠀⠀bordering on dark! graphic descriptions of blood, violence, suggestive themes, like one sex scene if u squint, y'know how it goes. ooc sanzu because idfk either. like 4.8k words.

“i’m not your superior, haruchiyo,” tensions rise with a simple roll of the tongue. the waters have been tested, they seem to be riddled with piranhas. “yet, i can’t say im loving this death stare of yours.”

if you’re not careful, he might just eat you alive. sanzu is not above murder, if your forerunner is anything to go by. his stare is cold, calculating, mapping out your body of weak points. 

“manjiro tasked me with you, but i’m not a babysitter.” that got half his attention, the mention of mikey piquing his interest. “my job is to make sure you’re useful to him.” 

like food thrown to a starving animal, his full focus now preys on you.

sanzu has beautiful eyes, you notice. they widen at your words in utter disbelief. perhaps he’s a sleeper agent, ‘sano manjiro’ being the only whisper necessary to kick him into overdrive.

sanzu is an exquisite asset, isn’t he?

ever the shrewd character, you’re quick to notice his change of nature isn’t desperate. sanzu haruchiyo is not some helpless schoolgirl chasing after manjiro. there’s layers, a bond that transcends time itself. 

he is loyal, just not valuable enough; and that breeds desperation.

“useful—” sanzu clears his throat, “useful how?”

he can’t remember the next minute very well.

the first two seconds he wastes time blinking, the fourth is spent in a panic—you’re no longer within his field of vision. mark the fifteenth second, you reappear. one moment you were staring him down, sitting on piled up boxes, the next you’re beside him.

at the twentieth, his instincts go into overdrive. there’s no escaping the inevitable now.

sanzu is agile. sufficiently lithe to brace for impact before you slam him into the wall. his ears ring, and there’s warm liquid seeping out of his ear. he’s agile enough to survive a hit from you, perhaps that’s better than most. 

the alleway starts to spin, and the remainder of the minute is spent trying to stay afloat. it’s useless though, soon enough his legs give out and he kisses the ground hello.

there’s a sizeable dent in the concrete where you absolutely smashed him into. it reeks of danger—thrill.

“am i gonna have to teach you manners, too?” you click your tongue. “you live up to the fame, aren’t you the cutest rabid mutt?”

sanzu feels your fingers on his chin. he can’t fight back against the grip, not when he can’t tell if there’s really two of you or if that’s the work of a concussion. “rule number one, haruchiyo. you only speak when it’s something worth wasting breath on.”

he’s going limp. “is that clear?”

in all the two minutes he’s known you for, sanzu’s learned better than to go against your word. or words, he’s starting to hear double.

“yes.”

you make a mental note of his impeccable survival instinct. “good.”

RULE NO. 2: do as you’re told.

“you’ve already ditched the mask once, i don’t know why you backtracked on it.” 

sanzu remains motionless. your voice may as well have been a specter the way it goes ignored. and yet, his actions (or lack thereof) are not countered with another pummel on the drywall.

your line of work dictates a healthy dose of studying enigmas. speech, actions—none speak louder than the subconscious fidgets that compose body language. sanzu’s straightened back, clasped hands behind, and distant, firm gaze communicate enough.

he’s awaiting approval to voice his thoughts.

and that earns him another mouthful of dirt.

“i’m not your superior, haruchiyo. did i really need to repeat myself?” he looks helpless on the ground, breathing a string of curses into existence at the strain of his muscles.

his hands curl into the ground below, nearly pulling out the grass within his grip in frustration.“no, there was no need.”

sanzu does try to get up, overworking the already-sore body left from your strenuous training. (why you were expecting him in his kitchen first thing in the morning, only to drag him out to do fucking burpees, he’ll never know). 

however, once again, his efforts are fruitless. muscles fail to respond, and sanzu is left to lay on the ground. pathetic. the sudden pressure on the back of his head doesn’t allow for much struggle either. it’s heavy, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that’s your boot on him.

“it appears you’re misunderstanding our relationship.”

there’s not much left for sanzu than to succumb to your weight. it’s not pleasant, not in the slightest. nothing about impotence is.

“i’m going to make you into the best right-hand man. you’ll follow some rules, but you’re free to act however you wish. i’m not-”

“my superior.”

that seems to please you.  

sanzu breathes a sigh of relief when your footing no longer uses him as floor. he dares peek at the sky, but your figure blocks the sun from blinding his eyes. so why does he squint, still? your sole presence burns just as fiery.

“this is the second rule. if you plan to become useful,” suddenly he’s listening closely, attentive. “then you best honor commands, right now they’ll come from me, soon they’ll be your precious king’s own.”

sanzu bites back a scoff, draws blood from his cheek to cut any rash thoughts short. he could do this all by himself. obedience runs deep within his veins, preaches every demand as a devoted knight would to a throne; no different than a sunflower in pursuit of sustenance light years away.

he doesn’t need you.

“i understand.” so why does he follow you, no second questions asked?

a smile blesses him from the depths of hell, though your eyes don’t squint in the slightest. scary. you raise a finger to your cheek, tapping the skin twice.

sanzu proceeds to discard the black face mask without a single word of protest. it makes your lips stretch farther up.

the same boot crushing his head mere minutes ago nudges his body, sanzu now lies on his back. there’s no escape from your words, stare ever so omnipotent. “the difference between mucho and i is simple.”

is it? you’re both equally sliceable, nothing more than cartilage and bone. maybe next time you make an appearance he’ll cut you into pieces.

regardless, you’re slippery (maybe the polarity lies in that, sanzu muses). you stood proud one second, the next make of his abdomen a seat, cold hands cupping his face like he’s fine china and you, an avid collector.

“i love my hounds as they come,” you get closer, dangerously so. “snarly, scarred—they’re all the same to me.”

turquoise eyes are left to watch his destiny play before him. snap his neck, take a bite out his neck and tear the skin apart, anything could go with you.

“let’s change the second rule, haruchiyo.”

sanzu‘s breathing rags, your hands increase the pressure, and you might go for the alternative of crushing his head like a can. effortlessly.

“rule number two, you do as you’re told, but my word comes above everyone else's.”

your fingers travel north past his cheekbones, resting just below his eyes. he’s alert. you wonder what kind of canine would quiver the same way he does right now.

“is that understood?”

woof. “yes.”

RULE NO. 17: if you’re not useful, you’re out.

“don’t you get fuckin’ tired?” sanzu all but groans, drop of sweat joining the hundreds more pooling down his shirt. “surely sittin’ around while i do all the damn work wears you out.”

his words are poison, the katana in his hands is deadly, and yet, you giggle. “nah, keep doing your thing.”

there’s a fleeting thought to ditch this fight and have your head instead. although admittedly, he’d rather learn some spanish before fleeing to nicaragua with your body in five different plastic bags.

another nameless thug lunges, and it makes for another squirming body on the ground. “when you said we’d be taking care of business i thought you meant toman business.”

you know, mikey business?

sanzu bites his tongue after the sentence rolls out his mouth. as much as you’d grown accustomed to his character, he’d be sure to join the rest of motionless, bleeding goons if he disrespects you.

“toman’s dead, lost cause.”

that makes him stop the slashing. “fuck’s that mean?”

you’re satisfied with the fight for the evening, glock in hand shooting the last of targets. one bullet per head, not a single wasted. “we’re here on business to make sure there’s a place for you in the close future. bills are also due this week, two birds, one stone, yeah?”

“elaborate, “ sanzu actually growls.

“haruchiyo.”

the calling of his name makes sanzu’s shoulders roll back, back straightening out. it’s reflex now, really.

“tokyo manji is child’s play, you can’t possibly think i’m training you for them, right?”

“no, of course not,” what are you hiding? what do you really know?

your boot steps on too many limbs to reach his position, fresh blood joins the old on your sole. “correct! you’re so smart!”

sanzu misses his face mask. with it, you would be oblivious to his sneer when your hand comes up to ruffle his hair. it’s demeaning, probably intentional on your end. makes him seriously reconsider whether you’d look best with a sword through your chest.

“if you complete your training well-enough you could rule tokyo.” your eyes bore holes into his own. “wouldn’t you say all of kantou is more appealing?”

“sure?” 

you turn away from him. sanzu can finally stop holding his breath. 

“you don’t sound too convinced, haruchiyo.” only a fool would fall for your fake distress and pouty face. you’ve lost your stoic facade—deep down you’re but a childish merc with enough brute force to rival an elephant.

two fingers are raised over your shoulder, follow.

“i’m only interested in-”

“manjiro, i know.” you’d heard this story a thousand times. mikey, mikey, mikey. “and what’s gonna happen when he starts going for bigger fish? delinquency is a slippery slope into the world of crime—a rich one, too.”

sanzu can hardly picture mikey, in all his glory, waving a gun around. “you don’t know anything about him.”

you stop in your tracks.

he stops too, a good meter from you. 

“this isn’t about tokyo manji, it’s about sano manjiro.”

“they’re one in the same,” sanzu bites back. you’re not his superior, he can do as he wishes.

“haruchiyo,” your gaze is cold. “sit.”

he kneels, swallows his pride for the hundredth time.

the abandoned warehouse breathes death and rot. there’s barely moonlight dropping from the ceiling to light his path of carnage. whatever job this was had nothing to do with mikey. it makes sanzu boil over with rage. you’re wasting his time.

“what good are you to toman if there’s no mikey?” you step closer, sanzu leans forward to meet your hands. they’re cold, caressing the diamonds carved by the latter. “how are you going to serve if you’re useless?”

he avoids your stare. “i am useful.”

one of your hands moves from his cheek to stroke his hair, gently freeing the locks from his ponytail. “you are, look around.”

sanzu can distinguish around four men crawling for their life, the rest a mess of broken bones and mangled slashes. “if mikey needs to take a life, you’ll be more than prepared to strike.”

he thinks back on mucho. the thrill that kill brought him made it hard to function the rest of the day. now it’s second nature; sanzu bites and rips apart with no hesitation, takes life as if it was never there to begin with.

“listen, haruchiyo,” your hands are clean from all ichor, and he hates how good they feel on his scalp. “think of it like a mechanism.”

eyelashes flutter prior to closing, isolating his sense of sight to fully indulge in the rest. the smell of blood, sound of your analogy, a gentle caress on his face making him wish he didn’t enjoy it as much. sanzu wishes you were dead.

“a machine with bolts, springs and wheels, synced together, with purpose.”

he pictures a shrine, lost in the midst of a sea of faceless pawns. fifth farthest from commander, or founder. he pictures kids playing; a toy plane; the first command he’s ever received—he knows things are meant to be. 

“those who can't be a cog in our wheels are just scraps.”

as with any commandment you dictate, sanzu engraves the saying in his mind. carves each letter, memorizes every syllable, savors all implications.

“are you scrap, haruchiyo?”

“never.”

“good,” you coo, leaning down to graze his forehead with a kiss. the devil’s touch. “good.”

RULE NO. 99: know your place.

sanzu has come to the conclusion you’re a fucking parasite.

autumn witnessed development from cowering at our very presence, winter tied a ribbon to the unlikely friendship, and spring arrived with you at his doorstep every other day. 

you’ve become the first thing he sees in the mornings (somehow you’re always dressed by the time his eyes flutter open, janking his blankets to drag him to train: “let’s go for a walk, haruchiyo!”)

every single evening would be devoid of any personal space. whether it’s his couch being invaded, to his kitchen becoming an absolute mess with whatever recipe you’re trying to put together. no, it’s not the thought that counts, even if the heart-shaped burnt cookies were for him anyway.

the nights were probably the worst.

sanzu had long-forgotten his closet being only halfway full, nor does he know when you had practically moved your entire wardrobe into his. there’s not enough space for the two of you, and he absolutely despises how everything smells like you now.

“haruchiyo, bathtub’s ready.”

you’ve somehow achieved the impossible by making bubble baths the worst thing he can come to think of. hates the thought of getting dragged to it, absolutely detests how he tosses and turns in bed whenever he doesn't have one with you.

there's a nice scented candle on the counter serving as the lone light source within his bathroom. an obscene amount of foam clings to your hand as you test the temperature. save for the swoosh of the water, it seems sanzu might be granted the miracle of having a relaxing moment of silence in his bubble bath.

you stand, "turn around, 'm taking these off."

never fucking mind.

begrudgingly, sanzu complies. he starts to discard of his own clothes, too. his hands barely make it to the hem of his shirt before a piece of fabric lands perfectly on his head. god, you're gonna make him pop a vein.

"i'd love for you to not throw your underwear at me," sanzu has half the mind not to throw them back at you, opting for hooking a finger in the undergarment and throwing it as far away as possible.

"my bad," you're not in the least sorry. the water is too perfect to dwell on past mistakes. "c'mon, chop chop."

soon his body enters the water too, bubbles parting way as his skin kisses the still water. sanzu leans back on your body, not minding in the slightest the feel of your naked skin against his own; your body warmth rivaling the water's own.

(okay, maybe he minds a little)

"isn't this nice?"

"no," sanzu doesn't miss a beat. "have i ever told you how much i hate you?"

a good amount of shampoo is combed through his scalp by your fingers, gently massaging the area. "a couple times, yes."

let's make it thrice then: "well, i really fuckin' hate you."

what's most thrilling about sanzu haruchiyo is the double-edged blade his persona holds. failure comes with crystal clear dangers of getting diced alive, success offers a never ending supply of amusement. 

you push his head further into the water to rinse the shampoo off. there's no struggle from sanzu, you could very well drown him right now and there'd probably be no fight coming from him.

"you're seriously useless, i don't need you tellin' me what to do to appease mikey."

"close your eyes for me."

he follows your demand without missing a beat, basking in the water you pour on his face to rid the last bits of foam. "i want you dead."

early are the mornings your movement would be restricted by a pair of arms, late are the nights you'd walk home from a hit only to see his room's lights go off as soon as you enter the building. 

"you gonna leave me to shrivel like i’m raisins? get on with it."

you reach for the soap, "aren't you needy, haruchiyo?"

sanzu groans, this would seem like the perfect moment for a meteor to strike his building. rather than feeding into your delusion he keeps quiet. it’s better than talking to the wall you are. teasing, threading the rope that is his patience for you. 

hands travel across his skin, tending to it with soap that’s gonna leave sanzu reeking of your strawberry soap. “you’re funny, haruchiyo.”

it’s a shame there’s no sharp objects within his reach. “can’t wait for the day you slip and die.”

his half-empty threat procures a giggle from you. “see!”

“or the long fuckin’ awaited night you get stabbed and dumped in an alleyway.”

your laughter reverberates and bounces off the walls, and yet sanzu can’t tell if it’s sincere or genuine. 

banter ends at that, and soon he is clean. though there’s no change in position to allow for sanzu to even attempt to wash you, too. strange as it is, the peace and quiet are both rare enough, perhaps the universe has been kind enough to grant him this one moment of silence.

“but really, you are funny — i get the impression you’re all bite no bark,” enough instances of carnage and gargling on metal could easily refute this observation. you don’t care. “you whine, cry, complain, and yet you never ask for anything.”

just this morning he asked you to do the dishes (which you never did: “can’t make me”). perhaps dementia was knocking on your door a good thirty years too early. however, it’s implied you're not referring to such superficial instances.

“haruchiyo,” your body draws him impossibly closer, “what is it you wish most for?”

he tilts his head back, leaning on your shoulder. the new position allows for a better view of your face. momentarily, perchance a slip of character, his eyes wander. glance at your lips, the bubbles hugging your body from his view, squint to see what the water hides. “hell if i know.”

a hum is enough reassurance that you won’t contest his blatant lie. “okay.”

a splish, splash, and overflowing water hitting the tile, sanzu is now the one kneading at your hair, soap lathering and cleaning. intimacy at its finest. delectable sweetness as you lean back, and take a nibble of his jugular. it earns you a pinch on your hip.

“say, you in the mood for a new addition to the rulebook?”

“not in the slightest.”

his honesty is met with a splash of water to his face, “too bad, take note.”

sanzu rolls his eyes, cost of opportunity heavy with regret since, of course, he forgot to carry a toaster into the bathroom to finally take you out.

“know your part wherever you are—learn when to be the hanged, and when to be executioner.”

it’s random. it’s ironic. “if we’re playin’ like that, then your authority’s worth jack shit to me.”

“is that so?”

once again, the question is left unanswered. hung and forgotten.

“i think your act and place should always be by my side” you muse. it’s custom you add a rule to the list and immediately reform it.

a phantom feeling tugs at his throat, like a collar being yanked. hands that operate under your every order move to rest on your thighs. underwater, there’s no hierarchy; nudity knows no ruler from subject. “and if i say no?”

“you won’t.”

a horrifying realization dawns on sanzu haruchiyo that night. as his fingers inch dangerously higher, and higher, as the water turns cold, carelessly splashing outside the bathtub. as his teeth sink everywhere and two become one, sanzu haruchiyo comes to a gut wrenching conclusion.

‘you won’t.’

it’s true. maybe words can’t ever describe what he wishes for, but it’s easy to cross out what he doesn’t want.

sanzu knows he doesn’t want to stop. doesn’t wish for your hand to ever release his bicep from that deathly grip, or for you to stop making those noises, nor does he want anything but your warmth once it’s all said and done.

sanzu knows he doesn’t wish for you to ever leave, and maybe that’s enough.

RULE NO. 275: forget everything i've taught you.

"..what?" sanzu is beyond confused.

"yeah, you're good to go, no need to follow anything i've said anymore."

the room was empty. manjiro had long since left, the eldest haitani had grown bored of your mongrel staring him down with every flirt he shot your way, and the rest of kantou manji had simply shown themselves out for their own various reasons that no one truly cares for.

the gears are still turning on his head, cerebrum working overtime to decipher the new mandate, or lack thereof? schrodinger's rulebook, perhaps?

“you look good in white, you know.” as if you hadn’t just nuked everything he’s ever known, you lean forward to adjust his collar. your favorite pretty boy, dearest psychopath. “let me tie your hair for you.”

“what the fuck do you mean?”

he hates the feigned confusion you present him with. hates the tilt of your head so much he actually unsheathes his katana, blade steady and barely a few inches from your neck. it further irritates him your obvious lack of response, not even a flinch.

any other day you’d play the clueless game, but there’s really no one paying you the hour anymore. “it was fun while it lasted, wasn’t it?”

“why are you acting like you’re,” sanzu bares his teeth, disgusted at just the thought of the word, “like you’re ditching?”

interesting phrasing. not ‘leaving,’ that would imply abandonment, a cry of weakness. ‘ditching’ pins blame from the moment it is vocalized, like whatever you’re doing, actions sanzu is still trying to decode, is irrevocably your fault.

steel kisses your neck, close enough to feel the cold, and the lack of wavering. you’re proud of haruchiyo, really. “gonna miss me?”

“you don’t leave a gang.” there’s the helpless child in disguise. 

“manjiro took you in as vice,” you don’t bother with swatting the katana away, instead moving close enough to feel his hitched breath on your lips. arms thrown over his shoulders, fingers combing and threading to jail his locks into a ponytail. “i’d say my work is done.”

triads of protest die in his throat. shackles finally dissipate into thin air, long were the solstices he prayed for this day to come. yet sanzu feels himself floating away at the lack of grounding. he’s gonna be sick. 

for once the silence is suffocating. overwhelming. unwelcome. the katana slowly scurries back into hiding, desperately like an animal rolling over to flaunt it’s belly; a last ditch effort of submission.

“aren’t you excited?”

he can finally kill you. he can finally roll over in bed and not find you there. he can finally return to being alone, and the strongest, and-

sanzu doesn’t do as he’s told. 

“you finally have what you want.”

sanzu isn’t useful.

“you’ve been acknowledged.”

sanzu doesn’t know his place.

“you’re finally free.”

sanzu shoves you with enough force to stumble back onto the wide table in the meeting room, it’s surprising how it doesn’t shatter. there’s not enough time in a second to allow a reaction, not when he overpowers you for the second time, back slamming against the wood, sanzu’s body nestling between your legs. you can let him have this.

sanzu is stiff. he’s not used to being the one to leap first when it comes down to your dynamics. it feels unnatural to cage you like this, for your legs to wrap and pull him closer, like you’re mocking him. “you’re not my superior.”

one of your hands trail up his arm. “that’s correct.”

“then you’re my enemy.”

you tug him down, lips finding themselves naturally drawn right under his jaw. there’s no verbal answer to his introspection. 

“then i’ve beat you — i’m stronger than you.”

sanzu most certainly did not miss the floating sensation your attacks give him. by all means, physically, he should be stronger. so, physically too, it’s odd when your hand pushes his weight effortlessly, and your leg locks on to successfully beat his ass and pin him down. it sucks feeling a concussion in the brewing. 

he’s always looked prettier under you. “now that you’re on your own, haruchiyo, prepare to make mistakes.” his hands instinctively fly to your waist, “learn from them.”

sanzu groans, he himself doesn’t know if it’s the pain speaking or the built up frustration, “‘s that a new rule?”

the juxtaposition of slamming sanzu on the table and the gentle hands that come to tilt his head is a little funny. his skin smells of strawberries as you ghost your lips across it. “they’re parting words.”

it’s by no means a new position he’s found himself in. and yet he feels stumped. helplessly watching as the fire crackles its last sparks, as the last train starts to close its doors. even your body starts to feel like a distant whisper.

"haruchiyo, i want you to remember me." you're positive even the idea is far-fetched. the way his muscles tense and eyes narrow at your every call is automatic now. "memorize how my fingers feel on your jaw."

sanzu nearly purrs at the contact, and it's pathetic. he could never forget the grip, your hand looks best when it's on his face. 

"memorize my voice, you must."

it goes without saying he already has. plenty were the nights he woke up in cold sweat, hallucinating you in every shadow and crevice; many more he’s coped by turning in bed and found the warmest embrace in your arms.

he can't live without you.

"haruchiyo, what else can i do for you to remember me, forever and always?"

'what is it you wish most for?'

he remembers the seventeenth rule, remembers the day you promised him a reward far beyond being an asset to mikey. sanzu had reflected on it far too long. what could he possibly ask from you?

power is all he ever wants. being of importance, too. both are things he could never have from you. 

you have it all. you best him in every way possible. 

maybe, in just one thing, he can overthrow you. "a kiss."

sanzu has come to the conclusion there's no healthy middle when it comes to you. his mind splits between wanting your head on a stick and fighting urges to leap and bite at your lip until blood is drawn. 

perhaps an impulse to prove himself useful so you stay. a test of courage, his mouth wherever you need it most, whatever it is that will make you forever forget the thought of leaving him to fend for himself like a mutt.

"a kiss?" you've never looked more inviting than now, leaning back to stare him down, slowly blinking, a stray lock of hair falling out of place.

you’re making him feel real stupid. a small fraction cringing at his request, as if he had been reading the mood wrong and just completely ruined the moment (as if you straddling and leaving a mark or two on his neck could mean anything else). 

eyes never once stray from his stare. sanzu really is funny.

you lean back down, unamused with the shit-eating grin that’s stretching across his face. first comes the corner of his lips, a fleeting brush of your lips, a ghost to acknowledge his diamonds. sanzu’s fingers dig onto your hips as, painfully slowly, you align with his lips. 

sanzu haruchiyo, akaashi haruchiyo, your pride and joy. only way to commemorate would be by taking a bite out of him, how could you not?

your teeth sink mercilessly on his bottom lip. sanzu fights a choked cry, it hurts, and you don’t pull away until he’s left bleeding, panting, and so very dissatisfied. unfulfilled. bested again. 

“find me again,” as a treat, you kiss the half of his lips, stealing the red drops for yourself.

“money,” you kiss his cheek. “power,” he seeks your lips again, struggling for his wish. “influence,” you pull back.

sanzu grumbles a protest or two, flailing in a last ditch effort to claim what was his. your hand on his neck kills any hope of that. 

a finger swipes his bottom lip, teasing the lack of prize right in his face. “become someone with all three under his sleeve and you’ll find me again.”

the frustration is building back up. murderous desires. the need to fight you for control.

“is that understood?”

nevertheless, you’ve disciplined him well. “yes.”

��⠀⠀⠀navi.⠀＆⠀m.list.⠀＆⠀send me an ask!

⠀⠀also hbd to my least favorite person @k9wa