toyaluvr

Requests are OPEEEENNN!! (hiatus)

[tiredslepz]

❝ no. we're gonna mingle. ❞

❝ whether you like it or not. ❞

jen/slepz ✧ filipino ✦ she/her ✧ toya's heartbeart ✦ angst lover

fic/req rules ✦ who am i? ✧ master list ✦ wips ✧ what's jen up to?

❝ not zenin, huh? ❞

❝ good for you. ❞

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* thanks for visiting !! .・゜゜・

[mostlymarvelgirl]

I really miss those old avengers tower fics

1. Clint in the vents

2. Bruce and Tony in the lab... science bros

3. Cap being accused and called out by his team ... either it's the "language" or "I understood that reference"

4. Loki for some reason being imprisoned in the tower by Odin to learn humanity blah blah

5. Thor and his poptarts

6. Natasha and wanda being the bestie

7. Reader either dating Loki or Bucky

8. Fury calling out reader initially as a threat as they were an orphan who was a lineage of witches type of trope. OR reader is Tony's kid.

9. Bucky randomly becoming besties with Sam and them having their own fights.

10. Peter and Shuri becoming besties with reader

11. Maria, pepper, wanda, Natasha and reader having sleepovers.

12. Tony having a party every time after a mission. Everyone ends up trying to lift thor's hammer and reader turns out to be worthy.

13. Loki teaching reader how to use magic.

And the list goes on....

[tiredslepz]

please i miss reading these sm

[witchsamlizzie]

Spider-Man Brand New Day HD Desktop Wallpaper

[everythingcollided]

in dreams, i meet you in warm conversation

pairing: peter parker x fem!reader

word count: 2k

warnings: brand new day spoilers (but it's genuinely the smallest one you ever did see)

summary: you're avoiding the party that mj and ned wanted to throw, but that doesn't stop you from being found by a stranger. why can't you shake the feeling that he's familiar?

a/n: umm it's been eight years since i posted on this account? we're so back? saw brand new day in theaters (twice) and felt teenage me gnawing on the bars of her enclosure this one is for her (and for y'all). potential for a part two...

*ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚

You’d never really liked parties. 

You didn’t know exactly what it was. You didn’t mind the music or the alcohol; even being around so many people was fun sometimes. Before everyone got drunk and started spilling things and yelling, obviously. But every single party you’d been to at MIT had felt…wrong. Like you were missing something. Like someone was supposed to be there with you, and they weren’t. 

Which didn’t make sense. Ned and MJ had gone to a majority of the parties you’d gone to throughout college, and they were your closest friends. How could you feel like something important was missing when everything important was already there with you? 

Either way, you’d started trying to avoid that gnawing feeling in your chest. Besides, you were growing out of the phase where going to every party and meeting every person you could fascinated you. Maybe one day that deep, dreadful sinking would go away. Maybe it would stop appearing at parties, on every birthday you turned a year older, on the small amount of dates you’d gone on where the feeling got so strong it made you nauseous.

Today, though, was an exception. You’d graduated this past summer and moved back to New York with MJ and Ned, and they were determined to throw one last party with all the college friends that had wound up back in the city, too. 

Well, Ned was determined. You and MJ were lukewarm about the whole thing. 

Which is why you were in your—abysmally small—bedroom, working through this line of code that you were pretty sure was going to get you fired from your shiny new job if you didn’t figure out why it wasn’t working, with your door open to the noise beyond. It was to keep an eye on MJ and Ned, you told yourself, even as you eyed all the swaying people around the TV you’d just spent fifty dollars on from Facebook Marketplace. Ugh, you should have moved it before. If they broke it, you were totally making Ned buy you takeout for a week.

You went back to work, thankful everyone seemed to be too preoccupied with the party to worry about the weird girl staring at her computer screen on her bedroom floor. You couldn’t figure this out. It was driving you crazy. You were sure it had worked yesterday evening, and then when you’d come into work this morning it was all wrong and every single test you did didn’t fix it and you were going to throw your computer—

A knock on your open door. A cleared throat. “Um, hey.” 

You looked up.

A guy around your age stood in your doorway. The first thing you noticed about him were his eyes, wide and expressive, looking at you as if you were the one who’d shown up in his bedroom. But…reverent too, almost in disbelief. He was looking at you like he’d never seen a girl before. 

But he was cute. And something about him…

He seemed familiar. 

“Are you okay?” he asks you. His gaze starts to bounce around the room the second you meet it, avoiding your eyes. “You looked, um, mad?”

“Oh!” You laugh a little at yourself. “I’m just doing some work. I’ve been told I look mad when I can’t figure something out. I don’t even realize it.” But who had told you that? It wasn’t your family, or Ned or MJ. But someone had told you. Who had it been?

The guy shifts on his feet. You realize he’s holding a bouquet of flowers, which is a weird thing to bring to a party, but you find it charming. He squints his eyes at you, but the corner of his mouth is lifting like he wants to smile. It makes something in your chest flutter. “You’re doing work during a party?”

He’s teasing you. You feel yourself smiling back. “Yes, I am. Super important work, I might add.”

“Oh, yeah?” He leans a shoulder against your doorframe, eyes on yours now. 

You can’t look away. 

“Yep. Keep an eye out because I’m gonna dethrone Spider-Man from the first page of the Daily Bugle tomorrow with my amazing work on debugging this finance app that only has three hundred downloads. Really groundbreaking stuff.” 

He smiles fully, now. It makes you feel triumphant, nervous, and warm. “That’s awesome because I love—What’s the name of the app?”

“Financipply” Stupid name. From the doubtful look he sends you, he agrees.

“That’s perfect because I love Finacnipply. Can’t wait to see you on the front page.” You roll your eyes, but you laugh. You both do, his shy and small, as if he hasn’t done it in a long, long time. As if he shouldn’t be laughing at all. But his eyes are bright. They turn towards the floor as your laughter dies, shy.  “So what can’t you figure out?”

And you just can’t stop looking at him. You motion towards your computer screen vaguely. “Just this code. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. It’s just not working.” 

He takes a small step forward. “Do you think…Can I…look at it?”

“For real? You code?”

He shrugs, one hand in his pocket. Adorable. “I…dabble?”

“Are you sure about that?” 

Another flash of a smile. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Alright then. Knock yourself out.”

He comes to sit next to you on the rug you found at the thrift store a couple blocks away, rubbing his palms over his jeans and looking intently at your computer screen. He smells like clean laundry and the rain the city had earlier in the day, and he’s looking at your code like he actually understands it. “Oh wow. Cool.” He scrolls through it a couple times, up, down. You’re entranced by his profile, so close.  He stops to type. “Did you try this?” 

You blink. Look at the screen. “Oh my gosh, no.” A simple line edit. You know when you see it that it’ll work. “Holy shit. You did it. Holy crap. Thank you. You’re, like, awesome.” 

“It was nothing.” But he's ducking his head with a blush.  “Seriously.” 

“What’s your name, anyway? Since you saved me from getting fired.”

“Um, May..nard.” 

“Maynard.” It sounds wrong. You’ve never had that thought before—that someone’s name is wrong. But it’s a sure feeling in your chest. The one you have when you know your code tests are going to work, and when you decided you wanted to move back to the city. It’s really the only feeling you trust anymore. 

“Yep.” He leans back on his palms, and your eyes run down his arms unconsciously, tracking muscles and veins. You have a brief, overwhelming urge to curl closer to him, to run your hands down his biceps, to take his hands into yours and trace the lines of his palms. And it feels normal, to have that feeling. So normal, your body almost starts moving on its own accord. But his voice breaks you out of it. “So, is this what you want to do? Program apps?” 

You tell him that your dream is to work on developing video games, and he nods like it makes complete sense and gets you to tell him that you’d love to make a game based off of Star Wars, which makes his eyes light up in a way that has your breath catching. 

And that’s how you end up talking to a cute boy on the floor of your bedroom for an hour, about Star Wars and your favorite video games and what got you into them in the first place. He makes you laugh, and talking to him is so easy. It’s hard to believe you just met him now and not in high school. He would fit right in with MJ and Ned. You can almost see it for a moment; the four of you hanging around the diner MJ used to work at before college, laughing and teasing and studying. The image is so visceral that for a moment it feels real. 

You’re just about to invite him over sometime because you’re so sure that they’d love him and that you want to get to know him better, when there’s a crash from the living room. 

Both of you turn, and your face immediately drops. That better not have been your TV. 

You sigh. “I need to go make sure nothing important is broken.” You almost add on a desperate wait for me, but he’s already standing up and holding out a hand for you. 

That would have been too weird to ask for, anyway. Right? 

You let him pull you up. When your hands touch, it’s almost as if the warmth radiates from his calloused fingers, grips your heart, and drags it all the way down to your toes. He lets go quickly, as soon as you’re on your feet, but you stand there for a moment, disoriented. Feeling like…feeling like you’re right where you need to be. But also like you’ve forgotten to do something. It pulls at your brain like a grocery item list you know you were thinking about five minutes ago, but no matter how far you reach, you can never remember what it was. 

It shouldn’t bother you this much—you’ve been feeling it since you went to college. It hung over you during orientation, and move-in day, and every visit home. It reaches you in dreams, and weirdly, whenever Ned shows you the thousands of videos he gets of Spider-Man swinging across the city. 

But you’d never felt this close to grasping it before. You can almost see an image in your brain, faded around the edges like an old photograph, a word floating just on the edge of your consciousness. 

“You okay?” He’s asking you. Maynard. God, why does that name sound so wrong to think?

He looks about a second away from grabbing your hand again. 

You want to let him. 

But you hear MJ’s voice from the living room, firm in the way she only uses when she’s annoyed, and you know that your TV is probably done for. Maynard seems to be able to sense it too, because he urges you to go. 

And your TV is broken, thanks to some idiot and his friend who decided to start play-fighting for no reason. He gives you a twenty from his pocket, but you can’t even focus. Your mind is too busy playing back your night. Warm brown eyes, messy curls, soft smiles. You end up just waving it off—but you keep that twenty—and rushing back to your room to find Maynard. 

Only, he’s not there when you return. 

Your laptop is closed and placed at the foot of your bed. On top, the bouquet he showed up with. 

You stand there, in the middle of your tiny room, touching your fingertips to the carnations and grieving. 

Grieving for what? You keep asking yourself. Why do I feel this way?

But you can’t figure it out. It stays, stays, stays. 

Later that night, his face comes to you in your dreams. It’s younger, unburdened with the sadness you’d seen lying underneath. He’s laughing, bright and beautiful, and he’s looking at you. You’re on a rooftop somewhere, both of you golden in the sun, and he’s saying your name with a fondness that notches into your spine. 

I love you, he says, and he means it. It’s in his eyes, in the way his expression melts into softness, in the way he traces his fingers across your shoulder and pulls you into him. 

Peter, your voice sounds just as yours does now, weighed down by adulthood. You run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and there’s a peacefulness in your body that you know you haven’t felt in years, even through the haze of the dream. I’ll always love you.

You feel the press of his lips to your hair, the curve of them as he smiles.

You wake up. Gasping, gripping the thin sheets of your bed, sweat gleaming on your collarbone. 

Peter, your mind whispers to you in the dark.

“Peter.” You murmur it into the moonlight shining across your floor, to your heart beating against your ribcage, to the knot in your stomach that finally releases. 

“Peter.” You say again. Taste it on your tongue, certain you’ve said it a thousand times, in a million different ways.

And the dark whispers back, Peter Parker. 

[kentluv3r]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 SUMMARY: flirting with your guests is a regular on your youtube show… but flirting with SPIDER-MAN hits different, especially ‘cause he flirts right back!

ⓘ CONTENT WARNINGS: flirting, teasing -> confident fem! reader ノ dialogue heavy ノ back-and-forth banter ノ heavyyyy fluff ノ couple of uses of y/n!

AUTHOR’S NOTE: wow, me not posting smut for once— fluff will appear on this page every once and a while. my guilty pleasure watch is “chicken shop date” and love the idea of spider-man flirting heavyyyy. god, i can’t wait for brand new day! btw, i don’t own chicken shop, that shit belongs to amelia diloldenberg, only using the idea!

NEW NOTIFICATION!

CHICKEN SHOP DATE with y/n l/n has uploaded a new video: SPIDER-MAN | CHICKEN SHOP DATE #214

(2 hours ago…)

it took about two years to finally get the man on your show… but finally, someone from spider-man’s personal life finally listened to you and got him on your youtube series.

peter? loved your show. he loves the guests and the style of the show and your laid back personality compared to the other shows on youtube. he always found late night shows too… forced, other people had weird questions, but yours? yours was perfect

the only issue? they asked for… him. so now, here he was, dressed in his spider-man suit, mask halfway pushed up to reveal his mouth and a part of his jawline, and a camera on him… steaming hot chicken and fries sitting in front of him.

and here you were; internally freaking out that you were really interviewing him, the fucking king of new york himself. spider-man. fucking spider-man. the wall crawler!

the restaurant atmosphere wasn’t tense or quiet but rather warm and nervous. maybe it’s cause you’re interviewing world famous superhero, possibly. but even spider-man across the table was nervous as he tasted the food.

but then, spider-man speaks the first words of the video. “you know… this is really good chicken.”

“thanks, we try to make the chicken at least some what edible… like me.” you reply to him, taking a bite of your own food; it’s pretty good, you will agree with him like that.

immediately, peter could feel his heart do a little flip thing that he’s felt before… but never to this extent. he doesn’t let it show though, he knows he can’t be too confident on this show— just be friendly, flirt back, and don’t overshare too much. “well it’s good cause i’m hungry. i didn’t eat before coming.”

you lean back in your chair, pointing to him. “so how do you work out? considering you’re a… human spider after all.”

he chuckles lightly, covering his mouth with the top of his hand before speaking, pointing to his own body. “the spider-like qualities don’t really… stick in terms of… appetite and stuff like that.”

“oh? it doesn’t.”

“no, luckily i’ve gotten good at maintaining sweat and all that jazz.”

[video cuts to an outside shot of the shop; nighttime with the moon bright and the lights of the chicken shop lit brightly; Y/N’S CHICKEN. ON 45TH STREET]

peter takes another bite of the chicken as he swirls the straw around in his chosen drink. “you know… we’ve probably met before.”

“oh yeah?” you challenge. “you think as spider-man we’ve met or as your secret alias thing?”

he shrugs as he scratches his left cheek with his fingers. “i mean, probably as both… sorry if i didn’t remember you if i did save you once; i save a lot of people.”

you put your chin on your hand as you completely ignore his defense. “you have been avoiding me”

“have i?” he asks, tilting his head.

you nodded. “yeah, been trying to get you on this show for two years up to this point… seems like my calls to your manager didn’t reach you.”

he nods his head even if he doesn’t agree with your sentiment. “i don’t have a manager darling, it’s just me… who the hell would you have called in the first place?”

“i tried the daily bugle but they hung up on me, i think i was talking to jameson himself."

“yeah… he doesn’t really… fancy me all too much.” 

putting a chicken strip into your mouth, you chew on it before putting your knuckles to your mouth, swallowing it as you respond. “oh that’s so unfortunate.”

peter points his french-fry holding fingers at you in agreement. “that’s what i tell them because i don’t do anything wrong and yet they have an issue!”

“i mean, what did you do to them?” you question, a teasing tone to your words.

peter shrugs. “i don’t know.”

“did you like, fuck jameson’s wife? flirt with his daughter in front of him?” you ask, adding possible solutions to j.jonah jameson’s undying hatred for the wallcrawler.

“not that i know of.” he answers, sipping from his straw. “spider-man doesn’t usually do the hit it and quit it stuff so i know i didn’t do anything to him personally.”

you crack a smile at his words. “so spider-man doesn’t fuck a civillian he saves if they ask hard enough?”

he shakes his head. “nope… not trying to have a son or daughter running ‘round and it uh… reveals my secret identity because of dna and everything… plus, not trying to give my powers away.”

“selfish.” 

“reasonable.” 

[video cuts to a woman’s arm, your arm, putting the fries from the deep-fry basket onto the tray, ready to serve to the next customer]

you eat a couple of fries before steering the conversation somewhere else. “so we all know new york is the weirdest of weird places… what’s the weirdest thing you’ve interrupted while swinging?”

spider-man chuckles behind his glass. “uhhhh… basically, i accidentally landed… right in between a proposing couple on one of those garden rooftops.” 

“was there like a serial killer on the roof? what happened?” you ask.

“uh… the ring rolled off the roof and the guy nearly fell trying to catch it.” he explains, rubbing the back of his head as he chews on a fry, taking the time to scratch the back of his neck as well. “they still got engaged.” 

“did you go to the wedding?”

“no, wasn’t on the guest list.”

you click your tongue. “you know; i would invite you to my wedding.”

he smiles bold. “oh really? you think i could look good in a suit?”

“you’d be invited as the groom and not a guest.” your tone deadpan despite the smile on your lips.

peter nods in understanding— he tries to hide his blush at flirty words. “ohhhhh.”

[video cuts to a close up on the chicken’s shop menu… damn, in this economy, it’s surprising to see a 4 chicken tender and fry combo for seven dollars. the sound of the kitchen can be heard in the background.]

peter fixes his mask to make sure it doesn’t reveal too much before he speaks again. “i noticed that the colors of the show’s logo match my suit.”

you look up, smiling as you eat another piece of chicken. “oh yeah?” you cover your mouth to swallow before finishing your sentence. “you like it?”

“it’s an honor, sweetheart.”

[video cuts to the grill inside the kitchen, two pieces of texas toast sitting butter side down]

“is it true that all superheroes are fuckboys and fuckgirls?” you ask.

peter looks up at you, eyes of the mask widening before shortly going back to regular position, waving his hand is dismay. “nah, most of us are professional. i know the human torch and hawkeye and that knobhead from bludhaven, what’s his name?”

“nightwing?” you finish his question, remembering that black hair bird gymnast sitting across from you.

he snaps his finger. “yeah, that kid… bro, he gives us a bad rep ‘cause he’s always flirting with his fans… it’s like totally crazy the type of stuff he pulls with ‘em.”

“so you, spider-man, don’t flirt with your own fans?” you question him, raising a brow as you lean forward on the table.

the webslinger shakes his head. “nope. not trying to have my name trending for flirting.”

“well i’m a fan and you’re flirting with me right now…”

“if you wanna spin it like that.”

[video cuts to the soda station in the shop; all sodas are available except mountain dew. a sticky-note is placed at the bottom of the dispensary, reading very simply; out of order.]

“i’ve asked people out a lot.” you begin, swinging around the half-eaten chicken strip in your fingers. “and have gotten no’s back.”

peter interrupts with a smile, pointing to the ceiling of the restaurant. “in this way or like… in a real way?”

“no… no…” you begin, tilting his head at the accusation that this restaurant is not a real way. how dare he. “well, this is real, but…”  

then, spider-man busts out into a fit of laughter— serious, unbridled laughter. you just made spider-man laugh and there’s something good about that. there’s something sweet about having that power over someone so much more powerful.

“stop laughing damn it!” you say, reaching over and smacking the back of his shoulder, which only makes him laugh. “this is a serious issue!”

“oh i know it is, y/n, that’s why i’m laughing!” he tries to explain in between laughs, finally leaning back in his chair. 

you look at him dumbfounded, but a smile doesn’t stop from appearing on your lips. “you think you’re so fucking funny.”

“i think you’re funny, darling.”

[video cuts to a still shot of the outside deal; free desert with a purchase over $10, and in this restaurant? that’s pretty easy to get… so obviously, free cakes and free brownies were flying all over that damn restaurant]

“are you seeing anyone?” you ask him, stealing one of his fries.

he shakes his head as he does the same to you; stealing a much bigger fry than you stole. “not right now, it’s kinda hard to date with the whole… superhero stuff. why? you seeing if you have a chance?”

“maybe, why does that matter?” you press him, leaning back and crossing your arms.

he mirrors your action; key sign of someone liking you, mirroring your actions. “just asking. it’s hard to try to be on a date and suddenly an idiot is trying to rob a bank down fifth avenue.” he explains, motioning with his hand. 

you nod along. “are you feeling any danger around us?”

he puts his fingers on his chin; surprisingly? his spidey-sense haven’t gone off… maybe this is a sign. “nope, for once, my little inside radar ain’t going off.”

and you almost read his mind perfect. “aye, it’s a sign we are made for each other.”

“can you handle heights?” he asks.

you shrug. “possibly, why you asking?” you question. 

peter sticks his tongue to the inside of his cheek, visible to the screen as he scratches the back of his neck, a blush clear on his cheeks. “maybe after this, i can show you what a little web slinging with spidey is like.” 

[video cuts to an empty version of the chicken shop; the red and white tables nice and pretty, the lights vibrant inside the restaurant, in the background has two workers behind the cash register.]

“so… as we wrap up our date… speak now or forever hold your truth, they say.” you offer him before sipping on your drink.

peter thinks for a minute before grinning bright. “eh, you have my number, this won’t be our last date.”

4,912 COMMENTS (sort by…)

add a comment…

user431 (2 hours ago)

i have never seen two ppl flirt so hard before and go absolutely no where | 34K likes

user01 (2 hours ago)

HE WAS BEATING HER AT HER OWN GAME AND I LOVED EVERY SECOND OF IT | 12K likes

╰ user43: she wasn’t trying to stop it either

╰ user04: when he asked her to go web-slinging 🫦

user69 (2 hours ago)

would pay exponential amounts of money to see an uncut version of this | 128K likes

user420 (2 hours ago)

the random nightwing stray???? 😭😭😭 | 44K likes

╰ user55: bro is FUMING

╰ user67: he’s impregnating one of his fans just to make spidey more mad at the fact that he’s giving them a bad rep

╰ user58: and i’m the baby mama!

╰ user06: sorry! the baby mama is actually me!

╰ user88: i need to see them interact!

╰ user77: i fear spidey is putting him through the wall

johnnystorm (2 hours ago)

this motherfucker has no game istg | 404K likes

╰ mattthelawyer: how does he have the bucket right in front of him and yet still not score???

╰ johnnystorm: dawg idk, this is baddd

╰ user100: how tf is matt the blind lawyer typing if he can’t see shit?

╰ user44: user100 never heard of asking siri to read the comment out loud

user667 (2 hours ago)

their sex tape would go crazy | 69K likes

user111 (2 hours ago)

watching this after being broken up with was NOT a good idea lmaooooo | 101K likes

ironfistyoass (2 hours ago)

and i thought i was bad at realizing flirting attempts | 91K likes

╰ user789: it’s not even that he’s bad at flirting, it’s just that neither of them will fucking admit shit 😭

peterbparker (2 hours ago)

loved this one y/n, great interview! | 1K likes

╰ user123: jolly aah mf

╰ user457: basic ass comment

╰ user843: ur that mf from the daily bugle, u know spider-man, get this motherfucker on game or tell him to pass the controller!

╰ peterbparker: you think I know spidey personally?

╰ user843: yes. get on it.

user674 (2 hours ago)

i love how he says he doesn’t want to be on trending for flirting with fans and yet he’s been #1 trending for 2 hours bc of this interview 😭😭 | 690K likes

user999 (2 hours ago)

imagine if they become the next rpf final boss like superman and lois lane | 55K likes

╰ user885: their sex tape didn’t leak, this couple’s will atp

╰ user798: still can’t believe they actually became a thing

╰ user321: loved how they went from denying their relationship every single time they were seen out together. the amount of times “i’m just interviewing him” was said is insaneee

╰ user541: everyone remembers that casino video leaking of batman, wonder woman, green lantern, and the flash putting bets of them ‘cause even they were shipping them!

╰ user999: everyone was there for the sky photos

╰ user561: when they got photographed fucking on the daily planet logo 😭😭😭

masterlist is here! click here for more!

ⓘ KENTLUV3R’S WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and don’t repost to wattpad/ao3/c.ai!

[sunny-draws-things]

GUYS PIRATING IS BAD.

DO NOT PIRATE ANYTHING. NOT SHOWS/MOVIES. NOT GAMES OR SAFER GAMES. AND CERTAINLY NOT BOOKS. AND DO NOT DOWNLOAD YOUTUBE VIDEOS. AND NEVER EVER EVER WATCH MUSICALS WITHOUT GOING TO THEM AND DONT USE ADBLOCKERS/OTHER ADBLOCKER TO AVOID ADS AND VIRUSES PIRATING IS VERY HARMFUL TO THE CORPORATIONS WHO WORKS VERY HARD TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF PEOPLE AND THEIR MONEY. ANYONE WHO PIRATES IS BAD. BAD PIRATING. EVIL. OH AND THIS

[hvnlyly]

𝜗ৎ BURN TO ASHES | todoroki t.

🎐 | part two of happy birthday, I miss u

pairing: dabi x gn!reader

synopsis: months after seeing you at his grave, you’re still the most prominent thought in his mind

tags: pro hero!reader, touya's pov, childhood friends to strangers, light angst, mention of death and guilt, mention of canonical todoroki family's angst, mha's standard violence, flashbacks in italics, direct quotes from part one, kind of protective!touya, might be ooc

a/n: only took me three months to publish the second part... tbf this has been sitting in my drafts for ages, i just never thought it was good enough to post it

Dabi is not one to get distracted, at least not when he’s on the job. Not when he feels the fire cruising through his veins, the heat that starts somewhere deep in his chest and travels all the way to his fingertips. Not when he hears the screams of pain and anguish that he caused blasting in his ears, usually followed by nothing but a static ring. Not when something in his stomach revolts each time he adds a number to the long list of casualties by his own hands. 

In those moments, his mind is always levelled. Quiet in a way that feels almost weird, focused on the now, on the plans he’s pushing through for the League, but mostly for himself. He knows he can’t allow himself a single misstep, so every thought is pushed back, left to be dealt with in the stillness of another sleepless night and through the first rays of dawn. 

Except, it doesn’t work this time. Not even with the flames getting higher and hotter, caging him from all sides, and with the smoke coming off his skin, letting him know that he’s overdoing it again. It doesn’t make sense why: the bunch of thugs he’s up against aren’t anything special, a normal swept of his blue flames would have been enough to do the job. He didn’t need to overdo it, but he did it anyway. 

He knows exactly why— you can’t succeed in pushing away your emotions all the time if you’re not aware of them, of the ones that can stay and those that needs to be swept under the rug. The thoughts replaying in loop in his head, hammering into his brain like fighting a nail that refuses to stick, are the the reason why. They push him to deal with a box that was never really closed, bringing him back to a time when overdoing it was the only thing he knew. When burning himself, making that fire burn hotter, was the only way to prove himself. 

“Touya is… not an easy person to forget.”

Dabi scoffs, but it comes out like something closer to a wince. The fire dies down and the sizzling stops, casting a heavy silence in the dark alley. He shakes his hand once, willing the sting in his wrist to disappear, along with the memories that burning himself up always brings back to the surface.

He walks past the incinerated corpses lying at his feet, not even sparing them a glance as he starts climbing the fire escape. Something settles at the pit of his stomach, heavy and meaningful and familiar. He thinks he should call it guilt, but it’s probably not. If he was really guilty, he’d stop killing people. If he was feeling guilty, that would mean that there was still some good left in his heart and he knows for sure that’s not the case. 

“I just- I miss him, you know?”

No, he doesn’t. Not in the slightest. 

He’s thought about you before. Not constantly, not obsessing over it, but like a fleeting image that sometimes pops up in his head unannounced. He thought about you when he first woke up in a place he didn’t know and in body that didn’t feel like his own. He went to your house after the fiasco with his family, desperate for something that might anchor him to reality again, for an evidence that there was at least someone who had been waiting for him to come back. When he arrived, a family he didn't recognise was in your porch, a mother laughing with her children as she opened the front door. 

“I think my parents want me to go to Shiketsu,” you say, twirling the flower in between your fingers. “Mom has been preaching about the school for the whole weekend, showing me pictures and books from when she was attending. I mean, it’s still a few years away anyway, I don’t know why she’s pushing for it already.”

“I don’t know, Tou. It sounds like a good school. Mom had lots of fun and she’s a badass, so the teaching clearly works,” you muse, pursuing your lips in thought. Your eyes slide over to him and the little smile you give him makes his chest feel inexplicably tight— it’s happening more and more lately, but he doesn’t completely understand why. “But I told her I can’t. I’m not breaking our promise. If you go to UA, that’s where I’m going too. Heroes together, right?”

Of course, there were no more reasons for you not to attend Shiketsu after his death. It only made sense that you moved, looking for a fresh start somewhere new, but it still stung a little. Mostly, because that gave him no way of knowing whether you were mourning him or not. If his death had affected you somehow or if it didn’t change anything, much like it hadn’t for his family. What he really meant to you— if he did mean anything at all— would remain a secret he had no access to. He filed the thought away, stored it somewhere in his mind where he wouldn’t look for it.

The cold air hits him out of nowhere as he steps on the rooftop. The wind blows on his face as he jumps onto the next building, then to another. The sun set a while ago and the pink sky is slowly starting to turn black. In the darkness, he doesn’t have to worry about hiding or sneaking around. It’s the only time of the day when he can exist somehow peacefully.

Dabi lands swiftly on the roof of a tall building a few blocks over. He’s not sure what kind of building it is, but he doesn’t deem it important— at least, not as much as the one across the street. He crouches by the ledge, waiting patiently for the same sight he’s been a witness to for the past weeks. 

Like clockwork, there you are. He sees you rounding the corner of the street, hands linked behind your back as you stroll towards your agency. From up there, he can see the signs of an eventful patrol— the dirt on your costume, the outline of a bruise near your shoulder and the mess of hair sitting on your head. You look tired, but you’re still smiling at the hero walking beside you. You laugh at something they say and the sounds ring in Dabi’s ears for seconds— familiar in a way that makes him uncomfortable, like something is trying to crawl out of him. 

After seeing you knelt in front of his stone a few months ago, it became impossible to avoid the thought of you anymore— tho not for lack of trying on his side. 

It was the first time seeing you again after his death— at least, in person. The first real time was through a television screen years ago, when you made your debut in the hero world. He hadn’t even needed to hear your name to know it was you. One look at your face had been enough for him to recognise you, to spark the memories he had fought so hard against. 

You looked… happy, but quieter. You smiled for the camera and talked in the same sweet tone you mastered sometime in elementary school to get out of trouble, but Dabi grew up with you. He caught the way your smile wasn’t as wide as he remembered, the way you spoke carefully, as if measuring your words instead of rambling like you used to. He supposed it was only fair you’d matured, but there was a tiny, pathetic flicker of hope inside him that wanted to believe it had something to do with him. 

“I might have gotten used to him not being here anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still wish he was. I don’t think that’ll ever change, no matter how much time passes.”        

A loud explosion disrupt the peace, seemingly coming out of nowhere. Dabi sees the smile fading away from your face as you whip around, body tense as you look for the origin of the noise. The moment your eyes catch onto distant smoke, your features school into a look of determination. You bark something at the other hero before sprinting down the street, towards the source of the explosion. 

On your own. 

“Fucking idiot,” Dabi mutters under his breath, even when the edge of his lip curls slightly. You’re still as impulsive and self sacrificing as always, it appears. No wonder you’re that loved of a hero— never had any doubt about that. Before he can talk himself out of it, he finds himself leaping from one roof to another, heading for the same direction as you. 

He arrives a few seconds later than you, but those were more than enough for the fight to break out. The three criminals— thieves, if the heavy bags slung over their shoulders are of any relevance— have no time to react to your attacks. Cornered in a desert alley, you don't have any civilians to worry about, nothing that keeps you from using your full strength.

Dabi observes from above, unable to take your eyes off your figure. You move through the scene with the grace of a dancer, light on your feet as you flutter from place to place, almost as if appearing out of thin air. The criminals don’t stand a chance against you— you dodge every attack and return it with more precision than ever, sending the three scumbags tumbling to the floor.

His attention is solely on you, but he catches it with the corner of his eye. One of the criminals— the one you have your back turned to— struggles to sit up, his back pressed against the wall for support. When he raises his head, Dabi instantly recognises the glint in his eyes, having seen it reflected in a mirror far too many times to even count. Ashamed, furious— murderous. All directed at you.

Before he even realises, his body moves on its own. He doesn’t register the moment his feet move, jumping off the roof and bringing him at the end of the alley. He doesn’t think as he raises his left hand and blue flames sprout from his palm. The fire rises and shoots towards the criminal, the sound of its sizzling covering his cry of anguish. It travels forwards, heading for you, but it takes a curve right before reaching you.

It only takes a few seconds for a wall of fire to surround you whole, without touching you or causing you any harm. The first criminal thuds to the ground lifeless and the other two follow quick, their bodies already burned and unrecognisable.

Dabi sees the confusion in your face, the wary way you look at the fire around you as if scared it’s going to hurt you. Then, you turn around, and, for a moment, your eyes meet through the dimming flames. A heavy silence descends upon you— a charged tension stretches between the two of you, but Dabi doesn’t let the moment linger.

He doesn’t stay long enough to see if recognition sparks in your gaze or if disgust twists your features. He doesn’t stay long enough to hear your voice again, to check whether your hair changed colour or if you grew taller from the last time he saw you.

He doesn’t let himself store more information about you, not when that will only allow you to occupy his brain more than you already do.

When the fire dies down, he’s gone and no one is in the alley expect for you and the three corpses, almost reduced to ashes.

🎐 | m.list | guidelines for requests

[hydrachea]

> turns on my computer

> disables a new AI feature that was turned on by default

> opens my email

> disables a new AI feature that was turned on by default

> launches a software

> disables a new AI fea

[sillyselfshipping]

Reblog this to support the selfship(s) of the person you reblogged it from!

[idlerin]

REARRANGE MY WORLD

celebrity!miya atsumu x f!reader

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

the ikarus incident (band au)

+ word count: 10.6k

content — meet ugly with miya atsumu, atsumu plays the drums but also models on the side, inarizaki is based in tokyo, reader is a manga author/artist (this is the tortured artists department), reader had a crush on suna rintarou at first (nothing ever happens), kinda strangers to best friends to lovers but the lovers part dont happen here yet, pining i love pining, atsumu is oblivious and reader is oblivious so this is just a disaster in the making, very fluffy tho :PP

you hadn't known when miya atsumu became an integral part of your life. now, you can't imagine it without him.

MIYA ATSUMU wasn’t the person you first noticed as a seventeen-year-old with an eye for the tall, dark, and brooding handsome archetype. Miya Atsumu had dyed blonde hair, an air of arrogance around him, and seemed to become the center of attention in whichever room he stepped into. Sure, he was tall, and yes, he definitely had the looks, but he didn’t have the tired, broody look that was attractive to every girl who’s ever had a vampire phase. In this case, you. Meanwhile, Suna Rintarou had fit that tall, dark, and handsome description more. He was the right amount of mysterious and the right amount of broody, which was exactly why you developed a huge crush on him first, and Miya Atsumu just happened to be his friend and bandmate.

But here you were, almost ten years later.

“Hey! You’re not paying attention,” Atsumu whines from the other end of the couch, an arm's length away from where you were curled up in a blanket with a manga in hand. 

You heave a sigh, “Because the words coming out of your mouth are bullshit,” pushing back your reading glasses, then turning a page from the manga you were reading, a new release gifted by one of your fellow author-friends.

“The guy’s face is bullshit,” Atsumu says. If he had said this outside and someone recognized him, he would 100% be cancelled. Or not. Male privilege or whatever. Now that you think about it, male celebrities get away with a lot of things. The world was truly unfair. Well, that wasn’t new.

“I wasn’t asking for your opinion. I want to date him, he’s cute,” you shrug. After a few seconds of silence, you peek over at him. His eyes were narrowed, and his brows furrowed. Earlier, when you were catching up, you mentioned you were going on a date with a producer from the company that serializes your manga, and you even showed him a picture of the guy who you thought looked cute. The guy asked you out after seeing you in the office when you visited last, and he was kind of your type, so why not? You couldn’t think of any reasons why you shouldn’t go on a date with him, but Atsumu seemed like he had plenty.

“That’s what you said about your ex—I forgot his name already,” Atsumu lolls his head, “And where is he now?” he gives you a pointed look.

You purse your lips. That one kinda stung. Yes, your single-ness is very apparent. “‘Tsum,” was the only thing you said. The way you said his name was laced with unintentional hurt.

Atsumu’s face softens, “I’m sorry, sweets.” That damned nickname, you hated how your insides turned. It was probably because you hadn’t heard him call you that for a while. “Not sorry about calling his face bullshit though. You can do better. Said that about the last one too, you know.”

Oh, you know. Atsumu never got along with any of the guys you dated. As few and far between as that happens.

“Sorry not everyone has a face with a net worth of over five billion yen,” you deadpan. You were over your ex-boyfriend, clearly, but you weren’t going to deny that your close friendship with Atsumu contributed to your past relationship not working out. That’s why you and Atsumu were catching up now, since you kept your distance from him for months to please your ex. Well, you do it every time you get into a serious relationship. Atsumu was always a point of insecurity for your ex-boyfriends, even though you reassured them that your relationship with Atsumu was strictly platonic.

You blame it on Atsumu’s untrustworthy face. Okay, and his fame. So there are cons of being associated with the drummer of a world-famous band, who models and does a lot of brand endorsements. Shockingly.

“You know you just indirectly complimented me, right?” Atsumu smirks, elbow perched on the edge of the couch.

Ugh. You did.

“Shut up, ‘Tsum. Don’t make me regret spending my rare free time with you. You want us to fight right now? I’ll kick you out,” you say. Completely disregarding the manga you were trying to read now. The plot wasn’t registering in your brain anyway.

“Still as hotheaded as ever.” Atsumu raises both brows at you.

“Still a big fat jerk as ever.” Your eyes slit.

“Just the way you like it, sweets.” A ghost of a smile on his lips. You felt your blood pressure rising. Only Atsumu could tick you off like this.

You puff your cheeks. What did your friend, Fumika, say about regulating your emotions? Breathing exercises. Count from one to twenty.

One… Two… Three…

“We’re too old to be arguing like we’re still teens.” Your shoulders slump. There you go.

Atsumu scoots over, closer to you, until your shoulders are touching. “I kinda missed arguing with you, sweets,” he says as he relaxes on your side. You let him lean his body weight on you.

“Hm,” you just hum in acknowledgement. You force yourself to relax. You were used to this, you and Atsumu have always been comfortable with each other. A little physical touch isn’t going to kill you. You reach for your manga again and start looking for the page you left off.

“Hey,” Atsumu calls for your attention. Shifting in his position so he could lower your manga. Your eyes lock, so you were left to stare into his warm brown eyes. Yeah, these were the eyes that scam people. “I’m just looking out for you, okay.”

You breathe in, “I know.” You relent and give him a small smile, “I kinda missed your annoying ass too,” you push two fingers on his forehead jokingly.

“My ass is also worth over five billion yen, by the way.” Atsumu gives you a full-blown smile, and you reward him with a laugh.

Unfortunately, Atsumu became one of the few people you treasured. You never would have guessed that would happen when you first met him.

Let’s go back in time for a bit.

It was your second year at Inarizaki, and you wanted to spice up your life so it wouldn’t revolve solely around your sketch pad and Procreate. Your friends had been concerned that you would graduate from high school without even experiencing a crush on a schoolmate. You kept brushing them off for that past year because you were content with fawning over fictional characters rather than real people. Until one of your friends, Momoho—who liked discovering underground bands—pulled you into watching a performance at the cultural festival by a rookie band called Ikarus or something, you couldn’t exactly remember, but half of the members of the band went to Inarizaki, which was how they were allowed to play in the first place.

That was when your gaze landed on Suna Rintarou, charismatically playing the electric guitar up on the stage, and for the first time, you thought you had developed a crush. Momoho caught you staring and gleefully told you his name. Luckily, he was one of the said band members who went to Inarizaki, apparently from Class 2-1. You noticed him more, shocker, you genuinely couldn’t be bothered by others then. Yet, you noticed him, from across the hallway, the cafeteria, or the field when you had PE class, when his class luckily had the same time slot as yours.

You were glad to have some inspiration. Some days, you find yourself sketching him from afar, which you admit is kind of creepy since he didn’t know you, but it wasn’t like he would ever find out. You had zero plans of ever taking this infatuation further than what it is—infatuation.

“Volleyball is starting,” your friend Momoho says, the white streaks on her cheek that mirror the paint on yours bunching up as she grins and pulls on your arm, “I heard a certain guitarist from Class 2-1 is playing,” she drags in a teasing tone.

“We’re playing against them?” You hadn’t checked the schedule of the games for the sports festival. 

“Nah, they’re playing against Class 2-2. We lost to 2-2 earlier. Stop camping in the classroom,” she scolds you, shaking her head. Momoho pulls harder on your arm, “The twins are playing on opposite teams, so it’ll be fun to see them compete against each other.”

You relent and stand, tucking your tablet (which you were watching a show on) inside your bag, “The twins?”

“Y’know, the Miya twins, Atsumu from 2-2 and Osamu from 2-1, you-know-who’s class,” Momoho says like you were already supposed to know. The name was familiar, something you’ve heard before, probably, but couldn’t recall well. You try your hardest to remember, maybe an offhand mention from Momoho and your other friends before.

“Atsumu is Suna’s bandmate,” Momoho urges again. You shush her because she mentioned the name of your silly little crush. You look around the room to your other classmates who didn’t want to wander around, only two others aside from you.

Once you’ve recovered from your alertness, you turn back to her, “I don’t remember,” you say sheepishly.

“Ah, whatever, they’re just known around ‘cause they’re athletic and attractive. So let’s go! Fumika’s there already,” Momoho successfully pulls you along her stride.

You let yourself get dragged along. You scolded Momoho a few times for rushing down the staircase, but soon enough, you guys arrived at the main gym. It was crowded since for the sports festival, the gym floor was divided into sections, with volleyball games in the middle, basketball to the right, and badminton to the left.

There were classes surrounding the games, each shouting their cheers and wearing their custom class shirts like the ones you were wearing now. You and Momoho scuffle through the crowd watching the volleyball game to find your friend, Fumika, and other classmates.

You waved at your friends once you saw them, sitting on the hardwood floor. Their attention was captured by the game in front, so after greeting each other, they were once more cheering alongside the other people watching. You take a good look at the game yourself, and your eyes are immediately drawn to Suna Rintarou. 

But wait, “Who are you guys cheering for?” you ask Fumika.

“The Miyas,” Fumika squeals when a familiar-looking grey-haired guy serves. That doesn’t make sense. Weren’t the twins on separate teams? How were they cheering them both on?

You tilt your head in confusion. You look at Momoho, and she takes your confusion as a sign to point out the said players (though that wasn’t exactly what you were confused about), “That’s them,” she points at the guy with dyed gray hair who just served on the side you were sitting on and on the other end of the court, a similar-looking guy with blonde hair. Instant recognition flashed before you. You remembered their faces but didn’t know their names. They hung out with Suna a lot.

You just nodded along, but you were also enraptured by the game, more so Suna, who skillfully played the game. You didn’t know a lot about volleyball, but you did know he looked good playing it. Hot and good reflexes? Practically your dream guy.

A whistle blows, and you watch from across as one of the Miya twins—you don’t know which one—is about to serve. It’s the blonde one. Was his name Osamu? Or Asamu? Whatever, it didn’t matter. Your eyes flit in front of you, where the grey-haired twin was in a receiving position (from what you know of). Your eyes gaze back at the blonde one. You watch as the guy tosses the ball and then hits it. Hard. Your eyes follow the ball. The grey-haired twin was in the perfect position to receive it, but no—it slid off.

Your eyes widen. It was coming at you.

You hear your friends squeal.

Then— smack.

A ball landed on your cheekbone. Pretty hard, you’d like to add.

Ouch.

“That girl got hit on the face!” An unfamiliar voice called out, likely another spectator.

Yeah, you noticed.

“Oh my god, you got hit on the face!” You hear Momoho exclaim from your side. Fumika and the others were also fussing and looming over you. Oh God, you hoped they didn’t stop the game for this. You hated getting unnecessary attention.

“Atsumu why’d you hit so hard?!” You hear a shout clearly, even though it’s loud in the gymnasium. Or was that the ringing in your head?

“Why do you suck at receiving?!” Another voice replied.

You think you were feeling lightheaded, your head hung low. Who would smack a ball that hard at a sports fest? Someone with monster strength? No one needs to be that competitive during a sports fest. There was still a slight ringing in your ear. You raised your arm to massage your face to ease the pain. It was not working.

“Sorry ‘bout that. You good?” Someone was standing in front of you. Someone male. You didn’t know who. Only their shoes were in your field of vision.

You were in the process of nodding—you think. When something drips onto your lap. Blood. Your nose was bleeding.

“Oh my god, your nose is bleeding!” Momoho exclaims from your side again. You loved your friend, you do, but the exclamation entered in your ear and is bouncing off the walls of your brain, aka it hurt.

You look up at her, “I’m fine.” You don’t think you look convincing right now, with blood running down your nose.

“Oh shit.” The person in front of you exclaimed. That was when you finally looked at the guy. You blink. It was one of the Miya twins, the blonde one.

“Are you alright?” A teacher stepped in. “Oh dear,” he said when he saw you. He fumbled with his pockets and handed you a handkerchief that you took with gratitude. You press the cloth to your face.

“I’m alright,” you try to say. Then, finally attempting to stand up, from your side, Momoho supports you. “I’ll just go to the infirmary.” Acting too casual about this.

“I can come with you,” Momoho volunteers, but then the teacher speaks over her.

“Miya, take Miss—sorry, what’s your name, dear?” The teacher turned his attention to you. 

You say your name, distractedly, focusing all too hard on not looking around you. This was so embarrassing. You look at the blonde Miya, who was sheepishly scratching the back of his head.

“Take her to the clinic, Miya,” the teacher says to the blonde, scratching his head. He was probably the blonde Miya’s class advisor.

The blonde Miya looks back at the game regrettably. You don’t think he wants to leave, but they were already starting up again without him. He sighs, then looks at you, “Okay.”

You feel your eye twitch. Was it just you being overtly sensitive right now, or was that kind of rude? You look at Momoho, who has her eyes wide, looking curiously at the blonde and then back at you. You did not want to know what was going through her head.

With nothing to say, you just bow to the teacher, then tell your friends you’ll see them later. You still have the now-damp cloth clutched to your face. You turn on your heels and start walking towards the exit. You need a change of clothes too. Some blood dripped onto your shorts.

“Hey. Sorry for that again.” A male says beside you. You almost jump, forgetting that the blonde Miya was following you.

“It’s alright,” you nod. Then try to walk faster, he still kept up to pace with you. He was Suna’s friend, but you knew nothing about him, and your social skills were trash. This was killing you. The Miya dude wasn’t keen on making conversation either. Complete silence it is.

“You can go back to your game,” you say, halfway through your trek to the clinic. This wasn’t such a bad situation to be in. Air conditioning and a nice bed would greet you. Yeah, beats watching people smack a ball.

“Really?” the Miya guy says, not against the idea.

Your eye twitches again. You don’t like this guy, you think. His vibes were off. You nod, taking one last look at him. You hoped your annoyance wasn’t obvious. It’s not like he had any obligation to you. It was just an accident.

“Okay, see ya,” he gives a sleazy smile, stopping in his tracks, and waving before running back.

You stop and look in his direction. You don’t know what to make of him. That was definitely rude.

“And he just left you?” Momoho whisper-shouts when you tell her about what happened a week later during lunch break. You were lining up for food in the cafeteria when she asked about what happened last week when you went to the infirmary, since you just went home early after you got cleared and sent a quick message in your group chat saying you were all good.

You shrug, “He didn’t really have to come with me anyway. I was fine on my own—I want that, please,” you say while pointing at the cafeteria lady to the soup you wanted.

“Still, the gentlemanly thing to do would be to stick with you until you get to the clinic, at least. What if you passed out? This knocks down Atsumu’s attractive points, tsk,” Momoho scowls.

That was one more thing, you finally learned his name. Not Osamu or Asumu. Atsumu. Osamu was the grey-haired one.

You shrug then pulled out your wallet to pay for your food, “No harm done.” You thank the cafeteria lady when she hands you your food.

“Would you be able to tolerate him once you date you-know-who?” Momoho wiggles her brows at you before paying for her own meal.

“I’m not going to date anyone,” you glare at her for the obvious teasing.

You turn around, holding your tray, and collide with another person. “Ah!” you exclaim, trying to save your soup, but it was too late. Half of the soup soaked into the shirt of the person you collided with. Why were you such a social disaster? “I’m so sorry–”

“Ah, shit,” your victim had reached to touch the now-wet patch of his uniform.

You looked up and were met with the familiar warm brown hues. Just your luck, it was Miya Atsumu.

“Just your lucky day, dude,” the guy beside him laughed. You turn your gaze and realize late that it was Suna Rintarou of all people. This was the closest you’ve ever been to him. Of course, it would be when you were least prepared (not like you were preparing to approach him or what, but still).

You turn your gaze back to Atsumu, who had his eyes squinted in annoyance at you, “Watch out next time, would you?” He didn’t seem to recognized you.

“Sorry,” you said meekly. In situations like these, it would be better to back down quietly and move on.

“Hey, you look familiar,” a new voice says, pointing at you. It was Osamu. Oh dear. “You’re the nosebleed girl!” Osamu laughed, then stopped himself, “Wait, sorry that wasn’t funny. I’m laughing at Atsumu. This is totally his karma, thanks.”

You purse your lips at the reminder. 

“Ah,” Atsumu squints his eyes at you, for a different reason now, trying to remember you.

“Sorry again,” you bow your head and kick Momoho’s leg lightly as a silent way to tell her you guys should go. She was just quietly gawking at the situation. You think it’s best to look ahead and get as far away as you can.

Once you guys got far enough and found a table of your own, Momoho looks over your shoulder as she says, “Is it just me or Miya Atsumu looked back at you?”

“No. You’re seeing things,” you settle down in your seat.

Your encounters with Miya Atsumu for the next weeks kept happening—well, you wouldn’t exactly call it “encounters” since it was just seconds of your day that he happened to be present in and lock eyes with you. Oddly. You keep bumping into him on the staircase. Once, even crossed paths while trying to buy boxed juice in the vending machine. Even in the teacher’s lounge, when you submitted your classmates’ coursework for English Communication II as the beadle for the said subject, Atsumu was in the middle of talking to your teacher.

You don’t know what to think of it. You don’t even know if Atsumu notices that this kept happening.

You shake your head. Must just be a coincidence, your mind’s just making you lean more into it, which was why it seems so prominent in your point of view. Yeah, that makes more sense.

You were sitting outside your classroom, sitting on the bench. You were feeling stuffy inside, and you didn’t want to go to the cafeteria for lunch break, so you decided to just stay and draw.

Loud chatter was heard from the staircase. Your eyes widened when you saw it was Suna Rintarou’s group, including Miya Atsumu. You were reminded of your unfinished drawing of Suna in your sketchbook, so you turn to the page you left off. Maybe this was the chance for you to finish it while you were here. Ah, you couldn’t see him properly from your sitting position, though. You stand and lean on one of the walls. Now you had the perfect view of him, but you still had to be subtle.

The first few minutes were fine, quite calming actually, and then you heard fighting from the staircase, so you looked over to see that the Miya Twins were having an argument. You couldn’t hear them clearly, but it was about…feet sizes? That could only explain why they were missing one of their shoes. Suna had his phone out and filmed as Osamu took Atsumu’s shoe off the floor and threw it across the hallway. You watch as the said shoe lands near you. 

Atsumu cursed Osamu and ran after his shoe. He was stumbling across the way, and you weren’t prepared as his shoulders bumped into you. The impact made you drop your sketch book—just as Atsumu bends down to pick up his shoe.

Your eyes widen as you kneel to get your sketch book, blatantly displaying your drawing of Suna, but Atsumu’s eyes were faster.

He looks at the drawing well. The image of his friend is clear and well-drawn. Then at you. “Hey, isn’t this S—” you panic and cover his mouth with your hand and shake your head furiously, eyes wide with warning.

Once you were sure he wasn’t going to continue his sentence, you let go of him and quickly picked up and closed your sketch book.

“So you have emotions after all.” Atsumu still hadn’t left.

“Excuse me?” You stand up and look at the blonde with your brows raised. “Your face is usually always like this,” Atsumu imitates your supposed usual expression, akin to the stoic emoji, “When I see you.”

Your brows furrow. Acknowledgement of the fact that he recognises you aside, this was strangely ticking you off.

“Hey—Uh, I actually forgot your name.” Atsumu continues to talk.

“Me too. Who are you again?” you pretend not to remember his name.

“Atsumu, how about you?” he just grins. Finding the situation amusing. You don’t think he believes you don’t know his name. “You’ve spilt soup on my shirt, and I’ve made your nose bleed, I think I deserve to know your name.”

You tell him your name, finding no reason not to, “Can you, uh, not mention that?”

“What?” Atsumu says, “That you spilt soup on my shirt or your crush on Su—”

Your eyes widen again, and you slap a hand to his face, “Stop!” You glance to the side, where his friends were, and there, they were already staring at you two. You don’t think they can hear your conversation from here, but still.

Atsumu grabs your wrist to take your hand off his mouth, then proceeds to say the most baffling words ever, “And here I thought you liked me.”

“Excuse me?” You look at him with offence.

“You kept looking at me whenever we’re at the same area.” Atsumu points to himself while putting on his shoe. “No, I do not.” You cross your arms, hugging your sketch book close to you.

“I’m pretty sure you did.” Atsumu self-assuredly looked down at you. “I was looking beside you.” You cock your head to the side, to his friends’ direction.

“I know that now. But really? You have bad taste.” Atsumu takes a quick once-over at his friends who were looking at him. He only put out a hand, signaling to wait on him. His previous annoyance with Osamu dissipated.

“And liking you would mean I have exquisite taste?” You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Sure.” He gives you an infuriating grin.

“We don’t know each other. Let’s not.” You sigh.

“I know your name. You know mine. Seems like we know each other.” You think Atsumu was just being a menace on purpose. “Your friends are waiting.” Please leave me alone. You were already very embarrassed.

“Hm. I’ll go then,” Atsumu flashed you one last teasing grin like you two shared a secret. Oh, you hoped with every fibre of your being that he would keep your crush on Suna a secret. You hope he would forget about you entirely.

Yet, since then, Miya Atsumu has never forgotten you again. But you didn’t know that.

You managed to survive the rest of your second year without any big alterations to your routine, and most importantly, no revealing of your embarrassing crush on Suna Rintarou. There was only one weird thing. Miya Atsumu kept waving at you whenever you saw each other. It shouldn’t be weird. It was normal human interaction. But even Momoho noticed it and asked when you got “friendly” with Miya Atsumu, which you answered with the truth—never.

In your third year and final semester in Inarizaki, you were faced with a responsibility, to Miya Atsumu of all people. 

You were still the beadle for your English Communication class in your third year, so while you were dropping off your class work, your teacher stopped you.

“Here’s who I was talking about. She’s great in this subject. Dear, would you mind helping someone review for the college entrance exams?” she said. Your eyes lock with Miya Atsumu, standing in front of the teacher, who gives you a raised brow. “This is Miya Atsumu.”

“We know each other,” you say. Placing the papers you brought on her desk.

The teacher’s eyes brightened, clapping as she said, “Really? That’s great then! Would you mind sparing some time helping him review?”

“I…” you were about to say no. You were. And then you meet eyes with Atsumu again.

“She would love to!” Atsumu answers for you, looking at you expectantly. The teacher looked at him weirdly, then back to you for confirmation. You only sighed and nodded.

Thus began your weekly study sessions with Miya Atsumu. You had no idea why your life kept trying to tangle with Miya Atsumu, and you have no idea why you keep letting it happen. To be completely fair to him, he actually listened to you when you were teaching, but whenever you guys had breaks, he would drift off topic.

“Can you draw me?” Atsumu strikes a pose. Head tucked in the crevice of his palm, his elbow leaned on the table. His dyed blonde hair fell over his eyes, and you were itching to pull it aside for him. How was he not bothered by something blocking his field of vision? It was none of your business, though.

“Top five things I hear the most.” You roll your eyes playfully. He was a sight to see. You can acknowledge someone’s attractiveness without being attracted to him. As you and other people around you have observed, Miya Atsumu’s face was an asset.

“Top one must be how grumpy you are,” he exasperatedly raises his free hand to poke your cheek repeatedly.

You catch his hand and pull it away from your face, placing it firmly on the table with a light slap. “Wrong. Top one is how talented I am, actually.”

“You drew Suna, and you don’t even know him.” Atsumu breaks his previous pose to stretch, letting out a yawn. You look behind him, out the window, the sun was setting, it was late afternoon. You guys still had material to review.

You reply unconsciously, “That’s because he has a pretty face—don’t tell him I said that, please.” You don’t think you even have a crush on that guy anymore. You don’t know, it just faded. You didn’t really know him enough for it to last.

“I’m prettier than him, though.” Atsumu jokingly bats his lashes at you.

You stifle a laugh, “Says who?”

“Says me. I just said it.” Atsumu gives you a ‘duh’ look.

“Invalid.” You shake your head, and you reach out a hand to grab a pencil.

“Draw me with your talented hands, would ya?” He grasps your hand, making you drop your pencil. That’s when you actually freeze. He realizes his mistake but smoothly lets go of your hand to run it through his hair. “Anyways, thanks for teaching me again.”

You shake it off, too. “It’s no problem,” you start collecting your used papers to place them on the side. You open your bag to place the stack in it.

“Oh, what’s this?” Atsumu points out the chocolates peeking from the pocket of your bag. It was chocolate cubes Momoho gave you and said to give them to someone on Valentine's Day, trying to push you to get yourself out there.

“Ah, just chocolates. My friend said I should give it to a boy because Valentine’s Day is coming up.” You pull them out, maybe Atsumu pointed it out because he was hungry. You guys have been studying for two hours non-stop.

“Will you?” Atsumu asks. Looking at the bag of chocolates you put on the desk like it was an interesting specimen. “Will I what?” You pick up your pencil again and grab your custom-made syllabus. You were putting a lot of effort into this. But at least tutoring him helped you study for the exams too. “Give it to a boy?” Atsumu continues to ask.

You immediately shake your head, “No. You can have some if you want.” You think he was trying to gauge if he can open it or not. But why else would you pull it out of your bag if you weren’t intending to give him some? Atsumu opens the bag, reaches for one of the chocolate cubes and takes a bite, “Too sweet.” He says but proceeds to eat the rest of it after.

“Really?” you turn your head towards him. You were taken aback, when did his face get so close? He was leaning onto your side.

“Here,” Atsumu reaches for one inside the bag and casually plops it between your lips, hesitatingly opening your mouth, the sweetness fills your senses, “How’s it, sweets?” Atsumu’s fingers lingered against your lips a second too long.

Which was exactly why you froze again, not expecting Atsumu’s actions. You took a second to remember how to chew. The cocoa was definitely too sweet. It made your teeth ache, “Too sweet.”

“Told ‘ya,” Atsumu cleared his throat, leaning back. “Hey, my band got a gig this weekend. Do you want to come? You can see your crush.” “I don’t have a crush on Suna anymore.” You admit.

“Oh.” Atsumu looked like he was thinking, “Then you should come watch me.”

“Uh, I’ll think about it.” You were still a little dazed from what happened just a minute ago. Your heart was beating traitorously fast. But it didn’t mean anything, for sure, you just weren’t used to being around the opposite gender, yeah.

“I’ll text you the details.” Atsumu was playing with a pen.

“Okay, let’s go back to studying.” You reach to open your book.

You came that weekend anyway. You arrived when they were already playing, so you swiftly blended in with the crowd. You came alone and didn’t know anyone else here, since you weren’t a frequent socializer. The last time you properly watched his band—Ikarus, you remember the name clearly now—was over a year ago. You knew Atsumu played the drums. What you didn’t know was how good he looked playing them. Darn, you can’t think his face was the only thing saving him anymore. You look at his other bandmates, and you hadn’t even noticed Suna Rintarou first. Well, you’re kind of friends with Atsumu now, so it makes sense that you notice him first.

When his band’s set finished. You attempted to leave, you took a picture of yourself being here and sent it to him earlier, he’d probably see it later. But then your eyes meet his from across the room, and he slanted a casual grin as he approached you.

“What’d you think?” he crosses to your side in an instant, ignoring his friend’s call. You don’t remember who he was, it was the main singer.

“You guys play well,” you tell him the truth. “Are you guys planning on taking this seriously?” “Yeah, we’ve got an agent and everything. Root for me, okay?” Atsumu scratched the back of his head.

“Uhm, shouldn’t you be saying I should root for all of you?” You cross your arms.

“Same thing.” Atsumu shrugs.

“Then, I’m rooting for you, ‘Tsum.” You roll your eyes.

“‘Tsum, huh? I like that, sweets.” This was a new nickname. You think you heard it when you were studying, but then you thought you were hearing things.

“Sweets? I’m not sweet.” Your brows furrow. Your usual reaction to him.

“Yes, you are sweet, sweets.” He ruffles your head, messing up your hair as you scowl up at him.

Despite the developed closeness with Miya Atsumu, you thought it was going to be a temporary thing. Since you would be separated once you went to university. Your study sessions finished, exams rolled around, and graduation came swooping like a tornado. The day was the usual laughs, pictures with friends, cries of joy and sadness alike. You and Atsumu only waved at each other from across the field.

You and Atsumu hadn’t talked during that summer either. You had no reason to. Even if you guys were to end up in the same university, it was unlikely you would cross paths if you were in different majors. He might not even talk to you then because you would just be some girl from his high school.

You should really stop jinxing yourself.

It was your first day in your required general elective philosophy class. It was a large class size, so you sat by instinct next to a nice-looking girl. Fumika and Momoho, who attend the same university, said you should try to make new friends once the school year begins. You cleared your throat and turned to the girl. You started by saying your name, “I’m a first year. What’s your name?”

The nice-looking girl smiled at you and said, “I’m Yaoki. I’m also a first-year.” There was a beat of silence, and you thought your socializing had failed when she turned to the front, but she surprised you by throwing you a bone, “Did you read the prof’s reviews online? Do you think it’s true that he decides the final grades with a wheel?”

You smile, “I hope not. I guess we’re about to find out. What’s your major?” You internally cringe at your rehearsed lines.

Yaoki graciously answered your question, and you proceeded to have a casual conversation about your interests. This was it: you were making a friend. That was when a familiar silhouette entered the room, blonde head of hair a shade lighter, but there was no mistaking it—the man who walked in was Miya Atsumu. Looking as sharp as ever, and you weren’t the only one who noticed.

“Whoa, that guy’s cute,” Yaoki says under her breath. You both watch as Atsumu has his what you could only call resting bitch-face on, as he stares down another guy in his path to what you think are the third-row seats. Probably unintentionally, if you could guess, the only thing on Atsumu’s mind must have been how he should have stayed in bed longer. He hasn’t looked up, hasn’t seen you. That was only a given. “He looks mean, though,” Yaoki says. You only chuckled.

Of course, Miya Atsumu ended up going to the same university as you. You studied together, you knew he was fully capable. And of course, fate made it so you would end up in the same philosophy class out of maybe the thirty other freshman classes for this subject. Wait—why were you bringing fate into this? Irrelevant. Highly irrelevant. It was just a coincidence.

The professor walked in, and class officially began, but you find your eyes constantly drifting toward the third row. It was after four philosophy classes that Atsumu finally noticed you.

You were running a bit late, still before class started, but later than your usual time. You were trying to regulate your breathing, panting when you entered the hall. Your eyes immediately narrowed to where Yaoki sat, so you could sit next to her like usual. You were on your way up the platform when someone grasped the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

“Hey.” You look up at Atsumu, who had his brows furrowed, “I didn’t know we were classmates,” he continued.

Still out of breath from your trek from the dorms to the building, you forget your words for a moment, shaking your head, “Oh, Tsum. Hi, it’s been a while.”

“Where do you usually sit?” Atsumu asks casually, still holding onto your sleeve.

“Uhm, there,” you point out at the back. “I usually get here earlier.”

“Then did you know I was here?” Atsumu asks, tone kind of disappointed. Oops. Now you felt sorry.

“Uh…” you felt dumb, pursing your lips, “Yeah, sorry, I didn’t know how to approach you,” your shoulders slumped, giving up and confessing.

Atsumu’s face was unreadable. “It’s easy. You should’ve come up to me and said, ‘Oh, Tsum! So glad we’re classmates, I missed you over summer break! Come sit next to me!’” Atsumu imitated you. Was that how you sounded to him?

You glare at Atsumu, “I don’t sound like that.”

Atsumu grins at you, “Yes, you do.” He looks over your shoulder, “C’mon, lead the way, the prof’s here.” You begrudgingly led him to where you sat, and he introduced himself to Yaoki as your most good-looking friend. Very contrary to his first impression with his resting bitch-face on.

University life with Atsumu was very eventful, since wherever Atsumu went, something always happened. It was unexpected, since Atsumu was actually quite reserved, but he was a go-getter. Every opportunity he has, he makes something out of it (it helps because opportunities seem to fall on his lap). You don’t know how he juggles all of it. He’s still very intently focused on his band, too. He invites you to their performances when they have them. Aside from that, he keeps getting noticed because of his face.

“Lucky you, I got you a copy,” Atsumu slaps down the university pamphlet on the table. You two were having lunch in the foyer.

You pick up the university pamphlet that has Atsumu’s smiling face on it. He was asked to model for the university pamphlet when he was just walking to class. It really was that face. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Keep it. Frame it. Pass it down to your children,” Atsumu takes a sip of his expensive coffee. You sneer at him. “That,” he pointed at you, making you lean back, “That’s the exact same face my sister made when I showed her that.”

Your brows furrow at that new tidbit about him, “You have a sister?” You only knew of his twin brother, Osamu, who was nice and waved at you when you saw him across campus.

“Yeah, four years younger. She goes to Itachiyama for Junior High, it’s her final year.” Atsumu shrugs casually like this was information you were already supposed to know. “I didn’t know you had a sister.” You place your arms over the table. You take the pamphlet and look inside. There were pictures of Atsumu fake-laughing with a group of people.

“She went to our graduation,” Atsumu said pointedly. “I didn’t notice,” You shrug.

“You don’t notice a lot of things, sweets,” Atsumu says. He didn’t mean to say it demeaningly, you know, but his tone of voice sounded like mockery.

You swat at the air, and rolled your eyes, “Wow. So sorry, I don’t know everything about you.” “You should be. I know everything about you.” Atsumu says. That wasn’t true, could it? You had talked a lot. You couldn’t remember what you said after it comes out of your mouth half the time.

“No, you don’t.” You say still, to prove a point. 

“Yes, I do. Try me.” Atsumu cocks a brow. You don’t know where he got his confidence.

“What did I have for breakfast this morning?” You ask a trick question deliberately just to be sure. You were waiting for him to whine that your question was unfair.

“Bread with peanut butter,” Atsumu says immediately.

Your brows furrow. You did indeed have bread with peanut butter this morning. “That was a lucky guess. It’s a common breakfast.”

“No. You complained you ran out of eggs last night, and I went to your dorm the other day and checked your fridge for things I could munch on. All you had was bread, peanut butter, crackers, and pasta packs. Then I ate your last crackers. And you don’t like eating heavy carbs in the morning, you said it makes you feel bloated,” Atsumu just says, he had a smug look on his face.

“Whatever,” you close the pamphlet and stuff it in your bag. Atsumu’s grinning face on the cover felt like additional teasing. You don’t know what to feel about Atsumu remembering things you’ve said in passing. You accept defeat this time.

“Anyways, I’ve been going to the gym and tracking my calories. You think there’s been progress?” Then Atsumu started flexing his muscles in front of you. You do notice that he’s been a bit bulkier. Your eyes track the flex of his biceps. He was feeling himself too much.

“Okay, ‘Tsum. Keep your shirt on,” you shake your head, he laughs, “You look good though,” you give him an unexpected compliment. But he always looked good. That was a given.

It was just stating an observation for you, but Atsumu grins, “Do you want to feel them?” pertaining to his muscles.

You deadpan, “Do I look like I want to do that?”

“Hey, I was giving you grace.” Atsumu shrugs, shameless.

“Aren’t you going out with someone?” you ask, remembering that Atsumu took a girl from his economics class on a date last week, you forgot to ask how it went.

“Nah, it didn’t work out.” Atsumu was a natural charmer if he wanted to be. And usually, he didn’t want to be. He wasn’t against putting himself out there, so he went out with people from time to time, but he’s never been in a serious relationship.

You just remembered, “I’m going on a date tomorrow,” you say.

Atsumu froze, blinking, before giving you a smile, “Who’s the guy who caught your very, very selective attention?” It was a true observation. Your last crush was Suna Rintarou, and that was two years ago. You’ve found people attractive since then, but you were always too busy to give it a shot.

“Fumika introduced him to me,” you don’t add that it was after asking you when you planned on officially dating Atsumu. Which you called her off on, you and Atsumu were strictly good friends. “I’m officially meeting him tomorrow.” “So it’s a blind date?” Atsumu probes.

“Not technically,” you swirl your coffee, “I know his face. He knows mine. Fumika said he asked about me, she’s in the same major as him and saw me with Fumika a while ago. Asked her to introduce him to me.”

Atsumu scoffs, “Then he had no balls to approach you on his own.” He rolled his eyes. What’s with him? “Send me your location when you go out. You still don’t know him. It’s not safe.”

“You’re being overprotective, brother Tsum,” you laughed while drinking your coffee. You watch as his face contorts, and he provides his reasons. The rest of that day went nicely.

Your date actually goes well, and you go on several more with the same guy after that. You think you liked him, his name was Ennoshita, and you think you had good chemistry. You liked the same songs, shared the same taste in food, and agreed on the same things. It wasn’t long before he officially asked you to be his girlfriend, and you agreed. 

Ennoshita was waiting for you on the couch while you prepared the popcorn. You were staying over at his unit. You planned to have a movie night.

“Babe, your friend Atsumu…” He called out to you.

“What about ‘Tsum?” You asked, lifting the bowl and making your trek to him on the couch, snuggling next to him as you reach for the remote.

“I don’t think he likes me.” Ennoshita scratches his nape.

You laugh, “He just looks like he doesn’t like people. He has a resting bitch-face.”

“No, I don’t think it’s just that. You didn’t see, but I think he was giving me a stink eye.” He actually looked concerned. You introduced him to Atsumu earlier today, at a mini get-together with other college friends. You laugh harder, “He’ll get over it. You’re my boyfriend. He’s one of my best friends. He has to.”

“You sure he doesn’t like you romantically? Or you’ve never liked him? He’s good-looking, and he plays in a band. You’re around a guy like that a lot.” You ponder it. That was all true. But at this point, you don’t think Atsumu possesses a libido for you, and you didn’t see Atsumu in that way.

“Are you jealous, Chi?” you tease your boyfriend instead.

“I… kinda…” your boyfriend admits.

“Do you want me to distance myself from ‘Tsum? I’m sure he’d understand.” You say, offering him a kind smile.

He ponders it for a bit, “I think that would be best, yeah,” Ennoshita nods and gives you a brief peck on the lips.

You started declining Atsumu’s invitations to go out more often since then. You had told him the reason: your boyfriend found it weird that you would go out one-on-one with another guy often. You still went out with Atsumu bi-monthly, not as frequently as before, because it’s not like your boyfriend was controlling your life. You just wanted to respect him.

It all came to an end nine months later, when Ennoshita cradled your face and told you he loved you. Your throat went dry, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say the same words back. You broke up with Ennoshita three days later.

You called Atsumu that night, and he picked up after the first ring. “I think I’m heartless.”

“That’s not true, sweets. Why would you think that?” Atsumu’s voice was groggy, which makes you think he just woke up.

“I broke up with Chikara because he said he loved me and I couldn’t say it back,” you admit.

“Oh.” Was the only thing Atsumu responded with. After a few seconds of silence, he continued, “It’s not your fault you don’t feel the same way. That doesn’t make you heartless. It was good that you broke up with him when you realized it. You didn’t lead him on or lie.” The world was officially ending. Atsumu made sense. “Are you alright?”

“I’m okay. I think. A little sad. But okay.” You say, breathing heavily.

“Get ready. I’ll pick you up in an hour.” Atsumu says. You look at the clock, it’s seven in the evening. It wasn’t odd for him to suddenly tell you to get ready, when you hung out before, sometimes he would just say he was waiting in your lobby.

“Where are we going?” You think your dorm felt too stuffy. You needed to get out. You stand up from your bed to open your closet.

“Getting a beer, or some steak, what do you prefer?”

“Beer.” You say, uncharacteristically. You needed something intense to make you feel sane.

Atsumu arrived on the dot, an hour later, having walked to your dorm from his across the campus. You had drunk a lot that night, more than you ever had before. And Atsumu just let you do whatever you want. You leaned on his shoulder later that night, the alcohol settling in nicely and making you delirious, “You’re so good to me, ‘Tsum. Even though you’re such a bitch to everyone else.” You exaggerate that last part a bit. He was just okay, but when he was cranky, he was cranky. “You didn’t need to add that last part,” Atsumu says, he pats your head, still leaning on his shoulder. “But of course, it’s you, sweets.”

You suck in a breath, you think the cold air just gave you chills, “What did I ever do?”

“Lots of things. Spilt soup on my shirt. Stepped on my foot. Degraded me a lot.” Atsumu seems like he was still thinking to add to the list of things you’ve done to him. You think that sobered you up, “Be serious.” 

“You’re just you.” Atsumu hums. 

Ennoshita’s words months ago spring up in your head. You sure he doesn’t like you romantically? Why was that in your head? You shake it off. But was he right? Did Atsumu have feelings for you? Surely not.

You lift your head from its rest on Atsumu’s comfortable shoulder. And you see him. You see him clearly, even with the trashy lamp light of the 7-Eleven you guys chose to drink in front of. His blonde hair was messy, his eyes bleary, but he had a soft smile on his face. You notice his jaw was more defined, his features more mature. How had you never noticed before?

“You’re gonna make me melt if you keep staring at me, sweets.” Atsumu snaps you out of your trance. You’re surprised he didn’t follow that up with teasing about how you found him attractive.

You scoff, then you tell him about a presentation you have and how horrible your groupmates were, and he shared that his band had a really promising record label contact them, and he thinks they’re getting signed soon. Casual conversation was always easy with Atsumu. It was nice. It was always nice being with him.

When he took you home, you went up to your dorm and took a warm bath. You would usually crash into your bed right after, but you found yourself digging up your sketch pad. It had been almost a year since you last did anything resembling art, you got burnt out. But that night, you found yourself sketching the image of Atsumu outside that 7-Eleven that lingered in your mind.

You started drawing frequently again, but this time you were drawing full-length stories. It definitely took a lot of your time. But it was so much fun. You were in the middle of drafting panels when your phone started ringing. You looked over to see Momoho’s name flashing. You put your stylus down and picked it up, “Hey.”

“Have you seen?”

“Seen what?”

“Atsumu and Suna’s band, Ikarus, are blowing up.”

Your eyes widen. They released their first single a couple of months ago, and they were slowly gaining popularity. Atsumu excitedly told you to wait for the release so you could watch it the moment it was out there. The both of you had celebrated with tacos that weekend after. You open your social media accounts and find their band in the trending section. You go on YouTube and see that their music video had reached ten million views. You gape.

“I’ve gotta go.” You tell Momoho hurriedly, then scroll through your contacts to call Atsumu. He answered after two rings.

“Congrats!” You say, smiling, “Your song is trending!” You were so happy that it would seem like you were part of the band.

“What?” Atsumu seemed as shocked as you. He was on vacation with his family right now. In a different time zone. You forgot, you checked the clock, it was two in the morning where he was right now. Before you could say sorry, your eardrums were met with a very excited “Holy shit!” a few seconds in.

Forget about the timezone. “I know!” you exclaim in delight, “Congrats! You guys deserve it!” you say again. You knew how much effort he and the guys had put in, even though you weren’t particularly close with the others.

After that, Atsumu’s career had taken off. Both of you were graduating soon. Atsumu was already living on his own without support from his parents because of his band. Naturally, he got busy, but somehow, he always made time to hang out with you.

Before you knew it, though, you started seeing his face everywhere, like in the subways, billboards, and online articles about rising artists. Out in a café, you overhear his name being fawned over by some teens. Atsumu became a star. It was weird to see your friend as a celebrity, but you know, he always seemed like the type. It was only natural. Expected.

University graduation came, and it was the usual smiles and celebration after four years of effort. You were with your friends, old and new, and unlike your high school graduation, Atsumu stood beside you. Atsumu surprised you with a bouquet of your favourite flowers as a congratulations gift. Momoho saw and gave you a look that you ignored. It was clearly a platonic gift, you basically just exchanged when you handed him a gift of your own.

“What’s this?” Atsumu looked shocked, not expecting anything from you.

“Check inside,” you say before clearing your throat, containing your excitement, “It’s nothing much.”

Atsumu opened the black paper bag. You know he would find a finished copy of your drawing of him that night in front of the 7-Eleven, with your signature at the bottom right. Atsumu gapes, “You drew me?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, now embarrassed, as you look at the ground.

Then suddenly, Atsumu wraps you up in a tight hug, as much as he could with the bouquet he gifted you snugged tightly to your chest, “Thank you.” He says with such warmth, you feel your cheeks flush.

“It’s nothing much,” you say, still a bit embarrassed. It shouldn’t be much at all since he could literally afford anything he wanted now.

“Would I look self-centered if I hung this up in my living room?” Atsumu asks, arms still wrapped around your shoulders, tucking you to his chest in front of all your friends.

“Definitely.” You answered, giving in to a small smile.

“I’m hanging it up anyway.” Atsumu shocks you by placing a small kiss on your temple.

Your chest was beating unbelievably fast. Maybe it was the dopamine.

The first big fight you had with Atsumu happened a week after his birthday, the one after graduation. You made plans to celebrate his birthday on a different weekend because you were both busy during the actual week. You, with your job as an editor at a big manga publishing company, and Atsumu, with his rehearsals and modeling partnerships. He had a tour coming up, it was going to be big, and he was going to be traveling around the world. Before that happened, you wanted to spend time with him.

You were preparing well to hang out with him. You and Atsumu texted and called frequently, but it’s been a while since you saw each other in person, and frankly, you were tired of only seeing his face in mall posters.

You took official leave from work and planned a nice day for the two of you. You woke up early to make yourself some breakfast and to have plenty of time to get ready. He was supposed to pick you up from your apartment by ten in the morning. You frown at the clock. It was 10:05, and there wasn’t even a text from him. You sent him a message.

you 10:05 AM Are you on your way?

Atsumu replies ten minutes later.

atsushit 10:15 AM shit was that today?

Your stomach dropped at his message. He forgot. You were looking forward to today.

atsushit 10:16 AM i forgot sorry can we reschedule?

Your nose flared at his last message. Does he think you had as much control over your time as he did?

you  10:17 AM I can’t just reschedule, Atsumu I have work

atsushit 10:17 AM i have a shoot today

You understood that, you did, but you had explicitly made plans for today over a month ago. How could he just forget and expect you to adjust to him? You knew Atsumu could get caught up sometimes with whatever he’s occupied with, but he always made time for you. You got used to it.

you 10:18 AM Then I guess we’re not meeting.

You regret it after you send it.

atsushit 10:20 AM why are you mad?

You felt a tick on your forehead. 

you 10:20 AM Why am I mad? Are you really asking me that? We made plans a while ago and you forgot I got ready waiting for you and you forgot

atsushit 10:21 AM i’m busy okay you know that sorry 

His reply felt so insensitive. It hurt your feelings that he forgot. He’s making it seem like your time with him was insignificant.

you 10:21 AM I’m busy too and I still made time for you Glad to know you don’t care

atsushit 10:22 AM it’s not like that of course i care you of all people should know that

But you didn’t feel that way. You were too angry to respond. You put your phone down and decided to change out of your going-out clothes—you were even wearing the new clothes you were saving up for an occasion, what a waste. You understood that he was busy, but he really hurt your feelings.

Your phone vibrated, you turned it over to see Atsumu’s contact name flashing. You reject the call. You open your screen to a series of messages from him.

atsushit 10:23 AM sweets?

10:25 AM are you really that mad? i’m sorry i forgot

10:30 AM i can’t cancel my shoot

10:32 AM could you pls not be so difficult?

You feel your anger rise with his last message. Your phone flashes with another call from him, but you immediately reject the call and even take the time to block his contact. You were fueled with fury. You knew that, but you let your emotions take control of you anyway. You hated feeling insignificant to a person you cared about.

You tell Momoho about what happened two weeks later. You and Atsumu were still not on speaking terms, but you unblocked him after three days. No new messages from him came after that. You still expected him to reach out after you ignored him, unreasonable, yes, but you just wanted to see him care.

“You know you guys fought like a couple, right?” Momoho said through the line. You freeze mid-pouring your nightly tea.

It was that terrifying connotation that made you want to make amends with Atsumu. Before you could do that, a message from the devil himself came in. It was as if he knew you were talking about him.

atsushit 7:03 PM i’m sick of this ignoring game, sweets i’m sorry :( miss u :(  can we talk?

“Uh, he’s texting me,” you tell Momoho through the call, effectively ignoring her jab.

“Well, you'd better reply to loverboy then,” Momoho says in a sing-song voice.

“I told you it’s not like that,” you complain as you stir honey inside your tea. Momoho takes it in good faith and ends the call, telling you to meet up with her soon.

As soon as your call with Momoho ended, you were bombarded with another one. It was Atsumu. Your heart swelled. It wasn’t like you hadn’t gone long before contacting Atsumu in the past, but this time it was different. You were actively not cool with each other. You don’t think you like this feeling.

You took a deep breath before answering the call. Hesitantly placed the phone against your ear, “Hello?” you managed to let out.

You hear a groan from the other end, “Finally. I hate fighting with you, sweets.” Atsumu’s familiar voice settled in your nervous system.

“I’m sorry for being difficult,” you murmured, clinking the spoon you used to stir your tea on the cup.

“No, I’m sorry for forgetting about our plans.” Atsumu seemed breathless. “Can you go to your balcony for me?” Atsumu says.

Your forehead scrunches, “Why?” You look at your balcony. The apartment you were renting right now was in the suburbs, two stories tall, with the upper floor all yours. It gave you a cozy space and was only one train ride away from work.

“I’m outside.” Atsumu’s words took a second before registering in your brain. Eyes wide, you rush to your balcony and open the glass doors. You look down, and there he was, sporting a weary smile, as if he didn’t know if he was allowed to give you a full grin, leaning against his car with his phone raised to his ear.

“Why are you here?” You asked through the phone, speechless. That was probably a dumb question. He came all the way here for you. 

“I brought you some chicken,” Atsumu raises the paper bag he was holding. “I even have some Onigiri that Osamu especially made. One of a kind.”

He said it so seriously, you also didn’t know if you could laugh. “You came all the way here on a random Friday night to give me some chicken and onigiri?”

“And to ask for forgiveness. Don’t forget about that.” Atsumu’s gaze hasn’t left you since you stepped out. “Do you forgive me?”

Your brain was running a hundred miles a minute, “You’re partnering with that designer who likes funky clothes for your next performance, right? I saw a headline. I’ll forgive you if you request to wear a tutu on stage.” You say mostly as a joke, because deep down, you already forgave him.

“That’s all? Deal.” Atsumu gives you a grin.

You bite your lower lip, stifling a smile, “Then I forgive you, ‘Tsum.”

“I missed you,” Atsumu says, suddenly all serious, “Not just the past two weeks. But the past few months. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

You could only let out a noncommittal sound. Not knowing what to say. You bit your lower lip. Atsumu’s gaze hasn’t left you. “Did you miss me?” He asks.

You gulp. Part of why you got mad was because you felt like he hadn’t valued your time with him as much as you did. Especially after months of not seeing each other. So you tell him the truth with a sense of dread, “I did. I missed you, Atsumu.”

It was in your fifth year of friendship that you realized you were undoubtedly, impossibly, in love with Miya big-fat-jerk Atsumu.

Shit.

You needed to get rid of these feelings fast.

a/n — guys icl im developing a thing for miya atsumu. also i was planning for like the over ten years thing to happen in just part 1 but then this would be 20k words lets not.

[drm8ires]

DO YOUR JOB! Yuu Nishinoya your coworker is making it really hard to do your job and find a boyfriend this summer!

Content/Warnings: Content/Warnings: timeskip nishinoya x f!reader, coworkers, beach shack, california setting, banter, oneshot, tension, jealousy, college au, post-timeskip, nishinoya has a crush on you, nishinoya is a bad coworker, coworkers to lovers Word Count: ~2600

Yuu Nishinoya was like a character out of a movie.

Or a summer TV show, where his main goal in life was to get the viewer to compare their tedious 9-5 lives to his spontaneous, free-spirit activities. 

You know, things like sailing on the Gulf of Mexico, or backpacking with strangers in Indonesia, or fishing in Italy (and being really good despite never touching a fishing rod before).

Things like having several girls secretly crush on him whenever he visits a new country, or having a dorky yet comedic charm that adds to his height. 

That was your first impression of Nishinoya. 

But after working with him for the past three weeks in a small beach shack just off the coast of California, you also decided he was a terrible coworker.

You recall meeting him for the first time on your first day. You took this job the summer of your junior year at college to make some money, and despite him being the same age, he said he used this as a temporary gig to fund his traveling. One thing you noted was that he was really cute (though wouldn’t verbally admit that), and had a kind of pep in his step that made you think he was extremely passionate about the job.

At first, you assumed you were right. It took him approximately 20 minutes to figure out where everything was and thirty minutes to learn how to make all the drinks on the menu. But even though he was quick to learn and sort of understood the inventory system, it wasn’t long before he’d trail off onto the sand for thirty minutes, claiming he was “going to be right back.”

Then it kept happening. Someone called him to help them put up his umbrella—he’d end up surfing. Some kid asked him to open his juice bottle—he’d end up building sand castles. Some lady told him her hat flew away—he’d climb the lifeguard shack to get it!

As good a person as he was, you told your boss he was completely unfit. 

But she liked Nishinoya’s energy and his magnet potential to make new friends, which meant new customers, and more money. He was also your only coworker, and she wasn’t going to take any more.

So, unfortunately, you were stuck with a 160CM coworker who’d go and save people drowning at sea instead of tending the shack you were both assigned to.

Yet, after three weeks of him catching kites with kids running on the beach, throwing frisbees with college kids, and catching crabs in the sand, you saw the shack’s popularity skyrocket.

And that meant more tips for both you and Nishinoya.

Now, another day with the sun’s blaring heat, white sand spilling between the cracks of the shack’s wooden floors, you were practically sweating your skin off by the second. Even the paper fan you’d bought from the tourist store half a mile away from you, as you attempted to swipe away your hair sticking to your forehead.

Sitting behind the bar, glancing over at the unwashed cocktail shakers in the sink, then the line of customers leaving the bar stools in front of you, you figured you’d give yourself a break from running a one-man shop for the past two weeks. 

One man, at least until he decides to show up once in a while.

“Y/N! GUESS WHAT I BROUGHT BACK?”

Turning your head around to a familiar shout, you sigh.

“Yuu, you’re finally back.”

“Yup! And look what I found!”

Grinning with all thirty-two teeth, Nishinoya holds up a large fan that catches your attention almost immediately.

“W-what? Where did you get this?”

You drop your cheap, weak paper fan to the floor and gawk at the ventilator in front of you. Ribbed in front of a propeller, large and oscillating, and probably able to cool down the shack entirely with a few blows, you finally muster a smile after three hours in boiling shade.

Before Nishinoya left the shack twenty-three minutes ago, you had complained to him about the summer heat—and the fact that this shack was severely understaffed. After that, he told you to take a seat, finished tending the customers for approximately five minutes, and then left with another “be right back!”, leaving you to watch the shack alone once more.

Though you complained about him being awful about staying still, he had a way to win your heart back. By doing things like getting a fan for you in the blazing Californian heat.

“Okay, so came across this guy, right, and he had this super strong fan sitting in the back of his car, so I went up to him to ask—oh hey! Where’d you get that?’—then he pulled another one out of his car and just GAVE it to me! Pretty sure dude was high but honestly? That’s vibes,” Nishinoya rambled, plugging the fan into the outlet behind.

As warm air began to blow cooler, you practically squealed, placing a kiss on his cheek.

“You goof! Now we don’t have to die of dehydration and heatstroke behind this counter,” you said, holding our hands out to feel the breeze by, “thanks a ton!”

As a flush of pink came across his cheeks, he momentarily passed out on the floor before getting back up to laugh off your gratitude.

“HAHAH, NAHH, NO NEED! Look, the fan even has different settings if you look on the side,” he rinses the cocktail shakers in the sink swiftly, stacking the cups back up with ease.

“Ooh—you’re right!” you say, playing with the different wind levels and oscillation buttons.

As another customer comes to the bar, you get ready to get up to take the order, before Nishinoya takes a step before you, confidently working through their drinks without complaints.

You still stood by the fact that he was a terrible coworker, but he sure knew how to keep the shack down when it mattered. 

Though it was only temporary, once more, as a past customer approached Nishinoya with a dissatisfied look on his face.

“Hey—we ordered a couple of drinks, but they got knocked over. Ya think we could get a new one?”

In times like this, Nishinoya took care of unhappy customers and their inquiries, all with a grin on his face and a couple of chilled glasses. 

Fine, in that sense, you could kind of admit that Nishinoya took care of things.

Then, after that, you didn’t see him for another forty minutes.

Now, at 2 PM, the sun is at its highest point in the sky, and that fan Nishinoya got has been working at its highest setting for the past hour. 

Here, another customer comes, grinning at you before he even takes a look at the menu. Then, he slides you a twenty, asking for a margherita with a wink. You nod, raise an eyebrow, and then present a tight smile, before ringing him up at the register and handing the change back to him.

In times like this, you certainly feel that being a one-woman show at a shack like this was more annoying than not. Especially since you never knew what to do when it came to guys hitting on you.

You loved good eye candy, but when it came to actually talking to a guy, you felt awkward and unnecessarily shy. Well, with pretty much every cute guy except Nishinoya (you had the urge to yell at him more than anything). 

So at times like this, you’d kind of hope that Nishinoya was here to take care of them. 

As you went over to get a glass to start a drink, you felt the floorboards shift as someone else appeared behind you.

“Here, let me handle it, Y/n!”

Just your luck, Nishinoya is back, this time, his hair tousled with sea water and sand, and you widen your eyes in annoyance.

“Yuu, that’s totally a food hazard! At least dry your hair first,” you whisper-shout, grabbing your towel from the chair you were sitting on to wrap around his hair before your new customer even complained about the potential of him getting the Pacific Ocean in his drink. 

Diligently, he blends up the ingredients for your new customer’s margherita, as you eye him in confusion. For someone who spent more of the day playing on the beach, he suddenly felt the need to take care of every one of the orders coming in.

As more customers came in, you began taking orders with Nishinoya by your side. Yet, whenever it came to a college boy whose eyes seemed to brighten when they saw you, Nishinoya would see you laughing up with them, probably talking about college life and how cool it was, before impulsively stepping in and ask for their order instead.

You did appreciate his proactiveness, but he was making it slightly awkward.

Then, there comes a really cute guy. With an eyebrow piercing that glistened before he stood under the shack’s shade, a fresh tan that chiseled his chest, and wet hair that was quickly drying by the minute. 

You clear your throat, watching him check the shack’s menu for a second, before giving you a captivating smile. 

“Hey, can a guy like me get a sweet pĩna colada for a hot day like this?” Warm and soft, the guy says, sliding over a twenty-dollar bill.

The male laughs at your joke, taking another sip before furrowing his eyebrows with a look of approval. “No, really. This isn’t like any of the other pina coladas I’ve had. It’s amazing. Super refreshing and sweet,” he remarks, before gaining eye contact with you, “just like you.”

You smile at his compliment, giggling under your breath. “You’re a bit of a charmer, aren’t you?”

The male laughs, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Not usually. Can you tell I’m a little nervous?”

“Just a little bit.”

“Ah, darn,” he clicks his tongue, “I was hoping to come off as super confident. I’m Justin, by the way.”

You take his extended hand and shake it. “Y/n. And don’t worry, Justin—I’m just like you. Surprised we even talked for this long. Usually, I’ll be sitting in the corner on my phone by now.”

Before Justin can muster a response, a hand crosses over, grabbing one of the drinks in front of you. You glance to your right as Nishinoya smiles at your new friend. 

“What’s up, man! I’m Yuu,” Nishinoya holds out his hand for a dap up, which Justin willingly takes, “first time at our shack?”

Your eye flinches.

Our?

He was barely ever here.

Justin daps him up back, sipping a bit more of the drink. “Justin. And no, honestly. Been here a couple of times, but doubt your gorgeous coworker recognizes me. Been meaning to talk to her for a while,” he says, eyeing you as he finishes his sentence.

You’re a bit stricken by his answer, and part your mouth to answer. Yet, you quickly shut it instinctively after Nishinoya puts a hand on your back as he finishes making a drink for another customer.

“Oh yeah?” Nishinoya begins, seemingly gritting his teeth as Justin complimented you, “Y/n’s—I mean, obviously, look at her—she’s real popular! You’re not the first, just saying,” he huffs out, proudly speaking about you like he was you himself. 

You laugh at Noya’s praise, noticing his attention now on Justin.

“Well, looks like the guy is still waiting on their order, Yuu,” you tease, pointing out the male behind the bar, immersed in a phone propped next to his ear.

As Noya leaves to finish his drink, you continue your conversation with Justin about your ages and the fact that summer break for college students in California was basically an adult playground, before Justin finishes the rest of his drink.

“Hey, sweetheart, do you think I could get—”

“A water? I got you!” Butting back into your conversation was Nishinoya, preparing a plastic cup of iced water that looked perfect to take to go. Standing awkwardly next to him, you watch him work. 

“T-thanks, but I was going to ask for another—”

“Pina colada! You got it,” Nishinoya continued, beginning to take out another glass, rapidly going to cut a lime for the next drink, before you pinch the back of his arm, getting him to flinch.

“I just need a napkin,” Justin commented, watching you sigh at Nishinoya’s impulsiveness, and handing him back a couple of napkins.

As Nishinoya stopped the drink he was making, Justin pulled out a couple of dollar bills, gesturing for you to lean closer to him, which you reluctantly did.

At least, until Nishinoya held your shoulders back from leaning in too close.

At this point, you were actually starting to get annoyed at Nishinoya finally taking his job seriously. As crazy as that sounded.

Justin, just as shocked as you were, ended up leaving the dollar bills on the table before getting up from his seat.

“Look, man—not trying to steal your girl or anything. Just wanted to tip, and I’ll be out of your hair,” he hissed, offering one last glance and tight smile at you before he left the shack. 

As he left, Nishinoya stood, looking almost slightly proud at his work. And you, severely irritated, smacked the back of his head.

“OW!”

“Yuu! What the hell was that about?”

Nishinoya rubbed the back of his head, feigning innocence. 

“Huh? What was what?”

You poke your tongue into your cheek and scoff. “You practically stopping any of my chances of getting a boyfriend, maybe? Well, not like it was going to be anything, but he was cute!”

Nishinoya shakes the rest of a leftover drink, pouring it out into a fresh glass, and he downs the drink.

Out of all the times Nishinoya decided he wanted to be a good worker, it just so happened to be the one guy you started to actually feel a connection with. 

Nishinoya blinks sideways, wiping his mouth, before eyeing you up and down. 

“UGH—W-WELL—look, I just—YOU’RE REALLY—okay, fine, I was jealous. I mean, hell—you’re gorgeous a-and totally capable! But you’re my shack coworker! Do ya know how hard I've been working to make sure the guys who want your number don't even step foot by the shack?”

Did you hear that right?

Did Yuu Nishinoya just tell you he was jealous?

Your terribly cute coworker who had the most spontaneous lifestyle was acting out because he was jealous?

“W-what?”

Nishinoya scratched his lips, looking back at you with the most embarrassed you’d ever seen him in your entire three weeks of knowing him.

“Y-you know, I’m totally falling for ya’, Y/n.”

You turn red.

At least feel yourself turning red, in both annoyance and embarrassment.

And shyness.

Everything all at once, you feel, and you can only grab his nose firmly.

“OW!”

“W-what the hell are you saying?! You don’t even stay at the shack, you damn twit!” you huff, “Be a better coworker first!”

“W-WAIT! Okay—in my defense—you’re really fast, like stupidly fast! And I thought I probably shouldn’t get in your way! I was helping! Kind of. Okay, well maybe not, but—I PROMISE, I’ll be a better co-worker from now on!”

You pause, embarrassed, but still slightly annoyed.

Despite his compliment on your competence, the fact that he was MIA for the past three weeks still didn’t leave your memory. 

You shove him away, pursing your lips as he rubbed out the tip of his nose.

As you clear your throat, you mumble under your breath,

“Good. ‘Cause how can you fall for me if you barely even spend time around me?”

© drm8ires / all rights reserved.

[tiredslepz]

i love. esp w summer rn sighhhh... the lack of noya fics is driving me crazy. also i totally envisioned loony's art w this 😳

[akaashiit-deactivated20260731]

number neighbour — oikawa. t

𝒐ikawa 𝒕ooru x fem!reader

╱ 𝒘𝒄 # 8.7k

— 𝒂uthor's 𝒏ote ﹕ hello hello! another addition to number neighbour, the unofficial collection. chatfic, but towards the end it has less of the chat and more of the fic. without further ado.. proceed

requested ☆

more in the number neighbour collection

akaashi — smau // ushijima — chatfic

if you're being honest, you should've known doing this was a bad idea.

at first, anyway.

you're staring at your phone screen, the bright light blinding you in the dark of your room. you rub your eyes and squint at the small rectangle in your hands.

you should be sleeping, but they do say that night is the best time to be awake. and for some reason, the internet trend of texting your number neighbor did seem like a stroke of genius five minutes ago..

your phone number ends in a 4, so you have two options. either a 3 or a 5.

making up your mind, you decide to start with a 3. you open a new text thread, type in the number that is identical to yours except for that last digit, and bite your lip in anticipation as you begin to draft your message.

you hey number neighbor! hope youre having a good night :) xxx-xxx-xx3 Please stop texting this number.  you huh xxx-xxx-xx3 I'm a 45 year old male and this is my work number; I don't have time to deal with unemployed people like you.  Do not contact me again. you fuck im so sorry message failed to send

ah. he actually blocked you.

you let out a breathless laugh into your pillow, face burning from embarrassment. “oh my god.”

well. that went horribly.

but now you're fully awake, and the adrenaline of getting instantly rejected by some 45 year old man (you hope he isn't too peeved about that..) has you feeling reckless. 

after all, there's still the 5.

you copy the number, change the last digit – again, a five this time – and send the text before you can overthink it.

you okay i hope you arent a 45 year old man this time too because my other number neighbor just blocked me lmao anyway hi number neighbor !! (take two) xxx-xxx-xx5 ?? who is this?? and why are you texting me at 2am about middle aged men ^-^ you im your number neighbor 😔 our numbers are the same except the last digit xxx-xxx-xx5 hold on you holding xxx-xxx-xx5 WAIT OMG THEY ARE you see im not insane xxx-xxx-xx5 debatable you disliked this message and wow your other neighbor blocked you immediately? that’s embarrassing for you you i don't need another person to tell me 💔💔 xxx-xxx-xx5 too bad i'm telling you you okay dude xxx-xxx-xx5 you know what vibe you give off (^-^) you what xxx-xxx-xx5 small and grumpy

you snort quietly into your blanket.

if you have to say so, there's something stupidly easy about texting this person, even if it's only been a few messages. the texts come quick, like they're typing the second they get yours instead of leaving you on read for a bit. half teasing, half genuinely interested it appears.

you hesitate, fingers stalling on the keyboard before hurriedly replying.

you first of all  im not grumpy xxx-xxx-xx5 if not grumpy you texted strangers at 2am that, btw, automatically makes you a little weird you says the person answering xxx-xxx-xx5 touché ;) you liked this message but what made you text me well me and the 45 yr old man you couldn't sleep you? xxx-xxx-xx5 my practice ran late bones aching and muscles sore brain is still awake you practice for what and what the fuck is that a fucking haiku xxx-xxx-xx5 secret ;) fucking and fucking yes fucking it's fucking a fucking haiku you i literally said it twice. you are so dramatic 🫩 xxx-xxx-xx5 thank you! ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 

you roll your eyes – dramatic is honestly the perfect word for them. and as for those blasted emoticons, kaomojis, whatever you call them-

in any case, every message sent through from them somehow feels like they can't help making everything sound theatrical, even through text.

your phone vibrates again before you can answer.

xxx-xxx-xx5 WAIT what if YOURE actually a 45 year old man trying to lure me into a false sense of security!? you yeah definitely that's exactly what's happening xxx-xxx-xx5 i knew it you CON ARTIST you go to sleep grandma xxx-xxx-xx5 grandma??? 😨 i'm youthful and radiant actually (≧◡≦) and i'd be grandpa you gramps, only old people say youthful and radiant xxx-xxx-xx5 and you have experience with that you omfg no xxx-xxx-xx5 wow this relationship is becoming toxic  you swear like a sailor (⇀‸↼‶) you this is not a relationship 😭 arr me hearties xxx-xxx-xx5 wow okay way to friendzone me you we're not even friends xxx-xxx-xx5 YOU'RE SO CRUEL you goodnight annoying neighbor you changed xxx-xxx-xx5 to annoying neighbour 🙄 annoying neighbour 🙄 get rid of that emoji i’m begging you that is gruesome you no i’d rather not annoying neighbour 🙄 well then annoying neighbour 🙄 changed xxx-xxx-xx4 to oh so lovely neighbour (˘ ³˘) annoying neighbour 🙄 now we're matching you i actually don't mind that tbh annoying neighbour 🙄 liked this message

you fall asleep smiling at your phone despite yourself.

the next morning, you wake up late. obviously not because you went to sleep past three am.

your phone is at 12%, and there's a text waiting for you.

annoying neighbour 🙄 good morning! •⩊• did the 45 yr old text you back yet?

you snort, a little huff of laughter escaping your mouth.

you no 💔 he blocked me remember annoying neighbour 🙄 oh yes i should do that stranger danger you know.. you oh stfu why are YOU awake this early annoying neighbour 🙄 stop with that attitude some of us are productive members of society you i don’t believe that for two seconds annoying neighbour 🙄 then believe it for one

the next few days, texting him weirdly becomes part of your routine, first nature.

well, you still don't know their name, or age, or what they look like (a boy, apparently), but you know quite a lot at the same time.

like how they're the type to talk with their hands because they spam texts in bursts instead of one message, and you know they complain dramatically when they're hungry, you know they're competitive about literally everything, and-

yeah, you could go on.

annoying neighbour 🙄 just beat my friend at mario kart btw im basically a professional athlete you that is not athleticism. annoying neighbour 🙄 that's wrong actually! my thumbs are incredibly talented you that sounded gross annoying neighbour 🙄 OH MY GOSH NOT LIKE THAT?? why is your mind so dirty (¯ ¯٥) you reacted ! to this message 

you never send selfies, but they never ask either. however, sometimes you catch yourself wondering,

wondering if their grin is as smug as it sounds through text,

wondering what kind of expression they make when they type all these stupid dramatic messages, 

wondering if your luck is crazy enough that they have an extremely attractive face.

judging by your luck so far, though, probably not.

one friday night, you're brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes from where it lies on the sink counter.

annoying neighbour 🙄 EMERGENCY you what annoying neighbour 🙄 i need you to settle an argument you why me :/ annoying neighbour 🙄 because i trust strangers on the internet  obviously you that sounds unsafe who would even think! of texting on in the first place?? annoying neighbour 🙄 liked this message annoying neighbour 🙄 my friend says mint chocolate chip ice cream tastes like toothpaste tell him he's wrong you LMAO i'm brushing my teeth right now what a coincidence your friend is right actually annoying neighbour 🙄 blocked.

you grin.

you wow first the 45 yr old now this everyone keeps abandoning me 🤧 annoying neighbour 🙄 you deserve it for your horrible opinions you you're so dramatic annoying neighbour 🙄 you've said!  you do continue texting me every day though ⸜( ˙˘˙)⸝ now go brush your teeth, i bet they're stinky.. you oh shut up

then you pause, because he’s right; every day. without really meaning to, it's become constant.

whether it's during class, or late at night, while shopping, when he's apparently ‘at practice’.

you're still not one hundred percent sure what sport he plays, but you're beginning to suspect volleyball purely because of how often he complains about his shoulders, since you're somewhat knowledgeable on the sport.

and also, because one time he texted:

‘if one more person tells me serves are easy i'm going to lose it.’

this time, you're sitting in your kitchen eating cereal straight from the box when another text comes through.

annoying neighbour 🙄 i think my teammate is trying to kill me. you HELLO?? annoying neighbour 🙄 he spiked a ball directly at my face i'm sure it was on purpose (◑_◑) you oh so you do play volleyball .. wait did i guess right annoying neighbour 🙄 shit you HAHAAHAHHA annoying neighbour 🙄 don't laugh at me i liked being mysterious and all that you there is nothing mysterious about the way you text 😭😭 annoying neighbour 🙄 wow.

you stifle a laugh, then return to your cereal.

not even a minute later, though-

annoying neighbour 🙄 for the record i'm very mysteriously good looking ᵔ.ᵔ

you nearly choke on cereal. the confidence on this man..

that night you're walking home from the convenience store when your phone buzzes – again.

annoying neighbour 🙄 bad news you what now annoying neighbour 🙄 i think my teammate stole my knee pads you just confirming this is the same teammate who spiked a ball into your head and said mint chocolate chip ice cream tastes like toothpaste right annoying neighbour 🙄 YES you cool why would someone steal knee pads tho 😭 annoying neighbour 🙄 jealousy  envy obsession need i go on you no thanks  annoying neighbour 🙄 you wound me (╥﹏╥)

you smile, fingers typing back a snarky response, but then, then-

someone bumps into your shoulder, hard, and your phone nearly slips out of your hand as you nearly faceplant onto the concrete.

“sorry,” the stranger mutters, barely glancing back before continuing down the sidewalk.

you frown, then glance at your phone. you type out a response again.

you bro someone walked into me and nearly knocked me over

and at the exact same time you send it-

annoying neighbour 🙄 OMG i just saw someone almost eat shit on the sidewalk ⊙﹏⊙

you stop dead in your tracks.

that.. can't be a coincidence, right?

slowly, you look up.

across the street, near the crosswalk, a tall guy in a white hoodie is staring at his phone.

then he looks up too.

and even from this far away, you can see the way he freezes up.

no. way.

your heart starts pounding, frantically panging against your chest in a quick rhythm.

nope. absolutely not. there's no fakaashing way.

you start to type again, but slower this time, fingers hesitantly pressing each letter.

you if you're wearing a hoodie by chance what colour is it annoying neighbour 🙄 white you oh my god that better not be you standing there.

you stare across the street in horror, and the guy lowers his phone slowly.

then the light changes, and instead of crossing toward you-

he immediately turns around and starts walking fast the opposite direction.

like, fast. really fast.

your jaw drops, not at the speed (although shit, it is insanely quick) but at the fact he's literally running away.

you DID YOU JUST RUN AWAY?? annoying neighbour 🙄 SELF DEFENSE you WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN annoying neighbour 🙄 this is too much pressure suddenly Ծ_Ծ i wasn't emotionally prepared to find out you're like actually real

you burst out laughing. people stare, but you don't even remotely care.

annoying neighbour 🙄 so you were the one that nearly ate shit.. you oh hush you changed annoying neighbour 🙄 to run(a)way queen run(a)way queen i would complain but that's sort of genius you i know run(a)way queen changed oh so lovely neighbour (˘ ³˘) to shit eater :p you im not playing you better fucking change that right now before i chase after you. run(a)way queen oh please like you could catch me you YOU HAVE 5 SECONDS run(a)way queen OKAY OKAY run(a)way queen changed shit eater :p to run after queen you really run(a)way queen hey i had no ideas it's better than shit eater you you mean akaashiit had no ideas akaashiit oops run(a)way queen what the

after that, things get worse, or better – you're not entirely sure.

because now there's a face attached to the texts.

okay, well. sort of. you really only saw him for maybe.. three seconds?

tall, brown hair (you believe; it was hard to tell from only the faint light of the streetlamps) and that white hoodie.

also,the most obnoxiously smug posture you've ever seen in your life.

you you literally fled the scene like a criminal omg are you a criminal run(a)way queen listen i panicked you mhm sure  run(a)way queen AND YOU WERE SHORT??? like i've been calling you short but damn you really are this is the best day of my life you blocked. run(a)way queen NO WAIT

you still don't exchange names though. mostly because now it's become weirdly funny not to.

he calls you gremlin, menace, shortstack, the likes.

you call him drama queen, pretty boy, loser, read more.

he reacts quite strongly to pretty boy, which is suspicious.

one night he randomly sends:

run(a)way queen be honest am i your favorite person to text you absolutely not run(a)way queen you replied in 4 seconds btw （˶′◡‵˶）

and with that, you promptly yeet deposit throw your phone across the bed.

sometimes, he disappears for hours, usually after ‘practice’, but that's understandable since you're busy too.

then he comes back texting like nothing happened.

run(a)way queen im alive you congrats here's a golden star ⭐️ run(a)way queen wow no concern for my wellbeing?? you ?i gave you a star what more do you want dude run(a)way queen heartless (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞ you whered u go anyway run(a)way queen match you did you win?

the pause that follows is long enough that you think he won't answer, then:

run(a)way queen yeah :) you good job then i'm sure you played well 

three whole minutes pass.

run(a)way queen careful there! you almost sounded nice (≧◡≦) you JUST LET ME COMPLIMENT YOU 🫩

a few days later, you're sitting in class half asleep when your phone vibrates under the desk.

run(a)way queen EMERGENCY PART 2 you if this is about ice cream again i'm blocking you for real this time run(a)way queen dead sirius?? ( ͠° ͟ʖ ͡°) you you didn't. run(a)way queen ANYWAY worse i think one of my classmates has a crush on me and is planning to confess later

you blink.

why does that annoy you a little..

you okay? run(a)way queen okay?? that's all u have to say? you what do you want me to say 😭 run(a)way queen idk maybe cry a little (˶‾᷄ ⁻̫ ‾᷅˵) you and why would i cry run(a)way queen good question actudnf fkrmtm

you stare.

yeah.. he definitely got his phone taken away.

frowning, you lock your phone harder than necessary.

stupid. that's stupid. you don't even know this guy!

later that evening, he texts again.

run(a)way queen sorry i got my phone taken (◑_◑) you yes i could tell run(a)way queen i rejected her

your fingers pause over the keyboard – it's funny how you know what he's talking about straight away.

you why are you reporting this information to me like i'm your manager  run(a)way queen because secrets aren't good in relationships! you there's that word again..

you hate how warm your face feels.

the first actual real conversation happens accidentally.

you're out in the rain, trying to get home, safe and sound, when your umbrella honest to god snaps inside out from the wind.

you stand there in disbelief, getting more drenched by the second. surely your day can't get any worse.

run(a)way queen you alive

you send a picture of your destroyed umbrella, and his reply comes immediately.

run(a)way queen LMFAOOO that umbrella gave up on life you this is not funny run(a)way queen it's a little funny wait where are you rn

you pause, then send a vague picture of the street.

run(a)way queen oh wait i know where that is you what run(a)way queen don't panic but i think im like 5 mins away you that sounds threatening when you say it like that run(a)way queen LMAO do you need help or not

you glance up at the pouring rain and instantly get pelted in the eye, which makes up your mind straight away.

you fine but if you murder me i'll be really annoyed you know run(a)way queen liked this message

five minutes later, more or less, a black umbrella appears beside you.

you turn your head, and-

oh.

oh, he's pretty.

the first coherent thought that hits you.

still fluffy brown hair damp from the rain, stupidly sharp eyes that are crinkled up,. taller than you by an infuriating amount, an athletic build.

and smiling at you like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him.

“you are shorter than i imagined,” he says immediately, and you roll your eyes.

“you ran away last time,” is what you answer with. you try to keep the tremble out of your voice, and pray that if he does hear it, he'll believe it's from the cold.

shit. you understand why that girl had a crush on him now.

he shrugs, still grinning at you. “fight or flight response.”

“and.. you chose flight.”

“obviously.”

his voice embodies his texts somehow. dramatic and smooth and teasing all at once.

you stare at each other awkwardly for two seconds.

then at the same time,

“you really are pretty–”

“you really do talk too much–”

you both stop, and he blinks. then grins slowly.

“waaaait,” he says, an even larger smile spreading across his handsome face. “what was that first part?”

you flush. “nothing.” oh, why did you have to open your mouth?

“no no, say it again, i insist.” he's still grinning.

“absolutely not.”

“you think i'm pretty–”

“oh my god shut up.”

he laughs loudly enough that two people walking by glance over, and you swear one of them leans over and murmurs about ‘what an adorable couple you are’.

you clear your throat, tapping your foot against the pavement. “ i do not talk too much. i've literally barely spoken – if anything, you’re the chatterbox here.”

he continues to stare at you, an amused expression on his face.

“what?’ you demand.

“that was sixteen words in one sentence.” he beams. “point proven.”

“it was two sentences you nincompoop-”

walking home beside him under one umbrella feels like it's the only right way.

which is dangerous – walking next to him is dangerous, breathing the same air as him is dangerous, just being near him is dangerous. 

that's the only conclusion you come to during the fifteen minute walk home.

before this, he'd just been texts on a screen, annoying messages at 2am. 

dumb kaomojis. dramatic complaints about volleyball and life and mint chocolate chip ice cream.

now he's this actual, living breathing person beside you holding an umbrella, slightly more over your side than his without mentioning it.

and unfortunately, he's pretty enough to be a genuine problem.

“you're staring,” he says casually.

you'd think he's being cocky if you didn't chance a look at him to see the red snow peaking his ears.

god, he knows exactly what he looks like – of course he does.

“you talk exactly like you text,” you mumble into the collar of your jacket.

he smiles. “is that a compliment?”

“not really.”

he stops, causing you to stop too. “ouch,” he says, quirking an eyebrow at you that you snort at.

you glance at him sideways. “sooo.. what do i call you now?”

he gasps dramatically, putting a hand to his forehead. “wow. after all we've been through together, you still don't know my name?”

“bye, i'm leaving-”

“hey- wait-” he reaches out and grabs your wrist just as you turn to leave. you weren’t really going to, but..

when you turn to him with wide eyes, he clears his throat and lets go, albeit reluctantly.

you don’t know that, of course.

he laughs again, all loud and easy but sort of.. breathily? this time. “you can keep calling me number neighbor. or runaway queen. whatever is to your liking, maam,” and flourishes a bow.

you heave a sigh and cross your arms. “that’s stupid.”

“says the person who still hasn’t told me their name either.”

a smile pops onto your face, and you hastily pull out your phone.

he frowns now. “what.. what are you doing?”

you only hum. after a moment, you hold your phone up, turn the volume all the way, and an automated voice comes out, like the one used for google translate. 

“touché,” the robotic tone says.

he bursts into a fit of laughter.

when you reach your building, neither of you say anything as rain taps against the umbrella softly.

he shifts his weight awkwardly.

“well,” you start quietly, “thanks for rescuing me, i guess.”

“you’re welcome, tiny gremlin.”

“die-”

he grins and wags a finger at you. “hey, don’t make jokes like that.”

“oh, i’m not joking.”

then his grin wavers, then softens when he realises you're only teasing.

“text me when you get upstairs,” he murmurs. “so i know you didn’t slip and- die, or something.”

you sigh. “i solemnly swear i will not slip and die.” you turn to walk away.

“wait.”

you glance back, confused.

he’s rubbing the back of his neck now, looking oddly nervous for the first time since meeting him.

“you- er, still- still think i’m pretty, right?”

you stare at him blankly.

then immediately walk off without answering while he shouts offendedly behind you.

guess you’ve both pulled a walky-offy now.

you don't know it they're coincidences or not, because now he starts appearing everywhere. not intentionally, probably, but it's situations like you'll be walking past a shop or on the street and suddenly get a text.

run(a)way queen look left ;)

and there he is, across the street holding up an energy drink with that stupid grin.

or, you'll be in line at a café and hear, ‘wow, fancy seeing you here!’ like he didn't absolutely text you twenty minutes earlier asking where you were, all innocent and ‘oh, no reason!’

but, he still refuses to tell you his name, which honestly would annoy you more if you weren't equally stubborn, like two peas in a pod.

instead, your.. relationship settles into this weird in between.

not strangers, and not exactly friends either.

maybe flirting – although you're trying not to think about that too hard.

for all you know, he does this with everyone, or he could be in a relationship. for now, you're content to stay whatever you are.

you're lying in bed one night, contemplating whether to sleep or text your number neighour, when he beats you to it and suddenly sends:

run(a)way queen can i ask you something you depends if it's weird knowing you yes run(a)way queen rude you liked this message do you think we wouldve talked if we met normally? you wdym by that run(a)way queen idk like if we met randomly somewhere would you have talked to me

you think about seeing him for the first time in the rain.

his stupid smile, the confidence, the way everyone probably notices him immediately, and honestly? you probably would've assumed he was out of your league and avoided eye contact.

but you don't say that.

you maybe if you weren't annoying 🥹 run(a)way queen im never annoying?? (>o<) you would you have talked to me? run(a)way queen yeah i think i would've noticed you anywhere actually

when you eventually learn his name, it's completely by accident, which feels unfair considering how long he (and you) dragged it out.

you're at one of his volleyball matches – he'd convinced you to come after spamming you twenty four seven.

so there you are, sitting, pretending not to care‐

except you absolutely do care, because he's..

well.

annoyingly good.

and the girls behind you won't stop talking about him.

“oikawa-san's seriously so cool.”

“who? number 1?”

“yeah! him!” comes the following reply, then a dreamy sigh.

your head snaps up.

oikawa? oikawa.

of course his name is something like oikawa.

he's about to serve again when he looks up directly into the stands, and the girls start squealing.

but he finds you instantly, and smiles a real, genuine smile that warms you from the inside out.

later after the match, your phone buzzes just as you're leaving.

run(a)way queen you came!! ヽ(^。^)ノ you against my will run(a)way queen you still watched the whole game though ≧☉_☉≦ you yes well unfortunately your volleyball propaganda is working on me run(a)way queen that's because i'm amazing darling you don’t call me darling run(a)way queen sorry darling you okay you changed run(a)way queen to oikawa.. oikawa.. YOU FOUND OUT what's with the .. though it looks threatening you your fangirls were squealing your name it was kind of hard not to find out oikawa.. oh how nice of them well it's only fair i know your name now?? you hm l/n oikawa.. pretty name for a pretty person (o^ ^o) you boy 😭😭 oikawa.. changed run after queen to darling l/n (づ￣ ³￣)づ oikawa.. perfect you wtf is that kaomoji bro oikawa.. change my name to pretty boy oikawa (≧◡≦) you only because you won't shut up if i don't you changed oikawa.. to pretty boy oikawa.. pretty boy oikawa.. okay seriously what is with the .. you reacted 😊 to this message

the more you text, the more oikawa starts calling instead of texting, and it gave you the shock of your life when he first did it.

usually late at night, and you'll answer half asleep with a groggy voice to hear,

“l/n-channn.”

“why are you saying my name like that.” is your default response. and his will be, “because i'm suffering.”

“dramatic.”

then he'll ramble for twenty minutes while you listen sleepily, occasionally offering your mumbled inputs like ‘mhm’ and ‘uhuh’.

sometimes he talks about volleyball, or school, and most of the time random things that don't matter.

and sometimes, there are quiet pauses where neither of you says anything at all.

those are your favourite.

whenever you're upset or in a bad mood, you don't bother telling him – mostly because you're used to dealing with things alone. 

but one night when you answer his call, he notices that you're.. different, straight away.

“what happened?”

you frown, knowing he can't see it since your camera's off. “nothing.”

“liar.”

“wha- i’m serious.”

oikawa sighs softly through the phone, and you shift uncomfortably, pulling your blankets closer to your neck.

“did someone hurt your feelings?”

you laugh weakly, tilting your head. “that sounds so kindergarten.”

“answer the question.”

you stare up at your ceiling, vaguely making out the dying glow in the dark stickers that are stuck up there.

“i- it's no big deal- but um.. sort of.”

there's rustling on his end like he's sitting up.

“who?” oikawa says urgently.

“it doesn’t matter.”

“it matters if you sound sad.”

your throat tightens unexpectedly – that's the thing with oikawa.

he jokes around constantly, acts unserious all the time. but that only means moments where he suddenly becomes serious hit way too hard.

“my friend cancelled plans again,” you admit quietly. “for her boyfriend. and- i know it's selfish of me to be sad about that, but it always happens, and last minute.”

“wow. that sucks.”

you smile faintly. “thanks.”

it's silent for a few minutes after that, save for the sound of your combined breathing, then he breaks it.

“wanna come watch me practice tomorrow?”

you blink. “what?”

“you heard me loud and clear.”

“that's your solution?”

“well, yeah. if your friend sucks then i'll just steal you instead.” you can almost hear him grinning, and if he turned his camera on you're sure he would be.

it only takes a second to make up your mind.

“you know what, sure. i have nothing better to do anyway.”

so, the next day you go.

you almost turn around three separate times before even making it inside the gym.

you spot oikawa through the open doors and unfortunately remember how attractive he is. great.

he's standing in the middle of the court when he notices you. one second he's talking to one of his teammates, the next his whole face changes and he straightens up so fast, like a dog spotting its owner in public.

you barely have time to process that (did he just do that?) before somebody else notices too.

“oi.”

a guy near the net squints at you for a moment, then his eyes widen. “wait.”

you pause awkwardly near the entrance, hovering and not sure if you're supposed to go in or not.

another guy turns around at the tone of his voice and immediately points at you. “NO WAY.”

your stomach drops instantly, because why do they look like they recognize you??

“that's them, isn't it?” the first guy says.

“the phone person?” another one blurts out loudly.

you choke. “sorry, the what?”

oikawa visibly pales.

“mattsun,” he yells, horrified. “WHY WOULD YOU CALL THEM THAT.”

“because that's literally what you call them,” the guy – mattsun, apparently – says flatly.

“not to their face–”

you stare at him, expression beginning to turn amused.

“..phone person?” you repeat slowly.

silence for about four seconds, then another teammate snorts. “yeah, because you were ‘mysterious phone neighbor’ for like, months.”

your brain completely stalls.. “months?” you echo.

oikawa closes his eyes like he's in physical pain.

“okay,” he says carefully, already walking toward you, “before they start exaggerating–”

“you literally talked about them every day,” someone cuts in.

“alright, that is such a lie–”

“you asked us if using two exclamation marks looked desperate.”

“i-”

“you made iwaizumi read over your texts once,” mattsun adds with a lazy smirk.

you whip your head toward him so fast your neck almost cracks, eyes wide and glaring. “you what?”

oikawa looks genuinely cornered now, holding up his hands sheepishly. “in my defense, i didn’t know if saying goodnight twice was too clingy.”

you stare at him blankly.

and it hits you then, that this idiot has apparently been talking about you to his teammates for months while you thought you were just some random person he texted when he got bored.

now you can't even properly make fun of him for it!

oikawa stops in front of you, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly like he did the first time you met face to face. “listen, they're making it sound worse than it is.”

“you made your teammates help you text me?”

“once..”

“three times,” somebody corrects from the back.

“nobody asked you.”

you bite the inside of your cheek hard trying not to laugh, but ever so observant, oikawa he notices the moment you do.

his eyes narrow. “don’t.” that only makes it worse.

“you were workshopping your texts?” you manage between chortles.

“okay, wow,” he says, looking betrayed. “this is a vulnerable moment for me, you know? don't rub it in.”

you lose it a little after that, enough that a laugh slips out before you can stop it.

and the thing is, the second it does, oikawa just.. stares at you, like he forgot there are other people in the room.

the way he's just looking at you causes your laugh to falter, and the two of you lock eyes for a long moment until he clears his throat. 

“l/n-”

and the moment is gone when someone smacks the back of oikawa's head while walking past.

“quit flirting and practice,” the guy says bluntly, prompty smacking him again but harder.

“OW– iwa-chan!”

you laugh again, louder this time, and oikawa turns toward you looking extremely offended.

“you're enjoying this way too much.”

“because it’s funny.”

“my suffering should not amuse you.”

“your suffering is the funniest thing about you sorry to say.”

he gasps like you've personally stabbed him in the chest, then points dramatically. “see? this is what i deal with.”

you roll your eyes affectionately and cross your arms. “you love me, really,” you say offhandedly.

oikawa's ears dust a bright red.

it doesn't occur to you how important he's becoming to you until oikawa slowly starts disappearing.

it starts as slower replies, missing calls, and shorter messages. you tell yourself he's busy.

until nothing at all.

you hey. you alive? seen

and oikawa always replies – even if it's just to be annoying.

three days later, he finally texts.

pretty boy oikawa.. sorry been busy

and that's it. your stomach sinks.

you everything okay? pretty boy oikawa.. yeah dw about it

which is an obvious lie, but every time you try asking after that, he just brushes it off.

eventually you just stop asking.

you find out through social media; some volleyball account posts clips from a tournament.

the caption says:

‘aoba johsai eliminated after intense semifinal loss’.

that's oikawa's team.

and it all makes sense now. you stare at your screen, and immediately text him.

no answer, so you call.

straight to voicemail.

and you don't have to think before grabbing your stuff and heading out where you think he's most likely to be.

the gym is dead silent when you arrive, lights dim.

you almost think he's not there and are prepared to leave until you hear a volleyball bouncing somewhere inside.

you follow the sound, and find him alone.

he doesn’t notice you at first – he seems to be serving repeatedly at the far wall, hard enough that the impact echoes through the gym.

again

again

again

agai-

“oikawa.”

he freezes, and the ball rolls away slowly across the floor.

for a second he just stands there with his back to you, then laughs quietly.

except it sounds wrong, forced and twisted and sounds so unnatural coming out of the brown haired boy.

“you, ah- weren’t supposed to see this.”

your throat tightens, and oikawa finally turns around.

and oh,

he looks awful. eyes tired, eyebags hanging, smile plastered on and barely there.

“why didn't you tell me?” you ask softly.

oikawa shrugs like you're not even there, not worth talking to you. his shoulders hang low, drooping. “didn't really feel like talking.”

“you.. disappeared.”

“sorry.” he says lightly, like it doesn't matter.

you step closer, footstep sounding loudly against the wooden floorboards and state, “you lost one match.” not gentle.

his jaw tightens, eyes fiery. “it wasn't just one match.”

right. of course it wasn't.

for him, volleyball is everything.

you suddenly remember all those late night calls, all the pressure he puts on himself every single day, all the moments where he'd laugh something off before changing the subject too quickly. all the times he acted overly confident like he was trying to convince himself just as much as everyone else. that maybe, just maybe, if he stopped moving for even a second, everything would finally catch up to him.

then, quietly, he murmurs, “i'm so tired.”

and oikawa never says things like that. he complains dramatically all the time, sure, but never seriously. never in a way that sounds this honest. this exhausted.

you don't know what to do. standing there suddenly feels awkward, and maybe you shouldn't have come after all, like maybe this is something private and ugly and painful and hurting that he never wanted you seeing. 

but then he laughs again under his breath, except it still sounds wrong, jagged around the edges, and you realise he's waiting for you to treat this like a joke so he can pretend he's fine again.

instead, you walk toward him slowly until you're close enough to see how his shoulders shaking.

his eyes flick up to yours, surprised. 

you could melt, drown in them and be happy. 

so before you can think too hard about it, you wrap your arms around him.

oikawa goes completely still like his brain short circuited, like he wasn't expecting comfort from you at all. you can feel the sharp inhale he takes against your shoulder, and for one horrible second you wonder if you crossed a line.

then his arms wrap around you, leaning in and burying his head into your shoulder.

he's still shaking.

you close your eyes. “hey,” you mumble quietly.

he lets out this weak little laugh, muffled into your shoulder. “don't. this is kinda embarrassing for me.”

“i don't care.”

“i do.”

“good thing this isn't about you then.” you wince; maybe that wasn't the right thing to say. 

thankfully, another laugh escapes him at that, and he doesn't let go. if anything, oikawa's grip tightens more, fingers bunching in the back of your hoodie like he's afraid you'll disappear if he loosens his hold even slightly.

the gym is completely silent around the two of you now except for the faint buzzing of the overhead lights.

after a long moment, he says in a tiny voice, “i really wanted to win.”

and god, that hurts.

he feels so painfully human. just a boy who wanted something so badly and still couldn't reach it.

you embrace him tighter. “i know.”

he exhales shakily. “i hate losing.”

“i know.”

another pause. then he mutters against your shoulder, again. “oh, you're gonna think i'm pathetic after this.”

you pull back immediately just enough to glare up at him. “don't say that.”

“i'm serious. i'm literally standing here having a breakdown over volleyball.”

“yeah,” you answer, frowning. “because it matters to you.”

his expression shifts. the exhaustion is still there, heavy under his eyes, but something else slips through now too. surprise, maybe. or relief. like he expected you to brush this off the same way he always tries to.

instead you're still here.

oikawa stares at you for a long minute before speaking again. “you came all the way here.”

you blink. “obviously.”

“why obviously?”

you open your mouth automatically, ready to answer, but nothing comes out.

why obviously?

because hearing he lost made your stomach drop.

because the thought of him sitting here alone hurt worse than it should have.

because over the last few months, he somehow became the first person you want to tell things to. the first notification you look for when your phone lights up. the person you think about constantly without even trying or wanting to.

because somewhere along the way, you fell in love with him.

oh.

oh no.

your face must give something away because his entire face changes.

“l/n-chan?”

you can’t breathe properly all of a sudden.

this is bad.

actually terrifying.

because what if you ruin this? what if you care too much? what if all the flirting and jokes meant more to you than they ever did to him?

“hey,” he says again.

oikawa's hand lifts hesitantly, fingertips brushing against your sleeve as if he's not fully sure you'll let him.

“what happened?”

you stare at him helplessly, and apparently that's enough.

his eyes widen slightly before cracking in a way that completely wrecks you.

“oh,” is the only thing that comes out, his mouth an ‘o’ shape.

“don't,” you blurt out before he can say anything else.

oikawa blinks. “don't what?”

“make it weird.”

“make what weird?”

you gesture vaguely between the two of you, mortified. “this.”

oikawa merely looks at you. then the corners of his mouth lift a little.

“a bit too little too late for that.” ayo laufey reference

your throat burns, and it hurts to swallow. “oikawa–”

“i think i started liking you the first time you insulted me.”

now it's your turn to stare at him. “huh?”

he smiles weakly. “you called me grandma.”

despite everything, a laugh bubbles out of you. “that's your romantic origin story?”

“don't judge me,” he mutters. “i was charmed. you were charming.”

you shake your head, still laughing breathlessly, and when you do something in his expression relaxes. maybe he was nervous too, and that maybe he thought imagined the whole thing.

oikawa reaches for you again, giving you enough time to pull away if you want to.

you don't.

his arms wrap around you, almost cautiously now, like you're something fragile in his eyes. you can hear his heartbeat through his thin shirt, fast enough to make warmth spread through your chest.

“hey,” he murmurs into your hair after a while. “are you.. crying?”

“no, shut up.”

“this might be the best day of my life.”

you laugh wetly into his chest. “you're so annoying.”

“yeah,” he says gently, tilting your chin up to gaze into your eyes. “but you like me anyway.”

when oikawa pulls back, he's smiling properly for the first time since you got there. tired still, but smiling. his eyes flick down toward your mouth for a split second before darting back up again, and he looks.. nervous.

is he.. is he going to–

“..can i kiss you,” oikawa asks carefully, “or are you gonna bite me.”

you blink at him in disbelief. “that is genuinely the worst thing you could've said.”

“sorry,” he says immediately. “i got i want to kiss you disease.”

you snort, heart melting on the spot at the same time.

because this is oikawa. loud, confident, obnoxious oikawa who flirts with literally everyone without blinking. and somehow, he's standing in front of you looking like the answer really matters to him.

so before you can overthink it anymore, you grab the front of his hoodie and kiss him.

he makes a startled sound against your mouth before kissing you back instantly, one hand coming up to cup your face like he's scared you'll disappear halfway through it.

truthfully, a kiss worthy of the fairytales.

and when you pull away, oikawa's staring at you like he just won the lottery.

“wow,” he breathes. “i- wow.”

you point a warning finger at him. “don't start.”

“you're literally in love with me.”

“you love me more though.”

oikawa's grin widens so fast, almost blinding.

“hey, y/n-chan?”

“what.”

“remember when you hoped i wasn't a forty five year old man?”

you groan so loudly it echoes through the gym, and oikawa laughs hard enough that he has to lean against you to stay standing. 

hearing that sound again feels like finally being able to breathe.

you wake up to your phone vibrating nonstop against your mattress. you're surprised it isn't leaping into the air.

still half asleep, you blindly grab it, fumbling and squinting at the brightness.

tooru 🤍 good morning my amazingly amazing significant other >’v’< hm that sounds off sorry sorry good morning situationship  that sounds worse actually ignore that you're not my situationship.. i love you good morning love of my life  good morning DARLING ;))

you drop your face back into your pillow, groaning. he’s so endearing.

another text follows.

tooru 🤍 HELLO??? are you ignoring me this relationship is so toxic you oh my god shut up why are you awake tooru 🤍 i’m experiencing great joy and whimsy! darling you reacted 😐 to this message you tone it down a little tooru 🤍 never

dating oikawa turns out to be exactly as exhausting – in a good way — as you expected, now that he’s officially decided you're his person.

he gets dramatically offended if you take too long to answer texts (“i’m your top priority!”) he throws himself across your shoulders whenever he sees you after practice like he's been separated from you for years instead of six hours (“reunited at last!”). he complains constantly that you ‘don’t compliment him enough’, despite the fact you called him beautiful once and he looked so emotional about it for the rest of the day.

but there are quieter things too, things he does without noticing.

saving the seat next to him automatically, and walking on the outside of the sidewalk. tugging you closer absentmindedly whenever crowds get too big like it’s second nature, and falling asleep on calls because he says your voice helps him unwind and relax after practice.

one afternoon, while you're sitting across from oikawa in a café, you zone out so badly you don't even realise he's talking to you until he flicks your forehead lightly.

“ow? what was that for??”

“you're doing the thing again,” oikawa replies, chin in his hands and elbows propped on the table as he gazes at you with those eyes you could drown in.

you blink twice. “what thing?”

“the overthinking thing!”

“uh, that’s not helpful at all,” you grin, amused, stirring your tea. the scent wafts up, drifting into your nose, and you inhale deeply.

“is it not true?”

oikawa reaches across the table, hooking his fingers loosely around yours. he’s been doing that quite a lot lately. 

“what’s going on in that scary little brain?” he asks, tracing little shapes onto the back of your hand. imagine he wrote will you marry me lmao

you hesitate before shrugging nonchalantly. “nothing.”

oikawa frowns, stopping his thumb movements and causing you to jut out your bottom lip. “you know you don't always have to do that, right?”

“do what?”

“pretend everything's fine before you've figured out if it actually is.”

you look away toward the café window, a little annoyed.

“you do that too. and i just don't wanna ruin stuff.”

“ruin what stuff? y/n, darling-”

you gesture between the two of you.

oikawa stares at you for a second before snorting.

you narrow your eyes at him. “tooru. what now?”

“sorry,” he says, already laughing. “i just remembered you literally texted me because a forty-five-year-old blocked you.”

you groan, drawing it out as you thud your head down on the table. “can you stop reminding me? my gosh, that was ages ago.”

“and now we’re here.”

his thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles.

“you're not gonna ruin us, idiot.”

us.

like there's never been another option.

a week later, you discover he has screenshots of your texts saved.

“YOU SAVED THESE?”

oikawa, sprawled comfortably across your bed, looks completely unashamed. “of course i did!”

“why.”

“because they’re cute, why else?”

“they are not cute.”

he gasps dramatically before turning on his phone and reading one aloud.

“‘go away you're literally annoying.’ wow. true romance right there.”

you immediately lunge for his phone while he yelps and nearly falls off the bed cackling.

“give it!”

“never!”

“tooru–”

“wait wait, this one's my favorite.” his voice softens slightly while he reads. “‘text me when you get home okay?’”

you stop moving. you remember sending that, late at night after practice when he sounded exhausted over the phone and you got worried.

but you didn't realise how much it meant to him.

oikawa glances up at you with his stupidly fond little smile.

“that was one of the first times i thought i was completely screwed.”

whenever oikawa has a game, he never directly asks you to come. instead, he send things like:

tooru 🤍 match tomorrow btw you okay tooru 🤍 okay??? thats all??? you good luck? tooru 🤍 woah i can really feel the support you reacted 😊 to this message

it's worth it, though, when you show up regardless, and his entire face lights up as he spots you in the stands.

like he's surprised someone came for him specifically, even though he has a million fangirls that giggle his name.

oikawa only cares about you.

naturally, iwaizumi talks to you first about it.

one day after practice he falls into step beside you while oikawa's distracted arguing with kyotani, probably about something stupid.

“thanks,” iwaizumi says suddenly.

your brow furrows, and you turn your head. “er- for what?”

“for dealing with him.”

you snicker. “that sounds concerning.”

“oh, you have no idea.” he has an exasperated expression on his face, but then it shifts. “he's happier lately.”

before you can answer, oikawa appears out of nowhere and throws himself dramatically over your shoulders.

“iwa-chan, are you talking shit about me?”

“always.” iwaizumi deadpans.

oikawa gasps mockingly. “fake friend.”

“shittykawa.”

“shittyzumi.” then oikawa turns to you pleadingly. “save me.”

“nah. go on, iwaizumi. how many others you got?”

“no!”

it's funny how one stupid, impulsive text at two in the morning somehow flipped your entire life around – now your days are full of him. oikawa. your boyfriend. it still feels surreal to say.

his voice. his laugh. his constant whining. his hand finding yours automatically.

oikawa loves loudly, openly, like he's physically incapable of hiding it. he talks about you constantly, drapes himself all over you every chance he gets, looks at you like you're the best thing he’s ever found.

one night after practice, the two of you end up lying on the floor of his bedroom while he complains dramatically about training.

“i'm dying,” oikawa groans, letting his long legs flop over your stomach.

“you said that half an hour ago.” you half-heartedly attempt to push his legs off, to no avail.

“it's a slow death.”

you snort quietly, glancing over at him. his hair's still damp from his shower and there's a bruise forming near his knee. 

you reach over and brush your fingers lightly against his hand, and he immediately intertwines your fingers together without even opening his eyes.

automatic, like breathing.

“hey,” he says after a minute.

“hm?”

oikawa lowers his arm to stare at you properly before smiling brightly.

“thanks for texting me after. imagine if you’d only texted the forty five year ol–”

you burst out into a fit of laughter. “oh my god–”

he grins sleepily before rubbing his thumb absentmindedly across your knuckles just like he likes to do.

“seriously, though,” he says more softly. “meeting you kinda changed everything for me.”

pursing your lips, you murmur, “that's disgustingly cheesy.”

“yeah?”

“yeah. for me too, though.”

“aww.”

you squeeze his hand tighter, smiling helplessly. “good thing you answered, then.”

“best decision i've ever made.” followed by, because he physically cannot stay serious for more than ten consecutive seconds:

“also, thank goodness i'm hot.”

you grumble and shove his face away while he laughs hard enough to nearly fall onto the floor completely. sadly, he didn't and his heavy as fuck legs are still laying on you.

tooru 🤍 i love you my number neighbour you i love you too my number neighbour that isn’t the forty five year old man 😚 tooru 🤍 you ruined it 😠 you EMOJI tooru 🤍 so what anyway what if i text MY other number neighbour you oikaw fucking tooru tooru 🤍 OKAY you liked this message

“tooru?”

“yes, my darling?” 

“why are we texting when we're right next to eachother?”

oikawa smirks at you. “romance.”

i wrote this on google docs so the quotation marks look so different.. but anyway fucking hell that was a ride to write!! sorry, kat. i tried to make it 6.7k words for you but there was so much i wanted to fit in there so it ended up um exceeding that by 2k 😚

© akaashiit

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[tiredslepz]

gen one of the best chatfics ive read 😮‍💨 its such a lovely trope to read and i love oikawa sm 😭😭🩷 the amount of references and sneaks i noticed was so clever lowk n i just loved this piece of literature sm

[fallentology]

Look at Me

𝐙𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍 𝐍𝐀𝐎𝐘𝐀

SYNOPSIS: At first, he just wanted a reaction. Now, he’s not sure he wants you to stop looking at him at all. Because the moment you finally do, he realizes it’s not enough—and it never will be. WORD COUNT: 13.7k

The Zenin Clan compound sprawled across the rolling hills just outside Kyoto like a fortress carved from old money and older pride. High walls of weathered stone and dark timber enclosed courtyards lined with meticulously raked gravel, ancient cherry trees, and training grounds where the air always hummed with the faint crackle of cursed energy. Inside the main hall there was vast, tatami-floored, and lit by paper lanterns that cast long, golden shadows. Every pillar and sliding screen whispered of hierarchy. Strength was currency here. Weakness was erased.

You had been assigned to the clan three months ago as a contracted Grade 1 sorcerer. Your technique, Reverse Cursed Technique with an unusual affinity for stabilizing others’ cursed energy during high-stakes missions made you useful. Not family. Not heir. Just… useful. The elders tolerated your presence because you delivered results without asking for glory. The younger sorcerers mostly ignored you. And Naoya Zenin?

He had yet to decide what to do with you.

The hall was crowded tonight. Naobito’s youngest son had just returned from a solo extermination in the mountains north of the city. A Grade 1 cursed spirit that had been terrorizing rural villages for weeks. Word spread fast. Servants moved like ghosts, laying out low tables with sake and small plates of kaiseki. Clan members in traditional robes or crisp modern suits clustered near the center, their voices a low, reverent hum.

You stood near the back wall, half-hidden behind a lacquered pillar, clipboard in hand. The mission report you’d been asked to review rested on the wooden surface, but your eyes weren’t really on the words. You were watching the room the way you always did. Detached, cataloguing exits, cursed energy signatures, potential threats. Habit. Nothing more.

The heavy sliding doors at the far end whispered open.

Naoya Zenin stepped through.

He was exactly as the rumors painted him: tall, slim but powerfully built, the kind of athletic frame that moved like it had never known hesitation. His dyed blond hair with roots a deep, living green swept back from his forehead in that signature undercut, the longer top strands catching the lantern light like polished gold. Sharp brown eyes scanned the room with predatory ease. Three silver piercings glinted in his left ear. The arrogant grin was already fixed in place, as natural to him as breathing. He wore the clan’s traditional attire with effortless arrogance: a white long-sleeved shirt buttoned high under a teal kimono that shifted like liquid shadow with every step, light hakama, and waraji sandals that barely made a sound on the tatami.

The room reacted instantly.

Heads bowed. Shoulders straightened. A ripple of murmured praise washed through the crowd “Naoya-sama,” “Well done,” “As expected of the heir.” A few of the younger sorcerers practically vibrated with admiration. One woman who’s a daughter of a branch family actually flushed when his gaze flicked her way. An elder clapped him on the shoulder, voice booming about how the Zenin bloodline continued to produce perfection.

Naoya accepted it all like oxygen. He rolled one shoulder, the grin widening just enough to show teeth.

“Obviously,” he drawled, voice carrying across the hall with that lazy, cutting confidence. “Did you really think some half-rate curse would slow me down? Projection Sorcery makes short work of anything that doesn’t know its place.” He flicked a hand dismissively. “Though I will admit the thing had decent speed. For a worm.”

Laughter. More bowing. Someone pressed a cup of sake into his hand; he took it without looking, eyes already drifting over the crowd as if searching for the next source of validation.

You didn’t move.

Your pen kept scratching notes on the clipboard. Small, precise handwriting detailing the energy signatures from the report. You didn’t glance up. Didn’t straighten. Didn’t offer the polite smile or the deferential nod everyone else seemed programmed to give. He was background noise, like the distant chirp of crickets outside or the soft clink of porcelain. Present. Irrelevant.

Naoya’s gaze landed on you.

It lingered.

You felt it. The weight of those sharp brown eyes, the way they narrowed just a fraction when you failed to react. Most people would have at least looked. A quick bow. A murmured “Congratulations, Naoya-sama.” Something. Anything.

You turned a page.

He took a slow step forward, still speaking to the group but clearly directing the next words toward the back of the room. “The technique’s getting faster every time. Twenty-four frames per second, flawless execution. No one else in this clan could have handled it so cleanly.” A pause. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The question hung in the air like a challenge. Several heads turned your way expectantly.

You finished your note, capped the pen, and finally lifted your gaze. Just enough to meet the elder who had asked you to review the report earlier. “The stabilization matrix held,” you said evenly, voice calm and professional. “No residual damage to the surrounding area. Efficient work.” You gave a small, polite nod to the elder. Nothing more.

Not to Naoya.

Not a single glance in his direction.

The silence that followed was microscopic, it was barely a heartbeat, but you felt it crackle.

Naoya’s grin didn’t falter on the surface, but something behind his eyes shifted. Confusion, maybe. Mild irritation, like a speck of dust on an otherwise pristine blade. He was used to eyes on him. Used to people orbiting him like satellites. Women especially would have been flustered, eager, desperate for even a scrap of his attention. Men respected him or feared him or both. No one simply… continued existing in his presence as if he were furniture.

He took another step, closer now, the hem of his hakama brushing the tatami. The crowd parted slightly, giving him space. “You’re the transfer, right?” His tone was light, almost conversational, but edged with that unmistakable Zenin superiority. “The one with the healing trick. Useful little ability. Must be nice, riding the coattails of real sorcerers.”

A few chuckles from the sycophants.

You adjusted the clipboard under your arm, eyes already drifting back to the report. “The technique is Reverse Cursed Technique, specialized for field stabilization,” you corrected mildly, without heat. “And yes, it’s proven effective on joint missions.” Still no eye contact. Still no acknowledgment of the subtle barb.

Naoya’s fingers tightened around the sake cup. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But he noticed the way his own pulse kicked up, just a fraction. Confusion sharpened into something closer to annoyance. She’s doing it on purpose, he thought. No one is this dense. Everyone knows who I am. Everyone reacts.

He waited.

You didn’t.

After a beat, he let out a low chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “ Acting professional.” He turned back to the group, but the grin was tighter now. “Anyway. The mission was flawless, as expected. Drinks are on the clan tonight.”

Cheers went up. The moment passed, or seemed to.

But as the crowd surged forward again, offering more praise, more sake, more deference, Naoya’s gaze kept sliding back to you. You had already moved toward one of the side doors, slipping out of the main gathering like a shadow that refused to be pinned down. No backward glance. No lingering. Just… gone.

He drained the sake in one swallow, the liquid burning pleasantly down his throat.

Who the hell does she think she is?

The thought lodged in his mind like a splinter. Small. Irritating. Impossible to ignore once it was there.

Later that night, long after the lanterns had been dimmed and the hall emptied, Naoya stood alone on the engawa overlooking the moonlit training grounds. The cool spring air carried the faint scent of blooming wisteria. His kimono hung open at the collar, sleeves rolled up, revealing the lean muscle of his forearms. He should have been basking in the afterglow of victory. Instead, his mind kept circling back to that one indifferent face in the crowd.

She hadn’t even looked at him.

Not once.

The realization sat heavy in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. Naoya Zenin did not get ignored. He was the center. The standard. The one everyone measured themselves against. And yet some contracted nobody with a clipboard and a flat voice had treated him like background noise.

His lips curled into a smirk, but there was no amusement in it.

“Interesting,” he murmured to the empty night, voice low and dangerous. “Very interesting.”

He flexed his fingers, cursed energy flickering faintly around them like static. Projection Sorcery hummed under his skin, ready at a thought.

She wanted to act like he didn’t exist?

Fine.

He’d make sure she couldn’t look anywhere else.

Three days had passed since the welcome banquet, and the Zenin Clan compound had settled back into its usual rhythm of rigid discipline and simmering ambition. Dawn painted the eastern sky in bruised pinks and golds, casting long shadows across the gravel paths that crisscrossed the training grounds. The air smelled of dew on moss and the faint ozone tang of cursed energy being honed like blades. Servants moved silently between the low wooden buildings, carrying trays of rice and miso for the early risers. In the main dojo, a vast, open-air pavilion with tatami mats worn smooth by generations of feet, sorcerers gathered for morning drills.

You were already there, as always.

Positioned at the far edge of the mats near a row of wooden practice dummies, you wore the standard field uniform: dark, reinforced jacket over a fitted shirt, pants tucked into sturdy boots. Your hair was pulled back neatly, out of the way. No makeup, no jewelry, nothing that drew attention. Just a contracted Grade 1 doing her job. You were reviewing a mission briefing scroll the elders had assigned you last night. Something about stabilizing a team during an upcoming Grade 2 incursion near Osaka. Your Reverse Cursed Technique made you the perfect support; you didn’t need praise for it. You didn’t seek it.

You didn’t seek anything from anyone here.

Especially not him.

Naoya Zenin arrived exactly on time, because of course he did. He never allowed himself to be late; tardiness was for the weak. He strode onto the training grounds in his usual attire. White button-up open at the collar just enough to show the sharp line of his clavicle, teal kimono draped over one shoulder like a casual afterthought, hakama swaying with each purposeful step. The dyed blond hair caught the morning light, green roots visible at the scalp like a reminder of the raw power beneath the polish. Three silver piercings winked in his left ear. His expression was the same arrogant half-smirk he wore like armor, but his sharp brown eyes scanned the dojo with a new intensity.

They found you immediately.

He’d spent the last three nights replaying that banquet in his head. The way you’d turned a page on your clipboard without so much as a flicker of acknowledgment. The way his words and his very presence had slid right off you like water on oiled steel. At first it had been amusing. A novelty. Then irritating. Now it festered.

No one ignored Naoya Zenin. Not the elders. Not the branch families groveling for favor. Not the women who practically tripped over themselves to catch his eye. And certainly not some outsider with a fancy healing trick.

She’s doing it on purpose, he’d decided by the second night. Playing some long game to make herself interesting. Well. Two could play.

He didn’t head straight for the center of the dojo where the main group waited, bowing and murmuring greetings. Instead, he veered toward the edge, toward you.

You felt him coming before you saw him. The shift in cursed energy was unmistakable: Projection Sorcery humming like a live wire, controlled but always ready to snap forward in those perfect twenty-four frames per second. You kept your eyes on the scroll, pen scratching notes in the margin.

“Morning briefings already?” His voice cut through the quiet dojo like a blade, loud enough for the nearby sorcerers to hear but pitched just for you. He stopped directly in your path, close enough that the hem of his hakama brushed the edge of your boot. “How dedicated. Or is it just an excuse to avoid real training?”

You finished the line you were writing. Then, without lifting your gaze, you stepped sideways, it was smooth and unhurried. You then continued toward the next dummy. “The briefing is for the Osaka team,” you said evenly, voice neutral as still water. “I’m support, not frontline. Efficiency matters.”

No eye contact. No deference. No reaction to the way he’d planted himself like a wall.

Naoya’s smirk twitched. He moved again, faster this time, Projection Sorcery flickering for a split second. Hust enough to close the distance in a blur most eyes would miss. He was in front of you once more, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted slightly as if studying a mildly defective tool.

“Efficiency, huh?” He leaned in, invading your space without touching. You could smell the faint scent of his soap. It was something sharp and expensive, like citrus and smoke, and you could feel the heat radiating off him. “That’s cute. Most people would kill for a chance to train under me. Projection Sorcery isn’t something you just watch from the sidelines.” His voice dropped, laced with that signature Zenin condescension. “Or are you scared you’ll look weak next to perfection?”

A few of the younger clan members nearby exchanged glances, smirks hidden behind hands. They knew the game. Naoya was toying with the new girl. It was entertainment.

You simply sidestepped again, circling around him as if he were a misplaced training post. Your shoulder nearly brushed his arm, but you adjusted at the last second to avoid it. “I’ve stabilized worse than Grade 2s,” you replied, still not looking at him. “Fear doesn’t factor into the technique.” You reached the dummy and began channeling a thin thread of Reverse Cursed Technique into its core, testing the wood’s structural integrity. The faint blue glow of your energy was precise, controlled. Professional.

Naoya’s fingers flexed at his sides. No reaction. Not even a flicker of annoyance on your face. No flush, no stammer, no wide-eyed deference. Just… nothing. It was like shouting into a void.

He hated it.

The irritation coiled tighter in his chest, hotter than any curse he’d ever crushed. He was Naoya Zenin. The heir, prodigy, the one who made the clan’s future look inevitable. People orbited him. They begged for scraps of his attention. And this woman treated him like static in the background.

Fine.

He’d make himself impossible to ignore.

The rest of the morning drill became a slow, deliberate game. Naoya didn’t join the main formation. He prowled the perimeter instead, always finding reasons to cross your path. During partner drills, he “accidentally” positioned himself so you had to maneuver around him to reach your assigned station. When you moved to retrieve a set of cursed tools from the rack, he was already there. Leaning against it, long legs stretched out, blocking the way.

“Looking for something?” he drawled, eyes locked on your face even though yours stayed fixed on the tools behind him. He didn’t move. “These are clan-grade. Might be a little advanced for support work. Wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

You paused for half a second, then reached past him. Arm brushing the open collar of his shirt, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin but never lingering. You selected the tool you needed without comment and stepped back. “They’re standard issue,” you said flatly. “I’ve used them before.” Then you turned and walked away, leaving him standing there with the echo of your indifference ringing in his ears.

By midday, the game had spread through the compound like wildfire among the gossiping younger sorcerers. “Naoya-sama’s got it out for the transfer girl,” they whispered. “She won’t even look at him.” Some laughed. Others watched with wary fascination.

Naoya noticed none of it. His focus had narrowed to a single point: you.

He told himself it was still just irritation. A challenge to his authority. But as the afternoon wore on and he found excuses to interrupt your solo stabilization drills. Leaning over your shoulder to “correct” your form (his breath warm against your ear, voice a low taunt: “Too slow. You’d be dead in a real fight”), standing so close in the narrow corridor leading back to the main hall that you had to turn sideways to pass. He felt something darker stirring beneath the annoyance.

Curiosity.

A sharp, gnawing need to crack the shell of your indifference and see what was underneath.

She has to react eventually, he thought, watching from the engawa as you disappeared into the archive building without a backward glance. No one sustains this forever. Not with me.

That night, long after the compound had quieted and lanterns flickered low, Naoya stood alone in his private quarters. The room was sparse by clan standards. Only the essentials, because excess was for the weak, but the sliding doors opened onto a private garden. He hadn’t slept well. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that same neutral expression. Heard that same flat voice.

He paced, bare feet silent on the tatami, cursed energy crackling faintly at his fingertips like restrained lightning.

Tomorrow he’d push harder. Stand closer. Say things that cut deeper. Force her into a corner where ignoring him became impossible.

Because the alternative that she truly didn’t care, that he was background noise in her world was unacceptable.

It was starting to feel like a game he was losing.

And Naoya Zenin did not lose.

He stopped at the edge of the engawa, staring out into the moonlit garden where your quarters lay on the opposite side of the compound. A faint light still glowed in your window.

His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.

“Keep pretending I don’t exist,” he murmured to the night, voice low and edged with something that wasn’t quite anger anymore. “See how long that lasts.”

The days blurred into a deliberate campaign.

Naoya Zenin had never needed to chase anyone in his life. People came to him, drawn like moths to the sharp, blinding light of his confidence, his power, his name. Yet here he was, three days after the morning drills, rearranging his entire schedule around one indifferent woman who refused to play the game correctly.

It started small. Logical, he told himself. He simply needed to observe the anomaly up close.

He learned your routines with the precision of a hunter mapping prey paths.

You rose before dawn, always. A quick run along the outer perimeter path that circled the wisteria garden, then straight to the auxiliary training hall for solo Reverse Cursed Technique drills. Breakfast was taken alone in the small side courtyard near the archives. Usually rice balls and green tea, eaten while reviewing reports. Mid-mornings were spent in the main archive building, cross-referencing mission data or stabilizing cursed tools for the next excursion. Afternoons involved accompanying lower-grade teams on practice missions or handling stabilization requests from the elders. Evenings: you disappeared into your modest quarters on the eastern wing, light burning late as you wrote detailed logs in that neat, unemotional handwriting.

Naoya memorized it all.

He told the elders he wanted to “personally oversee the support division’s efficiency.” They didn’t question it. Why would they? Naoya-sama’s standards were famously high.

He began appearing where you were.

Everywhere.

That first morning after the dojo incident, he was already on the perimeter path when you started your run. Leaning against a cherry tree, arms crossed, blond hair still damp from his own training. He didn’t greet you. Just watched as you approached, eyes tracking every stride with predatory focus.

You didn’t slow down. Didn’t glance his way. You simply adjusted your route by a few meters, passing him at a wider arc as if he were another tree in the landscape.

Naoya’s jaw tightened. He fell into step beside you anyway. Long legs eating up the distance effortlessly. Projection Sorcery let him match your pace without breaking a sweat.

“Running alone again?” His voice was smooth, mocking. “No partner? Afraid they’ll see how mediocre your little healing trick actually is when there’s no one to impress?”

You kept your breathing even, eyes fixed on the path ahead. “Solo runs improve focus,” you answered after a measured beat. Nothing more. No denial. No defense. You veered left at the next fork, leaving him behind without another word.

He let you go that time. But only because he already knew where you’d head next.

The auxiliary training hall.

He was waiting inside when you arrived, standing in the exact center of the mats like he owned the air itself. A few lower-rank clan members were present, but they scattered the moment he waved a lazy hand. “Out. I’m using this space.”

They bowed and fled.

You entered anyway, setting your water bottle down near the wall. Without hesitation, you moved to the far corner and began your drills. Channeling thin threads of Reverse Cursed Technique into a series of damaged practice dummies, repairing micro-fractures in the wood with precise, glowing blue energy.

Naoya didn’t join you. He simply… watched.

Leaned against the wall, arms folded, sharp brown eyes never leaving your form. He catalogued everything: the way your shoulders moved with controlled power, the faint sheen of sweat at your temple after twenty minutes, how your cursed energy flowed clean and steady without waste. Most sorcerers faltered under his stare. They’d stumble, blush, try too hard.

You didn’t even acknowledge he was there.

After thirty minutes of silence broken only by the soft hum of your technique, he pushed off the wall and stalked closer. Close enough that his shadow fell over the dummy you were working on.

“Your output is stable,” he commented, tone dripping superiority. “Boringly so. No flair. No ambition. Just… adequate.” He tilted his head, leaning in until his breath ghosted the shell of your ear. “Tell me. Does it get you off, being this forgettable? Or are you saving all that energy for when someone finally forces you to react?”

Your hands didn’t pause. The blue glow brightened slightly as you reinforced a deeper crack. “The technique doesn’t require flair,” you said quietly, professionally. “It requires precision. Results speak for themselves.” You finished the dummy, stepped back, and moved to the next one.Circling around him without brushing a single thread of his kimono.

Naoya’s fingers twitched. The urge to use Projection Sorcery to freeze you mid-step, force you to face him in twenty-four perfect frames was almost overwhelming. But he held back. Not yet. Making her acknowledge me by force would be too easy. Too cheap. He wanted the crack to come naturally. Wanted to see the exact moment her indifference shattered.

He started creating situations instead.

During lunch in the side courtyard, he appeared at the entrance just as you unwrapped your rice balls. Sat down on the opposite bench, close enough that his knee nearly touched yours under the low table, without invitation. He didn’t eat. Just stared.

“Quiet type, aren’t you?” he said after five full minutes of silence. “Most women in this clan can’t shut up around me. They simper. They laugh at every half-witted joke. They beg for a look.” His voice lowered, edged with frustration he didn’t bother hiding anymore. “You? You act like the air I breathe is beneath your notice.”

You took a slow sip of tea, eyes on the scroll beside your plate. “I have reports due by evening,” was all you offered. Then you stood, gathered your things, and left the courtyard through the opposite gate.

He followed you to the archives that afternoon.

You were deep in the stacks, pulling ancient texts on cursed energy stabilization. The narrow aisles between the tall wooden shelves left little room for two people. Naoya made sure to take up all of it.

He stepped into the aisle behind you, so close his chest nearly brushed your back when you reached for a higher shelf. One hand braced on the wood beside your head, caging you without quite touching. The scent of him filled the confined space.

“Need help reaching that?” he murmured, voice velvet over razors. “Wouldn’t want you to strain yourself on something so… beneath you.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t press back into him. You simply turned sideways in the tight space. Your shoulder grazing his arm for the briefest second, and pulled the book down yourself. “I’ve got it,” you said, voice steady. Then you slipped past him, pages already flipping open as you walked away.

Naoya stayed there for a long moment, hand still pressed to the shelf, breathing harder than the minor exertion warranted.

This was no longer mild irritation.

It was becoming an obsession.

He started watching you even when he didn’t approach. From rooftops. From shadowed engawa. From the training grounds’ perimeter. He told himself it was strategy. Learning weaknesses, finding the perfect pressure point. But the truth gnawed at him in the quiet hours: he was seeking you out because the compound felt wrong when you weren’t in his line of sight.

One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the compound in blood-orange light, he cornered one of the archive assistants. “The transfer sorcerer. What does she do after hours?”

The young man bowed low, nervous. “She… usually writes logs in her quarters, Naoya-sama. Sometimes walks the eastern garden if the weather is clear.”

Naoya dismissed him with a flick of his wrist.

That night, he found himself on the engawa overlooking the eastern garden. Your light was on again. He could see the faint silhouette through the shoji screen. Head bent over papers, pen moving steadily.

His chest tightened with something ugly and unfamiliar.

Why her?

Why did her refusal to look at him burn hotter than any praise ever had?

He flexed his hand, cursed energy sparking. Projection Sorcery could bridge the distance in an instant. He could be in front of her door before she finished her next sentence. Force the interaction. Make her see him.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he stayed in the shadows, eyes fixed on that small window like a man possessed.

“She’ll break,” he whispered to the night, voice rough with the edge of something dangerously close to need. “Everyone does. And when she finally looks at me… she won’t look away again.”

The game had shifted.

It wasn’t about winning her attention anymore.

It was about making sure no one else could ever have it.

The afternoon sun hung heavy over the Zenin training grounds, turning the gravel paths into shimmering ribbons of heat. A light breeze carried the scent of blooming wisteria and sweat-soaked fabric. The main courtyard had been cleared for a joint drill between the main family’s elite squad and several contracted sorcerers including you.

You stood near the edge of the formation, clipboard in hand as usual, noting energy output readings for the support team. Your expression remained calm and focused, the same professional mask you wore every day. No smiles for the crowd. No nervous energy. Just quiet competence.

Naoya watched from the elevated platform where the elders sometimes observed. He wasn’t supposed to be there today. His own training schedule had him elsewhere, but he had rearranged it. Again. His sharp eyes tracked your every movement with increasing fixation. The way you moved between stations, offering precise adjustments to cursed energy flow without fanfare. The way you never once glanced toward the central group where he stood, arms crossed, teal kimono draped perfectly over his shoulders.

He had grown used to the burn of your indifference by now. It no longer surprised him; it fueled him. Every time you stepped around him in the archives, every time you answered with that flat, minimal voice and walked away, the splinter in his chest twisted deeper.

Today, though, the splinter would snap.

The drill involved paired stabilization exercises. One sorcerer would push their cursed energy to the limit while the other maintained balance with support techniques. You were assigned to assist a mid-rank clan member named Kaito. A tall, easy-going man from a branch family with a wind-manipulation technique. He wasn’t particularly powerful, but he was competent, friendly, and had a habit of cracking dry jokes during downtime.

Kaito approached you with a casual wave. “Hey, looks like we’re paired up. Try not to make me look too bad out there, yeah?”

You glanced up from your notes. For the first time in weeks, your lips curved into a small, genuine smile. Not wide, not flirtatious, just easy. Natural. “I’ll keep the feedback constructive,” you replied, voice lighter than Naoya had ever heard it. “Your wind bursts are strong, but the dispersion at the edges needs tightening. We can work on that.”

Kaito laughed. It was a warm, open sound that carried across the courtyard. “Straight to the point. I like it. Most people here just nod and hope I don’t embarrass the family. Let’s do this.”

They moved to their station.

Naoya’s fingers dug into his forearms hard enough to leave faint crescents.

He watched as you worked with Kaito. You gave clear, patient instructions. When Kaito overextended and his cursed energy spiked unevenly, you stepped in smoothly, placing a hand on his shoulder to channel Reverse Cursed Technique. The blue glow stabilized him instantly. Kaito grinned at you, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Damn, that feels way better,” he said, voice carrying. “You’re a lifesaver. Seriously, most support types are either scared or sucking up. You just… fix it. No drama.”

You let out a soft laugh. Quiet, but real. It wasn’t loud or performative. It was the sound of someone relaxing for half a second because the interaction required no performance. “It’s literally my job,” you said, still smiling faintly. “But thanks. Your control improved on that last set. Keep the rotation tighter next time.”

Kaito bumped your shoulder lightly with his fist, it was friendly and brotherly. “You’re good at this. We should grab tea after drills sometime. I know a spot in the village that doesn’t suck.”

You nodded once, easy agreement. “Sure. If schedules line up.”

Another laugh from Kaito. Another easy exchange.

Naoya felt it like a curse tearing through his ribs.

She can react.

The thought slammed into him harder than any physical blow. She can smile. She can laugh. She can offer casual conversation and light touches and future plans like it’s nothing.

Just not to me.

His vision narrowed. The rest of the courtyard faded into a dull hum. All he saw was you, smiling at someone ordinary. Someone who hadn’t earned it. Someone who hadn’t spent weeks pushing, invading, obsessing just to get a single scrap of acknowledgment.

The ego damage was visceral. Deeper than jealousy. This wasn’t about wanting what another man had. This was the realization that your indifference wasn’t a universal trait. It was targeted. Deliberate. You chose to give warmth and attention to others while treating him—Naoya Zenin, the heir, the prodigy—like he was less than the gravel under your boots.

His chest burned. Projection Sorcery flickered involuntarily around his hands, twenty-four frames of restrained violence itching to be unleashed.

How dare she.

How dare she have that in her and withhold it from him.

The drill continued for another twenty minutes. Every laugh, every easy word between you and Kaito scraped against Naoya’s nerves like sandpaper on raw skin. When the session finally ended and Kaito gave you another friendly wave before heading off, Naoya didn’t wait.

He descended from the platform in a blur, Projection Sorcery carrying him across the courtyard faster than anyone could track. He reached you just as you were gathering your clipboard.

You sensed him coming, his cursed energy crackling like a storm, but you didn’t look up. You simply turned toward the exit path.

Naoya stepped directly into your way. No teasing lean this time. No mocking drawl. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, eyes burning with something sharper than irritation.

“You seem chatty today,” he said, voice low and edged with ice. No smile. No arrogance masking the cut. Just raw, unfiltered confrontation. “Laughing. Making plans. Touching. All that warmth for a branch family nobody who can barely hold a Grade 2 on his own.”

You paused, finally lifting your gaze, but only to his chest, not his face. “The exercise went well,” you replied evenly. “Feedback helps the team.”

He took a step closer, forcing you to tilt your head slightly if you wanted to avoid looking at him. His hand came up not grabbing, but hovering near your arm, fingers trembling with the effort not to close the distance. “Team,” he repeated, the word dripping venom. “You give them smiles. You give them laughs. You give them your time like it costs nothing.” His voice dropped even lower, almost a growl. “But me? I get nothing. Not a glance. Not a reaction. Not even basic fucking courtesy.”

The air between you thickened. A few lingering sorcerers glanced over, sensing the shift in tension, but they quickly looked away. No one interfered with Naoya Zenin when he looked like this.

You didn’t back down. Didn’t step away. You simply adjusted your grip on the clipboard. “I respond when it’s necessary, Naoya-sama.”

The honorific felt like a slap.

His eyes darkened. For the first time, the obsession cracked open fully in his chest, no longer disguised as mere provocation.

“So you can react,” he said, almost to himself, the words bitter. “Just not to me.”

He wanted to grab your chin. Force your eyes up. Make you see exactly who was standing in front of you. But he held back, barely. The restraint only made the fire worse.

You sidestepped him again, the movement smooth and unhurried, and continued toward the archives.

Naoya didn’t follow immediately. He stood there in the courtyard, fists clenched at his sides, blond hair shifting in the breeze as the green roots seemed to darken with his mood.

The game had changed.

No more testing.

No more waiting for you to slip.

He would corner you. Force the reaction. Make you understand that ignoring him was no longer an option.

Because the thought of you laughing with anyone else. Giving even a fraction of that easy warmth to someone beneath him made something possessive and ugly uncoil in his gut.

He wanted your attention.

He wanted your reactions.

He wanted you.

And he would have them. All of them.

Even if he had to break his own rules to get there.

The archive building was quiet after sunset. Most of the clan had retired to their quarters or the main hall for evening sake and strategy talks. Only the faint glow of lanterns and the occasional rustle of turning pages broke the silence in the long, narrow corridors lined with towering shelves of ancient scrolls and cursed tool ledgers.

You were alone in the restricted section at the back, a small reading alcove tucked behind a sliding shoji screen. A single lantern cast warm light over the low table where you sat cross-legged, surrounded by open texts on advanced Reverse Cursed Technique applications. Your pen moved steadily across fresh paper, logging observations from the day’s drill. The air smelled of aged paper, ink, and the faint cedar of the wooden beams.

You didn’t hear him approach at first.

Naoya moved like a predator who had already decided the hunt was over.

Projection Sorcery carried him through the empty halls in near-silence. Twenty-four flawless frames per second, each step calculated so that the tatami barely whispered under his waraji. He had waited until the last assistant left. Until the compound settled. Until there was nowhere left for you to slip away.

He stopped just outside the alcove, one hand resting on the wooden frame of the shoji. His shadow stretched long across the floor, swallowing the lantern light. The teal kimono hung open at the collar, revealing the sharp lines of his chest and the faint sheen of sweat from hours of restrained tension. Blond hair fell slightly messier than usual, green roots stark in the low light. His sharp brown eyes locked onto you with burning intensity.

You felt the shift in cursed energy immediately. Heavy, crackling, barely leashed. But you kept writing. One more line. One more note.

Naoya slid the shoji screen shut behind him with a soft click. The sound was final. No escape route. No audience. Just the two of you in the confined space.

He didn’t speak at first. He simply stood there, staring down at you. The silence stretched, thick and charged.

Then, voice low and rough, edged with weeks of festering frustration:

“You ignore me on purpose.”

It wasn’t a question.

You paused, pen stilling on the paper. For the first time in all these encounters, you slowly lifted your gaze and meeting his eyes directly. Not wide-eyed. Not fearful. Just… calm. Steady. As if you had been waiting for this moment to arrive.

You didn’t deny it.

The lack of denial seemed to snap something inside him.

Naoya took one step forward, then another, until he was towering over the low table. His presence filled the alcove, the heat of his body cutting through the cool night air. He dropped into a crouch in front of you close, too close, his knees bracketing the edge of the table so you couldn’t easily stand without brushing against him.

“Look at me,” he demanded, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “Right now. Stop pretending I’m fucking background noise.”

Your eyes stayed on his. Unflinching. “I’m not pretending anything, Naoya-sama.”

The honorific sounded hollow again. It only fueled the fire.

He leaned in further, one hand planting on the table beside your notes, the other gripping the edge of the wooden surface so tightly the grain creaked. His face was inches from yours now. Close enough that you could see the faint scar near his left eyebrow, the way his piercings caught the lantern light, the raw, obsessive hunger burning in those sharp brown eyes.

“You laugh with that branch-family idiot,” he hissed, the words spilling out sharper than he intended. “You smile. You touch him like it’s nothing. You make plans. But when I speak, when I stand right in front of you, you act like I don’t exist.” His breath ghosted across your lips. “Why? What makes me so fucking beneath your notice?”

You held his gaze. Your voice remained even, but there was a new undercurrent. Something quieter, almost curious. “Because everyone else wants something from you. Praise. Favor. A reaction. I don’t.”

The honesty hit him like a curse technique to the chest.

Naoya’s eyes darkened. He reached out and caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger. Not rough, but firm. Unavoidable. He tilted your face up, forcing you to keep looking at him even as you tried to maintain that careful distance.

“Then give me one,” he said, voice rough and low, vibrating with frustration and something far darker. “React. Say something. Fight back. Do anything except this… nothing.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip, barely there, but the touch sent a spark through the confined space. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he stayed there, crouched in front of you, body caging yours against the table, cursed energy humming around him like a storm about to break.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. Your eyes searched his face for a long moment. Taking in the arrogant set of his jaw, the possessive glint in his stare, the way his breathing had grown uneven.

“I see you, Naoya,” you said finally, quiet but clear. “I just don’t need to orbit you like everyone else does.”

Something in him cracked.

It wasn’t softness. It wasn’t romance.

It was raw, frustrated need.

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. But he leaned in until his forehead nearly touched yours, his grip on your chin tightening just enough to remind you he could hold you there if he wanted.

“You will,” he whispered, the words almost a threat. “You’ll look at me. You’ll react to me. You’ll stop walking away like I’m nothing.” His free hand moved to brace on the table behind you, fully caging you now. The heat of his body pressed close. Chest inches from yours, thigh brushing your knee. “Because I’m done playing this game. You’ve been under my skin for weeks, acting like you’re immune. You’re not.”

The air crackled with tension. His cursed energy flickered, Projection Sorcery ready to freeze the moment if you tried to slip away again. But you didn’t move.

You just looked at him, really looked, seeing the obsession that had taken root behind the arrogance.

Naoya’s breath hitched. The realization slammed into him harder than ever:

This wasn’t about winning anymore.

This wasn’t about ego.

He wanted you. Specifically you. Your attention. Your reactions. Your indifference broken only for him.

And he was no longer willing to wait.

“Say something,” he demanded again, voice hoarse, thumb still tracing your lip with deliberate slowness. “Anything. Or I’ll make sure you can’t ignore me ever again.”

The lantern flame flickered between you, casting shifting shadows across his sharp, beautiful, dangerous face.

The confrontation had begun.

And Naoya Zenin had no intention of letting you walk away from it unchanged.

The lantern in the archive alcove flickered low, casting long, dancing shadows across the wooden beams and scattered scrolls. The air felt thicker now, heavier with the scent of old paper, ink, and the sharp, clean citrus-smoke of Naoya’s presence. His hand still held your chin. His thumb pressing lightly against your lower lip, not painful, but insistent. Unyielding. His sharp brown eyes bored into yours, pupils blown wide with a mix of frustration, fascination, and something far more dangerous.

He was close. Too close.

His knee had shifted forward between yours where you sat on the floor cushion, caging you against the low table. The open collar of his white shirt revealed the taut line of his collarbone and the faint sheen of tension on his skin. The teal kimono had slipped further off one shoulder, exposing the powerful slope of muscle. Projection Sorcery hummed faintly around him, a barely-contained vibration that made the air between your bodies feel electric.

You didn’t pull away.

You didn’t lean in either.

You simply held his gaze, steady and unafraid, as if this entire storm of obsession was something you had expected all along.

That lack of fear that complete refusal to be intimidated or impressed only twisted the knife deeper in Naoya’s chest.

His thumb dragged slowly across your lower lip, deliberate and testing. The touch was rougher now, less controlled. “You’re not scared,” he murmured, voice low and rough, almost accusatory. “Not even a little. Everyone else in this compound flinches when I look at them the wrong way. Women practically melt or run. But you…” He leaned in closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath hot against your mouth. “You just look at me like I’m another scroll on the shelf.”

He released your chin only to slide his hand along your jaw, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. Not pulling. Not yet. Just holding. Possessing. Testing how far he could push before you finally reacted.

“Say something,” he demanded again, the words edged with that familiar arrogance, but cracked open by raw need. “React. Tell me I’m wasting my time. Tell me to fuck off. Anything but this silence.”

Your breathing remained even, though your pulse had quickened just enough for him to feel it under his fingertips. “You’re not wasting your time if this is what you want,” you said quietly, voice calm but no longer completely detached. There was a new undercurrent there. Something sharper, almost challenging. “But I won’t perform for you, Naoya.”

His eyes flashed.

The use of his name without the honorific this time hit him like a spark on dry tinder.

He moved.

In one fluid motion, Projection Sorcery blurring the transition, he rose and pulled you up with him. His hands gripped your waist, firm and unyielding, spinning you so your back pressed against the nearest shelf. Scrolls rattled softly behind you. The wooden edge dug into your spine, but his body crowded forward immediately, pinning you there with his hips and chest.

He was hard against you. Thighs bracketing yours, one hand braced beside your head on the shelf, the other still tangled in your hair. The heat of him seeped through your uniform, overwhelming. His face hovered inches away, lips brushing the corner of your mouth as he spoke.

“You think this is a performance?” he growled, voice dropping into something darker, more obsessive. “This isn’t a game anymore. You’ve been walking around this compound like you’re above it all. Above me. While I can’t stop thinking about how to make you look at me.” His hips pressed forward slightly, deliberate, letting you feel the growing evidence of his frustration. “Every time you stepped around me, every time you refused to even glance my way… it drove me insane.”

He tilted his head, nose tracing along your jawline, breath hot against your ear. “I watch you now. Your routines. Your drills. The way you breathe when you’re concentrating. I know when you take your tea. I know how long you stay in the garden at night.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. Light, testing, not quite a bite. “And still you act like I don’t exist.”

His free hand slid down your side, fingers pressing into the curve of your waist, then lower to grip your hip. He pulled you tighter against him, the movement slow and intentional, grinding just enough to make his point without crossing fully into violence.

“You’re not impressed by me,” he continued, voice hoarse now, lips brushing your neck. “Not intimidated. Not trying to use me for status or power or anything the others want.” He laughed once. “That’s what makes you dangerous. That’s why I can’t stop.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you again, eyes dark and burning. His hand left your hair to cup your face, thumb dragging down your throat, pressing lightly over your pulse.

“React to me,” he whispered, the command laced with desperate fascination. “Fight me. Want me. Hate me. I don’t care anymore, as long as it’s me you’re feeling it for.”

The tension in the small alcove was suffocating. His body was a wall of heat and muscle, hips still pressed flush against yours, one thigh nudged between your legs to keep you pinned. Cursed energy crackled faintly around both of you. His Projection Sorcery mixing with the steady blue glow of your Reverse Cursed Technique that had begun to flicker unconsciously in response to the proximity.

You could feel every inch of his restraint fraying. The way his fingers trembled slightly against your skin. The way his breathing had grown ragged. The arrogant heir who had never needed to chase anyone was now obsessed, fixated, unraveling because one woman refused to give him what everyone else handed over freely.

He leaned in again, lips hovering just above yours. Close enough that the slightest movement would close the distance.

“Say my name again,” he ordered, voice rough and low, almost pleading beneath the demand. “Look at me while you do it. And don’t you dare look away this time.”

His hips rolled once more. Slow, deliberate, a clear promise of everything he was barely holding back.

The spice had ignited.

And Naoya Zenin had no intention of letting the fire die until you finally burned with him.

He was breathing harder now, chest rising and falling against yours, the open collar of his shirt allowing skin-to-skin contact where the fabric had slipped. His sharp brown eyes never left yours. Dark, obsessive, burning with weeks of pent-up frustration finally spilling over.

Your pulse thrummed under his thumb. You held his gaze, unflinching, even as heat pooled low in your belly from the relentless proximity. “Naoya,” you said quietly, the name slipping out softer this time, but still steady. No tremor. No submission. Just acknowledgment laced with that same calm challenge.

Something feral flashed across his face.

He closed the last inch.

His mouth crashed against yours. It was hungry, demanding, all sharp teeth and arrogant possession. There was nothing gentle about it. This was Naoya Zenin claiming what had tormented him for weeks. His tongue swept in without waiting for permission, tasting, conquering, devouring the indifference he hated so much. One hand tangled deeper into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted while the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, pulling you tighter against his grinding hips.

You tasted like tea and ink and the quiet defiance that had driven him insane. He groaned into the kiss, low and frustrated, the sound vibrating through his chest. His thigh pressed higher between your legs, rubbing with deliberate friction as his hips rocked again. Though slower this time, more intentional, letting you feel every inch of how hard he was for you.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips when he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours. His voice was hoarse, wrecked. “You taste like nothing I’ve ever wanted before. And I hate how much I need it.”

He didn’t give you time to respond. His mouth moved to your neck, lips and teeth scraping along the sensitive skin, sucking a mark just below your jaw. His actions were dark, possessive, and impossible to hide. His hand slid under the hem of your uniform jacket, fingers splaying hot across your bare waist, nails digging in as he pulled you even closer. The roll of his hips became more insistent, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against you in a rhythm that made the shelf behind you creak softly.

“You feel that?” he rasped, biting down on your earlobe before soothing it with his tongue. “That’s what your silence does to me. Weeks of you walking away, acting like I’m nothing… and now I can’t stop thinking about bending you over every surface in this compound until you can’t ignore me anymore.”

His cursed energy flared, Projection Sorcery flickering for a split second. Freezing the moment just long enough to make the friction sharper, more overwhelming before releasing it again. He was losing control, and he didn’t care. The arrogant heir who never chased was now rutting against you like a man starved, lips trailing back to your mouth for another bruising kiss.

But then, you shifted.

Your hands came up to his chest, not pushing him away exactly, but creating the slightest space. Your breathing was ragged now, lips swollen from his kisses, but that familiar calm was creeping back into your eyes. You started to turn your head, body angling as if to slip sideways along the shelf. The same way you had moved around him so many times before. Walking away mid-interaction. Denying him even in the heat of the moment.

Naoya’s reaction was pure instinct.

His hand shot out, slamming against the shelf beside your head with enough force to rattle the scrolls. His other arm wrapped around your waist like a steel band, yanking you back flush against him. Projection Sorcery activated fully this time, locking the frame for a heartbeat so you couldn’t complete the sidestep.

“No,” he snarled, the word torn from deep in his chest. “You don’t get to walk away. Not now. Not from this.”

He held you there, trapped against his body, his forehead pressed hard to yours, breathing ragged and hot. His hips had stilled, but his cock was still throbbing against you, heavy and insistent. The grip on your waist was bruising, possessive.

And in that frozen second when his body acted before his mind could catch up, the realization slammed into him like a curse breaking through his ribs.

This wasn’t about attention anymore.

It wasn’t about winning the game or repairing his ego or forcing a reaction just to prove he could.

He wanted you.

Specifically you.

Not the praise. Not the admiration. Not even the satisfaction of breaking your indifference.

He wanted the woman who looked at him without awe or fear. The one who moved through the compound like a quiet storm he couldn’t control. The one whose calm voice and steady hands made his blood burn hotter than any battle ever had.

He wanted your time. Your touch. Your rare smiles turned toward him. Your body under his. Your voice saying his name like it mattered.

Not because everyone else gave it freely.

Because it was you.

Naoya’s eyes widened fractionally, the obsessive fire in them shifting into something deeper, more dangerous. His grip loosened just enough to be less punishing, but he didn’t let go. His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip again, almost reverent now, though his voice stayed blunt and annoyed, pure Naoya.

“You’re irritating as hell,” he muttered, voice rough and low, forehead still pressed to yours. “Acting like I don’t exist when all I can think about is you. Stop it.”

What he meant was: Don’t ignore me. Don’t walk away. Don’t make me chase what I now realize I can’t live without.

His hips rolled once more. Slower, deeper, a deliberate grind that dragged his clothed cock along your core with aching friction. His hand slid higher under your jacket, palm hot against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through fabric.

“I want you,” he said bluntly, the confession sounding almost angry on his tongue. “Not your reaction. Not your submission. You. Specifically you. And I’m done pretending it’s anything else.”

He kissed you again. It was now hard, claiming, but with a new edge of raw honesty beneath the arrogance. His body pressed fully against yours, thigh spreading your legs wider, hips moving in a slow, filthy rhythm that promised everything he was barely holding back.

The lantern light flickered over his sharp, flushed face. Blond hair messy, green roots dark with sweat, piercings glinting as he pulled back just enough to look at you.

“Tell me you feel it too,” he demanded, voice hoarse, hips still grinding slow and relentless. “Or I’ll keep you here until you do.”

The obsession had cracked open completely.

And Naoya Zenin was no longer fighting it.

The restricted alcove in the archive building had become a pressure cooker. Lantern light flickered weakly across scattered scrolls and the low table, but neither of you paid any attention to the mess. Naoya’s body was a solid wall of heat and tension, pressing you back against the wooden shelf with unrelenting insistence. His thigh remained wedged between yours, hips grinding in slow, deliberate circles that dragged the thick, hard length of his cock against your core through too many layers of fabric. Each roll sent sparks of friction straight through you, making your breath hitch despite your best efforts to stay composed.

His mouth was on yours again. He kissed like he fought: no mercy, no hesitation, all raw dominance tempered by the obsessive need that had been eating him alive for weeks. One hand stayed tangled in your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head exactly how he wanted. The other had pushed fully under your uniform jacket, palm hot and rough against your ribs, fingers splaying wide as his thumb brushed the underside of your breast, teasing the edge of fabric without quite giving you more.

He pulled back from the kiss with a wet sound, lips swollen, breathing ragged. His sharp brown eyes, dark with lust and that deeper, dangerous fixation locked onto yours. Blond hair fell messier across his forehead, green roots visible and damp with sweat. The three silver piercings in his left ear caught the light as he tilted his head, studying you like a man who had finally stopped pretending.

“You’re still not running,” he rasped, voice low and rough, almost annoyed at how much that pleased him. “Everyone else would have begged or cried or thrown themselves at me by now. But you…” He rolled his hips harder, grinding the ridge of his erection right against your clit with precise, filthy pressure. “You just take it. Look at me like you’re waiting for me to break first.”

His hand slid higher, finally cupping your breast fully, squeezing with arrogant possession as his thumb circled your nipple through the thin layer of your shirt. He pinched lightly, then harder when your body arched into him despite yourself. A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest.

“Fuck… look at that reaction,” he muttered, leaning in to scrape his teeth along your jaw, then down to the mark he’d already sucked into your neck. He bit down again harder this time sucking until the skin bloomed dark under his mouth. “You’re wet for me, aren’t you? All that calm indifference, and your body’s betraying you right here against my cock.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His free hand dropped to your hip, gripping hard as he rocked against you in a steady, relentless rhythm. The friction was maddening. Thick and hot, the outline of him rubbing perfectly with every grind. Projection Sorcery flickered around you both for a split second, sharpening the sensation until it felt like there was nothing between you.

Then he stopped.

Pulled back just enough to look at you properly, chest heaving.

Instead of another taunt or demand, his expression shifted. The arrogance was still there but beneath it was something rawer. More honest. Still very much Naoya.

“You’re irritating,” he said bluntly, voice hoarse but direct. His hand stayed on your breast, thumb lazily stroking your nipple as if he couldn’t stop touching you. “Acting like I don’t exist when I can’t get you out of my head. I watch you run in the mornings. I know exactly how long you spend in the archives. I rearrange my entire fucking day just to stand in your way… and you still treat me like background noise.”

He leaned in again, forehead pressing to yours, hips giving one slow, deep grind that made his cock twitch against you. His breath was hot against your lips.

“Stop it.”

The words were simple. Annoyed. Almost petulant in that Zenin way.

But what he meant hung heavy in the charged air between you:

Don’t ignore me anymore.

Don’t walk away mid-sentence.

Don’t make me chase what I now know I need.

His hand left your breast only to slide down your side, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants. He didn’t pull them down, not yet, but the intention was clear. His palm pressed flat against your lower stomach, thumb dipping just beneath the fabric, brushing the sensitive skin there.

“I want you,” he continued, voice dropping lower, rougher. “Not the reaction. Not the ego boost. You. Specifically you. The one who doesn’t simper or beg or look at me like I’m some prize. The one who makes me lose control just by existing in the same compound.” He nipped at your lower lip, then soothed it with his tongue. “It pisses me off how much I want this. How much I want to pin you down every night until the only name you remember is mine.”

The touch became more intentional now. His fingers slipped lower, tracing the edge of your underwear before pressing firmly against your clothed heat. He rubbed slow circles, feeling the dampness there, a smug yet frustrated smirk tugging at his lips even as his eyes stayed dark with obsession.

“Feel that?” he murmured, voice thick. “That’s mine now. This whole fucking indifference act ends tonight. You’re going to look at me. You’re going to moan for me. And you’re going to stop pretending I’m not the only thing you think about when you’re alone in that quiet little room of yours.”

He kissed you again. Less frantic conquest, more deliberate possession. His fingers continued their teasing pressure between your legs, building the heat without rushing to the end. His hips rocked gently against his own hand and your thigh, letting you feel how painfully hard he still was.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours once more. The lantern light cast sharp shadows across his flushed face.

“No more games,” he said, blunt and final, thumb pressing firmer against your clit through the fabric. “You’re staying right here until you admit it. Until you feel it. Until you’re as obsessed as I am.”

His fingers slipped beneath the last layer of fabric, finally touching bare, slick skin. Two fingers dragged slowly through your folds, gathering wetness before circling your clit with precise, torturous pressure.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice a low growl against your mouth. “Tell me you’re done ignoring me. Tell me you want this, you want me, as much as I want you.”

The breaking point had arrived.

Naoya Zenin wasn’t asking anymore.

He was claiming.

And in the flickering lantern light of the private alcove, with his body pressed hot and heavy against yours, fingers working you with arrogant skill and obsessive focus, the tension finally shattered into something raw, addictive, and undeniably mutual.

“Say it,” he growled again, voice low and rough, thumb pressing harder on your clit as his fingers teased your entrance. “Tell me you’re done ignoring me. Tell me this pussy is already mine.”

You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, lips swollen from his kisses, cheeks flushed. But instead of the surrender he clearly expected, the corner of your mouth twitched into a small, defiant smirk.

“Make me,” you whispered, voice breathy but laced with clear challenge. You rolled your hips once against his hand then pulled back just enough to deny him the full friction. “You’ve been chasing me for weeks, Naoya. If you want me that badly… earn it.”

Brat.

The single word flashed across Naoya’s mind like a curse.

His eyes narrowed instantly. The arrogant set of his jaw tightened, and a dangerous smirk curled his lips sharp and predatory, it was pure Zenin superiority. The playful frustration in his expression vanished, replaced by cold, controlled annoyance.

“Oh?” His voice dropped dangerously low, the casual drawl gone. “You think you can still play games with me? After all this?”

Before you could retort, his hand withdrew from your pants entirely. You barely had time to register the loss before he spun you around with effortless strength. Projection Sorcery blurring the motion so fast your back hit the shelf again, this time facing away from him. His chest pressed flush to your back, one arm banding around your waist like iron while his free hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back sharply so your neck arched.

“You want to act like a brat?” he hissed directly into your ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Fine. I’ll treat you like one.”

His hips snapped forward, grinding his cock hard against your ass through the fabric. The thick, heavy length rubbed insistently, letting you feel exactly how little patience he had left. With a rough tug, he yanked your uniform jacket and shirt up in one motion, exposing your back and breasts to the cool air. His hand immediately palmed one breast, squeezing hard, pinching your nipple between thumb and forefinger with mean precision.

“Naoya—” you started, the challenge still in your tone.

“Shut up,” he snapped, voice sharp and commanding. He bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulder. Hard enough to leave teeth marks then soothed it with a rough lick. “You’ve had your fun ignoring me. Walking away. Acting like I’m nothing. Now you’re going to learn exactly who owns your attention.”

He shoved your pants and underwear down in one swift, impatient motion, letting them pool at your ankles. Cool air hit your soaked core, but it was immediately replaced by the heat of his hand as he reached between your legs from behind. Two fingers plunged inside you without warning. It was deep, stretching, curling instantly against that spot that made your knees buckle.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he growled, pumping his fingers hard and fast, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet alcove. “All that bratty mouth and your cunt is clenching around me like it’s starving. Pathetic.”

You tried to push back against him, still challenging, a breathy “Is that all you’ve got—” slipping out.

Naoya’s response was immediate and merciless.

He pulled his fingers out, spun you again to face him, and lifted you clean off the ground with Projection Sorcery assisting the motion. Your back slammed against the shelf once more as he pinned you there, your legs forced around his waist. He freed his cock with his other hand. He was thick, flushed, leaking at the tip and dragged the head through your folds once, twice, coating himself in your wetness.

“Still talking?” he sneered, eyes dark with annoyed lust. “Let’s fix that.”

He thrust into you in one brutal stroke. Burying himself to the hilt, stretching you open around his cock with zero mercy. The sudden fullness punched the air from your lungs. Naoya groaned, deep and satisfied, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second as he savored the tight heat.

“Shit… so fucking tight,” he muttered, then pulled back and slammed in again, setting a punishing rhythm immediately. Each thrust was deep, hard, and perfectly controlled. Projection Sorcery letting him hit exactly where he wanted, over and over. The shelf rattled behind you with every snap of his hips. His hands gripped your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he fucked you against the wood.

“You wanted me to earn it?” he taunted between thrusts, voice rough and breathless but dripping with superiority. “This is me earning it. This is what happens when you push me, brat. You get fucked until the only thing you can say is my name.”

He angled his hips, grinding deep on every stroke so the head of his cock dragged against that sensitive spot inside you. One hand left your ass to wrap around your throat. Not choking, but firm, possessive, tilting your head so you had no choice but to look at him.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered, sharp and final. “No looking away. No ignoring me. You’re going to watch me fuck the attitude right out of you.”

His pace quickened, thrusts turning shorter and harder, skin slapping against skin. Sweat beaded on his forehead, blond hair sticking to his skin, green roots dark. His piercings glinted with every movement. He leaned in, biting your lower lip hard before kissing you. The kiss was messy, dominating, tongue fucking your mouth in time with his cock.

Every thrust drove the point home: he was in control now. Completely.

No more chasing.

No more games.

You were his, and he was going to make sure you felt it in every bruise, every mark, every deep, relentless stroke.

“Say it,” he demanded again, voice strained with pleasure but still commanding. He slammed in particularly hard, holding himself deep as he ground against your clit. “Tell me who you belong to. Tell me you’re done being a fucking brat and you’ll look at me from now on.”

His hand tightened slightly on your throat, thumb pressing under your jaw as he kept fucking you with single-minded, obsessive intensity.

Naoya Zenin had finally taken full control.

And he wasn’t stopping until you broke exactly the way he wanted.

Naoya’s cock was buried deep inside you, thick and throbbing, stretching you open with every brutal snap of his hips. The wooden shelf dug into your back as he fucked you against it with relentless force, each thrust punctuated by the wet slap of skin and the low, arrogant growl rumbling from his chest. His hands gripped your ass hard enough to leave fingerprints, fingers digging into the soft flesh while he held you suspended, legs wrapped tightly around his waist.

Sweat glistened on his sharp collarbones, his white shirt hanging open and clinging to his skin. Blond hair stuck to his forehead, green roots dark and messy. Those sharp brown eyes burned into yours with pure, obsessive dominance. No mercy, no softness, only the raw need to break the last of your defiance.

And you were still pushing him.

Even as pleasure coiled tight and vicious in your belly, even as your walls fluttered helplessly around his cock with every deep stroke, you managed a breathless, bratty smirk.

“Is that… all you’ve got?” you gasped between thrusts, voice shaky but challenging. “Thought the great Naoya Zenin would last longer than this…”

His eyes flashed with pure annoyance.

He slammed into you harder, grinding the head of his cock against that perfect spot inside you until your vision blurred. Then, he stopped.

Completely.

Buried to the hilt, hips flush against yours, he held perfectly still. Projection Sorcery flickered around you both, freezing the moment so you couldn’t even rock against him for friction. The sudden denial made your core clench desperately around nothing but his thick length, the orgasm that had been building crashing back down into agonizing frustration.

Naoya’s lips curled into a dangerous, mocking smirk. His hand moved to your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your pulse jump under his palm.

“Still running that mouth?” he hissed, voice low and venomous. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

He pulled out almost entirely, leaving only the swollen head inside you, then thrust back in once before stopping again. The sharp spike of pleasure followed immediately by nothing made tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

“You want to cum?” he taunted, leaning in so his lips brushed your ear, hot breath sending shivers down your spine. “Then beg properly, brat. Tell me you’re mine. Tell me you’ll never ignore me again. Say the words and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you fall apart on my cock.”

You bit your lip, hips twitching uselessly against his hold. The denial burned. Your body was screaming for release, walls pulsing around his cock, but he refused to move.

“Naoya…” you tried, voice strained, still trying to sound defiant.

He laughed. Short, cruel, and entirely too pleased with himself.

“Wrong answer.”

He started moving again, but slower this time. Torturously slow. Long, deep strokes that dragged the thick head of his cock against every sensitive ridge inside you, building you right back up to the edge with merciless precision. His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, firm circles that had your thighs shaking around his waist.

Every time your breathing hitched, every time your walls started to flutter and tighten around him, he stopped.

Completely.

Pulled out until only the tip remained, or froze with Projection Sorcery, leaving you dangling on the precipice of orgasm with nothing but aching emptiness.

Over and over.

The fourth time he edged you, tears slipped down your cheeks. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin through his open shirt. Your voice cracked.

“Naoya—please—”

“Please what?” he growled, slamming in deep once more before stilling again. His cock twitched inside you, hot and heavy, but he refused to give you the final push. Sweat dripped from his temple onto your collarbone. His grip on your throat tightened slightly, forcing your eyes to stay locked on his. “Use your words, little brat. Tell me exactly what I want to hear.”

You whimpered, hips desperately trying to grind against him, but his hold was ironclad. The pleasure was unbearable now—coiled so tight it hurt, every nerve ending screaming for release.

“I’m yours,” you finally gasped, voice breaking on the words. “I’m yours, Naoya—fuck—I won’t ignore you anymore. I won’t walk away. I won’t… I won’t pretend you don’t exist. Please—please let me cum—”

Naoya’s eyes darkened with savage satisfaction. The arrogant smirk widened, but there was something deeper in his gaze now.

“That’s better,” he murmured, voice rough and approving. “But say it like you mean it.”

He started moving again. Harder this time, faster, each thrust punishing and perfect. His cock drove into you with brutal precision, hitting that spot over and over while his thumb worked your clit in tight, relentless circles.

“I’m yours!” you cried out, the words tumbling desperately now. “I’m yours, Naoya—only yours. I won’t ignore you again—I swear—please, I need—”

He cut you off with a bruising kiss, tongue claiming your mouth as he fucked you with single-minded intensity. The denial finally shattered.

“Come,” he commanded against your lips, voice dark and final. “Cum on my cock like the brat you are. Show me who owns you now.”

The orgasm crashed over you like a curse breaking. Violent, overwhelming, white-hot pleasure ripping through every nerve. Your walls clamped down around him, pulsing and fluttering as you came hard, a broken moan of his name tearing from your throat. Your vision whited out, body shaking violently in his hold as wave after wave tore through you.

Naoya didn’t stop.

He fucked you straight through it, hips snapping relentlessly, drawing out every last tremor until you were oversensitive and whimpering. Only then did he bury himself deep one final time, groaning low and guttural as he came inside you. Hot, thick pulses filling you up while his fingers dug bruises into your hips.

He stayed buried inside you as you both came down, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. His hand loosened on your throat, sliding up to cup your jaw instead. Still possessive, still controlling, but with a new, darker satisfaction burning in his eyes.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice hoarse but dripping with arrogant triumph. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He kissed you again but slower this time, no less claiming. Then pulled back just enough to look at you with that sharp, obsessive gaze.

“No more ignoring me,” he warned, still deep inside you, cock twitching with aftershocks. “From now on, you look at me. You react to me. You belong to me. Understand?”

His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip, eyes narrowing with that familiar Zenin intensity.

“Or next time, I’ll edge you for hours.”

The resolution had come.

Naoya Zenin had won.

And the possessive, obsessive fire between you had only just begun to burn.

The morning light filtered through the shoji screens of Naoya’s private quarters, painting the tatami in soft gold and shadow. The compound outside was already stirring. The distant sounds of training drills, servants moving along the engawa, the faint clash of cursed energy in the air. But inside this room, the world had narrowed to the large futon and the two bodies tangled within it.

You woke first, or at least you thought you did.

Naoya’s arm was draped heavily across your waist, possessive even in sleep. His bare chest pressed against your back, skin warm and marked with the faint scratches your nails had left the night before. His cock, half-hard and still nestled between your thighs, twitched faintly as you shifted. The marks he’d left on your neck and shoulders throbbed pleasantly. Dark bites and bruises that would be impossible to hide under your uniform collar.

You tried to slip out from under his arm, moving slowly, testing.

The arm tightened instantly.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was rough with sleep, low and dangerous, lips brushing the back of your neck. He didn’t open his eyes yet, but his hips rolled forward, pressing his growing erection more firmly against your ass. “Didn’t I tell you last night? No more walking away.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. Still a little defiant, still testing the new boundaries. “I was just going to get water, Naoya. Not running to the archives to ignore you.”

He hummed, unconvinced. In one smooth motion, he flipped you onto your back and loomed over you, blond hair messy, green roots visible, sharp brown eyes finally cracking open with that familiar arrogant glint. The three silver piercings in his ear caught the morning light as he smirked down at you.

“Liar,” he murmured, voice still thick. He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, the other sliding down your body to cup between your legs. His fingers found you still slick from the night before. His cum and your own release making everything messy and sensitive. “You were going to slip out like always. Old habits.”

Two fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling lazily as his thumb brushed your clit. You gasped, hips jerking, but he held you down easily.

“Naoya—” you started, the challenge creeping back into your tone even as pleasure sparked through you.

He leaned down, biting your lower lip hard enough to sting. “Say it again,” he ordered, pumping his fingers slowly, deliberately building you up. “Tell me who you belong to. Right now.”

You bit back a moan, eyes narrowing up at him in that same bratty spark. “Make me.”

His eyes darkened instantly. The smirk turned sharper, more dangerous.

“Oh, you still haven’t learned?”

He withdrew his fingers, ignoring your frustrated whine, and replaced them with the thick head of his cock. He pushed in slowly this time inch by inch, stretching you open with deliberate control until he was buried to the hilt. Then he stilled.

Completely.

“No moving,” he warned when you tried to roll your hips. Projection Sorcery flickered, locking your lower body in place so you couldn’t chase the friction. “Not until you say it properly.”

He stayed there, buried deep, cock twitching inside you, while his free hand lazily traced circles around your clit. Light enough to tease, never enough to satisfy.

You lasted maybe thirty seconds before the words tumbled out, breathless and edged with need.

“I’m yours,” you gasped, thighs trembling against the invisible hold. “I’m yours, Naoya. I won’t ignore you again. I won’t walk away. Just—please—”

The smirk widened into something almost feral.

“Good girl.”

He released the Projection Sorcery and started moving deep, steady thrusts that quickly turned punishing. The futon creaked beneath you as he fucked you into the mattress, one hand still pinning your wrists, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. Every thrust drove the point home: you were his now. Completely. No more indifference. No more slipping away.

When you came shaking, crying out his name. He followed right after, spilling deep inside you with a low, satisfied groan.

Afterward, he didn’t pull out immediately. He stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breathing slowing.

“Better,” he muttered, voice still rough but laced with dark satisfaction. “Keep that up and I might even let you walk around the compound without me shadowing every step.”

You raised an eyebrow, still catching your breath. “Might?”

He nipped at your jaw. “Don’t push it.”

Later that morning, the Zenin compound buzzed with its usual rigid energy.

Naoya walked the main path toward the training grounds with you at his side. Not behind him. Not ahead. Right beside him, close enough that his kimono sleeve occasionally brushed your arm. His posture was the same arrogant stride as always, but his sharp eyes kept sliding toward you, possessive and watchful.

The younger clan members stared openly. Whispers rippled through the courtyard.

“Naoya-sama… with the transfer?”

“He never lets anyone walk beside him like that…”

Kaito, the branch family sorcerer from the drill, passed by and offered you a friendly nod and wave. “Morning! Still up for that tea later—”

He didn’t finish.

Naoya’s arm shot out, wrapping around your waist and yanking you flush against his side. His gaze on Kaito was ice-cold, laced with clear warning.

“She’s busy,” Naoya said flatly, voice dripping superiority. “Permanently.”

Kaito blinked, then bowed quickly and hurried off.

You glanced up at Naoya, a small, challenging smile tugging at your lips. “Jealous?”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he leaned down, lips brushing your ear as you walked.

“Call it what you want,” he murmured, hand tightening on your waist. “But from now on, the only person who gets your smiles, your laughs, your attention… is me. Understand?”

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into his touch—just slightly, enough to make his breath hitch.

“Yes, Naoya,” you said, voice soft but with that familiar spark. “I understand.”

He smirked, satisfied, but the obsessive glint in his eyes promised there would be more “lessons” later if you ever tested him again.

The dynamic had shifted.

No longer neglect versus ego.

Now it was sharp, intense, addictive fire. Bratty challenges met with ruthless control, indifference burned away into raw, possessive obsession.

Naoya Zenin had what he wanted.

You.

And he had no intention of ever letting you look anywhere else.

© 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 ; 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐢 - 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[sakunai]

A COVERT OPERATION . you’re not jason’s girl, except you kinda are. pairing ! ex!jason todd x fem!reader wc ! 4.5k warnings ! sfw. fluff. written like a disaster rom com with more com than rom, jealous ex bf! jason, mr. spanky appearance sorta, a creepy unnamed guy appears + a misogynist asshole. reader does not take any shit. so yeah. mentions of alcohol consumption, cigarette smoking (reader & jason) + nicknames used : baby & amore (towards reader).

🗒️ based on this request and italian-american bf jason i & ii. also yeah, he’s pathetic and grovels a little.

art creds : @/shr0uds

now playing ! why don’t you do right — peggy lee 🎧

The first time it happened, you felt bad for the poor guy.

“Jay’s girl, huh?” You turned at the sound of the voice, the warm bar lights casting a harsh glow over the man’s frame.

Sly, slimeball, or whatever the hell the guy told the bartender his name was as he racked up his tab — eyed you up and down, dark hair gelled to the side and a finger idling at the rim of his glass. He was huge, even from where he sat hunched against the side of the bar, his head tilted to the side and legs open in your direction.

You ignored him, plucking the toothpick from your glass and sinking your teeth into the cherry. How long had it been since you and Jason broke up? A week? Two maybe? Not that you’d seen him around lately to keep the score.

He was like that, with his profound ability of becoming a ghost and slinking away to the darkest crevices of the world, never to be seen unless he willed it, which you cursed the son of a bitch for because here you were with the utter bad luck of not being able to do the same.

His neighborhood was also your neighborhood.

His friends were your friends — some who you consider family, and while it might’ve been cute at first to be known as Jay’s Girl™ from here in some washed up family owned bar all the way to the best food joints in Little Italy then to every bookstore in the Bowery and back — it afforded you no anonymity. Or rather, no time to mourn your failed relationship while pretending not to, because God forbid a girl just wants to get a drink at 9 PM without someone mentioning Jay.

“This guy givin’ you trouble?” Paulie, sweet, pure hearted Paulie who’d never hurt a fly — except for that one time he put three guys in the hospital for casing his joint sometime last Christmas — murmured to you, his hands busy drying a glass with the fluffy white towel slung over his shoulder.

“Cause I can get him outta here if he’s giving you a hard time.”

“I’m all good, thanks P,” you smiled, lifting your glass over the bartop to nudge his wrist. “Buuuut, you can top me up again.”

“You’re out of it, kid,” he laughed, but took the glass from you anyway. He hadn’t asked you about Jason the whole night, and despite how refreshing it was, it still felt sort of odd.

Did everybody know where he was except you? Or was the alcohol finally turning you into the pitiful sap you always knew you were?

That solace turned reflection was cut short however.

“I’m just saying, everybody’s skirtin’ around it and looking at me sideways.” The Slimeball chuckled to himself, as if he expected the tiny crowd to join in his amusement. “But you’re a good looking girl… like a fine piece a’ somethin’ you know?”

Paulie, in the middle of mixing your drink, looked to you, then to the guy, and back to you again.

You only shrugged. Not tonight. Please, not tonight.

“What? Are you shy?” The guy turned to face you now, the sleazy grin of his face growing by the second. “Don’t pay attention to them, baby, focus on me.” His stool scraped the floor with a high pitched squeak and in the next second he was on his feet towards you.

Immediately, you tensed, but he leaned forward just as quickly. “You actually need to back up—”

“Hey, man— you need to watch it. Jace doesn’t play about that one,” came a random voice you’re sure you recognize, another neighborhood cousin or something.

“And you need to mind your fuckin’ business,” Grimey Guy whipped his head around. “Cause if that’s true, it’s his fault for not watching his girl.”

Upon turning around though, he reached a hand out to touch you.

Your drink was already raised halfway when Paulie and another guy rounded the counter and practically yanked the guy out of his chair. For good measure — and some well needed release of frustration — you downed half your drink then threw the rest in his face, after which he was dragged out back and kicked out — and maybe kicked around a bit, who knows?

But, Jay’s Girl remained triumphant, and the fairytale lived on, until it didn’t. Sort of.

“Well, that sure is a sight.” Roy whistled long and low over the thumping bass. He twirled a Marlboro Red between his fingers idly, grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

Meanwhile, Dick’s mouth fell open, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets as a hand reached up to clutch his chest. “No way... isn’t that…?”

“Shut up,” Jason, who stood only a few steps away from their little wives-at-teatime gossip huddle grumbled. His lips were set in a deep frown, eyebrows knitted tight and gaze dark.

A humorous sight, if one were to take into consideration that all three of them were in ‘disguise’ for tonight, gathering intel on some high profile guest here at Eden, aka The Cathouse, one of if not the most popular nightclub in East End.

It was alive, electric, bass vibrating through the floorboards and the scent of fruity liquor cloaking the air.

Across the sea of bodies was you, dressed in a silky little thing that was borderline obscene, and the very picture of everything Jason did not want to see, but so desperately needed to.

In truth, this was supposed to be Roy’s job but the fuck-up fucked up and so now he’s here with reinforcements — a bored Dick Grayson who should’ve been back in Blüdhaven yesterday but caught wind of the breakup, which he called ‘The Great Departure’ and figured he’d stick around to boost his poor little bro’s morale — so now Jason is here.

He’s here in this shitty club where some illiterate hog had his hand inching closer to your ass by the second.

You were dancing, hips swaying and chest heaving with the rhythm, yet despite the effort you looked perfect, every bit of you.

From the slight staticky halo of your hair to the soft shine of sweat on your collarbone that looked like glitter and stardust and all things sweet, to your lips that moved in sync with the lyrics of the loud music — those lips, even when painted or lined or plain he can remember the exact curve and shape of them around the syllables of his name, the hiccup of a ti amo, the whisper of an amore mio, the shout of a fuck you, when he suggested that maybe another break is what you two needed.

“Wow,” a whisper came from Roy and Dick nudged him so hard with his elbow that the fake mustache he was wearing hung loose on one side.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Jason huffed, downing the last of a shot of something whoever left on the bar counter. And that fucking mustache just kept itching him, Jesus Christ.

The hog in question, God forgive him, had his hands on your hips, chest pressed tight against your back — a little bird’s chest, Jason thought.

His uncle, or really his neighbor that he called Zio Laurenzo because it was just how he grew up — would say it’s a cardinal sin to not have some meat on your bones to keep a woman warm.

Did he keep you warm? Jason wondered. He knew he always ran cold, you’d tease him for it all the time but he didn’t even know why he was wondering about that now. Zio Laurenzo was a bum with a beer belly and two divorces under his belt. The only thing warm about him was his zuppa di pollo.

Madonna, he cursed in his head. He’d been listening to punks and bums all his life, no wonder he messed up with you.

“You’re a natural,” the guy whose name you’d already forgotten murmured against your ear. “You related to Lola Falana maybe?”

You laughed loud and loose, just the slightest bit tipsy and feeling yourself too much. It’s been a minute since you’ve gone out, a couple more minutes since you’ve entertained a guy just for the sake of it.

“Maybe.” It felt good. Not exactly fulfilling, but fun. You needed fun.

His hands guided your hips into a steady rhythm, your heartbeat matching each bump of the heavy bass.

You got lost in the music, in the heat rather quickly, your collarbones and forearms slightly slick with sweat and cold to touch but the alcohol hot inside your veins, the bumping and grinding of your hips against his even hotter.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” he shouted near your ear over the music, taking a gentle hold of your hand and spinning you around to face him. And oh boy, was he fine.

You told him your name with a playful smirk teasing at your lips, eyes hung low and a hand on his bicep.

The moment the last syllable left your mouth, the guy looked at you as if he’d seen a ghost, the heat of the club long diffused and an expression on his face that read bewilderment instead of sex.

“Repeat that?”

You said your name again and a hand came over his mouth instantaneously in utter shock. You could hardly believe it. “Woman, you tryin’ to get me killed?” He exclaimed in horror.

“What the hell are you even talking about?” Your lips curved into a frown.

He drew in a sharp inhale through his nostrils. “Look, you’re a nice girl and all…” he met your gaze and cringed just a little, fearful. “Like what I mean is, you’re nice— in a friend kinda way— like I wasn’t tryin’ to put no kind of word to you or nothing like that—”

The longer he spoke, the more your shoulders slumped and your nose scrunched up in confusion. Was this guy one of those fucking mood-swing-having kind of drunks, because the fuck?

“It’s just… you know, I don’t know what’s the situation with you two and if you’re steppin’ out,” he went on, scratching the back of his neck. “But I can’t go there— not that I was trying to, of course! Let’s get that solid— cause you’re Jay’s girl and I—”

“Excuse me?”

“Nah, I’m good.” He shook his head firmly. “Everybody knows he doesn’t play about you.”

“Everybody knows this?” Your face screwed up in a mix of disbelief and offense. “Listen, we broke up—”

He barked a laugh, right in your face. “Look, dolly, I came for a good time, not to get my ass beat. So I suggest you sing that little freshly divorced song with like, I don’t know, at least six feet between us.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“You have a good night,” he shrugged. “And congrats when you two get back together,” he said, giving you a quick nod before he walked away, easing between swaying bodies in the direction of the bar.

“Fucking punk!” You yelled after him. What a drag.

“Do I have to keep wearing this mustache?” Dick groaned, index finger itching at his upper lip. He was sitting on one of the barstools, attempting to survey the crowd.

“Oh, lookey here!” Roy’s posture straightened and his teeth shone in a grin, a tiny umbrella that he plucked from a glass idly twirling between his forefinger and thumb. “Cassio is steadily approaching.”

He turned to Dick who gave him a quizzical look.

“You’re not well read at all, man,” he continued, tossing the umbrella towards a brooding Jason, leaning against the bar with his hands crossed over his chest.

“And who are you supposed to be, Bianca?” Jason’s brows rose, then his expression shifted as he realized who Cassio was in question — the fucker that was dancing with you earlier.

A silence fell over the group as the guy rounded the bar and ordered a drink, scratching at his brow. He looked at Roy, then at Dick, both pretending not to look back at him.

Then he looked at Jason who was staring him head on.

“Do I know you?” The guy squinted, brows furrowed and head tilted forward. “You from around here?”

“No.” Jason responded, voice a little deeper for his disguise, or maybe something else entirely. Either way, it was fucking hilarious.

“Ah,” the guy nodded, looking away. The air was heavy and awkward, and Roy’s lips pursed with the effort of holding back a laugh.

“So, uh,” Dick cleared his throat, fingers thrumming against the bartop. “That’s a nice necklace, man.”

The guy looked up at him oddly. “You tryna rob me or something?”

There was a pause, and Dick stuttered slightly before the guy chuckled. “Just fucking with you, sorry. But, yeah, thanks,” he reached a hand up to finger the chain. It was a silver cross with a few tiny diamonds. “My girl got it for me.”

Jason’s jaw ticked.

“Oh, you don’t say?” Roy grinned. Dick turned away to stifle a laugh under his mustache. “Damn. That’s real sweet, huh, Johnny?”

Johnny — or Jason, grunted under his breath in response. “Li mortacci tua.”

No way you moved on already. And least of all with BirdChest. No way, there’s just no way.

He reached for the Marlboro Red that Roy abandoned on the bartop and fished a lighter out of his pants pocket. Before he could light it, Dick snatched it from his hands.

“Yeah, she’s a real nice girl… nags like hell though,” Random guy who you might’ve possibly moved on with, said. “Just the way these broads are, I guess.”

“It’s a bit much talkin’ shit about a lady who can’t defend herself ‘cause she’s across the room,” Jason intervened. Which he might as well, now that the scrub was calling you out of your name and he didn’t have a cigarette between his teeth because somebody felt like parenting him on what should be a covert operation.

“Oh, that one? Nah, not her.” The guy shrugged, sipping his drink. “That one just set me up to fucking die, can you believe that shit? Came out to escape the nagging and what I get instead is a one way ticket to Death Row.”

“What do you mean?” Dick leaned closer, and when Roy looked at him with a bottom lip drawn between his teeth to hold a laugh, he only shrugged. Good goss is good goss.

“She’s a real cute thing, you saw her right?” Roy and Dick nodded simultaneously. Jason scoffed. “We’re dancing, right? And I’m feeling her and she’s feeling me—”

“Yeah, fuckin’ stunad…” Jason grumbled to himself.

“Then I go and ask her name, she tells me, and I’m thinking to myself, where do I know this piece from, y’know?” The guy continued. He shook his head. “Man, would you believe that’s Jay’s girl?”

Dick and Roy exchanged a look, then shrugged in faux ignorance.

“Jay? You know how many Jays are in Gotham—” Roy started.

“Fuckin’ Jay from the Alley, man,” the guy exclaimed. “Big, burly son of a bitch. The one with the scar on his face. Motherfucker’s built like a matador—”

“Oh, really?” Dick rested a hand against his jaw.

“Really,” the guy huffed. “And she’s just out here looking like that and dancing on people— have you seen the size of that guy’s fist? Fuck’s sake… I could’ve lost my life...”

Jason smirked to himself then shook his head to get rid of it. You weren’t his girl, you weren’t. Not really and not in all the ways that mattered.

Was he wrong for feeling a liiitle bit on cloud nine at the notion of Bird Chest the Handsy Hog fucking off because of two words? Maybe. But he’d been wrong about plenty of things in his life, he could do with another on his conscience.

“Yo, Benny!” Came a shout and the guy in question whipped his head around. Oh, Bird Chest Benny. You would’ve loved to witness this in real time, he thought.

“Go easy, fellas,” Benny said, downing the last of his drink and stuffing a few bills under the glass. “And watch out for that girl I told you about. Wouldn’t wanna see any of you on the Missing Persons’ list.”

When Benny left the bar there was silence between the trio, a heavy, amused silence as Dick cradled his stomach to keep from bursting out into a guffaw.

Roy was the first to speak, and he sighed, long and dramatic, rising from his stool to stretch his aching arms. “O beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on—”

“—You’re done.” Jason interrupted, damn near lunging towards Roy who cackled with mischief, and Dick, who was still sitting there holding his stomach, had his lips pursed in intense thought.

“Oh, wait a minute, I get it now!” Dick shouted, rising from his seat. “Othello!”

“Need a light?”

Your entire body went stiff for a moment and a yelp escaped your throat. “Fuckin’ hell,” you whipped your head around, cigarette dangling carelessly between your fingers and eyes wide with momentary fright.

“Announce yourself first, Dracula.”

Jason could only fix his face in a sheepish little smile, stuffing a hand into his jacket pocket to fish out the lighter he’d intended to use earlier but didn’t have the chance.

The music from inside the club was muffled, the bass reduced to something like a tickle under your feet from where you both stood at the darkened back entrance.

You leaned forward, hands cupped and raised up to the click of his calloused thumb against the lighter, the small flame warming your fingertips.

“You got a ride home?” Jason asked, one hand cradling both of yours and raising them nearer to the flame, the tip of the cigarette finally catching light.

“Something like that,” you murmured, drawing in a puff, a soft plume of smoke leaving your nostrils. You withdrew your hands from his and he nodded, shoving the lighter back into his pocket.

He understood why. Of course, this wasn’t a thing, not exactly and not anymore. So he kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, still unable to hide the long gaze that raked over your features from where the timid light of the cigarette and the brightness of the moon cast shadows over your face. You were beautiful.

“What’s with the mustache?”

He blinked. “Huh?”

You were so beautiful and he was so stupid.

“Oh, that… that, uh…” Jason reached up to peel the embarrassingly fluffy, hairy thing off his face. “That was part of a covert operation,” he said, his voice coming out a little higher than he intended it to.

You laughed despite yourself. “A covert operation?”

“What’s it to you, Columbo?” He grumbled, a smile stretching on his mouth. He missed you. You hadn’t even been apart for long and he missed you.

You dug your heels into the asphalt, taking a deep drag of the cigarette between your fingers. With a long exhale, you looked over at him then looked away, but he caught your gaze in between, his gaze shooting to the ground.

“So… you and that guy in there—”

“Is that seriously how you wanna start right now?” You turned to look at him. “You were watching me?”

“I was gonna say sorry,” he looked up at you. “For ruining your night. He didn’t seem to stick around long, so I figured…”

“No, you’re not.” You shook your head, an almost bitter laugh of disbelief leaving your mouth in huffs of smoke. “No, you’re not, you fucking asshole—”

You were laughing, hiccuping through each harsh draw of breath and wheeze of laughter. Jason bit back a shit eating grin because of course you knew him well enough to call his bluff.

“You’re right,” he nodded, the words coming as a brief mumble under his breath. “I… I don’t know, I just can’t remember why we broke up.”

“If I remember correctly, you were the one who wanted a break—”

He turned his body towards you and interrupted. “A break, not a break up.” Jason sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “And then you just started throwing shit at me, what was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, Jason,” you flicked your cigarette away, outing the meek flame under your shoe. “Maybe call? Maybe come look for me? Maybe don’t spy on me with the Jay sanctioned protection squad?”

He straightened his posture, blinking slowly. “If this is about what happened at Paulie’s…”

You scoffed. “What happened at Paulie’s was none of your business. I can handle myself.”

Jason’s eyebrows rose in mock pride. “Yeah, word on the street is you waterboarded the guy with a glass of rum and coke.” The smile on his face faltered slightly, and his voice came quieter. “I know you can. I know that. It’s just different because—”

“Because I’m yours?” Your gaze met his, and you’d be lying if you said he didn’t look the slightest bit pathetic. Good, he deserved that. You wasted half a rum and coke because of his stupid ass. “Don’t make me laugh.”

He swallowed, taking his hands from his pockets and wiping them on his jeans. Okay, so yeah, he did deserve that. “I was an idiot. I’m still an idiot… And I didn’t mean to disappear on you like that.”

“But you did.”

“But I did,” he hung his head. “I did, and I fucked up, and you shouldn’t even hear me out. Because I was too much of a fuckin’ coward to come find you but seeing you here tonight, I just….”

“You just what?” He watched the way your mouth curved over the syllables. “Got jealous?”

“Follia,” he huffed. “Don’t get hasty, I didn’t say all that—”

“Oh my God, you were jealous,” you grinned wolfishly, eyes bright with amusement as you stepped closer to him. “You thought I was with that guy in there.”

“As if,” Jason rolled his eyes. “Look at him and look at you, in what world would you ever go for that sorta—”

“But I was with him and not you,” your lips pursed just the slightest, a tease, but nothing short of the truth. “Did it make you mad?”

A brief silence passed between you two, his dark blue eyes drifting from your eyes down to your lips, then back up again.

“What do you think?”

“Jealous, mad,” you raised two fingers, wiggling them slightly as you counted. “Mad or jealous. Uno dei due.”

“Brava,” he hummed. “You’re a natural.”

You tried to ignore the way your stomach did a somersault. “I’m still mad at you, and probably will be for a long time,” you said, lifting your head and pointing your nose at him firmly. “So, if you felt jealous, boo fuckin’ hoo, that’s your penance to pay.”

“I know that,” he nodded. “And I wouldn’t expect you to forgive me, not unless I really worked for it, I’m sure.” Jason reached for your hand and you let him, a calloused thumb stroking the back of your hand.

He was so warm compared to you right now, even though he ran cold. “But I do want to apologize, if you’ll let me.”

You pretended to think about it, your other hand reaching up to scratch the side of your head. “I mean, it really depends on the quality of your apology. You did leave me high and dry to go dress up as Mr. Potato Head—”

“Again, it was a covert operation—”

“I just don’t think a little apology is gonna cut it…” you sighed with faux hurt.

“I swear to God, I will get on my knees right now.” Jason said, deadpan.

You quirked a brow at him. “You wouldn’t.”

Before the last syllable had left your mouth, his knees hit the cold asphalt in front of you, those dark blue eyes staring up at you, electric and determined. Your heartbeat roared all the way up to your throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Jesus Christ, Jason—” you ducked your head in embarrassment, a shameful heat prickling your skin. You were suddenly aware of everyone and everything that could witness this display. A car driving by, a girl slipping outside to answer her phone, a guy idling on a bike parked a decent few feet away.

“Guardarmi,” he whispered. You looked up at him immediately. “Focus on me. Let me fix this.”

Your breath stuttered but you nodded all the same. “Apologize,” you said.

“I was wrong,” he scooted closer. “I was wrong and I’m sorry and I swear to you—”

“Don’t promise me anything,” you interrupted, looking down at him. The faintest redness dusted the flesh of his cheeks. “Apologize, better.”

“I messed up,” he continued. His hands rested on the dips of your waist. “I should’ve called or come to you but I didn’t. But I’ll fix it, I’ll do better by you. I know I don’t own you… I know that, but when you take me back—”

“If I take you back,” you clarified firmly. “I’m not your girl—”

Jason pressed a kiss to the hem of your shirt. “And if you don’t like it, I’ll set it straight so no one calls you that again, you know? I never need you to be my girl — maybe not even mine, I just need you.”

“Not your girl yet,” you murmured, finishing your previous sentence. “I don’t hear you apologizing.”

“Madonna Santa,” Jason nuzzled his forehead against your stomach. “I know, I fuckin’ know and I’m begging on my knees here, doll,” he groaned. “Mi dispiace, mi perdoni…”

He looked up at you with those eyes and you covered your face in defense. “Don’t… don’t look at me like that, it’s cheating.”

“Amore,” he whispered but you shook your head with a muffled mm-mm. “Ho bisogno del suo perdono.”

You peeked down at him from between your fingers, and he was still staring up at you with those big, wet eyes.

“Oh my God, get up, you look stupid,” you huffed, but a smile played at the corner of your mouth the whole time.

“Does this mean—?” Jason shifted, rising onto one knee.

“Fuck no,” you rolled your eyes. “At least take me home first,” you grumbled and he deflated slightly, the sadness evident in the smallest downturn of his lips. You had to bite back a laugh.

“But, you do owe me a rum and coke,” you continued as he rose to his feet, already walking ahead of him. Jason tried and failed to hide his enthusiasm, a grin blooming on his features.

“Yeah?”

“What about your little entourage?” You asked and he looked at you quizzically. “The rest of Mustache Incorporated.”

Jason’s brows rose in realization. Roy and Dick were still inside. Nevertheless, he shrugged. “They’re uh… working on some notes about Othello for me.”

“Othello?” You chuckled, and he caught up to your side.

“Covert operation, remember?” Jason whistled. “We have to have codenames.”

[tiredslepz]

i love pathetic men. also i love when reader takes no shits at all ✌

[hesperiaaan]

︵ things to script : lifa app things

♡ the app is always installed on your phone/tablet/computer. when you change your phone/tablet/computer, the lifa app gets deleted from your old device and gets transferred instantly to your new device.

♡ only you can see and access the app, unless scripted otherwise.

♡ the app never glitches, crashes, lags, or gets deleted. the app cannot be hacked, copied, or accessed by others.

♡ the app updates automatically with new features whenever you come up with something.

♡ the app has unlimited storage.

♡ the app works without internet or battery.

♡ you can customize the appearance/theme of the app whenever you want.

♡ time pauses in your DR while using the app if desired.

♡ your lifa app has an assistant that you can chat or communicate verbally with. your assistant can basically use every feature in the app or change anything about the lifa app according to what you desire.

♡ through your lifa app, you can; change your appearance, alter the "rules" of your reality, manifest clothes/food/items/people, change personal information, write your desires/wishes to grant them instantly, clean yourself/your room instantly, play music from any reality, watch or play things from any reality, change time, control weather, see a map of your reality and more.

♡ you can access a multiversal social media through your lifa app and communicate with other shifters.

♡ you can transform your lifa app into a notebook, a paper, a locket etc.

♡ your lifa app can generate visuals and face/body/voice claims.

♡ you can call or message other people from different realities through your lifa app.

♡ your lifa app can generate writing, fanfictions and ideas for your desired realities.

♡ you can see your important memories and view images of them through your lifa app. if you forget something about your experiences, this can be useful.

♡ you can transform your lifa app into a person or a figure/plushie to directly give commands to it.

[justsayfkit]

hey no worries lol that just hurt my feelings forever

[rumitome]

shifting to a reality wherein the philippine government is not fucking corrupt cuz im done with this shit. like what the fuck you mean the new senate president is a fucking dds just when the vice president is getting impeached, tell me that this isn’t a plan for them to not convict the vice president after multiple evidences stating otherwise. im going fucking insane why can’t we just have a country na makabayan.