InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "MMMMMMMMMMMMMM"

Shirai Reizo | 白井雷三 (some_other_dog) wrote in disappear_rpg,
@ 2010-05-13 03:38:00

Entry tags:

kiriko, reizo

bikess
WHO: The Cool Kid Club
WHAT: Garagin'
WHERE: A converted store room.
WHEN: Post Seiji confrontation
WHY: Because Bel nags me.

Reizo was not your typical spoiled rich kid. He did not go out on lavish spending sprees to amuse himself or impress others (well not always), but instead spent his allowance in such a stingy, penny-pinching manner that it amazed his parents and baffled his fellow BOSOZOKU. It was no real secret that he was ashamed of his wealth, but he never outright admitted it, only deflected it with a grin or scowl, and sometimes a vague answer that all of his favorite things were free. Sticks to hit people with and stones to throw at them were, after all.

    The only exception to his frugal, miserly ways was his bike. He bought everything and anything for the bike, and at any time the mood struck him he would drop an amount of money into it that even Ikeda or Kondo would find exorbitant.

    And today was one of those days. The parts he’d ordered were nestled neatly in a corner of the converted storage room, and the boy himself was sitting aside from them, eyes flashing hungrily over the boxes as he stroked his bike’s gas tank affectionately.

    He was reaching into one of the boxes when a distinctly feminine shadow fell over him and his bike. He didn’t bother to scowl, or even look up.

“So how’d it go?”

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some_other_dog
2010-06-01 03:01 am UTC (link)

He nodded several times, and sometimes even grunted gutturally, always in places he hoped were the right places. It wasn’t that he wasn’t paying attention -- he could hear her -- it was just that picking through the shiny red toolbox off to his left and sorting out what all he’d need for the next operation took some thought, and doing it without jambling the whole mess around took concentration.

A tinker, a clatter, and a workman’s I-can’t-find-the-damned-thing sigh later he straightened up again, peered owlishly at the back of his bike’s, and then reached back inside the toolbox for a wrench. Reizo could do a lot of things, a lot of nasty things, but he always find himself hesitating when he brandished a wrench at the glittering metal guts of his bike.

“Well,” he responded after he set the wrench down again, looking only slightly irritated at himself, “I could always get you something that shoots something better than fireballs. Or a flamethrower.. How come we never tried a gun over there? If you weaklings are hurting shit with your stupid swords and sticks, then imagine what a gun’d do.”

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apathyisboring
2010-06-01 03:20 am UTC (link)

"'Cause they're illegal? But I'd take one, if you could get one." That sounded a little too enthusiastic, she reflected. "You'd have to hold on to it for me, though."

She glanced down at the bike - she was pretty near it, now - and ran her hand over the seat. Leather! Real, too - or at least that really close-to-real treated stuff they used for counterfeit handbags. She paused to inspect her nails and made a mental note to redo her french tips later that night.

"Anyway, the point is more to have people in fear and awe of 'the magical fireball girl,' so a flamethrower wouldn't really be the same." Plus, she'd probably wind up burnt. Or arrested. Why was she even considering this?! She paused, long enough to let the flamethrower issue pass.

"So what kind of work are you doing on it today?"

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some_other_dog
2010-06-03 06:22 am UTC (link)

His eyes narrowed and a smug smirk usurped the carefully neutral expression he’d kept since her shadow had literally darkened his door step. He craned forward, the boxes littering the ground at his feet forgotten for just a moment’s worth of swaggering, and said “You’re saying illegal like it’s a challenge. You and your little ‘club’ fund me and I’ll get you all the firepower you can carry.”

He took a surreptitious glance around, almost comically, and went back to digging through the fire truck red toolbox. The tools jittered and jingled merrily away as he moved them around, looking hopelessly for a specific one, and promised himself that one day he’d organize them better.

“The work I’m doing,” he told her amicably “is nothing you could wrap your pretty prim head around.” He sat back up, holding a handful of nuts and bolts that he’d mysteriously stashed away in the box, and lifted his hands up and pantomimed revving his bike, “but it’s gonna drop the girl a few pounds and make her faster, sound prettier, and make sure her insides are all nice and pretty.”

His hands dropped to a side and he dipped back down into the boxes, and after a moment of silence (and without looking up) added.

“I’d ask you to help, but I know you stink at all three of those."

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apathyisboring
2010-06-07 08:00 am UTC (link)

Her mouth fell open ever so slightly, more in preparation for protest than anything - was he calling her stupid? Sure, she wasn't exactly a surgeon with a monkey wrench, but she wasn't an idiot, so what was there to not understand?

It clamped shut again as he kept talking, and her eyes narrowed at the back of his head. Was that a fat joke? It had better not had been a fat joke - Yeah, okay, she woke up three pounds heavier this week but it wasn't like it showed or anything. ... Did it? She shifted uncomfortably at the thought as she considered what the best line of action would be.

"I'm not an idiot, you know." She managed to keep most of the indignation out of her voice. That was half the battle. "I bet I could probably even help with... something." Maybe. If it was explained.

She cast around the room, looking for something she could maybe help with if it was explained. This was a foreign environment to her, filled with precisely the kind of tools that she had always been told she should know nothing about (tomboys were, after all, less attractive). All the same, she ambled around the small room at least twice in search of something to make her feel less useless. Maybe there was some paint around - she could probably paint something.

Ultimately, she wound up sifting halfheartedly through his toolbox while he went back to doing something she did not understand. She pulled up a stool. Maybe she could organize the box - that was something.

"So is this what you do when you're not at school?"

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some_other_dog
2010-06-10 06:36 am UTC (link)

He looked back up at her, regarding her with the type of cool suspicion common amongst all criminals who knew they’d done something wrong and were just waiting for the person they’d done that wrong thing to to pay them back somehow, but when she came back with just a question the expression broke and he shook his head.

“I do other shit,” he began, starting to ratchet some bolts off the plate hiding the innards of his bike, “but a lot of it involves bikes, I guess, one way or another.”

He petered off to silence then, focusing more on the task at hand than the attractive girl holed up alone with him in his garage. The stuttering click of his wrench was the only thing to cut through the deep silence, in staggered, unevened intervals every time he swung the arm back up.

“And you could be useful, sure,” he said, after he’d safely taken the plate off and stashed it and its bolts where he could find them later. “But you’d need to be wearing a bikini under your uniform, and I’d need to grab a camera and a bucket of soapy water.”

He grinned roguishly at her, eyes smoothing over her lecherously for effect, and blindly reached down to scoop up a bottle of oil.

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apathyisboring
2010-06-10 08:22 am UTC (link)

"What kind of shit?" She was terribly curious about the parts that weren't assault - in other words, the parts she already knew about.
Kiriko didn't envy him - she quite liked school when it was challenging enough - but she certainly couldn't help but wonder where he disappeared to for weeks at a time. She had an idea, of course. The numbers on her mental pie chart dictated that he spent about 20% of that time beating people up, 25% working on his expensive looking bike, and 15% riding around doing stupid, dangerous and illegal things on his expensive looking bike. The other 40% was a mystery.

She mentally reconsidered her numbers while he ratcheted away - maybe the beating-people-up quotient should be upped? Surely at least 15% should be set aside and attributed to scaring the wits out of people, but a lot of that might overlap with beating them up or riding bikes illegally in their general direction.

"We just got back from the beach, practically! What, didn't get your fill?" She asked this in a snotty, facetious voice, playing along and mirroring his grin with an almost conceited expression. On the one hand, even though she knew that resenting the needling was pointless and probably exactly what he wanted, she could not help herself from resenting it a little bit, which mostly manifested in looking for things to do and idle fantasies about somehow saving the day with her ~~nonexistent~~ new-found mechanic skills (thereby shutting him up good).

On the other hand, it was true, she did look damn good in a bikini. Who wouldn't want to see that?

"How about you take your shirt off this time, so I at least have something to look at?" The emphasis on 'this time' implied the question. He'd spent the majority of the beach trip covered up and alone (she wondered vaguely if she'd been the only person to go swimming with him, outside of his occasional appearance at group meets). Safe bet that it was for tattoo-related reasons, but that was a prickly subject for reasons she didn't fully understand, so asking indirectly was the best course of action. Again, she glanced around the workshop.

"And have you got anything for me to, like... organize?"

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some_other_dog
2010-06-13 09:53 am UTC (link)

“Shit. You know,” he made a vague gesture with his wrench, as if that explained it completely.

He hunkered down in front of the bike, long arms dangling between his stooped up legs and most of him covered by the lengthening shadow of the machine. He squinted and cocked his head as he peered inside, before surprise flickered across his face and then was replaced by a scowl. He drug a finger over a piece of mud that’d somehow worked its way inside the sparkling chrome guts of his motorcycle, and then sighed.

“I just do shit, you know, I hang around with my bike buddies, and we .. Keep people in line, those other bozos, the other bikers. Big surge of them in the past few years and they keep sniffin’ around. Other times I just work on my bike or kick around or .. “ He trailed off, biting his lower lip and staring deeper into the confines of his bike, tracing a finger across the contours of the engine.

He lifted his head to look at her, mouth pressing into a hard little line as he considered something, before he stood up, reaches down to jerk his shirt loose of the inside of his pants and then pulled it off in the slow, languid way developed by all the great strippers of the ages.

Once he stood bare-chested, all rippling muscles and scars, he looked at her expectantly, the ugly pink scar on the side of his mouth turning his smirk lopsided. He skirted his motorcycle cautiously and came towards her, and came to a stop in front of her before he reaches across her, brushing against her in the process, and retrieved an oil can off a shelf.

Sauntering off, the wolf’s teeth on his back blazing even in the warm fading light of the day, he shook the oil can experimentally to check its contents.

“I don’t do anything you’d be interested in hearing about, Kiriko,” he told her, voice carefully low and thoughtful. The tattoo he was so brazenly showing her, had shown her before, should tell her all she needed to know. He glanced at her over his shoulder, the vague smile turned ugly (uglier) by the puckered scar, and slipped past the bike and onto the stool again.

“So,” he said, after setting the can down, a toothy, predatory smile sidling in across his face, “I show you mine and you show me yours, yeah?”

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apathyisboring
2010-06-13 06:20 pm UTC (link)

She couldn't keep herself from leaning forward when he suddenly trailed off. As always, hidden information was the most interesting kind. When he turned to look back at her, she realized that it was more of an abrupt stop than a brief pause. Damn! So close. He probably had some really good stories about stupid, illegal, dangerous bike-riding activities (which, if you were looking for stories, was probably the best kind).

A moment later he was standing, and Kiriko's brow lifted along with his shirt. Either he did not realize how suggestive that had looked, or he was a much bigger tease than she had anticipated. Which was the correct answer became much clearer when he was suddenly, briefly (though for longer than it would normally take to grab an oil can, she noted) against her. She tried to be still. He smelled like a bizarre mixture of cigarettes and shampoo.

She caught his eye when he pulled away, before he turned his back. She hoped she hadn't looked as surprised as she felt, and forced herself to settle again, dropping her tensed shoulders and crossing one ankle behind the other. It seemed very much for nothing - he was calling her by her first name and it made her stomach flip. Her eyes skimmed his back and when he turned, his face, in search of his meaning. If it had been a warning, it was a mild one.

And then the moment was ended. She was grateful, too - unsure of how long she had left before she started squirming.

"Pffft!" She couldn't help but grin even as she whipped an old rag at him in reprimand. "I'm not taking my shirt off, no matter how much you beg." She moved the toolbox from her lap and stood up, stretching briefly while her eyes skimmed over him again.

"Anyway, I don't want to just sit around and do nothing. I'm getting snacks."

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