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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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ellievsbear
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
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Monterey Bay Aquarium
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
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Xuebing Du
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@amarananami
ᯇ꒰۶ৎ꒱ 𝓐𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐀 ♥︎ dani's 1# fan! ʚɞ fifteen ◞ s.her ◞ infp-t ◞ nanami's wife ◞ yuji's sweetheart ◞ nigerian-american ◞ sfw blog◞ june◞ reqs open◞ mostly jjk
꒰♪꒱ every single word you say, makes me feel some type of way
navigation: taglist 𓏼 masterlist
divider by: @/cursed-carmine
(if yk the og creator of the art lmk!)
you have a big crush on megumi fushiguro! (hc)
SMAU; yuji attempts to get quiet!reader’s number!…and succeeds..?
illi’s notez!; 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 lowkey a filler post while i work on other stuff, but we won’t focus on that… part2 divider creds; @/cursed-carmine. masterlist
09 ⋆ your husband nanami comes home exhausted ૮꒰˶ - ˕ -꒱ა
꒰ the way i can write this but not an essay needs to be studied 😭꒱
THE TELEVISION IS ON LOW, more background hum than actual entertainment, flickering light painting soft shadows across the living room walls. A single lamp casts warm light across the living room while you sit curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket tucked over your legs.
You’ve been pretending to watch something for the past three hours, phone resting forgotten in your hand, attention drifting every time you think you hear footsteps in the hallway. It’s much later than your husband said he'd be, but you’ve learned not to let fear bloom too quickly.
Still, when the lock finally clicks, your body reacts before your mind does, shoulders straightening, breath catching just slightly as the door opens and Nanami steps inside.
He doesn’t announce himself the way he usually does but simply stands there for a moment after closing the door, and that’s when you see it. His suit jacket is still on, but the fabric at one shoulder is torn, threads pulled loose like something grabbed him hard enough to split it.
There’s blood darkening the sleeve, soaked into the cuff of his blue shirt beneath, streaked along his knuckles. His spotted tie is crooked and loosened, not carefully adjusted but tugged at absentmindedly. His hair has fallen slightly out of place, strands resting against his forehead. He looks tired, yes, but more than that, he looks hollowed out, like whatever was keeping him upright has thinned to almost nothing.
“Ken?” you call out in concern, already pushing the blanket off your legs.
He lifts his eyes to you, and something shifts in them. Not panic and not even pain. It's like he’s seen water after walking miles in the Sahara.
He walks toward you without a word, steps slow and deliberate, as if movement itself took a great amount of effort. When he reaches the couch, he doesn’t sit beside you the way he normally would. He doesn’t remove his jacket or his shoes or even his glasses. He simply lowers himself to his knees in front of you and leans forward, head landing in your lap. His cheek presses into your thigh, breath warm through the fabric of your clothes. Both arms fold loosely around your legs, like he’s anchoring himself there without thinking.
“[Name]...” he sighs.
One second you feel the tension coiled in his shoulders, his spine still holding itself upright out of sheer discipline, and the next it dissolves completely. His body slackens, head growing heavier against your thighs as his breathing evens out into something deep and unconscious. You feel the exact moment he lets go. It’s immediate, like the only thing tethering him to consciousness was the need to reach you first.
Your fingers move into his hair, stroking through strands that are stiff in places where blood has dried. He doesn’t stir. Not when you whisper his name again, and not when you gently adjust so you can support him better, one hand cradling the back of his head while the other rests on his shoulder.
His face, turned slightly toward you, is relaxed in a way that almost hurts to look at. The constant furrow between his brows is gone. His jaw isn’t tight. His lashes rest quietly against his skin, and for a moment he doesn’t look like the man who walked through that door covered in someone else’s violence.
There’s blood soaking slowly into your pajama pants, warmth seeping through fabric, but you don’t move him. Can't. The idea of waking Nanami feels cruel. He must have been holding himself together with nothing but willpower just so he could make it here. Just so he could collapse somewhere safe.
You smooth his hair back from his forehead carefully and lean down, pressing a soft kiss against his temple.
“I’ve got you.”
(divider by @kodaswrld!)
likes and reblogs appreciated! 💗🫶🏾
HALLWAY CRUSH MEGUMI!
OKOK
yuji needs to pay more attention...𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
⤳ SMAU | things go wrong while texting you on his skateboard
i love your Yuji fics especially the one where yuji asks a bunch of stupid questions!! :D it’s so canon
tyy!! i love the worm pfp 😭
the many, many dumb questions yuji itadori asks you because his brain never sleeps
question one aka classic:
"would you still love me if i was a worm?" he asks, sitting criss-cross on your bed while you lay on your stomach.
you don’t even look up from your flower coloring book. "depends."
"ON WHAT???"
"on what kind of worm."
yuji stares at you in horror. "there's different kinds of worms??"
you'd think he'd know that because of...obvious reasons.
"duh. if you’re one of those gross cave worms then no."
he sulks, "oh..."
"earthworm yuji gets a little leaf habitat though."
"yay!!"
question two:
you guys were standing on a bridge over a pond, looking down at the koi fish swimming around when yuji asks: "if i got turned into a frog would you kiss me to break the curse?"
you chuckle, leaning on the railing. "of course not."
"what!? why???"
"cuz what if you enjoyed being a frog? i’m respecting your lifestyle."
yuji goes quiet for a second, considering your answer.
"oh...that’s actually really sweet."
question three:
"okay but genuinely," he says one afternoon, sitting on your couch upside down, "if i was a ghost would you let me haunt you?"
"you already do."
"wow," he frowns.
"you appear in my room uninvited and eat all my snacks."
"that's not haunting. that’s love!"
"no, love is buying me more of the pocky sticks that you stole" you throw a couch pillow at him.
"ow! okay, i'm sorry."
safe to say that you had a full supply of pocky sticks by the end of the day.
question four:
"hey, would you love me if i was bald?" he asks, staring at his faint reflection in the vending machine.
you stare at him, sighing deeply.
"and why are you bald in this scenario...?"
"i dunno," he shrugs, "tragic shampoo accident?”
"then yes."
his eyes widen. "really?"
"yuji, i watched you try to pull a push door for two minutes straight yesterday and i still love you."
he gets weirdly emotional about that for the rest of the day.
heyy guys im back after being gone since like- february 😬. i've been really busy with school and sports and then exams but schools finally out so i can focus on my passion which is and always has been writing x
likes and reblogs appreciated!! 🫶🏾💗
RANT!!!
Not that it really matters to most people but it absolutely disgusts me when I see people sexualizing and disrespecting Christianity. Its not even just with modern pop culture but with fanfic culture too. Im specifically mean when people are making smut fics of priest![insert character]. I've seen it across multiple fandoms and it makes me sick to my stomach. No one fucking talks about it, speaks out. But if someone where do something like this with say Islam or literally anything else, people would be enraged, but not with Christianity. It makes me so so mad to see my own religion disrespected and to have that disrespect supported. I feel as though these authors know literally nothing about Christianity because becoming a priest literally means that you completely give yourself to God and choose to abstain from sexual acts for the rest of your life. They do it out of love for God and in no way would they EVER just have sex with someone just because their attractive.
If you haven't guessed, I am a Christian, a catholic specifically. Call it bais, but even if I wasnt a Christian id still have the same opinions because of the morals I have.
If you dont know about it, dont write about it. Dont sexualize ANY religion just because your horny and "like it". No matter what, its disgusting.
OH MY GOSH THIS IS SO TRUE
heyyy!! First of all I love your writingggg 💓 it's just soo cutee and i just love it 😭💖. Sooo can you write like Nanami with a s/o who's like very clingy but tried to stay in control because people have rejected her before because of the clingy-ness and he just noticed her controlling herself trying not to hug or ask for cuddles whenever together now he's tryna think why she does that and all ?? Thank youu💖 byeee! ~
꒰thank youu im so glad you love my work! this is such a cute req!!꒱
10 ⋆ your boyfriend nanami wants you closer!! (｡>\\<)
YOU DON'T MEAN TO DO IT
It isn’t some calculated performance, and it isn’t you pretending to be someone else. It’s quieter than that. It’s habit. It’s muscle memory created by different people who all loved you just enough to stay for a while and just little enough to tell you, gently—or not so gently—that you were too much. Too clingy, to be specific.
The words never left bruises you could see, but they sank in all the same, settled somewhere behind your ribs, and now they whisper every time you reach for someone.
So when you start seeing Nanami, when you realize that you really, really like him, you decide you will not ruin this by being excessive.
You sit beside him on the couch, but leave a careful inch of space between your thighs and his. When he places a hand at the small of your back, you lean in just slightly instead of fully melting into it the way your body wants to. When you want to wrap your arms around him from behind while he’s reading at the table, you clasp your hands together and busy yourself in the kitchen instead. When the urge to ask, “Can we cuddle?” rises up warm and hopeful in your throat, you swallow it down and ask if he’s tired.
You ration your affection like it’s limited, like you’ve already used up too much in past relationships, and this time you have to be careful with the supply.
Nanami notices. He's observant by nature, cataloguing small shifts and inconsistencies without even trying, but mostly because he pays attention to you more than anything.
At first, he assumes you’re simply being considerate. Then he starts seeing the pattern. Your fingers twitch toward him when you’re laughing and then curl back into your own palm like you’ve caught yourself reaching too far. You hesitate before resting your head on his shoulder, and even then it’s ready to lift away at the first sign of inconvenience. Sometimes, you even look at him like you’re bracing for correction.
It unsettles him, not because he feels crowded, but because he doesn’t.
One evening, you’re both on the couch, the room quiet except for the soft turn of pages as he reads. You’re pretending to scroll on your phone, but your mind is on something else.
Gosh, you want to lean against him so badly it makes your chest ache, but you’ve already hugged him when he got home and already rested your hand on his arm once. That’s enough.
Don’t overdo it, you remind yourself.
Minutes pass like that, your body subtly angled toward him while you hold yourself in place. Finally, without looking up from his book, Nanami says:
“You can come closer.”
“What?”
He lowers the book just enough to glance at you over the rim of his glasses. “You’ve been wanting to lean on me for the past several minutes.”
Your face heats instantly. “What? No I haven’t.”
“You have.”
There’s no irritation in his voice but certainty. You look down at your hands, embarrassed by how obvious you must be.
“I just- I didn’t want to bother you...”
He closes his book and sets it aside with calmness before giving you his full attention, and somehow that feels more exposing than anything else.
“When,” he asks quietly, “have you ever bothered me?”
You hesitate, and that hesitation is louder than an answer. His gaze sharpens, not at you, but at the space around you, as if examining something invisible.
“Who made you feel like affection was an inconvenience?”
You try to shrug it off, but your voice comes out smaller than you intend. “I’ve just been told I can be a little clingy.”
“By who?”
“My ex.”
“Just one?”
“…All. That's why they broke up with me.”
There's a heavy silence, and you can see him processing what you just said. He exhales slowly through his nose, jaw setting for half a second before smoothing out again.
“And because of that,” he says carefully, “you are withholding affection from me.”
You nod. “I don’t want to mess this up. I really like you.”
Something in his expression softens, and he shifts closer without hesitation, erasing the careful distance you’d been maintaining. His hand lifts to cup your cheek, thumb brushing lightly against your skin.
“You are allowed to want things,” he says, “you are allowed to touch me. To lean on me. To ask for my attention. If I ever need space, I will tell you. You do not need to reject yourself in advance on my behalf.”
The words hit somewhere tender. You hadn’t even realized that’s what you’d been doing, stepping back before anyone else could ask you to.
“I just didn’t want you to get tired of me.” You mumble, throat tightening.
He rests his forehead against yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath.
“I am not them,” he says quietly, and there’s nothing defensive in it, just fact. “And if you ever feel the need to hug me, I would strongly prefer that you do.”
A fragile, uncertain laugh slips out of you, and this time when you lean into him, you don’t stop halfway. You let yourself press fully against his chest, arms sliding around him without apology, cheek settling into the solid warmth of him like you’ve wanted to all evening. He doesn’t shift away, arms wrapping around you immediately and pulling you closer until there’s no space left to question.
He holds you like it’s natural. Like it’s wanted. For the first time in a long while, you don’t feel like you have to measure the amount of affection you’re allowed to give.
(divider by @chachachannah!)
likes and reblogs appreciated!! 🫶🏾💗
09 ⋆ your husband nanami comes home exhausted ૮꒰˶ - ˕ -꒱ა
꒰ the way i can write this but not an essay needs to be studied 😭꒱
THE TELEVISION IS ON LOW, more background hum than actual entertainment, flickering light painting soft shadows across the living room walls. A single lamp casts warm light across the living room while you sit curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket tucked over your legs.
You’ve been pretending to watch something for the past three hours, phone resting forgotten in your hand, attention drifting every time you think you hear footsteps in the hallway. It’s much later than your husband said he'd be, but you’ve learned not to let fear bloom too quickly.
Still, when the lock finally clicks, your body reacts before your mind does, shoulders straightening, breath catching just slightly as the door opens and Nanami steps inside.
He doesn’t announce himself the way he usually does but simply stands there for a moment after closing the door, and that’s when you see it. His suit jacket is still on, but the fabric at one shoulder is torn, threads pulled loose like something grabbed him hard enough to split it.
There’s blood darkening the sleeve, soaked into the cuff of his blue shirt beneath, streaked along his knuckles. His spotted tie is crooked and loosened, not carefully adjusted but tugged at absentmindedly. His hair has fallen slightly out of place, strands resting against his forehead. He looks tired, yes, but more than that, he looks hollowed out, like whatever was keeping him upright has thinned to almost nothing.
“Ken?” you call out in concern, already pushing the blanket off your legs.
He lifts his eyes to you, and something shifts in them. Not panic and not even pain. It's like he’s seen water after walking miles in the Sahara.
He walks toward you without a word, steps slow and deliberate, as if movement itself took a great amount of effort. When he reaches the couch, he doesn’t sit beside you the way he normally would. He doesn’t remove his jacket or his shoes or even his glasses. He simply lowers himself to his knees in front of you and leans forward, head landing in your lap. His cheek presses into your thigh, breath warm through the fabric of your clothes. Both arms fold loosely around your legs, like he’s anchoring himself there without thinking.
“[Name]...” he sighs.
One second you feel the tension coiled in his shoulders, his spine still holding itself upright out of sheer discipline, and the next it dissolves completely. His body slackens, head growing heavier against your thighs as his breathing evens out into something deep and unconscious. You feel the exact moment he lets go. It’s immediate, like the only thing tethering him to consciousness was the need to reach you first.
Your fingers move into his hair, stroking through strands that are stiff in places where blood has dried. He doesn’t stir. Not when you whisper his name again, and not when you gently adjust so you can support him better, one hand cradling the back of his head while the other rests on his shoulder.
His face, turned slightly toward you, is relaxed in a way that almost hurts to look at. The constant furrow between his brows is gone. His jaw isn’t tight. His lashes rest quietly against his skin, and for a moment he doesn’t look like the man who walked through that door covered in someone else’s violence.
There’s blood soaking slowly into your pajama pants, warmth seeping through fabric, but you don’t move him. Can't. The idea of waking Nanami feels cruel. He must have been holding himself together with nothing but willpower just so he could make it here. Just so he could collapse somewhere safe.
You smooth his hair back from his forehead carefully and lean down, pressing a soft kiss against his temple.
“I’ve got you.”
(divider by @kodaswrld!)
likes and reblogs appreciated! 💗🫶🏾
08 ⋆ teen!nanami asking to be your valentine!! (>/////<) ♡
implied black reader <3
NANAMI KENTO HAS NEVER HATED pink paper more in his life.
There are five failed versions of the card in the trash beside his desk, folded with frustrating neatness because even when spiraling internally, he refuses to be messy about it.
His pen hovers over the sixth attempt, and for someone who can solve calculus problems without blinking, writing one simple question feels impossible.
Across from him, Gojo is fully horizontal across three chairs like this is premium entertainment. Haibara is turned around in his seat, chin in his palm, smiling like Nanami is about to do something heroic instead of humiliating.
“You’re overthinking it,” Gojo says, peering at the card. “Just write, ‘Be my Valentine?’ Boomshakalala.”
Nanami doesn’t look up. “Rich from the guy who gave his valentine a bouquet of 100-dollar bills.”
Haibara laughs. “You don’t have to sound like a textbook either.”
The comment makes him pause.
He doesn’t talk to you like a textbook. He talks to you like… like someone he wants to impress but also doesn’t want to scare off. Like someone who noticed the way you tuck your curls behind your ear when you’re concentrating. Like someone who definitely did not stare too long the first time sunlight hit your skin near the classroom windows and made everything feel warmer than it should have.
You are the first girl who has ever made him forget what he was about to say mid-sentence. The first girl whose laugh lingers in his head hours later. The first girl who makes him nervous in a way that isn’t bad. Just overwhelming.
Nanami picks up a pen, and this time, he does not draft it like a formal invitation. He writes without stopping.
It feels too long, but maybe long is honest.
(He makes sure they can’t see what he’s writing.)
Later, when your voice sounds from down the hallway, his stomach drops so suddenly it almost makes him sit back down.
Haibara nudges him. “Go.”
His tie suddenly feels too tight. His hands are warmer than they should be. He adjusts his sleeves because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself.
When he steps into the hallway and sees you standing by the lockers, sunlight pouring around you, it hits him all over again how pretty you are. Not just pretty but striking. The gold light sinks into the warmth of your brown skin and makes you glow in a way that feels unfair. Your curls are down today, and he has to physically force himself to focus.
You see him and smile, which makes his pulse go crazy.
“Hi, Kento,” you say, like you’re genuinely happy to see him.
He swallows. “Hi.”
He becomes painfully aware of the bouquet in his hand. The roses suddenly feel obvious. The chocolates feel dramatic. He almost considers retreating, but then you tilt your head patiently. You’ve always been like that. You let others finish their thoughts even when it takes too long.
He takes a breath.
“I—I got these for you.”
He holds out the flowers first. You blink, surprised, before accepting them carefully. Your fingers brush his, and he almost short-circuits.
“They’re really pretty,” you say softly, bringing them closer to your chest.
He hands you the chocolates next, more awkward this time. “And these.”
Your smile grows, and there’s something in your eyes now. Something hopeful.
He takes the card out last, “I was wondering,” he says. His voice is steadier now, even though his heart is absolutely not, “if you’d want to be my Valentine.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Your gaze alternates between him and the items before you laugh, soft and relieved.
Before he can spiral, you shift the gifts into one arm and reach into your bag.
“I was literally about to ask you,” you admit, pulling out a small gift bag.
He blinks. “What?”
“I brought you something too,” you say, cheeks a little pink but smiling like you’re proud of yourself. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to do this all day.”
His brain is struggling to process the idea that you were nervous too. That you thought about him too. And maybe all those times you met his gaze weren’t just politeness.
“You were going to ask me?” he repeats, because he genuinely needs confirmation.
You nod.
“Yes, Kento. I like you.”
For the first time all day, he exhales properly.
“I’m glad,” he says quietly, and this time there’s no formality in it. Just truth. “Because I really like you too.”
And when you smile at him like that, he realizes he would have rewritten that card seventy-three times if it meant hearing you say yes.
Dear reader,
I have rewritten this several times, which is likely unnecessary, but I find that when something matters, I prefer to be precise.
You are important to me. That is the simplest way I can put it.
I do not know when it started exactly. Perhaps it was the first time you laughed at one of my sarcastic remarks as though it was genuinely funny. Or the first time you thanked me for my notes and smiled in a way that made me forget what I was about to say next. I only know that, at some point, my day began to feel incomplete if I had not spoken to you.
You are the first person who has ever made me feel this nervous in a way that is not unpleasant. I notice small things about you without meaning to. The way sunlight settles against your skin and seems warmer for it. The way your curls frame your face when you tilt your head to listen. The steadiness in your voice. The kindness in your eyes.
You are beautiful. Not only in the obvious ways, though those are undeniable, but in the quiet ones too. In your patience. In your laughter. In the way you treat people with a gentleness that feels intentional.
I admire you more than I have the vocabulary to properly express.
If you would allow it, I would like to spend Valentine’s Day with you. Not because of the holiday itself, but because it would mean I could be beside you intentionally rather than coincidentally.
If you say no, I will understand, and I will still be grateful to know you.
But if you say yes, I think I would be very fortunate.
—Kento
(divider from @viviansturns!)
likes and reblogs appreciated! 💗🫶🏾
07 ⋆ distracting your husband nanami while he cooks !! (๑>•̀๑)
YOU CAN TELL what kind of person Nanami is by the way he cooks.
The rice cooker is already quietly working in the corner, steam fogging the lid in soft bursts. On the counter, salmon fillets sit skin-side down on a tray, lightly salted exactly ten minutes ago.
You’re sitting on the counter beside the cutting board, watching him slice carrots into perfect diagonal pieces.
“You could just eyeball it,” you say.
He doesn’t look up. “No.”
“Personally, I measure with my heart.”
“Well, I measure with accuracy,” he replies, wiping the blade clean before moving on to the zucchini.
Butter melts slowly in the pan, and when he lays the salmon down, it hits the surface with a sharp, satisfying sizzle. You don’t even try to hide that you’re staring at him. In your defense, Nanami Kento has very sexy forearms, and the way he tied his apron accentuates the line of his waist. Anyone in your position would be drooling right now.
“Can I impregnate you?”
Nanami narrowed eyes with a slight, anxious crease between his brows. “I beg your pardon?”
“What? I didn't say anything.”
The vegetables go into a second pan with a quiet hiss—butter, a spoonful of miso paste, and a splash of soy sauce. He stirs once, coating everything evenly.
“If you are attempting to fluster me, it will not work.”
Even so, you reach out and lightly tug at the edge of his apron. “How about you leave the food and get straight to dessert, hm?”
Your husband exhales slowly, setting the knife down with deliberate care before turning to face you. He steps closer, hands bracing on either side of your thighs on the counter.
“You are being quite distracting, my love,” he says quietly, face dangerously close to yours.
You tilt your head, staring at his lips. “Hm, I think you like it.”
A moment later, he lifts a spoon toward you without looking. “Taste.”
Instead of tasting politely, you hold his gaze while you slowly run your tongue along the edges of the spoon, dragging it clean before pulling it from your mouth with a soft, amused hum.
Then he takes the spoon back, turning toward the sink under the guise of rinsing it.
“That was...unnecessary,” he says, but his cheeks are a tinge of pink.
You swing your legs lightly. “Oh, but that's just the preview.”
He flips the salmon with one smooth motion. The skin is golden and crisp.
You lean closer to look. “Wow. That’s sexy.”
“Darling, it's fish.”
“You’re sexy.”
“...Next time you're waiting on the couch.”
You just laugh.
At the dining table, the food is plated like he's presenting to Gordon Ramsey. The rice is fluffed just right, salmon placed neatly on top, with the vegetables arranged.
“Oh Kento, the veggies are a little burnt,” You comment innocently. “Was someone distracting you?”
Nanami: "😐😑😐"
(divider by: @maoo09yen!)
likes and reblogs appreciated 💗🫶🏾
should i write for nanami every day next week? (bc valentines)
yeah!
YESSS
It is actually terrifying how I can sit down to write a "unique" scene, open Tumblr, and see three other people posting about the exact same trope in the last hour
Who is coordinating this? Is there a schedule? Mom said it was my turn with the brain cell
hiii i just found your blog and im in love!! this may be out of your comfort zone which if so i totally understand but do you think you could do zanka, jabber, tamsy, and whoever else you want with an s/o who struggles with drug addiction? like the fun part of it where they are all loopey around them and then the bad part where they are like puking on the bathroom floor ykwim.. and maybe include the other cleaners (ex: engine, riyo, rudo, etc) being kinda involved too with navigating it ykwim
tysm for the request and im really glad you enjoy my blog buttttt drug addiction is a topic i’m not very familiar with, and i don’t want to risk misrepresenting and or romanticizing something that serious. feel free to send other requests!! 💗
Hello!
You are obviously a talented writer. Would it be okay to request a Zanka fic where the reader is lowkey careless/borderline suicidal on missions and it drives him up the wall? Like he analyzes how she fights and realizes that she makes small mistakes that lead to cuts, bruises, etc. Angst, comfort/hurt, idk.
Thank you so much :)
꒰ sorry this took a while i was getting over writers block 😭꒱
02 ⋆ you stress zanka out... ( • ᴖ • ｡)
wc: 1.2k | hurt/comfort
ZANKA NOTICES PATTERNS because that's how he survives. He pays attention to angles, timing, and distance. It’s instinctive, constant, something he doesn’t know how to turn off, so it doesn’t take him long to notice that something is wrong with the way you fight.
“Move,” he shouts, slamming his Vital Instrument down to redirect the Beast, metal shrieking as trash collides. “You’re open on the left.”
“I know,” you yell back, breathless, already charging again.
“You don’t look like it!”
You don’t answer. You never do anymore.
After the fight, when the Beast crumbles and the polluted air settles, Enjin claps someone on the shoulder and starts talking about going out to eat like nothing happened. Zanka doesn’t hear a word. He’s staring at the blood soaking through your sleeve, the way you’re flexing your fingers like you’re checking whether they still work. He grabs your wrist before you can walk back to the car.
“What the hell was that?” he demands.
You look down at his hand, then back up at him, expression calm. “A mission.”
“No,” he snaps. “That wasn’t just a mission. You let it hit you, [Name].”
You scoff lightly, tugging your arm, but he doesn’t let go. “It wasn’t lethal.”
“That’s not the point,” he says, voice practically trembling. “You know better.”
“I got the job done.”
“And you almost got yourself killed doing it,” he shoots back. “Again.”
“Zanka—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in. “Don’t brush it off. I’ve been watching you for weeks. You’re late on dodges that I know you’ve mastered. You’re bleeding every single mission.” His grip loosens, but his hands are clenched now, knuckles white. “You fight like you don’t care what happens to you.”
Your face hardens. “Okay, now that’s a reach.”
“It’s not,” he says immediately. “It’s a pattern.”
Silence stretches, thick and ugly. Finally, you look away.
“…Stop psychoanalyzing me.”
“I’m…I’m looking out for you,” he says, volume softening. “If anything happens to you I don’t know what I’d do.”
You swallow. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” you demand, finally raising your voice. “Because all I hear is you telling me I’m doing everything wrong when I’m still standing.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” he says, voice breaking through his restraint. “You only care that you’re standing, not how close you came to not being here at all.”
You stare at him, stunned, then laugh weakly. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” he says. “I’m being honest. You’re scaring me, [Name]. You really are.”
You don’t respond, just pull your arm free and walk away, leaving him standing there with trash dust settling around his boots and a sick feeling in his gut.
The next mission is worse.
You’re so reckless that it makes his blood run cold. You dive in too deep, get clipped twice, stumble, and recover with a grin that looks wrong on your face. When the Trash Beast finally goes down, Zanka is shaking with adrenaline and something close to sheer rage.
“What is wrong with you?”
You snap back instantly. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting,” he says. “I’m finishing. You’re not invincible. You’re not expendable. You don’t get to act like you are.”
You cross your arms defensively. “You don’t get to tell me how to fight.”
“I get to tell you when you’re throwing your life away,” he fires back. “Because that’s what this looks like.”
“You think I want to die?”
“No,” he says, and the certainty in his voice makes you pause. “I think you don’t care if you live.”
Your voice drops. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you flinch less when you’re hurt,” he says quietly. “I know you stop asking for backup. I know you don’t heal properly before the next mission. I know you keep acting like pain is proof you’re still useful.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “And I know that if you keep going like this, one day you won’t walk away.”
You look at the ground, clenching your jaw. “So what? You want me to be scared all the time?”
“I want you to want to come back,” he says. “I want you to dodge because you care if you get hit. I want you alive.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I want you here.”
The rain starts sometime during your argument, light at first, then heavier, soaking into your clothes, cooling the heat of the fight. You don’t notice until you step back and your heel slips slightly on wet ground. Zanka reaches to steady you, his hands warm and firm on your arms.
“Don’t,” you mutter, shoving him lightly. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something you’ll lose.”
He doesn’t let go this time. “You might, and that’s what I’m terrified of.”
You laugh, breath shaky. “You’re acting like we’re breaking up or something.”
“Is that what you think this is?”
“I don’t know,” you say, rain plastering your hair to your face. “Everyone else does.”
“I don’t,” he says immediately. “But I will lose you if you keep treating yourself like you’re disposable.”
You shove him harder, frustration spilling over. “I didn’t ask you to care this much.”
He stumbles a step, then grabs you, pulling you back before you can retreat. “Too bad,” he says, “I do.”
For a second, you just stare at each other, breathing hard, rain pouring down, the world narrowing to the space between you. Then you surge forward and kiss him. It’s angry, desperate, like you’re trying to shut him up and confess at the same time. He freezes for half a heartbeat, then kisses you back just as fiercely, hands gripping your jacket like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
When you finally pull back, foreheads touching, he exhales shakily. “You don’t get to hurt yourself and pretend it doesn’t matter.”
You whisper, “I don’t know how to stop.”
He softens instantly, anger draining away. “Then don’t stop alone.” He presses his forehead to yours. “Let me help. Let me watch you. Let me call you out when you’re being stupid.” A weak huff of laughter escapes his lips. “I’m really good at that.”
You let out a broken laugh, rain and tears mixing. “You’re exhausting.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m staying.”
You nod slowly. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he repeats, hopeful and kinda terrified.
“Okay,” you say again. “I’ll try.”
He pulls you into a tight hug, rain drumming against his back. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“Hey!”
You both freeze.
About 100 feet away, Enjin is leaning out of the driver’s window, arm resting casually on the door. The rest of Team Akuta are piled up by the side window too, and they might as well be holding a bucket of popcorn with the way they were staring at the two of you.
“Are you two seriously having your big emotional breakthrough in the rain?” he yells. “You’re not in a movie. Get in the fucking car before you catch pneumonia.”
You glance at Zanka. He looks embarrassed, soaked, ears bright red but still very much holding your hand.
“…Car?” you say.
“Car,” he agrees, squeezing your fingers once before pulling you toward it.
(divider by @cursed-carmine!)
likes and reblogs appreciated! 🩵🫶🏾
